#jongho angst

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⊹₊⟡⋆Yeosang

⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡

⊹₊⟡⋆Jongho

⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡⋆ ⊹₊⟡

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Jongho was twelve years old the first time he understands what loyalty costs.

There’s blood on the pavement—too dark, too much of it—and the man on the ground isn’t moving anymore.

Jongho doesn’t know his name. He’s told later that names don’t matter in this line of work. What matters is who gave the order, and who carried it out.

Your brother is standing beside him.

Not yet the man he’ll become, but already dangerous in that quiet, inevitable way. 

He places a hand on Jongho’s shoulder—not comforting, not cruel. Just grounding.

“You didn’t look away,” your brother says.

Jongho swallows. His hands are shaking, but he keeps them at his sides.

“I didn’t,” he replies.

That’s when your brother decides Jongho will belong with him.

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Jongho grows up fast after that.

Too fast.

He learns how to fire a gun before he learns how to dream. Learn how to break bones without leaving marks. 

Learn how to listen without speaking, how to stand without flinching, how to obey without asking why.

Your brother saves him from the streets. Gives him food. 

Shelter. Purpose.

And Jongho repays that debt with absolute devotion.

He becomes the man sent when things need to be finished. Not loud. Not cruel. Just effective. The kind of man people whisper about but never really see.

By the time Jongho is twenty, he has a reputation.

By the time he is twenty-three, he has a body count.

And by the time he is twenty-six, he believes there is nothing left inside him that can be ruined.

That’s when you enter the picture.

Jongho hears about you long before he meets you.

Not in detail. Just fragments.

My sister’s in town. She’s staying at the house for a while.

Keep an eye out, yeah?

It’s said casually, like you’re an afterthought.

You are not supposed to matter to him.

The first time Jongho sees you, it’s late.

The house is quieter than usual—guards posted outside, lights dimmed. Jongho’s there to report on a shipment gone wrong, blood still drying beneath his sleeves.

You’re in the kitchen.

Barefoot. Wearing one of your brother’s old shirts, sleeves too long, hair loose like you don’t know what kind of house this really is. 

You’re standing on your toes, trying—and failing—to reach something on the top shelf.

Jongho stops short.

This is wrong. Instinctively, immediately wrong.

You turn when you hear him.

“Oh—sorry,” you say, startled. “I didn’t know anyone else was here.”

Your voice is soft. Normal. Untouched.

Jongho doesn’t move.

You smile, a little awkward, and step aside. “You can go ahead. I’m just stealing snacks.”

Stealing.

From a house built on blood money.

Something in Jongho’s chest tightens.

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Your brother finds you talking to Jongho ten minutes later.

He freezes.

Not visibly. Not in a way anyone else would catch. But Jongho sees it—the subtle shift, the sharp attention.

“Hey,” you say easily. “Your friend was helping me find—”

Your brother cuts in. “You shouldn’t bother him.”

Jongho stiffens. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” your brother says, too quickly. Then, correcting himself, calmer: “He’s working.”

You glance between them. “Right. Sorry.”

You walk away without argument.

Jongho watches you go, unease pooling in his gut.

Later, your brother corners him in the hallway.

“Don’t get attached,” he says quietly.

Jongho frowns. “To what?”

“To her.”

There it is.

“She’s not part of this world,” your brother continues. “She never will be. And I won’t have you dragging her into it.”

Jongho nods immediately. “I understand.”

He means it.

At least, he thinks he does.

From that night on, Jongho avoids you.

Not obviously. Just enough.

If you enter a room, he leaves.

If you speak to him, he answers politely, briefly.

If you smile, he looks away.

It works. For a while.

Until one afternoon, you corner him in the hallway.

“Did I do something wrong?” you ask.

He hesitates.

“No.”

“Then why do you act like I’m invisible?”

Because you’re not supposed to exist to him. Because caring about you would be a weakness.

Because your brother is right.

Jongho lowers his gaze. “It’s safer this way.”

“For who?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer.

That’s the first lie he tells you.

And it’s the one that will eventually destroy everything.

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Avoiding you becomes Jongho’s second job.

He learns your schedule without meaning to. The times you wake, the way you linger in doorways like you’re undecided about the world, the habit you have of humming under your breath when you’re bored. He notices all of it while pretending he doesn’t.

That’s the problem.

Watching is what he’s good at.

You notice him too, of course. You’re not stupid. You catch the way his eyes flick to you and then away. How conversations stop when you enter a room. How your brother suddenly insists you don’t go out alone anymore.

“You’re acting weird,” you tell your brother one night.

He exhales through his nose. “This life isn’t safe.”

“I know that.”

“You don’t,” he says sharply, then softens. “Just—trust me.”

You do. You always have.

Jongho hears the whole thing from the hallway. He hates that your trust is so easy. He hates that it makes him want to deserve it.

The second message is clearer than the first.

A photograph. Grainy. Taken from across the street.

It’s you, stepping out of a café. Laughing at something on your phone. Unaware.

Jongho feels something cold slide down his spine.

Your brother stares at the image for a long time before he finally speaks. “They’re testing me.”

Jongho already knows what comes next.

“She needs eyes on her,” your brother continues. “All the time.”

Jongho doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll do it.”

Your brother looks up, surprised. Not suspicious. Just… thoughtful.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

It’s not the right answer.

It’s the only one Jongho can give.

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You find out over breakfast.

“What do you mean I have a bodyguard?” you demand.

“Not a bodyguard,” your brother corrects. “Protection.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“It’s Jongho.”

You stop mid-sentence.

Your eyes flick to him instinctively, like you’re looking for confirmation. Jongho keeps his face neutral, hands folded neatly in front of him.

“You?” you say. “Why you?”

“Because I trust him,” your brother answers.

You laugh once, incredulous. “You barely let him look at me.”

Jongho’s jaw tightens.

“This isn’t permanent,” your brother adds. “Just until things settle.”

You cross your arms. “And I don’t get a say?”

“No.”

You look at Jongho again, sharper this time. “Do you want this job?”

It’s the first time you’ve ever asked him what he wants.

Jongho meets your gaze.

“Yes,” he says quietly.

You don’t know it yet, but that word seals your fate.

Being assigned to you changes everything.

Jongho walks behind you now—not out of avoidance, but strategy. His presence is constant, unavoidable. You feel it like pressure at your back.

“You’re staring,” you accuse one afternoon.

“I’m watching.”

“That’s worse.”

“Get used to it.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. You’re adjusting faster than he expects. Asking questions. Testing him.

“What happens if I run?”

“I catch you.”

“What if I scream?”

“I remove the threat.”

“What if the threat is you?”

Jongho stops walking.

You turn, startled by the sudden stillness. His expression is unreadable, but his voice is careful when he answers.

“Then I remove myself.”

Something twists in your chest at that.

You don’t run anymore.

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It happens in a crowd.

Someone bumps into you hard enough to knock you off balance. Before you can fall, Jongho’s hand closes around your wrist.

Firm. Certain.

Alive.

It lasts less than a second. He lets go immediately, like he’s burned.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

You stare at your wrist long after he’s released it. The warmth lingers.

That night, Jongho washes his hands twice.

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You start noticing the cracks in him.

The way his shoulders tense when your brother raises his voice.

The scars you glimpse when his sleeves ride up.

The exhaustion he carries like something permanent.

“You ever sleep?” you ask.

He answers honestly. “Lightly.”

“Why?”

“So I don’t miss anything.”

“Like what?”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

“Like you.”

That’s when it starts to become dangerous.

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Thunder wakes you.

It’s loud enough to rattle the windows, close enough that the air feels charged. Your heart kicks hard against your ribs before you can stop it.

You sit up, breathing shallow.

The hallway light is on.

You open your door.

Jongho is sitting on the floor outside it.

Back against the wall. Knees bent. Gun resting in his hand like an extension of his body.

“You’re serious,” you whisper.

He looks up instantly. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” you say. “I woke you.”

A pause.

“I can move.”

“…don’t.”

He stays.

And somewhere deep in his chest, something gives out.

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It happens on a night that’s supposed to be normal.

You’re leaving a restaurant—late, laughing, distracted in that way Jongho has learned to hate because the world never deserves your carelessness. The street is crowded, lights reflecting off wet pavement, noise blurring the edges of danger.

Jongho feels it before he sees it.

A shift. A wrongness.

“Stay close,” he murmurs.

You don’t have time to ask why.

A man steps into your path too smoothly, smile too rehearsed. Another appears behind you.

The crowd keeps moving, unaware.

“Wrong girl,” Jongho says calmly, already positioning himself between you and them.

One of the men laughs. “Doesn’t look wrong to me.”

The hand that reaches for you never makes it.

Jongho moves fast—faster than you’ve ever seen him move. There’s a sharp crack, a gasp, and suddenly one man is on the ground, wrist bent at an angle that makes your stomach lurch.

The other pulls a knife.

Jongho doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t rush.

He disarms him in three precise motions and slams him into the brick wall hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.

“You don’t touch her,” Jongho says softly. “Ever.”

Sirens wail somewhere distant.

Jongho grabs your hand—this time he doesn’t hesitate—and pulls you away.

You don’t speak until you’re safely inside the car.

Your hands are shaking.

“So,” you say faintly, “that’s what you do.”

Jongho grips the steering wheel. His knuckles are white.

“Yes.”

You swallow. “Did you… enjoy it?”

He closes his eyes.

That's enough to answer.

That night, Jongho doesn’t sit outside your door.

