enter the city

You were about to call her again and suddenly, “Y/N!!”

You quickly turned around only to see her sprinting toward you through the empty station, her backpack bouncing against her back as she struggled to catch her breath. Her hair was messy, face flushed from running, and she nearly crashed into you when she finally stopped. 

“I’m so sorry, I  was late.” she panted out between breaths. “I slept too much- come on, let’s go, let’s go!”

Before you could even properly scold her, she grabbed your wrist and started dragging you toward the train while laughing breathlessly.

It was your first ever annual trip, and you had been excited about it for weeks. Even if you didn’t really have many friends, you still wanted to enjoy it. Well… You did have your friend. But she was a complete social butterfly. In every few steps someone would wave at her, call her name, or pull her into a conversation. And meanwhile, you mostly stayed beside her quietly, holding your bag straps and smiling politely whenever her friends looked at your way.

As both of you walked through the crowded train, trying not to bump into other students rushing around the aisles, you finally found your assigned seats. Thankfully, it was one of those four-seat sections facing each other. 

“Finally.” Your friend sighed, before throwing herself onto the seat. You laughed softly at her dramatic antics, and helped her lift her heavy backpack onto the overhead rack before grabbing your own bag. Standing on your toes slightly, you tried pushing it up properly, but suddenly, someone collided into your side.

Your grip slipped and the bag fell straight back down with a loud thud onto the seat. “OH- shit, I’m so sorry.” 

“No, no, it’s totally-” You blinked in surprise. A tall boy stood there awkwardly, his backpack hung loosely from one shoulder, slightly crooked from rushing through the train. 

A messy blonde mullet framed his face, giving him a soft, but boyish look. Some strands fell over his sharp coffee brown eyes, the colour warm like the sunrays that were peeking through the windows. There was a small silver hoop earring for one year and a few rings decorated his hands. 

He wore a white oversized sweater that made his broad shoulders look even wider, sleeves slightly covering his hands. His expression carried this lazy confidence, but the faint blush dusting across his cheeks and the awkward scratch at the back of his neck made him look boyish at the same time.

and he was staring at you.

The sunlight pouring through the train windows landed perfectly on your face, making your eyes brighten so beautifully. your hair framed your face effortlessly, slightly messy from rushing through the station, but somehow making you look even prettier. His gaze traveled over every little detail shamelessly, standing this close made him realize how much smaller you looked compared to him, and for some reason, he liked it. For a moment, he got lost in your eyes, making the background noises fade.

A clearing of a throat suddenly cut through the strange tension hanging in the air between you two.

"Right, we still have to search for our seats. Shall we go?" the guy standing behind him said slowly, amused by whatever expression was on his friend's face.

the boy blinked, snapping back into reality, and let out a quiet breath through his nose. "Yeah," he muttered slowly.

You shifted slightly to the side to let them pass, pressing closer toward your seat, but the aisle was cramped and there was barely enough space for one person to walk through comfortably. His friend squeezed past first with a quick apologetic smile. But the boy paused in front of you for a second.

You could smell the faint scent of coffee lingering from his sweater. His broad frame practically blocking the light for a moment, and you instinctively held your breath as he glanced down at the narrow space.

"Sorry." he murmured softly. One of his hands landed carefully on your waist, warm, his fingers spread slightly against your side as he gently guided you enough for him to pass through. Even through the layers of clothes, his warmth stayed lingering making your stomach twist. You let out a soft gasp, his eyes flickered to you at the sound, and for a second his lips twitched upward. He moved past you slowly, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours.

“What was… that?” 

Your friend’s voice came out between a whisper and a gasp, her eyes wide as she stared after the two boys disappearing further down the carriage.

The little bubble you’d drifted into burst instantly, the background sounds of the train coming back to you instantly. You cleared your throat. “What?”

“What do you mean ‘what’?” She whisper-yelled, trying not to attract the attention of the other students around you. You frowned at her expression before shaking your head.

“Stop overthinking, will you?” 

With a quiet grunt, you grabbed your backpack again and pushed it deeper into the overhead luggage rack, making sure it wouldn’t tumble back down again. Satisfied, you dusted your hands together before lowering yourself into the window seat beside your friends. 

Ignoring your friend’s lingering stare, you rested your elbow against the window frame, letting out a small breath. Some students were still hurrying along the platform, some laughing loudly and some waving goodbye. With a long excited whistle cutting through the station, the train slowly began to pull away from the platform.

—🌷🪽

You leaned comfortably against the window, resting the side of your head against the cool glass as you reached into your pocket and pulled out your headphones. The familiar click echoed softly in your ears as you slipped them on, the outside world slowly fading into the rhythm of the song.

Tall buildings gave way to smaller homes, laundry fluttering lazily on clotheslines as children waved excitedly whenever the train rushed past. The scenery transformed into endless paths of green fields, swaying gently beneath the warm breeze, rows of trees stood, their leaves dancing softly whenever the wind brushed through them. 

Lost in the scenery and the music flowing through your headphones, you felt the gentle poke against your arm. You blinked and turned toward your friend, slipping one side of your headphones off your ear. She subtly tilted her head toward the entrance of your seating section. Following her gaze, you looked up. 

Two boys stood at the entrance to your entrance. One of them rubbed the back of his neck as he stared down at the small ticket clutched between his fingers, an embarrassed smile tugging at his lips. Beside him stood a taller guy, one hand tucked into the pocket of his oversized sweater as he watched his friend getting scolded by the Train assistant.

The older man let out a weary sigh before speaking loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. 

“These kids don’t know how to find their seats. How did you even get into university??”

The boy let out an awkward laugh as a faint blush appeared across his cheeks. “...Sorry, Sir.”

The attendant snatched the ticket from his hand, glanced at it, then pointed directly toward the empty seats across from you.

“Here.”

Oh…

—🌷🪽

Two boys exchanged a quick glance before stepping into the seating section. The blonde boy quietly took the seat directly across from you, letting out a small sigh as he settled against the cushion. Beside him, his friend dropped into the seat, stretching his long legs out slightly before pulling them back in.

The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels against the track filled the awkward silence. You kept your eyes fixed on the passing scenery, pretending to be absorbed. But then curiosity had a funny way of winning.

I couldn't even see his face properly last time...

Now that he was sitting directly across from you... Your eyes traveled across the small table between the seats before setting on him.

The afternoon sunlight spilled through the train window beside him, tracing a soft golden outline along his blonde hair. A few loose strands fell carelessly over his forehead, casting soft shadows. He was... annoyingly pretty.

How can someone look so effortlessly put together while doing absolutely nothing… urgh…

Your gaze lingered for a second longer and then his amber eyes met yours.

Embarrassment rushed through you so quickly that it felt like your entire body heated up at once. You snapped your head back toward the window so fast without thinking and a quiet chuckle reached your ears. Against your better judgement, your eyes shifted slightly toward his reflection in the train window.

The corners of his lips had curled into the softest smile ever, his shoulders rising ever so slightly as he let out another amused breath. His eyes still lingered on you for another second before he finally went down, biting lightly on the inside of his cheek. You, on the other hand, wished the train would somehow swallow you whole.

The rest of the journey passed surprisingly quietly. Your friend had long since buried herself in conversation with someone over text, while the two boys occasionally exchanged a few words of their own. Outside, the endless fields gradually disappeared, replaced by clusters of buildings and the steady speed of the train slowly eased, with one final jolt, the train came to a stop. 

You slipped your headphones into your bag before standing up, stretching slightly after sitting for so long. Looking up, you reached for your luggage resting on the overhead rack. 

“Wait, let me help.” The blonde boy stood, one hand already resting on the edge of the luggage rack. His eyes met yours briefly before flicking toward your suitcase. His fingers wrapped around the handle, and he carefully pulled your luggage free with a grunt.

“There you go.” he said, offering you a small smile as let go of the handle.

—🌷🪽

Nicholas knew it was you the moment he stepped into the classroom. He hadn’t even made it halfway inside before a burst of laughter cut through the usual morning silence, stealing his attention from whatever Euijoo had been saying beside him. He turned his head instinctively toward the sound.

You were sitting beside your friend, your shoulders shaking with silent laughter. One hand covered your mouth, while your friend laughed just as hard beside you. 

Your eyes had shaped into crescents, the corners crinkling so beautifully that he found himself staring at you with adoration. A soft peachy flush dusted your cheeks, brought on by laughter. The dull fluorescent lights of the classroom warmed the moment they fell across your face, filling with a warmness that Nicholas failed to explain. 

He didn’t notice Euijoo had stopped walking until his friend lightly nudged his shoulder and only then did he realize that he was done for.

If you asked someone, more like a young-adult, what love meant to them, they’d probably have an answer ready. Maybe they’d describe the butterflies in their stomach, the warmth of holding their lover’s hands or the comfort of having a person to come home to. But then, Nicholas never knew what he ever wanted. 

He had spent years watching the way his father looked at his mother, like she was an angel in the middle of a yellow tulip flower field. He watched the small gestures, the flowers for no special occasion, the lingering stares across the dinner table, the way his father searched for the warmth of his mother’s eyes after a tiring day. 

Nicholas always wanted a love story like his parents. A love he could wear proudly, never feeling the need to hide it. But then, still he had never been able to answer that question.

What exactly did love mean to him… 

Watching you laugh silently from across the classroom, he found himself wishing something simple for someone who waited almost all his life for an answer. 

He wanted to be the reason your eyes crinkled like that. He wanted to make you laugh every day so he could see your cheeks flush. Nicholas finally found the answer. Love was not a feeling he could define… It was you. 

Watching you and your friend step off the train, Nicholas couldn’t help but follow you with his eyes. The two of you walked side by side through the platform, your conversation flowing without pause. Your friend animatedly waved her hands around as she spoke, and every now and then you’d throw your head back with a laugh, gently nudging her shoulder. Nicholas’s lips curved into the tiniest smile before he finally tore his gaze away. He turned his head towards Euijoo, he was already looking at Nicholas with a knowing smile.

“What?”

—🌷🪽

After settling into their rooms and freshening up, all the students were informed to gather at the hotel’s restaurant before heading to the flower fields. The corridors buzzed with excitement as everyone went downstairs in groups, while the scent of freshly baked pastries drifted through the hallways. The moment Nicholas stepped through the entrance, his eyes instinctively began searching the room. Rows of round tables filled the restaurant, occupied by students laughing and chatting with each other. His gaze swept from one end of the restaurant to the other but he couldn’t find a trace of yours and the disappointment settled quietly in his chest. 

Then among the unfamiliar faces, his eyes landed on your friend, but she was completely immersed in a conversation with another girl from your batch. His brows knitted together.

Where are you?

Nicholas tore his gaze away and looked at Euijoo. 

“You go ahead.” he said, nodding toward the table where the rest of their friends had gathered. Without saying a word, Euijoo nodded with a smile and walked away. Nicholas took a quiet breath before making his way over to your friend’s table and she happened to look up just as he approached. 

“Excuse me… Do you know where Y/n is?’ He asked politely, offering a small smile. For a second, your friend blinked at him and then her expression turned into a barely contained excitement. 

“OH, SHE WENT TO THE FLOWER FIELDS.” She exclaimed, straightening in her seat.

“She said she wasn’t hungry. So she decided to head there first.” Your friend explained seeing Nicholas’s tilted head.

“Oh, I see… Thank you.” He gave her a grateful nod, and just as he turned to leave, your friend called out for him. Your friend wore a gentle smile, “She went to the pink tulip section.” 

—🌷🪽

You didn’t believe in love. It wasn’t because you hated it, you just couldn’t understand why people chased after something so uncertain. Love has always seemed so temporary for you. People promised forever so easily, only to leave when forever became inconvenient, So what was the point? Why give someone the power to become the sunshine when they could just as easily become the thunderstorm of your opened window. 

And you couldn’t understand love in any of its forms. Growing up, your house was rarely quiet. Raised voices echoed through the walls than loved laughter did. You’d sit in your room, hugging your knees to your chest, hoping the shouting would end before the dinner. Little by little the home that was supposed to feel your safe place, became just a house that you wanted to escape the most. 

And when you asked your mother one day, why she still stayed with your father, she said that she loves him while offering a sad smile. 

If that was love… If love meant draining your beautiful soul into a hollow space just because you didn’t want to ruin your “lover’s” happiness, then what was so beautiful about it?

Still, you never let that hollowness show. No matter how heavy your heart felt, you refused to let it become someone else’s burden. If anything, you tried even harder to become a source of warmth for the people around you. Maybe that was your way of protecting others from the kind of loneliness you knew so well. Perhaps, that was why you got along with animals so naturally.

There was a little stray cat that wandered around the university everyday. Every morning, you’d stop by the convenience store near the entrance and buy a small packet of cat food. Between the lectures, you’d find the cat curled up beneath the same old tree, waiting for you patiently and the moment it spotted you, its ears would perk up. 

One day, the rain had started just before your afternoon lecture. At first, it was only a light drizzle tapping gently against the windows. And after a few hours, rain started slamming against the glass. Thunder rolled across the sky, loud enough to make a few students jump in their seats. Your grip around your pen tightened, you knew how terrified the cat became whenever it rained. That was why, a few weeks ago, you’d spent an entire afternoon gathering old cardboard boxes, a wooden pallet, to make it a small shelter, at least it would give him warmth. 

The moment class was finally dismissed, you grabbed your bag and hurried outside. Rain drops soaked through your clothes within seconds as you sprinted across the ground. From a distance, you could already make out the familiar shape of the tiny wooden cage, but someone was there too. In front of it was a crouched down figure with fluffy blonde hair, damp from the rain. His back was turned toward you as he crouched beneath the tree, one hand resting gently near the little cage. 

You slowed your pace as you approached the little shelter, careful not to startle the frightened cat curled up inside. He noticed you and he slowly looked up. The moment his eyes met yours he froze. 

His wide, doe-eyed eyes blinked twice, rain clung to his long lashes, making them darker, while tiny droplets slid down the soft curve of his cheeks. His fluffy blonde hair, now damp from downpour, falling messily across his forehead. A faint shade of pink gradually spread across his cheeks. He looked away for a second before his gaze found yours again, almost shyly. 

“I-I saw him… scared in here, so…yeah” he mumbled, gesturing awkwardly toward the little cat tucked safely inside the shelter before slowly pushing himself to his feet. He was… tall.

He looked down at you with those same soft eyes. The only sounds were the relentless rain drumming against the ground and the occasional rumble of thunder. You simply nodded, not knowing what to say. He glanced down awkwardly, wiping his hands against the front of his pants before licking his lips. 

“Right… uhm…I’ll go.” He hurried off into the rain, after offering a shy smile. You lowered your gaze to the little shelter and beside it sat a small, unopened pouch of cat food.

The rain continued to pour around you, soaking through your clothes but for some reason you didn’t feel cold. A small smile tugged at your lips and your hand unconsciously came to rest against your chest. 

…Why do I feel so warm and why am I liking it so much?

—🌷🪽

Nicholas followed the narrow stone path that drew through the flower fields. The chatter from the restaurant had long faded behind him, replaced by the gentle rustle of leaves and wind. 

Endless rows of delicate pink blossoms stretched as far as the eye could see, their pale pink petals swaying gently in the evening breeze. Beyond them, mountains rested quietly beneath the sky painted in soft shades of gold, the setting sun casting a warm glow over the flower field. 

And right in the middle of it all… you walked slowly along the small path, fingertips brushing against the tulips. The golden sunset glow caught the edges of your hair, making you look breathtaking. 

Nicholas came to a complete stop, his mind so full of rehearsed conversations emptied suddenly. Standing there, watching you admire the beauty of the fresh summer, looking so peaceful… his heart beat so loudly in his chest. 

A cool droplet landed against the back of Nicholas’s hand. The softest drizzle began to fall from the sky, barely enough to call it a rain. He blinked, instinctively lifting his upward, and his attention quickly returned to you. 

You tilted your face slightly toward the sky, letting the gentle drizzle kiss your skin. Warm sunrays poured across the field through the drizzle until a faint rainbow appeared behind you.

An angel in the middle of a pink tulip flower field.

Nicholas took a hesitant step forward, making the gravel shift with a crunch and the peaceful little bubble you’d been living in shattered as your attention was pulled away from the flowers. You turned your head toward the sound and flinched out of pure surprise. He cleared his throat softly, rubbing the back of his neck as he stepped beside you. You looked up at him, eyes meeting briefly and quickly looking away. 

A small sigh escaped him, drawing your attention back to him. His eyes remained fixed on the mountains. “Do you know the meaning of pink tulips?” he asked. 

“...No.”

Nicholas let out a breathy laugh through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “I really didn’t expect you to get flustered so easily.”

“...Anyways… Pink lips are often considered as the symbols of affection. They symbolize gentle love… admiration… happiness…” 

“They are a way of saying…  ‘I like the person who’s in front of me’.”

The sentence slipped from his lips so naturally, and his eyes slowly drifted toward you. The gentleness of his eyes frightened you. He was looking at you like you were something special and you had never been looked at like before. A strange warmth spreads through you, settling in your heart. 

“Nicholas…?” 

He looked at you with a sad smile. “It’s okay. I understand.” 

“Wait.” Your voice stopped him before turning away. 

“I’m sorry. I-I don’t know why… But whenever you’re around, my heart feels strangely warm. I find myself looking for you without realizing it. When you're near I feel comfortable. When you smile I want to smile too.” You finally gathered courage to meet his eyes. 

You took a slow step toward him, voice trembling slightly, “I don’t know if this is love… I don’t understand this feeling yet… but… I’d like to understand it with you."

Maybe love wasn’t as uncertain as you had always believed. 

Maybe it wasn’t something that would disappear the moment you reached for it. 

Maybe it wasn’t exhausting. 

Maybe it wasn’t a thunder storm after all. It was you who had been standing behind closed windows, convinced that the sky outside would always be dark. You opened it, despite the fear, only to realize there had been warm sunlight waiting patiently on the other side all along.

divider: @enjinsprettydoll

Perm taglist: @yumangel, @fumakiluvr , @euijoo1sidechick , @aquas-heart , @ikigaijo , @sh1n3-4h4na

To your realization, one of your favorite niche bands, BOYNEXTDOOR is performing in Seoul. Unfortunately, with them being too small to even think about the U.S., they haven't performed here, not that you're really surprised. And even if they did, the closest place to you is Seattle, and you commute more than enough to Olympia for your job. Nevertheless, flying to Seoul is worth it when you get two positives in one negative—the negative being that every flight you've taken, you always sit near either a loud baby or annoying kid. Well, not this time. With no younger children around you, this is two positives in a positive.

You get awoken by the lady sitting next to you.

"Tired?" The woman asks. She appears to be around your age.

"Mmph.. Yeah. Why'd you wake me up?" You rub your eyes, blinking to get your vision to clear up from the current blurriness it's at.

"Flight's landing in ten minutes. Thought you might want to know."

"Oh! Thank you." She nods with a smile before turning back to her phone. You pick up your purse, pulling out your phone as well and texting your boyfriend.

you: heyy babe!! what's up?

boyf: nothing much

boyf: wbu?

you: landing from the plane :)) can't wait to see uu <33

boyf: mhm

boyf: c u in a bit

When the plane lands, you let the lady pass by you. You wait for the rest of the plane behind you to clear up so you can get your things, quickly walking through the aisles as to not create such a huge gap between people so the other passengers who are doing the same thing as you don't have to wait so long. As you clamber out of the plane with the rest of the passengers, you pull out your phone again to text your boyfriend, asking where he'll be. He responds saying he's outside of the oversized baggage carousel, where you're already heading for your other suitcase. With a quick 'okk!!', you tuck your phone away and get over to the carousel as fast as possible. Not exactly paying attention, you accidentally bump into someone, quickly apologizing before going back to your face walking pace, not getting a good look at the person you bumped into. Not that some random person you bump into with no purpose is important at the moment. As you exit the airport, you see several cars, buses, and taxis line up in rows. Like usual, it's hard to spot your boyfriend until you see him pop up in the corner of your peripheral vision. You wave at him, and you get a smile and wave in response.

"Hey! How was the trip here?"

"Pretty good. I mean, nothing crazy happened." Minjun nods as you talk, grabbing your suitcases and putting them in the trunk as you enter the passenger's seat. You recline the front seat of the car back, wanting to lay down after the trip. Jet-lag's gonna hit me quick.. Nevertheless, you still speak for a bit longer before ending the conversation, the only noise heard being your soft, slow breaths and the road from outside of the car.

When you've waken up again, you're not in the car anymore. Instead, you're in a dark room that you can't see as your eyes haven't adjusted to the lack of brightness in the room. You hear your boyfriend's loud snores next to you. You lean over the bed where your bag lays, unzipping the smallest pocket and pulling out a plastic bag holding earplugs, an amenity from the earlier flight, and a black-out sleeping mask. After putting both items on, you're able to rest in peace once more. Knowing your usual sleeping schedule, you'll probably wake up by 1:00 P.M. And like you thought, you wake up at 12:45 P.M. You hear your boyfriend in the kitchen, the clatter of pots and pans ringing in your ears with a sizzle noise on one of the pans. You quietly walk out of the room and see him sauteing vegetables.

"Hi." You wrap your arms around him in a quick hug before letting go.

"Good afternoon. I just started lunch, are you hungry now?"

"Not really, I can wait."

"Okay. It'll be ready in around.. 10 minutes?" You nod before going to your room and getting your stuff to freshen up in the bathroom. You walk back over to the kitchen island where Minjun sits, head down on his arms. You ruffle his fluffy black hair and he groans, raising his head.

"Seriously?" He mumbles. You notice the already plated food on the island.

"Anything you want to do today?"

"We can go for a walk around the nearby park."

"Sure!" You grab the chopsticks laying next to the plate, quietly eating next to Minjun.

It's sweet for the first half of the month. You both take care of each other, he takes you out. After that first half, Minjun withdraws from you slowly but surely. He takes you out on less dates, goes out more with his friends, forgets to text you, comes home late. And you're either sitting on the couch silently or laying on your side in bed, facing away from him and having your soft breaths fill the room. By the middle of the second month, a week before the concert, the convenience store has become your kitchen, every single one of your meals at the same store next to a random bar. There's also one guy who goes there almost as much as you that piques your interest, but he hasn't even taken off his hood. One day, you see Minjun grabbing a glass of water, dressed to go out. "Where are you going?" "..Somewhere." "Where is somewhere?" "Just somewhere, okay? Bye." He darts out of the house, door practically slamming behind him. You shrug in your seat and shake your head. Five minutes later, you go to the bathroom, slightly fixing your hair as best as you can. You slide a pair of shoes on and walk out the door. While on the walk to the familiar convenience stores, you notice a larger friend group, one person in said group especially familiar. You don't notice you've stopped walking and are just looking at them until he looks back at you.

He breaks away from his group and walks over to you, arms crossed. You look up at him, messy hair and glasses askew. You're wearing a random pair of sweatpants and a yellow and pink short-sleeved shirt.

"Were you following me?"

"What- No! ..You could've just told me you were going to the bar with your friends though."

"I don't have to tell you everything."

"I never said you had to. I just-"

"Do you not trust me? Do you think I'm, what, cheating?" He interrupts.

"I never said that! ..Look," you sigh. "Can you just tell me what's up with you lately?"

"You'll get upset or something.." He grumbles.

"I think that would be fair if it's bad news!"

"I don't want to talk to you!" He exclaims.

"I don't care! You're going to tell me one way or another." He groans, then looks down at his phone, opening his messages and texting you. You hear three consecutive pings from your phone and pull it out, looking at his texts.

boyf: ion think i have feelings 4 u anymore

ill text u a good hotel 2 stay from tomorrow 4 the rest of the summer

hope u hv fun at the concert btw

The words might as well have been illegible to you. You helplessly stare at the text as he looks back at you, patting your shoulder as if he's trying to build a broken structure back together.

"I can pack your suitcases for you..?" He tries to seem sincere, but it comes off as indifferent. There's a long pause before you reply.

"I'll see you tomorrow morning. And I can pack my own things, you don't have to." He nods before walking back to his friends, entering the bar immediately like nothing happened. You rub your eyes, a long puff of air escaping through your nose. With another deep breath, you twirl around and walk into the convenience store you were trying to get to in the first place. I just need something to take my mind off of.. this.

A soft ring indicates your entrance into the convenience store. The employee has already seen you multiple times, so she smiles at your entrance. "Welcome back!" You wave before disappearing into the aisles, getting your usual snacks. You bump into someone—the other regular customer—again, quickly apologizing before walking off. Haven't you done this before? Hold on.. You pause and turn around. The guy looks at you as if he's seen you before too.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to bump into you again." He shyly says.

"No, that was my fault. Again?"

He nods. "The airport."

"Oh! No, that was completely my fault. Don't worry about it." You smile, waiting for a response. He hesitates, analyzing you for a second before taking off his hood. Oh my god. You gawk at him, which scares him off into putting his hood back on.

"No! Wait- Are you Riwoo?"

"Sanghyuk, technically, but yes." You stare for a second longer before suddenly getting nervous and backing off.

"Mmh.. Sorry for bothering you." Your voice comes out even more meek than you've expected. You quickly walk over to the register.

"What's wrong?" The cashier looks at you, then looks at Riwoo.

"Is he.. bothering you?"

"No! I'm just nervous."

"Convenience store crush.. I don't know how to help you with that one, sorry."

You laugh. "It's fine. Have a good night." She nods. Upon turning around you almost bump into Riwoo once more and have to stop yourself from yelping. You take a deep breath and prepare your food like you usually would. You sit in your seat and see Riwoo across from you.

"Would you mind if I sat here?"

"Not at all." You notice he has more of snacks than a meal that he has to prepare.

"Are you from around here?"

"No, I live in the U.S. I was visiting to see.. someone, but something came up between the two of us, so now it's for a concert."

"Oh? Whose concert?"

"Yours."

"Ah.. Right." You let the sound of your food and other people in the store fill the silence of the conversation, neither of you exactly sure where to continue from where you left off.

"You're a good dancer." He looks up at you as you continue to eat your ramyeon.

"Thanks. Ah.. I wish I could compliment you on more than your looks, but I don't know enough about you." You shake your head.

"It's chill. I don't mind getting complimented on my beauty!" You dramatically pose for that last sentence, making him softly laugh at your theatrics.

"So, who's this someone?" He questions. You look up, tilting your head.

"You said you here to see someone, then something happened?"

"Oh."

"You don't have to answer, we can change the topic-"

"It's fine. I ran away over here and I'm talking to you because I'm trying to take my mind off of it. I don't really care though.. I guess. My boyfriend just broke up with me. Like, now." With no sound neard from him, you look up to see his jaw dropped.

"Broke up with you? You're joking, right?"

"Hah.. Nope." There's a moment of silence. He opens his mouth before closing it again.

By the end of the night, you somehow acquire Sanghyuk's number and social medias. You wave bye to him as you two part ways, you going left and Riwoo heading to the right. Reaching Minjun's apartment, you sigh before opening the door. You don't brush your teeth or take off your makeup, far too tired to do so. But that tiredness doesn't seem to fully reach you when you're laying on your shared bed in the middle of the night. You hear the door unlock and loud footsteps, assumedly to be your boyfriend's. The footsteps get louder, heavier, before they stop. You fight the want to stay in bed and see him passed out on the couch, face down and snoring loudly. You don't say anything, turning right back around and tucking yourself into bed again. You wake up again, early in the morning. Quietly, you pad over to the bathroom to wash your face, then go back to pack your stuff. When you're done, you walk to the kitchen and make a hangover remedy for Minjun before making your own breakfast. After eating, you wake him up and give the glass to him. Once he recovers, he drives you to the hotel he recommended you and you check in, as you already bought a room last night.

"You good?" He asks. You nod.

"Okay then, 'cause I need to go. Bye!" He rushes out of the building, the attendant helping you giving him an annoyed look before changing her face back to a default, professional one and handing you your room keys.

After getting your room situated, you can hear your stomach rumbling. You don't know where the nearest store is, but upon further inspection, the one that you usually go to is closer from here than it is from Minjun's apartment. You grab the jacket you were previously wearing and throw it over your pajamas, walking out of the building, keys in your pocket, and over to the convenience store, where a familiar face awaits. Blond hair, black circle lensed glasses, and calm demeanor, Sanghyuk is standing in front of the convenience store, leaning on the window next to the door. You sneak up next to him while he's zoned out.

He yelps. "Why are you out here?" You inquire.

"Oh, the store owner got a call saying the food was delivered to the wrong area and they have to pick it up themselves, so they sent the only worker. I was the only customer there at the time so she asked me to watch over the store."

"Do you have to watch it out here?"

"No. I saw you earlier too, near the hotel closest to here. I wanted to know if you'd show up."

"Just ask me to come back next time instead, alright? You have my number anyways. I'm gonna eat though, if you wanna go inside." He nods, walking in and sitting in the seat behind the counter. Picking up what you usually grab and getting the cash you pay each time for the same items, you leave the cash tucked next to a display case and the register, enough so no one can tell with a glance but the person working at the register would notice. After realizing no one else was going to show up for a while, he moves to sit next to you while you eat, chin resting on his hand.

"So the concert. That must be fun for you."

"Yeah." You sit in silence for a bit, neither of you knowing what to say.

"You believe in love at first sight?"

"What?"

"Just hypothetically."

"It depends. How.. intense is that love?"

"Very. Like, an eight out of ten."

"Then yeah. Love at first sight is a thing, I personally just don't think it applies until it reaches.. seven eight? Or more out of ten." Sanghyuk nods as you speak.

"It's a thing for the concert, we have someone we 'fall in love with at first sight', and give them a flower. If you're showing up, I already know my person— if you're in the front." He looks at you for an answer, so you nod in response.

"Have you personally experienced it? Love at first sight."

"Yeah. A few times. One was my boyfriend, when I'd already had several situations like that where everything turned out well, and my breakups were mutual and not so.. sudden. You?"

"Once. This one girl—I loved her a lot. The feelings were reciprocated, but she," he exhales before starting the sentence up again, "She cheated, so we broke up, then she passed the next day. I hadn't heard about it until a few weeks after, because she turned the whole situation on me when we broke up and no one really wanted to talk to me." You weren't really sure what to say.

"Did I just rant? Sorry."

"No, it's fine. It's unfortunate you had to go through that."

"I'm mostly over it, I guess. I still think about it from time to time."

"That's fair. I mean, she was still someone dear to you." He nods.

The doors jingle and you both stand up and look around the corner of the shelves to see an employee pushing a cart with several boxes on it.

"Thanks for watching over the store!" Riwoo nods and puts a thumbs up before turning around to you.

"I have to get going. I'll text you later, uh.."

"(reader)!"

"(reader). Have I not known this for the couple of days we've been talking?"

"I don't think I ever told you.. Well, you know it now! Have a nice day, Riwoo." He waves with a grin before getting another text and dashing out of the store.

"Talk to you later, (reader)!" You look over to the employee, hauling boxes around.

"Need help?" The worker sheepishly nods.

"You're only restocking, right? I can help with that, just give me a few boxes!"

"Thank you so much, really." He picks up a few boxes that he's already opened and puts them on the ground.

"I'll open them and you put one box away. Depending on the pace, I'll figure out what else needs to be done and restock more boxes. There's usually more employees, but we've been understaffed as of recently." You nod, and as time passes with you two helping customers and restocking goods, you two become acquainted with each other as well.

The rest of the days before the concert, you're with Riwoo at the same convenience store, even going out to a nearby park together on one day. The day of the concert finally falls upon you, and you arrive at the venue thirty minutes before the show, which you thought was late but was surprisingly perfect timing. You stand near the front and even become friends with a few people around you while waiting for the show to start, exchanging Instagram usernames and raving in excitement about the band.

"Taesan!" Someone yells. His bass is on the ground while he connects the cords of his bass and Leehan's electric guitar to their respective amplifiers, then moves to his position, picking up his bass and slinging it over his shoulder. After getting into position, he smiles and waves before turning around to where Leehan stands, walking on stage to get to his electric guitar. People cheer for the both of them, including you since they're one of your favorite duos. One by one, the rest of the members walk in. Sungho on keyboard, Jaehyun at the front of the stage holding the microphone stand, Woonhak on drums, and finally, the one you were waiting the most to see, Riwoo. He goes over to the rhythm guitar, smoothly sliding into the guitar strap on instinct and adjusting it for the perfect position. Everyone looks around at the crowd to evaluate the amount of fans here to cheer them on, but Riwoo has another purpose for scanning everyone. Your face, in the front, smiling and waving at him. He waves back, acting like it's a general wave, but you know who that was directed to, because he locks eyes with you the whole time.

Nearing the end of the concert, the section Riwoo was talking about comes up. Jaehyun steps back enough to let everyone huddle around the microphone.

"Have you guys ever heard of love at first sight?" Taesan asks. The crowd cheers and erupts in a unanimous "yes".

"Well, I think we might have fallen in love with a few people in the crowd.." Sungho says, his melodic voice filling the room. The six look at each other.

"Why don't we go over to them?" Riwoo suggests, looking at you again. The other boys nod, reaching into their band jackets and pulling out orchids of several colors, then pretending to look for someone before going to someone random. Only, Woonhak's choice ends up being too random. Riwoo was already going your way when Woonhak made it over to you first.

"Orchids! Pretty, huh?" You nod with a smile, gladly accepting the flowers before looking back at Riwoo, who's already moved to someone else with a shy, possibly embarassed look etched on his face. When you look back at Woonhak, he gestures for you to move closer. Once you do so, he whispers in your ear.

"Don't tell Sanghyuk, but I only went to you so I could upset him. He made me do a stupid bet earlier so I thought—actually, no, I still think being petty was a good idea."

"You know about..?" Your voice trails off, but the questioning tone still lingers. He nods.

"We saved an extra orchid for him to give to you tonight, if you meet him at the, uh.. convenience store? Weird place, but I can't judge." You nod, so he moved back to look at Riwoo, who spares him a sharp glance before looking back at the crowd, gawking over yours and Woonhak's interaction.

You get a ring from your phone after the concert, checking your phone to see it's Riwoo. You answer the call the second you pull your phone out and see his name on your screen

"Woonhak lied. Wherever he said to meet, that was not the place I was planning on bringing you."

"Man, I kinda liked the convenience store." You get a stupid idea in the back of your head, deciding to indulge in it for fun.

"I also liked the concert, especially that end segment. I like the flowers Woonhak gave me."

"I have prettier flowers. And more."

"Mhm.. I doubt it." He can't see the smile on your face but he can hear it in your voice loud and clear.

"Just meet me at my dorm? Taesan and Sungho are out to get food."

"Just send me the address then." He cuts the call, and a few minutes later, you get a message with an address. In the time you waited, you'd already changed and were sitting on your bed. With the message, you type in into your Maps app, which it was thankfully a suitable walking distance. You get up and walk over to your shoes, slipping them on nervously, hands fumbling with the shoelaces.

Riwoo was shooing Woonhak away from his dorm.

"Why can't I stay?" He asks with a grin as he gets pushed out by Riwoo.

"You know why! I-" His eyes go to the side near the stairs where you stand, stifling a laugh.

"Hey, (reader)!" Woonhak smiles, putting a hand out that you grab for him to gently pull you up the rest of the steps.

"You sure you want to spend the rest of the day with Riwoo?" Woonhak points at him. Sanghyuk doesn't even look offended anymore, just bemused, head slightly pushed back and arms up in a questioning gesture.

"Woonhak here was just about to leave." Riwoo smiles and nudges him, to which Woonhak barely moves an inch.

"Yeah, don't you think the pettiness should wear off at some point in time?" Woonhak throws his hands up and stumbles back in feigned indignation.

"Wow.. I see how it is." He pretends to shed a tear before turning around and walking upstairs, but stops before he's completely out of sight to turn his head around.

"I wish you two a good night, don't do anything crazy!"

"What does he think we're going to do?" Riwoo mumbles.

"Yeah, I wonder." You know what he was implying.

"Well, he's not here anymore. Where are those prettier flowers you were talking about?" He breathes out a laugh, opening the door slightly more so you can go inside.

The door closes behind you two, loud as you look at the dorm. You thought it would be a mess, but it's surprisingly neat. Dimmed orange lights give the dorm a nice ambience, and there's a large window in the living room to frame the buildings scattered around the area.

"I like the apartment, it's pretty cozy." You've already taken your shoes off at the front door.

"So, Sungho and Taesan aren't going to be here for a while?"

"Yeah, they're grabbing dinner for us." You nod, assessing the apartment once more. The kitchen sink is filled with dishes, but not enough for it to look messy or disgusting. There's a few paper plates stacked on the coffee table in front of the couch and a few empty glasses, two of them knocked over on their side. The house is neat but still lived in, still used. It doesn't look dull and brand new nor does it look weathered.

"Anything you wanted to say..?" You turn around to look at him. He hesitates, opening his mouth before closing it.

"Not really."

"You sure?"

"..Yeah." You decide to take a few steps closer, just enough to make him nervous. If he won't initiate anything, it seems like you'll have to.

"Well, I have something to say to you." You voice changes slightly, more sweet, dragging the words slightly longer. It shouldn't be noticeable, yet it is to Sanghyuk. You take one more big step, one that gives you a bit less than a foot of space, chests almost touching. He takes a small step back, a sudden nervous feeling flooding his body.

"Sanghyuk, do you like me?"

"Yeah, you're very nice." His voice shakes as he says so. Your face shifts slightly—more assertive.

"Don't play dumb." He gulps, then takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

"Yeah. I like you." He didn't notice your fingers gliding up his arms, goosebumps waking in its trail until your arms link together around his neck and you pull him down to face level, breaths mingling due to the short distance between your faces. He leans slightly forward, but you take a step back.

"Come catch me." You grin at his face, almost bewildered before mirroring your expression.

"Yeah?" He starts moving toward you as you start walking backwards, but Sanghyuk barely lets you run, instead grabbing you by the waist and walking you to the main room's couch. You sigh.

"I didn't get enough time to fully devise the bit." You exaggerate a pout. He chuckles, relaxing with you on the couch.

"What are you going to do when you go back to.. where is it again?"

"Auburn? Just go back to work, I suppose. It's a bit uneventful there, I work in Olympia." You yawn in between your words.

"Tired?" You tilt your head back. You didn't get much sleep because of the concert, but today has been so eventful; can't there be one last thing to do?

"A bit."

"You can go if you are, I don't want to hold you." One last thing.

"Do you believe in love at first sight?" You turn your head to the right to look at him.

"Hm?" He's in the same position as you, head supported by the couch and rotated to the left.

"It was in your concert. But do you believe in it?"

"..Yeah. Maybe the first experience I had wasn't bad, but I'm sure the one I'm experiencing now would be good."

"I think the same thing." He sighs.

"Are we going to keep.. somewhat hinting about how we love each other, or are we just going to admit it?" Although said playfully, you mean it. He smiles.

"I love you. Truly." The both of your straighten up, but it's clear he's still nervous, so you make the first move instead, shifting so your knees are on either side of him, digging into the couch as you cup his face, slightly tilting it when you kiss him, a soft but lasting one. Riwoo grabs your waist and slowly lowers you on top of him as the kiss slowly grows to be more greedy, grasping onto his shirt before letting go again, Riwoo's fingers twirling the strands of your hair, slightly tugging before sliding his hand down to your lower back.

"We have food! Oh." You pull away to look at the door to see Taesan and Sungho standing at the door grabbing food. Sungho looks mildly embarassed while Taesan just looks, almost disgustedly.

"We have our own rooms and you two decide to eat each other in the one place we all share?"

