#bbas

Shoes that you are now soaking in a wooden bucket, swishing around in the water before rescuing their soles and squeezing muddy droplets out from the material. With your elbows propped on your knees, you inspect the flats, swiping stray mud from them at random. 

A thought occurs to you then: they’re just going to get dirty again. Why even bother? 

Ah, yes. You are summoned to his residence for the upteenth time, as if he has some personal vendetta to slowly petrify you by his presence alone—not that you haven’t associated him with the phrase alluding to killing looks before. 

But that was thirteen months ago. Back when you were snickering at the poor stickler for being the only one to attend a dance with a sneer on his countenance. Your friend and fellow neighbor—if you could call a family the next valley over your neighbors—corrected you in a whisper. Stickler he may be, but poor, he is certainly not.

He had strode into the shanty ballroom with a handful of figureheads whose outfits had your cheeks burning with suppressed laughter. How on Earth were they going to dance in those garments? Their rigidity made you straighten your back simply by appearing so uncomfortable. 

In the end, your question proved insignificant: instead of occupying the floor with all the other hearty townspeople, that mystery man and his posse stuck to the walls like the last dredges of potato soup in a cauldron. 

Stodgy bunch, they were. You had to coat your mouth with moisture to combat the dryness of their personalities alone. 

But your mother was relentless in her pursuit of suitors for her daughters and, since you were the second eldest, it was high time you found a wealthy gentleman to settle down with before your fruits overripened. 

You were never fond of that comparison. You still very much are not. 

The memory fades while you rub your hands dry with a washcloth, careful as to not dirty the greying, sun-battered dress that your mother had sewn with her own worried hands. You can’t flit about in your father’s trousers! You are a lady! Like those statements could not possibly be acceptable simultaneously. 

But you gave her credit where it was due: the headstrong woman had managed to rope in partners for two of your sisters, their teary cheeks long delivered through your wrought iron gates aboard carriages. 

In fact, one of those suitors happened to be in that same stale toffee group of nobles at the party that night. 

As soon as you and your elder sister had been paraded in front of them like cows at auction, a couple pairs of eyes blinked to life, one of them belonging to a soft spoken man with broad shoulders and pillowy lips. 

From what you observed, his affection was immediate and genuine. He introduced himself as Seokjin from the Kim family, a house you instantly recognized from its vast influence stretching miles and miles. Word on the dust-hazed streets was that their servants were well treated and well fed, from the handmaids to the cooks to the stable boys. 

Judging from the equally obnoxious clothes astriding the two other men beside him, they all had to have been from the same House. Three Kim’s. Three reasons to walk straight back to the dance floor.

But there was one reason to stay put. 

A smile lit your eyes when you realized that your sister held an authentic sense of attraction in hers. She had taken Seokjin’s hand with dainty fingers and, as if no one else existed to them in that moment, they had drifted away without another word. 

Which left you to the steely devices of your awaiting mother and two intimidating men. At least, they probably figured that they were such, but you knew their hardened expressions were ones of discomfort—commoners? how dreadful!—instead of superiority. And since they weren’t privy to striking up a conversation, you humored your impatient mother by doing so yourself.

“Seems like you’ve come a long way only to clash against the wallpaper.” 

At your jovial lilt sporting condescension, the pair of men finally shifted glances your way. You kept the same tight smile on your face, eyes alight with mischief at the prospect of teasing them all night; though you knew the term backwards and forwards, mercy was not a word in your impressive vocabulary. 

“Not that standing around in silence doesn’t suit you. I just figured you’d at least humor us all with a go.” 

Displeased fingers gripped your bicep as your mother shushed you, but your cocky visage stayed hooked onto the man that pinned you with an imperceptible gaze. He was the slightly taller one of the two, with silver hair tickling the bottom of his neck and swooping above his forehead. You raised your eyebrows to goad a response from him instead of turning away. 

“We don’t dance.” 

It was the other man beside your chosen victim that spoke, his voice like dark amber seeping from the trees scaling the nearest mountainside. Peculiar. Baritone hadn’t been a word you had used to describe a speaking level before him. 

On another matter: beautiful hadn’t been a word you had used to describe a man before that gentlemen, either. His face alone reminded you of the ancient rulers thriving in those tomes your father kept in his study—ones that led empires while drowning in waterfalls of wine and debauchery. 

Tilting your head to face the handsome and new challenger, you questioned, “Why ever not?” 

“Because dancing is pointless.” 

Oh, so the slightly taller one did have a voice. Grinning, you regarded your initial target once again, a new spark in your orbs. “I believe that statement requires a solid argument.” 

“You aren’t entitled to a solid argument,” the man quipped, causing your lips to curve lopsided into a smirk, “But the reasoning is simple so I will, as you say, humor you.” 

Glee sloshed around your belly at his willingness to defend himself after being called out, despite his newfound unwillingness to even look in your direction. You knew the twisted logic behind his reluctance, though you wanted nothing to do with such trifle. 

Class hierarchy never made sense to you with it being the most unfair luck of the draw at birth. It was humorous to know there were people like this man that recoiled around others purely because the choices they didn’t make somehow defined them. 

And it was infuriating how, against all your judgment, you found him quite attractive.

You couldn’t decipher the root, but you didn’t want to unearth anything substantial—this relationship couldn’t stray any further than a verbal sparring match. Truthfully, you weren’t looking for a commitment. The man just happened to catch your eye that night.

But when he divulged the reasoning for his wrong opinion, the grin on your face faltered, and so did his allure. 

“Dancing is for the lower class to feel wealthy, if only in emotion, for a moment. Nothing more.” 

To think that you held any ounce of fascination for him. 

How foolish you had been. 

To your mom’s horror, the abrupt guffaw that escaped your throat caught the attention of a few people in the vicinity. The sound stretched your stomach out so much that it strained against your dress, but your hunched position hid it all, head bent toward the ground. 

When you came up for humid ballroom air, your mirth locked eyes once again with the man you decided to loathe for eternity. And his features scrunched so artistically, so perfectly, as if all aristocrats made the same set of lines when cross.

“Impossible girl! Get yourself together,” your mother hushed in an attempt to quell your spirits. After she swiveled to your company, she offered an apology on your behalf. 

“I’m so sorry,” you laughed as you wiped a stray tear from your eye, “But that was indeed very humorous, thank you.” 

Recognition of your statement appeared in the man’s face whilst a bit of suppressed enjoyment crept onto the other’s. The poor man had to hide his growing smile with a large hand—a feeble attempt to not react to your parry. 

“Namjoon, relax,” he ordered right when your victim was about to spit fire again, sturdy palm on his shoulder. One pat was enough to make his stiff companion exhale and turn his chiseled cheekbones away. 

Back to regarding you again, his darkened honey voice poured out of soft lips as he amended, “I told you we don’t dance, but I should’ve said we don’t dance often. I would be most willing to prove to you that we are at least familiar with the steps.” As soon as he extended a hand, a sharp voice cut through its veins, 

“Taehyung.” 

“Hmm?” 

With your gaze tethered to Taehyung’s, you felt more than saw the anticipation on your mother’s face—and the flash of warning on Namjoon’s. Your awaiting partner never looked away from you as he asked, “Would you rather take the floor with this lovely lady, Mr. Namjoon?” 

After a beat of silence—only the jovial quartet and lively claps filling the space—the man in question muttered, “Not if I can help it.” 

“Then I know you wouldn’t be bothered if we left you for a song.” Beaming a polite smile to your mother and the nobleman, the nicer Kim brother led you away; with a glance over your shoulder, you noticed a tiny crack in Namjoon’s porcelain visage. 

Good riddance. 

Taehyung was quiet as you both approached the dance floor, and while you knew the eyes drawn your way were affixed on his otherworldly features, you still felt scrutinized—incompatible. It was the first time you felt unsure of yourself. To combat the unwanted emotion, you pulled your lips into a tight curve. 

“I apologize for him,” your dance partner whispered as you lined up in front of each other, sweaty bodies squished into your sides in the staggered, shifting rows. The anticipation for the next number was palpable, excitement raising shoulders at their junctions. 

