daydreamer

Your lungs forgot their job. Your chest tightened so fast it was almost humiliating, like your body had been waiting for this moment and didn’t care about the ring on your finger or the life you’d built somewhere else.

Yeosang didn’t move. He just stared at you like you were something he’d dreamed up on accident.

Then his throat worked once. A swallow.

When he spoke, his voice was lower than it used to be. Not the soft boy from the back row. Not the laugh you could pull out of him with one look. It was deep now, controlled, carefully placed.

“Welcome,” he said, and the word was polite. Neat. Professional. Like he could set it down between you and keep it from shattering. “How can I help you?”

Your mouth went dry.

“I… I’m here because,” you managed, and you hated how small you sounded. “Your shop has really good reviews. People said you’re the best in town. Especially for weddings.”

His gaze flicked once, just briefly, to the binder on the counter. To the order forms. To the pen lined up perfectly with the edge like he’d put it there to give his hands something to obey.

He nodded, slow.

“I can do wedding work,” he said. “Yes.” The pause after it was wrong. Too long. Like there was a different sentence he’d almost said and forced himself not to.

You swallowed, throat burning.

“Yeosang,” you whispered.

“I didn't know you were back in town,” he said before you could ask him any question. His voice was polite. Terrifyingly polite.

“I... I didn’t know you were still here,” you stammered, your heart hammering against your ribs so hard it hurt. “I thought you left for university. I thought you moved away.”

“Plans change,” two words. Flat. Contained. Like the rest was locked in a drawer you didn’t have the right to open anymore. He didn’t mention his mother. He didn’t mention the funeral you missed because you were halfway across the world. He just wiped his hands on a rag, avoiding your eyes. “You’re here for an order?”

The professional mask was up. He was the owner of ‘Ethereal Blooms’, and you were just another client.

Your heart hurt in a way that didn’t make sense, except it did, because it was Yeosang.

His dark eyes scanned your face, searching for something. For a second, you saw the softness there, the kindness that used to be yours. You saw the boy who used to walk you home. But then, you saw his gaze drop to your left hand.

To the diamond ring catching the light.

Yeosang blinked, and the shutter came down. His jaw tightened, a muscle feathering near his ear. He set the shears down on the counter with a deliberate, heavy clack. When he looked up again, his face was smooth. impassive.

“Congratulations,” he said.

His voice didn’t break.

It would’ve been easier if it had.

You cleared your throat. “Yeosang, I didn’t— I didn’t come here to—”

“Wedding date?” he cut in immediately, not looking at you as he opened a binder and reached for the pen. His fingers wrapped around it with that careful, controlled grip, like he was afraid of what his hands might do if he let them float.

The word was a period. Not a question. A full stop.

You stood there with the binder open between you like a shield, the glossy pages too bright under the warm shop lights. Your ring caught again—another cruel little flash—and you hated that you couldn’t stop noticing how his eyes didn’t.

You blinked. “Yes. It’s in a bit over three weeks—”

“Specific date?” he asked, finally lifting his gaze, expression smooth in a way that didn’t match the tension in his jaw.

“May fifteenth,” you answered automatically. “It’s on a Saturday.”

He wrote it down in neat, small lettering. The scratch of the pen felt too loud in the quiet. “And the venue?” he continued.

You swallowed. “It’s at— it’s at the The Orangery. You know, the old—”

“Outdoor ceremony, indoor reception?”

“Outdoor ceremony,” you murmured, because he was giving you no space to breathe around the words. “Reception inside, yes.”

He nodded once. The motion was minimal. Efficient. Like he was conserving energy. “Guest count?”

“About two hundred and twenty,” you said. Then, because you couldn’t help yourself, because you were standing in front of the boy who used to count the stars with you from the hood of his mom’s car, you added softly, “I didn’t know you opened a shop. It’s really beautiful. I—”

“Bridesmaids?” he interrupted, pen already moving again.

Your heart stuttered, irritation and grief tangling into something hot and ugly in your chest. “Four. Four bridesmaids.”

“Groom’s side?” he asked.

You flinched at the word groom like it was a slap. “Four as well.”

He hummed a single note, more reflex than sound. “Colour palette?”

You glanced down at the binder, at the rows of bouquets photographed in perfect lighting, each one captioned with a name that sounded like a promise. Moonlit Cream. Antique Blush. Summer Silence.

“White,” you started. “And—um. Green. Maybe some pale—”

“Any accent colour?” he cut in.

You felt yourself clench. “Blue,” you said, sharper than you meant. Then your voice faltered. “Seonghwa likes— he likes—”

Yeosang’s pen paused.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t obvious. It was just… the tiniest hitch. Like a machine catching on grit.

“Noted,” he said, and started writing again, like your fiancée’s name was just another line item. “Do you still hate gerbera daisy?”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding. “I—” Your laugh came out wrong, too thin. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he said, still not smiling. “Me too.”

The words landed like a ghost of familiarity.

“You do? You used to—”

“Seasonal availability,” he cut in, voice even. “May is peony season. Ranunculus starts tapering. You can do roses year-round.”

“And you don’t want lilies inside the venue,” he added after a second.

Your heart lurched. “I didn’t say—”

“You get headaches,” he continued, still calm, still professional. “You always did. You’ll think you can handle it because you’re stressed and trying to be easy, but the smell will sit behind your eyes and you’ll spend the reception smiling through pain.”

Your breath caught because that wasn’t a florist talking. That was Yeosang, sixteen, tilting your chin in his hands and telling you you looked like moonlight. Every time you tried to step closer, he moved the counter higher. He slid the clipboard between you and made it official. He kept you on the safe side of his life.

You swallowed, throat raw. “Yeosang.”

He didn’t react.

You tried again, softer, like you could sneak your way past his walls. “Can we… can we talk for a second? Not about the— not about the wedding. Just—”

“Budget range,” he interrupted, and this time he finally looked at you fully. His eyes were dark and unreadable, but there was something in them—something tight, exhausted, buried under years of being good and quiet and responsible.

You stared back, anger flickering because it hurt, because it was unfair, because you were the one who left and somehow you were still the one bleeding.

“Yeosang,” you said, your voice trembling now, “please.”

For a second, his expression shifted. Not softness exactly—something worse. Something like restraint cracking at the edges.

Then he inhaled. Slow. Controlled.

And his face smoothed again.

“Tell me your budget,” he repeated, voice lower, almost gentle. Almost kind. Like he was offering you an exit that wouldn’t shatter either of you. “So I can tell you what’s possible.”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I— Seonghwa’s handling most of the payments. I just… I wanted it to be— I wanted it to be pretty.”

Yeosang’s jaw flexed once, a small muscle feathering near his ear like it did when he used to hold back words. “Everything is pretty,” he said.

And the way he said it—flat, controlled—made it sound like an accusation. He flipped to a fresh page in the binder and slid it toward you with two fingers, careful not to touch your hand.

“Okay,” he continued, voice steady again. “Ceremony arch. Aisle markers. Bride bouquet. Bridesmaids. Boutonnières. Table centerpieces. Sweetheart table. Any installations.”

You stared at the list and the words swam. Because all you could think about was how he’d said “Everything is pretty,” like you’d walked in and asked him to decorate the knife you were going to bury in his chest.

You forced your voice to work. “Do you— do you ever—”

“Do you want the bouquet round or cascading,” he interrupted, not even blinking. “And do you want it looser, garden-style, or structured?”

“Why are you doing this?” you whispered.

The pen stopped. Yeosang’s eyes lifted to yours, and for the first time since he’d walked out from the back room, the professional distance faltered. Just a fraction. Enough for you to see the boy underneath—tired, stubborn, too kind for his own good.

His voice, when it came, was so quiet you almost didn’t hear it over the hum of the refrigerators. “Because you asked,” he said.

Then, like he hated himself for letting even that much slip, he straightened.

“Round or cascading?” he repeated, polite to the point of cruelty.

And your mouth opened—

because you didn’t have an answer about flowers.

Because you had a thousand questions about him.

And you didn’t know which one would destroy you first.

So you stood there, your mouth parted, the silence stretching so tight it felt like it might snap and take both of your heads off.

Round or cascading? Structured or loose?

You couldn’t answer. The words were stuck in your throat, thick and suffocating and Yeosang watched you struggle. He watched the way your hands trembled where they gripped the edge of his counter. He let out a breath—a quiet, ragged sound that sounded too much like defeat. He looked away, his eyes dropping to the blank line on the order form.

“Wisteria,” he said. The word was quiet. It wasn’t a question this time.

You blinked, startled by the sudden shift in his tone. “What?”

“You'll want white wisteria,” Yeosang murmured, his pen hovering over the paper. He wasn’t looking at you. He was looking at the wood grain of the counter. “For the sweetheart table.”

He remembered.

“I...” You swallowed hard. “Yes. I do want those.”

Yeosang nodded slowly. His jaw tightened again, the muscle feathering. He finally clicked the pen, writing the word down in harsh, sharp strokes. “I don't have them,” he said flatly.

You frowned, confusion piercing through the heavy emotional fog in your head. “You don’t have wisteria? Yeosang, they’re... they’re one of the most common flowers for weddings. Every florist has them.”

“I don’t,” he countered, his voice snapping back to that rigid, icy professionalism. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.

Yeosang didn’t stock them. He didn’t stock the universally requested flower in the wedding industry because of you. Because working with it every day for other people weddings meant looking at the ghost of a girl who left.

He would never admit that out loud.

“It’s a business decision,” he lied. It was a terrible lie. “I can ask my supplier,” he added loudly so you would’t ask any further questions. “I’ll call her in the morning. I can get them for you.”

He was offering to work with the one flower he couldn’t bear to look at, just so your table would be exactly the way you wanted when you sat next to another man.

“Moving on,” he said, louder than necessary, as if volume could drown you out. He dragged the binder closer and flipped a page so hard the laminated paper snapped. “Bouquet. Round or cascading?”

You blinked, pulling in a breath that tasted like eucalyptus and apology. “I don’t— I don’t know. I hadn’t—”

“Garden-style or structured,” he cut in, pen poised again. His hand was steady. His voice was not.

You tried to find the bride inside you. The sensible one. The one who nodded and smiled and made decisions. But the girl you used to be kept pressing her palms against your ribs from the inside, begging to be let out.

“Yeosang,” you said again, softer, because you couldn’t help it. Because his name had always tasted like home but now it tasted like grief. “Why did you— why don’t you carry—”

Then he spoke without looking up, voice flat like a line drawn in ink.

“And your fiancé’s boutonnière,” Yeosang said. “Does he like white roses, or does he prefer something more… restrained?”

Your stomach dropped because you heard it, suddenly, underneath the professionalism.

Does he like what you like? Does he know you? Does he deserve you?

And before you could answer, Yeosang clicked his pen again and whispered—

“Don’t look at me like that,” the words teared out of his throat.

“Like what?”

“Like you're sorry,” his dark eyes were frantic, searching your face, dropping to your lips, and then darting back up to your eyes. “Because if you’re sorry, Y/N... if you’re actually sorry, then why are you—”

Ding-dong.

The bell above the door chimed—cheerful, sharp, and entirely out of place. Yeosang flinched violently as if he had been burned. The air in the shop, which had been thick and electric a second ago, shattered like glass.

Seonghwa stepped inside and took in the shop in one quick glance. Then his eyes find you and his smile deepened like the most natural thing in the world. “Hi love,” his voice was smooth, melodic, and perfectly composed. “I’m sorry for running late, the fitting took longer than expected.”

You turned too slowly. Or maybe you turned at the right speed and it still felt wrong, because Yeosang was right there. Because the counter was right there. Because the binder was still between you like a barrier that had started to feel less like paper and more like stone.

Seonghwa stepped closer, naturally, like he’d done it a thousand times before. His hand landed at your lower back, light pressure. A small, steadying touch. Not possessive. Not performative.

Just familiar.

You felt it anyway like a stamp.

He looked immaculate, as he always did. He wore a tailored charcoal coat over a black turtleneck, his dark hair perfectly styled, bringing with him the scent of spring air and expensive, subtle cologne. It completely overpowered the smell of damp earth and eucalyptus.

Seonghwa’s gaze shifted. Not dramatic. Not hostile. Just a politely, the way kind people do when they realise someone else exists in the room and deserves recognition. His smile didn’t vanish. It simply adjusted—smoother, more formal, the curve you wore for strangers you wanted to like you.

“Hi,” Seonghwa said, and he offered his hand across the counter without hesitation. “I’m Park Seonghwa, the lucky groom. Thank you for fitting us in on short notice.”

Yeosang stared at that hand. You watched the exact moment the life drained out of his eyes. The raw, desperate boy from three seconds ago vanished, locked away behind a fortress of ice. His jaw clenched so hard you thought his teeth might crack. For a terrifying second, you thought he wasn’t going to take it. You thought he might vault over the counter or tell Seonghwa to get out.

But Yeosang was always the one who endured so he slowly reached out and gripped Seonghwa’s hand.

“Kang Yeosang. Welcome to ‘Eternal Blooms’,” he said. The words came out perfect and polished. The exact tone you used when you were trying to keep something from shaking. Then his gaze slid back to the order form like it was the only safe thing left in the universe.

Seonghwa’s eyes drifted over the shop—over the hydrangeas, the orchids, the expensive, absurd blue delphiniums—honest appreciation in the lift of his brows. “This place is beautiful,” he said, smiling again. “Your work is really stunning.”

Yeosang didn’t smile nor he said thank you. He just nodded once, short and efficient, and said, “We were discussing bouquet style.”

You swallowed and it felt like trying to swallow a blade. Seonghwa leaned slightly closer to the counter, still gentle. His attention moved to the binder, the numbers, the blank lines waiting to be filled. He read quickly. You’d always loved that about him—the way he could process details without making it feel like work. The way he could turn chaos into a checklist.

Seonghwa looked up at Yeosang, his expression shifting easily into the relaxed, confident demeanour of a man who was used to paying for the best. “I want to make sure she has exactly what she envisions, Yeosang-ssi. Spare no expense.”

Yeosang didn’t blink. He just stared at the space on the counter between them. “Of course.”

“Excellent,” Seonghwa said. He reached inside his tailored coat. The sound of the leather wallet sliding free seemed too loud in the quiet shop.

You felt a cold knot form in your stomach as Seonghwa opened the wallet.

“We haven't finished the consultation yet, Hwa,” you said quickly, your voice higher than normal. “We don’t even have a total. We can just pay the invoice when he emails it—”

“Nonsense,” Seonghwa said warmly, pulling out a heavy, matte-black credit card. He didn’t hand it to Yeosang but placed it flat on the wooden counter and slid it forward with two fingers. The metal card made a dull, heavy snick against the wood. “Let’s secure the date now.”

Yeosang stared at the black card. It sat there on the counter, a sleek, undeniable symbol of everything Seonghwa was and everything Yeosang wasn’t. It was security. It was status. It was a man saying, I take care of what is mine.

Something in Yeosang’s chest went painfully, stupidly soft—like his ribs remembered a different kind of counter. A different kind of you.

His fingers tightened around the pen.

Ink didn’t come.

Memory did.

In his head, the florist shop lights flickered out and the world rewound into fluorescent hum and dusty sunbeams, into a hallway that always smelled faintly of floor cleaner and somebody’s ham sandwich.

First year of high school.

Back when his hands still shook openly. Back when he didn’t know how to hide it.

He’d been holding the bouquet behind his back so long his wrist ached.

It was small—embarrassingly small compared to what he could make now, compared to what he’d made for strangers with big budgets and neat timelines. Back then, it was something scraped together from what he could afford and what he could steal without getting caught.

A few pale pink carnations.

A sprig of baby’s breath that made his nose itch.

One stupid little white ribbon he’d bought from the craft aisle, fingers sweaty on the roll while the cashier stared at him like he was buying contraband.

He’d wrapped it too tight. Then too loose. Then too tight again. He’d watched three YouTube tutorials the night before with his phone brightness turned all the way down under his blanket, heart battering his ribs every time the video said “now secure the stems” like he had any idea what he was doing.

His palms had been damp when he finally shoved the bouquet behind his back and waited for you in a park in front of your house, pretending the cold was the reason he couldn’t stop shaking.

He told himself it was nothing.

He told himself it was just flowers.

He told himself he wasn’t about to hand his whole heart to the person who’d been holding it casually for years without even realising.

You were his best friend.

You were the person who stole bites of his lunch and leaned your shoulder into his when you laughed and said his name like it was the safest sound in the world. The idea of ruining that—of saying the wrong thing, of making you look at him differently—had made his stomach feel like it was full of live wires.

He’d tried to practice.

I like you.

Too small. Cowardly.

I love you.

Too big. Too sharp. Like stepping off a roof.

He’d arrived with his throat full of cotton and his brain full of disasters. You rejecting him. You getting awkward. You walking away. You telling someone. You laughing.

You leaving.

He’d been standing there, hands clenched behind his back so tight his knuckles hurt, when he saw you jogging toward him across the sidewalk—hair messy from the wind, cheeks pink, smiling like you’d been excited just to exist in the same space as him.

It almost killed him.

You slowed in front of him, breath fogging, eyes bright. “You’ve been waiting long?”

Yeosang’s mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

You tilted your head, and the way you looked at him—like you expected kindness from him, like you’d never once had to doubt it—made his chest ache so hard he thought he might throw up.

“Sangie?” you asked, softer. Concern threaded through your voice. “Are you okay?”

He nodded too quickly. Then shook his head. Then nodded again like an idiot. And because you were you, because you always made room for him without demanding he fill it perfectly, you stepped closer until the tips of your shoes almost touched his.

You smelled like coconut shampoo and winter air.

He swallowed. “I… I did something,” he managed, voice cracking on the last word.

“Did you get in trouble?”

“No.” He sounded offended at the idea, which was ridiculous because he absolutely looked guilty. His ears were burning so hot he thought they might melt off.

You smiled anyway. “Then what is it?”

He stared at your mouth.

Then your eyes.

Then down at the slush on the pavement because the world was too bright.

His fingers tightened around the stems behind his back. The ribbon cut into his skin. “I just—” he started, and his voice betrayed him again, soft and wrecked. “I just wanted to… give you something.”

You waited.

God, you waited so patiently.

He pulled the bouquet out from behind him like he was confessing to a crime. The carnations were slightly crushed from how hard he’d been gripping them. The ribbon was uneven. The baby’s breath was shedding tiny white flecks onto his sleeve.

For a horrible second, he thought you’d laugh.

For a horrible second, he thought he’d ruined everything.

Then your eyes widened. And your face—your whole face—shifted like the sun had found you.

“Oh Sangie…” you breathed, and your hands came up carefully, like you were afraid touching it too fast might break it. “You made this?”

He nodded once, small. Humiliated. Hopeful.

“It’s not—” He tried to apologise. He tried to preempt the rejection. “It’s not good, I just—”

You cut him off without meaning to, because your smile got too big for your mouth. “I love it,” you said, instantly, fiercely. Like it was obvious. Like it was always going to be obvious.

Yeosang froze.

Because you didn’t mean the flowers.

Not really.

Your fingers brushed his as you took the bouquet, and you looked up at him—still smiling, still bright, still you—and said it again, quieter this time, like it was just the truth and not a weapon.

“I love it.”

The world narrowed to the space between your hands.

His throat burned. He’d meant to be careful. He’d meant to protect you from the weight of it. He’d meant to keep being your best friend and nothing more if that was all you’d ever let him be.

But you were holding what he’d made for you like it mattered.

And his chest—his stupid, unguarded chest—gave up.

“I love you,” he said.

It came out like a fall. Not practiced. Not pretty. Just honest.

Your smile stuttered, just for a second, like your heart had tripped over the words. Then your eyes softened in a way that made his whole body go loose, like he’d been clenching for years and didn’t realise it.

You stepped closer. So close your breath warmed his chin.

“I know,” you whispered, and it wasn’t smug. It was tender. It was awe. Like you’d been waiting for him to catch up to something you’d already been carrying. “I’ve been trying not to say it first.”

Yeosang let out a sound that wasn’t a laugh, wasn’t a sob, something broken and relieved. “What?”

You lifted the bouquet, carnations brushing his chest, and you looked up at him like he was the only person on earth.

“I love you too,” you said.

His hands came up without thinking, fingers hovering at your sleeves like he didn’t know where he was allowed to touch. Like he was terrified that if he held you wrong, you’d vanish.

You solved it for him and leaned in, pressing your forehead to his. And you just stayed there, both of you shaking, both of you breathing like you’d just outrun something enormous.

His first love you.

Your first I love you.

And the bouquet between you—slightly crushed, imperfect, real—smelled like carnations and winter and the beginning of a life he thought he was allowed to have.

“I don’t have an itemised quote prepared,” Yeosang said snapping back to reality. He sounded like a machine. “Company policy requires a signed contract before I can take a deposit.”

“Consider it a retainer, then,” Seonghwa offered easily, completely missing the suffocating tension radiating from the other side of the counter. “Put five million won down. That should more than cover the initial procurement and secure your time for the fifteenth. We can settle the rest later.”

Five million won just dropped on the counter for some wedding flowers that Yeosang was going to have to look at while he built the arrangements for the girl who was his first and only love.

“Seonghwa, please,” you whispered, the plea slipping out before you could catch it. You couldn’t watch this. You couldn’t watch Yeosang be reduced to hired help by the man you were supposed to marry. “Let’s just go. We’re going to be late for the caterer.”

“It will only take a second, love,” Seonghwa murmured, patting your arm. He looked back at Yeosang, offering an encouraging, polite smile. “Go ahead, Yeosang-ssi. Run it.”

Yeosang didn’t look at you. If he looked at you, he would break. Slowly, agonisingly slowly, he reached out. His fingers, stained with dirt and chlorophyll from working with his hands all day, picked up the pristine black card. He didn’t say a word. He turned to the register. He punched in the numbers on the keypad. Each aggressive, sharp tap echoed in the quiet shop.

Five. Zero. Zero. Zero. Zero. Zero. Zero.

He inserted the card into the terminal.

The machine let out a cheerful, chirping beep. Approved.

It was the sound of Yeosang selling his own heartbreak.

The receipt printer whirred to life, spitting out the paper. Yeosang ripped it off the machine. He took the black card and placed it on top of the receipt. He didn’t hand it back to Seonghwa. He slid it across the counter, stopping exactly halfway.

“Thank you for choosing our service,” Yeosang said. He lifted his eyes then. But he didn’t look at Seonghwa. He looked directly at you. His dark eyes were utterly hollow, stripped of the anger, the desperation, and the raw longing from just five minutes ago. There was nothing left but a devastating, quiet acceptance.

He can buy the flowers, that look said. He can buy you.

You felt like you were going to be sick.

“Perfect,” Seonghwa said, slipping the card and the receipt back into his wallet, oblivious to the silent execution that had just taken place. He turned to you, his arm wrapping securely around your waist. “Shall we? We don’t want to keep the chef waiting.”

“Yeah,” you forced out. Your voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. “Let’s go.”

Seonghwa guided you toward the door. You couldn’t stop yourself from looking back over your shoulder. Yeosang was still standing behind the counter. He hadn’t moved. He was just staring at the blank order form, his hands resting flat on the wood, the pen discarded beside it. He looked like a ghost in his own shop.

The door chimed. The heavy glass shut behind you, cutting off the scent of damp earth and eucalyptus, replacing it with the cold, sterile air of the city. Seonghwa was talking—something about the venue, the seating arrangements, how the chef had promised to prepare a tasting menu—but his voice felt like it was coming from underwater. You nodded mechanically, your hand limp in his as he led you down the pavement. Inside your chest, something cracked clean in half, and you wondered distantly if Yeosang could still see you through the shop window, or if he’d already turned away.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The brass bell above the door settled into silence, but to Yeosang, it sounded like a ringing in his ears that wouldn’t stop. The heavy glass door clicked shut.

You were gone.

Yeosang stood completely frozen behind the counter. He didn’t breathe. He didn’t blink. He just stared at the order form sitting perfectly square on the wood, right next to the carbon copy of a receipt for five million won.

Park Seonghwa. The name on the receipt.

Y/N. The name he had carefully written at the top of the form, his handwriting neat and precise, hiding the way his hand had been shaking so hard his wrist ached.

The curtain to the back room swept open with a loud, metallic scrape of rings against the rod.

“Hey, did the compressor on the back fridge sound weird to you?” Wooyoung asked, his loud, boisterous voice shattering the fragile quiet of the shop. He walked out wiping his wet hands on his own dark green apron, entirely oblivious. “Because it’s making this awful rattling noise, and if we lose that batch of white roses before Saturday, I swear to God I’m going to—”

Wooyoung stopped. He had known Yeosang since they were kids. He knew Yeosang’s quiet moods, his stressed moods, his focused moods. But the man standing behind the counter right now didn’t look like any of those.

Yeosang looked hollowed out. His skin was pale, his shoulders hunched, and his hands—still pressed flat against the wood of the counter—were trembling violently.

“Yeo?” Wooyoung’s voice dropped, the teasing completely gone. He tossed the towel onto a bucket and hurried over. “Hey, what’s wrong? Are you sick? You look like you’re going to pass out.”

Yeosang didn’t answer. His throat felt like it had been packed with glass. He just stared at the receipt.

Wooyoung stepped behind the counter, following Yeosang’s blank, devastated gaze. He looked down at the clipboard. He saw the massive deposit amount first. Then, he saw the name written at the top of the page.

Wooyoung inhaled sharply, the air hissing through his teeth.

“No,” Wooyoung whispered, his eyes flying up to Yeosang’s face. “Tell me that’s a coincidence. Tell me it’s a different girl.”

Yeosang finally blinked. A single, heavy tear broke loose, tracking silently down his cheek, catching in the harsh light of the overhead bulbs.

“She brought him, Woo,” Yeosang rasped. His voice sounded wrecked, as if he hadn't spoken in days. “She brought him in here.”

“Oh my god,” Wooyoung breathed. The protective anger flared instantly, hot and sharp. “I’ll cancel it. I’ll call them right now and say we’re overbooked. You are not doing this. I’m ripping up this check—”

Wooyoung reached for the receipt, but Yeosang’s hand snapped out, his fingers wrapping around Wooyoung’s wrist like a vice.

“Don't,” Yeosang said, his voice cracking.

“Yeosang, are you actually insane?” Wooyoung demanded, trying to pull his arm back, but Yeosang’s grip was desperate. “You can’t do the flowers for her wedding! Do you have any idea what that’s going to do to you? You just spent the last eight years trying to scrape yourself off the pavement after she left, and now you’re going to arrange her bridal bouquet?!”

“I have to order wisterias,” Yeosang whispered.

Wooyoung froze. The fight completely drained out of him at the word. He looked at Yeosang, his heart breaking for his best friend.

“Yeosang...” Wooyoung said softly, his voice thick with pity.

“She asked for them,” Yeosang choked out, his grip on Wooyoung’s wrist finally failing. His hand dropped to his side. The dam broke. The professional, contained owner of ‘Ethereal Blooms’ completely collapsed. “She looked right at me, Woo, and she knew I didn’t have them. She knew why I didn’t have them. And he... he just threw his black card on the counter like I was... like I was nothing.”

Yeosang turned away from the counter, pressing the heels of his hands hard against his eyes. A ragged, ugly sob tore its way out of his chest, echoing in the quiet shop. “He’s perfect for her,” Yeosang wept, the humiliation and the grief finally spilling over. “He has the money. He has the coat. He has the ring. And I’m just standing here with dirt under my fingernails, charging him five million won to watch him marry the only person I’ve ever loved.”

Wooyoung didn’t say anything else. There was nothing to say. He just stepped forward and pulled Yeosang into a fierce, tight hug. Yeosang buried his face in Wooyoung’s shoulder, his hands gripping the back of his friend’s apron like it was a lifeline, crying for the girl who had just walked out the door with another man’s ring on her finger.

On the counter, the receipt for five million won sat perfectly still, securing a date that was going to destroy him.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The penthouse was too quiet.

Seonghwa’s bedroom was a masterclass in modern, minimalist design. The air was temperature-controlled to a perfect, crisp twenty one degrees. The sheets were high-thread-count Egyptian cotton, cool and smooth against your skin. Beside you, Seonghwa breathed in a steady, rhythmic cadence, completely at peace in the life he had built.

You lay flat on your back, staring at the ceiling, feeling like you were suffocating. Every time you closed your eyes, you didn’t see the cascading orchids or the elegant table settings you were supposed to be dreaming about. You saw the dark, hollowed-out look in Yeosang’s eyes when he handed back that receipt. You heard the dead, mechanical tone of his voice.

You lifted your left hand in the dark. The streetlights from the city below filtered through the expensive sheer blinds, catching the facets of the heavy diamond on your ring finger. It flashed, sharp and clean, a tiny star trapped in metal. It was beautiful in the way money was beautiful. Heavy. Certain. Designed to last longer than feelings.

It sat on your ring finger like it had always belonged there.

It didn’t.

You rotated your hand slowly, watching the facets flare and die.

This is what you chose.

Safe. Sturdy. Predictable.

A ring that said I’ll take care of you in a language that didn’t require tenderness.

Your throat tightened because the flash of the diamond didn’t make you think of vows or dresses or May fifteenth. It made you think of a stairwell that smelled like concrete and dust. It made you think of fluorescent lights that buzzed like a trapped insect. It made you think of Yeosang’s hands—warm and careful like he was holding something breakable.

You blinked, and the ceiling above you wasn’t a ceiling anymore. It was peeling paint. It was a metal handrail cold under your palm. It was the soft, awful quiet of a school stairwell where the rest of the world couldn’t reach you.

And Yeosang was there.

Last year of high school.

Last year of waiting.

You’d been counting down to graduation like it was a door you could finally open. University, freedom, the future that felt like it was hovering just out of reach. Everybody talked about it like this huge, sparkling “after.”

But with Yeosang, it felt like there was an “always,” too.

He didn’t look at you at first. Yeosang never did when he was about to do something reckless. He stared straight ahead, jaw set, the soft curve of his mouth pulled into that not-quite-pout he got when he was trying to be serious and failing.

You bumped your shoulder against his, playful. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what.” Deadpan. Offended. The audacity that you had noticed him existing.

“That thing where you act like you’re not about to say something stupid.”

Yeosang’s eyes finally flicked to you, dark and flat in that way that always made people underestimate him. Like he wasn’t quietly paying attention to everything. Like he wasn’t keeping a whole secret world inside his chest. He didn’t answer. Just slowed down a little, guiding you toward the side stairwell like it was an accident, like it wasn’t the place you always ended up when you wanted to be alone without saying you wanted to be alone.

The stairwell door creaked when he pushed it open.

Inside, it was cooler. Dustier. The noise from the hallway dulled immediately, like the whole school had been muted.

Yeosang let the door swing shut behind you.

You turned to him, eyebrows raised. “Okay. Suspicious.”

“I’m not suspicious.”

“You’re literally radiating guilty energy.”

He exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh, almost not. His shoulders were tense, but his hands were steady when he reached into his pocket. And you expected, for a second, something dumb. A candy. A note. One of those tiny paper stars he used to fold when he was bored in class, the ones he’d flick at you until you got annoyed and then you’d keep them anyway.

Instead, he pulled out a flower. Not a bouquet. Just one small thing, delicate and fresh like he’d stolen it from the universe five minutes ago. A tiny white blossom, petals soft as breath. The stem looked like it had been snapped off with fingers, not cut. Improvised. Personal.

You stared.

Yeosang held it out in front of him like it weighed more than it should. “Before you say something,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the flower like it was safer than your face, “it’s not— it’s not a big deal.”

“That’s what people say when it’s a big deal,” you whispered.

His ears went pink instantly. “Shut up.”

You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt. “No.”

Yeosang’s gaze finally snapped up to yours, and there it was. That soft, lethal sincerity. The thing he tried to hide behind sarcasm and silence because if he let it show too much, it would spill everywhere.

He swallowed. Then, with a stubborn little frown like he was mad at himself for being like this, he reached for your hand. Your skin tingled the second he touched you. He didn’t lace your fingers together. Didn’t hold your hand the normal way. He just turned your palm upward, like he needed to see it. Like he needed to convince himself you were real.

“Yeosang,” you said, softer now, “what are you—”

“Stop talking,” he said, not mean. Just… desperate. Like if you kept talking, he might lose the nerve.

Your mouth snapped shut.

Yeosang lifted your left hand and stared at it for a long moment, his thumb brushing over your ring finger like he was mapping it. Then he took the little flower and—carefully, ridiculously carefully—tucked the thin stem against your finger, folding it in a loose loop so the blossom rested on top, right where a ring would sit.

A fake ring.

A stupid one.

A perfect one.

It looked so fragile you were afraid breathing too hard might break it.

Your throat closed up. “Oh my god,” you breathed, the words coming out like a laugh and a sob had met in the middle and decided to ruin you together.

He still wouldn’t look at you. His voice came out low, rough around the edges. “There.”

You stared at your hand. At the flower sitting on your ring finger like it belonged there. Like it had always belonged there. Your eyes burned.

Yeosang finally looked up, and when he saw your expression, he flinched like he’d been hit. “What,” he said quickly, alarmed. “What. Is it bad? I told you it’s not a big deal, it’s just—”

You shook your head hard enough your hair slapped your cheeks. “No. No, it’s not bad.” Your voice cracked on the next word. “It’s… Yeosang, it’s—”

His mouth twisted, defensive. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.”

“It’s literally a flower ring,” he argued, like that was evidence he could put into a court and win. “It’s biodegradable. It’s— it’s the opposite of practical.”

You laughed, wet and breathless. “You’re the opposite of practical.”

“I am extremely practical,” he snapped automatically, then hesitated, eyes dropping back to your hand. The flower trembled slightly with the movement. His voice softened when he added, “I just… wanted to see it.”

“See what?”

He pressed his lips together. You watched him fight with himself in real time, like he was trying to decide if it was safer to make a joke or tell the truth. Yeosang chose both.

“I wanted to see what it would look like when I finally put a ring on you,” he said, then immediately grimaced like the words tasted too honest. “But not like— not like soon. Not like right now. We’re kids. We’re literally in school. You still can’t even decide what you want to major in without changing your mind every—”

“Every hour,” you finished, smiling through your tears.

“Exactly.” He nodded once, grateful for the lifeline. “So it’s not— it’s not serious. It’s just…”

He trailed off. The silence swelled in the stairwell, thick and warm and terrifying.

You lifted your hand slightly, watching the petals catch the weak stairwell light. It was so small. But it felt like a promise.

“Sangie,” you whispered, “are you joking?”

His eyes flashed up. “Of course I’m joking.”

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

He stared at you, jaw tense, and then his shoulders sank like he’d lost the strength to pretend. “I’m joking,” Yeosang said, voice quieter now, “because if I don’t joke, I’ll—” He stopped, swallowed, tried again. “I’ll say something that makes it real.”

Your heart kicked hard. You stepped closer. Close enough to smell his laundry detergent and the faint sweetness of whatever he’d eaten at lunch. Close enough that your breath brushed his chin when you spoke.

“Make it real,” you said.

Yeosang’s eyes widened, panicked for half a second, like he hadn’t expected you to say yes.

Then his gaze dropped to the flower on your finger again. And his voice came out raw. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “Okay?”

Your chest tightened.

He kept talking, fast now, like he had to get it out before fear could grab it back. “We just… have to wait a little longer,” Yeosang said, and his throat bobbed. “Just until graduation. Just until we’re not stuck in this place. Just until I can actually—” His mouth tightened, frustration flickering. “Until I can actually give you something that isn’t going to die in, like, an hour.”

You laughed again, shaking.

“I mean it,” he insisted, eyes dark, steady. “I’m serious. I know you want big things. I know you want out. I know you’re scared that if you leave first, I won’t follow, and if I don’t land the scholarship you’ll leave without—” He stopped like the thought hurt. Like he couldn’t even say it out loud.

You reached up and grabbed his sleeve, fingers curling into the fabric. “I won’t,” you whispered.

Yeosang’s breath stuttered. He leaned forward before he could stop himself, forehead almost touching yours. His voice dropped to something barely there. “Forever,” he said, like it was a word he didn’t trust the world with. “Yeah?”

You lifted your hand between you, the little flower-ring trembling. “Forever,” you echoed, and your voice didn’t shake on it. “But we just need to wait a little longer.”

Yeosang’s eyes flicked to your mouth.

Then back to your eyes.

His hands hovered at your waist, unsure, like he was still learning where he was allowed to touch.

You made the decision for him, like you always did.

You stepped in. And Yeosang finally held you like he’d been starving for it—careful, but so tight it made your ribs ache. Like he wanted to fuse you to him and call it a solution. His mouth pressed against your temple for a second, a kiss so soft it almost didn’t count as one, except it did. It counted like everything.

“Don’t laugh at me,” he murmured.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “I’m literally going to marry you.”

Yeosang’s eyes went wide. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why?”

“Because then I’ll believe it.”

You smiled, tears slipping down your cheeks anyway. “Then believe it.”

Yeosang stared at you like you were sunlight. Like you were something too bright to be safe. His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, right over your pulse. “Okay,” he whispered.

And then, because he couldn’t stand the tenderness without trying to hide inside a joke, he nodded at your hand and said, very seriously, “You better take care of that ring.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Or what?”

Yeosang’s mouth quirked. “Or I’ll buy you a real one and make it your problem.”

Your laugh broke wide open and Yeosang smiled like he’d just admitted the entire universe lived inside your hands.

Right as the stairwell door creaked.

A shadow fell across the concrete.

Footsteps.

A voice, muffled through the door: “Hello? Anyone in there?”

Yeosang froze with you in his arms, eyes flashing like a startled cat—caught, guilty, and still refusing to let go.

You lifted your flower-ringed hand between you, breath caught in your throat, and Yeosang’s gaze locked on it like it was the only thing keeping him brave.

“Hey,” you whispered, barely moving your lips. “Sangie.”

His eyes flicked to yours. And for one terrifying, perfect second, you both knew: this wasn’t a joke.

Not really.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The bell above the door chimed, bright and cheerful.

It was wrong in this light. The morning was the colour of dishwater, the sky pressed low over the city like a lid, and the shop smelled like wet stems and cold metal and something sweet that kept trying to turn into a memory in the back of your throat.

Yeosang was at the stainless steel prep table in the middle of the room, sleeves pushed up, hands moving with that brutal, efficient rhythm—click, clack, click—as he stripped thorns from a dozen white roses. Like if he kept his hands busy enough, his heart wouldn’t get any ideas.

He froze the second he saw you.

For one split, disorienting moment, the shears hung in the air. Then his jaw locked, and the motion started again as if nothing had happened. As if you were just a delivery. As if you hadn’t once been the center of his entire universe.

“We’re closed for walk-ins until eleven,” he said, not looking up.

“I know,” you managed. Your fingers tightened around your bag strap until the leather bit into your palm. “I didn’t come to buy anything. I came to talk to you.”

Click, clack, click.

He didn’t even blink. “If you want to change anything about the order, email the shop to book an appointment.”

“Stop,” you said, stepping closer. The scent of roses hit you hard and stupidly familiar, like a punch to the ribs. “Stop talking like I’m— like I’m a stranger.”

Snap.

The shears slipped, and he cut a stem clean in half. The ruined rose rolled, soft and helpless, across the metal surface. Yeosang stared at it for a second too long, like he could see something else bleeding out there instead of a flower. Then he scooped it up and threw it into the waste bin without looking.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he said, too even. Too practiced. “The wisteria is secured. You’ll have it for your wedding.”

“Why did you take his money?” you blurted out, the question that had kept you awake finally tearing free. “Why did you let him do that to you? You should have told us to leave. You should have thrown us out!”

Yeosang finally stopped. He set the shears down on the metal table. The sound rang out, sharp and final. He braced his hands on the edge of the table and slowly lifted his head. His eyes were exhausted. There were dark circles bruised into the skin beneath them, evidence of his own sleepless night. He didn’t look angry; he just looked incredibly, profoundly tired.

“Because I am a florist,” Yeosang said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “And you walked into my shop and asked for my services. What did you want me to do, Y/N? Throw a tantrum? Beg you to take the ring off in front of your fiancé?”

“No! I wanted you to... to not let me hurt you like that!” you cried, gripping the edge of the table. “I didn’t know you owned the shop. If I had known, I never would have brought him—”

“But you did bring him,” Yeosang cut in, his voice rising just a fraction, the control finally slipping. “You brought him, and you stood there, and you let him drop five million won on my counter to buy the flower I had to throw away years ago because I couldn’t look at it without thinking about you.”

The tears spilled over, hot and fast.

“Yeosang, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t,” he breathed, shaking his head, taking a step back from the table. He looked at your tears, and you could see the exact moment it killed him to not reach across and wipe them away. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to come in here and cry because you feel guilty. You have what you wanted. The big ring and the black card and the outdoor ceremony.”

“It’s not that simple,” you choked out.

“Yes, it is,” Yeosang said softly. The fight drained out of him, leaving only that devastating, hollow acceptance. “It is that simple. You are marrying him. And I am doing the flowers. That is the reality we live in now.” He picked up the shears again, though his hands were trembling so badly he could barely hold them. “If you came here to absolve your guilt, I forgive you,” he said to the roses. “But if you have any mercy left in you at all... let me just be the florist. Please. Go home to your fiancé, Y/N.”

“Don’t do that,” you whispered.

His hands didn’t stop moving, but his knuckles were white around the shears. “Do what?”

“Pretend you don’t remember.” You swallowed hard, heart hammering while you looked around the shop. “You still hate marigolds,” you said, voice wobbling. “Just like I do.” Your throat seized. “There’s not a single marigold here.”

