You had met him eight months prior in Los Angeles, in a rehearsal room that smelled like floor polish, iced coffee, and expensive perfumes. BTS had been there for a private industry showcase. Bloom had been flown in too, still riding the strange, dizzying momentum of being called ‘global’ by every magazine that wanted to make your existence cleaner than it was. 

Global was polished and strategic, good for the numbers and the wallet.

It did not sound like five girls from five different countries crying in airport bathrooms, memorizing choreography until five am and waking up three hours later, arguing over who had stolen whose setting powder, and smiling through interviews where people asked you to represent entire continents before you had even eaten breakfast.

You were Bloom’s leader, which meant you were the one who answered when no one else knew what to say.

You were the one who corrected pronunciation, soothed nerves, translated when needed, lied when necessary.

It meant that when your youngest member missed her mother so badly she couldn’t sing, you sat on the bathroom floor with her until her mascara dried. It meant that when your oldest member got called intimidating by a producer who was too scared to call her talented, you smiled with teeth and asked him to repeat himself. 

It meant you always entered rooms first. Always. 

That day in L.A, you entered the rehearsal room first, too.

And Jungkook had been sitting on the floor with one knee bent, hair damp from practice, oversized black t-shirt clinging slightly at his collar. He had looked up when you walked in. 

Not at Bloom, or the stylists trialing you, or the staff holding different clipboards and tablets like holy documents. 

He looked at you. For one unbearable second, his expression went still, and then his mouth curved. Small and private and almost rude with how quiet it was. You stared back because you were taught that leaders didn’t flinch.

He had said, in English, “you’re the leader?” 

“You sound surprised,” you replied with a lifted brow.

His smile widened. “No, it just makes sense.” 

It shouldn’t have been anything but a polite comment, a passing exchange between two people who understood exactly how many cameras existed in the room and in the world. But something about the way he said it rooted under your skin. 

So you tilted your head. “And you’re Jungkook.” 

He pressed a hand to his chest, exaggeratedly wounded. “Only Jungkook?” 

You looked over him once, slow enough to be a problem but quick enough to deny it if asked. “Should I add something?” 

His tongue poked the inside of his cheek. One of your members made a strangled noise behind you, and behind him, Jimin started laughing. That was the beginning. Not of anything real, or anything that was important.

There was no beginning of anything real between idols like you and Jungkook. There were no movie montages, no midnight walks, no holding hands across tables in restaurants. There were no soft-launch Instagram posts, no casual mentions in interviews, no “we met naturally and fell in love” explanations that would not detonate both of your careers on impact. 

There was only accidental eye contact across rehearsal rooms, messages left unread for hours because responding too fast felt dangerous, inside jokes spoken through microphones while managers stood ten feet away… A friendship everyone pretended was normal because pretending was easier than admitting. Besides, you were good at pretending, you’d built an entire career out of it.

Tonight, though, pretending felt harder. 

Because MAMA rehearsals were running late, your feet ached, your hair was coming loose from its painfully perfect ponytail, and Jungkook was standing across the studio in a black beanie, watching you lead Bloom through the transition into BTS’s formation.

Maybe watching was too gentle of a word. He was studying you. Your reflection caught his in the mirror, and you looked away first like a coward.

“Again from the top,” you called, clapping twice. 

A chorus of groans came from your members. 

“No complaining,” you said automatically. 

Mina, who’d been born and raised in Korea and had, for some reason, never feared consequences in her life, threw her head back. “Our beloved leader’s trying to kill us.” 

“I’m trying to make our work cohesive,” you argued. 

“We already look cohesive.” 

“You look sweaty,” You smirked.

“I look hot sweaty, try again.” She said with a kiss blown your way. You caught it, crushed it in your fist, and flipped her off through the mirror.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Jungkook laugh.

Your stomach did something humiliating as the track restarted. 

The choreography for the collaboration stage was ambitious in the way entertainment companies loved: dramatic, slightly impractical, clearly designed to become viral within twenty minutes of airing. Bloom opened the performance with sharp and clean formation work influenced by each of your backgrounds– hip hop, contemporary, dancehall, even flashes of traditional movement your choreographer had carefully woven in after weeks of conversations with all of you. 

BTS would enter halfway through.

Jungkook’s part crossed directly behind yours, and that was a problem. 

You had known it when they first showed you the blocking. Your manager had known it too, because her face had done that awful neutral thing people did when they were screaming internally.

Jungkook passed behind you on the count of six. 

Your shoulder dipped, his hand never touched your waist, it only hovered near it. That was the choreography, that was the excuse, that was the actual nightmare.

Because every time he moved behind you, your body knew he was there before your mind could catch up. Heat at your back, the shift of air, the faint scent of detergent and skin and whatever fucking cologne he was wearing that made you want to commit several stupid, career-ending decisions.

You hit the next move too hard. 

“Careful,” Jungkook murmured behind you. 

You did not turn around. “I’m careful.” 

“No,” he said, voice low enough that only you could hear over the music. “You’re frustrated.” 

Your jaw tightened as his laugh brushed against the back of your neck. You missed half a count just barely, almost no one noticed. 

When the music finally cut, the choreographer called for a water break. Your members scattered immediately, some collapsing against the wall, some checking their phones, one filming a dramatic fake death on the floor for behind-the-scenes content that would absolutely never be approved.

You went for your water bottle near the speakers, grateful for something to do with your hands. 

Jungkook got there first. He picked it up and held it out for you. A simple enough gesture. Still, your manager’s head followed the movement from across the room.

You saw it, and Jungkook saw you see it. His smile faded slightly. 

You took the water bottle without letting your fingers brush his. “Thanks.” 

“Wow,” he said softly. “So formal.” 

You unscrewed the cap, shaking your head at him. “Would you prefer I bow?”

“Maybe.” 

You gave him a look and his eyes brightened. 

“A little one,” he added. 

“You’re annoying.” 

“You once told me I was charming.” 

“I’ve matured.” 

“In eight months?” He laughed. 

You shrugged at him, taking a deep swig of water. 

He leaned one shoulder against the mirrored wall, still breathing hard from practice. Sweat darkened the hair near his temple. His cheeks were flushed, and it made him look younger and more dangerous at the same time. Like he could just grin his way through a locked door or a heart. 

“You disappeared after the Grammy rehearsals.” 

You continued to drink your water, which was a terrible choice because it gave you too much time to think and not enough to breathe. “I’ve been working,” you tell him finally. 

He nods, unconvinced. “So, if you’re working, you’re never anywhere else? Ever?” 

“Typically when I’m working, I’m working. So, yes.” 

His smile twitched, and then faded as he watched you. Flirty Jungkook was easy. Teasing Jungkook was manageable. You could parry him, roll your eyes and simply walk away and pretend like your pulse was normal. Quiet Jungkook made everything more complicated. 

He looked down at the floor between you, then back up. “Did I do something wrong? During those rehearsals, I mean. I thought we were getting along.” 

The thing you hated most about him settled heavy between the two of you. His sincerity. You wished he had more ego, it would have been so much easier if he were arrogant in the way people expected him to be. If he acted like his attention was a gift, or if he flirted because he knew you would blush and not because something in him actually softened when you walked into a room. 

You looked towards your members. 

Mina was laughing with Taehyung over something on her phone. Your youngest, Hana, was speaking shy Korean with Namjoon, who listened with his whole body like he had nowhere else in the world to be. Lila, the middle child, bickered with Jimin over contemporary dance. Staff lingered nearby, watching all of you.

Always watching. 

You lowered your voice, “No.” 

Jungkook’s brows drew in, “That’s hardly an answer.” 

“It is an answer, though.” 

“A bad one.” 

You laughed once, but it came out brittle. “You’re such a brat.” 

“You don’t like that?” 

Your eyes cut to his, and there it was again. A little spark. A terrible little thread between you that neither company had managed to cut, no matter how many rules they printed or whispered in hushed tones. 

For a second, you let yourself look at him. Really look. You looked at the tiny scar on his cheek, the silver hoops in his ears, the way his gaze flicked down to your mouth and back up so quickly that anyone else might have missed it even if you did not. 

You didn’t miss it at all, which was the whole problem. “You can’t say things like that,” you said. 

His face changed, not dramatically, Jungkook was far too trained for that. You both were. But his expression lost some of its warmth, like someone had dimmed a light behind his eyes. 

“Right. Okay.” 

Your throat tightened at the clipped words. You hated them, hated how small they sounded. Hated that you put them there. 

“Jungkook–” 

“No, I know.” He nodded once, glancing towards the staff. “Rules.” 

You should have let his words sit there. You should have accepted a clean exit. Instead, because apparently you hated yourself, you said, “it’s not just rules.” 

His attention returned to you so fast it was painful. “No?” 

“No.” 

The studio felt louder suddenly, even though no music was playing. Sneakers squeaked, someone laughed, a manager coughed. The hallway outside of the room leaked in other noises, too, other rehearsals, other idols, other perfectly controlled disasters. 

You gripped your water bottle. “You know what happens,” you said. “If people think there’s something.” 

He looked at you for a long moment before asking quietly, “is there?” 

The answer had been there for months, sitting between your ribs like a bruise you kept prodding just to see if it still hurt, yet your heart dropped anyway. You looked away, and Jungkook laughed under his breath, but there was no humor in it. 

“Okay.” 

“That’s not fair.” 

“I didn’t say anything,” he shook his head, smiling even though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“You said ‘okay’ like that.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like I just hurt your feelings.” 

His eyes sharpened slightly. “Didn’t you?” 

The room tilted and you wanted to snap back. You wanted to tell him he did not get to put that on you, not when both of you had signed contracts longer than some marriages, not when Bloom was still fighting to be taken seriously, not when one wrong rumor could turn your leadership into selfishness and your ambition into betrayal. You also wanted to tell him you were tired.

