rei★

you straightened, your phone slipping into your pocket as you took a step forward. “who’s this?” you asked, your tone light but laced with suspicion.

your father gestured toward the man, his expression unyielding. “this is jay. your new bodyguard.”

the words hung in the air for a moment, heavy and absurd. then you laughed—a sharp, incredulous sound that echoed off the mahogany walls. “you’re joking.”

your father didn’t laugh. neither did jay. in fact, jay didn’t so much as twitch. his expression remained impassive, his dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your skin prickle.

you turned back to your father, your laughter fading into a scoff. “this isn’t necessary. i’m not in danger. that whole kidnapping thing? a fluke. it’s been weeks and nothing’s happened.”

your father’s jaw tightened. “which is exactly why you need protection. we’re not taking any chances.”

you opened your mouth to argue, but jay beat you to it. his voice was low, calm, and infuriatingly even. “i’m not here to be liked, just to do my job.”

your head snapped toward him, your eyes narrowing. excuse me?

he met your glare without flinching, his expression as unreadable as a stone wall. he didn’t care. not about your annoyance, not about your defiance, not about you. the realisation made your blood boil.

“congratulations on the worst job in existence,” you said coolly, tilting your head as you studied him. “because i’m not some damsel in distress.”

jay didn’t blink. “right. you handled the last situation so well.”

your jaw dropped. the audacity. “excuse you—”

“enough,” your father interjected, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was already regretting this entire conversation. “jay will be with you at all times. this isn’t up for discussion.”

you stared at him, then at jay, who was still standing there like some brooding statue, completely unfazed. your mind raced, already plotting ways to make his life a living hell. fine. if this was happening, you wouldn’t make it easy for him.

you flashed jay a sweet, taunting smile, the kind that usually made people nervous. “try and keep up.”

his lips twitched—just barely—but it wasn’t a smile. more like a challenge accepted. “i don’t plan on falling behind.”

oh, you already hated him. hated the way he looked at you like you were a problem to be solved, hated the way he stood there like he owned the room, hated the way his voice sent an unwelcome shiver down your spine. but most of all, you hated that he didn’t seem the least bit intimidated by you.

your father exhaled, clearly done with the conversation. “jay will start immediately. i expect you to cooperate.”

you didn’t respond. instead, you turned on your heel and strode toward the door, your heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. you could feel jay’s eyes on your back, tracking your every move, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of looking over your shoulder. let him try to keep up. you were already planning your first escape.

as the doors swung shut behind you, you couldn’t help but smirk. this was going to be fun.

the first twenty-four hours with jay as your shadow were unbearable. it wasn’t just his constant presence—it’s the way he moves like he knows what you’re about to do before you do it, like some kind of infuriating psychic in tactical gear.

you woke up to find him standing right outside your bedroom door. arms crossed, eyes alert, posture straight. like a soldier. like a statue. like someone who had absolutely no life outside of making yours miserable.

you glare at him, silk robe slipping off your shoulder, hair a mess. “do you ever sleep? or do you just stand there like a creep all night?”

jay doesn’t react. not even a twitch. his gaze flicks over you, assessing, before looking away.

he didn’t react. not even a twitch. his dark eyes flicked over you briefly, assessing, before he looked away, his expression as blank as ever.

“good morning,” he said, his tone flat.

you rolled your eyes and slammed the door in his face.

when you went to get coffee, he was already there, waiting. the barista gave him a once-over, their eyes lingering on his broad shoulders and the faint scar that ran along his jawline. then they glanced at you, their eyebrows raised in a silent question: are you okay? do you need help?

you forced a smile. “he’s harmless,” you said, though the words tasted like a lie. jay didn’t so much as blink.

you grabbed your latte and stormed out, jay falling into step behind you like some kind of silent, brooding ghost. you could feel his eyes on your back, watching, always watching. it was suffocating.

in meetings, it was worse. you sat at the head of the conference table, your laptop open, your team discussing quarterly projections, and there he was—standing against the far wall, arms still crossed, his gaze sweeping the room like he was expecting an ambush at any moment. every time you glanced his way, he was already looking at you, his expression unreadable.

you tried to ignore him. you really did. but his presence was like a thundercloud hovering over the room, dark and oppressive. by the time the meeting ended, you were ready to scream.

you had to get rid of him immediately.

attempt #1: the emergency exit 

it was simple, really. you waited until you were in the middle of a crowded lobby with jay, your phone pressed to your ear, your face the picture of distress. “no—no, stay right there, i’ll be there in five minutes,” you said, your voice trembling just enough to sound convincing. then you slipped out the back door, quick, smooth, victorious.

you couldn’t help but grin as you rounded the corner, your heart racing with the thrill of escape. finally, some freedom. finally, some—

jay was already there.

leaning against your car, arms still crossed, not even looking at you. like he’d been waiting for hours. like he’d known exactly where you’d go.

you froze, your smile slipping. “how the hell—”

he finally acknowledged you, tilting his head just slightly. his lips curved into the faintest hint of a smirk. “you’re going to have to try harder than that.”

your fingers clenched into fists. oh. it was war.

attempt #2: the disappearing act

you waited until you were at a charity gala, the kind of event where everyone was too busy sipping champagne and gossipping to notice anything amiss. you slipped into the crowd, weaving through the sea of tuxedos and evening gowns, your movements quick and deliberate. you ducked behind a potted plant, then made your way to the service entrance, your heart pounding with excitement.

you were almost there. almost free. and then—

“leaving so soon?”

you whirled around, your breath catching in your throat. jay stood in the doorway, his arms still crossed, his expression as calm as ever. he didn’t even look winded.

“how do you keep doing that?” you demanded, your voice rising.

he shrugged, the motion infuriatingly casual. “it’s my job.”

“your job is to annoy me to death?”

“if that’s what it takes to keep you alive, then yes.”

you glared at him, your chest heaving with frustration. he stared back, unflinching, his dark eyes boring into yours. for a moment, the air between you crackled with something electric, and you wanted to so badly give into it and just cause a tantrum. instead, you turned on your heel and stormed back into the gala, jay following close behind.

attempt #3: sensory overload

the mall was a chaotic symphony of chatter, clattering shopping bags, and the faint hum of pop music playing over the speakers. you strode through the bustling crowd, your heels clicking sharply against the polished floor, your eyes darting toward the exit signs. jay was a step behind you, his presence as unshakable as ever. his dark eyes scanned the crowd, his posture tense, like he was expecting a sniper to take a shot at any moment.

you rolled your eyes. “relax, rambo. it’s a mall, not a war zone.”

he didn’t respond. of course he didn’t. he just kept walking, his gaze flicking toward you every few seconds, like he was making sure you hadn’t somehow vanished into thin air.

you gritted your teeth. this was supposed to be your day. you had a date with someone your mutual friend had set you up with. your father had forbidden you from going, but since when had you ever listened to him? and yet, here was jay, ruining everything like some overgrown shadow you couldn’t shake.

you bit back a sigh. if you wanted to shake him, you’d have to get creative.

spotting a perfume shop up ahead, you darted inside, the overwhelming scent of floral and citrus hitting you instantly. jay followed without hesitation, his towering frame making the narrow aisles feel even smaller.

“why are we here?” he asked, his voice low and gruff.

“to test some new scents,” you replied innocently, grabbing a random bottle and spraying it on your wrist. “you wouldn’t understand.”

jay raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

you tried a few more perfumes, using up the space on your wrists and arms. finally, you turned to him, holding up a bottle.

“hold out your arm.”

jay blinked. “what?”

“you’re supposed to test it on skin,” you said, your tone overly patient. “and i’m out of space. come on.”

reluctantly, he extended his arm. you sprayed the perfume lightly on his wrist and leaned in, inhaling deeply.

jay tensed under your touch, his muscles stiffening as your fingers brushed his skin. you glanced up, noticing the tightness in his jaw, but you didn’t comment.

“it’s not bad,” you said, tilting your head. “but maybe something lighter.”

you reached for another bottle, quickly spraying it on his other wrist. this time, you didn’t stop at one spray. you pressed the nozzle again and again, filling the air with an overpowering mix of scents.

jay sneezed once, then twice, stumbling back a step as he tried to clear his nose.

“what the hell are you doing?” he asked, his voice muffled between sneezes.

“just testing!” you said, holding up your hands in mock innocence. “you’re being dramatic.”

jay glared at you, but before he could recover, you dropped the perfume bottle and bolted, weaving through the crowded store and out into the mall. you didn’t look back. you didn’t need to. you could hear his footsteps behind you, heavy and determined.

your heart raced as you sprinted through the mall, dodging shoppers and strollers. you spotted a clothing store up ahead, its entrance tucked away in a quieter corner. perfect. you ducked inside, your breath coming in short gasps as you scanned the store. the dressing rooms. that was your best bet.

you darted toward them, slipping into the first stall you saw. you yanked the curtain closed, your chest heaving as you pressed your back against the wall. for a moment, there was silence. then you heard it—the sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate, approaching the stall.

the curtain flew open, and there he was. jay. his chest was rising and falling slightly, his dark eyes blazing with something you couldn’t quite place. he stepped into the stall, his body crowding yours as he pinned you against the wall. the curtain fell shut behind him, enclosing you in the small, dimly lit space.

you stared up at him, your breath catching in your throat. he was so close you could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his pulse jumped in his neck. his hands were braced on either side of your head, his body caging you in. the air between you was thick with tension, the kind that made your stomach twist and your heart race for reasons that had nothing to do with running.

“you’re not as clever as you think you are,” he said, his voice low and rough.

you swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry. “and you’re not as scary as you think you are.”

his lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smirk. “try me.”

you opened your mouth to retort, but the words died on your tongue. his eyes dropped to your lips, just for a second, and something shifted between you. the air crackled with electricity, the kind that made your skin prickle and your breath hitch. you could feel the heat radiating off him, the way his body seemed to press closer without actually moving.

for a moment, neither of you moved. then jay stepped back, his expression shuttering as he regained control. “let’s go,” he said, his tone clipped.

you didn’t argue. for once, you didn’t have the words.

the party was in full swing, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume, champagne, and the faint hum of a live jazz band. you stood near the centre of the room, dressed in a sleek black gown that hugged your figure perfectly, a glass of champagne in hand. you laughed at something your friend said, the sound light and carefree, but your attention was elsewhere.

jay.

he was standing across the room, leaning against a pillar, his arms crossed, his dark eyes fixed on you. he wasn’t even trying to hide it. he was watching you like a hawk, his expression unreadable but his gaze intense enough to make your skin prickle.

your friend leaned in, her voice low and teasing. “he’s been looking at you all night.”

you shrugged, pretending not to care. “who? jay? he’s just doing his job.”

but the truth was, you did care. you were hyper-aware of him now, his presence like a shadow you couldn’t shake. and it annoyed you. it annoyed you that he could stand there, so calm and collected, while you felt like you were unravelling.

so you decided to push him.

you flirted with everyone but him. you laughed a little too loudly at a joke a handsome stranger made. you let your hand linger on the arm of a guy who clearly had no idea what personal space was. you disappeared into the crowd, weaving through the sea of tuxedos and evening gowns, pretending jay didn’t exist.

but he did. he always did.

suddenly, a man—tall, broad-shouldered, with a cocky grin—stepped into your space, his hand hovering near your waist as he leaned in to whisper something in your ear. his breath smelled like whisky, the proximity way too close for your comfort. 

you froze, your smile faltering. before you could react, jay was there.

he moved like a shadow, swift and silent, stepping between you and the man with a presence that was impossible to ignore. his voice was cool but sharp, cutting through the noise of the party like a knife. “hands off.”

the man blinked, his grin faltering as he took in jay’s imposing figure. “whoa, man, i was just—”

“i don’t care what you were just doing,” jay said, his tone low and dangerous. “back off.”

the man hesitated, his eyes flicking between you and jay, before he finally raised his hands in surrender and slunk away. you stared after him, stunned, your heart pounding in your chest.

when you turned back to jay, he was already looking at you, his expression unreadable but his eyes blazing with something you couldn’t quite place. he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur that sent a shiver down your spine. “you have no idea what you’re doing.”

your breath caught. “what are you talking about?”

he leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke, his voice rough and tinged with something that sounded almost like frustration. “flirting with strangers. disappearing into crowds. acting like you’re invincible. you’re not.”

you swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. “i can take care of myself.”

“can you?” he asked, his tone challenging. “because from where i’m standing, it looks like you’re just trying to get a rise out of me.”

you opened your mouth to argue, but the words died on your tongue. he was close—too close—his body crowding yours, his heat radiating through the thin fabric of your dress. you could smell the faint scent of his cologne, a mix of vanilla and something woodsy, and it made your head spin.

as the night wore on, you couldn’t stop thinking about it—the way he’d looked at you, the way his voice had sounded, rough and low and so, so close. you caught yourself glancing at him more than once, your heart skipping a beat every time your eyes met his.

oh.

so he did care.

it happens slowly. or maybe it doesn’t. maybe it’s been happening this whole time, lurking beneath the surface, waiting for you to notice. but now, you do.

you start noticing the way he moves. always a step ahead, always positioning himself between you and anything that could be a threat. his sleeves are always rolled up, revealing the veins that line his forearms, his hands steady and sure. you notice the way he watches you, his dark eyes scanning every room like he’s mapping out every possible danger, but it’s never just that. there’s something else in his gaze, something you can’t quite name.

and worse? you start feeling it.

the heat in your chest when his hand brushes yours as he passes you a coffee. the frustration that coils in your stomach when someone else looks at him for too long. the way your breath catches when he says your name instead of brat or princess or whatever sarcastic nickname he’s come up with that day.

this is a problem.

but you handle it the way you always do—by pushing him.

it’s late, with the city feeling quiet, almost peaceful, and the only light comes from the flickering neon sign of a 24-hour diner. you’re sitting in a booth by the window, picking at a plate of fries you didn’t really want but ordered anyway because you were too stubborn to admit you were hungry. jay sits across from you, his posture rigid, his eyes scanning the nearly empty diner like it’s a potential battlefield.

you roll your eyes. “relax, jay. the only danger here is the cholesterol in these fries.”

he just takes a sip of his black coffee, his expression as unreadable as ever.

you lean back in the booth, crossing your arms over your chest. “you know, you don’t have to babysit me 24/7. i’m not a child.”

his eyes flick to yours, sharp and assessing. “could’ve fooled me.”

you glare at him. “excuse me?”

he sets his coffee cup down, his voice low and even. “you act like rules don’t apply to you. like you’re invincible. you’re not.”

your jaw tightens. “and you act like you’re my dad. newsflash—you’re not.”

for a moment, neither of you speaks. the tension between you is thick, almost suffocating, and you can feel it building, building, building until it finally snaps.