"Wait, Taesan. That's that one girl that Woonhak gave his flowers to!" He squints his eyes, examining you before gasping.

"You're right! Oh my god, Sanghyuk, did you steal Woonhak's girlfriend?"

"What?! He doesn't have one! Especially not one like (reader)!" You stifle a laugh, slowly getting off of Riwoo.

"Looks like I should go. Have a good meal!" Taesan and Sungho nod and walk towards Riwoo, still kind of dazed while he sits on the couch. 'I'll text you later!' You mouth. He nods and smiles with a wave before turning back to the other two. And for the rest of summer vacation, it stays like that. Little dates that stay inconspicuous, constant meet-ups at the convenience store. Maybe the two of you talk a bit less when you have to go back to the U.S., but you still keep in contact. Even with your uneventful job, even when BOYNEXTDOOR greatly rises in popularity; enough to perform at Lollapalooza, enough to have a world tour with several stops in North America; the two of you still talk whenever you can, hoping you can see each other again soon. And maybe you don't have to wait that long. A few months and you'll see him again, barricade and yelling the fanchant like it's common knowledge.

once you arrived at the camp, you fell in love with it immediately: the forest scenery and beautiful greenery surrounding it, the small, wooden houses sprawled all around, the chirping of flowers from high up in the trees. you couldn’t help but look around, completely enamored with the sights gracing your eyes, almost in a trance as you twirled in the spot you stood in, taking everything in. it looked like something you had only seen in books and cartoons before — and you were more than ready to make your time here just as interesting and adventurous as those you’ve read about or those you’ve seen on the tv screen. you just weren’t exactly sure how you’d go about it yet — but the moment you met yuma, you were sure that your time spent at the camp would be eventful. 

you noticed him on your first day, the moment you stepped inside the cafeteria — a frown on your face and one of your favorite plushies in your hand, an orange cat with white stripes you got for christmas after begging your parents for it all december. normally, you would’ve been happy walking with it, it was the plushie you were most attached to, after all; but the betrayal of your parents replacing all your packaged things with actually useful and important stuff made you grumpy the moment you opened your suitcase. that was, of course, until you sat right next to him and it just so turned out that he had the same exact plushie. same brand, same size, same attachment to the toy… just different colors. his was black with white socks and a gorgeous, white spot around its eye, while yours was orange with vibrant, pinkish ears and nose. 

he chuckled at your frown and how stupid you looked with it on your face. you giggled at the way his cat plushie resembled his own features. that alone was enough for your friendship to bloom — and for the most notorious and mischievous duo this camp has ever known to be born. 

everyone knew of you, from the new-coming camp counselors to the other children and their parents — they’ve heard about your shenanigans, about the pranks you’ve pulled on the adults during each year you’ve spent at the camp which somehow doubled in size every single time. it became almost a legend, a myth told by the older kids to the first timers when the sky dimmed into a shade of dark blue and the bonfire stood proudly, its warmth hitting their little faces as they sat around it. the tale of the two menaces was known to everyone and albeit dramatized, as kids have the tendency to do so, it left a lifelong impression on the camp and the kids attending it — so long that it has outlived both your and yuma’s days there. well, not quite — for when your age far exceeded the limitations set by the camp’s organizers, you decided the next best thing was to start working there every summer, starting the very moment you were old enough to do so.

and oh boy, was working with yuma fun.

both of you greatly enjoyed taking care of the kids: creating games to keep them entertained, making sure each and every one of them was having fun and being included in the activities. it came to you naturally, maybe because you’ve lived through these rules and duties from the other side all these years — you could’ve swore you had them memorized before they even presented you with the list on the first day of work. 

while yuma was the camp counselor which children would always claim to be the most fun one to play with, you were the more responsible, sensible one — always making sure nothing gets forgotten, providing the kids with advice and comfort whenever they were in a rather gloomy mood. truthfully, your dynamic hasn’t changed almost at all since you were kids: still as playful with each other, still willing to play little pranks on the children of the camp and giggling to yourselves when they worked out perfectly. but the air between you was different now. thicker, heavier somehow. and you knew more than well what the reason behind it was. 

summer camp was the one thing which connected you two, and with each passing year, each passing summer, the journey with this place has neared its end. endings, in your book, meant closing a chapter of your life and leaving it behind — everything once tied to it now a precious memory stored inside your brain like a catalogue of colorful photographs. endings meant change. they meant loss. and the last thing you wanted was to lose a certain man from your life: especially considering that whenever you looked back at your favorite moments of your existence, he was always there as the common denominator to all of them. 

the thought of possibly losing yuma scared you — it haunted you day and night, growing more intense and harder to ignore with each passing summer.

so on your last night of camp, while the children were long asleep, you went out to sit by the lake. 

a string of smoke escaped your lips, the cigarette resting loosely in your right hand as you looked out at the image in front of you — the midnight sky beautiful, dotted with little stars creating beautiful patterns everywhere you looked. the water was calm and steady; unmoved and stagnant like it always was, reflecting the imagery of the night sky on its surface. your hand moved up to your face once more, cigarette resting on your lips. a sigh escaped your lips before you inhaled the smoke once more, the tiny, orange light at the other end of it flickering aggressively. 

‘some example you’re setting for the kids.’ a voice came from behind you and you didn’t have to turn around to recognize who the teasing tone belonged to. 

yuma. 

his pink hair, a hot topic amongst the camp attendees, still looked vibrant even in the dim lighting as he approached you, snatching the cigarette from your hands and inhaling the smoke. you frowned at his actions; which only made him chuckle under his breath.

‘you have your own pack.’ you mumbled as he sat down next to you, the blanket which you had set for yourself big enough to fit two people on it. ‘and yet you continue to steal mine anyways.’

‘because then i get the reward of seeing you frown.’ he chuckled, nudging your shoulder with his as he handed you the cigarette back, earning yet another annoyed glare from you. ‘your annoyed face has to be one of my favorite sights.’ 

you didn’t know what you hated more — the fact that his words were making you flustered or the fact that you knew that he was saying nothing but the truth. 

the two of you sat in perfect silence after his words, another shared cigarette flying from hand to hand. the smoke filled up your lungs and left a nasty aftertaste in your mouth, but you’ve learned to tolerate it over time — it didn’t bother you as much anymore, certainly not the same as when you and yuma first tried them behind the camp counselors backs at your last year of camp. now, smoking has become a habit for both of you; not to the point of addiction, but more so serving as an unhealthy treat to indulge in on late nights or particularly stressful days. after all, you both shared the same belief: an occasional cigarette didn’t truly count. 

you looked up at the night sky and as it gazed down upon you, you couldn’t help but reminisce about all those previous summers, all the precious moments and memories of the past, all the nights you snuck out to gaze at the same moon, the same stars. 

they have heard everything — your silent cries, your laughter, your meaningless stories as you talked to yourself freely. not to be heard, not for someone to listen; but to let it out into the world and off of your heavy heart. the moon didn’t judge, after all. the stars didn’t ask meaningless questions or laughed at your fears and doubts. sometimes it was better to speak into the void than talk to people who would eventually misunderstand you. 

yuma wouldn’t. he always understood. but there were things you couldn’t tell him, either: and when those things hung heavy on your aching heart, you resorted to talking to yourself, mumbling little stories which were only listened to by the moon, the stars and the ever so tranquil waters of the lake.

‘anything going on in that pretty mind of yours?’ his words were barely above a whisper, eyes still focused on the night sky. ‘come on, humor me.’

silence took over for a moment more as you thought about his offer. a sigh left your lips — deep and heavy, as if there truly was something bothering you.

‘it’ll only bore you.’ you mumbled. yuma shook his head.

‘nothing you say ever bores me.’ 

you hesitated for a second.

‘it’ll be weird.’ you finally stated, voice small and unsure of what you planned on saying next. ‘spending a summer without this camp being a part of it.’

yuma’s smile faltered — his expression changing into a more serious one, eyes finally tearing away from the night sky and locking with yours for a split second. you immediately knew he understood what you meant from the look in his eyes; the dark brown orbs sparkling in that specific way you recognized only from your late night conversations, those you usually pretended didn’t take place the next day. those conversations always brought out the vulnerable sides in both of you, sides you had promised to keep only to yourselves. 

he exhaled, the smoke from his cigarette floating upwards into the night sky, swirling around in the cold air. 

‘you’re right.’ he said, fingers gently brushing yours as he handed you the cigarette, the contact electric despite its delicacy. you inhaled the smoke one last time before putting it out in the sand, leaving the bud there to throw it out later. yuma’s eyes carefully followed each of your actions; like a quiet cat observing what was happening around him. 

silence took over once more as the leaves rustled in the midnight wind. 

‘i’ll miss this.’ yuma mumbled, hands resting on both sides of his body as he sighed. his eyes flickered to you for just a second — so short that you hadn’t even noticed. ‘i’ll miss us. i’ll miss you.’

and suddenly, upon hearing him, all the words died in your throat for a good minute — the thought of him missing you has never once truly crossed your mind. maybe it was because, at the end of the day, you thought he didn't view this friendship with as much importance as you did. a foolish thought, truly; but your fragile mind loved playing tricks on you, and this was only one of many. but hearing it from him, without an ounce of hesitation in his voice, made something shift inside your brain.

'i'll miss you, too.' you said quietly, letting your confession linger in the air between you like the cigarette smoke which has now completely disappeared. 'and this camp. all of it.'

'well, it'll remain a happy memory, won't it?' he stated, straightening his back just a little. 'everything in life is meant to pass eventually, but we can still preserve the memory of it for as long as we exist.'

'since when have you become so-'

'intelligent and amazing?' yuma cut you off.

'performatively philosophical.' you corrected, a chuckle falling from his lips.

'i'm just saying the truth.' his voice was gentle and calm as he spoke, staring up at the sky. 'this chapter of our life's will pass, but that doesn't mean there aren't other beautiful things awaiting us in the future. it's not like i'll stop talking to you just because our journey with this camp is coming to an end.'

'but it'll be different.' you stated, seemingly deep in thought. yuma nodded.

'different doesn't have to mean worse.'

he was right, you thought. and yet the idea of losing this part of your life and going forward scared you still — with everything around you changing at such a rapid pace as you slowly entered the serious part of adulthood, losing the only thing that has been a constant for years upon years felt like a nightmare.

'there's something i've been meaning to tell you.' yuma mumbled after a moment of silence, your head immediately turning to face him, brows furrowed in slight confusion. 'it's nothing bad, i promise! quite the opposite, actually.'

'oh, really?' you said, curiosity taking over you as you awaited his revelation. 'what is it, then?'

'i'll be moving into a different city.' he stated simply, slight excitement in his voice. 'i'm taking my master's at a different university. your university, actually. which means-'

'you're moving to my city?'

'precisely.'

yuma was met with silence on your end — a fact both worrisome and confusing. maybe he expected a different reaction from you. maybe he expected fireworks and proclamations of joy, of complete and utter happiness. and yet what he got was silence; an oddly calming one, he had to admit, but it was still not what he anticipated.

his eyes caught sight of you in the corner of his vision, head turning your way just slightly to get a better look. there you sat — quietly, with your gaze focused on the tranquil waters of the lake, the softest of smiles gracing your face. and that alone was enough for him to know. you were happy. of course you were. but there was something else in your expression, a different feeling lingering in your eyes like a delicate sparkle only noticed by some. yuma didn't quite understand what it was; but it wasn't his place to interrogate you about it. to know that you were happy was enough for him to be satisfied, too.

'i'm glad.' you finally mumbled out, smile growing as your eyes met his for a couple of seconds. yuma felt his own lips curving up, too — the look of adoration in his eyes unmistakable as he laid his gaze upon you.

'well, i'm glad that you're glad, then.' he answered, a chuckle escaping his lips. he could feel there was something heaving on your chest still — something left unsaid, still hidden from him. but he knew not to pressure you to tell him; he knew you will eventually, when you're ready to share whatever it was you were still caging deep in your heart.

besides, yuma was guilty of it, too. how could he judge you for hiding something from him when he had kept all his true feelings for you locked away in the furthest depths of his aching heart for years?

he'd tell you when the time is right — and surely you'd do the same.

'have you thought of what you'd do?' you asked, the sound of your voice pulling him out of his thoughts. 'you know, next summer.'

'hm, not really.' he answered truthfully, hands resting on his sides. 'maybe i'll take the chance and travel somewhere.'

'i'm somehow not surprised.' you giggled, fixing the loose strands of your hair that had gotten on your face. 'you've been mentioning that since you were a kid. i don't think i'd be able to count all the times you've yapped my ear off about going on crazy adventures all around the world during lunch.'

'let's not discredit me now.' yuma huffed in pretend annoyance. 'i yapped your ear off about it all the time, not just lunch.'

'yeah. and annoyed me with it every single day.'

'i don't think asking multiple follow-up questions would count as being annoyed.' he mumbled, shaking his head in disbelief. 'but sure.'

'okay, okay. don't go grumpy now.' you said, clearly amused by his antics. yuma felt you nudge his shoulder slightly in an almost playful manner, his smile appearing back on his face immediately. 'any ideas on where you'd like to travel first?'

'i have all the time in the world to plan it out.' he said. 'what about you, though? any plans for the future summers?'

you thought about it for a good minute.

'i don't think so.' you stated finally, voice quiet and unsure. 'i repressed that thought as much as possible until now.'

'well, wouldn't you like to travel, too?' yuma followed up with another question, curiosity taking the better of him. you nodded after a few seconds.

'probably, yeah.' you finally answered him, hands falling to your sides and resting on the blanket under you. 'i'd have to find someone who'd want to do it with me, though. definitely couldn't do it alone.'

'you could always travel with me, you know.'

'huh?'

'well, if you're not sick of me yet, that is.' yuma chuckled, head thrown back as he gazed up at the stars. 'would be nice to have someone familiar to travel the world with, wouldn't it?'

you could only nod in response. yuma was right, of course — to have something you knew, something familiar along with you on your travels was the best possible thing. a reminder that even in foreign places there's someone bringing you comfort, someone who knows you. and who better than the boy you had spent every summer with and quietly loved since day one?

'yeah, it would be lovely.' you finally answered, a smile gracing your lips. 'and for the record, i could never get sick of you.'

'right back at you, lovely.'

silence took over the lakeside, the quiet sounds of leaves rustling in the wind and small animals in the distance filling the scene as yuma's hand gently brushed yours — fingers grazing yours just slightly as he readjusted his seating position, instinctively moving closer to you. his palm was burning hot against yours, and yet the sensation felt comfortable. it felt right. so, despite your heart beating out of your chest, you let yourself enjoy this moment; head moving to rest against his arm, body leaning closer to his.

and in the quiet of the night, while the camp was sound asleep, love continued to grow and bloom — unsaid and not yet acknowledged, but oh so visible. there was no need to rush it, after all; you and yuma had all the time ahead of you to nourish it and let it grow outside the little cages you had hidden it in.

perm taglist: @nichozzystuffs @woonhakfeet @haorangis @choco-scoups @littlegummystar @mxriitaesz @luvkeiiii @ikigaijo @7yataki @xionvlog

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you visit busan alone during summer vacation.

there isn’t any particular reason behind the trip. with school out and a few weeks of freedom stretching ahead of you, you decide to spend two days away from seoul. busan seemed like a good choice, a train away from seoul yet a place different enough to feel like an adventure. what you forget to account for, however, is the blazing heat. the summer sun is mercilessa and by noon, the sidewalks practically radiate warmth, and even the sea breeze offers little relief.

after spending the morning wandering through the city, you find yourself searching for somewhere, anywhere, with air conditioning. that search eventually leads you to the aquarium. the building stands out against the bright afternoon sky, promising cool temperatures and shelter from the sweltering weather outside. honestly, at this point the marine life is just a bonus.

after buying a ticket, you step through the entrance and are immediately greeted by a rush of cold air. the difference is so dramatic that you sigh in relief. for the first time all day, you feel comfortable. with no schedule to follow and nowhere else you need to be, you begin making your way through the exhibits at your own pace, stopping whenever something catches your attention and lingering wherever you please. the soft blue glow of the tanks reflects across the floor, conversations blend into the distant hums of the filtration systems, and for a while, the outside world seems to disappear entirely.

somewhere between the angelfish exhibit and the tunnel aquarium, you find yourself stopping in front of a lionfish tank. the fish drifts lazily through the water, their striped body and venomous spines illuminated by the soft blue lights of the exhibit. you watch them for a moment before noticing someone else is already standing there.

a guy.

at first, you don’t pay much attention to him. plenty of people stop to admire the displays like you were. then you realize, he’s talking. not on the phone nor to a friend. just.. talking? “and people always think that lionfish are aggressive. like seriously? you’re super chill most of the time.” he says, eyes fixed on the tank. “like, look at yourself. do you look like you’re planning mass destruction?”

you glance around, nobody else seems to be with him. the guy continues without missing a beat, “actually, maybe don’t answer that.. you do look suspicious.” a pause. then he nods thoughtfully, as if the lionfish has offered a valid counterargument. you stare. because surely there is no way this guy is having a full conversation with a lionfish in the middle of an aquarium.

and yet, “okay that’s fair. sorry i judged you so quickly.” the lionfish swims past the glass, blissfully unaware of the accusations being thrown its way. the guy, however, seems completely invested in the discussion.

maybe you’re staring a little too obviously because the moment the guy glances away from the tank, his eyes land directly on you. and he freezes. you freeze too. for a few painful silent seconds, neither of you say anything. then his gaze flickers between you and the lionfish.

“oh.” a pause. “oh this isn’t what it looks like..” you raise an eyebrow, and unfortunately for him, that only seems to make him panic even more. 

“i mean– not that it looks bad. not that talking to fish is bad. i wasn’t talking to the fish exactly..” he winces, “okay i was talking to the fish.” your eyebrow rises higher, “i just really like marine life.”

for some reason, it sounds less like an explanation and more like a confession. the guy lets out a defeated sigh and drags a hand down his face, “wow. this is embarrassing..” despite yourself, you laugh. a faint shade of pink immediately appears on his cheeks. “judge me all you want..” the guy mutters, sulking away.

“no,” you say, still smiling “i’m just trying to figure out what kind of conversation you were having with a lionfish. his expression brightens up almost instantly, “a very important one, actually.” “oh?” “he’s being unfairly stereotyped.” you glance at the fish. the fish glances at neither of you. 

“i.. see..” “thank you. finally someone understands.” leehan speaks. “i didn’t say that.” “close enough.” A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. the guy grins. for someone who was moments away from disappearing into the aquarium floor from embarrassment, he recovers surprisingly quickly. 

“i’m donghyun by the way, you can call me leehan too.” he offers his hand. you accept his hand and tell him your name which somehow becomes the beginning of a conversation. one topic leads to another. the lionfish turns into marine animals, marine animals turn into favourite exhibits and before either of you realizes it, the two of you have wandered away from the tank entirely, continuing your conversation as though you’ve known each other for much longer than five minutes. 

for most people, the conversation would have ended at the lionfish tank and similarly, that’s what you expect too. it usually goes something like this: a few awkward minutes. polite smiles. then both people go their separate ways and never think about each other ever again. yet somehow, neither of you leave. instead you find yourself walking beside leehan as the two of you more towards the next exhibit, still talking about fish.

or rather, listening to him talk about fish. a lot.

you quickly learn that leehan knows an alarming amount about marine life. every tank becomes another opportunity for another fact. every species has its own lore. every creature seems to hold some kind of personal significance to him. at first, you think he’s a little strange. not in a bad way. just.. strange. 

the kind of person who speaks whatever enters his mind without filtering it first. the kind of person who gets genuinely excited over things more people would walk past without a second glance. you watch him crouch slightly in front of a tank of sea horses, pointing enthusiastically through the glass as he explains something you’ve already forgotten halfway through. 

the words blur together. what catches your attention instead is the way his face lights up. the way his eyes seem brighter when he’s talking about something he loves. the way he keeps glancing at you after every explanation, almost as if checking whether you’re still listening. and every time he does, you are. because despite yourself, you’re beginning to enjoy this. you don’t know exactly when it happens. maybe it’s somewhere between the neon tetras and corydoras exhibit. maybe it’s when he spends five minutes passionately defending the flowerhorn cichlid that most people find ugly. maybe it’s when he accidentally walks into a sign because he was too busy explaining something to notice where he was going.

whatever the reason, you eventually stop thinking of him as strange. instead, you start thinking he’s funny. endearing. easy to be around. the hours pass far more quickly than it should. the aquarium feels smaller somehow. each exhibit blends into the next as conversations branch into topics completely unrelated to marine life. school, family, favourite foods, places you’ve always wanted to visit, stories from childhood. 

the more you talk, the easier it becomes. the silence stops feeling awkward. the laughter comes naturally. and without realising it, you’re beginning to look for him whenever you stop in front of a display, instinctively wanting to know what he thinks before forming your own opinion. 

leehan notices this. he notices a lot of things. like how you always pause a little longer at the bigger tanks. how you tilt your head when you’re curious about something. how you laugh before trying to hide it horribly. but more than anything else, he notices that you listen. not the polite kind or listening nor the kind where someone’s simply waiting for their turn to speak. 

you actually listen. when he rambles, you ask questions. when he points out something, you look. and maybe that’s why it happens so quickly. because leehan doesn’t realize he’s falling for you until he’s already there. it sneaks up on him quietly. in the way he catches himself search for your reaction first. in he way every joke suddenly feels more rewarding if it makes you laugh. 

he doesn’t know much about love. but he knows this feeling. the feeling of wanting to keep talking to someone forever. the feeling of finding someone after years of searching and somehow feeling as you you’ve known them all along. the feeling of looking at a person and thinking, i hope this day doesn’t end. 

one of the last exhibits you visit is the touch pool. the moment you realize that leehan is dragging you to touch starfish, you freeze several feet away from the tank. “no.” leehan looks over, “no?” “no.” “they’re starfish.” “i know what they are..” “then what’s the problem?”

you stare suspiciously at the shallow pool. the starfish stare back. or at least you assume they do. “they look weird.” leehan lets out a laugh, “that’s ridiculous.” you cross your arms, “what’s ridiculous is how they look!” unfortunately for you, this only encourages him. a few minutes later, you’re standing at the edge of the torch pool while Leehan repeatedly insists that the starfish are harmless. 

“just one touch.” “no.” leehan chuckles, “you’ve survived talking to me, i promise the starfish are less dangerous.” eventually, through a combination of persistence, teasing, and your own curiosity, he manages to convince you. barely. you crouch beside the pool, staring at the nearest starfish as though it might suddenly spring to life and attack 

leehan snorts as he sees your finger trembling. you finger hovers above the starfish, then you immediately pull back. “nope. nuh uh.” leehan laughs, “come on.” you glare at him. he grins back. the worst part is that he’s clearly enjoying this. after a moment of hesitation, you finally force yourself to touch the starfish. the second your finger makes contact, your entire body tenses. the texture surprises you. it’s neither slimy nor hard, just strange. you quickly pull your hand away, “oh.” “oh?” “it wasn’t terrible.” “see?” 

you poke it again, then anther one. soon enough, your fear begins fading into curiosity. meanwhile, leehan has somehow acquired your digicam. you don’t notice until a camera shutter sounds and your head snaps up. “did you just take a picture of me?” another shutter. leehan beams, “you looked cute.” “delete it.” “no.” “leehan!–” click. another photo. 

“leehan!” “what?” he asks innocently, already taking another. you reach for your digicam but he lifts in higher, “you’ll thank me later.” “i absolutely will not!” yet despite your complaints, you can’t stop smiling and leehan notices. he notices the way your eyes brighten when you forget to be embarrassed. he notices the way your earlier fear completely disappeared. he notices how pretty your smile is.

so he keeps taking pictures. not because he thinks they’re particularly good. because honestly, most of them are burry and some are horribly timed. but for some reason, he can’t bring himself to stop. because every photo feels like proof that today actually happened. proof that he met you. proof that this isn’t some strange, perfect dream he’d wake up from tomorrow.

By the time the aquarium closes, they sky outside has begun turning shades of orange and pink, the transition feels unfair. one moment the two of you are wandering beneath blue-lit tanks and watching fish drift through the water. the next, an announcement echoes through the building, reminding visitors that the aquarium is closing for the day.

neither of you says much as the crowd slowly funnels towards the exit. it’s not because there’s nothing left to talk about. if anything, there is too much. too many unfinished conversations and too many stories left untold. and yet, for the first time all day, words seem inadequate.

the automatic doors slide open. warm summer air rushes forward and reality returns. you and leehan stop just outside the aquarium entrance, neither quite sure how to continue. the day is over– “are you hungry?” the question comes suddenly and you blink. “what?” leehan rubs the back of his neck, “i mean, we’ve been here for hours.” he gestures vaguely towards the aquarium, “people usually eat dinner at some point.” a small smile tugs your lips, “are you asking me out for a meal?”

leehan glances away for a second, palm rubbing the back of his neck, “yea.. i mean only if you want to..” you know he means it casually, at least that’s how he’s trying to make it sound. but there’s a hopeful edge to his voice that makes your chest feel strangely warm. you find yourself smiling before you’ve even decided on an answer. “okay.” the relief that flashes across his face is immediate, “really?” “yea.”

his eyes immediately turn into crescents, a grin spreading across his face so contagiously you had to look away. dinner ends up being simpler than you imagined, just a small restaurant tucked between larger buildings, chosen mostly because neither of you could agree on where to eat and both of you were too hungry to keep debating. 

the food is good. nothing extraordinary. years later, neither of you will remember exactly what you ordered. what you will remember is the conversation. the way one short story somehow led to ten long stories. the way laughter and snorts kept interrupting meals halfway through. at one point, leehan laughs so hard he chokes on his drink. you laugh even harder watching him. a few tables over, someone shoots the two of you an annoyed glare.

neither of you notices. or perhaps neither of you cares. hours earlier, he has been a complete weirdo of a stranger. now the idea feels impossible. not because you know everything about him, because you don’t, there are countless things left to learn. but somewhere throughout the day, familiarity has settles between you. comfort.  

eventually, however, the restaurant empties and the sky darkens. reality begins catching up once again. your hotel isn’t far and actually it is close enough to walk, so that’s what the two of you do. the city feels different at night, cooler and quieter. streetlights casts pools of golden light across the pavement while distant sounds from the beach drifts through the air. 

the two of you continue talking. about anything, everything and nothing at the same time. whatever allows the walk to last a little longer. then, far too soon, your hotel comes int view. beside you, leehan grows noticeably sulkier. the conversation slows, not because you’ve run out of things to say but because suddenly every world feels like a countdown. you stop near the entrance. neither of you moves and the bright hotel sign glows overhead. people pass behind him and the city continues on as though nothing important is happening. yet somehow, this feels important an neither of you can explain why. 

the silence continues to stretch, not in an awkward way but just reluctant. as though both of you are waiting for the other person to find a reason not to leave. you glance up at him and he meets your gaze. for a second, neither of you looks away. it’s a strange feeling. standing in front of someone you’ve known for less than a day yet already feeling as though saying goodbye matters far more than it should.

you don’t have a name for it. leehan doesn’t either. maybe because some feelings arrive before the words for them do. all either of you know is that when the moment finally comes to part ways, neither of you is quite ready. and neither of you wants to be the first person to leave.

eventually however, leehan glances toward the hotel entrance before looking back at you, “so, how long are you staying in Busan?” the question is innocent enough yet something about it makes your smile falter. “actually…” you hesitate, “i’m not..”

his brows furrow, “what do you mean? you shift your weight slightly, “i’m only here for summer vacation..” a small laugh escapes you, “i’m going back to seoul tomorrow morning.” the words settle heavily between you and for the first time all day, leehan doesn’t respond immediately. “oh.” just one word. 

you watch his expression carefully. the surprise is obvious. the disappointment even more so. neither of you had really thought beyond today. the aquarium. dinner. the walk. It had been easy to pretend there would always be another conversation waiting around the corner. another exhibit, another meal, another day. now suddenly, there isn’t. tomorrow has arrived too quickly. 

you look away first, “my train leaves tomorrow morning.” leehan stares at the pavement for a moment. then something seems to occur to him. “what station?” you tell him busan station. he nods once. then, before he can overthink it, the words tumble out, “i’ll bring you.”

you blink, “what?” “to the station..” he rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking embarrassed. “i mean..” a nervous laugh escapes him, “if that’s okay.” for some reason, the offer makes your chest ache. not because it’s a grand gesture. it’s not. it’s simple. small. the kind of thing most people wouldn’t think about twice. 

a smile slowly spreads across your face, “i’d really love that.” the answer comes so quickly that Leehan’s eyes widen slightly. then he smiles too. a genuine one. the kind you’ve grown strangely fond of over the course of a single day. 

neither of you says anything. the sadness is still there. tomorrow still exists. the goodbye waiting at the station remains unavoidable. but suddenly, it feels a little farther away. not tonight, tomorrow. tomorrow can wait. for now, there is still one more meeting left between the two of you. and somehow, that makes leaving easier. 

the next day arrives far too quickly. when you step out of the hotel lobby with your suitcase rolling behind you. leehan is already there waiting. he’s standing near the entrance, hands shoved into his pockets, absentmindedly kicking at a crack in the pavement. the moment he notices you, his face brightens and suddenly, the morning doesn't quite feel so heavy.

“you’re early.” you say. “that’s because I didn’t want to be late.” you laugh slightly and leehan grins. he doesn’t mention the fact that he had arrived much earlier than necessary. Instead, he reaches for your suitcase.

The journey to the station feels strangely different from yesterday. the city is awake now, cars pass by, people hurry through the streets, life continues normally around you. yet both of you are painfully aware of where this walk ends. still, neither of you allows the conversation to die. you talk about anything you can think of. favourite songs, places you’ve never visited. childhood stories. future plans. every topic feels like an excuse to learn one more thing about the other person before time runs out.

before long, the station comes into view. and suddenly, there are no more streets left to walk. inside, announcements echo overhead as travelers rush between platforms. the atmosphere feels busy, people arriving and people leaving. you hate it immediately and leehan seems to feel the same. 

the closer the departure time gets, the quieter both of you become. eventually, you’re standing beside the platform with your suitcase between you. neither of you knows what to say. how do you properly say goodbye to someone you’ve only known for a day? how do you explain why it feels so much harder than it should?

the announcement for your train sounds through the station as your train pulls up to the platform. a knot forms in your chest. beside you, leehan looks down at the floor. then back at you, “hey.” you glance up. his smile is small and nervous. “we should stay in touch..”

the suggestion feels obvious. yet somehow neither of you had said it aloud until now. your expression softens immediately, “yea.” “like..” he rubs the back of his neck, “letters?” you blink, “letters?” a laugh escapes your lips, “who still writes letters?” “we can,” the answer comes without any hesitation.

you look at him for a moment, really look at him. the guy who talks to fishes, the guy who spent an entire day making you laugh, the guy standing here now an trying to keep you in his life. and suddenly, the idea doesn’t seem strange at all. instead, it feels perfect. a way to make sure this isn’t the end. a smile slowly spreads across your face. “okay.” leehan visibly relaxes and his grin returns instantly. the same one you’ve became hopelessly attached and fond of.

you exchange addresses. a station announcement echoes overhead. passengers finish boarding. your chest tightens. this is it. the goodbye you’ve both been avoiding since last night. the noise of the station fades into the background, people move around you and announcements continue overhead. yet somehow, all you can focus on is him. the guy you met less than twenty-four hours ago. 

the guy who talks to lionfish. the guy who made an entire day feel far too short. the guy you’re suddenly not ready to leave behind.

“write to me,” he says. his smile is there, but it looks fragile. like he’s trying very hard not to let his sadness show. you nod, “i will.” “and don’t take three months to reply.” a laugh escapes you as you roll your eyes. then, before you can stop yourself from overthinking it, you step forward. leehan blinks. you rise onto you tippy toes slightly and press a quick kiss against his cheek.

the world seems to stop and for one impossibly long second, neither of you moves. leehan freezes completely, his eyes widen and his brain appears to shut down. the realization hits you immediately afterward. you actually did that. heat rushes to your face. before either of you can say anything, the warning chime sounds. 

the train doors begin closing, your panic wins. you immediately turn and hurry onto the train. “wait–” the doors slide shut before leehan can finish. you barely make it aboard, breathless, embarrassed and suddenly very aware of what just happened. 

through the window, you see him standing on the platform. still somewhat frozen, one hand half-raised and cheeks visibly red as though his mind hasn’t caught up yet. the platform starts drifting away slowly as the train pulls out of the station. leehan finally snaps back to reality, a disbelieving laugh escapes him. he lifts a hand and waves. you wave back. neither of you notices the ridiculous smile spreading across your faces. the distance between you grows as the station disappears. and yet, for the first time since meeting, goodbye didn’t feel that frightening. because with a promise to write letters, it becomes something worth remembering.

the first letter arrives less than a week later. you find it waiting for you when you return home from school, your name written across the envelope. the sight alone makes you smile. for a while, the letters arrive faithfully, allowing your connection and feelings to continue despite the distance.

every envelope feels like a bridge between Busan and Seoul, carrying stories, memories and pieces of each other’s lives. you two write about school, family, dreams for the future and small moments you wish you could share in person.

however as the years pass by, life begins to demand more time from you two. school becomes more challenging, new responsibilities appear, friendships change, opportunities arise and the future gradually pulls you both in different directions. the letters still come but not as often. what was once a week becomes monthly, then every few months. every delayed reply comes with an apology and a promise to write back sooner.

and the gap continues to widen. neither of you meant for it to happen but it was simply life moving forward. eventually, one letter goes unanswered. then another. and before either of you realises it, the letters stop altogether.

years continue to pass. busan remains by the sea. seoul continues to rush forward. the older you grow, the more people you meet, and the faster you build lives separate from the summer that once meant everything.

sometimes, when he visits the aquarium, he’ll pause at the lionfish tank for no reason a moment longer than necessary.

sometimes, the sight of a train pulling away from a platform brings you back with flashes of blurred memories.

both of you remember the feeling of falling in love. not the details, not anymore. time is cruel that way.. it takes the memories apart piece by piece, carrying them away so slowly you never notice what has disappeared until it’s wiped away.

two years become three. then five. the letters are long gone, the paper has yellowed, been misplaced or thrown away during one of many moves. neither of you know what became of the other. neither of you know where life ultimately led the other person you once waited so eagerly to hear from.

yet sometimes, without warning, a familiar ache settles in your chest. you remember walking beside someone who made ordinary moments feel warmer. but time slowly erases the details. faces become a blurry mess, the exact curve of a smile disappears. then the color of their eyes. then the way their hair was styled. voices fade into silence or gibberish. names become harder to remember.

one day you realise you can no longer remember at all. only that there once was a name you repeated to yourself so often that it felt impossible to forget. but somehow, you did.

sometimes you wonder if the other remembers you as badly as you remember them. if somewhere, in another life, another version of the future they never shared, someone occasionally pauses at the sight of an aquarium and feels the same inexplicable ache.

you will never know. and perhaps that’s what makes the memory so achingly beautiful. because for one summer, out of all the summers they would ever experience, two strangers found each other. they fell in love. they promises they would never forget. and in the end, they forgot everything except that they once had. 

somewhere deep within them remains the faint outline of a person whose face they can no longer picture, whose voice they can no longer hear, whose name they can no longer recall. a stranger, and yet somehow, was the person who once meant a lot. 

all that remains is the memory of a summer and the feeling of being loved within it.

another summer, the afternoon rush spills through the seoul subway station, a steady flow of people moving in every direction. shoes tapping against the concrete, conversations blur together and train announcements echo through the station.

you climb the staircase towards the exit, focused only on getting home, halfway up, someone catches your eye. a stranger, a guy, descending the stairs. you don’t know why you look at him and neither does he. for the briefest moment, both of you stop. confusion flickers across his face. and a strange feeling of familiarity settles in your chest. 

you don’t recognize his face, you’ve never seen him before - at least that’s what your mind tells you. yet, his eyes lingers on yours. and suddenly.. blue light, aquarium glass, a lionfish, laughter, starfish, a camera flash, a train station, a promise. memories long buried beneath years of living surge to the surface without warning. it isn’t clear enough to understand but it is enough to make your chest ache. 

the words leave your lips before you can stop them.

“your name?”

divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more | network @berrybittynetwork

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Butterflies can land on your fingers and stay there, the ocean waves can rush to your toes while you stand on the beach, afternoon rain can drench you through and leave you laughing at the sight of yourself.

The world shows us its love in so many ways. It expects nothing more than for us to show that love back.

You had so much love inside of you that you did not know what to do with it.

But as the First Princess, you knew your love. It was nothing but your duty. You'd been trained from childhood to take love with a grain of salt, for it all ended in aristocratic agreements and arranged marriages anyways.

Which was how you managed to keep a straight face and a cordial smile as you signed onto the dotted line of the marriage certificate, your citizenship now officially that of Iriandel's.

Right next to your initials were the neatly signed letters of your to-be husband.

Byun Euijoo, the king of Iriandel.

The second prince of Iriandel, the one who had never been meant to rule. You'd heard of him through all the whispers that traveled across the borders.

His older brother, Yudai, had been the golden child—the heir, the warrior, the diplomat. But he had abdicated without warning, leaving the crown to fall, heavy and unexpected, onto Euijoo's head.

And now, to retain stability within the lush, verdant kingdom, he required a wife. A queen. An alliance.

That wife was you.

You had met him only once before today—this signing, this respectful, formal ceremony in the gilded study of the Iriandel palace. He had been waiting for your delegation by the window, the afternoon light spilling over him like honey. You had felt your breath catch before you could stop it.

Byun Euijoo was handsome of course.

It was an undeniable truth, even if you held no feelings within your heart for him.

He was tall, with a lean, elegant frame that made his simple royal attire seem unjust in its flattery. His waist was narrow, his shoulders broad and when he moved, there was a silent grace to him, as if he had been sculpted by the same gentle hands that shaped the rolling hills of his kingdom.

His hair was a warm brown, falling in effortless waves that brushed against his forehead and his eyes were the kindest thing you had ever seen. His cheeks held a roundness that made him look younger than his years. There was no sharpness to him, no cold edge. He looked like someone who smiled easily, who laughed often and who might offer you a hand without expecting anything in return.

And when he had looked at you, he had smiled, a small action that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

"Princess." He had said, his voice warm like the first sip of tea on a chilly morning. "It is an honor to finally meet you."

You had given him your practiced smile, the one you had perfected over years of courtly engagements. "The honor is mine, Your Majesty."

You saw the way he looked at you, as if he could see right through that smile to the nervous girl hiding behind it. He did not call you out on it. He simply gestured to the documents on the mahogany desk, and together you had signed your lives away.

The wedding had followed swiftly, the Iriandel court insisting on urgency. There had been no time for letters or courtship, no time for anything but the ceremony itself.

You had not seen him again until you were walking down the aisle, your veil obscuring your vision, your heart pounding beneath layers of silk and lace. Euijoo had been waiting for you at the altar, dressed in the kingdom's colours of blue and gold.

The ceremony had been beautiful with Iriandel certainly knowing how to put on a spectacle. Flowers cascaded from every archway, music swelled from a hundred instruments and the guests had wept as you exchanged the most formal vows. You had smiled your polite smiles, recited your lines with practiced grace and when the moment came for the kiss, you had leaned in and pressed your lips to his.

It had been brief, chaste and utterly devoid of affection.

Euijoo did taste like tangerines though, sweet and unexpected.

Now, the celebrations were over, the guests had retired and the palace had fallen into a hush, broken only by the distant rustle of leaves in the night breeze. You were sitting in front of your vanity, dressed in your nightgown, staring at your own reflection in the candlelit mirror.