Tired of filtering yourself, tired of smiling when interviewers asked whether Bloom’s “diverse concept” made it harder for you to be a unit, as if friendship was only believable when everyone came from the same place. Tired of being responsible, tired of wanting one thing that belonged only to you. 

But Jungkook was looking at you like he would listen to all of it, and that was dangerous too, so you swallowed it all down. “I’m trying not to.” 

His face softened, a little devastation still present, before he nodded. “Yeah, me too.” 

The choreographer clapped from across the room. “Five minutes! Back to positions!” 

The spell broke. You turned away first because that was what leaders did, they moved forward and set the tone. They did not fall apart beside barres and walls while one of the most beloved idols in the world looked at them like there was an inkling of possibility lying between them.

You took your place at the center, and Bloom formed behind you. BTS moved into position around you. Jungkook came to stand at your back again, close enough for choreo, far enough for rules. In the mirror, your eyes met his that were now cloaked in professionalism, calm and unreachable. It should have been a relief, it should have helped you, but it didn’t. 

The music started and you hit the first count perfectly. So did he.

That was the cruelest part of it all, and the most beautiful. You were always best when you were pretending nothing was hurting.

By the third run-thorugh, your body has stopped feeling like yours. It belonged to the counts, the holds, the drops, the turns, the looks. 

You made an effort not to look at Jungkook again. It wasn’t written in the choreography, obviously. No choreographer in their right mind would write do not look directly at Jeon Jungkook unless you are prepared to ruin your own life beside the formations.

But it might as well have been there, honestly. 

Because every camera in the practice room seemed to find the two of you. Every staff member seemed vaguely aware of the invisible string between the two of you. Every reflective surface was another traitor waiting to catch your eyes drifting where they really shouldn’t. And Jungkook was being good now. He did not tease, did not murmur anything under his breath when he passed behind you, did not hover by your water bottle, did not throw secret smiles your way in the mirror, did not make some quiet, stupid joke just to see if he could crack a smile on your face. 

He did everything right and was professional and distant. And you hated him for it, almost as much as you hated yourself for wanting him to stop.

“Again,” the choreographer called. “Bloom, sharper on the second transition. BTS, give them more space on the cross. Jungkook, watch the distance behind YN.” 

Your spine went tight as Jungkook nodded. “Yes.”

Your mouth pressed into a tight little line, and Mina, stationed just behind your right shoulder, leaned in close enough that her ponytail brushed your arm. 

“You’re doing that thing,” she whispered. 

You didn’t move your eyes from the mirror. “What thing?” 

“The murder face thing.” 

“I’m focused.” 

“Totally. Super focused and not at all planning an assassination.” 

“I’m the leader. That’s part of my charisma.” 

“More like emotional constipation.” 

You almost laughed, but Jungkook shifted behind you, stepping into position, and whatever humor had tried to climb its way up your throat died a pathetic little death. 

Mina followed your gaze in the mirror, and her expression softened in that annoying way friends had when they knew too much and could do nothing about it. “Ah,” she mumbled, “So it’s that thing.” 

“There’s no thing,” you hissed through the side of your mouth. 

“Girl–”

“Mina.” 

“Respectfully, you and that man have been eye-fucking in 4k since Los Angeles.” 

You whipped your head toward her. “Mina.” 

She smiled brightly, all innocence, then snapped back into position as the music started up once again. You missed your entrance by half a breath. It wasn’t visible or badly, but you felt it and Jungkook did too. His eyes flicked to yours in the mirror, and that was all it took to tap a little crack in the carefully built wall.

His gaze dropped away again, and the absence of it sat against your chest like a dumbbell. You danced harder, possibly too hard.

There was a vicious satisfaction in pushing your body past the point of elegance. In letting the ache behind your ribs sharpen the feeling into movement. You hit the floorwork like it owed you money. Snapped your head so cleanly on the turn that one of the assistant choreographers actually muttered, “Oh, wow.” 

Good. Fine. Let them see leader YN. 

Let them see Bloom’s anchor. The girl who could switch from English to Korean mid-sentence without blinking. The girl who could carry questions for five people in interviews and still smile when they asked something insulting. The girl who knew how to bow, how to laugh, how to soften her accent when needed, how to straighten her shoulders when some executive talked too much about marketability. Let them see everything except the one thing you were failing to kill. 

The music cut on the final pose. Silence slammed down afterwards as applause filtered in from separate corners of the room. 

“Better,” the choreographer said, nodding. “Much better. Take ten. Then we’ll run it with the cameras for the behind-the-scenes content.” 

Your members collapsed immediately while you stayed standing. Your lungs burned, your knees trembled faintly. Sweat had slipped down the side of your neck and beneath the collar of your cropped rehearsal top. You lifted a hand to wipe it away, but before you could, a towel appeared in front of you.

Black, folded once, held by a tattooed hand. You stared at it.

Do not be alone with him. No unnecessary physical contact. No personal conversations where staff could not be present. No giving fans something to misunderstand. 

A towel, arguably, was not personal, or a confession. A towel was fabric.

Your life had become so absurd you could laugh. You took the towel, and this time your fingers touched, just barely. A brush, a spark, a crime scene. Jungkook stared at your hand like he felt it too.

“You’re pushing too hard,” he said quietly as he let go of the towel.

You dabbed the towel against your neck and gave him your prettiest, coldest smile. “Thanks, coach.” 

His jaw flexed. Mina, from the floor, suddenly became very interested in stretching. Across the room, Namjoon looked over with a cautious expression.

Jungkook stepped closer by half an inch. It was still technically appropriate, still public, and still enough to make your entire body pay attention. 

“You have got to stop doing that.” 

Your smile stayed in place. “Doing what?” 

“Turning everything into a joke when you’re upset.” 

“Better than wallowing in misery.” 

His eyes held yours and his voice dropped. “Are you sure?” 

Your stomach twisted and you looked away, first again. You hated that pattern. Hated that he asked questions like both of you weren’t surrounded by people whose job it was to make sure your lives remained profitable and uncomplicated. 

“You don’t get to do that.” You said. 

“What?” 

“Act like I’m the only one choosing this.” 

His expression shifted, a flash of hurt, there and gone. “I’m not.”

“You are,” you laughed.

“I’m standing right here.” 

“That’s not the same thing. You know it’s not.” The words slipped from your lips softer than you’d meant for them to.

Jungkook glanced past you, toward the line of managers pretending not to monitor every breath, then he looked back. “No,” he said. “It is not.” 

For a second, neither of you said anything else. The practice room continued moving around you. Staff adjusted the cameras and someone laughed near the speakers. One of the BTS members, probably Hoseok, said something that made Jimin nearly choke on his water. Hana layed flat on her back timed her own death.

Normal and easy things. Things that, realistically, should have pulled you back into yourself. They didn’t, though.

Because Jungkook was still watching you with that unfair, unbearable softness. Like he understood that you were not angry because you didn’t want him, but that you were angry because you did. Too much. At the wrong time, in the wrong industry, under the wrong lights. 

He took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was carefully neutral. “Do you want me to stop?” 

Your fingers tightened around the towel. You knew exactly what he meant. Not the choreography, or the teasing, or the almosts. All of it. 

The looking and waiting and finding you in every room. The way his smile changed when aimed your direction. The messages that never said enough to be dangerous but said too much to be considered harmless. 

You could say yes. You could absolutely say yes. It would be kind, probably. Clean and mature. The responsible and leader thing. Yet your throat closed heavily around the word. Jungkook watched your silence register. He nodded once, slow and wounded in a way that made your chest ache. 

“Okay.” 

“You keep saying that,” you whispered. 

“Well, you keep not answering.” 

Your eyes burned, which only made you more furious. 

“You want an answer?” you asked, still quiet.

“Yes.” He replied with a sharp gaze. 

“No.” 

Jungkook went still the same second you did. 

The room didn’t stop, but it felt like it should have. Something catastrophic had happened. You had said one small world in a rehearsal room full of people, and somehow it felt like glass cracking underfoot.

His lips parted slightly. You looked down, panic blooming hot in your chest. 

“I mean–”

“No,” he repeated softly.

Your cheeks burned. “Don’t.” 

His voice was almost nothing. “You don’t want me to stop?” 

You closed your eyes for a second. Coward, coward, coward. When you opened them, he was closer than before, but still not close enough for anyone to scold. Close enough, though, that you could see the sweat caught along his collarbone. The chain around his neck. The way his breathing had changed. 

“I don’t know what I want,” you lied. 

Jungkook’s face softened and it offered you a tiny mercy. He knew you were lying, but he let it rest between you all the same. 

“Okay,” he said again, but it sounded different.

Your manager called your name, too sharp and timed. You stepped back immediately, and Jungkook did too. The towel remained in your hands as your manager approached with a smile that did not touch her eyes.

“YN,” she said in English because it made reprimands sound less public in this room. “Camera blocking is next. We need to discuss your center mark for the bridge.” 

You nodded. “Sure.” 

Her gaze flicked to the towel, then to Jungkook, and then back to you. “I’ll take that.” 

For one wild, childish second, you wanted to outright refuse. It was a towel. A towel. But it had touched his hand before yours, and apparently that was enough to make you pathetic or sullied. 

You handed it over, watched as your manager folded it once, then tucked it under her arm like evidence. “Come,” she said.

You followed, because that is what you did. You followed rules even when you hated them. You protected the group even when it meant cutting pieces out of yourself. You put Bloom first, always, because the girls trusted you. Because the company trusted you. Because every interview called you a leader like it was an honor instead of a beautifully constructed cage. 

