#old names and heavy legacies

[dandelion-wings]

I know I've said this a million times already but I'm thinking about them again so I'll repeat it: Eula wants to sub for Jean so bad that it makes her look stupid. you cannot change my mind

[dandelion-wings]

#lawrence (affectionate)

Gunnhildr (derogatory)

[melien]

[shadow-schemer]

When the Animation course in my college gets headed by a group of people uninterested with the art of animation as a storytelling medium and directed all focus towards making it as just another vehicle for advertising and skits for raising social awareness/ activism of choice.

[nezuscribe]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

pairing: gojo x fem!reader

part two

summary: gojo satoru was the most notorious man across the land. he was the strongest soldier the north had ever produced, the most brilliant of minds, and somebody who slept his way through the noble ranks. his parents set him up in a marriage agreement with you, hoping that a tie with a ring would help save his image. you know gojo never wanted this, and you try to act as if that was normal. but soon, without you or even him realizing it, he comes to the conclusion that while he never wanted this marriage - he's beginning to want you.

warnings: 18+ mdni: arranged marriage, angst, slight no comfort, gojo is emotionally constipated for a bit, heavy making out, eating out (fem! receiving), fingering, (naoya)

word count: 19.7k (sorry)

note: inspired by this drabble. i'm so happy this behemoth of a fic is done!! art credit: _3aem

jjk masterlist + series masterlist

Gojo Satoru was the most powerful man alive. 

Not only physically, though some people chalked him up to being half god, but his name held even more control. The Gojo family of the North was as old as the gods themselves, and they’ve been making sure it’s been kept that way. They owned so much land that you would walk to the ends of the earth and circle back around and it would probably still be theirs. They had armies of unfathomable sizes under their command, so much riches that they could probably buy an entire nation and still have plenty to spend. 

His presence was just as large as his name created him to be. Any ball he went to, all eyes would fall on him. On the battlefield, men feared to see the flash of white hair, knowing that his strength was unbridled. 

And his physical beauty? Most people assumed he was blessed by the gods himself. Gojo had a certain look that just made your knees weak, your heart palpitate, and your cheeks heated up. The handful of times you’ve seen him from afar you’ve been able to understand why all the girls (and some of the guys) yearned for his attention. His eyes were a piercing blue as if somebody had held a mirror to the sky when creating them. His hair had grown whiter with the years, as white as the snow that sunk deep into the grounds of the north. Gojo had the build of a soldier, and he towered over most people. His bulky build was intimidating, but you heard some girls whisper behind their hands about how he must look underneath all those ceremonial garments. 

The lord of the North was power itself. 

Which would make you, by martial association, the North's most powerful lady.

And for somebody who grew up with the same respect as a stable boy, it was all too much too soon. 

And yes, while on paper you still had your father's last name and legacy tied to it, you weren’t really a daughter to your parents. Your mother, though you had to call her by her name whenever you weren’t in public, seeing how she wasn’t really your mother, made sure it was kept that way. Your other three half-sisters should have been in your spot, either one of them more true to the family name than you. But seeing how they’re already married, you were the final resort. 

Gojo Satoru, though you’ve seen him countless times (something common because of how close in ranks your families were), had only acknowledged you a couple of times. You didn’t care much, never did, because that's what you were used to. After all, it was a common fact that you were what they nicknamed “the bastard daughter” of the West.

But it didn’t seem to matter much to his parents, as they offered their son up to you in a marriage arrangement. 

And who were you to turn that down? 

They, his parents, assured you that their son was looking forward to this union. He was the one to offer it, they said, which you were skeptical of but weren’t stupid enough to question. You knew how much Gojo Satoru was tarnishing their reputation with his promiscuous ways, but as long as he was okay with this arrangement you couldn’t find any part of you that would disagree with it. 

After all, you knew that this marriage wasn’t out of love, fascination, or even a mutual understanding, but because of the strength your own family (more so your father) held, and how you were the only feasible option for a bride. 

So, after weeks of rocking back and forth on agreements, paperwork, dress rehearsals, and grueling dancing lessons (and still no sight of the man himself), you found yourself standing at the end of the aisle, your arm linked around your fathers as a large smile plasters itself on your face. 

Ever since you were young you had convinced yourself that the only man who would want to taint his name enough to marry you would have to be either a troll or an ogre, so that fact that your future spouse was human was better than anything you could have asked for. 

And you’re not daft. As your heart hammered loudly against the limited space of your chest, waiting for your cue to start walking, you reminded yourself that this was just a mutual agreement. It’s hard for people at your level to marry for love, but even then, you can’t help but hope that you can make a decent friendship out of this. 

You glanced at your father next to you, catching his eyes as he nodded once, staring ahead of him into the small crowd of just your two families, and patted your arm. 

You still remember the music playing, the instruments harmonizing together as you took a tentative step forward, feeling warm under the eyes of people you didn’t know, but you kept reminding yourself that this was the best thing that could’ve happened to you. Either you died as an old maid in the little room you had near the kitchens at your old home or got married to some warlord who wanted an entire village as family. 

The orchids that surrounded the venue still infiltrate your nose as you think about it, the way the silk of your dress felt against your skin that had been scrubbed raw earlier that morning. 

And there you saw him, standing at the end of the aisle. At that moment you realized how much of a mistake this was,

Because the man that stood there, the man who you were about to marry, seemed like he’d rather be dead than be your husband. 

—

You blink out of your trance, sitting up straighter in your seat as you mindlessly stop tearing up pieces of your bread, rubbing your fingers together to get rid of the remnants of flour. 

The dining hall was huge, far bigger than the one back home. Though you rarely ate there, you could still remember it, and it definitely wasn’t as big as this. Yet, despite its size, you felt like you were a little grain of rice in its vastness. 

The Gojo estate itself was humongous. His parents resided in a smaller house near the ocean now that you’ve moved in, but you would bet that the word humble they used to describe it was anything but humbling. You’ve been here for weeks and yet you feel like you’ve only discovered half of what this place has to offer.

There were guards at every corner, but at this point, you’re convinced they're just for decoration. If your husband is as decorated a warrior as they say he is, he could protect this entire estate with no help necessary. 

You stare at your plate, at the array of food prepared just for you, different sorts of cured meats, loaves of bread, cheeses, fruits, and juices from all over, and still, you feel no hunger. 

Months ago you’d be ecstatic to see how much your life has changed. You get new clothes that fit you, food whenever you desire, people at your beck and call. Your room is no longer that cramped space you’d been given to hide you away from the rest of your family, but twice the size of your father's old bedroom. You wake up earlier and sleep later, do whatever you want, but none of it feels deserved.

The only thing you can bring yourself to think about is how the last time you saw your husband was the night of the wedding. The look on his face when you made your empty vows to one another, his faint lingering kiss on your cheek. You can blink your eyes and still see the way he left, his jaw clenched as he ignored the calls from his parents. How, even here, rumors seemed to follow you. 

Safe to say, you spent your meals alone. 

Not only that, but your rooms were entirely separate as well. You were told that you had to consummate the night of your marriage, but from what you’ve heard, your husband sleeps in an entirely different wing of the estate, with walls and corridors between the two of you. 

You tried taking your mind off of things, pretending as if this was normal. 

Most days you’d walk around, trying to familiarize yourself with the layout of the grounds. You’d walk the gardens a couple times each week, try to memorize the way back to different places, and stay in the library the other half of the time. 

A part of you was happy to at least be away from that miserable home, but it felt like swapping one prison for a slightly better one. Your maids were kind, of course, but you didn’t know anybody here. They treat you like a lady of noble ranking, as expected from being the wife of the Lord in the North, but you’d rather be given an apron and start working around instead of this mind-numbing boredom of just sitting around. 

You stare at your plate, chewing on a grape slowly. 

Looking up you see the sun filtering in through the large windows, illuminating the long table that sits like an empty grave. Clicking your tongue you pick up another grape, slumping in your seat as you look up. 

This is just the way things will be.

—

“Alina?”

You call out from your vanity, staring at your maid as she’s picking out different earrings for you to pick from for dinner. 

It’s a couple of days later, and still no word from Gojo. But that doesn’t mean that you haven’t stopped for a single second to not think about your supposed husband. 

You try not to care, pretend that you’re lucky that he’s not bothering you or going out of his way to remind you of this unfortunate situation, but above anything you just feel alone. 

The maid looks up, a curl falling from her tight bun as she smiles at you in the mirror. 

“Yes, my lady?” She stands up straighter, flattening out the wrinkles from her apron tied around her waist as she begins walking towards you with the jewelry. 

“Is this…is this normal?” You crane your neck around to look at the different pairs she’s holding up, nudging your head to the red ones that shine bright, and watch as she sets them down on your desk, resting her hand on your hip as she stares at you quizzically. 

“What do you mean?” She asks as you begin taking your earrings off, putting the new ones on yourself. In the beginning, she protested, saying that a woman of your caliber shouldn’t have to do such measly tasks. But the more you protested, she eventually gave up. 

“Do husbands and wives usually sleep separately?” you say, feeling your chest contract in embarrassment at the stupidness of your question. 

You watch as she swallows thickly, avoiding eye contact as she sets on fixing some parts of your hair. 

Staring patiently through the vanity mirror as you watch her work, Alina wets her lips, her eyes downcast as if not wanting to answer. 

“Was there somebody else he preferred to marry?” You decide to ask, twisting that knife that you knew was lodged in her side, one that was stopping her from talking, and watch as her eyes widen slightly in shock. 

“If you don’t answer I’m just going to keep asking more uncomfortable questions,” you warn and Alina snorts softly, shoving your shoulder a little bit as you crack a smile. 

She moves around, picking up a necklace, and begins clasping it behind your neck. 

“I…I don’t know. He’s always been pretty secretive and,” she looks at you briefly, “Selective. I don’t mean to speak ill of my lord but it would be stupid not to acknowledge his old ways. But we never heard of a specific girl.”

Alina places a gentle hand on your shoulder, a sad smile on her face. 

“You’re lucky my lady,” she says, her voice hushed, “Most wives don’t have the freedom to say their husbands don’t care what they do. Had you married that Zenin, you’d be pregnant by now.”

You shudder out a breath, nodding once more. 

“I’ll see you after dinner, my lady,” she says, moving out of the way as you stare quietly at the floor before leaving silently. 

—-

Tonight for dinner the cooks made you a wide array of different dishes, all from the Northern shore. There are different types of fish, each cooked in various ways. It looks delectable, a feast fit for a king. 

You feel awful, though, seeing that you can’t eat any of it. 

The last time you had fish your face swelled up and couldn’t breathe properly, so that family physician told you to steer away from it. But you’re here now, and it somehow slipped your mind to ever mention this little fact to them, so you’re awkwardly poking around some of the vegetables under the fish, looking for something to eat. 

You pile some potatoes and carrots on your plate, scraping off any bits of fish on them as you hold this wasn’t your last meal. 

The only sound that fills the room is your fork and knife sometimes hitting the porcelain plate, and you look up every now and then as you chew, looking at the paintings on the wall. 

You’re so focused on a portrait of an old man that you don’t even notice the figure standing at the entrance of the dining hall, not until you hear a muted curse. 

You look up instantly, your fork and knife dropping to the plate as you stare at the man in front of you, eyes wide at the sight of your husband. 

He stands there, blinking slowly as you stare back. 

You could swear time has never moved so slowly before. 

You can hear him mutter a quiet shit under his breath, not knowing if he should make this worse by turning around and leaving or if he should join you. 

He’s wearing a simple tunic, his face a little flushed, hairline beaded with sweat. Did he just come out of training? He must often do that, you decide, seeing how he must’ve felt comfortable enough walking in here without any clothing of import. 

His eyes seem to track your little movements; the way your chest rises and falls in a slow movement, the way your fingers have frozen in mid-air, lips slightly parting. Your eyes dart around the room, everybody seeming to have tensed up.

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but you’ve never been so moved to silence. It seemed as if years of learned vocabulary slipped your mind within an instant, and no matter how hard you tried, nothing was coming back.

Gojo looks behind his shoulder, at the large double doors he entered through, deep in thought. This would be the first time the two of you had seen each other in weeks, and his tirade of avoiding you has come to an end. It looks like an entire battle is being fought in his mind, and you don’t know what to do.

Suddenly, you watch as he shakes his head, deciding to give in and join you for dinner. 

The seconds go by like hours as he walks up to the seat at the other end of the table, staring at his seat for a brief second before he pushes it out and sits there. 

You don’t know what to do. 

Servants and maids quickly swarm the room, setting up his plate, cutlery, food, and drinks. It was all so hectic and rushed, but you were glad that it offered some sort of noise in the drowning silence.

A part of you wants to say something about the fish but you know this isn’t the right time. 

In the flurry of movements you allow yourself to discretely look at him a little better, seeing how the last time you saw him was so brief and hurried. 

The man radiates a different sort of aura you’ve never experienced before. While your father was one of the most powerful men in the West, Gojo was the strongest throughout the majority of the North and East. His frame took up the entire chair, his muscular shoulders and arms visible even through the loose fabric that was draped over him. You feel a little disappointed, knowing that if you were a different girl you’d probably be able to enjoy all of this. 

You try to make yourself seem indifferent, moving some of the vegetables in your plate around, but secretly just trying to shovel them down as fast as humanly possible to get out of this thick atmosphere. 

One of the men who was setting up some of the plates in front of Gojo takes notice of this, a smile overtaking his face as you briefly look up from your plate, startled to see the man walking closer to you.

“My lady, I’m so happy to see you enjoying our Northern delicacy!” He claps his hands together as you stare at him with wide eyes, your mouth still full of potatoes as you try chewing faster to get it all down before he gets closer to you. 

His eyes wrinkle around the edges, his graying mustache trimmed ever so carefully, and you can tell he’s trying to loosen up the tension, but you stare in abject horror as he stands at your foot of the table. 

“Would you like some more?” He motions to the fish that lay untouched in front of you, and you glance over to Gojo, hoping that maybe he is focused on his meal, only for your heart to sink at the fact that he is staring at you. 

“...y-yes,” you croak out, wiping some of the carrot remnants from the corners of your lips as you give him a wobbly smile, “It’s alright, I can serve myself,” you exclaim, trying to thwart him off as he quickly waves this aside, shaking his head as he grabs the tray, beginning to portion some hefty pieces of fish onto your plate.

You don’t have the heart to tell this jolly man that this amount of fish would kill you within an instant, or even that he was wasting this all on you, so you just sit there, giving him a tight-lipped smile as you try not to breathe it in too much. 

“Is that enough, my lady?” He asks, setting the tray down as you look at your plate now full of different sorts of sea creatures you swallow slowly, looking back up at him as you give a wobbly smile. 

“This is great,” you muster up and watch as an even larger smile takes over his face, and you feel awful for it, “Thank you so much,” you tell him, watching as he bows lowly, excusing himself as he, and the other servants, leave the room,

Leaving you and Gojo alone. 

You’re grateful that he’s already dug into his meal, not looking at a struggling you that’s moving the fish around with your fork as you try to find the last bits of vegetables you had saved up for yourself. 

The smell itself is enough to make your stomach turn, and you wince, reaching for your cup of wine to wash some of the nausea down.

“You have very good wine,” you say suddenly, against your will, and have an out-of-body experience as you realize what you just did. 

Gojo looks up from his plate, a little startled as he looks at you and the goblet in your hand, his white brows furrowed. 

He nods once, not saying anything, and you feel the strange need to continue, somehow enjoying the feeling of stabbing yourself in the foot.

“Our wine back home tasted like cow piss,” your eyes widened at your slip of crass language, “Er - not piss, um, urine…?” You wince even more, feeling as if a ghost with awful intentions had taken control over your body, “Not that I’ve had cow piss - urine!” You correct yourself, “But I imagine that if I had…that, um, it would taste like o-our wine back home...”

He’s staring at you, unblinking, and you smile awkwardly, raising the cup to him as a sort of cheers gesture. 

You count twenty seconds of silence in your head as you set the cup down, playing with your fork as you glance back up at him. Gojo looks as if he is regretting his decision to stay, his fingers tapping on his knife in a hurried sort of way. 

“I don’t really like wine,” you continue, feeling like the only thing that could stop you now was if somebody were to bludgeon you to death, “I like juice more. Oh, well, but I guess…wine is juice…?” you mutter to yourself, contradicting your own words mid-sentence, “Back home we had this mulberry juice and it tasted nice. Kind of like your wine,” he’s not even looking at you and so your words die, quieting down as you sink back into your seat, hoping it could eat you entirely. 

“Do you like wine?” You ask, tilting your head to the side, smiling faintly, awkwardly, “Or juice? Or… mulberries…?” 

He shakes his head, still not staring at you. 

“Did you have a good-”

“I prefer eating in silence.” Gojo finally said, raising his head slightly as he stared directly at you, watching as your mouth clamped shut. 

Your smile grows small, eyes falling to the table to hide the embarrassment in them. You give him a brief nod, mumbling a quiet apology under your breath as you begin moving some pieces of carrot around on your plate. 

You can hear the clinking of his utensils against his plate, wishing you could somehow fit an entire fish down your esophagus to escape this moment. 

You give it a couple of seconds, counting the groves in the wood of the table, and rise, stomach empty, heart churning as you finally excuse yourself. 

It only takes you minutes to find your room, quicker than last night, and allow yourself to sink against your bed, rubbing your skin raw of the rouge Alina had applied an hour earlier. 

—-

You don’t tell anybody of the awful encounter with the man that’s legally your husband, but you’re sure that those there to observe have already begun talking about it. You try to pretend nothing happened, but Alina could pick up on your closed-off demeanor that night, her hands gentler than usual when helping you take off your garments, her eyes filled with concern. 

“How was dinner, my lady?” She asked, staring at you as you waved off her worries, mustering up a lame excuse of a smile as you took off your silk shrug, avoiding any sort of eye contact as you slipped into your nightly garments. 

“It was good,” your words are void of emotion, “I had fish.” 

The following days are empty of any sight of your husband, but you’ve grown to find that normal. It doesn’t help that you can’t stop thinking about how idiotic you acted, your big mouth never knowing when to stop, tossing and turning in your bed at your excuse of an interaction. 

You continue with your old routine of walking around the estate, sometimes trying to track down Alina and your other maids, seeing if maybe they had some free time to spend with you. You know there’s a town nearby, the girls often talk about how they go there sometimes at night, but you’re too afraid of going out alone, not used to that sort of thing. 

Sometimes you sit out near the fields with a book, twisting the ring that’s searing into your finger, mindlessly taking in the words on the page. Other days you walk around the gardens, picking out some flowers for the vase in your room. On the days when you’re feeling really adventurous, you’d go near the east wing, where you’ve heard Gojo’s room is, and look at what sort of things lie there. But most times you chicken out, going back near your side just as quickly as you went.

You never see him at dinner again, knowing he wasn’t about to put himself through that torture again, so you go back to eating in silence, sometimes pretending that the chairs were full of people and that you were in one of those balls you longed to go to as a kid.

They seem to keep bringing fish out for you, and it’s in so many days deep that you’re in this sort of limbo where you can’t tell them you’re deathly allergic to it without feeling awful for all the work they’ve put in just to realize it’s gone to waste, so those nights, tonight, for example, you try finding as many vegetables as you can. 

The roasted asparagus and beets are lovely, but there was only so much of it. And you find yourself getting a little bit sick of it too, your stomach-churning as you try to chug as much water as you can to get rid of the dirt after-taste that the beets have.

You thank the cooks and the servants as you leave for the night, your stomach still relatively empty as you get to your room, telling Alina to leave early for the night as you get ready for bed by yourself, wanting to be with yourself just for a little bit. 

You lay on your bed, staring emptily at the ceiling, one hand on your stomach as if gurgling, still hungry for more. You try to sleep, trying to pretend like you were at your old home, those nights when this would be normal, but it’s no use. You’ve been too spoiled at the Gojo estate, and no matter how much you try to ignore the pang of hunger, it continues to bite you back. 

So you find yourself twisting off of the warm comfort of your bed, sitting in silence as you contemplate what you’re about to do, but give in, lighting a candle as you slide into some slippers, leaving your room as you try to find your way down to the kitchens. 

Thankfully, it’s well into the night when everybody is asleep, so this embarrassing walk of shame is only seen by the guards on duty. You walk down the testing staircase, careful to look around the corners for anybody there, but you’re alone. 

You make your way to the kitchens, not hard to find seeing that they’re near the dining hall, and you peep your head inside, a sigh of relief escaping your lips to find that it’s completely deserted. 

At your old home, your room was behind the kitchens. You grew up in a small room, nearly the size of a broom cupboard, but you made do with what you had. One benefit of this situation was that you were raised by the smell of different sorts of food, by people who specialized in the art of cooking. You knew how to make meals that nobody else in your family could even imagine, which you’re grateful for right now as you fumble around the kitchen, trying to find where they put different ingredients. 

You rummage through the cupboards, finding some eggs, bread, cheeses, and seasonings. You’re able to find the pots and pans a few feet away and start assembling everything for a little omelet.  

In your hurry of trying to be quiet and careful, you somehow manage to miss the large shadow figure that’s standing near the doorway, observing you. 

You crack the eggs into a bowl, beating them together with a fork you found, too tired to look for an actual whisk, turning around to throw the eggshells away when a cry of surprise escapes your lips. 

“Oh!” Your heart nearly falls right out of your ribcage, your hands flying to your chest as you find yourself staring at him, cheeks heating the way they seem to do whenever you’re looking at your husband. 

His blue eyes are tracking you, watching what you do, brows furrowed slightly as the two of you can’t do anything but stare at each other. 

“I…” You can’t find anything to say, looking at him and then behind your shoulder, to the things you have found, and swallow thickly, wetting your lips as you straighten your back up, suddenly aware of just how flimsy and bedroom-worthy your outfit is.

You can only stare at the ways his arms are crossed over his chest, biceps bulging, and lips pressed into a thin line. It seems like he wasn’t planning on seeing you here, yet another moment in which he’s probably going to regret somehow finding you in such a large estate.

“I’m making an omelet,” you finally say, your words falling like a whisper from your lips as you point to the eggshells now discarded in the trash, “I tried to be quiet…” you shake your head, eyes dropping from his heavy gaze for a second as you glance back up at him, lips upturned in an apologetic smile, “...sorry.” 

Gojo doesn’t say much, you’ve noticed that, but now you’re wondering if he has some sort of impediment that stops him from speaking to specific people. 

His chest rises briefly as he inhales, his white hair a little tussled as if he were sleeping. It doesn’t make sense why he’d be awoken, though. The kitchens are a far walk from the east wing…?

“I wasn’t asleep,” he finally says as if reading your mind, his voice deep as you feel it rattle your bones.

You nod once, not knowing what to do with the information. 

“Well…um,” you fidget with your fingers, “good, that’s good.” You nod once, as if that was all you were going to say, and look at the slight wrinkles in his clothes, crossing your arms over your chest, feeling naked with the way you’re not wearing any undergarments under your little nightly dress. 

“I’ll call for a cook,” Gojo murmurs, looking you up and down one final time as he turns to leave, seemingly done with this conversation. 

You sputter, shaking your head as you watch him turn to look at you through a confused stare. 

“No! Sorry…no, no need,” you say quickly, taking one step forward as if to stop him, “Please, it’s alright. I can cook myself,” you motion once more to your eggs and little station, noting the way he’s looking at you strangely, and so you feel the need to continue talking, perhaps one of your worst flaws.

Gojo looks at you finally, his fingers tapping on his arm. 

You notice that he’s not wearing his wedding ring, your chest filling with a strange feeling as you try to hide your ring-clad finger. “Do you not like their cooking?” He asks, and it takes a second for you to blink out of your stupor, a weird sensation in your throat as you shake your head slowly, trying to pull your eyes away from his hand. 

“I do,” you assure him, the words falling thickly from your lips, a lump in your chest, “I just feel bad waking them up right now,” you shrug as if you weren’t feeling any of these strange emotions, “And as I said, I can cook…so…” 

He nods, seemingly not believing you, not picking up on the storm that happening inside your head at the fact that he’s not wearing his wedding ring. You have to remind yourself that this isn’t an actual marriage, the ring was only for show. 

“Did you not eat dinner?” He continues, pressing, and your eyes widen slightly. 

You’ve always been terrible at lying, never able to do so. Even when your father's wife continued to drill you on who ate the candies from a party when you were younger, showing her your chocolate-stained fingers that you had hidden behind your back, not even a minute into the interrogation. 

“I did,” you say slowly, rubbing up and down your arms to warm them up from the chill breeze that seems to have picked up from the open windows, “The beets and asparagus were very nice,” you agree, not knowing what else to say without blowing this weird secret you’ve been holding onto. 

His brow raised slightly, lips pursing slightly. 

“And the fish?” 

You swallow once again, fidgeting with the fabric of your slip, your hands, your ring, and you don’t notice the way his eyes fall to the gold on your finger, darting back to your face when he notices you staring at him. 

“I…” you feel your face heating up beyond human measures, laughing awkwardly as you tug at your necklace chain, wishing that you hadn’t made that stupid decision to leave your comfortable bed, should’ve listened to your gut instead of your stomach, cursing your past self for being so rash, “I, um, I can’t…eat…fish.” 

Gojo’s stoic face, so sure and confident, seems to falter for a brief second.

His arms tighten over his chest. 

“...what?” He eventually asks after a couple of seconds of mind-bending silence, his head tipping in utter confusion as you sway from side to side on your feet, chewing your lips raw as you wish the ground could open up and never spit you back out. 

“The fish always looks great, don’t get me wrong,” you say quickly as if that’s going to do anything, “But I can’t eat fish. Otherwise I’ll swell right up and um, die…probably,” you wince at how bad you are at talking to people, your husband especially.

He lets out a little puff of air that sounds like a shocked scoff, eyes falling to the floor as he shakes his head, not understanding what you are saying. 

“But they’ve been cooking fish almost…four times a week?” 

You nod, smiling awkwardly, looking at the painting of a fish on the wall as you look back at him. 

“They have,” you affirm, leaning against a counter as he stays frozen in his spot at the door. 

“And you…you can’t have fish?” Gojo questions incredulously. 

“I’ll swell right up,” you repeat with a little smile that he doesn’t mirror, clearly not a man of humor, and you drop your hands to your side, “...kind of like a pufferfish.” You add quietly, looking at the ground as you say it. 

He coughs, his hand covering his mouth as you glance up at him, only to see him trying to hide the shocked laugh that had escaped him.

“Why didn’t you tell them?” He finally continues, and you hate the way all your hard work of just saying quiet isn’t working and is in fact, coming back to bite you in the ass. 

You shrug once more, shoving a grain of rice that was on the floor with the tip of your shoe.

“The first time it happened I figured I’d just tell them next time, but then that man kept on giving me more fish so I felt bad and I just never said anything.” 

Gojo stares at you, his eyes squinting together as if he were figuring out an enigma, a war strategy that even his best generals couldn’t get a grasp of. 

You look away, feeling like a fire was being lit under your skin. 

“Alright,” you say, clapping your hands together as your stomach grumbles once again, reminding you that it is still in desperate need of food, “I’ll be done soon. And I’ll clean up,” you promise, but you doubt he even cares as you begin to inch away from him. 

You watch as a strand of hair falls into his face, watch as he goes to move, never breaking his eye contact with you, until he looks behind you at the eggs and bread, and then to the window behind you, the moon as bright as ever.

He nods a final time, looking over you a final time before he exits. 

You make sure he’s far gone, letting out a heavy breath as you hold yourself up by the table, eyes wide at the fact that you had spoken more than two words to the man who seemed to despise your entire existence. 

You go back to your eggs, whisking them in silence as your mind reels. 

—

Gojo is there, for dinner, the following night. 

You enter the dining room to see him at the end of the table, already eating, and glances up briefly when he sees you walk in. 

Trying to hide the shock on your face you quickly look away, finding the way to your side of the table as you look around to see what they’ve given you tonight. A sigh of fleeting relief escapes your lips at the lack of fish, glad you’ll be going to sleep full of food tonight. 

You serve yourself, piling roasted meats and potatoes onto your plate as you fill your cup with water, not trusting wine after the last time you had it in his presence, and pretend that everything is normal as you pick up your knife and fork. 

His words rang in your mind from the last time, the fact that he ate in silence, so you forced yourself to clam up, knowing that it was probably from the best and save you from any more mortification. 

Your eyes fleet up now and then, grateful that he’s never looking up when you do, and give yourself some time to really take him in. Maybe in another universe where everything was normal, this could’ve just been another regular thing, and you try pretending that it is.

He’s probably only here because of a timing issue, you tell yourself, maybe this was the only time in the middle of training, state affairs, or other things that he was able to have dinner tonight. Yes, yes, that has to be it. 

You look back down at your plate, chewing as quietly as possible, missing the way he lifted his head to look up at you. 

—

Dinner with Gojo becomes a strange weekly occurrence.

The two of you eat in silence a couple of times a week, and every time it happens you’re so sure it’s going to be the last. 

On one of the nights you find yourself accompanied by the man you decide that the silence is more choking than whatever it is you find yourself saying. 

“Have you been notified about this…gathering in a couple of weeks?” 

This gathering was something you were told about that morning by Alina. One of the smaller families allied to the North, the Tokoshi’s, had invited you and your husband to join. 

“Yes,” Gojo says, and you’re a little surprised that he didn’t just give you a faint nod, “It shouldn’t be too big.” 

He cuts off a piece of his lamb, dipping it in some of the gravy as he glances up at you. 

You try to hide your excitement, not only from the fact that he’s spoken to you but also from the fact that this was an actual ball you would be able to go to. You knew that marrying him meant attending more of these sorts of events, but seeing how this was your first one, it was hard to not act a little giddy. 

“You have a lovely library,” you speak after carefully chewing through some of your food, your pointer finger resting on your fork as your legs crossed. 

Gojo glances up at you, those mesmerizing blue eyes finding yours from across the long table. 

“At my old home,” you pause briefly, wondering how he feels when you refer to his estate as your other home, “I wasn’t allowed to go into our library unless my tutors asked to have some of our sessions there. So I just wanted to say thank you for letting me - um, go there,” your words quiet down at the end, looking at the roasted pig in front of you momentarily as you wonder what you were even trying to get. 

He takes a sip of his wine. 

“The grounds are as much mine as they are yours,” he says, but his words sound rehearsed as if he were told to say this. 

“Even the east wing?” 

You regretted it the moment you asked it. 

Shit. 

Gojo opens his mouth and then shuts it. You chew on the inside of your cheek, waiting for him to speak, to say something, anything, but it reverts to that same silence that floods your senses and makes you aware of every other sound in the room.

Your burst of what you attempted at comedy seemed to keep coming back instantly in your face, a form of punishment for somebody who never knew how to make uncomfortable situations better.

Suddenly, all of your appetite is lost. Stupid, stupid, stupid, you can only chide yourself, the food in front of you, no matter how good it looked, felt like it would taste like ash on your tongue. You kept feeding this burning fire that was your marriage, expecting your hay-like words to act like water.

There’s a thick tension in the room, and you look around, blinking slowly as you fidget with your fingers. 

You try to go back to eating. 

You were wrong,

That initial silence was better. 

—-

That night you found yourself back in the kitchens. 

You’re wiping at your cheeks, hoping that the therapeutic motions of baking can help alleviate some of your many turmoils. 

When you were younger, you were used to silence. People normally avoided you, and those who didn’t weren’t ever your age. The cooks at your old estate were kind, but they were usually too busy to entertain a little girl. You would usually help the maids out with their washing and folding, rather doing something than nothing. You would listen in on their gossip and stories, always happy to be included. 

You assumed that it would be the same here. 

But the maids assured you that a lady of such high rank shouldn’t be meddling in such lowly tasks, and the cooks here were cooking for such a larger number of people that you knew you couldn’t bother them the way you used to. 

So you find yourself with a lot to say but nobody to say it to. The jokes and ideas that pop into your head fall flat because the old ladies who helped clean the bedsheets and used to laugh hearing them are no longer here. In those moments you’re with Alina or your other maids are sparse, and so you sometimes imagine that if you speak more when Gojo is around, he might warm up to you. 

You also had to remind yourself that your track record with men wasn’t the best either. Those fleeting crushes on some of the other boys who you’d see at balls always ended with them scurrying away from you as if you were the plague. The only other marriage offer you’d gotten was from a man who had struggled with finding a woman who could keep up with his awful ways. So the fact that Gojo Satoru, the most well-known man in the realm, didn’t want much to do with you wasn’t shocking. 

And Alina was right. A lot of wives aren’t as lucky to say their husbands don’t care, but you wondered how it would’ve been if he did. You exclaimed to her a couple of nights ago that you should’ve just married Naoya, but deep inside you knew that’s not what you wanted. A part of you knew ever since you agreed to this arrangement that you wouldn’t be getting an actual husband out of it. 

You sniffle, your eyes blurry. You don’t like crying in front of people, and so you allow yourself to do so in the pale moonlight of the kitchen, the only sound other than your ragged breathing being the repeated sound of flour falling softly in your mixing bowl. 

Baking was something that nobody ever could judge you about. You were good at it, and you knew you could do it with no error. Your cakes and pastries always turned out well, save for the minor problems you ran into as a kid, but you sometimes act like you’re baking for a group of people, about to take it out to see a sea of smiling faces who are happy to see you and your deserts.

“I thought you only cooked when they served fish for dinner.” 

A voice, one that’s seared into your memory, says from behind you. 

It takes everything in you not to jump from surprise, and it takes even more willpower not to turn around. 

You quickly wipe at your cheeks, breathing in to make sure your voice won’t come out in bits and pieces. You keep your back to your husband, continuing to sift your flour in the bowl, a continual motion like waves hitting against the dock.

“I’m baking,” you specify, cringing at the way you sound like you’re fighting a nasty cold. 

Gojo doesn’t say anything for a beat and does nothing to move. You’re glad he doesn’t, too scared that if he saw your puffy eyes or your tear-stained cheeks he’d begin to think that you have no backbone at all. It felt almost pathetic to have the world's strongest warrior see you recover from crying alone. 

He hums in the back of his throat at your words, and you wonder what he looks like right now. 

“I doubt these walls have seen a lady of such high rank before,” he comments, and you look up briefly from the mountain of white building up in the bowl, “They must whisper to themselves once you leave.” 

You let out a little puff of air, something resembling a soulless laugh. 

“Everyone whispers to themselves after I leave,” you say, reaching for a whisk, “I’ve heard more whispers than my own name.” 

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and you hope he doesn’t notice the way you quickly try to wipe at the corners of your eyes.

“You come down here a lot,” it’s posed as a question, but Gojo says it like a statement. He must have eyes everywhere, reporting to him what you’re doing. You wouldn’t be shocked, but you just nod, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you begin to whisk your dry ingredients together. 

“I hope it’s okay,” you throw in a pinch of salt as you mix, “I like the kitchen.” 

He let out a little breath as if he was about to chuckle, but then he got confused. You decide to spare him the endless questions that must be going on in his head, wondering why somebody in your position would prefer the kitchens rather than anywhere else. 

“My bedroom used to be behind a kitchen. I’d have to go through the pantry just to reach it,” you turn briefly to grab your bowl with the wet ingredients, pouring it slowly into your flour and sugar mixture, mixing it in slowly and carefully. 

“My father’s wife wanted me out of sight. That estate had never used one of its actual bedrooms to sleep the daughter of a whore,” you can hear him inhale sharply, “I woke up to the sounds of people shouting for different ingredients, to pots and pans clanging against each other. I learned how to cook and bake when I was young, and I usually helped them cook the food my family would eat for dinner.” 

When your batter is all mixed through you go to find the pan you have buttered and dusted with sugar, pouring it in as you wipe off the side of the bowl that had some remnants of batter dripping from it.

“They never asked me to, but I liked it. I liked feeling useful,” you peek over to your side, seeing him leaning against the wall adjacent to you, silent as a mouse. 

You walk over to the other side of the kitchen with your pan, careful with the lid to the brick oven, heated with the fire you had lit an hour ago, and slide your cake pan into it, closing it shut as you stand up straight. 

Finally, you look over at him. 

His eyes rake over your face, lingering on the circles underneath your eyes, the redness that stained the whites of them. He’s clad in the simple tunic and breeches he had worn to dinner hours ago, his large shoulders leaning on the wall as his arms lay crossed over his chest. 

“I won’t go to the east wing,” you say in a whisper, your voice quiet but heavy as it falls from your lips as a promise, trying to muster up a smile but it comes out wobbly, “I was just trying to make you laugh.” 

His lips looked pinker than usual as if he had been chewing on them, something you often did when you were deep in thought. His white hair had been messily pushed back as if his fingers had been combing through them continuously. 

“These grounds are yours,” Gojo says, his words thick from his throat. His exhale and inhale mirror the way you breathe, your two chests rising as though living with the same lungs.

You shrug, a melancholy look on your face as you shake your head. 

“Maybe if I was your wife,” your words are said without any malice, “But I’m just another person who sleeps here.” 

Gojo tilts his head slightly as if your statement had somehow wrenched itself into his mind, weighing it down. Even in the limited light, you could see the way he looked at you, an unreadable expression on his face.

“I’m sorry about all of this. I know I took away your chance to marry somebody you actually wanted, but my father told me you were okay with the arrangement. I wouldn’t have agreed to it otherwise,” you twist your wedding ring around your finger mindlessly, a little habit you’ve grown over the weeks here, “I never wanted to be selfish, and I truthfully never wanted a husband. I just wanted a friend.”

—

Ever since that night, you eat your meals in your room. 

Alina protested, saying it’s not right to eat alone, but you told her not to think about it, saying how you liked the silence. 

You mustered up the courage to ask some of the coachmen to take you to the nearby town, starting by looking around at the little shops, keeping a hood over your head in case somebody saw a new stranger.

Sometimes you’d go inside the shops, finding little trinkets that you thought your maids might like, or ornaments that might help fill up the empty spots around your room. You’ve never been able to decorate before with how small your old room was, so you decided to take advantage of its space.

When you’re walking around you sometimes see Gojo, either in the training yard or walking around with one of his advisors. There have been moments when the two of you catch each other's stares from across the room, but you’re always the first to look away, making sure you’re going in a different direction than him. 

You knew that you’d have to talk to him eventually, especially with the gathering that was coming up at the Tokoshi manor, but each night you pretended it was another day away, instead of one day closer. 

Your maids came bustling in and out of your room more often than usual with preparations for the night that was closing in, shoving you into different dresses, not satisfied until they found the right one.

Alina noticed your shift in demeanor, never picking and prodding at it, but silently observing. You could tell she knew something was wrong, but you didn’t know how to put exactly what you were feeling in words. 

It didn’t help that the closer you got to the night of the event Gojo seemed to be everywhere you were. The gardens, the library, the field, the stables. He probably just had business to attend to, but it didn’t help that whenever he saw you it looked like he wanted to say something. It also didn’t help that you’d scurry away when you saw him open his mouth. 

The weeks turned into days, the days into a day, and that day into hours and you found yourself perched uncomfortably on a chair as three different women attended to your face, hair, and accessories. 

You watch them work silently, taking in all the jewelry and makeup that you’ve been looking forward to wearing. It’s nothing too drastic, but that 

girl who longed to wear pretty things inside of you is gleaming right now. 

“…Lord Gojo requested for her to wear another pair of earrings,” one of your maids says, looking at the earrings Alina had picked out for you. 

Your ears perk up at the mention of his name, watching Alina as she perks an eyebrow up. 

“When did he request that?” 

The older lady looks at you in the mirror and then at Alina. 

“A couple of nights ago,” she shows Alina another pair, a sapphire one that seems to gleam brightly, “he dropped them off when she was…away…” the maid trails off, noticing the fact that you were eavesdropping.

Your eyes dart away as if that would help, but she quickly changes the topic, and you huff in annoyance as Alina sends you a knowing look.  

“Your husband is a strange man,” Alina mutters in your ear as you giggle quietly, rolling your eyes as she playfully shoves your shoulder. 

You don’t say anything in retaliation, and sit back as you put in your new earrings, grateful that they still complimented the color of your dress, and try to pretend you are going down for dinner rather than a gathering with people you didn’t know. 

You’ve been learning this entire week how to properly hold a spoon and fork, and how to cut your food appropriately. You’ve been taking dancing lessons, discovered how to properly greet people, and even learned how to gracefully enter and exit a horse-drawn carriage. All things you should’ve probably learned earlier, but were never able to. 

Alina helps you out of the chair when they are all done, giving you a second to look into the mirror. The dress they had wrangled you into was beautiful, your hair done in the way you liked. You thanked them all, expressing your endless gratitude for their hard work. 

You take a deep breath as you exit the room and go out into the hall, leading yourself down the stairs and through multiple corridors, trying to calm down your palpitating heart. 

It takes a few minutes but you find yourself at the front of the manor, standing alone and looking around, trying to see if you were at the wrong place. But in the distance, you can see the coachmen and the carriage, the door shut, still waiting for you. 

You take a tentative step forward, nearing the entranceway that leads outside, but feel a soft touch hovering above your elbow. 

It’s strange how he usually finds you before you find him, but as somebody who’s trained to know and find things before others do, you suppose it makes sense. You glance to your side, already expecting to see those cerulean eyes as you look up. 

Gojo looks good, somehow better than usual. 

He’s clad in dark blue garments, intricate with Northern design, and your eyes look up and down his entire body. His usual muscular build seems to be outlined by the stretch of his overcoat, the way the fabric is sitting snugly over his chest. 

He seems to be doing the same, though. You can feel his gaze drop to your dress, to the way your lips are a little redder than usual, your hair done in a way that suits your face. His eyes linger on your ears, and there’s a small, barely noticeable tug to the corners of his lips. 

“Ready?” Gojo asks, the first time he’s spoken in a couple of weeks, and you hum. 

He takes his hand away from your elbow as he rests it on the small of your back, and you feel heat travel from his fingertips through the fabric, through your corset, your undergarments, and straight to your skin. 

They bring the carriage out a little closer, a coachman opening the door for you. You brace yourself, heaving your dress upwards as you go to grasp the rail on the side.

But Gojo moves swiftly, offering you his glove-clad hand as you look over at him in surprise, taking it after a moment of hesitation, and haul yourself inside. 

It’s far bigger than the one you usually take to town, and you settle for a corner on the left-hand side near the window. The walls of the carriage are lined with this sort of fabric that feels like it’s lighter than a cloud, colored the traditional blue of the Gojo family. You’d guess it could fit at least an entire family comfortably, so you’re not too worried about the underskirt of your dress taking up too much space.

You watch Gojo follow you in. He looks around, having to duck his head (and a lot of his back) as he sits in front of you, pushing the strands of hair that had fallen into his face.

The two of you sit in awkward silence, your gaze settled on the door that they shut after Gojo entered, and your eyes quickly fall to your hands resting in your lap, neatly folded.

The carriage starts a little bit later, the wheels humming to life as the coachmen yip at the horses to start. The sudden rocking movement that you’ve become familiar with sways you side to side, and suddenly you're totally aware of the fact that you’re alone in a limited space with the man you’ve been avoiding for the better half of two weeks. 

You can feel his stare boring into the side of your head, can hear the way his breathing is coming out strangely as if he wanted to talk, but kept stopping himself off before he could say a word. 

“Did you like the earrings?” Gojo finally asks, and you glance up, eyes narrowing for a second in confusion as realization suddenly comes rushing in. 

“Hm? O-oh, yes!” You quickly stutter out, your hands flying to your ears as if you forgot they were there, “Yes, thank you. They were beautiful. They kind of looked like the inside of a belly button,” you say.

Your husband blinks, brows furrowed slightly as you think about what you had just said, eyes wide in shock.  

“Er…well, gods, no, not bellybuttons,” your head falls to your hands as you shake your head profusely, “Sorry, they don’t look like belly buttons-” 

But you stop when you hear a small laugh from him, quiet as he looks away for a second, a tiny slightly visible grin on his face as he looks back at you. 

“Did you know that sometimes,” his eyes are a little upturned as if he fighting back an actual smile, “I make a bet with myself about what you’re going to say?” 

You smile slightly, your head cocking to the side. 

“Have you ever won?” 

Gojo chuckles, and your eyes suddenly fall to his hand, at the way he’s fidgeting with his ring, his wedding ring, the same way you seem to do whenever you’re thinking about everything and anything all at once. 

“Not once.” 

You grin, and though you still feel this heavy weight of unspoken things resting in the middle of you two, you decide not to acknowledge it at the moment. Things unsaid, unheard, weaved through the air, tying you and him together like a tapestry. 

You fidget with your skirt, looking out the window at the moving scenery. 

Gojo breathes deeply through his nose, his pointed finger tapping on his thigh. 

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he finally says, and your eyes dart away from the trees and the sky to look over at him. 

His bottom lip is caught underneath his teeth, his blue eyes shining with a different hue. He takes up a lot of room with just his size alone, but it looks like he’s trying to make himself seem less intimidating, less of a warrior, and more of a…person.

You don’t say anything, opting to stay quiet to see what it is that he is trying to formulate into words. 

“That night,” Gojo twists his ring back and forth with his thumb, “I…” It’s weird to see somebody so sure of themself struggle to speak, and your brows crease in the middle, not knowing what it was he was trying to get at. 

“I wanted to tell you that you too had a right to a good husband. Somebody who didn't rush you into a marriage because of his own mistakes…somebody you wanted.”

Where is he going with this?

You suddenly feel your throat dry up, swallowing thickly as Gojo looks out the window momentarily before looking back at you. 

“My parents never told me who I’d be marrying,” Gojo explains, his voice hoarse, “I figured out the day of the wedding,” he twisted his wedding ring, looking at the way it shined, “And I wanted to hate you,” 

His words punch you square in the gut, but you can only bring yourself to keep on looking at him.

“I wanted to hate you so much because it would be easier to act like this wasn’t my fault if I could…but,” he sighs, his chest rising and falling, “I don’t think it’s possible to hate you.” 

Your lip trembles slgihtly, a sheen over your eyes. What is he doing?

“I’ve been raised in a way most people our age aren’t. My parents wanted me to be the strongest so was put into training since I was four, and I think this entire time I’ve been trying to approach you like a…military strategy. You were this map in my head that no matter how I approached it nothing made sense. But that night, in the kitchen, everything finally did.” 

Your eyes flitter downwards so that he couldn’t see the waver in them

“You didn’t deserve how you were treated in your old life, nor this new one,” his hand covers his chest, and you feel lightheaded, “And I promise to you I’ll do everything in my power to make this one better. If you don’t want me as a husband, than as a friend.

“I’d like to be your friend, if you’d allow me,” he whispers thickly, his voice heavy. He fidgets with his fingers, moving them together and back out again, and you notice how he does this a lot whenever you’re near.

Your heart is beating so quickly that you feel like it's going to stop, and your mind is working so hectically that you don’t know what to think. This is the same man who looked at you as if you had torn down the moon and stars when he saw you the first time, the man who never seemed to be that interested in what it is you had to say. The very same person who would’ve rather married a broomstick than you. 

…right? 

And yet he’s here, asking to be your friend. Something that nobody has ever asked before, something that people wouldn’t ever dare to murmur out loud to you. He had no beneficial gain from doing this, no ally that he would please if he offered to be your friend.

Your heart twists because why does he look like he cares about what you say? His eyes are creased slightly around the edges, his lips pressed together as if he were preparing for whatever outcome it was to what you said.

Nobody has ever told you those things, the things that made years of pain and hurt strummed into one beat that your heart never wanted to drum to. This man, your husband, Gojo, was supposed to be another cog in that old machine, one that hummed and spurred like it was about to eat you alive. 

But the more you look at him, the more you let your unspoken words speak in silence for you, you realise that he isn’t lying.

You open your mouth to speak but are cut off when the carriage comes to a sudden halt. 

The two of you look at each other and then to the door, watching as it opens up, greeted to the sight of a large manor with multiple people walking in hand in hand. You swallow your bile, not knowing what to say, deciding to flee instead of face him like you should’ve. 

—

The gathering itself was far more boring than you imagined it to be. 

You and Gojo had the mutual understanding to act more…well, like a couple, than you actually were. You didn’t comment on the way his arm circled around your waist a couple of minutes into making your rounds talking with people or the endearing way he referred to you as my wife. 

You’re glad that he doesn’t do anything to talk about what he had told you in the carriage whenever the two of you were alone, acting like nothing was wrong and everything was normal as he inquired about your day. 

You told him brief things, still trying to shove his words out of your mind, but it was no use. I’d like to be your friend, your mind kept repeating, and you were too scared of brining it up in case he had changed his mind in between those minutes of quiet.

People you had never seen before congratulated you on your new marriage, their brows raised in that excited way as they motioned to your stomach, hinting at a special little someone who might be joining your lives soon. 

“Soon!” You said with a curt laugh, glancing momentarily at Gojo only to see him already looking at you, a light blush dusting his cheeks.

He made sure not to stay with people who were strangers to you for too long, not wanting to bore you to death, and allowed you to take in more of the well-lit and vastly decorated manor. 

Though its size was incomparable to the Gojo estate, it was still massive. The Tokoshi family had been a family with the Gojo one for centuries, so there was no question that the riches they had amassed over the years by being trading partners with them had culminated in this. 

Gojo told you earlier in the carriage, before everything else, how the young Tokoshi couple were good people. They liked to throw parties a couple of times a year, inviting only a select few. He liked them far more than a lot of the other people he had been forced to grow up with over the years. 

You look at the dining hall, at the corridors with openings that allow you to look outside without the glare of glass. His arm never left your body, holding you close to him as he let you walk around, your mouth hanging open slightly as you craned your neck to look at everything. Candles were lit everywhere, the bouquets of different assortments of flowers decorating the stone flower holders carved into the walls. 

You mentioned to him in the privacy of the carriage, that you hadn’t ever been able to experience a party of this sort of caliber before. You could see how he wanted to ask more questions, but you could see the answers already formulating his head as to why.

“We probably look like one of those couples where the wife’s dying and the husband takes her out to see the stars one last time,” you whisper to him, still looking around in a stunned sort of way at the beauty of it all. 

Gojo’s head ducks down a bit, trying to hide the chuckle that had broken out and made its way onto his face. He coughs into his fist as if that was the issue, but you look over at him to see the humor in his eyes. 

“Did you lose your bet again?” You ask, glancing at him from the corner of your eyes as he looks like he’s fighting the grin that’s threatening to take over. 

“I’m always losing that bet,” he tells you.

Though he doesn’t do anything to bring up his conversation, you can see it in the way he looks at you, as if he’s still teetering on an edge, wanting to know what you were thinking in that frazzled mind of yours. 

You decide to push past it.

“Can I get in on it?” You ask, turning slightly so that you face him, very aware of the fact that his hand hasn’t moved from its spot on your waist.

You try not to think about it, reminding yourself that it’s just for show, but you can’t stop the feeling of heat that travels wherever it is he seems to touch you. His hand is larger than an average one, his fingers moving mindlessly up and down on your corseted stomach. 

“Do you need the extra coin?” His voice is carrying a strange tone…is he teasing you? 

But again, you try not to think about it, it’s all for show, (you also try not to think too much of the fact that you’re pretty separated from everybody else).

“No, I just need coin,” you explain, fixing one of the medallions on his chest that had been slightly slanted, “I have nearly nothing left.” 

Gojo moves barely away from you, his eyes searching yours as if to find the joke. 

“Have you run through my family gold already?” His voice is still toying, but now it’s filled with a little confusion. 

“No, of course not,” you snort, rolling your eyes as you tilt your chin up to look at him better, “I haven’t touched any of your gold. I just ran through mine.” 

His brows quirks upward, mouth parting slightly. 

“You’ve emptied the gold your family sent up?” 

It’s your turn to be confused. 

“What gold?” You ask, moving away from him, his hand falling to his side, and you suddenly miss his warmth. 

You remember your father talking about how the Gojo family had rejected your initial dowry, saying something along the lines of outlandish practices, but aside from that, you weren’t told about any other sort of money that was supposed to be sent with you. 

He pinches the bridges of his nose, sighing deeply. 

“The gold that they sent with you? It wasn’t supposed to be a lot but it was supposed to suffice for the journey here.” 

You blink owlishly at him. 

“What gold have you run through?” He specifies, plastering on a fake smile when he catches the eyes of somebody behind you, but then focuses his stare back to you. 

“Well…” you shrug, “My gold.” 

Gojo looks like he’s about to make a new bet, one that’s with every time you’ve almost given him an aneurysm trying to figure out your strange riddles and rhymes that are supposed to be actual words. 

“I used to make some gold at my old home,” you explain, keeping your voice low in case somebody was somewhere that you hadn’t seen, but realizing that Gojo was lost, you continued, “The stable boy gave me some of his salary if I took care of the horses and cleaned the stables. Sometimes he’d give me extra if I could haul in the large bags of hay.” 

He scoffs, shaking his head slightly. 

“Why?” That seems to be a question he’s been asking lately. 

You shrug again, feeling his hand circle back around your waist as some people come near you, 

“I needed new clothes and my shoes had holes in them. My father’s wife didn’t let him give me much, so I tried to fill in the gaps.”

You smile at one of the couples that are coming near you, going back into your other persona as you begin chatting with them. Gojo pulls you in tighter to his side, staying silent. You don’t notice the way he hasn’t stopped staring at you, nor the way his heart seems to have churned so painfully in his chest. 

—

The night progresses and you find yourself inside the dining hall, being shown to your seats by one of the maids, finding your name next to Gojo’s on a name card. 

The two of you sit down, watching the people the file in, the sound of laughter filling the room, the clinking of china against each other filling in the rest of the silence. You take it all in with a smile, looking every and at everyone.

“I hope I’m not embarrassing you,” you whisper as you lean closer to Gojo, an apologetic smile on your face as you sit further into your seat, “This is all just so new to me.” 

You don’t see the ways his eyes soften, his hand inching closer to yours as he shakes his head. 

“You’re not embarrassing me,” he murmurs back, leaning his head closer to yours, wanting his words only to be heard by you, “I’m glad you’re enjoying this.” The smile that makes its way onto your face could power the universe, and Gojo feels like the wind had been knocked from his lungs, far worse than in training when somebody's foot slams into his chest. 

“I am!” Your enthusiastic and hurried words are hushed, but he can still hear the way you’re trying to hide your joy. The small talk is horrific,” he laughs a little bit, “but still I love it.” 

He opens his mouth to speak but is cut off by the sound of a knife hitting glass. 

“Everyone! Give me your time, just for a moment!” Miyo Tokoshi, whom you spoke to briefly, stands up, his chair behind him.

All eyes in the room fall on him, people still smiling, their teeth glimmering in the light. 

“I cannot express my joy to be in a room with you all tonight,” he says, looking around the room, making sure he saw everyone for a split second. “And my wife and I couldn’t be more ecstatic to host the first gathering of the season!”

You look at the woman sitting next to him, Lana, who you had also met momentarily, is gleaming at him, her face full of genuine adoration. She, along with everybody else, claps, laughing joyfully. 

You wonder if this is what a real husband and wife should look like, and you look briefly over to Gojo, your mind reeling with the charade the two of you have been playing this entire night. 

“And we couldn’t be happier to welcome the first couple of the year,” he exclaims, pointing his glass over to you and Gojo, saying your name and then your husbands as he claps his hand softly against his wrist, “May every moment you spend together be better than the last. We wish the two of nothing but a lifetime of happiness and prosperity. 

Gojo raised his glass to him, his hand grasping yours as he lifted it to his lips, planting a kiss on the back of it. 

You feel like you’ve stopped breathing with the linger of his lips on your skin, the last time that happened on the night of your wedding, and watching him grasp it even tighter when he sets it back down, weaving his fingers through yours. 

Stop, you chide, raising your glass as well, a shaky smile on your face, it’s just an act.

He winks at the two of you, nodding once more as he focuses his stare somewhere down the table, obstructed by where you are sitting.

“And to the future couple! Naoya and Freya!” 

Gojo turned his head immediately to look at you, watching the color drain from your face, and before you knew it, the man, Naoya, was standing up, a hand over his chest in faux gratitude as he thanked the host. 

You could never mistake that hair, the feline look in his eyes as he scanned across the room, a slimy smile on his face. You watch as it grows even wider when he finally catches his prey when he finally sees you, and you feel nauseous, like you’re about to throw up all those little crackers they had given you earlier that evening. 

The hand holding yours squeezes, knowing he can’t say anything right now, and you swallow thickly, eyes darting over to his as you feel your head about to sway. 

Naoya’s here. The man you turned down for Gojo. 

The rest of Tokoshi’s speech is muted to you. It feels like your head is being held underwater, and you feel sweat dotting your forehead, your chest, and your palms. You can feel Gojo’s eyes on the side of your head and can tell he’s trying to tell you something silently. 

The clinking of glass brings you out of your haze, looking up mindlessly as you haphazardly clink yours against Gojo’s, rubbing a hand down your face as if that would help. 

You're grateful for the flurry of movements and noises, everybody talking to somebody, the people beginning to serve themselves the wide array of food places in front of them. 

Gojo squeezes your hand one more time, and you finally look over at him, trying to muster up a smile but with how queasy you feel and the way your head spinning, it probably looks like you’re about to be sick all over him. 

“I’ll be okay,” you say through clenched teeth. 

Gojo nods, his thumb rubbing up and down your hand in a soothing way. It’s just for show. 

“I’m sorry my palms are sweating,” you laugh mirthlessly, and he squeezes it again, you’re sure he’s only doing this because of the extra attention of the two of you ever since they realized you and Naoya were in the same room, “you don’t have to keep holding it.” 

“Do you want me to let go?” He asks, and you stop poking around at the turnips on your plate. 

No. 

“N-no,” you croak out, desperate for his touch that’s grounding you, “No, please.” 

Gojo nods, his thumb not stopping its comforting motion of moving up and down. 

“Don’t worry,” he mutters, leaning closer to you as you duck your head so that your ears are near his lips, “My hands get sweaty too.” 

You laugh quietly and it sounds like wind chimes. You look at Gojo and watch as his lips tug upwards into a soft smile, one you had never seen before, and one you thought you never would. 

—

You tried to hide away the rest of the party, but Gojo didn’t seem to mind. 

When it was time to leave you accepted the gracious hug of the hosting couple, promising them that you’d come back for a more private dinner, and let Gojo lead you out into the courtyard where all the carriages were held. 

You slept the entire ride home, not wanting to mess anything up by taking, and you’re happy that Gojo didn’t bother you. You felt groggy when you returned to the estate, grateful for Gojo’s steady hand as he helped you out of the carriage. The two of you looked like you wanted to say something, but couldn’t, so you bid each other good night and went your separate ways.

Separate except for one brief moment. 

You were walking away and up the stairs when you suddenly stopped, remembering what it was that you wanted to tell him. You call out his name, watching as he turns, white brows slightly furrowed. 

“I…” you start but realize you didn’t exactly have a plan for what you wanted to say. He gives you his patience, not looking annoyed or frustrated when you try to think of the right words to string together. 

“I…I would like to be your friend too,” you finally say, and watch as a smile forms on his face, his pink lips tugging upwards in a way that made his eyes shine, the way your earrings did in the candlelight. 

He rakes his hand through his snow-white locks, pushing them away from his face. 

“I’ll see you at breakfast then,” Gojo says, and you dip your head down in a small smile. 

You give him a small wave, disappearing as you round the corner.

And since then, you found him joining you not only for breakfast or the sparse dinners but for any meal he possibly could. 

Gojo talked more, about anything and everything, and you did the same. 

