jo @aerohmantics - Tumblr Blog

Jul 20

Mystery of Love || 18+

Synopsis: Love, in both your opinions was a duty to be fulfilled. The universe, however, had more poetic plans for you.

Pairing: husband!euijoo x fem!reader

Warnings: SMUT MINORS DNI, p in v, unprotected sex (not for you), fingering, arranged marriage au, mention of food, harua suffering, my sappy ass + euijoo so you guys know what's coming, euijoo just really really loves your neck

A/N: incase everybody didn't know I LOVE BYUN EUIJOO so yeah i wouldnt be surprised if i get favouritism allegations with this one lol ugh i just love the concept of falling in love slowly with someone like this so soft and gentle AND YES EUIJOO EMBODIES ALL OF THAT GET OUT I NEED TO CRY. As always, enjoy, my darlings!

Word Count: 17k (wanted to write vows too but eh)

SERIES MASTERLIST

The world can be so very kind.

Butterflies can land on your fingers and stay there, the ocean waves can rush to your toes while you stand on the beach, afternoon rain can drench you through and leave you laughing at the sight of yourself.

The world shows us its love in so many ways. It expects nothing more than for us to show that love back.

You had so much love inside of you that you did not know what to do with it.

But as the First Princess, you knew your love. It was nothing but your duty. You'd been trained from childhood to take love with a grain of salt, for it all ended in aristocratic agreements and arranged marriages anyways.

Which was how you managed to keep a straight face and a cordial smile as you signed onto the dotted line of the marriage certificate, your citizenship now officially that of Iriandel's.

Right next to your initials were the neatly signed letters of your to-be husband.

Byun Euijoo, the king of Iriandel.

The second prince of Iriandel, the one who had never been meant to rule. You'd heard of him through all the whispers that traveled across the borders.

His older brother, Yudai, had been the golden child—the heir, the warrior, the diplomat. But he had abdicated without warning, leaving the crown to fall, heavy and unexpected, onto Euijoo's head.

And now, to retain stability within the lush, verdant kingdom, he required a wife. A queen. An alliance.

That wife was you.

You had met him only once before today—this signing, this respectful, formal ceremony in the gilded study of the Iriandel palace. He had been waiting for your delegation by the window, the afternoon light spilling over him like honey. You had felt your breath catch before you could stop it.

Byun Euijoo was handsome of course.

It was an undeniable truth, even if you held no feelings within your heart for him.

He was tall, with a lean, elegant frame that made his simple royal attire seem unjust in its flattery. His waist was narrow, his shoulders broad and when he moved, there was a silent grace to him, as if he had been sculpted by the same gentle hands that shaped the rolling hills of his kingdom.

His hair was a warm brown, falling in effortless waves that brushed against his forehead and his eyes were the kindest thing you had ever seen. His cheeks held a roundness that made him look younger than his years. There was no sharpness to him, no cold edge. He looked like someone who smiled easily, who laughed often and who might offer you a hand without expecting anything in return.

And when he had looked at you, he had smiled, a small action that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

"Princess." He had said, his voice warm like the first sip of tea on a chilly morning. "It is an honor to finally meet you."

You had given him your practiced smile, the one you had perfected over years of courtly engagements. "The honor is mine, Your Majesty."

You saw the way he looked at you, as if he could see right through that smile to the nervous girl hiding behind it. He did not call you out on it. He simply gestured to the documents on the mahogany desk, and together you had signed your lives away.

The wedding had followed swiftly, the Iriandel court insisting on urgency. There had been no time for letters or courtship, no time for anything but the ceremony itself.

You had not seen him again until you were walking down the aisle, your veil obscuring your vision, your heart pounding beneath layers of silk and lace. Euijoo had been waiting for you at the altar, dressed in the kingdom's colours of blue and gold.

The ceremony had been beautiful with Iriandel certainly knowing how to put on a spectacle. Flowers cascaded from every archway, music swelled from a hundred instruments and the guests had wept as you exchanged the most formal vows. You had smiled your polite smiles, recited your lines with practiced grace and when the moment came for the kiss, you had leaned in and pressed your lips to his.

It had been brief, chaste and utterly devoid of affection.

Euijoo did taste like tangerines though, sweet and unexpected.

Now, the celebrations were over, the guests had retired and the palace had fallen into a hush, broken only by the distant rustle of leaves in the night breeze. You were sitting in front of your vanity, dressed in your nightgown, staring at your own reflection in the candlelit mirror.

Your hair, once intricately designed, now hung loose. Your eyes, usually so composed, held a flicker of uncertainty. You traced the line of your jaw with your fingertips, wondering if the woman in the mirror was still you or if she had already become someone else.

A queen. A wife. A stranger in a foreign land.

And what a land it was.

Iriandel had taken your breath away from the moment you crossed its borders. It was a kingdom of lush green hills that rolled like waves toward the horizon, ancient forests where the trees whispered secrets to one another, rivers that glittered like liquefied sapphires under the sun.

The air smelled of earth and wildflowers, the people greeting you with such warmth and genuine joy. They had thrown petals during the procession, had sung songs and had looked at you with hope in their eyes.

And you wanted to be worthy of that hope. You wanted to be a good queen for this kingdom, a kind queen, a queen who could love Iriandel as fiercely as it deserved to be loved.

Love was a perilous thing.

To love was to open yourself up to pain, to vulnerability, to the possibility of loss. And you had been trained to guard your heart, to keep your love locked away where no one could reach it.

Perhaps, you thought, you could keep your love within yourself for a little longer. Just until you understood this new life, this new role, this new husband.

You would be kind, you would be gracious, you would be everything a queen should be—but you would keep that fragile, precious part of yourself hidden away, safe from the uncertainties of an arranged marriage.

You took a deep breath, the silk of your nightgown rustling as you rose from the vanity. The bedchamber was vast and ornate, draped in deep blue and gold. The bed loomed large and inviting, its canopy cascading like a waterfall of velvet. And on the other side of the room, a door stood slightly ajar, leading to the king's chambers.

He was waiting for you, your king.

Your husband.

Your heart fluttered and you pressed a hand to your chest to steady it. You could do this. You had been trained for this. You would be a good queen. You would be a good wife.

For now, you would keep your love within yourself, safe and warm, like a candle flame cupped in your hands.

You turned from the mirror, squared your shoulders and walked toward the door. You had been confused when the attendants had led you to your chambers.

They had smiled, bowed and gestured to a room that was clearly yours alone. A vanity, a ginormous wardrobe and a bed that was large enough for two, but undeniably meant for one. You had stood in the center of that room, your nightgown clutched to your chest, and blinked at the empty space beside you.

Two bedrooms.

You had expected to share one—that was what everyone had told you. Your mother, your ladies-in-waiting, the whispered advice of married cousins who had laughed behind their fans and told you that the first night was always awkward but that you would get through it. They had spoken of the sacred act ( a duty) that would seal the union and ensure the stability of the alliance.

They had never mentioned separate chambers.

Had you misunderstood? Had you missed some crucial piece of information in the whirlwind of the past few days? Or was this some Iriandel custom, some strange tradition that kept husband and wife apart until a certain time?

You had stood there for what felt like an eternity, your heart pounding, your mind racing. And then you had made a decision. If this was a test, you would face it. If this was a misunderstanding, you would clarify it. If this was simply the way things were done here, you would adapt.

But first, you needed to see him.

So now you stood before his door, your hand raised, your breath shallow. You were honestly scared. Your fingers trembled slightly and you curled them into a fist to steady them.

The word consummation echoed in your mind, heavy and foreign, a concept you had been taught to accept but never truly prepared for. You had been told it was your duty, your responsibility, the final seal on the marriage contract. But knowing it and facing it were two very different things.

You'd always imagined it—the art of sex. What an intimate thing it was, two bodies connecting like stars that had collided with one another in the presence of heat to fuse to one another. It was another path of imagination that you'd put your love into.

And now you were to do it with a man who did not know you and you did not know him.

You knocked. The sound was soft and you immediately regretted it. You should have knocked louder, more confidently. You were a queen now. Queens did not knock like frightened children.

But before you could second-guess yourself further, a voice came from within.

"Come in."

His voice was warm, low and a little tired. It sent a shiver down your spine.

You pushed the door open, revealing a chamber much like your own. Dark woods, deep blues, the faint scent of sandalwood and ink. And there, at a large desk cluttered with papers and maps, sat Byun Euijoo.

He was still dressed in his wedding attire.

The blue and gold coat was rumpled now, intricate embroidery catching the candlelight as he leaned over a document, a quill in his hand. His hair, once perfectly styled, had fallen into a soft disarray, a few strands brushing against his forehead. He had not prepared for bed. He had been working.

You stood in the doorway, frozen, your nightgown feeling highly thin and exposed. You cleared your throat.

Euijoo looked up.

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath, his quill pausing mid-stroke. He set it down slowly and carefully, as if he were afraid that any sudden movement might startle you away.

You dipped into a low bow, your nightgown brushing against the floor. "Your Majesty," you said, your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest. "I hope I am not disturbing you."

Euijoo rose from his seat, and even in his slightly disheveled state, he carried himself with a kingly dignity. He waved a hand dismissively, a small, almost shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Please," he said, his voice gentle, "there is no need for such formality, not between us. Call me Euijoo."

You blinked, caught off guard by the request. It was so simple, so human and it felt like a breach of every protocol you had been taught. He looked at you without a trace of expectation. You nodded slowly.

"Euijoo." You repeated, testing the name on your tongue. It felt like a secret you were trusted to keep.

"That's better." Then his brow furrowed, concern flickering in his eyes. "But why are you not asleep? Is the chamber not to your liking? I can have the attendants prepare a different room if it does not suit you."