At the monitor, the assistant director replayed the last run-through. 

You watched yourself on screen and smiled at how untouchable you looked. Jungkook moved behind you like a shadow with restraint. His hand hovered near your waist, never landing. On camera, it looked intimate anyway. That was the trouble with almost-touching, sometimes it looked worse. The assistant director paused the frame and your manager sighed through her nose. 

“Here,” she said carefully. “This is too close.” 

The choreographer leaned in. “It’s the formation.” 

“We need to adjust it.” 

“It will affect the transition.” 

“Then affect it.” 

Your stomach sank, from the other side of the monitor, BTS’s staff had gone quiet too. Jungkook stood several feet away, arms crossed loosely, expression unreadable. 

The choreographer pulled back the footage and paused again. There you were, frozen on screen, your back arched into the move. Jungkook behind you, eyes angled down, hand suspended near your hip like he was holding himself back from touching something holy or forbidden or both.

Someone cleared their throat. 

Your manager said “fans will slow this down.” 

No one argued because everyone knew she was right. The room seemed to shrink around you. A strange humiliation crawled up your neck, not because you or Jungkook had done anything wrong, but because desire, even buried beneath clean choreography and professional distance, had apparently found a way to show its face.

You looked at Jungkook and found him already looking at you.

Not flirty now, or playful. This was something else. Something unnervingly close to being sorry.

The choreographer sighed. “We can move Jungkook two counts later. Have him cross behind Taehyung instead.” 

Your manager nodded immediately. “Better.” 

Something inside you dropped and you felt ridiculous for it. It was choreography, it should have been a relief to not have his hand hovering near your waist. Instead, it felt like being erased from the only place where you were allowed to almost have him. 

Jungkook’s face did not change. “Fine,” he said. 

You wanted to scream as the choreographer clapped. “Okay, reset positions. We’ll try the new blocking.” 

Everyone moved and you moved with them. The shape of the entirety of the room changed around you. Jungkook no longer stood behind you. Taehyung did instead, kind and easy and so unaware of the way your throat tightened when the music started again. Jungkook crossed behind him, not you. The choreography worked, but it looked cleaner, less dangerous.

Your manager watched the monitor with visible relief. And you, Bloom’s leader, America’s polished export, the girl trained to carry herself like no one could touch her, danced like nothing had been taken from you. In the mirror, for just one second, Jungkook’s eyes met yours from the wrong side of the formation. Too far away and somehow too close.

His guards collected her at dusk. She knew it was dusk because they took her out of the cell, out of the dungeon, and to her old rooms. A bath was run for her, two foreign maids (or perhaps not foreign anymore now that their two countries were joined) scrubbed her without mercy.

This felt crueler than actual torture. What was the game here? Did the Warlord want to lure her into false security before he ripped it from her again? Would she be shuttled from cell to room over and over again until she lost her sanity?

Once they bathed and dressed her in her old, simple linen gowns, the Queen was instructed to wait.

The Warlord joined her soon after. He looked at her with guarded suspicion, his eyes as impenetrable as the city walls. She looked away.

“My men have committed a full investigation,” he announced quietly, sitting across from her. “The guard you conspired with had not appeared in the castle before the day he left with you. You had received no communication, no visitors, and you had not left your rooms. If you conspired with this enemy, you were very sneaky about it.”

If. Not when. It gave her hope, and the hope terrified her more than anything else. She said nothing, afraid to ruin it.

“Of course, you know this palace better than any of my men. You are intelligent and quiet and cooperative enough to have earned their trust and mine. It’s not impossible for you to help plan a rebellion under my nose.”

“No, it is not impossible,” she admitted, daring another look at him. “But I did not do it.”

He looked at her for a long moment, with that unnervingly penetrating gaze. She struggled not to shy away from it.

“When you came to me that night for surrender, what was your worst fear?”

The question surprised her. She could not guess his angle, but answered honestly regardless. “That you would execute me on the spot and then murder my people in their homes come morning.”

“And yet you came anyway. You gave your city to me regardless. Why? If death was inevitable, why not fight until the bitter end? Or join your husband and avoid it all together?”

A small, desperate hope had driven her actions that night. A reckless hope that inspired an insane decision she would never have made under any other circumstances.

“When I first heard your terms for our surrender they sounded very generous to me,” she answered slowly. “They did not sound like the ideas of a man bent on our destruction. I had a hope that, despite what followed, you could still be that man.”

“A leap of faith,” he said softly. “You risked everything on the small hope that you could trust me.”

This time she tried to give him a penetrating look of her own. It felt like trying to find the bottom of a murky river. He was much more skilled at hiding his thoughts than she was with hers.

“Why are you asking me questions you already know the answers to?”

He took a measured pause before answering. “I am trying to remind myself of what I know you have done. Of what it took from you.”

“I do not regret it.”

“Even now?” His eyebrow quirked upwards.

“Even now.”

She meant those words deeply. The Warlord had done more for her city and her people in two months than her husband did in his entire reign. She did not fault him for his lack of trust in her because only a fool would blindly trust their former enemy and captive. But she had no idea how to make herself believable.

“No matter how short our acquaintance may be, you have given to me far more than you have taken,” she said. If he believed anything she said, please let it be this.

The wall of his gaze cracked just a little to reveal a hint of pain, of longing. “I don’t understand how you can say that.”

“You don’t know what my life was like before you,” she said simply.

Such a statement stunned him into silence. He looked at her as if she’s a battle ground he can’t figure out.

“Why did you bring me back here?” she asked, wondering if he would lie to her. “Is this some mind game you’re playing before you have me tortured?”

He looked at her in surprise. “How underhandedly cruel you must think me to come to that conclusion.”

He sounded almost offended.

“No other conclusion makes sense. You are convinced of my guilt, regardless of the truth. I should have been tortured for information by now, and slated for a morning hanging.”

“I should have done that,” he agreed, and something in her gut curdled at the sound of it. “If you were anyone else, I would have done that. But . . .you took a leap of faith for me. I feel I owe you the same.”

“A leap of faith?”

“I will take us back to our original arrangement — with extra precautions — as a show of trust. Just like the one you gave me when you surrendered. You will not return to your cell. You certainly will not be tortured. But know this: even a whiff of suspicion will be enough for me to gut you myself. I cannot have my reign threatened. Not even by you.”

The only thing that kept her knees from buckling in relief is the rigid disbelief that tightens her insides like a bow string. The risk of believing him could cost her much indeed, in both body and heart. And she was very tired.

“You don’t believe me,” he said with that knowing glint.

“It doesn’t sound very believable.”

He stepped towards her until he was close enough to take her hands in his. His long, rough fingers closed around her wrists.

“I’m still not completely convinced of your innocence. But your company is worth the risk of my trust. Whatever has happened . . I very much enjoy your presence.”

He squeezed her wrists, as if in reassurance, and she could not hide the wince of pain. And of course it did not escape his gaze.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No,” she said quickly — too quickly by the way his eyes narrowed. “It’s just . . .a bruise.”

“A bruise? You were not in chains.”

He held up her arm and pulled the sleeve down to reach the delicate skin of her wrist, still mottled purple and yellow.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

“How did you get this?” He asked softly, dangerously.

The Queen swallowed tightly. She feared how much this reminder would erode what little camaraderie they’d gained back. “A bruise,” she said. “ . . .from when they took me.”

His gaze roved up her arms to her collarbone, her face, scrutinizing every inch of her. It caught on the small, scabbed cut on her neck and all the breath in her lungs froze. On instinct she tried to cover it with her hand but he batted it away.

“What gave you this?”

“A knife.”

“A knife,” he repeated flatly. “Held at your throat.”

Anger fell over his features like a storm, crackled like lightning in his eyes. He looked more terrifying than she had ever seen him, even when he gutted his own guard. She braced herself for his sword or even his hands around her throat. Instead, he turned around and walked briskly to the window, hands in tight, shaking fists at his side.

The Queen’s heart and her hope disintegrated to ash in her chest. For the second time, tears fell in the Warlord’s presence. She could not stop them even if she wanted to.

Even a whiff of suspicion will be enough for me to gut you myself.

“Will you please just kill me,” she whispered, begging. “You will never trust me and I cannot live with  your fear hanging over my head like a sword, waiting for the moment it will finally fall. If any respect for me remains, you would —“

“Stop.” He did not need to shout for his voice to echo like thunder. She felt it in her chest.

The Queen clenched her jaw tightly closed, body trembling, crying as she had not done since she was a little girl. It humiliated her. She covered her face with her hands, biting her lip to muffle herself. How weak and pathetic he must think of her. How stupid she was to fall in love with someone who could only ever think of her as their enemy.

Suddenly his hands were upon hers, pulling them gently away from her face. She had not even heard his approach. The Queen did not dare look him in the eye.

“I am not angry at you,” he said softly.

He tipped her chin up and forced their eyes to meet. The anger in his gaze had melted into deep, derisive shame.

“I am angry at myself. You would not have those wounds unless you resisted your own capture. And if you gave them to yourself on purpose you would not have try to hide them from me.”

His thumb brushed over the pulse of her wrist, as delicate as a puff of air. “I have been a fool. I have treated you with cruelty and dishonor.” He snorted with derision. “I offered you my forgiveness, thinking myself so magnanimous, when I should be begging for yours on my knees. I would now, if I thought I was worthy of it. But what I have done to you is unforgivable.”

He released his gentle hold on her and stepped back. The raw emotion on his face slipped back behind a calm, diplomatic mask. “Where would you like to go? I will send you anywhere, and make sure you want for nothing, and you will never have to worry about the sword of my fear hanging over your head again.”

