mind your head

Screams tore through the night. Fire licked the sky, devouring homes and memories in its wake. You ran—barefoot, breath ragged—dodging crumbling beams, stumbling over broken stone and shards of lives once whole. The air was thick with smoke and terror, but you pushed forward, desperate.

You saw them. Your parents. Huddled together, their faces streaked with soot and tears.

“Amma! Appa!” you cried, collapsing into their arms. They held you tightly, sobbing in disbelief.

But the relief was short-lived.

“Where’s Seungmin?” you asked, your voice trembling.

Your mother broke. Her knees gave out.

“They… they took him,” she whispered.

You turned—and there he was. Seungmin. Your little brother, wide-eyed and silent, riding away on horseback. Soldiers flanked him on both sides. At the front was a royal banner. The Emperor’s crest.

You screamed his name, but your voice was swallowed by the chaos. He never turned back.

You jolted awake.

Same nightmare. Same ache.

It had been years, but that night still clung to you like smoke—sharp, inescapable. Everyone told you he was gone. That you had to move on.

“He’s with the heavens now,” the villagers would murmur gently, laying calloused hands on your shoulder. “You’ll only break your father’s heart chasing ghosts.” “There’s nothing left to find.”

But you refused.

Your mother had withered away in the months that followed. You believed it was grief that killed her. And now it was just you and your father. He searched for a time—every town, every whisper—but when nothing came of it, he turned to you and begged:

“Please… don’t follow my mistake. I can’t lose you too.”

But you couldn’t rest. Not until you knew. Not until you saw Seungmin again with your own eyes.

So one morning, before the sun rose, you stood before the mirror.

You cut your hair. Bound your chest. Wore your father’s old clothes.

And left.

To find your brother. To face the Empire.

Even if it meant losing yourself along the way.

You knew joining the Imperial Army wouldn’t be easy—especially not as a girl. But that part of you had to disappear the moment you cut your hair.

Now, you were Choi Yan, a boy from Jeonghwa Village.

As you walked the dirt path leading to the nearest base, the weight of what you were doing finally began to press in. The rough boots on your feet weren’t yours. The sword strapped to your side had never been swung in battle. Your hands trembled slightly as you gripped your worn satchel.

What am I doing?

But then—like always—his face came back to you.

Seungmin. His small hands. His bright laugh. The fear in his eyes as they took him away.

You clenched your jaw.

You couldn’t back out now.

The tall stone walls of Baekho Fortress loomed ahead. Soldiers trained in the yard, their yells ringing out like war drums. You approached the iron gate, heart pounding, and stopped in front of a bored-looking guard.

“Name?” he asked without looking up.

You cleared your throat, lowered your voice. “Y—Choi Yan,” you said, catching yourself just before you blurted out your real name.

He finally glanced at you. “Choi Yan?” His eyes narrowed slightly.

You nodded stiffly, forcing your shoulders to stay squared under his gaze.

With a grunt, he waved you in.

You barely made it a few steps before being swallowed into a chaotic blur of bodies. Dozens of young men, shouting, laughing, jostling, trying to prove themselves already. You fought your way through the crowd, elbows bumping into armor and backs, until someone slammed into you—and you stumbled hard into something solid.

No, someone solid.

A wall of muscle in the form of a man.

“Yah! Watch where you’re going,” he snapped.

You looked up.

The soldier glaring down at you was tall and broad-shouldered, with intense dark eyes and a scar that ran along his jaw like a forgotten war story. His arms were crossed, and around him, a group of cadets laughed under their breath.

He scoffed and turned away.

Before you could react, a loud whistle pierced the air.

“All new recruits to the main yard!” barked a commanding voice.

You followed the others, heart still racing, and took your place in the circle forming around a platform. The man you’d run into was already at the front.

A general stepped forward—stern, armored, voice like thunder.

“I am General Hwang Jisoo. Today, you stand on the threshold of service to His Majesty, the Emperor,” he bellowed. “But do not think wearing this uniform makes you a soldier. Today, you prove your worth.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

“You are not part of the army yet,” General Hwang continued. “Only those who endure the trial will earn their place. You will fight. One-on-one. The winners move forward.”

Gasps erupted. You swallowed hard.

Suddenly, the man from earlier stepped into the center ring. The entire yard roared with cheers and applause.

You blinked, confused.

“Who is that?” you asked the lanky soldier beside you, who was pale and shifting nervously.

“I’m—uh—Lee Taeyong,” he whispered. “You don’t know him?”

You shook your head.

“That’s Prince Seungcheol,” he whispered, wide-eyed. “The king’s nephew.”

Your breath caught.

He’s royalty? If he’s part of the court, then… maybe he knows something. Anything—about Seungmin.

In the ring, Seungcheol drew his blade.

The first challenger lunged—and within seconds, was on the ground. The next didn’t last much longer. Seungcheol moved like he’d been trained since birth—clean strikes, effortless dodges, complete control. No showboating. Just quiet, ruthless precision.

By the time the fourth opponent hit the dirt, the crowd was silent in awe.

And your heart pounded not just from fear now—but from possibility.

If you could get close to him, maybe… just maybe… you’d finally find the first thread that would lead you to your brother.

You were snapped out of your thoughts by the sharp bark of your name.

“Choi Yan!”

You didn’t move, still dazed.

“CHOI YAN!” the general thundered.

You jolted upright and stepped forward quickly, heart pounding in your chest like a war drum. You could hear snickering behind you.

Out of the corner of your eye, Seungcheol leaned slightly toward one of his friends and muttered, “That one won’t last a minute.”

Laughter rippled among them.

You ignored them—barely.

From the opposite end of the ring, a towering figure stepped forward. Broad shoulders, thick arms, scars crisscrossing his forearms. He cracked his neck and grinned like a man who had broken people before.

You swallowed hard.

“Bye-bye,” Seungcheol called out, almost sing-song. You didn’t turn. You couldn’t afford to.

The gong rang.

The man charged.

You barely dodged his first blow—a heavy swing that would’ve knocked you out cold. The ground shook with the force of his step. He was strong. Brutally so. But not fast.

You ducked another strike and rolled to the side, heart racing. He grunted in frustration, swinging wild again.

He was getting angry.

That was good.

You kept your movements tight, quick, dancing just out of reach. You didn’t need to overpower him—you just needed to outlast him. Wait for him to overcommit.

And then—he did.

His foot slipped slightly on the dirt. His elbow flared too wide. You darted in, jabbing your hilt into the side of his knee and twisting your body to slam your weight into his off-balance stance.

He fell.

Flat on his back.

The crowd gasped.

You stood over him, chest heaving, blade pointed down. You didn’t need to finish him. He was already beaten.

Silence.

Then murmurs. Then cheers.

You turned, sweat clinging to your neck. Your eyes scanned the crowd—until they locked with his.

Seungcheol.

He wasn’t laughing anymore.

He was staring at you, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed. Not in mockery. Not even annoyance.

Curiosity.

Like he’d seen something he couldn’t quite figure out.

And for the first time… You had his attention.

That was it.

You were officially a soldier of the Imperial Army.

The following days blurred together in a haze of sweat, bruises, and shouting. Training began before dawn and ended long after the sun dipped behind the fortress walls. You had never pushed your body this hard before.

Fortunately, you weren’t alone.

Taeyong stuck by your side—awkward, nervous, but kind-hearted. The two of you were easily the weakest of the batch. While others soared over walls and struck with clean, practiced form, you struggled to keep up, limbs sore and lungs burning.

Then there was him.

Prince Seungcheol.

Everyone knew who he was—the son of the king’s brother, trained from the moment he could walk. He was fast, powerful, disciplined. The kind of fighter who didn’t need to boast because every swing of his blade already did.

Seungcheol didn’t say much at first. He didn’t need to. His presence alone carried weight. When he walked into the yard, conversations stalled. Sparring matches paused.

You tried to avoid his gaze. Tried to shrink into the crowd.

It didn’t work.

One morning, during weapons drills, your grip slipped mid-swing and your blade barely brushed the dummy. You reset, embarrassed, only to hear his voice behind you.

“Your stance is off,” he said coolly.

You turned, startled. He was watching, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“You're leaning too far forward. That’s why your swing lacks power.”

Before you could respond, he turned away.

Not mocking. Not cruel. Just… blunt.

Another time, during obstacle training, you hesitated at the wall climb. Seungcheol stood at the top, already done, watching the rest struggle.

As you reached halfway and slipped, catching yourself just barely, he called down, “You’re thinking too much. Trust your body, not your fear.”

You didn’t know what surprised you more—that he was right, or that he said anything at all.

But it wasn’t always like that.

Sometimes, when your pace lagged or your technique faltered, you'd catch the faintest shake of his head. Disapproval. Maybe even frustration.

“Why are you even here?” he muttered once after sparring, when your arms failed you in a block. “You’re not built for this.”

You didn’t answer.

You just got back up.

Strategy class, however, was a different battlefield.

General Hwang Jisoo stood at the front of the tent, pointing at a map of war-torn provinces.

“The enemy is retreating through the southern corridor, torching villages, but leaving the bridges. What’s their game?”

Silence.

You raised your hand.

“They want us to follow,” you said, voice steady. “They’re baiting us across the river. If we pursue blindly, we’ll be trapped. I’d guess they’ve rigged the bridge to collapse once enough weight’s on it.”

General Jisoo paused, nodding.

“Correct. You think like a commander.”

Then, with a dry smile, he added, “If only you were as strong as you are smart, you’d be the perfect soldier.”

Laughter rippled through the group—but it died quickly when they saw Seungcheol’s face.

He wasn’t laughing.

He was watching you.

Closely.

From that moment on, you felt it—his eyes during drills, the way he stood nearer during sparring rotations, how he listened a little too intently whenever you spoke during class.

He wasn’t mocking anymore. He was assessing. And for the first time… You realized you were on his radar. Not as a rival.  Not yet. But as someone he couldn’t quite figure out.

The next few days, you kept your head down and trained harder than ever.

You woke earlier, ran farther, and practiced long after the others had gone to bed. Your muscles burned, your palms blistered, and sleep became a luxury. But it paid off. Slowly, you stopped falling behind in formation. Your strikes grew sharper, your steps more precise. You weren’t the strongest—but you were no longer the weakest either.

And Seungcheol noticed.

He didn’t say anything. He rarely did. But sometimes, you’d catch his eyes flick toward you during drills. Or he’d quietly correct your footing in passing, like it was an afterthought.

You never asked for his help. But he offered it anyway. And that unsettled you more than anything.

That night, under the open sky and flickering campfire, Seungcheol sat with his usual group—Yoon Jeonghan, Wen Junhui and Hong Jisoo—half-listening as they passed around roasted sweet potatoes and traded stories from earlier drills.

Until your name came up.

“That Yan kid…” Jisoo said, wiping his hands on his trousers. “He’s strange, isn’t he? Doesn’t talk much. Always off on his own.”

“Maybe he just doesn’t like us,” Jeonghan joked, tossing a pebble at him.

“No,” Junhui cut in, more thoughtful than teasing. “It’s not just that. There’s something off about him.”

“Off how?” Jeonghan asked.

Junhui hesitated, then glanced around. “I don’t know. I’m not saying anything crazy but… sometimes, he doesn’t even move like a guy. Like—like his posture, or the way he avoids the communal baths, or how he always wraps his chest weird under his tunic.”

Jisoo raised a brow. “You’re saying Yan’s not a guy?”

“I’m saying… maybe he’s hiding something.”

Jeonghan laughed. “Wah, Junhui! Are you crushing on Choi Yan? You’re watching him that closely?”

The group burst into laughter.

“YA!” Junhui shouted, face flushing. “I’m just observant, okay? I’m telling you, something doesn’t add up.”

The laughter faded slowly.

Seungcheol didn’t laugh. He sat still, gaze fixed on the fire, arms resting on his knees.

He’d noticed it too.

Not just your silence. Not just your discipline. But the way your eyes never lingered on the other soldiers. The way you flinched ever so slightly when someone touched your shoulder. The way you avoided water training sessions, and the time he passed you carrying bandages for no visible wound.

Something wasn’t what it seemed.

He remembered how small you’d felt when you first bumped into him. How light on your feet you were during sparring. And then there was the look in your eyes—sharp, calculating, haunted.

Not that of a coward hiding behind a fake name.

But someone with a reason. A secret. Seungcheol didn’t say anything to the others. But inside, he made a note. He’d keep watching you.  Not to expose you.  But because for some reason… he wanted to know the truth. And maybe—he already had a guess.

Whispers stirred through the camp like wind through the trees.

Late at night, when the fires had died down and most had fallen asleep, the older recruits would murmur about them.

“Ghost units,” Jisoo said in a low voice, hunched over a bowl of rice, his eyes darting around as if afraid the shadows might hear.

Taeyong furrowed his brow. “Ghost what?”

“You’ve never heard of them?” Jisoo leaned in. “They say the Emperor formed a secret legion—made up of children. Ones taken from their homes. Vanished without a trace.”

“Like assassins?” Junhui asked, intrigued.

“Not just that. Strategists. Spies. Weapons in the shape of kids.”

Jeonghan snorted. “Sounds like a bedtime story.”

Jisoo shrugged. “Maybe. But I’ve seen the aftermath of border skirmishes. Whole units wiped out clean—no trace of who did it. Not even footprints. Just… gone. And there were always whispers right before it happened. Always stories of children spotted near the camps.”

You were passing behind them with your empty bowl, on your way to the washing barrels, when the words stopped you in your tracks.

Children. Taken. Serving the Emperor.

Your blood ran cold.

Seungmin.

You ducked behind a tent post, heart hammering against your ribs as you listened.

“They say no one ever sees them again,” Jisoo continued. “Once they’re taken, they belong to the Empire. Ghosts in name, ghosts in life.”

Silence fell over the group for a moment.

“Creepy,” Taeyong muttered, rubbing his arms.

You exhaled, slow and shaky.

It was just a rumor. A tale to scare the green ones. But your gut told you otherwise. The day your brother was taken… the royal seal… the soldiers in black.

You had always feared the worst. But now, you feared something even worse than death.

A life lived in service to the throne—stripped of name, of family, of self.And if he was still alive…

You clenched your fists. You had to find him.

Unseen behind the flickering firelight, Seungcheol watched you.

You were usually unreadable—stoic, distant, focused. But now… you were alert. Listening. The shift in your expression was subtle, but to someone like Seungcheol, it was enough.

So, he thought. Choi Yan has secrets.

The next morning, the horn blew before sunrise.

“Form up!” General Hwang Jisoo’s voice rang across the yard.

The entire camp snapped to attention, still groggy from sleep.

“The following cadets will report for special assignment,” he barked. “Handpicked for their progress, strength, and potential.”

Everyone expected the names.

“Choi Seungcheol.”

Seungcheol stepped forward, as expected. Calm. Collected.

“Jisoo. Jeonghan. Junhui.”

One by one, his men stepped forward, grinning and nudging each other.

“And… Choi Yan.”

Silence.

You froze.

Your spoon clattered into your half-finished breakfast bowl.

Heads turned.

Taeyong looked at you with wide eyes. “Did he just say—?”

“CHOI YAN,” the general repeated, sharper now.

You scrambled to your feet, blood draining from your face as you stepped forward.

Murmurs rippled through the ranks.

Seungcheol turned his head just slightly, brows lifting in surprise.

You joined the line, heart pounding, aware of every eye on you—including his.

“What’s he doing here?” Jeonghan whispered, not exactly quietly.

“He?” Junhui muttered under his breath, tone questioning.

Seungcheol said nothing. But his eyes lingered on you longer than the others—curious, calculating.

And though he said nothing at all,  You felt it in the weight of his stare: He was watching you now.  And he wasn’t the only one.

General Jisoo laid the map flat on the makeshift table, its edges pinned down by rocks. The ink was still fresh—marks of enemy encampments, trade routes, and forest cover.

“We move at dawn,” he announced, sweeping a hand over the eastern region. “The rebels were last seen in this abandoned village near the border. I want a five-man unit to scout it out.”

He looked up, directly at you.

“Choi Yan. What’s your read?”

You stiffened. All eyes were on you. Even Seungcheol, standing to the general’s right, turned slightly in your direction.

You hesitated—just for a second—but your voice steadied.

“The elevation’s too exposed,” you said, pointing to a ridge. “If I were leading them, I’d circle through the western tree line, not the main road. It’s shaded, quieter. Less visible. If they’re hiding something… that’s where it’ll be.”

General Jisoo studied the map again, then gave a small nod.

“Agreed. We’ll take the western route.”

The other soldiers exchanged looks. Taeyong blinked in surprise. Jeonghan muttered something under his breath. Even Seungcheol’s brow furrowed slightly.

Later, as the camp scattered and you made your way back to your tent, you heard footsteps fall in beside you.

“You always think like that?” a voice asked—low, unreadable.

You didn’t need to look to know it was him.

“Like what?” you replied, careful to keep your tone even.

“Like a commander,” Seungcheol said.

You kept your gaze ahead. “I just… observe.”

He was silent for a moment before speaking again.

“Why do you know so much about battle?”

You faltered for a breath, then recovered.

“I don’t,” you said quickly, forcing your voice an octave lower.

Seungcheol scoffed, not buying it. “Don’t treat me like an idiot.”

You stopped then, turning your head just enough to meet his eyes.

“Maybe I pay attention to more than just swinging a sword until it hits something,” you replied, sharp but calm.

You didn’t wait for his response. You pushed past the flap of your tent and left him standing there, surprised—and maybe, just a little bit impressed.

If only you knew, you thought bitterly. If only you knew who taught me everything I know.

Your father, a former soldier who’d refused to speak of war after Seungmin was taken… except to you. Late at night. In hushed stories meant to warn you, not train you. But you remembered it all.

And now it was your only edge.

The next day, your unit arrived at the village ruins.

Burnt-out homes. Crumbled walls. Silence heavy as fog.

You scouted through the rubble, eyes scanning for signs of life—until you saw it.

Small, deliberate footprints.

You knelt, brushing aside dust and ash, and found the remnants of a child’s tunic.

“Sir…” you called, voice tight. “There were children here.”

Jisoo paled. “Could be stragglers.”

“No,” Seungcheol said quietly, crouching beside you. “These are fresh.”

The group fanned out. More evidence appeared. Tiny boot prints, scavenged food wrappers, a shattered training blade—child-sized.

Ghost units weren’t just rumors.

They were real.

Taeyong whispered, “Why would the Emperor take children?”

No one had an answer.

But Seungcheol’s jaw clenched.

He’d grown up in the palace. He’d heard whispers in the shadows—of projects, of disappearances. But seeing it here, with his own eyes, was different. Wrong.

You moved silently through the wreckage, breath caught in your throat.

And then you saw it.

A small wooden pendant, half-buried under a fallen beam. Cracked. Worn smooth. But unmistakable.

The carving on it—your brother’s name, in your mother’s script.

You dropped to your knees, fingers trembling as you picked it up.

Seungmin…

He had been here. He had worn this. And now…

Your chest ached. Your vision blurred.

You gripped the token tight, forcing the tears back. You couldn’t break. Not here. Not in front of them.

Not when you were finally getting closer.

Behind you, Seungcheol turned, as if sensing something. He watched you quietly—eyes narrowing as he caught the glint of something clenched in your fist. The way your shoulders shook, ever so slightly.

Something had shifted. And he was sure of one thing now: You were not just a soldier. You were here for something more.

As the days wore on, the tension in camp began to shift.

Your skill had improved rapidly—too rapidly, some thought. You remained quiet, distant, always just enough on the edge of the group to avoid drawing attention… and yet, that very distance began to do the opposite.

It didn’t take long before the rumors started.

One night around the fire, as the soldiers cleaned their armor and passed around dried rations, Junhui broke the silence.

“I swear, that Yan guy never bathes.”

Jeonghan looked up, chewing. “Huh?”

“I’m serious!” Junhui insisted, arms flailing. “I’ve never seen him at the river, not once. It’s like he disappears after dinner every night.”

Jisoo smirked. “What, you keeping tabs on him now? Didn’t know you were that into him.”

Jeonghan cackled. “Maybe Junhui likes them mysterious and grimy.”

“Ya!” Junhui slapped Jisoo’s arm, scowling. “It’s weird, okay? He always comes back late smelling clean, but no one ever sees him in the water. One of the boys swore they caught a glimpse of someone sneaking out near the south trail to the river, hours after we’re done.”

There was a beat of silence. The air shifted just slightly.

Seungcheol didn’t laugh.

He stared into the fire, brows drawn, jaw tight in thought.

“Come to think of it…” he muttered, almost to himself. “He’s always covered in dirt before training, like he rolls in it on purpose.”

Jisoo raised an eyebrow. “You’re noticing that now too?”

“There's something off,” Seungcheol said quietly. “Too clean. Too cautious. And the way he wraps his chest…”

That silenced the group. Junhui looked around nervously. “You think he’s—?”

“I don’t know,” Seungcheol cut in. “But I’m going to find out.”

That night, after the usual bathing hour ended and the camp began to settle, Seungcheol slipped away from his tent. He moved quietly, instinctively avoiding the dry branches and leaves. He made his way to the southern trail—half-hidden, half-overgrown—and crouched in the tall brush overlooking the riverbend.

He waited.

For a while, there was nothing but the sound of crickets and wind in the reeds.

Then—soft footsteps. Rustling.

And there you were.

Just as the moon broke through the trees.

You stepped cautiously into the clearing, wrapped tightly in a worn towel, covering nearly your entire body from shoulder to knee. Unlike the others, who wore loose trousers or bared their chests to the water without thought, you moved as if every inch of you needed to be hidden.

But that wasn’t all.

The grime and smudges that usually marked your face were gone. Clean skin, glistening with moonlight, replaced them. Your hair, normally tied up beneath your tunic, was down—loose waves falling just past your shoulders.

Seungcheol froze.

That’s not…

You didn’t notice him, not hidden in the brush. You glanced over your shoulder once, twice, before stepping deeper into the water. You moved with practiced caution, as if you had done this a hundred times.

Seungcheol narrowed his eyes. He still couldn’t see clearly from this distance. But he knew something was off. Knew what he’d seen wasn’t just a trick of the moonlight.

He crept a little closer, boots silent against the damp grass.

But before he could get a better view—You dove into the water. And vanished beneath the surface.Seungcheol waited.

When you resurfaced, you floated for a moment, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly now that you were alone. You looked younger, more fragile somehow, the hardness in your posture melted away by solitude and silence.

Who are you, Choi Yan? he wondered, lips pressed into a tight line. And more importantly— What are you hiding?

He waited.

Crouched low behind the brush, breath held, eyes trained on the slow ripples of the river.

You swam closer to the edge, arms cutting through the water with quiet grace. Then, rising slowly, you stepped onto the shore, water trailing down your skin in rivulets. You moved carefully—habitually—glancing around before bending to retrieve your towel and wrapping it tightly around your frame.

Even from a distance, Seungcheol could see the difference.

Your face—usually streaked with dirt—was clean now, lit faintly by moonlight. And your hair, still wet, clung to the sides of your face, cascading just past your shoulders.

He narrowed his eyes.

There was no more doubt. Something was wrong.

You turned, clutching your towel tighter, and began the walk back up the hill toward the tents.

And that was when he moved.

You barely had time to react. A hand covered your mouth. An arm wrapped around your waist, yanking you behind a tree before you could scream.

You struggled—furiously—elbows digging, fists pounding.

“Quiet,” Seungcheol hissed in your ear. “It’s me.”

You froze.

He spun you, pressing your back against the tree, his body angled into yours to keep you from escaping. His grip on your wrists loosened just slightly, but not enough to let you go.

“What the hell are you hiding?” he demanded, voice low, breath hot against your skin.

But then—

Something shifted.

His stance faltered. His eyes dropped. And suddenly, he was too close.

Your towel slipped slightly at the shoulder, and in that brief moment, his hands—still braced against your sides—felt what his eyes couldn’t deny.

The curve of your hips beneath the thin fabric. The soft rise of your chest, compressed so tightly each breath felt like betrayal.

He went still.

His breath hitched. His eyes widened, flicking up to your face—and this time, really seeing you.

Not “Choi Yan.” Not the quiet, sharp-tongued soldier.

But you.

The dirt you always smeared beneath your cheekbones was gone. In its place were smooth, flushed cheeks, kissed pink by the river chill. The deep brown of your eyes was no longer hidden behind shadow, and your lips—slightly parted, damp with fear and effort—were a shade he couldn’t name but suddenly couldn’t forget.

He swallowed, but his mouth felt dry.

“You’re a girl,” he murmured.

The words weren’t accusatory.

They were stunned. Almost reverent.

His hands were still at your sides, not holding you anymore—just resting there. As if letting go would snap whatever spell had fallen between you.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, still pressed to his.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t. His eyes locked on yours. Your breaths tangled in the small space between you.And for a moment—just a moment—Seungcheol forgot why he had come looking.

All he knew was that you were the secret he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about.

And now that he knew… He wasn’t sure he could forget.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, your pulse loud in your ears. You hated this—hated how close he was, how his hands still rested on your bare waist, how your body betrayed you by reacting to the warmth of his touch.

Your breath hitched.

And then—reality snapped back into focus.

You shoved him hard.

“Get off me!” you gasped, stumbling back and yanking the towel tighter around your body. “What the hell are you doing?”

Seungcheol stepped back, hands lifted, eyes wide. “Wait—I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—”

“Oh, really?” you snapped, voice low but venomous. “Didn’t look like that from where I was standing.”

“I knew something was off with you,” he stammered, trying to find his footing. “But I wasn’t trying to—! I didn’t think you were—”

“A girl?” you shot back, stepping forward now, towel clenched tight in your fists. “So what? You followed me anyway. You grabbed me. What were you hoping to find?”

His face flushed, not with embarrassment—but frustration. “I wasn’t trying anything like that! I had a feeling something didn’t add up. I swear, if I had known—”

“You would have what?” you challenged. “Ignored it? Told everyone? Dragged me back to General Jisoo so I could be executed for impersonating a soldier?”

His mouth opened—then closed.

“I wouldn’t have let that happen,” he said finally, quieter now. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” you demanded.

He exhaled, shoulders dropping, like the fight had drained out of him. “I just… no matter how much dirt you rubbed on your cheeks, or how quiet you tried to be, I could tell you were hiding something. Not just from us. From everyone.” His voice softened. “And tonight… I saw you. Really saw you.”

You stared at him, trying to read him—trying not to let your hands shake.

His gaze lingered, drifting for the briefest moment to your lips, then up to your eyes. “You’re…” He caught himself before the word beautiful could fall, biting it back with a clench of his jaw.

You stepped back once more, heart still racing.

“So,” you said coldly, “are you going to rat me out?”

He hesitated—longer than you liked.

But then, slowly, he shook his head.

“No. Your secret’s safe with me.”

You studied him for a moment longer. There was no mockery in his expression. No smugness. Just confusion. And something else—something more dangerous.

Understanding.

“Good,” you said, voice flat.

And with that, you turned and walked off into the dark, the wet hem of your towel dragging behind you.

You didn’t look back.

And Seungcheol stayed where he was, frozen under the moonlight.

Because for the first time since joining the army, he wasn’t sure who the enemy was.

And worse—he wasn’t sure he wanted to stop you.

“First,” he said once you stopped, “I want to say I’m sorry.”

You crossed your arms. “For what?”

“For grabbing you. For following you. For assuming things. I didn’t know—I wasn’t trying to… that’s not who I am.”

You stayed quiet.

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to find the words. “It’s just… people were starting to notice. Junhui kept talking about how you never bathe with the rest of us. Jisoo swore he saw you sneaking off at night.”

At that, your head shot up.

“It’s fine,” he added quickly. “After I found out… I started steering them away. I switched patrol shifts so no one would be near the river. Told Jeonghan I saw you puking one night so he wouldn’t ask why you weren’t at breakfast. Started keeping them distracted when you disappeared after drills.”

You blinked.

You hadn’t noticed.

“Why?” you asked.

“That’s why I wanted to talk to you,” he said. “I need to know—why are you really here?”

You hesitated.

But something in his voice—calm, not demanding—let your guard down.

“My brother,” you said softly. “He was taken. Years ago, during a raid… men bearing the Emperor’s crest. No one believed me, but I know he’s alive. I joined because it’s the only way I could follow the trail. They say he’s part of the ghost units.”

Seungcheol’s face shifted.

Like something cracked quietly inside him.

“I’ve been thinking about those rumors too,” he murmured. “And about what we saw in that village. The Emperor—he’s not the man I grew up idolizing. Not anymore.”

You looked up, surprised.

“I know I was an ass when we met,” he added. “But if there’s a chance your brother is out there… I want to help you.”

You stared at him, unsure how to respond.

Finally, you asked, “Why are you being nice to me?”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

You tilted your head, a wry smile tugging at your lips. “Is it because you know I’m a girl now?”

Seungcheol choked. “N-No! I mean—I would’ve—That’s not—!”

You laughed. A soft, real laugh that made his heart stutter.

“Relax, Prince,” you said, standing. “I’m just messing with you.”

He watched you step back into the path leading to camp.

Before disappearing into the shadows, you turned to him one last time.

“Thank you.”

And then you were gone, leaving Seungcheol standing there, stunned, lips parted, thoughts tangled.

For the first time since joining the army, he wasn’t sure what scared him more: The secrets behind the Emperor…Or the girl now carrying all his attention.

The next day, just before dusk, Seungcheol caught your eye across the campgrounds.

He gave the subtlest nod toward his tent.

You hesitated.

But something in his expression—serious, steady, not demanding—compelled you to follow.

You waited until no one was watching, then slipped inside.

The tent was dimly lit by a single oil lamp. Papers, maps, and leather-bound books were scattered across the desk, some half-open, others marked with strips of torn cloth as makeshift bookmarks. The usual precision of Seungcheol’s space was gone—replaced by hurried, chaotic searching.

Your eyes widened. “What are these?”

He stood near the table, arms crossed, eyes scanning the mess. “Military records. Deployment logs. Hidden divisions. Anything remotely linked to off-the-books units from the past decade. I think some of them… might mention the Ghost Unit.”

You stepped closer, cautiously, your gaze scanning a page marked with strange numbers and names. They meant nothing to you—but the dates were all from the year your brother vanished.

“Where did you get these?” you asked quietly.

“I sent word to Lord Haneul,” he said. “He’s one of my father’s old allies at court. Told him I was doing research on covert deployment patterns for strategy training. He didn’t ask questions.”

You looked up sharply. “Why would you help me? Why risk this?”

Seungcheol paused.

He stared down at the parchment, fingers brushing over the edge of a report.

“Because I know,” he began, voice low, “that to some extent… I’m part of the reason this happened.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

He met your eyes. “My uncle—the Emperor. I grew up idolizing him. I believed everything he told me. I thought our army fought for honor, for peace. But I heard whispers. I ignored them. I thought… if something bad was happening, someone else would stop it. Someone older. Someone braver.”

His jaw tightened.

“But no one did. And now children are being taken. Your brother. Others.” He exhaled. “If I had opened my eyes earlier, maybe…”

You stared at him for a long moment. Then gave the faintest nod.

Not forgiveness. But understanding.

You stepped toward the table and began to scan the records, your fingers grazing the faded ink as your eyes searched for anything familiar.

For a moment, there was only the sound of rustling parchment.

Then Seungcheol spoke again—softer now.

“Hey…”

You looked up.

“I just realized,” he said, a crooked half-smile on his lips. “I don’t even know your real name.”

You froze.

For all your arguments, your shared truths, your almost-too-close encounters… you had never told him who you were.

You studied him—carefully.

He had risked his name, his position, and possibly his life to help you. He hadn’t once tried to control your mission or your truth. And for all his princely pride, he had knelt beside you when it mattered most.

Maybe… just this once… you could let him in.

You inhaled.

“My name is Y/N.”

Seungcheol blinked.

Then his expression shifted—softened. He didn’t smile, not fully, but the tension in his face unraveled. Like something important had been offered and received.

“Y/N,” he repeated quietly.

The name hung in the air, fragile but whole.

And in that silence, surrounded by secrets and smuggled documents, a quiet alliance solidified—no longer between soldier and prince.

But between Y/N and Seungcheol.

The next few weeks passed like a delicate dance in the dark.

Each night, once the others had fallen asleep, you slipped from your tent and made your way quietly to Seungcheol’s. Inside, under lamplight and hushed voices, you pored over the forbidden records—reading, decoding, piecing together the fragments of truth hidden between faded ink and redacted names.

You were close to something. You could feel it.

But secrets never stayed hidden forever.

One night, after your usual bath in the far river bend, you returned to Seungcheol’s tent, clutching a folder of pages he had pulled from a restricted box the night before. As you flipped through them, a rustle behind the canvas caught your attention.

A young cadet—barely more than a boy—stood at the flap, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.

He’d seen you. And the documents.

You locked eyes just long enough to know: it was over.

By morning, the summons came.

You were pulled from morning drills by two guards in black and silver—the High Guard’s insignia stitched onto their shoulders. No explanation. No questions. Just an order:

“His Highness demands your presence. Now.”

They brought you to a stone clearing behind the main yard, where General Hwang Jisoo stood with the High Commander and several ranking officers. A circle had already formed—soldiers whispering, watching.

You were thrown to your knees.

The High Commander stepped forward. “Choi Yan. You were found in possession of restricted documents. Records marked for imperial use only.”

You swallowed hard, but said nothing.

“We don’t believe you intended treason,” he continued, tone cold. “But the army is not a place for curiosity. We must make an example.”

You froze.

“We have decided,” he said, turning to the assembled crowd, “on a sentence of twenty lashes.”

Gasps echoed through the circle.

Your limbs went cold. Twenty?

You tried to speak, but your voice caught.

“Bow,” the guard beside you ordered, grabbing your shoulders.

You resisted instinctively, knowing what was about to happen. Your back. Your bindings. Your secret. You couldn’t let them do this.

But the guards were stronger.

They began to force you down—until—

“Wait!”

A commanding voice cut through the tension.

Seungcheol pushed his way through the crowd, chest heaving, eyes locked on the High Commander.

“I lent him the documents,” he said, loud and steady.

The guards paused. Even General Jisoo blinked.

“I did,” Seungcheol repeated. “I told Choi Yan to study them for strategy training. If there’s fault, it’s mine.”

The High Commander’s gaze narrowed. “That would be an abuse of your authority, Your Highness.”

“Then punish me,” Seungcheol said without flinching. “But leave him alone.”

The crowd murmured. All eyes turned to you.

You surged forward. “No!” you shouted, voice cracking. “You don’t have to—!”

But Seungcheol didn’t look at you.

He stepped forward, unfastened the ties at his collar, and pulled off his shirt in one swift motion.

His back was broad, marked by old training scars, and now—bared to the open air—he stood before them with no shame, no hesitation.