You realized that he was actually an open person the closer you got to him, seeing that he too was capable of laughing and making jokes, his teasing eyes growing more frequent the closer your chairs got to the dinner table until you eventually just sat side-by-side, growing tired of shouting at each other across its length. 

On the days he wasn’t busy with strategizing or talking to other lords, he’d walk around the estate with you, telling you stories from his childhood, the times he’d run amock around the halls. Other times the two of you would go into town, looking at the different stores together. 

You could tell he was trying, could see it in the way he glanced at you from time to time to make sure that you were doing well. 

He’d accompany you to the library if you asked him to, and you’d go down sometimes to the training yard just to see him. Gojo would never tell you how much he tried to show off when you were there and knew he never had to. You could see the way he tried to appear even stronger when fighting with one of the other men, the poor soldier coming out with bruises and cuts all over his body.

Over many weeks, you find yourself looking forward to spending time with him, and a part of your cracked self begins mending itself again. 

It felt like after years of searching for somebody, somebody found you. 

On one of the nights when his sparring had gone on for far longer than it usually does, you decided to head down to the training yard after your night bath, tugging on a large robe over yourself as you walked the familiar stone steps down to where you knew he was. 

You could hear them before you saw them, a cacophony of fists hitting skin, groans, shouts from one another. There was a little perch from where you could watch what was happening below, and you usually hid yourself in a corner so that they wouldn’t see you. 

You’d rest on a pillar, arms crossed over your shoulder as you looked at the men below. Gojo was always easy to find, the flurry of white hair a tall-tale sign of where he was. You had watched him before, but you never got tired of it. You found it almost inhuman the way his movements seemed to flow like water, the way his hits were precise and direct. 

Gojo truly was the best warrior the North had ever seen, and sometimes you forget that you’re married to a man who brought down entire armies with just his bare fists. 

You watch as he jests with one of his friends, his chest rising a little bit at an irregular pace, slightly out of breath, but happy to be there. He turns to one of the guys behind him to say something, but his eyes immediately track upwards to the figure trying to stay hidden, you and a wide smile break out on his face. 

He waves at you, and it gets the attention of the other men there. They all turn to see where you are, their boyish grins and calls making you roll your eyes at their antics, your face heating up slightly as you wave back at them. 

Gojo says something to the person next to him, and you hear the man shout at the other ones to wrap it up for the night. Some of them wave goodbye to you as they begin exiting, going back to their common rooms. 

You make a move to lean slightly over the railing, your arms crossed over the wood as you peer down at the ground where Gojo remained alone, finding him to already be looking up at you. 

“Care to come down?” He juts his chin at the staircase to your left, the one that leads down to the courtyard, and you nod, disappearing behind the stone pillars as you take the steps leading downwards. 

You’ve been here a couple of times, as per your own request. You wanted to see what they did during training, what the training yard actually looked like from the ground. You lift the ends of your dress up slightly as you near the bottom, rounding the corner to see Gojo standing in the middle. 

He’s waiting for you, his eyes tracking your movements as you come near to him. 

His nose twitches slightly, his eyes squinting as he lifts his head in the air, suddenly picking up the scent of something unusual. 

“What’s that smell?” Gojo asks as you come to him, his eyes looking over your body as if it were emitting from you. 

You scoff, appalled, and then suddenly remember that Alina had applied some lavender oil to you after your bath. 

“If it’s a good smell then me,” you cross your arms over your chest, nose wrinkling in disgust as you take in his smell of sweat and grime, “If bad then you.”

Gojo snorts, coming closer to you as he continues sniffing, exaggerating the sound. You step away from him slightly, the smell of sweat overpowering, and he takes notice of this. 

“What?” He inquires, annoyed that you are moving away from him, and he takes a step closer. 

“What do you mean what?” You tease, moving again as he tries to smell the air, “You smell like an army of unshowered men. I just took a bath.” 

Gojo seems offended at this, trying to move back closer to you but you side-step him, apparently serious about this. 

“You really won’t let me come near you?” He sounds like you’ve kicked him down, his cheeks stained pink from earlier, and you laugh slightly, shaking your head. 

“I really won’t,” you affirm, shoving the back of your wrist to him to show him that what he was smelling was in fact you, “See? Lavender oil.” 

Gojo just seems to be getting more annoyed the more you try to evade him, his blue eyes swirling with an idea as you look at him in worry. 

“No, the smell is coming from somewhere else.” He argues, changing his footing so that he stands right in front of you and you let out a shocked laugh, not expecting this as you take a step back. 

You don’t know where else he can smell the lavender oil. Alina dotted it to your wrists and your neck, but surely can’t differentiate the difference in location…right? 

“Come here,” he almost whines, “I’m not going to rub off my smell onto you.” 

You laugh again out loud, picking up the skirt of your dress as you try to outrun him slightly. 

“You will!” You insist, motioning to the sheen of sweat on his body, “You reek of sweat. I swear it’s just lavender oil!” 

He groans, his eyes rolling to the back of his head at this inconvenience. 

“You’re killing me right now,” Gojo dramatically grabs his chest, “You won’t let me smell this strange aroma and it’s killing me,” his face breaking into a little pout as you laugh even louder, shocked at how petulant he was being. Your laughing seemed to spur him on even more, running towards you as you ran backward, hoping you didn’t trip on the fabric of your dress. 

“You have a plethora of bottles of lavender oil in your own room,” you argue, “this isn’t something innovative that you’ve never smelled before.” 

Gojo shakes his head, and your heart flutters at the way his smile is so playful and teasing, the way some of his hair falls into his face in that messy way when he’s usually training and not caring about his appearance. 

“It’ll only take a second,” he reasons and you shake your head no, your eyes both shining with playful laughter. 

The courtyards lead out into the large fields of the Gojo estate, and you look behind yourself at the opening. It’s night, there’s nobody around. Nobody would judge you for running away from your sweaty husband. 

You look back at him, see the gleam in his eyes, and know that he’s not going to back down. 

He can see the thoughts forming in your head, can assume them before they’re even created, and so he’s straight on your heels as you sprint away from him, a large smile on your face as you squeal out loud. 

“Please!” You shout over your shoulder, running down the little hill as the moon lights the way for you, “I just took a bath! Leave me alone!” 

You can hear the grass rustling beneath your feet, your screams of laughter contagious as you try to outrun the fastest person ever, and try not to slow yourself down by looking over your shoulder to see where he is. 

But after a couple of seconds of running you realize that the only footsteps you hear are your own, and you pause momentarily to look behind you and are surprised to see that he’s not there. 

Did he not come after you? 

You look around the field, the large blades of grass looking like waves that move with the wind, and whip your head around every time you hear a twig snap. 

You're a little bit further away from the manor itself, and the only thing you can see besides its large stone walls are the torches lit outside. You can make out the guards who are standing outside, but no sign of Gojo. 

You try to catch your breath, confused as to where he could’ve gone when a force stronger than a horse running at full speed slams into your side. 

The scream you let out echoes around the field, and you brace yourself for the harsh impact of hitting the ground. With your eyes squeezed shut you wait for the flash of pain, but peek them open to see Gojo framing your head with one of his hands, his body shielding you from the impact as he lays on top of you. 

“How…?” You scream, your chest moving up and down with your fit of giggles, trying to push him off of you, “You’re a beast!” You cry out, moving your head to the side as he laughs along with you, his chest rumbling with the movement. 

You shove his face away with the palm of your hands, shoving your wrist into his nose as if that would satiate him. 

“I took a bath you behemoth!” You whine, thinking about the dirt and mud that must be staining your skin and dress right now, “Are you so void of any good fragrance in your life that you must hunt me down for it?” 

Gojo tsks, shaking his head as he swats your wrist aside. 

He’s also slightly out of breath, most likely because he ran across and entire field from another entranceway that you weren’t aware of to catch you off guard, and you’re suddenly very aware of just how close to two of you are together. 

His hand is still cradling your head, the other one holding your hips. Truthfully he doesn’t even smell bad, which is frustrating that it’s just another one of his many talents. 

He judges your jaw up with his nose, and you helplessly comply, your heart hammering wildly as he leans in closer to the skin of your neck, taking in a whiff as he looks back up to you, his eyes gleaming. 

Gojo’s hand on your hip moves up slightly to hold your waist, not hard, but to stop you from squirming around. 

“It smells different here,” he nudges your neck with his nose again, and your breathing hitches, “Smells sweeter.” 

You swallow thickly, blinking slowly as you crane your neck slightly upwards to give him more room. It’s like your body is moving on its own, and you’re not to sure how you know what to do, but you just do. 

“That’s not possible,” you try to argue, trying your best to keep your voice from wavering, “You just lack the nose for good oils.” 

Gojo laughs lowly, shaking his head at your antics as he braces his knees on either side of your thighs, caging you in. 

“I have a very keen sense of smell,” he boasts and you snort, looking away as he pinches your hip to which you yelp.

His hand moves away from your head and to your shoulder, to where your nightgown had slightly slipped off and runs a thumb down a patch of your skin where it was slightly raised, a faint scar on your collarbone. 

“Where’d you get this?” His voice is slightly hushed, and you look down from your chin to where he is talking about. 

 “Hm?” You look around, see that he’s pointing to the tiniest little scar, and chuckle slightly, “Oh, that?” Your eyes squint as you try to remember, “I tried to climb up a tree once when I was little and fell.” Gojo huffs out a little laugh, his eyes still focused on your skin as you chew on the inside of your cheek.

“It probably looks far worse compared to anything you have,” you say sarcastically, “The family physician kept saying I wasn’t going to make it through the night.” 

He scoffs, rolling his eyes at your antics as he raises himself, moving away from you as he sits back down on the grass. You miss his warmth, the way his heat radiated onto you like a furnace. 

“I don’t know how you keep surviving between your inability to consume fish and your near-death occurrences,” Gojo’s voice holds a teasing tone and you smile, moving up so that you’re facing him. 

You rest your weight back on your hands, kicking your legs out in front of you as your skirt flows around the grass. A while ago you would’ve felt improper sitting like this in front of anyone, but you don’t seem to care all that much when it’s Gojo. 

“I showed you my battle would,” you say, putting one leg on top of the other, “What’s your worst one?” You ask, tilting your head to the side in questioning. 

Gojo purses his lip, thinking. 

You imagine that he’d tell you or probably motion to where it was, but a second later you watch, shocked, as he tugs his tunic upwards, your face heating as he rises it slightly so that you can see a part of his stomach. 

You hate how utterly built he is. 

His skin is pulled taught over the smooth stomach of his abs, his chest huge with pure muscle, his arms, bulging through the sleeves. It’s something you thought you’d get used to, something you told yourself to stop ogling at, but never could.

But you shift your focus to a large scar that runs across his chest, from the bottom of his hip under his arm. It still looks relatively new, and the scar itself still pink. You could see the way it was jagged, not one smooth line, and gods, fuck, why do you want to touch it?

“Well,” you try to think of something witty to say, seeing the way he’s looking at you as if waiting for it, “Clearly not as bad as mine, but it comes in as a close second.” 

He throws his head back as he laughs, his muscles contracting as he does so. You feel flushed, not able to look away from the scar, knowing that you were merely compensating for not knowing what to say. 

“I know,” he says eventually with a shrug, looking down as he surveys the scar, “It’s not as bad as it could’ve been.” 

You pout slightly, thinking. 

“Does it hurt?” 

He looks up at you, at the way you can’t take your eyes away from it, and shakes his head. 

“Not anymore,” he sits up a little straighter, closer to you as you watch him move, “Sometimes I can feel it sting, but it’s barely noticeable.” 

You beg to differ. 

The two of you don’t say anything and a part of you has decided that silence is bad for you. Because before you can really think about what you’re doing, you push yourself upwards, leaning in closer to him as you try to get a better look at it. 

He doesn’t say anything, but if only you could see the way he could barely use his lungs to breath right now you’d make some sly remark about how the best warrior of the North was growing shy from just a look. 

But suddenly you’re not looking anymore as you shuffle in a little closer, your fingers reaching upwards to touch the skin. 

You can hear the wind move around you, the grass rustiling as your fingers run across the scar. His abs flex at the coldness of your hand, but he doesn’t tell you to stop. You’re studying it intently, wondering what sort of weapon could’ve caused this. 

Gojo’s size dwarfs over yours, but you don’t seem to mind. Your lips as slightly pursed as you take it in. 

“Did you fight a bear?” You finally ask, peeking up to look at him. 

You’re startled by the way the flush on his cheeks has grown even more red, or the way you can’t see the blues in his eyes anymore. Has he always looked like that?

Gojo shakes his head, taking in a shaky breath, looking at the top of your head as you go back to looking at the scar. 

“Nearly,” he tries to joke, but his voice is weak, laced with need, “But I doubt a bear would even want to be compared to the man who gave me the scar.” 

You look up, your brow quirked in curiosity. 

“Who?” You ask, shocked at how quiet your voice came out. 

Gojo smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His tongue clicks against his teeth, his hand rising up to grab yours, pulling it away from his chest. He can’t bear to have you touching him like that anymore, not trusting himself to restrain the pure desire that bubbling inside his veins. 

“Naoya,” he says hushed, watching as your lips part and eyes widen. 

There’s a beat of silence, a moment when you think you can hear your heart beating in the same rhythm his is. 

Your hand curls into itself, shock taking over your features as your eyes drop to his scar and then back up to him. You find yourself wanting to say everything and anything, but can’t somehow find the words that you’re looking for. Gojo beats you to it, thankfully. 

“I’ve been having this recurring dream ever since I fought him of that same moment over and over again when he cut me open. But it’s changed, recently,” He sits up straighter, so close to you that your chests are almost touching, “And I keep seeing him marrying you, what would’ve happened if you had said yes.”

“And gods, fuck,” he ducks his head down, raking an agitated hand through his hair, making it even more messy, “I…” He chokes on his breath, looking back at you, and suddenly you see the glossiness in his eyes, the way that tears brim his waterline. 

And suddenly you see the Gojo Satoru, the Lord in the North, the most powerful man alive, cry. 

“I keep reprimanding Naoya in my head about how awful he is, about how I’d kill nearly every person alive if he ever touched you, b-but I was just as awful. I think about the first time I saw you, about the first weeks you were here. I think about how you must’ve felt, how alone you were. Every day…” he wipes messily at his cheeks, his lips wobbling, “Every day I wake up and think of you. I think about your face, your smile, your eyes, your lips, the way your nose scrunches, that line between your brows when you're confused, and every night I go to sleep hoping that this was all an awful dream and I haven’t ruined your life, but then I wake up, and it starts all over again.” 

“I know I’m a selfish man,” Gojo says with a wet chuckle, his cheeks wet with tears, “I know I shouldn’t, but I want you to myself, I want you forever. I want to be your friend, I want to be the person you sleep next to, the person you go to when you want to talk about your little stories. I want to hear your jokes and I want to see you laugh. I want to hold your hand, I want to put that ring on your finger every morning, and I want to propose to you each night.”

He shakes his head, swallowing his cries down, the moon lighting the tear tracks that start from his eyes and end at his chin. 

“But I know you don’t want that. You told me that you wanted a friend, but…” he shrugged, his smile sad, aching, longing, “I think along the way of being your friend I realized I wanted to be your husband too.” 

“I understand if you want to leave. I’ll tell my parents the truth, they’ll understand. I have a house ready for you near the sea, one away from your family, where you can start over.” 

The wind rustles the hills, and you look at the field, watch the way it moves in tandem with the life around it. 

You can feel the tears forming in your eyes, and know that even if you blink them away it’ll do nothing to actually hide them. There’s a burning feeling in your chest, one that you’ve never felt before, one that rings with Gojo’s words. 

You run your fingers through the grass, looking up at him with a certain fire in your eyes.

“What if I don’t want that?”

He blinks slowly. 

“I,” Gojo sniffs, nodding profusely, hoping you don’t see the way he crumbles, “I understand, I promise I do. The house is a couple days-” 

“No,” you cut him off firmly, wiping your palms furisuly across your cheeks, to rid them of the pesky tears, shaking your head, “What if I don’t want that?” You move up to him, reaching your hand down his tunic, your fingers moving against is chest as you dig out the gold chain that’s wrapped around his neck. 

The one that holds his ring, the one he told you about one night that keeps it safe whenever he’s training. 

“What if I want this?” Your voice is cracking, and you tug the chain tighter.

“What if I want all those things? What if I want you to love me?” The ring shines in the moonlight, mirroring her pair thats wrapped around your finger, “I want to be your friend,” you stress, your brows strewn together as tears overflow from your waterline, “And I want to know what things you like. I want to walk with you all around the earth and walk back home again. I want to sleep next to you. I want to make you laugh, and I want you to make me smile. I want you to be my husband so that I can be your wife,” you cry out, your chest heaving up and down as he wraps his arms around your back, pulling you into his lap as he tries to quickly wipe your tears away. 

“I want you too, Satoru,” you whisper, broken with your wet sniffles, a wet laugh escaping your lips when you see him crack at the way you said his name with so much care, your thumbs gliding across his cheeks. 

You slide closer into him, your legs splitting across his huge thighs as he hugs you tenderly to him, his head resting on your chest so that he can hear your heartbeat, make sure that this wasn’t just another dream.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs against your bosom, looking up at you with glistening eyes. 

“Then fight for me,” you whisper, your hands on either side of his face, “Give me all those things. Give me more,” you smile when his arms wrap around your waist a little tighter, his hands holding you up, “And I’ll do the same.” 

He nods, holding your hand that was still holding onto his ring to his chest, one hand moving to your back, and in the mess of tears and broken laughs the two of you seem to move together, meeting each other in the middle as your lips find each other in the dark shadows of night. 

You gasp when his lips capture yours, and he moves towards the sound, wanting to hold it, keep it forever. 

Gojo moves slowly, knowing that this is your first time, and cups your jaw, helping you move along with him as you lips slot and lock against each other. It’s messy and with no order, your chin staining with sweat as you moan against him, feeling delirious without the touch of him. 

You know this isn’t the easiest position for him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He groans against you, his eyes squeezing shut, trying to memorize your taste in case the world ended tomorrow and this was his last meal. 

“Is this-” You cut him off when you swoop in again, his laughter cut short by your needienss, the way you paw at his chest, your hands winding up to his hair as you tug harshly on the soft strands. 

He moans at this, at the way you grind mindlessly on his thigh, your need for each other bleeding out into the open. 

“I love you,” he murmurs against you, kissing down your chin and then back up to you, his tongue swiping against your lips, savroing your whine, “I love you so much,” he says to everybody, hoping even those on mountains oceans away could hear, “I love you, my wife,” and you giggle, eyes bright when you hear those words. 

“Say it again,” you ask, your nails drawing little shapes on his nape, and you see him break into a smile. 

“My wife,” he repeats with a peck to your cheek, “My beautiful wife,” he kisses the tip of your nose, smiling at the way it scrunhed up slightly, just the way he adored, “My wife,” he kisses your jaw, “My wife,” your giggling nonstop and he hopes to bottle up the sound and hear it on his deathbed.

His hands travel back down to your hips, adusjsting you slightly so that you wouldn’t feelt he embarrassing hardening of his dick just from kissing you, and moves his lips down to your neck, hearing the way there’s a hitch in your laughter. 

“Why’d you stop?” he nudges his nose at that spot pf your neck that still smells like lavender, his favroite scent in the world, “Hm?” Gojo hums against that spot, licking a wet stripe up it, sucking at the skin, feeling the way you arch into his chest. 

“Y-your reeking s-scent infiltrated my nose,” you murmur, biting on your lip as he pinches your waist. 

“Yeah?” Gojo continued to tease you, sliding the sleeve of your dress down, giving you more access to the skin of your collarbone, “Want me to stop?” 

“No!” You cry, totally against your better judgement, moaning when he sucks another mark into the skin, biting it, and then presses a soft kiss to it as an apology, “Please, please, don’t stop.” 

He chuckles darkly, shifting you around so that you are lying back down on the ground, his body framing yours as he continues tugging down your dress, going slow in case you ever wanted him to stop. 

His fingers are quick at untying the string that holds you bodice together, unravelingit all until it falls off and he’s greeted to the sight of your heaving chest, the way your naked breasts rise and fall. 

Gojo blinks for a moment, forgetting how to move. 

“W-what?” You ask, a little self-conscience as he continues to stare at your chest, “Do they look wonky?” You move your hands to cover up but a deep gutteral growl escapes his lips, pinning your hands back. 

“Beautiful,” he bites out, moving his head down, pressing a wet kiss in between the valley of your breasts, “You look like a fuckin’ statue,” he says, “You’re s-so beautiful.” Gojo repeats, and you can’t protest with the way he praises you, nor the way his lips hover over a nipple, finally leaning in fully as he sucks on it. 

“F-fuck!” You cry out at the sensation, your fingers lost in his hair as you keep him there, back arching off the ground, “That, that feels…good,” you can’t speak, not with the way his tongue slides across your nipple, pressing little kisses around you areola. 

His other hand goes to your other one, making sure she’s not feeling lonely, his thumb flicking over your sensitive nipples as you whine even louder. 

Gojo switches and you feel your breath shudder in an embarrassing whimper, your eeys squeezing shut when he bites at you, wanting to mark you up for those wretched gods to see and feel humanly jealous over. 

“So soft,” he murmurs against your skin, almost in awe, “feels like silk.” 

You would’ve had a witty joke about this, you know you did, but you can’t fathom to think about anything other than the way his lips feel on your tits, the way he seems like he’d die had he not been here sooner. 

But he then raises his head, and you whine in protest. Gojo almost break at the way you’re looking up at him, the way yor lips tremble from sheer desire. 

“Want more?” He presses, his hands, warmer than the fire that’s burning in your belly, trailing down, down to where your dress was slightly parting, “Here?” 

“Y-yes, fuck,” you moan, parting your legs to make room for him, not knowing what this feeling was but knowing that he was the only one who could soothe it, “Need it so bad Sa-satoru,” 

His eyes roll back, swallowing his primal groan at the way you plead for him, and nods, pressing a kiss against your stomach before his hitches the fabric upwards, sliding down your body so that his face is closer to that heat. 

You know you should feel more shame, but you feel like you’re going to die if your husband doesn’t do something soon. 

Gojo’s hand travels up your calf, trailing up your thigh, and suddenly stops. 

You go to beg, plead, for him, but cut yourself off when his lips find your inner thighs, pressign wet and messy kisses to them, getting dangerously close to where you felt like you were leaking. 

“You’re divine,” he whispers against your skin, hands wrapping around your thighs as he pulls them apart, “Fuckin’ divine.” 

His lips suddenly find there, you glistening cunt, and you mewl out for him. 

“Satoru,” your chest is heaving like you can’t find any air, “T-there, please, there,” and fuck the way you’re begging him is so sweet that he can’t find it in himself to tease you. 

His fingers seperate your wet lips, groaning when he sees just how much you’re dripping, and licks a tentative stripe upwards, your surprised gasp at how good it felt going straight to his cock.

Gojo carefully slides a finger through your tight walls, feeling the way you tighten around that, and lets his lips travel to your clit, pressing small kisses to it before he begins to suck. You clench around him, and your toes curl at the way he begins to pump it in and out, your essence soaking his skin. 

“So wet sweetheart,” he groans swapping his finger for his thumb at your clit, his tongue diving into your walls as he nearly cums from your saccharine taste alone, “S-shit, fuck, you taste like fucking heaven.” 

Your thighs tighten arund his head, but he craves the feeling, his tongue eating you out at such a fast pace that you begin to wonder if you need this more or him. 

“O-oh gods,” your grips his head tightly, can’t find the sympathy in yourself to feel bad, “‘Toru, oh, oh my, don’t stop! 

That coil in your stomach grows more taunt with each second. 

He alternates, adding in another thick finger, feeling the way you try to stretch for him. He glides in and out of you with ease, but he wonders what you’d look like on his thick cock, how you’d preen as he split you open with his girth. 

“Sweet,” he moans against you, his voice vibrating against your pulsing walls, “You’re so fuckin’ sweet.” 

You nod at something, whatever he just said, not fulling understanding anything around you as he continue to stimulate your clit, sucking on it, his teeth gliding across it with a little bite, and you moan out even louder. 

“I…” you can’t think, can’t breathe, “F-fcuk, ‘Toru, something, something’s happening,” you don’t know what this feeling is, this electric, all-consuming feeling that’s zapping through your body, making it numb yet aware of everything at the same time. 

“I know, I know,” Gojo praised you, one of his hands holding your stomach down, the added pressure making you whine, “You’re doing so good for me, you’re there, come on come for me,” his hand travels up your body, finding yours as he weaves your fingers together. 

“Shit, shit,” you mewl, “I’m coming, fuck, c-coming!” You cry out, your back arching off of the ground as your legs grow slack around his shoulders, your walls pulsing around him as that string tightens for the final time and then finally breaks. 

You can see white as your eyes rolls back into your head, squeezing his hand as tightly as you can, your yes dotting with tears. Your climax was all consuming, making you gush around his fingers and tongue, seeming to be never-ending, your body shaking in his hold. 

Gojo presses one final kiss to your cunt, licking off your release from his fingers, groaning at the taste, and lets you catch your breath. 

When you’re finally able to crack your eyes open, you peek them over to Gojo, seeing the way he tilts his head back, your cum still glistening on his chin and cheek, and whine out in embarrassment. 

“What?” He asks, eyes teasing when you go to hide your face in your hands. 

“I can’t,” your words are muffled, “I can’t believe I just…” 

Gojo kisses your forehead, wiping some of the tears from your eyes away as he kisses your brow bone. 

“How do you feel?” He asks, his eyes scanning over your body, glistening with sweat, and you take in a gulp of air. 

“Good,” you say finally with a soft smile, “Really good.” 

You look from his little grin, one that you peck at, your thumb rubbing up and down his jaw, and then look down, to the obvious bulge that’s hiding behind his training trousers. 

You’ve never seen a cock before but fuck he’s massive.

“What…” you trail off, sitting up slightly, and he helps balance you, “What about you?” you paw at his stomach, right before it leads down, and he lets out a shuddered whine. 

“As much as I-” he bites his tongue, feeling like he’s going to cum if you continue to look at him like that, “As much as I want to…not here,” he looks around at the field, shaking his head as a definite no, “Not here.” 

You go to protest, but he stops you, biting your fingers gently as you yelp, shoving his head away with little force as he chuckles. 

You let him wrap your dress around you again, tying some of the knots so that it doesn’t open up when you’re standing, and let the silence wash over the two of you calm your beating down heart down.

He plays with the ring around your finger, and you watch as the ring around his neck moves with his little breaths. 

“I want to sleep in your bed,” you say, and his blue eyes find yours. 

“You’re crazy if you don’t think I’m letting you sleep anywhere else,” he says in a shocked sort of way and you laugh, looking over to the side for a brief moment, and then look back at him. 

“Do you really love me?” 

Your words as whispered, but it feels like the wind picked them up and scattered them all around the field, around the river, the ancient stones, and right into Gojo’s heart. 

“I really love you,” he whispers back, kissing your eyelids, in between your brows, your forehead, the back of your hand, and murmurs the words, “my wife,” to nobody and to everybody at the same time. 

You smile, pulling him down by that necklace of his so that you can plant a soft kiss against his lips.  

[cutehoons02]

A sweet poison

Special 1000 followers!!!

Harry Potter series Jake pt

*pairing: pervy ravenclaw Sunghoon x popular slytherin Girl

*trope: opposites attract

*synopsis: Y/n, a cunning, spoiled, and provocative Slytherin, constantly clashes with Sunghoon, a brilliant and cynical Ravenclaw, who is irresistibly drawn to his complex personality. Despite the tension between them and their mutual attitude of defiance, an intense chemistry emerges beneath their banter. Their relationship evolves into a game of power and attraction, where provocations become a battleground, fueled by passions that are never fully expressed. Y/n, always in control, challenges Sunghoon to push past his limits, while he struggles to maintain his cool, but fails to do so completely.

*tags: A lot of tension, Hoon is slightly shy and the protagonist a bit spoiled, a lot of kisses, make couple as prefects of the castle at night, power games, degradation, masturbation (m. hidden room of the castle) unprotected sex (don’t horny) (f. masturbation) suckers, fingering, dirty talk, obsession, pet names (vipers,princess) (hoon,hoonie) +18, confession of their feelings

(English is not my native language)

Being a Slytherin in 2025 had become, for many, almost a trend—a label to flaunt with pride — all smug smirks and loosened ties around stiff collars but you weren’t like them. Your name carried weight.

Your surname whispered in the corridors of Hogwarts, came with a heavy legacy. Daughter of one of the last Pureblood families still loyal to the old magical aristocracy. Not the polished, flashy kind fit for magazine covers, but the real kind — the kind that had shed blood and cast spells to protect their name... and that of others.

Your father was in Azkaban. He had protected the Malfoy family — and not only them. He made forbidden deals, hid evidence, and buried names.

He wasn’t a Death Eater, but… he’d come damn close. And you?

You wore that burden like an emerald choker: heavy, uncomfortable, but devastatingly beautiful.

You couldn’t care less about people’s blood status — if someone studied at Hogwarts, they deserved to be there. Period but you'd never stoop so low as to say it out loud.

Not when your Slytherin aura — cold, elegant, untouchable — was such a convenient way to keep people at bay… and keep eyes on you from those too scared to get close.

The boys wanted you. The girls… either feared you or desperately tried to be near you. Real friends? You could count them on one hand. Maybe half.

And then there was him.

Park Sunghoon. Ravenclaw. Muggle-born. One of the brightest — most dangerously intelligent — wizards of his generation. Hoon didn’t believe in Houses. He didn’t care for appearances — he believed in results, merit, and reason over instinct. He looked at you the way someone looks at a particularly annoying problem — an equation that refused to make logical sense. You were brilliant, sure. But too… theatrical. Too seductive. Too moody. Too everything.

And yet, he couldn’t look at you. There were days when he’d stare from across the room, thinking you wouldn’t notice. But you did. You always did. Because he hated you — or at least, that’s what he told himself.

The truth?

He wanted you. Worse — he couldn’t get you out of his head.

And you knew it. Oh, you knew.

Every time you walked past him, you left behind a trail of perfume and poison. Every time you sat near him in the library, just to throw him off.

Every time you dropped a razor-sharp comment in class, and caught that twitch of a smile on his lips — the one that said only one thing:

This girl is driving me insane.

He hated how perfectly dramatic you were. You loved how hard he tried not to notice and while everyone at Hogwarts kept on with their lives — botched potions, flying brooms, half-cast spells — the two of you were there two opposite poles. Two Houses at War and yet, all it took was a look, a silence held a second too long, a whispered fight in a forgotten tower and the world stopped making sense.

The magic hall was one of the oldest in the castle. Tall, gothic, with faded tapestries on the walls, embroidered with the entwined symbols of the four Houses: the lion, the snake, the badger, and the raven.

Floating candles flickered in the air, casting a warm golden light that spilled across faces, neatly pressed uniforms, and the excited murmurs of the students.

You walked in as you always did — with that graceful step that wasn’t trying to draw attention… but always did.

The muffled sound of your shoes on the ancient floor almost seemed to set the rhythm of everyone’s breathing.

You sat in the Slytherin section, back straight, gaze sharp.

Everyone was talking — about Quidditch, the ever-trashier Muggle Ball, or checking if the Headmaster had arrived yet.

But your eyes, went straight where they shouldn’t have. There they were:

Heeseung — all lion pride and cocky grin. Next to him, T/L — his sister, a textbook Hufflepuff, kindness written across her face and sunshine in her voice. Sunoo, beaming as always and then… him.

Park Sunghoon.

Blue and black uniform, perfectly crisp.

Broad shoulders under his cloak. Long legs folded with that obsessive precision. His hair, thick and styled, always looked just a little tousled — like he’d fought a storm and come out victorious on purpose. You leaned against the desk with poised elegance, fingers laced.

T/L caught your eye and smiled warmly. You returned a faint nod — your rare, sincere way of saying “Yeah, I see you.”

And that’s when you noticed it — Hoon’s flushed cheeks.

The moment he saw you'd seen him, he looked away with a clumsy shift and pretended to adjust his tie. And you? You laughed — quietly, inwardly. Every time, the same story… those cheeks. That boyish flush. He always said it was the cold… sure. Cold ears, cold wrists, cold neck.

If you caught him jerking off thinking about you, he’d say he was “training against chronic irritation.”

Pathetic.…Adorable. But pathetic.

You didn’t even have time to tease him properly — you already had a few sharp lines ready on your tongue — When the great doors opened.

The Headmaster entered, and silence fell like a spell.

His voice, as every year, was slow, deliberate, and heavy with the solemnity only Hogwarts could conjure.

-Prefects, students, welcome to the next stage of the Conjunction Project- he began, hands clasped behind his back. -As you know, this exercise is meant to encourage inter-house collaboration…-

The speech went on, but the hall felt like it was holding its breath.

The duets. Mixed-House pairs, assigned for missions, studies, and exercises.

Two whole months and unless someone was hospitalized with dragon fever, the partners wouldn’t change.

-No exceptions,- the Headmaster added. -Except magical impossibility or illness. I trust that’s clear.-

He looked down at the parchment and began reading names. Each pair sparked groans, giggles, or sighs of resignation.

Until— Park Sunghoon… and Y/n L/n.-

Silence cracked the room for a second too long. Then came the whispers.

The stifled laughter, you turned your head toward him. He rolled his eyes in slow, theatrical disbelief and you smiled — that slow, sharp, challenging smile of yours, with just a touch of venom.

Of course.

Of course, this had to happen. As if it wasn’t enough having her voice in my dreams and her legs in my head. Two months. Two fucking months with her. With that tongue that only knows how to provoke, and that smile that makes me want to shut her up… and not with a spell,

Sunghoon thought.

It was 8:50 PM when you stepped out of the pool. Your hair is still damp, your skin carrying the scent of lavender salts and calming spells. You’d indulged a little too much in the prefects’ private sauna — one of the very few privileges in the castle that made you feel treated the way you deserved.

By 8:57 PM, you were still on the other side of the castle. At exactly 9:00, the astronomical clock in the heart of the tower struck with a solemn, echoing dong. At 9:02, you were running — cloak fluttering behind you, your shoes still a little wet in your rush. And by 9:06, you saw him.

Hoon was already there, standing at the entrance of the North corridor in the East Tower, bathed in the flickering light of an enchanted torch. His blue-and-black cloak perfectly in place, tie tight, expression unreadable… and his foot tapping impatiently against the floor. Living cliché, you thought. You approached with a confident step, a smirk playing on your lips. “Already checked the ghosts of the tower, or just practicing your patience on me?” Your voice was smooth, with just the right dose of poison. Hoon looked up at you with a huff. “You’re late.” His tone was sharp, precise — almost surgical. “Your first patrol. Congratulations, Y/n. You managed to turn duty into a spa-diva drama performance.” You let out a soft laugh and stepped even closer — your cloak parting just enough to reveal your bare legs under the uniform, your wand tucked into a garter you wore purely for vanity. “Oh, Hoonie…” you whispered, tilting your head. “Don’t tell me you’re flushed with rage again.” You reached out and theatrically brushed your fingers along his warm, blushing cheek. “You know, if you want to join me in the sauna, you just have to ask. No need to fake the fury.” Hoon clenched his jaw and took half a step back, throwing you a dark look. “It was the cold. You know, that thing that exists outside your cloud of perfume and narcissism.” His tone was sarcastic, biting but behind that stiff mask, you saw it. You always saw it — the red in his cheeks, the slightly quicker breath, the way he couldn’t look at you for more than three seconds without turning away. You followed as he started walking, those long legs moving quickly down the corridor. “What’s wrong, Ravenclaw? Running away from me?” You teased, following at a slower, more deliberate pace — a graceful glide. “Or are you afraid that if you slow down, you’ll, I don’t know… notice the sound of my footsteps behind you a little too much?” He lit the path with his wand, snapping out a curt “Lumos,” and without turning around, shot back: “The only sound I notice is your ego entering every room three minutes before you do.” You laughed. Quietly. Seductively. You walked behind him like a shadow — but with the elegance of an ancient charm.

What a challenge. What a damn walking riddle. He wants me. I see it. I feel it. But every time, he hides behind his bookish logic — and I love every second of this war. He’s playing. As always. And every time — every damn time — I catch myself thinking about that mouth… even while fending off Dementors during training.

Two months. Two. Whole. Months. What the hell did I do to deserve this divine punishment wrapped in a school uniform?

--

You walked up to him as you continued down the dark corridor.

“Hoon?”

“Mhm?”

“You forgot to check behind that statue. There could be a Boggart… or worse… a student breaking curfew.”

He half turned.

You were too close — eyes locked on his, your breath brushing against his skin, and you bit your lip.

“You should check, you know. It’s your duty… Prefect Park.”

And you walked ahead, this time without another word but his ears were still red.

How is it even possible that someone who looks like he was sculpted by a god is too boring to give him a single flaw?

That straight, sharp nose — so unlike your own. You had a slight bump, and that difference annoyed you… and excited you at the same time.

His moles, scattered across his face like secret little constellations. You knew exactly where they were, by heart.

Thin lips, but slightly full, like they were always about to tell you something he’d never say.

Or kiss you — but only if you deserved it.

His hair was thick, dark, just messy enough from the November wind.

And those shoulders. Those damn broad, straight shoulders.

Lean, defined body — nothing flashy… but you knew what was under that uniform.

That image was still burned into your mind — him in the prefects' pool. Shirtless, water dripping from his neck, running down his chest, and stopping where eyes weren’t supposed to look.

But you had looked. Oh, you’d looked perfectly.

That’s exactly when he turned abruptly and pointed his wand at you — not threateningly, but just enough to make you raise an eyebrow.

“You should be checking the corridors, not counting my moles.”

His tone was cynical. Tired. Irritated.

You smiled. Slowly. Poisonously. Your signature move.

“Honestly, I find your constellations much more interesting. It’s November, after all. No sane person’s out at night in this cold… except for the two of us.

One because he’s a control freak, and the other because… well. Just look at this luck.”

Hoon clenched his jaw.

“Being a prefect isn’t a privilege to strut down corridors like it’s a fashion show. You have duties, Y/n.”

“Oh, Hoonie… such seriousness. Are you saying you don’t like it when I look at you?”

You stepped a little closer.

“Because you can pretend all you want… but your cheeks, sweetheart, are literally screaming ‘look at me again.’”

“It’s because of the cold.”

“Of course it is. And I’m a Hufflepuff with a heart of gold.”

The bickering went on like that the whole patrol.

You teasing him, him snapping back — sharp responses, always with that barely-contained nervousness that betrayed everything he refused to admit. Pure tension. Loaded silences. Steps were taken too close. Glances that lasted one second too long. Until the shift ended.

You walked together toward the common rooms, and when you reached the entrance to Slytherin, you turned for one last jab.

“So chivalrous. Walking me right to the serpent’s lair. Should I be moved?”

Hoon looked at you with steady eyes and a flat voice.

“I do this for everyone. You’re not special, Y/n. You’re just like the others.”

You stared at him for a second. Silence. Then, with a half-smile:

“Ah. Then it must be a real problem… that none of those other girls make you lose your mind like I do, right?”

He clenched his jaw. His eyes — for a second — lit up with something that wasn’t just sarcasm anymore.

Something darker. Something far more wanting. But he said nothing. Just a cold: “Goodnight.”

And turned away, his cloak brushing against his ankles as he walked off — with that damn perfect stride.

It had been two weeks since patrols with Hoon started, and every single night had been its kind of chaos — all silent steps and poisonous words.

One night, you’d found him in the middle of a corridor with his shirt open, locked in a duel with a fleeing wizard (spoiler: he took him down in one move).

Another time, you two ended up hiding behind a statue to avoid Peeves, and you fell on top of him — hands on his chest, heart in your throat.

Other nights, it was just silence, and you found yourself walking too close, breathing him in, imagining things that had nothing to do with patrolling.

But that night, you were on time.

You’d spent hours in the Common Room, hunched over scrolls, books, and vials.

Amortentia had almost melted your brain — not just because of how complex the potion was, but because of what it meant.

The love potion. The one that smelled like your deepest desire.

You stretched slightly as the evening cold sliced through the air like a thin blade. Fingers frozen, lips chapped but your eyes were all on him.

Hoon was there, leaning against a stone wall, with that usual Ravenclaw scarf wrapped around his neck.

Tired eyes, messy hair, pale skin kissed by the cold.

How do you always look so annoyed… and so fucking gorgeous at the same time? you thought.

He noticed you looking. Again. He shot you a sharp look.

“Can you not stare like you’re trying to read my mind?”

“Aww, are you nervous tonight?” you giggled. “Afraid I’ll find out that beneath all that Ravenclaw perfection, you’ve got a soft heart?”

He scoffed, gripping his wand tightly.

“No. I’m afraid you’ll freeze me solid with your gaze. You’ve got a Basilisk effect.”

You walked for a few minutes, stairs creaking beneath your steps, until your voice broke the silence:

“Have you studied Amortentia?”

“Obviously yes. Not all of us spend our time staring at people or brewing random potions.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So you heard mine didn’t turn out right, huh?”

“Oh, word got around.” He turned with a half-smile.

“I’d bet your beloved would smell like… let’s see… mist, moldy moss, and maybe even a hint of aromatic agony.”

You stopped.

No laughter. No teasing. Your gaze went ice-cold.

“Real funny, Park. He didn’t answer right away. He looked at you.

Then took a step forward — but you turned and started walking again, ignoring him. The silence grew thick. Almost solid.

Hoon followed you, but said nothing.

“Y/n—”

“Don’t.”

“It was just a joke. Don’t be childish.” You stopped dead in your tracks.

“You know what all of you are?” Your voice trembled — but not from the cold. “You all think you’re so clever. So superior. But you don’t know shit about me.”

He said nothing.

“To you, I’m just the daughter of the guy in prison. The pretty Slytherin — spoiled, easy to hate. But have you ever wondered what it’s like to carry that crap with you every single day? At Hogwarts, people talk. Always. They never forget. And they think they know you just because of your last name.”

Hoon looked at you. His expression had changed. No more sarcasm. No more coldness. Just something more human. More real.

“I…”

He looked like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t find the words.

“If you want to make fun of me, go ahead. But at least do it properly.

Not with that cheap sarcasm. And next time you bring up Amortentia, remember: Not everyone gets to smell something beautiful. For some of us… it just smells like loneliness.” And you walked away.

Leaving him there — alone, confused… and with a strangely heavy heart.

The Potions classroom was wrapped in a pulsing dimness, lit only by the flickering flames beneath the cauldrons and the pearly shimmer of the potions in progress.

Professor Slughorn, as enthusiastic as ever, clapped his hands and announced,

<Well, everyone, today we’ll test your true skills: each of you will brew Amortentia without the aid of books. Rely on your memory and your talent.>

After an hour of careful focus, mixing rose petals, Ashwinder eggs, and Moonwater, most of the students had completed their brews.

Professor Slughorn moved through the classroom, scrutinizing each cauldron with a practiced eye.

Next to you, T/L — Heeseung’s sister and your friend — leaned over her cauldron to smell her potion. A sudden flush bloomed across her cheeks.

“So?” you asked in a teasing whisper, smiling mischievously. "What do you smell?”

-N-nothing in particular,- she replied, trying to sound casual.

“Liar,” you grinned. “You turned red like an apple.”

T/L lowered her gaze, flustered.

-Alright, alright… I smell vanilla, rain, Quidditch field grass, and… freshly baked bread.-

You burst into laughter.

“Those scents only remind me of one person in this class — Jake Sim, Gryffindor’s top flirt. His list of conquests is longer than Fantastic Beasts.”

-Shh! Shut up!- she hissed, shooting you a glare while trying not to smile.

Professor Slughorn approached your station, inspecting your potion with interest.

<Excellent, Y/N,> he said with a pleased nod. <Your Amortentia has the perfect mother-of-pearl sheen, and the vapor spirals beautifully. Flawless work.>

He smiled and added,

<Now, lean in and tell me what you smell.>

You bent over the cauldron and inhaled deeply.

But… nothing. No scent reached you. No familiar fragrance. No unfamiliar one. Just… olfactory silence.

Professor Slughorn looked at you, puzzled.

<You don’t smell anything?>

You shook your head, confused. “No, Professor. Nothing at all.”

He furrowed his brow, thoughtful. <Interesting… Very interesting. Perhaps your mind is too focused to let the emotions flow. Try again, Y/N,> he said gently, though his eyes already held that shade of pity that made your blood boil.

<Close your eyes. Think of a person. A happy moment. Let the potion speak.>

You took a deep breath and leaned in again, eyes closed, letting your thoughts drift.

You searched for something happy.

A moment. A face. Summer at the lake, with your grandmother teaching you the charm to keep water cool in jars.

Your first successful spell.

A quiet evening in the Slytherin common room, with rain tapping on the windows and green light pulsing on the walls. But still… nothing. You inhaled deeply. Still nothing. You opened your eyes and gave a small shake of your head.

The classroom was filled with whispers.

“Maybe she’s too bitter to feel love.”

“Of course — look at that snake face.”

“She needs a potion to feel something, not just smell it.”

“Love can’t be bought — not even with that last name.”

You backed away from the cauldron. For the first time, you lowered your gaze. Not out of shame. Out of rage. That strange stab in your chest hit harder than you expected. You felt T/L’s warm hand lightly brush your back, followed by the gentler touch of Sunoo.

And then—

'Well, no surprise,' came a fake-cheerful voice. It was Jace Roswell — a boy you’d dated for a couple of weeks.

'I mean… you’re the daughter of a convict. You don’t just inherit the blood, right? You inherit the emptiness too.'

Total silence. Your hand closed around your wand. Your eyes — two green blades, ready to curse him where he stood but before you could speak, another voice cut through.

Cold. Sharp. Poisoned like a dagger dipped in bitterness.

“Stupefy!”

Jace was hit full force, tongue paralyzed and body jolting backward like he’d been shocked. His notes scattered across the floor — along with his pride.

Hoon lowered his wand slowly, his eyes locked on Jace.

“Funny,” he said, voice calm and deadly. “For someone so mediocre at Potions, you sure have a big mouth.”

Professor Slughorn turned in alarm — but it was the look in Sunghoon’s eyes that silenced everyone. And then he looked at you. Really looked at you. Not with the usual scorn or exasperation. This time, he looked at you like someone seeing something fragile… or something powerful that had just cracked. But you stood up tall. You left the classroom without a word.

And Sunghoon remained there, wand still in hand, staring at the door you had just closed behind you.

You fled the classroom like you could outrun that burning emptiness inside you. It wasn’t just anger. It was frustration. It was that cursed fear — the fear that maybe you were like that: unfeeling. Empty. Forever the daughter of a man they whispered about — a ruined legend. No one wanted to see you. Only the mask. The bloodline. The shadow and that damned scent of Amortentia you no longer even wanted to find.

You climbed up, to the Astronomy Tower. No one dared set foot in that place, especially not in the forgotten side classroom — too ancient, too cold for the faint-hearted. But you weren’t faint-hearted.Casting the spell to unlock the door was a reflex. The portal creaked open and shut behind you with a sharp snap. The stone was cold beneath your palms. The broken windows let in the light like a knife, slicing through the darkness.And yet, you weren’t alone. A sound behind you — soft but deliberate — made your jaw clench.

“You have no right to follow me,” you hissed, not turning around. “And certainly not to defend me in front of everyone. You’re the first who thinks I’m incapable of loving anyone.” Your voice came out acidic. Sharp. Poisoned. But Sunghoon didn’t flinch. He never did.

“Why does it bother you so much that someone treats you like a human being?” You spun around and stormed toward him, shoving him hard against the wall. The stone echoed from the impact his expression was ice but his eyes… his eyes said something entirely different.

“You’re pathetic,” you spat, face close to his. “You act like some perfect little Ravenclaw, but the moment I raise my voice, you come running after me like a puppy. It’s almost cute.” His jaw tensed. “And you act like a wounded child who lashes out just to avoid feeling exposed.” You let out a laugh. Low. Disbelieving. “See? You’re a walking contradiction, Sunghoon. Rational, perfect, distant — and yet here you are, chasing me up here just because you can’t stand the thought that someone said something to me… something you might’ve thought yourself.”

He stared at you for a long moment. His gaze dropped — briefly — to your lips, then came back up. “This loser, as you call him, is the only one today who had the guts to tell you you’re not alone. Even when you’re too proud to realize it.” And in that moment, something snapped. As if every word, every insult, every stolen glance in the corridors or during late-night patrols had finally reached its breaking point.

You kissed him.

It was impulsive. Rough. Angry. Your hands gripped the collar of his uniform and your lips crashed against his in a kiss that held nothing sweet. It was fire and defiance. It was revenge and hunger.

It was confusion — and… he responded with the same raw intensity.

His hands found your waist — but it wasn’t domination.

It was needed. A need so pure it made you tremble and yet, when you finally pulled apart, his eyes were cold again as if he’d just realized what had happened.

“Careful, Y/N,” he whispered, voice low and edged. “You might find out Ravenclaws can burn too.”

And you, with a bold, wicked smirk, shot back: “And you might find out Slytherins have a heart but only for those who earn it.”

As you kissed again, his hands gripped you with urgency, and you pushed him back onto the old, worn-out settee wedged between the walls and the dark windows of the tower. The floorboards creaked beneath you — but you didn’t care.

You straddled him, with the venomous elegance of someone who knows exactly how much control they hold.

Your hands took his face as you kissed him again — hungry as if that touch could wash away the bitterness in your mouth.

You bit his lower lip — intentionally.

He let out a low groan. You smiled. Fierce. Dangerous. “Really? You whimper at that, Hoon? I thought Ravenclaws were supposed to be good at enduring… pain.” His pupils dilated as he stared at you.

“You’re a damn viper.”

“Thank you for the compliment.” You traced a nail along his throat — following the rhythm of his breath.

“Much better than sweetheart, darling, or princess. I’m not sweet, Hoon. I’m poison.”

“I’m starting to notice,” he murmured, voice low — with a crooked, defiant little smile, somewhere between awestruck and undone. You grabbed his cloak and yanked it off with purpose.

Then your fingers closed around the zipper of his hoodie.

With one firm pull, the heavy blue-and-black fabric slipped off his broad shoulders, revealing a fitted black tank top underneath.

Your gaze dropped to his chest — the sculpted lines of a lean, toned body beneath all that Ravenclaw rigidity.

“Well, well… who would’ve thought? Underneath all that top-of-the-class tension, there’s a body built for sin.”

He opened his mouth to reply — but you didn’t let him. You leaned in, kissing his neck — slow, deliberate — leaving behind small, growing marks.

Your teeth grazed his pale skin, your mouth sucking just enough to leave proof, one kiss at a time and every time you bit, you saw his skin bloom red like temptation, and inside, you felt something like pride.

Because tomorrow… tomorrow, he’d wear your marks — the marks of a Slytherin’s sin. Sunghoon held his breath, then whispered near your ear:

“They… might hear us…” You lifted your head just enough, your eyes locked onto his.

“What’s the matter, little Raven? Afraid someone might find out the golden boy moans while a Slytherin is marking him like he’s hers?”

He shut his eyes for a second, gritting his teeth.

“Merlin, you’re unmanageable.”

“No,” you whispered against his skin. “I’m irresistible. And you… you’ve fallen.”

You kissed him again — slower this time, deeper — while his hands slid up along your thighs beneath your uniform. It was a power game.

A battle of breath, of tension, of who would give in first. But neither of you wanted to surrender. Neither of you could. Not yet.

His hands trembled slightly beneath your lifted skirt, fingers hesitant — like he still thought he could stop this.

Adorable.

“What’s wrong, golden boy? Top of the class go mute the second he brushes against a wet pair of panties?”

He didn’t answer. His cheeks flushed, and that usual air of superiority vanished — replaced by something far more interesting:

Confused submission.

Without waiting, you took his hand and carried it exactly where you needed it. "You have studied forbidden spells, ancient formulas, and advanced potions… and yet you tremble at the thought of making me enjoy. How ridiculous you are." He inhaled slowly but did not back down. His fingers moved under the lace of your now-soaked panties and your horny, slow, hesitant cunt. When he touches you, moan loudly. Wet. Hot. Open. Just for him. "Look what you're doing to me, Ravenclaw…" he whispered against his mouth. He stuttered, kneaded with shame and desire.

"You like it, don't you? Make me like this. Feel my thighs tremble under your fingers. You want it as much as I do." His finger slipped into it, and your body reacted with a visceral tremor. You huddled over him, enjoying the way his control crumbled. "Shut up … please…" he muttered. "If they hear us…" You stopped for a moment just to smile. "That would be perfect, my love. Imagine someone coming in and finding you like this: with two fingers inside a Slytherin and your flap ready to explode." He gasped, almost moaning. And he sank another finger.

"Oh, fuck…" hissed, squeezing your thighs around his hand. "You're good, you know? A perfect guy who knows where to touch me. Who would have thought." "Y / n … you … you're fucking my hand…" he stammered with his eyes half-closed, his breath short. "Yes. And I will until you make me come so hard that I can't walk to the Common Room." His thumb moved-accurate, damn perfect. He began to tease your clit as you felt bloated with pleasure like a storm about to explode. Every time he pumped his fingers inside your poor cunt you would moan and he would bite his lips so as not to moan at the sight of you getting his fingers fucked and riding on them like it was your favorite thing.

"Faster," hissing through his teeth. "Let me enjoy it, Ravenclaw. Do something useful in your perfect life." His fingers sank, his thumb turned, and you couldn't take it anymore. You grabbed His hair, forced him to look at you as your body stretched. "I'm coming…" you said, but it was already too late. Pleasure swept you into a warm, slimy, pulsating wave. And he stood there beneath you, his fingers inside, his face upset, confused … excited like I've never seen him before. "Look how small you are," you told him while still breathing hard. "You made me enjoy with your fingers as if it were your mission. Maybe you should write it in your thesis." "Y/n… I…" he stammered, still with wet fingers. "Shhh," You put a finger on his lips. "Don't talk," you said as you kissed again.

That night, you weren't looking at him. For the past month, it had become almost a reflex: your eyes shifting to Hoon as soon as he entered the room, his flawless gestures, that voice always too calm, too sharp. But not this time. This time, you kept your gaze fixed ahead, your elbows at a distance from him, your mind elsewhere. And he felt it. He sensed it. It was like a sting to his pride. "Strange, Slytherin…" he whispered as you walked through the castle. "Tonight, you're not trying to seduce me with your gaze. What's going on? Don’t you notice your knight who defended you in front of everyone?" He said it with that half-irritating, sarcastic smile of his, the one only a Ravenclaw too clever for their own good could have. But you didn’t laugh. You slowly turned to him, your eyes as hard as marble.

"Funny. Still on about that? Even though you defended me, everyone thinks I’m incapable of loving anyone. And you know what? Maybe they’re right." He stiffened. He didn’t expect that. Not from you. He tried to say something, but you didn’t give him space. "And maybe you think so too, Hoon. No matter how much you pretend to be above it all… you let what they say about me influence you. You’re cynical. Fucking cynical." Hoon’s eyes darkened. He didn’t say anything. He took a step. Then another. And suddenly, his hands were on your hips. He shoved you against the wall with enough force to take your breath away. His face was very close.

"You don’t know anything about me." "Oh, I know far too well," you retorted, lifting your chin in defiance. "Your face is an open book, especially when you play the know-it-all. You know what people say, Hoon? That you’ve got a crush on me." He snarled through gritted teeth. "You’re arrogant. Superficial. And spoiled. You think you’re invincible just because people are afraid of you. But you’re just a broken little girl, hiding the emptiness behind lipstick and that bitchy attitude." You felt your heartbeat quicken. Not with anger. With something far more dangerous. "Go on, Ravenclaw. Tell me again how much I disgust you. Let me show you how much I get under your skin, while you're the first to chase me and want my body, maybe even my mind." "Under my skin?" he hissed. "You're a fucking toxin. You get inside me and ruin me. And yet here I am. Still on top of you."

He was about to kiss you. Maybe to yell at you. Maybe to implode. But it didn’t happen. The sound of footsteps broke the tension. Three prefects from other houses rushed toward you, visibly agitated. -Hey! Stop it right now, what the hell—" 'It’s not the time!' one of them intervened, worried. 'Three first-year kids are missing. We need to find them immediately. They might have gone into the Forbidden Forest.' You and Hoon exchanged a glance, still heavy breaths, the wall still warm against your back, his hands still firm on your hips. No one spoke. But something had changed and suddenly, the night had grown much darker.

The wind blew harshly against your cloaks, wet with snow, slicing at your cheeks like icy blades as you all moved in silence, wands raised, along the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Detection spells floated through the air, one after another: Homenum Revelio, Point Me, Lumos Maxima… but nothing. No response. No trace. There were ten of you, and the professor split everyone into pairs. Naturally, you got paired with Hoon.

He walked ahead, stiff, silent, as if the cold didn’t touch him. You followed a few steps behind, wand clenched in your fist, steps careful, mind crowded. Every time a branch snapped or the snow rustled oddly, you instinctively moved closer to him. Until, without even noticing, you were practically pressed against his back.

“Using me as a human shield, Y/n?” he said without turning around, his voice as cold and sharp as ever.

Then, the scream. Shrill. Agonizing. It didn’t even sound human.

You grabbed his wrist without thinking. Hard. Your frozen fingers on his warm skin.

“Now’s not the time to be a smartass,” you growled. “There’s a child out there screaming.”

He looked down at your hand gripping his wrist like it was the only real thing in the middle of that blizzard. He swallowed hard. His jaw clenched violently. It was below freezing. But you… you were too close. Too warm. Too much.

“Your touch makes less sense than a Muggle in a Charms class,” he muttered, trying to hide the fact that he was practically burning up under his cloak.

Then you both screamed. At the top of your lungs.

No response. Just the storm. And then… a red light in the dark.

You ran. Fast. Brooms forgotten behind you. The light pulsed through the trees, flickering like an alarm.

And when you reached it— A young Gryffindor boy. Trapped. And in front of him… a five-headed beast. Towering. Twisted. Screaming. Its jaws gaping, drooling, circling the boy like a trap from hell.

“Minus 200 points to Gryffindor for being a monumental idiot,” Hoon said, unflinching.

“Are you insane?” you snapped. “Who gives a damn about points?! He’s in danger—we have to save him!”

Hoon scoffed. “Of course. Let’s reward stupidity, as usual.”

But despite the words, he raised his wand. “Fulgari!”

The spell’s glowing tendrils wrapped around one of the heads… but the creature reacted by tightening its body around the boy, who screamed, voice cracking: 'I don’t want to die! Help! Please!'

One of the heads lunged at you both, growling. You raised your wand, ready to fight. But Hoon stopped you with a hand against your chest.

“Go. Now. I’ll distract it.”

“Not a chance,” you growled back. But he didn’t listen.

“Expulso!” he shouted.

The creature staggered, and for a moment, it looked like it might retreat. But then… another head burst from the black mass of its back, snarling with rage, its red eyes locked solely on the two of you.

The snow seemed to freeze in midair.

You and Hoon exchanged a look. He was tense, sweating despite the cold, but his voice was steady.

"Hope you studied, Slytherin. Because this time… we need real magic.”

'Use a Patronus!' the boy cried out, tears streaking his face, voice broken.

You and Hoon exchanged a quick, tense look. The monster’s heads screeched and writhed around each other like frenzied snakes. The snow was falling heavier now, mixed with hail. The cold clung to your eyelashes.

“It’s too dangerous for you! We wouldn’t even manage a moth,” Hoon hissed, eyes locked on the creature.