Yeosang’s jaw jumped. His eyes stayed on the roses.

“You still line up the tools,” you pushed, because the words wouldn’t stop now that they’d started. Because the silence in Seonghwa’s bed had cracked something open inside you. “Parallel. The way you used to line up your pencils in class. You’d get mad if I took one.”

Click, clack, click.

“You still call me—” your voice broke. “You still call me by that silly nickname in your head, don’t you?”

The shears stopped. The quiet that followed was so loud it rang. Yeosang set the shears down on the table with a careful, deliberate clink—like if he did it gently enough, nothing else would shatter. He braced both palms on the steel, shoulders tense, head bowed.

When he finally spoke, his voice was flat, but it wasn’t calm. It was the voice of someone holding a scream between their teeth. “Don’t.”

You stepped closer anyway, until the edge of the prep table pressed into your hips. “Do you remember,” you whispered, eyes stinging, “when you put that stupid little flower on my ring finger in the stairwell? And you joked about it like it was nothing, but your hands were shaking so bad I thought you were going to drop it—”

“Stop.”

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

“You said ‘wait for me,’” you said, tears spilling hot and fast now. “You said just a little longer and then it would be real.”

His head lifted, slow.

His eyes were exhausted. Bruised underneath. Devastatingly awake.

“Is this why you’re here?” he asked quietly. “To recite my own memories back to me like I haven’t been choking on them for eight years?”

“I’m here because you looked at me yesterday like—” Your voice turned thin, ugly with panic. “Like I killed you.”

Yeosang’s laugh came out once. Not humour. Just air scraping past broken glass. “You didn’t kill me,” he said. “You left me alive. Which was somehow worse.”

You went still. He stared at you for a long moment, and you saw it—how badly he wanted to be gentle. How badly he was fighting it.

“You don’t get to do this,” he said, voice low. “You don’t get to walk into my shop, in your coat that probably costs more than my first year’s rent, wearing a ring that could buy my mother’s—” He stopped. Swallowed hard. His throat worked like he was forcing something back down. “You don’t get to come in here and start talking about stairwells.”

“I didn’t know it was your shop. I didn’t think—”

“No,” Yeosang cut in, eyes burning now, finally looking at you like you deserved the truth. “That’s the problem. You didn’t think. You never stopped to look at me and think, ‘He’s still in this town. He’s still breathing. He still has to wake up and live in the aftermath of what I did.’”

You shook your head hard. “Yeosang, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t,” the word was so soft it almost sounded like it hurt him more than shouting. He took a step back from the table, like distance could keep him from reaching for you. Like he was scared his hands would betray him. “Don’t come in here with tears and call it love.”

“It was love,” you choked.

Yeosang’s mouth twisted, something sharp and wounded flashing across his face. “It was,” he said. “It was the only real thing I’ve ever had.”

“Do you want to know why I can’t look at you?” he asked.

You barely managed a nod.

Yeosang’s eyes flicked to your ring finger. Just once. Like touching a bruise. “Because you left,” he said, each word measured like he was placing stones on your chest. “You left, and you didn’t even have the decency to tell me the truth about why.”

Your breath caught. “I— I did tell you.”

“You told me it was ‘for the best,’” Yeosang spat, and the bitterness in his mouth finally showed. “You told me you were ‘being practical.’ You told me you ‘didn’t want to hold me back.’” His laugh broke again, ugly this time. “As if I wasn’t already behind. As if I wasn’t already drowning.”

He stepped closer, and the air tightened.

“You know what you didn’t tell me?” Yeosang asked, voice shaking now. “You didn’t tell me you were ashamed.”

Your stomach dropped.

Yeosang’s eyes were glossy, furious, wrecked. “You looked at my life and decided it was too small,” he said. “You looked at my hands—hands that were stained with dirt and flower sap and cheap soap from the school bathroom because I was working after class—and you decided you didn’t want that.”

“No,” you whispered, horrified. “That’s not—”

“Yes, it is,” Yeosang said, voice cracking. “Because if it wasn’t, you would’ve stayed. Or you would’ve taken me to London with you. Or you would’ve fought your parents to stay here. You would’ve done anything except disappear and leave me holding the shape of you like a fucking ghost.”

“You didn’t leave because you had to. You left because you finally believed everyone who told you I wasn’t enough.”

Tears blurred your vision. “I was young. I was scared.”

“Of what?” he demanded, and his voice dropped into something raw, almost pleading. “Of struggling? Of being broke? Of your parents being right about me? Of loving me and still not getting the life you wanted?”

He shook his head once, fast, like he couldn’t stand the thought.

“I didn’t get to be scared,” Yeosang said, and his voice went quiet in a way that was worse than shouting. “I didn’t get to leave. I didn’t get to start over. You went to university and built a new life, and I stayed here and watched the seasons change through the same window, waiting for a text that never came.”

His throat bobbed.

“I threw away wisteria,” he whispered, eyes shining with something devastated. “It was supposed to decorate the entrance of this shop. Do you understand how insane that is? I threw it away because I couldn’t look at it without seeing your stupid little flower ring on your finger. And then you walk in here years later and ask me for it like it’s nothing.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

“Like I’m nothing.”

Your hands were shaking. Your chest felt split open.

“Yeosang,” you whispered, and his name tasted like blood.

He looked at you like he hated how much he still loved you.

“If you have any mercy left,” he said, not looking up, “let me just be the florist. Please.” His voice went softer, almost gentle, like he was offering you a way out that wouldn’t destroy you both in public. “Go home to your fiancé.”

He lifted the shears.

Click, clack, click.

And you stood there with your throat full of everything you should’ve said eight years ago, realising with a sick, cold clarity that you didn’t just leave Yeosang.

You left him behind to pay for it alone.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The bridal shower was a curated kind of joy. Everything was pale and pretty and intentionally effortless—white linen, champagne flutes, a balloon arch that looked like it had been breathed into existence by someone who’d never struggled a day in their life. The room smelled like vanilla candles and expensive perfume, sugar-sweet to the point of nausea.

You stood in the middle of it with a plastic smile glued to your face, accepting compliments.

“Look at you,” someone cooed, pressing a hand to your arm. “You’re glowing.”

You wanted to laugh. You wanted to scream. You lifted your left hand on instinct, like the diamond was a script you could follow when you didn’t know what else to do. The ring flashed under the warm light and everyone sighed like it was the most romantic thing they’d ever seen.

Across the room, Seonghwa’s friends were talking about venues and menus and photographers, all confident voices and clean laughter. The kind of people who said things like “investment” and meant it.

You kept nodding.

Kept smiling.

Kept pretending your chest wasn’t packed with wet cement.

Then the door opened. A gust of cold air slipped in, sharp and real, cutting through the room’s perfumed softness like a blade.

And Wooyoung walked in carrying flowers. Not a cute little bouquet. Not a polite arrangement. A whole statement—buckets and boxes, greenery spilling over the edges, white blooms wrapped in crisp paper. He looked like he’d wrestled a garden and won. Black jeans, dark jacket, hair a little messy from the wind, cheeks pink from the evening cold.

He didn’t look like he belonged here.

One of Seonghwa’s friends, bright smile, perfect nails—clapped her hands. “Oh! You must be the florist delivery! Hi!”

Wooyoung gave a quick, friendly smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Hi,” he said, voice easy. Warm. Professional. Like he’d practiced it.

“I’m Wooyoung, I work for ‘Eternal Blooms’” he added, and his gaze cut across the room and landed on you. It was like someone had snapped a rubber band against your skin. His smile faded immediately not into anger but into something worse.

Recognition.

He set the boxes down carefully on a side table, moving with the kind of precise restraint that screamed I’m holding myself back from doing something stupid. He started unpacking. White roses. Greenery. Soft baby’s breath. Cream peonies that looked like they’d never known dirt. Everything expensive. Everything perfect.

“Wow,” someone breathed. “These are gorgeous!”

Wooyoung hummed politely. “Thank you.”

He didn’t look up again.

Not until you moved.

You didn’t mean to. It just happened. Your feet carried you toward the side table like you didn’t have control over them. Like the scent of those flowers—wet stems, sap, something green and alive—was a rope tied around your ribs. Wooyoung’s hands kept working as you approached, arranging with quick, practiced movements. He didn’t need to think. He was doing the job with his body while his mind was somewhere else.

When you got close, you realised his fingers had tiny scratches on them. Small red lines.

Thorns.

You remembered Yeosang’s hands.

You remembered dirt under his nails.

“Hi, it’s good to see you,” you said, softly, because you didn’t know what else to say.

Wooyoung finally looked up with sharp eyes. “Hi,” he echoed.

The air between you felt electric. Dangerous.

You tried again. “Is… is Yeosang okay?”

Wooyoung’s laugh came out under his breath, short and humourless. “Wow.”

You flinched. “I’m serious.”

Wooyoung leaned closer to the table, tucking greenery into a vase like he needed to keep his hands busy so he wouldn’t put them on you. “You’re asking me if he’s okay,” he said quietly, “while you’re standing in a room full of people playing ‘guess the lingerie’ and sipping champagne through a straw.”

Heat rose in your face. “This isn’t—”

“What,” Wooyoung cut in, still quiet, still controlled. “What is it, then?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Wooyoung’s eyes flicked to your ring. He stared at it like it was a weapon. Then he looked back up at you and something in his expression shifted—anger, yes, but also grief. Like he was mad at you and mad at the universe and mad at Yeosang for still loving you.

“Come here,” Wooyoung said, voice tight.

You blinked. “What?”

He nodded toward the hallway. Toward the coat closet. Toward a door leading to the quieter side of the house. “Now. Before I say something insane in front of all these rich people.”

You swallowed hard, pulse tripping. “Wooyoung—”

“Y/N.” He said your name like it was a warning.

You followed him. The hallway was dimmer. Cooler. The noise from the party dulled behind you, muffled by expensive walls. You stopped near a framed photo of Seonghwa and you—engagement shoot—both of you smiling like a magazine cover.

Wooyoung turned to face you. Up close, you could see it—he was shaking a little. Not fear. Adrenaline. Rage held in a careful fist.

“You don’t get to ask if he’s okay,” Wooyoung said. His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. The quiet was more brutal than shouting. “You don’t get to say his name like you didn’t carve a crater in him.”

Your breath hitched. “I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did,” Wooyoung snapped, and the control cracked for half a second. “You left, and you acted like it was… like it was a normal breakup. Like you two were just some high school couple who grew apart.”

Your throat went tight. “We were kids.”

Wooyoung’s mouth twisted. “Yeah. And Yeosang loved you like he was already an adult.” Wooyoung took a step closer, lowering his voice even further, like he didn’t trust himself with volume. “Do you know what he did after you left?” he demanded. “Do you know what it looked like? Because I do. I watched it.”

“I didn’t— I didn’t know—”

“No,” Wooyoung cut in. “You didn’t want to know.” The words landed like a slap. He pointed, sharp and furious, toward your ring hand. “That thing on your finger? That’s not just a ring to him. That’s proof.”

“Proof of what?” you whispered, voice breaking.

Wooyoung’s laugh came out again, bitter. “Proof that he was right.”

Your stomach dropped. “Right about—”

“About why you left,” Wooyoung said, and now his eyes were wet. He looked angry about the tears, too, like they were another betrayal. “You left because you were scared. But not the cute kind of scared. Not the ‘we’re too young to be this much in love’ scared.”

He leaned in, and his voice went razor-thin.

“You left because you looked at Yeosang’s life and you decided it wasn’t enough for you.”

“No,” you choked out, horrified. “That’s not true. That’s not—”

Wooyoung shook his head once, hard. “Don’t lie to me,” he snapped. “I’ve heard every version of your ‘it was for the best.’ I’ve heard the ‘I didn’t want to hold him back.’” He mimicked the words with a cruel softness that made your skin crawl, because it sounded too much like you. “Do you know what he heard?” Wooyoung demanded. “He heard, ‘I’m embarrassed of you.’ He heard, ‘I don’t want to struggle with you.’ He heard, ‘I want a life where love is optional as long as the countertops are marble.’”

Your eyes burned. “That’s not what I meant.”

“But it’s what happened,” Wooyoung said, voice breaking on the edge of fury. “And you know what’s fucking insane? He still never hated you.”

You swallowed. Your lungs wouldn’t work right. “Wooyoung…”

Wooyoung’s gaze flicked toward the party. Toward the laughter. The clinking glasses. The soft, shiny world where everyone was congratulating you for being “lucky.”

Then he looked back at you like you were the only person he could hold accountable.

“He didn’t stay in this town because he wanted to,” Wooyoung said. “He stayed because life happened to him. Because responsibility happened to him. Because grief happened to him. And through all of that, he still loved you.”

His voice went quieter. Deadlier.

“And then you walked back in with him. With the ring. With the black card. With the date. And you didn’t just reopen the wound.”

Wooyoung stepped even closer. His eyes were blazing now.

“You made him package it up,” he whispered. “Wrap it in ribbon. Put a price tag on it. And hand it back to you with a smile.”

Your chin trembled. “I didn’t ask him to—”

“You asked him to do the flowers for your wedding,” Wooyoung cut in, sharp. “You asked him to build the prettiest version of the worst day of his life.”

A sob climbed up your throat like acid.

Wooyoung’s expression flickered—something like pity, something like disgust, something like I hate that you’re crying because it makes me feel bad for you.

He took a breath. His shoulders rose. Fell.

Then he said it—slow, cruel, and heartbreakingly simple.

“Do you know what you’re doing to him?” Wooyoung whispered. “You’re making him prove he’s still good. You’re making him show you he can be gracious. Professional. Talented. Quiet. You’re making him swallow it. You’re making him be the kind of man who doesn’t fall apart—” his voice cracked “—because if he falls apart, then you get to tell yourself you were right to leave.”

The words hit so hard you felt dizzy.

“No,” you breathed, barely audible. “No, I don’t— I don’t want that.”

Wooyoung held your gaze, relentless.

“Then stop,” he said.

The simplicity of it was brutal.

You blinked, tears spilling. “I can’t just— it’s all booked, and Seonghwa—”

Wooyoung’s eyes flashed. “There it is,” he said, voice sharp. “Seonghwa. Seonghwa’s schedule. Seonghwa’s money. Seonghwa’s wedding.”

He pointed at your ring again.

“You know what Yeosang had?” Wooyoung demanded. “He had a fucking flower on your finger and a promise you made in a stairwell. And he treated it like it was sacred.”

His voice dropped, wrecked.

“And you traded it for a diamond.”

Your breath hitched so hard it hurt.

Wooyoung looked away for a second, like he couldn’t stand seeing you cry.

When he looked back, his voice was low. Final. “I took this delivery because Yeosang couldn’t,” he said. “He smiled and said he was busy. He said it was fine. But his hands were shaking so bad he kept cutting himself instead of the thorns, and he didn’t even notice until the blood hit the sink.”

Your stomach turned.

“He’s not okay,” Wooyoung whispered. “And if you leave him to do that wedding… you’re going to watch him die on his feet and call it ‘beautiful.’”

The party noise swelled suddenly behind you—someone laughing loudly, a chorus of “Awwww!” as a gift was opened.

Wooyoung turned slightly, ready to go back out there, to put the mask back on. Then he paused. He glanced at you one last time, voice quiet enough it felt like it was meant for only you.

“And the worst part?” he said. “He’ll still do it. He’ll still make it perfect. Because he loves you. And because he’s too fucking good.”

He opened the door.

Light spilled in.

Laughter.

Perfume.

Pretty.

Wooyoung looked back over his shoulder, eyes sharp as a blade.

“So what are you going to do about it?”

And you stood there in the dim hallway with your hands shaking and your diamond ring flashing like a threat, realising the next move was yours.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎It was two days before the wedding, and the city was caught in the grip of a spring rain. You huddled under the awning of ‘Ethereal Blooms’, staring down at your phone.

Seonghwa: Stuck in a board meeting, love. Running late. Can you approve the final bridal bouquet mockup without me? Put it on the black card. Love you.

You locked the screen, the glowing rectangle mirroring the hollow pit in your stomach. Not anger, just a terrifying, familiar relief.

You pushed the door open. The brass bell chimed softly, a cheerful sound that felt entirely out of place against the low thrum of anxiety in your chest.

Yeosang was standing behind the stainless steel prep table.

He froze when the bell rang, his hands pausing over a massive bucket of imported white orchids. His gaze flicked past you, waiting for the tall, immaculate figure of your fiancé to step through the door behind you. When the door clicked shut and it was just you, the air in the room instantly thickened, heavy with unspoken things.

“He couldn’t make it,” you said, your voice sounding entirely too loud in the sudden quiet. “Work.”

Yeosang’s jaw tightened, a hard line etched into his profile. He didn’t say anything. He just reached for a towel, wiping the water and soil from his hands with slow, deliberate movements, like each gesture was carefully measured to prevent a tremor.

“I have the mockup ready,” he said quietly, his voice perfectly polite. Perfectly distant.

He stepped into the back cooler, the heavy door hissing shut behind him, leaving you alone for a few agonising seconds. He emerged a moment later, holding a bridal bouquet.

It was stunning. It was exactly what you and the wedding planner had designed—a cascading waterfall of pristine white orchids, heavy white roses, and silver-dusted greenery. It looked flawless. It looked expensive. It looked exactly like the life Seonghwa was offering you.

Yeosang walked around the counter and held it out to you.

You reached for it. As your fingers closed around the thick bundle of stems wrapped in heavy white satin, Yeosang didn’t immediately let go. His hand was warm beneath yours, a familiar, electric current that shot straight up your arm.

“Look down,” Yeosang murmured, his dark eyes fixed on your face, not on the bouquet. His voice was a low, rough whisper that barely carried over the drumming of rain against the window.

You blinked, confused, and slowly lowered your gaze to the top of the bouquet.

From the outside, it was a solid wall of perfect white. But buried deep in the absolute middle of the arrangement—tucked so perfectly that it was only visible if you were the one holding it, cradling it close—was a single, soft pink camellia.

“The planner said Mr. Park wanted pure white,” Yeosang continued, his voice dropping even lower, laced with a familiar, aching tenderness. “But I remember you told me once that all-white arrangements… they look like apologies.”

A cold shockwave ripped straight through your chest, stealing the air from your lungs.

“I tucked it deep,” Yeosang said, his gaze finally dropping from your face to the bouquet between your hands. “No one will see it in the photos. He won’t notice. But I thought… if your hands started shaking, if you looked down… you could see it. So you wouldn’t feel so alone up there.”

Your vision blurred instantly. The delicate pink camellia swam in your tears.

You looked up at him.

Yeosang was standing so close, his body radiating a heat that was both comforting and terrifying. The polite, professional mask he had been wearing all the time had completely fractured. He was looking at you with such profound, unguarded agony that it made your ribs ache, a physical manifestation of his own heartbreak.

You wanted to drop the flowers. You wanted to close the two inches of space separating your bodies, fist your hands in his dark apron, and pull him down into a kiss that would erase the last eight years entirely. Your body was screaming for him, violently rejecting the heavy diamond weighing down your left hand.

Yeosang’s eyes flared, he felt it. He felt the shift in the air, the way you leaned into his space, the way your breath hitched when his thumb unconsciously, almost imperceptibly, twitched against your knuckles.

He didn’t pull away. He didn't break eye contact.

His thumb moved again. Not a full stroke. Just a ghost of a touch, a whisper of pressure against the back of your hand, tracing the skin right next to your diamond ring. It was a feather-light brush, barely there, but it was enough. It was an almost-too-brave touch, a subtle claim that bypassed every logical thought in your head.

Your entire body convulsed. The physical contact, so fleeting yet so charged, bypassed your brain entirely, going straight for the part of you that remembered him. It was a memory of being twenty, pressed against him in the rain, his hands holding yours.

“Sangie,” you whimpered, the sound breaking from your lips, completely undone. Your voice was a plea, a question, a desperate confirmation that your body had entirely betrayed your carefully constructed life.

His gaze dropped to your lips, dark and hungry.

The bell above the door chimed loudly.

“Delivery!” a loud voice called out from the entryway.

You both jumped apart as if you had been burned.

The cold air rushed back into the space between you. The spell shattered, leaving behind a sharp, terrifying reality.

“I— I love it,” you stammered blindly, clutching the heavy orchids to your chest, your heart hammering a frantic, sickly rhythm against your ribs. You couldn’t look him in the eye anymore. If you looked at him again, you wouldn’t leave. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

You turned and practically ran for the door, brushing past the delivery driver, pushing out into the spring rain.

You stood on the sidewalk, the rain soaking into your coat, entirely unable to breathe.

You had almost kissed him. You had almost thrown away your entire future.

But as you stood there, trembling on the street corner, the truth settled into your bones like lead. You were going to marry a man who looked right past you, while the man who had memorised your heart was arranging the flowers for your altar.

You were still in love with Kang Yeosang.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The garden outside the venue smelled like fresh-cut wood, cooling glue, and the faint green bite of crushed stems. Rows of white chairs sat perfectly aligned like teeth. The aisle runner was taped down at the corners, edges still curling slightly where the adhesive hadn’t fully set.

You stood at the altar with a stack of vows in your hand that felt like paper and lead at the same time.

You cleared your throat, forcing air into your lungs like you could bully your body into cooperating. “Seonghwa,” you began out loud, and your voice sounded too formal.

The words on the page were beautiful. They were the kind of vows that made people cry and whisper “they’re perfect for each other” into champagne glasses. They were full of stability and gratitude and a lifetime of choosing each other.

But when you tried to push them past your teeth, they caught.

They tasted like nothing.

You tried again, voice quieter, like softness would make it more believable. “Seonghwa… you are my safest place,” you read. Your throat tightened immediately, betrayed by the sentence.

Safest. Like a locked door.

Like a padded room.

Like a life you could survive even if you never truly lived inside it.

You blinked hard. Your eyes stung.

“From the moment you—” you forced out, but the words blurred. The ink on the page seemed to swim, slipping away from you like it didn’t want to be said either. Your hand trembled. You curled your fingers tighter around the paper until the edge crumpled.

A laugh tried to scrape up your throat but it came out as a strangled breath instead. You lowered the vows, pressing them to your stomach as if they could hold you together.

The garden was silent. And in that silence, the hollowness became undeniable. Not a dramatic realisation. Not a thunderclap. Just the slow, sick certainty that you could stand in front of a hundred people tomorrow and say all of this—

—and it would still be a performance.

You stared down the aisle. It was gorgeous already, even half-finished. Greenery draped along the edges. White blooms set in clusters like fallen stars. Someone had laid out the beginning of an arrangement at the front—loose stems, unopened buds, florist tape, a pair of shears resting on a cloth.

You hadn’t looked too closely when you came here.

You hadn’t asked who was doing the last-minute touch-ups.

A sound came from around the corner near the side entrance to the venue—soft, precise. A faint snip. Then the whisper of leaves sliding against one another. Someone exhaled, slow and controlled, as if they were trying not to be noticed.

You froze.

Your pulse kicked.

You moved to the side to see better and your eyes lifted.

Yeosang.

He wasn’t wearing the apron. Just a black shirt, sleeves pushed up, forearms bare, hands marked with faint scratches that looked too new. His hair was a little messy, like he’d been running his fingers through it without realising. He held a handful of greenery in one hand and his shears in the other. He stopped the second he realised you’d finally noticed him.

The empty air between you tightened, electric and fragile.

For a beat, neither of you spoke.

Your throat locked around his name, around every year you’d swallowed.

Yeosang’s gaze flicked to the vows in your hand. Then to your face. To the wet shine in your eyes you couldn’t hide fast enough.

His expression shifted—something tight in his jaw, something wounded and soft beneath it, like he’d been bracing for this kind of moment his whole life and still hadn’t learned how to survive it. “I didn’t mean to—” Yeosang started, voice low, roughened at the edges.

You shook your head too quickly. “Why are you here?”

It wasn’t an accusation. It was panic. It was grief trying to pretend it was anger.

Yeosang glanced down at the greenery like it could answer for him. “The aisle pieces weren’t done,” he said. “There was an issue with one of the foam bases. Wooyoung—” He stopped like saying Wooyoung’s name made him remember the whole ugly chain of protection and hurt. “I came to fix it.”

You stared at him, breathing too shallow. “You weren’t supposed to—”

“I know.” Yeosang’s voice sharpened, but not with cruelty. With restraint. With exhaustion. “I know what I’m ‘supposed’ to do.”

The word hung there, bitter.

Your fingers crushed the paper a little more.

You tried to speak again, but your voice shook. “You… you heard that.”

Yeosang didn’t answer at first. His gaze stayed on your face like it was painful. Like it was impossible not to look.

Then he nodded once. Small. Honest.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I heard.”

Heat rushed up your neck. Shame, humiliation, something rawer. “I was just practicing.”

Yeosang’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite anything. “Yeah,” he said. “I noticed.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. You blinked and another tear slipped free, hot and stupid. You swiped at it angrily with the back of your hand, like you could erase the evidence.

Yeosang flinched at the motion, just a little.

Like he wanted to step forward.

Like he forced himself not to.

“You’re not… you’re not ready,” Yeosang said, and his voice wasn’t judgmental. It was wrecked. Like he was naming a bruise.

Your breath caught. “Don’t,” you whispered. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you—” Your voice cracked. You lifted the vows slightly, helpless. “Like you can tell.”

Yeosang’s eyes dropped to the paper again. The edge was crumpled where your fingers had been crushing it. The ink was smudged by the sweat of your palm. Then his gaze lifted back to yours, too steady, too gentle.

“You’re crying,” he said simply. “In an empty garden.”

The words hit you right in the chest. Your body betrayed you completely—your chin trembled, your mouth opened, and the first real sob you’d been holding back tried to break loose.

You swallowed it down hard, shaking your head. “It’s just stress,” you lied.

Yeosang stared at you for a long moment. Then he set the greenery down on the nearest chair with hands that were too careful. He kept the shears in his right hand, but his grip loosened entirely, the heavy metal blades pointing toward the floor. It didn’t look like a tool anymore. It looked like he simply didn’t know what else to do with his hands.

He took a step closer.

Then another.

It wasn’t enough to touch you. It was just enough to make the air between you tighten, pulling taut like a wire right before it snaps. The sunlight caught him as he moved—illuminating his dark lashes, the sharp, rigid line of his jaw, and the faint, fresh scratches on his knuckles from working with the thorns. He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing, looking at you like he hated his own courage.

You couldn’t breathe. Your vows hung limp at your side, the heavy cardstock crumpled where your fingers had crushed it in frustration. You stared at him, entirely helpless, your eyes burning with the kind of tears you hated because they were too honest to hide.

“Say it to me,” Yeosang whispered.

“What?” you rasped, the word tearing out of your dry throat.

Yeosang’s eyes didn’t flinch away this time. They didn’t drop to the floor or seek the safety of the floral arrangements. They stayed locked on you, dark and open in the most terrifying way you had ever seen.

“Your vows,” he said, his voice carrying perfectly in the cavernous room. “Practise them with me.”

A cold wave washed through your chest, freezing the blood in your veins. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice cracked just slightly on the vowel, and in that tiny fracture, you heard the monumental effort it took him to stand in this aisle without falling apart. “No one’s here, Y/N. It’s just… chairs. Flowers.”

He swallowed again, his chest rising with a shaky breath.

Then, softer, like it physically hurt him to offer himself up: “And me.”

Your throat burned with sudden, fierce acidity. “Why would you want that?”

Yeosang’s jaw tightened hard enough that you saw the muscle jump beneath his skin. “Because I heard you choking on them,” he said, his voice dropping low, brutal with honesty. “And I know you’re trying to force something out of your mouth that your body doesn’t believe.”

You flinched as if he had struck you.

Yeosang took another half-step forward—still agonisingly careful.

“Just read them,” he urged quietly. “If they’re true, you’ll be able to say them.”

Your vision blurred entirely, the perfectly aligned rows of chairs melting into a sea of white. “That’s not fair,” you whispered, a tear breaking free and cutting a hot path down your cheek.

Yeosang’s laugh came out dark and hollow, sounding like a bruise being pressed too hard. “Yeah,” he agreed quietly. “No shit.”

The words hung between you, heavy with the weight of the last eight years, thick with everything else he’d never gotten to say.

Your hands shook violently as you lifted the crumpled paper again.

The empty chairs watched you like ghosts waiting for a confession.

You stared at the first line until the letters stopped swimming in your tears. Then, you forced air into your tight lungs and tried. “Seonghwa,” you began, your voice trembling so badly it echoed off the glass ceiling.

Yeosang didn’t move. He didn’t interrupt. He just watched you, his posture rigid, like a man bracing for an inevitable impact.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “From the moment I met you…” The words came out, but they felt entirely foreign on your tongue, like you were reading someone else’s script in a language you barely understood. Your voice echoed back at you, flat. Hollow. Unconvincing.

Your breath hitched.

You tried again, pushing harder, desperate to make it sound real. “You are my safest place.”

Your eyes stung instantly with fresh tears. Yeosang’s gaze flicked away for a fraction of a second—almost imperceptible—but you caught it. He looked away like the word safest had cut him, hurting him for reasons you didn’t even deserve to understand.

He turned his head back to you and said, very quietly, “Don’t read it.”

You looked up at him, absolute panic seizing your chest.

“Say what you actually mean.”

Your mouth opened to argue, to defend the vows, but nothing came out. Instead, a ragged sob tore its way up your throat.

“I— I don’t know how.”

Yeosang’s expression softened then, melting into something devastating. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t the bitter anger he had shown in the shop. It was just profound, quiet understanding—an understanding that looked like it had cost him everything he had left.

“Yes, you do,” he whispered softly. “You just don’t want to admit it out loud.”

Your whole body shook. You stared at him through the blur of your tears, and the words came out before you could stop them—ragged, broken, and terrifyingly real.

“I can’t promise him forever,” you choked out, the confession shattering the quiet of the hall. “I can’t— when I say it, it feels like I'm lying.”

Yeosang went very, very still. You watched his face change like a storm passing over a dark lake—shock, sharp pain, and then something dangerously close to relief that made him look sick with himself for feeling it.

Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath. You wiped frantically at your face with the back of your hand, smearing tears across your cheek. “I’m trying,” you whispered, pleading with him to understand. “I swear I’m trying, Yeosang. I just— I keep opening my mouth, and it’s like… it won’t come out. Like my body is refusing to do it.”

Yeosang stared at you, his breathing turning shallow and fast.Then he spoke, his voice rough, scraping against his throat, yet almost unbearably gentle. “Okay,” he hesitated. “Then don’t say it to... him.”

Your heart lurched against your ribs. “What?”

Yeosang’s dark eyes held yours, entirely unflinching. “Say it to me,” he repeated. His throat bobbed. “Not because I want you to,” he said, his hands flexing at his sides. “Not because I—” His jaw clenched tight, and he swallowed hard, forcing himself to push through the lie. “Because I want to help you. Because I can take it.”

You shook your head, crying harder at the sheer cruelty of his offer. “No—”

“I’m serious.” His voice cracked again, just once, and the sound made your ribs ache with phantom pain. “If you’re going to practice a lie, don’t practice it on someone who thinks it’s true love. Practice it on someone who already knows exactly what it costs.”

Your knees felt weak.

The entire garden seemed to tilt on its axis.

Your trembling fingers crumpled the heavy cardstock of the vows one last time, and then, slowly, you let your grip loosen. The paper fluttered to the ground between you, landing with a soft, dismissive tap.

You lifted your chin—shaking, sobbing, absolutely furious with yourself for letting it get this far—and you looked straight into Yeosang’s eyes.

He looked back.

He didn’t blink.

He didn’t let you look away to hide.

And the second you truly held his gaze, standing there in the ruins of your own wedding rehearsal, something inside you finally, irreversibly snapped into place.

Your voice came out shredded, barely recognisable. “I—” You swallowed, a sob punching its way out of your chest. “I promise to choose you.”

Yeosang didn’t move. But his eyes went glossy immediately, shining like you’d struck him somewhere incredibly soft and vital.

“I promise to— to keep choosing you even when it’s hard,” you choked out, and the words weren’t coming from a script. They were being pulled directly from your bones. “Even when I’m terrified. Even when I want to run away. Even when everyone in the world tells me what I should want instead.”

“I promise to stop looking for you in every other person I meet.”

Yeosang’s breath hitched loudly.

“I promise to remember the boy who used to stay on the phone with me until 2 AM just so I wouldn’t have to listen to the thunderstorms,” you wept, the memories spilling out of you, painting the empty space between you with the ghosts of who you used to be. “The boy who mapped out the stars with me on the hood of his mother’s car. The boy who knew exactly how to make me laugh when I was trying so hard to be perfect.”

Yeosang went entirely still. His eyes widened, shining as the words struck him right in his chest.

“I spent years trying to build a life that felt safe,” you sobbed, taking a tiny, agonising step toward him. “I thought safe meant sturdy. I thought it meant predictability, and a man who never made a mess. But I was wrong.”

You shook your head.

“You are my safe place, Yeosang,” you choked out. “You always were. You’re the one who remembers my favourite flower even when it breaks your own heart to look at them. You’re the one standing here, bleeding yourself dry, just to give me the beautiful things I asked for.”

Yeosang’s jaw trembled violently. A single, heavy tear finally broke free, cutting a hot path down his cheek, betraying the iron will he had held onto for days.

“So I promise to love you,” you cried, the words tearing out of your throat like a desperate, holy confession. “I promise to love you when it’s messy. I promise to love you when it ruins the plan. I promise to love you even when I’m terrified, even when everyone in the world tells me I should want something easier.”

“I promise I won’t leave you behind again,” you whispered, your voice breaking violently. “I promise I’ll stop pretending I can survive this life without you. I love you. I never, ever stopped.”

Yeosang’s face broke.

It didn't happen loudly. It wasn't dramatic. It was just the smallest, most devastating fracture—his dark lashes lowering, his rigid jaw trembling, and a single, heavy tear slipping down his cheek as if his body had finally betrayed his iron will, too.

He whispered your name, the sound caught somewhere between a desperate warning and a holy prayer.

And then—like he simply couldn’t help it anymore, like eight years of restraint had finally, spectacularly lost the fight—Yeosang stepped in.

It was slow. Agonisingly careful.

Like he was asking for permission with every inch he crossed.

His fingers brushed the back of your hand first. A feather-light, electric touch. Then, his hand slid down and closed completely around yours, his grip warm, calloused, and shaking, grounding you instantly. His thumb slid over your knuckles, one soft, reverent stroke—then moved lower, tracking slowly toward your ring finger.

The heavy diamond caught the light between you, flashing brilliantly.

Yeosang’s breath hitched again. His thumb paused right beside the platinum band, hovering just over the metal, not touching it, acting as if the stone itself might burn him to ash.

He swallowed hard.

His voice came out entirely wrecked.

“You don’t get to promise me things,” he whispered, his eyes shining bright with unshed tears, “the day before you marry him.”

And still—despite the ring, despite the venue, despite the reality of tomorrow—he didn’t let go.

His grip tightened around your hand, just enough to say, I’m here. I caught you.

“Say it again,” he breathed, the words sounding like they physically hurt him to ask. Like he needed them to survive the night. “Look at me and say it again.”

You looked straight into his dark, desperate eyes and you meant it so fiercely it felt like it might actually kill you.

“I love you,” you whispered.

Yeosang squeezed your hand, the pressure as gentle and permanent as a vow. And you stood there in the quiet garden, shaking violently, your ring finger throbbing under the weight of a diamond that suddenly felt like a massive, heavy lie you couldn’t bear to wear for another second—

—when the sharp echo of footsteps sounded at the entrance to the venue.

The heavy double doors clicked open.

“Love? Are you still in here?”

Panic, cold and sharp, flooded your veins. Your breath hitched violently in your chest. Yeosang’s eyes snapped from the double doors back to your face. He felt the violent flinch of your hand inside his. He saw the sheer, unadulterated terror crash over your features. You were caught. You had just confessed your soul to the florist standing at your wedding altar, and the man who bought the flowers was walking right toward you.

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. You didn’t know what to do. You didn’t know how to detonate your entire life in the next ten seconds.

But Yeosang knew.

He looked at you, his dark eyes softening into something so profoundly selfless and agonising that it stole the rest of your breath.

I’ve got you, that look said. I’ve always got you.

And then, he let you go.

The loss of his warmth was so sudden and absolute that you almost stumbled forward. Yeosang took a massive, deliberate step backward, putting a safe, sterile chasm of space between you.

In the blink of an eye, the man who had just looked at you like you were his entire world vanished. Yeosang turned away, his shoulders pulling back into that rigid, perfectly contained posture. He bent down, scooped up his wire cutters from the chair, and seamlessly grabbed a heavy trailing branch of eucalyptus.

The metal shears snapped with a loud, mechanical clack.

“There you are,” Seonghwa said, stepping out from behind the rows of white satin chairs. He looked immaculate in a dark navy shirt, his hair perfectly swept back. “The planner said you came back in here to practice your...”

Seonghwa’s voice trailed off as he noticed you standing perfectly still in the middle of the aisle.

He walked up, closing the distance, and casually draped his arm around your waist. His hand rested heavily against the curve of your hip—a physical, undeniable claim.

“Are you alright, Y/N?” Seonghwa murmured, his brow furrowing slightly as he looked at your face. “Your eyes are completely red. Have you been crying?”

You couldn’t speak. Your vocal cords felt like they had been severed. You could still feel the phantom pressure of Yeosang’s thumb tracing the skin right next to your diamond ring.

Before you could force a lie out of your mouth, Yeosang answered for you.

“The pollen from the lilies,” Yeosang said smoothly.

You flinched.

Yeosang didn’t turn around. He kept his back to both of you, aggressively wiring the eucalyptus to the copper frame of the archway. His voice was completely flat. Dead. The perfect, polite tone of a hired vendor addressing a wealthy client.

“I had to unpack a fresh crate of stargazers about ten minutes ago,” Yeosang continued, his hands moving with mechanical precision. “The pollen count is exceptionally high right now. It usually causes severe eye irritation and watering if you aren’t used to it. I apologise, Mr. Park. I should have warned her.”

Seonghwa’s expression cleared instantly, shifting from concerned fiancé to understanding.

“Ah, I see,” Seonghwa said easily, pulling you a fraction closer to his side. “No harm done, Yeosang-ssi. I appreciate you working after hours to get the archway perfect for tomorrow.”

“It’s my job,” Yeosang replied.

He snapped the wire cutters again. The sound was deafening.

As he shifted his weight to reach higher on the arch, his heavy work boot slid subtly across the ground. With one smooth, invisible motion, he kicked the crumpled ball of cardstock—your discarded, hollow wedding vows—completely under the nearest chair, hiding the evidence of your breakdown from Seonghwa’s line of sight.

He was protecting you. He was swallowing his own pride, acting like the hired help, and cleaning up your mess so you wouldn’t have to face Seonghwa’s anger before you were ready.

It was the most beautiful, devastating act of love you had ever witnessed. And it made you sick.

“Well, we should get out of here before your allergies get any worse, love,” Seonghwa said, completely oblivious to the massacre that had just occurred in this garden. He looked down at you, his smile perfectly kind. “We have an early morning tomorrow. It’s the big day.”

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice sounding like dry leaves. “The big day.”

Seonghwa gently turned you around, guiding you back up the aisle, away from the altar.

You couldn’t stop yourself, you looked back over your shoulder. Yeosang had finally stopped working. He was standing perfectly still beneath the massive canopy of white flowers he had built for you. He was watching you walk away with another man, his hands gripping the metal shears so tightly his knuckles were bone-white.

He didn’t look angry. He just looked like a man who had survived the blast, only to realise he was going to bleed out in the rubble.

“Have a good evening, Yeosang-ssi,” Seonghwa called out politely over his shoulder.

“Congratulations on your wedding, Mr. Park,” Yeosang’s voice drifted back, echoing like a ghost.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The bridal suite was a suffocating blur of motion, noise, and pastel silk. Someone popped a bottle of champagne, the cork hitting the ceiling with a sharp crack that made you flinch. Laughter bubbled up around you. Three of your bridesmaids were crowded by the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, adjusting their dresses, while the makeup artist hovered over you with a setting spray.

“Close your eyes, sweetie,” the artist cooed, her hands smelling like lavender.

You closed your eyes. The cool mist hit your face, locking your makeup into place. It felt like a final seal.

When you opened your eyes again and looked in the massive gilded mirror, a stranger looked back at you. Your hair was pinned into an immaculate, flawless updo. Your skin glowed. You were wearing heavy, white, designer gown. You looked exactly like the bride Park Seonghwa deserved.

You looked like a ghost.

Your heart was hammering a frantic, sickly rhythm against your ribs. Every time the heavy wooden door to the suite shifted, your breath caught.

You were waiting for him.

You needed Yeosang to walk through that door. After last night, after the way he had stepped back and swallowed his own agony just to shield you from Seonghwa’s presence, you needed to see him. You needed him to look at you in all this white and tell you it was okay. Or, God help you, you needed him to look at you and tell you not to do it.

Knock. Knock.

The sound cut through the chatter of the room.

“Oh, that must be the florist!” your maid of honour gasped, rushing to the door. “Finally! We need the bouquets for the photos!”

Your lungs seized entirely. You stared at the reflection of the door in the mirror, waiting for the blonde hair, the broad shoulders, the dark green apron.

The door swung open.

It wasn’t him.

A kid stood in the hallway. He couldn’t have been older than nineteen, wearing a faded denim jacket and a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead. He looked entirely out of place in the opulent hotel hallway, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot as he balanced two boxes in his arms.

