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Director Kang walks—really, it’s more of a clomp—through the mud to both of you, and turns to you this time. You straighten up, paying close attention to her words. 

“I need more emotion. You have to look absolutely devastated. Tilt your chin down, your eyelids should droop, all of that. We can focus on a raindrop and make it look like a tear so you don’t have to try and fake cry,” Director Kang says.  

You nod, murmuring your assent. 

“What?” she asks. “You heard me, yes?” 

“Yes! I did,” you yell back. You both bow to the director as she makes her way back behind the cameras. Your eyes return to Keonho’s.

Ahn Keonho. The nation’s up-and-coming young actor. You were no slouch either, but Keonho was exactly why your company had been so excited for you to snag this role. 

“The nation’s most popular young actor starring across the nation’s best young actress? It’s perfect!” they all said. 

You probably should be more excited about starring alongside South Korea’s newest heartthrob, but all you can feel is tiredness. And the rain is not helping.

“ACTION!” cries Director Kang. 

You only have to look sad. Keonho is supposed to be doing most of the talking in this scene. So you tilt your head down just slightly, aiming your gaze at Keonho’s chin, and try to turn your gaze misty at the corners so that you can feel like you’re crying. 

“You really don't get it,” Keonho starts, in a hush. He’s about to build to an emotional climax, and you can only admire the tactful way he does so. 

“This story gets filed,” Keonho continues, his eyebrows furrowing, his eyes narrowing, trying to make you understand the gravity of the situation. As your character, you don’t. As yourself, the actress, you absolutely do. But you push that aside, and focus on the character, allowing yourself to let the lines settle over you. 

“Every time anyone writes anything about me—they'll dig up these photos. Newspapers last forever. I'll regret this forever,” Keonho finishes, in a hiss, and you hesitate for a few seconds, lifting your head up to look at Keonho. 

“Right. Fine!” you exclaim, channeling some frustration in you, allowing it to leak into your words. “I will do the opposite, if it’s all right by you,” you continue, slowly now, a frown on your face as you work through each of the consonants—a trick a director taught you once, to slow down the speed of your lines. You pause, feeling it both in the scene and in your mind. You look down at the ground, and you feel so heavy. A heaviness that is not entirely from the weight of the scene you’re playing. You look up again, into Keonho’s eyes, and you say your last line. 

“And I’ll always be glad that you came,” you finish. A raindrop rolls down your cheek, and you feel it like it is a tear. You gaze into Keonho’s wide eyes. You feel emptiness—and perhaps that is just what the scene requires. 

Keonho doesn’t say anything. He does not move, but holds your gaze, as though he is trying to remember your face, but only for a second. You look back, straight into his eyes, even though the rain has now dripped onto your eyelashes. Keonho turns abruptly, but not without one final glance. It’s short, fleeting, but he seems to hold you in that glance, and then he looks away. 

You take a deep breath. You let it out, shakily. Another bit of rain drips down your forehead in the process. You feel the camera focusing on your expression. 

“CUT!” Director Kang finally yells. 

Keonho turns, so quickly you almost get whiplash, and pumps his fist in the air. He smiles at you with his signature winning charm. You breathe in another gulp of air and let it out, smiling back at him. The heaviness slides off of you, but you do not feel entirely weightless. The rain batters down on you, and you can only try to remember what scene you’re filming next so you can remember and perfect your lines. 

“Excellent! Excellent, excellent. Let’s move on to-”

A clap of sudden thunder interrupts the director, bright light flashing through the sky. You all look up, except for the camera crew, who are hastily trying to readjust their camera coverings, and the rain only grows harder and harder.

“Right! Um, never mind. We are going to go-”

Another clap of sudden thunder interrupts the director, and all chaos breaks loose. The crew runs to protect their cameras, no doubt incredibly expensive, while you and Keonho take shelter under the nearest alcove you can find, both of your shoes flapping with quick smacks against the newly-formed mud. Your flats are absolutely ruined, and you send a prayer to the poor soul in the Costumes department who must now sort this mess out. 

You get a quick glimpse of the sign hanging above the alcove before Keonho pulls you under it. You frown slightly at what you’ve just read. Turtle Store, you think. What’s that all about? Surely it isn’t just for turtles.

“Nice weather!” Keonho exclaims, turning to you. With his hair wettened flat and raindrops literally hanging off of his eyebrows, you wonder how he’s managed to stay so cheerful and upbeat.

“I used to be a swimmer,” Keonho adds, providing you some context. “I was pretty good, too. But I’m better at acting, as the reporters always say,” he finishes, shooting you a big grin. 

That explains how Keonho looks like he’s just found his second home even in the pouring rain. You opt for a nod and a smile. You turn around, wanting to explore, and look behind you at the shop that seems to just be for turtles. The lights are on, and for a second, you swear that you can see someone inside. The mysterious person locks eyes with you, but you only get a glimpse of his face before he hastens to the door of the shop.

Then the door swings open, and you’re face to face with perhaps the most handsome man you’ve ever seen. 

No, not perhaps. He is the most handsome man you’ve ever seen. Soft, brown hair, sparkling eyes, sharp nose, plush lips, and they all seem to come together to form the loveliest face you’ve ever seen. Coincidentally, he’s also dressed in the most ridiculous outfit you’ve ever seen. 

“Is that a turtle costume?” Keonho blurts out. 

The man looks down, then back up. He blinks, his face turning a subtle shade of pink. You feel a smile forming on your face, and try your hardest to suppress it.

“Yes,” the man says, with no further explanation, and neither you nor Keonho question him. “Um, I couldn’t help but notice you both outside… and, uh, it’s raining quite hard, so if you’d like…” he trails off. He motions his hand inwards.

“Right. Well, we also have a crew, who’s currently…” Keonho takes a look outside. “Oh, never mind, they’re all sheltering in the other shops. Sure, why not?” He turns to you, and motions towards the door. “Ladies first, as my noona would say.” 

You smile at him and step inside, trying your best not to look at the man in the turtle costume for fear that your face will betray your feelings. The shop is quaint, cozy, and quite small, filled from top to bottom with turtle cages and aquariums, turtle water bottles, water trays, feeding trays, heat lamps, and everything else one would need to raise a turtle, whether it be land or water. 

In the corner, there’s a table containing quite possibly all of the movies in the world. You quickly scan the titles, all highly-rated movies. The Godfather, Casablanca, Chungking Express, and, weirdly enough, some Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie. And sitting next to the table, sorting through the films, there’s another man in a turtle costume, who looks directly at you when you step in.

He doesn’t recognize you at first. But then Keonho steps in too, and his eyes widen in recognition. He stands up, revealing his very tall height, and yells in almost a comical way.

“Holy shit! Are you- noooooo way, bro. Juhoon!”

The other man—Juhoon, as you’ve figured out—looks at the freakishly tall man with confusion.

“What is it?” he asks, and his voice glides over you like a warm blanket, and suddenly you long for a chair, or something of the sort, to appear in front of you so that you can take a moment to collect your thoughts.

“Oh my god. You don’t know,” the freakishly tall man finishes. “Hold on- okay. Wait a second.” His jaw drops open as he takes in the both of you, and you can almost see all the thoughts running through his brain the way they’re showing so clearly on his face. 

“I’m Martin, by the way,” he says, turning to you and Keonho. “Juhoon, we need to talk for a quick sec.”

He motions Juhoon over to the corner, where he launches into a furious whisper-explanation on who the two of you are, occasionally stealing quick glances at you and Keonho, still standing there, dripping water all over the floor. Juhoon notices the water, and his expression turns into one of shame at himself. You shake your head, almost imperceptibly, a knee-jerk reaction. Don’t feel ashamed, you want to tell him. 

“Here, I’m so sorry. Let me get you both towels,” Juhoon starts, as he pulls out two chairs for the both of you. Martin gives up on his explanation, slapping a hand to his forehead. He heads to the back of the store, and you can hear a faucet being turned on, presumably to get water for all of you. You graciously accept the chair that Juhoon pulls out for you, and Keonho sits in the chair next to you. For a brief second, you both make eye contact, and Keonho raises his eyebrows. 

“They seem great,” he whispers to you as Juhoon heads upstairs. 

“Yeah, we can stay for a little bit,” you whisper back. “I just need to text my manager really quickly.” You pull out your phone, and realize it is very dead. 

“It’s okay,” Keonho says. “They’ll understand.” He pulls out his own phone, which he finds to also be dead, and smiles at you. “Or they won’t. Who really knows, with managers?”

You laugh at that, because it’s true. You got lucky with Minju. There are very few people in the world who genuinely care about actresses, and it’s a depressing reality that you’ve had to find out the hard way. 

Juhoon, meanwhile, is walking up the stairs, slowly at first, then quickly, in utter disbelief at what has just happened. Ahn Keonho is currently sitting downstairs, a real-life celebrity, and he does not know what to do with that information.

You are also sitting down there, but Juhoon is shocked by you for a different reason. He’s never been a lucky person, and he’s currently thinking that he’s probably used up all of his luck in this lifetime and the next. Because the most beautiful person he’s ever seen is sitting downstairs, and better yet, you’re actually talking to him. 

He frantically searches his room for clean towels, and comes up with only two that haven’t been thrown in the laundry basket or left hanging in the shower. His eyes spot two charging cables, resting beside the bed, and in a split-second decision, he snatches them both up. 

He takes a deep breath before going downstairs, determined not to mess any of this up. He’s going to be normal around you. He has to be. 

The creak of the stairs alerts you to Juhoon, returning down the steps. 

“Here,” he says, passing a towel out to each of you. Keonho immediately runs it crazily through his own hair, making the ends stick up in all directions. You opt to carefully dry the ends first, still a little conscious of how you look, especially near Juhoon. Juhoon holds a hand out, asking for your phone, and you hand the device to him. Keonho does the same, and Juhoon plugs them in. He sits back down. Martin returns with four cups of water, and the four of you proceed to fall into an awkward, but not horrible, silence.

“So-” Martin and Keonho start at the same time, and you and Juhoon wince. You smile at Juhoon, who smiles back, albeit a little bit embarrassedly.

“What brings you here?” Martin finishes. 

“We were filming for our movie. Do you know about it? It’s, um, it’s called… So far, the working title is Sealed Letters. Oh, but don’t tell anyone else I said that. I don’t even know the title of the movie, actually,” Keonho responds. 

“There isn’t any title yet,” you add. “It’s a mystery.”

Keonho pauses, clearly about to ask the question that has been in his mind from the moment he first saw the two. 

“What’s up with the turtle costumes?” he asks, his lips quirking up at the corners.

“It’s, uh, our work uniform,” Martin answers, hesitantly, the tips of his ears turning bright red. You let out a small giggle, and Martin’s ears only get redder. Juhoon’s face turns slightly pink, and you can’t help but think that shade of pink suits him incredibly well. 

“We don’t wear it all the time though! Only, like, occasionally. And today, well… we didn’t really have any clean clothes to wear, so, uh…” Martin trails off, so red now that he could pass for a stoplight. Keonho lets out a laugh.

“Hey, no judgement,” he says. “Honestly, the turtle costumes are fire.” 

Martin nods, clearly a little starstruck, judging by how he seems to be hanging on to every word you say. Juhoon is a little more passive, and you can’t really tell what he’s thinking. For a second, you hope that he still doesn’t know who you are. 

All of your hopes are dashed, however, when Juhoon leans forward and asks his next question.

“You were in, uh, Little Blossom, right?” 

Ah, Little Blossom. You cannot and will never forget that movie name, not while you live. The movie that catapulted you to fame. You cannot tell if you love it for all the success and fame that it has brought you, or if you hate it for that exact same reason.

“We’re somewhat movie connoisseurs ourselves,” Martin adds, a little cheekily. “Amateur connoisseurs. We watch films all the time. With Seonghyeon, obviously, he’s the real movie expert, but he’s not here right now. I’m more of an action movie lover, myself.”

“What about you, Juhoon?” Keonho asks, genuine curiosity showing on his face. 

“Oh,” Juhoon starts, then pauses, fidgeting with the ring on his finger. “I really liked Titanic,” he finishes softly, as if he’s embarrassed of the movie choice.

“I loved that movie,” you say, leaning forward. “It made me want to act, actually. I saw how popular it was, and how many people loved it, and how many people it connected, and I- sorry, I’m getting off track here,” you trail off, a little nervously. 

There you go again. Spilling your whole life story to strangers. When will you learn to shut up? The voice trails through your brain. You try to shake it off, but it’s no use—the voice only follows you, and you grip the arm of your chair.

“That’s so beautiful,” Juhoon says. 

Your grip loosens. His words wash over you, and your mind falls blissfully silent. 

“I thought so too. I’ve never tried to act before though. I’ve always stuck to turtles,” Juhoon continues. “As you guys can see, I guess. Do you want to meet Choco? My turtle.”

“Oh yeah, Choco!” Martin exclaims. “Our best friend, for real for real. And Juhoon has a second turtle too, but even as his best friend of eight years, I’ve never seen the other turtle.” He takes this opportunity to glare at Juhoon playfully, and Keonho laughs.

“I would definitely like to see Choco. He seems like a chill guy,” Keonho says, standing up at the same time Martin does. Keonho is taken aback, shooting you a look that clearly says What the fuck why is this guy so tall, and you can only laugh. 

Juhoon, sitting across from you, still cannot take his eyes off of you for some reason. He’s fixated, a fact that he doesn’t know what to do with, and he really still can’t believe you’re there, a famous actress, according to Martin. And you’re sitting at his turtle shop table, of all tables, and it’s covered in CDs too, and Juhoon really wishes he had cleaned the place up. Martin and Keonho leave to the back room, where Keonho can be heard letting out “ooohs” and “awwws” at Choco, and Juhoon simply lets them.

He’s still looking at you, who he wholeheartedly believes is the epitome of beauty and grace and honestly, at this point, everything beautiful in the world. He cannot believe he’s fallen so hard for you, someone who probably will never give him a second thought, and someone who he doesn’t even know, for starters. He suddenly has the weirdest urge to kiss you.

You turn your head at that exact moment, and look at Juhoon. You give him a small smile. Juhoon’s heart starts pumping so fast he feels like he’s just finished a marathon. 

Oh no, he thinks. I’m definitely done for.

Keonho and Martin return, Martin with Choco in his hand, and you gasp.

“Oh my gosh!” you cry, your face changing into one of pure joy. “Choco is so cute!” 

Choco lifts his head slightly, his eyes gazing into yours, and you suddenly feel as though you’ve made a real connection with this turtle. 

“Right? Isn’t he sort of mesmerizing?” Keonho asks you, noticing the expression on your face. “I never really got why people owned turtles, but I do now. I have a dog though, and I don’t think they do too well with turtles.”

“Oh, they really don’t. Please don’t get one,” Juhoon starts, and he launches into a full-blown explanation on why dogs and turtles should not coexist, especially not in the same house, and especially not around very young children. You get maybe half of the words he says, but you’re really more focused on how passionate he looks, and you feel a faint fluttering in your chest. 

You then realize you’re falling for a man who’s passionate about turtles. 

Martin breaks your train of thought, saying how he should really get Choco back to his cage, and eventually, you manage to tear your eyes away from the little turtle, who has retreated into his shell.

“Bye Choco,” Keonho says, with a little pout. 

“Speaking of byes,” you start, because you feel as though you should be a bit responsible—although you also worry staying here longer is going to make you fall for Juhoon more and more—“We should probably get going, Keonho.”

Keonho nods. “You’re right. Our managers are probably worried.” He stands up and goes to his phone, where he checks his messages. You linger near Juhoon for a little longer, before ultimately deciding if you don’t get up now, you probably never will.

“It was nice meeting you,” you say, and Juhoon smiles at you. 

“It was nice meeting you too,” he says. 

Outside, the rain has stopped enough for you and Keonho to make it back to your cars, and through the window, you can see the rest of the crew making their way towards their own. You and Keonho say quick goodbyes to Juhoon and Martin, the latter of whom looks saddened, and leave.

The door closes, and Keonho turns to you.

“They were nice,” he says. “I kind of wanted to stay a little longer.”

You do too. But instead of saying that, you just shake your head. You pause to piece your words together first. 

“We’re here to film, Keonho,” you finally say. The words come out a little too strong for your taste, and Keonho nods, after a little pause. He leaves the safety of the alcove, running through the rain as quickly as he can. 

You take one last look at the shop behind you, at Juhoon and Martin, still sitting there at the table. So much for the words you just said to Keonho. You’re really the one who can’t leave the two behind. Or one, in particular.

You clear your mind. Take a deep breath. You were here to film and to get your job done. Not to start a small town romance that could ruin your whole career before it even really started.

Juhoon, too, is contemplating what he has just gotten himself into. If he has gotten himself into anything at all. He feels as though the jury’s still out on that. 

“DUDE! She’s clearly into you,” Martin yells, shaking his head. “Are you blind?”

“Yes,” Juhoon says forlornly. “But she’s not into me, Martin. She’s a world-famous actress who probably has her pick of all the handsome guys she wants. I’m, well, me.”

“Yeah, but, you’re, you know…” Martin pauses. Juhoon sighs. 

“You’re better than all of those guys anyways,” Martin finishes. “I mean, come on, you run a turtle shop! And girls love turtles.”

“Do you seriously believe this?” Juhoon asks, raising an eyebrow at Martin. 

Martin sighs. 

“No. But come on, don’t tell me you didn’t feel something!”

That is the problem. Juhoon felt, and feels, many things upon seeing you. Some emotions that were akin to love. He should not be feeling those things for a stranger who he’s never met, even if he’s seen you many times in the movies. And he always thought you were quite beautiful then, but it was nothing compared to seeing you in person. 

“You are whipped!” Martin exclaims, and Juhoon realizes he’s just said that last part out loud. “Juhoon, if you don’t go after her, I…”

“You’ll what?” Juhoon asks, with some curiosity. 

“I’ll… find a threat later. Ugh, you’re impossible.” Martin throws his hands up. “The first time my friend finds a girl interested in him, he doesn’t believe it. Come on, Juhoon! You’re making me look bad!” 

“You’re the one who can’t find a girl!” Juhoon argues.

“As a wingman, Juhoon!” Martin yells back. “You’re ruining my reputation as a wingman!” He sighs and heads to the back, no doubt to get another glass of water. “I’m going to bed, bro.” 

Martin walks back to the front room, starts to head up the stairs, then retreats a step and points at Juhoon. 

“You better find her. Juhoon, she very clearly likes you.”

“How would you know? You’ve never dated,” Juhoon retorts.

“Oh, fuck off!” Martin exclaims, climbing up the stairs again, and leaving Juhoon downstairs with his cup of water.

He stares at the chair where you just were, not even ten minutes ago, and tries to think through what just happened so that it makes sense, but you seem to be everywhere in his thoughts, and once you appear nothing makes sense to him. But you’re you. South Korea’s most trending actress. Juhoon, meanwhile, is the owner of a turtle shop. 

He can’t decide if you like him or not, and he decides perhaps it’s best to stop thinking about it. After all, he probably didn’t mean anything to you anyways. He takes the remaining cups on the table and puts them in the kitchen sink, deciding he’ll wash them tomorrow. Before he goes upstairs, he pauses, lingering, on the first step, staring at the chair that you sat in.

What are you doing, staring at a chair? Juhoon shakes his head. Clearly he’s gone insane. He walks up the rest of the stairs, but he can’t seem to get you out of his mind. He wonders, just for a brief second, if you’re thinking about him. 

Bright and early the next morning, you’re back outside, dressed in your outfit—a blouse and jeans, which is “simple, yet timeless” according to the staff—once again filming for your movie. The weather is actually nice this time, and you decide you’ll enjoy this brief moment in Jeju before it most likely disappears in the next twenty minutes. 

Keonho comes out of his trailer next, his glasses perching precariously on his head, cup of coffee in his hand. He’s dressed in his outfit too, khaki slacks and a simple blue dress shirt, a simple thing, but he somehow makes it look like he’s ready for the Met Gala. 

“Good morning!” he waves, with a little too much enthusiasm for six in the morning. “Did you sleep well?”

You nod. “The weather's much better,” you reply, looking up at the clear blue sky. 

“You two! We’re about to start filming!” Director Kang yells. “Get into positions, please!” She turns to a technician and they start discussing something or other about the set. 

You and Keonho walk over to your places. You’re filming the sweeter scenes at the beginning of the movie today, even though it’s completely out of order from the climax of the movie you filmed yesterday. Director Kang, however, likes to take advantage of the weather, and that means filming out of order. It also means you have to stay on your toes.

You spot the turtle shop from yesterday, sitting in the middle of a row of other shops, and immediately your brain goes straight to Juhoon. So much for being focused.

Keonho interrupts your thoughts.

“I think we’re starting,” he says, pointing to the camera crew that has set up all the equipment and the director, who’s taken her place in her seat.

You flush red. You’re not a newbie and shouldn’t have to be reminded of when you’re starting filming. You mutter a quick apology and turn to face Keonho, starting exactly where you’re supposed to.

The cameras roll. Director Kang yells “Action!” and you’re swept back up into your character, who was first described to you as a “slightly ditzy, well-meaning, bookstore owner”. You had jumped at a chance to play a character like this—you’d always played the villainous roles before, characters with a slight edge to them, ever since Little Blossom. You’d done so well in Little Blossom, in fact, that from then on you were seen as the “sweet girl with an evil side”, and typecast as such. This movie is your chance to break out of that role with a star-studded cast, and you need to do well on it. You need to do well to break out of that role, but you need to do well for other reasons too.

Sometimes, when you’re alone, you think back to your old manager's words. He would always call you a “washed-up young actress”, say that you lacked talent, say that you needed to work harder. You are so infinitely lucky to have Minju now, who is the complete opposite of him.

Still, sometimes, you wake up from your sleep, heart pounding, sweating through your pajamas. Your old manager was the reason for your fame, and also the reason you almost lost it all.

You need to do well in general. There’s a lot of pressure riding on you. Minju’s gotten so worried in the past few days that she’s taken to showing you cute seal videos at every opportunity she gets, because, according to her, “seals boost serotonin, and God knows you need serotonin right now”. It does help, and you appreciate the gesture. 

The morning filming goes well. Minimal repeats, quick finishes, and most scenes are wrapped in five or less takes. It’s any director’s dream, and Director Kang certainly looks pleased as she looks over the footage while you get water and Keonho runs his next lines with his own manager, James. You and Keonho have easy chemistry, helped by how familiar you are with each other—young performers always are after they’ve worked in the industry for a while—and your levels of skill in acting. You’re young, but already seasoned professionals, and you certainly feel like it in all of your scenes. Your feet hurt a little bit from the high heels they’ve put you in, but what’s a little bit of pain for success?

From the morning into the afternoon, it’s only smooth sailing, helped by the coffee that Minju brings you and the nice weather that miraculously continues into the afternoon. Director Kang is able to get the day’s filming accomplished, and her smile only grows wider and wider.

“That’s it!” she cries, after you and Keonho complete your final scene of the day; a cute meetup at a coffee shop, fitting the small-town romance vibes perfectly. “Beautiful. That’s a wrap for today, everyone! We’ll pick up tomorrow bright and early at five.”

You give Keonho a big smile, and he returns it with ease. 

“See you tomorrow!” he exclaims, and leaves with James, no doubt back to his room at the small inn the filming crew has all crowded into. Minju comes up to you, handing you your jacket and a pair of flats to replace your uncomfortable high heels.

“Good work!” she praises you, taking your high heels and handing them off to a worker from Costumes. “Everything flowed so well today. You and Keonho have great chemistry!” She raises her eyebrows a little bit, clearly suggesting something.

“There’s nothing between me and Ahn Keonho,” you laugh. “He’s sweet, but not really my type.” You mean it. Keonho’s an amazing friend to you, and you’re elated that you’re starring alongside him, but he’s always stayed just that—a friend.

“And that begs the question: who is your type, if not Ahn Keonho, ladies man?” Minju asks again, laughing. “Or do you not have anyone in mind?” 

You’re about to say no, when Juhoon’s face floats into your head. You furrow your brow. You could have convinced yourself that you were over him, but maybe it was just the filming distracting you.

Minju realizes that you’ve hesitated, and she laughs again.

“Or maybe you do!” she says cheerfully. “Alright, well, I can give you two hours of freedom before we have to go back and run lines. What do you want to do?” Minju hands you your reliable baseball cap and mask—a precaution, of course. The hazards of being a celebrity. You put them on, and proceed to think. 

It’s been a little while since you’ve had some time to yourself. You could get coffee, some pastries, or enjoy the nice Jeju weather with a quick walk outside. 

Then another idea pops into your head.

It’s absolutely not a good idea. You know that it’s not a good idea. It goes against literally every advice about being an actress anyone has ever said to you.

You want to do it anyway. 

You tell yourself you’re just going to do it once. What’s the harm in doing it just once?

“Minju, how about we head over to the shops over there?” you ask her, trying not to betray your real reason for heading there.

Minju looks at you quizzically. 

“Sure,” she says. “Looking for anything in particular?”