“why do you even care so much?” you demand, your voice rising just enough to draw the attention of the tired-looking waitress behind the counter.

jay exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “you don’t get it, do you?”

your heartbeat stutters. “then explain it to me.”

for a second, he says nothing. he just looks at you, his dark eyes searching yours like he’s trying to figure you out. then he stands, slow and deliberate, and slides into the booth beside you. he’s close now, closer than he’s ever let himself be, his body heat radiating through the thin fabric of your shirt.

you don’t back away.

his eyes flicker to your lips, and your breath catches. the air between you is so thin, so sharp you can almost taste it.

he leans in, his voice low and rough. “you have no idea what i’d do to keep you safe.”

your pulse is in your throat, waiting, waiting, waiting.

but before anything can happen—

the bell above the diner door jingles, and a group of loud, laughing teenagers spills inside, shattering the moment.

jay pulls back instantly, his jaw tightening as he slides out of the booth. he doesn’t look at you, doesn’t say a word. he just walks to the counter, his posture rigid, like nothing happened.

like nothing almost happened.

but you know better.

you press a hand to your chest, trying to steady your heartbeat, but it’s no use. your mind is racing, replaying the moment over and over again—the way he’d looked at you, the way his voice had sounded, the way your body had reacted to his nearness.

this is getting dangerous.

later, as you sit in the back of the car on the way home, you can’t stop thinking about it. jay is in the driver’s seat, his eyes fixed on the road, his hands steady on the wheel. you stare at the back of his head, your thoughts a tangled mess.

you think about the way he’d stepped between you and that guy at the party, his voice sharp and commanding. you think about the way he’d leaned in, his breath warm against your ear, his body so close you could feel the heat radiating off him.

and you think about the way he’d pulled away, like it was nothing, like it didn’t mean anything.

but it did. you know it did.

you mentally groan, leaning your head against the window. this is a problem. a big problem. because no matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise, you can’t deny it anymore.

you like him.

and that’s the most dangerous thing of all.

you don’t talk about it.

the almost-kiss, the tension that stains every interaction now—it hangs between you like a live wire, sharp and charged. you find yourself watching him more, catching the way he looks at you when he thinks you don’t notice. his gaze lingers a little too long, his movements a little too deliberate, and it drives you insane.

but you don’t talk about it.

instead, you push. you push him, you push yourself, you push the boundaries of whatever this is between you. and he pushes back, always steady, always in control, until—

one day it happens fast. too fast.

you’re walking back to the car after an event, the city lights casting long shadows on the pavement. jay is a step behind you, his presence a constant, grounding force. you’re arguing about something stupid—something meaningless—because that’s what you do now. you bicker, you snipe, you push each other’s buttons, all while pretending the tension between you doesn’t exist.

and then, out of nowhere, it happens.

you don’t even see it coming. one moment, you’re stepping off the curb, and the next, jay is moving—swift, silent, and utterly precise. he shoves you out of the way, his body shielding yours as a figure lunges at you from the shadows.

there’s a flash of metal, a grunt of pain, and then the sound of footsteps retreating into the night.

you stumble, catching yourself against the car, your heart pounding in your chest. “jay—”

he’s already turning, his hand pressed to his side, his breathing steady despite the blood seeping through his fingers. “get in the car.”

you stare at him, your mind racing. “you’re bleeding. we need to go to the hospital—l”

“it’s nothing, just a scratch” he says, his voice calm, like this is just another day on the job. like he didn’t just take a knife for you.

but it’s not nothing. it’s not nothing because your hands are shaking as you reach for him, your fingers brushing against the warm, sticky blood staining his shirt. “jay—”

“get in the car,” he repeats, his tone sharper this time. “now.”

you don’t argue. you can’t. your mind is a blur as you climb into the passenger seat, your eyes never leaving him as he slides behind the wheel. his movements are steady, controlled, but you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his knuckles whiten as he grips the steering wheel.

the drive home is silent, the air between you thick with unspoken words. you keep glancing at him, your chest tight with something you can’t quite name. fear. guilt. something else.

when you finally arrive, you follow him inside, your hands still trembling. he heads straight for the bathroom, and you trail after him, your heart hammering in your chest.

“let me see,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

he doesn’t argue this time. he just sits on the edge of the bathtub, his shirt already half-off, revealing the deep gash along his side. it’s not fatal, not even close, but it’s enough to make your stomach twist.

you grab the first aid kit from under the sink and kneel in front of him, your hands shaking as you clean the wound. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t make a sound, but you can feel his eyes on you, heavy and unreadable.

“you shouldn’t have done that,” you say, your voice breaking. “you shouldn’t have—”

“it’s my job,” he interrupts, his tone calm, like that explains everything.

but it doesn’t. not to you. not when your hands are stained with his blood, not when your chest feels like it’s about to collapse under the weight of everything you’re feeling.

“don’t,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “don’t do that again.”

he looks at you, his dark eyes searching yours, and for the first time, you see it—the crack in his armour. the flicker of something raw, something real.

“you don’t get it,” he says, his voice low and rough. “i’d do it again. every time.”

your breath catches, your hands still pressed against his side. “why?”

he doesn’t answer. not with words, at least. instead, he reaches up, his fingers brushing against your cheek, his touch so gentle it makes your chest ache.

and that’s it. that’s the breaking point.

you don’t think. you don’t hesitate. you just pull him in, your lips crashing against his in a kiss that’s equal parts desperation and relief. for a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t respond, and you’re terrified you’ve made a mistake.

but then his hands are in your hair, his mouth moving against yours, and it’s like the world stops. the tension, the anger, the fear, it all melts away, leaving nothing but the two of you.

the room is silent except for the sound of your ragged breathing and the faint hum of the overhead light. jay’s hands are still tangled in your hair, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm against your lips. you can feel the rapid beat of his heart where your hand rests against his chest, and it’s almost comforting, knowing he’s as affected by this as you are.

but then he pulls back, his expression shuttering as he regains control. “we shouldn’t have done that,” he says, his voice low and rough.

you blink, your chest tightening at his words. “why not?”

he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he stands, his movements stiff as he turns away from you. “because it complicates things.”

you stare at him, your heart sinking. “complicates things? jay, you just took a knife for me. i think things are already complicated.”

he exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “you don’t understand.”

“then explain it to me,” you snap, your frustration bubbling over. “because i’m tired of pretending like this—whatever this is—doesn’t exist.”

he turns to look at you, his dark eyes blazing with something you can’t quite name. “you think i don’t feel it too? you think i don’t want—” he cuts himself off, his jaw tightening as he looks away. “it doesn’t matter what i want. my job is to keep you safe. that’s it.”

you step closer, your hands trembling at your sides. “and what if i don’t want you to just be my bodyguard? what if i want more?”

he doesn’t respond. not with words, at least. but you can see the conflict in his eyes, the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides. for a moment, you think he might give in, might finally let himself feel something.

but then he steps back, his expression hardening. “you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

you laugh, the sound bitter and hollow. “don’t i? because from where i’m standing, it seems like you’re the one who’s scared.”

his eyes narrow, and for a second, you think you’ve pushed him too far. but then he exhales, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “you’re right. i am scared. because if something happens to you—if i let myself care too much and i can’t protect you—” he cuts himself off, his voice breaking. “i can’t lose you.”

your breath catches, your chest tightening at the raw emotion in his voice. “jay—”

he doesn’t let you finish. instead, he steps forward, his hands cupping your face as he kisses you again. this time, it’s softer, slower, like he’s trying to memorise the feel of you. and you let him, your hands gripping his shoulders as you pull him closer, your heart pounding in your chest.

when he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, you can see the vulnerability in his eyes. “i can’t promise this will be easy,” he says, his voice low and rough. “but i can promise i’ll do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

you swallow, your throat tight with emotion. “that’s all i’ve ever wanted.”

you don’t talk about it for a full twenty-four hours.

not because you regret it. god, no. if anything, the memory of his hands on you, his lips against yours, plays on a loop in your mind, leaving you breathless every time. but now, there’s no going back. no pretending this isn’t real. no pretending you don’t feel the way his presence sets your skin on fire, or the way your heart races when he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters.

jay is still jay. still overprotective, still infuriating, still the same stoic bodyguard who drives you up the wall. but now?

now, every argument ends with him pulling you in by the waist, his voice low and rough as he murmurs, “you’re impossible,” before silencing you with a kiss.

now, every lingering stare actually leads to something—a brush of his hand against yours, a heated glance that makes your stomach flip, a moment where the tension between you becomes too much to ignore.

and now, your father figures it out almost immediately.

it happens during a family dinner, of all things. you’re sitting at the table, picking at your food while jay sits in his usual spot by you. your father is at the head of the table, his sharp gaze flicking between you and jay with a calculating look that makes your stomach sink.

you try to act normal. you really do. but when jay’s hand brushes against yours as he passes you a glass of water, and you catch yourself smiling at him without thinking, your father clears his throat.

“so,” he says, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. “when were you planning on telling me?”

you freeze, your fork halfway to your mouth. “telling you what?”

your father raises an eyebrow, gesturing between you and jay. “about this.”

you feel your face heat, your heart pounding in your chest. “i—what are you talking about?”

your father sighs, rubbing his temples like he’s already done with this conversation. “at least it’s him.”

jay freezes, his posture stiffening as he looks at your father. you gape, your mind racing. “excuse me?”

your father shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “you were always a handful, but he can handle it.”

you stare at him, your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. this is not the reaction you were expecting. not even close. you were prepared for yelling, for threats, for jay to be fired on the spot. but this? this casual acceptance? it’s almost worse.

you turn to jay, still reeling. “is this really happening?”

jay looks equally disturbed, his jaw tight as he meets your father’s gaze. “sir, i—”

your father holds up a hand, cutting him off. “don’t. just… keep her out of trouble. that’s all i ask.”

and just like that, the conversation is over. your father goes back to his meal like nothing happened, leaving you and jay to exchange a stunned look.

later, when you’re alone in your room, jay leans against the door, his arms crossed as he watches you pace back and forth. “well,” he says, his voice dry, “that could’ve gone worse.”

you stop pacing, turning to glare at him. “worse? he basically gave us his blessing. that’s not worse. that’s… i don’t even know what that is.”

jay shrugs, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “guess you’re stuck with me.”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t pull away when he steps closer, his hands settling on your waist. “lucky me,” you mutter, though the way your heart skips a beat betrays your words.

jay’s smirk softens into something warmer, his eyes searching yours. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

you don’t respond. not with words, at least. instead, you lean into him, your hands resting against his chest as you tilt your head up to meet his gaze. “just don’t let it go to your head, okay?”

he chuckles, the sound low and warm, before leaning down to kiss you. and as his lips brush against yours, you realise something.

maybe, just maybe, you don’t want to pull away.

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ©𝗴𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆𝘆 on Tumblr

You stood with him on the patio, a blanket draped over both your shoulders, leaning against the railing of the little patio, little soft light illuminating the space around you like little fireflies. Above you, the stars spilled wide and bright, scattered like spilled glitter across an endless black canvas.

“Wow,” you breathed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many.”

Beside you, Minho hummed low in his chest. His hand was warm, wrapped around yours beneath the blanket. “City doesn’t let you. Too many lights.”

You tilted your chin skyward, trying to trace the constellations you half-remembered from textbooks. But when Minho spoke again, his voice was softer – almost thoughtful. “Kind of unfair how pretty it is.”

But when you glanced over, he wasn’t looking at the sky.

He was looking at you.

You tried to play it off, tilting your head back again to search the stars, but you felt the weight of his gaze linger. His thumb brushed absently over your knuckles. And in that unspoken way you sometimes did, you thought about how seamlessly your life had folded into his. There was no border anymore between yours and his – it had happened without either of you noticing.

His hand shifted. You looked down to see his fingers brushing the delicate chain at your throat – the small pendant that had been his very first gift to you years ago, back when the two of you had been dating only a few months. You hadn’t even realized you’d grabbed it this morning.

He held it between his fingers for a beat, a faint smile flickering across his lips that said more than words could before lifting his gaze towards the sky. His eyes lingered for a moment, like he was grounding himself in the endless stretch of stars. When his gaze came back to you, it carried a weight you couldn’t name yet.

But he didn’t say anything. Just released the pendant carefully, letting it fall back against your skin.

“Hey…” He reached for your hand, squeezing it in his for a moment.

Before you could respond, he let go.

Not abruptly. Just… gently. Lingering, like he was reluctant to break the contact. You watched his fingers slip away from yours, confused, until he took one slow step back.

Then another.

And then—he lowered to one knee.

For a heartbeat, your brain didn’t compute. Your first thought – embarrassingly – was ‘Oh, here we go again’. That stupid reflex from months of false alarms flaring up, a half-second muscle memory of exasperation. But when your eyes met his, the thought died instantly.

No smirk. No glint of mischief. Just… Minho, looking up at you. His expression was shy – almost nervous – with the faintest crease between his brows like he wasn’t sure if he could get the words out right.

Your chest tightened.

“Minho…” you said softly, the blanket slipping from your shoulders. 

He took a breath, eyes flicking briefly towards the ground before finding yours again. The patio light caught in his eyes, warm and bright. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said quietly. “That I’m messing with you again.”

You huffed out a tiny laugh, because, well… yeah. “Kind of hard not to.”

His lips quirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I meant it when I told you I’d want you to know when it’s real. And.. this is.”

The air around you shifted, heavy with something beyond jokes and teases.

He reached into his jacket pocket, and your breath caught when he pulled out a small velvet box.

“This isn’t because you threatened to beat me to it,” he said, his voice warm but still carrying that edge of nervousness. “And it’s not because I ran out of ways to tease you.”

Your throat tightened painfully.

“It’s because,” he went on, “after five years of you putting up with me. Laughing with me, making me feel like—” he swallowed, “—like I’m home no matter where we are… I can’t picture any part of my life without you in it. And… I don’t want to keep living a life where I hope you’ll always be there. I want to know. I want to make it certain. I want it to be us. Always.”

You blinked rapidly. You weren’t the type to cry, and you’d probably laugh at yourself if you did. But when you glanced up at the sky for a second, the stars were a little blurry.

“So,” he breathed, opening the box to reveal a beautiful, slender ring, “will you marry me?”

For a second, you just stared. Partly because your brain was still catching up, partly because Minho looked so hopeful – like he’d been holding his breath for months, maybe years, waiting for this exact moment.

And then you sank down before your mind could even catch up, knees pressing against the cool wood as your hands cupped his face. “Yeah… yes,” you whispered, voice breaking into a laugh. “Of course, I’d marry you.”

His shoulders sagged with an exhale, the smile breaking across his face slow and unstoppable. He slid the ring onto your finger with hands that were slightly trembling despite his collected exterior.

You weakly added, “Pabo,” as if he could’ve really thought you wouldn’t say no to him.

But he kissed you before you could finish the word, kissing you with a passion that stole your breath. When he pulled back, his lips brushed against yours as he murmured, “Not letting your first word as my fiancée be an insult.”