You find him in the kitchen instead, blood staining the sink as he scrubs his hands too hard, too long.

“You’re bleeding,” you say.

“It’s not mine.”

The words chill you.

“You scared me,” you whisper.

He finally looks at you then. Really looks. His eyes are dark, conflicted, raw.

“I scared myself.”

You step closer before you can think better of it. Gently, you take his wrist, still his shaking.

“Thank you,” you say. “For protecting me.”

Something in his face fractures.

“You shouldn’t thank me,” he says hoarsely. “Not for this.”

“Why?”

Because he liked it. Because it felt right.

Because hurting someone for you felt dangerously close to purpose.

“I crossed a line,” he says instead.

You don’t let go.

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Your brother notices immediately.

Not the bruises. Not the rumors. The change.

Jongho is sharper now. More alert. More volatile in ways only someone who knows him intimately would see.

And you.

You stand closer to him without realizing it. You glance at him before answering questions. You trust him instinctively.

Your brother watches it all with narrowing eyes.

One night, he corners Jongho alone.

“You’re getting sloppy,” he says.

“I’m efficient.”

“You’re emotional.”

Jongho stiffens. “No.”

“She’s affecting you.”

A beat.

“Is that a problem?” Jongho asks.

Your brother studies him carefully. “It is if you forget where you belong.”

Jongho doesn’t answer.

For the first time in years, silence is not obedience.

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It’s raining. Hard.

You’re stuck waiting in the car while Jongho deals with something inside one of your brother’s properties. The storm rattles the windows, thunder cracking overhead.

Your breathing quickens before you can stop it.

By the time Jongho returns, you’re curled into yourself, eyes glassy.

“Hey,” he says softly, instantly kneeling in front of you. “Hey. Look at me.”

You try. Fail.

He hesitates—just a second—then pulls you into his arms.

You cling to him.

He smells like rain and metal and something warm beneath it all.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, hand steady on your back. “I’ve got you.”

Your face is pressed against his chest. His heartbeat is fast. Too fast.

You look up.

He’s too close.

Too gentle.

For a moment—just one—he leans down.

Stops.

His forehead rests against yours instead.

“I can’t,” he whispers.

You nod, even though your chest aches.

“Okay.”

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The next threat is deliberate.

A package. No return address.

Inside: a phone.

It rings once.

Your brother answers on speaker.

A distorted voice speaks.

“You’ve got something we want.”

Your brother’s gaze flicks to you.

Jongho steps forward instinctively, positioning himself in front of you without thinking.

“We can make this easy,” the voice continues. “Or we can make it hurt.”

The call ends.

Silence crashes down around you.

Your brother exhales slowly.

“They’re escalating.”

Jongho already knows what this means.

You are no longer collateral.

You are the target.

And Jongho realizes, with sickening clarity, that there will come a moment when he’ll have to choose.

Between the man who saved him. And the girl he’s already lost himself to.

Jongho doesn’t sleep that night.

He sits at the small table in the corner of his apartment, gun disassembled in front of him, cleaning each piece with methodical care. It’s muscle memory—something to keep his hands busy while his thoughts spiral.

You’re down the hall, asleep. Or trying to be.

He can hear the way you shift in bed. The soft hitch in your breathing that tells him you’re dreaming badly.

That’s when it hits him.

Not like lightning.

Like gravity.

This is it.

This is the thing he was trained his entire life to avoid.

If they take you, he will burn the world.

If your brother orders him away, he will disobey.

If loving you means dying, he will not hesitate.

There’s no version of the future where he survives this untouched.

Jongho closes his eyes.

He is in love with you.

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The next morning, you find him on the balcony.

He hasn’t slept. You can tell by the shadows under his eyes, the way his shoulders are too tense, like he’s holding himself together by force alone.

“You okay?” you ask gently.

He nods. Then shakes his head.

“Come here,” he says quietly.

You do.

He doesn’t touch you. Just stands close enough that you can feel his warmth, his presence steady and grounding.

“If anything happens,” he says, voice low, “you listen to me. You don’t argue. You don’t hesitate.”

You frown. “That sounds ominous.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” you reply. “You’re not allowed to disappear on me.”

Something flashes in his eyes—pain, affection, resignation.

“I would never leave you,” he says.

Not won’t.

Wouldn’t.

The distinction terrifies you.

Your brother calls Jongho alone that night.

The room is dim, heavy with cigar smoke and unspoken truths. Your brother doesn’t waste time.

“They want leverage,” he says. “And you’re too close.”

Jongho doesn’t pretend not to understand.

“You’re stepping back,” your brother continues. “Effective immediately. Another team will handle her security.”

“No.”

The word is quiet. Firm.

Your brother’s gaze sharpens. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”

“She trusts me.”

“That’s the problem.”

Silence stretches.

“You taught me loyalty,” Jongho says carefully. “You taught me protection. I’m doing exactly what you trained me to do.”

Your brother stands. Walks closer.

“I taught you to choose the family,” he says. “Not yourself.”

Jongho meets his eyes.

“I am.”

The room goes cold.

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You feel it immediately.

Jongho pulls back. Not physically—he’s still there, still guarding you—but something vital withdraws. His voice is clipped. His eyes never linger.

“Did I do something?” you ask finally.

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

He exhales slowly. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“By freezing me out?”

“By not wanting what I shouldn’t.”

The words slip out before he can stop them.

Your heart stutters. “And what’s that?”

He looks at you like you’re the answer and the problem all at once.

“You,” he says.

The air between you crackles.

You step closer. “Then stop fighting it.”

He takes a step back instead, jaw clenched.

“If I stop,” he says hoarsely, “everything falls apart.”

The attempt happens two days later.

A staged accident. A car that doesn’t stop. Glass shattering. Screams.

Jongho sees it unfold in slow motion.

He throws himself between you and the impact, slamming you to the ground as the car clips his shoulder and spins out.

Pain explodes down his arm.

You’re crying. Shaking. Alive.

That’s all that matters.

Sirens scream closer.

Jongho presses his forehead to yours briefly, fiercely.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “I’m done listening.”

“What?”

“I’m taking you out of here.”

“You don’t have permission—”

“I don’t care.”

And in that moment, Jongho chooses.

Not the family. Not the debt.

Not the man he was made to be.

He chooses you.

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Jongho moves fast.

Cash. Documents. New phones. He’s been preparing for this possibility longer than he ever admitted to himself.

You watch him pack with shaking hands.

“You’re serious,” you whisper.

“I always am.”

“What about my brother?”

Jongho pauses.

“I’ll handle him.”

He doesn’t explain how.

When you reach the door, he stops you.

“There’s something you need to understand,” he says quietly. “Once we leave, there’s no going back.”

You look at him—really look at him. The man who stood outside your door. Who bled for you. Who loved you in every way except the one he wasn’t allowed to.

You nod.

“Then don’t leave me behind.”

He cups your face, finally—finally—and presses his forehead to yours.

“I never could.”

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Jongho doesn’t sleep that night.

He sits at the small table in the corner of his apartment, gun disassembled in front of him, cleaning each piece with methodical care.

It’s muscle memory—something to keep his hands busy while his thoughts spiral.

You’re down the hall, asleep. Or trying to be.

He can hear the way you shift in bed. The soft hitch in your breathing that tells him you’re dreaming badly.

That’s when it hits him.

Not like lightning.

Like gravity.

This is it.

This is the thing he was trained his entire life to avoid.

If they take you, he will burn the world.

If your brother orders him away, he will disobey.

If loving you means dying, he will not hesitate.

There’s no version of the future where he survives this untouched.

Jongho closes his eyes.

He is in love with you.

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The next morning, you find him on the balcony.

He hasn’t slept. You can tell by the shadows under his eyes, the way his shoulders are too tense, like he’s holding himself together by force alone.

“You okay?” you ask gently.

He nods. Then shakes his head.

“Come here,” he says quietly.

You do.

He doesn’t touch you. Just stands close enough that you can feel his warmth, his presence steady and grounding.

“If anything happens,” he says, voice low, “you listen to me. You don’t argue. You don’t hesitate.”

You frown. “That sounds ominous.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” you reply. “You’re not allowed to disappear on me.”

Something flashes in his eyes—pain, affection, resignation.

“I would never leave you,” he says.

Not won’t.

Wouldn’t.

The distinction terrifies you.

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The city looks different at night when you’re not sure you’ll ever see it again.

Streetlights blur past the car windows as Jongho drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gun tucked under his jacket. 

His jaw is tight, eyes sharp, scanning mirrors and shadows like the past might physically reach out and grab you.

You don’t speak.

Every word feels too loud.

When you cross the city line, something in your chest loosens—and tightens all at once.

“Are we safe?” you whisper.

Jongho doesn’t lie. “Not yet.”

The safehouse is small, anonymous, tucked into a stretch of highway no one looks at twice. Jongho checks every room before letting you inside.

He locks the door. Then the windows. Then the door again.

Only when everything is secured does he finally sag against the wall, breath shuddering out of him.

“You’re hurt,” you say.

“It’ll heal.”

You step closer. Gently, you take his injured arm, guiding him to sit.

As you clean the cut, you notice how still he is. How careful.

“You don’t trust yourself,” you murmur.

He swallows. “I trust myself too much.”

Sleep doesn’t come easily.

You lie on the narrow bed, listening to Jongho move around the room. He stops just short of the mattress.

“I’ll take the floor.”

“You’re injured.”

“I’ll be fine.”

You reach out, fingers brushing his sleeve.