“A turtle,” you reply breezily as you start the walk up to the row of shops, leaving Minju standing there feeling very confused.

The bell to Turtle Shop jangles as you open the door, and immediately you zero in on Martin standing at the front desk, wearing normal clothes and looking a little bored. He makes eye contact with you, and smiles a little quizzically.

“Worried about being sick?” he asks you, tilting his head at your mask. 

You shake your head. In a quick, split-second decision, you decide you’ll do it. You take off your mask, and Martin bolts upright, his mouth hanging open. He runs into the backroom. You stand there, mask still off, eyes roaming around the store, a little curious as to what will happen next. Minju enters after you, the bell jangling again, and taps your shoulder.

“Doesn’t look like there’s anyone here,” she says, gawking slightly at the removal of your mask. “Wait, put your mask back on. Why don’t we-”

She’s interrupted by the sound of a pot clanging to the floor. Moments later, a slightly red-faced Juhoon appears from the kitchen, a strand of his hair curling adorably upwards. 

“Hi!” he says, a little breathlessly. “What, er, can I get for you?”

You smile faintly at Minju, who comes to the realization that you know these people somehow, and decides to back off for now. 

“Just looking around,” you say, smiling at Juhoon. You take a better look around at the store, and walk straight to a section in the back, stocked with turtles. Juhoon follows you, smoothing down his hair as he goes. He spots Martin out of the corner of his eye, who’s shooting him a cheeky smile and a thumbs up, and Juhoon resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“Anything in particular?” Juhoon says, his voice following your footsteps, and you shake your head, eyeing each of the turtles in their neatly lined-up cages on the shelves. You check their nametags, small pieces of paper carefully lettered with each of their names in cute handwriting. Dottie. Pancake. Gator. Shelly. You even spot four turtles named after the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles themselves—Leonardo, Raphael, Donatello, and Michelangelo—and chuckle a little upon seeing them. Juhoon turns slightly more redder upon seeing what turtles you’re looking at.

“Which ones do you like the best?” you ask him. It’s meant to be a lighthearted question, but Juhoon takes his time, peering carefully at each of the turtles, and it takes a while before he gives you a response.

“Barring Choco?” he asks, and you nod, laughing. 

“Of course! If I included Choco, you would definitely pick him,” you say with a lilt to your voice. 

Juhoon thinks for a little while more. 

“Pancake,” he says, with a questioning tone. “Wait, no– ah, but I really like Francis. Hmm…” he trails off. 

“You can’t choose, can you?” you ask. He shakes his head.

“I love all of them equally. They’re a little bit like my babies, honestly. Wanna know more about them?”

Juhoon can hear a faint sigh from the corner, where Martin is still observing your interaction. Sure. He knows turtles aren’t the most appealing thing to a girl. But you seem interested, and he loves turtles, and he supposes this is a good time to find out if you really like him by seeing how much attention you pay to his long lecture about his turtles. He starts rambling, rattling off a long list of facts for each of the turtles. To his surprise, you seemingly start to listen attentively.

As you listen to Juhoon talk, you find that you’re not bored at all. And you never felt any allegiance towards turtles before this, but listening to Juhoon talk, you think that maybe you love turtles more than you think you do. Or maybe it’s just the soothing cadences of Juhoon’s voice as he explains each turtle to you. Either way, you find yourself captivated, almost in a haze, as Juhoon talks. You even have questions for him, to which Juhoon reacts in surprise. It’s a cute sight.

“I really can’t pick one single turtle. They’re all so amazing,” Juhoon wraps up, gesturing to the turtles as a whole. You suddenly feel very tempted to buy a turtle.

“Do you want to buy one?” Juhoon asks you, seemingly reading your mind.

“Oh, no. No, no, I couldn’t. I’m far too busy for that,” you say. 

Juhoon nods. “Right. Right, of course. You’re an actress. Uh- do you want to hold one, though?” 

Martin gasps, quietly, from the corner where he’s still crouched. Even Juhoon himself is a little taken aback. He’s only ever offered the idea of holding a turtle to people who are prospective buyers, and even then, he’s very, very sparing with the turtles. When it comes to you though, Juhoon doesn’t feel so worried.

Minju motions to her wrist, drawing your attention to the time. To your surprise, you’ve already spent thirty minutes here. 

“Sure,” you say, cheerfully. “I do have to go soon though…”

“It’ll only take a little bit,” Juhoon replies, unlocking Dottie’s cage. Dottie’s a chill turtle, he reasons, and he thinks you’ll love her sweet nature. Carefully, he hands the turtle to you, his fingers brushing slightly against yours, and he swears a spark runs through him at the contact. 

You hold Dottie gingerly, staring at the turtle’s spotted shell and the way she sits softly in your open palms. For a second, you’re completely taken by the turtle. She cranes her neck slightly to look at you, and you almost sob at how adorable it is.

“She’s so sweet, right?” Juhoon asks, his face breaking out into a wide grin at you and the turtle. His heart flutters slightly as he notices how carefully you’re holding Dottie, and he cannot believe how easy it is for him to fall in love with you. 

Love? He thinks. 

Yes. He’s certain he loves you. It’s a weird feeling, to love someone at almost first sight, and he doesn’t really understand it either, but he knows he loves you. 

“Yes,” you whisper. 

Out of the corner of your eye, Minju mouths something at you, and belatedly, you realize that you should probably get going if you want to eat something before filming starts again.

“Here,” you say, approaching Juhoon to hand Dottie back to him. Once again, your fingers brush together, briefly, and you feel a small spark where your hands touch. You linger there, even after Juhoon’s taken Dottie into his hands, your fingers brushing against his again and again, and you probably look like a fool, but you don’t mind.

Juhoon is the first to pull his hand away—not without hearing a groan from Martin—to place Dottie back in her cage. He looks back at you, his eyes soft, and you feel a blush rising to your cheeks. 

“I– I have to go,” you manage. You almost apologize for having to leave, but catch yourself before you do.

“Of course,” Juhoon murmurs. “You’re welcome back anytime, and I’m sure Dottie will be excited to see you.”

You give him one last parting smile before turning back to Minju, who smiles like she knows already, and gently motions you to the door, reminding you to put your mask and your cap back on. 

“Thank you so much!” she says to the two boys, taking your hand and guiding you out. As she closes the door, she looks at you, her face full of restraint, yet joy at seeing you look so happy. Another reason you love Minju. 

“You know the rules, right?” she says, looking downcast that she must remind you of them. You nod, curtly. Minju sighs. She seems to run through her thoughts, and you can see by the changing expressions on her face that she’s battling with herself right now. 

“I’m… not against you coming back,” she starts, tentatively. “But you know the rules, and you should always keep them in mind.” She looks at you, her eyes narrowing slightly, with the expectation that you know exactly what she means.

“Understood,” you reply. 

“Good,” Minju says. She’s frowning, but her eyes look lighter. She continues down the path. You follow her, still thinking of Juhoon and the way his hand brushed against yours. You look down, rub the spot where it did, and pray that you don’t fall even deeper, even though in your heart, you already know you have.

You should stop it. 

Inside the shop, Martin is yelling excitedly, jumping up and down, scaring the turtles with how jubilant he is. “Juhoon! She’s just as whipped!” he yells. “Oh my god! It’s happening!” He cheers again, so loud that the turtles all hide in their shells. 

Juhoon only stands there, rubbing the spot where your hand had brushed against his, smiling a little dreamily at the door. He has a favorite turtle now, and it’s definitely Dottie. 

Through the days of filming, you’ve slowly come to realize that you absolutely have a problem. A problem that you know how to solve, but you’re hesitating. You don’t hate the fluttery feeling that comes whenever you get a quick glimpse of the shop sitting in the middle of the row named Turtle Shop.

With all your filming and the amount of lines you must get into your head, you’re surprised that you cannot stop thinking about him. Kim Juhoon. If you say his name, it makes it very real, so you’ve taken to avoiding that. He should not be in your mind. You know that. 

Your old manager made that very clear. No man should be in your mind, he would say. It’s your greatest obstacle. You date a man, and your career is over. Rich words from someone who went through a string of girlfriends himself, girlfriends you would see and hear. You’re not supposed to think of that, but you still do. 

Still, you can’t stop thinking about Juhoon. You don’t make any move to approach him, no, and you decide it’s okay if you just think of him from time to time. 

Filming, otherwise, goes incredibly well—surprisingly well. It’s been around two weeks since you’ve arrived at Jeju, and the weather has been cooperating ever since that first day in the horrid rain. 

Maybe it’s the easy chemistry between you and Keonho. Maybe it’s how relaxed and happy you used to feel. You’ve had to wear a mask and a cap everywhere, but people are more relaxed when they see you. Calmer. They ask for one autograph and then they leave, which shocked you the first time it happened. Island life really does move slower. And honestly, maybe it’s the Jeju weather, which, surprisingly enough, is cooperating with you all quite well. 

It’s perfect for Director Kang, who you’ve overheard remarking multiple times on how grateful she is that the weather is actually working for her. Just like the weather, just like the successful filming, you feel overjoyed. You haven’t enjoyed working on a movie this much since, well, since before your old manager. 

And so you let yourself a little loose, remove some of the walls that you’ve built up. You actually make plans to go scuba diving with Keonho after filming wraps, which even you’re surprised by. You regularly go out to restaurants after filming is over for the day, in your trusty baseball cap and mask, signing autographs if needed, but mostly enjoying this small slice of freedom you’ve received with Minju. Best of all, no one seems to really bother you. Which is the rarest of all. 

You spend the next week or so in a happy little bubble of filming, running lines, getting food, and doing the strangest activities with Keonho known to man. He’s absolutely obsessed with beaches, and you follow him to almost all of them, pretending that you both are “scouting possible filming locations” when a. It’s certainly not your job to do so, and b. You both are certainly not doing what you’ve said you’ll do. You forget your mask once, but Keonho assures you everything will be fine, and you actually believe him. Your walls are crumbling, you suppose. 

It’s on a happy day like this that Keonho drags you into a coffee shop for your lunch break, citing “testimonies” that “this coffee shop is the best in all of Jeju”, and you let him, mostly because you’re curious about what will happen. 

You walk in, Keonho leading the way, to what you can only describe as the quaintest coffee shop you have ever seen. Paintings of ivy and other plants crawl up the bright white walls. The chairs, metal-framed, rest on the floor, some empty, some filled, mostly with people wanting to be left alone so they can finish their work.

But your eyes are drawn to the person sitting, somehow, in the middle of the space. The one who looks like he belongs there perfectly. His name comes to your mind, and you finally admit it.

Kim Juhoon. You can’t forget him.

He hasn’t spotted you yet. He’s still working through some papers, a cup of barley tea sitting beside him, and you see Martin going through some other papers next to him as well. You decide you’ll see if Juhoon spots you first. 

Keonho has already walked up to the counter to order some sort of insane espresso drink that you can only imagine is what gives him his boundless energy, and you follow, scanning the menu for your regular order. From out of the corner of your eye, you see a flurry of movement, but you keep your eyes trained on the chalkboard that displays all of the menu items.

Martin has spotted you, and waves the papers he’s holding in an attempt to get Juhoon to notice. Juhoon, engrossed in all of the various business statements, doesn’t really pay attention to Martin’s noise—he’s used to it, at this point—until Martin hisses at Juhoon.

“It’s her!” Martin gives Juhoon a disapproving look. Juhoon tries to subtly turn around, but in the process, catches his leg on Martin’s chair. He tries to hold on to the edge of the table, but misses, and falls right on the floor with a loud crash.

Martin gasps.

Everyone around him gasps, in fact.

Juhoon, on the floor, legs curled in an uncomfortable position, tries to stand up and nearly knocks over his cup of barley tea. With a little more help from Martin, he finally gets up, turns around, and comes directly face to face with you. Because of course. He can’t see your face because of the mask, but your eyes curve downwards at the corners and he knows you’re smiling in amusement. 

You then adopt a more quizzical expression. 

“Are you okay?” you ask.

Juhoon nods, his face close to aflame with how embarrassed he feels. From behind him, he can hear Martin’s head drop to the table, and he can feel the waves of despair coming from Martin. 

You smile again, and your eyes crinkle up cutely. You turn, order your cup of coffee, receive it, and you’re out of the shop so quickly that Juhoon doesn’t even have time to talk to you. What he would say, he’s not sure, but he could probably piece a few words together succinctly enough to ask you out on a date. 

“Juhoon,” Martin hisses. “Why?”

Juhoon can only shake his head. He wishes he had done a better job too. 

“No!” Martin hisses again. He grits his teeth, and his next words come through tightly. “You should go find her.” 

Juhoon turns to Martin, shaking his head frantically. 

“I can’t do that,” he whispers. “I’ll just make a fool of myself.”

“Just. Go!” Martin says. “If you don’t go, your chances are worse.”

Juhoon blinks. Martin’s right. Juhoon takes one moment to breathe. He takes a sip of his tea, hoping it’ll calm him, but Martin shoos him out the door. Juhoon dashes out, holding his cup of tea weirdly like it’s his good luck charm. He finds you instantly, but you’re further from him than he’d like you to be, so he puts on a bit of speed and–

“Ow!” 

Juhoon registers the cup of barley tea floating up into the air before he registers that he’s crashed into you, and immediately he curses internally, because he knows what will happen next. The cup of barley tea flips, its contents splashing out, directly onto your shirt, and the cup falls to the ground, shattering on impact. 

You look down, ever so slowly, and feel the cold liquid soaking into your shirt, leaving a huge mark. Juhoon wants to sink into the ground. His face feels so warm he starts to consider if he’s somehow developed a fever in the five seconds he’s been here.

Keonho, noticing that you’re not next to him anymore, spots you both standing behind him and runs back to you.

“Are you okay?” Keonho asks, noticing the shattered glass next to you.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you reply, your hands patting lightly over the stain. “I think I just need some paper towels.” You hide your emotions well, an ability required for a celebrity, but normally you’d be very annoyed about an incident like this. Somehow, though, when it’s Juhoon, you don’t seem to mind that much. You’re glad you changed out of the dress you’re wearing for shooting today, and you lightly pat at the fabric. 

Juhoon, on the other hand, looks absolutely mortified.

“I am so sorry–” Juhoon starts. 

“Why? Don’t be,” you interrupt, hopefully in a reassuring tone. “It’ll dry.” 

Juhoon, who looks a little helpless, frowns slightly, and you shake your head. 

“It’s okay. Really. I can just wash it.”

“No, I’ll, um, get you towels,” Juhoon stammers, his hands making small, sudden movements, unsure of what to do next.

“How about you two go in and get cleaned up? Juhoon, you have some tea on your shirt too,” Keonho jumps in, looking slightly amused by the whole situation. 

Juhoon nods, once, quickly. He starts off, and you follow him back to the coffee shop in a silent yet weirdly synchronized walk. Back at the shop, Martin is still there, and you see him hold back a groan upon seeing you both walk in, shirts covered in spilled tea. 

“I’ll get you some napkins!” the barista says, upon noticing your shirts. You and Juhoon, once again, fall into a somewhat comfortable silence.

“How’s filming going?” Juhoon finally asks.

“It’s… okay,” you say. “The weather is amazing.”

Juhoon nods, a small smile coming to his face. The barista returns with the napkins, which Juhoon takes. 

“Call me if you need anything else!” the barista says, then quickly leaves to go take care of a customer. You take a napkin to lightly pat down your shirt, but Juhoon stops you.

“No,” he says. “I should do it, since I’m the one who caused you all this trouble.”

He starts lightly patting at your shirt, holding it away from your body at the bottom, and you’re suddenly all too aware of how warm Juhoon feels. The stain starts to fade slightly, and you know that in just a few minutes out in the Jeju summer weather, it’ll dry completely. Some kind of scent, a light pear cologne, floats around you, and you can’t help but notice how soft Juhoon’s hair looks.

“All done,” Juhoon murmurs. 

“I should help you, then, shouldn’t I?” you murmur back, ready to take the napkins from his hand–

“No!” Juhoon exclaims, snatching the napkins away from you, surprised and flushing red at your sudden movements. He grows a little shy, conscious of how close you are to him. You, startled, jerk your own hands away from his, and the distance grows between you both.

No, wait. Juhoon thinks. Come closer to me. He’s too shy to say his actual feelings, so instead, he just accepts it. 

“It’s okay,” Juhoon continues. “I can do it myself. You should… I’m sure you have more filming to do. Good luck,” he finished softly.

Despite your surprise, you can’t help but smile.

“Okay. Thank you,” you say. Juhoon nods once at you, a small smile rising again to his face, and you smile a little wider. You wonder if Juhoon can notice it under your mask.

You start to walk out, but you pause. You turn back. Juhoon is still standing there, his hand holding the napkins loosely by his side.

You get an idea.

Sure, it was a crazy one, but maybe it was time for you to try some crazier ideas.

“Can I have one more napkin?” you ask. 

Juhoon hands one to you, feeling a little bit confused. You take out a pen and scribble something on the napkin, and Juhoon then feels even more confused.

“Bye,” you say, softly, waving to him, your eyes crinkling at the corners, accompanied by what Juhoon is sure is a smile underneath your mask. You leave Juhoon there, at the coffee shop, and once again, you feel your heart fluttering in your chest. 

“YES! THAT’S MY BOY!” Martin screams, running up to Juhoon and thumping him loudly on the back like he already knows what’s written on the napkin, eliciting a giggle from you as you walk back to Keonho. 

Juhoon opens the napkin. On it, you’ve written your number in neat scrawl. Underneath, you’ve written two simple words. Two simple words that have just lit up Kim Juhoon’s entire face, and quite possibly his entire year.

Call me!

You’re on your fifth day of shooting for the week, working through another romantic scene—Keonho and you strolling through Jeju on a walk, of course—when Minju comes up to you with your phone in her hand.

“You have a call,” she whispers, in between takes. 

“Who’s it from?” you whisper back, still focused on the script resting in front of you. 

“Turtle?” Minju whispers, in confusion, reading the contact name out loud. You immediately snatch the phone from Minju’s hand, causing her to let out a quiet “Owww…”

“Oh god, I’m sorry,” you whisper. “How much time do I have to take this call?”

Minju looks around discreetly, eyes scanning the scene. Keonho’s in the corner, running through his lines with an assistant. Director Kang seems to be engrossed in some sort of debate with the lighting manager about whether or not the scene should be brightened.

“Probably fifteen minutes,” Minju whispers back. “But hurry! Don’t be late.”

You nod, tuck your phone into your sleeve, and walk off the set to the side of the park. You take out your phone again, and see the turtle emoji contact you’ve set for Juhoon. Quickly, you accept the call.

“Hi.” Your voice comes out a little breathless, filled with happiness.

“Hi back,” Juhoon responds. You hear the quiet shuffling of papers before he continues. “I- you see, my friends and I have this tradition.”

“Go on,” you reply.

“Well, we have dinner and watch a movie together every week on Fridays. And, you know, since it’s Friday, I thought- you… might like to come?” Juhoon asks, his voice sounding unsure of himself. In the background, you can hear frantic whispers, and you assume it’s Martin giving Juhoon some pointers.

“What time?” you ask.

“It’s at six. Nothing fancy,” Juhoon says, quickly. “Just a chill movie night, that sort of thing.” 

A smile comes to your lips without you even realizing it, and your heart again beats a little quicker in your chest.

“Sure,” you say. “I’ll be there.”

“Okay. Um-”

“I do have to go back to filming now,” you interrupt, apologetically. “But I’ll be there.”

You hang up, but not before you hear a loud whoop in the background, presumably Martin cheering at his friend’s success. Tucking the phone back into your sleeve, you make your way back onto set. You flash a thumbs up at Minju, who flashes one back.

“Who was it?” Minju mouths.

You shake your head, the smile still on your lips. You feel rosy all over, and decide that you like this feeling. With a day’s worth of filming still in front of you, you try to shake the happiness off, but you can’t help it—you feel like you’re positively glowing, and you wonder if Juhoon feels the same. 

The shooting continues. You rattle off your lines perfectly, or so Director Kang says, and Keonho follows suit. You know you should be completely focused on the film, on the task. You understand all of the things riding on you and this movie. Instead, you’re more focused on Kim Juhoon and his dinner party later today.

Perhaps it’s a bad decision. It’s all a bad decision. But you couldn’t care less. 

Later that night, you show up at Turtle Shop in the cutest outfit you could find in your suitcase, your bag slung onto your shoulder. You open the door, the bell ringing in your ears, to what you can really only describe as chaos, which pauses as soon as you step inside, leaving all of the boys in the strangest positions.

Somehow, Martin had managed to get his leg stuck in the gap between cushions on the sofa, all while having one slice of pizza in his hand, a faint droplet of sauce dotting his lips. Juhoon had been trying to help, but he apparently had managed to get his hand stuck in the cushions as well, and another guy who you don’t know is standing off to the side, taking pictures of his friends for possible blackmail. He notices you when you come in, and immediately his jaw goes slack.

“Is this th-”

Clearly Juhoon was not stuck in the cushions after all, because he almost immediately bounds across the room to slap a palm across the guy’s mouth.

“Hi!” he says. “Ah, this is Seonghyeon, movie nerd. And you know Martin. Um… do you want pizza?” Juhoon finishes, holding up the pizza box with one hand. The pizza slides, a little sadly, to the opposite end of the box. It settles against the cardboard side with a singular splat.

“Sure,” you say anyway, because you never say no to free food. Grabbing a slice, you head towards Martin to investigate whatever precarious position he’s in.

“Oh, Martin, you’re really not that stuck,” Juhoon says. “Just, I don’t know, lift your right foot a little, an-”

Martin cooperates, lifting his right food, and all of a sudden, he’s free, but manages to trip over a stack of movies on the ground and ends up on the floor in the process. He groans, a sound of pain, and you stifle a laugh.

“You good?” you ask, helping the boy up. 

“Fine, fine!” Martin responds, waving you off. “Thanks for the assist. Seonghyeon, what movie are we watching again?”

Seonghyeon’s still a little slack-jawed at your presence, but manages to pull himself together, and Juhoon puts his hand down. “Ti- Titanic,” Seonghyeon says.

Juhoon looks at your reaction carefully, trying to see what you think of his movie choice. He sees your eyes widen in happiness, and internally, he pumps his fist.

“Cool,” you settle for saying, trying not to let your excitement show. “Where am I sitting?” 

Martin and Seonghyeon immediately point to the middle of the sofa. 

“You should sit with Juhoon!” Seonghyeon exclaims, brightening up a little, and Martin nods, a Cheshire grin on his face. You proceed to sit directly next to Juhoon, even scooting closer to him for good measure, at which Juhoon’s face heats up.

Juhoon glances at Seonghyeon and Martin, who give him eager nods of encouragement. 

“You can do this!” Seonghyeon mouths, and Juhoon sighs. 

Martin and Seonghyeon settle on the stools placed next to the sofa. Martin reaches to turn off the lights, and the movie starts to play. 

“Comfortable?” Juhoon whispers to you.

“Yes,” you whisper back, settling into the couch. Your shoulder brushes Juhoon’s ever so slightly, and Juhoon responds in kind, leaning in closer to you. 

The other boys holler during Jack and Rose’s first kiss, in that iconic pose of theirs on top of the boat. You turn your head slightly to look at Juhoon and you both make eye contact. His face reddens ever so slightly, but he doesn’t move, and neither do you. You swear you can see the universe in his eyes, and you feel your face redden at how cheesy you’re being.

“Are you two lovebirds even watching the movie?” Martin asks, laughing. You and Juhoon pull apart, the moment over. Juhoon gives Martin the eye roll of the century.

“Shut up,” Juhoon mouths to Martin. Martin merely gives him a smug smirk. 

You both settle back into your seats, but closer now. The distance grows smaller, your heart feels like it gets faster, and now you can imagine it, so clearly in your mind. Juhoon and you in a movie theater, hands clasped together. Juhoon and you walking on a beach somewhere. Sitting together on a plane. Enjoying ice cream in a park. Small wonders that always seemed so mundane, so boring to you, a movie star; they now become comforting, even alluring, with Juhoon’s presence. 

With Juhoon, your life would be a wonder.

You don’t realize what you’ve done until you look down and see Juhoon’s hand clasped in yours. Your head has drooped, resting fully on his shoulder now. The movie is over, but you feel like something has just begun.

As the credits roll, Martin and Seonghyeon stand up, stretching and finishing their last bits of popcorn. Juhoon shifts slightly too, careful to keep your head on his shoulder.

“You need to go, right?” he asks. 

“...Yeah,” you say. “My manager only gave me four hours. I have to get back.” You sit up, lifting your arms over your head. “Need help cleaning up?”

“No, it’s all good,” Seonghyeon replies. “You should go home. Hey… Juhoon can walk you!” He gives Juhoon a grin, and Martin vigorously nods his approval behind Seonghyeon.

You look at Juhoon, a playful smile flitting over your lips. Juhoon beams at you, and offers his arm. 

“Let’s go,” he says.  

“See you soon!” Martin and Seonghyeon yell from inside the shop. Martin’s eyes are still a little shiny with tears from the end of the movie, and you laugh at him rapidly blinking to hide the evidence.