The guards hesitated.

“He’s the prince,” one muttered.

“Five lashes,” the High Commander relented reluctantly. “No more.”

You watched, trembling, as the whip cracked through the air.

Once.

Seungcheol flinched, but didn’t cry out.

Twice. Thrice. Four times.

Blood bloomed across his skin, bright against the sweat. On the fifth strike, he staggered—but remained standing. You bit your lip so hard it bled, your vision swimming with tears.

He turned his head to glance at you.And even then, in pain, his eyes searched yours—not with anger, not with regret.But with reassurance.

I told you I wouldn’t let them hurt you.

Around you, the soldiers exchanged looks. Junhui whispered to Jeonghan, confused. General Jisoo watched in silence, brows furrowed.

But no one said a word. Because for all his pride, all his strength—Prince Seungcheol had just taken lashes for a soldier with no name. And everyone saw it.

That night, you couldn’t sleep.

The image of Seungcheol—back bared, lashes biting into his skin, jaw clenched through every strike—played over and over in your mind. It echoed louder than any scream. It lived under your skin.

So you moved.

The camp was quiet, bathed in silver moonlight and silence. Seungcheol’s tent sat near the edge of the grounds, a faint glow still flickering inside. You approached carefully, lifting the flap and slipping in with barely a sound.

There he was.

Lying on his stomach on the low cot, half-covered in a thin blanket. His back was exposed, the raw red wounds from earlier still angry and inflamed. You sucked in a sharp breath.

Your heart clenched.

He was facing away from you, still. His brow furrowed, lips slightly parted. You couldn’t tell if he was asleep or simply trying to breathe through the pain.

Quietly, you knelt beside the cot.

For a moment, you just watched him. He looked… younger somehow. Less guarded. But the bruises on his back stood in sharp contrast to the calm on his face.

Gently, you reached out and placed a hand on his arm.

He stirred.

You jerked your hand back, but before you could retreat, his fingers shot out and wrapped around yours. Not roughly—but firmly. Intentionally.

His eyes opened slowly, meeting yours.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice rough, barely above a whisper.

You swallowed, your throat tight. “Why did you do that?” you asked, your voice breaking at the end. The tears came before you could stop them.

Seungcheol blinked, surprised. He shifted, sitting up slowly with a wince. The blanket slipped down his back, revealing more of the welts, and you had to look away.

“I wasn’t going to let them hurt you,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “And they would’ve found out. You couldn’t take the lashes. Not without…”

He trailed off, but you knew what he meant. Not without being exposed.

“So what?!” you snapped, your voice trembling with emotion. “You don’t even know me! It was my fault. I was careless—”

He reached for your hand again, gripping it tighter this time.

“I know enough,” he said quietly.

Your breath caught.

He stared at you then, eyes dark and steady.

“I know you’re brave enough to walk into an army camp in disguise for someone you love. I know you’re smart enough to outthink half the generals. And I know you’re stubborn as hell, even when you’re hurting.”

You bit your lip, but the tears kept coming.

“I don’t need to know your whole story to know I didn’t want to watch you suffer,” he said.

You sat beside him, eyes fixed on your joined hands. His thumb moved gently over your skin, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

“You scared the hell out of me,” you whispered. “Watching them hurt you… I—”

He smiled faintly. “I’ve had worse.”

You frowned. “That doesn’t make it right.”

A silence settled between you. A different kind of silence. Not the awkward, guarded kind. The kind that held everything unspoken, suspended in the quiet.

Then he asked, softer this time, “Why did you come?”

You looked at him, your cheeks still wet.

“Because no one’s ever done something like that for me before,” you said. “And I didn’t want you to think I didn’t care.”

He studied you for a long moment. His hand moved again—this time brushing gently against your cheek, wiping away a tear.

“Y/N,” he said your name like it was something precious. “You don’t have to protect everything on your own.”

You leaned into his hand—just slightly. Just enough.He moved closer.

You didn’t kiss. Not yet.But something passed between you, wordless and undeniable. A promise. A shift. “I should go,” you whispered.“Yeah,” he replied softly. But neither of you moved. Not for a long time.

“Did you hear?” one of them murmured during weapons inspection. “The prince took lashes for that new recruit. You think he’d do that for just anyone?”

“I’m telling you, there’s something weird about that one. Always sneaking off, always near the prince.”

“Bet he’s not just near the prince.”

Laughter.

You kept your eyes forward, muscles tense, pretending not to hear.

But the words stuck.

The eyes followed.

The quiet built.

One afternoon during sparring rotations, you were assigned to a soldier from another unit—broad-shouldered, bitter-eyed. The second your wooden blade clashed with his, he leaned in close and whispered, “Tell me—what’s a prince’s bed like?”

You saw red.

You swung harder than necessary, knocking him off balance. He laughed as he stumbled back.

“Aha. Touched a nerve, didn’t I?”

Before you could lunge again, a voice cut through the air.

“That’s enough!”

Seungcheol.

His voice snapped like thunder.

The yard fell silent.

The soldier straightened, forcing a mock salute. “Just sparring, Your Highness.”

Seungcheol’s eyes didn’t leave him. “You’re dismissed for the day.”

The man looked ready to argue, but one glare from the prince and he walked off, muttering curses under his breath.

You stood there, fists clenched, pulse racing.

Seungcheol’s gaze flicked to you for only a second—concern in his eyes—but he didn’t say a word.

Not here.

Not yet.

That night, you didn’t go to his tent.

You sat alone near the stables, trying to scrub the words from your head. You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t want attention. All you wanted was to find your brother, stay hidden, survive.

But now the soldiers talked like you were a favorite, a secret, a scandal.

In Seungcheol’s tent, Jeonghan sat cleaning his blade, silent. Junhui polished his armor with slow, deliberate strokes. None of them spoke of what happened. But their silence was heavy—protective. Watchful.

Jisoo looked up finally. “They’re starting to cross a line.”

“They’re not ours,” Seungcheol said quietly.

“No,” Jeonghan agreed. “But they’re watching you. Watching him.”

Seungcheol didn’t respond right away. Then, softly:

“Let them watch.”

The next night as you were bathing, you swear you saw someone watch, you, you thought it was Seungcheol but when you got out, he was nowherein sight. 

The next morning broke in stillness.

And then everything unraveled.

You were yanked from your tent by your hair, dragged into the cold morning air by a soldier in black and silver—the mark of the High Guard gleaming on his shoulder.

“LET ME GO!” you screamed, twisting in his grip, but he only tightened his hold, forcing you to stumble after him.

The camp was already stirring, but now all movement stopped.

Men circled. Curious. Confused.

And at the center of it all—you.

Your knees scraped the dirt as he shoved you into the clearing, where dozens of soldiers had gathered. You looked up, eyes scanning the faces. Seungcheol’s men. Jeonghan. Junhui. Jisoo. They looked at you, eyes wide with confusion, tension rising in their posture.

But Seungcheol wasn’t there.

Not yet.

Then you saw him.

The soldier who had mocked you during sparring. His name now rang bitter in your head: Captain Renji. He stood beside the High Commander, arms crossed, smirking.

“What is the meaning of this?!” General Jisoo pushed through the crowd, furious. “Who authorized this display?!”

The High Commander raised a scroll. “It has come to our attention that this soldier—Choi Yan—is not who he claims to be.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

Captain Renji stepped forward. “I saw him bathing alone at night, always hiding. And last night… I followed him. Choi Yan is not a ‘he,’ sir.”

“YOU MUST BE INSANE!” General Jisoo bellowed. “This is an elite unit. We don’t act on rumors.”

The High Commander’s voice was colder. “Then you won’t mind if we confirm it.”

Seungcheol’s men moved instinctively—Junhui took a step forward, Jeonghan’s hand went to his blade—but more guards blocked their path, shoving them back.

“Stand down,” barked the Commander.

You thrashed as two guards approached you. “Get your hands off me—!”

They held you fast.

One of them wiped your face clean with a damp cloth, smearing away the dirt you’d worn for months. Another pulled the tie from your hair, letting the damp strands fall to your shoulders. The final blow: your robe was ripped open at the neck, fingers tugging at the binding across your chest—exposing the tight bandages wrapped beneath.

A stunned silence fell over the camp.

Gasps. Whispers. Realization.

You looked out over the crowd, trembling, heart hammering in your chest.

Seungcheol’s men didn’t flinch. Their faces didn’t turn away. If anything, they softened—eyes dark with understanding.

This was what their prince had known.

This was why he fought for you.

“See? Treason!” the High Commander spat, gesturing at you like you were filth. “A woman in disguise. A spy. An infiltrator. The punishment—” he turned to the gathered soldiers, voice rising “—is death.”

You closed your eyes.

Your knees buckled.

And then—

Thunder.

Hoofbeats.

A horse.

Galloping through the trees.

You barely registered the flash of silver and black before he was there.

Seungcheol.

He rode straight into the clearing, dismounting before the guards could react, his presence like a blade through the tension. He stormed toward you, eyes locked on yours—furious, wild, desperate.

He stepped in front of you, shielding your exposed form from the crowd with his body. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the fury barely held back.

“That’s enough,” he said through gritted teeth. “You’re done here.”

The High Commander raised a brow. “Your Highness—”

“I said you’re done.” No one dared move. The prince’s glare could’ve shattered steel.

Then, softer, only to you: “Come on.” He reached for your arm—gentle, but insistent.

You stared at him, shaking.And he pulled you up, wrapped his cloak around your shoulders, and lifted you onto his horse with one effortless movement.

Without another word, he climbed up behind you, wrapped one arm around your waist, and kicked off.

The camp disappeared behind you as the world blurred.

And for the first time in weeks—maybe years—you let yourself breathe.

Seungcheol took you far.

Past the camp. Past the roads. Into the woods where no eyes could follow.

An abandoned outpost—half-forgotten and overgrown—stood like a skeleton of the past. He led the horse through the ruined gate, helped you down without a word, and brought you inside the shattered remnants of a war long over.

He found a room—roof mostly intact, walls still standing—and sat you down on the only cot.

You couldn’t stop crying.

You tried. Gods, you tried. But the shame clung to your skin like filth, sinking into your bones. You pulled his cloak tighter around you, arms crossing over your chest, trying to disappear into yourself.

You didn’t want him to see you like this.

Not like this.

Seungcheol knelt before you slowly, silently. His eyes searched your face. He didn’t speak—didn’t push.

Then, gently, he reached for your hand. His fingers barely touched yours, callused pads brushing your knuckles like a question.

You didn’t pull away.

His face, once taut with anger, began to shift.

“I want to kill them,” he said at last, voice low, trembling at the edges. “Every single one of them.”

You looked at him—really looked—and saw the way his jaw locked, the way pain flickered across his face as he took in your tears. He wasn’t just angry.

He was hurting with you.

You couldn’t stop the sob that slipped from your lips. You hated how broken you sounded, how small you felt, how vulnerable you were.

And yet—

He reached for you again. This time, fully.

Strong arms wrapped around your body, anchoring you to him. And you collapsed into his chest, your fingers gripping his tunic as if it were the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

You cried on his shoulder—loud, gasping, shame-soaked sobs.

And he let you.

He said nothing. Just held you tighter.

At some point, when your cries had faded into exhausted silence, he laid you gently down on the cot, tucking the blanket over your trembling frame.

“I’ll be back,” he whispered.

Then he was gone.

You didn’t know how long he was gone.

You stayed there, curled beneath the blanket, staring at the wall.

The images kept playing in your mind—the ripping of your robe, the gasps, the judgment, the Commander’s voice announcing your death like it was nothing. Like you were nothing.

You clutched the edge of the blanket until your knuckles went white.

Then—

Footsteps.

The door creaked open.

Seungcheol returned, a small bundle of food in one hand, a waterskin in the other.

He said nothing as he knelt near the fire and began preparing something warm—bread and dried meat soaked in broth, heated with the small flame he managed to coax to life.

You didn’t move.

But he didn’t expect you to.

When you finally sat up, his back was to you.

You wiped your face quickly, embarrassed by the crusted tears, the redness, the silence stretching too long.

“T-Thank you,” you rasped.

He turned.

His jaw clenched. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

There was no softness in his voice—but no coldness either. Just truth.

He handed you the bowl, his fingers grazing yours for the briefest second. You ate slowly, quietly, every movement small and uncertain. You weren’t hungry, but you ate. Because he made it. Because he brought you here. Because this—whatever this was—was safer than anything else in the world.

When you finished, he took the bowl and said nothing.

Then he laid down a spare blanket and sat on the floor near the far wall, beginning to unlace his boots.

“What are you doing?” you asked, your voice barely audible.

“You take the bed.”

“I can’t—”

“You will.” His tone left no room for argument.

You stared at him, eyes burning.

“Why are you still being kind to me?” you whispered.

He didn’t look at you. Just lay back against the wall, eyes to the ceiling.

After a moment, he said quietly:

“Because no one else was.”

And that was all. The room fell into silence once again. 

But you couldn’t sleep.

Not with the day playing in your head like a broken reel—the tearing of fabric, the shouts, the accusations, the humiliation. Every time you closed your eyes, you were back in the middle of the camp, your secrets laid bare to a hundred watching eyes.

Except one pair. Seungcheol.

His hands pulling you into safety. His voice steady when yours was shaking. His arms shielding you like a wall no one could break through. He didn’t look away.

And now, in the silence of the outpost, that image consumed you more than the fear.

You rose from the cot without a sound, barefoot across the cold stone floor, and knelt beside where he lay—still, but not asleep.

Your eyes roamed over him, the rise and fall of his chest, the crease in his brow even in rest. Before you could stop yourself, you sat down beside him.

He stirred immediately.

His eyes blinked open, adjusting to the dim firelight. When he saw you, he sat up slowly, sleep slipping from his face.

“Are you all right?” he asked, voice rough, low with concern.

You nodded—but didn’t speak.

His brows pulled together. “Y/N…”

He moved as if to reach for you, but before he could, you kissed him.

You leaned forward, sudden, breathless, and pressed your lips to his—soft but certain.

He stilled. For a heartbeat.

His eyes widened in shock, then fluttered shut. But you pulled away before he could kiss you back.Your face was hot. You couldn’t look at him.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I just... I didn’t know how else to say thank you.”

His voice was quiet, but firm.“Don’t kiss me out of gratitude.”

You met his eyes. He wasn’t angry. Just honest.He reached up, thumb brushing your cheek. “You don’t owe me anything, Y/N.”“I know,” you said, barely above a whisper. “But I wanted to.”

Silence stretched between you—charged, intimate, fragile.

Then, slowly, Seungcheol leaned forward, hand cradling the side of your face.

“Then let me kiss you back,” he murmured.And he did.This time, it was slower. Warmer. Deeper.

His lips moved against yours with a tenderness you didn’t know he had. Like you were made of glass. Like the world had narrowed down to just this moment. His hand slid to your waist, pulling you gently onto his lap, your bodies fitting together with a quiet familiarity that made your breath catch.

You clung to him, fingers curled into the back of his tunic. You felt everything—his strength, his warmth, the tension under his skin like he was holding himself back.

When you broke the kiss, your forehead rested against his.

“I’m scared,” you admitted.

His arms wrapped around you tighter.

“I know,” he said. “But I’m here.”

His lips found yours again, and this time, there was no hesitation. Just heat. Want. The way his hands started to move—slowly at first, like he was still giving you room to stop. But you didn’t stop him.

You pressed closer, mouth parting under his, your hands slipping beneath the layers of his tunic, fingertips grazing over warm skin and hard muscle.

He groaned softly, the sound muffled against your mouth. “Y/N…”

Your name broke on his lips like a warning. Like a plea.

But your answer was in the way you pulled him down with you, back against the cot, fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt.

His breath hitched as you touched him, and he sat up just enough to strip his tunic off, exposing the lines of his torso in the firelight—scarred, solid, beautiful. Your hands mapped each one, reverent and shaking.

“Tell me to stop,” he said again, voice ragged.

You shook your head. “Don’t.”

Something in him snapped.

He kissed you harder now, more urgent. His hands roamed freely—along your sides, up your thighs, slipping under your sleeping robe to find bare skin. When his fingers brushed between your legs, you gasped into his mouth, your hips arching into his hand.

“You’re already so wet,” he whispered, almost in disbelief, like it shattered something in him to feel you like this. “Is this all for me?”

You nodded, breathless. “Only you.”

He groaned—deep, low—and kissed down your neck, your chest, mouthing at every inch of exposed skin like he was starving. You couldn’t stay still—your hands were in his hair, on his shoulders, needing more, needing all of him.

He slid two fingers into you and you gasped, eyes fluttering shut as he moved slowly, carefully, watching your every expression. His thumb circled your clit, teasing, coaxing, until you were a trembling mess beneath him.

“Seungcheol—” you whimpered. “Please…”

He kissed you again—soft this time, grounding—before pushing his pants down just enough and positioning himself over you.

“You sure?”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please, I want you.”

He pushed into you with a low groan, slow and steady, giving you time to adjust. You clung to him, the stretch making your breath catch, but it was him—his warmth, his scent, his hands threading through yours—that made you feel safe even in the intensity.

When he began to move, it was slow. Deep. Measured. Like he needed to feel every second of you around him. Every time he bottomed out, your breath hitched, your fingers tightening around his.

“God, Y/N,” he whispered against your neck. “You feel—fuck—you feel perfect.”

You whispered his name like a prayer, like you’d never said it before and never wanted to stop.

The rhythm built between you, your bodies moving in sync, soft moans and broken gasps swallowed into each other’s mouths. The cot creaked beneath you, but you didn’t care—you wanted him to ruin you. To make you forget the eyes, the shame, the fear.

Only him.

Only this.

You came first—sharp and sudden, crying out his name as you clenched around him, your whole body trembling. He followed right after, thrusts growing ragged before he buried himself deep inside you with a broken groan, his body shuddering above yours.

For a while, neither of you moved. Just panting. Holding. Grounding each other in silence.

Then Seungcheol leaned down, kissed your temple, and gathered you in his arms like you were something fragile and worth protecting.

And this time, when you fell asleep in his embrace—you weren’t just safe.

You were his.

The next morning, light filtered through the broken window slats, soft and gold against the stone.

You stirred slowly, the warmth around you anchoring you before your thoughts caught up.

Seungcheol.

You were still wrapped in his arms.

His cloak had fallen slightly, and your head rested on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. His breath was soft and slow, still deep in sleep.

You blinked up at him, unsure. But safe.

The morning light danced across his face, casting gentle shadows on his cheekbones, softening the sharp lines of his jaw. He looked peaceful like this—young, almost. Not the prince. Not the soldier. Just… Seungcheol.

His lashes fluttered. Then slowly, his eyes opened.

And they landed on you. For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then—quietly, cautiously—you sat up, heart hammering in your chest. You turned away, pulling the blanket over your shoulders as your thoughts spun.

What does this mean?  Does he regret it?  Did I just make everything worse?

Before you could pull further away, you felt him shift behind you.

His arms slid around your waist, pulling you gently back into him. His lips brushed your bare shoulder—once, then again.

Soft. Reassuring. “Don’t run from me,” he murmured, his voice husky from sleep. “Please.”

Your breath caught. “I wasn’t going to,” you said quietly, not looking at him.

“You’re already halfway across the room in your head,” he replied, lips curling faintly against your skin. “I can feel it.”

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t know what you’d say. What you’d think. After last night…”

He tightened his hold slightly, resting his forehead against the back of your neck.

“I think,” he said, “that I’ve never wanted to protect someone more.”

Your fingers trembled where they clutched the blanket.

“I’m not someone who needs saving,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said. “But I still want to stand beside you.”

You turned then—slowly—and met his eyes. There was no teasing there. No smugness. Just something raw. Real.

“Last night wasn’t a mistake,” he said. “Not for me.”

You nodded, just once. “Not for me either.”His expression softened, relief flickering across his face. “Good.”He pulled you close again, and this time, you let yourself fall into him without hesitation.

You didn’t know how long you stayed there in his arms, listening to the quiet creak of the old outpost settling, the faint rush of wind outside. Every part of you wanted to stay in that fragile safety forever.

But then—

The sharp, rhythmic thud of hooves broke the stillness.

You sat up, startled. Seungcheol was already on his feet, grabbing his sword from beside the bed, his stance alert until recognition flickered in his eyes.

It had been five years since the Third Poppy War ended, with Nezha now seated on the throne of the Dragon Republic. Yet, the passage of time had done little to dull the memories of Nikara’s battlefield. To him, the war felt like yesterday. He still saw it all—Kitay’s last breath, his brother’s mutilated body served as a twisted offering, and her eyes. Her eyes, once ablaze with fury and conviction, now haunted him, dimmed by betrayal and pain. Even thinking her name sent a sharp pang through his chest.

Seated at the head of the table, flanked by his mother and two advisors, Nezha struggled to focus as they debated alliances, military reforms, and political strategies.

“You know what I think it’s time for?” his mother said, her tone casual as she delicately picked at her food. General Yi and Lee Kim, the political advisor, both paused, awaiting Nezha’s response. When he didn’t react, she repeated herself, her voice sharp. “Nezha, do you know what I think it’s time for?”

Snapping out of his reverie, Nezha blinked. “What?” he asked, his voice flat.

“Marriage,” she announced, her words cutting through the room like a blade.

Nezha’s glare was immediate. “Marriage?” he echoed, incredulous.

“It’s an excellent idea,” Lee Kim chimed in smoothly. “Uniting with another strong republic could solidify Nikara’s stability.” General Yi nodded in agreement.

Nezha’s temper flared. “We have border disputes, famine, and political unrest, and you’re concerned about marriage?” he snapped. “Marriage is the last thing on my mind. And after everything—” His voice faltered, her image flashing through his mind.

His mother’s voice grew cold. “This isn’t about what you want. It’s about the Republic. You need a successor.”

“I can appoint one,” Nezha countered.

“Blood carries more power,” she retorted, her patience thinning.

“I refuse,” Nezha growled, his voice low and dangerous.

“If I may,” Lee Kim interjected cautiously. “It’s not just about succession. The people need to see their leader ensuring the Republic’s future. Uncertainty breeds instability.”

Nezha leaned back in his chair, rolling his eyes. “I’m the leader of the Republic. That should be enough.”

“It isn’t,” his mother snapped. “Did you think your rule would end with you? This is non-negotiable. I was going to let you choose, but if you insist on being obstinate, we’ll decide for you.”

The room trembled as Nezha slammed his fists on the table. “What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand?” he snarled, his voice venomous.

His mother remained unfazed, rising to her feet with a regal calm. “You will marry. The decision has been made.” She swept out of the room, leaving Nezha seething and his advisors too stunned to speak.

Over the following weeks, Nezha’s mother worked tirelessly with Lee Kim to select his betrothed. Nezha ignored their efforts, though he knew resistance was futile.

When the decision was made, she burst into his study, her tone triumphant. “Congratulations, my son. You’re to be married.”

Nezha barely had time to react before she left. General Yi, sensing the storm brewing, discreetly scooted his chair away as Nezha sent the documents on his desk flying in a fit of rage.

The announcement of his betrothal did little to soften Nezha’s mood, but what truly shocked him was the identity of his bride-to-be.

Her name was Y/N, a princess from the Velarion Republic—a secluded and enigmatic nation nestled in the mountains, untouched by the chaos of the Poppy Wars. Their isolation, while strategic, was a source of disdain for Nezha. Cowards, he thought bitterly. What could his mother possibly gain from aligning with them?

Fuming, he stormed into her office. “Out of all the republics, you chose the weakest?” he demanded. “How the hell is this supposed to strengthen our line?”

His mother sighed, unbothered by his outburst. “The Velarion Republic is far from weak. Just because you know little about them doesn’t make them inferior.”

“They’re mysterious because they hide,” Nezha scoffed.

“And that mystery is their strength,” she countered. “Do you think it's a coincidence that no one dares challenge them? Their location alone makes them impenetrable, but there’s more to it than that. Something powerful lies within their borders, and for years, your father and others sought to uncover it.”

Nezha paused, her words gnawing at his pride. It was true—no one had dared to approach the Velarion Republic, not even during times of desperation. Their defenses were legendary, bolstered by rumors of treacherous cliffs, volatile weather, and an almost supernatural force that repelled outsiders.

“And now, they’ve agreed to an alliance,” his mother pressed. “That means something has changed. Either they’re in trouble, or they see an opportunity. Either way, we must seize it.”

A grand ball was planned to celebrate the betrothal. Nezha despised the idea, certain it would attract few attendees. Yet his mother was confident leaders from across Nikara would come, drawn by the allure of Velarion’s secrets.

As preparations continued, Nezha couldn’t shake his unease. The Velarion Republic was a puzzle he didn’t trust, and now he was being forced into their game. Whatever lay ahead, he vowed to uncover the truth—even if it meant defying his mother’s plans.

It was the night of the ball, and Nezha was livid.

Draped in ceremonial armor and brocade robes, he sat stiffly at the center of the throne room, shoulders tense and jaw clenched, radiating disdain. His golden eyes swept the room, narrowed with disapproval as nobles and dignitaries from across the continent mingled, laughed, and drank as if the blood of war hadn’t just been washed from their hands five years ago.

The room was filled with light and opulence—crystal chandeliers hung overhead, casting glimmers across polished marble. The scent of incense clung to the air, and the sound of strings swelled through the chamber. Nezha hated it all. The false cheer. The show of wealth. The political theater.

He had no desire to meet the princess of Velarion. To him, this entire spectacle was a waste—an elaborate performance masking the machinations of ambition.

Then, a hush fell across the hall as his mother rose from her seat beside him, her silk robes glinting in the light. She lifted her hand and the musicians stopped.

“It is with great honor,” she announced, voice clear and regal, “that I welcome Princess Y/N of Velarion to the Dragon Republic. We are privileged to host her this evening as our esteemed guest—and as a symbol of the alliance between our great nations.”

The great bronze doors at the end of the hall swung open.

A ceremonial procession entered—Velarion's royal entourage. Courtiers in layered robes of deep indigo and silver marched in rhythmic steps, flanking priests, musicians, and servants who carried lavish gifts. Ornate boxes of rare jewels, scrolls of silk embroidered with imperial crests, and exquisitely forged weapons were brought forward and offered with deep bows—tribute to the Dragon Republic, tokens of goodwill and silent power.

Then, as the hall watched with bated breath, a solitary figure stepped into view.

She was cloaked in a breathtaking kimono dyed in the rarest shades of midnight blue and moonlit cream, patterns of phoenixes and cascading wisteria shimmering beneath the torchlight. A sheer veil obscured her face, draped elegantly from a golden hairpiece studded with sapphires. Behind her, an older woman followed—her chief retainer, perhaps a governess or head lady-in-waiting—whose voice rang out in a formal tone.

“I present to you Her Royal Highness, Princess Y/N of the Velarion Republic.”

The princess stepped forward with practiced grace, her movements fluid, deliberate. She stopped a measured distance from the dais where Nezha and his mother sat and lowered herself into a perfect bow—respectful but proud.

When she rose, her ladies-in-waiting approached to remove her veil.

Nezha had prepared himself to be unimpressed. He had steeled his heart against diplomacy and appearances. But the moment the veil fell away, something shifted.

His breath caught.

She was beautiful.

Not in the fragile, demure way of courtly paintings—but in the way fire is beautiful just before it devours a forest. Her skin was pale as porcelain, her lips the color of ripe cherries, and her eyes—softly almond-shaped, deep brown with flecks of gold—met his with unwavering intensity. Raven-black hair framed her face in an elegant coif, adorned with delicate silver pins.

There was something unsettling in her gaze. Something unreadable.

“My,” his mother murmured with a knowing smile. “What a beauty.”

She turned her head slightly toward Nezha, amused by the rare flicker of emotion on his face.

“You will make a fine Empress,” she said with satisfaction.

Princess Y/N bowed again, her voice calm and clear. “Thank you, My Lady. It is an honor.”

Nezha said nothing.

He merely stared—his anger momentarily dulled, overtaken by a strange feeling that unnerved him more than rage ever could.

It wasn’t just that she was beautiful.

It was the way she looked at him—like she already knew who he was, and wasn’t impressed.

Y/N approached the dais with quiet grace and took her seat beside Nezha. He didn’t look at her—not at first. His posture was rigid, his gaze fixed somewhere over the crowd, as if the presence of his betrothed was an inconvenience he couldn’t wait to forget.

She turned to him, her voice soft but steady. “My Emperor,” she greeted with a slight incline of her head.

Nezha gave a curt nod, jaw clenched. “Princess.”

Undeterred by his coldness, Y/N attempted to make polite conversation—remarks about the grandeur of the hall, the procession, the way the Republic’s banners blended with Velarion’s sigils. He responded with clipped replies, eyes never meeting hers.

Still, he couldn’t ignore her. Not completely.

Every now and then, he caught the way her eyes lingered on him—those warm, searching eyes that felt like they saw through every armor plate he wore, through the anger and pain he buried beneath the surface. They unsettled him more than her words ever could.

Then came the moment he dreaded most.

His mother stood once again, voice slicing through the celebratory din of the banquet.

“As a symbol of union between the Dragon Republic and the Velarion Throne, we shall now commence the ceremonial dance of betrothal.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

Nezha exhaled slowly, the weight of expectation pressing against his chest. With obvious reluctance, he rose to his feet, every movement tense. He turned to Y/N and extended his arm stiffly.

She smiled and placed her hand gently in the crook of his elbow, her fingers light against his sleeve. As they descended the steps to the center of the hall, all eyes followed them.

The music began—slow and haunting, echoing off the high ceilings like the ghost of a lullaby.

They began to dance.

Y/N moved with effortless elegance, her expression warm, practiced, sincere. She looked up at him as if he were already hers, trying to breathe ease into the space between them.

But Nezha…

He was still fuming inside, his thoughts a tangled snarl of resistance. Every step, every spin felt like a chain tightening around his throat. And yet—

Her eyes.

Every time he met them, something faltered.

There was something in the way she looked at him—not with fear, not with ambition—but with knowing. As if she understood the weight he carried. As if she didn’t expect him to be anything more than what he already was.

He hated how that made him feel.

The music faded, and the dance ended with a final, formal bow. The crowd applauded. Nezha barely acknowledged it.

Later that night, after the final farewells were said and the guests retired to their chambers, Nezha made his way toward the eastern wing of the palace. His mind was heavy with thoughts he didn’t care to unpack.

Y/N followed a few steps behind, her own attendants trailing at a respectful distance. When they reached the corridor that would split toward their separate quarters, she paused.

“It was a pleasure, My Emperor,” she said softly, bowing once more.

Nezha stopped mid-step. He turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at her from the corner of his eye.

For a moment, he looked like he might say something. But the words never came.

He turned away and walked on in silence, his cape sweeping behind him like a shadow.

Y/N straightened slowly, watching him disappear down the corridor.

She didn’t move for a long while.

The days following the ball passed with a heavy, stifling silence.

Princess Y/N now resided in the eastern wing of the palace—lavish, yes, but isolating. Despite being the betrothed of the Republic’s most powerful man, she felt more like a well-dressed ghost haunting the halls. Nezha made no effort to see her.

At breakfast, when he was forced by his mother to join, he sat at the farthest end of the long imperial table, shoulders stiff, attention fixed on reports or on the view outside the high arched windows. He never acknowledged her presence.

Once, she had attempted a casual question to break the silence: “I heard the southern provinces are recovering from the floods. Will we be sending grain shipments?”

He didn’t even glance at her. “Ask Lee Kim,” he said coolly, never looking up from his cup. Y/N had simply smiled, as she always did, swallowing her pride along with her congee.

In the halls, when their paths crossed, his expression turned glacial. His gaze slid right past her, as if she were no more than an ornament along the corridor walls. She had heard stories of the Dragon Warlord’s infamous temperament—but seeing it up close, day after day, was another matter entirely.

Still, she tried.

She understood this arrangement was political. Strategic. He hadn’t asked for it. Neither had she. But she had made peace with her duty, and she was determined to carry it out with grace.

Nezha, on the other hand, couldn’t stand the sight of her.

Every time he laid eyes on the Velarion princess, his blood simmered. She wasn’t the problem—but she was a reminder. A symbol of how the world had already begun to forget the cost of the war. The blood on the battlefields, the cities burned to ash, the people he couldn’t save. Kitay’s face haunted him. His brother’s dismembered corpse. And her.

The girl whose name he refused to say.

He had buried all of it under duty and iron resolve—but Y/N, with her soft words and steady patience, made it impossible to forget.

His mother didn’t help. She nagged him endlessly, insisting that the marriage would bring political stability, that the people needed a future to believe in. That he needed an heir.

“You can’t lead Nikara into the next age without securing the line,” she snapped at him during one of their arguments. “This isn’t about your emotions, Nezha. It’s about the Republic.”

“I didn’t win a war to be shackled to a throne with a wife I didn’t choose,” he retorted.

“You didn’t win a war alone.”

The words stung, more than he admitted.

Meanwhile, Y/N continued to reach out, undeterred by his absence.

She sent polite invitations for afternoon tea in the garden. He never came.

She arranged for small private dinners in the sunroom with traditional dishes from both their provinces. His seat was always empty.

Once, her handmaidens waited an hour before gently suggesting they pack up.

“Perhaps he was detained,” one offered kindly.

But Y/N knew the truth. He wasn’t detained. He was avoiding her.

The light in the library had turned golden, slanting through the latticework windows in beams that dust motes floated through lazily. The scent of aged paper, burning cedar, and ink lingered in the air. Nezha was alone—again—as he often was, lost in a sea of records and histories, sifting through old war documents like digging through ashes, as if trying to find something he’d missed. A mistake. A different ending.

Y/N had only come to return a book, a text on old Nikaran dialects she’d picked up in a vain effort to understand his people better. But then she saw him—shoulders hunched, eyes scanning pages, the way his jaw twitched when he was thinking hard—and her feet moved before her brain could stop them.

She approached slowly, careful not to startle him.

“What are you looking for?” she asked, her voice low and measured.

Nezha didn’t glance up. “Reports.”

She waited, but he offered nothing more.

“What kind?” she pressed gently.

“Battle summaries. From the Southern Front. During the Red Cliffs Campaign,” he said finally, flipping a page with more force than necessary. “Council debates. Troop movements. Casualty estimates.”

Y/N took a careful step forward. “You’re revisiting strategy?”

“No.” His tone was clipped. “I’m revisiting failure.”

A long silence stretched between them.

She hesitated, then offered softly, “You were only seventeen.”

“I was a commander.” His voice was sharp. “That’s all that mattered.”

Y/N stood beside the table now, hands clasped in front of her. “You did what you could.”

That was when he looked up—and his eyes were burning.

“Did I?” he said. “Tell that to the families in Dragon Province who never got their sons back. Tell that to the children in Tora who grew up without limbs. Or Kitay—”

He stopped himself, jaw tightening.