“Delivery for the bride?” the kid mumbled, looking overwhelmed by the room full of women.

The air rushed out of your lungs in a silent, devastating exhale.

Yeosang didn’t come.

He had packed the van. He had built the altar. But he couldn’t walk into this room and hand you the flowers you were going to hold when you married another man. He couldn’t look at you in the white dress. It was the one boundary his broken heart simply couldn’t cross.

“Bring them in, bring them in!” your maid of honour ushered the boy inside, pointing to the table.

The kid set a massive, temperature-controlled white box down on the glass table. He popped the lid off, and the bridesmaids immediately let out a collective gasp of awe.

“Oh, Y/N,” one of your friends breathed, lifting the main bouquet out of the box. “It’s absolutely breathtaking.”

It was flawless. It was expensive. It was heavy enough to make your wrists ache, and it smelled exactly like the cold, sterile perfection of the life you were about to step into.

You stared at it, feeling entirely numb.

“Wait,” the delivery kid said, digging into the smaller, second box he had tucked under his arm. “The boss said... uh, he said this one has to go directly to you. He was really specific about it.”

The chatter in the room died down. Your maid of honour frowned, lowering the massive bouquet. “A second one? For what, the toss?”

The kid didn’t answer her. He just walked around the table, holding out a much smaller bundle wrapped in simple brown craft paper.

You reached out with trembling hands and pulled the brown paper back.

It wasn’t orchids. It wasn’t lilies.

It was a small, humble cluster of light pink carnations. The petals were soft, with those frayed, crushed-velvet edges Yeosang remembered you loved. They were tucked between fragile, cheap sprigs of baby’s breath. And binding the stems together was a single, plain white ribbon, tied in a slightly messy bow.

The floor dropped out from under you.

You were high school freshman again.

“I love you,” Yeosang said.

“I know,” you whispered, “I’ve been trying not to say it first.”

“What?”

You lifted the bouquet, carnations brushing his chest, and you looked up at him like he was the only person on earth.

“I love you too,” you said.

A violent sob ripped out of your throat.

It was so loud, so guttural and broken, that the delivery kid took a step back in alarm.

“Y/N?!” one of the bridesmaids rushed toward you. “Oh my god, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

You couldn’t answer her. You pulled the small bouquet of carnations tight against your chest, burying your face in the soft pink petals. They smelled like damp earth. They smelled like the truth.

This wasn’t just a memory. It was his final goodbye.

Yeosang was returning your vow from the night before. I love you, this little bouquet said. I love you enough to let you walk away. I love you enough to give you exactly what you asked for, even if it kills me.

“Don’t cry, sweetie, please, your lashes are going to unglue!” the makeup artist shrieked, hovering around you with a tissue. “Look up! Look at the ceiling!”

But you couldn’t look at the ceiling. You looked at yourself in the mirror. You looked at the heavy diamond on your finger, the white dress, and the terrified, weeping girl holding a bodega-style bouquet of carnations against her heart as if it were a life jacket.

You were lying. To Seonghwa, to your family, and to yourself.

And Yeosang was currently somewhere in this city, bleeding out in silence, because he loved you too much to stop you from making the biggest mistake of your life.

You lowered the flowers. Your tears were falling freely now.

“Y/N, you’re shaking,” the maid of honour said, her voice dropping into a panicked whisper as she grabbed your arms. “Hey, look at me. It’s just nerves. Everyone gets cold feet, okay? Seonghwa is waiting downstairs. He loves you.”

You looked at her. The absolute, undeniable clarity of the moment hit you with the force of a freight train.

“I can’t,” you whispered, your voice shredded, but steady for the first time in eight years.

She froze. “What?”

“I can’t do this,” you said louder, stepping back, pulling out of her grip. You looked down at the massive, expensive bouquet on the table, and then down at the pink carnations in your hand. “I can’t walk down that aisle. I can’t marry him.”

The room went dead silent. The only sound was the ticking of the clock on the wall, counting down to a wedding that was never going to happen. The heavy silk of the designer gown was laced tight against your ribs, a beautiful, suffocating cage. The massive train pooled around your feet.

“Y/N, you’re not making any sense,” your maid of honour panicked, stepping forward with her hands raised as if to physically hold you in place. “You just have cold feet—”

“No,” you said, your voice entirely steady, cutting through the frantic noise of the bridal suite. “I have been entirely numb for eight years. I am just finally waking up.”

You looked down at the floor. The expensive, crystal-embellished heels strapped to your feet felt like lead weights. You didn’t hesitate. You reached down, your fingers fumbling blindly with the delicate silver clasps, and tore them off.

You kicked the shoes away and they clattered uselessly. The cold marble floor sent a sharp, grounding shock up through your bare soles. You were done playing a part. You were done wearing the costume of a woman who cared more about a pristine aesthetic than the man who held her heart.

“Y/N, what are you doing?!” the makeup artist shrieked as you grabbed the fistfuls of heavy white tulle and hiked the massive skirt up to your knees.

“Tell Seonghwa I am so incredibly sorry,” you said, looking at your maid of honour with pleading, desperate eyes. “Tell him he deserves a woman who looks at him the way I look at Yeosang. Because I can’t be her.”

And then you took of the diamond ring, giving it to one of the bridesmaids and you ran.

You grabbed your purse and didn’t look back. You burst out of the heavy wooden doors of the bridal suite, your bare feet slapping hard against the carpeted hallway.

“Y/N! Wait!”

The voices of your bridesmaids faded behind you as you hit the elevator bank. You slammed your palm against the button, your chest heaving, the small bouquet of pink carnations clutched so tightly to your chest that the delicate stems threatened to snap.

When the doors opened to the lobby, the entire room stopped. Guests in tailored suits and elegant dresses froze, staring in absolute shock as a bride in a breathtaking, custom white gown sprinted through the lobby entirely barefoot. You didn’t care. You didn’t care about the stares, the whispers, or the absolute spectacle you were making.

You hit the heavy revolving doors and spilled out onto the sidewalk.

The rough asphalt bit into your bare feet. You didn’t stop. You ran to the edge of the curb and threw your free hand out at a passing taxi.

The cab screeched to a halt.

The driver’s eyes went wide in the rearview mirror as you threw the back door open and shoved the massive, obnoxious volume of white tulle into the backseat, climbing in after it.

“Where to, miss?” the driver stammered, staring at your tear-streaked, frantic face.

You gasped the address, completely breathless, looking down at the crushed pink petals in your hands. “Please. Drive as fast as you can. Please.”

The city rushed by in a blur of grey and silver. Every red light felt like an eternity. Every stopped car felt like a physical barrier keeping you from breathing. You looked down at your feet—the pristine white hem of the designer gown was already stained grey with street dirt, and there was a small scrape on your ankle.

The cab slammed to a halt at the curb. The street was quiet. The sign in the window of ‘Ethereal Blooms’ was flipped to the dark side. CLOSED.

Panic seized your throat. What if he was at the venue? What if you had broken him so badly that he couldn’t even stand to be in the shop where you had handed him that black card?

You rushed the door and grabbed the heavy brass handle.

You pulled. The door yielded. The cheerful, sharp ding-dong of the brass bell shattered the heavy silence of the street. You stepped inside, the humid air wrapping around you. The shop was empty. The lights were off, save for the single bulb hanging over the stainless steel prep table in the back.

And then, you saw him.

Yeosang was sitting on the floor behind the counter, his back pressed hard against the wooden cabinets. His knees were pulled up, his arms resting on them, his head bowed so low you could only see his messy blonde hair. He was absolutely, entirely still. He looked like a man who had just returned from a funeral.

The soft rustle of your heavy dress dragged through the quiet shop.

Yeosang flinched. He thought the shop was locked. Slowly, as if the physical movement caused him excruciating pain, he lifted his head.

His eyes were completely red, rimmed with dark, bruised exhaustion.

When he saw you standing there, the breath left his lungs in a sharp, audible rush. He stared at you. He stared at the massive, ridiculous white gown taking up all the space in his small, earthy shop.

And then, his dark, devastated eyes dropped to the floor.

He saw your bare feet.

He saw the dirty hem of the dress.

Yeosang scrambled to his feet so fast he knocked a plastic bucket of water over. It crashed to the floor, spilling across the tiles, but neither of you looked at it.

He gripped the edge of the wooden counter, his knuckles stark white, his chest heaving as if he had been the one running. He looked terrified. He looked like his mind couldn’t comprehend the hallucination standing in front of him.

“Y/N,” Yeosang breathed, his voice cracking violently, sounding utterly wrecked. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be… you’re supposed to be walking down the aisle right now.”

You took a step toward the counter. The silk rustled loudly.

“I am,” you sobbed, the tears spilling over your lashes, blurring your vision.

You lifted your hands. Your fingers were trembling violently as you held out the small, bundle of pink carnations, the cheap white ribbon hanging loose from the stems.

“I just had to find the right altar,” you wept.

Yeosang looked from the crushed pink petals up to your face, searching your eyes with a desperate, agonising hope that he was entirely afraid to believe.

“I couldn’t do it,” you choked out, taking another step, bringing you right to the edge of the wooden counter. “I didn't say the vows, Yeosang. I left the ring. I left the bouquet in the box.”

Yeosang’s hands let go of the counter. He was shaking. His entire body was trembling as he stepped around the register, closing the physical distance between you until there was nothing left but the heavy tulle of your dress.

“You ran,” Yeosang whispered, staring down at your bare, dirt-smudged feet. A broken, breathless sound escaped his throat—a laugh that sounded exactly like a sob. “You ran through the city barefoot.”

“I would have run through fire,” you cried, looking up into his dark, beautiful eyes. “I love you. I love you, and I am so entirely sorry it took me eight years to come back and realise that safe isn’t a place. It’s you. It was always you.”

Yeosang didn’t say another word. He didn’t need to.

He reached out, his dirt-stained hands grabbing the pristine white silk of your waist, and hauled you flush against his chest. He didn’t care about the dress. He didn’t care about the mess. He crushed his mouth down onto yours, swallowing the rest of your apologies in a kiss that tasted like salt, tears, and absolute, undeniable salvation.

You dropped the carnations. They tumbled to the floor, landing in the spilled water, perfectly safe.

You threw your arms around his neck, tangling your fingers in his hair, kissing him back with all the desperate, starving grief of the last eight years. Yeosang’s arms wrapped around you like a vice, holding you so tightly it knocked the air from your lungs.

He was holding you. He was finally, truly holding you.

You were standing barefoot in a puddle of water, ruining a designer gown against a florist’s dirty apron, and for the first time in your entire life, everything was exactly where it belonged.

The kiss broke, but neither of you pulled away.

You stayed pressed together, your foreheads resting against each other, both of you gasping for air in the quiet, damp sanctuary of the shop. Yeosang’s hands were still locked around your waist, his grip bruising and desperate, as if he was entirely convinced that if he let go for even a fraction of a second, he would wake up from this dream.

“You’re here,” Yeosang whispered into the space between you, his voice thick with tears and sheer, unfiltered disbelief. “You’re actually here.”

“I’m here,” you promised, your hands sliding up from his neck to cradle his face. Your thumbs brushed over his cheekbones, wiping away the tear tracks that had fallen there. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m never leaving you again.”

Yeosang opened his eyes. They were dark, shining, and entirely undone. He pulled back just an inch to look at you. His gaze swept over your beautifully styled hair, the slightly ruined makeup on your cheeks, and the absolute, ridiculous volume of the designer wedding gown taking up half the floor space in his small shop.

Then, he looked down at his own hands. His fingers were stained with chlorophyll and potting soil from working through the night. Where he was holding you, dark handprints were pressed starkly into the immaculate, pearl-white silk of your waistline.

Yeosang flinched. The ghost of his insecurity—the boy who couldn’t afford the imported flowers, the man who had been handed a black card over this very counter—flared up.

“Oh god,” Yeosang breathed, immediately trying to pull his hands back. “Y/N, the dress. I’m ruining it. I’ve got dirt all over—”

“Don't,” you commanded softly, your hands shooting down to catch his wrists before he could drop his arms.

You pulled his dirty hands right back to your waist, pressing them firmly against the expensive silk. You held his gaze, fiercely, undeniably certain.

“Ruin it,” you whispered, a watery smile breaking across your face. “Please. Ruin it, Yeosang. I never want to be perfectly clean without you again.”

Yeosang stared at you, his breath catching in his throat. The last wall guarding his heart completely collapsed. A stunning, devastatingly beautiful smile broke across his face—the first real, genuine smile you had seen from him in eight years. It reached his eyes, bright and blinding, entirely washing away the hollow ghost he had been since you walked into his shop.

He let out a wet, breathless laugh, his hands tightening on your waist, uncaring of the mud or the silk. “You are absolutely insane,” Yeosang murmured, shaking his head in awe.

“I know,” you laughed, a sob catching in your throat as the sheer adrenaline of the run finally began to fade, leaving you trembling.

Yeosang felt the tremor run through your body. His smile softened into something deeply tender and protective. He looked down at the floor, his eyes landing on your bare, freezing feet. The scrape on your ankle was bleeding slightly, and your soles were black from the city asphalt.

“Come here,” Yeosang said quietly, his voice shifting into a steady, grounding warmth.

He carefully disentangled himself from your arms and stepped back. He reached down and gently picked up the crushed bouquet of pink carnations from the puddle on the floor. He didn’t throw them away. He walked over to the stainless steel prep table, picked up a beautiful, expensive crystal vase that was supposed to hold imported lilies, and placed your humble carnations inside it instead.

Then he walked past the counter, guiding you by the hand toward the back corner of the shop, where a worn, dark green velvet armchair sat half-hidden behind a massive Monstera plant.

“Sit,” he instructed gently, pressing on your shoulders until you sank into the soft velvet. The heavy tulle of your skirt spilled out around the chair like a massive white cloud, completely ridiculous in the earthy, rustic space of the flower shop. Yeosang didn’t seem to care. He walked over to a small sink in the corner, grabbed a clean white towel, and ran it under the warm water.

When he came back, he didn’t stand over you.

The man who had been forced to play the polite, invisible vendor dropped directly to his knees on the hard tile floor.

“Yeosang, you don’t have to—” you started, instinctively trying to pull your dirty feet back under the enormous skirt.

“Shh,” Yeosang interrupted softly, his hands catching your ankles. His touch was incredibly gentle. “Let me take care of you.”

You fell silent, the tears welling up in your eyes all over again.

Yeosang knelt before you in his apron, the warm, damp towel in his hands. With excruciating care, he began to wipe the cold city street dirt away from the soles of your feet. He cleaned the small scrape on your ankle with the quiet, reverent devotion of a man handling something infinitely precious.

It was the exact opposite of Seonghwa throwing a black card on a counter to buy a solution. This was Yeosang offering you the only thing he had ever had to give: his time, his hands, and his absolute, unwavering care.

“Seonghwa is going to kill me,” Yeosang murmured into the quiet shop, keeping his eyes on his task, carefully wiping away a smudge of grease from your heel.

You let your head fall back against the velvet chair, staring at the ceiling, feeling lighter than you had in years. “He’s going to have to get in line behind my parents.”

Yeosang let out a low, genuine laugh. The sound sent a warm shiver straight down your spine.

You looked down at him. You looked at his face, the messy blonde hair, and the way he was kneeling in a puddle of water just to make sure you weren’t cold. You thought about the penthouse, the perfectly controlled temperature, and the suffocating, predictable safety of the life you had just outrun.

Yeosang got up and his hands found your waist, hauling you up from the velvet cushions until you were standing flush against his chest.

And his lips pressed into yours.

Yeosang’s mouth was desperate, his lips parted yours, his tongue sweeping in, hot and demanding, swallowing the soft gasp that tore out of your throat.

Your hands tangled in his hair, holding him to you as tightly as you could. You kissed him back with all the violent, pent-up yearning that had been quietly suffocating you.

“Yeosang,” you whimpered against his mouth, your knees going weak as his hands slid down to grip your hips, holding you steady against him.

“I’ve got you,” Yeosang breathed roughly against your lips. He pressed his forehead against yours, his chest heaving. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.”

But the dress was in the way. The heavy material and the ridiculous layers of stiff tulle were a suffocating barrier between you. It belonged to a life you had just killed. It belonged to the man standing alone at an empty altar.

“Take it off,” you whispered, your voice trembling with a terrifying, beautiful certainty. You stepped closer, the tulle crushing between your legs. “Take this dress off me. I don’t want it anymore. I don’t want any of it.”

Yeosang’s didn't hesitate. His hands, still stained with the earth from the flowers he had built for your wedding, went straight to the back of the gown. His calloused fingers found the delicate, hidden zipper buried beneath the row of pearl buttons.

He unzipped it. The sound was loud in the quiet shop—a single, smooth rip that tore the cage entirely open.

The heavy bodice immediately loosened, the suffocating pressure falling away from your ribs. You let out a deep, shuddering gasp of real air.

Yeosang’s hands slid over your bare shoulders, pushing the heavy silk straps down your arms. His touch was incredibly reverent, almost trembling, as if he couldn’t believe you were finally real and pliant beneath his hands. The expensive gown slid down your body, the heavy tulle pooling uselessly on the damp tile floor around your bare feet, mixing with the spilled water and the dirt.

You stood before him in nothing but the delicate white lace of your undergarments, entirely stripped of the bride you were supposed to be.

Yeosang looked at you. The absolute, unadulterated worship in his gaze made your breath catch in your throat. He wasn’t looking at a pristine aesthetic. He was looking at the woman he loved, messy, bare, and entirely his.

“You are so beautiful,” Yeosang whispered. He reached out, his warm, rough fingertips tracing the line of your collarbone, sending a violent shiver crashing through your nervous system. “It killed me, Y/N. Every single day, it killed me to look at you and not be able to do this.”

“You don't have to look from a distance anymore,” you breathed, stepping out of the puddle of ruined white silk.

You reached for him this time. Your hands found the hem of his apron, pulling it up and over his head. He helped you, tossing the shirt and the dirty apron blindly over his shoulder. They landed somewhere in the dark shadows of the shop, entirely forgotten.

His chest was bare, warm, and rising rapidly. You pressed your palms flat against his skin, feeling the frantic, hammering rhythm of his heart beneath your fingertips. It was beating entirely for you.

Outside, the sky broke. A heavy rain began to fall, drumming a soft, rhythmic hum against the large glass windows of the storefront, isolating the two of you entirely from the rest of the world.

Yeosang moved forward, his arms wrapping around your bare waist. He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping instinctively around his hips. You gasped, burying your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of his skin—rain, clean sweat, and the faint, sweet ghost of eucalyptus.

He carried you through the dark, humid shop, past the buckets of hydrangeas and the cooler full of the white roses. He walked through the curtain into the small, private back room of the shop, where a worn, velvet sofa sat under a single, dim lamp.

He laid you down against the dark velvet, following you down immediately, his body pressing a heavy, grounding weight over yours.

When Yeosang kissed you this time, it was a brand-new vow. It was slow, deliberate, and fiercely devoted. His hands mapped the curves of your body, learning the shape of you all over again, his calloused thumbs brushing over your skin with a tenderness that brought fresh, hot tears to your eyes.

Every touch was a confession. Every kiss was an apology for the time you had wasted.

“I love you,” Yeosang murmured against your skin, his lips trailing down your jaw, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive column of your neck. “Only you. Always you.”

You gasped his name, your back arching off the velvet as his hands slid lower, tracing the dip of your waist, leaving a trail of fire everywhere he touched.

You pulled him closer, your nails digging lightly into his shoulders, anchoring him to you. The damp, earthy air of the flower shop wrapped around you both, thick and suffocatingly intimate.

There was no hesitation left. There was no fear of making a mistake. As the rain beat heavily against the roof, drowning out the noise of the city.

‎His hands were rough from years of working with soil and thorns, but the way they moved over your skin was painfully gentle, as if he were handling the most delicate bloom in his shop. He kissed away the tears that finally slipped free from the corners of your eyes—tears not of grief, but of absolute, overwhelming relief.

“You’re mine,” Yeosang whispered fiercely, his voice a ragged rasp against your collarbone, his breathing just as unsteady as yours. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you choked out, pulling him down, entirely desperate for the heavy, grounding weight of him against you. “I always was.”

The rest of the delicate white lace was discarded into the shadows. In the dim, golden light of the back room, there was nothing left to hide, no more roles to play. There was only the slide of his feverish skin against yours, the desperate tangle of your limbs, and the release of years of starvation.

He didn’t rush. Despite the frantic pounding of his heart against your chest, he loved you with a devastating, breathtaking patience. Every brush of his lips, every agonisingly slow drag of his hands down your thighs, was designed to make you feel exactly how deeply you were worshipped. He moved with a rhythm that matched the rain pounding against the roof, drowning out the world you had left behind.

You were completely consumed by the heat of him, the intoxicating scent of eucalyptus and rain, and the blinding, undeniable certainty that you were finally exactly where you were always meant to be.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The brass bell above the door of ‘Ethereal Blooms’ chimed, a cheerful, bright sound that cut through the warm, humid air of the shop. You didn’t flinch at the sound anymore. You just smiled, reaching up to push a stray lock of hair out of your face with the back of your wrist.

“Have a wonderful afternoon!” you called out over the counter, handing a wrapped bundle of bright yellow sunflowers to a smiling customer. “Make sure to trim the stems at an angle when you put them in water!”

The customer waved, the heavy glass door clicking shut behind them, leaving the shop bathed in the quiet, golden light of late afternoon.

You let out a happy sigh, leaning against the wooden counter. You looked down at your hands. Your fingernails were clipped short, and there was a faint smudge of dark potting soil on your left thumb.

There was no massive, heavy diamond weighing down your ring finger anymore. In its place sat a simple diamond on a thin band of silver. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t a status symbol meant to be flashed at dinners. It was just a quiet, permanent promise that Yeosang had slipped onto your finger few months ago, standing right here in the middle of the shop.

You wiped your hands on the front of your dark green canvas apron—your apron—and turned around. The shop looked different than it had a year ago. It was still earthy, still filled with the intoxicating scent of damp soil and crushed eucalyptus, but it was warmer now. The heavy, suffocating shadows that used to cling to the corners were entirely gone.

Footsteps sounded from the back room. Yeosang pushed through the heavy canvas curtain, carrying a fresh galvanised bucket of water. He was wearing his usual faded t-shirt and work boots, his now dark cherry hair pushed back from his forehead.

When he looked up and saw you standing at the register, he stopped.

The profound, heavy exhaustion that had haunted his dark eyes a year ago had completely vanished. He looked healthy. He looked lighter. The sharp, rigid tension that used to lock his jaw had melted away, replaced by a soft, permanent warmth that only ever belonged to you.

He set the heavy bucket down on the floor and walked straight toward you.

Yeosang stepped behind the counter, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. He pulled your back flush against his chest, burying his face in the curve of your neck with a contented, heavy sigh.

“You smell like vanilla and fertiliser,” Yeosang murmured against your skin, his voice a low, vibrating hum that sent a familiar shiver down your spine.

“It’s a new perfume,” you laughed, tilting your head to give him better access. “I’m calling it The Florist’s Fiancée. Very exclusive.”

Yeosang chuckled, a warm, genuine sound that you never, ever got tired of hearing. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the pulse point just beneath your ear.

“Are the stargazers processed?” he asked lazily, his hands resting comfortably over your stomach.

“Yes, boss,” you teased, leaning your weight entirely against him. “Stripped, trimmed, and in the cooler. Though I still think we should have ordered more hydrangeas for the Kim wedding this weekend.”

Yeosang turned you around in his arms so you were facing him. He looked down at you, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with pure affection. He reached up, his thumb gently wiping a stray smudge of dirt off your cheekbone.

“You know,” Yeosang said softly, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Exactly one year ago today, a very beautiful, very terrified woman ran into this shop barefoot and completely ruined my floor with a wet wedding dress.”

You smiled, looping your arms loosely around his neck. “I seem to recall you being the one who threw the dress on the floor, Kang Yeosang-ssi.”

“I had to,” Yeosang whispered, stepping into your space until there was no distance left between you. His hands slid down to rest on your hips. “It was in my way.”

You let out a soft breath as he leaned down, capturing your lips in a slow, impossibly tender kiss. It wasn’t desperate anymore. It wasn’t fueled by fear or the ticking clock of a wedding you didn’t want. It was just deep, steady, and entirely secure.

It was the kiss of a man who knew he got to wake up next to you tomorrow, and the day after that, and every day for the rest of his life.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his thumbs drawing slow, soothing circles on your hips through the canvas apron.

“Any regrets?” Yeosang asked quietly. He didn’t ask it out of insecurity anymore. He asked it because he loved hearing the answer.

You looked around the messy, beautiful shop. You thought of the penthouse you had left behind, the cold marble floors, and the life of perfect, sterile predictability that had almost suffocated you. Then, you looked at the man holding you—the man who knew the exact fraying edges of your heart and loved them anyway.

“Only one,” you whispered, rising up on your toes to press a final, feather-light kiss to his jaw. “I wish I had run to this shop sooner.”

Yeosang smiled, gathering you tighter against his chest as the afternoon rain began to gently tap against the storefront windows.

He was a king with a crown of gnarled bones.

At least, that’s what they all said. An eye isn’t an eye because you look at it -  it’s an eye because it looks back at you and we don’t see things as they are; we see them as we are.

“What of the other kingdoms?” His voice traversed the vast hall, echoing against the stone walls of the Great Halls. He was impassive, nonchalant, but make no mistake, for his presence blanketed the entire expanse of the room.

You stood obediently off to the far side of his throne, almost unseen, but there nonetheless, just patiently waiting until the meeting was done. It was hard not to stare at the enigma that was Choi San. It wasn’t that he called for everyone’s attention just because he was the king, rather, he demanded it. 

He didn’t need it either. He just had it. Even a sliver of his shadow had everyone’s attention. Hell, even his footsteps sounded different from the rest. San wasn’t domineering nor commanding because he wore a crown. He was dominant because the air bent around for him.

“Word travels fast, my liege. I reckon it’s already reached the kingdoms up north like that of Wonderland and Horizon,” Park Seonghwa reported, reverence in his tone as he addressed his King. “I could send the troops to check out their militia and perhaps where their loyalties lie.”

Your eyes momentarily fleeted towards Seonghwa. The High Marshal was an honourable and proper leader, a skilled military man who led the kingdom’s armies in multiple battles and wars not many have had the guts to, and you knew he had San’s utmost respect. As if sensing eyes on him, he briefly met eyes with you, smiling in courtesy, before training them at San once more.

“No need,” San droned, raising one hand, halting motion that meant to stop even your inner thoughts. Such was the power he wielded. “The risk is too high for so little reward.”

He paused, tilting his head to the side, looking out the large window that overlooked the vast majority of the castlegrounds that were covered in nothing but thick snow. Melancholy was clear in his eyes, though he tried to cover it up with something steely.

He stood up from his throne slowly, deliberately as his eyes scanned the entirety of the room, leaving no space from anyone to breathe under his suffocating gaze. His fur-lined cloak that draped over his shoulders shifted with him, following his every movement as he began to walk off, the finality of his steps leaving no room for anyone to argue with him.

“Rest up, Seonghwa,” he said, the words low but echoing, as if the castle itself carried his voice forward for him. “The troops as well. You’ve done me well.”

Seonghwa blinked before inhaling sharply. He trudged forward, brows furrowed. “Your Grace—”

“I said,” San murmured, barely audible, but it was there. Everyone heard it, and the air shifted into something sharp as his voice tilted into a quiet warning. “Rest up.”

You gritted your teeth, composing yourself to stop the shiver that threatened to travel up your spine. This…you will never get used to this - to him. His words drifted through the Great Halls and they held weight enough to crush whatever protest Seonghwa thought he could muster.

San continued forward, not bothering to look back as his footsteps got closer and closer until he was almost in front of you. Immediately, you bowed, bunching your dress up in your fists as you lowered your head slightly. 

One would expect that as the king’s betrothed that he’d give you the same curtsy, or at least acknowledge you, but the way he completely ignored your existence was what you got. You were used to it. You had anticipated it, even. What a pity on your end, really.

As San passed you to walk away, his eyes briefly met yours, and by God, were they cold and indifferent. His gaze was earth-dark, not empty and not grounding, like land that dried up anything that grew on it.

What you weren’t expecting, however, was for him to stop halfway to address you. You tensed, this has never happened before. You tried to hold eye contact, but couldn’t. You couldn’t stand the way he stared at you because it always made you flinch. It was dark and dangerous.

“What are you doing here?” San questioned tersely, voice carrying a hint of irritation he tried to hide with courtesy. “Where’s Hongjoong?”

Hongjoong was your guard. “Your Majesty,” you mumbled through the intimidation. “Forgive my impudence. I was merely wondering if I could invite you for a cup of tea—”

“Answer my question,” he interrrupted, cutting you off cleanly like a blade that just hit fresh grass. His eyes were narrowed, unblinking and unyielding.

“My King,” Choi Jongho, the King’s royal advisor, whispered subtly. “Perhaps we ought to calm down, the people are looking our way—”

San lifted one finger, effectively silencing his own advisor with a subtle threat that carried the promise of ruin as if he’d already planned his end if he let one more word out. All while his eyes were still on you. “Hongjoong,” he repeated. “Where is he?”

You swallowed, your tongue suddenly heavy. “Hongjoong didn’t need to accompany me,” you said carefully. “I was on my way to see you, Your Majesty, so I dismissed him.”

San stilled, and so did you. He wasn’t pleased with your answer, but he didn’t look the least surprised by it. In fact, he didn’t even care. “I see,” was all he said, and the way he uttered it sounded more like an afterthought rather than an acknowledgement.

Then, he started walking past you again. It wasn’t dramatic, he had just already decided you were not worth another second of his attention. You gritted your teeth, forcing yourself to bow to him once more as heat and shame traveled to your face at his blatant dismissal of you.

It wasn’t because you feared him. You stopped fearing him a long time ago, and if you were being honest, you never had any reason to fear him or be intimidated by him to begin with simply because he barely acknowledged your presence, anyway. 

“Do not loiter around the Great Halls,” he spoke, cold and uncaring. “Next time, send a message if you have something you wish to tell me. You serve no purpose being idle around here.”

You were used to his disdain he reserved solely for you, but still, that stung more than you let on. It was the way he said it, too, that made you feel worse. It was meant to haunt your thoughts, the kind that followed you even after he was gone. 

You stood there, hands clasped, head bowed, letting the echo of his footsteps fade down the corridor. You felt a hand to your shoulder and it was Jongho. He gave you a tight-lipped smile that was meant to comfort you, squeezing your shoulder once as his eyes shone with that familiar pity that everyone also gave you when the king talked down on you like he always did.

“Don’t take it to heart,” he said with a small sigh, eyes on the corridor that San had turned. “He’s…it’s not like that, he didn’t mean it like that.”

You hummed, nodding out of courtesy. “I suppose,” you mumbled, barely audible. “Just like the tens of thousands of times he’s done it.”

Because you did try, you always did. You tried doing your part to get along with the man you were going to spend your earthly years with in this castle, and you had hoped foolishly that he'd meet you halfway all the time, but all you’ve been getting was contempt. Mingi stayed silent, for even he cannot deny that you were right.

“Let me accompany you to your chambers, my lady,” he kindly offered. “Supper will commence shortly. I would suppose you’d like to rest for a bit before then.”

“There is no need,” you mumbled quietly, smiling softly. “I can find my way back. And I’m going to have to decline supper for tonight, my appetite has gone away. Would you be so kind to send our dear chef my regards? Yeosang’s food is always splendid, just not tonight, I’m afraid.”

Jongho frowned, hesitant, before sighing. “As you wish, my lady. I bid you a good night.”

You curtsied quickly, turning the other direction to walk away. However, instead of going to your chambers, you chose to turn to another hallway, opting to take a walk to clear your head and your muddled thoughts.

The massive window at the end of the corridors always fascinated you. It was where you went when you had to think and today was no exception. You glanced outside, watching as endless snow fell from the sky. The hallways felt colder to you. San felt colder. Much colder.

A couple of months ago, you wouldn’t even dare dream stepping inside a palace, much less the one that San ruled. You still remember the first time you arrived and the first time you laid eyes on the man you were about to wed, but always put a wall in between you.

Poverty and famine had struck the lands where you were born and raised. You were used to it - born into it - but at least there was once a time where you lived on a quaint farm with your parents. But alas, famine chooses no one. It takes and takes, and your parents were no exception to that fate.

And you tried to sustain the farm, tried your very best to make the best of yourself under the dire circumstances you were handed, but it wasn’t enough. Drought had struck the land, crops died, and plague had seemingly struck what little poultry and bovine you raised. It was painful, but you had to leave your farm and village all together. You weren’t going to die along with it.

It wasn’t easy; none of it was. You had just lost both of your parents and your hometown all in the span of a month and you were a lone traveling girl looking for the next best thing without falling prey to thieves and vagabonds looking for their next victim.

But there was only so much you can take. Food was scarce, begging wasn’t an option any longer, and the streets weren’t the most conducive place to sleep most nights. Winter was coming and the chills weren’t helping your sore feet and empty stomach. 

Giving up wasn’t so terrible back then because at least, you could tell your maker that you had at least tried to survive - that you were a fighter who was just given a bad hand in life.

If you were going to perish from fatigue and hunger, though, you at least wanted to go where the air wasn’t thick with grief and suffering. If this was the end, you wanted it to be somewhere that at least looked like peace, even if you’d never quite managed to feel it.

And then, you remembered that there was a nearby kingdom that was rumoured to be surrounded with so much snow, it was impossible to see through it. You’ve never seen snow before. With your remaining money, you bought a horse and settled for the journey onto this unknown kingdom. 

“Just a moment,” the man you bought the horse from stopped you just as you were about to leave. “Where did you say you were going again?”

You hesitated, not because you were keeping your journey a secret, but the look in this man’s face seemed to tell you that he knew and was just confirming if he heard you right. “That kingdom that’s nearby here,” you finally answered. “The one in the snow.”

His eyes widened in shock before they drooped with something akin to alarm and trepidation all at once. “Oh, dear child, must you go? Are you not privy to the curse that lay in that land?”

The Kingdom of Utopia, but nobody called it that; they say that if you utter even the kingdom’s name, then the curse that befell there would be placed upon you. Such a beautiful name for a place no one can speak out loud.

Such a contradictory name for something that was anything but utopia.

Because the snow never melted. Not in the summer, not under the brightest suns. Snow covered the entire expanse of the land and it made inhabiting it near impossible. Some believed that the snow swallowed flames, and some believed the kingdom had been punished by the heavens themselves. No one knew the truth, and no one dared to go and find out.

“If that is the case,” you wondered out loud as you loaded what little of your belongings on your newly purchased horse. “Then why don’t the people just leave if it was so cursed?”

“Because they can’t,” the man answered, shivering slightly, though not because of the breeze that passed. “Once you get in, there is no way out. The snow is so thick and harsh that your soul would be gone from your body way before your foot can even attempt to step out. The people are trapped in there, my dear. I suggest traveling somewhere else.”

You were startled out of your memories when you heard a cough behind you. You turned around, expecting to find a servant who was wondering what the future queen was doing loitering around the halls, but you sighed in relief when you saw who it was instead.

“I knew I’d find you here,” Wooyoung chuckled, bowing his head slightly in curtsy. “Sir Hongjoong was a tad bit worried when you didn't come back to your chambers, my lady.”

You smiled in fondness. “I just wanted a bit of space, is all,” you said with a small shrug. “I needed time to think about certain things.”

A certain someone, you didn’t want to say, but Wooyoung already knew. His smile dropped slightly, eyes shining with sadness only you knew what for. “I know you’ve heard this all before,” he began. “But you have to extend a bit of understanding towards His Majesty. He’s…been through a lot, my lady. I implore you to forgive him.”

“I am far from angry at him,” you softly replied with a sigh. “I…just wish he’d drop his walls with me once in a while. It was my fault, I was the one who bothered him.”

“Nonsense, my lady,” Wooyoung quickly spoke, shaking his head vigorously. “You are his betrothed, you are allowed to bother him. Worry not, it’ll get better in time.” He extends a hand to you. “Shall I escort you back to your chambers, then?”

You nodded, putting your hand on top of his. Everyone always rushed to defend San whenever events like earlier happen, and you get it, Utopia did have its reputation and rumours after all.

But that’s all there was to it - rumours. Tales that are passed through taverns and alleyways to spook or entertain a wandering traveler. It wasn’t to frighten you. You’ve experienced the true horrors of what an actual curse is, and it took away everything you loved and held dear.

These were the thoughts that you couldn’t help but think the entire time Wooyoung led you to your room; your journey where it all began and why sometimes, you couldn’t even be mad at San whenever he deliberately dismissed you.

The entire journey, you were beginning to doubt everything. The biting chill of the snowstorm that hit your skin was almost painful . You’d think that the cold would’ve numbed you by now, but no. The more you traversed the land and the nearer you got, the more prickling it felt. It was like the snow was slowly sloughing your skin off until it reached your bones.

The kingdom was near enough where you didn’t have to stop and camp, but it was too late to go back by then. Grief and stubbornness lead you to where you were, knee deep in so much snow, your poor horse had a hard time crossing through it. Your fingers throbbed, your jaw ached, and your eyes watered from the sting of air that wished to carve itself into you.

Maybe they were right, because this was no ordinary weather - this was the land, itself, warning you. Coldness like this was meant to resent anybody that dared challenge it, and you were the fool who looked it in the eye and took it, anyway.

By a long shot of miracle, somehow, you managed to make it, though you were barely hanging on to the fact that you at least wanted to see if you could find a place for your horse to stay. It was your fault that it was put in this situation anyway. If not for your foolishness, it would have still been in another kingdom where it was warmer.

You were falling apart, you could tell, your senses were beginning to dull, and your already weakened state wasn’t helping at all. You found an empty alleyway, and the moment you hit the wall, your knees gave out, puffs of visible breath leaving out your mouth.

This was the end, you could feel it. You took this time to actually look at your surroundings now that you’re not moving. It was hard to regret it now that you’re here. Snow was beautiful, there was no other way to describe it. The texture of it felt funny in your hand, too. You were expecting it to feel fluffier. Still, it didn’t diminish its beauty and you didn’t mind.

You could see the castle walls from where you slumped, the pale outline of it through the white haze, where it housed the darker side of the rumours you’ve been told right before you traveled.

It was the king. Choi San. He was the centre of the rumours right where it all began, the very reason why they say Utopia was cursed. Some say that he was a demon who brought on the snow to isolate his kingdom. Most believed that the land that the castle was built upon was sacred and that the Choi clan did not heed the warnings and sent this was the punishment - that the snow itself was the everlasting famine destined to freeze everyone in it.

But the cruelest rumour of them all was that San, himself, might have been the source of the curse. People say that he sold his soul for eternal youth and immense power so long as the kingdom around him froze. 

You didn’t care, not anymore. All you wanted was to see something pretty before you went and this was more than enough for you. “Go on, pretty girl,” you whispered back then, patting the horse and encouraging it to find shelter. “You don’t belong out here. Go before you freeze.”

You shivered, feeling the cold even in your memories as Wooyoung opened the door for you with the practiced elegance of someone born to serve royalty. He helped you unfasten the heavier layers of your gown, and laid out your nightgown with gentle efficiency.

He turned away as you changed, always respectful and always giving you space, and when you slipped beneath the thick fur-lined blankets, he moved around the room to tidy what the maids had missed.

You watched him idly, noticing the flowers he was fixing in the embellished vase on your nightstand. Winter heathers. You knew of them from the occasional winters that hit your old village, the soft lilac bells that bloomed in spite of the frost that covered them and survived.

Something in the sight of them warmed you. This was one of the few things that made this cold kingdom bearable - there was always a different arrangement of flowers each night that Wooyoung fixed for you. “Thank you,” you murmured, smiling. “They’re beautiful.”

Wooyoung stilled for a heartbeat before offering you a soft smile. “I only arrange them, my lady,” he said lightly, brushing a petal with the tip of his finger. “I do not choose them.”

You lifted your gaze toward him, curiosity sparking. “Rest well, my lady,” he dipped into a graceful bow, opening the door to depart. “Tomorrow will be a long day.”

You lay still, the soft weight of the blankets warming skin that had once been thinned by cold wind and hunger. It was strange to experience all the good things that life was now offering you. Back then, you were ready to close your eyes for the last time; content with surrendering because fighting had simply become exhausting.

But fate, as always, had a way of intervening before you took even one more step toward surrender. You remembered watching as the horse trotted away. Satisfied, you tried to close your eyes, but you were confused when you saw a figure standing where your horse was.

And you were even more confused when they started bundling you up with multiple layers of clothing that felt heavy on your tired body, like the luxurious blankets covering you right now. It wasn’t enough to stop your teeth from chattering, but it was enough to keep you at bay for now.

“You’re not supposed to be out here. You’re almost at death’s door,” they mumbled, tucking the thick wool coat snugly on your body, sympathy lining their voice. “Where is your home? I will take you there. The storm is about to turn into a blizzard soon.”

You peeled your eyes open, realising that the person talking to you was a man. He was tall, decently good-looking, with eyes that naturally radiated tenderness as he stared at your pitiful form. And even in your state, you could sense that he was no ordinary man. 

“A mage. Who would’ve thought?” You laughed to yourself feebly, staring into his surprised eyes. “And I’ve no home. I am but a wandering traveler who has given up on life.”

He paused, pity in his eyes that observed your face for any signs of jest and deceit. He sighed deeply, dropping down to a squat to meet your gaze. “Though I am curious as to why you’d choose to be in our lands, it doesn’t have to be like that. I can help you.”