You smiled, shaking your head at his teasing like you always did – but then your eyes widened a beat later as the word actually hit you. 

Fiancée. You were his fiancée. You were engaged. The two of you were engaged.

Minho caught your expression instantly. His grin softened, his eyes glinting. “You just realized, didn’t you?”

Your mouth opened, then closed again, words scrambling out uselessly. “I mean—I knew, obviously, I just—”

He chuckled, thumb brushing over the new ring on your finger like he was memorizing the sight. “Unbelievable. I spend months teasing you about proposing, and when I finally do, you’re more shocked by what it meant as a consequence.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. “That’s not—okay, maybe a little.”

He leaned closer, dropping his voice slightly. “Wow. My fiancée is slow on the uptake. Good thing she’s cute.”

“Minho!” you groaned, burying your face in his shoulder to hide the stupid grin spreading across your face.

He laughed quietly, pressing a kiss to your hair, his voice low and teasing against your ear. “Better get used to it. You’re stuck with me now, jagiya.” his smile grew sly, “Or… should I start calling you yeobo soon—”

Before he could finish the word, you grabbed the collar of his jacket and kissed him, catching him mid-tease this time. He made a muffled sound against your mouth, then melted into it, his laughter humming low in his chest as he kissed you back.

-----

Later, curled back on the patio with the blanket and his head resting against yours, you murmured, “You know, I’m glad you chose to ask like this and not that time Dori started throwing up.”

He groaned. “You had to bring that up now?”

“You were kneeling, Minho. I thought that was it. My heart almost gave out—and then you had to clean up cat vomit.”

He buried his face in your shoulder with a muffled groan while you laughed, the sound echoing up towards the endless sky.

For a bit of background to the confused readers (breaking the fourth wall let’s gaurr), The Zerose Empire exists with four ducal houses: Park, which exists in the west; Kim, from the South; Han of the East, and Shen of the North. Your family, The Ducal house of Han, has always been in opposition with the Ducal house of Shen. It was a fact that everyone knew, and it was a dislike that stemmed from way back then. (one so long that you don’t even know the reason anymore, just that you weren’t supposed to like them.)

And yes, the dislike is still rooted to this day. You could imagine how tired the Emperor, other noble houses, and ministry workers were. By this point they were quite sick of the petty arguments from both the ducal households. So sick, in fact, that Emperor Zhanghao IV, used the imperial command and declared that “Duke Han shall bring forth his most beloved daughter to marry Duke Shen’s successor.”

Your father almost had a heart attack after the declaration, but it was of no use to bargain since the imperial command was used.

In your opinion, father was a pretty good man. Not perfect or clean of course, but good. Your mother was the first wife, and surprisingly, the only wife he truly loved. It was unfortunate that mother died a year after you were born because of her weak body, and even more unfortunate that her only child turned out to be pretty weak too. He had remarried once more since then, and has had a few mistresses and children out of wedlock in an attempt to cure his aching heart. Despite the new ladies, you were still the first in his heart considering you were the only child he had out of the wife he loves.

Having a big room beside your father’s in the second floor all to yourself when all the others had to be in the first floor spiked a few jealous hearts, but your father was persistent and only allowed you the best despite your not-so-healthy body. So it was to no one’s surprise that Emperor Zhanghao meant for your father to pick you to be married to the young master of the Shen Ducal house.

That was five days ago. Your father had begged for your understanding to comply with the Emperor’s words despite him not liking the command either. He had told you that it was for the unity of the Empire and that the Ducal house of Shen had promised to your father and the Emperor that they would treat you with utmost respect; and that if they break that promise, you would be sent back with ten times the alimony paid by your father. (and boy was the original alimony already a crazy amount)

You had told your father to not worry about it as you knew your father worried for you greatly. After all, in his eyes, you were still the weak baby that he held in his arms just last week. How could he send a weak child to the harsh northern lands where you were unfamiliar with everything? Of course, you had your own worries too. Different from your father’s, though. Mostly about your own soon to be husband.

Unlike your family, where many children reside, the Ducal house of Shen only had one heir. The young master of the North, Shen Quanrui, was said to be a cold man according to the rumors you’ve heard from your maids. He was quiet and reserved, only showing his face in high society once in a blue moon. Similar to you in that matter, except it was because you were often too sick to attend rather than introverted.

You too had only met him once, in the Empire’s founding anniversary ball. Though you didn’t have the best memory, you could easily recall that face of his. Blonde hair that seemed to be dyed and striking blue eyes, it was as if he stepped out of a fantasy storybook. You’re sure he wore colored contacts back then, considering that both the Duke and Duchess had dark eyes. Nevertheless it didn’t change the fact that he was probably the most handsome man you’ve ever seen. You remember exchanging eye contact with him for a bit longer than you should have, and you remember how he raked your appearance with his eyes as if he was the hunter and you were the prey. You rolled your eyes and left back then despite the butterflies you got.

The sound of your bedroom door opening strips you out of your imagination.

”Sister,” said the voice of a young boy, “can I come in?”

”Yes,” you answered, “come in, Yujin.”

Han Yujin, the son of your father and his second mistress, was the only half-sibling you deemed close to you. His mother had died early on due to the same sickness as yours did, leaving him alone to fend off all the jealous eyes around him. You had sympathized with him, so you decided to keep him close and make him untouchable as one of your people. The young boy has since then grown attached to you, listening attentively to everything you say. Now, the young boy had become strong and wise, making him one of the successor candidates.

”I heard from father that you’d be married to that damned man, Shen Quanrui or whatever,” Sulked Yujin.

”That damned man,” you sighed, “is still a respectable man who fended off the wild beasts and is a close aide of the Emperor, you shouldn’t speak of him with that tone.”

“But—sister! He’s our enemy, we’re not supposed to like him! And—and, I heard from the maids that he’s a cruel and heartless man. What if he treats you harshly and locks you up in a tower or something!? What if he’s an indifferent husband who never looks after his wife and just messes around with other women? You deserve someone who’d love you and treat you as the apple of their eye—someone like—”

”Yujin,” Your voice stopped his train of thoughts as you held his hand, “don’t worry too much, okay? It’s not like I’m going there alone. My personal maids and Dr. Seok would be with me in the North, and they would report to father if anything happened. If he ever treats me cruelly, then I’ll be back here before you know it.”

”But still…I don’t want you away from me..”

“AWEE is my baby brother worried for me~” you teased as you squished him into a hug, emitting a loud Hey! from him as he tried to get out of your tight grasp.

Whether your words were to reassure him or you; however, you don’t know.

Who would have known that you’d get married to that man two weeks from now? Who would have known that you’d have to pretend like you didn’t hate this man all your life because you’re supposed to marry him? Who would have known that the first time you’d exchange pleasantries with your soon to be husband would be in your wedding aisle? Who would have known that you’d be moving away from your father’s protection and into the cold and dangerous land in less than a month? Goodness, may the heavens spare you.

YOU’RE CLOSE TO SLAPPING Emperor Zhanghao. Okay, so maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration unless you want a one way ticket to a death penalty. But what the hell man. It was so (notice the sarcasm?) nice of him to let you marry a man you’re supposed to hate that he even gave you a due date of two weeks to be locked in for life. What is the meaning of marriage to him? Homework? I mean it might as well be since no one wanted this…

But here you are preparing for your wedding as the maids have meticulously worked their magic on you. Hours of hard work to make you “the most beautiful bride to ever exist that not even the cold young master could resist.” (says them) They expected him to fall on his knees and have his spring blossom the moment he laid eyes on you. Though you didn’t believe it, you still laughed along with them.

When you looked at yourself in the mirror, you were honestly taken aback. Clad in a simple yet elegant dress with your hair up, you looked like a painting. Damn, did they really outdo themselves. If that man doesn’t fall in love with you (or at least find you the slightest bit attractive) at first sight then he’s probably just not into women. (It honestly doesn’t sound impossible considering that you’ve never heard of him being in a relationship with a woman before.)

It doesn’t really hit you that you’re getting married until your father comes in. The moment you see the tears in his eyes, you also feel your eyes water. You remember being young and dreaming of how you’d marry someone you love. You remember planning your dream wedding. This was it. This was what you had always imagined. Yet, all at the same time, it seemed so different. The reality of your situation juxtaposing the wedding you have always dreamed of. Oh, to be young and naive.

You bite your lip and look down, unable to face them. It seemed as if your father could read your thoughts as he took your hands in his.

“Oh y/n…” He started carefully, as if thinking on what to say next so you wouldn’t feel upset on your big day.

“It’s fine—”

“I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“I-I know you’ve been dreaming of this day for a long time, I’m sorry we only had a short time to prepare for it. But, I promise you, I did my best to make it as grandiose as I could possibly do so and—”

“No, seriously, it’s fine,” you denied, despite not being the most pleased, you know that your father had tried his best for you and you didn’t want to seem ungrateful, “I’m just melancholic that we won’t be as close anymore. I was informed that even though the Duke and Duchess are here in the capital, Prince Shen handles the matters in the North.”

“Ah!” Exclaimed your father as if he had just realized, “Don’t worry about that! The North has the fastest trains in the kingdom. You can visit us anytime, it would only take you five hours.”

“Oh really?” You said, pretending that you didn’t know that fact, “That’s great then, I can visit anytime I want.”

“Yes yes—now come, hold my hand once more. It’s time to walk the aisle.”

You hold his arm, finally walking out of the dressing room and towards the venue. The walk was mostly silent, and no one talked until you both reached the closed door that opens to the venue.

“Y/n.” said your father in a heavy voice.

”Yes?”

”I know I don’t say this often, but I hope for your happiness. If he ever makes you unhappy, then come back to me. I’ll even commit treason if the Emperor stands in the way, haha.”

“Father…”

”I know, I know. Gosh, I sound so old. Ready to meet the son of that corpulent piece of shit?”

”Father!”

“Oops sorry, old habits die hard. I mean, ready to meet your husband?”

”Yeah yeah, let’s just go already.”

Your father signaled the attendant to open the door, and shortly after, you could hear the announcer call your title. You realize that this may be the last time you’d be called with the surname Han.

You had little time to ponder on it though, as soon the gates opened and you had to focus on not tripping on your heels as you walked beside your father down the aisle.

The wedding venue was…wow, honestly. Your father is surely a big liar, you conclude. Pretty? Not even words can describe how beautiful the venue is. You’d think the wedding was planned for two years if you were an onlooker. The venue was held in a historical building which had lots of carved statues and decorative designs. Huge pillars hold up the roof, each pillar covered in vines and flowers. The roof in itself had hand-painted art that seemed to wash out from time, and a huge chandelier held on to the roof in the middle, sparkling so bright that it seemed like diamonds. Fresh white and purple flowers decorated the guests’ tables, and all around the venue were violinists in white dresses, standing on a short and small podium, seeming to mimic the sculptures that decorate the walls.

The road in front of you seemed to be shining, and you don’t realize how near you are until you feel your father let your hand go. Ah, this was it. He transferred your hand to an unfamiliar one, and it was only now that you finally looked at your soon-to-be’s face. It was slightly distorted thanks to the veil, but from what you could tell, the man was wearing a full white tux made from silk and decorated by pearls, with a black tie to complete his outfit.

‘At least he doesn’t have a boring fashion taste,’ you conclude.

Time passes, and before you know it, you have already said your promises and ‘I do’s.

“Please exchange rings,” says the priest.

Prince Shen takes the ring first, and then holds your hand. As he puts the ring on you, you could slightly feel his hand tremble.

‘Ha?’ you think, ‘does he despise me so much that the touch of my hand makes him furious?’

It leaves a bitter taste to your tongue, surprisingly. Your thoughts make you miss the lingering touch of his thumb on your ring finger. And, when it got to your turn, you quickly put the ring on his finger, letting go of his hand right after.

“You may kiss the bride to seal the promise,” declares the priest.

You could see his hands hold the bottom of the veil, before lifting it, finally giving you an opportunity to see his face. You conclude that God certainly took a long time to make that face. His face was the same as you remembered. Striking and attention-grabbing in a good way. The only thing that bothered you seemed to be his eyes. It seemed cold and distant, yet sharp. It was as if he was able to uncover all your secrets, and it made you nervous.

You feel his hand reach out to your chin, and you hold your breath. It was like you couldn’t breath, eyes searching all over his face on what he’d do next. He leans in, and your thoughts flood in a panic. It was like you were frozen, unable to move. Your heart starts beating so loud that you can't hear anything else. What should I do? How should I react? Why is he getting so clo—

“May I?” He breathed out, and you can just feel his breath right in front of your lips.

No? I don’t know. No, thank you. No, no, no—

“Yes,” you answered breathlessly, as if finally letting yourself take in the air.

And before you could overthink once more, his lips crashed into yours, so desperate for it that you had to hold his arm to stabilize yourself. It was as if he had been waiting for this for a long time—like an impatient tiger having to wait for the right time to finally strike its prey. And, just like a tiger who never lets go of its prey, he doesn’t seem to have any intention in letting you escape.

CHAPTER TWO: AN UNWELCOME BRIDE

THERE WAS NO TIME LEFT for an afterparty. Just right before your first night, Prince Quanrui immediately got a message urging him to return to the North. You didn’t really get the full story, but it seemed to be related to the wild beasts invading a town near the border. He had gone with his subordinates first to see the situation, and had told your attendees to have you leave the following morning. You parted from your father and brother early in the morning after hearing the news, taking the first train available that morning. Whether the call would be a blessing or a curse, you choose to be positive for now.

Nevermind.

Everyone seemed to praise the bolt trains of the North so much that they forget to mention how nauseating it is to actually ride it. Fast? Yeah, for sure. Safe? You have to think twice. Long travels already take a toll on you normally, so this was basically a freeway to being bed-ridden for at least a week.

Thank goodness your personal doctor, Seok Matthew, had chosen to accompany you to the North. Without him, you would have definitely felt a lot worse than you do now.

Now. Right—now. Now, you are in the chambers of what once was your enemy, and now of someone you must pretend to care for. You had wished to at least make a good first impression to your subordinates, but your head was killing you by the time you left the train. This was how you ended up being escorted to your new chambers immediately, and also how you have been spending the next two days. Bedridden, with Dr. Seok and your personal attendants right beside you.

At the very least, you have met the head butler, Hanbin, and he assured you that no one bears harsh feelings for you just because you weren’t able to greet them properly. ( you weren’t so convinced, but you let it go in your heart to reassure yourself. )

A knock disrupts your thoughts.

“Madam, this is Hanbin, can I come in?”

”Oh—yes, yes. Please come in,” you rushed out, sitting straight and fixing your messy hair.

The door opens, and a sturdy bachelor walks in with your afternoon snacks. Three finger sandwiches and a pot of chamomile tea—despite the feelings going around your head, your stomach seems to agree with today’s choice of snack.