Juhoon walks you to the door, leaning against the doorframe like the perfect main character from a romcom. 

“I really liked that,” he starts, a little softly. “Watching a movie, I mean…” he trails off, unsure of what to say next. 

“Me too,” you say, smiling sweetly at him. “Thank you for inviting me, Juhoon. I really liked being with you.”

Juhoon’s eyes widen, and he turns redder than a traffic light.

“Uh…” he starts. “I mean. If you liked that…”

You wait, your heart speeding up. Could it be?

“Would you like to go out to the beach with me tomorrow?” he finally finishes. “It won’t be too long, I promise! I know you’re busy and ev-”

“Yes,” you breathe out. “I would love to.”

Juhoon breaks out into a full-on, beaming smile, and all you can think about is how utterly adorable he looks. And before you know it, you’re leaning in, and your lips meet his, and Juhoon’s hands come up to your waist, and it’s the most natural thing you’ve ever done. 

Juhoon barely registers the kiss until you’re there, right there, kissing him, and he feels his heart swell so big. Maybe he’s died and gone off to heaven, because he can’t believe this is actually happening to him right now.

And yet, somehow, you’re still there, and you’re kissing him, and Juhoon is kissing you back, and right then and there he swears that he’s going to take you out on the best date there ever was. 

You can hear Martin and Seonghyeon cheering in the background. You feel Juhoon’s lips curving against yours into a smile, and you lean in, your arms wrapping around his. Really, there is no place you’d rather be. 

“I’m holding you to that date tomorrow,” you giggle as you finally break apart.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Juhoon replies, his eyes soft as he looks at you.

You turn to leave, giving him one last look. At him, standing there, illuminated by the glow of the lights. 

You run back to him one last time, and give him a small peck on the cheek. You run off before he can say anything.

“Bye!” you say, giving him one last look and smile.

Juhoon watches you make your way down. He ignores his friends bickering over something or other, and sits down on the stoop, gazing out into the night sky.

He always thought his small town life was amazing enough, far from the pressures of the big city, far from everyone else. You’ve reminded him that there was always something missing. And now that you’re here, Juhoon doesn’t ever want to let you go. He wants to take you out all across Jeju and Seoul and South Korea, to see your joy and excitement, to be there for you when you need comforting, to watch all of your movies together, to never miss a moment with you. He wants to experience all of the small wonders in his life once more with you by his side. 

Above him, a star twinkles. Juhoon takes that as a good sign.

As you make your way down the gentle slope to Minju’s car, waiting by the side of the road, you feel so warm all over. Your face is aglow, your fingers are warm, and you don’t think you’ve ever been happier in the past five years than you are now.

You pause, looking up to the night sky. You couldn’t be this lucky. Were you? Movie stars were never this lucky. Paparazzi. Sasaengs. Maybe you were a little crazy, but love did make people crazy.

Love?

You turn around to the shop, where Juhoon is still standing, although he’s far off now. He gives you a final wave. You wave back. As you cross the last slope before the road, you watch Juhoon disappear until you can only see the side of the small hill.

You pause again. Since when have you loved Juhoon? But it’s true, and you can feel it with what seems like every fiber of your being. 

A fleeting thought enters your mind. The thought that movie stars could never truly experience love. Your old manager’s words, piercing through your mind.

“You can never love someone.” 

But you want to believe so badly. You want to love Juhoon so badly. 

Something to your right shifts, ever so briefly, but you can tell. Your ears pick up on it. A small shift. A small creak of a twig.

Your head whips to your right. You see a faint shape, moving rapidly away. Holding a large mass of something in their hands. 

Your blood runs cold.

A camera.

You dash down the slope, your heart pounding for different reasons now. You hold your cap to your head, pat your face to make sure the mask is still there, and almost leap into Minju’s car.

“Oh my god, you scared me! What’s wrong?” Minju asks. 

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” you huff out, trying to compose yourself. “Thank you, Minju. It was a wonderful night.” 

Overhead, the stars twinkle at you, as if they’re laughing at you. Mocking you for believing that there was something there.

You breathe. Slowly, deeply. Trying to convince yourself that everything is okay. That Juhoon won’t be affected by any of it. You can’t have him be affected by any of it.

But you can’t shake the feeling that someone’s still watching you.

“Cut! That was amazing!”

You slump slightly, body tensing once more, moving a strand of hair out of your face. Keonho pats down his clothes, carefully chosen to reflect the laidback style of a young movie star. 

When you’re filming, at least, you can let go of yourself. Dive into your character. Now that you aren’t filming anymore, you realize your hands haven’t really stopped trembling ever since last night. They’re still shaking, even now, thin fingers wobbling because you haven’t gotten enough sleep nor have you eaten enough in the past year. 

Despite last night’s scare, today’s filming is once more going so smoothly that you still can’t believe it. It’s only been four weeks and you’re halfway through a movie. Even Director Kang can’t believe it. You see her checking her scene list, her eyes wide in wonder at how much you’ve all gotten through. You’ve been so productive, so speedy, that no one can really believe it, even though the scenes filmed prove otherwise. 

Now though, you feel like everything is somehow moving a little too fast. 

“Wanna go somewhere?” Keonho asks. “James told me there’s a great ramen shop over there.” 

“Ah, sorry, I’ve got plans,” you say apologetically. “I would if I could!”

“Plans, huh?” Keonho raises an eyebrow. “With, let me guess. Turtle Shop guy?”

You nod abashedly, a twinge of guilt hitting you. Even Keonho knows. You’ve never been very good at hiding things.

Your old manager’s words come back to you, hitting you like a force, so hard you have to visibly shake your head to get them out of your head. 

“You’re not very slick,” Keonho snickers. “He seems like a great guy though. Enjoy your date!” Keonho finishes his words teasingly, a little sing-songy trail off at the end, and you lightly slap his shoulder. Compose yourself. 

“Have fun at that ramen shop!” you call back, and Keonho gives you a thumbs up.

Minju meets up with you at the back of the set, pressing a mask and a cap into your hands. She gives you a small smile, but she looks tense. 

“You have to be so careful. Understood?” she asks you, putting on a smile. Beneath it lies all of her anxiety.

“I will. I promise,” you say. 

“He makes you so happy, doesn’t he?” Minju asks. She searches your face for a confirmation, a sign that all of the sneaking around is worth it.

You nod. Juhoon does make you happy. You ignore the feeling that’s gnawing at you.

“Yes,” you say.

Minju nods. Her expression changes into one of relief.

“Then I can keep doing this,” she says. “Let’s go, shall we?” 

You walk off with her, a mask already around your face, tugging your cap on. Again, you think about how lucky you are to have Minju as your manager. Your old manager would not have let this slide.

Your hands tremble all throughout the walk to the beach, but you think that once you see Juhoon, they’ll stop trembling. The grass gradually shifts to small pearls of white sand, gleaming in the sunlight, and you only have to take a few more steps before you see Kim Juhoon, who somehow shines even brighter than the sun does.

“I’ll leave you here, okay? But I’ll be nearby,” Minju whispers to you. “And if you have any trouble. Any trouble at all.” Minju pats her pocket where she always has her phone. “You have to call me, okay?”

You nod.

“Smile,” Minju reassures you. “It’s okay. You deserve this.”

You can’t quite believe that just yet. 

Minju departs, and you make your way over to Juhoon. Step by step, your hands still, your thoughts quiet, and the only thing you can see is Juhoon. He opens his arms, and you give him a big hug, muffling the first words that come out of his mouth.

Juhoon is overjoyed to see you. He hopes you’ll enjoy the things he’s set up. They’re kind of simple, but he reasons that maybe you’ll like simpler things. After all, Juhoon can do simple things pretty well. He’s set up a sort of beach picnic. Fruits, jjajangmyeon, and the seafood that Jeju is so known for. Some pastries on the side finish it off, and you dig in happily, savoring every bite, a sight that makes Juhoon beam. 

He talks about everything—Martin and Seonghyeon, his turtles, life on Jeju, and it’s all so comforting to you that you almost want to cry at how happy you feel.

For as long as you can remember, you’ve lived in a state of worry. First from your old manager, then from the industry itself, then from the paparazzi. It’s all left scars on you, wounds that are deep, things that take time to resolve.

Being with Juhoon patches them all up, slowly but surely, and you feel so safe when he’s around.

“And so yeah, I used to be a child model too. I guess I know a little bit of what you’re feeling, but definitely not-” Juhoon laughs. “Definitely not to the extent of what you’re going through.”

You pause.

“Child model?” you ask. 

“Yeah,” Juhoon responds. He leans back, looking up at the sky. “Most people don’t know me from there, though. I modeled for a bunch of clothing products and was even in a Samsung ad with Wonyoung. That was really cool.”

Your hands shift slightly. Almost a tremble.

“Why did you stop?” you asked, the words coming out shaky.

Juhoon hesitates. He tries to come up with an answer to describe how he felt, although he suspects you know better than he could ever know. 

“I felt really trapped, I guess. There was so much buzz around me about becoming a model. People shoving cameras in my face. Asking me constantly what I was going to do next. All the eyes on me. I guess… I just wanted to live my life without that pressure.” He looks up at you. 

“But I would go through that pressure if I’m with you,” he finishes. “I think I could.”

Your heart registers what he’s saying, and leaps for joy. Your mind, like a force, holds you back. Berates you. How could you put Juhoon in that sort of lifestyle? 

Your old manager used to say “no man should be in your mind”. His reasons were flawed, but maybe he was right for another reason. You couldn’t bear being the sole reason why Juhoon felt the pressure.

So, to his words, you merely nod.

“Did I say something bad?” Juhoon asks. He really hopes he hasn’t. He doesn’t want to affect you badly in any way. He knows how much pressure you’re under, more than he could ever imagine, and his heart goes out to you.

I could help you bear that burden, he thinks. It wouldn’t ever be too much for me. And he finds that he means it, that he means those words, and it’s such a shift from his younger days as a child model, but he would never take them back.

So he looks anxiously at you, hoping that he hasn’t said anything that implies he isn’t happy with your lifestyle, with your career, with anything.

“No! No, no,” you hurriedly reply. “You could never.” 

Juhoon breathes a sigh of relief. 

You want to let it all go. You just want one day where you’re happy. Selfish, maybe, but you want to be, so badly.

One day, you think to yourself. I’ll have just this one day.

“It’s beautiful out here,” you say. You turn to Juhoon, a teasing glint in your eye, and stand suddenly, hair whipping in the wind, illuminated by the light that hits your face perfectly. Juhoon almost has to close his eyes at the beautiful sight.

“Let’s go swimming!” you exclaim, out of nowhere, pulling him up. Juhoon’s eyes widen, but he follows you anyways, the two of you running into the waves together. Holding hands, running along the shoreline, your hands and hearts intertwined for a moment underneath the beautiful blue sky. And you enjoy the whole day so much that the thoughts in your mind blessedly fade away to a silent hush.

You wake up early the next morning, your heart still joyful, your mind at ease, still a little lost in a sleepy haze, quashing the negative thoughts always resting at the back of your mind. Kim Juhoon was truly something else. 

Minju knocks at your door, one tap, the tap that Minju always does. You put on your slippers and pad to the front door, where you open it to see her pale face, an emotion etched there that you don’t want to recognize.

Your heart pounds.

“Minju. What is it?”

She wordlessly hands her phone screen to you. 

ACTRESS CAUGHT WITH SMALL TOWN BOY? READ ABOUT L/N Y/N’S NEW LOVE HERE!

You scroll through her feed. It’s plastered with you and Juhoon, pictures from angles you never knew possible. Of the beach date, yes, but also of that final goodbye after the movie, of that day you walked into the coffee shop with Keonho, of that day you went to the turtle shop with Minju. Someone’s been following you, watching you, taking pictures of you, waiting for the perfect moment. Whoever it is, they’ve even got a photo of you kissing Juhoon’s cheek.

Your legs give out, and you slump to the floor. Memories flash through your mind of your old manager, of your previous love, of what he did, of what happened, of what you felt, of what the reporters wrote, of the news articles, of the horrible year you spent inside, of the days where you never wanted to wake up, of the days where you…

Nothing so horrible has happened yet, but you can’t shake the feeling that it’s all about to come crumbling down around you. 

Your head hurts and the room spins and Minju crouches down pressing her hand to your face, her concerned eyes filling with worry and dread, and you want to scream, to shout, to run away, to do anything. You should have known this would happen, you should have protected yourself, and you didn’t, and now it’s all coming back to you.

Nothing can ever be yours, can it?

Still, in your faint haze, you manage to let Minju know you’ll be okay. She decides she’ll call you out sick today for filming, and Director Kang agrees, knowing the pressure you’re probably under. She stays with you, moves you to the bed, and spends the day there with you, putting on some comforting channel—ironically, they’re showing Notting Hill, a plot that won’t ever happen in your life—and stays with you until the day is almost over, ordering comfort food from the inn and reassuring you, over and over again. It won’t be like last time. Everything will be okay. I’ve got you.

When Minju finally leaves for the night, telling you to get a good night’s sleep, you move. Your hands are shaking once more. The room is spinning slightly, and your heart can’t stop pounding, but you need to do it. You need someone to go to.

You tug on a fresh mask, wrap it tight around your face. Shove the cap over your head fiercely. Tug on your shoes, and walk out the door, something simmering inside of you, and you don’t really know what it is, except you need to see someone, and the only person you can think of is Kim Juhoon.

He’s shocked when he sees you at his door. It’s almost midnight. But he sees how forlorn you are and he invites you in immediately. You feel comfort until you remember that you’re just being selfish all over again, that you’re just dragging another person into your mess, as your old manager used to say. It’s a horrible feeling, and it’s splitting you in two, right down the middle, but you’re selfish, and you can’t bear to leave, so you stay. 

You accept the tea that Juhoon gives you. You settle on the couch with him. Juhoon puts some sort of old silent film on, and you watch it, hoping you’ll get out of this haze, but nothing’s working.

“I kind of want to go to sleep,” you tell him, and Juhoon complies, leading you upstairs, where you once again feel guilty for taking his bed.

“It’s okay, I can take the floor,” he says to you, warmly, so gently it hits you hard, and you start sobbing, covering your face with your hands because you’re so embarrassed of relying so much on someone that you shouldn’t drag into your mess. 

“No, please,” you manage to say. “I’d feel so much worse.” 

He eventually climbs into bed with you, and wraps an arm around your body, gently yet tightly, like you’re a fragile yet real thing all at the same time. You swear he sees straight into you, knows exactly what you need, and with that thought, you cry even harder. You can’t bear to think about all the harm you could be doing to him.

You cry yourself to sleep, and Juhoon stays right beside you, holding you close. 

You wake up to sunlight falling on your face. Juhoon’s asleep right beside you, and you almost forget. Almost.

Then everything comes flashing back to you, and even though you’re covered by a blanket, cold runs right through your body. Morning light makes everything clear instead of hazy, and only now do you realize what you’ve done to Juhoon. What you keep doing to him. What you would keep doing to him, if this continued.

You look at him. He looks so peaceful, lying there. He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve the life you’d give him. You don’t feel like you deserve him.

And yet, you don’t want to go.

You take one last look at Juhoon. Try to memorize his face. His eyes which light up whenever he sees you. His messy hair, hair that you’ve run your hands through. The faint scent of English pear that always surrounds you. His lips, ones that you’ve kissed. You save it all into your mind, try to take one last picture of it all. You try to etch it into your heart.

Reluctantly, you place one hand on the bedframe and try to hoist yourself up.

Juhoon tightens his arms around your waist and pulls you a little closer, refusing to let you go. Ever so gently, you move his arm away, placing it gently by his side.

“Don’t go,” he murmurs. “Please.”

Your heart shatters. 

“Juhoon, I have to,” you whisper. “I have one last day of filming. And besides… I have to go, Juhoon. For you.”

Juhoon sits up slowly. He rubs his bleary eyes and faces you. You resist the urge to smooth down his hair and the urge to cry.  

“Why?” he asks, plaintively. A simple question, one which you’re taken slightly aback by.

“Juhoon, my life is just. So horrible. You’ve seen,” you say, your voice falling to a whisper. “I can’t do this to you. I can’t give you that. You’d hate it so much. It’s like being a child model, but so, so much worse. Worse than anyone can imagine.”

Juhoon shakes his head. He pauses. Collects his thoughts first, before saying his next words. He carefully picks through the ones in his head, and tries to form his most convincing argument. He does not want to let you go. 

“I would hate it,” he says. He has to admit that. 

You let out something that resembles a shaky sigh of breath. 

“But I would do it for you. I can do it for you,” he finishes, and he firmly believes it. He would go through all of it, just for you. 

You know he would. And that is what’s breaking your heart. Now it’s your turn to pause. You try to fight them, but the tears drip down your face anyways. And now you’re sobbing. And then you see a tear roll down Juhoon’s cheek—and you’ve come to know that he never cries—and now you really are sobbing, no longer the girl who always has a grip on her emotions, and you can barely get your next words out. 

“I can’t do this to you. I cannot love you,” you whisper. A quiet whisper, yet Juhoon hears it so clearly, and it causes another tear to roll down his cheek. 

“Please,” Juhoon says, in a wobbly voice, another tear making its way down his cheek. “I can do it. I’ve done… I’ve experienced what you have before,” he says, then pauses slightly, and you can already feel the weight of whatever his next words will be.

“All I am is a boy, sitting in front of a girl, asking her to love him. Please.”

You wonder, for a fleeting moment, if you’re making the wrong decision. But it’s gone as quickly as you think of it, and now you must go forward, even through all of the tears streaming down your face. They’re blurring your vision, blurring Juhoon’s face, and you find that it’s easier to talk to Juhoon when his face is blurred, yet you want to see his face anyways, and you can’t decide what to do here. You’re only certain of one thing. 

“I cannot love you,” you sob out, one more time. “I cannot do this to you.” 

You’ve said this over and over again to yourself, but this time, you realize that you truly believe it. You believe this statement so wholeheartedly, it might as well be your fate. Because how could you possibly force him through your own hell of a life? You can’t do it. Not when you have your own problems to work out.

Not when you feel like a broken mess of a girl. 

“I really cannot,” you sob, again. “I cannot love you, Kim Juhoon.”

Juhoon stares into your eyes, and holds his gaze firmly. Your words feel like sharp knives, and he’s barely holding on. 

“You really can’t?” he whispers. He cannot believe it. 

“No,” you whisper. 

Juhoon looks down, away from you. He can feel his pulse, but he doesn’t feel alive anymore. He shifts his arm towards you, slightly, just to see if he’s still somewhat present, maybe even to hold you back, but it doesn’t matter, not really, because his heart has fully shattered into millions of pieces, and there doesn’t seem to be a way to return. He stays there, downcast, his whole body curved, almost crumpled, into a ball, because he cannot move. He cannot look at you. Not at the girl who had his heart. Who still has his heart, and broke it completely.

“You should go, then,” he manages. “Please go.”

You really should leave. But you selfishly stay for one last moment, looking at Juhoon, trying to remember everything about him, trying to keep him in your memories, because even in this moment, you’re still selfish. Still thinking of yourself. You allow yourself this glimpse, one last one. 

Then, softly, you stand up with the slightest creak of the bed, and you walk out of the room, leaving only the whisper of your perfume and the mussed up blankets. Juhoon remains there, his head down.

A single tear drips down his face, landing where you once were. Too late, he looks up, but he can already hear the slam of the front door, and he knows you’ve left. 

The scene you’re supposed to film next is a heartwarming one. Keonho is finally confessing his love for you, in the middle of a bustling city street, and you are supposed to feel over-the-moon happy.

You’re in the middle of filming, but you feel something so wrong with continuing. You soldier on anyway, because that’s what your previous manager taught you, and if you stop now, you may never continue. 

Keonho delivers his line to perfection. He manages to capture that wispy, so-in-love look that the audience will no doubt rave over, strands of hair falling perfectly into his face, his eyes trained on your face only.

“Will you be my girlfriend?” he asks, so sweetly, his gaze trained on yours. 

Juhoon’s face suddenly flickers in front of your eyes, blurring your vision, replacing Keonho’s face for a split second. You blink, and it’s gone. He’s gone. 

“Yes,” you whisper, your hands slightly shaking. The audience will interpret it as a sign of your overflowing joy. You will remember it as a small glitch, something that betrays your feelings. You manage to stop yourself from trembling. As Keonho envelops you in a hug, a tear runs down your face, but you play it off as merely happiness, and you hug Keonho back just as tightly, smiling sweetly for the camera as it focuses on you both.

“Cut!” Director Kang yells, grinning widely. The crew cheers. Minju and James clap for you both. You don’t let go of your hug with Keonho, although it does become more of a celebratory one as Keonho jumps around, taking you with him.

You finally break apart, and you wipe the tear away from your face, letting it fall to the grass. Your eyes catch on the sign hanging from the alcove where you sheltered with Keonho on that rainy day.

Turtle Shop.

“Let’s celebrate!” Minju yells from behind you. “That was beautiful,” she raves. “Gorgeous performance by the both of you. Oh, this is surely going to be a hit!” 

Your eyes focus in on the window of the shop, and you manage to make out a faint shape of someone inside. Your heart beats a little faster. 

“Are you coming?” Minju asks.

You take one last look. Take it all in.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m coming,” you finally say, turning around, putting your back to the shop. You close your eyes for a brief second, and let Kim Juhoon go. 

Incheon Airport is simultaneously your favorite place and the place you despise the most. It’s the place you see first when you return from grueling bouts of overseas shooting. It’s also the place where you are bombarded by a sea of reporters, and this time is no different. The first thing the reporters ask when they shove a microphone into your face, of course, is about your fleeting relationship in Jeju.

“Who is Kim Juhoon? Are you still in touch with him? Are you still dating him?” they ask. It’s a flurry of questions, one after the other, and you’re used to it by now. You smile, a smile you’ve perfected from years on press tours. You purposely lean into a microphone, picking one with no particular preference, and deliver your response concisely.

“No, I’ve never been in a relationship.”

When you finally make it back home, you see Minju out with a grateful smile, and she goes willingly, silently agreeing to give you some space. You stare at your apartment. It’s a little cold, a little too silent, but it’s home.

You wonder, fleetingly, if there’s space for a turtle anywhere. Wonder, even more fleetingly, what Kim Juhoon thinks of you now. 

Your eyes land on a movie, placed carefully on your shelf. Titanic. 

You pull the movie out, and place the CD in the player. As the opening notes of the theme begin, you curl up onto the couch, wishing there was someone beside you, knowing that you couldn’t possibly have that person next to you ever again. 

The quick sounds of paws hitting the pavement are your first sign that he's arrived.

Cookie reaches you before he does, tail wagging wildly and panting like he just ran a marathon.

Of course, the iconic blue bone is clutched in his mouth.

You didn't expect to see him again, especially after such a quick exchange. But, apparently his dog’s happiness depended on it.

You don't know exactly how often he goes, he probably has to walk Cookie everyday. But whenever you're at the park in the mornings, he's there.

It's been pretty straightforward, you play a mini game of catch with Cookie (who still only brings the bone to you) while having a casual conversation with him.

You now know three important things about Ahn Keonho.

He hates peaches.

He's captain of the swim team.

And he's slowly losing his mind because his dog likes you more than him.

He didn't tell you that last one but it grew more obvious as time went by. You think it's cute that he's got a rivalry with his dog.

This is going to be fun.

"Really? You don't even like peach flavoured things?"

"Those are the worst."

"Drinks?"

"No."

"Candies?"

"Nope."

"Desserts?"

"Always too sweet."

You decide to join him on the occasional walk around the park whenever Cookie doesn't feel like running around. It's best that you go in the morning, otherwise you'd be cooked by the sun midday sun.

"You may need to get checked in somewhere," you say half joking, half serious.

"You'd really get along with my sister—she tells me the same thing."

"Good to know at least one of you is sane."

He laughs, lightly tugging on the leash—Cookie's trying to eat something from a tree.

The two of you alternate on who gets to walk Cookie. You'd argue that he behaves better when you're the one walking him.

"Your dog is so cute!" Someone says while walking in the opposite direction of you.

"Thank you!" you both respond.

Keonho looks at you, his confused expression turns into a sly smile.

"So when did Cookie become your dog?"

"Ever since he walked up to me at the park a couple weeks ago."

"Fair enough—we're basically co-parenting him at this point."

 "He likes me more though."

"Lies."

"How about we ask Cookie?"

You turn to face the dog who is now nestled close to a tree.

"Who's your favourite Cookie?"

He turns to face both of you, tongue out and panting—so cute. He then turns back around, lifts his leg up and—

"Oh ew. Keonho, that was for you."

"You're the one who asked the question!"

…

As you're about to finish your usual three laps around the park. The sun has almost completely risen, more people and dogs alike begin to flood the area.

Cookie loves to bark at both species.

"You know what's crazy?" He says, moving to the side of the walkway and stopping abruptly.

"What?"

"I don't have your number."

You resist the urge to smile and roll your eyes.

"Well Keonho, you know what's crazier?"

"What?"

"You've never asked."