“Stay.”

He hesitates.

Then, slowly, he lies beside you—careful not to touch, not to crowd.

The space between you is unbearable.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” you whisper.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he replies softly. “I’m afraid of what I’d do for you.”

You turn, facing him.

“Then do it.”

He exhales, shaky. Wraps an arm around you like he’s holding something fragile.

For the first time, he sleeps deeply.

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Your brother doesn’t call.

That’s worse than anything.

Jongho knows what silence means. Retaliation isn’t loud—it’s patient.

Days pass. Then weeks.

You move again. Then again.

Each place is smaller, quieter. Each one costs Jongho a little more of himself.

He takes work where he can—construction, repairs, anything honest enough to keep you fed and hidden. His hands grow rougher, his shoulders heavier.

But at night, he softens.

He learns how to make you laugh again. Learns how to cook badly but earnestly. Learns how to touch you without fear.

“You could’ve left,” you say one night.

He presses a kiss to your hair. “Never.”

Jongho carries it like a second spine.

Every time you flinch at a loud noise.

Every time you ask about your brother and he doesn’t answer.

Every time you look at him with trust instead of fear.

“I stole you,” he says once, voice raw.

“You chose me,” you reply.

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“It makes it ours.”

He doesn’t argue—but the guilt never leaves. It just settles deeper.

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It’s a stranger who lingers too long at the gas station.

Jongho notices immediately.

That night, he packs again.

“We can’t stay,” he says.

You grab his wrist. “We’re always running.”

“I won’t let them find you.”

“What about what I want?”

He freezes.

Slowly, he turns to face you.

“I want a life,” you say. “Not just survival.”

For a long moment, Jongho says nothing.

Then he nods. “Then we stop running.”

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You settle in a town small enough to forget the world.

Jongho builds a routine. A real one. Morning coffee. Honest work. Evenings spent with you on the couch, your feet tucked under his thigh.

He starts laughing more.

You start sleeping better.

For the first time, Jongho lets himself believe.

Maybe this is enough.

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Your brother finds you on a quiet morning.

He looks older. Tired. Human.

Jongho steps in front of you instinctively.

“I trusted you,” your brother says.

“I know.”

“You broke that trust.”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“You kept her alive,” your brother says quietly.

Jongho nods. “That was the point.”

Your brother lowers his gun.

“Take care of her,” he says.

Jongho bows his head. “With my life.”

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Years later, when the world is quieter, Jongho holds you like he’s still afraid you might disappear.

“I was made to be a weapon,” he murmurs.

You kiss his scars. “And now?”

“And now,” he says, pressing his forehead to yours, “I’m just a man who chose love.”

He swore to protect you.

He did.

Just not from himself.

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© lcvejjoong, 2026

The gown was heavier than she had imagined.

Gold thread stitched into layers of pale fabric that caught the candlelight and reflected it in muted glimmers. The sleeves fell long over her wrists, the bodice fitted too tightly for comfort, pressing against her ribs in a way that made it harder to breathe deeply. Each added ornament seemed unnecessary, excessive, as though the weight of it all was meant to remind her of something she was not allowed to forget.

She did not belong to herself anymore.

One of the maidens adjusted the collar, careful fingers brushing against her throat. The touch lingered just a moment too long, as if checking for a pulse.

She resisted the urge to pull away.

“Lift your chin,” the woman said softly.

She obeyed.

The room smelled faintly of oil and dried flowers. The windows had been opened earlier in the morning, but the air that drifted in carried no familiarity. Even the breeze felt foreign here, colder somehow, sharper against her skin.

A week.

She had been here for a week and still everything felt wrong.

The castle was too vast, its corridors stretching endlessly, lined with guards who did not speak unless spoken to. The servants kept their eyes lowered. The nobles she had glimpsed from a distance watched her with quiet calculation, as though assessing something that had yet to prove its worth.

She had not seen him. Not once.

The king of this land. The man she was to marry.

She had been received by officials, guided through formalities, instructed on customs she was expected to follow. Every step had been carefully controlled, every interaction measured. Even the meals were delivered to her chambers rather than taken in the grand hall.

She was not a guest.

She was a transaction.

“Turn.”

She turned slowly as instructed, the skirts of her gown shifting with a soft, dragging sound across the stone floor.

One of the maidens stepped back, studying her work. “It will do.”

It will do.

The words settled somewhere deep in her chest, heavy and unyielding.

She caught her reflection in the polished surface of a tall mirror across the room. For a moment, she did not recognize the person staring back.

The girl in the mirror looked composed. Regal, even. The gown fit her perfectly, the delicate embroidery framing her figure with deliberate elegance. Her hair had been arranged carefully, pinned and woven with small gold accents that shimmered faintly.

There was no trace of the girl who had left her home.

No trace of the warmth of familiar halls, of laughter echoing through corridors she had known since childhood. No trace of the friends who had clung to her hands in the days before her departure, their voices filled with forced optimism.

“He might not be as bad as they say.”

“You’ll be safe. That’s what matters.”

“You’re saving all of us.”

She had smiled for them then. She had told them she understood. She had told them she would be fine.

Now, standing in a room that did not belong to her, dressed for a ceremony that felt more like surrender than union, she wondered if they had believed their own words.

Or if they had simply needed her to believe them.

“Princess.”

The voice came from behind her.

She turned.

A guard stood at the doorway, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed somewhere just past her shoulder. “It is time.”

Of course it was.

She nodded once.

The maidens stepped aside without another word, their task complete.

No one offered comfort. No one wished her well.

There was nothing to say.

The walk to the great hall felt longer than it should have.

Her footsteps echoed softly against the stone, swallowed by the vastness of the corridors. The guard led the way, his pace steady, unhurried. Two others followed behind her, their presence close enough to be felt without needing to turn and confirm it.

She was not walking toward something.

She was being delivered.

The thought settled coldly in her mind, uninvited but impossible to ignore.

Like a pig being led to slaughter.

The image was vivid, unwelcome. She could almost hear the distant sounds of it, the quiet murmurs, the final stillness before the inevitable.

Her fingers curled slightly against the fabric of her gown.

She forced herself to breathe evenly.

This was her choice. No one had forced her.

The agreement had been laid before her kingdom, the terms clear and unyielding. Peace in exchange for union. Stability in exchange for sacrifice.

She had stepped forward before anyone else could speak.

Before her father could hesitate. Before her advisors could argue.

She had known what it meant.

She had known what she was offering.

Her life for theirs.

Her future for their safety.

The memory of that moment flickered through her mind as they approached the towering doors of the great hall.

The way the room had fallen silent when she spoke.

The way her father had looked at her, something breaking behind his carefully maintained composure.

“You do not have to do this.”

“I do.”

There had been no doubt in her voice then.

There was no room for it now.

The doors opened.

The great hall was filled.

The first thing she noticed was the sound.

Low murmurs, shifting fabrics, the quiet rustle of movement as heads turned toward her. The weight of attention settled over her instantly, pressing down in a way that made it difficult to focus on anything else.

She stepped forward.

Each step felt deliberate, measured.

The aisle stretched before her, lined with nobles whose faces blurred together in a sea of unfamiliar expressions. Some watched with open curiosity, others with thinly veiled disdain. A few looked almost amused.

No one looked kind.

The air was colder here.

Or perhaps it only felt that way.

Her gaze remained forward, fixed on the figure standing at the far end of the hall.

The king.

For a moment, everything else faded.

The whispers. The watching eyes. The suffocating weight of the room.

All of it became distant as she focused on him.

He was not what she had expected.

That realization came quietly, but it struck deeper than anything else.

He was younger.

Not a boy, not by any means, but younger than the image she had built in her mind. The rumors had painted him as something almost untouchable, a figure carved from cruelty and authority, hardened by years of ruling with an iron hand.

The man standing before her did not fit that image.

He stood tall, his posture straight, his presence commanding in a way that did not rely on movement or expression. His features were sharp, defined, his face composed to the point of stillness.

Handsome.

The word surfaced before she could stop it.

It felt misplaced.

Irrelevant.

His expression did not change as she approached.

There was no flicker of curiosity. No hint of interest.

Nothing.

His gaze was steady, fixed on her with a calm that bordered on indifference.

It was not cruelty she saw there.

It was something colder.

Control.

Complete, unwavering control.

Her steps slowed slightly as she neared him.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

Enough for her to feel it.

This was the man she had been given to.

This was the man who held her fate in his hands.

She stopped beside him.

Up close, the details became sharper.

The way his jaw was set, not tightly, but firmly. The stillness of his shoulders. The absence of any unnecessary movement.

He did not look at her the way men often did when presented with something meant to be admired.

He looked at her as though assessing.

As though measuring something unseen.

The officiant began to speak.

His voice carried through the hall, formal and practiced, reciting words that had been spoken countless times before in ceremonies just like this one.

She barely heard them.

Her awareness remained fixed on the man beside her.

Choi Jongho.

The name settled in her mind with a strange weight.

She had heard it before, of course.

In whispers.

In warnings.

“He does not hesitate.”

“They say he executed his own advisor for treason without a second thought.”

“He has no mercy.”

Her friends’ voices echoed faintly in her memory, their expressions caught somewhere between fear and fascination as they repeated the rumors they had heard.

She had listened. She had accepted it. She had prepared herself for cruelty.

For anger. For arrogance. For something she could understand, even if she could not accept it.

This… was different.

There was no anger in him.

No visible cruelty.

Only distance.