Hanbin placed down the dish as you watched him with uneasy eyes. He was nice—in fact, too nice. It didn’t feel right that a person of the duchy would show such hospitality to a bride of the enemy house, despite the “truce”. You kind of expected more hostility than whatever is happening to you…like—for example; someone “accidentally” spilling water on you, or combing your hair harshly, perhaps even someone giving you the evil eye.? ( you swear your paranoia was caused by the amount of evil step-mother novels you’ve read.. )

He seemed to sense the stare you gave, as he let out a cough, breaking your trance.

“Uh—is there anything you need, madam?” He asked awkwardly, throwing a funny smile.

“I’m curious about something, if that would be okay for you to answer,” You replied hesitantly.

“Oh, of course! How can I help?” He replied instantly, kind of reminding you of a puppy…

“When will my husband come back home?” I ask.

“Ah..” he seemed hesitant; you narrowed your eyes, “perhaps in two days.? I’m not so sure, madam.”

”..Alright.” I let out, “tell him to visit me once he does. I must speak to him.”

“Yes, madam.”

And when Hanbin leaves and the door shuts, the echo of your loneliness is met once more.

TWO DAYS PASS, and you finally rise from bed, steadier than before. Your doctor assures you that you’re well enough to start moving around, and Hanbin—not quite hiding his relief—tells you in that gentle voice that your husband has returned.

You nod, brushing off invisible dust from your sleeves. Good, you think. You need answers. Not just about the household, or the expectations now hanging over your shoulders like lead chains—but about him. Your husband.

You don’t expect a warm welcome. That much, you’ve already let go of. But you do expect a meeting. A greeting. Some kind of acknowledgment. Any kind, actually.

So when you stand at the doors of his office—not your chambers, not a dining table, but his private space—and are told that “His Grace is occupied and unavailable,” your patience splinters.

( No one’s ever said no to you also, so that added to your annoyance. )

The guard—no, not Hanbin this time, someone else; tall with brown hair who introduced himself as Gyuvin—bows and repeats it with more formal stiffness.

“His Grace has requested not to be disturbed, Your Grace.”

Your Grace.

A title you never asked for, from a man you barely know.

You stand there a few more seconds, not moving, just breathing. Deep, quiet. And then, you turn.

DINNER IS HELD in the eastern hall that evening. There’s an absurd number of candles, a quartet of musicians playing something soft and forgettable in the corner, and a long table that stretches too far for a dinner with just one attendee.

That one attendee being you.

You stare at the empty chair at the other end of the table. No second plate. No poured wine. No footsteps down the hallway. You wait ten minutes. Fifteen.

Nothing.

A maid comes near, asking if you would like the food reheated.

You inhale slowly to calm your anger, count to three, and shake your head.

“Tell Dr. Seok I may have overestimated my recovery today. I’ll turn in for the evening.”

Except you don’t go to your chambers.

YOU PUSH OPEN THE DOOR to his chambers.

The scent hits you first—cold metal, faint leather, something darker underneath. It’s a battlefield in here, dressed as a room. Sparse. Austere. Distant.

Prince Quanrui doesn’t look up right away. He’s standing by the dresser, shrugging off a bloodied cloak. The faint drag of his shirt across his shoulder reveals a flash of red—dried, but angry-looking.

You speak before he can say anything, tone snappy.

“So you are back.”

He stiffens. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

“Is this how you greet your wife?”

“I told them not to let anyone in.”

“Well, they didn’t let me,” you say tightly. “I walked in myself.”

A pause. He turns, slowly. The moment your eyes meet, it feels like ice against glass—clear, cold, cracking with pressure neither of you fully understand.

“I just came from the field,” he says. “It’s not… sanitary.”

You scoff. “Don’t worry, I’m not that delicate.”

He says nothing to that. Instead, he crosses the room and begins unstrapping the belt at his waist—calm, impersonal. As if you’re a servant, or worse, a stranger.

“Are you avoiding me?” you ask.

He doesn’t even blink. “I’ve been busy.”

“You didn’t even come to dinner.”

“I ate in my office.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“I wasn’t aware I had to report to you for every schedule.”

You flinch. Then your jaw sets.

“Right. Of course not. Silly me, assuming a husband would want to dine with the wife he was forced to marry.”

That gets him. Briefly. He stills mid-motion, eyes sharp. “Don’t twist my words.”

“Then say them properly,” you snap. “If you have something to say—say it.”

Silence again.

You take a shaky breath. “I came here to try. I didn’t expect warmth, but I didn’t expect this. Being iced out. Ignored. Dodged like I’m the plague.”

He turns to you fully now, voice clipped. “Would you prefer I fake it, then? Smile and ask you about your health like we’re old friends?”

“God, I’m not asking for that either!” you burst. “I’m just—I don’t know—basic courtesy? The bare minimum? Something human?”

“I am being human,” he mutters. “I’m staying out of your way.”

“That’s not—!” You drag your hand through your hair. “You really think that’s what this is about? You hiding in your office is somehow a noble sacrifice?”

“I didn’t want to come near you like this.” His voice is low, almost too quiet. “Covered in blood. Smelling like war.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Why would that matter to you?”

He exhales through his nose. “Because you looked—fragile.”

“Oh, so now I’m fragile and dramatic.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

He runs a hand over his face. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re emotionally constipated!”

You both freeze.

Then:

“What?” he says, frowning.

You cross your arms. “You shut down the moment anyone asks how you feel. You deflect, disappear, or grunt. I don’t even know if you like horses or not.”

He stares. “Why would you need to know if I like horses?”

“That’s—!” You give a strangled laugh. “It’s an example. gosh, you’re dense.”

“You’re the one storming into rooms unannounced and making everything personal.”

“It is personal! We’re married!”

“We’re political allies.”

Your expression falls. Just slightly. “Is that all you think I am?”

He doesn’t answer.

And somehow, that silence says more than he could have with words.

You swallow, hurt threading through your voice now. “You kissed me like you meant it.”

That gets him. His jaw tenses. His gaze flickers.

You take a step back. “Forget it. You know what? If you didn’t want this marriage, you could’ve said something before the wedding.”

He finally speaks, low and frustrated. “Do you think I had a choice?”

“No,” you whisper. “But you do now. You have a choice now, to decide what kind of man you’re going to be to me.”

He opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Opens it again.

But the words don’t come. Whatever he wants to say is buried too deep, rusted over with years of silence and swords and frost.

You shake your head.

“I don’t need you to love me, Shen Quanrui. I just need to know you’re not going to treat me like a ghost haunting your estate.”

Still nothing.

You give him a last look, one filled with unsaid things.

Then you turn to the door.

Just as your hand touches the handle, he says—soft, almost bitter:

“I’m not good at this.”

You freeze.

A heartbeat passes. You turn your head slightly over your shoulder.

“Then learn,” you say. “Because I’m not going to live in this house as a stranger to my own husband.”

You leave.

And this time, the echo of your footsteps is the only sound that follows.

CHAPTER 3: THE PAST CHASES

IT’S NOT LONG BEFORE you have to finally attend an official event, even when you haven’t fixed things internally with Quanrui.

After all, duty is duty.

The event in question was the Emperor’s ball.

The ballroom glittered like something out of a dream — gold-gilded ceilings arched high above the crowd, their domes painted with legends and forgotten wars. Chandeliers swayed ever so slightly from the summer breeze pushing in through the open balconies, the crystals catching and breaking the candlelight into a thousand scattered diamonds across the marble floor.

You arrived on Duke Shen Quanrui’s arm.

His hand rested on yours, gloved and still, like you were porcelain. He looked every inch the Northern Duke — tall, composed, and cold, dressed in midnight blue military formal with his House’s sigil sewn in silver thread over his chest. People turned to look. Some whispered. Some bowed. None of them could tell that the space between your bodies — though small — felt like an entire frozen ocean.

You didn’t speak as the herald announced your names. You only felt Ricky’s fingers tighten slightly around yours, a reflex, perhaps. Protection? Possession? Habit?

“Smile,” he murmured under his breath, not looking at you.

You did.

Only because you knew how, not because you wanted to.

Every greeting was a performance. Nobles bowed. Countesses curtsied. A few dared to speak to you directly — women with jeweled fans and sharp eyes, testing your worth as the new Duchess of the North.

“My, you’re even lovelier than the rumors,” one of them said sweetly, though her eyes flicked to your hand on Quanrui’s arm. “And brave, too. I’d never have imagined the Duke of the North would ever settle down.”

You smiled politely. Ricky said nothing.

You wanted to look at him. Just once. To catch any sign of how he felt being here with you — under a thousand watchful eyes, with all the weight of expectations pressing down on your joined names.

Will he give you a look of regret? Of remorse?

But Ricky only led you through the room with practiced calm, nodding to diplomats and bowing to royals. The mask he wore never shifted. And each step made you wonder: Had he worn that same mask the day he agreed to marry you?

The music swelled, a waltz beginning from the musicians’ corner. People drifted to the dance floor in glittering pairs. You turned slightly, already planning to step back, to rest—

But Ricky caught your wrist.

His fingers, bare now, wrapped around you with startling ease. Not forceful. Just… unwilling to let go.

“We’re being watched,” he said slowly, softly—eyes fixed forward. “Dance with me.”

Your breath caught for a moment. Not because of the order — but because of how close his voice was. Like it belonged to another version of him entirely. One who didn’t keep you at arm’s length.

You nodded.

He pulled you into a standard ballroom hold, one gloved hand pressed against your back, the other cradling your hand in his. You moved together through the slow tempo, your bodies never touching too closely — just enough to make it convincing. Or maybe not. You couldn’t tell anymore what was real with him.

“You’re tense,” he muttered quietly, eyes not on you but just over your shoulder.

You met his gaze. “I wonder why.”

A pause. A flicker of something behind his eyes. Regret? Annoyance?

Then he said, softly, “I didn’t want you humiliated tonight.”

Your lips parted, surprised. “You think showing up in silence with a stranger counts as not humiliating?”

“I’m not a stranger,” he replied. “You just don’t know me yet.”

That made your throat tighten, bitter. “Whose fault is that?”

Silence. But his grip on your hand tightened, just for a moment.

Then the room seemed to hush around you as he leaned in, not enough for anyone else to notice — only you could hear what came next.

“Do you regret not marrying Kim Taerae?”

The question cracked through you like thunder.

You nearly stumbled at the unexpected mention of your ex-fiance, and he steadied you instantly, hand tightening at your back. But his expression was unreadable — calm, still, like he hadn’t just ripped open a wound you didn’t know was still bleeding.

Your voice, when it came, was quieter than you wanted. “That’s none of your concern.”

“Isn’t it?” he asked, still not looking at you.

The music ended before you could answer. He let go of you too quickly.

YOU RETREATED TO THE SIDELINES after that, needing air — or distance, or maybe just space to remember who you were before all this. Before you belonged to someone who only looked at you when no one else was watching.

A noblewoman approached you soon after, feigning friendliness with every syllable.

“His Grace rarely dances, you know,” she said, eyes gleaming behind her fan. “Not even when the Crown Princess tried to tempt him, back when he first returned from the Northern Border. But he danced with you. Curious, no?”

You didn’t reply. Because what could you say? That the dance had felt like a battle you didn’t agree to fight?

She took your silence as permission to lean in a little closer.

“They say he watched you for years,” she whispered. “Long before the Emperor suggested the match. I’d take that as a compliment. Or a warning.”

Then she smiled, curtsied, and vanished into the crowd.

You stood there, frozen.

Watched you…?

Had he?

You didn’t get the chance to ask, because another voice broke the peace of silence you almost had.

This time, one that was more familiar to you than you’d care to admit.

“My lady,” the voice greets, a shadow falling on your shoulders.

You turn—and there he is. Kim Taerae; the man you almost married.

He bows, ”It seems that fate had other plans.”

You want to focus on Taerae, but you can’t for a second— because that’s when you saw him leaving the ballroom.

Not storming, not rushing. But purposeful. Like something had shaken him loose.

And just like that, Duke Shen Quanrui disappeared into the back corridor with another man. One you’d never seen before — taller, purple-haired, with a casual swagger that didn’t belong in a place like this.

THE CANDELIGHT OF THE BALLROOM hadn’t even faded from his shoulders when Ricky felt a firm grip tug at the back of his collar.

“Running off already, Your Grace?” came the voice — smooth, smug, and unmistakably Western.

Ricky didn’t turn. “Not in the mood, Gunwook.”

“Oh, that’s obvious,” the Duke of the West said, falling into step beside him, a hint of laughter in his voice. His violet-dyed hair caught the torchlight as he leaned sideways, dramatically peering into Ricky’s face. “You looked like you were ready to strangle someone on the dance floor. So naturally, I followed.”

“I didn’t strangle anyone,” Ricky muttered.

“No. But you did look like you wanted to rip Kim Taerae’s arms off for touching your wife,” Gunwook said brightly, as if discussing the weather. “Which, I must say, is very unlike you. Should I be concerned?”

Ricky halted in front of a heavy set of mahogany doors. “Leave it.”

Gunwook only grinned wider. “Oh no, I’m definitely not leaving it.”

Before Ricky could protest, Gunwook swung the doors open and shoved him forward with a little too much force for it to be accidental. The scent of wine and citrus filled the room — and lounging on the chaise, holding a goblet of golden liquor, was the last person Ricky wanted to see right now.

Emperor Zhanghao raised a brow. “Well. That took longer than I thought.”

Ricky sighed, low and slow. “You too?”

Gunwook shut the door behind them with a click. “Yes, both of us. Because someone needed to sit you down before you iced your entire marriage in front of half the nobility.”

Zhanghao took a leisurely sip, then tilted his head at Ricky. “Was it the dress?”

“…What?”

“Your wife’s dress. Was it the reason you looked like your blood pressure doubled?” He smiled — infuriatingly calm, like he was enjoying a private joke. “I did approve the embroidery pattern myself, after all. Subtle House Shen motifs on a royal-cut train? Flattering, I know.”

Ricky ran a hand over his face. “Why am I here?”

Gunwook threw himself dramatically onto a velvet seat. “Because you’re losing your mind.”

“Because you’ve been avoiding her since the wedding,” Zhanghao added.

“Because you’re too scared to admit you care,” Gunwook said, kicking his legs up.

“Because I ordered this marriage and I will not have it crumbling over your inability to flirt.”

Ricky exhaled sharply. “I don’t need to flirt.”

Zhanghao looked positively offended. “You don’t want to. That’s different.”

“She was talking to her ex,” Ricky bit out.

There it was. The truth cracked free from between his teeth before he could stop it.

Gunwook let out a low whistle. “So you were jealous.”

“I wasn’t—” Ricky started, but the look from both of them shut him down instantly.

Zhanghao stood slowly, setting down his goblet. He walked toward Ricky, stopping just short of reaching him. His voice, when he spoke, was quieter now. “You’ve watched her for years, Quanrui. Don’t insult her by pretending you didn’t.”

Ricky’s jaw clenched.