You hummed, shaking your head. “I’m going to have to decline, kind Sir,” you sincerely declined. “If you want to help, maybe help my horse. I would hate for her to freeze in your lands.”

It was then where his face completely fell into utter despair at your words. He took his fur-lined head covering, gently putting it on you. Your heartstrings tugged seeing this random stranger’s act of kindness towards someone like you.

“Oh, you poor child,” he clicked his tongue, pursing his lips, his calculating eyes turning just a tad bit sharper. “Even in dire circumstances, you care about an animal rather than yourself. You’re something special. I’ll help your horse if you let me help you.”

“What’s the catch?”

He tilted his head, a soft smile spreading across his lips. “Smart girl,” he chuckled. “I have a proposition for you. We are desperate for help, you see, and I believe you’re the perfect person for it.”

He gets up, dusting the snow that had begun to line his pants, offering his hand to you. “Just know that even if you say no, I will still help you find food and shelter. Contrary to what the outsiders say…we’re not heartless monsters. How far would you go?”

You stared at his outstretched hand. Your heart was divided. This man didn’t give off any malicious aura and something deep in you told you to walk into the light he was offering. “Anything,” you said. “You’re asking a person who has nothing and everything to lose.”

His brows lifted with respect, a flicker of impressed astonishment softened the sharpness of his gaze. “Anything?” He repeated, quieter this time. 

You nodded once. “Anything,” you confirmed. “Why me?”

His expression warmed, the corners of his mouth lifting with a kind of earnest admiration. “When I touched you earlier, I saw a small glimpse of your past,” he said, his eyes glowing unnaturally golden and fiery that it felt like looking straight into the flames of the sun, surprising you. “You’ve lost everything, yet you still chose to fight. That tells me everything I need to know about you.”

He extended his hand a little nearer. “One condition,” you said, taking his hand without hesitation. “What might be the name of the mage who decided to help a poor soul like mine?”

“You may call me Yunho,” his smile deepened with a touch of relief as he wrapped his bigger hand around yours, warmth instantly flooding your body. “Now, shall we change your fate?”

After a warm meal and even warmer clothes, you were all set. What you didn’t expect was for Yunho to take you inside the castle, leading you directly where you knew the ruler of the land would be. You stiffened and Yunho took great notice of this.

“I know this might be surprising, but I promise you, no harm will come to you. Not while I’m here,” he gently explained. “And I know that the rumours about My Majesty don't really help, but please believe me, none of them hold any merit. He’s not like that.”

But you didn’t have time to think about it, because Yunho was already opening the ornate doors of the throne room, his hand on your lower back as he led you inside. You wanted to ogle at the glory and beauty of the room, but your world stilled at the sight before you.

San.

He was seated upon his throne, looking every bit the ruler whispered about in fearful legends. The way he sat - still and predatory - gave the unsettling impression that he saw far more than what lay before him. His throne was illuminated with torches, yet somehow, he shone far more.

Your breath caught in your throat, not with fear, but with awe. He was enormous, both physically and imposingly so, his broad shoulders wrapped with wool and fur that was so white, it looked like he made it out of the very snow that covered his entire kingdom. His long legs were crossed, one elbow leaned on the armrest, a finger to his temple as he stared on.

He didn’t move, didn’t even blink nor shift his posture when you and Yunho entered. And he was unfairly handsome. With his sculpted jaw and high cheekbones that complimented the way his raven hair was pulled away from his face, he was the epitome of royalty. And his eyes - God, those eyes - they were dark and unreadable.

It was then that it hit you - you thought that storm outside was cold, but it was nothing compared to the man sitting before you. 

“Jeong Yunho,” he said, his voice monotonous yet a lot more melodious than you thought. Such a juxtaposition, it was difficult to explain. “What is the meaning of this?”

He gazed at you once, but didn’t bother to greet nor acknowledge you, and you were completely fine with that. You didn’t know how you’d respond. Yunho bowed his head slightly. “I believe I have found the solution to our plight, San,” he gestures to you. “This is Y/N, she will help us.”

You raised a brow not only at the lack of title when Yunho referred to San but also at the mention of your name you knew for a fact you didn’t tell him. Silence enveloped the room before San spoke again. “She is not of this land,” he scrutinised flatly. “Why should she?”

The air tightened around you. You had no idea how he knew you weren’t from here. San uncrossed his legs, the gesture itself regal in all its glory, placing both his elbows on his knees before leaning forward. “Does she even know,” he continued, his gaze lingering on you for another second still devoid of warmth. “What she’s helping for, Yunho?”

He wasn’t challenging you, nor was he doubting you. He simply found your presence illogical and out of place, like you weren’t even supposed to be entertaining any of this. You fisted your dress, side-eyeing Yunho with nervousness because the king wasn’t wrong - you actually had no idea what you were doing here. God, you were such an idiot.

But what made it worse was San's indifference. You weren’t the only one surprised - he was too, it seemed. You weren’t the only one who’s given up every possibility out there.

Because San needed a bride, a queen to rule beside him. Not out of romance or even lineage, but more for desperation and legitimacy. San sat on the throne, yes, but he was but a king in title only. No other kingdoms wanted to acknowledge a king and a kingdom without a queen.

It was an ancient law older than the snow that blanketed the land, and the surrounding nations used that as justification to dismiss Utopia entirely, and used San’s half-recognised reign as a shield to reject him. They needed allies, an alliance, treaties, aid when the need arose, trade routes to sustain the people and their living - and they needed a queen to make it happen.

Yunho knew this. Everyone in the castle knew this. And it wasn’t like they didn’t try, because they did. They searched high and low both in and out of the kingdom and even the country as a whole just for that missing key to make San completely legitimate.

The problem lay in San’s complete isolation and rumoured reign. Princesses from neighbouring countries outright rejected the offer, noble daughters chose to flee to distant relatives, even regular people of foreign countries didn’t bother with a reply, and they all said the same thing - no one wanted to associate themselves with the cursed king and his frozen kingdom.

But there was one type of cruelty that cut deeper than the rest, because even the people of Utopia refused to marry him. Not the nobles, not the merchants, not the commoners. They simply didn’t want to share the fate of a king rumoured to be the heart of the snow.

And you - you who had simply wanted to find a beautiful resting place - you were never meant to be an option. Yet, here you were, standing before a king whose crown was true and real, but whose authority was hollow without any respect.

“You will be taken care of, treated fair and just with all the respect you deserve to have,” Yunho calmly explained albeit the hidden desperation that lined his eyes. “Please,  Y/N, we really need your help. The lack of allies will always pose a danger to our people and the snow…our food supply can only rotate so much because we have no functioning farms.”

You bit your lip, thinking. Hours ago, you had completely resigned to your fate and now, you were being offered a second chance in life you would have completely leapt at had it been given to you weeks prior. It wasn’t even because you were chosen, it was because you were the only one who stepped willingly into the snow when everyone else fled from it.

But, at what cost and to what extent? On one hand, you meant what you said earlier - you had absolutely nothing to lose, but this time, you had everything to gain. But at the same time, you were about to bind yourself to a king nobody wanted to associate themselves with.

You lifted your eyes to look at the said king, almost jumping out of your skin when you saw that he was already staring back at you. He wasn’t glaring. He wasn’t even particularly expressive. He was simply looking; assessing and measuring something only he understood.

Though the intensity of it spiked anxiety in you, you found it fascinating. He was being handed the solution to his problems as a king on a silver platter and yet, he wasn’t the least bothered by it. Like he had truly given up and didn’t care for what was to come anymore. Exactly like you.

Your spine straightened before you even realized it. “Alright,” you whispered. “I’ll do it.”

Relief washed over Yunho’s features so strongly he almost looked emotional. “Thank you,” he breathed out, grabbing your hands. “Thank you so much, Y/N. You have no idea how much this means to us and the people of Utopia. We will be forever in your debt.”

He turned to San, practically pleading for approval with his eyes, but the latter didn’t move. He didn’t even look like he was breathing - he just stared at you.  

And stared. And stared some more. He stared at you so long that the air completely became awkward and your legs actually started to ache from how long you were stared at. He stared at you long after the sun had started to sink into the horizon. It was long enough that Yunho started to fidget uncomfortably, letting out an uncomfortable laugh to break the silence. “Uhm, San—”

“Silence,” San muttered. It wasn’t even loud. In fact, he said it so flatly that it was almost astounding. “I’m thinking.”

You tried to swallow down the uncomfortable knot forming in your throat. You had no idea what he was thinking about, or why it took so long, or what he saw when he looked at you. But eventually, after one final, unreadable sweep of his eyes over you, San spoke.

“Once you stay here,” he said. “You can never leave. Literally. The snow will prevent you. Are you sure you want to surrender yourself to me?”

To me. The way he said it made your pulse spike. He wasn’t threatening you, by all means - in fact, it even sounds like he was giving you a way out. He simply stated it as an inevitable truth, as if stepping into his world meant stepping into his possession by default. You were about to belong to him, body and soul, and something about that made your insides feel hot and heavy.

“Does this mean I’ll never see what lies outside this kingdom anymore?” You asked, throat dry.

San’s eyes clouded with the first emotion you’ve seen in him ever since meeting him - hesitance, and dare you say, perhaps a little of hope somewhere in there. But, it only lasted for a second before his eyes flashed back to that indifference. 

“You won’t survive it,” he said plainly, turning his head a little to stare at the never-ending snow that fell from the darkening sky. “No one does, and believe me, people have tried.”

Your chest tightened at the insinuation. The people have tried to flee and fail. Still, you have made up your mind. “I am willing.”

He leaned back on his seat, face unreadable, before settling into that stance where he was staring at you again. And after a terrifying heartbeat, he nods stiffly. “Very well,” was he all said before you were dismissed.

And true to his words, you were welcomed. Quite warmly, if you may say so, compared to the harsh winters that the kingdom enveloped you in. You were treated fairly like you belonged here, just as Yunho had said, given your own chambers and even your own personal attendant, Jung Wooyoung - a male since unfortunately, not one family wanted to send their daughters to even work in the palace, but that's alright for you. You loved Wooyoung, and he loved you.

You were even assigned a personal guard, Kim Hongjoong, a valiant man who had sworn his life serving you. A good man, a genuinely good one. A feast was held in your name, of the woman who had finally agreed to marry into the frozen kingdom. The chef, Kang Yeosang, personally made sure to serve your favourite dishes, which you appreciated. 

Indeed, you were treated like a future queen. Or the woman destined to be cursed with the one and only Choi San.

He was a king with a crown of gnarled bones. The irony of it all lay in what everybody believed in, because we don’t see things as they are; we see them as we are. San wore a crown, but he was no king in his people’s eyes.

Except for his closest confidants and the ones who lived in the palace, the people who saw San saw differently. They followed but you can see the fear in their eyes. They have been so conditioned to believe that the reason the snow never stopped and why they can never leave was because of their own king, and that’s what they choose to see.

And as for San, you barely saw him, never really spending time with him other than talking about diplomacy and Utopia’s upcoming legitimacy as a kingdom. There were no gentle introductions and no attempts at familiarity with one another.

San never sought you out for anything beyond what was politically required. Every meeting he held with you was purposeful, efficient, and centered only on matters of state, and every time he did talk, he never really did look you in the eye, voice always teetering on that formal and clipped tone as if you were nothing more than an ally - which in hindsight, you were.

“You may do the wedding planning in whatever way you wish, including the theme if that pleases you,” San explained one afternoon, hands clasped behind his back as he stood near a window. “I do not expect you to be the perfect queen right on the get go, and that is fine.”

He stated it like a transaction, not a life-altering commitment. “Yes, Your Highness,” you mumbled, discomfort crawling under your skin at how stiff this entire exchange was.

Another time, he spoke to you about Utopia’s fragile diplomatic standing. “You will help stabilize the kingdom by simply existing by my side,” he said without malice, just pointedly, eyes on political letters he’s yet to send. He slides one to you, handing you a quill. “Sign this.”

You swallowed, grabbing the quill from his hand, freezing right after. Usually, he’d go back to whatever he was doing after making you do something politically inclined. That and he always kept you at a careful and deliberate distance every time, anyway. 

However, this time, you took such a long time doing what he told you to do that he paused, gazing up at you with those sharp eyes. “Is there something the matter?” He asked, tone courteous and polite, but hollow and impersonal. “Something not to your liking?”

You avoided eye contact, not out of fear, but of shame, cheeks reddening against your will. “That’s not it, Your Majesty,” you mumbled, embarrassed. “I-I’m afraid I’ve forgotten how to write. I never had the opportunity to practice. My parents needed help with our farm back then.”

There was something so incredibly embarrassing and belittling about admitting your illiteracy in general, let alone in front of somebody as articulate and well-spoken as San. You sighed, rolling on your bed, the shame still fresh in your memory. It was a stark reminder of who you really were before Yunho found you in that alleyway - a peasant who struck gold.

San did not respond at first, only staring at you, arms crossing over his chest, shoulders sinking back into his chair. Then, he turns his head slightly to his left, to Jongho who you forgot was with you back then. “Call Mingi,” he instructed flatly. “Effective immediately.”

Jongho comes back with another man in tow, someone you’ve seen with San once in a while during his meetings. San gestured vaguely in your direction. “I have a task for you,” he said. “Teach her basic literacy, and teach her well. Include the laws of the land if you must and other foundational studies.”

It was said so bluntly that you felt heat rush up your neck. But it wasn’t his tone that bothered you the most, it was the way he spoke as if you weren’t even in the room, as though you weren’t standing right there. Then he added, “A queen must at least be able to sign her own name.”

You gritted your teeth, reaching over to touch the winter heathers on your nightstand gently to forget how San made that sound so harsh. “You are dismissed,” he ordered, flicking his fingers at you, already turning back to his documents, already forgetting the sting he didn’t even know he imparted at you.

You followed Mingi out into the hall, quiet and a little stiff. “Don’t take it to heart, my lady,” he murmured with sympathy as he guided you down the corridor. “His Majesty has a way with words that makes everything sound harsher than they actually are.”

You let out a breathy, embarrassed laugh. “I noticed.”

“He doesn’t mean anything by it,” Mingi continued gently. “He simply didn’t know how to soften his words…especially around you. That doesn’t mean he sees you as lesser.”

That, you believed in. You still do. You didn’t take it personally then, and you still didn’t take it personally now. You couldn’t because he was right - this was simply how San was. However, one thing he never did, no matter how standoffish he was, was belittle you. San was the type of man who matched your pace but kept a respectful gap, enough that your sleeves never brushed whenever you walked beside him, always keeping you at arm’s length.

There were times where Yunho would try to leave you alone with him to build rapport, but San would just squint his eyes as if he had just been told something so insulting. “Unnecessary,” he would dismiss with a cold edge that cut deep. “No need to deceive ourselves into thinking this union would be more than anything but political. I have better things to do.”

He was brash, that much was true.  And yet, despite all that, he never treated you poorly. He never raised his voice, never belittled your inexperience or mocked your illiteracy and never crossed any boundary you hadn’t explicitly offered.

None of this was meant to be romantic, and you reminded yourself of that often. Still, there were moments where his distance stung in ways you hadn’t prepared for. As cold as the kingdom was, there was something even colder about being wanted only for what you could fix.

You sighed, blowing out the candles plunging the room into darkness, the soft scent of winter heather relaxing your senses as you sank deeper into the pillows, your thoughts drifting away as your eyes started to slowly close.

You tried your best to fit in, but sometimes, it was hard to offer warmth to a man who was determined to stay frozen.

You supposed that Wooyoung mentioned that tomorrow was going to be a long day, because he was absolutely right in that regard.

You had made up your mind to stay and read in your chambers all day, but imagine your surprise when Jongho delivered a letter to you, the surprise growing bigger when you realised that San personally wrote it, almost passing out in ultimate shock when you read it and saw that San was inviting you for supper.

There you were, not knowing how to fully react as you sat at the end of the long table directly across San, who sat on the other end. You’ve never had a meal with San alone. Meals usually composed of you along with other nobles to discuss politics and diplomacy issues regarding the kingdom, but never like this.

You cleared your throat. “Your Majesty.”

His gaze lifted, sharp and immediate, like he had been waiting for you to speak all along. “Yes?”

You faltered, already shrinking under the weight of his gaze on you. “I would like to thank you for your generosity,” you said, sounding small in the vast dining hall. “I wasn’t expecting a summon, is all.”

San set down his silverware. He didn’t seem offended, it was more like he was choosing what not to say. “Should I assume,” he began, tone neutral, yet biting. “That a simple supper with me is too much to ask of you?”

Visible shock fills your features, your eyes widening slightly before controlling them just like Wooyoung and Mingi had taught you. “That is not what I mean, Your Grace,” you tried to explain, but he didn’t relent.

“We are to be bound together soon,” he huffed, not softening a bit. “I would like to reduce the unfamiliarity at least even though this is nothing out of necessity. Nothing more.”

Your chest tightened at the bluntness, at the clinical way he spoke his words. Everyone’s words suddenly echoed in your head - that San never intended cruelty, that he simply spoke sharply naturally, but sometimes, it was difficult to grasp. It was difficult to not let the words sting you.

A sigh left your lips, picking up your fork to resume eating. But before you could do so, you saw him pick up a plate that was in front of him, and with a flick of his wrist that was far too sharp to be gentle, pushed it towards you. It stopped directly in front of you and all you could do was stare at it confused before you lifted your gaze towards him.

“Well?” San raised a brow as if daring you to waste his time by not moving. “The food isn’t going to serve itself. Eat.”

You stiffened. The sentence sounded harsh, unnecessarily so, and it was so him. But then, so quietly you almost missed it, you heard him mumble under his breath, “The fish is still warm. I am sure it will please you.”

He didn’t look at you after saying it. He simply resumed eating while all you could do was stare at him, not knowing exactly what to feel. Hesitant, you took a piece of the fish, not expecting much, but the moment it touched your tongue, your breath stilled.

Because it was perfect. You didn’t mean it was perfectly seasoned or cooked, but because it was cooked and tasted exactly the way it was made back in your village before disaster struck. You never thought you’d ever experience this again and you didn’t know what to make of it.

A strange, aching warmth bloomed in your chest, so vivid you almost forgot where you were and who you were with. “How? This is…” you trailed off before you could stop yourself. Home, your mind automatically supplied, this tasted like home.

You gazed back at him, heart leaping when you saw he was already staring at you. His lips were pressed into a thin line, brows furrowed as if you were bothering him by asking. “Jongho had mentioned once that your village had plenty of fish,” he stated flatly. 

You lowered your gaze to the plate again, heart thudding. “It’s very thoughtful of you,” you murmured absentmindedly, confused because you would have never mentioned something that personal to Jongho. You clearly remembered telling Wooyoung, though. 

San scoffed under his breath, his dark eyes sharply lingering a moment longer on you than usual before he started eating again, effectively ending the conversation, leaving you wondering if he was uncomfortable rather than indifferent about the whole marriage aspect between you.

Nothing eventful happened the entire supper. There was no warmth, but there wasn’t any coldness either, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it did feel a little too hollow for your liking. The only thing in the air was the clinking of utensils and their scraping every time they hit the plate.

Dinner ended quietly just like you expected it to. “Thank you for the meal, Your Grace,” you stood, bowing your head politely at him. “I will be taking my leave now. I bid you good night. ”

You were about to make your way towards the door, careful not to step on your heavy lace-lined dress, when San’s voice rang through the hall. “Wait.”

You froze, not expecting it. The command cut cleanly through the room, it wasn’t loud nor urgent, but it sounded firm and absolute that your body halted by itself before your mind could catch up. You looked back at him, startled at the sudden call.

San hadn’t moved far; he stood with one hand resting on the back of his chair, posture regal even in stillness. His chin lifted imperceptibly toward the center of the table. “Take those,” he said.

You blinked, confused. He sighed, brows furrowing as he moved his hand this time to gesture towards the table again, perhaps irritated at the aspect of having to repeat himself. “The flowers,” he insisted, annoyed. “Take them. The arrangement, take all of them.”

You slowly turned your head, your eyes training to what he was pointing out. You raised your brows in mild surprise. Lenten roses. You didn’t even notice them earlier, too focused on San and the fish you ate with all delight. 

“They will wilt if they are left here, and they would have been plucked out for nothing,” he spoke bluntly with that clinical precision you’ve come to know him for as if everything was nothing but a trivial matter. “If you appreciate them, take them. Otherwise they serve no purpose.”

You walked back to the table, trying not to flinch at San watching your every movement. You couldn’t help the warmth blooming in your chest as your fingers lightly touched the edge of each petal. You’ve always loved flowers, especially here where everything was white and barren. The flowers brought colour and joy.

You lifted the vase carefully, gathering the flowers in your arms. “T-Thank you, I will take care of them,” you whispered quietly, not knowing what else to say.

San didn’t reply. He only gestured one curt nod, already returning his gaze to the falling snow outside the window. There was something in his eyes then, something you couldn’t fully gauge, but before you could think about it, he was already walking away, closing the door behind him, leaving you to think about what you thought you heard him whisper before he left.

“I am sure you will.”

You left the dining hall with the lenten roses cradled gently against your chest, their subtle fragrance following you down the corridor, smiling to yourself, careful not to tug on the petals as they brushed against the material of your dress.

It was how Hongjoong saw you, the gallant knight beaming as he approached you. “My, what seems to make my lady smile like this?” His eyes looked at the flowers in your hands, eyes twinkling with understanding. “Those are beautiful. May I hold them for you while I escort you to your chambers?”

You smiled wider, appreciating the kind words. Hongjoong was one of the first people you met when you settled in Utopia. He was gentle, reliable, fiercely protective, and you found yourself being attached to him quickly. “How was supper with His Majesty?” He asked.

“It was good, thank you,” you answered truthfully. “A little stiff, and he’s…well, he’s him.”

Hongjoong nodded in understanding. “I know what you mean,” he exhaled, pausing a little in thought before he continued. “My Majesty…he’s carrying a lot. I would lay my life on the line for him. I know it’s hard to believe, my lady, but I can assure you he means well. He’s a good man.”

“It’s quite alright, Sir Hongjoong, I understand,” you said, pursing your lips. “I am here for one purpose only and I will fulfill it. What Your Majesty and I have is nothing short of political. He’s very decent to me so far, and I suppose he’s not required to go beyond that decency.”

But as you put the roses on your nightstand, replacing the winter heathers that have started to wilt, sometimes, you couldn’t help but imagine a different scenario; one where San’s eyes weren’t shrouded in frost, one where he might be that warmth in the midst of the snowstorm.

The thought of it made the tips of your ears red, heat spreading through your cheeks down to your neck. Snap out of it, you thought. The king was good-looking, devastatingly so, and admittedly, had the situation been different, he was actually your type. 

Unfortunately, the lenten roses have also started to wilt. You would never admit that you noticed each stage of it, that every morning you checked the vase before you checked the mirror. You wouldn’t admit that it bothered you. Enough time had passed where you noticed that something had changed, both for good and bad reasons.

“I know it might not seem like it because, well, the snow,” Wooyoung chuckled weakly one morning, looking at the window with worry. “But Christmas always seems to bring out the best in people and we tend to celebrate it the best we can. I promise you’ll love it, my lady.”

The snow began to fall harder; harder than you’ve seen it. Christmas time apparently always brought the harshest storms, but it didn’t stop everyone from decorating the entire castle with the familiar hollies and tapestries that brought a little colour and life in the usually grey castle.

“I believe it,” you smiled, hanging some ivy and a couple of ribbons in your chambers, which Jongho had so kindly brought. “Do you…think the king will let me decorate his chambers?”

Both Jongho and Wooyoung froze, looking at each in worry before the latter cleared his throat. “Best to avoid His Highness during this time, my lady,” he said quietly. “His mood is particularly…delicate at this time of the year, especially.”

You raised a brow. Apparently, the storms weren’t the only thing that was harsh during Christmas. “What? Why? Does he not like Christmas?”

“It’s not that. He’s just crankier and unapproachable, that’s all,” Jongho admitted, avoiding eye contact. “Best not to test him, my lady.”

You tried to celebrate with everyone, noticing that everyone seemed to look forward to your presence every time you went around the castle. The servants seemed to be brighter in spirit, more than the usual, their smiles wider, the merry tunes of Christmas filling in the hallways that actually made you forget about your worries. You were actually happy for once.

“It is because Christmas actually gives the people a reason to like the snow,” Mingi patiently explained one day in the middle of your lessons. “And the queen’s presence gives the people strength, a pillar to look up on in the king’s absence.”

You weren’t good with reading and writing yet, but you were getting there. Christmas wasn’t an exception for you to skip out on your studies. Not that you minded, Mingi was a wonderful mentor and you genuinely did enjoy learning from the knowledgeable man.

“May I know the reason why His Majesty is to be avoided during this time?” You asked, holding your quill just like he taught you. “Everyone seems to refuse to talk about it.”

Mingi turns silent. After a while, he gently grabs your quill, handing you a book instead. “Shall we move on to economics, my lady?” He suggested, changing the topic, his eyes silently begging you to let the conversation go.

You faltered, mildly surprised at the blatant avoidance of the topic. You tried, you really did, not to think about San and respect what everyone kept saying, but it was getting harder and harder to ignore the elephant in the room. You nodded slowly, taking the book, and that was that.

Of course you’ve noticed that San was nowhere to be seen. The throne room was avoided like it contained the plague, itself. His study was left untouched and even Seonghwa didn’t dare enter it even for more military planning. The servants paled, pretending they had urgent business elsewhere, which always prompted either Yeosang or Jongho to personally deliver his meals.

Nobody was telling you anything. Whether it was because you were an outsider or they were doing it for your protection, you didn’t know. You were left in the middle of it and you couldn’t help but feel something twist deep in your guts.

Because this wasn’t normal avoidance. This was fear. It wasn’t the terrified kind, no, but the quiet, heavy, and trained kind - the kind that people develop after years of knowing exactly what triggers a man, and what doesn’t. And you didn’t know what to feel about it.

And of course, this was when you found yourself thinking of him even more. You asked yourself multiple times what happened to him and what made him dislike Christmas. At first, you thought it was because the snow fell harder on the already cursed, snow-covered land that people blamed on him, but seeing how the people acted, it was more than that.

Sure, San had always been especially cold and distant, his walls high and impenetrable, but he was never cruel and never raised his voice at anyone. He had always been intimidating, but you genuinely didn’t understand why this time was different. 

What could make an entire palace walk on eggshells around their king? Why did everyone act like Christmas turned him into something dangerous? 

Oh, how you wished you knew the answer to this before you started roaming around the castle, hugging your arms to yourself, absentmindedly walking aimlessly with all these thoughts.

Was it the storm that was making San hot-tempered, or was it San’s temper that was bringing on the storm and making it worse?

A heavy gust of wind rattled the castle walls and the frames that were hooked on them, snapping you out of your thoughts immediately. You looked around in worry, realising that you had ventured a bit too far in your absentmindedness.

Your anxiety rose when you also realised that you were near the currently forbidden area  - San’s chambers. You’ve never even been in this section of the castle before and you sure as hell weren’t going to start now. Panicking, you quickly turned around to leave.

It wasn’t until you heard it, something spine-chilling enough that it made you stop in your tracks not to listen, but out of surprise and horror. You didn’t have to think hard or even turn around to know that the sound was coming from San’s room.

“Fuck. Fuck. M-Make it stop, please…”

Moans and grunts of pure, raw pain were to be heard all over the corridors, the sound of it echoing ghastly around the walls and bouncing in its agony. You paled, caught off guard, not knowing exactly how to react at what you were hearing.

You jumped up when a loud crash followed by a deep, menacing growl on top of pitiful whimpers resounded after. It was horrifying to listen to. You couldn’t help but put your trembling hands on your mouth, eyes widening at the prospect of San hurt, or worse, someone hurting him in the privacy of his own chambers. He sounded like he was getting tortured.

Panic arose in your head, but even then, you had to force yourself to think. What were you going to do? You had absolutely no idea what was happening behind that door and that, alone, terrified you.

Not the sounds, but the idea of it. What could bring a man like San - the controlled and measured king you knew, the one with walls so high, you couldn’t see through it, the man who barely blinked at his adversaries - down to something feral and desperate? 

Do you run? Do you get Jongho? Seonghwa? Yunho? Anyone who knows what to do? And you were going to do exactly that. You pulled your skirts up, ready to sprint for help, but once again, you heard a noise. Something about the primal emotions in his tone tugged at your heartstrings. He was choking, the sound of it wet, low, and trembling.

But most of all, he sounded alone. He sounded terrified. You couldn’t leave him. Not like this. So against your better judgment, against every warning, against everybody who swore you shouldn’t even think about approaching San, and against the fear stuck in your throat, you moved towards his door, your hand already pushing it open. 

Nothing could ever prepare you for the destruction that lay all over the room the moment you entered. Everything was in shambles and disarray. Your heart almost wanted to leap out of your chest as you inspected the room, trying to look for the reason why you were even here.

You didn’t see San. But you could hear him. You tried to follow his pained grunts, your feet moving to what you assumed was the bathroom, your insides turning upside down when you realised that he wasn’t just groaning - he was wretching his guts out. 

The closer you got, the more distinct the awful, guttural noises became. Your fingertips brushed the doorframe, almost whispering to announce your presence so as to not startle him, but you stopped halfway when you dared to look inside.

San was on his knees, trembling and bracing himself on one arm, his head lurched forward as he gurgled out the contents of his stomach, or the lack thereof. Your heart squeezed painfully seeing the great, cold king of Utopia reduced to such a state.

His usually prim appearance was nowhere to be seen, his hair disheveled and sticking to his skin, damp with sweat, his shirt open to reveal his sculpted chest that convulsed violently as he heaved and coughed so hard that you thought that something inside him was about to break. His other hand clutched the locket he always wore so tight, veins started to pop from his arm.

But that wasn’t the thing that bothered you as much as it worried you. It was his eyes. They were wild, red, and bloodshot like he hadn’t slept in days - like he hadn’t been himself in days. Your heart cracked, not being able to stop the whimper that crawled up your throat.

His neck snapped up in your direction so quickly, you were terrified for a second, and he froze, eyes widening at the sight of you trembling uselessly by the doorway. For a split second, you saw something in those eyes other than coldness. You were the last person he expected to see.

And he tried to say something to you. You saw his lips part and you saw him process that you were here, in a place you absolutely shouldn’t be, but before he could do so, his body seized again, bending forward brutally to clutch his chest, shoulders curling inward against the pain.

You watched him stand up, feebly supporting himself by gripping the edge of the sink as his quivering legs tried to support his weight. He stared at you with those hazy eyes, almost glaring, using the back of his hands to wipe his mouth. “What are you doing here?” He snarled. “Where’s Hongjoong?”

Your body seemed to snap into action, step forward to try and help him. “Your Majesty—”

He slaps your hand away, but it was more of a poor attempt at it, limping past you with great effort. “I asked you a question,” he barked, angrier than you’ve ever seen him, slightly making you flinch. “You shouldn’t be here, didn’t anybody in this godforsaken castle tell you?”

He said it with such contempt, looked at you with so much scorn and disdain that you almost ran away with your tail between your legs, but when his trembling intensified, breath stuttering like his lungs couldn’t remember how to breathe, you made the split decision to surge forward, anyway, gripping his arm to help him walk.

“You’re not well, Your Grace,” you whispered, almost pleading. “Please, let me help.”

A small gasp leaves your lips as your hands wrapped around his bicep. He was warm, warmer than you expected, like sitting in front of a hearth to seek comfort. And he paused, staring at you. Truly staring with something unreadable in his eyes before he shoved you, or tried to.

“Don’t,” he tried to shove you again, his palm weakly trying to rip your hands away from him. His breath hitched, body swaying dangerously to the side before he leaned on the doorframe, eyes boring onto you sharply. “Leave,” he growled, jaw clenched, rage evident in his tone. “Just leave. You’re useless to me.”

It stung that even in his state, he was still pushing you away. You didn’t understand what was happening, and you had a feeling that you still won’t anytime soon, but when he started to stagger forward, you lunged forward to try and catch him before he hit his head on instinct. You didn’t need to know for now. San needed your help.

“Your Majesty, I’m begging you,” you pleaded desperately, pushing up on him and pulling him slightly to help him out of the bathroom. “Stop fighting me, please.”

“And who the hell are you to tell me what to do?” His hand fisted weakly in the front of your sleeve, as if to shove you away again. Instead, it simply trembled there, powerless.

You didn’t answer, grunting as you guided him towards his disheveled bed. He relents, albeit begrudgingly, sinking onto the bed, chest heaving, eyes glassy with exhaustion. You immediately get to work, finding something to use to wipe his sweaty skin and grimy face to relieve some of the tension that was troubling him.

The bed sank under your weight, and for a second, you hesitated a bit, but when you saw San breaking out in more sweat, the hesitation left. Gently, you dabbed the damp towel all over his skin. You stared from his temples, smoothing his hair out, wiping the residue off his lips as well, down to his neck, careful not to irritate him with the temperature.

You got all the way down to his chest, finally looking at it up close and being mildly surprised at the dark lines that littered all over it. They were black in colour, resembling tree branches that covered his entire torso. They didn’t look natural. Rather, they looked infected and cursed.

It was when San seemed to realise that you were looking at them. You flinched when he suddenly grabbed a blanket to cover his chest, harshly snatching the towel away from your hands to brutally throw it across the room.

It was a sudden burst of fury that seemed to sap all the remaining energy out of him. “Get out,” he rasped, voice shredded raw. His hand flew to the locket around his neck, one that you always thought was just a trinket or an heirloom. “Yunho,” his voice cracked. The moment he mentioned the mage’s name, the locket glowed brightly, pulsing with unnatural energy that made your skin prickle. “Yunho.”

It was magic. You knew it was. Nothing natural glowed like that. And the lines that were strewn all over San’s skin…those weren’t natural either. But they weren’t the angelic magic Yunho had.

Yunho burst in through the doors not even a minute after, panting and looking like he ran a marathon just to get here. His eyes widened in horror the moment they landed on the way San convulsed and shook under the sheets.

“San? Good Lord, San, what—” he began, eyes dropping into something that resembled agony, pity lining his features at the sight of his king suffering under whatever was happening to him. He was about to rush forward, but immediately halted when he saw you.

His eyes went even wider, horror and disbelief flooding every inch of his face. “Y/N, my lady,” he exhaled in utter shock, not even expecting to even see anybody, much less you of all people, to be sitting on San’s bed. “W-Why are you here?”

San grunted in pain once more, prompting Yunho to rush forward, assessing his king and the damage that he endured. Yunho’s face crumpled. “My lady,” he said over his shoulder without looking at you, tone gentle but firm. “Please. You must leave. Now.”

If there was anyone who knew what to do, it was Yunho. You watched him for a moment, watched his hands hover over the king’s body as they glowed blue, the magic flowing from his veins to transfer them to San.  He was healing him, you reckoned.

“You must not speak of this to anyone, my lady,” Yunho said quietly, looking at you briefly before his eyes glowed into that familiar fiery light you remembered from when you first met. “And I know you have questions, questions I’m afraid I cannot give you right now, but for now…”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You quickly got up, hastily walking towards the door to let Yunho do his work in peace, but before looking back at San for one last time before leaving. He looked a bit better. His face was still ashen and pale, but at least he was now sleeping.

And it hurt. It was the precise way that Yunho knew what to do - it meant that this was a regular occurrence for San. This happened year by year. And you weren’t privy to what he was trying to tell you.

Pretend you didn’t see anything.

Days passed in a daze, long nights where you lay wide awake on your bed where sleep refused to visit you, hours spent where you did exactly the opposite of what Yunho expected of you - to forget what you saw in San’s chambers that day, all of the grizzly parts of it.

It just wasn’t possible. How could you just erase what fear you felt when you saw him on the floor? How could you forget the way his bloodshot eyes looked at you like you were the anomaly for finding him in that pitiful position? The way they widened in disbelief when he saw you just before gagging helplessly again?

And when you weren’t seeing him in your head, you were hearing him amidst the silence of your room. The sound of him vomiting was wet and brutal, the unpleasant hacking and heaving of his stomach as he retched out was all you could hear. You could never forget it.

And the only thing louder than the awful sound was the realization that San had been suffering like this alone.

He was all you could think about, and frankly, you were worried. You couldn’t concentrate on your duties and studies, your mind often flying towards the king you swore your life to, wondering if he was eating, worried if he was still in pain or if he was sleeping well.

A gentle cough startles you out of your stupor and you look up, finding Seonghwa’s gentle eyes trained on you. “My lady? Are you still there?” He asked. “You seem to be…distracted. We could always continue this discussion next time.”

You blinked, shame crossing your features. You were currently with the marshal, who took time off to discuss basic tactics to you as per San’s request for additional knowledge. Redness creeps up your cheeks, embarrassed that you were wasting Seonghwa’s very limited time.

“I am terribly sorry, Sir Seonghwa,” you sincerely apologised, bowing your head slightly. “I must be in a doozy. I’m afraid that my mind is elsewhere.”

He immediately waves his hands in flustered protest. “Please don’t bow to me, my lady. And this might be impudent, but,” he paused, looking around to see if the coast was clear, his voice dropping into a faint whisper. “Would this happen to be about what happened to His Majesty a week prior?”

Your brows raised in surprise. “You know.”

He sighed, deep from within his chest, before getting up to lock the door. He, then, gives a grim nod. “Only those closest to him do,” he admitted, crossing his arms, jaw tightening. “Including Wooyoung. He was His Majesty’s favourite scribe before he was assigned to you.”

You stared at him, having more questions than answers. And he knew this. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “I was the one who had to haul Yunho out after he was done healing him,” he explained with another sigh. “It takes a lot out of him, you see. Magic has to come from somewhere, and mages usually use their own energy.”

“Then, what is going on with him?” You pressed, unable to hide the urgency in your voice.

But Seonghwa only exhaled, long and pained, and shook his head. You could see it that he wanted to tell you. His heart was far too gentle, too earnest for secrecy, but the loyalty he bore to San was carved into him more deeply than any oath. “If I were permitted to speak of it, my lady,” he said softly, “I would tell you everything I know. It’s not my place.”

There was one question that was bothering you the most, however. One where you were afraid of the answer. The question left your lips before you could stop it. “Is he sick?”

He shook his head with confidence without a hint of doubt or hesitation. “No,” he refused immediately. “It is not a disease…at least not the type you’re thinking of.”

Your stomach turned, not liking that answer at all. Seonghwa paused, leaning closer, his eyes filled with genuine worry. “You may not be queen yet, but I have already sworn my life to you, my lady, and I am saying this out of pure love and concern for you as your loyal servant. For your sake, do not return to his chambers.”

His voice dropped into something more hushed and it sent shivers prickling down your spine. “No matter what happens, no matter what you hear. Do not go back there.”

The snow started to let up after a few days, if only a little bit. While the kingdom was still covered in a white haze, the storm had subsided enough that everyone could at least walk out, including yourself. 

“How curious,” you pondered while out and about on the castle grounds, hugging the fur-lined coat closer to your body. “I’ve been told that the storm was going to last another week or so. Today is a beautiful day, though, don’t you think so, dear Wooyoung?”

Utopia was a very beautiful kingdom even though the entirety of it was only white. “Yes,” Wooyoung replied, the corners of his lips lifted up tightly with what seemed more like force than mirth. “How curious, indeed.”

His eyes didn’t match the smile. They dropped almost immediately, dimming with a soft, far-off melancholy, his mind clearly somewhere else in thought. By the time you looked fully at him, he had already blinked it away, the tight smile still lingering. “Shall we go to your classes, my lady?”

You nodded, letting him lead the way. Today, you were determined to do well, but the moment you got in the library, you were met with a sight you were not expecting.

Because there was San currently in a deep conversation with Jongho. There were times that Mingi wasn’t available, so Jongho would substitute him more often than not, and once a week or so, San would supervise your progress. Today was supposed to be one of those days.

This was the first time you’ve seen San out and about, both since he’d secluded himself and since that day you accidentally walked by his chambers. You felt your heart going haywire at the sight of him. Both men haven’t noticed your arrival and you took this time to observe your king.

It was almost unfair how striking San looked when he was fully focused on something, especially whenever he held a quill to write something or handle paperwork. The sharp downturn of his brows, the lean line of his jaw, or the way his lips pursed into a small pout.

But it was unjustly unfair for him to still look this handsome even while clearly still recovering. And just like that, any attraction towards him went in the back of your head for now. He was pale, his eyes lined with bags that were purplish and almost black in colour, lips lacking in colour that made you worry. He was rigid, obviously trying to stand a little straighter than usual.

So much so that you were tempted to walk up to him to ask him if he was doing alright, but you knew better. Just then, as if sensing eyes on him, Jongho lifted his head and gave you a soft, pleased smile. “Ah, my lady, just. “My apologies. I didn’t notice you were here.”

San paused for a split second, jaw tightening, before ultimately deciding not to lift his head to greet you in acknowledgement, his attention solely on the paperwork as if you weren’t even in the room. 

The entire lesson went by like that. It was the most awkward session of your life so far because while San didn’t acknowledge you in general, this was different. Usually, he would chip in a thought or two, ask  you random questions that pertained to the subject, but this time, he was silent. You wouldn’t even know he was there if  you didn’t see him earlier.

After half an hour, he got up and left. That in itself wasn’t unusual either, San never stayed the entire lesson anyway, but at least every time he left, he would politely, albeit stiffly, say his goodbyes to you or pass a small comment about you doing well on your studies.