Your hair, once intricately designed, now hung loose. Your eyes, usually so composed, held a flicker of uncertainty. You traced the line of your jaw with your fingertips, wondering if the woman in the mirror was still you or if she had already become someone else.

A queen. A wife. A stranger in a foreign land.

And what a land it was.

Iriandel had taken your breath away from the moment you crossed its borders. It was a kingdom of lush green hills that rolled like waves toward the horizon, ancient forests where the trees whispered secrets to one another, rivers that glittered like liquefied sapphires under the sun.

The air smelled of earth and wildflowers, the people greeting you with such warmth and genuine joy. They had thrown petals during the procession, had sung songs and had looked at you with hope in their eyes.

And you wanted to be worthy of that hope. You wanted to be a good queen for this kingdom, a kind queen, a queen who could love Iriandel as fiercely as it deserved to be loved.

Love was a perilous thing.

To love was to open yourself up to pain, to vulnerability, to the possibility of loss. And you had been trained to guard your heart, to keep your love locked away where no one could reach it.

Perhaps, you thought, you could keep your love within yourself for a little longer. Just until you understood this new life, this new role, this new husband.

You would be kind, you would be gracious, you would be everything a queen should be—but you would keep that fragile, precious part of yourself hidden away, safe from the uncertainties of an arranged marriage.

You took a deep breath, the silk of your nightgown rustling as you rose from the vanity. The bedchamber was vast and ornate, draped in deep blue and gold. The bed loomed large and inviting, its canopy cascading like a waterfall of velvet. And on the other side of the room, a door stood slightly ajar, leading to the king's chambers.

He was waiting for you, your king.

Your husband.

Your heart fluttered and you pressed a hand to your chest to steady it. You could do this. You had been trained for this. You would be a good queen. You would be a good wife.

For now, you would keep your love within yourself, safe and warm, like a candle flame cupped in your hands.

You turned from the mirror, squared your shoulders and walked toward the door. You had been confused when the attendants had led you to your chambers.

They had smiled, bowed and gestured to a room that was clearly yours alone. A vanity, a ginormous wardrobe and a bed that was large enough for two, but undeniably meant for one. You had stood in the center of that room, your nightgown clutched to your chest, and blinked at the empty space beside you.

Two bedrooms.

You had expected to share one—that was what everyone had told you. Your mother, your ladies-in-waiting, the whispered advice of married cousins who had laughed behind their fans and told you that the first night was always awkward but that you would get through it. They had spoken of the sacred act ( a duty) that would seal the union and ensure the stability of the alliance.

They had never mentioned separate chambers.

Had you misunderstood? Had you missed some crucial piece of information in the whirlwind of the past few days? Or was this some Iriandel custom, some strange tradition that kept husband and wife apart until a certain time?

You had stood there for what felt like an eternity, your heart pounding, your mind racing. And then you had made a decision. If this was a test, you would face it. If this was a misunderstanding, you would clarify it. If this was simply the way things were done here, you would adapt.

But first, you needed to see him.

So now you stood before his door, your hand raised, your breath shallow. You were honestly scared. Your fingers trembled slightly and you curled them into a fist to steady them.

The word consummation echoed in your mind, heavy and foreign, a concept you had been taught to accept but never truly prepared for. You had been told it was your duty, your responsibility, the final seal on the marriage contract. But knowing it and facing it were two very different things.

You'd always imagined it—the art of sex. What an intimate thing it was, two bodies connecting like stars that had collided with one another in the presence of heat to fuse to one another. It was another path of imagination that you'd put your love into.

And now you were to do it with a man who did not know you and you did not know him.

You knocked. The sound was soft and you immediately regretted it. You should have knocked louder, more confidently. You were a queen now. Queens did not knock like frightened children.

But before you could second-guess yourself further, a voice came from within.

"Come in."

His voice was warm, low and a little tired. It sent a shiver down your spine.

You pushed the door open, revealing a chamber much like your own. Dark woods, deep blues, the faint scent of sandalwood and ink. And there, at a large desk cluttered with papers and maps, sat Byun Euijoo.

He was still dressed in his wedding attire.

The blue and gold coat was rumpled now, intricate embroidery catching the candlelight as he leaned over a document, a quill in his hand. His hair, once perfectly styled, had fallen into a soft disarray, a few strands brushing against his forehead. He had not prepared for bed. He had been working.

You stood in the doorway, frozen, your nightgown feeling highly thin and exposed. You cleared your throat.

Euijoo looked up.

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath, his quill pausing mid-stroke. He set it down slowly and carefully, as if he were afraid that any sudden movement might startle you away.

You dipped into a low bow, your nightgown brushing against the floor. "Your Majesty," you said, your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest. "I hope I am not disturbing you."

Euijoo rose from his seat, and even in his slightly disheveled state, he carried himself with a kingly dignity. He waved a hand dismissively, a small, almost shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Please," he said, his voice gentle, "there is no need for such formality, not between us. Call me Euijoo."

You blinked, caught off guard by the request. It was so simple, so human and it felt like a breach of every protocol you had been taught. He looked at you without a trace of expectation. You nodded slowly.

"Euijoo." You repeated, testing the name on your tongue. It felt like a secret you were trusted to keep.

"That's better." Then his brow furrowed, concern flickering in his eyes. "But why are you not asleep? Is the chamber not to your liking? I can have the attendants prepare a different room if it does not suit you."

You shook your head frantically, your hands rising in a gesture of denial. "No, no, the chamber is beautiful. It is more than I could have hoped for. I only..." You hesitated, your cheeks warming as you struggled to find the words. "I was confused. I had expected.….that is, everyone told me that we would.….that we would share a room. As husband and wife. And I thought that tonight, we would..." You trailed off, your voice fading into nothing.

Euijoo's expression shifted, understanding dawning in his eyes. He took a step closer, his hands clasped loosely behind his back.

"You are referring to the consummation." He said, his tone matter-of-fact but kind.

You nodded, your gaze dropping to the floor. "Yes."

Euijoo was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft, "It is all right. I will not hold you to that." He chuckled, "I understand that this marriage is a duty for you, just as it is for me. I will not force you to fall in love with me, or to pretend that this is anything more than an alliance."

His words settled over you like a warm blanket, unexpectedly very comforting. You had braced yourself for pressure, for expectation, for the cold reality of obligation. But instead, he had given you space. He had given you a choice.

You looked up at him, "Thank you." You whispered.

Euijoo nodded. "You should get some rest," he said, "It has been a long day."

You heeded, but a question lingered on your lips. "What about you? Why are you working so late?"

Euijoo glanced back at his desk, at the scattered papers and maps that covered its surface. A tired sigh escaped him. "There is much to be done. The transition of power has left some matters unsettled, and I would rather address them now than let them fester. Besides," he added, a hint of self-deprecation in his tone, "I find that work keeps my mind from wandering to places it should not."

You did not ask what he meant by that. Perhaps you were afraid of the answer. Instead, you simply nodded again and turned toward the door.

"Goodnight." You said softly, your hand on the handle.

"Goodnight." He replied, and his voice followed you out into your bedroom, lingering like the memory of tangerines on your lips.

As you slipped beneath the covers of your solitary bed, you found yourself thinking something you'd never thought would come into your mind.

Euijoo had surprisingly warm eyes.

___________________________

The next few months passed like the slow turning of seasons in Iriandel's gentle climate.

The kingdom, once restless from the unexpected shift in power, gradually settled into a quiet calm. The people, who had watched the transition with wary eyes, began to trust their new king.

And you, the foreign queen who had arrived with nothing but a signature and a polite smile, began to find your place.

You threw yourself into your queenly duties with the same dedication you had once given to your princess training. You visited the villages that dotted the lush green hills, you learned the names of the ladies who served in the palace, you sat through endless council meetings where you listened more than you spoke. You poured over ledgers and learned the intricacies of Iriandel's trade routes, its agricultural cycles, its seasonal festivals.

You wanted to be good at this. You wanted to be worthy of the crown that now rested upon your head.

You and Euijoo barely ever talked to each other. It was a strange arrangement, this marriage of yours.

You dined at different times—he, rising early to attend to the endless demands of kingship; you, taking your meals later, after your own duties had begun. Your paths crossed in hallways, in the corridors of the palace, and you would exchange polite nods, brief smiles, the occasional courteous inquiry about each other's health.

But nothing more. You were two strangers living in the same house, bound by a contract neither of you had chosen.

Nevertheless you could not help but admire him.

From a distance, you watched him work. You saw the way he poured over documents late into the night, the candle burning low as he read petition after petition from his people. You heard the reports from his advisors, who spoke of his fairness, his patience, his genuine desire to do right by every citizen of Iriandel. You found yourself respecting him more with each passing day.

The few times you did talk, it had been him asking you for advice.

You had been surprised by that. People did not usually ask for your opinion. As a princess, you had been trained to listen, to observe, to smile and nod while the men around you made decisions.

But Euijoo had sought you out, had sat across from you in his study, and had asked, with an actual curiosity, what you thought about a trade dispute with a neighboring kingdom, or a proposal for a new irrigation system in the southern provinces. He had listened to your answers, had considered them carefully, had even implemented some of your suggestions. It had been….unexpected.

And deeply flattering.

You did think he was handsome, too.

The way the morning light caught his hair, the soft curve of his cheeks when he smiled, the warmth in his eyes—these were details you noticed, stored away in the corners of your mind.

But you never let yourself linger on them too much. You had learned long ago that such thoughts were dangerous, that they led to expectations and disappointments and heartache. So you pushed them aside, buried them beneath layers of duty and practicality.

This was a true arranged diplomatic marriage, with which you had made your peace.

Until this morning.

Five months had passed since your wedding day.

The calendar had turned, the seasons had shifted and Iriandel had bloomed into its full summer glory. You were standing in your chambers, dressed in a cream-colored gown, your hair pinned in a simple style. You had just finished reviewing the week's schedule with your lady-in-waiting and you were about to head down to breakfast, as you did every morning.

A knock at the door made you pause.

"Come in." You said, expecting one of the servants with a message about the day's events.

The door opened, and a young man stepped inside. He was small in stature, with a delicate, boyish face that made him look younger than his years. His eyes were large and round, dark and expressive, and his front teeth were just slightly prominent, giving him an uncanny resemblance to a bunny.

It was Harua, Euijoo's personal assistant. You had seen him around the palace, always scurrying from one task to another, a stack of papers clutched to his chest. He was young, earnest and impossibly cute, with a sharp tongue that you found very endearing.

"Your Majesty." He said, bowing deeply. "Good morning."

"Good morning, Harua," you replied, offering him a warm smile. "Is something the matter?"

He straightened, his cheeks flushing red as he fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve. "I have a message from the king. He.….he requests that you join him for breakfast this morning. He said that he is free now as well and that it would be a pleasant honour to have your company."

You blinked, caught off guard. Breakfast together?

In five months, you had never once shared a meal. The invitation was so unexpected that you found yourself momentarily speechless.

Harua shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clearly waiting for your response. "Shall I tell him that you will come?" He asked, his voice hopeful.

Well well, this was intriguing. Your dearest husband wished to dine with you. A smile crept onto your face.

"Tell him I will be there shortly." You said to Harua.

Which was how you found yourself waiting in front of the doors to the dining room, smoothing down imaginary creases on your gown. You'd even glanced at yourself in the mirror before coming for some reason.

The doors were grand, carved from dark oak with intricate patterns of ivy and blooming flowers. Two servants stood on either side, and at your nod, they pulled them open with a synchronized motion that revealed the dining hall beyond.

Sunlight streamed through tall windows, casting gold across the polished floor. A long table dominated the center, but only two places had been set at one end, close together—a pink label invitation for conversation.

And there he was.

Euijoo sat at the table, a cup of coffee cradled in his hands, steam curling upward in lazy spirals. He was dressed simply—a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hair slightly tousled, as if he had run his fingers through it one too many times. A sheaf of papers lay open before him, but his attention was fixed on you the moment you stepped through the door.

He looked up, and a smile—a little shy—spread across his face.

"Wife." Euijoo said, the word rolling off his tongue with an ease that made your heart stumble.

You blinked. In five months, he had never addressed you so familiarly. It had always been "my queen" or, on rare occasions, your name.

But wife? That was something else entirely.

You recovered quickly, a spark of mischief igniting in your chest. You lifted your chin, a small smirk playing at your lips.

"Husband." You shot back, the word feeling strange and thrilling on your tongue.

Euijoo's smile widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He gestured to the chair across from him. "Please, sit."

You crossed the room and took your seat, the servants immediately moving to fill your plate with an array of fresh bread, cheese, honeyed fruits and a pot of tea. You watched them work, then turned your gaze back to Euijoo.

"This is certainly a surprise." You said, reaching for your teacup. "I did not expect to see you this morning. You are usually buried in your study by now."

Euijoo chuckled, "I know. But I found myself with a rare free morning, and I thought.…why not have a meal with my betrothed?" He paused, his eyes meeting yours over the rim of his coffee cup. "We have been married for five months, after all. It seemed a shame to let another day pass without sharing a table."

You felt something warm bloom in your chest, but you pushed it down, focusing instead on the food before you. "Well, I am glad you did. The company is a welcome change from my usual solitary breakfasts."

"Is that a complaint about your husband's neglect?" He asked, his tone teasing.

"Perhaps a gentle observation." You replied, matching his tone. "Nothing more."

The two of you ate in comfortable silence for a while, the clink of silverware against porcelain the only sound. But it was not an awkward silence—it was the kind that felt natural, like two people who had no need of filling every moment with words.

Euijoo reached for a piece of toast and noticed the way you spread your honey—thin, even layers, covering every corner. He raised an eyebrow.

"You are very precise with your honey." He observed.

You glanced down at your toast, then back at him. "And you eat your eggs with far too much pepper."

He looked at his plate, where a generous dusting of black pepper covered his scrambled eggs. A sheepish grin crossed his face. "I like the heat."

"You are going to burn a hole in your stomach."

"I will take that risk."

You both laughed, and the sound was light and easy, filling the room with something that had been absent for far too long.

The conversation drifted, touching on trivial things—the weather, the gardens, a particularly stubborn goose that had taken up residence in the palace courtyard. The topics eventually segued into music.

"I heard a violin playing the other day," you said, stirring your tea absently. "It was coming from one of the practice rooms in the east wing. I stopped to listen for a while. It was beautiful."

Euijoo's eyes lit up, a spark of interest flickering within them. "You enjoy the violin?"

"I do." You said, and then, hesitating for just a moment, you added, "I used to play when I was younger."

His fork paused mid-air. "You play?"

"Played." You corrected, a wistful note creeping into your voice. "I have not touched an instrument in years. A proper princess, you see, must focus on more practical pursuits. At least, that is what I was always told."

Euijoo set his fork down, his expression turning thoughtful. "That is a shame. Music is not a frivolity. It is a language of the soul."

You looked up, surprised by the depth of his words. "You speak as if you understand."

"Because I do." He said, and a slow, almost shy smile spread across his face. "I play the violin as well."

Your eyes widened. "You do?"

He nodded, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. "I have since I was a boy. I would often lock myself in my room and play until my fingers ached."

You stared at him, a strange, giddy excitement bubbling up inside you. "What pieces do you play?"

"Everything." He said, leaning forward, his enthusiasm palpable. "Classical, folk, even some compositions of my own. I have been working on a piece inspired by the autumn harvest—the way the leaves turn gold and the air grows crisp. It is not finished yet, but..."

"That sounds wonderful," you breathed, and you realized you were leaning forward too, your tea forgotten, your heart racing. "I used to love the Vivaldi concertos. The way the strings seem to dance—"

"Yes!" He interrupted, his eyes bright. "The Four Seasons! The Summer movement, with its frantic energy, as if the music itself is trying to outrun the storm—"

"And Winter," you added, your voice rising with excitement, "how it starts so delicate, like snowflakes falling, and then builds into something fierce and beautiful—"

"Exactly!" He laughed, running a hand through his hair. "I have never met anyone who understood that."

"Neither have I," you admitted, and for a moment, you simply looked at each other across the table, two strangers who had just discovered a shared language neither had known they were fluent in.

The breakfast continued, but the tone had shifted. You talked about composers and techniques, about the feel of a bow in your hand and the way a well-played note could make your chest ache.

You argued passionately about whether Bach or Mozart was superior (you were Team Bach, he was Team Mozart, and you agreed to disagree after a poor salt shaker got knocked over). You laughed at each other's stories of childhood recitals gone wrong, of strings that snapped at the worst possible moments, of teachers who were too strict and too kind in equal measure.

When the meal finally came to an end, you rose from your seat, feeling lighter than you had in months.

Euijoo stood as well, and he gave you a smile that was softer than any you had seen from him before.

"Thank you," he said simply. "For joining me."

"Thank you," you replied, "for asking."

You turned and walked toward the doors, but as you reached them, you paused. You looked back over your shoulder, a playful glint in your eyes.

"Perhaps, one evening, you might play for me? That autumn piece you mentioned?"

He blinked, then smiled—a real, full smile that reached his eyes and made him look younger, lighter. "Perhaps I will."

You left the dining room with a warmth spreading through your chest, the memory of his smile lingering in your mind like the last note of a song that refused to fade away.

You swore you had tasted tangerines on your lips again.

________________________

To love is to let go.

You did not love Byun Euijoo. You would not feel anything if you had to let him go.

So why was it that you were sitting here in a window nook in the library, staring out into the distance and thinking about what he must be doing at the moment?

Warm golden patterns cast across the worn leather of the book in your lap by the filtered sunlight—a book you had not turned a single page of in the past twenty minutes. Your gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the rolling hills that stretched toward the horizon. Somewhere in the direction of Phileon.

Euijoo had left for Phileon ten days ago.

He had gone to help his friend, the First Princess of Phileon—though you supposed you could no longer call her that. She had overthrown her father, the old king, in a swift coup that had sent shockwaves through the neighboring kingdoms. She had gathered allies in the shadows, had waited for the right moment and had seized power with a ferocity that had earned her both admiration and fear.

Euijoo had gone to her side.

You had not asked him why. You had not asked him if he was safe, or when he would return, or if he would write. It was not your place, you had told yourself.

But then, last week, something had changed.

You had returned to your chambers after a long day of meetings to find a sheet of music lying on your desk, weighted down by a single yarrow stem. The handwriting on the margins was familiar now—neat, elegant, with a slight flourish at the end of each letter. Euijoo's handwriting.

For you, the note had read. A piece I finished on the road. I thought you might like to hear it, even if only in your mind. Play it someday, if you remember how. — E

You had stood there for a long moment, staring at the sheet music, your fingers tracing the lines as if you could somehow feel the notes through the paper. It was a gentle piece, melancholic and sweet. You had sat down at the piano in your sitting room and had picked out the notes with one hand, your heart threatening to burst with each tentative chord.

And then, two days ago, there had been dinner.

It had been a rare occurrence, a night when the stars had aligned and both your schedules had been miraculously empty. Harua had appeared at your door again, his face flushed with excitement, to inform you that the king had returned for a single evening before departing again, and that he wished to dine with you.

You had accepted, of course. And you had spent the evening in the dining room, talking about everything and nothing.

Euijoo had told you about Phileon—about the tension in the capital, the cautious hope in the people's eyes, the way the new Queen had stood unyielding as she addressed her new subjects. You had told him about the irrigation project you had overseen in his absence, the way the southern villages had finally received the water they had been promised.

And at the end of the night, when he had walked you to your chamber door, he had taken your hand and pressed a kiss to your knuckles—a gesture so formal, so courtly, and yet so tender that it had left you breathless.

"Thank you," he had said, his eyes meeting yours in the dim light. "for being here."

He had left the next morning at dawn.

And now you were here, in the library, staring out the window and thinking about him. Again.

The door to the library creaked open, and you heard the soft rustle of skirts. You turned to see your lady-in-waiting, Sora, curtsying at the threshold.

"Your Majesty," she said, "a letter has arrived from His Majesty, the King."

Your heart did a strange little flutter that you immediately tried to suppress. You set your book aside and held out your hand, trying to appear composed. "Thank you, Sora. Please bring it here."

She crossed the room and placed a sealed envelope in your palm. Your name was written across the front in that elegant handwriting.

You waited until Sora had retreated to a respectful distance before breaking the seal, your fingers steady, your pulse not. You pulled out the letter and unfolded it, your eyes drinking in the words.

My dearest queen,

You paused at the greeting, a warmth spreading through your chest. My dearest queen. An unfamiliar addressal.

I hope this letter finds you well. The days here have been long and full of work, but I find myself thinking of you whenever I spread honey on my toast perfectly in one single go.

A smile tugged at your lips.

Phileon is changing. The people are hopeful and the Queen is proving herself to be a ruler of remarkable strength and compassion. The transition has been smoother than any of us dared to hope, and I am proud to have played a small part in it.

But I must confess that I am eager to return home. There is a warmth in Iriandel and I have come to realize that it has nothing to do with the climate.

You read the sentence twice, your heart beating a little faster each time.

Which brings me to my purpose in writing. To celebrate this new chapter, a royal gala is to be held in the capital. I have been invited, of course, as a friend and ally to the crown. But I cannot attend without my queen.

Your breath caught in your throat.

My queen.

The words seemed to glow on the page

I know that travel is tiring, and that you probably have your own duties to attend to. But I find that I do not wish to stand alone at a gala, surrounded by strangers. So I am asking you—not requesting as your king, but asking as your husband—to join me.

There is a carriage waiting whenever you are ready. I have already made the arrangements.

Yours, Euijoo

You stared at the letter for a long moment, the paper trembling slightly in your hands. You read it again. And again. Each time, the words settled deeper into your chest, taking root in places you had thought were utterly barren.

My queen.

Your husband.

You looked up, your eyes meeting Sora's gaze. You took a breath, steadying your heart and you smiled—one that reached your eyes and made you feel lighter than you had in days.

"Sora," you said, your voice firm and clear, "please inform the servants that we will be traveling to Phileon. Have them pack my bags and tell them to prepare the carriage."

Sora curtsied. "Yes, Your Majesty. Right away."

She slipped out of the library, leaving you alone with the afternoon light and the tarrying warmth of Euijoo's letter. You looked down at the folded paper in your hands, at the elegant loops and curves of his handwriting, and you let yourself imagine him writing it—sitting at a desk in some foreign room, the candle flickering, his brow furrowed in concentration as he chose each word with care.

My dearest queen.

___________________________

Byun Euijoo smelled like tangerines.

It was not the kind of scent you would expect from a king. You would have imagined something more regal—sandalwood or cedar or the smoky richness of aged whiskey. But no.

Byun Euijoo smelled like the first bite of a sun-warmed fruit.

The journey to Phileon had taken two days, and you had spent most of it staring out the carriage window, the folded letter tucked into the pocket of your traveling cloak, your fingers brushing against it every now and then as if to confirm it was real.

When you had finally arrived at the Phileon palace, you had been greeted by the new queen, who had looked at you with a gaze that seemed to see straight through every layer of pretense you had carefully constructed.

"Ah," she had said, her voice dry and amused, "the famous queen of Iriandel. I have heard much about you."

"All good, I hope." You had replied, matching her tone.

"Mostly." A smirk had tugged at her lips. "The rest was too boring to remember."

You had liked her instantly.

She had introduced you to her knight, Nicholas. The way she had looked at him, the way her hand had brushed against his arm had told you everything you needed to know about their relationship.

And strangely, it had calmed something in your heart. To see a queen and her knight, bound not by duty but by choice, had given you a flicker of hope you had not realized you were carrying.

The guest quarters, however, had presented a dilemma.

There was only one royal guest room available, the queen had explained with an apologetic shrug. The palace was still recovering from the upheaval, and many of the rooms were being renovated. You and Euijoo would have to share.

You had braced yourself for an awkward arrangement (even though you were literally his wife), but Euijoo had handled it with his characteristic grace.

He had insisted on taking the divan by the window, leaving the large, canopied bed for you. You had protested but he had been firm.

"A king does not let his queen sleep on a divan," he had said, and the word his had sent a shiver down your spine.

So for the past week, you had slept in the bed while he slept on the divan, a respectable distance between you. And every night, you had lain awake, listening to the soft rhythm of his breathing, the faint rustle of blankets as he shifted in his sleep.

Once—just once—you had shamelessly pretended to be asleep so you could watch him change out of his shirt.

It had been an accident, at first. You had been lying with your back to him, your eyes closed, when you had heard the soft sounds of fabric rustling. Curiosity had gotten the better of you, and you had cracked your eyes open just a sliver, peering over your shoulder through the dim moonlight.

Euijoo had been standing by the window, his back to you, pulling his shirt over his head. The moonlight had traced the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his spine and the narrow taper of his waist. You had held your breath, your heart pounding within its cage. You had watched until he had pulled on his nightshirt and turned toward the divan.

You had squeezed your eyes shut immediately, feigning sleep, your face burning.

Today was the day of the ball.

You stood before the mirror in the guest chamber, Sora fussing with the final adjustments to your gown, a study in blue elegance that fit you like a dream. The bodice adorned with delicate white thread that caught the light like scattered stars, and the skirt flowed down in soft waves, pearls resting against your throat.

Sora had pinned your hair in an intricate arrangement of twists and curls. A small silver tiara, sat nestled on your head, not your usual jewel encrusted one due to the fact that you were in a foreign kingdom. You were applying the final touch—a hint of rose-tinted balm to your lips—when the door to the chamber opened. You looked up, your hand freezing mid-motion.

Your husband stood in the doorway.

Euijoo was dressed in a deep navy coat trimmed with silver, the colors matching your gown (your heart beat a little faster). His hair had been styled back from his face; you found yourself staring at the soft planes of his cheeks and the gentle curve of his jaw. He looked every inch the king he was—regal, commanding and handsome.

The look on his face however was none of those things.

Your husband was staring at you, his lips slightly parted, his eyes wide. He stood frozen in the doorway, as if he had forgotten how to move, how to breathe.

"You..." he started, then stopped, swallowed and started again. "You look..."

You felt heat rise to your cheeks, and you turned back to the mirror, pretending to adjust a strand of hair. "Is something wrong?"

"No," he said, his voice rough. He cleared his throat. "No. Nothing is wrong. Everything is... everything is right."

You met his eyes in the mirror, and for a moment, the world seemed to fall away. The room, the ball, the distant sounds of the palace preparing for the evening—all of it faded into nothing, leaving only the two of you, reflected in the glass.

He stepped forward, crossing the room until he stood just behind you. You could smell him—that utterly disarming scent of tangerines.

"Before we go," Euijoo said, his voice low, "I wanted to ask you something."

You turned to face him, your heart beating a rhythm you could not control. "What is it?"

He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor for just a moment before meeting yours again. "At the gala, there will be many eyes on us. Many questions about our alliance, about the strength of our union. I thought.….it might be beneficial if we appeared closer than we are. If we addressed each other with...familiarity."

You understood immediately. It was a diplomatic tactic, a performance for the other royals. You had expected as much.

"What did you have in mind?" You asked, your voice carefully neutral.

He took a breath. "If it is acceptable to you, I would like to call you by a nickname. Something that will convince the other guests of the strength of our bond."

You nodded slowly. "That makes sense. What did you have in mind?"

Euijoo looked at you, his soft eyes searching yours, and then he smiled shy as a schoolboy.

"My love."

The world expected nothing of us except to give love back.

You'd never imagined the word could ever sound so melodic on anybody's tongue.

"Is that alright?" He asked, and there was a note of uncertainty in his voice, as if he feared he had overstepped.

"Yes." You said, your voice softer than you had intended. "That is more than alright."

His smile widened, relief and joy mingling in his expression. He offered you his arm, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Shall we, my love?"

You placed your hand in the crook of his elbow, feeling the warmth of him through the fabric of his coat. The scent of tangerines enveloped you, and you let yourself breathe it in.

"We shall."

_______________________

The ballroom of the Phileon palace was breathtaking.

Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their flames reflected in the gilded mirrors that lined the walls. The air was thick with the scent of night-blooming flowers and the murmur of conversation. Lords and ladies from a dozen kingdoms mingled and danced, their jewels catching the light as they moved.

And at the center of it all, you danced with Euijoo.

His hand was warm at your waist, his other hand clasping yours with a gentleness that belied the strength in his fingers. He guided you through the steps of a waltz with practiced ease, his movements fluid and confident, his eyes never leaving yours.

"You dance well, my love." He said, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

"You sound surprised." You replied, a hint of teasing in your tone.

His lips curved into a smile. "I am simply appreciative."

You felt heat rise to your cheeks, and you looked away, focusing on the patterns of his coat. "You are not so bad yourself, husband."

"Husband." He repeated, savoring the word. "I think I prefer that to 'Your Majesty.'"

The music swelled and he spun you gently, your skirt flaring out around you like a bloom of sapphire silk. When you came back to him, you were closer than before, your chest nearly brushing against his.

"What do you think of the Phileon court so far?" He asked.

You glanced around the room, taking in the glittering guests, the elaborate decorations, the way the new queen held court at the far end of the hall, Nicholas a silent shadow at her side. "They are...enthusiastic." You said carefully. "Perhaps a little too eager to prove themselves after the transition."

Euijoo chuckled. "A diplomatic answer. You would make a fine ambassador."

"I am a queen." You reminded him. "I am supposed to be diplomatic."

"True. You are my queen." He conceded. "But you are also supposed to have opinions. What do you truly think?"

You considered the question, your eyes scanning the room once more. "I think they are trying very hard to appear united, but there are fractures beneath the surface. There is wariness in the way the older nobles watch the queen, perhaps even resentment. But I also see hope in the younger ones. Change is never easy, but I believe she is doing the right thing."

Euijoo was quiet for a moment, his gaze thoughtful. "You see a great deal," he said softly. "I did not realize you were such an observer of people."

"I have had a great deal of practice," you said. "When you spend most of your meals alone, you learn to fill the time by watching."

Something flickered in his eyes—regret, perhaps, or guilt. His hand tightened slightly at your waist. "Shall I apologise for that?"

You shook your head. "We both had our reasons. And we are here now, are we not?"

"So we are." He agreed. And then his smile turned mischievous. "Speaking of being here, have you noticed the violin in the corner?"

You followed his gaze to the far end of the ballroom, where a small ensemble of musicians was playing. Among them, a lone violinist sat slightly apart from the others, his bow moving with practiced precision across the strings.

"I noticed it the moment we walked in." You admitted. "I have been trying not to stare."

"Why?"

"Because if I stare, I will start thinking about all the things I want to say about their technique. And if I start thinking about those things, I will eventually have to say them. And if I say them, I will inevitably compare it to the piece you left on my desk. And then—"

"Then what?"

You met his eyes, a grin threatening to break across your face. "Then I will have to admit that your composition is far superior to anything they are playing tonight, and I do not want to seem biased."

Euijoo's face broke into a wide, delighted grin. "You think my composition is superior?"

"I think it is hauntingly beautiful." You said, your voice dropping to a whisper. "I think I have memorized every note. I think I have played it in my head a hundred times since you left it for me."

He stared at you, his eyes soft and bright, and for a moment, the music seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you, suspended in the golden light.

Then he snorted.

It was not a dignified sound. It was not a sound befitting a king. It was a sudden, undignified snort of laughter that escaped him before he could stop it, and it was so unexpected that you felt your own composure crack.

"What?" You demanded, laughter already bubbling in your chest.

"Nothing." He said, but he was grinning now, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "It is just—you said 'hauntingly beautiful' with such intensity—"

"It is a compliment!"

"I know, I know—" He tried to suppress his laughter, but it escaped him again, a giggle that was entirely unbecoming of a monarch. "I am sorry, I am not laughing at you, I am laughing at—at the situation. Here we are, surrounded by all these stuffy nobles, trying to appear regal and composed, and all I can think about is how you have memorized my violin piece."

"Well, stop thinking about it," you said, but you were laughing now too, a quiet, helpless giggle that you tried to hide behind your hand. "We are supposed to be convincing everyone that we are a strong, united couple."

"We are a strong, united couple," he said, still chuckling. "We are simply a strong, united couple who also happen to be laughing at nothing."

"That is highly unbecoming of a king and queen."

"Then let us be unbecoming."

You both dissolved into laughter, quiet and breathless, your foreheads nearly touching as you tried to compose yourselves. A few nearby nobles glanced your way, curiosity and mild disapproval mingling in their expressions, but you did not care. You could not care.

Not when Euijoo was looking at you like that, his eyes bright with mirth, his cheeks flushed, his laughter a warm, melodic sound that wrapped around your heart and squeezed.

And there we go—that was all Byun Euijoo could think about.

He sat in a sitting room in the Phileon palace, a cup of tea cooling in his hands, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the window. The morning light was soft and gray, filtering through the clouds and the room was quiet save for the crackling of the fire and the occasional clink of porcelain.

You had departed for Iriandel at dawn, called back by urgent matters that could not wait. Euijoo was to follow the next day, but the palace already felt emptier without you.

"You are staring into space again."

Euijoo blinked, turning his attention back to the room. The Queen of Phileon sat across from him, a knowing smirk on her lips, her tea cradled elegantly in her hands. Beside her, sat Nicholas, the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth suggesting he was amused. On the divan to Euijoo's left, Harua was curled up like a contented cat, a plate of pastries balanced on his lap.

"No I was not." Euijoo protested weakly.

"You were." The queen said. "You have been doing it all morning. Ever since Her Majesty, your queen, left."

"She is not—" Euijoo started, then stopped. He sighed. "She is my queen. Yes."

"Your queen?" The queen repeated, drawing out the words with obvious delight. "Now since when have you started calling her yours, my dearest Euijoo?"

"Alright, alright," Euijoo said, raising a hand in surrender. "I concede. I was thinking about her laugh."

Harua perked up, his eyes wide with interest. "Her laugh? What about her laugh?"

Euijoo set his tea down, a dreamy expression crossing his face despite his best efforts to remain composed. "It is... it is the most beautiful sound I have ever heard. And when she laughs, her whole face changes—her eyes crinkle, her cheeks lift, and she looks so...so divine."

The queen exchanged a glance with Nicholas, her smirk widening. "He has it bad."

"Terribly," Nicholas agreed, his voice dry, "Worse than me."

"I do not have it bad," Euijoo said, but even he did not believe his own words.

"Ahh yes, so you were not the one who composed a violin piece for Her Majesty and had me sneak into her chambers to deliver it?" Harua said, ticking off on his fingers. He popped a pastry into his mouth and grinned. "You have it very bad."

Euijoo groaned, covering his face with his hands. "I am a king. I am supposed to be dignified."

"You are a man in love," the queen corrected, her tone softening. "There is nothing undignified about that."

He lowered his hands, looking at her with a mixture of hope and uncertainty. "Do you really think so?"

"I know so." She said. "She looks at you a particular way."

"I fear only your mother can look at your face like that." Nicholas said and his beloved snorted.

Euijoo felt a warmth spread through his chest, hesitant and fragile, like the first green shoot of spring pushing through frozen soil. "I do not want to rush her." He said quietly. "I do not want to assume. We have only just begun to—to truly see each other."

"Then take your time." The queen said. "But do not waste it. Life is too short for that."

Nicholas placed a hand on her shoulder, a gesture of quiet support, and she leaned into his touch. Euijoo looked at them and he thought of you.

He thought of your laugh, bright and unguarded, echoing in the ballroom. He thought of the way you had looked at him when he had called you my love, your eyes soft and surprised and hopeful.

"Tomorrow," he said, more to himself than to the others. "Tomorrow I will go home to her."

Harua grinned and reached for another pastry. "And then what?"

Euijoo smiled, a small, private smile that held the promise of something new.

"I will make her laugh again."

__________________

When Euijoo summoned you to his office at 8 pm, you really did think of the most ridiculous things.

You had been in your chambers, a book open in your lap and a cup of chamomile tea growing cold on the nightstand, when the knock had come.

"His Majesty requests your presence in his study, Your Majesty." Harua had said. "He apologizes for the late hour, but he says it is a matter of some urgency."

Your mind had immediately spiraled into the most absurd possibilities. Perhaps he had decided that the time had come to consummate the marriage after all and he had summoned you to his office for some clandestine, candlelit encounter. Perhaps he had discovered some terrible secret about your past and intended to confront you. Perhaps he had fallen ill, or been poisoned, or—

You had cut off that line of thinking with a firm mental shake. Queens did not indulge in such fanciful imaginings.

As you walked through the corridors of the palace, your heart had beat a little faster than usual.

When you arrived at his study, the door was slightly ajar, and you could see him through the gap. Euijoo was seated at his desk, a map spread out before him, his brow furrowed in concentration. A single lamp cast a warm pool of light across the papers, leaving the rest of the room in shadow.

You knocked softly, and he looked up, his expression shifting from focus to relief.

"Come in," he said, rising from his seat. "Thank you for coming so late. I know it is an imposition."

"Not at all," you said, stepping inside and closing the door behind you. "Harua said it was urgent."

Euijoo gestured to the chair across from his desk. "Please, sit. I will try not to keep you long."

You settled into the chair, your eyes scanning the papers spread across his desk. Maps, documents, letters bearing seals you did not recognize. It was clear that he had been working for some time—there was a half-empty cup of coffee at his elbow, and his hair was (attractively) disheveled.

"What is the matter?" You asked.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I have been going over the terms of a proposed treaty with King Jo of Sakuryn, and I find myself at an impasse. I was hoping you might offer a fresh perspective."

You blinked. "You summoned me at eight in the evening to discuss a treaty?"

A faint blush crept across his cheeks. "I apologize. But I have been staring at these documents for hours, and every time I think I have found a solution, another complication arises. I thought perhaps a second pair of eyes might help."

You felt a warmth spread through your chest, unexpected and pleasant. Euijoo valued your opinion. Euijoo sought your counsel. It was a small thing, perhaps, but it meant more than you could say.

"Show me." You said.

He turned the map toward you, pointing to a region along the eastern border. "Sakuryn has been a thorn in Iriandel's side for generations and king Jo is the newly annointed monarch, he's young and ambitious. He wants access to the Silver Strait for trade, but granting him that access would put our own maritime routes at risk. I have been trying to find a compromise that benefits both kingdoms without weakening our position."

You leaned forward, studying the map. The Silver Strait was narrow but vital, a corridor of deep water that connected the eastern sea to the northern trade routes. Control of it meant control of a significant portion of regional commerce.

"What if," you said slowly, "instead of granting him access outright, you propose a joint venture? A shared toll system perhaps, with revenues divided proportionally based on each kingdom's usage."

Euijoo's eyes lit up. "That could work. It would give him the access he wants while ensuring we retain a measure of control."

"It would also create an incentive for cooperation." You added. "If both kingdoms benefit from the strait's prosperity, there is less reason for conflict."

He was already scribbling notes on a piece of parchment, his earlier frustration replaced by eager energy. "And what about the maritime trade with Eldanith? King Yuma has been pressing for exclusive docking rights in the southern ports."

You considered the question. "Exclusive rights would alienate other trading partners. Perhaps offer him priority docking instead, first access, but not exclusive. It gives him an advantage without closing the door to others."

Euijoo looked up at you, his eyes bright with admiration. "You have a remarkable mind for strategy." He laughed softly, shaking his head. "I should have summoned you to my study months ago."

"Better late than never." You said with a hint of mischief, even as you found yourself studying him.

The way the candlelight caught the angles of his face, the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his fingers traced the lines of the map with careful precision.

"You have done well." You said softly. "With all of this. The transition, the negotiations, the kingdom. You took the throne under difficult circumstances, and you have handled it with remarkable grace."