Gunwook added, “You wanted this. She was supposed to be someone else’s, and you let it happen. Don’t pull the cold husband act now just because you don’t know what to do with her.”

Zhanghao gave him a knowing look. “Do you even know what she looked like when you walked away after that dance? Do you think she didn’t notice?”

“I was trying to protect her.”

“From what?” Gunwook asked, suddenly serious. “From being loved properly?”

Ricky didn’t answer.

For a moment, all three of them were silent. The tension coiled thick in the air — not malicious, but weighted. Heavy with truths left unsaid.

Then Zhanghao clapped him on the shoulder.

“Go find her,” he said. “And for once, try wanting out loud.”

Gunwook leaned back lazily. “Tell her she’s beautiful. Ask her to dance again. Maybe even smile. You know — things people do when they actually like their spouses.”

Zhanghao smirked. “And if you don’t, I’ll have no choice but to assign her to Gunwook next.”

“Hey!” Gunwook protested, grinning. “Not that I’d complain.”

Ricky turned on his heel without another word — but they caught the shift in his expression. The tightness of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders.

He was already walking back toward the ballroom.

He wasn’t running this time.

He was chasing.

YOU WEREN’T SURE HOW LONG you’d been standing by the colonnade when Taerae found you again.

The ballroom music pulsed behind you, but here—beneath the stone arches overlooking the gardens—it was quiet. Breezy. Safer, maybe. Or maybe you were just tired of looking composed.

Taerae offered you a cup of wine you didn’t ask for.

You took it anyway.

“Still don’t like crowds?” he asked lightly, leaning against the stone rail beside you.

You exhaled a laugh through your nose. “Still remember that?”

“I remember a lot of things,” he said. Then added, with a crooked smile, “Especially about you.”

You looked away first.

There was nothing inappropriate about the conversation. Not technically. Your voices stayed soft, your bodies politely distanced. But the history hung between you like an unfinished letter.

You spoke about nothing — court events, the weather in Hwanghae, a minor scandal involving a duchess and an overeager poet. He made you laugh once, softly. It was strange, how easy it was to fall into old rhythms, like old furniture your body still remembered the shape of.

But then you shifted your stance and the heel of your shoe caught on a loose stone tile.

“Ah—!”

Your wine tilted dangerously, your balance thrown—

Taerae caught you.

A hand steadying your elbow, his other gently brushing your waist to keep you upright. His face was suddenly much closer than it had been a second ago—eyes wide with concern, breath caught halfway through a sentence.

“Are you alright?”

You were. But you couldn’t answer.

Because in the very next moment, a shadow fell over both of you.

A voice —low, cold, and dangerous— broke through the air like a blade.

‘What’s this?”

You turned.

Ricky stood a few feet away, eyes trained on Taerae’s hand still on your waist.

His expression wasn’t angry. It was worse.

He looked calm. Carefully composed. The kind of quiet fury that didn’t raise its voice — because it didn’t need to.

Taerae dropped his hands immediately and straightened. “Duke Shen,” he greeted smoothly.

“Count Kim,” Ricky returned, his tone polite but flat. “I wasn’t aware the South sent such… personal envoys tonight.”

Taerae gave a thin smile. “Only a brief conversation.”

“With my wife?” Ricky asked, eyes narrowed.

It wasn’t a question. Not really.

You took a breath, stepping in. “He was just—”

“I saw what he was just doing,” Ricky said, eyes never leaving Taerae’s. “I assume the part where he touched you was also part of the conversation?”

Silence.

Taerae raised a brow. “Would you rather I let her fall?”

Ricky smiled. It was not kind.

“I’d rather you remember she’s not yours to catch.”

You could feel the tension slicing through the air like sharpened glass. The nobles in the ballroom hadn’t noticed yet — but if this continued, they would. The Duke of the North and the Count of the South publicly trading barbed words over you was not exactly the kind of court entertainment you wanted to provide.

You turned toward Ricky, voice firm. “Can we talk? Alone?”

He didn’t look away from Taerae right away. But eventually, he gave a stiff nod.

Taerae gave you a subtle glance before he bowed—to both of you—and walked away into the colonnade shadows.

You and Ricky stood in silence for a long moment.

Then you asked quietly, “Why did you come back?”

He looked at you like it was the stupidest question in the world.

”Because you were gone. And so was I.”

CHAPTER FOUR: A SWEET RENEWAL

The next morning, everything was… different.

Yet also the same.

You still woke in a room colder than you’d like, in sheets warmer and twicefold heavier than you’d use back in the East. You still had the same title, the same last name, the same view of snow-dusted stone terraces outside your window.

But something had shifted.

You saw it in the way Ricky hesitated in the doorway when he came to check on you. Not barging in. Not commanding. Just..lingering.

“I asked the staff to serve your breakfast upstairs,” he said, eyes flicking briefly to the tray. “You looked tired.”

You nodded. “Thank you.”

He didn’t move.

You waited for him to leave—but he didn’t. Instead, he stepped further into the room, hands behind his back, posture tense like he was preparing for a duel.

“Do you—” he cleared his throat. “Do you still feel… unwell?”

You blinked. He’s checking in?

“No fever,” you reply quietly. “I just didn’t sleep well.”

Ricky nodded once. “Would you like something for that? A draught, or…”

His voice faded, unsure. He sounded like someone reading from a manual he’d never opened before.

“It’s alright,” you said gently. “Just… stay—if you’re not too busy.”

That caught him off guard.

“I’ll stay,” he said, almost too quickly.

He sat—stiffly, of course—in the armchair by the hearth. For a long while, neither of you spoke.

You ate quietly. The sound of the spoon tapping the bowl filled the silence between you.

Then, abruptly, he stood. Crossed the room. Pulled the blanket from the foot of your bed—and without meeting your gaze, carefully draped it around your shoulders.

“Your hands were cold,” he said, almost like an apology. Like it was his fault your hands turned freezy and not the atmosphere’s.

You looked down at them. They were. You hadn’t noticed.

“…Thank you,” you murmured.

He nodded again, then walked back to the armchair—only to stand again two seconds later. This time pacing—then stopping halfway. Then crossing his arms like he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

“You can sit,” you said, unable to stop the small smile that tugged at your mouth.

He looked mildly offended. “I wasn’t going to leave.”

“I didn’t say you were,” you replied, tilting your head.

Another silence. This one, less heavy.

Finally, he muttered, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

You blinked. “Pardon?”

Ricky turned towards you fully, completely, for the first time that morning. His face was unreadable, but his voice was softer now. Almost… uncertain.

“I’ve never—” he paused. “—been married. Or… or close to someone like this. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You stared at him for a moment.

“I’ve never been married either,” you said, voice quieter than before. “So we’re even.”

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But close.

You tucked the blanket around yourself tighter, fighting the absurd urge to laugh. “Is this our truce, then? A mutual agreement that we’re both bad at this?”

“I’m not bad at this,” he said quickly. Then paused. “Just… inexperienced.”

You couldn’t help it. The laugh slipped out.

Ricky blinked. Then tilted his head, like he hadn’t expected the sound of your laughter to be so… nice.?

“I didn’t mean that kind of inexperience,” he said, voice flat.

That only made you laugh harder. He looked away, ears faintly pink at the tips.

A WEEK LATER, the sun filtered through the high windows of the gallery hall. Your steps echoed faintly as you walked beside him—slow and steady, more for your own comfort than anything else.

You weren’t used to walking beside him like this. As equals. At court, you’d seen him from afar, always ahead of others, always silent. But here, his pace matched yours. Half a step behind, even. You don’t know why you noticed.

“I never liked this corridor,” you said suddenly.

Ricky glanced sideways. “Why?”

You gestured loosely to the frozen statues that lined the walls. “It’s cold. Pretentious. All these marble war heroes look like they’ve never lost anything.”

He hummed, the sound low in his throat. “That’s because none of them wrote their own histories.”

You raised a brow at him. “That almost sounded wise.”

“I do believe I have moments.” He replied almost sassily.

A beat of quiet passed. Then he cleared his throat.

“I know you used to walk gardens in the East,” he said. “Dr. Seok told me you preferred sun to snow. I could have the north courtyard warmed. Have you seen it yet?”

You blinked. “No. I didn’t know it had plants.”

“It doesn’t,” he admitted. “But I can change that.”

Your steps slowed.

He wasn’t looking at you, not directly. But his voice was earnest. Awkward, yes — but unpolished in a way that made you believe it. He’d paid attention. Asked someone. Made a plan.

“I’m used to the cold by now,” you said finally. “But… thank you.”

He nodded once, as if that settled it. Like the moment was locked away in his memory.

You stopped before the tall stained-glass window near the arch, gazing out at the distant horizon where the snow met sky. The East always looked so green in your memory. Warm and humming and golden.

“You must have hated the idea of marrying into the East,” you said quietly. “When they first told you it was me.”

Ricky turned to you. “I didn’t hate it.”

“You didn’t fight it, either.”

“No,” he said. “Because it was you.”

You looked up sharply.

He met your eyes, steady now. “I didn’t want marriage. But if I had to belong to someone, I didn’t want it to be a complete stranger. And you weren’t.”

Your breath caught.

He didn’t explain further. He didn’t need to. The truth sat between you — clean, heavy, unmistakable.

You’d known each other in childhood—albeit not the nicest impressions. When you were children, you were forced to be besides each other at court dinners, though never quite close enough to matter. But he remembered. And apparently, so did you.

“I thought you didn’t remember those years,” you murmured.

He glanced back toward the window. “I remember a lot more than you think.”

THE SNOW WAS FALLING harder by nightfall.

You hadn’t meant to stay in the gallery that long—but the light through the stained glass was gentle, and for once, Ricky’s presence wasn’t stifling. Just quiet. Thoughtful.

So you lingered. And maybe it cost you.

Because hours later, back in your chambers, the ache in your bones sharpened. The dull throb behind your eyes turned to a pounding. Your breaths came shallower. And the cold—goodness, the cold—it settled under your skin like frostbite.

You didn’t notice the tears until they slipped down your cheeks.

Your hands were trembling too hard to ring the bell. You curled in on yourself at the edge of the bed, trying to breathe through the flare of pain in your stomach and the pressure climbing your chest.

The door slammed open a moment later.

Ricky.

He looked as if someone had told him you’d collapsed—which, you realized vaguely, someone probably had.

His eyes swept over you, and for the first time since you’d arrived in the North, the mask cracked.

“Get Dr. Seok,” he snapped to the servant behind him. “Now!”

He crossed the room in two long strides and knelt by your bedside. His hands hovered—not touching, not yet—like he didn’t know where it hurt, and was terrified of making it worse.

You tried to speak. Couldn’t.

“Hey—hey, breathe,” he said, voice lower now. Softer. “Look at me. Just—don’t cry. Please, don’t cry.”

Your vision blurred. You hated crying in front of people. You especially hated that it was him seeing it.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t apologize,” he said quickly. “You’re not in trouble. Just—what do you need? Tell me what to do.”

You didn’t know.

That’s when Dr. Seok arrived.

Everything moved faster after that—cool hands on your forehead, medicine against your lips, Ricky following every instruction like his life depended on it. Like yours did.

“Her core temperature’s unstable,” Seok said sharply. “This always happens when she overexerts herself in winter. You knew she went out today?”

Ricky looked stricken. “Yes.”

“Blankets. No more than three. And do not overheat the room.”

“I’ll do it,” Ricky said instantly. “Tell me what else.”

And he did. For hours.

He helped you sit up to breathe easier. He ran the cloths under cold water himself when your fever spiked. He held you through the shaking when the cramps got worse, even though his arms were rigid and unsure.

Once, when he thought you were asleep, you heard him mutter:

“If you die, I’ll never forgive you.”

Thankfully, the worst of it passed just after midnight.

Dr. Seok left once your fever stabilized, though not without a long lecture about warm food, layered clothing, and letting your body recover. The servants, quiet and efficient, took away the basin and bloodied cloths. The fire was stoked one last time.

Then they were gone.

Leaving only you. And your husband.

The room was quiet save for the soft crackle of flames.

You shifted slightly beneath the blankets, your body sore and spent. You could feel the sweat clinging to your skin, but you didn’t have the strength to move. The cold no longer gnawed at you, but your head felt far too light, like it might float off your neck entirely.

You didn’t have to look up to know he was still there.

Ricky sat beside your bed, his chair pulled as close as it could go. One elbow rested on his knee. His eyes were trained on your hand, limp against the blanket.

You turned your palm upward. Just barely.

It was an invitation.

He took it.

Carefully, hesitantly—like the gesture might break you all over again—Ricky wrapped his fingers around yours. His grip was gentle, but firm. Anchoring.

“You’re not… dizzy anymore?” he asked, his voice low and hoarse.

“Not dizzy,” you murmured. “Just… tired.”

He nodded, but didn’t let go.

Another silence bloomed. But this one felt different. Not awkward. Not stiff. Just..quiet.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he said after a while. “I’ve read every war manual there is. Nothing in any of them prepares you for this.”

You managed a weak smile. “You did fine.”

“You cried,” he said, and you heard something strange in his voice. Shame. Guilt.

“I was in pain.”

“You looked scared.”

You were. But you didn’t want to say it out loud.

“I’m used to it,” you offered instead.

He shook his head once. “You shouldn’t have to be.”

The fire popped gently. A spark fell and disappeared.

Ricky leaned forward, resting his forehead against the back of your hand.

“Just tell me next time. Before it gets that bad. I’ll listen. I swear I’ll listen.”

His voice was too raw, too close to breaking for you to do anything but squeeze his hand back.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that—his hand in yours, your breathing finally even, the weight of the night pressing soft and heavy against your skin.

Eventually, Ricky shifted in his seat. Not away from you. Just enough to lift his head.

“Does it… happen often?” he asked, voice quiet.

You blinked up at the ceiling, too tired to lie. “Not as often as it used to. But yes. Especially in the cold.”

He nodded, as if logging it away. Then, after a pause:

“Since when?”

You hesitated.

“I was fifteen when it started,” you said finally. “They thought it was just stress, or the court air. But it didn’t stop. Got worse every winter. Some summers, too.”

He looked at you carefully. “Is it from…?”

“My mother,” you confirmed, before he could finish. “Not the current Mistress. My real mother, the Duchess. She died young. No one talks about it, but I’ve read her letters. She knew it would pass to me.”

A long silence.

You weren’t sure why you kept talking. Maybe it was the warmth of his palm. Or maybe it was the way he hadn’t let go of your hand since Dr. Seok left.

“They tried to hide it,” you said softly. “Said it would ruin my marriage prospects. That no one wanted a wife with..well—complications.”

Ricky’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I wasn’t supposed to tell you,” you added. “My father said it would give the North something to laugh about.”

“I don’t find it funny,” he said flatly.

“I know. That’s why I’m telling you now.”

His thumb brushed against the side of your hand. You looked at him—really looked—and saw something shift behind his eyes. Something heavy. Thoughtful.