And despite everything - your fear, your confusion, your unanswered questions - you felt your chest tighten. You watched him walk away, your spirits dampening at each step he took. Jongho took notice of this. “Did you want to run after him?” He asked. “He’s…well.”

You shook your head. But it didn’t stop there. Unfortunately, this continued for days. You would see him in his office, in the throne room, just him doing his regular kingsley duties like nothing ever happened, but he never acknowledged you. Not once. He didn’t speak to you nor even looked your way. You were like a ghost at this point, worse than strangers.

He was deliberately ignoring you, you soon realised. San was avoiding you like the plague, and of course, you knew why, but this didn’t stop you from thinking about him anyway. The more the days passed, the paler and more sickly he looked, and you couldn’t help but worry.

You couldn’t take it anymore. You had to check up on him. It was how you found yourself standing by his chambers again, knocking lightly on the door, whispering your arrival. When nobody answered, you breathed in, pushing the door open and hoping for the best.

Thankfully, there were no retching sounds to be heard. But unfortunately, the sight that met you was worse than you could have imagined.

There was San seated on his bed, shivering and trembling violently, one hand fisting the sheets he used to cover his entire body, while his other hand was pressed against his face, but it did nothing to hide the sight that made your stomach turn and your knees almost buckle down.

Thick streaks of red seeped from his fingers as blood seemed to spill from his nose, staining the smooth expanse of his pale cheeks. His breath came out in sharp, ragged wheezes, teeth clacking against each other to fight the cold tremors that plagued his body, and every breath he took, blood trickled from the corner of his lips, down the sheets.

Globs of red covered the sheets that it was hard to imagine that it was once white. You had never seen anything so grotesque in your life. “S-Sire?” You choked out, barely able to breathe.

He jerked at the sound of your voice. He lifted his head and your hands numbed, because his eyes weren’t just bloodshot - the white parts had entirely become red, like they were tinted with blood. For a moment, he didn’t even recognize you.

But the moment he did, it was like something primal in him came alive. “What the hell are you d-doing here?” He roared, feral, so loudly, you felt your bones rattle. You gasped at the intensity of it, caught off guard. “Get out.”

You closed the door behind you. “Your Maje—”

“Get out! Fucking hell, just get the fuck out!” His voice boomed. It felt like cold water was splashed on you. The expression he held on his face was one of delirium and ferality, and this was the first time you’ve actually heard San lose his temper like this or even raise his voice.

He lurched forward, body spasming, getting up to charge at you, the rage on him impalpable. Blood dripped onto the floor in steady beats from his nose. “I told you to stay the hell away from me,” he snarled, shoulder rising and falling in ragged breaths. “Why must you—”

Everything happened so fast. His arms gave out entirely, body pitching forward. You rushed to catch him before he hit the ground, hands sliding under his shoulders. “Please, you’re hurt and you’re bleeding,” you gasped despite every instinct screaming that you should run. “I can’t—”

“Don’t you fucking touch me!” He lashed out, swinging his arms. You yelped when he accidentally hit your shoulders, making you stagger backwards. “You stupid, stupid girl,” he spat. “Are you deaf or just highly incompetent? How foolish could you be? What part of…” he trailed off, wincing in pain. “What part of leave do you not understand?”

And maybe he was right. Maybe you were stupid. But it didn’t stop you from limping towards him anyway. “Please,” you whispered, hands up in surrender. “I want to help—”

“I said don’t come near me!” He barked, grabbing another nearby vase and throwing it on the floor in sheer anger. “You just never listen, do you? You think barging in here in a place where you’re explicitly forbidden makes you brave? No, it makes you a burden, you reckless—”

He cut himself off with a guttural groan, one hand flying to his throat as if he couldn’t breathe. That was it for you, you weren’t going to just simply watch. You surged forward, grabbing him by the shoulders. “Enough,” you breathed, voice trembling with resolve. “Just…stop.”

His arm jerked up to push you away, but it was no use. “The nerve of you, I am your king—”

You narrowed your eyes, not even letting him finish his nonsense. You grabbed his shoulders and with one pull, you hauled him forward with practiced force. Even through the haze, you saw his eyes widen with surprise, genuinely stunned at the show of strength as you dragged him towards the bed and laid him down whether he liked it or not.

“You are forgetting who I was before all of this,” you murmured calmly, trying to ease him onto the sheets. “I am a farm girl. I grew up carrying heavy sacks of grain and meat, Your Majesty. It was all I knew. You would’ve known how calloused my hands were if you touched them more.”

He wanted to argue, you could tell, but more than that, there was a look in his eyes that made you pause. He looked at your hands, then back at your eyes with a brow raised, and there was something in there. He looked mildly offended. Now, you didn’t want to assume, but if you were being honest, his eyes were clearly telling you he did, in fact, know.

You looked away, turning around to stop the butterflies in your stomach. You worked quickly, grabbing a basin and some towels and putting them on his nightstand and of course, he tried to resist at first, but eventually, the fight in him left and he went still, surrendering to your help simply because he had no strength left to give.

You wiped the blood from his eyes and cheeks, cleaned the streaks along his neck, cool cloth brushing over heated skin and every so often, he twitched or groaned. You urged him to sit up, finding the first shirt you found in his dresser to change his bloodied shirt, careful not to look at the dark lines that marred his chest for fear of him lashing out on you again.

You had to replace the water in the basin three times, spilling the now reddened water over and over again until his skin was free of blood and water no longer stained red. He stared at you the entire time you worked, emotionless, not saying anything.

“Are you comfortable, Your Highness?” You whispered, gently smoothing his damp hair away from his face. 

He hummed hoarsely, nodding subtly, but he didn’t look away. He watched you with those hollow eyes you were used to and usually, it unsettled you, but instead, your stomach fluttered. He was too handsome for someone who had nearly collapsed in your arms. It wasn’t fair. 

Suddenly, he grimaced, seizing as his entire body began to spasm, shivering even though it was pretty warm inside his chambers. You didn’t know what to do, so you didn’t. Instead, you quickly sat on the bed, gently positioning his head on your chest to let him borrow your warmth even though you weren’t sure it was going to help, holding him tight.

He stiffened, but gave up the fight once again once he probably realised how warm you were, how gentle you cradled his feeble body as your hands steadied his head. An uncalled memory striked your head. This reminded you of how your mother would comfort you when you were ill.

Without thinking, as if on instinct, you fingers began to comb his hair, swaying your shoulders to rock him tenderly like your mother used to do to soothe you. “It’s alright,” you hushed, finding the right rhythm to rock his quivering body. “I-I got you…”

You didn't know when the stinging behind your own eyes started, but you continued to rock him, anyway, hoping he didn’t feel the tears that fell from your eyes on his skin, or the way your voice cracked once in a while as you hummed a soft lullaby to accompany the soothing motion. You really didn’t know. All you knew was that it hurt to see him like this.

Eventually, the tremors eased, and finally, San went still, his head growing heavy on your chest as sleep finally caught up to him. His light snores filled your ears as whatever was causing all this loosened its grip on him temporarily to let him rest. 

And you didn’t move, not until you were sure he was truly asleep. You didn’t want to anyway. And in the stillness that followed, your heart tugged painfully. This was the closest you’ve ever been to San and it was unfortunate that it had to be in these circumstances.

You didn’t realise how long you’d been sitting there, lost in your own thoughts, staring at his sleeping face. You were exhausted, your body was also becoming a little weary as the adrenaline came crashing down on you. You needed air.

You shifted, carefully lowering his head on his pillow so you could get up and let him have this rare moment of peace, but before you could get up, you felt his hand wrap around your wrist. Your breath stilled, mouth opening slightly in surprise.

And if that wasn’t enough, he tugged on it, too. It was weak and clumsy, but you felt it, anyway. He didn’t open his eyes, but his brows furrowed. “Stay,” he rasped, barely a whisper, voice rough with sleep, raw with excess use and fatigue.

Your breath came out ragged as you stared at his hand around your wrist, holding onto it as if you were his lifeline. And by God, you felt something then. Your chest fluttered warmly at first, before turning into heat that was too dangerous for your own good. You could barely breathe, it was like he had your heart in his hand, squeezing it slightly instead of your wrist.

You bit your lip, hesitant. Was he even coherent enough to know what he was asking for? You didn’t want to take advantage of it, but the thing was, you couldn’t bear to leave this room knowing that you were going to worry about him the entire night, anyway.

It was when he opened his eyes, barely halfway, but enough where you could see the familiar sharpness in them. “Stay,” he repeated, firmer this time. He wasn’t asking you, he was demanding you.

You nodded, lifting the covers and sitting back down on the bed, and the moment you did, he shifted instinctively towards your warmth, making your heart flip. Not even a minute later, his breathing evened out again and you let these warm, fuzzy feelings lull you to sleep.

But the next morning, all those feelings died. You were startled awake by someone shaking you violently. At first, you didn’t realise where you were, the unfamiliar setting of the room sending your head into a frenzy, but all of it came back to you when you saw San staring at you.

He looked somewhat better - better than you’ve seen him in a while, really. In fact, he was already in his royal attire. And he looked angry. Maybe that’s why his brows were furrowed together, face reddened in a way that only unbridled fury could bring.

You quickly got up, ready to tend to him in case he was still feeling unwell, your eyes automatically checking if there were specks of blood to be found on his shirt, relieved to see that there wasn’t any. “Your Highness,” you began, voice still thick with sleep. “Did you need—”

“Not another word. I don’t want to hear you, and I don’t want to see your face, you hear me?” San spoke with calm, deliberate venom, not giving you a chance to even finish your sentence. “Do you understand me? Or are you perhaps too stupid to?”

You were stunned into silence. His words landed like a slap to your face, each one of them precise and intentional. “P-Pardon?” You couldn’t help but let out, genuinely surprised at how scathing he sounded and it stung worse than anything last night.

He scoffed, tilting his head in mock fashion, a derisive smirk on his face. “You think you’re exceptional now that you’ve stayed here?” He seethed, eyes snapping to you with such lethal coldness, it halted the air in your lungs. “What, you think tending to me makes you important?”

This time, you were actually shocked, hurt filling your chest as you stood up to try and explain yourself. “I don’t know what you’re saying,” you breathed out. “I was just trying to help.”

“Oh, please, spare me,” he scoffed, eyes like cold glass. “You deliberately refused to listen to me when I told you to get out and not come back. You were like a stray animal that refused to get kicked out.”

He enunciated his words clearly, ensuring each word landed exactly where it would do the most damage. And he succeeded. You blinked, hurt prickling your chest. “This isn’t fair,” you said. “I was genuinely worried for your well-being. You know that’s not true.”

“No? Tell me, then. What do you call throwing yourself at me during my weakest moments?” He kept trudging forward and you kept staggering backwards, stopping when your back hit the wall, San effectively trapping you. “Or maybe you were just that desperate, crawling into my bed like some pathetic little thing.”

The words hit like a slap, You knew he was a little cruel in ways he didn’t mean, but this time, it was different. He meant every single thing. Of all the things he did and didn’t do, this was the one that genuinely hurt you the most. You shook your head quickly, eyes stinging, not even knowing what to say to that one.

You could have any other insults any time of the day, but being accused of being a desperate whore will be one you will never, ever accept. You grew up with absolutely nothing, almost gave up your life with less, but the one thing you refused to let go and get trampled upon was your dignity and integrity.

Bile rose from your throat as you tried to breathe through the pain in your chest, the pain so physical that you wanted to fold in on yourself. You looked up, ready to excuse yourself, but when you looked at San, his eyes were wide, mouth open, expression aghast with regret.

You realised, then, that you had already started to cry, hot tears falling in torrential streaks down your eyes, You choked, getting dizzy at the whiplash at the speed of how your mind caught up and it was when an agonised whimper left your throat before you could stop it.

“I-I didn’t mean what I said,” he backed up, raising his hand in an attempt to touch you but stopped himself at the last minute when he realised how deeply he shattered you. “Oh, God, I did not mean any of that, I did not mean to diminish your integrity like this—oh, God.”

But the damage was done. You hadn’t even realized you’d spoken those words aloud. All colour drained from San’s face and he looked so frightened by his mistake that it hurt to look at because he wasn’t even this frightened when he was bleeding out from his eyes and mouth.

“Y/N, stop, don’t cry, don’t, please,” he said, voice suddenly hoarse, almost breaking. “I didn’t mean those, I swear to you. Listen to me, I am so—”

You flinched at the sound of his voice, and that alone made him visibly flinch in return. You shook your head again, because you couldn’t hear this. Not right now. Not when his words were still ringing in your ears like a fresh wound.

You were determined to get away, but he held onto your wrist. “Don’t go,” he pleaded, raw and guilty. You tried to free yourself, but he held on. “Y/N, please,” he swallowed. “I won’t keep you, but let me call someone to send you back. You can’t…just wait, please.”

He held onto the same locket on his neck, the heirloom glowing slightly as San whispered to it, his hand never letting go of your wrist, not even when Hongjoong came in, eyes widening in concern at the scene he witnessed.

San’s hand finally loosened around your wrist, fingers trembling as they slipped away from your skin. “Take her,” he ordered the knight. “Use the hidden passage and let Wooyoung tend to her.”

He didn’t look at you as Hongjoong led you out. He couldn’t. His eyes were glued to the floor as if it physically pained him to lift them and you didn’t look back as you walked out of the room he had shattered you in, letting the door close between you like a final, heavy blow.

To say that you were still upset until the next day would be an understatement. Because how dare he? How dare he just say those words like he had every right to? Oh, you were mad. And it wasn’t even because you were looking for any sort of thanks for what you did; it wasn’t your fault you were worried about him. 

You touched your chest as you brooded in front of your vanity mirror. It was, however, your fault for feeling something there. Something you didn’t want to think about when he held your wrist and told you to stay.

You shook your head to rid yourself of the thought, just in time to hear gentle knocking on your door. You sighed, pursing your lips, turning around to see a sheepish looking Wooyoung standing by the door, his hands behind his back. “I told you I did not want to be disturbed today,” you said.

“I know, my lady, but it is of utmost importance that I am here,” he replied, eyes twinkling. “I have something for you.”

Your frown turned into pleasant surprise when he finally brought his hands in front of him, a smile spreading across your face when you saw what he held. In his hands was the most gorgeous bouquet of purple hyacinths wrapped together with a thin strip of ribbon and lace.

“Oh, how lovely,” you gasped, excitedly taking them from him, bringing them closer to you and breathing them in. “They’re particularly difficult to find around, how did you acquire them?”

“I didn’t. They’re not from me. His Majesty had them curated especially for you, my lady,” Wooyoung replied softly. 

Your fingers stilled around the stems of the hyacinths, the smile on your lips faltering, your expression of joy slowly being replaced to that of visible shock. “What?” You murmured before you could stop yourself. “He did? Are you sure?”

“Yes, my lady. He personally gave them to me for you. He even instructed me to arrange them properly,” he said, his expression softening, all traces of mischief gone. “He would’ve come personally, but didn’t think you would want to see him. Not after yesterday.”

Just when you thought that San couldn’t send your mind into shambles even further. Your mind spun, refusing to comprehend that the cold king of Utopia would even do something like this. You brought the flowers to your chest without realizing it, pressing them lightly against your heart as if to steady it.

“Thank you,” you said softly. “I’ll put them in the vase, myself.”

Wooyoung exhaled, releasing a breath you didn’t even realise he was holding. When he turned to leave, you caught a glimpse of something in his eyes. It was relief, tinged with sadness.

As you put the delicate flowers in the vase, it was hard to miss how carefully they were picked just for you. Each petal was perfect, free from bruising or any kind of marring. But more than that, why had he sent them anyway?

You had a vague idea. Behind all the walls he was putting up, was proof that San was actually capable of feeling regret. Somehow, that just hurt as much as the words he said because he knew what he said was wrong, yet, he chose to hurt you at the moment.

You reached out and brushed your fingers against the petals of the hyacinths. You weren’t completely ready to forgive him, but for the first time since yesterday, your anger wavered.

The next day, you woke up with a brand new bouquet that was even bigger than the one the day before. This time, they were forget-me-nots, which was fascinating to see in a bunch considering how tiny they were. 

“Again?” You murmured, fingers hovering before gently touching one bloom. Wooyoung can only shrug, turning around before you see him smile.

San must be more remorseful than I thought, you pondered. You put them with the hyacinths, the anger in your chest still not subsiding, but simmering at least. And you thought that was that, but no, the flowers did not stop there, because San kept sending flowers for one week straight.

By the third day, they were white tulips. You stared at the pure and pristine blossoms, biting your lips, no longer just surprised, because there was something else accompanying it that made your chest oddly tight. You were flustered, and not just that, you couldn’t help the heat on your face that stayed for what felt like hours after receiving the brand new bouquet.

And you wanted to stay angry, you really did, because no matter how many flowers he sends, the words he said can never be undone anymore, but how were you supposed to do that when he sends avalanche lilies the fourth day so plenty, they spilled all over the place? The other flowers haven’t even wilted yet and here you were with new ones.

You stood in the middle of your chambers, struggling to find a place to put the vase that was overflowing with so much of the lilies. You turned around, helpless looking at a smirking Hongjoong who held another vase of the lillies. “I’m running out of places,” you laughed under your breath, equal parts overwhelmed and intimidated by how many flowers there were.

By now, the servants had stopped pretending not to notice. News had spread that the stoic and impassive king had been sending his would-be queen flowers everyday. The giggles and murmurs brought life to the castle and it was ridiculous how all of this had you smiling like you were a teenager all over again.

“These are lovely,” Mingi commented, laughing at the overwhelming amount of flowers in your chambers when he came for your usual classes. “Well, I have a delivery,” he handed you another bouquet, mischief in his eyes. “More to add to this garden of yours, I suppose.”

You felt your face warm up at his teasing remark. “I have no idea what you mean,” you mumbled, feeling your body buzzing with excitement as you took the bouquet of snowdrops from him. You held onto them the entire class and never let them go.

By the sixth day, you were awoken to the calming scent of lavender. You smiled without realizing it, opening your eyes to see Wooyoung and Jongho giggling to each other as they arranged the lavender all over your chambers, not knowing you were already awake - not knowing that you had begun to look forward to each flower that San sent your way.

Then, the seventh day came and this one was delivered a little differently. It had been nighttime by then and you were already starting to feel disheartened since there were no flowers yet, but as you were reading your book, Yeosang came in carrying a tray of food that had you salivating.

Not only that, they were generous heapings of food that you could tell were your favourites, and Seonghwa was hot on his tail carrying a modest but breathtaking bouquet of pink camelias. Yeosang laid all the dishes properly, not-so-subtly wiggling his brows at you playfully.

“His Majesty specifically asked for today’s supper to be special,” Yeosang said, his mouth curving into a knowing smile. “Catered to you, my lady. I hope the fish is to your liking, His Highness said you enjoyed it the last time you had it.”

Seonghwa placed the bouquet on your lap. “Looks scrumptious,” he commented, gesturing to the food. “His Highness was especially pleased when we told him we discovered a river that had trout in them while we were roaming the area. Immediately thought of you, my lady.”

Your throat tightened. You looked at the bouquet, fingers brushing all over the pink petals and they felt tender and more earnest than the other flowers he sent you, somehow more personal than the rest.

And then you stared at the feast for a little while longer when the two men excused themselves, tears threatening to fall from your eyes before you dug in, heart warm and as full as your chambers that were overflowing with flowers. You had to think about it at first, why this particular bouquet seemed to tug at your heartstrings the most more than the other ones.

The simplicity of it made it your favourite, but it wasn’t because of that - it was because all along, it seemed that San had been paying attention to you.

Seven different flowers for seven days straight, and not a single word. You wondered if this was San’s way of speaking when words failed him.

But that wasn’t how you usually handled things. No, you were the confrontational type. The very next day, you made up your mind to seek San, yourself. You didn’t want to let things fester, but the truth was, you wanted to see for yourself if the flowers meant something to him.

You found San in his study where you knew he usually was at this time of the day. You took a deep breath in, that little fear in the back of your head overtaking you, a bit scared that he was going to push you away, and rapped lightly on the door. When no one answered, you opened it slightly, peeking your head in before entering.

San didn’t even notice you, let alone hear your knock, busy with his paperwork. Your heart lurched as you stared at him. He looked better, the colours on his cheeks and lips were back. You cleared your throat to catch his attention.

San looked up, shock flickering briefly across his features before he schooled them back into neutrality. Still, he set his pen aside immediately. “Y/N—my lady,” he whispered breathily, standing up from his chair. “Please, come in. I’d hate for you to not feel welcome,” he paused, a slight frown marring his handsome face. “Where’s Hongjoong?”

“I’m alone,” you do as told, carefully closing the door behind you. “I wanted to thank you,” you said, straight to the point, voice steady despite the way your heart fluttered. “For the flowers.”

For a moment, he said nothing, most likely not expecting you to bring it up. “Were they to your liking?” San asked, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it though his face still retained that sharpness you’ve come to know him for.

You nodded with an affirming hum. “I did,” you replied with genuine sincerity. “They were very beautiful, all of them.”

His gaze dropped, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he audibly swallowed. “I’m pleased to hear it,” he replied, low and careful. Gone was the flatness in his tone, replaced by something just a little warmer. “Very pleased.”

“I will be cherishing them, Your Grace,” you smiled softly.

That earned you a look from him that lingered and remained unguarded. His eyes softened in a way that felt almost dangerous, one that had you holding your breath because you have never seen San’s eyes be this expressive not only towards you, but in general. And now that you knew he was capable of doing such a thing, you didn’t know what to do.

You broke eye contact first, not being able to take the intensity of his gaze. “W-Well, I’m afraid I have taken too much of your time,” you cleared your throat, lowering your head to hide the redness of your cheeks. “I shall be taking my leave—”

“Wait,” he stopped you, startling you a bit and apparently even himself. There was a long pause and you could only blink in anticipation. Finally, he exhaled. “About that night,” he began and your breath hitched. He noticed and his eyes glazed but only for a bit before going back to being impassive again. “The words I spoke were cruel, words I should have never said to you.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away, forcing himself to look you in the eye even though this was taking a lot out of him. “And for that, I am very sorry. I hope you can accept my sincerest apologies.”

And when he bowed low, that was all you needed to see. It wasn’t flowery and it wasn’t anything grand. But it was San, a king who was so used to being bowed to instead of the other way around. You felt the weight of his apology settle deeply in your chest.

“Also,” he continued when he stood up straight again. “Thank you for taking care of me the way you did, especially for staying and cleaning me up even though I gave you every reason not to. It was wrong of me to intentionally hurt you after all those.”

“I forgive you,” you reassured him. “Though I was very much hurt, everyone deserves a second chance. You do, too.”

Another silence fell, but this one was different. It was a little awkward because you’ve never really been alone with San without the entire exchange being political, but at least it wasn’t cold or heavy. Rather, you found yourself not minding it much. The silence was comfortable.

When he finally spoke again, his tone had softened further, almost hesitant. “It’s a lovely day outside the castle grounds,” he turns his head towards the windows before training them back on you, eyes fainltly dubious but fairly hopeful. “Would you do me the honours of walking with me and lending me your time, my lady?

You were stunned into silence. The way he asked it, the way his gaze lingered as though he were bracing himself for rejection. Your heart betrayed you before your mind could catch up. “I would love to, my king. ”

There was a very faint curve that tugged at the corners of his lips. It was very subtle, almost invisible but it was there, as he exhaled a soft sigh of relief. Then, he extended his hand, not breaking eye contact, and how can you reject him when he was actually offering and not demanding?

You began to lift your hand, but you stopped midair when you realised that you had no gloves on. San remained quiet, though you can see it on his face as realisation dawned. Your hands weren’t soft and dainty, all traces of femininity gone from all the years of farming.

“May I?” he asked gently, his voice lowered as though the moment itself deserved reverence.

At your nod, he gingerly reaches for your hand, his touch warm and surprisingly comforting at the lightest of contact. He hummed under his breath, stealing yours when he brushed his thumbs over the thick callouses of your skin and something burst inside your ribs.

“You have beautiful hands that have been through a lot,” he murmured. “You should be very proud of them. As I am.”

Your heart swelled painfully, emotion rushing in far too fast when he stilled his thumb, pressing them on your skin and that’s when you felt it - his own scars. Callouses met callouses, strength met strength, and instead of shame, you felt seen. He shifted closer and with an ease that felt almost intimate, linked his arm with yours.

If you were being completely honest with yourself, you wanted to scream. Your face was as red as a tomato - probably even redder - trying your best not to be too stiff as San adjusted his pace to match yours as you began to walk through the snowy grounds of the castle.

And by God, he was trying his best. San still felt rigid beside you, his steps a little measured and deliberate, but not because of duty, but because of consideration for you. This was the same man who always kept space between you, who never so much as let your sleeves touch during formal walks, and now he was walking with you like you were equals. 

“I know I should have asked this before,” he cleared his throat awkwardly, looking your way, and you just had to blush - one because the way the sun hit the high points of his face made him look ethereal, and two, he was really, really trying and it was endearing. “But how are you liking Utopia? I…know there’s not much here. You can be honest—oh, wait.”

You frowned when he slowed. It was when you noticed that you were about to pass a narrow path, and not only that, the wind also started to pick up, the bite of it hitting your face rather painfully. Without saying anything, he angled himself to shield you from both the wind and the path so your dress wouldn’t be caught in the dirt.

You stared at him in awe, your cheeks warm and your pulse racing for reasons that had nothing to do with trepidation. He gazed at you, shoulders tense as he waited for your answer. “It’s quiet and the snow doesn’t pretend to be king, and I think that’s why I like it. Utopia doesn’t promise warmth. It promises survival, if you’re willing to stay and try.”

San stopped walking, turning fully to you, actually staring at you as if it was the first time he’s actually seeing you. Respect further softened his eyes, awe flickering in them. “I see,” he drawled, throat bobbing when he swallowed. “Yunho was right all along. Thank you.”

You wanted to ask him what that meant, but he continued walking then, aimlessly with no ending point in mind. He asked you more questions, like the books you read or what you did in your free time. He didn’t speak a lot, but when he did, he was very gentle with his words, very regal and proper. You reckoned that this was just how he was in general as a person.

And he listened to everything you said, never interrupting nor dismissing you. The walls were still there, unmistakable and tall, but you could see where he was pressing against them from the inside, trying to make room for you.

“And your lessons?” He asked earnestly. “Are they too difficult? I’m afraid I might have put too much pressure on you.”

“They are,” you admitted. “But nothing I cannot handle—”

“Your Majesty.”

You both turned around, not expecting to see Jongho whose voice cut through the moment. His brows were both slightly raised, eyes pleased as he inspected the both of you and San - walking side by side, arms linked - head nodding in approval, though it is replaced by sheepishness when he realised what he just walked into and interrupted.

San stilled, his eyes narrowing into slits as he stared at his advisor. The tenderness he had didn’t just disappear, it completely snapped out of existence as if the gentle man you were with the entire time was just an illusion. His body snapped into rigidity, face dropping into that impassive and unreadable coldness you were so used to seeing in him.

“Yes?” San gritted his teeth, tone sharp and clipped. It wasn’t apprehension–inducing, rather, the immediate change fascinated you.

“We have a budgetary meeting to be held half an hour from now, Your Highness,” Jongho meekly replied.

San sighed, mumbling quietly under his breath. “Send all the heralds. I shall be there,” he nodded, ever the king he was.

He turned, releasing your hand with visible reluctance. You didn’t think that the change in him could be more startling, but you were wrong. The hardness melted away, eyes warming, voice dropping into something gentle and almost apologetic when he started to speak to you.

“I apologise,” he pursed his lips. “It slipped my mind that I had prior commitments before this.”

You shook your head. “It’s quite alright, Your Highness. You have priorities you can’t ignore.”

“I hope that I may ask for your time again,” he added, and in a drastic turn of events, he lifted your hand to his lips, planting a brief, innocent kiss to it before he let go. “Soon.”

And that’s how he left you, standing still with your heart racing with cheeks so red, it would’ve been enough to melt the snow around you. You realised, then, that Choi San might have been far more dangerous like this compared to when he was much colder.

So maybe you were curious about San. You wanted to know the things he liked, what he did in his free time, and what made him tick. You chalked it up to boredom on your end, however, there was genuinely one thing you wished to know more than anything.

“Oh, hello, Y/N,” Yunho greeted with the warmest of smiles the moment you entered San’s study, lowering his glasses and setting aside the notes he held. “I’m afraid San isn’t here today. He’s currently with Seonghwa to inspect some disturbance up north of the territory.”

Now that you think about it, maybe this was the best case scenario. Yunho was easier to talk to than San, and from what you’ve seen, the two seemed to go way back. Maybe he could answer your questions better.

“You would be correct,” Yunho chuckled, crossing his arms with a smirk. “I’ve been with the Choi clan before San’s grandfather was even born, so you could definitely say we go way back.”

It was your turn to raise your brows. You raised them so high, you wouldn’t be surprised if they reached up your hairline. “First of all, you could read minds,” you blurted out stupidly before you could stop yourself. “And second, you don’t look a day over twenty-five.“

At that, he laughs heartily, his entire body rattling as the melodious sound of his contagious laughter bounced around the study. “So I have been told,” he chortled. “And you caught me at the most opportune time, too. Well, since you’re here, I could try to explain some things to you since there seems to be a lot in your mind.” Yunho reached for a piece of paper, crumpling it into a small ball in his hand. At his touch, it began to glow, and when he opened his hand, tiny silver butterflies fluttered lazily in the air. He smiled when you gasped in awe, then at the flick of his wrist, they disappeared, a light drizzle of glitter left in their wake as proof of temporary life.

“Is this the same power you use to heal San that night?” You asked bravely, not sure if you were even supposed to ask but decided to go for it anyway. 

Yunho hummed, eyes dropping at what you were trying to ask. “Very clever way of prying information out of me, I’ll give you that,” he chuckled. “But yes, you could say that.”

And just like that, the air turned a little more serious. You hesitated for a little bit before asking again. “His Highness…what was that that night?”

Yunho exhaled slowly, the lightness draining from his expression as he turned fully toward you. “You weren’t meant to see that,” he said quietly. “You weren’t meant to be there at all.”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your sleeves, bracing yourself. “What you witnessed,” he continued, choosing his words with care. “Is something that predates you, me, even this kingdom as it stands.”

Your heart dropped then and there. Not because of fear, but because you were hoping to hear something else that did not confirm the fact that, indeed, was suffering all this time. “So,” you started, trying to steady your voice. “The rumours about him being cursed...”

“You saw the markings on his chest,” he said instead, eyes steady on yours.

Your breath hitched. He didn’t deny it. “How it began and what caused it,” he continued, turning his head to stare at the light snow falling from the sky through the window. “That is San’s story to tell. What I can tell you is that we’re trying our best to stall it. I would use my powers and San would lend me his energy since it takes a lot out of me to do this.”

Your shoulders slumped before you could stop yourself. “But today…?”

“Just me,” Yunho said gently, and then smiled knowingly. “You look disappointed.”

You flushed instantly. “I-I was just curious.”

“Right,” he drawled, his smirk widening. “Well, a little birdie told me that you two were getting cosy the other day walking around the castle grounds.”

“We are to be married soon,” you defended yourself weakly. “Surely, it’s fairly normal to familiarise with each other before then, don’t you think?”

“Mhhm. And surely, San didn’t have to send you different flowers everyday and make a show about it,” he laughed. “They were quite difficult to find, too. He was so adamant about them.”

You pouted, cheeks burning. “He was being remorseful. I’m sure you’ve heard what happened.”

“Sure, but what about the ones before those?”

You paused, caught off guard. That definitely caught your attention, because unless you were remembering wrong, you were positive you’ve never received anything from San before. And Yunho, it took him a minute, but his eyes widened in genuine surprise when he saw that you had no idea what he was talking about.

“He’s been giving you flowers long before the recent ones, Y/N,” Yunho carefully explained. “Do you not remember? Wooyoung would either arrange them for you or you’d already have them before you woke up. I know because I’d make them and transport them in your chambers.”

The room spun before you. Of course you remember those flowers, they were the only source of happiness and comfort you had for the longest time since they were the only colour you’d see in contrast to the greyness of your surroundings. And to think that San has been sending them to you all along had you dizzy.

“I-I had no idea,” you breathed out. “I genuinely had no idea.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Yunho sighed. “But it’s not your fault, he’s not a very showy person, as you can already tell,” he paused, locking eyes with you firmly. “San is a good man, just a little more reserved and closed off especially with what he’s been through. Here, take this.”

He proceeds to pluck a book from the shelf behind him and give it to you. “Read it when you’re alone, but for now, just know that that man you saw that night was not and will never be a representation of who San is as a person.”

You remembered the blood, the tremors, the way his voice had broken despite all that fury. Your throat burned. “I know,” you said. “I just genuinely wanted to help him, that’s all.”

“And he knows that,” he replied softly. “But you have to understand, he hates being seen like that because that’s not him. He has a habit of saying things he doesn’t mean because he’s so used to enduring things alone simply because he’s long forgotten how to ask for help. Like that morning when he made you cry.”

You cringed internally, not wanting to remember the hurtful things he had said, but waiting to see where Yunho was going with this. “There’s no excuse, and he’s already tormented himself for it, but the reason why he was angry…tell me, did you go through a secret passage?”

You raised a brow in mild surprise, nodding in confirmation. “Right. You had basically spent the night with him. Unmarried. He didn’t want the nobles seeing you and shaming you for it.”

You froze, the realisation striking you harder than you expected, but Yunho wasn’t done yet. “Unfortunately, fear can look like cruelty sometimes,” he smiled, forlorn. “You’d be surprised at how soft San actually is if you paid attention. Him assigning Hongjoong to you was probably the biggest telltale sign, Y/N.” You were torn between knowing and not because you were terrified that once you knew, this would forever change the way your heart beat. Still, you looked up anyway, listening. “Hongjoong was Seonghwa’s lieutenant,” Yunho gently explained. “His best fighter. San trusts very few people with his life. By placing Hongjoong at your side, he didn’t just give you protection, he created a hole in his own defenses.”

Suddenly, memories clicked into place with painful clarity. San’s sharp tone whenever Hongjoong wasn’t with you like that one morning when you asked him for tea. Still, you didn’t want to believe it. “I-I don’t understand.”

“He’s not angry when he sees you alone without Hongjoong guarding you. Never was,” he said, gauging your reaction carefully. “He’s worried you’ll get lost. Terrified, even, that you’d lose your way and accidentally find yourself out in the snow and freeze to death.”

Silence followed. You only hoped that Yunho couldn’t hear how your heart betrayed you by beating too loud inside your chest. “Pay attention to him next time, yes? Pay attention to his eyes. He’s got that look in them he doesn’t even know he has when he’s staring at you.”

The moment you got out of there, you quickly ran to your chambers, opening the book that Yunho gave you. At first, you were confused because there was nothing but illustrations of flowers and their names, but when you looked closely, your blood ran cold. This wasn’t just a book - Yunho handed you a floriography book. The study of flowers and their meanings.

You swallowed, knowing exactly what Yunho was trying to tell you without outwardly speaking of it. You turned the pages of the book, racking your head for flowers that San had given you prior to the recent ones. And then you remembered the winter heathers. Your fingers quickly scanned the book, until you found them.

Winter heathers, known to thrive where other plants cannot. Symbolises independence and self-reliance. When given, it is meant to say: Your beauty stands out even in the coldest times.

You almost dropped the book with what you just read, fumbling it clumsily in your hands. You couldn’t believe it, was that how San looked at you even back then? And, then you remembered the lenten roses he made you take that one dinner. 

Lenten roses carry quiet strength, consolation, and comfort with every petal. When given, it is meant to say: Your strength endures even in the deepest winter.

San made them seem like an afterthought back then, something whose potential he did not want to waste. You turned the page with a shaky exhale, desperate to find more meaning in the all flowers he’d given you.

The first one was  the purple hyacinths. You will never forget that one because that was the first of many that he gave you.

Purple hyacinths: I bloom with remorse and I ask for your forgiveness.

A breathy exhale leaves your throat. The flowers were his way of speaking to you when words failed him. Your fingers lingered on the illustration longer than necessary, a dull ache spreading through you before you turned the page again.

Forget-me-nots: I cannot forget the hurt I put onto you.White tulips: I ask for forgiveness and hope we can begin again.

It was unsettling, how the sincere meanings of the flowers were earnestly making their way into your way, inching earnestly in every corner. You were about to turn the pages again when your eyes narrowed at the small text at the bottom.

Oftentimes, different flower combinations convey messages. For example, purple hyacinths, forget-me-nots, and white tulips together mean: I know I hurt you, I haven’t forgotten, I’m sorry.

By now, breathing was lost on you and each page you turned made it difficult to do so. You were so confused because the Choi San you had in mind was someone who viewed you as a person he needed for his kingdom’s legitimacy - someone dispensable and someone he didn’t need to get to know as a person even though you were going to spend your life with him.

Avalanche Lily: I bow in humility for my mistake.

Snowdrop: I hope for a new beginning with you by my side.

Lavender: I can’t stop thinking about you, near or far.

Pink Camellia: I long for you tenderly, and I long to be near you again.

Or so you thought. Now, you didn’t know what to think. You thought you knew who San was. A hollow laugh left your throat because all this time, you had mistaken his walls for apathy. San had never been cold - he’d been soft all along. You just haven’t learned how to read between the lines yet.

You pressed your lips together, but the sting only grew worse, creeping into the corners of your eyes. You blinked once; twice too late. A tear slipped free, landing on the page. You sucked in a shaky breath, hastily wiping at your face with the back of your hand.

You shut the book, setting it aside to do something you’ve never done before - embroidery. That night, you spent the majority of it embroidering San’s initials on a small handkerchief, taking the time to be precise and make it look at least decent considering it was your first time doing it.

You didn’t know what possessed you. All you knew, the more you sewed, your fondness for San kept growing tenfold. By the time you were done, you had probably pricked your fingers a thousand times, but you smiled, proud of what you’ve done, hoping he’d see the beauty in what you’ve created, just like he saw the beauty in you when you couldn’t even see it in yourself.

You had been contemplating on how you were going to give San the handkerchief that you embroidered. The adrenaline had worn off then and now the thought of giving it to him had you embarrassed all over, anxious whether giving it to him will be too forward.

But you didn’t have to think too hard. You were about to head out for a walk when a knock on your doors interrupted your plans. “Y-Your Highness,” you breathed out, surprised to see San on the other side. “What brings you here?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer, just staring at you like he couldn’t believe that you actually opened the door for him. His composure was perfect, face emotionless and almost cold, but after that conversation with Yunho, you noticed something immediately - it was the way his gaze flicked away before settling back on you. 

You wanted to melt into a puddle of endearment then and there especially with how red the tips of his ears were. Oh my goodness, you thought with quiet astonishment. He’s shy. He’s so shy and he’s trying to make himself look like he’s not.

“I was wondering,” he cleared his throat. “Hoping, if I can ask you for your time again? I would like it if you joined me for tea.”

Well, you certainly weren’t expecting that. For a moment, you hesitated, your mind reminding you of that one time you tried to invite him for tea and coldly rejected you. But this time, as you stared at his hopeful face, you couldn’t help the butterflies in your tummy. He was trying, he really was, and you could feel it. “Lead the way, Your Grace,” you smiled before you could second guess yourself.

You felt the butterflies multiply when you linked arms with him again as he led you through the halls to one of the smaller dining rooms, opening the door for you before you could reach for them, stopping shortly by the door in awe at what you saw.

The table was beautifully set, but what caught your attention was the large array of tea laid out in neat rows. You looked at him, brows lifting in quiet disbelief.

San cleared his throat, gaze immediately dropping to the floor as if it held something fascinating. “I wasn’t sure which you preferred,” he said, straightening his back in an attempt to save face even though the faint pink dusting his cheeks betrayed him. “So I asked for all of them.”

You had to purse your lips together tightly in order to not laugh out loud at the absurdity of it all. “I see,” you chose to say, pulling the chair so you could sit down. “Thank you, Your High—”

“No, wait, allow me,” he stopped you, gently prying your hand away from the chair so he could pull it for you to sit down. Your cheeks were redder than his by this point. “San.”

“P-Pardon?”

He sat across you. “Please, call me San,” he repeated, eyes soft, tone warm. "This might be too much to ask, but will you please do me the honours of letting me hear my name from you?"

He was right - it was too much to ask because you didn’t know how to say his name without giving your true feelings away. But his gaze never wavered and he waited patiently like he’d wait forever to hear it from you without demanding it.

“San,” you said at last, softly, as though speaking it too loudly might break something fragile between you.

The effect was immediate. He tilted his head as he stared at you, face still that same cold, indifferent king that had people trembling with fear at the mere sight of it, but his eyes told a different story. They twinkled, bright and sincere with genuine contentment.

You broke eye contact, afraid you might explode on the spot with how hot you felt, reaching for a random tea blend without even looking to give your hands something to do to distract yourself. You were about to lift the teapot when you felt San’s hand lightly stop you.

“Let me do it,” he offered, grabbing the pot to serve the both of you. Your eyes widened, aghast at what you were witnessing. He was the king, for God’s sake. You were about to protest when he shook his head. “I insist. Please, I want to do this for you.”

“You truly didn’t need to do all this,” you said, though your voice wavered slightly.

“I want to,” San replied simply. “If it brings you even a moment of comfort, then it was worth it to me.”

As if that wasn’t enough, you watched as he put a small dollop of honey in the tea instead of the usual sugar cube. You wanted to cry. Yunho was right all along, San did pay attention more than you thought because you did prefer honey in your tea over sugar. He slid the cup towards you with both hands, watching as you took a sip.