A distance so complete it felt impenetrable.

“Do you accept this union?”

The question pulled her back.

Her gaze shifted forward. “I do.”

Her voice did not waver.

She did not look at him as she spoke.

She did not need to.

The same question was directed at him.

There was a brief pause.

Not long enough to draw attention.

Long enough for her to notice.

“I do.”

His voice was low.

There was no emotion in it.

No hesitation.

The words were spoken with the same precision as everything else about him.

Like a statement of fact. Not a choice.

The ceremony continued.

Words were exchanged. Vows spoken. Rings placed.

Each action felt distant, like something happening around her rather than something she was part of.

Until it was done.

Until the final words were spoken.

Until the murmurs rose again, louder now, filling the space that had been held in tense silence.

She turned slightly, uncertain of what was expected next.

Jongho moved first.

Not toward her.

But toward one of the nobles who had stepped forward.

A man she did not recognize.

The noble began to speak, his tone polite but edged with something sharper beneath the surface. “Your Majesty, I trust this alliance will prove… beneficial to both parties.”

There was something in the way he said it.

A subtle implication.

A challenge, perhaps.

Jongho’s gaze shifted to him.

It was a small movement.

Barely noticeable.

And yet the effect was immediate.

The noble’s expression faltered.

Only for a second.

“It will,” Jongho said.

Nothing more.

No elaboration.

No reassurance.

The conversation ended there.

The noble stepped back.

Silenced.

She watched it happen.

Watched the way the room seemed to adjust around him, the subtle shift in tension, the quiet acknowledgment of authority that required no force.

It was not loud.

It was not overt.

But it was absolute.

Her attention returned to him.

He had not looked at her again.

Not since the vows.

Not since the moment she had stood beside him and tried to reconcile the man before her with the stories she had been told.

A flicker of something stirred in her chest.

Not fear.

Something sharper.

Something that felt dangerously close to curiosity.

And beneath it, quieter but persistent.

Surprise.

Because this was not what she had expected.

Not at all.

The celebration began before she could prepare for it.

Music filled the great hall, softer than she expected, but constant. A steady presence beneath the layered voices of nobles and courtiers who seemed far more at ease now that the formalities had passed. Servants moved between them with practiced precision, offering wine, arranging dishes, adjusting anything that needed tending without drawing attention to themselves.

She sat beside the king. Her husband.

The word felt unfamiliar. It settled uneasily in her thoughts, like something that did not quite belong.

Jongho had not spoken to her.

Not after the ceremony. Not when they had been led to the long table at the front of the hall. Not even when he had taken his seat beside her, his presence close enough to be felt without ever truly acknowledging hers.

He had not looked at her either.

At least, not that she had noticed.

His attention remained on the room, on the people moving within it, on conversations that did not include her. When others approached him, he answered. When they spoke, he listened. Every response he gave was measured, precise, leaving no room for interpretation or unnecessary familiarity.

He ruled even in silence.

And she sat beside him like an ornament.

Still. Composed. Silent.

Exactly what they expected.

Her hands rested in her lap, fingers lightly intertwined, the fabric of her gown pooling around her like something meant to anchor her in place. She kept her posture straight, her expression neutral, her gaze drifting just enough to avoid staring at any one person for too long.

No one spoke to her.

She felt their attention, though.

The subtle glances. The quiet assessments. The curiosity that lingered just beneath the surface of polite indifference.

She was new. Unknown.

A variable in a place that did not tolerate uncertainty.

A servant placed a glass before her.

She did not reach for it.

The music continued.

The conversations flowed.

And still, she sat.

Detached.

Like she was watching something unfold from a distance rather than being part of it.

It would have been easier if Jongho had been cruel.

If he had dismissed her openly, spoken harshly, given her something tangible to react to. Something she could understand, even if she did not accept it.

This quiet distance felt worse.

Because it left her with nothing.

Nothing to push against.

Nothing to define him beyond the rumors she had carried with her.

Until someone took the seat beside her.

“I was beginning to think they would not allow me the chance to meet you.”

The voice was warm.

Too warm.

It cut through the steady rhythm of the hall in a way that immediately drew her attention.

She turned slightly.

The man beside her did not look away.

He was smiling.

Not broadly, not in a way that could be called friendly without question. There was something sharper beneath it, something observant, calculating.

“Kim Hongjoong,” he said, inclining his head just enough to acknowledge her status without diminishing his own. “Advisor to the king.”

A pause. “And, on occasion, his friend.”

She studied him.

He did not lower his gaze. He did not soften under her attention.

If anything, his expression seemed to sharpen, as though her silence was something to be examined rather than respected.

“You have been here for a week,” he continued, his tone conversational, almost light. “And yet we have not crossed paths.”

“That was not my decision.”

The words left her before she could reconsider them.

His smile widened. “Of course not.”

There it was.

Interest.

Measured, deliberate interest.

She felt it then.

The purpose behind his presence.

He had not come to welcome her.

He had come to assess her.

To determine what she was.

What she might become.

What threat she could pose.

Her fingers tightened slightly against her gown.

“And what should we make of you?” he asked, tilting his head just slightly, his gaze never leaving her face. “A princess from a rival kingdom, now seated beside our king. A symbol of peace, perhaps.”

Perhaps.

The word lingered between them.

She met his gaze fully then.

If he wanted to see, she would let him.

“You can be relieved,” she said.

His brows lifted slightly.

A flicker of curiosity.

“The only thing I want is to be safe,” she continued, her voice steady, controlled in a way that mirrored the man seated on her other side. “And for my people to be safe.”

Hongjoong said nothing.

He listened.

She continued.

“I will be a good wife,” she said. “A quiet one.”

There was a shift in her tone then.

Subtle. Sharp.

“I will sit where I am told. Speak when I am spoken to. Smile when it is expected.” Her lips curved faintly, but there was no warmth in it. “I will look pretty and do nothing at all. Certainly nothing that would require using my head.”

The words settled between them like something fragile.

And then Hongjoong laughed.

Loudly.

It cut through the surrounding conversations, sharp enough to draw attention from those nearby.

She did not flinch.

His laughter did not feel mocking.

It felt… genuine.

“I like you,” he said, still smiling as he leaned back slightly in his seat.

Then he turned his head.

Toward Jongho.

“There is more here than we were led to believe,” Hongjoong added, his tone shifting into something unmistakably smug. “You will have quite the handful to deal with.”

For the first time since she had sat down Jongho reacted.

It was small.

Barely anything.

But it was there.

He turned his head.

His gaze landed on her.

There was no anger in it.

No clear emotion at all.

But there was something new.

Something she had not seen before.

Attention.

And, for a brief moment surprise.

“Haha.”

The word left him flatly.

Completely devoid of amusement.

It was not a laugh.

It was a dismissal.

Hongjoong only seemed more entertained by it.

Y/n sat very still.

Her gaze shifted between them.

Confusion settled slowly in her chest.

Because she did not understand what had just happened.

Not fully.

Not the way Hongjoong seemed to.

Not the way Jongho had reacted.

It felt like she had stepped into something she could not yet see.

A conversation beneath the one that had just taken place.

And she had been part of it without knowing the rules.

The music continued.

The hall remained filled with voices.

But something had shifted.

Even if she could not name it.

The celebration lasted longer than she had expected.

Long enough for the candles to burn lower, their light softer, more uneven. Long enough for the conversations to grow louder in some corners and quieter in others. Long enough for the weight of the day to settle fully into her bones.

By the time she was led away, the hall no longer felt suffocating.

Just distant.

Like something already fading.

The corridors were quieter now.

The sounds of the celebration did not reach this far.

Only the echo of her own footsteps remained.

She did not ask where they were taking her.

She already knew.

The maidens were waiting.

The same ones from earlier.

They moved around her with the same efficiency, the same silence, removing the heavy layers of her gown piece by piece until the weight of it was gone.

It should have felt like relief.

It did not.

They dressed her again.

This time in something lighter.

Something that did not hide as much.

The fabric was thin.

It fell loosely against her body, sheer enough that she could see the faint outline of her own skin beneath it. The sleeves slipped from her shoulders too easily, the neckline lower than anything she had worn before.

She did not comment.

There was no point.

This, too, was expected.

When they were done, they stepped back.

Just like before.

She did not look at herself this time.

The room was quiet.

Larger than the one she had been given during the past week. Warmer, though that might have been the candles placed carefully around the space, their light steady and soft.

The bed stood at the center.

She sat at ist edge.

The fabric beneath her hands was smooth, unfamiliar.

She folded her fingers together, resting them in her lap.

Her posture remained straight.

Her thoughts did not race.

They did not scatter or spiral.

She knew what would happen.

This, too, had been part of the agreement.

Part of the unspoken understanding that came with everything else.

Her gaze lowered slightly.

She focused on the faint patterns in the fabric beneath her hands.

The door opened.

She did not look up immediately.

She heard his steps.

The door closed behind him.

Silence followed.

She lifted her gaze then.

Jongho stood near the entrance.

For a moment, he did not move.

His eyes settled on her.

Took in her appearance.

The thin fabric. The way she sat. The stillness of her posture.

There was no visible reaction.

No shift in expression.

Nothing that betrayed what he thought of it.

Then he looked away.

He moved past her.

He reached for the fastening of his outer garments, removing them with practiced ease, his movements precise, efficient. Each layer was set aside without carelessness, without hesitation.

He did not look at her again.

Not once.

She watched him.

She could not help it.

The way he moved.

The way he carried himself even in something as simple as undressing.