But without thinking, you stepped forward, raising your wand with both hands. “Expecto Patronum!” … Nothing. Just wind. Your voice vanished into the void.

Panic tightened in your throat. But you shut your eyes. You searched for something. A thought. An emotion. And there it was—Hoon, back in class, defending you in front of everyone, unafraid of judgment. That moment when you realized that behind all the sarcasm and coldness, there was something more. He didn’t just see you as the loud, brazen Slytherin. He saw a girl who felt things. Who had her own fragilities.

“Expecto Patronum!” you shouted again, heart pounding like a drum.

A light ignited. Green and blue. It pulsed. Boiled. And then it burst.

From the snow and the glow, a shining, majestic serpent and a proud-eyed raven rose into the dark sky, spiraling together in a whirl of colored snow. They danced around the monster, striking. Its roar faded into a high-pitched screech—then silence. Gone. Only the ragged breathing of the boy remained.

You turned. Hoon was staring at you, mouth slightly open, eyes wide in disbelief, his lips caught between sarcasm and admiration.

“Don’t comment,” you panted, throwing him a look. And for once—he didn’t.

You rushed to the boy and wrapped him in your arms, trying to give him all the warmth you no longer had.

'I’m cold… but… your Patronus was beautiful,' he whispered, wide-eyed. “Thank you, little Gryffindor,” you murmured. “You made it too.”

A second later, a flash of light— And the Headmaster appeared before you with a sharp snap, his cloak rippling from residual magic.

-Incredible,- he said, looking at you and Hoon. -A joint Patronus. Haven’t seen one in… decades. Well done, both of you.- Then, turning to the boy with a sterner tone: -You risked your life tonight. From now on, you stay away from any path with trees. Understood?-

When you tried to Side-Apparate with the others, your wand trembled in your hand. Nothing. No effect.

“Perfect,” you muttered.

“You burned through too much energy,” Hoon said—without sarcasm, for once. “You’re insane. Don’t bother. Come with us.”

“No, you go with the Headmaster. I’ll… take a broom. Or walk. I’ll be fine.”

“Walk? With that thing still out there?” he growled. “Do you have blood in your brain or just snow?”

The Headmaster, calm as ever, raised a hand. -You’ll rest here. The Forest owes you something, tonight.-

And from the white trees, a small wooden cottage appeared—steep roof, chimney already smoking. A soft, golden light glowed from its windows.

You and Hoon looked at each other for a moment, then— You ran. Side by side. No words. Just warmth. Into that safe little pause in the world.

As soon as the door shut behind you, the sound of the storm vanished. The little cottage felt suspended in time: warm wooden walls, a thick rug laid out before a crackling fireplace, a bench stacked with folded blankets, and a faint scent of tea and oak in the air.

You pulled off your cloak, hands slightly trembling. Hoon did the same, silent, shaking the snow from his hair. He glanced at you and ran a hand down his face, like he still couldn’t believe what had just happened.

Then he burst out: “Are you completely insane? You just… cast a Patronus. A joint one, at that.”

“Yeah, and I also saved your ass, the kid’s, and mine. A ‘thank you’ wouldn’t kill you,” you shot back, crossing your arms, challenging glare locked on him.

He laughed—short, sharp, but not cruel. “You know that trying to cast it without being sure it would work could’ve knocked you out—or worse, right? But of course, the Slytherin princess had to shine.”

“Shine?” you scoffed. “Right, sorry—next time I’ll let you play the misunderstood hero while I blend into the damn wallpaper.”

Hoon eyed you, dark gaze narrowing with that look you knew all too well. He was about to pounce. And he did.

“That Patronus though. Green and blue? A serpent and a raven?” He paused, then added with that pointed tone: “So… what are we saying? A blend of you and me? Tragic. Romantic. Arrogant.”

“It wasn’t a blend,” you huffed. “It was just… powerful. You had nothing to do with it.”

He raised an eyebrow, smiling in that infuriating way only he could—sharp, precise, lethal. “Oh really? Shame. It looked… kind of intimate. Maybe your subconscious is trying to tell me something?”

“Yeah. That you’re a loser,” you muttered, stepping toward him with venom in your voice.

“Says the girl who grabbed my wrist in the snow like I was her favorite comfort blanket.”

“That was so you wouldn’t die, you idiot.”

“Admit it. You like making me worry.”

You rolled your eyes with a groan, but didn’t notice he’d already closed the gap between you. In a second, he pushed you—gently but firmly—against the wall, one hand at your waist, the other brushing your cheek, caught between provocation and something rawer.

Your heart slammed in your chest. The fireplace’s heat. His breath on your skin.

“You’re unbearable,” you whispered.

“Right back at you,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours.

And without giving you time to reply—he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It was a collision. All teeth, shallow breath, and desperate hands.

His body pressed hard against yours, your back against the wall, the world outside drowned out by everything you’d never said.

Sunghoon kissed you like he’d been waiting forever.

It wasn’t sweet. It was real. Raw.

You responded instantly, hands gripping the fabric of his cloak, pulling him closer with a force you didn’t even know you had.

He moved you back—toward the cottage’s small kitchen table. In a flash, you were sitting on top of it, the surface cold beneath you, his body warm and solid between your legs. He tugged at your lower lip with his teeth, and you let out a soft, broken moan, stolen right from your lungs.

His hands were everywhere—warm, certain—and when he gently bit your lower lip, a moan escaped you, more a hoarse whisper than an actual sound.

“Oh, look who’s moaning now,” he murmured against your mouth, wearing that arrogant smirk you knew all too well.

“Shut up, Park,” you shot back in a low, loaded voice. “I’m not in the mood for your games.”

You grabbed his thick cloak and tossed it to the floor, your lips finding his again—hungry, desperate. There was no space for anything else. Just hands, bodies, breath.

Your fingers slipped beneath his heavy sweater, brushing over his warm, flawless skin. “This needs to go,” you whispered, voice low and shameless.

“You can,” he replied, but his eyes held that familiar flicker—somewhere between surrender and craving.

You pulled it up by the hem, slowly, savoring every inch you uncovered. And as you did, your eyes dared him. “How many times have you dreamed of this, huh?”

He let out a low growl. “Shut up.”

You chuckled, pleased. You peeled off his second layer too, leaving him in nothing but a fitted black tank top that clung to his pale skin and highlighted the sculpted shape of his arms.

“Spread your legs,” he said, in that deep, rough voice that made your insides tremble.

You obeyed. And he moved in, closer, more real. His body pressed against yours, the difference in height only adding to the tension, thrilling and undeniable. You tilted him toward you slightly, your hands locking around the back of his neck with quiet insistence.

You started kissing him there, just below his ear, then down along his jawline. Your lips found the curve of his neck—hot, eager—and you sucked, leaving a mark.

Sunghoon let out a soft moan, low and involuntary. “Merlin... Y/n...”

“What?” you whispered against his skin, with a wicked smile. “Can’t handle a little real human contact?”

He opened his eyes, trying to stay composed. But you could see it, feel it—every word, every touch, you were pulling him apart piece by piece.

“I hate you,” he murmured again, but his voice shook.

“Oh yeah? Then come and prove it.”

His hands dove into the edges of your coat, and with one swift movement, he slipped it off your shoulders. His eyes stayed locked on yours, but when his hands slid under your Slytherin sweatshirt, his gaze darkened—sharpened. He yanked it off with a single pull, leaving you in nothing but that fitted emerald-green tank top… the one that seemed designed to tempt him.

"Slytherin to the last layer?"he provoked you, a raised eyebrow and dangerously low tone. "Even panties?" "Maybe," you replied with a sassy smile. "But if you want to know, you'll have to find out for yourself." He looked at you as if you were playing with fire — and maybe it was true. But he did not back down. "You really are a little nightmare dressed in silk," he hissed, still approaching. He leaned over you and his lips came back to your neck, this time slower, hungrier. He sucked it, nibbled it, as if he wanted to brand you. And when a groan escaped from your lips and your fingers caught in his hair, he came off for a moment, his eyes lit with a brazen desire.

"Tomorrow you will have purple marks everywhere, princess," he whispered, her voice hoarse. "We are magicians, Park. I'll hide them in two seconds."

"Don't you dare even think about it," he retorted in a darker, more possessive tone. "I want them to see each other. I want everyone to know exactly where I kissed you and that you are mine, my little viper." And he returned to your neck, sinking with a new determination, as if thirsty. He sucked your skin as if it were nectar, as if every inch had a spell just for him. Your groans filled the room, broken only by the sound of your heavy breaths.

Then he lowered himself, slowly, and his eyes rested on your chest. The tank top had lifted, allowing a glimpse of the soft curves that the bra, a little too tight, was trying to contain. His lips rested light above the cups, and he kissed you with an unexpected, almost adoring sweetness.

"Can I take it off?" he murmured, his forehead against your chest. "You can," he whispered, his voice broken with desire. His hands barely shook as he grabbed the hem of his tank top. He slowly took off your tank top, and his eyes darkened as he looked at you. His hands, still cold from the frost outside, slipped under your bra. He unfastened it with precision, and the moment he fell, your breasts were free, sensitive skin stretched by the air and attention of his eyes.

"Sensitive, huh?"he teased you, with a half-smile on his lips. You grabbed him by the collar of the tank top. "Bow down, Park. And suck.» He gave you a look that promised chaos. "You can just give me orders, huh?» Yet he obeyed. He leaned over, his hot lips touching one of your strained buds, then his tongue began to rub him flat. You felt yourself melt, a groan rolled out of you, broken. Then he just used his teeth, and your body strained.

"Hoon!"you screamed, his name rolled out of his lips like an escaped spell. "Always so responsive?"he teased you, his voice hoarse while with his other hand he drew you to himself even more. His hand closed on the other breast, with firm, hungry movements. "You're meant to be touched like that, you know?"he muttered, kissing and nibbling. "So soft. So ... mine."

"Don't say these things," you admonished him, trying to control you, but it was useless. His lips, his hands, were erasing all logic.

It came to you instinctively — you stuck a hand under his black tank top and pulled it up. He just came off your breast, a trickle of spittle shining on his lips. Your eyes rested on his toned, pale, almost unrealistically defined chest. You bit your lip, unable to hold back that little gesture. "You haven't seen anything yet, witch," he whispered, before stooping back, your bodies now closer together, your breasts brushing against his bare chest. They both groaned softly upon contact. "When I saw you in the prefects pool..." you whispered, " I wanted to jump on you." He looked up at you, surprised but amused. "And why didn't you?" You shrugged your shoulders with feigned innocence. "Maybe I wanted to make you suffer a little." "Cursed..." he growled quietly, and returned to kiss your breasts with even more desire, as if the confession had ignited something in him.

He continued to tease you, his mouth soft and careful on your breasts, until his lips began to descend slowly along your belly. Every kiss was like a spark that ignited you all, and you moaned, unable to hold back. "So receptive..." he muttered with a grin, his voice deep and hoarse. "Typical spoiled little princess."

"Don't let a Ravenclaw command me," you replied, lifting yourself up and looking him straight in the eye. "Not even if he has a language like yours." He laughed slowly, but in his eyes there was a new hunger. And you, with an instinctive move, unfastened his belt. His eyes just smiled as you did it. The pants slid down with a rustle, and you whistled softly at the sight of the black boer

"I thought you were more shy," he whispered. "And I thought you were less ... gifted," he retorted, touching it through the fabric. You felt him tense, hard. And you looked at him with a satisfied smile. "It's a pity that he always remains a poor Ravenclaw loser." He clenched his jaw, his eyes turned on.

"Watch how you speak, Y/n" But you still approached, his hands on yours even as yours drew him more forcefully to you. His forehead leaned against yours, and for a moment there was only silence, only breath. Then, slowly, with curious and determined fingers, you stuck your hand under the edge of his boxer. You felt his erection, the way his body reacted, the warm and alive skin under your hand.

"You're really ruined, Park." He closed his eyes, his jaw clenched, holding back a groan. "And I bet you're bad, too. It would take a hand of mine in your jeans you’d be wet" You admonished him with a smirk, but you tightened your grip a little, enough to make him moan — a deep, almost broken sound. "... little viper..." he muttered, his voice a thin thread between pleasure and torment. You giggled, dropping his boxer

"I don't think I'll last long..." he confessed with a restrained growl. You got even closer, your voice a whisper in your ear. "Then do it. Show me how much I ruin you." sunghoon was literally ruined. What he had dreamed of for months-perhaps since you launched your first poisonous joke in the Prefects ' corridor-was now real. And with your hand moving slowly against his cock, he could no longer think.

He slightly grabbed your shoulder, looking for an anchor point to reality. Hi voice trembled. "Y/n....i'm coming.."

"I know," you whispered with a devilish grin, accelerating the pace and barely squeezing. He sprinted forward, a restrained groan that became a growl. "You're a little viper."

"And this viper is making you look like a loser, Park." It was the end. One last, hoarse moan and yelled your name, your head bent back, your body contracted. His forehead leaned against your shoulder as he barely trembled, his breath broken.

His abdomen, the clear line of the V, was marked by the pleasure you had just caused, little pearly and slimy filaments ripped through his shiny abs and then he bent over, still panting, and whispered something in your ear — sweet words, but laden with desire, broken by his own astonishment. They made you vibrate inside. You, without saying anything, picked up with a finger the most noticeable trace of his sperm and, looking straight into his eyes, slowly brought it to your mouth. You sucked it with malice. "You are sweet, "you said," but slightly salty."

"You're sick," he muttered, halfway between the amused and the ruined. "And you're in love," you replied, laughing, gracefully stepping down from the table. You took him by the wrist, with your usual Slytherin confidence, and dragged him to the bed in the middle of the little house in the woods. "The principal really created a work of art. Ideal for couples to do smutty things."

He chuckled, but upon hearing the word couples, his heart skipped a beat. You didn't realize it — or maybe you did, but you didn't say it. You let yourself fall between the pillows with a naturalness that would make even a Veela pale. Your breasts moved slightly as you settled down. You looked at him with feigned impatience. "And you? What are you doing standing there?" Sunghoon shook his head, a smirk on his lips, still stunned by you. "You are impossible."

"And yet you are still here." He moved, climbed over you, with almost reverent slowness, and for a moment there was no more bickering, no game, no war. Just him and you, skin to skin. Sunghoon's dark tufts fell untidy on his forehead, damp with sweat and desire. You extended a hand, touching his cheek with your fingers, soft and slow, as if you were trying to memorize every line of his face. Your eyes were half-closed, loaded with something beyond provocation: a shred of vulnerability that you almost never showed.

He paused for a moment to look at you-as if he could not believe that you were really there, under him. Then, with that cheeky half-smile you knew all too well, he began to descend again, kissing every inch of your skin. When he got to the edge of your pants, he said nothing. Only the metallic sound of the zipper sliding down spoke for him. He whistled softly. "Fiery red panties, huh?"he said, raising an eyebrow. "And then you accuse me of being a pervert."

"Shut your mouth, Park," you admonished him, trying to sound superior. But your tone trembled a little.

"Open your legs."

"No."

His eyes became darker. "Stubborn to the last. Classic from Slytherin." And without waiting, with glacial calm and strong fingers, he opened them to you. His big hands wrapped around your thighs, slowly pushing them outward as you cast a poisonous glance at him. "I knew," he muttered.

"The whole scene." Then he lowered his head and began to kiss the skin of your inner thigh. Soft, quick bites marked his path, igniting every nerve beneath the surface. Every now and then he would stop and look at you from under his eyelashes, as if studying your reactions like an ancient spell. And when he got to the center of you, he said nothing. Just one kiss, one, full, slow. A groan escaped from your lips before you could stop it, and your back involuntarily arched. Sunghoon stopped, satisfied.

"And tell me now," he whispered against your skin, in a hoarse voice, "who is the loser, princess?" His fingers grazed the thin cloth, finding you exactly as he expected. He looked at you defiantly and triumphantly.

"Completely wet. For me." Then he bent over again, and your eyes lost all focus — you could only see his dark hair, his head between your thighs, and you could only feel the slow, firm pace with which he was tasting you like you were the only thing in the world. Your breath broke, a groan rose from your bowels, and his name escaped you like a prayer and a curse. "Hoon…" His tongue was a forbidden temptation. Every movement, precise and darn slow, made you falter as if a spell ran under your skin. He drew little eights with his tip, as if he wanted to draw your name on him-and you, with your lips ajar, groaned quietly, babbling his name like a supplication.

"H-Hoon ... what... what are you—"

"Shut up, viper," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and sharp. "I've never heard you so... true." And without warning, he slid a finger into you. A slow, exploratory motion that made you arch your back against the pillows. Your body reacted before you could even fight back.

"Park, I -" you tried to admonish him, but it was useless. He smiled, looking up just a second, his eyes lit up by something wild. And then, with a bold gesture, he brushed your center with his teeth. A light bite, calibrated. But it was enough to make you completely lose control. You screamed his name, fingers intertwined in his hair, looking for a foothold in reality.

"I bet you can get another one, right?"he whispered with a mischievous note. "Show me how good you really are."

"Yes..." you answered, in a broken voice. The second finger joined the first, and began to move with increasing pace. His eyes peered at you, hungry, and when you moaned louder, lips ajar and body trembling, he giggled. "Who is more beautiful, princess? Me ... or my fingers ruining you?» You bit your lip, not wanting to answer. Slytherin pride was hard to bend, even now. And he stopped. He left you there, suspended, a moment from the abyss. "No ... continue, Park!" He degraded you, in a low, provocative tone, but his gaze barely trembled. And when you gasped: "You are beautiful. And ... good at everything,"

he smiled for real, with a flash of triumph and a shadow of sweetness in his eyes. "I know," he replied. But his tone, this time, was less cold. More sincere. Almost amazed. "And you ... are my worst spell." His touch was fire. Every movement of his fingers inside you sent you into orbit, and despite the severed breath, you could not hold back the words. You yelled his name like it was the only spell that could keep you alive. Your hands were now lost in her hair, pulling them with force with every wave of pleasure that passed through you. He didn't stop. In fact, he seemed hungrier, more determined. He looked at you with those icy eyes that were now burning, and his voice, hoarse and confident, stuck in you.

"Come for me, Y / n ... I want to see you collapse. I want to know that no one can make you feel that way. Nobody but me." His words were the spark. Your body strained, the pleasure exploded like a liberated curse, and you let yourself go completely — trembling against his mouth and fingers. He did not look away even a moment, as if he wanted to stamp that moment in focus in the mind. When he stood up, he had the look of someone who has just won a war. He kissed you slowly, forcefully.

He gnawed at your lip as if he still wanted to taste you. "You know too much good," he muttered against your mouth, and the tone had something dangerously sweet. You barely moved, rubbing against him — your body still shaken, but eager for more. You felt his cock against you, still encased in his boer Your eyes rested on him and, in a bold and mischievous tone, you teased him: "All this ... because of a Slytherin." Sunghoon threw a fierce look at you, jaws clenched.

"Shut up." But you laughed slowly, enjoying the tension you had ignited. You pushed your hips against him and his breath broke. His body reacted instinctively, as if it had been enchanted by you all along. "Do you really want it?"he whispered, in a voice so low that it almost sounded like a threat. "Because if I sink into you now... there will be nothing left to hide. I'll take everything."

You looked at him, his pupils dilated, his heart in his throat. "Then do it, Ravenclaw. Take."

The only thing you really felt was him. Hoon. Every inch of his body pressed against yours, and every slow but deep push made you gasp, scratch, seek more contact, more friction. More than him. "Look how you take me..."he hissed at your throat, biting your skin as if he wanted to leave his signature there, indelible. "So tight, so wet. Is that what you want? To be used by me as a good, dirty Slytherin?"

"Yes..." you moaned, your voice almost broken with pleasure. "Yes, Hoon, please..." He lifted your leg, bending it against his side with controlled force, and sank back into you with a jerk that made you scream, your head falling backwards against the wall.

"Well" Another push, deeper.

"Do you feel how full your fucking pussy is?" Another one.

"You like it, don't you? Being fucked by one who treats you like a spoiled princess."

"I am..." you stammered, unable to lie. "My Slytherin princess version slut," he growled, grabbing your chin to make you look him in the eye. Cold eyes, precise. Calculator. But now, they were just burning for you.

"I bet you dream of being bent over a bench in empty classrooms. To enjoy me in the aisles while you're still wearing that damn green tie." Every word was a slap to your pride, but instead of breaking you, it made you shiver more. "Do you like it when I tell you that you are worth nothing but to be fucked? That behind that queen face of yours is only you, hot, trembling, hungry for me?"

"Yes ... Yes, Merlin, Hoon ... make me yours..." He pushed you even harder, making you moan louder and louder. One hand on your throat, to squeeze slightly, while the other crept between your bodies to touch you. Two experienced, cruel fingers brushed the spot where you were most sensitive, and you screamed without restraint. "Hear how you scream..." he hissed, excitedly. "I bet the owls in the woods are wondering who is the little slut who is taking me so well."

"Only you ..." you moaned. "Only you make me like this..."

"Damn, Y/n, you're made for this," he grunted, his thrusts faster and faster. "To be taken like this. Destroyed so. From me. From a Ravenclaw who never believed in anything but control. Look what you got me to do." Hoon's blows became fiercer, his breath more labored, and you could no longer hold back. The pleasure mounted inside you like a storm, and the scream escaped from your lips before you could even control it. "Hoon-I'm ... I'm going to—"

"Come for me." His voice was a hoarse order, full of lust and domination. "Make a mess. Dirty all this bed, so the headmaster is an idiot if he thought that leaving us alone in this little house would not lead to this." He smiled, kissing you hard as he continued to push into you with measured brutality.

"A bed, a bathroom, a tiny kitchen..." he laughed, panting ,"...like I didn't want to fuck you on all surfaces." It was at that moment that you screamed his name, trembling as the orgasm overwhelmed you with a power that emptied your breath. Your body clasped around his, and your legs snapped like traps around his waist. But he did not stop. Not yet.

"Look how tight you are ... still," he hissed, his voice now broken by the pleasure that approached even for him. "I make you mine, for real now. I want you full. Full of my cock and cum, you little snake."

"Hoon... no - not inside..."

"Shut up." His voice became dark, dirty with desire. "You are mine. And I want to fill you. Until you drip on everything you touch." He took you with deep, raw blows, until his breath broke against your skin. And then, he came. Hot, heavy, inside you. You felt his body shake against yours, his fingers clasping your hips as if he wanted to carve you into the flesh. His cum trickled slowly down your thighs, as you both gasped in the dark load of moans and sweat. He came off slowly, with his last breath still against your chest, then dragged you with him to the bed still disheveled. He grabbed you by the side and pulled you against his chest, sinking his face into your neck, as if that contact held him anchored to reality.

One of his hands lazily moved towards your face, long thin fingers caressing your cheek still reddened. You, still half distraught with pleasure, let yourself go on his chest, setting your head against his. "Little viper..."he whispered with a tired smile. "I don't know if I want to strangle you or marry you."

"I hate you..." you murmured at him, a smirk on his lips.

"Mmh. Lie. You're obsessed with me." He gave you a slow kiss behind the ear.

"And you from me."

The next morning, the world outside the little house felt muffled. Snow was falling slowly, silently, and the crackling of the fireplace was the only sound filling the room. You woke up to the lingering scent of burning wood in the air and Hoon’s warm body wrapped around yours.

His bare skin against yours was a silent reminder of everything that had happened just a few hours earlier. His slow, steady breathing made his chest rise and fall gently, and you nestled against him a bit more, as if that simple movement could somehow let you stay there forever.

You lifted yourself slightly, carefully, trying not to wake him. You looked at him—really looked at him.

The morning light filtered through the thin curtains, allowing you to take in every detail: the long lashes, the slightly parted lips, the faint crease between his brows. And then, his moles. The ones you had memorized long ago, like a secret map meant only for you.

Your hand moved on its own, without thinking. Your fingers brushed lightly over the small mole beneath his left eye. Then the one on the bridge of his nose, just above the curve. The tiny one on his cheek. And finally, the one beneath his ear, invisible unless you knew exactly where to look.

“Mmh…” he murmured sleepily, a half-groan in his throat. “Still tracing my moles? Haven’t you gotten tired of mapping my face like you’re trying to decode some ancient script?”

You smiled softly, not stopping your touch, and your eyes met his—still a bit drowsy, hazy from sleep.

“I’m just cataloging you, Ravenclaw… Don’t they serve some kind of purpose? Like little stars placed just right to be studied.”

“Studied, huh?” he chuckled, his voice rough and deep. “Or worshipped?”

“Don’t get cocky.” You rolled your eyes, but your gaze had softened more than you intended.

He stretched lazily, then moved closer, fingers tracing idle lines across your back.

“My viper’s going soft… should I be worried?”

“She’s just sleepy,” you murmured.

He gave a half-smile—the one he saved only for you. The one that said nice try, I see right through you. Then his voice dropped, a bit more serious now:

“Do you think that from now on, when you smell Amortentia, you’ll catch my scent?”

Your heart skipped a beat—subtle and sudden. You looked at him, your fingers drifting back to the mole beneath his eye.

“If I start smelling old books, wet moss, and… mint tea? Then I’ll know who to blame.”

He smiled again, this time more softly.

“And I’ll always smell that scent your skin carries after you’ve spent hours teasing me. The one that reeks of trouble.”

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[thedensworld]

Duty Finished | C.Sc 

Pairing: Duke Seungcheol x reader Genre: Noble House Au! Type: Romance, Angst, Smut (mdni!) Word count: 22k Summary: The wife and the son of Choi's house went missing one night. 

“Sir…”

Seungcheol didn’t bother lifting his head right away. He was halfway through a glass of aged whiskey, the ice barely clinking as he swirled it in his grip, eyes still scanning the reports on his desk. His office—sleek, dim, and built like a vault—reeked of silence, save for the sharp interruption of his right-hand man’s voice.

When Mingyu barged in, slamming the door open with the kind of recklessness he should’ve known better than to display, S eungcheol finally glanced up. His gaze was frigid. Controlled. The kind that made men squirm and executives sign whatever he wanted just to escape it. Mingyu stood just inside the threshold, his breathing tight, jaw clenched like he was trying to bite back a disaster. He didn’t speak right away, which meant only one thing—this wasn’t just bad. It was catastrophic.

Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly as he placed the glass down on the leather blotter. “This better be worth the noise,” he said, voice smooth but carved with warning. “Or I’ll personally remind you of protocol.”

Mingyu swallowed. “It’s… your wife. And your son.”

That got a reaction. Barely. One brow ticked upward. Seungcheol’s mind flicked briefly, vaguely, to you. And the boy. When was the last time he saw either of you? He had to think. It all blurred together. Boardrooms. Contracts. Private jets. Endless handshakes. The house was his base, not his home. You were part of the arrangement—an accessory that came with it. And the child? A product of timing. Nothing more.

He left both of you in the care of his mother, the Duchess. But you never complained. Not seriously, anyway. You knew what this marriage was. Five years of luxury, power, and cold silence. You got the title. He got the freedom. That was the deal. A marriage crafted from ink and strategy, not affection.

An arrangement.

The Choi family’s wealth was forged—literally—in fire and steel. Their legacy built on the backs of blacksmiths, blades, and the unyielding rhythm of iron mines. For centuries, they supplied the royal army with weapons and armor, their influence woven into the very skeleton of the kingdom.

But not all legacies are immune to decay.

Twenty years of mismanagement had nearly bankrupted the family. Lavish galas, failed ventures, and an aging patriarch too obsessed with tradition to adapt—it had all but dragged the Choi name through the mud. The empire of steel had rusted.

And then came Seungcheol. Sharp. Surgical. Unforgiving.

He returned from his education abroad not with fanfare, but with a scalpel in hand—cutting out inefficiencies, dismantling old loyalties, and selling off sentiment piece by piece. The boy they once dismissed as too cold, too ambitious, had become the man who would not flinch while setting fire to his own house just to build it back stronger.

He didn't save the family for pride. He did it because he hated failure. Now, the Choi name gleamed again. Polished. Feared. Powerful.

The silence that followed Mingyu’s words was weighted. Heavy. Not with grief—Seungcheol didn’t operate in emotions—but with calculation.

“What happened,” he asked at last, voice like chilled steel.

“They were kidnapped.”

Kidnapped.

The office door opened again, this time more cautiously. Seokmin stepped in, still in uniform, dust clinging to the hem of his coat and sweat slicking his brow. He looked like he had run—like he had failed.

“Sir,” he said, breathless.

Seungcheol didn’t raise his head. “You were assigned to her today.”

Seokmin froze in the doorway. “Yes, sir. I—I was. I didn’t leave her side… until West Gwanrae.”

A beat passed.

Seungcheol leaned back in his chair slowly, folding his hands together. “Explain.”

“We stopped by a boutique. Lady Choi wanted to try on a dress. She was with her lady-in-waiting. I checked the perimeter twice. There were no signs of threat—nothing. But when I came back inside, the store was empty. Everyone gone.”

“You lost them in a boutique?” Seungcheol’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

Seokmin flinched. “The store was a front. We’re looking into the workers now, but the boutique was staged. There were no real records of the staff. The surveillance cameras were wiped clean. Whoever planned this… they were prepared, sir.”

Silence followed, thick and brutal.

Seungcheol stared at the unopened letter on his desk. His jaw ticked once.

“And the boy?”

Seokmin swallowed. “They took him too.”

Still no emotion. Not visibly. Not in his face, not in his posture. Just a colder shift in his gaze, like steel icing over.

Mingyu stepped forward, holding something in his hand. “A letter arrived at the estate,” he said. “No return address. It was hand-delivered through a driver—anonymous. The staff didn’t question it. They thought it was routine.”

He passed the envelope across the desk.

“They used paper,” Mingyu added. “No traceable signal. No digital footprint. If this is a kidnapping, sir… it’s a careful one.”

Seungcheol didn’t react immediately. He stared at the envelope—ivory, expensive paper, sealed with red wax. Old-fashioned. Deliberate.

“This was a move,” Seungcheol muttered, almost to himself. Then, finally, he broke the wax seal.

The letter inside was handwritten. Cursive. Expensive ink. “If legacy is all you care about, we’ve taken your future.”

No ransom. No demands. Just a warning. Who dares to warn Choi Seungcheol?

Seungcheol didn’t pace. Pacing was for the uncertain. He stood behind his desk like a statue carved from winter stone, fingers drumming against the glass surface with chilling precision. One beat. Two. Three.

“Find out who’s behind this,” he said, his voice smooth and flat like polished obsidian. “The ones who’ve been sniffing around our territory. The ones who smiled too long at that last summit dinner. I don’t care if it’s a silk-suited investor or a sewer rat with a grudge—dig them out.”

Mingyu stood straighter, but something in his shoulders betrayed him. A delay. Barely noticeable—unless you’d spent a decade watching a man read war tables like bedtime stories.

Seungcheol’s gaze slid to him, a flick of ice under shadow. “You’ve got names in mind already,” he said, not asking. “Start there.”

Mingyu opened his mouth, then shut it. His throat moved with a slow swallow. “Understood.”

The air tightened between them like an old wound reopening.

“Good,” Seungcheol muttered, already turning away, as if dismissing both the man and the moment. “And Mingyu—”

He paused at the window, eyes cast toward the distant skyline, where the horizon bled rust and coal smoke.

“If someone thinks they can take what’s mine, make sure they understand the cost.”

The silence that followed rang louder than any threat.

Mingyu nodded once, firm—but when he left, his steps weren’t as sharp. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t head straight for the security floor. He took a detour. Past the portraits no one dusted. Past the closed doors where your laughter used to echo before it fell into absence.

And when he stopped, it was in front of one painting. Yours. Just for a second. Then he kept walking.

*

“What’s going on, Seungcheol? My birthday is in a week, and your wife and son went missing? Are they insane?”

His mother’s voice pierced through the marble halls of the estate like a thorn catching on silk—sharp, persistent, unwelcome. Seungcheol barely glanced at her as he passed, his coat still dusted with the chill of dusk, jaw clenched with exhaustion. The Choi household, once a fortress of routine and elegance, had descended into chaos. Guards scrambled across city districts. His right hand, Mingyu, was stretched thin with investigation routes. And Seungcheol—he was running out of patience.

“If only your late father had been in his right mind,” his mother continued, trailing after him in her usual designer heels. “That marriage—what good has it brought? Nothing but problems. Look where it’s led us. And now, of all times—before my birthday party!”

He stopped at the base of the grand staircase, one hand gripping the railing tighter than necessary. His mother caught up, her perfume too sweet for his senses, too loud for the grief she pretended to wear. Her expression faltered when she met his gaze—cold, unreadable, and far too silent for comfort.

“I’m sorry, son,” she said softly, her voice trembling just enough to sound rehearsed. “I’ve just… been lonely lately. Your father’s gone. Your wife never cared for me, and the boy—he avoids me like I’m a ghost. And now they’re missing. I only wanted someone to talk to. Someone to understand.”

She folded her arms, her sorrow wrapping around her like a well-tailored coat. A performance—quiet, pitiful, tragic.

Seungcheol took a breath, long and steady, his eyes drifting past her to the portrait of his father hung above the hallway. A man with vision but no spine. A legacy he had to rebuild with blood and bone.

“I understand, Mother,” he said at last, voice controlled, cold. “But right now, I need silence. And space.”

He turned away again, leaving her standing at the foot of the stairs in her designer grief.

Seungcheol passed your room on his way to his own, but his steps faltered at the familiar curve of the mahogany doors. Without a thought, he turned, hand reaching for the ornate brass handle. The door creaked softly as it gave way under his push.

He stepped inside.

A scent lingered—soft, distinct. Yours. That subtle blend of lavender and something sweeter, something warmer. It hadn’t even been ten hours since you vanished, but the room still breathed you in every corner. It was as though the space had been carved around your presence—crafted to cradle only you.

He walked further in, letting his eyes sweep over the room he never truly looked at. Not until now. He had never wandered here—not out of curiosity, not even out of care. Usually, if he needed you, he came to your bed. If he needed to speak to you, he summoned you to his library. Cold, efficient. Just like him.

But now, he noticed the details.

The delicate lace curtain that fluttered slightly with the wind. The vanity table with brushes still holding strands of your hair. The books stacked haphazardly beside your bed, half-read. A teacup on the nightstand, still stained with lipstick.

"It’s her favorite color."

A voice broke the silence.

Seungcheol turned. Minyeong stood by the doorway, hands folded tightly in front of her apron. She had served your family for decades, and had been assigned to you ever since your wedding. Her gray hair was pulled into a neat bun, and though her body was aging, her eyes were as sharp as ever.

Seungcheol’s gaze dropped briefly to the soft lilac sheets before meeting hers again. “I suppose you have something to say to me?”

His tone was flat—too calm. It was the calmness before a blade struck, laced with something colder than anger. Minyeong bowed, trembling faintly.

“I failed, sir. I should have protected the lady and the young master.”

“That’s exactly what you were meant to do, Minyeong. And yet—they’re gone.” His voice didn’t rise, but the weight in it pressed against the room like a storm cloud. “Do you know if my wife ever received any threats? Any enemies she failed to mention?”

Minyeong looked hesitant, her brow furrowing. “It’s hard to say, sir. The lady rarely entertained guests. She barely had friends in society. Most of the time, she stayed here… or in the garden.”

Seungcheol’s jaw ticked as he scanned the room once more.

“Then someone must’ve watched her from the outside,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Minyeong wrung her hands tightly, her knuckles whitening. She stepped forward, her voice trembling as she fell to her knees in front of Seungcheol.

“Please, sir… you must find her. The lady—she may not speak much, but I see things.”

Seungcheol's eyes didn’t waver. He watched her with the same stillness he offered his enemies in negotiation—silent, unreadable.

“She bore the weight of this marriage without complaint,” Minyeong continued, eyes brimming with guilt. “Never once did she dishonor the Choi name.”

His gaze flickered at that, just slightly.

“She never asked for anything,” Minyeong whispered. “Not love. Not affection. Just safety. For herself. For Jiho. And I failed to give her even that.”

Seungcheol looked down at her—an old woman who had watched over your days like a silent guardian, now crumpled before him. He didn’t kneel. He didn’t speak words of comfort. But his voice, when it finally came, was low and steel-edged. “Get up, Minyeong. I’ll find them. That’s a promise.”

And when he turned, his footsteps carried something heavier than usual—a crack in his otherwise flawless control. As Seungcheol stepped out of your room, his shoes silent against the marble, the lingering scent of you clung to the air like smoke after a quiet fire. Lavender and something faintly citrus—he never bothered to ask what you used. He just knew it had always been there, soaked into the sheets, the curtains, the collar of his shirt when he walked too close to you.

He hadn’t intended to think of you tonight. But something about the silence of your room, the untouched comb on your vanity, the faint imprint on the armrest where you used to sit and read—unsettled him. Not in grief. Not in worry. In disturbance. Like a room missing its weight. A system missing its balance.

You’d entered his life five years ago—unwanted, inconvenient, and needed. A solution. Your family’s downfall had brought you to his door like a merchant pushing damaged goods wrapped in silk. He hadn't wanted a wife. He wanted leverage. Political gain. A calm household. A woman who wouldn’t scream. Instead, you had the gall to challenge him.

You walked into the Choi estate in that faded navy hanbok, spine straight, eyes sharp, and mouth far too honest. You questioned everything—the contract, the house rules, even the arrangement of his schedule. You moved through his life like a storm in slow motion, unraveling the stiffness in his perfect world.

He hadn’t liked you. But he hadn’t hated you either. You were just… noise. Eventually, like all things, the noise faded.

The storms dulled. Your voice softened. The fire in your chest smothered itself into embers. He watched it happen gradually—arguments turned into nods, sharp words into silence, protests into polite compliance. You stopped decorating your days with resistance. You stopped speaking unless spoken to. You became still.

And Seungcheol—he thrived in stillness.

He never told you to change. He never needed to. Your defiance melted the longer you stayed, and what remained of you was quiet, predictable, peaceful. He didn’t love you. He didn’t hate you. You were just… there. Like furniture that fit the room too well to be noticed.

You gave him peace without touching him. You gave him space without absence. And that was the closest thing to comfort Seungcheol had ever known.

Then the child came.

Jiho. A small, soft echo of you. A boy with your eyes and your uncanny quietness. At first, the sound of his laughter grated him. Too alive. Too human. But one night, Jiho had fallen asleep on his office couch, book in hand, head tilted back. Seungcheol had watched him for minutes without understanding why. He didn’t touch the boy. Just stood there.

Now… that boy was gone. You were gone. And peace was cracking at the edges of his life again.

He reached the study, fingers grazing the edge of his mahogany desk, his reflection staring back from the glass of the scotch bottle he didn’t touch. Seungcheol didn’t mourn. He didn’t fear. 

But the quiet wasn’t peaceful anymore. It was hollow.

Seungcheol woke with a violent jerk, breath caught sharp in his throat. The sheets were tangled around his legs, damp with sweat, his chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. Moonlight spilled through the curtains, soft and silver, illuminating the untouched side of the bed beside him.

It was just a dream.

But the phantom weight of your body still clung to his arms—limp, warm, then terrifyingly cold.

In the dream, you had curled into him after the haze of an intimate moment, skin bare against his, your voice still hoarse from whispering his name. His hand had rested on the dip of your waist, fingers tracing the soft line of your spine, when he felt something wet. Sticky.

He pulled his hand back. Crimson.

He remembered shouting your name, once—twice—his voice breaking the peace of the room. You had turned your head slowly, eyes glassy, your lips moving without sound before your body slumped against him. Blood soaked through the sheets like spilled ink, blooming across white cotton in uneven circles.

Then Jiho appeared. Small feet pattering against the wooden floor.

“Appa!” His voice cracked. 

“Appa!”

The boy’s tiny frame stumbled into view, hands outstretched, his nightclothes soaked in blood up to his elbows. Not yours. His. He was crying but not sobbing—just calling, repeating the word like a broken hymn.

Seungcheol reached for him— And the dream shattered.

Now, in the stillness of his room, the air felt heavy, oppressive. He sat up, elbows on his knees, dragging both palms across his face, trying to scrub away the remnants of the nightmare. His heart wouldn’t calm down. It thudded with unnatural rhythm, out of sync with the silence around him.

He looked at the empty side of the bed again. The pillow still held the faintest indentation of where you used to sleep, as if your absence had weight.

The scent of your skin, the softness of Jiho’s voice—he could still feel it in his bones.

Was it guilt? Fear? Loss?

Seungcheol didn’t know. He didn’t care to name it.

He stood, slowly, quietly, as if afraid the wrong sound might call the dream back. He moved to the window, looking out over the dark courtyard, the lights of the estate flickering like the last embers of a dying fire.

Somewhere out there, you were breathing. Alive.

At least, he told himself that.

And somewhere out there, someone was playing with his mind. Twisting his fears into letters. Into silence. Into images that crept into his dreams like poison.

He would find you. He had to. Because if the nightmare ever became real— He wasn’t sure there would be a man left in him to crawl out of it.

*

The ballroom shimmered under a thousand crystal droplets, chandeliers glinting like stars caught mid-fall. Music swelled, delicate and distant, barely cutting through the sound of expensive laughter and clinking glasses.

Seungcheol stood with a glass of aged champagne in hand, sharp in a tailored navy suit embroidered with fine gold thread that curled like ivy across his lapels. The suit was commissioned weeks in advance, as always. His presence alone demanded perfection—and he delivered.

Then you arrived.

A soft blue dress, simple in its silhouette. No jewels. No embroidery. No lace, no drama. It barely touched your ankles, and the neckline was too modest to flatter. Next to him, you looked like a shadow of yourself—muted, out of place, and hauntingly quiet.

He had turned to say something that night. Something biting. The words were already in his mouth: “You’re underdressed.”

But he said nothing. Not because he approved. Because he didn’t want to argue. Not there. Not now.

Still, the memory of your first ball played in his head like an echo—louder than the orchestra. You had stormed into his study with silk swatches and sketches, your arms full of fabrics, babbling about tone and fit and social expectations.

“It has to match,” you’d said with bright insistence. “You in dark navy, and me in silver. Or black. Or deep emerald—something with character, Seungcheol. People talk about these things. I won’t have them saying your wife dresses like an afterthought.”

You were alive then. Not just breathing, but burning. And now… you dressed like a ghost. Clothes dull. Accessories absent. Hair always pulled back in the same low bun, practical, forgettable.

“Do you think my wife has an enemy?” Seungcheol asked, his voice low and steady as the car rolled through the city, tinted windows blurring the passing world into streaks of gray.

Mingyu, seated beside him, turned slightly in his seat. The silence between them had lingered for most of the ride until now.

“She was a bit vocal,” Mingyu said carefully, “but watching her all this time… I don’t think there’s anyone who would hate her. Not truly.”

Seungcheol arched a brow, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Are you sure?” His tone held weight. “No one in the house? Among the servants?”

Mingyu hesitated, then gave a small shake of his head. “Your wife baked everyone cookies last winter.”

The words pulled Seungcheol’s gaze toward him, his expression unreadable. “Cookies?”

“Mm,” Mingyu nodded, lips twitching faintly. “I got one too. Peanut butter and cinnamon. They were pretty good.”

Seungcheol leaned back in his seat, letting his elbow rest against the car window as he stared out. The tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. If anything, it pulled tighter.

“I didn’t receive any.”

Mingyu glanced at him. “You were buried with the railroad project, remember, sir? You barely came home that month.”

The car went quiet again, the soft hum of the engine filling the space between them. Seungcheol didn’t respond—not immediately. But his jaw tensed, and a flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes.

He hadn’t even known you baked.

Seungcheol stepped into his office with the weight of a storm dragging behind him. The heavy doors shut with a soft thud, muffled by the thick carpet covering the marble floor. The space was cold as ever—sleek black furniture, sharp-edged shelves lined with files and books no one dared touch unless permitted. The glass windows stretched wide behind his desk, revealing the smoky outlines of Gwanrae’s skyline blurred by early morning fog.

Before he could sit, Seokmin entered quietly, his presence firm, respectful.

“Sir,” he said, approaching with something folded carefully in his gloved hand. His face looked drawn, strained.

Seungcheol turned halfway, eyes narrowing as Seokmin held it out.

A flash of red.

It didn’t need unwrapping. Even from a distance, the fabric bled familiarity. Seungcheol’s steps slowed as he approached, gaze fixed on the item like it might vanish if he blinked.

The scarf. Your scarf.

Worn and soft from use, it still carried the faint scent of your perfume—floral with a hint of musk. Years ago, he’d given it to you without much thought after he noticed how you tugged at your collar to hide the bruises he'd left the night before. It wasn’t an apology, not quite. It was possession disguised as protection.

Now it was evidence.

“Who else knows about this?” Seungcheol asked, his voice quiet but sharp, a blade hidden in velvet.

“Just the search unit. They haven’t spoken to anyone.”

He gave a single nod, eyes still fixed on the red scarf in his hand, thumb grazing a fraying thread near the hem. His mind flickered—your neck wrapped in that scarf, your voice low against his chest, your hand twitching in sleep as you pulled it tighter around yourself.

Seungcheol’s fingers paused mid-fold.

There, at the very tip of the scarf—just above the frayed hem—faint ink bled into the threads. It was subtle, like it had been brushed in haste or with something barely permanent. He squinted, bringing the fabric closer to the pale morning light.

A line of handwriting.

Almost delicate in its curve. Almost playful.

“So beautiful but this scarred? Can’t wait to take off more than this scarf.”

The ink was uneven. Someone had written it quickly, perhaps without care—or maybe with too much pleasure. The handwriting was unfamiliar. Not yours. Not Seokmin’s. It wasn’t the neat, meticulous penmanship of his staff or the strict, cold lettering from official documents.

Personal.

Seungcheol’s chest tightened with a sick heat, as if something vile had begun to churn slowly under his ribs.

He read the words again.

So beautiful.

But this scarred?

Who had seen you up close enough to write this?

The scarf had hidden a bruise, a bite, a scar—one left by him. He remembered that night. How you turned your face away as you buttoned your blouse. He hadn’t apologized, and you hadn’t asked him to.

But someone else had noticed. Someone who had looked. Touched. Written this message.

The fury came like a low flame, slow and silent. It didn’t need a burst to burn—it simply simmered, eating through logic and restraint, until his fingers curled tightly around the fabric.

Not only were you taken. Someone had been near enough to you to leave this behind. Near enough to humiliate him, to provoke him. To mock him.

This wasn’t just a disappearance. It was a challenge. A message dressed as a taunt.

His reflection glared back at him in the glass of his office window—sharp suit, expression like stone, eyes void of softness. For a man known for never flinching in courtrooms or boardrooms, something now stirred within him. Something ancient. Primal.

He looked down at the scarf one last time before slipping it into his inner coat pocket. Not like a keepsake. Like evidence.

Whoever wrote that message had no idea what they'd started.

*

A week had passed since your disappearance, yet rumors swirled like wildfire—fanned further by his mother’s lavish birthday party, held defiantly even as family members vanished without a trace. The glittering ball went on, but Seungcheol arrived burdened, exhaustion etched into the lines of his face and the slump of his shoulders.

He stepped through the grand doors with the weight of sleepless nights pressing down on him, every movement heavy. His plan was simple: greet his mother, offer the obligatory birthday wishes, and retreat swiftly to his office to bury himself in the endless updates about you and Jiho.

Choi Jiho—his son. The name still felt strange on his tongue, foreign yet tethered to his heart in ways he didn’t fully understand. After Jiho’s birth, your world had shifted. Your attention poured into your son with a fierce protectiveness that left little room for him. Seungcheol’s role was clear-cut: provide. Make money. Supply everything you and Jiho could need.

But sometimes, when work allowed a brief reprieve, he caught glimpses of Jiho wandering into his home office. The boy would settle himself on one of the leather couches with surprising ease, fingers busy sketching on scraps of used paper strewn about. No words passed between them—just presence. Quiet companionship.

Those moments peeled back years. They reminded Seungcheol of the early days of their marriage.

You, sitting patiently on the couch nearby, engrossed in a book or your journal, brows furrowed in thought. He remembered the way your eyes would occasionally flick up toward him—focused, calm, sometimes weary. A stark contrast to his own sharp, guarded expression.

And every time his gaze fell on Jiho, it was as if he was looking at a perfect carbon copy of you: the same gentle concentration, the same subtle intensity. In those moments, the cold, ruthless man he was softened, caught off guard by the echo of your presence in his son.

“Seungcheol.”

He turned slightly to find Hong Jisoo—an old friend of yours—approaching from behind a marble column. Impeccably dressed in a muted gray suit, the heir of the Hong family from East Gwanrae always carried an air of soft elegance. His eyes, though gentle, now bore a solemn weight.

“My deepest condolences,” Jisoo said quietly once he was close enough. “I heard about Y/n and your son. I… I can’t imagine the weight you're carrying.”

Seungcheol didn’t flinch. Didn’t nod. He simply returned the gaze, still and unreadable. The golden light made his tired face look sculpted from cold stone—sharp, shadowed, untouched by grief in any conventional sense.

“Thank you,” he replied, voice smooth and devoid of emotion.

Jisoo hesitated, then offered, “If there’s anything I can do—my men in the East are reliable. If you permit me, I’ll send them to sweep that side of Gwanrae. Discreetly.”

There was a pause. A thin, sharp one.

Seungcheol’s expression didn’t shift. “I appreciate the offer,” he said with practiced politeness. “But I prefer to handle my family’s matters internally.”

Jisoo studied him for a moment, as if trying to read what lay behind the cool surface. But Seungcheol gave him nothing. No worry, no despair—only poise carved out of discipline and restraint.

“Of course,” Jisoo replied after a beat, offering a small bow. “Should you change your mind, I’ll be around.”

Seungcheol inclined his head once, and watched as Jisoo disappeared into the sea of well-dressed guests. The noise of the party returned in full as the space between them widened, but inside Seungcheol, everything remained quiet. Still.

Because wavering now would be a crack in the foundation—and if he cracked, the whole house would fall.

“Seungcheol…” his mother began, catching his arm just as he approached to greet her.

“Everyone’s talking about your wife and your son! This is my party!” she hissed through a tight smile, her voice kept low behind her glass of wine as Seungcheol offered nods to her circle of well-dressed friends.

“I told you to postpone it,” Seungcheol replied, his tone measured and calm, but with the faintest edge of warning.

His mother scoffed softly, brushing imaginary dust from her sequined sleeve. “Remind me to punish your wife once she returns. This level of disrespect toward the Choi family can’t go unchecked. I’ll speak to her family personally.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. The weight of her words sank heavier than usual tonight. Something about the way she spoke—so cold, so performative—rubbed against the unease already nesting in his chest. He cleared his throat, a silent attempt to dispel the building discomfort.

“I think you’ve said enough, Mother,” he said, voice clipped with restraint. “Perhaps you should enjoy your party. I won’t be staying long.”

Before she could respond, Seungcheol bowed politely. “Happy birthday,” he said simply, then turned on his heel, walking past the soft glow of chandeliers and champagne flutes, out of the suffocating warmth of the ballroom—and toward the silence of his office, where duty and dread awaited him in equal measure.

The scent of paper and aged mahogany greeted Seungcheol as he entered his office—a sanctuary from the shallow glitter of the ballroom. He barely had time to close the door behind him when his eyes fell on something out of place.

A single envelope. It sat in the center of his desk like it had been waiting.

His gaze swept the room with calculated precision, eyes narrowing slightly. Every item seemed untouched, precisely where he left it. Yet the letter’s presence felt like an intrusion. Quiet, deliberate, and too bold.

Without removing his coat, he pressed the intercom.

“Mingyu. My office. Now.”

He didn’t sit. He stood before his desk, gloved fingers pulling the envelope open in one slow motion. The paper inside was thick, almost luxurious, as though it were meant to mock him in its elegance. But it was the handwriting that made his breath pause—neat, feminine, unfamiliar.

“He looks exactly like you. Do you know he’s mute?”

The words didn’t strike—they clawed.

A slow-burning fury flickered in Seungcheol’s chest, tempered only by years of discipline. His eyes darkened, and when the door creaked open behind him, he turned sharply, holding the note up.

“What is this supposed to mean?” His voice cut through the silence, firm and low.

Mingyu paused at the threshold. His expression faltered—not from fear, but hesitation. “Sir…” He stepped in slowly. “I didn’t know you didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?” Seungcheol’s tone remained steady, but the weight behind it was unmistakable.

Mingyu lowered his gaze to the floor, exhaling quietly. “Jiho… Your son... he’s barely spoken.”

Seungcheol’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. His fingers clenched the paper tighter. All those moments—Jiho silently watching him, quietly doodling, smiling without sound—they flooded his mind in sharp, disjointed flashes.

The air in the room felt heavier. He slowly lowered the letter to his desk and turned toward the window, eyes distant, yet sharpened with a quiet storm.

The letter still sat open on his desk, but Seungcheol’s gaze had drifted toward the couch across the room.

That old leather seat, worn smooth at the edges, once held a different kind of weight—your weight. Now, he saw Jiho in your place. His small figure curled up, legs barely reaching the edge, papers sprawled before him. A single crayon tucked behind his ear, his little fingers busy sketching something only he understood. His head would tilt, brows furrowed just so, lips parted ever so slightly in concentration.

He didn’t make a sound. He never did.

And yet Seungcheol saw you.

Five years ago, it was your body stretched across that couch, draped in a silk robe or one of your too-large knits. Your legs would swing lazily, a journal balanced on your lap, your pen tapping the pages as your thoughts spilled freely. You used to talk then. A lot.

“Seungcheol, don’t you think this room needs better curtains? Or should we get one of those antique globe bars?”

“I saw Lady Jung’s daughter wearing canary yellow at the ball—do you think I’d look good in that shade?”

You were bold, curious, utterly unfiltered. Sometimes he listened. Sometimes he didn’t. But he had always heard you.

It was strange. At the time, he thought you were exhausting. Always pushing at boundaries, filling silences he once treasured. Yet now, in the stillness, all he could think about was how much color you had brought into this room. Until that color faded.

He didn’t know when it started. Maybe it was after Jiho was born. Maybe it was before that.

Your voice softened. Your steps grew quieter. You stopped suggesting changes to the curtains. You stopped speaking about colors and dresses and opinions. You simply… adapted.

You scribbled in silence. You waited in silence. You moved through the house like a shadow he had grown used to but never truly studied.

“Journal…”

The word left his lips in a whisper, as if spoken too loudly, it would break the thread of memory he was clinging to.

He remembered it—faintly—seeing a book on your vanity. A worn leather-bound journal, the corners soft from years of turning, its spine slightly cracked from frequent use. At the time, he hadn’t thought much of it. Just another one of your habits. Another thing you kept close.

But now, it felt urgent. He rose from his chair with a suddenness. His strides were long, purposeful. The echo of his shoes down the hallway broke the house’s stillness, like a force too large to be quiet anymore.

The bedroom still smelled faintly of you—of jasmine and the warm, almost nostalgic scent of dried lavender. It hadn’t changed in the past week. Everything remained untouched, as if time itself was reluctant to erase you from this space.

And there it was.

Sitting right where it always had—on the vanity, beside your untouched bottle of perfume and a silver hairpin he bought you years ago in Vienna. The journal.

He reached for it slowly, as if it might vanish. His fingers hovered just a second longer before making contact, brushing over the soft cover. It was warm from the afternoon sun slipping through the lace curtains. He held it in both hands, staring.

You wrote. Every day, almost. He remembered catching glimpses of it—your hand furiously scribbling after arguments, after dinners, even on lazy mornings where you stayed curled in bed long after he had left. You used your journal like a vault, locking pieces of yourself away when you couldn’t say them aloud.

Seungcheol sat on the edge of the bed—your side. The weight of the mattress sank just as it used to when you lay there. He cracked open the journal, pages filled with your looping script, so familiar and yet so distant now.

His breath caught when he read the first line on the open page. Seungcheol’s eyes traced the words again, but this time, their meaning twisted deeper into his chest.

“I sold all the accessories my husband had given to me this morning. But I failed to hide the new dresses. She got mad.”

*

“You know where my wife is…” Seungcheol said, voice low and tight, the moment the last servant slipped out and the door clicked shut behind them.

His mother barely lifted her gaze, swirling her tea as if his words were no more significant than idle gossip. “What nonsense are you talking about, Seungcheol?”

But there was nothing nonsensical about the storm building in his chest. The weight of guilt, disbelief, and a boiling rage pressed down on his shoulders, making it hard to breathe. Seungcheol remained still, but his hands trembled slightly at his sides, fists curling and unclenching.

“I think you’ve hidden them—my wife, my son.” His tone was calm, but every syllable was laced with something sharp, jagged. Accusation.

His mother let out a soft chuckle, amused. Amused. It made his stomach turn. “You’ve lost your mind, my son.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tensed, the muscles twitching. He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Just stared, as sentence after sentence from the journal echoed relentlessly in his head.

“She hit me again today for making her go to the ball instead of me. She met her enemy: Duchess Kim.” “Minyeong has treated my wound, but it was still hard to sleep last night.” “She put Jiho in the cupboard. I couldn’t do anything but cry. I’m sorry, Jiho.”

His hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles whitened, veins visible beneath his skin. Guilt gnawed at his gut like rust. All this time, he had thought he was protecting you by providing, building an empire so you and Jiho would never lack anything. But while he was drafting deals and signing contracts, you were being dragged through hell under the same roof. By his own blood.

“You lost your mind hitting my wife behind my back,” he said, voice as brittle as cracked glass.

She lowered her cup then, finally sensing something in his tone. Her eyes narrowed. “She told you?” Her voice was low, disbelieving. There was no remorse—only the offense of being exposed. “How dare she,” she muttered, her lips curling.

The air thickened between them, tense and suffocating.

“I don’t know her whereabouts,” his mother snapped, lifting her chin. “Maybe she went somewhere. Maybe she was kidnapped. Either way, she deserves it. That woman was a pain in this family.”

Pain.

The word echoed in his chest. What she called a pain—he now knew as suffering. Suffering you endured in silence, under his roof, while he turned a blind eye.

He turned his back to her, not because he was retreating, but because he couldn’t look at her anymore without feeling sick. His voice dropped into a tone colder than stone. “Say that again, and I’ll cut your funds immediately.”

She gasped behind him, rising from her seat. “My son, don’t let a woman’s tantrum undo your reason. You forget how she came here—she wanted our money. Her parents sold her, and I suppose she’s no better than they were.”

His steps were slow, deliberate, echoing on the marble floor as he walked toward the door.

Every word she said now sounded like static in his ears. His body felt hollow and burning all at once, his heart pounding like a war drum. He had failed you. He had failed Jiho.

He paused at the door and turned his head slightly, enough for her to see the disdain now written in his eyes.

“From today,” he said, “your accounts are frozen. Until my wife and my son are back, not a single coin will reach your hands.”

Then he stepped out, not looking back—not for her, not for excuses, not for explanations.

Ten days since you were gone.

The world kept turning—ballrooms were lit, contracts passed hands, and the morning sun still crept through the windows of the Choi estate. But for Seungcheol, everything had stopped. Days blurred into nights, and the silence of your absence grew louder with every tick of the clock.

His work was a mess.

Documents piled on his desk, untouched. Reports sat unanswered. Meetings were postponed, calls ignored. He couldn’t sit through briefings without seeing your face flash in the expressions of strangers. Couldn’t look at maps without wondering if you were somewhere cold, scared, or worse.

He couldn’t even think straight. Every time someone knocked on his door, a violent hope bloomed in his chest—that it was you. That someone had found Jiho.