She didn’t move.

“Nezha—”

He slammed the book shut. The sound echoed in the silence of the library.

“Why do you keep trying, huh?” he spat, voice low and bitter. “Why do you keep smiling at me like this can be salvaged?”

Y/N blinked. “I… I only meant to be courteous. To try—”

“I don’t want this,” he snapped, rising to his feet. His full height cast a shadow across her. “I’ve made it pretty clear, haven’t I? This—” he gestured between them, eyes dark with resentment—“is nothing more than a political contract. And I’d appreciate it if you stopped pretending it was anything else.”

She swallowed, keeping her expression even. “My Emperor, I—”

“Don’t,” he cut in. “Don’t call me that like it means something to you. You’re here because your council wanted leverage. Because your people want access to our resources, to our alliances. But me?” He laughed once, bitter and low. “I get the honor of being paraded beside someone who couldn’t even lift a sword when the rest of us were bleeding in the dirt.”

Y/N stepped back, stunned.

His words came like arrows, each one sharp, calculated, meant to wound.

“Did you forget about the war?” he demanded. “Did you forget what we lost? The thousands who died? Or did you just choose to ignore it, tucked away in your quiet mountains, pretending the rest of the world wasn’t burning?”

That stung. Y/N’s hands clenched at her sides.

Nezha stepped closer. “People were dying. And your kingdom remained tucked away behind your mountains. Refusing to fight. Refusing to speak. Cowards.”

His words were like acid, flung without care, and Y/N’s eyes burned—not with tears, but fury.

He turned his back and walked away without another word, leaving the silence in his wake like a slap.

Back in her chambers, Y/N paced in furious silence. Her handmaidens watched from the edges of the room, unsure whether to intervene.

Who does he think he is?

How dare he speak to her like that? As if she had begged for this union. As if she had chosen any of it. As if he knew anything about Velarion, or what they had endured.

“Cowards,” he’d said. As if not joining the slaughter made them weak.

Her breath came fast as she forced herself to sit, to still her thoughts—but it didn’t last long.

She stood again, fire coursing through her veins, and stormed out of her room.

She had tried to be patient. To be kind. To respect the alliance their kingdoms were forging. But Nezha wasn’t going to make her feel small in his rage. Not tonight.

She made her way to the western wing—his wing—ignoring the startled glances of the guards as she passed.

The guards stationed outside the Crown Prince’s quarters moved to intercept her the moment they saw her coming down the hall. Her steps were fast, decisive, a storm in velvet and silk.

“Your Highness—His Majesty is not to be disturbed,” one of them said, shifting nervously between her and the large ironwood doors.

“I wasn’t asking,” Y/N snapped, eyes flashing. “Move.”

They hesitated—trained to follow protocol but caught off-guard by the sheer command in her voice. And she wasn’t bluffing. She was no simpering noble. She had spent her childhood learning how to give orders, how to be heard in council rooms dominated by men, how to carry herself with the weight of a nation on her shoulders.

“I said move,” she repeated, tone cold.

The guards stepped aside.

Without pausing, she strode forward and began banging her fist against Nezha’s door. Hard. The sound echoed through the corridor like war drums. Once. Twice. Again.

And again.

She didn’t stop until, finally, the door creaked open—just a crack—and there he was.

Nezha, clearly having been pulled from sleep or solitude, stood in the doorway wearing only a loose robe tied haphazardly at the waist. His bare chest was exposed, glistening faintly in the torchlight, the sharp angles of his collarbone leading to lean muscle and fading scars. His hair was damp, as if he’d just bathed, and his eyes were still stormy from earlier.

“What are you—” he started, bewildered.

But Y/N didn’t wait. She shoved the door open with both hands and barged in.

He staggered back, more stunned than anything, as she stood in the center of his chambers like a fire set loose.

“Who do you think you are?” she seethed, her voice shaking with fury. “How dare you call my people cowards?”

Nezha blinked, mouth parted slightly, but said nothing.

“You think Velarion stood back because we were afraid?” she went on, stalking toward him. “You think you have the right to shame my people when you have no idea what we’ve endured?”

He opened his mouth, but she cut him off with a glare sharp enough to draw blood.

“You have no clue what was happening behind our walls. No idea what we were protecting, what threats we faced that had nothing to do with Nikara’s war.”

Her voice cracked—not from weakness, but from fury so deep it threatened to choke her.

“You don’t get to stand there and spit venom about the sacrifices you made while belittling ours. You don't know how many of my people died keeping your borders secure from shadows you don't even believe exist.”

Nezha’s brow furrowed. “What—”

“And do you honestly think I want this?” she snapped. “You think I wanted to be dragged into your war-torn empire, dressed up and paraded like some prize to make your throne look stable?”

“I left everything behind. My family. My country. My freedom. Because this—this alliance—means survival for my people. And I was willing to endure your bitterness, your cruelty, if it meant buying them one more year of peace.”

She stopped right in front of him now, her chest heaving.

“Do you think I enjoy pretending to be your ‘dutiful bride’? Bowing and smiling and tiptoeing around your moods like some simpering girl with no spine?”

She laughed bitterly.

“If I had the choice, Nezha, I’d be on the first ship home. But I don’t have that choice. And unlike you, I don’t have the luxury of sulking through duty. I understand the weight of my role. I understand sacrifice.”

She stepped back, trembling.

“You think pain gives you the right to lash out at everyone who survived differently than you did?” she whispered. “It doesn’t.”

There was silence.

Heavy. Breathless. Crushing.

Nezha stared at her like she was someone he hadn’t seen before. And maybe she was.

No veil. No soft smile. No diplomacy.

Just a woman who had carried her nation on her back, just like he had—and who refused to let him look down on her for it.

“I’m doing what I must,” she said quietly, her voice cool now. Controlled. “For my people. For the alliance. I thought maybe we could carry this burden together, but I see now… you’re not ready.”

She turned without another word, robes whispering against the floor as she made for the door.

And Nezha remained standing there, rooted to the spot, stunned into silence by the woman who had just thrown everything he thought he knew into question.

She didn’t slam the door.

She didn’t have to.

The silence she left behind was loud enough.

In the days that followed their confrontation, the palace air changed.

Whenever they passed one another in the halls—on the way to court, during military briefings, or during state visits—Y/N no longer acknowledged him. Not a glance. Not a nod. She moved with poise, her chin high, her gaze fixed somewhere far beyond him, as if he were a shadow easily dismissed.

And strangely, Nezha felt the difference. He noticed the absence of her eyes.

At public events, she played the part perfectly. Regal. Polished. Grace incarnate. She smiled for the nobles, waved at the visiting delegates, spoke with elegance to the court.

And when protocol demanded it, she would slip her hand into the crook of his arm—but it was mechanical now. Hollow. Her fingers rested there like cold glass, her body angled just far enough to make it clear the gesture was for the crowd’s benefit and nothing more.

He hated how aware he’d become of it.

After the ceremonies ended, she would bow to him—sharp and perfunctory—and vanish before he could say anything. Not that he would. What would he even say?

He didn’t understand it. He had pushed her away—had wanted her to stop pretending—but now that she had, her indifference burned in a way her kindness never had.

What confused him more was the feeling creeping in his chest—curiosity.

She was no longer trying to speak to him, but he found himself seeking her out anyway. He told himself it wasn’t to see her—no, of course not—it was to observe her. To gauge her movements. Understand her rhythms. The way she carried herself during court, the people she spoke to, the strange correspondence she sometimes received in a ciphered dialect even their palace scribes couldn’t easily translate.

Velarion. That damned mountain-locked republic. The more he saw of her, the more he realized how little he truly knew.

Who was she behind the veils, behind the smile, behind the silence?

One afternoon, as he sat in a war council chamber, a scroll was delivered. The seal was his mother’s—urgent.

He broke it open and scanned the contents.

They were to travel together. A diplomatic mission to Kameira, a neighboring republic that had remained neutral in the war but housed old grudges and volatile allegiances. Their presence as a betrothed couple was meant to signal strength. Unity. Peace.

Nezha stared at the parchment for a long time.

He wondered how she would take the news. How she would behave on the journey. How much venom Kameira still held for him—and what they’d think of her.

There was tension between them now, yes. But it was no longer the passive sort.

Now, it simmered.

And in the silence she cloaked herself with, Nezha began to hear things he hadn’t before.

The morning was quiet, the sunlight soft as it filtered through the high windows of the palace dining hall. Golden rays slanted across the long table where Y/N sat alone at her usual place, a delicate cup of tea held between her fingers, steam curling gently into the air.

She hadn’t expected anyone to join her. For days now, her meals had been solitary affairs, save for the silent company of her handmaidens who lingered at a respectful distance. She’d grown used to the quiet—had come to prefer it, even.

Which was why she stilled, just slightly, when she heard the faint, unmistakable sound of boots against marble.

Nezha entered the room without ceremony, robes dark and formal, hair still damp from morning training. He looked calm on the surface, but his posture was taut, as though something unspoken clung to his shoulders.

He took the seat at the far end of the long table. Not next to her. Not even close. But present.

That alone was unusual.

Y/N didn’t look up. She didn’t acknowledge him. She kept her gaze on her plate and her expression composed, though her hand tightened slightly around her spoon. Her ladies-in-waiting, standing behind her, exchanged glances but said nothing.

She refused to be the one to speak first.

Nezha cleared his throat lightly. His fingers tapped against the table once, then stopped.

“Are you prepared for the travel?” he asked, his voice low, even, measured.

Y/N blinked once, surprised he’d spoken at all. It had been over a week since he’d said a word to her that wasn’t required by protocol.

“Yes. I’m packed,” she replied simply, not lifting her eyes from the small bite of rice she placed in her mouth.

The air between them was cold and still—like the breath before a storm. Nezha noticed it immediately. Felt it, like the edge of a blade brushing against his throat. Her voice, polite as ever, carried no warmth. She could’ve been speaking to a ghost.

He didn’t know why he was here. Why he’d sat down. Why he was trying.

Maybe it was the looming journey. Maybe it was guilt. Or curiosity. Or something else—something he refused to name.

“It will take a few days,” he continued, eyes fixed on his untouched cup. “But… we’ll be sure to keep you comfortable. The staff has already been briefed.”

Y/N’s movements remained fluid, elegant. She dabbed her lips with a napkin, then set it gently on the table.

“Thank you,” she said coolly. Then she looked at him—finally—but it wasn’t the kind of gaze he’d once dreaded. It wasn’t pleading or soft. It was distant. Regal. Icy.

“Thank you, My Emperor, for your kindness.”

The title hit him like a slap—formality coated in thorns.

She rose smoothly, motioning to her ladies-in-waiting. They bowed in unison, and she swept out of the room without another word, the soft rustle of her robes the only sound as she disappeared from view.

Nezha remained seated, alone at the vast table, staring into the steam of his untouched tea.

He had no idea why that exchange made his chest feel heavier than silence ever had.

The morning of their departure arrived wrapped in mist and tension.

Nezha stood at the base of the palace steps, arms crossed, dressed in a sleek military overcoat layered over dark traveling robes. His glaive was strapped to his back—more ceremonial than practical, but he never traveled unarmed. Beside him, the royal carriages stood ready, adorned with the sigils of both the Dragon Republic and Velarion, polished to a gleam. Servants bustled about, loading trunks and provisions into the secondary wagon.

When Y/N emerged, the entire courtyard seemed to still.

She wore traveling robes—not the ornate silks of court, but something simpler, more functional. A deep indigo cloak was draped over her shoulders, and her hair was half-tied, the rest falling loosely down her back. She moved with quiet poise, each step confident and composed.

Nezha’s mother, standing nearby, stepped forward with a practiced smile. “Safe travels,” she said, loud enough for the gathered guards and servants to hear. Then, in a low voice, only for Nezha: “You better make sure this alliance works. Whatever you feel about her, keep her on your good side.”

Nezha let out a scoff, but didn’t argue.

Y/N approached and bowed politely to Nezha before stepping into the carriage. Her smile was there, tight and practiced, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

He followed moments later, sliding in opposite her. Their entourages boarded the second wagon. The doors shut. The convoy began to move.

The silence was immediate.

Y/N stared out the window, face unreadable, her fingers idly brushing the fabric of her sleeve. Nezha watched her for a moment, then looked away, jaw tense.

He had meant to talk to her. To come to an agreement—to be civil for the sake of the alliance. But the stubbornness still simmered in his chest like an old wound. Whatever she was, whatever she had done to save him back at the ball, he still couldn't forget the war. Still couldn't trust Velarion.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Then—the carriage jerked violently.

“Whoa!” their driver shouted from outside.

Nezha threw open the window. Chaos.

The front guards were scrambling. Steel clashed. Shouts rang through the trees.

“We’re surrounded!” one of his men called out. “Kameiran soldiers! Ambush!”

Nezha’s eyes sharpened. He turned to Y/N. “Stay here,” he said firmly, already reaching for his weapon as he pushed the carriage door open.

Outside, the scene was carnage.

Kameiran soldiers—rogue militants dressed in black and red armor—poured from the trees. They were outnumbered nearly three to one. Nezha’s guards fought valiantly, but men were falling fast, the soil staining red.

Nezha didn’t hesitate. He launched into the fray, a blur of silver and fury. His glaive danced through enemy lines, slicing down two men in a single spin. He ducked a spear, slammed his palm into another man’s chest, and kept moving.

But they were losing.

Too many. Too fast.

And then—

“Y/N, stay back!” he yelled as he saw her step down from the carriage.

Her cloak fluttered around her as she walked into the chaos, calm, untouched by the violence erupting around her. The Kameiran men slowed when they saw her—struck by her beauty, or her audacity, Nezha didn’t know.

“Well, well…” one of the Kameiran leaders sneered, approaching her with a cruel grin. “What a pretty little gift. Perhaps we’ll keep her.”

Nezha moved to intervene, instincts firing—but stopped cold when he saw her eyes.

They were glowing.

Not with rage. Not with fear.

With power.

The Kameiran soldiers paused, unsure. One even stepped back.

Y/N exhaled slowly—and the air changed.

A sound rose—like wind, or thunder underwater. The ground trembled.

And then—

Energy erupted from her body in a blinding burst of light. It wasn’t fire or lightning. It was something older. Wilder. The kind of power that bent the world around it.

The blast knocked the closest soldiers off their feet. Their weapons melted into rust. Their screams were short—cut off as waves of invisible force slammed into them like hammers. Trees shattered. The earth cracked.

She raised one hand—and spears of pure kinetic energy shot from her fingers, impaling three men mid-charge.

Another wave of energy surged from her chest in a ripple, catching the rest of the Kameiran ambush in its wake.

Men collapsed. Bones broke. Silence returned.

And Y/N stood at the center of it all, breathing heavily, her glowing eyes beginning to dim.

Nezha didn’t move. Couldn’t. He watched her with something between awe and disbelief.

Then, her knees buckled.

He rushed forward, catching her before she hit the ground.

Her body was burning hot to the touch. Her head lolled against his shoulder, and her lips parted slightly as she whispered something he couldn’t hear.

“Princess—!” a voice called behind them.

Lady Maerin, her chief attendant, hurried over, skirts soaked with blood. She knelt beside them.

“She used up too much,” she said, brushing Y/N’s hair back gently. “She won’t wake for a while.”

Nezha stared at the woman in his arms.

Who was she?

What was this power?

His men, injured and bloodied, stood in stunned silence. None dared speak.

“Not a word of this leaves the forest,” Nezha said firmly, eyes sweeping across his loyal soldiers. “Anyone who speaks of this answers to me.”

They nodded as one.

He lifted Y/N carefully, carrying her back to the carriage as if she weighed nothing at all. Her face was pale now, her breathing shallow.

He placed her gently on the cushioned seat, one hand lingering at her forehead.

Then, he turned to Lady Maerin.

“What the hell was that?” he asked, voice low.

Maerin’s expression didn’t shift. “You’ll know soon enough.”

Nezha stared at her, then back at the unconscious woman before him.

He closed the carriage door.

"Turn us around," he told the driver. "We go back to the palace."

And as the wheels began to move, Nezha sat across from her, silent, watching every rise and fall of her chest.

The girl he had called a coward.

The girl who had just saved them all.

By the time they reached the palace gates, the sun was beginning to rise behind the peaks of the eastern mountains, casting pale light over a bloodied and battered convoy. Of the two dozen men who had left with them, barely a dozen returned—wounded, silent, shaken.

Nezha was exhausted. His body ached. His blade was stained red. But the fire in his chest—the fury—burned hotter than ever.

The ambush by Kameira would not be ignored.

Heads would roll.

Yet even as his mind burned with vengeance, his gaze kept drifting to the unconscious figure before him—Y/N, curled on the carriage bench, her breathing steady but shallow, her face pale and still. The image of her standing amidst a whirlwind of death and light was etched behind his eyes, blinding in its clarity.

What had she done?

Who was she?

As they approached the outer gates, Nezha gave curt instructions to the soldiers ahead.

“Take the back entrance. No one sees us arrive.”

They nodded without question.

The gates opened to the quiet, unlit corridor that served as a discreet passage to the inner palace. When the carriage finally stopped, Nezha exhaled and turned to her. She hadn’t stirred once.

Gently, he reached out and lifted her into his arms.

She was warm—too warm—and her head fell softly against his shoulder, lips slightly parted, fingers limp. Despite the commotion around them, she remained locked in whatever deep, exhausted sleep her body demanded.

As he stepped down from the carriage, Lady Maerin and the other ladies of Velarion moved forward.

“We will take her,” Maerin said, her voice soft but authoritative.

“No,” Nezha replied, sharper than intended. “Let me.”

They exchanged glances—surprised, perhaps—but said nothing more. They parted to make way as Nezha carried her through the quiet halls of the eastern wing, past silk-draped doors and flickering oil lamps, until he reached her room.

Inside, he laid her down gently on the silken mattress. She didn’t wake. Her face, even in rest, was tense—like her dreams carried battlefields within them.

Nezha stood there a moment longer, his eyes tracing the curve of her brow, the rise and fall of her chest. There was so much about her that didn’t make sense. So much he’d dismissed as posturing, politics, performance. Now… everything had changed.

He didn’t hear Lady Maerin until she spoke behind him.

“She’s the Princess of Velarion.”

It sounded like a statement, not an answer.

He turned to her, eyes dark. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

Maerin didn’t flinch. “Let her explain it. When she awakens.”

“She’ll recover?” he asked, more urgently than he meant.

Maerin nodded solemnly. “She will. But if she keeps using her power the way she did today… there will come a time she won’t wake at all.”

That stopped him.

He stared at Maerin, at the woman who had always been silent and composed, now guarding a truth so old it felt carved in stone.

He said nothing. Only turned on his heel and left the room.

In the council chambers, Nezha’s voice was iron.

He reported the ambush. The numbers. The tactics. The fact that Kameira had broken neutrality and attacked on Republic soil.

He said nothing about Y/N.

Not a word.

His mother’s face darkened at the news. General Yi swore under his breath. The council erupted in quiet outrage. There was no question—they would retaliate. Plans would be drawn. Messages would be sent. The war machine would creak to life again.

And Nezha… he didn’t feel relief.

He felt weight.

When the meeting ended, he went to his soldiers—those who had survived.

He looked each of them in the eye. “What you saw in that forest,” he said quietly, “never happened.”

They all nodded. No hesitation.

They were his. And they would stay loyal.

That night, Nezha collapsed onto his bed.

His muscles ached. His mind was fractured. But it wasn’t the battle he replayed when he closed his eyes.

It was her.

The moment her eyes had begun to glow—white and blinding and ancient—and the entire forest seemed to bow to her will.

The power that had poured out of her like a rising tide.

The way she had stood there, at the center of death, as if she were born from it.

He hadn’t known what to make of her before.

Now, he wasn’t sure what world she came from at all.

And gods help him—he was beginning to care.

Days passed. And Y/N still did not wake.

The palace moved on around her. Ministers came and went. Council meetings were held. Letters were exchanged. Threats were weighed and plans drawn. But in the quiet corridors of the eastern wing, time felt like it had stopped.

Her room remained dim and still, curtains drawn, lamps burning low. The soft scent of herbs lingered in the air.

Nezha came by when no one was watching.

Never for long—just enough to step into the room, stand in silence, and look at her. She hadn’t changed. Her expression was peaceful. Her chest rose and fell with slow, steady breaths. Her body, though no longer burning with fever, remained motionless. Her power—whatever had ignited in that forest—was nowhere to be found now. Only stillness remained.

Sometimes, he sat on the chair near her bed, arms folded, gaze unreadable. Watching. Waiting.

He told himself it was curiosity. Responsibility. Strategy.

But each day, the silence between them grew louder.

One morning, as he turned a corner on his way to see her, he paused. Voices. Lady Maerin and her handmaidens were speaking in low tones.

“She hasn’t improved today,” one whispered.

“She still has a fever. The herbs aren’t bringing it down fast enough.”

Lady Maerin hushed them, but Nezha stepped forward.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

They froze.

Lady Maerin straightened, composed. “The princess has developed a fever, but we are managing it.”

“What does she need?” Nezha said at once.

They hesitated.

“Tell me,” he demanded.

Lady Maerin exchanged a look with her assistants, then answered. “There are mountain herbs native to Velarion that would help her recover—but we’re improvising with what we have here.”

Nezha didn’t waste another second.

He called on his most trusted men and gave the order himself. Couriers were dispatched. Apothecaries were summoned. Whatever she needed, he would get it. He didn’t know why it mattered so much that she woke—but the thought of her not waking up at all unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

Eventually, her fever broke. The flush in her cheeks faded. Her body relaxed.

But she still did not open her eyes.

One late afternoon, he entered her room again. Alone. A breeze stirred the sheer curtains by the window. The light cast soft shadows across her face.

He stood by the foot of her bed, gaze lingering on her features.

She looked… different in sleep.

Peaceful. Younger, somehow. Her brows weren’t drawn in diplomacy or resolve. Her lips weren’t pressed together in frustration. Her hair had been brushed smooth, falling across the pillow like a raven’s wing.

Who was she?

What was she?

He remembered the glow in her eyes, the violence of her power, the way the Kameiran men had fallen like wheat before a scythe. It hadn’t been human. And yet—here she was. Breathing softly. Fragile. Mortal.

He said nothing. Just stood there, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

He left quietly.

Two more days passed.

Then, one afternoon, the silence of the east wing was broken.

Nezha had just finished training in the courtyard when he heard the sudden sound of hurried footsteps. The swish of skirts. The quick, muffled cries of maids rushing past.

He followed.

He didn’t run. Just walked—deliberate, tense—his heart tightening the closer he got to her room.

At the threshold, he paused.

The door was slightly ajar. Voices murmured inside.

He pushed it open.

There she was.

Sitting up.

Y/N was awake.

Her back rested against a mountain of pillows, a cup of tea in her hands. Her posture was straight. Her expression calm. She looked… unchanged. As if she had simply taken a long nap and woken to another day.

The handmaidens were bustling around her, flitting like birds. Maerin was checking her pulse.

Nezha stepped inside.

For a moment, she didn’t see him. Then her eyes lifted—and met his.

There was a pause. Not hostile. Not warm.

Just… still.

Like the eye of a storm.

As if she was waiting to see what he’d say.

As if he was waiting to find the words.

The room was warm with the scent of herbal smoke and jasmine oil. Y/N sat upright in her bed, the sleeves of her robes falling gently over her hands as she cradled a porcelain teacup. The color had returned to her cheeks, but there was still a strange stillness about her—as if some part of her had not yet fully returned.

Nezha stepped into the doorway, his shadow stretching across the lacquered floor. He didn’t speak right away. He watched her in silence.

She didn’t look at him.

Her gaze remained steady—fixed somewhere just past the open window, where a breeze stirred the sheer curtains like ghosts in the wind.

The room was crowded with motion. Maids flitted to and fro, Lady Maerin stood by the bedside overseeing everything, and two more attendants were bringing in another basin of cool water.

Nezha’s voice cut through the room like a blade.

“Leave us.”

Everything stopped.

The room stilled. The servants froze in place. Even the wind seemed to pause.

Lady Maerin turned to him slowly, her eyes cool and unreadable.

“My Emperor,” she said evenly, “the princess is still recovering. She needs rest.”

“I need to speak with my betrothed,” Nezha replied, stepping closer, his tone controlled but firm. “Alone.”

The maids looked to Lady Maerin for guidance. None of them moved.

Y/N remained perfectly still.

She did not glance his way. Did not react.

Maerin stepped forward, folding her arms across her chest. “If you want a conversation with her,” she said calmly, “a real one, where she’s coherent and not half-fading from exhaustion, I suggest you return in the morning.”

There was no fear in her voice. No subservience. Just certainty.

Nezha’s jaw flexed. His gaze shifted back to Y/N.

Still, she did not meet his eyes.

Not a flicker of acknowledgment. Not a twitch of curiosity. Just that same practiced, distant calm. The kind of silence that said: You are not owed my attention.

He lingered for a beat longer, waiting—hoping, maybe—that she would look at him. That something in her would soften.

She didn’t.

Nezha’s expression hardened. He gave a single, shallow nod.

Then he turned on his heel and left the room, his footsteps echoing through the marble corridor behind him.

And Y/N finally exhaled. Just once. Quietly.

Lady Maerin poured her another cup of tea without a word.

The morning air was crisp and quiet as Nezha made his way to the eastern wing. The halls were empty, save for a few servants who bowed low as he passed. His boots echoed against the marble, each step heavy with everything left unsaid.

When he reached her chambers, the attendants stationed outside stepped aside without a word this time. There was no Lady Maerin barring his entrance, no protective glances exchanged. Just silence, and a door cracked open, waiting for him to step through.

Inside, the room was washed in soft, golden light. The curtains were pulled back, and a breeze stirred the delicate silks hanging by the windows. She stood at the far end of the room, framed by the open balcony doors—her back to him, a white robe draped around her figure like snowfall.

She was still.

Unmoving.

Not tense, not defensive—just distant. Removed.

Nezha stepped inside and stopped a few paces behind her. He said nothing at first. Neither did she.

Only the wind spoke, whispering through the gauze curtains.

“…Are you feeling better?” he asked, his voice low.

She nodded once, without turning. “Yes.”

But her gaze remained locked on the horizon. On the mountains beyond the palace. On something far away.

“What are you?” he asked quietly.

A pause.

Then a soft scoff escaped her lips. “I’m human,” she said dryly. “If that’s what you’re referring to.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

That was when she finally turned.

Slowly.

And when her eyes met his, Nezha felt something shift in his chest. They were different now—lighter in color, touched with something ethereal. As if they’d once held fire, and now held ash and moonlight. Not dulled—changed.

“If I tell you,” she asked calmly, “will you believe me?”

Nezha didn’t answer right away. He looked at her—really looked—and for once, the sharpness in him softened.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t know anything about your kingdom. That’s clear to me now. But after what I saw… I think I have to believe you.”

She studied him for a long moment. Her expression didn’t change, but something behind her eyes flickered.

“You call us cowards,” she said slowly. “But you have no idea what we go through. What I’ve been raised to protect. What our silence has cost us.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but stopped.

“I understand…” he began, “that my words were—were chosen poorly—”

“You could just apologize,” she cut in sharply, voice cold.

Nezha’s jaw tightened.

His pride bristled, as it always did. Swallowing anything that made him feel weak. But her gaze didn’t waver.

He swallowed thickly. “Why are you making this so difficult?”

“And why do you get to say cruel things and expect forgiveness just because you now feel curious?” she asked, her voice calm but unflinching. “You humiliated me. You judged my people without ever trying to understand us. And now, because you saw something you couldn’t explain, suddenly I’m worth listening to?”

Her words cut deep—not in volume, but in clarity. They held no malice. Just truth.

And somehow, that made it worse.

“I’m not here because I’m curious,” he said after a pause. “I’m here because I was wrong. I just don’t know how to fix that yet.”

She didn’t answer.

The wind stirred again, lifting strands of her hair around her face.

And finally, she looked away.

Not out of defeat—but because she had said what she needed to say.

“I’ll tell you,” she murmured, her voice gentler now. “Everything. Not because you deserve it. But because if we’re going to survive whatever’s coming next… we can’t keep pretending this alliance is only a performance.”

Nezha let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“…Thank you,” he said quietly.

But she had already turned away, her fingers resting lightly on the marble balcony edge once more.

Y/N stood still, arms resting lightly on the marble balcony rail, her voice no louder than the wind that moved around them. But each word she spoke landed with weight.

“You asked what I am,” she said. “And I told you the truth: I’m human. But our people… some of us carry something older. Something powerful.”

She turned slightly, eyes on the horizon, not yet ready to look at him.

“It’s called Sanra. Energy within the bloodline—rare, ancient, passed down from the royal houses. Not all Velarions have it. Most don’t. But the ones who do are bound to it. Not just by ability, but by responsibility.”

Nezha didn’t interrupt. He only listened, more intently now.

“That power—it doesn’t make us stronger. It makes us targets.”

Her hands tightened on the railing.

“During the Third Poppy War, we didn’t remain silent because we were afraid of battle. We remained hidden because exposure would have destroyed us. You think being powerful protects you? It doesn't. It paints a mark on your back. It tells every side, this one is worth breaking.”

She exhaled slowly.

“We tried to help, in the beginning. Quietly. Diplomatically. Strategically. We sent aid where we could. Healers. Supplies. Shelter.”

Her voice darkened.

“One of them was Serin. She wasn’t a soldier. She wasn’t gifted. She was the daughter of Lord Amarin—one of our most powerful wielders of Sanra. She was barely eighteen when she volunteered to serve as a nurse in Zudava.”

Nezha blinked, something shifting in his memory.

Zudava.

He remembered the reports. The Federation of Mugen’s siege. The bombing that leveled half the city. The corpses pulled from the rubble. The bodies that were never found.

“Mugen found her,” Y/N said. “They discovered who she was. Not what she could do—because she could do nothing. She had no power. But her father…”

She looked at him now, and her eyes were no longer soft.

“They violated her. Publicly. Repeatedly. They sent Lord Amarin messages of what they were doing to her. And they made one thing clear: if he used his power to retaliate, they would make her suffer more. Or kill her and send her back to him in pieces.”

Nezha swallowed, hard.

“They knew they couldn’t beat him in battle. So they didn’t. They used the one thing they knew would break him. His daughter. His only child.”

Y/N’s voice wavered, just for a breath.

“He did nothing. He had no choice.”

She turned fully to face Nezha now, her gaze unwavering.

“That’s what war is, Nezha. It’s not just blood and weapons and dead soldiers. It’s tactics. It’s knowing where to apply pressure. And for people like us—for people like Amarin—our pressure points aren’t always us. They’re the ones we love. The ones who can’t protect themselves.”

A long silence followed.

“That’s why Velarion stayed hidden,” she said. “Because our power doesn’t make us untouchable. It makes the people around us suffer. And we would not let our gifts be twisted into something ugly. Something stolen. Something used.”

She looked down at her hands.

“We survived. That was our resistance.”

Nezha stared at her, something inside him fraying.

He had hated her silence. Hated her mystery. He’d called her a coward.

But now he realized she had been carrying an entire kingdom’s worth of ghosts—buried not beneath pride, but pain.

Y/N’s voice remained steady, but her eyes grew distant again—haunted, as if remembering scenes she wished she could forget.

“But that didn’t stop us.”

Nezha blinked, surprised.

“After Serin…” she said quietly, “after what happened to her, we still tried.”

She moved back toward the railing, her grip light now, but her tone heavier.

“We sent soldiers. Quietly. Without insignia. Without fanfare. No banners, no Velarion colors. Just warriors who knew how to disappear.”

She looked over her shoulder at him.

“But Sanra is unpredictable. It draws from the body, from the will, from the emotion of the one wielding it. And when that control falters… it doesn’t just kill the enemy.”

Nezha’s breath caught.

“There were villages destroyed. Civilian settlements caught in the crossfire. Not because we wanted to—but because our power, once unleashed, doesn’t distinguish between soldier and bystander. Not always.”

She turned to face him fully.

“Do you remember the burning of Fusan Vale?”

He did.

A strategic point along the river province routes—supposedly torched by the Federation, though many accounts were inconsistent. Civilians incinerated. Fields left smoldering. The enemy gone before reinforcements even arrived.

“That wasn’t Mugen,” she said flatly. “That was one of ours. A soldier named Elian. Too young. Too raw. He tried to protect a Nikaran company being surrounded. He panicked. He let the energy overtake him.”

She paused.

“No one made it out alive. Not them. Not us.”

Nezha stared at her.

“You think we weren’t on the battlefields?” she asked, voice sharper now. “We were at The Red Cliffs. We were at Sinegard. We fought in the shadows while your commanders watched from the towers.”

She stepped closer.

“Our soldiers were there. Using their gifts to tip the balance. But they hid. Because they had to. Because if they were captured or identified, it wouldn’t just be the end of them—it would’ve been the end of us.”

She let out a breath.

“Our silence wasn’t absence. It was strategy. It was survival.”

Then, more softly: “We never expected gratitude. But we didn’t deserve condemnation either.”

Nezha didn’t speak.

He couldn’t.

Because for the first time since this strange alliance began, he realized he had never truly seen her.

Not until now.

Not until she stood in front of him—not just as a betrothed, or a diplomat, or a mystery—but as a soldier. A survivor.

There was a long silence between them, thick with everything that had been said—and everything that still lingered between the words.

Then Nezha asked, his voice low, careful:

“Then why were you betrothed to me?”

Y/N didn’t hesitate.

“For protection,” she said. “Our alliance will keep eyes away from Velarion. From our power. From what we’ve kept hidden all this time. It makes people think we’ve finally stepped into the light—when really, it lets us stay exactly where we want to be.”

Her eyes flicked up to his.

“Hidden.”

Nezha’s jaw tensed.

Of course. Of course it wasn’t about diplomacy or unity or some abstract notion of peace. It was a shield. A smokescreen. Their marriage wasn’t a bridge—it was camouflage.

And part of him should have been furious.

He should’ve felt used. Deceived.

But instead, what he felt was—

Respect.

Because it was exactly what he would have done.

He would have made the same calculation. The same cold, precise choice. Better to survive in the shadows than die beneath the weight of public power.

He looked at her—really looked at her—and saw himself reflected back: a leader shaped by sacrifice, by impossible decisions, by the grief of knowing that winning sometimes looked like losing.

Still, the words came out more bitter than he intended.

“So I’m a distraction,” he said. “A walking emblem to keep your enemies guessing.”

Her voice was even. “You’re the Republic. Being tied to you makes us uninvadable. No one will dare strike us now without risking retaliation from Nikara. From you.”

He exhaled through his nose, glancing away. A muscle ticked in his jaw.

“You know,” she said quietly, “you’re not the only one who was forced into this.”

Y/N’s eyes softened, just a little.

