KT

The journey back to Lunara took three days.

You spent most of it staring out the carriage window, watching the landscape change from grey neutrality to the familiar silver blue of your homeland. The roads grew smoother, the trees more familiar, the air somehow tasting like home even through the closed carriage windows.

Minho sat across from you, his long legs stretched out, his eyes closed in pretend sleep. You knew he wasn’t sleeping, his breathing was too even, too controlled, but you didn’t call him on it. Some conversations could wait.

In your lap, wrapped carefully in silk, lay the silver brooch Hyunjin had given you.

You’d looked at it a hundred times since that night. Turned it over in your hands, traced the points of the star with your fingertip, wondered what it meant that he’d given you something so personal.

‘It was my mothers’, he had said.

You hadn’t asked what happened to her. You hadn’t asked why he was giving it away. You hadn’t asked anything, because asking would mean caring, and caring was dangerous.

The brooch sat on your lap, warm through the silk, and you didn’t know what to do with it.

You didn’t know what to do with any of this.

—

The first week back at Lunara Palace, your rooms felt different when you returned.

Everything was the same, the heavy velvet curtains around your bed, the writing by the window, the wardrobe full of gowns in every shade of blue and silver, but it all felt smaller somehow. Like you’d outgrown it without noticing.

You stood at your window on the first morning back, watching the sun rise over the cherry trees. They were still bare, still waiting for spring, but you could see the smallest buds forming on their branches. Life, prepping to return.

A knock on your door.

“Come in.” You called, not turning from the window.

The door opened and closed. Footsteps crossed the room, then stopped.

“You’re staring at nothing again.” Minto observed from behind you.

“I’m looking at the trees,” you corrected, still not turning.

“You’re thinking about him.”

You turned then, one eyebrow raised. “Am I?”

Minho leaned against your bedpost, arms crossed over his chest. He wore his formal attire today, with his dark hair neatly combed , which meant he had council duties soon. “You’ve been holding that brooch every time I see you.” 

Your hand went instinctively to your dress pocket, where the brooch rested. You hadn’t even realised you’d reached for it.

“That’s not-“ you started.

“It’s okay,” Minho interrupted quietly. “I’m not going to tell you what to feel. I just…” he paused, running a hand through his hair. “Be careful. That’s all I'm saying.”

“You’ve said that before,” you reminded him.

“And I’ll say it again.” He pushed off from the bed post and crossed to the door. “Council in an hour. Don’t be late.”

He left before you could respond.

You turned back to the window, your hand still in your pocket, your fingers tracing the points of the star.

Be careful.

Too late for that, maybe.

—

Two weeks after the betrothal.

Life at Lunara Palace settled back into it's familiar rhythm.

Mornings were for council meetings, where you sat silently while older men argued about things that would be irrelevant in a year. Afternoons were for training, sword work with Serra, your captain of the guard, or archery in the frozen courtyard, your breath misting as you released arrow after arrow at targets that never moved.

Evenings were the hardest.

You ate dinner with your father most nights, the two of you sitting at opposite ends of a table long enough for twenty people. Minho joined when he could, but his duties often kept him away. So you sat alone with your father, neither of you speaking, the silence broken only by the clink of silverware.

On the tenth night, your father spoke.

“You haven’t asked about him.”

You looked up from your plate. “About who?”

“The Solaria Prince.” Your father set down his fork. “Your future husband. You haven’t asked a single question since we returned.”

You considered lying. Decided against it. “What would I ask?”

“If he’s cruel. If he’s kind. If he'll treat you well.” Your fathers voice was carefully neutral. “Those seem like reasonable questions.”

You thought about the fountain. The moon light. The way he’d said if you would like to have something of mine. Something real.

“I don’t think he’s cruel.” You said quietly.

Your father studied you for a long moment. Then he picked up his fork and returned to his meal.

Nothing else was said.

But that night, lying in bed, you found yourself reaching for the brooch on your nightstand. You held it up to the moonlight, watching it glimmer, and wondered if he was looking at the same moon.

You wondered if he thought about you at all.

—

Three weeks after the betrothal, the first letter arrived.

It arrived on a cloudy morning, brought by a Solaria messenger who bowed low in the courtyard and refused to leave until you opened it.

You retreated to your chambers, your heart pounding for reasons you refused to examine, and broke the seal.

The paper was heavy, expensive, and edged in gold. The handwriting was elegant, clearly practiced, every curve deliberate.

-

Princess y/n,

I hope this letter finds you well. The fortress feels emptier without your silent presence in the gardens. I’ve sat on “your” end of the fountain twice now, just to see if it feels different. It does. I’m not sure why I’m telling you this.

My father has begun wedding preparations in earnest. The entire palace is in chaos. Servants running everywhere, fabrics being hauled in for your gown, menus debated endlessly. I’ve hidden in my rooms to escape it.

I thought you should know that I’m still not sleeping. The corridors here are too quiet. Or maybe they’re too loud. I can’t decide.

Christopher says I should write something romantic. 

Changbin says I should write something practical.

Jisung says I should write something funny. 

I’m ignoring all of them and writing this instead.

I don’t know what I’m doing.

Hyunjin.

-

You read the letter four times.

Then you folded it carefully, placed it in the box where you kept your mothers things, and sat staring at the wall for an hour.

—

That night, you wrote back.

It took six attempts. You crumpled each one and threw it into the fire, watching the flames consume your words.

The seventh attempt, you kept.

-

Prince Hyunjin,

The “my” end of the fountain is the left side. I sat there first, so it’s mine, you can have the right.

Lunara is quiet. Quieter than the fortress, somehow. I spend my days in council meetings where no one listens to me and my evenings eating dinner alone at a table meant for forty people. Minho sits with me occasionally when he can, but he is busy being protective and terrifying on my behalf.

I don’t know what I am doing either.

Y/N

-

—

You sealed it before you could change your mind.

—

The reply came fast.

-

Princess Y/N,

The right side of the fountain is colder. I’m convinced you chose the left on purpose.

I’ve started sleeping again. Not well, but enough. I have started wondering if that is because of your letter. I am choosing not to examine that too closely.

My father wants to know your favourite foods, your favourite colours, and your favourite flowers. He is taking this wedding planning very seriously as you can see. I’ve now started hiding in the library.

Christopher says to tell you he remembers you fondly and hopes that you are well. Changbin says nothing, which is his way of saying he’s watching. Jisung asks every day if you’ve written back yet. I’ve threatened to have him reassigned to the northern border.

Do not write back too quickly. I don’t want to seem eager.

Hyunjin.

P,S- I am lying. Write back quickly.

—

The letters become routine. 

They arrived every three or four days, carried by messengers who had grown accustomed to the journey between kingdoms. You kept them all in the box with your mother’s things, though you’d never admit to anyone how often you re-read them.

Hyunjin wrote about everything and nothing. The chaos of wedding preparations, his father’s increasingly ridiculous demands, Chan’s terrible advice, Changbin's silent judgement and Jisung’s inability to stop talking about you.

You wrote about council meetings and archery practice. About Minho's overprotectiveness and your fathers silence and about the cherry trees finally beginning to bud.

Neither of you wrote about your feelings.

Neither of you had to.

—

This letter arrived differently this time.

You knew something was wrong the moment you saw the messenger's face. Pale, nervous and shifting from foot to foot as he waited for your response.

You broke the seal standing in the courtyard, not waiting to reach your rooms.

-

Y/N,

Something happened. I do not know how to write, so I will just say it.

There was a gathering last night, another kingdom’s delegation passed through, some minor lord from the Eastern Territories, here to pay respects. He brought his daughter.

Her name is Seo Yuna. She is beautiful. She is charming. She spent the entire evening at my side, laughing at my jokes, touching my arm and looking at me like I'm the only person in the room.

My father encouraged it. He did not say it outright, but I could see it in his eyes, the calculation, the consideration. She is from a smaller kingdom, yes, but wealthy. Connected, her family has the resources we need.

He did not say the wedding is off. He did not say anything about replacing you. But he looked at her, and then he looked at me, and I saw him thinking.

I do not know why I am telling you this. I do not know what I expect you to do with it.

I needed you to know.

Hyunjin.

-

You read over the letter three times.

Your hands were shaking.

You told yourself it was anger. Just anger. Just the natural reaction to being replaced, to being discarded before you’d even arrive.

You told yourself that.

You almost believed it.

—

You wrote back that night. Your handwriting was less careful than usual, the letters slightly uneven.

-

Hyunjin,

Thank you for telling me.

I do not know what to do with this information. I do not know what it means for us, for the alliance, for any of it. I just know that I sat here for an hour reading your letter, and I couldn’t move, and I do not know why.

Is she still there?

Y/N

—

The reply came in two days

-

Y/N,

She left this morning. I made sure of it.

I had told my father that I am betrothed. That the alliance with Lunara is more valuable than anything the Eastern Territories could offer, that I would not be paraded around like a prize while negotiations continue behind my back.

He was not happy. But he agreed.

I thought you should know.

Hyunjin

P.S— I know why you could not move. I could not either, when I saw the way my father looked at her, when I realised what he was thinking.

P.P.S— Do not read too much into that. I am not supposed to care. Neither are you.

-

—

You did not write for a week after that. 

Nor did he.

The silence stretched between you like a wound, and you told yourself it was fine. Better, even. Less complicated.

You threw yourself into training. Serra commented that you'd never been more focused. Minho watched you with knowing eyes and said nothing.

At night, you lay awake and stared at the ceiling and thought about a woman named Seo Yuna. Beautiful, charming. Touching his arm, looking at him like he was the only person in the room.

You hated her.

You had no right to hate her. You knew that. You’d known Hyunjin for barely a week, exchanged letters for barely a month, shared nothing but a few conversations on a frozen fountain.

But you hated her anyway.

—

The Solaria delegation arrived without warning.

You were in the archery courtyard when the messenger came. A young man out of breath, his words tumbling over each other. The prince. Here. With his retinue. For a preliminary wedding discussion.

You lowered your bow. Your heart did something complicated I. Your chest.

“Now?” You asked.

“Now, your Highness.” The messenger confirmed.

You handed your bow to Serra and walked inside, your gown, simple today, pale blue wool, practical for training, suddenly feeling inadequate. Your hair was pulled back in a practical knot. There was dirt on your sleeves from where you’d knelt to retrieve arrows.

No time to change. No time to prepare.

No time to figure out why your hands were shaking.

—

You found them in the great hall.

Your father sat on his throne, expression carefully neutral. Minho stood at his right hand, arms crossed, already radiating hostility. And before them stood the Solaria delegation.

Christopher, with his easy smile and watchful eyes. Changbin, silent and assessing. Jisung, bouncing slightly on his heels, beaming the moment he saw you.

And Hyunjin.

He looked different than you remembered. Older, somehow. More tired. His formal clothes were perfect as always. Red and cold, fitted perfectly, his hair styles with an inch of it's life, but there were shadows under his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

His eyes found yours the moment you entered.

Neither of you spoke.

You crossed the hall, your steps measured, your hands clasped in front of you to hide their trembling. You stopped a few feet away and inclined your head.

“Prince Hyunjin.” You said formally.

“Princess y/n.” He replied, just as formal.

But his eyes said something else entirely.

—

The welcome dinner was agony.

You sat at the high table, your father at the center, Hyunjin to his right and you to his left. The arrangement meant you couldn’t see Hyunjin without leaning forward, and couldn't speak to him without everyone listening.

Minho sat further down the table, close enough to watch, far enough to pretend he wasn’t.

The meal dragged on. Course after course. Conversation that went nowhere. Your father is asking careful questions about Solaria. Hyunjin answered with dual care, giving nothing away.

You said nothing, ate nothing. Just pushed food around your plate and tried not to stare.

Then she arrived.

A late addition to the dinner, a noblewoman from a neighbouring territory p, invited by your father without warning. She swept into the hall in a gown of deep green, her hair artfully arranged, her smile perfectly calibrated.

Lady Ari. Beautiful, polished and exactly the kind of woman who belonged at these events.

Your father introduced her to Hyunjin.

She sat beside him.

She talked to him, laughed at his jokes, touched his arm when she made a point and leaned in close to whisper something that made him smile.

You watched.

You watched her hand on his sleeve. You watched the way he inclined his head to hear her better, you watched her laugh bright and musical, and you watched him respond.

Your grip tightened on your fork until your knuckles went white.

You told yourself it was nothing. A dinner conversation with her, a friendly exchange. Nothing more.

You told yourself that.

You almost believed it.

—

After dinner, you escaped to the gardens.

 The cherry trees had finally bloomed. Pale pink blossoms covering every branch, filling the air with their delicate scent. You walked among them, your gown lifting slightly up with each step. You had to hold the skirt up in one hand to keep it from dragging through the damp grass, the fabric heavy and smooth again pet your fingers.

The fountain at the garden center was running again, water catching the moonlight as it fell. You sat on the edge, the left side, always the left side, and stared at nothing.

Footsteps on the path.

You didn’t turn.

“You disappeared.” Hyunjin said from behind you.

“So did you.” You replied.

He circled around and sat on the right side of the fountain. Close enough to talk. Far enough to be proper.

“Lady Ari is very charming.” You said, your voice carefully neutral.

“She’s very something.” He agreed.

“Your father would approve.”

“My father approves of anyone with political value.” A pause. “Yours seems to agree.”

You turned to look at him. In the moonlight, his face was harder to read than usual.

“What do you mean by that?” You asked.

“I mean he seated her next to me, he introduced her specifically. I mean-“ Hyunjin stopped, running a hand through his hair. “I mean it felt deliberate.”

You considered this. “My father doesn’t do anything by accident.”

“Nor does mine.”

Silence fell between you.

You should have let it go. You should have changed the subject, moved on, pretended you hadn’t noticed anything.

Instead. “She touched your arm.”

Hyunjin blinked. “What?”

“Lady Ari. She touched your arm. Multiple times.” Your voice was flat. Controlled. “You didn’t move away.”

He stared at you for a long moment. Then slowly, his lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Are you jealous princess?” He asked.

“No.” You said too quickly.

“You are.” His voice was soft. Wondering. “You’re jealous.”

“I am observant. There’s a difference.”

“Y/n.” He said your name like it was something precious. “Look at me.”

You didn’t want to. You did anyway.

His eyes were dark in the moonlight, unreadable and warm all at once.

“I didn’t move away,” he said quietly, “because I was trying to be polite. Because I was in a foreign court, representing my kingdom, and causing a scene would have been disastrous.” He paused. “Also because I was too busy watching you watch her, and I couldn’t figure out why you looked like you wanted to stab someone with your cutlery.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it.

“I don’t-“ you started.

“I know,” he interrupted gently. “Neither do I.”

The water fell behind him, catching the light, filling the silence between you.

“I wrote you every day for a week after she left.” He said quietly. “I didn’t send any of them. They were all about you. About how much I-“ he stopped, shook his head. “Never mind.”

“How much you what?” You pressed.

He looked at you. Really looked like he was trying to memorise your face.

“How much I wished you were there instead.”

—

That night.

You didn’t sleep.

You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his words echoing in your head.

‘How much I wished you were there instead’

You reached for the brooch on your nightstand, held it up to the moonlight. Tracing the points of the star with your thumb.

Somewhere in the palace, in one of the guest rooms, he was probably doing the same thing.

You wondered if he was thinking about you.

You hoped he was.

—

The delegation stayed for five days.

Five days of formal meals and informal moments. Five days of stolen glances across crowded rooms. Five days of finding excuses to be in the same place at the same time.

On the third day, you walked together in the cherry orchard.

He wore simple clothes. No formal coat this time. You wore a gown of pale lavender, light enough for the spring weather, your hand lifting the hem slightly as you walked to avoid dew on the grass.

“The trees are beautiful.” He said.

“They’re my favourite part of the palace.” You admitted.

“I can see why.”

You walked in silence for a while. Comfortable silence. The kind that felt like something.

“Y/n,” he said finally.

You stopped and turned to face him.

“I need to tell you something,” he continued. “Before the wedding. Before any of this goes further.”

Your heart stopped. “What?”