That gets him stumped for a second, a redness floods to the tips of his ears.

"Oh, well…" He bites his lip. "Could I maybe get your number, please?"

"Maybe you could get my number." You stifle a laugh.

"It's not funny!" He says, even as he's beginning to laugh too.

"But it definitely is—here"

You grab his phone from his hand and turn it towards him to activate FaceID.

You probably could've guessed his password—he seems like the type to use his dog's name.

"I feel like FaceID isn't that safe."

"Probably not." You add your number to his contacts. "Done."

"Thank you—I've been meaning to ask." He pockets his phone.

"Good co-parents need to communicate with each other anyway."

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head.

You've been texting often.

It started with tales of Cookie—pictures, mostly. Just small updates documenting whatever shenanigans he got himself into that day.

Then it gradually turned into something else.

Talks about your day, his, the newest things his teammates did to mess with him.

One afternoon, your phone lights up with a string of text messages from him.

You don't mind.

Cookie is good company, after all.

You stand outside the front door, debating whether to knock or ring the doorbell.

Either way, Cookie will probably hear you—but there has to be a better option.

The door swings open before you decide.

“Oh—hi.”

It’s a girl, around your age—maybe a little older. She looks slightly confused when she sees you.

"Are you…"

“I’m supposed to be dog sitting—I hope I have the right address,” you say quickly.

"Oh yes of course, come in," She opens the door wider, gesturing for you to come in.

"Sorry when my brother said one of his friends was coming over I thought he was talking about one of his teammates."

As you step inside Cookie comes up to you, tail wagging rapidly.

"Hi Cookie!" you say, crouching over and petting his head lightly

"Wait, are you the one from the park?"

"Oh yeah that's where I met him—has he mentioned me?"

"All the time these days." she starts. "And he literally never talks to me—only whenever he wants advice."

You blink.

“All the time?”

"Oh yeah," she smiles.

You can already tell you’ll be thinking about that later.

"Has Keonho left already?"

"You just missed him—I'm heading out too now but he'll be back in a couple hours."

"Is Cookie really that hazardous alone?"

"Oh yeah—I'm sure Keonho has shown you pictures."

"Right, how could I forget about the pasta sauce."

"I think our floors are still stained from that."

You want to check that out later.

When the door clicks shut behind her, the house suddenly feels a lot quieter.

You glance down at Cookie.

“So… it’s just us now.”

…

You walk around the house, taking time to look at the various family portraits that are framed along the walls.

It feels weird being here without him.

Like you’re somewhere you’re not supposed to be yet.

As you sit on the couch, Cookie follows you too, albeit awkwardly.

Somehow he manages to get tangled in a plush blanket, quickly you unravel him.

"Cookie, are you struggling here?" you laugh.

After being freed, he launches himself towards the TV remote beside you and puts it in his mouth.

"You can't eat that!" You take the remote out of his mouth while facing resistance.

He tries to grab it again the second you pull it away.

“No, absolutely not.” You hold it above his head.

He jumps. Misses. Try again.

You hide the remote behind you, Cookie looks around in confusion as if you did some sort of disappearing act.

You think about turning a show on, but later might be better. Maybe after cookie gets tired or something.

"So Cookie," your gaze is focused on his puppy eyes. "Do you like scary movies?"

He barks.

"Oh, okay then what's your favourite scary movie?"

Silence.

"Oh so you're being performative."

He tilts his head.

"Aw it's okay me too, sometimes."

He's been pretty tame, it doesn't make sense that he can apparently cause so much damage.

"Cookie, I'm going to the bathroom really quickly, okay?"

You get a curt bark.

"I'll be quick I swear!"

It takes a couple tries before you find the door to the bathroom. You stumble upon Keonho's room, and part of you wants to snoop.

But you shouldn't.

But it couldn't hurt.

The door is slightly open, as well as the curtains that let in some late afternoon sun in. Must be the reason why it's so warm in there.

Besides the photos with his friends and family and the various swim gear spread around the room. Something else catches your eye immediately.

Accolades and awards.

He has an entire shelf with various trophies, medals, ribbons, and certficates—most of them from swimming when you look closer.

You knew he was good—being the captain and all, but damn.

It feels weird seeing this side of him.

You know Keonho as the boy from the park who has a cute dog and makes dumb jokes.

But here, he's impressive.

Suddenly, you feel a little out of place in a way you can’t explain.

You move a bit closer to the display, reading the tiny engraving on the medals and trophies.

The dates go back so many years, he was barely alive when he got his first medal and it only continued from there.

Is this really the same guy who argues passionately about how peaches are the worst thing to exist?

Naturally, your hand reaches out to a medal in front of you, one of many that is a sparkling gold. It's cold and heavy in your hand.

boom

You whip around. Cookie stands in front of a pile of books like nothing happened.

How could a dog so little—

"Holy shit, Cookie—you scared me."

Well that and the sound of a trophy hitting the ground.

"Oh god."

You move closer to the trophy seeing if anything got damaged.

It's dented and left a mark on the floor.

Best case scenario.

"Okay. Okay. No—this is fine."

You don’t even know what it looked like before.

Carefully you try standing it up back to how it was—was it facing the right side or the left?

You shift it around a couple times, knowing that the positions you're putting it in can't be correct. Hopefully he doesn't pay that much attention to his trophies.

You glance back at the shelf one last time.

Yeah. That looks… right.

You ease the door shut behind you, like that’ll somehow undo what just happened.

Cookie trots after you like nothing’s wrong.

"Don't tell your dad about this."

You find yourself on the couch, half-watching a random docuseries you found on Keonho’s Netflix account.

Cookie is curled up beside you, already half-asleep.

You check the time.

He'll be coming home soon, hopefully he won't be too upset.

You continuously glance towards the hallway, anticipating the moment he’ll walk in. The house feels different, more nerve-wracking just knowing that.

You sit up almost immediately when you hear the clicking of keys in the door.

You don’t see him immediately, but when he turns the corner—

Hair damp, tracksuit half unzipped, duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

"Hey—good job on not burning the place down."

Him and his half open tracksuit are probably enough to take out a small country.

"Why thank you," you say, darting your eyes back to the TV, hoping he didn't notice the staring.

He definitely did—you can feel it.

"And Cookie seems so calm," he smiles, knowing exactly what he's doing.

"It's because he likes me."

"Sure…" He walks past you. "Anyway I'm going to go shower."

“No!” you say a little too quickly, sitting up so fast you almost knock the remote off the couch.

"No you don't want me to shower?" He tilts his head slightly, like he’s trying not to laugh.

"Uhm," you pause."No—I mean that's not what I meant."

"Im kind of concerned that you had to think about that."

"It's nothing—let me just follow you quickly."

"You want to follow me into the shower?" His eyebrows furrow.

"No, no it's just."

"Did you go into my room?"

Your stomach drops.

"What?"

How did he—

"I always leave my door slightly open and it's closed—did Cookie get into something?"

“Sorry,” you say, fidgeting with the remote beside you.

"It's fine really."

Why is he so relaxed?

“One of your trophies got dented… but it was really a group effort.”

He pauses, then begins to laugh.

"All my trophies are probably dented—it doesn't matter."

"Oh really?"

"Yes—usually from me being a klutz but sometimes other people." He looks over to Cookie. "Or canines accidently knocking it over."

"Oh—I thought you’d be mad.”

"No, never!" he says a little too quickly. "So which one was it?'

"The one that says Regional Champion," you say quietly.

"Then really, I don't mind."

"What, why not? Isn't that a crazy achievement?"

"I have four of those."

"Oh."

"Yeah, they’re just… things.” He shrugs, but it feels practiced, like he’s said it before.

For a second, neither of you says anything. Cookie snores softly beside you.

"Has he walked yet?"

"Thought he already went this morning."

“He goes out twice a day lately.”

“Oh—no then. Sorry, I didn’t know.”

“Stop apologizing,” he smiles. “If you’re still here after I’m done showering, we can walk him together.”

"I'll be here."

…

"So how was practice?"

It's still bright outside but not too many people are out, it's close to dinner time anyway.

He's the one who's holding the leash this time, although technically it's your turn.

Your arms brush against each other from time to time. He doesn’t move away, so you don’t either.

You hope he’s not too cold from the breeze against his damp hair, though it’s drying quickly.

Subconsciously, you want to move closer to him. It has to be his cologne.

"It was so bad today."

“Oh! Did you drown?”

“Almost. The coach added an extra four laps since some of the guys were late.”

"Do you want me to deal with them?" you joke.

"I already did."

“Should I be worried? First it was peaches, now it’s your teammates.”

"Both are valid."

"Only one is valid actually."

As you move into an area with a couple shops you see people in the area holding ice cream cones of various flavours.

"Do you want to get ice cream?"

"I was just about to ask."

“Okay, I’ll stay outside since dogs probably aren’t allowed—could I get something caramel, please?”

"Sure—cone or cup?"

"Cup please." He pulls his phone out of his pocket. "Here use my Apple Pay—the password is 266543"

"I swear if that spells out Cookie

"Never." He clutches at his chest. "Do you really think I'm that predictable?"

"Yes."

…

The line is longer than you expected.

You glance back at him through the window—he’s standing there with Cookie, one hand in his pocket, the other loosely holding the leash.

He glances at you at the same time and catches you staring.

You look away immediately.

The line moves quickly, most people seem to be craving simple flavours.

The employee at the front desk asks you if you wanted to try any samples. You don't have any in mind until you see one that Keonho would enjoy.

"Oh—and here's a free pup cup for your dog!"

"That's so nice of you, thank you!" You grab the cup from the employee's hand.

“You and your boyfriend look so cute together, by the way.”

Boyfriend.

The word lingers a little longer than it should.

“Ah—thank you so much!” you say, not feeling like explaining.

…

“I got your ice cream—but try this sample first,” you say, holding out the mini wooden spoon.

"Okay, but I swear if it's peach—"

"It's not, I promise!"

"Okay… so what were you talking about with that worker—you were smiling so much."

"Really?"

"Yeah," he smiles, taking a bite out of the ice cream.

He gags the second he tries it, his body physically recoiling.

"You actually just tried to poison me."

"It cannot be that bad!" You laugh, glad that you didn't have to answer his previous question.

"Oh but it is." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Anyway, this is for Cookie," you say, holding up the cup in your hand. "An employee noticed him outside."

"Aw that's so nice of them—but beware of Cookie on sugar."

"What, why?" You place the cup in front of the cookie who eagerly licks its contents.

"You'll see very quickly,"

…

Cookie finishes the whipped cream in seconds.

For a moment, everything is calm. Keonho and you are able to enjoy your ice cream at an open table.

"What flavour did you get?" He asks.

"Cookies and cream—want to try?"

"That's like an indirect kiss," he mumbles.

"Who even says stuff like that?"

"Me. Sure I'll try some—you should try the salted caramel too."

Even with his constant insult of peaches, you admit that he has good taste. Even he said the cookies and cream weren't too sweet so that's a win.

Just as the two of you get up, the leash begins to unravel from the leg of the chair you tied it on.

Cookie bolts.

"I told you so."

He doesn't run off far but he runs fast, chasing his own tail rapidly like a dog does on TV.

The two of you chase after him, attempting to catch him before he runs off into somewhere dangerous.

"Oh my gosh Cookie."

"Why does he have to be so fast?"

He nearly runs straight into a woman walking past. She jumps back, barely missing a collision with King Cookie.

“Oh my god—sorry!” you say immediately.

As awkward as it was, that moment gave the two of you a break to catching the leashes. Cookie is too busy barking at the trees nearby.

Your hands brush as you both catch hold on the leash, you don’t pull away right away.

Then the laughter comes.

…

“So maybe he shouldn’t have eaten all that whipped cream,” you say, sitting on your usual bench.

The two of you are sitting closer this time, way closer than the time you first met.

A bad case of the zoomies, an encounter with a stranger, and a tree later. You're back at the park where it all started.

"I can't believe he almost knocked that lady over." Your hand goes to cover your mouth. "He weighs like five pounds."

"Sixty with sugar." He laughs, tilted his head back. "The barking at the trees was so funny to me."

"Me too bro—I couldn't breathe."

His laughter fades, but his smile stays.

The two of you watch as Cookie runs uneven circles across the grass in front of you.

“He really does like you more,” Keonho mutters.

“Good," you say. "I worked hard for that.”

He shakes his head, smiling, like he’s already lost.

The park is extremely busy—even for a central dog park.

The various obstacles set up in the middle tell you it’s an agility contest.

You watch one dog jump cleanly over a hurdle.

Then you look at Cookie.

"So, Keonho…"

"No."

“We should sign him up!”

“No.”

“Yes.”

The registration process is relatively quick, a couple of questions and a signature is all it took for Cookie to get his number.

67.

"Keonho, it's not funny."

"I'm not laughing," he says, clearly suppressing a laugh.

Keonho doesn't think that Cookie will win.

You're not too confident either, but it'll be fun to watch regardless.

You assume most of the dogs in the competition have been training rigorously for this. The perfect runs and overly focused owners make that pretty clear.

Keonho tries giving Cookie instructions—something about direction and timing that not even you understand.

Cookie doesn't seem to be paying attention overall, as expected. You pat his head a few times before leading him over to the start line—which he actually responds to.

You stick your tongue out at Keonho.

On Cookie’s turn, the two of you stand at the start of the course, ready to cheer him on when the bell goes off.

He starts off better than you would have expected, running smoothly through the first tube of the course.

You clap, a little too enthusiastically.

“Go, Cookie!”

Keonho looks like he regrets everything.

He continues to run along to the next obstacle, not the way it was intended. But he’s still doing something.

That is until he completely ignores the course.

He runs past the next obstacle without even attempting it, then turns randomly into a different section of the course—completely opposite from where he’s supposed to go.

Then, he runs straight into the crowd, weaving between people like it’s part of the course.

Reactions from the audience only grow louder, with people from all around trying to catch Cookie.

He pauses randomly, chasing his tail like he’s been doing recently—which gets laughs from everyone.

Then he’s off again. Speeding through different parts of the park and slipping out of the grasp of anyone trying to catch him.

He only stops when, somehow, Keonho is the one who manages to catch him, after what feels like forever.

If it was a speed contest, he’d definitely win.

"Did Cookie still have that whipped cream in his system?" you say, having caught up with Keonho and Cookie.

"Probably," he says, out breath.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him run that fast either.

…

You stay for the awards—not because you think Cookie’s going to win anything, but to take advantage of the shade under a tree.

Cookie lies between you and Keonho, still panting despite the fact that his chaos happened a while ago.

“Contestant number 67—Cookie!”

You blink

"No way."

Both of you turn towards the voice—a man on a platform holding a microphone and a trophy.

"What did Cookie do?" you ask Keonho, who looks equally as confused.

The two of you awkwardly make your way up to the stage, with Cookie trailing behind you.

Keonho glances at you like this is somehow your fault.

You smile back like you have no regrets.

Crowd favourite.

The award clearly holds its weight, almost everyone in the audience claps for Cookie as if they didn’t almost get trampled by him a couple minutes earlier.

Which is a shock—but is it really?

You find yourself at Keonho’s place once again—he offered, and it’s close by.

You naturally gravitate to the same spot on the couch that you sat on last time. Keonho sits beside you, close but not too close.

Cookie, on the other hand, is practically glued to your leg. It earns him a few salty glances you’ve definitely been noticing.

The three of you have been sitting on the couch since you entered, scrolling through your phones and showing each other the occasional funny TikTok.

“Cookie.” Keonho tries calling.

He does it three more times before giving up when he doesn’t get a response.

“Why isn’t he answering me?”

“He just doesn’t like you," you shrug.

“He’s liked me since I was, like seven.”

“Damn, Cookie, how old are you?” you say, looking at him. “He just has good taste anyway.”

“He’s been manipulated.”

“Okay, well—you can sit with him while I go to the bathroom.”

You move to get up, struggling a bit getting up since Cookie is still glued to your leg. He only moves when Keonho picks him up, his legs flailing everywhere.

"You're allowed to snoop in my room if you want." You can hear the smile in his voice without having to turn around.

"Shut up."

…

Keonho waits a couple seconds after he hears the clicking of the bathroom door. Just to be sure.

“Cookie, what’s going on?” he asks. “You’re supposed to be my wingman.”

No response.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair.

“And now you’re trying to steal my crush? That’s low.”

“Or maybe…” He hesitates, like he has no right to say what he’s about to say. “Maybe I should just ask her out—Cookie, what do you think?”

He's met with beady eyes in return, uninterested as Cookie turns his head in the other direction.

"I have a chance right?"

Bark.

"Was that a yes or a—"

The sound of the door opening jolts his body up.

“Okay—she’s coming back now. Don’t tell her anything."

…

You step back into the room just as he goes quiet.

Interesting—it feels like you just interrupted something. He went quiet too fast.

"Did you get some quality time with Cookie while I was gone?"

"Yes, but he's giving me mixed signals."

"Your dog whispering abilities suck."

"They do not."

"Oh but they do," you say, making your way onto the couch.

You sit closer to him this time, intentionally.

Cookie instantly abandons Keonho and returns to you like it’s instinct—which earns him another glare.

You can't help but notice the way your arm brushes against Keonho's.

Once.

Then twice.

You pretend like it’s not happening, not trusting yourself to act normal.

You’re close enough now to catch the familiar scent of his cologne from earlier.

It's distracting in the best way.

"Keonho, why are you so cold?"

"I'm a swimmer," he says softly, as if he's nervous to speak.

"There is no correlation between those two things."

A soft laugh escapes him—it’s a little low, nervous.

He looks like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out. He tries again, his voice still quiet.

“Wouldn’t it be so weird if we hadn’t met?” he says finally. “I don’t think I would’ve even stopped by that park again.”

“Damn—that’s my favourite park,” you start, then immediately regret how casual that sounds.

You take a glance at him.

He’s serious.

He’s not usually like that—you would’ve expected him to crack a joke afterwards.

“But… yeah,” you try to recover. “It’s definitely a weird thought—we hang out so much.”

You pause slightly, looking down towards the dog that is nestled up against you.

"I guess I better thank Cookie for that."

"Yeah," he says, looking at Cookie as well. "Me too."

You look at him properly for the first time in a while.

There's something honest and unguarded in his eyes.

You wonder what he can see in yours.

He looks away before you get to think about that any further.

You don’t look away.

Not right away.

He fidgets with the blanket beside him, focused on everything and nothing at the same time.

"Tommorow evening," he starts.

"Yeah?"

"We should go to our usual park."

"Sounds good," you smile.

Cookie barks—sudden and curt, as if he just approved the plan.

Unusual for this time of day, the park is quiet. Cool air settles in as the sun sets.

Sitting on the bench under the tree isn’t necessary, but the two of you find your way there anyway—almost like you're conditioned to do so.

"I don't mind the park in the evening, actually."

“Me neither, but I’m always too lazy to walk Cookie if it’s not during the day,” he says, stretching his arm out along the back of the bench.

“Well, we co-parent, so you could always text me.”

"Right—we should text more."

"But think about it, we hang out, text, and FaceTime."

"Still not enough."

You glance at him, expecting a smirk or some kind of joke to follow.

It doesn’t, and it hasn't recently. It's so unusual of him to not be joking.

He’s looking past you, as if he is purposefully avoiding your haze. Maybe he didn’t even realize what he just said and what it meant to you.

Or maybe he did.

Your grip tightens slightly around the edge of the bench. The metal of its edge is cool and slightly textured. You've ever taken note of the way it felt.

You don’t say anything, not trusting yourself to keep it light.

Cookie shifts between the two of you, he circles once before settling down—closer to you as he usually does. The sudden movement nudges your knee towards Keonho’s.

Neither of you move away.

You never have when you think about it—even when you barely knew each other.

You stare ahead, pretending not to notice the feeling of his knee brushing againsts yours. Trying your best to suppress a reaction.

It doesn’t help.

"What would happen if Cookie stopped liking me?"

"You know that's not going to happen," he chuckles

“Okay, but—hypothetically," you start. "Would I still have an excuse to see you?"

He doesn't answer right away.

"Do you need an excuse?" His voice is lower this time.

"No."

The word leaves your mouth softer than you expected and for a second, you wonder if you just said too much.

He leans in slightly towards you, then he stops like he’s giving you time to pull away.

You don't.

Instead, you find yourself nodding, just a little. It’s barely noticeable.

But he sees it and that's all it takes.

The space between you closes slowly, carefully. Neither of you wants to mess it up even though you're not sure how that could happen.

Your heart picks up, louder than it should be. You're sure anyone could hear it, especially him.

Then his lips meet yours.

It’s soft, a little unsure at first. He barely grazes the surface of your lips—like a test of sorts.

But you don’t pull away. If anything, you lean in a little more.

That's when it settles and the hesitation fades.

Real.

Warm.

Easy.

It doesn’t last long, but it lingers in a way that makes it feel like it did.

You’re the first to pull back, just slightly.

Still close enough to feel his breath, still close enough that moving closer to him again wouldn't take much effort.

Neither of you says anything.

Neither of you moves away.

And for a second, it feels like something just changed.

A bark interrupts you.

You both look down.

Cookie.

"Hey you're the one who made this happen!"

hello cutie if you read until the end, love you lots as always 💗 i hope this wasnt too short!! i was struggling with their relationship but i hope it turned out alright 🙈🙈

Taglist // open!!

Your wrist throbbed faintly, a dull, persistent ache that spread up your arm in slow pulses. When you shifted it slightly, the soreness flared again, sharper this time, forcing a small breath out of you that you quickly swallowed back.

You didn’t cry. You stood there, shoulders still, gaze lowered, breathing shallow but controlled.

Because crying would not change anything.

It never had.

After a while seconds, minutes, you couldn’t tell you forced yourself to move. Your steps were slower now, less certain, but they carried you back in the only direction that felt even remotely safe.

The nursery. It was the only place where the air did not feel like it was closing in on you.

When you pushed the door open, the room greeted you with the same soft glow, the same quiet stillness you had left behind. For a moment, you stayed near the doorway, your hand still resting against it, as if you needed that small pause to gather whatever was left of yourself before stepping fully inside.

Xinyi was still asleep.

Her tiny form curled slightly in the cradle, her breathing steady, undisturbed by anything that had just happened beyond these walls. The sight of her so calm, so unaware did something to your chest that you couldn’t quite name.

It hurt. But it also steadied you.

You walked toward her slowly, your steps quieter now, more careful, as if you were afraid even the sound of your movement might disrupt the fragile peace she held.

When you reached the cradle, you lowered yourself beside it, your knees brushing the floor as you leaned in slightly. Your uninjured hand rested gently against the edge, your fingers curling lightly against the wood.

“He didn’t wake you,” you whispered softly, your voice barely more than breath.

Your gaze lingered on her face, tracing the small details you had come to know so well. The faint curve of her lashes, the softness of her cheeks, the way her lips parted slightly in sleep.

You reached out, hesitating for just a second before letting your fingers brush gently against her hand.

She stirred. Not fully waking, but enough for her small fingers to curl instinctively around yours.

That was enough. Your breath caught slightly.

Because even now she reached for you without hesitation.

Your other hand tightened unconsciously around your wrist, holding it close to your body, as if the lingering pain there needed to be hidden even in a room where no one was watching.

“I’m not trying to be her,” you murmured, your voice softer now, unsteady in a way you didn’t let it be anywhere else.

There was no answer.

Only the quiet rhythm of her breathing.

“I don’t even know how to be myself here,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Your throat tightened again.

You swallowed hard, your gaze lowering slightly.

“I just… do what needs to be done.”

Your fingers shifted slightly in her grasp, careful not to wake her.

“That’s all I know how to do.”

The room stayed still. Unchanged.But the silence here it didn’t feel like rejection. It felt like something else.

Something that didn’t push you away.

Your shoulders eased just a little. Just enough for you to breathe a little deeper.

“I don’t want to take her place,” you whispered, your voice barely audible now. “I just… didn’t want her to be alone.”

Your chest tightened again at your own words.

Because that was the truth.

It was the one thing no one seemed willing to hear.

Your hand shifted again, gently adjusting the blanket around her as if that small action could anchor you in something real, something steady.

“I’ll stay where I’m supposed to,” you murmured, though the words felt hollow even as you said them. “If that’s what makes things easier.”

Easier for who you didn’t say. You already knew the answer.

You watched her carefully, your expression softening despite everything.

“I’ll still be here,” you added quietly.

That part you meant. No matter what he said.

No matter how many times he pushed you away, removed you, rejected your presence.

You would still be here. Because she needed you.

And maybe that was the only reason you still had to stay.

Your body shifted slightly as you leaned back against the side of the cradle, your head resting lightly against the wood. The ache in your wrist had dulled to something more manageable now, but it hadn’t disappeared.

Just like everything else. It stayed.

Your eyes closed slowly, just for a moment, your breathing evening out as exhaustion finally began to settle deeper into your bones.

And in that small, dimly lit room

With her tiny hand still loosely wrapped around your finger you allowed yourself the smallest, most fragile kind of stillness.

Not peace. But something close enough to keep you from breaking completely.

After that the shift did not happen all at once.