“Is it good?” He asked expectantly. “I hope it’s warm enough and not too sweet.”

You smiled, taking another sip, not missing the way his eyes shone. “It’s perfect.”

The conversation naturally flowed from there, especially now that you knew a little more about San. Whenever he noticed that your plate was almost empty or you were almost done with your cup, he would take it upon himself to refill them for you, all without looking away from you as you talked.

And he listened, truly listened to everything you said as if the words you uttered were the gospel, itself. He was empathetic, too, eyes dropping into something somber when you mentioned the plague that took your parents from you, transforming into respect when you told him how you endured alone before settling your way into Utopia.

“I used to enjoy tea with my parents,” you said absentmindedly. “Do you enjoy tea?”

He stared at you, opting not to reply, but the fondness in his eyes was unmistakably there. He didn’t say much, but when he did, it’s like his true goal in life was to leave you breathless. You suddenly remembered what you had in your hand the entire time. Your finger tightened around the handkerchief anxiously. “San,” you murmured. “I have something for you.”

His brows knit together as you placed the folded handkerchief into his palm. He unfolded it slowly, eyes scanning his initials, tracing them as if they were sacred. He was about to say something, but closed his mouth when he touched the tiny detail you sewed next to it.

He narrowed his eyes to inspect what it was, and when he did, he looked up, eyes wide. Not exactly startled, but in disbelief yet soft and warm in a way you’ve never seen before. “An edelweiss flower,” he murmured. “Do you know what it means?”

You nodded, a serene smile gracing your face. Of course you knew what an edelweiss meant. You had spent countless hours looking for a flower whose meaning you wanted to convey; spent an exorbitant amount of time studying it so you could embroider it neatly onto the cloth.

My feelings match yours and I will brave the cold with you.

For a while, he did nothing, staring at the handkerchief with unreadable eyes, hands tightening around it once or twice as his mind traveled elsewhere. But then, he smiled fully and openly, unable to stop himself. That was probably the moment the world stopped for you, because that smile…you will never forget it for as long as Utopia stood on its grounds.

Without a word, he reached across the table and took your hand, warm and sure, his thumb brushing over your knuckles like it belonged there. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t need to, as a genuine, helpless smile reached his eyes.

You didn’t need to say anything either as your fingers laced with his. You’ve already told him everything you needed to as the both of you sat quietly in the room, letting the tea grow cold, the snow falling gently outside bearing witness upon you two.

Things went back to normal after that, but at the same time, some things have definitely changed between you and San especially after that afternoon tea session.

For one, you had tea with him at least three times a week, most of it because he would literally clear his schedule out just to make time for you. Secondly, and probably that made your heart beat wildly, the flowers never stopped. San would still send one every single day without fail.

You had no idea how he was acquiring them, especially because he had sent some flowers that you knew could not survive the harsh snow of the kingdom, though Yunho’s exhausted demeanor and tired, sunken eyes should have been an indicator to you.

There were some things whose change was gradual, however. San and you went back to your duties, especially the politically inclined ones. It definitely sent you for a whiplash since you were slowly getting used to the sweetness he’s been showing you lately to the point that you had forgotten how utterly intimidating San was as a king and a ruler.

But the thing that would immediately make you blush that most was when the rare, inopportune moments where he would give you a subtle smile and nod in between those sessions. 

The change definitely wasn’t immediate, but it was there, just like Yunho had said. It wasn’t something you noticed on the get go since San had gotten so busy again that you began to assume that he barely noticed you.

But this time, you actually tried to really pay attention like Yunho said because this time, you started to notice that he actually did watch you. And once you noticed it, you couldn’t unsee it. Which begged the question - had San always been like this and you were just gullible?

The first instance was when you were with Mingi at one of your classes, San supervising in the background as usual as he did his own work, quill in hand, signing document after document. As Mingi lectured away, something tugged at you. And you didn’t mean to do it, but in the soft blur of your peripheral vision, you saw it and your breath hitched.

Because San was already looking at you, quill still in hand. And that was the thing, subconsciously, you knew he had a habit of pausing once in a while, but you didn’t know it was because he was watching you.

And it should have unnerved you, especially because he literally stared at you the entire study. His expression was neutral, yet alert as he literally stared at everything you did with that look in his eyes, and he stared long enough that you felt it all the way down your spine.

The second was when you were with Wooyoung when you were looking at a catalogue of some winter apparel since you needed more. As you were fitting in some of them, you noticed a shadow lingering in the reflection of the mirror. San was silent, literally almost invisible if you weren’t paying attention, which was how he probably got away with it before.

But there he was, arms folded as he stared at the way the coat hung on your shoulders. You tilted your head curiously, looking back at him and making direct eye contact. Strangely, San looked away, pretending that he wasn’t even staring to begin with, eyes drifting to the window to watch the snow outside as if he’s never seen them.

You had to commend the effort. You bit your lip hard, trying not to burst out laughing, but Wooyoung didn’t even bother hiding it, laughing so hard that he had to clutch his stomach and lean against the clothing rack for support. “I never thought I’d see this day come,” he cackled. “Oh, that was a tragedy if I ever saw one, my lady. I’m surprised it took you this long to notice.”

You felt heat rush from your cheeks to your neck. So, apparently, everybody knew San had been fondly watching you from afar all along except for you. “I don’t know what you mean,” you squeaked. “San–uh, His Majesty wasn’t staring. Perhaps, just inspecting what’s proper for me.”

“Of course not,” Wooyoung smirked, eyes dancing. “His Majesty was simply…deeply invested in the structural integrity of winter apparel.”

San cleared his throat softly from where he stood near the window. When he turned back, his expression was back to that menacing and domineering one, even shooting Wooyoung a warning look, yet his ears were unmistakably pink.

“That coat,” he cleared his throat. Before, you would have mistaken it for something that lacked emotion, but now, it was clear that it was restraint. “It fits you. It keeps the wind out.”

You mumbled your thanks and his gaze lingered a second longer than necessary, soft and fond, before he turned away again, pretending very hard that the snow outside was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.

But the most damning thing was when you were in a council meeting, one that was held in the Great Halls along with the other nobles, both comrades and the usual ones who opposed royalty in general.

San sat on the end of the meeting table while you sat on the far end, the regality dripping off of him effortlessly. He looked distant and dangerous, face painted with so much calm. From the outside, he was the very image of intimidation, the untouchable king straight out of everyone’s nightmares. Even the ones who loathed royalty kept their voices measured.

But you knew better. Now you did. Because his eyes were on you, measuring and assessing, and no one suspected a thing. It was subtle enough that anyone else would’ve missed it, but not you. No, never you. You were used to feeling his eyes on you now; craved it at this point, even.

Because how can you not when he held the handkerchief you gave him like it was the only thing that kept him going in this dreaded meeting? Ever since you gave it to him, he never not had it with him. He took it everywhere, displayed it on the breast pocket of his royal garment even if it looked so out of place. 

“Three deaths in three days. Always the lowest. The poorest of the poor, never the blessed,” San’s eyes narrowed, dark and brooding. “What does that tell you?”

One councilman shifted. “That they don’t know how to stretch what they’re given, Your Grace.”

“Wrong,” San said flatly without looking at him. “It tells us that someone is using the food budget for the poor and pocketing them. Shadows don’t stay in the dark forever, gentleman. ”

You watched as his hand held the handkerchief a little too tightly in his hand to rein his anger in. People often mistook his stillness for indifference. In truth, his mind was racing, trying to figure out what his next response was going to be.

Everybody in the room froze, but not you. Even when San looked like he was about to explode, he still had the handkerchief in his hand and he didn’t just hold it - he also adjusted it, smoothing the creases with his thumb. It would have been comical if you weren’t so touched.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he began, hand gesturing at each person, the same hand that held the cloth. “Come nighttime, there will be an internal audit of every noble who even breathed in the fund’s direction. If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear. If you are not…well.”

His mouth curved, humourless, setting the handkerchief on to the side to brace his hands on the table to lean forward. “You are going to learn what it’s like to starve under my watch. Just like the people who you had stolen from.”

The councilman nearest to San, however, thought it was a good thing to try and change the topic. “T-That’s, uh, quite a fine piece,  Your Grace. Unusual for king to keep on hand, though,” he stammered, his hand already reaching for the cloth San had set aside. “May I—”

“Don’t.”

It was just a word and it made everyone’s breath still, including yours. A loud thud resonated around the room when San’s hand deliberately came down over the cloth. San lifted his gaze then, and whatever lived behind his eyes was cold, sheer, ancient anger. 

“If you touch that,” San sneered. “You will discover how merciful starvation is compared to what I’ll do to you.”

The man recoiled, stuttering apologies, and for a fleeting second, San’s eyes met yours. He nodded, a silent reassurance. He folded the handkerchief neatly and tucked it into his coat, close to where his heart would be if he were brave enough to admit that’s why he put it there.

“Meeting adjourned,” he murmured. “Before my patience is tested further.”

No one needed to be told twice. You stood up amidst the rush of the people trying to escape San’s brewing wrath, but as you do, you felt your dress suddenly getting yanked backwards, gasping softly when your balance faltered, Hongjoong barely able to stop you from falling.

A councilman, one of the few who looked down on your modest background as a farm girl, accidentally stepped on your gown. Irritation flashed on his face and without even apologising, he steps aside, causing your shoe to come undone from your foot to slip a few feet away.

Heat flooded your cheeks. Your gasp had caught people’s attention, and by now, everyone’s eyes were on you. Before you or Wooyoung could bend down to retrieve your shoe, San was already there, hand on your waist. You blinked at how fast he was considering you were far.

“Are you alright?” San whispered tenderly as if the room didn’t just witness him almost unleashing his fury earlier. 

More heat crawled up your face, though this time it was for a different reason. “Y-Yes,” you said. “My shoe, I just need to—”

You couldn’t even finish that sentence. San was already kneeling in front of you, your shoe in his hand while the other still steadied you. “San–Your Grace,” you hissed in mortification, panic creeping in instantly. “Please, get up, this is embarrassing. Y-You don’t have to…”

Your sentence died in your throat when San looked up at you, a slight smile on his face, expression soft in a way only you will ever get to witness. “I want to,” he reassured in spite of the way the room silenced at the exchange between you two.

Because the Choi San was on his knees. The King of Utopia was kneeling. Your head spun as you watched him brushed away the imaginary dust on your shoe before guiding it back on your foot, touch gentle and almost reverent like you were worthy of lowering himself for. 

A sharp intake of breath rippled through the room. One scandalised councilman spoke out. “Y-Your Grace,” he stammered, incredulous. “This is unbecoming of you. A-Are you doing what we think you’re doing?”

San raised a brow, turning his head slightly. “Yes,” he replied as he adjusted your shoe,  ensuring it fit comfortably before rising to stand again, arm snaking around your waist and pulling you close. “Does anyone have a problem with that?”

No one answered - no one dared to. You stared at San, tears threatening to fall from your eyes at what he had just done. This wasn’t some sort of show to assert his dominance in court, this was a deliberate message he was sending to everybody who was here to witness it.

You were to be respected. You were to be protected. You were his future queen. You were his future wife and you were utterly his. It was strong, because San’s words were the law and they were absolute. If the nobles defied this unwritten rule, they’ll get what’s coming for them.

Your heart swelled painfully as San glanced back at you, his expression still hard and fearsome, but his eyes, his eyes always told you a different story. You couldn’t help the genuine smile that crossed your face as he led you out, because you were more than alright. 

It wasn’t that you were treated badly to begin with, but ever since that day in the meeting room, you could tell that everybody looked at you differently. It wasn’t anything remarkable and you would have missed it if you weren’t looking up close.

The thing that made it obvious to you was that it didn’t come from the people who already knew you; it came from the nobles that used to oppose you. Every time you passed them, they all had varying looks of respect, uncertainty, and acceptance. There was no in between. It was odd. “Is it wrong that this feels more unsettling than outright disdain?” You chuckled while you were having tea with San again, sipping on the tea he had chosen for you this time.

He hummed, not really replying immediately, but you caught it - the tiny smile he tried not to show when you closed your eyes and sighed in contentment after that sip. “When you’re used to something, the change might be unsettling at first,” he said, words wise yet concise.

“I would suppose so,” you whispered quietly. You knew he heard you considering that he was seated close to you. Now that you think about it, the more tea sessions you have, the closer he keeps sitting towards you. You definitely weren’t complaining.

Tea times with San were the highlight of your day. The both of you didn’t even do much, just basked in each other’s presence, but it was peaceful and it just felt right. San still didn’t talk much, his face still dark and indiscernible, but his eyes lingered on you a little longer, almost fond with adoration.

The air around him wasn’t any lighter, but it was gentler, and they became warmer the moment his eyes would meet yours. He poured the tea himself, adjusted the cup so the handle faced you, nudged a small plate of sweets closer without saying anything. His facade never broke, expression still carved in stone, but his actions always said otherwise.

Every so often, his gaze would drift to the window, where the snow had begun to fall just a little faster than usual. Nothing alarming, just enough to notice. His jaw would tighten once in a while but every single time, he would turn his undivided attention back to you.

The contrast would make your chest ache both with warmth and something you couldn’t name yet because even when the world outside unsettled him, he always turned back to you.

Until he didn’t, and the snow began falling at a rate so alarming, no one even dared to look at the windows for fear that the snow would swallow the entire palace this time. Tea times lessened and San would look more fatigued, more worn down somehow that you actually had started to worry if he was going to get sick.

The thought of him being in that position again where he could barely help himself. You didn’t even want to think about it. Today was one of those days where San had to cancel tea with you and you were left in your room, staring at the snow from your windows falling at a troubling rate.

It was one of those things that unfortunately, you couldn’t do anything about. Such was the curse of Utopia. That is, until you noticed the situation from beyond - the servants getting sick from the cold, worries from other good nobles of commoners passing from severe frostbite, vendors having to pause their livelihood from the severe storm.

You had to do something about it. One good thing that came out of San's fondness of you was that when it came to politics, he actually listened to you, took your points into consideration in what to do even if he’d end up doing something else along the way.

“You are my soon-to-be wife,” he’d say. “My other half and the half of the kingdom’s future, not some ornament hanging beside me. I also reckon two brains are better than one.”

It was how you found yourself being led by Jongho to the meeting room, the same one San defended you from. You were about to enter when Jongho’s arm shot up in front of you in alarm, distress clear on his face.

“W-What’s the matter?” You asked, now worried as well.

Jongho put his finger on his lips, using his other hand to push the door open very, very carefully, and you immediately understood why. Now, you’ve never heard San raise his voice before, but you wish you never did.

“Y-Your Majesty,” one of the few good and brave nobles, stood near San, with a pleading look in his eyes. “It is for the best, look at our kingdom, it’s buried in snow. If we don’t give her—”

“No,” San snarled, both hands slamming against the table with abnormally inhuman strength. The sound echoed violently, nothing like the controlled authority you were used to. “I said no.”

“But, Your Grace, the snow will swallow Utopia whole—” “Heed our request, sire. This is what Lady Y/N is here for—”

“It is for the greater good, one sacrifice for the greater good of the entire kingdom—”

Several nobles spoke at once, but San wasn’t having it. His shoulders were tense, breath heavy, until he couldn’t take it anymore. “Enough!” He growled, swiping everything on the table down to the floor. “Enough. I do not want to hear it, I refuse to hear any of it.”

Nothing was left untouched in his fury -  scrolls clattered, ink spilled, quills broke. The room went deathly silent. Even Jongho didn’t dare breathe beside you, and you couldn’t even begin to think why you kept being mentioned in the conversation.

“This is non-negotiable, do you hear me?” San snapped, voice raising another octave as he was hunched over the table. “If I see any of you attempt to even touch a hair on her head…if I hear any of you so much as talk about doing it…”

He paused, chest heaving in the severity of his own anger, a deep, unsettling laugh crawling up his chest. “I will end you. I will erase your bloodline. I will kill you.”

The threat, itself, should’ve made you nervous, but something else made your heart pound, instead - San’s entire arm and neck area. Dark, cursed branches of blackened veins creeped from his hands, all the way to his arms and neck area, spread across like a rotten disease. The same ones you saw on his chest one time.

An involuntary gasp leaves you, prompting San to turn his head towards you, and you stopped breathing completely when you saw his eyes. They were dark - literally and figuratively. They were entirely black, no whites left as darkness seemed to swallow both his eyes. And they were now staring at you.

When San realised it was you, however, his anger seemed to vanish instantly. When he blinked, his eyes were back to normal and only the branches on his skin remained. “Y/N,” he exhaled, uttering your name out like it was the only thing he needed to breathe at the moment.

Suddenly, San begins coughing, normally at first before they turn into worrying wheezes that had Yunho, who you didn’t even notice was in the room, swiftly striding across the room to pat him on the back. “San, calm down, please,” he placated. “The snow’s already weakening—”

“Take over,” San cut off, harshly pushing the mage’s hand away, as he made his way straight towards you, gesturing to a rigid Jongho. “Call Seonghwa. The three of you take over me.”

You didn’t protest when he grabbed your hand and led you out of the room. You certainly didn’t protest when he started leading you to his chambers, temporarily letting go of your hand to open a door on the far side of his room to reveal a narrow staircase. And you trusted him.

That trust turned out to be well-deserved when you realised that you were on top of a tower, overlooking the entire kingdom, but that wasn’t what starstruck you - it was the stars above, beautiful twinkles of faraway clusters that overlooked and saw everything.

San didn’t say anything, just leaning over the balcony. All you could do was stare at him - the darkened branches that littered his hands and arms, the unreadable look on his face that was scrunched deep in thought, the way the locket around his neck glowed and pulsated wildly brighter than the stars. You could even feel heat emanate from it from where you stood.

You didn’t realise that you were lost in thought, not until you were enveloped in San’s scent, felt the warmth of fur and wool wrapped around your shoulders as he draped his coat all over your shivering body. “San,” you started, fisting the coat closer. “You’re going to get cold.”

He shook his head, snowflakes falling from his hair as he did so. “I don’t get cold,” he murmured, pointing at the locket. “You were staring at this, it prevents me from feeling chills,” he explained, voice tilting in amusement. You were about to touch it, but he held your hand to stop it, alarm on his face. “Don’t,” he quickly said. “Just…don’t.”

“Why?” You bravely asked.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he wrapped the locket around his fists and you saw in real time how the curse on his skin started to slowly disappear. You were rendered mum. You had so many questions, so many things you wanted to know, so much information you knew you were missing, and a lot of anxiety over being left behind on a secret you knew you had no right to.

In a blink of an eye, the wind and the snow died. It stopped so suddenly that it gave you a whiplash. It wasn’t normal, you knew it wasn’t, especially when San didn’t even look the least surprised about it. If anything, he looked relieved, like he was expecting it to happen, even.

And then, he coughed, his chest heaving at the force of his cough. Your eyes widened a little when you watched a thin trail of blood slipped from his nose, widening a bit more when San barely reacted, just wiping it with the back of his hand. “S-San,” you whispered.

“I know,” he replied calmly, almost tired. His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, unbothered by the unnatural stillness around you. “It happens when I push too far.”

Push what?

The question burned on your tongue - the snow, the curse, the locket. You opened your mouth to speak, but he didn’t let you. “Do you think,” he interrupted suddenly, voice low, “That I am doing the right thing?”

You blinked, stunned at the sudden, albeit clever, diversion. “What do you mean, San?”

Your heart broke for him. There was no king to be found in San’s eyes. He was just a man who looked impossibly tired. “This. All of this,” he lifted his hand, gesturing at the entirety of the kingdom. “What if all of this was for naught? That I’m failing my own people with my own bare hands without meaning to?”

“No, you’re not,” you answered quickly. “You can’t do this to yourself, San. You can’t fault yourself for the unpredictable. Sometimes, things don’t work out the way we want them to and that’s alright because that’s out of your hands.”

He turned to look at you then, really looked at you, and scoffed good-naturedly in disbelief, like what he was seeing in you was too good to be true. “I’ve thought of abdicating,” he confessed. “Many times. That, perhaps, Utopia would be better off without me.”

You didn’t say anything right away; you couldn’t, because what could you possibly say to that? “There’s no right answer,” you finally replied. “No one has the right to fault you for doing what you thought was right at the moment. The only thing we can do is hope for the best.”

San’s jaw tightened. “You’re,” he breathed out, stepping closer, snaking his hand around your waist, trembling as if he was trying to stop himself from doing something. “Insane.”

You swallowed, heat traveling on your skin, training your eyes on his locket so you wouldn’t see the way his eyes darkened. “You’re a good king, San,” you said honestly, steadying your voice.

“How so?” San rasped, his voice deepening in timbre, rattling your core.

“Do you remember the first time we met? That day in the throne room?” You asked, trying hard not to waver as you felt yourself being pulled flush onto San’s chest. 

“Of course, I do,” he hummed, tucking your hair behind your ear, his hand lingering behind your neck. You shivered at the sensation. “I could never, ever forget that day. Why?”

“Because you knew I wasn’t from around here,” you answered like it was obvious. He frowns, confused. “You knew I wasn’t from Utopia because you care about your people, so much so that you remember all of them well enough to know that I’m not one of your subjects.”

He clings on to you just like you were clinging on to the sound of his heavy breathing. Your faces were so close to each other's; one wrong step and your lips would meet. Time was at a standstill. You could drown in him and you'd never want to rise again. 

His hand on your waist had your heart thudding against your ribcage, and you never realized how empty your chest was, how deep it really was, until you were this close to him. "Y/N," he whispered, his breath laboured and shaky. His grip on your waist tightens ever so slightly. "God, help me..."

There was no way you were meeting his eyes right now. He was right here close to you, so close, doing what he was doing and you letting him do it, and just leaning towards it. His hand held your chin and gently lifted it forward to meet his eyes. You bit your lips in apprehension and his eyes followed the movement. You knew you were done for when he mirrored you.

"W-What are you doing, San? Woah, this is dangerous," you stammered when you felt him back you up on the edge of the balcony. “I might fall.”

"Don't worry. I'll catch you when you fall."

Your heart felt heavy. "I believe it," you whispered, voice so small you weren't sure if he heard it.

But he did. The way he looked at you, how could you hold back from wanting to kiss him? If you leaned forward, you could capture his lips easily. "Don’t look at me like that," he begged, his voice between a plea and a demand. "I don't want to be reading this wrong right now, please."  

"I don't know what to say," you squeaked. "It's not that easy—"

"I can make it easy for you," he said, his voice dropping an octave. You watched as he took the locket off, throwing it haphazardly on the ground. You watched him grimace in slight pain at parting with the locket, but he didn’t seem to care. "I need you to kiss me."

He didn’t give you a chance to reply. San immediately steals your breath out of you. He captures your lips in a kiss so deep, his chest comes crashing with yours and you had to hold onto him for support. You fervently kissed him back, tilting your head as your breaths mingled. When you start moving with him, he sighed in relief and you couldn't help but do so as well. 

San kissed like he needed you to breathe and live. You could barely catch up, but you kiss him anyway. He brings a hand around your waist and the other behind your head to keep you close to make sure you were really here, like this heated kiss wasn't enough.

It was so easy to lose yourself in the kiss, after all, this was San. Your hands found their way on his head, your fingers slowly entangling themselves on his hair. You felt a bit bold, the rush of the kiss fueling you on. A low growl sounds from the back of his throat before he pulls away, sealing his lips on your neck, instead, to give it little kisses and kitten licks.

You felt his hands roam over your sides, going higher and higher until you felt them stop on your chest area. And when he cups both of your tits in his hands through your clothes, you couldn’t help the airy moan that escapes your lips. “Tell me to stop,” he breathes through your skin.

All you could do was helplessly whimper when you felt his teeth graze your earlobes, his hands toying with your top. And that was all he needed to know before he began to lower your sleeves, pushing your top down to expose your nipples that automatically hardened when the cold air hit them and he wastes no time touching them.

“So sensitive,” he chuckled, his fingers plucking at your nipples. “I've always wondered how these would feel. Would drive me mad whenever I thought about it. ”

You choke back another moan when he rubs his thumbs over the stiffening nubs. “A-Ah,” you gasped. “I've never noticed you looking…”

San responds by pinching a little harder. “But, I was,” he said, relishing the way your face twisted in pleasure as his hand started to massage your inner thighs. “From the moment Yunho brought you in…God, you were a vision, Y/N. Why did you think it took me a while to decide if I should take you as my bride?”

San takes one of your nipples into his mouth. “I wasn’t thinking about Utopia,” he said, tongue encircling your nubs as his other hand started to lower your undergarments. “I was imagining all the ways I would take you. Imagining how I would bend you over my throne and take you right there and then.”

Something explodes inside you at that revelation. “Please,” you beg, not really even know what you were begging for. “Please, San, I want you.”

He hummed, the vibration traveling straight through you. He released your nipple, giving it one last lick before he started to lift your dress, about to kneel, when you stopped him. “H-Hold on,” you stammered, slightly scandalised. “S-San, here? W-What if someone sees?”

He smirked dirtily. You faltered, you had never seen such an expression on San’s face. It was obscene. It was everything. He doesn’t respond, bunching your dress up in his hand and pushing them to you, making you grab it, before throwing your leg up on his shoulder as he kneeled down. You gasped, holding onto the balcony for dear life.

His eyes were locked on you, a predatory grin on his lips as he watched your mouth open to let out a silent scream when his latches on your inner thigh, sucking on the sensitive skin. It was painful, very much so. “S-San,” you moaned out, feeling pleasure at the same time, pushing his head away in a poor attempt to halt him. “Stop, it hurts—”

“Does it?” He tilted his head sarcastically, clenching his teeth on your skin.

“Y-Yes—”

“Good.”

That seemed to spur him on, the pain scrunching up your face as he sucked even harder, almost drawing blood to the area before moving on to the other thigh. Something about the pain triggers you, and before you knew it, you were pushing his head in, coaxing him to bite and suck harder to the point that the pain was more pleasurable than torturous.

“Say it,” he chuckled darkly, marking you, bruising your entire thigh area over and over again. “Say you’re mine or I stop.”

“N-No,” you sobbed, pushing your thighs together to keep his head in. “Don’t stop, please.”

And he laughs, sadistically so, his fingers tracing the slick folds of your pussy. “Who knew you’d be a pain slut? Just my luck. Look at you, already so wet for me,” he growled, rough and low, teasing your entrance before he pushed a finger in, making you gasp and clench around him.

Your hands slap your mouth shut, trying your best to prevent the lewd moans that threaten to slip past your lips. “You can be loud. It’s okay. We’re alone out here. No one’s going to hear you,” he reassured, not bothering to slow his fingers down. Let go, Y/N. I want to hear you.”

He thrusts his fingers faster to prove a point, obscene wet sounds filling in the entire space along with your breathy moans. “God, you’re dripping wet,” he groaned, his fingers plunging deeper to reach that spot that had you screaming out loud. “I bet you want my cock in here. To stretch this greedy little pussy and make you completely mine, don’t you?”

You arched your back, weak to his onslaughts, the thigh on top of his shoulder shaking helplessly. “San, p-please, that feels so good,” you whimpered.

"Fuck, listen to that," he murmured, the squelching sounds growing louder as he worked you relentlessly. "Your cunt's making such filthy noises. It's begging to cum, isn't it? Go on, soak my hand. Show me what a slut you are for this."

And you could feel it, your orgasm building slowly. “Let me help you out, hmm? Let me,” was all you heard before your vision completely blacked out. You felt San’s tongue flat on your clit, his fingers curling inside you as he laps you up, his tongue stroking your clit over and over again.

All you could do was scream, focusing on that tingly feeling on your abdomen the same time San kept alternating between pumping you with his fingers and his tongue swirling on your clit, slurping dirtily every time your drooling pussy would occasionally squirt on his face, just taking it all in, greedily swallowing your slick.

With a cry, you shattered all over San’s face, blubbering nonsense and begging at the same time as you clenched all over his fingers, all while he talked you through it. “That’s it, that’s my girl. Cum for me, yes.”

You panted heavily, the force of your orgasm literally rocking you. San withdrew his fingers, carefully letting your legs down, before grabbing the back of your head, forcefully stealing a bruising kiss from you, his teeth clashing angrily with yours. He pulls your head back, twice the force and effort, that it had your neck snapping backwards.

“Kneel,” he demanded. Your knees thudded on the floor, as he shoved his pants down, his thick cock springing freely in front of you. It was veiny, the tip already leaking with so much precum. “Open that filthy mouth for me,” he snarled, fisting his cock to slap it against your cheek.

You did as told, leaning forward to take the entirety of his cock in your mouth, but San had other plans. He grabbed a fistful of your hair, gripping it so tightly that the shock of it forced your mouth to open even wider, and that was when he rammed his cock in your mouth without warning.

“Oh, fuck,” he moaned low in his throat, pulling on your hair so hard that it had tears pricking your eyes. The pain only made you clench, and your tears made San thrust harder. “This is what you’re made for. I own every holes you have that I can fuck.”

You felt the tip hit the back of your throat, making you gag, but he didn’t stop. You had to hold on to his thigh for balance, your saliva dripping pathetically from the corners of your mouth, as he fucked your mouth violently, not stopping and forcing you to take every inch of him. The brutal pace makes your throat burn and tears start streaming down your eyes.

“That’s it, fuck,” San growled ferally, grabbing your hair to pull you back enough to inhale air before slamming back in. “Choke on it, get used to your jaw being stretched out. God, look at you. Your throat’s so fucking tight…”

You struggled to breathe, throat sore, but he only fucked harder, his balls slapping on your chin with each thrust. Your efforts seemed to spur him on and he pushed your head deeper until your nose hit his pubic bone. Your eyes widened, letting out a sound between a whimper and a groan, and you retched around him. You could tell he was loving every second of this.

The sounds of your struggles, your nails digging helplessly on his skin, combined with the lewd slurps of your mouth sucking his cock unleashes something in San. His thrusts grew erratic, grunts turning almost animalistic, and the roughness of him mouth-fucking you just made your pussy throb, aching to be used by the same cock abusing your throat.

“I’m gonna cum, just stay like that—fuck,” San held you still, cock buried to the hilt, as his cum explodes down your throat, pulling away just in time so he could mark your tear-stained face with more cum. He stepped back, admiring how absolutely ruined you looked.

And you stayed kneeling, mouth open as cum began to spill from your mouth, looking up at him reverently in a daze. You were about to close your mouth to swallow, but San stops you, wrapping a hand around your throat. “Ah, ah, ah, you naughty girl,” he said, a dark chuckle rumbling from his chest. “I didn’t give you permission to swallow. Get up.”

He squeezed your throat, guiding you up as he held it. Your eyes widened in surprise, holding onto his arms all while his cum was still in your mouth. “Mmph,” you let out in panic when he squeezes. You couldn’t breathe even through your nose, but thab t’s exactly what San wanted.

“Go on,” he taunted, effectively cutting off your air supply with one strong squeeze of your throat. “Take a deep breath. Choke.”

You couldn’t take it anymore. You gagged, coughing and choking violently on his cum. Filthy, disgusting gurgling sounds of his thick semen filled the air along with his mocking laugh. “Fuck, yes,” he sneered, fingers scooping the remnants of his cum that was scattered all over your face along with the ones dribbling on your neck back in your mouth. “Gurgle my fucking cum, yes.”

It was hellish, almost. The feeling of San’s cum going down but getting stopped halfway every time he squeezes your neck had you gurgling pitifully on it. You were starting to get a little dizzy from the lack of air, lightheaded from the restriction San’s hand had on your throat. You could feel your eyes rolling from the back of your head and it was when San let go.

Your legs buckled at the sudden rush of air to your head, knees thudding back down the floor as cum spilled out from your mouth, chest heaving as you panted hard. You barely felt yourself being lifted up. “Shh, you’re fine. Deep, easy breaths for me,” San soothed, wiping his stickiness off of you with the sleeves of his shirt. “Jump.”

You didn’t even process what he said, your body automatically doing it before your mind could follow. San caught you, your legs locking on his waist as your hands wrapped around his neck while his hands steadied you at your ass to keep you from falling. “Good girl,” he murmured.

His dark eyes locked onto yours and the way he gazed up at you with so much emotion and adoration behind the lust, like you were his entire world, sent shivers up your spine. San leaned in, tenderly compared to his brutal onslaught earlier, but you turned your head, avoiding his kiss. “San,” you croaked. “M-My mouth has your cu–”

A low growl rumbled from his throat. “I don’t give a fuck, don't you dare pull away from me,” he snarled, his voice laced with possessive fire. “You’re mine, Y/N, cum and all. Every inch of you belongs to me. Kiss me or so God help you for what I’m about to do to you if you don’t.”

Before you could protest, his hands cupped your cheeks with rough urgency, thumbs pressing into your jaw to force your face back to his. The kiss was filthy, dominant, and possessive. You melted into it, your core clenching with arousal at how he owned you completely.

You felt his hardness poking your hole, making you squirm, but San held you tight, holding you up with just one arm in an incredible show of strength. “I’m not done with you,” he said, lining himself up. “I’m going to fuck you now, alright? Hold on tight.”

You threw your head back as the both of you moaned the moment San breached you, not even bothering to ease it in and completely burying himself up to the hilt. He moved slowly at first, trying to find a comfortable position as he pulled you down a bit so he could thrust up in you.

“Oh, you’re so tight like this,” he groaned. His words made you clench, a feral snarl sounding at the back of his throat as his fingers dug into your ass as you did so.

He was lifting you by the ass and dropping you down and all you could do was bite the flesh of his shoulder to stop yourself from screaming. San’s self control was slipping, especially when the next bounce had him bucking his hips just as he dropped you onto his cock. Soon enough, he was pistoning roughly in you, the sounds of your ass slapping against his thighs obscene.

“San, a-ah, S-San, mmm,” you keened, your tits bouncing wildly as he filled you up with speed and force behind each thrust.

And just as he was wildly fucking into you up and and down his cock, he suddenly paused, a low growl vibrating from his chest. You were confused, but then, he kissed you again, this time, devouring you as you felt him walk, carrying you back inside as he climbed down the stairs into his chambers all while he was still inside you.

He still didn’t pull out as he sat down on the bed, taking off his shirt to get completely naked, laying down and positioning you on top of him while you were still dressed up. San looked up at you expectantly and you tried riding him, but your legs were jelly, already exhausted. He narrowed his eyes at your poor attempt at taking his cock.

“Tired already? I barely even started,” he scoffed, slapping your tits, making you whimper. He smirked as beads of sweat started to roll from his forehead down to his chin. His hoarse voice betrayed his pleasure, his grip on your hips getting tighter. “Come on, give it to me. Show me how much you want this cock.”

You bit your lip and sucked on it in anticipation. San raised his eyebrows at your refusal to move even though he could see how red your face was from all the work. "Don't play with me, Y/N. It's not a good idea," his fingers dug on your skin even harder and you were pretty sure it would leave marks the next day. "Move."

"S-San, please, I can’t," you pathetically whimpered. 

His eyes narrowed into dangerous slits before he lifted you by the waist and then roughly slammed you down, effectively impaling you on his cock. You screamed out loud when you felt him hit that sweet spot. "San, please," you whimpered, your shaking hands finding their place on his toned chest.

You felt him tense underneath from your touch, it made his cock twitch inside you and you couldn't help but bite your cheek in the pleasurable sensation. All of a sudden, San grabs the top of your dress, and with a sharp tug, rips it open, a satisfying rip echoing in the quiet room. You were sure you looked insane - a ripped top with your skirt still on.

“Figured this would help,” he laughed darkly. You gasped when he suddenly grabbed your shoulder and pulled you down. "Now fuck me, and you better fuck me good or you're not getting up from this bed." 

You whimpered when he grabbed a handful of your hair and roughly turned your head towards his to capture your lips in a rougher kiss while his other hand firmly held your ass and pushed it down to deepen his cock inside you. "San, yes, you feel so good i-inside me," you moaned out after he had driven deeper in you, head swimming in pleasure.

“You’re so cock dumb that you need my help fucking this dick, huh?” San mocked, his own moans mirroring yours as he guided your hips back and forth.

Your answer was another breathy moan. You were growing lax in his grip, just letting San do whatever he pleased. Nothing was stopping him now from jamming his cock into your pussy and every thrust knocked the air out of your lungs, but she still found the ability to scream out.

“This pussy is mine to use, yeah? Look at you, so tired but still taking my cock so well.” He palms your tits, his possessive gaze locked onto your pleasure-filled face. “God, you’re all mine, Y/N. Mine. Don’t stop now, you’re doing me so well.”

The feel of him, the scent of him, how deep you felt for him, just him…it was so overwhelming. And San can see it, the exhausted haze in your eyes as he fucked up at you. With a low grunt, he wraps his arms around your waist and flips you over in one fluid motion, pinning you on the mattress, your legs spread wide for him to admire.

You whined when he pulled out, slowly taking all of your clothes off until you were left bare and nude for him. You flushed red in embarrassment, but that soon turned into something when you saw the look in San’s eyes as he paused, drinking the sight of your naked body.

The way his gaze roamed your entire form with softness and tenderness left you breathless. Tears pricked behind your eyes at the way he lightly trails his hands all over you, reverence clear in his touch. His thumb swipes your tears away, his eyes shining with devotion that cut through the lust, adoration swelling in his chest until it physically aches him.

“You’re beautiful. So, so beautiful, Y/N. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he murmured, roughly but tenderly. He cups your face gently, savouring the vulnerability as if owning you felt like the deepest and greatest honour for him. “You’re so…God, fuck, I don’t know what to say. I just want to…”

His tenderness can only last so long. He shifts forward, gripping your thighs to spread them wider and without warning, slams his hips forward, burying his cock back in you in one brutal thrust that makes your back arch off the bed. “Oh, God, San,” you moaned out. “S-San—”

“That’s it, take me. Take all of it,”  he snarled, pulling out almost fully before ramming back in, the wet slap of your bodies echoing. He pounds into you relentlessly, balls slapping against your ass with each drive, leaning in to kiss you passionately.

He pulled away so you could both inhale once. It only took one look in each other's eyes before you were both tangled into each other once more. It felt good - it felt comforting like you were getting embraced by some unforeseen grace and wrapped you in its bosom even though you felt like his cock was about to split you into two.

You tense, mouth gaping open when San bites and marks your collarbone. “San,” you cried. “Mmm, t-too much.”

“Tell me how my thick cock ruins you, how you crave to be bred,” he panted. You tighten around him to an alarming degree and you feel him smirk against your skin. “Oh? You like that? Want me to breed you?”

“Yes, San, yes,” you gasped, arching your back. “I-I want you to b-breed me, please.”

”Then I'll fill you up, mark you inside out, until you can't walk without feeling me.”

It’s all you can do to claw at his back, relishing the feel of his cock pumping into you. Every time San thrusts, he grunts, every roll of his hips into yours hits that spot inside that makes you see stars. And you just take it, because this was San. You’d do anything for San.

You grabbed his face so he could look at you. "Cum inside me," you were breathless, but it was like you stole his breath with how his cock seemed to harden even more inside you, if that was possible.

San’s eyes visibly darkened and he started pounding into you wildly. It was hard enough to make the bed creak obnoxiously as his cock plunges into you even deeper than before. Mindblowing pleasure started to ignite your insides, blanking your mind as your screams went up a pitch, cumming around his cock.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum, Y/N, fuck,” he gritted his teeth, groaning lowly as you felt the warm gush of his cum spurt inside you. You could feel his cock pulsing, and with a few last desperate thrust of his hips, he was finally sated.

He collapsed on top of you as you both panted, riding out your highs. You felt him give your skin little kisses here and there, all while he stroked your hair repeatedly like some sort of mantra. “Y/N,” you’d hear him whisper reverently. “Oh, my Y/N. My sweet, sweet Y/N…”

He rolls off of you, making you groan as you feel warm liquid gush from your pussy, one that he silently wipes off with a wet towel before laying down next to you, scooping you up carefully so you could rest your head on the crook of his shoulder. You stay like that for a while, just basking in the afterglow, when San suddenly breaks the silence.

“Do you really like Utopia?” He asked, almost idly like an afterthought.

You blinked in surprise, not expecting such a random question. “Of course I do.”

“How much?” His gaze finally found yours. “Enough to fight for it? Enough to lead it, if one day you had to?”

Your heart stuttered inside your chest, but you chalked it up as nothing. After all, sex sometimes made people think of hypothetical scenarios and you decided to humour San with this one. “Yes,” you answered honestly. “Utopia needs someone to love it even though it’s cruel.”

He exhaled, visible relief loosening in his shoulder, his lips curved faintly. “Perhaps,” he murmured, kissing your forehead lightly. “You might be the queen Utopia actually needs.”

San had disappeared. Vanished into thin air the next day.

When you woke up the next day, you were completely alone, San’s side of the bed gone cold. You didn’t think anything of it, he had duties as king and he couldn’t just stay in bed for you all day, but when got back to your chambers with a worried Wooyoung and a panic-stricken Hongjoong arguing with Jongho about San’s whereabouts, it was when your entire world fell.

“There is no way Your Grace would do that,” Jongho pressed, walking back and forth in the throne room, anger in his tone, dismay and doubt on his face at each passing second. “He just went for a ride. That’s all. Sometimes he does that after the curse—”

“Jongho, it’s been over half a day,” Hongjoong insisted, irritated at the taller man as he raised his voice up a notch, making you flinch. “Hell, the fucking mage doesn’t even know where he is. He did not go for a ride and you know it.”