He took a breath.

“I don’t want this to be just political,” he admitted. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life pretending with you.” He met your eyes. “I know we are supposed to hate each other. I know this was forced on both of us. But I-“ he paused, searching for words. “I don’t hate you, I don’t think I ever could.”

You stared at him.

“Hyunjin-“

“You don’t have to say anything,” he interrupted quickly. “I just needed you to know. Before we do this…before we are married.” He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the way his pulse beat in his throat. “I am not expecting anything. I am not asking for anything I just-“

You kissed him.

It was quick. Barely a press of lips. Over before it really began.

You pulled back, your heart pounding.

He looked stunned.

“I don’t hate you either.” You whispered.

For a long moment, he just stared at you.

Then he smiled brightly. The most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

“Good,” he said softly. “That’s…good.”

—

The delegation left the next morning.

You stood in the courtyard, watching them prepare to depart. Hyunjin stood by his horse, talking quietly with Chan. Jisung waved at you enthusiastically from across the courtyard. Changbin nodded once, formally.

Hyunjin crossed to you.

“Two weeks.” He muttered.

“Two weeks.” You agreed.

“I will write.”

“You’d better.”

He smiled, reached out and touched your hand. Just for a second, just long enough to feel the warmth of his fingers.

Then he was gone.

You stood in the courtyard long after the last carriage disappeared, your hand still warm where he had touched it.

Two weeks.

Two weeks until everything changed.

—

The night before the wedding.

You couldn’t sleep.

Your wedding gown hung on a stand by the window. The whole dress gleamed in the moonlight. Your mother’s pendant rested on the nightstand, next to Hyunjin's brooch.

Minho sat in the chair by your fireplace, watching you pace.

“You are going to wear a hole in the floor.” He observed.

“I am not pacing.” You lied, continuing to pace.

He raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Finally, you stopped and turned to face him.

“What if I am making a mistake?” You said quietly.

Minho considered this. “Are you?”

“I don’t know.” You say on the edge of your bed, twisting your hands in your lap. “I don’t know anything anymore. I started this hating him. I was supposed to keep hating him. And now-“ you shook your head. “Now I don’t know what I feel.”

Minho was quiet for a long moment.

Then he stood. Crossed to you. Sat beside you on the bed.

“Do you trust him?” He asked.

You thought about it. Thought about frozen fountains and stolen moments. Thought about letters and brooches and whispered confessions.

“Yes.” You said. “I think I do.”

Minho nodded slowly. “Then that’s enough.”

“Is it?”

“It has to be.” He pulled you into a hug, tight and warm. “I’ll still be watching, though. If he hurts you-“

“You’ll start a way.” You finished for him.

“Exactly.”

You laughed. It came out wet.

“Go to sleep.” Minho said softly. “Tomorrow’s the first day of the rest of your life.”

He left.

You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, your hand wrapped around Hyunjin's brooch.

Tomorrow.

—

You woke before the sun.

For a long moment, you simply lay there, staring at the canopy above your bed. The velvet was deep red, embroidered with silver thread your mother had chosen years ago when she’d redecorated these rooms as a birthday gift to you. You’d woken up under this canopy thousands of times over the years, watching the light shift across it from dawn to dusk, tracing the patterns with your eyes when you couldn’t sleep. This was the last time.

Today, everything changed.

You sat up slowly, the blankets pooling around your waist. Your nightgown was simple white linen, wrinkled from sleep, the fabric soft against your skin from years of washing. One strap had slipped down your shoulder, and you pushed it back up absently, your fingers lingering on the warm skin there. Through the gap in your heavy curtains, you could see the first pale light of dawn creeping across the sky, painting the clouds in shades of pink and gold that slowly brightened as you watched. Your bare feet found the cold stone floor, and you winced slightly at the chill, curling your toes against it before reaching for the soft slippers beside your bed. You slipped them on one at a time, the fur lining warm against your cold soles.

A knock at your door.

You paused, one hand still on the bedpost. “Come in.” You called, your voice rough with sleep.

The door opened and Kim Seungmin entered, carrying his leather medical basket. He was young for a royal physician, only twenty four, but he’d proven himself countless times in the years he’d served your family. His dark hair was neatly combed, his formal robes immaculate despite the early hour, and his spectacles sat perfectly on his nose. He bowed slightly as he entered, the morning light catching the lenses.

“Good morning, Your Highness.” He said quietly, crossing to your writing desk and setting his bag down. He pulled out the small wooden device for listening to your heart, along with a few other items you didn’t recognise. Small vials, a cloth, something metal that glinted. “I’m here to check on you before the festivities begin.”

“I’m fine.” You assured him, pulling your knees up towards your chest and wrapping your arms around them. The other slipper dangled from your fingers for a moment before you set it aside.

“I’m sure you are.” He motioned for you to straighten, his expression patient but firm. “But your brother would have my head if I did not do this properly. You know how he gets. He cornered me yesterday and gave me a very detailed list of everything that could go wrong. Please?”

You sighed but held still while he worked, setting aside your slipper and uncrossing your legs. The device was cold against your skin through the thin fabric of your nightgown, and you shivered slightly, your fingers gripping the edge of the bed. He moved it to different spots on your chest, listening carefully, his brow furrowed in concentration. The room was silent except for his breathing and the distant sound of birds beginning to wake outside.

"Your heart is racing," Seungmin observed, not looking up from his work. His voice was calm, professional.

"I'm getting married today," you pointed out dryly, one hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. The loose hair was sleep-tangled and messy, and you made a mental note to have the maids do something with it.

"That would do it." He packed his things away, snapping the leather bag closed with practiced efficiency.

"Try to eat something at breakfast. The ceremony is long and you'll need your strength. I've seen brides faint before during the vows, and I'd rather it not be you. The last one took hours to recover and missed her own reception entirely. Very sad. Lots of wasted food."

He left before you could respond, his footsteps fading down the corridor, the sound of them echoing off the stone walls until there was nothing but silence.

You sat on the edge of your bed, both slippers on now, your bare feet no longer cold but your hands still trembling slightly. You pressed them flat against the mattress and tried to remember how to breathe. In and out. In and out. The rhythm felt foreign, like your body had forgotten how.

—

The next hours passed in a blur.

Servants arrived with trays of food you couldn't eat. They set them on your writing desk, bread still warm from the ovens, soft cheese, fresh fruit glistening with dew, a pot of tea that steamed in the cool morning air. The smell should have been inviting, should have made your stomach growl, but you felt nothing but a hollow emptiness. 

You managed a few bites of bread, a sip of tea, but your stomach churned too much for more. You pushed the tray away, the wood scraping against your desk, and one of the servants whisked it away without comment, her face carefully blank.

Then came the bathing.

The royal bath was a large stone basin sunk into the floor of the room adjoining your chambers, fed by hot springs deep beneath the palace. Steam rose from the surface in gentle curls, carrying the scent of jasmine and rose. Petals floated on the water, white and pink and pale blue, scattered like confetti.

 You tested it with one foot first, the heat shocking against your skin, then lowered yourself in slowly, the water rising around you inch by inch. The heat seeped into your muscles, loosening the tension you'd been carrying for weeks, for months, maybe for years.

The servants worked around you, one washing your hair with gentle fingers, working jasmine-scented oil through the lengths until it shone like silk. Another scrubbed your skin with soft cloths and salts, exfoliating until you glowed. A third rubbed more oils into your limbs after you emerged, jasmine and something else, something floral and warm, until you felt like silk draped over bone. You stood there, naked and vulnerable, and let them transform you.

You closed your eyes and thought about him.

Was he bathing too, in some faraway room in the Solaria wing of the palace? Were servants attending him, preparing him the same way? Was he standing in his own bath, steam rising around him, thinking about you? Was he nervous? Was his heart racing like yours? Was he thinking about you, about last night, about the kiss you'd shared in the cherry orchard? About the way his hand had felt in yours, the way he'd whispered your name like a prayer, the way his eyes had looked in the moonlight?

You hoped he was.

—

The gown took almost an hour to put on.

It was white silk, layers and layers of it, each one lighter than the last but somehow heavier together. The underslip went first, soft and simple against your skin, falling to your ankles. Then the main bodice, fitted and boned, embroidered with tiny pearls and silver thread in patterns that mimicked the stars your mother used to point out to you as a child, Orion's belt, the North Star, constellations you'd learned at her knee. 

Then the overskirt, flowing and translucent, caught up at the sides with more pearls that clinked softly when you moved. Then the train, attached at your shoulders, pooling on the floor behind you like liquid moonlight, like water frozen in place.

The sleeves were long and sheer, gathered at the wrist with more pearls that caught the light with every movement. When you lifted your arms, the fabric floated around you like wings. The skirt flowed out around you, heavy and beautiful and completely impractical. When you walked, you had to lift the front slightly with one hand to keep from tripping, the fabric pooling around your feet with every step, dragging against the stone.

A maid pinned your hair up carefully, twisting it into an elaborate arrangement that left a few strands loose to frame your face. She used silver pins shaped like stars, each one placed with precision, her fingers quick and sure. 

Another maid applied your makeup, a light dusting of powder, a touch of color to your lips, something to darken your lashes so your eyes stood out. You watched in the mirror as your face transformed into something almost unrecognizable, a princess from a story, a bride from a painting.

Your mother's pendant rested against your collarbone, warm from your skin, the moonstone catching the light and throwing tiny rainbows across the wall. Beside it, pinned to the bodice of your gown just over your heart, was Hyunjin's silver brooch, the star-shaped one he'd given you after the betrothal, the one that had been his mother's. You'd worn it every day since that night, hidden under your clothes where no one could see. Now it was visible, displayed proudly for everyone.

You touched it gently, tracing the points with your fingertip, and felt your throat tighten.

"It's traditional for the bride's family to help her dress," one of the servants said quietly, adjusting your sleeve where it had slipped. Her voice was soft, respectful. "Shall we send for them, Your Highness?"

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

—

Your father arrived first.

He stood in the doorway of your chambers, still in his formal robes, deep blue velvet with silver embroidery, his crown resting on his grey-streaked hair. He simply looked at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. His hands hung at his sides, then clasped behind his back, then dropped again. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, something you'd never seen him do before. But something in his eyes shifted, softened, became something you hadn't seen in years, since before your mother died, maybe. Since you were small, he would carry you on his shoulders through the gardens.

"You look like her," he said quietly. His voice was rough, like he hadn't used it in hours, like the words had to fight their way out. "Your mother. When I married her."

You didn't know what to say. Your throat tightened further, and you had to look away for a moment, blinking rapidly against the burn in your eyes. Your fingers found the edge of your sleeve and worried at the fabric, twisting the sheer material between them.

He crossed the room slowly, his footsteps heavy against the stone. Each step seemed to take effort, like he was walking through water, like the distance between you was greater than it appeared. When he reached you, he reached out and touched your mother's pendant where it rested against your collarbone. His fingers were rough, calloused from years of sword work, but they were gentle against the silver. So gentle. He traced the edge of it like he was remembering.

"She'd be proud of you," he said. His eyes met yours, and for once there was no wall between you, no grief holding him back. "I am too."

Your throat tightened further, a lump forming that made it hard to swallow. "Father-"

“I know I haven’t been…” he paused, searching for words. His hands dropped to his side, then came up again, hovering like he wanted to touch your shoulder but wasn’t sure if he should. “I know I haven’t been what you needed. After she died. I couldn’t—“ he stopped . Started over. “I couldn’t look at you without seeing her. So I stopped looking. I stopped…everything.”

A tear escaped, rolling down your cheeks. You wiped it away quickly with the back of your hand, careful not to disturb your makeup. The silk of your sleeve was soft against your skin.

“I’m sorry.” Be whispered. “I am so sorry.”

You reached out and took his hand. Squeezed it. His fingers wrapped around yours, holding on like you might disappear, like if he let go you’d vanish into the morning light.

“I know.” You said softly.

He squeezed back.

—

Minho arrived next.

He burst through the door without knocking as always, and stopped dead when he saw you. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again. His hand, which had been reaching for the door handle, dropped to his side. He just stood there, staring.

“Wow.” He said finally.

“Wow?” You repeated, one eyebrow raised. Your free hand came up to adjust a strand of hair that had escaped it's pin.

“You look…” he gestured vaguely, his hand waving in the air like he could pluck the right word from it. “Like a princess. A real one. The kind in stories. The kind with dragons and true love and all that. The kind that princes fight wars over.”

“I am a princess.” You reminded him, a small smile tugging at your lips despite everything.

“Yeah, but now you look like one.” He crossed the room and pulled you into a hug, careful of your gown, careful of your hair, careful of everything. His arms wrapped around you tight, and you felt his breath against your hair, warm and familiar. "You look beautiful," he murmured. "Mother would have cried."

You hugged him back, your arms wrapping around his waist, your face pressed against his chest. The fabric of his uniform was rough against your cheek, and you could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath it. "Don't make me cry," you whispered. "I'll ruin my makeup. It took an hour."

He pulled back, grinning. His eyes were bright, but no tears fell. "Can't have that. The peacock prince is waiting."

"Minho," you warned, your tone sharp but not serious.

"What? He's a peacock." He shrugged, but his expression sobered. "A very dramatic, very annoying peacock who's about to marry my sister." He paused, his eyes searching yours. "Be happy, okay? That's all I want. If he makes you unhappy, I'll kill him. But if he makes you happy-“ He shrugged again. "Then I'll only threaten to kill him occasionally."

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

He hugged you again, quick and fierce, then stepped back.

"Let's go," he said. "Your future husband is waiting."

—

The walk to the great hall felt endless.

You processed through the corridors of your own palace, transformed now with silver and blue decorations for the wedding. Garlands of white flowers draped every doorway, their petals soft and fragrant. Blue ribbons wound around every pillar, catching the light from the windows. Candles flickered in every sconce, even though the morning sun streamed through the windows in golden shafts, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the air.

Servants lined the walls, bowing as you passed. You saw their faces flicker with emotion, awe, joy, a few tears wiped away on sleeves. Courtiers watched from doorways, their whispers following you like a wave, rising and falling as you passed. Everyone wanted to see the bride.

You kept your eyes forward, one hand lifting the front of your gown slightly to keep from tripping over the endless layers of silk. The fabric was heavy in your grip, warm from your skin, and you had to adjust your hold every few steps as it threatened to slip. Each step was measured, careful, deliberate. Your heart pounded in your chest so hard you were sure everyone could hear it, could see it beating against the silver silk.

Felix walked before you, his formal uniform immaculate, his blonde hair visible even under his ceremonial helmet. He was one of your most trusted guards, handpicked by Minho years ago, and his presence was comforting. He moved with the easy grace of someone trained to fight, but his steps were slow, matched to yours. He glanced back once, offering a small smile.

"Almost there, Your Highness," he murmured over his shoulder, his voice soft and steady. "Just a little further. You're doing beautifully."

You nodded, not trusting your voice. Your grip on your skirts tightened.

—

The great hall doors loomed before you, massive and oak, carved with the history of your kingdom, battles won, treaties signed, kings and queens crowned over centuries. The wood was dark with age, the carvings worn smooth in places from countless hands touching them. They swung open slowly, the ancient hinges groaning, revealing the space beyond.

The hall had been transformed.

Silver and blue draped every surface, from the towering columns to the high ceiling. Flowers covered every available space, white roses, blue delphiniums, silver ribbons woven through arrangements so elaborate they took your breath away. Candles floated in bowls of water along the aisle, their flames reflected in the still surface, creating pools of light on the stone floor. The aisle stretched before you, long and endless, lined with guests from both kingdoms dressed in their finest.

At the end stood Hyunjin.

He wore red and gold, formal, perfect, his dark hair styled back from his face. His coat was deep crimson embroidered with golden thread, fitted perfectly to his frame. A golden chain hung at his throat, catching the light, and his hands were clasped in front of him. He looked like something out of a painting, like a prince from the stories Minho used to tell you as children, like everything you'd never let yourself hope for.

He was watching you.

You began to walk.