When he was done, he crossed to the bed.

He lifted the blanket.

And lay down.

Turning his back to her.

The space beside him remained untouched.

Her breath caught.

Only slightly.

She had expected…she did not know what she had expected.

Not this.

“Sleep,” he said.

The word was simple. Firm.

“That is all that is required tonight.”

She did not move.

Her fingers tightened slightly against the fabric beneath her.

Silence stretched.

“I will not touch a woman,” he continued, his voice just as steady as before, “who did not choose this herself.”

The words settled over her slowly.

Carefully.

As if they needed time to be understood.

She stared at his back.

At the line of his shoulders beneath the fabric.

At the distance he had placed between them.

The mattress dipped slightly as she moved, lifting the blanket and slipping beneath it. The space was warm, though that might have been from the candles rather than him.

She lay down.

Facing him.

Or rather facing his back.

She studied it.

The shape of him.

The stillness.

The absence of any tension that might suggest expectation or impatience.

He was not waiting.

He was not pretending.

He meant it.

Her thoughts shifted again.

Not as heavy this time.

Not as certain.

Because this did not fit.

Not with the rumors.

Not with the man she had prepared herself to meet.

Her gaze lingered.

She did not realize how long she had been looking until the quiet stretched into something softer.

Something almost… calm.

He was…The thought came uninvited…surprisingly attractive.

It felt misplaced.

Unnecessary.

And yet she did not look away.

Not immediately.

Because for the first time since she had arrived, she did not feel like she was waiting for something inevitable to happen.

She simply existed.

In the quiet.

Beside a man she did not understand.

And that, more than anything else, unsettled her.

She woke to silence.

It was the first thing she noticed, even before she opened her eyes. The quiet sat differently in this room compared to the one she had been given during her first week. It was deeper, more settled, as though the walls themselves were accustomed to holding it.

For a moment, she did not move.

The events of the night before returned slowly, not in sharp fragments but in a steady, almost reluctant awareness. The ceremony. The hall. The way Jongho had turned his back to her without hesitation.

The way he had told her to sleep.

Her fingers shifted slightly against the sheets.

They were cool.

Her eyes opened.

The space beside her was empty.

The blankets had been disturbed, but only slightly. There was no lingering warmth, no sign of how long he had been gone. It could have been minutes. It could have been hours.

She pushed herself up slowly, the thin fabric of her nightgown settling against her skin as she moved. The room was still lit by the pale light of morning filtering through the tall windows, soft and almost indifferent.

Her gaze drifted to the small table beside the bed.

A folded piece of parchment rested there.

She stared at it for a moment before reaching for it.

The paper was smooth beneath her fingers, the edges clean, deliberate. When she unfolded it, the handwriting was precise, almost rigid in its neatness.

You may take your meals in your chambers or in the dining hall, as you prefer.

A maid has been assigned to you.

You are free to spend your time as you wish.

Nothing more.

No greeting.

No name.

And yet, she knew it was from him.

She read it again.

The words were simple, almost detached, but there was something beneath them that she could not quite place. Not kindness. Not exactly.

Consideration, perhaps.

Or obligation.

She set the note back down.

Her gaze lingered on it a moment longer than necessary before she turned away.

A knock came at the door.

Soft. Measured.

“Enter.”

The door opened carefully, just enough for a young woman to step inside. She carried a tray balanced steadily in her hands, her posture straight but not stiff, her gaze lowered in quiet respect.

“Good morning, my lady,” she said, her voice gentle.

She set the tray down on a small table near the window, arranging it with practiced ease before stepping back.

“I am Hana. I have been assigned as your personal maid.”

Y/n studied her.

She looked young. Not much older than herself. There was something calm about her presence, something that did not feel as distant as the others she had encountered since arriving.

“Hana,” she repeated.

The name felt grounding in a way she had not expected.

“Yes, my lady.”

There was a pause.

It stretched slightly longer than necessary, filled with something unfamiliar.

Opportunity.

Y/n rose from the bed, moving slowly, still adjusting to the quiet weight of the morning.

“You may speak freely,” she said.

Hana hesitated.

Only briefly.

Then she nodded.

“Thank you, my lady.”

Y/n moved to the table, her gaze drifting over the food laid out before her. It was simple but carefully prepared. Bread, fruit, something warm that still carried the faint scent of herbs.

She sat.

For the first time since arriving here, she was not alone.

The realization settled quietly, but it shifted something inside her.

She reached for a piece of fruit, turning it slightly in her fingers before speaking.

“How is the king?”

The question felt strange on her tongue.

Hana blinked.

Surprised.

Not by the question itself, but by the fact that it had been asked so directly.

“The king…” she began carefully, choosing her words with thought rather than fear. “He is kind.”

Y/n’s fingers stilled.

Kind.

It was not the word she had expected.

“He is not… easily understood,” Hana continued. “Many believe him to be cold. Distant. But he is not unfeeling.”

Y/n listened.

“He keeps himself apart,” Hana added. “But there are those he trusts.”

“How many?”

“Seven.”

The number came without hesitation.

“Seven advisors,” Hana said. “They are closest to him. The only ones he truly allows near.”

Y/n considered that.

Seven people in an entire kingdom.

Seven people who had managed to reach him.

“And his friends?” she asked.

Hana’s lips curved faintly.

“They are the same.”

That made sense.

Her gaze lowered briefly to the table before lifting again.

“Kim Hongjoong.”

Hana’s reaction was immediate.

Her eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across her expression before she could hide it.

“You know his name?”

Y/n shrugged lightly.

“He introduced himself yesterday.”

Hana exhaled softly, something close to relief slipping into her posture.

“That is… not unusual for him,” she admitted. “He is curious. Always watching.”

That, at least, matched what she had seen.

“He is one of the seven?”

“Yes.”

Y/n nodded slowly.

It fit.

Everything about him had suggested it.

The confidence. The way he had spoken to Jongho without hesitation. The ease with which he had occupied the space beside her.

The days that followed blurred together. Not entirely.

But enough that time lost its sharp edges.

She explored.

At first cautiously, guided by corridors that still felt too vast, too unfamiliar. The castle revealed itself slowly, not all at once, as though it required patience to understand its shape.

Gardens hidden behind stone archways.

Quiet courtyards where the air felt lighter.

Libraries filled with shelves that stretched higher than she could reach.

No one stopped her.

No one questioned her presence.

The freedom Jongho had given her in that note remained unchallenged.

She could go where she wished.

Do what she wished.

And yet she always returned to the same place.

His chambers.

Their chambers.

Night after night.

The pattern formed without discussion.

Without agreement.

He would come late.

Always after her.

She would already be there, seated or lying quietly, her thoughts settled into the familiar rhythm of waiting.

He would enter.

A glance.

Brief. Acknowledging.

Nothing more.

He would undress with the same controlled precision, set his garments aside, and take his place in the bed.

Turning away.

“Sleep.”

The word became routine.

Expected.

She did not argue.

Not at first.

She slipped beneath the covers beside him, leaving the same careful distance between them. Close enough to share the space. Far enough to respect the boundary he had drawn.

Days turned into weeks.

Nothing changed.

He did not touch her.

He did not speak beyond what was necessary.

He did not treat her with cruelty.

But he did not treat her as a wife either.

She existed beside him.

That was all.

At first, she accepted it.

It was easier that way.

There was no fear. No uncertainty about what would happen when night came.

No obligation forced upon her without her consent.

She told herself that was enough.

More than enough.

But acceptance did not last.

It shifted.

Slowly.

Subtly.

Until it became something else.

Frustration.

It began as a quiet thought.

A question she did not voice.

Then it grew.

Each night adding to it.

Each morning reinforcing it.

Because she did not understand.

Not him.

Not his reasons.

Not the distance he maintained with such unwavering consistency.

If he had been cruel, she could have resisted.

If he had been indifferent, she could have ignored him.

This careful restraint it unsettled her in a way she could not ignore.

A month passed.

And she had enough.

She did not plan it.

She should have waited.

That thought crossed her mind the moment she stepped into the room. But it was already too late to retreat without drawing attention.

Jongho stood at the table, one hand resting against the edge, the other holding a document he had clearly stopped reading the moment she entered. Around him, the room was occupied. Men she had only heard about until now.

The seven.

Their presence filled the space in a way that made it feel smaller, sharper. Every gaze turned toward her, measuring, curious.

Hongjoong leaned casually against the side of the table, his expression already shifting into something dangerously entertained.

Y/n felt it all.

And ignored it.

Her focus stayed on Jongho.

“You’re busy,” she said.

It was not a question.

His gaze held hers, steady, unreadable.

“I am.”

The answer was simple. Dismissive in ist calm.

It should have ended there.

It didn’t.

“Then I won’t take long.”

Something in the room shifted at that.

Subtle. Not enough to interrupt. Enough to be noticed.

Jongho set the document down.

His attention remained fixed on her, as though waiting to see how far she intended to go.

“And what is it that cannot wait?” he asked.

His tone was even.

It irritated her more than if he had sounded annoyed.

She took a step closer.

Not enough to close the distance completely, but enough to make it clear she was not backing down.

“You,” she said.

A pause.

His expression did not change.

“Be more specific.”

The words were quiet.

There was something beneath them now. Not emotion, something sharper than before.

She felt it.

And pushed anyway.

“It has been over a month.”

Her voice was steady, but there was tension beneath it now, threading through every word.