Distracted, you found yourself staring more into the area around Taehyung’s perfect nose than into his eyes. For just a moment, you wondered what he was referring to—until you heard him clarify, “He’s not usually like that.” 

Before you could compose yourself, an accusation slung out of your mouth. “Is he even more intolerable in private?” 

The first twang of strings brightened the room before he could offer a response, but you noticed him toss a laugh toward the ground before following the steps, meeting you in the middle of the floor before twisting around to end up on the opposite side. 

Most of the dance had you hopping in lines, following people through the crowd while avoiding the kids bolting through dresses and pants to join in on the fun. To your surprise, Taehyung seemed to be enjoying himself, at one point even displaying a charming smile that perked up the rest of his features. 

For someone that didn’t dance often, he sure knew the movements and nuances. He even looked like he was having fun with everyone there. You wondered why he acted just as jaded as his companion a mere handful of minutes ago. 

When your eyes swept over the standersby, they immediately spotted the man you had in mind, now in a new perch that was suspiciously close to the dance floor. But what was more intriguing than his positioning was the fact that his eyes were already trained on you, and they didn’t waver even when you stilled. 

A battle bloomed in that instance. A long, drawn out conflict of sharp thorns and wills. Neither of you would admit defeat by breaking contact—clashing your proverbial shields together, unyielding—even after the song ended to raucous applause.

But a white flag presented itself in the form of your mother and Taehyung grabbing your attentions, breaking the bubble of tension you had formed from different sides. While you watched your mother prattle on to Namjoon, Taehyung had shown up at your side to comment on your dancing, and you turned your head to exchange the same courtesy to him. 

“I promise he’s different in other settings,” the handsome man shouted above the sea of laughs and yells, his eyes drifting sideways, “And if I’m correct—which I always am—I would say he’s taken a liking to you.” 

“Can’t say your review of your brother is quite glowing,” you muttered. Your eyes already snapped back to Namjoon, and you breathed in deep when you saw him start to approach. “In any case, it doesn’t matter. I’m not interested.” 

“You’re not? Why?” 

You offered Taehyung a face, noting his confusion behind a light sheen of sweat. “You seem surprised.” 

“It’s… strange.” He furrowed his brows at your unwavering expression. “Our inheritance is worth more than a thousand of the finest estates in the North.” 

At your unblinking state, Taehyung tripped over his next words, “And our chateau is grand enough to house a gallery. With servants in every nook.” 

Bless that man’s attempts to serve his brother on a sterling silver platter. 

What a shame that the stench of Namjoon’s attitude was enough to turn you away at an instant. 

It was visibly more apparent as the man in question strode over, his coattails flapping behind him as much as your mother’s mouth. Normally, you would try to rein her in, but you thought it much too hilarious to stop her that time. 

“You’re a good man,” you assured your dance partner, a hand on the expensive sleeve of his coat. Namjoon and your mother completed your social circle before you continued, “But you don’t have to waste words on me. I’m sure there’s plenty of other ladies here that would rather listen to you go on.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” 

One thing was certain: Taehyung had a heart of gold under those ignorant garbs. You wondered if he had someone waiting for him back home—perhaps a lover in the dark? If anything, you wished him well. Maybe there were some people at his unattainable level that glimmered pure, despite being coated in layers and layers of unrealistic expectations. 

“A man can have all the wealth in the country,” you started, teeth and eyes gleaming sharp. For dramatics, you flickered your gaze to the ground before lifting your head so high that it kissed the sunset pink clouds above the manor. With your look aimed at Namjoon, you severed the conversation—and possibly all your ties with the Kim family—with a flourish, 

“But if they aren’t wealthy in emotion, what is the point?” 

Shaking the delightful memory from your head, you almost smile in pride. You remember the look of utter surprise on Namjoon’s face as you curtsied, the fire spewing from your upset mother as you swished your dress in a turn. 

You go to set your towel down on a grey-washed wooden bench before remembering it needs hanging. Tsking, you take in the sounds around you: light tinkering of piano keys in the dining room, squawks of ducks in the nearby pond, soft flaps of sheets on clotheslines. The subtle symphony is almost peaceful enough to take you out of your dark, brooding state.

After Taehyung promised you his brother wasn’t as bad as he seemed, you didn’t see an ounce of his claims coming true. The subsequent times you had a run-in with him, Namjoon had told you your choice of suitor was insipid and low, your family’s status was close to scratched, and that your level of intelligence was awkward. 

Oh, how you loathed him. 

Not that you can’t quite say you feel the same way now. 

When you throw your linen over the nearest line, your adjusting is noncommittal, as if the level of effort you exert is as low as your morale. Sliding your hands down to eye level, you can’t help but inspect them—more specifically, your ring finger. 

One that was supposed to be covered with a promise. 

An abrupt clamor from the dining room shatters your thoughts, raising your heartbeat and catapulting your feet across the yard and into the threshold of the back door. 

“What’s happened?” 

Your father is the one that ambles down the narrow corridor, his boots clunking on the washed floorboards. “Your sister has learned a valuable lesson in humility,” he answers, tone low as usual.

Behind his hunched back, a voice bellows forth, “That piece took me weeks to learn and they shoved me off the bench like some—”

“Darling dearest,” your father calls over his shoulder, frilled eyebrows somehow tickling both his eyelids and his forehead, “What do we say about failure?”

A groan rumbles across the dining table, aggravated, smushing into the solid wood chairs before a monotonous “It’s only failure if it happens again and again” drones after it. 

You cock an eyebrow when your father turns back to face you, trying not to laugh as his gaze turns rueful. 

Thinking back to the party that happened four months prior, it was a wonder your entire family didn’t get shooed away with the way they were behaving throughout the event. You distinctly remember avoiding the rowdy, wine-induced shouting coming from your mother, only to witness the shameless flirting of your younger sisters.

Namjoon had been at that same party. Except that time, after you went through the horrors of him downright berating you for your choice in suitor, he boldly approached you for your hand in a song. 

It was a right step, but in the wrong direction. You remember the tension hovering over the both of you: his broad shoulders rigid in their turns, your stare pinned onto his storming expression. It felt like no one else existed at that moment—only the pair of you squaring up and circling each other amongst golden accents and marble pillars. A match of the century; no one came out unscathed. 

Namjoon had told you to not seek companionship with the man you met earlier that week. A suspicion crept into the marrow of your bones before you asked, 

“Are you the reason Mr. Park isn’t here tonight?” 

Your insufferable dance partner gave no answer. Instead, he kept his eyes on yours, as if you were supposed to read whatever they were trying to tell you. 

But you were going to do no such thing—not when he wasn’t willing to meet you halfway. 

The dance took its last breath. 

In its aftermath, you had realized that, despite the way Mr. Kim’s hands lit fires on your waist and seared the skin of your arms, your mind and attitude had worsened since it began. Soon after your curtsy, you swiftly exited the floor, weaving between smiles and laughter with a face laden with hurt. 

Your family had gathered at the door—mercifully—and you were close to crossing the front to join them before you felt strong fingers grasp your forearm. Jolting, you tensed your limbs and spun around, only to face the man you were wanting to avoid. 

Namjoon’s eyes widened a fraction before an abrupt, “Forgive me.” 

“If you want to be forgiven, unhand me,” you bit out before yanking your arm away, thrusting it down your side once out of his hold. You swore you could feel sweat from underneath his glove.

“I’m sorry.” His voice sounded so very low, almost as if he regretted the predicament. “I just… I had something else to tell you.” 

Eyes alight with ice, you shot him down entirely, “Whatever else you have to say, believe me when I say I don’t want to hear it.” 

“You look beautiful tonight.” 

Time seemed to still for a moment as you took in his words. Certainly the people around you froze in time, their glasses millimeters from clinking and champagne freezing in their slosh. 

But it was over too soon, with mingling conversations and music shoving you back to action. 

What were you supposed to respond with? A comment on your appearance—a positive one, at that—was nary a possibility considered before that moment. Your guard had disappeared for once, a cough escaping your throat before you responded with a miniscule, “Thank you.”

Caught unawares, you didn’t know what else to do other than turn and flee. Your legs seemed to fail your brain as it willed them to walk faster across the foyer. 