Each step felt like forever. The silk of your gown whispered against the stone floor, a soft hush with every movement. You kept your eyes on him, on his face, on the way his expression shifted as you drew closer. Something softened in his eyes. Something warmed. His hands, clasped in front of him, tightened slightly, then relaxed.

When you reached him, he held out his hand.

You took it.

—

The officiant's voice droned on, but you didn't hear the words.

You were too aware of Hyunjin's hand in yours. His fingers were warm, steady, holding on like he was afraid you'd disappear. His thumb traced small circles on the back of your hand, a rhythm only you could feel. The gold of his signet ring pressed against your skin, cool despite the warmth of the hall.

"—to unite these two kingdoms, these two houses, these two souls—"

You risked a glance at him.

He was already looking at you.

"—if anyone present objects, speak now or forever hold your peace."

Silence.

Hyunjin's thumb stilled on your hand.

"—by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife."

His grip tightened slightly.

"You may kiss your bride."

Hyunjin stepped closer.

His free hand came up to cup your face, gentle, careful, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. His skin was warm against yours. His eyes searched yours for a moment, asking permission, giving you every chance to pull away, to change your mind, to run.

You didn't.

He kissed you.

It wasn't like the last time, quick, stolen, barely there, hidden in the shadows of the cherry orchard with the moonlight as your only witness. This was slow. Deliberate. His lips were warm and soft, moving against yours like he had all the time in the world, like nothing else existed except this moment. One hand stayed on your face, the other found your waist, pulling you gently closer through the layers of your gown.

You forgot where you were. Forgot the hundreds of people watching. Forgot your father, your brother, his father, everyone. Forgot everything except him, the warmth of his mouth, the steadiness of his hand, the way he held you like you were precious, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was warm against your lips, slightly uneven.

He smiled. Bright and real and beautiful.

—

The great hall had been transformed again, this time into a celebration space. Long tables lined the walls, draped in white linen and laden with food. Roasted meats glistening with juices, fresh bread still warm from the ovens, cheeses of every variety, fruits piled high in silver bowls, pastries dusted with sugar, enough to feed an army twice over. Wine flowed freely from fountains carved into the shape of swans, red and white cascading into silver basins. Music played from somewhere, though you couldn't see the musicians, the melody weaving through the crowd like a living thing, rising and falling with laughter and conversation.

You sat at the head table beside Hyunjin, your hand in his under the table where no one could see. Your other hand held a glass of wine. The glass was cool against your fingers, cut crystal that caught the candlelight and threw tiny rainbows across the white linen.

People approached constantly, congratulations, well-wishes, introductions to courtiers you'd never met and would probably forget by morning. You smiled and nodded and said the right things, your face aching from the effort. Hyunjin's hand never left yours.

The food was excellent. You managed a few bites, pushing things around your plate more than eating them. Hyunjin did the same.

"You're not eating," he murmured, leaning close so only you could hear. His breath was warm against your ear.

"Neither are you," you murmured back.

"I'm nervous."

"You're nervous? You're not the one who had to walk down an aisle in front of everyone. In this dress. In these shoes." You wiggled your foot slightly, the silk slipper shifting against the stone.

He laughed quietly. "You were beautiful walking down that aisle."

"You were beautiful standing at the end of it."

His hand tightened on yours.

—

Jisung appeared halfway through the meal.

He was already slightly flushed with wine, his smile wider than usual, his movements looser and less controlled. He bowed dramatically as he approached the head table, nearly tripping over his own feet and catching himself on the edge of the table. A chalice wobbled but didn’t fall, wine sloshing but not spilling.

“Your Highness!” He exclaimed, beaming at you with obvious adoration. His eyes were bright, his cheeks pink, his uniform slightly rumpled. “My new princess! My favourite princess! The only princess! The most beautiful princess in all the kingdoms, all the lands, all the-“

“Captain.” You said carefully, one eyebrow raised. You set down your fork.

“You remembered me again!?” He clasped his hands over his heart dramatically. “I’m honoured. Truly. Forever honoured. I’ll tell my children about this moment.”

“You’re memorable.” You said honestly.

He blushed deeper, the pink spreading to his ears. “You see? This is why I-“ he gestured vaguely, his hand waving in the air. “This is why. You’re perfect. Have I mentioned you’re perfect? You’re perfect. You are the most perfect person I’ve ever met, and I have met a lot of people, including several princes and-“

“You have.” You confirmed. Hyunjin’s hand tightened on yours under the table, his grip almost painful.

“Good .” He nodded sagely, then nearly lost his balance again, grabbing the table for support. “It bears repeating. You’re perfect. You are beautiful, you are-“ He squinted at you, thinking hard. "You're everything. Hyunjin's a lucky man. The luckiest. If he weren't my best friend, I'd—"

“Jisung.” Hyunjin interrupted, his voice carefully pleasant. Dangerously pleasant.

“I am just saying.” Jisung continued, apparently oblivious to the warning in Hyunjin's tone. “If you ever get tired of him-“

“Han Jisung.” Hyunjin’s voice was less pleasant now. His grip on your hand was almost painful.

“-I’m right here.” Jisung spread his arms wide, nearly knocking over a servant carrying a tray of drinks. The servant dodged expertly, years of training evident. “Captian of the guard, very reliable, good with a sword and excellent with-“

“Yah.” Hyunjin stood, still holding your hand, his chair scraping against the stone floor. Several nearby guests turned to look. “The northern border needs reviewing. Immediately.

Jisung blinked, his face going from flushed to confused. “But I’m-“

“Immediately.” Hyunjin repeated, his voice brooking no argument.

Jisung looked at you. Then looked at Hyunjin. Grinned.

“Right.” He said cheerfully, apparently unbothered. “Northern border. On my way. I’ll protect it with my life.” He bowed to you again, deeper this time, almost tipping over. “Princess. Remember what I said. The offer stands. Forever. For all time. Until the end of-“ 

“Jisung!”

He fled, still humming, weaving slightly as he made his way through the crowd.

You turned to Hyunjin, one eyebrow raised. “The northern border?”

“He’ll forget by tomorrow.” Hyunjin muttered, sitting back down heavily. Probably. Hopefully, if I’m lucky. If the gods are kind.”

“You’re jealous.”

“I’m not-“ he stopped. Looked at you and sighed deeply. “Maybe a little.”

You smiled, and squeezed his hand.

“Good.” You said softly.

—

Jisung returned an hour later.

He’d apparently found more wine somewhere, because his flush was deeper, his movements even looser, his smile somehow wider. He approached the head table with the single minded focus of someone who had a mission and would not be deterred by anything, including common sense or self preservation.

“Princess!” He called out, waving enthusiastically. Several guests had to dodge his arm as he nearly clocked them in the face. “Princess, I am back!”

“Captain.” You said, trying not to laugh.

“I forgot to mention something important. He leaned on the table, his face suddenly serious. “Very important. Life-changing important.”

“What’s that?” You asked.

“You have something on your dress.”

You looked down. There was nothing on your dress. You checked the skirt, the bodice, the sleeves. Nothing.

Jisung leaned closer, close enough that you could smell the wine on his breath. “I’m lying. I just wanted to look at you again. You are so pretty. Have I mentioned that? The prettiest.”

“You have,” Hyunjin said flatly. “Multiple times. At least six times that I’ve counted.”

Jisung ignored him completely. His eyes were fixed on you with an intensity that would have been alarming if it weren’t so ridiculous. “If Hyunjin ever drops dead- not that I want him to drop dead, he’s my closest companion, I love him more than life itself. BUT if he does, just know I am available. I will wait, I am patient.”

“Jisung!” Hyunjin warned.

“What?” Jisung turned to Hyunjin, looking genuinely confused. “I’m just being honest. She should know her options.”

“Her options are me.”

“Options are good to have.” Jisung nodded sagely, then swayed. “Variety, Choice, freedom, the foundation of a healthy-“

Hyunjin stood again, “kitchen duty. One month.”

Jisung's face fell. “What” but I-“

“Two months.”

“I am going.” Jisung held up his hands in surrender. “I am gone. Leaving. Disappearing. Vanishing from your sight.” He bowed to you one more time, deeper than before, his forehead nearly touching the table. "Princess. Remember me. Jisung. Captain of the guard. Very reliable. True love knows no timeline. I'll be in the kitchen. Washing dishes. Thinking of you."

He fled before Hyunjin could add more months, weaving through the crowd with surprising speed for someone so drunk.

You laughed. Actually laughed, the first real laugh of the day, loud enough that several guests turned to look.

Hyunjin looked at you, and despite everything, he smiled.

“You think he’s funny.” He said.

“I think he’s entertaining.” You corrected it.

“That’s worse.”

“Much worse.”

He sat down again, pulling your hand back into his.

—

The music played on, the wine flowed, the night deepened.

And then the King of Solaria approached.

You’d seen him before, of course you have. At the summit, at the betrothal, from across rooms and down long tables. You’d exchanged polite words, formal greetings, nothing more. But you’d never spoken to him directly, never been alone with him. Never had his full attention focused on you like this, without the buffer of other people, without Hyunjin beside you.

He was tall, like Hyunjin, with the same sharp features and the same intense gaze. But where Hyunjin's eyes could warm, could soften into something almost tender, his father's remained cold. Calculating. He wore deep red velvet, gold embroidery at his collar and cuffs, and his crown sat heavy on his grey-streaked hair. His presence seemed to suck the warmth from the air around him, to dim the candles and quiet the music.

"Your Highness," you said, rising and dipping into a curtsy. Your gown pooled around you, and you had to gather it carefully with one hand to keep from stepping on the hem. The fabric was heavy in your grip.

"Please." He waved a hand dismissively. "Sit. We're family now. Formalities are unnecessary."

You sat. Hyunjin's hand found yours under the table again, squeezing gently. You squeezed back.

The king settled into the chair across from you, the one recently vacated by a minor lord who had fled at his approach. He studied you with an expression you couldn't read, curiosity, maybe, or assessment, or something else entirely. His fingers drummed once on the table, then stilled.

"You're younger than I expected," he observed.

"I'm twenty-two," you replied evenly, meeting his gaze.

"Still young." He gestured to a servant, who appeared instantly with wine. The king took a sip, his eyes never leaving your face. "Young to be taking on so much. A husband. A new kingdom. The weight of two thrones. The expectations of two people."

"I've been trained for this my entire life," you said carefully. Your voice was steady, even though your heart was racing.

"Trained by Lunara." He set down his wine. "Solaria is different. Our ways are different. Our people are different. Our expectations are different."

"I'm aware."

He studied you for a long moment. You forced yourself to hold his gaze, to not look away, to not fidget under the weight of his attention. Hyunjin's hand was warm in yours, grounding you.

"My son speaks highly of you," he said finally.

You glanced at Hyunjin, who had gone very still beside you. His face was carefully blank. "He does?"

"More than he realizes." The king's eyes flicked to his son, then back to you. "More than he's ever spoken of anyone. He's always been... particular. About people. About who he lets close. He doesn't let many in." His voice was quiet, thoughtful. "He learned that early. Learned that people want things from him, power, favor, status. Learn to keep them at a distance."

You didn't know what to say.

"But you." The king leaned forward slightly. "You he writes letters to. You he speaks of constantly. You he looks at like—" He stopped. Shook his head. "I haven't seen him look at anyone like that. Ever. Not since his mother."

Hyunjin's hand tightened on yours.

The king was quiet for a moment, his eyes distant. Then he focused on you again, and his gaze was sharp.

"I didn't want this alliance," he said quietly. "I wanted power. I wanted resources. I wanted whatever would strengthen my kingdom. I would have married him to anyone who could give me what I needed."

You felt Hyunjin tense beside you.

"But my son wants you." The king's voice was soft, but it carried weight. "And I've learned that what my son wants, he gets. One way or another. He has that from me."

"Is that a threat?" you asked carefully.

"It's a warning." He stood. "Take care of him. He's all I have left."

He left without waiting for a response, disappearing into the crowd.

You turned to Hyunjin. He was staring at the table, his jaw tight, his hand gripping yours hard enough to hurt.

"Hyunjin?" you whispered.

"He's never said that before," he said quietly. His voice was rough. "About me. About what he wants. About—" He stopped. Swallowed. "He's never—"

You squeezed his hand.

He squeezed back.

—

It happened during the first dance.

You and Hyunjin stood in the center of the floor, the other dancers forming a circle around you. His hand was on your waist, yours on his shoulder. You moved together awkwardly at first, then more smoothly, finding a rhythm. His other hand held yours, fingers intertwined.

"You're stepping on my feet," you murmured, wincing slightly as his boot caught your toe.

"You're too short," he murmured back.

"I'm perfectly average height—"

"And yet my feet suffer."

You laughed. He smiled.

And then the doors exploded inward.

For one frozen moment, you thought it was part of the celebration, fireworks, maybe, or some dramatic Solaria tradition you hadn't been warned about. But then you saw them.

Figures in black, pouring through the shattered doors. Swords drawn. Faces masked. Moving with deadly purpose through the chaos.

Screaming started. Guests scattered, running for cover, knocking over tables and chairs in their panic. Tables overturned. Wine and food crashed to the floor, glass shattering, silverware clattering. Candles went out, plunging parts of the hall into shadow.

Hyunjin’s arm locked around yours.

“Do not move.” He ordered.

“I’m not-“

A figure lunged toward you.

Hyunjin shoved you behind him, grabbed a decorative sword from the nearest wall and met the attacker mid lunge. Metal clashed. Sparks flew. The sound was deafening.

“Run!” He shouted over his shoulder.

“I am not leaving you!”

“You’re useless here!”

“I have a dagger!” You pulled it from the hidden pocket in your gown, Minho's insistence finally paying off. The blade was cold in your hand, familiar from years of training.

Hyunjin parried another blow. “Then use it!”

Someone grabbed you from behind. You stabbed backward without thinking. The attacker grunted, released you, and you spun to face them, dagger dripping red. They crumpled to the floor.

Hyunjin finished his opponent and turned. Saw you standing over yours, chest heaving, dagger raised with blood on your hands.

For a moment, you just stared at each other.

“…okay.” He said breathlessly. “That made me hard-“

“Shut up!”

—

Chaos erupted around you.

Guards poured into the hall. Felix leading the Lunara forces, his blonde hair a beacon in the chaos, his sword moving with deadly precision. Jisung appeared suddenly sober and deadly with his own blade, all traces of wine gone from his system. Chan and Changbin fought back to back, covering each other perfectly. Minho appeared at your side, his own blade red, his eyes wild.

“We need to go!” He shouted over the din.

“She’s coming with me!” Hyunjin grabbed your arm.

“She’s coming with her family!”

Another wave of attackers poured through the broken doors. More than before. Too many. They just kept coming.

Hyunjin looked at you. You looked at him.

“Meet me at the east gate,” he shouted. “One hour.

“Why would I-“

“Because if you stay here, you will die.” His eyes were fierce. “And I didn’t go through an entire wedding ceremony just to become a widower before dinner.”

He was gone before you could respond, disappearing into the chaos, his sword raised.

Minho grabbed your arm. “We are not meeting him at any gate-“

“Minho-“

“Were going home-“

You grabbed his arm. “He saved my life. Just now. He put himself between me and a sword.”

Minho stared at you. The chaos continued around you, screaming, clashing metal, running feet.

“…we’re meeting him at the gate.” He said finally. “But if he tried anything, I’m using his insides to decorate the castle.”

—

You fought your way through the hall, through the corridors, through the chaos.

Your gown was ruined. It was torn, stained, the white silk dragged through blood and wine. You held the front up with one hand to keep yourself from tripping, your dagger in the other. Minho stayed close, his sword clearing a path.

Felix appeared beside you, his face splattered with blood that wasn’t his. “This way, your highness! The east gate is clear!”

You ran.

The east gate loomed ahead, massive and iron, standing open to the night beyond. And there, waiting was Hyunjin.

He was bloody. His own blood, someone else’s, you couldn’t tell. His perfect coat was ruined, torn and stained. His hair was wild, falling across his face. But he was standing. He was alive.

“You came.” He said.

“You’re bleeding.” You said.

