˚˖꒰ your arms, my home, my breath, my god you grabbed me when i was falling fly again my falling days were sorrow but after you appeared my lifted mouth corners won't come down ༄.°
the scene and the song i associate it with [Star Eyes by Magdalena Bay from 2:19 onwards]
#beomgyuissoinlove #maythislovePLEASEfindme🙏🏼
will be re reading ch.3 & 4 in the weekend and update my notes bcs i feel like there were hints & reference that I did not pick up bcs i was reading this at 1am hahah
HIII YANAAA😭😭😭
i just listened to that part of the song and??? i can absolutely see the vision. that's such a lovely association for that scene 🥹
and GOOD LUCK with the reread because there are definitely a few things tucked away throughout chapters 3 and 4 👀 some are bigger than others, some are just little details i threw in because they made me giggle. whether you'll catch them all, however, remains to be seen ehehehe.
either way, i hope you have fun revisiting them!!🤍
I'm finally done reading Waltz of Words! It was so amazingomagicaloperfect, I can't wait to act 2! The cliffhanger!?!?
But now, I'm out content, considering I have read all works, oops 🤭
So, as I wait PATIENTLY above all, do you have any fic suggestions to keep alive until you post again?
hi hi <33 im glad you liked it!! act 1 isnt done yet WAHAHAH i still have around 4-5 chapters left before act 2 comes out. as for suggestions, i have given plenty of fic suggestions before so better if you go through my 'letters received' tag ^^ ahhh i wish i could give you a new list but i havent had the time to read lately nor do i have the time to sit down and compile everything again WAHAHAHAHAH
im so glad i waited patiently for waltz of worlds updates😮💨😮💨 got me craving for a Lord Choi Beomgyu who loses all his decorum when he smells the faint scent of Jasmine
the slow burn is well- ‘slow burning’ that’s for sure. but the anticipation is just so good 🤌
this chapter got me cheering and giggling, I swear every time mc and beomgyu were near each other I’m like:
beomgyu is getting seemingly bolder each chapter, and I am living for it 🙌
ahhh it's so good to see you back again!! 😭🤍 and eheheheh you caught the exact things i was hoping someone would notice. i'm glad you're enjoying the slow burn because i know these two are taking their sweet time getting anywhere 😭 but i promise there is a destination at the end of this very long and rocky road <33
beomgyu definitely is getting bolder with each chapter and that's been one of my favorite things to write! though i fear that confidence is going to cost him his peace very soon WAHAHAHAHHA he's becoming a little too comfortable around her these days... which, unfortunately for him, means i have plenty of opportunities to make his life harder 😝 😝😝
chapter 5 will lean a bit more into the plot and mystery side of things, but don't worry the yearning isn't going anywhere! i fully intend to keep torturing that man 🤤
shit i yapped too much WAHAHAHHA thank you so much for reading and for cheering them on 🥹 every time someone tells me they were giggling and kicking their feet over these two, it makes all the hours spent writing them feel worth it 🤍
꒰❄️꒱ A blizzard strands your train in the middle of nowhere, and the only inn with a room left has one bed. You don’t hesitate to book it with the charming stranger who’s been keeping you company.
⤷ ゛ This story is part of the One Bed Series .ᐟ.ᐟ
⊹ wc .ᐟ 22.4k
pairing: Choi Beomgyu x afab!reader
tags: strangers to friends to ?, mutual pining and micro-flirting, sexual tension, they get stranded on a train, in the middle of a snowstorm, yearner!beomgyu, mention of injury, slowburn in a train setting because i fucking can [probably missed some]
[MDNI] smut warning: explicit sexual content, fingering, oral (f.), nipple play, he grinds against reader's knee, he humps the mattress while eating reader out, cums in his pants, he also begs, dom!beomgyu (but pathetic and madly in love), one instance of him being a little possessive, some fluffy moments, multiple orgasms, protected sex (huzzah!), sliight pain kink if you squint, mating press, implication of multiple rounds at the end [definitely missed some]
yun's ☕: *cricket noises* i bring offerings after my suspicious disappearance. anyway that’s enough about me.
You stared at your phone with a sigh that turned faintly visible in the chilly air.
It was colder at the station than you thought it would be when you left your apartment. There wasn’t enough insulation anywhere to stop the biting chill from finding its way through the walls and floors of the underground station. A draft swept underneath the sliding glass doors at the front entrance and teased your ankles repeatedly as you paced. Commuters bustled around you in small groups beneath the mounted television near the waiting bench; the murmurs of their conversations punctuated by small clouds of breath as the newscaster droned over images of snow-whitened roads.
“…the blizzard is expected to intensify by late afternoon. All travelers are advised to reconsider non‑essential trips…”
You exhaled slowly and watched the condensation fog your phone screen momentarily before it dissipated. Regret pooled heavily in your stomach. You should have known better than to pick this particular weekend to go home — the rare long break that had lined up perfectly with your schedule and, with spectacular inconvenience, also happened to coincide with the worst winter storm of the year. Too late to reconsider now. The ticket was bought and the bag was packed and you were already here, which was more than halfway committed by any reasonable measure.
When the train whistle sounded and the engine glided into the station on a billow of frost, you shrugged off what remained of your better judgment and fell in with the sluggish crowd moving toward it. Passengers bundled up in heavy coats brushed shoulders with you and you were swallowed by a ripple of low-toned conversation.
The luggage wheels chose that exact moment to give out.
They jammed in the narrow gap between the platform’s edge and the train’s step. It lurched to an abrupt halt that jolted your arm forward. You tugged once but it wouldn’t budge. Tugged again, harder, putting your body into it — the handle creaked but the wheels held fast.
Restlessness rippled through the people behind you in line. Heat flushed your neck as you crouched down trying to yank the damn suitcase free, not wanting to hold up the line for much longer.
Not today. You started to panic. Please, not today.
“Need some help there?”
The voice came from just behind you.
You didn’t turn all the way to face him — just bobbed your head in thanks. “Yeah, please. Thank you.”
His hand slid past yours and the cuff of his coat sleeve brushed yours as he knelt down next to the suitcase. One hand gripped the handle while the other nudged underneath just enough to shift the wheels out of the corner. Lifted it slightly and twisted, and it popped free.
He straightened without comment and took the handle, stepping onto the train and glancing back only briefly to make sure you were following. You nodded hastily and climbed up the narrow stairs. Face still burning, you walked along the aisle behind him and led him towards your seat.
“It's just this row,” you said, pointing.
At your seat, he hoisted the suitcase up in one clean motion — higher than his head, without any visible hitch — and you watched his arms complete the arc of it that gave you a funny feeling in your belly. Before you quite realized it, your eyes had followed the line of his arms all the way to his hands. You finally got a good look at his face when he turned to you.
Strong lines along his jaw and eyes that warmed when they met yours. A few strands of dark hair had fallen loose from the rest of his neatly combed-back style, resting across his forehead. It was somewhat unfair for a stranger on a train to look like that.
“Thank you,” you said, your hand going up automatically to check the suitcase was properly secured. “You really saved me from the embarrassment back there.”
He glanced at it once more and gave it a small push to seat it further in, then stepped back to give you room to pass.
“Don’t mention it. Happens to the best of us.” He rested his hand briefly on the back of your seat to steady himself as someone edged down the aisle behind him. “Those gaps catch wheels more often than people think.”
You laughed despite yourself as you sank into the window seat and pulled your jacket closer around your shoulders. “Guess I'm just the unlucky one who got chosen tonight.”
His lips moved into something that wasn't quite a smile yet but was heading there. He rapped his knuckles against the suitcase gently, like to make sure it wouldn’t fall off on you. Then he gestured towards the row in front of you, indicating his seat.
“Mine's a couple up.”
“Thank you again,” you said as he turned to go.
He glanced back over his shoulder at the sound of your voice, and this time the smile completed itself. “Happy holidays,” he replied before continuing down the aisle.
“Happy holidays,” you whispered quietly to yourself.
You weren't entirely sure how happy it was shaping up to be.
The inside of the train was dim and catatonic. Departure had already been pushed back thirty minutes in the hopes that any remaining passengers would hurry and get on board before conditions made the journey inadvisable. Even so, large pockets of empty seats remained scattered throughout, and the untouched headrests gave the entire compartment a strangely hollow appearance.
The seat directly across from yours was unclaimed. So were most of the others within eyeline.
A small stroke of fortune, perhaps. You could hardly blame them. Considering the warnings that were on every news channel, it seemed likely that most people with flexible plans had chosen to remain safely indoors instead of venturing across the country through a rising blizzard. The ones who had shown up tonight were the ones who couldn't afford the postponement, who had reasons that outweighed the inconvenience of a winter storm bearing down on the railway line.
You fell squarely into that category. It had been too long since you had last made the trip home and when the long weekend appeared on your calendar, the trip had felt too convenient to postpone. Canceling would have been the sensible thing. You had considered it, and then the thought of putting it off again had guilt building up. So you had packed a bag and come anyway, blizzard warnings and all, which was either devotion or stubbornness and at this point you weren't certain there was a meaningful difference between the two.
Under ordinary conditions the journey was supposed to take just over two hours. Judging by the sound of the wind working itself against the windows before the train had even cleared the city, the estimate felt increasingly optimistic.
For the first half hour of the journey, you did little more than watch the passage of the evening through the window. The sky held the last of the day's color — pale rose bleeding into silver at the edges as the sun dropped behind a low line of hills, and the first snow began to fall into the fading light. Started as a scattering of delicate flakes drifting lazily through the air which was barely noticeable against the dimming horizon. It was a rather pretty sight.
Within minutes the flakes multiplied and thickened, merging into a pale curtain that swept across the open countryside in waves. The train’s headlights cut out a small area of movement through the white until there was very little left to look at except the storm itself. Watching it for too long produced a faint, swimming sensation behind your eyes.
A chime sounded through the carriage, followed by the soft crackle of the train’s announcement system. The conductor’s voice came through the speakers, informing that due to deteriorating weather conditions along the route, the train would be reducing speed and making several unscheduled stops to ensure the safety of everyone on board.
Your earlier suspicion had aged into confirmation. This wasn't going to be the usual two-hour ride to Daegu. If the weather kept building at its current rate, the journey could easily stretch to twice the original estimate, possibly more.
There was only so long anyone could watch an unbroken wall of snow before the mind began casting around for something else to do with itself. Some coffee would be a lot more appealing than staring at bleakness, you thought, and it nudged you out of your seat. You made your way down to the snack car. It was marginally brighter than the passenger compartments. A slim counter ran along one side with an attendant moving briskly between shelves and heating units.
The display offered little in the way of temptation.
Plastic-wrapped pastries lay under heat lamps that had long since deprived them of whatever freshness they might have once found. A shelf of microwaveable items occupied the adjacent space. Nothing about it looked particularly appealing, and you could almost feel the sodden heaviness that would come an hour later if you dared to take more than a mouthful. Hardly ideal considering the uncertain length of the journey ahead.
Despite that, the shelves were emptying at a surprising pace. Passengers seemed less concerned with quality than availability, gathering whatever remained before the options disappeared altogether. The sight prompted you to make your decision quickly.
You purchased a couple of the lemon cream buns stacked near the register along with a cup of coffee. The buns looked harmless and would likely sit far better in your stomach than the alternatives. You deemed it a sensible choice.
With your small collection of supplies in hand, you glanced around for somewhere to sit. A small table near the wall was the only vacant one remaining. You slid into the seat and set the buns down in front of you, curling both palms around the cup. The train rocked more noticeably here than in the passenger car — a slow, side-to-side sway that rattled through the fixtures and occasionally produced a low creak from the metal frame of the carriage when a particularly aggressive gust found the side of the train.
You set your coffee down and reached for your phone. Your mother had sent four messages since the departure delay, each one a variation on the same concern, and you owed her a call before the evening went any further. The dial tone attempted to connect, held for a few seconds, and then dissolved into silence without going through.
You pulled the phone from your ear and looked at the screen — the network icon in the corner was flickering back to life then fading again. You angled the phone toward the window on the off chance that the extra distance might persuade the signal to cooperate.
Unfortunately, the same result followed. You clicked your tongue, irritation simmering just beneath the surface.
“Can I sit here?”
Your heart gave a startled jump before your brain had fully registered the voice, and you looked up to find the handsome stranger from the platform standing at the edge of your table. He balanced himself by bracing one hand against the tabletop as the movement of the carriage rocked him slightly where he stood. In his other hand he carried a small packet of food.
“Sure—please, go ahead,” you said quickly, sitting up straighter and nudging your paper bag a little farther to the side to clear the space.
He dipped his head in gratitude and lowered himself onto the seat beside you. The train chose that exact moment to lurch forward with a particularly pronounced sway that made him huff a quiet laugh. He settled, set his food down, and met your eyes with a look that carried the trace of whatever that almost-laugh had been.
“I hope you don't mind. Every other table seems to have been claimed.” He glanced briefly around the car before returning to you. “I figured since we'd already spoken, it’d be less awkward than asking a complete stranger.”
“I don't mind at all,” you said, shaking your head with emphasis. “Besides, I doubt anyone on this train is turning down company tonight.”
His lips curved in a gentle smile. “Then I’ll do my best to make sure the company isn’t disappointing. I’d hate to abuse such generous hospitality on our second meeting of the evening.” His gaze held something like assurance, almost as if he were hoping you’d enjoy his presence as much as he would enjoy yours.
“Well,” you murmured, settling back and holding your coffee close, “in that case you’re very much welcome to the table.”
He unwrapped his meal and you noticed he hadn't thought to get a drink. You looked at your own coffee, still warm between your palms, and then back at him.
“You know,” you added, motioning towards your own cup, “I’ll grab you something to drink—might make the night ahead a little warmer.”
He looked up immediately and raised a hand in protest. “You don't have to do that—really, you've already given me the seat.”
“It’s really not a problem,” you insisted, rising halfway before he could object again. “You helped me earlier, remember? Consider it repayment.” You paused, letting him gather his thoughts before continuing. “Coffee or tea? Whichever you prefer.”
He hesitated for a moment before conceding with a small nod. “In that case,” he said, glancing briefly toward the counter, “coffee would be great.”
You returned shortly after with a cup of coffee. He sat up straighter once you approached.
“Here you go,” you said, holding it toward him.
He took it with both hands and bowed his head in thanks. After taking a small sip he set the cup down and extended his hand.
“I should have done this properly earlier,” he said. “Choi Beomgyu.”
You repeated his name in your head over again after he said it, savouring the sound. Lingering on the taste of each syllable with a strange attention you couldn’t quite place. As you gave your own introduction, you took his hand and shook it, and noted that it was warm — still carrying the heat from the cup. Just like his name.
You felt your phone buzz suddenly.
“One second—sorry, my mum's been waiting to hear from me,” you said, quickly placing the phone to your ear while flashing him a look of apology.
Turning slightly in your seat, you focused on the call while explaining the situation to your mother. The connection crackled occasionally beneath your words, forcing you to repeat yourself once or twice as you reassured your mother that you were still on the train and that the delay had only stretched the journey, not halted it entirely.
Every so often, when you glanced up mid-sentence, you caught him looking at you over the rim of his cup. The simple exchange sent a curious flutter through your chest; it was pleasant in a way that made you unexpectedly aware of the moment.
“Are you visiting family in Daegu?” he asked once you’re done talking.
You nodded, pulling your scarf down from around your neck and draping it across your lap. The snack car had warmed you up enough that keeping it wrapped felt excessive. “I haven't been home in a while.” You rested your hands atop one another on your lap, tapping your fingers together absentmindedly in a restless habit you had never quite managed to outgrow. “You?”
“Daegu as well.” The corners of his mouth lifted. You had the same destination as him, which meant he could spend time in your company longer. “My brother is getting married. The ceremony is the day after tomorrow, actually. I didn't have much choice about traveling tonight, storm or not.”
“Wait, really? That's wonderful!” You leaned forward with a delighted sound, your hands lifting slightly in excitement before you caught yourself and laughed. “Congratulations to him—to your whole family, I mean.”
Beomgyu laughed as well, the sound bright enough to draw a brief glance from someone seated a few tables away. “He's been sending me photos for weeks,” he said, already reaching into his coat pocket for his phone. “Here, let me show you a few—”
He scrolled through the gallery while angling the phone between you on the table so both of you could see. You instinctively found yourself leaning in for a better view.
The photos moved past in an affectionate chronicle — a smiling couple holding up their hands to show the rings, a table full of family at what looked like a celebratory dinner. The particular beautiful pandemonium of wedding preparations filling someone's living room with fabric samples and flower arrangements and people who all seemed to be talking at once. In nearly every image, Beomgyu's brother and the woman beside him were either laughing at the camera or turned toward each other with the telltale glow of two people eagerly awaiting the day ahead.
You caught yourself smiling purely for them, not for any reason beyond simple happiness.
“They look so happy,” you said, pausing on one photo in particular — the bride-to-be with a streak of flour across her cheek, laughing beside his brother in the middle of what appeared to be a thoroughly failed baking project.
Beomgyu leaned in slightly to see which one you had stopped on, and his shoulder brushed yours as he did. Neither of you moved apart. “That was their attempt at baking their own engagement cake,” he said, the laugh already back in his voice. “My brother maintained for weeks that it was the best thing he'd ever eaten. Nobody else who tried it agreed with him.”
“He was protecting her feelings,” you said immediately.
“Almost certainly.” He scrolled to the next photo, which showed the same couple holding up a lopsided, fondant-covered disaster with matching expressions of pride. “Although he did finish the whole thing, so either he meant it or he has genuinely terrible taste.”
You laughed, and Beomgyu looked at you when you did. He should have torn himself away after a second. Instead, he stayed there watching you through the sound of it, gaze softening which he failed to hide in time.
God, he could get used to hearing that.
The next few were different from the others — older photographs, more personal. A family of four around a dinner table crowded with dishes. A blurry snapshot taken outdoors where two boys stood shoulder to shoulder beneath a vibrant blue sky, squinting into the sun. Another picture showed the same boys years later, taller now, though their expressions suggested they had been persuaded into the photo rather than volunteering for it.
Beomgyu walked you through his memory lane and told you little stories behind every photo. You listened and watched his face more than the screen.
You focused on a photo of his father caught in a candid moment with a glass raised toward the camera. You stared at it and then back at Beomgyu, and it required very little imagination to picture how those features might settle with age — how his face may look five, ten years from now etched with laugh lines and softer features. Older, but still the same.
It gave you this tight feeling in your chest that felt oddly misplaced. You had known this man for barely an hour, but the simple act of looking at the people who raised him and listening to him talk about his life — it had begun to create the faintest sense of connection that you hadn't been looking for and weren't sure what to do with.
“I really hope I make it there on time,” Beomgyu said, more to himself than to you, his eyes moving toward the window. “I promised I'd be there early—there were a few things I said I'd help with before the ceremony. That promise is starting to feel a little ambitious.”
You followed his gaze toward the window where the glass had begun to cloud faintly. Snow tore past it in dense white streaks, illuminated only when the train passed the occasional line of track lights.
“Optimistic,” you offered. “And I think it’s perfectly fine to be optimistic in times like these. If anything, it gives others peace of mind.”
At this point optimism was the only resource anyone aboard the train seemed to possess. Every passenger you had seen since boarding the train bore the same tell tale demeanor. Hoping and praying that the weather would let up and that they would make it to their destination.
Beomgyu liked that you had taken his pessimism and returned it to him reframed, and it made him curious whether the calm in your voice was something you actually felt or something you had decided to project for the benefit of the people around you. He suspected it was genuinely both and made him wonder if that calm would hold if he pushed the thought a little further.
“Maybe,” he conceded, glancing once more at the window. “If it doesn’t work out, I suppose I'll just end up stranded somewhere along the line with everyone else who gambled on the weather tonight.” He gave a small shrug, though the thought clearly amused him. “Could be worse outcomes.”
“Significantly worse,” you agreed, lifting your coffee cup. “We're inside, at least. Stranded on a train is categorically not the worst version of stranded. But, like, I still wouldn't want to spend the night here in that situation.”
He let that settle for a beat, glancing around the carriage with a brief, contemplative sweep before his eyes returned to yours. The smile that followed came out slowly, like he had given himself a moment to decide whether to say the next thing and had concluded in favor of it.
“I suppose that's only true depending on who you're stranded with.”
It was a miraculous testament to your abilities that you kept yourself from blushing at his words. What you did end up doing was burn your lips on your coffee in an attempt to conceal your smile.
You flinched with a small hiss, pulling your bottom lip inward between your teeth and dragging your tongue across it in a futile attempt to address the sting. Beomgyu straightened so abruptly his knee knocked the underside of the table.
“Hey—careful,” he said, offering a folded tissue. “Are you alright?”
There was visible concern in his voice, but still the question ended with a faint breath of laughter he clearly attempted to suppress. You took the tissue and pressed it to your lip, narrowing your eyes in playful reproach. His smile turned apologetic that softened his entire face. The sight had an unfortunate effect on you. Your attempt at indignation dissolved before it could fully form, and the reprimand you had intended never reached your lips.
“It's fine,” you said, lowering the tissue and testing your lip with a light press of your finger. The sting had already softened to a mild throb, manageable enough that your attention had moved on to the more pressing issue of what had come out of your mouth in the seconds after it. “Besides, that was probably the most action my lips were going to get tonight anyway.”
You got a sickening sense of ick arriving after you finished speaking, crawling up from your stomach to the back of your throat in a slow, nauseating wave. It wasn’t that you wanted to make it sound pitiful. You had not meant it as flirtation either, goddammit — that was the honest truth. And the honest truth was somehow worse, because it meant you had simply said something pathetic with complete sincerity and no strategic intent whatsoever. You sounded splendidly sad and misleading.
Slowly, you lowered your hand away from your mouth. You steeled yourself for embarrassment at the very least or polite sympathy at worst — but you found neither on Beomgyu's face. There was no trace of pity in his expression, no awkward hesitation that might suggest he had begun reassessing the stranger in front of him after he was confronted with a confession he had not asked for.
“Tell me about it,” he said with a barely concealed knowing smile.
“Seriously?” You raised your brows, scoffing softly. “I wouldn't have guessed that about you.”
You meant that sincerely.
He was attractive — there was no point pretending otherwise. He had also been kind and considerate; a gentleman. Whether it meant anything beyond good manners was a separate question entirely.
Still against your better judgement a small, selfish thought surfaced.
That’s convenient.
You crossed your legs beneath the table and shifted in your seat, applying what willpower you had left to the project of not following that thought any further down the path it was heading. It was a limited supply of willpower. Beomgyu was not helping.
If his deft handling of your earlier remark had not already charmed you, the way he reacted now had already gotten to you. He looked away, if only for a second, gaze dropping to the table as a shy smile graced his lips. It was not avoidance so much as a brief retreat, as though he needed the space of a heartbeat before returning to you. When he did return to you, there was a faint flush dusting his cheeks that he appeared entirely unaware of.
Oh.
You were getting smitten by this man far too quickly. You needed to slow down. You were very aware that you needed to slow down.
“It's kind of you to say that.” He exhaled a short laugh, turning his coffee cup in a slow half-rotation against the table. “No, I mean—it really hasn't been that long. But no.”
You nodded, more to fill the space than anything else. Fortunately, your conscience was still alive and you used the moment to remind yourself of a few things. Charm could be fabricated just as easily as it could be genuine. People could present themselves well and say the right things in ways that made you forget to question what was underneath. None of what Beomgyu had shown you tonight proved anything on its own.
The reminder was sound. It lasted approximately four seconds.
“I was actually supposed to bring someone to the wedding,” he added, like an afterthought. “Didn’t quite work out that way.”
You perked up at the new information. “Why’s that?”
He tongued the corner of his lips, hemming and hawing how much he wanted to share. “Explaining the full absence of a plus one,” he said, with a self-deprecating tilt of his head, “might genuinely take longer than the rest of this journey.” He paused. “I could go into it, if you don't mind sitting through the sad highlights.”
“We’ve got time,” you said, gesturing at the window. “It’s not like we’re going anywhere anytime soon.”
The apples of his cheeks puffed up as if he had been waiting for permission to continue.
But you never got to hear what happened, because somewhere behind you, the sound of a child’s crying echoed through the carriage. Instinctively, your head turned.
A young woman stood a few steps away, shifting a restless toddler against her shoulder while scanning around for an available seat. The train’s swaying had an evident effect on her posture and she adjusted her hold with visible strain.
“We should give her the table.” You glanced once at Beomgyu before nodding toward the woman.
He followed your line of sight and got the cue immediately. He was on his feet in the blink of an eye, and when the woman approached he gestured toward the seats with a smile. “Please—it's all yours.”
Instant gratitude spread across her features. She thanked you both as she settled in with the toddler, and you wiped the faint ring your cup had left on the table while Beomgyu moved the spare chair aside to give her more room. It was not a long exchange, but it carried an undercurrent of understanding that needed no elaboration. Then, just as quickly, you left the snack car together.
Within the dim confines of the vestibule, you slowed your pace and stole a glance back at him.
“Um—” You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, looking ahead rather than at him as you spoke. “If you don't hate the idea of company, there's an empty seat across from mine. You could sit there, if you want—I don't think anyone's coming around to check tickets tonight.” A small pause followed, then you quickly added with an almost self-conscious, “Only if you're comfortable with it, though.”
The amber light caught your face as you turned back toward him, illuminating your features in such a dreamy way that caught him entirely off guard. It pooled along the curve of your cheek and the line of your mouth, and when you looked up at him — he momentarily lost the capacity to breathe correctly.
He had been mesmerized by your eyes from the moment at the platform. He’d known then that you'd be difficult to forget. Now, at this proximity, with your attention fixed on him, they seemed to undo whatever composure he had managed to gather over the last few minutes.
He would be an idiot to say no. A spectacular, irredeemable idiot.
“I don't mind at all,” he said, falling into step beside you. Only God knew how he didn’t trip over his own words. “That's genuinely a better offer than where I've been sitting. The man next to my seat has decided that I was a reasonable substitute for a headrest.”
Your startled laughter was music to his ears. The stupid grin on his lips refused to tame down — because he was the one who made you laugh. Call it stupid, which it honestly was, maybe even a little embarrassing, but he was already helplessly besotted with you.
You led him back through the carriage to your row and slid into the window seat, and he settled into the one across from you. The closeness here was different than before, but welcomed by you both.
He leaned back against the seat and ran a hand through his hair, and you watched him do it with your chin resting on your hand.
"Where was I?" he asked.
"Your mystery plus one," you said. "You were about to explain."
"Right." He exhaled, dropping his hand back to his lap. "Right."
A blind date arranged by a close friend, one he trusted enough not to question the introduction. He recounted every detail that led him to start that year-long relationship with a rueful self-aware smile, because he already knew how ironic it sounded.
He had believed in her completely. That was the part he kept returning to — by strengthening that belief, the memories forged during their time together felt as though they were permanently branded onto his soul. A year passed before the foundation of it showed its first fractures, and by then they had accumulated enough that he couldn't point to a single moment where things had gone wrong.
It hadn't been betrayal in the way people typically meant when they used the word. Messages that went unanswered until well into the night, accounted for with an explanation that was just plausible enough to accept. A promise that became a lie so gradually that the transition was invisible until it was already complete. Moments where he'd raised a concern and watched it get brushed aside so lightly that he'd found himself questioning whether he had read the situation correctly. None of it had seemed large enough to name at the time, yet each instance had gathered somewhere in him and piled up little by little.
He told you how she’d invented minor crises just to see if he would react, and how he had mistaken that scrutiny for care. It sounded foolish now that he could hear himself saying it, he acknowledged. She had tested the bounds of his patience and taken advantage of the trust he gave her freely. He then explained how he had called her out on it more than once and she had come back with some half-assed excuse, some bullshit story that had a cute twist at the end and had him questioning his own intuition.
Melancholy had draped itself over his face, painting his lips when he reached the parts that still cost him something to say. She existed as this fantasy, presented herself as a version of a person that matched him so well he had attributed it to compatibility rather than a lie. It wasn't until she slipped, until he caught the tail end of a phone call he hadn't been meant to hear, that the full shape of it became visible to him all at once.
She hadn’t loved him; she had loved being loved by him.
It had taken him far longer than he was comfortable admitting to understanding the difference between those two things, and longer still to work out what it meant for everything he thought he had known about the year they had shared. Because when she left his life she took her reasons with her and left him only answers to cobble together from the fractures of her decisions.
You found it difficult to hold yourself at a distance from what he had shared. He was objectively someone you barely knew — someone whose life intersected yours for the briefest of moments. You were supposed to suspend your trust in these circumstances, that a narrative spun in a place and time like this could become whatever version the narrator needed it to be. You had reminded yourself of this already tonight, more than once, and it had helped less each time.
Because there was something about him as he talked that tethered his words to the haunted yearning he struggled to hide.
Raw honesty had a particular quality that was very difficult to sustain without it being exactly what it appeared to be, and what you were watching was not someone shaping a narrative for your benefit. It left you wondering, with a growing sense of disbelief, how someone who spoke with such care and openness could have been met with so little of it in return.
“Did your friend know?” you asked. “The one who set up the blind date—did he know what she was like?”
Beomgyu pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head slowly. The rueful smile returned, directed more at the memory than at you. “Taehyun had no idea,” he said. “If he had, he wouldn't have pushed me into it. He felt terrible when everything came out—kept apologizing for weeks, wouldn't let it go no matter how many times I told him it wasn't his fault.”
“Taehyun?” You blurted out, eyes going wide like saucers. Your sudden rise in volume in turn startled him. “Kang Taehyun?”
“Yeah,” he answered, hesitating for a brief second before adding, “Do you… know him? I mean—it's not a rare name, there are probably—”
“No, hold on,” you muttered, already scrolling through your gallery with growing urgency until you found what you were looking for. You turned your screen toward him, leaning across the space between your seats. “This Taehyun. Is this him?”
Simultaneously leaning forward, creased eyebrows crinkling up and mouth falling agape in recognition, he pointed a finger at your screen.
“That’s Taehyunnie,” he chortled. “Yes—yes! That's my friend. That's him.”
“You’re kidding.” You pulled back with a laugh of your own that came out slightly unhinged, pressing your palm briefly to your forehead. “He's my friend too.”
He fumbled for his own phone, unlocking it with hurried movements and swiping into his gallery. He held his screen beside yours, flipping through a series of photos — some from school days and others more recent, Taehyun in various configurations with a younger-looking Beomgyu across several years.
“Look—this is us. This one was last year,” he said, tapping a photo of the two of them against the backdrop of the Han River at night.
“What are the actual odds,” you said, shaking your head slowly. “How does that even happen.”
“The world is ridiculously small.” He huffed out a breath. “Which university?”
“Same as him. Same department too,” you said, sitting up straighter now, the earlier heaviness of the conversation completely overturned. “We were year mates.”
“I've known him since school. We ended up at different universities but we never lost touch.” He let out another incredulous laugh. "I can't believe I've never seen you around.”
“He never mixes his people.” With deft fingers, you quickly texted Taehyun asking about Beomgyu. You hoped the network was cooperating. “I don't think I've ever seen him introduce anyone from different parts of his life to each other.”
“That explains a lot. He’s always been like that,” Beomgyu said, nodding. "I've met maybe two people from his university years, and both times it was accidental."
This unbashful feeling of giddiness was so, so stupid, but you didn’t feel the need to hold yourself back anymore. How narrow could the world be? How could it be, that you had wandered unknowingly alongside him for so long? Something that had felt like a wall between you — the stranger-ness of him — had just been pulled away. Your heart leapt with joy.
Conversation lulled into momentary silence but it was thrumming with the last of your laughter and the surprise that had not yet worn off. Staring into each other’s eyes you both felt this growing sense of belonging that you were not feeling around each other when you met.
“I feel so happy,” he confessed with a warm smile. The flat of his palm caressed his chest where his heart laid. "I don't know why exactly. I just—I really do."
"Me too," you said simply. And you meant it all the way down.
He had this tendency to say more with his eyes than his mouth could describe, something you observed he’s been doing all evening. You loved deciphering him this way.
"I kept thinking we'd get off the train and that would be it," he said, his gaze dropping briefly to your hands before returning to your face. "That you'd be a good memory I wouldn't have any way of returning to. I kept thinking I should prepare myself for that. It’s… comforting knowing that we can actually keep in touch.”
You tilted your head sideways, narrowing your eyes playfully. "So without Taehyun, we wouldn't have managed that?" you asked with a light, probing edge.
The surge of satisfaction that grasped you was palpable when you saw him undone by you. Colour rose along his cheeks — heat that crept upwards even as his charming smile held, because Beomgyu was choosing to ride the wave you clearly already had.
“I can be friendly,” he murmured with a croon as he leaned forward, elbows coming to rest on his knees and closing the distance between you by a fraction that registered in every nerve you had. His gaze that stayed on yours asked for nothing and yet held your attention completely.
You hummed, nodding for him to finish what he started. “Go on.”
"I would have found a reason to stay right here regardless." His fingers brushed once against the fabric near your knee as the train swayed. An involuntary shiver ran up you just from that miniscule of a contact. "But I'd rather earn it," he said. "Starting with being your friend."
You were looking at each other so intently that anything beyond the two of you went unnoticed. The rest of the compartment might as well have fallen away. You had eyes for each other and nothing else.
"I'd like that," you said, and let your voice drop a little so that he had to lean slightly closer to catch it. "I'd like to be your friend too."
"Good." The curve of his mouth was slow and warm. "I was hoping you'd say that."
Your heart raced with nerves and exhilaration. Just then your phone vibrated against your palm, abrupt enough to pull you back.
Tyun
wait why are you asking about beomgyu
are you actually on the same train as him rn. please say yes
Tyun
ok if you are- he's one of the best people i know. genuinely. you're in good hands.
also this is the funniest thing that's happened to me all week and i'm at my friend's wedding rehearsal dinner so that's saying something
You stared at the screen for a moment, the corner of your mouth pulling up despite yourself. Of all the moments for Taehyun to come through with a functional response, it had to be now. While you had gone silent, Beomgyu began to feel a tad bit of concern over his choice of words. Had he pushed you too far?
"Everything okay?" he asked.
You looked up from the screen and met his eyes, and this time you didn't look away first.
"Yeah," you said. "More than okay."
The pellucid certainty with which you had said it did more than reassure him. He had meant what he said about earning it, about taking things at the pace they were supposed to take, and that intention hadn't moved. But intentions and the pull he felt sitting across from you occupied two entirely separate parts of him, and the latter was becoming considerably less manageable by the minute.
"I should probably stop making this all about me," he said, gathering himself back into some semblance of composure. "That feels a bit unfair at this point."
“Unfair?” you echoed, a hint of disbelief slipping through.
The word sat oddly with you. You had not felt shortchanged for a single moment. If anything, you had been the one taking more than you gave, learning him piece by piece while keeping most of yourself tucked carefully away, and the imbalance had been entirely your doing. The fact that he had read the conversation as one-sided in your favor was almost endearing enough to be a problem.
"I've done most of the talking," he went on, reading nothing of where your thoughts had just gone. "You've been sitting here listening this whole time. That can't be a particularly good deal."
You almost smiled at that. He really did think this had been one-sided. He had no idea what his presence had been doing to you the entire time.
"I don't know." You shrugged, a soft breath escaping you. "I actually like hearing you talk."
His brows rose, caught off guard. There was nothing particularly remarkable about his voice, or so he had always thought. The urge to just cross over this friendly boundary still maintained slyly by the two of you was becoming more and more overwhelming for him.
You pressed your lips together for a second, and then shook your head. The words you had chosen felt insufficient for what you had actually meant.
“No—that’s not quite right,” you corrected, more honestly this time. "I love your voice. I could listen to it for a long time. Is that a strange thing to say?"
There were too many things Beomgyu could say, and none of them felt safe enough to let out without altering the course of where this was going.
"No." He breathed, and it came out faster than anything he had said before. He stopped right after it, lips parting as if to add more. “I just—”
You watched him try again. It only made your curiosity deepen.
“I’d like to hear about you too,” he confided a little softly. “If you’re willing.”
You bit down on your lip to keep your expression from giving too much away. He knew exactly what he was doing and he was not being clever about any of this. Your heart argued with your senses but pragmatism had long lost its hold on you. He was just too irresistible. It was as if he inspired a recklessness in you, a desire to go all-in. Lose yourself in him completely.
You reached into your paper bag and held out one of the lemon buns toward him.
"I don't mind," you said. “Being asked, I mean.”
There is a version of this that could be explained very simply.
Two people passing the hours with conversation, letting the journey carry them forward while they trade stories to make it feel shorter. Friends, if someone were curious enough to ask.
He listened with care, asking questions without overstepping that kept you speaking. You set the pace for how much you revealed, and he respected that boundary perfectly. Just like a good friend would do, he remembered the details you shared (which truthfully surprised you) as if it mattered beyond the moment itself. It would be easy to accept that at face value, to believe that this was all it was.
Friends, as you both agreed to be.
Perhaps that was why it felt the way it did.
Because ntihng had crossed any line, and nothing had been said that could not be taken back if needed. Every word could still belong to a version of this night that ended without consequence, where you part at your destination with a smile and carry nothing forward except a pleasant recollection. At some later point, you might meet again through the same shared acquaintance. You would greet each other with the comfort you had reserved for being familiar strangers turned to friends.
But then there were smaller moments that defied such easy explanations.
The glances that did not move unless you gave him a reason to. There were gestures such as reaching over in the middle of something you were laughing about and wiping the trace of lemon cream from the corner of your mouth with his thumb, followed by the absent motion of bringing that same thumb to his mouth without breaking eye contact.
That is where the simplicity begins to fray. If this were only friendship, it wouldn't feel like this.
"This is a little strange, isn't it?" you said.
“In what way?”
“We’ve been talking for—what, over an hour?” You smiled a little; there was a daze that washed over your face from settling into the moment. "And I don't feel like I'm talking to someone I just met."
That downward smile was going to be the death of you. “I stopped thinking of it that way a while ago.”
Just as you'd expected, he voiced the very thing you'd been longing to hear without any hint of insincerity. You had felt it coming in the way you feel the temperature drop before rain — how easily he kept meeting you where you stood.
"Honestly, I kind of assumed we'd eventually hit an awkward patch," he admitted. “Or that we’d run out of things to say.”
He had expected for the specific variety of silence that descends when two strangers have exhausted their common ground and are waiting for a graceful way to stop pretending otherwise. Strange, how quickly that concern had disappeared without him noticing when exactly it had stopped mattering.
“I’m almost disappointed about that.” You laughed, shaking your head. "I had a whole exit strategy prepared."
“Really?” he asked, a hint of disbelief slipping through. “You don’t strike me as someone who needs an escape plan.”
“That’s because you haven’t seen me in a truly terrible conversation.” You quirked one side of your lips. “Trust me, I can be pretty persuasive when I want to be.”
“Were you close to using it?”
His voice carried a lightness that didn't entirely mask the fact that the answer actually mattered to him. The idea of you having considered leaving even hypothetically — it bothered him.
“No.” The single syllable rolled off your tongue slowly. “I didn’t need to.”
There was that damn downturned smile again. You were convinced that until this point he did that on purpose. But now you don't even know anymore.