“I spend my days alone, wandering halls that do not belong to me, surrounded by people who watch but never speak.” She took another step forward. “And every night, I return to a husband who does not even acknowledge me beyond telling me to sleep.”

The room had gone completely still.

No one interrupted.

No one moved.

Jongho’s gaze did not waver.

“You are given freedom,” he said.

“I was given space,” she corrected immediately. “There is a difference.”

Silence stretched.

He tilted his head slightly.

A small movement.

Barely anything.

“You prefer otherwise?”

The question landed heavier than it should have.

Because there was something in the way he said it.

Something that suggested he already knew the answer.

Her frustration sharpened.

“I prefer understanding what this is,” she said. “Because it is certainly not a marriage.”

That did it.

Something in his expression shifted.

Not much.

But enough.

“You knew what this arrangement was before you agreed to it.”

“And I accepted it,” she replied. “I did not expect affection. I did not expect warmth.” Her voice tightened, just slightly. “But I did expect you to treat me as something more than a stranger who happens to share your bed.”

A quiet breath moved through the room.

Someone shifted.

Hongjoong, perhaps.

She didn’t look.

Jongho’s gaze hardened…not in anger, but in something more contained.

“You are treated with respect,” he said.

The calm in his voice made something in her snap.

“Respect?” she repeated, a short, sharp sound leaving her that almost resembled a laugh. “You do not speak to me. You do not look at me. You do not touch me.”

There it was.

The word settled between them.

“And yet,” she continued, stepping closer still, closing the distance enough that the tension between them became something tangible, “you expect me to sit quietly and accept it.”

His jaw tightened.

Just slightly.

“You are not being forced into anything.”

“That is not the point.”

“Then what is?”

The question came faster this time.

Sharper.

It was the first time he had stepped toward her, closing the space she had already begun to erase.

They stood closer now.

Too close for the room they were in.

Too close for the audience they had.

She could feel it.

The shift.

The way the air changed.

Her pulse quickened.

Not from fear.

From something else entirely.

“I am your wife,” she said.

The words were quieter now.

But they carried more weight.

“And yet you treat me like I am not even worth the dirt under your shoes.”

His gaze dropped.

Just for a moment.

To her lips.

Then back to her eyes.

It was brief.

So brief she almost thought she imagined it.

Almost.

“You are not owed effort,” he said.

The words landed harder than anything else he had said so far.

Something inside her flared.

Hot and immediate.

“Then what am I owed?” she demanded.

He did not answer.

That was it.

That was what broke whatever restraint she had left.

“Fine,” she said, her voice rising despite herself. “Then I will say it clearly since you seem determined to avoid it.”

She did not care about the room anymore.

About the men watching.

About the consequences.

“I will not sit around all day married to a king who cannot even take my virginity properly.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

It crashed down over the room, heavy and suffocating.

She realized it then.

Fully.

What she had just said.

Heat rushed to her face, sharp and immediate.

Too late.

Far too late.

For a fraction of a second, no one moved.

“Leave.”

Jongho’s voice cut through the silence.

Low.

Commanding.

Not loud.

It did not need to be.

The men moved immediately.

No hesitation.

No lingering comments.

Even Hongjoong, though slower than the others, pushed himself off the table with clear reluctance, his gaze flickering between them with poorly concealed interest before he finally turned and followed the rest out.

The door closed.

The room felt different now.

Smaller.

More dangerous.

Y/n stood frozen.

Jongho moved toward her.

Each step was measured.

But there was something else beneath it now.

Something that had not been there before.

He stopped in front of her.

Close.

Closer than he had ever allowed himself to be.

Her breath caught.

She did not step back.

Could not.

“You think that is what you want?” he asked.

His voice was lower now.

Quieter.

It did not need volume to hold weight.

Her pulse pounded.

She held his gaze.

“I—”

The word faltered.

Because she did not know how to answer.

Not like this.

Not with him standing this close.

Not with the way he was looking at her now.

Something in his expression had changed.

“You wouldn’t,” he said.

Not a question.

A statement.

His gaze flickered over her face, searching, assessing in a way that felt different from before.

More personal.

More dangerous.

“You are not attracted to me.”

The words were calm.

Too calm.

Her breath hitched.

Because that was not entirely true.

And she hated that he had said it like it was.

He stepped back.

Just slightly.

The distance returning, but not completely.

Not the same as before.

“I will not touch someone who does not want me,” he continued. “Not because it is expected. Not because it is required.”

There was something firm in that.

Her frustration returned, but it tangled now with something else.

Something she did not want to examine too closely.

“Then what am I supposed to do?” she asked, quieter now.

“Leave.”

The word came without hesitation.

Not harsh.

Not raised.

But absolute.

She stared at him.

For a moment, she thought about arguing again.

Pushing further.

But something in his expression stopped her.

Not anger.

Not dismissal.

Something heavier.

Something that made it clear, this was not a conversation she would win tonight.

Her jaw tightened.

She turned.

This time more controlled.

More deliberate.

And walked out.

She did not remember the walk back.

Only fragments remained. The echo of her own footsteps. The way the corridors seemed longer than before. The faint sting still burning in her chest, refusing to settle into anything she could name.

By the time she reached their chambers, the silence had returned.

Heavy.

Unforgiving.

She closed the door behind her more carefully than necessary, as though even the smallest sound might shatter whatever thin control she had managed to regain.

It didn’t.

Nothing did.

Her gaze drifted across the room, landing on the bed for only a moment before she looked away again.

She could not lie there tonight.

The thought came without hesitation.

The space felt different now. Not unfamiliar, but… unbearable. As if the distance he had always kept between them had finally taken shape, something real enough that she could no longer ignore it.

Her steps carried her instead toward the sofa near the window.

It was smaller. Less comfortable. Not meant for sleep.

It did not matter.

She sat first, her hands resting loosely in her lap, her thoughts still moving too quickly, too sharply. The remnants of their argument replayed without mercy, each word sharper in memory than it had been in the moment.

You are not owed effort.

Her fingers curled slightly.

A slow breath left her.

She leaned back.

Then, eventually, she lay down.

The fabric of her nightgown clung lightly to her skin, too thin to offer warmth, too sheer to offer comfort. She had not thought to bring anything with her. Had not thought at all, beyond the need to put distance between herself and that bed.

Between herself and him.

The sofa was narrow. The cushion beneath her unforgiving.

Her back faced the room.

She curled slightly, more from instinct than intention, her arms drawing closer to herself as though that might make the space feel less vast.

It didn’t.

The quiet stretched.

And then the tears came.

They slipped free slowly, steadily, tracing warm lines across her skin before disappearing into the fabric beneath her. She did not try to stop them.

There was no one here to see.

No one to hear.

Her breathing remained even, though it felt tighter now, each inhale catching just slightly before settling again.

She did not sob.

She did not make a sound.

The frustration sat deeper than that.

Heavier.

Because she did not understand him.

Because he refused to let her.

Because every time she thought she had found something to hold onto, something solid, it slipped away again.

She pressed her lips together, her eyes closing.

The tears did not stop.

Time passed.

She did not know how long.

Long enough for the room to grow colder. Long enough for the quiet to settle back into something almost still again.

Then the door opened.

She froze.

Instinct.

Her breathing steadied immediately, controlled, measured. She did not move, did not shift, did not give any indication that she was awake.

She listened.

Jongho’s steps were familiar now.

Even. Unhurried.

He entered the room, the door closing quietly behind him.

Silence followed.

She could feel it.

His presence.

It settled into the space differently than anyone else’s ever had. Not loud. Not overwhelming.

But undeniable.

He stopped.

She could tell without looking.

There was a pause.

Long enough that it felt deliberate.

As though he had noticed.

Her position.

The sofa.

The absence of her presence in the bed.

Her pulse picked up.

Just slightly.

She kept her eyes closed.

Kept her breathing steady.

Waiting.

Then movement.

Each step measured.

He stopped near her.

The distance between them narrowed to almost nothing.

For a moment, nothing happened.

The silence stretched again.

But this time it felt different.

Not empty.

Heavy.

She felt it before she understood it.

The hesitation.

It lingered in the air, quiet but unmistakable.

The faint sound of fabric.

And suddenly warmth.

A blanket settled over her.

It covered her shoulders first, then the rest of her, the weight of it grounding in a way she had not expected. The cold that had settled into her skin eased almost immediately.

Her breath nearly faltered.

She forced it steady.

As though she truly slept.

A quiet exhale followed.

Not quite a sigh.

But close enough.

He stepped back.

She heard him move across the room, the familiar rhythm of him undressing returning, each movement precise even now. There was no hesitation in it anymore, no pause like the one he had allowed himself at her side.

The bed shifted as he lay down.

The mattress dipped slightly under his weight.

Then stillness.

The room returned to quiet once more.

Y/n kept her eyes closed.

The blanket remained wrapped around her, warm, grounding, impossible to ignore.

Her thoughts did not settle easily.

They moved, slower now, heavier, circling something she did not want to name.

Because it would be easier.

So much easier, if he were cruel.

If he had been what she had expected from the beginning.

Cold in a way that hurt.

Distant in a way that made sense.

Someone she could hate.

Her fingers curled slightly beneath the blanket.

Her breath softened.

Because this quiet consideration.

This restraint.

This distance that still somehow made room for something else. It left her with nothing to hold onto.

Nothing to fight.

And nothing to hate.

And that, more than anything else, made him impossible to understand.