But it was never you.

Never.

Seungcheol sat slouched in his office chair, eyes hollow, staring blankly at the open folder in front of him. He didn’t even know who the client was anymore. Their voice on the speaker was just noise.

When the man across the table mentioned “transport,” Seungcheol flinched.

“You say something about moving her?” His voice was suddenly sharp.

The client blinked, confused. “I was talking about coal—shipping routes to the West—”

Seungcheol stood up so fast his chair scraped against the floor. Mingyu rushed in before he could throw the folder across the room.

“You think I care about coal when my wife and son are gone?” he barked, eyes bloodshot. “Why are you all still talking about shipments and investments like this is normal?!”

The man stammered an apology before fleeing the room. Mingyu stayed quiet, closing the door behind him with a heavy sigh.

Seungcheol pressed his hands into the desk, head hanging. His breath was unsteady, raw with exhaustion. A man who once commanded fear with composure now looked like a soldier losing a war no one else could see.

“I can’t do this, Mingyu,” he muttered. “I can’t even look at people without wondering if they had something to do with it. I sit in front of allies and I wonder if they betrayed me. I see enemies and I can’t decide if they’ve hidden her out of spite.”

He looked up, eyes gleaming but empty. “I don’t know who to trust anymore.”

*

It was five months into the marriage when Seungcheol pushed open the bedroom door without knocking, only to find you brushing your hair in front of the vanity. You looked serene, like a painting—but he knew better. You were always eerily quiet when you were angry.

“You didn’t leave the room all day,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “I assume the bed’s more interesting than our entire estate now?”

Without looking at him, you replied, “I didn’t realize I needed to submit a movement report.”

“I’m your husband. I think I’m allowed to ask.”

You let out a low chuckle. “Since when do you ask anything without sounding like it’s an interrogation?”

He stepped into the room. His eyes caught the reflection of your face in the mirror—expression calm, but your tone cut like glass.

“You’re mad at me again.”

“No, Seungcheol,” you said, finally turning to look at him, “this is just my face. Turns out five months of marital bliss leaves me glowing.”

He ignored the jab. “I’ve been patient with you, Y/n. But I come home and find you locked up in here like some moody debutante. What do you want from me?”

“Oh, you want honesty tonight?” you quipped. “Interesting choice.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t start.”

“I think I’m pregnant, Seungcheol.”

The words fell heavy—but not soft.

He blinked. “You think?”

You shrugged. “Unless nausea and crying at toothpaste commercials is just a charming new hobby of mine.”

Seungcheol stared at you for a moment. His reaction was unreadable, which only fueled your irritation.

“Right. There it is,” you said bitterly. “You look more panicked than when the market crashed.”

“I’m just... processing.”

“You mean calculating,” you snapped, standing up. “You’re already thinking about how this messes with your timeline, your quarterly goals, or—God forbid—your public image.”

“I never said that,” he said, jaw tight.

“You didn’t have to,” you shot back. “You speak in silence better than you do with actual words.”

“And you don’t speak at all unless it’s laced with attitude.”

“At least it’s real.”

The room buzzed with tension—resentment, sarcasm, the ache of two people who couldn’t stop clashing because they both refused to bend first.

Still, as always, it ended the way it always did: your bitterness crashing into his restraint, your fingers eventually finding his shirt collar, his hand gripping your waist too tightly. No solution. No apology. Just another night pretending friction meant intimacy.

Seokmin barged into the office, breathless, eyes wide. “Sir—they found her. Your wife and son are on their way to the estate. They were spotted in East Gwanrae market.”

The room froze for a split second before it snapped into motion.

Seungcheol shot up from his seat, already reaching for his coat. Mingyu was two steps behind, phone pressed to his ear, barking instructions as they stormed down the hallway.

“Driver!” Seungcheol shouted. “Pull up the car. Now.”

The black vehicle cut through the city like a blade. Inside, silence hovered thick between them, save for the low murmur of Mingyu speaking on the phone with Seokmin.

Seungcheol’s hand rested on his knee, knuckles pale. His voice broke the silence, low and rough. “What did Seokmin say? Is she okay?”

Mingyu hesitated—just for a second. Too quick for most to catch, but Seungcheol noticed. His eyes darted toward his right hand, waiting.

“They looked like they were… escaping someone,” Mingyu finally said, his voice carefully measured. “Your wife was with Jiho. She was holding him close, keeping low in the market crowd. Someone recognized her and followed the trail. They were scared. Hungry, probably. But alive.”

Seungcheol’s eyes narrowed. “Escaping?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu said, avoiding eye contact. His jaw tensed faintly. “Seokmin thinks they were trying to run from the person who had taken them.”

The words lingered in the air, cutting deeper than Seungcheol expected. He leaned back against the seat, staring at the blur of the road outside, expression unreadable.

But Mingyu didn’t speak again. He only tightened his grip on the phone, as if holding in something more.

Something he wasn’t ready to say.

*

Seungcheol didn’t wait for the car to stop completely. As soon as the estate’s iron gates creaked open, he pushed the door and ran—feet heavy, breath sharp. The guards barely had time to bow before he was past them, storming through the halls he built but never cared to live in.

In his mind, you were collapsed in a corner. Maybe barefoot, trembling. Your clothes torn, hair matted, Jiho sickly pale and clinging to you for warmth. That image had haunted him for days—kept him up, fed his guilt like a slow poison.

But what he saw when the door opened made him freeze in the doorway.

You were sitting on the bed.

Clean. Dressed in a simple beige dress, hair slightly tangled but tied loosely at the back. Jiho curled against your side, his small hand holding your scarf like a lifeline. You were whispering something to him, too soft to hear. Both your eyes turned to the door at once.

And in that moment, Seungcheol felt like a ghost standing in his own home.

You weren’t the broken image he had imagined. You didn’t look like a victim of some wild, tragic escape. No bruises on your face. No desperation in your posture.

But there was something in your eyes—tired, aged, older than the woman he married. A hollow sort of peace. Like someone who had already buried too many things inside herself to count.

“Y/n…” his voice cracked before he could stop it.

You blinked slowly, saying nothing.

“You’re… okay,” Seungcheol breathed, as if trying to convince himself.

“I’m here,” you replied, voice calm. “We both are.”

But you didn’t stand. You didn’t run into his arms or cry or scream or ask where he had been. You just looked at him, as if he was a stranger at the edge of your door.

And for the first time since this madness began, Seungcheol didn’t know what role he was supposed to play anymore—husband, father, or something far more irrelevant.

“Do you want a doctor? Food? I can call someone—” he started.

You shook your head once. “We ate. We’re not sick.”

He nodded slowly, unsure. Everything he imagined saying, every question and command, shrank in his throat.

You weren’t what he expected.

Seungcheol approached slowly, as if afraid that the moment would vanish if he moved too fast. The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat on the edge of the bed. His eyes dropped to Jiho, small and still, curled against your side with one hand tucked beneath his cheek.

The boy looked peaceful, untouched by the storm Seungcheol had imagined—but that only stirred more chaos in him. His gaze shifted to you. You were watching him, chin slightly lifted, as if measuring his intentions. Without speaking, his hand reached out, hesitating before his fingers gently traced your cheek. It was still soft, full, with that natural flush you always had when you were annoyed or caught in the middle of a sarcastic remark. Alive. Still you.

“You’re okay?” he murmured.

You tilted your head slightly, eyes unreadable. “Why? You worry?”

There was a teasing lilt to your voice—subtle, sharp, the same tone you used when you knew exactly how to push his buttons. But your eyes didn’t match it. They were colder. Distant.

Seungcheol bit his lip, gaze dropping. Was it worry? Or curiosity? He wasn’t even sure anymore. All he knew was that something clawed at his chest the moment he saw you again, like he’d been underwater for too long and just found air again.

“I…” He paused, swallowed. “I couldn’t think straight.”

You looked at him with a slight teasing glint, voice soft but tinted with edge. “Why?”

“You disappeared.”

“And?” Your tone was flat. Testing.

“Jiho too.” His eyes flickered to the child again, still fast asleep against your side.

You hummed faintly, tightening your arms around Jiho’s small frame. It was a protective gesture, but it also told him everything he needed to know—you didn’t trust him yet. Maybe never had.

“Someone took you.”

You bit your lips, your jaw tightening. Then, a sigh escaped. “What are you trying to say, Seungcheol?”

He let out a long, shaky breath, fingers gripping his knees. “I… I’m glad you’re fine, but… I’m angry. I’m furious at the people who took you, and I promise you—I’ll catch them. I’ll make them pay.”

Your brow quirked. “You’re acting odd, Seungcheol. The fact that you were running in here like a madman, with this look on your face, is odd.”

His lips parted, but you cut in before he could explain.

“You never ran for me before,” you added coolly, eyes locked on his. “Not when I cried. Not when I begged you to talk to me like I was a person. But now—suddenly—I disappear, and it’s like you remembered I existed?”

There was no venom in your voice, but it stung worse than any shout would’ve.

He flinched. “That’s not true.”

“No?” You raised a brow, blinking slowly. “You said you couldn’t think straight. Is it because you missed us? Or because you lost control?”

His mouth opened again, but nothing came out. You’d hit the mark, and he knew it.

You exhaled deeply, your tone softening only slightly. “We were surviving, Cheol. Me and Jiho. Out there, with no money, barely any food, and always looking over our shoulders. Do you know how many times I had to lie just to keep him safe?”

His jaw flexed.

“And now you’re here, talking about revenge,” you said. “But you weren’t the one suffering. You weren’t the one hiding bruises, or calming down a mute child in the middle of a nightmare.”

“I didn’t know,” he whispered.

“You didn’t ask.”

That landed like a punch. The silence stretched. Thick. Bitter. But still, you didn’t tell him to leave. And he didn’t stand up.

Because somewhere beneath all the resentment and ruined intentions, something lingered—small, quiet, broken. Something still tethered.

*

You heard from Minyeong that Jiho had accidentally knocked over your mother-in-law’s favorite vase that afternoon. The moment her words reached your ears, a cold dread climbed up your spine. You knew how she was—unyielding, cruel when it suited her. And you knew what that meant for Jiho.

Without thinking, you bolted through the halls of the estate, heart pounding like a war drum. You burst into the room where they said Jiho was, only to find him wailing—his tiny body trembling in the arms of unfamiliar servants, his face streaked with tears and fear.

“Get my son down, right now!” you shouted, your voice raw with panic and rage. You stepped in only to freeze—halted by the icy presence of your mother-in-law, seated calmly in the armchair as if the chaos around her were just a matter of inconvenience.

“Not until his mother learns how to educate her son,” she said coldly, standing with deliberate grace to approach you.

You tried to keep your voice from breaking. “Stop this. Please… I beg you.” Your knees wobbled as your eyes locked onto the small cupboard where Jiho had just been shoved. The servants had locked him inside, and the sound of his muffled cries—sharp, panicked, and unrelenting—cracked your heart in two.

Your mother-in-law’s lips curled into a twisted smile as she watched you collapse to your knees, the humiliation like a crown she placed upon your head.

Then came the sting. A slap, hard and merciless, sent your head snapping to the side. Your cheek burned, and tears spilled from your eyes—not just from pain, but from helpless fury.

Still trembling, you didn’t have time to recover before she gripped your hair and yanked your face upward to look at her. Her gaze was icy. Unforgiving.

“You and your son better learn some lessons, Y/n,” she hissed. “Do you know how easily you can be replaced? You and that unfortunate, mute child of yours.”

Her words sliced through you sharper than any blade.

“First, you tried to hide those dresses my son sent you—expensive things, meant to honor this family. I told you to give them back. I told you to stop wasting his generosity.” Her voice dripped venom with each word.

“And now,” she gestured toward the cupboard, where Jiho’s sobs still echoed, “your little beast breaks my most treasured vase.”

She shoved you backward, and you stumbled to the floor as she turned to the servants.

“Lock them in here,” she ordered coldly. “No food until dinner tomorrow. Let them reflect on their behavior.”

You cried out, but the door had already slammed behind her.

And in that moment, with your son trapped and your body aching, you knew: no one was coming to save you—not even your husband.

You married Choi Seungcheol not out of love, but out of necessity—at least, that’s what you used to tell yourself.

Your family, once noble and revered for their long-standing loyalty to the Choi family, had fallen into disgrace. Years of quietly aiding them behind war lines and political tides came to nothing when your father’s business collapsed into bankruptcy. Reputation meant survival, and survival meant sacrifice.

So your parents turned to the Choi estate, heads bowed with desperation, asking for a marriage alliance to preserve what little dignity your bloodline had left. You were the offering. The last, obedient daughter of a once-great military household.

You didn’t protest. In fact, you thought of it as an escape.

A way out of your father’s suffocating expectations, the cold lines on his face drawn deeper every time you dared to speak for yourself. You thought marriage to Seungcheol—Choi Seungcheol, the heir with a good name and a better record—would at least mean gentler days. He was calm, level-headed, generous when it mattered. Not once had you seen him raise his voice. A respectable man, people said. One of the best this generation could offer.

And for a while, you believed it. Even in the early months of your marriage, he was attentive in his own reserved way. He didn’t try to love you, but he didn’t hurt you either. That, in itself, was a mercy.

When Jiho was born, everything changed.

The cruelty didn’t come from him—not at first. It came from your mother-in-law, the regal matron of the house with eyes colder than marble. She said it started because of your attitude. Because you were “spirited.” Because you were "too free" for a woman who should’ve been grateful to be saved from ruin.

The abuse began with a slap—one sharp sting across your cheek when you failed to greet her with the right tone. Then came the days without food, long hours in the nursery with Jiho where no one entered. The isolation. The servants looking through you like you were something to be tolerated, not served. You weren’t allowed to step outside the estate without her approval. Even your letters to Seungcheol were filtered. Some were likely never sent.

Seungcheol never knew—because he was away.

Your mother-in-law believed your "rebelliousness" would one day convince Seungcheol to cut the financial cord. That you would poison him against his duty. She believed that if she broke you, caged you, tamed you—then you’d stop trying. Then you’d surrender to the role they assigned you. And Seungcheol, their golden heir, wouldn’t be distracted from the real goal: protecting the name.

You were awakened by the sound of the door unlocking. A quiet click in the dark, but enough to jolt your senses. Eyes wide, you scanned the room—Jiho was still curled up inside the cupboard, the space too small for a child, his soft breaths uneven from earlier cries.

Your heart lurched.

Without thinking, you shot up and sprinted barefoot through the hall. The cold marble bit into your feet with each step, but you didn’t stop. You didn’t even know where you were going—only that you needed someone. Anyone.

You collapsed against the corridor wall. A tall figure came running to you. Surprised and worried.

“What’s wrong, Lady Choi?” Mingyu asked, crouching beside you. His voice softened at the sight of your shaking figure, your palms scraped and dirty from crawling.

“My son…” your voice was barely a whisper, “Jiho… they locked him in the cupboard. He’s still inside. Please, Mingyu. Help me…”

Mingyu’s expression changed. Just a flicker. Concern replaced courtesy, and for a second, something else—fury, maybe—flashed through his eyes.

“I’ll get him,” he said, standing up. “Stay here.”

And you could only nod, pressing a hand to your chest as your breath fought its way in and out—because for the first time in so long, someone had heard you.

*

You held Jiho close to your chest on the bed. His small frame trembled in your arms, his fists curled into your shirt, though the tears had long since stopped. The silence between you was heavy, but not empty. You could feel it in his breathing—shallow, uneven. In the way he clung to you like a lifeline. He didn’t cry anymore. But you were his mother. And you knew.

This child—your child—carried too much for a body so small. Too many things he didn’t know how to name. Pain. Fear. Confusion. He had grown up in a house where love was spoken like a foreign language. A house where his parents barely looked each other in the eye, where tension hung like fog. His grandmother’s cruelty had only carved the wounds deeper, branding trauma into him before he even learned how to defend himself. Before he even learned how to speak.

And now, he doesn't speak at all.

Muted—not by choice, but by trauma. And no one seemed to understand. 

You gently ran your fingers through his hair, kissing the crown of his head as your heart ached. You asked yourself—again and again—what was best. For him. For you. For both of you.

Was staying here a form of protection? Or just a slower kind of destruction? You didn’t know. But you knew you had to keep trying. Because Jiho deserved more than this silence. He deserved safety. He deserved love.  Even if you had to crawl through fire to give it to him.

The night after Jiho’s trembling subsided and he finally drifted into sleep—still curled tightly against your side—you sat in the dark and stared at the moonlit ceiling. Eyes wide open, heart numb.

You had cried all you could. It was no longer grief that kept you awake. It was resolved. Something in you broke that night. Or maybe, something in you finally woke up. You had to get out. Not just you—but Jiho. He deserved more than a prison guarded by tradition and cruelty. And you… you deserved a life where you didn’t flinch every time a door opened.

One morning, you waited in the garden until you saw him.

Mingyu.

He was one of the few people in this house who had always looked at you with a trace of human decency. Loyal to Seungcheol, yes. But not blind. Not heartless.

“Mingyu,” you whispered from the corner of the rose wall. “I need your help.”

He looked hesitant at first, glancing around. “Is something wrong?”

You stepped forward, showing him the bruises you had covered the night before. Not with pride, but with desperation. And when you said, “It’s not just me. It’s Jiho, too,” something in his expression shifted.

Still, he hesitated.

“I serve your husband, Lady Choi. You know I—”

“I’m not asking you to betray him,” you cut in softly. “I’m asking you to help a mother protect her son. That’s all I’m asking, Mingyu. Please.”

He stared at you. At your trembling hands. By the way your eyes, even when dry, screamed for help. And then… he nodded. It was the smallest gesture, but it changed everything.

Together, the plan began. Fake kidnapping. Enough to throw the house into chaos. You’d vanish without a trace. Just gone. Long enough for Seungcheol to search, for his mother to squirm, and for you to slip far beyond the reach of this gilded prison.

You needed one more piece. So you wrote a letter. With careful words and shaking hands.

“Dear Jisoo, I hope this finds you well. I have no time to explain everything, but I need you more than ever. I’m trying to escape with my son. I know this is asking a lot, but if you ever saw me as your friend, please—help me disappear. With all my heart, Y/n.”

Jisoo had been your friend from the years before marriage. Gentle, quiet, kind-hearted. He had always seen past your mask. Past your name. The kind of friend who noticed sadness even when you smiled.

The response came swiftly—disguised in a box of imported tea.

“Tell me when and where. I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

No one will find you. You clutched that letter to your chest the night it arrived.

You didn’t just want to leave. You wanted them to feel it. You wanted the Choi family to suffer in confusion, to twist in paranoia. To question their power, their security, their control over you. You wanted Seungcheol to see what happened when he turned a blind eye. You wanted his mother to choke on her arrogance.

They thought you were weak. They mistook endurance for submission. Mistook silence for obedience. But you had been watching, learning. Smiling at every slap. Bowing after every insult. Playing your part—until it was time for the curtain to fall.

Mingyu swallowed hard. “You’re colder than I thought.”

You smiled darkly. “Yes, this is who I've been the whole time.”

You disappeared in silence. Like a shadow slipping into dusk.

That night, you imagined Seungcheol pacing the estate in rage. You imagined his mother screaming at the staff, flipping porcelain in hysteria, all while you sipped tea in a warm cabin nestled deep in the property Jisoo owned.

“They’ll lose their minds,” Jisoo said calmly, reading your expression.

You leaned back, watching Jiho chase butterflies through the window.

“I want them to,” you replied, smiling without warmth. “I want her to think someone took me the same way she took everything from me.”

Jisoo stared for a moment. “And Seungcheol?”

You sipped your tea and set it down gently. “He doesn’t get to play the victim. He left me there for four years. If guilt’s what haunts him now, let it grow roots. Let it rot.”

Your tone was soft. But your words were razor sharp.

You hadn’t run to be free. You had vanished to make them remember you in fear.

And when the time came—if it ever came—you wouldn’t return as the girl they once tried to break.

You would return as the ghost that taught them how it feels to lose everything.

*

The Duchess Choi stepped into the room like a queen returning to her throne, the smug curl on her lips unmistakable. Her heels clicked on the polished floor, every sound like a warning bell. Jiho’s small fingers tightened around yours, and you could feel his pulse racing—just like yours. You gently shifted him behind you, body instinctively shielding his.

"Nice to see you come back," she began, her voice honeyed but hollow. "I finally can breathe."

You didn’t say a word. You just looked at her—truly looked. She was thinner, her cheekbones sharper, and the usual glint of superiority in her eyes had dulled slightly, just slightly. Ten days without Seungcheol’s money must have felt like ten years in exile for a woman like her.

You had learned a lot in those ten days.

That fear could turn to fury. That silence could scream louder than words. That a journal—carefully placed on a vanity Seungcheol would pass by—could rewrite the entire narrative.

Even if you sprinkled salt into the wounds, embellished the bruises, and emphasized Jiho’s silence as irreversible, your husband wasn’t the type to fact-check a bleeding truth. He would feel it. And it was his feelings you counted on. The man who once watched you from a distance was now looking too closely for comfort.

Before your mother-in-law could raise her hand—as she had so many times before—you beat her to the blow.

"My husband wouldn’t like it," you said sharply, voice low but sure, "if he knew you hit me again. Would he?"

The words cut the air like a dagger. And for the first time, her hand faltered mid-air.

The duchess laughed—a dry, unimpressed sound that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Bold, are you?” she scoffed.

You tilted your head, smiling just faintly. “No. Just smarter.”

You stepped forward, careful but steady. Jiho clung to the back of your dress, and your voice dropped to a whisper meant only for her.

“Now we wouldn’t want the court hearing things about what’s been happening behind closed doors, would we? Or the charity ladies you love so much.”

Her jaw tightened. The way her fingers curled at her sides told you she wanted nothing more than to hit you, but the risk outweighed the impulse.

“I don’t know what nonsense you fed my son,” she hissed.

“You raised him to swallow a good story.” You stepped back with a shrug, “I just wrote a good story.”

Her voice slithered back into the room like a shadow that refused to leave.

“I shaped him, Y/n,” she said, one heel pivoted against the marble, eyes gleaming with poisonous pride. “Do you think I can’t unmake him?”

You froze only for a breath. Jiho’s head tucked against your side, his small fingers still curled around your dress, a living reminder of what she once tried to break.

Your lips twitched into a cold, almost amused smile. You stood tall, one hand protectively on Jiho’s back.

“You shaped a puppet,” you replied, your voice calm but laced with steel. “But I raised a soul. One you never understood.”

Her jaw clenched. You saw it. That flicker of fear that she was losing control. The very thing she thrived on was slipping through her fingers.

“I won’t let you,” she whispered, venom behind each word.

You stepped forward, not backing down. “You’ve already tried. For years. With silence, with fear, with violence.”

You bent slightly, meeting her gaze at eye level.

“And yet—here he is. Still standing. Still whole.”

That silenced her.

She turned with a dramatic sweep of her gown, fury stiffening her spine. But before she left, she paused at the door and glanced at Jiho. His wide, scared eyes met hers.

“You’ll regret this,” she said coldly.

You leaned down, pressing a kiss to Jiho’s temple. “No,” you murmured, meeting her stare without flinching. “You will.”

And then she was gone.

You exhaled—deeply, slowly—and wrapped Jiho in your arms. His little hands were still trembling, but your body had stopped shaking. 

For the first time in years… You weren’t afraid of her anymore.

*

Seungcheol leaned against the doorframe, his eyes softening at the sight before him. You were seated on the carpeted floor, a handful of colored pencils scattered around you as Jiho clung to your side, intently focused on the sketch he was making. His small hand moved across the page in childlike strokes, your hand resting gently on his back, steadying him.

It was quiet, peaceful even—too peaceful for what he expected after hearing that his mother had come to see you.

He cleared his throat deliberately, breaking the silence.

Your hand stilled mid-stroke, and you slowly turned toward him. Jiho instinctively leaned closer into your side, his small frame tense again.

Seungcheol stepped in. “I heard my mother was here,” he said, voice unreadable.

“She was.” You didn’t look away as you said it, your tone flat but not hostile. “She left just before Jiho finished drawing this.” You held up the picture—a messy house, two stick figures, a sun drawn in orange rather than yellow. He knew it wasn’t a coincidence. Jiho always drew the sun in yellow.

Seungcheol stepped closer, eyes trailing over the drawing, then back at Jiho. His son didn’t meet his gaze.

“You didn’t call me,” he said, watching you.

He crouched down finally, close enough to see Jiho’s trembling lip, though the boy quickly masked it. “Jiho…” he called gently.

But Jiho only pressed his face further into your side. Seungcheol’s hand twitched like he wanted to reach out, but he didn’t.

“He needs space,” you said quietly. “And time.”

He nodded, understanding. “I came to check on you,” he said after a moment. “Not just because of her.”

“Jiho, Mingyu is outside and he wanted to draw with you in my office,” Seungcheol said, his voice unusually gentle. Jiho turned his head toward you, seeking approval with those quiet eyes of his, still wary—still unsure.

You gave him a soft nod. “Go ahead, sweetie.”

Jiho stood, clutching his crayons, and after a small, almost hesitant glance at Seungcheol, he shuffled out of the room.

The door closed behind him with a soft click, and just like that, silence swallowed the room again.

You didn’t move.

Seungcheol remained standing for a beat, as if unsure how to begin. But then his voice came, low and heavy.

“I read your journal.”

Your fingers froze mid-reach toward a colored pencil. You slowly lifted your eyes to him, quiet but unreadable.

He took a step forward. “I don’t know what I was expecting when I found it—maybe anger. Accusations. But not…” He trailed off, brow furrowed. “Not that.”

You tilted your head. “Not what? The truth?”

His jaw clenched. “Some of it,” he admitted. “But you made it sound like I left you here knowing what would happen. Like I… abandoned you on purpose.”

“Didn’t you?” you asked, voice like calm water over a sharp stone. “You never asked. Never checked. Four years, Seungcheol.”

His shoulders tensed, but he didn’t defend himself. Instead, he let the weight of your words fall where they must.

“I didn’t know.���

“No,” you said. “You didn’t want to know.”

Silence.

He ran a hand through his hair, stepping closer, something burning just beneath his expression. “You made me believe you were okay. You wrote letters, you smiled when I called—”

“Because if I told you, she would’ve hurt Jiho more.” Your words cracked then, the first sign of emotion leaking through. “So I smiled and lied.”

Seungcheol’s face twisted at that. Regret carved deep into his features.

“She told me you hid the dresses I bought for her,” he muttered. “That you were wasting my money. She said you were trying to turn Jiho against the family.”

“And you believed her?” you asked with a hollow laugh. “You believed her over your own wife and child.”

“I don’t anymore,” he said quickly. “Not after reading that. Not after seeing Jiho.”

You looked at him for a long moment, your expression softening—but only slightly. “Then do something. Don’t just stand there feeling bad. You were raised by that woman, Choi Seungcheol. You know what she’s capable of.”

He stepped closer again, his voice lower, almost hoarse. “I didn’t know it would come to this. I—I should’ve protected you.”

Seungcheol’s eyes didn’t leave yours, but there was something different in them now—no longer just regret or guilt. Something quieter. Something breaking.

His voice was softer when he spoke next, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to say it. “Can I…” he paused, his gaze flickering down for a moment before rising again. “Can I hug you?”

Your breath caught, not because you were surprised, but because of how long it had been since he asked. Since he even thought to ask. You looked at him—not as your husband, not as the man the world respected—but as the man who once held your trembling hands on the altar and swore he'd make you feel safe.

You didn’t answer right away.

The silence stretched between you like a thread pulled taut—threatening to snap.

And then you gave the faintest nod.

He stepped forward slowly, carefully, like you were glass he had shattered and was trying not to cut himself on the edges. When his arms finally wrapped around you, they felt different—not like a husband who claimed, but like a man who begged to be allowed back in.

You stood still at first, tense in the circle of his embrace, memories flashing like scars beneath your skin. But as his warmth bled into you, you felt the steady rhythm of his heart—fast, unsure, human.

And slowly… your hands lifted to rest on his back. You didn’t melt into him. You didn’t collapse. But you let him hold you. And that, after everything, was the beginning.

Your plan has run well so far.

*

Seungcheol felt the small tug at the hem of his coat just as he was about to step out. He turned on instinct, ready to brush it off—but then he saw him.

Jiho.

The boy was in his slippers, hugging a drawing book against his chest with one hand, the other still gripping his coat tightly. His eyes wide, silently pleading.

That silence—it hit Seungcheol like a brick to the chest.

Jiho couldn’t call his name. Couldn’t say “Appa” like other kids might. And yet here he was, tugging him back with all the strength his little body could offer.

Seungcheol glanced at his watch. He was already late. A meeting with regional heads, important people.

But the promise he made to you echoed louder than any ticking clock.

“I’ll change,” he had told you.

So, without a second thought, Seungcheol looked over his shoulder and called, “Mingyu, push the meeting back. Two hours.”

He crouched to Jiho’s height, his voice softer, careful, like something sacred could break between them.

“Jiho… what’s wrong?”

The boy hesitated only a moment before holding out the sketchbook and colored pencils, then pointed toward the garden with a hopeful look.

Seungcheol followed the gesture, noticing the sunlight pouring gently through the windows. The air outside looked crisp and golden.

“You want me to draw with you?” he asked, still unsure if he was reading it right.

Jiho gave a shy nod, his eyes flickering down like he was preparing for rejection.

But Seungcheol didn’t hesitate. “Let’s go to the garden,” he said.

And just as he straightened up, ready to guide Jiho forward, he felt it—small fingers wrapping around his own. A warm, hesitant hand slipping into his.

He looked down, stunned.

It wasn’t much.

But to Seungcheol, that little hand holding his was louder than any word Jiho could’ve spoken.

It was trust. Maybe even forgiveness.

And for the first time in a long time, Seungcheol let the weight of work fall away as he stepped outside—not as a chairman, not as a Choi, but as Jiho’s father.

The crayons rolled lazily on the blanket as Seungcheol added a pair of long ears to the rabbit he was drawing. Beside him, Jiho carefully shaded the butterfly’s wings in a bright orange, his tongue peeking out slightly in concentration. It was peaceful—quiet but warm, like the sun filtering through the trees around them.

Seungcheol leaned back on one hand, glancing at Jiho’s drawing and then back to his own. “I think mine looks like a dog,” he chuckled softly. Jiho looked up and tilted his head, lips twitching like he might have laughed if he could.

But the calm was broken by distant shouts.

“Jiho!”

Seungcheol turned his head, brow furrowing as he caught sight of two figures darting through the hedges—your voice unmistakable, calling for your son. Minyeong was behind you, looking just as panicked.

You skidded to a stop when your eyes finally landed on the garden, where Jiho and Seungcheol were sitting casually on the picnic blanket, surrounded by scattered drawings and crayon boxes.

Your shoulders dropped, relief flooding your face as you exhaled. “Jiho!” you cried, hurrying toward them. “You scared me.”

Jiho’s head whipped toward you, startled by your tone, and he immediately clutched the sketchbook to his chest, eyes wide.

Seungcheol stood, brushing his hands on his pants, still confused. “What’s going on?”

You knelt down beside Jiho, checking him over as if making sure he hadn’t vanished and reappeared. “He wasn’t in his room. He always waits for breakfast after class. No one saw him leave. I thought—” your voice broke off, the worst-case scenarios unspoken but loud in your expression.

Seungcheol’s brows lifted as he finally understood.

You let out a shaky breath, gently tucking Jiho’s hair back. “You can’t just disappear like that, sweetheart. I got scared.” Your voice softened as you held his cheek, thumb brushing under his eye.

Jiho looked down, guilt plain in his body language.

"He's safe here. You don't need to worry," Seungcheol said, his voice calm, his stance steady.

But his assurance didn’t sink into your chest the way it should have. Not with the image of the Duchess still fresh in your mind—her cruel smirk, her venomous words, the way her shadow still lingered in every corner of this estate. Not with the memory of Jiho's trembling form, locked away and crying for someone who would never come.

You tightened your arms around your son, cradling his fragile body to your chest as if your heartbeat alone could shield him. “He’s too precious,” you murmured, your voice low, heavy with everything you couldn't say. Too precious to be used. Too precious to suffer. Too precious for this house to break.

Seungcheol didn’t say anything at first. He looked at you, at Jiho, at the way your hand cupped the back of your son's head protectively. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“I understand,” he said quietly. “He’s important to me, too.”

You looked up, your eyes sharp and cautious.

Seungcheol stepped closer, dropping to a knee so he was eye-level with the both of you. “Whatever happens,” he said, voice more serious now, “I’ll work hard to protect him… to protect you. So you don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”

Your breath caught.

You wanted to believe him—so badly—but belief wasn’t trust, and trust wasn’t earned overnight. Not after years of silence. Not after years of being left behind.

Last night, the nightmare returned.

The same one that gripped you with icy fingers every time you dared to close your eyes. The same twisted scene that played over and over like a curse etched into your subconscious. You had thought that leaving the estate would quiet it—give your mind the peace to heal—but it only followed, sinking deeper into your bones each night.

It always began the same: silence. A vast, suffocating silence that wrapped around you like a veil.

Then, the halls of the estate. Dim, echoing, endless. You'd find yourself running, barefoot and frantic, the cold stone floors numbing your feet. Your heart thundered louder than your steps.

Then her—Duchess Choi.

Her figure always emerged from the dark, regal and terrifying. Her hands were always red—soaked, dripping. Her eyes gleamed with something inhuman.

And Jiho...

You never reached him in time. No matter how fast you ran, how loud you screamed, you always arrived just a second too late. The final moment always burned itself into your soul: Jiho's lifeless eyes, his small body limp in her cruel arms, as she whispered, "You should’ve obeyed."

You jolted awake, drenched in sweat and breathless, clutching your chest as if it could steady the madness storming inside.

But the room was silent.

Beside you, Jiho slept peacefully, his tiny hand curled into a fist near his face. The innocence of his slumber clashed cruelly with the horror that still lingered in your veins.

You pressed a kiss to his forehead and laid back down, eyes wide open, unwilling to risk sleep again. You couldn’t. Not when the nightmare was always the same, and the ending never changed.

Your mind whispered over and over: What if the dream was a warning? What if it wasn’t just a dream at all?

Seungcheol’s voice cut through the heavy silence, gentle but firm. He noticed the weariness etched into your face—the dark circles beneath your eyes, the distant glaze that made you look like you were somewhere far away.

“You should rest, my wife,” he said softly, stepping closer. “Leave Jiho to Minyeong for a while. Let yourself breathe.”

His words carried more than just concern; there was a quiet insistence, a promise that you didn’t have to carry everything alone.

You blinked slowly, the exhaustion weighing down your lids, and for a brief moment, you almost wanted to say yes. To give yourself permission to stop fighting, even if only for a little while.

But the nightmare still lingered behind your eyes—the bloody hands, the silent screams.

*

The door creaked softly as Seungcheol stepped into your room. The curtains were drawn halfway, letting in a dim wash of moonlight that etched pale shadows across the floor. The air was still, thick with silence. You were curled up beneath the covers, your body barely moving, your eyes open and distant—staring at nothing.

He stood at the threshold for a moment, just watching. You looked so small like that, fragile in a way that struck him in the gut. His chest ached. He wondered how long you’d been surviving in this half-state, quietly unraveling while he stood blind beside you.

“You haven’t slept again,” he murmured, voice soft as cotton.

You didn’t answer—just turned your head ever so slightly in his direction. The motion was slow, like it took effort.

He approached the bed and sank gently onto the edge, careful not to startle you. For a moment, he didn’t say anything more. His hand lifted, tentative at first, before his fingers brushed beneath your eye, tracing the bruised hollows of exhaustion there. Then down to your cheek—warm, familiar, trembling.

You let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. “Are you just here to touch me?” you asked, your voice hoarse, barely more than a whisper, but with an edge of bitterness beneath it.

Seungcheol’s brows pinched, his thumb ghosting over your temple.

“I’m here because I want to carry what you’ve been carrying alone,” he whispered. “I turned my eyes away when I should’ve looked closer.”

Your throat constricted as tears swelled. You bit your lip hard. “I’m already broken, Cheol.” Your voice cracked. “This house… your mother… everything. I—I don’t even recognize myself anymore. I tried to be what you needed, but I’ve only ruined it. You don’t deserve someone like me.”

He closed his eyes briefly, jaw tight with pain. And then he leaned forward, pressing his lips to your forehead—delicate, unwavering.

“I don’t care,” he whispered against your skin. “You’re my wife. Convenient or not. I made vows, and I meant them. I still do.”

A sob shuddered up your throat as your defenses collapsed. The tears you’d swallowed for months broke free.

And when he kissed you, it wasn’t hurried or full of hunger—it was slow and aching. His mouth moved against yours like he was memorizing you again, trying to soothe every invisible wound. You clung to him, fingers fisting the front of his shirt, desperate for something solid, something real.

There was no need for words anymore.

Clothes slipped off like old armor. His hands didn’t rush—they moved over you gently, like you were something he thought he’d lost. His touch was reverent, worshipful. He kissed the curve of your shoulder, the dip of your waist, the softness of your stomach like they were all parts of a story he refused to forget.

Your fingers threaded through his hair, trembling. “I’m scared,” you admitted into the dark.

“I know,” he breathed against your skin. “But I’m here. I’m here.”

When he entered you, it wasn’t a conquest—it was a return. A slow, desperate need to feel something real between the both of you again. You moved together like the world outside didn’t exist. Like grief and shame and regret could all be held at bay if only you stayed close enough.

Your breaths synced, ragged and warm. Gasps turned into moans, moans into whimpers. The sound of your name on his lips was unlike anything—hoarse, reverent, as if it hurt to say but he couldn’t stop saying it.

You cried through it. Not just from the sensation, but from all the pain that had piled up between your bodies for months. Seungcheol held you through it all, brushing your tears away with his lips, whispering apologies and I love you’s and I’m so sorrys between every kiss.

He whispered your name like a vow. Like a prayer.

“You’re mine,” he breathed over and over, not possessively, but like a truth he clung to. “You’re my wife. You’re mine.”

That night, the bed wasn’t just a place of desire—it became a sanctuary. A fragile, fleeting pocket of warmth where two hearts could find their way back to each other.

Morning crept in quietly, the rain having washed the world into a pale stillness. The sky was soft and gray beyond the curtains, the kind of morning that asked the world to slow down.

Seungcheol stirred beside you, his hand instinctively brushing a lock of hair away from your face. You were still asleep, finally at peace. Something in his chest loosened at the sight. For a moment, it felt like maybe, just maybe, things were starting to heal.

Then his phone buzzed on the nightstand. He reached for it lazily, intending to silence it, but froze when he saw the name.

Seokmin. Your personal guard.

The blood drained from his face as he opened the message. The screen burned into his vision. The phone nearly slipped from his hand.

Not kidnapped. Requested. Lied.

His lungs stopped working. He stared at the words, willing them to change, to rewrite themselves, to offer any other meaning. But they stayed the same, cold and damning.

The room shrank. His pulse pounded in his ears. Everything—their night, your tears, your trembling voice saying “I’m already broken”—all of it twisted now. He looked at you lying there, still, peaceful, the soft blankets rising and falling with each breath.

And suddenly, he didn’t know what that peace meant anymore.

He stood from the bed, the sheets pulling slightly as he moved. He was still half-dressed from the night before, hair a mess, lips bruised from kissing someone he thought he knew.

You stirred, frowning slightly at the absence of his warmth. Your voice was sleepy, unguarded. “Cheol?”

He turned, and you saw the expression on his face. The way his jaw clenched. The way his eyes looked at you like he didn’t recognize you anymore.

“Did you sleep with him?” he asked. The words were low, cold, and jagged.

You blinked, sitting up abruptly. “What?”

“Hong Jisoo,” he repeated, more biting this time. “Did you sleep with him? Is that why you ran off and let me think you were taken?”

“Cheol—no.” You shook your head, panic rising. “I didn’t. I would never—how could you even—?”

“Then what was it?” he snapped. “Don’t tell me it wasn’t betrayal. Don’t tell me you didn’t look me in the eye every day and pretend nothing was wrong while you were planning your escape behind my back!”

You flinched like he’d struck you.

Your voice wavered, but you forced the words out. “It wasn’t cheating. It was surviving.”

The silence that followed was sharper than any scream. It cracked through the air between you, full of things neither of you had said for months—maybe years.

His throat worked around the lump forming there. “You lied to me,” he whispered, voice almost breaking. “You stood in front of me, wore the ring I gave you, and lied every damn day.”

You stood too now, trembling, bare feet on the floor, your arms crossed tightly over your chest like you were holding yourself together. “You neglected me,” you said quietly, but it came out sharp. “You left me to rot in that house, alone. Your mother made me feel like dirt and you—you never even looked at me.”

“I was trying to protect you!” he shouted. “You think I didn’t know how bad she was? You think I didn’t want to fight her? I was trying, but you never let me in! You never told me how bad it got!”

“Because I didn’t think you'd believe me!” you cried. “You kept brushing it off. You said I was being too sensitive. Every time I tried to tell you, you told me to be patient. So I stopped talking.”

“You gave up on us,” he said, venom trembling behind each word. “You chose him.”

“I chose myself, Seungcheol.” Your voice cracked. “I had no one. No one listened. Not you, not your family, not the people I was supposed to trust. So yes—I ran. I asked Jisoo for help because I didn’t want to die in that house.”

His face twisted. Pain and rage warred behind his eyes. “You should’ve come to me.”

“I did,” you said. “You just didn’t hear me.”

He backed away from you like your words physically pushed him.

“I didn’t cheat on you,” you said again, voice quieter, but no less steady. “I lied. I’m not proud of that. But I did what I had to do.”

“You don’t get to rewrite this like you’re the victim,” he muttered bitterly. “You lied. That’s the one thing we swore we’d never do to each other.”

“And you swore to protect me,” you said, eyes burning. “You failed me first.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Two people who once promised forever, now standing in the ruins of misheard cries and emotional silence. Both of you hurt. Both of you right, and both so terribly wrong.

Seungcheol looked away, jaw flexing. “I don’t know how to come back from this.”

And this time, you didn’t answer. Because neither of you did.

*

Seungcheol slowed his steps as the raised voices reached him—fierce, trembling, far too close to a breaking point. He stood just shy of the corridor’s edge, where the marbled hallway met the staircase landing, his hand resting on the wall as if grounding himself from a storm he hadn’t yet seen.

And there it was.

You—face flushed, eyes glassy with fury and something dangerously close to heartbreak—stood between his mother and your son. Your arms were slightly outstretched, like a shield. Jiho stood behind your legs, barely visible, clutching his sketchbook tightly to his chest, his small frame tense like a frightened deer in the open.

Seungcheol didn’t move. Couldn’t. The weight of your voice froze him in place.

“You’ve always blamed him for existing,” you said, each word like a shard of glass cutting through the thick silence. “He’s a child. Not a burden. Not your second chance to twist another soul.”

His mother's lips curled, cold and disdainful. “You should’ve taught him obedience instead of weakness. No wonder he turned out like this. You coddle him like he’s glass—”

“He is!” your voice cracked, but you didn’t waver. “Glass that you keep trying to shatter. He’s traumatized—because of you! Because of this cursed house! You broke every child that passed through your hands and now you want to break him too—”

“Watch your tone,” she snapped.

“Or what?” you challenged. “You’ll hurt me? You already have. But I won’t let you lay a single finger on him.”

Your breath was coming in hard, shallow bursts, your voice trembling with the desperate kind of love only a mother could understand. And Seungcheol—watching from the shadows, unseen—felt something rip open in his chest.

Then it happened.

Jiho, who had been so still, so silent—stepped forward. A tiny hand tugging on your skirt, eyes flickering between the two adults in confusion and fear. He didn’t speak, couldn’t speak. He only wanted to stop the fighting. To reach you. To help.

And Duchess Choi turned. Sharp. Too sharp.

“Don’t touch—!”

Her hand flew in a gesture meant to shove you back—but Jiho was there. Too close. Too small. Her arm struck him across the chest, not hard enough to harm a grown-up, but more than enough to unbalance a child on the edge of stairs.

Seungcheol’s heart stopped.

Jiho’s sketchbook flew from his arms, pages flapping like wings of a broken bird.

And then—time cracked.

Jiho stumbled backwards. One small foot slipped. He tilted.

“Jiho!” Your scream pierced the hallway like a siren, raw and anguished.

Seungcheol was already moving. But he wasn’t fast enough. Jiho fell. Head first, down the staircase. His tiny body bounced off the steps in an unnatural, horrifying rhythm. The final thud—when his head hit the marble—echoed through Seungcheol’s ears like a gunshot.

Everything was silence after that.

You screamed again, louder this time, but it sounded distant in Seungcheol’s head. He sprinted, feet hitting the ground too late. You were already at the bottom, shaking, your hands trembling as you pulled Jiho’s limp frame into your arms.

“Jiho—Jiho, baby, no—” your sobs came in gasps, hoarse and broken, like something inside you was shattering.

Seungcheol collapsed beside you, his hands fluttering uselessly, hovering over Jiho’s blood-matted hair. The boy whimpered faintly, eyelids fluttering, a soft sound that should have been a relief but only deepened the horror—because it meant he was still conscious through this pain.

“Eomma… don't cry.”

“Mingyu,” he said quietly. The butler had already rushed into the hall. “Get the doctor. Then gather the guards.”

“My lord—” the duchess began, but Seungcheol didn’t even look at her.

“You’re no longer welcome in this house,” he said coldly. “Not near me. Not near my wife. And not near my son.”

His mother’s breath hitched. Her mask finally cracked. “I raised you—”

“And you nearly unmade me,” he snapped. “You will not get the chance to do the same to my son.”

He turned back to you and Jiho, kneeling once more, brushing Jiho’s hair back gently as the boy leaned into him.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “You’re safe now.”

“Appa…”

*

Seungcheol sat heavily in the armchair, the dim light from the window casting long shadows across his worn face. His eyes, dark and stormy, never left you as you sat on the edge of Jiho’s bed, watching your son sleep. Jiho’s breathing was soft and steady now, peaceful in the fragile safety of the moment—his small face untouched by pain, save for the faint bruises and bandages that marked the night’s horror.

The silence between you was suffocating—thick with everything left unsaid, every wound raw and aching beneath your skin. Your heart pounded in the quiet, the weight of what had happened pressing down like a heavy shroud.

Then, your voice—low, brittle but unwavering—cut through the stillness.

“I knew this was coming.”

Seungcheol’s breath caught a subtle hitch that betrayed the storm inside him. His gaze sharpened, hanging on every word you spoke.

“I dreamed of this,” you said, voice trembling like a fragile thread stretched too thin. “Over and over. How your mother would... harm him.”

Your hand clenched into a tight, desperate fist at your side, knuckles whitening. You didn’t want to look weak, not again—not now—but the tremor in your chest betrayed your fierce vulnerability.

“That’s why I turned to Jisoo,” you whispered, the words heavy with bitter truth. “Because my own husband wouldn’t. Because you don’t have the heart to turn your back on your mother. And I understand... because I’m a mother too.

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened, a war raging behind his eyes—between blood ties and love, duty and desperation, guilt and regret. He felt torn apart, the impossible weight of loyalty clashing with the raw, aching need to protect the family he claimed as his own.

You finally met his gaze, your eyes shimmering with tears you fought to hold back—an ocean of pain, exhaustion, and pleading that spilled over despite yourself.

“Let us go, Seungcheol,” you said, voice breaking but steady. “We’ve suffered enough.”

The words hung in the room like a fragile glass between you—beautiful, sharp, and ready to shatter. It was a plea. A reckoning. A heartbreak that neither of you could deny. For a long moment, the world outside ceased to exist. Only the quiet breaths, the unspoken fears, and the fragile hope that maybe, somehow, healing could begin.

Seungcheol’s jaw clenched, his breath shallow and uneven. The words you’d just spoken echoed in his mind, sharp and unyielding. He wanted—needed—to say something, anything, to hold on, to fight, but the weight in his chest crushed his voice before it could form.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Silence hung between you like a thick fog, suffocating and endless.

His eyes, dark and conflicted, searched yours, but no answer came. The battle raging inside him was too fierce—between love, loyalty, guilt, and despair.

Three years later, Seungcheol sat behind the grand oak desk in his government office, the weight of responsibility settling heavily on his shoulders. The sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the room lined with books, maps, and official decrees.

Now appointed as the regional governor of Gwanrae by the kingdom, he was tasked with ruling a land both vibrant and challenging—a region ripe with opportunity but tangled in its own conflicts and histories.

Papers scattered across his desk demanded his attention: petitions from villagers, reports on trade and security, letters from the palace, and reminders of the delicate balance he must maintain between power and justice.

He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, feeling the years of lessons pressed into every decision. The role was demanding, each day a test of wisdom, patience, and strength. But Seungcheol carried it with quiet determination, fueled by a desire to forge a future where pain like his family’s could be undone.

Though the past still lingered—ghosts of mistakes and loss—he focused on what lay ahead. His kingdom, his people, and perhaps, one day, the chance to heal the fractures within himself.

Seungcheol sat behind his polished desk, papers neatly stacked but momentarily untouched as Mingyu entered the room with a purposeful stride.

“Mingyu,” Seungcheol greeted without looking up, his tone measured yet weary.

“Sir,” Mingyu replied with a slight bow before standing straight. “I wish to update you on young Jiho. He has recently commenced his studies at the elementary academy in Southeast Gwanrae.”

Seungcheol finally raised his eyes. “Is that so? And how does the child fare? Has he begun to speak more freely?”

Mingyu nodded respectfully. “Indeed, my lord. Though reserved, Jiho has begun to articulate himself with increasing confidence. His progress, while gradual, is promising. He shows signs of resilience reminiscent of your own.”

A faint expression softened Seungcheol’s features. “That is reassuring to hear. It has always been my hope that he would find his voice in his own time.”

“Also, the Ministry of Trade has confirmed your presence at the opening ceremony for the new provincial market in Southeast Gwanrae. It’s scheduled for the second week of the coming month.”

Seungcheol paused in his writing, his pen hovering just above the parchment. “Southeast Gwanrae?”

“Yes, sir,” Mingyu replied, maintaining professional composure. “The region has seen significant growth in recent years. The local business community has funded and organized the new market plaza. You’ll be expected to deliver an address and conduct a ceremonial inspection of the trade facilities.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tensed subtly, though his expression remained neutral. “And who oversees the business council there?”

Mingyu met his eyes with a steady nod. “The chairwoman is Lady Ji.”

Silence followed—not strained, but still.

Seungcheol leaned back slightly in his chair, folding his hands before him. “Did she submit the invitation herself?”

Mingyu hesitated, then answered carefully. “It came through the council secretary, but her name was signed at the end of the official document.”

A long breath filled the room.

“I see,” Seungcheol said quietly, gaze distant now.

Mingyu added, “It’s not a personal summons, sir. It’s a public obligation. The council is aware of your history, but they believe your presence will lend prestige to the event.”

Seungcheol gave a slow nod, eyes shadowed but steady. “Prepare the itinerary. Notify the guards. We’ll proceed with the visit as expected.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Mingyu turned to leave, Seungcheol’s voice called him back—quieter, tinged with something more thoughtful. “Send word ahead. I expect nothing more than a formal greeting. She owes me nothing else.”

Mingyu bowed low. “Understood.”

*

You stood before the mirror, adjusting the silk ribbon at your waist with trembling fingers. The fever had come quietly the night before—subtle aches, a flush that crept beneath your skin. But the ceremony couldn’t wait. Not when months of preparation and the trust of so many local merchants rested on your shoulders.

You dabbed a touch of powder to your cheeks, trying to mask the pallor that clung stubbornly to your skin. The dizziness made your limbs feel like they moved underwater, but you anchored yourself with deep breaths and the steady hum of responsibility.

Outside, the town square of Southeast Gwanrae buzzed with anticipation. Banners hung from the rooftops, merchants lined the stalls with wares, and citizens gathered around the ceremonial platform. The new market was not just a structure—it was proof of survival, of self-reliance. Of rebirth.

You walked slowly toward the platform, Jiho’s small hand in yours. He looked up with curiosity, unaware of the way your steps were measured, your breaths shallow. Jisoo hovered nearby, eyes watchful.

Then you saw him.

Governor Choi Seungcheol. Cloaked in ceremonial robes, his stature even more commanding now. His gaze swept the crowd with practiced poise—until it landed on you.

And it lingered.

You didn’t falter, not outwardly. But your heart tripped painfully in your chest as heat bloomed behind your eyes—not from the fever this time, but from something older. Deeper.

He stepped forward at the cue of the master of ceremonies. Applause rose around him. You bowed your head in respect as protocol demanded, hiding the slight sway in your posture.

He took the podium. His voice, when it came, was steady and regal. But in the middle of his speech, there was a pause—so brief that only those watching closely would notice.

You didn’t look up, but you felt it.

“Was that the Lady Ji he married to?”

“They didn’t even make eye contact.”

“They used to be married, didn’t they?”

You kept your chin lifted, hands folded tightly in front of you to hide the tremor. Jisoo shifted subtly beside you, standing tall, a quiet shield against the public’s prying eyes. Jiho tugged at your sleeve, sensing something even in his young innocence, but you only gave him a weak smile.

The ceremony pressed on. Names were called, the market gates opened, and trade resumed with festive cheer. But around you, eyes still flicked between your back and Seungcheol’s retreating form. Between the woman who had rebuilt from nothing, and the man who had once vowed to build everything with her.

The hotel’s reception hall was lavish but subdued, echoing the tone of formality befitting a governor’s visit. Crystal glasses gleamed under soft golden light, and the long table was dressed in cream linens and lined with carefully arranged refreshments—fine teas, traditional pastries, imported fruits, and small plates that suggested abundance without ostentation.

You sat with practiced grace near the center, across from the Governor himself. Your pale cheeks were touched with a hint of makeup to conceal the fever’s lingering shadow, though the heaviness in your limbs remained. Jiho was safely with Minyeong elsewhere; this part of the evening was no place for a child.

The air around the table buzzed with polite conversation. Influential dukes from surrounding provinces, regional council members, and a few trade lords from the merchant guild sat in a semi-circle. Discussions drifted from recent drought relief efforts to tariffs on imported grain, yet somehow always curved back to Gwanrae’s rapid development under Governor Choi’s new policies.

You remained composed, offering observations when appropriate, your voice even but soft. You noticed how Seungcheol glanced your way only when no one else was looking—quick, unreadable flickers of something unspoken. Perhaps it was memory. Or curiosity. Or guilt.

You couldn’t tell.

“The Lady Ji’s market district in Southeast Gwanrae has seen the highest citizen satisfaction index in the last quarter,” one of the younger councilors noted, smiling at you respectfully. “The property restructuring method she adapted from Sir Hong was a success. Her initiative has inspired the outer provinces.”

A few nodded in agreement.

You inclined your head politely. “We simply provided what people needed—affordable space to grow. Most of the credit belongs to the people who dared to try.”

“Well spoken,” Seungcheol said then, his voice calm but commanding.

It was the first time he had addressed you directly.

The room stilled just slightly—not noticeably, but enough that your spine straightened. You lifted your tea to your lips, hiding the flicker of surprise in your eyes.

And the whispers… started again. Not out loud, not yet. But in glances. In tightened smiles. In the careful politeness that only arose when something unspoken filled the space between two powerful figures.

By the time dessert was served, the room looked orderly again. But beneath it all, the air hummed with possibility—and a tension that even fine porcelain couldn’t mask.

You rose from your seat with the same poise you had maintained all evening, offering a quiet apology to the table. “Please excuse me for a moment,” you said, your voice gentle, unshaken. No one questioned it.

But as you stepped into the hallway beyond the reception hall’s doors, the air shifted.

The soft murmur of noble chatter faded behind you, replaced by the hush of a long, carpeted corridor lit with wall sconces and the distant patter of staff footsteps. You pressed a hand to the wall as your balance faltered—the fever had been steady all day, but now it surged again, making the corners of your vision blur and pulse. Your breath caught. The polished tiles swam beneath your feet, the weight of the night catching up to you.

You leaned your back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut, willing the dizziness to pass. Your fingers curled lightly around your stomach, the warmth of your palm a weak shield against the chill pooling in your limbs.

This wasn’t the place for weakness. Not with officials gathered, not with him in the next room.

But your body disagreed.

Your throat was dry, and the soft layers of your hanbok, though elegant and stately, felt heavier with each breath. You took another slow step forward, then another, intending to reach the small powder room at the end of the hall. But your legs buckled slightly.

And that’s when you heard him.

“Y/n—” Seungcheol’s voice, low and sharp with concern, cut through the silence.

You turned your head, just enough to see him striding toward you. His expression had shifted from formal restraint to something rawer, something dangerously close to the man you used to know. His eyes scanned your face, your posture, the way your fingers trembled against the wall.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, instinctively, but your voice betrayed you—it cracked like paper.

“You’re not,” he said, already beside you. His hand hovered at your back, hesitant but prepared to catch you if you faltered again. “You’re burning up.”

You opened your mouth to dismiss him, to deny him, but the weakness clawing through your spine left no room for pride.

The world around you dimmed slowly, like a lantern flickering in the wind. Your breath grew shallow, your limbs impossibly heavy. You tried to take one more step, tried to hold your chin high despite the spinning in your head—but it was too much.

Then you heard him.

“Mingyu, prepare a room. I’m going there.”

His voice was firm. Urgent. No longer the voice of a distant governor or a man hardened by time and power—but of Seungcheol. The man who once held you like you were made of glass and fire.

You felt the warmth of his hand wrap around yours, the way it used to, anchoring you. Your knees buckled, and the last thing you registered was the sensation of being caught—his arms solid around you, strong and familiar, just before everything faded into darkness.

*

Seungcheol sat in the armchair beside the bed, a stack of reports resting in his lap—mostly unread. His eyes kept drifting toward your sleeping figure, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest beneath the covers. The doctor had said you were dehydrated and exhausted, the fever pushing your body past its limit. You’d been given a shot to bring it down, and now you finally rested—still, pale, and far too quiet.

The soft creak of the door opening caught his attention. Footsteps—small, hesitant—tapped gently against the floor.

Seungcheol turned, and there stood Jiho.

The boy’s eyes were wide, glassy with worry. He stood frozen in the doorway until he whispered, “Mother…”

The sound nearly undid Seungcheol.

It wasn’t just the word—it was the way Jiho said it, the clarity in his tone. After years of delayed speech and silence, the word shattered something inside him.

Seungcheol rose from his chair, slowly. “She’s going to be fine,” he said gently, his voice low. “She just needs rest.”

Jiho stepped forward, inch by inch, as though afraid that if he moved too fast, it would all disappear. When he reached the bedside, he reached out with a trembling hand and took yours.

“Thank you, Father…”

Seungcheol stood in place, the words echoing in his mind. His heart clenched—not out of pain this time, but something bittersweet and unfamiliar. Jiho’s voice, his gratitude… it was more than he deserved.

He swallowed hard, blinking back the emotion stinging behind his eyes.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he said hoarsely. “She’s your mother. She’s everything.”

Jiho didn’t answer, but his hand remained firmly wrapped around yours.

And for a moment, in that quiet room filled with the steady sound of your breathing, Seungcheol felt something he hadn’t in years.

A glimpse of what could have been.

Or perhaps… what could still be.

Seungcheol watched Jiho in silence, unable to tear his eyes away from the boy’s small hand wrapped around yours. His chest rose with a slow, heavy breath as something bloomed in him—warm, unfamiliar, and overwhelming.