He could not have offered her a more undesirable outcome. She swallowed back tears, trying to compose herself.                                                                                               

“If I had a choice,” she said shakily, “then I would stay here. With you.”

He gave her a pained look. “You do not have to be afraid to leave. I know I have broken your trust, but I do promise with all the honor I have left that nothing would happen to you.”

“I’m not afraid to leave,” she told him. “I just don’t want to. This is my home. And . . .”

“And?” he prompted.

She hesitated at the thought of revealing her final secret. But the worst had already happened between them. What else did she have to lose?

“And I love you.”

The confession horrified him. He flinched.

“You are my prisoner,” he said. “Ten minutes ago you were begging me to kill you. I put you in a dungeon cell.”

“I have had a happier time as your prisoner than I ever did in my marriage,” she pointed out.

He winced. “I hate it when you say things like that. It makes me furious that I did not have the pleasure of murdering your husband with my bare hands.”

“My apologies,” she said without meaning it. “I harbor no expectations that you could return my feelings. I just . . .thought you should know —“

“Marry me.”

This threw her. “ . . . What?”

To her utter shock, the Warlord sank to his knees, looking up at her beseechingly.

“Marry me. . . .please.”

“Why?” she faltered. “Why would you want me? Wouldn’t you marry someone of your own court?”

“There is no one better suited than you and I would have no other. You are careful, intelligent, and kind. You know this city and its needs. You have helped me immensely thus far even in your limited capacity. And . . .I love you.”

Now this felt too good to believe. Never before had someone expressed love to her with such raw sincerity, such simplistic purity. She wanted so badly to believe it.

The Queen knelt in front of him, searching the beloved features of his face.

“Not an hour ago you thought I had conspired to overthrow you,” she said softly. “Now you want to marry me. I do not understand it.”

“You do not trust it,” he corrected, again seeing the heart of her.

“I want to.”

“An hour ago I was a fool and a coward,” he said, not shying away from her gaze despite the disgust in his own eyes. “I am unworthy of you, I fully admit it. But if you will stay with me, then you will be my equal. No more of this captivity. You have put your life in my hands and now I will gladly put my life in yours.”

He reached out and delicately traced the line of her jaw. “I am not a man who makes the same mistake twice,” he murmured. “But if you will not have me, the offer stands to care for you anywhere in the world.”

Though she understood it, his distrust of her cut her deeply. Part of her hesitated, afraid the rug of their relationship might be pulled out from under her yet again. But the Warlord had always kept his word, and she would rather have a life cut short with him than a long one without him.

“I will have you,” she said.

A smile of soft, pure joy bloomed across his face, the sight as stunning as the sunrise. He leaned forward, capturing her face in his hands, and pressed his forehead against hers. Breathing her air.

“We will make this world a place where we can be happy,” he promises.

And they did.

If anyone is curious, I was heavily inspired by Netflix's Rise of Empires: Ottoman season 1. I loved the actor who played Mehmed II and he was in my head as the warlord this whole time. It's a great series!

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BTS’s staff looked satisfied in a stiff way that people usually looked when they had prevented something scandalous.

Jungkook stood across the room next to Jimin, one hand on his hip, water bottle hanging from his fingers. He was listening to something Namjoon was saying, nodding at all the right times, his face so carefully blank it made you want to throw something at him even if he had, technically speaking, done nothing wrong.

He was being good. Had to, because everyone in the room had decided distance was the solution to your unspoken attraction and he had finally decided to accept it without making it harder for you. You knew you should be at least the tiniest bit grateful, but instead you felt something mean and wounded stretch awake inside you.

“Such an improvement,” your manager nodded to the choreographer and assistant director.

You turned your head toward her quickly. “Is it?” 

She looked back at you, surprised by your tone. “Yes. Can’t you tell?” 

“An improvement for who?”

Her mouth pressed together tightly, warning look flashing like a million neon signs at your questioning. A quiet reminder that there were people around and that you were not in her office. That you were not just a girl with aching feet and a bruised ego. You were YN from Bloom. A leader, a brand pillar, the reliable one. You were supposed to know when to stop talking, and usually you did. Tonight, apparently, your survival instinct had clocked out early. 

Manager Lee lowered her voice. “Not here.” 

You laughed once, and it wasn’t pretty. “No, actually, here seems perfect.” 

Her eyes sharpened. “YN.” Another warning.

You looked back at the monitor, where the frozen frame showed you in the center of the formation, beautiful and untouchable and perfectly alone. “We changed the choreo because people might make edits.” 

“That is not what happened.” 

“No, that’s exactly what happened.” 

The assistant director became deeply interested in his clipboard at your words, and one of the camera operators looked away. Bloom, from across the room, had gone silent. Mina first, like usual. Her head lifted from where she was sitting against the mirror, brows raised. Lila sat up too. Hana and Sasha exchanged glances. You should have swallowed it all down then, for them, if nothing else.

But then Manager Lee said, “We’re protecting you,” and something in you snapped clean in half. 

“No, you’re managing me.” The room went still in the terrible way they do when people pretend not to hear an argument but absolutely heard every syllable. 

Manager Lee’s expression hardened and you could feel Jungkook’s eyes on you without looking up. You turned fully toward Manager Lee, keeping your voice low enough to avoid making a spectacle, but sharp enough that no one nearby could mistake it for obedience. “There’s a difference.” 

“Everything we do is for your protection and the group’s protection.” 

“Protect the performance instead.” When her brows lifted in confusion, you continued. “That version?” You asked, gesturing towards the monitor. “It’s clean and safe and it is boring.” You turned towards the choreographer then. “The whole point of the bridge and the performance in general is tension. Bloom opens the stage, BTS interrupts the formation, we meet in the middle. That’s the concept, yeah? Collision? Different backgrounds, languages, styles, and we still find rhythm with each other?” 

The choreographer, against better judgment, nodded slightly. Manager Lee did not. You looked at her again, “So why are we cutting the tension out of the section where it actually matters most?” 

Her voice was thin as she replied. “You know why.” 

“Because Jungkook stood near me?” 

“Because the camera makes it look like more.” 

“Then change the camera!” 

Silence stretched through the room, beautiful and awful. The assistant director looked up as Manager Lee stared at you with composed rage. You smiled, but there was no sweetness in it. “What?” you asked. “We’re all professionals, right? Isn’t that what you keep telling me? So, professionally speaking, if the camera angle makes clean choreography look inappropriate, maybe the camera angle is bad.” 

Mina’s mouth fell open across the room and Lila made a tiny noise that sounded like a squeak. You just barely caught the movement from the corner of the room where Jimin turned away so fast you could tell he was trying not to laugh. Jungkook definitely didn’t laugh. He did, however, stare at you like you’d done something reckless and worthy of reward.

Manager Lee stepped closer. “Careful.” 

You held her gaze. “I am careful.” 

“No,” she said quietly. “You are emotional.” 

Your smile dropped. That– well, that simply was not okay. Emotional was the kind of word people used when they wanted to make a woman’s point sound more like a symptom than a valid anything. Your shoulders squared automatically.

“I’m not emotional because I disagree with you.” You said with a shake of your head. “I have spent the last five years being told to lead this group,” you continued, voice steady now, colder. “Lead interviews and rehearsals. Lead when someone cries, or when someone messes up Japanese. Lead when an American journalist asks us if our accents make it harder for fans to connect to us. Lead when executives want us to be diverse but not difficult. You do not get to ask me to lead and then expect me to be silent when I have an opinion.” 

Bloom was still silent, listening. Manager Lee glanced toward them and then back to you. “This is not about your leadership.” 

“Is it not?” 

“No, this is about optics.” 

You stepped closer to the monitor and tapped the frozen image of yourself on-screen. “There are five girls in Bloom,” you said. “Five cultures, five sets of expectations, five families watching from five different places. We have to be perfect in every market and still somehow look effortless. We have to be strong, but not aggressive. Feminine, but we can’t be weak. International, but not confusing. Respectful, but not boring.” Your throat tightened, but you refused to let your voice shake. “And now I’m supposed to make our performance smaller because people might think I’m standing too close to a man?” 

‘Man’ was spoken harder than you expected it to, but that might just be because everyone in this room knew who you were talking about.

Manager Lee inhaled slowly. “You are oversimplifying the issue.” 

“No. You are.” 

Her eyes narrowed on you. You knew that look. You saw it mostly in conference rooms or vans or backstage before shows. That look typically meant Manager Lee was deciding whether you were worth fighting in public or whether she would drag you into a hallway and skin you alive in private. But you were already past the possibilities of the hallway version. You were exhausted of that kind of privacy. 

That privacy was where they put everything they didn’t want your fans to see. Anger, exhaustion, crushes, hunger, homesickness… The ugly parts of being a person inside pretty public packaging.

You looked to the choreographer. “Can you fix the angle without changing the formation?” 

He hesitated and Manager Lee said your name again. You ignored her.

The choreographer rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe. If we shoot from the front-left instead of center-right, his hand won’t line up with your waist.” 

“Wonderful.” 

“And we can adjust Jungkook’s arm path slightly. Less hover, more extension through the turn.” 

You nodded. “Does that ruin the transition?” 

“No.” 

“Will it still read as tension?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then that seems like the fix.” 

Manager Lee laughed quietly. Not amused but warning you again. “You are not the director.” 

“No,” you nodded. “I’m the person whose body is in the shot, though.” 

That did it. You watched as her expression went completely still. For half a second, you thought maybe you’d gone too far. 

Namjoon stepped forward, voice calm and diplomatic. “She has a point.” 

Manager Lee’s eyes cut to him. Namjoon bowed his head slightly, polite as ever. “The original blocking has better energy. If the issue is the camera, we can adjust the camera.” 