Nezha didn’t notice. He was too focused on the distance—on the mountains stretching beyond the horizon.

He wasn’t angry. Not really.

Just… tired.

Because for all their differences, they were both here for the same reason.

Not because they wanted to be.

But because the people they loved needed them to be.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.

They stood in silence.

The wind rustled softly through the open balcony, stirring the loose strands of Y/N’s hair. The air between them no longer crackled with anger—but it wasn’t soft, either. It was something in between. Something heavier. Like ash still falling after the fire has gone out.

Nezha looked at her, at the woman he had been told to marry. The woman who had power she didn’t flaunt. The woman who had survived without needing to explain herself until now.

And she had been right.

She hadn’t deserved condemnation. Not from him. Not when they were both just… doing what they could to keep the people they loved alive.

Y/N looked back toward the horizon, clearly finished with the conversation. Her body language closed, her jaw tight. It was a dismissal—but not a cruel one.

Just a choice.

And somehow, that hurt more.

Nezha shifted, his hands curling into loose fists at his side. He could say something—another barb, another deflection, another half-apology.

But instead… he stayed quiet.

Because for once, he didn’t have a weapon to throw between them.

He turned to leave, boots quiet on the polished floor. At the doorway, he paused. Just for a moment.

He didn’t look back, but he said, almost under his breath, “You hide in the shadows.”

There was no accusation in it. Just observation.

A beat passed. And then, her quiet reply: “And you burn in the sun.”

It wasn’t meant to wound.

It was just the truth.

He left without another word.

Later, in the solitude of his chambers, Nezha sat by the window, fingers drumming against the hilt of his sword. The vision of Y/N standing in white on the balcony stayed with him—calm, resolute, untouchable.

So different from her.

From Rin.

Rin had been wildfire. All teeth and fury and impossible heat. She tore through everything, even him, and she didn’t stop until there was nothing left but scorched earth.

Y/N was ice in the bloodstream. Controlled. Distant. A storm that didn’t break unless forced.

He didn’t know which terrified him more.

And maybe that’s why he couldn’t look at her too long. Why he couldn’t bring himself to apologize. Not fully.

Because deep down, some part of him was afraid she would end the same way.

That he would be the one left behind again.

This time, not because she chose destruction.

But because she had been carrying it all along.

The days that followed were quieter.

At least, on the surface.

Nezha kept his distance, and so did she. But now, something had shifted between them — not the sharp hostility from before, nor the forced politeness they had both clung to early on. Instead, there was a cold civility, like two soldiers who had called a truce but kept their weapons close.

Y/N had no reason to try anymore. She didn’t attempt conversation. She no longer cast careful glances in his direction. She no longer extended hollow courtesies over meals or events. She simply existed beside him, fulfilling her duties as if she had perfected the art of indifference.

And yet, Nezha found his eyes drifting to her more often than he cared to admit.

He watched how she carried herself in public—how she stood before Nikaran ministers, foreign envoys, visiting nobles. There was no falter in her poise. No cracks. She was always composed, always graceful. Every word that left her mouth was calculated, precise, disarming.

He caught glimpses of her at council gatherings, seated across the long tables. She always seemed to sit perfectly still, hands folded lightly, her voice soft but never weak. When speaking with others, she wielded diplomacy like a blade sheathed in silk. Not sharp enough to offend, but sharp enough to warn.

And then, behind closed doors—he saw it change.

When the appearances were over, when the eyes of the court no longer lingered, her shoulders eased. The practiced smile fell away. In private hallways, in brief moments between duties, she moved like a shadow—calm, silent, alone.

She didn’t seek his gaze anymore.

She didn’t have to.

She had told him her truth. She had nothing more to prove.

And perhaps that’s what unnerved Nezha most.

Because the less she tried, the more he watched.

He wasn’t sure what he was looking for—weakness, perhaps. Or contradiction. But instead, he only saw how easily she switched between the two worlds she lived in: public diplomacy, private burden.

It reminded him, in ways he didn’t want to admit, of himself.

In quiet moments—alone in his chambers, or staring out over the palace grounds at night—Nezha found his thoughts circling back to her. Not just to Y/N, but to what she was.

Her power disturbed him. Not because it was violent — violence, he understood. Rin had wielded fire like a living god, and Nezha had stood in the heart of that destruction more times than he could count. Rin’s power was rage. Wild. Consuming. Unrelenting.

His own power — the Dragon — was different, too. Ancient, rooted in his bloodline, inherited through centuries of pact and sacrifice. It came with the weight of tradition, with purpose, and with the cost of control. He could feel it hum beneath his skin even now, like molten steel carefully kept from spilling over.

But Y/N…

Her power was unlike either.

It wasn’t fire. It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t bound to gods or old pacts. When he saw it in the forest that night, it was like watching pure energy pulled from the world itself—raw and primal. Not the shrieking, burning chaos of Rin’s Phoenix. Not the biting authority of his Dragon.

Hers was... balance and force. It bent the world without burning it. It struck like lightning without flame, like the sudden weight of a storm collapsing in on itself. It wasn’t loud or feral — but it was devastating all the same.

It frightened him, in ways that neither Rin nor himself ever had.

Because he couldn’t explain it.

Because it was unknown.

And because when he looked at Y/N, she carried that power as though it had always been there — waiting, contained beneath her skin, beneath her careful words and polite smiles.

Her people… they were something else entirely.

Even their restraint unnerved him.

What kind of kingdom could possess that much strength—and choose silence?

And what kind of woman could carry that much within her and still stand so perfectly composed before him, day after day?

It was late when Nezha found himself walking toward her wing.

The palace had quieted for the night. Even the guards were subdued, standing at attention like statues in the torch-lit corridors. The air was cool, still heavy with the scent of rain from an earlier storm.

He didn’t know why he was here.

He told himself it was duty — curiosity, perhaps. He was the Dragon Warlord, the leader of the Republic. He needed to understand what kind of power stood beside him, what kind of force he had invited into his court.

But deep down, he knew it wasn’t just that.

Because he couldn’t stop thinking about her. About what she carried inside her. About how closely it resembled nothing he had ever known.

When he reached her door, the guards outside simply bowed and opened it for him.

She was alone inside, sitting near the balcony again, much as she had been the day she first told him her truth. A single lantern burned beside her, casting a warm, flickering glow against the pale silk of her robe. She had tied her hair up loosely, stray strands falling against her neck.

She didn’t look surprised to see him.

She never did.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked softly, her voice even, calm.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. For a moment, he didn’t answer.

Instead, he watched her. She was calm—but not cold. She was not pushing him away tonight.

“Walk with me,” he said.

She studied him for a moment, then nodded. Without another word, she rose and followed him onto the balcony.

They stood side by side, gazing out into the sprawling palace gardens bathed in moonlight, the city glowing faintly beyond the distant hills.

For a while, neither spoke.

It was Nezha who broke the silence first.

“You said your people call it Sanra.”

Y/N gave a faint nod, her eyes never leaving the horizon.

“Yes.”

“It’s not like shamanic power.” His voice was quiet. Careful. “It’s not like the Phoenix or the Pantheon.”

“No.” Her voice remained soft, but there was a hint of weariness beneath it. “It isn’t tied to gods.”

“Then what is it tied to?”

She hesitated.

Nezha turned to look at her now, his gaze sharp but not hostile. There was no accusation in his tone tonight. Just something else. Something far more dangerous.

Curiosity.

Y/N finally spoke. “It’s tied to us.”

He frowned slightly.

“To your bloodline?”

“To life itself.” She exhaled, her voice barely above a whisper now. “The Sanra exists in the natural world. In energy. In breath. In pulse. In motion. Some are born able to feel it. A few… to command it.”

Nezha stared at her, silent.

“We don’t call on gods,” she continued. “We don’t pray to anything outside of ourselves. When we wield it, we’re drawing from the world and returning it, like a current. Like wind shifting the sea.”

“That night,” Nezha said, voice tighter now. “In the forest. You didn’t summon something. You became it.”

Her lips pressed together. She didn’t deny it.

“It felt different than anything I’ve seen before,” he admitted. “Even Rin—” he paused, the name still cutting like glass in his throat. “Rin’s power was… hungry. Violent. Wild. Yours wasn’t.”

“It’s not meant to consume,” Y/N said quietly. “It’s meant to balance. But when pushed, when threatened—when the control breaks—it can destroy as easily as it preserves.”

She glanced at him now. Their eyes finally met under the pale wash of moonlight.

“That’s why it’s dangerous,” she added. “That’s why we hide.”

Nezha swallowed, unsure what emotion was tightening in his chest.

Rin had burned because she could not contain her fury.

He had been born with a dragon sealed into his bones, forever pulling at his control.

But Y/N… she was something else entirely. She lived beside her power, not beneath it. She balanced on its edge.

“I could feel it that night,” he said quietly. “Even standing across from you. It was like—” he struggled for the words. “—standing at the edge of a storm. Before lightning strikes.”

She gave a faint, sad smile. “That’s not far from the truth.”

He studied her face carefully now. The way her expression remained composed, but her eyes—her eyes held everything: exhaustion, fear, discipline, and somewhere deep beneath it, something warmer that she rarely allowed anyone to see.

“You weren’t scared,” he said, almost to himself. “Not even when you stepped out of that carriage. When they surrounded us.”

Her smile faded.

“I was terrified,” she whispered. “I’m always terrified.”

Nezha’s breath caught slightly.

“But I cannot show it. Because if I falter for even a moment, others pay the price.”

The words lingered heavily between them.

For a long time, neither moved.

He should’ve said something cold. Kept the distance. That was easier. Safer.

But instead, his voice softened.

“You carry it well.”

For the first time in many nights, she looked almost startled.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

The wind stirred gently between them, lifting strands of her hair across her cheek.

And for one dangerous moment, standing there together in the quiet, Nezha let himself wonder what it might feel like to reach out. To touch her hair. To brush the strands away. To let the tension snap into something neither of them dared to name.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, he stepped back, exhaling slowly. His voice returned to its usual restraint.

“Get some rest, Princess. We’ll speak again soon.”

Y/N gave a small nod and lowered her gaze, the faintest trace of something unspoken flickering across her features.

And Nezha left, his pulse strangely unsteady, his thoughts far more dangerous than they had been before.

The gathering was not supposed to be intimate.

At least, not in the way that left Nezha feeling as though every breath he took weighed heavier than the last.

The palace had hosted a private diplomatic dinner—small, by the standards of court, but still filled with key players: generals, councilors, nobles from the outlying republics, and visiting envoys eager to witness the new alliance between Nikara and Velarion with their own eyes. Their engagement had become the subject of quiet fascination across the continent.

It was political theater—one they both had to play perfectly.

Y/N was seated beside him at the long banquet table, her movements as poised and effortless as always. She laughed when required, offered polite smiles to foreign ministers, and answered inquiries about Velarion with a mastery of words that frustrated Nezha more than he cared to admit. She was flawless. She was untouchable.

And it unnerved him.

Because now—after everything—he could see what no one else at the table saw.

He could see how carefully she kept her hands resting lightly atop her lap to hide the subtle tension in her fingers. He could see the exact moment her smile tightened whenever questions edged too close to her people. He recognized the practiced diplomacy that hid the storm underneath.

She was protecting herself. Always.

And yet, she made it look like breathing.

Every so often, as the meal continued, his gaze would drift to her — lingering longer than it should.

He hated how familiar this sensation was becoming. The weight in his chest. The sharpness under his ribs.

It was dangerous.

Just as dangerous as she was.

The problem was that they were seated too close.

By design, no doubt—a carefully calculated placement to showcase unity for the watching eyes in the room. His arm brushed hers when they shifted. Their robes grazed. Their breathing felt almost synchronized beneath the surface tension.

He could smell the faint scent of jasmine oil in her hair.

It was infuriating.

And intoxicating.

Every time her gaze flicked forward, pretending not to notice, it made him more aware of how much space she took up in his head. In his chest.

He hated it.

He hated how it reminded him of Rin—of what it felt like to be caught in someone else’s gravity. But this was not Rin’s wildfire rage. This was slow erosion. Quiet unraveling.

A new kind of danger.

By the time the final course had been cleared, the nobles began to disperse, and the private conversations shifted into small groups in the adjoining hall. Nezha was cornered briefly by one of his generals, forcing him into polite discussion about border patrols and naval fortifications. But his attention wasn’t on the conversation.

It was on her.

He saw Y/N slip away toward one of the smaller adjoining galleries—a quieter space lined with towering windows and open to the night air. She moved with deliberate grace, like she was retreating from the weight of the room, seeking the small pocket of peace she always carved for herself when the public spectacle was over.

He didn’t think.

He simply followed.

When he found her, she was standing beneath one of the open arches, gazing out into the moonlit garden below. The soft wind stirred her robes gently, the fabric catching in the moonlight like water. Her hair had come loose, a few strands dancing across her cheek.

He stood at the threshold, watching her for a moment in silence.

“You followed me,” she said softly, not turning around.

“I did.”

A beat passed.

“You’re not very subtle.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

Finally, she turned, her eyes meeting his in the pale glow of the moon. There was no coldness in her expression. No forced smile. Only the same guarded weight she always carried.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Nezha said, his voice quieter now, rougher beneath the calm, “You don’t have to keep playing the perfect betrothed, even when we’re alone.”

“I know,” she whispered.

Her voice was steady, but he heard the exhaustion beneath it.

“And yet you still do.”

“I don’t have a choice,” she said. “Neither do you.”

The words cut deeper than either of them intended.

Nezha stepped closer, drawn to the gravity of her presence like a soldier walking willingly into dangerous territory.

“You’ve never been powerless,” he said, almost bitterly. “You know exactly how to control everything in that room.”

Her eyes flickered. “Control isn’t the same as peace.”

He inhaled sharply, his jaw tightening.

“Why do you keep pretending this doesn’t affect you?” His voice lowered, rougher. “That you’re not tired. That you don’t feel trapped the same way I do.”

“I never said it doesn’t affect me.”

“Then say it.”

The silence between them thickened. Tense. Fragile.

Her lips parted slightly. Her voice wavered for the first time.

“I am tired, Nezha.” The quiet confession slipped between them like an exposed wound. “I am exhausted of pretending. Of surviving.”

The moonlight shimmered in her eyes. And for a moment, Nezha thought he saw something break—some small piece of the armor she kept so carefully polished.

He stepped closer again, closing the distance.

They were standing inches apart now.

He shouldn’t have been this close. He knew that.

And yet.

The words escaped him before he could stop them.

“I never wanted any of this.”

Her voice trembled as she whispered, “Neither did I.”

The air grew heavier between them. Neither one dared move. The space that separated them pulsed with something dangerous, unspoken. Not anger. Not hatred.

Something far worse.

Their eyes locked, and for one precarious second, Nezha almost closed the distance completely—almost allowed his hand to reach for her, to feel the weight of her pain, her exhaustion, her strength.

But she pulled back first.

She stepped away, her composure snapping back like a blade sliding into its sheath.

“We should go back inside, My Emperor,” she said softly, though her voice was unsteady.

Nezha swallowed hard.

He forced himself to nod. “Yes. We should.”

Neither moved.

For a breathless moment, they simply stood there, both knowing that if they crossed that line now—if either of them gave in—there would be no return.

But duty was a powerful thing.

So they both turned and left the gallery, side by side, without another word.

And the storm between them remained quietly, dangerously alive.

They returned to the main ballroom together, but the moment they stepped back into the warm buzz of courtly conversation, they instinctively separated, falling into their expected roles — the Emperor and his betrothed, orbiting the room but never colliding too closely.

The music had shifted to a softer tempo. Nobles moved gracefully between tables and open spaces, glasses of fine wine in hand, conversations carrying the careful tones of politics dressed as pleasantries.

Y/N excused herself, slipping away toward the refreshment table at the far end of the hall. She moved with the same quiet poise as always, but beneath it, her heart was still steadying from what had almost happened on that balcony.

She barely noticed the man who approached her at first.

He was tall, dressed in rich emerald and black silks embroidered with the sigils of the Eastern Dominion — Prince Haraen, a foreign dignitary who had arrived earlier that week with his father’s delegation. His family had long kept a neutral stance in the aftermath of the Poppy Wars, but tonight, like so many others, he had come to observe Velarion’s princess — to see for himself the woman behind the alliance that was making waves across the continent.

“I’ve never seen you before,” Prince Haraen said smoothly, stepping into her path with a charming half-smile, his voice silk-wrapped arrogance.

Y/N paused, lifting her gaze to him without missing a beat. “Are you supposed to?”

Her tone was light, almost bored, but that only seemed to embolden him.

His grin widened. “A face like yours? Hard to imagine you wouldn’t leave an impression.” He stepped closer, deliberately entering the small space between her and the table as she reached for a goblet of wine.

She didn’t retreat.

She simply raised one delicate brow. “I’m sure there are plenty of faces at court, Your Highness. One more or less isn’t worth remembering.”

The prince laughed softly, clearly enjoying her coolness. “And yet here I am, unable to look away.” His eyes roamed her figure now with less restraint, voice dropping slightly. “I must admit, the rumors don’t do you justice.”

Y/N’s eyes flickered briefly — not with fear, but calculation. She remained perfectly still, her fingers light on the stem of the glass.

“That says more about the company you keep, then,” she said, her voice silken but edged.

Prince Haraen leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as though to share some private joke between them. “It’s a shame, you know. To be wasted in a political contract. Some alliances... aren't built for happiness.”

The unspoken message behind his words was unmistakable.

And just as he reached to gently brush his hand against her arm —

“Step away.”

The voice cut through the air like a blade.

Both of them turned sharply.

Nezha stood several paces behind, his posture rigid, his eyes burning with something far darker than simple disapproval. His voice had not risen — but the weight behind it left no room for argument.

Prince Haraen blinked, then smiled thinly, masking his irritation. “Your Majesty.”

Nezha’s jaw tensed. “I don’t believe my betrothed requested your company.”

Haraen’s smirk remained, but there was a glint of caution now. “Merely offering my compliments, Your Majesty. I meant no offense.”

“I’m sure,” Nezha said coldly, his gaze sharp as a blade edge.

The tension between the two men crackled, invisible but palpable. Around them, nearby nobles sensed the shift and quickly found reasons to drift away, pretending not to watch.

Y/N said nothing — but she studied Nezha carefully. The tightness in his stance. The subtle way his breathing had quickened. The flicker of something possessive beneath the surface.

Haraen glanced briefly at Y/N again, offering one last smile. “A lucky man, Your Majesty.” His tone was falsely cordial. “Though some might say... too lucky.”

Nezha didn’t reply. His silence was more threatening than words.

Finally, the prince bowed with feigned grace and retreated into the crowd.

For a moment, neither Nezha nor Y/N moved.

Then, softly, she broke the silence. “That was unnecessary.”

Nezha turned to her, his eyes still burning with restrained emotion. “He touched you.”

“I can handle myself.”

“I know.” His voice was rough, low. “But he doesn’t.”

She tilted her head slightly, her voice calm but laced with something more dangerous beneath. “And you do?”

His gaze sharpened. “I’m trying.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

For a moment, neither of them breathed. The air between them thickened again — not with the heat of argument, but with everything they weren’t saying.

And once again, they stood too close.

The orchestra swelled behind them, the ball carrying on as if nothing had happened. But for Nezha, the rest of the room may as well have disappeared.

Only she remained.

Only this remained.

The dangerous pull neither of them could seem to break.

The moment Prince Haraen disappeared into the crowd, Y/N excused herself with a stiff bow to one of the nobles lingering nearby. She didn’t wait for Nezha to say anything.

She turned sharply on her heel and strode out of the ballroom, her steps swift and measured, the silk of her robes trailing like a storm behind her.

Nezha cursed under his breath and followed, weaving through the curious glances of ministers and councilors who had clearly witnessed enough of the exchange to start whispering behind fans and wine glasses.

The palace halls were dimmer now, only the flickering torchlight guiding their path as she moved quickly toward the eastern wing — toward her chambers.

She didn’t stop until they were out of earshot from the main hall.

Finally, near the base of the marble staircase leading to her private quarters, she halted. The click of Nezha’s boots behind her made her spin sharply, her eyes flashing as he caught up.

“What was that?” she snapped, her voice low but sharp as a blade.

He slowed, stopping a few paces in front of her, still breathing harder than usual, tension still stiff in his shoulders. “What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

Her tone cut clean through the silence.

“You caused a scene, Nezha.” The way she said his name was deliberate—no titles, no formalities. Just anger. “You embarrassed both of us. You embarrassed the Republic.”

He straightened, jaw clenching. “I prevented something worse.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I was handling it.”

“I saw how close he was—”

“And I allowed it.”

That stopped him for a moment.

Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. The heat beneath it was enough.

“I knew exactly how far he’d go, and how far I would let him. I’ve done this dance long before I ever stepped foot in your palace.”

Nezha’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “You shouldn’t have to tolerate that.”

“And yet, I do.” She took a step closer now, voice still tight with restrained fury. “Because that’s what this position demands. I don’t get to lash out every time someone steps too close or says something suggestive. I navigate it. I survive it. And I don’t need you storming in like some hero trying to claim ownership of me in front of half the court.”

His eyes darkened. “That’s not what this is—”

“Isn’t it?” she snapped.

The words hung there.

Nezha exhaled, his breath sharp, his voice tightening. “You think I did that to embarrass you? To claim you?”

He shook his head, almost incredulous.

“I stepped in because he was trying to humiliate you. You may be able to stand there and smile while he circles you like prey, but I can’t.”

“Because you don’t trust me to handle myself,” she said bitterly.

He stared at her, voice lowering now. “No. Because I care.”

That silenced her for a moment.

The weight of it hit both of them at the same time.

He hadn’t meant to say it—not like that. It slipped out, unguarded. Honest.

Her breath caught, her eyes softening, but only for a heartbeat. She looked away quickly, the mask slipping back into place.

“That’s not your burden to carry,” she whispered.

“Yes, it is,” he said, stepping closer now, his voice rough, almost desperate. “You’re my—” He caught himself. His chest rose sharply with the breath he swallowed. “You are under my protection.”

“I don’t need your protection.”

“Maybe not,” he admitted, his voice breaking slightly, “but I still want to give it.”

Their eyes locked again, both of them standing too close, the argument burning quietly into something far more dangerous beneath the surface.

It wasn’t about the prince anymore.

It never was.

It was about this—whatever was happening between them, whatever was building brick by brick in every unspoken glance, every sharp exchange, every stolen moment neither of them could seem to stop.

Y/N’s chest rose and fell, her voice softer now but no less cutting. “You need to stop treating me like I’m fragile, Nezha. I’ve lived long enough in a world where men try to decide what I need.”

He held her gaze, his voice just above a whisper. “I know you’re not fragile. That’s what terrifies me.”

For a heartbeat, neither of them breathed.

And then—she turned.

Without another word, she swept past him, ascending the stairs to her chambers, leaving him standing alone in the dim corridor, his chest tight and his pulse unsteady.

The space between them had never felt closer.

Or more impossible.

The days that followed were unbearable.

Not because they argued again — but because they didn’t.

Y/N had retreated behind her polished walls of quiet civility. She played the part at court events flawlessly. They attended council sessions together, walked side by side at diplomatic appearances, sat at the same table during state dinners.

But there was nothing behind it anymore.

No subtle glances. No lingering tension. No accidental brushes of fingertips.

Only silence.

And somehow, that emptiness gnawed at Nezha far worse than their earlier fights ever had.

Because at least when they argued, at least when she was furious, she was engaged with him. Now, she simply… wasn’t. She was polite, distant, detached.

As if she had finally decided not to care anymore.

As if she had decided he wasn’t worth the effort.

And Nezha, who had spent years mastering control — of his anger, of his grief, of his guilt — found himself unraveling in the quiet.

It finally broke one night.

He didn’t plan it. In truth, he rarely did with her. She had this way of unraveling his most carefully constructed armor with barely a word.

The council meeting had run late that evening. After hours of listening to insufferable ministers debate trade routes and military postings, Y/N had politely excused herself the moment the assembly adjourned.

Nezha watched her leave the council chamber — standing still, clenching his jaw, feeling something boil underneath his ribs.

When the hall had cleared, when even his advisors finally left him in peace, the weight of it was too much.

He couldn’t do it anymore.

He found himself at her doors again.

It was late. The hall was silent except for the faint crackle of torches along the stone walls. Her attendants looked surprised when they saw him approach, but they wordlessly stepped aside.

He didn’t knock.

He simply entered.

Y/N stood at the balcony again — as she so often did — dressed in a pale robe that made her look like some ghost of a distant goddess, half-lit by moonlight.

She heard him but didn’t turn.

“You shouldn’t barge into my chambers, Nezha,” she said softly, voice calm but distant.

“You’ve barely spoken to me in days.”

She still didn’t turn. “We’ve spoken plenty. At council meetings. At banquets. At every event we’re required to attend.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

Finally, she turned — and it wasn’t anger in her eyes this time.

It was exhaustion.

“You said you cared.” Her voice was steady, but there was a thin tremor beneath it. “And then you treat me like something you have to manage. Something you need to control. That’s not caring, Nezha. That’s fear.”

He took a step closer, voice low. “Of course I’m afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Of you.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Her breath caught.

“I don’t know how to be near you without losing control.” His voice was rough now, strained, like something inside him was finally breaking open. “Because you’re not like the others I’ve had to fight. I don’t know how to protect myself from you. From this.”

She stared at him, stunned. “You think I’m trying to hurt you?”

“No,” he said hoarsely. “That’s the worst part. You don’t even have to try.”

His fists clenched at his sides. “You stand there so calm. So composed. You carry your burdens like they weigh nothing while I—” His voice broke slightly. “While I carry ghosts that never leave.”

He swallowed, the words tumbling faster now.

“I’ve lost everything. Kitay. Rin. The war. The world we tried to save. And now I’m standing here knowing that if I let myself—if I feel anything for you—I won’t survive losing that too.”

Silence.

It was the first time he’d said Rin’s name aloud in months. And it scraped out of him like glass.

Y/N’s eyes softened, but she didn’t move toward him. She stood still — waiting — giving him the space to finally lay it bare.

“I don’t know how to care for something,” he whispered, his voice finally shaking, “without destroying it.”

The breath in her chest trembled.

And softly, finally, she spoke.

“I’m not her, Nezha.”

His eyes flickered.

“I know.”

“And I don’t want to be another ghost for you.”

“I don’t want you to be,” he whispered.

They stood frozen, breathless, both trembling on the edge of something neither of them had been ready to face.

For once, she took the step forward.

She reached for him — her hand barely brushing his, light as a whisper.

Not pulling. Not demanding.

Just offering.

And Nezha, whose entire life had been built around restraint, around holding his breath, around keeping every dangerous thing inside him buried—

Finally exhaled.

His fingers closed around hers, as though afraid she might disappear if he waited too long.

The world outside their chamber was still spinning — but in that moment, neither of them cared.

Because this, whatever it was — fragile, messy, terrifying — was finally real.

The moment hung between them like something alive — breathing, pulsing, fragile.

Neither spoke.

The storm of words they’d thrown at each other still echoed in the silence. His confession still sat heavy in the air:

“I don’t know how to care for something without destroying it.”

And still, Y/N didn’t move.

For a heartbeat, Nezha thought she might turn away again — that she would shut him out like she had so many times before. But this time, she didn’t.

Her voice, when it finally came, was barely above a whisper. “Then don’t.”

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

"Then don’t."

The words slipped out of her like a quiet breath — not a plea, not an offer, but something much simpler. A fact. A truth she was too tired to dress up.

Nezha stood frozen, every part of him wound tight.

It would’ve been easier if she had demanded something from him. Or if she had turned cold, or sharp, or distant again. He knew how to fight that. He knew how to retreat.

But this—this quiet, steady honesty—he had no defenses for.

"You make it sound simple," he said hoarsely.

"It isn’t." Her voice was calm, but soft in a way that unsettled him even more. "But neither is running from everything."

Her gaze met his and held. Steady. Not accusing, not coaxing. Just there. And somehow that made it worse.

"You keep saying you care. And then you act like you don’t know what to do with it," she added, her voice lower, barely above the wind that slipped in through the balcony doors. "Why do you care, Nezha? Why come here?"

His jaw tensed. His hands curled into fists at his sides, trying to ground himself.

"Because I can’t stop." The confession tore out of him like it physically hurt. "Because no matter how hard I try to stay distant, it’s never enough. Because you are always there."

She exhaled, not quite relief, not quite pain. "Then why do you keep pushing me away?"

"Because if I let you any closer…" His voice caught, almost breaking. "I don’t know if I’ll survive it when it ends."

Her eyes flickered, just briefly, but she didn’t move. She didn’t reach for him, didn’t offer comfort or promises. She simply stood there, steady, allowing the weight of his words to hang.

And it was that—her refusal to chase him, her restraint—that pulled him closer.

Because unlike everything else in his life, she wasn't trying to control him. She wasn’t offering herself up. She wasn’t begging to be let in.

She was simply there.

Waiting.

Allowing him to choose.

"I’ve lost everyone I’ve ever cared for," he said, voice rough. "Kitay. Rin. My brother. And now you—"

He stopped himself.

"I don’t want to lose you too."

"You haven’t," she said gently, but not reassuringly. Simply true.

Another long, fragile pause.

The air between them was tight, like a string stretched taut, trembling, ready to snap.

Slowly — carefully — Nezha stepped closer. Just enough for her breath to brush against his.

He could feel his own pulse hammering beneath his skin. She stood perfectly still, her gaze never leaving his, but she didn’t lean in. She didn’t close the distance.

She let him come to her.

And that was somehow more terrifying than any open invitation.

"You terrify me," he whispered.

"Good," she breathed softly, lips barely moving. "At least you finally admit it."

His hand lifted slowly — hesitant, unsure — hovering near her cheek for a moment, as if even that touch might shatter something delicate between them.

When his fingers finally brushed her jaw, it was feather-light, tentative. Testing.

She didn’t flinch. But she didn’t move closer either.

His thumb barely grazed the corner of her mouth. And still, she stayed perfectly still, her breath uneven now, but steady.

Not pulling him forward.

Not pulling away.

Waiting for him to decide.

And finally — painfully, carefully — he did.

He leaned in, brushing his lips against hers like the first movement of a storm. Soft. Hesitant. Almost afraid.

And yet she met him there.

Not desperate. Not surrendering. Just meeting him, the same way she always had: with grace, with restraint, with quiet, devastating steadiness.

The kiss broke too soon, but neither moved far.

Their foreheads rested together, breath mingling in the tight space between them.

It was fragile. Imperfect. Heavy with everything unsaid.

But for now, it was enough.

You started your morning as usual, waking up to the sun casting soft gold across your face, the quiet of your home greeting you in your husband’s absence. You reached over instinctively, only to feel the cold empty space beside you. Separate rooms had simply become the most comfortable option over time.

The house was still except for the faint rustling of the trees outside. You wrapped your jeogori around your waist, stepping softly into the kitchen. The familiar routine of preparing breakfast grounded you as you began slicing the fresh radish and heating the morning porridge.

Before long, you heard the soft patter of footsteps behind you.

Your eldest son, Jeon Seongmin, entered, already dressed for the day, his small frame weighed slightly by the sword strapped at his side. His features — sharp brows, wide dark eyes, the subtle downward turn of his lips — were an exact mirror of his father, Jeon Wonwoo, the leader of the Hwaryeong Guard, the elite warriors sworn to protect the royal family.

“Eomma, is abba at the training area already?” Seongmin asked, standing tall despite his young age.

You turned, offering him a soft smile. “Yes, he was there this morning.”

At your reply, Seongmin’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly, a small sigh escaping his lips.

“What’s wrong, my love?” You reached out, gently cupping his cheek. His skin was still warm from sleep, soft beneath your hand.

“I should have been up with him,” he mumbled, brows furrowing.

You let out a quiet sigh, brushing a stray strand of hair away from his face. “Seongmin, you are still a child. There is no rush to carry a sword as heavy as your father's.”

“But I want to be like him.” His voice cracked just slightly, betraying the burden he carried inside, the silent pressure of being the son of Joseon’s most feared and respected warrior.

Your gaze softened. “You will become strong in your own time. But strength is not only found on the battlefield, Seongmin.”

Outside, the faint sound of swords clashing echoed faintly from the training grounds, a daily rhythm that marked the life you had married into.

You glanced toward the open courtyard, where your husband was likely already leading the morning drills, distant, dutiful, and always a step away from your quiet domestic world.

You watched him quietly as he scarfed down his breakfast, barely chewing, eager to run off. You worried for Seongmin — too young, still attending his studies at the Confucian academy, yet already being molded into a man far too soon. The men around him — your husband included — treated him like an adult, like a soldier in training rather than the boy he still was.

He finished his meal and stood, bowing respectfully. “I will head to Father now.”

You nodded, though your heart weighed heavy. “Be careful, my son.”

As he left, you trailed behind silently, stepping out into the courtyard where the morning mist still clung low to the ground. From the covered walkway, you watched as Seongmin crossed the training grounds, the rhythmic clashing of swords ringing in the air.

At the center stood your husband — Jeon Wonwoo — his figure tall and composed, back turned as he gave instructions to the gathered men. His long black hair was tied neatly, his warrior’s uniform spotless despite the hours of training already behind him. As always, he exuded a quiet, intimidating command that drew respect without effort.

Seongmin approached and bowed low. “Father.”

Wonwoo finally turned, his sharp eyes immediately landing on the boy’s sword at his side. “You’re late.”

“I apologize,” Seongmin said, voice steady though you noticed the faintest tremor.

Without another word, Wonwoo gestured toward the center of the ring. “Draw your sword.”

The other men instinctively stepped back to give them space. The air grew tense as Seongmin pulled his blade free. Though smaller than a full warrior’s sword, it gleamed all the same under the morning sun.

Wonwoo faced him, drawing his own wooden practice sword — though even that seemed heavier than what Seongmin could manage.

“Begin.”

Seongmin lunged first, as he was taught — fast, but still lacking the precision his father demanded. Wonwoo parried easily, his movements fluid and controlled.

“Too wide,” Wonwoo corrected sharply, stepping aside and tapping Seongmin’s shoulder with the wooden blade. “Your opening was exposed. Again.”

Seongmin reset, attacking once more. Again, Wonwoo blocked him, this time striking his wrist lightly. “Wrist is too loose. You’ll lose your grip.”

The third time, Wonwoo struck harder, making Seongmin stumble slightly. The boy bit his lip, determination flickering behind his young eyes.

“Balance!” Wonwoo barked. “If you cannot stand firmly, you will not survive. Again!”

Your hands tightened around the fabric of your jeogori as you watched. He was being hard on him today — too hard, you thought — but Wonwoo’s face remained unreadable, as always. His way of love was discipline.

