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[kuromingoo]

⏾ heun | '00 | she/her | carat

hello and welcome to kuromingoo (formerly mingumis)! this is a blog that i've created (mostly for myself) for me to read and write, and if somewhere along that journey, you find something that you enjoy, i'd be forever grateful <3

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⏾ most recently posted: sunkissed

[sailorsoons]

Until Death (x.mh)

PAIRING: Minghao x f. reader SUMMARY: As the second daughter to one of the most powerful businesses under the Choi Syndicate, you’ve always lived your life free of responsibility - until your sister dies and you become the heir. So when your family announces one of your new responsibilities as heir is an engagement to the son of a powerful shipping conglomerate, it comes should come as no shock. Minghao, however, is full of surprises, each one of them more deadly than the last. WC: 33,779 AU: Mafiaverse, Cyberpunk, Arranged Marriage GENRE: Smut, Angst RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately. WARNINGS: Graphic violence and assassination attempts, descriptions of blood and on screen murder (two with a knife, one with a garrote), mentions of off page deaths of a sibling and a parent (one via suicide), references to organized crime/syndicates with political marriages, power plays, and illegal activities, references to physical abuse from a family member but honestly very vague and ambiguous, hemes of grief, trauma, deception, and identity secrets, some power imbalances throughout, lots of showcasing of disparity of wealth throughout, some angst and a lot of lying, reader is kidnapped, explicit language, explicit sexual content featuring oral (f. receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected penetrative sex, multiple orgasms/positions, uhhhhh I think that's it. It's a Syndicates fic y'all, as always read with caution. A/N: I have been working on this chapter since November 2025 and it is finally here. I'm going to apologize in advanced if the plot seems a bit twisty turny or if the motives are a bit weak - taking that long between the first 15k I wrote for this fic and the second 15k I wrote for this resulted in me writing a completely different story than what I started with. Also - reader was supposed to be a lot more mystical but it's just sort of vague in this. She is not literally magical in a fantasy sense, but rather the same way that there are mysteries of the universe and energies etc. i really hope this makes sense - thank you for being patient with me as I put this chapter out. I think I like this one... maybe. Also, we are introduced to three new characters who are relevant in the rest of the series - especially Kero :) This fic takes place during the events of Baby for your timeline purposes. A/N 2: It is recommend you read the other works of the Syndicates collection before you read this fic - specifically Baby. You don't have to read the others to understand the fic as I try to sum up the world and plot well, but I'm not perfect so ready this totally separate of the other stories might not be as easy as I crack it up to be! A/N 3: This is un-beta'd we die like men.

COLLECTION | ASK | NOW PLAYING: UNTIL DEATH | SYNDICATES WORLD GUIDE

THE EVENING OF YOUR SISTER'S DEATH, YOU HAD DRAWN THE WORLD, REVERSED FROM YOUR TAROT DECK. You remember staring at it, unsettled, tracing the details as if the lines themselves could tell you what was coming.

It was one of those rare, hand-crafted decks, a fragment of the old world, tangible and delicate. In a world with so little physical art and so little understanding of the universe, you'd cherished the deck, a small luxury in a world where most people wouldn't have understood.

You remember knowing the card was a warning. The only trouble was you didn't know what for. You left the card face up on the desk and blew out your candles, your mother's voice calling through the estate's intercom again, impatient and angry because you were late.

Again.

To her, being late was a condition, not a habit. To you on that rainy November evening, it had been a kind of salvation, though perhaps salvation wasn't the right word. You didn't believe in gods or higher beings, but you did believe in the strange, quiet ways of the universe.

Strange, like how lingering over a single tarot reading could keep you from stepping into the restaurant when the gas explosion tore through the back of the block - when your sister, waiting at your usual table, became the first member of your family to die.

Gone in a moment, the entire direction of your life rearranged.

The world, reversed.