“So, what?” Jongho yelled back, the usually composed adviser slowly losing his cool. “Are you telling me that His Majesty ran away? Is that it? Are you even hearing yourself?”

You took a step back, dread filling your entire chest. Just the night before, you had laughed softly at his questions, brushing them off as speculation, never once suspecting that his questions weren’t meant to be hypothetical at all. You quickly ran off, ignoring how Hongjoong kept calling you back and pleading for you to stay put. You needed to get out of there.

The entire palace was in shambles, the servants and nobles all scrambling but failing to contain themselves at the thought of their missing king. Some of them were genuinely worried for San, but there were a select few who feared of the said curse completely annihilating the kingdom now that San was missing.

You didn’t heed any of them, worriedly looking for San even in the most obscure of places. Your panic rose every time you were met with an empty room, holding back tears as you imagined all the worst possible ways of what might have happened while you were asleep. You probably looked pathetic, but you didn’t care. All you wanted was to see San again.

An idea pops in your head. Yunho. Having no other options left, you quickly ran to the mage’s quarters, not caring how unladylike you looked as you sprinted down the hall. He didn’t even notice you come in as he was speaking urgently to Seonghwa, his expression grim. When Yunho noticed you, whatever composure he had shattered.

He quickly dismissed Seonghwa and ran towards you. The poor man was so distressed, sunken bags of purple splotching his skin, whatever magic in him getting sapped little by little by how much effort he was putting in finding his king and your eyes fell, feeling for the man. “Yunho,” you breathed out. “A-Are you alright?”

Your chest wanted to cave in itself, panic clawing further up your skin. If magic cannot even reach San, then what will? “I-I was with him last night,” you swallowed, spitting the admittance out even if it embarrassed you so. 

Yunho puts two and two together, brows shooting up in surprise, but chose not to comment on what you were trying to tell him, and you were thankful about it. You told him everything, minus the sexual details - San’s insecurities about being king, him thinking about abdicating at one point, all the way to the questions about you leading Utopia if the time came.

Yunho swore under his breath, a sharp, uncharacteristic sound. “Damn it,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “It might be the curse.”

“I need to know, Yunho. I think I’ve held off for far too long,” you pleaded, eyes burning. Yunho looked hesitant, but you pressed on. “I’ve respected your silence as an elder, respected San as the authority, and I respected Utopia as a whole since I’m not of this land and maybe I didn’t have the right to know. Please. Tell me. I need to know, I’m begging you.”

Something in your face must have touched something deep in the mage, and finally, he gives a slow nod. He exhaled heavily, shoulders sagging like the weight of centuries had finally caught up to him. “You’re going to need to sit for this one,” he murmured, gesturing towards a chair.

You didn’t need to be told twice. “It’s a long story,” he sighed, bringing his palms up, a small glow of light emanating from it, to touch your forehead as you felt yourself being transported into a memory. “While I cannot tell you, I could show you. Close your eyes.”

The world tilted on its axis. At first, you were confused because you saw a castle, a very familiar looking one at that and it was when it hit you - it was Utopia, only this time, there was no snow. It was lush and green, alive and well. You quickly realised that this was Utopia far before the snow started to swallow the kingdom, long before it had turned inhabitable.

And on the front of the castle grounds was a man in armour, standing proudly over an anguished woman, screaming at the top of her lungs in despair as she cradled the bloody body of another man who had long passed, her grief so raw that it split the sky open.

You gasped in horror at what you were witnessing, even more so when you looked closer. The man in the armour, he looked like San, only this one was far younger, and his eyes; they were unkind. Psychopathic, almost, not capable of empathy as he embellished the blood-soaked sword he had presumably used to slay the now dead man on the ground.

“You killed him,” she mourned, her tears falling in torrents, voice breaking as her blood soaked hands tried hard to seal the fatal wound, but to no avail. “You killed him, you monster!”

But the cruel man didn’t care. He didn’t say anything, just watched with wild, possessive eyes. You gasped when the woman looked up, her eyes glowing red in fury, the magic exploding from her so strong that even you could feel it from this memory.

“May your kingdom know only the cold that took him from me,” she seethed. She rose slowly to her feet, and when she stood fully, her magic surged again, this time, stronger and final.

For the first time, the man in armor reacted. “What are you doing?” He barked, stepping forward with unease as the temperature dropped around him. You watched in horror as a sudden blizzard filled the entire space and palace. “Stop, you cannot—”

“May your bloodline rot beneath endless snow,” she cried. You felt it, the cold slamming into you as snow immediately blanketed the kingdom of Utopia. “Only when a heart as warm and pure as his enters willingly and claims the throne and be claimed in return will the winter break.” Then the vision shattered. You gasped, eyes flying open, Yunho’s hand still resting against your forehead, his expression heavy with regret. “W-What was that?” You blurted out in disbelief at what you just saw. “Who was that? H-He looks like San, who was that woman?”

“He does, because that was San’s father,” Yunho sighed, panting to catch his breath from all the energy he exerted. “There was a beautiful forest witch who lived in the woods that he saw hunting once. He immediately fell in love with her, or rather, obsessed. It was disgusting, San’s mother died from heartbreak when San was only a newborn.”

Yunho dragged his hands down his face in defeat. “It was greed in its coldest form. The witch’s heart already belonged to someone else, and in a jealous rage, San’s father killed him. In front of her, no less. It’s why Utopia’s cold and desolate. The snow is a manifestation of her grief.”

“And when the former king died, that cruel bastard,” Yunho continued, his voice rough. “The curse didn’t fade…it passed. San absorbed it instantly.”

Your chest tightened, stomach twisting into something painful as your nails dug into your palms. “I-I don’t understand,” you uttered. “What do you mean it passed? Are you telling me that…”

You trailed off, not even wanting to continue. May your bloodline rot beneath endless snow. The words were still clear in your head like a ringing siren. Yunho nodded grimly when you looked at him. “Not only did she curse the kingdom as a whole to eternal coldness, but also the entire Choi bloodline for that very same greed that killed her lover,” he confirmed. 

Anger filled your veins at the man who had pretty much cursed his son for greed he couldn’t control. “At first, we didn’t understand what was happening,” the mage spoke, a faraway look in his face as he recalled a memory he’d been wanting to forget. “The snow just never melted and storm after storm claimed hundreds of lives. San’s father didn’t live long enough for me to study the curse. However—”

He paused, swallowing audibly, looking towards the floor. “There was someone who did live long enough,” he whispered, voice cracking. “And he’s been missing for half a day now. He was but a child back then, Y/N. I-I just…sorry, I need to collect myself.”

A cold realization slid down your spine. San. You imagined a boy growing up under a weight no one should have to carry, a vessel for sins he never committed. That was the part that hurt the most to you because it was no wonder there was always something distant in his gaze, walls you could never get through, because he was always bracing for the cold no else could feel.

“I tried everything back then, you know?” Yunho finally spoke after a long silence, decades of desperation still lingering in his eyes. “I tried every magic I knew even if it almost killed me, but the snow just would not melt. But San…he loved Utopia even if the entire kingdom condemned him.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion, letting him continue. “Utopia’s bound to its ruler. The Choi clan. The witch was smart enough to kill two birds with one stone - completely end the bloodline with the one thing that could outlast generations while erasing the entire kingdom.”

Your breath caught. “The snow.”

Yunho nodded. “Ironically, San was the one who realised what the curse actually entailed. Have you noticed that he never wears anything thick? He never gets cold when he’s outside with you, have you noticed that?”

You stayed silent, the puzzle pieces connecting slowly. Just last night when you were out on that balcony, he gave you his coat, even admitting outright that he never got cold. “He said the locket prevented him from being cold,” you murmured to yourself more as an afterthought.

“That was half the truth, yes,” Yunho said. “The reason is because the curse wasn’t meant to destroy the land outright - it was meant to bury it. ”

A chill crawled up your spine. “Then why hasn’t it yet?”

Yunho looked at you then, eyes dark with something close to reverence. “Because San wouldn’t let it. San absorbed the snow. Literally. Accidentally discovered it one Christmas evening when it stormed so bad, the snow was waist deep. It was the magic trying to reclaim Utopia completely. He got so sick, we thought we were losing him.”

The realization hit you hard. “So when there’s a storm—”

“He’s at his weakest,” Yunho finished. “Because he’s burning himself out to keep the snow at bay. Holding it back long enough for people to survive another day. The dark marks along his skin, they were the curse in itself, but more so just a side effect of him straining and pulling the curse inside him so the storm would stop, at least, for a while.”

The pieces slid together with a sickening clarity. Christmas was winter time and therefore where storms are the strongest. No wonder he hated it. No wonder he had isolated himself, it was so he could suffer in silence. And you were none the wiser.

You remembered how he’d convulsed, vomiting helplessly, blood streaking from his nose as if his body were tearing itself apart from the inside. And then, days later, the storm had stopped as if nothing had happened. It hadn’t passed - San had just taken it. He had been protecting his people all his life and nobody even knew it, choosing to be condemned just to keep them alive. 

And suddenly, you understood why San never stopped watching the skies; why even if he was with you or preoccupied with other people or in the middle of an important meeting he would always look out the windows. “The locket?” You asked weakly.

“I made it for him,” he said quietly. “Years of San absorbing the snow had not been kind to his body. I wove magic into it so a part of the curse is in that locket. When the storm hits, it absorbs the curse before it reaches him. Not all of it, but enough to keep him alive until...well.”

His voice turns somber. “Without it, he wouldn’t survive the storms. Not anymore. And believe me, we tried transferring the curse to an enemy at one point by making them wear the locket, but it was too strong. Whoever touches it instantly perishes.”

You looked at him more closely,  the way his jaw tightened as if holding back years of grief. And suddenly, you noticed it. This wasn’t just sorrow, this was something deeper. “You raised him,” you said softly. “You love him.”

He only nodded, once, eyes shining as he looked away. “He wasn’t just my king, Y/N. That’s my boy,” he wavered, emotions finally coming through. “And he deserved something good for once. Which is exactly why you’re here, we needed you. Only when a heart as warm and pure as his enters willingly and claims the throne. The moment I saw you in that alleyway, I knew you were a kind soul, Y/N. Utopia becoming a legitimate kingdom with a queen was only half the reason.”

Yunho proceeds to explain that while it was true that they needed a queen, the reason why San was marriageless until now was because of what the curse said. It wasn’t hard for San to force someone into a marriage or use something to bargain to find a queen, but it would be useless because the curse required someone to enter into the marriage willingly. And that was that, they thought that by you being here willingly, winter was going to fade.

But it didn’t. Nothing had changed and everyone was back at square one. “The problem was,” Yunho continued, exhaling shakily. “There was the other half of the curse. One that San absolutely refused to acknowledge. Be claimed in return will the winter break.”

You halted at the insinuation, freezing like snow had been piled on top of your head. Your mind automatically raced with scenarios you didn’t want to think about. Yunho’s silence had pretty much confirmed everything you needed to know. To be claimed in return. They were going to kill you, use you as a sacrifice to balance the curse so the snow would finally stop and winter would come to an end. A willing queen and a king to give her up.

“There was no way in hell San was going to let anything happen to you. You saw it yesterday. He didn’t just reject it, he lost control,” he said firmly. “There was never a doubt in his mind.”

“So, what now? Where do we even find him?” You asked, chest aching painfully. “There must be a solution, Yunho, something we could do to completely reverse this curse. I could hit the library for information, anything at this point. There has to be a way.”

“Well, yes, there is…” Yunho trailed off, freezing as blood completely drained from his face. Whatever he just thought of had him off kilter so bad, he got up from his chair and knocked everything off the shelves in the process. 

Before you knew it, he hurriedly bolted out of the room in sheer panic, leaving you to chase after him, the adrenaline boosting you because Yunho was fast. “Yunho,” you chased after him, ignoring the burning sensation in your lungs and the sudden cold that hit you when you realised you had chased him all the way out to the horse stables. “What’s—”

“I know where he is,” Yunho gritted his teeth, already preparing to mount a horse. You could tell he was trembling in fear, swallowing the panic that had overtaken him. “San’s planning to sacrifice himself. The land is bound to him, and his death would end the curse. Quickly, Y/N, hold my hand. We have to find him now.”

Terror filled your lungs, nodding anyway as you mounted, hands shaking so badly Yunho had to steady you before he started to ride away. The cold air hitting your face as the horse moved and blurred your surroundings did nothing to quelch the fear building at the pit of your stomach. All you could think was San and hope that you weren’t too late.

Every second felt like it was tearing something vital from your chest, tears freezing at the corners of your eyes as you rode harder, faster, praying to see the man who had long decided that no curse was worth your life; that he would rather lose himself or let Utopia freeze than forever lose you.

The thought had you keen internally. Please, you begged, tears falling down your face painfully as they automatically froze before they even had the chance to form, gripping the saddle until your knuckles burned. Please don’t let him think he has to disappear for us to survive. 

“W-Where are we going?” You screamed into the air, teeth chattering from the cold.

“The witch’s shack a little further up north where she lived with her lover,” Yunho replied, snapping the reins forward to make the horse go faster. “Her power’s concentrated there.”

It didn’t take long for you and Yunho to end up in a clearing where the trees were a little less condensed but the snow and wind were so strong and thick that it was almost impossible to see through it. But your breath hitched, anyway, because the moment you got past the haze, you saw him clear as day as if he was a beacon shining even from afar.

San. He was standing still in front of a quaint little shack, unbothered by the elements around him, just staring up at the sky with his eyes closed and you hated it. Absolutely detested the sight, because it looked like he had already resigned to his fate and was just waiting for the right moment to execute his plans.

And he was ready. You watched in panic as he raised his hand to his neck, holding the chain of the locket to take it off, but your body was already careening forward. You pushed yourself, jumping off of the horse before it even paused, ignoring Yunho’s panicked calls and the way your leg ached when you fell particularly hard.

“No!” You screamed at the top of your lungs, running like a madwoman through the thick blankets of snow even though your lungs were thinning in air and your legs were aching for reprieve. It was ear-piercing and blood-curdling enough to catch San’s attention, startling him to a halt and turning around, eyes widening when he saw your pitiful form run up to him.

And by God, he looked devastating. You wanted to tear up, it just wasn’t fair for him to look this breathtaking and ethereal even as the snow surrounded him, melancholy wrapping him in its grace as he stared at you with hollow, empty eyes. “San, please,” you begged, sobbing at this point. He looked like his soul had already left him long before his earthly body expired.

He smiled, the lines on his face softening and you abhorred how peaceful it made him look. This was the most at peace San had ever looked and you hated it. “My sweet Y/N,” he croaked, the trembling in his hands betraying the true fear he actually felt. “What are you doing here?”

You yelped, trudging forward in failure when you tripped over a rock you couldn’t see hidden by the thick snow. You pushed yourself up with shaking hands, tears blurring your vision. “Don’t,” you sobbed, words tumbling out broken and raw. “Don’t you dare look at me like that. Don’t you dare make that face like you’ve already decided.”

You felt Yunho behind you, steadying you, providing you warmth with the little magic he had left, opting not to say anything. This was between you and San at this point. And San, he just shook his head. “I have exhausted all options,” he said. “I am exhausted. Please, just let me go. I think I have suffered long enough that it should be alright if I could rest a bit, don’t you think so?”

He said it so quietly amidst the oncoming storm and that scared you more than if he’d shouted. Your chest cracked open at the gentleness of it, at how he said it like a plea instead of a decision. “No,” you cried, tears freezing at your lashes. “Not you. Not now. Not ever.”

San’s eyes softened. “Y/N—”

“You’d already come this far, why now? You can’t do this to the people who care for you. Hongjoong, Seonghwa, Yeosang, Mingi, Wooyoung, Jongho, and especially Yunho. You can’t do this to me. We’ve barely just begun, San, you cannot leave me like this. There has to be a way—”

“Don’t you get it? This is the only way,” San snapped, not out of anger, but more so in desperation, hoping for you to understand where he was coming from even if it meant it was for all the wrong reasons. “The curse ends here. With me. I am the last of my bloodline so with me gone, the curse perishes alongside me.”

“You know damn well that that’s not true,” you snapped back, the frustration giving you a newly found rush of adrenaline that temporarily overtook the cold and the pain in your leg. “I came here willingly, San, and I’m just as willing to do my part to be a sacrificial lamb—”

“No,” he immediately turns down, fire in his eyes so intense it could’ve been enough to melt the snow around him. “I didn’t fight this curse this long to sacrifice someone else in the name of balance, especially not you.”

“So, why won’t you fight for yourself this time?” You asked, voice breaking. “For us?”

“I am,” he said hoarsely. “This is the hardest battle I’ve fought yet. You think I don’t want to stay? You think I don’t want more tea sessions with you even though I despise tea? To stay long enough to finally see my kingdom be warm and green with you by my side?”

Something about that almost confession broke something inside you, and that was the most devastating part of it all. Almost. Just enough to finally tell you how he truly felt about you, but not enough where he was willing to stay long enough to tell you the entirety of it. “Don’t go, San,” you looked at Yunho helplessly. “Tell him, please…”

But the mage stayed mum, conserving his energy to keep you warm from the blizzard even though tears of devastation were already falling from his eyes. San’s voice dropped to something raw. “My throne without you is meaningless and its future built on your death is no future at all,” he admitted before his eyes hardened with finality. “I’m sorry, YN.”

It all happened fast. In one moment, San was lifting his hands to take the locket off, and in the next, you were rushing to him, deliberately knocking him off to tackle him on the ground, momentarily distracting him. Without thinking, you took the locket off of him, putting it around your neck. It was all it took for all hell to break loose.

Yunho’s spell shattered instantly in his state of shock and San’s eyes widened impossibly so as he realised what just happened. Everything was a blur, your ears ringing as you began to tumble down. San screamed your name, the sound of it so raw, primal, and animalistic that you could hear him even when you could barely comprehend the world anymore.

He immediately caught, cradling you in his arms as your vision started to blur out. “Y/N, oh God, what the fuck did you do?” San cried, frantically shaking you as if that would get rid of the curse. “Y/N, why? Why would you do that? Why?”

Your body jerked against his, your chest tightening to a degree where it felt like it was about to cave in on you. Suddenly, you felt this overwhelming cold over you and San’s grip tightened impossibly so. “Yunho,” he called out in panic. “Her hands, oh God—”

Black lines bled through your skin, exactly like the ones on San’s chest. They crept from your hands up your arms all the way towards your throat. Yunho staggered forward, horror breaking his paralysis. “The curse,” he said, voice shaking. “I-I think it’s binding to her—”

San wasn’t listening. He was sobbing now, forehead pressed to yours, tears streaking down his face as he begged you to stay awake. “Look at me,” he pleaded. “Please. Don’t you dare leave me, Y/N, please—”

The last thing you saw was San’s face, utterly broken, grief carved into every line of it as he clutched you to his chest like something already lost.

Warmth you’ve never felt before led your consciousness to awaken. It felt abnormal, like you weren’t to feel it and for a moment, you thought you were back at your parents’ farm - sweat clung to your skin, seeping out of your pores as natural heat from the farmland permeated all over the place. Instead of the humble shack made out of wood and concrete, you were met with arched windows draped in sheer gossamer curtains. The bed beneath you was impossibly soft, and you were confused for a second. This wasn’t the farmlands, and this wasn’t warmth from the sun-baked earth you remembered. 

You had to get up because the sweat was starting to irritate your lower back and you scrambled upright, you had to squint, covering your eyes as sunlight suddenly streamed from the windows. Now that you think about it, your lower back hurts too, like you’ve been laying down for quite some time and the long sleep hurt more than felt restful.

You reckoned you should change out of your dress. It felt a little too thick for the weather. It was a nice day, perfect for a walk when you looked out your windows. The birds were singing outside, the trees were a lovely shade of green and multiple colourful flowers littered the entire palace grounds—

You paused, horribly so. You blinked in a daze, rubbing your eyes in a daze and looked again. No. It was still bright outside, no blankets of snow covering the entire grounds like you knew Utopia to be. It wasn’t supposed to be like this - warm, vibrant, alive. And you staggered, remembering everything all at once - the curse, the locket, San.

Suddenly, the door opened and there stood Wooyoung, looking like he was frozen in time, skin pale as if he had just seen a ghost. Whatever he had been holding slipped from his hands and clattered to the floor, forgotten entirely.

Before you could even say hello, he spun on his heel and shouted down the hall, voice cracking with panic and disbelief. “H-Hongjoong,” his voice cracked before he cleared his throat. “Hongjoong!”

Hongjoong burst in, breathless, eyes wild. “What? What happened—” 

The second he saw you standing there, he froze as well before his knees gave out beneath him. He dropped to the floor without shame, head bowing as his hands pressed together. “Thank the Heavens,” he whispered hoarsely, emotion flooding his voice. “Oh, thank the Heavens…”

Neither of them waited a second longer. “I-I’ll inform the mage—” the knight said before leaving.

Wooyoung bolted out as well, shouting at the top of his lungs as he ran down the halls, voice so loud you were sure the entire palace could have heard it. “Your Majesty, Your Majesty!” The young man hollered, voice brimming with emotion. “Your Majesty, she’s awake!”

And in the chaos of it all, you could hear it, feel him approaching your chambers without even looking, the sounds of panicked footsteps as they got closer and closer and there he was - the man that made your heart beat at the mere thought of him, right in the flesh.

San’s hair was disheveled, like he had run his hand through it so many times in frustration. Your heart was torn between joy and hurt because San looked utterly worn down. The bags beneath his eyes looked darker than mere shadows and he resembled more of a shell of a man whose sleep had long abandoned him.

And now he was staring you at like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, torn between wanting nothing but to hold you versus protecting himself from nightmare and heartbreak just in case this wasn’t real; that maybe he was hallucinating and you were only a figment of his imagination that he wanted so, so bad to manifest.

He flinched, not daring to breathe or blink. Slowly, he began to move closer to you, hands shaking as they hovered over you like he was afraid touching you would make you disappear. Just as suddenly, his legs gave out, knees thudding on the floor as his trembling arms wrapped around your thighs, head buried in your dress as he embraced your form.

“S-San,” you let out in surprise, hands automatically finding their way on his hair. “Please–”

“Don’t,” he spoke, begged, voice raw and muffled. “Please, j-just let me have this.”

When your fingers twitched, he gasped like he’d been holding his breath for as long as you were in that deep slumber and your touch just made him remember how to let air back into his lungs and life into his soul. It was how everyone else caught you and San and there was no dry eye in that room and at that moment.

Seonghwa and Jongho left first after, relief shining in their eyes, both bowing respectfully before they let Yeosang in, the kind-hearted chef holding onto a smiling Mingi. The taller had to lead the former out to give you and San privacy. Only Yunho was left, tears glistening in his eyes.

“Don’t do that ever again. Don’t you ever do that to me again. You don’t understand,” he exhaled. “Y/N. I thought I lost you, you were asleep for so long, I-I just…”

You tried to speak, but your throat burned. You sat down to his eye level, unwrapping his arms around you, grabbing his face between your hands. “San,” you said hoarsely. “Look at me.”

And he did. And by God his face, he looked wrecked up close. Eyes red-rimmed,  jaw clenched so tight it trembled. “I’m here,” you continued, tears slipping free. “I’m not going anywhere. We’re both here. Together.”

Something in him broke. He finally pulled you into his chest, arms wrapping around you, his restraint shattering all at once. He buried his face in your hair, clutching you like you were the only solid thing left in the world before grabbing your face to kiss you. His lips were warm with promise and relief neither of you dared named yet but felt settled deep in your chests.

A pointed, awkward cough cut through the moment. “Ahem.”

You both froze, pulling away to see Yunho standing a few steps away, one brow raised, amusement swimming behind his concern. “I’m still here,” Yunho said dryly. 

You broke out into a breathless laugh first and it was all the three of you needed to make light of the situation. San guided you to the bed to let Yunho examine your body. “You’re perfectly healthy,” he said in disbelief even behind the relief. “A miracle, I tell you. You were reckless and I ought to smack you in the head for what you did, but so far, so good.”

It was when they told you everything that happened after you passed out. They couldn’t wake you up so they had no choice but to bring you back to the palace. San had to look away, jaw tight, when Yunho narrated how the king never left your bedside. But what truly surprised you was that about a week later, the snow started to melt and storms just halted completely.

“J-Just like that?” You asked, not able to stop your surprise, looking outside in confirmation and the scenario was still the same. Utopia looked utterly alive and if you closed your eyes to breathe in, it felt free. “How long did I…sleep?”

Both of them looked at each other before Yunho looked back on you. His expression softened, like he was choosing his words carefully. “Almost four months,” he said quietly. “It’s spring now.”

But something still boggled your mind, something far darker than you didn’t want to acknowledge but had to know. “But how? I don’t understand, is this how it ends? Just like that? Is Utopia free from the curse? Is…” you trailed off. “San free?”

Yunho went quiet for a moment, then slowly repeated the words that had haunted the kingdom for generations. “Only when a heart as warm and pure as his enters willingly and claims the throne,” he said softly. “And be claimed in return, will the winter break.”

You stayed silent, confused, but listened. “For the longest time, we misunderstood that last part as loss, that we needed a pure and kind heart as a sacrifice to stop the snow. But the magic never asked for death. It wanted reciprocation.”

You let that settle in, shaking your head because you still didn’t understand it. You felt San’s grip tighten around your hand and you turned to look at him. He had a soft smile on his face. “My father,” he spoke softly. “He was greedy. Just wanted to possess a love that never belonged to him. To enter willingly to claim the throne and be claimed in return…it was never about sacrifice. It was about being chosen back.”

The words landed like a final piece snapping into place. “In short,” Yunho finished. “To love and be loved in return. A queen of pure heart who was willing to accept a bloodline of rotten rulers with all she had and a king who loved with all his without asking for anything in return.”

The words settled heavily in the room. You had to admit, it was all anticlimactic; something you read as a child in those fairytale books your parents could barely afford selling grains. Love. Such a convoluted word yet powerful enough to bury a kingdom if need be.

It was all you could think about long after Yunho had left, leaving you and San in your chambers as the both of you laid down on your bed, his arms wrapped around you, just basking in the silence and the general presence the both of you offered each other. It was all you needed, and you were all he needed and more. 

Maybe that was what it really was. Even if it was anticlimactic, it was reality, and what you felt for San was real. It ran deeper than the curse that held him for the longest time, and it certainly went beyond the reckless endangerment you put your life in when you wore the locket for him.

“Are you mad at me?” You blurted out dumbly, not knowing what else to say.

San didn’t answer you right away. He exhaled a small laugh through his nose in disbelief. “Yes. Very much so,” he said honestly. Your heart tanked, guilt swirling in it, but before you could spiral further, he tightened his arms around you. “But,” he continued gently. “What I feel for you will always be stronger than my anger. ”

All the breath from lungs left you, his words suddenly becoming the oxygen you needed to live. You wanted to choke from all the emotions that were clawing up your throat, and you looked at him - really looked at him. You breath caught because there was no trace of that king nor that man who was bound by a curse he never deserved. He was just San. His eyes were warm, devastatingly soft, watching you like you were something precious. 

“I lost myself while you slept. You just looked so…gone,” he admitted quietly. “And it terrified me more than the curse ever did. A part of me died when you wore that locket.”

Your throat burned. “I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean to scare you like that, I swear, and honestly, I still don’t know what I was thinking. I just knew I didn’t want you to leave me.”

He didn’t answer; chose not to. He smiled, staring at you with fondness in his eyes and it was such a San thing to do. He brushed his knuckles along your cheek, memorizing you in a way he’d never done before. The way he looked at you made your chest ache.

“I’m underselling this, aren’t I?” He suddenly said, his thumb traced slow, absent-minded circles against your arm. “What I feel for you, I mean.”

You felt his forehead rest against yours, breath warm, steady. “I’d swallow poison if it tasted like you,” he said. “I’d have brought you back one way or another. Find another witch to curse me just to drag you back. I loved you, Y/N. And you were gone. I loved you. And you slept.”

Your chest ached, full and fragile all at once. You couldn’t speak. If you did, you were certain you’d fall apart. His thumb stilled on your arm. “And I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, voice low, rough around the edges.

You were confused. "For what?"

"That you thought you couldn't come to me," he whispered. "For letting you believe that the only way was to carry what should have never been yours."

He turned to you, his eyes shining with sincerity, his heart on his sleeve as he was about to pour his emotions to you. "It breaks my heart that I didn't do well enough for you to know that," he kissed your hand, his lips lingering longer. "I'm the one safe person you can always turn to, Y/N. Had I known it was going to come to that, I would’ve told you and let you choose what to do."

"Are you saying that you would have been okay if I solved everything myself?" You asked nervously. “That you would have let me help had you told me the curse beforehand?”

"Are you asking me to be okay with it?"

You didn’t reply immediately. "I want to know what my future husband thinks," you admitted shyly. 

He raises a brow in surprise, the redness on the tip of his ears betraying his flustered emotions. “Yes,” his thumb brushed under your eye, tender. “The answer is yes. Your happiness has been the most important thing to me ever since I met you. I hope you know that.”

"I know it now," a tear fell from your eyes. And then multiple of them followed. "And now is all that matters."

He wiped your tears away with his free hand, looking at you like you were the only constant thing in the world that finally stopped freezing long before his kingdom did. “You’re beautiful even in tears,” he murmured.

"You can't just say things like that," you sniffled, smiling through your tears anyway. "I-I have nothing to offer you, San, I'm just a farm girl and I have no idea how to lead a kingdom. I don’t have any merit."

You had no idea where all your insecurity was coming from, but it was there. "No," San whispered. "You can give me everything. The people too. Look around you, Y/N."

And you did and that’s when you saw it. Random things you knew weren’t in the room - a hand stitched shawl, flowers in ornate vases, carved wooden charmed wooden carvings, multiple letters stacked against one another in one corner of the room. Your room was filled to the brim with gifts.

“They’re from the people of Utopia,” he said, following your gaze. “They’ve been giving you gifts. I told them everything. About the curse. About what you did. About how the snow stopped because you refused to let me disappear.”

Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs. “To them, you’re already their queen,” he continued. His eyes shone warmly, shining softly and earnestly as a good king should who truly loved his kingdom like San did. “ You lead by caring enough to try. Every day, even when it costs you. I know I did.”

Then he smiled, that soft, devastating smile meant only for you, and reached into his palm. A ring rested there and your tears started falling downwards at a faster rate as he took your hand in his. “Let’s do this again, please. No more duties, no more curses. Just us choosing each other, if you’d let me.”

The room felt impossibly still as he held the ring up to you, hope trembling just beneath his calm. “To the person who braved the cold with me,” he began. “Would you spare me the torment of being without you and marry me?"

You couldn’t speak, nodding fervently as you covered your mouth to stop yourself from sobbing out loud. The breath he let out was shaky, broken by a smile so full it almost hurt to look at. When he slid the ring onto your finger, the cold felt like nothing more than a distant memory.

In that moment, with no more snow falling and no curse left to fear, it felt like the world finally, truly began again for the both of you. He cupped your face in his hands and leaned in. The kiss was nothing short of gentle, longing melting away between your lips.

And as the last remnants of fear had unshackled itself from the cold grips of despair, the curse was unbound. And at last, San felt free - truly free for the first time in his life.

The camp smells like dust and crayons and something warm you can’t name yet.

The classroom is too bright, sunlight spilling through the open windows in lazy stripes. Dust floats in it, slow and golden, like it has nowhere else to be. 

Cheap plastic chairs scrape loudly against the tile floor as kids shuffle around, the sound sharp enough to make you flinch. Somewhere to your left, a recorder lets out a sound so wrong it makes the teacher sigh.

Cicadas buzz outside, steady and loud, like they’re part of the lesson.

You hover near the wall, recorder clutched tight to your chest. It’s smooth and cold in your hands, your fingers wrapped around it like it might disappear if you let go. You don’t know anyone. Everyone else seems louder, faster, already talking with someone they recognize.

You try to make yourself smaller.

Across the room, there’s a boy doing the same thing.

He’s big for six. Too tall, limbs a little too long, legs swinging nonstop as he sits at the edge of his chair. His sneakers don’t quite touch the floor. He keeps glancing around like he’s worried someone might ask him something he doesn’t know how to answer.

The teacher claps her hands once.

“Okay, partners.”

Your stomach drops.

Names are read out. Chairs scrape again. Kids move, laughing, bumping into each other. You stay still, hoping somehow you’ll be forgotten.

Then you hear your name.

And his.

He looks at you first, eyes wide, like he’s checking to see if you heard it too. You nod, small and careful. He stands up too fast, chair legs screeching, and winces like he’s already in trouble.

He walks over, stops a little too far away. Hesitates.

You stare at the floor.

Then he nudges a chair closer to yours. Just an inch. Maybe two. Like it happened by accident. Like he didn’t mean it at all.

He leans in, voice low, like you’re sharing a secret instead of sitting in a classroom full of kids who can’t play recorder to save their lives.

“Do you know how to play?”

You swallow. Shake your head. Your voice comes out quiet, but honest.

“…No. But I can pretend really well.”

For a second, he just looks at you.

Then he grins.

It’s not loud or confident. It’s crooked. Relieved. Like you just saved him from something terrible.

“Okay,” he whispers back. “Let’s pretend together.”

Something settles between you then. Not big. Not dramatic. Just… right.

You both lift your recorders at the same time. Both mess up. Both squeak. When the teacher frowns in your direction, you clamp a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing. He doesn’t even try. His shoulders shake, quiet giggles puffing out of him until he has to duck his head.

You get scolded together.

You sit closer after that. Close enough that your elbows touch. Close enough that when he breathes, you feel it.

When it’s time to line up, he waits for you without thinking. When you drop your recorder, he picks it up and hands it back like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

By the end of the day, you don’t remember when being alone stopped feeling scary.

You don’t have words for it yet. You don’t know what it means. You just know that when you leave the classroom, sunlight still warm on your skin, cicadas still singing, you look for him automatically.

And he’s already looking for you too.

Something has started, but neither of you knows it yet.

You grow up like this.

Side by side.

Never quite touching the center of the thing.

Summer music camp becomes the axis your year spins around. Everything else is just waiting. School, seasons, birthdays. Placeholders. You mark time by how long until you get to see him again.

By eleven, you know the shape of him. How his voice drops when he’s tired. How he chews on pencils when he’s thinking. How he always sits close enough to make leaving feel optional.

A rainy afternoon keeps the campers inside. You’re sitting on the floor of the rec hall, knees pulled up, trying not to cry because you miss home. The hum of practice rooms, muffled laughter, and the smell of wet pine through the open windows fills the air.

He finds you like he always does.

He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. Doesn’t crouch in front of you. He just drops down beside you, legs stretched out, hands resting awkwardly on his thighs like he’s afraid to scare you off.

Minutes pass. Maybe more.

Eventually, he leans just a little. Shoulder to shoulder. Careful. Testing.

You lean back.

Your breathing syncs without either of you trying. In. Out. In. Out.

That’s how it always is.

At fourteen, you’re all elbows and growth spurts and feelings that buzz under your skin like live wires. End-of-day rehearsal. The sun dips. The air cools. 

You’re kneeling beside a younger camper, tuning a small instrument, when a shiver runs up your spine. You tug at your long sleeves, but it doesn’t help.

He notices, of course he notices — he always does. Without a word, he unzips his hoodie and drapes it over your shoulders. 

You freeze, shy, the fabric engulfing you and somehow making you feel both protected and exposed.

It smells faintly of lakewater and grass, after he’s been running around with his friends all afternoon. The scent curls under your nose, mingling with something uniquely him, and you inhale it a second too long. Your heart stutters.

“Here.”

You blink at him, cheeks warming. “You’ll be cold.”

“I’ll survive,” he says easily, shrugging like it’s nothing, though you know he notices everything. He’s always watching, just in case you need him.

You hand it back afterward, warm, smelling faintly of crayon, soap, and you.

“You forgot this,” you murmur, teasing, though your chest tightens in that way only he can make it.

“I didn’t,” he replies with effortless ease, eyes flicking over you like he’s memorizing every detail.

You keep it. And wear it to sleep, because for some reason, knowing it’s his makes you rest better.

At seventeen, the cabin’s practice room is empty, the other campers long gone. You sit side by side on the floor, sheet music spread around like confetti, pencils tapping the staves. 

He insists on walking you back to your cabin afterward, even though the sun has barely dipped behind the treeline, even though you’ve done it alone countless times.

“It’s no big deal,” he says, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, voice casual but steady.

You let him anyway.

The wooden boardwalk creaks under your steps. He keeps close, his shoulder brushing yours more than necessary. Then your hand accidentally grazes his, and for a half-second, everything freezes — just the two of you and the soft buzz of crickets.

Neither of you pulls away. Neither says a word. The night smells like pine and lakewater, thick with unsaid things.

At nineteen, the end-of-camp party is louder than expected. Music thumps, laughter carries too close. Someone says something they shouldn’t have. Someone touches where they shouldn’t. 

Everything tilts. 

You step outside and call him without even checking the time.

Ten minutes later, Mingi is at the cabin doorway, broad shoulders framed by lantern light. His eyes sweep over you once, assessing, steady, and there’s no question what’s wrong.

“You okay?” he asks, calm, careful.

“Yeah,” you murmur, voice tight.

“Okay,” he says, already walking you away from the cabin. “Let’s get you back.”

He doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t need to. You don’t tell him. He just knows.

The next morning, you catch sight of that camper at breakfast. He’s nursing a purple eye, the proud edge of his ego clearly bruised. You can’t help but smirk, a quiet satisfaction curling under your ribs, because Mingi already handled it — like he always does.

Years stack up like this. Small moments. Quiet loyalty. A gravity that keeps pulling you back together no matter how far you drift during the rest of the year.

You don’t call it love.

You don’t call it anything.

It’s just him.

It’s just you.

Something precious.

Something fragile.

Something you protect by never naming it out loud.

The shift is so subtle you almost miss it.

One summer, you arrive at camp brimming with excitement, eager to see him again. But he isn’t there. 

That year, the cabins feel smaller, the lake quieter. You smile, you laugh, you join activities — but the joy feels hollow, the camp a little dimmer without him. You pretend it’s fun, but every familiar corner whispers memories you can’t quite chase away.

The years continue. Sometimes you hear about him through mutual friends, or the occasional texts he sends, but the shared afternoons, the stolen glances, the laughter echoing across the porch — those are gone. The camp moves on. So do you.

Early twenties arrive without ceremony. Life fills up. Not with drama. With routine.

Jobs that drain you in quiet ways. Commutes that eat whole afternoons. Sleep that never quite feels like enough. You learn the weight of being tired in your bones.

At first, nothing really changes.

You still text. Still send each other stupid little things. A photo of something that reminded you of him. A voice note recorded half-asleep, his voice low and warm in your ear like a habit you haven’t learned to quit yet.

“You alive?”

“Barely.”

“Eat something.”

“You too.”

Then schedules start to slip past each other.

Your calls turn into voice notes because there’s not time anymore. Voice notes turn into check-ins. Check-ins turn into “sorry, just saw this.” Those turn into “let’s catch up soon.”

Soon becomes a concept. Not a plan.

There’s no argument. No betrayal. No sharp moment you can point to and say this is where it broke.

Because it doesn’t break.

It thins.

You tell yourself this is adulthood. That this is what happens when you grow up. That closeness naturally fades when life demands more space.

You tell yourself what you had belonged to a different version of you. Younger. Lighter. Less tired.

Mingi still writes.

You know because sometimes he sends you a voice memo at three in the morning. Thirty seconds of guitar. A hummed melody. No explanation.

You listen with your phone pressed to your chest, eyes closed, breathing shallow like if you move too much the moment will vanish.

You never ask what it’s about.

He never tells you.

He writes songs he never sends. Lyrics that stay folded in notebooks. Melodies that live and die in the privacy of his room.

And you… you catch yourself reaching for your phone more often than you’d like.

You’ll be in the middle of something ordinary. Cooking. Waiting for a bus. Standing in line for coffee. And the urge hits you sharp and familiar.

I should tell him about this.

He’d laugh at this.

He’d get it.

Your thumb hovers.

Then you stop.

Not because you don’t want to talk to him. But because you don’t want to be the one always reaching first. Because you don’t want to feel like you’re pulling on something that’s already slipping through your fingers.

So you put the phone down.

You still see each other. Sometimes.

Coffee when schedules miraculously align. Birthdays, where the hug lasts a second longer than it should. Breakups, where you’re still each other’s first call even if weeks have passed since the last real conversation.

There’s comfort, yes. Familiarity. But there’s also something unspoken sitting between you now. A distance that hums softly, like static.

You don’t talk about it.

You talk about work. About deadlines. About how tired you are. About how weird it is that everyone’s getting married now.

You never say I miss you. I think about you all the time. I don’t know where to put this feeling anymore.

The ache is quiet.

That’s what makes it worse.

It doesn’t scream. It doesn’t demand attention. It just sits there, steady and patient, weaving itself into the background of your life.

You learn to live with it.

And somewhere, without realizing it, you both start believing that this is just how things are now.

Not gone.

Just… less.

You come back to the camp almost by accident.

It’s meant to be temporary. A summer contract. A favor to an old coordinator who remembers you as the quiet kid who always stayed late to help stack chairs and tune guitars. You tell yourself it’ll be good for you. A pause. Fresh air. Something that isn’t fluorescent lights and inboxes that never empty.

You don’t tell yourself it’s because this place still feels like home.

The drive up is familiar in a way that makes your chest ache. The road curves the same way it always did. Trees crowd closer, taller than you remember, their leaves stitching the sky into patches of green and blue. The air changes before you even park. Cooler. Cleaner. Like it knows you.