“I’m glad I made it past that, then.”
It had slipped from notice that the blizzard outside had picked up and how far the train had traveled cutting through sheets of snow. The space you carved out with him held its own pocket of time that the world beyond the glass had stopped feeling entirely real.
“I’m going to step away for a minute,” you said, rising to gather yourself. You needed to use the restroom. “I’ll be right back.”
He gave you a small nod, letting his eyes linger on you for a moment — just a second.
“Okay,” he said softly. “I’ll be right here.”
Once you left the carriage, Beomgyu’s nerves finally lit up and ran through him all at once. He sank back into his seat, composure slipping now that there was no reason to hold onto it. It didn’t make sense how present you still felt.
Had he said too much? Not enough? He tried to retrace the conversation, searching for when he may have gone too far, but every answer blurred into the next. He hoped he hadn't bored you. God no — he hoped you weren’t just humoring him out of politeness, offering him your attention so he would not feel out of place.
Politeness could mimic interest so convincingly that it frightened him. He had spent a year learning that lesson and several months afterward trying to unknow it. He had to close his eyes just to escape those thoughts. But you were there against his eyelids still, as if his mind had been waiting for the moment it could drift back to you without resistance.
Beomgyu dragged both hands over his face and bent forward until his elbows met his knees. He let out a low groan that was muffled into his hands. He couldn't believe how far gone he already was, and so quickly.
This was a completely unprecedented situation for him. Barely even knew you for a few hours and he’d already undone all the resolution he’d worked months on rebuilding after his last relationship fell apart. He had told himself, after everything with her, that whatever came next would be approached with care. He would take his time and not give himself away so completely to someone he hadn't yet earned the right to trust with that.
You, a stranger on a train — even though that word had begun to lose its meaning — reached into his heart and stirred life where he had grown accustomed to stillness. How on earth did you manage that so easily?
Every time you had looked at him his breath had caught before he could do anything about it. Every time he looked at you, he wanted to leave you just as breathless. He wanted to take his air back from your lips.
Still hunched forward in that position, he dropped one hand and reached into his pocket for his phone. The signal had been unreliable all evening, yet he placed the call anyway and lifted the device to his ear, waiting through the faint interference.
Lucky for him, it did go through.
"Taehyun."
Taehyun's voice came through slightly distorted, carrying the ambient noise of wherever the rehearsal dinner had deposited him. "Hey—what's up? I heard you met my fri—"
“How come you never mentioned her?” Beomgyu asked gravelly, his palm still pressed against his face.
There was a definite pause from the other side. Then a sound that was unmistakably Taehyun trying not to laugh.
“What? You're not making any sense." Taehyun hummed, then clicked his tongue. "Actually, you are making sense. You're making a very specific kind of sense. So I'm guessing that means you two are getting along."
Beomgyu pressed his fingertips to his temple and said nothing for a moment. The answer was obvious to him and yet impossible to articulate without sounding ridiculous. How could he possibly condense the way you'd become his every waking thought into something as simple as getting along?
He could only place the blame on Taehyun.
If he had been introduced to you at any point before this — he liked to believe things might have unfolded differently for him. Perhaps then he would have avoided the long detour of heartbreak that had left him so guarded in the first place.
With a sigh, he slouched back again in his seat. “Yeah, you could say that.”
Taehyun made a sound of vague acknowledgment, oblivious to what Beomgyu was implying. "Well, yeah. She's good people. I figured you'd work that out on your own."
Taehyun didn’t have to describe how wonderful you were for Beomgyu to understand that you were someone worth taking a risk on. Beomgyu was enchanted, irrevocably shackled to you. Right now he couldn’t conceptualize beyond you, was already wondering how much longer until you returned, was already longing to have more time before he had even figured out what to do with the time he had already been given.
That was right, what he wanted was more time with you that was unburdened by the end of this journey. He longed for conversations with you that were not bound by the ticking of stations, moments that didn't feel so transient. He wanted to see you again in a setting that did not threaten to take you away at any second.
His grip on the phone tightened slightly. “I’ll call you later.”
“Yeah, sur—”
He ended the call and set the phone face-down on his thigh.
You would be back any minute. He needed to put himself back together before you came through that door. He straightened up. Ran a hand through his hair. Exhaled slowly through his nose.
He was absolutely, completely fine.
The narrow corridor felt even more confined as you walked out, permeated by a warmth that clung a little too closely to your skin. It was difficult to tell whether it came from the heating circulating through the carriage or from within you. Honestly, after a moment, you stopped trying to work that out. The distinction began to feel irrelevant to hold your attention for long.
You stood at the small sink and looked at your own reflection in the mirror above it, and the face that looked back at you was not particularly useful at concealing things. You liked whatever was happening between you and him. You couldn't recall the last time you'd felt that rush in your chest. You were not the type to be swept up without noticing but you had no interest in pulling yourself back either. He made you want to remain exactly where you were and see what came next.
Still, the complicating factor was how this choice was fundamentally undermining all your personal aspirations. You were a believer in time. You always made sure to thoroughly get to know the person before letting anything more substantial take root. That was a rule you lived by. You never had before, nor had you ever found a reason to doubt it.
Within the span of a single evening, Choi Beomgyu was dismantling that whole belief system.
You reached for the door, pausing only for a second before pulling it open. Once this journey ends and you both decide to keep things friendly, you couldn't foresee the path your friendship might take.
You had your eyes downcast but you looked up when you stepped back into the carriage. Heart leapt so hard that it hurt when you saw him. He was exactly where you had left him, and he was already looking toward you. The small lift of his hand in greeting carried more impact than it should have given how little time had passed.
There was no way of deciding the outcome here, standing in the train — but you could decide what to do with the present.
With a returned smile, you steadied a hand on the overhead bin when you felt the carriage sway. Had the wind outside gotten worse so suddenly? The motion underfoot no longer matched the memory of it from a few minutes ago.
An unanticipated lurch snapped through your footing and destabilized you. Your grip slipped and you caught yourself against the nearest seat with a jolt that travelled up your arm. Beomgyu across from you was already half out of his seat, both hands reaching towards you with intentions to catch you before you hit the ground. Pure panic written so openly across his face that it stopped you for a second. You had not seen that expression on him before. You shook your head before pushing yourself upright again. Waving him down, you sent a quick signal that all was well.
You managed only two more steps.
In a sudden motion, the train slowed and threw everyone forward. The deceleration ripped the ground beneath you and you were falling backwards before your mind processed what even was happening. The impact with the floor was cushioned underneath your head only because you felt hands wrapped around you turning the fall into something controlled yet no less forceful as both of you went down together.
Metal screamed along the rails, a prolonged and violent scrape that resonated through the carriage and pounded into your skull. It went on and on while the brakes worked through their full range before the train finally seized to a jarring halt. The force of it traveled upward through the floor, through your spine, through every bone in your body at once. Overhead compartments sprung open under the strain, and luggages came down in heavy bursts striking seats, the aisle, anything in its path.
“Fuck—watch out—!!”
You couldn’t even tell whose voice belonged to who.
Even if the fall had injured you, your panic-driven mind latched onto two things — the bags coming down and the fact that he was above you. Your hands moved before thought had any place in it. With your palms cupping the back of his head and fingers pushed through his hair, you pulled him down against you, shielding his head as best as you could. There was no room left to consider anything beyond that. Where anything might land, what might strike you instead — none of it mattered.
The lights went out. Somewhere in the darkness people fell or shouted in confusion. The cacophony of overlapping cries completely obliterated any sense of direction. The deafening ringing in your ears made you lightheaded. Your breathing came in uneven pulls, your hands still locked where they had been placed, holding him there, refusing to let go. A heavy thud landed somewhere close. Another followed.
Then a bag came down and struck Beomgyu’s back with such force that you felt it through him, hurtling down into your arms as he let out a rough, bitten-off breath against you. You blinked against the darkness, forcing your vision to adjust and your mind to catch up. A strained groan from above you left Beomgyu and your heart jumped to your throat.
"Beomgyu—" His name came out fast and ragged, barely put together.
His body had taken the hit for both of you, completely encapsulating you. He shifted slightly, warm breath ghosting unevenly against your cheek.
“I’m here,” he managed. The words were rough, so close that you felt them more than heard them. “I'm here.”
There was a flicker and then the lights came out one by one until the carriage revealed itself again in fragments. Complete disarray. Fallen bags and open compartments. People pulling themselves upright and voices rising in questions that had no answers yet.
Beomgyu pushed himself up slowly, one hand bracing beside your shoulder, the other still securely cradling the back of your head. His hair had fallen forward across his forehead and his face was in partial shadow, but it didn't obscure the strain in his expression or the tight line of his mouth as he exhaled through it.
“I’m okay,” he repeated, sounding duller from the aftermath of the impact. “I’m okay—are you—”
Instead of his hair, your hands cupped his face, a firm hold that stopped him from speaking further. “Don’t say that if you’re not sure,” you cut in, too fast to soften it. “Where does it hurt? Your shoulder? Your head—”
“Hey, hey, look at me,” he insisted softly, his hand coming up to close around your wrist for a second. That was all it took to bring you back to earth a bit. “You’re the one I’m worried about.”
He helped you sit up, but your hands were trembling. You pressed them against his shoulders, then along his arms, checking what you already feared without needing words for it. “But you—fuck,” you said under your breath, “that bag came straight down on you, I felt it, you have to—you’re bleeding? Wait—no—are you—”
"See? Nothing's bleeding. I'm okay." He spoke again, this time lower so his words fell directly into your ear while his hands intercepted both of yours before you could spiral further. He turned his head one way and then the other, letting you see until you were convinced.
“Why didn’t you move?” you were baffled.
“It didn’t matter.” He said it simply, as if the answer had been obvious from the start. His hand came up to your cheek, thumb brushed lightly along your skin as his eyes moved over your face with the same fervour you had just turned on him. "Now let me—your head, did it hit anything when you went down?"
“I don’t think so,” you said, though you weren’t entirely sure. Everything had happened too fast for you to keep track of where your body had gone, what had hit what. There were aches assembling themselves in various places that you were not currently interested in acknowledging. “I think I’m alright. I—”
You trailed off as your eyes began to wander despite what you were saying. A wave of dread washed over you as you grasped the terrifying reality of the situation — how truly alarming this was, and the chilling possibility of it being far more dire. Fuck, the train mustve been stranded.
“Do you think something happened to the tracks?” you mumbled.
“Has to be.” He glanced toward the aisle, quick, taking in what he could before looking back at you. “Something ahead must have given way.”
It wasn’t a real answer that explained anything, but you found yourself holding onto it anyway. Anything was better than letting your thoughts run too far ahead of you.
Beomgyu looked down at you. He took you in, carefully looking over you for any sign of injury and he didn’t like what he saw. The sight of how shaken you were stirred a fierce need in him to keep anything from touching you again.
“I’ve got you,” he said, and this time it stayed between the two of you.
Pushing himself up carefully on unsteady legs he pulled you with him, grabbing your hand before you could steady yourself on anything else. He didn’t let go once you were upright, keeping you close against his side.
The overhead speaker crackled to life with a burst of static that cut through the noise. “Ladies and gentlemen, please remain where you are. A conductor will come through each carriage shortly to check for injuries and assess the situation.”
Nobody particularly listened. People were already reaching for what had fallen and trying to check on each other. Beomgyu didn’t wait either. He guided you back to your seat through the narrow space, keeping you within reach the entire time. Once you were seated you watched him position himself between you and the pandemonium unfolding behind him.
You had somewhat calmed down by then. Your pounding heart settled into a more manageable pace, though every now and then you flinched when something remotely loud happened around you. From where you sat, you looked up at Beomgyu’s standing figure. You were certain he was pretending far too well. You literally felt the bag hit him. You curled your fingers around his sleeve and gave a weak tug to garner his attention.
“Beomgyu?” you called out softly. “Why don’t you sit down?”
He glanced at your hand on his arm, then at your face. A soft smile appeared. He reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his palm settling gently at the back of your head.
“I promise I'm okay.”
You frowned at his response. You did not accept his words easily no matter how much you wanted to believe them. Tiny beads of sweat remained at his brow, partially hidden by hair that no longer sat in place from the earlier commotion. He was holding his right side in a controlled way without appearing to hold it.
“Come here.” You tried again, moving yourself over to the next seat and patting the space you had just vacated.
Beomgyu let out a breath that might have been a laugh under different circumstances, but he didn’t argue this time. Just when he was about to sit, the carriage door at the far end swung open and a conductor came through. He looked rattled as the rest.
“What’s going on?” Beomgyu didn’t wait to ask once he reached your row.
The conductor glanced between the two of you before answering. “We had to stop the train,” he explained, glancing briefly down the aisle where other passengers had begun to gather. “There's a section of track ahead where the ground has dipped significantly under the snowfall. We couldn’t risk pushing through.”
Hearing this, a worried — “What?” — left you, causing the conductor to subtly panic.
“There's no immediate danger,” he added, pivoting to you quickly. “The train is stable where it is. We're positioned near a town, and we've already been in contact with the main control unit. Arrangements are being made.”
“Arrangements?” Beomgyu pressed. He wasn’t satisfied with vague answers at a time like this. “What does that mean exactly?”
“Emergency vehicles should be here by morning.” He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then continued, “It will take a few hours.”
“How long are we talking about?” Someone from the small crowd asked.
“I can’t give you an exact time,” he admitted with a faltered look. “The weather’s working against us. It could take the entire night. I wouldn’t want to promise otherwise.”
A murmur moved through the people within earshot. You pressed toward the window.
The tracks outside had vanished entirely beneath the snow, swallowed into a continuous white expanse that stretched beyond the rails and erased the boundary between the ground and everything else. Further out, across the distance, a scatter of low buildings broke the line of white — dim lights burning in their windows, the shapes of signs and structures suggested inns, maybe homes, maybe a combination of both.
The town sat there within reach and still felt removed.
Beomgyu in the meantime finished talking to the conductor. Seeing you looking out the window unmoving, he took the seat beside you without a word. He could tell there was something weighing on your mind, evident in those pretty depths of your eyes.
“Do you have enough warm clothes on you for the night?” he asked, his hand coming to rest against your arm. “They're reducing power to conserve energy. The heating won't hold through the night.”
Ignoring his question, you instead asked something else. “Is this really safe?”
You didn’t look away from the window even after asking it. Matter of fact, he had been circling the same thought himself. The train was stable, technically, but it certainly wasn’t going to be a wise decision to stay the night in a train that was already losing warmth by the minute. His focus flicked to the window, to the blinking lights of the town against the white sheet. Each of them was an opportunity beckoning him to act.
There was something he could do but that wasn’t a decision he was willing to make alone.
“Would you feel safer spending the night in one of those inns?” the gentleness of his voice coaxed you to meet his eyes.
“But…” you trailed off, glancing out again before turning back to him. Your voice lowered slightly. “How do we know there's even a room available? Everyone’s stuck here. We won't be the first ones to think of it.”
He nodded with a hum, considering it properly. There was a possibility that what you said might be true. There were no guarantees waiting out there. If he took you out there and came back with nothing, it would turn into a pointless trip through the cold. Worse, it would mean dragging you through it for no reason at all and you might end up sick. He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself for that.
“I can go and check first,” he said after a moment. “Just to know what we’re dealing with.”
You blinked at him. You weren’t dumb to understand what he meant, not at all — but it was still absurd hearing him say it so plainly.
“What do you mean, you?” you asked, eyes narrowing.
“I'll ask around, see what the situation is,” he explained. “You can stay here until I—”
He started to get up, and your hand tightened instantly around his sleeve.
“Beomgyu, you’re not going alone.”
He was taken aback by the severity of the way you spoke — leaving no room for him to protest. Your voice never raised but it still pinned him to place.
“I’ll be fine,” he tried, the tail end of it with a chuckle. His hand coming up as if to ease your grip. “It’s just a quick check. I can’t have you out there in this—you’ll be drenched before we even reach the town.”
“And you won’t?” you returned, your brows pulling together.
He exhaled through his nose, the argument falling apart before it could fully form. “It’s better than both of us going out there for nothing.”
You shook your head. You could see what he was trying to do, see the way he was placing you first again, but it only made you stand your ground firmer.
"You're already hurt. I felt that bag come down on you. I watched you hold your side for the last twenty minutes thinking I wouldn't notice," you said, more adamantly this time. “And you want to walk out into a blizzard alone? That's your plan?” As if that made any sense.
He opened his mouth.
"No," you said, before he could use it. You stood, keeping your grip on his sleeve, and moved to face him properly. "Whatever happens from here—we figure it out together. That's not a negotiable point. You don't get to make that call by yourself and leave me sitting here wondering."
You felt a little ashamed of the tremor in your voice; with the way your words had spilled out with such naked fervor — but you had meant every last one of them, and you knew it even as the heat climbed into your cheeks. Beomgyu was no longer a stranger to you. You couldn't have explained it to anyone with any satisfying logic or couldn't have justified the fierceness of it. But the care was there. You cared the way you'd care for someone who had been woven into your life for years, not someone you'd only met hours ago on a train that smelled of old upholstery.
You were not going to stand by and watch him walk out alone into a blizzard with a hurt shoulder because he had decided your comfort was worth more than his own.
“I’m coming with you,” you pleaded softly, your gaze dropping as you lost the nerve to hold his eyes any longer. Your grip loosened, sliding down his sleeve until your fingers found his wrist and curled around it. His pulse was there, warm beneath your fingertips. “So don’t go alone… please.”
Beomgyu had gone completely still. His eyes were wide, you'd seen that much in your periphery before you'd looked away. His mouth had opened just slightly, the beginning of a word that never arrived.
He wasn't sure what he would have said anyway. He wasn't sure he was capable of forming language at all right now, because something in his chest had just detonated so quietly and so completely that he almost expected to look down and find himself changed.
Cared for — this was… this was something he never imagined he would feel anytime soon. He hadn’t expected this from you. From anyone, maybe, but especially not you. Why would he? He had only known you today. One single day, and yet you had felt more real to him than most things he could name in his life.
He wanted to pull you into him. He spent a very willful second not acting on it, gaze cutting sideways to avoid the sight of your downturned face — because if he kept looking at you, he wasn't sure what he'd do and he was even less sure he'd regret it.
He said your name under his breath. The single syllable found you anyway.
You looked up.
He wished you hadn't, and he was also very glad you had. Beomgyu felt the sensation of his heart being pulled clean out of his chest. If this is what dying feels like, he thought, I wouldn't mind it happening again. He wouldn't mind it happening every day for the rest of however long he had.
He slipped his hand free from your loose hold and turned his palm, lacing his fingers through yours. A bloom of heat spread from that one point of connection until it reached somewhere behind your sternum and sat there.
“You’re right, I'm sorry.” He smiled softly, squeezing your hand. "Let's go together."
You let out a shaky sigh of relief. Your smile came back at him unsteady at the corners but genuine all the way through.
Beomgyu backtracked to find the conductor while you waited near the door of the compartment, your joined hands finally separating only because they had to. He found the man near the vestibule.
"We'd like to stay the night in town, if that's permitted," Beomgyu said in a stable tone he'd had to rebuild from scratch in the last five minutes. "Is there any flexibility on that?"
The conductor considered him for a moment, then nodded. "You won't be the first to ask, and it's no trouble on our end—but for the safety of all passengers, anyone arranging their stay nearby will need to leave their contact information and boarding details with me before they go. It’s for record-keeping and to ensure everyone is accounted for when we resume.”
"Of course." Beomgyu turned to glance back at you, and you were already moving forward, having caught enough of the exchange to understand.
You gave your name, your boarding details, the number they could reach you at. Beomgyu followed after you and gave his own. Once the conductor had everything noted down, he gave you both a brief nod of acknowledgment and moved on. Beomgyu adjusted his bag onto his left shoulder — the uninjured one. You made a mental note to find a moment to properly check on it later.
To your surprise, he reached for your luggage. Foolish man, did he think you were going to let him take on the burden? You stopped him, fixing him with a look that you hoped communicated the full extent of what you thought of that idea.
Beomgyu withdrew his hand. He was very clearly suppressing a smile about it. You chose not to acknowledge this.
One of the crew members patrolling outside the vestibule came around to assist with the snow covered steps. You passed your bag down first, then stood at the top of the steps as Beomgyu reached the bottom and turned back toward you with both arms open. You took hold of him and stepped down, the snow compressing softly beneath your weight. The two of you were standing so close that you could see a snowflake catch in his lashes before the wind took it.
He found your hand and pulled you forward into the dark.
The town was supposedly a ten-minute walk. But the wind had teeth. It came at you sideways, driving the snow in sharp little gusts into every gap between your scarf and your collar. Not to mention, it kept finding your eyes regardless of which direction you angled your face. You dropped your head and followed the forward pull of his hand, trusting his sense of direction entirely when your own vision had reduced to a narrow strip of ground directly ahead of your feet.
He turned to look at you with his hair whipping across his forehead. "You okay back there?" he asked loudly over the wind.
"I'm okay," you called back. "Keep walking."
He turned forward again, and his grip on your hand tightened.
The local inn was the first lit building you reached, its windows glowing a deep amber against all that darkness. The woman on the other side who had clearly been watching the path and had seen you coming opened the door before you reached it. You were ushered into the warmth of the entrance, and the sudden change in temperature hit you so completely that you went still for a moment just to absorb it. Towels were pressed into your hands almost immediately, and someone disappeared to retrieve a space heater, guiding you both toward the lounge.
You were the one who approached the front desk once you'd gotten your bearings back, pulling your scarf down from your face and explaining the situation to the receptionist. She listened with her eyes on her screen, typing as you spoke, and her expression did a small and very telling thing when she reached whatever entry she had been looking for.
"I'm very sorry," she said, and she did sound it. "With the weather and the number of people who've come in tonight, we only have one room left."
"I'll take it." Beomgyu, who had been standing by your side, said to the receptionist as he produced his card from his wallet. "For her."
You turned to look at him slowly.
He was staring at the receptionist.
"Only for me?" you asked.
That made him look at you. "You'll have somewhere to sleep and you won't have to worry abo—"
"Where will you stay?"
Beomgyu did not find the courage to tell you that he was planning to go back to the train. In that pause you turned back to the receptionist before he could reconstruct whatever answer he'd been assembling.
"We'll both take it," you told her. "Both names on the booking, please."
She processed this without a visible reaction and set the key on the counter. You picked it up before Beomgyu could.
"Didn't I say," you began, "that from here on out, we'd stick together?"
He was losing his mind. This was a verifiable fact, and he was now conducting a very private reckoning with himself somewhere three steps behind you as you ascended to whatever floor the room was on. Never in his wildest dreams did he think he'd share a room with you. One bed, presumably, since there was one room and he was not going to suggest you sleep on a chair. He would gladly take the floor himself if it came to that.
But you — you looked completely unaffected. He could not tell whether you genuinely weren't affected or whether you were simply so much better at concealing it than he was. Either possibility was going to keep him awake tonight, and the irony of that was not lost on him at all.
Beomgyu had known, in the abstract, that you were going to be the end of him. He just hadn't expected it to happen this fast.
However, that ‘unaffected’ demeanor of yours slipped soon enough.
At the door, he watched you work the key into the lock. It caught on something inside the mechanism, and you had to pull it back halfway and try again. You were holding yourself together. It was a valiant performance. He was almost convinced.
Almost being the operative word, because your hands were still shaking.
"Sorry, I—these keys are—" The sentence dissolved. You were not sure what you had intended to finish it with.
It wasn't only the cold making your hands uncooperative. You were acutely aware of the warmth radiating off him from where he stood behind you. So far you were putting a brave front that you were extremely okay with sharing a room with him. But in the privacy of your own skull the facade you had been constructing since the front desk began developing very audible fractures.
You finally got the lock. The door swung inward.
You stared at the predicament in front of you, and you could almost hear the splinters of your self-control breaking echoing in your ears.
It was not a bad room. There was a single window set into the far wall with the curtains already drawn against the snow, a desk against one wall, a wardrobe; the usual geometry of a hotel suite and perfectly adequate in every respect except for the one that mattered.
The queen-sized bed sitting squarely in the middle of the room.
You were distantly conscious, without turning around, of Beomgyu coming to stand just inside the doorway. The jitters that had been lurking at the base of your stomach all evening were now making their presence extremely known.
Goosebumps moved along your arms when he spoke.
“I’ll go ask for an extra mattress.”
He sounded a little weary. You turned to see him over your shoulder and found him already looking at you. One hand resting on the door frame — hovering at the threshold in a way that told you he had not yet decided whether he was fully in this room or still in the process of giving you an out.
He meant it. He would go back down those stairs right now, charm the exhausted receptionist into producing a mattress from wherever spare mattresses went on a night like this, and drag it back up here himself on a hurt shoulder without a single word of complaint. All so that the arrangement you had walked into with such apparent calm would feel less like what it was.
You held his gaze for a beat and felt the fractures in your composure spread another inch.
You turned back to the bed and told him to go ahead. Maybe the time alone would help you sort through your thoughts before he came back. What you didn’t know was that by letting him leave for a while, you had given him the same chance to collect himself.
Beomgyu peeled himself from the door frame and left, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft click. You sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the curtains for a while.
As soon as he was out, Beomgyu pressed his back against the wall beside the door and dragged both hands up over his face, muffling a whine. He stood there for a moment in that position and then, he tipped his head back and let it knock against the wall once. The impact sent a dull throb radiating from his shoulder blade, where the bruise from the bag had been quietly intensifying for the last hour. He winced a little as he slowly rolled his shoulder back.
Everything was going to be just fine if he found an extra mattress, right? He was a rational person and this was a rational solution and there was absolutely no reason for his brain to go anywhere near the alternative, which was—
He was not going to finish that thought.
He was, unfortunately, already finishing that thought.
It wouldn't be the worst thing, said some deeply unhelpful corner of his mind, sharing a bed. You've had a long day. You've both had a long day. It would be fine—
Beomgyu slapped himself on the cheek. A sting that bloomed across this skin that he thoroughly deserved, and which he hoped would serve as an adequate eviction notice for whatever was currently colonizing his better judgment.
There was a man at the end of the corridor.
A staff member, identifiable by his vest, holding a stack of folded towels and staring at Beomgyu with a wide neutral expression. He was definitely going to be thinking about it for the rest of his shift and possibly several shifts thereafter. The two of them made prolonged awkward eye contact. Beomgyu slowly lowered his hand.
"Evening," Beomgyu said.
The man blinked. "Evening, sir."
Whatever remained of his dignity was simply going to have to be enough to work with. He cleared his throat and walked toward the man, adorning a smile pretending as if nothing happened.
"I suppose you'd know if there are any spare mattresses available for the night?" he asked, with what he felt was perfect charm. "Or even a cot—anything along those lines would do."
The staff member's expression morphed into something genuinely apologetic as he shifted the towels in his arms. "I'm sorry, sir, we've had a full house tonight with the weather—we've no spare beds or pillows left at all, I'm afraid." He paused, as if taking stock of Beomgyu's face and finding something there that warranted the addendum. "We do have extra blankets, though, if that would help. Plenty of those."
Beomgyu looked at him for a moment.
"Blankets," he repeated.
"As many as you'd like, sir."
So the mattress plan was dead and his self-respect had taken significant casualties. He more or less expected this outcome so he accepted this information with a nod that he hoped projected serenity, and thanked the man.
You had managed to do very little in the time he was gone except sit on the edge of the mattress and stare at the middle distance. So when the door opened you startled badly enough that your hand flew to your sternum.
Beomgyu, to his credit, took one look at you and chose not to say a single word about it. He stepped inside and set the folded stack of blankets he was carrying onto the armchair in the corner.
“They didn't have any mattresses to spare.” He paused. “They were, however, extremely enthusiastic about giving me blankets. Enough blankets to—I don't know—build a fort, maybe.”
Despite everything, the laugh that came out of you was genuine. Beomgyu's mouth curved into it too, and for a moment the two of you were just sitting with the absurdity of the whole evening.
“A fort,” you repeated.
“Structurally sound, I think, if we're creative about it.”
You shook your head, still smiling, and the fizzle of nerves in your stomach went down several degrees.
“Go freshen up first,” he said, nodding toward the bathroom. “The water should be warm by now.”
“I'm alright,” you said, and it was the truth — or at least, you needed it to be true for a little while longer. “I need to sit down for a bit more. You go ahead.”
He looked at you for a moment, considering, and then decided not to argue. He pulled a change of clothes from his bag and disappeared through the bathroom door without another word.
The room was very quiet without him in it.
You sat in silence for another moment before reaching for your bag and pulling out what you needed for the night. You laid everything out on the bed beside you and tried not to think too hard about anything. But you couldn't stop thinking about what had happened so far. Every time you tried to gather yourself, another memory surfaced before the previous one had even faded properly.
You were still going through your bag when the bathroom door opened.
Beomgyu emerged with a towel slung around the back of his neck, working the ends of it through his damp hair. The coat and heavy winter layers were gone. He was wearing his jeans still and a white t-shirt that had clearly been retrieved from the depths of his bag, and the effect of the lamplight on that particular combination was — you needed to look at something else. You found something extremely interesting to look at in your open bag and devoted your full attention to it.
"Bathroom's all yours," he said, dropping into the armchair and draping the towel over one knee. He picked up his phone and looked at it, and did not appear to notice anything. You were grateful for this, whether it was genuine or not.
You gathered your things and left without further incident. When you came back out, hair damp and changed into something warmer, Beomgyu had moved from the armchair to the floor. He was arranging the extra blankets with his back against the side of the bed, long legs stretched out in front of him. He'd turned the overhead light off at some point, leaving only the bedside lamp, which gave the room a softer ambience.
The sliver of skin peeking out under the neckline of his shirt stopped you. You’d been meaning to say something about the bruise but you weren't sure how to start the conversation. You were still trying to locate that opening when your phone buzzed on the bed where you'd left it. You picked it up and felt your chest swell up with guilt as you read the name on the screen.
You answered, sitting on the edge of the mattress and pulling your knees up. "Hi, mum."
Beomgyu did not look up, but was already preparing to take himself somewhere else in the small room to give you space to talk. He settled quietly against the far wall instead.
Her voice came through at full volume. You held the phone a fraction from your ear and let her go, because she had earned it. She wanted to know where exactly you were, how you had ended up there, whether the inn was properly heated, whether you had eaten, whether the staff had been helpful, and whether she needed to call someone — this last question delivered with the implication that she already had a list prepared and was ready to begin working through it the moment you gave her any opening whatsoever. You answered each one in turn, assuring her that you were warm and safe and completely, genuinely fine, that the conductor had everyone's details, that the train would resume in the morning, that she did not need to call anyone at all.
"And you're not alone?" she asked, and her voice had gone from worried to specifically worried, which were two different registers that you had spent a lifetime learning to distinguish.
From the corner of your eye, you saw Beomgyu glance up.
"No," you said, and then, after a beat — "I'm with a friend."
You held his gaze for a moment, and the smile that came onto your face was small and a little helpless. Beomgyu’s breath caught but he returned it in kind — a slow, soft thing moving into his eyes before it reached his mouth.
Your mother was still talking. You made yourself listen. Soon the call ended and you lowered the phone into your lap.
The silence was beginning to close in on you. You had not moved since the call ended. Beomgyu had resettled himself against the side of the bed. You could hear the softness of his breathing and the occasional tapping of his phone screen.
Your eyes found his shoulder again. You’d been doing that all evening — returning to that spot the way a tongue finds a sore tooth. Since the moment he had put himself between you and the falling bags without a second's pause, and then sat up and asked if you were alright.
The guilt that had arrived with your mother's call had not fully left. It had just rerouted itself, going into a different chamber of your chest, and was now sitting there with everything else you hadn't said tonight.
You opened your mouth. Thought better of it. Looked at the phone in your lap, then back at him.
"Beomgyu."
He looked up.
You had not prepared a beginning for this, which became apparent almost immediately once you started. "I have something in my bag—for bruising, it's a spray, I've been carrying it around forever and I—can I see your shoulder?"
The question came out, and then before he could answer whatever polite deflection he was about to offer, the rest of it came out too, because the dam was broken and there was nothing left to hold it.
"I'm sorry." You closed your eyes for a moment, shaking your head. "I'm sorry, I keep thinking about how uncomfortable I've probably made you with all of this—I shouldn't have forced the room situation, I just didn't want you out there somewhere on a cot in a corridor with a hurt shoulder and I—" The exhale that left you came out uneven. "And I know, I know that's ironic, because now you're on the floor anyway and the whole arrangement is—I can see that it's not what you would have chosen. "
You pressed your lips together. Tried to find the thread back to something coherent.
"You've been helping me since the moment we met," you said, and your voice had gone softer, stripped of the rambling and left with only the part that was true. "Every single moment since we met, actually, and I haven't—I wanted to do something for you too. I keep thinking about your brother's ceremony."
Had he called his family after getting into this predicament? He was so excited about it, too. Your heart hurt thinking about it again.
"I just keep thinking about it and I can't stop, and I need you to know that this isn't pity, Beomgyu, I swear to you it isn't, I just—"
You didn't have the word for what it actually was. You left the sentence where it ended.
Beomgyu had not looked away from you once. He had let you go — all of it, every fragmenting, half-finished piece of it — without interrupting. In his eyes was something that lived in the same neighborhood as the way he had looked at you on the train when you'd told him not to go alone.
He reached over and took your hand.
"I'm grateful to you.” His voice was low and carried nothing except the truth of the statement. "For not giving up on me."
Your throat tightened. You looked at his hand over yours and then back at his face. The room felt warmer than it had a minute ago, and yuo were aware that you were not going to be able to say anything particularly articulate for at least another few seconds.
When you trusted your voice again, you reached for your bag with your free hand.
"Can I see your shoulder?"
This time, he nodded. He got up from the floor and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. With the spray can in hand you told him, with as much composure as you could locate, that he was going to need to take his shirt off.
Beomgyu sat motionless for a beat, then reached behind his neck and pulled the shirt over his head in one clean motion. You looked away out of instinct and heard the fabric settle. You gave yourself three seconds, which was not enough but was all you were going to get, and turned back around.
The thing was, you had not been prepared for that.
You had spent the entirety of today beside him and had built a reasonable understanding of him — tall and broad-shouldered. What you had not accounted for was what the coat and the layers had been quietly keeping to themselves this entire time. You found your breath stolen by his lean, subtle musculature, a lithesome elegance to the long lines of his body.
He was watching your face with an expression you couldn't parse. You gave him nothing back, or at least you tried to, and directed your eyes pointedly to his shoulder.
"Turn around," you said.
He listened, settling with his back to you. You uncapped the spray and focused on what you were doing. The bruise was starting to pronounce itself by the colour of it — a wide, muted violet bloom. You winced softly at the sight of it.
You pressed the nozzle and the cold spray hissed out against his skin. You heard him pull a short breath in through his teeth. The sound shouldn't have sent a shiver through you, but it did.
"Sorry," you said immediately.
"Don't be.” He exhaled, the tail end of it caught in a groan. "Keep going."
You did, working carefully across the area, your fingers hovered near his skin without touching him. The lamp threw long shadows across his back enunciating all the dips and muscles, and you were close enough that you could have rested your chin on his undamaged shoulder if you had lost your mind entirely.
When you were done you capped the spray, and he turned back around to face you.
He didn't move back. Neither did you, which meant the gap between you was considerably less than sensible. You looked at his collarbone. His jaw. Anywhere that wasn't his eyes, because his eyes were the part of him you trusted least to look at right now without consequence.
Beomgyu had spent all this time at the outer edge of what he could manage. Every time the distance had narrowed he had found a reason to widen it again, only for it to narrow once more since the moment you had taken his wrist in your hands and told him not to go alone which had cracked him right down the middle. He had talked himself back from the edge more times tonight than he could count. But you were standing in front of him now with bare inches between you, and he had just exhausted the last several minutes trying not to lose his goddamn mind.
“You keep doing that,” he murmured.
The sudden drop in register of his voice pulled you back to him again. He was ruined by you.
You frowned faintly, trying desperately to hold onto normalcy. “Doing what?”
His gaze moved fractionally away, then returned and held. "Make it difficult to remember why I should keep my distance."
The lamp caught the side of his face and you noticed, not for the first time, how much he gave away in his eyes even when the rest of him stayed composed.
It was a shame how your poor heart again picked up her pace. Your throat had gone dry.
"That's a rather serious thing to say to someone you just met." The evenness of your own voice was a small miracle.
The corner of his mouth moved just barely, not committed to a smile but got most of the way there. His gaze stayed on yours without wavering. "It is," he agreed.
Your knuckles had gone white around the spray can. The push and pull of the entire evening was still moving between you, and you knew exactly where you could meet him right now — knew he was right there waiting. But there was a part of you, stubborn and a little wicked, that wasn't done yet.
"And what made you forget?"
He answered you with his eyes dropping lower on your mouth which made your stomach turn over completely. A ghost of a smile graced your lips when he looked back up at you.
"That you're not nearly as unaffected as you act."
"Careful," you muttered. "You're starting to sound like you know me."
"I don't." There was something in the way he said it — more an observation he found genuinely interesting. "But I think you like it when people almost do."
Your next breath came out thin, and something in you that had been braced all this time slowly stopped bracing. You looked at him and past the hours of both of you circling — and you let him see it too. All of it. The fact that his name had been sitting differently in your mouth for a while now. You were standing here at the end of the world's longest day and you were not unaffected, you had never been unaffected, and you were so tired of pretending otherwise.
You reached out and cupped his jaw. You felt the imperceptible hitch of his breath — and he went very still beneath your palm.
Whispering, you asked. "Is that what you've been thinking about all evening?"
"Among other things," he breathed out.
He looked genuinely wrecked. Eyes wide, jaw slack by a fraction, all the composure he'd been maintaining for the better part of the evening dissolving in real time right there in your hand. The sight of it — of him, undone and unguarded and entirely yours to read pulled a soft laugh out of you.
"I was wondering when you'd stop pretending."
The column of his throat moved when he swallowed. "Were you pretending too?" His voice had gone very, very low.
You tilted your head at him just slightly, and let him see the answer in your face before you said it.
"What do you think?"
Your hand trailed from his jaw so slowly he felt each centimeter of the loss before you gave it back — fingers finding his hair instead, sliding through and curling, and the sensation of it traveled straight down his spine. You gave a soft tug. He had been braced for so many things tonight — but not this. His lashes fluttered, and a shiver wrung out at the edges of the breath that left him. He couldn’t help himself but lean further into your touch, savoring the feel of your palm.
He stayed there for a moment, just a moment, with the warmth of your hand against the side of his face and the soft press of your fingertips still curled in his hair, and it felt indecent how much he needed it. How long he had needed it. Everything inside him begged to reach for you.
When he opened his eyes, whatever had been left of his composure was gone. His jaw had set and his eyes had gone several degrees darker than you had seen them all day.
His hand came up and curved around the back of your neck, and he pulled you down.
It was not a soft kiss, feverish and wanting, his mouth a hungry thing against your own. It felt like a kiss he had thought about, a kiss that he could not help but hurry toward now that there was nothing left standing between him and it.
God, he thought, distantly, finally.