You shook your head frantically, your hands rising in a gesture of denial. "No, no, the chamber is beautiful. It is more than I could have hoped for. I only..." You hesitated, your cheeks warming as you struggled to find the words. "I was confused. I had expected.….that is, everyone told me that we would.….that we would share a room. As husband and wife. And I thought that tonight, we would..." You trailed off, your voice fading into nothing.

Euijoo's expression shifted, understanding dawning in his eyes. He took a step closer, his hands clasped loosely behind his back.

"You are referring to the consummation." He said, his tone matter-of-fact but kind.

You nodded, your gaze dropping to the floor. "Yes."

Euijoo was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft, "It is all right. I will not hold you to that." He chuckled, "I understand that this marriage is a duty for you, just as it is for me. I will not force you to fall in love with me, or to pretend that this is anything more than an alliance."

His words settled over you like a warm blanket, unexpectedly very comforting. You had braced yourself for pressure, for expectation, for the cold reality of obligation. But instead, he had given you space. He had given you a choice.

You looked up at him, "Thank you." You whispered.

Euijoo nodded. "You should get some rest," he said, "It has been a long day."

You heeded, but a question lingered on your lips. "What about you? Why are you working so late?"

Euijoo glanced back at his desk, at the scattered papers and maps that covered its surface. A tired sigh escaped him. "There is much to be done. The transition of power has left some matters unsettled, and I would rather address them now than let them fester. Besides," he added, a hint of self-deprecation in his tone, "I find that work keeps my mind from wandering to places it should not."

You did not ask what he meant by that. Perhaps you were afraid of the answer. Instead, you simply nodded again and turned toward the door.

"Goodnight." You said softly, your hand on the handle.

"Goodnight." He replied, and his voice followed you out into your bedroom, lingering like the memory of tangerines on your lips.

As you slipped beneath the covers of your solitary bed, you found yourself thinking something you'd never thought would come into your mind.

Euijoo had surprisingly warm eyes.

___________________________

The next few months passed like the slow turning of seasons in Iriandel's gentle climate.

The kingdom, once restless from the unexpected shift in power, gradually settled into a quiet calm. The people, who had watched the transition with wary eyes, began to trust their new king.

And you, the foreign queen who had arrived with nothing but a signature and a polite smile, began to find your place.

You threw yourself into your queenly duties with the same dedication you had once given to your princess training. You visited the villages that dotted the lush green hills, you learned the names of the ladies who served in the palace, you sat through endless council meetings where you listened more than you spoke. You poured over ledgers and learned the intricacies of Iriandel's trade routes, its agricultural cycles, its seasonal festivals.

You wanted to be good at this. You wanted to be worthy of the crown that now rested upon your head.

You and Euijoo barely ever talked to each other. It was a strange arrangement, this marriage of yours.

You dined at different times—he, rising early to attend to the endless demands of kingship; you, taking your meals later, after your own duties had begun. Your paths crossed in hallways, in the corridors of the palace, and you would exchange polite nods, brief smiles, the occasional courteous inquiry about each other's health.

But nothing more. You were two strangers living in the same house, bound by a contract neither of you had chosen.

Nevertheless you could not help but admire him.

From a distance, you watched him work. You saw the way he poured over documents late into the night, the candle burning low as he read petition after petition from his people. You heard the reports from his advisors, who spoke of his fairness, his patience, his genuine desire to do right by every citizen of Iriandel. You found yourself respecting him more with each passing day.

The few times you did talk, it had been him asking you for advice.

You had been surprised by that. People did not usually ask for your opinion. As a princess, you had been trained to listen, to observe, to smile and nod while the men around you made decisions.

But Euijoo had sought you out, had sat across from you in his study, and had asked, with an actual curiosity, what you thought about a trade dispute with a neighboring kingdom, or a proposal for a new irrigation system in the southern provinces. He had listened to your answers, had considered them carefully, had even implemented some of your suggestions. It had been….unexpected.

And deeply flattering.

You did think he was handsome, too.

The way the morning light caught his hair, the soft curve of his cheeks when he smiled, the warmth in his eyes—these were details you noticed, stored away in the corners of your mind.

But you never let yourself linger on them too much. You had learned long ago that such thoughts were dangerous, that they led to expectations and disappointments and heartache. So you pushed them aside, buried them beneath layers of duty and practicality.

This was a true arranged diplomatic marriage, with which you had made your peace.

Until this morning.

Five months had passed since your wedding day.

The calendar had turned, the seasons had shifted and Iriandel had bloomed into its full summer glory. You were standing in your chambers, dressed in a cream-colored gown, your hair pinned in a simple style. You had just finished reviewing the week's schedule with your lady-in-waiting and you were about to head down to breakfast, as you did every morning.

A knock at the door made you pause.

"Come in." You said, expecting one of the servants with a message about the day's events.

The door opened, and a young man stepped inside. He was small in stature, with a delicate, boyish face that made him look younger than his years. His eyes were large and round, dark and expressive, and his front teeth were just slightly prominent, giving him an uncanny resemblance to a bunny.

It was Harua, Euijoo's personal assistant. You had seen him around the palace, always scurrying from one task to another, a stack of papers clutched to his chest. He was young, earnest and impossibly cute, with a sharp tongue that you found very endearing.

"Your Majesty." He said, bowing deeply. "Good morning."

"Good morning, Harua," you replied, offering him a warm smile. "Is something the matter?"

He straightened, his cheeks flushing red as he fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve. "I have a message from the king. He.….he requests that you join him for breakfast this morning. He said that he is free now as well and that it would be a pleasant honour to have your company."

You blinked, caught off guard. Breakfast together?

In five months, you had never once shared a meal. The invitation was so unexpected that you found yourself momentarily speechless.

Harua shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clearly waiting for your response. "Shall I tell him that you will come?" He asked, his voice hopeful.

Well well, this was intriguing. Your dearest husband wished to dine with you. A smile crept onto your face.

"Tell him I will be there shortly." You said to Harua.

Which was how you found yourself waiting in front of the doors to the dining room, smoothing down imaginary creases on your gown. You'd even glanced at yourself in the mirror before coming for some reason.

The doors were grand, carved from dark oak with intricate patterns of ivy and blooming flowers. Two servants stood on either side, and at your nod, they pulled them open with a synchronized motion that revealed the dining hall beyond.

Sunlight streamed through tall windows, casting gold across the polished floor. A long table dominated the center, but only two places had been set at one end, close together—a pink label invitation for conversation.

And there he was.

Euijoo sat at the table, a cup of coffee cradled in his hands, steam curling upward in lazy spirals. He was dressed simply—a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hair slightly tousled, as if he had run his fingers through it one too many times. A sheaf of papers lay open before him, but his attention was fixed on you the moment you stepped through the door.

He looked up, and a smile—a little shy—spread across his face.

"Wife." Euijoo said, the word rolling off his tongue with an ease that made your heart stumble.

You blinked. In five months, he had never addressed you so familiarly. It had always been "my queen" or, on rare occasions, your name.

But wife? That was something else entirely.

You recovered quickly, a spark of mischief igniting in your chest. You lifted your chin, a small smirk playing at your lips.

"Husband." You shot back, the word feeling strange and thrilling on your tongue.

Euijoo's smile widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He gestured to the chair across from him. "Please, sit."

You crossed the room and took your seat, the servants immediately moving to fill your plate with an array of fresh bread, cheese, honeyed fruits and a pot of tea. You watched them work, then turned your gaze back to Euijoo.

"This is certainly a surprise." You said, reaching for your teacup. "I did not expect to see you this morning. You are usually buried in your study by now."

Euijoo chuckled, "I know. But I found myself with a rare free morning, and I thought.…why not have a meal with my betrothed?" He paused, his eyes meeting yours over the rim of his coffee cup. "We have been married for five months, after all. It seemed a shame to let another day pass without sharing a table."

You felt something warm bloom in your chest, but you pushed it down, focusing instead on the food before you. "Well, I am glad you did. The company is a welcome change from my usual solitary breakfasts."

"Is that a complaint about your husband's neglect?" He asked, his tone teasing.

"Perhaps a gentle observation." You replied, matching his tone. "Nothing more."

The two of you ate in comfortable silence for a while, the clink of silverware against porcelain the only sound. But it was not an awkward silence—it was the kind that felt natural, like two people who had no need of filling every moment with words.

Euijoo reached for a piece of toast and noticed the way you spread your honey—thin, even layers, covering every corner. He raised an eyebrow.

"You are very precise with your honey." He observed.

You glanced down at your toast, then back at him. "And you eat your eggs with far too much pepper."

He looked at his plate, where a generous dusting of black pepper covered his scrambled eggs. A sheepish grin crossed his face. "I like the heat."

"You are going to burn a hole in your stomach."

"I will take that risk."

You both laughed, and the sound was light and easy, filling the room with something that had been absent for far too long.

The conversation drifted, touching on trivial things—the weather, the gardens, a particularly stubborn goose that had taken up residence in the palace courtyard. The topics eventually segued into music.

"I heard a violin playing the other day," you said, stirring your tea absently. "It was coming from one of the practice rooms in the east wing. I stopped to listen for a while. It was beautiful."

Euijoo's eyes lit up, a spark of interest flickering within them. "You enjoy the violin?"

"I do." You said, and then, hesitating for just a moment, you added, "I used to play when I was younger."

His fork paused mid-air. "You play?"

"Played." You corrected, a wistful note creeping into your voice. "I have not touched an instrument in years. A proper princess, you see, must focus on more practical pursuits. At least, that is what I was always told."