Beautiful. 

Was this another way of war? Did he want to disarm you so that the next blow would be killing? 

The last thing you remember was the look you threw over your shoulder, one last mistake made right before crossing the double-doors leading outside. 

Namjoon was still rooted to his spot, dress coat and pants as sharp as his impressive jawline. His silver hair had been slicked to the side and, under his expensive garb, you still noticed the peeking of that same, loose linen shirt as before. 

In that moment, as you locked eyes with him, you had never felt more confused and alive in your life. 

Even as you blink the memory away, the feeling still remains with you, imprinted in the fabric of your mind. 

Your father sweeps wrinkled, age-weary fingers across your shoulder before giving you an assuring squeeze. “There’s something for you in the kitchens. Seems to be a letter.” 

“A letter? For me?” You scrunch your brows before rounding about your father, crossing the dining room filled with your sister’s looming grief, and down the short back stairs. Spices and various dried meats fill your nostrils as you zero into the pieces of parchment waiting for you next to a handful of tomatoes. 

Turning to your aunt and uncle—both pretending to busy themselves stirring a pot and washing another—you inquire, “Is there a reason I needed to come down here to see this?” 

Your aunt is the one that speaks, “Oh, dear. Do you remember when we visited the Kim Estate down the way a few months ago?”

And you certainly, unfortunately—dare you also say bashfully—do. 

“Yes, why?”

“This seems to have the same crest as the banners that hung in the foyer,” your uncle tacks on more explanation. “We’ve been keeping it from your mother for obvious reasons.” 

You know exactly what they allude to: the woman would certainly stick her nose deep into the ink if she so much as noticed the crest on the wax seal. 

As you carefully take the parchment from the table, you slide your fingers over its red surface, remembering the first time you saw the symbol up close.

It was on an airy, cloudless day that you visited Namjoon’s summer home. You distinctly remember your unwillingness to hitch a ride with your relatives in the first place, but they were adamant that it would be void of anyone save for some guards and housemaids. Which seemed to assuage your beating heart. You were still in conflict with your emotions after what happened at the dance, even though weeks had passed and you were still being courted by Mr. Park.

The surrounding lands were filled to the brim with various plants and trees, with vegetation springing over tree roots and curling up abandoned castle ruins. Enchanted, you busied yourself with exploration while your aunt and uncle studied the species they weren’t familiar with. 

While you skimmed your hand across vines sprawling across a stone wall, you wondered if Namjoon and his brothers even knew that place existed. Did they ever venture that far into the scenery beyond their summer home? Or did they stay holed up inside those assumedly stark white walls and immaculate, cathedral ceilings? 

But another thought possessed your mind as you ducked under a small archway to rejoin your family: when did you start to care? 

As you all hopped onto the carriage, your mind lagged behind, still wandering the lush jungles around the abandoned stronghold and wondering if things between the both of you could ever change, even if just a little.

Your aunt’s voice interrupts your thoughts as she continues, “This is from the man that saw us in the gallery that day. The tall one? Mr. Namjoon was his name, I believe. Oh, he was a nice fellow, wasn’t he?” 

Nice? You almost laughed at her depiction. 

Thinking back to when you approached the Kims’ summer manor, you had been correct on the cathedral ceilings and stark white walls, but you vastly underestimated the interior. 

Careful strides brought you across checkered marble floors and between rows of towering pillars. Up against the walls that seemed miles away from you on both sides sat long, opulent tables topped with imported accents and decorative objects. 

It was astounding how loud the manor seemed to be despite there not being a sound—at least, no other aside from the pats of your hand-me-down flats, as if your own shoes were nervous to be drug inside. 

But you followed your aunt and uncle like a good visitor. Their eyes seemed to jut out from their faces as they took notice of everything they could. 

One of the head handmaidens led you through the ridiculously giant foyer, across a long hallway that seemed to span the length of the estate, and into another set of double-doors leading to an actual gallery. 

Even your mouth hung open when statues and busts and paintings greeted you and your relatives. Stone bodies of milky white regarded everyone with blank eyes, poised and paused in time, strategically placed throughout the vast space to allow makeshift walkways. 

“Oh, this is brilliant! Just… Brilliant!” your aunt proclaimed, her hands clasping in front of her—assumedly as to prevent herself from reaching out to touch anything. 

A hand on his wife’s excited waist, your uncle queried your guide in awe, “How on Earth have you managed to collect all of this?” 

“Ah, yes. The Kim family is known for coveting such things: one-of-a-kind antiques and sculptures,” the woman began, turning her head to regard a bust of whom you recognized as Seokjin. “But that has since changed. Everything you see here has been donated by museums that the Misters have helped fund - a gratitude of some sorts.” 

Interest piqued, you asked a follow-up question, “How did they procure them before?” 

“I can answer that.” 

Your body spun before you could help it, your eyes locking onto the one man you didn’t want to see even if a limestone replica. Behind you, blurry words of greeting and surprise slipped through your dress—your unanswered question never escaping your eyes. 

“Apologies for my interruption. The trip has been postponed due to unknown reasons, so we will be leaving in a fortnight.” Namjoon’s eyes flickered back to you after regarding the others. You wondered the reasoning behind the tilt of his head. “As for the gallery before this: our family didn’t have the best integrity when it came to the arts. For generations, everything had been forcibly taken or acquired through… underhanded ways.” 

As he walked along the length of a particular sculpture that caught your eye when you first walked in, you couldn’t help but pad after him, keeping yourself at a distance. 

“But there are things that are too beautiful to be kept from the world. My brothers and I decided to end that cycle and empty this gallery and start over. All of the pieces you see here are ones that have already traveled the globe, donated by my dear friends once they have deemed them appropriate to let go.” 

“Bless you, sir.” 

Namjoon halted your aunt with a hand in the air. “It is nothing to be praised for. We were merely correcting past mistakes. And please, don’t let my presence hinder your exploring.” 

Correcting? Past mistakes? His story was believable until then. As far as you knew, he hadn’t given a single thought to correcting any of the past wrongdoings he had regarding you. Though Mr. Park seemed to not be phased by Namjoon’s harsh dialogue, the man had become a bit standoffish, sometimes lost in his thoughts and not so present in your company.  

Namjoon removed the riding gloves from his hand with his teeth, and you noticed a light sheen on his skin from the time he must have spent traveling outside. Looking away, you brought a thumb up to your mouth to chew. 

Multiple pairs of shoes echoed across the ground as you felt a strong presence approach your side, and you upped the power of your glare into the statue in front of you. 

It seemed your family left while your annoyance had gotten closer.

“This one is one of my favorites,” he revealed, softer than you had ever heard him speak. 

The ire in your eyes dissipated as you turned to face him. When he was already looking your way, you held his gaze for a moment before swiveling back to the pair of still bodies in front of you. 

It seemed to capture a tragedy. The woman of the pair sprawled across the foundation, her upper body wrapped in the arms of a man that wouldn’t even look her way. His face had been turned, curls of stone rolling down his neck and almost covering brows scrunched in agony. Frozen in time, the woman had tears sliding down her cheeks, and you somehow knew those were tears of betrayal. 

“It’s from an old myth. One that I had been mulling over ever since I reached the end.” 

“I feel like I know which one that is,” you whispered, eyebrows furrowed in thought. Just the way the faces were carved hinted at similar emotions you experienced while reading—

“Orpheus.” 

The pair of you had uttered the tale together, eyes connecting not without a spark shortly after. While yours simmered with intrigue, Namjoon’s flashed with surprise. 

“I hadn’t known you were familiar.” 

You wrapped your arms in front of your chest in minute irritation. “Yes, well I am.” 

“What are your thoughts?” 

Taken aback by his sudden interest in your opinion—as there had been a lack of any before—you unfolded your arms and spoke while lamenting the figures before your feet. “Oh. I think it’s a solid testament to human nature.” 

Namjoon nodded before responding, “That we are untrustworthy?” 

“That we are made to love.” 

There was a brief moment of silence after your words evaporated.

As if he had come to a conclusion of his own, Namjoon nodded again before turning away. “I see. Would you be able to do it? Not look back?”

“Everyone would have failed.”