Just as hungry, you fell into it completely — the kiss so hard and so burning that slowing down felt almost physically impossible. The sheer intensity of it clawed out a tattered little sound from the back of your throat. The spray can found its way onto the mattress somewhere beside you as you had to catch yourself against the bare warmth of his shoulder. The uninjured one, some still-functioning part of your brain noted before that corner went quiet too.
He gently bit your bottom lip making you groan softly, his grip at the back of your neck tightening for half a second before easing again when he realized he was holding you too hard. The kiss felt so good and so right, you realized, in the blurred and breathless space between one moment and the next.
He was the one who found the way back to guide you to a gentler motion. His lips closed against yours, pressed once and held.
Your breathing had become the same air. Neither of you had managed to pull away properly, your mouths still brushing every time either of you exhaled. Your eyes wouldn't open fully, thoughts drifting somewhere far behind the haze settling over you while strands of your hair spilled forward around both of your faces.
Beomgyu’s gaze could no longer hold onto one place for very long. They moved over you slowly, greedily, taking in every detail that revealed itself now that you were this close to him; the dazed glaze over your eyes and the part in your lips still damp and red from his mouth. His hand slipped from the back of your neck to your face, fingers brushing through the strands that had fallen across your cheek before carefully tucking them behind your ear.
One more suspended second was all he took before he kissed you again.
This time, your legs went genuinely weak beneath you, a wave of dizziness rolling through your chest and down to your knees. You pitched forward with a soft sound escaping into his mouth as you had to bring your knee up onto the mattress between his parted thighs for balance.
Even through the haze clouding your thoughts, you heard the way Beomgyu moaned at the contact.
You were intoxicated by the reaction you had pulled from him so easily. Curious now, bolder, you pressed your knee up experimentally against him once more. You felt the full-body jerk of him beneath you with a hitched breath, his hand shot to your thigh and gripped it which sent heat rushing through your stomach.
There it is, you thought, and smiled against his mouth.
Groaning into the kiss, a slow roll of his hips came, involuntary at first and then less so, chasing the pressure with a hunger that made his head spin. He was so fucked. The heady taste of your mouth, the feverish press of your hands against his bare skin, the sweet sounds you kept making — sounds that he was responsible for, that he was drawing out of you — every part of you was driving him toward madness at each passing second.
Too much and nowhere near enough.
He needed — he didn't have a precise word for what he needed, only the overwhelming awareness that he needed more of it, more of you, more proximity than was currently physically possible given that you were already as close as you could get.
Beomgyu broke the kiss only to stand up, towering above you and you had half a second to register the loss before he came back down to recapture your lips. Tilting his head to find a deeper angle, he cupped your face with a possessiveness that felt completely natural to him now. Thumbs pressing against your jaw before he let them travel — sliding down the column of your throat and tracing the lines of your collarbone, traveling lower until his fingers found your waist and dug in. He pulled you flush against him which prompted your hands to tangle themselves into the hair at his nape because the alternative was falling.
“Remember earlier,” he said against your mouth, his breath warm across your lips, “when you said being chosen tonight meant you were unlucky?”
You could barely think straight enough to answer. “Mhm?”
“I would’ve spent the rest of my life regretting it if it had been anyone else.” He pressed a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, voice roughened beyond repair.
Beomgyu could not stop thinking about how fragile chance truly was.
The possibility of some other version of tonight, some parallel arrangement of events where you had gotten the luggage free on your own or someone else had been the one to offer a hand. Some other reality where he never learned your name at all. It left a bitterness crawling across his tongue he wanted to retroactively prevent.
Every alternate path that did not lead directly here felt not just improbable but wrong, an offense against some order of things he hadn't known he believed in until this moment. Because right now, you were there in front of him with flushed lips and dazed eyes. You were his reality — and he couldn't imagine having been anywhere else.
“That’s a terrible thing to sound so pleased about,” you told him, a smile threading through it despite yourself. You tipped your head to one side with a feathery exhale, wetting your lower lip. You wouldn't have had it any other way either. You knew he could see it, and neither of you needed to say so out loud for the fact to sit plainly between you. But you still wanted him to hear those words. “I think I would’ve hated it too. For the record.”
The smile that crossed his face at that was slow and a little smug and deeply, irredeemably pleased with itself.
"You look very satisfied with yourself," you told him.
"I am," he said, without any apparent remorse about it.
You laughed, and he caught the sound of it in his mouth with the same consuming want that had been there from the very beginning. You felt it everywhere, felt it travel all the way down your spine and settle low in your stomach. You could feel the hard press of him through his jeans, more than substantial and it pulled a genuine gasp which got swallowed by him.
He spun you, guiding you backward until the back of your knees met the edge of the bed and you went down and he came with you. Beomgyu held himself above you on one forearm braced beside your head, his hair falling forward in dark disheveled strands.
“Beomgyu—” His name barely survived the kiss.
It was still more coherent than his reply which didn't make it to language at all but was a low sound against your skin as his mouth found the curve of your throat and began to move downward. The heat of it was dizzying; the solid press of his chest against yours and you had to close your eyes because keeping them open felt like too much. Your back arched off the mattress on its own when he licked and nibbled on your skin with growing hunger, and every breath he dragged from you appeared to drive him further past reason.
You had never been kissed this way before. There was yearning in every part of him now, laid bare beneath your hands without concealment, and the proof of it sent your pulse racing harder when he lifted his head again to look at you.
The pause made you finally regain some semblance of rationality. When he did nothing but stare at you, a small crease formed between your brows.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.” He touched the side of your face, fingers tracing the line of your cheekbone. “You’re beautiful.”
The simplicity of his compliment made heat crawl up your cheek. You laughed softly, and you knew you looked a complete mess. But Beomgyu thought the opposite of whatever you were thinking about yourself. You looked even more beautiful. It made him smile too.
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, the curve of your cheek, then the tip of your nose. The tenderness of it nearly ruined you more than the heated kisses had. He returned to your mouth briefly before turning his head, brushing his lips against the shell of your ear.
A startled giggle burst out of you immediately, your shoulders curling inward. “Wait—”
“You’re ticklish there?” he asked, already smiling against your skin.
“That’s not funny.”
“I think it’s a little funny.”
You shoved weakly at his chest while laughing again. He joined you, his forehead dropping to the curve of your neck and for a suspended moment you were just two people lying tangled together on a hotel bed, laughing at nothing in particular, and it was so easy and so warm that you felt your chest expand with it. You couldn't remember the last time laughter had found its way into a moment like this. It made the whole thing feel weightless, unlocked from gravity, driven by nothing except warmth and pleasure and the specific delight of being here with this specific person.
He was back to trailing kisses down the torrid skin of your collarbones before biting down on the supple flesh, eliciting a breathy moan from you.
“Beomgyu, please.”
He was breathing rougher now after hearing his name fall from your lips that way. Your head fell back against the mattress and the full line of your throat opened to him, an offering, and he took it without pause. His hand slid down your side before stopping at the hem of your shirt. Fingers curled into the fabric, his eyes lifted to yours first.
“Can I take this off?” he asked softly.
By now here was no patience left in you for a slow answer. You were hot and restless and had been running on the ragged edge of wanting him for long enough. Nodding vigorously, you let him help you. Fabric disappeared in hurried movements and half-broken kisses, your fingers brushing clumsily against his wrists whenever both of you reached for the same place at once. You wanted nothing more than the feeling of his torrid naked skin on yours.
The second the last barrier disappeared between you, you pulled him back down with a renewed hunger. When your tongue swept against his lower lip a shuddering moan tore from him. It vibrated straight into your mouth, sending a fresh pulse of heat coiling low in your core that made your toes curl against the mattress.
Even though the separation felt visceral when he sat up, the thin strand of saliva still connected your mouths for a fleeting second before breaking apart had your mind reeling. He parted your legs and settled between them. You had to resist the urge to reach for him again just to have something to do with your hands, which were suddenly and inconveniently purposeless at your sides.
You didn't know if Beomgyu had read your mind or not. Because the next moment he gathered both your wrists in one hand and held them above your head, pinning to the mattress.
"Keep them here for me, love."
The way he spoke, followed by a sweet kiss to your forehead had you clenching around nothing. You felt your arousal pooling and her skin prickling with heat, heart thundering. A whine forming in your throat that you swallowed back down, your thighs instinctively pressing inward to relieve some of the ache that had been building since the moment his mouth had first found yours. The effort was largely unsuccessful with the way he was holding your knees apart. Nothing but the slow and mounting burn of wanting him and being made to wait.
You watched him through heavy lashes as he took you in, his chest rising and falling with the same labored cadence as yours. His hand came down to the base of your throat — open-palmed, barely any pressure, just the heat of his skin against yours before he drew it downward in one long, slow pass. Over the swell of your chest that had your nipples perk up, following the line of your sternum, across the plane of your stomach, and everywhere his hand traveled the skin came alive behind it.
"You're so beautiful. I keep thinking I've gotten used to it and then I look at you again," he said, and his voice had gone so low it was nearly gone entirely. The candor in his eyes was almost too much to hold.
You bit down on your lower lip, trying to hide the shy smile. "Mhm. You said that already."
His face softened further at that, and his hand came up to cup your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone. He tilted your face toward his.
"I know," he said simply. His eyes stayed on yours. "I'm glad it was you. Out of everyone on that train tonight, I'm so glad it was you."
"Do you mean it?" you whispered back.
He took your hand from above your head and brought it down to his chest, pressing your palm flat against the place where his heart was. The gesture was so nakedly honest that it took you a moment to breathe around it.
"I do," he admitted earnestly. "What do you want me to do to make you believe?"
There was no doubt that you believed him, but he was close to begging. This man — who had been so consuming just minutes ago — was now looking at you with flushed cheeks and eyes gone wide and earnest. He was stripped of every layer of dominance he'd been wearing so naturally, and he looked so genuinely, openly gone for you that you had to press your lips together to hold back the moan just from that sight. He just kept getting better. Every single time you thought you had a handle on what he was, he turned into something more interesting.
You bit the inside of her cheek, considering. "Think you can be good for me?"
His breath left him in a rush. "Anything you want, baby." The endearment came out like it had been waiting. "I can be so good."
You tilted your head, fingers trailing idly along his jaw. "Mhmm, yeah? How will you do that?"
Beomgyu flashed you a boyish smile before pressing feathery kisses on your stomach, working his way downward and stopping right over your glistening cunt. He groaned, thumb finding your clit when he registered exactly how much he had done to you. He moved a slow, exploratory circle over that bundle of nerves and he drank up every twitch and gasp your body gave him.
“Let me take care of you,” he whispered against your inner thigh. You let out another soft sound that had his mind reeling, and he felt his cock twitch in his jeans at the thought of how much more of that he could draw out of you if you'd let him. "You can trust me."
You ran your hand through his hair, a lopsided smile on your lips. You did trust him. There was no fear in you when it came to him.
"You can do whatever you want with me," you breathed out. You never said things like that — had never felt the ground beneath you feel solid enough to say it and mean it. You meant it now. With him, in this specific moment, it felt not only natural but true. "I'm all yours."
There was a flash of something primal in those gentle eyes the moment those words left your mouth. The small smirk that followed arrived slowly and it was a different creature entirely from the boyish smile of a few minutes ago. Beomgyu blew a soft breath directly over your center — barely anything, a whisper of air — and your whole body shivered in response, a tremor that started at your core and radiated outward to your fingertips, your thighs drawing in on instinct before his hands spread them back open.
"Beomgyu—" His name dissolved into a gasp before you could finish it, your back arching clean off the mattress when he pressed his lips to your clit. A kiss so devastatingly soft it turned your brain into mush. "Oh fuck, ah—"
He smiled against you. You felt it, and it sent another shudder rolling through you causing you to blindly chase that feeling again.
Beomgyu had always considered himself a patient man. That quality was currently hanging by the thinnest possible thread, because the moment he tasted you it detonated through his senses so completely that the shockwave traveled all the way to his fingertips before plummeting his sanity somewhere down to his dick.
Encouraged by your whimpers, he flattened his tongue against your clit before delving lower to lap at the velvety lips of your pussy, exploring the wet heat with long, languid strokes. He savored the way you were so warm and slick against his tongue and each time your inner walls clenched, he probed deeper. Your juices dripped down his chin, a filthy reminder of how desperately you needed this.
He gripped your thighs, your hips, urging you forward — coaxing you to move against his mouth, to take what you needed from him — and when you did, when your hips rolled down into him with that small, desperate press, he felt his mind going completely blank. Fuck — there was your hand gripping his hair. He was huffing and taking short breaths. There was a ringing at the edges of his hearing as he looked up at you through his lashes, eyes wide and glossy because in this moment, he felt like he was made to kneel between you. You were flushed and breathing heavily but looked extremely beautiful like this.
"You taste fucking divine." His words were muffled between your cunt.
He was drunk, so high on you as he watched you let out a high pitched gasp when he eased in two fingers. Your folds stretched around the thickness of them, clenching down hard before he had fully seated them, and he groaned against you at the sensation. He began to move them in a slow drag, feeling the way your soft walls responded to each angle, each depth, each curl of his fingers, and you were already so far gone and so slick that the slide of it was obscenely easy and obscenely good.
Your head went back against the pillow. The bedsheet crumpled in your fist. His name was falling from your mouth in fragments — just sound, broken and breathless and needier than you had ever heard your own voice. Closing your eyes you let yourself get absolutely lost in the ecstatic pleasure he was giving you.
He had made you a promise and he intended to keep it. He picked up every micro reaction you gave at every thrust of his fingers, every tremble of your body when he sucked on your clit before swirling the tip of his tongue over it until he figured out what was going to take him to guide you over the edge. But looking at you, it didn’t seem like he was going to need to do much work anyway.
He could feel you spasming around his fingers, your moans were coming faster now, falling over each other, your thighs closing around his head. He was suffocating but it felt excruciatingly good that his eyes rolled briefly before he wrenched them back open, because he needed to see you, needed to watch every second of what he was about to do to you, and he was not going to miss it for anything.
Amidst all that, Beomgyu humped the mattress below him, the taste of you and the sound of your voice and the grip of your fingers in his hair combining into something that was rapidly exceeding his capacity to contain. He curled his fingers and stroked upward into the soft, swollen spot that made your whole body seize, and did it again, and on the third stroke he sucked your clit into his mouth and held it there with the flat of his tongue pressed firm against it — bringing you over a mind shattering orgasm.
It was the scratch of your nails on his scalp and the sound of his name breaking apart in your throat that made him cum. His release poured out of him in waves that left him loose and trembling and utterly, completely spent. He pressed his forehead against your inner thigh and breathed, ears ringing faintly, and the bliss that settled over him in the aftermath was so total and so warm that for a long moment he couldn't have told you where he was or how any of this had happened.
"Gyu…" you croaked. You were still trembling from the aftershocks, your whole body loose and oversensitive. You reached for him anyway, fingers finding his jaw. "Come closer."
He complied with your request and you took the chance to grab his face and kiss him hard, tasting yourself all over his wet lips. He moaned into your mouth and pressed against you. It was denim against bare skin that had you mewling, your hips jerking upward on reflex. You broke the kiss with trembling hands as they traveled down his stomach to the waistband of his jeans, working the button with fingers that weren't quite cooperating, and he let you — watched you with his chest heaving and his weight braced on one forearm above you — until the zip gave and he took it off. Your hands found the front of his boxers and stopped.
The fabric was unmistakably, warmly wet, and your brain took a full second to catch up.
"Fuck," you breathed, one finger hooking into the waistband, pulling it down slowly. His cock came free and you stared at it — flushed and thick and coated with his creamy release. “Did you cum?”
"Couldn't help it, love." His voice had the faintest note of sheepishness threading through the warmth of it. "You were so fucking good."
You didn't say anything, because there was nothing to say and also your mouth had stopped functioning properly. You pushed his boxers the rest of the way down and he kicked them off, and then he was kissing you again before he pulled back just far enough to speak against your lips.
"Protection?"
You nodded toward your bag. Beomgyu followed your gaze and reached for it in one fluid motion, rummaging through it. He found what he needed, tore the packet open with his teeth and rolled the thin rubber over his shaft, giving it a few pumps.
He was — there was no clinical way to put this — beautiful, in a manner that made your oversensitive pussy clench with a want so acute it bordered on painful.
The anticipation that coiled within your stomach crawled up to your throat and through your chest, gathering all your oxygens from your lungs on its way. Beomgyu shuddered over you, hands roaming, fingers mapping out your skin like he was committing every inch of you to memory. He lined the tip of his cock against your entrance, and drew it torturously, inexcusably slowly along your folds without pushing in.
"Beomgyu, please," you cried out after he kept stroking you. "Please—"
"Tell me if it gets uncomfortable." He was panting, chest rising and falling against yours, and he reached down to guide your knees upward, folding them gently toward your chest, opening you further. "Tell me if I hurt you, okay?"
Your bodies flushed together, every inch of heated skin sliding against the other as Beomgyu’s tip breached inside with the moan of your name. He kissed you, so deeply, so fiercely, that the gasp you let out at the stretch was entirely devoured by his mouth. The overwhelming pleasure flooded both of you until he couldn’t keep his head up anymore and it lulled forward beside yours.
Beomgyu’s mouth hung open, puffing against the hot skin of your neck as he seated himself inside you inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt and you were so full of him that your vision had gone soft at every edge. He gritted his teeth, jaw clenching as he had to fight the urge to cum from just feeling your tight walls sporadically clenching around him. Strong arms bracketed your head, caging you in and his hips started to roll in deep, languid undulations — not thrusting so much as grinding.
Each thrust carried him to the very limit of your depth before drawing back in a long, dragging pull that had every nerve ending inside you lighting up in sequence. The stretch of him was extraordinary; you felt every ridge and contour of him on each withdrawal with a vividness that had you gasping and moaning.
"Feels sooo good, Gyu—!!" you were now blabbering incohesive words, brain a complete mush under the overwhelming and capsizing pleasure of him.
Beomgyu tried to hold onto the last bit of his sanity when he felt your hand trail up to the hair on his nape, curling and tugging on a fistful. Even with a snowstorm outside, both your bodies were glistening with sweat and heat radiated off of you as you were pressed chest to chest; there was nowhere for either of you to go, every exhale of his landing directly against your face and every inhale of yours pulling in the scent of him, the heat of him, the totality of him.
Tears of pleasure sprung to your eyes. He brought his face up from biting your neck to smash his lips against yours. His tongue glided over you in messy strokes, saliva pooling at the corner of your lips and hot puff of breath exhaling against his mouth.
For the last several minutes, the bruised area was sending a dull throb through him with every movement — but Beomgyu did not give a single fuck about it. How could he even bother with it when you were there underneath him? Face blissfully fucked out with glistening lips and teary eyes, you warmth enveloping him so wholly — his shoulder could wait indefinitely. There was not a version of this moment in which he was going to stop.
The depraved sound of skin against skin along with your mingling groans and gasps resonated off the walls of the room. He could feel you clenching around him, could tell you were reaching your high again soon with how thoroughly fucked out you looked and sounded.
"Beomgyu—’m close,” is all you managed before crying out, the rest of whatever you were going to say dissolved as your back arched off the mattress, every inch of contact maximized.
You gripped him like a vice, your body quivering when you finished, his name spilling from you so sinfully that his vision went white at the edges.
He became the louder one then — groans and grunts as his thrusts became sloppier, helping you ride out your orgasm before he buried himself to the hilt in one deep thrust and spilled into the condom with a long, broken groan pressed into the curve of your neck.
Both of you were breathing hard, the sound of it filling the silence left by everything else. He didn't pull out, stayed exactly where he was, his weight settling into you gradually as the tension released from his muscles all at once. You felt him softening inside you slowly as the two of you drifted back to earth.
"So perfect," he slurred against your skin.
His lips left trails of kisses around your chest, neck, and shoulders, as if making up for every mark he couldn't leave. Tasting the salt of your skin, his tongue traced your areola that dragged a whine out of you even now. He sucked gently, then harder, then dragged his teeth across the swell of flesh before soothing it with his tongue.
You sighed at the sensation, feeling your body reaching absolute bliss. His voice brought you back from slipping into dreamland.
“Are you okay?” he asked softly, a hand running through your hair and you melted at the soothing feeling.
He lowered your legs carefully onto the mattress afterward, though neither of you made any real attempt to move apart. His chest still pressed against yours in places and your knee hooked loosely over his thigh.
“Mhm.” Your eyes slipped shut again for a second, contentment pulling through you slowly. “Is your back alright?”
Beomgyu laughed breathlessly. “We might need another round of that ice spray.”
Your eyes flew open immediately, horrified enough to make him break into genuine laughter this time. He dipped down before you could scold him, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose.
“I’m joking,” he murmured against your skin. “Mostly.”
“Beomgyu.”
“There she is.” His grin widened lazily. "I was wondering how long before I got that look."
You sighed despite yourself and cupped his cheek, thumb brushing back and forth absentmindedly over warm skin. His expression changed the second you touched him again; softer instantly, eyes lowering for half a moment before returning to yours.
“You know,” you said slowly, “we’ve thoroughly ruined any chance of being friends."
“Mmhmm, well.” He turned his head and pressed a kiss into your palm. "Wasn't planning on being your friend for very long anyway."
You raised a brow at him. "Really."
Beomgyu smiled into your hand before finally looking at you properly. There was still heat in his eyes, though now it mixed too openly with affection.
"I meant it when I said I wanted to earn your trust," he spoke earnestly, playing with your hair. "I really did mean that. But somewhere around tonight, after everything—" He exhaled another laugh beneath his breath. “I got selfish. I think staying only friends with you would’ve actually killed me.”
Your stomach flipped hard at the honesty in his voice. You didn’t think you could handle any more of this man — he was seriously too much for your heart.
"You're so cute," you cooed, poking his cheek.
He stared at you. "I just confessed my suffering to you."
"You did it adorably, though."
Beomgyu stared at you in disbelief that lasted approximately a few seconds before your sweet laughter dismantled it. His mouth twitched. He pressed it flat. It twitched again. You were still smiling when his eyes dropped to your mouth; the fondness remained and the teasing still there, but desire began to creep back in beneath it piece by piece.
“Can't believe you say things like that right after ruining me for half the night,” he murmured, fingers sliding along your thigh again.
Your mouth curved. "Half the night?"
"Yeah." He chuckled, thumb grazing your bottom lip. “I’m trying to sound respectable.”
You opened your mouth and sucked on his thumb, swirling your tongue around it. The heat began its slow return through your body, and watched his jaw tighten when you released his finger with a pop. "I like you better when you're honest."
He simply looked down at you with a slow smile, tonging the corner of his lips. He then shifted a bit up and you keened with delight when he rolled his hips in one slow, purposeful thrust.
“I don’t think I’m anywhere near done with you yet.”
new waltz of words chapter, I shall rejoice now!! 🗣️🗣️ I’ll be honest, I almost forgot for a bit that we were getting a new chapter until I saw the notif a few days ago 🙂↕️
man we are getting fed when it comes to Beomgyu content-
my deepest apologies i took so much time to update 🙏 i hope you have fun reading!!
i love writing that man ahhhh i need to expand my ideas for the other boys too but trust me, their wips are waiting. keep an eye out 👀 who knows what i might drop?
Your heart and mind seek him for reasons no words could describe — an irony not lost on you, a writer, a weaver of words. And yet, when it comes to him, even you fail to stitch together the language to explain his existence in your life.
⊹₊ wc; 13.2k
Nobleman!Choi Beomgyu x Noblewoman!afab!reader
chapter tags: regency-inspired setting with loosely adapted historical accuracy, heavy slowburn continues, mutual pining reaching concerning levels, they should not be trusted in confined spaces together, forced proximity done wrong in all the right ways, beomgyu is one step away from losing his entire composure (and dignity), taehyun continues to ruin everyone’s peace unintentionally, suggestive tension through proximity and touch (nothing explicit but deeply charged)
warnings: overheard conversation about a young woman’s passing, mc inadvertently (and very much willingly) intercepting information tied to an ongoing investigation
i had to cut the chapter in half because it was becoming far too lengthy WAHAHAHAH i love this chapter a lot btw because i got to torture lord choi <//3 it is proofread but there might still be some errors!
i also wanna thank @yvampyr for motivating me to publish another chapter through her constant praises of this series ily yvro
Story ml .☘︎ ݁˖ Previous chapter .☘︎ ݁˖ Next chapter
The ton often mistakes affection for possession. How unfortunate.
For there exists a far rarer form of devotion, one that asks for nothing and seeks no acclaim. It simply delights in seeing another smile and, having achieved such a feat, considers itself richly rewarded.
This author wonders how many hearts have been lost to that particular vice.
The golden ribbon of dawn had just begun its ascent across the horizon.
Your adrenaline coursed with conspicuous vigour. It had been some time since your blood had carried such brightness through your veins. The act itself was no novelty. You had long since grown adept at slipping beyond the eyes of the aristocrats and at dissolving into thoroughfares where lineage commanded little notice. You had done so countless times.
This morning, however, differed in one irreducible particular. This time, you were not alone.
In what had once been your private and faintly scandalous indulgence, there would now be Choi Beomgyu’s presence.
You found yourself pondering how his hand would feel if it closed around yours to steer through a crowded crossing. To traverse markets and narrow lanes beside him unencumbered by titles and unobserved by matrons introduced an element that painted the undertaking brighter.
It felt perilous in ways that had little to do with discovery because this no longer resembled an excursion between like-minded allies. It felt nearer to flight — a departure into a world you would not mind remaining in, so long as he stood within it.
“You have been smiling since you opened your eyes,” Maya mused, separating the strands of your hair with nimble fingers before weaving them into a single braid. “It is most distracting.”
You lowered your eyes at that, attempting severity and failing to maintain it. “Must you always chaff me?”
“I say it because it is true,” she replied. “You carry your thoughts so heavily most days. This morning, you do not. I would keep this version of you, if I could.”
Warmth crept higher along your cheeks, unassisted by powder or paint. It appeared so thoroughly that it could fool anyone into assuming you had done some touch up.
“Perhaps I have grown soft,” you said quietly. You folded your hands in your lap, then unfolded them again. “It is not foolish, I hope?”
“Foolish?” Maya stepped around you and lifted your chin, studying your face with open affection. “No, my lady. It is human.”
You allowed a small smile. Maya returned it to you brightly. She returned to secure the braid at the nape of your neck and coiled it into a modest knot, fastening the final pin.
“There! Entirely unremarkable. Which, for once, is precisely the aim,” she beamed.
You rose and adjusted the bodice, drawing the laces taut and tying them. The fabric lay plain against you; no ornament distracted from the simplicity of the attire for the obvious part. You regarded your reflection only briefly before your gaze fell again.
“Maya.”
“Yes, my lady?”
It was a bit ironic how you — a weaver of words — failed to weave the very words upon your tongue when it came to Beomgyu. Your delayed attempt at speech formation did not go unnoticed by her. Instead of urging you, Maya waited.
You took a deep breath, then let it out. “I have always walked alone in these paths of mine. I have never had anyone take a genuine interest in the pursuits that occupy my mind, nor have I encountered one who regards the world as I do.” — but in the end, words did end up flowing naturally, and talking about him always brings upon a real smile on your lips.
Maya’s features softened. She took your hands before you could withdraw them and enclosed them within her own. “What troubles you?” she asked.
“I find that I want him there,” you confessed. When you lifted your eyes, hesitation tempered your expression. “More than I should, perhaps. Is it wrong to desire his company so much?”
Maya exhaled fondly. She rubbed her thumbs across your knuckles, as though warming them from cold. “My lady, there is no fault in wanting the presence of someone who makes your heart lighter,” she answered, giving your hands a gentle squeeze.
“I know,” you whispered.
“You have denied yourself companionship for long enough. You may keep a little joy for your own sake,” she continued, adjusting the fall of your shawl over your shoulders. “Go to him. See what becomes of it.”
They were mere words, but the brightness in your heart turned incandescent with joy upon hearing them. You rose from the chair and drew her into an embrace. Her hands pressed warmly against your back. The contact steadied your breathing.
“I shall be back soon,” you murmured near her ear, tightening your hold for a brief moment before stepping back.
“You shall return content,” she replied, patting your arm once and releasing you. “And you shall tell me whether he proved worthy of that smile.”
Beyond the window, dawn had grown brighter; the estate would soon stir in earnest. You turned toward the door and carried that warmth with you.
The old butler, Mr. Austen had long ceased to be merely a servant within the household; he occupied a station closer to stewardship. Beyond Maya, there existed no other soul to whom you entrusted your more unconventional enterprises.
It was he who had priorly secured a carriage — which was not one of yours or bore a crest that might betray affiliation. He had given an impression to the hired coachman that one of the attendants required conveyance to the church situated at the far end of town. The explanation met with no skepticism.
When the appointed hour arrived, you descended the side staircase with your bonnet drawn low to obscure the greater part of your face. Mr. Austen assisted you into the carriage with care that bordered upon paternal instinct. Throughout the journey, no passerby gave the carriage a second glance. To them, it bore the insignificance of countless others that traversed the thoroughfare each day.
By the time the church spire came into view beyond the clustered rooftops, your passage had been accomplished without incident. The carriage drew to a halt near the back wall, removed from the main square where foot traffic gathered in scarce number. Mr. Austen descended first, then turned to offer his hand once more.
You accepted it and stepped down upon the cobbled ground, lifting your skirts to avoid the damp between the stones. Once clear of the carriage, you reached up and adjusted your bonnet, ensuring it cast sufficient shadow across your features.
“Mr. Austen,” you said warmly, “I ought to thank you more properly. You always assist me, even when my requests are troublesome.”
He regarded you from beneath brows that had grown more expressive with age. “If I complained every time you made life difficult, I should have no breath left for anything else.”
You startled into a laugh. “So you admit I am troublesome!”
Mr. Austen’s smile was concealed under this grey mustache, but the crinkles around his eyes were an evident of it. It in return lifted the apples of your cheeks.
“I jest,” he said. “Though I must admit with pride that you have inherited both your parent’s resolve for greater pursuits.”
You tilted your head and allowed a hint of levity to enter your voice. “I keep wondering how you have not grown weary of me, or insisted to betray my secrets in the interest of your own tranquillity.”
At this, he exhaled through his nose and removed one glove, lifting his hand to rest briefly upon your head. The gesture was gentle.
“Betray you?” he said, lowering his voice in a parental rebuking tone. “I have served this household since before you could form a sentence. I carried you through those corridors when you could not walk. I have bandaged your knees and hidden your broken teacups. Do you suppose I would begin betraying you now?”
“When you list it so plainly, I sound incorrigible.” Your smile softened.
“You were an energetic child,” he corrected, drawing his glove back on. “You are now an energetic young lady. I know your mind. I know when you act with purpose.”
You lowered your gaze. “Even so, I must try your patience.”
“You try nothing of the sort,” he answered. His gaze moved past you toward the narrow street that curved away from the church. “Take care while you are out there. Keep to the streets we discussed and return by the hour agreed upon.”
“I shall.” You inclined your head in acknowledgment.
He stepped back to allow you passage toward the entrance, yet his eyes remained upon you until you reached the shelter of the stone archway. Only then did he withdraw to the carriage.
No passerby occupied the lane that led to the churchyard at this hour. The structure had endured many seasons without devoted care; ivy gripped the outer stonework, and long green climbers wound their way along cracked mortar and weathered arches. Moss had gathered between the flagstones of the path.
You crossed the yard with brisk steps, gathering the edge of your skirt so it would not brush the damp growth along the wall. The wooden gate yielded beneath your hands with a subdued groan. You slipped inside and drew it back into place behind you, the iron latch settling with a hollow echo that traversed through the small vestibule.
The church received you in tempered light. Tall windows of stained glass admitted slender shafts of colour that descended across the rows of aged pews and wandered over the stone floor. Dust stirred faintly in the air where the sunlight touched it.
The hush within bore the solemnity of a place accustomed to confessions declared with trembling breaths and parting words spoken with tearful eyes. A sanctuary for lovers brought together by fate and here, beneath these very windows, they had stood hand in hand to bind their futures together before witness and blessing.
Within that broad expanse, he sat several rows ahead with a book in his hands. The stillness surrounding him gave the impression that he had been waiting for some time. You hadn’t taken three steps before he turned his head.
His gaze found you.
It was a wonder he did not drop the book, or how he had managed to preserve even the outward appearance of a gentleman. Nearly every rational thought had abandoned him, leaving only a tumult of sensation that defied decorum.
He could not reconcile the image before him with the world he occupied. There existed no refinement of language that could render you into adequate description within his mind. It was a theft from fortune itself that he should be granted this sight of you — heaven sent — in a place that had borne vows of eternity.
How undeserving he was, and yet how impossibly fortunate, to know you at all. To have encountered you in this lifetime was a miracle he could scarcely bear to acknowledge without trembling. He, who had done nothing to earn such grace, found himself granted it all the same.
He pressed the book shut with his thumb and set it aside upon the bench without once glancing away. Rising soon after, he remained where he stood and did not dare step forward to meet you. Any further claim upon your presence might verge upon excess.
The path you walked on had seen brides being led forward beneath veils.
You reached up and untied the ribbons beneath your chin, slipping the bonnet free and lowering it to your side. Filtered sunlight brushed across your features; you were unaware of the devastation your simple gesture wrought upon the man who watched.
With no witness but the silent church and its ancient walls, Choi Beomgyu found himself wholly, helplessly, and madly in awe of you.
Meanwhile, each step along the aisle was taken with a steadiness that belied the faint quickening beneath your ribs. Once standing before him, your lips parted in an aberrantly shy greeting.
“Hi.” — the greeting emerged so softly that it scarcely disturbed the hush surrounding you.
He forgot every prepared greeting he had carried with him into the church. He had spent the better part of the morning considering what he might say upon seeing you again but none of it survived.
"Hi,” he returned after a short moment. He stepped forward a pace, the faintest tremor betraying the effort it took to hold himself upright. “Did you have a safe journey here? I hope it was not troublesome to avoid the eyes."
You laughed, a delicate sound that rolled through the air and set his heart skittering.
“This is hardly my first venture of the sort, Lord Choi,” you said, a trace of mirth touching your lips. “You needn’t worry on my behalf.”
He pressed his lips together, his eyes closing briefly as he recalled the forgotten detail. He inclined his head in a gesture that carried apology — one that seamlessly delivered that he had disciplined himself for even daring to dismiss something from his mind about you.
“Yes—yes, of course.” His voice softened, almost conceding the ground with care. “Forgive me. I remember now that you have done this many times before.”
Your smile deepened. “Apology accepted.”
You moved together toward the rear of the church where there was a door set behind the last row of pews. He reached ahead of you to pull it open, then stepped aside to let you pass through first. The faint freshness of the season’s turn kissed the skin beneath your eyes.
A slim path stretched ahead, bordered by overgrown hedges and low-hanging branches that filtered the daylight into shifting patches upon the ground. Beomgyu lifted one hand to guide a stray branch away from your path before letting it fall back into place. He walked beside you, though never too near. You wished he did.
“After a short while, a man will pass here with his cart. We will join him and reach the town without a hitch,” he explained, glancing down the road ahead.
You tilted your head, curiosity brightening your features. "Are you friends with this man, Lord Choi?"
"He has been the one to get me in and out of town during these escapes of mine." His gaze carried a secretive fondness. The next moment, however, he gave you a look. “Though I must warn you, he sometimes let his tongue outrun his wit.”
You hummed, eyes tracing the patterns of sunlight through the branches. The faint stir of leaves above lent a softness to the moment. “It is lovely , isn’t it, Lord Choi?” you said after a pause, “to have friends who look out for you so, without question.”
You thought of Maya, and of Mr. Austen — whose loyalty had never once wavered despite the liberties you so often took. It was indeed the greatest gift in knowing that one was not alone in one’s ventures, however ill-advised they might appear to others. You were comforted to know that Beomgyu was not solitary in his wanderings; that beyond the confines of expectation, he too was sustained by hands willing to guide and guard his passage.
“You need not call me that.”
During the passing silence between you, in which the sound of your footsteps mingled with the whispering leaves — his low voice tickled your ears. The sensation travelled all the way down to your arms, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps whose reason of origin were too specific to be blamed upon the morning breeze.
Your feet slowed of their own volition. “Whatever do you mean?”
“‘Lord Choi’,” he said, meeting your gaze. “You do not need to keep using the title with me.”
“And what should I call you, then?” you jested, the question light upon your tongue. “Mr. Choi?”
That drew a different look from him. The smile that curved his lips deepened, and he held your gaze with a gravity that pulled at your senses. He allowed the meaning of his words to settle — and understanding came to you in a gradual unfoldment.
"Oh," you murmured, the single syllable tasting of revelation.
“We are not within society’s bounds here. If you continue to address me so, it may draw notice.” He wished to hear his name from you alone — stripped of rank and shaped only by your voice, entirely kept apart from every other claim upon him. It seemed, in that moment, an unnecessary barrier — one he could not bring himself to tolerate. “Use my name.”
You held your gaze on him, feeling a giddiness unfurl within your chest that made your pulse reckless. He was looking at you with expectation, a tender touch of patience, awaiting the very thing your heart ached to give. Your breath caught in a minuscule falter before you turned your face aside, conceding the moment without granting it its full due.
“You ask for liberties, Lord—” The title slipped out of habit; you halted, then amended with care, “—then I should expect the same from you, should I not?”
Beomgyu smiled in full, no withholding. “You may always expect from me what your heart permits, and far more besides.” — then he said your name.
He stepped closer in thought, if not in body, his words bending the social rules only to fold entirely around you.
You had grown so accustomed to hearing him say “my lady” to address you that the notion of your own name claimed by his voice had never crossed your mind. Now, confronted with your title’s absence, you found yourself wholly unprepared. Would it be improper to coax him to repeat your name? Though you doubted whether you could ever request it again without succumbing into a breathless whisper.
“Oi! Choi Beomgyu!”
You turned in tandem. An old man was approaching you with a slow, rolling gait on a haycart.
“Didnt expect you to show up today!” he called, squinting at Beomgyu beneath the brim of his worn hat. “Thought you’d lost your nerve this time.”
“I gave you my word, uncle Park,” Beomgyu replied, stepping nearer as the cart drew close for him to lay a hand upon its side. His fingers closed around the wooden rail, steadying the slight jolt as the horse was brought to a halt. “You might consider granting me a measure of patience.”
“Patience?” Uncle Park barked, striking the side of the cart with a resounding slap. “You vanish for weeks on end and return with talk of patience? I ought to charge you interest for every day you kept me waiting.”
“Come now, do not begin reciting my faults before I have even greeted you properly,” Beomgyu drawled. The tilt of his mouth carried a trace of mischief that seemed ill-matched with the poise he otherwise wore. “You would have me condemned before I could attempt a defence.”
The change may have been miniscule but it did not escape your notice. It was, you thought, a sight to behold — to witness him thus.
“Well now, and who might this be?” The old man’s attention veered from Beomgyu with abrupt curiosity. He regarded you with frank appraisal before his brows rose and his grin widened into something altogether knowing. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone and found yourself a sweetheart. Took you long enough, boy. I thought you meant to wander alone till your bones gave out.”