Jiho had grown.

Not just in height or how he carried himself—but in spirit. The timid little boy who once hid behind your skirts was now standing tall beside your bed, speaking clearly, and holding your hand like he could protect you.

It struck Seungcheol with a force that left him breathless.

He knelt beside Jiho, eye level with him now. “You’ve grown a lot,” he said softly, his voice a bit rough around the edges. “You’re strong… just like your mother.”

Jiho looked at him, his eyes uncertain but bright. “I practiced,” he said shyly. “Talking. Writing. Reading.”

Seungcheol nodded, swallowing the emotion in his throat. “I can tell.”

He reached out, gently brushing Jiho’s hair back, something he hadn’t done in so long it felt like a forgotten memory brought to life. “I’m proud of you, Jiho.”

The boy blinked, stunned, before a small, careful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Will she wake up soon?” he asked.

“Yes,” Seungcheol said, his hand still resting lightly on Jiho’s head. “She just needs rest. You gave her a reason to rest easy.”

Jiho’s small fingers clutched yours a little tighter, his eyes still fixed on your sleeping face. Then, after a pause, he glanced up at Seungcheol—uncertainty flickering in those big, dark eyes.

“Father isn’t here to take me from my mother, right?”

The question landed like a blow to Seungcheol’s chest.

He froze, caught off guard by how quietly it was said, how much fear and understanding hid behind such simple words. Jiho wasn’t asking as a child guessing. He was asking as someone who remembered. Someone who had lived through absence. Through tension. Through loss.

Seungcheol lowered himself again, this time more slowly, until he was eye level with Jiho once more. His throat tightened, but he didn’t look away.

“No,” he said, voice low but steady. “I’m not here to take you away from her.”

Jiho searched his face for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether he could believe him.

“You have nothing to be afraid of. Not from me. Not anymore.”

Jiho nodded slowly, still watching him. And then—quietly, cautiously—he leaned just a little toward Seungcheol’s shoulder, not quite touching, but not pulling away either.

It was the smallest shift.

*

“Rest…”

Seungcheol’s voice, deep and hushed, wove into the stillness like the final note of a lullaby. It wrapped around you gently just as your eyes fluttered open, lashes blinking against the soft golden light that seeped through the curtains. The scent of chamomile lingered faintly in the air—either from the tea or from the linen sheets recently changed—and for a brief moment, the world felt hushed, like it was holding its breath.

You stirred slowly, your body sore but lighter, the fever that had held you hostage now a fading ache. Disoriented, you mumbled, “Why are you here?”

He was already there—by your side. Sitting on the edge of the bed like he belonged in that room, like he’d never left your orbit. The light caught the edges of his sharp features, softened by fatigue and something quieter. Something more tender.

“Taking care of you,” he said, his voice low, smooth like worn velvet. His hand reached out, calloused yet gentle, brushing against your forehead. Cool skin against warm. The kind of touch that made your heart betray you with its sudden stutter.

“Your fever’s gone down,” he murmured, eyes studying you. “But you still need rest. Are you hungry? I can have something sent up.”

You turned your face toward him, blinking slowly as you tried to anchor yourself. The pillows cradled your head, the comforter tucked around you like arms you couldn’t name. It was your hotel, your room, and yet it felt like he had brought the air with him—changed it just by being there.

“We’re strangers now, Seungcheol…” you said, your words barely above a whisper, unsure if they were meant to remind him or to protect yourself.

A faint laugh escaped his lips—low, breathy, amused in that familiar way that always managed to stir something under your ribs. “Strangers usually call me Lord,” he teased, already pulling out his phone, fingers dancing across the screen.

Your brow furrowed. “This is my hotel,” you muttered, frowning. “You can’t just order people around like you own the place.”

He leaned back slightly, still so at ease. “Their boss is sick,” he said with a sly smile, “so naturally, they should tend to you.”

A quiet hum filled the space between you. The distant clink of silverware being prepared downstairs, the muffled rush of staff moving through the halls, and the slow, steady rhythm of your breathing. The air was laced with something fragile and unspoken, like the moment before a confession or the second before dawn.

“You’re weird,” you said softly, your eyes not quite meeting his.

Seungcheol’s smile grew—smaller, more personal, like he didn’t want the world to see it. “You always said that when I did something nice.”

“And you always acted like it meant nothing,” you whispered back, your voice thinning, unraveling.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full—of everything unsaid, of the ache of almost everything, of a past that still lived in the corners of the room. The kind of silence that made your heart flutter even as it weighed down your chest.

“You’re the chairman of the council,” Seungcheol said quietly, eyes narrowing slightly as he watched the way your fingers trembled just a bit when you reached for the glass of water. “Yet no one seemed to notice you were sick.”

You gave a soft, rueful smile, pressing the glass to your lips before setting it down again. Your voice came gentle, laced with fatigue and a hint of something more resigned. “The art of noticing…” You let the words settle, your gaze drifting to the window where morning light filtered through gauzy curtains. “It’s not easy. Needs a lot of practice.”

Seungcheol stilled. Something in your tone made his chest tighten—not with guilt, but with recognition. You weren’t talking about the council. Not entirely.

“Jiho came earlier,” Seungcheol said, his voice gentler now, changing the subject. He leaned back slightly, eyes still fixed on your face. “He was worried… You shouldn’t worry your son like that.”

A soft breath escaped your lips, not quite a sigh—more like a breeze of guilt brushing through your chest. You didn’t look at him right away, only let your gaze fall to the folds of the blanket between your fingers.

“Hmm…” you murmured, then turned to face him with a small, grateful smile. “Thank you for reminding me.”

“You’re far too calm for this situation…” Seungcheol muttered, his voice low and taut with frustration. He wasn’t looking at you—his eyes were fixed on the half-open window, where sunlight spilled lazily across the room.

You tilted your head, watching him quietly. “Why?” you asked softly. “Are you… feeling something, Seungcheol?”

A silence fell between you. Not the comfortable kind, but a loaded pause that felt like holding your breath underwater. He didn’t answer right away—just clenched his jaw, the flicker of emotion twitching behind his eyes.

“Hm… old things,” he finally said, his voice quieter. “But I don’t want to talk about this.”

You nodded once. “Okay.”

Another silence—quieter this time. The wind outside rustled the trees. Somewhere down the hall, a servant’s footsteps echoed faintly and then faded again.

Then, like a whisper dropped into the stillness, he said, “I miss you.”

Your breath caught in your chest. For a moment, the room felt smaller, like everything folded in around those three words.

These visits became a quiet rhythm over the months—small, almost unnoticed, but impossible to ignore. You were immersed in the latest market expansion reports when Jeonghan appeared, calm as ever, his tablet tucked beneath one arm.

“My lady,” he said gently, “Governor Choi was seen in the lobby again.”

Your pen hovered but you didn’t look up. “Again?” you asked, voice steady but with just a hint of something beneath.

Jeonghan nodded. “His fourth visit this year.”

You said nothing, turning the page deliberately. The room filled with a heavy silence as Jeonghan lingered, waiting for a crack in your carefully guarded composure. But none came.

This pattern repeated over time: subtle visits, thoughtful gifts.

One afternoon, Jeonghan appeared with a small, carefully wrapped package. “Governor Choi has sent painting equipment for the young master,” he said softly.

You accepted it with a quiet “Thank you,” your heart catching briefly before your face smoothed into neutrality. These gifts carried more weight than paint and canvas.

Later, Jeonghan returned, a slight smirk on his lips. “Lord Seungcheol asked for a recommendation on a local restaurant.”

You met his gaze evenly. “Tell him the best place is the one he hasn’t discovered yet.”

Jeonghan’s knowing smile lingered as he left, the door clicking softly behind him.

Month after month, these quiet reminders arrived—unspoken words and careful gestures, threading their way through your days, stirring memories you tried not to name.

It was near sunset when Jeonghan entered again, the golden light casting long shadows across your office floor. He stood with both hands behind his back, his voice as composed as ever.

“My lady,” he said carefully, “Lord Seungcheol has asked… if he could take the young master for a stroll around the city.”

You looked up from the correspondence in your hand, eyes resting on him a second longer than usual.

The question hung in the air like incense—unexpected, warm, and slightly disorienting.

“For how long?” you asked, though your voice was quieter than intended.

“An hour or two,” Jeonghan replied. “He said he wants to show Jiho the market square lights… and the new flower lane.”

You glanced toward the window, where faint sounds of the evening city buzzed below. Jiho had asked about the flower lane just days ago.

And now Seungcheol remembered.

You closed the document before you slowly nodded. “Tell Lord Seungcheol… as long as Jiho wears his coat.”

Jeonghan gave a slight bow. “Yes, my lady.”

As he exited, your eyes lingered on the door he’d just left through, a quiet ache swelling in your chest. You knew Seungcheol wasn’t just walking through the city. Somewhere else you didn't want to name.

*

Seungcheol opened the door of his hotel room, his tie loosened and sleeves slightly rolled up, only to pause at the unexpected sight.

You stood there, framed by the soft hallway light, holding a familiar bottle of red wine cradled in your arms—his favorite vintage.

“Room service,” you said with a small, wry smile.

A quiet laugh escaped him, subtle but real, as he stepped aside. “I should’ve known this hotel had excellent service.”

You stepped inside, the wine bottle cool in your hand as you made your way to the small sitting area. The room smelled faintly of cedar and old paper—his cologne mixed with the remnants of long hours and unopened reports. You settled onto the couch with practiced ease, the weight of the years between you both momentarily suspended in the soft click of the bottle setting down on the table.

“How was the stroll with Jiho?” you asked, your tone casual, though your eyes lingered longer than they should.

Seungcheol took the seat across from you, his gaze steady. “Peaceful. He asked questions about every flower and every vendor. He’s bright... very much like you.”

You gave a faint smile, looking away as if brushing off a compliment that hit a little too close to the chest.

“I didn’t expect your visit,” he said finally, voice quieter now, more careful.

You shrugged lightly, fingers tracing the rim of a wine glass. “I didn’t expect to be here either. But I figured I’d be a terrible host if I didn’t personally greet one of our most loyal guests. You come here almost every month, Lord Seungcheol. That’s an impressive amount of... business in Southeast Gwanrae.”

His eyes didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of something in them—soft, vulnerable, almost sheepish.

“I find the region… welcoming,” he murmured.

“Mm. I’m sure you do,” you replied, pouring the wine with quiet grace, the room now bathed in the quiet hum of night and all the things that remained unsaid.

The wine settled between the two of you like a truce—rich, deep, and aged with memories. Seungcheol swirled the glass in his hand, the deep crimson catching the lamplight in slow motion.

“So,” he began after a sip, voice low, “how’s business been treating you?”

You leaned back against the couch, crossing one leg over the other as your fingers reached for a slender silver case from your coat pocket. With practiced fingers, you pulled out a cigarette and placed it between your lips.

You lit it without hesitation, exhaling softly, the smoke curling into the warm air like a secret.

“Depends on the day,” you answered. “Some days I feel like I own half of Southeast Gwanrae. Some days I feel like I’m drowning in numbers and neck-deep in egos.”

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, watching the trail of smoke dance above your head. “And today?”

You glanced at him, lips tugging in a wry smile. “Today I’m drinking wine with the governor and pretending we’re just old friends catching up.”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, gaze intent. “You don’t have to do that,” he murmured.

“Do what?”

He tilted his head toward your cigarette. “That. You don’t have to put on the show. Not with me.”

A soft laugh escaped your lips, laced with tired amusement. “You know I’m not here to be your business partner, Seungcheol. This isn’t a deal. This—” you gestured around with your cigarette, “—is just tradition. Wine, smoke, talk. It keeps people from asking the real questions.”

He looked at you quietly for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Still. You don’t have to play the game.”

You met his gaze, then took another drag, the cherry at the end of your cigarette glowing faintly. “We all play, Seungcheol.”

Silence stretched between you like silk, delicate and taut. Only the quiet ticking of the wall clock and the soft clink of his glass broke through it.

“I never expected to see you like this,” he said finally. “Cigarettes in one hand, a thousand thoughts behind your eyes, carrying everything on your own.”

You looked at him then, really looked—and for a second, it felt like the years hadn’t passed. Like your hearts had never broken, like the city hadn’t swallowed you both in different directions.

“You were the one who shaped me,” you replied, voice steady, though the wine had begun to warm the ache in your chest. “You don’t get to hate the woman I had to become.”

He didn’t speak. He only nodded once, solemnly, before refilling both your glasses.

Seungcheol watched as you took your third drag, the smoke curling lazily from your lips, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light. He frowned, a flicker of concern tightening his features. Rising from his seat, he moved toward you with measured steps, until he stood beside the couch.

Without hesitation, his hand gently closed over your fingers, pinching the cigarette between them and pulling it away. The sudden loss startled you, but you didn’t pull back.

“Enough smoking,” he said quietly, eyes searching yours. “It’s not good for a woman.”

You inhaled sharply, the edge in your voice barely masked. “I had worse,” you mumbled, the silence that followed thick and heavy.

Seungcheol stepped closer, the space between you shrinking until his breath brushed your cheek. His voice softened, almost pleading. “Stop this mask, right now.”

You looked up at him, steady and unflinching. “I don’t wear any mask, Seungcheol. Never.”

His eyes darkened with something unsaid, a mixture of frustration and longing. The tension between you pulsed in the still room, neither willing to break, yet both craving the truth beneath the carefully crafted walls.

For a long moment, you simply held each other’s gaze—raw, honest, and dangerously close.

Then, slowly, he released your hand, the cigarette forgotten between his fingers.

“Maybe,” he whispered, “it’s time we stop pretending.”

You swallowed hard, your breath catching as his hand slowly lifted to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a tenderness that belied the tension in his stance.

“I don’t want to pretend anymore,” he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath.

Your eyes fluttered closed as his face dipped closer, the warmth of his breath mingling with yours. Time slowed—every second stretched thin with the weight of what was about to happen.

And then, finally, his lips found yours—soft, tentative at first, as if testing the waters of a long-denied connection. The kiss deepened slowly, a silent confession that spoke louder than any words ever could.

All the pain, the silence, the masks—they melted away in that moment, leaving only raw, honest truth between you.

Seungcheol’s lips brushed against yours again, softer this time, but no less intense. His voice was low, rough with something like hunger.

“Stop pretending, Y/n. I don’t want the mask—I want you.”

You trembled beneath him, eyes searching his. “I’m not sure I know how to be anything else.”

His fingers tightened around the fabric of your blouse. “Then let me show you.”

With a slow, deliberate motion, he undid the buttons, his breath warm against your skin. “You don’t have to hold back with me.”

Your pulse thundered as he trailed a finger along your collarbone, voice dropping to a whisper. “Not here. Not anymore.”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding, and whispered back, “Seungcheol...”

He silenced you with a deep, searing kiss, his hands tracing the curves he’d longed for, claiming every inch with a touch that was anything but innocent.

Seungcheol’s kiss grew more urgent, his hands tightening slightly as he pressed you closer. The room seemed to shrink around you, the air thick with heat and longing. Your breath hitched, heart pounding wildly as his lips trailed down your jaw, then the curve of your neck, each touch leaving a trail of fire.

Seungcheol’s hands moved with purpose, peeling away the barriers between you as if memorizing every inch of your skin. His lips never left yours, devouring and tender all at once, a fierce mixture of restraint and need.

“Do you feel it too?” he murmured against your mouth, his voice rough yet intimate.

You nodded, breath hitching, fingers threading through his hair. “I’ve never stopped.”

His gaze darkened, intense and unwavering. “Then stop hiding from me. Let me in—completely.”

With that, he gently laid you back onto the bed, his body following, warm and solid against yours. The world outside the room ceased to exist as his hands and lips explored with a slow, deliberate hunger, every touch igniting fire beneath your skin.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, fingers tracing a path along your jaw, “I’m listening.”

Your voice trembled, honest and raw. “I want to stop pretending. Just be with you… like this.”

A low, satisfied growl escaped him as he closed the distance again, sealing your confession with a kiss that promised no more masks—only truth and desire.

Fingers deft and confident, he began to undo the buttons of your blouse, each movement sending shivers down your spine. His touch was far from innocent—possessive, claiming, demanding without words.

You parted your lips, breath mingling with his as his hands explored, every brush of skin a promise, every lingering touch a confession. The line between restraint and abandon blurred until it vanished entirely, leaving only the two of you tangled in a heat too fierce to ignore.

Seungcheol’s breath hitched as his fingers traced the curve of your jaw, steadying you in the quiet storm between heartbeats. The air around you thickened, charged with a magnetic pull neither of you could resist. His eyes darkened, searching yours for any flicker of doubt—but found none.

Slowly, deliberately, he closed the space between your lips, the world narrowing to the soft press of his mouth against yours. The kiss deepened, hungry and fierce, as if trying to make up for all the years of silence and restraint. Your breath caught, trembling beneath the weight of his touch, the heat of the moment wrapping around you like a consuming flame.

His hands slid lower, warm and urgent, tracing the lines of your body as he lowered you back onto the bed. The sheets whispered beneath you, cool against skin that burned with anticipation. The tension in the room thickened—every inch of space between you charged with unspoken desire, fear, and a longing that had refused to die.

Seungcheol’s voice came low, almost a growl. “I’ve waited too long for this.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears as the distance between hesitation and surrender vanished. In his arms, all your defenses began to crumble—raw, exposed, but never more alive.

The golden morning light spilled lazily into the room, tracing soft lines over the floor, the sheets, and the scattered remnants of last night’s heat — a blouse hanging off a chair, his watch forgotten on the nightstand, your heels crooked beneath the desk. The room smelled of perfume, wine, and something intimate, like skin warmed under candlelight.

You woke to a quiet stillness, broken only by the faint rustle of sheets and the distant hum of the city outside. The clock on the bedside table glared with urgency, a rude interruption to the warmth that still lingered between your tangled limbs and the imprint of Seungcheol’s arm curled loosely around your waist.

He was already awake beside you, eyes open, watching the way your lashes fluttered before you even spoke. A lazy smile twitched on his lips — affectionate, knowing.

“We’re late,” you murmured, voice low and still wrapped in sleep.

His smile didn’t fade, but there was a flash of clarity in his eyes. “No time to waste.”

And then the spell shattered.

The room erupted into a controlled chaos. You both moved with half-hearted haste — clothes tugged on backward, then corrected; buttons mismatched, hair smoothed with hurried fingers. There was laughter between curses, near stumbles, and shared glances that betrayed the rush with something softer.

You slipped on your heels, feeling the bite of time catch up to you, and turned to find him — shirt half-buttoned, collar askew, eyes still locked on you like you were the only thing in the room that made sense.

Your steps toward him were quiet but purposeful. The carpet cushioned the urgency beneath your feet, but your heart beat loud with everything unspoken. You stopped in front of him, reached up, and pulled him into a kiss — not rushed, not frantic, but deep. Measured. A pause in time.

His lips tasted like memory and morning, like the ache of missing someone too long and finally having them again.

“I have a meeting,” you said as you pulled back, your breath brushing his lips, hand cupping his jaw. “I’ll meet you for lunch, alright?”

Seungcheol’s hands slipped to your waist, grounding you with that steady strength he always carried. His touch was warm, possessive in the gentlest way — not demanding, just there.

“I’ll wait for you,” he whispered, low and sure.

There was no space for doubt in that voice. No hesitation. He would wait for you, just like how you had waited for him.

You smiled, fingers lingering a second longer on his jaw before you stepped back, turning toward the door.

The day was calling — but behind you, in that hotel room still steeped in shared heat and the haze of closeness, a kind of quiet longing bloomed.

It fluttered in your chest, soft and stubborn.

Like the start of something secured.

Like hope.

The end.

[arilevenatz]

Silent vows| K.Y.S

Pairing: Mafia!Yeosang x Reader

Genre: Arranged marriage, slight enemies to lovers, fluff

Word count: 22.4k

Warnings: forced marriage, emotional abuse, stalking, jealousy, implied violence, insecurity, yeosang is THE husband, we all want him

AN: Ok so happy belated birthday to my boy yeosang. The most prettiest, angelic mf I've ever seen. Like how can a man be so pretty and handsome at the same damn time. Also this was kinda like a prompt but I can't for the love of god find the comment. But you know who you are, thank you

Masterlist

“I’m not doing it.”

The words left your mouth before you could stop them, sharp and fast, cutting across the heavy air in the room like a blade. The study smelled like old leather and wood polish, the same way it always did when your father called you in for his lectures. But this wasn’t a lecture. This was something else. He sat behind that heavy desk, wearing the same expression he always wore when he made decisions for other people’s lives— calm, practiced, untouchable.

“This isn’t a request,” he answered, barely sparing you a glance. “It’s a responsibility.”

You could’ve laughed. Honestly, you almost did. Responsibility. That word sounded hilarious coming out of his mouth. What did he know about responsibility? The only thing he was responsible for was dragging this family name around town like it was some royal crest, acting like being respected by neighbors counted for anything real in the world.

“You don’t get to sell me off like I’m a—”

“Enough.”

Just that one word. Quiet. Heavy. And somehow louder than your shouting could ever be. Your mother was standing near the window, arms folded like she was cold even though the room was warm. She didn’t speak. She never did, not in front of him. Just stood there looking outside, twisting her rings like she could disappear into the carpet if she tried hard enough. You hated that you weren’t even surprised.

“This marriage will benefit this family,” your father continued, smoothing his sleeves like this was some business meeting. “We’ve built this name for generations. And you will protect it.”

You clenched your fists tighter, nails biting into your palms. “Your reputation doesn’t mean anything outside this stupid town.”

It slipped before you could stop it, but you didn’t regret it. You meant it. All these formal dinners, these family events, these endless talks about legacy— all of it felt empty. Like a dying empire pretending it was still a kingdom.

“This family has survived longer than you’ve been alive,” your father shot back, finally meeting your gaze with steel in his eyes. “And you’ll do your part to make sure it stays that way.”

You could feel the walls closing in. You could feel your freedom shrinking, curling in on itself, suffocating before you could even scream.

“Kang Yeosang.”

The name hit you like a slap. Sharp. Direct. Cold. You knew that name. Everyone did. Not because he was some loud, reckless criminal—no, worse than that. He was dangerous in a way that didn’t make noise. Dangerous in the way silent oceans are. You don’t notice how deep they are until you’re already halfway sunk.

“Why him?” you asked, throat dry.

Your father barely blinked. “Because his family’s name will keep ours alive.”

Alive. Like this was survival. Like marrying you off to someone you didn’t even know was a favor. Like it was a gift. You hated how calm he was about it. You hated how your mother still hadn’t said a single word. You hated how small you felt in that moment, standing in a house you used to believe was home.

“I’m not going to his house,” you muttered finally, stubbornness flaring even when your heart was hammering in your chest. “You can make me marry him, but I’m not moving in with some— some stranger.”

For a second, you thought maybe—just maybe—that would get a reaction. That something in him would soften, crack, break.

It didn’t.

Instead, he stood. Calm. Slow. Adjusting the cuffs of his shirt with careful precision, like he was bored of the conversation already. “You will,” he said softly. “You’ll go to his house, you’ll be his wife, and you’ll do what’s expected of you.” “And if I don’t?” you pushed, lifting your chin like you weren’t breaking inside.

His gaze sharpened just enough for the threat underneath to show, sharp and cold as glass. “Then I’ll handle it my way.”

You knew what his way meant. Not blood. Not mafia violence. But ruin. Reputation torn apart. Family turned against you. Friends pushed away. He knew how to break you the polite way, the respectable way. Quiet destruction in the form of shame.

You swallowed thick, hot air that didn’t want to go down.

“I hate you,” you breathed.

But your father was already walking away, steps quiet against the polished floor.

“I can live with that.”

Your throat burned with all the things you wanted to scream, but only one thing came out. “What about my studies?”

It sounded small. Weak. But it was the only lifeline you could grab onto in that moment. Something that was yours. The one thing you had left that wasn’t part of their family dinners, or reputation games, or polite handshakes pretending to be alliances.

University was supposed to be your escape. Not glamorous. Not perfect. But it was freedom in its own, small way—early mornings, long commutes, paper deadlines, friends who didn’t care about who your father was.

Your father barely reacted.

“You can continue after the wedding,” he answered flatly, as if you were asking if you could have dessert after dinner.

You stared at him. “After?”

“Yes. You’ll still attend.”

But you knew what that meant. You knew the weight behind those words. After the wedding. After moving into a stranger’s house. After taking his last name. After your life wasn’t yours anymore. Technically, sure—you could go back. Physically, you could sit in the same classrooms, scribble in the same notebooks. But it wouldn’t be the same. Not with whispers curling behind your back. Not with people watching you like you were an exhibit. “That’s her—the girl who married into them.”

It would hang on you like invisible chains. Dragging behind you everywhere you went.

And worst of all—you wouldn’t be able to come home. Not really. Not to this family. Not to your old life. You’d have a new last name, a new house, a new set of rules written by someone else’s hand.

The walls of the study felt like they were closing in.

“I don’t want this,” you said, quieter this time. No yelling. Just raw honesty, like a last ditch effort to claw your way out. “This isn’t my life.”

Your father looked at you the same way he looked at accounts on paper. Math. Numbers. Problems to solve, not feelings to fix.

“It is now.”

Simple. Unforgiving. Final.

You could almost feel the weight of your choices shrinking down to nothing. Every dream you used to picture folded neatly into a little box, pushed aside for family names and legacy dinners with strangers in pressed suits. Your stomach twisted. Hot. Cold. Rage and panic mixing together until you couldn’t tell which was worse.

You wanted to shout, wanted to break something, wanted to drag this perfect little empire down brick by brick just to prove you could—but you stood there frozen, fists clenched, staring at a man who would never, ever see you as anything but his tool first.

Come to the house.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Yeosang sighed, rubbing his hand over his jaw. “Alright. Be there in twenty.”

It wasn’t unusual—getting called over like this. His father didn’t waste words, didn’t waste visits. If he was calling, it meant something needed handling.

By the time he got to the mansion, the gates were already open like they always were when they expected him. The house was quiet, the same way expensive places are—grand, but not loud about it. Just old money tastefully sitting in every piece of polished wood.

His father was already in the study when Yeosang stepped inside, standing by the window, one hand in his pocket like it was muscle memory by now. Glass of whiskey in the other. Of course.

“You’re early,” his father said without turning around.

“You said now.”

His father finally looked over, gave him that familiar once-over like he was assessing a report. “Fair enough.”

There was a beat of silence. Not tense. Just quiet.

Then—

“There’s going to be a wedding.”

Yeosang blinked once. “Yours?”

His father gave him a flat look, one eyebrow raising the way it always did when Yeosang was being difficult on purpose. “Yours.”

Yeosang huffed a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, stepping further into the room. “That supposed to be funny?”

His father didn’t smile. “I’m serious.”

Yeosang stood still for a second, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “Is that what you dragged me here for? Could’ve sent a text.”

“This isn’t a text conversation.”

“You’d be surprised what can be said over text these days.”

That earned the smallest twitch at the corner of his father’s mouth. Approval, maybe. Maybe not. Hard to tell with him.

“It’s arranged,” his father said, cutting through Yeosang’s deflection cleanly. “Her family’s name still matters in this town. Not rich, not influential in our way, but solid. Traditional. The kind of people who care about reputation more than their own comfort.”

Yeosang tilted his head slightly. “So… charity work?”

“Strategy,” his father corrected smoothly. “They need stability. We don’t need much from them, but it keeps everything clean.”

“Clean,” Yeosang repeated under his breath. He crossed his arms, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. “And I’m guessing I don’t get a vote?”

“You get an understanding. That’s enough.”

Yeosang didn’t argue. Not because he agreed, but because he knew there was no point. This was how it worked. Give and take. Favors. Names. Quiet deals behind closed doors.

He exhaled through his nose. “Who is she?”

“Y/L/N’s daughter.”

Yeosang’s brow ticked. “Didn’t know they had one.”

“Not surprising. They keep her out of sight. Books, classes, family dinners. But they need her to secure their name before it fades.”

Yeosang thought about that for a second. Reputation marriages were common enough. Boring, mostly. People shaking hands over other people’s futures like it was stock trading.

“You’ve met her?” he asked.

“Briefly. Enough to know she’s going to fight it.”

“Great.”

His father glanced at him then, sharp. “Not your job to like it. Just your job to make it work.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t,” Yeosang muttered, rolling his jaw. “I’m just saying… if she’s gonna be difficult, it’s gonna be annoying.”

His father’s gaze didn’t soften, but there was a certain understanding there. “You’ll handle it.”

Yeosang let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah,” he said, pushing off the doorframe. “Guess I will.”

As he turned to leave, his father added quietly, “This isn’t punishment.”

“I know.”

And he did. This was just how things worked. Fair or not—his life wasn’t completely his own anymore. Yeosang sat behind the wheel, thumb tapping against the steering wheel as he pulled out of the driveway. Headlights cutting clean lines through the dark street, smooth turns, muscle memory driving him home while his mind drifted elsewhere.

Marriage. Arranged.

He scoffed quietly to himself, shaking his head once. What was he supposed to do with someone else’s family name attached to his life?

Some sheltered daughter of a traditional family, probably the kind who spent too much money on handbags and complained when the AC wasn’t cold enough. He could already hear the whining. Could already see the way she’d expect to live in his place, treat it like a hotel, float through his routine like an expensive perfume he didn’t ask to wear.

No, that wasn’t happening.

Maybe he’d buy her an apartment somewhere else. Nothing fancy, but decent enough. They could do the whole photo ops thing, wear the rings, play nice for the public, then go back to separate lives. Paper marriage. Clean. Or worse—she could be one of those girls who latched on for money. Gold digger. Probably already imagining his credit cards with her initials on the back.

He pressed his tongue to his cheek in irritation. God, he hated gold diggers.

Maybe she’d show up to the first meeting with some designer bag acting shy, but batting lashes like she knew exactly how to play the game. All wide eyes and fake humility. Great. Just what he needed—another headache in heels.

And the name—YN.

It felt familiar. Couldn’t place it, but the reputation was old enough to echo through town. Traditional. Reputed. The type of family that prided themselves on manners but ate each other alive behind closed doors.

The kind that smiled with their teeth.

He drummed his fingers once more, sharp taps on the leather, jaw set.

Alright.

If he was going to be stuck with this arrangement, he might as well know what he was dealing with. And he wasn’t about to walk into it blind. He had resources. Skills. Connections that didn’t come from LinkedIn profiles or polite family dinners. If they thought he was going to just sit back and play along without checking her first, they clearly didn’t know him well enough.

Fine. If she was going to be part of his life, even on paper, he’d find out exactly who she was—before she even stepped in the same room as him.

He flicked his blinker, turning toward his penthouse, already thinking about who to call first.

Let’s see what Miss YN was hiding.

By the time Yeosang finished, he knew more about her than her own family probably did.

University—small, local, nothing flashy. Biology major. Not exactly the typical rich family trophy daughter. No branded handbags, no influencer lifestyle. Her socials were barely active. Private, even. Most of her posts were old, nothing more than the occasional picture of a sunset or food she cooked. No thirst traps. No fake aesthetic feeds.

She liked drawing. Had an old art account that hadn’t been touched in months—messy sketches of flowers and animals, all pencil or black ink. Crochet too. Random photos of half-finished scarves stuffed in a drawer. Cooking—simple recipes, home stuff, not the kind of thing you post to show off, just to remember.

Her friends? A few from university. Small group chats. Normal conversations. Mostly about classes, complaining about assignments, nothing interesting. No clubbing pictures. No vacation shots with secret boyfriends tagged under fake accounts.

The further he dug, the more it annoyed him—not because he found anything bad, but because he didn’t. No scandals, no secret plans to social climb, no hidden motives that screamed gold digger or spoiled brat.

She was just… boring.

Boring in the way people are when they’re not trying to be noticed. And for some reason, that irritated him more than if she had been a problem.

Yeosang leaned back in his chair, tossing his phone on the table. Elbow propped on the armrest, hand running through his hair, frustration curling at the edges of his jaw.

Great. Now he was stuck marrying some quiet, awkward, crochet-making biology nerd who probably spent more time reading textbooks than thinking about designer clothes. Not exactly the chaos he was expecting.

But that was fine.

Boring or not, it didn’t change the situation. Didn’t change the fact that she probably didn’t want this marriage any more than he did. Didn’t change the fact that, like it or not, she was about to become his problem.

The small cafe tucked between two old bookstores smelled like cinnamon and burnt espresso, the kind of place you’d miss unless you were looking for it. Y/N liked it that way—quiet, steady, familiar. No loud music, no influencers with tripods. Just people who liked good coffee and minding their own business.

She stepped up to the counter, eyes scanning the pastries before glancing at the girl behind the register. “I love your hair,” she said softly, a small smile pulling at her lips. “That color looks really good on you.” The girl blinked, caught off guard, then smiled wide. “Oh! Thank you—I just dyed it last week.”

Y/N nodded, pleased. Compliments were easy. They made people softer. And the girl was pretty, her pastel blue curls tucked behind her ear like she wasn’t sure yet if she liked them. Little things like that made the world feel less sharp.

She ordered her coffee, tucked herself into the corner seat like she always did, pulling her notebook out of her bag. Pages filled with messy diagrams, doodles in the margins, recipes scrawled sideways between molecular structures.

What she didn’t notice—what no one noticed—was the man sitting at the table near the window, fingers idly circling the rim of his untouched cup, black baseball cap low over his brow.

Yeosang watched all of it with that same steady, unreadable expression he always wore when he was thinking too much. He wasn’t even sure why he was there. Habit, maybe. Curiosity. Boredom. The fact that the more he found out about her, the more it didn’t add up with what he expected. Normal girls didn’t compliment strangers just because. Normal girls—especially daughters of families clawing for reputation—were supposed to be fake polite. Smile, nod, move on. But she meant it. He could tell. You didn’t fake that kind of tone.

He watched the way she curled into herself, scribbling in that notebook like the rest of the world didn’t exist, lips pressed into a soft frown of concentration.

Just a quiet girl who looked like she was holding herself together with coffee and stubbornness.

Yeosang leaned back in his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee, jaw ticking once. This was going to be annoying in a completely different way. Y/N didn’t notice him when she left.

He watched her go, watched the way she shrugged her bag higher onto her shoulder, thumb absentmindedly rubbing at a little ink stain on her wrist from writing earlier. She moved like someone used to being unnoticed, like she liked it that way. The door chimed behind her, soft and forgettable.

Yeosang waited a beat, then stood, shoving his hands into his coat pockets as he stepped out onto the street. He wasn’t planning to follow her. Not really. That wasn’t his thing. He wasn’t the lurking type. But something about the whole thing felt unfinished—like he’d walked into a movie halfway through and now he needed to know how it ended, even if it was boring. Especially because it was boring.

She turned down one of the smaller streets, familiar paths clearly mapped in her head. She didn’t hesitate. Not once. Like she’d walked this way so many times her feet didn’t need permission anymore.

Normal. Predictable….Except for the part where, in a few weeks, her life wouldn’t be.

That was the thing gnawing at the edge of his mind. She didn’t know yet. Not fully. Probably knew about the arrangement, sure, but she didn’t know what marrying into his family meant. What marrying him meant. She looked like she still had hope things would be fine. Like she still thought she could negotiate her way out of it if she used the right tone with her father.

Cute.

He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t the type to tear down someone just because he could. But he wasn’t about to let someone walk into his life acting like it was optional.

This marriage was happening. She was going to be his. And the sooner she realized that, the easier it was going to be for both of them.

Yeosang sighed, pulling his cap lower as he turned the opposite direction, heading back toward his car. No point in being seen. Not yet. He’d play it properly, like he always did—let the introductions happen the way their fathers arranged, act like this was his first time seeing her. Civil. Normal.

For now, she could keep her quiet cafes and notebooks full of diagrams.

Soon enough, she’d be sitting across from him at a dinner table pretending she wasn’t thinking about escape routes.

And when that time came—

He’d enjoy watching the fight leave her eyes when she realized there weren’t any.

The dining room was too polished. Everything in it felt like it belonged in a magazine—heavy chairs, polished forks, crystal glasses that didn’t belong to people who used them often. It smelled faintly like expensive old wood and control.

Y/N sat straight, shoulders set, jaw locked like she’d been preparing for this her entire life. Polite daughter. Obedient. Chin slightly tilted up—not too much to look rude, just enough to show she wasn’t going to shatter on command.

Across the table, Yeosang sat with his elbow resting lazily on the armrest, fingers tapping slow against the tablecloth. His gaze was on her, not in the obvious way, not wide-eyed or curious—more like someone reading a file they already memorized but going over it again for fun.

“So,” his father started, formal tone sharp around the edges, “this is long overdue.”

Her father chuckled lightly, already halfway sunk into the leather chair like this was a golf meeting. “We’ve been meaning to sit down properly.”

Yeosang barely blinked. “Mm.”

Y/N didn’t look at him at first. Her eyes were trained on her plate, expression soft but unreadable, like she’d pulled politeness over herself like armor. When she finally did glance at him, it wasn’t shy—it was calculated. Brave. Probably spent the last week practicing it in the mirror.

Didn’t matter.

He knew everything already. Biology major. Draws on the side. Probably keeps her yarn stuffed in a drawer somewhere in that tiny bedroom of hers. Ordinary, and for some reason, that irritated him more than anything else could have.

Their parents carried the conversation like businessmen. Deals, family names, subtle remarks about strengthening ties. It wasn’t a dinner—it was a contract, disguised in roast chicken and overpriced wine.

Yeosang’s eyes didn’t leave her.

Y/N shifted her grip on the napkin under the table, folding it tighter in her palm. Eyes stayed low—not on purpose, not because she was scared—but because eye contact always felt like permission for people to ask more questions. And she wasn’t in the mood to explain herself to anyone at that table.

Yeosang sat across from her, speaking with her father like he wasn’t being sized up for marriage. Confident. Comfortable in a room full of expectations. His voice was steady, like someone used to being listened to, used to having the final word in a conversation. The kind of steady that didn’t need raising.

His father said something about ties between families. Her father hummed in agreement. Someone poured more wine. The edge of Yeosang’s gaze cut toward her briefly. He didn’t stare. Just checked. Like someone glancing at a watch to see how much longer they had to stay.

“So,” his voice finally reached her side of the table, low, smooth, without decoration, “biology.”

Her fork hovered, not quite raised, not quite lowered. “Yeah.”

He waited. No explanation followed. No polite rambling about how she got into it, what she wanted to do with it, how hard it was balancing studies with life. Just that quiet confirmation, like she wasn’t going to give him more than that unless dragged.

Something about that pulled a faint curve to the corner of his mouth—not a smile, not even close, just interest. Her fingers folded the napkin tighter.

“You gonna finish that?” he asked, eyes flicking to the untouched half of roasted potatoes on her plate.

Finally, her eyes met his. Not soft, not flirty—flat. Careful. “Do you want it?”

He shrugged once. “Didn’t think you were shy about eating.” “I’m not.”

He raised an eyebrow, mildly amused. “Good.”

Silence again, heavy but not uncomfortable. Just two people used to not needing to fill it. Her father started speaking about how she could continue studying after marriage, casual, like saying we’ll paint the guest room next week. She didn’t bother correcting him, though the heaviness in her chest said she wanted to. No way it would actually work that easily.

She didn’t say anything else for the rest of the meal. Yeosang didn’t, either.

He just watched her, like a lion watching something small—not because he wanted to pounce, but because he was curious if it was going to run. Neither of them moved first.

Yeosang watched the way her fingers kept folding the napkin tighter and tighter, like if she could just make it small enough, she could disappear into it. But her expression didn’t match the tension in her hands. She didn’t look flustered. Didn’t look desperate. Just… controlled. Like someone who’d been living with locked doors their whole life and knew better than to jiggle the handle too loud. Interesting.

“Do you usually not talk,” he murmured, cutting into the silence, “or is that just for me?”

The faintest breath of humor pulled at her nose before she could stop it. “Depends.”

“On?”

She let her gaze flick up—not to his eyes, just above them. “Whether or not the person across from me deserves it.” His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, and for a second, he almost laughed. Almost. This wasn’t what he expected. Spoiled daughters didn’t sit at tables folding napkins into perfect squares like they were holding knives in their laps.

And she didn’t look at him properly, not even once. Not because she was scared. Because she didn’t care. But she would.

Not in the way girls cared about him normally. Not wide-eyed or hopeful. No, she was going to care when she realized exactly how much of her life was about to be decided for her whether she folded napkins or full pages of essays. And the funny thing was—he didn’t want to break her. He just wanted to watch how long she could hold that line before she blinked first.

After the dinner dragged itself to its dull, polished conclusion, with the adults shaking hands over dessert like they’d just signed a treaty, Yeosang leaned back in his chair, elbow resting against the polished wood, fingertips brushing his jaw like he was thinking something over. And maybe he was. But the look in his eyes said this was calculated.

“So,” he said casually, but with the kind of weight that immediately drew the attention of both families, “how about next Thursday?”

The words dropped into the space between them with a deliberate softness, like a stone hitting still water. No one moved. His father raised a brow slightly, clearly pleased with the display of initiative. Her father smiled, the kind of smile fathers wear when they think their daughter’s life is finally falling in line. And Y/N—Y/N kept her fingers on the edge of her plate, eyes flickering up to Yeosang, finally, properly, but only for a second.

“Thursday?” she echoed, like she needed to make sure she heard him right, even though she absolutely had.

He nodded once, slow, composed. “Next week. You’ll be free, won’t you?”

It wasn’t a question. Not really. Not with the way every eye at that table turned toward her, expectant, waiting for her to be agreeable. Marriage was already settled like property; a casual dinner date wasn’t going to shake the foundation of that, but somehow, this felt worse.

Her jaw tensed before she could stop it, irritation curling hot under her ribs—not because she didn’t expect him to test her, but because he chose Thursday. Her only weekday off. Her only breathing space. Her only time where nobody expected her to be anything, say anything, do anything. She studied late on Thursdays, sometimes sat in the library doing nothing but scribbling messy notes on scrap paper that didn’t mean anything, just because she could. And now he was looking at her like he knew that. Like he’d planned that.

“I suppose,” she muttered, voice clipped, polite, lined with quiet annoyance that no one but him seemed sharp enough to hear. “Since you’ve already picked the day for me.”

Their fathers chuckled, pleased at the display of future marital bliss like they were in on some great joke. His father gave him that approving glance—the good, take responsibility look that was passed between powerful men in rooms like this. But Yeosang wasn’t watching anyone else. Just her. Measuring. Testing. Curious how far she could fold before snapping.

“You’ll like it,” he said simply. No tease. No apology. No smile.

She didn’t respond. Just folded the napkin in her lap one more time before setting it neatly on the table like she was handling something fragile. She didn’t look at him again, not because she was shy, but because she knew better. If she did, it’d feel like she was giving him something.

And right now, she wasn’t in the mood to give him anything. But she was curious now. Why Thursday?

Yeosang saw everything. He wasn’t sitting there with that calm posture and steady gaze for show—he was trained for this, raised on discipline sharper than any blade, molded under the expectation that one day he would carry the weight of something much heavier than family name. He was observant. Always. And while everyone at that table was busy patting each other’s backs over the success of an arranged marriage neither party asked for, Yeosang was watching her like a map he was learning by memory.

It was the way she folded the napkin—not once, not twice, but over and over. Each time, pressing it smaller, sharper, tucking corners like she wanted it neat but not too neat, controlled but never pristine. People who folded things that many times weren’t trying to fidget—they were trying to manage something they couldn’t put words to. He’d seen it in tense meetings, watched rival leaders smooth the edges of cufflinks or touch their watches repeatedly when they were hiding nerves or holding in words they couldn’t say aloud.

And she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

But that wasn’t the only thing. He caught the tiny shifts in her posture whenever her parents leaned too close, a subtle lean away—not disrespectful, not obvious, just barely enough to create distance like muscle memory. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t recoil. She managed it. As if that small separation was the only thing keeping her breathing steadily through this whole suffocating display of family pride.

Then there was her food. The careful way she pushed it around her plate, not because she was picky or entitled, but because eating under watchful eyes wasn’t the same as eating alone. Separating textures, shapes, colors, almost like categorizing parts of herself she wasn’t ready to share yet. It wasn’t disinterest—it was control. She was being studied, so she gave them nothing. Not even in the way she chewed.

Most people didn’t notice these things. Hell, most people didn’t even know they did them. But Yeosang saw it all like someone reading subtitles under a movie no one else could hear. And with every fold of that napkin, with every subtle lean of her shoulder, with every glance that never quite met anyone else’s fully, he knew one thing for certain—

She was no ordinary girl.

No spoiled daughter. No meek little thing waiting for a husband to save her from some sheltered life. There was something under that careful silence, something sharp, something waiting. Not the loud kind of defiance—but the quiet kind that made revolutions possible if left alone too long.

Yeosang didn’t know what that thing was yet. But he wanted to. Not to break her. Not to tame her. Not even to get under her skin. He just wanted to see what would happen if someone finally pressed back. And he was more than prepared to be that someone.

But he was no saint, either. Sure, Yeosang was observant. Sure, he was sharp, disciplined, raised on a steady diet of politics, violence, and strategy—but he was also his father’s son. And that bloodline came with one very particular curse: the chronic, unrelenting need to poke at things just to see what sound they made when they cracked. It wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t even personal. It was just in his bones.

And she—sitting there with her neat napkin folding and careful glances and that stubborn refusal to give him anything—was basically gift-wrapped for that exact kind of cruelty.

Admit it. He was intrigued by her, sure. But more than that, there was an itch under his skin when he looked at her, this annoying, bratty curiosity that made him want to press buttons just to see what she’d do. Not because he wanted to humiliate her. Not because he wanted to watch her fall apart. No, it was because she didn’t flinch. And that was interesting. Different. Everyone flinched eventually—but she just… adjusted.

And she looked cute annoyed.

Not the whiny, spoiled kind of cute. Not the bratty, helpless kind. The kind of cute that made him want to lean closer, just to see if her voice would crack the same way her napkin did under her fingers.

He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t even be here, technically, wasting brainpower on reading into a girl he was being forced to marry by family names he didn’t even particularly respect. But here he was, running mental diagnostics on someone’s napkin folding like it was part of a case file, and liking it more than he should.

And if he was going to be dragged into this circus of arranged happiness, he might as well have fun while he was at it.

Testing her? It wasn’t just strategy anymore. It was entertainment. Annoying her? That was just hereditary.

She really didn’t want to go.

Like—borderline, jump-off-the-balcony level of not wanting to go. Not because she thought it would fix anything, not because she was dramatic, but because the sheer dread of giving up the one day that belonged to her made her stomach twist. It was Thursday. Thursday was hers. Her one breath in a week full of held ones. Her one clean, unclaimed square of time where no one asked her to smile, or marry, or fold herself into something palatable.

But she didn’t jump, because that wasn’t how good girls act.

Her mother’s voice echoed in the bathroom as she brushed mascara through her lashes. ‘Be agreeable, Y/N. Don’t embarrass us. You’re not going to be one of those girls with tantrums and police reports. You’re better than that.’

Better. Whatever that meant.

So she got dressed. Pulled on clothes that said I didn’t try but I still look good because if she was going to be dragged into this, she was going to do it on her terms. She tied her shoes like she was tightening a tether around her own ankles. Did her makeup—not too much, not too little, just enough to look alive, to hide the exhaustion that simmered under polite nods and family dinners.

And when she finally looked at herself in the mirror, it wasn’t vanity staring back. It was survival. Thursday. Her Thursday. And now she was about to spend it across from him.

That annoying Yeosang with his sharp eyes and careful words, with his I’m watching you energy and the quiet smugness that didn’t need smiles or stupid flirting to make itself known. She could already hear his voice in her head, perfectly even, perfectly annoying.

And yet—she still tied her hair the way she liked it. Still put on her favorite necklace. Not for him. For herself. Because if she was going to war, she might as well wear armor.

She went down the stairs like muscle memory, footsteps light but steady, not really registering anything around her. Her parents said something—maybe a wish, maybe a warning, maybe one of those sugary “be good” reminders her mother loved so much. But it was all white noise, just the hum of life happening in the background of a mind that was already somewhere else entirely.

She didn’t ignore them on purpose. She was just zoned out. The kind of zoned out where you don’t even realize your keys are already in your hand, or that you locked the door behind you without thinking about it. Automatic. Like when you’re walking to class with music on and suddenly you’re already at the building, but you don’t remember crossing the street.

She didn’t remember leaving the front door. Didn’t remember if she’d even said goodbye, or if her mom had tried to fix the fold of her sleeve one last time like she always did. And she definitely didn’t see him until she stepped out onto the pavement and felt him.

There’s a specific kind of awareness that happens when someone’s eyes are already on you before you’ve noticed them. Like a silent tap on the shoulder. She glanced up—

—and there he was.

Leaning back comfortably in the driver’s seat of a sleek black car, windows down just enough to catch the breeze, one hand draped over the steering wheel like he had all the time in the world. Rap music playing in the background, not quiet but not obnoxiously loud. And that expression—not quite a smile, definitely not a grin, just that irritating curve of satisfaction people wore when they’d predicted something exactly right. Smug wasn’t even the word for it. It was too clean. Too Yeosang. Of course he was already here.

Of course he was watching her like he knew she wouldn’t have noticed him until now. She blinked once, slow, lips pressed in a thin line, and then kept walking. Didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t offer a greeting, just moved like she was late for something even though she wasn’t.

He leaned slightly forward as she approached, tapping his fingers once against the steering wheel, eyes glinting with that silent, irritating amusement.

You walked towards the car, your steps slower than usual, annoyance bubbling up at the sight of him sitting there, looking far too comfortable. You crossed your arms and leaned slightly against the door, giving him a flat look.

“I wasn’t aware you were picking me up,” you said, trying to keep your voice neutral. It came out a little sharper than intended, but you couldn't help it. This whole thing felt off, like you were being dragged into a game that you hadn’t agreed to play.

Yeosang just looked at you with that annoying, cocky expression, the one that always made your blood boil, and shrugged a shoulder. "Well, you should've been. It’s not like you had many options."

You felt a flicker of irritation, but it quickly settled into a calm mask. You weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of showing how much he got under your skin. Moving towards the backdoor, you reached for the handle, ready to slide in and get this over with.

Before you could even touch it, the car locked with a loud click.

You froze.

What the hell?

You looked up at him, surprised. He just sat there, still with that casual air, his eyes gleaming as if he was waiting for a reaction.

“Excuse me?” you said, narrowing your eyes.

Without missing a beat, he simply pointed to the passenger seat with an almost lazy gesture. "Sit there."

You blinked at him. You were about to say something—probably something rude—but you stopped yourself. There was no way you were going to let him mess with you like this. Still, you didn’t argue. You didn't have the energy to fight him over something so trivial. The car door opened with a quick swipe, and you slid in, your gaze still sharp but subdued.

Yeosang didn’t speak again as you buckled your seatbelt, his attention shifting to the road as he put the car in drive. The silence between you felt heavy, but you couldn’t bring yourself to break it. It was better this way. Better not to engage, better to keep things surface-level.

The ride was awkward. Well, for you, at least. Yeosang didn’t seem to feel it. His posture was relaxed, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear, like he was driving down to the beach with friends and not chauffeuring his future wife to some forced date neither of you wanted.

But you sat there, arms crossed, eyes out the window, chewing the inside of your cheek. And then it hit you. Wait. Is that Kendrick Lamar’s Reincarnated playing?

You blinked, eyes flickering toward the dashboard like you could confirm it with just a glance at the stereo. The beat was unmistakable, that heavy bass, sharp snare, and those layered vocals riding smooth over the instrumental. Of all the people to be playing Kendrick Lamar at full volume—it had to be him.

The irritation in your chest shifted slightly, replaced by something… warmer. Familiar. For a second—just a second—you forgot you were on your way to spend your Thursday afternoon with the most annoying man alive. You knew this song. Knew it.

Mentally, you started mouthing the lyrics in your head, matching every bar, every breath, every sharp flip of cadence like muscle memory. Word to word. Clean. Like second skin. It wasn’t loud in your expression, but your mind was in full concert mode, rapping like you’d been waiting for this exact song to save you from the awkwardness.

And for the first time since you sat in that car, you didn’t feel bored.

Without even realizing it, your fingers had started tapping against your thigh, following the beat with this natural kind of ease that only happens when something feels right. The awkwardness melted just slightly—not completely, but enough that you didn’t feel like throwing yourself out of the moving car anymore.

But then—

The song ended, and before you could even mourn the silence—another Kendrick song started playing. Different album. Same vibe. Same unmistakable energy. You frowned slightly, eyes flicking to the stereo now like it had betrayed you. Two Kendrick songs in a row? Coincidence?

You sat there for a second, staring ahead, lips pressing into a thin line as your brain worked overtime. Sure, it could’ve been a coincidence. Everyone liked Kendrick, right? But this felt… deliberate. Like someone had put it on a playlist. Was he doing it on purpose? Is he a fan too?

You glanced at him, cautious, like you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of catching you interested—but curiosity was starting to override irritation. He was just driving like usual, one hand lazily adjusting the volume like it was background noise to him. But something about how casual he looked felt rehearsed.

It didn’t sit right with you. Could’ve been random. Could’ve been a setup. Or… could’ve been both. But either way, you weren’t about to ask first. Nope. Not happening.

You just leaned back against the seat, eyes steady out the window, tapping your fingers again, this time not just because of the beat—but because you were thinking.

Yeosang was way too pleased with himself.

Not that he showed it outwardly—no smug grin, no teasing comments just yet—but inside? Yeah. He was damn near proud. Everything was going exactly how he wanted. Calculated. Controlled. Planned with the kind of precision that came from years of watching, learning, and frankly—being too damn good at reading people.

He knew everything he needed to know about you. Hell—he probably knew more about you than you did. He knew Thursday was your free day. Knew how you carved it out for yourself like it was holy ground. That’s exactly why he chose today to drag you out. Not because he wanted to ruin it. No—because it would be the one thing you couldn’t say no to. You’d either have to cancel your only peace of the week or face him—and he knew you’d pick facing him. Pride. Predictable.

He knew you didn’t like going out—not with family, not with friends, barely even by yourself. So, he came to you. Made it easy. Familiar car. Private. No excuses to back out last minute because “I didn’t feel like taking a cab” or “the bus was crowded”. Nah. He had you cornered, comfortably.

And the music? That wasn’t a coincidence, either. He’d seen the playlist. Hell, he’d memorized the damn playlist. Kendrick Lamar was your favorite in the rap genre, and it just so happened Kendrick was on his heavy rotation too, so it didn’t even feel forced. Just enough familiarity to make you settle in, just enough to make your fingers tap without realizing, to get you thinking maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought.

He didn’t need to ask you what you liked. He knew what you liked. Yeosang’s father didn’t raise fools—and Yeosang wasn’t about to start disappointing now.

He kept his eyes on the road, face clean of expression, like he didn’t know exactly what you were thinking. Like he hadn’t already played this scene out in his head a dozen times. You were stubborn, yeah—but he was patient. And precise.

He didn’t want to break you. Nah. That was boring. He wanted to watch. Watch how long you could act like you didn’t care. Watch how long you could pretend you weren’t curious. Watch how long it took before you realized—you weren’t the only one with sharp edges.

And yeah, he liked rap too. Lucky you.

The car rolled to a smooth stop, the hum of the engine cutting off and leaving behind the faint echo of Kendrick’s verse lingering in your head. You looked around, blinking slowly. Parking lot.

What kind of parking lot? You didn’t know. Big building, a few cars around, that slightly industrial vibe, but nothing familiar. You didn’t go out enough to tell which part of town this was, and frankly—you didn’t care. You just wanted to get this over with.

With a sigh, you reached for your seatbelt, pressing the button to unclip it…Nothing.

You pressed it again, harder this time, like maybe the extra force would convince it to listen to you. Nothing moved. “Oh, come on—” you muttered under your breath, tugging at the strap now with growing frustration. Typical. Typical. Of course this was happening. On today of all days. And the last thing you wanted to do—the very last—was ask him for help. But pride had limits, and you’d already used up most of yours agreeing to this disaster of a “date.”

You glanced at him reluctantly. “It’s stuck.”

He didn’t even pretend to be surprised. Didn’t flinch, didn’t chuckle—just leaned slightly toward you, unbothered, one hand moving with irritating ease to the buckle. The button clicked effortlessly under his fingers like it had just been waiting for him to do it.

“See?” he murmured, voice low, that smug little undertone threading beneath it. “I knew you’d need me eventually.”

Your jaw clenched, and you shot him a look that could’ve killed a weaker man on the spot. “It was broken.”

“Of course it was,” he replied, tone dripping with mock sympathy, before pushing his door open and stepping out like nothing just happened.

You sat there for a second, heat prickling at the back of your neck, wishing the ground would swallow you whole—but no such luck.

Fine. Whatever. You pushed your door open too, standing straight, brushing down your clothes like you hadn’t just been humiliated by a seatbelt. You wouldn’t let him have the last word. Not yet. Not ever.

You followed him, not knowing where you were going, but very aware of two things:

1. This was going to be a long day.

2. You hated how nice his stupid cologne smelled when he walked ahead of you.

But you had no intention of making this easy for him.

So, as soon as you both started walking, you slowed your pace—not obviously, not dramatically—just… enough. Enough to make it mildly irritating. Enough to make him notice. You weren’t even really doing it on purpose; he was just tall, and apparently, tall people had no concept of walking like normal humans. His strides were three of yours combined, and you refused—refused—to jog after him like some lost puppy.

If he wanted to drag you around, he was going to work for it. But the irritating thing? He didn’t say a word. Didn’t huff, didn’t throw a glance over his shoulder, didn’t tell you to hurry up like you half expected. He just walked, silent, hands in his pockets like this was the most casual thing in the world.

Until suddenly, about ten steps ahead, he stopped. Just stood there.

You narrowed your eyes, fully prepared for some passive-aggressive remark or maybe a sarcastic clap. You were ready for it. Bring it on. But instead—he just turned around and… held out his hand. You stared at it like it was something you didn’t understand.

The hell was that supposed to mean?

Your eyes flicked up to his face, searching for the usual sharp comment or hidden smirk—but nothing. He just stood there, hand out, expression unreadable but steady. “Grab on,” he said, like it was obvious. You blinked, caught between being offended and… genuinely confused. “What?”

“You’re slow,” he said simply, like he was pointing out the weather. “So grab on.”

You stared at his hand, then back at his face. “I’m not slow. You’re just fast.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he said under his breath. “Now grab on before I make you.”

You didn’t move for a second. Pride screamed no, but practicality… well, it was tired of jogging every five steps to keep up. And something about the way he said it—firm, low, steady—not mocking, not playful, just… expecting—it made that prickling nervousness crawl up your spine again. You hated that tone.

But your hand moved anyway, slipping into his, your fingers curling awkwardly, like you didn’t know what to do with yourself. His grip was steady, firm—but not crushing. Not controlling. Just… leading.

Without another word, he started walking again, pulling you gently but efficiently alongside him, adjusting his pace—not entirely slowing down, but enough that you didn’t have to scramble. You hated how… easy it felt. Hated it more that your hand stayed there.

The deeper you both walked, the clearer it got—it wasn’t just some random building or a casual cafe. It was a restaurant. A fancy one.

Not just white tablecloth fancy, but crystal glasses, piano music playing softly in the background, waiters dressed better than your uncles at weddings kind of fancy. And honestly? It was too much.