“I would like to think I could have done it.” 

The scoff that jumped from your throat echoed across the gallery, disturbing the sculptures and paintings. “Yes, well,” you sighed, “I know you to be confident and that assumption is a level above arrogance. Makes perfect sense.” 

“Simple: emotions are a hindrance. If he had rid himself of those follies, then he wouldn’t have had so much trouble.” 

“Trouble? It was love!”

“Yes, weakness.”

“Weak? Emotion makes people weak?” 

“Does it not? This tale is just a speck of all the proof in the world.” 

“But the fact that his and Eurydice’s story has traveled down generations, or any of those stories for that matter, says something about its power, as well.” 

Namjoon was silent then, and you used that opening to keep swinging your tongue in a joust. “All these statues? These paintings? How do you think they could have been brought to life, if not through an artist’s sorrow, grief, passion? Sure, there are studies and ways to learn how to paint and sculpt, but complete works of art? I can assure you there aren’t texts on how to produce exact replicas. They all came straight from someone’s heart, from their absolute need to love. So tell me,” you step right up to him, eyes alight. “Do you still believe emotions to purely be an indication of weakness?” 

The look on his face crumbled slightly as your words suspended in air, settling like dust on the marble tiles and on the shoulders of his coat. For the first time since you had seen him, Namjoon’s normally scrunched eyebrows straightened into normal lines. His gaze on you seemed to roam your face for more answers than you could provide, and your silence added to the mounting tension in the room. 

Suddenly, he turned away. “I suppose I was in need of a solid argument,” he muttered, surrendering and coaxing the smallest break in your features. His boots clacked as he strode toward the next exhibit: a simple, square painting. 

Following after him was only in your interest because he seemed to be different for a moment - not an ass, as one would say. But the words that left your mouth seemed to walk a different path than the one you two were on. “Where were you supposed to go?” 

Namjoon faced you and, since his hands had clasped behind his back moments prior, you received a full view of the way his chest filled the riding coat hugging his frame. A war broke out in your mind between emotions you refused to acknowledge, your eyes instead locking onto heavy strokes of paint coating the canvas laughing at your predicament. 

“To visit a friend,” he simply answered, his stare on you prominent in the way your chest warmed. “I wanted some… Some advice on a matter.” 

“I don’t understand.” Your reply was immediate. “I didn’t take you for a man that seeked advice, nor one that would follow it should he be presented with such.” 

“Since you seem to know me so well, why don’t you tell me what kind of man you take me for?” 

Fists hardened at your sides, you exhaled and tilted your head toward him. If he was asking, who were you to not provide? “A man that speaks lies about his own character.” 

“Pardon?” 

“Correcting past mistakes, was it? Don’t make me laugh. You couldn’t even spare Mr. Park an apology after everything you had done to him.” 

“Park Jimin deserved everything that happened, end of discussion.” 

“This is not the end. There are two people having this conversation, so have the decency to let its end be mutually agreed upon!” 

Namjoon took a step toward you, his body puffed and imposing. “So if you were being harassed, you would still allow your attacker a say in the matter? You wouldn’t walk away?” 

Your eyes widened in oversight. “That’s—that’s different—” 

“So this is just for your selfish reasons?” 

“Yes! I have finally taken a liking to someone and suddenly you decide to interfere.” 

“I do not deny it.” 

“Then why did you do it? Why do you hold such disdain for him?” 

And, just like before, Namjoon still refused to provide an answer. 

“He told me about you, you know,” you began, noticing the swiftness with which Namjoon’s eyebrows furrowed even deeper. “He told me how you’ve known each other for ages, and how you were always jealous of his endeavors.” 

Amusement burst out of Namjoon’s chest as he raked fingers through his hair. His antics didn’t stop you from charging through, “He told me how you were always wanting to stop him from holding any true happiness. Why won’t you let him live? Why on Earth would you devote your life to such hatred?” 

Your now-adversary stepped away from you then, and you inhaled oxygen that had been kept from your burning lungs. “Are you done insulting me? Because if you are, please feel free to roam the grounds. I will be heading to my quarters.” 

Finality sparked from his heels as he strode away, his strides long and purposeful. As he left, you hated how guilt settled in his wake, and you marched away to find your family and bear the rest of the visit until you could leave. 

A sizzling sound brings you back to the present, and you lift your eyes, blinking to refocus your vision on your relatives bustling about the kitchen. You thank them for keeping the letter safe. Right as you begin to walk away, your aunt calls your name. 

“Yes?” 

“Forgive us for what I’m about to say.” 

A chill settles into your skin. “What is it?” 

She gives your uncle a nervous glance, and he returns it with a look of concern. They both regard you with guilt as she says, “We kept this from you for awhile.” 

“What? Why?” 

“You see…” Adjusting the hat on his head, your uncle blinks hard before continuing, “We didn’t want there to be any interference with Mr. Park.” 

Your mouth drops as you accuse, “Interference? Without even knowing the contents? What if it was something urgent?” 

Both of them cast their looks to the ground in shame, knowing full well their mistake. 

You don’t give them time to mull it over. “How long ago? When was this sent?” 

“It was delivered by Mr. Namjoon himself,” your aunt responds with a wince. “He arrived around six weeks ago. When your family went to market.” 

“Six weeks ago?” 

Without another word, you spin and bolt back up the stairs. 

So many things happened in the last forty-two days and nights, some worth mentioning and some never to be spoken of again. You round the stairs to the ground floor, then turn to ascend the rest. Barricading yourself in your room, you lock the knob and twirl, banging your shoulder blades against the wood. 

No one is there to greet you this time. Your eldest sister had long since vacated your space, and the walls seemed to shift from a light blue to a slightly greyer shade. Taking stock of the room you have spent years in, you try not to let bitterness overcome your mind and wrap around your heart. 

Because you were also supposed to be freed from this room, this house. Jimin had hinted at a proposal two months ago, right after you had come back from the Kim estate. At the time, you had been elated to have a match, whisking away any doubts from your mind due to a certain adversary from days prior. 

Word had traveled around, and you were your mother’s pride for weeks, much to your chagrin. 

But a month had passed without a sign of Mr. Park. You chalked it up to the job he had told you about: something about cartography and scouting the land. He had left for a good amount of time before, but he always came back to take you on lovely picnics and trips to libraries you had never heard of. 

However, this time seemed different. 

The first thought in your mind was that Namjoon had finally sunk his claws into your relationship against your wills, just like he had tried before. But when word got back to you that your suitor had been spotted with his arm slung around the shoulders of another woman a few towns over, you knew it was the end of this courtship whether he came back groveling or not. 

Which, he never showed up again after that. 

Since then, you had housed yourself in your own world of loneliness and literature. Delving into the adventures of people in stories provided you with an escape. Even your mother had given you time, though she thought it was for you to grieve. 

Ironically, the reason for your bitterness was the sole fact that Namjoon had been right. 

Because your feelings for Jimin proved to be less substantial than you thought. Yes, he wasn’t afraid to make a fool of himself and yes, he was quick to dote on you whenever he saw fit. But when you took a step back, there hadn’t been a true spark between you. 

Nothing like what had happened at the ball with Namjoon. 

Gazing down at the delicate letter in your fingers, you wonder what it could possibly contain. Your relatives had hidden it for six weeks. Is it a letter from Taehyung or Seokjin congratulating you? In that case, it must be the former; Seokjin must have been busy traveling the countryside with your sister. 

To your horror, you think that it has been sent by Namjoon, delivering foreboding words telling your fate before it actually happened. 

Scrambling to flap the parchment open, your fingers tremble as the seal unsticks and the pages flip. Your heart beats erratically as your eyes travel along the penmanship as if to drink it all in at once. But you settle for the top line, the very beginning - your name in curled lettering - and cease to breathe as you start. 

I know this letter finds you well, since news of your arrangement has reached our grounds. 

But I felt that communication in written form shall suffice because, when I am not in your presence, my mind is clearer and my thoughts cease to war with each other. 

Not only is this letter providing context to the past mistakes I have since taken effort to correcting, but it is also a goodbye. 