Oh, it was another sight to behold — to see such a bright shade of red adorning his face.
“No—no, you’ve mistaken it entirely,” Beomgyu spluttered, the denial arriving with such haste that it threatened coherence. “She is—we are acquainted. A friend.”
Uncle Park’s expression did not alter in the slightest. He let out a low hum, drawing the sound out as his gaze passed between you both again. He was unconvinced in the most evident manner.
“A friend, is it?” he repeated with skepticism. “Well, a friend with the look of her, I’ll grant you’ve done well for yourself.”
A trace of pity found its way through you for him. So you stepped forward before Beomgyu could further knot himself in needless explanation. Inclining your head in greeting, you offered Uncle Park a civility he had not anticipated.
“Good day, sir,” you said, hands gathered neatly before you. “We remain indebted for your assistance.”
He blinked with bafflement. Then he let out a small chuckle, scratching at his jaw. “No debt worth speaking of. Any friend of his is welcome enough.”
“I have heard you have been aiding him in reaching town,” you said once settled upon the cart’s wooden bed, Beomgyu following close behind. “Though I begin to suspect I have been introduced into a history far more elaborate than I was warned of.”
Beomgyu released a breath through his nose, turning his head aside as he ran a hand through his hair as though it might restore some fragment of dignity. “You have been warned sufficiently,” he muttered, though his glance betrayed a flicker of reluctant humour. “It is not my fault you chose to ignore it.”
“Was I now?” you returned, the question light but you were evidently chaffing.
“Warned?” Uncle Park echoed, taking up the reins and guiding the horse forward. “Now that is a detail I should very much like to hear. What, pray tell, have you been saying about me, boy?”
“Nothing that would survive your hearing,” Beomgyu replied without missing a beat, though the faint colour rising along the line of his cheek rendered the retort less convincing than he might have wished.
Uncle Park released a loud laugh, head tipping back in delight as the horse gave a mild flick of its ear in response. “Ah, so you do possess a tongue when pressed!”
You turned your gaze upon Beomgyu then, interest brightening your expression as the exchange had offered you a private amusement worth savoring. “It seems I had formed a rather different impression,” you said, lightly.
Beomgyu’s gaze narrowed with a flash of protest that did not quite disguise the reluctant curve threatening his mouth. “You can change your opinion of me if you want,” he returned. “But I would advise against placing too much faith in this man’s testimony.”
“Dangerous counsel,” Uncle Park interjected. “Encouraging a lady to doubt me at our very first meeting. You’ll have her convinced I am a scoundrel before I’ve even had the chance to prove it.”
“I suspect that you would require no encouragement at all in that regard,” you replied, your tone turning pleasantly contemplative.
A stunned beat passed over the air punctuated only by the sounds of the hooves. Not long after, the old man threw his head back and laughed again, wholly delighted.
“Oh, I like her,” he declared, pointing a crooked finger in your direction. “You’ve brought me someone with sense, Beomgyu. That alone earns you forgiveness for your many disappearances.”
“I am relieved my standing has been restored on such merciful terms,” Beomgyu said dryly.
Uncle Park clicked his tongue, casting him a sideways look. “But do not grow complacent. A man who makes promises and neglects them is of little use to anyone, least of all himself.”
The remark had teeth underneath the jovial tone which altered the look in Beomgyu’s eyes. As much as it was miniscule, it was still perceptible. There was little room left for defence when the accusation aligned too closely with his own assessment of past conduct. For a brief stretch of thought, he allowed no rebuttal to form but his fingers tightened against the rail’s rough grain before he inclined his head.
“I am here now,” he said.
The words were few, but they carried an undercurrent of finality that admitted no further censure.
Uncle Park stared for a passing moment, the remnants of his earlier levity giving way to a more considered regard. He gave a short nod and returned his attention to the road.
“Aye,” he conceded. “That you are.”
You offered no interruption through it. There were conversations that did not belong to you, and you possessed enough discernment to leave them undisturbed.
The wind had found its way into Beomgyu’s hair and tousled it in the most wild manner; a stray leaf remained stuck near his temple. Wordlessly, you reached forward and removed it, and upon feeling your touch on his skin, Beomgyu relaxed as he faced you.
You lifted the leaf between your fingers, a faint smile touching your mouth as you held it out for him to see. He did not need to know that it had served as your excuse to touch him and to offer a moment of solace. He remembered your words of affirmations from the riverside. They were called forth with little effort, softening whatever had remained of the previous exchange. He said nothing.
From the front, uncle Park glanced back once more, his grin returning in full force. “You’ll have to tell me her name, at least,” he called. “Can’t keep calling her ‘friend’ all the way to town.”
Beomgyu’s expression tightened into a reluctant frown. “You may mind the road, and leave the rest to me.”
“Aye, I’ll mind it well enough,” the man replied, though satisfaction coloured his tone. “But I’ve eyes, boy. And I know what I see.”
The cart drew to a halt at the edge of the town, where the worn road gave way to a livelier thoroughfare beyond. Beomgyu descended first and his hand rose in instinctive assistance — though he paused just short of presumption, allowing you the choice of accepting it.
A soft laugh slipped from you, touched with fond exasperation as you accepted his offer. Even now, he held himself apart, careful to grant you space you had never asked him to keep. You had never objected to his hand — had, in truth, found yourself inclined to accept it whenever it was offered.
You were more than willing to take his and only his hand.
Uncle Park watched the exchange with unabashed interest. Once you had offered your thanks and moved ahead, he turned toward Beomgyu with a pointed sound of disapproval.
“A friend, he says,” he remarked, shaking his head. “If that is friendship, I should like to see what he calls devotion.”
Beomgyu shot him a look that might have served as a warning in any other circumstance. Here, it merely provoked further delight.
After bidding him farewell, the two of you moved toward the town proper. What awaited you upon entry bore little resemblance to the subdued bustle you had anticipated.
Colour adorned every visible corner and banners stretched between buildings in bright swathes, fabric stirred by the passing air; lanterns hung in careful rows, their glass catching the sunrays in fractured gleams. Myriads of laughter carried through the streets with a buoyancy that stirred even the most indifferent passerby.
“Have we arrived in the midst of some celebration?” you asked, gaze moving from one detail to the next before looking up at him. “Were you aware of this?”
His expression was shaped by honest surprise. “I had no knowledge of it,” he said, almost to himself, before his features eased and a smile found its place. “Still, it is rather fortunate. We should make use of it while we are here.”
He lifted his arm toward you in invitation.
You looked at the gesture, then at him. Had it truly slipped his consideration that any display of formality in such a place might draw unwelcome attention, when he had been so insistent elsewhere that you abandon it and call him by his name? Surely, it would not hurt to return a fraction of that boldness now, simply to see whether it might touch him the same way it had undone you.
You placed your hand into his, bypassing the offered formality entirely. His breath faltered.
You leaned closer, lowering your voice so that it reached him alone. “We cannot follow etiquette here, can we?” you murmured, tilting your head in a small indication toward the passing crowd.
The words were meticulously delivered with a soft provocation that sought him out and held him there. Beomgyu exhaled, the sound uneven before he gathered himself, his fingers closing more securely around yours. It was no longer tentative in their claim. You beamed.
“You have not yet eaten, have you?” he asked. “There is a place ahead I would like to show you. Their breakfast is worth the visit.”
Beomgyu led you through an alley tucked between bustling storefronts until the sight of a weathered wooden sign drew recognition from you. You had visited this establishment more times than you could count during your private excursions through the town. Little about it had changed since then.
The old matriarch still presided over the shop with formidable vitality, directing her children and grandchildren from behind the counter while pots simmered and trays passed rapidly from hand to hand. Age had touched her hair and the bend of her back, though not a single soul beneath that roof appeared foolish enough to mistake her for frail.
The entire household erupted into a chorus of greeting the moment Beomgyu stepped through the doorway.
“Mum, Choi Beomgyu came back!”
“You finally remembered us?”
“Sit down before your face grows any thinner!”
One of the younger boys abandoned his errand entirely to throw his arms around Beomgyu’s middle, nearly causing him to stumble backward with startled laughter spilling from his mouth. An older woman emerged from the kitchen carrying a basket of bread and clicked her tongue at him before cupping his cheek in both hands, scolding him for his long absence while her eyes shone with unconcealed affection.
It was one matter to know Beomgyu as you did. It was another matter entirely to witness the traces he left behind within the lives of others.
What stood before you was not simply a man who was well-liked, but a man who had left impressions upon people so deeply fond that they reached for him — actually reached for him — with happiness made visible on their faces. This was something you had no tidy word for, which meant it was, in all likelihood, the truest thing about him. Looking at him made the brightness in your heart alight with joy.
The family ushered the two of you toward a crowded table beside several townspeople midway through their breakfast. There was more food than you can reasonably eat as they jumped at the opportunity to feed you when they noticed Beomgyu brought you along. Fresh bread still warm from the oven, butter softened beneath the morning heat, roasted potatoes seasoned generously with herbs, thick stew fragrant enough to draw sighs from nearby tables — the varieties only kept increasing.
“Please,” you finally laughed after another bowl was placed before you. “Surely there are others here who must also eat.”
Every attempt to refuse additional servings was met with scandalised disbelief. You had easily eaten to the comfortable limit of your capacity and settled back with the satisfaction of a meal properly honoured. Beomgyu leaned forward at your side and studied your expression with poorly concealed anticipation.
“Well?” he asked. “Was bringing you here a wise decision?”
You exhaled contentedly and brushed a stray crumb from your fingertips. “Very wise. This reminds me of meals back home. There is far more soul within food prepared this way.” Your gaze wandered briefly toward the rear counter where kettles released curling streams of steam into the air, and said, almost to yourself, "I wonder if they carry tea."
"They do," said Beomgyu, and paused in a way that told you the sentence was not yet finished. "Though I find myself compelled to ask something first. Have you ever had coffee ground fresh and prepared with any degree of honest care for the result?"
You raised your brows to show you were thoroughly interested in the subject. “Do you consider yourself an authority on the matter?”
“I consider myself tragically burdened with superior taste.”
A laugh escaped you. “I prefer tea,” you admitted, affording him the candour the question merited. “Though I have had coffee on occasion and found it perfectly—”
"Agreeable?" he supplied.
You rested your chin briefly upon your hand, smiling. "Is that not sufficient?"
Without another word, he rose and extended his hand toward you. There existed an eager brightness about him then, one that stirred immediate curiosity within your chest.
“Come,” he said. “Allow me the opportunity to change your opinion.”
You placed your hand into his and permitted him to lead you toward the back portion of the establishment where shelves lined with jars and tins occupied the walls. The younger women there greeted him with visible delight before moving aside to grant him access to the preparation space, clearly accustomed to this intrusion.
“Do you do this often?” you asked while watching him roll the sleeves of his shirt slightly higher.
The fabric gave way to forearms exposing elegant lines and the faint rise of veins beneath golden skin. It took you a while to tear your gaze away before you forced yourself to follow the movement of his hands instead.
“Often enough that they have stopped questioning it,” he answered, sounding rather pleased with himself as he reached for a bag of beans.
“I cannot decide,” you said, stepping closer to the counter and folding your hands behind your back, “whether that reflects well upon your skill or poorly upon their judgment.”
He glanced over his shoulder at you, and pressed a look of mock grievance into his expression. “You wound me before I have even begun.”
The remark drew another soft laugh from you. He turned away shortly after, though not before you caught the fleeting brightness crossing his features.
“Shall I be of any help?” you asked, leaning lightly against the counter’s edge.
Beomgyu set the grinder down and turned fully toward you, raising his brows in consideration. He then snuck a glance briefly toward the woman at the far end of the room before motioning toward the stool set with a tilt of his head, the corners of his mouth already betraying him.
“My lady,” he said, lowering his voice into a murmur meant for you alone, “only needs to sit pretty for me.”
For one treacherous instant, your mind abandoned you entirely.
You lowered yourself onto the stool with far more composure than you truly possessed, one hand curling against the edge of the wooden seat. A small lopsided smile touched your mouth in spite of every effort to contain it.
My lady only needs to sit pretty for me. Such shameless words, spoken beneath his breath.
The remark had already entered your chest with ruinous effect, carrying that infuriating mixture of sweetness and confidence he seemed capable of summoning so deftly whenever he chose to turn his attention wholly upon you. He just created a dangerously intimate air.
You turned your face away under the pretence of examining the shelves beside you, though the aim proved entirely futile once you caught sight of him again from the corner of your vision. The faint curve still threatening his mouth from your reaction alone conspired against your attempt at indifference with astonishing success. Beomgyu looked thoroughly pleased by his own effect upon you.
He selected the beans himself, inspecting them with surprising care before pouring them into the grinder. Morning light poured through the nearby window and scattered across him in fractured bands of gold, catching against the dark fall of his hair when he moved around. The rich fragrance of freshly ground coffee slowly wafted through the room, enveloping you little by little while Beomgyu continued his work with visible fondness for the task itself.
Watching him in such a setting — attention devoted wholly toward preparing a simple cup of coffee for you — awakened a longing you scarcely recognised. It was not excitement, nor infatuation, nor any of the foolish sentiments novels delighted in exalting. It was the sudden desire to preserve the moment exactly as it was and return to it whenever the world became unkind.
Beomgyu added milk and sugar only after pausing to ask how you preferred it, and when you answered that you trusted his judgement, his fingers faltered briefly against the spoon. You pretended not to notice. He pretended equally hard.
Then, at last, he poured the hot liquid into a cup and set it before you. The anticipation upon his face nearly made you laugh. You lifted the porcelain carefully and took your first sip.
The coffee carried none of the bitterness you had long associated with it; instead there came a depth to the flavour that unfolded gradually upon the tongue, mellowed by sweetness and softened further by the warmth of milk he had added for you. It filled you from within in a manner strangely comforting.
"Oh," you said.
It was not your most eloquent expression of sentiment. It was, however, entirely sincere.
"Well?" Beomgyu asked softly.
You stared down into the cup for another moment before looking back at him with open astonishment. “Lord Choi, this is extraordinary.”
Relief flooded his features so swiftly that you nearly laughed again. “Is that approval I hear?”
“Approval?” You chuckled softly before taking another sip, savouring it without the slightest attempt to disguise your delight. “I think you may have altered the course of my life.”
The younger woman arranging cups nearby covered her smile behind her hand at your reaction, though you scarcely noticed her. Your attention was held by the rich taste of coffee, which had far more depth than any of the ones you had previously endured out of courtesy during formal visits and social calls.
“I am glad it is to your liking,” he replied, watching you with such transparent fondness that it became difficult to look anywhere else for long. “You sounded displeased by bitterness, so I thought—”
“No, you do not understand,” you continued, stepping closer without realizing it. “I have never tasted coffee this good before. I shall return home intolerably dissatisfied with everyone who attempts to prepare a cup thereafter.”
“I would gladly make it for you myself,” he answered at once.
You looked at him and found that he had, at some point, abandoned any pretence of attending to his own cup. He was watching you — had been watching you — so thoroughly gratified by the simple fact of your reaction that it surpassed, by some considerable distance, anything you might have readied yourself to receive. He looked at you the way a person looks at something they have long wished to share with someone, who has at last been granted the occasion.
"You are not even drinking yours," you observed, glancing pointedly at his cup.
"No," he agreed, without a shade of contrition.
“You won’t be able to enjoy it once it loses its warmth.”
“Watching you enjoy yours appears to satisfy me far more.”
You smiled into the rim of the cup before lowering it again, entirely incapable of concealing your pleasure.
And standing within that humble little kitchen, surrounded by roasted coffee and morning sunlight, Beomgyu found himself thinking that he would willingly spend every remaining day of his life chasing that look upon your face if only to witness it again.
The remainder of the morning passed beneath a gentler pace.
You stayed far longer than either of you had planned, seated near the open window enjoying the cool breeze as you carried on conversations. At some point, Beomgyu suggested venturing further into town while the festivities still endured. Before your departure, you asked the elderly shopkeeper what precisely the occasion celebrated.
Spring, she had told you warmly. Renewal. The casting away of winter’s dreariness in favour of brighter days ahead.
You found the sentiment rather lovely.
The town had grown even more animated with the advancing afternoon. Children darted between merchants with sugared fruits clutched in their hands while musicians occupied crowded corners with fiddles and drums, their melodies spilling through the streets amidst merchants calling out to passing patrons. The crowd of people pressed nearer with every turn through the market, enough that Beomgyu’s hand remained securely around yours from the moment you stepped back into the thoroughfare.
You noticed that he no longer appeared startled by the contact.
In truth, it was you who kept drawing nearer whenever the crowd thickened while the two of you wound between stalls laden with flowers and embroidered ribbons. Every now and then a vendor would greet Beomgyu by name, and each greeting only deepened your fascination with the life he possessed beyond society and scholarly distinction.
You kept getting reminded how beneath the open sky and amongst townsfolk who adored him without reservation, he appeared touched by a brightness that made him painfully beautiful to behold.
“You are very loved here,” you remarked softly after yet another merchant pressed free sweets into his hands despite his protests.
Beomgyu glanced toward you, faint embarrassment touching his features. “They are merely generous people.”
“No,” you replied, tightening your hand around his. “They are generous to you.”
Deeper colour touched the tips of his ears immediately thereafter, though salvation arrived in the form of a nearby fruit stall before either of you could dwell within the aftermath for too long.
“Wait here,” he murmured.
You watched him exchange a few coins with the vendor before returning moments later with a pear resting within his palm; golden-skinned and ripened beneath the season’s warmth to the point where droplets of juice already gathered near the stem. He wiped the fruit against the sleeve of his shirt and held it toward you expectantly.
“For you.”
You looked from the pear to his face, then smiled slowly before inclining your head forward and biting directly into the fruit while he still held it.
The skin broke beneath your teeth with a soft crack. Sweetness flooded your mouth instantly, rich and sun-warmed, and a thin trail of juice slipped carelessly down your chin before you could stop it. A startled laugh escaped you at that.
“Oh, that is wonderful—”
You lifted your hand toward your chin, though he caught your wrist gently before you could wipe the juice away yourself. His thumb brushed beneath your lower lip in one slow motion, collecting the droplet there before releasing you entirely.
“Sweet, isn’t it?” he asked, voice lowered by a tenderness that rendered your pulse uneven.
You could only nod.
Then, still holding your gaze, he lifted the pear and bit into the very place your mouth had touched.
You blinked as your breath caught so abruptly at the sight that it did not escape Beomgyu’s notice, the corner of his mouth curving faintly around another bite.
“You appear scandalised, my lady,” he mused.
“You are behaving scandalously,” you returned, though the slight tremor in your voice betrayed any attempt at reproach.
Right then, a burst of applause erupted from somewhere farther down the street, followed almost immediately by the lively sweep of fiddles and tambourines. The interruption arrived with merciful timing. You turned toward the source of the commotion while several townsfolk hurried past in excitement, and Beomgyu released a soft breath through his nose that suggested he, too, recognised salvation when it presented itself.
“Let us go,” he said, glancing back at you over his shoulder and catching your hand. “I wish to see what has gathered such enthusiasm.”
The street opened into a bustling square awash with performers and festival-goers. Everyone clapped along to the music surrounding them, skirts swirling across cobblestones as partners spun one another beneath the bright spring afternoon. Whenever a step went poorly, the offender merely laughed harder before beginning again.
Everyone appeared so radiant in their carefreeness. You could not stop smiling as you watched.
Beomgyu watched you instead of watching them. “Do you like it?”
“How could I not?” you replied, gaze wandering across the square. “There is far more life here than within half the ballrooms I have attended.”
He hummed, crossing his arms. “Nobody here cares whether their footwork impresses a duchess.”
You laughed, gosh — how many times had he already made you laugh today? Beomgyu relished every second of that sound before extending his hand toward you.
“Come here.”
Your brows lifted instantly, taking his hand. “That is hardly a proper invitation.”
“You refused my last proper invitation,” he reminded you, stepping closer. “I saw little benefit in repeating myself.”
Memory returned at his words; the winter ball from weeks prior, the hand he had offered then with the hopes of a waltz with you. You hadn’t indulged him back then. Instead you had given a vague promise of next time.
Since the formal approach failed last time, this was Beomgyu trying a different one now.
Your smile curved slowly afterward. “You remember that?”
“I remember nearly everything regarding you.”
You felt comfort in knowing that your passing remarks did not vanish into the ether when spoken to him. He appeared intent upon remembering you.
Appreciation had always existed as a distant and complicated thing within your life; admired beauty invited possession, admired intelligence invited challenge, admired status invited ambition. You were desired endlessly, yet so few had ever looked upon you with genuine regard for the woman standing before them rather than the advantages attached to her name.
To be cherished without demand had remained foreign to you for far too long.
With Beomgyu, that foreignness dissolved so naturally that you could no longer recall its absence. He simply looked at you as though your happiness alone possessed the capacity to enrich his world. Somewhere along the way, affection had ceased feeling like a bargain awaiting its price. In his company, it arrived freely and remained freely given. The wariness that had accompanied tenderness for so many years found itself slipping away piece by piece until trusting him felt no more difficult than turning your face toward sunlight.
Your gaze drifted back toward the dancers circling the square, your smile softening faintly at the sight of them.
“I am not certain I could do that,” you admitted after a moment, watching one particularly exuberant couple stumble into laughter after missing several steps entirely.
Beomgyu followed your line of sight before turning back toward you with raised brows. “You believe yourself incapable of moving in a circle?”
“No!” you laughed. “I meant—the dance steps. I do not know the steps.”
A low laugh escaped him. Beomgyu stepped closer and lifted your joined hands between you, giving them one small encouraging sway to the music drifting through the square.
“You need not know the dance,” he said. “As I have said, nobody here does.”
“That is hardly reassuring.”
“It should be.” His smile deepened. “Look around you.”
You did.
A little girl stood atop her father’s boots several feet away while he guided her through clumsy turns. Of course it was not perfect, but they were happy. Nearby, two elderly women clapped along to the melody without even attempting the steps, and one poor gentleman had nearly collided into a flower cart moments prior only to receive applause for the effort.
The entire square overflowed with joy untouched by embarrassment. That was the radiance you had admired just moments prior. Your uncertainty had no moment to resurface after that.
Beomgyu gave your hand another gentle pull. "All you need to do is follow my lead."
He began simply at first, coaxing you into the beat of the music without surrendering fully to the dance. One step. Then another. A turn barely deserving of the name while he guided your movements with slow encouragement.
“There,” he murmured once you managed the timing correctly. “You are already succeeding.”
You gave a sardonic roll of your eyes, chuckling. "You need not lie."
“I am being truthful.” He smiled.
Gradually, laughter found you again. It slipped free without reservation each time you missed a step and Beomgyu caught you before you could stumble into disaster, and every burst of mirth from your lips appeared to affect him profoundly that he basked in his own delight.
All of a sudden, he stopped altogether and winked. Before you realised his intention, Beomgyu drew you fully into the dancing circle.
A startled laugh escaped you immediately when he spun you beneath his arm, your free hand catching against his shoulder for balance. “Lord Choi—”
“Hush,” he murmured, pulling you nearer amidst the swirl of dancers before leaning close enough that his breath brushed against your ear. “No titles today.”
The intimacy of his voice sent a shiver licking up down your spine. You bit your lip because you weren't sure what you would have said anyway. You weren't sure you were capable of forming language at all right now. So you let him lead you through the dance, pretending his words hadn’t set flames through your veins.
There existed no graceful structure to the dance itself. It took several attempts before you found the tempo hidden within the music, and even then you frequently stepped where you ought not, though neither of you cared in the slightest. The mixed informality made the moment far more intimate than any waltz performed beneath chandeliers could have achieved.
Breathlessness overtook you quickly beneath the exhilaration of movement and music, your chest rising rapidly while delight coursed through you with almost intoxicating force. Your skirts swept against his legs whenever he drew you nearer, and every time laughter escaped your lips, Beomgyu felt an absurd desire to gather the sound and keep it.
You had not realised joy could feel so boundless.
Strands of your hair had loosened from their arrangement during the dance, and when the wind carried them across your face, Beomgyu tucked them gently behind your ear. It was such a small act of care, easily forgotten by anyone else. But you found yourself wishing for the moment to lengthen, if only by a few heartbeats more.
The earlier exuberance surrounding the square had mellowed into a slower melody carried by violin strings, while pairs gradually abandoned spirited turns in favour of swaying movements beneath the lanterns now glowing overhead. Your pulse had yet to recover from the dance, and every muscle protested pleasantly from exertion.
His gaze dipped toward your hands and remained there for a brief moment before returning to you. Slowly, almost reverently, he lifted one of your hands and guided it upward toward his shoulder. Then the other followed, his touch so gentle that you almost melted beneath the tenderness of it. When your arms settled loosely around his neck, Beomgyu did not hold you immediately afterward.
His eyes searched yours, the remaining space between you diminishing inch by inch under the sway of music. He simply wished for your willingness to meet his own, restrained only by the final thread of permission he sought from you before surrendering himself fully to the moment.
By then, you had begun to understand him far too well.
Your smile was his answer — and Beomgyu’s breath visibly faltered at the sight of it.
His hands settled at your waist at last, and the movement carried such care that it nearly distracted you from the realization that he had drawn you closer. Amid the slow turning of dancers around you, your awareness became occupied by one curious detail.
Beomgyu looked almost dazed by you.
His thumb moved faintly against the fabric gathered at your waist while your fingers brushed against the hair at the nape of his neck, and for several precious moments neither of you spoke at all. Words would only diminish it. Slow dancing, wearing smiles of soft wonderment of two souls discovering, perhaps in a long, long while, how lovely it felt to be cherished without fear.
By the time the sun had begun its gradual descent across the western hills, the jubilance of the festival no longer possessed the feverish exuberance that had greeted your arrival that morning.
You spent the remaining time with Beomgyu visiting through dockside markets where fishermen shouted over one another beside crates of silver-scaled catches still glistening beneath the sun, and through narrow craftsmen rows crowded with pottery, embroidery, and tiny carved trinkets suspended from strings overhead. Eventually the clamour of it receded behind the two of you altogether.
The road drew the two of you away from the town’s centre, where sound gave way to open air and the press of bodies thinned into scattered footsteps along the edges of quieter lanes. Wild grass leaned in from either side of the path, and trees rose in loose clusters overhead, their branches shifting with the passing breeze. Beyond them stretched rolling fields bathed in molten gold, and farther still stood distant hills softened beneath a pale spring haze.
You were content purely to walk beside one another while your footsteps scattered softly across the dirt road beneath.
"You know," you said, nudging a loose stone from the path with the tip of your shoe, "I was convinced this town was rather charming before today."
The remark caught him, and he glanced toward you with a small furrow between his brows — genuinely concerned, turning the words over as though searching them for whatever had soured your opinion. “Before today?” he repeated. “That sounds suspiciously ominous.”
You merely continued walking.
“My lady,” he pressed, falling half a step closer, “have I somehow managed to diminish the reputation of this town within a single afternoon? That would be a devastating indictment of my abilities as a guide.”
A smile threatened at the corner of your mouth.
“I was biased,” you informed him with impeccable seriousness. “It appears considerably more charming when viewed beside you.”
You had all the time to enjoy your success before it became plainly evident upon his face. Beomgyu laughed — which was a short, fractured sound and he turned his face partially away, rubbing the back of his neck while doing a remarkably poor job of concealing how flustered he was.
"You," he said, still laughing beneath his breath, "live up to your reputation as a weaver of words, my lady."
You had spent the better part of the day subjected to Choi Beomgyu's relentless talent for rendering you speechless. Witnessing the favour returned proved deeply gratifying.
With the most earnest expression you could produce, said, "I meant it."
He released a breath through a helpless smile as he looked briefly skyward in what appeared to be a wordless appeal for fortitude.
"Thank you," you said, after a moment, "for showing me your world."
Beomgyu lowered his gaze back to you, and his expression gentled almost imperceptibly. He let you talk instead of sharing his words.
“I only now realise that I never truly allowed myself to exist among these people during my visits here.” A faint laugh escaped you then, touched by self-awareness more than embarrassment. “I observed them endlessly. Their joys, their griefs, the indignities they endured—I carried all of it home and turned it into ink upon paper. Yet I remained apart from them all the while.”
The breeze swept loose strands of hair across your cheek. You tucked them back absentmindedly, turning toward him as you did.
“Today felt different.” Your smile softened. “So thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for bringing me here and teaching me how to live within moments such as these.”
“You say as if I accomplished a great feat,” he said at last, exhaling a faint laugh. “I merely wished to spend time with you. The fact that you enjoyed yourself already feels reward enough.”
Your smile deepened at that, coaxing him to mirror it. He was so, so helpless.
“How long have you been coming here?” you asked. “The people seem remarkably attached to you. That grandmother nearly pushed her own grandson aside to embrace you.”
A reluctant grin crossed his face. “I suspect she likes me more than her grandson.”
“Oh, she absolutely does.”
Looking at him stirred another thought within you. Beomgyu had only returned from his studies abroad the previous autumn. Barely months had elapsed since he first appeared within your world, and yet he moved through these streets with an affection so thoroughly at home in him that it seemed to predate his arrival entirely. You wondered whether this attachment had begun only recently or whether the inclination toward places such as these had lived within him far earlier than you realised.
“It truly has not been very long,” he admitted. “Do you remember when I told you I used to teach children?”
You nodded.
“After returning here, as you already know, I found society rather…” He paused briefly, searching for a charitable description before abandoning the attempt altogether. “Suffocating.”
You let out an utterly unidentified sound — a snort — behind your palm before clearing your throat. With a lingering smile, you passed him a little, “Sorry.”
“I knew you would understand, my like-minded ally.” The title rolled from his tongue with unconcealed pleasure. “One can only survive gentlemen reciting dreadful poetry and debating inheritance disputes for so many evenings before seeking refuge elsewhere.”
You hummed, indulging him with a very serious nod. “So this became your refuge?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He glanced toward the distant fields. “I began spending time here whenever obligations allowed it. One visit became several. Eventually the people stopped treating me as an outsider and started forcing food into my hands whenever I appeared.”
“That explains breakfast.”
“You have not yet witnessed Mrs. Han during winter.”
“But how did you even find the time?” you asked in wonder, still smiling. “You tutored my brother, attended every social gathering the ladies insisted upon, and somehow still managed to build an entirely separate existence beyond all of it.”
At this, Beomgyu cast you a sidelong glance touched by boyish satisfaction.
“I had my ways.”
You slowed your steps before narrowing your eyes at him. “That sounds suspiciously evasive.”
“Does it?” His smile widened further. “I had hoped it sounded mysterious.”
“You sound incriminating.”
Beomgyu laughed, lowering his head — and you found yourself thinking that perhaps no place in the world had ever suited Choi Beomgyu half so beautifully as this one.
The two of you had barely reached the narrower end of the path when an elderly shopkeeper peeked out halfway through the doorway of a cramped little bookshop. “Beomgyu? S’that you, son?” His spectacles slipped low along his nose as he called toward Beomgyu in relief. “Come look at this for me before I lose what remains of my eyesight.”
Beomgyu glanced toward the worn pages being waved impatiently through the air before turning to you with an apologetic smile.
“I shall only be a moment.”
You looked past him toward the shaded area beside the shop where ivy climbed the old stone walls in thick cascades, the cobblestones dappled beneath the sway of overhanging branches. You decided staying here would serve you far better than following him.
“Go ahead,” you said. “I will wait here.”
He studied you for another second regardless. He was entirely unwilling to depart without making certain you truly did not mind, before finally relenting and stepping into the shop at the old man’s urging.
Left alone, you wandered farther into the lane at a leisurely pace, fingers brushing lightly across the ivy as your gaze traveled absently across the sunlit road ahead. It was then that a fragment of conversation drifted toward you from farther beyond the bend.
“…found her body only days ago, they say.”
It caused a drop so sudden at the pit of your stomach that you stood motionless for a moment. Your attention honed instantly.
Two older men stood down the adjoining path with baskets hanging from their arms, their voices subdued beneath the rustling of leaves. They seemed unaware of your presence.
“They found her near the riverside,” the first spoke again with a sigh heavy with age and sorrow. “Poor child vanished weeks ago only to return home dead.”
You moved nearer quickly, stopping beside the protruding stone wall of a nearby building.
“Aye,” the other replied gravelly. “And after all that, the physicians claim it was merely disease that took her.”
“Well, what else would it be? There were no signs of harm upon the body. Fever, perhaps.”
A missing girl.
No marks.
No explanation beyond illness.
These were the very details you remembered hearing from Taehyun before; women disappearing without trace only to be discovered afterward beneath circumstances too peculiar to dismiss outright. The resemblance fit too neatly beside the next for coincidence to feel entirely convincing. Could this girl have been one of the victims tied to the very matter Taehyun had been investigating? This could be your opportunity to uncover a lead.
You remained where you were for another moment, listening carefully in hopes that one of the men might reveal further particulars worth remembering.
“You heard about Sol, did you not?" One of the men lowered his voice further, though not enough to escape your hearing. “She keeps insisting the physicians overlooked it. The girl has convinced herself her sister was murdered.”
The other shook his head with a weary sigh. “Grief has driven her toward madness, that is all. Folk do not think sensibly after burying their own blood.”
But footsteps approached behind you then, forcing you to turn away from listening further. Beomgyu emerged from the bookshop carrying faint traces of ink upon his fingers, entirely unaware of the tension gathering beneath your composure.
“My sincerest apologies,” he said upon reaching you. “It required more time than I anticipated.”
“It is quite alright,” you assured him seamlessly, offering him a small smile untouched by suspicion. Your gaze drifted briefly toward the men still standing conversing beneath the trees.
“Do you wish to head back home now?” he asked, earning your attention.
“The cobblestone paths here are rather lovely,” you remarked lightly. “Would you mind walking through the alleys with me for a little while?”
Beomgyu followed your gaze down the path. He gave a little nod. “I could hardly refuse you after bringing you all this way.”
Unfortunately, by the time you guided Beomgyu toward the adjoining lane, the two elderly men had already drifted apart, each disappearing toward separate corners of the town until no trace of their conversation remained behind save for the unease now stirring within you. A faint disappointment settled across your thoughts at losing the trail so swiftly, though you still carried one valuable fragment away from the exchange.
Sol.
Your next venture into this town under borrowed anonymity would no longer concern manuscripts or observation. You would find this Sol yourself, and perhaps through her uncover more of the truth concealed beneath these strangely bloodless deaths.
The subtle change in your bearing from being deep in thoughts did not escape Beomgyu. His hand found your elbow with a gentleness that made no demand of you, and his voice had dropped to match it. “Are you alright?”
The touch drew you from your reverie. You looked up at him, startled by how swiftly he had discerned the alteration within you, and inwardly reproached yourself for allowing your mind to wander so visibly in his presence. Of all things, the last thing you wished was for him to believe you had ceased enjoying the day after every ounce of care he had poured into it solely for your happiness.
You released a breathless laugh and shook your head lightly. “I am positively alright,” you assured him. “I was merely thinking… I think I shall miss today rather terribly once it ends.”
“My lady.” Beomgyu ducked his chin, searching for your eyes. “I see no reason for remorse, then.”
You blinked. “No?”
“We can return together whenever you wish,” Beomgyu spoke in the same gentle cadence, lifting his hand to caress away a leaf stuck above your ear. “If you desire to see the town outside your work, I shall accompany you. If you wish for more dreadful coffee from my hands, I shall make it for you again. Whatever you ask of me, I will do it.”
His words were sobering. It swept aside the earlier unrest within your thoughts so completely that for several moments you could only look at him in silence, overcome by the simple enormity of being regarded with such wholehearted devotion.
“I know,” you murmured, not shying away from his touch. Your gaze fell briefly from his face afterward, though the smile remained. “I think…”
“Yes, my lady?”
A small breath escaped you. “I like the word together when it belongs to you and me.”
Beomgyu felt the words hit him somewhere with no name for it. Every yearning thought he had spent months concealing now surged violently beneath his ribs, flooding through him until even the tips of his fingers ached with it. Your name filled his mind entirely; he was choked with tenderness for you and there existed no room for anything beyond you.
You.
Always you.
He stopped walking so abruptly that you nearly collided against him before catching yourself, your brows lifting in surprise at the sight of him standing utterly motionless in the middle of the lane. The breeze stirred through the branches overhead, scattering fractured light across his face, yet Beomgyu scarcely appeared aware of the world surrounding him anymore.
Your name slipped from his lips in a voice touched by reverence so naked that it stole the breath from your lungs little by little.
His hand twitched faintly at his side before curling inward upon itself. He was just about to speak —
— and then your attention darted past his shoulder.
Every trace of warmth vanished from your expression.
At the far end of the lane, two mounted officers stood beside a flower-lined storefront engaged in conversation with the shopkeeper stationed outside. The sight itself should not have troubled you. Law officers wandering the town warranted no alarm.
But one of the men was none other than Kang Taehyun.
Your cousin sat scarcely twenty yards away from you. He had the exact capability of dismantling every fragile layer of anonymity surrounding the two of you within seconds if his gaze merely wandered in your direction.
You cursed under your breath.
The sheer agitation you showed was so wholly unlike anything Beomgyu had witnessed from you throughout the day, that it alerted him almost right away. He followed your gaze and turned around in search of the cause of your distress. Instinctively at the same time, he stepped before you to shield you from whatever danger he thought you sensed.
It took him only a few seconds to understand why you reacted that way.
“We need to hide,” you said quickly, pulse thundering hard enough to make your voice uneven.
It was so unlike you to have your rational thoughts abandon you under pressure. Whenever complications arose, you were the person others relied upon to remain composed. This, however, was a catastrophe of an entirely different nature. The consequences of being discovered here were not danger, scandal, or social disgrace.
The consequences were Taehyun's interrogation method.
Endless questions.
Questions layered upon questions until one felt tempted to fling oneself into the nearest river simply to escape them. Because there existed no force upon earth more relentless than Kang Taehyun after discovering information he believed himself entitled to know.
"Hide?" Beomgyu repeated, looking a bit mortified.
"Yes, hide." Your fingers closed around his wrist. “If Taehyun sees us here, I shall never hear the end of it. Do you understand how many questions he will ask? How many conclusions he will draw? I refuse to endure that conversation.”
A reluctant smile threatened the corner of Beomgyu's mouth. The urgency written across your face prevented it. You were entirely serious.
Turning sharply, you surveyed the opposite side of the lane, only for fresh frustration to seize you. The road stretched far too openly ahead, stripped of any meaningful cover, and fleeing now would draw precisely the notice you wished to avoid. They possessed a considerable advantage with their horses over fleeing pedestrians besides. It would take very little for Taehyun to notice.
You looked back at your cousin’s direction again and saw that they exchanged farewells with the shop owner.
"Oh, for heaven's sake."
There was no longer time to weigh possibilities, nor to devise an elegant solution. Acting upon pure instinct, you seized Beomgyu by the arm and pulled him after you, your eyes catching upon a narrow passage concealed behind several wine barrels and a haphazard stack of wooden crates wedged between adjoining houses.
Cramped stone walls pressed inward on either side while creeping ivy descended from above in tangled curtains, swallowing the street's brightness beneath a canopy of green. What had appeared from the street to be a convenient refuge revealed itself, upon closer acquaintance, to be hardly large enough for two people to occupy comfortably.