Jimin, apparently done pretending, added, “the first version looked cooler.” 

Taehyung nodded from beside him. “Much cooler.” 

Mina lifted her hand from the floor. “As someone who has nearly died three times from this choreo, I would like it to look cooler, please.” 

A laugh broke out from the staff somewhere, small and nervous, but it punctured the tension just enough. Manager Lee’s mouth tightened again. 

She looked at you again, and for a second you saw the calculation behind her eyes. Not just annoyance, but some fear… because maybe she was protecting you. Maybe she was managing you. Maybe those two things had just become so tangled over the years that neither of you knew how to separate them anymore.

Her voice lowered. “And if the fans still talk?” 

You looked at the monitor, at the version of you that always came off untouchable. Then you looked at Jungkook. He was still watching you, no smile, no teasing, just a steady stream of attention that always made you feel like he could see the parts of you everyone else would mistake as strength. 

Your heart kicked painfully as you looked back to Manager Lee. “Then they talk.” You shrugged. 

Her brows lifted, and you swallowed once. “They’re going to talk either way,” you added. “If he stands behind me, they talk. If he doesn’t, they talk. If I smile, they talk. If I don’t, they talk. I can’t keep building my whole career around avoiding someone’s slowmo edit.” She said nothing. “So, let me do my job. Let us do the performance the way it was built.” 

No one moved for a long moment, then Manager Lee looked towards BTS’s staff. A silent conversation passed between people paid too much money to make invisible decisions for you all. 

Finally, the assistant director cleared his throat. “We can try one take with the original blocking and adjusted camera.” 

Manager Lee did not look happy. But she also didn’t say no. You nearly sagged with relief, but instead nodded once, professional and controlled. “Thank you.” 

Manager Lee leaned closer as people began resetting, her voice only loud enough for you to hear. “This is not over.” 

You gave her a thin smile, “yeah, I know.” 

She held your gaze before stepping away. Your pulse was still slamming, your hands were shaking faintly so you curled them into fists before anyone could notice. 

Jungkook did, though. He appeared beside you as the room shifted back into place, close enough to speak but not so close that anyone could accuse either of you of anything. Always that measured distance now. Always that invisible forsaken line neither of you could stop finding.

His voice was low, “That was…” 

You looked at him. “Stupid? Suicidal?”

“Hot.”

Your eyes widened. “Jungkook–”

“What?” he asked, all innocence, but his eyes were bright again. Alive again. “You told them to change the camera.” 

“I did not do all of that so you could flirt with me.” 

“I know that.” 

“Do you?” 

“Yes.” He leaned the slightest bit closer, voice dropping. “I’m flirting because you did all that.” 

You almost laughed. You killed it immediately, but not before his smile deepened like he had won something. Your chest hurt, god, it hurt. There he was again, not unreachable or erased, right behind that invisible line, waiting. You looked away before your face could betray you. 

“Don’t make me regret it.” 

His expression softened. “I won’t.” 

Like always, his sincerity was worse than his flirting. You nodded and stepped into position. When Bloom formed behind you and BTS moved around you, the room felt different, felt more awake.

Jungkook took his place behind you, close enough for the choreography and the ache. You caught his reflection again in the mirror. For a second, he let himself smile. Small and private and proud. Your heart stuttered. The music started and you moved, and on the count of six, Jungkook crossed behind you again. 

His hand extended through the turn exactly as adjusted, never hovering, never touching, cleaner than before. The camera caught the motion from the left, no illusion of contact, no scandalous frame, but the tension was there. Worse, maybe, because now it felt intentional. You hit the next count with your chin lifted and fire in your chest. Behind you, Jungkook matched you perfectly. For the first time in years, you danced not like something had been stolen from you, but like you’d taken it back. 

The take was good, not in the clipped way that Manager Lee’s revision was. It was good. The room felt it the second the music cut. The final pose held, one count after another. Your chest heaved and sweat slid down your spine. Your hands were still shaped exactly where the choreography left them, fingers splayed, chin lifted, Bloom fanned out behind you like a flower opening. Jungkook stood behind your shoulder, the energy of him burned at your back.

“That’s it,” the choreographer muttered. 

A ripple went through the room, recognition and congratulations spreading infectiously. It had all finally clicked into place, you could still feel the irritation coming from different figures because it had taken arguing to get there. The assistant director leaned over the monitor, replaying the bridge. “Camera angle works,” he confirmed.

Manager Lee didn’t speak. That was how you knew you’d won. Not permanently or cleanly, or without dues waiting to be paid somewhere down the line… but for that moment, in the rehearsal room where everyone had tried to sand down the edges of the performance, you had won.

You stepped out of formation and reached for your water, but Mina passed it to you before you could grab it yourself. Her eyes were sparkling. “You’re so getting yelled at later,” she whispered. 

“I know,” you nodded, taking the bottle. “Probably sooner than I’d like.”

“Worth it?” 

You looked toward the monitor, where your body and Jungkook’s shadow moved through the bridge again. The shot was pristine. Electric. There was no cheap almost-touching or accidental scandal, only tension and performance. Both were proof you were right. 

You lifted the bottle to your mouth. “So worth it.” 

Mina grinned, “that’s our girl.” 

Across the room, BTS had gathered around the playback too. Namjoon watched with a thoughtful frown as Hoseok talked animatedly with the choreographer, hands moving like he was already tweaking details in his head. Yoongi glanced over at you once and gave a small approving nod. 

Your eyes found Jungkook as they always tended to do. He was watching the monitor with Namjoon, for once not watching you. So you studied him. The set of his shoulders, the damp hair curling slightly under his beanie, the line of his jaw when he clenched it like there was something he wanted to say and had decided against it.

You knew that look because you wore it all the time. 

Manager Lee appeared at your side. “Hallway,” she said. 

You capped your water slowly. “Now?”  Mina’s smile dropped. 

“Yes.” Her tone didn’t invite argument.

Unfortunately for her, you’d apparently discovered you had a fresh appetite for it. “We’re still rehearsing.” 

“You have five minutes before reset.” 

“Then say whatever you need to say here.” 

She looked at you with exhausted disbelief. “Do not push me on this.” 

You met her eyes, and for a second, you almost did push her. There was still adrenaline in you. Still heat, and a reckless, wild pulse that had made you speak up in the first place. The part of you that had been quiet for years was awake now, pacing behind your eyes and showing teeth. 

But then Hana looked over. Your youngest member’s face was carefully blank, but her fingers were twisted around the hem of her shirt. Watching and learning, not just the choreography. 

You exhaled through your nose and set the water bottle down. “Fine.”

Manager Lee turned toward the door and you followed. The hallway outside the rehearsal room was colder, quieter, and washed in ugly fluorescent light. The noise of the room dulled behind the closed door, leaving only the low hum of vents and the distant thud of base from another studio.

She walked a few steps away from the door before stopping. You didn’t make her begin because you were petty enough for silence. 

She turned on you. “What was that?” 

You folded your arms. “Which part? The choreography is extensive.” 

Her eyebrows lifted. “Do not.” 

You smiled again without warmth. “Use your words. I’m emotional, remember?” 

Her jaw tightened and a small mean part of you enjoyed it. A more tired part of you hated that it had come to this at all. 

“You undermined me in front of two groups, three management teams, and production staff.” she said. “The girls, YN.”

“I disagreed with you.” 

“You challenged a decision that was made for your benefit.” 

“No. I challenged a lazy solution.” Her eyes flashed, but you kept going before she could cut in. “Moving him out of the formation was easier than fixing the shot. That doesn’t mean it was better.” 

“You are not seeing the bigger picture.” 

You laughed once. “Did you not hear what I said in there? I am always seeing the bigger picture. That’s the problem.” You stepped closer, lowering your voice because you were angry, not stupid. “I see it when I tell Mina not to post something because a joke reads differently across the world. I see it when Lila stumbles in Korean and I jump in before people can clip it. I see it when people call Bloom experimental like we’re not human beings who had to leave home and become experts in being observed. I see the bigger picture so much that sometimes I forget I’m in it.” 

Her expression shifted slightly, not soft but not untouched. You hated it because you saw it, that she wasn’t some cartoon villain trying to ruin your life. She looked like a woman with too many emails, too many fires to put out, and a job that already probably required her to think of every single possible disaster before it happened. But she was also standing in front of you and asking you to be grateful for a cage because the bars were padded. 

“I know what you carry,” she said carefully. 

“No,” you said. “You know what I’m useful for.” 

You regretted the words immediately, because they were true and they hurt her. You could see it.Those were always the ugliest truths, the ones that came out sharp enough to damage because you had spent too long shoving them down.

“You think I don’t fight for you…?” 

Your anger faltered.

“You think that I don’t sit in rooms and tell men twice my own age that you are not difficult, you are exhausted? That Bloom does not need to be simpler for people to understand and connect with you? That you do not need to smile more in American interviews or soften your tone in Korean ones?” 

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

“I fight for you, for all of you, all the time.”

You swallowed. “That doesn’t mean you get to silence me.” 

“I am trying to keep you safe.” 

“I know.” 

“Do you?” 

“Yes,” your voice cracked slightly. “But lately it feels like safe and small are being made the same thing.”

She didn’t reply. Behind the rehearsal room door, music started again briefly, then cut off. Someone laughed as someone else called for water. Life continued, and yours felt suspended by a thread. You took a breath. 

“I know there are rules,” you said. “I know what fans can do. I know what companies can do. I’m not asking to be reckless.” 

Her gaze sharpened on you again because she heard the thing underneath your words. The person underneath them. Jungkook. Not just the choreography or the camera or your bruised pride. 