It began in small, almost invisible ways, the kind no one would notice unless they were paying very close attention. The grandmother did not announce anything formally, did not gather the household to declare your place or your duties. She simply started including you.

At first, it was small things. Sitting in on discussions you would have once been dismissed from. Listening rather than speaking. Observing the way decisions were made, the way problems were approached, the way the household functioned beyond the nursery walls.

You did not interrupt.

You did not try to prove anything.

You just… learned.

And then, slowly, she began asking for your input.

“What do you think should be done about the shipment delays?”

“How would you handle the servants’ rotation this week?”

“Should we adjust the accounts now, or wait until the end of the month?”

Simple questions. On the surface. But they meant something more.They meant she was giving you space.

Responsibility.

A place you had never been allowed to stand in before.

You didn’t answer immediately when she first asked you. You hesitated, your fingers tightening slightly in your lap as your mind worked through the question.

Because this wasn’t something you had been taught.

This wasn’t something you had been prepared for.

But you still answered.

And when she nodded not dismissing you, not correcting you harshly, just acknowledging your thoughts.

And this was where you differed from Meiyu.

Everyone had known her as capable, composed, someone who fulfilled her duties with precision. She had been raised for this, trained for it, expected to carry the weight of a household with grace.

Her focus had always been the responsibility itself.

The structure. The expectations that came with her name.

But you, you approached it differently.

You didn’t think about what the household needed first.

You thought about what he needed. What Yufan needed.

Every decision you made, every adjustment, every responsibility you took on it circled back to one thing.

How could this make things easier for Yufan?

You noticed things others didn’t.

The way certain reports were always left untouched a little longer when they involved specific matters. The way he preferred decisions to be presented directly, without unnecessary discussion. The way his time was stretched thin, even if he never complained about it.

You didn’t ask him. You didn’t approach him. You didn’t even expect acknowledgment. You just… acted.

If there was a task that could be handled before it reached him, you handled it.

If there was a problem that could be resolved quietly, you resolved it.

If there was something that could be organized, arranged, adjusted in a way that would remove even a small burden from his shoulders.

You did it. Not for recognition. Not for approval.

Just because you thought maybe if things were easier for him. Maybe if something in his life felt less heavy.

He wouldn’t look at you the way he did. It was a quiet kind of effort. One no one spoke about. One no one pointed out. But it existed.

In the way reports were already sorted before reaching his desk.

In the way certain disputes were resolved before they could escalate.

In the way the household began to run smoother, more efficiently, without him having to intervene as often.

He noticed. He noticed everything.

At first, it was subtle. A slight pause when something was already handled.

A brief moment of stillness when an issue he expected to deal with was no longer there.

But he didn’t comment. Not immediately.

Because acknowledging it would mean acknowledging you. And that was something he still resisted.

Until one evening when he realized just how much had shifted. He stood in the main study, a stack of documents in front of him that felt lighter than usual. Not physically. But in weight. In expectation. He flipped through them once. Then again. His brows furrowed slightly.

“This was already resolved?”

His voice cut through the quiet, directed at one of the attendants standing nearby.

“Yes,” the attendant replied carefully. “It was addressed earlier today.”

“By who.”

A pause.

“By Madam.”

The word hung in the air. He didn’t react immediately.

But something in his posture shifted.

“Which Madam,” he asked, even though there was only one possible answer.

“The young Madam.”

You.

Silence followed.

He closed the document slowly, his fingers pressing slightly harder against the edge than necessary.

“And the shipment issue from yesterday?”

“Also handled.”

“And the account discrepancy?”

“Resolved this morning.”

Each answer landed heavier than the last. Because this wasn’t coincidence. This wasn’t small. This was consistent.

He dismissed the attendant with a slight motion of his hand, his gaze dropping back to the documents in front of him.

Everything was in order. Everything had been done.

Without him. Without his instruction. Without his involvement.

And the worst part, It had been done well.

There was nothing to correct. Nothing to fix. Nothing to question. Which meant you had done it right.

His jaw tightened.Because that realization didn’t sit easily with him. Not when it came from you. Not when it felt like something was shifting in a way he hadn’t allowed.

He exhaled slowly, setting the documents aside.

And for a moment something flickered in his expression.Something uncertain. Something that almost resembled acknowledgment.

But it didn’t last. Because the next thought came just as quickly.

Why are you doing this.

Not out of appreciation.

Not out of relief.

But suspicion.

Because in his mind nothing you did could be separated from intention.

You kept going. Because that was the only way you knew how to exist there.

Trying to fix something without ever being asked to.

Time did not stop being difficult.

But it began to change.

Not in ways that were loud or obvious, not in ways that could be pointed at and declared, but in the smallest shifts that slowly rewrote how the palace breathed around you.

At first, it was just fewer interruptions.

Fewer looks that lingered too long.

Fewer whispers that stopped when you walked past.

Then it became something else.

Servants began to answer you without hesitation. Not warmly, not yet, but without that sharp edge of dismissal they once carried. When you gave instructions, they followed them. When you asked for updates, they responded properly.

Not because they liked you. But because they could no longer ignore you. You had made yourself… necessary.

The household ran smoother now. Too smoothly for it to be dismissed as coincidence. Matters that once took days to settle were handled within hours. Disputes that would have reached higher authority were resolved before they could escalate. Records were organized, schedules balanced, and even the smallest inefficiencies were quietly adjusted until they no longer existed.

Even the elders, who once barely acknowledged your presence, began to pause when you spoke. Their expressions less dismissive, their tone less sharp when addressing you.

Not acceptance. But something close to it.

That was something no one had expected.

Because you were supposed to remain in the shadows.

Supposed to stay quiet, invisible, contained within the boundaries set for you.

But you didn’t push those boundaries.

You simply filled them.

There was her. Xinyi. She had grown.

Not in the way that could be measured only by size or time, but in the way her presence began to fill the space around her. She was no longer just a quiet infant who needed soothing she was aware now, curious, responsive.

She followed you everywhere. If you moved, her eyes followed.

If you spoke, she listened. If you left the room, even for a moment she noticed. And she did not like it.

Her small hands reached for you instinctively now, her body leaning toward you even before you lifted her. She had learned the rhythm of your voice, the comfort of your arms, the safety in your presence. And slowly she began to learn words.

At first, it was sounds. Soft, unclear, little attempts at mimicking what she heard around her.

You encouraged her quietly, patiently, your voice softer than it ever was anywhere else.

“It’s okay… take your time…”

Her tiny lips would move, forming shapes she didn’t fully understand yet, her brows furrowing slightly as if frustrated with herself.

You would smile.

“You’re doing well,” you would whisper.

And she would look at you like she believed it.

You were sitting by the window, holding her in your lap, your fingers gently guiding hers as she played with the edge of your sleeve. The afternoon light spilled softly across the room, warm and quiet, the kind of moment that passed without notice to anyone else.

She had been babbling for a while, small sounds slipping in and out, her voice light and unstructured.

And then, it changed.

Her lips parted again, her gaze lifting toward you as if something had clicked, something had aligned just enough for it to make sense.

“Mama.”

The word was soft. Uncertain. Barely more than a breath. But it was clear.

Your entire body stilled. For a moment, you didn’t react.

Didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe properly.

Because you weren’t sure you had heard it right.

She looked at you again, her small hand pressing lightly against your arm.

“Mama.”

This time, it was clearer.

Your throat tightened immediately, your fingers trembling slightly as they curled around her small hand.

“Xinyi…” your voice came out softer than ever, almost breaking. “Say it again…”

She smiled. A small, bright thing. And repeated it.

“Mama.”

You swallowed hard, your vision blurring slightly as something warm and overwhelming filled your chest all at once.

It landed deeper than anything else ever had.

Your arms tightened around her instinctively, pulling her closer, your cheek brushing lightly against her hair as you exhaled shakily.

“I’m here,” you whispered, your voice trembling despite your efforts. “I’m right here…”

She laughed softly, unaware of what she had just given you. Unaware of how much that one word meant.

You taught her another. Gently.

“Papa,” you said one day, your finger pointing slightly toward the doorway as if she could understand the direction of it. “That’s Papa.”

She blinked at you. Confused. Because she hadn’t seen him much. Not recently.

Weeks had passed since he had last come near her long enough for her to recognize him properly.

But you didn’t stop. You repeated it. Not forcing. Just guiding.

“Papa.”

She tried. Her voice softer this time, less certain.

“Pa…”

You smiled faintly.

“Close enough.”

You didn’t know why you did it. Maybe because you didn’t want her to grow up without that connection.

Maybe because you didn’t want her to feel the absence the way you did.

Or maybe because despite everything you still hoped.

That one day he would step closer. And she would already know who he was. But outside of that small, fragile space things were shifting in a different way.

Because while the household softened.

While the servants began to accept.

While the elders began to acknowledge.

Yufan did not. If anything he grew colder.

One evening, he stood at a distance, unnoticed for once, his gaze fixed on the scene in front of him.

You were sitting on the floor, Xinyi in front of you, her small hands clapping softly as you encouraged her, your voice low and warm in a way he had never heard directed at him.

“Mama,” she said again, her tone brighter now.

His entire body stilled.

The word echoed in his mind.

As if it wasn’t enough you spoke again.

“Say Papa,” you said gently.

Xinyi looked at you, tilting her head slightly before attempting it again.

“Pa…pa…”

Your smile softened.

“That’s right.”

His hand curled into a fist at his side.

Everything made sense in the worst possible way.

The responsibilities. The adjustments. The way the household had shifted. The way the child clung to you.

The way that word. That role. Was being filled.

It didn’t look like necessity.

It looked like something else entirely.

Like you were settling into a place that had never been yours to take.

After that the tension did not begin inside the Zhao residence. It came from outside, carried in whispers that moved through corridors faster than official announcements ever could. Another another estate with power that did not sit comfortably beside the Zhao name had begun pressing boundaries that had long been respected. Trade routes questioned. Agreements challenged. Pride always pride standing where reason should have been.

In a place like this, it was never just about land or goods. It was about face. About honor.

About who bowed first and who refused.

Yufan did not bow. He never had.

So when he left, it was not with hesitation. It was with the same controlled resolve he carried in everything else, his expression unreadable, his intentions unspoken but understood by everyone who mattered.

He would handle it. He would always comeback winning these wars with bloody hands. He always did.

But this time, he did not return the same.

The gates had opened late into the evening, the sound heavy, echoing in a way that made the air feel wrong before anyone even saw him. Servants rushed, voices rising in hushed urgency, the kind that tried to remain controlled but failed at the edges.

By the time you stepped into the outer corridor, Xinyi held tightly against your chest, you already knew something had gone terribly wrong.

You saw him before anyone could explain.

And for a moment your body forgot how to move.

He was standing, but barely.

Blood had soaked through the front of his robes, dark and uneven, the fabric clinging to him in a way that made it impossible to tell where the worst of it was. His steps were unsteady, his breathing heavier than you had ever seen, each inhale sharp, each exhale controlled only by force.

Servants rushed towards him immediately, panic barely contained in their movements as they tried to reach him, to support him, to do something.

“Master—”

“Don’t touch me.”

His voice cut through them instantly.

He pushed past them without another word, his steps uneven but determined, blood marking the floor behind him in a way that made your chest tighten painfully.

You didn’t follow at first. You couldn’t.

Your fingers tightened instinctively around Xinyi, holding her closer as she stirred against you, her small hands gripping your clothing as if she felt it too that something was wrong, deeply wrong.

The corridor quieted as he disappeared into his room, the door closing harder than necessary behind him.

No one moved. No one spoke. Because no one dared.

You could feel it. The fear. The uncertainty. The weight of what his return meant. He had lost. That loss would not sit quietly.

Your feet moved before your mind fully caught up.

Each step toward his room felt heavier than the last, your heartbeat loud in your ears, your hands trembling slightly as you adjusted your hold on Xinyi.

You knew how this would go. You knew what would happen if you walked in there. But still you didn’t stop.

When you reached the door, your hand paused against it, your breath uneven as you tried to steady yourself.

You could turn back. You could leave him to the servants. To the silence he preferred. To the anger he carried. But you didn’t.

You pushed the door open.

The room inside was dim, the air thick, suffocating in a way that made it hard to breathe properly. He was there, near the edge of the bed, one hand braced against it, his head slightly lowered as if the effort of simply standing had begun to take more from him than he wanted to admit.

Blood had already begun to pool faintly beneath him.

He didn’t look up immediately. But he knew.

“Get out.”

The words came before you could say anything.

Your grip on Xinyi tightened slightly, but you didn’t move.

“Leave,” he repeated, more forceful this time, his voice strained in a way that made the word feel heavier than just anger.

You stepped forward instead.

“You are losing a lot of bloo—”

“I said leave.”

He turned then, his gaze landing on you, and even through the exhaustion, the pain, the blood the anger was still there.

Xinyi shifted in your arms, her small fingers clutching tighter, her head lifting slightly as her eyes found him.

She stared. Wide. Curious. Unafraid. Like she's plotting onto something.

“Pa..pa.”

The word fell into the silence like something fragile.

Something that didn’t belong in a moment like this.

Your breath caught. His entire body stilled.

His gaze shifted just slightly from you to her.

Xinyi leaned slightly forward in your arms, her small hand reaching out toward him without understanding the weight of the moment, without knowing what he carried or what he had just lost.

“Papa,” she said again, softer this time.

And something in his expression something tightly held for far too long cracked.

You saw it. Just for a second. Just enough to know it was real.

You stepped closer. Carefully.

As if any sudden movement might shatter whatever fragile shift had just taken place.

“I’m going to help you,” you said quietly, your voice steadier than you felt.

He didn’t respond immediately. Didn’t push you away. Didn’t repeat the order.

That was enough.

You moved closer to him, your hands still trembling slightly as you put Xinyi down onto his bed.

He tensed when you touched him.

But he didn’t stop you. Not this time.

Your fingers were careful, gentle as you pulled away the blood-soaked fabric just enough to see where the worst of it was. The sight made your stomach twist, your breath catching despite your effort to remain composed.

“You’re losing too much blood,” you whispered, your voice barely holding together.

“I’m fine.”

He wasn’t. You both knew that.

You reached for the cloth nearby, your hands moving with a care that came from instinct rather than experience, pressing it lightly against the wound, your movements slow, deliberate, as if trying to ease the pain instead of aggravating it.

He inhaled sharply. The tension in his body spiked.

But he didn’t pull away.

Xinyi shifted again, her small hand brushing lightly against his sleeve as she leaned closer, her gaze still fixed on him with that same quiet curiosity.

“Papa…”

This time, it wasn’t questioning.

Your chest tightened. You focused on your hands, on the task, on the careful pressure, on the way your fingers trembled slightly as you worked to clean the wound, to stop the bleeding, to do something that would help.

“You need to sit,” you said softly.

He didn’t respond. So you guided him carefully.

Your touch light but steady as you eased him down onto the bed, your hand never leaving him longer than necessary, as if afraid that if you did, he would push you away again.

But he didn’t. He just… let you, for the first time.

The room was quiet.

Only the sound of your breathing, his uneven exhales, and the faint rustle of fabric filled the space.

You worked carefully, your movements growing steadier with each passing second, your focus narrowing to the task in front of you.

You didn’t rush. Didn’t panic. You were gentle.

In a way no one had been with him before. Not even her. Meiyu.

His gaze shifted slightly, watching you in a way he hadn’t before. Just… watching.

Your attention stayed on the wound, on the way your hands moved carefully, your touch light, your expression focused but soft, your eyes faintly glassy in a way that suggested you were holding something back.

“your wounds.. will heal soon,” you murmured quietly, more to steady yourself than anything else. “You’ll be okay…”

The words were simple. But they carried something deeper. And for the first time since he had walked back through those gates, the loss didn’t feel as heavy.

Sitting there, bleeding, exhausted, stripped of the control he held onto so tightly he wasn’t alone.

And he hadn’t expected this. Not from you. Not like this.

Xinyi shifted again, her small body leaning lightly against his arm now, her head tilting slightly as if studying him, her presence quiet but constant.l

He didn’t look away from her this time gently brushing her baby hairs in which Xinyi responded by giggling. She got her mama.. and maybe the warmth of her papa was all that was missing all these days.

“You should rest,” you spoke gently patching the last bandage on his wound. “Your body needs it.”

He let out a slow breath, his shoulders shifting slightly, the tension easing just enough to be noticeable.

“I can’t,” he said.

“Then at least lie down,” you said softly. “Sitting like this will make it worse.”

For a moment, you thought he might ignore you.

Might return to that quiet resistance you knew so well.

But instead he shifted leaning back on the bedrest beside Xinyi who was now distracted by the patterns of the royal bedsheet.

The movement was controlled, but you could see the strain in it, the way his breath caught slightly, the way his jaw tightened as he settled against the bed.

You stepped forward without thinking. Your hand reaching out again. This time, you didn’t hesitate.

Your fingers rested lightly against his shoulder, steadying him as he adjusted, your touch gentle, instinctive. He didn’t stop you this time too.

And that felt unreal. For once you wanted it to feel like he was your husband, not your sister's. For once it did not felt like you were a replacement.

Once he settled, you moved your hand away slowly, as if afraid to linger too long. That warmth of him still felt present.

The room fell quiet again. But it wasn’t empty. It felt… full. Of everything that had just happened. Of everything that hadn’t been said. Of everything that neither of you knew how to handle.

You glanced at him again. His eyes were closed now. Not fully asleep. But resting. His breathing steadier than before. You watched him for a moment longer than you meant to, for a little too longer.

There was no moment where everything changed, no single day where the distance between you disappeared and something new took its place. If anyone had been watching from the outside, they might not have noticed anything at all. But you did. Because you felt it in the smallest things.

After that night, something in him no longer shut completely when you were near. Not fully open, not warm in the way others might understand, but no longer closed in that absolute, impenetrable way that had once made it impossible to even stand beside him without feeling like you were intruding.

At first, it showed itself in silence. A different kind of silence.

He no longer left the moment you entered a room. No longer dismissed your presence with that immediate, cutting indifference. He would remain where he was, his posture still composed, his expression still guarded, but he stayed.

And you learned not to break that. You didn’t force conversation. You didn’t push for more.

You simply existed beside him when he allowed it, quiet and careful, as if afraid that reaching for too much would make him retreat again.

And slowly that space began to grow.

It happened in passing moments.

A question about something small, practical, spoken without looking at you, but not dismissing your answer when you gave it. A pause when you entered, not long, not obvious, but enough that you knew he had noticed.

And then there were the nights.

The first time it happened again, you thought you had imagined it. A soft knock. So quiet it barely sounded like one.

You had been sitting near the low table, folding Xinyi’s clothes with slow, practiced movements, the room dim and peaceful in a way you had come to treasure. When the sound came, you froze for just a second, your hands stilling against the fabric. No one knocked like that. Not here. Not for you.

You stood slowly, your heart beating a little faster than it should have, and crossed the room to the door.

When you opened it he was there.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

He stood just outside, his posture straight as always, his expression unreadable in the low light of the corridor. There was no blood this time. No visible injury. No immediate reason for him to be standing there.

Your fingers tightened slightly against the edge of the door.

“…Is something wrong?” you asked softly.

The question came instinctively.

Because that was the only reason you could imagine for him to be here.

His gaze flickered slightly, not quite meeting yours at first.

“Can I come in?”

You stepped aside immediately.

“Yes,” you said, almost too quickly. “Of course.”

He entered without another word, his steps slow, deliberate, as if he wasn’t entirely sure of them. The door closed softly behind him, the sound gentle in a way that felt almost intentional.

You turned to face him, your hands coming together lightly in front of you, unsure of what to do now that he was actually inside your space.

He stood there for a moment, his gaze moving briefly around the room before settling somewhere just past you.

It wasn’t discomfort. Not exactly. But it was… unfamiliar. For both of you.

“Did something happen?” you asked again, your voice softer now.

This time, he answered.

“…No.”

You waited.

“It was just… a long day.”

The words were simple. But they carried weight. You nodded slowly.

“I see.”

Silence followed. But it didn’t feel wrong.

It felt… tentative. Like both of you were standing at the edge of something neither of you fully understood yet.

“I can make some tea,” you said quietly. “It might help.”

He didn’t respond immediately. But he didn’t refuse.

So you prepared it anyway, your movements slow, familiar, giving yourself something to do, something to steady your thoughts.

You could feel his presence behind you.

Not distant. Just… there.

When you returned, you set the cup down near him carefully, your fingers brushing the edge of it for just a second before you pulled back.

“It’s warm,” you said softly. “Be careful.”

He reached for it after a moment, his hand steady, his movements controlled, but there was something quieter in them now. Less rigid.

He didn’t speak as he drank. And neither did you.

You sat across from him, your hands resting lightly in your lap, your gaze lowered, giving him the space to be there without feeling like he had to explain it.

His gaze shifting toward you briefly before settling again.

“…Thank you.”

The words were quiet. Barely above a whisper.

But they were real.

Your breath caught slightly. You nodded.

“You’re always welcome,” you replied, your voice just as soft.

He didn’t say anything else. He just left.

But after that, it happened again. And again.

Not every night. Not often enough to expect. But enough that you began to understand.

Whenever something went wrong. Whenever the weight of his responsibilities pressed too heavily.

Whenever something inside him grew too loud. He came to you. Not with words. Not with explanations.

But with that same quiet knock. That same careful presence. As if he didn’t fully understand it himself.

As if he didn’t know why your room felt different.

Why the silence there didn’t press against him the way it did everywhere else.

Why sitting across from you, saying nothing, felt easier than anything else.

At first, he still stood at a distance when he entered your room, as if the space itself demanded caution from him. As if stepping too far in meant admitting something he was not ready to acknowledge. He would sit near the edge of the table or by the window, his posture still controlled, still composed, even when his silence felt heavier than words.

But even that began to change. Unnoticeably at first.

Until one night, he did not sit across from you.

He sat beside you. It was such a small thing.

But it made your breath catch anyway.

You had been pouring tea, your hands steady out of habit, the soft sound of porcelain filling the quiet between you. Xinyi was already asleep in the adjoining room, her small presence settling the house in a way nothing else ever could.

When you turned, you found him closer than before.

Not touching. But near enough that you could feel his presence differently now. Like something that belonged there. You set the cup down carefully in front of him, your fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary before pulling away.

“Long day?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer immediately. He rarely did at first.

But this time, there was less hesitation in him when he finally spoke.

“…It didn’t go the way I expected.”

Your gaze lifted slightly.

“That sounds like it was difficult.”

A pause.

“It was.”

Silence settled again. Built from repetition, from familiarity, from something neither of you had named but both had begun to rely on.

You sat down slowly across from him, your movements careful as always, your hands folding gently in your lap. You didn’t press him for more. You didn’t ask what had happened. You didn’t try to pull details out of him the way others would have. You just stayed.

And that, somehow, was enough for him to continue.

His gaze stayed on the tea for a while before he spoke again.

“…Do you ever feel like no matter what you do, it still isn’t enough?”

The question came out quietly.

Just tired in a way that felt more honest than anything you had heard from him before.

It wasn’t about politics or responsibility or anything that lived in reports and decisions. It was something deeper.

Something human. You hesitated only for a moment before answering.

“I think…” you said softly, choosing your words carefully, “sometimes people measure themselves by things they can’t control.”

You continued.

“And when nothing feels like it changes, it’s easy to believe you’re the reason.”

Your voice lowered slightly.

“But that doesn’t mean it’s true.”

Silence followed.

He finally picked up the cup, his movements slower than usual, not because of hesitation but because he was thinking. That was something you were beginning to notice about him. When he was with you, he didn’t rush to end the moment anymore. He let it exist.

Even when he didn’t know what to do with it.

“…You always say things like that,” he murmured after a while.

You blinked slightly.

“I do?”

A faint pause.

“Yes.”

You didn’t know what to say to that at first.

So you simply nodded a little, your lips curving faintly in something almost shy, almost unsure.

“I don’t know if it helps,” you admitted softly.

His gaze finally lifted.

It stayed on you longer than necessary.

“…It does.”

The words were quiet. And something in your chest shifted at that.

Later, when he left, it was the same as always.

No acknowledgment of how long he had stayed.

Just the quiet rise, the slow walk to the door, the pause that had begun to appear more often now like his body itself hesitated before leaving your presence.

He stopped with his hand near the door.

Didn’t open it right away. You stood as well, unsure why.

“Are you coming back soon?” you asked before you could stop yourself. The question surprised even you.

“…If I can.”

That wasn’t a promise. But it wasn’t a refusal either.

And somehow, that felt more honest than anything else.

The next time he came again, it was different.

The night had already worn you down before it even began to end. Xinyi’s fever had come without warning, the kind that crept in quietly and then suddenly filled the room with urgency. One moment she had been warm and restless in your arms, the next she was crying softly in that weak, confused way that made your chest tighten in panic you couldn’t show. You had spent the entire night awake. Cooling cloths, changing water, adjusting blankets, holding her when she refused to settle, whispering soft reassurances that you weren’t even sure she understood but said anyway because your voice was the only thing you could offer her.