Unfortunately, you discovered this only after dragging him into it.
Beomgyu stumbled after you with scarcely enough room to regain his footing, and in the same breath his hand braced the wall behind your head to prevent the both of you from colliding with the stone. The action happened so swiftly that neither of you possessed the opportunity to reconsider it, and when the rush of movement finally settled, there existed no worthy space between your bodies.
The front of your dress brushed against his shirt with every breath you drew. Even the slight rise and fall of his chest had become impossible to ignore within such constrained quarters that only seemed to shrink with every passing heartbeat. His hand still remained trapped within your grasp, and somewhere amidst your frantic concern over Taehyun, you failed to notice what that proximity was doing to the poor man before you.
Beomgyu felt perilously close to losing every sensible thought he had ever possessed.
Throughout the course of the day there had been stolen moments he had treasured beyond reason. Even during the dance you had stood close enough for him to count the gold flecks hidden within your eyes and when he had held your waist as you swayed, he believed he would return home convinced no greater trial could possibly exist than that.
What extraordinary arrogance.
That had been entirely nothing compared to this.
This — with your breath warm where it grazed the open collar of his shirt and strands of hair displaced by the hurried retreat still framing your features in gentle disarray. He was a gentleman and he possessed honour to act with propriety regardless of circumstance — but the smell of jasmine reached him.
It had always been jasmine, that fragrance which clung to you and which had tormented him for days on more than one previous occasion, proving sufficiently disastrous for his peace of mind. He believed himself afflicted already. Now he understood he had merely been receiving warnings.
In this cramped plae with no air between you worth speaking of, it was not a threat so much as an accomplished siege. It overwhelmed him entirely, filled every corner of his senses until he could not think past it, could not locate the edges of his own good judgement through the dizzy, lightheaded daze of it. His honour, he noted distantly, was hanging upon a very single and very insufficient thread.
Outside the alley, hoofbeats sounded against cobblestone.
Both of you stilled instantly.
Beomgyu took advantage of that opportunity to look over his shoulder toward the opening while keeping himself wholly before you, shielding you from view beneath the cover of his body and shadow. But you caught his face in both your hands before he could complete the motion.
It brought him back to you entirely. Face to face, so close that the dim light caught the precise arrangement of his features and held them there before you with an intimacy so abrupt that the air went out of your lungs. You realised, in the same instant he did, what you had done. The nearness left no refuge from the intensity gathering within his gaze now. Your hands dropped from his face at once and you turned your eyes away.
Beomgyu remained frozen exactly where your hands had placed him, looking down at you and — oh, you were divine — that was the only word his mind produced and it produced it with damning conviction, divine in the half-dark with ivy shadows crossing your face and your eyes averted and your breath still uneven against his throat.
He could not look away.
He needed to look away.
"I must apologise," you whispered, your eyes still carefully directed elsewhere. "I had to act quickly."
His gaze dropped to your lips as you spoke. It was involuntary and it was catastrophic and he wrenched his eyes heavenward with an exhale that did not come out nearly as collected as he required it to. He stayed there, jaw tight, staring upward at the tangle of leaves and the narrow strip of sky beyond it.
From this distance — and it was not a distance, it was nothing, it was the mere suggestion of space between two people — anything could happen if any of you just leaned in a bit. His thoughts were getting out of hand and he exhaled again, shakily, and continued to look at anything that was not you. His heart was beating wildly.
"No need to be nervous," you said softly, and he heard the effort in it — heard that you were furnishing words into the silence because the silence had become a living thing between you and required managing. "My brother is not so frightening as all that."
They were empty words and rang hollow even to your own ears. Because it was not your brother that had reduced your thoughts to scattered, ungovernable things. It was the warmth of him — so deeply comforting that you feared you were about to be addicted to it. How thoroughly you already wished to.
"Yes, my lady," Beomgyu said, and his voice had abandoned him almost entirely.
He closed his eyes. Kept them closed for a breath, and then another, and then opened them and looked down at you and did what he had to do — he took your hand from where it had come to rest against his chest, and with painstaking care brought it down to your side and held it there.
He could not bear your touch upon him right now. The jasmine was already more than sufficient to unravel what remained of every sensible intention, and your hand against his chest was a trial he had not the resources to endure.
In spite of all the warnings his better judgement could produce, Beomgyu leaned forward.
Your eyes went wide and every word you had been reaching for dissolved entirely. You could not move, watching him close the distance between you with an expression so stripped of its usual composure that you barely recognised it —
— then you felt the whisper of his hair against your cheek, the barely-there graze of it, and the eventual weight of his forehead coming to rest upon your shoulder.
You went entirely still beneath him. The exhale that left you was entirely involuntary.
He was breathing in shallow increments, not even daring to inhale a chestful of your scent. The hand he had braced against the wall beside your head curled tighter against the stone. The solidity of it was the only negotiation available to him.
Another set of hoofbeats sounded beyond the alley entrance.
"Are you—" you began, keeping your voice to barely a breath of sound. "Is it the confined space? Is it too much?"
His fingers found your lips before you could draw another word. The touch was feather-light, the tips of his fingers resting against your mouth with a gentleness that managed nonetheless to silence you. He still had not lifted his head from your shoulder.
"Please," he said. Then, as though the word alone had not sufficiently conveyed the full measure of what he was asking — "Just allow me this. Only a moment."
You stood perfectly motionless there in the shdaows and did not speak, because there was nothing in you that wished to deny him. The pressure of his fingers against your lips vanished shortly thereafter, hand falling to his side with a limpness like some bones have fallen off from their places.
From beyond the alley came Taehyun's voice as he issued instructions to the officer accompanying him. But within the shelter of barrels and tangled greenery, you heard only Beomgyu's breathing and it began to eclipse everything else. One bewildering thought, however, continued to circle through your mind.
How, precisely, had you managed to find yourself here?
With your cousin only streets away, your heart racing for reasons that had very little to do with being discovered, and Choi Beomgyu hiding his face against your shoulder as though the mere sight of you had become too much for him to bear. In a way, you had brought this upon yourself. If only you had thought of a better solution, you wouldn’t have put yourself in this position — or him.
Time passed in a strange haze thereafter. The voices outside gradually diminished, until the sound of departing horses finally carried through the lane and dissolved into the broader noise of the town.
Beomgyu remained where he was for another fleeting while, gathering whatever composure had abandoned him, before at last drawing back and lifting his head.
Colour had risen high across his face. He seemed wholly incapable of meeting your gaze, choosing instead to stare at a weathered crate whose existence suddenly seemed to fascinate him greatly.
“I believe,” he said eventually, clearing his throat, “your cousin has departed.”
You looked toward the mouth of the passage before returning your attention to him. Your lips curved despite yourself.
“How fortunate for us.”
“Quite.”
Your entire body still carried the imprint of his nearness; the heat of him remained beneath your skin, refusing to relinquish its hold no matter how fiercely you attempted to reclaim your composure. Some traitorous part of you noted the precise distance between your hand and his, seized by an almost absurd desire to reach for it and close the space between you again.
But Beomgyu still looked dazed — whatever battle had transpired within him had plainly not concluded. For that reason alone, you thought better of your own desires for his sake, and kept your hands where they were.
“We should leave,” you said at last.
Beomgyu nodded immediately, perhaps a shade too quickly.
He emerged first, casting a glance along the lane to ensure the way ahead remained clear. Only when he gave a small nod did you step out from the shadows. You felt the spring breeze greet you and renewed the air in your lungs, drying the sweat that had clung to your skin.
Somewhere overhead, the wind moved through newly awakened branches and sent a scattering of petals adrift across the afternoon. You followed their descent before your gaze returned to the man standing before you, who had not moved far, who stood at the edge of the road with the breeze moving through his hair and the same dazed quality still present in his eyes when they met yours.
Though you could not have named the exact moment it happened, winter no longer seemed capable of reaching you.
Hi im new to moablr my name is nini >.< and it would be pretty cool if you wrote a 30k+ work of yeonjun just for me since you know im new and all hahahahahhahahaha plsplsplsplsplsplsplsplsplsplsplsplsplsplsplsplsplsplsplsplsplspls plsplsplsplsplsplsplsplsplsplsplsplsplsplsplsplsplsplsplsplsplspls
Your heart and mind seek him for reasons no words could describe — an irony not lost on you, a writer, a weaver of words. And yet, when it comes to him, even you fail to stitch together the language to explain his existence in your life.
⊹₊ wc; 17.6k
Nobleman!Choi Beomgyu x Noblewoman!afab!reader
chapter tags: inspired by regency era but not entirely accurate elements, heavy slowburn, reader faces misogyny, mutual pining, yearning, use of original characters
i hold this story, the characters, and the world close to my heart. the amount of joy this writing it has brought me in immeasurable. i hope you love it as much as love i've poured into creating it.
Story ml .☘︎ ݁˖ Next chapter
"Your eyes," Lord Kim mused, swirling the wine in his glass as he leaned forward slightly. "Light brown yet sharp—like honey edged with steel. Quite a rare beauty."
A polite, nearly derisive chuckle escaped you as you lifted your teacup to your lips, the porcelain brushing against your smile. You neither confirmed nor denied his words, merely letting the silence stretch between you, knowing full well how such men loathed being left without acknowledgment.
You were the eldest daughter of a noble family—sharp of mind, elegant in manner, poised in every regard. Yet beneath the carefully painted smiles and effortless charm, there was a deadly wit that cut deeper than any blade. An aspiring writer, a woman with ambitions deemed unseemly by the very society that entertained itself with whispers of your supposed impropriety. They smiled at you in ballrooms and parlors, exchanging pleasantries with feigned warmth, only to turn and condemn you the moment your back was turned. Well, not all, but still many.
Not that it ever stopped you. If anything, you found a thrill in it—the way masked conversations at masquerade balls and polished words at grand gatherings became your battlefield. Insults were merely invitations to play, and you had long since mastered the game. Funnily enough, for all your wit and defiance, the parade of suitors never ceased. Each day brought a new gentleman, another hopeful fool eager to claim your hand in marriage. But you knew better. You had always known better. Their interest was not in you but in what you could offer—your father’s wealth, your family’s status. And so, you did as any well-educated woman would.
You rejected them. With grace, your words wrapped in silk, but with finality all the same. And as Lord Kim awaited a reply, his expression expectant, you merely lowered your cup and offered him a smile that did not reach your eyes.
"My lord, how very poetic of you."
His lips curled into what he likely assumed was a charming smile, confidence glinting in his pale grey eyes. “A rare beauty indeed, and one that any man would be fortunate to—”
“Acquire?” you finished smoothly, tilting your head as if in contemplation. “Forgive me, my lord, but you speak as though I were some coveted artifact in a collector’s cabinet.”
The words were spoken lightly as they spilled from your rosy lips, almost sweetly matching your saccharine smile, yet they sliced the air like a sharp knife. His mouth opened, then shut, like a gaping fish as his pathetically composed charm wavered. Then, the faintest pink dusted his cheeks—not of flattery, but of embarrassment.
“Hardly, my lady,” he recovered, his chuckle laced with forced ease. “Though I must confess, I do find you endlessly fascinating. Your mind, your wit—it is rare for a woman to possess such sharpness.”
“Ah,” you mused, tapping a finger lightly against the rim of your teacup. “And here I thought my value rested solely in my rare light brown eyes. How reassuring to know that my mind is tolerable as well.”
His chuckle faltered, but he pressed on, leaning forward as if to close the space between you over the table. “You wound me, Lady Kang. I only meant to admire you. I do believe we would make quite the pair, you and I.”
A beat of silence passed before you let out a soft hum of amusement. Setting your cup down with an elegant clink, you met his gaze with a sharp glint flashing in your honeyed orbs—something that made his confidence topple over.
“My lord, I have found that men often mistake admiration for possession, much like one might marvel at a wild bird before placing it in a gilded cage.” You lifted a brow. “And as lovely as that sentiment may sound, I fear I was not meant to be caged.”
His lips parted, a retort surely forming on his tongue, but you rose to your feet before he could voice it. You smoothed a hand over the silk of your gown, the deep emerald fabric catching the warm glow of the chandelier above.
“I do hope the tea was to your liking, my lord. I find it particularly suited for washing down words that turn bitter upon the tongue.”
His jaw tightened ever so slightly, but you did not stay to witness his floundering attempt at recovery. With a graceful dip of your head, you turned and left the drawing room, the train of your gown trailing behind you like the final stroke of an artist’s brush upon a masterpiece.
Beyond the doors, the evening air was crisp, the scent of distant rain clinging to the breeze. A wry smile ghosted your lips. Another suitor bested. Another conversation played like a well-written scene.
And tomorrow, without fail, another would take his place.
The following morning, aside from Maya’s ever-loyal presence, your only companions were the steady rhythm of carriages rattling over cobblestones, the occasional clip-clop of hooves punctuating the crisp morning air, and the thin mist curling at the edges of shopfronts. The scent of fresh bread and damp earth lingered in the breeze, a fleeting reminder of last night’s rain.
A cool gust of wind slipped past and you shivered slightly before wrapping your shawl more securely around your shoulders. The deep emerald folds of your gown skimmed the pavement as you passed by familiar faces. A nod here, a polite smile there—acknowledgments exchanged only with those who conveyed.
“Lady Kang, a pleasure as always,” called Mr. Lee, tipping his hat as he stood outside his tailor’s shop.
“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Lee,” you replied smoothly, meeting his gaze for just a moment before continuing forward.
Maya, ever at your side, leaned in conspiratorially. “They’re staring again,” she whispered, her voice low but laced with indignation. “Especially those two gentlemen by the bakery. And that woman by the flower stall—oh, I know she has something horrid to say.”
You merely exhaled through your nose, unbothered. “Let them.”
Maya scoffed, quick to defend. “If anyone so much as breathes the wrong way near you, my lady, I’ll tackle them into the mud.”
That earned a quiet chuckle from you. “I trust you would.”
“With all my heart!” she huffed, puffing up her chest. “They can glare all they want, but none of them dare approach. They know better.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then they’ll learn when they’re face-down on the street,” she declared, making you bite back a laugh.
With Maya's fiery loyalty echoing in your ears, you finally reached your destination—a modest yet distinguished establishment nestled between a bookseller’s shop and an apothecary. The dark wood sign above the door bore the name Westmere Publishing House, its golden lettering gleaming even beneath the overcast sky.
Inside, the air was warm, comforting in contrast with the outside ambiance, laced with the tender scent of aged paper and ink. A grandfather clock ticked softly from the far corner, its steady rhythm a backdrop to the gentle rustling of parchment and the quiet murmurs of literary discussions.
“Lady Kang,” a warm voice greeted.
You turned to find Mr. Alistair Lennox rising from behind his desk, a welcoming smile gracing his features. A man of keen intellect and unwavering integrity, he had been one of the few in his profession to treat your writing with the respect it deserved, rather than dismissing it as an amusing hobby for a noblewoman.
“Mr. Lennox,” you inclined your head. “I hope the morning finds you well.”
“Better now that you’re here,” he mused, gesturing towards the armchairs before his desk. “Come, sit. I had Mrs. Porter prepare some tea—I recall you have a preference for blackcurrant.”
A pleased hum left your lips as you settled into the chair, Maya standing dutifully near the door. Lennox poured the tea himself, steam curling into the air as he handed you a cup.
You accepted the delicate porcelain cup with a faint smile, letting the warmth seep into your fingers before taking a slow sip. The tart sweetness bloomed on your tongue. Lennox, however, did not drink.
“Now,” he began, settling into his own seat, “I must say, your latest manuscript… intriguing, as always.”
You took a careful sip before meeting his gaze. “You hesitate.”
Lennox chuckled. “Ah, you never miss a thing, do you? It’s not hesitation, my lady, merely consideration. Your writing is evocative—there is no denying its brilliance. But your themes…” He exhaled. “They challenge certain conventions. That is not a flaw, mind you, but the industry is slow to embrace change.”
You watched as he flipped through the pages, his gaze sharp despite the amusement in his tone. His fingers paused on a particular passage, and he tapped it lightly before reading aloud:
‘He is a man with coal-stained hands, hands that build and break and bleed. The city calls him nameless, faceless, another thread in its grand tapestry, easily unraveled. But to her, he is not nameless. Not faceless. He is a man. And she, born to silken sheets and idle afternoons, has learned that wealth is merely another kind of prison.’
A silence stretched between you, save for the soft clink of porcelain as you placed your teacup down. Lennox looked up, a smile peeking under his gray mustache.
“A noblewoman falling in love with a man of lower birth—a factory worker, no less.”
You leaned back in your chair, lacing your gloved fingers together over your lap. “Not love,” you corrected. “Understanding. She sees him, truly, and he sees her. They are bound not by romance only but also by the realization that neither of them is free.”
Lennox let out a low hum, tracing the rim of his teacup though he still did not drink. His brows furrowed slightly, deep in thought. “Your portrayal of class disparity is unforgiving to society, my lady.”
“It is honest.”
“That is precisely why it will be met with resistance,” he murmured, adjusting the sleeves of his coat. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, gauging your reaction. “The lords and ladies you write of—self-indulgent, callous to the suffering beneath them—many will see themselves in your words, and they will not take kindly to it.”
“They need not take kindly,” you replied smoothly, gloved fingers trailing the gold rim of your saucer. “Only take notice.”
Lennox sighed, rubbing a hand over his chin, but there was an unmistakable glint of both hopefulness and disquietness in his gaze. “You do enjoy stirring the pot, don’t you?”
You smiled then, slow and knowing. “If the pot boils over, it was never stable to begin with.”
“Dangerous words, my lady.” He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
“I have never feared danger, Mr. Lennox.”
The grandfather clock chimed the passing hour, a draft ghosting through the room, carrying the faint scene of petrichor from an open window. Outside, the city bustled on, oblivious to the quiet revolution bound in the pages between you.
Lennox studied you a moment longer, then, with a resigned exhale, closed the manuscript. “Very well. I will see it through, but do not expect an easy road.”
You traced the rim of your teacup with a thoughtful finger. “You mean they are unwilling to accept the notion that a woman might write about more than love and pleasantries.”
His lips twitched. “Something like that.”
“I refuse to soften my words to soothe their sensibilities.”
“I suspected as much.” He leaned back, eyes appraising you with something akin to admiration. “Your work deserves to be read in its truest form. I will push for it, but you must be prepared—as I mentioned, there will be resistance.”
A lesser writer might have balked at the prospect. But you? You merely smiled. “Then let us give them something worth resisting.”
Lennox chuckled, shaking his head. “I have no doubt you will.”
And with that, the conversation shifted to logistics—edits, print schedules, the inevitable backlash that would follow. But opposition had never stopped you before. And it certainly would not stop you now.
Maya tugged at your sleeve, eyes bright with insistence. “My lady, just a moment—I must get bread for today’s breakfast from Roselyne’s.”
You exhaled a quiet breath, indulging her with a small nod. The bakery stood beside a flower stall, and the scent of baked goods curling with the fresh fragrance of the new blooms pulled you in. She hurried inside, promising to be swift, while you dallied by the door looking at the colourful arrangements of flowers.
A breeze stirred against your skin, light yet invigorating, brushing past like a whispered greeting from the changing seasons. The street in front of the bakery held a rare stillness, the city’s usual clamor softened into a gentle hum. Drawn by the cool touch of the air, you stepped further outside, closing your eyes for a moment, letting it fill your lungs—
—but it was knocked out of your lungs the very next moment when something barreled into you.
Your balance wavered, feet slipping slightly over the uneven stones beneath you. “Ah—” Your voice barely escaped, the world tilting just enough to send a spike of disorientation through you. But a strong hand caught your arm, steadying you before you could stumble further. A figure pulled back, just as swift as he had collided into you, long strands of black hair shifting against his skin as he turned away.
“Forgive me,” the stranger murmured, the words clipped yet polite, already stepping past you.
You barely caught a glimpse of him—just the dark hair that rested against his nape. By the time your mind caught up with your body, he was already disappearing into the street, swallowed by the slow-moving morning crowd up ahead.
“My lady!” Maya’s voice cut through your thoughts as she rushed out of the bakery, hands firm on your arms, checking you over. “Are you alright? What happened? Did someone—?”
You blinked, the world snapping back into focus. Your hand absentmindedly clasped around to feel the ghosting warmth left on your arm by the stranger.
“Nothing,” you murmured at last, brushing your hands over your sleeves. “It was nothing.”
Maya’s brows knit together, her gaze flicking toward the street where the figure had vanished. “If someone dared push my lady—!”
You let out a quiet breath of laughter. “You would tackle them?”
She huffed. “And more.”
Shaking your head, you linked your arm through hers, steering her back toward the carriage. “Come, or we shall be late for breakfast.”
The morning sun filtered through the grand dining hall, casting a golden glow over the long table adorned with porcelain and silver. The scent of freshly baked bread and brewed tea mingled in the air, yet any notion of a pleasant breakfast waned the moment your eyes landed on her—your aunt.
Seated beside your mother with a posture too stiff and a gaze too critical, she regarded you with the same thinly veiled disapproval she had worn for years. It was a wonder she still attended these meals when her distaste for you—and everything you represented—was no secret.
Still, you held your composure, inclining your head in the barest acknowledgment before moving past her.
"Good morning, Mother," you said warmly, pressing a kiss to her cheek before taking your seat. "Is Father not joining us?"
"He had to leave early for the academy," she replied, offering you a gentle smile as she poured your tea. "He sends his regards."
A shame. Your father’s presence would have at least softened the atmosphere. The conversation shifted as your mother set down the teapot. "Ah, I meant to tell you—I have arranged for a tutor for your brother."
You lifted a brow. "A tutor?"
"Yes, dear," she said, stirring her tea absently. "I thought it best to bring in someone with experience, given your own work."
You straightened slightly, setting down your fork with a quiet clink. "Mother, you know I am more than capable of handling his studies."
"And I know how you bury yourself in your writing," she countered, eyes warm but firm. "I would rather not distract you from your ambitions."
Your lips parted in protest, but before you could speak, a sharp voice cut through the conversation.
"Ambitions," your aunt scoffed, dabbing at her mouth with a silk napkin. "A lady should concern herself with finding a husband, not burying her head in ink and parchment. No respectable man wants a woman who has already given her heart to books."
A heavy pause filled the space.
Maya, standing dutifully nearby, remained perfectly composed, save for the way her fingers curled tightly around the pitcher she was holding. Your mother, though ever poised, let out a sharp sigh of disapproval glancing at your aunt.
"How fortunate, then, that I have no need for a respectable man." You took a bite of your bread.
Your aunt’s eyebrows bristled.
Smiling sweetly, you set your silverwares down, eyes gleaming. "I have always been under the impression that a man of true quality would value a sharp mind over an empty head, but perhaps such men are rare in your circles, Aunt."
Maya coughed—too sharp to be anything but a stifled laugh. Your mother, hiding her expression behind her teacup, exhaled lightly, the corners of her lips threatening to curve. You wanted to mention the scandalous part of her husband’s infidelity, but you decided to save that for some other time. Lucky for your aunt, you were feeling generous.
Your aunt, for her part, sputtered, her lips parting and closing as though searching for a retort that would not come. You merely tilted your head in mock sympathy, waiting—watching—as she fumed in silence.
"Well," she finally huffed, picking up her knife and fork. "We shall see how long such ideas last, my dear."
"Oh, I do believe they shall last quite a while," you mused, lifting your teacup. "After all, unlike certain opinions, my ideas have substance."
This time, Maya had to turn away completely, shoulders trembling. Your mother took an exceptionally long sip of tea, eyes closed. And just as your aunt’s expression soured further, your mother smoothly redirected the conversation.
"The tutor I mentioned," she said, setting her teacup down, "is the son of an old friend of mine. You perhaps do not remember him as you were very little. His name is Choi Beomgyu, and he is a year older than you. He will be arriving later this week."
Choi Beomgyu.
The name did sound familiar, but unfamiliar at the very same time—like certain smells from one’s childhood that trigger an overwhelming sense of nostalgia yet you couldn’t quite grasp the feeling of longing in your palms.
"He comes from an esteemed family, and he is quite studious and well-mannered. I think he will be a fine tutor for your brother."
You hummed noncommittally, turning back to your plate. An extra presence in the house was the least of your concerns at present—but still, the name lingered in your mind longer than expected. For now, however, you would deal with the matters at hand—like the way your aunt still stared daggers at you across the table.
You simply smiled at her, making sure it was sweet enough to irk another reaction out of her, then went back to your breakfast.
A week had passed since your mother first mentioned the tutor. You had not thought much of it then—people came and went from your home as easily as the changing seasons. Some as guests, others as suitors, all predictably forgettable.
A soft breeze ghosted through the sheer curtains, carrying the scent of damp earth and lingering autumn chill. You might have surrendered to the warmth of your sheets—had it not been for the relentless force that was Lee Maya.
“My lady,” came her singsong voice, already too awake for your liking. “It is time for your horse riding practice.”
A low groan was your only response as you turned over, pulling the covers over your head.
Maya was having none of it. “Come now,” she cajoled, tugging insistently at the blankets. “The horses await!”
“They can wait longer,” you muttered, voice muffled against your pillow.
Maya gasped in mock offense. “Abandoning your beloved steed? Scandalous! Why, if your aunt heard of this, she would say—”
“‘How terribly unladylike!’” you finished for her, cracking one eye open. “Oh, the horror.”
Maya snorted before giving one final, merciless tug, dragging you from your cocoon of warmth. "Up, up, before I fetch the cold water."
Despite your protests, the routine began—Maya moving with routined efficiency, dressing you in your riding attire: a crisp white blouse with a high neck, its full sleeves flowing with each movement. Then, the final act of defiance—pants.
Oh, if your aunt saw you now.
By the time you returned from the stables, your pulse still thrummed with the exhilaration of the ride, the cool morning air clung against your skin. The familiar sight of the manor greeted you—its grandeur as eternal and old as time. But something was amiss.
A carriage stood at the entrance. Not one of yours.
Maya, already ahead of you, had paused by the steps. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, hands clasped behind her back as if restraining herself from bursting with whatever news she held.
You pulled your gloves off slowly. “Maya.”
She bit her lip, nearly vibrating in place. You arched a brow.
“The tutor,” she finally whispered, eyes darting toward the door. “He is here.”
Right. The tutor for your brother. You had almost forgotten.
Maya all but dragged you inside, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “He is with your mother in the drawing room now. Oh, my lady, I must say—” she clutched her hands to her chest—“he is terribly handsome.”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “Is that so?”
Maya nodded fervently as she led you through the halls, each step bringing you closer to the drawing room. And then—just as you reached the threshold—you saw him.
The scene before you could rival a famous painter’s artwork. Your mother sat with an air of elegance, her tea untouched as she spoke. Across from her, dressed in a well-tailored suit, sat a young man. Your gaze swept over him instinctively, cataloging details with the sharp precision you had honed over years of navigating drawing rooms filled with strangers.
He was tall, his frame lean but unmistakably strong beneath the crisp folds of his clothing. His hair was a deep, inky black, falling in soft, slightly tousled layers that framed his face; a natural shine catching the light just enough to emphasize its silky texture. The length grazed just past his ears, with the front strands parted slightly off-center, allowing a few wisps to fall delicately over his forehead.
He smiled, leaning forward slightly, speaking to your mother in a voice too low for you to catch. Then, with impeccable grace, he reached for her hand, bowing his head as he pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
A gesture of respect. One you had seen countless times before.
And yet, for some reason, you could not look away.
Your mother laughed lightly at something he said, and you—standing just beyond the doorway—felt something foreign settle in your chest from the mere scene.
Maya, ever the menace, nudged your arm. “Told you.”
You exhaled slowly, schooling your expression into one of polite neutrality.
He was handsome, yes. A fresh face among the endless line of suitors who had graced your home.
But unlike them, he was not here for you.
“Get the bath running, Maya.” You turned on your heel, dismissing the lingering thoughts as easily as you dismissed the tutor’s presence. You had work to do.
The manuscript for your latest project was complete, sealed away, soon to be scrutinized by those who would either fear or admire your words. Your next book awaited—an entirely new world demanding to be shaped, a story yearning to be told.
You hoped for the tutor to settle into his place in this house just fine.
In the living room, seated across from your mother, Beomgyu carried himself with an air of grace, basking in the warmth of familiarity. A soft smile played on his lips, the kind that carried both warmth and restraint, as if every word he spoke was carefully measured, thoughtful in its delivery.
“It has been years since I last saw you,” your mother said, a trace of nostalgia in her tone as she studied him. “You were but a boy when you left. And now look at you—how time has changed things.”
Beomgyu inclined his head, his gaze respectful. “Change is inevitable, my lady,” he said, his voice a smooth, velvety timbre. “But some things remain—like fond memories and kindness received.”
She smiled at that, pleased. “Your studies abroad must have shaped you well. I hear you spent much of your time immersed in philosophy and literature.”
“I did,” he affirmed, “and I found great joy in it. The world is vast, my lady, and there is always more to learn. But knowledge, I believe, is wasted if not used to help others.”
Your mother gave an approving nod. “A noble pursuit.” She set down her teacup, the fine porcelain clinking softly. “You must make yourself at home here. Do not hesitate to look around the house for your comfort.”
“You are too kind,” Beomgyu said, his smile deepening just slightly into a boyish grin. “And I am grateful for the opportunity. My mother assured me that this household is one of warmth and dear friendship. I am honored to be here.”
Your mother’s expression softened. “It means a great deal that you accepted the offer of tutoring. My son will benefit from your guidance.”
He gave a slight nod, ever the picture of a gentleman. “I will do my best, my lady. Education is a privilege, and I hope to help where I can.”
Beneath his polished manner lay ambition—not the reckless, self-serving kind that so often plagued men of high standing, but an earnest desire to use his intellect to make a difference. Having spent years among scholars and thinkers, he had learned to wield knowledge as a tool, not just for personal gain but for the betterment of those who needed it. When the opportunity to tutor was presented, he had accepted without hesitation—not merely out of duty, but out of belief. And if his mother had assured him that this was a house of trust, then he would see it as such.
A butler soon led him to the study room, where he settled into an armchair by the grand oak desk. The shelves stretched high, filled with volumes of literature and philosophy, their spines worn from years of appreciation. It was a space of thought, of discussion, and of ambitious pursuit.
He traced a finger along the gilded title of a familiar book, exhaling softly. There was a sense of belonging here, an understanding that he had stepped into a home where minds were meant to be cultivated, where curiosity was not just indulged but encouraged. And in that moment, he knew—he had made the right decision in coming here.
Minutes later, the door creaked open, and in stepped a young boy—your younger brother. He was around seventeen, soft-spoken and gentle in demeanor. His movements were meek that of a fawn, almost hesitant as he approached.
Beomgyu rose from his seat and offered a welcoming smile, his voice warm. “You must be the young master. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Your brother nodded, his expression polite yet uncertain. “It’s… nice to meet you as well, sir.”
“There’s no need for formalities,” Beomgyu said lightly. “I am here to guide you, not to intimidate you.”
That seemed to ease him a little. Beomgyu gestured toward the chair across from him, waiting until your brother was seated before beginning the lesson. But before delving into studies, he took a different approach—one that made all the difference.
“Tell me,” Beomgyu said as he arranged the papers before him, “what do you enjoy learning about?”
The question caught your brother off guard. Tutors usually dictated subjects, never asked preferences. After a brief pause, he mumbled, “I… like history.”
“A fine subject,” Beomgyu remarked. “Stories of the past shape the present. Do you have a favorite historical figure?”
Your brother hesitated, then answered, “Alexander the Great.”
Beomgyu smiled. “A fascinating choice. A conqueror, a strategist, a man of vision. Do you admire him for his strength or for his mind?”
Your brother blinked, considering. “His mind,” he admitted softly. “He was brilliant.”
“A scholar before a warrior,” Beomgyu mused, nodding approvingly. “You have an eye for intellect. I think we’ll get along just fine.” He punctuated his sentence with a wink.
The conversation eased the boy’s initial nervousness, and soon, the lesson began in earnest. Beomgyu spoke to him not as a mere student but as an equal, offering him space to think, to speak, to form his own ideas. It was a kind of teaching that encouraged rather than commanded.
Somewhere in the midst of their discussions, your brother mentioned you.
“She’s quite well-read too,” your brother said, shifting slightly in his seat. “More than anyone I know.”
Beomgyu glanced up with mild curiosity. “Ah, your sister?”
He nodded, but his voice lowered, almost hesitant. “Though she can be a bit intimidating.”
There was no malice in his words, only hushed truth. He admired you more than anyone, but he also knew of the battles you fought—how society viewed you, how you stood against it. He chose not to elaborate further, offering only the vague statement.
Beomgyu tilted his head slightly but did not press. Instead, he smiled—ever-gentle. “I’m sure she’s lovely.”
Your brother said nothing to that. He only looked down at his papers, a faint, knowing smile on his lips. Beomgyu, perceptive as ever, took note of it but let the moment pass.
The lesson carried on, but the thought lingered in Beomgyu’s mind. A bit intimidating, is she? He found himself intrigued, though he did not let it show. Respect first, always.
But curiosity… curiosity had a way of unraveling things in its own time.
The amber glow of the sinking sun in the horizon filtered through the tall windows of your study. The room, your personal refuge, was a sanctuary of solitude and intellect. It was here that you had spent the entire afternoon, quill in hand, weaving words onto crisp parchment, lost in the rhythm of your work.
Maya had long since succumbed to exhaustion, no doubt asleep in her quarters after you had firmly insisted she take a break. The house, aside from the occasional distant murmur of conversation or the faint clinking of silverware being tidied away, was tranquil. The household staff—those who came and went for daily duties—had long since departed, leaving only the trusted butler and Maya within these walls.
A dull ache settled between your shoulders, coaxing a sigh from your lips as you leaned back in your chair, stretching your arms over your head. The exhaustion of the day pressed against your spine, a reminder that even the mind, no matter how disciplined, needed respite. Deciding a brief reprieve was in order, you rose from your seat, smoothing out the fabric of your blouse before making your way downstairs for a glass of water and perhaps a moment of fresh evening air.
As you descended, the hushed quiet of the manor allowed every step to echo softly against the polished floors. Passing by the study, murmurs from within halted you in your steps. You paused, careful to remain unseen, as your gaze settled through the slightly ajar doors.
Beomgyu was moving around, his face vibrant as he animatedly, passionately explained something. His hands gestured fluidly, his voice carrying warmth, sometimes rose an octave, sometimes downed. Your brother, usually so reserved, was positively beaming—eyes alight with unrestrained enthusiasm, laughter slipping from his lips with unfiltered delight. It was rare to see him so at ease with a stranger.
The sight tilted your head slightly in curiosity. A quiet chuckle escaped you before you turned away, leaving them to their lesson as you resumed your path toward the kitchen. Your mother, as you soon discovered, was absent—likely out with her circle of friends, engaged in the evening gossip of the elite.
After fetching your water, you strolled toward the garden, embracing the crisp air and the lingering scent of damp earth from the previous night’s rain. The stillness soothed your mind, the solitude a welcome embrace as the breeze teased the loose strands of your hair. You took your time, savoring the rare peace before returning inside.
Meanwhile, in the study, your brother closed his books with a satisfied sigh. The lesson had concluded for the day, and as he gathered his things, he glanced at Beomgyu. “There’s a library upstairs,” he mentioned offhandedly, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “Mother mentioned you are free to look around the house as you please.”
Beomgyu, intrigued, offered a grateful nod. “I would like that.”
His student then excused himself, eager to join his friends for the evening, leaving Beomgyu in the company of the elderly butler. The older man, ever watchful, regarded him with mild amusement before speaking. “Will you be needing anything, sir?”
Beomgyu shook his head politely. “No, thank you. I appreciate your concern.”
The butler gave a small nod of approval before departing, leaving Beomgyu alone in the quiet of the house. Curiosity now stirred within him—your brother’s mention of the library had piqued his interest. He was always drawn to books, to the knowledge they harbored, to the ideas that breathed between their pages.
He made his way upstairs, footsteps light against the polished wood, trailing the hallways with a sense of caution. He had yet to learn the layout of the house, and as he navigated through the dimly lit corridor, he turned into a room, expecting to find walls lined with bookshelves and a collection of literature awaiting him—which he did find, but unbeknownst to him, it wasn’t the library he was looking for.
Instead, he stepped into your study.
The room wasn’t large, but it held a distinct sense of grandeur. Crescent-shaped seating wrapped around tall windows, where pale evening light filtered through the glass. Books lined the wall shelves, the desk space, even the wide sills—some stacked neatly, others left open, marked by neat annotations. A writing desk sat against the far wall, occupied by a typewriter, parchments, and a modest vase of fresh baby’s breaths.
Beomgyu took a slow step forward, his gaze drawn to the books. Some of these titles were rare—ones he had only read about, never seen with his own eyes. His fingers brushed the spine of a well-worn volume, curiosity tugging him closer. Then his eyes fell upon the stack of loose papers on the desk, scripts of some kind. He walked over to the study desk, leaning in to take a better look.
"It’s improper to sneak around."
The cool voice startled him. Beomgyu turned sharply, finding you leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. Your sharp gaze, hooded slightly, held him in place. The warm light of the setting sun cast a glow against your features, making your amber-brown eyes gleam like smoldering embers. However, there was no warmth in your expression, and clearly no trace of amusement.
For a moment, Beomgyu faltered. Your brother was right. You were intimidating.
Yet, before he could gather his manners, something clicked in his memory. "It’s you," he blurted before he could stop himself.
Your brow arched. Misunderstanding his words, you stepped further inside, exhaling softly. “Ah, I forgot—my reputation isn’t to everyone’s appetite.”
Beomgyu’s confusion was evident, and he hurried to explain. “No, my lady, I meant—I saw you days ago. On the road. I nearly—” he paused, then continued with a sheepish chuckle, “—rode straight into you. I had just arrived in town that day.”
You hesitated, studying him carefully. As his words sank in, a memory surfaced—black strands of hair catching the morning light, a fleeting grip around your arm, a murmured apology before vanishing into the street.
So it had been him.
The realization settled within you, an odd sense of recognition threading through your thoughts. How small the world could be sometimes. So he hadn’t meant it as a slight against your name. With the realization came along a bashful chiding of your own prejudice.
With a measured nod, you conceded, "I see. My apologies, then."
Beomgyu exhaled, relieved, only to stiffen again at your next words. "Though I must say, I didn’t take you for the kind of gentleman who would invade a lady’s secluded space. Quite indecorous."
His posture straightened immediately, embarrassment rushing in like a wave. "I assure you, that wasn’t my intent. Your brother mentioned a library, and I assumed—"
You allowed a ghost of a smirk. “You are in a library,” you interrupted, amused despite yourself. “Just not the one you were looking for.” You motioned toward the bookshelves around you before adding, “This is my study.”
Realizing his mistake, Beomgyu stepped back instinctively. He dipped his head earnestly. "My deepest apologies, my lady. I overstepped."
You held his gaze for a moment before deciding to let it go. He was to be present in your house for the foreseeable future, after all—no sense in making an enemy of him over a single misstep.