Main Masterlist | Jonghos Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

LAST WORDS • kim hongjoong

pairing: prince!hongjoong x princess!reader

synopsis: when you and hongjoong were expected to marry to unify your kingdoms, you made a pact to fulfill your duties as the crown prince and princess. somewhere along the way, your alliance becomes a bit more than political and it becomes an even greater weight to bear.

word count: 5.4k words

WILTED FLOWER • park seonghwa

pairing: prince!seonghwa x healer!reader

synopsis: when you're hired to heal the prince's mysterious illness, you're not exactly thrilled. the king was cruel and he surely was no different. during his treatment, you unravel more about him than you'd expect and you realize you might be wrong about more than one thing, after all.

word count: TBD

WITHOUT QUESTION • jeong yunho

pairing: knight!yunho x princess!reader

synopsis: titles aside, yunho was one of your best friends. he was a skilled guard, a great listener and a perfect confidant for the nights you needed someone to cover up your grand escapes. although, you're so wrapped up in what yunho allows you that you fail to notice one crucial detail—he does it because he's hopelessly in love with you.

word count: TBD

HIGH TOWER • kang yeosang

pairing: prince!yeosang x maid!reader

synopsis: yeosang has been held hostage by your kingdom ever since he was a boy. while years of negotiations ensue, he is confined to a tower away from the rest of the castle. your job is to tend to him daily (and find out if he's plotting a grand escape). what you find when you meet him might not be what you expected at all.

word count: TBD

GILDED CAGE • choi san

pairing: artist!san x princess!reader

synopsis: san was one of the kingdom's most talented performers that the king and queen just had to have. he's now bound to the castle, destined to perform for nobility as they wish. it was no different from you being confined to your duties as the princess, although san had a much different outlook on freedom than you did.

word count: 5.2k words

MARTINGALE • song mingi

pairing: knight!mingi x princess!reader

synopsis: sit up straight. avoid speaking out of turn. maintain proper distance with your dance partners. if you were to follow one more rule, you would lose your mind. enter a knight that routinely monitors the horse stables, your only escape from your god-awful reality. perhaps he could help you experience true freedom, after all.

word count: TBD

THE ROSE'S THORN • jung wooyoung

pairing: prince!wooyoung x princess!reader

synopsis: it was no secret that you were and wooyoung were in love. when a strategic marriage promises you to someone else, he makes it very well known that he's against it. with every drunken spur and every tiff with a fellow royal, you find it harder and harder to remember the man you fell in love with.

word count: TBD

PEACE OFFERING • choi jongho

pairing: king!jongho x queen!reader

synopsis: you were one of jongho's closest childhood friends. after the brutal execution of his parents, he ascends the throne at a younger age than expected and brings you along with him. as power consumes him, he becomes nearly unrecognizable from the boy you once knew.

The moment you and Jongho started your secret little rendezvous, you knew it was only a temporary thing. Even now, as you lie in his arms, mindlessly drawing shapes on his bare chest with your fingertip, that same thought eats at the back of your mind, especially with the word of the neighboring kingdom visiting and bringing their princess.

“Is something on your mind, sweets?” Jongho’s voice vibrated from his chest right under your ear, nearly startling you.

“Just…” You weren’t sure how to even word your thoughts, knowing that if anyone caught you speaking ill of a royal, they would have your head right then and there. However, Jongho was quick to catch on.

He shifted a bit until he was sitting up against the headboard, and you moved away just enough to look up at him. With a small smile, he reached out, brushing his fingers along your jaw, sending chills down your spine.

“If it's about Princess Maria, then you have nothing to worry about,” he whispered, pulling you closer to him until your lips were a hair away from his, “you’re the only one for me, my love.”

“Really?” Your voice was merely above a whisper, causing Jongho to smile softly as he pressed a soft kiss against your plush lips.

“Scouts honor.” He promised as he held three of his fingers up proudly, causing you to break out in a fit of giggles, to which Jongho grinned widely.

You were quickly silenced by his lips once more. The kiss was full of lust and need, causing your body to turn into putty in the palm of his hands.

“You’ve got to keep quiet, my love, we can’t let the others know what’s happening in here.” He whispered huskily in your ear before placing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your neck.

You bite your lip harshly to not let any noises slip past as your hands clutched onto his biceps, afraid he’d slip away if your grip loosened just a hair. Even if you knew this couldn’t go on forever like you wished it could, you knew that you could live in the moment here and now.

–

And just as you had thought, your biggest fear had come true as you stood in the grand dining room. You watched as Princess Maria talked with Jongho. You knew it shouldn’t bother you so much, but it did because you didn’t think any person in their right mind could watch another being handsy with their lover.

But you couldn’t do anything but stand there, jaw tight, and watch.

You started to lose track of the time when the King cleared his throat, catching the attention of everyone in the room. Wearing a huge smile, he raised his goblet of wine with a flourish, looking at the other royal couple in the room.

“First and foremost, I would like to thank King Lee for allowing us the chance to host his family.” He spoke loudly as he gestured to the other older male who sat to his right.

“It’s our honor, really, King Choi.” King Lee nodded his head, raising his own goblet of wine.

“Secondly, we have a proposition for the Crown Prince and Princess Maria.” At the King’s words, Jongho and the Princess stopped what they were doing to look over at the King. Even through the stoic expression on Jongho’s face, you could clearly see the worry in his eyes. While Princess Maria looked beyond excited, clinging onto Jongho’s arm.

Jongho had half the mind to shove her off him when he saw the discontent on your face, but he knew that doing so would only raise suspicion, so he resisted. You could also see how uncomfortable Jongho was whenever Maria’s hands wandered a little too far, and it took all your willpower and biting your inner cheek to keep from saying a word.

“We would like to announce the joining of unions between the Lee and Choi kingdoms, as well as the marriage between Prince Jongho and Princess Maria!” The King exclaimed happily, a huge grin on his face, when both Queens applauded, and King Lee let out a boisterous laugh.

You felt as if you could be sick, a searing pain shooting through your heart, causing tears to prick at your eyes, but you refused to let them fall, only knowing that you would harm Jongho in doing so. Jongho’s gaze flickered over to you as discreetly as he could, and seeing the pain in your eyes, he wanted nothing more than to call the whole thing off, grab you by your hands, and just flee the kingdom if that meant you could be together.

Though neither of you could react the way you wanted, meaning you were stuck acting as if everything was perfectly fine until the dreadful dinner ended and you could return to your maids quarters.

–

It was well after nightfall, and you knew Jongho would be searching for you, seeing as you would always be locked away in his room at this time. But you couldn't bring yourself to face him after the news that had just been dropped hours prior.

A sudden knock at your door caused you to jump, hitting your hand on the small desk in front of you. Letting out a small hiss of pain, you allowed the person to enter your room, only to be surprised when you were faced with the prince.

“Jongho…” You looked up at him with shocked eyes, watching as he quietly shut the door behind him, “What are you doing here?”

“Are you okay?” His voice was smooth as he reached for your hand, his thumb brushing over the now red spot from where you had hit it previously. The warmth of his skin against yours almost put you in a trance, missing the feeling of him being near you, almost enough to forget the impending doom that was to befall you both.

“Jongho… we can’t—” The words got caught in your throat as he pulled you to your feet, his hand finding the curve of your waist.

“Y/n, I’ve told you countless times. The one I love is you and will always be you.” His voice was soft as he stared down at you, and your eyes searched his face. “Let’s run away.”

His words caught you by surprise, causing a lump to form in your throat. Was he really willing to throw everything he worked for out the window for someone like you? To lose all of the gloriousness that he called his life for practically nothing in return?

“We can’t—”

“But we can, my love, I’ve already got everything together, all you have to do is say yes.” His eyes pleaded with you, waiting for you to give him the green light so he could whisk you away, far, far away from here.

Swallowing thickly, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down until his forehead rested against yours. You both closed your eyes for a few lingering moments until you took a deep breath, stealing your heart to break the news you knew neither of you wanted to hear.

“You are the crowned Prince, Jongho, I can’t ask you to run away and leave your kingdom behind.” You sighed, knowing that even if both of you wanted to run, you wouldn’t know peace, seeing as the King would send people looking for Jongho until the day he was either dead or found.

Jongho just stood there in silence, soaking in your embrace, knowing that you were right. Even if he wanted to say that it was fine, he knew it wouldn’t be because he couldn’t run from the King without putting you in harm's way in the process.

Tightening his grip on your waist, he leaned down, connecting your lips with his in a gentle and sweet kiss, tasting the strawberries you had just eaten on your tongue. After a few moments, he pulled away, looking deep into your eyes, hands pulling you closer to his body until not a single inch of space was left.

“Then just for tonight, let’s forget about our titles and the inevitable future and just let it be us.” He whispered against your lips, afraid that you would say no, but when your lips found him once more, he knew your answer.

So you did just that, the two of you spent the night like you have many, many nights before. Tangled in each other's embrace, forgetting about anything and everything, the only relevant thing being the two of you.

© 𝐬𝐭𝐱𝐫𝐫𝐲𝐰𝐨𝐨 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 | 𝙙𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙡, 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙚, 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙨𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚, 𝙤𝙧 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙮 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠

"Is he okay?" Wooyoung sat next to you, placing his tray on the table as the two of you watched your husband stomping into the cafeteria,  glare at you as he grabbed an apple and leave.

"Its that time of the month, don't worry I'll make sure he's pregnant by next month to avoid the mood swings."

Wooyoung choked on his soda, almost toppling over as he tried to gasp for air as he tried not to drown because of his own laughter. 