Her expression turned into something that made your stomach drop. “Oh, YN–”

“No,” you said, stepping back immediately.

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“Your face did.” 

She looked tired now, less angry. “Is it serious?” 

Your whole body locked in response, there were a thousand answers you could have given. No. Of course not. We’re just friends. We barely know each other. It’s just banter. It’s nothing.

You had actually practiced them in your head. Every idol did because denial was practically part of media training. Keep your face open, keep your tone amused, make the idea sound so silly that everyone feels ridiculous for believing it. But in the hallway, with Manager Lee looking at you like a person instead of a problem, the lies felt too heavy to lift. 

You said nothing, and she closed her eyes briefly. “YN.” 

“It’s not anything,” you said quickly. 

She opened her eyes, and looked gentle. 

“It isn’t,” you insisted, too fast. “Nothing happened. Nothing is happening. We don’t– there’s no–” 

You stopped as she inhaled slowly. “Does he know that?” 

You looked at the floor, the scuff on it near your sneaker. You focused on that because it was easier than focusing on the fact that, yes, Jungkook knew. Of course he knew. He knew more than you wanted him to, but he also knew you didn’t want him to stop. He knew you were scared, and that you could say no to him with your mouth and yes with every other part of you, brain included. 

Your manager’s silence became answer enough. 

“You’re the leader,” she said finally. 

Something in you recoiled. “I know.” 

“You are not the only one who pays if this goes badly.” 

“I know.”

“Bloom is still small enough that people are waiting for reasons to dismiss you.” 

“I know.” 

“Then act like it.” 

Your head lifted, and there it was again, the old anger all hot and bitter. “I do.” 

“Not tonight you didn’t.” 

“Yes,” you snapped. “Tonight especially. I am not going to teach my members that leadership means letting people cut away pieces of your autonomy until you’re ‘easy’ to manage. I’m not going to show them that the second someone says ‘optics,’ we fold. I’m not going to tell them their instincts don’t matter because some imaginary fan edit might maybe happen. I am careful, I am painfully careful, but I am not dead or spineless.” Your chest rose and fell and your voice softened, not because anger had left you, but because the truth beneath it all hurt. “I don’t want them to become those things either.” 

She stayed quiet again, and for a long minute you could not read her. Then she looked away and one hand came up to rub at her temple. “You’re impossible.” 

A laugh slipped out of you, small and tired. “Yeah.” 

“I mean it.” 

“I know you do.” 

She sighed like she was trying not to care, but was failing miserably. “I will talk to production about the original blocking.” 

You blinked, and she pointed at you immediately. “Do not look victorious.” 

You attempted to arrange your face but failed. She shook her head. “You’re still not to be alone with him,” she added. 

Your almost-smile disappeared immediately. “There it is.” 

“Yes. There it is.” Her voice was firm again. “I am not punishing you. I am setting a boundary before the two of you do something stupid.” 

Your mouth fell open. “Stupid?” 

“You heard me.” 

You laughed, just once, and then the ache came back because the boundary was reasonable and you also hated it. Because Jungkook was still behind the door, close enough to walk to, far enough to remain untouched, and somehow that sentiment encompassed your life now. 

Manager Lee studied your face. “You need to decide what matters most.” 

You looked at her. The answer should have been easy. 

Bloom. Always and forever, Bloom. Your girls. Your dream. The years you spent scraping yourself raw for a chance to stand in rooms like this. The little leader title you carried like armor even when it dug into your skin. But Jungkook’s face appeared in your mind anyway. His quiet Do you want me to stop? Your terribly honest No.

Manager Lee saw enough in your expression to sigh again. “God help me,” she muttered. 

You frowned. “What?” 

“Nothing. Go back inside.” 

She started toward the rehearsal room, and you followed her footsteps again. Right before she opened the door, she paused. Without turning around, she said, “And YN?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Emotions are good. Just make sure when they’re heated ones, you bite the right people.” 

She opened the door then and walked back in like she had not just knocked the air out of your lungs. You stood there for a second stupidly before stepping in yourself. 

The room had shifted while you were gone. People were scattered again, finishing up the reset for another run. Bloom was gathered near the speakers, pretending they had not been staring at the door. BTS was near the mirror, talking amongst themselves.

Jungkook looked up the second you entered. His eyes moved over you quickly, searching, asking if you were okay without saying it out loud. You gave him the smallest nod. Barely anything. His shoulders loosened by a fraction, and he pulled out his phone. 

Yours buzzed a second later. You didn’t look at him, wouldn’t risk it after the hallway debacle. You reached for your phone with the calm of a woman handling a live grenade.

JK: did you win?

Your mouth twitched before you could stop it. You angled the screen away from Mina, who immediately leaned closer because she had the instincts of a raccoon near a trash can.

YN: depends who’s asking ig

Across the room, Jungkook looked down at his phone and his lips curved.

JK: the guy who got his spot back

He glanced up, found you watching him, and smirked. You looked down fast. 

YN: then yes

Three dots appeared, disappeared, and then appeared again. Your heart did something embarrassing. 

JK: you were scary

YN: good

JK: no

JK: not good

JK: dangerous 

Your thumb hovered over the keyboard. Dangerous. You should not have liked that, but obviously, you liked that.

YN: you should be careful then

JK: i am

JK: it sucks

You stopped breathing for a second. The room continued moving around you as staff adjusted marks, the choreographer called for positions, Mina asked if you were alive and you ignored her completely.

Your phone felt warm in your hand. You should have put it away or locked the screen. You should have remembered the hallway, the warnings, the rules, your manager’s tired eyes when she said you are not the only one who pays.

YN: don’t do that

JK: do what?

YN: text sappy shit like u mean it

JK: i do mean it

JK: that sucks too

The choreographer clapped loudly. “Back to first positions!” 

Mina looked at you with an expression that was half concern, half I knew it, half ready to beat someone with a folding chair. Three halves, very Mina.

“You good?” she asked quietly.

You looked at Jungkook one last time, he was putting his phone away too. Professional face returning. Distance settled back over him like a coat. “Yeah,” you said.

Mina’s eyes narrowed. You lifted your chin. “I’m good.” 

It was not true. Not even close to a partial truth, but the music was about to start and your group was watching, and Manager Lee was standing by the monitor with her arms folded, and Jungkook was moving back into position behind you. 

So you became good. You became the leader, the center, smart and careful, as the track began. 

The rehearsal ended at 1:17 am, not that you were counting (you absolutely were.)

You counted every minute after Jungkook whispered “good job, leader,” under the music like he had any right to be proud of you after the first run through. You counted every step, every water break, every small adjustment production made to justify keeping the original blocking after all.

You counted the number of times his eyes found yours in the mirror, which was seven. You counted the number of times you looked away first, which was six. You were winning by one, which was maybe petty, but leadership required small victories.

By the time the choreographer finally clapped his hands and called it for the night, your entire body felt wrung out. Your legs ached, your hair had escaped its ponytail in soft, damp pieces around your face. Your throat was dry from calling counts and corrections, and your phone had been buzzing with messages from your company group chat for the past twenty minutes.

You knew what they were. 

Manager Lee had gone quiet after your hallway spat, which meant the lecture had likely evolved. It had grown legs or reproduced or become an email thread with subject lines like URGENT: REHEARSAL CONDUCT REVIEW and MAMA COLLAB OPTICS–FOLLOW UP.

You were thrilled to be murdered professionally. Couldn’t wait. 

“Good work today,” the choreographer said, looking between both groups. “Next week we’ll run with full camera rehearsal and wardrobe pieces. Rest and ice your knees. Do not go live with any of this stuff. Do not post clips. Do not leak anything unless you want me to personally hunt you down.” 

Mina raised a hand. “Can I leak that I almost broke my elbow on the last drop?” 

“No.” 

“What about–” 

“No.” 

“Buzzkill.” 

A few people laughed at Mina’s antics, you didn’t. You were too busy pretending not to notice Jungkook standing by the mirror, towel around his neck, talking to one of his managers while looking like he was listening to absolutely nothing. His manager said something. Jungkook nodded and then his eyes flicked to you, just once before they glanced back down at the floor. 

The room began to empty in small pieces. Staff packed cameras, assistants gathered water bottles, tape marks, discarded towels. Your members moved around you in various states of collapse, drama, and hunger. 

Lila was wrapped in her hoodie like a burrito. “I think I left my soul in the back half of the bridge on that final run.” 

Mina slung an arm around her shoulders. “Leave it. It belongs to the MAMA ghosts now.” 

Sasha, who had been mostly quiet for the last hour, glanced at you while zipping her bag. “You okay?” 

You looked up at the sound of her careful tone, gave her the leader smile. “Yeah. Just tired.” 

Mina snorted, and you shot her a look. “Girl, that smile can’t fool a toddler.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“Fine is what people say when they’re either about to cry or do something shitty, like cheating.” 

“Or all of those things,” Lila said faintly from inside her hoodie. 

You sighed. “Can we please not psychoanalyze me in front of the production crew?” 

“We can psychoanalyze you in the van,” Mina offered. 

“Great. Looking forward to Hell.” 

Sasha touched your elbow lightly. “Manager Lee said we’re leaving in ten.” 

You nodded. “Okay.” 

Your manager had not said it to you directly. You glanced toward the door. She was there still, speaking quietly with someone from BTS’s team, her posture straight and tense. Always professional. You wondered if she had ever been like you, and the thought turned over something uncomfortable in your chest. 

You bent to grab your bag, but another hand reached it first, tattooed and strong. 

“Don’t,” you said quietly. 

Jungkook paused before lowering your bag to the floor like it was a bomb he had politely decided not to detonate. “Sorry.” 