Turning, you ambled toward your desk, fingers skimming over your papers, but you noted that he hadn’t left. Beomgyu’s gaze, now free of tension, wandered back toward the bookshelves.
"You have quite the collection," he mused. "More extensive than even the libraries I frequented overseas."
You didn’t glance up. "It’s not for display. I’ve read them all."
"I don’t doubt it."
Your fingers paused over a book near your desk. Without looking at him, you asked, "And do you read, Lord Choi? Or do you only admire titles?"
His lips twitched at the clear challenge in your tone. "I read. Quite a lot, actually."
"Oh?" You lifted the book, glancing at its spine before tossing it lightly onto the seat beside you. "Then tell me—what is the central philosophy of A Dissonance of Ideals?"
The question was a trap. The book was rare, barely printed beyond its first run due to its controversial stance on class and freedom. Most men you’d met boasted of their intellect, only to flounder under scrutiny.
But Beomgyu did not flounder.
"That true liberation is not granted—it is taken," he answered smoothly. "The novel challenges the notion that freedom is bestowed upon the deserving, arguing instead that the oppressed must seize it for themselves. The protagonist, despite being of noble blood, aligns himself with those deemed lesser, and in doing so, sees the fallacy of his own privilege."
A stunned silence graced you. He held your gaze without hesitation, the smile on his lips was calm, not a trace of bluffing. You felt a small, reluctant flicker of intrigue.
Leaning back against your desk, you let out a quiet hum. "Not a bad answer."
Beomgyu huffed a short laugh. "High praise."
"High praise is reserved for those who deserve it." You observed him a moment longer before turning your attention back to your desk. "But at least you’re not entirely hopeless."
He chuckled, but there was something thoughtful in his eyes as he looked at you. This was no ordinary noblewoman before him—no delicate lady who needed to be flattered or coddled. You were sharp and quick-witted. But what struck him the most about you was that you're unapologetic.
He felt like a moth drawn toward smoldering flames in your presence.
The door creaked, and Maya’s voice cut through the moment. “My lady, I—” She paused mid-step, blinking at Beomgyu as if only just realizing he was there. Her eyes darted between the two of you, before slowly widening like saucers. Fortunately, she kept her mouth shut.
You exhaled, shifting your attention to her. “Did you rest properly?”
“Yes, my lady.” Maya nodded, still watching you both curiously.
“Good.” You turned to Beomgyu, voice composed once more. “It’s getting dark, Lord Choi. You must need rest. Maya will escort you to your carriage.”
Beomgyu inclined his head. “It was a pleasure, my lady.”
You nodded. Then, as an afterthought, you said, “I hope my brother wasn’t difficult to teach.”
Beomgyu’s lips curved slightly. “Not at all.”
The warmth in his gaze, so inviting, almost made you smile. But you merely nodded once more as he followed Maya out.
Left alone in your study, your eyes drifted to the bookshelves once more. Your fingers trailed the spine of a book that he previously touched before you murmured, “How interesting.”
The storm raged through that night, rattling the windows and drumming against the roof in an unrelenting downpour. The roads had turned to treacherous mud, the trees bending and swaying under the force of the wind. Unsurprisingly, Beomgyu did not arrive for his tutoring session the next morning.
Yet, despite knowing the obvious, you found yourself standing by the tall windows of the library, gaze flickering toward the entrance of your house, searching for a carriage that was not one of yours. The thought struck you as ridiculous—you had no reason to anticipate his arrival, and yet, there you stood.
Shaking off the thought, you returned to your desk, burying yourself in your work as the storm outside continued its merciless reign. Hours passed, the flickering candlelight casting shadows over parchment, the scratching of your quill filled the room with a symphonic rhythm.
A knock at the door drew your attention. The elderly butler entered, carefully holding a sealed letter. "A message for you, my lady. From Mr. Lennox."
You set your quill down and took the letter, breaking the seal with a letter opener. As your eyes scanned the contents, a wave of relief washed over you. Your manuscript has been accepted. Soon, it will be published.
The battle was only half-won—now, you would wait for the world to cast its judgment upon your words.
The following morning, Beomgyu’s carriage rolled through the now-cleared roads toward your manor. Seated inside with him was his mother, her gaze lingering on the passing scenery before settling upon her son.
"How are you finding it here in town?" she asked, her voice gentle yet inquisitive.
Beomgyu shifted slightly, considering the question. "It is different from what I’ve grown used to. Everyone has been quite kind."
His mother hummed in agreement. "And the Kang household? How do you find them?"
Beomgyu's expression softened slightly. "They have been welcoming. I had no reason to expect otherwise, but even so, their kindness is something I have come to appreciate."
As his words settled, his mind drifted unbidden to you. To the unfortunate series of mishaps that had marked each of his encounters with you—the collision outside the bakery, the intrusion into your study. He let out a quiet sigh before speaking again.
"I was thinking of stopping by the library after today’s lesson. To buy some… flowers."
His mother turned to him, eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. She knew her son had always been rather interesting with his mindset and choice of words, but still it didn’t help with her brewing curiosity. "Flowers? From a library?"
Beomgyu had spoken too hastily. He didn’t wish to explain his choice of words to his mother yet. It was an idea that occurred to him late at night before he fell asleep thinking of you.
His mother, ever perceptive, caught the misstep and pressed further. "For whom, exactly?"
He opened his mouth, ready to answer, only to falter. A realization struck him—he did not know your name. Not once had it been spoken to him. Your mother had referred to you only as her daughter, your brother as his older sister.
Catching his hesitation, his mother blinked in mild disbelief. "Beomgyu, surely you are jesting. You have been in their house and do not even know the young lady’s name?"
Beomgyu’s eyes widened at how easily she caught on. He was just a boy who could not hide anything from his mother. Heat crept up his neck. "It… never came up."
His mother shook her head, caught between exasperation and laughter. "You must ask her yourself. A gentleman must not assume but rather seek to know with due respect."
Beomgyu could only nod, more embarrassed than he cared to admit. But before she could move on, curiosity still sparked in her gaze. "But tell me, why exactly would you be searching for flowers in a library for her?"
His shoulders stiffened. There was no graceful escape from this conversation now. So, he told her everything.
By the time he finished recounting his series of missteps, his mother was shaking her head, exasperated. "Oh, Beomgyu," she murmured, half-laughing. "You must properly apologize to the lady."
The carriage began to slow as they reached her designated stop. Before stepping out, she turned back to him one last time, offering a knowing smile. "And do not forget again, son. It is discourteous."
Beomgyu only sighed, watching as she disappeared into the bustling street. As soon as the carriage door shut, he exhaled deeply, running a hand over his face before instructing the driver to continue on.
The library awaited him first. Then, your manor.
Rain pattered lightly against the windows as Beomgyu sat with your younger brother, his lesson drawing to a close. The sky outside was a murky gray, the air thick with the scent of petrichor. On the table beside him, a package rested. He had yet to see you today.
As he contemplated whether to entrust the gift to your brother or seek out Maya to deliver it, a flicker of movement outside in the distance caught his attention. Through the blurred glass, he glimpsed a lone figure wandering through the garden.
"She’s out again for the rain," your brother remarked, following his gaze.
Beomgyu blinked. "In this weather?"
"She likes the rain."
A low and foreboding roll of thunder grumbled in the distance. Beomgyu sighed slowly, feeling the ever growing presence of the package beside him. He hesitated before asking, "Does she prefer company?"
Your brother tilted his head in thought, then shrugged. "You should probably find that out on your own."
Beomgyu did not need to be told twice.
The first drop of rain that touched your skin was cool, a soft whisper against the lingering warmth of the evening. The next ones came heavier, a rhythm quickening into a pace urgent and relentless. You walked forward, letting the grass dampen the hem of your gown, inhaling the earthy scent of rain. It was calming, this solitude beneath the darkened sky.
Then, just as the storm began to truly break, a voice called through the downpour.
You turned, blinking against the misty veil of rain, only to see Beomgyu walking toward you.
He was a mess.
Perplexity gripped you. Beomgyu stood several paces away, utterly drenched, his fine suit ruined by the merciless rain. The once-pristine white of his collar was soaked through, the deep navy fabric of his coat clinging to his frame, now a shade darker with moisture. His pristine shoes were now mud-ridden, his long black hair plastered against his forehead, dripping rivulets of water down his cheekbones. Through all of that, he was grinning at you.
A beautiful mess, you corrected yourself.
"Lord Choi," you called over the storm, incredulous. "What on earth are you doing?"
Beomgyu exhaled, lifting a hand to swipe at his rain-slicked lashes, an utterly useless effort. Then, his grin faded into a sheepish smile.
"My lady," he said, voice warm despite the chill in the air, "I never got your name."
The rain drummed around you, the world narrowing to the space between you and the foolish man standing in the downpour.
You stared at him for a moment, utterly, truly perplexed. "You came out into the rain for that?"
"Yes," he admitted easily.
Something about the simple honesty of it made you laugh, breathless and disbelieving. You didn’t even fight the trickle of warmth trailing down your chest. “You do keep surprising me, Lord Choi,” you muttered, your voice drowned by the rain, and as you studied him for a beat, an idea sparked to life.
"Very well," you mused, lips curving into a small smile. "If you desire my name, you must earn it."
His brows lifted, intrigue flickering in his dark eyes. "And how shall I do that?"
The rain dripped from your fingertips, tracing cool paths against your skin. "A riddle," you declared. "Answer correctly, and I shall tell you. But if you fail…" You turned slightly, glancing toward the garden’s stone archway in the distance. "You must catch me before I reach the arch."
Beomgyu let out a small, breathy chuckle, shaking his head. "You wish to make a game of it?"
"Why not?" you challenged. "Do you accept?"
His smile deepened, eyes crinkling into crescents as he gave a long nod, before meeting your gaze through the curtain of rain. "It would be discourteous of me to refuse."
You took a steadying breath, the rhythm of the rain matching the anticipation curling in your chest. You recited:
"I have a heart that does not beat, a home but no doors. What am I?"
Beomgyu’s brows furrowed slightly, his mind working through the puzzle.
You waited only a breath before you turned sharply and ran. The sound of splashing footsteps followed a second later.
"You didn’t even give me time to think!" Beomgyu called, his voice half-laugh, half-exasperation.
"You should be quicker, then!" you tossed over your shoulder, skirts damp and heavy as you sprinted across the grass.
The archway was ahead, framed by ivy, its stone glistening with rain. Just a little further—
"A book!"
—The answer rang through the storm, triumphant.
You faltered slightly, laughing, but did not stop. "Yet," you called back, breathless, "you must still catch me!"
"You are entirely unfair!"
"You are far too slow, Lord Choi—"
His hand caught your wrist before you finished speaking.
You were turned swiftly, rain-soaked and breathless, your back meeting the cool stone of the archway as Beomgyu’s presence loomed close, his breath shallow from exertion.
His fingers, though chilled from the rain, were gentle where they curled around your wrist. Drops of water clung to his face, trailing down the line of his jaw, his lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling from the chase.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound between you was the steady downpour of rain, the distant rumble of thunder, and the sound of your entangled breathing between the small space.
Beomgyu’s gaze softened, his fingers loosening but not quite letting go. "My lady," he murmured, voice rich with something you couldn’t name. "Will you keep your promise?"
Your own breath was uneven, though not entirely from the run. Your eyes fell onto his hand that was holding yours, then met his gaze, and in that moment, you felt a flicker of something warm passing between you.
"Very well, Lord Choi."
You stepped closer, the scent of rain and earth wrapping around you both. He was still catching his breath, his chest rising and falling, but he did not move away. Droplets clung to his lashes, sliding down the curve of his cheek, and for a moment, you hesitated—so close you could hear the quiet hitch in his breathing.
Then, voice hushed as if you’re passing a secret with the wind, you whispered your name into his ear.
The words were warm against his skin, softer than the rainfall that dripped from your lips. A secret given, and just as swiftly, you slipped past him, the space between you vanishing as you walked toward your home, leaving him standing under the arch.
Beomgyu remained where he was, his posture unmoving, as if still caught in the moment. His lips parted slightly, shaping the syllables of your name in a reverent murmur, testing the way it curled on his tongue.
Your name tasted like sunlight, like warm honey trickling down his throat curling into the very veins of his heart, seeking abode in the empty space. Like something distant yet achingly familiar, something he had reached for without knowing he had wanted it.
A quiet exhale left him, his fingers twitching faintly as he recalled the package he had left inside. His original intent had been simple—an apology wrapped in parchment and intent. But now, he found himself unable to give it to you just yet.
No, not until he had written your name on it.
Maya was cleaning the windows when her eyes traveled outside, only for her breath to catch in sheer horror. The cloth in her hand nearly slipped from her grip as she stumbled back.
“My lady—!” she gasped, pressing a hand to her chest.
You stepped through the entrance, rain-soaked from head to toe, water dripping from your sleeves onto the polished floor. Your hair clung damply to your skin, but you merely smiled as Maya rushed forward, her expression switching from disbelief to outright panic.
“You went out in the rain again?” she cried, wringing her hands. “My lady, you’re going to fall ill one of these days! Have you no care for your health?”
As you were about to offer a reply, Maya’s eyes flickered past you, and she nearly reeled back. Her panic-stricken gaze landed on the man stepping in behind you—Choi Beomgyu, drenched in equal measure. His fine suit was utterly ruined, his dark hair plastered against his forehead, his shoes carrying a trail of rainwater and mud. And yet, despite his disheveled state, he remained funnily composed.
Maya gawked at him, then at you, then back at him, her brain clearly short-circuiting.
Beomgyu, ever polite even in such a situation, gave her a slight bow. “I apologize for the mess.”
Maya, on the verge of losing her mind, let out a strangled sound and scurried away in search of towels, her mutterings barely coherent. “This is—this is absolutely—oh, heavens above—”
Before you could so much as smother your amusement, a new presence entered the room—your mother. She came to a slow halt in the corridor, eyes sweeping over you both. Her expression was unreadable, utterly still, but the prolonged silence said enough.
Beomgyu stiffened ever so slightly beside you, then inclined his head, bowing deeply. “Lady Kang,” he greeted, his voice low and respectful. “I must apologize for my appearance and for the state of your home.”
Your mother said nothing at first, her gaze shifting between the two of you—her sharp eyes noting the way water still dripped onto the floor, the subtle heave of your shoulders from exertion, and the fact that, for the first time, you looked entirely unbothered in the presence of a man.
You, on the other hand, pointed in Beomgyu’s general direction without sparing him a glance. “His state is not my fault. He did this on his own.”
Your mother’s lips twitched slightly at that, but she withheld her comment.
Maya returned in a flurry of movement, shoving towels into both your hands before ushering you toward the fireplace. Your mother, after her curious silence, finally spoke. “Lord Choi, the storm has worsened. You should remain here until the rain subsides.”
“I appreciate your kindness, my lady,” Beomgyu said, voice warm yet firm, “but I shouldn’t impose any longer. I will return home at once.” He accepted the towel with a grateful nod and dried his hands before wrapping it around his shoulders.
Then, with a final bow—to her, to Maya, to you—Beomgyu turned toward the door. His departure was swift, but as he reached the threshold, he glanced back at you, lingering just a moment longer.
Then, with the faintest curl of his lips, he stepped into the waiting carriage and disappeared into the night.
Silence followed in his absence.
Your mother turned to you now, arching a single brow. It was a silent inquiry, one laden with quiet curiosity, but you merely deadpanned, “What?” before turning on your heel and making your way toward your room.
Your mother and Maya stood there, watching your retreating figure disappear up the stairs.
After a long pause, Maya whispered hesitantly, “Lady Kang, is she…?”
Your mother exhaled, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. “Who knows?”
Yet, deep down, she already did. It was still too early to assume, but in a long while, she felt a glimmer of hope.
Your mind, against your own wishes, wandered to Choi Beomgyu more often than you cared to admit.
You had met countless men—suitors of all ages, noblemen with polished shoes and sharper tongues, men who sought your hand not for who you were, but for what you could offer. To them, you were an acquisition, a means to an end, a prize to be won and caged. You had long since learned to navigate their intentions, to parry their flowery words with razor-sharp wit, to dance around their expectations with a smile that never quite reached your eyes.
But Beomgyu... that man intrigued you.
With every brief exchange, every moment shared, the feeling took root. He was proving to be unlike the rest—not because he lacked ambition or purpose, but because he carried himself with an ease unburdened by arrogance. He was learned but never boastful, kind without expectation. Unfiltered warmth and pure knowledge wrapped his entire being.
At least, for now.
So, you decided to watch him. To study him as you had studied countless others, to see if he was different or if he, too, would prove predictable. But till now there was nothing to scrutinize.
He came to the manor, tutored your brother, exchanged pleasantries with your mother and the household staff. Whenever your paths crossed, he offered you that warm, polite smile, never lingering longer than propriety allowed.
Nothing less, nothing more.
Yet, the fact that you continued to notice was enough to unsettle you.
“My lady.” You were pulled from your thoughts by the voice of your instructor. “That’s enough for today.”
Exhaling, you dismounted from your horse, handing the reins to the stable boy as the exhaustion settled deep in your limbs. The ride had been long, and though you normally relished the freedom it brought, today, you felt weighed down.
You arrived home, your boots pressing damp imprints into the grand marble floors as Maya rushed to greet you at the entrance. The moment she saw you, her lips parted in a quiet scolding, but before she could speak, hesitation flickered across her face.
“My lady—”
“I need a bath,” you murmured, already loosening the buttons at the collar of your shirt as you strode past her, shoulders heavy with weariness. “Prepare it for me.”
Maya hesitated, her fingers twisting into her apron. “My lady, I must warn you—”
You were far too exhausted to fully comprehend her warning.
Stepping into the living room, you were greeted by an unfamiliar figure lounging comfortably in one of the embroidered chairs. His presence was enough to still your steps, irritation prickling along your spine even before he spoke.
Lord Park Bokyung.
An older man whose hair was tinged with grey, bulky body that barely fit into the chair. He studied you, dark eyes raking over your disheveled state—your untucked shirt, the dirt-streaked boots, the absence of any attempt at ladylike decorum. A grin spread across his lips, crude and condescending.
“Well, well,” he drawled, turning to your mother, who sat stiffly across him, lips pressed into a thin line. “It appears the rumors were right. Your daughter does enjoy hobbies quite unbefitting of a lady. She is in such desperate need of a husband.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “A man must tame her before she ruins herself entirely.”
Your mother winced at his words but quickly straightened, her gaze sharpening. “Lord Park,” she said coolly, “please weave your words with caution when speaking of the members of the Kang estate in their own house—specifically, my daughter.”
Bokyung had the audacity to laugh, shaking his head as if amused by a child’s naïveté. “Ah, my lady, you misunderstand me. I jest, of course.” His voice was thick with feigned innocence, though his smirk betrayed his amusement. “My words are spoken out of concern—after all, what is a woman without a guiding hand to keep her from folly? I won't expect her to understand, she's still young after all.”
Your mother cast an apologetic glance at you. She hadn’t expected him any more than you had, and you could tell she regretted his presence entirely.
But regret would not erase the insult.
Something inside you cooled. A sharp, piercing sort of stillness settled in your chest, smoothing away the irritation and replacing it with something far more dangerous.
You turned, walking toward the far end of the room where two pistols rested mounted upon the wall. Fingers trailing over the polished wood, you spoke, voice terrifyingly calm.
“If a husband’s purpose is to keep me safe, then I would like to test his ability to do so.” You lifted the pistol from its display, and in one swift motion, you turned and aimed it directly at Lord Park.
The butler stiffened. Maya let out a strangled gasp, hands flying to her mouth. Even your mother, ever composed, shifted in alarm. The air in the room tensed with horror, every eye locked onto you, onto the weapon steady in your grip.
Bokyung’s amusement vanished. His body went rigid, his smirk faltering as his gaze darted between your face and the barrel now trained upon him. You almost laughed out when his chaperons cowered in fear behind him. This was the first time since your arrival, his composure cracked.
“You jest,” he said, but his voice lacked its prior confidence.
You hummed, tilting your head as if considering. “Do I?”
The man, his pride pricked, glanced at the assembled guests—your mother, Maya, the butler, his own chaperones. To refuse would be an admission of cowardice. To accept would be to entertain a lady’s absurd challenge.
His lips pressed into a thin line. “Very well.”
Under the veil of the blackened sky, the targets were being set in the garden. You stood quietly by the side, watching as Lord Park took his position.
From the balcony of the study, your brother leaned against the railing, amusement dancing in his eyes as he observed the unfolding spectacle. Beside him, Beomgyu stood, silent.
“The fifth one this week,” your brother mused, exhaling.
Beomgyu turned to him, brows raising slightly. “Fifth what?”
“Suitor.” Your brother glanced toward the garden, then smiled. “But this one must have said something particularly stupid.”
As the targets were prepared, Maya fidgeted beside the elderly butler, her hands clasped tightly together. Her unease was palpable, her eyes darting toward you before she whispered, “She should not have to prove herself to the likes of him.”
The butler, who had served your household for decades, merely sighed. “Do not worry, child,” he murmured, his voice low. “Have faith in her.”
Lord Park stepped forward, gripping the pistol with stiff fingers. He adjusted his stance, clearing his throat as if to reassert his shaken confidence. He raised the weapon, inhaled deeply, and fired.
The bullet whizzed through the air, entirely missing the target and flew somewhere beyond the distance. The silence that followed was deafening. His mouth opened and closed as he scrambled for an excuse, his face paling beneath the weight of failure. A muscle ticked in his jaw as he lowered the pistol, his fingers tightening around the grip as if it were the weapon’s fault and not his own.
A quiet hum left your lips. You stepped forward, rolling back your sleeves, feeling the familiarity of the pistol as you lifted it with the ease of someone who had done so countless times before.
You raised your arm, gaze steady and unlike Lord Park, you did not hesitate to fire the moment you locked your target. Your finger pressed the trigger in a decisive motion.
The bullet struck the center of your target. Without pause, you cocked the pistol again, exhaled a low laugh, and fired once more. The second target—his—was knocked down in an instant.
The echo of your shots still resonated when silence fell, heavier than before.
Lord Park gaped, mouth opening and closing uselessly. A flush of humiliation crawled up his neck as he scrambled to find something, anything, to say. The gathered onlookers remained motionless, their gazes flickering between you and the man who had so thoroughly been put in his place.
You turned to him, expression unreadable, then offered him a small, polite smile.
“How unfortunate,” you murmured, handing the pistol back to the elderly butler. “You speak of a husband keeping me safe so that I may not engage in such ‘unladylike’ activities—yet you cannot even strike a target.” You dusted off your cuffs, already losing interest. “It seems I must continue looking for one more capable.”
With that, you turned and strode away, leaving behind the stunned onlookers and the seething man who had just been thoroughly humiliated, but as you moved, your gaze flickered toward the study balcony. Your steps faltered.
Your brother was grinning, his mirth barely restrained. Beside him, Beomgyu stood frozen, his lips slightly parted, and his eyes—wide as they burned with something perilously close to awe. As if he were seeing you for the first time. As if, in this very moment, you had unraveled something within him he hadn’t even known was tightly wound.
His gaze curled around you like an invisible thread, weaving and pulling, suffocating every molecule of your being. Your breath stilled in your throat, your pulse faltering against your ribs. A warmth so foreign, so dizzying, crept up your neck, nipping at the edges of your composure.
Then, before the feeling could root itself any deeper, you tore your gaze away. Without another glance, you quickened your pace, lifting a hand to your lips as if that alone could smother the telltale flush dusting your skin.
But behind you, Beomgyu watched your retreating form with an intensity that bordered on reverence. His grip tightening ever so slightly against the railing; that man was utterly captivated.
Rain pattered lightly against the windows as you sat in your study, fingers pressed against your temple. After the day’s ordeal, exhaustion curled at the edges of your being, but irritation prickled beneath it like an itch that refused to be soothed. You had tried to lose yourself in work—letters to write, manuscripts to review—but nothing had been accomplished. Your mind was restless, drifting between frustration and weariness, a battlefield of thoughts refusing to be silenced.
A gentle knock at the door pulled you from your stupor. You blinked, momentarily dazed, the warmth from your bath still lingering against your skin. Before you could respond, your mother stepped inside, her presence a quiet balm against the chaos in your head.
Her eyes immediately softened as she took in your tired posture. "You had quite the eventful morning," she murmured, closing the door behind her.
You exhaled through your nose, pressing your fingers against your temple. "If by eventful you mean another insufferable suitor, then yes, quite so."
She chuckled, approaching the desk. "Maya is still recovering, poor thing. She nearly fainted when you challenged Lord Park to a shooting match."
A small smile tugged at your lips. "Perhaps she should develop a stronger constitution. It will not be the last time."
Your mother sighed, her expression turning fond but tinged with quiet concern. "My dear, you are formidable—of that, I have no doubt. But even the strongest warriors grow weary."
You met her gaze then, something inside you wavering. She always saw through you. Always knew when your edges began to fray. A moment passed before you murmured, "I am tired."
She reached out, smoothing a stray lock of hair from your face. "Then rest, my love. You do not always have to fight."
The words settled into your chest, warm and gentle, yet their meaning was something you weren’t sure how to grasp. Your mother did not press further. She simply kissed the top of your head, lingering for a moment before stepping away. "Good night, my dear."
"Good night, Mother."
You remained seated long after she left, her words circling your thoughts. Just as sleep threatened to claim you, another knock sounded at the door. This one was softer, almost hesitant.
"My lady, it’s me. Beomgyu."
Huh? He still hasn't left for home? You blinked, the unexpected sound of his voice pulling you upright. You weren’t sure why, but your heart gave a small, unsteady lurch.
From the other side of the door, he continued, "I understand if you do not wish to speak. If you are busy or seeking solitude, I will not intrude."
You stood slowly, your bare feet silent against the wooden floor as you approached the door but did not open it. You imagined him standing just as close on the other side, his presence inducing warmth in the space between you.
A pause. Then, in a softer tone, he said, "I brought you flowers. As an apology. For the times I have crossed the line."
An apology? You felt the first curl of disappointment bloom within you, a familiar sting that came when expectations fell short. Of course. Bringing gifts to soften you, to charm his way into favor—it was a move you had seen time and time again. Was he truly just like the rest?
Your grip on the door tightened. The temptation to simply walk away, to block him out as you had with so many others, nearly won over.
Then he spoke again. "I will leave them on the cabinet beside the door. I hope you like them."
Silence followed. You waited until the soft echo of his retreating footsteps faded. A minute, then another, until you were sure he had truly gone. Only then did you pull the door open, peering into the dimly lit corridor
Your gaze dropped to the cabinet. But instead of a bouquet, a thickly wrapped package sat in its place, secured with careful folds and a precise knot. Your brows knitted in confusion as you lifted it into your arms, its weight unexpected.
Frowning, you stepped back into your study and set the package onto your desk, fingers working to untie the string. “What on earth is this, Choi Beomgyu?” you murmured, a tinge of exasperation lacing your tone.
The wrapping fell away, and you froze.
Books.
Not flowers — books.
Four, no, five of them, each title graced with the name of a flower—The Language of Lilies, By the Rose Garden, Wild Violets in Bloom. Your fingers skimmed the spines, tracing the embossed letters, flipping through the pages as disbelief washed through you like steady waves. The realization struck like a slow dawn breaking over the horizon.
You flipped one open, the delicate rustle of pages filling the quiet room. And there, scrawled in elegant script on the inside cover—your name.
You opened another. And another. Each one the same, and each made your heart stutter.
A laugh—soft, disbelieving—escaped your lips, your fingers tracing over the pages as a delicate warmth unfurled in your chest.
"Oh, he is so charming…" you whispered to yourself, shaking your head.
Your earlier judgment of him wavered, crumbling ever so slightly, and that made you feel truly relieved.
Mornings at the manor was always a quiet affair, a tranquility that settled into the bones like a well-worn melody. You reveled in it, taking in the stillness as you descended the grand staircase, your footsteps muffled against the plush carpet. You hadn’t planned on anything out of the ordinary, just a simple breakfast before retreating to your study, but as you entered the dining hall, your gaze landed on an unexpected presence at the head of the table.
Your father.
It had been a while since you last saw him at breakfast. Duty often pulled him away early. But today, he sat in his usual place, sipping his tea, eyes warm as they met yours.
“Good morning, my dear,” he greeted, setting his cup down with a quiet clink.
“Good morning, Father,” you responded, slipping into the seat beside from him. “It’s been some time since we shared a morning meal.”
He chuckled. “Far too long, I’d say. But I’m here now.” A pause. “And I have something to discuss with you.”
You raised a brow, waiting.
“The Academy is hosting a gathering soon. An evening party,” he explained. “It might be in your best interest to attend. There are people—important individuals—who would take great interest in your work.”
The Academy. The very heart of knowledge, innovation, and education in the country. A place that held both opportunity and scrutiny in equal measure.
“Connections,” he continued, cutting into his meal with his silverwares. “They can open doors for you. Doors that even your talent alone might take years to unlock.”
You tapped a finger idly against the table, considering. It wasn’t that you feared the whispers or the disdain of those who thought a woman had no place in intellectual circles. You had endured far worse. But the idea of making strategic alliances, of meeting those who truly saw you beyond the title of ‘Lady’—that was something worth contemplating.
Your father must have sensed your hesitation. “Of course,” he said, “there will be those who will sneer. But you can handle them, can’t you?”
You scoffed softly. “That goes without saying.”
He smiled, a rare softness in his gaze. “Then come. With me there, no one will dare lay a finger on you.”
The evening air was crisp as your carriage pulled up to the grand banquet hall of the Academy. You stepped out, fingers resting lightly on your father’s offered arm. The midnight blue of your gown shimmered under the golden glow of lanterns, understated yet commanding. You had no desire to stand at the center of attention, yet you knew the moment you stepped through those doors, eyes would turn.
And they did.
It was something you had long grown accustomed to—the force of scrutiny, admiration, curiosity—all blended together in an awkward blend of cacophony. You held your chin high as you walked beside your father, nodding politely to those who acknowledged you. The hall was a grand expanse of polished floors, glittering chandeliers, and the hum of intellectual conversation. A world of scholars, professors, and thinkers—something about the ambiance made your nerves jitter.
Your father led you through the crowd, stopping before a man who bore an air of elegant authority and importance.
“Han Sohyun,” your father introduced, “one of the Academy’s finest minds.”
The older gentleman turned to you, eyes bright with interest. “Ah, at last. The young lady of the Kang family.”
You inclined your head in greeting. “A pleasure to meet you, Lord Han.”
“The pleasure is mine,” he said warmly. “I must say, I’m quite an admirer of your work.”
That gave you pause. You had expected the usual pleasantries, the carefully measured words that spoke of tolerance rather than genuine appreciation. But there was sincerity in his tone. Your father was right.
“You have read my works?”
“Of course,” he replied, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Your insights on historical literature are fascinating. I dare say your writing carries a depth many scholars fail to achieve.”
You blinked. Praise was not unfamiliar, but to hear it from someone of his stature, in a space dominated by men who often dismissed you, was something else entirely.
Through the course of conversation, you found yourself engaged in discussions more stimulating than you had anticipated. Han Sohyun introduced you to others, opening doors to connections you had never thought possible. But the moment that struck you most was when he mentioned his daughter.
“She looks up to you, you know,” he said softly once the conversation mellowed around you. “Your work, your defiance in the face of societal expectations—it inspires her.”
A slow warmth spread through your chest. You had never sought validation, but to know that your words had reached someone, had made an impact—it was an accomplishment in its own right.
The night wore on, and eventually, you excused yourself from your father’s side, seeking a moment’s reprieve in the garden. The air outside was cool, a welcome contrast to the warmth of the banquet hall. You breathed in deeply, exhaling the tension that had expectedly settled in your shoulders after engaging in conversations with people of high statuses.
The soft murmur of conversation from the banquet hall faded behind you, replaced by the rhythmic rustling of leaves in the evening breeze. The sky stretched endlessly above, an ocean of inky blue speckled with silver stars. It was these moments of solitude that you always sought and loved.
Then, from the corner of your eye, you noticed a figure—nearly obscured beneath a canopy of pink bougainvillea. It was easy to miss him, sitting on the ground, lost in the shadows. But you caught the faint silhouette of tousled hair, the gentle rise and fall of his breath. You blinked in surprise.
You took a few steps closer before speaking, your voice breaking the quiet. “I wasn’t expecting you to be here.”
Beomgyu startled slightly, turning his head up to look at you. Under the soft glow of the garden lanterns, his expression shifted from surprise to soft acknowledgment—underlying with the impression that he too wasn't expecting you here. “Ah,” he exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck, “just taking a break. Talks of politics and wealth suffocate me.”
Of course, he'd be invited. That man is no less than a scholar himself, so his presence in such a banquet is far more natural than yours.
You hesitated, glancing toward the direction of the party. “I should go,” you murmured, not quite meeting his gaze. “Being seen with me might taint your reputation, and I wouldn’t want that.”
Beomgyu tilted his head, an easy smile playing on his lips. “Then it makes the two of us, my lady. I fear I’ve already given the lords the impression that I’m uninterested in their conversations.” He patted the ground beside him, an invitation. “Stay, if you’d like.”
After a moment’s deliberation, you lowered yourself to sit beside him, leaving a respectable distance between you. The pavement beneath was cool, but the warmth of his presence nearby was enough to keep the chill at bay.
“Thank you for the flowers,” you said, a teasing lilt in your voice as you turned to him. “Even I could never think of such an idea.”
Beomgyu chuckled softly, tilting his head ever so slightly. “As long as my lady likes them, I’m glad.”
“It was brilliant, truly. You…” You paused, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the lace trim of your gloves. “You broke my expectations.”
His eyes gleamed with curiosity, the corner of his lips curling into a coy smile. “Expectations?”
Realizing your blunder, you quickly averted your gaze, feigning interest in the pebbles near your feet. “Never mind,” you muttered.
A hum was his only response. Beomgyu then exhaled softly before speaking again, his voice thoughtful. “Truthfully, I had considered getting you actual flowers at first,” he admitted. “But then I thought… you might appreciate books more.” He hesitated, then added, almost sheepishly, “If you’d prefer flowers, I can get you some next time as well.”
Your eyes flickered to him with interest, and you let out a soft hum, squinting your eyes slightly. “Next time?” you echoed playfully, watching as his expression froze. “Does that mean you plan to cause more trouble, Lord Choi?”
His lips parted, his entire posture stiffening. “Ah—n-no, that’s not what I meant,” he stammered, his usual composure unraveling in an instant. “I just meant if—if another occasion arose, then perhaps—”
A laugh bubbled past your lips, light and genuine. “It was truly brilliant,” you said, cutting off his flustered attempt at salvaging his words.
Beomgyu blinked at you, still visibly flustered, but the tension melted from his shoulders when he saw the sincerity in your smile. A faint pink dusted his cheeks, but this time, he simply let out a breath and returned your smile, no longer trying to argue his case.
You looked skyward before continuing the conversation. “I heard you’ve been out of town for studies.”
He nodded, resting his arms over his bent knees. “Yes, I spent some time abroad—studying history, literature, philosophy. They teach you many things, but true understanding is something you must seek yourself.”
You hummed in thought. “And did you find it?”
He smiled, gaze fixed on the garden path ahead. “I found pieces of it. Enough to know that knowledge is not merely in books, but in the way people think, the way they live. That is why I enjoy conversations like this.”
You found yourself intrigued. “Like this?”
He turned slightly, his gaze meeting yours. “With people who see the world not as it is, but as it could be.”
Your heart stilled for a moment, caught off guard by his words. He spoke like a scholar, yet he listened like a poet—absorbing every nuance, every thought, as if committing them to memory. You had met many learned men, but few who dissected knowledge with the same precision you did. With him, a conversation felt like not a battle to be won but a world to be shaped.
Beomgyu suddenly let out a soft laugh. “Good heavens, where are my manners? I made a lady sit with me on the dirt.” Rising to his feet, he extended a hand toward you. “There’s a lake just ahead. Would you like to take a look?”
You studied him for a moment. The moonlight cast a glow on his features—soft yet sharp. Slowly, you placed your gloved hand in his, allowing him to pull you to your feet.
As you walked toward the lake, the conversation flowed naturally. You spoke of your works, your manuscripts, your ambition. Beomgyu listened intently, never once interrupting, his eyes reflecting a hushed understanding. Only when you finished did he finally speak, his voice steady and thoughtful.
“You place strong emphasis on class disparity in your work,” he noted. “It’s a subject most fear to touch, let alone dissect so boldly.”
You turned to him, taken aback. “You’ve read my work?”
“I sought it out after hearing your name,” he admitted. “And now, hearing you speak of it—” he exhaled, shaking his head with an almost reverent mirth,“—I find your perspective fascinating. You don’t just write about injustice. You challenge its very foundation.”
A thrill ran through you, unexpected and electrifying. “That is precisely my intent,” you said, excitement creeping into your tone. “Change does not come from mere observation but from questioning the structures that uphold it.”
He nodded, a slow, approving motion. “And you do it masterfully.”
For the first time in a long while, you felt truly understood. His words held meaning, his perspective aligning with yours so precisely it startled you. You found yourself leaning in, captivated, speaking with a kind of excitement you hadn't felt in a long time. So immersed were you in your exchange that you failed to notice the figure approaching—only realizing when a voice, far too chipper, cut through the moment.
“Ah! Lady Kang! I was hoping to run into you tonight.”
You and Beomgyu halted in your tracks. The man before you bowed, hat in hand, a smile stretched wide across his face.
“Harvard Park,” he introduced himself with a glint in his pale blue eyes. “I wished to have your company for the night.” He trailed off, his gaze shifting to Beomgyu before adding, “Though it seems you are already busy.”
He ignored Beomgyu entirely after that, setting his eyes back on you. "I had the pleasure of speaking with your father earlier," he began, his voice velvety smooth. "We discussed matters of great importance, and naturally, your name arose."
You arched a brow, fingers tightening against your sides. "Oh?"
"Indeed," Harvard continued, his tone warm, but there was no mistaking the condescension beneath it. "Your accomplishments are nothing short of admirable. A woman of your intellect and ambition is a rare gem in our society." He exhaled, tilting his head just so. "It is for that very reason that I could not help but consider—our families share an esteemed reputation. With such a union, the benefits would be undeniable."
Your stomach twisted. A union.
Harvard’s smile never wavered. "Of course, I hold the greatest respect for your work. In fact, I daresay you would find far fewer obstacles with the right… support. A name that commands respect, a presence that ensures you are received with the dignity you deserve."
The words alone would have merely irked you. You had long grown accustomed to such insults, wrapped in the guise of concern. But tonight—tonight, standing here before Beomgyu, being reduced to nothing more than a woman in need of a husband—you felt something far worse.
The sharp sting of humiliation settled deep in your chest, curling its way through your ribs like an iron vice. You had been spoken down to before, belittled with pretty words wrapped in condescension, but never in front of someone like Beomgyu. Never in front of someone who had truly listened to you, who had met your thoughts with his own rather than dismissing them. And perhaps that was what made the shame unbearable. Anger was there too, simmering beneath your skin, but it was the humiliation that cut the deepest. Not because of Park’s words, but because Beomgyu had heard them.