-

The rain over the Upper District is thin and metallic. It sheets off the glass buildings in vertical lines, turning each tower into a waterfall of neon and water. You watch the rain from the back of the car, forehead pressed to the cold window. The city slides past, a smudge of light.

Nexus Capital rises ahead of you, a monolith of glass punch through the low cloud ceiling. You stare at the building that's a feat of architecture with a list of awards and features in architectural magazines. You don't understand why a banking building needs to be an architectural work of art.

You don't find it to be very artistic anyway. Nexus Capital is one hundred and twelve floors of smoked glass and carbon fiber, no logos and no name, but a solid black tower threaded with light that everyone knows when they see it glow against the horizon.

Most nights, it turns invisible, like a trick of the light. If it weren't for the purple LEDs pulsing through the building's framework now, lighting it up to make air travel safe, you wouldn't even see it, though you know exactly where to look.

The car turns into the private ramp beneath the plaza, the security gates opening slowly. The car pauses as the driver cracks the window to state your business and clearance information. You wait, staring dully out the window as the scanners read the car for weapons and trace the plates. When it clears, the driver pulls through, continuing down the spiraling ramp toward the sub-level reserved for people who don't use the public lobby.

People like you.

You step out into a cold, concrete garage. Security guards are waiting on either side of the elevator for you, their charcoal suites pristine. They nod politely as you approach, heels clicking. One presses his palm to the panel, the lift doors opening with a soft hiss.

Your ride is eighty-nine floors, no stops. You breathe slowly, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Four counts in, hold for four, exhale eight. Even numbers. Good numbers. Your pulse steadies.

The reflection in the glass wall of the elevator is jarring: black dress, black blazer, hair tamed, heels, minimal jewelry. The girl who used to sneak out of charity galas to stare up at the moon and fill jars of water to collect its energy is nowhere in sight.

A chime indicates your arrival and you stiffen. The lift opens directly into an executive corridor of basalt floors and recessed lightly. It smells faintly of cedar in the hall, no doubt pumped in by an unseen air filtration system, meant to give the offices an old, serious feel.

The eighty-ninth floor is nothing but meeting rooms and executive spaces. You walk along the network of empty rooms now, knowing the way by heart - you'd practiced the route a million times. Normally, even after hours, the meeting rooms would be full of people. This evening's meeting is high profile though, so the entire floor has been reserved and dismissed.

Double doors greet you as you turn a corner. A security guard is outside, tipping his head to greet you before opening the door to let you in. Inside is a massive board room full of people.

One entire wall is made up of glass, Hyperion glittering on the other side: neon arteries, ribbons of traffic, the distant strobe of a casino in the Pearl District. The table in the center of the room is a massive rectangle of smoked quartz, lit from beneath so it looks frozen.

You go straight to your side of the table where your father and board members sit. There's a single, high-back chair for you next to your father - it used to be your mother's, but after she'd killed herself a few months ago, she bequeathed the chair to you.

Her ghost clings to you every time you sit in the chair, a coolness sticking to your skin. You grit your teeth. This room needs sage and perhaps some selenite. It has neither, so you ignore the way a shiver slides up your spine, phantom fingers reminding you of the heaviness of her absence. Ghosts don't like to be ignored, but no one else in this room can feel the way spirit lingers, the way memories have a way of clinging to a place.

Today is not a day for fear and superstition. Today is the kind of day where you have to ignore all of your instincts in favor of being practical and analytical - the kind of girl your sister would have been, instead of you, the strange one who believed in the energies of the universe and its strange higher powers.

Lifting your eyes, you peer across the table as your father clears his throat to settle the room. Xu Minghao is seated directly across from you, the polished surface of the crystal table stretching like eons between you. He's narrower than the file photos, dressed in a suit so dark that it seems to eat the light around him. His hair is longer too, styled neatly around his ears to rest against his collar bones. It suits him, you think.

He's prettier than you realized, too. His face is exquisitely balanced between sharp and soft, his eyes fierce and burning as he stares at you, his mouth soft and supple. His equally sharp jawline is offset by a gentle nose, a blend of contrasts that make him breathtaking to look at.