Seongmin exhaled and charged once more, sweat already forming along his brow. He was trying, so desperately trying, to meet his father’s expectations.

Wonwoo blocked again, but this time gave a small nod. “Better.”

Only a mother’s eye could see how Seongmin’s shoulders eased at that single word of approval.

Seongmin entered just as you were spooning another bite of porridge into your youngest’s mouth. The boy bowed respectfully as he walked in, still flushed from the morning drills.

“You’re just in time,” you said softly. “Eat a little before school.”

But he shook his head, voice still a little breathless. “I’ll get ready, Eomma.”

You gave him a brief nod. “Go. Get ready for school.”

He bowed again and disappeared into the next room to change.

Wonwoo entered a moment later, closing the door quietly behind him. His presence always filled the room — tall, composed, silent as a shadow. He made his way to where you sat on the floor, cross-legged beside the two younger boys.

Joonho, your second, was already halfway through his porridge, his cheeks puffed like a little squirrel. Sungbae, your baby, was babbling happily, clapping his hands with each spoonful you fed him.

Wonwoo sat beside Joonho, resting a hand gently on his head. Joonho beamed up at his father. “Appa, when can I have a sword like hyung?”

Wonwoo’s lips twitched faintly, the smallest hint of a smile. “When you’re ready. For now, eat.”

Joonho pouted but obediently scooped another spoonful into his mouth.

You glanced sideways at your husband, the warmth of the domestic scene quickly giving way to the weight pressing on your chest. You had been holding your tongue all morning, but now, seeing Seongmin so tense and your younger sons still untouched by such burdens, you couldn’t stay silent.

“Wonwoo-ya,” you said quietly but firmly, keeping your voice low so the boys wouldn’t hear. “He is still a child.”

Wonwoo did not look at you, instead watching Sungbae babble and reach for his sleeve. “He is my son.”

“That does not mean you need to strip him of his childhood.”

At this, Wonwoo finally turned his gaze to you. Calm, dark, unwavering. “You think I wish this for him?” he said, voice steady. “I would rather see him running barefoot in the yard with Joonho and Sungbae.”

“Then let him.”

“I cannot,” Wonwoo said flatly. “Not when Lord Baek Joonhyuk grows stronger every year.”

At the mention of the enemy’s name, your chest tightened. Baek Joonhyuk — head of the rival clan, growing more bold and ambitious with each passing season, his men encroaching further into the capital’s influence, his spies rumored to be in every corner of the court.

“If war comes to Joseon,” Wonwoo continued, his voice like a blade sliding from its sheath, “they will not spare him because he is young. As my eldest son, he must be ready.”

You clenched your jaw, your fingers tightening around Sungbae’s tiny spoon. The air between you felt heavy — not with anger, but with grief for the unspoken truths both of you carried.

Wonwoo reached out then, his calloused hand briefly resting over yours. “I am not blind to your worry, my wife. But I will not fail him by allowing him to be unprepared.”

Your heart ached. For him. For Seongmin. For the life you had built under constant shadow.

Outside, Seongmin returned, now dressed and ready for school. His youthful face lit up at the sight of his father, hiding any exhaustion from the morning’s harsh training.

“I’m ready, Eomma.”

You forced a soft smile. “Go on, my love.”

He bowed again and left, his footsteps fading down the wooden hallway.

Wonwoo released your hand, rising wordlessly as duty called him once more.

Wonwoo left shortly after, his long silhouette disappearing past the courtyard gates as he headed toward the palace council chambers. The heavy air of state affairs always followed him — politics, war, strategy — things you had long been kept apart from.

You remained behind, your two younger boys now playing quietly on the wooden floor while you tidied the breakfast bowls. The house was peaceful once more, but your mind, as always, wandered.

It was in moments like these, when the house grew quiet and the weight of duty momentarily loosened, that your thoughts drifted — to a different time, a different life.

Before you were Lady Jeon. Before you were mother to three sons. Before you were the wife of Jeon Wonwoo, leader of the Hwaryeong Guard.

You had once been simply yourself — free, untethered, the daughter of a minor noble family whose name held little weight in the courts. Back then, you ran barefoot across the hills behind your family’s estate, chasing dragonflies and laughing with your maidservants.

And of course, there was Choi Seongcheol.

Your first love.

You could still remember the first time you met him, when you were barely old enough to understand what love even was. He was the son of your father’s old friend — clever, kind, and always finding ways to make you smile. The summers you spent together had felt endless back then, his warm laughter echoing in your ears as you both sat under the persimmon trees, talking about nothing and everything.

Of course, it was never meant to last. Even as your hearts grew closer, you both knew.

Betrothals in your world were not made by hearts but by duty. And so when word came that you were to marry Jeon Wonwoo — a rising officer in the palace guard, personally chosen by the Royal Court — everything between you and Seongcheol quietly came to an end. There were no dramatic partings, no secret promises. Only quiet understanding.

It had been years now. You didn’t miss him exactly. You had long accepted your place beside Wonwoo, learned to care for him in your own way, even if love had grown in slow, complicated turns.

But sometimes, like now, your mind still lingered on that time.

Not out of longing. Not out of regret. But simply because it was once a part of you.

“Eomma!” Joonho’s bright voice pulled you from your thoughts. “Look what Sungbae did!”

You looked down to see Sungbae grinning proudly, having stacked his wooden toy blocks into a small, wobbly tower.

You smiled, bending down to kiss the top of Sungbae’s head. “Very clever, my little one.”

The past may linger, but your life now was here — with your sons, with your duty, with the man you married.

And outside these walls, unknown to you, the world was slowly beginning to shift.

The moon hung high by the time Wonwoo returned. You had already bathed the boys and tucked them into bed. The house was quiet, save for the faint chirping of crickets outside.

Dinner was laid out on the low table. Steamed rice, stewed vegetables, grilled fish — simple, warm, and waiting for him.

Wonwoo sat down wordlessly, his movements deliberate and composed as always. You poured him tea, and the two of you began to eat, the quiet between you growing heavier with each passing moment.

You stared at your bowl for a long while before finally speaking, your voice cutting softly through the silence.

“I would like to have a say in how my son is raised.”

Wonwoo’s chopsticks paused mid-air. He didn’t look at you at first, but you saw his jaw tense. “I don’t think I’ve ever stopped you.”

You let out a quiet, frustrated sigh. “Then hear me now, Wonwoo. Let him be a child.”

At last, his eyes met yours — dark, unreadable, as always. “Being who he is — my son, the eldest of this house — puts a target on his back, whether we wish it or not. I want him prepared.”

“He’s a child!” you repeated, voice rising despite yourself. “He shouldn’t carry the weight of your enemies. He shouldn’t be waking before dawn to train until his hands bruise. His shoulders are too small to bear the burdens you place on him.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Wonwoo’s voice remained calm, but there was steel beneath it. “Every day, I pray that he will never need to wield a blade. But hope is not enough, not in this world.”

“He studies, he trains, he barely plays. You are turning him into you,” you whispered, the words trembling as they left your mouth.

Wonwoo sat back slightly, his gaze hardening. “If I am what keeps him alive, then so be it.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling the sharp sting of helplessness crawl up your throat.

“This life you lead — your duty, your enemies — you chose this, Wonwoo. He did not.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you was thick with unspoken grief — two people standing on opposite sides of the same fear.

Wonwoo lowered his gaze briefly before speaking again, his voice quiet. “I would give my life before I let harm come to him. But I cannot protect him forever.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening. The man before you — your husband — was both your greatest safety and your deepest ache.

And though you sat only a few handspans apart, you had never felt further from him.

Your marriage with Wonwoo had always been a complicated one.

From the very beginning, the moment you first laid eyes on him, it was as though he was already the warlord he would become — serious, unfazed, his gaze steady and unreadable. There was no hesitation in him, no uncertainty. Every word, every action was deliberate, calculated.

You were barely seventeen when the betrothal was announced — a political match arranged between your modest noble house and the rising young commander of the Hwaryeong Guard. You still remembered the day you first met him properly, seated across from him in your family’s receiving hall.

He bowed respectfully, but his face remained impassive. “I will do my duty, and I will protect you,” he had said.

At the time, you thought those words were enough.

And in many ways, they were.

He fulfilled every duty a husband should. You bore him three sons — Seongmin, Joonho, and little Sungbae — and he was a father to them, strict but present. He provided a stable home, ensured your safety, and secured your family's standing at court.

Yet for all he gave, there was always a distance — an invisible wall that neither of you could ever quite climb.

You remembered countless evenings like tonight: silent dinners where only the soft clinking of porcelain filled the space between you. Nights where you lay in your bed alone, staring at the wooden ceiling while he remained in his chambers or returned late from the palace.

On rare occasions, you would sit together in the courtyard when the cherry blossoms fell, and for a brief moment, you allowed yourself to pretend — pretend that he might reach for your hand, that he might share a thought, a worry, a piece of himself. But he never did. He simply sat, quiet as the falling petals.

You learned to fill the silence yourself.

You hosted the other noble wives with grace, attended the palace banquets on his arm, and managed the affairs of the household. You raised your sons with care, teaching them kindness where your husband taught them strength.

In time, you stopped expecting more.

This is what it is, you often told yourself. This is the marriage I have.

He protected you. You gave him sons. And for a long while, you convinced yourself that was enough.

But sometimes, in moments like tonight — when the house was dark, and your boys lay sleeping, and he sat across from you like a stranger — that quiet ache returned. The ache of something that was never quite yours to begin with.

A man who belonged first to his sword. To his duty. And only after that — to you.

The next day, everything changed.

The sun had barely risen when it began — Baek Joonhyuk had launched his long-awaited attack.

Wonwoo was gone, summoned to the palace in the early hours with his men. Seongmin was at the academy, safely away for now. That left only you and your two youngest sons in the house.

You were in the kitchen preparing the morning meal when you first heard it — distant shouting, hurried footsteps outside, the metallic clang of swords clashing in the streets. The noise grew louder, nearer.

And then—

A loud crash. The front door was broken open.

Sungbae and Joonho screamed from the inner room. Your heart dropped. You rushed towards them, flinging open the door — and froze.

Three armed men stood inside, dressed in black, faces partially covered. Your two boys were huddled in the corner, crying, their tiny bodies shaking.

The tallest of the intruders stepped forward, sword drawn, eyes narrowing at you.

“Where is your eldest son?” he demanded. His voice was sharp, heavy with threat.

You stood in front of your boys, shielding them with your body. Your pulse pounded in your ears, but you forced yourself to remain steady.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said coldly.

Another man laughed. “The son of Jeon Wonwoo. Bring him to us, and we might spare you.”

The third one sneered, voice dripping with mockery. “Or perhaps we’ll take the little ones instead. He’ll show himself then.”

At those words, something in you snapped.

Slowly, you raised your hands as if surrendering — but your fingers gripped the fabric of your skirt. In one swift motion, you pulled it up, revealing the small sword strapped to your thigh — the blade you had kept hidden for years, for emergencies like this.

The men laughed, seeing your weapon.

“A woman? With a blade?” the first one mocked. “Put that away before you hurt yourself, my lady,” another added with a cruel grin.

But you did not hesitate.

Their smirks froze in place as you moved — quick, fluid, without warning.

The first man stepped forward, but you lunged with precision, slicing clean across his neck before he could even lift his weapon. He dropped instantly, gurgling as blood poured onto the wooden floor.

The other two men cursed, drawing their swords, but they were too slow.

Their mistake was underestimating you.

Your body moved instinctively, as if guided by old muscle memory — training burned into you long ago.

—“Hold it higher.” —“No hesitation. You strike or you die.” —“Again.”

You could still hear Seongcheol’s voice — calm, patient — as he trained you in secret behind your family estate, years before you ever knew Wonwoo. Back when you were still just a curious girl, begging him to teach you how to fight, how to defend yourself in a world ruled by men and power.

—“One day, you may need this. You cannot always wait for others to protect you.”

The second man swung his blade toward you, but you ducked under his arm, driving your sword straight into his gut. His eyes widened with shock before he collapsed.

The last man hesitated — fear finally flashing across his face — but by then you were already upon him. A single clean strike across his chest, and he fell backward, gasping before going still.

Silence.

The blood pooled at your feet, mixing with the tears of your two terrified sons.

You dropped the sword and quickly turned to them, pulling them into your arms.

“It’s over,” you whispered, though your voice trembled. “Eomma’s here. You’re safe.”

But in your heart, you knew this was only the beginning.

The alarm bells rang out across the city.

Wonwoo froze for only a moment inside the palace council chamber — the sound slicing through the air like a blade. Then, without waiting for explanation, he ran.

He didn’t stop to hear the reports from the guards, nor did he wait for his men. His only thought was of you — of his sons — of his home.

The streets blurred around him as his boots pounded the ground. The sounds of panic filled the air — screams, steel clashing, orders being shouted. But none of it mattered.

When he reached the gates of your home, the door was broken open.

And then—

Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw inside.

The bodies of three men lay crumpled on the floor, blood spreading beneath them like black stains upon the wood. Their faces were twisted in shock — as though they never even saw death coming.

And there, in the middle of it all — you.

Your clothes stained with blood, your hands still trembling as you clutched your two crying boys tightly to your chest. Your eyes flickered up the moment he appeared.

Wonwoo’s breath caught.

He dropped to his knees in front of you, his hands immediately reaching for yours. His grip was firm but frantic as he looked you over, scanning every inch of your body, searching for wounds. His hands moved from your wrists to your arms, your face, your neck.

"괜찮아?" he asked, voice low but shaken.

You swallowed the tightness in your throat and nodded. “I’m fine.”

But he was still stunned. He couldn’t seem to look away from the dead men — nor from the blade still lying near your feet.

You had killed them. All of them.

The woman he had always kept carefully protected… had protected herself. Protected their children.

His mind reeled, but there was no time.

“Seongmin,” you suddenly gasped, your eyes going wide.

You rose quickly to your feet, gently placing Joonho and Sungbae in his arms. “He’s at the academy— I have to—”

Without another word, you bolted out the door, running barefoot into the street, your only thought the safety of your eldest.

Wonwoo stood there for a moment, frozen — the weight of what had just happened crashing down on him — before he held the two crying boys closer to his chest, his own pulse still racing.

He had always thought he alone carried the burden of protection. But you— You had carried far more than he ever realized.

Nothing could have prepared you for what you saw.

There, lying on the stone courtyard of the academy, was Seongmin — his small frame covered in dirt and blood, his breathing labored.

Your heart stopped. You ran to him, falling to your knees, tears already blurring your vision as you pulled him into your arms.

“Seongmin… Seongmin—” your voice cracked, your hands running desperately over him, searching for wounds.

“I’m here, Eomma,” he whispered weakly, his small hands clutching at your sleeve.

He was alive. Bloodied. Bruised. But alive.

“I-I saved my classmates...” he breathed, his voice thin, trembling. “I killed… I killed all those men.”

You froze for a moment, and then turned your head.

Behind him, stretched across the academy courtyard, lay a line of bodies — intruders dressed in black, the same men who attacked your home. All dead.

The sword still rested loosely in Seongmin’s hand, his grip weak but steady.

Tears streamed freely down your cheeks as you cradled his face. “You are so strong, my child. So strong.”

Heavy footsteps echoed behind you.

You turned, and there was Wonwoo — eyes wide, breathless, face pale as he took in the scene before him.

He froze for a split second, as if his mind could not comprehend what he was seeing. His son — his small, young son — surrounded by the corpses of armed men.

Then, without hesitation, he rushed forward and fell to his knees beside you.

“Seongmin—” his voice broke as he gripped his son’s arm carefully, afraid to cause more pain.

“Abba…” Seongmin’s lips quivered as he looked up at his father. “I did it… I protected them… Are you proud of me?”

For a moment, silence.

And then, for the first time in your entire marriage, you saw it—

Tears gathered in Wonwoo’s dark eyes. His face, always composed, always guarded, finally cracked under the weight of what he was seeing.

He nodded slowly, voice rough. “I am… I am so proud of you.”

His hand moved gently to Seongmin’s cheek, thumb brushing away the blood and dirt like he was afraid his son might shatter beneath his touch.

He had never spoken these words before, but tonight they broke free from him.

Nurses arrived quickly, gently prying Seongmin from your hold, laying him on a stretcher with careful hands.

“He’ll be all right,” one of them assured you softly. “He needs a healer. His wounds aren’t deep, but he’s exhausted.”

You nodded numbly, tears still falling as you stood back. Wonwoo remained beside you, his hand finding yours — gripping it tightly, like an anchor.

The nurses advised you both to return home and rest while the healers worked.

But you both knew neither of you would truly rest tonight.

When you returned home, the air was heavy with silence.

The maids had already put Joonho and Sungbae to bed. The house, which had seen blood and violence just hours before, now stood quiet — too quiet.

You stood in the middle of the main hall, your heart pounding, and turned sharply toward your husband as he closed the door behind him.

“Our—our son almost died!” your voice broke as it echoed off the walls.

Wonwoo stood still, his face calm as always, his hands loosely at his sides. That calmness — that cursed calmness — only fueled your anger.

“How can you be so calm after everything that happened tonight? After seeing him like that?!” you demanded, your voice rising.

Wonwoo exhaled through his nose, stepping forward, but his expression remained maddeningly composed.

“He survived. He was strong.”

“That’s all you have to say?” your voice cracked. “All these years, you’ve always been like this. Calm. Distant. Even tonight, even now—"

You clenched your fists, your body trembling. "Why don’t you care?!"

At that, you finally saw it — his shoulders tensed, rising sharply as his head lifted and his eyes locked onto yours.

“You think I don’t care?!” his voice, sharp for the first time, filled the space between you.

His chest heaved as he stepped closer. “The reason I train him the way I do — the reason I’ve always trained him — is because I know people are after him. Because of who I am.”

His voice cracked under the weight of what he was finally saying.

“Of course I want him to live as a child. To not carry any of this. But that life isn’t possible — not for him. Not for any of them. Not with my enemies watching.”

The pain radiating from him was palpable, guilt rolling off him like waves.

“Don’t you think I feel awful knowing that it’s my fault he can’t grow up normally? That every threat aimed at me extends to him? To you? That every choice I’ve made forced him into this life?”

You stared at him, your anger momentarily tangled with your own hurt. You had never heard him speak like this before.

And yet, your frustration rose again, burning in your throat.

“You don’t understand how it’s been for me,” you whispered harshly. “I’ve stood beside you all these years, trying—praying—for more. For anything. I’ve done my duty. I’ve raised our children. I’ve watched you return late every night, sleep in separate rooms, sit across from me in silence. I’ve waited for you to see me—just see me—not as your duty, but as your wife.”

Your voice broke again. “I just wanted more from you.”

Wonwoo’s expression shifted—his eyes turned unbearably sad, like a dam breaking behind them.

“You think I didn’t want that?” he said quietly.

You blinked, confused. “Then why—”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, voice thick.

“I know you never wanted this marriage. I know you would’ve chosen a different life. I know you were in love with someone else… or still are.”

Your eyes widened, the breath catching in your throat.

“I never wanted to force you into this. I thought… I thought you wouldn’t want me to…” he trailed off, the words unfinished, hanging heavily between you.

For the first time, you stared at him as though seeing him clearly — not the warlord, not the cold, distant husband — but the man beneath all the armor.

He held your gaze for one agonizing moment longer, his jaw tightening — then quietly turned away.

Without another word, he retreated into his chamber, leaving you alone with your thoughts, your heart pounding painfully in your chest.

The silence that followed was heavier than any argument.

The next morning, you visited Seongmin at the healer’s quarters.

The sunlight streamed gently through the paper windows, casting a soft glow over the room. Seongmin was sitting upright on the small bedding mat, his face already regaining its usual brightness. The healers had done well — his wounds had been cleaned and bandaged, his strength slowly returning.

When he saw you, his face lit up. “Eomma!”

You rushed forward and gently cupped his face, your thumb brushing against his cheek. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” he smiled. “The healer says I can come home soon.”

Before you could respond, you heard the quiet footsteps behind you. Wonwoo entered, his tall frame casting a shadow as he stepped inside.

Seongmin’s eyes brightened even more at the sight of his father.

“Abba!” he beamed.

Wonwoo gave a small smile — faint, but genuine — and moved to sit beside him. For a moment, he simply looked at his son, the weight of the past few days still lingering in his gaze.

Then, softly, he spoke. “Son… I’m sorry.”

Seongmin blinked in surprise. “Why, Father?”

Wonwoo swallowed, his voice steady but heavy. “I’m sorry you had to be strong for all of us. That you had to raise your sword before you were ready. That you were forced to carry burdens no child should.”

Seongmin opened his mouth, but Wonwoo continued.

“You should have had more time. Time to run freely, to make mistakes, to simply be a boy. That should have been my duty — to protect that for you. But I couldn’t. Not in the world we live in. Not with the enemies who would see us fall because of who I am.”

His voice softened even further, thick with quiet guilt. “You were brave that night. Braver than most grown men I have commanded. But you should not have had to be.”

Seongmin stared at him, his young face thoughtful, trying to grasp the depth of his father’s words. “But… I wanted to protect you too, Father. I wanted to make you proud.”

Wonwoo’s hand reached out, resting gently on his son’s shoulder. “And you have, my son. More than you know.”

You stood beside them, silently watching — and for the first time, something inside you softened.

For years you thought you knew this man — cold, distant, driven solely by duty. You thought his calm meant indifference, that his silence was emptiness. But standing there now, hearing the rawness in his voice, you realized how little you truly knew him.

There was love in him — fierce, consuming, silent love. A love that carried its own unbearable guilt.

And perhaps… you had both been strangers to each other all this time.

Your chest tightened as you watched father and son sit together — both strong, both scarred by the same world, but bound now by something deeper than duty.

After you tucked the children into bed and made sure the house was quiet, you stepped outside.

The air was cool, the night sky clear above you. And there, sitting just beyond the porch, was Wonwoo.

He sat alone beneath the dim glow of the lanterns, his hands resting on his knees, eyes distant as if lost in thoughts too heavy to carry inside. For a brief moment, you simply watched him — the man who had been beside you for years, yet always seemed so far away.

Then, quietly, you stepped forward and sat down beside him, your knees nearly touching.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Only the soft sounds of crickets and the faint breeze filled the space between you. And then, your voice broke through the stillness.

“I didn’t want this.”

Wonwoo turned his head slightly, his gaze dropping as though the weight of those words struck deep. But before he could respond, you continued — voice softer, steadier.

“But… I don’t regret the life we built together.”

His head slowly lifted, his eyes searching your face with disbelief, as if he hadn’t allowed himself to imagine you would ever say such a thing.

“I just…” your voice trembled. “I just wanted you to see me. I know how selfish that sounds, but I only ever wanted to feel like I was there for you — not just as your wife by duty, but as your partner. As someone you trusted.”

Wonwoo exhaled quietly, his throat moving as he swallowed the guilt building in him. “I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

He paused, the words seeming difficult for him to admit aloud. “I didn’t want you to feel like a prize that had been handed to me — a life you never chose. So I thought… if I kept my distance, it would make it easier for you. Easier for both of us.”

Tears pricked your eyes at his quiet confession.

“I never hated you,” you whispered. “I never resented you for any of it.”

Your voice broke as you added, “I just wanted to get to know you. To share the weight of everything you’ve carried alone for so long.”

Wonwoo’s gaze dropped again, his hands clenching slightly on his knees. His voice came low and pained, almost like a confession he’d buried for years.

“You gave up so much for me,” he whispered, eyes distant. “I didn’t want you to give up more. I thought if I asked for nothing, it would hurt you less.”

You looked at him, your heart aching.

“I’ve never seen you like that before,” you said softly. “The way you were with Seongmin today. The way you finally let him see your heart.”

He gave a small, broken smile, lowering his head again. “I thought I had to be strong for everyone. If I let myself feel too much… I was afraid everything would collapse.”

You reached out then, your hand finding his, your fingers gently curling around his. The gesture was simple, but for the two of you — it was everything.

“And you are strong,” you whispered. “Stronger than anyone. But you don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”

For a moment, he just stared at your joined hands, his thumb brushing gently across your knuckles like he wasn’t sure he deserved the comfort.

And then, with a quiet, trembling breath, you asked the question that had lingered between you for so many years:

“Do you… do you want to try again?”

Wonwoo lifted his head, his eyes meeting yours fully — vulnerable, open, like you had never seen before.

“If you’ll let me.”

You nodded, your voice barely a whisper, but filled with every unspoken feeling you had carried. “I will.”

And for the first time, you both sat there — not as strangers forced together by circumstance, but as two people finally reaching for each other.

The next few days were… a little awkward.

Wonwoo tried — you could see that. When he wasn’t dealing with the mess Baek Joonhyuk and his men had left behind, he was home. More than he had ever been before.

And when he was home, he was trying.

You watched him silently as he fumbled through things he had likely never done in his life — attempting to help the maids fold the laundry, offering to cook, even attempting to prepare Sungbae’s food.

Today, he stood in the kitchen, holding a wooden spoon like it was a sword he didn’t know how to wield, staring at the bubbling pot of porridge with growing confusion.

You stood nearby, arms crossed, biting back a smile as Sungbae watched from his chair, babbling happily at his struggling father.

Wonwoo stirred the porridge awkwardly, pausing now and then to glance at a small note the cook had left him with clear instructions. Still, somehow, the consistency was all wrong.

You couldn’t help it — a quiet laugh slipped out.

Wonwoo turned at the sound, his usual composure unraveling slightly as he looked at you helplessly, cheeks faintly flushed.

“I… I don’t understand how it’s supposed to look like that,” he admitted, staring back at the gloopy mess.

You finally stepped forward, gently taking the spoon from his hand. “Here. Like this.”

He stepped aside quickly, almost awkwardly, as though unsure of how close he should stand.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, watching you fix the porridge with practiced ease.

You smiled softly. “Don’t be. You’re trying.”

He stared at you for a long moment, something unspoken behind his eyes. And in that moment, he swore he would do whatever it took to see you smile like that more often.

Slowly, your days began to fill with small conversations, soft exchanges that had never existed between you before. He spoke more, you opened up more, and the house that once echoed with silence began to hum with something warmer.

One evening, as you sat across from each other at the dinner table, sharing a simple meal, Wonwoo suddenly spoke.

“My father was like me,” he began, voice low. “Or perhaps I became like him.”

You looked up at him, listening.

“He was strict. Hard. There was no room for mistakes in his house. No softness.” His jaw tightened slightly. “I was taught that to lead, you must first learn how to suffer in silence. That emotions were weaknesses best kept locked away.”

You lowered your chopsticks, your heart softening further.

“I was not like that,” you admitted with a small, reminiscent smile. “I was always getting into trouble. Running barefoot outside when I wasn’t supposed to, climbing trees in my hanbok, sneaking sweets before meals. My mother despaired of me.”

Wonwoo smiled faintly, amused. “I find it hard to imagine you like that.”

“Everyone does.”

For a moment, a quiet peace settled between you both. But then, his tone shifted slightly — gentler, but heavier.

“I meant to ask you something…”

You glanced up at him curiously. “Yes?”

He paused, carefully choosing his words. “How did you learn to fight like that?”

The question caught you for a moment. You lowered your gaze, your fingers lightly brushing the edge of your cup.

“Seongcheol.”

You saw it instantly — how the name affected him. His eyes flickered, his jaw tightening ever so slightly, though his voice remained even.

“I see.” He paused again, then finally asked what had clearly lingered in his mind. “Did you love him?”

You lifted your eyes to meet his. The question hung in the air like a fragile thread.

“I did,” you answered softly.

He nodded, gaze dropping briefly to the table as though bracing himself.

“But not anymore,” you continued.

At that, his head shot up, surprised.

“I was young. It felt like love, and maybe it was, but… thinking about it now, I’m thankful for the time we had, but I’ve grown since then. I’ve grown up.”

Wonwoo exhaled slowly, relief quietly blooming across his face. He nodded again, though this time, his gaze was softer — less guarded.

You smiled faintly at him. “We both have.”

For the first time in years, it felt like the distance between you was not so impossible anymore.

That night, after dinner, you quietly sent the servants away early. The house was quiet except for the faint sound of the wind rustling outside.

The children had already fallen asleep — peaceful, safe.

You moved about the house, blowing out the lanterns one by one, leaving only the warm glow of a single lamp burning in the sitting room. As you turned, you saw Wonwoo still sitting there, his hands resting on his knees, lost in thought.

He had remained behind even after the meal, lingering in your shared space like he didn’t want to retreat into his own chambers — as he always had for so many years.

You paused. Normally, this was where the evening would end — both of you quietly parting ways into your separate rooms, into your separate silences.

But not tonight.

Tonight, something felt different.

You approached slowly and sat across from him on the small mat, your knees almost brushing his. The lamp’s soft glow made the shadows of his face appear gentler somehow — less hardened by years of duty and distance.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The quiet between you was no longer heavy, but waiting — like something fragile was taking shape.

Wonwoo finally broke the silence, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s strange.”

You tilted your head. “What is?”

He glanced up, searching your face. “How unfamiliar this feels.”

You smiled softly, understanding what he meant. “We’ve lived together for years, yet sometimes I feel like I’m only just now meeting you.”

His lips curved into a faint, almost shy smile — one you rarely, if ever, had seen from him.

“I regret not allowing myself to know you sooner,” he admitted. “I was… afraid.”

The honesty in his voice made your chest tighten.

You reached out gently, your fingertips brushing against the back of his hand. He flinched slightly at first, as though the touch startled him, but then his hand turned slowly, allowing your fingers to weave into his.

His breath trembled at the contact.

“You don’t have to be afraid anymore,” you whispered.

Wonwoo stared at your joined hands for a moment, his throat tightening as though holding back words long buried.

“I never wanted you to feel like you were trapped with me,” he whispered. “But now, I realize… I trapped myself too.”

Your heart swelled at his quiet confession. You gave his hand a small squeeze.

“We’ve both been trapped, Wonwoo-ya,” you whispered, voice shaking just slightly, “but we’re not anymore.”

He looked up at you then, his gaze warm and open — for the first time, not as a warlord, not as a husband by duty — but simply as a man who wanted to be close.

Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned forward — giving you every chance to pull away — but you didn’t.

And when your lips finally met, it was soft, careful, and full of years’ worth of unsaid words.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested gently against yours, both of you breathing quietly, your hands still tightly linked between you.

In that moment, you both understood: this was the beginning. Not of what had been forced upon you — but of something finally real.

The next morning, you woke alone in your bed, as you always had.

But this time, when you stirred, you saw him — Wonwoo — sitting on the edge of the bed, watching you quietly.

Startled, you sat up. “What are you doing?”

Without answering your question, he simply stood and offered you his hand. “Come with me.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Just do it.” His voice was soft, but there was a slight smile playing at his lips.

Still confused but curious, you quickly dressed and left the children with the maids. Soon, you found yourself standing outside as Wonwoo prepared his horse.

He mounted first, then turned and extended his hand to you. Without hesitation, you reached up, and he helped you onto the saddle behind him. As your arms instinctively wrapped around his waist, you felt him tense for a moment at the unfamiliar contact, but he didn’t pull away.

You couldn’t help but feel your heart flutter slightly, the warmth of him under your touch making your chest tighten.

He rode through the dense forest, guiding the horse effortlessly, until the trees parted to reveal a quiet, hidden lake — its clear waters sparkling beneath the morning sun.

He dismounted, then turned to help you down, his hand lingering a moment longer than necessary.

“This is where I go when I need time to think,” he said softly, glancing out over the water.

You looked around, stunned by the beauty and peace of it. “It’s beautiful.”

You both sat on the grass, side by side, and for a while simply watched the rippling lake.

The conversation between you flowed easily — unlike anything you had ever shared before.

He told you stories of his youth:

“My father trained me from the time I could walk. The sword was always in my hand before I even understood what it meant.”

You smiled, listening. “I would’ve hated that.”

He chuckled faintly. “I think you would have driven my father mad.”

“Most likely. I drove my own parents mad already.” You grinned. “I used to sneak out of the estate to climb trees, catch fireflies, and even steal sweets from the market.”

Wonwoo turned to you, genuinely amused. “You? A thief?”

“Just once or twice,” you said, pretending to look innocent.

He laughed, and the sound of it was warm, lighter than you had ever heard before.

Then suddenly, before you could say anything else, he stood and walked directly into the water.

Your eyes widened. “YA! What are you doing?!”

He kept walking, the water slowly rising up to his waist. “Come on. It feels great.”

You stared at him like he was someone entirely different. This couldn’t be the same stoic, serious Wonwoo you had married.

“No. I’m going to get wet.”

He rolled his eyes, smirking playfully. “Come on. Show me who you were before we met — the troublemaker you keep talking about.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “You’re impossible.”

“Exactly.” He grinned. “Now stop being scared and come here.”

With a sigh — and honestly, more amusement than annoyance — you kicked off your shoes and carefully stepped into the cool water, walking toward him.

As soon as you got close enough, his hands suddenly reached out and pulled you in.

“YA!” you yelped, splashing as you stumbled into his chest.

He laughed — a full, unguarded laugh — and you couldn’t help but laugh with him.

Soon, you were both splashing each other, chasing, playing like children. You never imagined something like this was possible with him — this side of him you never knew existed.

He chased you back toward the shore, both of you out of breath, soaked, and laughing uncontrollably.

But as you stumbled, he reached out and caught you — pulling you down with him into the soft grass.

You landed with a gentle thud, his body hovering over yours, both of you breathing heavily, hearts racing from more than just the play.

The moment shifted instantly — the laughter fading as his eyes locked onto yours, then slowly dropped to your lips.

“Y/N…” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

“Yeah?” you whispered back, breathless.

Without waiting another moment, he crashed his lips onto yours.

The kiss was deep, desperate, full of all the years of longing and distance that had built between you. His hand cupped your jaw, the other sliding behind your waist, pulling you closer as if afraid to let you go.

Your hands gripped his shoulders tightly, kissing him back with equal need, both of you losing yourselves in a connection that had waited far too long to finally surface.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting against one another.

Neither of you spoke — there was nothing to say. The kiss had said it all.

As the sun began to set, you rode home together, the silence between you now filled with something new — something tender, and real.

That night, back at the house, you both returned to your separate rooms as you always had.

Wonwoo stood by your door for a moment, eyes lingering. “Good night,” he said softly.

“Good night,” you replied.

But as you lay down in your bed, staring at the ceiling, you couldn’t stop thinking of him — his hands, his lips, the way he had smiled.

And on the other side of the house, Wonwoo lay awake too, unable to stop thinking of you.

You lay in your bed, staring up at the ceiling, your heart beating so fast it almost hurt.

The air in the room felt too heavy, too still — your thoughts consumed not by fear or duty, but by him.

By Wonwoo. By the way his lips felt on yours that afternoon. By the way he had held you — not as a husband by obligation, but as a man who wanted you.