“Minor.” He winced.

“Liar.”

He smiled. Weakly, but he smiled.

—

You ran together into the night.

Behind you, the palace burned.

The library of Lunara Palace smelled of dust and old paper.

Sunlight filtered through the tall windows in thin, golden strips, illuminating thousands of floating dust motes that danced in the air like tiny stars. The shelves stretched from floor to flexing ceiling, packed with books so old their spines had faded to illegibility, their pages yellowed with age.

You were seven years old, small enough to tuck yourself behind the tallest bookshelf where the servants never thought to look. Your blue velvet dress - the one with the white lace collar that you hated because it itched - bunched beneath you as you sat cross legged on the cold stone floor. Minho had found this spot weeks ago, claiming it as your shared territory, and now the two of you sat in comfortable silence while the rest of the world searched for you.

“You’re too young to understand the history,” your mother always said whenever you asked about Solaria. “When you’re older.”

You were seven now. That felt old enough.

“Tell me again,” you whispered, leaning toward your brother. The stone floor was cold even through your dress, sending a chill up your spine. “Why do we hate them?”

Minho was ten and liked to pretend he knew everything. He leaned back against the shelves, arms crossed over his chest, trying to look like the generals you sometimes saw in council meetings. His dark hair fell across forehead, and there was a smudge of dirt on his cheek from when you’d both crawled under a table earlier to hide from your tutor.

“Because they killed our grandfather.” He said, his voice low and serious.

“But how?” You pressed, frowning.

He shrugged, the movement causing a book to shift slightly behind him. “I don’t know. In a war”

“What war?”

Minho’s confidence flickered across his face, there and gone like a candle in the wind. ”The big one. The one that’s been happening forever.”

“That’s not an answer,” you protested, crossing your arms in imitation of him.

“It’s the only answer there is.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the heavy oak door of the library creaked open on its ancient hinges. The sound echoed through the vast space like a warning. Both of you pressed deeper into the shadows behind the shelf, holding your breath.

Your mother’s footsteps were unmistakable, soft and measured, the way she moved through the world like she was trying not to disturb it. The silk of her gown whispered against the stone floor. She wore pale lavender today, you remeber with silver embroidery at the cuffs that caught the light when she moved.

She stopped near your hiding spot, you were certain she could see you. She always could.

“When I was a girl,” she said quietly, speaking to the empty room. “Solaria and Lunara were friends.”

You and Minho exchanged a wide eyed look. Neither of you moved.

“Your grandfather and the Solaria king grew up together,” she continued, her voice carrying that distant quality it always held when she spoke of the past. “They fought side by side in the Northern Upspring. They trusted each other with their lives.”

A long pause stretched between her words. Through the gap in the bookshelf, you could see her silhouette against the window, backlit by afternoon sun.

“Then something happened.” She said softly. “No one agrees on what. A misunderstanding. A betrayal. A letter that was never delivered, a message that was never received.” Her voice dropped even lower. “Your grandfather died in a Solaria dungeon, alone, in the dark. The Solaria queen died in a fire here, in our city. She was only thirty two years old.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to press against your chest.

“After that,” your mother continued, “it was war. And war became hatred. And hatred became tradition.”

You couldn’t help yourself. You leaned forward, peeking around the edge of the shelf.

Your mother stood by the window, one hand resting on the stone frame, her face half shadowed, half lit by the golden sun. There were lines around her eyes you’d never noticed before, evidence of grief she carried silently.

“We hate them because we’ve always hated them.” You said quietly, your voice barley above a whisper.

She turned, looked right at you through the gap in the shelf, like she’d known you were there the entire time.

“Yes,” she said simply. “That’s exactly why.”

She left before you could ask more questions, her gown whispering against the floor until the sound faded entirely.

You never got to ask more questions. Three years later…she was gone too.

—

Fifteen years later

The council chamber was too warm.

Despite the winter chilll that seeped through every other room in the palace, the council chamber blazed with heat from the massive fireplace that dominated the eastern wall. Flames cackled and popped, consuming log after log, while servants constantly stoked the fire at the king’s silent command. The tapestries hanging on the walls seemed to absorb the warmth and radiate it back into the room.

You sat to your father’s right in a high backed chair carved from dark oak, its velvet cushion worn soft by generations of royalty. Your pale blue gown, chosen specifically for formal occasions, felt heavy against your skin. The fabric was rich and smooth, embroidered with white threads that caught the firelight, but the bodice was laced too tight, making it difficult to take full breaths.

Minho sat to your father’s left in an identical chair, his posture perfect, his expression carefully neutral. Wearing a deep sapphire coat embroidered in gold curls draped over a fitted dark waistcoat, medals glinting at his chest, a silk sash at his waist. His hand rested on the arm of his chair, fingers drumming occasionally in a rhythm only you would recognise as impatience.

Your father occupied the throne between you, not a true throne, not here in the council chamber, but a chair large enough and ornate enough to remind everyone present of his authority. He had been king for twenty years now. Grief had carved him into something harder than the man your mother used to describe, his face a mask of stoicism that rarely cracked.

“-and the Solaria delegation has requested a formal audience,.” The advisor was saying.

He stood before the king’s chair, a thin man in grey robes whose name you never remembered. They all blurred together after a while, these advisors with their identical expressions of barely concealed ambition and their tendency to speak without saying anything at all.

He adjusted his spectacles nervously. “They wish to discuss terms.”

The room went quiet.

Your father’s hand tightened on the armrest of his chair. The wood creaked faintly under the pressure. “Terms for what?”

“Peace, your majesty.” The advisor’s voice wavered slightly. “An end to hostilities. An alliance.”

The word hung in the air like smoke from the fireplace, visible and acrid.

“An alliance.” Your father repeated, his voice dangerously low. Firelight flickered across his face, carving deep shadows into his features. “With the people who killed my father.”

The advisor swallowed audibly. “Their king claims the original conflict was misunderstood, that both sides suffered, that twenty years is long enough.”

Outside the chamber’s narrow windows, snow began to fall, soft and gentle flakes that drifted past the glass and disappeared into the darkness beyond. You watched them for a moment, wishing you could be out there instead of here, instead of listening to words that felt like they carried the weight of your entire future.

“Twenty years,” Your father said softly, staring into the fire rather than at the advisor, “is not long enough to forget watching your father be carried home in a box.”

No one spoke. Even the fire seemed to crackle more quietly.

You should have stayed silent. You knew you should have stayed silent. But the words came anyway, rising from somewhere you couldn’t control.

“What do they want?”

Every head in the room turned toward you. Your fathers gaze was sharp, assessing the look of a king evaluating an unexpected variable.

“Excuse me?” He said.

You straightened in your chair, ignoring the way the too tight bodice dug into your ribs. “The alliance,” you said carefully. “If they’re asking for peace after twenty years, they want something. What is it?”

A long pause. Minho's fingers stopped drumming on his armrest.

Then your fathers mouth carved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. It was too cold for that, too calculating.

“My daughter asks the right questions.” He turned back to the advisor, who had gone pale. “Well? What do they want?”

The advisor shifted his weight from foot to foot, his grey robes rustling with the movement. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the room's warmth. “Trade routes, your Majesty. Access to our ports. And-“ he hesitated, his eyes darting toward you for just a moment before looking away. “-a marriage.”

The temperature in the room dropped several degrees despite the blazing fire.

“A marriage.” Minho repeated flatly. His hand now gripping the armrest as tightly as your father gripped his. “To whom?”

The advisor didn’t look at you.

He didn’t have to.

—

The gardens were cold this time of year, but you didn’t care.

You’d fled the council chamber the moment your father dismissed the assembly, walking as fast as dignity would allow through the stone corridors, past the startled servants, through the heavy oak doors that led outside. The cold hits you like physical force. Wind sharp as knives, snow already accumulating on the stone paths, but you welcomed it. You needed it. You needed something to feel other than the hollow numbness spreading through your chest.

The winter gardens of Lunara Palace were beautiful in their own stark way. The cherry trees stood bare, their branches outlined against the grey sky like skeletal fingers reaching upward. Frost covered everything, the benches, the statues and the dormant flower beds, turning the world into something silver and still. Your silver gown, so impractical for weather like this, offered no protection against the cold. You could feel it seeping through the fabric, through your skin settling into your bones.

You sat on a stone bench beneath one of the bare cherry trees and stared at nothing.

Minho found you twenty minutes later. His boots crunched against the frost covered path, and when he sat beside you, you could feel the warmth radiating from him.

“You’re spiraling.” He said quietly.

“I’m not spiralling.” Your voice came out flat and empty. “I’m breathing.”

“Same thing, with you.”

You wanted to argue, but you didn’t have the energy. The cold had leached it out of you, or maybe the news had, or maybe you’d never had much energy to begin with. You pulled your gown tighter around yourself, as you stared at the frozen fountain in the distance.

“They can’t make me do it.” You said finally.

“They can try.” Minho replied.

“They can’t succeed.”

Minho was quiet for a moment. Snow accumulated on his dark hair, turning it white at the edges. “Father is going to consider it.”

“I know.” You said flatly.

“He’s going to consider it seriously.”

“I know.”

“And if  he thinks it’s the best path to peace-“

“I said I know Minho.” You snapped then turned to look at him, and something in your expression must have been terrible because his face softened in a way it rarely did. “I know exactly what’s going to happen. I’ve known since the moment that advisor opened his mouth, I’m the heir. I’m unmarried. I’m the price of peace and father is going to decide whether I’m worth paying.”

Minho’s jaw tightened. The muscle jumped beneath his skin. “I won’t let him.”

“You won’t be able to stop him. You can’t fight a war for me” You say defeated.

“Watch me.”

You looked at him, your brother, your protector, the only person in the world who has ever put you first, who had held you when you cried at your mothers funeral, who had taught you to ride a horse, who taught you to throw a dagger and smile at courtiers you wanted to strangle.

“Promise me something.” You whispered.

“Anything.”

“If this happens. If I have to go there, marry him, live in that palace with those people…” you swallowed hard against the lump forming in your throat. The cold wind bit at your cheeks, at the tears you refused to let fall. “Promise me you’ll visit. Promise you won’t forget me.”

Minho pulled you into his side, his arm around your shoulders, warm and solid and real despite the freezing temperature. His uniform was cold from the snow, but beneath it, he was warm. He was always warm.

“Never,” he said firmly against your hair. “Never in a thousand years.”

—

One week later

You learned things about Solaria that week. Small things. Useless things. Things you wished you didn’t know.

You learned that the Solaria castle had three times as many rooms as Lunara’s, all of them decorated in red and gold because the current king believed the colours brought prosperity. You learned that their winters were milder thanks to their southern position, their summers hotter, their fires always burning because the kings disliked the cold. A detail that felt almost personal now, a connection across enemy lines.

You learned that the royal family had ruled for eight generations and that the current king had only one child.

A son.

The Prince.

His name was Hwang Hyunjin.

You heard his name everywhere after that. The servants whispered it when they thought you couldn’t hear, the tailors using their hushed and curious voices while they sewed you into your gown. The advisors spoke it with careful neutrality during council meetings. Minho said it like a curse, his lips curling every time.

Prince Hyunjin of Solaria. Twenty three years old. Unmarried. Heir to the throne.

You tried not to think about him. You failed.

What did he look like? Were the paintings accurate, or did they lie like all other royal paintings did, smoothing away imperfections and creating something that barely resembled a real person? What did his voice sound like, deep or light? Warm or cold? Was he cruel or kind or somewhere in between? Did he want this marriage any more than you did?

You had no answers. Only questions. Only the name repeating in your head like a song you couldn’t stop humming.

Hwang Hyunjin. Hwang Hyunjin. Hwang Hyunjin.

At night, lying in your bed with it's heavy velvet curtains and mountains of blankets, you stared at the ceiling and wondered if he was staring at his own ceiling, wondering about you too.

Probably not, you told yourself. He probably didn’t think about you at all.

—

Two weeks later

Your father summoned you to his chambers.

The king’s private rooms occupied the entire eastern tower of the palace, a series of interconnected spaces that had belonged to Lunara’s rulers for centuries. You’d grown up running through these rooms, hiding behind the heavy furniture, listening to your parents argue and laugh and everything in between.

Now they felt like a stranger's space.

Your father stood by the window, looking out at the snow covered gardens below. He wore simple clothes today, none of the formal regalia he donned for council and without it, he looked smaller. Older. The fire crackled in the hearth behind him, casting dancing shadows across the room.

“You wanted to see me father.” You said from the doorway.

He didn’t turn around. “Come in. Close the door.”

You did, the heavy oak clicking shut behind you. The room was warm, always warm, your father had the same aversion to cold as the Solaria King apparently. You were grateful for your wool dress, dark blue today. 

“I’ve made my decision.” He said quietly.

You waited, your hands clasped in front of you. Your heart beat steadily in your chest, calm in a way that surprised you. Perhaps you’d already accepted this. Perhaps you’d accepted it the moment that advisor spoke the word marriage.

“We go to the summit.” Your father continued, still not turning from the window. “We negotiate. We…” He paused, and in that pause you heard everything he couldn’t say. “We consider the alliance.”

“Consider.” You repeated.

“Yes.”

“And if we agree?”

He turned then, finally meeting your eyes. The firelight carved shadows into his face, made him look gaunt, exhausted. For a moment, he looked almost human. Almost like the father who used to list you onto his shoulders when you were small, who spun you around until you shrieked with laughter, who held your hand at your mothers funeral and didn’t let go for three days.

“Then you marry him.” He said.

The words were simple. Final. They fell between you like stones dropped into still water, sending ripples through everything.

You nodded. What else could you do?

“It’s final. I’m sorry.” Your father said quietly.

You didn’t answer. You weren’t sure he deserved an answer. You weren’t sure he even knew what he was apologising for, the marriage? The years of neglect? The way he’d closed himself off after your mother died and never fully returned?

You left without saying goodbye.

—

The night before, you couldn’t sleep.

The journey to the neutral fortress began at dawn. Three days of travel in a carriage that would be cold no matter how many furs they piled inside. Three days to think about everything you were trying not to think about. Three days to prepare yourself for the moment you’d finally come face to face with your enemy, with the man you might marry.

You stood at your window in your white linen, simple, warm nightgown, and watched the moon paint the snow covered gardens silver. Your breath fogged the glass slightly, and you wiped it away with your hand.

A knock came at your door.

Minho entered without waiting for permission. He was dressed for bed too, in loose linen trousers and a loose linen shirt, his hair messy, his eyes tired. He looked younger like this, more like the brother who’d held your hand through every difficult moment of your life.

“Can’t sleep either?” You asked without turning.

“Didn’t try.”

He crossed the room and stood beside you at the window. His shoulders brushed yours, solid and familiar.

“I’ve been asking around,” he said quietly “about him. The prince.”

You turned to look at him. “And?”

“And nothing.” He shrugged, a small movement. “No one knows anything useful. He’s private. Keeps to himself. Has a small circle of friends he’s known since childhood.” He paused, and something flickered across his face. “Apparently he’s not terrible.”

“High praise.” You said dryly.

“It’s the best I could get.”

You almost smiled. Almost. “Thank you for trying.”

Minho looked at you for a long moment, his dark eyes searching your face, then. “You don’t have to be brave with me.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

“I know.” You whispered.

He reached out and pulled you into his arms. His embrace was warm, familiar and safe, the rest of your life wasn’t shaping up to be. You buried your face in his shoulder and breathed the scent of him, the smell of home.

“I’ll be there the whole time.” He said against your hair. “Every meeting, every meal, every moment. He won’t get near you without me watching.”

“Minho-“

“I mean it.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression fierce. “If he so much as looks at you wrong, I’ll-“

“Start a war?” You finished for him.

“Worth it.”

You laughed. It came out wet, more sob than laugh, but it was real. It was something.

“Go to sleep.” He said softly, releasing you. “Tomorrows going to be long.”

He left.

You didn’t sleep.

—

The summit.

The neutral fortress was ugly.