Euijoo looked up, surprise flickering in his eyes. "I.…thank you."

"I mean it." You said. "I know it was not easy. Your brother's abdication and the sudden weight of responsibility. But you have proven yourself. The people trust you. And I think..." You hesitated, then pressed on. "I think you are a better king than you give yourself credit for."

He stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he looked down at the papers before him, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

"I had a good teacher." Euijoo said quietly. "My brother, Yudai."

You tilted your head. "You do not speak of him often."

"Neither of us does." Euijoo admitted. "It is still...raw. There were things in his past, burdens he carried that I will never fully understand. But before he left, he sat me down and told me everything. Every lesson he had learned, every mistake he had made, every hope he had for the kingdom." He paused, his voice growing softer. "He told me that a king's greatest strength is not his army or his treasury, but the people he chooses to surround himself with, that a good king rules with his heart as much as his head."

You listened, your own heart aching at the tenderness in his voice. "He sounds like a remarkable man."

"He is." Euijoo said. "And I try every day to live up to his example."

The room fell into a comfortable silence, the weight of his words settling between you like a shared secret. You looked at him—at the king who had taken a throne he had not asked for, who worked late into the night for a people he loved, who had given you space and patience and time, who smelled like tangerines and played the violin and asked for your counsel because he trusted your judgment.

And called you his love.

You rose from your seat, smoothing down your gown. "It is late. I should let you rest."

Euijoo stood as well, a polite reflex. "Thank you for coming. Your insights were invaluable."

"Thank you for asking." You said, and you meant it.

You turned and walked toward the door, your hand on the handle, when his voice stopped you.

"Goodnight," he said softly. "My love."

The words sent a shiver down your spine, warm and electric. You glanced back over your shoulder, a small smile playing at your lips.

"Goodnight, husband."

You slipped out the door, leaving him alone in the candlelit study. The door clicked shut, and Euijoo stood motionless for a long moment, staring at the empty space where you had been.

Then, slowly, he slumped down into his chair, his strength leaving him all at once. He buried his face in his hands, his elbows resting on the scattered maps and documents, and let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding.

The image of you burned behind his eyelids—the way the candlelight had caught the curve of your neck as you leaned over the map, the line of your collarbone visible above the neckline of your gown, the way your hair had fallen when you had turned to say goodnight.

He pressed his palms harder against his eyes, a groan escaping his lips.

The crook of her neck, he thought, his heart aching with a sweetness that bordered on pain. How is it possible for a person to have such a beautiful neck?

Euijoo was a king. He was supposed to be composed, dignified, above such frivolous thoughts.

But here he was, reduced to a lovestruck fool by the memory of the way you had looked in the soft glow of candlelight. He dropped his hands and stared at the ceiling, a helpless smile spreading across his face.

God was he in so much trouble.

___________________

They say you store emotions in your body. Happiness resides within your chest, anger in your jaw and sadness at the bottom of your throat.

So where on earth did your love reside?

Perhaps in the crooks and crannies of his heart, you came to realise, on a bright Sunday morning.

You had been so bored that day, having completed all your work, read until your eyes begged you to stop and even written a few letters. It was on days like this that you truly marvelled at your brain, which had been dead for the entire week and had suddenly gotten the motivation to get up and at em.

So you ended up in the royal kitchens.

The head cook had looked at you with something between horror and amusement when you had appeared at the doorway, sleeves rolled up, a determined glint in your eye. "Your Majesty," she had said, "the kitchens are no place for a queen."

"I am not here as a queen." You had replied. "I am here as a woman who is desperately bored and wants to bake something."

After a long, doubtful pause, she had relented, pointing you toward a corner of the kitchen with a large wooden counter, a sack of flour and a bowl of eggs. "Do try not to burn down the palace." She had said, and you had promised her you would do your best.

Some hours later, you were covered in flour.

The counter was a disaster zone. A fine white dusting covered every surface and you had somehow managed to get a smear of butter on your cheek. The dough you were kneading was stubborn and uncooperative, sticking to your fingers no matter how much flour you added. Your tongue poked out slightly in concentration as you worked, your brow furrowed, your mind blissfully empty of everything except the simple, satisfying task of creating something with your hands.

You did not notice the figure in the doorway.

Euijoo stood there, leaning against the frame, his arms crossed, a soft smile playing at his lips. He had been looking for you—Harua had mentioned something about the kitchens and he had not believed it until he had seen it with his own eyes.

You, the queen of Iriandel, covered in flour, wrestling with a lump of dough as if it was your rival of twelve years.

He watched you for a long moment, his heart swelling with a warmth he could not name. The morning light streamed through the high windows, catching the flour dust suspended in the air like tiny drifting stars. You hummed under your breath and the sound wrapped around his chest and squeezed.

Euijoo cleared his throat.

You jumped, your hand flying to your chest. "Euijoo! How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough." He said, his voice warm with amusement. He stepped into the kitchen, his boots clicking against the stone floor. "I did not know you baked."

"I do not." You admitted, gesturing at the chaos around you. "As you can see, I am not particularly good at it."

He laughed—an easy laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "You are certainly...enthusiastic."

"Enthusiastic is a kind word for it."

He came to stand beside you, peering down at the lump of dough with mock seriousness. "What are you attempting to make?"

"Bread." You said. "Or perhaps a brick. The outcome is still uncertain."

He chuckled again, and then, to your utter surprise, he reached past you and grabbed an apron from a hook on the wall. He tied it around his waist with practiced ease, rolling up his sleeves to reveal his forearms.

"What are you doing?" You asked, your eyes wide.

"Baking." Euijoo said simply. "I cannot let my wife struggle alone."

"You know how to bake?"

"I know how to try." He said, and his smile was so gentle that you felt wings flutter in your chest.

And so, the two of you stood side by side at the flour-dusted counter, kneading and shaping and laughing at your shared incompetence. He taught you a trick for keeping the dough from sticking—a light coating of oil on your hands—and you taught him the melody you had been humming (along with how to magically get dough to become a brick).

It was easy and natural. As if you had been doing this together for years.

At some point, you reached for the flour sack to dust the counter again, but your hand slipped. The sack tipped, and a cloud of white exploded into the air, settling over Euijoo like a fine, powdery snow.

He froze, blinking, his brown hair dusted with white, his eyelashes clinging with tiny flour crystals.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, your eyes wide with horror. "Oh no—I am so sorry—"

But he was already laughing. A deep, full-bodied laugh that echoed through the kitchen and made the cooks turn their heads. He looked at you, his flour-covered face breaking into the most radiant smile you had ever seen, and then he reached into the sack, scooped up a handful of flour, and tossed it gently in your direction.

It hit you square in the chest, blooming across your gown like a white flower.

You gasped. "Did you just—"

He was already reaching for more, his eyes bright with mischief. "You started it."

"I did not mean to!"

"Intent does not matter. Only consequences."

You grabbed a handful of flour and threw it at him. He dodged, laughing and retaliated with another cloud. Soon, the kitchen was filled with the sound of your laughter, the air thick with white dust, the two of you chasing each other around the counter like children.

At some point, you slipped on a patch of flour on the floor, and he caught you by the waist, pulling you against him to keep you from falling. You both froze, your faces inches apart, your breath mingling in the flour-dusted air.

His eyes searched yours, soft and wondering, as if he was seeing you for the first time. His hand was warm at your waist, his fingers pressing gently into the fabric of your gown. A dusting of flour clung to his lashes, and you reached up, almost without thinking, to brush it away.

He caught your hand, his fingers curling around yours.

"I think," he said, his voice low and rough, "this is the best Sunday I have had in a very long time."

You smiled, your heart pounding so loudly you were certain he could hear it. "Even though we have not actually made any bread?"

"Especially because we have not actually made any bread."

And in that moment, standing in the middle of a flour-dusted kitchen, your hand in his, his eyes warm and bright and full of something that looked terrifyingly like hope, you realised where your love resided.

It was not in your chest, or your jaw or the bottom of your throat.

It was in the crooks and crannies of his heart.

And somehow, impossibly, miraculously, you had found your way inside.

_____________________________

"Do you think I can love you?"

You walked through the palace gardens, the morning sun warm on your shoulders, the scent of roses and freshly cut grass filling the air. You had not been able to sleep well the night before, your thoughts tangled in a web of flour-dusted memories and the feeling of his hand at your waist.

So you had risen early, dressed in a simple gown of pale lavender and had wandered outside, hoping the fresh air would clear your mind.

It did not.

If anything, the gardens only made you think of him more. The way the sunlight filtered through the leaves reminded you of the way he had looked at you in the kitchen, his eyes soft and wondering. The gentle breeze carried the faint scent of tangerines, or perhaps you imagined it. Every corner of this palace seemed to hold a memory of him now.

You rounded a bend in the gravel path and there he was.

Euijoo sat beneath the shade of a grand old oak tree, its branches spreading wide and generous, casting dappled shadows across the grass. He was leaning against the trunk, one knee bent, an open book resting in his lap.

His hair was gorgeously tousled and he wore a simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the lean lines of his forearms.

He looked peaceful, content, beautiful.

You hesitated for a moment, unsure if you should interrupt his solitude. But then he looked up, as if sensing your presence, and his face broke into a smile.

"Good morning." He said, his voice soft and welcoming.

"Good morning." You replied, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you crossed the grass and settled beside him, your back against the rough bark of the oak tree.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The sounds of the garden filled the silence—birds chirping, leaves rustling, the distant trickle of a fountain. It was comfortable, easy, the kind of silence that did not demand to be filled.

Then Euijoo closed his book and set it aside, turning to look at you with an expression that was thoughtful, tender and slightly nervous.

"Do you think I can love you?"

The question hung in the air between you, delicate and fragile, like a soap bubble waiting to burst.

You turned to face him, your heart suddenly pounding in your chest. "What?"

Euijoo let out a slow breath, his gaze dropping to his hands for a moment before meeting yours again. "I have been thinking about it a great deal. I have spent so many years focused on duty, on the kingdom, on being the king that everyone needed me to be. I did not allow myself to consider the possibility of... this." He gestured vaguely between the two of you. "Of you."

You swallowed, your throat tight. "And what conclusion have you reached?"

He was quiet for a moment, his eyes searching yours. "I do not know if I know how to love. I have never done it before, not truly, not the way I see it in stories or hear it in songs. But when I am with you, I feel……something I have never felt before. Something that makes me want to learn."

Your breath caught in your chest. "Euijoo..."

"I am not asking for an answer," he said quickly, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "I am simply...asking if it is possible. If you would allow me to try. To love you, the way you deserve to be loved."

The sincerity in his voice, the vulnerability in his eyes—it undid something inside you.

All the walls you had built, all the careful distance you had maintained, crumbled like sandcastles before the tide.

You reached out and took his hand, your fingers intertwining with his. His skin was warm, his palm slightly calloused from years of violin practice, and the contact sent a shiver through your entire body.

"I think you can love me." You said, "And I think... I would like to love you too."

His eyes widened, a flicker of hope igniting within them. "You would?"

You nodded, a smile tugging at your lips. "I have been thinking about it too. I was taught that a princess's heart belongs to her kingdom, that love is…merely a weakness. But being with you..." You paused, searching for the right words. "Being with you does not feel like a weakness." You chuckled, "It's the strongest I've ever felt."

He lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his lips warm and gentle against your skin. "Then let us be strong together."

You leaned forward and he met you halfway.

The kiss was soft at first—hesitating, questioning, as if neither of you quite believed this was real.

His lips were warm and tasted faintly of tangerines. One of his hands came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

You tilted your head, deepening the kiss, and he responded in kind, his fingers threading through your hair, pulling you closer. The world fell away—the garden, the palace, the weight of crowns and duties and expectations.

There was only him, and the way his lips moved against yours, and the quiet, desperate hope that this was the beginning of something beautiful.

When you finally broke apart, your foreheads resting together, your breath mingling in the warm morning air, he let out a soft, wondering laugh.

"I think," he said, his voice rough with emotion, "that I am already learning."

You smiled, your heart so full it felt like it might overflow. "Good. Because I intend to be a very thorough teacher."

He laughed again, and pulled you into his arms, holding you close beneath the shade of the old oak tree.

And for the first time in your life, you'd finally found your place to put your love.

_______________________

The change was subtle at first, like the slow shift of seasons—imperceptible until one day you looked around and realized everything was different.

You started spending more time together.

Not just the formal meetings in his study or the occasional dinner in the grand hall, but the small, quiet moments that filled the spaces between duties and obligations. Morning tea on the balcony overlooking the gardens, afternoon walks through the palace corridors, your shoulders brushing as you walked, evening conversations that stretched long into the night, until the candles burned low and the stars wheeled overhead.

And with the time came the names.

Euijoo called you my love with such casual ease that it soon became second nature. When he passed you in the hallway, his hand would find yours and he would murmur, "Good morning, my love." When you brought him tea in his study, he would look up with a soft smile and say, "Thank you, my love." When you were both in meetings with advisors, he would catch your eye across the table and mouth the words when no one was looking, a secret just for you.

You returned the favor with nicknames of your own. My king when you were feeling formal. Euijoo when you wanted his attention. Darling when you were feeling particularly bold. And on rare, precious occasions, when you were alone and the world felt far away, you called him Joo, and the way his eyes softened made your heart stutter every time.

You grew more childish with one another, too.

You discovered that he was ticklish just below his ribs, and he discovered that you could not resist a challenge. You started leaving little notes for him in places he would find—tucked into his books, slipped under his pillow, folded into the pocket of his coat. He retaliated by hiding small candies in your chambers, so that every time you reached for a handkerchief or a hairbrush, you found a sweet surprise.

Harua suffered through all of it with admirable patience.

He would stand at the door to the king's study, a stack of documents in his arms, while you sat on the edge of Euijoo's desk, swinging your legs and feeding him grapes. He would clear his throat loudly, and Euijoo would say, "One moment, Harua," before leaning over to press a kiss to your forehead, utterly oblivious to the way his secretary's eye twitched.

He would accompany you both to formal events, trailing behind as you walked hand in hand, and would have to endure the way you whispered jokes to each other during stuffy speeches, your shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. He would watch Euijoo adjust the collar of your gown with tender care, or you straighten his crown before he entered a room, and he would sigh the long, weary sigh of a man who had seen too much.

"Your Majesties," he would say, his voice strained, "the delegation from Eldanith is waiting."

And Euijoo would look at you, his eyes warm and amused, and say, "The delegation can wait a little longer, can it not, my love?"

And you would smile and say, "Of course, darling."

And Harua would sigh again, resigning himself to his fate.

But the most important change—the one that marked a true shift in the fabric of your marriage—happened on a night when the rain was falling soft and steady against the windows.

You had been lying in your own bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rhythm of the rain. The door between your connected chambers was always left slightly ajar now, a silent invitation.

You had been married for quite some time now. You had kissed him, held his hand, fallen asleep on his shoulder in the library. But you had never shared a bed.

That night, something inside you stirred. A restlessness, a longing, a bravery you did not know you possessed.

You slipped out of your bed, your bare feet silent against the cold floor. You crossed the space, your nightgown whispering around your ankles. You paused at his door, your hand hovering over the handle, your heart pounding in your chest.

What if he does not want me there? What if I am overstepping? What if—

The door opened before you could knock.

Euijoo stood there, his hair tousled, his shirt untucked, his eyes soft with concern. "I heard you moving about." He said quietly. "Are you alright?"

And all your fears melted away.

"I could not sleep," you said. "And I thought.….I thought perhaps I could sleep here? With you?"

He looked at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he reached out, took your hand, and pulled you gently into his room.

"I was hoping you would come." He admitted, his voice low and warm.

Euijoo led you to his bed, pulling back the covers for you. You climbed in, the sheets smelling of tangerines. He climbed in beside you, and for a moment, you both lay on your backs, staring at the ceiling, uncertain.

Then he turned on his side, propping himself up on one elbow. "May I hold you?"

You nodded, your throat too tight for words.

He wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you gently against him, your back to his chest, his chin resting on the top of your head. His heartbeat was steady and strong against your spine, a lullaby in its own right.

"Goodnight, my love." He whispered.

"Goodnight, Joo." You whispered back.

And you fell asleep in his arms, the rain pattering softly against the window, the warmth of his body surrounding you like a shield against the world.

You woke the next morning to sunlight streaming through the curtains and the realization that you were wrapped in a cocoon of warmth.

Somehow, in the night, you had turned around. Your face was pressed against his chest, your arm draped across his stomach, your legs tangled with his. His arm was wrapped securely around your waist, his hand resting on the small of your back, holding you close even in sleep.

Euijoo was still asleep, his face relaxed, his lips slightly parted, his breathing slow and even. He looked younger like this, unburdened by the weight of his crown.

You did not move. You did not want to.

You lay there, tracing the lines of his face with your eyes, memorizing the way his lashes fanned against his cheeks, the way a strand of hair fell across his forehead, the way his lips curved into a small, unconscious smile.

After a while, his eyes fluttered open.

He looked at you, blinking sleepily, and then a slow, radiant smile spread across his face. "Good morning, my love."

"Good morning." You said, your voice soft with sleep.

He tightened his arm around your waist, pulling you closer. "How did you sleep?"

"Better than I have in a while." You admitted.

"Good." He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Then we should do this every night."

Your heart swelled. "I would like that."

You lay there for a while longer, basking in the warmth of the morning and each other. The sun climbed higher, the sounds of the palace stirring to life beyond the door. You knew there were meetings to attend, documents to sign, a kingdom to run.

But your king made no move to get up.

"Should you not be preparing for the day?" You asked, a teasing lilt in your voice.

He hummed, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your back. "The kingdom can wait a little longer."

"Can it?"

He tilted your chin up, meeting your eyes. His gaze was full of a love that still surprised him as much as it surprised you.

"The kingdom has had me my entire life." He said softly. "You've only had me for a night. I wish to hold on to that for a little longer."

You smiled, your heart overflowing. "Then stay."

He pulled you closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "I will."

And so you stayed there, wrapped in each other's arms, while the morning stretched on and the world outside waited patiently for a king who had finally found something worth holding onto.

But a secret thing that you found so very beautiful about him were his hands, especially when he played the violin.

They were elegant hands, long-fingered and graceful, with knuckles that bent just so and veins that ran like quiet rivers beneath his skin. When he held his bow, his wrist would relax into a perfect curve, fluid and controlled, and his fingers would dance across the strings with a precision that seemed almost otherworldly.

You had watched him play countless times now—in the music room, in his study, once even in the garden at dusk, the fading light casting golden shadows across his face. And every time, your eyes would drift to his hands, tracing the way they moved, the way they commanded such beauty from a simple instrument.

There was a strength to them, too. You had felt that strength when he caught you in the kitchen, his palm firm against your waist. You had felt it when he held your hand during walks, his fingers interlaced with yours. You had felt it in the dark of his chambers, when his hand had rested on the small of your back, pulling you close, promising safety.

But there was also a gentleness. A tenderness that revealed itself in the way he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, or the way he traced the curve of your cheek with his thumb, or the way he held your hand.

You had fallen in love with many things about Byun Euijoo. His laugh, his kindness, the way he looked at you like you were the answer to a question he had been asking his whole life.

The night of your consummation arrived after months of shared glances, stolen kisses and the building of trust between you. It was not a duty, not an obligation, not a box to be checked for the sake of the kingdom. It was a choice, made freely and fully, born from a love that had grown deep roots in the soil of your marriage.

You had been sitting on the edge of the bed, your heart pounding, when he emerged from the adjoining washroom. He was shirtless, a towel draped around his shoulders, his hair still damp and curling slightly at the ends. Water droplets clung to his collarbones, catching the candlelight like scattered jewels.

You had seen him without a shirt before—in passing, in moments of accident—but never like this. Never with the explicit understanding of what was about to happen. Your eyes traced the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his spine, the way his muscles shifted beneath his skin as he moved.

But your gaze kept drifting lower, to his hands.

He was drying his hair with the towel, his fingers flexing and gripping the fabric and you found yourself mesmerized by the motion. The way his tendons moved beneath his skin, the way his knuckles paled as he tightened his grip, the way his hands looked so damn beautiful.

Euijoo noticed you staring.

Your husband paused, the towel falling still, a slow smile spreading across his lips. "My love," he said, his voice warm with amusement, "why are you looking at me as if you have never seen me before?"

You felt heat rise to your cheeks, but you did not look away. "I was looking at your hands."

He glanced down at them, as if seeing them for the first time too. "My hands?"

"They are beautiful." You said, your voice soft and shy, "Especially when you play the violin. I could watch them for hours."

Something shifted in his expression. The amusement faded, replaced by something deeper, something tender and raw. He set the towel aside and crossed the room to stand before you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his bare skin.

"You have never told me that before." Euijoo said quietly.

"I did not know how to say it without sounding foolish."

He reached out, and with one gentle finger, he tucked it beneath your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark and warm, full of that love that made your blood feel as if it was on fire.

"You could never sound foolish to me." He said, his thumb brushing lightly along your jawline. "Not when you look at me like that and certainly not when you say things like that."

And then Euijoo leaned down and kissed you.

It was soft at first, a gentle press of lips, a question and an answer all at once. His hand slid from your chin to cup your cheek, his palm warm against your skin, his fingers threading into your hair. You melted into him, your hands rising to rest against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palms.

Your husband guided you back, slowly and gently, until your shoulders met the soft mattress and he was hovering above you, his weight braced on one arm, his other hand still cradling your face as if you were the most precious thing in the world.

Euijoo broke the kiss just long enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours, his breath warm against your lips.

"I love you." He whispered, a familiar mantra from his lips whenever you were within his radius.

You reached up, your fingers finding his, intertwining with those beautiful hands, and pulled him back down to you.

Of course, you had found your home in the crooks and crannies of his heart. But in his hands, you had found your favorite place to rest.

The kiss deepened, shifting from a tender promise into something hungrier and more urgent. You wrapped your legs around his lean waist, pulling him flush against you, feeling the hard ridge of his manhood pressing through his trousers against your thigh.

Euijoo let out a low, shaky moan into your mouth, his tongue sweeping against yours in a rhythmic, demanding dance that left you breathless.

He broke away from your lips, but he didn't go far. His head dipped, his nose brushing against the sensitive skin of your jaw before he found the sweet spot just below your ear. He began to suckle there, his lips pulling at your skin, creating a delicious friction that sent shivers racing down your spine.

"You taste so sweet, my love." He murmured against your skin, his voice a husky vibration that made your toes curl. "I've wanted you like this since the moment I saw you today."

You arched your back, your fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer. "Then stop talking and show me." You whimpered, your voice strained with need, "My king."

Euijoo chuckled, am intimate, flirtatious sound. He moved his mouth down to the crook of your neck, planting a series of wet, biting kisses that marked you as his. He knew exactly how much you loved it; he lingered there, his tongue swirling over your pulse point while his hand slid down from your face, gliding over your ribs to find the hem of your clothes.

With a fluid motion, he stripped you bare, his gentle eyes darkening with raw lust as he took in the sight of you beneath him. He didn't rush; he took his time admiring you, his gaze lingering on every curve before he returned to your neck, nipping at the tendon there while his hand wandered downward.

When his fingers finally found your center, you were already soaking wet, your pussy glistening and open for him. He let out a soft gasp, his fingers sliding through your cream with a wet, squelching sound.

"Look at how ready you are for me," he whispered, glancing up at you with a smirk that was equal parts tender and predatory.

He slid one finger inside you, a slow, deep thrust that made you gasp and grip the sheets. He began to move his finger in a steady, curling motion, hooking it upward to find the sensitive bundle of nerves that drove you wild. At the same time, his thumb began to circle and press firmly against your clitoris, creating a dual sensation that had you sobbing his name.

Euijoo didn't stop. He increased the pace, his finger sliding in and out of your tight heat, the sound of friction and wetness filling the quiet room. He returned to your neck, his place of worship, his teeth grazing your skin, sucking hard enough to leave a bruise while his hand worked you relentlessly.

"Please, Euijoo.….right there," you pleaded, your hips bucking instinctively against his hand.

"I've got you, my love." He breathed, his voice thick with desire, "Just let go for me."

He accelerated the rhythm, his thumb rubbing your clit in fast, frantic circles while his finger hammered deep into your pussy. The tension built into a tight, unbearable coil in your gut. You felt the pressure peaking, your breath coming in short, jagged hitches.

The world shattered into a million pieces as your walls clamped tight around his finger in a series of violent, pulsing contractions. You screamed his name, your body shuddering as a powerful orgasm ripped through you, leaving you shaking and breathless.

Euijoo didn't pull away immediately; he stayed inside you, feeling every throb of your climax, his lips pressed firmly against your neck as he shared in the intensity of your release. He kissed the spot he had just marked, his voice a soft, loving caress.

"Beautiful." He whispered. "Absolutely beautiful."

As the echoes of your orgasm faded, leaving you pliant and shimmering with sweat, Euijoo didn't move away. He remained draped over you, his chest heaving against yours, his lips still grazing the sensitive skin of your neck. He let out a long, shaky breath, his voice sounding strained and thick with a need that mirrored your own.

"I fear I can't wait another second," he groaned, his forehead resting against yours. "I need to be inside you, my love."

He shifted his weight, moving his hand from your pussy to the waistband of his trousers. With a few quick movements, he stripped himself bare, and you caught a glimpse of his cock—thick and leaking a bead of pre-cum at the tip.

Your husband looked breathtaking, his lean frame muscles tensing as he positioned himself between your thighs, his gentle eyes now clouded with an intensity that made your heart race.

He didn't just plunge in. Instead, he guided the head of his cock against your soaking wet opening, teasing the entrance with a slow, deliberate rub. You whimpered, your hips instinctively tilting upward, begging for the fullness of him.

"May I, my love?" He asked, his smile reassuring as you nodded—for words were not enough to describe how badly you wanted this.

He pushed forward with agonizing slowness. You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt your tight walls stretch to accommodate him. He entered an inch, then stopped, pausing completely to let you adjust. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a deep, searing kiss, his tongue swirling against yours while he waited for your body to accept him.

"You're so—hmmm—tight.….so perfect." He moaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your entire body.

He pushed a bit deeper, another slow, steady slide that filled you completely. You let out a high-pitched moan, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back, pulling him closer. He stopped again, his breath hot against your ear, his voice a trembling confession.

"I love you so much," he breathed, his voice cracking with emotion. "I love you more than I have words for. You are my everything."

Only when he felt you relax and melt around him did he finally sink all the way in, bottoming out with a soft thud of hips. You both let out a simultaneous, guttural moan of relief, the sheer fullness of him sending a wave of pleasure crashing over you. He stayed there for a moment, buried deep, just breathing you in, his heart hammering against your ribs.

Then, he began to move.

It was not a frantic pace; it was a loving, rhythmic dance—so characteristically Euijoo. He withdrew almost entirely, leaving only the tip inside, before sliding back in with a slow, deep thrust that hit your sweet spot perfectly. Each movement was calculated to maximize your pleasure, his lean waist flexing as he drove into you with a tender persistence.

"Oh god, Joo... yes, right there," you sobbed, your head tossing back against the pillows.

"You feel so—ah hahh—so good, my love," he groaned, his voice a husky rasp. "So warm.….so wet for me."

He picked up the pace slightly, the sound of your bodies colliding—the wet, slapping noise of skin on skin—filling the room. He returned to your favorite spot, burying his face in the crook of your neck, sucking and nipping at your skin while he made love to you. The combination of the friction in your heat and the sensation on your neck was overwhelming.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," he chanted between ragged breaths, each confession punctuated by a deep, driving thrust.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down so you could scream your love back into his mouth. The tension began to coil again, tighter and hotter than before. Your internal muscles clamped around him, milking his length, and Euijoo let out a loud, broken moan, his pace becoming more urgent, more desperate.

"I'm close... my love, I'm right there," he gasped, his thrusts becoming shorter and faster, hammering into you with a raw, primal need.

The peak hit you both at once. You felt your walls contract in violent, rhythmic pulses, squeezing him tight, while Euijoo let out a loud, guttural cry, his body stiffening as he surged deep inside you one last time. He groaned your name, his voice echoing in the quiet room, as he came in great, hot bursts, filling you to the brim with his seed.

You shuddered beneath him, your orgasm rolling through you in waves, leaving you completely spent. He collapsed onto you, his face hidden in your shoulder, both of you panting in unison, your hearts beating as one in the aftermath of the storm.

For a long, breathless moment, neither of you moved. The only sounds in the room were your ragged breathing, the distant crackle of the dying fire, and the soft rustle ofsheets as his weight settled more fully against you.

His face was buried in the crook of your neck, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. One of his hands was still tangled with yours, pressed against the pillow beside your head. The other was splayed across your stomach, his fingers tracing lazy, unconscious patterns on your sweat-slicked skin.

You lay there, floating in the haze of afterglow, your body humming with a satisfaction so deep it felt like part of your very bones.

After a while, he stirred, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder before lifting his head to look at you. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his hair a mess, his lips slightly swollen and curved into a dopey, unguarded smile.

"Well," he said, his voice rough and hoarse, "I think it is safe to say that went rather well."

You let out a breathless laugh, your hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from his forehead. "Rather well? I would say it was exceptional, my king."

He grinned, a hint of his usual playfulness returning. "Exceptional, is it? I shall have to remember that for future reference."

"Please do." You said, your tone mock-serious. "I expect thorough documentation of your techniques. For the good of the kingdom, of course."

"Of course," he agreed, his eyes sparkling. "I shall have Harua draw up a formal report."

You both burst into laughter at the thought of poor Harua's face, the sound light and easy, filling the quiet room with warmth. He dropped his forehead to yours, still chuckling, and you felt his breath fan across your lips.

"I love your laugh," he murmured, his voice softening. "I think that was the first thing I truly loved about you. The way you laugh." He lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his lips lingering. "You are the most precious thing in my world, my love."

You smiled, your eyes growing heavy, the warmth of his body and the comfort of his presence pulling you toward sleep. He seemed to notice, because he shifted, pulling you closer, adjusting the blankets around you both.

"Sleep, my love," he whispered, his lips brushing your forehead. "I will be here when you wake."

You nestled into him, your head finding its place in the curve of his shoulder, your hand resting over his heart. You could feel its steady rhythm beneath your palm, a lullaby more beautiful than any violin could play.

"Euijoo?" You murmured, your voice thick with drowsiness.

"Yes, my love?"

"I love you."

There was a pause, and then his arms tightened around you, pulling you closer. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his voice soft and full of wonder.

"I love you too."

You smiled against his skin, your eyes finally fluttering closed.

In the beginning, you had been two strangers bound by duty, standing in a grand hall, exchanging vows you did not yet understand. You had been a first princess and a king, two pieces from different puzzles, forced together by the hands of politics and expectation.

But somehow, impossibly, miraculously, you had found your way inside.

Inside his heart, inside his life and inside the quiet, sacred space that he had reserved for no one else.

As you drifted off to sleep, wrapped in his arms, your body still humming with the echoes of your union, you realized that you had finally found your place.

Not in a palace or a jewel-encrusted throne. And not in the pages of history books or the whispers of courtiers.

But here.

In the warmth of his embrace, in the steady beat of his heart, in the love that had grown between you, wild and beautiful and entirely your own.

The world said its silent thank you as it saw all the love you gave back, and you thanked the world back,

For you had found your place to place your love.

And it was Euijoo.

And it was home.

fin.

A/N: hi you guys just wanted to say yes i am very insane about euijoo + kitchen scenes which i feel is VERY evident in this fic lol. I feel like you guys are gonna like yuma's next idk i hate the ending a bit but tbh i have no braincells to fix it. BUT YUMA WILL BE ENEMIES TO LOVERS SO EHEHEHEHEHEHE

divider by @strangergraphics-archive

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General taglist: @eu1joo @7yataki @frenchkisstheabyss @yumangel @nichozzystuffs @blueuijoo @pglpblm @ikigaijo @antonh0lic @dearvampyr @riri4andy @tokunodoll @sunsoomi @makizdoll @solairemelo @cece0710

“Woon baby, come here lil bit!”

Woonhak immediately groaned. “She only calls me that when she wants something,” he said, as he stood up.

“Okay, Mom - yo, I’ll be back in a sec.”

He disappeared down the hallway, leaving Maki alone on the floor with his sandwich and the soft, homey quiet of the house.

From the kitchen, he could hear Woonhak’s mom talking animatedly, Woonhak responding with his usual half-whining, half-affectionate tone. Maki smiled to himself. And then, out of nowhere-

“Oh- who are you?”

Maki nearly jumped out of his skin. He turned around, startled, only to find you standing a few steps away, arms crossed, clearly amused by his reaction.

“Um- who are you?” Maki blurted out, still processing the sudden appearance.

You raised an eyebrow. “Dude, not you coming to my place and asking who I am.”

Before Maki could respond, Woonhak walked back in, wiping his hands on a towel.

“Oh - Maki, this is Y/n. My sister.”

Maki froze. “Oh.”

Your lips curved into a knowing smile. “Ohhh, so this is that friend of yours, huh?”

Maki nodded a little too fast, still confused, his brain clearly lagging behind the conversation.

“I thought she was in Canada,” he whispered to Woonhak, leaning closer.

“Yeah,” Woonhak whispered back. “She came back yesterday.”

Maki blinked. “But you didn’t tell me.”

Woonhak shrugged, completely unbothered. “Surprise?”

You laughed softly, watching the two of them, your eyes lingering on Maki just a second longer than necessary.

A few minutes later, Woonhak’s mom called out from the dining area,

“Food’s ready! Come eat before it gets cold.”

You all gathered around the table, plates already laid out, the smell of home-cooked food instantly making Maki sit up straighter. He slid into his seat beside Woonhak, still low-key processing the whole surprise sister situation.

Just as they were about to start, You walked in, eyes lighting up.

“Wahhh, I missed your cooking, Mom,” you said dramatically, leaning down to kiss your mom’s temple.

Your mom laughed, patting your cheek. “You say that every time you come back.”

“It’s because it’s true,” You replied easily, taking the seat across from Maki.

Maki suddenly became very aware of his posture. And his hands. And the fact that he didn’t know where to look.

As they ate, your mom looked over at Maki with gentle concern.

“Maki, dear, how are your parents doing?”

Maki paused for a second before answering, then smiled politely.

“They’re good. They went to Germany again - work stuff. They’ll be back in a month or two.”

Her chopsticks froze mid-air. “Oh my god,” she said immediately. “Does that mean you’re going to be living alone?”

Maki nodded, the same small smile still on his face.

“Yeah.”

Woonhak frowned. “Again? You’re way too used to this.”

“I’m fine,” Maki said quickly, almost automatically. “Really.”

Your mom set her spoon down, thinking for a moment, then looked straight at Maki.

“The guest room is free, you know,” she said casually. “Why don’t you stay here while your parents are away?”

Maki’s eyes widened. “Ah - no, it’s okay, auntie, I don’t want to-”

Before he could finish, Woonhak leaned forward immediately. “No, seriously. Stay. It’ll be fun. We can actually eat proper food instead of instant noodles every day.”

Maki hesitated, glancing around, unsure- until his eyes met Yours. You just shrugged lightly, a small smile on your face.

“I don’t mind,” you said. “You already passed the surprise-guest test.”

Maki let out a quiet laugh, then shook his head. “I don’t want to intrude.”

Your mom waved her hand dismissively. “Nonsense,” she said firmly but kindly. “You’re not intruding. You’re like a family member to us.”

Something in Maki’s chest tightened at that. He looked down for a second, then nodded slowly.

“Okay,” he said, smiling, softer than before.

Woonhak grinned triumphantly. “See? Done. You’re stuck with us now.”

You laughed under her breath.

Well, since Maki and Woonhak had already been planning a sleepover that day, Maki ended up staying over without much more debate.

After dinner, Your mom started clearing the table. “Don’t stay up too late,” she warned, already knowing they wouldn’t listen.

“Yes, ma’am,” Woonhak said automatically.

You stretched as you stood up. “I’m exhausted. Jet lag is actually trying to kill me.” you glanced briefly at Maki before heading down the hall. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Maki replied, a little quieter than intended.

Soon, it was just the two of them again. The lights in the living room dimmed, a movie queued up, blankets pulled over their legs. Woonhak sprawled across the couch while Maki sat cross-legged, bowl of popcorn balanced in his lap.

“Movie night,” Woonhak said proudly.

Sometime during the movie, Maki’s throat went dry. He shifted, then whispered, “I’ll be right back,” even though Woonhak was already half-slumped beside him.

He waited a second.

Nothing.

Woonhak was completely knocked out, mouth slightly open, the movie still playing to an audience of zero. Maki smiled to himself, carefully pulling the blanket up over him before standing.

He padded quietly to the kitchen, trying not to make a sound.

And then he froze.

You were sitting on the kitchen counter, one leg swinging lazily, a glass of water in your hand. The overhead light was off - only the soft glow from the fridge and the hallway light outlined you.

“Oh, hi,” you said, sounding just as surprised and not surprised at all.

Maki blinked. “Oh - hi.” He paused, then gestured awkwardly toward the cabinet. “I was just getting water.”

“Same,” you said, lifting your glass slightly.

Maki grabbed a cup of water and leaned against the counter next to you, close but relaxed. He took a sip, then spoke like it was the most casual thing in the world.

“By the way, I was gonna ask something,” he said.

You looked at him. “Yeah?”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

You blinked, clearly caught off guard. The shy, quiet boy from earlier - the one who barely knew where to put his hands at the dinner table - was suddenly gone.

"Wow,” you said, laughing a little. “That was unexpected. Why?”

Maki tilted his head, completely unfazed. “God forbid a guy being interested.”

You chuckled, shaking you head. “Okay, fair enough. Well - nope. Nope. I’m single.”

Maki nodded once, like he was filing that information away. “Interested in anyone?”

You raised an eyebrow at him, amused. “Straight to the follow-up question?”

“Just curious,” he said, shrugging.

“No,” you replied easily. “Not interested in anyone either.”

“Oh,” Maki said, a small smile tugging at his lips.

You stayed like that for a moment, just holding eye contact. Maki’s gaze drifted ever so slightly, down to your lips. You noticed immediately and smirked, a teasing sparkle in your eyes.

“Well then,” you said, hopping off the counter, “I’mma go sleep. Finish the movie, baby.”

With that, you sauntered down the hallway toward her room, the faint echo of her footsteps fading.

Maki watched you go, a small, amused smirk tugging at his lips. Then, shaking his head slightly, he smiled to himself, feeling lighter than he had all day.

Turning back to the living room, he sank into the couch beside Woonhak, grabbed the remote, and let the movie play - except now, he couldn’t stop replaying that little smirk in his mind.

Morning came faster than Maki realized, sunlight spilling through the curtains and warming the living room.

“Hey, sleepyhead!” Woonhak’s voice rang out, slightly louder than necessary. Maki stirred, groaning, still tangled in the blanket. “Ugh five more minutes,” he mumbled, eyes barely open.

“Too late,” Woonhak laughed, shaking him gently. “You have to wake up. Breakfast’s ready.”

Maki rubbed his eyes, finally sitting up. “Alright, alright I’m up,” he said, a small smile creeping onto his face despite the morning haze.

The smell of toast and something sweet drifted from the kitchen, making it impossible to resist getting out of bed. Even half-asleep, Maki felt that warm, easy comfort of being at Woonhak’s place - like the night before hadn’t just been a sleepover, but a little moment he didn’t want to forget.

After brushing their teeth and taking quick showers, Woonhak and Maki made their way to the dining table.

You and your mom were already there, sitting close together, deep in what looked like a serious conversation. But the moment you heard the boys coming in, both immediately straightened up and smiled.