“I wish you’d told me earlier,” he said after a moment. “So I could’ve started worrying sooner.”

That surprised a laugh out of you.

“I’m serious,” he added, softer now. “I’m your husband. Even if I’m not good at it… I should at least be allowed to care.”

The laughter faded. A different kind of quiet settled between you. Fragile. Real.

“Then I should tell you something else,” you said, barely above a whisper.

He looked at you. Waited.

“There’s a chance I… might not be able to bear children. Or that it would be dangerous. They’re not sure yet.”

He didn’t react right away. No anger. No disappointment. Just stillness.

You braced yourself for the worst.

Instead, he said calmly:

“Then we don’t.”

You blinked. “What?”

“We don’t have children. Or we adopt. Or name an heir some other way. I don’t care.”

You stared at him.

“I married you,” he said, holding your gaze. “Not your bloodline. Not your womb. Just… you.”

A knot that had lived quietly in your chest for years began to loosen.

“Everyone else seems to care,” you murmured. “About heirs. About legacy. About—”

“I’m not everyone else.”

He reached up—slowly—and brushed a strand of hair from your cheek. His fingers were clumsy. Gentle. New.

“I don’t need a dynasty,” he said. “I need a reason to come home.”

You didn’t respond right away.

Because that line—

You weren’t sure what unsettled you more—the gentleness of it, or the terrifying fact that you wanted to believe him.

So you did what you always did when things felt too close.

You looked away.

Pulled the blanket tighter.

And said softly, “I’ve been feeling lonely here.”

He blinked, clearly startled by the shift. But he didn’t push back.

Instead, he adjusted in his seat and asked, carefully, “What do you mean?”

You stared at the flames in the hearth. “I don’t know anyone. The staff is kind, but formal. There’s no one to talk to. Not really.”

“You talk to me.”

A small laugh escaped your lips—not mocking, but light. Tired.

“I talk at you, sometimes. It’s not the same.”

He looked thoughtful. A shadow passed through his expression—something like guilt, quickly swallowed.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You turned your head to him. “Why?”

“For being the kind of man who makes you feel alone, even when I’m in the room.”

That silenced you.

Because you hadn’t expected him to get it.

You hadn’t expected him to say it out loud.

And now that he had, your throat tightened.

“I miss having someone who knows me,” you said. “Before all of this. Before the titles. Someone who doesn’t see a duchess, or an Eastern bride. Just me.”

He was quiet for a moment.

Then he asked.

“How can I help with that?”

The question was simple. But it landed like a stone in still water.

You blinked. Your mouth parted slightly.

“Could I…” you hesitated. “Could I see my brother? Or Jiwoong? Just for a short visit.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look insulted or annoyed.

Instead, he nodded. “If they’re willing to come, I’ll have them escorted here safely. As soon as possible.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Yujin may be busy,” you said softly. “He’s preparing for the inheritance rites this season. But Jiwoong will come if he can.”

“The Marquess?” he asked, lips twitching faintly. “The one with the sharp tongue and louder coats?”

You smiled. “The same.”

“Then I’ll send a rider at dawn.”

He said it like a promise. Like it was the easiest thing in the world—to bring a piece of your home to you.

You felt the sting in your throat again.

But this time, it wasn’t from pain.

JIWOONG ARRIVED TWO DAYS LATER in the early afternoon—draped in a fur-lined cloak too extravagant for spring and dragging two terrified servants behind him with a box labeled “emergency tea collection.”

“My lady,” he declared as he stepped into the tea room, arms wide and voice scandalously loud for Northern halls, “you look positively faint. Has no one brewed you proper jasmine since you got here?”

You didn’t realize how much you’d missed him until you saw him.

You barely waited for the servant to bow before launching into his arms.

He caught you with ease, arms warm, cloak even warmer, his familiar cologne a small miracle in a house that smelled only of stone and snow.

“I thought you’d be busy,” you murmured against his shoulder.

Jiwoong pulled back, eyes gleaming. “Please. For you? I nearly left in the middle of court. The Emperor said I was dramatic. I said I was loyal.”

You laughed, guiding him to sit across from you as the staff brought in fresh porcelain and delicate finger food.

Ricky had arranged everything perfectly. Even down to the jasmine.

Jiwoong noticed.

“Well,” he said, lifting the tea to his nose. “Your Northern Duke has taste. Or at least money.”

You smiled without meaning to. “He’s… trying.”

“Oh?” Jiwoong’s brows rose. “That was not your tone last time we talked.”

You looked down at your cup. “It’s complicated.”

“I assumed it would be. You did marry a man who glares for sport.”

You shot him a look.

He leaned in, resting his chin in his palm. “But go on. What did he do? Save your life? Apologize with a bouquet? Cut off his own arm in penance?”

“No,” you said, cheeks warming. “He… stayed with me. When I was sick. Took care of me himself.”

Jiwoong blinked. “And?”

You frowned. “What do you mean, and?”

“I mean—is that all it took?” he said, mock-scandalized. “[reader], I took care of you when you had a cold once and all I got was your brother threatening to exile me.”

You rolled your eyes. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Wasn’t it?”

You were quiet for a beat.

Then: “He held my hand. All night. He didn’t have to.”

Jiwoong’s teasing faded just slightly. He tilted his head, watching you.

“And how do you feel about him now?” he asked.

You hesitated. Sipped your tea. Avoided his gaze.

“That bad?” he said gently.

“No,” you murmured. “Not bad.”

He leaned back in his chair, smiling like a fox who’d already found the prize.

“Well,” he said, lifting his cup to toast you. “I’m not saying you’re in love, but…”

You glanced up.

“You’re closer than you think.”

You looked away quickly, but something inside you jolted.

The words echoed as you sat there, tea warm in your hands, the scent of jasmine curling in the air.

You didn’t want to admit it—not even to yourself—but maybe he was right.

Because lately, Ricky’s name didn’t sound like frost anymore.

It tasted like warmth.

CHAPTER FIVE: THE CONFESSION THAT PROGRESSES IT ALL

The tea room was quieter now.

Jiwoong’s echo still lived in the cushions — in the jasmine-soaked air, in the slight smudge his rings left on the porcelain. His warmth, his chaos, his knowing gaze. It had all vanished the moment he walked out.

And yet, you sat there. Still.

Fingers curled around your teacup, now lukewarm.

You weren’t sure if you were savoring the moment or hiding from the one that would come next.

The hallway creaked softly.

Your gaze lifted—and there he was. Ricky, standing by the threshold. Not quite in, not quite out.

You hadn’t even heard him approach.

He didn’t speak. Just studied you in that quiet way of his, unreadable eyes drifting from your face to the abandoned tea set, then to the second cup still half full.

He stepped forward.

“I didn’t know you liked jasmine,” he said at last.

You nodded. “It’s my favorite. My mother—” You caught yourself, then finished softly, “She used to bring it back from the eastern markets when I was a child.”

He didn’t sit across from you. Instead, he circled around and picked up the second teacup—Jiwoong’s.

He sniffed it, eyes narrowing just slightly, then set it back down with care. “He’s bold. Your friend.”

You smiled. “He’s loyal.”

There was something unreadable in Ricky’s posture. Not exactly tense. But not relaxed either.

“He said something to you,” Ricky said. “After I passed him on the stairs. I could tell.”

You blinked. “You were listening?”

“No,” he said. “But I noticed. Your face changed.”

You looked down at your tea.

“He said I seem to be falling for you,” you admitted.

A pause.

You could feel it—the silence between you stretching, winding tight like a pulled bowstring.

“And are you?” he asked, apprehensive.

Your eyes flicked up to his.

But he wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t cold.

Just… there. Waiting. Open in a way he hadn’t been before.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly. “I think I’m starting to want to.”

His jaw moved slightly. Not clenched—just thoughtful.

He reached across the table.

You froze.

But he didn’t touch your hand. Just the edge of your sleeve, brushing away a tiny tea stain.

You watched his fingers. Long, careful, slightly trembling.

“Thank you,” you said, barely audible.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You stayed.”

His hand paused.

You looked up again—and something in his gaze cracked, just for a second.

“I’ll keep staying,” he murmured—a tender promise.

THE STUDY HAD GROWN WARMER since the first time you’d entered it.

Back then, it felt like a war room — all cold stone, iron candleholders, scrolls stacked like shields. Now, it breathed with a softer kind of stillness. A few fresh peonies sat in a shallow dish near the window, and the fireplace crackled steadily, offering golden light against the long table.

You sat at the far end, sleeves rolled just enough to write, a thick stack of estate ledgers and correspondence open before you.

He sat at the other.

You had both been working in silence for nearly an hour.

And yet… it wasn’t uncomfortable.

Ricky’s head was bowed as he scanned one of the farming contracts from the outposts near the river. Every so often, his brow furrowed and he made a note in the margin. It was strange — seeing a man who once held a sword with such command now holding a quill with equal focus.

And yet… fitting.

You have spent weeks beside him now. Not always talking. Sometimes just existing in the same space. And still, there were moments like this where you caught yourself watching him too long. Wondering who he was before he became a duke. Before duty shaped his shoulders.

“Did you always want this?” you asked, softly.

He didn’t look up at first.

Then, slowly: “What. The estate?”

You nodded.

He leaned back in his chair, quill lowered to the table.

“No,” he said. “I didn’t want any of this.”

Your hands stilled on the page.

“I wanted to be a soldier. At first.” His voice was steady, but something in it had dulled — like a blade turned blunt from overuse. “When I was twelve, I begged my father to let me join the outer battalion. I thought it would make me—I don’t know, worthy? I thought… maybe if I was good enough at protecting something, he’d stop looking at me like I was a burden.”

You watched him. He didn’t meet your eyes.

“I trained harder than anyone. I was better than men twice my age by the time I was fifteen. But it didn’t matter. He still sent me away to fight battles that weren’t mine, just to get me out of his way.”

“Is that where the scar on your shoulder came from?” you asked quietly.

He glanced up, a flicker of surprise on his face. “You noticed that?”

“You took off your coat once. Near the fire. I saw it.”

He didn’t answer for a moment.

Then he nodded. “Yes. First winter skirmish I led. I lost fourteen men that day. I was nearly the fifteenth.”

You closed your ledger.

Something about his tone told you this wasn’t a story he shared often. Maybe never.

“I think,” he said after a while, “I stopped feeling like a person back then. Everything was about surviving. Winning. Keeping the North strong. But I stopped knowing who I was outside of that.”

Your voice came before you had time to think.

“You were a child.”

He looked up sharply.

“You shouldn’t have had to carry all that alone,” you said. “It wasn’t fair.”

His expression didn’t change. But his throat worked like he was swallowing something down.

“Maybe not,” he said. “But no one ever told me that before.”

A silence settled between you. Not sharp—just soft. Like snow.

“I don’t think you’re cold,” you said suddenly. “Not really.”

His eyes met yours.

“I used to think you were. In the beginning,” you admitted. “But now I see it’s not coldness. It’s… armor.”

He didn’t speak. But something in his posture eased.

You hesitated, then added, “I think I understand it now. Loneliness doesn’t always feel loud. Sometimes it just makes you quiet.”

His gaze dropped again. To your hands. Your ink-stained fingers.

“And you?” he asked. “Were you lonely too?”

You took a breath.

“Yes,” you said. “But not in the same way.”

You turned slightly in your seat, facing him more fully.

“I was never on the battlefield. But I spent most of my teenage years in bed. Sickness after sickness. Fevers that left me too weak to walk. My nurses tried to be kind, but I could hear their whispers. ‘Poor thing. Too fragile.’”

You folded your hands in your lap.

“Everyone thought I’d break if I did anything remotely taxing,” you said. “So they stopped letting me try.”

He looked at you. Fully now. No armor.

“I always wanted to dance at court,” you said with a weak smile. “But my body wouldn’t let me. I wanted to ride, to fence, to run. But I couldn’t. So I read. I studied. I dreamed. And every time I got better, I fought harder to do just one more thing they were sure I couldn’t.”

A beat passed.

“You fought, too,” he said, voice soft. “Just a different kind of war.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

And something in you warmed.

“Maybe that’s why I admire you,” you said. “You didn’t give up. Even when it cost you parts of yourself.”

His brows drew together—like he didn’t know what to do with praise.

But then he said, quietly, “That’s what I thought… about you.”

You blinked. “Me?”

“I never said it,” he continued with a small nod, “but I used to wonder how someone so often in pain could still look that composed in public. You wore silk and jewels twice your weight. You smiled, even when I knew you were cold.”

He leaned forward slightly.

“I didn’t realize it then. But I see it now. You were fighting, too.”

You felt your throat tighten.

“Why are you telling me this now?” you asked.

“Because,” he said, “I think I’ve started seeing you for who you are. Not just who I expected. Who I admired.”

A pause.

“And I want you to see me, too.”

Something in your chest cracked open.

Slowly, wordlessly, you reached across the table and placed your hand near his.

He didn’t move for a moment.

Then, inch by inch, he covered your hand with his.

No pressure. Just presence.

No one spoke.

But everything was said.

THE BEDROOM WAS QUIET except for the sound of the fire.

You lay on your side, facing him across the small stretch of space between you. He wasn’t under the covers yet — just sitting at the edge of the bed, half in shadow, hands loose in his lap.

You’d gotten used to this… the way you occupied the same room now. How it wasn’t quite awkward anymore, but not entirely comfortable either. A strange, heavy peace. Something unnamed but not unwelcome.

“You’re staring,” you said softly.

He didn’t look away. “So are you.”

You huffed a laugh. “Touché.”

He finally turned, pulling the blanket over his legs. You watched the way his jaw shifted as he settled beside you, still a little stiff, still unsure of how to be near you.

So you closed the gap.

Just a little.

Reached forward, fingers brushing his cheekbone.

He flinched—not in fear, but in surprise. His eyes widened.

You kept your touch featherlight.

“You always look like you’re bracing for battle,” you whispered. “Even in bed.”

His lips twitched. “Habit.”

You let your palm rest gently against the side of his face. He didn’t pull away. His shoulders dropped a little — and then a little more.

“Do I make you nervous?” you teased.

He swallowed. “Not nervous. Just…”

You waited.

He didn’t finish.

Instead, he leaned into your touch, eyes softening in that rare, unguarded way. The way he only looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

You opened your mouth.

And so did he.

“I—”

The fire popped sharply, a log splitting open with a loud, crackling burst.

You both froze.

The spell shattered.

You drew your hand back. He cleared his throat and turned onto his back, eyes on the ceiling. You mirrored him after a second, heartbeat loud in your ears.

Neither of you spoke.

But your fingers drifted slightly under the covers.

And when they found his… he let them stay.

THE GARDEN HAD CHANGED.

Where once frostbitten branches had hung bare and brittle, soft petals now danced in the wind — blush peonies, pale narcissus, crocus in quiet bloom. The warmth enchantments worked better than expected, drawing life from the ground like it had been waiting all along.