Grey stone rose on all sides, walls thick enough to withstand any siege, windows narrow enough to make the interior perpetually dim. The courtyard where your carriage stopped was paved with worn cobblestones slick with melted snow, and servants rushed forward to help you descend. 

You wore your warmest traveling clothes. A deep blue wool dress with long sleeves and a high collar, a heavy cloak lined with fur, boots sturdy enough for the weather. Minho climbed out after you, similarly dressed, his hand finding your elbow in a gesture of support. “Ready?” He murmured.

“No.” You admitted.

“Good. Neither am I.”

You were shown to your rooms, big, a fire already crackling in the hearth, a bed piled with blankets, a window that looked out over the courtyard below. You were still exploring the room when the knock on the door came.

A maid cracked the door open to announce. “The Solaria’s have arrived, my Lady.”

You crossed to the window. Minho joined you.

Below, a procession of carriages rolled through the fortress gates, red and gold, ornate. Ridiculous. The lead carriage was trimmed in actual gold leaf, gleaming even in the pale winter sunlight. The horses that pulled it were pure black, their harnesses decorated with red ribbons and small golden bells that chimed with every step.

Minho scoffed. You didn’t reply back to that. You were watching the figures emerge from the carriages.

Advisors in formal robes of crimson and gold. Guards in matching uniforms, their swords polished to mirror brightness. A young man with sharp eyes and an easy smile who scanned the courtyard like he expected an attack at any moment, cataloging every window, every door, every possible exit.

And then-

The Prince stepped out.

You knew it was him before anyone said a word. There was something about the way he moved, like the world was a stage and he was the main character. Like he knew exactly how the weak winter sunlight hit his face and had positioned himself accordingly.

Dark hair fell across his forehead, perfectly styled despite the journey. His cape was dark red, a fur trim around the collar, with gold thread, fitted perfectly to his frame, and beneath it you could see the white of his shirt, the hint of a gold necklace at his throat. He wore boots that reached his knees, polished to a mirror shine and gloves of soft black leather.

His expression was bored. Detached. As if this summit was beneath him, as if he had better places to be, as if the entire proceedings were an inconvenience he was forced to endure.

Could you blame him? No.

Then he looked up.

Straight at your window. Straight at you.

You should have stepped back. You should have moved away, pretended you weren’t watching. Instead you held his gaze, your heart pounding against your ribs for reasons you couldn’t explain.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

The one corner of his mouth curved up. Just slightly. Just enough to notice.

He raised one hand and waved. Actually waved, like you were old acquaintances instead of strangers from enemy kingdoms.

You stared at him, frozen in place.

His grin widened. He looked genuinely amused, like your stunned reaction was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all week.

Then he turned and walked inside, disappearing through the fortress doors, and you realised Minho was saying something beside you.

“-hate him already. Did you see that? The wave? Who waves at someone they’ve never met? Who does he think he is?”

You blinked, finally tearing your gaze from the empty courtyard. “What?”

“I said I hate him.” Minho’s voice was dark with suspicion. “That wave was deliberate. He was trying to…to…I don’t know what he was trying to do, but I don’t like it.”

“Minho-“

“I’m serious. He’s going to be a problem. I can feel it.”

You turned back to the window, but the courtyard was empty now, the last of the Solaria delegation disappearing through the doors.

“He’s just a person.” You said quietly. “Like anyone else.”

Minho made a sound of disagreement but didn’t argue.

You stayed at the window for a long time, watching the place where he’d stood, trying to understand why your heart was still racing.

—

You spent the rest of the afternoon in your chambers, staring at the same wall and learning absolutely nothing about it's colour or texture.

The wall was grey. That was all you could say about it. Grey stone, like everything else in this castle fortress, with small cracks running through it that spoke to the building's age. A single tapestry painting hung near your bed, some hunting scene, men on horses chasing something you couldn’t quite make out in the dim candle light, but it did little to warm the space.

Minho had gone to assess the fortress’s defenses. His words, not yours, delivered with the kind of serious expression that made you suspect he was really going to eavesdrop on the Solaria delegation. You didn’t stop him. If anyone could gather useful information by lurking in corridors and listening at doors, it was your brother.

Your rooms were large. A bed way too large for two but occupied only by you, piled high with blankets in various shades of grey that smelled faintly of lavender. A writing desk beneath the narrow window, it's surface bare except for a single candle and a stack of blank parchment. A fireplace that cracked and popped in the corner, fighting valiantly against the winter chill that seeped through the ancient stone walls.

You’d change out of your travelling gown into something more appropriate for dinner. The gown was deep blue velvet, long sleeved and high necked, with silver embroidery winding up the bodice like vines climbing a trellis. Your mothers pendant rested against your collarbone, a small piece of moonstone set in silver. A maid had helped you pin your hair back, twisting it into something elaborate that you’d probably destroy within the hour.

A knock at your door pulled you from your thoughts.

You crossed the room, your velvet slippers silent against the cold stone, and pulled it open.

Minho stood in the corridor, still wearing his formal uniform, deep blue with silver buttons, a high collar that framed his jaw, his dark hair slightly dishevelled from running his hands though it. His expression was carefully neutral. The kind of neutral that meant he’d learned something he didn’t want to tell you.

“What?” You give him a flat look.

“Nothing.” He shrugged.

“Minho.” You crossed your arms over your chest. “I know that look. Something happened.”

He sighed heavily, a running hand through his hair again and making it even messier. “They’re having a gathering tonight. Informal. Both delegations. Father wants you there.”

You felt your stomach drop. “Wonderful.” You muttered.

“He also wants you to…” Minho paused, searching for the right words. His jaw worked for a moment. “Be charming.”

You stared at him. “Be charming.” You repeated slowly and scoffed.

“Yes.”

“To people I've been raised to hate my entire life.”

“That’s the idea.”

You laughed. It wasn’t a happy, more of a hollow exhale, disbelief and dread mixed together. “I’m going to be terrible at this.”

“Probably.” Minho agreed without hesitation. “But I’ll be there too. If anyone looks at you wrong I won’t hesitate to pull out my sword.”

You have him your infamous grin.

“At this point,” he said grimly, “it might be unavoidable.”

You almost fully smiled. Almost.

—

The great hall of the neutral castle was exactly what you expected.

Grey stone roses on all sides, the walls disappearing into shadow high above where the torchlight couldn’t reach. Massive pillars supported the ceiling, their surfaces carved with symbols you didn’t recognise, probably from whichever kingdom had built this place centuries ago, before the current conflict, before any of this. Paintings lined the walls between the pillars, their colours faded, depicting scenes you couldn’t quite make out in the flickering candle light.

Torches lined the walls in iron scones, casting dancing shadows across the gathered crowd. The flames made everything feel alive and shifting, like the hall itself was breathing. Servants moved through the press of bodies with silver trays laden with goblets of wine and small foods you had no interest in eating.

You stood near one of the massive stone pillars, a glass of wine in your hand that you had no intention of drinking. The velvet of your gown was warm against your skin, but your fingers were cold around the goblets stem. You watched the Solaria nobles mingle from across the room, cataloging faces, trying to remember who was who.

They laughed too loudly. Gestured too broadly. Everything about them felt like a performance, like they were constantly aware of being watched and had decided to make it a show.

Minho stood at your shoulder like a shadow, his own wine untouched. He’d positioned himself so that his body blocked anyone from approaching you directly, and you thanked him mentally for that.

“You’re staring.” He murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“I’m observing.” You corrected quietly.

“At the Prince?” He asked, a note of suspicion in his voice.

You followed his face across the room.

Hyunjin stood with a group of nobles near the massive fireplace, saying something that made them laugh. He’d changed since this afternoon. His coat was different, darker red with black embroidery instead of gold, fitted perfectly to his frame. The firelight caught the angles of his face, carved shadows beneath his cheekbones, made him look like something out of a painting. His hair had been restyled too, falling across his forehead in a way that looked effortless but had probably taken an hour of careful arranging.

“No.” You said, forcing yourself to look away. “At everyone.”

Minho made a sound that suggested he didn’t believe you.

You ignored him.

—

You made it an hour before you needed air.

The great hall was too warm, too loud, too full of people who kept glancing at you like you were a curiosity. The Lunara princess, here at last, here among enemies, you could see the thoughts behind their eyes, the calculations and judgments and barely hidden hostility.

You slipped out through a side door, grateful that Minho had been cornered by a Solaria advisor and couldn’t follow.

The corridor was empty and cold, a blessed relief after the oppressive heat of the hall. Torches burned at intervals along the walls, but they did little to warm the space. Your breath fogged slightly in front of your face as you walked, your velvet slippers silent against the stone.

You found a small courtyard through an archway at the corridor's end.

It was nothing like the gardens at home, this was just a square of stone surrounded by high walls, a single bare tree in the centre, a frozen frozen fountain against one side. Snow covered everything in a blanket of white, undisturbed by footprints. The sky above was black and endless, scattered with stars that seemed closer here than they ever did at the palace.

You walked to the fountain and sat on it's edge, not caring that the cold stone would seep through your velvet gown. The cold felt good. Real. It reminded you that you were still here, still yourself, still alive despite everything.

You don’t know how long you sat there.

Long enough for your fingers to go numb. Long enough for your breath to become a steady cloud. Long enough to forget, almost, that tomorrow the negotiations would begin.

Footsteps on the path behind you.

You tensed, your hand moving instinctively toward the small dagger hidden in the folds of your skirt. Minho had insisted you carry it, and for once you hadn’t argued.

“I thought I was the only one who couldn’t breathe in there.”

You turned.

Hyunjin stood a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his coat, his breath misting in the cold air. He’d abandoned his for,al coat somewhere, he wore only a simple shirt now, dark and loose, and his hair was even messier than before almost like he’d been running his hands through it.

“I’m not in the mood for company.” You said flatly.

“Good.” He replied, taking a step closer. “Neither am I.”

He sat on the opposite end of the fountain, far enough to be proper but also close enough to talk without raising his voice. 

Silence stretched between you.

You stared at the frozen fountain. He stared at the sky.

“You are the Lunara Princess.” He said finally. It wasn’t a question.

“You are the Solaria Prince.” You replied. Also not a question.

Another silence.

“I’m Hyunjin.” He offered.

“I know.” You said.

He turned to look at you, one eyebrow raised. “Did you ask about me?”

“No.” You lied.

He smiled slightly. “You lie.”

You didn’t confirm nor deny. Just looked at him.

In the stair light he looked younger. Tired. The shadows under his eyes suggested he hadn’t been sleeping well either.

“You should go inside.” He said quietly. “You’ll freeze.”

“I will.” You agreed.

Neither of you moved.

Finally, you stood. The cold had seeped into your bones, making your movements stiff.

“Goodnight, Prince.” You said.

“Goodnight, Princess,” he replied.

You walked back inside without looking back.

You didn’t see him watch you go.

—

Day two - morning

The negotiations began at dawn.

You sat in the council chamber, another grey stone room, this one with a long table down the centre and chairs arranged on either side. Your father sat at the head of the Lunara side, his expression carved from stone. Minho sat to his right, you to his left. Behind you stood a handful of advisors and guards.

Across the table, the Solaria delegation arranged themselves. The King at their head, older than your father, with grey in his hair and a hard look in his eyes. 

And Hyunjin.

He sat further down the table, not at his fathers side, and you wondered what that meant. He wore formal clothes again. Red and gold, perfect and pressed and his face was carefully blank. The man from the courtyard last night was gone, replaced by the prince.

He didn’t look at you.

You didn’t look at him.

The negotiations began.

—

They talked for hours.

Trade routes and tariffs. Border disputes dating back decades. The Northern Uprising, the origin conflict, whose fault it really was. Your fathers voice remained calm and cold throughout. The Solaria King matched him.

You said nothing.

Across the table, Hyunjin said nothing either.

Once, your eyes met. Just for a moment. He looked away first.

—

A break was called. 

You escaped to the same courtyard, needing air even though the cold was brutal. The snow had stopped falling, leaving the world white and still. You sat on the frozen fountain and closed your eyes.

“You keep coming here.”

You opened your eyes.

Hyunjin stood in the archway, coatless again, his breath misting.

“You keep following me,” you observed.

“Maybe I liked this fountain first,” he said, crossing the courtyard to sit on his usual end. “Did you ever consider that?”

“I didn’t.” You admitted.

He smiled. Small. Real.

For a while, you sat in silence. It was almost comfortable.

“Your brother hates me.” He said eventually.

“My brother hates everyone from Solaria.” You replied. “It’s not personal.”

“It feels personal.” He glanced at you sideways. “He stared at me through the entire morning session. Didn’t blink once. It was quite unsettling.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself. “That’s just Minho.”

“Does he do that to everyone who looks at you?”

The question caught you off guard. You turned to look at him properly. “What?”

“Nothing.” He looked away. “Never mind.”

But something in his voice made your chest feel strange.

—

Another gathering. Another hall. Another glass of wine you didn’t drink.

You stood against a wall, watching the crowd, when someone approached.

“Princess!”

It was Jisung. You remember him as the bubbly one from yesterday's gathering, the captain of the guard for Solaria. He beamed at you like you were old friends, his smile so genuine it was almost disarming.

“Captain.” You courtesy and acknowledge him.

“Please, just Jisung.” He waved a hand. “Captain is so formal, and we’re going to be family soon, right?”

You blinked. “Family?”

“Well, you are marrying Sir Hyunjin, so that makes us…” He counted his fingers. “Something. I don’t know how it works. But we should be friends!”

“I-“

“Come on, let me show you the gardens! Well, not gardens, there’s not much garden here, but there’s a nice spot where you can see the mountains-“

He kept talking, gesturing enthusiastically, and before you knew it, you were walking with him through the corridors, listening to a stream of conversation that required no response.

It was nice. Easy. Jisung asked nothing of you except your presence, and that felt like a gift.

You didn’t notice Hyunjin watching from across the hall.

You didn’t see the way his jaw tightened when Jisung made you laugh,

—

Day three

The negotiations continued. 

Trade routes, tariffs, blah blah. The words blurred together.

At one point, the Solaria King mentioned the marriage directly for the first time.

“The union will be formalised at the end of the summit,” he said. “A betrothal ceremony. Then the wedding will take place in three months, as agreed.”

“Agreed by whom?” Your father asked sharply. “I haven’t agreed to anything.”

“You will.”

The room went quiet.

You felt Minho tense beside you.

Across the table, Hyunjin's expression didn’t change. But his hand resting on the table curled into a fist.

—

You couldn’t sleep.

The courtyard again. The fountain again. The cold again.

This time, you weren’t surprised when footsteps approached.

“You are predictable princess.” Hyunjin said, sitting in his usual spot.

“So are you.” You replied.

Silence.

“Three months.” He said quietly.

“Three months.”

“Then we’re married.”

“Then we’re miserable.”

He laughed softly. “Together, though.”

“Unfortunately.”

He looked at you. Under the moonlight his eyes were dark and unreadable. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “I’m sorry. That you’re stuck with me.”

You looked back at him. “I’m sorry you’re stuck with me too.”

“Are you?” He asked. “Sorry that it’s me?”

The question hung in the cold air between you.

“I don’t know yet.” You admitted.

He nodded slowly.

Neither of you moved.

—

Day four

You didn’t seek him out that night. You told yourself it was better that way. 

Instead, you wandered the castle’s corridors, learning the layout. As you’re about to turn a corner you hear distant voices.

“-hyunjin has been weird lately,” you could make out to be Jisung's voice. “Quiet. Distracted.”

“He’s always distracted,” Changbin replied. “It’s called being dramatic.”

“He’s not dramatic, he’s-“ Jisung spotted you as they rounded the corner. “Oh! Princess!”

You bowed to them. “Captian.” 

He beamed. “You remember me?”

“You’re memorable.” You said honestly.

He actually blushed. Beside him, Changbin snorted.

“Careful,” Changbin muttered. “She’s sharp.”

“I like sharp,” Jisung said cheerfully. “Princess, have you seen the south tower? The view at sunset is incredible-“

He kept talking. You let him. It was easier than thinking about why you’d been avoiding the gardens.

Across the corridor, a door opened.