You didn’t know what possessed you, but your body moved on its own. Quietly, you slipped out of your sheets, pulling on your thin robe, your bare feet padding softly across the wooden floors of the dark house.

When you reached his door, you paused only briefly — your hand trembling on the handle. But before your mind could catch up to your heart, you slid the door open.

Wonwoo was awake.

He sat upright on his bedding, his eyes immediately finding yours, surprised, almost concerned.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice low, rough. “Is everything all right?”

You didn’t answer.

Instead, your fingers reached up to untie the sash at your waist, letting your robe fall silently to the ground.

Wonwoo’s breath hitched, his eyes widening as his gaze roamed over your bare form, his throat visibly tightening.

You stepped forward and lowered yourself onto his lap, your knees on either side of him. He sat frozen beneath you, as if afraid to move, his breath shallow.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, voice shaking.

You cupped his jaw gently, guiding his face closer. “I’ve never been more sure.”

That was all it took for the wall between you to finally shatter completely.

His hands — large, warm, and trembling — gripped your waist, pulling you closer as his lips crashed into yours. The kiss was deeper than the one by the lake — urgent, hungry, filled with every year of distance that had finally broken.

Your fingers tangled into his hair as his mouth moved along your jaw, down your neck, pressing desperate, open-mouthed kisses onto your skin. You gasped softly when his teeth grazed your collarbone, sending a shiver through your entire body.

“Wonwoo…” you whispered, breathless.

He groaned softly, his hands sliding up the curve of your back, then down again, gripping your hips as if he couldn’t bear to let you go. His control — always so rigid, so tightly held — was completely gone now, replaced with raw need.

He shifted, lowering you slowly onto the bedding, hovering above you. His dark eyes roamed over every inch of you, his expression reverent, almost disbelieving that you were here beneath him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, as though speaking too loudly would break the moment.

His lips returned to yours, slow and deep, as his hand slid lower, fingers brushing along your thighs, your skin heating beneath his touch.

You gasped softly when his fingers finally found your center, his touch gentle yet purposeful as he carefully prepared you, his breath heavy against your ear.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” he whispered, his voice laced with concern even in his growing desperation.

“You won’t,” you breathed, your voice shaking with anticipation. “I want this. I want you.”

With one last deep breath, he guided himself inside you, moving slowly, carefully, allowing your body to adjust.

You both gasped in unison at the sensation — at the overwhelming feeling of finally, truly becoming one after so many years of separation.

He stilled for a moment, his forehead pressed to yours, breathing heavily as if grounding himself in you.

“Y/N…” he whispered again, his voice filled with something close to awe.

“Move, Wonwoo,” you whispered back, your voice trembling. “Please.”

And with that, he began to move — slow at first, deep and deliberate, as his lips found yours again, swallowing your soft gasps.

The room filled with the soft sounds of your breathless moans and his quiet groans as his pace gradually built, each movement more desperate, more consuming than the last.

Your hands gripped his back, your nails lightly digging into his skin as pleasure rolled over you in waves.

Wonwoo's name escaped your lips again and again, your voice breaking as he brought you higher, his own breathing growing ragged, his pace faltering slightly as he neared his edge.

Finally, with one last desperate thrust, you both tumbled over the edge together — his body shuddering above you, his soft groan buried into your neck as you clung to each other, lost in the overwhelming release.

For a long while, neither of you spoke — only the sounds of your shared breath filled the room.

Then, softly, his weight shifted as he gently rolled to your side, but his arms never left you, pulling you into his chest, his heartbeat pounding against your ear.

He pressed a soft kiss into your hair and you knew your life was about to change for the better. 

The next day, Seongmin was finally strong enough to leave the healing center.

As you approached, you saw him standing by the gates, waiting eagerly. The moment his eyes caught sight of you and Wonwoo, his face lit up in pure joy.

He broke into a run, his small legs carrying him as fast as they could. Wonwoo stepped forward, catching him mid-run and lifting him up into his arms like he was still the little boy he should have always been allowed to be.

Seongmin giggled, clinging tightly to his father’s neck. Wonwoo chuckled softly, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his head as the boy buried himself in his embrace.

You stood there, watching them, a soft smile curving on your lips. Your chest swelled with something you hadn’t felt in a long time — peace. A quiet kind of happiness that made you silently thank the heavens.

Wonwoo glanced at you, his eyes warm, his gaze lingering longer than it ever had before.

The months that followed were tender and careful, like learning how to live all over again. You were rebuilding your family — not just surviving, but living.

Wonwoo stayed home more often now, helping with the boys, laughing with them, listening to you. He was still awkward sometimes — uncertain with his own emotions — but he was trying, every single day.

And you could feel it: the distance that had once felt so permanent was now gone.

One evening, as the lanterns flickered softly around your bedroom, you lay beside him in your now shared bed. His arm was draped over your waist, his breath steady against your hair.

But tonight, your heart raced differently.

You glanced up at him, nervous, and he immediately noticed the shift. His hand gently brushed your cheek as his dark eyes searched yours.

“What is it?” he asked softly.

You hesitated, your voice almost caught in your throat. But you reached for his hand, guiding it carefully down to your stomach.

Wonwoo froze, his hand resting flat over your belly. His breath hitched as realization dawned on him.

“진짜…?” he whispered, barely able to believe what he was feeling beneath his hand.

You nodded, smiling through the tears building in your eyes. “Yes.”

He stared at you, entirely overcome. His lips parted, his voice catching as if searching for words that had never been spoken between you before.

And then, softly, with a tremble in his voice — he said it.

“I love you.”

The first time. The words you had both carried for years, never daring to speak.

Your breath shuddered, tears falling freely now as you smiled up at him, your voice breaking as you answered:

“I love you too.”

Wonwoo exhaled, his head lowering to press his forehead against yours. His arms tightened around you, holding you as though he would never let go again.

It was another groggy morning at Dongho High, and you were struggling to keep your eyes open as the teacher’s monotone voice droned on from the front of the classroom. Your notebook lay open in front of you, half-filled with rushed scribbles from your all-nighter. You had stayed up until 2 a.m. cramming for the math test, but by the time you walked into class that morning, your brain felt like a fried circuit board.

Your eyelids began to droop, and your head bobbed slightly forward—until the sharp sound of the bell jolted you upright.

"Yah, did you fall asleep again?" Seo-yeon leaned over from the seat next to you, grinning as she packed up her things.

You let out a long yawn. “I stayed up so late reviewing integrals. I think I actually started dreaming about them.”

“And? How’d the test go?” she teased, nudging your arm.

“Not good,” you groaned, rubbing your temple.

Seo-yeon scoffed, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Yeah, right. You’re literally one of the top scorers in our year. I bet you still got an A.”

You both laughed as you made your way down the crowded staircase toward the main corridor. The hallway buzzed with chatter, and you noticed a small crowd forming near the entrance. Students craned their necks and whispered, eyes following something—or someone—moving through the sea of uniforms.

Before you could register what was happening, something whizzed past your peripheral vision.

Your eyes flew open just in time to see a skateboard barreling toward you—and the tall boy riding it.

He yanked the board sideways with a sharp scrape, stopping just inches away from colliding with you.

"Yah!" you exclaimed, instinctively stepping back. "Watch where you're going!"

The boy jumped off his board, holding up his hands in apology. “I—sorry. I didn’t see you.”

You took a breath, steadying your heart from the near-accident. That’s when he really looked at you—and when everything else around him seemed to stop.

You had long, dark hair pulled back into a clean ponytail, strands framing your face just enough to soften your sharp eyes. Your skin glowed faintly from the morning chill, rosy cheeks accentuating your features. Your lips—full and tinged a natural cherry red—parted slightly in disbelief.

And for a moment, Mingyu forgot how to speak.

“I’m Kim Mingyu,” he said, sticking out his hand a little awkwardly.

You eyed him warily, then shook it.

“Ah,” you nodded, a knowing look on your face. “So you're the one all the girls have been whispering about.”

He flashed a boyish, lopsided grin. “Yeah, that’s me.”

You raised a brow. “Can’t really see what all the fuss is about.”

Mingyu chuckled, a little caught off guard by your bluntness. “Maybe I could show you.”

You blinked. Did he just—?

You took a step back. “Bye,” you said flatly, brushing past him before he could say anything else.

Mingyu stood there, watching you disappear down the hall. For a second, he forgot all about the board beneath his feet or the commotion around him.

He’d never seen anyone like you before—someone with those sharp, curious eyes and cherry-bitten lips, who looked him straight in the face and didn’t flinch. Someone who made his stomach flip, and not because he almost hit you.

He was still standing there when two arms looped around his shoulders from behind.

“Yah, who was that?” Mingyu asked, eyes wide with intrigue.

“Y/N from Class 4,” Xu Minghao chimed in before Dokyeom could answer. “She’s one of the best students in our year. Everyone knows her.”

“Except you, apparently,” Seokmin added, smacking Mingyu lightly on the back of the head.

Mingyu barely reacted, his eyes still fixed in the direction you’d walked off to.

“Well,” he said with a crooked smile, “now I do.”

And just like that, getting to know you became his new mission.

The next day, you walked into class and immediately noticed something strange—an extra seat had been set up beside yours. You blinked at it, puzzled. No one new was transferring into your class… at least, that’s what you thought.

Ms. Park entered a moment later, adjusting her glasses and clearing her throat as she addressed the room.

“We have a student who requested to transfer into our class. He was… very insistent about it. I’m not quite sure why,” she said, eyeing the class with curiosity. “Come in.”

And that’s when Kim Mingyu walked through the door.

The reaction was instant. Girls gasped and exchanged excited whispers. A few straightened up in their seats, fluffing their hair or adjusting their collars like they were prepping for a meet-cute moment.

Your heart dropped a little when you saw where he was headed. Straight toward the empty seat next to you.

He plopped into the chair like it had always been his. "Hi," he said, turning toward you with that same charming grin.

You blinked. “Hi,” you mumbled back, giving a small, awkward wave before facing the front again.

Throughout the lesson, you could feel him sneaking glances your way. At first, you tried to ignore it, chalking it up to boredom—but by the time the bell rang, you were practically burning under his gaze.

"Y/N," he said, stopping you before you could stand.

You looked at him, arms halfway through putting your things away.

“I just… wanted to say sorry again. About almost hitting you with my skateboard. I should’ve been more careful.”

You hesitated—then smiled, just a little. “It’s fine.”

And for some reason, that small smile felt like a firework going off in his chest.

He leaned a bit closer. “I know this is weird, and I barely know you but… I need your help.”

You gave him a wary look. “With what?”

“Studying,” he said.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“I’m not doing well,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like, barely-passing levels of not well. And I know you’re one of the top students here. If I don’t pass this semester, I can’t play.”

“Play what?”

“Baseball,” he said, a little sheepish. “I’m on the varsity team. But if I don’t bring my grades up, I’m benched.”

You raised a brow. “The school has a tutoring center, you know. Maybe try there.”

You slung your bag over your shoulder and started walking, but he followed after you.

“Hey, please. I can’t sit through another teacher after class—”

“Didn’t you say you wanted to study?” you shot back, giving him a look.

“I mean, yeah, but…” He trailed off, clearly floundering. “I was hoping you could help. Just like, after school, before training. An hour or so.”

You stopped in your tracks and turned to face him. “Look, I don’t know why you suddenly want me to tutor you, but I’m sure you’ll find someone else. Good luck, okay?”

Without waiting for his reply, you walked off.

Back in your seat, you leaned toward Seo-yeon and muttered, “What’s up with him?”

Seo-yeon looked at you, wide-eyed. “Did he just ask you to tutor him?”

From the back of the class, Dokyeom stifled a laugh. “Bro… you just got rejected.”

Mingyu slumped in his chair, lips pressed together in defeat.

Over the next few days, he didn’t bring it up again. He still sat beside you—still glanced your way sometimes—but he didn’t ask for help. Didn’t say a word about tutoring.

Until one morning, when Ms. Park returned the math tests.

Your name was called first. As expected, you were one of the top scorers again. You felt a few eyes on you, but you kept your head down.

When Mingyu got his paper, you couldn’t help but glance sideways.

His jaw clenched subtly. It wasn’t failing… but it wasn’t good either. He stared at the paper for a moment, then slowly packed it away and headed for the door, shoulders lower than usual.

You stared after him. And for some reason, your conscience tugged.

Before you knew it, your feet were moving.

“Ya, Kim Mingyu!” you called out down the hallway.

He turned, surprised.

You stopped in front of him, crossing your arms. “Two times a week. An hour and a half. That’s it.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I’ll help you. But only until your grades improve. After that, you’re on your own.”

A slow smile bloomed across his face—one so bright it made your stomach flip against your will. “Really? Y/N, I—”

He stepped forward, arms half-outstretched like he might hug you, and you immediately held a hand up.

“Don’t even think about it,” you warned.

He laughed, pulling back. “Okay, okay. Tomorrow after class?”

You nodded, already turning to leave. “Don’t be late.”

He stood there, beaming as he watched you walk off.

Behind him,  Minghao and Dokyeom echanged looks.

“Ya, Kim Mingyu,” Minghao said, nudging him, “I’ve never seen you like this.”

Mingyu tried to hide his grin, cheeks flushed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But deep down, he knew exactly what was happening.

And it was only just beginning.

You stepped into the school library for your first study session with Kim Mingyu, expecting to wait a few minutes—maybe even having to drag him out of practice or hunt him down in the hallways. But to your surprise, there he was already, sitting at one of the corner tables, flipping through his nearly empty notebook.

He looked up the moment you entered.

“Hey, you’re early,” you said, arching a brow as you slid into the seat beside him.

“You said not to be late,” he replied with a proud grin, eyes crinkling as he beamed at you. “So here I am.”

You scoffed. “Didn’t think you’d actually listen.”

“Guess I’m full of surprises.”

You didn’t answer that, instead pulling out your own notes and flipping to the marked pages. “Let’s just start. We’re reviewing your exam—specifically the parts you got wrong.”

He groaned. “That’s like… the whole thing.”

“Exactly,” you said dryly, handing him a printout of your mock exercises.

You began going over the basics of the unit, walking him through the problems. He seemed to follow—barely—until you reached one question.

“So when you add pi here, you have to consider—”

“Wait. Hold on. What’s pi?”

You turned to look at him, eyes wide. “You don’t know what pi is?”

He gave you a hopeful smile. “...Apple pie?”

You blinked. Then smacked his arm lightly with your pen. “Ya!”

“Ow! I’m just trying to lighten the mood!” he said, laughing.

“You're going to fail if you keep making stupid jokes.”

“But you smiled,” he pointed out smugly.

You rolled your eyes. “Barely.”

“Still counts. I’m tracking points now.”

“Good, because that’s the only thing you will be tracking correctly in math at this rate.”

He gasped. “Are you saying I’m hopeless?”

“I’m saying you’re one corny joke away from academic doom.”

“Then I’ll hold the jokes. For now,” he grinned, and something about the way he looked at you—bright, boyish, and genuinely trying—made your lips twitch upward again.

The session went by quicker than you expected. Somewhere between exponential functions and Mingyu asking if “calculators count as cheating,” time slipped away.

Eventually, you closed your notebook. “That’s all for today.”

Mingyu stretched, letting out a breath. “I feel like my brain ran a marathon.”

“It kind of did,” you said, standing up and slinging your bag over your shoulder.

He walked beside you toward the school gate. The late afternoon sun was already turning orange, casting soft shadows on the pavement.

“Hey,” he said as you stepped outside, “are you heading home now?”

“Yeah,” you nodded.

He slowed down a little, matching your pace. “I have practice after this, so… I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”

You glanced at him and nodded. “Okay.”

That smile crept up his face again—effortless, heart-stopping.

“That damn smile,” he muttered under his breath, but you heard it.

You looked away, lips twitching.

“Thanks again,” he said softly, a little more serious this time. “I mean it.”

You gave a small wave and started walking off. “Don’t be late next time.”

He watched you go, hands in his pockets, still smiling like a fool.

Later that evening, you made your way home, tossed your bag on your desk, and collapsed face-first onto your bed. The day had been long, and you were barely hanging on to consciousness—until your phone buzzed.

You picked it up lazily and squinted at the screen.

Kim Mingyu *Text me when you’re home :) *

You frowned slightly. Since when did he care?

Still, your thumbs moved before you could think twice.

Home.

You dropped the phone beside you, staring at the ceiling with a furrowed brow.

Kim Mingyu was confusing.

And you had a feeling he was only going to get more confusing from here on out.

The next day, you were barely holding yourself together.

This was what happened when you got too caught up in a book—you lost all track of time. One chapter became three. Then five. And suddenly, it was 2:00 a.m., and you were still wide-eyed and flipping pages while the rest of the world slept.

Now, you sat at your desk, yawning into your sleeve, eyelids heavy as the room buzzed with the quiet rustle of early morning chatter.

“Long night?” a familiar voice asked.

You turned your head to find Mingyu already watching you, his chin rested lazily on his hand. There was something annoyingly amused about his expression—like he found your half-asleep state way too cute for his own good.

You gave a half-nod. “Mm.”

“What did you do?” he asked gently, like he didn’t want to wake you further.

“Huh?”

He chuckled, voice low. “What kept you up?”

“I was reading…”

But before you could finish, the classroom door slid open with a click, and Ms. Park walked in with her usual brisk stride.

“Settle down. Math books out.”

Your eyes widened. A quiet curse slipped under your breath as you reached into your bag—and felt nothing.

Your math book was still on your desk at home.

A groan echoed behind you. You didn’t even need to look to know it was Dokyeom.

Ms. Park scanned the room with her hawk-like gaze. “No book, no seat. You know the rule. Out to the hallway.”

You sighed, grabbed your bag, and trudged out the door with a muttered “Yes, ma’am.” The hallway was quiet and cool, and you leaned against the wall with a huff, already annoyed at yourself.

Behind you, the classroom settled again.

Until it didn’t.

A chair scraped abruptly.

You turned slightly, confused.

Then you heard it—Mingyu’s voice, clear and respectful:

“죄송합니다.” Joesonghamnida. I’m sorry.

You blinked.

Your eyes followed the sound as Kim Mingyu strode to the front of the room… and dropped his math book on Dokyeom’s desk.

Gasps rippled across the classroom. Even Ms. Park looked stunned.

“Mingyu—” she started, but he was already heading for the door.

He stepped outside like it was the most natural thing in the world, hands tucked in his pockets, as if he didn’t just voluntarily get himself kicked out of class.

You stared at him, dumbfounded.

“What are you doing?” you asked when he finally reached your spot in the hallway.

He leaned against the wall next to you, far too calm. “Didn’t have my book.”

You gave him a long look. “Yes, you did. I saw it on your table.”

He tilted his head, expression playful. “Must’ve been seeing things.”

“You gave it to Dokyeom.”

“Maybe.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “Why?”

Mingyu shrugged. “What’s in the hallway is more important to me.”

Your breath caught for a second before you looked away, hoping he didn’t see the way your ears turned red.

“I thought you were trying to pass,” you muttered.

“I am,” he grinned. “But how can I if my tutor’s out here instead of in class?”

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth tugged upward despite yourself.

“You’re unbelievable.”

He bumped your shoulder lightly with his. “You say that a lot.”

You stayed like that for a while—side by side in the quiet hallway, exchanging small talk and teasing remarks. He asked about your book, you gave a very filtered synopsis, and he listened like it was more interesting than anything he’d heard all week.

Eventually, the bell rang and the door slid open. Seo-yeon came out and spotted you immediately.

“There you are! Let’s go before we’re late for the next class.”

She tugged on your sleeve.

“See you tomorrow!” Mingyu called out as you were pulled away.

You looked back and gave him a wave—just a small one.

He waved back, grinning like he’d just won something.

Inside the classroom, Dokyeom stared at the math book on his desk, then out at the hallway.

“Bro really gave up his seat for a girl,” he muttered under his breath, equal parts bewildered and impressed.

Over the next few weeks, tutoring Kim Mingyu had become… surprisingly easy.

What started as awkward sessions full of forced small talk and missed calculations had turned into something more relaxed, even fun. He still didn’t know how to properly use parentheses or stop calling pi “the snack that betrayed him,” but you had to admit—he was trying. And somewhere along the way, you had stopped seeing him as just that loud, cocky guy on a skateboard.

You were starting to see him as Kim Mingyu—the boy who made space for you.

One afternoon, you arrived at your usual study spot in the library and paused. There, laid out neatly on the table, were two bags of chips, a bottle of iced tea, and a small pack of cookies.

You raised a brow. “What’s this?”

Mingyu glanced up from his notes and smiled like he hadn’t just casually turned your study table into a convenience store checkout.

“You always stare at the vending machine after class,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I figured… you might be hungry.”

You blinked. “You noticed that?”

He shrugged. “You kind of glare at it like it owes you money.”

You let out a soft laugh, then sat down, hiding your flustered expression behind a quiet, “Thanks.”

He just grinned, cheeks dusted with pink.

That afternoon, he didn’t have training, and for some reason, he insisted on walking you home. At first, you said he didn’t have to—but he was already grabbing his bag and saying, “Too late. I’m coming.”

The walk was a little awkward at first. The air was still warm from the late afternoon sun, and the two of you walked in step, your bags occasionally bumping. But as always, Mingyu filled the silence with jokes, stories about his teammates, and random thoughts that made no sense—but made you laugh anyway.

Eventually, you reached your front gate.

You turned toward him. “Thanks for walking me. I’ll head in.”

But just as you reached for the latch, he called out, “Wait.”

You turned back, eyes curious.

He stood there with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, suddenly fidgeting.

“So... the season starts tomorrow,” he said, voice a little quieter now. “It’s our first game.”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden shift in tone.

“I know baseball’s probably not your thing,” he added quickly, looking down at his shoes. “But... just in case… you wanted to come. I mean—you don’t have to. Just—thought I’d ask.”

You didn’t know what to say. And maybe it showed on your face—because Mingyu gave a tight, awkward smile and looked away.

“It’s fine. I get it,” he said quickly. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you Monday.”

And before you could even open your mouth to answer, he turned and started walking down the street, his hands still stuffed in his pockets.

You stood there for a moment, frozen under the dim porch light, watching him go.

You didn’t know why it caught you off guard.

But somehow... it did.

The sun was starting to dip behind the bleachers, casting a warm golden haze over the field as Dongho High prepared for their first baseball game of the season. The stands buzzed with students, teachers, and parents—all waiting, cheering, shouting.

Kim Mingyu adjusted his cap, walked onto the pitch, and exhaled slowly.

This part always got him. The nerves. The weight of expectation. The buzz of adrenaline just beneath his skin.

He bounced lightly on his feet, shaking his legs out of habit. He just needed to get the first batter out—that was always his goal. One clean pitch, one clean strike, and everything would settle into place.

As he stepped into position, gripping the ball, something—someone—made him glance toward the stands.

He froze.

There, in the middle of the crowd, was you.

You weren’t wearing school colors or shouting like the others. But you were there. You were smiling.

And when you caught him looking, you lifted your hand in a small wave.

Mingyu’s breath hitched. His lips curled instinctively into a grin—wide and boyish and so full of surprise that even his teammates noticed from the dugout.

He turned back to the batter.

Strike one.

Strike two.

Strike three.

Just like that, the game began on a high—and Dongho High never looked back.

They won, thanks in no small part to Mingyu’s pitching.

And as the crowd began to disperse, you found yourself waiting by the gate of the field, arms crossed casually, eyes scanning for one person.

It didn’t take long.

Mingyu spotted you instantly and jogged toward you, his hair slightly damp, cheeks flushed from the game. His smile hadn’t left his face since he saw you in the stands.

“You came,” he said, breathless.

You smiled. “Well… you invited me, didn’t you?”

He blinked, still catching his breath. “Yeah, but… you came.”

The way he said it—like he couldn’t believe it—made your heart do something weird in your chest.

Before you could respond, two familiar voices cut in.

“Yah, do you see this guy right now?” Dokyeom clapped Mingyu on the back. “We’ve never seen him smile this—”

Mingyu immediately smacked him across the head.

“OW! Ya!” Dokyeom yelped, rubbing his head.

Beside him, Minghao chuckled. “DK, leave them be,” he said coolly, giving you a polite nod. “See you guys.”

They disappeared back toward the team, leaving the two of you alone again.

You adjusted your bag. “I should get going.”

“I’ll walk you,” he said immediately.

You stared at him. “Don’t you have to stay with your team or something?”

He shrugged, already falling into step beside you. “I’ll see them on Monday.”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t stop him.

The walk home was quiet for a moment, comfortable. Then, of course, Mingyu had to ruin it—in typical Mingyu fashion.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said seriously, “if I ever get really rich, I’m going to buy a pet capybara. Name it ‘Chairman.’ Teach it to sit at the dinner table like a person.”

You blinked at him, caught somewhere between horror and laughter. “What?”

“I saw a video. They’re very chill. I feel like we’d vibe.”

You smacked his arm. “Ya! You’re seriously not normal, are you?”

He winced dramatically. “Ow! I come off a win and you assault me?”

“You deserve it.”

He grinned.

Soon, you arrived at your house. You turned to thank him, but he beat you to it.

Just as you reached for the gate, he gently grabbed your wrist—not tightly, but enough to make you pause.

“Hey…” he said, his voice suddenly softer. “Thank you for coming today. It… meant a lot to me.”

You looked at him, a little surprised by the sincerity in his voice.

Then you smiled.

“Goodnight, Kim Mingyu.”

And before he could say anything else, you slipped inside, leaving him standing at your gate—grinning like a complete idiot.

The next week, math class was as ordinary as ever—until Mrs. Park called on Kim Mingyu to solve the equation on the board.

A collective hush fell over the room.

Mingyu sighed dramatically as he stood, stretching his arms like he was preparing for a triathlon. As he walked past your desk, he looked at you, his eyes wide with mock despair.

You gave him a look and motioned for him to go with a flick of your wrist. Come on.

He nodded solemnly, then stepped up to the front. You noticed a few girls watching him intently as he passed—whispers already starting to build.

To everyone's surprise, including Mrs. Park’s, Mingyu answered correctly.

There was a pause.

Then: “Oooohhhh!”

The class erupted in playful shock. Even you raised your eyebrows, impressed.

“Wah, Mingyu! You’ve really improved,” Mrs. Park said, flipping through her notes. “Kim Mingyu is living proof that nothing is impossible.”

That earned a round of chuckles.

Then she added, teasing, “Tell you what. If you get one more problem right this week and win your game on Saturday, I’ll grant you a wish—cut one class, or even get a grade bumped up.”

Cheers filled the room. Dokyeom let out an exaggerated whoop from the back.

But Mingyu didn’t respond right away. Instead, he tilted his head, eyes narrowing in thought.

“No,” he said suddenly. “There’s someone else I want to cut a deal with.”

The class went quiet.

“Who?” Mrs. Park asked, confused.

He turned his head—and looked straight at you.

“Y/N.”

Your stomach dropped.

The class exploded.

“DAEBAK,” you heard DK yell behind you, and you could already feel a dozen pairs of eyes swinging toward your desk.

“Ya, Y/N,” Mingyu said, voice loud and clear. “If I get one more question right, and win on Saturday… go out with me.”

Screams.

Literal screams.

The girls gawked, half in envy, half in disbelief. Some of them started muttering instantly—jealous, confused, calculating. The guys just howled and slapped Mingyu on the back as he returned to his seat like nothing happened.

Your mouth opened. “W-What?” was all you could manage.

Mingyu smiled like he hadn’t just turned your world upside down.

He answered the next question flawlessly.

“One down. One more to go,” he said, taking his seat again, smug.

Mrs. Park blinked at him, then looked at you. “Well… I’ll leave that deal between the two of you,” she said, laughing awkwardly, remembering all too well the hallway incident from before.

When the bell rang, chaos broke loose.

You barely had time to pack your things before your desk was swarmed—girls crowding around, not out of excitement for you, but to dig for information.

“Are you really going to go out with him?”

“You have to say yes.”

“I mean, you tutor him, right? Did you like him this whole time?!”

You didn’t answer.

You just slipped out quietly while they were distracted and made your way out of the classroom.

Footsteps followed close behind.

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

“Ya! I knew you weren’t normal,” you snapped over your shoulder. “But this? 찐자!”

Mingyu laughed behind you. “Too much?”

“Wah, are you sure you didn’t get hit in the head at training?”

“No,” he replied simply.

You stopped, turning to face him. “Then why would you say that in front of everyone?! Even the teacher?!”

He shrugged, following you again. “Because I meant it.”

You huffed. “And you just thought blurting it out to the entire class would be romantic?”

“I thought it was cool,” he said. 

“Ya, now everyone is going to be talking about it” you muttered.

He stepped closer. “But I’m serious.”

You faltered for a moment. “Mingyu…”

“What do you have to lose?” he asked, tone quieter now, eyes more focused.

You stared at him.

And for a moment, you couldn’t think of anything.

“I’ll think about it,” you said finally, turning to walk away.

But of course, Mingyu followed.

“Ya,” you snapped, “are you seriously following me all the way to the ladies’ room?!”

He froze mid-step. “Ah… no.” His eyes widened like he just remembered boundaries existed.

You shook your head and walked off, leaving him standing there—still smiling like he’d already won.

They won.

The crowd roared, students screaming and jumping in the bleachers, waving homemade banners and throwing confetti that someone definitely wasn’t supposed to bring to school.

And through all the noise, you sat frozen in your seat—unsure how to feel.

Mingyu had done it.

He’d pitched the last inning like his life depended on it, and now Dongho High was celebrating their second straight win of the season. The entire class had come to watch, filling nearly half the stands in a rowdy, chaotic mess. They were still cheering when Mingyu turned around on the field, scanning the crowd.

And then his eyes locked with yours.

You panicked.

You quickly stood, slipping out of your row, trying to make your way to the exit before someone said something—or he did.

But you didn’t even make it past the bleachers.

“Y/N!” his voice cut through the air.

You turned, startled.

There he was, running toward you, his cap in hand, hair slightly damp with sweat, still catching his breath. He stopped a few feet away, chest rising and falling, his eyes never leaving yours.

He didn’t say anything else.

He didn’t have to.

He was waiting.

You looked at him—at the boy who gave up his seat in class for you, who walked you home, who remembered your favorite snacks, who asked you out in front of everyone like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You didn’t smile. But you didn’t look away either.

You stepped forward just enough for only him to hear.

“Pick me up at 7.”

Then you turned and walked off—heart pounding, ears burning—leaving Mingyu standing there in stunned silence, a slow, unbelievable grin spreading across his face.

He was early.

Of course he was.

You peeked through the window and saw him already waiting at your front gate, hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels like he couldn’t stand still. Your heart thumped a little harder.

You took a deep breath and opened the door.

He looked up immediately, and his face lit up like someone had just handed him the championship trophy.

“There you are,” he grinned. “You look…”

“Don’t,” you warned playfully, crossing your arms. “If you say something cheesy I’m canceling this date.”

“I was going to say ‘you look like a walking distraction,’ but I guess I’ll save that for next time,” he teased.

You rolled your eyes, trying to hide your smile. “So… where are we going?”

He shrugged. “You’ll see.”

You ended up at a small restaurant tucked between two hardware stores just off the main road—a quiet spot with warm lighting, handwritten menus, and a cozy charm that felt out of place in such a busy part of town.

You stared at it, a little surprised. “How did you even find this place?”

“I get hungry a lot,” he said matter-of-factly. “I eat everywhere.”

You laughed as he opened the door for you.

The two of you sat by the window, sharing a plate of tteokbokki and bowls of warm soup. Mingyu, unsurprisingly, ordered enough food for three people.

Midway through dinner, he leaned forward dramatically. “So… scale of 1 to 10, how impressed are you by my excellent restaurant taste?”

“You get a 7,” you said with a straight face.

“Only a 7?”

“I’m docking 3 points for ordering two bowls of rice after saying you weren’t that hungry.”

“Ya, that’s strategy,” he said, pointing his spoon at you. “I paced myself.”

“You inhaled the side dishes.”

“I was testing them for poison,” he deadpanned.

You shook your head, laughing harder than you expected to. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet… you said yes to me.”

You glanced at him, and he wasn’t smiling now—just looking at you with that open, earnest gaze that always caught you off guard.

You looked away, cheeks warm. “Yeah, well… I have bad judgment.”

He smiled again, gently. “Don’t take it back now.”

Later that night, on the walk home, the wind started to bite at your hands. You rubbed them together and blew into your palms, trying to keep the chill at bay.

Then, without a word, Mingyu reached out and gently took your arm, tucking your hand into the crook of his elbow and covering it with his own.

You looked up at him, surprised.

“Cold,” he said simply. “Don’t argue.”

You didn’t.

When you reached your house, you lingered at the gate for a moment.

He rocked slightly on his heels again, just like he had when he arrived.

“Did you have a good night?” he asked softly.

You nodded, smiling. “Yeah. I did.”

There was a pause. Then he leaned forward—hesitating just slightly—and pressed a kiss to your cheek.

It was quick. Gentle. But it sent a rush of warmth through you that had nothing to do with your hands.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, eyes bright.

You stepped inside, hand still tingling, smile still tugging at your lips.

That was the night everything changed.

That was the beginning.

After that night, things fell into place—easily, naturally, as if they were always meant to.

You and Kim Mingyu started dating, and he was… something else.

He walked you to school every morning, usually appearing outside your gate with a grin and something small in his hand—your favorite drink, a breakfast bun, a dandelion he picked off the sidewalk claiming it was “romantic.” He’d drop you off at the gates, jog to his homeroom, and still make it in before the bell.

After school, he’d find you by the gates again, even when he only had ten minutes before training. Sometimes, he’d run back to the field late—hair wind-swept, out of breath, but smiling like it was worth it.

He was attentive in ways that didn’t ask to be noticed.

When your pen ran out in class, he somehow had an extra one—even in subjects he wasn’t in. When you mentioned being tired, he brought a pack of vitamin drinks the next day. When you told him you hated eating alone, he made sure you never had to.

You also grew close to Minghao and Dokyeom—who had quickly adopted you into their chaotic trio. Minghao teased you both mercilessly but always looked out for you like an older brother. Dokyeom was the loudest third wheel in existence, but he made you laugh when you needed it most.

You studied with Mingyu on slow afternoons in the library (though “studied” was generous—he mostly doodled on your notes and asked questions like Do you think birds ever get jealous of airplanes?).

There were movie nights, street food dates, late-night phone calls, and one unforgettable rainy walk where he insisted you both could share one umbrella, only to have you both soaked by the time you got home.

Everything was light. Warm. Happy. For a year, you lived in complete bliss with Kim Mingyu. 

Until it wasn’t.

One night, your parents sat you down at the dinner table.

Your father had gotten a job offer. A good one. In another country.

You were leaving in a few days.