You sat on the stone bench beneath the archway, fingers toying with the hem of your sleeve. The winter sun peeked through the glass ceiling, gentle and golden.

Behind you, footsteps echoed.

You turned just in time for a familiar figure to appear at the edge of the path—dark cloak, Eastern seal stitched at the collar.

Han Yujin.

Finally, after a long wait, your beloved brother was free from his duties and able to visit you.

Your brother’s smile was slow and fond as he approached. “So this is the infamous Northern garden, hm? Looks more like a conservatory now.”

You stood to greet him, letting him pull you into a tight hug.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmured. “He had it warmed… for me.”

Yujin glanced around, one brow raised. “Did he now?”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t deny it.

He walked a few steps ahead, crouching to brush his fingers along the base of a camellia bloom. “You look better,” he said softly. “Less pale. Still tired, though.”

You smiled faintly. “It’s been a long few weeks.”

He nodded, then stood, folding his arms as he turned back to face you. “Jiwoong told me a little. Said you’re adjusting. Slowly.”

There was a pause.

You both knew what was coming.

“I just…” Yujin tilted his head. “I want to ask you something.”

You gestured for him to sit beside you.

He did.

And then: “What are you waiting for?”

You blinked.

He didn’t look at you when he said it—eyes still on the garden, voice low.

“You’re healing. He’s trying. You’re no longer strangers. So why do you still look like you’re holding your breath every time someone mentions his name? You know we aren’t enemies anymore. The grudge is done and gone”

Your heart squeezed.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” he said gently.

He turned to look at you now, gaze soft but unrelenting.

“What are you afraid of?”

You inhaled, fingers curling slightly over your skirt.

“I don’t know.”

“You do.”

You hesitated. Then admitted, “I’m afraid… it won’t last.”

He nodded once.

“And if it doesn’t?” he asked. “You’ll survive. You always have.”

You closed your eyes for a moment.

Then, softly: “I think… I’m afraid that if I love him, and he doesn’t love me back… I won’t know how to go back to being strong again.”

Yujin’s voice was quiet. “You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

You looked at him.

He smiled. “Not alone.”

The wind shifted. A few petals scattered across the stone path.

“You’ve always been brave,” he said. “Even when you were sick, even when Father made things harder than they had to be. You still stayed kind. You still stayed you.”

He paused, then added:

“Don’t let fear of loss stop you from choosing love.”

Gosh, when has your baby brother matured so much?

Your throat tightened.

You didn’t speak.

But your eyes drifted across the garden—toward the doors that led back inside. Toward the room where Ricky might still be.

Waiting.

Just like you were.

YOU FOUND HIM in the sitting room, legs stretched out along the velvet couch, hair slightly mussed from what looked like a failed nap.

A book sat closed on his chest. His eyes, however, were open—as if he’d sensed you coming before you even touched the doorknob.

Ricky didn’t sit up immediately.

He just blinked, and then said, “You’re back.”

You walked in. Quietly. Lightly.

“I didn’t leave for good,” you said. “You think I’d leave you alone with the estate documents?”

He huffed a quiet sound — somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “I hoped.”

You raised a brow. “Are you saying I’m bad company?”

“I’m saying you scold me more than Gyuvin, our steward, does.”

You placed a hand over your chest in mock betrayal. “I scold you because I care.”

That made him pause.

You didn’t mean for it to come out like that. But it hung in the air anyway, soft and glowing.

He sat up slowly. His shoulders looked less heavy than they did last week.

“Do you… want to sit?” he asked, nodding to the space beside him.

You did.

The couch dipped as you curled your legs under you. Not too close—but close enough that your knees brushed when you shifted.

“I talked to Yujin,” you said. “He says you look better fed than when we first saw you in the wedding hall.”

“He’s not wrong.”

You laughed. “He also thinks you have no fashion sense.”

Ricky tilted his head. “He was wearing fur-lined shoes. Indoors.”

You covered your mouth with your hand. “He says they’re Eastern couture.”

“They’re ridiculous.”

“Don’t say that in front of him. He’ll challenge you to a duel.”

“I’ve fought worse,” he deadpanned.

That made you laugh. Bright and real.

And he laughed too—quietly, but genuinely.

The sound lingered for a moment.

When it faded, you turned to him.

Your voice was soft. “I care about you, you know.”

He blinked. Almost startled by how gently you said it.

“I didn’t expect to,” you added. “But I do. And I want to try.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you.

Then—carefully—he reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“I want to try too,” he said, voice barely more than a breath. “If you’ll have me.”

Your heart stuttered.

But you smiled.

“Good,” you whispered. “Then we’ll start here.”

And when you both laughed again—this time softer, shy—it wasn’t just laughter.

It was a beginning.

— THE END.

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The spring air was crisp. Thin, cold, and slightly wet — the kind of chill that crept under your sleeves and clung to your skin.

Sofia stood in front of the large white building with PLEDIS ENTERTAINMENT stenciled across its glass doors, clutching her backpack tight in one hand and a half-wrapped onigiri in the other. Her dad stood beside her, hesitant, his hand hovering protectively near her shoulder.

“You have my number,” he said, voice low and calm like it always was when he was trying not to worry. “Call me if anything feels off. Anything at all, okay?”

She nodded. Small. Quiet. The knot in her chest pulled tighter.

He didn’t want to leave her there. She knew. He was just following the plan, doing what they’d agreed on after her grandmother’s tearful insistence that “Sofia’s meant for something bigger.”

And so here she was — 13 years old, Korean-French, raised in an English-speaking household, in a country whose language she didn’t understand, standing in front of the door to what could be a whole new life… or a very strange, uncomfortable chapter.

The door opened before she could think too much about it.

“Hello! Sofia?” a staff member stepped out, friendly-faced, Korean-accented English soft on the ears. “Come, come in. We show you around first, yes?”

She nodded again. Her dad gave her a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before she followed the staff inside, already missing the warmth of his presence behind her.

The studio was bright — clean, modern, a little intimidating. It smelled like wood floors and sweat and energy drinks. Staff greeted her with kind smiles as they gave her a tour, explaining each room with a mixture of English and gestures. There were dance studios, recording booths, practice rooms, and far too many mirrors.

They asked her soft questions: “Where are you from?” “Do you like to sing or dance more?” “Are you nervous?” (She nodded. Of course she was.)

She smiled politely, murmured small answers, tucked her hands behind her back like it would help hide how out of place she felt.

Then came the moment she’d been dreading.

“You ready to meet the boys?”

She didn’t answer. Just nodded again, too unsure to say anything else.

The staff opened the door to the main practice room and ushered her in. Laughter burst through the air like a firecracker.

Thirteen boys were scattered across the space — some stretching, others dancing to random songs, a few play-fighting on the mats like overgrown puppies. They were loud. Comfortable. Messy in the way only teenage boys could be.

When the staff clapped their hands, the room fell into a strange, awkward hush.

Everyone looked at her.

“This is Sofia,” the staff introduced. “She’ll be training with you starting today.”

She gave a polite bow. Her stomach twisted.

The boys shuffled forward, each offering their own shy bow, murmuring greetings in Korean she didn’t understand. Joshua and Vernon were the only ones who tried to speak to her in English — brief, polite lines like “Nice to meet you” and “Hope you like it here” — but even they quickly retreated back into their familiar circles.

And just like that… she was alone again.

She stood in the corner of the room as the boys resumed dancing, laughing, jumping around to music. She watched them through the mirrors. Observed. Smiled to herself occasionally when someone slipped or broke into a ridiculous move. They were funny, even if she didn’t know what they were saying. They were kind of like a TV show with no subtitles.

At one point, a staff member encouraged her to join. She nodded — always nodding — and stood quietly at the back of the group as they messed around, copying the steps from a distance but never inserting herself in their circles.

Then lunch came.

And everything scattered.

The boys broke into small groups, heading for the nearest convenience store like it was their favorite hour of the day. Joshua and Vernon were already out the door with their own cliques before she could even think about asking to tag along.

She was left standing near her bag, unsure if she should follow.

She didn’t.

Instead, she sat back down in the corner, quietly pulled out the onigiri she and her dad had bought this morning. It was small. A snack, really. Not enough to fill her, but enough to keep her from crying out of hunger and sadness.

The room was empty now, but not fully. A group of five lingered behind — Seungcheol, Jihoon, Seungkwan, Seokmin, and Wonwoo.

Seokmin was digging dramatically through his bag, yelling about how his wallet had disappeared and everyone needed to calm down because he was “sure it’s here somewhere!” The others laughed, complained, groaned theatrically.

But then… their voices quieted.

Because they noticed her. A tiny girl, alone, eating the smallest lunch in the corner of a room she didn’t belong in.

They exchanged glances. Wordless, unsure.

Seungkwan whispered something. Jihoon rubbed the back of his neck. Seungcheol furrowed his brows, clearly thinking hard. Wonwoo’s gaze lingered the longest.

After a beat of silence…  “Rock, paper, scissors,” Seokmin suggested.

Wonwoo lost.

He protested. Something about a rematch, and “you guys are better at English!” but in the end, they all just pointed at him until he sighed and stepped forward.

The others trailed behind, like backup dancers in a very awkward mission.

Wonwoo stopped a little in front of her and cratched his head.

“You… us… lunch?” he said. “Together. Store. 7-Eleven.”

He made vague hand gestures between her and the door, nodding his head toward the hallway.

It was clumsy, ridiculous even. But she understood. So she nodded, a shy, grateful nod — the kind you make when you want to cry, but you’re too busy being relieved.

The walk to the store wasn’t magical. It was messy and loud — Seokmin and Seungkwan were screaming at each other in exaggerated tones, Seungcheol and Jihoon occasionally chiming in with laughter.

Sofia stayed at the back, not close enough to talk to them but not alone either.

And Wonwoo stayed close to her.

He didn’t speak much — didn’t know what to say — but he slowed his steps until they matched hers. Stayed near her without making it weird. Just there. Quiet. Present.

At one point, he glanced at her and said, “First… time? Korea?”

His accent was heavy, the sentence a little awkward, but the question was clear.

She nodded. He smiled, soft and a little proud of himself. “Okay,” he said.

Just that and in that moment, it was enough. It was still her first day. Still lonely. Still terrifying. But she wasn’t completely alone anymore. Not really.

The store glowed with bright fluorescent lights, its automatic door hissing as it slid open to welcome them in. The cold spring air was quickly replaced by the warm scent of instant ramen and fresh bread, the soft hum of a refrigerator and the quiet beep of a microwave heating someone's lunch. The moment they entered, the group scattered — a flurry of teenage energy eager to devour their hour of freedom.

Seokmin and Seungkwan immediately darted for the snack aisle, arguing over which flavor of chips was superior.

“Loser pays!” Seungkwan shouted, already grabbing a basket.

“Okay, but you’re the loser!” Seokmin yelled back with his usual sunshine grin.

Somewhere in between them, Jihoon groaned, shaking his head while reaching for a triangular kimbap. Seungcheol muttered something about “not this again” before being dragged into their mess anyway.

They were loud. Messy. Laughing and complaining about prices, tossing snacks into each other’s baskets when they weren’t looking. One of them — Jihoon, maybe — tried to trick Seungkwan into scanning an extra chocolate milk.

Meanwhile, Sofia stood just past the entrance, clutching her small wallet, unsure where to even begin.

But she wasn’t alone.

Wonwoo hadn’t left her side since they walked out of the building. He didn’t say much — he hadn’t from the start — but he lingered beside her with a quiet kind of attentiveness, like he’d made a silent decision to stay until she found her footing.

He looked at her now, then gently pointed toward one of the aisles. “Come,” he said simply.

She followed.

They walked slowly through the convenience store, Wonwoo leading with a sort of quiet grace — like someone used to moving without taking up too much space. He stopped occasionally to point at things he liked, using awkward hand gestures and short, simple phrases.

“This, yum yum.” He held up a microwavable pasta bowl and gave a firm thumbs up.

“This,” he said again, pointing to a peach drink, “Nice. Good. Try?”

Sofia giggled softly at his effort, nodding back. It was awkward. Stilted. But there was a kindness in his gestures that spoke louder than any word.

He watched her study the food options, patient. He didn’t rush her, didn’t move on when she paused too long. Even when she stared blankly at the cash in her wallet, overwhelmed by the number of zeroes on the unfamiliar bills, he stepped in.

“No,” he murmured gently, taking the wrong note from her hand and replacing it with the right one. “This one. Okay.”

He showed her the coins too, explained with his fingers which was a hundred and which was ten. She didn’t fully understand, but his steady nods helped her through.

At the counter, he stood beside her, letting her do it herself but never straying far. When she gave the cashier the right amount and received her change, he gave her the tiniest smile — a proud one.

“You good,” he said. Not You’re good. Just You good. But she understood what he meant.

Once they stepped outside, the others were already huddled at a small round table meant for two, balancing their lunches and bodies in an absolute circus of limbs.

Seokmin was sitting squarely on Seungkwan’s lap, insisting, “My ramen needs to be on the table!” while Seungkwan shouted, “You need to be off me!”

Seungcheol stood over them, eating rice balls while laughing at the chaos. Jihoon had somehow managed to squeeze into the only real chair and was refusing to give it up no matter how much they teased him.

They were a mess. But a warm one. A kind of chaotic harmony that came from knowing each other inside out.

Wonwoo didn’t hesitate. He led Sofia toward them, nodding once when she looked unsure.

The moment they reached the group, Seungcheol shifted aside without a word, making just enough space for her to sit on the edge of the chair beside Jihoon. The others didn’t say much — just offered brief smiles, small nudges of welcome.

She sat, carefully placing her food down. Her hands trembled just slightly, but she tried to hide it.

Wonwoo settled next to her, kneeling casually on the ground, tearing open a packet of kimchi with one hand and reaching for his chopsticks with the other. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. But he stayed.

Sofia took a deep breath. Her ramen was too hot. The wind was too cold. Her fingers felt numb, and her heart still beat with the quiet ache of homesickness. But she was here with them.

She ate quietly, listening to their laughter, watching the way they bickered over who bought what and who owed who next. She didn’t understand a single word. But she laughed anyway, just a little, when Seungkwan dropped a fish cake and Seokmin yelled “Foul!” like they were playing a sport.

She didn’t belong yet, not fully. But maybe… she could and for now, that was enough.

Wonwoo glanced over at her mid-bite, eyes soft, and offered a quiet thumbs up. She returned it. A little slower, a little awkward but with a smile and somewhere inside, something warm began to bloom.

The sun had already dipped beneath the skyline when practice ended.

Inside the studio, the air was thick with the scent of sweat, rubber soles, and half-drank bottles of sports drinks. The room buzzed faintly with the low hum of the Bluetooth speaker that hadn’t been turned off, playing a lo-fi track that no one was really listening to anymore.