“Shh… I’m here… I’m here…”

Again and again. Until your own voice began to feel distant. Until your hands began to feel like they didn’t belong to you anymore.

Yufan had been there. That was the strange part.

Not absent. Not distant like before.

He had come when called, standing in the doorway at first like he wasn’t sure whether he had the right to enter that space. But he had stepped in anyway. Quiet. Observing. Watching you move around the room with a kind of exhaustion that you were no longer hiding properly. When Xinyi had cried harder, he had reached out without hesitation.

Then more steadily when she had instinctively settled against him, her small body responding to him in a way that surprised even him.

He had carried her for a while after that.

Standing near the window, his arms steady beneath her while she drifted in and out of uneasy sleep, her fever making her cling to warmth wherever she could find it.

You had watched that moment from the edge of the bed.

The night was still yours. Because when she cried again, when she reached for you instead, when her fever made her restless and afraid, she still came back to you. And you stayed. Always.

Until finally she had fallen asleep again.

Properly this time. Her breathing evening out, her small hand curled loosely around your sleeve as if refusing to let go even in sleep. Only then did the room begin to quiet. Only then did your body begin to realize how much it had given. Your hands were trembling slightly when you finally eased yourself back onto the edge of the bed, your shoulders heavy, your eyes half-lowered with exhaustion that had gone beyond tiredness and settled somewhere deeper.

You hadn’t eaten. Not since the day before.

You hadn’t even noticed until your body reminded you in a dull, hollow way that you had nothing left to give.

You just sat there, staring down at Xinyi as if making sure she was still okay was more important than anything else in the world.

Your head dipped slightly. Just for a moment. Just enough to let your eyes close.

I’ll just rest for a second…

That was all you thought.

You didn’t hear the door at first. It was softer than usual.

Careful in a way you were beginning to recognize but still weren’t used to.

Only when the faint shift of air moved through the room did you stir slightly, your eyes opening slowly, heavy.

And there he was. Yufan. Standing just inside the doorway. Just holding a plate in his hands. Warm food.

“She finally stopped crying.”

A pause.

Then he stepped in fully. Not hesitant anymore either.

He placed the plate on the small table near you, the soft sound of porcelain against wood almost too gentle for how heavy the night had been. You blinked at it for a second, confused.

“…You didn’t have to—”

“You didn’t eat.”

Your lips parted slightly, but no words came.

“You stayed up all night,” he said.

You gave a small, tired nod.

“She needed me.”

Something flickered in his expression at that.

Something that didn’t know how to respond yet.

The plate sat between you both, steam still faintly rising from it. You stared at it for a second too long.

“I’ll eat later,” you murmured automatically.

“No,” he said again.

“Eat now.”

Something in you gave in. Because you didn’t have the strength left to pretend anymore.

You reached for the food slowly, your movements sluggish, exhaustion still clinging to your limbs. The first bite felt almost unreal, like your body had forgotten what nourishment felt like. You swallowed carefully.

And only then did you realize how empty you had been.

He didn’t speak while you ate. He just stayed there.

Watching sometimes. Looking away sometimes.

At one point, your hand paused slightly, fatigue catching up again, your eyelids dipping before you forced them open again. He noticed.

Without a word, he reached over and pushed the cup of water slightly closer to you. Just… making it easier.

That small action made something in your chest ache unexpectedly.

“…You should rest too,” you murmured softly after a while.

He didn’t respond immediately.

“I rested enough.”

You almost smiled at that.

The exhaustion hitting you fully now that your body wasn’t running on panic anymore.

Your head tilted slightly forward before you caught yourself. But not quickly enough. He stood up. And for a second, you thought he might leave.

Instead he stepped closer.

“You should lie down,” he said.

Your lips parted slightly.

“I’m fine…”

“You’re not.”

You didn’t argue this time. Because you didn’t have anything left to argue with.

So you nodded faintly.

“…Okay.”

And you finally leaned back slightly, letting yourself rest for the first time in what felt like forever.

After that night, something changed in a way neither of you acknowledged out loud.

Yufan still came, but now there was no hesitation in the knock. No pause outside your door as if reconsidering. It was still quiet, still controlled, but no longer uncertain.

And when you opened it, he no longer stood at a distance like he was borrowing space.

He stepped in like he belonged there for at least a moment.

At first, you told yourself it was only because of Xinyi.

Because she had begun to recognize him more clearly now, her small arms reaching for him without fear, her voice softening into “papa” with growing familiarity. And he had started responding to that in a way that surprised even him. He would hold her longer. Adjust her more carefully. Stay near her without being asked.

But it was becoming obvious it wasn’t only her.

Because sometimes, Xinyi would already be asleep when he arrived. And he would still stay.

Once, your fingers brushed while reaching for the same page. It was accidental. You both paused for half a breath. Then continued.

But after that, the space between your hands changed.

And neither of you ignored it anymore.

Xinyi was the one who made it feel the most natural.

She had started waking up less frightened, her fever episodes becoming rarer, her laughter returning slowly in small, uneven bursts that filled the room in ways nothing else could.

And she always knew where to go. Even half asleep.

She would crawl out of her blanket and move toward whichever of you was closest.

That meant she would press herself between you both.

One night, she fell asleep with her head on your lap and her hand resting on Yufan’s sleeve at the same time.

Neither of you moved her. Neither of you spoke.

He just looked down at her for a long time.

And then quietly said,

“…She trusts you.”

Late nights when he came back exhausted from meetings or disputes, and instead of going directly to his chambers, he stopped at your door without knocking for a full minute.

Just standing there. As if deciding.

And sometimes you would open it before he could leave. And he would enter without a word.

The Lin family arrived like they always did when they wanted something dressed in politeness.

Perfume too sweet. Smiles too controlled. Voices wrapped in silk that never quite hid the edge underneath. The hall was arranged carefully, servants moving like shadows, every detail polished to perfection as if the palace itself could erase tension through appearance alone.

You stood slightly behind, not by choice anymore but habit. A presence that was acknowledged only when convenient. Yufan sat at the head. Composed. Unreadable. But you had learned him enough by now to notice the smallest things. The way his fingers didn’t rest fully still. The way his gaze didn’t soften when it should have during greetings.

The Lin matriarch, your mom laughed lightly, tilting her head as she looked you over like an afterthought.

“You’ve adjusted well here,” she said pleasantly, then paused just long enough for the sweetness to rot. “Though I suppose someone like you would be grateful for any place that accepts you.”

A soft chuckle followed from one of them.

“After everything that happened with Meiyu…” another voice added gently, like it was sympathy. “It must be difficult being… placed here so suddenly.”

The Lin family kept speaking, still smiling.

“Of course, we only mean well. It’s just… some people don’t quite belong in certain positions no matter how they arrive there.”

A pause.

“It would be better if they understood their place.”

That was when the chair scraped. Yufan stood.

“That is enough.”

No one responded immediately.

One of the elders forced a small laugh. “Yufan, we were only—”

“You will not speak about her again.”

Silence dropped instantly.

You felt your breath catch slightly at the word.

The Lin matriarch’s smile faltered slightly, but she tried to recover it.

“You are being too protective over—”

“I said,” he interrupted, voice lower now, “enough.”

The pressure in the room changed completely.

“I tolerate your presence here out of respect for the past,” he said. “Do not mistake that for permission.”

“If you insult my wife again, you will not be invited back into this house.”

That was it.

Just a line drawn so cleanly it couldn’t be questioned.

The Lin family finally fell silent.

And you hadn’t moved.

Because you were still processing the fact that he had done that and the thing that couldn't be ignored was that he had called you his wife infront of your own family who were busy insulting you.

And when it was over, you didn’t even realize your hands were trembling until you were already back in your room. The silence there felt different.

Just heavy in a way that made everything inside you feel too full.

You sat down slowly near the edge of the bed, your breath uneven, your chest tight in a way you couldn’t explain properly. Your eyes burned. But you didn’t let anything fall. Because you didn’t know what this meant.

You didn’t know what he had just done.

You didn’t know where you stood after it.

And then the door opened. Yufan. He stepped in and closed it behind him quietly. And suddenly the room felt too small for both of you.

You didn’t stand. Neither did he speak at first.

He just looked at you. And something in your expression must have given you away.

Because his jaw tightened slightly. He crossed the room and sat down not beside you this time, but close enough that the space between you felt fragile.

You finally whispered, voice unsteady,

“…You shouldn’t have done that.”

“They crossed a line.”

A pause.

“And I let it go for too long already.”

Your fingers tightened slightly in your lap.

“I’m used to it,” you said before you could stop yourself.

“Don’t say that.”

You blinked slightly.

“…It’s true.”

“No.”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees now, head tilted down just enough that you couldn’t fully read his expression anymore.

When he spoke again, it wasn’t loud.

But it felt heavier than anything he had said before.

“You are not something people get to speak about like that.”

“And you are not something I will ignore again.”

Your breath caught.

But his voice, when it came again, was quieter.

Almost unsteady.

“I heard you didn’t speak during it.”

You shook your head faintly.

“I couldn’t.”

A pause.

“I didn’t know what I was supposed to say.”

His gaze flicked to you again.

And this time, It softened.

“…You don’t need to say anything,” he said.

Then almost like he was admitting something he didn’t fully understand himself.

“Not there.”

The silence between you did not settle this time.

It pressed into the space between your breaths, into the way your fingers curled into your own palms like you were holding something fragile inside yourself that might fall apart if you loosened your grip.

He was still sitting there. Too close.

Closer than he had ever been when the air felt this raw.

Like something inside him was being forced to the surface whether he wanted it or not.

And you didn’t know what to do with that.

You didn’t know how to sit in front of him like this after what he had done, after what he had said, after the way your chest still felt tight from hearing someone defend you for the first time instead of letting the words land and fade like they always had.

“…You shouldn’t have done that,” you said again, but this time your voice didn’t come out steady.

“Not for me.”

That was what you meant.

“I didn’t do it for you.”

The words cut in, low.

“I did it because I should have done it a long time ago.”

Your breath caught. He stood suddenly.

The movement wasn’t violent.

But it was abrupt enough that it startled you, your shoulders tensing slightly as he took a step forward.

Then another. Until he was standing right in front of you. Too close now. Close enough that you had to tilt your head slightly to meet his eyes.

You didn’t realize your own were already wet until your vision blurred.

“Why…” your voice came out quieter now, almost a whisper. “Why now?”

The question wasn’t accusing.

His fingers brushed against your cheek so gently it almost didn’t feel real.

Like he didn’t trust himself not to hurt you if he moved too quickly.

“You think I didn’t see it?” he said quietly.

Your breath stuttered.

“What?”

His thumb moved slightly, catching the tear that had slipped without you noticing.

“The way they spoke to you.”

His jaw tightened.

“The way you stood there and said nothing.”

His voice dropped further.

“And the way you accepted it like it was something normal.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“I am used to it—”

“I told you not to say that.”

His hand didn’t leave your face.

“…I was wrong.”

The words came out slower now. Heavier.

As if each one had to be dragged out of something buried deep.

“I was wrong about you.”

Your lips parted slightly, your breath catching again.

“I thought… I thought you were trying to take her place.”

Meiyu. He didn’t say her name. He didn’t need to.

“I thought you were forcing your way into something that wasn’t yours.”

His voice strained slightly.

“I thought you were selfish.”

Each word landed heavier than the last. And your tears didn’t stop anymore. Because you had known that. You had felt it. Every time he looked at you like that. Every time he turned away. Every time he made you feel like you didn’t belong anywhere near him.

“I was wrong,” he repeated.

Quieter now.

“Because all you’ve done since the day you came here is give.”

Your breath shook.

“You gave her everything.”

His hand trembled slightly against your cheek.

“You gave this house everything.”

A pause.

“You gave me everything.”

Your eyes widened slightly.

That you hadn’t expected.

“I was the one who took,” he continued, his voice breaking more openly now. “I took your effort. Your patience. Your silence. Your care—”

His breath hitched slightly.

“And I gave you nothing back.”

Tears blurred your vision completely now.

You shook your head weakly.

“No… no, that’s not—”

“I was a terrible father.”

The words came out raw.

“I didn’t hold her when she cried. I didn’t stay when she needed someone. I didn’t even look at her properly for weeks—”

His voice faltered.

“And you still made sure she knew who I was.”

Your chest hurt.

Like something inside you was cracking open too wide.

“And I was worse to you.”

A whisper now.

“I pushed you away. I made you feel like you didn’t belong. I treated you like something temporary—”

His hand tightened slightly against your face.

“But you stayed.”

Your tears fell harder.

“I don’t deserve that,” he said.

He sounded like he believed it.

“I don’t deserve you.”

Your head shook instinctively.

“No—”

“But I don’t want you to leave.”

The words came out suddenly. Almost desperate.

That was what broke you completely. Because he had never said that before. Not once.

“I don’t want you to stand there and take things like that again,” he continued, his voice unsteady now, raw in a way that made your chest ache deeper. “I don’t want you to think you’re alone in this house. I don’t want you to think you don’t belong—”

His forehead dropped slightly, almost touching yours but not quite.

“I don’t want a life where you’re not in it anymore.”

A sob slipped out before you could stop it.

“I…”

You tried to speak. But nothing came out properly.

Your voice broke apart before it could form anything whole.

“I didn’t… I didn’t think you—”

“I didn’t either.”

He let out a breath that sounded like it hurt.

“I didn’t realize it until I almost lost it.”

His thumb brushed your cheek again, slower this time.

“And I’m not going to make that mistake again.”

Your hands lifted slightly. And for the first time you reached for him. Your fingers catching lightly at the fabric of his sleeve.

“I don’t know how to do this properly,” he admitted quietly.

A small, broken honesty that made your chest ache even more.

“But I want to.”

His gaze dropped to your lips for just a second.

Then back to your eyes. You didn’t pull away. You didn’t look down. You just… stayed. And that was all it took. He leaned in slowly. Like he was afraid even now that you might disappear if he moved too fast.

His hand stayed against your cheek, steadying you.

Or maybe himself. You weren’t sure anymore. Your breath mixed with his.

Close enough that you could feel the warmth of it against your skin.

And then he kissed you.

So soft it almost didn’t feel real at first.

Like he was testing whether he was allowed to.

Like he was waiting for you to pull away.

But when you didn’t something in him gave in completely. The kiss deepened slightly, not forceful, not overwhelming just more certain.

His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your head, holding you gently, not pressing, just anchoring you there like he needed to be sure you were still with him.

Your fingers tightened against his sleeve, your whole body trembling as your eyes slipped shut, tears still falling even as your lips moved softly against his.

It was messy in the quietest way.

When he pulled back, it wasn’t far. Just enough to look at you again. Your face still wet with tears. Your lips slightly parted. Your eyes wide and trembling.

And his voice, when it came, was quiet.

But steady in a way it hadn’t been before.

“I accept you as my wife.”

Your breath caught again.

“We’ll start over,” he continued softly.

His forehead finally resting against yours now.

“No past. No expectations.”

A pause.

Then quieter.

“Just us.”

Your tears didn’t stop.

“I want you in my room,” he added gently. “With me.”

Another pause.

“And Xinyi too.”

Your grip on him tightened slightly.

Because that was everything. All three of you. Together.

He didn’t say anything else. He just pulled you closer.

And this time neither of you let go.

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚ EPILOGUE

Five years later, the palace no longer felt like a place you had to survive.

It breathed differently now. Not quieter, not softer in structure but warmer in the way people moved within it. Servants no longer avoided your gaze. They greeted you. Spoke to you without fear. Even laughter existed more freely in the halls that once only echoed with restraint.

It hadn’t changed overnight. It had taken time. Patience.

The same quiet persistence you had once used just to endure had slowly reshaped everything around you.

You had become the center of it. Not because of power.

But because people trusted you. Because you listened. Because you stayed. Because you never treated anyone the way you had once been treated.

“Ma—!”

A voice echoed through the courtyard, bright and slightly impatient.

You barely had time to turn before a small figure came rushing toward you, her steps quick, uneven in the way of a child who refused to slow down even when she should.

Xinyi.

Five years had softened her features into something lively and expressive, her eyes still wide with curiosity but now filled with a confidence that had never existed in those early days.

She stopped right in front of you, hands on her hips, slightly out of breath.

“You said you’d come watch me!”

You blinked, momentarily caught between surprise and guilt.

“I was coming,” you said gently, crouching down to her level. “I just—”

“You forgot,” she said flatly.

Your lips parted.

“…I didn’t forget.”

She squinted at you. Clearly unconvinced.

And before you could defend yourself further, a familiar presence stepped in behind you.

“You didn’t forget,” Yufan said smoothly.

His voice carried that same calm confidence it always had but now it was layered with something softer, something almost playful.

Before you could react, his arm slid around your waist, pulling you back slightly against him. Like it had always belonged there.

“You were with me,” he added.

Your breath caught slightly.

Xinyi stared at the two of you. Her face twisted.

“…Ew.”

You froze. Yufan didn’t. He didn’t even try to move away. His hold tightened slightly.

“You’ll understand when you’re older,” he replied calmly.

“I don’t want to understand,” she shot back immediately, crossing her arms.

You let out a small, embarrassed breath, gently nudging his arm.

“She’s right here.”

“I know,” he said.

Completely unbothered.

You turned your head slightly to look at him.

“…Yufan.”

That tone.

The one that meant please behave.

He met your gaze.

Something in his expression softened in a way that still made your chest feel too full.

Five years. And he still looked at you like that. Like he hadn’t gotten used to you. Like he didn’t want to. Like every day with you still meant something new.

“I missed you,” he said quietly.

“I was only gone for a few hours,” you murmured.

“That’s long enough.”

Xinyi gagged loudly.

“Okay, that’s actually disgusting.”

You couldn’t help it. You laughed.

This was something you had never imagined having.

You gently slipped out of his hold, reaching for Xinyi’s hand.

“Come on,” you said, smiling faintly. “Show me what you were talking about.”

She immediately brightened.

“Finally!”

Xinyi tugged at your hand again, impatient.

“Hurry!”

You laughed softly, letting her pull you forward.

For a few days, you had noticed it. Not in anything obvious. Yufan still stood beside you in the mornings, still lingered close in the evenings, still reached for you without thinking, his hand finding yours like it always did now. To anyone else, nothing had changed.

But you knew him. And something was different.

It was in the pauses. The way his gaze would linger on you like he was about to say something but didn’t.

The way his hand would tighten around yours for just a second too long before letting go.

The way he stayed quieter at night, even when he was right beside you.

You didn’t ask immediately. You had learned not to rush him when he carried something heavy. You had learned that whatever he held back, he would speak when he was ready.

This didn’t feel like something that would come easily.

So when the night came, and the sky stretched wide above you both, scattered with quiet stars, and his arm rested around you like it always did, your head leaning lightly against his shoulder.

“…What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer. Not right away.

His fingers, resting against your arm, stilled slightly.

You tilted your head just enough to look at him.

“You’ve been… different,” you added gently. “For days.”

Still nothing. Only the faint sound of his breathing.

“…There’s something I never told you.”

Your chest tightened.

“I’m listening,” you whispered.

He let out a slow breath.

The kind that felt like it came from somewhere deep.

“…Meiyu’s death.”

The name alone made the air shift. Even after five years. Even after everything. It still carried weight.

“It wasn’t what you think it was.”

Your heart skipped slightly.

You straightened just a little, your gaze fixed on him now.

“…What do you mean?”

“It wasn't an ordinary death, she did not die while giving birth.”

Your breath caught sharply, your fingers tightening around his hand without realizing it.

“…What?”

It came out barely audible. Like your voice didn’t fully belong to you anymore. He didn’t look away. That was the part that made it worse. He met your gaze directly. And there was no hesitation. No attempt to soften it.

“I killed her, it.. it was planned,"

Your chest tightened painfully.

“No… no, that—” you shook your head instinctively. “That doesn’t make sense. She—she died during—”

“It was arranged.”

The words cut through everything.

Your thoughts stumbled.

“…What?”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“Your family wasn’t what you believed it to be,” he said, his voice low but steady. “They didn’t just want her married into Zhao residence. They wanted control.”

Your breath came uneven.

“My parents…?”

“They wanted her to take everything,” he continued. “The Zhao residence. The authority. The position.”

A pause.

“And Meiyu wanted it too.”

Your chest hurt.

“No,” you whispered. “She—she wasn’t like that…”

He closed his eyes for a brief moment.

“…She was.”

Your fingers trembled now.

You had always known something didn’t feel right.

But you had never let yourself think it.

“She played her role well,” he said. “Better than anyone.”

Your throat tightened.

“She knew what she was doing.”

Silence stretched between you.

But it wasn’t quiet anymore.

It was breaking.

“…And you?” you asked, your voice shaking now. “You knew?”

A pause.

“Yes.”

Your breath hitched.

“Before the marriage,” he added. “Before everything.”

You stared at him.

“…Then why?”

The question came out raw.

“Why would you—”

“Because I needed her.”

Your chest tightened even more.

“For what?”

His gaze shifted briefly to the sky.

Then back to you.

“For revenge.”

The word landed heavier than anything else.

"Lin family…” his voice lowered, quieter now, darker. “They were connected to the people who killed my biological father.”

Your eyes widened slightly.

“You’re saying… the Lin family—”

“They had ties,” he confirmed. “Deep ones.”

A pause.

“And your family knew.”

Your breath shook.

“No…”

“They weren’t innocent,” he said firmly. “None of them were.”

Your mind spun. Nothing felt stable anymore. Not your past. Not the people you had known. Not even the version of your sister you had held onto all this time.

“So you married her,” you whispered slowly. “To get close to them.”

“Yes.”

Your voice cracked.

“And then… you killed her?”

“She was going to take everything.”

Your heart pounded painfully.

“She was already starting to move against me. Quietly. Carefully.”

A pause.

“She wasn’t just greedy. She was dangerous.”

Your hands shook now.

“And the baby…?” your voice broke. “Xinyi—”

“I made sure she was safe.”

“I would never let anything happen to her.”

Your chest rose and fell unevenly. You believed that.

That wasn’t what you were questioning.

Everything else felt like it was slipping through your fingers.

“She wasn’t supposed to die like that,” he continued, quieter now. “Not during childbirth. But… it became the cleanest way.”

Your stomach dropped.

“And you…” your voice trembled. “You just… let it happen?”

“I made it happen.”

“I thought…” your voice broke, tears finally slipping down your face. “I thought I was the one they blamed for her death.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“I thought I was the reason she died.”

He didn’t speak.

Because there was nothing he could say to that.

“And all this time…” you whispered, your voice barely holding together, “you knew the truth.”

Your breathing shook.

“You let me carry that.”

That was the part that hurt the most. Not the killing.

Not even the lies. The years you had spent believing you were something terrible.

“I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn't know what to do with the truth. The only way it was easier was blaming you for the death. But i swear i didn't planned to blame you on the first place it was clicked when meiyu called you before her last breath even before i said anything everyone else thought you were the reason. I had nothing else to do,” he said finally.

Your sob came out broken.

“You think this is better?”

Tears blurred your vision completely now.

“You think finding out like this after everything makes it easier?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t reach for you this time.

“I just.. i wanted revenge like any son would for his father,” he said quietly.

“If you’re going to tell me this now… then don’t leave anything out.”

“…My father didn’t just die,” he said quietly.

Your fingers tightened slightly.

“He was killed.”

You swallowed hard.

“I know that,” you said faintly. “You said that before.”

“You don’t know who was behind it.”

That made your chest tighten again.

Because something in the way he said it.

It wasn’t just about the Lin family anymore.

“…Then tell me.”

Your voice came out steadier this time. Not because you felt steady. But because you needed to hear it fully now.

He wasn’t the same man who had stood in your room all those years ago, cold and distant and untouchable.

He wasn’t even the man who had confessed to you, trembling and unsure and reaching for you like you were the only thing he had left.

“…Your father,” he said, his gaze steady on yours now, “was involved.”

The words didn’t land immediately.

They hovered.

Like your mind refused to let them settle.

“…No,” you said instinctively.

A denial that came before thought.

“He wasn’t—”

“He was.”

Your breath shook.

“He worked with someone else,” Yufan continued. “Someone closer to me.”

Your heart began to pound again.

“Closer…?”

A pause.

“My stepfather.”

The world tilted.

Your knees almost gave way, and you had to steady yourself, your hand catching against the edge of the railing beside you.

“What…?”

Your voice barely came out.

“He wasn’t just some man who married into the family,” Yufan said, quieter now. “He had connections. Old ones.”

Your head shook slowly.

Trying to piece it together.

Trying to understand.

“…How does that connect to my father?”

His gaze didn’t leave yours.

“Because your father… was his relative.”

“Distant. But close enough to trust each other.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“That’s not true.”

“It is.”

Your breath came faster now.

“They planned it together,” he continued. “Slowly. Carefully. My father’s death wasn’t sudden. It was built.”

Each word felt like something tearing through you.

“They wanted control over everything tied to my family. The Zhao residence. The authority. The position.”

Your vision blurred again.

“And the easiest way to do that…”

He didn’t finish immediately. But he didn’t need to.