Hyunjin. 

He stepped out. He saw you. Saw Jisung standing close, talking animatedly, making you smile.

His expression didn’t change.

But something in his eyes flickered. Just for a moment.

Then he turned and walked the other way.

You told yourself you didn’t care.

You were lying.

—

You went to the garden anyway.

He wasn’t there.

You sat on your usual spot on the fountain and waited. Five minutes. Ten. Twenty.

He didn’t come.

You told yourself it was fine. You told yourself you didn’t need him to come. You told yourself—

Footsteps.

You turned, your heart lifting before you could stop it.

It was Minho.

“You’ve been coming here every night,” he said quietly sitting beside you. “Alone. In the cold.”

“I like the cold.” You said.

“You are lying,” he replied softly.

You didn’t answer.

Minho was quiet for a long moment. Then, “Be careful.”

“Of what?”

“Of him.” Minhos voice was serious and stern. “You are to marry him whether you like it or not. Don’t make it harder by-“ he stopped.

“By what?” You pressed.

“By starting to care.”

You stared at the frozen fountain.

“I don’t care,”you said firmly.

“Good.” Minho stood. “Keep it that way.”

He left.

You sat alone in the cold and tried to convince yourself that he was right.

—

Day five

The negotiation ended.

Your father and the Solaria King stood together in the great hall, facing both delegations.

“The alliance is agreed,” your father announced, his voice carrying through the silence. “The betrothal ceremony will take place tomorrow evening. The wedding will follow in three months.”

No one cheered. No one protested. Everyone simply…accepted.

You stood alone and watched Hyunjin across the room. He was not looking at you.

Good, you told yourself. That’s good.

Your father approached you afterward. “We leave after the ceremony tomorrow.”

“Yes, father.” You said quietly with a bow of your head.

He studied you for a moment. “You will be fine.”

“I know.” You lied.

He nodded and walked away.

Minho approached at your side. “Ready to go home?”

“More than anything.” You whispered.

You didn’t look back as you left the room.

You didn’t see Hyunjin finally look up, searching the crowd until his eyes found the door.

You didn’t see the way his jaw tightened when he realised you were gone.

—

Day six

You stood in the same hall where you first saw him.

The same grey stone, the same red carpet, the same flickering touches and the same crowd of strangers.

But this to,, you wore your finest gown. An ivory brocade gown that hugs your figure, patterned with delicate silver florals that shimmer in candlelight. Pearls and deep garnet jewels trace the square neckline, layered chains draping elegantly across her bodice. Fur-lined sleeves frame lace-trimmed cuffs, while a jeweled girdle cinches your waist, regal and breathtakingly. Your mothers pendant at your throat, your hair pinned up with pearls.

This time, you walked forward alone, toward the center of the room where Hyunjin awaited.

He wore red and gold, perfect and formal, his expression unreadable. But when you reached him, when you stood close enough to see the slight tension in his jaw, something in his eyes softened.

“Princess.” He said quietly.

“Prince,” you replied.

The officiant spoke. Words about unity and peace and the joining of houses. You didn’t listen.

You were too aware of Hyunjin's hand, reaching for yours.

You took it.

His fingers were warm, they closed around yours and held on.

“You may now seal the betrothal with a kiss.”

You turned to him. He turned to you.

For a moment neither of you moved.

Then he leaned in.

His lips brushed against your cheek. Brief. Formal. Respectful.

When he pulled back, his eyes met yours.

“One more thing,” he murmured, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

“What?” You whispered back.

“Han Jisung?” His jaw tightened. “Stay away from him.”

You blinked. “What?”

But he was already stepping back, releasing your hand, turning to face the crowd with a practiced smile.

You stood there, stunned, your cheek still warm where his lips had touched.

What had just happened?

—

That night, the maids had left after packing your things in silence. You resorted to looking out the window at the scenery in silence.

A knock at your door.

You opened it.

Hyunjin stood there, holding something small wrapped in cloth.

“I wanted to give you this,” he said quietly. “Before you left.”

He held it out.

You took it and unwrapped it.

A small silver brooch, shaped like a star.

“It was my mothers ” he said. “I thought…I don’t know what I thought. Just- take it. Please.”

You looked up at him.

“Hyunjin-“

“I know we’re supposed to hate each other.” His voice was rough.

“I know this is political. I know you don’t want this any more than I do.” He paused. “But I’d like you to have something of mine. Something real.”

You didn’t know what to say.

So you said nothing.

You just nodded.

He smiled. Small, sad , real.

“Gododnight, Princess.” He bowed his head as he left.

“Goodnight, Hyunjin.”

You stood in the doorway for a long time, holding his mothers brooch, your cheek still warm from where he had kissed it earlier.

Three months, you thought.

Three months until everything changes.

OT8

Maknae Protect Unit. Part 1 Part 2

↳ When a harmless late-night run turns into a dating rumour, the members scramble to protect their youngest while navigating Twitter chaos, media speculation, and their own overdramatic reactions.

Too close for comfort. Hyung Line Maknae Line

↳ You're secretly dating, but when you do a stage collab with another idol, his jealousy gets out of control.

Walk of shame. Hyung Line Maknae Line

↳ you have a one night stand and while they are doing the walk of shame they are caught by your roommate…

Bang chan

Lee Minho

Room 307

↳ Dr. Lee Minho has one rule: don't get attached to patients. Then he meets the girl in room 307, terminal, sharp-witted, and completely alone. What starts as coffee runs and late-night conversations becomes something neither of them expected: a love story with an expiration date. Because in the hospice wing, time is borrowed, goodbyes are inevitable, and the hardest part isn't saying "I love you."

Seo Changbin

Hwang Hyunjin

The Price of Peace. Part 1 Part 2

↳

Han jisung

Why is my ex in my mentions? Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

↳ You and Han Jisung are broken up. He still watches your posts. Still gets jealous. Still texts you at 2 a.m like he has a right to.

Swinging Hearts. Part 1 Part 2

↳ He's your best friend and classmate by day, but by night he's the city's mysterious masked hero. You've spent years with him, texting him, joking with him, and wondering where he disappears to, never suspecting it's the same Spider-Man who keeps trending online. Between late night rants, awkward crush moments, and chaotic superhero headlines, your connection grows stronger, proving that some hearts are impossible to keep a secret.

Lee Felix

Kim Seungmin

The first thing Minho notices is the laugh.

It stops him mid stride, his hand frozen on the door handle to room 307. He checks his watch, 9:47 AM. According to the chart in his hand, the patient inside is a terminal case. Pancreatic adenocarcinoma, stage 4, prognosis measured in months rather than years. By now, Minho has been an attending physician at Seoul National University Hospital for four years. He’s done his residency, completed his fellowship in oncology, and stood at enough bedsides to know what that diagnosis does to people.

It doesn’t usually make them laugh.

He looks down at the chart again. Kim y/n, age 25, no known allergies, emergency contact: mother, deceased. Emergency contact: father, estranged. Emergency contact: none.

None. The word stares back at him, clinical and cold. No one to call. No one to sit in the waiting room. No one to hold their hand except the rotating cast of nurses and doctors who will clock in and out of their life like shifts at a factory.

Minho has learned over the years not to let details like that get to him. You can’t do this job and carry every patient's loneliness on your shoulders. You’d collapse under the weight.

But the laugh, bright and unguarded and completely out of pace in a hospice wing, making him pause.

He pushes open the door.

The room is one of the better ones. Corner location, two windows, morning light spilling across the floor in golden rectangles. The bed is positioned to face the window, and in it propped up against a mountain of pillows, is you.

You’re not what he expected.

Most of his patients in the wing are older, worn down by years of treatment, their faces carrying the exhaustion of battles fought and lost. You’re young, younger than him, with hair fanned out against the pillow and sharp eyes that snap to him the moment he enters. You’re wearing a faded hospital gown, but someone has draped a cream cardigan over your shoulders, and there’s a half empty cup of what looks like tea on the bedside table.

“You’re not Mina” you say.

Minho blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“Mina. My nurse. She has really good skin and she always brings me extra pudding.” You tilt your head, studying him. “You have good skin too, but you look like you haven’t slept since 2018. Are you a doctor?”

“I am.” He steps further into the room, automatically falling into the professional ease he’s polished over years of bedside manner. “Dr. Lee. I’m the attending physician for this wing. I’ll be overseeing your care.”

“My care.” You say it flatly, without inflection. The. You smile, and it’s sharp and knowing and it makes something in his chest pull tight. “That’s a polite way of saying ‘making sure I die comfortably. Right?”

The words land like a slap. Not because they’re harsh, Minho has heard worse, but because of the way you say them. Like you’ve already made peace with it. Like you’re stating a fact.

“Your chart says-“ he starts.

“I know what my chart says.” You gesture at the stack of papers on the bedside table. “Terminal. Three to six months, maybe less if the pain gets worse. They gave me the whole speech when I got admitted. Very sympathetic, very professional, one of them even cried.”

Minho glances at the chart in his hands, then back at you. “Did you want a different doctor? Someone-“

“You’re fine.” You wave a hand. “You look like you won’t cry, which is already an improvement. What’s your name again?”

“Dr. Lee.”

“No, your actual name. The one your friends use.”

He hesitates. It’s a small thing, but it feels significant, like giving you that inch means giving you more than he should. “Minho.”

“Minho.” You try it out, rolling the syllables on your tongue. “Minho. That suits you. You look like a Minho.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means you look like you have strong opinions about the way people load the dishwasher and you probably have a cat.” You pause. “Actually, no. Multiple cats. You’re a multiple cat person.”

Minho just stares at you.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. The morning light shifts, crawling across the floor, and somewhere down the hall a machine beeps steadily. You’re looking at him with those sharp, knowing eyes, and Minho has the unsettling feeling that you’ve just read his entire personality in the space of thirty seconds.

“I have three cats,” he says finally.

Your face splits into a grin, wide and genuine and so unexpectedly bright that it makes something ache behind his ribs. “I KNEW it. Okay, what are their names?”

“Shouldn’t we discuss your treatment plan?”

“That’s boring. Cat names first, then then treatment plan.”

Minho has never had a patient negotiate with him like this. Most of them are too scared, too sad, too exhausted to joke. But you’re looking at him like he’s the most interesting thing in the room, like you have all the time in the world, like you’re not lying in a hospital bed with a terminal diagnosis and no emergency contacts listed on your chart.

“Soonie, doongie and Dori.” he hears himself say.

You press a hand to your chest. “Stop. Those are PERFECT. Which one is the troublemaker?”

“Dori. He chewed through my stethoscope last week.”

“And you still love him anyway.”

“Unfortunately.” Minho jokes.

You laugh again. That same bright sound he heard through the door, and Minho realises two things simultaneously.

One: he’s been standing here for seven minutes without discussing a single medical detail.

Two: he doesn’t want to leave.

———

The weeks that follow are…unexpected.

Minho tells himself he’s just being thorough. That’s why he stops by room 307 every morning, even on days when you’re not technically his patient. That’s why he lingers, why he answers your ridiculous questions, why he lets you rope him into arguments about the TV shows you watch to pass the time.

“You’re telling me” you say one afternoon, pointing at the screen, “that he cheated on her with her SISTER and she’s supposed to forgive him because he brought her soup when she was sick? Soup doesn’t fix betrayal, Minho. Soup is just broth and vegetables.”

“It’s a drama” he points out the obvious. “They need conflict.”

“They need THERAPY. And a restraining order.”

He hides his smile by looking down at your chart. Your vitals are stable, stable as they can be, given the circumstances. The pain seems manageable today, based on the nurses notes. You’ve been eating, sleeping, participating in your own care. By the clinical metrics, you’re doing well.

But Minho finds himself looking beyond the numbers now. He notices the way you tense up when the afternoon light fades away, how you always turn on the TV before the room gets dark. He notices that you never mention visitors, never get phone calls, never have anyone’s name to give when the social worker asks about discharge planning.

He notices that you flinch sometimes when nurses touch you without warning. He doesn’t mention any of this. It’s not his place. He’s your doctor, not your friend, not your family, not anything.

But he starts knocking before he enters. Just a soft tap, enough to give you warning. And he notices that you relax, just slightly when you see it’s him.

———

“Minho.”

It’s late, nearly 11pm, long after his shift ended. He should be home. He should be feeding his cats and falling into bed and not thinking about room 307.

Instead, he’s standing in your doorway like an idiot, still wearing his white coat, because he told himself he was just doing one last check before leaving.

You’re sitting up in bed, the TV muted, your eyes reflecting the dim glow of the nightlight. You look smaller at night, he thinks. Softer. Like the darkness lets you drop the armor you wear during the day.

“You’re still here.” You say.

“I was about to leave.”

“Liar.” There’s no heat in it. Just a quiet acknowledgement, like you see right through him and don’t mind what’s on the other side.

Minho steps into the room. He doesn’t turn on the overhead light, just moves to the chair by your window, the one that’s become familiar to him over the past weeks. The one that fits the shape of him now, like he’s sat in it enough times to leave an imprint

“Can’t sleep?” He asks.

“Can you ever sleep when you know you only have a few months left to live?”

The question hangs in the air. Minho doesn’t have an answer. He’s never been the one in the bed. He’s always been the one standing beside it, holding the chart, offering the clinical detachment that’s supposed to protect him from moments like this.

“No,” he says quietly. “I don’t think I could.”

You look at him for a long moment. Then you smile, smaller than your usual grins, softer, like something you’re not sure you should show.

You’re weird, Minho.” You joke

“Weird how?”

“Weird for a doctor. You’re supposed to be all professional and distant. You’re supposed to tell me about treatment options and then leave.” You pause. “You’ve been here for twenty minutes and you haven’t mentioned my blood work once.”

“Should I go get your blood work results?”

“No.” Your voice is firm. “Stay. Tell me about your cats instead. Tell me about the stupid things they do that make you love them anyway.”

So he does.

He tells you about Soonie, who sleeps curled against his chest every night and purrs so loud it wakes him up. He tells you about Doongie, who’s terrified of the vacuum cleaner and hides under the bed for hours afterward. He tells you about Dori, the troublemaker, who learned how to open cabinets and once trapped himself in the linen closet for an entire afternoon.

You laugh at that one, a real laugh, bright and unguarded, the kind that makes your whole face light up.

“I wish I could meet them,” you say, and something in his chest cracks, just a little.

“Maybe,” he starts, then stops. Because you can’t. You’re in a hospital room with a terminal diagnosis. You’re not going anywhere.

But you just smile, like you know what he was going to say, like you’re giving him permission to pretend.

“Tell me more,” you say. “Tell me everything”

———

The first time you touch him, it’s an accident.

Minho is adjusting your IV, a routine thing, something he’s done hundreds of times, when your hand brushes against his. Just the barest contact, skin against skin, there and gone in seconds.

But you both freeze.

For a moment, neither of you move. Minho’s hand hovers in the air, inches from yours, and he can feel the warmth of you still lingering on his skin. You’re looking at him with those sharp eyes, and there’s something in them now that wasn’t there before. Something questioning, something wondering.

“Sorry.” You murmur.

“Don’t be.” His voice comes out rougher than he intended.

He finishes adjusting the IV. He steps back. He tells himself to leave, to go see his other patients, to put distance between himself and room 307.

Instead, he sits in the chair by your window and stays until visiting hours end.

———

It’s Mina who notices first.

She corners him in the break room one afternoon, arms crossed, expression caught somewhere between concern and curiosity.

“You’re in 307 a lot.” She questions him.

Minho focuses very intently on his coffee. “She’s a complicated case.”

“She’s terminal, Minho. The treatment plan is palliative care. There’s nothing complicated about it.” Mina pauses. “I’ve been a nurse for twelve years. I know what it looks like when a doctor gets too attached.”

He looks up at that. “I’m not-“

“I didn’t say you were.” Her voice softens. “I’m just saying…be careful. Okay? She doesn’t have anyone. That makes it easy to feel like you need to be that person. But you can’t save her, Minho. No one can.”

The words land like stones in his chest. Heavy. Cold. True.

“I know.” He says quietly.