Sofia stood near the corner where she’d left her bag hours ago, legs aching from trying to keep up with choreography she didn’t know, arms sore from a full day of unfamiliar movement. The soft cotton of her sweatshirt clung damply to her back, and her hair was pulled messily into a low ponytail.

But her eyes were bright. Tired… but bright.

The boys were slowly packing up, tossing towels over their shoulders, teasing each other over missed steps and misheard instructions. Seungcheol playfully scolded Seokmin for nearly kicking someone during a freestyle segment. Vernon was laughing over a clip he filmed on his phone while Joshua gathered everyone’s forgotten water bottles.

One by one, they trickled out — in twos, in threes — splitting off to catch their buses, walk to their dorms, or grab late-night snacks before heading home. Each of them offered her a small nod or smile before they left, not quite friendship yet… but something like acceptance.

The staff waved goodbye with warm smiles as they shut off the lights and locked the doors behind them.

"See you tomorrow, Sofia!" one of them called. "You did well today. Rest, okay?"

She bowed politely, whispered a soft thank you in English. She stood outside the building now, just beyond the glass entrance, holding her phone tightly with the screen still lit up:

Papa, I’m done. You can come now. I’ll wait here. Sent 12 minutes ago.

She sat down on the concrete edge of the entrance, resting her arms on her knees, chin tucked between them. The street was quiet this late. The occasional car passed by with a soft rumble, but mostly, it was still. The kind of stillness that made you aware of how far you were from everything familiar.

She missed her cat. She missed her bed. She missed knowing how to say anything without second-guessing herself. But she didn’t cry. Not this time.

Because she wasn’t alone.

Wonwoo sat beside her, quiet as ever, his backpack resting against his shins. He hadn’t left after practice — hadn’t even looked like he intended to. He just… stayed. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Sofia glanced at him from the corner of her eye. His head was tilted slightly back, resting against the glass, eyes closed like he was listening to something only he could hear.

The glow from the streetlamp made the edges of his hair look gold.

Then, without opening his eyes, he spoke. "Today…" He paused, searched for the right words. "...okay?"

Sofia blinked. It took her a second to realize he was talking to her. She turned to face him fully. “Huh?”

Wonwoo opened one eye, then gestured vaguely with his hand, mimicking a small dance move. “Dance. Practice. You. Today… okay?”

She smiled a little. Tired, but genuine. “…It was hard,” she admitted, softly. “But… not bad.”

Wonwoo nodded. He didn’t seem to understand all of it, but he caught the tone. He mimicked her smile, even if his was the quiet kind that barely curved his lips.

A pause.

Then, with all the hesitation in the world, he added, “You… strong.”

Sofia laughed quietly — the kind that surprised even her. “Thank you.”

Another beat of silence passed. "You..." he said again, his brows furrowing slightly. "Miss... home?"

She didn’t answer right away. Just looked up at the stars that were barely visible through the haze of the city lights. “…Yeah.”

Wonwoo nodded again, as if he understood more than he let on. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. Sometimes, sitting beside someone who chooses to stay is more comforting than all the words in the world.

Soon, a familiar figure turned the corner and slowed to a stop in front of them. Her father, looking tired but relieved, scanning the street until his eyes landed on her.

“There you are,” he said with a warm smile. “I’ve been circling the block.”

Sofia stood, brushing the dust from her jeans. Her dad looked to her side — to the quiet boy who stood up beside her, bowing deeply in respect.

Wonwoo didn’t speak.

But he offered Sofia’s dad a small wave and waited until he saw the two of them head off in the right direction. He walked them to the edge of the street, where he gestured them toward the nearest subway entrance, already checking his phone for train times.

Sofia turned around once as they started to descend the steps.

Wonwoo was still there.

He gave her a small nod.

She returned it, her fingers curling around the strap of her backpack, heart warm in a way she hadn’t expected when the day began. They didn’t say goodbye, they didn’t need to.

That night, as Sofia lay in the small hotel bed beside her dad, staring up at the ceiling, her limbs aching and her mind buzzing, she thought about the quiet boy with the soft eyes and broken English.

She wasn’t sure what tomorrow would bring.

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ JAY

mr. park jongseong. the first thought that popped into my head when writing this was the whole “who pays on dates” debates. now, i whole heartedly believe jay is a feminist, BUTTTT there is no way on god’s green earth you’re ever paying for anything while you guys are out together. he gives me strong “i care for what’s mine” vibes, and that extends to finances, regardless of how well off you may be. jay covers the bill everytime, and happily so. there is absolutely NO room for arguments. if you even move your hand towards your phone and wallet he’ll sternly say “no”, without even looking at you. if you try and pull the “i’m gonna use the bathroom” trick, he’ll raise a brow (you know exactly which look i’m talking about) and either walk you there or ask you to put down your wallet and phone first. no, means, NO. even if he’s abroad, he’ll order food for you to arrive perfectly for your time zone so you can eat your meals warm:( genuinely gets offended and pouty if you pay for anything while you guys are out together. he loves sharing this wealth with you, it’s his way of showing you he’s dependable and able to take care of you.

jay has stated that he’s a bit embarrassed to speak english at times (which wtf bby pls just yap we all wanna hear it), but without a second of hesitation this man is ready to speak in any and all languages if it means standing up for your if you need his help. even if it’s something minor like the waiter getting your order wrong, his embarrassment be damned, you’re getting your food spicy!

another thing is how much of a gentlemen he is?? usain bolting to open doors for you. both regard doors and car doors! before you can even twitch your finger to touch a handle he’s already out and ready! expect a lecture if you don’t sit/stand patiently while he spoils you. LOVES having you depend on him. it just itches his brain the right way idk.

last but not least, since you said “yes”, this man’s hand has virtually not left your thigh. it's partially to assure himself that you are safe, but also just takes genuine comfort in having you close to him. also a silent warning to anyone who has the audacity to look at you.

i think jay is a born provider, and he takes pride in being able to perform that roll well! loves it when you let him. he knows you don’t need it, but the fact that you let him take control is such a turn on <3

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ JAKE

jake is your resident flirt, dude even has the typical frat boy name. but with every interaction between you two, it’s clear how much pride he takes in being your s/o.

he knowns how attractive you are and part of him can’t help but want to show you off, whilst also showing you’re his. he’s pretty easy going, never stricts what you wear, who you talk to, nothing like that. however, expect him to put a hand on your thigh whenever he pleases. or better yet, expect him to tap his thigh to get you to sit on his lap. especially if you’re taller/close to him in height, it would reassure him that he’s still got you wrapped around his fingers~. around new people, best believe he will be holding your hand, thumb working over time sooth any nerves you might have. around people he knows, like the members or his friends, expect to still not be off the hook; jake will have an arm around your shoulder when you hangout with other people, and seeing you lean into him would gas him up so bad. jake would only ever introduces you as “my s/o”, “my love”, etc. you are his after all, no?

OHHHH another thing is how he fixes up your clothes before you leave the house! or, how he wipes off your lipstick with his thumb, kisses you, and asks you to pick another shade that, in his humble opinion would go much better with your outfit/complexion. if you listen, it would be on his mind for WEEKS. internally giggling and kicking his feet. on the topic of outfits, he would fix your shirt/bra strap if it’s falling. this isn’t so much an attempt to fluster you, more something he’d just do to ‘protect you’, as he puts it.

last but not least, eye contact. jake is the type of guy to grab your chin and tell you to look him in the eye while talking. thrives off of your flustered expression~.

overall, though he’s definitely got that flirty streak in him, i think he genuinely just loves taking care of you. he loves you so much, seeing you depend on him and get all flustered just feeds his ego, but he’d be willing to do all this regardless~.

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ SUNGHOON

sunghoon is surprisingly self-aware of this stuff. at first, his intention wasn’t to fluster you, but he definitely did ramp things up once he realized you’re into it~. with him, it’s small acts; readjust your clothing, fixing your collar, holding your coat for you and gently brushing your hair back into place if it gets stuck, pulling your chair out, wrapping a scarf around your neck, very mundane things he’d do for you anyways. there, it was easy to blame the frosty winds for your flushed cheeks, but when he hold your hand as you cross the street, and pulls you back when you forget to look left and right, and your reaction is to stare at him wide eyed, cheeks pink, boy oh boy does he take advantage of it.

expect him to not let go of your hand from now on, thumb running over the back of your hand, whether you’re walking or sitting. or better yet, he’ll grab your arm and hold you by the wrist instead of your hand. if you try and let go, he’ll tighten his grip until you tell him where you’re going (not in a weird way, just so you don’t get lost in crowds and such). mr. clean freak would also clean dirt of your face softly with a handkerchief he always seems to carry with him.

people often say he isn’t very express, but i think if you pay close attention to him, it so obvious when he cares for someone and how he’s feeling. to him, he’s able to make sure you’re okay in his own way, and seeing you get so flustered is incredibly fun to him. it’s his way of reminding you that, despite his often unassuming exterior, he puts care into every interaction with you:((

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ SUNOO

i’ve mentioned this before in my sunos f2l headcanons, but i truly believe enhablr misrepresents sunoo. or rather, ignores his more proactive side. sunoo is cute, but don’t let those squishy cheeks fool you, he can and will take charge.

i don’t think it’d be intentional at first; brushing hair out of your face for you, putting it in different styles (eg. attempts braiding it if you're too tired), or just plainly fixing it into place. this extends to your clothing as well: tying, zipping, lacing something for you, be it your shoes, your jacket, or a dress, this man has you covered! once he realises how red you get, he’d tease you relentlessly~. eventhough he’s a younger brother, he just loves taking care of others naturally. this applies to doing your skincare, giving you a bedtime (lmao), and even answering questions meant for you. he likes that, for once, he gets to make decisions and be taken seriously. the fact that you get all blushy is just an added bonus~.

something else i can see him doing is placing a hand on your lower back to remind you to fix your posture. gives you a stern look and will scold you if you complain! he likes how, despite whining and pouting, you listen. unfortunately, people don’t always take him seriously. he’s mentioned on a live before how he wants to stop doing as much aegyo and ‘graduate’ from that identity, so seeing you listen to him and rely on him would make him feel seen and cherished. the fact that you respect him and take him seriously would unlock something in him for sure.

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ JUNGWON

jungown is still pretty young but has been the leader to a group of 6 other people since he was 16 years old. so while i do think his acts would be much more subtle, they’e definitely there if you look carefully!! the most obvious one would be how he asks you to send him food pics. gets upset when you refuse because it means you didn’t eat:( of course if he’d never force you, but it would make him worry. even if it’s just a cup of tea for breakfast he wants to know you’re taken care of, since he can’t always be there to do it himself:( it’s his way of watching over you even when he's not around (also lowkey reminds him he needs to eat as well, but you didn’t hear that from me LOL). if you’re talking to someone he’ll make his presence known without explicitly mentioning, “hey, that’s my partner”. just by the way he carries himself, everyone around you both knows and boy does it get you~.

an exmaple of the more subtle things he’d do would be how he opens things for you. well, duh, ofc you can open a water bottle but like… boom, he’s already done it for you. if you blinked you wouldn’t have caught it~. also does this thing where he grips your waist as he walks past you, or holds on to your wait while you’re walking down a step you both encounter on the street. would also zip up your bag or tighten your hair tie if it gets loose.

for jungwon, because of how young he is, i don’t think he’s super ‘possessive’ quite yet. many seem to believe the doesn’t give off the ‘natural leader’ vibe, but i think if anything, that’s pushed him to work harder. it’s clear he cares for and knowns his members well, and he’s more than capable of taking charge. and the extends to you as well! he cares for you deeply and, despite having the burden of being a leader tied onto his back, he’d still take an immense amount of pride in seeing you get flustered or shy when he does handle things for you. he also just wants to take every opportunity to remind you of his love towards you <33

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ RIKI

oh riki, the lover boy you are…. riki loves silently and owns the non-sexual dominance title imo~. if you watch enha content closely you’ll see he does it all the time! he pays attention to the little things so much, especially in regard to his members, (eg. putting a pillow behind their back, opening bottles for them, remembering their dietary habits, etc). if you guys have access to their hulu japan series i highly recommend watching it, there's a ton of cute moments like that in there!

but back to you;) it’s not often that riki chooses to be confrontational, both from a cultural standpoint and in terms of his personality, i don’t see him picking unnecessary fights. but when it comes to you, he’ll always speak up and defend you! sure, you’re an adult and he really does trust you to take care of yourself, but its more about the principle? say, someone accuses you of something, he’d jump to your defence with “y/n would never do that, they’re not that kind of person”. even if you don’t need him to he can’t help but want to do it. if you really convince him he doesn’t need to speak up for you in a certain situation, he’d still have an hand on your knee or his hand on yours, just to reassure you that he’s still there should you need him <3

riki would love picking outfits and accessories for you!!!! he likes it when you pick out his too, but when he gets to decide about what you’re wearing? his heart does a thing… it’s like, even if you’re miles apart across the globe, you’re out there wearing things he chose for you. it’s his silent mark of love on you. you’d easily be able to tell when he misses you by the frequency of ‘do you know what you’re wearing this week? let me pick it out’ texts. ofc he’d never admit to all that LOL. “it’s not my fault your fashion taste sucks, one of us has to carry the fits and it’s definitely not you. if anything you should be thankful i’m helping!”, emo tsuntsun alert!

oooo another thing he loves to do is the sidewalk thing THOSE OF YOU WHO KNOW KNOWWWW. even if the street is empty, no cars for miles, he’s still make sure you walk on the inside of the road. if you call him out on it, he’d shrug it off with “i’m left handed so i prefer having you on my left side, don’t read into things too much” STFU RIKI WE ALL KNOW YOU’RE AMBIDEXTROUS. similarly, he loves drying your hair after you shower. he says it’s because he hates it when you get the couch/his pillows wet, but in reality his just a sappy mf. another big one is reading things aloud to you. man does it boost his ego if you’re laying on his round couch thingy, head pressed against his arm, hanging on his every word. to those of you who’ve seen the audio book enhypen did a while back or the teaser for the “君と僕を結ぶ星空” (konica minolta planetarium collab) already know how beautiful his voice is <33 and he knows it too! (re: clip of him announcing asmr pt2 KSDJSKDHSKH) but still, actually seeing the way your relax and pout at him to talk just a little bit longer, even if it’s about the most mundane things boosts his ego to no end. it makes him feel needed and wanted:<

in general, riki is a silent lover. it’s okay to tease him every once in a while, but don’t call him out too much. just silently appreciate that he goes out of his way and consistently thinks about you and your comfort <333

nana's notes : two exams left + a group project so i might be a little mia for the next ~2 weeks, but i still have some content to put out:')) sighhh who told me to study physics, right~? there’s an appalling amount of grammar and spelling mistakes in here (probably lol). this is honestly just an accumulation of notes i've taken while consuming enha content so it's a litttle disorganized, i think you can tell by the flow (or lack there of) hehehe. nevertheless, i hope you all enjoy it:)) as always, i'm excited to hear your thoughts!

taglist : open!