The moment they said the words, your heart dropped like glass.

Everything blurred.

The house became quiet. Your food went cold. You barely heard the rest of what they said.

You didn’t go to school the next day.

Or the one after.

You stayed in bed, hugging your knees, phone untouched. You couldn’t bring yourself to face Mingyu—to say goodbye before you even had the chance to understand how it was all being taken away.

But he noticed your absence immediately.

By the end of the second day, he was pacing.

And that evening, there was a knock at your front door.

You froze.

Then you heard your mom’s voice. “Y/N… it’s Mingyu.”

Your chest tightened.

You stood slowly, heart hammering, and opened the door.

There he was.

Slightly disheveled. Still wearing his school uniform, bag slung lazily over his shoulder. His hair a little messy. His eyes searching.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Where’ve you been?”

You opened your mouth.

But no words came out.

He looked at you for only a second, and he knew something was wrong.

The light in your eyes—the one that used to shine even when you were annoyed with him, even when you pretended not to care—wasn’t there.

And that scared him.

He stepped forward instinctively, but you turned and shut the door behind you before he could say anything.

“Let’s go for a walk,” you murmured.

Mingyu nodded, silent.

You walked side by side under the streetlights, your pace slower than usual, your hands shoved deep into your jacket pockets. The air between you was too quiet—too still.

You both stopped near the corner convenience store, where the neon lights buzzed faintly and the streets were quiet.

“I’m moving,” you said, the words barely above a whisper.

He turned to you, blinking like he didn’t quite hear it right.

“What?”

“My dad got a job. We’re moving abroad. In a few days.”

There was a pause.

“Oh…” was all he said.

You waited, heart pounding.

Then he gave a small, nervous smile. “Okay. I mean—it’s fine. I’ll just have to visit you. I’ll start saving up. I could—”

“Gyu,” you said, and his eyes snapped to yours.

“I’m not coming back.”

The silence that followed was louder than anything you’d ever heard.

But Mingyu just kept talking, voice rising in stubborn determination.

“I know that, but we’ll just figure it out. We’ll text. Call. I’ll learn how to use stupid time zones. I’ll—”

“No,” you said sharply.

His words caught in his throat.

“What do you mean, no?”

“I mean… I don’t want to do that,” you said, your voice cracking slightly. “I don’t want some half-life version of us. Late-night calls. Missed messages. Waiting for something that doesn’t feel real anymore.”

He stepped back like you’d slapped him.

“Are you serious right now?”

You looked away. “It’s just going to make it harder.”

“It’s already hard!” he snapped, and you flinched.

He rarely raised his voice. Not like that.

“You’re seriously just going to walk away from this? From me? Just because it’s not going to be convenient?”

“It’s not about convenience,” you said, your voice shaking. “It’s about not dragging something out that’s going to hurt us both.”

“So what? You’d rather end it now and pretend none of it mattered?”

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Don’t make it sound like I don’t care—like I’m choosing to leave you.”

“You are,” he said, quieter now, his eyes burning.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “No. Life is choosing for me.”

He stared at you for a long time, jaw tight, hands clenched at his sides.

“Okay,” he said finally, voice low. “If this is really what you want.”

You looked at him, at the boy who brought you snacks when you forgot to eat, who remembered which books you liked, who made you laugh when you wanted to cry.

“It’s not,” you whispered.

But you didn’t take it back.

You just stood there, both of you still, with the entire world shifting beneath your feet.

And then Mingyu took a slow step back.

“Good night, Y/N,” he said softly.

And he walked away before either of you could fall apart.

You ran up to your room the moment you got home, barely managing to shut the door before your legs gave out beneath you.

And then you wept.

You buried your face in your arms, your pillow, your blanket—anything that could muffle the sound of your heartbreak.

Because you had hurt him.

You saw it in his eyes the moment you said no. Like something inside him had cracked.

But you knew you had to.

You didn’t want him waiting. Didn’t want him counting down days, missing milestones, sitting through quiet weekends hoping your name would light up his screen. You didn’t want him shrinking his world for a relationship that could only exist through screens and static and midnight silence.

You didn’t want him stuck in a memory of you.

You wanted him to live his life.

To smile the way he always did.

To win more games.

To fall in love again, if he had to.

Even if it meant without you.

So you cried—not because you didn’t love him, but because you did.

Enough to let him go.

10 years later… 

You didn’t think you’d ever come back.

Not really.

Not after all the time that passed. Not after the life you had built somewhere else.

But here you were—back on familiar ground, standing in the arrivals terminal of the same airport you left a decade ago. Ten years. It felt like both a lifetime and a blink.

You were almost thirty now. So far from the teenage girl who once cried into her pillow, heartbroken but resolved. You had changed—grown into yourself, made mistakes, built a career, loved and lost and learned. Still, something about being home again made you feel seventeen all over.

You pulled your luggage along slowly, scanning the crowd. And then you saw her.

Seo-yeon.

She stood just beyond the railing, arms crossed, waving at you with a dramatically unimpressed look on her face—like you were a criminal returning from exile.

You burst out laughing and walked toward her. And before you could even say a word, she launched herself at you.

“Ya!” she cried, wrapping her arms around you tightly. “Don’t ever leave again!”

You hugged her back, eyes stinging. “I won’t.”

She pulled away just enough to squint at you. “You promise?”

“Promise,” you said with a soft smile.

She sniffled once, then rolled her eyes, already grabbing one of your bags. “You better not. I aged ten years without you, and I blame you for half of it.”

“You look the same,” you teased. “Minus the dramatic entrance.”

“Oh, please. I was subtle. You should’ve seen what I had planned.”

You both laughed as you made your way out of the airport, the rhythm between you clicking into place like nothing had changed.

As the car pulled into your old neighborhood, your heart thudded.

Your parents still kept the house. That familiar white gate. The same balcony where you used to watch the rain fall during monsoon season. The same porch you once stood on when Mingyu kissed your cheek for the first time.

It hadn’t changed.

But you had.

And something told you this was just the beginning—again.

You stepped into your old home and let out a soft sigh.

It was all exactly as you remembered. The slightly uneven floorboard by the hallway entrance, the creak of the staircase banister, the faint scent of jasmine from your mother’s diffuser. Time had passed—but this place had stayed the same, like it had been waiting for you.

You set your bags down and looked around the living room. Same curtains, same sofa set. Same framed photos of a much younger you on the wall.

After a while, you and Seo-yeon decided to head to the mall. You said it was to pick up some new furniture for the guest room, but you both knew you just needed to get out of the house.

While browsing throw pillows and debating if the lamps were “cozy” or “ugly,” Seo-yeon casually asked, “What are you doing tonight?”

You scoffed. “Nothing, of course. I just got here.”

“Come out with us,” she said, too casually.

You narrowed your eyes. “Us?”

“Yeah, me… Dokyeom, Minghao…”

“You still hang out with them?” you asked, surprised.

Seo-yeon laughed, tossing a cushion into the cart. “Yeah. Never really stopped, actually. Group chats, game nights, the occasional karaoke disaster.”

You smiled despite yourself. “That’s nice.”

“Well,” she continued, “since you don’t start at the gallery until next week, you don’t have an excuse. So you’re coming.”

You hesitated for a moment, flipping through a catalog half-heartedly. “What are they up to now, anyway?”

She perked up. “Minghao’s a big-time artist now—super conceptual, sells his work internationally. Dokyeom’s in theater—musicals, mostly. He’s surprisingly good, too. People cry when he sings.”

You laughed. “I believe it. He always had that dramatic flair.”

Then she paused, glancing at you carefully.

“Mingyu will be there.”

Your fingers froze on the edge of the page.

“Oh,” you said softly.

And just like that, your mind flickered to the last time you saw him. Standing outside your house. Silent. Shattered. Walking away.

“Will that be… all right?” Seo-yeon asked gently.

You inhaled slowly, then gave a small nod. “Of course. Come on—it’s been ten years.”

She let out a quiet breath. “Just making sure. His girlfriend will be there too, by the way.”

You nodded again, doing your best to keep your face neutral. “That’s good. I’m happy for him.”

“You’ve probably seen his face around—he’s huge now. Local baseball legend. He’s even on the side of the department store downtown.”

You had seen the posters.

Smiling, confident, every bit the star you always knew he could be.

You were happy for him.

Truly.

Still, something inside you tightened at the thought of standing in front of him again.

Seo-yeon slung her bag over her shoulder. “Anyway. I’m heading home to rest before tonight. You should too—no use seeing everyone with jet lag and dark circles.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Okay.”

She gave you a meaningful glance before walking off. “You’ll be fine.”

You watched her go, then turned your gaze out the glass window at the dusky horizon.

You tried to prepare yourself.

Tried to believe that it wouldn’t shake you.

That seeing Kim Mingyu again wouldn’t feel like a fault line quietly cracking open beneath your feet.

You made your way to the bar Seo-yeon had texted, your nerves coiled tight in your chest.

It had been so long since you’d seen everyone. You didn’t know how they’d react. You didn’t even know how you would react. But as anxious as you were, it was comforting to know you still had people—people who had stayed, who had waited, even when you hadn’t asked them to.

You stepped inside.

Warm lights. Music humming through the air. Laughter bouncing from booth to booth.

And then—

“Y/N?!”

Dokyeom, mid-sip of his drink, froze with his glass still hovering by his lips. His voice boomed over the music, and suddenly every head at the table turned toward the door.

“YA! WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL US YOU WERE COMING?!” he yelled, scrambling out of his seat as Minghao stood up in one swift motion and practically ran to you.

Minghao pulled you into a hug without hesitation.

“I thought you were a mirage,” he muttered, grinning. “You look exactly the same.”

“Better, actually,” Dokyeom said, appearing beside him and engulfing you in another hug. “Like—glow up levels of unfair.”

You laughed, breathlessly caught between them both as the three of you caused a minor scene at the entrance. The warmth, the familiarity—it hit you harder than you expected.

And then, the room quieted.

Or maybe it just did in your head.

Because you felt it.

His eyes.

You glanced past Minghao’s shoulder.

And there he was.

Kim Mingyu.

Seated casually, a drink in hand, half-turned in his seat. The din of the group still buzzing around him—Bo-ra laughing beside him, her hand gently squeezing his—but his eyes weren’t moving.

He was staring straight at you.

Mingyu had been in good spirits all evening. It had been a long day at a shoot, and this hangout with the usual crew was exactly what he needed. He was relaxed, loose-shouldered, joking with Dokyeom just moments earlier.

But then Dokyeom stopped mid-sentence. And Mingyu turned his head toward the entrance.

And the world tilted.

There you were.

Y/N.

He blinked once, then again, because for a split second, he truly thought he was hallucinating.

But no.

It was you.

Older, yes—but unmistakably you. Your dark hair still tied in that simple ponytail. Your features softer now, more mature, but your eyes… your eyes were exactly the same. Sharp, vibrant. The kind that still saw everything.

You looked stunning.

Exactly like the girl he almost ran over with his skateboard.

Exactly like the girl who once told him goodbye with tears in her eyes and no chance to stay.

It took him a moment to compose himself, his grip tightening slightly on his glass.

Beside him, Bo-ra noticed the shift.

“Who’s that?” she asked, following his gaze.

Before he could answer, Seo-yeon did—seated just a few chairs away, sipping her cocktail.

“Y/N,” she said casually.

Bo-ra blinked. “That Y/N?”

The lightness in her voice vanished. Her posture stiffened, hand slowly slipping away from Mingyu’s.

He didn’t notice.

He was still staring at you.

And you…

You were doing your best not to fall apart.

Because even after ten years…

He still looked at you like you were the only person in the room.

You made your way to the table, heart thudding louder with every step.

The conversation quieted slightly as your presence settled over the group. You stopped in front of Mingyu.

“Hi,” you said simply, meeting his eyes for the first time in a decade.

He gave a short nod. “Hey.”

It was brief. Clipped. And somehow loaded with everything that couldn’t be said.

You slid into the seat across from them, trying not to look like your hands were shaking. That’s when your eyes landed on the woman beside him.

She was poised, pretty—shoulders relaxed, hand resting on the back of Mingyu’s chair. You noticed that he hadn’t introduced her.

So you did it yourself.

“Hi,” you said, offering a polite smile. “I’m Y/N.”

The woman gave a tight smile back. “Bo-ra.”

There was a pause. You could feel the awkwardness inching across the table like fog.

“Oh—sorry,” Mingyu said suddenly, sitting up straighter. “I didn’t know you were… coming here tonight. That you were back.”

The way he said it sounded almost defensive. Like your presence was an unexpected variable in a life he had carefully compartmentalized.

“It’s fine,” you replied quickly, brushing it off.

Conversation gradually picked up again—Seo-yeon filling in the silence, Dokyeom practically bouncing in his seat.

“So how long are you here for?” Minghao asked, leaning forward with interest.

“I’m actually… back for good—”

“YA!” Dokyeom cheered before you could finish, practically leaping from his chair. “No way!”

You laughed, startled. “You’re too loud!”

“You’re gonna get us kicked out,” Seo-yeon muttered, whacking his shoulder.

“For real?!” Minghao asked, eyes wide.

“Yeah. I got a job at Whitestone Gallery. I start next week.”

Minghao blinked. “진짜? (Jinjja?)”

You nodded. “진짜.”

“Ya, I’m planning to have a show there in the next few months!” he said, sitting up excitedly.

“Wait, really?” you said, eyes lighting up.

“We’re gonna be working together again,” he grinned. “Just like in high school.”

You laughed, feeling the tension in your shoulders ease. “I hope you’re less bossy now.”

“Never,” he said proudly, and the table burst into laughter.

Mingyu froze—you were back for good. His stomach twisted, unsure if it was relief or the beginning of something unraveling.

The night went on—warm, loud, nostalgic. But still, you felt that current running beneath the table. Bo-ra hadn’t said much. And Mingyu… he barely looked at you.

Eventually, everyone stood to leave. Outside the bar, the cool night air felt like a reset.

You went around, saying your goodbyes.

Dokyeom pulled you into a dramatic hug. “I’m not letting you leave again.”

You patted his back. “You’ll see me every week.”

He sniffled dramatically. “Not enough.”

You made your way to where Bo-ra and Mingyu were waiting near the curb. You gave Bo-ra a polite smile.

“Bye. It was nice meeting you,” you said.

She returned the gesture—just barely. “You too.”

Then you turned to Mingyu.

“It was nice seeing you again,” you said, tone even.

His gaze flickered toward yours. “I-it was.”

You lingered for a second longer than you meant to.

Then, just as you turned to walk away, he blurted, “Are you far from here? I can drop you before Bo-ra.”

You stopped in your tracks.

So did Bo-ra. Her head snapped toward him with a glare that said everything she didn’t need to say out loud.

You met Mingyu’s eyes.

“I’m ten minutes away. Still at the old house.”

There was the faintest shift in his expression.

Like hearing that made something inside him ache.

“Ah. All right,” he said quietly. “Get home safe.”

You nodded, then turned, your steps slow and careful as you walked away.

Behind you, Bo-ra folded her arms.

The ride home was tense. Bo-ra said nothing for the first minute—just stared out the window, knuckles tight around her phone.

Then it started.

“You offered to drive her? Are you serious?”

Mingyu didn’t answer right away.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said eventually.

“You didn’t introduce me to her. You stared at her the whole night. And then you asked to drive her home.”

“I didn’t know she was coming.”

“But you still asked.”

Silence.

“You know what? Don’t say anything,” Bo-ra muttered. “You don’t even realize what you’re doing.”

And truthfully, he didn’t.

Because even now, with her sitting beside him—her hand once again inches away from his—his mind was still back at the bar. Watching you walk away. Remembering the sound of your laugh. The shape of your smile. The way you looked at him like he was a stranger.

Later that night, he collapsed onto his bed, eyes squeezed shut, jaw tight with frustration.

He had built a whole life without you.

But all it took was one moment—for everything to shift.

“Fuck,” he whispered into the dark, the weight of it crashing down like a wave.

He didn’t know what to do with the part of him that never stopped loving you.

Over the next few days, you found yourself slowly re-familiarizing yourself with the city you used to call home.

It was the same—but different.

The streets still curved the way you remembered, the breeze still carried that faint scent of roasted sweet potatoes from the street stalls. But some of your favorite spots were gone—shuttered bakeries, boarded-up cafes. And in their place were new boutiques, sleek coffee chains, and places that didn’t quite belong to your memory.

Still, as you turned the corner of a quiet street, something familiar tugged at your heart.

The old bookstore.

You smiled instinctively.

It was still there—tucked between a pharmacy and a tea shop, its sign a little faded, the windows stacked with paperbacks and old wooden crates.

You pushed the door open, and the small bell above chimed gently.

The air smelled like aged paper and warmth.

Behind the counter, a woman looked up from her magazine, her glasses slipping down her nose. She blinked at you, squinting slightly—then her face lit up with recognition.

“Ms. Y/L/N,” she said, her voice kind and familiar. “It’s been a while.”

You smiled, walking toward her. “You remember me?”

“Of course I do,” Mrs. Kim said, adjusting her glasses. “You used to sit in that corner after school with a different book every week. You’re still as beautiful as ever.”

You laughed softly, a little shy. “Thank you.”

“Are you visiting?”

You shook your head. “No… I’m back for good.”

Her eyebrows lifted in pleasant surprise. “Oh my. That’s lovely to hear. Let me know if you need anything—you know where everything is.” She paused, then chuckled. “That boy still comes in every so often, you know.”

You tilted your head. “What boy?”

Before she could answer, the bell above the door chimed again.

You turned.

And there he was.

Kim Mingyu, standing in the entrance—hair tousled, hoodie slightly damp from the drizzle outside, a look of quiet shock settling across his face the moment he saw you.

“That boy,” Mrs. Kim said, smiling knowingly.

You stood still, book half-open in your hands, heart thudding too loudly in the quiet little store.

Because of all the places. Of all the moments.

It had to be here.

He froze the moment he saw you, eyes wide, as if time had folded in on itself.

You were standing under the warm lights of the bookstore, fingers brushing over spines like you used to. Like no time had passed at all.

“Hi,” you said first, voice light, cautious.

Mingyu blinked. “Hey,” he replied, lifting his hand in a small wave, like he didn’t trust his voice yet.

You tilted your head. “What brings you here?”

“Uh…” he rubbed the back of his neck. “I like to browse. From time to time.”

“I see,” you said, a quiet smile tugging at your lips. Then you turned toward the shelves, stepping back into that familiar rhythm of browsing. But you didn’t miss the sound of footsteps quickening behind you.

“Looking for anything in particular?” he asked, trailing a few paces behind.

You shook your head. “No. Just browsing.”

He scoffed, amused. “You? Just browsing?”

You turned slightly to look at him. “What?”

He hesitated—then laughed softly, caught off guard by the way your eyes met his. Still bright. Still piercing. Still you.

“Browsing for you is like… five hours,” he said, a teasing glint in his eyes.

You let out a laugh—quiet, reluctant—and then, for a beat, the two of you just stood there. Both caught in the memory of all the afternoons you used to spend here. Him sitting on the armrest of a worn chair, watching you flip through books like you were solving some unspoken mystery. Always pretending he wasn’t interested, even though he never left your side.

The silence settled, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was… familiar.

He followed you through the aisles again, this time without words—just the soft sounds of pages turning, the occasional comment on a strange cover or a title that made you both grin.

Eventually, you made your way to the counter, purchased a book, and stepped out into the fading light. He followed.

“Since when did you like reading?” you asked, glancing at him sideways.

He shrugged, casually. “Been a while. Bo-ra likes to read too.”

That was a lie.

Bo-ra didn’t read. Not that kind of fiction, not these quiet bookstores.

But he couldn’t tell you the truth—that coming here, walking the aisles where you used to lose yourself, was the closest thing he had to a time machine.

“That’s nice,” you replied, noncommittal. “What does she like to read?”

He paused for half a second too long. “Hmmm. Romance?”

You gave him a look. “Why does that sound more like a question than a statement?”

He scratched his head, laughing. “Romance. She reads romance.”

You raised a brow. “Sure she does.”

He didn’t argue. Just smiled awkwardly and walked beside you.

“You don’t have to walk me, you know,” you said.

“I know,” he replied.

And that was that.

The rest of the walk home passed in near silence, broken only by the occasional passing car and the wind rustling the trees.

When you reached your house, you paused at the gate.

“Well,” you said quietly, “thanks for walking me.”

He didn’t reply right away.

Then—“Are you really back for good?”

You turned to face him, eyes steady. “Yup.”

One word. But it landed like a stone in his chest.

You smiled faintly and made your way inside, the door clicking shut behind you.

And Mingyu was left there—standing on the same pavement where you once said goodbye.

Only this time, you were staying.

And he didn’t know what that meant.

Not yet.

The next few weeks, you found yourself seeing Mingyu more often than you expected.

Not deliberately.

It was just how things happened—group dinners, casual get-togethers, late-night coffee runs that turned into impromptu hangouts. You were all part of the same circle again, and naturally, he was there.

So was Bo-ra.

You hated to admit it, but it did something to you. The way she looped her arm through his. The way she laughed a little too loudly at his jokes, touched his shoulder a little too possessively. You told yourself it didn’t matter. You kept your distance. You smiled, laughed, made conversation.

But sometimes—when you caught him looking just a moment too long—you wondered if you were fooling anyone.

Dokyeom had just been cast in the lead of a new play, and he was thrilled. “We’re going out,” he declared in the group chat, followed by five glitter emojis and a suspicious selfie in costume.

Seo-yeon immediately agreed.

Minghao said he’d only come if someone promised to stop Dokyeom from singing his own lines.

And Mingyu?

He needed a drink.

Badly.

Bo-ra, however, wasn’t thrilled.

“You’re going out again? With them?” “Yes. It’s for DK.” “She’s going to be there, right?” Mingyu sighed. “Probably.” “You could say no.” “I could. But I’m not going to.”

The argument stretched longer than it should have. She accused him of avoiding her. Of being different when you were around. He denied it. But he didn’t push back too hard.

That night, Bo-ra was at a friend’s bachelorette party. It gave him space. And more than that—it gave him quiet.

When Mingyu arrived at the bar, the place was already buzzing.

He spotted the group near the back—Dokyeom waving dramatically, Seo-yeon rolling her eyes, and you—

You were laughing.

Head tilted slightly, eyes crinkled at the corners, one hand covering your mouth. You sat beside Seo-yeon, completely at ease, hair loosely tied back, cheeks still pink from whatever story had just been told.

He felt it immediately.

That familiar tug.

In his chest. In his stomach. In places he had tried for years to numb.

He walked over, slid into the seat across from you. Gave everyone a nod, took a sip from the beer Minghao slid toward him.

He didn’t say much at first. Didn’t look at you directly.

But he heard you. Your laugh. Your voice. Your rhythm.

And for the first time in weeks, he felt a little drunk before even finishing his first drink.

As the night wore on, the drinks kept coming.

Laughter got louder, movement got looser, and somehow the five of you stumbled your way from a cozy bar into a pulsing club. You hadn’t been in a place like this in years. The bass thumped through your body, and colored lights flickered like memories—half-familiar, half-fleeting.

You were drunk. You all were.

Dokyeom was dangerously close to climbing onto a table, belting out the chorus to a song only he knew. Minghao, in his signature grumpy-drunken state, hovered nearby with narrowed eyes, muttering insults between sips of his drink that only made Dokyeom perform harder.

Seo-yeon had long vanished into the crowd, dancing with someone who looked suspiciously like a backup dancer from a music video.

You were swaying—warm, hazy, weightless. The music buzzed in your ears, and your balance slipped for a moment.

You stumbled backward—

And right into a pair of steady hands.

You stumble slightly, and Mingyu’s arms catch you without hesitation.

“Ya, be careful,” he says, steadying you by the waist, his voice barely audible over the pulsing bass.

You turn toward him, laughing breathlessly. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t let go.

“No, you’re not,” he says with a grin, but there’s a softness in his eyes. Like he’s watching something fragile.

Your arms hover loosely between you both, not quite pushing him away. Not quite pulling him closer either.

He doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

You let the music fill the space between your words, filling the seconds you don’t know how to name.

“Were you surprised?” you ask, lifting your gaze to his. “When you saw me again?”

Mingyu lets out a soft scoff, shaking his head. “You’re really asking me that?”

You shrug. “Maybe I just want to hear it.”

He studies you for a moment before speaking again, voice quieter now. “I didn’t believe it at first. I thought… maybe it was just one of those weird dreams. The kind where you wake up and nothing makes sense.”

You smile faintly. “You dream about me?”

He hesitates, eyes flickering to your mouth and back. “Sometimes.”

You look down, heart picking up pace.

“I never thought I’d see you here again,” he admits. “Not like this. Not with you looking like… this.”

“Like what?” you ask, brow raised.

“Like you belong,” he says simply. “Like no time has passed, even though it has.”

Your smile fades slightly.

“It has,” you whisper. “A lot of it.”

He nods. “I know.”

You hesitate. “It’s weird, being around you again. Seeing you with—everything. With her.”

His expression shifts. “Bo-ra.”

You nod.

He swallows, like your saying her name makes something heavier in him. “She’s… great. You’d like her.”

“Would I?”

Mingyu gives a soft, self-conscious chuckle. “Maybe not.”

The honesty hangs in the air between you.

“You two seem serious,” you say, watching him.

He hesitates again. “We are. We’ve been together a while.”

“But?”

He looks at you then—really looks at you. “But… then you came back.”

You don’t speak. You feel his hands still at your waist. Feel the way his fingers twitch slightly, like he knows he should let go but can’t bring himself to.

“Why’d you come back, Y/N?” he asks.

You tilt your head, searching his face. “I told you. My job. The gallery.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You sigh, slowly. “I didn’t come back for you, Mingyu. But I didn’t not think about you either.”

That does something to him. His grip tightens—just slightly. His shoulders pull in. His eyes lower.

“I still think about you,” he says quietly, like a confession. “More than I should.”

You don’t answer right away.

So he keeps going.

“I think about the way you used to look at me,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Like I could do anything. Like I was someone worth waiting for.”

You don’t realize your eyes are glassy until you blink. “You were.”

His voice breaks a little. “Then why didn’t you?”

You pause. “Because I didn’t want to ruin what we had with what we couldn’t have.”

You don’t know who moved first—but suddenly his forehead is nearly resting against yours. You can feel his breath, taste the tension in the air.

“I… still want you,” he says. “Even if I shouldn’t.”

Your eyes close.

And in that moment, everything blurs—past and present, who you were and who you are, the goodbye you never healed from and the almost-kiss that’s now trembling between you.

He starts to lean in.

So do you.

But just before your lips can meet, a single word slips out of you like a breath you’ve been holding too long.

“No.”

He freezes—mere inches from you.

You pull back slowly, the gravity of the moment crashing around you like thunder.

“We can’t,” you whisper, and your voice is shaking now. “You have a girlfriend, Mingyu.”

It takes a second. Maybe longer. But the change in him is instant.

Like the heat between you was suddenly doused in ice water.

He straightens, jaw tightening. He looks like he’s remembering where he is, who he is—who he’s supposed to be.

“…Right,” he says, barely audible.

You take a step back. “You forgot.”

He doesn’t deny it.

Instead, his expression hardens into something unreadable. “No,” he says softly. “I didn’t forget.”

You stare at him. Waiting.

“But I wanted to,” he admits. “Just for a second. Just long enough to let myself pretend.”

Your chest tightens painfully. “Pretend that I never left?”

“Pretend that you didn’t ruin me when you did.”

That hits harder than you expect.

You blink, but the tears are already threatening to spill.

“Mingyu…”

He shakes his head and exhales through his nose, like he’s mad at himself for even saying it.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I shouldn’t have said that. I just—” He cuts himself off, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

You look down, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You should go.”

“I know,” he says, but doesn’t move.

Then quietly, “You make it really hard to be good.”

That undoes you.

Because for all the years apart—for all the time and silence and separate lives—this moment felt like a thread still pulled tight between you.

Fraying now.

Snapping.

You nod, once. “Then stop trying to be good. Just go.”

That’s the last thing you say.

You turn, walking away—each step heavier than the last, like your body is trying to anchor you to the ground before you make the mistake of turning back.

He watches you disappear into the crowd, swallowed by the noise and flashing lights.

Against every voice in his head telling him not to, Mingyu follows you.

You hear his footsteps behind you and snap, “Mingyu, stop following me.”

“You’re drunk,” he says, quickening his pace to match yours. “I’m not letting you walk home alone.”

You don’t stop walking. “I can take care of myself.”

He exhales sharply. “Just let me make sure you get home safe.”

“Leave me alone.” Your voice shakes, but you keep going. Determined. Furious. Hurt. He follows anyway.

When you finally reach your house, you spin around so fast he nearly runs into you.“YA!” you yell, voice rising with all the emotion you’ve tried to suppress. He stops. Startled. The porch light hits your face—and that’s when he sees it.

Your eyes are glassy. Glossed over with tears you’re trying so hard to hold in.You’re breaking in front of him, and he hates that it’s his fault.

He steps forward, instinctively reaching for you.

“No,” you say sharply. “Stay right there.”

His hands drop to his sides. He sighs, trying to keep his voice steady.

“You have someone,” you say, louder now. “You’re not single. You have a girlfriend. I won’t be that girl.”

“I know,” he says. “I know I do. But fuck, Y/N—I thought I was over you, I really did. I thought I’d buried all of this. But seeing you again…”

He runs a hand through his hair, voice rising with frustration.

“It’s like no time has passed at all. And I hate it. I hate how easy it still is to want you. To need you.”

Your jaw clenches.

“Exactly. You have a girlfriend,” you snap. “Which means we—this? It’s nothing. It doesn’t exist.”

Your words hit him like a punch to the chest.

He recoils, visibly stung. “And whose fault is that, huh?”

You flinch. “You left,” he says, his voice thick. “You walked away.”

“I didn’t want to,” you whisper.

“But you did,” he says, stepping forward now. “You did, Y/N. You chose to leave. And you didn’t just leave me—you gave up on us. You didn’t even try.”

“I didn’t want to hold you back,” you say, trying to steady your voice through the ache in your throat. “I didn’t want you saving every cent to visit me while your life was passing you by. I didn’t want you tied to a version of me that wasn’t coming back. I thought…”

“What?” he interrupts, voice breaking. “That I couldn’t make that choice myself? That I couldn’t fight for you?”

“I didn’t want you waiting for someone who might never come home,” you whisper, the tears finally slipping down. “I didn’t want to be the reason you stopped living.”

“That was my decision to make,” he snaps, chest heaving. “Not yours.”

You break.The tears fall freely now, and his face twists with helpless pain. He hates this. Hates seeing you cry. Hates that it’s because of him. Again.

“I just wanted you to be happy,” you choke out.

“And I was!” he yells. “I was happy—with you! Even when it was hard, even when it hurt. You were the only thing that felt worth it.”

You shake your head, backing toward your door. “It’s too late.”

“No. Don’t say that.”

You look at him through teary eyes. “I think we shouldn’t see each other for a while… Gyu.”

That name. His name. The one only you called him. It slices through him like a blade. You turn to open the door, but he speaks one last time—quiet, bitter.

“Fine. Give up on us again.” You freeze, your hand on the doorknob.

But you don’t turn around.You step inside and shut the door behind you, leaving him on the porch with nothing but the sound of his own breathing and the hollow echo of what almost was.

Again.And just like that, he was back where he started.Alone.

Mingyu knew what he had to do.It wasn’t fair. Not to Bo-ra. Not to himself. Not to you.

He hadn’t slept. Barely ate. Your voice echoed in his head on a loop. “We shouldn’t see each other for a while… Gyu.” It played like a cruel lullaby he couldn’t shake.

Bo-ra showed up at his place with coffee and her usual gentle tone. She noticed he was quiet. Distant. But she tried to smile through it.

Until he looked her in the eyes and said, “We need to talk.”Her expression dropped immediately. “No,” she said flatly. “Don’t say it.”

“I have to,” Mingyu replied. “You deserve honesty.” She stared at him, her voice shaking. “Is it her?” He didn’t answer right away. And that was her answer.

“I knew it,” Bo-ra said, backing away like the truth physically hurt. “I knew it the second she showed up. I saw the way you looked at her.”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he said, his voice raw. “I tried. I really tried with us.”

She laughed bitterly. “Don’t act like I was just a placeholder.”

“You weren’t,” he said immediately. “You’re—amazing. I just… I think part of me was never fully there. And you don’t deserve that.”

Bo-ra blinked hard, jaw clenched. “Do you even know what you want, Mingyu?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I know I can’t lie to you anymore.”

She left without another word. And he sat there, in the silence she left behind, feeling like he’d let down someone good. Again.

The days bled into each other, muted and dull.

You didn’t block him, but you didn’t reach out either.

The group knew. Of course they did. They split hangouts like divorced parents. One night with him, one night with you. Minghao tried to act casual. Seo-yeon was colder than usual. Dokyeom made excuses, always shifting the subject.

And through it all, Mingyu just… floated.

If I can't be close to you, I'll settle for the ghost of you.

That line looped in his head like a prayer. A punishment.

He started showing up at places you used to go to. The old bookstore. The park bench by the coffee shop. The corner of the art gallery street he once passed just to feel close.

Sometimes he caught a glimpse of you from afar—walking into the gallery, talking to Seo-yeon on a street corner. You looked okay. You were smiling.

And that wrecked him more than if you’d been crying. Because you were healing.And he wasn’t.

He played it cool in front of everyone else—smiled when he had to, joked when prompted, but the moment he was alone, he felt hollow. You were everywhere and nowhere all at once.

It was the kind of grief no one understood.

Because how do you explain mourning someone who's still alive? Still breathing? Still walking around in the same city—but out of reach?

At night, he’d lay in bed, replaying your last words to him over and over. “You have someone. I won’t be that girl.”

You weren’t. You were always more. And now you were gone. Again.

It wasn’t until the opening night of Dokyeom’s play that you saw him again.

You’d managed to avoid him for weeks. Life had a way of keeping you busy, and you let it. Gallery openings, project deadlines, endless errands—anything to keep you from accidentally running into him.

But tonight, you couldn’t avoid it.

The entire group was there. Minghao saved you a seat beside him, but your eyes flickered toward the end of the row—where Mingyu sat, one seat between him and Seo-yeon, jaw tense, eyes flickering toward you the moment you entered.

You gave him a polite, distant smile. A nod. “Hi.”He nodded back. “Hey.”

That was it. The performance was brilliant—Dokyeom, larger than life on stage, owning the spotlight. The crowd laughed, cried, applauded. But you barely remembered any of it.

Because you could feel him.

His presence was like gravity. Your skin buzzed with it. Every laugh he let out. Every shift in his seat. Every glance you refused to return.

After the show, everyone gathered outside, buzzing with praise.