“…was marriage,” you whispered.

Your voice hollow.

Your thoughts finally catching up to the truth you didn’t want.

He nodded once.

“Yes.”

Your hands trembled.

“So Meiyu…”

“She was part of it.”

Your chest cracked open again.

“And me?” your voice broke. “What about me?”

That was the part you didn’t understand. That you needed to understand. Why did he accepted you.

Months had passed since Meiyu’s death.

But grief had not softened. It had only changed shape. For some, it became silence. For others, it became control.

For you, it became isolation.

You were no longer openly scolded the way you once had been. No one raised their hand anymore. No one shouted your name across the halls. That kind of attention required acknowledgment, and acknowledgment was something you no longer received.

Instead, you were… managed.

Your movements were limited without being explicitly forbidden. Doors were not locked, but servants always seemed to appear whenever you walked too far. Conversations stopped when you entered, but no one told you to leave. Meals were still prepared for you, but always sent to your room.

It was a quiet kind of punishment.

One that made it clear you still existed… just not where anyone could see you.

The child had grown. Not much, but enough.

Her cries had changed. They were no longer constant, helpless wails. Now they came in intervals, softer at times, louder at others, as if she was beginning to recognize the world around her.

The inner quarters had become even more restricted. Guards were placed near the entrances, attendants rotated more frequently, and every instruction regarding her care was followed with precision.

“She must not fall ill.”

“She must not be disturbed.”

“She must not be exposed to misfortune.”

You knew what that meant. You were the misfortune.

The one thing she must never be exposed to.

Still, you tried. Not often.

Just enough to remind yourself that you had not forgotten the promise you made.

The first time you tried again, it was early morning. The palace was quieter then, the routines not fully settled. You walked slowly, carefully, as if moving too fast would make you visible.

You reached the corridor outside the nursery.

For a moment, nothing happened.

No one stopped you. No one spoke.

You thought… maybe this time—

“She is not to be near the child.”

The voice came from behind you.

You did not turn immediately. You already knew.

“You should not have come,” he continued.

Zhao Yufan.

His presence alone was enough to change the air around you. Even now, months later, the weight of his gaze felt heavier than anything else in the palace.

You turned slowly.

“I just wanted to see her,” you said, your voice quieter than the silence around you.

“You have no right.”

The words came without hesitation.

Your fingers curled slightly at your sides. “She is my sister’s daughter.”

“And you were my wife’s last visitor.”

There it was again. That line.

That conclusion he refused to move past.

You held his gaze this time, even though it burned.

“I kept my promise,” you said softly. “I stayed.”

Something flickered across his expression. Brief.

Gone before it could become anything real.

“Staying is not the same as protecting,” he replied.

Your chest tightened.

“And keeping you away from her,” he added, his voice lowering, “is the only way to ensure that.”

That was how he saw you now. Not as someone who failed. But as something dangerous.

You nodded once. Because there was nothing else left to do.

“I understand,” you said.

But you did not. Not fully. Not in a way that made it hurt any less.

You turned again. Walked away again.

And this time, you did not try to come back.

Days passed. Then more.

The palace settled into a new pattern, one that revolved around two people.

The heir.

And the one who had lost everything.

Yufan did not soften.

If anything, he became more rigid.

His time was divided with precision. Mornings were spent in council chambers, afternoons reviewing estate matters, evenings overseeing the child’s care from a distance he never crossed too closely.

He rarely held her.

Not because he did not care.

But because when he did… something in his control faltered.

The few times he allowed himself to, the attendants noticed.

The way his hands hesitated before lifting her.

The way his gaze lingered too long on her face.

The way he would leave the room almost immediately after, as if staying even a moment longer would undo him.

So he stopped. And chose distance instead.

Until the day that control was interrupted.

Yufan’s grandmother had come from the countryside.

She was not someone who visited often. Age and distance had kept her away from the palace for years, her life rooted in quieter lands, far from politics and power.

But news traveled.

And grief, when it reached her, did not stay ignored.

She arrived without ceremony, her steps slow but steady, her expression unreadable as she entered the palace that had changed so much since she last saw it.

The servants bowed lower around her.

The elders spoke more carefully.

Because she was not someone to be dismissed. Not someone to be managed. She observed everything. Quietly. Carefully.

The silence in the halls. The way people spoke. The absence of laughter.

The distance between family members who should have stood closer.

And most of all him.

She watched Yufan longer than anyone else did. Not just in passing. But intentionally.

She saw the way he worked without pause. The way he spoke without emotion. The way he avoided certain corridors without realizing it. The way his eyes no longer held anything beyond obligation.

“He is still breathing,” she said once to one of the older attendants.

“But he is not living.”

The words spread quietly. Because they were true.

And truth, in that palace, had become something rare.

She asked about the child. Often.

“How does she sleep.”

“How often does she cry.”

“Who stays with her at night.”

Each answer she received only deepened the lines in her expression.

“She cries for long periods,” one attendant admitted carefully. “Especially at night.”

“And what do you do when she does.”

“We soothe her, Madam. We carry her, we sing, we—”

“And her father.”

A pause.

“He… is informed.”

“Informed,” she repeated.

Her gaze hardened slightly.

“And the other one.”

The attendant hesitated.

“You mean…”

“The younger daughter of the Lin family who Meiyu left her last thoughts to”

Another pause.

“She is not allowed near the child.”

“Not allowed,” the grandmother repeated slowly.

“By whose order.”

No one needed to answer. She already knew.

Days passed under her quiet observation.

She did not confront immediately.

She waited. Watched. Listened.

Until she had seen enough to understand not just what had happened.

But what was continuing to happen.

One evening, she requested a private meeting.

Only a few were called.

Yufan. Lin family aka your parents. The Zhao's. A small number of elders.

The room was heavy with unspoken tension even before she spoke.

She sat at the head, her posture straight despite her age, her presence commanding without effort.

“I did not come here to mourn,” she began.

Her voice was calm. Steady.

“I came because something is being done wrong.”

No one interrupted. No one dared.

She looked directly at Yufan.

“You have lost your wife,” she said.

A simple statement. But it landed with weight.

“And in losing her, you have chosen to lose everything else as well.”

His jaw tightened slightly. But he did not respond.

“You believe that by holding onto blame,” she continued, “you are holding onto her.”

Silence.

“But you are not.”

Her gaze did not soften.

“You are abandoning what she left behind.”

That made him look up. For the first time.

“She left you a child,” the grandmother said.

“And you stand at a distance from her as if she is something you cannot bear to face.”

His voice came out lower than expected.

“I ensure she is cared for.”

“You ensure she is managed,” she corrected. “Not loved.”

The words cut deeper than anything spoken in months.

No one moved. No one spoke.

“And as for the girl you have all decided to cast aside—”

Your existence entered the room. Without you being there.

“You isolate her,” she said, her voice sharpening slightly. “You blame her. You turn her into something she has not been proven to be.”

Your mother’s expression tightened. “She was the last—”

“I know exactly what she was,” the grandmother interrupted.

“And I also know what grief does to people who do not know how to carry it.”

The room fell silent again. Because there was nothing to argue against.

She exhaled slowly.

And then she made her decision.

“This cannot continue.”

Her gaze moved between them.

“The child needs stability.”

A pause.

“The household needs order.”

Another.

“And Yufan—”

Her eyes settled on him again.

“You need a life that does not revolve around a moment that has already passed.”

He did not like where this was going. It showed.

“You will remarry,” she said.

The words landed heavily. Not a suggestion. A decision.

“And this time,” she continued, “it will not be arranged between strangers.”

A shift in the room. Subtle. Uneasy.

“The Lin family still has a daughter.”

Silence deepened. Thicker than before.

“You will marry her.”

And just like that. Everything changed again.

You sat alone in your room. Unaware.

Still carrying a promise you were not allowed to fulfill.

Still being erased from a life that was slowly being rewritten.

Without you in it.

The decision did not settle quietly. It spread.

Through corridors, through servants’ whispers, through guarded conversations behind half closed doors. It reached every corner of the palace before it ever reached you.

And where it landed, it did not bring relief. It brought tension.

Because no one truly agreed with it. Not completely. Not honestly.

Yufan did not accept it.

Not the way his grandmother expected him to.

He did not raise his voice in front of her. He did not argue openly. He listened, stood still, nodded when necessary, and gave the kind of response that sounded like obedience.

But the moment he stepped out of that room, the restraint began to crack.

“This is unnecessary.”

His voice was low, controlled, but there was something sharp beneath it now.

His parents stood across from him, just as unsettled.

His mother spoke first, more carefully than she ever had before. “Your grandmother believes this is the best way to restore stability.”

“Stability,” he repeated, almost hollow. “Is that what this is.”

“She is thinking of the child,” his father added. “And of the household.”

“And I am not,” Yufan replied, his gaze hardening. “Is that what you think.”

Silence followed. Because that was not what they thought.

They knew he cared.

They had seen it in the few moments he allowed himself to hold his daughter, in the way his entire posture changed before he forced it back into place.

But care was not the issue. Grief was. And grief had made him rigid.

“You cannot continue like this,” his mother said quietly. “You barely sleep. You avoid her. You avoid everything that reminds you of her.”

Her voice softened at the last part. Her. Meiyu.

The name still unspoken. His jaw tightened.

“I am managing what needs to be managed.”

“That is exactly the problem,” his father replied. “You are managing. Not living.”

The same words. Different voice. Still just as heavy.

Yufan turned away slightly, his hand pressing against the edge of the table as if grounding himself.

“This is not about living,” he said. “This is about replacing.”

“No one is asking you to replace her.”

“It is exactly what this is,” he snapped, the first real break in his control.

The room fell silent again.

Because they understood that part.

Even if they could not say it.

He exhaled slowly, forcing himself back into stillness.

“And the girl,” he added, quieter now, but no less tense. “You expect me to accept her as if nothing has happened.”

No one needed to ask who he meant. You.

His mother hesitated this time. “She is still Meiyu’s sister.”

“And she was still the last person with her,” he replied.

There it was again. That lingering doubt. It had weakened. Slightly.

There were moments, small ones, where something inside him questioned it. Moments when he remembered how you had looked that night. Moments when your words echoed in ways that did not quite match the image he had forced himself to believe.

But doubt was not enough to erase what had already taken root.

Not yet. So he held onto it.

Even if it was not as strong as before.

“We cannot refuse your grandmother,” his father said finally. “You know that.”

That was the truth that ended the conversation.

Because in that household, her word was not easily denied.

Not without consequences no one was willing to face.

So resistance became silence. Reluctant. Heavy. Unresolved.

And beyond their walls, another reaction took shape.

Your family.

Where the news did not bring hesitation.

It brought urgency. Something dangerously close to relief.

“This is an opportunity,” your mother said, her voice sharper than it had been in months.

Your father nodded in agreement, already thinking ahead. “We must not allow anything to disrupt this.”

“There will be no disruptions,” she replied immediately. “We will ensure it.”

And by ensuring it—

She meant controlling you. Even more than before.

You were watched more closely. Your movements restricted further. Servants were given clearer instructions.

“Do not let her wander.”

“Do not let her speak unnecessarily.”

“Do not let her near the Zhao household unless instructed.”

You noticed.

But no one explained it. No one told you why. Because to them, you did not need to know.

Preparations began quickly. Too quickly.

The palace that had once been wrapped in mourning now filled with activity again, but it was not the same kind of liveliness that had existed during Meiyu’s wedding.

There were no soft smiles. No quiet excitement. No genuine happiness. Everything felt… forced. Obligatory.

Servants moved with efficiency, not enthusiasm. Decorations were discussed, fabrics chosen, arrangements planned, but every conversation carried a trace of discomfort.

Because no one forgot. Not really.

And more importantly, no one liked you.

That part had not changed. If anything, it had deepened.

“She will be the new lady of the Zhao household?”

“After everything?”

“It does not feel right.”

“But we cannot question it.”

So they worked. And whispered. And avoided saying too much out loud.

Because the decision had already been made.

You remained unaware.

Until the day you were called. It was unexpected.

A message delivered to your room, simple and direct.

“You are to go to the Zhao residence.”

No explanation. Just instruction.

You hesitated. Of course you did.

You had not been allowed near that place for months. Every attempt had been stopped, every step redirected, every presence rejected.

And now you were being told to go.

You followed anyway. Because something inside you refused to ignore it.

The Zhao residence felt the same. And completely different.

The familiar halls now heavier, quieter in a way that felt deeper than before.

Servants watched you as you passed.

Not stopping you. But not welcoming you either.

You were led further inside than you had been allowed in months.

You saw her. Yufan’s grandmother.

She sat near the window, light falling softly around her, her posture composed but not distant.

Her gaze lifted the moment you entered.

And unlike everyone else it softened.

“Come here,” she said gently.

The words alone caught you off guard.

You stepped closer slowly, unsure, your hands instinctively folding together as if preparing for something formal.

But nothing about her felt formal.

Not in the way you were used to.

She studied your face for a moment.

Not with judgment. With something closer to understanding.

“You have grown thinner,” she said quietly.

You blinked, not expecting that.

“I am fine,” you replied automatically.

She did not argue. Did not press. Instead, she gestured slightly to the side.

And that was when you saw her.

The baby. Your sister’s daughter.

She was in the arms of an attendant, small, wrapped carefully, her face slightly scrunched as soft cries escaped her again and again.

Something inside you tightened immediately.

Without thinking, you took a small step forward.

Then stopped. Because you already knew. You were not allowed. The habit of restraint had become too familiar. The grandmother noticed. Of course she did.

“Why are you stopping,” she asked.

You hesitated. “I am not permitted to—”

“I am permitting you,” she interrupted gently.

The attendants glanced at each other. Uncertain. But none of them spoke. Because her authority outweighed all others.

“Take her,” she said.

Your breath caught slightly.

Slowly, carefully, as if the moment might disappear if you moved too fast, you stepped forward.

The attendant hesitated only briefly before placing the baby into your arms.

And the moment she did something changed.

The crying stopped. Not gradually. It stopped. Completely. The room went still.

The baby’s small face relaxed almost instantly, her tiny fingers curling slightly against your clothing as if she had recognized something.

As if she knew.

Your heart stuttered.

Your arms tightened instinctively, holding her closer, your breath uneven as you looked down at her.

“Shh…” you whispered softly, your voice trembling despite yourself. “It’s okay… I’m here…”

She did not cry again. Not even a sound. The grandmother watched quietly. And for the first time since she had arrived there was certainty in her eyes. Not doubt. Not assumption. Something clearer than that.

Across the room, the attendants stood frozen.

Because they had never seen this before. Not once.

And somewhere beyond those walls a decision that had already been made. Was about to become something far more complicated than anyone had expected.

You held the baby carefully, your arms instinctively adjusting to her weight as if you had done this a hundred times before, even though this was the first time anyone had allowed it. Her small body fit against you so naturally that it made your chest ache in a way you were not prepared for.

Her breathing softened.

You lowered your gaze, your lips parting slightly as if you wanted to say something more, but nothing came out. There were no words that could match what you felt in that moment.

Only that promise.

The one that had never left you.

Across from you, the grandmother watched everything without interrupting. She did not rush the moment.

And only when she was certain you had fully felt it.

Did she speak again.

“She knows you.”

Her voice was quiet, but it carried clearly.

You looked up slightly, confused. “She is just a baby.”

“And yet she stopped crying the moment you held her.”

You did not answer.

You looked back down at the child instead, your fingers brushing lightly against her small hand. She curled her fingers around yours almost immediately, holding on without effort.

Something inside your chest tightened again.

The grandmother shifted slightly in her seat.

“There are things happening in this household,” she continued, “that you have not been told.”

That made you look up fully. A small flicker of unease crossed your expression.

“I assumed as much,” you said carefully.

She studied you for a moment.

“You are to marry Yufan.”

Your entire body stilled. For a second, it felt like you had misheard.

Like your mind had tried to twist something impossible into something that made sense.

“I…” your voice faltered slightly. “I do not understand.”

“You will,” she said calmly. “Because it has already been decided.”

Your grip on the baby tightened slightly, not enough to hurt her, but enough for you to realize you needed to steady yourself.

“This is not—” you stopped, your breath catching. “This cannot be serious.”

“It is.”

“You will be married into this household.”

Your chest rose and fell unevenly now.

“Does he know,” you asked, even though part of you already knew the answer.

“He knows.”

That was not the part that hurt.

“What does he think.”

The grandmother did not answer immediately.

Your gaze dropped again, your lips pressing together as you tried to keep your expression from shifting too much.

“I see,” you murmured.

The baby stirred slightly in your arms, her small fingers tightening again as if reacting to the subtle change in your breathing.

You swallowed.

“I do not think he would agree to this,” you said quietly.

“He does not agree,” the grandmother replied.

“But agreement is not always required.”

That truth sat heavily between you.

“I am not asking you to pretend this will be easy,” she continued. “Or that it will be welcomed by everyone.”

You let out a quiet, hollow breath.

“That would be impossible anyway.”

Her gaze softened slightly.

“But I am asking you to understand something important.”

You looked up again.

“This marriage is not only about restoring order,” she said. “It is about giving this child a future where she is not raised in absence.”

Your eyes flickered down to the baby again.

“She has already lost her mother,” the grandmother continued. “She should not grow up without warmth as well.”

Your throat tightened. Because you understood that. Too well.

“And Yufan,” she added, her voice lowering slightly, “he will not heal by being left alone with his grief.”

You did not respond. That part felt too complicated. Too distant from anything you could reach.

“He needs to face what he has been avoiding,” she said. “And you… you are part of that.”

A small, bitter thought crossed your mind before you could stop it.

Or maybe I am just another thing he will avoid.

The grandmother watched you carefully.

“He does not trust you,” she said, not cruelly, but truthfully. “And you know why.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the baby’s blanket.

“Yes,” you whispered.

“And yet,” she continued, “I have seen enough to know that what is believed is not always what is true.”

Your eyes flickered up at that.

“I will not force closeness,” she said. “That cannot be commanded.”

“But I will require understanding.”

You listened.

Because this was the first time anyone had spoken to you like this since everything had happened.

“You will speak to him,” she said. “Before the wedding.”

Your breath caught slightly.

“Conversations,” she clarified. “Not obligations. Not formalities.”

You hesitated.

“I do not think he would want that.”

“He does not,” she agreed calmly.

And then—

“He will do it anyway.”

That certainty left no room for argument.

You looked down again, your thoughts moving faster than you could control.

“What if it changes nothing,” you asked quietly.

The grandmother’s expression did not waver.

“Then at least it will not remain unspoken.”

You adjusted the baby slightly in your arms, your movements slower now, more careful.

“I do not want to replace her,” you said suddenly, your voice softer than before.

The grandmother’s gaze softened further.

“No one can.”

You nodded slightly.

“But they will expect it,” you added, your throat tightening.

“Some will,” she said. “Not all.”

You let out a quiet breath.

“And him,” you whispered.

That was the question you were really asking. Her answer came without delay.

You lowered your gaze again, your lips pressing together as you tried to steady yourself.

“I do not think he will ever see me as anything other than—”

You stopped. You did not finish it. You did not need to.

The word killer did not need to be spoken to exist.

The grandmother watched you carefully.

“Then you will give him the chance to see differently,” she said.

You let out a small, shaky breath.

“And if he does not.”

“Then you will decide what kind of life you are willing to live.”

The baby shifted again, letting out a soft sound before settling once more against you, still calm, still quiet.

You held her a little closer.

As if she was the only steady thing in that moment.

Footsteps echoed faintly outside the room. You felt it before you saw him. That familiar shift in the air. That quiet tension that followed his presence. The grandmother noticed too. But she did not interrupt. She let the moment play out. Yufan stopped at the doorway. His gaze moved immediately. To you. To the baby in your arms.

Something in his expression hardened instantly.

Just that same cold resistance you had seen before.

“What is she doing here.”

The words were sharp. But enough to cut through everything that had just been said.

The grandmother spoke calmly. “I asked her to come.”

His gaze did not leave you.

“And I allowed her to hold the child.”

You stood there, still holding the baby, your arms suddenly feeling too visible, too exposed under his gaze.

“She should not be here,” he said flatly.

The words landed exactly the way they always did.

You swallowed.

Your throat tightening painfully as you lowered your gaze slightly, careful not to disturb the child still resting calmly against you.

“I was just leaving,” you said quietly.

You stepped forward slowly, carefully handing the baby back to the attendant.

The moment the baby left your arms she cried.

His expression did not change. Not where it mattered.

You stepped back. Your hands empty now. Colder.

And you nodded slightly, more to yourself than to anyone else.

“I understand,” you murmured.

But your voice was not as steady as before.

You turned before anyone could see more than that.

Before the tightness in your chest turned into something visible.

Before the tears you refused to let fall reached your eyes.

And you walked out. Trying to keep your steps even. Trying to breathe normally. Trying not to break.

Over something that had already been decided.

1998, Taipei — Day of the Wedding ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀

Morning came too early.

It slipped into your room quietly, pale light stretching across the floor, touching the edges of things that did not feel real yet. For a moment, just a moment, you stayed still in your bed and let yourself pretend nothing had changed. That this was just another day where you would wake up, keep your head down, and move carefully through a life that did not belong to you.

But the silence was different.

Today was not a day the palace would allow you to ignore.

You sat up slowly, the weight of it settling over you piece by piece. Your hands rested on your lap, fingers curling slightly into the fabric as your gaze drifted toward the wedding garments laid out across the room.

A color meant for joy. For celebration. And yet it felt heavy just to look at it. You had imagined this once. Not like this.

There had been a time when marriage meant escape to you. A way out of the suffocating walls of your family, a chance to belong somewhere else, somewhere kinder, somewhere that did not look at you like you were something lacking.

You had imagined smiles. Soft conversations.

Someone who would choose you, not because they had to, but because they wanted to.

Someone who would look at you without judgment.

Without comparison. Without history.

But that had been a different version of you.

A version that still believed in things turning out differently.

You stood slowly, walking toward the garments as if each step required thought. Your fingers hovered over the fabric before finally touching it, the silk cool beneath your skin.

It was beautiful. There was no denying that.

Intricate embroidery, carefully chosen patterns, every detail arranged with precision that reflected the status of the Zhao family. Anyone else would have felt honored to wear it.

Servants entered quietly, but not for you. That difference had already been made clear. They moved around the room with purpose, preparing things, adjusting details, but none of it was directed at you. They did not help you dress. They did not speak to you unless absolutely necessary.

The instruction had been followed exactly. You were not to be served.

Not as a bride. Not as anything.

You dressed yourself.

Your hands trembled once when tying one of the inner layers, but you steadied them quickly, forcing yourself to continue. There was no one to assist you. No one to fix mistakes. No one to notice if something was wrong.

You adjusted everything yourself until there was nothing left to adjust.

When you finally looked at your reflection you paused.

For a second you did not recognize yourself.

The red framed you differently. The ornaments placed carefully in your hair caught the light in ways that made you look softer than you felt. Your face, composed and still, carried none of the chaos inside you.

You looked like a bride. Just not the kind anyone had wanted.

A quiet knock came at the door.

“It is time.”

No warmth. Just instruction.

You nodded, even though no one was looking for it, and turned toward the door.

Each step felt measured as you walked through the halls.

The palace had been decorated.

Red lanterns hung from above, banners placed carefully along the corridors, everything arranged to present an image of festivity.

But it did not feel festive. It felt… restrained.

Like something everyone was participating in, but no one truly believed in.

Guests had arrived. Families gathered.

Voices filled the space, but they were quieter than they should have been, conversations kept low, expressions carefully controlled.

You felt their eyes. They followed you as you entered. Some curious. Some judgmental. Some simply indifferent. But none of them warm. Not a single one. You kept your gaze forward. You had learned how to do that well. And then you saw him.

Yufan stood at the front, already in place, dressed in formal attire that matched the weight of the occasion. He looked exactly as he always did.

If anyone looked closely, they might have noticed the tension in his posture, the slight tightness in his jaw, the way his hands were just a little too still.

But no one commented.

His gaze met yours briefly as you approached. There was no softness there. Just acknowledgment. Like this was something he had accepted, not something he had chosen.

You reached your place. The ceremony began. Words were spoken. Formalities followed. Everything moved exactly as it should. And yet it all felt distant. Like you were watching it happen from somewhere outside yourself. The vows were exchanged. Just tradition. Just obligation. When it came time for the final part. The moment everyone waited for.

The air shifted slightly. The expectation was there. Even if everything else had been restrained. This part could not be avoided.

Yufan stepped closer. That same quiet tension that had followed him from the very beginning. Your breath caught slightly, but you kept your expression steady, your gaze lowering just enough to avoid meeting his directly.

He hesitated. Just for a second.

The space between you closed. The kiss. It was brief. Careful.

More a gesture than anything else. There was no lingering.

There was no harshness either. Did not make it uncomfortable beyond what it already was.

And when he pulled away he did so with the same controlled composure he had maintained throughout everything.

A gentleman. Even in unwillingness.

The ceremony ended. Applause followed. Polite.

Not the kind that filled a room with joy, but enough to fulfill what was expected.