Euijoo set his fork down, his expression turning thoughtful. "That is a shame. Music is not a frivolity. It is a language of the soul."

You looked up, surprised by the depth of his words. "You speak as if you understand."

"Because I do." He said, and a slow, almost shy smile spread across his face. "I play the violin as well."

Your eyes widened. "You do?"

He nodded, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. "I have since I was a boy. I would often lock myself in my room and play until my fingers ached."

You stared at him, a strange, giddy excitement bubbling up inside you. "What pieces do you play?"

"Everything." He said, leaning forward, his enthusiasm palpable. "Classical, folk, even some compositions of my own. I have been working on a piece inspired by the autumn harvest—the way the leaves turn gold and the air grows crisp. It is not finished yet, but..."

"That sounds wonderful," you breathed, and you realized you were leaning forward too, your tea forgotten, your heart racing. "I used to love the Vivaldi concertos. The way the strings seem to dance—"

"Yes!" He interrupted, his eyes bright. "The Four Seasons! The Summer movement, with its frantic energy, as if the music itself is trying to outrun the storm—"

"And Winter," you added, your voice rising with excitement, "how it starts so delicate, like snowflakes falling, and then builds into something fierce and beautiful—"

"Exactly!" He laughed, running a hand through his hair. "I have never met anyone who understood that."

"Neither have I," you admitted, and for a moment, you simply looked at each other across the table, two strangers who had just discovered a shared language neither had known they were fluent in.

The breakfast continued, but the tone had shifted. You talked about composers and techniques, about the feel of a bow in your hand and the way a well-played note could make your chest ache.

You argued passionately about whether Bach or Mozart was superior (you were Team Bach, he was Team Mozart, and you agreed to disagree after a poor salt shaker got knocked over). You laughed at each other's stories of childhood recitals gone wrong, of strings that snapped at the worst possible moments, of teachers who were too strict and too kind in equal measure.

When the meal finally came to an end, you rose from your seat, feeling lighter than you had in months.

Euijoo stood as well, and he gave you a smile that was softer than any you had seen from him before.

"Thank you," he said simply. "For joining me."

"Thank you," you replied, "for asking."

You turned and walked toward the doors, but as you reached them, you paused. You looked back over your shoulder, a playful glint in your eyes.

"Perhaps, one evening, you might play for me? That autumn piece you mentioned?"

He blinked, then smiled—a real, full smile that reached his eyes and made him look younger, lighter. "Perhaps I will."

You left the dining room with a warmth spreading through your chest, the memory of his smile lingering in your mind like the last note of a song that refused to fade away.

You swore you had tasted tangerines on your lips again.

________________________

To love is to let go.

You did not love Byun Euijoo. You would not feel anything if you had to let him go.

So why was it that you were sitting here in a window nook in the library, staring out into the distance and thinking about what he must be doing at the moment?

Warm golden patterns cast across the worn leather of the book in your lap by the filtered sunlight—a book you had not turned a single page of in the past twenty minutes. Your gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the rolling hills that stretched toward the horizon. Somewhere in the direction of Phileon.

Euijoo had left for Phileon ten days ago.

He had gone to help his friend, the First Princess of Phileon—though you supposed you could no longer call her that. She had overthrown her father, the old king, in a swift coup that had sent shockwaves through the neighboring kingdoms. She had gathered allies in the shadows, had waited for the right moment and had seized power with a ferocity that had earned her both admiration and fear.

Euijoo had gone to her side.

You had not asked him why. You had not asked him if he was safe, or when he would return, or if he would write. It was not your place, you had told yourself.

But then, last week, something had changed.

You had returned to your chambers after a long day of meetings to find a sheet of music lying on your desk, weighted down by a single yarrow stem. The handwriting on the margins was familiar now—neat, elegant, with a slight flourish at the end of each letter. Euijoo's handwriting.

For you, the note had read. A piece I finished on the road. I thought you might like to hear it, even if only in your mind. Play it someday, if you remember how. — E

You had stood there for a long moment, staring at the sheet music, your fingers tracing the lines as if you could somehow feel the notes through the paper. It was a gentle piece, melancholic and sweet. You had sat down at the piano in your sitting room and had picked out the notes with one hand, your heart threatening to burst with each tentative chord.

And then, two days ago, there had been dinner.

It had been a rare occurrence, a night when the stars had aligned and both your schedules had been miraculously empty. Harua had appeared at your door again, his face flushed with excitement, to inform you that the king had returned for a single evening before departing again, and that he wished to dine with you.

You had accepted, of course. And you had spent the evening in the dining room, talking about everything and nothing.

Euijoo had told you about Phileon—about the tension in the capital, the cautious hope in the people's eyes, the way the new Queen had stood unyielding as she addressed her new subjects. You had told him about the irrigation project you had overseen in his absence, the way the southern villages had finally received the water they had been promised.

And at the end of the night, when he had walked you to your chamber door, he had taken your hand and pressed a kiss to your knuckles—a gesture so formal, so courtly, and yet so tender that it had left you breathless.

"Thank you," he had said, his eyes meeting yours in the dim light. "for being here."

He had left the next morning at dawn.

And now you were here, in the library, staring out the window and thinking about him. Again.

The door to the library creaked open, and you heard the soft rustle of skirts. You turned to see your lady-in-waiting, Sora, curtsying at the threshold.

"Your Majesty," she said, "a letter has arrived from His Majesty, the King."

Your heart did a strange little flutter that you immediately tried to suppress. You set your book aside and held out your hand, trying to appear composed. "Thank you, Sora. Please bring it here."

She crossed the room and placed a sealed envelope in your palm. Your name was written across the front in that elegant handwriting.

You waited until Sora had retreated to a respectful distance before breaking the seal, your fingers steady, your pulse not. You pulled out the letter and unfolded it, your eyes drinking in the words.

My dearest queen,

You paused at the greeting, a warmth spreading through your chest. My dearest queen. An unfamiliar addressal.

I hope this letter finds you well. The days here have been long and full of work, but I find myself thinking of you whenever I spread honey on my toast perfectly in one single go.

A smile tugged at your lips.

Phileon is changing. The people are hopeful and the Queen is proving herself to be a ruler of remarkable strength and compassion. The transition has been smoother than any of us dared to hope, and I am proud to have played a small part in it.

But I must confess that I am eager to return home. There is a warmth in Iriandel and I have come to realize that it has nothing to do with the climate.

You read the sentence twice, your heart beating a little faster each time.

Which brings me to my purpose in writing. To celebrate this new chapter, a royal gala is to be held in the capital. I have been invited, of course, as a friend and ally to the crown. But I cannot attend without my queen.

Your breath caught in your throat.

My queen.

The words seemed to glow on the page

I know that travel is tiring, and that you probably have your own duties to attend to. But I find that I do not wish to stand alone at a gala, surrounded by strangers. So I am asking you—not requesting as your king, but asking as your husband—to join me.

There is a carriage waiting whenever you are ready. I have already made the arrangements.

Yours, Euijoo

You stared at the letter for a long moment, the paper trembling slightly in your hands. You read it again. And again. Each time, the words settled deeper into your chest, taking root in places you had thought were utterly barren.

My queen.

Your husband.

You looked up, your eyes meeting Sora's gaze. You took a breath, steadying your heart and you smiled—one that reached your eyes and made you feel lighter than you had in days.

"Sora," you said, your voice firm and clear, "please inform the servants that we will be traveling to Phileon. Have them pack my bags and tell them to prepare the carriage."

Sora curtsied. "Yes, Your Majesty. Right away."

She slipped out of the library, leaving you alone with the afternoon light and the tarrying warmth of Euijoo's letter. You looked down at the folded paper in your hands, at the elegant loops and curves of his handwriting, and you let yourself imagine him writing it—sitting at a desk in some foreign room, the candle flickering, his brow furrowed in concentration as he chose each word with care.

My dearest queen.

___________________________

Byun Euijoo smelled like tangerines.

It was not the kind of scent you would expect from a king. You would have imagined something more regal—sandalwood or cedar or the smoky richness of aged whiskey. But no.

Byun Euijoo smelled like the first bite of a sun-warmed fruit.

The journey to Phileon had taken two days, and you had spent most of it staring out the carriage window, the folded letter tucked into the pocket of your traveling cloak, your fingers brushing against it every now and then as if to confirm it was real.

When you had finally arrived at the Phileon palace, you had been greeted by the new queen, who had looked at you with a gaze that seemed to see straight through every layer of pretense you had carefully constructed.

"Ah," she had said, her voice dry and amused, "the famous queen of Iriandel. I have heard much about you."

"All good, I hope." You had replied, matching her tone.

"Mostly." A smirk had tugged at her lips. "The rest was too boring to remember."

You had liked her instantly.

She had introduced you to her knight, Nicholas. The way she had looked at him, the way her hand had brushed against his arm had told you everything you needed to know about their relationship.

And strangely, it had calmed something in your heart. To see a queen and her knight, bound not by duty but by choice, had given you a flicker of hope you had not realized you were carrying.

The guest quarters, however, had presented a dilemma.

There was only one royal guest room available, the queen had explained with an apologetic shrug. The palace was still recovering from the upheaval, and many of the rooms were being renovated. You and Euijoo would have to share.

You had braced yourself for an awkward arrangement (even though you were literally his wife), but Euijoo had handled it with his characteristic grace.

He had insisted on taking the divan by the window, leaving the large, canopied bed for you. You had protested but he had been firm.

"A king does not let his queen sleep on a divan," he had said, and the word his had sent a shiver down your spine.

So for the past week, you had slept in the bed while he slept on the divan, a respectable distance between you. And every night, you had lain awake, listening to the soft rhythm of his breathing, the faint rustle of blankets as he shifted in his sleep.