Your dad never took you to places like this. Never. Said restaurants were a scam, said home food was better, cheaper, cleaner—but you knew better. You’d seen the unpaid bills, the receipts stuffed into drawers, the phone calls with that low, desperate tone he didn’t think you could hear. Gambling debt didn’t leave room for filet mignon or imported wine. You’d spent your life quietly excusing it, brushing it off, pretending you didn’t want this kind of thing anyway.

But standing here now, in this giant pristine place with soft golden lighting and tables spaced way too far apart, you felt like an imposter. Like you were wearing someone else’s shoes in a room you didn’t belong in. It was overwhelming. Too bright. Too clean. Too silent. Everyone here looked like they belonged. And you—you didn’t even know which fork to use first.

You hadn’t realized it at first, but your body did. Instinctively, without even thinking, you found yourself scooting closer to him. Not dramatically—not enough to look weird—but just enough that the space between you narrowed. Like proximity alone could make you smaller, safer, less obvious. The worst part?

It felt natural.

You hated that. Hated that the man you were mentally arguing with for the past hour was now also the one person here who felt vaguely familiar.

Yeosang noticed, of course he did. The tension of your shoulder brushing barely against his arm, the shift of your body tilting slightly toward his—he clocked it instantly. But he didn’t comment. Didn’t give you that teasing remark you were bracing for. Instead, his fingers adjusted slightly around yours, like he was anchoring you there. Silent. Steady. Just a solid presence beside all the marble floors and velvet chairs.

He didn’t say a word. But you felt it anyway. ‘I got you.’

Some guy—manager, waiter, whatever—showed up then, all polite smiles and expensive cologne, greeting Yeosang like they were long-lost friends or something. Said something about the table being ready, offered some words you didn’t really catch because your brain was too busy buzzing with nerves.

You weren’t listening. Didn’t want to. Everything felt too sharp around the edges. Before you could even process it properly, Yeosang had your hand again, guiding you forward with that same casual grip, not giving you the chance to hesitate. It wasn’t forceful, just… confident. Like he already knew you’d follow.

And you did.

He led you through rows of softly murmuring people until you reached a table—not entirely private, but tucked into a little alcove, partly hidden by frosted glass panels and low plants. Enough separation that you didn’t feel like fish in a tank, but not so hidden that it felt awkward. It was nice. Comfortable in a way you hadn’t expected.

Yeosang didn’t miss a beat. He stepped around you and—of course—pulled out the chair. You hesitated for half a second, eyes flickering up at him. No teasing expression. No sharp remark waiting. Just a simple gesture, like this was routine.

You sat down, the chair gliding smoothly beneath you, and he pushed it in with practiced ease. For a brief second, you hated how nice that felt. Not because of him. But because no one had done that before. Not dates, not family, not anyone.

You adjusted your sleeves awkwardly, trying not to fidget, while he walked around and took his own seat, leaning back with that effortless comfort like this was his living room and not a restaurant with menus you probably couldn’t even afford to read.

He picked up the menu with one hand, flipping through it casually like this wasn’t his first time here—which, judging by how the staff greeted him, you were sure it wasn’t. His eyes scanned the pages, sharp and focused, while the other hand rested lazily on the edge of the table. After a moment, he looked up, right at you. “What do you want?”

It shouldn’t have been a complicated question. Normal people would just… answer. Say pasta, steak, whatever. But for some reason, your throat tightened. It wasn’t nerves—not exactly. Just… indecision.

All your life, someone had chosen for you. Your mom, mostly. Always ordering for you at restaurants—never asking, just assuming. Always brushing off your opinions as “It’s not good for you,” or “You won’t like it.” Somewhere along the line, you stopped bothering to decide. It felt easier that way.

So you did the only thing that felt natural, default almost. “Whatever you’re having.” Yeosang paused.

His jaw ticked slightly, almost like he was holding back a sigh—but not in frustration. More like… patience. “That’s not how this works,” he said, voice lower, steady, like someone reasoning with a kid who was trying to eat candy for breakfast. “You don’t just copy.”

You shrugged, defensive, staring at the polished wood of the table. “I don’t know what’s good.”

“It’s not that deep,” he finished for you, lips twitching slightly—but not in mockery, just amusement. “It’s just food. Pick what you want.”

The thing was… no one had ever given you choices like that. Not explained them patiently. Not acted like your opinion actually mattered, even in something as small as dinner. It made your chest feel weirdly tight. Like you wanted to be mad, but couldn’t quite find the reason.

Yeosang didn’t press further. Just leaned back again, waving over the waiter with a lazy flick of his fingers, like this was the most normal thing in the world. But you sat there with the menu still open in your hands, staring at it…

That’s when it hit you—the slow, creeping embarrassment settling in the pit of your stomach.

You didn’t know how to read menus.

Not like literally not knowing how to read, but… you didn’t know how to understand them. Fancy restaurant menus weren’t in normal language—they were in that rich people language. Words like confit, beurre blanc, something-something reduction—you didn’t even know if you were ordering food or furniture. The more you stared at it, the worse it got. Everything blurred together until it just looked like noise on paper.

Your hand twitched slightly on the edge of the menu, the corners of it curling under your fingertips. You didn’t even know how to begin. Finally, you gave up. Quietly. Awkwardly. You placed the menu down and looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time all evening. Gone was the irritation, the stubborn defiance. Instead, it was something softer. Not defeated, but pleading.

“Can you just… choose?” you asked, voice low, almost hoping he wouldn’t make a scene about it.

For a second, he just stared at you. No teasing, no smug smile—just studying you. Calculating. Then, instead of making a big deal about it, he nodded once, sharp, like this was all perfectly normal. “Alright,” he murmured. “But you’re still gonna have choices.”

And then, like it was muscle memory, he listed things off. Simple. No complicated words, no long-winded chef specials.

“Do you want red sauce or white?”

“Chicken or beef?”

“Want dessert or not?”

Just basic questions, no extra fluff. Like someone breaking down rocket science to math tables. By the time he was done, it actually sounded like a meal, not a puzzle.

And without realizing it, you’d started folding the cloth napkin again. Neatly. Sharply. Fold, unfold, fold, unfold. It was muscle memory at this point—your fingers always needed something to do. Something to control, even when nothing else made sense.

Somewhere along the way, he’d passed you his napkin too. You didn’t even notice it. Just that at some point, your hands had another one to work with. Your mind didn’t register it; your body just accepted it, thankful for the extra fabric to keep you grounded.

It was quiet. Subtle. No words, no glances, no gestures. And while you kept folding and unfolding that napkin like your life depended on it, he just sat there across from you, arms resting lazily on the table, ordering both your meals in that steady voice like this wasn’t even a thing.

He didn’t act like he was helping. And you didn’t notice you were being helped.

While you were busy poking at the carefully cut chicken on your plate—eating but not really tasting—Yeosang sat across from you, trying not to lose his mind.

Cuteness aggression. That was the only way to describe it. Like he wanted to bite something or hit the table—not out of anger, but because you were just too much.

It wasn’t just the way you’d quietly surrendered, letting him order for you like it was nothing. It wasn’t just the way your fingers kept working that napkin like you didn’t even know you were doing it. It was the whole picture—the you of it all. Sitting there, looking like the softest thing in the sharpest world.

And that cardigan you were wearing? Please. He could tell by the stitching it was handmade. Probably by you. The unevenness of the cuffs, the slightly imperfect patterns—no brand could fake that kind of charm. You didn’t even know how much that cardigan was giving you away, how much of you was stitched into every row.

It made something in his chest tighten, like he wanted to tuck you somewhere safe. His pocket. A drawer. Somewhere you couldn’t get overwhelmed by menus and loud places and useless fathers.

But he still played it cool, leaning back a little, eyes glinting as he ran his thumb along the edge of his fork like he wasn’t thinking borderline insane things about a girl he just met. He glanced at the cardigan, then back at you, voice dropping casual but knowing.

“You make that?”

You blinked, pausing mid-bite. “What?”

“That cardigan,” he said, tone light, like they were talking about the weather. “You made it?”

You hesitated. Not because you were embarrassed—more because no one really noticed that kind of thing. Definitely not guys like him. But… you nodded. “Yeah.”

A lazy grin, sharp but not mocking, pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Figured. Looks like you.”

That sentence alone made your stomach flip in ways you didn’t have the energy to process. You didn’t even know what that meant. Looked like you? Quiet? Crocheted? Awkwardly stitched together? You didn’t ask. You just looked back down at your plate, busying yourself with another bite, folding that second napkin again like it was holding the fabric of your nerves together.

Meanwhile, Yeosang sat there, feeling way too satisfied with himself. You were dangerously cute. And he was dangerously aware of it.

He dropped you off, making sure you got to your front door before pulling away. You didn’t say much—a quiet “thanks,” barely audible—but you didn’t run away either. Progress.

But by the time he pulled into his father’s estate, parked the car, and stepped into the over-polished marble entrance, he was losing it. Hand over his mouth. Jaw tight. Muscles flexing like he was holding in a scream or something equally embarrassing. What the hell was that?

That wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to be annoying. Spoiled. Bratty. Some daddy’s princess with acrylic nails and too much perfume. You were supposed to be the type he could dump in a nice apartment and visit once a month with gifts so you’d stay quiet about the whole arrangement.

But you weren’t. You were a mess. An organized, pretty, cardigan-wearing mess.

And worse, you didn’t even know you were cute. You weren’t even trying. You just sat there in that chair at that fancy-ass restaurant, folding napkins like they were some secret escape plan, wearing that handmade sweater like it wasn’t making him feel like an insane person.

And now? Forget that whole buying-another-place plan. That idea was dead the moment he saw how small you looked sitting across from him. No way. You were staying where he could see you. Reach you. Annoy you on purpose if he felt like it. Which he did.

He stood in the foyer of his father’s mansion, hand dragging down his face, pacing a little in his boots.

God. He felt like squealing. Like actually kicking something, or punching the air, or rolling on the expensive carpet like a twelve-year-old with a crush.

“This is insane,” he muttered to himself, like saying it out loud would make it make sense. It didn’t.

You were in his head. Neatly folded like that stupid napkin you kept twisting around your fingers. And for the first time in a long time, Kang Yeosang didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh, scream, or marry you right now.

The moment Yeosang stepped further into the house, hand dragging down his face, muttering like a lunatic, he heard it—the unmistakable voice of his old man echoing from the sitting room. “Why the hell do you look like a teenage girl who just got her first crush?”

Yeosang didn’t even flinch. Didn’t even stop pacing. Just waved his hand dismissively, as if to say don’t start. His father stood there in his usual crisp shirt, whiskey glass in hand like always, giving him that unimpressed look fathers reserve for sons who don’t follow in their exact footsteps.

“I’m serious,” his father huffed, stepping forward. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Why are you here anyway? Thought you liked hiding in that overpriced shoebox you call an apartment.”

Yeosang finally dropped his hand from his face, side-eyeing him, unimpressed. “Renovation,” he grumbled. “It’s getting fixed up. You want me to sleep on the street?” His father scoffed, taking a sip of his drink, shaking his head. “You could’ve stayed at one of the hotels we own.”

“Right. And let everyone think I’m homeless now. Good look for a mafia heir.” The older man narrowed his eyes, recognizing that tone. That annoying tone Yeosang always used when he was about to get smart-mouthed. “So why are you pacing around here like some lovesick idiot?”

Yeosang clicked his tongue, glaring at the floor like it personally offended him. “It’s your fault.”

“My fault?”

“You’re the one that set me up with her.”

His father’s brow lifted. “Did she bite?”

“She didn’t even blink.”

That made his father laugh. Really laugh. Like belly laugh, hand pressed to his chest, deep and loud in that expensive, echoey house.

“God,” Yeosang muttered under his breath. “You’re actually enjoying this.”

“Of course I am,” his father smirked. “Finally met someone who doesn’t fall apart under your pretty-boy nonsense. Good. You needed that.”

Yeosang rolled his jaw, annoyed beyond belief, but honestly? His dad wasn’t wrong. His father waved his glass toward him. “What’s the problem, then? I thought you were going to dump her in a penthouse and get on with life.”

“Yeah, that plan’s dead.”

“Why?”

Yeosang just stood there, defeated. “She’s too—”

“What? Petty? Weird? Mean?”

“…Soft.”

His father blinked, confused. “Soft?”

Yeosang didn’t elaborate. Didn’t have to. Soft in a way that made him want to ruin someone’s life if they made you cry. Soft in a way that made him want to drag you closer by the wrist when you got overwhelmed. Soft in a way that pissed him off because he liked it too much. His father just shook his head, amused, like he knew exactly what kind of hell Yeosang was walking into. “Good luck with that, Romeo.”

“Shut up.”

You did not expect this. A casual text? Fine. Him calling you just to “check in”? Annoying, but tolerable. Even him dragging you out on those stupid dates now and then—you could live with that. But this? Showing up to your university?

What the actual hell was wrong with him?

It wasn’t even subtle. Of course it wasn’t subtle. Not with that stupid black car of his parked right at the entrance, shining like a beacon of unwanted attention. Not with him leaning against the door like he was shooting a damn commercial, sleeves rolled up, sunglasses pushed into his hair, looking like every other man’s nightmare and every other woman’s distraction.

And people noticed. Oh, they noticed. Girls whispering, eyes widening, phones coming out to take sneaky pictures. A group of guys near the library basically breaking their necks trying to get a better look. And you?

You wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole. He had the audacity to wave at you. Like this was normal. Like this wasn’t blowing up the very careful life of low attention, quiet exits, don’t talk to me I’m just here to graduate you had built for yourself.

You speed-walked. Not even pretending anymore. Walked up to him so fast it looked like you were about to commit a crime. “What the hell are you doing?” you hissed under your breath, shoving at his shoulder, eyes darting around like you were being followed by paparazzi.

“Picking you up,” he said, casual as you liked, like this wasn’t the most embarrassing moment of your life unfolding in real time.

“Get in the car,” you snapped. “Now.”

And, the bastard, he laughed. Laughed like this was a game.

Still, he obeyed, sliding into the driver’s seat like he was doing you a favor. You yanked the passenger door open, practically diving inside, head ducked like you were avoiding a sniper.

The moment the door shut you rounded on him. “Are you insane?”

“I missed you,” he said, like that explained anything.

“You could’ve— texted me or something! I don’t need the whole uni thinking I’m with someone rich”

“You are with someone rich,” he corrected, one hand casually gripping the wheel, the other resting over the gear like this was a Sunday drive.

The car came to a stop in front of this sleek-looking storefront, all black glass and warm lighting, like one of those places you only see rich people walk into on TV shows. And because your life apparently wasn’t embarrassing enough, Yeosang parked like he owned the building.

You looked at the place, then at him. “What is this?”

“Jewelry,” he answered flatly, already stepping out of the car. Jewelry. Jewelry. As if that explained anything.

Before you could argue or even think, he came around, opened your door, and like a villain from a drama, dragged you inside by the wrist—not harsh, but determined. The cold from the street clung to your clothes, your boots crunching against the salted sidewalk, but the moment you stepped inside—it was warm. Not just warm, but that kind of luxury warm, where the air smells faintly of expensive perfume and everything feels soft, even though nothing should be.

And you? You immediately felt your whole body loosen, just a little. It wasn’t even intentional. The cold had been biting, sharp against your ears and the tip of your nose, and this? This was dangerous. Comforting. You could rot here, honestly. Just melt into one of the velvet chairs and stop existing.

Yeosang noticed.

Of course he noticed. He didn’t miss anything about you. The way your shoulders relaxed. The way you almost—almost—let your head drop forward like you could fall asleep standing there.

He wanted to bite you. No, seriously. Bite. His jaw clenched just thinking about it. You looked too cute. With your knitted cardigan, snow-dusted boots, fidgety fingers already tugging at the sleeves. It was criminal. Illegal. Someone should lock you up for being this dangerous in public.

But he was strong. Barely. Barely holding himself back from grabbing you by the face and just—squishing. Maybe even kissing that stupid annoyed expression off of you. Would’ve been worth it. You were too busy shaking the snow from your sleeves to notice him battling for his sanity two feet away.

An employee walked over, all smiles and professional greetings, asking what you both needed today. You blinked at her like a deer caught in headlights.

Yeosang spoke first. “Rings.”

You snapped your head to him. “What?”

“For the engagement,” he said calmly, like duh, obviously. Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “You dragged me here for that? You could’ve warned me—”

“And ruin the surprise of watching you panic in real-time? No thanks.” You glared daggers into his skull, wishing you could teleport out of your own skin. “You’re evil.”

“Mm,” he hummed, eyes lazily drifting over the display cases. “Yours?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Ring size.”

“I—I don’t know!”

His lips quirked—not a smirk, you banned those, but just that annoying, knowing twitch that told you he was enjoying this too much. “Figures. Guess we’ll find out together.” You honestly might combust right there on the jewelry shop floor.

Yeosang walked toward the counter with the same energy as someone about to close a business deal. Calm. Focused. Casual power.

You stayed frozen for a beat, still stunned at the whole situation, until your feet moved on their own. Before you realized it, you were right beside him, eyes locking onto the display.

And that’s when it hit you. The rings. They were gorgeous. Not just shiny-for-the-sake-of-shiny—but delicate, beautiful. Rings with elegant stones, simple but detailed bands, not the overdone flashy stuff but the kind that made you think: if I wore that, maybe I wouldn’t feel so small.

You leaned in without realizing, gaze scanning over each one like a kid at a candy store—but also a little sad. You never let yourself want things like that. What was the point? Your parents could never buy you things like this. You grew up being handed the practical, the necessary. Wanting was a waste of time.

But Yeosang saw it. All of it.

The way your fingers twitched at your sides like you wanted to reach out but didn’t. The slight glassiness in your stare—not tears, but that lost look people got when they wanted something badly but were too used to swallowing it down.

To him? Your eyes were sparkling. Bright, full of that light people only showed when they forgot to hide. He couldn’t stop looking at you. The whole room could’ve caught fire, and he wouldn’t have noticed.

He leaned closer, voice lower. “See something you like?”

You snapped out of it, blinking up at him like you’d just been caught stealing. “I—I was just looking,” you muttered, instantly defensive, shoving your hands into the sleeves of your cardigan. “Didn’t say I wanted anything.”

But Yeosang wasn’t even listening to the words coming out of your mouth. He was too busy cataloguing everything you didn’t say. The spark. The hesitation. The soft way your lip pressed against your teeth when you held back from speaking. You weren’t loud, weren’t clingy, weren’t bratty like he thought you might be—you were quiet. Observant. Someone who shrank herself just to survive.

Yeah, no. You weren’t leaving his sight ever again. “Good,” he said, nonchalantly signaling to the employee. “Because we’re not leaving until you try some on.” You shot him a glare. “What is this, Pretty Woman?” “More like Pretty Annoyed Fiancée.” His eyes flicked down to you, sharp and amused. “C’mon. Humor me.”

You stared at the rows and rows of rings like they were mocking you. Every shape, every color, every shine — how the hell were you supposed to pick one? Your fingers hovered over the glass, not touching, just hovering, like maybe the right one would start glowing or something. But nothing did.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like them. It was that you liked all of them, and also none of them, because your brain kept whispering, what if you pick the wrong one? What if you regret it? You didn’t get choices growing up, not real ones. Every decision was always someone else’s to make for you — your clothes, your food, even your damn hair. The few times you got to choose something, it was met with criticism or disappointment. No wonder your chest felt tight standing here.

“I can’t,” you muttered under your breath, frustrated. “They all look… I don’t know.” Yeosang watched, hands tucked in his pockets, silent. But not with judgment. More like studying. He could see it happening—the way you kept retreating into yourself, that familiar shrinking posture like you were bracing for someone to yell at you for being annoying or difficult.

He didn’t like that. Not one bit.

Without warning, he stepped closer, leaning down near your ear, voice lower, firmer. “We’re not doing that here.” You blinked up at him. “What—” “We’re not doing that thing where you act like you’re a burden for existing,” he continued, tone steady but not harsh. “You like something, you say it. You don’t like something, you say it. You don’t have to know what you want right now, but don’t stand here apologizing for breathing.”

Your throat went dry. No one’s ever talked to you like that before. Not mean. Not fake sweet. Just… steady. Like he meant it. Like he wasn’t going to move until you heard him. “I’m not apologizing,” you finally muttered, defensive. He raised an eyebrow. “You’re folding into yourself like someone’s about to slap your wrist.”

Your jaw tightened. “That’s just how I stand.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, not convinced for a second.

You wanted to shove him. You also wanted to crawl under the display case and disappear. But somewhere deep down, embarrassingly deep, you also wanted to grab his sleeve and lean into him like a tired stray cat. But instead, you just shoved your sleeves up higher and looked at the rings again. “Fine. I’ll try some.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, barely loud enough to catch, but you caught it. And you hated that you liked how it sounded.

You picked up one of the rings, delicate and shimmering with tiny embedded stones. It wasn’t flashy in the way rich people wear things—it was pretty. Simple. Something you could see yourself wearing every day.

But then it hit you like a slap. The price. What the hell were you doing? Just choosing whatever looked nice like you weren’t broke half your life? Like your mom didn’t yell at you for picking snacks that were ₹20 more expensive than the local brand?

You started searching the display, eyes darting, looking for price tags like a madwoman. But it was one of those places. No prices on anything. Which only meant one thing—if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.

Panic started tightening in your chest. You weren’t stupid. You knew this whole setup was expensive. Expensive coat racks, expensive chairs, expensive air. And here you were like some idiot playing dress-up, picking rings you couldn’t afford in three lifetimes. “Uh… what’s the price on these?” you asked quietly, almost hoping he didn’t hear you.

But of course he did.

Yeosang, standing beside you with his annoying posture of “I own everything I touch,” just glanced down at you, one brow raised. “Why?” You gave him a look. “What do you mean why? They’re probably… crazy expensive. I don’t wanna-” “You think I brought you here to worry about prices?” he interrupted, eyes sharp now.

You blinked. “Well, yeah? This isn’t a grocery store, I can’t just-” “Do I look like the kind of man who’s going to let you think about numbers right now?” His tone wasn’t harsh. But it wasn’t soft, either. It was just… Yeosang. Calm, slightly amused, slightly annoyed, fully in charge.

You hated how warm your ears felt.

“I don’t—”

“I said pick.”

His voice was low this time. Not rude. Not cold. Just that tone that slides down your spine and makes your stomach clench in the weirdest way. Firm. Dominant, even. But not because he was trying to be macho—it was just who he was. You stood there frozen for a second before whispering, “They don’t even have prices on them—”

“They don’t have prices,” he cut you off, leaning closer so only you could hear, “because the people who shop here don’t need to ask.”

You swore your knees nearly gave out.

“And right now,” he added, hand lightly brushing your lower back as if guiding you forward, “you’re with me. So that makes you one of those people. Pick.” You swallowed hard, looked down at the rings, then up at him.

His gaze didn’t waver. “Or,” he added, eyes glinting, “do you want me to choose for you again?”

God help you—you almost said yes.

The wedding was hectic.

Not in the “fun chaos” way you saw in movies—no, this was suffocating. Your cheeks hurt from fake smiling at people you didn’t even know. The scent of flowers was so strong it made you lightheaded. The jewelry was heavy, and the outfit? Beautiful, yeah, but you could barely breathe.

After the ceremony, when the music was loud and people were starting to eat, you sat in a corner. Just existing. You were chewing blandly on some sweet, not even tasting it. The small cushion under you was probably worth someone’s rent, but you sat like you were at some boring family reunion.

Yeosang did ask you last month if you wanted to invite your friends. You had been fixing your cardigan sleeve at the time and barely looked up. “Don’t really… have any.”

It wasn’t sad when you said it. Just a fact. You said it the way someone says, “Yeah, I don’t like tea,” or “I’ve never been to Goa.” Just plain. But you felt it sting more now, seeing his friends—8 of them—laughing on the other side of the venue like this was just some party.

Meanwhile, you sat with your cousin. The only one in your family who didn’t belittle you constantly or make subtle comments about you being “too old to be unmarried” or “too quiet for your own good.” He didn’t say much either. Probably didn’t even care. But you preferred that. Quiet company was better than company with sharp tongues.

Your eyes wandered across the room. Yeosang was standing with his friends, of course. One of them threw his arm around Yeosang’s shoulder, laughing about something. And then Yeosang glanced at you. It was brief—but he looked. And when his gaze met yours, it wasn’t pity, or amusement, or even awkwardness.

It was… knowing.

Like he knew you didn’t want to be there. Like he understood exactly what it felt like to be surrounded by noise and not feel like you belonged in it. And for a moment—just a second—you didn’t feel alone in that room. Of course, the moment passed when your cousin nudged you and asked if you were going to eat your chicken.

You gave it to him without a word, gaze still lingering on the man across the room who, apparently, now belonged to you.

The ride home was torture. Your jewelry felt like chains, the embroidery on your dress scratched at your skin with every small shift, and your hair—oh god, your scalp was screaming. You sat awkwardly, pressed up against the door, knees at an angle because the fabric wouldn’t let you sit properly.

And Yeosang? He just drove like it was a normal day. Relaxed hand on the steering wheel, other resting against his thigh, occasionally glancing your way. He didn’t say anything, but you knew he noticed you shifting every two minutes like you were sitting on needles.

By the time the car pulled up at the apartment complex, you were two seconds away from just tearing the sleeves off like some dramatic soap opera character.

It was late—too late for nosy neighbors or anyone else to be hanging around. The whole building was quiet except for the low hum of the elevators. You followed him silently, heels clicking softly against the polished floor. And when the elevator doors opened to his place—

Yeah. Pinterest board aesthetic.

It wasn’t over-the-top, but it was intentional. Clean lines, warm lighting—not those harsh white bulbs like your home had. The couch looked like it cost someone’s college tuition, blankets folded neatly on the armrest like it was straight out of a home decor photoshoot. Shelves with actual books. Art that wasn’t mass-produced prints. Little ceramic things on the side tables that you didn’t know the use of but looked expensive anyway.

It didn’t smell like dust or old carpet or fried onions like your house did after your mom cooked. It smelled like sandalwood and something slightly musky. Like him.

You just stood there by the entrance like a misplaced sticker on a clean page. He casually dropped his keys in a tray by the door and started undoing the buttons on his sleeves, rolling them up forearms first. “You wanna change?”

Did you wanna change? You were two seconds away from climbing out of your own skin. You nodded silently.

Without a word, he pointed to a hallway. “Third door. Closet’s in there. Pick whatever. Bathroom’s attached.” As if it was nothing to offer someone full access to his wardrobe. As if he hadn’t just brought his brand new wife into his home like someone bringing home takeout. You shuffled off like some fancy-dressed raccoon, already planning which oversized shirt you were gonna steal first.

You padded out of the bathroom, freshly freed from that suffocating dress, now wearing a soft oversized t-shirt that smelled like detergent and someone else’s cologne, paired with pajama pants that pooled a bit at your ankles. Your hair was a mess, makeup slightly smudged from your tired hands rubbing your face. But you couldn’t care less. Comfort first.

Yeosang was already lounging on the couch, changed into a black t-shirt that hugged his shoulders just right and grey sweatpants, one ankle lazily crossed over the other. Casual. Comfortable. Infuriatingly attractive. You stood there, awkward, arms crossed, twisting your fingers like you always did. “Where… where am I supposed to sleep?”

He didn’t even hesitate. Just pointed with two fingers toward the hallway. “Second room on the right.” You nodded and started walking, but something tugged at you. A gut feeling. Something wasn’t right. Second room…

Curiosity dragged you to peek, and when you opened the door, your stomach dropped. Black sheets. Black pillows. Black walls. Not pitch dark, but matte—sleek. Expensive. His room. You didn’t need to ask. That man screamed black-on-black energy. You stormed back into the living room, eyes narrowed. “That’s your room.”

He looked up from his phone slowly, mouth twitching—not into a smirk, just that faint amusement he always wore when he knew he was pushing your buttons. “Yeah. I know.” You stared at him, blinking. “Why did you point me there?” He set his phone down like this was about to be a full conversation. “We’re married now. Married people share a bed.”

You gawked at him. “That’s not a rule.”

“It is now.”

God, you hated that. That casual dominance. Not loud, not aggressive. Just matter of fact. Like he said it, so it’s law now.

“You’re annoying.”

“You married me.”

“We were arranged.”

“Same thing.”

You rolled your eyes so hard they almost got stuck, turning on your heel to storm back to the room. And yet… you didn’t really argue more, did you? Because deep down, under the irritation, you couldn’t help but feel that same stupid warmth creeping up your neck.

If he wanted to be cocky, fine. Two can play that game.

You marched back to his room like you owned the place, plopped yourself dead in the center of the king-sized bed, limbs spread like a starfish, sinking into the expensive sheets like you were born for this. If he wanted drama, you were going to give him cinema. Moments later, the door creaked open, and you heard his footsteps approaching. You didn’t look. You just knew from the way the air shifted, from the scent of his cologne mixing with the faint smell of fabric softener on the bedding.

Silence for a second. Then—“Really?”

You cracked an eye open. He was standing at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, the faintest curve on his lips—not quite a smile, not quite mockery. “You’re gonna starfish in my bed?”

You yawned, stretching even further like a cat on a sunny windowsill. “You said it was our bed,” you said pointedly, throwing his own words back at him with venom-laced sweetness. “I’m just following instructions.”

He looked at you for a beat longer. Then, very slowly, very annoyingly, grinned. “Fine,” he said, voice deep and lazy. “But if you stay like that, I’ll just sleep on top of you.” Your eyes snapped open fully, heart jolting so fast it almost echoed in your ears. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would.”

It wasn’t even a threat—it was a promise. That calm tone, that glint in his eyes—he meant it.

You groaned and scrambled to your side of the bed, flustered beyond measure, hating him more with every second and somehow hating yourself for feeling heat crawling up your neck. “You’re insane,” you muttered, adjusting the pillow aggressively.

Behind you, you could practically hear his satisfied smirk, even though you weren’t going to turn around to give him the satisfaction of seeing your face.

“Married life, sweetheart,” he murmured, climbing in on his side, making the mattress dip. “Welcome to it.”

You didn’t know what devil possessed you to say it, but the words just slipped out, dripping with faux innocence as you looked straight at him.

“I have weird sleeping habits,” you murmured casually, adjusting the blanket like it was the most normal conversation. “Like… I’ll keep rubbing my leg on yours until you put your leg on top of mine.”

Silence.

You didn’t dare look at him yet, but you could feel the way his posture stiffened beside you, like your words short-circuited something in that annoyingly sharp brain of his. Then—softly, almost too casual—came his voice, deep and quiet, “Is that a threat or a promise?”

You slowly turned your head to him, blinking, pretending to be confused. “What do you mean?” His jaw tensed slightly, like he was holding back a laugh—or something else. “I mean—” he leaned in just a bit, enough for his voice to drop that octave lower that made your stupid heart stutter, “—if you keep talking like that, I’m gonna start wondering if you want me to put my leg over yours.”

You hated that heat crawling up your skin, hated that he was good at this stupid game, hated that he was better at it than you, hated that you wanted to keep going anyway.

So you did.

“Why would I want that?” you shot back, voice steady, gaze sharp but your hands fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “It’s just a habit.”

“Right,” he said, laying his head on the pillow now, one arm tucked behind his head, looking absolutely unbothered. “Just a habit.”

You laid down too, facing the other way, stubborn. The tension between you two was thick, and you both knew it. Then, after a beat, you felt it—the slow weight of his leg draping lazily over yours. “I’m just helping with your habit,” he murmured, so close you felt the warmth of his breath by your ear.

“I’m serious,” you said, voice flat, not backing down. “It’s true. I can’t sleep unless someone’s leg is over mine. And I always hug something too. It’s like—comfort or whatever. Dunno. Been like that since forever.”

Honestly, you thought that would be the final straw. That he’d roll his eyes, scoff, maybe throw a pillow at you and head to the couch like any sane person would. Maybe you were hoping for that. Maybe you didn’t want to admit how weirdly safe this felt. Either way, you braced yourself for irritation, for that cocky remark, for something.

But nothing came.

Instead—you missed it—the way Yeosang stared at you like he was physically restraining himself. Like some internal monologue was yelling don’t say it, don’t call her cute, don’t ruin it, don’t scare her off. But how could he not? You? Looking like that? Saying stuff like that? In his bed? Wrapped in his blanket, in his shirt? Talking about hugging things like you weren’t already curled up like a goddamn kitten?

He was having a crisis.

“Okay,” he finally said, calm. Too calm. Suspiciously calm. You frowned, glancing back at him. “Okay?” “Yeah.” He adjusted slightly, the mattress dipping with his weight. “Leg’s already over yours. Go ahead. Hug something.”

You glared at him. “I don’t have anything to hug.” His lips quirked slightly at that. Barely. But you caught it.

“You’ve got two arms, don’t you?” You wanted to slap him. Genuinely. But also—not really.

Fine. FINE.

You stubbornly grabbed the pillow, hugging it tight to your chest and trying to sleep. Silent. Annoyed. Flustered. All of it. And Yeosang? He laid there, eyes on the ceiling, teeth sinking into his lip just to physically restrain himself from smiling like an idiot. If only you knew how close he was to dragging you into his chest just to see how flustered you’d get then.

Cute. Way too cute. He was so screwed.

You were out. Completely gone, knocked out like you hadn’t had proper sleep in weeks. Leg tucked neatly under his like you said you would, hugging his pillow like your life depended on it, your face mushed against the fabric, lips slightly parted in a soft pout you didn’t even know you had.

Yeosang was having a spiritual crisis. What was this? What was this feeling? Cuteness aggression? Probably. He felt like he could actually bite you. Not to hurt you—god no—but just to—argh—because how could one human look that cute doing absolutely nothing?

His jaw flexed, teeth grinding softly as he stared at you, eyes darting between the way your fingers curled into the pillow, to the little crease forming on your cheek from the way you were pressed against it.

It wasn’t fair. It shouldn’t be allowed. He felt like punching the wall just to let some of the weird, frustrated fondness out of his system. The urge to squeeze you like some plush toy was nearly overwhelming.

And the worst part?

You didn’t even know.

Didn’t know the way you’d completely tangled yourself around his leg without a second thought. Didn’t know how absolutely tiny you looked curled up in his bed. Didn’t know how soft your breathing sounded in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

Yeosang stared at the ceiling for a good minute, breathing slow, eyes closed, fighting the very cellular urge in his bones to scoop you up and just—keep you. Like, forever. Pocket you. Protect you. Instead, he carefully shifted, tucking the blanket around you a little tighter, letting your leg stay right where it was. He glanced at you one last time before shutting his own eyes.

Completely, utterly ruined by the universe. Absolutely smitten. And you? You just drooled a little on his pillow.

Perfect.

Morning light spilled through the sheer curtains, soft and annoyingly gentle. Your eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the brightness—and then it hit you.

You were holding something warm. Something that breathed. It wasn’t a pillow. It was him.

Your heart stopped for a solid second. Somewhere between falling asleep and now, the pillow had betrayed you—replaced by Yeosang. Your arm was across his torso, fingers curled loosely into the fabric of his shirt. Worse, one of your legs had completely decided that boundaries were optional and had hooked over his, practically hugging him like some oversized teddy bear.

What the actual—

You moved so carefully, like one wrong twitch would make the earth explode. Slowly untangling yourself, your breath hitched when you saw his hand resting lazily over your arm, like he’d pulled you closer in his sleep. That just made it worse.

Finally, finally, you untangled yourself, slipping out of bed like a secret agent on a stealth mission. The floor was cold beneath your feet, but your entire body was flushed with embarrassment anyway. Without sparing him another glance, you practically ran into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you with a soft click.

The second you were alone, you let out a silent scream, face buried in your hands. God. Why. Why you. You turned the shower on, letting the sound of running water drown out your embarrassment. Maybe you could drown in it too while you were at it.

Meanwhile, back in the bedroom, Yeosang cracked one eye open, staring at the ceiling with the smallest ghost of a grin.

“Thought so,” he whispered to himself. That damn pillow never stood a chance.

Yeosang lay there, staring at the ceiling like it had all the answers to life’s greatest mysteries. His hand absentmindedly touched the part of his shirt where your hand had been curled into just moments ago. The warmth was gone, but the imprint of it — of you — stuck like some permanent tattoo on his chest.

What the hell was this feeling? No, seriously, what was this feeling?

He had always thought love was supposed to be a slow thing. Like aging whiskey. Like taking your sweet time to ruin someone in a chess game. But this? This felt like a truck hit him. A small, anxious kitten-shaped truck with pouty lips and messy hair in the morning.

It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. You were barely in his life for what? Few months? And yet here he was, already thinking like some washed-up romantic lead in a drama. It wasn’t even funny anymore.

He dragged a hand across his face and groaned softly, staring at the bathroom door where steam was now rolling from the gap under the frame. The thought of you in there — wearing that sleepy pout, probably muttering under your breath about your parents or about how annoying he was — it made his chest feel tight in the weirdest, most annoying way.

Was this how his dad felt about his mom? Cause that man always did dumb shit just to annoy her, but never went a day without holding her hand.

He was whipped. Fully, entirely, embarrassingly whipped. And he wasn’t even fighting it anymore. Hell, he was enjoying it. “I swear to god,” he muttered to himself, eyes shutting like he was trying to meditate through the emotional breakdown, “if she ever figures this out, I’m finished.” But knowing you? You wouldn’t. You were too busy folding napkins, avoiding eye contact, acting like you weren’t the most precious thing to ever annoy the hell out of him.

And god—he liked having a wife. A wife.

He let that word roll around in his head like a marble, both terrifying and oddly satisfying. If you stayed in that shower any longer, he might just combust. And honestly? He’d die smiling.

You came out of the bathroom with damp hair sticking slightly to the sides of your face, the oversized t-shirt hanging loose on your frame, sleeves falling a little off your shoulders, pajama pants riding up slightly at the ankles. You rubbed your hand against your face, trying to wipe off the last remnants of sleep, but honestly, your head was still foggy. You weren’t even fully functioning yet.

And there he was. Still in bed.

Liar. You could tell he wasn’t sleeping anymore. Before, he was on his back, legs spread out like some rich brat on vacation. Now? He was on his side, perfectly composed like he was acting asleep. And he was good at it. But not good enough for you.

With irritation bubbling up — mostly because you were up, and why should you be the only one awake suffering in awkward new-wife-land — you stomped over to the bed and stood over him with crossed arms. You stared at the messy strands of hair falling into his stupidly handsome face. His lashes were thick, unfairly so. And his lips slightly parted like he wasn’t living rent-free in your nerves already. He looked expensive even while pretending to be unconscious. Ugh.

Annoyed, you bent down and gave his shoulder a shove. “Wake up.”

No response. Another shove. Harder this time. “Wake up.” Finally, his eyes opened. Lazy, slow, like he was waking up from a peaceful dream of girls feeding him grapes or something. His voice was rough from sleep, deep in that way that made your brain short circuit for a second. “What?” he rasped, like you were disturbing his peace.

Your mouth opened, about to say something snarky, but then you paused. Why was he hot like this? Who gave him permission to be hot right after waking up? Hair a mess, voice low, sleep still hanging off his features like a silk sheet draped across expensive furniture. You forgot what you were gonna say for a second. Caught yourself blinking at him like an idiot.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. A smug little grin spread on his lips, lazy and cocky at the same time, like he was the main character in every stupid romance movie. You cleared your throat and stood up straight again, brushing invisible dust off your pants. “What… what do you want for breakfast?”

You hated how quiet you sounded. Like you were suddenly soft just because he was attractive. Which — you were soft, but he didn’t have to know that. He sat up properly now, running a hand through his hair like he was in a commercial. “You’re making breakfast?” he asked, raising a brow.

You shrugged. “What else am I supposed to do? I’m awake.” He leaned back on his arms, eyes not leaving you for a second. “I didn’t marry a housewife, you know.” Your jaw clenched. “I’m not—” you stopped yourself. “I’m just making breakfast because I’m hungry.”

“Yours?” he said suddenly, tilting his head.

You blinked. “What?”

“Breakfast. Yours or mine?”

You frowned. “...What’s the difference?”

He grinned, teeth showing this time. “Yours is probably, like, toast or boiled eggs or something. Mine’s pancakes, bacon, syrup. Fancy shit.”

You deadpanned. “Who the hell eats pancakes on a weekday?”

“I do,” he answered smoothly, without missing a beat. “I’m rich, remember?”

You rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw your own brain. “Fine. Yours. Whatever. Pancakes.”

Yeosang stepped into the bathroom, the door creaking softly behind him as he entered the faint warmth she left behind. The mirror was still fogged at the corners, drops of condensation trailing down lazily like the room itself hadn’t quite woken up yet. The air smelled faintly of her—something floral, something sweet, and something unfamiliar but weirdly comforting.

He exhaled through his nose, steady and controlled, walking up to the sink. His eyes automatically landed on the toothbrush holder. His black toothbrush standing tall, firm, exactly where he always kept it.

And beside it… her pink one.

Smaller, softer looking, like it didn’t belong. But it did. It really did. He stared at them both for a second, lips slightly parted, eyebrows drawn faintly together—not confused, but thoughtful. Something about seeing them together in the same cup twisted something warm in his chest. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t fireworks or explosions or heartbeats racing so fast he couldn’t breathe. It was… steady. Fulfilling. Quiet in the most dangerous way.

He loved it.

Not the pink color or the softness of it. He loved what it meant. Her using his things like they were hers now. The shared space. The toothbrushes leaning like companions. It was stupid—something small, something everyday—but it was theirs. And for someone like him, someone who always knew how to calculate every move, who always knew how to observe and stay steps ahead, this feeling was something he couldn’t predict.

He picked up his own toothbrush, fingers brushing against the handle of hers. He stared at that pink brush for a second longer, a lazy grin curling on his lips before shaking his head at himself. Who the hell gets soft over a toothbrush?

Apparently, him.

He started brushing his teeth, leaning over the sink, letting the familiar minty sting wake him up properly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought—he could get used to this. He wanted to get used to this. Her hair clogging the drain, her random skincare bottles invading his shelves, her leaving the bathroom all steamy and warm like this every morning.

It was stupid. Domestic. And yet… it felt like power in the quietest, most dangerous form. And Yeosang was nothing if not addicted to power. Especially if it looked like her.

He came down wearing a black fitted turtleneck, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, paired with tailored dark slacks that hugged his waist just right. His silver watch gleamed faintly against his wrist, hair slightly messy from towel-drying but falling just perfectly like it was meant to. He didn’t put in effort—but somehow looked like he walked straight out of a photoshoot. Sharp jawline, long legs, expensive cologne that smelled like trouble and money.

And then—that smell hit him.

Pancakes. Sweet, buttery, thick in the air like a hug you didn’t know you needed. Warm vanilla mixed with something fruity. And then, there she was. (Do pancakes even have scents? Idk)

Hair tied up lazily, a few strands falling loose, wearing one of his black aprons that looked like it was made to fit her. Bare feet padding softly on the kitchen floor, navigating his sleek, modern, borderline cold kitchen like she’d been living there her whole life. She didn’t hesitate with the drawers, the utensils, even reaching up to grab plates from his overhead cabinets with a little difficulty like she knew where everything was. Like she belonged.

He leaned against the wall for a second, arms folded, watching her. His kitchen was matte black, sharp edges, minimalist design, way too clean for someone who actually lived here. It was the kind of kitchen that screamed money but not home. Until now.

Until her.

Now it felt warm, felt used. And for some reason, that domestic image made something stir in his chest. Not in a soft, sentimental way—no, Yeosang didn’t do sentimental. It was more like—possession. Admiration. Like—yeah, that’s mine. His quiet, irritating, soft-voiced girl, right there, using his kitchen like she owned it. And she didn’t even realize how good she looked like that. The apron tied at her waist, sleeves rolled up as she worked carefully over the stove, flipping pancakes with precision.

How the fuck did she even know where everything was? He barely cooked. Eating out was his thing. Restaurants. Friends. Loud tables. Fancy places. But this? This made him crave home-cooked meals in a way he didn’t know he could. Made him crave coming home to something like this. And the worst part? He didn’t know whether he wanted the pancakes more or her. Probably her.

Definitely her.

He didn’t even realize she’d caught him staring. Sharp reflexes, top of his class, trained to pick up on the tiniest shit—and yet here he was, caught like some lovesick loser at the doorway of his own damn kitchen. She didn’t make a big deal out of it though. Just glanced over her shoulder, flipping another pancake like it was routine. “Oh, you’re here. Sit down or something.”

He blinked for a second, caught between embarrassment and awe, and then muttered under his breath, “Yes, ma’am.” Low enough that she wouldn’t catch it. Good. His pride was intact. Barely.

When she finished, she casually served two plates—one in front of him, one in front of her. No big presentation, no waiting for him to start first like those rich girls he was used to. Just sat down, scooted her chair in, and started eating like it was another regular morning. Like they’d been doing this for years. God, why did that feel nice?

The pancakes were good. Like, scary good. Slightly crisp on the edges, soft in the middle, syrup on the side, not drowned in it like an amateur. She knew what she was doing. Each bite made him feel weirdly cared for, and he didn’t like that one bit. It felt… vulnerable. Exposed. He wasn’t used to this shit. Halfway through, she lifted her gaze to him. Not fully—just under her lashes, barely holding eye contact before glancing away again.

“I’ve been meaning to ask…” she said softly, cutting into her pancake with that annoying, neat little precision of hers. “What do you actually do? Like… all day?” He chewed slowly, buying time. No one ever asked him that. Not seriously. Everyone just knew who he was. Son of that family. Part of that business. It was understood. Expected. Even his friends didn’t bother asking.

But her? She didn’t care about any of that. She genuinely didn’t know—or maybe she did but wanted his version of it. Wanted to hear it from him, not just whispered behind closed doors or Googled with a headline next to his face. So, he swallowed, set his fork down carefully, leaned back slightly in the chair.

“What do I do?” he repeated, eyes glancing over her face like he was trying to decide how much of himself he wanted to give her. “I manage the boring rich guy stuff, apparently. Assets. Investments. Real estate. Help with family business bullshit.”

She hummed softly, almost dismissively. “Sounds annoying.” That caught him off guard. He huffed a laugh through his nose. “It is annoying.”

They sat in silence for a second, just the quiet sounds of cutlery scraping against plates.

Then she added, still not fully looking at him, “Sounds lonely too.”

That made something sharp twist in his chest. Annoyingly accurate. He stared at her, at the little crease between her brows as she focused on cutting another piece, at the way she subtly folded the napkin next to her hand without thinking about it. Always fidgeting, always folding.

She didn’t even mean it like that. It was supposed to be just a question. A throwaway thought while she was chewing, cutting another bite, syrup glistening against the fork like she was focused on literally anything else except him. Like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t going to completely rearrange the wires in his damn brain. “After I graduate… can I see your office or something?”

Just that. Simple. Plain. Like she was asking to borrow a pen.

But Yeosang? Yeosang heard that in HD. Dolby Atmos. Surround sound. Can I see your office echoed through his skull like she’d just proposed marriage again or something. Why was that affecting him so much? Why was his immediate internal response Yes. Yes, of course. Come sit on my lap in the stupid leather chair. Take over the entire desk, I don’t even like working, I’ll retire now, I’ll build you a whole new office, you can have my whole name—

He blinked. Dangerous thoughts. Dangerous. She didn’t even know what she’d done. But he couldn’t just say all that, obviously. He couldn’t wrap her up in a blanket and tell her she was the cutest thing alive for wanting to be in his space, in his world. He couldn’t tell her that no one—no one—had ever even bothered to ask about that part of his life. His office. His work. His real world outside of the titles and money.

So, he kept it cool. Cool and bored. Always the bored one. Mr. Nothing Affects Me.

“Sure,” he said, cutting another piece of pancake, stabbing it with his fork, stuffing it into his mouth like that would hide the feral urge he felt to grab her face and kiss the absolute life out of her. “Really?” she asked, finally glancing at him properly this time, eyes sharp and unreadable. “It’s not like a private office?”

Private office? Private office? Woman, you’re in my home. You cooked in my kitchen. You slept with your entire leg tangled around mine. And you’re asking about privacy?

He swallowed. “It’s my office. I decide what’s private.”

Another bite. Another casual shrug. Another act like he wasn’t two seconds from folding completely. Folding like the damn napkin she kept playing with next to her plate. “Sure,” he said again, this time softer. Almost like a promise. Almost like anything you ask me, ever—I’ll give it to you.

You both didn’t know one thing. You both were falling.

Maybe Yeosang knew it. Kinda. Somewhere in the background of his usually sharp, calculating mind — the same one trained to notice weaknesses in deals and flaws in contracts — there was this soft hum, like static turning into a love song. He knew something was happening. Maybe not fully, maybe not yet in words, but the pull toward you was starting to feel less like curiosity and more like instinct. Breathing. Natural. Familiar in a way nothing else had ever been.

But you? You didn’t know. You didn’t realize what was happening. You didn’t realise that while you sat here with syrup on your fork and pancake crumbs on your fingers, you were starting to heal something that he didn’t break.

Yeosang didn’t grow up with softness. His mother was the only person who offered that to him, that kind of gentle warmth that made a person feel safe, and when she left—so did that warmth. His father tried to raise him with ambition and success, not comfort. Not home. Yeosang had everything: wealth, education, sharp looks, friends who could buy out entire hotels on a dare—but not this. Not this thing he was starting to feel around you.

And you didn’t realize that you were going to get something you never thought possible, either. That here, you were healing too. Because all your life, you were raised in pieces. Your parents clipping parts of you before you could even grow. Told that your interests were silly. That your opinions didn’t matter because you were a girl. Always “too much” or “not enough.” They called it upbringing. Respect. But it wasn’t. It was shrinking. You adjusted. You bent around it like vines climbing a crumbling wall, finding space wherever you could, making a way even when there wasn’t one.

But here?

Here, no one was going to call you too much. Here, no one was going to shrink you down into something manageable. Here, no one was going to make you feel small for having hobbies or dreams or random thoughts that didn’t make sense. Here—you weren’t going to adjust anymore. You were going to thrive.

And you didn’t even know it yet.

Days blended into something that almost resembled normal life. Morning routines settled. Nights had their own rhythm. You handled your stuff—university lectures, deadlines, notes scribbled on the backs of receipts when you couldn’t find proper paper. He handled his—meetings, calls, those frustrating dinners where people tried to get on his good side for favors he never planned to give.

The two of you orbiting each other like satellites, not colliding, not quite distant either. Somewhere between strangers and something else you both refused to name yet.

But then there were nights like this.

Nights where assignments piled higher than your patience. Nights where caffeine felt like medicine, where eye bags were unavoidable, and sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with books spread around you felt like survival mode. The glow of your laptop screen threw harsh shadows across your face, highlighting the slight furrow between your brows, your bottom lip caught lightly between your teeth as you tried to figure out whatever academic nonsense your professor thought was appropriate for midnight.

Yeosang came home late that night. He had texted you. ‘Running late. Don’t wait up.’

He didn’t expect much. Maybe you’d already be in bed, curled up, hair a mess, hugging that ridiculous pillow you’d claimed as yours. Or maybe you’d be curled on the couch, knocked out with some random video playing softly in the background. But no.

He walked in, loosened his tie, and paused.

You were awake. Awake and working. Glasses slipping down your nose. Notebook covered in tiny handwriting, pages curling at the corners. For a split second, irritation sparked in him. Not at you—at himself. Why were you still up? He told you not to wait. And yet—

Then he saw it. The laptop open to some assignment, words scrolling by, academic jargon that even he didn’t have the mental energy to pretend to understand. You weren’t waiting for him. You were fighting a deadline.

Silently, he toed off his shoes, rolled up his sleeves, and went to the kitchen.

The machine hissed softly as the coffee brewed. The comforting, bitter scent filling the sharp black lines of his modern kitchen again. This time, coffee. Warm, grounding, familiar. He made it just the way you liked—two spoons of sugar, a splash of milk. Not too sweet, not too bitter. Balanced. Like you.

He poured one cup for you, one for himself, and padded back across the living room, setting the mug down next to your scattered pens and half-crumpled sticky notes.

You barely noticed at first, mumbling a quiet, “Thank you,” eyes still on the screen.

But Yeosang? He just stood there for a second, hand in his pocket, watching you. Watching how you stubbornly refused to give up, even with dark circles forming under your eyes, even with your knee bouncing from stress, even with your exhaustion creeping in like slow fog.

“Can I help?” His voice was soft, breaking through the quiet hum of the laptop fan and your messy thoughts. You blinked, finally tearing your eyes away from the screen to look at him properly.

Help? You weren’t used to that word being offered like that. Especially not for things like your work. No one really asked if they could help—you were always expected to figure it out yourself, get through it, push harder. Alone. You stared at him for a second, eyebrows furrowed slightly like you were trying to figure out if he was joking or being sarcastic. But he just sat there, leaning forward, coffee resting on his knee, expression neutral but serious. Waiting.

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want help. Just… it felt weird. Someone wanting to take on something with you instead of at you or despite you. But you were tired. And behind all your stubbornness, you knew you could use it.

“…You can help with a couple things,” you murmured, barely above your breath.

His lips twitched slightly at that—almost a smile, almost—but he didn’t comment. Didn’t tease. Just sat up straighter, pushed his coffee aside, and motioned for you to show him.

It wasn’t even difficult stuff. Mostly organization. Proofreading. Finding references. And Yeosang, for all his cocky behavior and sharp-tongue antics, was ridiculously smart. He picked up on things quickly, helping you untangle confusing parts, correcting small mistakes you didn’t even notice you were making in your sleepy haze.

With him there, the work didn’t feel like a mountain anymore. It felt doable. Manageable. Like he was one more set of steady hands holding up the mess before it could collapse.

You didn’t talk much. Just handed things to him, pointed at the screen when you needed help cross-checking something, let him scroll through research tabs while you typed furiously to finish the parts only you could write. By the time you reached the end, you realized it had gone faster than you expected.

And… it didn’t feel heavy anymore.

As you saved the file and finally let yourself lean back against the cushions, stretching your aching fingers, you glanced at him from the corner of your eye. His sleeves were still rolled up, tie loose, hair falling slightly over his forehead. He looked relaxed. Like this wasn’t a burden. Like he didn’t mind being here at all.

“Thanks,” you said finally, voice quieter than before.

He just hummed, reaching for his now slightly-cold coffee again. “Told you,” he muttered, taking a sip, “I’m not just here to look pretty.”

You rolled your eyes at that, a small breath of laughter escaping despite yourself. And for the first time in a while, the stress didn’t feel suffocating. For the first time, you didn’t feel like you were carrying everything alone.

But now you didn’t want to move. Not even a little. Your body felt like it weighed triple, bones filled with sand, limbs heavy from the hours of grinding through assignments, deadlines, typing until your knuckles hurt. The soft hum of the laptop fan was starting to blend with the background noise of the apartment—the occasional creak of the walls, the soft ticking of the clock. So you just laid down right there on the couch, curling slightly onto your side, pressing your cheek into the cushions like they could swallow you whole.

“You shouldn’t sleep here,” his voice broke through gently. Not nagging. Not demanding. Just a low, careful suggestion. “It’s bad for your back.”

“Yeah…” you mumbled. You knew. Of course you knew. But knowing and moving were two different things. The soft, tired sound of your own voice felt distant to you, like it was coming from somewhere underwater. “M’fine… Just…gimme a minute…”

And then, you felt it. Arms sliding under you, one beneath your knees, the other curling easily around your shoulders. The couch shifted beneath you as he moved, and suddenly, you were moving too. Your eyes snapped open halfway, heavy-lidded with exhaustion but sharp with shock. What the—

He picked you up. Like it was nothing. Like you weighed absolutely nothing. Effortless. Smooth. As if this was something he did on a daily basis, as if you weren’t dead weight with tangled limbs and messy hair and exhaustion practically dripping off your skin.

You knew he worked out. You’d seen his arms, the way his shirts sometimes hugged his shoulders, the way his forearms tensed slightly when he rolled up his sleeves or carried grocery bags with one hand like they were weightless.

But this? This was a whole new experience.

You blinked up at him, groggy but vaguely scandalized, too drained to fight him on it but still indignant enough to grumble, “I can walk, you know…”

“Doesn’t look like it,” he muttered back, voice lazy but steady, gaze fixed ahead as he carefully maneuvered you toward the bedroom. His jaw was set, clean lines of his face shadowed by the low lighting, and that stupid, faint grin on his lips—like he was enjoying this a little too much.

You were too tired to argue more, head lolling lightly against his shoulder, his cologne filling your nose. Clean, sharp, warm.

“Put me down,” you murmured weakly, only half meaning it.

“No.”

That’s all he said. Just no. Simple. Firm. No teasing this time. Just—no. Because you were tired, and because he wanted to carry you. Because whether you liked it or not, this was part of who he was now—your husband. And part of that role, apparently, included picking you up like a princess when you worked yourself to exhaustion doing university assignments at midnight.

You didn’t realize when your eyes slipped closed again, but the warmth of his hold and the soft shift of the apartment around you made it easier.

He set you down gently on the bed, the mattress dipping softly under your weight. The second you hit the covers, your whole body sighed in relief, muscles unraveling like thread, tension slipping out of your shoulders as your eyelids fluttered heavily.

You barely registered him leaving, the soft rustle of fabric as he changed, the faint clink of his watch being set down somewhere on the nightstand. The apartment was quiet except for those soft, everyday sounds—the kind that made a space feel lived in. Real. And then the bed dipped again, the warmth of him close, his scent following like gravity itself. Before you could fully register it, his arm snaked around your waist, firm but not rough, and he pulled you in.

Your eyes opened halfway, brows pinching lightly. “Yeosang…”

“No complaining,” he murmured, voice low, brushing near your ear. “I know you need it.”

That shut you up real quick—not because he was being cocky, but because… he was right. You did need it. And that annoyed you more than anything, how well he was starting to read you without effort. Like this connection was some secret language only he could pick up on while you were still figuring it out. You wanted to argue. Maybe just out of habit. Maybe because that independent part of you hated the idea of needing someone this badly. But… God, it felt good. It felt safe. Not like being trapped, not like obligation—but like comfort. Like warmth. Like someone saying, It’s okay. You don’t have to hold everything up alone tonight.

So you didn’t say anything after that. Just let yourself sink into the pull of his chest against your back, his hand splayed warm over your stomach, his steady breathing brushing against the back of your neck. Everything fit a little too perfectly, like puzzle pieces you didn’t even know belonged to the same set.

And that night… that night, you both slept better than you ever had since this whole marriage thing started. No weird dreams. No uncomfortable tossing and turning. No stress lingering sharp at the edges of your thoughts.

Just… sleep.

You didn’t know how it happened, but somehow, somewhere in the middle of the night, your body betrayed your stubbornness. You woke up curled against him, face pressed gently to his chest, his scent filling your lungs like something you’d been secretly addicted to. His arm—God, his arm—was draped around you, hand cupped protectively over the back of your head like instinct. Like he was shielding you, even in sleep. And it wasn’t awkward. That’s what surprised you most. It felt natural. Not forced, not weird, just… like safety.

You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek, hear the soft, even rhythm of his breathing. And as much as you hated to admit it… he looked pretty like this. No, scratch that—annoyingly pretty. Long lashes resting against sharp cheekbones, lips slightly parted, hair tousled from sleep in that effortless way guys pull off without even trying.

Gross. Beautiful. Disgusting. Infuriating.