I will start with my words in the rain all those months ago. They are inexcusable and, though their backstory needs no follow-up, you must know that I meant your family name no harm. I had only wished your circumstances noble at birth because it would have been easier to convince my family that I had considered you as a partner. My family is the one that is heavily flawed - not yours. 

Not that any of this matters now. 

I need to also admit that, though I am a man of impressive vocabulary, I find it hard to form even the simplest of sentences around you. You are without doubt a worthy opponent in every aspect involving intelligence and wit, and since this is goodbye, I can be frank in saying that it is alluring and that you have captivated me for months.

As for the matter of Mr. Park Jimin. Even if he had fled others in the past, if he has changed enough to earn your affection, then he must now be a great man. 

I will end this letter with a promise: I will not bother you any longer. If anything, I am admitting that you have managed to change this ignorant, insufferable man for the better, and that gaining wealth in emotion has been his latest journey. 

I am off to the Southlands to learn other things, broadening my scope of the world in hopes of getting to see it through your eyes.

Be well, 

Kim Namjoon

A drop of liquid splashes onto the parchment before you sweep your arm away, diving into the crook of your elbow before hot tears freely flow from your eyes. 

This is not how things were supposed to go. 

Maybe he was right about emotion after all. The agony lodged in your throat has rendered you powerless, your knees weak and giving out. When you blink your tears away, your sticky eyelashes fail to block the shades of grey washing over your bedroom. Shadows grow and grow and grow, and your hand clutching the letter falls to your side like a weight. 

As a muffled call of your name squeezes through your door, you swipe your cheeks before pocketing the letter into the side of your dress. 

Your carriage is ready. 

Back to the Kim estate you go. 

Covering your eyes one last time and taking a deep breath, you clunk down the stairs. You switch out your flats for boots now, noticing that the clouds overhead may become darker by the hour. Saying goodbye to your mother and father and ignoring their looks of concern, you step into your ride and contemplate why you’re being summoned. 

The letter is already burned onto the back of your eyelids, freshly pressed. You wonder if Namjoon had a change of heart within the six weeks since its delivery. Why else are you being summoned after he had promised to have nothing to do with you anymore? 

Does he plan to propose?

As the repeated clops of hooves echo in your ears, you wonder if you should jump off at your friend’s new home along the way to avoid everything entirely. Her husband is a friend of your family’s, and he had proposed to her after having no luck with yours. 

You had visited your married friend a few months prior. As soon as you set foot onto their manicured yard, you were swept into the awaiting carriage of theirs to visit the nearby estate - one belonging to a Lady of immense wealth and status. 

It was a whirlwind of events, from the time you transferred carriages to the time you were practically forced onto a piano bench to play a song you hadn’t practiced since you were four years young. You had barely gotten the chance to take in the opulence of the manor before being thrust before the Lady herself and her reticent daughter, introducing yourself and refraining from arguing against her view on your family. Apparently, word had gotten around about their antics at the ball; nobles of the Lady’s caliber weren’t pleased.

“I’ve been told that your sister attempted to entertain with a pianoforte,” she went on, sharp eyebrow cocked and lips pursed, “Why don’t you trot on over there and play a song for us, as well? Surely, you’re better than her.” 

“Oh, please,” you began, headache already forming. Your fingers rubbed the insides of your palms where you stood. “I am the first to admit that I am no good.” 

Straightening her back—though you thought it impossible to be anymore unbending—the Lady urged, “I insist.” 

You moved your legs to the piano at the other end of the room, your eyes glancing over the deadened eyes of painted warriors on the wall. Settling your nervous bum on the bench, you ran your fingers over the unfamiliar keys, wondering how you got into that situation in the first place. 

As you began to play, immediately your fingers shook, incorrect chords stomping on the metal strings inside the instrument. Conversation continued between the couches, giving you a reprieve from embarrassment. 

It was on the sixteenth bar of your stilted solo that a voice rang through the room. 

“Hello, My Lady.” 

Your head turned so quick that you felt a crick form in your neck, your eyes glued to the man in dress robes filling up the doorway with his broad shoulders and presence. Behind him stood Seokjin; the youngest of the brothers proved missing.

The old woman shifted on her stiff cushion, her upturned nose wrinkling in a smile as she spotted them. “Ah, my dears. It’s so good to see you both again.” Turning back to your friend and her betrothed—and overlooking your face entirely —she tutted, “It’s been ages since I’ve seen my nephews. They seem to always be out and about.” 

It was then that her eyes flickered to you, and you felt and saw the smouldering wariness swirling in her irises. 

Peculiar.

As Namjoon proceeded to walk into the room, his eyes rarely left your still form at the piano keys, only to sweep over his aunt and company in passing. You didn’t dare breathe, as if you feared he would, heavens forbid, converse with you as soon as you did. 

Frankly, you also didn’t feel like having him hear you prattle on the keys, either. 

Seokjin had followed after his brother, and when his eyes saw you sitting at the piano, he gave you a short bow which you returned with a stiff smile. 

“Please, sit,” the Lady encouraged them, sweeping her arm toward the other sofas in the room. “We were just talking about arrangements for dinner tonight. And the missus over there was just playing a… unique number for us.” 

If looks could pierce a woman through and through.

“Apologies for my suddenness,” Namjoon blurted, roping your gaze to his, “But from my limited experience, your daughter is a much more suitable player than she is.” 

Your chest bubbled with conflict. On one hand, you were downright appalled at his assumption regarding your musical skills. Checking the other hand, an out had been presented to you, so you kept your spiced tongue in line to see what the elder woman had to say. 

“Ah, yes. I suppose you’re right. My Lucy is still learning, but she is quite better.” Namjoon’s haughty aunt had said those words far too happily for you to be completely okay with vacating the seat. “Go on, dear. Show her how a proper lady plays the pianoforte.”

Eyes threatening to shoot all the way into the clouds, you stopped their roll by shutting them deeply before breathing in. After a moment, you followed her condescending lead, uprooting yourself from that dastardly chair and walking away to stand behind the nearest chesterfield. 

As Lucy timidly left the sofa, she made her way to the piano, back hunched in her shyness. Watching her soft steps, you almost felt bad for her. 

When you heard your name whispered next to you, you immediately turned to see Namjoon at your side, his arm extended out in an offer to follow him. At your look of concern, he raised his brows and muttered, “Follow my lead.” 

You didn’t have time to react before he straightened and announced, “I shall be going now. I can give our newest guest a tour of the manor.” 

The Lady was clearly against his offer. “You will do no such thing. She is perfectly fine staying here with us.” 

“My Lady, this is only to save you all from having to hear her perform. We shall return in time for dinner.” 

Fearful of the outright glare aimed at your dress, your hands crammed into fists. Looking at Seokjin’s relaxed form standing behind your aunt, he simply flashed you a wink before jesting, “Thank you, Namjoon. My ears did ring a bit, even from the hallway.” 

The nerve. 

You made a point to incite revenge against him later. 

Namjoon strode to the door, not looking back as if he knew you would follow him. 

These men would be the death of you, but since they were also your saving grace, you held your sass yet again. 

As you passed the Lady on the sofa, you couldn’t help but smirk inwardly at her sneer, your thoughts as pompous as the bouncy notes of the piano erupting behind your back. Seokjin, unbeknownst to his aunt, provided the second saucy wink of the afternoon as you crossed the threshold of the exit. 

You followed Namjoon down long, immensely ornate hallways, rounded corners into other corridors lined with statues of soldiers and horses and ancient gods. Crimson banners draped from vaulted ceilings in curves and waterfalls, and the rugs spanning meters on the ground prevented your soiled shoes from staining the pristine marble floors. 

There weren’t any words spoken between the two of you; it seemed that the tour was a silent one. 

But as Namjoon headed out of a set of polished wooden doors, your eyes focused on the manicured gardens stretching out before you as far as your eyes could see. Multiple white stone fountains dotted the loose maze of rose bushes and other hedges, and a long shallow pond extended in front of you lined with smoothed benches. 

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered in awe, not even registering that your thoughts had formed into spoken words. 

“I come out here to read whenever I visit.” Namjoon took his time descending the stairwell leading into the garden, turning around once he reached the bottom. “It’s not much, but it is enough.” 