Once—just once—you had shamelessly pretended to be asleep so you could watch him change out of his shirt.

It had been an accident, at first. You had been lying with your back to him, your eyes closed, when you had heard the soft sounds of fabric rustling. Curiosity had gotten the better of you, and you had cracked your eyes open just a sliver, peering over your shoulder through the dim moonlight.

Euijoo had been standing by the window, his back to you, pulling his shirt over his head. The moonlight had traced the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his spine and the narrow taper of his waist. You had held your breath, your heart pounding within its cage. You had watched until he had pulled on his nightshirt and turned toward the divan.

You had squeezed your eyes shut immediately, feigning sleep, your face burning.

Today was the day of the ball.

You stood before the mirror in the guest chamber, Sora fussing with the final adjustments to your gown, a study in blue elegance that fit you like a dream. The bodice adorned with delicate white thread that caught the light like scattered stars, and the skirt flowed down in soft waves, pearls resting against your throat.

Sora had pinned your hair in an intricate arrangement of twists and curls. A small silver tiara, sat nestled on your head, not your usual jewel encrusted one due to the fact that you were in a foreign kingdom. You were applying the final touch—a hint of rose-tinted balm to your lips—when the door to the chamber opened. You looked up, your hand freezing mid-motion.

Your husband stood in the doorway.

Euijoo was dressed in a deep navy coat trimmed with silver, the colors matching your gown (your heart beat a little faster). His hair had been styled back from his face; you found yourself staring at the soft planes of his cheeks and the gentle curve of his jaw. He looked every inch the king he was—regal, commanding and handsome.

The look on his face however was none of those things.

Your husband was staring at you, his lips slightly parted, his eyes wide. He stood frozen in the doorway, as if he had forgotten how to move, how to breathe.

"You..." he started, then stopped, swallowed and started again. "You look..."

You felt heat rise to your cheeks, and you turned back to the mirror, pretending to adjust a strand of hair. "Is something wrong?"

"No," he said, his voice rough. He cleared his throat. "No. Nothing is wrong. Everything is... everything is right."

You met his eyes in the mirror, and for a moment, the world seemed to fall away. The room, the ball, the distant sounds of the palace preparing for the evening—all of it faded into nothing, leaving only the two of you, reflected in the glass.

He stepped forward, crossing the room until he stood just behind you. You could smell him—that utterly disarming scent of tangerines.

"Before we go," Euijoo said, his voice low, "I wanted to ask you something."

You turned to face him, your heart beating a rhythm you could not control. "What is it?"

He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor for just a moment before meeting yours again. "At the gala, there will be many eyes on us. Many questions about our alliance, about the strength of our union. I thought.….it might be beneficial if we appeared closer than we are. If we addressed each other with...familiarity."

You understood immediately. It was a diplomatic tactic, a performance for the other royals. You had expected as much.

"What did you have in mind?" You asked, your voice carefully neutral.

He took a breath. "If it is acceptable to you, I would like to call you by a nickname. Something that will convince the other guests of the strength of our bond."

You nodded slowly. "That makes sense. What did you have in mind?"

Euijoo looked at you, his soft eyes searching yours, and then he smiled shy as a schoolboy.

"My love."

The world expected nothing of us except to give love back.

You'd never imagined the word could ever sound so melodic on anybody's tongue.

"Is that alright?" He asked, and there was a note of uncertainty in his voice, as if he feared he had overstepped.

"Yes." You said, your voice softer than you had intended. "That is more than alright."

His smile widened, relief and joy mingling in his expression. He offered you his arm, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Shall we, my love?"

You placed your hand in the crook of his elbow, feeling the warmth of him through the fabric of his coat. The scent of tangerines enveloped you, and you let yourself breathe it in.

"We shall."

_______________________

The ballroom of the Phileon palace was breathtaking.

Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their flames reflected in the gilded mirrors that lined the walls. The air was thick with the scent of night-blooming flowers and the murmur of conversation. Lords and ladies from a dozen kingdoms mingled and danced, their jewels catching the light as they moved.

And at the center of it all, you danced with Euijoo.

His hand was warm at your waist, his other hand clasping yours with a gentleness that belied the strength in his fingers. He guided you through the steps of a waltz with practiced ease, his movements fluid and confident, his eyes never leaving yours.

"You dance well, my love." He said, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

"You sound surprised." You replied, a hint of teasing in your tone.

His lips curved into a smile. "I am simply appreciative."

You felt heat rise to your cheeks, and you looked away, focusing on the patterns of his coat. "You are not so bad yourself, husband."

"Husband." He repeated, savoring the word. "I think I prefer that to 'Your Majesty.'"

The music swelled and he spun you gently, your skirt flaring out around you like a bloom of sapphire silk. When you came back to him, you were closer than before, your chest nearly brushing against his.

"What do you think of the Phileon court so far?" He asked.

You glanced around the room, taking in the glittering guests, the elaborate decorations, the way the new queen held court at the far end of the hall, Nicholas a silent shadow at her side. "They are...enthusiastic." You said carefully. "Perhaps a little too eager to prove themselves after the transition."

Euijoo chuckled. "A diplomatic answer. You would make a fine ambassador."

"I am a queen." You reminded him. "I am supposed to be diplomatic."

"True. You are my queen." He conceded. "But you are also supposed to have opinions. What do you truly think?"

You considered the question, your eyes scanning the room once more. "I think they are trying very hard to appear united, but there are fractures beneath the surface. There is wariness in the way the older nobles watch the queen, perhaps even resentment. But I also see hope in the younger ones. Change is never easy, but I believe she is doing the right thing."

Euijoo was quiet for a moment, his gaze thoughtful. "You see a great deal," he said softly. "I did not realize you were such an observer of people."

"I have had a great deal of practice," you said. "When you spend most of your meals alone, you learn to fill the time by watching."

Something flickered in his eyes—regret, perhaps, or guilt. His hand tightened slightly at your waist. "Shall I apologise for that?"

You shook your head. "We both had our reasons. And we are here now, are we not?"

"So we are." He agreed. And then his smile turned mischievous. "Speaking of being here, have you noticed the violin in the corner?"

You followed his gaze to the far end of the ballroom, where a small ensemble of musicians was playing. Among them, a lone violinist sat slightly apart from the others, his bow moving with practiced precision across the strings.

"I noticed it the moment we walked in." You admitted. "I have been trying not to stare."

"Why?"

"Because if I stare, I will start thinking about all the things I want to say about their technique. And if I start thinking about those things, I will eventually have to say them. And if I say them, I will inevitably compare it to the piece you left on my desk. And then—"

"Then what?"

You met his eyes, a grin threatening to break across your face. "Then I will have to admit that your composition is far superior to anything they are playing tonight, and I do not want to seem biased."

Euijoo's face broke into a wide, delighted grin. "You think my composition is superior?"

"I think it is hauntingly beautiful." You said, your voice dropping to a whisper. "I think I have memorized every note. I think I have played it in my head a hundred times since you left it for me."

He stared at you, his eyes soft and bright, and for a moment, the music seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you, suspended in the golden light.

Then he snorted.

It was not a dignified sound. It was not a sound befitting a king. It was a sudden, undignified snort of laughter that escaped him before he could stop it, and it was so unexpected that you felt your own composure crack.

"What?" You demanded, laughter already bubbling in your chest.

"Nothing." He said, but he was grinning now, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "It is just—you said 'hauntingly beautiful' with such intensity—"

"It is a compliment!"

"I know, I know—" He tried to suppress his laughter, but it escaped him again, a giggle that was entirely unbecoming of a monarch. "I am sorry, I am not laughing at you, I am laughing at—at the situation. Here we are, surrounded by all these stuffy nobles, trying to appear regal and composed, and all I can think about is how you have memorized my violin piece."

"Well, stop thinking about it," you said, but you were laughing now too, a quiet, helpless giggle that you tried to hide behind your hand. "We are supposed to be convincing everyone that we are a strong, united couple."

"We are a strong, united couple," he said, still chuckling. "We are simply a strong, united couple who also happen to be laughing at nothing."

"That is highly unbecoming of a king and queen."

"Then let us be unbecoming."

You both dissolved into laughter, quiet and breathless, your foreheads nearly touching as you tried to compose yourselves. A few nearby nobles glanced your way, curiosity and mild disapproval mingling in their expressions, but you did not care. You could not care.

Not when Euijoo was looking at you like that, his eyes bright with mirth, his cheeks flushed, his laughter a warm, melodic sound that wrapped around your heart and squeezed.

And there we go—that was all Byun Euijoo could think about.

He sat in a sitting room in the Phileon palace, a cup of tea cooling in his hands, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the window. The morning light was soft and gray, filtering through the clouds and the room was quiet save for the crackling of the fire and the occasional clink of porcelain.

You had departed for Iriandel at dawn, called back by urgent matters that could not wait. Euijoo was to follow the next day, but the palace already felt emptier without you.

"You are staring into space again."

Euijoo blinked, turning his attention back to the room. The Queen of Phileon sat across from him, a knowing smirk on her lips, her tea cradled elegantly in her hands. Beside her, sat Nicholas, the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth suggesting he was amused. On the divan to Euijoo's left, Harua was curled up like a contented cat, a plate of pastries balanced on his lap.

"No I was not." Euijoo protested weakly.

"You were." The queen said. "You have been doing it all morning. Ever since Her Majesty, your queen, left."

"She is not—" Euijoo started, then stopped. He sighed. "She is my queen. Yes."

"Your queen?" The queen repeated, drawing out the words with obvious delight. "Now since when have you started calling her yours, my dearest Euijoo?"