“You don’t have to apologize for trying to be nice.” You straightened slowly and slung your bag over your shoulder yourself. It was heavier than you expected, or maybe you were just tired enough for everything to feel like it was more.

His mouth curved slightly, but his eyes stayed serious. “Feels like I do.” 

You looked away, looked at the people who were still around. Too many of them. Staff crossing behind them, your members pretending not to stare from the speaker corner, Jimin looking over with the subtlety of a circus elephant.

“You shouldn’t come over here,” you whispered. 

“Mmm,” he nodded. “And yet.” 

You looked at him, which, admittedly, was your mistake. He looked exhausted too, but softer around the edges because of it. Less golden maknae, more boy at the end of a very long night, still unwilling to leave without making sure the damage he’d done earlier hadn’t completely eviscerated your heart.

“You’re going to get me in trouble,” you said. 

His eyes dipped briefly, not to your mouth, but to the tense line of your shoulders. “I think you’re already in trouble.” 

You huffed. “Thanks.” 

“Not because of me.” 

You gave him a look, to which he tilted his head, conceding. “Okay, maybe partly because of me.” 

“Mostly because of me,” you admitted.

“That’s what I was going to say, but I’m scared of you now.” 

Your mouth twitched and his face brightened a fraction. Another problem to add to your list. Every time you gave him an inch of softness, he looked like you had handed him something big and beautiful and irreplaceable. 

You shut it down fast, “I’m serious.” 

“So am I.” 

“No. You’re not.” 

His smile faded. The room picked up behind you. Zippers closed, wheels rolled across polished wood, laughter peeled from the hallway, managers exchanged final notes. Jungkook stepped closer. “I’m serious all the time with you.” 

Your fingers tightened on your bag strap immediately. You wanted to be mean. You wanted to be very mean. There was safety in it. Sharpness. It was a familiar little door you could slam shut before anyone got close enough to see the mess existing inside you. But you had already used up so much anger, and beneath it there was only a heavy sense of tired.

“Don’t say that here,” you whispered. 

His gaze flicked around the room before landing back on you. “Where should I say it?” 

Your breath caught when the question didn’t land like a simple line. He asked it like a question he actually wanted answered, not a practiced quick pick-up that worked on backup dancers or instructors. He asked it like some impossible place where the two of you could speak plainly and not be punished for it might exist. 

A hallway without cameras, or a city without fans, or a life without limitless contracts. You could almost picture it, which was a new cruelty in and of itself. You let out a quiet laugh with zero humor in it. “There isn’t anywhere.” 

Jungkook’s jaw tightened and for a second he looked young again, like he did eras ago when he was just a picture on a billboard or an online article, and not a man you’d spoken to many times and had texted privately without your managers knowing even more so. He also looked hurt in a way that was unhidden.

“You really believe that?” he asked.

You stared at him. Did you?

You definitely believed in rules. You believed in consequences even more. You believed in fans who would love you until they felt betrayed by an imagined version of you. You believed in companies that called you family while reminding you they owned your schedule, image, and voice at certain hours of the day.

You believed in Bloom… in your girls. 

And Jungkook was asking you to believe in something additional, between all of that. You hated him for being brave enough to even imagine it.

“I have to,” you answered. 

Disappointment flickered fast across his face. Not disappointment in you, exactly, but disappointment in your answer. 

“Right.” 

“I’m trying to be honest, Jungkook.” 

“I know,” he nodded.

“Please stop that.”

He laughed under his breath, but it sounded rough and wrong. “Sorry, I’ll schedule my feelings better next time.” 

Your eyes snapped up at the bite in his voice. He still wasn’t trying to be cruel or loud or hard with you, but the anger had shown face. “You don’t need to do that either.” 

“So you get to be upset with your manager today, but I don’t get to be upset with you?” 

“None of this is my choice, Jungkook,” Your brows furrowed, breath leaving you in an astonished laugh. Your blood heated as you took half a step closer.  

“That is…” he shook his head. “That’s just sad, YN.” 

Your stomach dropped and you worked hard to keep your face still. Mina tensed near the door, still watching over you while the other members chatted with a mix of production crew members and backup dancers.

“That is rich,” you scoffed. 

“Is it?” Jungkook replied, eyes narrowing.

“Yes,” your voice stayed low. “Coming from the man who eats, breathes and sleeps NDA’s and limited public outings? I mean, be serious, Jungkook. I’ve heard stories. You flirt until shit gets real and then you hide behind having contractual obligations and policies.”

His face went still. Part of you was happy with the way your words hit him, and you should have left it there. But you didn’t. 

“You want to ask me if there’s something between us? Fine. Ask. Go ahead. You want to act hurt when I won’t say the thing out loud in a room full of people paid to keep me profitable? Fine. Be hurt. Do whatever. You don’t get to stand here and pretend that you’re not also choosing the easier version of this, too, though.” 

His gaze sharpened on you. “Easy version?” 

“Yeah. This picture you have in your head that somehow makes me the scared one. The one who won’t own up to whatever this is,” you whisper, motioning between the two of you.

His jaw ticked. You had never seen Jungkook like this before. Still controlled, still aware of the room, but something was under his expression. Something dark and stung and painful. “You think this has just been easy for me?” 

“I think people forgive you faster,” you shrug.

Jungkook blinked and your chest tightened. The words were out there, and you couldn’t take them back. So you kept moving forward, quieter. “You know they do.”

He looked away for a second, which was enough to tell you that he knew exactly what you meant. It was not his fault. Jungkook hadn’t built the industry. He hadn’t invented the double standards that made male desire romantic and female desire reckless. He hadn’t asked to become a symbol people projected purity and fantasy onto until every human thing he did became either worshipped or weaponized. He just lived in a different version of your cage. Bigger, but still locked. 

You swallowed. “If this went wrong, you’d be heartbroken. Maybe you’d be criticized, maybe watched more closely.” 

His eyes met yours. “And you?” 

You gave him a humorless little smile. “I’d become the girl who distracted Jungkook.” 

His expression cracked and you nodded once, like he had finally caught up. He said nothing and you hated the silence. “I become selfish,” you explained. “Calculating. Too flirty, not serious enough. Too forward, too much. Bloom would become the group with the leader who couldn’t keep her hands clean during their first MAMA collab. My members would answer for me in interviews. My company would stop trusting me in any rooms ever. Fans would start looking at every interaction I have with any idol as possible evidence for another dating scandal.” Your throat burned. “And maybe you end up defending me, maybe you don’t. Maybe you can’t. Either way, I’m the story.” 

Jungkook’s face was tired under the flush of rehearsal. “I wouldn’t let that happen.” 

“You wouldn’t be able to stop it.”

He flinched at the words neither of you had been able to say in the eight months of intermittent phone calls and texts. The eight months of memes exchanged over various social media outlets. The words hurt, but they were true. Jungkook, who could sell out stadiums, break records, trend worldwide by breathing differently, could still not protect you from the thing loving him would turn you into. 

Not publicly, not completely, and not without costing you both.

“Maybe you’re right,” he sighed. You wished he would say something stupid, or arrogant, something worthy of making you hate him, even. Instead he just looked at you with horrible and steady honesty. “Maybe I can’t stop people from talking, maybe I can’t make things fair. But stop telling me I’m choosing an easy version of things. I’m still reaching out. Still coming up to talk to you. You’re the one who keeps deciding for the both of us.” 

Your head snapped back. “What?” 

“You heard me.” 

You stared at him, too stunned to speak. He stepped back. “You tell me what’s impossible. You tell me what fans will say. You tell me what I can and can’t do. You tell me when I’m allowed to flirt with you and when I have to pretend like I don’t want to. You gonna get mad when I listen and finally stop reaching out, too?” 

Your mouth open and closed, and you realized that he wasn’t wrong. You would build up a stupid wall, brick by brick, and then hate it when he didn’t tear himself up trying to bring it down. His face softened when he saw your face.

He sighed quietly. “YN–”

“YN. Van is here.” Manager Lee called from across the room.

You both turned. She stood near the door, looking between you and Jungkook. Her expression didn’t change much, but you knew that while she hadn’t heard everything, she had heard enough. Your throat tightened and you adjusted your bag on your shoulder. 

“Coming,” you nodded.

Jungkook said nothing. You passed by him slowly, turned once when he continued to be silent. For once, he looked vulnerable. Looked like he was waiting for you to choose anything but leaving with Manager Lee. You hated your fear, then.

“Good rehearsal,” you told him.

The words sounded awful as soon as they left your mouth. They were flat and polite. A door closing. His face shuttered, though not completely. “Yeah. Good rehearsal.” 

You deserved it, but it still hurt. You turned away before any of the pain could register on your face. Mina was waiting by the door still, arms folded, face unreadable in a way that meant she was choosing between hugging you and calling you out on your bullshit. Hana hovered beside her, quieter but equally concerned. Manager Lee held the door open. You walked through it and did not look back.

The van waited outside beneath the black entrance awning. Seoul at night glowed around the building, pavement slick from rain you hadn’t seen start. Security moved ahead, checking the side alleys. A staff member opened the van door. You climbed in first, Mina slid in after and sat beside you without asking. The others piled in quietly, Manager Lee in the front passenger seat.

No one spoke for almost three blocks.

“So,” Mina started. 

“‘So,’” you mimicked. “Let’s not, please.” 

“I wasn’t going to say anything.” 

“Mina.” 

She softened a little, leaning in to bump your shoulder and whisper quietly. “Did he hurt you?” 

Your eyes stayed closed. “No.” 

“Did you hurt him?” 

The answer sat between you in the dark van, ugly and obvious. 

Mina sighed. “Oh, babe.” 

“I don’t want to talk about it, Mina.” 

“Okay.” 