You blinked a few times, brain slowly booting up for the day, before carefully untangling yourself like a thief in the night. His arm loosened its grip like he was reluctant even in his sleep, but eventually let you go. You got up, showered, got dressed, doing your whole morning routine as quietly as possible. University wasn’t going to wait for you to bask in your soft domestic crisis. And you definitely weren’t about to stand there and gawk at his stupidly handsome sleeping face for too long. Absolutely not.

By the time you were adjusting the strap of your bag, tying your hair properly, you heard movement from the bedroom. A few minutes later, Yeosang walked out, freshly showered, damp hair pushed back, wearing that clean, crisp button-up with the sleeves rolled just enough to make you want to scream into a pillow. Grey slacks, black watch, rings back on his fingers, that usual lazy confidence laced into his posture.

He looked at you, eyes dropping down briefly to your outfit, then meeting your gaze again like it was nothing.

“I’ll pick you up later,” he said, fixing one of his cuffs. “After uni.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“Date,” he said simply, like it was obvious. “We deserve one.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it, unsure of what reaction you were supposed to give. A part of you wanted to roll your eyes, say something sarcastic—but another part… another part felt weirdly happy about it. Happy in that annoying, fluttery kind of way you weren’t ready to admit yet. So you settled for a quiet, “Okay,” adjusting your bag again, looking at the floor to hide the small smile trying to creep up on your lips.

“Good,” he said, smirking now—but this time it wasn’t cocky. It was something softer, warmer. “I’ll see you later, then.” And as you left the apartment, the weight of the day felt lighter somehow. Like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t dreading things as much anymore.

Yeosang sat in the car, one hand lazily draped over the steering wheel, the other tapping faintly against his thigh. The sun was starting to dip, casting that golden hour glow over the edges of buildings, making everything look softer, warmer, like a scene out of some movie. But Yeosang wasn’t paying attention to the scenery. Not really.He’d had a day. Meetings that dragged. Calls that felt like someone was reading tax documents aloud just to torture him. Endless signatures, fake smiles, the whole act. All he wanted right now was peace. Quiet. A good meal. And you.

A proper date with his cute wife, nothing more, nothing less. Just you sitting across from him in that way you always did—half avoiding eye contact, sleeves of your cardigan slipping past your wrists, probably fidgeting with your napkin again. That was the peace he wanted. Not luxury. Not power. Just that.

But then…

His eyes narrowed. He saw you. And you weren’t alone. There was a guy. Some nobody. Same-age, maybe older, walking beside you, too close for Yeosang’s liking, talking like he knew you well. And you—God—you were smiling. Not the full kind, not the ones Yeosang secretly hoarded like precious stones, but still smiling. Like you were comfortable. Yeosang’s jaw tightened. His fingers, the ones tapping against his thigh, stopped moving. What pissed him off wasn’t just the guy talking. It was the way he was talking to you. That casual, easygoing posture, like he thought he was funny. Like he thought he was charming. Like he thought he deserved to be walking next to you, making you smile like that.

And maybe you didn’t even realize. Maybe you were just being polite. But Yeosang saw it all. The way the guy leaned slightly in when he spoke. The way his hands moved while explaining something, animated like he wanted your full attention on him.

Yeosang didn’t like it. Not one bit.

The expensive black car, polished to perfection, stood out like a punch to the face in front of the university gates. People kept throwing glances, some doing double-takes, whispering. Whose car is that? Who’s that guy? But Yeosang didn’t care. Let them look. Let them talk. His gaze stayed locked on you and that idiot next to you. Calm on the outside. A storm brewing underneath. You didn’t know it yet.

You spotted him the moment he stepped out of the car. Yeosang wasn’t the type to make a show of himself, but somehow—he did. Maybe it was the way he stood, sharp lines of his suit catching the light, hair pushed back neatly, expression unreadable. Maybe it was the car behind him, polished black, practically humming money and influence. Maybe it was just him. Either way, heads were turning, eyes flicking between him and you like something wasn’t adding up.

You swallowed, nerves prickling up your spine. Before you could react, before you could even introduce anyone properly, he was already moving. His hand found yours—firm, warm, possessive without being rough. It startled you. Not because of the touch—you were used to that by now—but because of the timing. Calculated. Precise. Like everything he did. “This your friend?” he said calmly, looking not at you, but directly at the guy.

Before you could speak, Yeosang gave the poor guy a small, polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nice to meet you,” he said smoothly, tightening his grip on your hand just slightly. “I’m her husband.”

And then, for good measure, he added his name. Kang Yeosang.

You could see the shift instantly. The recognition behind the guy’s eyes. The flicker of panic mixed with surprise. Everyone in this city knew that name—or at least the ones who mattered did. Not just because of the wealth, but because of what that name meant in certain circles. Reputation. Power. Authority. Not just a businessman—something more. Something sharp underneath the polished surface.

“Oh,” was all the guy could manage, awkward, unsure of where to put his hands now, stepping back half a pace instinctively. “Yeah,” Yeosang finished softly, expression pleasant, dangerous in its restraint. “Good talk.”

Without another word, he guided you toward the passenger seat, opened the door like a gentleman, helped you in, and shut it carefully behind you before rounding the car and getting in himself. He didn’t look at you at first. Just started the engine, pulled out of the lot with practiced ease.

What you didn’t see, however, was the slight tilt of his head down as he flicked open his messages. His fingers moved swiftly, effortlessly, typing out the guy’s name, sending it to an unknown number. No emojis. No fluff. Just a clean instruction.

A name and a dot. That’s all it took.

Then the phone slipped back into his pocket like nothing happened.

He glanced at you finally, features softening just slightly now that the irritation had passed, hand casually resting on the gear shift..

"You ready?” he asked, like none of that had just happened. You didn’t answer immediately. Your heart was still somewhere between confused, flustered, and maybe—a little impressed. And Yeosang?

He was perfectly at ease. Because no one touches what’s his.

The date itself was simple, nothing extravagant—just the way you liked it. Dinner somewhere not too loud, warm lighting, food you could pronounce, chairs that didn’t make your back ache. He didn’t drag you to some elite chef’s private villa or a high-rise with twelve spoons and seven forks. Just… normal. Comfortable.

But of course, it wasn’t normal, not with him sitting across from you like that. Rolling up his sleeves just enough to show off the veins in his forearms, leaning forward slightly when you spoke, giving you that attention that made your stomach twist in a way you’d pretend was annoyance—but you knew better now. You were far too aware of his every move, his subtle glances at your lips when you talked, his faint smile whenever you fidgeted with the sleeves of your cardigan or neatly arranged your utensils.

And he was losing it.

Internally.

Watching you talk softly about nothing—ordering dessert, choosing between tea or coffee, or even just adjusting your bracelet—like it was the most adorable thing in the world. You didn’t even have to try. That’s what drove him crazy. You could breathe and he’d be on the verge of melting into his seat like some fool.

But what really started creeping under your skin wasn’t the food or the conversation or even the comfort of the evening.

It was after.

Back in university, you started noticing something odd. The guy—the one from the parking lot—gone. No hellos in the hallway, no passing glances, no awkward waves after that weird encounter with Yeosang. Vanished. Just… gone.

You weren’t naïve. You noticed patterns. You noticed behavior. You might’ve been quiet, but you weren’t stupid.

So, you asked him. One evening, after he’d made both of you coffee, when the room was quiet and warm, you just casually dropped it like spare change on a counter.

“By the way… that guy I was talking to last week? Haven’t seen him around.”

His reaction was instant, which already gave him away. That sharp, barely-there twitch of his lips. His fingers curling ever so slightly around the mug handle.

And then—he laughed.

That annoying, deep, pretty laugh that was all throat and no apologies.

“Don’t know,” he said with a shrug, voice lazy, too smooth to be true. “Weird, isn’t it?”

Liar. Absolute liar.

And that’s what did it. That’s what made you fall.

Not the expensive car. Not the handsome face. Not even the whole husband thing.

It was that. That dumb, cocky, lying laugh paired with the soft way he helped you out of your coat or refilled your water glass without saying anything. The combination of someone who could ruin a man’s whole life in one text but still remember that you liked your toast slightly burnt.

It wasn’t fair.

And maybe, just maybe, you found yourself falling.

Not all at once. Just—a little more.

Dangerous. Warm. Annoying.

Yours.

Taglist: @jujusreader @nkryuki @lover-ofallthingspretty

Dividers from @/cafekitsune

[cbeargyu]

I was thinking about arranged married with Taehyun, he doesnt love you but still feels jealous when you're hanging out with your guy friend? 👀

the weight of silk and silence

summary: you married him for business, not love. taehyun didn’t want a wife, and you didn’t ask for his heart. but when an old flame reappears and stirs forgotten feelings in you, taehyun begins to see you in ways he never allowed himself to before.

pairing: husband!taehyun x wife!reader

genre: arranged marriage au, angst, slowburn, eventual smut

warnings: explicit content (at the end), virgin!reader, possessive behavior, jealousy, emotional tension, marriage without love, slowburn pacing, soft domination.

wc: 7,5k

notes: omg anon i LOVED that idea, it’s so heartbreaking but delicious by the end 😭 i really hope you like it — taehyun fits this trope so well, and like… we all know he’d be insanely jealous LMAO 🖤

the first time you ever held kang taehyun’s hand was in front of five hundred guests, under a crystal chandelier that cost more than your first car.

it was your wedding day.

you had met him a handful of times before — quick, shallow meetings at galas and charity events, where your parents would whisper his name in your ear like a warning. taehyun, heir to a massive corporation. taehyun, quiet and serious. taehyun, the boy who would be your husband.

and yet, in all those encounters, he never truly looked at you. not in the way a man looks at a woman he wants. you were background noise to him. a silhouette in silk. polite smiles, brief nods, nothing more.

until the contract was signed.

it was a merger more than a marriage — a binding of legacies, not hearts. your father said it was an honor. your mother cried while helping you into your wedding dress, whispering how lucky you were to marry someone with such influence, such presence. you didn't feel lucky.

your gown was custom-made, flown in from paris. long-sleeved and ivory, with delicate lace crawling up your collarbones, and a train so long it took three women to carry it down the aisle. you looked like a dream — regal, immaculate, almost untouchable. even your makeup was soft and flawless, like you were born to be admired from a distance.

when you reached the altar, taehyun was already waiting. his eyes swept over you with the indifference of a man examining a sculpture in a gallery — beautiful, yes. admirable, even. but not his. not something he reached for. he looked expensive in his suit. tall, composed, painfully handsome. but there was no joy on his face. no warmth in the way he took your hand.

when he took your hand, it was because the priest told him to.

his palm was cold. steady. his grip was neither too firm nor too soft. you imagined it was the same way he signed business contracts, with precision and detachment.

you told yourself you didn’t need warmth. this wasn’t about love. it never was.

and yet it hurt, in some small, stupid way.

he kissed your cheek when the priest told him to. his lips brushed your skin, and you felt nothing. not butterflies, not electricity. just the cold, aching confirmation of what you already knew: taehyun didn’t love you. and he didn’t want to.

the wedding made headlines. a spectacle of elegance and power. articles praised the "fairytale union" and posted blurry photos of taehyun helping you into the car, his hand on your back like a gentleman. what they didn’t know was that by the time you arrived at the private estate where you’d live together, he was already walking ahead of you, phone in hand, voice low and disinterested.

“you’ll have the west wing,” he said. “second floor. we won’t share a room — i assume that’s fine”

you nodded. your veil was still pinned in your hair, your earrings heavy on your ears.

he didn’t say goodnight. he didn’t ask how you felt. he simply turned and disappeared into his study, closing the door behind him with finality.

his room was on the opposite side of the house.

you didn’t see much of each other after that. in the mornings, you passed him in the dining room — his sleeves rolled up, eyes glued to his laptop as he sipped black coffee. sometimes he nodded at you. sometimes he didn’t.

when he spoke, it was brief. emotionless. professional.

"you’ll need to be at the choi event next week."

"wear something navy. it matches the branding."

"your lipstick was smudged last time. be more careful."

not cruel. not kind. just cold.

still, you played your part. at every family function, every business dinner, you laced your arm around his like the doting wife you were supposed to be. taehyun would place his hand on your lower back, lean in close enough to whisper scripted compliments in your ear, and smile when cameras flashed. you looked like a couple in love — poised, elegant, connected.

but at night, you would close the door to your room and cry silently into a pillow that smelled like perfume and loneliness.

he never asked if you were happy. you never offered to lie.

you had been married to kang taehyun for a year.

twelve months of empty rooms and empty words. of silent mornings, separate beds, and dinner parties where you pretended to love a man who barely remembered how to say your name without flattening it.

your marriage was the kind that looked good in photographs. carefully curated images of a successful union — him in tailored suits, you in designer gowns. your hands always touching, your eyes always soft. a perfect illusion.

but once the flashbulbs faded and the doors closed, so did the performance.

you lived in a mansion, but it never felt like a home. it was quiet in a way that echoed. too many walls, too many shadows. your bedroom was at the far end of the hall, separated by sleek marble floors and silence. taehyun’s was opposite yours, and he never crossed that threshold. not even once.

some nights, you stood by the door and waited. hoping. other nights, you stopped hoping altogether.

he wasn't cruel — not in the way that left bruises or sharp words. his coldness was quieter than that. it was in the way he never asked if you were okay. in the way he answered you with sighs instead of sentences. in how he looked past you at breakfast, eyes on his phone, fingers tapping away at stock reports and news articles, as if you were part of the background — as if your presence was nothing more than ambient noise.

“you need to be ready by seven,” he’d say without looking up.

“don’t wear white. it clashes with the decor.”

and you would nod. always nod. because what else was there to do?

you played the part. you smiled when your in-laws visited. you stood beside him at every event with your hand wrapped gently around his arm, your voice sweet, your gaze rehearsed. when his hand slid onto the small of your back for the cameras, you leaned into the touch as if it belonged there.

but the second you were alone, the warmth disappeared.

you would walk down opposite corridors, into opposite beds, and try to fall asleep beside the ache of being unwanted.

you never asked him why. never begged for attention or tenderness. you had learned, from a very young age, that feelings were fragile, disposable things — and that love had no place in contracts.

your marriage was not a love story. it was a transaction sealed with gold and paper, a deal between two families who saw you as an extension of their legacy. you were beautiful, accomplished, poised — a perfect bride. and taehyun was a perfect son. loyal, brilliant, emotionally vacant. the kind of man who could run an empire and feel nothing when he held your hand.

and you —

you were so good at pretending that it almost felt real sometimes.

until you saw lee heesung again.

the invitation arrived embossed in gold — another affair hosted by the choi family, all shimmer and status. you wore emerald silk that night, low-backed and elegant, with your hair twisted up and pinned with mother-of-pearl. taehyun wore black, as always, his presence severe and pristine beside you.

he didn’t compliment your dress.

you didn’t expect him to.

the ballroom was all crystal and candlelight. strings played softly beneath the murmur of conversation, and champagne flutes clinked like bells. you smiled when expected, danced twice with taehyun in front of curious eyes, then slipped away toward the edge of the room for air.

and that’s when you heard it.

“y/n?”

you turned at the sound of your name — tentative, soft, almost disbelieving.

he was standing near the edge of the terrace, champagne glass forgotten in his hand, dressed in a dark suit that clung to his frame more confidently than it had when you last saw him. his face was older now — sharper jaw, deeper eyes — but the smile… the smile was exactly the same.

“heesung?” your voice was breathless. like it didn’t belong to you.

he stepped forward slowly, as if afraid you might vanish if he moved too quickly. “i almost didn’t recognize you. you—” he laughed under his breath, eyes roaming your face with a mix of awe and disbelief. “you’ve grown up.”

you blinked, unsure whether to laugh or cry. “so did you.”

it had been ten years. ten whole years since he left — packed off to europe for school, his family’s goodbye rushed and quiet. you had cried for two nights straight, then spent years pretending you hadn’t. and now here he was, in the middle of a gala, as if nothing had changed.

except everything had.

you were married now. in name, at least.

but still, when he smiled at you — wide and warm and genuine — something fluttered in your chest you hadn’t felt in years.

“you look incredible,” he said, eyes dancing. “i mean, not just the dress. you— i don’t know, you shine. always did.”

you lowered your gaze, cheeks warm. “you’re still a flatterer.”

“only when it’s true.”

you heard footsteps behind you before you could reply.

“taehyun,” you said quickly, straightening. “this is… lee heesung. an old friend.”

taehyun’s eyes moved from you to heesung in a single sweep. his face didn’t change, but something in his posture did — his jaw just a bit tighter, his stare a little too direct.

“taehyun,” heesung offered his hand, unbothered. “pleasure to meet you. i’ve heard a lot about you.”

taehyun shook his hand. short. firm. “have you?”

“well,” heesung chuckled, glancing at you, “maybe not a lot. but enough.”

you felt taehyun’s hand settle on your lower back — a gentle but deliberate touch, the kind he only ever used in public. you could feel the tension in his fingers, though. not affection. not comfort. something else.

you smiled politely, masking the strange electricity crackling between them. “heesung was my neighbor growing up. we were… close.”

“very close,” heesung added, too casually.

taehyun said nothing. but his hand lingered longer than usual.

his tone was pleasant. perfectly civil. but his fingers pressed slightly harder against your waist, and when you looked up at him, his jaw was clenched just enough to betray it.

and for the first time in a year of cold silences and empty gazes, kang taehyun looked... bothered.

you met heesung again three days later. this time, alone.

you told yourself it was just a reunion. a friendly catch-up. nothing more.

but he made you laugh in ways you hadn’t in years. he remembered everything — the way you used to hate thunderstorms, the songs you’d sing under your breath, the stupid nickname he gave you for always carrying too many books. he looked at you like you mattered. like you were more than a name in someone else’s contract.

you didn’t tell taehyun. and he didn’t ask.

you met again the next week. and the one after that. coffee turned to lunch, lunch turned to long walks through hidden parts of the city, where no one knew your last name. you smiled wider. your skin glowed. you started wearing the perfume you liked, not the one his mother approved. you began laughing out loud, not just behind a polite hand. and people noticed.

especially him.

the first time taehyun said something, you had just come back from lunch. your hair was windswept. your phone buzzed with a new message from heesung: i miss talking to you already.

taehyun was standing in the kitchen, sipping wine like always. he looked at you for a long moment before saying, “you’re seeing him again.”

you froze. “he’s my friend.”

his stare didn’t waver. “and i’m your husband.”

the silence was suffocating. you didn’t reply. you didn’t need to.

“don’t be careless,” he added after a pause. “people notice.”

but you couldn’t stop. because every time heesung smiled at you, you remembered what it felt like to be loved — or at least wanted. and every time taehyun’s eyes darkened across the room, you felt something crack open between you, something ugly and raw and dangerous.

and it was only a matter of time before it spilled.

you weren’t supposed to see heesung again.

you told yourself that the moment you stepped out of the café that night — that it was enough. enough catching up, enough smiling too much, enough letting your heart remember what it felt like to be looked at like you were something bright. but the next day, he texted. just a simple “remember the old bookstore by the river?” and without thinking, you replied. you remembered everything.

you met there the following sunday. it was quiet, tucked away behind overgrown ivy and the whisper of autumn wind. the inside still smelled like sun-warmed paper, and heesung still laughed like you were the most interesting story on the shelf. you wandered between aisles, letting your fingers trail along spines, and for a little while, it felt like you’d slipped through time — like nothing had changed. like you weren’t twenty-five and married. like your last name wasn’t kang.

he took you to lunch after, somewhere casual, small, a place you never would’ve stepped into with taehyun. there were no cameras, no eyes, no pressure to sit up straighter or speak more delicately. you ate slowly, letting the warmth of soup melt the cold that had crept into your bones over the last year. heesung talked about his travels, the people he met, the music he was trying to write. and when he asked about you, really asked — what do you like now? what makes you happy? — your throat felt tight.

you didn’t know how to answer. not honestly.

later, walking by the riverbank, you laughed when he called you “bookworm” again. you shoved his shoulder lightly and he caught your hand — fingers threading through yours like it was still summer and you were still fifteen.

and just for a moment, it was too easy to pretend.

but as the warmth of his skin soaked into yours, your stomach twisted. not with guilt, not yet. something more dangerous — doubt. was this what you were missing?

“heesung,” you said softly, eyes still on the water. “do you ever think we were supposed to be something?”

he was quiet for a beat. then, “i thought about you more than i should have.”

your heart thudded — but it wasn’t joy. it was grief.

you pulled your hand back gently, wrapping your coat tighter around yourself. “i used to think that too,” you whispered. “but that version of me… the one who wrote your name in the margins of her notebooks and cried when you left… she doesn’t exist anymore.”

he didn’t argue. he just nodded, like he understood.

you parted ways with a hug. longer than necessary, but not intimate. not improper. just... sad.

and when you stepped into the house that night, the silence hit harder than ever. no message from taehyun. no note. no light left on. only the familiar echo of emptiness.

you wandered into the kitchen, fingers still cold. you didn’t expect to see him standing by the window.

he turned, startled for a split second — rare for him — before composing himself.

“you’re late.”

“i went out,” you answered, setting your purse down. “with a friend.”

he didn’t respond. just stared at you like he was searching for something beneath your skin.

you avoided his gaze. “do you want tea?”

“no.”

you nodded, stepping past him. the silence stretched, heavy and full of things unsaid.

“you look different,” he said quietly.

you froze. “different how?”

he hesitated. “lighter.”

you didn’t know what to say. so you didn’t say anything at all.

when you finally made it to your bedroom, you sat on the edge of your bed, breath shallow. you thought about heesung’s smile, the sound of his laugh, the way he made you feel like your teenage self again — untouched by the cold calculations of your family, unburdened by the weight of your name. but you also thought of taehyun — the tension in his jaw tonight, the way his voice had shifted ever so slightly when he said you look different.

and that’s when you realized the truth.

you liked heesung, yes. you liked what he represented. freedom. comfort. the girl you used to be. but taehyun? he wasn’t the boy of your past — he was the man in your present. and despite his silence, his coldness, the way he looked right through you some days... you wanted him.

you wanted him to see you. want you. need you.

and that hurt more than anything.

because you were starting to realize... maybe you already loved him.

the room was all golden light and champagne — delicate strings of music trailing through crystal chandeliers, waiters gliding past with silver trays, women in gowns that shimmered like moonlight.

you stood near the center of it all, wrapped in a dress the color of soft wine. off-the-shoulder silk, cinched waist, a slit that whispered against your leg when you moved. your hair was swept to one side, exposing the slope of your neck. taehyun hadn’t said a word when he saw you leave your room, but his eyes had lingered. too long to be empty. too cold to be warm.

he escorted you, as always, arm linked with yours — not too tight, not too loose. he greeted the right people, nodded at the appropriate times, made you laugh when he needed to keep up appearances. you smiled when the cameras turned. you leaned into him when the board members looked.

but the minute your mutual obligation ended, he released your arm without a word and stepped off to speak with someone from the finance division.

you didn’t follow.

you wandered to the bar instead, thankful for the small reprieve, and that’s when you heard it — your name, light and warm like summer.

“you look like you stepped out of a painting,” heesung said, smiling, holding two glasses of rosé. “guess i’ll have to pretend i belong here.”

you smiled before you could stop yourself. “you look good in a suit.”

“don’t sound so surprised.”

you laughed, taking the glass he offered. his fingers brushed yours — brief, innocent — but still enough to make your heart stutter. you hated how easy it was to feel fifteen again. and you hated that you missed it.

“you didn’t tell me you’d be here.”

“i didn’t know,” he shrugged, sipping slowly. “my manager’s friend works with the caterer. said he needed a last-minute hand. i said yes without thinking. figured it’d just be another fancy party where no one would remember my name.”

“you’re wrong,” you said softly.

his eyes flicked to yours. there was something in them — something unspoken. something that a married woman shouldn’t try to read too closely.

“are you here alone?” you asked.

he nodded. “unless you’re counting all the corporate execs who’ve asked me if i play piano.”

you laughed again, this time quieter. “you do.”

“not for them.”

heesung's voice was low, almost teasing. but there was a weight behind it — an ache, maybe, or just the memory of something never lived.

you didn’t notice the man watching you.

kang taehyun stood on the other side of the room, his glass untouched in his hand. he wasn’t smiling. wasn’t even pretending. his gaze was locked on you — on the way your lips curved when heesung leaned in to say something; on how your fingers played idly with the stem of your glass; on the tilt of your head, the brightness in your eyes.

he hadn’t seen you smile like that since before the wedding. maybe never.

he finished his drink in a single swallow.

when he approached, it was silent — sudden. you only noticed him when the air beside you shifted, cool and sharp. he placed a hand on the small of your back, a gesture you were both used to in public, but this time... his palm stayed. firm. possessive.

“everything alright?” his voice was smooth, but there was steel underneath.

you blinked. “yes. taehyun, this is—”

“lee heesung,” he cut in flatly, gaze unwavering. “we met.”

heesung offered a polite smile. “good to see you again.”

taehyun nodded, but didn’t return it.

“your wife was just telling me how beautiful the venue is,” heesung continued, tone light. “honestly, this place looks like something out of a dream.”

taehyun’s fingers pressed a little deeper into your back. “she has good taste.”

you froze for a second — not at the words, but the way he said them. not like a compliment. like a reminder.

the silence stretched.

“i should get back to the kitchen,” heesung said eventually, glancing at you. “don’t disappear too fast.”

you nodded. “i won’t.”

he walked away.

taehyun didn’t move his hand.

“you’re close,” he said, eyes still on the crowd.

“we’re old friends.”

“looked like more than that.”

you turned to him, brows drawing together. “why does it matter?”

he didn’t answer. his jaw tightened.

you exhaled slowly, pulling your arm from his and stepping half a pace away. “you don’t get to be jealous, taehyun.”

his eyes snapped to yours, sharp and unreadable. “who said i was?”

you didn’t reply.

neither did he.

but when you walked ahead, you felt it — the burn of his stare against your back. the heat in the silence.

the car ride home had been silent.

not the usual quiet — the polite, professional kind that hovered between you like a well-dressed wall. this one buzzed. like static. like heat trapped under skin. taehyun sat beside you, eyes fixed on the dark city flashing past the window, one leg crossed neatly over the other, jaw locked so tight you could hear it click when he swallowed.

you didn’t speak. neither did he.

not until the front door of your shared home closed behind you with a soft, final sound.

then his voice cut through the silence like a blade.

“do you think it’s appropriate to smile like that in front of the board?”

you turned, slowly, heels clicking against the polished marble. “excuse me?”

“with lee heesung,” he said, dropping his watch onto the side table without looking at you. “you looked like a schoolgirl with a crush.”

you laughed, sharp and humorless. “so you were watching.”

he turned to you finally, his tie half loosened, shirt still perfectly tucked into tailored slacks. he looked angry — but not wild. not loud. just cold. tightly wound. exactly like you’d expect from a man who built walls instead of raising his voice.

“i didn’t have to watch,” he said. “the whole room saw it.”

“saw what? that i was happy for five minutes?”

his expression didn’t change. “you’re married.”

“are we?” your voice rose. not a shout — just enough to cut. “because from where i’m standing, it feels like we’re just two strangers with matching rings.”

he took a slow step forward.

you didn’t move.

“then don’t embarrass me,” he said, quieter now, like it hurt to say it. “not in front of people who matter.”

you stared at him — tall, beautiful, indifferent. you hated how good he looked like this. hated the way his presence still made your skin ache even when his words made you feel disposable.

“i’m sorry,” you said, stepping closer, voice trembling with restraint. “am i supposed to stay quiet and smile at your side like a fucking ornament while you pretend i’m not even there?”

“that was the agreement,” he said flatly.

you blinked.

taehyun flinched.

the silence after that was thick. awful.

you stepped back.

he didn’t stop you.

“you didn’t care before,” you whispered. “why now? why tonight?”

he didn’t answer right away. he just looked at you — really looked, for maybe the first time in weeks. and it wasn’t the way he looked at you at galas, or dinners, or in family portraits. it wasn’t performative.

this time, it felt like he couldn’t look away.

“you were mine tonight,” he said finally. “and you forgot that.”

you stared at him.

you didn’t say anything.

but your hands shook a little as you reached up and unclasped your necklace, one jewel at a time. your earrings. your bracelets. everything expensive he’d helped you put on earlier that evening, now coming off piece by piece like armor being stripped away.

you didn’t cry. you didn’t yell. you just walked past him, brushing his shoulder as you left the room.

“don’t worry,” you said over your shoulder, voice like ice. “i’ll remember next time.”

his footsteps followed you down the hallway. unhurried. deliberate.

“you’re not going to pretend this didn’t happen,” he said, voice low, firm.

you paused at the edge of the bedroom. didn’t turn around.

“what do you want from me, taehyun?” your words were a whisper, sharp and tired. “you barely speak to me. you barely look at me. and then the second someone else does—”

“i’m not just someone else.”

“no,” you said bitterly. “you’re my husband. legally. contractually. nothing more.”

that did something to him. you could feel it — the tension shifting, thickening in the space between you like a storm waiting to snap.

his voice came closer. behind you now.

“do you think i haven’t noticed the way you look at me?”

you turned then. slowly. eyes burning.

“what way?”

his jaw clenched. “like you want something from me. like you want me to be someone i’m not.”

your breath caught. not because he was wrong. but because he wasn’t.

“and you,” you hissed, stepping forward now, chest brushing his. “you act like you don’t want me. like this marriage is just a formality. but the second someone else so much as smiles at me, you break.”

he said nothing.

his eyes dropped to your mouth.

then back up.

“tell me i’m wrong,” you demanded.

silence.

“taehyun.”

his hands moved before his mouth did — gripping your arms, not hard, but with purpose. pulling you closer until there was no space left to pretend with. his breath hit your cheek, fast and uneven.

“you’re not wrong,” he said finally.

and god, it burned.

because that was all you had wanted to hear — some crack in his mask, some proof that you weren’t crazy for feeling the pull between you. and now that you had it, it only made everything worse.

“then why do you treat me like this?” you asked, voice barely a breath. “why push me away every single time i try to reach you?”

“let's sleep together,”

the door slammed shut behind you, hard enough to rattle the frame. your heels clicked against the marble floors of your shared home—too loud, too sharp in the silence. you stormed through the living room, toward the master bedroom, your dress dragging behind you in a frustrated blur of expensive silk and lace.

you didn’t even look back.

“you’re not sleeping here tonight,” you said coldly, pushing open the bedroom door and stepping inside. “use one of the guest rooms. i don't care which one.”

taehyun followed you, of course. always the quiet shadow behind your anger, never raising his voice—but tonight was different. his jaw was tight, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them. something was burning under his skin.

he stepped into the room before you could close the door on him. “the hell i’m not.”

you turned to him, chest heaving, tears stinging your eyes though you refused to let them fall. “don’t make a scene, taehyun. i’m not in the mood.”

“you think i give a fuck about your mood right now?” he bit back, stepping closer. “i watched you smile at him like that. laugh with him like that. and then you come home and tell me to sleep somewhere else?”

“we don’t even sleep together, taehyun!” you shouted, finally losing it. “we’ve been married for a year and you still treat me like some damn business contract! so why should you care who i talk to?”

he was in front of you in two long strides. too close.

“because you're mine.”

his voice was low. not yelling. not angry in the way you expected. but full of something darker—possessive, raw.

your breath caught.

“you don’t get to flirt with old friends like you’re single,” he said, crowding you backwards until your spine hit the wall. “you wear my ring. you sleep in my house. you're my fucking wife.”

“in name only,” you spat, but your voice trembled.

his eyes dropped to your lips.

“no,” he said, fingers brushing the edge of your jaw. “not anymore.”

and then he kissed you.

not soft. not slow. it was messy. angry. real.

a year of silence poured into that kiss — the frustration, the jealousy, the ache of sleeping in separate rooms while pretending to be a couple to the world. it wasn’t romantic. it wasn’t pretty. it was honest.

his mouth moved over yours like he was starving. like he hated himself for needing this. needing you.

your robe fell to the floor.

his hands were everywhere — your waist, your back, your thighs. he lifted you without effort, your legs wrapping around his hips as your back hit the nearest wall with a quiet thud. his mouth never left yours.

you gasped when his hands slipped under your silk nightdress. he groaned when he felt you bare and burning beneath it.

and when he whispered your name — hoarse, like a confession — you knew this wasn’t about duty anymore.

this was need. raw, dangerous, undeniable.

this was taehyun, breaking.

for you.

“stop pretending,” he growled against your mouth. “you want this too. don’t you?”

you didn’t answer.

you didn’t have to.

because your body gave you away.

he kissed you again, deeper, pressing his thigh between your legs as he cupped your face with one hand and slid the other down your back. you melted into him, your fists gripping his suit jacket. he pulled back just enough to speak.

“bed,” he ordered.

taehyun’s hands were steady as they moved over you, but there was something in his touch that made your breath catch — as if he was testing the boundaries of something fragile, something new.

your heart raced. you weren’t sure if it was the heat of his touch, the way he kissed you, or the slow realization that everything you had felt for him, all the confusion and desire, was now colliding into something far more real.

his hands traveled down your body, slipping under the hem of your nightdress. when his fingers touched your skin, it was like a spark. you gasped, and he froze for just a moment, before continuing, his fingers sliding up your thigh, almost teasingly slow.

he moved, lips trailing down your neck, sucking gently at the soft skin near your pulse. you arched into him, silently asking for more. the way he touched you, the way he made every inch of your skin burn under his fingers — it made you feel like you were breaking open in the best way possible.

you swallowed, hesitating for only a second.

taehyun’s hands were firm as they spread your legs, gently but with purpose, pulling you closer to him. his lips left your neck to trace down to your collarbone, each kiss a promise, each touch a slow unraveling of control. his breath hitched as he touched you where you needed him most, slipping past the fabric of your panties. you gasped, your body instinctively tensing, but he didn’t stop, didn’t falter. he was careful, tentative even, but the heat in his touch made it clear he wanted this, wanted you, desperately.

then you turned and walked toward it—slow, steps shaky—and sat at the edge.

he followed, kneeling in front of you, his fingers pulling off your heels, one by one, then slowly, reverently dragging his hands up your calves.

“your first time?” he asked, voice softer now. darker. laced with something almost like awe.

you nodded.

“i’ll be gentle,” he said, kissing your inner thigh. “at first.”

he lifted your dress slowly, exposing lace panties soaked through from everything he’d said, everything he’d done. he groaned low when he saw the mess between your thighs.

“look at that,” he muttered. “my pretty wife. dripping for me.”

you gasped as he licked a stripe over the lace, tongue hot and wet and slow. he took his time—kissing, teasing, tasting you through the fabric until you were panting, hips grinding against his mouth without shame.

“taehyun—please—”

“you’re beautiful,” he whispered, his voice hushed but intense. “so perfect.”

“let me in,” he whispered, his voice almost breaking, as if he was asking for permission, even though he had already claimed you.

“lie back.”

you obeyed.

he climbed over you, dragging the dress up and over your head until you were bare beneath him—your chest rising with every breath, your skin flushed.

he kissed your collarbones, your neck, your breasts—fingers tweaking your nipples, mouth trailing lower. then he was lining himself up, one hand gripping your hip as he kissed you again, deep and dizzying.

“relax,” he whispered against your lips. “i’ve got you.”

you nodded, the tension in your body thick as he carefully, slowly, pressed into you, watching your face the whole time. it hurt at first — the stretch, the unfamiliarity — but he didn’t rush. every movement was deliberate, tender, as if he were trying to make it as gentle as possible, as if he feared breaking you in the process.

your back arched at the stretch, tears welling up in your eyes from the fullness, the ache. he kissed them away.

“fuck,” he muttered. “you’re so fucking tight. like you were made for me.”

your breath hitched, and you held onto him, your hands gripping his shoulders as he pushed deeper, his lips finding yours once more. his kiss was hard, almost desperate, like he couldn’t get enough of you. his pace was slow, at first, allowing you to adjust, but the need in his body was impossible to ignore.

“you feel so good, baby. taking me so well. fuck—i can feel you squeezing me.”

but it didn’t stay soft for long.

because once you got used to him—once the sting faded and the pleasure bloomed—taehyun changed.

“this what you needed?” he growled, pounding into you harder, “a reminder that you're married? that you belong to me?”

he gripped your wrists and pinned them above your head, fucking into you harder, deeper. his jaw clenched as he watched you fall apart beneath him.

“mine,” he growled. “you belong to me. this pussy’s mine. not heesung’s. not anyone’s.”

“taehyun—god—”

“say it.”

“yours,” you moaned, breathless. “i’m yours.”

“that’s right,” he hissed. “and i’m gonna fuck you like it.”

he flipped you over before you could think—hands on your hips as he thrust into you from behind, one hand fisting your hair, the other slapping your ass hard enough to leave a mark.

“you like this?” he said, breath hot against your neck. “like getting fucked like a wife should?”

you couldn’t answer—you were too far gone.

he pulled you up against his chest, your back flush to him as he kept fucking into you. his hand moved to your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles until you were shaking again, sobbing from the pleasure.

“you’re gonna come again,” he said, voice rough. “you’re gonna come all over my cock while i fill you up.”

and you did.

your whole body convulsed, a scream torn from your throat as he groaned behind you, emptying inside you with a final, brutal thrust.

he didn’t pull out.

instead, he dragged you back into bed, still inside you, kissing your shoulder, your jaw, your lips.

“again,” he whispered. “we’re not done.”

you were still trembling when he kissed the sweat from your temple, when he pressed his chest against your back and held your hips tightly against his.

he hadn’t pulled out.

you could still feel him inside you—thick and hot and pulsing. the room smelled like sex and perfume and expensive cologne. your skin was burning everywhere he touched you. everywhere he kissed.

taehyun’s hand slid from your hip to your waist, then up to your throat. not squeezing—just resting there. possessive. grounding.

his voice was low, rough against your ear.

“feel that?” he murmured. “still so fucking hard inside you.”

you whimpered, thighs twitching. he groaned in response, hips rolling slowly, deliberately, grinding deeper.

“fuck—taehyun…”

“don’t say his name,” he snapped. “you moan mine. no one else’s.”

his hand tightened just a little around your throat, enough to make your eyes flutter closed, to make your breath catch.

“say it,” he demanded.

“…taehyun.”

“again.”

“taehyun—fuck—please…”

he pulled out then, and you almost cried from the sudden emptiness. but he wasn’t done. not even close.

“on your stomach,” he said.

your limbs obeyed before your brain could catch up—body pliant, aching, desperate.

he spread your legs with his knee, dragged your hips up, and slid back into you with a groan so guttural it echoed through the room. your fists clutched the sheets, knuckles white, back arching at the angle.

this time, he didn’t hold back.

his thrusts were deep, punishing, endless. the bed creaked beneath the force of him. his name spilled from your mouth like a prayer, like a cry for help. but he wasn’t stopping. he wanted to hear it.

he needed to ruin you.

his hand tangled in your hair again, yanking you up until your back hit his chest.

“you think anyone else could fuck you like this?” he hissed. “you think he could make you feel this full? this fucking owned?”

your moan was broken, desperate. “no—taehyun—fuck—only you—”

he bent you forward again, pressing your face into the sheets, his hand gripping your ass as he pounded into you harder, messier.

“that’s right. you belong to me.”

“taehyun—i’m gonna—i’m—”

“come for me. now.”

you shattered beneath him, legs trembling violently as he fucked you through it, not relenting, not even slowing.

“god, baby,” he groaned, losing rhythm, “you’re fucking milking my cock.”

he came deep, with a grunt that sounded more like a growl, his hips still grinding into you, desperate to push every drop inside.

neither of you moved for a long time.

his body collapsed over yours—heavy, solid, grounding. your face was buried in the sheets, lungs barely able to keep up, body boneless beneath his weight.

then, slowly, he pulled out.

you gasped softly at the mess that followed, at the mix of fluids dripping between your thighs, down to your trembling legs. he watched it happen with dark, hungry eyes.

“fuck,” he muttered, thumb dragging through the mess before spreading it back into you. “look at this. took all of me like such a good fucking girl.”

you whimpered, shivering.

taehyun leaned down, kissing your shoulder, your spine, your lower back. then he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you with him, both of you sinking into the sheets, tangled together.

he didn’t speak for a while. neither did you.

then, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it:

“don’t ever look at him like that again.”

his voice was low. dangerous.

your eyes fluttered closed, your fingers curling into his chest.

“i won’t,” you whispered.

he kissed your forehead.

“good,” he said. “because you’re mine. and i’m not letting you forget it.”

the room was dim, the soft golden light from the hallway spilling through the cracked bedroom door. taehyun hadn’t let go of you. not since the moment you both collapsed into each other, skin against skin, breaths uneven, hearts pounding too loud for either of you to ignore. the air was still heavy with the scent of last night—sweat, sex, his cologne lingering on your skin. your legs ached. your throat felt raw. but it was a quiet ache. a sore you didn’t mind.

but now, the high was gone, replaced by something raw and heavy.

his fingers traced idle shapes along the curve of your bare spine, but his eyes were distant. not cold — not like before — but unreadable. he wasn’t looking at you. he stared at the ceiling, his chest still rising and falling beneath yours.

you shifted slightly in his arms, pulling the sheets tighter around your body. your voice was quiet when you spoke.

"i know you don’t love me." you felt his breath catch. his hand stopped moving. "you never have."

taehyun didn’t answer at first. the silence made your throat close up. maybe you shouldn't have said it. maybe it was better when everything was unspoken — easier to pretend.

"you’re right," he said finally, his voice low, flat. "i didn’t."

you nodded, heart sinking, even though you told yourself you were prepared for that truth.

"but i loved you," you whispered, eyes stinging.

that made him look at you.

not glance. not flick his gaze and move on.

he turned his head, slowly, and looked at you like he had never seen you before. his eyes searched yours — not just your face, not your lips or your lashes or the outline of your cheek — but you. like he was trying to piece together something he hadn’t noticed until now.

"you what?" he asked, almost breathless.

"i loved you," you repeated. the words burned on your tongue, bitter and hot and trembling. "quietly. without reason. without hope. even when you wouldn’t look at me. even when you kept me at arm’s length for a year. i still—" you paused, swallowing hard. "i don’t know when it started. maybe it was the way you always pulled my chair out at those family dinners. or the way you’d always place your hand on the small of my back when we had to play pretend in front of everyone. it was nothing. always nothing. but it meant something to me."

taehyun sat up slowly, the sheets slipping down his bare chest. he looked like he wanted to say something, but nothing came. he was frozen, and that silence felt worse than any rejection.

you smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. "it’s okay. you don’t have to say anything. i just… i needed you to know. even if it changes nothing."

"stop," he said suddenly. his voice cracked.

you blinked. "...what?"

"don’t say it meant nothing," he said, turning to face you completely. there was a tension in his jaw, his hands clenched in the sheets like he didn’t know where else to put them. "don’t say that."

you stared at him, lips parting, but he beat you to it.

"i saw you tonight," he said, his voice lower, steadier now. "with him. laughing like that. smiling like it didn’t hurt. like you weren’t trying to survive this fucking arrangement. and for the first time, i hated myself for not trying harder. for not seeing you sooner. i thought i could stay distant. keep it clean. keep it safe. but then—"

he exhaled harshly, running a hand through his hair.

"then you looked at me like you didn’t need me anymore."

your heart thudded in your chest.

"so maybe i didn’t love you then," he said, his voice quiet again. "but don’t tell me it meant nothing. because right now, i think it’s starting to mean everything."

you stared at him, breath caught in your throat, chest tight with the ache of all the things unsaid between you.

slowly, carefully, you leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his.

"then let it mean something," you whispered.

taehyun closed his eyes. and for the first time — truly, deeply — he held you like he didn’t want to let you go.

he opened his eyes a little at the time. he stared a moment longer—at your lips, your eyes, the faint tremble still in your voice. then, for the first time, he leaned in without hesitation. without obligation.

his kiss was soft. warm. nothing like last night.

when he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“i’ll draw a bath for you,” he said. “stay in bed.”

you blinked. “you…?”

“you can’t walk properly,” he added, and this time, a tiny smirk curved at the corner of his mouth. “my fault.”

you flushed. “taehyun—”

“don’t argue,” he said, sitting up. the sheets slid down his bare torso, revealing the lines you’d traced with your fingers just hours ago. “you married me. you’re mine. that means i take care of you now.”

you stayed quiet as he got out of bed, the tenderness in his tone still ringing in your ears.

you’re mine.

i take care of you now.

but for the first time, you felt it in the way he walked toward the bathroom. in the way he turned on the water. in the way he reached for a towel and hung it over the warmer. in the way he came back to you with a robe in hand and helped you into it without asking.

he wasn’t warm. not exactly. but he was no longer cold.

he was changing.

and god help you—so were you.

[realmsofdreams]

hearth

pairing: cregan stark x fem!reader

summary: as the second wife of lord cregan stark, you’ve poured your heart into raising his son rickon as your own, finding purpose in a north that views you as an outsider from a minor house. but at rickon’s third nameday feast, northern lords, obsessed with the stark legacy, dismiss your role and pressure cregan to wed a “proven” noblewoman to secure heirs, ignoring your unfruitful womb. when lady cerys, cregan’s former love, is proposed as his new bride, her venomous revelations and cregan’s wavering loyalty shatter your trust.

warnings: intense angst, emotional betrayal, public humiliation, themes of infertility pressure, verbal cruelty, pregnancy-related tension, mild language, heated arguments, emotional manipulation, themes of isolation and rejection. suitable for mature readers due to heavy emotional content.

rickon’s third nameday feast, a rare burst of joy in the north’s eternal frost. you sit at the high table, your spine straight, your smile practiced, as you watch rickon, your heart’s son, toddle through the crowd, chasing a hound pup with a giggle that melts the hardest of northern hearts. he’s yours, not by blood but by every stitch you’ve sewn into his cloaks, every lullaby sung in the dark, every scraped knee kissed. you’ve loved him since the day you wed cregan stark, mere moons after arra norrey’s death, vowing to be his mother in all but name. rickon calls you “mama,” and that word is your anchor, your shield against the north’s cold judgment.

but tonight, something darker than winter’s chill. the northern lords, their faces weathered by war and duty, drink deeply and cast sharp glances your way. you hear their whispers, carried like blades on the wind, stark line, no heirs, barren wife. your fingers clench the arm of your chair, the wood biting into your palm. you’re no stranger to their doubts, but on this night, with rickon’s laughter and your role as his mother so vivid, their words carve deeper, slicing at the fragile pride you’ve built as lady stark.

cregan sits beside you, his presence a mountain of strength, his eyes warm when they meet yours. his hand, calloused from sword and plow, rests briefly on your knee beneath the table, a gesture that once steadied you. but as the feast wears on, you notice his jaw tighten, his gaze flicker to lord umber, who approaches with a grim purpose. their voices are low, but you catch fragments, duty, legacy, a stronger match. cregan’s responses are curt, his eyes darting to you once, then away. your chest tightens. you know what they speak of: your womb, empty after two years of marriage, and the stark line’s precarious future.

you don’t crumble. you’ve never crumbled, not when you left your minor house to wed a stark, not when the north’s lords sneered at your lack of noble blood, not when the maesters whispered of your ‘unproven’ body. you are steel, forged in the fire of their scorn, and you will not break now. instead, you lift your goblet, your smile a mask, and toast rickon’s health, your voice clear and unwavering. the hall echoes your call, but the lords’ eyes linger, judging, dismissing.

the feast ends late, and you carry rickon to his chambers, his small body heavy with sleep. cregan follows, silent, his boots heavy on the stone. you tuck rickon into his furs, brushing a kiss to his brow, and when you turn, cregan’s watching, his face shadowed.

“what did umber want?” you ask, your tone even, though your pulse races.

he hesitates, scrubbing a hand through his dark hair.

“the same as always. talk of the stark line, the future.”

“and me,” you say, stepping closer, your eyes locked on his.

“they spoke of me, cregan. of my failure to give you heirs.”

his sigh is a gust of winter wind.

“they’re worried, that’s all. they’re old men, set in their ways. they see rickon and want more.”

“more than i’ve given,” you say, your voice low but sharp.

“they don’t see me as rickon’s mother. they see me as a barren outsider, don’t they?”

“you’re his mother,” he says, voice firm.

“i’ve never doubted that.”

“but you let them doubt me,” you counter, your words precise, cutting.

“you let them question my place, my worth. what did you say to umber? did you defend me, or did you listen?”

his silence is a wound. he steps toward you, but you hold up a hand, stopping him.

“if you can’t answer, don’t touch me.” you say, your voice cold.

“i’m not considering their nonsense,” he says, frustration creeping into his tone.

“but i can’t just dismiss them. they’re my bannermen, my father’s men. they’ve fought for this house.”

“and i haven’t?” you snap, your control fraying.

“i’ve fought everyday to be rickon’s mother, to be your wife, to prove myself to a north that doesn’t want me. but you’re leaving the door open, cregan. you’re letting them think another wife, a ‘proven’ wife might be better.”

“i’m not,”

he insists, but there’s a crack in his voice, a hesitation that betrays him. you step back, your heart a storm of hurt and fury.

“i won’t be your placeholder,”

you say, your voice steady despite the ache.

“i deserve better than your half-answers.”

you turn, leaving him in rickon’s chamber, your head high, your tears held back. you are steel, and steel does not bend.

you rise early the next morning, your body heavy with a secret you’ve carried for days. the maester confirmed you’re with child, a fragile hope you’ve guarded fiercely. you meant to tell cregan, to share the joy and bind your fractured trust, but his silence last night changed everything. now, the secret feels like a weapon, one you’re not ready to wield.

you avoid the great hall, breaking your fast with rickon in his nursery. he babbles about his nameday gifts, a wooden wolf cregan carved himself, and you smile, your love for him a light in the dark. but your thoughts churn. the lords’ whispers, cregan’s wavering, the weight of a north that sees you as less, these are battles you’ve fought alone, and you’re tired, so tired, but you will not break.

sara, cregan’s half-sister, finds you at midday, her face etched with worry.

“there’s a council meeting,” she says, her voice low.

“the norreys are here, and they’re pushing hard. you need to know.”

your blood chills. the norreys, arra’s kin, are a proud, unyielding clan, and their loyalty to her memory is a blade they’ve never sheathed. you nod, entrusting rickon to his nursemaid, and follow sara to the council chamber. you don’t enter, ladies don’t, not uninvited but you linger outside, the cracked door revealing a storm of voices.

lord norrey’s is loudest, his words a hammer.

“lady cerys is proven, my lord. she’d honor arra’s legacy and give you heirs. your current lady, forgive me, hasn’t, and the stark line cannot falter.”

cerys. the name is a dagger, twisting old wounds. you’ve heard of her. cregan’s courtship after arra’s death, a fleeting flame before he chose you. you thought it buried, but the norreys’ proposal unearths it, raw and bleeding. cregan’s voice is measured, deflecting without refusing, and that ambiguity is a betrayal in itself.

“i’ve made my vows,”

he says, but it’s weak, a shield with cracks. the lords press harder, and he doesn’t silence them.

you step away, your breath shallow, your resolve hardening. you will not weep, not here, not where they can smell weakness. you return to rickon, your hands steady as you braid his hair, your voice calm as you sing him a northern ballad. but inside, you’re a furnace of rage and hurt, forging your pain into armor.

that afternoon, in the godswood’s crimson hush, lady cerys finds you. she’s a vision of northern beauty, a tall, with piercing blue eyes and hair like spun gold, her presence a calculated strike. you’re kneeling by the heart tree, praying for strength, when her shadow falls over you.

“so you’re the one he chose,”

she says, her voice a blade wrapped in silk.

“i expected more, not a mouse from a house no one remembers.”

you rise, your chin high, your eyes unflinching.

“i’m lady stark,” you say, your tone ice. “and you’re trespassing on my peace.”

she laughs, sharp and cruel.

“your peace? you’re a shadow in a seat that should’ve been mine. cregan loved me, you know. after arra died, he came to me, swore he’d make me his lady. we shared nights, promises things you’ll never understand. but his council wanted someone safe, someone who wouldn’t stir the north. so he settled for you.”

her words are venom, each one a precise cut. you feel them, deep and raw, but you don’t flinch.

“if he loved you, why am i his wife?” you ask, your voice steady, though your heart screams.

“duty,” she spits, stepping closer.

“he’s a stark, chained to honor. but he’ll always want me. you’re a duty, a compromise. and now the north sees you for what you are, a barren, weak, unworthy. i’m leaving winterfell, but i wanted you to know the truth that he’ll never love you like he loved me.”

you hold her gaze, your face a mask of stone.

“leave, then,” you say, your voice low, lethal.

“but don’t mistake my silence for weakness. i’m cregan’s wife, the mother of his son, and i’ll outlast you.”

she smirks, but there’s a flicker of frustration in her eyes. she turns, her cloak sweeping the snow, and you’re left alone, the weirwood’s red eyes watching. her words burn, searing doubts you’ve buried cregan’s choice, his heart, your place. you’re carrying his child, but cerys’s venom and cregan’s silence make it feel like ash. you press a hand to your stomach, your resolve steeling. you will not break, not for her, not for him, not for anyone.

you withdraw. it’s a calculated retreat, not a surrender. you stop dining in the great hall, taking meals with rickon or alone in your chambers. you avoid cregan, your paths crossing only when duty demands, rickon’s lessons, winterfell’s upkeep. when he speaks, you’re polite, distant, your words clipped, your eyes averted. you tend to winterfell’s needs with ruthless efficiency, settling disputes, overseeing stores, earning the smallfolk’s respect. but with cregan, you’re a ghost, present but untouchable.

he notices, of course. you see it in his furrowed brow, the way his hand hovers when you pass, the tightening of his mouth when you excuse yourself early. but you don’t yield. let him feel the weight of his silence, the cost of his hesitation. you’ve given him your heart, your body, your life now he must earn them back.

the northern lords their whispers louder, and cerys remains, her departure delayed by some pretext. her presence is a constant barb, her smiles at cregan in the hall a public wound. the norreys push their case, and cregan’s deflections grow weaker, his patience fraying. you hear from sara that he’s clashing with the lords, but he hasn’t banished cerys or silenced the talk. each day, your hurt festers, your trust erodes, but you channel it into strength, into rickon, into the child growing inside you.

one evening, in the library, you’re reviewing grain ledgers when cerys’s voice cuts through the quiet. she’s with a norrey cousin, unaware of your presence behind the shelves.

“he’s faltering,” she says, her tone smug.

“he’ll bend soon. the north needs a true stark wife, not that barren girl. i’ll have him yet, and she’ll be nothing.”

you step forward, your voice like a whip.

“say it to my face, cerys.”

she startles, then smirks, her cousin shifting uncomfortably.

“you’re bold for a woman with nothing to show for it,” she says. “no heirs, no lineage, no hold on cregan’s heart. enjoy your title while it lasts. lady stark.”

you advance, your eyes blazing, and she falters.

“i’ve raised rickon, held winterfell, and earned the love of its people,” you say, your voice low, lethal.

“what have you done, cerys, besides cling to a past that doesn’t want you? leave, or i’ll make you.”

her cousin tugs her away, and you’re left trembling, not with fear but with fury. you return to the ledgers, your hands steady, but the encounter hardens your resolve. you won’t let cerys or the lords define you. but cregan’s silence, his failure to end this, is a wound you can’t ignore.

weeks pass, and cregan’s patience snaps. you’re in the courtyard, overseeing a shipment of furs, when he strides toward you, his face a storm.

“enough,” he says, his voice rough, drawing eyes.

“you’ve shut me out for weeks. i can’t bear it anymore.”

you straighten, your face impassive, though your heart races.

“i’m busy, my lord,” you say, turning to the furs.

“winter’s coming. there’s work to be done.”

“damn the work,”

he snaps, grabbing your arm, his grip firm but not cruel.

“talk to me. you’re my wife, not a stranger.”

you pull free, your eyes flashing. “am i your wife? because the north seems to think otherwise. your lords, cerys they’ve made that clear, and you’ve done nothing to stop them.”

his jaw clenches, guilt flickering in his eyes. “i’ve tried—”

“tried?” you cut in, your voice rising, heedless of the onlookers.

“you’ve let them humiliate me, cregan! you’ve let cerys spit venom, let your bannermen call me barren, let them propose her as your new bride while i stand here, carrying your child!”

the courtyard stills, the words hanging like a thunderclap. cregan’s eyes widen, shock and hope warring in his face.

“you’re with child?”

you curse your slip, your throat tightening.

“yes,” you say, voice low, trembling.

“and i’ve carried it alone, wondering if you’d cast me aside for cerys, for a ‘proven’ wife. you loved her, cregan. she told me… nights, promises, a future. was i just duty? a safe choice?”

he steps closer, his voice raw.

“cerys was a mistake, a comfort when i was broken after arra. i cared for her, aye, but it was fleeting. i chose you because you were light, because you loved rickon, because you made winterfell home. i’ve never regretted it.”

“then why didn’t you fight for me?”

you demand, tears threatening but held back.

“why let them tear me apart? i’ve given you everything, my heart, my life, my body and you’ve left me to face this alone.”

“i was a fool,” he says, his voice breaking.

“i thought i could balance duty and love, keep the lords in line without bloodshed. but i failed you. i see it now, and it’s killing me.”

you shake your head, stepping back.

“words aren’t enough, cregan. i’m tired of fighting for a place you won’t defend. i’m rickon’s mother, i’m your wife, and i’m done begging for you to see it.”

you turn, walking away, your head high, the courtyard watching. he calls your name, but you don’t stop. you’re steel, and steel doesn’t bend.

that night, he acts. you’re in your chambers, braiding rickon’s hair, when sara bursts in, breathless.

“he’s done it,” she says.

“he banished cerys and her kin. told the norreys if they speak of another wife again, they’ll answer to his sword. he’s in the great hall now, facing the lords.”

you pause, your heart lurching. you hand rickon to his nursemaid and follow sara, your steps quick but steady. in the great hall, cregan stands before the lords, his voice like iron.

“lady stark is my wife,” he says, his tone unyielding.

“she’s rickon’s mother, the heart of winterfell, and she carries my child. anyone who questions her place insults me, insults house stark. speak of another wife again, and you’ll find no mercy here.”

lord umber shifts, but cregan’s glare silences him.

“the stark line is secure,” he continues. “and my loyalty is to my family, my wife, my son, my unborn child. if you can’t honor that, leave this hall and don’t return.”

the lords murmur, some chastened, others defiant, but none dare challenge him. you watch from the shadows, your heart a tangle of hurt and hope. he’s fighting for you, finally, but the wounds are deep, the trust fractured.

later, he finds you in the godswood, the snow falling soft around the heart tree. you’re bundled in furs, your face pale but resolute. he kneels before you, a rare vulnerability in his eyes.

“i’ve been a coward,” he says, his voice rough.

“i let duty blind me, let the lords and cerys wound you. i thought i could protect you by staying silent, but i only hurt you more. i don’t deserve your forgiveness, but i’m begging for it.”

you study him, the man you love, the man who’s broken you.

“you should’ve fought for me from the start,” you say, your voice steady, though it trembles inside.

“i’ve stood alone, cregan, while you wavered. i’m strong, but i shouldn’t have to be steel for both of us.”

“i know,” he says, his hands reaching for yours, hesitant.

“i see you, your strength, your love, your fire. you’re more stark than any of them, and i’ll spend my life proving it. no more silence, no more hesitation. you’re my wife, my love, my home.”

you let him take your hands, his warmth seeping through the cold.

“i’m tired,”

you admit, your voice softer now, the weight of weeks spilling out.

“i’m tired of fighting, of doubting. i want us, rickon, this child, you. but i need to trust you.”

“you will,” he vows, his eyes fierce.