"Alright, alright," Euijoo said, raising a hand in surrender. "I concede. I was thinking about her laugh."

Harua perked up, his eyes wide with interest. "Her laugh? What about her laugh?"

Euijoo set his tea down, a dreamy expression crossing his face despite his best efforts to remain composed. "It is... it is the most beautiful sound I have ever heard. And when she laughs, her whole face changes—her eyes crinkle, her cheeks lift, and she looks so...so divine."

The queen exchanged a glance with Nicholas, her smirk widening. "He has it bad."

"Terribly," Nicholas agreed, his voice dry, "Worse than me."

"I do not have it bad," Euijoo said, but even he did not believe his own words.

"Ahh yes, so you were not the one who composed a violin piece for Her Majesty and had me sneak into her chambers to deliver it?" Harua said, ticking off on his fingers. He popped a pastry into his mouth and grinned. "You have it very bad."

Euijoo groaned, covering his face with his hands. "I am a king. I am supposed to be dignified."

"You are a man in love," the queen corrected, her tone softening. "There is nothing undignified about that."

He lowered his hands, looking at her with a mixture of hope and uncertainty. "Do you really think so?"

"I know so." She said. "She looks at you a particular way."

"I fear only your mother can look at your face like that." Nicholas said and his beloved snorted.

Euijoo felt a warmth spread through his chest, hesitant and fragile, like the first green shoot of spring pushing through frozen soil. "I do not want to rush her." He said quietly. "I do not want to assume. We have only just begun to—to truly see each other."

"Then take your time." The queen said. "But do not waste it. Life is too short for that."

Nicholas placed a hand on her shoulder, a gesture of quiet support, and she leaned into his touch. Euijoo looked at them and he thought of you.

He thought of your laugh, bright and unguarded, echoing in the ballroom. He thought of the way you had looked at him when he had called you my love, your eyes soft and surprised and hopeful.

"Tomorrow," he said, more to himself than to the others. "Tomorrow I will go home to her."

Harua grinned and reached for another pastry. "And then what?"

Euijoo smiled, a small, private smile that held the promise of something new.

"I will make her laugh again."

__________________

When Euijoo summoned you to his office at 8 pm, you really did think of the most ridiculous things.

You had been in your chambers, a book open in your lap and a cup of chamomile tea growing cold on the nightstand, when the knock had come.

"His Majesty requests your presence in his study, Your Majesty." Harua had said. "He apologizes for the late hour, but he says it is a matter of some urgency."

Your mind had immediately spiraled into the most absurd possibilities. Perhaps he had decided that the time had come to consummate the marriage after all and he had summoned you to his office for some clandestine, candlelit encounter. Perhaps he had discovered some terrible secret about your past and intended to confront you. Perhaps he had fallen ill, or been poisoned, or—

You had cut off that line of thinking with a firm mental shake. Queens did not indulge in such fanciful imaginings.

As you walked through the corridors of the palace, your heart had beat a little faster than usual.

When you arrived at his study, the door was slightly ajar, and you could see him through the gap. Euijoo was seated at his desk, a map spread out before him, his brow furrowed in concentration. A single lamp cast a warm pool of light across the papers, leaving the rest of the room in shadow.

You knocked softly, and he looked up, his expression shifting from focus to relief.

"Come in," he said, rising from his seat. "Thank you for coming so late. I know it is an imposition."

"Not at all," you said, stepping inside and closing the door behind you. "Harua said it was urgent."

Euijoo gestured to the chair across from his desk. "Please, sit. I will try not to keep you long."

You settled into the chair, your eyes scanning the papers spread across his desk. Maps, documents, letters bearing seals you did not recognize. It was clear that he had been working for some time—there was a half-empty cup of coffee at his elbow, and his hair was (attractively) disheveled.

"What is the matter?" You asked.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I have been going over the terms of a proposed treaty with King Jo of Sakuryn, and I find myself at an impasse. I was hoping you might offer a fresh perspective."

You blinked. "You summoned me at eight in the evening to discuss a treaty?"

A faint blush crept across his cheeks. "I apologize. But I have been staring at these documents for hours, and every time I think I have found a solution, another complication arises. I thought perhaps a second pair of eyes might help."

You felt a warmth spread through your chest, unexpected and pleasant. Euijoo valued your opinion. Euijoo sought your counsel. It was a small thing, perhaps, but it meant more than you could say.

"Show me." You said.

He turned the map toward you, pointing to a region along the eastern border. "Sakuryn has been a thorn in Iriandel's side for generations and king Jo is the newly annointed monarch, he's young and ambitious. He wants access to the Silver Strait for trade, but granting him that access would put our own maritime routes at risk. I have been trying to find a compromise that benefits both kingdoms without weakening our position."

You leaned forward, studying the map. The Silver Strait was narrow but vital, a corridor of deep water that connected the eastern sea to the northern trade routes. Control of it meant control of a significant portion of regional commerce.

"What if," you said slowly, "instead of granting him access outright, you propose a joint venture? A shared toll system perhaps, with revenues divided proportionally based on each kingdom's usage."

Euijoo's eyes lit up. "That could work. It would give him the access he wants while ensuring we retain a measure of control."

"It would also create an incentive for cooperation." You added. "If both kingdoms benefit from the strait's prosperity, there is less reason for conflict."

He was already scribbling notes on a piece of parchment, his earlier frustration replaced by eager energy. "And what about the maritime trade with Eldanith? King Yuma has been pressing for exclusive docking rights in the southern ports."

You considered the question. "Exclusive rights would alienate other trading partners. Perhaps offer him priority docking instead, first access, but not exclusive. It gives him an advantage without closing the door to others."

Euijoo looked up at you, his eyes bright with admiration. "You have a remarkable mind for strategy." He laughed softly, shaking his head. "I should have summoned you to my study months ago."

"Better late than never." You said with a hint of mischief, even as you found yourself studying him.

The way the candlelight caught the angles of his face, the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his fingers traced the lines of the map with careful precision.

"You have done well." You said softly. "With all of this. The transition, the negotiations, the kingdom. You took the throne under difficult circumstances, and you have handled it with remarkable grace."

Euijoo looked up, surprise flickering in his eyes. "I.…thank you."

"I mean it." You said. "I know it was not easy. Your brother's abdication and the sudden weight of responsibility. But you have proven yourself. The people trust you. And I think..." You hesitated, then pressed on. "I think you are a better king than you give yourself credit for."

He stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he looked down at the papers before him, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

"I had a good teacher." Euijoo said quietly. "My brother, Yudai."

You tilted your head. "You do not speak of him often."

"Neither of us does." Euijoo admitted. "It is still...raw. There were things in his past, burdens he carried that I will never fully understand. But before he left, he sat me down and told me everything. Every lesson he had learned, every mistake he had made, every hope he had for the kingdom." He paused, his voice growing softer. "He told me that a king's greatest strength is not his army or his treasury, but the people he chooses to surround himself with, that a good king rules with his heart as much as his head."

You listened, your own heart aching at the tenderness in his voice. "He sounds like a remarkable man."

"He is." Euijoo said. "And I try every day to live up to his example."

The room fell into a comfortable silence, the weight of his words settling between you like a shared secret. You looked at him—at the king who had taken a throne he had not asked for, who worked late into the night for a people he loved, who had given you space and patience and time, who smelled like tangerines and played the violin and asked for your counsel because he trusted your judgment.

And called you his love.

You rose from your seat, smoothing down your gown. "It is late. I should let you rest."

Euijoo stood as well, a polite reflex. "Thank you for coming. Your insights were invaluable."

"Thank you for asking." You said, and you meant it.

You turned and walked toward the door, your hand on the handle, when his voice stopped you.

"Goodnight," he said softly. "My love."

The words sent a shiver down your spine, warm and electric. You glanced back over your shoulder, a small smile playing at your lips.

"Goodnight, husband."

You slipped out the door, leaving him alone in the candlelit study. The door clicked shut, and Euijoo stood motionless for a long moment, staring at the empty space where you had been.

Then, slowly, he slumped down into his chair, his strength leaving him all at once. He buried his face in his hands, his elbows resting on the scattered maps and documents, and let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding.

The image of you burned behind his eyelids—the way the candlelight had caught the curve of your neck as you leaned over the map, the line of your collarbone visible above the neckline of your gown, the way your hair had fallen when you had turned to say goodnight.

He pressed his palms harder against his eyes, a groan escaping his lips.

The crook of her neck, he thought, his heart aching with a sweetness that bordered on pain. How is it possible for a person to have such a beautiful neck?

Euijoo was a king. He was supposed to be composed, dignified, above such frivolous thoughts.

But here he was, reduced to a lovestruck fool by the memory of the way you had looked in the soft glow of candlelight. He dropped his hands and stared at the ceiling, a helpless smile spreading across his face.

God was he in so much trouble.

___________________

They say you store emotions in your body. Happiness resides within your chest, anger in your jaw and sadness at the bottom of your throat.

So where on earth did your love reside?

Perhaps in the crooks and crannies of his heart, you came to realise, on a bright Sunday morning.

You had been so bored that day, having completed all your work, read until your eyes begged you to stop and even written a few letters. It was on days like this that you truly marvelled at your brain, which had been dead for the entire week and had suddenly gotten the motivation to get up and at em.

So you ended up in the royal kitchens.

The head cook had looked at you with something between horror and amusement when you had appeared at the doorway, sleeves rolled up, a determined glint in your eye. "Your Majesty," she had said, "the kitchens are no place for a queen."

"I am not here as a queen." You had replied. "I am here as a woman who is desperately bored and wants to bake something."

After a long, doubtful pause, she had relented, pointing you toward a corner of the kitchen with a large wooden counter, a sack of flour and a bowl of eggs. "Do try not to burn down the palace." She had said, and you had promised her you would do your best.