That surprised you enough to open your eyes. She was looking out the window, jaw set. 

“That’s it?” 

“For now,” she shrugged.

“That is ominous.” 

“I’m being respectful. It’s new for me,” Mina offered.

Hana, from the back row, whispered, “I hated that.”

You turned slightly. “What?”

“You saying good rehearsal.” She peeked out from her hood, face scrunched. “That was nasty.”

Sasha nodded gravely. “You said ‘good rehearsal?’ Brutal.”

You stared at them.

Mina pointed at Hana. “See? Even baby mushroom knows.”

“I panicked,” you muttered.

“No shit,” Mina said.

Manager Lee made a sound from the front. “Language.” 

Mina leaned forward. “Respectfully, tonight seems like a bad night to police language.” 

Your phone buzzed in your lap. You looked down, no message preview, just a notification from your private account. Your pulse jumped and you unlocked your screen before you could talk yourself out of it.

JK: sorry

Your chest caved in around the word. Mina leaned in, and you shoved your phone against your chest. “Privacy, Mina.” 

“I saw nothing,” she smiled. 

“You saw everything.” 

“I saw five letters and a period. Devastating punctuation, honestly.”

Your fingers hovered over your screen. You shouldn’t reply. Not with your members around, and especially not with your manager in the front seat. Not with your heart still bruised from words that were too true on both sides. Your phone buzzed again. 

JK: i shouldn’t have said it like that.

You stared at the message until the letters blurred. Mina was quiet beside you. You typed, deleted, typed again… deleted. Before your courage could completely evaporate, you replied.

YN: no, you should’ve

Three dots appeared almost immediately, then disappeared, then appeared again. You watched them unblinkingly.

JK: i don’t want to make things harder for you.

Your throat tightened and you stared out the window. Watched Seoul pass by in smears of wet neon, at your own reflection staring back at you from the glass. You looked tired, young, and not untouchable at all.

YN: you do

YN: but not because you’re doing something wrong

He didn’t answer right away. The lapse of response stretched long enough for Mina to stop pretending she wasn’t invested. She reached over and squeezed your knee once.

JK: what do u want me to do? 

It was a reshaped version of the questions from earlier. Do you want me to stop? Where should I say it? What do you want me to do? He kept asking like your answer mattered more than the rules you were sworn by contracts to live by. 

YN: I don’t know

YN: but I don’t want you to disappear.

Your heart hammered so loudly you were sure everyone inside the van could hear it. Three dots, gone, three dots, gone. 

JK: okay

JK: I won’t

Your mouth trembled and you pressed your lips together hard. Mina leaned against your shoulder like she was pretending to be casual, but her hand found yours on the seat and squeezed. Those two little words he sent sat on your lap and stared up at you. A promise that was small enough to survive between the two of you, but not big enough to build anything on. It wouldn’t stand against companies, fans, contracts, or rules. But it’d last the night. It was enough for the night. Enough that when the van stopped at a red light, and Manager Lee glanced back at you through the mirror, you didn’t look away. 

She held your gaze and you held hers. Neither of you spoke. Your phone buzzed again. 

JK: and for the record

JK: good rehearsal was the meanest thing anyone has ever said to me

YN: you deserved it

JK: maybe

JK: next time i piss you off tho just tell me to shut up

You stared at the second text. Next time. Dangerous.

YN: shut up, jungkook

That very same morning, the secret door to her bedroom opened and the warlord appeared. Only years of etiquette and finishing lessons kept the scream in her throat and the covers yanked up to her chest.

“My lady,” he said, looking down at her in concern. “Are you ill? It’s almost noon and you’re still in bed.”

“I’m well. I - I have only just awoken,” she stammered.

His gaze roved over her again, picking out the mussed sleep braid, the flush on her cheeks that traveled down her neck, the death grip her fingers had on her bedclothes.

“I see. I apologize deeply for the intrusion.” He darted his gaze respectfully to the window. “Will you dress and meet me in your sitting room?”

“Of course,” she said, heart pounding.

He bowed and left through the proper door, leading out to the sitting room. The Queen sat up, heart thudding in her ears. Only her mother, her maids, and her husband ever saw her in this state of undress. Perhaps the warlord’s culture had different modesty rules. He didn’t seem to bat an eyelash at the intimacy of her bedroom, and only looked away when he noticed her embarrassment.

Not wanting him to investigate what was taking so long, the Queen hurried out of bed, brushed out her sleep braid and pulled it up into a bun, and dressed in one of her linen dresses. It still felt scandalously informal to meet him dressed thusly, but she had no other options at such short notice. Perhaps she could convince him to give her a maid after she had earned his trust.

The warlord sat at the table containing the chess set, eying each piece thoughtful.

“What a beautiful set of pieces,” he said as she walked in and sat down across from him. “And who, might I inquire, are you playing against?”

She flushed again. “Myself, only.”

“How terribly lonely you must be, to resort to such measures,” he said, gently mocking. “I admit, I wanted to check in on you earlier, but I have been busier than expected.”

“Busy. . .with what?” she dared to ask.

“I’m sure I won’t need to explain to you all the headaches that come with ruling. Establishing a new regime is even more grueling.” He gestured at the chessboard. “Would you like to play a round or two while I have the time?”

Establishing a new regime. . .  And just what did that entail? The pit in her stomach grew. She should have known his kindness, his respect, his mercy, was too good to be true. Perhaps he thought it a sick joke to have her oblivious while he obliterated her people and replaced them with his own.

“My lady . . .are you alright?”

He pressed that searching gaze against her, eyes flicking over her face, and she felt like he could see into her mind. Her husband had been an oblivious buffoon — she couldn’t get used to the terrifying way the warlord could observe and analyze her.

“Yes,” she lied, swallowing hard to keep her expression neutral. “I’m afraid I’m just still disoriented from sleep. We can certainly play a game if you like.”

This did not appease him. He stepped closer to her and she held her ground, struggling to keep her neutral expression. Every instinct begged her to break eye contact, as if that would stop him from seeing.

“You have had no one to speak to but my guards,” he said.

Even though it wasn’t a question, she confirmed it for him anyway. “No, my lord.”

“And they have not given you any information about what is going on outside your rooms.”

“ . . .no, my lord.”

He tilted his head to the side. “I told you I would take care of you and your people. Do you not trust me to keep my word?”

He sounded more disappointed than angry, but still the question hovered over her like an executioner’s axe.

“I think . . .I am in prime position to be lied to,” she said after careful deliberation. “I have no way to confirm or deny what you tell me. If I hadn’t given you my city on a platter, you would have broken it to pieces to get inside.”

“I see.” His expression gave nothing away. “Come. Let me show you something.”

He walked over to the doors to the hallway and opened them. The guards who stood blocking the way stepped to the side in an instant. She stared at the open door, the glimpse of the hallway outside, feeling like she was about to step onto a bear trap.

“Come, my lady. It’s alright.”

He held out his arm and though she wanted nothing more than to run to her bedchamber and lock herself in, the Queen stepped forward and took it. The warlord led her out into the hallway and towards the stairs. Her gaze darted around her home, looking for signs of his impunity, of death. The only differences he had made so far were to hang the flag of his country over hers and replace a few of the tapestries with the geometric patterns of his culture.

They climbed stairs until they made it to the rooftop terrace, a private garden her great grandmother had commissioned for herself a hundred years ago. None of the plants seemed to have suffered under their new care.

The warlord led her to the edge of the terrace, where the wall grazed against her chest, and gestured to the city below.

“Have a look for yourself, my lady.”

And look she did. The city sprawled beneath her, bustling as it always had. The tents of the marketplace fluttered in the wind, joined by the brightly colored tents of the warlord’s people. Soldiers in his deep red and purple uniforms dotted the walls, where they repaired the damage they made with their cannons. Ships dotted the river outside the harbor and she merchant flags and fisherman flags among the war ships.

What she didn’t see was death. No gallows in the square, no bodies hanging over the walls, no violence in the streets. The city was loud in the way cities were supposed to be loud — not with screaming but with life.

It had been but a week and there was still time for the warlord to betray her but this sight alone eased the knot in her stomach. It brought tears of relief to her eyes and she let them fall, tired of hiding.

“I keep my promises, my lady,” he murmured. “What reason have I given you to doubt me?”

“I know your reputation,” she said, keeping her eyes trained on her city. “On the battlefield you are tenacious, bloodthirsty, and ruthless. Yet I have only seen your kindness, patience, and mercy. It seems too good to be real.”

He turned her gently around to face him.“What I give you is basic respect and dignity. I do not know what indignity your husband inflicted on you for you to consider these things a luxury, but it will not happen again.”

And there it was: the crux of her disbelief.

“How are you the same man who haunts the nightmares of my soldiers, whose appearance outside my walls drove my husband to prefer suicide than facing you?” she demanded. “How is this version of you just as real as that one? How do they coexist in the same body?”

His gloved hand wiped away the wet residue of her tears. “I am a cruel man on the battlefield, but we are not on the battlefield,” he said slowly. “I am a nightmare in war but we are not at war any longer. I have no purpose for that side of me when I am not with my enemy and I do not consider you my enemy.”

Her eyebrows raised. “Do you lock away all your allies?”

He chuckled, almost bashfully. “No. You are my prisoner because it is prudent and logical to be so while I establish myself with the power that was formally yours. As your captor I have a duty of care and you will receive the best care I can give you. You saved your people by choosing peaceful surrender — I will not have you punished for it.”

“How noble,” she said. “And you wonder why I find you hard to believe.”

He gave her a crooked smile. “I have all the time in the world to persuade you otherwise. Now — shall we have that chess match?”

After that day, he made sure to take her to the terrace as often as he could.

Part 5 Here