You glanced at the man before picking up your tray and leaving, you were done anyway, might as well get back to work, you thought to yourself as your eyes scanned the room for your overdramatic husband. Oh well, duty first, then hopelessly melodramatic lover.

.

Jongho scoffed as he walked past your cubicle, frowning at the way you were hunched over your PC, here you were slaving away instead of pondering upon your new repeated mistake, one that he had noticed as soon as it started- 2 days, it had been going on for 2 days, and you had no idea?

Through sickness and through health, huh?

"If you're done staring holes through my head, how about you spill the tea, sis?

He gasped at the interruption, his eyes locking with yours before huffing at your choice of words- no, it wasn't your choice of words by the way, they were just an indication of your love and desperation,  he knew that- BUT DID YOU KNOW WHAT YOU HAD DONE!?

"Figure it out and get back to me within 3 working days, Mrs. Choi."

He sauntered away, smirking to himself when he heard you huff out in frustration. 

.

You closed the door behind you as you sat down, but didn't buckle up, causing the man next to you to physically malfunction when he glanced in your general direction- obstruction of safety rules? Since when was this allowed in the Choi household? Since when did the Choi Empress allow or rather practice such nonsense-

"If you don't tell me, I seriously won't talk to you for 2 days."

Jongho pouted at your statement before mumbling as he leaned closer to you, "It's nothing...forget about it." Your loving, caring and -overdramatic, petty, stupid, stubborn- handsome husband grabbed the belt. He pulled it across your body, buckling it up for you, making sure to avoid all eye contact, but his lingering touches had urged you to poke the bear.

"What.is.it?"

He ignored your questions as he drove all the way home, knowing his spawns would be waiting for you. Ready to steal your attention,  your love and affection and most of all, your kisses. It's not that he didn't want that; he wholeheartedly loved and was grateful for the fact that he had been able to find such a loving partner, one who loved her children dearly, but did that mean he was okay with you neglecting him? Of course not. 

Jongho followed after, once you unlocked the door and stepped inside your apartment, tackled by your triplets who began narrating how their respective days went, completely out of key and harmony. Tsk, nothing like him, just him humming a random melody had you melting in his embrace and then there were his children, completely tone deaf-

"Make room."

He blinked at his son who, after a short command, hopped onto his father's lap and showed him a piece of paper, "Look, I got a golden star today!"

Jongho, who could see nothing because the paper was practically kissing the tip of his nose, leaned back against the couch, a hand instinctively wrapping around his precious boy so he wouldn't slip, plucked the sheet out of his hand gently and moved it away so he could actually see.

"Ah...that's lovely Jin, were you drawing circles and other shapes in math today?”

“That's you…for art class.”

The father of the innocent looking boy felt his eyebrow twitch, biting his lip to control his expressions as his son looked up at him in awe, almost having his insides melt at the love in his boy's eyes.

“A-aw, thank you Ji-”

“MOVE, IT'S MY TURN!”

In a matter of seconds Jongho almost witnessed Lion King 2.0, causing him to interfere,  holding onto Jin with one hand as he pulled up Jun, the second demon he had spawned, and settled him on his other thigh, giving him a playful glare, “Choi Jun. Was that very nice?”

The boy just gave his father a gummy smile before leaning closer and hugging him, “I gave a speech today!” He pulled back and stared up at his father as he started narrating his well rehearsed speech. The same speech you and your husband had helped him practice over and over again, and-

“Look at me.”

Jongho chuckled at the way tiny hands gently turned his face to the other side, squishing his cheeks as his youngest, lovely daughter smiled at him, “I slept in class today.”

You watched your kids bombard their father, fighting for his attention and affection before turning to the nanny who was packing up.

“They're obsessed with him.” The older woman, who was once your nanny, chuckled as you opened the door for her and shook your head in defeat, “For three days I've been giving them my undivided attention, yet they want his attention.”

She smiled at you before patting your cheek, “They're just like you when it comes for his attention, no?”

Your face flushed at the fact that she had casually slipped out, ducking your head as you mumbled, “See you tomorrow.” Locking the door once she was gone you turned around and walked back to the livingroom, declaring “Going to shower!”

You gained little to no acknowledgement, only a thumbs up from your husband who was trying to pull apart your sons who were now fighting over the same remote to “Show Appa my favourite show!” While…your daughter held the battery cells of the remote- welp, Jongho is gonna have fun with this.

.

You stepped out of the washroom to come face to face with your lover who was now staring at you with an unreadable expression. Raising a brow at him before he leaned forward, wrapping his arms around your waist before pulling you flush against him.

“Oh, so now you wanna play nice?”

His pout had you snort before you cupped his face and squished his cheeks, “What, Jjong?”

“You didn't kiss me for 2 days- you kiss them when they wake up, when we drop them off to school and when we come back and-”

You gently covered his mouth with your palm, stopping his monologue of self pity before you stood on your toes and whispered, much like how your children did with him when he'd begin scolding them- so they learned this nonsense from you.

“Thank you Jjong, now Wooyoung owes me lunch.”

With that you pulled your hand away, pecked his lips and skipped your way into the livingroom, declaring your presence. 

The man stood there frozen, trying to process what you had just said, Wooyoung…owed you lunch? No. No, Jongho,  this wasn't some silly bet, this BETTER NOT HAVE BEEN A SILLY-

“YAH!”

You looked up from the ground where you were sitting, back pressed against a cushion, surrounded by your children as your husband sat next to you, glaring at you, frowning when you winked at him and went back to watching Barney. He continued to glare at you, knowing very well that the past three days were probably some stupid bet with Wooyoung, and it irked him to the core how he had been receiving lesser love than usual because of some nonsense- 

“Appa, sit.”

The tug on his pajama had him glance down at his daughter who had moved out of your lap, demanding to sit on his lap now. Once sat, the little girl turned back to the TV, glad she was secure in her father's arms. It didn't take long for your boys to follow, one sprawling on his father's legs and the other sticking to his side, snuggling closer when Jongho pulled him closer and mumbled, “You're all awake past your bedtime.”

You watched the scene unfold, the usual scene where your children would be basking in their father's attention and your husband would be too busy giving them all his attention. You were grateful to see such a healthy relationship, but that didn't mean you didn't want to roll around in his undivided attention- that's how the bet had come up anyway, Wooyoung had insisted that he wouldn't notice if you were to only pay attention to the children, but you knew your Jjong well, and you knew if there was something he hated,it was being left out. A petty attempt at seeking his attention, but a successful attempt nonetheless. 

As you were about to get up to clean up, his fingers wrapped around your wrist, gently pulling you back down as he looked up at you with a kind of softness in his eyes that reminded you of why you had fallen head over heels for the man in the first place. Slowly moving closer you stroked the head of your sleeping child lovingly,but your gaze never left your husband's soft features, earning a gentle, “No more stupid bets.”

The gentle silence filled a quiet giggle, earning a scoff from him, “I only did what you do to me, Jjong.”

“Just ask for my attention next time, you brat.”

“Where's the fun in that?” You mumbled, leaning your shoulder against his, “And then how would I have Wooyoung paying for our lunch for a week?”

It was a minor inconvenience. At least you thought so. You wouldn’t even call it a problem, because you were busy with work and accidentally missed Jongho’s message. And he didn’t bother to text or call you after a few hour of not getting a response. Never in your life would you ignore him on purpose, not even when you were mad at each other.

You run to Jongho’s new studio with coffee and new gossip but stop at the door as soon as you hear familiar laughter. Oh no, not this girl again. So, you were never a jealous type. Until you met her. Literally everyone E V E R Y O N E and their cousin knew that this girl wants your boyfriend while pretending to be his close friend.

They’ve met before you came in the picture, so you tried to convince yourself that since Jongho chose you after a few years of friendship with this girl it meant you had nothing to worry about. But the longer you dated the more you felt paranoid. Jongho would never mention her to you without a reason, but her… hugging your boyfriend longer than other people, giving him bedroom eyes, touching almost inappropriate. You couldn’t help but feel at guard around her. And now she is in your boyfriend’s tiny studio. Just two of them laughing about something.

“Jong, what’s wrong? You look worried” she says, voice dripping with honey.

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry”

You smile at Jongho’s answer and raise your hand to knock.

“No, tell me. You know I am always here for you” she coos and you freeze waiting for Jong’s answer.

“She hasn’t replied me since morning. So I am a little bit worried” he says after a pause.

“Have you asked Sannie oppa? They seem veeeeeery close lately” her voice is soft and soothing. But there is no way your boyfriend falls into this trap, right?

“Right…. I should call him”

“You can call him later, I am here with you and you want to call your brother? We don’t see each other a lot. Especially since you got yourself a girlfriend” she pouts, “and left me behind”

You should knock on this damn door and tell them you are here, but your body doesn’t listen to you.

“Come on. You are always around” Jongho says with a light chuckle.

“Exactly! I am always around while you have fun with your girlfriend. The one that can’t even bother to reply to your text” She whines and your jaw clenches, “She is always with San! I wouldn’t even be surprised if she is fooling around with him right now!”

Your eyes go wide, you wait for Jongho to start defending you, but he sighs and says nothing. oh Lord. Does he really think you would leave him behind for San? After months of pining on him? You bite your lips and try to gather your thoughts together.

“Jjong, don’t you know me? I am always right. Have I ever been wrong?”

“No” he finally says and you let out a humorless laugh.

Ridiculous. You put coffee you brought for him at the door and leave.

Jongho Masterlist Jongho Masterlist II