The initial flicker of anger threatened to boil over, but before you could gather the words to retaliate, Beomgyu moved.
“An interesting proposition, Lord Park,” Beomgyu’s voice was polite—too polite. “A man must be truly confident in himself to assume his presence is necessary for a lady’s success.”
Harvard’s gaze flickered to him, his mask of charm twitching ever so slightly. "I only speak of what is advantageous for her. Surely, you would not argue that in this world, influence holds great power."
Beomgyu hummed, his lips tilting in a way that did not quite reach his eyes. "Ah, but the assumption remains—who, my lord, decided that Lady Kang requires an alliance to achieve what she already has on her own?"
Harvard stiffened. "That is not what I—"
"But it is what you implied," Beomgyu cut in smoothly, his tone carrying the faintest trace of amusement, as though he were merely indulging an amusing conversation rather than dismantling the man’s carefully chosen words. "And it is rather odd, don’t you think, my lord? That you speak of marriage as a means of assistance, as though Lady Kang were incapable of success on her own?" His voice turned almost pitying, his fingers loosely clasped behind his back. "I wonder, then, is it truly her best interests you have in mind? Or is it simply your pride seeking to lay claim to something beyond your reach?
Harvard blinked, caught off guard, but Beomgyu stepped forward, the polite smile never leaving his face, yet something in his presence had shifted. “It is rather unseemly to speak of marriage as if it were a business transaction, especially without first considering if the lady herself desires it.”
You were silent, eyes widening a fraction at Beomgyu’s sudden change in demeanor. His frame now stood before you, as if shielding you from the shrewd man's line of sight in every possible way.
“Tell me, my lord, does it soothe your ego to believe that a woman’s achievements are only half-formed without a man?”
“I merely thought—”
“That much is clear,” Beomgyu cut in, and though his voice remained even, there was an unmistakable edge beneath it. “But thinking is not the same as knowing, my lord. Perhaps it would serve you well to learn the difference.”
Harvard’s face darkened. “And who the hell are you to speak so boldly?” he spat, his gaze finally locking to Beomgyu, hostility simmering beneath the surface.
The moment his attention veered from you to Beomgyu, something sharp curled in your chest. No. If anyone would take his disdain, it would be you. Not Beomgyu.
You stepped forward with commanding grace, your eyes narrowing as they settled on Harvard. The sheer weight of your icy gaze made him flinch, his jaw tightening. Then, turning to Beomgyu, you allowed your eyes to soften as you slipped your hand through the crook of his arm, feeling the warmth of him even through layers of fabric.
“A like-minded ally,” you said, your voice soft but filled with firmness, meeting Harvard’s gaze once more. “My like-minded ally.”
The words settled in the space between you, and though your intent was to shield Beomgyu, you felt the weight of them in your own chest.
Harvard’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze flickering between the two of you. He seemed to realize then that any further argument would only see him losing more of his dignity. With a clipped nod and a forced smile, he stepped back. “Well, it seems I have interrupted something. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Lady Kang.” He barely spared Beomgyu a glance before he sauntered away, vanishing into the dark.
The silence he left behind was heavy, save for the faint rustling of leaves in the night breeze. You exhaled slowly, only then realizing how tightly your fingers had curled around Beomgyu’s arm. You loosened your grip instinctively, but before you could step back, you heard the muffled sound of a breathy laugh.
Beomgyu had raised a hand to his face, covering his mouth as he stifled a whine. Your brows furrowed in alarm. “Are you alright?”
His shoulders trembled slightly before he let out a small, breathless chuckle. “I think my heart is still racing from the adrenaline.” He dropped his hand from his face, revealing an exhilarated grin, his eyes glinting with something unrestrained and bright. “That was—ah, how do I even put it? Worth it.”
His reaction caught you off guard, and before you knew it, laughter bubbled up from your own lips, the tension of the moment unraveling between you. But then, just as the laughter began to settle, he turned to you, his grin shifting into something more mischievous as he squinted playfully.
“Your like-minded ally, huh?” he echoed, tilting his head with mock curiosity.
Your breath hitched. Ah. You had said that, hadn’t you? The realization sent a sudden flurry of warmth crawling up your neck. You hastily withdrew your hand from his arm, stepping back as you cleared your throat. “I—” You hesitated, searching for an excuse, before settling on a weak, “I didn’t think through it enough.”
Beomgyu merely hummed, watching you with keen amusement. Then, with a grin that was entirely too pleased, he said, “I like the title.”
You gave a small nod, sighing as you faced the other way—but it was an attempt to hide the shuddering breath of your unsteady heart. "You can have it then," you said, your voice quieter, almost hesitant.
A shy smile graced Beomgyu’s lips, and neither of you said anything more. The silence that fell upon you two afterwards was anything but uncomfortable. And so, with nothing else to say, he fell into step beside you, walking you back toward the banquet hall.
The golden glow of chandeliers from the hall beckoned you forward, but the cool night air still clung to your skin, refusing to let you forget what had transpired in the garden.
From then on, things began to change between the two of you. Beomgyu became a constant presence—not just as your brother’s tutor, but as someone who you allowed to linger by the bookshelves of your study. He had a way of drawing you into lighthearted debates, weaving questions into conversation as naturally as breathing. When he finished tutoring early, you found yourselves lost in discussions about renowned authors and intricate philosophies, often taking slow strolls through the garden instead of your usual solitary walks, other times in your study—your place on your desk and his on one of the crescent seats around the windows.
Whether he was leaving for the night, walking beside you in the garden, or merely passing by, he would always leave you with something—a thought, a paradox, a moral dilemma—waiting to see how you would respond. And you indulged him, seeing it as an opportunity to understand the way the world in his mind worked.
It was this—his ability to challenge without belittling, to disagree yet still listen, to turn every conversation into an adventure—that made something in you begin to unravel. You weren’t used to it, having a companion like this. Someone who didn’t just hear you but actually cared about what you had to say.
Someone who felt like freedom.
Your newest book had been published, and this time, the reaction was different. The response from the public was far more positive than before, largely due to the younger generation embracing your work with fervor. The lords and ladies from Lennox’s foreboding predictions scoffed at the shift in reception, but their disdain soon faded beneath the overwhelming tide of support in your favor. It was a success beyond what you had imagined.
With this newfound triumph came opportunities—an invitation extended through Han Sohyun to meet with renowned publishers, editors, and authors. It required travel to another town, forcing a temporary pause in your meetings with Beomgyu. A necessary parting, but one that left an aching emptiness in its wake.
The journey proved worthwhile. Discussions with influential figures broadened your perspectives, and you found yourself standing at the precipice of a career breakthrough. It was exhilarating.
During your trip, you wandered into an antique bookstore, allowing yourself a moment of quiet amidst the whirlwind of obligations. Han Sohyun accompanied you, his gaze wandering over the spines as you perused the selection.
Shelves lined with tomes both familiar and foreign surrounded you, the scent of aged paper settling like a comforting presence. Then, in an unassuming corner, your eyes fell upon a rare edition of a book you cherished. The very same edition that sat in your own collection at home.
You ran your fingers along its spine, and an old memory surfaced—your first encounter with Beomgyu in your study. The way he had paused before your bookshelves, fingers grazing the worn leather bindings, fond eyes marvelling at this very book with reverence. He had mentioned it then, an offhand comment, but you had taken note.
Sohyun noticed your interest, stepping closer to glance at the book. "Ah, an excellent choice," he mused, nodding in appreciation. "Are you getting it for yourself? Allow me to pay for it then, dear. Consider it a gift."
You let out a soft laugh. "That's kind of you, but I’ll get this one myself."
“My dear, may I ask why?"
Your fingers traced the edge of the cover, a quiet fondness slipping into your expression. "Because it’s for someone else."
Sohyun regarded you for a moment before nodding knowingly, a small smile tugging on his lips. "I see. Then I’ll let you have the honor."
Without another thought, you reached for the book. You already owned a copy, but this one—this one would be for him.
Beomgyu had not expected your absence to weigh on him as much as it did.
He still visited your home as per his responsibilities, tutoring your younger brother with the same patience and attentiveness as always. But the moments after—when the lessons ended and silence filled the spaces you once occupied—felt different. He had grown accustomed to lingering in your presence, to the ease of conversation that followed each lesson, whether in the study or the garden, debating over literature or philosophy. Without you there, the house felt quieter, and he found himself leaving earlier than usual.
Even the study, which had once become a shared space, now felt off-limits. Though you had given him permission to peruse your collection, he refrained from entering, unwilling to intrude in your absence. Instead, if he truly needed to sate his love for books, he opted for the grand library, often in the quiet company of your family’s elderly butler. Perhaps it was because he disliked being alone, or perhaps it was because the library did not hold the same presence of you that the study did.
At home, when he spoke of the things that stirred his mind or brought him joy, he found your name slipping into conversations more often than he realized. It was an unconscious habit, one he didn’t notice until his mother smiled knowingly at him, or until his older brother teased him for it. He didn’t try to stop himself. Because, for the first time, he had found someone who truly challenged him, someone who met his thoughts with sharp wit and undeniable intellect.
The men who pursued you spoke of your beauty, your grace, your lineage, but not of you. They admired the idea of you, the status you carried, the wealth you could bring, the refinement they could boast of having at their side. But Beomgyu—he did not look at you and see a prize to be won. He saw the sharp wit behind your words, the fire in your convictions, the quiet moments where your gaze softened, the laughter you tried to hide when something amused you more than you cared to show.
The difference was clear: they wanted what you could offer; he wanted you.
The lesson took place in the garden that afternoon, a change of setting Beomgyu often employed to keep the lessons lively rather than dull. He walked beside your brother, listening to his recitations, but his focus wavered. A jittery sort of anticipation thrummed beneath his skin, making him more restless than usual.
Your brother took notice. “You keep glancing toward the gate.”
Beomgyu blinked, caught off guard by the sudden remark. “Do I?”
His student hummed, hands clasped behind his back as he considered Beomgyu carefully. “Looking forward to my sister’s return?”
There was a teasing lilt to his voice that made Beomgyu falter. He cleared his throat, suddenly self-conscious. “Well, she’s been away for some time. It’s only natural—”
“Oh dear,” your brother sighed dramatically. “Have I unraveled a secret?” The teasing lilt his voice carried was familiar, one that reminded Beomgyu far too much of you.
Beomgyu narrowed his eyes but smiled despite himself. "You have a rather mischievous streak. I wonder where you get it from."
The younger one merely grinned. But beneath the playful prodding, there was something else—a careful sort of observance.
Truthfully, he had been studying Beomgyu for some time now—ever since he noticed the way you carried yourself differently around him. He had watched many men attempt to gain your favor, had seen the way you deflected and dismissed them with ease. Yet, with Beomgyu, you were comfortable. He did not know what had changed, or why, but he wanted to see for himself what kind of man had managed to chip away at his sister’s walls.
And though he was younger, though it was you who always shielded him from harm, he had always carried the strong sense of responsibility of ensuring your happiness. If Beomgyu had earned your trust, then he too would extend his own—but not without caution.
“You know,” your brother mused, “you’re good company to my sister. It seems she enjoys your presence. I only hope she is not disappointed in the future.”
For all his youth, there was weight to his words, carrying the warning of a brother who truly loved his sister. Beomgyu stilled, taken aback. A slow exhale left him before he offered a small smile, touched by the sentiment.
“The young master need not worry,” Beomgyu said, voice laced with quiet sincerity. “If I ever bring her disappointment… then you will have the freedom to teach me a lesson.”
He snorted. “Alright, that’s a bit too far. I couldn’t possibly do that to my tutor—my mother would have my head…”
He trailed off mid-sentence, eyes shifting past Beomgyu’s shoulder. His expression lit up, bright and unmistakably fond. Beomgyu followed his gaze.
There, in the distance, standing at the entrance to the garden, was you.
Your brother wasted no time, running forward to meet you. You welcomed him with open arms, letting him embrace you tightly before murmuring, “I missed you, too, Sungcheol.”
Your eyes lifted then, landing on Beomgyu. He stood a few paces away, offering you a small smile. Seeing you again, after so long, made the jittery restlessness in his chest settle.
You were back.
Once your brother finally released you, you informed him that you had brought back gifts from your trip, leaving them with Maya for him to retrieve later.
Sungcheol gasped dramatically. “Why did you not say so earlier?” He turned to Beomgyu, expectant. “Sir, might we take a break?”
Beomgyu nodded, chuckling. “I don’t suppose I have a choice.”
With a quick bow, Sungcheol scurried off, leaving the two of you alone amidst the garden’s blooming roses. Beomgyu took a deep breath, allowing himself to fully take you in after not seeing you for all these days.
“You’re back.” It was barely above a murmur, but there was something beneath it—something that wavered between relief and hesitation.
A breath, and then, you smiled. “I am.”
Standing before each other again, days after your departure, the air between you felt foreign in a pleasant way. The absence had carved its presence between you both, making this moment heavier than either of you had anticipated. It wasn't just time that had passed; it was the steady realization of how much you had grown used to each other, and how much you've missed each other.
You studied him, searching for signs of change in his expression. Beomgyu, on the other hand, felt his breath falter. You were here, standing in front of him, and though he had imagined your return countless times, he hadn't accounted for the way relief would crash into him like a wave.
Without preamble, you reached into your bag and pulled out the book—the rare edition you had found during your trip. "Here," you said, holding it out to him. "I saw this and thought of you."
Beomgyu stared at it, his mind momentarily blank. He recognized the title instantly. His fingers hesitated before finally brushing against the cover, and for a moment, he was transported back to your study, to that first conversation, to the fleeting mention of this very book—a comment he had never expected you to remember. A moment supposed to be lost in time.
"You didn't have to..." he started, voice uncharacteristically quiet, but you shook your head, cutting off whatever words he had been scrambling to find.
“I wanted to,” you countered, your voice softer now, carrying a certainty that left little room for argument. “If anyone deserves this treasure, it’s you.”
Beomgyu had been raised on the belief that actions spoke louder than words. It was a principle he had carried with him, one he lived by. He never expected anything in return for what he gave—never sought acknowledgment, never yearned for reciprocity. And yet, here you were, proving him wrong. This single gesture, filled with such thoughtfulness, left him feeling unsteady.
The book in his hand wasn't just ink and paper carrying timeless history within, it was a proof that you had listened, that you had remembered, that you had thought of him even when he hadn’t been there. The epiphany pressed against the walls of his ribs, too much to hold, too much to release. Beomgyu felt as though he had forgotten how to breathe.
"Congratulations," Beomgyu finally spoke, his voice even despite the erratic beating of his pulse. He tried to ease the restless energy in his chest by focusing on you instead. "Your book’s release—it’s quite the achievement."
You offered him a small smile, gratitude evident in your expression. "Thank you."
A beat passed before he tilted his head, a teasing lilt creeping into his tone. "Do I get the privilege of having my copy signed? Seeing as I’m close allies with the author herself?"
You pretended to consider it, eyes gleaming with mischief. "I’ll think about it."
A soft scoff escaped him, an amused shake of his head following. The freedom that followed from your return into his life once more felt just right, felt like he had been welcomed back into a home he had been searching for his entire life.
The last embers of autumn clung to the trees, their gold and amber hues slowly surrendering to the creeping frost that laced the edges of the world. Yet the air did not feel cold—not when warmth had settled between the newfound company you had found in each other.
Everything felt right.
But somewhere in the distance, seated in the grand living room of his manor with a copy of your book in hand, a pair of pale blue eyes ensured that nothing would remain that way for long.
Your heart and mind seek him for reasons no words could describe — an irony not lost on you, a writer, a weaver of words. And yet, when it comes to him, even you fail to stitch together the language to explain his existence in your life.
⊹₊ wc; 13.2k
Nobleman!Choi Beomgyu x Noblewoman!afab!reader
chapter tags: regency-inspired setting with loosely adapted historical accuracy, heavy slowburn continues, mutual pining reaching concerning levels, they should not be trusted in confined spaces together, forced proximity done wrong in all the right ways, beomgyu is one step away from losing his entire composure (and dignity), taehyun continues to ruin everyone’s peace unintentionally, suggestive tension through proximity and touch (nothing explicit but deeply charged)
warnings: overheard conversation about a young woman’s passing, mc inadvertently (and very much willingly) intercepting information tied to an ongoing investigation
i had to cut the chapter in half because it was becoming far too lengthy WAHAHAHAH i love this chapter a lot btw because i got to torture lord choi <//3 it is proofread but there might still be some errors!
i also wanna thank @yvampyr for motivating me to publish another chapter through her constant praises of this series ily yvro
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The ton often mistakes affection for possession. How unfortunate.
For there exists a far rarer form of devotion, one that asks for nothing and seeks no acclaim. It simply delights in seeing another smile and, having achieved such a feat, considers itself richly rewarded.
This author wonders how many hearts have been lost to that particular vice.
The golden ribbon of dawn had just begun its ascent across the horizon.
Your adrenaline coursed with conspicuous vigour. It had been some time since your blood had carried such brightness through your veins. The act itself was no novelty. You had long since grown adept at slipping beyond the eyes of the aristocrats and at dissolving into thoroughfares where lineage commanded little notice. You had done so countless times.
This morning, however, differed in one irreducible particular. This time, you were not alone.
In what had once been your private and faintly scandalous indulgence, there would now be Choi Beomgyu’s presence.
You found yourself pondering how his hand would feel if it closed around yours to steer through a crowded crossing. To traverse markets and narrow lanes beside him unencumbered by titles and unobserved by matrons introduced an element that painted the undertaking brighter.
It felt perilous in ways that had little to do with discovery because this no longer resembled an excursion between like-minded allies. It felt nearer to flight — a departure into a world you would not mind remaining in, so long as he stood within it.
“You have been smiling since you opened your eyes,” Maya mused, separating the strands of your hair with nimble fingers before weaving them into a single braid. “It is most distracting.”
You lowered your eyes at that, attempting severity and failing to maintain it. “Must you always chaff me?”
“I say it because it is true,” she replied. “You carry your thoughts so heavily most days. This morning, you do not. I would keep this version of you, if I could.”
Warmth crept higher along your cheeks, unassisted by powder or paint. It appeared so thoroughly that it could fool anyone into assuming you had done some touch up.
“Perhaps I have grown soft,” you said quietly. You folded your hands in your lap, then unfolded them again. “It is not foolish, I hope?”
“Foolish?” Maya stepped around you and lifted your chin, studying your face with open affection. “No, my lady. It is human.”
You allowed a small smile. Maya returned it to you brightly. She returned to secure the braid at the nape of your neck and coiled it into a modest knot, fastening the final pin.
“There! Entirely unremarkable. Which, for once, is precisely the aim,” she beamed.
You rose and adjusted the bodice, drawing the laces taut and tying them. The fabric lay plain against you; no ornament distracted from the simplicity of the attire for the obvious part. You regarded your reflection only briefly before your gaze fell again.
“Maya.”
“Yes, my lady?”
It was a bit ironic how you — a weaver of words — failed to weave the very words upon your tongue when it came to Beomgyu. Your delayed attempt at speech formation did not go unnoticed by her. Instead of urging you, Maya waited.
You took a deep breath, then let it out. “I have always walked alone in these paths of mine. I have never had anyone take a genuine interest in the pursuits that occupy my mind, nor have I encountered one who regards the world as I do.” — but in the end, words did end up flowing naturally, and talking about him always brings upon a real smile on your lips.
Maya’s features softened. She took your hands before you could withdraw them and enclosed them within her own. “What troubles you?” she asked.
“I find that I want him there,” you confessed. When you lifted your eyes, hesitation tempered your expression. “More than I should, perhaps. Is it wrong to desire his company so much?”
Maya exhaled fondly. She rubbed her thumbs across your knuckles, as though warming them from cold. “My lady, there is no fault in wanting the presence of someone who makes your heart lighter,” she answered, giving your hands a gentle squeeze.
“I know,” you whispered.
“You have denied yourself companionship for long enough. You may keep a little joy for your own sake,” she continued, adjusting the fall of your shawl over your shoulders. “Go to him. See what becomes of it.”
They were mere words, but the brightness in your heart turned incandescent with joy upon hearing them. You rose from the chair and drew her into an embrace. Her hands pressed warmly against your back. The contact steadied your breathing.
“I shall be back soon,” you murmured near her ear, tightening your hold for a brief moment before stepping back.
“You shall return content,” she replied, patting your arm once and releasing you. “And you shall tell me whether he proved worthy of that smile.”
Beyond the window, dawn had grown brighter; the estate would soon stir in earnest. You turned toward the door and carried that warmth with you.
The old butler, Mr. Austen had long ceased to be merely a servant within the household; he occupied a station closer to stewardship. Beyond Maya, there existed no other soul to whom you entrusted your more unconventional enterprises.
It was he who had priorly secured a carriage — which was not one of yours or bore a crest that might betray affiliation. He had given an impression to the hired coachman that one of the attendants required conveyance to the church situated at the far end of town. The explanation met with no skepticism.
When the appointed hour arrived, you descended the side staircase with your bonnet drawn low to obscure the greater part of your face. Mr. Austen assisted you into the carriage with care that bordered upon paternal instinct. Throughout the journey, no passerby gave the carriage a second glance. To them, it bore the insignificance of countless others that traversed the thoroughfare each day.
By the time the church spire came into view beyond the clustered rooftops, your passage had been accomplished without incident. The carriage drew to a halt near the back wall, removed from the main square where foot traffic gathered in scarce number. Mr. Austen descended first, then turned to offer his hand once more.
You accepted it and stepped down upon the cobbled ground, lifting your skirts to avoid the damp between the stones. Once clear of the carriage, you reached up and adjusted your bonnet, ensuring it cast sufficient shadow across your features.
“Mr. Austen,” you said warmly, “I ought to thank you more properly. You always assist me, even when my requests are troublesome.”
He regarded you from beneath brows that had grown more expressive with age. “If I complained every time you made life difficult, I should have no breath left for anything else.”
You startled into a laugh. “So you admit I am troublesome!”
Mr. Austen’s smile was concealed under this grey mustache, but the crinkles around his eyes were an evident of it. It in return lifted the apples of your cheeks.
“I jest,” he said. “Though I must admit with pride that you have inherited both your parent’s resolve for greater pursuits.”
You tilted your head and allowed a hint of levity to enter your voice. “I keep wondering how you have not grown weary of me, or insisted to betray my secrets in the interest of your own tranquillity.”
At this, he exhaled through his nose and removed one glove, lifting his hand to rest briefly upon your head. The gesture was gentle.
“Betray you?” he said, lowering his voice in a parental rebuking tone. “I have served this household since before you could form a sentence. I carried you through those corridors when you could not walk. I have bandaged your knees and hidden your broken teacups. Do you suppose I would begin betraying you now?”
“When you list it so plainly, I sound incorrigible.” Your smile softened.
“You were an energetic child,” he corrected, drawing his glove back on. “You are now an energetic young lady. I know your mind. I know when you act with purpose.”
You lowered your gaze. “Even so, I must try your patience.”
“You try nothing of the sort,” he answered. His gaze moved past you toward the narrow street that curved away from the church. “Take care while you are out there. Keep to the streets we discussed and return by the hour agreed upon.”
“I shall.” You inclined your head in acknowledgment.
He stepped back to allow you passage toward the entrance, yet his eyes remained upon you until you reached the shelter of the stone archway. Only then did he withdraw to the carriage.
No passerby occupied the lane that led to the churchyard at this hour. The structure had endured many seasons without devoted care; ivy gripped the outer stonework, and long green climbers wound their way along cracked mortar and weathered arches. Moss had gathered between the flagstones of the path.
You crossed the yard with brisk steps, gathering the edge of your skirt so it would not brush the damp growth along the wall. The wooden gate yielded beneath your hands with a subdued groan. You slipped inside and drew it back into place behind you, the iron latch settling with a hollow echo that traversed through the small vestibule.
The church received you in tempered light. Tall windows of stained glass admitted slender shafts of colour that descended across the rows of aged pews and wandered over the stone floor. Dust stirred faintly in the air where the sunlight touched it.
The hush within bore the solemnity of a place accustomed to confessions declared with trembling breaths and parting words spoken with tearful eyes. A sanctuary for lovers brought together by fate and here, beneath these very windows, they had stood hand in hand to bind their futures together before witness and blessing.
Within that broad expanse, he sat several rows ahead with a book in his hands. The stillness surrounding him gave the impression that he had been waiting for some time. You hadn’t taken three steps before he turned his head.
His gaze found you.
It was a wonder he did not drop the book, or how he had managed to preserve even the outward appearance of a gentleman. Nearly every rational thought had abandoned him, leaving only a tumult of sensation that defied decorum.
He could not reconcile the image before him with the world he occupied. There existed no refinement of language that could render you into adequate description within his mind. It was a theft from fortune itself that he should be granted this sight of you — heaven sent — in a place that had borne vows of eternity.
How undeserving he was, and yet how impossibly fortunate, to know you at all. To have encountered you in this lifetime was a miracle he could scarcely bear to acknowledge without trembling. He, who had done nothing to earn such grace, found himself granted it all the same.
He pressed the book shut with his thumb and set it aside upon the bench without once glancing away. Rising soon after, he remained where he stood and did not dare step forward to meet you. Any further claim upon your presence might verge upon excess.
The path you walked on had seen brides being led forward beneath veils.
You reached up and untied the ribbons beneath your chin, slipping the bonnet free and lowering it to your side. Filtered sunlight brushed across your features; you were unaware of the devastation your simple gesture wrought upon the man who watched.
With no witness but the silent church and its ancient walls, Choi Beomgyu found himself wholly, helplessly, and madly in awe of you.
Meanwhile, each step along the aisle was taken with a steadiness that belied the faint quickening beneath your ribs. Once standing before him, your lips parted in an aberrantly shy greeting.
“Hi.” — the greeting emerged so softly that it scarcely disturbed the hush surrounding you.
He forgot every prepared greeting he had carried with him into the church. He had spent the better part of the morning considering what he might say upon seeing you again but none of it survived.
"Hi,” he returned after a short moment. He stepped forward a pace, the faintest tremor betraying the effort it took to hold himself upright. “Did you have a safe journey here? I hope it was not troublesome to avoid the eyes."
You laughed, a delicate sound that rolled through the air and set his heart skittering.
“This is hardly my first venture of the sort, Lord Choi,” you said, a trace of mirth touching your lips. “You needn’t worry on my behalf.”
He pressed his lips together, his eyes closing briefly as he recalled the forgotten detail. He inclined his head in a gesture that carried apology — one that seamlessly delivered that he had disciplined himself for even daring to dismiss something from his mind about you.
“Yes—yes, of course.” His voice softened, almost conceding the ground with care. “Forgive me. I remember now that you have done this many times before.”
Your smile deepened. “Apology accepted.”
You moved together toward the rear of the church where there was a door set behind the last row of pews. He reached ahead of you to pull it open, then stepped aside to let you pass through first. The faint freshness of the season’s turn kissed the skin beneath your eyes.
A slim path stretched ahead, bordered by overgrown hedges and low-hanging branches that filtered the daylight into shifting patches upon the ground. Beomgyu lifted one hand to guide a stray branch away from your path before letting it fall back into place. He walked beside you, though never too near. You wished he did.
“After a short while, a man will pass here with his cart. We will join him and reach the town without a hitch,” he explained, glancing down the road ahead.
You tilted your head, curiosity brightening your features. "Are you friends with this man, Lord Choi?"
"He has been the one to get me in and out of town during these escapes of mine." His gaze carried a secretive fondness. The next moment, however, he gave you a look. “Though I must warn you, he sometimes let his tongue outrun his wit.”
You hummed, eyes tracing the patterns of sunlight through the branches. The faint stir of leaves above lent a softness to the moment. “It is lovely , isn’t it, Lord Choi?” you said after a pause, “to have friends who look out for you so, without question.”
You thought of Maya, and of Mr. Austen — whose loyalty had never once wavered despite the liberties you so often took. It was indeed the greatest gift in knowing that one was not alone in one’s ventures, however ill-advised they might appear to others. You were comforted to know that Beomgyu was not solitary in his wanderings; that beyond the confines of expectation, he too was sustained by hands willing to guide and guard his passage.
“You need not call me that.”
During the passing silence between you, in which the sound of your footsteps mingled with the whispering leaves — his low voice tickled your ears. The sensation travelled all the way down to your arms, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps whose reason of origin were too specific to be blamed upon the morning breeze.
Your feet slowed of their own volition. “Whatever do you mean?”
“‘Lord Choi’,” he said, meeting your gaze. “You do not need to keep using the title with me.”
“And what should I call you, then?” you jested, the question light upon your tongue. “Mr. Choi?”
That drew a different look from him. The smile that curved his lips deepened, and he held your gaze with a gravity that pulled at your senses. He allowed the meaning of his words to settle — and understanding came to you in a gradual unfoldment.
"Oh," you murmured, the single syllable tasting of revelation.
“We are not within society’s bounds here. If you continue to address me so, it may draw notice.” He wished to hear his name from you alone — stripped of rank and shaped only by your voice, entirely kept apart from every other claim upon him. It seemed, in that moment, an unnecessary barrier — one he could not bring himself to tolerate. “Use my name.”
You held your gaze on him, feeling a giddiness unfurl within your chest that made your pulse reckless. He was looking at you with expectation, a tender touch of patience, awaiting the very thing your heart ached to give. Your breath caught in a minuscule falter before you turned your face aside, conceding the moment without granting it its full due.
“You ask for liberties, Lord—” The title slipped out of habit; you halted, then amended with care, “—then I should expect the same from you, should I not?”
Beomgyu smiled in full, no withholding. “You may always expect from me what your heart permits, and far more besides.” — then he said your name.
He stepped closer in thought, if not in body, his words bending the social rules only to fold entirely around you.
You had grown so accustomed to hearing him say “my lady” to address you that the notion of your own name claimed by his voice had never crossed your mind. Now, confronted with your title’s absence, you found yourself wholly unprepared. Would it be improper to coax him to repeat your name? Though you doubted whether you could ever request it again without succumbing into a breathless whisper.
“Oi! Choi Beomgyu!”
You turned in tandem. An old man was approaching you with a slow, rolling gait on a haycart.
“Didnt expect you to show up today!” he called, squinting at Beomgyu beneath the brim of his worn hat. “Thought you’d lost your nerve this time.”
“I gave you my word, uncle Park,” Beomgyu replied, stepping nearer as the cart drew close for him to lay a hand upon its side. His fingers closed around the wooden rail, steadying the slight jolt as the horse was brought to a halt. “You might consider granting me a measure of patience.”
“Patience?” Uncle Park barked, striking the side of the cart with a resounding slap. “You vanish for weeks on end and return with talk of patience? I ought to charge you interest for every day you kept me waiting.”
“Come now, do not begin reciting my faults before I have even greeted you properly,” Beomgyu drawled. The tilt of his mouth carried a trace of mischief that seemed ill-matched with the poise he otherwise wore. “You would have me condemned before I could attempt a defence.”
The change may have been miniscule but it did not escape your notice. It was, you thought, a sight to behold — to witness him thus.
“Well now, and who might this be?” The old man’s attention veered from Beomgyu with abrupt curiosity. He regarded you with frank appraisal before his brows rose and his grin widened into something altogether knowing. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone and found yourself a sweetheart. Took you long enough, boy. I thought you meant to wander alone till your bones gave out.”
Oh, it was another sight to behold — to see such a bright shade of red adorning his face.
“No—no, you’ve mistaken it entirely,” Beomgyu spluttered, the denial arriving with such haste that it threatened coherence. “She is—we are acquainted. A friend.”
Uncle Park’s expression did not alter in the slightest. He let out a low hum, drawing the sound out as his gaze passed between you both again. He was unconvinced in the most evident manner.
“A friend, is it?” he repeated with skepticism. “Well, a friend with the look of her, I’ll grant you’ve done well for yourself.”
A trace of pity found its way through you for him. So you stepped forward before Beomgyu could further knot himself in needless explanation. Inclining your head in greeting, you offered Uncle Park a civility he had not anticipated.
“Good day, sir,” you said, hands gathered neatly before you. “We remain indebted for your assistance.”
He blinked with bafflement. Then he let out a small chuckle, scratching at his jaw. “No debt worth speaking of. Any friend of his is welcome enough.”
“I have heard you have been aiding him in reaching town,” you said once settled upon the cart’s wooden bed, Beomgyu following close behind. “Though I begin to suspect I have been introduced into a history far more elaborate than I was warned of.”
Beomgyu released a breath through his nose, turning his head aside as he ran a hand through his hair as though it might restore some fragment of dignity. “You have been warned sufficiently,” he muttered, though his glance betrayed a flicker of reluctant humour. “It is not my fault you chose to ignore it.”
“Was I now?” you returned, the question light but you were evidently chaffing.
“Warned?” Uncle Park echoed, taking up the reins and guiding the horse forward. “Now that is a detail I should very much like to hear. What, pray tell, have you been saying about me, boy?”
“Nothing that would survive your hearing,” Beomgyu replied without missing a beat, though the faint colour rising along the line of his cheek rendered the retort less convincing than he might have wished.
Uncle Park released a loud laugh, head tipping back in delight as the horse gave a mild flick of its ear in response. “Ah, so you do possess a tongue when pressed!”
You turned your gaze upon Beomgyu then, interest brightening your expression as the exchange had offered you a private amusement worth savoring. “It seems I had formed a rather different impression,” you said, lightly.
Beomgyu’s gaze narrowed with a flash of protest that did not quite disguise the reluctant curve threatening his mouth. “You can change your opinion of me if you want,” he returned. “But I would advise against placing too much faith in this man’s testimony.”
“Dangerous counsel,” Uncle Park interjected. “Encouraging a lady to doubt me at our very first meeting. You’ll have her convinced I am a scoundrel before I’ve even had the chance to prove it.”
“I suspect that you would require no encouragement at all in that regard,” you replied, your tone turning pleasantly contemplative.
A stunned beat passed over the air punctuated only by the sounds of the hooves. Not long after, the old man threw his head back and laughed again, wholly delighted.
“Oh, I like her,” he declared, pointing a crooked finger in your direction. “You’ve brought me someone with sense, Beomgyu. That alone earns you forgiveness for your many disappearances.”
“I am relieved my standing has been restored on such merciful terms,” Beomgyu said dryly.
Uncle Park clicked his tongue, casting him a sideways look. “But do not grow complacent. A man who makes promises and neglects them is of little use to anyone, least of all himself.”
The remark had teeth underneath the jovial tone which altered the look in Beomgyu’s eyes. As much as it was miniscule, it was still perceptible. There was little room left for defence when the accusation aligned too closely with his own assessment of past conduct. For a brief stretch of thought, he allowed no rebuttal to form but his fingers tightened against the rail’s rough grain before he inclined his head.
“I am here now,” he said.
The words were few, but they carried an undercurrent of finality that admitted no further censure.
Uncle Park stared for a passing moment, the remnants of his earlier levity giving way to a more considered regard. He gave a short nod and returned his attention to the road.
“Aye,” he conceded. “That you are.”
You offered no interruption through it. There were conversations that did not belong to you, and you possessed enough discernment to leave them undisturbed.
The wind had found its way into Beomgyu’s hair and tousled it in the most wild manner; a stray leaf remained stuck near his temple. Wordlessly, you reached forward and removed it, and upon feeling your touch on his skin, Beomgyu relaxed as he faced you.
You lifted the leaf between your fingers, a faint smile touching your mouth as you held it out for him to see. He did not need to know that it had served as your excuse to touch him and to offer a moment of solace. He remembered your words of affirmations from the riverside. They were called forth with little effort, softening whatever had remained of the previous exchange. He said nothing.
From the front, uncle Park glanced back once more, his grin returning in full force. “You’ll have to tell me her name, at least,” he called. “Can’t keep calling her ‘friend’ all the way to town.”
Beomgyu’s expression tightened into a reluctant frown. “You may mind the road, and leave the rest to me.”
“Aye, I’ll mind it well enough,” the man replied, though satisfaction coloured his tone. “But I’ve eyes, boy. And I know what I see.”
The cart drew to a halt at the edge of the town, where the worn road gave way to a livelier thoroughfare beyond. Beomgyu descended first and his hand rose in instinctive assistance — though he paused just short of presumption, allowing you the choice of accepting it.
A soft laugh slipped from you, touched with fond exasperation as you accepted his offer. Even now, he held himself apart, careful to grant you space you had never asked him to keep. You had never objected to his hand — had, in truth, found yourself inclined to accept it whenever it was offered.
You were more than willing to take his and only his hand.
Uncle Park watched the exchange with unabashed interest. Once you had offered your thanks and moved ahead, he turned toward Beomgyu with a pointed sound of disapproval.
“A friend, he says,” he remarked, shaking his head. “If that is friendship, I should like to see what he calls devotion.”
Beomgyu shot him a look that might have served as a warning in any other circumstance. Here, it merely provoked further delight.
After bidding him farewell, the two of you moved toward the town proper. What awaited you upon entry bore little resemblance to the subdued bustle you had anticipated.
Colour adorned every visible corner and banners stretched between buildings in bright swathes, fabric stirred by the passing air; lanterns hung in careful rows, their glass catching the sunrays in fractured gleams. Myriads of laughter carried through the streets with a buoyancy that stirred even the most indifferent passerby.
“Have we arrived in the midst of some celebration?” you asked, gaze moving from one detail to the next before looking up at him. “Were you aware of this?”
His expression was shaped by honest surprise. “I had no knowledge of it,” he said, almost to himself, before his features eased and a smile found its place. “Still, it is rather fortunate. We should make use of it while we are here.”
He lifted his arm toward you in invitation.
You looked at the gesture, then at him. Had it truly slipped his consideration that any display of formality in such a place might draw unwelcome attention, when he had been so insistent elsewhere that you abandon it and call him by his name? Surely, it would not hurt to return a fraction of that boldness now, simply to see whether it might touch him the same way it had undone you.
You placed your hand into his, bypassing the offered formality entirely. His breath faltered.
You leaned closer, lowering your voice so that it reached him alone. “We cannot follow etiquette here, can we?” you murmured, tilting your head in a small indication toward the passing crowd.
The words were meticulously delivered with a soft provocation that sought him out and held him there. Beomgyu exhaled, the sound uneven before he gathered himself, his fingers closing more securely around yours. It was no longer tentative in their claim. You beamed.
“You have not yet eaten, have you?” he asked. “There is a place ahead I would like to show you. Their breakfast is worth the visit.”
Beomgyu led you through an alley tucked between bustling storefronts until the sight of a weathered wooden sign drew recognition from you. You had visited this establishment more times than you could count during your private excursions through the town. Little about it had changed since then.
The old matriarch still presided over the shop with formidable vitality, directing her children and grandchildren from behind the counter while pots simmered and trays passed rapidly from hand to hand. Age had touched her hair and the bend of her back, though not a single soul beneath that roof appeared foolish enough to mistake her for frail.
The entire household erupted into a chorus of greeting the moment Beomgyu stepped through the doorway.
“Mum, Choi Beomgyu came back!”
“You finally remembered us?”
“Sit down before your face grows any thinner!”