“i’ll guard your heart as fiercely as i guard winterfell. no one will hurt you again not cerys, not the lords, not me.”

you nod, tears finally falling, but they’re cleansing, a release. he pulls you into his arms, and you let him, your strength meeting his, your hurt finding solace in his promise. the snow falls, the weirwood watches, and you begin to mend.

moons later, you birth a son, torrhen, with cregan’s stormy eyes and your fierce spirit. rickon dotes on him, calling him ‘torry.’ and winterfell’s halls echo with their laughter. the northern lords, humbled by cregan’s wrath, toast your son’s health, their doubts buried. cerys is a fading memory, her name unspoken.

one night, as you lie with cregan, torrhen asleep between you, he kisses your brow.

“i’ll never fail you again,” he murmurs.

you smile, your hand on his heart.

“you’re learning,” you tease, but your eyes are warm. “we’re enough, cregan. we always were.”

[padmespetal]

my love mine all mine — bruce wayne

synopsis: the weight of loving a man like him.

word count: 984

warnings: none, mentions of blood

note: my first fic i’m posting <33 sorry if there are mistakes english is not my first language i used a bale batman picture but you can imagine any version of bruce you want, hope you enjoy reading !! 🤍

Everyone always says you are so lucky to be Mrs. Wayne.

They say it in whispers behind champagne glasses at charity galas, in the sharp-edged comments of online forums dissecting your every move, in the glossy spreads of magazines that parade you like a prize.

They say it like a mantra, like an undeniable truth—because to them, you are the woman who won.

The tabloids adore you. Or rather, they adore picking you apart.

They scrutinize every dress you wear, every way you style your hair, the minute fluctuations in your weight as if it were a stock market chart. Did you gain a pound? Lose two? Was that diamond bracelet new, or just an old piece resurfaced to keep up appearances?

The public treats you like a living exhibit, a fragile doll encased in glass, standing at the side of Gotham’s most infamous bachelor-turned-husband.

No one thought it would last.

Bruce Wayne, the Bruce Wayne, had been through more relationships than anyone could count.

Women entered his orbit and just as quickly disappeared, leaving behind only the fading scent of expensive perfume and speculation in the tabloids.

He was a playboy. A heartbreaker .

The kind of man who could smile just right, make you feel like you were the only woman in the world—only for you to wake up one morning and realize you’d just been another name on his list.

And yet.

You had to be different, didn’t you? Because somehow, against all odds, against the expectations of an entire city, you weren’t just another chapter in his book. You were the last page.

But no one ever talks about what it actually means to be Mrs. Wayne.

They don’t know about the weight of it, the exhaustion, the sharp edges that come with the soft silks and diamonds.

They don’t see the sleepless nights spent staring at the clock, waiting for him to come home—wondering if this will be the night he doesn’t.

They don’t see the way your hands shake as you press them against his bloodied skin, patching him up in the dim light of your bedroom, biting back the tears because you knew what you signed up for.

Because crying never stopped him from going back out there.

They don’t see the fights, either. The yelling that ricochets off the walls of Wayne Manor like gunfire, your voice raw from screaming at him because how dare he be so reckless—because does he not realize what he’d leave behind if he didn’t come back?

“You don’t get to be careless,” you had shouted once, eyes burning with unshed tears. “You don’t get to act like your life doesn’t matter.”

And Bruce—stoic, unshakable Bruce—had just stared at you, jaw tight, breathing heavy, as if he wanted to argue. As if he wanted to tell you that Gotham came first. But the words never left his lips.

Because Gotham might be his city, but you—you and the messy, complicated family you built together—you were his home.

Everyone thought it was impossible for him to let someone in. Even he thought so.

Batman never thought he’d find someone who could understand.

He had learned the hard way that loving him was dangerous. He had been burned before. He had loved and lost, and he had told himself that it was better—safer—to be alone. And for a long time, he believed it.

There was Selina, of course.

The woman who had come closer than anyone else before you. The one he almost, almost married. But they were fire and ice, drawn together by their similarities yet always breaking apart because of them. They wanted too much from each other—too much change, too much compromise, too much that neither of them could ever truly give.

But you…

You weren’t like the others.

You didn’t fall for the mask. You weren’t enamored by the money, the power, the legacy of the Wayne name. You didn’t flinch at his darkness. You saw him—not just the billionaire, not just the vigilante, but him.

And that terrified him.

You saw through the careful facade, through the charming smiles and effortless grace, through the masks he had perfected over decades of hiding.

He tried to push you away. Oh, how he tried.

But you were persistent. Stubborn. You told him you weren’t going anywhere, that you’d rather walk through fire with him than live a life without him.

“You’re a fool,” he had told you once, voice low, rough.

“And you love me for it,” you had whispered back.

He married you months later.

So yes, being the new Mrs. Wayne was glamorous.

It was champagne-filled nights at high society events, breathtaking gowns, luxurious vacations, and a life most people could only dream of.

But it was also bruises hidden under expensive fabrics, exhaustion masked by perfectly applied makeup, whispered arguments behind closed doors.

It was being Batmom to the family of misfits and broken souls he had adopted along the way—learning to navigate the chaos of a home filled with vigilantes, each carrying their own wounds and ghosts.

It was being the one person who could ground Bruce, the one who reminded him that he was more than his mission, more than the cowl, more than the trauma he carried like a second skin.

It was waiting up at night, staring out at the city skyline, waiting for the Bat-Signal to disappear—because that meant he was coming home.

It was waking up to the sound of him slipping into bed beside you at dawn, his body aching, his mind heavy, but his arms pulling you close like he needed you to breathe.

It was love, in all its messy, painful, beautiful glory.

So let them talk. Let the tabloids speculate, let the world watch and judge and never understand.

Because they’ll never know what it truly means to be Mrs. Wayne.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

© padmespetal 2025 — I DO NOT APPROVE OF MY WORKS TO BE TRANSLATED OR COPIED ANYWHERE WITHOUT PERMISSION

tags:

[dandelion-wings]

Once again thinking about the pre-game, pre-expedition Eula/Jean where Eula, determined to repay Jean for the debt of helping her become a knight and a captain, takes on a grisly murder investigation that Jean has recused herself from because Kaeya has become the top suspect. Eula will clear his name as a favor to Jean, and clear her own debt in the process!

(She is definitely not also motivated by Jean's distress at seeing her best friend imprisoned, which is in turn definitely not driven by some absurd desire to impress and maybe kiss her. Jean may be an honorable and fair woman, but she's still a Gunnhildr and an ancient enemy, and therefore Eula holds no such feelings.)

There's, uh, one little problem: as the evidence stacks up, it's becoming more and more inarguably certain that Kaeya actually did it.

[juricel]

Headcanon request for Beast Cookies x reader who gets convinced by them to join them so he won't have to suffer the pain of their life and had became an entity so they will be together with them forever?

a/n: I didn't include silent salt, for this is heavily centered around their character, and they have yet come out, I hope you don't mind but then again, I have stated it before that I do not write for them.

— mystic flour cookie x reader, burning spice cookie x reader, shadow milk cookie x reader, eternal sugar cookie x reader.

໒꒰՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞꒱ა ۪ ׂ CONTENT WARNING: themes of nihilism as per usual mystic flour cookie, emotional despair, existential dread, self-harm imagery, manipulation, love bombing, coercion, and potential ooc.

pointless. MYSTIC FLOUR COOKIE could not comprehend the rationality of your persistence—your endless prattling, your stubborn resolve; it was all for naught, a futile exertion in the face of the inevitable. did you not understand? all of it would fade—irrelevant, unnoticed, as if it had never been. there would be no mark upon history, no legacy to preserve the fight. every effort, every defiance, would dissolve into nothingness. and yet, still, you fought. why? the path to salvation lay not in this endless struggle, but in surrender. take her hand, and step into the void, where all things had long since ceased, and in that stillness, grace would bestow eternal peace.

no matter how fiercely cookies flourish, how far they reach, how deeply they love, it all drifts to dust—soft and weightless, like flour borne on the wind. the cycle endures: rise, fall, forget. she cannot unmake it, cannot wipe the slate clean. but she can offer something else. not erasure, no—eternity. come with her, step beyond the world’s decay, and become untouchable. transcend, not vanish. remain, always.

oh, you poor little crumpled cherub! look at you—covered in your own crimson jam, eyes like broken glass, heart swollen with pain and heavy with sorrow. if you persist—if you drag those feet another inch along the jagged path—you shall diverge irreparably from that divine avenue, the gilded promenade of happiness! no, no, no. that would be a blasphemy—a sacrilege against delight itself! ETERNAL SUGAR COOKIE cannot—will not—permit such a tragic misfolding of fate. you were meant to glisten, not to grieve.

come, won’t you, to her garden? that clandestine eden where sorrow dares not tread, where even the ghosts hush their moans and the air shimmers with a perfume too ancient to name. you shall not be alone there—no, never alone. if a tear escapes your eye, the vines will lean in and weep with you, green tendrils coiling gently, whispering leaf-lullabies. if your soul is fractured, fret not—the garden, with its blooms and murmuring roots, will stitch it whole with the deftness of an old dream. ah, but if you hesitate, if some last flicker of will resists—fear not. she will find a way. she always finds a way. you see, she adores the broken ones, the little cookies crumbling at the edges. so tired, so terribly tired—tormented by those gnawing, spidery thoughts. let her help. let her hush them. let her do the thinking for you. why strain, sweet wafer of woe, when she can cradle you forever in petals and shadow, in silk and silence?

hope; a pitiful paper crown worn by the naïve, the desperate, the deluded. a banquet of baloney, stuffed with saccharine dreams and stale promises, paraded about as if it were virtue incarnate. rubbish—glittered, gift-wrapped, and passed down like heirloom poison from one wide-eyed generation to the next. a trick of the psyche. a sparkling hallucination meant to distract from the gnashing teeth just beyond the velvet proscenium. and the world? oh, don’t make him laugh. the world is no stage—it is a pitiless cabaret, a carnival of grotesques. the curtains are stitched from flayed dreams, the spotlights are slow-burning gas fires. every act ends in collapse, every round of applause is but a dirge. the audience has long since abandoned their seats, but the performers—poor, wretched things—still stagger through their routines. mouthing the words. hitting their marks. bleeding on cue. and you—you dear, fluttering marionette—you still believe! you still prattle! still tie ribbons around your grief and call it poetry. still sing lullabies to your pain, mistaking it for a wounded bird rather than the vulture it truly is. you cling to hope like a drunk to his last coin, spinning it in the gutter and whispering, “maybe this time.” ah, such dainty noise—like spoons chiming in a dollhouse—will perish, in time. it must. the fools, ever enamored with their toybox paradise, will cradle it like something sacred, mistaking the humdrum balm of ignorance for grace. but fret not, fret not! his sweet little dear, do not despair—applaud, even! for SHADOW MILK COOKIE has not just one, but many dazzling entrances prepared for you. each one a doorway, each one a revelation. not with force—how vulgar—but with flair, with wonder! so come, his darling—step through the curtain, shed your skin of sorrow, and be reborn in the only truth that matters: to be his.

cookies. they rose, they cracked, they rose again, and cracked. same old story. he’d seen it too many times—dough stretching like blind roots toward some fake sun, puffing up with hot little dreams, then sinking, splitting, crumbling into nothing. always the same end. always that brittle, pathetic hope. there was something sickly sweet about it all, like a smile left out too long. the cycle droned on, dull as dust and just as stubborn. life, with its sugar-coated promises, never gave him anything new—just the same tired tune, the same broken record, spinning in the dark. he’d tried to fix it, patch the cracks, hold the thing together with floury hands and good intentions. useless. it always fell apart. everything. even the trying. in the end, he searched and strained and still found nothing that fit, nothing that stayed—until you. you were the only thing that didn’t flicker out, the only one he could hold onto without bracing for the break. the one thing he could care for without fear of it crumbling. the one thing that didn’t wilt. and BURNING SPICE COOKIE intends to keep it till the end.

those pathetic cookies—faint, crumbly grotesques of valor—cracked and disintegrated at the mere suggestion of his axe. not a whisper of resistance, not a flicker of defiance. they vanished like brittle dreams at daybreak, a thwart species... you mustn’t consort with such ornamental failures; their loyalty is as shallow as the sugar crust they flake beneath. you ought, instead, to come to him—yes, you, as though drawn by some perfumed gravity stitched into the hem of dusk—for he alone knows what is deserved for you.

a/n: it's me and my dearest em dash (including my extremely complicated imagery) against the world, also isn't it obvious I struggled with shadow milk cookie's part?

[kunareads]

if i believe you | chapter five

train up a child

clan head!satoru x reader

prev / next series masterlist / full masterlist

wc: 4.2k

content: angst angst angst. a series of flashbacks where we learn why satoru and reader are Like That. toji/shoko/suguru cameo. childhood emotional abuse, neglect, misogyny, slight anxiety depiction.

INTERACT HERE FOR TAGLIST!

18+ please <3

eight years old

the room feels like a cavern, cold and echoing, silence stretching between the walls like something alive. satoru stands in the center, small and sharp-eyed, his white hair a stark contrast against the dark wooden panels. he’s still catching his breath from the last exercise, his hands flexing at his sides, tiny sparks of cursed energy flaring between his fingers.

instructors stand along a wall, murmuring amongst themselves. a few clan elders are present as well, hands folded behind their backs. their gazes press down on him, waiting, evaluating.

“you can’t rely on that power alone,” a man says. “the six eyes are nothing without control. without discipline.”

satoru frowns. he’s heard this before—how his power means nothing if he can’t bend it to his will. how he’s an instrument, meant to contain the clan’s legacy and strengthen it.

but he’s a child. what is an instrument? what is a legacy?

“we don’t have the luxury of failure,” the man continues. “the gojo name is strength and prestige, and you will not disappoint. understand?”

satoru nods, brows drawn together. he’s already learned that questions only invite criticism.

“do it again,” someone commands, and satoru squares his shoulders.

he clenches his fists again and concentrates, letting his cursed energy pool around him. it’s heavy today, like it’s fighting back. but he’s not supposed to say that. it would sound like an excuse. so he forces it down, lets the power surge out, forming his infinity around him.

the instructors throw objects at him—stones, wooden rods, shards. infinity stops them all, but the strain leaves his shoulders trembling. he thinks about saying something—about how it doesn’t feel right today—but the look on the elders’ faces stops him.

“good enough,” one of them mutters, the words dripping with dissatisfaction. the bombardment stops, and satoru’s chest loosens.

but the relief doesn’t last. another elder steps forward, his gaze colder than the rest. “good enough is hardly acceptable. perfection is the standard here. his duty is to uphold it.”

satoru swallows down his confusion, the thing he hasn’t yet recognized as resentment. he doesn’t understand why it has to be this way—why he has to be this way. but he knows better than to question it when all eyes are on him.

“yes, sir,” he says, his voice small but his expression unwavering.

deep down, something begins to harden. a seed of defiance, of something too raw to name. he’ll get it right next time. he has to.

── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢

your bedroom is quiet, bathed in the last slivers of sunset seeping through lattice windows. you sit on the floor, hands folded in your lap, willing your shoulders to stop shaking. your eyes burn as the tears spill over, and you reprimand yourself. you’re supposed to stay composed, even when it hurts.

your mother enters without a sound, her presence sweeping over you like a blanket. she sits beside you, movements fluid and controlled, her eyes averted from your tear-streaked face.

a soft hand rests on your shoulder. “you shouldn’t cry over something so small,” she says gently. “you’re stronger than this, aren’t you?”

you nod, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand. her gesture only makes you feel smaller. her fingers trace through your hair, fixing the strands that came loose from your ribbon.

“there, now. we can’t have you falling apart every time something doesn’t go your way.” her voice is calm, almost soothing. but there’s something hollow in it, the words falling flat. “you must learn to carry yourself properly. you’re too old to be crying like this.”

you want to say something—to apologize, to promise that you won’t cry again—but your throat feels too tight. instead, you just nod, trying to control your breathing.

her touch lingers, brushing away stray tears with the corner of her sleeve. “your father expects more from you. we both do. a good daughter knows how to conduct herself. understood?”

“yes,” you whisper.

her hand drops away, and the space between you feels cold, like you’re being left behind. she rises to her feet with that effortless grace, pausing at the door.

“you’ll do better next time,” she says, a faint smile curving her lips. it’s more of a statement than an encouragement. “i know you will.”

when your mother leaves, the room is too quiet. you pull your knees to your chest, squeezing your eyes shut. it’s not the first time you’ve been comforted like this, and it won’t be the last.

and it’s not real comfort at all. just another reminder to be as quiet as possible. your mother’s words echo in your mind—you’re stronger than this. you’ll make sure of it next time.

eleven years old

the path is gravel, crunching softly beneath satoru’s sandals as he walks alongside an instructor whose name he barely remembers. the man drones on about refinement, control, mastery—things satoru has already heard a thousand times.

“you’re not listening,” the man snaps.

and he’s not. not really. his attention is elsewhere, his gaze drifting over the estate grounds, eyes half-lidded as if the sunlight itself is dull. the words filter through his mind like wind threading through leaves. meaningless.

he’s bored out of his mind.

but then, a prickle—faint but undeniable, slithering down his spine. the six eyes catch it before he does, sharpening his presence with a clarity that startles him. an unfamiliar presence. dangerous.

he turns, gaze snapping to the far end of the walkway where two figures pass. a man is there, someone satoru doesn’t recognize. black hair, stony expression, large build. but it’s the way he stands—soundless, predatory, and without the faint hum of jujutsu—that holds his attention.

his heartbeat quickens, and for the first time in his life, satoru feels something he’s not accustomed to feeling: uncertainty.

“eyes forward.” the instructor’s voice cuts through the moment like shattered glass. satoru’s head jerks back around, the man’s scowl deepening.

“you think you’re above learning?” the words are practically spit at him. “pay attention. your arrogance is going to get you killed one day.”

his mouth opens to argue, to tell him it wasn’t arrogance, that something—someone—was there, but there’s no room for argument. no room for anything other than obedience.

“what was i just saying?” the man demands.

satoru’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing. there’s a stubbornness in his silence. a challenge. because if they won’t hear him, then what’s the point of explaining himself at all?

the man’s expression turns into a sneer. “if you think the six eyes make you untouchable, you’re more of a fool than i thought.”

it’s not the first time he’s been scolded for things that feel insignificant. but today his frustration turns into something colder, something hardened under the weight of expectation.

he holds the man’s gaze, unflinching. he won’t apologize.

“again,” the instructor growls. “this time, with your attention where it should be.”

satoru’s arrogance is blooming. not from confidence, but from the constant requirement to prove himself. the only thing he knows is that he can’t afford to be wrong. not when everyone expects him to be right.

── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・──

the room is too quiet. too empty. every sound feels too loud, like it’s trying to fill the space where words should be.

you sit alone at a low table, knees pressed together, hands folded neatly in your lap. the tea set in front of you remains untouched, its warmth leeching into the cool air. your mother and father aren’t here. they haven’t been here all day.

your mistake had been small. stupid, even. you had spoken out of turn when your parents’ guests were present. your voice had slipped into the conversation without thought, your curiosity blooming too quickly to be contained.

a quiet look from your father, a disappointed look from your mother. that had been all. no scolding, no raised voices. just silence.

it’s worse than punishment. worse than anger.

they simply pretend you don’t exist.

the hours drag on, pulling you apart piece by piece. you can’t focus on your studies. your hands shake when you try to write, the brushstrokes uneven, smeared. you spend the afternoon retracing your own mistakes, as if perfect calligraphy will somehow fix everything.

your mother passes you in the corridor without so much as a glance. your father’s voice filters through the walls of his study, discussing matters of importance as if you’re nothing but a shadow. the staff moves about their tasks, too frightened to acknowledge you.

it’s not just rejection. it’s erasure. and it’s not the first time.

your parents’ approval is everything. without it, you’re withering from the inside out.

this desperate silence is a weapon, you realize. a means of forcing submission without a single word. it’s punishment disguised as calm. indifference is worse than cruelty.

by the time night falls, your chest feels crushed. your hands ache from gripping the brush too tightly, your eyes burn from straining to perfect each line.

when you finally gather the courage to find your mother preparing for bed, it feels like dragging yourself through ice.

“mom,” you whisper, your voice trembling in the stillness. “i’m sorry i spoke out of turn. it won’t happen again.”

your mother pauses, her gaze sliding over you with the dispassion of someone studying a textbook rather than a child.

“we expect you to conduct yourself properly,” she says, her tone smooth and detached. “if you wish to be treated with respect, you must earn it.”

the words hit like cold iron, settling heavy and unmoving in your chest. acceptance is conditional. love is conditional.

you nod, a tiny, frail movement, your hands clutching at your sleeves like that alone will keep you steady. her gaze lingers before she turns away, her attention already drifting somewhere you can’t follow.

you stay awake for hours, replaying her words over and over, carving them into your mind. because if you can just be perfect, then maybe you’ll be allowed to exist.

fifteen years old

the air in the city is different from the air on campus. dirtier, sure, but lighter. satoru shoves his hands in his pockets, grinning as he takes in the busy streets and the scent of fried food drifting from nearby stalls. he’s not even sure where they’re going, just that they’re not supposed to be there.

“you think he’ll notice we’re gone?” shoko asks, lighting a cigarette.

suguru hums. “probably. but it’ll take him a while to track us down.”

“yeah, and by the time he does, we’ll be long gone,” satoru replies. “we can just blame it on someone else. say we got kidnapped or something.”

shoko snorts. “yeah, because that’s believable. who’d kidnap us?”

“hey,” satoru starts, feigning a wounded look. “we’re kidnappable. valuable, even. they could ransom us.”

shoko rolls her eyes. “the kidnapper would probably pay yaga to take the two of you back.”

suguru grins. “at least he’d be getting a deal.”

they wander through crowded streets, weaving between stalls and vendors, occasionally pausing to look at something interesting. satoru buys enough dango for them to share for the next three days, handing them sticks without looking.

“trying to buy our loyalty?” suguru asks, biting into the sticky sweetness.

“just making sure the two of you don’t pass out from low blood sugar. you’re welcome.”

shoko rolls her eyes but takes a stick anyway, a smile on her lips. “think yaga’ll be pissed?” she asks, glancing over at suguru.

he shrugs. “probably. but it’s not like we haven’t done this before.”

satoru huffs. “he’ll probably lecture us for an hour and then make us clean something. big deal.”

“maybe next time you should think about that before dragging us out here,” shoko says pointedly.

“me? i didn’t drag you anywhere.”

“you literally said, ‘come on, let’s go before the old man finds out,’” suguru adds with a raised brow.

“yeah, well, you didn’t have to listen.”

“you made a compelling argument,” shoko says. “it’s definitely better than sitting around listening to yaga drone on about discipline or whatever.”

they lapse into easy quiet, tokyo bustling around them. it’s nice, just being here. out of bounds, out of reach, somewhere that doesn’t feel so suffocating.

when they finally head back, it’s mostly because shoko’s tired of just standing around. satoru drags his feet, almost hoping yaga’s not waiting so he can claim victory. but as soon as they step back onto school grounds, yaga is there, arms crossed, looking unimpressed.

“you’re back late.”

shoko and suguru immediately point at satoru. “his idea.”

suguru shrugs when the man’s glare turns to him. “i tried to talk him out of it.”

yaga’s eyes land on satoru, who just grins. “don’t blame them. i was bored. figured it’d be good to let off some steam. they just followed.”

yaga’s expression doesn’t change, but satoru swears he can see a twitch in his eye. “so you dragged them into trouble because you were bored?”

“pretty much.”

“detention. all three of you. and you’re cleaning the training grounds.”

shoko snorts. “how are we supposed to clean grass and trees?”

yaga just keeps glaring at satoru, who sighs, thinking about how he’s going to get out of the worst of it. suguru’s shooting him a glare that clearly means you owe me, and shoko’s already wandering off like she doesn’t plan on helping at all.

worth it, satoru thinks. totally worth it.

── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・──

the sun dips low on the horizon, casting the world in hues of orange and gold. your lessons ended hours ago, your hands still sore from calligraphy practice. but now, the house is settling into evening routines. your mother is somewhere behind closed doors, your father gone on business.

no one’s paying attention.

you’ve always been able to hear the festival from your room. every year you catch conversations carried on the breeze, the low thrum of drums, the high-pitched laughter of children. this time, you don’t just listen.

you slip from the house with careful footsteps, out through the rearmost garden where the lanterns haven’t been lit yet. it’s reckless. dangerous, even. but that’s the point.

the festival stretches through the village square down the hill, music and voices tangled together in a wild, joyful mess. you can hear it clearly now, the noise a pulsing thing that makes your skin prickle.

you move closer. grass tickles your bare feet as you duck behind trees, creeping down the hill until the sounds of celebration grow loud enough to drown out your heartbeat.

you catch glimpses of children chasing each other through the square, their laughter bright and unrestrained. paper lanterns swing overhead, painting everything in soft light. the air smells of roasted meat and sugar, and your mouth waters at the scents.

it’s beautiful. you edge closer, letting yourself sway a little to the music, copying the steps you see from afar, stumbling when your feet don’t cooperate. but it doesn’t matter.

no one’s watching. no one’s there to scold you. for once, it feels like something is yours.

you twirl, your arms thrown wide, a laugh slipping out before you can swallow it down. your hair comes loose from its careful tie, strands whipping against your cheeks.

you’re just about to spin again when a voice cuts through the noise.

“miss? what are you doing out here?”

you freeze, heart leaping to your throat. you know that voice—warm, familiar, one of the staff who’s always been kinder than the others. the one who sneaks you sweets from the kitchen when no one’s looking.

you whip around to see the woman standing a few paces away, her expression hovering somewhere between worry and exasperation.

“do you have any idea what kind of trouble you would be in if someone else found you out here?” her voice is urgent, but her tone is softer than the words.

you swallow hard, guilt starting to curl in your chest. “i—i just wanted to see it. just once.”

her eyes soften. “you shouldn’t be here. come, let’s get you back before someone notices.”

you hesitate, your feet still rooted in the dirt. but you allow her to guide you back up the hill in silence, the sounds of the festival fading into the distance. by the time you reach the estate, the air feels thicker. the woman pauses, her gaze flickering over your disheveled hair, dirt clinging to your robes.

“you shouldn’t do that again,” she says, gentle but firm. “but i understand.”

it’s not a reprimand. not really. and it’s the closest thing to kindness you’ve heard in weeks.

when you’re left at your door, you stand there for a moment, listening to the fading footsteps. the memory of the music lingers like a thread you’re unwilling to let go of.

you slip back into your room, but even as you sit down to fix your hair and make yourself presentable, you can’t help but smile.

the thrill of it lingers. you did something you weren’t supposed to do. and no one can take that away from you.

nineteen years old

elders are gathered around the table like birds of prey, their eyes sharp and their words sharper. satoru leans back in his seat, hands folded behind his head, his posture deliberately relaxed. because if he looks too engaged, they’ll take it as obedience. if he looks too bored, they’ll take it as disrespect. it’s a careful balance.

“now that you’ve assumed your role as head of the clan,” one of them starts, voice brittle with age, “the matter of your marriage must be discussed. you’ve evaded it long enough.”

he rolls his eyes. “yeah, because keeping the clan safe and doing all your dirty work is just me avoiding responsibilities, right?”

frowns deepen across the room, but no one denies it. the corners of his mouth twitch up. a small victory, but not a real one.

“you’ve been indulged because of your abilities. but this is not a matter that can be put off indefinitely,” another one insists, tone dripping with condescension.

“and what exactly is the rush?” satoru’s smile is all teeth, its sharpness dulling the unease in his gut. “pretty sure the world’s not ending tomorrow. or is there something you’re not telling me?”

they don’t appreciate the sarcasm. he knows this, and it’s half the point.

“you are the future of this clan,” one of them says. “your bloodline is the most important thing we have. without a proper successor, everything is at risk.”

ah. there it is. not his safety. not his happiness. the purity of the gojo bloodline. the legacy. the replication of a weapon.

“yeah, yeah. i get it,” he says with a shrug, feigned indifference cloaked over his shoulders like armor. “you want me to knock someone up so you can have your precious heir. message received.”

“do not be crass, boy.”

“i’m just saying what you’re all thinking.” his gaze flickers from one face to the next from behind his bandages, searching for a hint of humanity. he finds none. “but sure, go on. tell me when the wedding is.”

“you misunderstand.” the oldest of them leans forward, his knuckles pressed into the table. “the decision is yours. but it must be made.”

it almost sounds like he has a choice. but he knows better. there’s no freedom here, just the illusion of it. a cage painted to look like an open field.

“great. then i’ll do it when i feel like it. now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“your duty to this clan is not something you can avoid indefinitely.”

it twists something sharp in his chest.

funny, he thinks. i thought my duty was to be your attack dog.

“i’ll do what’s required of me,” he says, the words coming out flat and cold. “but don’t pretend like it’s for me.”

they’re still speaking, but satoru’s thoughts have already drifted. he’s imagined his future before, even if he never admits it. he’s never expected love to come easily. he’s never expected his life to unfold like some fairytale.

but he’s always believed that marriage could be real. something worth building over time. companionship, understanding, the kind of warmth that comes from years of learning each other’s habits and secrets. a partnership built on effort instead of happenstance.

but the elders don’t speak of partnership. they speak of bloodlines and duty and preservation. it’s not marriage to them. it’s breeding.

their gazes are heavy, but he meets each one with a calculated grin. when he finally leaves the room, the door sliding shut behind him, his hands are clenched so tight his knuckles ache.

they want him to be something he’s not. something obedient. something easily controlled.

and if he has to marry someone to meet their expectations, fine. he’ll do it. but it’ll be on his terms.

── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・──

the air is cool, sunlight filtering through paper screens in pale, gentle patterns. your mother sits across from you, hands folded neatly in your lap, her eyes distant but not unfocused. there’s a heaviness in her posture today, a weight she’s trying to carry with grace.

this conversation feels important. something you should pay attention to. something your mother has prepared for.

“you’re of age now,” she begins, her voice steady. “there are things you need to understand.”

you nod, your fingers woven together in your lap. this isn’t the first time your mother has taught you something—proper greetings, scripture recitations, the art of composure. you expect this to be the same.

“a woman’s duty,” she starts, “is to serve her husband. to provide for him in the home. to be a source of stability. of comfort.”

the words are familiar. you nod again, the phrases sliding into place like pieces of the puzzle you’ve been assembling your whole life. you’ve always been taught to be good and useful.

“there are aspects of marriage you’ve been sheltered from,” she says, each word placed with precision. her hands smooth over her skirt, fingers shaking slightly before stilling again. “things that are not meant to be pleasant for you. things that must be endured.”

a furrow forms between your brows. “endured?”

“yes.” her gaze sharpens, something like caution in her eyes. “it will hurt. that is to be expected. but pain is not the point. it’s simply a consequence of what’s necessary.”

your confusion deepens. what’s supposed to hurt? you open your mouth to ask, but the question feels forbidden. “necessary?”

“to produce children.” her voice softens, but it’s the softness of a practiced recital. “your ability to fulfill that duty is most important. nothing matters as much as building your family.”

the words hang in the air. you try to grasp them, to make them fit into the structure of your understanding. but they don’t settle. they twist and tangle, leaving you more confused than before.

“pleasure is indulgent,” your mother says, her tone taking on a rhythmic, rehearsed quality. “it is a sin. your responsibility is not to enjoy the act, but to endure it. to perform your duty and bear children as you are meant to do.”

her eyes are distant again. and this time, you see it—the melancholy straining through the calmness. like she’s teaching you something she never fully learned herself.

“do you understand?”

not really.

but you nod anyway, because it’s the right answer. the only answer.

her shoulders relax, just barely. “good.” she rises to her feet, the movement practiced, graceful. “you will pray for guidance,” she says. “for strength and for humility.”

the lesson feels like something fragile. something she’s been rehearsing for a long time. precious and ugly at the same time.

“of course.”

her eyes stay on you for a moment longer, like she’s waiting for something. forgiveness, maybe. or understanding. but she leaves before you can offer either. the door slides shut with a sound too soft to be comforting.

the silence that follows is heavier than the words she left behind. it presses down and you feel hollow, like something was taken from you and replaced with expectation.

you should feel grateful for her guidance, for her wisdom. but instead, all you feel is a quiet ache that you don’t know how to name.

[nerdygirlramblings]

previous

Nearly half an hour later, Gaz leads you to a table along the dance floor. You've been collecting scraps of data every time he's waltzed you past Spinner's table, but without Arella on the hook, the op's about to be a bust. Suddenly, Gaz's eyes widen just a fraction, so quickly you could blink and miss it, but you don't blink, and you have a sneaking suspicion about what caused that reaction when you hear a pleasant voice behind you ask you for a dance. Gaz's reaction is the only warning you have to the fact that Spinner is standing there, hand out, wrist up, waiting for you.

You turn with a smile already on your lips and Price's voice in your ear, whispering, "Don't put yerself in danger, but see what ya can learn."

From the frown on his face, you know Gaz heard the Captain as well and isn't happy. You gently take Spinner's hand in yours and inhale the scent of linen and leather. It reminds you of secondhand bookshops, old tomes and leather binding with yellowed pages. It's a scent heavy that evokes a long history and rich legacy.

As is polite protocol, you flip your wrist and place it in his hand. He leans over and inhales deeply. You try to suffuse your scent with interest, slight enough to read as curiosity rather than desire. You lean to Gaz and brush a quick kiss near his ear, whispering, "Stay calm," before pulling back and more loudly announcing, "I'll be back in a moment."

Neither of you thought to play up a romance between you, which gave Spinner the opening to ask in the first place. A cheek kiss won't dissuade the man at this point, but it's a clear signal to him that you plan to return to your date. It's your only insurance to keep yourself safe.

Spinner gently takes your hand and pulls you onto the dance floor. His hold on you is tighter than Gaz's had been, and when you glance over, he's white-knuckling his glass. Trying to put your unease out of your mind, and clear it from your scent, you turn back to Spinner. On those outings around base, one of the most important things Price told you was to let your target share things of their own accord. Ask too many questions, and you'll look suspicious. But provide an opening, and you may get far more information.

So instead of saying anything, you let Spinner twirl you around while the music plays. Eventually he leans forward and takes another deep inhale. If you weren't sure of his secondary status before, this bold move screams alpha. But you bite your tongue and bide your time.

Spinner leans back and looks you in the eye. "I haven't been able to keep my mind my eyes off you. That dress and that collar make you hard to miss."

You thank him with a slight dip of your head and small, coy smile. He continues, "How have I never seen you at these kind of events, Miss..." He trails off leaving you space to introduce yourself. You give him your callsign, well versed at this point in how to turn it around into a cover. "Wren?" he asks, "like the bird?"

Another smile graces your lips, and you let your eyes briefly meet his. "Yes. My parents gave me the name hoping one day I'd grow wings, Mister..." You trail off as he had done. Though you know who he is, you want to see what information he'll give you voluntarily.

"Spinner, my dear. The name's Albert Spinner. But we don't need to be so formal, do we? You can call me Albert." He hand flexes around your waist, enough to let you know he's in charge and to call him by his name. There's no point in trying to resist as you want to keep him calm and talking.

You consciously work to school your accent into something acceptable in Spinner's circles. "Pleasure to meet you, Albert," you say. "You didn't recognize me because it's my first time at something so fancy. Do you attend these kind of functions often? I didn't even know about it until my friend," you tilt your head to the table where Gaz watches you both, "received tickets from his boss."

Spinner laughs, a deep rich sound that carries an undercurrent of condescension. "For some of us, these things happen far too frequently." You let him continue to spin you. "Why, I was at one in Kensington two months ago, and there's another gala slated for sometime next month in Waterloo."

"All charity auctions? For the same charity?" you ask, knowing, or at least guessing, the answer.

That laugh again. Grating. Though maybe only because you know something about this facade and the man underneath he seems desperate to hide. "Obviously not, Wren. Can't bleed a blue blood dry for the same cause over and over," he says. "But they're good opportunities to network. See who makes an appearance. Be seen." He leers at you at this last. "You must like being seen, Wren, dressed like that."

Your nerves spike, and you tamp down on the fear before it can send a slice of acid cutting through your scent. Spinner is a predator, and he's focused on you. You risk eye contact again and see his pupils dilate as he takes a slow, measured breath. "Don't be too scared, Wren. I don't see the point of putting birds in cages." His smile is sharp, all teeth. Your omega is clawing at the back of your brain, desperate to be away and safe. Dancing with him was a mistake.

Just as you're about to turn around and leave him, Price's voice cuts through your spiraling panic. "Ren, we've got ya. Gaz is thirty feet away, and me, Ghost, Soap 'ave eyes and ears on the whole ballroom." It gives you the reminder you need to recenter.

Spinner can't touch you with your team here. The song ends and though Spinner grabs for your hand, you smile, pour some exhaustion into your scent, and say, "Thank you, Mr. Spinner, Albert, for the dance. Maybe another time?" You slip through a few people before you chance a look back. There's a rigid set to Spinner's shoulders as he makes his way back to the table he'd been using, and you see disappointment on the face of the woman waiting there.

You don't know if you made an enemy or not, but you're sure Laswell and the others seriously underestimate Spinner.

Two more hours pass before Price calls it. Spinner and the woman who had been at his table left the main ballroom an hour after your dance. Arella still hasn't made an appearance. "Get back upstairs," Price calls over the comms. "We'll break down and debrief wi' Laswell before headin' back to base."

The whole evening has felt off. You're still not entirely comfortable or confident with these kids of ops, but what gets you most tonight is Spinner's comments. If you had a mating mark, would he have been so bold? It almost feels like the universe is reminding you of the protection a pack would provide.

Laswell's understandably disappointed that Arella didn't show, and while she grumbles about the sheer volume of data her analysts will have to sift through, you don't miss the nod of respect she directs at you. You share what Spinner said about the other event he attended and the one he implied he would be at soon. "I don't know if it's anything, but he seems like the kind of man who isn't going to come to something like this if there isn't a reason, something he can gain from it," you say. She tells you she'll have someone cross check the Kensington event timeline with suspicious activity.

As Price ends the call, you slip into the room next door and pull the dress off, sliding it neatly onto the hanger and pulling the garment bag over it. You treat the jewelry the same way, carefully placing it back in its boxes. Maybe it can be reused? You have nowhere to wear it, but the thought of it on someone else pains you.

The standard issue shirt and trousers irritate you more than normal, your skin having so quickly acclimated to the soft caress of the dress. Between the five of you, the room is stripped and packed and ready to move in less than thirty minutes. Everyone carries multiple cases down a hallway that seems miles long. The service elevator ride to the transport feels interminable. After everything is loaded into the boot, with your dress draped gently on top, you pile into the rear seat with Soap and Gaz.

They feel so much closer to you than they did on the drive into London, encroaching on your space. You squirm in your seat, trying to get comfortable between them. Your clothes scratch across your skin every time you move. You know your frustration is bleeding into your scent and try desperately to tamp it down, ignoring the looks Soap and Gaz throw in your direction. Make it back to base, just make it back to base you tell yourself. Then you can figure out what has you so turned around.

What seems like hours later, surveillance equipment is dropped off, the truck is back in base transport, and you're finally back in your barracks. The ballroom didn't seem too hot at the time, and being stuck between the two sergeants was uncomfortable but not cloying. But it must have been warmer than you realized because you're sweating. You strip off your top and trousers, quickly rearranging the blankets and things on your bed. As you toss your clothes in the hamper, your eyes flick to the calendar on the wall.

Your heart stops, and the blood drains from your face.

The uncomfortable clothes. How long things seem to take, moments stretching out like molasses. Being overly warm. Fixing your blankets.

Your heat is coming. Quickly. Before panic settles in, you scramble into your clothes again and head out the door to Price's office. You need a conversation with your Captain. Now.

next

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~~

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[heliosunny]

Hello, may I request mydei and phainon reaction on self sacrificing reader? Both are in the middle of battle, but they fail to notice a sneak attack resulting reader shielding them. But instead of backing down, the reader just continue to attack the enemies ignoring their injuries, after battle reader still alive in the end, just barely (I'm not ready for angst 😔). Sorry if it's bad desc, I'm not good at explaining. Anyway, thank you.

You first met Phainon and Mydei when you were barely old enough to wield a sword. And if fate had been kinder, you never would have met them at all.

You had no noble blood, no great legacy. You were just a normal human, a child caught in the endless conflicts of kingdoms. Your only talent was surviving, and that was enough to bring you to the war camps where young warriors trained.

It was there that you met them.

The first time you saw Mydei, he was getting scolded by his instructor for fighting bare-handed instead of using his sword. He had just sent another boy crashing into the dirt with a well-placed throw, all while laughing like this was the best fun he’d had in weeks.

“You’re supposed to fight with a weapon!”

“But what if I lose my weapon? Gotta be ready for anything, right?”

You expected him to be arrogant. A prince, after all, had no reason to look twice at someone like you.

But when he caught you staring, he just flashed you an easygoing smile. “Hey. You fight?”

You hesitated. “…Yeah.”

His grin widened. “Great! Let’s spar.”

He didn’t give you time to refuse. Before you knew it, you were thrown into a match with him, and to your own surprise—you managed to hold your own.

When you knocked him flat on his back with sheer endurance alone, he just laughed.

“I like you.”

You frowned, breath still heavy from the fight. “That’s not how sparring works.”

“That’s how friendship works” he corrected, completely unbothered by the bruises forming on his arms.

And just like that, Mydei decided you were his friend.

If Mydei was chaos, Phainon was discipline.

You saw them for the first time in the middle of the training grounds, surrounded by fallen opponents. Not one of them had been able to land a hit.

Phainon was not just a warrior—they were a force of nature. Their movements were efficient, precise, with no wasted energy. Where Mydei fought like a wild storm, Phainon fought like a perfectly honed blade.

And yet, when they turned those sharp eyes to you, there was no arrogance—only assessment.

“You” they said, stepping toward you. “Fight me.”

“…What?”

“I’ve seen you train” he said, voice steady, logical. “You’re not strong, not fast—but you endure. Show me.”

You had no choice but to fight. Phainon was ruthless, pushing you harder than you thought possible, knocking you down over and over.

But when you refused to stay down, when you stood back up on shaking legs, they finally spoke again.

“…Not bad.”

It was the closest thing to acknowledgment you’d ever get.

From that moment on, Phainon kept an eye on you. They never forced their presence on you like Mydei did, but they were always watching. Training with you. Correcting your form. Testing your limits.

It wasn’t friendship in the usual sense.

You were never meant to stand beside them.

One was a prince, born to rule. One was a warrior, destined for conquest. And you? You were just human.

But none of that mattered to them.

Unlike Mydei, who was born into royalty, or Phainon, who had carved their name into history through sheer force, you had nothing. No title, no noble blood, no powerful lineage to back you.

So you clawed your way up from the dirt.

You trained until your body was broken. You endured countless battles, taking orders from those who would rather see you dead than standing beside them. You survived betrayals, wounds that should have killed you, and nights spent in cold trenches while nobles feasted in safety.

You suffered because you had to.

And eventually, you earned your place.

You weren’t the strongest. You weren’t the fastest. But you were relentless.

By the time you stood as an equal beside Phainon and Mydei, you had already been through hell.

And they knew.

----

The campfire crackled, casting flickering shadows against the worn faces of your soldiers. The night was cold, but the warmth of camaraderie kept the chill at bay. After a long patrol, exhaustion should have weighed on everyone’s shoulders, but instead, laughter echoed across the clearing.

You leaned back against a log, arms crossed, watching as your team exchanged stories, tales of near-misses, foolish mistakes, and victories hard-earned.

But as always, the conversation turned to you.

"Come on, Captain" one of the younger knights grinned, nudging you with his elbow. "Tell us another one. The one where you held the pass against the raiders—alone!"

You raised a brow. "I wasn't alone. I had twenty men."

"Against a hundred raiders" another soldier interjected. "And still, none of us could have done what you did."

Murmurs of agreement passed through the group. Even those who had been quiet before now leaned in, waiting.

You exhaled. You weren’t one for boasting. The fight had been brutal, the kind that left scars deeper than flesh. But this was more than just storytelling—it was morale. Your men respected you not because of your birth, but because of what you had endured beside them.

And so, you gave them what they wanted.

You spoke of the storm, the cold bite of steel, the way the enemy came in waves. You described the desperation, the way your body had nearly given out, but you had refused to fall. You told them how you had stood—how you had fought until the last breath, until the tide had finally turned in your favor.

By the time you finished, the air was thick with awe.

"You're a damn legend" one of them muttered.

You chuckled, shaking your head. "No. Just someone too stubborn to die."

The laughter that followed was warm, genuine.

But across the fire, Phainon and Mydei sat in silence, watching you with unreadable expressions. You didn't have to hear their thoughts to know what they were thinking.

They hated this. Hated how your men adored you for the very thing that drove you into the ground. Hated how you spoke of near-death with nothing more than quiet acceptance. Hated that you kept proving, again and again, that you would rather break than yield.

And most of all—

They hated that they couldn’t stop you.

----

The battlefield had been left behind hours ago, the scent of blood and steel still lingering in the air. Though the war never truly stopped, for one night, you, Phainon, and Mydei found yourselves in the rarest of circumstances—a moment of peace.

The three of you sat atop a high cliff, overlooking the vast plains that stretched beyond the horizon. The stars were sharp and clear, and the wind was cool against your skin, carrying with it the distant hum of life beyond war.

Phainon lay sprawled against the grass, arms folded behind his head, his silver hair catching the moonlight. He looked peaceful.

Mydei sat cross-legged, methodically sharpening their blade. The rhythmic sound of steel against whetstone was the only thing keeping them from getting restless.

You were silent, watching them both, content in the quiet.

For once, neither of them seemed interested in lecturing you about your reckless choices in battle.

“You never talk about it.” Phainon’s voice broke the silence.

You blinked. “Talk about what?”

“What it was like,” he said, still looking up at the sky. “Before all this. Before you fought your way to where you are.”

Of course, he’d ask that. He always wanted to know more.

Mydei didn’t speak, but they were watching you now—golden eyes sharp and waiting.

You weren’t sure how to answer.

What could you even say? That you had spent your youth crawling through the filth, scraping for survival while people like them lived in castles? That no matter how much you proved yourself, there were still nobles who sneered at you, waiting for the day you finally broke?

Instead, you just shrugged. “It was hell.”

Phainon turned his head toward you, frowning. “That’s it?”

You smirked. “What else do you want? A poetic speech?”

“Hm. Maybe.” He rolled onto his side, propping his head up. “You never let anyone see the weight you carry.”

“You don’t need to carry it alone.” Mydei’s voice was quiet, but firm.

You glanced at them. Their hands were still steady, but there was something restrained in their posture, as if they were holding back something heavier than words.

You scoffed, shaking your head. “I’ve always carried it alone.”

Mydei clicked his tongue. “That’s the problem.”

You sighed. “You two wouldn’t get it.”

“We do.”

You paused. There was no hesitation in their voice. Because they had fought their own wars, too. Different from yours, but battles all the same.

For a moment, none of you spoke.

Then Phainon grinned, stretching. “Alright. Since we’re being honest tonight—” He suddenly sat up, his eyes glinting mischievously. “If you weren’t so stubborn, I’d have kidnapped you and kept you in a palace by now.”

You snorted. “You wouldn’t get the chance.”

“I’d find a way.” His smile was too wide, too knowing. “Or Mydei would beat me to it.”

Mydei said nothing, but the way their gaze lingered on you said enough.

You rolled your eyes. “You two are ridiculous.”

----

The palace was drowning in chaos. The walls that once gleamed with wealth were smeared with blood, bodies of soldiers and assassins alike littering the marble floors. The chandeliers swayed from the force of battle, casting flickering shadows across the carnage.

Screams, steel clashing, the sickening crunch of bones breaking—it all blurred together in the madness of war.

You didn’t have time to think. You fought on instinct.

Your blade tore through enemy after enemy, your breath ragged, sweat mixing with the grime on your face.

But even as you cut down the last opponent in your path, you felt it.

Through the haze of battle, your gaze snapped toward Phainon and Mydei.

They were cutting through enemies with brutal efficiency—Phainon’s movements were deceptively relaxed, his silver hair whipping through the air as his sword cut down a soldier trying to flee. Mydei fought with terrifying force, every strike designed to kill.

But they didn’t see what you saw. A shadow slipping between the columns, too fast for an ordinary soldier.

A glint of steel—aimed for Phainon’s back.

Another enemy, moving low, aiming straight for Mydei’s unguarded side.

You moved.

A sharp whoosh of air as the assassin’s blade descended—

And you were there first.

Pain exploded through your body as the dagger buried itself deep into your side. You felt it tear through flesh, hot blood gushing down your armor.

But you didn’t let it stop you.

With a snarl, you twisted your own blade, cutting through the assassin’s ribs. They crumpled against you, lifeless, but the second attacker was still moving.

You forced your battered body forward, barely managing to intercept them before they could reach Mydei. Your weapon met theirs in a brutal clash, sparks flying from the force of impact.

The pain was unbearable.

Your vision blurred. Your legs screamed at you to stop.

But you kept fighting.

Something cold dug into your ribs, slicing deeper into your wounds. You barely managed to kill the last assassin before you staggered.

“Y/N!”

You barely registered Phainon’s voice before another enemy rushed forward.

Your fingers tightened around your weapon, forcing your body to move—

But this time, you were too weak.

Mydei's eyes blazed with fury as he cut the enemy down in a single, merciless strike.

“Fall back.” Mydei’s voice was sharp, his breathing controlled—but his hands were shaking.

You tried to push forward instead. “I can still—”

A hand grabbed your wrist. Phainon.

His grip was tight, almost painful. His blue eyes, always unreadable, were now filled with raw, unrestrained rage.

“You’re done.”

Your body gave out.

The battlefield was gone.

All that remained was you, barely breathing, and the two who refused to let you go.

Phainon and Mydei had fought countless battles. They had seen warriors fall, seen blood spill across countless lands. But nothing..nothing had ever made their hearts stop the way it did when your body collapsed in their arms.

Your skin was deathly pale, drenched in too much blood. Your breath came in weak, ragged gasps, every exhale sounding like it could be your last.

Phainon knelt beside you, his hands pressing hard against your wounds in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding.

“Stay with me” he muttered, voice hoarse. His hands were slick with your blood, and no matter how hard he pressed, it wouldn’t stop.

You didn’t respond.

Mydei was already barking orders at the soldiers. His golden eyes, sharp as ever, held none of his usual composure.

They had never been frantic before.

“We need the best healer” Mydei snapped, “Now.”

A knight hesitated. “The nearest healer is—”

“The best. Find the best in the kingdom. If they take too long...I’ll make them regret it.”

The soldiers ran.

But even with the best healer, would it be enough?

Phainon and Mydei didn’t know.

With you in Mydei’s arms, your body limp against his chest, he sprinted through the war-torn corridors of the palace. Blood from your wounds stained his armor, dripping onto the cracked marble floors with every hurried step. Phainon ran beside him

Every second mattered.

You weren’t allowed to die.

Not after everything. Not after you survived hell to get where you were.

Mydei moved faster.

They both knew exactly where to go.

The grand hall of healers was a place untouched by war, its white stone walls glowing beneath the soft light of enchanted lanterns. The scent of herbs and incense clashed with the overwhelming stench of blood that followed Phainon and Mydei as they burst through the entrance.

A group of healers turned in shock, their pristine robes paling at the sight of the two warriors—covered in your blood.

“Save my friend.” Mydei ordered.

The head healer, an older woman with sharp eyes, stepped forward. “Put them here” she instructed, motioning to a large healing table.

Mydei carefully lowered you down, but his hands lingered longer than necessary. As if letting go would mean losing you.

Phainon stood at your side, arms crossed, his fingers digging into his sleeves. He watched as the healers swarmed around you, their hands already moving, pressing against your wounds, muttering incantations and preparing potions.

One of them turned toward Mydei and Phainon.

“They’ve lost a dangerous amount of blood,” the healer said grimly. “And the wound was deep—if it had gone any farther, it would have been fatal.”

Phainon’s jaw clenched.

“But?” Mydei demanded.

The healer hesitated. “They are alive.”

For a moment, neither Phainon nor Mydei spoke. The tension in their shoulders didn’t ease, their expressions didn’t change.

But something in them released—like a thread that had been stretched to its limit, finally loosening.

As the healers worked, neither of them moved from your side.

They wouldn’t leave you alone.

Because if you woke up and they weren’t there—

They didn’t know if they’d ever forgive themselves.

Hours passed, maybe days, but you never stirred.

The healers did everything they could. The best potions, the most advanced spells—everything to stabilize you. But in the end, it was your body that had to fight.

Phainon never left your side.

Not even once.

He sat by your bed, his arms resting on his knees, his fingers digging into his palms. His blue eyes—once so sharp, so full of amusement—looked hollow.

He watched over you like a sentinel, barely blinking, barely breathing whenever you exhaled just a little too softly.

He spoke sometimes, his voice rough, low, meant only for you to hear.

“You’re really pushing it this time, huh?”

A pause. His fingers twitched against his knee.

“You’re not allowed to die, you know.”

His chest tightened painfully. His heartbeat felt wrong without you awake to match its rhythm.

Mydei didn’t sit.

He paced.

His golden eyes never left you, his hands clenched so tightly at their sides that their nails dug into their palms.

He should’ve noticed the assassin.

He should’ve been fast enough to stop it.

And now, you were paying for it.

The first night, he barely said a word.

He stood at the far end of the room, back straight, jaw locked, every inch of him looking like they were ready for battle—except he wasn’t.

“…You’re an idiot”

A shaky breath.

“We told you not to throw yourself into war.”

“Next time…” His voice wavered. “Next time, you let me take the hit.”

The room was silent. Phainon still sat beside you, unmoving. Mydei stayed at the edge of your bed, eyes dark with guilt.

Neither of them spoke.

Neither of them slept.

Neither of them moved unless it was to check if you were still breathing.

Because until you woke up—

Nothing else mattered.

It started with a breath.

Phainon noticed first.

His sharp blue eyes, which had been locked onto your face for days, widened the second your fingers twitched. He straightened so fast his chair nearly toppled over, his heart slamming against his ribs.

“Y/N?” His voice was hoarse, his throat dry from days of barely speaking.

Mydei’s head snapped toward you

Your eyelids fluttered.

A slow, exhausted movement, like lifting them took more energy than you had. The world was blurry at first, too bright—but the moment you saw two figures hovering over you, you knew.

They were still here.

“…Stop” you rasped, voice barely above a whisper. “…staring.”

Phainon exhaled a shaky laugh—relieved, but also furious.

“You absolute menace” he muttered, but there was no heat behind it. His shoulders shook, his usual confidence shattered. “Do you have any idea how long you kept us waiting?”

“…You’re idiots” you mumbled, still exhausted, still in pain. But the words were laced with something softer. Something grateful.

Phainon let out a slow breath, running a hand through his messy silver hair.

“You’re one to talk.” he muttered.

Mydei finally spoke, their voice quieter than usual.

“Don’t ever do that again.”

You didn’t respond right away.

Because you couldn’t promise that.

You all knew it.

You barely had time to process being alive before they smothered you.

Phainon and Mydei weren’t the type to hover—or so you thought.

But as the days passed, as you drifted in and out of consciousness, you realized something:

You were never alone.

Phainon was always there when you woke up.

Sometimes sitting on the chair beside your bed, boots propped up on the frame like he had no care in the world. Other times, he leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching you like a hawk.

At first, you thought it was a coincidence.

Then you woke up at three different times in the night and saw him still there.

“Phainon” you muttered, voice weak. “You need to sleep.”

“I’ll sleep when you stop looking like death” he shot back, tossing a small piece of fruit at you.

You barely caught it with your sluggish reflexes. “…Did you just throw food at a wounded person?”

“Gotta make sure you’re still functional” he said with a smirk, but his fingers drummed anxiously against his arms. “Eat it. You need strength.”

The next time you woke, he was gone. But the blanket was pulled higher over you, and a small tray of food rested at your bedside.

Unlike Phainon, Mydei didn’t talk much.

Instead, he acted. When your muscles were stiff from days in bed, he was the one who helped you stretch. Silent but firm, guiding your movements with precise hands, ensuring you didn’t push too hard.

When the bandages needed to be changed, he did it himself.

“I should’ve noticed the attack.....I should’ve stopped it before you had to.”

You frowned. “…It’s not your fault.”

Then, without a word, Mydei tightened the bandage a little too much.

“Ow.”

He didn’t apologize.

But the next day, when you struggled to sit up, he was already there—offering a silent hand for you to take.

Phainon and Mydei switched shifts without speaking. If one left, the other appeared like clockwork.

When you finally stood on your own, Phainon cheered like you had won a tournament. “Look at you! Walking! I almost forgot you had legs.”

“You’re still weak” Mydei muttered.

“Thanks for the confidence boost.” You rolled your eyes

Their hands hovered near your arm, like they were ready to catch you if you so much as wobbled.

----

“Alright, Y/N, you’ve had your fun. But no more war for you.”

“…Excuse me?”

“We’re not letting you go back” Mydei stated.

You stared at him. Then at Phainon. Then back at Mydei.

“…That’s not your decision to make.”

Phainon sighed dramatically, pushing off the wall. “See, that’s the thing—you clearly don’t make good decisions for yourself. Case in point: nearly dying.”

“You nearly die all the time” you shot back.

You turned to Mydei, expecting at least some reason from him. “You know I can’t just sit here and—”

“You will.” His voice was calm, but unyielding. “You’re not throwing yourself into another battle.”

You clenched your jaw. Frustration bubbled.

“You can’t stop me” you said, evenly.

Phainon and Mydei exchanged a look.

Then Phainon smiled way too cheerfully. “Oh, we absolutely can.”

Days passed. You regained your strength, your mobility.

But Phainon and Mydei never budged.

They weren’t just forbidding you from going back to war. They were enforcing it.

Phainon kept distracting you—always dragging you into conversations, sparring matches, or just physically blocking the exit with a lazy grin.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

You scowled. “Outside.”

“Mm. Sounds fake.”

And Mydei? He didn’t play games.

He simply stood there. His golden eyes pinned you in place, and when you tried to slip past him, his hand shot out—gripping your wrist.

“You’re not leaving.”

One evening, you snapped.

“You can’t keep me locked here like some fragile thing,” you spat, fists clenched. “I fought my way up! I bled for my place in the army, and I’ll keep fighting whether you like it or not!”

“You don’t get it, do you?”

“You think we don’t know how hard you fought?” His blue eyes burned with something unreadable. “You think we don’t know what you sacrificed?”

“We watched you almost die, Y/N.”

“And you would do it again” Mydei added, “Without hesitation.”

You turned to them, ready to argue—but stopped. You could fight them. You could keep arguing, keep pushing, keep forcing yourself into battle until you finally didn’t make it out.

Or

You could stay.

Not out of weakness.

But because, for the first time, someone was telling you

You’ve done enough.

You let out a slow breath, your shoulders finally relaxing.

“…Fine.”

Two pairs of eyes locked onto you—one shocked, one wary.

Phainon’s grin was slow, careful. “Fine?”

You huffed. “Fine. But if you both get yourselves killed without me, I’ll find a way to haunt you.”

Mydei let out the smallest, barely noticeable breath—relief.

Phainon’s grin widened. “Aw, you do care.”

You rolled your eyes.

But when Mydei placed a steady, reassuring hand on your shoulder and Phainon bumped his fist against yours with a lopsided smirk, you realized you weren’t fighting alone.