Shooting him a look, you huffed in mild annoyance, his entitlement still unbelievable. “Yes, well. I would offer you the tree I sit against but it may not fit your standards.” 

To your surprise, Namjoon chuckled slightly—a low, honeyed sound that was admittedly sweet to your ears. “If it works for you, I might consider it.” 

Thankful for his scapegoat earlier, you decided to not push what he meant, though you knew he was alluding to your pickiness. Being surrounded by a lush garden and the calming sound of bubbling fountains, you lost yourself in the moment and just decided to enjoy it. 

You glided down the steps, giving Namjoon a tiny, minuscule smile in passing as you brushed past and padded into the maze of hedges. 

While you both made your way around the garden, the conversation stayed civil, and the peace you felt in those moments was worth the searing glares and condescension you received from his aunt throughout the supper that was held an hour later.

Your carriage rolls up to the estate you haven’t visited in months.

Gazing up at the impressive size, you start to wonder why people even desire ceilings that rise for miles. 

It’s a quiet walk inside. Immediately, you get the feeling that a hostile presence is waiting for you, though you can’t place why you feel that way. Are the shadows a bit longer than they should be? 

As you walk into the foyer, a guard is waiting for you at the far end, and when you approach he tells you that your appearance is requested in the main study. 

Odd.

But you oblige, making your way to the room usually filled with sunlight and plush chesterfield sofas. Though, you surmise that it looks a bit darker now, with the clouds rumbling overhead and blocking out any shine. At best the room will appear faded. 

You are proven wrong. 

When you enter the wide doors, your suspicions are shrouded by the looming storm inside—not only is there no trace of light, but the Lady you encountered before is sitting at the imposing desk in front of you, hands tented and features blending into the sky behind her. 

You look around the room for anyone else, but it’s just her aide and a soldier at her sides, straight and waiting and stone-faced. Though they resemble them, they’re no better company than gargoyles. No doubt you would rather prefer the latter. 

Tongue caged tightly in your teeth, you simply decide to curtsy, letting the woman take the lead in whatever jilted dance she wants to do now. 

“I have tried not to interfere. I have done everything I can in order to stay civil,” she starts, her voice reminding you of the way animals tense before going in for the kill. “But I cannot bear this any longer. You have done enough. From henceforth, you are not to be in contact with my nephew, nor any of his brothers for that matter.” 

Something in your stomach erupts, snapping your limp jaw back in place. “I beg your pardon?” 

The animal springs forth, shoving off the desk with ring-encrusted fingers. “You foolish girl! How dare you question me when you have been scheming under my nose this whole while?” 

“Believe me when I say that I have no inkling of what this is about,” you assure with your entire chest. You’re aware that you must keep your voice level lest it awaken another beast, but this appears incredibly hard to do so under scrutiny without context. 

“Mr. Namjoon.” 

“Mr. Namjoon?” 

“Are you deaf, child?” Rounding the desk, the Lady takes rigid steps toward you, her shrewd eyes piercing. Though she smaller in stature, her presence wraps around you—suffocating. “That man is set to marry my daughter. He would never wed someone with the likes of you. You would soil him as you have already tainted his mind.” 

Your mind whirls with thoughts, the most prominent being his impending betrothal. You remember the letter, the way he spoke as if you had already left his life, the way your heart crumbled at his words. The weight of the parchment in your dress pocket seems much heavier now. 

What can you possibly respond with? Does she not even know of your failed proposal? Why has she summoned you all the way here just to tell you something you weren’t even considering in the first place? 

“My Lady. You seem to have misjudged me.” You lick your lips before continuing—an attempt to smear the spice rapidly collecting on your tongue. “If you must know, I have had a suitor for months. Mr. Namjoon has not been part of any equation involving my—”

“A perfect suitor, and you couldn’t even keep him loyal.” 

Ah, so word of your failure did spread. You wonder if Namjoon knows about it now, as well, though he did say he ventured South. Nonetheless, the words leaving the Lady’s mouth stick to your skin like jam, and you want to furiously scrub your forearms of any lingering muck.

“My order stands. Namjoon has left without a word and I am convinced this is your doing. Do you plan to meet him somewhere in private? Start a new life? Good luck with any inheritance should that be your endgame.” 

“For one, I don’t think that’s something you can decide, madam. Second, I have not been privy to any of this until now, and I certainly have not been treated this way by anyone else in your family so I am questioning why I am being treated as such now.” 

Lightning flashes across her features. “How dare you speak to me this way! You have been a thorn in my side this whole time. The man doesn’t eat. He doesn’t sleep. And he roams the gardens like a ghost! He’s never been in this state before you came along.” 

“I had no intention of marrying him.” 

“So if he asks you for your hand, you would deny him?” 

The question rattles around in your brain amongst the slew of past experiences you’ve had with the man. Everything that you had judged him for had been completely misplaced, and after you had discovered who he really was, you were certain that the pair of you would be identical on parchment, written with dark black ink.

“I cannot promise my answer would be a refusal.” 

“I will not allow it.” 

Your bones rattle with fury. Fury at the gall of this woman to tell you what you can and cannot do regarding someone else entirely. Just another concept about high class matters that absolutely repulses you. “You cannot control me, nor your nephew. You have mistreated me this entire visit, and I am taking my leave. Good day.” 

There are many things left unsaid in your wake, taken up by the booming shouts coming from the Lady. With boots heavy on the long rugs spanning the corridor, you make your way outside and burst through the front doors. 

Only to find your carriage absent. 

You sweep curious eyes over the gravelly path, wondering if your chauffeur had been advised to wait further out. But after nothing comes into your sight for miles, you turn to one of the people outside and ask where your carriage had gone. 

“We were advised to send them away some time ago. It’s about to storm, so the Lady said it was alright for us to tell them to vacate the grounds early. Very strange.” 

You let out a hefty curse, scraping your toe into the dirt. “Thank you very much,” you mutter to the man, not pausing to take in his astonishment. 

A voice flutters from above like an incessant flapping of pigeon wings, “Since you’re so keen on walking on your own, I’m sure the journey won’t be an issue!” 

You remember the time you walked all the way to the summer manor that Namjoon and his brothers stayed at, where the ball was that housed your first taste of true tension through a gaze. You remember the way Namjoon looked at you when you stormed in, announced yet unannounced, the inquisitive look in his eyes as he watched your hem sweep mud on the floor. 

As you shoot a glare in hopes to down the bird above your head, you grit your teeth and shut your tongue inside. If you lash out again, there is no telling what else can be thrown your way. 

So you start the depressing trek back. 

Overhead, clouds roar like a pack of lions behind you, their tendrils the claws that dare to sink downpour into your hair. You wonder how long you have until that happens, and proceed to wonder if you will even care when it does. 

When your arm brushes your side, the weight of the letter you received from Namjoon causes you to still. 

If the rain comes down in sheets, it will certainly stain through your dress and compromise every word brushed onto those pages, effectively cutting your last tie with the man you misjudged from the beginning. 

So you run. 

Your boots are so, so heavy and much, much too thick for the journey—yet you crack on. Sprinting along the dirt trail leading away from the manor, you watch for any possible mode of transportation or shelter, twisting your neck in hope. 

So far, only the sights of small trees and swaying grass stare back at your running legs, their demeanors ones of pity and their attention most unhelpful.

A loud grumble above you is the first sign you get, followed by the darkened shadow around you as you keep running. The wind whips wildly into your eyes, stinging your already wet cheeks. But you swipe your face to rid yourself of any sorrow. You can’t give up now. 

But your efforts are drenched in seconds, the rainfall spilling onto your shoulders and coating your peripheral—endless. You have your dress bunched to protect the letter for now, but you know it will be done for in seconds. 

With a soft sob, you realize that you never got the chance to read it a second time. 

Your tears blend in with the rain, your thighs burning as much as the ache in your chest; all over, your being in resonance with nature. 

With every step, you feel your heart breaking into pieces, sliding down your veins in rivulets with the rain. You can’t help but shiver with the oncoming chill as it takes over, and the fingers holding your dress are completely washed. 

The letter will be ruined soon, just like everything else in your life. You are to walk all the way back to a house that you’re bound to for eternity, without meaning or direction or purpose. 