“Oh, good morning, babies!” your mom greeted warmly, her eyes lighting up at the sight of them.

Maki nodded politely, trying not to look too sleepy. “Good morning, auntie.”

“How was your sleep, Maki?” she asked, leaning slightly forward, genuinely curious.

Maki smiled softly, his hands folded neatly on his lap. “It was really good, auntie. Thank you for asking.”

You glanced up from her plate, giving him a small, amused smile, and Maki felt his cheeks warm ever so slightly - but he kept his expression calm, trying not to look too flustered.

this fic was supposed to posted in february and i lost the motivation to write cause i started out of nowhere without even planning a plot? but yeah im gonna post this cause the no. of drafts are stressing me out. and its bad i know.

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the thought crossed yuma's mind immediately: the lower mood you've been in these past few days, your complaints about not feeling well. at first he assumed you were coming down with some sort of sickness, only to realize that it's been a few weeks since you've last complained to him about your monthly bleeding.

he left the bed, movements slow as he rubbed his eyes with both of his hands, footsteps leading him towards where he assumed you were — the bathroom. his sweatpants hung low on his waist, the waistband of his boxers peeking from underneath as he knocked on the door ever so gently, waiting for a response. he knocked again after a few seconds; a little louder this time, hearing you mumble something from the inside. he took it as a sign to go inside.

yuma opened the door slowly, the door making a small creek sound as he did so. he peeked his head first — curious eyes catching a glimpse of you inside the bathroom, his face immediately falling.

you were laying on the floor, curled up into a ball as your face contorted in an expression full of pain. your cheeks were stained with tears as you sobbed quietly, hands crossed around your stomach.

'oh, sweetheart.' yuma mumbled quietly, kneeling down next to you. his hands immediately found their way to your shoulders — massaging them gently with a comforting touch. 'is it the cramps again?'

you could only nod in response, not moving from your current position.

'did you take painkillers?' yuma asked. you nodded again. 'they didn't start working yet, did they?'

another nod.

yuma hummed quietly, thinking to himself for a minute.

'do you want to get back to bed?' he asked, voice quiet and soothing. 'i could carry you.'

this time, you shook your head in response — yuma's brows furrowing in slight confusion.

'the tiles are cold.' you mumbled quietly, voice barely audible as you remained in your curled up state, a small sob escaping your lips. 'it feels nice.'

yuma smiled at your words — eyes filled with adoration and worry, hands drawing gentle patterns along the exposed parts of your back, ones your tank top didn't cover. he wasn't going to leave you there waiting for the painkillers to start working; opting instead to lay down next to u, body encaging yours in a big, comforting hug, the warm sensation of his skin against yours providing a nice contrast to the cold bathroom tiles. although you didn't move or change your position, your body eased into his touch almost on instinct — muscles loosening and almost melting in his hold.

'the medicine will work soon, i promise.' he whispered, leaning in to plant a soft kiss to your cheek. 'i'll lay here with you till it passes, okay?'

he noticed the way your lips curved up just slightly, a weak smile appearing on your lips at his words.

'thank you.' you murmured, hand finding his in slow movements. 'i love you.'

'i love you too, sweetheart.' he said, planting another kiss to your temple. 'let's spend today in bed, hm? just us, cuddles, a movie and snacks. i have your favorite ones stored away for occasions like these.'

you squeezed his hand gently, nodding in response.

'can we order food, too?' you asked.

'of course.' yuma chuckled, head nuzzling in the crook of your neck. 'you can choose what we eat, too. as long as it doesn't hurt your stomach.'

he planted yet another kiss, this time to your neck, then another one to your shoulder. and with the soothing touch and comforting presence of yuma absorbing you from all around, you seemed to almost forget about the pain still building up in your lower stomach — letting yourself enjoy the moment as you focused on your boyfriend and just how lucky you were to have him.

'you're the best.' you mumbled quietly, closing your eyes as your back rested against his chest. yuma smiled.

'you deserve it and nothing less, sweetheart.'

perm taglist: @nichozzystuffs @woonhakfeet @haorangis @choco-scoups @littlegummystar @mxriitaesz @luvkeiiii @ikigaijo @7yataki @xionvlog

&team taglist: @starshuas @minhosimthings @makizdoll @ricewithjo @livelaughloveseventeen @solairemelo @pageraf

Ughhh!, you thought to yourself. You hadn’t called Jihoon yet because you knew he’d be streaming or quietly playing video games in the studio (the spare room in the house), and you didn’t want to bother him. You knew these had been stressful weeks with the comeback, the company’s nasty comments, the preparations, the anticipation… everything. So that place had become his refuge, and you usually didn’t want to drag him back to the real world.

However, you needed to check. You’d been searching high and low for those measly glasses for twenty minutes because you wanted to read. Was that so hard?

You sighed to yourself and made your way toward the little room that served as a studio in the house. You knocked gently on the door. “Jihoon? Jihoon-ah, can I come in?”

“Hm! I’m all alonee,” came a voice from the other side of the door, which basically meant there wouldn’t be another five hundred thousand people watching her walk through the door. (It wasn’t a live stream, after all.)

You turned the doorknob, opening the door and asking at the same time, “Honey, have you seen my glasses…?”

The question hung in the air, of course, because when the guy turned around, he was wearing something you knew very well. Maybe even all too well.

They were round, metal, and exactly as you’d left them that morning.

Your glasses.

On Jihoon’s face.

Okay, that’s beside the point, but why did he look so handsome?

It was a fact that Jihoon needed glasses, because he was just as nearsighted as you. But of course, this was the first time you’d ever seen him wearing glasses. And even more so, wearing yours.

“Your glasses?” he asked distractedly, looking up from his Nintendo; he was playing Animal Crossing (to surprise for no one). “I have them,” he smiled.

“No, really?,” you replied sarcastically, still flustered. “Can I have them back, please? I want to read.” Even though they looked great on him, you were still determined to finish that book.

Jihoon stared at you bluntly. “Noup”

You blinked slowly.

Wait, what?

“What do you mean, ‘no’? Jihoon, those are my glasses.”

“Yeah, you’re right, but I’m just playing! Can you wait a little while until I finish picking my daily berries? Otherwise my eyes will hurt later…” he asked, giving you puppy-dog eyes.

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “No way. I want to read about how Jude gets out of the mess she’s gotten herself into in the kingdom. You know it got really interesting!”

He shook his head, acting all knowing after pretending to think it over for a moment; “This isn’t working for us. We should make a schedule or take turns with the glasses… there’s got to be a solution—” Jihoon began, but you cut him off in exasperation. Your empathy for his exhaustion had vanished.

“Those are my glasses, Jihoon… the solution is simple: go see the ophthalmologist already!” you complained, closing in on him dangerously fast. You were going to take those glasses off him no matter what.

He tried to step back, but the chair stopped him (and the cramped space in the room, too). Jihoon held his hands out in front of him as if to protect himself, but you eagerly pushed them aside and took his glasses off his face, putting them back on yourself.

Now you were the one smiling. “Thanks, sweetheart,” you said, and after giving him a soft, quick little kiss as compensation, you went off to read your book once and for all, leaving Jihoon still trying to process what had just happened.

No matter how many years you’d been together, things like this would always surprise him.

————————————————————

You spent some time reading in peace, enjoying your book after the frantic search for your glasses. Ahh, this is the life, you thought to yourself, while also enjoying how well you could see with your glasses on.

While you were doing your own thing, Jihoon came into the living room like a sad little puppy—right where you were. “Ynnn…” he called out to you, then flopped down on the couch and rested his head on your lap. You took a break from your book for a moment.

“Tell me,” you said, reaching out to stroke Jihoon’s hair.

You could feel under your fingers how he instantly relaxed as you began to play with his hair for a while.

“You’re not mad at me, are you?” he asked, in a low, deeper voice. He was pouting, looking deeply concerned.

You blinked slowly and then snorted. “Mad? No, not at all.” You shook your head, setting the book aside to get a better look at Jihoon, who now had his chin resting on your lap.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Jihoon nodded slowly and rolled back onto his back again, this time staring at the ceiling.

“That’s good because since you’ve been reading for a while, I’d really like you to let me borrow them and stuff…”

You snorted again, smiling.

“Jihoon-ah, seriously, make an appointment with the eye doctor. It’s about time. And while you’re at it… just so you know, this style of glasses looks great on you.” You said that last part as you refocused your eyes on your book.

He frowned; it was clear he wasn’t a big fan of doctors. “But will you let me borrow them?” he asked again.

“I’ll let you have them when I’m done with this,” you said, pointing to the book. He smiled again—that bright smile he was known for—and after giving you a gentle kiss on the hand as a thank-you, he lay down beside you once more. He knew you still had a while before you finished, so he’d take the opportunity to get some sleep by your side.

You smiled and kept playing with his hair absentmindedly while you read about how the main character in your book was pointing a sword at her love interest’s neck.

But wow, how cute was Jihoon.

© jellyluvsjihoon 2026. do not copy or repost. ask to translate. (i got the dividers from @/delidelicate)

Well of course life is made of spun sugar, don't be ridiculous. It can crumble so very easily, but do not be afraid to stick your tongue out to taste it. How else will you live your life?

For Murata Fuma, living had never been an option. The only trinket left on the table was surviving.

Being the Lord Commander of Sakuryn's vast empire, bordered by snowy mountains on all sides and a raging river angry enough to take the lives of even a child that dared to enter its territories, a life resembling a lattice of spun sugar was a myth.

Sakuryn had never been a forgiving place.

Fuma had learned that lesson in blood before he'd even grown tall enough to hold a sword properly. The kingdom had been a wound that refused to close when he'd first taken up his post as Lord Commander—a festering gash carved by a dozen petty warlords, three rival princes and a king too old to stitch it shut.

Battles had bled into seasons and seasons into years. He'd waded through rivers that ran red instead of blue, stood on battlefields where the snow drank crimson and never spat it back out. Every hill he'd taken had cost him a piece of himself. Every fortress he'd breached had left a scar somewhere on his body, a map of violence etched into skin that had long since forgotten what it felt like to be unmarred.

Then he'd found Jo.

Jo had been the youngest prince, the forgotten one, the one everyone assumed would die quietly in some forgotten corner of the palace. But Fuma had seen something in him—a flicker of tenacity, a spine that didn't bend. So he'd done what he did best. He'd fought.

Prince by prince, army by army, throne by throne, he'd helped Jo to carve a path like a scythe through wheat and when the dust had settled, Jo sat on the throne and Sakuryn had, for the first time in living memory, known something that resembled quiet.

It had been three years now. Three years of no wars, of rebuilding.

Three years of Fuma sitting in his chambers late at night, a candle burning low, staring at the scars that crisscrossed his chest and arms like the scribbles of a madman. He would trace them with his fingertips, feeling the raised edges, remembering the bite of steel and the crunch of bone. Peace felt foreign on his skin, like wearing someone else's clothes. He didn't know what to do with hands that weren't holding a sword. He didn't know what to do with nights that didn't end in blood.

Murata Fuma believed sugar was a myth.

So why was it that he was currently standing in front of a bakery, too afraid to knock on its carved door?

The sign above it read its name in curling gold letters and the windows glowed warm amber even in the gray morning light. Fuma could see pastries arranged in neat rows inside, their surfaces glistening with something that might have been glaze or magic for all he knew. The smell drifting out through the cracks in the door was sweet, buttery and completely alien to a man whose nose was more accustomed to smoke and iron.

Beside him, Maki bounced on his heels like an overeager puppy who had just spotted a squirrel. The boy—no, young man, though Fuma still struggled to see him as anything other than the scrawny orphan he'd pulled off the streets two years ago—was vibrating with excitement.

"Commander! Commander, are you going to go in or are we just going to stand here until the snow buries us?" Maki asked, his voice carrying that particular blend of impatience and adoration that only he could manage.

Fuma did not answer. He simply stared at the door, the warm light spilling from its edges, the faint silhouette moving behind the frosted glass. His hand hovered near his sword hilt out of habit, even though there was no enemy here, no battle to win.

Just a bakery and a door he could not bring himself to open.

Fuma had spent his entire life learning how to survive. He had never, not once, learned how to taste something sweet.

And Gods above, weren't you the sweetest out of them all?

Fuma could not remember the first time he met you.

It had been maybe a year and a half ago—give or take a season—but the details had slipped through his fingers like grains of sand no matter how hard he tried to hold onto them.

He remembered fragments, pieces, shards of a moment that refused to assemble themselves into a whole picture. He remembered a scent first, something like honeyed tea left to steep just a moment too long. He remembered a voice second, soft, the kind of voice that made people lean in closer without realizing they were doing it. And he remembered, third, that the town had started smiling more.

Everything that felt so fundamentally wrong against the cold, stone streets of Sakuryn.

You brought joy. Not through grand gestures or heroic acts—Sakuryn had had enough of those to last a lifetime—but through small things.

Through loaves of bread that came out golden and perfectly crusted. Through pastries that made children tug on their mothers' sleeves and point. Through the way you greeted everyone who passed your bakery as if they were an old friend you had been waiting all day to see.

Fuma had noticed. He had noticed long before he understood why he was noticing.

Then you had started delivering to the palace. King Jo had developed a fondness for your coffee biscuits, that he claimed helped him think during council meetings.

You came twice a week, sometimes three times, always with a basket balanced on your hip and that same warm smile on your face. And every time you did, Fuma found himself standing a little straighter, holding his breath a little longer and fumbling for words that had never once failed him on the battlefield.

You had talked to him, dozens of times probably, hundred even. You had asked him how his day was, whether he had eaten, if he liked cinnamon or nutmeg better. Simple questions, normal questions, questions that should have been easy to answer.

But every time you turned your gaze on him, he forgot how to be a man and remembered only how to be a fool. The heavens themselves could have melted into gold and moonlight and poured themselves into a human shape and they still would not have rivaled you.

Star struck—that was the word for it.

Fuma, the Lord Commander of Sakuryn, a man who had stared down armies and never once blinked, became star struck every time you looked at him.

"Commander?" Maki's voice pulled him back to the present, peering at him with a concerned frown. "Are you ill? Your face is doing that thing again. The red thing."

Fuma's jaw tightened. "It is not doing a red thing."

"It is doing a red thing. It's doing it right now, in fact." The boy observed.

"I will assign you to morning patrol for a month."

"You say that every time and you never do it because you love me too much." Maki said cheerfully, rocking back on his heels. "Admit it, I'm your favorite apprentice."

"You are my only apprentice."

"Which makes me your favorite by default. Math lies not, Commander."

Fuma exhaled slowly through his nose, a sound that was equal parts exasperation and fondness. Maki had been a scrawny thing when he had found him, picking pockets in the lower districts with more enthusiasm than skill. Two years of training had filled out his frame and sharpened his instincts, but nothing had been able to knock the relentless cheer out of him. He was a puppy with a sword, and Fuma had long since accepted that this was simply his life now.

"If I go in," Fuma said slowly, "will you stop talking?"

"I will stop talking for exactly three seconds as a show of good faith." Maki grinned, all youth and insolence. He mimed locking his lips and throwing away the key, his eyes sparkling with mischief that suggested the silence would last half the promised time.

Fuma turned back to the door. The warm glow spilled out onto the snow. The silhouette moved behind the frosted glass—he would know the shape of your shadow anywhere by now. He could hear the faint clatter of a tray being set down, the hum of a voice singing softly to itself.

He reached out, his hand pausing an inch from the wood. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he pushed the door open.

The bell above it chimed, a cheerful sound that seemed to mock his hesitation. Warmth rushed out to meet him, carrying the scent of bread and cinnamon—scents he unconsciously associated with you. The bakery was small and immaculate, wooden shelves lined with loaves and pastries, a counter polished to a gleam and a fire crackling merrily in the hearth.

And there you were.

You looked up from arranging a tray of golden-crusted pies, your hands dusted with flour. Your eyes met his and your face broke into that smile—that smile, the one that made his chest tighten and his thoughts scatter like startled birds.

For a moment Fuma was not the Lord Commander of Sakuryn. He was not a warrior, a killer or a man covered in scars that mapped out a lifetime of violence.

He was just a man, standing in a bakery, understanding why the poets wrote all they could about their muses.

The bell had barely stopped chiming before Maki bounded forward like a young hound let off its leash, all barely contained energy. "Good morning! Something smells incredible—is that honey? Is that fresh honey? Did you get new honey from the eastern hives? The ones with the golden bees? Commander, she got the golden bees!"

"Slow down, boy." You laughed and the sound of it filled the bakery like sunlight through a window. "Yes, it's honey from the eastern hives. I traded three loaves of sourdough and a promise to teach the beekeeper's daughter how to make cream puffs."

"A worthy price." Maki declared solemnly, as if he were negotiating a treaty.

You reached out and ruffled his hair, your fingers moving through the dark strands with an ease that spoke of familiarity. Maki preened under the touch like a cat, his earlier mischief momentarily forgotten in favor of basking in your attention. "And how is my favorite apprentice today?"

"I'm his only apprentice apparently," Maki said, jerking a thumb at Fuma, "which makes me the favorite by default."

"Ah, I see." You said, your eyes lifting to meet Fuma's, "You've been teaching him strategy."

And there it was again, that moment. That breathless instant where the world seemed to hold still just so you could look at him.

"My lord." You tilted your head and your smile softened. "Didn't expect to see you here today."

Fuma had faced down charging cavalry without flinching. He had stood before a young king and sworn oaths he knew would cost him blood. He had looked into the eyes of dying men and felt nothing but the cold certainty of survival.

But when you said my lord in that voice—saccharine as honey—what even was the word certainty? In front of your beauty, that word morphed into perplexity, at how a mere smile could break such a big wall.

"How many times," he said, with a hint of a smile playing at his lips, "must I tell you to call me Fuma?"

"And how many times must I tell you that it feels improper?" Your laugh was quiet, a private little sound that made his chest ache. "You are the Lord Commander of Sakuryn. I am just a baker."

"Just a baker?" He repeated, and the words tasted wrong on his tongue. "You are far more than—"

"You're an exception." Maki cut in cheerfully, popping up in between like a weed. "He doesn't let anyone call him by his first name. Not even the king. Well, the king could, but he'd probably make it weird. You know how kings are. All formal and—" Fuma's hand came down on the back of Maki's head with a practiced thwack. "Ow."

"You were saying?"

"I was saying that you are a very wise and respected commander who definitely does not stare at bakers for entire minutes at a time without saying anything." Maki said, rubbing his head with absolutely no shame whatsoever.

Fuma's ears went red.

You hid a smile behind your hand, your eyes crinkling at the corners. "I see you two are as charming as ever. So what brings you to my humble establishment this morning? Surely not just to terrorize my flour supply."

Fuma cleared his throat, grateful for the change in subject. "You promised last week. You said you had new inventions you wanted me to taste."

"Ah." Your face lit up with a spark of pride. "I did, didn't I? Wait here and don't move. Either of you."

You disappeared behind the counter, bending down to retrieve something from a lower shelf. Fuma very intentionally did not watch the way your apron strings pulled taut. He very intentionally failed.

When you straightened, you were holding a small tray bearing a tart. It was a golden, flaky crust cradling a filling the color of crushed rubies, topped with a delicate lattice and a light dusting of powdered sugar that clung to the surface like fresh snow on a winter morning.

"Raspberry and rose." You announced, setting the tray on the counter. "I've been experimenting with the proportions. The rose is subtle but I think it balances the tartness of the raspberry. Here."

You picked up a spoon and scooped up a generous portion, then held it out toward him. Fuma's hand hovered in the air.

For one reckless, heart-stopping second, he considered leaning forward and taking the spoonful directly from your hand. He imagined the warmth of your fingers near his lips, the way your eyes would widen, the soft intake of breath you might make. He imagined the taste of raspberry and rose on his tongue, mingled with the sweetness of a moment shared with you.

The thought made his pulse stutter. He reached out and took the spoon from your hand instead, his fingers brushing yours for the barest fraction of a second. The contact sent a jolt through him and he had to steady his hand before bringing the spoon to his lips.

The tart melted on his tongue. Raspberry, bright and tangy, gave way to a floral undertone that lingered like a bloodstain. The crust was buttery and light, crumbling against his palate with a texture that spoke of hours of careful work. It was, without exaggeration, the most beautiful thing he had ever tasted.

"Well?" You asked, and there was a vulnerability in your voice, an uncertainty, that made him want to drop to his knees and swear fealty to you right there on the bakery floor.

"It's perfect." He said. The smile that broke across your face was worth every battle scar he carried.

Maki, meanwhile, had been circling the counter like a shark. "Can I try? I'm an apprentice too—I deserve culinary education—Commander, tell her I deserve culinary education—"

"You deserve to learn patience." Fuma said flatly.

"I have been extremely patient. I have been standing here for at least three entire minutes without asking for food, which is basically a lifetime for someone my age—"

You laughed again, and this time it was full and bright, echoing off the wooden walls. "Alright, alright. Sit down, boy. I have a cinnamon roll with your name on it."

Maki practically vaulted over a stool and landed in a seat with a triumphant grin. "I love you. You are a goddess among us ordinary mortals."

"Flattery will get you extra icing."

"I am prepared to flatter you until the sun burns out."

Fuma watched the two of you interact, and something in his chest cracked open. You moved around the counter with an easy grace, setting a plate in front of Maki, ruffling his hair again, scolding him gently when he tried to eat with his hands instead of using the fork you had provided. There was a maternal warmth to the way you treated his apprentice—firm but kind, patient but not indulgent.

Fuma had never known how to put words to what he felt when he looked at you.

He remembered a hunt from his childhood. He had been ten, maybe eleven, and his father had taken him into the forests beyond the northern pass. They had flushed a dove from its hiding place, Fuma had drawn his bow, aimed and loosed an arrow that had missed by a hair's breadth. The dove had taken flight, wings beating against the gray sky, and Fuma had been glad. He had watched it rise, white against the clouds, and he had thought: some things are too beautiful to catch.

That was what you were. A dove he had let go, something so radiant that even the thought of holding you in his hands felt like a sacrilege.

You caught his eye as you wiped your hands on your apron, and you smiled at him. His heart stumbled.

"Here," you said, sliding a small wrapped bundle across the counter toward him. "For the road, raspberry tart, in case you miss it too much."

Fuma looked at the bundle, then at you. "You didn't have to."

"I wanted to." You said, "Consider it payment for all the times you've kept the town safe. A baker's tax."

"I don't—"

"Take it, my lord."

My lord. The words curled through him like smoke, intoxicating. He wanted to hear you say his name. He wanted to hear it fall from your lips like a prayer or a secret, like something precious that only you were allowed to speak.

But he simply nodded, tucking the bundle into his coat. "Thank you."

Maki had already finished his cinnamon roll and was licking icing off his fingers with an enthusiasm that bordered on feral. "That was incredible. Commander, I'm going to build a cot in the corner and live here."

"You will do no such thing."

"You can't stop me. I am a free man with dreams."

Fuma sighed, the sound long-suffering but not entirely without affection. He turned to you, and for a moment, he allowed himself to simply look. At the flour dusted on your cheek, the light in your eyes, the way you fit into this warm, golden space like you had been made for it.

"Thank you." He said again, and he hoped you understood that he meant more than just the pastries.

You tilted your head, and your smile deepened, "Safe travels, Fuma."

Oh.

His name.

Fuma turned and walked out of the bakery before he could do something foolish.

Like stay.

Behind him, Maki scrambled to catch up, still licking his fingers. "Did you hear that? She said your name, Commander. That's practically a marriage proposal in baker culture—"

"Morning patrol. One month."

"Worth it."

_____________________

Night settled over Sakuryn like a blanket, muffling the town in silence save for the occasional creak of settling wood and the distant howl of wind through the mountain passes. Your apartment above the bakery was cozy, lit by a candle that flickered on your desk, casting dancing shadows across the walls.

You sat with a ledger open before you, a pile of coins and copper pieces arranged in neat stacks. The raspberry tarts had sold out by midday, and you had received three separate requests for custom orders for the upcoming harvest festival. You dipped your quill, noted the numbers and calculated your earnings with a sense of satisfaction.

Your eyes drifted to the envelope. It sat at the corner of your desk, already addressed in your neatest handwriting. You had sealed it this morning, tucked the coins inside and told yourself you would send it first thing tomorrow. The same routine you had followed every month for the past four years.

Your parents lived in a small village on the edge of the kingdom, far from the wars that had once torn Sakuryn apart but close enough to feel the ripples. You sent them what you could, enough to keep them comfortable, to repay a debt you oddly felt you owed them.

You reached for the envelope, your fingers brushing the rough paper. The weight of it felt heavier than it should have, a familiar ache settling in your chest.

Of what use is a daughter anyway? It's better to let her go.

You blinked, and your vision blurred for a moment. You pressed the heel of your palm to your eyes and took a slow, steadying breath.

Stop it. You're fine. This is fine.

"It's perfect." He had said.

Murata Fuma, the Lord Commander of Sakuryn. A man carved from stone and steel, who looked at you like you were someone whose birth was worth something.

You smiled, you couldn't help it. It crept across your face like dawn breaking over the mountains, entirely beyond your control.

He always did that , didn't he? Complimented you at the strangest times.

In the middle of a sentence, when you were explaining the difference between two types of flour. Or as you handed him a loaf of bread, your fingers brushing for half a second. When you were distracted, when you least expected it, when you had forgotten for a moment that someone like him could see someone like you.

"It's perfect."

Two words, simple and sincere, lodged in your chest, refusing to leave.

You blew out the candle, gathered your shawl around your shoulders, and climbed into bed. As you closed your eyes, the last thought that drifted through your mind was not of coins or ledgers or envelopes. It was of a man with battle-scarred hands and kind eyes, standing in your bakery, telling you that something you had made was perfect.

You fell asleep smiling at how sweet life was.

______________

No matter who you asked in Sakuryn—children and adults, nobles and peasants alike—all of them had the same answer to the question of who the best warrior in the kingdom was.

It didn't take much evidence to prove it was Fuma.

The training grounds of the palace were bathed in the pale gold light of late afternoon, the stones worn smooth by decades of boots and blades. The air was crisp, carrying the metallic tang of steel and the echo of soldiers drilling in the courtyards.

But here, in the private ring reserved for the Lord Commander and his chosen few, there was only the sound of breathing and the scrape of boots against stone.

Fuma stood at the center of the ring, a strip of black cloth tied securely over his eyes.

Across from him, Maki circled like a young wolf, his sword held in a two-handed grip that was still slightly too wide, his stance still carrying the telltale signs of someone who had learned from a manual rather than from instinct. He was good and he was getting better with every hour that passed. But he was not there yet.

"You're in the wrong stance again." Fuma said, his voice flat and calm.

"I am not—"

"Your left shoulder drops a full second before you strike. It's the same tell you've had for three months."

"Maybe I'm doing it on purpose." Maki's jaw tightened. "To lull you into a false sense of security."

"You are not."

"How do you know? You can't even see me."

Fuma's lips curved into something that was not quite a smile. "I don't need to see you, boy. I can hear the way your weight shifts. I can feel the air move when you breathe. You might as well be shouting your intentions from the rooftops."

Maki growled—an actual, frustrated growl—and lunged. Steel met steel with a sharp clang that echoed across the training grounds.

Fuma moved like water, his blade flowing in a lazy arc that caught Maki's strike and redirected it harmlessly past his shoulder. He did not even brace. He simply moved, and Maki's attack crumbled against him like a wave against a cliff.

Before Maki could recover, Fuma's foot hooked behind his ankle and pulled. The boy yelped, stumbled and found himself flat on his back with Fuma's blade resting lightly against his throat.

"Dead." Fuma said.

Maki stared up at the sky, chest heaving, expression caught somewhere between awe and utter humiliation. "That's not fair. You're blindfolded. That's cheating."

"It's training. Get up. Again."

"I need a moment. My pride is wounded. I may need medical leave."

"You may need a stronger will to live if you keep complaining."

From the edge of the training ring, a low, amused laugh cut through the air. Fuma turned his head toward the sound, though the blindfold kept him from seeing who it was. He didn't need to see him to know who he was. He'd seen Jo cut off his father's head at the ripe age of seventeen and heard that laugh as he did.

"At ease, Commander. I think you've tortured poor Maki enough for one afternoon."

Fuma reached up and pulled the blindfold from his eyes, blinking as the late sunlight flooded his vision. The king stood a few paces away, leaning against a stone pillar with his arms crossed, his tall, lean frame draped in a simple tunic and trousers rather than his usual formal robes.

Maki scrambled to his feet and bowed, albeit awkwardly, still clutching his sword. "Your Majesty! I didn't see you there. I was—I was about to win, actually. The Commander just got lucky."

"Of course." Jo said, his smile widening. "I saw the entire thing. Very convincing near-victory."

"Why thank you."

"It was a compliment to the Commander."

Maki's face fell, a wounded puppy. "Oh."

Jo pushed off the pillar and walked towards them, his boots clicking softly against the stone. "You're getting slow, Fuma. It took you almost four seconds to disarm him." He stopped beside Fuma and surveyed the training ring with an appraising eye. "I remember when you could do it in two."

"I was being gentle." Fuma said dryly. "He's still growing. I didn't want to break the kid's spirit before his bones have finished forming."

"My spirit is fine," Maki protested. "My spirit is thriving. My spirit is doing great." No one acknowledged him.

Jo's studied Fuma, his gaze carrying the weight of a friendship that had been forged in blood and fire. "You seem different lately." Fuma said nothing. "Would it have anything to do with a certain baker?" Jo asked, his tone light but his eyes sharp. "The one with the biscuits you've been smuggling into my chambers?"

"It's only my duty, Your Majesty."

"Ahh yes." Jo huffed a quiet laugh, "It is the Lord Commander's duty to pick up biscuits personally and return with the look of a man who has been struck my lightning, indeed."

Fuma's jaw tightened. He turned away, reaching for a cloth to wipe down his blade, if only to have something to do with his hands. "You're imagining things."

"Am I?" Jo followed him, undeterred. "I've known you for nearly a decade, Fuma. I've seen your glare scare off even the bravest of mercenaries on a battlefield. I have never—never—seen you blush. Until eight months ago."

"I don't blush."

"It's very endearing. Maki, doesn't he blush?"

"Like a maiden at a spring festival," Maki chimed in helpfully. "It's honestly a little embarrassing. I have to look away sometimes out of respect."

Fuma closed his eyes and counted to five. "If you two are quite finished—"

"I'm not." Jo said cheerfully. "In fact, I'm just getting started. Tell me, does she know you're completely gone for her?"

Fuma's hand stilled on the blade. For a long moment, he said nothing, the wind stirring the dust at his feet. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled the hour.

"She's..." He stopped, swallowed. His voice, when it came, was quieter than he had intended. "She's everything."

Jo's teasing expression softened. He reached out and clasped Fuma's shoulder, squeezing once. "Then don't wait too long, old friend. Life is too short to not chase after love."

Fuma looked at him, and for a moment, the mask slipped enough for Jo to see the longing beneath. Then he turned away, reaching for his sword. "One more round. Maki, stop lurking and pick up your blade."

"But I just got up—"

"Pick. Up. Your. Blade."

Maki scrambled. Fuma lifted his sword, settling into his stance. As he raised his blade, a scent drifted across the training grounds.

Sugar sweet.

His breath caught. His sword lowered. And he turned slowly toward the entrance of the training grounds, his heart already pounding a rhythm only a poet could name.

Fuma thought he'd seen the gates of heaven open to reveal an angel.

The late sun caught the fabric of your dress—a pale cream luminous against the stark red-and-black banners of Sakuryn that hung from the palace walls. The colors of the kingdom spoke of blood and iron and the weight of a crown worn through war.

And there you stood, a soft curve of light, a scarf the color of a dying sunset wrapped loosely around your neck, swaying gently in the breeze. You looked lost. Adorably, endearingly lost.

Your gaze swept the training grounds, brows furrowed slightly as you tried to orient yourself. The baskets hanging from your arms swayed with your movements and you shifted your weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncertain which direction to take.

Fuma's sword hung limp at his side. The world narrowed to the shape of you standing there so much so that he forgot he was in the middle of a training session, that his king and his apprentice were both watching him with varying degrees of amusement. He forgot everything except the way the light traced the curve of your cheek.

It was in that moment of utter vulnerability—of complete and total distraction—that Maki struck.

The boy lunged forward with a cry of triumph, his shoulder slamming into Fuma's side with all the force he could muster. Fuma, caught entirely off guard, stumbled, his feet tangling, his sword clattering to the stones.

And then, with a grace that could only be described as profoundly undignified, the Lord Commander of Sakuryn hit the ground. He landed flat on his back, dust puffing up around him, staring up at the sky with an expression of stunned disbelief.

Maki stood over him, chest heaving, sword pointed dramatically at Fuma's throat. "I win! The student has surpassed the master! I want a statue—"

"You cheated." Fuma said flatly.

"I used the resources available to me. Commander, you taught me that."

"I taught you to exploit your enemy's weaknesses, not to—"

"Your weakness is her." Maki said, grinning as he jabbed a finger in your direction. "Not my fault you're so predictable."

Fuma's ears burned.

Across the training grounds, you laughed, the sound carrying across the stones like music. You shifted your baskets, adjusted your scarf and began walking toward them.

Fuma scrambled to his feet with as much dignity as he could muster, which was not much. He dusted off his tunic, refused to meet anyone's eyes, and very pointedly did not acknowledge the way his heart had started racing.

You reached them, dipping your head in a respectful bow. "Your Majesty. Commander. Maki." Your eyes flickered to Maki with warmth. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

"Not at all." Jo said smoothly, stepping forward with a gracious smile. "You've simply witnessed the first and last time Maki will ever best the Commander in combat. We should have it carved into stone."

"I heard that." Fuma muttered.

"It was meant for you to hear."

You laughed again, and Fuma felt something in his chest loosen. You turned to Jo, your expression brightening. "I've come to deliver the usual batch. Coffee biscuits for you, Your Majesty—I've added a touch of cardamom this time, I hope you don't mind—and the sourdough for the kitchens. And..." You hesitated, a softer smile crossing your face. "I also have a gift for the palace healer. She mentioned last week that she had been feeling under the weather. I wanted to bring her some of my honey-and-ginger loaves."

Jo's ears went red. "That's very kind of you. I'll have someone escort you to her quarters."

"I can find my own way, Your Majesty. I've memorized most of the palace by now."

"Still. It's a large building. Easy to get lost." Jo cleared his throat. "I'll take you myself. After I finish here. Which I am finishing. Right now." Fuma raised an eyebrow and Jo shot him a look that was half warning, half plea.

Fuma felt a slow smile creep across his face. "That's very generous of you, Your Majesty. Prioritizing the healer's well-being. A true king's duty." He sighed and shot you a boyish wink, "Our healer is very fortunate to have such a devoted king who personally escorts baked goods to her chambers."

Jo's ears turned a shade deeper. "I am going to have you reassigned to the northern border."

Maki, who had been watching this exchange with the glee of a child witnessing his elders embarrass themselves, piped up. "Your Majesty, if you want, I can deliver the bread to the healer for you. I'm very fast. I'll run the whole way."

"No." Jo said, a little too quickly. "No, that's—I'll handle it. It's a king's duty to ensure his staff are well cared for."

"Uh-huh.." Maki said.

"I see the palace is as lively as ever." You looked between the three of them, your smile growing more amused by the second. "Well, I won't keep you from your training." You turned to Fuma. "I saved a raspberry tart for you, in case you wanted to stop by later."

Fuma's throat went dry. "I—" He stopped to clear his throat, "I'll be there."

"Good." For a moment, it was just the two of you, standing in a sunlit training ground, the rest of the world fading to a distant hum.

"Am I interrupting something?"

You turned, and your face lit up with recognition. The palace healer stood at the edge of the training grounds,

"I was just about to look for you." You exclaimed, your smile widening. "I brought you something for the cold."

A smile spread across her face. "You didn't have to do that."

"Someone has to take care of the caretaker."

Jo, standing a few paces away, had gone very still. His ears, which had only just begun to return to their normal color, flushed anew.

"Your Majesty." The healer said, dipping her head. "I hope I'm not disturbing your training."

"No! Not at all. We were just finishing. I was actually about to escort our friend here to your quarters, but since you're here—"

"Then I suppose I've saved you the trouble." Her smile carried a knowing edge. "How thoughtful of you, though. To personally escort a gift to my chambers."

Jo's composure cracked, just slightly. "It's—it is a king's duty."

Maki snorted, quickly disguising it as a cough. Fuma remained silent, watching the exchange with a quiet amusement that softened the usual hardness of his features. He leaned his weight on his sword, letting the banter wash over him, content to simply exist in this moment of peace.

But then his hand shifted. The blade, still resting against his palm, caught the light—and the edge. Blood welled up instantly, bright red against his calloused skin, tracing a line down his finger before dripping onto the stone.

He barely felt it. He had suffered far worse a hundred times over. He simply frowned, glancing down at his hand as if mildly inconvenienced.

"Fuma."

Fuma looked up to see your expression of sharp concern. He was slightly alarmed by the urgency in your voice.

"It's nothing." He said, "Just a scratch."

You crossed the distance between you, your baskets abandoned on the ground, your hands reaching for his. Before he could protest, before he could tell you it was fine, that he had survived far worse, that a drop of blood was hardly worth noticing—you reached up and pulled the scarf from your neck.

The light red fabric slipped through your fingers and you wrapped it around his hand with a gentleness that stole the breath from his lungs.

You tied the scarf in a neat knot around the wound. Your brow was furrowed, your lips pressed together in concentration, and your touch was so careful as if his hand were a jewel rather than the scarred, battle-worn thing it was.

"There," you murmured, almost to yourself. "that should hold until you can get it properly cleaned."

Your eyes met his, wide and earnest and filled with a concern that seemed so utterly disproportionate to the tiny wound on his hand. As if his well-being mattered to you. As if the thought of him hurt, even a little, was enough to make you drop everything and rush to his side.

Fuma's heart clenched. He had faced down armies. He had stood unflinching before charging cavalry, had taken blows that would have felled lesser men, had walked through fire and blood and the screaming chaos of war.

He had never, in all his years, felt as undone as he did in this moment.

With you standing before him, your scarf wrapped around his hand, looking at him like he was worth worrying about.

"Fuma?" You asked, your voice laced with concern. "Are you alright? Does it hurt?"

The only thing that stung was the saccharine tone of your voice, an injury he wished to bear for all of eternity.

"Doesn't hurt at all." Fuma said quietly.

Nothing that couldn't have been fixed by the beauty of you.

________________________

Fuma lay on his back, one arm folded beneath his head, staring at the ceiling, sleep refusing to grace his eyes.

It rarely did, on nights like this. His body was tired but his mind resisted the concept of quietness, circling like a restless predator. He turned his head and his gaze fell on the nightstand.

Your scarf lay there, folded neatly, the pale red fabric catching what little moonlight slipped through the curtains. He had washed the blood from it himself, carefully, by hand, telling himself it was common courtesy, it would be rude to return it stained; he was simply being practical.

Murata Fuma was lying.

The fabric was soft beneath his fingers—softer than anything he owned, than the rough linen of his sheets or the leather of his gloves. He brought it to his chest, holding it loosely, and stared at it for a long moment.

Fuma remembered soft things.

He remembered his mother's hands, gentle on his face when he was small, brushing the hair from his eyes before bed. He remembered the quilt his grandmother had sewn, patches of faded color stitched together with love, that had kept him warm through winters long past. He remembered the first time a girl had held his hand, young and foolish and full of hope, before the world had taught him that softness was a luxury he could not afford.