And just like that you were married. Your last name carrying Zhao now.

Not with love. But with responsibility.

Into something that would demand more from you than you had ever been allowed to give before.

The transition was immediate. Because there was no time to linger in what had just happened. No time to process. The roles were already shifting. The instructions already changing.

By the time you returned to the inner residence, it had been made clear.

You were not stepping into the position Meiyu once held.

The servants followed the orders given by your family without question.

They attended to the Zhao household.

To Yufan. To the elders. But not to you.

Your responsibilities were laid out without ceremony.

The child. The inner quarters. The tasks no one else would take.

It was not spoken as punishment. But it was. And everyone knew it.

Night settled over the Zhao residence slowly, as if even the sky hesitated to cover what had just taken place.

The celebrations had ended hours ago, if they could even be called that. Guests had left in clusters, their conversations hushed, their expressions carrying more curiosity than joy. The lanterns still burned along the corridors, casting a soft red glow over everything, but the warmth they were meant to represent never quite reached you.

By the time you returned to the inner quarters, the silence had deepened.

It felt heavier now.

You stood outside the room that had been prepared for the two of you, your hand hovering just inches away from the door. For a long moment, you didn’t move. The weight of everything that had led up to this point pressed down on you all at once the ceremony, the stares, the quiet judgment, the expectations that had been placed on you without ever being spoken gently.

This was supposed to be where it became real.

Not the ceremony. This.

You closed your eyes briefly, steadying your breathing, before finally pushing the door open.

The room was dimly lit, candles flickering softly along the walls. Everything had been arranged carefully, deliberately, in a way that suggested intimacy, closeness, a beginning.

But the atmosphere inside it was anything but that.

Yufan was already there. Standing by the window. His back to you.

He hadn’t changed out of his formal attire yet, the deep red fabric still perfectly in place, as if he hadn’t moved since the moment the ceremony ended. His posture was rigid, shoulders tense in a way that immediately made the air feel tight.

He didn’t turn when you entered. He didn’t acknowledge you at all.

You stepped inside quietly, closing the door behind you with a soft click that echoed louder than it should have.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

You stood there, unsure where to go, what to do, what was expected in a situation where nothing about this felt natural.

“I will change first,” you said softly, your voice careful, controlled.

It wasn’t really a question. Just something to fill the silence.

He didn’t respond. Not even a glance.

You swallowed, your fingers tightening slightly against the fabric of your sleeve before you moved toward the bathroom. Your movements were quiet, measured, every sound seeming amplified in the stillness.

You removed the layers slowly, carefully folding them as best as you could. There was no one to assist you, no one to take them away. You did it yourself, just like everything else today.

When you stepped out again, dressed in simpler clothing, the room felt colder.

Because now he was watching you. Not openly. But you could feel it.

You looked up slightly, meeting his gaze for the first time since entering.

Something inside your chest tightened.

There was nothing soft there. Just anger.

It caught you off guard, even though it shouldn’t have.

“You look comfortable.”

His voice broke the silence sharply.

The words themselves were not loud, but the tone behind them was enough to make you freeze where you stood.

“I—” you paused, unsure how to respond to something that didn’t sound like a question. “I was told to prepare—”

“Of course you were.”

He cut you off.

Your lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.

He let out a short, humorless laugh, turning fully toward you now. “Everything has been prepared for you, hasn’t it? Decided for you. Arranged for you.”

His gaze dragged over you slowly, and it felt heavier than any physical touch.

“Must be convenient.”

You shook your head slightly, your hands tightening at your sides. “I did not ask for this.”

“No?” His voice sharpened immediately. “You didn’t ask for it, but you accepted it.”

Your breath caught.

“That is not the same thing.”

“It looks the same to me.”

The room felt smaller. The air harder to breathe.

“I had no choice,” you said quietly, forcing the words out even as your throat tightened.

“You always have a choice.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him, and something in your expression shifted something fragile, something close to breaking.

“That is easy for you to say.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you knew they would not be received well.

His expression darkened instantly.

“Easy?” he repeated, his voice low, dangerous. “You think any of this is easy for me?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“No, say it properly,” he interrupted, stepping closer. “You think standing here, being forced into this, is easy?”

You instinctively took a step back. The intensity in his voice made it impossible not to.

“I did not mean that,” you said again, softer this time.

“Then what did you mean?” he pressed, not giving you space to recover, not allowing you to retreat from it.

You hesitated. Because no answer felt safe.

It only made things worse.

“Nothing?” he scoffed, shaking his head. “Of course.”

His gaze hardened further, something colder settling into it now.

“You never have anything to say when it matters.”

“I have tried to speak,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. “You have never listened.”

“Listen?” he echoed, his tone almost disbelieving. “What exactly do you expect me to listen to?”

“The truth,” you said, even though your voice trembled slightly.

A mistake. You realized it immediately. Because his expression changed completely. The anger didn’t just stay. It deepened. Turned into something far more cutting.

“The truth?” he repeated slowly.

“I did not kill her.”

The words hung in the air.

A quiet, sharp exhale left him.

“Is that what you think this is about?” he asked, his voice dangerously calm now.

You stared at him, your heart pounding unevenly.

“Isn’t it?”

He stepped closer again, stopping just enough distance away to make it impossible to ignore him.

“You really believe that saying it like that changes anything?”

“I am telling you the truth.”

“And I am telling you,” he snapped, his composure breaking for the first time, “that it doesn’t matter what you say.”

“There was no one else,” he continued, his voice low but filled with something raw, something unresolved. “You were the last person with her.”

“I tried to help her,” you said quickly, the words rushing out now, desperate, unsteady. “She was already—”

“Enough.”

The single word cut you off completely.

His jaw tightened, his hands clenching slightly at his sides as if holding back something more.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. There was nothing left to say.

“I won’t share this room with you.”

The words came suddenly. For a second, you didn’t understand.

Your mind struggled to catch up, to process what he had just said.

“I—what?”

“I said I won’t share this room with you,” he repeated, his voice cold, unwavering. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”

You stood there, frozen, your hands slowly curling into fists at your sides as you tried to steady yourself.

“Where would I go?” you asked, your voice quieter now, stripped of everything except the bare truth of the question. He didn’t turn back.

“That’s not my concern.”

You swallowed hard, forcing your breathing to remain steady even as your vision blurred slightly.

You wouldn’t cry. Not in front of him. Not where he could see it.

You moved slowly, each step feeling heavier than the last as you walked toward the door. Your hand rested on the handle for a moment.

As if part of you still hoped. Something would stop you. That he would say something. Anything. But he didn’t.

So you opened the door. And you stepped out. Into the quiet, empty corridor. The door closed behind you with a soft click.

The corridor felt colder than it had any right to be.

You stood there for a moment after the door shut behind you, your hand still resting lightly against the wood as if you hadn’t fully accepted that you were no longer allowed on the other side of it. The silence pressed in around you, thick and unwelcoming, the faint glow of the lanterns along the walls stretching your shadow into something long and unfamiliar.

You told yourself to move. Standing there would not change anything. It never had.

Your steps were slow at first, almost uncertain, but they steadied as you walked further down the hall, away from that room, away from that final, quiet rejection that had been delivered so easily it almost felt rehearsed. You didn’t know where you were going at first. There was no place that had been given to you, no room that had been called yours.

But your body moved anyway. Because there was only one place that had felt even remotely… less unbearable. The nursery.

The door was slightly open when you reached it, a soft line of light spilling out into the dark corridor. You paused just outside, your fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the door before pushing it open fully.

Inside, it was quiet.

A small lamp burned near the cradle, casting a warm, gentle glow across the room. The attendants were gone, likely dismissed for the night, their absence leaving the space feeling strangely still.

You stepped inside, closing the door softly behind you.

For a moment, you just stood there, looking at the small form resting in the cradle. The baby was asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, her features relaxed in a way that made the world feel… quieter, even if only for a second.

Your shoulders dropped slightly.

Some of the tension you hadn’t even realized you were holding eased just enough for you to breathe properly again.

You moved closer, your steps instinctively quieter, as if you were afraid to disturb something fragile. When you reached the cradle, you leaned down slightly, your gaze softening as you took in every small detail the way her fingers curled loosely near her face, the faint crease between her brows, even in sleep.

Your hand hovered for a moment before gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from her forehead.

She didn’t stir. Didn’t wake. And for a brief, fleeting second. You felt something close to peace. It didn’t last.

A sharp, sudden cry broke through the silence without warning.

It cut through the room so abruptly that you flinched, your heart lurching painfully in your chest. The baby’s small body tensed, her face scrunching as the cries came louder, more desperate, filling every corner of the space.

You didn’t hesitate.

You reached for her immediately, lifting her carefully into your arms, your movements instinctive now, almost practiced.

“It’s alright,” you whispered, your voice softer than anything you had spoken all day. “I’m here… it’s alright.”

But she didn’t calm.

If anything, the crying grew louder, sharper, her tiny fists clenching against your chest as if something was deeply wrong.

Your breath hitched.

“No, no… what’s wrong…”

You adjusted your hold, rocking her gently, your hand supporting her head as you moved back and forth in small, careful motions.

“It’s alright,” you repeated, though your voice wavered slightly now. “It’s alright… I’m here…”

But she didn’t settle.

The sound of her crying echoed through the room made your chest tighten painfully. It didn’t just feel like her crying.

It felt like everything. Everything that had been held in. Everything that had been forced down. Everything you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel.

All of it suddenly had a voice. And it was loud. Too loud.

Your arms tightened slightly around her, not enough to hurt, but enough to ground yourself as you continued to rock her, your movements becoming more desperate, less controlled.

“Please…” the word slipped out before you could stop it, your voice barely holding together. “Please… it’s okay…”

Your throat tightened. Because it wasn’t okay. None of it was.

The baby’s cries didn’t ease.

They rose and fell in uneven bursts, small, helpless, and it broke something inside you in a way you hadn’t expected.

“I’m trying…” you whispered, though you weren’t sure if you were speaking to her or to yourself anymore. “I’m trying…”

Your voice cracked slightly on the last word.

You pressed her closer to your chest, your chin lowering just enough to rest lightly against the top of her head as you continued to sway.

“I didn’t… I didn’t hurt her…” the words came out unevenly now, barely more than a breath. “I didn’t… I would never…”

Your vision blurred.

You blinked quickly, trying to steady yourself, trying to hold everything in the way you always had.

“I didn’t mean for anything to happen…” you whispered, your voice trembling now despite your efforts. “I tried to help… I did… I swear I did…”

Your grip tightened slightly, your fingers curling into the fabric of the small blanket wrapped around her as if holding on to something tangible would keep you from unraveling completely.

“But no one listens,” you breathed, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “No one even… lets me speak…”

Your shoulders trembled faintly.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a brief moment, your breath uneven as you fought against the pressure building in your chest.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” you admitted, your voice barely audible now. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do…”

The baby’s cries began to soften. Just slightly.

You opened your eyes slowly, your gaze dropping to her face, watching as her expression eased just a little, her small body relaxing by degrees in your arms.

You adjusted your hold again, gentler this time, your movements slower, more deliberate.

“It’s okay…” you murmured again, though this time the words felt different. “You’re okay…”

Her cries quieted further, fading into soft, uneven whimpers before finally settling into quiet, shaky breaths.

You kept rocking her. Even after the room fell silent again.

Because you were afraid that if you stopped. Everything would come rushing back.

Your back eventually found the edge of the bed, your body lowering carefully as you sat down, still holding her close, still moving slightly, even as exhaustion began to settle into your bones.

The silence returned. But it wasn’t the same as before. It wasn’t empty. It was full. Full of everything you hadn’t said. Everything you hadn’t been allowed to say.

Your gaze drifted downward, resting on the small, fragile life in your arms. A small, bitter exhale left you.

“I wish it was that simple with everyone else.”

Your fingers brushed lightly against her tiny hand again, watching as she instinctively curled her fingers around yours, holding on without effort.

Your chest tightened.

A tear slipped free before you could stop it, trailing quietly down your cheek before disappearing into the fabric beneath.

You didn’t make a sound. Didn’t let yourself break fully. But the crack was there. Clear. Unavoidable.

You leaned back slightly, your head resting against the wall as you closed your eyes, your arms still wrapped securely around the baby.

To remind you that you were still holding on.

The days after that did not change all at once. They shifted slowly, almost quietly, like something settling into place whether you accepted it or not.

Morning after morning, you woke before the rest of the household. Not because anyone told you to, but because there was no one else who would. The baby rarely slept through the night in those early months, and even when she did, your body had already learned to remain alert, to listen for the smallest sound. It became instinct. It became routine.

At first, the attendants would still hover at a distance, uncertain of where they stood around you. They would come when called for the baby, for the household, for the Zhao family but never for you. And slowly, even that hesitation disappeared. They stopped lingering. Stopped watching. Stopped expecting anything from you at all.

Because it had been made clear. You were not to be served. So you learned.

You learned how to warm water properly without spilling it. How to wash delicate fabrics by hand, careful not to damage them. How to prepare simple meals, though they were never meant for you first. How to clean, to arrange, to maintain spaces that would never truly belong to you.

And above all you learned her.

At first, it had been instinct. That strange, quiet understanding the moment you held her, the way she settled in your arms as if she recognized something even you could not name.

But as the days passed, that instinct turned into something deeper.

You learned the difference between her cries the sharp, impatient one when she was hungry, the softer, uneven one when she was uncomfortable, the quiet, trembling one when she simply wanted to be held.

You learned how she preferred to be carried, how she would curl into your chest when she was tired, how her tiny fingers would grasp onto your sleeve without thinking.

You became the one she reached for. The one she quieted for. The one she depended on.

Time moved forward whether anyone acknowledged it or not. Weeks slipped into months, and the fragile, restless infant in your arms began to grow into something more aware, more responsive.

Her eyes began to follow you when you moved. Her small hands began to reach out intentionally.

You gave her a name.

Xinyi. Zhao Xinyi.

You were sitting by the window, the afternoon light filtering in gently as she rested against you, her small head tucked beneath your chin. She had been unusually calm that day, her tiny fingers tracing absent patterns against the fabric of your sleeve.

You looked down at her.

At the life that had been left behind in the wake of something so heavy, so unresolved.

And the word came to you without effort.

“Xinyi.”

You said it quietly, testing it. Your fingers brushed lightly against her cheek. You didn’t know if anyone would accept it. You didn’t know if it would last.

She responded to it.

Not in understanding, not in recognition, but in the way her expression softened, in the way she made a small, quiet sound as if acknowledging the warmth in your voice.

So you kept using it. You spoke it when you held her. When you soothed her.

When you whispered to her in the quiet hours of the night when the rest of the world felt too distant to reach.

The rest of the household did not question it immediately. Names, after all, could wait. There were formalities, traditions, discussions that would come later.

But you did not wait. Because she needed something now. Something to hold onto. And so did you.

Yufan did not change.

If anything he became more distant. More controlled. More cutting in the few moments your paths crossed.

He rarely entered the nursery when you were there. And when he did, it was brief, purposeful, his attention fixed solely on the child, never lingering on you longer than necessary.

“Is she fed?”

“Yes.”

“Has she slept?”

“She has.”

That was the extent of it. No acknowledgment beyond that.

Sometimes, when she reached toward him, he would hesitate just slightly before taking her into his arms. And in those moments, something in his expression would flicker.

Something less guarded. But it never lasted. Not when you were there. Not when his gaze inevitably drifted back to you. Because then it would return. That same cold distance. That same unspoken accusation.

“You’re holding her too much.”

The words came one afternoon, sharp and uninvited.

You stilled slightly, your arms tightening instinctively around Lian as you looked up at him.

“She cries when I put her down,” you replied softly.

“That doesn’t mean you should encourage it.”

Your lips parted, but no immediate response came.

Because there was no right answer. Not one he would accept.

“I am only doing what calms her,” you said eventually, your voice careful.

“Or what comforts you.”

The words landed heavier than they should have. Because they carried something else. Something close to resentment.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Because denying it felt dishonest. And admitting it felt dangerous. So you stayed silent. And he left. Just like that. As if the conversation had never needed to exist in the first place.

The pattern repeated.

Days blending into one another, your routine unchanging, your responsibilities constant. There was no break. No relief. No moment where the weight lessened.

Even when your body ached from exhaustion, when your hands grew raw from work, when your eyes burned from lack of sleep.

There was no one to notice. No one to tell you to rest. Except her.

In the quiet moments, when she would press closer to you, when her breathing would steady against your chest, when her tiny hand would curl around your finger without thought. That was when you allowed yourself to pause. Just for a second. Just enough to breathe.

The grandmother noticed. She was one of the few who truly watched. Who paid attention beyond what was spoken. Sometimes, she would enter the nursery without announcement, her presence calm, steady, her gaze immediately finding you. And there would be that look. Not judgment. Something softer. Something heavier. Pity. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t meant to belittle you.

But it still settled uncomfortably in your chest. Because you didn’t want pity. You didn’t want to be seen as something broken. Something to be endured.

That was what you had become in the eyes of most.

She would sit beside you occasionally, her personal attendant trailing behind her, ready to assist in ways no one else would for you.

“Give her to me,” she would say gently.

And sometimes, you did. Because your arms were tired.

Because your body needed rest even if you didn’t allow yourself to admit it.

You would watch as the attendant helped, adjusting things, preparing what was needed, moving with an ease that reminded you of everything you were denied.

“You don’t have to do everything alone,” the grandmother said once, her voice softer than usual.

You lowered your gaze slightly.

“I am supposed to.”

“That does not make it right.”

You didn’t answer. Right and wrong had stopped mattering a long time ago. So you continued. Day after day. Month after month. Holding her. Raising her. Becoming something she relied on, even if no one else acknowledged it. And in return she grew. More aware.

And every time she reached for you. Every time she quieted in your arms. Every time she looked at you like you were something safe.

It reminded you that even in a place where you were unwanted.

You were still needed. Even if only by her.

The household settled into a rhythm that looked orderly from the outside and felt suffocating from within. You moved through it quietly, doing what was expected, learning what no one would teach you, filling spaces that no one else wanted. The servants continued to pass you as though you were part of the walls, never stopping, never asking, never offering. What had begun as a punishment slowly hardened into habit, and habit turned into something worse normal.

You woke before dawn, you worked through the day, and you slept only when your body refused to stay upright any longer. The baby grew steadily in your care, her small world orbiting around you in a way that made everything else both bearable and unbearable at the same time. She smiled more now, her eyes lighting up when she saw you, her hands reaching without hesitation, without doubt.

No one had to tell her who you were. She had decided that on her own.

And yet, in the same space where she leaned into you without fear, Yufan continued to pull further away like he was doing.

It was not just distance anymore. It was deliberate.

If you entered a room, he would leave. If you were already there, he would not step inside. Conversations were reduced to the bare minimum, clipped and cold, his tone always edged with something sharp enough to remind you of where you stood.

There was no room for misunderstanding. He did not want you near him. And he made sure you felt it.

At first, you tried to avoid it. You adjusted your movements, your timing, your presence. You learned the hours he preferred certain spaces and quietly stayed away from them. You spoke less, moved softer, kept your gaze lowered longer.

The grandmother had begun to notice the imbalance more openly as time passed. Where others ignored it, she addressed it, though never in a way that caused immediate conflict. Her approach was patient, measured, but firm.

“You are part of this household now,” she told you one afternoon, her voice calm but unyielding. “Not just in name. In responsibility.”

You listened quietly, Lian resting against your shoulder as you gently swayed her.

“I understand,” you said.

“And yet you remain confined to the nursery and the inner quarters.”

You lowered your gaze slightly.

“I go where I am allowed.”

Her expression shifted faintly.

“That is precisely what needs to change.”

You didn’t respond.

Still, her word carried weight in ways yours never could. And slowly, she began placing small responsibilities in your hands beyond the child. Minor decisions at first. Observations. Quiet involvement in matters that extended beyond the nursery walls.

Nothing grand. Nothing that would draw too much attention. But enough to shift something. Enough to be noticed. And it was. Yufan noticed.

He said nothing at first. Not when he heard your name mentioned in passing, not when he saw you lingering slightly longer in spaces you once avoided, not when small decisions began to include your presence.

But the silence did not mean acceptance.

That night had been still in a way that made every sound feel louder. The corridors were quiet, the household settled, the faint flicker of lanterns casting shadows that stretched long against the walls.

You had just finished settling Xinyi to sleep. She had been restless earlier, her small fingers clinging to you more than usual, but eventually, she gave in to sleep, her breathing evening out against your shoulder before you placed her gently into the cradle.

You lingered for a moment, watching her. Then you turned to leave.

The corridor outside was dim, the air cooler than the nursery, and you wrapped your arms slightly around yourself as you walked, your steps quiet, your thoughts heavier than usual.

You didn’t expect to see him. Not at this hour.

Standing just outside the main corridor, partially shadowed, his presence unmistakable even before you fully saw him.

You slowed. Then stopped.

For a brief second, neither of you spoke. His gaze was already on you.

“You’re expanding your role now.”

The words came without greeting, without softness.

You held his gaze for only a moment before lowering it slightly.

“I am only doing what I was asked to do.”

“By her,” he said immediately, his tone cutting.

You didn’t deny it.

“That does not make it wrong.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you felt it—the shift.

His expression hardened instantly.

“Of course you’d say that.”

You inhaled slowly, steadying yourself.

“I am not trying to overstep.”

“No?” he stepped closer, his voice dropping. “Then what exactly are you trying to do?”

You hesitated.

Because no answer felt safe.

“I am trying to fulfill what is expected of me.”

“And what is that?” he pressed, closing the distance further. “Tell me.”

Your breath caught slightly, but you held your ground.

“To be part of this household.”

The silence that followed was brief. Enough for something in him to snap. His hand moved before you could react.

His fingers wrapped around your wrist, firm too firm pulling you forward just enough to force you to face him fully.

The suddenness of it stole your breath.

“Part of this household?” he repeated, his voice low, tight with something barely contained. “You think this is how you do that?”

Your pulse spiked, your free hand instinctively moving toward his grip, but you didn’t pull away.

Not yet.

“I am not doing anything wrong,” you said, your voice quieter now, strained.

His grip tightened. Pain flared up your arm, sharp and immediate.

“You’re not doing anything wrong?” he echoed, disbelief laced heavily through his tone. “You step into her place, take over her responsibilities, hold her child, walk through her home like you belong here—and you call that nothing?”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“That is not what I am doing.”

“Then what is it?” he demanded, his voice rising just enough to break the quiet of the corridor. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re trying to become her.”

The words hit harder than his grip. Your breath faltered.

“I am not—”

“You are,” he cut you off sharply. “You’re trying so hard to fit into something that was never yours.”

Your throat tightened.

“I never wanted this.”

“Then why do you keep acting like you do?”

The accusation in his voice burned.

“I am only trying to survive here,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them, your voice trembling slightly despite your effort to steady it.

His grip didn’t loosen.

“If that were true, you would stay where you belong.”

“And where is that?” you asked, the question coming out softer than you intended, but carrying more weight than anything else you had said.

There was something in his expression. Something uncertain. But it disappeared just as quickly.

“Not here,” he said flatly.

The finality in those two words settled heavily between you.

Your vision blurred slightly, but you refused to let it show.

“I am not trying to replace her,” you said, your voice quieter now, but steady.

His jaw tightened.

“Then stop acting like it.”

“I am taking care of her child.”

“That’s not your place.”

“No one else is doing it.”

The words came out sharper than you intended.

And immediately you knew.

His expression darkened completely.

“Don’t,” he warned, his grip tightening again, pain shooting through your wrist. “Don’t twist this into something it’s not.”

“I am not twisting anything,” you said, your voice breaking slightly now despite your effort. “I am telling you the truth.”

“The truth?” he let out a short, bitter laugh. “You really think your version of the truth matters here?”

The words cut deep.

You swallowed hard, your chest rising and falling unevenly.

“I am not her,” you said, the words barely above a whisper now. “I never will be.”

“Then stop trying to be.”

“I am not.”

His grip faltered for just a fraction of a second. But it didn’t release.

“Everything you do says otherwise.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him, and for the first time in a long time, you didn’t lower your gaze.

“I am just trying to do what no one else will,” you said quietly.

His grip finally loosened. Abruptly.

He let go of your wrist as if the contact itself had become unbearable.

You staggered back slightly, your arm instinctively pulling toward you as you held your wrist, the ache lingering, throbbing beneath your skin.

“Stop,” he said, his voice quieter now, but no less harsh. “Just… stop.”

The words felt heavier than the ones before.

He turned away from you, his shoulders tense, his hands clenched at his sides.

“I don’t want to see you trying to take her place again.”

Your throat tightened painfully.

“I never was.”

He didn’t respond. He walked away. Leaving you there. Alone. Again.

The corridor felt colder than before. Quieter.

Your wrist still ached, the faint imprint of his grip lingering against your skin. You stood there for a long time. Not moving. Not speaking. Just breathing. Trying to steady yourself. Trying to hold everything in like you always did.

But this time it was harder. It wasn’t just about being unwanted.

It was about being seen and still being rejected.

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