It is true that you don’t need a man. But there is one of them out there that matches you toe to toe, thousands and thousands of steps away.

You think of Orpheus, walking back from the underworld and looking over his shoulder because of his undying love for the one he had to leave behind. He never truly believed it to be true. His humanity got the best of him, just like what is happening to you now. 

You berate your past self for being so naive in the gallery, spewing passionate defense for emotions and how they make one strong. 

How foolish. 

Knees buckling; thighs burning; heart deflating. You feel nothing but weak. Weak and swept away by misery and the rain. 

And yet you think back to Namjoon saying that he could do it. He could walk all the way back without a pass over his shoulder. Oh, how ridiculous he was. How ridiculously challenging and stubborn and proud. 

You miss him. 

You’ve never missed a soul in your life. 

It isn’t because of the abandonment of your almost-fiance. It isn’t because you’re being kept from him at the asinine orders of his aunt. 

But you simply miss his company, his companionship. The way he kept you on your toes and your mind sharp, keeping it chiseled and sparking on a wheel. You miss the times he spoke to you like he actually cared about what you had to say, though you weren’t ever sure if that was truly the case. 

How you yearn to have just one more conversation with him. The last one you remember is the one in the garden, before your choice in suitor kept him at bay and a bit more terse. 

As thunder jangles everything in your body, new mud cakes onto your boots and weighs you down. Nothing feels right. Everything feels like it’s falling apart. 

But, despite it all, you don’t look back. 

You keep moving. You’re proving to yourself that it’s possible. Keep walking away from the life that you have no business being a part of—emotions be damned. For once, you side with Namjoon; emotions make you weak. You want nothing to do with them at the present. 

Rain batters your head but it doesn’t cloud your mind, for your determination wins over everything, and you just keep moving forward. 

You don’t know how long you had been walking. All you know for certain is that the letter in your pocket is washed away with the rest of your tears and sanity. Overhead, the skies mostly clear, and you are mercifully saved from any rain the rest of the way. 

Crickets and a bit of buzzing sound in your ears amongst the tall, swaying grass, and you have to watch where you step should you fall into any deep puddles. You don’t know what time it is, though you know you’re bone tired and weary from the journey back. As you look to the horizon in front of you, peeking over the rolling hills dotted with trees is a bit of soft peach hue. 

It’s dawn. 

Finally, after miles and miles, you stop walking. Shutting your eyes tight, you reach into your pocket for the letter, your heart sinking into your chest when the edge you skim is already damp. 

When you fish it out, you pry the wet pages apart and lament the blurred writing, willing the ink to solidify back together again to no avail. 

At least Orpheus had seen Eurydice one more time when he turned around. 

You, on the other hand, have no last chance where you stand. 

With a deep breath and aching, shuddering limbs, you carry on and almost hit the fields outside your household. A house that you will be holed up in for the rest of your waking days, with a mother that will never let you live your marriageless life down, and a father that hides it better but you know is also worried in some way. 

Will you ever find hope? Is there any room for you to think that your life will take a turn for the better? 

Why do you have the strongest urge to turn around? 

Despite your earlier commitment, you did just that, spinning on your dirt-caked heels and willing to see anything, any sign that things would be okay.

And that is when you realize.

Time jolts still as you see him walking towards you, his entire wardrobe absolutely slick with rainwater and muddied at his bottoms. His normally light silver hair has darkened in its wetness, now in strands of slate grey, sticky and mussed with continuous worry. 

Your face doesn’t dare move a fraction, unblinking and unmoving in every way possible. Because you simply don’t believe what you’re seeing. The white shirt under his long coat has turned sheer with rainwater, clinging to his front and providing you with more than you intended to handle. 

And he is simply walking, with the rising sun spilling over the hills behind him and gently laying light on his shoulders. You watch as the dew on the grass clings to him as tightly as your eyes, and you want nothing more than for everything to be real. 

Because this isn’t happening. 

You have become delirious in the rain, your mind still harboring the storm that left the manor with you. 

But the telltale crunches of shoes and short puffs of air reach your ears and they are crystal clear. The man your gaze never leaves is Namjoon, and he doesn’t say a word, even as he stands before you and looks into your eyes with the same feeling of longing you had felt for days. 

Your voice comes out cracked and low when you ask if he had followed you that whole stretch. 

And his own reply is hoarse and deep when he answers with a simple, “I did.” 

You can’t piece together how this could have happened. When Namjoon sees the confusion sloshing around your features, he offers context, “I wasn’t supposed to be there. I had come back earlier than planned. I… I was shocked to see you inside, since there wasn’t anyone waiting.” 

“Your… Your aunt.” 

“I know.” 

So he knew enough, at least. Why did he decide to follow you?

“Was it easy for you?” 

“Absolutely not.” 

You smile then, but mostly because you still haven’t grasped that he is real and he is in front of you. “How awful.” 

“But I would walk that trip a hundred times over if that meant that I could still be with you.” 

Nothing in the world could have prepared you for a confession of that sort. Your cheeks burn in the hazy dawn light, and you stop yourself from assumptions when you ask him what he means. 

So when Namjoon whispers “I love you,” you know that everything is a dream. 

Because in your dreams, you understand. You have been feeling this otherworldly attraction for months, but you had never dared put a word to its name. Nights where you admitted this feeling to yourself were a secret you stashed away, only to face it come morning with hollowed bags under your eyes and an even emptier chest. 

“And I understand if your feelings do not match mine.” 

Oh, he is still so blind. Just like you had been. 

“If you want me to turn around and never come back, I will do so.” 

“She said you’re to wed her daughter,” you begin in rebuttal, needing to distance yourself in case what you had been told is true. “If that’s the case, then—”

“That is nothing but a lie.” 

Moments pass as you gather your thrumming thoughts. Not knowing what to say, you fish the soggy parchment from your dress pocket, revealing that you had read the letter.

“You promised me that you wouldn’t bother me any longer,” you quote, and at his brooding expression, take his cold hand into your trembling fingers. Gazing back at his face, you roam your eyes over his complexion, wondering how you’ve missed the inherent softness of his features and only pictured his lines as sharp angles. “But if you turned around right now, that would bother me for a very, very long time.” 

After you bring his fingers to your lips to plant a light kiss on their knuckles, Namjoon divulges, “I had him detained.” When your orbs snap to meet his, he continues, “He’s the reason I came back early. Taehyung spotted him in a tavern at the township we stayed in, and I wanted to come back straightaway to tell you the news.” 

“I am well aware.” 

“So I figured.” 

“I’m just too proud to say that you were right.” When you kiss him again, you swear you see his shoulders shudder. “And if you’re ignorant and insufferable, then I had been the same way. From the first time I met you, I judged and goaded you without a second thought.” 

“All of it was justified.”

“Not if you were just shy.”

Namjoon simply stares.

And your voice continues its hushed tone when you confess, “Trust me when I say that you aren’t the only one at fault.” 

“If you hadn’t driven that stake into my heart in the first place,” he whispers, his free hand coming up to cradle your freezing cheek, “My heart wouldn’t have bled for yours as quickly as it did.” 

“You’re ridiculous,” you grin into his palm.

“And you’re still so beautiful.” 

“Well.” With a shuddering exhale, you press your cheek into his hand, kissing it as tenderly as you can. “I should probably mend your heart lest it bleed out before we get a chance to do things properly.”

And when Namjoon beams, the layer of grey over your eyes peels away, enchanting your vision with specks of true hues and gold. He holds your face with both hands and, as his forehead presses into yours, happiness fills you to the brim and rolls down your cheeks in rivers. 

The pair of you stand in front of the same tragic sculpture in the gallery, hands interlocked and shoulders relaxed. 

It is your husband that speaks first, his voice low and comforting to your ears, “I think back to that day all the time - the day I saw you and your family. You don’t know how many times I’ve come back here after.” 

“To contemplate the meaning of it again?”

“Not quite. I meant this whole gallery. I would roam around and wonder what you would say about every display.” 

Your heart perks up at the image: him moving slowly from piece to piece, eyebrows inquisitive trying to build an image of you and your thoughts. He probably got it right on multiple occasions, now that you realize that you’re both so similar. 