Mina studies him for a moment longer, then nods. “Good. Just…don’t forget to take care of yourself too.”

She leaves. Minho stares at his coffee, watches the steam rise and disappear, and thinks about our laugh. Your smile. The way you said his name like it meant something.

He knows he should pull back. He knows he’s crossing lines that doctors aren’t supposed to cross. He knows how this ends, it always ends the same way in his wing. With empty rooms and silent monitors and families crying in hallways.

Expect you don’t have family. You don’t have anyone.

You have him.

And Minho doesn’t know when that happened. Doesn’t know when you stopped being just another patient and started being the person he thinks about when he should be sleeping. Doesn’t know when your laugh became the best part of his day.

He only knows that it’s too late to go back now.

———

“Minho?”

It’s 2am. His shift ended hours ago. He’s sitting in the chair by your window, and you’re awake, watching him with those eyes that see too much.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

He frowns and tilts his head slightly. “For what?”

You’re quiet for a moment. Then you say, softly. “For staying. For knocking before you come in. For not looking at me like I’m already gone.”

Minhos throat tightens at your words. He wants to say something, wants to tell you that he sees you, really sees you, not as a diagnosis or a chart or a room number. Wants to tell you that you’re the most alive person he’s met in years, and it’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair.

But he can’t say any of that. So instead, he reaches out and takes your hand.

Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel your fingers curl around him, warm and real and here.

“You’re not gone yet,” he says quietly. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

You smile at him, small, sad and beautiful, and Minho realises with a certainty that settles deep in his bones, that he’s already lost.

Not to death. Not yet.

But to you.

———

One month, thirty one days, seven hundred and forty four hours.

Minho has stopped counting. That’s what he tells himself anyway. He’s stopped counting the days since you were admitted, stopped tracking how many times he’s sat in that chair by your window, stopped noticing the way his feet carry him to room 307 before he’s even consciously decided to go there.

He’s lying, of course. He knows exactly how long it’s been. He knows because thirty one days ago, he walked into a hospital room and heard a laugh that rearranged something in his chest. He knows because every morning since, he’s woken up and thought thirty two, thirty three, thirty four. Like h everyday is borrowed time.

Because it is. It always was.

———

“You look terrible.”

Minho looks up from your chart to find you watching him with that familiar sharpness, head tilted, lips curved in something that’s not quite a smile.

“Good morning to you too.” He says dryly.

“I’m serious. Your eyebags have eyebags. When’s the last time you slept?”

He doesn’t answer. He can’t, because the truth is that sleep has become elusive lately, fragmented hours filled with restless dreams he can never quite remember, waking up with his heart pounding and your name on his lips. He’s started drinking more coffee, started arriving earlier, staying later. Started using every excuse to be near you.

“I sleep,” he says finally.

“You lie.” You pat the edge of your bed. “Come here.”

He hesitates. It’s one thing to sit in the chair by the window, that’s professional distance, technically. The bed is different. The bed is yours, your space, your sanctuary in this sterile room.

“Minho.” Your voice is soft but firm. “Sit.”

He sits.

The mattress dips under his weight, bringing him closer to you. You’re wearing that cream cardigan again, the one someone must have bright you, he never asked who, and you never offered, and your hair is slightly mussed from sleep. There’s a flush of colour in your cheeks today, more than usual and for a moment he lets himself pretend it means something good.

“When’s your next shift?” You ask.

“I’m off in two hours” he answers truthfully.

“Good. You’re going home, feeding your cats and sleeping for at least eight hours. Doctors orders.” You say in a fake stern voice.

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re not a doctor.”

“No, but I’m a very persuasive patient.” You grin. “Also, I’ll know if you don’t. I have psychic powers.”

“You do not.”

“I absolutely do. I knew you had three cats within thirty seconds of meeting you. That’s not normal Minho. That’s magic.”

He snorts, actually snorts, like an embarrassed teenager, and the sound makes your grin widen into something radiant, it’s the kind of smile that could power cities, he thinks. The kind that makes him forget, for a moment where he is and why he’s here.

“You’re ridiculous.” He says.

“You like it.”

The words hang in the air between you, lighter than they should be, heavier than he expected. You like it. You like me. The implication hovers unspoken, and Minho watches your expression shift, just slightly, just enough as you realise what you’ve said.

“I meant-“ you start.

“I know what you meant.”

Silence. The monitor beeps steadily in the background. Somewhere down the hall, a cart rattles past. Minho is acutely aware of how close you are, of the warmth radiating from your body, of the way your hand rests on the blanket inches from his.

“I should go.” He says p, but he doesn’t move.

“Yeah,” you agree. “You should.”

Neither of you move.

———

It becomes a pattern.

Minho stops before rounds, after rounds, between patients. He brings you coffee, the way you like it, sweet with a splash of oat milk, because he asked once and you told him and he never forgot. He brings you little things: a book he thought you might like, a small plant for the windowsill and a ridiculous keychain of a cat that made him think of you.

“It’s not a keychain,” you point out, holding it up. “I don’t have keys. I’m in a hospital.” You laugh out.

“It’s for moral support.”

“You’re giving me moral support in the formq of a plastic cat.”

“He’s judging you. Look at his face. He thinks you should drink more water.”

You laugh, that laugh, the one that does things to his chest. He sets the cat on your bedside table next to the growing collection of small gifts he’s brought you and a handwritten list of terrible puns he found online and copied onto hospital stationery.

Mina noticed, of course. Mina notices everything.

“You’re bringing her gifts now?” She asks one afternoon, falling into step beside him in the hallway.

“They’re not gifts. They’re….morale boosters.”

“Mmhm.” Her tone is deeply unimpressed. “And the coffee? Also a morale booster?”

“Patients appreciate small comforts.” He shrugs.

"Minho." She stops walking, forcing him to stop too. Her eyes are kind but serious, the way they get when she's about to say something he doesn't want to hear. "I'm not going to tell you what to do. You're the doctor, I'm the nurse, and honestly? She's the brightest spot in this whole miserable wing. But I need you to hear me when I say this."

He waits.

“She talks about you constantly. When you’re not here, she’s asking about when you’ll be back. She lights up when you walk in.” Mina pauses. “She’s falling for you Minho. And you’re falling for her. And I don’t know how this ends, but I know it doesn’t end well.”

The words settle over him like a weight. Heavy and true.

“I know.” He says quietly.

“Then what are you doing?”

Minho looks down the hallway, toward the corner room with the good light. Toward you. Toward the person who’s become the centre of his attention in ways he never anticipated.

“I don’t know.” He admits. “I just..I can’t stay away.”

Mina sighs. “I know, honey. That’s what scares me.”

———

That night, Minho dreams of you.

It’s not a complicated dream. Just you, sitting up in bed, looking at him with those sharp eyes. But in the dream you’re well. Your cheeks are full of colour, your hair is shiny, your hands are steady when you reach for him. You’re wearing normal clothes instead of a hospital gown, and when you smile it’s not tinged with the sadness that’s started creeping in during waking hours.

“Come here,” you say and he does. He crosses the room, sits on the edge of your bed, lets you take his face in your hands. “I’m not sick,” you tell him. “It was all a mistake. I’m staying.”

And in the dream, he believes you. In the dream, he lets himself have this, lets himself lean into your touch, lets himself imagine a future where you exist outside these walls. Where he can take you to dinner, introduce you to his cats, fall asleep next to you without counting the hours until morning.

Then he wakes up.

The clock on his nightstand reads 3:47am. His cats are curled around him, Soonie on his chest, Doongie by his feet and Dori somehow crammed onto the pillow next to his head, and for a long moment he just lies there, breathing.

It was a dream. Just a dream.

But the ache in his chest feels terribly real.

———

The next day, you’re worse.

Minho knows it the moment he walks in. The colour is gone from your cheeks. Your hands tremble slightly when you reach for the glass of water. There’s a new medication drip attached to your IV, and your chart shows increased pain scores throughout the night.

“Minho.” You smile, but it’s tired. “You’re here.”

“I’m here.” He sits in the chair by your window, closer than he should, farther than he wants. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck. A small one. Maybe a minivan.” You pause. “Is that funny? I can’t tell anymore.”

He wants to tell you it’s funny. He wants to make you laugh, wants to see your face light up the way it did weeks ago, wants to pretend everything is fine. But the words won’t come.

“I’m sorry,” he says instead.

You look at him for a long moment. Then you pat at the edge of your bed, the same gesture from before, but heavier now. Slower. “Come here.”

He goes.

This time, when he sits, you reach for his hand. Your fingers are cold, thinner than they were a month ago, but your grip is still strong. Still you.

“I know I’m getting worse,” you say quietly. “You don’t have to pretend I’m not.”

“Y/n-“

“It’s okay. I’m not stupid. I can feel it.” You look down at your joined hands, tracing patterns on his skins with your thumb. “The pain is worse at night now. I don’t tell the nurses because I don’t want anymore drugs. They make me sleepy and when I’m sleepy, I can’t talk to you when you visit.” You huff out a small laugh.

Minho’s throat closes and he grips your hand tighter.

“You come every night,” you continue. “Even when you think I’m sleeping, even when you’re exhausted. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“I-“ he starts but gets cut off.

“You stay in that chair until you think I’m asleep. And then you leave, and you come back the next morning, and you do it all over again.” You look up at him, and there’s something in your eyes that makes his heart stutter. “Why, Minho?”

The question hangs between you. Simple. Devastating.

Because I can’t stay away. Because you’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing I think about before I sleep. Because I’ve stopped pretending this is professional. Because I’m falling in love with you, and it’s the most terrible, beautiful thing that’s ever happened to me.

“I don’t know,” he whispers.

You smile. Small and sad and knowing. “Liar.”

Before he can respond, you lift your free hand and touch his face. Just like in his dream. Your fingers trace his jaw, his cheekbones, the dark circles under his eyes that you noticed days ago.

“You should sleep more,” you murmur.

“So should you” he turns it back onto you.

“Touché.”

For a moment, neither of you move. Your hand is still on his face, warm despite everything, and Minho finds himself leaning into it. Just slightly. Just enough.

“I’m scared.” You whisper.

The words crack something open in his chest. He’s heard his patients say this before, dozens of them, hundreds, in various languages and various ways. But none of them have ever sounded like this. None of them have ever been you.

“I know.” He says, and his voice breaks on the words. “I know.”

“Stay?”

“Always.” He can never deny you.

———

Three weeks have passed.

Three weeks of good days and bad days, of laughter and silence, moments so painfully ordinary they feel extraordinary. Three weeks of Minho sleeping in the chair by your window more than often his own bed, of his cats giving him betrayed looks when he finally makes it home, of Mina sighing and bringing him coffee without being asked.

Three weeks of failing, deeper and deeper, until he can’t remember what life looked like before you.

On the good days, you watch TV and argue about plot holes. You make him tell you stories about his cats, about his residency, about the time he accidentally walked into the wrong operating room and got yelled at by a surgeon. You laugh, not as brightly as before, but still real, still you. Minho hoards those laughs like treasure.

On the bad days, you’re too tired to talk. You lie in bed, holding his hand, and he reads to you from whatever book is on your table. Poetry, sometimes. Stupid articles he finds on his phone. The ingredients list from your juice carton, if that’s what makes you smile.

On the worst day, you look at him with those sharp eyes and say, “Tell me something true.”

He thinks for a moment. Then, “I haven’t slept in my own bed in two weeks.”

“That’s not true. You go home every night.”

“I go home. I don’t sleep.” He pauses. “I lie awake and think about you.”

Your eyes widen, just slightly. “Minho…”

“I know.” He squeezes your hand. “I know I shouldn't say that. I know I’m your doctor. I know how this ends.” His voice wavers. “But you asked for something true, and that’s the truest thing I know.”

You’re quiet for a long moment. Then you tug on his hand, pulling him closer, and when he’s close enough, you press your forehead to his.

“I think about you too.” You whisper. “All the time. When you’re not here, I’m waiting for you to come back. When you are here, I’m counting the minutes until you have to leave.”

“Y/n-“

“I know.” Your breath is warm against his skin. “I know we can’t… I know this isn’t…but Minho. If I only have a little time left, I want to spend it with you. Even if it’s just like this. Even if we never say the words. Even if it ends.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. Really look. The sharpness in your eyes, softened now by something he’s afraid to name. At the curve of your smile, smaller than before but still beautiful. At the person who changed everything without meaning to.

“Okay!, he says. “Then I’ll stay.”

You smile, really smile, the kind that reaches your eyes, and Minho realises that this moment right here is one he’ll carry forever.

No matter what comes next.

———

But what comes next is worse

———

It starts with a fever.

Low grade at first, nothing concerning. Then it spikes, your body, already weakened, starts to fight itself. The palliative team increases your medications, adjusts your fluid, monitors your vitals around the clock.

Minho doesn’t leave.

He’s not supposed to be there, he has other patients, other responsibilities, but Mina covers for him. She doesn’t ask questions, just brings him coffee and squeezes his shoulder and leaves him alone with you.

You’re asleep most of the time now. When you’re awake, you’re groggy, confused, reaching for him with hands that don’t always know where they are.

“Minho?” You mumble one night, voice thick with fever.

“I’m here.”

“Minho.” You say his name like a prayer. Like he’s the most solid thing in a world that’s slipping away. “Don’t go.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise?”

He presses his lips to your forehead, the first time he’s done anything like it, the first time he’s let himself be that close, and whispers, “I promise.”

———

The fever breaks three days later.

You’re weaker. Thinner. The colour hasn’t fully returned to your cheeks. But you’re awake, you’re lucid, and when you see Minho sitting in his usual spot, you smile.

“You’re still here.”

“I promised.”

You reach for him, and he takes your hand, and for a while neither of you speaks. The silence is comfortable, the kind that doesn’t need filling, the kind that says everything important without words.

“I’ve been thinking,” you say eventually.

“Dangerous.” He teases with that infamous smirk, while reaching to play with the ends of your hair.

“Shut up.” But you’re smiling. “I’ve been thinking about what I’ll miss.”

Minho's chest tightens. “You don’t have to-“

“I want to.” You squeeze his hand for reassurance. “I’ll miss my favourite TV shows, I’ll miss bubble tea, I’ll miss the way the light comes through these windows in the morning.” You pause. “I’ll miss you

“Y/n…” his fingers pause at your hair.

“I’ll miss you finding excuses to stay last your shift. I’ll miss you bringing me coffee exactly how I like it. I’ll miss the way you look at me like I’m not just a patient, like I’m…” you trail off, swallowing hard. “Like I’m someone worth staying for.”

Minhos eyes burn. He blinks rapidly, refuses to let the tears fall.

“You are,” he says, and his voice cracks. “You’re worth everything.”

You look at him for a long moment. Then you tug on his hand, and he leans closer, and when your lips brush against his cheek, just barely, just softly, he forgets how to breathe.

“Thank you,” you whisper against his skin. “For everything.”

———

That night, Minho drives home at 3am, feeds his cats, and cries for the first time in years.

He doesn’t know how much time you have left. Weeks, maybe. Days, possibly. The doctors on the palliative team have stopped giving estimates, it’s too variable, too unpredictable, too cruel to put a number on something so precious.

All he knows is that every moment with you is borrowed. Every laugh is a gift. Every touch is a memory in the making.

And he’d do it all again. Every second. Even knowing how it ends.

Because loving you, even like this, even in secret, even with an expiration date; has been the most real thing he’s ever felt.

———

The beginning of the end starts on a Tuesday.

Minho knows this because he remembers every detail of that morning. The way the light slanted through your windows, the particular shade of pale your skin had become, the sound of your voice when you said his name. Hell remember it for the rest of his life, he thinks. The Tuesday when everything shifted from soon to now.

He arrives at 7am, earlier than usual, because he couldn’t sleep. Again. His cats had given up on him entirely. Soonie now sleeps in the living room instead of on his chest, and Dori has stopped trying to steal his pillow. They know, so,show. Animals always do.

You’re awake when he walks in. That’s the first sign that something’s different, you’ve been sleeping later lately, your body conserving energy for the things that matter. But you’re sitting up, propped against your pillows, watching the door like you’ve been waiting.