The wars made the soft things fade away.

They were replaced by leather and steel, the cold weights of swords, the harsh bark of commands and the wet sound of steel meeting flesh. He had built himself into a fortress, stone by stone, scar by scar, until there was no room left for anything tender.

Tenderness only came back in the form of raspberry tarts.

The room was dim, lit by the pale, silver glow of the moon filtering through the curtains, but Fuma didn't need light for what he was doing.

He lay back against the pillows, his breath hitching as he bought the fabric up to his face, pressing it firmly against his nose and mouth, inhaling deeply.

You were still there, that drug-like scent of you. It was like you were leaning over him, your breath ghosting against his cheek, your presence filling the empty space beside him.

A low, shaky groan escaped Fuma, muffled by the fabric of the scarf. Closing his eyes, he let the scent anchor his imagination.

He pictured you exactly as you were: the curve of your hip, the way your eyes softened when you looked at him, the honeyed sound of your voice saying his name. He imagined your hands wandering over his skin, pulling him closer, claiming him.

In case you want to stop by later, you'd said.

Fuma's hand slid down, gripping himself through his clothes before he impatiently shoved the fabric aside to touch his own heat. He began to stroke himself, his movements slow at first, mirroring the languid burn of desire that had been building all evening.

Every time he felt himself nearing the edge, he pressed the scarf harder against his face, drinking in your scent as if it were oxygen and he were drowning.

"God, I want you…" he whispered, his voice raw and strained.

Fuma accelerated his pace, his hips beginning to arch off the bed. In his mind, it wasn't his own hand providing the friction; it was you.

He imagined you kneeling before him, your gaze locked onto his, your lips parted in a teasing smile as you took control of his pleasure.

The mental image, coupled with the scent of you clinging to the fabric, pushed him over the precipice.

Fuma’s breath came in ragged, desperate gasps. He tightened his grip, his knuckles white, as a violent shudder racked his entire frame. He let out a choked cry into the scarf, his body tightening and releasing in a powerful, crashing climax that left him breathless and trembling.

As the aftershocks faded, he didn't pull the scarf away. He curled around it, pressing his face into the fabric and holding it tight against his skin, drifting off to sleep wrapped in the lingering ghost of you.

So fucking sweet.

_______________________

True to his word, Fuma indeed did visit the bakery the next day, with two objectives in mind. Number one being get a good look at the raspberry tarts and number two being inviting you to Maki's knighting ceremony.

Fuma had arrived at the bakery just as the first rays of sunlight crept over the rooftops, the scent of baked goods spilling out into the street like a warm embrace. He had stood in the doorway for a moment, watching you work. You had looked up, and your smile had been worth every sleepless night he had ever endured.

With a formality that felt foreign on his tongue (but right in his heart), he had invited you. You had accepted with a brightness in your eyes and before he left, he had taken your hand—flour-dusted and warm—and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. Truly, he felt like the bravest man in all of Sakuryn.

Now, hours later, Fuma stood before the palace gates in his ceremonial armor. The black and silver plates caught the late afternoon light and the crimson cape draped across his shoulders stirred in the breeze. His sword hung at his hip, and wrapped around its hilt, a familiar flash of light red stood out against the dark metal.

He had not been able to part with the scarf.

Behind him, the courtyard buzzed with preparations. Servants hurried past with trays of refreshments. Nobles in their finery gathered in clusters, their voices a low hum of anticipation. Banners of Sakuryn hung from every pillar, red and black rippling like living flames.

Inside, Maki was likely pacing a hole into the floor.

Fuma had already talked him down from one panic attack that morning. The boy had been convinced he would trip, drop his sword, forget his vows or somehow manage to set himself on fire.

Fuma had gripped his shoulders, looked him in the eye, and said, "You have trained for this. You are ready. And if you fall, I will be there to catch you."

Maki had stopped shaking and had uttered something that sounded suspiciously close to "Thanks dad" before going red and saying "Thank you Commander."

Fuma had not mentioned that he was terrified too. Not for Maki—the boy would be magnificent—but for himself. For what it meant to stand before you and pretend that his heart was not hammering against his ribs like a caged bird.

The sound of footsteps on stone drew his attention. The world seemed to cease upon its axis as soon as he turned around.

You were walking towards him, the red fabric of your dress flowing around you like water, cinched at the waist and falling in soft folds to the ground. The entirety of Fuma's circulatory system threatened to give out.

You reached him, a hint of nervousness in your smile. "My lord. I hope I'm not late."

"No," he managed. "You're—you're perfect." His ears burned at his own choice of word, but he did not take it back.

Your gaze dropped to his sword hilt, where the scarf fluttered gently. Your eyes widened in recognition. "You kept it."

He followed your gaze, then looked back at you. "I meant to return it." He reached for the hilt, his fingers brushing the fabric, and began to unwrap it. But before he could free it, your hand reached out and closed over his.

"Keep it." You said softly. He looked up, meeting your eyes. "It looks good on you." You added, a hint of tease in your voice. "And besides it gives you a reason to come back to the bakery. To return it properly."

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I would have come back anyway."

The world continued its bustle around you, but you stood in a pocket of stillness, your hand over his, the scarf a bridge between you. A horn sounded from within the courtyard, signaling the ceremony's approach.

Fuma straightened, his composure snapping back into place. But the warmth in his eyes remained. "Come. I've saved you the best seat in the house."

Fuma led you through the winding corridors of the palace, past tapestries depicting ancient battles and halls lined with suits of armor that gleamed in the torchlight. His hand hovered near the small of your back—not quite touching, but you could feel his presence.

He guided you up a final set of stairs, these wider and more ornate than the others, and emerged onto a raised platform overlooking the entire courtyard.

And there, already seated in a cushioned chair with a cup of tea in hand, was your healer friend.

She looked up as you approached and a knowing smile spread across her face. "Ah, so the commander actually followed through. I was beginning to think he'd keep you all to himself."

Fuma's ears reddened, but his voice remained steady. "I am a man of my word."

"Mm-hmm." Her eyes twinkled as she gestured to the empty seat beside her. "Come, sit."

You settled into the seat, the plush cushion soft beneath you and took in the panorama before you. The entire courtyard sprawled below like a living tapestry—the nobles in their finery, the guards in polished armor, the banners of Sakuryn swaying in the breeze. The central dais stood directly ahead, carved with the crest of the kingdom and the setting sun cast long golden shadows across the stone.

It was breathtaking.

Fuma lingered for a moment, his gaze resting on you. "I'll be with the king. If you need anything—"

"I'll take care of her." Your friend interrupted, waving a hand. "Go. You have duties."

Fuma hesitated, just a fraction of a second, before giving a short nod. Then he turned and descended the stairs, his cape billowing behind him. You watched him go, your eyes tracing the line of his shoulders. Your scarf fluttered from his sword hilt, a small simplicity in the midst of all this grandeur.

"He's different around you, you know."

You blinked, turning to her. "What?"

The healer took a sip of her tea, her eyes crinkling. "Fuma. He's different when you're near. I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you."

Your cheeks warmed. "We've only known each other for a short while."

"Time has nothing to do with it." She set her tea down, her expression turning thoughtful. "Some people walk into your life and change its course before you even realize they've arrived."

Before you could respond, a trumpet fanfare rang out across the courtyard. The ceremony was beginning.

You turned your attention to the dais as Jo stepped forward in his formal robes, his bearing regal and composed. Behind him, to his left, stood Fuma. Your breath caught in your throat.

He was magnificent.

The armor caught the dying sunlight, casting him in gold and silver. His posture was straight, his chin lifted, his gaze fixed ahead with the intensity of a man who had seen too much and yet still believed in something.

You had seen him in the training grounds, sweat-sheened and fierce. You had seen him in your bakery, softened by the warmth of sugar and raspberry tarts. But this—this was Fuma, the Sword of Sakuryn, a man carved from legend and steel.

And he took your breath away.

Maki knelt before the king, his head bowed, his ceremonial armor gleaming. Jo drew his blade, laying it first on one of Maki's shoulders, then the other, reciting the ancient vows of knighthood. The words were formal, solemn, echoing across the courtyard.

You watched, transfixed, as Maki rose—no longer a squire, but a knight. It was only yesterday he was a mere boy in your bakery munching away at sugar dragons, as Fuma looked at him with adoration in his eyes.

The crowd erupted in cheers. Maki turned, his face split by a grin so wide it seemed to light up the entire courtyard. He raised his sword, and the people roared. You clapped, a smile spreading across your face.

But your eyes kept drifting back to Fuma, standing to the side, watching his protégé with a quiet, unmistakable pride.

Then you heard it.

A faint thunk.

You frowned, turning your head. It had come from somewhere behind you, near the back of the platform. You glanced over your shoulder. Your blood ran cold.

An arrow was embedded in the wooden pillar near your seat. The shaft was wrapped in cloth, and the cloth was burning. Flames licked up the wood, spreading with terrifying speed, climbing toward the canopy above.

Time seemed to slow.

The screams came first, sharp, piercing sounds ripping through the celebratory air. Then came the rush of feet, the clatter of armor, the chaotic surge of bodies moving in every direction at once. The flames spread fast, licking up the wooden pillars, catching the canopy above, sending showers of sparks raining down upon the panicking crowd.

You spun around, your heart hammering against your ribs. Your friend was frozen, her eyes wide as she watched the fire crawl across the platform.

"Go!" You shouted, grabbing her arm and pulling her to her feet. "Down the stairs, quickly!"

She moved, stumbling at first, but you kept your grip firm, guiding her toward the staircase. The smoke was already beginning to curl around you, acrid and stinging, making your eyes water.

You reached the top of the stairs and pushed her forward. "Go, I'm right behind you!" She hesitated, looking back at you with fear in her eyes. "I'll be fine! Go!"

She went. You turned to follow, and the staircase collapsed.

The wooden planks splintered and gave way beneath a surge of flame, sending a cascade of burning debris into the air. You stumbled backward, your hand flying to your mouth, your heart seizing in your chest. The heat was intense now, pressing against you from all sides, and the smoke was thickening, making it hard to see, hard to breathe.

You were trapped.

You pressed yourself against the far wall, your back to the stone, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

This is it, you thought. This is how it ends.

And then, through the smoke and the fire and the chaos, a figure emerged, moving like a blade through the flames, his cape billowing behind him, his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that cut through the haze.

Fuma.

He neither slowed nor hesitated, crossing the burning platform in three long strides, and before you could even speak his name, his arms were around you. He lifted you off your feet, cradling you against his chest, one arm beneath your knees, the other around your back.

The world became a blur of motion and heat. Fuma leaped over a gap of burning wood, landed with a roll that shielded you from the impact, and kept moving.He carried you through the inferno as if it were nothing, as if you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

Then you were through, cold air hitting your face, the sounds of the courtyard rushing back in. Fuma set you down gently on the grass, his hands still gripping your shoulders, his eyes searching your face.

"Are you hurt?" His voice was ragged and raw. "Tell me you're not hurt."

You shook your head. You could not speak. He pulled you into his arms, crushing you against his chest, and you felt him shake. A tremor ran through his entire body, and he buried his face in your hair, his breath hot against your scalp.

"I thought I lost you," he whispered. "I thought—"

He did not finish. You stood there, wrapped in his arms, the fire still raging behind you, the world still spinning in chaos around you.

Fuma had risked his life for you.

Why? The question echoed in your mind, small, fragile and aching. Why would he risk his life for me?

The words from all those years of your childhood came rushing back.

You're worthless.

You'll never amount to anything.

No one will ever want you.

You had believed them. For so long, you had believed them. You had carried those words like stones in your chest, heavy and cold, shaping every thought you had about yourself.

Fuma had crossed a burning platform to save you. Fuma had held you like you were someone important. Fuma had risked his life for someone like you.

And you did not understand why.

Tears pricked at your eyes, and you pressed your face into his chest, your fingers clutching the fabric of his cape.

Why would you do that for me?

Why would anyone?

______________

Memories were such funny, bitter things, that came like smoke through the cracks of a burning house.

You had been six years old, standing at the kitchen table with a lump of dough in your small hands. You had shaped it into a crooked little bun, uneven and lopsided and had held it up to your mother with a smile so bright it could have lit the darkest night.

She had glanced at it, then back at the ledger in her hands. "It's misshapen. You'll have to do better if you want to be useful."

You had been ten, bringing home a perfect score on your arithmetic test, your heart swelling with pride as you ran through the front door. You had thrust the paper into your father's hands, bouncing on your toes, waiting for praise.

He had looked at it, grunted, and set it down. "That's what's expected. Don't expect a reward for doing what you're supposed to do."

You had been fourteen, standing in the doorway of the kitchen as your parents argued about money, about the burden you represented.

"She's not going to marry well. She's not pretty enough, not clever enough. She'll be stuck here forever, and we'll have to support her for the rest of our lives."

Your father had laughed, not a kind one. "Then we'll find something useful for her to do. She can work the ovens. At least that's one thing she's good for."

You had learned to stop expecting love, to stop hoping for warmth. You had learned that you were a burden to be tolerated, a mouth to be fed, a pair of hands to be used. You had learned that your worth was measured in what you could produce, not in who you were.

You had believed every single word.

The moon hung low and pale, casting silver light across the wooden floors. The ovens were cold. The counters were bare. The scent of bread lingered, faint and familiar, but it brought you no comfort.

They had taken everything.

The robbers had taken the coin box. They had taken the good copper pots. They had overturned tables, smashed jars, scattered your carefully organized supplies across the floor like refuse.

And when you had walked through the door, exhausted, you had found your sanctuary in ruins.

You had cleaned. You had swept. You had righted the tables and gathered the broken pieces of your jars. You had thought about Fuma telling you how the fire might have been an enemy spy. And then you had sat down on the floor, your back against the cold oven and the tears had come.

They fell silently at first, then in heaving sobs that shook your entire body. You pressed your hands to your face, trying to muffle the sound, but there was no one to hear you. No one to see you fall apart. Your parents' voices echoed in your mind, louder than ever.

You are nothing.

You had tried so hard. You had built this bakery from nothing with your own two hands, with callouses and sleepless nights and hope that refused to die. You had poured every ounce of yourself into these walls, into these ovens, into the bread that you shaped with love and care.

And still, it was not enough.

Still, you were not enough.

You pulled your knees to your chest, wrapped your arms around them,and let the tears fall. The moonlight painted your shadow across the floor, alone in a room full of broken things.

_________________________

The night was quiet.

The Lord Commander of Sakuryn found himself walking the familiar path to the bakery, his boots echoing softly against the cobblestones. He told himself it was a patrol, that he was being thorough. That he wanted to ensure the streets were safe after the chaos of the evening.

He was lying.

Fuma wanted to see you. To stand outside your window, even for a moment, and know that you were safe and sleeping peacefully. That the fire days ago had not stolen more from you than it already had.

As he rounded the corner, he stopped, his eyes landing on the ajar door of the bakery.

His heart seized. His hand went to his sword, his body tensing, his senses sharpening to a razor's edge. He approached slowly, eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of movement.

And then he heard it.

Crying.

Soft, broken, muffled—as if someone was trying very hard not to be heard. It came from inside the bakery, from the shadows beyond the door. He pushed the door open, his sword half-drawn, ready for an ambush.

And his heart dropped into his stomach.

You were sitting on the floor, your back against the cold oven, your knees drawn to your chest, wearing nothing but a nightgown, your shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Your face was buried in your hands and the moonlight streaming through the window caught the tears that slipped through your fingers.

The bakery was in ruins around you. Overturned tables, broken jars, the coin box, gaping and empty, lying on its side in the corner.

Fuma's sword slid back into its sheath with a soft click. He crossed the room and lowered himself to his knees before you.

"Hey," he said. "Hey, I'm here. I'm here."

You looked up, your eyes red and swollen, your face streaked with tears. When you saw him, something in your expression crumbled—relief and shame and sorrow all tangled together.

"Fuma?" Your voice was barely a whisper. "What are you—"

"Never mind that." He reached out, his hands gentle as they cupped your face, brushing the tears from your cheeks with his thumbs. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

You shook your head, a fresh wave of sobs overtaking you. "They took everything. They just—" You broke off, your voice cracking. "I couldn't stop them. I wasn't even here…I couldn't even protect my own bakery."

Fuma's jaw tightened. A cold fury settled in his chest, but he pushed it aside. There would be time for anger later. Right now, you needed him.

"Come here." He said softly.

He extended a hand forward and pulled you up when you took it, trembling like a leaf in the wind. Fuma guided you through the bakery and up the stairs to your apartment above.

Your bedroom was small and simple, a bed in the corner, an armchair and a window that looked out over the rooftops. He sat you down on the edge of the bed. Fuma shrugged off his coat, still warm from his body, and draped it over your shoulders. The fabric swallowed you, enveloping you in the scent of leather and smoke.

"I'll make you tea." He said, his voice quieter now.

He found the kitchenette in the corner of the room. He did not ask where things were—the tea leaves, the cups, the honey—he simply observed, his eyes taking in the small space, cataloging it the way he did any terrain he needed to navigate.

When the tea was ready, he brought it to you, wrapping your cold fingers around the warm cup. Then he sat down on the bed beside you, his hands resting on his knees. You stared into the tea, the steam curling up around your face. The silence stretched, heavy and fragile.

"Why do you keep caring about me?"

Fuma turned his head, looking at you. "What?"

You did not look up. Your fingers tightened around the cup. "The fire. You ran into a burning building for me. And now you're here, in my apartment, making me tea, giving me your coat." Your voice trembled. "Why? Why do you keep doing this? I'm just—I'm no one. I'm nothing."

"Don't say that."

"It's true." The words came faster now, spilling out like water through a cracked dam. "My parents always told me. They said I was worthless." You laughed coldly, "They're my parents. They're supposed to love me, and if they couldn't, then who could?"

You finally looked up, your eyes meeting his. They were wet, red-rimmed, full of a pain so deep he couldn't believe they were the eyes of someone who filled the world with honeyed happiness.

"So why?" you asked, your voice breaking. "Why on earth do you care? Why do you look at me like I matter? Why do you—" You stopped, swallowing hard. "Why do you make me feel like I might actually be worthy of love?"

Fuma's breath caught, your words—fragile as glass—ringing in his ears, and he could see the fear in your eyes—the fear that he would not answer, that he would turn away, that he would prove your parents right.

He reached out, slowly, giving you time to pull away. When you did not, he cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the tears from your cheeks. Such gentle hands, you thought, ironic for someone who had taken more lives than you could imagine.

"Listen to me." He said, his voice low and steady. "I do not know your parents. I do not know what they told you, or why they made you feel like you were less than you are. But I know this." He leaned closer, his forehead almost touching yours.

"You are not worthless. You are not nothing. You are the most remarkable person I have ever met."

A fresh tear slipped down your cheek.

"You wake up before the sun every morning to make bread that brings people joy." He continued, "You gave me your scarf when I cut my hand. And do you know how happy you make Maki everyday by just existing?" His eyes softened, "You make the world warmer just by being in it."

Fuma paused, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"And I love you."

Fuck.

Fuma had not meant to say it. Not like this. Not when you were crying, not when you were vulnerable, not when the words felt like they might shatter you both.

But they were true and he could not take them back.

Your eyes widened, your breath catching in your throat. "Fuma—"

He pulled away abruptly, as if the weight of what he had said had crashed down on him. He stood, his hands dropping from your face, his ears burning red.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice rough. "I shouldn't have—you're upset, and I made this about myself. I'm sorry. I'll go."

"Fuma, wait—"

But he was already moving, crossing the room in quick strides, his hand finding the door handle.

"I'll have guards stationed outside your door tonight," he said without turning around. "No one will hurt you again. I promise."

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving you sitting on your bed in his coat, a warm cup of tea in your hands and the echo of his words hanging in the air.

I love you.

How sweet.

_______________

A week.

That is how long the most feared knight of Sakuryn had been avoiding you like a damn schoolboy.

Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. Ten thousand and eighty minutes. And in every single one of them, Fuma had thought of you.

He had thought of you while standing on the training grounds, his sword moving through forms so familiar they required no conscious thought. He had thought of you while eating his meals, the taste of raspberry lingering on his tongue like a ghost. He had thought of you while lying in his bed at night, staring at the ceiling, your scarf wrapped around his sword, his fingers itching to reach for it.

And he had avoided you like a coward.

It was not difficult, at first. He threw himself into the investigation of the fire, spending long hours with Jo, tracking down leads on the enemy. He doubled his patrols, took the night shifts, volunteered for every mission that would take him far from the town.

When he ran out of official duties, he invented new ones. He inspected the armory, reviewed training schedules and personally ensured that every guard in the city knew their post. Anything to keep from standing still long enough for his thoughts to catch up.

Maki had noticed, of course. The newly knighted young man had taken to giving him long, pointed looks whenever their paths crossed.

"You know," Maki had said on the third day, leaning against a pillar with his arms crossed, "most people, when they tell someone they love them, tend to stick around to hear the response."

Fuma had grunted and walked away.

But that night, he had lain awake until dawn, scarf pressed to his chest, the scent of sweetness slowly fading from the fabric.

And somewhere in your apartment, you sat on the edge of your bed, staring at the coat that still hung over the back of your chair.

His coat.

You had washed it twice, folded it carefully, set it aside to return to him. But the days had passed,and he had not come. He had not even glanced in your direction. You had seen him once, across the market square, and he had turned and walked the other way so quickly that a merchant had nearly been knocked over by his cape.

At first, you had been confused. Then hurt. Then angry.

Now, you were just fucking tired.

You stood, crossing the room to where the coat hung. You ran your fingers over the dark fabric, the leather worn soft from years of use. You remembered the weight of it around your shoulders, the warmth of it, the way it had smelled like him.

You remembered the way he had looked at you, his hands cupping your face, his voice breaking as he said those three words.

I love you.

You lifted the coat from the chair and huffed to yourself.

Enough was enough.

____________________

Maki Mauss desired nothing more in his life than peace.

A surprising resolution for a man like him, so full of zest and sunlight. But indeed it was the truth.

And his peace was currently getting destroyed because his damned Commander didn't have the balls to confess to one woman.

In the centre of the training ground, Jo and Fuma circled each other like wolves, their training swords held loose and ready. Jo pivoted, sweeping his blade low, and Fuma leaped over it with ease. The king grinned, his teeth flashing white.

"You're distracted." Jo said, pressing his advantage. "Your footwork is sloppy."

"My footwork is never sloppy." Fuma replied, parrying a strike aimed at his ribs.

"Your footwork is currently sloppy." Jo drove him back a step. "Which means I'm going to win this round."

Maki watched from the sidelines, leaning against a wooden post with his arms crossed. He had been watching for the better part of an hour, and in that hour, he had come to a single, undeniable conclusion.

His Commander was a mess.

It was in the way Fuma's eyes kept drifting toward the gate, the way he hesitated half a heartbeat too long before committing to a strike, the way he had already lost two rounds to Jo—something that had not happened in…never.

All because of a baker.

A beautiful, kind, flour-dusted baker with a voice like warm honey and eyes that could cut through steel.

And all Fuma had to do was talk to her.

But no.

Instead, he had chosen to sulk and brood and avoid town like it was infested with plague. Maki loved Fuma, but at this moment, he also wanted to hit him over the head with a very large stick.

The clang of wood against wood snapped him back to attention. Jo had landed a solid blow to Fuma's shoulder, sending him stumbling back a step.

"Ha!" Jo crowed. "I told you!"

Fuma growled, resetting his stance. "Lucky hit."

"It was not lucky, it was skill—"

"LET ME THROUGH!"

The voice cut through the training grounds like a blade through flesh. Maki's head snapped toward the gates, heart leaping into his throat.

You stood at the entrance, your cheeks flushed, your eyes blazing with a fire that could have rivaled the sun. Clutched against your chest was a neatly folded dark coat that Maki would have recognised anywhere. You were currently engaged in a heated argument with the two guards stationed at the gate, who had crossed their spears to block your path.

"I said let me through!" You demanded, your voice sharp enough to cut glass.

The guards exchanged a panicked glance. "Ma'am, the training grounds are restricted to—"

"I don't care about your restrictions. I need to speak to Fuma and I need to speak to him now."

Maki looked at Fuma, who had frozen mid-stance, his sword still raised, his eyes fixed on you with an expression that was equal parts terror and longing. He looked like a deer caught in the path of an oncoming carriage.

A slow grin spread across Jo's face. "Well, well, well. It seems you have a visitor, Commander."

"Don't." Fuma said through gritted teeth.

"Don't what? Don't enjoy the sight of you squirming? I wouldn't miss this for the world."

Maki sighed—a long, weary, put-upon sigh that carried the weight of a thousand frustrations. He pushed off from the post and walked toward the gate, raising a hand.

"Let her in." He called.

"No." Fuma snapped, his voice sharp. "Maki, do not—"

"For God's sake Commander." Maki shot back, not even bothering to look at his Commander, "She's only a person, not a storm. Grow a pair." He reached the gate and nodded to the guards, who parted their spears.

The gate swung open. You stepped through, your chin held high, your grip on the coat tightening. Your eyes swept across the training ground, past Maki, past Jo, until they landed on Fuma.

You walked toward the fence that enclosed the training ring. It was waist-high, simple wooden slats, designed to keep spectators at a distance. You stopped at it, your knuckles white where you gripped the coat.

"Let me in." You said.

Fuma did not move. His voice, when he spoke, was strained. "The training grounds are not open to—"

"I did not ask about the training grounds. I asked you to let me in."

A beat of silence.

"Maki," Fuma said, his voice low, "do not let her in."

Maki leaned against the gate, crossed his arms, and smiled. "I'm not the one she's commanding, Commander."

Fuma's eye twitched. You waited. The silence stretched.

And then, with a huff of pure, undiluted frustration, you did something that made every single person in the training ground freeze.

You grabbed the top of the fence, hoisted yourself up, and swung your leg over. For a moment, you teetered, your balance uncertain. Then you dropped to the other side, landing with a soft thud on the packed earth. You straightened, brushed the dust from your dress and looked up at Fuma with fire in your eyes. The training ground had gone utterly silent.

Jo let out a low whistle. "I like her."

Maki grinned. "Told you she was something special."

Fuma stared at you, his sword slowly lowering to his side, his expression caught somewhere between shock and something far more vulnerable.

You walked toward him, each step more powerful than a soldier's, until you stood barely a foot away. Then you held out his coat.

"You left this." You said, your voice steady despite the pounding of your heart. "And I think it's time we talked."

"Here?"

"Yes, here, my lord." You said, glaring at him. Though you were shorter than him, Fuma suddenly felt as if he were staring into the eye of a storm.

She's not a storm, Maki had said. If only he knew that you indeed were a storm more powerful and terrifying that any to have hit the land in the history of Sakuryn.

The training ground had gone utterly silent. Every soldier and servant had stopped what they were doing. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. All eyes were fixed on the figure who stood before the most feared knight of Sakuryn, holding out his coat like a challenge.

Your eyes bore into his with a fire that made him feel, for the first time in years, like he was the one being cornered. "You have been avoiding me for a week. A week, Fuma. Do you have any idea how that feels?"

"I—"

"You told me you loved me." Your voice cracked, just slightly, but you pressed on. "You said those words, and then you ran. You left me sitting in my bed, in your coat, holding a cup of tea that went cold while I tried to understand what had just happened."

Fuma's ears burned red. He could feel the weight of every gaze in the training ground pressing down on him. Jo was watching with undisguised amusement. Maki had a hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking.

"I didn't mean to—" Fuma started.

"Didn't mean to what? Say it? Or leave?"

The sword of Sakuryn flinched. You stepped closer, closing the distance between you until you were close enough to see the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the slight tremor in his hands.

"I have spent my entire life being told I am worthless," you said, your voice softer now, but no less fierce. "That I am nothing. That I will never be enough. And then you came along, looking at me like that."

His breath caught.

"And then you told me you loved me." Your eyes glistened, but you did not let the tears fall. "And I have spent seven days wondering if I imagined it. If I misheard, if—if I was fooling myself into believing that someone like you could ever love someone like me."

"You didn't imagine it." The words tore out of him, raw and desperate. "I meant every word."

"Then why did you leave?"

"Because I was scared."

Scared wasn't a verb that someone like Fuma would ever use. Scared wasn't a word that somebody who'd bathed in blood would ever let slip from his tongue. You were his exception, right?

"I have faced armies. I have fought assassins. I have walked into bloodied battlefields without a second thought." His voice broke on the last word, and he looked at you with such openness, "But the thought of you—of losing you, of saying the wrong thing, of watching you realize that you deserve better than me terrifies me more than anything I have ever faced."

There are many things in life which are made of sugar. Raspberry tarts, red scarves, arrows of fire, love.

Well of course love is made of spun sugar, don't be ridiculous. It tastes like heaven on the tongue.

So go ahead, take a kiss. How else would you live?

Before anyone could react, you reached up, grabbed the front of Fuma's tunic, and pulled him down into a kiss.

It was a kiss of frustration and longing and seven days of pent-up emotion, and it stole the breath from his lungs and the thoughts from his mind.

For one eternal second, Fuma did not move.

The Lord Commander of Sakuryn had spent years convincing himself that sweetness was temporary, that joy crumbled, that love was a luxury afforded to better men.

But you were standing here, your soft lips on his. And suddenly there was nothing else to life other than living.

Fuma's arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against him,and he kissed you back with a fervor that made the world dissolve around you. His hand tangled in your hair, his other arm locked around your waist, and he held you like he was afraid you would disappear if he let go.

The training ground erupted. Cheers, whistles, the thunder of boots stomping, Jo and Maki hugging each other very and whooping in ways that were very unbecoming of a king and a knight.

But you did not hear any of it. All you heard was the beating of Fuma's heart against your chest, and the soft, broken sound he made when you finally pulled away, breathless and flushed.

"I love you." He said again, and this time, the words came easily. "I love you, and I am sorry I ran. I will not run again."

"Good." You said, your voice trembling with a smile. "Because I will climb over every fence in Sakuryn to find you if you do." He laughed a tender laugh and pressed his forehead to yours.

The world had finally crumbled and true to its word, it tasted so sweet.

"So does this mean I get free desserts for making you two confess?"

"Maki." ___________________

Loving Fuma was like breathing in the air of a flower field during spring.

He was a man of few words and many actions and he showed his love in a thousand small ways that made your throat swell up with the sweetness of it.

He left fresh flowers on your windowsill every morning, though he never admitted to being the one who put them there. He appeared at your bakery precisely at closing time to silently help you scrub the flour from the counters and sweep the crumbs from the floor. He learned the exact temperature you liked your tea and the exact way you took your eggs and the exact spot on your back that ached after a long day of kneading dough.

When you had trouble sleeping, he would sit beside you and tell you stories of his travels in that low, rumbling voice until your eyes grew heavy. When you had nightmares he would hold you until the trembling stopped, his hand stroking your hair, his lips pressing soft kisses to your forehead. You'd do the same for him, letting him match his breathing to the rhythm of your heartbeat whenever he'd wake up from dream-memories of a life far gone.

And when you laughed, he would watch you with an expression of such pure, unguarded wonder that it made your cheeks flush.

"You're beautiful." He would say, as if it were the most obvious fact in the world.

And when he made love to you?

It was akin to the heavens themselves carving god-like, sinful poetry onto your skin.

Moonlight streamed through the kitchen windows of your apartment, casting silver light across the wooden counters. You stood at the stove, stirring a pot of honey-ginger syrup, the spicy aroma filling the space.

You were making a new recipe, something you wanted to surprise him with. You hummed softly to yourself, lost in the rhythm of the work, when the warmth of Fuma's body pressed against your back. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you against his chest. And then his lips found the curve of your neck, pressing a kiss just below your ear.

"Fuma," you said, your voice breathy. "I'm cooking."

"Mm." He pressed another kiss, this one lower, trailing down the side of your neck. "I noticed."

"You're distracting me, darling."

"That was the goal, my dearest."

His lips found that sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder and your grip on the spoon faltered. The syrup bubbled softly in the pot, utterly forgotten.

"I'm trying to make something for you." You managed, though your voice came out weak.

"And I'm trying to show my appreciation for you." Another kiss, lower still. His breath was warm against your skin. "I think my method is more effective."

You let out a laugh that turned into a sigh as his arms tightened around you, as he buried his face in the curve of your neck and breathed you in like you were the only air he needed.

"I love you." Fuma murmured against your skin, the words vibrating through you.

You set down the spoon, turned in his arms and wrapped your hands around his neck.

"I love you too." You said, and placed a kiss to his cheek.

The syrup burned and neither of you cared as Fuma lifted you, his hands sliding under your thighs to cradle you against him. There were far too many sweeter things in life (such as a lover's lips) for you to care about rather than putting your mind on burnt syrup.

You gasped against Fuma's mouth, the motion sudden and sure. He carried you through the dim apartment with the ease of someone who had done it a thousand times. Who had shown his lover what worship truly was a thousand times.

The bedroom door gave way under his shoulder, and moonlight poured through the window, painting the sheets in silver and shadow. He lowered you onto the mattress with a tenderness that contradicted the hunger in his eyes, his body settling over yours as the springs creaked softly beneath you.

Fuma kissed you again, tasting the honey on your lips, though he wasn't sure if that was actual honey or just the natural flavour of you. His fingers threaded through your hair, cradling your head like the mountains cradled gentle snow. When he pulled back, his breath ghosted warm across your face.

"My dearest," he whispered, and the words were a prayer. "You have no idea what you do to me."

"Don't I?" You asked, "I could say the same for you." You traced your gaze over his fine features, "Would you like me to tell—"

Your words died in your mouth as he dipped his head, his lips tracing a path down your jaw, your throat, the hollow of your collarbone. His teeth grazed the strap of your dress, catching the fabric, and he tugged.

The tassel came loose with a soft pop, the fabric sliding from your shoulder. Fuma did the same to the other side, his tongue and teeth working the knot with practiced precision, his eyes never leaving yours. The dress pooled around your waist, baring your breasts to the cool night air, and he groaned low in his chest.

"Beautiful," Fuma breathed. "My light."

Fuma kissed the swell of your chest, then lower, his lips brushing the valley between them before he moved to your stomach and your hips. His hands followed the same path, tracing the curve of your waist, the dip of your navel, the flare of your hipbone. Every touch was a follower worshiping his deity.

When his fingers found the waistband of your underwear, he paused, looking up at you through his lashes.

"May I?"

You nodded, breathless, and he hooked his thumbs into the fabric, sliding them down your legs. The cool air kissed your skin, and then his hand was there, his palm flat against your thigh, his fingers trailing inward with excruciating slowness.

Fuma found you wet and ready, and he let out a low hum of approval. "So eager, my dearest."

His fingers—thick, calloused, strong—parted your folds with care. He circled your clit once, twice, watching your face as you gasped, your hips bucking against his hand. Then he pushed inside.

Two fingers, thick and insistent, stretching you in that familiar, aching way. The faint bumps where his digits were scarred only amplified the feeling.

You cried out, your back arching off the mattress as he pumped slowly, deeply, his thumb pressing against your clit in a rhythm that made your vision blur.

"That's it." He murmured, his voice husky. "Let me feel you, my light."

Fuma curled his fingers, searching like a hunter, finding that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. Your hands flew to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as he worked you higher, his pace relentless.

"You're so tight." He said, his voice a growl against your ear. "So perfect. I could spend the rest of my life here, just watching you fall apart."

You were close, the heat coiling low in your belly, your breath coming in ragged gasps. He felt it, knew it, and he pressed harder, his thumb circling your clit in rhythm with his fingers.

"Let go, my dearest. I have you."

And you did, shattered against his hand, your cries swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you through the waves of pleasure, his fingers still moving, drawing out every last tremor until you collapsed against the sheets, trembling and spent.

As the aftershocks of your orgasm subsided, Fuma didn't move away. He stayed draped over you, his heavy warmth a comforting weight, his breath hot against your skin. He shifted, his hand sliding down to the waistband of his own trousers, and with a few swift movements, he freed himself.

When he pressed his cock against your thigh, you gasped. Even through the haze of pleasure, you could feel the sheer size of him—thick, pulsing and dauntingly hard. He looked down at you, his eyes dark with a hunger that bordered on desperation, yet his expression remained one of absolute devotion.

Fuma shifted, positioning himself between your thighs. He guided the broad head of his cock to your entrance, the tip brushing against your swollen folds. You whimpered, your legs trembling as you felt the initial stretch.

Slowly—agonizingly slowly—he began to push.

"Ah... Fuma..." you moaned, your fingers clutching the sheets.

The sensation was overwhelming; he was so thick that it felt as though you were being split open. The pressure built rapidly, a heavy, stretching ache that made your breath hitch.

"Shhh, I know," he murmured, pausing immediately. He leaned down to kiss your forehead, his voice a soothing balm. "You're doing so well, my dearest. So perfect for me."

You took a shuddering breath, your hips tilting instinctively. "It's... you're too big... wait..."

Fuma stopped completely, staying perched at the entrance, letting your body adjust to the intrusion. He didn't pull back, but he didn't push further, instead choosing to worship you with his words. He began to kiss your jaw, your cheeks, your eyelids, showering you in affection while his cock remained a heavy, insistent presence.

"My beautiful, precious girl," he praised, his voice thick with emotion. "Look at how you take me. I was made to worship you, my dearest."

When you felt the tension ease slightly, you let out a small, encouraging whimper, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer. He took the invitation, pushing in another inch. You gasped, a sharp sound of surprise and pleasure, your head tossing back against the pillow.

"Stop... just a second... please," you breathed, the stretch reaching a critical point.

He froze again, his muscles straining with the effort of holding back. He let out a low, guttural groan, his forehead resting against yours.

"I've got you. I'm right here. I won't go further until you're ready." He kissed you deeply, a slow, tasting kiss that grounded you, while his hand reached down to massage your clit, easing the tension and coaxing your body to open further.

Slowly, in increments of mere millimeters, he continued, each push an act of intimacy. You moaned, a long, drawn-out sound of surrender, as he finally breached the last of your resistance. With one final, steady shove, he buried himself deep inside you, bottoming out against your cervix.

"Oh god..." you sobbed, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt completely filled, stretched to your absolute limit.

"There," he groaned, his voice breaking. "Finally. You feel incredible... so tight, so warm. You're taking all of me, my dearest. You're so brave, so—nghh—wonderful."

He stayed still for a long moment, letting you acclimate to the fullness of him. Then, he began to move. It wasn't the frantic pace of lust, but a slow, rhythmic grind. He pulled back until he was almost out, then pushed back in, ensuring every ridge of his thickness rubbed against your sensitive walls.

"Mmm... Fuma... please..." you whimpered, your voice small and needy, "Ngh—feel so—fuckkkk…"

"I've got you," he whispered.

He shifted his weight, grabbing your thighs and shoving them upward, pinning your knees toward your chest. He pressed his entire torso down onto yours, crushing your breasts together, locking you into a deep mating press.

The change in angle allowed him to go even deeper. Each slow, heavy thrust felt like it was reaching your very soul. He was heavy on top of you, his chest heaving against yours, his scent enveloping you like petals enveloping a bud.

"Look at me." Fuma commanded softly. You opened your eyes to see him looking at you with an expression of pure, unadulterated adoration. "You're so beautiful, my dearest…so damn—fuck—so damn beautiful."

You let out a loud, broken moan as he hit that sweet spot again, your body shaking under the pressure. He continued to fuck you with a reverent slowness, his praises never ceasing, turning the act into a slow-motion collision of bodies and souls, until the world outside the bedroom ceased to exist.