Slowly walking to the same painting as before, softly tugging him along, you look at the canvas that laughed at you before and ask, “And what would I say about this one, Mr. Namjoon?” 

His mouth sets in a thin line that you want to smother with love before he answers, “I believe you would say it came straight from someone’s heart.” 

“You cheat!” Lightly tapping his strong bicep, you accuse, “You’re just repeating what I said the last time.” 

“Only because I remember every word.” 

“Well, your words had some merit, as well.” 

When he gazes at you, confusion splashed onto his features, you huff ruefully. “After your aunt… That day, I made a point to not look back the whole way.” 

“Yes, I know.” Your husband faces you directly before running a hand down your cheek. “I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you.” 

“Why did you never say anything?” 

“I promised that I wouldn’t bother you. Frankly, I mostly wanted to make sure you were safe.” 

You smile full of affection. It’s one thing to be surprised that he had trudged after you, dirtying himself in the process; now that you have more context, it is even more meaningful. 

“It’s getting late,” he whispers, and you watch as he brings your hand up to brush his plush lips against your knuckles. 

“That it is.” 

“Shall we head upstairs, Mrs. Namjoon?”

Your countenance warms at his tone, your chest shuddering at the meaning behind his words. When you speak, it is like the soft lick of flames throwing about shadows on his shirt. And one syllable starts many wonderful days,

“Yes.”  

His bedroom is nothing short of opulent, and yet there is a comfort to its confinement that you cannot place. 

The first thing that you notice is the sheer curtains drifting inside, wafted by the air flowing in from the far bay windows. In front of them lies a chaise covered in red and gold damask, curled at the back and legs bowing outwards. 

As you sweep your eyes around the rest of the room—taking in the dark wood of the canopy bed, the painted ceilings, the fireplace accommodated by two plush chairs—a hand holds your shoulder before sliding down your arm. Behind you is a presence that has the heat in your lower belly simmering, toes curling in your shoes. 

“Always so beautiful,” your husband whispers, his lips lightly brushing your bare shoulder and causing you to exhale. 

In order to calm your nerves, you murmur, “You always say ‘beautiful.’ Is there not another word to describe me?” 

Namjoon laughs slow and deep, and you close your eyes to combat the absolute shiver wrapping around your limbs. “There are others, I can assure you.” Another kiss on your shoulder, closer to your heated neck. “Would you like to hear them?”

“Yes.” Your reply is immediate, earning a gravelly chuckle tumbling down your collarbones. 

“‘Impatient’ is one,” Namjoon chides. 

You swivel your head around then, throwing an alluring glance over your shoulder while adding a bit of bite. “Maybe not all of the words,” you drone, and your eyes crinkle when those dimples you love so much appear in his cheeks. 

When he leans forward, his silver fringe brushes your forehead as he kisses your lips, the touch enough to silence you for a good moment. You turn to face him fully, grasping the strings of his loose, white shirt before tugging slightly. 

The feel of his hands as they come up to cup your face ignites something within, for you start to tell him sweet things between hot kisses, as well. Your own fingers are acting on their own accord, slowly slipping the soft fabric off of his shoulders. 

You then remember the first time you saw him at the shanty ballroom wearing this underneath his expensive robes, and through your nose a small bit of amusement escapes. 

Namjoon pulls his lips from yours before roaming his tender eyes across your face. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” you assure him. “I’m just remembering the first night we met. You wore this same shirt under those stiff robes.”  

He smiles in return. “It was a good thing, too. If I hadn’t been confined in those clothes it would have been absolutely clear that I was shaken.” 

You laugh, but he shakes his head. “It was the first time I had no earthly clue how to handle myself.” 

“Yes, well, you were a bit of an ass in your floundering.” 

“Indeed.”

“But so was I.” You bring your hands up to grasp his wrists. “So there isn’t much I can say.” 

Suddenly quiet, your husband lowers your arms and grabs your hand, leading you not to the bed but to the chaise lying next to the windows. His shirt still hangs off one shoulder, and you marvel at the way muscles ripple under his skin. Moonlight washes over his features as he wordlessly orders that you sit, and you look up at him in adoration and anticipation. 

You know what happens the night of a wedding, and you want the same thing to occur here with him. But inexperience is a bastard as it locks your bones from settling properly. 

As your face decidedly falters, Namjoon is there at an instant, leaning down to brush a thumb across your cheek. “We don’t have to do anything,” he whispers. 

Shy, you lower your gaze to his lips before muttering, “I want to.” 

“Your words don’t match your demeanor, my love.” 

“It’s just…” You swallow despite the hold he has on your chin. “The window. What if someone hears?” 

Namjoon glances up to regard the reason for your hesitation, and he looks back at you with mischief—an emotion you had yet to see on his countenance. “It’s alright,” he says through what you determine is a smirk, if the excitement in your core is anything to go by, “Because I would like to hear you, too.” 

Fire runs through your veins. Never have you been in this situation before; never have you been rendered so speechless. 

“Enchanting,” Namjoon whispers before planting a tender, lingering kiss on your forehead. Moving down to your nose, he kisses there next before murmuring another, “Captivating.” 

Your own voice is as soft as you can muster. “If you’re going to exhaust your entire vocabulary on our first night together, that would be troublesome.” 

After a laugh, the reply you receive is simple. “Will one word suffice for now?” 

“If you have one in mind, yes.” 

Running a hand across the side of your face, your husband slides it down until he holds the back of your neck. “I do,” he admits. When he leans forward, his breath glides down your face and his proximity has you shuddering. It’s with all the confidence in the world that he divulges the word, and your mind goes blank after.

“Mine.” 

You huff a laugh that’s quickly smothered by his lips, and you reel back from the surprise. Your upper body is pushed back into the high arm of the chaise, and Namjoon leans down with you, his arm coming up to grip the back of the furniture. 

You can’t describe the feeling in your chest, but you’re reminded of the times you settled down with a new book, or arrived at a new town that you had never visited before. It’s that second of delight bottled in your body, and you have the feeling that Namjoon will keep it replenished for a very long time. 

When he finally lets your lips free, your wonderfully considerate husband assures, “Just tell me what you want, Mrs. Kim. Tonight is about you.” 

“I must admit,” you start with a shuddering breath, “That I don’t quite know.” 

A warm breath rolls down your face as he chuckles—a sound that took you by surprise the first time you ever heard it—before he murmurs, “I figured you of all people would take any opportunity to speak what’s on your mind.”  

You tut before rolling your eyes heavenward. “Well, now I do have something on my mind, but you’re certainly not going to—”

Namjoon smothers your annoyance with his lips once more. He takes your arched back as an opportunity to slide an arm underneath your waist, kissing you deeper and rendering you thoroughly speechless. His mouth leaves yours only to descend down your jaw, trail down your neck, latch onto your pulse. 

When soft puffs billow out of your lips, you feel him move against your skin. But you don’t know if it’s to form words or something more. Truthfully, you hear him loud and crystal clear regardless. 

Finally, your husband does speak, and your shudders are only a prelude for what’s to come,

“Frankly, I don’t know what I want, either. But I’m willing to explore every inch of you until I find the answer.”

For a moment, then a thousand more, nothing else exists. 

Only the feeling of his bare skin against yours, the connection between your legs, and the souls dwelling within your rib cages. Breathing, pulsing, fluttering in tandem. 

It is a strange phenomenon—you at your most vulnerable with this impossible, infuriating man. But this night is yours and his and no one else’s, and it’s a story you will come back to again, and again, and again. 

“I love you,” Namjoon whispers into a forehead damp with kisses and sweat, “Most ardently.”

The words slip down your face and into your mouth, only to wisp out again as you reciprocate. 

As you both pant in exhaustion, you already feel sleep start to claim you as sunlight breaks over the tree line outside. You briefly wonder how the dew looks on the lawns, how the fields look on their rolling hills. Probably pretty. 

But never as breathtaking as the drops that clung to Namjoon’s coat when his eyes confessed the first time. 

When the last thing you see are those same eyes confessing once more, you know that this is the first dawn of many that you will spend right by his side. 

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fin.