Some hours later, you were covered in flour.

The counter was a disaster zone. A fine white dusting covered every surface and you had somehow managed to get a smear of butter on your cheek. The dough you were kneading was stubborn and uncooperative, sticking to your fingers no matter how much flour you added. Your tongue poked out slightly in concentration as you worked, your brow furrowed, your mind blissfully empty of everything except the simple, satisfying task of creating something with your hands.

You did not notice the figure in the doorway.

Euijoo stood there, leaning against the frame, his arms crossed, a soft smile playing at his lips. He had been looking for you—Harua had mentioned something about the kitchens and he had not believed it until he had seen it with his own eyes.

You, the queen of Iriandel, covered in flour, wrestling with a lump of dough as if it was your rival of twelve years.

He watched you for a long moment, his heart swelling with a warmth he could not name. The morning light streamed through the high windows, catching the flour dust suspended in the air like tiny drifting stars. You hummed under your breath and the sound wrapped around his chest and squeezed.

Euijoo cleared his throat.

You jumped, your hand flying to your chest. "Euijoo! How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough." He said, his voice warm with amusement. He stepped into the kitchen, his boots clicking against the stone floor. "I did not know you baked."

"I do not." You admitted, gesturing at the chaos around you. "As you can see, I am not particularly good at it."

He laughed—an easy laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "You are certainly...enthusiastic."

"Enthusiastic is a kind word for it."

He came to stand beside you, peering down at the lump of dough with mock seriousness. "What are you attempting to make?"

"Bread." You said. "Or perhaps a brick. The outcome is still uncertain."

He chuckled again, and then, to your utter surprise, he reached past you and grabbed an apron from a hook on the wall. He tied it around his waist with practiced ease, rolling up his sleeves to reveal his forearms.

"What are you doing?" You asked, your eyes wide.

"Baking." Euijoo said simply. "I cannot let my wife struggle alone."

"You know how to bake?"

"I know how to try." He said, and his smile was so gentle that you felt wings flutter in your chest.

And so, the two of you stood side by side at the flour-dusted counter, kneading and shaping and laughing at your shared incompetence. He taught you a trick for keeping the dough from sticking—a light coating of oil on your hands—and you taught him the melody you had been humming (along with how to magically get dough to become a brick).

It was easy and natural. As if you had been doing this together for years.

At some point, you reached for the flour sack to dust the counter again, but your hand slipped. The sack tipped, and a cloud of white exploded into the air, settling over Euijoo like a fine, powdery snow.

He froze, blinking, his brown hair dusted with white, his eyelashes clinging with tiny flour crystals.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, your eyes wide with horror. "Oh no—I am so sorry—"

But he was already laughing. A deep, full-bodied laugh that echoed through the kitchen and made the cooks turn their heads. He looked at you, his flour-covered face breaking into the most radiant smile you had ever seen, and then he reached into the sack, scooped up a handful of flour, and tossed it gently in your direction.

It hit you square in the chest, blooming across your gown like a white flower.

You gasped. "Did you just—"

He was already reaching for more, his eyes bright with mischief. "You started it."

"I did not mean to!"

"Intent does not matter. Only consequences."

You grabbed a handful of flour and threw it at him. He dodged, laughing and retaliated with another cloud. Soon, the kitchen was filled with the sound of your laughter, the air thick with white dust, the two of you chasing each other around the counter like children.

At some point, you slipped on a patch of flour on the floor, and he caught you by the waist, pulling you against him to keep you from falling. You both froze, your faces inches apart, your breath mingling in the flour-dusted air.

His eyes searched yours, soft and wondering, as if he was seeing you for the first time. His hand was warm at your waist, his fingers pressing gently into the fabric of your gown. A dusting of flour clung to his lashes, and you reached up, almost without thinking, to brush it away.

He caught your hand, his fingers curling around yours.

"I think," he said, his voice low and rough, "this is the best Sunday I have had in a very long time."

You smiled, your heart pounding so loudly you were certain he could hear it. "Even though we have not actually made any bread?"

"Especially because we have not actually made any bread."

And in that moment, standing in the middle of a flour-dusted kitchen, your hand in his, his eyes warm and bright and full of something that looked terrifyingly like hope, you realised where your love resided.

It was not in your chest, or your jaw or the bottom of your throat.

It was in the crooks and crannies of his heart.

And somehow, impossibly, miraculously, you had found your way inside.

_____________________________

"Do you think I can love you?"

You walked through the palace gardens, the morning sun warm on your shoulders, the scent of roses and freshly cut grass filling the air. You had not been able to sleep well the night before, your thoughts tangled in a web of flour-dusted memories and the feeling of his hand at your waist.

So you had risen early, dressed in a simple gown of pale lavender and had wandered outside, hoping the fresh air would clear your mind.

It did not.

If anything, the gardens only made you think of him more. The way the sunlight filtered through the leaves reminded you of the way he had looked at you in the kitchen, his eyes soft and wondering. The gentle breeze carried the faint scent of tangerines, or perhaps you imagined it. Every corner of this palace seemed to hold a memory of him now.

You rounded a bend in the gravel path and there he was.

Euijoo sat beneath the shade of a grand old oak tree, its branches spreading wide and generous, casting dappled shadows across the grass. He was leaning against the trunk, one knee bent, an open book resting in his lap.

His hair was gorgeously tousled and he wore a simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the lean lines of his forearms.

He looked peaceful, content, beautiful.

You hesitated for a moment, unsure if you should interrupt his solitude. But then he looked up, as if sensing your presence, and his face broke into a smile.

"Good morning." He said, his voice soft and welcoming.

"Good morning." You replied, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you crossed the grass and settled beside him, your back against the rough bark of the oak tree.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The sounds of the garden filled the silence—birds chirping, leaves rustling, the distant trickle of a fountain. It was comfortable, easy, the kind of silence that did not demand to be filled.

Then Euijoo closed his book and set it aside, turning to look at you with an expression that was thoughtful, tender and slightly nervous.

"Do you think I can love you?"

The question hung in the air between you, delicate and fragile, like a soap bubble waiting to burst.

You turned to face him, your heart suddenly pounding in your chest. "What?"

Euijoo let out a slow breath, his gaze dropping to his hands for a moment before meeting yours again. "I have been thinking about it a great deal. I have spent so many years focused on duty, on the kingdom, on being the king that everyone needed me to be. I did not allow myself to consider the possibility of... this." He gestured vaguely between the two of you. "Of you."

You swallowed, your throat tight. "And what conclusion have you reached?"

He was quiet for a moment, his eyes searching yours. "I do not know if I know how to love. I have never done it before, not truly, not the way I see it in stories or hear it in songs. But when I am with you, I feel……something I have never felt before. Something that makes me want to learn."

Your breath caught in your chest. "Euijoo..."

"I am not asking for an answer," he said quickly, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "I am simply...asking if it is possible. If you would allow me to try. To love you, the way you deserve to be loved."

The sincerity in his voice, the vulnerability in his eyes—it undid something inside you.

All the walls you had built, all the careful distance you had maintained, crumbled like sandcastles before the tide.

You reached out and took his hand, your fingers intertwining with his. His skin was warm, his palm slightly calloused from years of violin practice, and the contact sent a shiver through your entire body.

"I think you can love me." You said, "And I think... I would like to love you too."

His eyes widened, a flicker of hope igniting within them. "You would?"

You nodded, a smile tugging at your lips. "I have been thinking about it too. I was taught that a princess's heart belongs to her kingdom, that love is…merely a weakness. But being with you..." You paused, searching for the right words. "Being with you does not feel like a weakness." You chuckled, "It's the strongest I've ever felt."

He lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his lips warm and gentle against your skin. "Then let us be strong together."

You leaned forward and he met you halfway.

The kiss was soft at first—hesitating, questioning, as if neither of you quite believed this was real.

His lips were warm and tasted faintly of tangerines. One of his hands came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

You tilted your head, deepening the kiss, and he responded in kind, his fingers threading through your hair, pulling you closer. The world fell away—the garden, the palace, the weight of crowns and duties and expectations.

There was only him, and the way his lips moved against yours, and the quiet, desperate hope that this was the beginning of something beautiful.

When you finally broke apart, your foreheads resting together, your breath mingling in the warm morning air, he let out a soft, wondering laugh.

"I think," he said, his voice rough with emotion, "that I am already learning."

You smiled, your heart so full it felt like it might overflow. "Good. Because I intend to be a very thorough teacher."

He laughed again, and pulled you into his arms, holding you close beneath the shade of the old oak tree.

And for the first time in your life, you'd finally found your place to put your love.

_______________________

The change was subtle at first, like the slow shift of seasons—imperceptible until one day you looked around and realized everything was different.

You started spending more time together.

Not just the formal meetings in his study or the occasional dinner in the grand hall, but the small, quiet moments that filled the spaces between duties and obligations. Morning tea on the balcony overlooking the gardens, afternoon walks through the palace corridors, your shoulders brushing as you walked, evening conversations that stretched long into the night, until the candles burned low and the stars wheeled overhead.

And with the time came the names.

Euijoo called you my love with such casual ease that it soon became second nature. When he passed you in the hallway, his hand would find yours and he would murmur, "Good morning, my love." When you brought him tea in his study, he would look up with a soft smile and say, "Thank you, my love." When you were both in meetings with advisors, he would catch your eye across the table and mouth the words when no one was looking, a secret just for you.

You returned the favor with nicknames of your own. My king when you were feeling formal. Euijoo when you wanted his attention. Darling when you were feeling particularly bold. And on rare, precious occasions, when you were alone and the world felt far away, you called him Joo, and the way his eyes softened made your heart stutter every time.