You unload your bags alone.

Cabins line up like quiet witnesses. Wood worn smooth by decades of summers. The lake glints through the trees, smaller than memory but just as steady. Somewhere, a squirrel skitters along a railing. Somewhere, kids are laughing, voices bright and unselfconscious.

You inhale.

You’re here as a mentor now. A monitor. A teacher. Someone the kids will look up to the way you once did to the adults who seemed impossibly calm and sure of themselves.

You feel none of those things.

You set your bag down in the staff cabin, fingers brushing over the familiar grain of the bunk bed frame. The room smells like sun-warmed wood and detergent. You tell yourself to focus. To ground. To remember why you came.

Then you hear it.

Laughter.

Not just any laughter. His.

It carries across the clearing, rich and unguarded, the same sound that used to pull you out of rooms when you were sixteen and pretending not to look for him. The same sound that lived in your phone at three a.m. in voice notes you replayed more times than you’d ever admit.

Your body reacts before your mind does.

You turn.

He’s standing near the main hall, surrounded by kids already, because of course he is. He’s even taller now. Broader. His shoulders stretch his shirt in a way that makes your throat go dry. There’s an ease in the way he moves, a confidence that wasn’t there before, not like this.

But the gentleness is the same.

The way he crouches to talk to a kid at eye level. The way his smile softens when he listens. The way his hands move, careful even when he’s laughing.

Mingi.

The name settles in your chest like it never left.

For a moment, the years fold in on themselves. Twenty summers collapse into one heartbeat. Every version of you that has ever existed recognizes him at once.

His gaze lifts.

It takes half a second. That’s all. Half a second for his eyes to land on you and widen just slightly, like he’s not sure he’s seeing right.

Then his smile changes.

You walk toward each other without saying anything, feet moving on instinct. The space between you shrinks too fast, too slow. 

Then something inside him moves before his brain can catch up. His arms wrap around you almost instinctively. You freeze for a heartbeat — then melt. Your body fits against his like it’s remembered every contour, every warmth, every heartbeat from years ago.

The hug is awkward at first. Arms unsure. Bodies recalibrating. Then something gives. He pulls you in, firm and familiar, and you sink into it like your body has been waiting years for permission.

It lasts too long.

Long enough for the world to fade. Long enough for you to notice the heat of him, solid and grounding. Long enough for his hand to flex slightly at your back, like he’s reminding himself you’re real.

Neither of you lets go when you should.

When you finally do, you’re both smiling, breath a little uneven. His eyes don’t leave your face. Not for a second.

“Hi,” he whispers. Soft, warm, his voice raspier than you remember.

“Hi,” you answer. Your voice sounds steadier than you feel.

Then he blinks, tilting his head slightly. “Wait… what are you doing here?”

You lift an eyebrow, smirking despite the flutter in your chest. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“I’ve been teaching here for a couple years,” he says, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “Composition, mostly. You know… keeping the kids from breaking instruments.”

You laugh softly. “I’m helping out the coordinator. The one who always paired us in lyricism lessons. Figured I owed her a favor.”

He grins, but it falters just a little under the weight of everything you both feel.

The days that follow settle into a rhythm that feels dangerous in its familiarity.

Not dramatic. Not explosive. Just… easy.

Too easy.

Morning bells. Breakfast chaos. The scrape of benches on gravel. Kids spilling out of cabins with tangled hair and boundless energy. You and Mingi fall into your roles like you never left, like your bodies remember this place even if your lives moved on without it.

He becomes a magnet.

A gentle giant in a plaid shirt that clings to his shoulders, sleeves rolled up without thinking. He carries instrument cases like they weigh nothing, slings backpacks over one arm, hoists kids onto his shoulders when they get tired halfway down the trail.

He kneels to eye level when someone’s upset. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t interrupt. Just listens, nodding slowly, like whatever they’re saying matters more than the schedule.

And he laughs. Loud. Easy. The kind of laughter that makes kids feel safe just by existing near it.

They trust him instantly.

You watch it happen over and over again, something warm and aching blooming behind your ribs every time.

You have your own gravity.

You notice things before they’re said. The kid who lingers at the edge of the group. The one whose smile doesn’t quite reach their eyes after lunch. The girl who suddenly misses her parents when the sun starts dipping and the lake turns quiet.

You braid hair on the porch, fingers careful and patient, parting strands gently, tying ribbons with practiced ease. You sit beside kids instead of in front of them. Match their breathing without meaning to.

Sometimes you don’t say anything at all.

Sometimes that’s exactly what they need.

Across the yard, Mingi runs past with a boy on his shoulders, laughter bright and unfiltered. The kid squeals, gripping his hair, fearless. Mingi steadies him with one hand, the other raised in mock victory like he’s won something monumental.

Your eyes meet.

You smile without thinking.

He grins back, wide and boyish, like he’s been caught doing something he enjoys too much.

Later, a kid storms off after messing up a chord progression, frustration written all over her face. You’re mid-conversation with another camper when you hear Mingi’s voice shift, softening.

“Hey. It’s okay. Wanna try again together?”

He plucks the wrong chord on purpose. Makes a face. She laughs despite herself.

You watch his hands move on the guitar, sure and gentle, and think, distantly, that you’ve always known exactly what kind of man he would grow into.

You move without words.

When he’s surrounded, you step in. When you’re tied up, he appears at your elbow with water, with sunscreen, with a quiet “I got this” that feels intimate in a way you’re trying not to examine too closely.

You finish each other’s sentences.

You reach for the same marker, the same clipboard, the same kid at the same time.

It’s seamless, but the kids notice immediately. They always do.

“Are you married?”

The question drops like a pebble into still water.

You’re mid-sip of the coffee Mingi brought you earlier. You choke.

Mingi freezes like he’s been caught stealing.

“No,” he says too quickly. “No, we’re not.”

You cough, laugh, wave a hand. “What? No.”

The kid squints. Unconvinced. “Why do you sit together then?”

You glance at Mingi. He glances at you. Neither of you has a good answer.

Another kid pipes up, mouth sticky with jam. “You’d be good parents.”

You feel heat crawl up your neck.

Mingi turns red all the way to his ears. “We’re just good friends.”

“That’s what my mom said before she married my dad,” the kid replies cheerfully.

You snort despite yourself.

Mingi groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You kids are brutal.”

They scatter, laughing, entirely pleased with themselves.

You’re left standing there, the echo of their words hanging heavy and ridiculous between you.

“Married energy,” you murmur, mostly to yourself.

He hears it anyway.

“Don’t,” he says, laughing nervously. “Please don’t say it like that.”

“You’re the one who blushes like a teenager,” you tease, arching a brow.

He opens his mouth, closes it, rubs the back of his neck. “I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

He points at you. “You braid hair like someone’s already done this for your own kids.”

You falter.

Just for a second.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “That was—”

“It’s okay,” you interrupt, softer now. “You’re not wrong.”

The air shifts. Something tender passes between you. Something unspoken and startlingly domestic.

Later that afternoon, you sit side by side on the steps of the main hall, watching the kids run wild with chalk and bubbles.

A squirrel darts across the railing. A few kids gasp like it’s a miracle.

Mingi leans back on his hands, stretching his long legs out. The sun catches in his hair. You realize you’ve been cataloguing these details unconsciously all day.

“You always do that,” he says suddenly.

“Do what?”

“Notice everything.” He glances at you, eyes warm. “Even when you think no one’s watching.”

You shrug. “Someone has to.”

He hums, thoughtful. “I always liked that about you.”

The words land heavier than they should.

You swallow. “You always liked a lot of things about me.”

He laughs, a little breathless. “Yeah. I did.”

Silence settles. Comfortable. Charged.

At dinner, a kid wedges herself between you at the table without asking. Another follows suit. Before you know it, you’re surrounded, sharing food, passing napkins, answering a dozen questions at once.

“Why don’t you sit over there?” one asks Mingi, pointing to the teachers table.

He glances at you, then back at the kid. “Because she’s sitting here.”

Simple. Unthinking.

Your chest tightens around the word she.

That night, the fire is already burning low when the kids settle in. 

Logs dragged closer. Blankets piled haphazardly over shoulders. Someone pokes the embers with a stick and gets scolded immediately. Crickets stitch the dark together, steady and soft, and the lake breathes somewhere beyond the trees.

Mingi sits on an overturned crate with his guitar resting against his thigh.

The sight alone does something to you.

He looks relaxed in a way he rarely does during the day. Hoodie loose, sleeves pushed up, hair falling into his eyes every time he tilts his head down to tune. Firelight paints his skin gold, softens the angles of his face, turns him into something almost unreal.

A kid leans against your side, sleepy and warm.

“Is he gonna play?” she whispers.

“Yeah,” you murmur back. “He is.”

Mingi glances up, catches your eye and smiles.

It’s small. Familiar. A private moment that never needed words.

He starts strumming.

The song is light. Easy chords. Something meant to be sung outdoors, meant to float. The kids sway without realizing it, some humming along, some already half-asleep with heads drooping against shoulders.

It’s not a love song.

At least, it doesn’t try to be.

But the way he sings it… that’s different.

His voice is warm, unguarded, carrying across the fire like an open hand. He closes his eyes on certain lines. Smiles to himself on others. There’s a softness threaded through it that makes your chest ache, because you know him well enough to hear what’s underneath.

Home. Familiarity. Missing someone quietly.

You don’t mean to listen this closely.

You don’t mean to imagine the song turning toward you.

But it does.

Every note feels like a memory. Like sitting too close on a porch step. Like shared earbuds. Like silence that never needed filling.

Your throat tightens.

You look away, focus on the kids instead. On the way one of them mouths the words wrong. On the way another leans against Mingi’s knee like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

When the song ends, applause erupts. A few cheers. Someone yells his name too loudly.

Mingi laughs, ducking his head, embarrassed. He strums one last chord and lets the guitar rest.

You clap with the others, smiling, heart doing something reckless in your chest.

That’s when it happens.

Another monitor steps in before you can.

She’s laughing, bright and easy, says something you can’t hear over the crackle of the fire. She touches his arm when she does it. Brief. Casual. Familiar in a way that shouldn’t matter.

Mingi laughs back.

Turns his body toward her without thinking.

You feel it immediately.

A sharp, stupid sting right under your ribs.

It’s ridiculous. You know that. There’s nothing wrong with what you’re seeing. Nothing inappropriate. Nothing that should twist your stomach the way it does.

But it does anyway.

You stand up too quickly.

“Okay,” you announce to the kids, voice a little too bright. “S’mores time.”

They cheer, suddenly alert.

You focus on the task like it’s the most important thing in the world. Crackers. Chocolate. Marshmallows. Your hands move faster than usual, movements clipped, precise.

Someone notices.

They always do.

“You’re sad,” a kid says bluntly, tilting her head at you.

“I’m not,” you reply automatically, sliding a marshmallow onto a stick.

She squints. “You are.”

Another kid leans in conspiratorially. “It’s about him.”

You snort, sharper than you mean to. “No, it’s not.”

“It is!” a third adds, completely confident. “You look like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like when my mom says she’s fine,” he answers. “But she’s not.”

You huff a laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “You guys watch too much.”

They exchange looks. The kind that says they know exactly what they’re doing.

“You should tell him,” the girl from earlier says gently, like it’s the most obvious solution in the world.

You hand her a finished s’more. “Eat your dessert.”

She takes it, then grins. “After.”

You roll your eyes, but the tension in your shoulders eases just a fraction.

Mingi glances over from across the fire and catches you mid-laugh. His smile softens. His eyes linger.

The sting flares again.

You turn back to the kids, breathing in sugar and smoke and summer night.

“I don’t need to tell him anything,” you say quietly, more to yourself than to them.

They don’t argue.

They just sit closer.

One kid hugs your side. Another bumps your knee with hers. Someone passes you a slightly burnt marshmallow like it’s a peace offering.

You laugh, helpless and warm despite everything.

“Don’t look at him,” one whispers, stage-whisper loud.

“I’m not,” you whisper back.

“You are,” another giggles.

You bite into your s’more, chocolate melting onto your fingers, and finally let yourself glance over.

Mingi’s still talking to the other monitor, but his attention drifts. His gaze finds you again, brows knitting just slightly, like he’s noticed the shift and doesn’t understand it.

Concern flickers across his face.

Your heart trips.

You look away first.

The fire crackles louder. The night presses in, intimate and full. Kids yawn. Someone rests his head on your lap. You stroke his hair without thinking, fingers gentle, grounding yourself in the motion.

“Hey,” a small voice murmurs. “You okay?”

You smile down at him. Softer this time. Real. “Yeah.”

He studies you for a long second, then nods like he’s made a decision. “Okay.”

Another beat passes.

Then, like a secret being passed along a line, one of them whispers, “We can help.”

You blink. “Help with what?”

They all grin.

The idea settles in your chest, quiet but insistent.

You don’t say yes.

You don’t say no.

But as the fire burns down and the kids are herded off to their cabins, you catch Mingi looking at you again, concern deepening, steps slowing like he wants to come over and doesn’t know how.

And for the first time in years, the thought doesn’t scare you.

Maybe… you should say something.

Maybe pretending has finally started to hurt more than the risk of telling the truth.

The next morning arrives bright and merciless.

Sun already warm on your shoulders. The lake glittering like it’s got something to prove. Kids scatter across the clearing with the same relentless energy they always have, laughter bouncing off cabin walls.

You volunteer for instrument duty mostly because it gives your hands something to do.

Guitars need tuning. Cases need moving. The storage room needs reorganizing after someone yesterday decided chaos was an acceptable filing system.

You hoist a stack of cases against your hip and start across the yard.

You don’t notice the way a few kids stop mid-game.

Don’t catch the glances they exchange. The silent communication. The decision made without words.

One of them bolts.

Then another.

They sprint like it’s a relay race, bare feet pounding against dirt and grass, laughter bubbling up despite their attempt at seriousness.

They find Mingi near the outdoor tables, bent over a clipboard, supervising an activity with the same monitor from last night. She’s explaining something animatedly, gesturing with both hands.

Mingi nods, attentive as always.

A kid skids to a stop in front of him, hands on knees, panting theatrically.

“She needs you,” he blurts out.

Mingi straightens instantly. “Who?”

“Her!” another says, pointing vaguely in the direction of the storage building. “Like. Right now.”

Mingi doesn’t ask what kind of help.

Doesn’t question why.

He’s already moving.

“Sorry,” he says to the other monitor, quick and genuine. “I’ll be right back.”

She barely has time to respond before he’s handing off the clipboard and jogging across the yard.

The kids watch him go, grinning like they’ve just pulled off a heist.

“Operation Dino Nugget,” one whispers.

They dissolve into giggles and scatter back to their activities, entirely pleased with themselves.

The storage room feels smaller than it has any right to be.

Wooden shelves climb the walls, stacked with guitar cases and drums scarred by years of stickers and careless summers. A box of tangled cables sits open on the floor like it gave up trying. The air smells like dust and old strings and lemony polish. One bare bulb hums softly overhead, casting everything in a warm, uneven glow.

You’re setting a guitar case down a little harder than necessary, when the door swings open.

Mingi steps in, breath slightly uneven, hair already falling into his eyes.

“Hey,” he says. “Are you okay? The kids said yo—”

He stops.

You turn, startled. “What are you doing here?”

He blinks, confusion flickering across his face. “They said you needed help. Urgently.”

Silence stretches.

It clicks for both of you at the same time.

You laugh first, breathless and helpless. “They set us up.”

He exhales a quiet laugh of his own, shoulders dropping. “Yeah. Seem like it.”

The sound of it eases something tight in your chest. For a moment, it’s easy again. Familiar. Like being six and sharing a joke no one else understands.

“Well,” he says, rocking back on his heels, eyes darting briefly around the room like he’s looking for an exit. “I should probably—”

He turns toward the door.

You move without thinking.

Your fingers close around his hand.

“…Wait.”

The word comes out smaller than you meant it to.

He stops instantly.

Doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t turn around right away either. Just freezes, like he’s afraid that if he moves too fast, this will vanish.

Slowly, he turns back to you.

The room seems to shrink another inch.

Your hand is still wrapped around his. Warm. Solid. Familiar in a way that makes your throat ache.

You swallow.

“This is stupid,” you start, then huff out a breath. “No, it’s not. I just— I need to say it before I chicken out.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it again. Nods once, encouraging. Gentle. He’s always gentle with you.

You look at his chest instead of his eyes.

“It never stopped,” you start quietly. “Whatever this is. Whatever I feel about you.”

His brows knit together.

“The distance didn’t help,” you continue, words tumbling faster now. “If anything, it made it worse. Because I kept thinking I’d grow out of it, that it would fade, and it didn’t. It just… waited. For you.”

You finally look up at him.

“Seeing you again hurts worse than missing you,” you admit, voice wavering. “Because you’re right there. And I can’t pretend you’re just a memory anymore. I missed you. So much.”

For a beat, he just stares at you.

Then he laughs.

It’s soft, breathless, edged with disbelief. “You’re messing with me.”

The words land wrong.

Your fingers loosen around his hand before you realize you’re letting go. Your shoulders draw inward, chin dipping, like your body is already bracing for impact.

Oh.

Of course.

You swallow, heat crawling up your neck, humiliation sharp and sudden. You step back half a pace, putting space where hope just was.

“I wouldn’t joke about this,” you say quietly. “Not with you.”

Your eyes drop to the floor. To the scuffed wood. To anything but his face.

You nod once, stiff. Like you’re accepting a verdict you already expected.

“Sorry,” you murmur. “I shouldn’t have— I just thought—”

You stop yourself before your voice can break.

For half a second, the room is painfully still.

Then his laugh dies.

Completely.

You don’t see it, but his smile falls apart the moment he registers your face. The way you’ve folded in on yourself. The way you look like you’re already mourning something.

“Hey,” he says, too fast. “No, wait.”

You don’t look up in time to see him move.

He doesn’t give himself time to think.

He just grabs you.

Hard. Sudden. One hand cups your face, thumb pressing warm into your cheek, the other hooks firmly at your waist, pulling you flush against him like he’s afraid space itself might steal you away.

Then his mouth is on yours.

It’s not gentle. Not hesitant. It’s pressure and heat and want, years of restraint snapping all at once. Your lips meet with a soft, startled sound, breath knocked loose, your mind scrambling to catch up.

You freeze.

Heart racing. Hands hovering uselessly at his chest, fingers curled but unmoving, like your body forgot its next instruction.

He kisses you like he’s been holding this in since you were kids. Like he’s done wondering, done being careful. His mouth moves against yours with clumsy devotion, more intent on keeping you close than doing anything right. His grip tightens, grounding, insistent, as if he’s trying to convince himself this is real.

When he pulls back, it’s only because he has to breathe.

His forehead rests against yours. His breaths come uneven, almost shaky. His eyes are bright, disbelieving.

You’re still stunned. Still silent.

And then he smiles. Wide. Boyish. A little unhinged with joy. Like someone who just realized the impossible thing he’s wanted forever just kissed him back.

“You—” He cuts himself off, dragging a hand through his hair, a shaky laugh spilling out of him. “I thought I imagined it. Or wanted it so bad my brain made it up.”

You blink at him, stunned. Still dizzy. Still held tight.

“What?”

“I’ve been in love with you since we were kids,” he blurts, the words tripping over each other now that the door is open. “I just figured… I figured you didn’t feel it. That I was the only idiot who never moved on.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Your brain lags behind your heart, still trying to catch up.

He doesn’t wait.

He leans in again.

This kiss is different.

Slower, but heavier. His mouth fits to yours with intent now, unhurried but sure, like he finally knows he’s allowed. His hand slides up, fingers threading into your hair, cradling the back of your head. The other settles at your neck, thumb warm against your pulse, feeling it race.

You make a small sound, barely there, and that’s all it takes.

He presses closer, body moving forward without thinking, until you’re backed into the shelf behind you. The contact makes you stumble, just a little, balance slipping. Instinctively, your hands clutch at his shirt, fist curling tight in the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

He notices immediately.

His grip tightens. Protective. Certain. One arm wraps around your waist, pulling you flush against him, anchoring you there like nothing could move you now. Chest to chest. Heart to heart. Solid and safe.

His mouth opens to yours, tongue brushing, tentative at first, then bolder when you don’t pull away. When you kiss him back.

The world narrows to heat and breath and the quiet, messy sound of you learning each other again. His breathing turns heavy, uneven, puffing softly against your lips between kisses. Yours follows, breath hitching every time his hand shifts, every time his thumb strokes at your neck like he’s memorizing you.

You smile into his mouth without meaning to.

A soft, disbelieving giggle escapes you, breathless and bright and completely uncontrollable.

He feels it.

He laughs against your lips, low and stunned and so happy it borders on delirious. The sound vibrates through you. He pulls you closer, forehead dipping to yours for half a second before he kisses you again, still smiling, like he can’t quite believe he gets to do this.

When you finally part, it’s only because you have to breathe.

Foreheads pressed together. Noses brushing. Both of you panting quietly, the air thick and warm between you. His hands stay where they are. In your hair. At your waist. Like letting go is not an option.

Your fingers are still knotted in his shirt.

You swallow, voice barely above a whisper. “You never said anything.”

His breath ghosts your lips as he smiles again, softer this time, awe lingering in his eyes.

He laughs again, almost hysterical. “Neither did you.”

And for a moment, you’re not adults in a storage room.

You’re just two kids who finally learned the language for what they’ve been holding all along.

You stare at each other for a second.

Then you laugh too. It comes out soft and broken and so relieved it almost hurts.

“We’re so dumb,” you murmur.

He steps even closer without realizing he’s doing it, like gravity is doing the work for him. The heat of him surrounds you, solid and grounding.

“I was scared,” he admits, voice dropping. “Scared of you looking at me like I’d crossed some line.”

You tilt your head up, eyes meeting his.

“I was scared of being wrong, of being too much. Of losing you,” you say simply. “Turns out that was the worst part.”

He swallows hard.

His thumb brushes your cheek, reverent now, like he’s finally allowed to touch you. He kisses you again. A soft, quick peck, unable to let you go now that he finally got a taste of you.

And somewhere deep in his chest, something settles.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Noses still touching. Breaths still uneven. The storage room feels warmer now, closer, like the walls leaned in to listen and decided to keep the secret.

He lets out a quiet laugh, disbelieving, the sound puffing against your lips.

“Wow,” he whispers. “Okay. Okay.”

You smile, small and shy, heart still racing. Your nose brushes his when you nod.

“This is real,” you murmur, half to yourself.

He hums in agreement, eyes closed. His thumb keeps tracing the same spot on your cheek, like he’s afraid if he stops, you’ll vanish.

“I never thought you could,” he admits softly. “Love me like that.”

The words are careful. Vulnerable. Stripped bare.

Your chest tightens.

“I always have,” you say. No drama. No grand speech. Just truth. “I just… thought you didn’t want me to.”

He lets out another breathy laugh, this one almost a sigh.

“We’re unbelievable,” he says, kissing your forehead sweetly. “All those years. All that time.”

You shrug lightly, trying to play it off, but your voice wobbles anyway.

“At least we’re stupid together.”

That earns you a smile so wide it almost hurts to look at. The kind that crinkles his eyes. The kind that makes him look six again, arms too long, heart too big.

He leans in and kisses you once more. Gentle. Lingering. Like a promise.

When you finally pull away, it’s only because reality comes knocking. Distant laughter. A kid yelling something incomprehensible across the camp. The world, waiting.

He threads his fingers through yours without asking.

“Ready?” he murmurs.

You squeeze his hand. “Yeah.”

Walking back feels surreal.

Sunlight drifts through the trees, warm on your shoulders. A faint breeze carries the scent of lakewater and pine. Birds chirp, kids laugh and run across the yard, and somewhere, a guitar hums a lazy, playful melody across the camp.

Your hands stay laced the whole way.

You don’t say much. You don’t need to, but the kids see you before you see them.

There’s a beat. A collective pause.

Then—

“YES!”

“FINALLY!”

“I TOLD YOU!”

Cheers erupt like fireworks. Clapping. Whooping. Someone actually bows at your feet.

Your face burns instantly. You hide it against Mingi’s arm, mortified, laughing despite yourself.

“Oh my god,” you groan. “They’re never letting this go.”

Mingi, on the other hand, throws his free arm in the air like he just won something monumental.

“I KNEW YOU GUYS WERE SMART,” he announces, grinning ear to ear. “I TRUSTED YOUR VISION.”

The kids swarm him, chanting, celebrating, absolutely vindicated.

You peek up at him, heart full to bursting.

He looks so happy. Open. Uncontained.

When his eyes find yours again, the world shrinks to just the two of you. Hearts still thundering, you can feel every year, every memory, every unspoken word finally settling in the space between you.

He leans close, whispering just to you, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I might have… told the kids about you.”

You blink at him, incredulous. “Mingi! You what?”

“They’re very nosy,” he says, shrugging, cheeky. “I told them we’ve known each other since we were kids. That we were inseparable. That I’ve loved you forever. Even back then. They figured out the rest on their own.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You told them it was me?”

“Nope,” he admits, grinning. “Didn’t need to. They’re quick. They put two and two together… probably started plotting without us even knowing.”

You shake your head, smiling. “They’ve spent too much time with you… now they think like you.”

He squeezes your hand, grinning like a kid caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Maybe. But I swear… I’m never letting go this time. Not you. Not this.”

You laugh softly, breathless, leaning into him. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

He presses a quick, playful kiss to your temple, eyes sparkling. “See? Camp’s good for something besides teaching kids music. It brought me back to you. I’m… thankful for that.”

You shake your head, smiling. “I’m the lucky one.”

He nudges your shoulder, cheeky and proud. “Nope. Definitely me. But I guess we both won.”

Around you, the faint echoes of the lake, the cabins, the kids laughing in the distance — all of it feels like home. Music drifting, warm night air, the smell of pine and campfire smoke. Perfectly ordinary and completely magical.

You squeeze his hand again. “Home, Mingi.”

“Home, baby” he echoes, grinning boyishly, and drags you toward the porch, ready for whatever comes next.

masterlist

taglist: @bloomyroses @livonianmaia @keels-8 @darjeelinglemontea

✨ my taglist and requests are open right now. ✨ drop me a message! i love seeing your ideas and making them come to life. 💖

© All rights reserved. Do not edit, or translate without permission. Credit to @mingi-buffering-24-7.

You don’t mean to stress so easily.

It’s just how your brain works — one small thing becomes ten, your chest gets tight, and the world starts feeling like it’s pressing in on you from all sides. 

You try to hide it, because you don’t want to be a burden, but Seonghwa notices anyway.

He always notices.

“Come here,” he says quietly, like he’s offering a blanket rather than a command.

You blink up at him, already shaking your head. “I’m fine, I just… I need a minute—”

“No,” he interrupts, voice gentle, “you need a hug.”

Before you can protest again, he opens his arms — slow, patient, like he’s giving you time to decide. 

But you’re tired, and your heart feels loud in your chest, and Seonghwa looks so soft and safe.

So you step forward.

His arms wrap around you instantly, pulling you to his chest with a steady warmth that makes all the tension in your shoulders loosen at once. 

He holds you like he’s been waiting all day to do it. Like he knows you’ve been struggling quietly in the corners of your mind.

Your ear ends up pressed right over his heartbeat.

It’s slow. 

Deep. Peaceful.

Thump… thump… thump.

Somehow, it steadies your breathing without you even trying.

Seonghwa exhales into your hair, his breath a warm whisper across your scalp, and his hand comes up to rest on the back of your head. 

He strokes your hair carefully, fingers moving in small, soothing circles as if brushing the stress straight out of you.

“Twenty seconds,” he murmurs, his voice vibrating softly through his chest. “That’s the rule. Science says it helps with anxiety.”

You laugh — just a tiny, breathy sound against his shirt. “Is that really true?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, still petting your head. “But you need it. So I’m making it true.”

He holds you tighter, just a little.

Not crushing, just enough to make you feel anchored. Grounded. Like you won’t float away with your worries.

Your arms find their way around his waist, gripping his sweater like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go. 

He notices the way your fingers tremble and shifts his stance so you’re more supported, more protected.

Seconds stretch into a minute.

A minute into two.

Seonghwa doesn’t loosen his hold even once.

If anything, he hugs you longer than you expected — long enough that your breathing syncs with his, long enough that your shoulders finally drop, long enough that the tightness in your chest melts into something softer, safer.

“You doing okay in there?” he whispers into your hair.

You nod against him, your nose brushing the warmth of his shirt. “Yeah… you’re helping.”

“Good,” he murmurs, and it sounds like relief. His hand drifts down your back in slow, rhythmic motions, the kind that make your eyes flutter shut. “Just stay. I’ve got you.”

You don’t move.

You don’t want to.

His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, a calm, grounding pulse that feels like it’s guiding you back into your body. Every gentle stroke of his hand melts another layer of stress you didn’t even know you were holding.

“See?” he adds softly. “Long hugs work.”

“They do,” you whisper back, voice small, but steadier than before.

And Seonghwa smiles into your hair — the kind of smile you can feel rather than see — and pulls you even closer, as if silently promising to hold you as long as you need, for as many minutes or hours as it takes.

Because to him, your comfort isn’t an inconvenience.

It’s a priority.

And in his arms, with your ear over his heartbeat and his fingers petting your head, you finally believe.

Maybe hugs really can heal things your words don’t know how to explain.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Your cottage is calm.

Too calm.

Which, if you think about it, is your first warning.

Because every time the universe gifts you a moment of peaceful silence, it is inevitably followed by one of three things:

something catching fire

something exploding

something exploding and then catching fire

Today, it will be option number four, which is new:

4. accidentally summoning an anxious grim reaper with the emotional range of a startled deer

You stand in the middle of your cramped, cozy living room — more herbs hanging from the ceiling than actual light fixtures — holding your spellbook wide open.

The page shows a simple diagram.

Summon: Household Spirit (Class 1)

A tiny helper. A cute one. One that could clean dust bunnies and maybe water your dying basil without commenting on its tragic state.

You draw the summoning circle exactly like the book says.

You double-check every line.

You triple-check the ingredients.

“See?” you tell your cat, Lune. “Nothing can go wrong today.”

Lune stares at you like you’ve just declared war on fate.

You ignore her. Bad decision number one.

You toss in lavender, rosemary, a pinch of sugar — because your grandmother swore it “sweetens the spells and invites polite spirits.”

The air hums softly.

A warm glow rises from the circle.

You smile.

Finally, finally something is working—

BOOM

A flash of light erupts, sending the bowl flying, scattering herbs everywhere, and launching you backward into your shelves.

You wheeze. Something falls on your head.

Probably the basil. You hope it survived. 

You doubt you did.

And then the smoke clears.

And standing in the center of your summoning circle is not a tiny household spirit.

Tall. Cloaked in black. Hood low. Silver-onyx eyes glowing faintly under the shadows.

A boy.

A scythe rests on his back, shimmering with energy.

He is the definition of intimidating, terrifying, and—

He squeaks.

“Ah! I— I didn’t mean to— oh no— are you hurt?!”

You blink.

He blinks.

He looks like a raven who just walked into a window.

This is your introduction to Seonghwa, grim reaper, bringer of souls, collector of fates.

And apparently, a chronic over-apologizer.

“I—I didn’t mean to appear like this!” he blurts, hands flailing. “My entrance is usually… um. Cooler. Scarier. More… reaper-y?”

He gestures vaguely at the smoke still swirling around his feet.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to look.”

You stare.

He stares.

Your cat flicks her tail in judgment.

You inhale.

“You… you’re not a household spirit.”

“I—wish I was,” he says, voice cracking. “Household spirits are so cute and manageable and no one screams when they see them.”

He wrings his gloved hands together so anxiously you’re worried he’ll tie them into a knot.

“I’m so sorry,” he says again, bowing. Bowing. “I didn’t mean to answer your summon. I was passing by. Spatial distortion. Wrong line of magical traffic.”

He pauses.

“Can I help you clean up?”

You blink again.

He immediately kneels, scooping up herbs with frantic precision.

He sneezes when he touches the sage.

Then apologizes to the sage.

Then apologizes to you for sneezing.

Your brain attempts to catch up to reality.

“…You’re a grim reaper?”

“Yes!” he says brightly, then immediately deflates. “Well… yes. But I’m still in training. Probationary period. My supervisor says I need to work on my aura.”

He clears his throat and tries to loom menacingly.

It lasts exactly two seconds before he trips on a piece of chalk and nearly faceplants into your floor.

He stands up quickly, mortified.

“Sorry! Sorry— um— terrifying aura attempt number thirty-two… marked as a failure.”

Your lips twitch.

This might be the least threatening being you’ve ever summoned.

And also the cutest.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Seonghwa insists he should leave.

“It’s very dangerous for you to be around reapers,” he says, hands fluttering anxiously. “We’re supposed to be silent, stoic bringers of transition between worlds—”

He bumps into your table and gasps.

“I’m so sorry.”

“…Did you just apologize to my table?”

“It looked upset.”

“It’s wood.”

“It has feelings.”

You stare at him.

He stares back at you.

Your cat kneads your lap with the satisfaction of someone watching a live comedy performance.

Seonghwa rubs the back of his neck, eyes downcast.

“I really… shouldn’t be here.”

“But you helped clean,” you say, crossing your arms. “And you didn’t even cause the explosion.”

He looks up, startled.

“I… didn’t?”

“No. That was my fault. Or maybe the book’s. Or fate’s. It has a grudge against me.”

He looks wildly relieved.

“Oh thank the stars. My supervisor would revoke my cloak.”

“Is that bad?”

“It’s… embarrassing.”

He fidgets, the hem of his cloak twisting in his fingers.

You kneel to sweep crushed lavender into a pile.

Seonghwa lunges.

“No— please, let me— it’s my fault you fell earlier—”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“It could have been,” he says seriously.

You sigh.

He looks so earnest.

So stressed.

So pretty.

Wait— no. Don’t think like that. 

Its dangerous.

You hand him the broom.

He takes it like you’ve given him a sacred relic.

“I’ll do it.”

You sit on your couch.

He sweeps. Badly.

Every few minutes:

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I’m sorry for apologizing.”

“Seonghwa.”

“I’m sor— okay. Right. Yes. I’ll stop.”

Five seconds later:

“I’m—”

“DON’T.”

He clamps both hands over his mouth.

You fight a smile.

He really is trying.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

He doesn’t leave.

He says he will. All the time.

And every time, he awkwardly appears again in your cottage, usually with a puff of smoke and a noise like he stepped on a squeaky toy.

The first time, he brings pastries.

“For… um… peace offerings,” he says, holding out the box with trembling hands. “Not from dead souls. I bought them. Just so you know. In case that matters.”

It does. It makes your chest warm.

He visits again the next day.

And the next.

Sometimes he knocks.

Sometimes he materializes halfway through your kitchen counter.

He apologizes each time.

Lune now accepts him as part of the household and sleeps on his lap.

He still doesn’t know how to hold her without looking like he’s been handed a bomb.

“Is this… okay?” he whispers as she curls into a ball.

“She’s fine,” you assure.

“She’s purring… is this a good sign? Is she going to explode?”

“She’s not a spell ingredient.”

“Oh.”

He relaxes. A little.

Then she moves and he tenses again.

You laugh.

He blushes so hard the tips of his ears glow faint silver.

One evening, rain thunders outside.

You’re at your table practicing light magic.

It goes poorly.

Your flame spell flickers like a dying candle.

Your hands shake with frustration.

Seonghwa arrives mid-spark, stumbling out of the shadows like he got pushed through the door by accident.

“I—uh—hi—”

Your spell sputters.

Your frustration snaps.

And Seonghwa winces.

“I can leave if—”

“No,” you sigh. “It’s fine. The spell isn’t working.”

“That’s okay,” he says gently, walking closer. “Magic is… fickle. Like cats. Or my supervisor.”

You laugh weakly.

He hesitates.

Then, very carefully, he steps behind you.

“May I… help?”

Your breath catches.

His hands hover near yours, not touching.

“Only if you want,” he adds quickly, panicking. “I don’t mean to invade your space, I just— I’ve watched enough healers cast— and sometimes another presence stabilizes the flow— but it’s fine if you don’t want—”

“Seonghwa,” you say softly. “It’s okay.”

He exhales shakily.

Then he cups your hands in his.

His gloves are warm.

His touch is trembling.

“Breathe,” he whispers.

You do.

The energy steadies.

The light glows.

Your spell ignites, bright and perfect.

Seonghwa beams.

Actually beams.

You’ve never seen someone look so proud of you.

“You did it,” he says softly, silver eyes shining. “I knew you could.”

Your heart flips.

He notices.

He panics.

“I—mean— I knew you would because you’re capable! Not because I’m watching you or anything! I mean I am watching you but not like that— not in a creepy reaper surveillance way— oh no I’m making this worse—”

You place your hand over his.

He freezes.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He short-circuits.

“I— you— spell— good— yes— okay—”

You think he stops breathing entirely.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

It becomes routine.

Rainy nights. Failed spells. Pastries.

Seonghwa tripping over air. Luna judging him lovingly.

One night, you’re reading by the fire when he appears — not dramatically, not with smoke — just quietly, like he’s been practicing a soft entrance.

He sits beside you.

Not too close.

But close enough.

“You… didn’t summon me today,” he says quietly.

“You don’t need to be summoned to visit.”

His breath hitches.

He looks at his hands.

“Can I… ask something?”

“Of course.”

“Would you…”

He swallows.

“Would you ever summon me on purpose?”

Your heart stutters.

“Seonghwa.”

“I know it’s silly,” he rushes. “Reapers aren’t supposed to be summoned unless it’s time, and you are very much not dying, which I think is good— I mean it is good— I mean I’m glad you’re not dying— but it’s just—”

“Seonghwa.”

He shuts up.

You take his hand gently.

“Yes,” you say softly. “I would summon you on purpose.”

His entire body goes still.

Then, he glows.

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

A soft silver shimmer spreads across him like moonlight.

He covers his face with both hands.

“Oh no,” he whispers. “Oh no that’s embarrassing. That shouldn’t happen.”

You smile.

“It’s cute.”

He nearly combusts.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Weeks pass.

Your magic improves. Your cottage grows quieter, softer, lighter.

So does Seonghwa.

One day, he doesn’t appear.

You wait.

Nothing.

You try calling his name.

Nothing.

Worry gnaws your stomach.

So you do the only thing that’s ever worked.

You draw a summoning circle.

Not perfect. Not neat.

But filled with intention.

You place your hand over your heart.

Then over the chalk lines.

And you whisper:

“Seonghwa. Come back.”

The circle glows.

A soft breeze stirs your hair.

And then he’s there.

Not stumbling.

Not panicking.

Just appearing, gently, as if he’d been waiting.

“You summoned me,” he says softly.

“You didn’t come earlier,” you answer.

His expression melts into something warm and devastatingly tender.

“I wanted to know,” he whispers, “if you would choose me.”

Your breath catches.

He steps close.

Very close.

His hand rises hesitantly toward your cheek. 

But he stops abruptly, silently asking for your permission.

You nod.

He cups your face like you’re made of starlight.

His touch is warm and trembling.

“I’m not supposed to get attached,” he says, voice quiet as dusk. “Reapers aren’t meant to linger. We guide. We leave. We disappear.”

You place your hand over his.

“But you stayed.”

He exhales shakily.

“I stayed.”

“Why?”

His smile is small. Nervous. Beautiful.

“Because you make me feel…”

He swallows.

“…alive.”

Your heart breaks open in the softest way.

His forehead presses gently to yours.

“You,” he whispers, “are the only summon I want to answer. Every time.”

You close your eyes.

“Then stay.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like relief, hope, and love all at once.

“I’ll stay,” he whispers. “As long as you want me.”

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

You sit beside him.

He leans into you carefully, like he’s afraid he’ll break you.

You rest your head on his shoulder.

He stops breathing again.

“Are you… sure?” he whispers.

“Yes.”

“Really sure?”

“Yes, Seonghwa.”

He covers his face with his sleeve.

“I’m… really happy,” he says, voice muffled, “and I don’t know how to handle it.”

You pull his sleeve down gently.

His cheeks are glowing faint silver again.

You kiss him on the cheek.

He goes rigid. Then melts.

Actually melts, slumping against you like a warm, oversized, anxious cat.

“You’re dangerous,” he mumbles into your shoulder.

“How?”

“You make me lose my cool reaper image.”

“You never had one.”

“That’s not helping.”

You laugh.

He smiles shyly.

And the cottage, once filled with smoke and chaos and failed spells, feels warm in a way it never has before.

Because now, there is a reaper sitting beside you.

One who tripped into your life. One who apologized to furniture. One who brings pastries and glows when you compliment him.

One who stayed, even when he wasn’t supposed to.

Your grim reaper.

Your Seonghwa.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

One night, months later, you doodle a tiny summoning circle on a scrap of paper.

Not for magic.

Just for fun.

It glows.

And Seonghwa appears instantly, breathless and panicked.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Did you need—”

You hold up the paper.

“I just wanted to see you.”

He freezes.

Then he blushes so hard the entire room brightens.

“You— you can’t just— your summons— they make my heart— I can’t—”

He gives up on words entirely and hugs you.

You laugh into his chest.

He holds you tighter.

“You can summon me anytime,” he murmurs.

“I know.”

“Even if you don’t need anything.”

“I know.”

“Even if you just want company.”

“I know.”

He pulls back, eyes soft as moonlight.

“I’ll always come.”

And he does.

Every time. Every summon. Every whisper.

Every moment.

Your awkward, anxious, caring grim reaper.

For you.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────