One of the younger boys abandoned his errand entirely to throw his arms around Beomgyu’s middle, nearly causing him to stumble backward with startled laughter spilling from his mouth. An older woman emerged from the kitchen carrying a basket of bread and clicked her tongue at him before cupping his cheek in both hands, scolding him for his long absence while her eyes shone with unconcealed affection.
It was one matter to know Beomgyu as you did. It was another matter entirely to witness the traces he left behind within the lives of others.
What stood before you was not simply a man who was well-liked, but a man who had left impressions upon people so deeply fond that they reached for him — actually reached for him — with happiness made visible on their faces. This was something you had no tidy word for, which meant it was, in all likelihood, the truest thing about him. Looking at him made the brightness in your heart alight with joy.
The family ushered the two of you toward a crowded table beside several townspeople midway through their breakfast. There was more food than you can reasonably eat as they jumped at the opportunity to feed you when they noticed Beomgyu brought you along. Fresh bread still warm from the oven, butter softened beneath the morning heat, roasted potatoes seasoned generously with herbs, thick stew fragrant enough to draw sighs from nearby tables — the varieties only kept increasing.
“Please,” you finally laughed after another bowl was placed before you. “Surely there are others here who must also eat.”
Every attempt to refuse additional servings was met with scandalised disbelief. You had easily eaten to the comfortable limit of your capacity and settled back with the satisfaction of a meal properly honoured. Beomgyu leaned forward at your side and studied your expression with poorly concealed anticipation.
“Well?” he asked. “Was bringing you here a wise decision?”
You exhaled contentedly and brushed a stray crumb from your fingertips. “Very wise. This reminds me of meals back home. There is far more soul within food prepared this way.” Your gaze wandered briefly toward the rear counter where kettles released curling streams of steam into the air, and said, almost to yourself, "I wonder if they carry tea."
"They do," said Beomgyu, and paused in a way that told you the sentence was not yet finished. "Though I find myself compelled to ask something first. Have you ever had coffee ground fresh and prepared with any degree of honest care for the result?"
You raised your brows to show you were thoroughly interested in the subject. “Do you consider yourself an authority on the matter?”
“I consider myself tragically burdened with superior taste.”
A laugh escaped you. “I prefer tea,” you admitted, affording him the candour the question merited. “Though I have had coffee on occasion and found it perfectly—”
"Agreeable?" he supplied.
You rested your chin briefly upon your hand, smiling. "Is that not sufficient?"
Without another word, he rose and extended his hand toward you. There existed an eager brightness about him then, one that stirred immediate curiosity within your chest.
“Come,” he said. “Allow me the opportunity to change your opinion.”
You placed your hand into his and permitted him to lead you toward the back portion of the establishment where shelves lined with jars and tins occupied the walls. The younger women there greeted him with visible delight before moving aside to grant him access to the preparation space, clearly accustomed to this intrusion.
“Do you do this often?” you asked while watching him roll the sleeves of his shirt slightly higher.
The fabric gave way to forearms exposing elegant lines and the faint rise of veins beneath golden skin. It took you a while to tear your gaze away before you forced yourself to follow the movement of his hands instead.
“Often enough that they have stopped questioning it,” he answered, sounding rather pleased with himself as he reached for a bag of beans.
“I cannot decide,” you said, stepping closer to the counter and folding your hands behind your back, “whether that reflects well upon your skill or poorly upon their judgment.”
He glanced over his shoulder at you, and pressed a look of mock grievance into his expression. “You wound me before I have even begun.”
The remark drew another soft laugh from you. He turned away shortly after, though not before you caught the fleeting brightness crossing his features.
“Shall I be of any help?” you asked, leaning lightly against the counter’s edge.
Beomgyu set the grinder down and turned fully toward you, raising his brows in consideration. He then snuck a glance briefly toward the woman at the far end of the room before motioning toward the stool set with a tilt of his head, the corners of his mouth already betraying him.
“My lady,” he said, lowering his voice into a murmur meant for you alone, “only needs to sit pretty for me.”
For one treacherous instant, your mind abandoned you entirely.
You lowered yourself onto the stool with far more composure than you truly possessed, one hand curling against the edge of the wooden seat. A small lopsided smile touched your mouth in spite of every effort to contain it.
My lady only needs to sit pretty for me. Such shameless words, spoken beneath his breath.
The remark had already entered your chest with ruinous effect, carrying that infuriating mixture of sweetness and confidence he seemed capable of summoning so deftly whenever he chose to turn his attention wholly upon you. He just created a dangerously intimate air.
You turned your face away under the pretence of examining the shelves beside you, though the aim proved entirely futile once you caught sight of him again from the corner of your vision. The faint curve still threatening his mouth from your reaction alone conspired against your attempt at indifference with astonishing success. Beomgyu looked thoroughly pleased by his own effect upon you.
He selected the beans himself, inspecting them with surprising care before pouring them into the grinder. Morning light poured through the nearby window and scattered across him in fractured bands of gold, catching against the dark fall of his hair when he moved around. The rich fragrance of freshly ground coffee slowly wafted through the room, enveloping you little by little while Beomgyu continued his work with visible fondness for the task itself.
Watching him in such a setting — attention devoted wholly toward preparing a simple cup of coffee for you — awakened a longing you scarcely recognised. It was not excitement, nor infatuation, nor any of the foolish sentiments novels delighted in exalting. It was the sudden desire to preserve the moment exactly as it was and return to it whenever the world became unkind.
Beomgyu added milk and sugar only after pausing to ask how you preferred it, and when you answered that you trusted his judgement, his fingers faltered briefly against the spoon. You pretended not to notice. He pretended equally hard.
Then, at last, he poured the hot liquid into a cup and set it before you. The anticipation upon his face nearly made you laugh. You lifted the porcelain carefully and took your first sip.
The coffee carried none of the bitterness you had long associated with it; instead there came a depth to the flavour that unfolded gradually upon the tongue, mellowed by sweetness and softened further by the warmth of milk he had added for you. It filled you from within in a manner strangely comforting.
"Oh," you said.
It was not your most eloquent expression of sentiment. It was, however, entirely sincere.
"Well?" Beomgyu asked softly.
You stared down into the cup for another moment before looking back at him with open astonishment. “Lord Choi, this is extraordinary.”
Relief flooded his features so swiftly that you nearly laughed again. “Is that approval I hear?”
“Approval?” You chuckled softly before taking another sip, savouring it without the slightest attempt to disguise your delight. “I think you may have altered the course of my life.”
The younger woman arranging cups nearby covered her smile behind her hand at your reaction, though you scarcely noticed her. Your attention was held by the rich taste of coffee, which had far more depth than any of the ones you had previously endured out of courtesy during formal visits and social calls.
“I am glad it is to your liking,” he replied, watching you with such transparent fondness that it became difficult to look anywhere else for long. “You sounded displeased by bitterness, so I thought—”
“No, you do not understand,” you continued, stepping closer without realizing it. “I have never tasted coffee this good before. I shall return home intolerably dissatisfied with everyone who attempts to prepare a cup thereafter.”
“I would gladly make it for you myself,” he answered at once.
You looked at him and found that he had, at some point, abandoned any pretence of attending to his own cup. He was watching you — had been watching you — so thoroughly gratified by the simple fact of your reaction that it surpassed, by some considerable distance, anything you might have readied yourself to receive. He looked at you the way a person looks at something they have long wished to share with someone, who has at last been granted the occasion.
"You are not even drinking yours," you observed, glancing pointedly at his cup.
"No," he agreed, without a shade of contrition.
“You won’t be able to enjoy it once it loses its warmth.”
“Watching you enjoy yours appears to satisfy me far more.”
You smiled into the rim of the cup before lowering it again, entirely incapable of concealing your pleasure.
And standing within that humble little kitchen, surrounded by roasted coffee and morning sunlight, Beomgyu found himself thinking that he would willingly spend every remaining day of his life chasing that look upon your face if only to witness it again.
The remainder of the morning passed beneath a gentler pace.
You stayed far longer than either of you had planned, seated near the open window enjoying the cool breeze as you carried on conversations. At some point, Beomgyu suggested venturing further into town while the festivities still endured. Before your departure, you asked the elderly shopkeeper what precisely the occasion celebrated.
Spring, she had told you warmly. Renewal. The casting away of winter’s dreariness in favour of brighter days ahead.
You found the sentiment rather lovely.
The town had grown even more animated with the advancing afternoon. Children darted between merchants with sugared fruits clutched in their hands while musicians occupied crowded corners with fiddles and drums, their melodies spilling through the streets amidst merchants calling out to passing patrons. The crowd of people pressed nearer with every turn through the market, enough that Beomgyu’s hand remained securely around yours from the moment you stepped back into the thoroughfare.
You noticed that he no longer appeared startled by the contact.
In truth, it was you who kept drawing nearer whenever the crowd thickened while the two of you wound between stalls laden with flowers and embroidered ribbons. Every now and then a vendor would greet Beomgyu by name, and each greeting only deepened your fascination with the life he possessed beyond society and scholarly distinction.
You kept getting reminded how beneath the open sky and amongst townsfolk who adored him without reservation, he appeared touched by a brightness that made him painfully beautiful to behold.
“You are very loved here,” you remarked softly after yet another merchant pressed free sweets into his hands despite his protests.
Beomgyu glanced toward you, faint embarrassment touching his features. “They are merely generous people.”
“No,” you replied, tightening your hand around his. “They are generous to you.”
Deeper colour touched the tips of his ears immediately thereafter, though salvation arrived in the form of a nearby fruit stall before either of you could dwell within the aftermath for too long.
“Wait here,” he murmured.
You watched him exchange a few coins with the vendor before returning moments later with a pear resting within his palm; golden-skinned and ripened beneath the season’s warmth to the point where droplets of juice already gathered near the stem. He wiped the fruit against the sleeve of his shirt and held it toward you expectantly.
“For you.”
You looked from the pear to his face, then smiled slowly before inclining your head forward and biting directly into the fruit while he still held it.
The skin broke beneath your teeth with a soft crack. Sweetness flooded your mouth instantly, rich and sun-warmed, and a thin trail of juice slipped carelessly down your chin before you could stop it. A startled laugh escaped you at that.
“Oh, that is wonderful—”
You lifted your hand toward your chin, though he caught your wrist gently before you could wipe the juice away yourself. His thumb brushed beneath your lower lip in one slow motion, collecting the droplet there before releasing you entirely.
“Sweet, isn’t it?” he asked, voice lowered by a tenderness that rendered your pulse uneven.
You could only nod.
Then, still holding your gaze, he lifted the pear and bit into the very place your mouth had touched.
You blinked as your breath caught so abruptly at the sight that it did not escape Beomgyu’s notice, the corner of his mouth curving faintly around another bite.
“You appear scandalised, my lady,” he mused.
“You are behaving scandalously,” you returned, though the slight tremor in your voice betrayed any attempt at reproach.
Right then, a burst of applause erupted from somewhere farther down the street, followed almost immediately by the lively sweep of fiddles and tambourines. The interruption arrived with merciful timing. You turned toward the source of the commotion while several townsfolk hurried past in excitement, and Beomgyu released a soft breath through his nose that suggested he, too, recognised salvation when it presented itself.
“Let us go,” he said, glancing back at you over his shoulder and catching your hand. “I wish to see what has gathered such enthusiasm.”
The street opened into a bustling square awash with performers and festival-goers. Everyone clapped along to the music surrounding them, skirts swirling across cobblestones as partners spun one another beneath the bright spring afternoon. Whenever a step went poorly, the offender merely laughed harder before beginning again.
Everyone appeared so radiant in their carefreeness. You could not stop smiling as you watched.
Beomgyu watched you instead of watching them. “Do you like it?”
“How could I not?” you replied, gaze wandering across the square. “There is far more life here than within half the ballrooms I have attended.”
He hummed, crossing his arms. “Nobody here cares whether their footwork impresses a duchess.”
You laughed, gosh — how many times had he already made you laugh today? Beomgyu relished every second of that sound before extending his hand toward you.
“Come here.”
Your brows lifted instantly, taking his hand. “That is hardly a proper invitation.”
“You refused my last proper invitation,” he reminded you, stepping closer. “I saw little benefit in repeating myself.”
Memory returned at his words; the winter ball from weeks prior, the hand he had offered then with the hopes of a waltz with you. You hadn’t indulged him back then. Instead you had given a vague promise of next time.
Since the formal approach failed last time, this was Beomgyu trying a different one now.
Your smile curved slowly afterward. “You remember that?”
“I remember nearly everything regarding you.”
You felt comfort in knowing that your passing remarks did not vanish into the ether when spoken to him. He appeared intent upon remembering you.
Appreciation had always existed as a distant and complicated thing within your life; admired beauty invited possession, admired intelligence invited challenge, admired status invited ambition. You were desired endlessly, yet so few had ever looked upon you with genuine regard for the woman standing before them rather than the advantages attached to her name.
To be cherished without demand had remained foreign to you for far too long.
With Beomgyu, that foreignness dissolved so naturally that you could no longer recall its absence. He simply looked at you as though your happiness alone possessed the capacity to enrich his world. Somewhere along the way, affection had ceased feeling like a bargain awaiting its price. In his company, it arrived freely and remained freely given. The wariness that had accompanied tenderness for so many years found itself slipping away piece by piece until trusting him felt no more difficult than turning your face toward sunlight.
Your gaze drifted back toward the dancers circling the square, your smile softening faintly at the sight of them.
“I am not certain I could do that,” you admitted after a moment, watching one particularly exuberant couple stumble into laughter after missing several steps entirely.
Beomgyu followed your line of sight before turning back toward you with raised brows. “You believe yourself incapable of moving in a circle?”
“No!” you laughed. “I meant—the dance steps. I do not know the steps.”
A low laugh escaped him. Beomgyu stepped closer and lifted your joined hands between you, giving them one small encouraging sway to the music drifting through the square.
“You need not know the dance,” he said. “As I have said, nobody here does.”
“That is hardly reassuring.”
“It should be.” His smile deepened. “Look around you.”
You did.
A little girl stood atop her father’s boots several feet away while he guided her through clumsy turns. Of course it was not perfect, but they were happy. Nearby, two elderly women clapped along to the melody without even attempting the steps, and one poor gentleman had nearly collided into a flower cart moments prior only to receive applause for the effort.
The entire square overflowed with joy untouched by embarrassment. That was the radiance you had admired just moments prior. Your uncertainty had no moment to resurface after that.
Beomgyu gave your hand another gentle pull. "All you need to do is follow my lead."
He began simply at first, coaxing you into the beat of the music without surrendering fully to the dance. One step. Then another. A turn barely deserving of the name while he guided your movements with slow encouragement.
“There,” he murmured once you managed the timing correctly. “You are already succeeding.”
You gave a sardonic roll of your eyes, chuckling. "You need not lie."
“I am being truthful.” He smiled.
Gradually, laughter found you again. It slipped free without reservation each time you missed a step and Beomgyu caught you before you could stumble into disaster, and every burst of mirth from your lips appeared to affect him profoundly that he basked in his own delight.
All of a sudden, he stopped altogether and winked. Before you realised his intention, Beomgyu drew you fully into the dancing circle.
A startled laugh escaped you immediately when he spun you beneath his arm, your free hand catching against his shoulder for balance. “Lord Choi—”
“Hush,” he murmured, pulling you nearer amidst the swirl of dancers before leaning close enough that his breath brushed against your ear. “No titles today.”
The intimacy of his voice sent a shiver licking up down your spine. You bit your lip because you weren't sure what you would have said anyway. You weren't sure you were capable of forming language at all right now. So you let him lead you through the dance, pretending his words hadn’t set flames through your veins.
There existed no graceful structure to the dance itself. It took several attempts before you found the tempo hidden within the music, and even then you frequently stepped where you ought not, though neither of you cared in the slightest. The mixed informality made the moment far more intimate than any waltz performed beneath chandeliers could have achieved.
Breathlessness overtook you quickly beneath the exhilaration of movement and music, your chest rising rapidly while delight coursed through you with almost intoxicating force. Your skirts swept against his legs whenever he drew you nearer, and every time laughter escaped your lips, Beomgyu felt an absurd desire to gather the sound and keep it.
You had not realised joy could feel so boundless.
Strands of your hair had loosened from their arrangement during the dance, and when the wind carried them across your face, Beomgyu tucked them gently behind your ear. It was such a small act of care, easily forgotten by anyone else. But you found yourself wishing for the moment to lengthen, if only by a few heartbeats more.
The earlier exuberance surrounding the square had mellowed into a slower melody carried by violin strings, while pairs gradually abandoned spirited turns in favour of swaying movements beneath the lanterns now glowing overhead. Your pulse had yet to recover from the dance, and every muscle protested pleasantly from exertion.
His gaze dipped toward your hands and remained there for a brief moment before returning to you. Slowly, almost reverently, he lifted one of your hands and guided it upward toward his shoulder. Then the other followed, his touch so gentle that you almost melted beneath the tenderness of it. When your arms settled loosely around his neck, Beomgyu did not hold you immediately afterward.
His eyes searched yours, the remaining space between you diminishing inch by inch under the sway of music. He simply wished for your willingness to meet his own, restrained only by the final thread of permission he sought from you before surrendering himself fully to the moment.
By then, you had begun to understand him far too well.
Your smile was his answer — and Beomgyu’s breath visibly faltered at the sight of it.
His hands settled at your waist at last, and the movement carried such care that it nearly distracted you from the realization that he had drawn you closer. Amid the slow turning of dancers around you, your awareness became occupied by one curious detail.
Beomgyu looked almost dazed by you.
His thumb moved faintly against the fabric gathered at your waist while your fingers brushed against the hair at the nape of his neck, and for several precious moments neither of you spoke at all. Words would only diminish it. Slow dancing, wearing smiles of soft wonderment of two souls discovering, perhaps in a long, long while, how lovely it felt to be cherished without fear.
By the time the sun had begun its gradual descent across the western hills, the jubilance of the festival no longer possessed the feverish exuberance that had greeted your arrival that morning.
You spent the remaining time with Beomgyu visiting through dockside markets where fishermen shouted over one another beside crates of silver-scaled catches still glistening beneath the sun, and through narrow craftsmen rows crowded with pottery, embroidery, and tiny carved trinkets suspended from strings overhead. Eventually the clamour of it receded behind the two of you altogether.
The road drew the two of you away from the town’s centre, where sound gave way to open air and the press of bodies thinned into scattered footsteps along the edges of quieter lanes. Wild grass leaned in from either side of the path, and trees rose in loose clusters overhead, their branches shifting with the passing breeze. Beyond them stretched rolling fields bathed in molten gold, and farther still stood distant hills softened beneath a pale spring haze.
You were content purely to walk beside one another while your footsteps scattered softly across the dirt road beneath.
"You know," you said, nudging a loose stone from the path with the tip of your shoe, "I was convinced this town was rather charming before today."
The remark caught him, and he glanced toward you with a small furrow between his brows — genuinely concerned, turning the words over as though searching them for whatever had soured your opinion. “Before today?” he repeated. “That sounds suspiciously ominous.”
You merely continued walking.
“My lady,” he pressed, falling half a step closer, “have I somehow managed to diminish the reputation of this town within a single afternoon? That would be a devastating indictment of my abilities as a guide.”
A smile threatened at the corner of your mouth.
“I was biased,” you informed him with impeccable seriousness. “It appears considerably more charming when viewed beside you.”
You had all the time to enjoy your success before it became plainly evident upon his face. Beomgyu laughed — which was a short, fractured sound and he turned his face partially away, rubbing the back of his neck while doing a remarkably poor job of concealing how flustered he was.
"You," he said, still laughing beneath his breath, "live up to your reputation as a weaver of words, my lady."
You had spent the better part of the day subjected to Choi Beomgyu's relentless talent for rendering you speechless. Witnessing the favour returned proved deeply gratifying.
With the most earnest expression you could produce, said, "I meant it."
He released a breath through a helpless smile as he looked briefly skyward in what appeared to be a wordless appeal for fortitude.
"Thank you," you said, after a moment, "for showing me your world."
Beomgyu lowered his gaze back to you, and his expression gentled almost imperceptibly. He let you talk instead of sharing his words.
“I only now realise that I never truly allowed myself to exist among these people during my visits here.” A faint laugh escaped you then, touched by self-awareness more than embarrassment. “I observed them endlessly. Their joys, their griefs, the indignities they endured—I carried all of it home and turned it into ink upon paper. Yet I remained apart from them all the while.”
The breeze swept loose strands of hair across your cheek. You tucked them back absentmindedly, turning toward him as you did.
“Today felt different.” Your smile softened. “So thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for bringing me here and teaching me how to live within moments such as these.”
“You say as if I accomplished a great feat,” he said at last, exhaling a faint laugh. “I merely wished to spend time with you. The fact that you enjoyed yourself already feels reward enough.”
Your smile deepened at that, coaxing him to mirror it. He was so, so helpless.
“How long have you been coming here?” you asked. “The people seem remarkably attached to you. That grandmother nearly pushed her own grandson aside to embrace you.”
A reluctant grin crossed his face. “I suspect she likes me more than her grandson.”
“Oh, she absolutely does.”
Looking at him stirred another thought within you. Beomgyu had only returned from his studies abroad the previous autumn. Barely months had elapsed since he first appeared within your world, and yet he moved through these streets with an affection so thoroughly at home in him that it seemed to predate his arrival entirely. You wondered whether this attachment had begun only recently or whether the inclination toward places such as these had lived within him far earlier than you realised.
“It truly has not been very long,” he admitted. “Do you remember when I told you I used to teach children?”
You nodded.
“After returning here, as you already know, I found society rather…” He paused briefly, searching for a charitable description before abandoning the attempt altogether. “Suffocating.”
You let out an utterly unidentified sound — a snort — behind your palm before clearing your throat. With a lingering smile, you passed him a little, “Sorry.”
“I knew you would understand, my like-minded ally.” The title rolled from his tongue with unconcealed pleasure. “One can only survive gentlemen reciting dreadful poetry and debating inheritance disputes for so many evenings before seeking refuge elsewhere.”
You hummed, indulging him with a very serious nod. “So this became your refuge?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He glanced toward the distant fields. “I began spending time here whenever obligations allowed it. One visit became several. Eventually the people stopped treating me as an outsider and started forcing food into my hands whenever I appeared.”
“That explains breakfast.”
“You have not yet witnessed Mrs. Han during winter.”
“But how did you even find the time?” you asked in wonder, still smiling. “You tutored my brother, attended every social gathering the ladies insisted upon, and somehow still managed to build an entirely separate existence beyond all of it.”
At this, Beomgyu cast you a sidelong glance touched by boyish satisfaction.
“I had my ways.”
You slowed your steps before narrowing your eyes at him. “That sounds suspiciously evasive.”
“Does it?” His smile widened further. “I had hoped it sounded mysterious.”
“You sound incriminating.”
Beomgyu laughed, lowering his head — and you found yourself thinking that perhaps no place in the world had ever suited Choi Beomgyu half so beautifully as this one.
The two of you had barely reached the narrower end of the path when an elderly shopkeeper peeked out halfway through the doorway of a cramped little bookshop. “Beomgyu? S’that you, son?” His spectacles slipped low along his nose as he called toward Beomgyu in relief. “Come look at this for me before I lose what remains of my eyesight.”
Beomgyu glanced toward the worn pages being waved impatiently through the air before turning to you with an apologetic smile.
“I shall only be a moment.”
You looked past him toward the shaded area beside the shop where ivy climbed the old stone walls in thick cascades, the cobblestones dappled beneath the sway of overhanging branches. You decided staying here would serve you far better than following him.
“Go ahead,” you said. “I will wait here.”
He studied you for another second regardless. He was entirely unwilling to depart without making certain you truly did not mind, before finally relenting and stepping into the shop at the old man’s urging.
Left alone, you wandered farther into the lane at a leisurely pace, fingers brushing lightly across the ivy as your gaze traveled absently across the sunlit road ahead. It was then that a fragment of conversation drifted toward you from farther beyond the bend.
“…found her body only days ago, they say.”
It caused a drop so sudden at the pit of your stomach that you stood motionless for a moment. Your attention honed instantly.
Two older men stood down the adjoining path with baskets hanging from their arms, their voices subdued beneath the rustling of leaves. They seemed unaware of your presence.
“They found her near the riverside,” the first spoke again with a sigh heavy with age and sorrow. “Poor child vanished weeks ago only to return home dead.”
You moved nearer quickly, stopping beside the protruding stone wall of a nearby building.
“Aye,” the other replied gravelly. “And after all that, the physicians claim it was merely disease that took her.”
“Well, what else would it be? There were no signs of harm upon the body. Fever, perhaps.”
A missing girl.
No marks.
No explanation beyond illness.
These were the very details you remembered hearing from Taehyun before; women disappearing without trace only to be discovered afterward beneath circumstances too peculiar to dismiss outright. The resemblance fit too neatly beside the next for coincidence to feel entirely convincing. Could this girl have been one of the victims tied to the very matter Taehyun had been investigating? This could be your opportunity to uncover a lead.
You remained where you were for another moment, listening carefully in hopes that one of the men might reveal further particulars worth remembering.
“You heard about Sol, did you not?" One of the men lowered his voice further, though not enough to escape your hearing. “She keeps insisting the physicians overlooked it. The girl has convinced herself her sister was murdered.”
The other shook his head with a weary sigh. “Grief has driven her toward madness, that is all. Folk do not think sensibly after burying their own blood.”
But footsteps approached behind you then, forcing you to turn away from listening further. Beomgyu emerged from the bookshop carrying faint traces of ink upon his fingers, entirely unaware of the tension gathering beneath your composure.
“My sincerest apologies,” he said upon reaching you. “It required more time than I anticipated.”
“It is quite alright,” you assured him seamlessly, offering him a small smile untouched by suspicion. Your gaze drifted briefly toward the men still standing conversing beneath the trees.
“Do you wish to head back home now?” he asked, earning your attention.
“The cobblestone paths here are rather lovely,” you remarked lightly. “Would you mind walking through the alleys with me for a little while?”
Beomgyu followed your gaze down the path. He gave a little nod. “I could hardly refuse you after bringing you all this way.”
Unfortunately, by the time you guided Beomgyu toward the adjoining lane, the two elderly men had already drifted apart, each disappearing toward separate corners of the town until no trace of their conversation remained behind save for the unease now stirring within you. A faint disappointment settled across your thoughts at losing the trail so swiftly, though you still carried one valuable fragment away from the exchange.
Sol.
Your next venture into this town under borrowed anonymity would no longer concern manuscripts or observation. You would find this Sol yourself, and perhaps through her uncover more of the truth concealed beneath these strangely bloodless deaths.
The subtle change in your bearing from being deep in thoughts did not escape Beomgyu. His hand found your elbow with a gentleness that made no demand of you, and his voice had dropped to match it. “Are you alright?”
The touch drew you from your reverie. You looked up at him, startled by how swiftly he had discerned the alteration within you, and inwardly reproached yourself for allowing your mind to wander so visibly in his presence. Of all things, the last thing you wished was for him to believe you had ceased enjoying the day after every ounce of care he had poured into it solely for your happiness.
You released a breathless laugh and shook your head lightly. “I am positively alright,” you assured him. “I was merely thinking… I think I shall miss today rather terribly once it ends.”
“My lady.” Beomgyu ducked his chin, searching for your eyes. “I see no reason for remorse, then.”
You blinked. “No?”
“We can return together whenever you wish,” Beomgyu spoke in the same gentle cadence, lifting his hand to caress away a leaf stuck above your ear. “If you desire to see the town outside your work, I shall accompany you. If you wish for more dreadful coffee from my hands, I shall make it for you again. Whatever you ask of me, I will do it.”
His words were sobering. It swept aside the earlier unrest within your thoughts so completely that for several moments you could only look at him in silence, overcome by the simple enormity of being regarded with such wholehearted devotion.
“I know,” you murmured, not shying away from his touch. Your gaze fell briefly from his face afterward, though the smile remained. “I think…”
“Yes, my lady?”
A small breath escaped you. “I like the word together when it belongs to you and me.”
Beomgyu felt the words hit him somewhere with no name for it. Every yearning thought he had spent months concealing now surged violently beneath his ribs, flooding through him until even the tips of his fingers ached with it. Your name filled his mind entirely; he was choked with tenderness for you and there existed no room for anything beyond you.
You.
Always you.
He stopped walking so abruptly that you nearly collided against him before catching yourself, your brows lifting in surprise at the sight of him standing utterly motionless in the middle of the lane. The breeze stirred through the branches overhead, scattering fractured light across his face, yet Beomgyu scarcely appeared aware of the world surrounding him anymore.
Your name slipped from his lips in a voice touched by reverence so naked that it stole the breath from your lungs little by little.
His hand twitched faintly at his side before curling inward upon itself. He was just about to speak —
— and then your attention darted past his shoulder.
Every trace of warmth vanished from your expression.
At the far end of the lane, two mounted officers stood beside a flower-lined storefront engaged in conversation with the shopkeeper stationed outside. The sight itself should not have troubled you. Law officers wandering the town warranted no alarm.
But one of the men was none other than Kang Taehyun.
Your cousin sat scarcely twenty yards away from you. He had the exact capability of dismantling every fragile layer of anonymity surrounding the two of you within seconds if his gaze merely wandered in your direction.
You cursed under your breath.
The sheer agitation you showed was so wholly unlike anything Beomgyu had witnessed from you throughout the day, that it alerted him almost right away. He followed your gaze and turned around in search of the cause of your distress. Instinctively at the same time, he stepped before you to shield you from whatever danger he thought you sensed.
It took him only a few seconds to understand why you reacted that way.
“We need to hide,” you said quickly, pulse thundering hard enough to make your voice uneven.
It was so unlike you to have your rational thoughts abandon you under pressure. Whenever complications arose, you were the person others relied upon to remain composed. This, however, was a catastrophe of an entirely different nature. The consequences of being discovered here were not danger, scandal, or social disgrace.
The consequences were Taehyun's interrogation method.
Endless questions.
Questions layered upon questions until one felt tempted to fling oneself into the nearest river simply to escape them. Because there existed no force upon earth more relentless than Kang Taehyun after discovering information he believed himself entitled to know.
"Hide?" Beomgyu repeated, looking a bit mortified.
"Yes, hide." Your fingers closed around his wrist. “If Taehyun sees us here, I shall never hear the end of it. Do you understand how many questions he will ask? How many conclusions he will draw? I refuse to endure that conversation.”
A reluctant smile threatened the corner of Beomgyu's mouth. The urgency written across your face prevented it. You were entirely serious.
Turning sharply, you surveyed the opposite side of the lane, only for fresh frustration to seize you. The road stretched far too openly ahead, stripped of any meaningful cover, and fleeing now would draw precisely the notice you wished to avoid. They possessed a considerable advantage with their horses over fleeing pedestrians besides. It would take very little for Taehyun to notice.
You looked back at your cousin’s direction again and saw that they exchanged farewells with the shop owner.
"Oh, for heaven's sake."
There was no longer time to weigh possibilities, nor to devise an elegant solution. Acting upon pure instinct, you seized Beomgyu by the arm and pulled him after you, your eyes catching upon a narrow passage concealed behind several wine barrels and a haphazard stack of wooden crates wedged between adjoining houses.
Cramped stone walls pressed inward on either side while creeping ivy descended from above in tangled curtains, swallowing the street's brightness beneath a canopy of green. What had appeared from the street to be a convenient refuge revealed itself, upon closer acquaintance, to be hardly large enough for two people to occupy comfortably.
Unfortunately, you discovered this only after dragging him into it.
Beomgyu stumbled after you with scarcely enough room to regain his footing, and in the same breath his hand braced the wall behind your head to prevent the both of you from colliding with the stone. The action happened so swiftly that neither of you possessed the opportunity to reconsider it, and when the rush of movement finally settled, there existed no worthy space between your bodies.
The front of your dress brushed against his shirt with every breath you drew. Even the slight rise and fall of his chest had become impossible to ignore within such constrained quarters that only seemed to shrink with every passing heartbeat. His hand still remained trapped within your grasp, and somewhere amidst your frantic concern over Taehyun, you failed to notice what that proximity was doing to the poor man before you.
Beomgyu felt perilously close to losing every sensible thought he had ever possessed.
Throughout the course of the day there had been stolen moments he had treasured beyond reason. Even during the dance you had stood close enough for him to count the gold flecks hidden within your eyes and when he had held your waist as you swayed, he believed he would return home convinced no greater trial could possibly exist than that.
What extraordinary arrogance.
That had been entirely nothing compared to this.
This — with your breath warm where it grazed the open collar of his shirt and strands of hair displaced by the hurried retreat still framing your features in gentle disarray. He was a gentleman and he possessed honour to act with propriety regardless of circumstance — but the smell of jasmine reached him.
It had always been jasmine, that fragrance which clung to you and which had tormented him for days on more than one previous occasion, proving sufficiently disastrous for his peace of mind. He believed himself afflicted already. Now he understood he had merely been receiving warnings.
In this cramped plae with no air between you worth speaking of, it was not a threat so much as an accomplished siege. It overwhelmed him entirely, filled every corner of his senses until he could not think past it, could not locate the edges of his own good judgement through the dizzy, lightheaded daze of it. His honour, he noted distantly, was hanging upon a very single and very insufficient thread.
Outside the alley, hoofbeats sounded against cobblestone.
Both of you stilled instantly.
Beomgyu took advantage of that opportunity to look over his shoulder toward the opening while keeping himself wholly before you, shielding you from view beneath the cover of his body and shadow. But you caught his face in both your hands before he could complete the motion.
It brought him back to you entirely. Face to face, so close that the dim light caught the precise arrangement of his features and held them there before you with an intimacy so abrupt that the air went out of your lungs. You realised, in the same instant he did, what you had done. The nearness left no refuge from the intensity gathering within his gaze now. Your hands dropped from his face at once and you turned your eyes away.
Beomgyu remained frozen exactly where your hands had placed him, looking down at you and — oh, you were divine — that was the only word his mind produced and it produced it with damning conviction, divine in the half-dark with ivy shadows crossing your face and your eyes averted and your breath still uneven against his throat.
He could not look away.
He needed to look away.
"I must apologise," you whispered, your eyes still carefully directed elsewhere. "I had to act quickly."
His gaze dropped to your lips as you spoke. It was involuntary and it was catastrophic and he wrenched his eyes heavenward with an exhale that did not come out nearly as collected as he required it to. He stayed there, jaw tight, staring upward at the tangle of leaves and the narrow strip of sky beyond it.
From this distance — and it was not a distance, it was nothing, it was the mere suggestion of space between two people — anything could happen if any of you just leaned in a bit. His thoughts were getting out of hand and he exhaled again, shakily, and continued to look at anything that was not you. His heart was beating wildly.
"No need to be nervous," you said softly, and he heard the effort in it — heard that you were furnishing words into the silence because the silence had become a living thing between you and required managing. "My brother is not so frightening as all that."
They were empty words and rang hollow even to your own ears. Because it was not your brother that had reduced your thoughts to scattered, ungovernable things. It was the warmth of him — so deeply comforting that you feared you were about to be addicted to it. How thoroughly you already wished to.
"Yes, my lady," Beomgyu said, and his voice had abandoned him almost entirely.
He closed his eyes. Kept them closed for a breath, and then another, and then opened them and looked down at you and did what he had to do — he took your hand from where it had come to rest against his chest, and with painstaking care brought it down to your side and held it there.
He could not bear your touch upon him right now. The jasmine was already more than sufficient to unravel what remained of every sensible intention, and your hand against his chest was a trial he had not the resources to endure.
In spite of all the warnings his better judgement could produce, Beomgyu leaned forward.
Your eyes went wide and every word you had been reaching for dissolved entirely. You could not move, watching him close the distance between you with an expression so stripped of its usual composure that you barely recognised it —
— then you felt the whisper of his hair against your cheek, the barely-there graze of it, and the eventual weight of his forehead coming to rest upon your shoulder.
You went entirely still beneath him. The exhale that left you was entirely involuntary.
He was breathing in shallow increments, not even daring to inhale a chestful of your scent. The hand he had braced against the wall beside your head curled tighter against the stone. The solidity of it was the only negotiation available to him.
Another set of hoofbeats sounded beyond the alley entrance.
"Are you—" you began, keeping your voice to barely a breath of sound. "Is it the confined space? Is it too much?"
His fingers found your lips before you could draw another word. The touch was feather-light, the tips of his fingers resting against your mouth with a gentleness that managed nonetheless to silence you. He still had not lifted his head from your shoulder.
"Please," he said. Then, as though the word alone had not sufficiently conveyed the full measure of what he was asking — "Just allow me this. Only a moment."
You stood perfectly motionless there in the shdaows and did not speak, because there was nothing in you that wished to deny him. The pressure of his fingers against your lips vanished shortly thereafter, hand falling to his side with a limpness like some bones have fallen off from their places.
From beyond the alley came Taehyun's voice as he issued instructions to the officer accompanying him. But within the shelter of barrels and tangled greenery, you heard only Beomgyu's breathing and it began to eclipse everything else. One bewildering thought, however, continued to circle through your mind.
How, precisely, had you managed to find yourself here?
With your cousin only streets away, your heart racing for reasons that had very little to do with being discovered, and Choi Beomgyu hiding his face against your shoulder as though the mere sight of you had become too much for him to bear. In a way, you had brought this upon yourself. If only you had thought of a better solution, you wouldn’t have put yourself in this position — or him.
Time passed in a strange haze thereafter. The voices outside gradually diminished, until the sound of departing horses finally carried through the lane and dissolved into the broader noise of the town.
Beomgyu remained where he was for another fleeting while, gathering whatever composure had abandoned him, before at last drawing back and lifting his head.
Colour had risen high across his face. He seemed wholly incapable of meeting your gaze, choosing instead to stare at a weathered crate whose existence suddenly seemed to fascinate him greatly.
“I believe,” he said eventually, clearing his throat, “your cousin has departed.”
You looked toward the mouth of the passage before returning your attention to him. Your lips curved despite yourself.
“How fortunate for us.”
“Quite.”
Your entire body still carried the imprint of his nearness; the heat of him remained beneath your skin, refusing to relinquish its hold no matter how fiercely you attempted to reclaim your composure. Some traitorous part of you noted the precise distance between your hand and his, seized by an almost absurd desire to reach for it and close the space between you again.
But Beomgyu still looked dazed — whatever battle had transpired within him had plainly not concluded. For that reason alone, you thought better of your own desires for his sake, and kept your hands where they were.
“We should leave,” you said at last.
Beomgyu nodded immediately, perhaps a shade too quickly.
He emerged first, casting a glance along the lane to ensure the way ahead remained clear. Only when he gave a small nod did you step out from the shadows. You felt the spring breeze greet you and renewed the air in your lungs, drying the sweat that had clung to your skin.
Somewhere overhead, the wind moved through newly awakened branches and sent a scattering of petals adrift across the afternoon. You followed their descent before your gaze returned to the man standing before you, who had not moved far, who stood at the edge of the road with the breeze moving through his hair and the same dazed quality still present in his eyes when they met yours.
Though you could not have named the exact moment it happened, winter no longer seemed capable of reaching you.