“We’re going out!” Dokyeom declared, flushed with pride. “First round’s on me!”

Everyone cheered. Except you. “I think I’ll sit this one out,” you said with a soft smile. “I’m tired.”

Mingyu, who had been lingering a few feet away, turned to look at you instantly.

“You’re leaving?” he asked, eyes searching yours.

You nodded. “It was a great show. Tell DK I’m proud of him.”

And then you left.

He stood still, hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders tight.

As the group moved toward the nearby bar, he trailed behind them—quiet, distracted. The noise around him blurred.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the way your eyes looked when you said goodbye. Like they were holding back something unsaid.

He couldn’t stop wondering if you were really okay. If your tiredness was just exhaustion—or something deeper.

Ten minutes into drinks, he couldn’t sit still anymore.

He stood abruptly, barely touching his beer.

“Mingyu?” Seo-yeon asked, brows furrowed. “Where are you—”

“I have to go,” he said, already moving.

Seo-yeon stood, trying to follow. “YA! I know where you’re going!”

But Minghao pulled her gently back down. “Let him,” he said calmly.

The streets were quiet, and Mingyu’s footsteps echoed against the pavement.

He didn’t even remember grabbing his coat. Didn’t care that he left his phone behind. All he knew was that he couldn’t sit at that table for one more minute pretending he was okay with watching you walk away. Again.

He found himself in front of your house before he even realized where his feet were taking him.

The porch light was off, but there was a faint glow from the living room window. He climbed the steps, hesitated once—and then knocked.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the door creaked open. And there you were.

Your eyes were red and puffy, cheeks flushed like you’d been crying.vMingyu’s heart sank.

“Why are you—” you started, your voice catching in your throat.vBut he didn’t let you finish.

“Why did you come back?”vYou blinked. “What?”

“Why did you come back?” he repeated, firmer this time, eyes locked on yours. “To Seoul. To this neighborhood. To that bookstore. To me.”

You opened your mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. His eyes searched your face—your silence telling him everything before you even answered.

“I… I’m sorry,” you finally whispered. “I didn’t mean to come back and make everything harder.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

You looked down, clutching the sleeves of your sweater. “I missed it. This place. The people. You. But I wasn’t planning to stay. Not at first.”

His expression flickered.

“Then why did you?” he asked, voice quieter now.

You swallowed hard. “Because I couldn’t leave again. Not after seeing you. Not after remembering what it felt like to be here.”

A long silence settled between you.

Then Mingyu stepped forward. “Do you have any idea what it was like?” he said, his voice low and tight. “To go from seeing you every day to... nothing? No calls. No visits. Just silence.”

“I wanted to reach out—”

“Then why didn’t you?!”

You flinched.

“I would’ve waited,” he said, voice rising. “I was waiting. You left and I kept hoping—every day—that I’d hear from you. That you’d change your mind. That you’d just come back.”

“I didn’t think I deserved to.”

Mingyu’s face crumpled. “What?”

“I thought I ruined everything,” you whispered. “I thought I was the one who gave up. So I stayed gone. Even when I wanted to come home.”

He stared at you, stunned. “You think you ruined it?”

“I broke your heart,” you said. “I know I did. And I hated myself for it. Every time I saw something that reminded me of you… I felt sick.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then:

“I hated you for a while.”

The words struck you like a slap—but he kept going.

“I hated you for leaving. For not fighting for us. For not letting me fight for you.”

Tears filled your eyes again.

“But I hated myself more,” he added. “Because no matter how much time passed, no matter who I was with, no one ever felt like you.”

You were crying openly now. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know.” He stepped forward again, voice shaking now. “That’s the worst part.”

You looked up at him, tears streaking your face. “I wanted to come back sooner. I was just so scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of you not loving me anymore.”

“I never stopped,” he said. “Even when I wanted to.” And then—he reached for you.

This time, when he kissed you, it wasn’t impulsive. It was slow, trembling, built from every unsaid word, every night spent apart, every ache that never really went away.When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, both of you breathless.

His mind was a storm — spinning, restless — and for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t sure what his next move would be.

You were just about to crawl into bed, your eyes heavy, when a sudden, frantic banging echoed through the apartment.

Your heart jumped.

You rushed to the door, flinging it open — and froze.

Gotak stood there, panting, his face pale and tight with worry, carrying a bloodied, battered Jun-tae on his back. Behind him, Baku and Si-eun followed close, their expressions grim.

“WHAT HAPPENED?!” you cried, voice shaking as you instinctively cleared off the dining table, shoving books and papers aside so they could lay Jun-tae down.

You sprinted to the bathroom, yanking the first aid kit from the cabinet, your fingers trembling as you dug through the bandages and disinfectant.

“He was taken by the Union after school,” Gotak said tightly, carefully lowering Jun-tae onto the table. “He was waiting for us, but they got to him first.”

“You found him like this?” you asked in a panic, gently wiping the blood from Jun-tae’s face, your heart pounding in your chest as you started dressing his wounds.

“No… actually…” Baku started, exchanging a glance with Gotak.

“Where did you find him?” Si-eun asked quietly, stepping closer, his voice unusually soft.

Gotak hesitated — then finally spoke. “Seong-je.”

You froze, your hands pausing mid-motion.

“What?” you breathed, staring at him.

“He was on Seong-je’s back when we ran into them,” Gotak explained. “He must’ve… saved him.”

“We’re confused too,” Baku added quickly, scratching the back of his head.

Just then, Jun-tae stirred, his eyes fluttering open with a soft groan.

“Ya, are you all right?” you rushed to his side, helping him sit up carefully. “What happened?”

“They… they took me after school,” Jun-tae mumbled, his voice raspy. “Started beating me up. Then… Seong-je showed up. He asked why. They told him Baek-jin said someone needed to focus.”

He let out a shaky breath. “And then… Seong-je beat them all up. And… carried me out.”

The room fell silent.

“Who needed to focus?” Si-eun asked softly, his brows drawing together.

“Seong-je,” Baku murmured, his eyes darkening with realization.

You all stared at him.

“Baek-jin’s losing control over Seong-je,” Baku continued, voice gaining a faint edge of excitement. “This… this was a test of his loyalty.”

“But… why Jun-tae?” Si-eun asked.

Slowly, Baku turned his eyes to you. “Y/N.”

You swallowed hard as everyone’s gaze shifted toward you.

“Ya… he really does like you,” Gotak muttered, shaking his head slightly.

You shook your head quickly, heart pounding. “No… no, that’s—”

“Why else would he betray Baek-jin?” Baku pressed, his eyes wide. “Ya, this is serious — Baek-jin just lost his right-hand man.”

“Ya, don’t get excited!” Gotak scolded, smacking Baku on the arm. “They just hurt Jun-tae!”

“It’s all right…” Jun-tae croaked softly, drawing all your eyes back to him. A faint, determined smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “This is good…”

You blinked at him in shock.

“The more people Baek-jin loses — especially those he trusted — the better it is for us,” Jun-tae murmured, his voice gaining strength.

Baku and Gotak exchanged stunned glances, while Si-eun remained silent, watching carefully.

“Seong-je can’t be fully trusted yet,” Gotak cautioned, his voice firm. “But without him, the Union takes a huge blow.”

You let out a slow, shaky breath, sinking down onto the chair beside the table.

Why…

Why did you suddenly feel so confused?

Why did your heart twist at the thought of Geum Seong-je?

You pressed your fingers lightly to your temple, closing your eyes.

One afternoon, as you left school, the air sharp and cool, you caught sight of a familiar figure slouched casually near the pojangmacha.

Your steps faltered.

“Miss me?” Seong-je smirked, pushing off the wall as he sauntered toward you.

You didn’t answer, simply brushing past him to place your order.

To your quiet surprise, before you could pull out your wallet, he reached over and slapped a few bills on the counter.

You shot him a quick look — but said nothing.

You just sat down on the nearby bench, pulling your tray close and beginning to eat, eyes focused on your food.

“Told you,” Seong-je drawled, sliding lazily into the seat across from you, “I can buy you all the tteokbokki you want.”

You kept your gaze low, focused on your food.

But finally, you murmured, “Thank you.”

Your voice was soft, softer than you’d ever used with him, and when you looked up, your eyes held no sharpness, no glare — just quiet sincerity.

Something in Seong-je’s chest gave a faint, unfamiliar pang.

The animosity you’d always thrown at him… was gone.

“For?” he teased, slipping effortlessly back into his usual cocky tone, trying to mask the stir of emotion in his chest.

“For saving Jun-tae,” you said simply, your eyes not leaving his.

He let out a short chuckle, shifting slightly in his seat.

“Why did you do it?” you asked quietly.

Seong-je tensed ever so slightly. His jaw twitched.

“Because I felt like it,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

“That’s not an answer,” you shot back, turning your attention back to your food.

“I just felt like it, seriously,” he repeated, a little too quickly, a little too defensive.

You scoffed softly. “I’m just trying to have a conversation with you and it’s going nowhere.”

You stood up abruptly, brushing crumbs off your hands, and turned to leave.

He let out a frustrated groan behind you.

“Maybe I’m tired,” he muttered.

You paused, half-turning. “Of what?”

“All of it,” Seong-je said, voice lower now, less guarded. “It’s not fun for me anymore.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s it? It’s not fun?”

He sighed deeply, running a hand through his messy hair. His fingers tightened slightly, tugging at the strands.

“씨발 (ssibal)… what do you want to hear from me, ah?” he asked, his voice rougher now, a thread of genuine frustration woven through.

You turned fully to face him, your expression calm. “The truth.”

He fell silent.

For a moment, he just stood there, shoulders tense, eyes flicking away.

You sighed softly, shaking your head. “Fine… just… thank you. Again.”

Without waiting for his reply, you turned and walked away, your heart twisting in your chest, your mind a swirl of confusion.

Behind you, Seong-je stayed frozen in place, staring after you, his fists slowly clenching in his pockets, his thoughts tangled and restless.

Seong-je was making his way home, shoulders slightly hunched, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, cigarette dangling loosely from his lips. His mind was buzzing — not from the cold, not from the nicotine, but from the tangled mess of thoughts he’d been pushing away for days.

But as he turned the corner onto his street, he slowed.

A familiar figure leaned casually against the wall outside his apartment.

“Ya, why are you here?” Seong-je muttered, eyebrow twitching as he stopped a few steps away.

Baku pushed off the wall, his usual grin absent, his face set in a grim line.

“Baek-jin went after my father,” Baku said flatly. “He’s crossing the line.”

Seong-je gave a dry, humorless chuckle as he pulled out a lighter and sparked his cigarette. “Tch. What did you expect? You should just make up with him, then this whole thing would end. It’s fucking exhausting, you know.”

Baku stepped closer, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Then help me.”

Seong-je’s gaze flicked up sharply.

“I know you, Seong-je,” Baku said quietly. “I know you’re tired of it too. I know you’re tired of being on his leash.”

Seong-je barked a small, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Ya… just because I saved Jun-tae doesn’t mean we’re fucking friends now.” He turned, trying to shove past Baku.

But Baku’s voice stopped him cold.

“You know him,” Baku said steadily. “Maybe better than anyone right now. Getting Jun-tae didn’t work — but who’s he going to go for next, huh? You know Baek-jin. He doesn’t forget. He doesn’t let go.”

Seong-je’s steps faltered. His cigarette hung between his fingers, smoke curling faintly in the cold air as his jaw tightened.

Baku watched him for a long second, then gave a quiet sigh.

“Just think about it, okay?” he said softly. Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked away.

Seong-je stood alone on the empty street, the chill sinking deeper into his skin as realization began to settle heavy in his chest.

Baek-jin wouldn’t just stop. He wouldn’t just punish Seong-je directly.

He’d come after the one thing that could pull Seong-je off balance.

You.

Seong-je closed his eyes tightly, cursing under his breath. His fists clenched at his sides, heart hammering as the truth slammed into him with brutal clarity.

Baek-jin was coming.

And this time, he knew exactly where to strike.

You were walking home from school, the cool breeze brushing against your face, the usual rhythm of your steps carrying you along familiar streets.

But as you turned the corner near your neighborhood, you felt it — a shift.

A group of boys stood up ahead, blocking the path.

You slowed, heart beginning to race.

You tried to step to the side, but one moved to block you. You turned the other way — another stepped in your path.

“Ya, what the—”

Before you could finish, something rough yanked over your head — a bag.

Panic surged through you as you kicked and struggled, your fists beating against arms you couldn’t see, your muffled screams trapped inside the fabric.

No use.

You were hauled away.

When the bag was finally yanked off, you blinked rapidly, your breath shaky, trying to adjust to the sudden light.

Your eyes darted around, heart pounding wildly.

You were inside a motorcycle shop — grimy walls, grease-stained floors, old parts stacked in the corners.

And right in front of you, standing calmly, smirking — was Baek-jin.

“Ya! What the fuck are you doing?!” you shouted, your voice raw with panic and fury.

Suddenly, a sharp slap cracked across your face.

You gasped, your head snapping to the side as the sting bloomed across your cheek.

Slowly, you turned your eyes upward, blinking through the sudden rush of tears.

Dong-ha loomed over you, sneering. “Ya, you don’t talk to Baek-jin like that, you bitch,” he spat, his voice dripping with contempt. You felt the warm trail of blood trickle from your lip.

Your hands clenched into trembling fists.

“Why am I here?” you hissed through gritted teeth.

Baek-jin gave a slow, lazy smile, eyes glinting coldly.

“To teach Seong-je a lesson.”

His hands trembled as he clutched his phone, sweat gathering at his temple.

Baku and Gotak were out of town, off in Daegu for a basketball tournament. Si-eun was gone too, away with his mom.

And you — you were missing.

Si-an’s voice crackled urgently over the line, her panic palpable. “I’ve been trying to call her! People said they saw her being taken by a group of boys — I’m going to the police—”

“No!” Jun-tae’s voice shot out, his heart hammering. “The Union has ties there — they’ll block it. Let me handle it.”

“Jun-tae, what are you—”

“I promise — I’ll handle it.”

He hung up, his breath shaky as his mind raced.

There was only one person he could go to now.

Jun-tae ran — his breath ragged, his chest tightening, his feet pounding the pavement as panic clawed at his throat.

He didn’t know where to go.

He didn’t know who to go to.

But maybe… deep down, he did.

Seong-je was just leaving school, bored as hell, his headphones draped around his neck, hands in his pockets, mind already wandering somewhere far away.

Until he saw Jun-tae.

The kid stood at the school gates, shoulders hunched, eyes wide and wet, breathless.

Seong-je frowned, pulling out his earphones as he approached slowly, curious.

“Ya, what are you doing here?” Seong-je asked, glancing around. “Where’s Baku?”

Jun-tae lifted his face, and the sheer panic etched across it hit Seong-je like a punch.

“T-they… they took her,” Jun-tae stammered, voice cracking.

Seong-je’s stomach tightened. “Who?”

Jun-tae’s lip trembled. “Noona. The Union… they took my noona.”

And just like that, Seong-je froze.

His breath caught, his pulse quickened, his fists curled tightly in his pockets.

Jun-tae’s voice wavered. “Please… save her—”

But before he could finish, Seong-je was already moving.

Without another word, without hesitation, his feet slammed against the ground as he sprinted down the street — heart pounding, blood rushing in his ears.

He knew where you were.

And he knew Baek-jin was waiting.

Because Baek-jin knew he would come.

When Seong-je burst into the motorcycle shop, the air was thick with anticipation.

The Union boys stood in a wide circle, their faces smug, their arms crossed, some cracking their knuckles as they turned to watch him swagger in.

In the center, Baek-jin waited — flanked by Dong-ho and Seong-mok — standing cool and composed, his smirk sharp and cruel.

And there you were.

Tied up, kneeling between them, your face bloodied, a fresh cut at your lip, your eyes wide as they flicked up — locking onto Seong-je.

“Ya! 개새끼야!” Seong-je roared, his voice echoing through the grimy space, fists clenched so tight his knuckles went white.

Your heart leapt at the sound, eyes watering as you gasped his name under your breath.

“Seong-je-ya,” Baek-jin called smoothly, stepping forward with a lazy smile. “We’ve been waiting.”

“Let her go,” Seong-je growled, his voice low and dangerous, “or I swear, I’ll kill you.”

Baek-jin’s smile widened, cold amusement flickering in his eyes. “If you’d just listened… if you’d just followed… none of this would’ve happened.”

Seong-je’s jaw tightened, his breathing heavy.

“I’m warning you,” he snarled, his voice rising. “If you don’t let her go by the count of three, I’m going to fucking kill all of you.”

The boys around the circle chuckled, exchanging amused glances.

“One…” Seong-je’s eyes darkened, his muscles coiling.

“Two…”

“Three.”

And then — like a strike of lightning — he moved.

Chaos erupted as Seong-je charged forward, fists flying, feet slamming into ribs, elbows cracking across jaws. He was a storm, tearing through the nearest men without hesitation, dropping bodies left and right.

A boy lunged — Seong-je ducked, slammed his fist into his gut, then grabbed another by the collar, throwing him into the wall. Two more rushed him; Seong-je spun and knocked them down in a blur of sharp, brutal hits.

Baek-jin stood calmly at the center, watching with a faint smirk as Dong-ho and Seong-mok stepped forward.

Seong-je let out a low, cold laugh, rolling his shoulders as they approached. “개자식들, come on,” 

Dong-ho lunged — Seong-je met him head-on, fists colliding, bodies slamming together. Seong-je moved like a beast unleashed, landing blows that sent Dong-ho staggering, slamming a knee into Seong-mok’s side, throwing punch after punch.

But then, just as another boy fell, Seong-je paused, his chest heaving.

His eyes swept the room — and his voice turned deadly quiet.

“Which one of you fuckers…” his gaze sharpened, blazing with fury, “…did that to her face?”

The room fell silent.

No one answered.

Seong-je stormed over, grabbing one of the downed men, twisting his arm back hard. “Tell me who!”

“D-Dong-ho-hyung…” the boy stammered, voice shaking with fear.

Slowly, Seong-je turned, his eyes locking onto Dong-ho like a predator locking onto prey.

And then — he snapped.

Seong-je charged, tackling Dong-ho to the ground, fists raining down, punch after punch after punch, his breath ragged, his face twisted with pure rage.

“Geum Seong-je!”

Baek-jin’s sharp voice cut through the chaos.

Seong-je froze, breath hitching.

He looked up — and his stomach dropped.

Baek-jin stood just a few feet away, his arm coiled tightly around your neck, lifting you slightly off the ground. You struggled, gasping, your fingers clawing at his grip, your face red and panicked.

“Let him go…” Baek-jin said coolly, his smirk widening, “…or I hurt her worse.”

Seong-je’s fists trembled in the air — then slowly, reluctantly, he let Dong-ho fall from his grasp, backing away with clenched teeth.

Baek-jin gave a soft laugh — and without another word, he shoved you roughly to the floor.

You hit the ground with a choked cry, your body curling in on itself.

Baek-jin turned, hands casually in his pockets, Dong-ho and Seong-mok trailing behind him, battered but still smirking.

“Ya,” Baek-jin called over his shoulder, voice dripping with venom. “You’re dead, you know that, right?”

Then they were gone, the door slamming shut behind them.

The second they left, Seong-je rushed to your side, dropping to his knees.

“Ya, are you okay?” he murmured, his voice shaking just slightly.

You winced as his fingers gently brushed the side of your face, tracing the bruise blooming across your cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered softly, his voice low and raw.

For a long moment, you just stared at each other — the chaos fading around you, leaving only the sound of your shaky breaths and the faint thud of his heart pounding in his chest.

“I’ll take you to the hospital,” Seong-je said firmly, his hand hovering near your arm.

You shook your head quickly, wincing slightly. “No… they’ll call my parents.”

“Then to yours—”

“I don’t want Jun-tae to see me like this,” you whispered, lowering your gaze.

Seong-je frowned. “He already knows. He was the one who told me.”

“I don’t care,” you murmured stubbornly, eyes glistening, voice tight.

He let out a deep sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Come with me.”

He held out his hand.

You stared at it for a long moment — hesitating, your breath trembling. But then, slowly, you placed your hand in his.

His fingers curled gently around yours, and without another word, he led you through the night.

When you arrived, you blinked in surprise. His place was… small. Tidy, but quiet. You stood awkwardly at the entrance of his room, glancing around.

“Ya, I’m not going to pull anything,” he said quickly, hands raised in mock surrender, the faintest smirk playing at his lips. “I promise.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “Where are your parents?”

He paused, glancing over his shoulder.

“They’re barely here,” he muttered. “My mom passed. My dad works overseas.”

Your breath caught softly. “I’m sorry,” you said quietly, your voice gentle.

He shrugged it off, grabbing a small plastic box from the shelf — a worn, half-used medicine kit — and sitting down across from you.

You stayed frozen in place until his hands reached forward, gently cradling your face.

He tilted your chin up carefully, his fingers cool but light as they traced near the cut on your cheek, his brows furrowed as he inspected every mark.

“I’m gonna kill those motherfuckers,” he muttered under his breath, eyes darkening, his jaw clenching tight.

You winced as his thumb accidentally brushed over the edge of the cut.

“Ya, did they hurt you anywhere else?” he asked softly, his eyes flicking briefly down your arms, scanning carefully for bruises.

“No,” you murmured, shaking your head.

He let out a quiet sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing just a little.

Opening the medicine kit, he grabbed a small bottle of ointment and gently dabbed some onto a piece of cotton.

“It might sting a little,” he warned softly, his voice a notch quieter, more careful.

You nodded faintly, watching him as he leaned in, his brows furrowed in focus, his usual cocky smirk gone, replaced by a kind of quiet determination.

For a moment, you just sat there, staring at him, a strange warmth flickering in your chest.

How is this… the same person everyone’s afraid of?

As he worked — slow, precise, careful not to hurt you more than necessary — you felt your heart squeeze tight, your head swirling with confusion, fear, and something you couldn’t yet name.

“Thank you,” you murmured softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Seong-je paused, his hands still for a moment as he stared at you.

A flicker of something pained crossed his face.

“It’s my fault,” he muttered under his breath. “I swayed… I hesitated. I should’ve just…”

“No,” you cut in gently but firmly, lifting your eyes to meet his. “You shouldn’t have to answer to him anymore.”

He blinked, taken aback by the quiet strength in your voice, his gaze locking on yours.

Then, ever so slowly, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“You’re driving me crazy, you know that, right?” he murmured, his voice dropping lower, rougher, something playful but aching threaded underneath.

You let out a shaky breath, your chest tightening.

“You don’t even know me,” you whispered, shaking your head faintly.

His smirk deepened slightly, but his eyes softened.

“Will you let me?” he asked quietly.

You froze.

Your heart thudded hard in your chest as the weight of his words hung in the air between you.

After a long moment, you whispered, “I still don’t trust you.”

For the first time, you saw his expression falter, his face slipping just a little — the cocky confidence dimming, a flicker of something vulnerable shining through.

“I don’t blame you,” he murmured, looking down, almost sheepish.

You hesitated, feeling the words catch on your tongue.

“But…” you breathed softly, “…I don’t hate you anymore.”

His head shot up, surprise flashing in his eyes.

Slowly — almost shyly — a smile stretched across his face, something more genuine, less sharp, curling at his lips.

“I can take that,” he murmured with a small chuckle.

And for a long, quiet moment, you both just sat there, staring at each other in the stillness — two people caught somewhere between chaos and something new, not quite sure what would come next.

The room fell into a hush, the dim light casting long, gentle shadows across the small space.

You sat there quietly, hands resting on your lap, feeling the faint sting of the ointment still cooling on your skin. Across from you, Seong-je stayed frozen — elbows on his knees, body leaned slightly forward, his sharp, watchful eyes now strangely soft.

Neither of you spoke.

Neither of you needed to.

There was something suspended in the air — fragile, unfamiliar, but undeniable.

You shifted slightly on the edge of the bed, eyes dropping to the floor. “You’re really not what I expected…” you murmured quietly, more to yourself than to him.

Seong-je let out a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re not what I expected either.”

You lifted your gaze, meeting his eyes again.

For once, there was no teasing grin, no smug smirk — just a quiet, unguarded look.

He ran his fingers roughly through his hair, exhaling slowly. “You should rest.”

You hesitated. “I should go home soon…”

“I’ll walk you.”

“I don’t want Jun-tae to see me like this,” you said again, your voice small. “He’ll just worry.”

Seong-je tilted his head slightly, studying you, his lips quirking upward in a faint, almost bittersweet smile. “You’re too good at worrying about everyone else.”

You sat there, your knees almost brushing, your breaths mingling faintly in the quiet.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to just… look at him.

This boy who everyone feared. This boy who’d hurt people, destroyed things, followed the most dangerous man you knew. And yet here he was, sitting across from you, patching up your wounds, looking at you like you were the one thing in the world pulling him back from the edge.

Your heart twisted strangely in your chest.

You reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Thank you… really.”

His eyes flicked up, catching yours again.

For a heartbeat, it felt like the whole room held its breath.

“…Yeah,” he murmured softly. “Anytime.”

Neither of you moved — just quietly watching, quietly wondering, quietly unsure what this meant, or what might come next.

The next day, the boys huddled together in the corner booth of a small restaurant, their heads low, their voices tense. Plates of barely touched food sat between them as they tried to figure out their next move.

“Ya, we don’t know anything,” Gotak muttered, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “We need someone on the inside — someone who actually knows what Baek-jin’s planning.”

“Hyo-man?” Jun-tae offered hesitantly. “He’s been trying to get in deeper, hasn’t he?”

Gotak snorted. “Yeah, trying. He won’t know shit.”

Baku let out a long sigh, tapping his chopsticks restlessly on the table. Si-eun sat quietly at the end, arms crossed, eyes sharp but pensive.

Just then, the soft jingle of the restaurant’s bell echoed across the room.

They all turned, their shoulders tensing, eyes narrowing.

Footsteps approached — slow, deliberate.

And then Seong-je appeared, stepping up to their table, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

Without a word, he dropped a thick stack of papers onto the center of the table.

The boys froze.

“This,” Seong-je said smoothly, “is a list of every motorcycle they stole last year. And a list of every active Union member.”

The table went dead silent.

“Why…” Si-eun finally spoke, his voice calm but wary, “…are you giving this to us?”

Seong-je’s jaw tightened slightly. His gaze flicked briefly to Jun-tae, then softened just a fraction. “They hurt Y/N,” he said simply, his voice rough. “They’re dead to me.”

The boys exchanged stunned glances.

For a long beat, no one spoke — until Baku suddenly grinned and shoved a chair out with his foot, motioning for Seong-je to sit.

“Ya, am I one of the good guys now?” Seong-je teased lightly, flashing his usual cocky grin as he slid into the seat.

The others didn’t smile.

“We still don’t trust you,” Gotak said flatly, eyes narrowing.

“But we need your help,” Jun-tae added softly, glancing between them.

Slowly, the tension cracked just a little as the group leaned in closer, their heads lowering again, the papers spread out before them.

And just like that, the planning began — a strange, uneasy alliance forged between old enemies and unlikely allies, bound together by revenge, loyalty, and the hope of finally breaking the Union’s grip.

The next day, you came home expecting to find the usual four boys — Jun-tae, Baku, Gotak, and Si-eun — gathered in your living room, sprawled out over notebooks, snacks, and half-baked plans.

But the moment you stepped through the door, you froze.

There was a fifth.

Seong-je.

He sat casually among them, legs stretched out, his usual smirk tugging at his lips as if he owned the place.

“What’s he doing here?” you asked sharply, eyebrows arching.

Seong-je just gave you a lazy wave.

“Noona, he’s helping us,” Jun-tae said quickly.

“Really?” you narrowed your eyes, turning to Gotak for confirmation.

“Yup,” Gotak muttered with a resigned sigh. “He gave us the names of all the Union members and a list of the stolen bikes.”

“…Okay then.” You raised your hands in surrender, making your way toward the kitchen.

Behind you, the boys huddled closer, deep in strategy mode — until you heard a chair scrape back.

“Give me a second,” Seong-je muttered to them, and you caught the sound of his footsteps following you.

“Ya! If you’re just going to flirt, then get lost!” Gotak called out, earning a loud chuckle from Baku.

You spun around as Seong-je appeared behind you, a grin on his face.

“See? Look how close we’ve gotten,” he teased, leaning slightly closer. “We’ve been in each other’s houses.”

Your eyes widened. “미쳤어(micheosseo)?! Keep your voice down!” you hissed, panicked, glancing toward the living room. “They don’t know I was at your place!”

“Why?” he smirked, inching closer, voice low and teasing.

You let out an exasperated breath, turning away. “Won’t you be nicer to me now? I’m on the good side.”

You glanced back at him. “Are you?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Look,” you warned, narrowing your eyes, “if you pull anything, I swear—”

“I won’t,” he cut in, his voice turning quieter, more serious. “They hurt you.”

You softened slightly, letting out a quiet sigh. “Then apologize.”

“What?!” His eyes widened in dramatic disbelief, voice shooting up — loud enough that you smacked his arm to shush him.

“Apologize,” you repeated firmly.

“To who?”

“Gotak.”

“Waah, Gotak again?!” he groaned, rolling his eyes.

At the sound of his name, Gotak half-turned, raising a brow, and you hissed, “Shh!”

“And Si-eun,” you added. “You hurt them.”

“They hurt me too!” Seong-je shot back indignantly. “I had to get a fucking tetanus shot because of Si-eun!”

“I don’t care.”

“찐자 (jinja)?!” he sputtered, throwing his hands up.

You gave him a deadpan stare and nodded.

“씨발 (ssibal),” he cursed under his breath, dragging his feet as you pushed him back toward the table.

“Ya—”

“Nicely,” you warned, giving him a look.

Seong-je let out a long, dramatic sigh.

“Gotak, Si-eun… I’m sorry,” he muttered quickly, glancing back at you as if asking, Happy?

You raised an eyebrow.

He groaned again. “Ahh, Si-eun, I’m sorry for hurting you.”

Si-eun gave a small, calm nod.

“And I’m sorry for stabbing your foot—”

“Ya! I had to get a fucking tetanus shot—”

Before he could spiral, you shot him a glare.

“It’s alright,” Si-eun said with a faint smile, cutting him off.

Seong-je exhaled and turned reluctantly to Gotak.

“Gotak… I’m sorry for beating you up. And… for last year. With your knee. It was fucked up of me to do.”

This time, his voice was quieter, more serious — and Gotak’s face softened just a little.

“It’s alright,” Gotak murmured.

Then, to your surprise, Seong-je turned to Jun-tae.

“Jun-tae… I’m sorry.”

“Even if I didn’t physically hurt you… I’m sorry.”

Jun-tae’s eyes widened slightly, his head dipping in a small nod.

“Ya, this is too soft for me,” Seong-je suddenly groaned, shaking his head and waving you off. “Can we just continue already?”

You couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.

“Hey! What about me?!” Baku suddenly piped up, pointing at himself. “Ya, what did I ever do to you, fucker?!”

“You just called me a fucker right now!” Baku shot back.

“I never beat you up, you asshole!”

“Ya!” you yelled sharply, cutting through the back-and-forth.

The room froze for half a second — then, unexpectedly, Gotak and Jun-tae burst into quiet laughter.

Si-eun shook his head, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “Let’s get back to planning, please.”

For the first time in a long while, the room felt just a little lighter.

Two days later, you were out to dinner with your friends, laughing over something Si-an had just said, a lightness in your chest you hadn’t felt in a while.

Your phone buzzed.

“Hello?” you answered, still chuckling softly, one hand covering your mouth as you tried not to interrupt the conversation at the table.

But the voice on the other end was serious — too serious.

“Y/N.”

You froze, your smile slipping.

“Baku?” you said cautiously, straightening in your seat. “What is it?”

Your heart began to pound as his tone registered in your ears.

“Is it Jun-tae?” you asked quickly, your stomach twisting, already grabbing your bag as you half-stood, instinct pulling you toward the door.

“No…” Baku said quietly. “It’s Seong-je.”

You stopped dead in your tracks.

“What?” you breathed.

“He was hit by a motorcycle,” Baku explained grimly.

Your chest squeezed tight. “What?!”

You left the table entirely, stepping out of the restaurant onto the sidewalk, the noise of the street blurring around you.

“Yeah,” Baku continued, his voice low, steady. “One of Baek-jin’s boys. They knew they couldn’t take him in a fight… so they ran him down.”

Your hand flew to your mouth, your fingers trembling. “Is he… is he alright?” you whispered.

“He’s okay,” Baku reassured you softly. “Didn’t want to go to the hospital. Says it’s just cuts, no broken bones or anything.”

You let out a shaky sigh, running a hand through your hair.

“Where is he?” you asked quietly.

“At home,” Baku said. “Resting.” He paused for a beat, letting the word linger.

You weren’t sure if he was hinting. No — you were sure. He wanted you to check on him.

“Thank you,” you murmured softly, voice tight, before hanging up.

You stood there on the sidewalk for a long second, exhaling hard, pressing your phone to your chest.

You already knew where you were heading next.

You knocked on his door, hearing muffled cursing from inside — the sound of something being knocked over, followed by an irritated groan.

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms.

A moment later, the door swung open.

There he was.

Hair disheveled, glasses off, a faint sheen of sweat on his skin. His bare torso was covered in hastily wrapped bandages, angry red cuts peeking out between the white gauze.

Your breath hitched.

“Why are you here?” Seong-je muttered, his voice rougher than usual.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, your eyes sweeping over him, heart tightening at the sight.

He gave a low, breathy chuckle, shaking his head slightly before stepping aside to let you in.

Inside his room, the air was quiet, almost still. His first aid kit was spread open on his desk, bloodied tissues, ointment bottles, and gauze scattered messily across the surface.

He’d managed to cover most of the wounds on his own, but a few raw cuts still lined his torso, some on his cheek and jaw, faint but ugly.

“Let me,” you said quietly.

He paused, blinking in surprise, then slowly sat down on the edge of his bed, exhaling a long, tired breath.

You sat beside him carefully, pulling the first aid kit onto your lap.

As you dabbed at a cut on his side, he winced slightly, the muscles under your fingers tensing. Your hands trembled just a little.

“Ya,” he murmured with a teasing grin, “you’re worried about me, huh?”

You narrowed your eyes, pressing the cotton against his skin a little harder.

“Ow—shit! Okay, okay,” he chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. “Look, we’re even now. I patched you up, now you patch me up.”

Despite the words, there was something softer, something quieter in his voice.

“Hey…” he murmured suddenly, his hand reaching up, brushing gently against your cheek.

You froze, eyes wide, pulse jumping.

His fingers lingered, just slightly. His dark eyes searched yours carefully, almost as if realizing — maybe for the first time — just how much you cared.

“I’m alright,” he said softly, his voice low, slow, more serious now.

For a long second, neither of you moved.