The world narrowed to the space between your bodies, to the warmth of his skin against yours, to the rhythm of his breath mingling with your own.

All the world dissolved into something distant and unimportant. There was only Fuma. Only his weight pressing you into the mattress, only his voice murmuring praises against your skin, only the slow, devastating depth of each thrust that seemed to reach places you had not known even existed within yourself.

You trembled beneath him, every nerve in your body alight, stretched taut like a bowstring, teetering on the edge of something vast and overwhelming.

"Fuma……." You breathed, his name a prayer on your lips.

"I know," he whispered back, his forehead pressing against yours. "I have you. Let go. I have you."

And you did.

The wave crashed over you, pulling you under, and you cried out—a sound that was equal parts pleasure and release, a sound that carried the weight of every doubt you had ever held, every fear you had ever buried, every whispered voice that had told you that you were not enough. It all dissolved in the heat of that moment, washed away by the tide of his love.

Fuma followed moments later, his body tensing above you, a low, guttural groan escaping his lips as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. His arms tightened around you, holding you as if you were the only anchor in a storm, and you felt the warmth of him spill, felt the shudder that ran through his entire frame.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

The only sounds were your mingled breaths, the pounding of your hearts, the soft rustle of sheets as you slowly came back to themselves.

Fuma pulled out gently, careful not to hurt you , and collapsed beside you. But even as he did, his arms did not let go. He gathered you against his scarred chest, tucking your head beneath his chin, wrapping himself around you like a shield against the world.

You melted into him, cheek pressed to the steady rhythm of his heart.

His hand traced lazy patterns along your spine, his touch featherlight and soothing. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, then another to your temple, then another to the corner of your eye where a single tear had escaped.

"Darling?" Fuma called softly, his thumb brushing the tear away, "Why are you crying?"

You shook your head, a tremulous smile touching your lips. "I don't know. I think.….I think I'm just so happy."

His arms tightened around you. "That is all I have ever wanted for you."

You nestled deeper into his embrace, eyes growing heavy. The warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart, the safety of his arms—it all wrapped around you like a cocoon, pulling you gently toward sleep.

Fuma continued to kiss you, soft and slow, each press of his lips a silent declaration of his love. Your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose, your cheeks, your lips, where he lingered for just a second longer.

"I love you." You whispered into his shoulder. "I love you so much it scares me."

"Then let us be scared together," Fuma said. "for as long as we both shall live." He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. "Sleep, my love," he murmured against your mouth. "I will be here when you wake."

You slept more peacefully than you had in years, cradled in the arms of the man who had seen you at your most vulnerable and had chosen to stay.

How funny life had run on its course.

Never in your years would you have expected to find something sweeter than a pastry, warmer than a fire and more precious than any treasure.

Love.

And god, was it sweeter than a raspberry tart.

fin.

A/N: my favourite character to write in this fic was Maki HE'S TOO DAMN CUTE MAN MY MATERNAL FEELINGS GUYS PLSPLSPLSPLS MAKI LEMME ADOPT YOU BROTHER ahem anyways all da Sakuryn fans, make sure to clock in for Jo's fic!!! yes he'll be even more of an idiot than Fuma ehehehe

divider by @strangergraphics-archive

Series Taglist:

General taglist: @eu1joo @7yataki @frenchkisstheabyss @yumangel @nichozzystuffs @blueuijoo @pglpblm @ikigaijo @antonh0lic @dearvampyr @riri4andy @tokunodoll @sunsoomi @makizdoll @solairemelo @cece0710

younger bf! maki who had only selective friendships, despite being extremely popular and well mannered.

younger bf! maki who crosses paths with you when the basketball accidentally bounces off court and hits your shin while you were studying, seated at a bench nearby. he runs to you, continuously apologizing even though the hit wasn’t intentional.

younger bf! maki who absolutely gets astonished by your dazzling smile that you flash at him, being kind and reassuring that it didn’t hurt you at all and it was completely alright.

younger bf! maki whose face almost turns red at how flustered the interaction made him, turns away and gets back to the game, the picture of your smile imprinted on the back of his mind.

younger bf! maki who loses sleep over the tiny moment between you two replaying in his head throughout the entire night. he’s completely awestruck by your presence.

younger bf! maki who doesn’t hesitate to ask around and inquire about you, only to find out that you were a senior in his own major.

younger bf! maki who is shy at first but eventually mans up and follows you around uni and tries his best to interact with you, being careful enough to not cross any boundaries.

younger bf! maki who genuinely torments himself by denying all the deep attraction that he felt towards you over the few weeks that you had been friends.

younger bf! maki who secretly gets possessive over you, shooting unconscious glares at whoever tried to get close to you or acted a bit too friendly towards you for his liking.

younger bf! maki who gets so flustered every time his friends tease him about you but never shows it openly. little did he knows his rose coloured cheeks and the smile threatening to creep upto his lips gave everything away.

younger bf! maki who gets extremely jealous when he sees you hanging out guys in your year. the fact that they know you longer, better and are closer to you than him makes him feel sad.

younger bf! maki who makes his best efforts to observe and learn about you all the damn time, spending all the free time he has with you, trailing behind you like a puppy.

younger bf! maki who brings you your favourite food and stays by your side every time you're stressed because of assignments.

younger bf! maki who gets judged by other girls who are interested in him for hanging out with someone who isn’t as popular as him, but in reality all those talks get blurred out the moment he sees you smile.

younger bf! maki who never oversteps boundaries and is extremely respectful towards you, often looking up to you, admiring your passion and confidence, all while being absolutely in love with you.

younger bf! maki who makes your heart flutter every time he makes those puppy eyes at you unknowingly, giggling at your half funny jokes, paying attention to your words whenever you speak in a group of people, giving all sense of his concentration to your every little move.

younger bf! maki who is extremely oblivious of your gaze that always travels to him, filled with adoration and also the feeling that floods your chest every time he smiles at you, dimples almost kissing your heart.

younger bf! maki who doesn’t even have a bit of an idea how your chest swells and your face heats up every single time he calls you ‘noona’ with the softest voice ever.

younger bf! maki who finally breaks out of his own bubble of denial, only to realise that he couldn’t hold all the feelings he has for you in him anymore,

younger bf! maki who shudders at the thought of even confessing to you, because in his eyes, you were the most perfect human being with no flaws. it would be a miracle if you liked him back.

younger bf! maki who plans his confession a million times in his head, repeating his words over and over again, stuttering even at the impromptu confession to a wall that his friends had to witness.

younger bf! maki who genuinely gets his friends worried at how nervous he gets before telling you about his feelings for you. nobody would’ve expected mr.popular-handsome-good-at-everything man to have his hands shaking at a mere conversation.

younger bf! maki who at last gains all the courage and plans a dinner for you at his house, his supportive family leaving the house for you two to have your moment.

younger bf! maki who cooks your favourite dishes (he had spent weeks perfecting the taste), based on all his observations, the ones which came to him naturally when admiring your every move.

younger bf! maki who looks visibly nervous when he opens the door, letting you in into a dimly lit house, candles flickering at a distance on their dining table, everything arranged neatly, food plated neatly and cloches places over necessary dishes.

younger bf! maki whose hands tremble with the nerves as he tries to serve you your food, while hesitating to look at you, shyness taking over him the moment you two are alone.

younger bf! maki who gets taken aback when you almost snatch the fork out of his hands, serving food for both yourself and him, his eyes going wide and puppy-like. “hey, it’s alright maki, relax. let me do it okay?” you say calmly like your heart isn’t threatening to burst out of your ribcage anytime soon.

younger bf! maki who is oblivious to the fact that you sensed what was coming, right when he invited you home for dinner, but you pretended to play along, just to watch him adorably do it in his own way.

younger bf! maki who purses his lips, setting down the dessert spoon as he finishes eating. his eyes stay fixated on you as he watched you take the first bite of the delicacy that was crafted carefully and oh so lovingly by his own hands.

younger bf! maki who waits for your reaction and immediately lights up when your eyebrows raise along with your lips curving into an oh so beautiful smile. “this is delicious, maki. thank you.” you say as you scoop up the last bite and savour it.

younger bf! maki who paces around the living room, repeating his speech, the words that he wanted to say to you, loud and clear when you leave the living room to him while you use the restroom.

“okay maki, breathe. just say whatever you planned. she’ll accept your confession. or maybe not… but uh we have to confess— okay repeat once again. breathe… wait i cannot talk if she looks at me like that i like her too much fuck—” a chuckle resonates behind him and his heart momentarily stops. doomed.

maki turns around, the small velvet box stumbling off of his hands but he catches it clumsily. you watch his actions with an amused smile. just how flustered can he get around you?

the expression on his face was a mixture of fright, embarrassment, shock— and also absolutely hilarious to you. you almost failed to hold back your laugh.

“what was that about?” you ask, a gentle smile, full of adoration and amusement gracing your lips.

words get stuck in his throat and he immediately hides the box behind him, his huge palms enveloping the mini cuboid. he shakes his head indicating the sweet commotion to be nothing.

“i’ve heard it all now c’mon.” you take a step forward to stand right in front of him.

maki lets out a sigh of defeat, his lips pressing into a thin line, dimples popping out adorably. he opens the tiny box, arms resting on either sides of his torso. his eyes flicker between you and the tiny ring that encircled itself around a thin, silver chain, which rested oh so beautifully against the velvet base of the box.

your mouth falls agape at how stunning yet simple the neck piece looks. simple and stunning? that's what you were to him.

“i uhhh… actually forgot everything I planned to say initially but uhh..” his voice trails off, nervousness getting the best of him. with a deep inhale, he starts again.

“i really like you, noona.” heart flutter. you nod.

“I've liked you since the day i saw you. you're probably one of the best things that has ever happened to me. I know it seems like I'm being too intense with my emotions right now, but I just think that's how i feel. There's not a day that goes by without me wanting to be yours and wanting to make you mine.”

an uncontrollable smile creeps up to your features, your hand almost raising up to cover your face in order to hide the blood that rushed to your cheeks. oh he was so utterly adorable.

“and this necklace. I initially wanted to buy you a ring, maybe like a promise ring? I know it's too soon but i would like to pledge my loyalty to you, you know?”

a laugh erupts from your mouth at such deep words that he had used to describe his loyalty, a laugh purely out of adoration and love for the younger man.

Maki's face turns into a question mark, along with a dimpled smile that appears caused by your contagious laugh.

“why are you laughinggg???!!!”

“pledge your loyalty to me? what are you? a knight?” your laugh dies down with your question, the remains of it still playing on your lips.

“i mean i could be. noona’s knight in shining armour?” he shrugs.

“anyways what i wanted to say is, i promise to be the best boyfriend ever and i promise to treat you better than any man you've ever met. noona, would you like to be my girlfrie—”

“yes”

“let me finis—”

“i cannot wait to kiss you, you're so damn cute.”

you step forward, palms cradling his face as you press your lips onto his softly. maki kisses you back so sincerely, hands gently and respectfully resting on your waist, his body hovering against yours while his brain does a good job at holding him back from completely dissolving into your touch.

“riki wilhelm maus, yes, i will be your girlfriend.” you say as you pull away, your finger reaching to boop his nose, your waist now attached to his hip while his arms completely wrapped around you.

his face displays the widest grin you've ever seen, and oh those cutest little dimples in the world make your heart skip multiple beats.

“sooo…” his eyes wander all over your face and the pretty smile that took over your face and he speaks, “do I still call you noona?” he tilts his head in question.

“yes?? I love it when you call me that.” you reply and a giggle erupts in response, as he brings you closer to bury his face in your neck.

younger bf! maki who's so so smitten and would cherish such a moment forever, often giggling over it every now and then. his friends were definitely gonna hear the end of it and his heart would never forget the swell of his chest that he had felt at that very moment.

---

The waves were calmly lapping at the shore the day Kyungmin first met you. The sun, which had been shining brightly earlier, was beginning to lose its intensity, even though it was still easy to get sunburned. He used to go for no particular reason, just to relax on the sand and take a dip. The truth was, he needed the cool touch of the water against his skin so often that it was impossible for him to hate the sea. No matter how much he got sunburned, walking along the shore was one of his favorite activities.

That time, however, his mother had urged him to take his little brother, Seungwoo, to the beach with him. The boy was acting like a little monster, and his mother seemed so exhausted from her last shift that Kyungmin finally agreed, albeit reluctantly. Little did he know then that it would turn out to be one of the best decisions he’d made so far. Even if it would hurt later.

Seungwoo had insisted on bringing the ball despite the wind, and there they were, the two of them playing a sort of volleyball (to give what they were doing a name). The truth was that his brother couldn’t hit a single shot, and even Kyungmin—who was extremely good at sports—missed more often than he’d care to admit. On one of those passes that would have made any coach want to throw themselves on the ground and cry, the ball flew off (as was to be expected).

What Kyungmin didn't know was how the wind would blow so hard that the ball would fly far away—so far that he'd have to run to catch it.

“Seungwoo, don’t move from here, okay?!” he shouted, breaking into a run after her when he saw the ball take a running start. “If anyone asks you anything, tell them your older brother is really strong and trains a lot!”

The straw-haired boy didn’t hear him, but his brother nodded firmly, determined to do exactly that.

You could say Kyungmin spent a while chasing after the red-and-white ball that soared through the sky like a bird. It was only a few minutes, really, but it gave him plenty of time to curse at anything that moved. Literally. Especially the wind. And the ball. Had he already mentioned the unbearable wind? Gosh.

But then, a miracle happened; the ball came to rest at the feet of a person. A girl with her hair tousled by the wind and her feet wet from the waves. She wasn’t wearing a swimsuit like the rest, but a pretty sky-blue dress and a cardigan. She wasn’t there to go swimming—that much was clear. Maybe she’d just come to watch the sea. Although, honestly, Kyungmin didn’t think any of this the moment he first saw you, but only after some time had passed and he kept replaying that scene over and over in his head.

You looked down at the ground then and blinked, snapping out of your daydream. “What’s this?” was the first thing that crossed your mind. You bent down to pick it up with your hands and look for its owner, but you didn’t even have time to do that before you saw that light brown head of hair jogging after her. He was relatively short compared to some of the boys you’d seen on your way to class, and his hair was lighter than those you knew as well. However, he really looked like he’d just run a marathon.

You picked up the ball anyway. It was soft and squishy. It had been a long time since you’d held a beach ball.

“S-sorry…” He apologized for bothering you, crouching down and clutching his knees. To be honest, you found it kind of funny. The beach wasn’t even that big to get that tired, but that very fact let your imagination run wild to faraway places. Maybe he was coming from one of those places in the stories your father used to tell you when you were little. But you quickly snapped back to reality, since it seemed rude to leave him hanging without a response.

“It’s okay.” You smiled warmly. “It really is windy out here.”

Kyungmin lifted his head, still gasping for breath. It was hard to believe he trained every day. “Yeah, it really is.” He nodded, agreeing with you.

You snorted with laughter. Then Kyungmin took a few seconds to look at you closely. You looked like you’d stepped right out of a fairy tale, with your dress fluttering in the wind and your serene smile. It was as if your body were here, but your mind were in the farthest reaches of history. Though that’s nonsense, he thought to himself. You didn’t notice either how his gaze lingered on you just a little longer.

“Here, it’s yours, isn’t it?” you said, holding out the ball to him.

“Huh?” he asked, distracted.

You raised an eyebrow, blinking once, twice, three times. “The ball. It’s yours, isn’t it?” You repeated the question, gesturing with your hands to emphasize the ball.

“Oh! Yeah!” He nodded, his cheeks flushing. “Um, thanks.” He bowed his head in a gesture of gratitude.

You smiled. “No problem, no problem. It’s pretty.”

He tried to smile back, but all he could manage was a nervous grin. “Thanks. My little brother picked it out.”

He added, though then he mentally slapped himself. Why was he telling a stranger that? It probably didn’t matter much to you at all. If Seungwoo had been there, he would’ve already given him a weird look and told him to get lost. And…

“Oh my gosh, Seungwoo!” he blurted out, covering his mouth in surprise. He’d left his eight-year-old brother alone, and if he told his mom about it, he could kiss his time at the beach goodbye. And his video game console, too. Two things she couldn’t live without. He gave a quick bow, muttered a quick apology, and ran back to where he’d left him.

Luckily, the little guy was fine—or so you found out later. He’d just managed to make Kyungmin look silly in front of a woman, who simply laughed at his “my brother is really strong and trains a lot” when she asked his name.

Soon they had to head back, as dinnertime was approaching and Seungwoo got tired easily. However, Kyungmin was left with a nagging feeling in his stomach—as if something were missing. Or even as if something were about to return.

Something that, for some reason, made him feel excited and a little uneasy. At the time, he chalked it up to the vacation that had already begun. Even if he would later realize that wasn’t the case.

That it had nothing to do with vacation, but with a bittersweet fate—one to which he’d been condemned ever since he met you.

—

The wind was blowing hard again that afternoon. It had only been a couple of days since he’d come with Seungwoo, and his mother seemed happier. Kyungmin figured that afternoon without his brother—that little devil—had done him a world of good, and that made him happy. Even if he didn’t want—no matter how much he loved him—to bring him back to the beach by himself. Not after making a fool of him in front of that lady…

Now he was the one sitting near the shore, farther away than last time, and his feet brushed against the water as it ebbed and flowed in its own little rhythm. Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to just let the waves carry him away and end up at the bottom of the sea. Would the emptiness he felt when he was alone disappear then? Or could he continue to ignore it all?

Maybe that’s why he liked the beach. Because the beach forced him to remember. It forced him to remember that everything was much bigger than it seemed, and also all those moments when he was happy with her. The laughter, the tears, the nighttime escapades with his father and brother… they reminded him that all of that had a purpose. He’d spent so much time there—a large part of his childhood, too—that the smell of salt water didn’t just mean the sea. It meant feeling. Something Kyungmin had been struggling with lately.

So, it was while wandering the far reaches of your mind that you came across him. It wasn’t intentional—not at all. Even though you’d been watching him for a while, ever since he’d arrived at the arena and sprawled out on the floor with his headphones on. Okay, put that way, you sounded a bit like a stalker, but… it had been a long time since you’d talked to someone your age, and you’d been looking forward to it. You just wanted to experience that joy again. Just this once. It wouldn’t hurt, right? The doctor had already told you that you needed more friends your age. It was better than thinking about going to the ocean and… stop breathing.

Taking a deep breath and puffing out your chest, you ventured to sit down next to him.

“Be brave, (Name)!” you thought to yourself, determined to say two coherent words.

“There hey,” you greeted him, though you accidentally mixed up the words.

Great—your coherence hadn’t lasted long at all.

Luckily, Kyungmin had the music cranked up and hadn’t heard anything other than someone plopping down next to him. That meant you had another chance to make a good impression. You hugged your knees as the guy paused the music and took off his headphones. He looked at you with a big question mark in his head. He knew who you were—of course he did; his memory wasn’t that bad. Pretty girls, and especially the ones you make a fool of yourself in front of, aren’t usually easy to forget.

“Mm?” he said, his big, bright eyes wide.

“I said ‘Hi,’” you greeted him, smiling, as if you’d done everything right from the start. “You’re the guy from the other day, right? Is it… Seungwoo okay? That was his name, wasn’t it? How you ran off shouting his name…”

Taken by surprise, he blushed all the way to his ears with embarrassment. Seungwoo, I’m going to kill you—no more strawberry ice cream for you, he thought. And even though he was an older brother who was very proud of his little ones, he wasn’t quite so proud of what he sometimes had to do for them… Like running after a ball like a mad dog.

“Yeah…” he nodded, scratching the back of his neck with an embarrassed smile. “It’s okay, don’t worry about him. He’s a little kid, but he’s strong.”

You laughed, picturing a chubby kid with a baby face. “I’m glad to hear that.” Silence.

“By the way, what’s your name? I’m (name).” You laughed nervously.

“Oh, my name is Kyungmin.” He smiled awkwardly. Silence again. It was pretty awkward.

Kyungmin nodded repeatedly with a smile that perfectly captured the feeling of “what the hell am I doing here.” An awkward silence settled between the two of you, and you felt a strange urge to talk to him. It was strange because that didn’t usually happen to you; even though your life was full of incredibly awkward silences, you never felt like you had to keep talking. Until then.

There’s always a first time for everything, you thought to yourself.

“What were you listening to?” you asked, pointing to your ears—referring to his headphones, which were now hanging around his neck. “It seemed like you were in another world.”

“Oh!” He opened his eyes, a little surprised; it was the first time anyone other than his mother had asked him that. A soft blush began to spread across his cheeks, since it wasn’t exactly a song he’d want to admit to listening to in a situation like this. “It’s ‘Daisies’ by Justin Bieber.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Justin Bieber?”

Kyungmin prayed that this wouldn’t make you look at him funny and call him a weirdo. Not because of anything specific he’d noticed about you, just that high school had taught him that sort of thing.

However, he had nothing to worry about because you didn’t have the faintest idea who that guy was. And who could blame you? You only listened to ABBA, Girls’ Generation and the Beatles, after all… It had been a long time since anyone had brought CDs to your room (and you didn’t have a cell phone either), so you weren’t up to date in the slightest.

“Yeah…?”

“It’s the first time I’ve heard of him.”

Now it was the guy’s turn to be amazed. “No… You don’t know who he is? Seriously? You’ve never heard ‘Baby’ or ‘Beauty and a Beat’?!” He bombarded you with questions, getting closer and closer to you.

You widened your eyes and frowned slightly. “Um… no?”

“Woah. That’s incredible.”

Anyone else would have felt discouraged by his reaction, but you were used to not knowing things, so it didn’t bother you in the least. In fact, it just made you even more curious. And Kyungmin, far from being put off, looked at you with sparkling eyes, as if he were opening up a whole new world to you.

“Who is he?” you asked.

“Justin Bieber is a singer. Canadian, I think. He’s like one of the top five global artists these days, which is why I was so surprised earlier. You have to listen to him—he’s amazing. I don’t like his latest stuff as much now, but at first… well. ‘Boyfriend’ is one of the best songs in the world,” he said, while you listened intently. It felt good, you thought. It felt good to be listened to.

You watched intently as he untangled his headphones again and searched eagerly on his phone.

“What are you looking for?” you asked curiously, and without meaning to, you found yourself staring at the guy. You’d always liked people who were passionate about things. Maybe because you didn’t have anything to be passionate about. Well, except for ABBA and overthinking.

“I’m going to play you the song. You don’t mind, do you?” he added, suddenly stopping what he was doing. He didn’t know if that would make you uncomfortable. If high school had taught him anything, it was that everyone had their own boundaries—and some people were very intolerant of them.

“A-Ah! Not at all!” you denied, looking down at the floor, self-conscious.

Kyungmin smiled then, holding an earbud out to you. “Get ready to enter the wonderful world of Justin Bieber’s music.”

You laughed a little and agreed, putting it in your ear. The next few hours were a blast. Every so often, Kyungmin would play you more new songs, and if you didn’t know the artist (which was the case 99.9% of the time), he didn’t look at you like you were a fish out of water. He’d just told you that a wonderful world of intellectual orgasms awaited you. It was fun. It had been a long time since anyone had laughed with you.

As “Suddenly” by I.O.I. played in your left earbud and the bridge came to an end, you thought about just how random all of this had been. A few hours ago, you were tired of your life. As a matter of fact, you’d been told a few days earlier that you only had a few months left to live—if that. The doctors didn’t care about you anymore because you were beyond saving. You sighed. How awful it was to think that. You’d simply be just another person dying in a hospital, and soon your parents would forbid you from going to the beach if they found out. Just a few hours ago, you’d only wanted to end it all much sooner. Dying at sea had always seemed magical to you. Even if, when the moment came, your feet had refused to move forward and you’d ended up lying on the sand.

And suddenly (never has that phrase been more fitting), as you spun around and sank into a somewhat curious despair, you spotted the boy sitting on the shore. You approached him out of pure… instinct. It must have been fate, your grandmother would have said many years ago. Suddenly, for a moment, you didn’t want to drown until you stopped breathing. It made you feel good. At ease. You smiled.

You decided you liked Kyungmin. With him, you could forget for a little while everything that was going on in your mind. And that made you happy. Very happy. Maybe because, deep down, you didn’t really want to die either. Because, deep down, it terrified you. And he was the only one who didn’t know that; he was the only one who didn’t treat you like you were sick.

The song ended then, and Kyungmin looked at you. “Did you like it? It’s not one of my favorites by I.O.I., but my friend Youngjae loves it, so I thought maybe it was more your style…”

“I love it. It’s one of the best songs of today.” You nodded enthusiastically, giving him a thumbs-up.

Your smile was etched into his memory. You looked happy. Genuinely happy. And that made him happy, too. “I’m glad.”

You let out a soft laugh and handed him back the earbud he’d so kindly lent you. The sound of the waves flooded your ears once more, replacing the music. “I have to go now, but will I see you again tomorrow?”

Kyungmin blinked slowly, surprised. “Already?”

You nodded. “It’s late, it’s already getting dark. They’ll worry about me,” you said, pointing at the sunset. You had to be back by a decent hour or your parents would get suspicious.

He pouted and reluctantly got up from the sand. “Oh well…”

You looked down for a second, and a silly laugh escaped your lips when you saw his abandoned puppy face. “Pff, don’t be so sorry. We’ll see each other tomorrow! I promise,” you assured him, even though promising to live one more day in your condition was complicated.

“Pinky promise?” he asked, holding out his pinky finger to you.

You looked at the finger in front of you.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, sweetheart,” your father’s voice echoed in your head. It came from a memory, from when you were still a little girl.

A knot formed in your stomach. You didn’t know if you could keep that promise. However, with him right there in front of you… You didn’t want to say no to him. So you linked your pinky with his.

“Mhm! You have to teach me more songs after all.” You smiled, and Kyungmin followed suit, laughing a little.

Promises were meant to be kept—you knew that—and you were going to keep this one. Definitely.

(Needless to say, that night you were afraid to fall asleep, but at the same time, you wanted to do just that—so you could wake up the next day and be with him again.)

—--

You survived.

It was afternoon, and the doctors—who had always been known for their compassion toward you—also let you go out that afternoon to the beach below the hospital. Seulgi, the cardiologist in charge of supervising you, always gave you a little leeway because she knew that otherwise you’d go completely crazy. However, the condition was that no one should find out about your escapades. Least of all your parents, who had always been so overprotective for fear that at any moment you might simply… disappear. That’s why, as far as they were concerned, you were still in therapy.

That afternoon, Kyungmin showed up right after lunch and thought he was going to die from the heat. Couldn’t the sun hide for a little while? He found you in the shade of a random palm tree on that beach.

“Hey! Kyungmin!” You greeted him, waving casually. You weren’t wearing a swimsuit that day either, even though Kyungmin would swear it was the hottest day of the whole summer (though he said that every day).

“Oh! HI (NAME)!!” he exclaimed, heading toward you as you made room for him beside you in the shade.

He plopped down on the sand as if he were just another grain of sand (even though he weighed more than one) and let out an “Ouch!” when a little stick pricked his butt, causing him to jump up suddenly. Laughter gushed out of your mouth, because his little yelp had amused you so much.

“Are you okay?” you asked.

“Of course, man. That’s nothing to me,” he put on a brave face. You’d figured out, in that brief time you’d spent together, that Kyungmin liked to do that—to puff out his chest and act like everything was fine when clearly the skewer had hurt him (albeit only a little).

You let out a little chuckle. “Aha.”

The rest of the time, you spent talking. That time, Kyungmin had brought you some food. They were random snacks he’d found at his house, according to him.

Your favorite of them all was the puffed rice he’d brought, wrapped in green and yellow. It had been so long since you’d eaten that… the last time was with your father, on that very same beach, a few years ago. Before they diagnosed your illness and everything started to go wrong in your parents’ eyes. You didn’t even know if the doctor would let you eat it, but you also knew she’d turn a blind eye if she found anything unusual in your medical tests (unless it was very serious, of course). One way or another, they still tasted like salt water and laughter. They tasted like that memory.

You’d always found it funny how memories worked. Maybe because you’d always wanted to be remembered, just as you remembered your father in the puffed rice or your grandmother in the seagulls. Maybe because being remembered in the little things was the most beautiful thing that could happen to anyone.

Kyungmin noticed the pensive look on your face, but he figured maybe you just needed some space. Or maybe you were like that because you were about to die from the heat. Seriously, how could you possibly wear so many layers? He was roasting just from looking at you…

However, the sun eventually set, and with it, the scorching heat.

That day, you ended up at the swings on the beach. Swinging back and forth like little kids, while you laughed. Because that’s how memories were made. And in your world, where everything could end at any moment, every moment counted.

“I’m so happy I found you, Kyungmin,” you murmured in the darkness, at the starting point where your paths parted and you each had to go home.

“Me too,” he nodded, his cheeks flushed. He didn’t even know anymore if it was from sunburn or maybe something else. However, since he’d just met you, he didn’t want to pry any further. It’s too soon, he thought; we have the whole summer ahead of us.

When you got home, you found yourself wishing you could relive that day over and over again. But even more than that, you wished you could experience the next one.

Don’t think it was much different for him. Kyungmin came home with his jaw aching from smiling so much, and his family teased him about how tired he was when he got back from the beach—lately, much more so than usual. They hinted that he might have found a summer romance. He, of course, denied everything, but he couldn’t forget your nostalgic smile, your melodious laughter, and the way you conveyed… peace, in a way. Like the beach.

That day, when he went to sleep, he thought he’d finally made a friend.

—

The notes of a guitar echoed across the beach. Once you stopped to listen for a while, they formed a song that Kyungmin had told you he loved. 24/7 365, you thought you remembered. He’d also told you that he knew how to play it on the guitar—that he’d learned from a guy a little older than him. Jihoon, was his name? Gosh, you had a terrible memory.

However, you knew the second you heard it that it was that song because of the lyrics the guy with the guitar started singing. From the voice and the song, it couldn’t be anyone other than Kyungmin.

“I love you, 24/7 3-6-5...” His voice caressed the notes in a way that made your heart beat a little faster than you were used to. He sang really well. Too well.

You soon spotted him, sitting under what had become your usual lifesaving palm tree. At least it was cloudy that day, so you wouldn’t have to put on sunscreen every five minutes to avoid getting sunburned. He was focused yet relaxed at the same time, swaying from side to side to the beat of the music.

You found it amusing, even though it felt like you were witnessing a moment too unique to actually be part of it. Instead of saying hello, as you usually did, you waited for the song to end, swaying to the beat with your body. You hadn’t realized until then just how much music could convey in a couple of chords—or how much it could bring people together. Watching Kyungmin like that, holding the guitar calmly and singing from the heart, you knew right away that this was his passion. You also knew he’d go far.

That thought left a bittersweet taste in your mouth. You wouldn’t make it like he did. You couldn’t even consider it. You didn’t have the time. And yet, seeing him succeed would make you happy, wherever you were.

“Fulfill your dreams for me, Kyungmin,” was the exact thought that ran through your head. Something you’d ask for later on, too.

The last notes of the song rang out, and then you knew it was time to say goodbye.

“Kyungma, hi.” You waved with a smile, moving closer to him.

“Oh! Hi, (name).” He gave you a bright smile and stepped aside.

You knew right away that it was going to be a great afternoon. Maybe because you now felt that Kyungmin had shared a little piece of himself with you. You talked a lot—for a change—about whatever came to mind. Like whether bottle caps were collectible or not, or whether it was better to have a camel or a dromedary. And in the end, when the light grew dim and the sky was adorned with pastel colors, the guy ended up playing two songs that sounded familiar to you from before you met him. You’d asked him to play one, and he’d decided to play the other on his own.

You had to admit that “I Have A Dream” sounded noticeably different, but it had its own charm. Maybe it was also just that the song was a great one, no matter who sang it. Although with Kyungmin’s melodious voice, the truth was that everything sounded good, as if Agnetha herself were singing it—only with a more masculine voice.

After that, he played a softer song that sounded incredible on the guitar. He didn’t sing that one. He let you do it, since you’d surprised him by recognizing it.

It was “Remember me” from a movie you’d seen with your mother many, many years ago—like practically everything else. Ironically, it reminded you of that little girl who saw it for the first time, clutching her pillow tightly and crying without really knowing why.

“Until you are in my arms again, remember me…” You sang awkwardly, but in such a sweet way that Kyungmin’s heart seemed to shrink. That song always made him cry.

And so, amid the guitar’s notes, the gentle tears streaming down Kyungmin’s face (which he hid so you wouldn’t see them), and the soft melody of your voice, time slipped through your fingers, bringing your day to a close.

—

The days passed, and the nights grew longer and longer as you waited for the next afternoon to see each other again. And so, every day was different. Every day that added to the passing of time was one more moment you spent without thinking about death, one more day when you just wanted to live a little longer. You often felt that way: you didn’t want those moments together to end. You just wanted to make it last longer. Maybe because those moments were too precious. Or maybe because of the uncertainty of not waking up the next day.

That particular day, Kyungmin kept asking you all sorts of questions. You suspected he’d read an article in that magazine the nurses always consulted—about questions to ask to make someone fall in love with you.

“(Name), what’s your favorite color?” he asked, tilting his head as the sun shone on him. It was also horribly hot that day, and he’d been asking random questions for quite a while already.

“My favorite color…?” It took you a moment to think about it; you’d never really thought about it before. However, looking straight into his chocolate-colored eyes, you answered with the first color that came to mind: “Brown.”

The boy furrowed his brow, puzzled. “Brown?” His tone made you snort with laughter.

“Yeah…? Why? Is something wrong?” You raised an eyebrow.

“No, nothing. Mine is orange.” He nodded. You nodded back.

“Nice color.”

“Thanks.”

In front of you, dusk was falling, and the sun was finally starting to stop scorching people. Silence settled between the two of you, as the wind ruffled your hair and the soft murmur of the music—which this time you’d been allowed to choose from your limited musical repertoire—mingled with the sound of the waves, and the scenery was wonderful. Though it didn’t last long, of course. Because above all else, Kyungmin was a restless soul.

“If you could turn into an animal, what would you be?” He pressed on.

“What would I be?” You furrowed your brow, looking at him strangely. “A seagull, so I could fly away from you. Why all these questions?”

“Hey! I just want to get to know you better.” He pouted. But then you rested your cheek on the palm of your hand, batting your eyelashes rapidly and giving him that look of someone who’s super, mega interested. “Why a seagull?”

You sighed with a half-smile, shaking your head. Letting the last notes of “Genie” fade as you handed him the earbud, you got up from the sand that was digging into your butt. You’d been sitting there for a long time. You spent all day sitting or lying down at the hospital and at home; you didn’t want to do that during the only hours they let you walk around—unsupervised—outside your four wooden walls.

“Come on, I’ll show you,” you said with a smile, and then you ran toward the ocean, leaving your spot in the shade behind.

Just because you felt like it.

You laughed really hard at that. It had been so long since you’d done something like that…

“Hey! Wait!” he protested, scrambling to his feet and running after you, until he ended up right at the water’s edge.

You were already halfway in, your dress wet up to just above your knees, randomly splashing water and playing with it. Laughter came easily—so easily, in fact, that Kyungmin ended up cracking up with you too.

You spent a little while longer like that, splashing water at each other and letting out little shouts of “You’ll get yours!” or “That’s not fair!” that echoed all over the beach. Thank goodness it was practically deserted, the boy thought. Although he didn’t actually think that at the time—only later, when, in the privacy of his room, he was drifting off to sleep with a smile.

You ended up soaking wet, with water everywhere. His T-shirt looked like it had been thrown into the washing machine, and your dress was just as wet. Kyungmin ended up taking his off because of the cold and the wind, but you (who wasn’t wearing a swimsuit underneath either) decided to keep yours on. In a way, it made you feel a little more… alive. A feeling you wanted to keep experiencing.

A flock of birds flew overhead, adorning the cotton-candy-colored sky that hung above you. You lifted your head just to watch them. They were beautiful.

And right beside you, Kyungmin was looking at you. You seemed so absorbed in a few simple birds that you even looked like you were from another planet to him. Although he had to admit that not knowing who Justin Bieber was—now that was truly alien…

“Hey, you still haven’t told me why you wanted to be a seagull,” he asked gently when things quieted down.

Your gaze drifted to his silhouette. Maybe it was weird that you hadn’t noticed until then, but it was true that Kyungmin was pretty handsome. Like, a lot. A lot, a lot.

“I thought you’d have figured it out by now, you dummy,” you said, chuckling. He seemed offended, but didn’t say anything (in case you decided not to tell him again). “Birds are the universal symbol of freedom—that’s what the books say. And seagulls are always on these beaches. Someday I’d like to have the same freedom they do. To soar through the skies and see the sea better, not from five meters away… Besides, they’re always with other seagulls. It would feel good to be part of a group. That’s why I think it’s a good animal to be reincarnated as—don’t you think?” You gave her a little smile at the end.

That didn’t make things any easier. Of all the things you could have said to him, he certainly wasn’t expecting that. It was a bit sad, he thought. Because even though you’d ended with a smile, your gaze was wistful—the look of someone who could never experience it—that freedom, that sense of belonging—even at an age as young as yours. Kyungmin’s mother had always told him not to rush into growing up, that he had plenty of time to do whatever he wanted. Yet you’d said it as if you didn’t have that time. As if you were going to die tomorrow, she thought to herself, though she didn’t voice the joke because suddenly, even in her mind, it became too real. It couldn’t be, though. She shook her head, trying to shake off all those thoughts. She didn’t want to jinx it.

“Oh, okay. Maybe.” He nodded.

You let out a breathless laugh. “It’s clear you don’t really agree,” you said, resting your head on your arms, which were wrapped around your legs.

He laughed, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “It’s not that…” he denied.

“What animal would you like to be?” you asked him in return.

“Me?” he asked, pointing at himself and forming a perfect circle with his lips. “Hmm, I think a meerkat would be cool. They’re really cool. They also live in colonies, you know? They take this whole living in society thing very seriously.” He nodded, laughing a little.

There was a moment of silence.

You smiled, and looking up at the sky, you remarked, “It’s weird, this whole thing about wanting to fit in, don’t you think?”

Kyungmin followed your gaze, looking at the horizon with increasing clarity.

“Mhm,” he nodded. All the possible memories of high school flashed through his mind—a place where he’d never felt entirely welcome. “You see.”

And yet, there, next to you, Kyungmin felt for the first time like he was part of something. Part of that hidden little beach. Part of something beautiful with you. He smiled—grateful to have met you.

Time passed, and it was time to go home. Even if “home” was starting to feel a little more like that beach than the building itself. You walked along the sand, and as soon as you left the beach, Kyungmin spent the whole walk humming “Kiss Me” by Sixpence None the Richer—a song he’d told you he’d been playing on repeat lately. You liked it, but Kyungmin loved it. You were intertwining your pinkies, as you’d gotten used to doing. It reminded you of a gentle promise—one you made to Kyungmin every time you left. Or maybe, one you were asking of him without him really knowing it: to be remembered.

Suddenly, he stopped humming and turned toward you quickly, his heart beating just as fast as it always did when he was with you. “Oh! I forgot to ask you! (Name), what’s your favorite ice cream flavor?”

You blinked, raising your eyebrows. That had caught you by surprise.

“Ice cream? I don’t know,” you replied.

“You don’t know?!” he asked, his voice a mix of surprise and disbelief. “(Name), that’s just criminal. It’s one thing not to know who BIGBANG is, but you’ve got to have an ice cream flavor you like better than the others…”

You frowned. “Is it really that important? I just don’t remember. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to the ice cream shop,” you admitted. Ever since they told you about your illness, of course. Once your parents found out, they started getting scared of even ice cream (even though Dr. Seulgi had emphasized that you could eat almost anything).