“You came,” you say, and your voice is softer than before. Thinner.

“I always come.” Minho walks further into the room.

You smile and pat the bed. He doesn’t hesitate anymore. Doesn’t pretend to consider the chair. He sits on the edge of your mattress and takes your hand, and it’s become so natural that he can’t remember when it started feeling this way.

“I had a dream about you,” you tell him.

He leans in, “yeah?”

“Yeah. We were at your apartment. Your cats were everywhere, and you were trying to cook something, and you kept yelling at Dori to get off the counter.” You let out a soft and breathy laugh. “It was so ordinary. So normal. I woke up and I was sad that it wasn’t real.”

Minhos eyebrows furrow and his lips go into a straight line. “Maybe someday-“

“Minho.” You say his name gently, like you’re letting him down easy. Like you know something he doesn’t want to accept. “We both know there isn’t a someday.”

The words land like stones in his chest. He wants to argue, wants to tell you that someday exists, that he’ll find a way, that medicine advances everyday and maybe, maybe, maybe…

But he’s a doctor. He knows the statistics. He knows your charts better than anyone. And he knows, with a certainty that makes him want to scream, that you’re right.

“I don’t want to talk about that.” He says quietly.

“I know.” You sound saddened. “So let’s talk about something else. Tell me something I don’t know.”

So he does . He tells you these small, stupid, wonderful things, and you listen like they're the most important stories in the world.

Halfway through a story about Dori learning to open the refrigerator, your eyes drift closed. Your grip on his hand loosens, but doesn’t let go completely.

Minho stops talking. He sits there, holding your hand, watching you sleep and pretends his heart isn’t splintering into a thousand pieces.

———

Three days later, you stop eating.

It happens gradually, first just picking at your food, the. Pushing it around the plate, then not pretending at all. The nurses try everything. Different meals, different textures, different encouragement. Nothing works.

“You have to eat,” Minho tells you, frustrated, terrified and trying not to show either.

“Why?” You look at him with tired eyes, still sharp even now, when everything else is fading. “What’s the point?”

“The point is-“ he cuts himself off. Swallows and starts again. “The point is I’m not ready to let you go.”

You’re quiet for a long moment. Then you reach for him, and he comes to you like gravity, like he has no choice, like he never had a choice at all.

“I’m scared.” You whisper abasing his shoulder. “I’m so scared, Minho.”

“I know.” His arms wrap around you, careful of the tubes and wires, holding you like you’re made of glass and starlight. “I’m scared too.”

“Will you stay? When it happen’s?”

“Nothing could make me leave.”

“And after?” Your voice is smaller now, fragile in a way he’s never heard. “What will you do after?”

Minho closes his eyes. He thinks about it constantly, the after. The world without you in it. The empty chair by the window, the coffee he’ll stop making, the cats who will never get to meet you.

“I don’t know.” He admits truthfully, because he doesn’t know. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Done what?”

“Loved someone like this. Lost someone like this.” The words slip out before he can stop them, and for a moment the world goes still. Loved. He said loved.

You pull back just enough to look at him. Your eyes are wet, but you’re smiling, that smile. The one that started all of this.

“You love me?”

“God help me,” he whispers. “I do.”

You reach up and cradle his face, like you’re memorising him. “I love you too,” you say. “I think I have since you walked through that door and when you argued with me about my bubble tea.”

Minho laughs, actually laughs, broken, wet and real. He presses his forehead to yours. “I didn’t argue. I made a valid point about sugar intake.”

“Same thing.” Your thumb traces his cheekbone. “Minho?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For loving me. For staying. For making this..." You pause, searching for words. "For making this feel like living, even at the end."

He can't speak. Can't form words around the sob building in his chest. So he just holds you, and you hold him back, and the monitor beeps steadily in the background, counting down time neither of you has.

————

The last week is both everything and nothing.

Everything, because every moment is saturated with meaning. Every glance, every touch, every whispered word carries the weight of this might be the last. Minho memorises you, the exact shade of your eyes, the way you hum in your sleep, the specific curve of your smile when he says something stupid. He catalogs these details like a man building a museum, preserving what he can against the coming dark.

Nothing, because no amount of memorisation is enough. No amount of time could ever be enough. He wants decades. He wants anniversaries and arguments and mornings waking up next to you. He wants to introduce you to his family and cats, watch you fall in love with them. He wants to grow old, and he wants you there.

But wanting doesn’t matter. Not here. Not now.

On Wednesday, you ask him to bring Dori.

“I know it’s against the rules,” you say, and your voice is so faint now, barely above a whisper. “But I want to meet him. Just once.”

Minho should say no. Should be professional, should protect his career, should maintain the boundaries he’s already demolished. Instead, he shows up at 2am with Dori stuffed inside his jacket, purring indignantly.

You light up when you see him, really light up, the way you haven’t in days. You hold out your thin arms, and Minho places Dori on your chest, and the cat aka the little traitor immediately curls up and starts purring like he’s known you his whole life.

“He’s perfect,” you breathe, stroking Dori’s fur with fingers that tremble. “He’s so perfect, Minho.”

“He likes you. He doesn’t like anyone.”

You laugh, soft and breathy but real, and Minho thinks he would break every rule in existence to hear that sound again.

“You’ll take care of them right?” You ask, not looking away from Dori. “After?”

“Of course.”

“And yourself?”

He doesn’t answer. You look up at that, meeting his eyes.

“Minho. Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

“I-“

“Promise.” Your voice is firmer now, as firm as it can be. “I need to know you’ll be okay. Not right away, but…eventually. I need to know you’ll laugh again. That you’ll let yourself be happy.”

Minho looks down at the floor not being able to look into your eyes. “How can I be happy without you?”

You smile, sad and beautiful and unbearably gentle. “Because I’ll still be with you. I’m here.” You touch your chest, over your heart. “And here.” You touch his chest, over his. “I’ll be everywhere you go. Every time you laugh at your cats, every time you see something that reminds you of me, every time the light comes through the windows just right. I’ll be there.”

Minho's eyes burn. He bites his lip hard enough to taste blood.

“I don’t know how to do this.” He whispers.

“Neither do I.” You reach for his hand and pull it to your chest, hold it over your heart. “But we’ll figure it out. Together. Until we can't."

————

The last night starts like any other.

Minho arrives after his shift, settles into his usual spot on the edge of your bed, takes your hand. You’re awake which surprises him, you’ve been sleeping more, your body conserving energy for the things that matter. But your eyes are open, clear, focused on him with an intensity that makes his stomach.

“Hi.,” you whisper.

“Hi yourself.” He whispers back.

“Come closer.”

He shifts, moving until he’s right next to you, until there’s no space left between you. Your hand comes up to his face, tracing the lines he knows are there, the exhaustion, the grief, the love he can’t hide even if he wanted to.

“You look tired today.” You say.

“I’m fine.” He lies.

Although you can see right through him. “Liar.” But you’re smiling. “Minho?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not scared anymore.”

His heart stutters. “What?”

“I was. For so long. Terrified, actually.” Your thumb traces his jaw. “But then you came, and you stayed, and you over me, and somehow that made it okay. The being scared part. It’s gone now.”

“Y/n…”

“I’m ready.” You say it simply, quietly, like you’re telling him what you want for dinner. “I’m ready to go.”

The tears come before he can stop them , hot and silent, sliding down his cheeks, dripping onto your hospital gown. You wipe them away with gentle fingers, and your smile doesn’t waver.

“Don’t cry,” you whisper. “Please don’t cry.”

“How can I not?” His voice breaks. “How can I not cry when I’m losing you?”

“Because I'm not lost. I’m right here. I’ll always be here.” You press your hand to his chest. “Forever.”

He can’t speak. Can’t do anything but hold you, feel your heartbeat against his palm, count each precious thump like it might be the last.

“I love you,” he manages. “I love you so much.”

“I know.” You kiss his check, soft and warm. “I love you too. My stupid cat doctor.”

A laugh escapes him, wet and broken, but real. “I’m not stupid.”

“You brought your cat to the hospital at 2am. That’s either stupid or romantic. I’m choosing romantic.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet you love me anyway.”

“God help me, I do.”

———

The hours pass.

Minho doesn’t sleep, doesn’t move from your side. He holds your hand and talks to you about everything and nothing, his cats, his childhood, the first time he realised he was falling in love with you. You listen with your eyes closed, a small smile on your face, your grip on his hand steady despite everything.

At 2:39am, your breathing changes.

Minho notices immediately. The way doctors are trained to notice, the way lovers notice without training. It’s shallower now. Slower. Your grip loosens, then tightens again, like you’re fighting to hold on.

“Y/n?” His voice is calm, steady, even as his world crumbles. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Your eyes open, just barley, just enough to find him in the darkness. You let out a hum, to let him know you are listening. “Don’t…don’t let go.”

“Never.” He brings your hand to his lips, kisses your fingers, palm and wrist. “I’ll never let go.”

You smile, so beautiful it steals his breath, and your eyes drift closed again.

The monitor beeps. Steady, slowing.

Minho talks more about the life you two could have had. “I would have loved that.” You whisper, so faint he almost misses it. “All of it,”

“We can still-“

You shake your head slightly.

“Please-“

“I’ll be waiting, okay? When it’s your turn. I’ll be waiting.”

The monitor slows. One beep. Another. Longer between each.

“I love you,” he says, because there’s nothing else left to say. Nothing else that matters.

Your lips curve, just slightly, just enough.

Then the monitor beeps one final time, and the line goes flat.

3:47 AM.

Minho will remember that number for the rest of his life. Will see it on clocks and flinch. Will wake up at that exact time every night for months, reaching for someone who isn’t there.

But right now, at this moment, he doesn’t think about any of that.

Right now he holds your hand, still warm, still soft, still yours, and presses his forehead to your chest and lets himself fall apart.

———

The aftermath is a blur.

People come, nurses, administrators, someone from palliative care with gentle eyes and sympathetic words. Minho hears none of it. He sits in the corner, in the chair by your window and watches them prepare your body. Watch them remove tubes, straighten the sheets, close your eyes.

Someone touches his shoulder. Mina.

“Minho.” Her voice is soft. “Come on. You need to leave now.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. I’ll walk you out.”

“I can’t leave her.”

Mina is quiet for a moment. Then she pulls up another chair and sits beside him. “Okay. Then I’ll stay with you.”

They sit there together as the sun rises, as the light floods through the windows they way you loved, as the room slowly empties until it’s just the two of them and the space where you used to be.

———

The days after are worse.

Minho goes home. Feeds his cats. Stares at the ceiling. His phone buzzes with messages from colleagues sending him their condolences, offers of support, requests for him to take time off. He ignores them all.

Dori won’t stop sleeping on your cardigan Minho took from the hospital. He doesn't move him. Doesn’t have the heart.

———

The first week, he goes back to work.

Everyone looks at him with pity. He hates it. Hates the way they whisper, the way they avoid mentioning you, the way they treat him like he might shatter at any moment.

He might. But that’s none of their business.

He doesn’t go to room 307. Can’t. He walks past it every day, feels the pull, forcing himself to keep moving. The door is closed now. Someone else is in there. Someone else is now dying in the room where you once laughed, where you once held his hand and where you told him you loved him.

He can’t think about that.

———

The second week, Mina finds him in the supply closet at 2am.

He’s not crying. He’s just…sitting. On an overturned box of gloves. Staring at the wall.

“Minho.” She sits beside him, and doesn't ask questions. “I brought coffee.”

“Thanks.”

They sit in silence for a while. Then Mina says, “I cleared out her things. The ones she left behind. They’re in a box at the nurses station.”

His heart lurches. “What things?”

“The little stuff. The plant you brought, the cat keychain, the smooth stone, a few books.” She paused. “A letter. Addressed to you.”

He looks up at that. “A letter?”

“She must have written it sometime in the last week. Hid it under her pillow. An aide found it when they changed the sheets.” Mina reaches into her pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “I didn’t read it, don't worry. That’s not my place.”

“I can’t-“ his voice breaks as if this was the final straw.

“You don’t have to read it now. But… you should read it. Eventually.” Mina squeezes his shoulder. “She wanted you to have it. That means something.”

He nods, not trusting himself to speak.

Mina leaves. Minho sits in the supply closet, holding your last words to him, and pretends he’s not falling apart.

———

The third week, he reads it.

He’s at home, in bed, surrounded by cats. It’s 3am, close enough to 3:47 to hurt, far enough to breathe. Dori is on your cardigan again. Soonie is on his chest. Doongie a

Is at his feet.

He opens the letter.

———

Minho,

If you’re reading this, I’m gone. I’m sorry. I know that’s stupid to say it like it’s my fault, like I had a choice. But I, sorry anyway. I’m sorry for leaving you. I’m sorry for making you love me when you knew how this would end. I’m sorry for all the things we won’t get to do.

But I’m not sorry for meeting you. I’m not sorry for any of it.

You changed everything, you know. Before you, this room was just a room. The days were just days, I was waiting for what? I didn't know. Maybe just for the end. Then you walked in with your stupid cat face and your stupid opinions about my bubble tea and your stupid beautiful heart, and suddenly I didn't want to wait anymore. I wanted to live. Even if it was just like this. Even if it was just for a little while.

You gave me that. You gave me laughter when I thought I'd forgotten how. You gave me someone to miss when I was scared of being forgotten. You gave me love…real love, the kind I didn't think I'd ever get to have.

I know you're hurting. I know you're angry and sad and probably not sleeping or eating or taking care of yourself. (Am I right? I'm right, aren't I? Stop that. Feed my favorite cats. Drink water. Exist.)

But here's the thing, Minho. You have to keep going. Not for me, I'm okay now, I promise. I'm not scared anymore. I'm somewhere warm and bright and I'm watching you, and I'll be watching until it's your turn.

You have to keep going for you. For the person you are, the person you'll become, the life you still have to live. For your cats who need you. For the morning light that I loved so much. For the coffee you make too sweet and the arguments you'll have with Mina and all the small, beautiful things that make life worth living.

I'll be there. In all of it. Every time you laugh, I'll be laughing with you. Every time you cry, I'll be holding you. Every time you look at the stars, I'll be looking back.

You're not alone. You'll never be alone.

I love you. I loved you from the moment you walked into my room and argued about my bubble tea. I loved you when you brought Dori at 2 AM. I loved you when you held my hand and pretended not to cry. I loved you when you said my name like it meant something.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Forever yours,

Y/N

P.S. - Tell Dori I said hi. And that he's still my favorite, even if you pretend not to hear me.

———

Minho reads it three times.

The first time, he sobs so hard he can’t see the words.

The second time, he reads it slowly, tracing each letter with his fingers, memorising every line.

The third time, he laughs, wet and broken but real.

Dori meows from your cardigan, and Minho reaches over to scratch his ears.

“She says hi.” He whispers. “You’re still her favourite.”

Dori purrs, and for a moment, just a moment, Minho swede he feels you there. A warmth in the air. A brush of something against his cheek. A whisper of laughter, soft and bright and so perfectly you.

“I’ll be okay,” he whispers to the darkness. “I promise. I’ll be okay.”

———

Six months later.

Minho sits on the balcony, surrounded by cats, watching the sunset. The light is golden, warm, the way you always liked it.

He’s okay.

It took time. Months of therapy, months of grief, months of learning to exist in a world without you. But he’s okay now. He laughs again. He plays with his cats. He drinks coffee that’s probably too sweet and rogues with Mina about nothing and lives his life, one day at a time.

He still thinks about you everyday. Still wakes up at 03:47 sometimes, reaching for someone who isn’t there. He still visits room 307 when it’s empty, just to sit in the light and remember.

But it doesn’t hurt the same way anymore. It’s softer now. More like missing, less like breaking.

He looks up at the sky as the first stars appear.

A breeze stirs, warm and gentle, carrying the scent of something sweet. Flowers, maybe. Or just the memory of you.

Minho smiles.

“I’ll wait,” he whispers. “Not yet. But eventually.”

And somewhere, somehow, he knows you heard him.