You grew more childish with one another, too.

You discovered that he was ticklish just below his ribs, and he discovered that you could not resist a challenge. You started leaving little notes for him in places he would find—tucked into his books, slipped under his pillow, folded into the pocket of his coat. He retaliated by hiding small candies in your chambers, so that every time you reached for a handkerchief or a hairbrush, you found a sweet surprise.

Harua suffered through all of it with admirable patience.

He would stand at the door to the king's study, a stack of documents in his arms, while you sat on the edge of Euijoo's desk, swinging your legs and feeding him grapes. He would clear his throat loudly, and Euijoo would say, "One moment, Harua," before leaning over to press a kiss to your forehead, utterly oblivious to the way his secretary's eye twitched.

He would accompany you both to formal events, trailing behind as you walked hand in hand, and would have to endure the way you whispered jokes to each other during stuffy speeches, your shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. He would watch Euijoo adjust the collar of your gown with tender care, or you straighten his crown before he entered a room, and he would sigh the long, weary sigh of a man who had seen too much.

"Your Majesties," he would say, his voice strained, "the delegation from Eldanith is waiting."

And Euijoo would look at you, his eyes warm and amused, and say, "The delegation can wait a little longer, can it not, my love?"

And you would smile and say, "Of course, darling."

And Harua would sigh again, resigning himself to his fate.

But the most important change—the one that marked a true shift in the fabric of your marriage—happened on a night when the rain was falling soft and steady against the windows.

You had been lying in your own bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rhythm of the rain. The door between your connected chambers was always left slightly ajar now, a silent invitation.

You had been married for quite some time now. You had kissed him, held his hand, fallen asleep on his shoulder in the library. But you had never shared a bed.

That night, something inside you stirred. A restlessness, a longing, a bravery you did not know you possessed.

You slipped out of your bed, your bare feet silent against the cold floor. You crossed the space, your nightgown whispering around your ankles. You paused at his door, your hand hovering over the handle, your heart pounding in your chest.

What if he does not want me there? What if I am overstepping? What if—

The door opened before you could knock.

Euijoo stood there, his hair tousled, his shirt untucked, his eyes soft with concern. "I heard you moving about." He said quietly. "Are you alright?"

And all your fears melted away.

"I could not sleep," you said. "And I thought.….I thought perhaps I could sleep here? With you?"

He looked at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he reached out, took your hand, and pulled you gently into his room.

"I was hoping you would come." He admitted, his voice low and warm.

Euijoo led you to his bed, pulling back the covers for you. You climbed in, the sheets smelling of tangerines. He climbed in beside you, and for a moment, you both lay on your backs, staring at the ceiling, uncertain.

Then he turned on his side, propping himself up on one elbow. "May I hold you?"

You nodded, your throat too tight for words.

He wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you gently against him, your back to his chest, his chin resting on the top of your head. His heartbeat was steady and strong against your spine, a lullaby in its own right.

"Goodnight, my love." He whispered.

"Goodnight, Joo." You whispered back.

And you fell asleep in his arms, the rain pattering softly against the window, the warmth of his body surrounding you like a shield against the world.

You woke the next morning to sunlight streaming through the curtains and the realization that you were wrapped in a cocoon of warmth.

Somehow, in the night, you had turned around. Your face was pressed against his chest, your arm draped across his stomach, your legs tangled with his. His arm was wrapped securely around your waist, his hand resting on the small of your back, holding you close even in sleep.

Euijoo was still asleep, his face relaxed, his lips slightly parted, his breathing slow and even. He looked younger like this, unburdened by the weight of his crown.

You did not move. You did not want to.

You lay there, tracing the lines of his face with your eyes, memorizing the way his lashes fanned against his cheeks, the way a strand of hair fell across his forehead, the way his lips curved into a small, unconscious smile.

After a while, his eyes fluttered open.

He looked at you, blinking sleepily, and then a slow, radiant smile spread across his face. "Good morning, my love."

"Good morning." You said, your voice soft with sleep.

He tightened his arm around your waist, pulling you closer. "How did you sleep?"

"Better than I have in a while." You admitted.

"Good." He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Then we should do this every night."

Your heart swelled. "I would like that."

You lay there for a while longer, basking in the warmth of the morning and each other. The sun climbed higher, the sounds of the palace stirring to life beyond the door. You knew there were meetings to attend, documents to sign, a kingdom to run.

But your king made no move to get up.

"Should you not be preparing for the day?" You asked, a teasing lilt in your voice.

He hummed, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your back. "The kingdom can wait a little longer."

"Can it?"

He tilted your chin up, meeting your eyes. His gaze was full of a love that still surprised him as much as it surprised you.

"The kingdom has had me my entire life." He said softly. "You've only had me for a night. I wish to hold on to that for a little longer."

You smiled, your heart overflowing. "Then stay."

He pulled you closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "I will."

And so you stayed there, wrapped in each other's arms, while the morning stretched on and the world outside waited patiently for a king who had finally found something worth holding onto.

But a secret thing that you found so very beautiful about him were his hands, especially when he played the violin.

They were elegant hands, long-fingered and graceful, with knuckles that bent just so and veins that ran like quiet rivers beneath his skin. When he held his bow, his wrist would relax into a perfect curve, fluid and controlled, and his fingers would dance across the strings with a precision that seemed almost otherworldly.

You had watched him play countless times now—in the music room, in his study, once even in the garden at dusk, the fading light casting golden shadows across his face. And every time, your eyes would drift to his hands, tracing the way they moved, the way they commanded such beauty from a simple instrument.

There was a strength to them, too. You had felt that strength when he caught you in the kitchen, his palm firm against your waist. You had felt it when he held your hand during walks, his fingers interlaced with yours. You had felt it in the dark of his chambers, when his hand had rested on the small of your back, pulling you close, promising safety.

But there was also a gentleness. A tenderness that revealed itself in the way he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, or the way he traced the curve of your cheek with his thumb, or the way he held your hand.

You had fallen in love with many things about Byun Euijoo. His laugh, his kindness, the way he looked at you like you were the answer to a question he had been asking his whole life.

The night of your consummation arrived after months of shared glances, stolen kisses and the building of trust between you. It was not a duty, not an obligation, not a box to be checked for the sake of the kingdom. It was a choice, made freely and fully, born from a love that had grown deep roots in the soil of your marriage.

You had been sitting on the edge of the bed, your heart pounding, when he emerged from the adjoining washroom. He was shirtless, a towel draped around his shoulders, his hair still damp and curling slightly at the ends. Water droplets clung to his collarbones, catching the candlelight like scattered jewels.

You had seen him without a shirt before—in passing, in moments of accident—but never like this. Never with the explicit understanding of what was about to happen. Your eyes traced the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his spine, the way his muscles shifted beneath his skin as he moved.

But your gaze kept drifting lower, to his hands.

He was drying his hair with the towel, his fingers flexing and gripping the fabric and you found yourself mesmerized by the motion. The way his tendons moved beneath his skin, the way his knuckles paled as he tightened his grip, the way his hands looked so damn beautiful.

Euijoo noticed you staring.

Your husband paused, the towel falling still, a slow smile spreading across his lips. "My love," he said, his voice warm with amusement, "why are you looking at me as if you have never seen me before?"

You felt heat rise to your cheeks, but you did not look away. "I was looking at your hands."

He glanced down at them, as if seeing them for the first time too. "My hands?"

"They are beautiful." You said, your voice soft and shy, "Especially when you play the violin. I could watch them for hours."

Something shifted in his expression. The amusement faded, replaced by something deeper, something tender and raw. He set the towel aside and crossed the room to stand before you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his bare skin.

"You have never told me that before." Euijoo said quietly.

"I did not know how to say it without sounding foolish."

He reached out, and with one gentle finger, he tucked it beneath your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark and warm, full of that love that made your blood feel as if it was on fire.

"You could never sound foolish to me." He said, his thumb brushing lightly along your jawline. "Not when you look at me like that and certainly not when you say things like that."

And then Euijoo leaned down and kissed you.

It was soft at first, a gentle press of lips, a question and an answer all at once. His hand slid from your chin to cup your cheek, his palm warm against your skin, his fingers threading into your hair. You melted into him, your hands rising to rest against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palms.

Your husband guided you back, slowly and gently, until your shoulders met the soft mattress and he was hovering above you, his weight braced on one arm, his other hand still cradling your face as if you were the most precious thing in the world.

Euijoo broke the kiss just long enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours, his breath warm against your lips.

"I love you." He whispered, a familiar mantra from his lips whenever you were within his radius.

You reached up, your fingers finding his, intertwining with those beautiful hands, and pulled him back down to you.

Of course, you had found your home in the crooks and crannies of his heart. But in his hands, you had found your favorite place to rest.

The kiss deepened, shifting from a tender promise into something hungrier and more urgent. You wrapped your legs around his lean waist, pulling him flush against you, feeling the hard ridge of his manhood pressing through his trousers against your thigh.

Euijoo let out a low, shaky moan into your mouth, his tongue sweeping against yours in a rhythmic, demanding dance that left you breathless.

He broke away from your lips, but he didn't go far. His head dipped, his nose brushing against the sensitive skin of your jaw before he found the sweet spot just below your ear. He began to suckle there, his lips pulling at your skin, creating a delicious friction that sent shivers racing down your spine.

"You taste so sweet, my love." He murmured against your skin, his voice a husky vibration that made your toes curl. "I've wanted you like this since the moment I saw you today."

You arched your back, your fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer. "Then stop talking and show me." You whimpered, your voice strained with need, "My king."