Kyungmin put his hands to his head. “No way, no way. Wait for me here tomorrow too, okay? Don’t go all the way onto the beach.”

You tilted your head, not quite sure where he was going with this. “What are we going to do?”

“You’ll see. Be a seagull and go with the flow a little, (Name). Trust me, I know some of the best ice cream shops in town!” He nodded, giving you a thumbs-up.

Your face perfectly captured the phrase “What on earth am I doing here?” As if you were completely baffled. For a moment, Kyungmin even feared he’d upset you and that you wouldn’t be able to react anymore or something.

However, you burst out laughing. Once you started laughing, you couldn’t stop, and you even started crying from laughing so hard. Now he was the one who wasn’t quite sure how to react.

“Sorry,” you apologized between bursts of laughter once you’d caught your breath a little. “It’s just that it made me laugh—sorry.”

The laughter continued for a little while longer, and Kyungmin wasn’t sure in the end whether to join in or not (though a soft chuckle did escape you simply because yours was so contagious).

—

“Kyungminnn,” he heard a woman’s voice call out to him. It had woken him from his sleep. Could it be you? It would be incredible if it were you, he thought. Although if it really were you, it would be more like a dream come true. A lazy smile spread across his lips. Ah… what a wonderful dream.

“Kyungmin-ah.” The voice called out to him again, even though Kyungmin was already too lost in his thoughts as he pretended to sleep a little longer—hoping to dream about it. However, the person calling out to him wasn’t too pleased that he hadn’t woken up.

“KYUNGMIN-AHHHH!” She exclaimed. That scream certainly echoed throughout the room and made the boy jump up in a start, startled.

“AH! AH! WHAT’S GOING ON? WHO’S ROBBING US?” he asked, startled. That is, until he turned his head—because the person he saw wasn’t you (certainly not), but his mother. She was wearing her “I’m-on-duty-today-don’t-bother-me” T-shirt and had her hair in a ponytail, with a few strands sticking out carelessly.

“Ah, Mom. You scared me!” he protested, clutching his chest.

“You’re finally awake! You sleep more than your cousin Shinyu, really,” she teased him. “Come on, come have breakfast. Or rather, lunch, because you’ve been sleeping since who knows when.”

Kyungmin frowned. He wasn’t very happy about being woken up from his dream with you. He wanted to stay in his world of cotton candy and sweets, while you laughed and hugged him tight.

Maybe getting married, having two kids, five puppies, and a hamster… all in a dream, of course.

Okay… now that he thought about it, he sounded like one of those crazy lovers from the movies his mother used to like. A soft blush spread across his cheeks. Oh no… let’s not go there, he thought to himself.

Falling in love, of course, wasn’t one of his favorite pastimes. Not at all. But “falling in love” was still a very strong phrase. Maybe… it was more accurate to say he liked you—judging by how his heart started beating faster when he saw you and how, in less than a month, you’d become one of his favorite people. He liked you way too much. Okay, maybe he was in love. But just a little bit. Really.

We have time, he thought to himself. Plenty of time. School doesn’t start for a few more months.

Even if, in reality, the problem wasn’t exactly school.

He sat down reluctantly in the chair at the dining room table, having already grabbed his glass of milk. All around him, Seungwoo was running around with a toy airplane in his hand. He was playing, but he was also making too much noise for a Kyungmin who had just woken up.

“What about Dongwha?” the boy asked about his other brother, as he sipped some milk.

“He left early with Wonwoo to go to the beach. He told me they wanted to build sandcastles,” his mother replied, as she polished a Superman mug—Seungwoo’s favorite. “By the way, Kyungmin,” she called out once she was done with it. “Will you take your brother to the fair for me? I’m working this afternoon and can’t take him myself...”

“Today? But—Mom, I already have plans today…” he complained.

“Kyungmin, please. Please, please. Pretty please. I’d really appreciate it,” she urged, giving him puppy-dog eyes. Seeing that he was still undecided, she added, “I’m sure your friend would love for you to take her away from that beach for a day. You’ll have a great time at the fair—you’ll see.”

The boy sighed, scratching the back of his neck. It wasn’t as if he could say no to her—she was still his mother, and he knew how hard she worked to take good care of them. Especially when his father was away on business (which was all the time). Besides, she was really scary when she got angry. “All right…” he nodded.

His mother smiled warmly and walked around the table to give him a hug and a couple of kisses on the top of his head. “Thanks, sweetheart. I can’t wait to meet that little girl.”

Kyungmin’s cheeks flushed at the very thought. “Mom!”

She just laughed, amused. Kids sure grow up fast.

—

The wind began to blow strongly that afternoon, even though there wasn’t a cloud in sight. The starry sky would be beautiful tonight, you thought. You’d had to pull some strings to make your parents think you were going to spend the afternoon with Seulgi, the doctor, and Andrew, a nurse who’d been taking care of you since you were a little kid.

The things I do for you, Kyungmin, you thought, as you hopped a little on your heels waiting for him under the sun. You were a little nervous, yes. It was your first time in a long time visiting a place other than school, your house, the beach, or the hospital. Although that sounds like a lot of places, the truth is it wasn’t much at all. You were afraid you’d forgotten how to act like a normal person. And yet, the fact that you were with Kyungmin also put you at ease. Because it was him. And with him, you felt safer than anywhere else. Maybe you were getting a bit more fond of him than you actually wanted to, you thought, recalling his cute smile. Maybe you were even starting to love him. Who knew.

“Hey, (Name)!” you heard from behind. It was Kyungmin’s unmistakable voice calling out to you.

You turned to look at him and wave back, but what you certainly didn’t expect was the sight of Kyungmin’s little brother behind him. Seungwoo, dressed in green and white, was holding his older brother’s hand, stumbling along. To be honest, it was way funnier than you expected. He was so cute! You’d always wanted a little brother, and Seungwoo was the definition of a little dumpling.

“Kyungmin!” you greeted him, smiling. “Oh, and hi, Seungwoo,” you waved.

“My mom asked me to take him to the fair—is that okay with you? I know another ice cream shop around here, if you want. But if not, we’ll just have to meet up another day… I’m sorry.” He apologized, scratching the back of his neck.

“No way,” you said, waving your hand, and added with a smile, “I still want that ice cream.”

Kyungmin let out a soft laugh, and his brother looked at him, frowning. Was that really his Kyungmin? This version of his brother seemed calmer, less sullen. More lively, even. Like the sea. Nothing like he was at home, that’s for sure.

“Do you want some ice cream, too, Seungwoo?” You crouched down a little, tilting your head.

He seemed to take a deep breath, and in a little boy’s voice he said, “My older brother told me to say that he’s really strong and trains a lot.”

You blinked slowly.

Huh?

Sure, you didn’t socialize much, but it was clear that wasn’t an answer to your question. It certainly wasn’t in the socializing guide Seulgi had given you after you told her you’d made a friend.

Kyungmin, sitting across from you, turned as red as a tomato. He cleared his throat and, with a nervous smile, said, “Should we get going? I don’t want us to be late… haha…” You let out a laugh. It was going to be a really fun afternoon.

“Seungwoo!” he muttered. “What did we say about saying that to every person who walks by?”

“Did we say anything about that, hyung?” he asked, a big question mark on his face.

Kyungmin looked at him, a little indignant. His brothers hardly ever listened to him… He sighed, running his hand over his face like a weary father.

—

Once there, Seungwoo started asking to ride every attraction he could, and since he couldn’t go alone, Kyungmin went with him everywhere. And you, amid Kyungmin’s apologetic smiles, ended up joining in—even if you had a hard time on some rides, others turned out to be a wonderful experience. Plus, you’d even won a little camera for Seungwoo in a dart game! He’d been so happy that it made all the money you’d spent worth it.

The truth was that, despite the bad experiences, you felt happy. It was your first time at a fair like that. The lights from the booths illuminated the streets as it began to get dark. It was a festive, joyful atmosphere. Away from the secret beach. It was… comforting in a way. A reminder that happiness existed outside that place, too. And maybe it existed because you were with him. A thought that, honestly, had just made you want to laugh.

During a break to use the restroom, Kyungmin approached you as you sat on the back of a greenish bench, gazing at the darkening sky. In front of you were nothing but food stalls selling dishes you’d never tasted in your life and games you didn’t recognize at all. Everything seemed so new, so fascinating… You knew the adrenaline rush you were feeling wasn’t good for your heart, but… the truth was, you just wanted to keep going. Keep going with the clumsy, daring little Seungwoo. And, of course, keep going with your beloved Kyungmin.

“Sorry for bringing Seungwoo…” He apologized again, coming over to you once he’d made sure Seungwoo had gone into the bathroom safely.

You shook your head. “It’s nothing, really,” you repeated. “Kyungmin, I already told you everything’s fine. Seungwoo is like a little sugar cookie. He’s too cute.” You smiled. Kyungmin laughed at the comparison.

“If you say so…” He didn’t seem entirely convinced, but a smile still graced his face. He sat down next to you, resting his feet on the actual seat of the bench. “Do you want to go get some ice cream later? My mom just called and said that a friend of my brother’s mom can watch him for a while.”

“Oh!” you said. “Is Seungwoo very sociable?” you asked.

Kyungmin seemed to think about it for a moment. “I don’t know about sociable, but he definitely has a couple of friends.”

“Well, that’s already more friends than I have…” you retorted with a hint of sarcasm, laughing at yourself. You seemed resigned to it. As if you could never have any. The truth was, you’d always wanted to have friends, but it had never been easy for you. That’s why you’d always assumed you were fine on your own. There wasn’t anyone else to hang out with anyway.

Kyungmin frowned. “What are you talking about? You’ve got me, silly,” he corrected you, giving you a gentle nudge. “I’m your friend.” He smiled.

It was true. Maybe you were being silly. You had him, after all. Kyungmin. Your days of being alone were over thanks to him. Thanks to Kyungmin, who had pulled you out of the darkness. You would be grateful for that for as long as you could in your short life.

Deep inside, you felt tears beginning to well up in your eyes.

How much you would miss him on the other side.

“Huh?! Are you crying?!” he asked, startled. “Did I say something wrong? I’m sorry!” he apologized, waving his hands frantically. He wasn’t sure how to react.

You laughed at him, but the tears kept flowing. You shook your head. “I’m just so happy to have met you, silly,” you admitted.

Kyungmin looked into your eyes. That had truly touched his heart. His eyes began to well up too, and his lip started to tremble.

“Shh,” he said, pulling you close to his shoulder. You knew he was doing it so you wouldn’t see him cry. He’d confessed to you earlier, between songs, that he really didn’t like it when people saw him like that. “I’m really glad I met you, too.”

A gentle smile blossomed on your lips. You loved being with him so much.

—

Once you’d left Seungwoo with his friend, it was time to go get ice cream. At some point—you couldn’t quite remember when—you’d ended up holding hands with Kyungmin. Fingers intertwined and your heart racing, but always with a smile on your face. You’d given up on the idea of love a long time ago, but at that moment, there was no other word that better captured what you were feeling. You didn’t want to overthink it, either. You were just there. There, with the person who made you happiest. There, with your first — and best— friend.

You wandered through the streets of the park where the fair was being held and soon arrived at the ice cream shop that Kyungmin had been so excited to take you to. And why lie—you were a little excited too. Just a little.

They had every flavor imaginable: from basic vanilla to beer ice cream (the first time either of you had ever seen that, by the way) with all kinds of different scoops and cones. Kyungmin went for chocolate, which he’d told you was his favorite.

Your attention, however, was caught by a radioactive blue ice cream. “What’s that?” you asked, tugging on his hand and pointing at the ice cream with your other hand.

“That? It says ‘Smurf ice cream’— you know, those little characters from TV who live in mushrooms.” He read it out loud for you, as if you didn’t know how to do it yourself.

You frowned. “I know that, man. I can read. But what does it taste like?”

Kyungmin frowned, trying to remember something. “I haven’t tried it, but my other little brother, Donghwa, used to love it when he was little.”

“It looks good,” you said. Now you wanted to try it.

The guy raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? It looks like it has 4,279 chemicals in it and is toxic,” he warned you. You rolled your eyes.

“Don’t judge a book by its cover, Kyungmin,” you said, giving him a nudge, at which point he had to stifle a laugh so as not to look weird in front of the clerk.

He ended up paying after an intense debate over who should do it (neither of you wanted to), and you got your Smurf ice cream, so everyone was happy.

When you took the first spoonful, the scene playing in your mind was, exactly, a rainbow with cotton candy and dolphins leaping out of the sea.

“OMG! This is so good, Kyungmin!!” you exclaimed, licking your scoop of ice cream again. It tasted like sugar, yes. But you loved it.

Kyungmin burst out laughing. “Only you would like those ice creams which are a tragedy for a true gourmet.”

You frowned. “Stop trying to sound intellectual and just eat. This is food of the gods, my goodness.”

Kyungmin laughed again, and, intertwining your hands once more, you walked back to where you’d been, wandering around the different stalls. Everything was beautiful; with the sun hiding behind the mountain, it all looked like something out of a fairy tale. As you were walking, you happened to pass by a Ferris wheel. It was small, but tall enough to see the sea from there. Suddenly, you really, really wanted to ride it. So much.

“Kyungmin, can we go up there?” you asked, pointing at the Ferris wheel.

He seemed convinced in an instant, because he nodded faster than lightning.

“Let’s go!” he exclaimed, pulling you along. Laughter escaped your lips as you ran after him.

The views from up there were, of course, wonderful. Below you, the streetlights twinkled like little stars, as if each one had its own story. The sea stretched out in the distance, colored this time in a dark shade—like the sky—and that night it seemed to be perfectly calm. Just like you.

You were sitting next to Kyungmin, who was letting out soft “ohh”s and “woah”s at the views. It was all so beautiful—once again.

“Thank goodness we came here,” you thought, squeezing Kyungmin’s hand a little tighter. You wanted to feel him there, above the beating of your heart. Above all, you wanted to take in as much of him—and of the moment—as you could. Because you were afraid of forgetting. As much as you were afraid of being forgotten.

What lay beyond death? You didn’t know. Many people had thought long and hard about it. Very, very long. They had come up with different stories—too many and too different. However, if after death you encountered this feeling again—that inner peace—you knew there would be no problem. Because you liked what you were feeling. You liked the sensation of his fingers against your skin. You liked how Kyungmin’s tousled hair looked on him, and you liked even more how those big, fawn-like eyes looked at you, because you knew you looked at him the same way.

You could have died that day, but the truth was that you wanted to keep living. Living alongside Kyungmin.

You wondered then why fate had to be so cruel. Why had the universe let you experience something as wonderful as being with him, only to take him away from you? Why? It was unfair. And yet, it was something to be grateful for. Because at the end of the day, it had given you a taste of life—something you could never deny. Ever.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, noticing you seemed a little distracted just as you were about to get off the Ferris wheel. That look in his eyes again—the one he gave when he was looking at someone he loved with all his heart.

“Thank you,” you replied simply.

I love you, was what you never got to say.

He tilted his head. “For what?”

“For today. For every day. Thank you, Kyungmin.” Your eyes welled up again.

The boy frowned. “Why are you talking like you’re going to die tomorrow, (Name)?” he blurted out without thinking.

Your stomach churned. You shrugged, with a strange smile—even a nostalgic one. “Who knows. I hope not, though.”

Silence. A laugh finally escaped your lips—a knowing one, even though Kyungmin wasn’t quite sure how true that statement really was. At that moment, however, he didn’t care. He didn’t want to ruin the moment. He just wanted it to go on and on; for it to last forever. To be happy for the rest of your lives.

“Thanks to you, (Name),” he whispered, as you were heading back home. He held both your hands tightly, stopping you in your tracks. “Thank you.” And after that, he gave you a hug—awkward, but yours. Only yours.

I love you. To the stars and back, he thought for the first time, surprising even himself.

But he kept it to himself. He didn’t say anything, because there, in your arms, he was already as comfortable as he could possibly be. He didn’t need anything else.

He’d have more time. More time to tell you that he loved you. More time to tell you how glad he was to have met you. More time to be together. So much more.

That night, when you went to sleep, a ridiculous thought lingered in your mind for quite a while.

“If I died today, at least I’d be at peace.”

And that, for some reason, made you feel more alive than ever. (Even if, deep down in your heart, guilt was beginning to gnaw at you for not telling Kyungmin the whole truth. Maybe it was time.)

—

A few days later, Kyungmin found you sitting on one of the swings at the beach. Yes, it was strange that a beach as deserted as that one would have what you might call a mini-park on it, but stranger things had happened to certain people, so he didn’t question it. It was later than usual that time, since you’d stayed a little longer with your guitar.

You were swaying gently back and forth on the swing. You had a strange look on your face—a mixture of sadness, nostalgia, and despair. Kyungmin wondered then what could have happened to you. What was going on inside that little head of yours?

“(Name)?” he asked, tilting his head. He approached slowly when he saw that you were still staring off into space.

“(Name),” he called again, stopping the swing for a moment to hold your hands in his. They were cold. You must have been waiting outside for a long time. Because on that very day, the sun had decided to hide, leaving them with a cloudy day.

You blinked, snapping out of your reverie. “Oh, Kyungmin. Hi,” you said, forcing a smile. He noticed—of course he did.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, concerned. He moved closer to you.

You pursed your lips. “Yeah, I just had a fight at home.”

“A fight?”

You nodded. “Nothing too serious. It’s just that… if they find out I’m here today, they’ll roast me alive and coat me in batter.” You let out a wry laugh.

Huh?

“Hm?” Kyungmin wasn’t quite catching everything you were trying to tell him.

“Nothing,” you smiled, getting up and letting yourself fall into his arms. The hug lasted longer than usual, and while you were in his arms, you felt like you could breathe again. It always happened to you. Kyungmin was like your lifeline. You knew it all too well. “Let’s just stay like this a little longer, okay?”

The guy didn’t like all that secrecy, but he agreed. He agreed because it was you, and because he’d had a bad day, too. That’s why he’d hidden away to play the guitar and lost track of time.

“I don’t know what happened, but I promise it’ll work out,” he whispered, stroking your back. He kissed the top of your head.

You took a deep breath, even though the air came out in gasps—as if you’d been crying earlier. “I don’t know if there’s a solution, Kyungmin. I really don’t know,” you murmured.

When you’re sick, every day counts, you thought. You didn’t know if you’d even be alive the next day to figure it out.

That day, death was something you feared. Not something you didn’t expect or rejected. There, resting your head on Kyungmin’s shoulder, you knew you didn’t want to sleep. That you were terribly afraid. That day, arguing with your parents, you’d also been afraid. Afraid they’d discover your little secret and never let you come back. Ever again.

You took a deep breath, even though the air came out in gasps—as if you’d been crying beforehand. “I don’t know if there’s a solution, Kyungmin. I really don’t know,” you murmured.

You were afraid of dying and never seeing all the people you loved again.

Maybe if you told Kyungmin—who had become your most trusted confidant—you’d be happier. But you were also afraid he’d turn out like your parents. That he’d treat you like someone fragile, someone who can’t do anything.

“Kyungmin,” you murmured.

“Mhm,” he replied.

“Stay with me a little longer, please. Promise me that even if the storm comes, you’ll stay with me. Just a little longer.” You asked, hugging him tighter. You were being selfish; you knew it. You knew it well. But maybe… maybe you just wanted to be remembered. Maybe you just wanted to be someone else—someone important in his life. Just as he was in yours. Your only escape.

He nodded. He didn’t know why you’d been feeling this way—so nostalgic—lately. But he just wanted to hold you in his arms a little longer, so he didn’t protest.

That afternoon, you stayed like that, embracing each other on the sand, counting stars and laughing softly. It felt good. It felt incredible. Kyungmin gave you a gentle kiss on the cheek as he said goodbye, to the sound of the cicadas singing. You, with your heart in your hand, kissed him on the mouth. He, flustered, blushed all the way to his ears while you laughed at him (even though you weren’t much different from him).

“Thank you,” you whispered. “Thank you again.” He smiled—one of those smiles that radiate nothing but love and understanding—and gave you another gentle, awkward kiss on the lips. A kiss that made you smile like a fool all the way home.

That was the only day you didn’t say, “See you tomorrow.” It wasn’t on purpose; it just didn’t occur to you.

Maybe fate had something in store for you two. Something that wasn’t all that pleasant. But that night, you just replayed the kiss over and over in your mind, remembering Kyungmin’s sparkling eyes and his nervous laugh. You remembered how he came up to you and whispered, “You’re very special to me, (Name), really.”

Butterflies fluttered in your stomach. So much so that, since you couldn’t sleep, you got up and wrote him a letter. The next day you’d finally tell him how you felt, you thought. No more putting it off. No more fear. Who knew how much more time you had?

You poured everything you felt into that letter, hoping to clear your thoughts, and once you were done, you felt satisfied. Ready. The next day would be a great day, you decided. It would be the day you’d finally become a couple.

“I love you, Kyungmin,” you murmured in the darkness of the night, tucked in up to your chin. It was the first time you’d said it out loud, but somehow, it felt good. It felt right.

—

The next day, Kyungmin didn’t find you on the beach. Nor the day after that. Nor the day after that day. You had simply disappeared. Like the seagulls that migrate during the cold seasons to warmer places.

—

Kyungmin was starting to think that you’d grown tired of him. Why else wouldn’t you come? Maybe he’d rushed things with the kiss, or with all the things he’d said to you—how much he loved you without actually saying those exact words. Maybe he’d scared you off.

Lying there on the ground, he looked up at the sky, thinking over and over again about everything he’d done. He’d come every day, without fail, at the usual time. And yet, you were never there. Not anymore.

No matter how many walks he took—just to see if you were more on one side or the other—he couldn’t find you. In those moments, he hated not having asked for your phone number. If he had it, he could call you, hear your voice. Know that you were okay. But he had not asked for it.

Suddenly, something blocked his view and pulled his thoughts away. It was a little white kitten, peeking its head out. That reminded him of how you’d once told him that you loved kittens and had always wanted one.

“Meow?” it meowed. The boy let out a wry laugh.

Just what he needed—a cat reminding him of the one he’d loved and who’d abandoned him. Again.

“Meow,” the boy replied, not quite sure what he was saying.

“You’re Lee Kyungmin, right?” he heard another voice say behind him. It was deep and raspy, clearly that of an older man.

The younger man tensed up then and sat up straight in the blink of an eye. That’s when he was able to get a good look at him. The person standing before him had a somewhat unkempt beard and large dark circles under his eyes, but despite all that, he had a calm smile on his face. That was what reminded him a little of you.

I wish you were with me, he thought to himself, biting his lip.

“Yes, that’s me.” He nodded. “Lee Kyungmin, how can I help you?”

The man gave him a sad smile. “I’m (Name)’s father. I’m here because… because you’re the only thing I have left of my daughter, Kyungmin-ah.”

He blinked slowly.

Huh? The only thing he had left? What about (Name)?

Also, what a weird way of meeting the parents of the girl he liked.

“Oh. Um, nice to meet you. I’m sorry to be a little abrupt, but do you know where she is? She hasn’t been here in a long time…”

The man seemed to swallow hard. His eyes began to well up. However, he managed to hold back his tears and give you a reassuring smile.

“Son, there are many things you need to know. Follow me,” he asked. Kyungmin didn’t think twice, and the little white cat followed right behind them. It was about you what he was talking of, after all.

He walked confidently into the hospital. It was Kyungmin’s first time setting foot in that hospital, since he usually went to another one in the city whenever he got hurt. The walls were a strange shade of salmon, and as he made his way down the hallways filled with doctors and nurses, the color turned whitish. Some were rushing about, while others chatted casually as they went about their daily tasks. It was a normal day for them—or so it seemed.

Your father weaved through the crowd like a pro, occasionally greeting a couple of nurses he seemed to have known for a long time.

Kyungmin even thought he heard a soft “I’m sure they’ll save her” from a young nurse, at which your father lowered his gaze. The boy didn’t want to hear any more. Why had he brought him there? Was there… was there something to it? Something to do with you?

They finally reached a room. “247” was written on the sign above the door. The walls were wooden, and inside there was a large window overlooking the beach. There were freshly arranged flowers—which Kyungmin later learned were white tulips (your favorites)—and someone in the bed.

You.

Eyes closed, hair perfectly styled, and a hospital nightgown that looked especially good on you. You looked asleep. Sedated, even.

In a coma. That’s what your father told him later. That you were in a coma.

And for him, his whole world came crashing down.

How could that have happened?

Kyungmin hesitantly reached out to you, clasping your hand between his. You were cold, but warm enough for him to know you were still alive. He squeezed it, as if he believed you would wake up just by doing this—wake up, see him there, and then laugh in his face, just like you usually did. He wanted you to tell him this was all just a joke.

It couldn’t be true. You weren’t sick. You never had been. They would have told him. Kyungmin would have noticed.

Tears began to well up in his eyes. Because it seemed real. Too real. And your closed eyes, your relaxed expression, and your pale lips only confirmed it.

The man standing in front of him also gave you a look filled with love. Filled with pain.

“Kyungmin-ah, son, sit down,” your father murmured, gesturing with his hand for him to sit in the chair next to you.

He obeyed, never letting go of your hand. He swallowed hard.

“What… what happened to her?” he asked, his voice trembling. His whole body was shaking, too.

The man sighed. “I guess (Name) hadn’t told you. She didn’t really like to go around talking about this.” He let out a nostalgic smile. “She… had a terminal illness—a heart condition. Let’s just say… it doesn’t work very well. They diagnosed her years ago, when she was still a little girl. Two months ago, they told us her time was coming soon. That her heart would gradually stop pumping blood and…” His voice broke. “And that we’d lose her.”

The news hit the boy like a bucket of cold water had been dumped on him.

What?, he thought.

His gaze turned to you, but you didn’t return it. Kyungmin thought about the fear you must have felt. About the urge to vanish from the world and, at the same time, to keep on living. Now he understood why you wanted so desperately to be a seagull. Why you wanted to fly a little longer. To escape those four walls that imprisoned you in an illness that came hand in hand with death. With the end.

He felt sorry for you. He felt awful. And now… what would he do without you? What would he do without those afternoons listening to music and more music, without those afternoons playing and laughing together?

What would he do now without his safe place? Without his space to be himself?

You were his everything. You’d become that in such a short time, like friends who come late in life but last for a lifetime. The best kind of friends, if you asked him. Not that he’d had many to begin with, either.

He didn’t expect to lose you like this.

All this time… thinking there would be time.

Thinking he could always do it tomorrow, when for you there might not be one at all.

He should have told you he loved you. He should have shouted it to you on the Ferris wheel. He should have held you in his arms one more time.

How would he live now without you? How would he manage? You were always there for him, and now… now you wouldn’t be anymore. Or maybe you would, but tied to a bed. Something he knew you would have hated.

The first tears rolled down his cheek, but this time he didn’t care if anyone saw him.

He’d lost you—what could be worse than that?

“Kyungmin-ah, I…” your father began again. The words caught in his throat, once more, just at the sight of you like that. “I came looking for you because I know she loved you,” he admitted.

Kyungmin’s heart stopped cold.

Excuse me? Had he heard correctly? Did she… love him?

He didn’t know if that made him feel bad or even worse. Maybe even more eager to throw herself out the window.

“The night before… she fell into a coma, she wrote this,” he continued, handing her a letter. It was small, folded several times, and the pages were yellowed. “That’s what led me to track you down. It seems she loved you very much. I just… wanted to thank you for making her happy.” Tears streamed down his face as well as he bowed. “Thank you for achieving something we didn’t quite know how to achieve.”

Kyungmin held the piece of paper in his trembling hands, his gaze filled with despair as he looked at your father. “But sir, this…” He swallowed hard. A sob threatened to escape his throat. He just wanted to bury his head in his arms, to cry, cry, and cry. However, with what little willpower he had left, he stood tall. He didn’t let go of your hand for a moment. Perhaps because if he did, he’d feel that everything would be lost.

“The doctors have decided to keep her this way for another month,” he continued, lifting his head now. “Until her heart stops beating completely. Seulgi, her cardiologist, told me they’ll do everything possible to save her.”

Kyungmin looked at the floor, then at you.

Damn it.

Your father walked slowly toward the door, as if he didn’t want to part from you. To let you go. You really seemed like his greatest treasure.

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way, Kyungmin-ah,” he murmured slowly, and with a soft click, he closed the door behind him.

That was when all his emotions came crashing down on him. Tears welled up in his throat, and as he sobbed and sobbed, he buried his head in his arms, which were resting on your belly.

He had lost you.

He had lost you too soon, too quickly. He just wanted to have been with you. Much, much longer.

And yet… there was still some hope of making new memories. A very small chance to believe in. If you believe, you create. You create a reality, a future. And in that moment, all Kyungmin could have was faith. Faith that you’d recover. Faith that you’d see the light again. Faith that you’d keep your promise—to see each other one more day. Faith that he could hold you, kiss you, and tell you how much he loved you once more. This time with words.

He wanted it so badly that he was willing to believe. He would believe anything as long as you opened your eyes again.

As long as you could smile at him and call him a fool one more time.

As long as he could hold a warm hand one more time.

—

Ever since then, Kyungmin came to visit you every day. Absolutely every single day. He’d come, bring you fresh flowers, talk to the nurses to see how you were doing, sing to you, tell you stories… Everyone at the hospital looked at him with pity, but Kyungmin didn’t care. He only loved you.

His only hope was to have you back. Someday. And the promise of “someday” was precisely what kept him coming back. It was what kept him buying the same flowers at the same flower shop, usually accompanied by the little white cat from the beach. He’d named him Tao, just because he’d gotten that vibe from him. He was always there. He was like… a comforting presence that reminded him of you. As if it were you who stayed everyday with him, just as a cat.

Summer passed quickly, and with it, the heat waves, the time at the beach, and time itself. Even though school had started, Kyungmin still found time between tutoring and classes to come see you and tell you about his day. Then, he’d intertwine your increasingly cold fingers with his as he told you how Youngjae had fallen in a very comical way while they were training for a very important competition.

And when he thought no one was watching, he’d let a couple of tears fall, asking the universe to let you wake up.

As the cold weather set in, Kyungmin started wearing scarves and warm clothes. He came every day and asked Andrew, your nurse, if they’d noticed you were cold or if you’d moved at any point. The boy always shook his head and gave him one of his sad smiles. Just because he knew how much Kyungmin wanted you to open your eyes again.

No other teenager would have put up with it as long as he did, the nurse thought.

On Christmas Day, his mother accompanied him along with his two younger brothers after she had insisted so strongly on seeing you. She wanted to see the girl who had caused such a stir in her son’s life. Even if you were in that condition.

They had argued about it, shouting so loudly that neither of his two little brothers understood, but in the end, Kyungmin gave in. He just wanted to spend Christmas with you. The rest, he had decided, didn’t matter to him anymore.

Your parents were already there when they arrived. Your mother was holding your hand in hers while your father carved a piece of lamb.

“Oh, Kyungmin-ah, son, how are you?” your mother asked, smiling slightly as he opened the door and poked his head in. With each passing day, she seemed to age a little more.

The boy gave them a weary smile, like someone who holds onto hope in his heart and fights against those who don’t.

“We’re getting by, Mrs. Shin. We’re still here,” he replied. “I’ve brought my family; I hope they don’t bother you guys.”

Your father shook his head, waving his hand. “Not at all, not at all. The more, the merrier. Besides, you’re part of our family now, too.” He smiled, his wrinkles deepening.

Kyungmin swallowed hard. His smile widened a bit. “Thank you, sir.”

The afternoon was normally quiet, but that room where you were sleeping filled with laughter and delicious food. Deep down, the boy had wished you’d wake up then, because that way you’d experience the love of everyone there. He hoped that way you’d realize you didn’t have to be a seagull to be happy. That happiness was sometimes closer than you expected.

However, that day you didn’t open your eyes. You didn’t even move.

Kyungmin tried not to let his disappointment show, but on the way home, when his mother put her arm around his shoulders and pulled him close, he let a couple of tears fall from his eyes.

He missed you.

He wished he could have told you sooner how much he loved you.

When Seungwoo asked him later at home why you were like that—not moving or laughing like you used to—Kyungmin didn’t know what to say. What do you say to a kid as young as him? He let his mother handle it while he escaped to his room.

You were in limbo, he replied inwardly. Although more like outside of it.

That thought hurt him, no matter how much he wanted to hide it.

If only fate weren’t so cruel.

—

The warmth returned, the cherry trees began to bloom, and the school year was coming to an end. It was spring again. The seagulls were returning from their long journey, and Kyungmin hoped you would, too. The teacher’s increasingly boring lectures prompted him to look out the window. Sometimes he thought about what he was going to eat later, other times about the ducks, and other times he wondered what would happen if you were sitting next to him then. He wondered if you’d be absentmindedly playing with your pencil like the girl sitting next to him, or if, on the contrary, you’d be paying attention to everything the teacher said. He bet you’d be just like him. Looking out the window and thinking about the philosophical things you always thought about.

He wished you were there to tell him all your thoughts. He wished you could have lived a normal life.

He wished.

—

With the arrival of summer, everything started to feel more nostalgic. It was, after all, the time when he’d met you. The time when he’d decided to get myself into that whole mess. The time when he’d fallen head over heels for you—all because of a beach ball. And even if I were back in that moment with you, Kyungmin wouldn’t have changed a thing. No, because you’d been a wonderful experience. And he still loved you.

Maybe that’s why he still hadn’t read the letter your father had given him some time ago. Maybe he wanted to wait for you to tell him in person.

Maybe.

That day, Kyungmin couldn’t stop by the hospital because he had to urgently turn in a final paper. He planned to tell you everything the next day, hold your hand, and talk and talk about how your professor was a pain in the neck and how glad he was not to have to see his face again for a few months. Maybe he’d even bring his guitar and sing a little for you, as a celebration.

That was the plan. Really.

What he didn’t expect was to arrive at the hospital the next day, ask about you, and have everyone look down. He didn’t expect to walk down the hallways, with a sense of foreboding in his chest, and see that your name was no longer on your room. And, of course, he didn’t expect to walk through the door and find that you weren’t in bed.

You weren’t sleeping.

You weren’t awake either—your father would have told him.

And the fact that you weren’t there… could only mean one thing: you were gone.

You had left. Once and for all.

Tears welled up in his eyes and soon streamed down his cheeks like a waterfall.

It couldn’t be.

It couldn’t be.

You had to wake up. You’d promised him you’d always be with him. That you’d see each other the next day, every day. You’d promised him that.

You couldn’t… you couldn’t just disappear like that. You couldn’t.

Why hadn’t they been able to save you? Why had he been so useless? Why?

He fell to his knees on the floor, forgetting to close the door behind him. He no longer cared if anyone saw him crying. You weren’t here. There was no one to smile for.

The sobs came quickly, followed by desperate pounding on the floor. His whole body was shaking. Tremendingly. Like someone who was freezing—freezing, in this case, because of a broken heart.

“Why?” he kept repeating in his mind.

He remembered the afternoons spent laughing, splashing around. Having a good time together. Playing the guitar or just vibing to the music. He remembered the soft touch of your lips on his.

When had he gotten there? When had he lost you like that? Because you’d been there before, right there with him; and suddenly, you weren’t. You would never laugh again, nor would you ever have the chance to. You’d vanished completely from his life. Because all that remained of you was a couple of wilted flowers and a neatly made bed. A bed where you’d once been.

Kyungmin cried and cried and cried. What else could a teenager like him do?

He didn’t want to think, because the tightness in his chest grew worse every time he thought about how he’d lost you forever. His heart was being squeezed, and his chest ached. It hurt too much. He wanted to scream, to let it all out like crazy, but his voice got lost somewhere between his mouth and his throat.

If only you’d had more time, if only… if only he hadn’t been such a coward and had made the most of every moment, maybe he’d feel better now. Better with him, or better with you. Because he would have given you something to be happy about.

He wished you’d stayed with him, just a little longer.

He just wished.

—

The funeral was held at three. There weren’t many people there. According to what your parents had told him, you didn’t have many friends. Everyone there was family. Beloved family, it seemed. But Kyungmin didn’t give a damn who was there or who wasn’t. He didn’t care anymore.

The one who should have been there was you. Not them.

The ceremony went by quickly. Too quickly. Because when he saw you in that wooden coffin, he realized that, indeed, you were gone. He realized you’d never be back. This time for real. It wasn’t a dream; there were no more chances. You were just… gone.

And it hurt him so much that no one felt the same way he did. That no one seemed to be truly devastated like he was. It hurt him to think that the pain he felt was all his own, because he knew you deserved more. That you deserved the whole world.

Kyungmin leaned on his mother’s shoulder while your father said a few words in your honor. By the second word, his voice cracked, and your mother started to cry too. Kyungmin followed suit—why lie?—burying his head in his mother’s chest and sobbing from time to time.

He’d known you for so long, and yet for such a short time… But he already missed you.

I just wished you’d come out of the coffin and tell him that all of this had been a joke. Even Kyungmin had thought about getting out his guitar and playing “I Have a Dream” for you so you’d come out of it.

But once we were there, at the funeral home, it all felt so real…

When your father finished speaking, it was time for Kyungmin to come out. He walked awkwardly toward the podium and, in front of that small crowd, began to speak, holding back his tears as best he could:

“Hello. I’m Lee Kyungmin. (Name) was very special to me. She still is. Today, just about 96 hours after she left, I already miss her.” He sallowed hard. “I met (Name) at the beach, on a day just like this one a year ago. Exactly like today. A terrible wind was blowing, and my brother’s ball flew right up to her feet. Looking back on it, I must have seemed a little strange to her, but I can say that to me, she was one of the most beautiful girls I’d ever seen. She still is.” Your father’s sob echoed throughout the room, even as he smiled at Kyungmin with all the kindness in his heart. “That’s why, instead of continuing with words—which I’m not good at—I’d like to follow up with a song I played for her one of the first times we met.” He continued, sitting up straight in his chair, guitar in hand, as the first chord echoed throughout the room. “It’s called ‘Remember Me,’” he whispered into the microphone.

From there, the first notes, followed by the first lines, began to play. Because Kyungmin, with teary eyes, was the one playing them.

Because he knew how much you wanted to be remembered.

And maybe you weren’t there to see it, but once he reunited with you (a long time from now), he’d tell you how everyone in the room sang along with him for that minute and a half.

How voices broke halfway through the song, and how those who hadn’t cried until then let a single tear fall.

He’d tell you how, that day, everyone remembered you. And how, in the days that followed, Kyungmin would remember you. All of them. Even when he least expected it, you’d be with him. He knew it when he played that song. He knew it when people offered their condolences. He knew it when your ashes were scattered into the sea, on that tiny beach where you’d first met. His favorite spot.

Your spot. And yours alone.

————————————————————

The boy strummed a few chords on his guitar, accompanied only by Tao, who was asleep at his feet. That day, he’d just read your letter. He’d cried, yes. Only the universe knew how much.

Only you, him, and the universe would know what it said, too. Kyungmin snorted.

Seagulls flew overhead, on their way to other beaches to visit. One in particular caught his attention. A tiny one, surrounded by the rest, that seemed to be having a little more trouble flying. It must be a chick, he thought.

A smile escaped his lips. He found it amusing to think of you.

“Have a safe trip, (Name),” he whispered. “I hope you find the freedom you’re looking for.”

© jellyluvsjihoon 2026. do not copy or repost. ask to translate. (cr for the dividers to @strangergraphics)