Euijoo chuckled, am intimate, flirtatious sound. He moved his mouth down to the crook of your neck, planting a series of wet, biting kisses that marked you as his. He knew exactly how much you loved it; he lingered there, his tongue swirling over your pulse point while his hand slid down from your face, gliding over your ribs to find the hem of your clothes.

With a fluid motion, he stripped you bare, his gentle eyes darkening with raw lust as he took in the sight of you beneath him. He didn't rush; he took his time admiring you, his gaze lingering on every curve before he returned to your neck, nipping at the tendon there while his hand wandered downward.

When his fingers finally found your center, you were already soaking wet, your pussy glistening and open for him. He let out a soft gasp, his fingers sliding through your cream with a wet, squelching sound.

"Look at how ready you are for me," he whispered, glancing up at you with a smirk that was equal parts tender and predatory.

He slid one finger inside you, a slow, deep thrust that made you gasp and grip the sheets. He began to move his finger in a steady, curling motion, hooking it upward to find the sensitive bundle of nerves that drove you wild. At the same time, his thumb began to circle and press firmly against your clitoris, creating a dual sensation that had you sobbing his name.

Euijoo didn't stop. He increased the pace, his finger sliding in and out of your tight heat, the sound of friction and wetness filling the quiet room. He returned to your neck, his place of worship, his teeth grazing your skin, sucking hard enough to leave a bruise while his hand worked you relentlessly.

"Please, Euijoo.….right there," you pleaded, your hips bucking instinctively against his hand.

"I've got you, my love." He breathed, his voice thick with desire, "Just let go for me."

He accelerated the rhythm, his thumb rubbing your clit in fast, frantic circles while his finger hammered deep into your pussy. The tension built into a tight, unbearable coil in your gut. You felt the pressure peaking, your breath coming in short, jagged hitches.

The world shattered into a million pieces as your walls clamped tight around his finger in a series of violent, pulsing contractions. You screamed his name, your body shuddering as a powerful orgasm ripped through you, leaving you shaking and breathless.

Euijoo didn't pull away immediately; he stayed inside you, feeling every throb of your climax, his lips pressed firmly against your neck as he shared in the intensity of your release. He kissed the spot he had just marked, his voice a soft, loving caress.

"Beautiful." He whispered. "Absolutely beautiful."

As the echoes of your orgasm faded, leaving you pliant and shimmering with sweat, Euijoo didn't move away. He remained draped over you, his chest heaving against yours, his lips still grazing the sensitive skin of your neck. He let out a long, shaky breath, his voice sounding strained and thick with a need that mirrored your own.

"I fear I can't wait another second," he groaned, his forehead resting against yours. "I need to be inside you, my love."

He shifted his weight, moving his hand from your pussy to the waistband of his trousers. With a few quick movements, he stripped himself bare, and you caught a glimpse of his cock—thick and leaking a bead of pre-cum at the tip.

Your husband looked breathtaking, his lean frame muscles tensing as he positioned himself between your thighs, his gentle eyes now clouded with an intensity that made your heart race.

He didn't just plunge in. Instead, he guided the head of his cock against your soaking wet opening, teasing the entrance with a slow, deliberate rub. You whimpered, your hips instinctively tilting upward, begging for the fullness of him.

"May I, my love?" He asked, his smile reassuring as you nodded—for words were not enough to describe how badly you wanted this.

He pushed forward with agonizing slowness. You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt your tight walls stretch to accommodate him. He entered an inch, then stopped, pausing completely to let you adjust. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a deep, searing kiss, his tongue swirling against yours while he waited for your body to accept him.

"You're so—hmmm—tight.….so perfect." He moaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your entire body.

He pushed a bit deeper, another slow, steady slide that filled you completely. You let out a high-pitched moan, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back, pulling him closer. He stopped again, his breath hot against your ear, his voice a trembling confession.

"I love you so much," he breathed, his voice cracking with emotion. "I love you more than I have words for. You are my everything."

Only when he felt you relax and melt around him did he finally sink all the way in, bottoming out with a soft thud of hips. You both let out a simultaneous, guttural moan of relief, the sheer fullness of him sending a wave of pleasure crashing over you. He stayed there for a moment, buried deep, just breathing you in, his heart hammering against your ribs.

Then, he began to move.

It was not a frantic pace; it was a loving, rhythmic dance—so characteristically Euijoo. He withdrew almost entirely, leaving only the tip inside, before sliding back in with a slow, deep thrust that hit your sweet spot perfectly. Each movement was calculated to maximize your pleasure, his lean waist flexing as he drove into you with a tender persistence.

"Oh god, Joo... yes, right there," you sobbed, your head tossing back against the pillows.

"You feel so—ah hahh—so good, my love," he groaned, his voice a husky rasp. "So warm.….so wet for me."

He picked up the pace slightly, the sound of your bodies colliding—the wet, slapping noise of skin on skin—filling the room. He returned to your favorite spot, burying his face in the crook of your neck, sucking and nipping at your skin while he made love to you. The combination of the friction in your heat and the sensation on your neck was overwhelming.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," he chanted between ragged breaths, each confession punctuated by a deep, driving thrust.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down so you could scream your love back into his mouth. The tension began to coil again, tighter and hotter than before. Your internal muscles clamped around him, milking his length, and Euijoo let out a loud, broken moan, his pace becoming more urgent, more desperate.

"I'm close... my love, I'm right there," he gasped, his thrusts becoming shorter and faster, hammering into you with a raw, primal need.

The peak hit you both at once. You felt your walls contract in violent, rhythmic pulses, squeezing him tight, while Euijoo let out a loud, guttural cry, his body stiffening as he surged deep inside you one last time. He groaned your name, his voice echoing in the quiet room, as he came in great, hot bursts, filling you to the brim with his seed.

You shuddered beneath him, your orgasm rolling through you in waves, leaving you completely spent. He collapsed onto you, his face hidden in your shoulder, both of you panting in unison, your hearts beating as one in the aftermath of the storm.

For a long, breathless moment, neither of you moved. The only sounds in the room were your ragged breathing, the distant crackle of the dying fire, and the soft rustle ofsheets as his weight settled more fully against you.

His face was buried in the crook of your neck, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. One of his hands was still tangled with yours, pressed against the pillow beside your head. The other was splayed across your stomach, his fingers tracing lazy, unconscious patterns on your sweat-slicked skin.

You lay there, floating in the haze of afterglow, your body humming with a satisfaction so deep it felt like part of your very bones.

After a while, he stirred, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder before lifting his head to look at you. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his hair a mess, his lips slightly swollen and curved into a dopey, unguarded smile.

"Well," he said, his voice rough and hoarse, "I think it is safe to say that went rather well."

You let out a breathless laugh, your hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from his forehead. "Rather well? I would say it was exceptional, my king."

He grinned, a hint of his usual playfulness returning. "Exceptional, is it? I shall have to remember that for future reference."

"Please do." You said, your tone mock-serious. "I expect thorough documentation of your techniques. For the good of the kingdom, of course."

"Of course," he agreed, his eyes sparkling. "I shall have Harua draw up a formal report."

You both burst into laughter at the thought of poor Harua's face, the sound light and easy, filling the quiet room with warmth. He dropped his forehead to yours, still chuckling, and you felt his breath fan across your lips.

"I love your laugh," he murmured, his voice softening. "I think that was the first thing I truly loved about you. The way you laugh." He lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his lips lingering. "You are the most precious thing in my world, my love."

You smiled, your eyes growing heavy, the warmth of his body and the comfort of his presence pulling you toward sleep. He seemed to notice, because he shifted, pulling you closer, adjusting the blankets around you both.

"Sleep, my love," he whispered, his lips brushing your forehead. "I will be here when you wake."

You nestled into him, your head finding its place in the curve of his shoulder, your hand resting over his heart. You could feel its steady rhythm beneath your palm, a lullaby more beautiful than any violin could play.

"Euijoo?" You murmured, your voice thick with drowsiness.

"Yes, my love?"

"I love you."

There was a pause, and then his arms tightened around you, pulling you closer. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his voice soft and full of wonder.

"I love you too."

You smiled against his skin, your eyes finally fluttering closed.

In the beginning, you had been two strangers bound by duty, standing in a grand hall, exchanging vows you did not yet understand. You had been a first princess and a king, two pieces from different puzzles, forced together by the hands of politics and expectation.

But somehow, impossibly, miraculously, you had found your way inside.

Inside his heart, inside his life and inside the quiet, sacred space that he had reserved for no one else.

As you drifted off to sleep, wrapped in his arms, your body still humming with the echoes of your union, you realized that you had finally found your place.

Not in a palace or a jewel-encrusted throne. And not in the pages of history books or the whispers of courtiers.

But here.

In the warmth of his embrace, in the steady beat of his heart, in the love that had grown between you, wild and beautiful and entirely your own.

The world said its silent thank you as it saw all the love you gave back, and you thanked the world back,

For you had found your place to place your love.

And it was Euijoo.

And it was home.

fin.

A/N: hi you guys just wanted to say yes i am very insane about euijoo + kitchen scenes which i feel is VERY evident in this fic lol. I feel like you guys are gonna like yuma's next idk i hate the ending a bit but tbh i have no braincells to fix it. BUT YUMA WILL BE ENEMIES TO LOVERS SO EHEHEHEHEHEHE

divider by @strangergraphics-archive

Series Taglist:

General taglist: @eu1joo @7yataki @frenchkisstheabyss @yumangel @nichozzystuffs @blueuijoo @pglpblm @ikigaijo @antonh0lic @dearvampyr @riri4andy @tokunodoll @sunsoomi @makizdoll @solairemelo @cece0710

@berrybittynetwork my beloveds

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