And extremely intimidating.

"Shall we begin?" Your father asks. He's using his calm voice, the one he likes to use to show he isn't intimidated.

The Xu side inclines heads in near-perfect synchrony. Minghao's father, Xu Jian, sits at the center opposite your father, his hair dark and long like his son, threading with silver at the temples. Odd, you think. In a world where showing age is so rare, you find it fascinating that the Xu family's patriarch has deliberately decided to show his age. A powerplay, perhaps, that he does not fear how fast the world around him is moving, nor is he influenced by the trends of appearing young.

Xu Luli is the opposite. Minghao's mother is a radiance of youth, dressed in immaculate dove silk with a single jade pendant the size of a small egg pinned to her blazer. Her face has no obvious lines, full and flushed with color like she's still in her twenties. It's unsettling, and when your eyes flick to Minghao, you realize how much he looks like her with his full lips and sharp eyes. He's nearly her mirror, save for his eyes are dark and near-black where hers are uncanny stormy grey.

Across the table, Minghao sits perfectly upright, his hands folded loosely on the table. No rings, no watch, no jewelry at all. There's just a faint scare across the first knuckle of his right hand, pale against otherwise flawless skin.

Your father gestures to the lead counsel on your side to begin. She taps the table and a holo screen blooms above the quartz, rotating for all to see. It's a splitting of proposed assets, tallied net and financial worth, assets both tangible and liquid, and everything else about you both true and not splayed for everyone to see.

"Xu Worldwide Logistics currently moves forty-three percent of all container freight through Hyperion's docks in the Civ District," the lead counsel begins. "Post-marraige, joint control of the merged entity will be split sixty-forty in favor of Xu Worldwide Logistics, with veto rights retained by Nexus Capital."

Xu Jian smiles. "Forty-three percent is a conservative assessment of our business. Perhaps seventy-thirty would be more appropriate."

"Sixty-five," your father answers, smiling. "Thirty-five. That feels more appropriate. Our assumptions of your capital are conservative, as you say."

Jian bows his head and agrees.

You watch in silence as your assets are debated for you - assets you didn't have until a year ago, when your sister had been blown apart in a freak accident. Your hands sweat looking at the figures and numbers that shouldn't belong to you, the endless amount of credits, properties, offshore accounts and liquid assets you don't even understand.

Swallowing past a dry patch in your throat, you glance at Minghao. He doesn't look at the rotating holograms of your entire net worth reflected for a room full of suits - he looks directly at you. He's not staring, exactly, but you fight the urge to shiver anyway. His gaze is intense and cataloging, like he's reading every tiny expression on your face.

In fact, he probably is. Minghao's family isn't from Hyperion, but they've clawed their way to the top with the money and empire they've built in Hyperion, which means they know how to play the game. After all, if they didn't know how to play, they wouldn't be sitting at this table negotiating a political marriage to gain access to the one of the city's most powerful Syndicates.

"Along with the marriage comes guarantees," your father says, catching your attention. "Of additional security for shipments."

No one says Choi Syndicate. No one has to. This entire marriage is for the Choi Syndicate, who are seeking an advantage in the Yong Syndicate-owned shipping yards in the Civ District. While the Xu family has remained neutral thus far, the fact that you're all sitting in a room discussing your legal marriage to the heir of their business is an aggressive move for the Xu family.

"Additionally," your father adds, as though sensing the unsaid danger in the room, "Nexus Capital is partnered with Aegis Security Corp. They're a long-standing client of ours, and are happy to provide additional support, both personal and professional to the Xu family and clients."

You can't help the way you start to roll your eyes. Aegis Security Corporation is a legitimate business portfolio pledged to Nexus Capital, but that certainly isn't the security your father is promising. He's promising the Xu family Choi Syndicate protection, a silent acknowledgement that by being here in this room, they are agreeing to the risk of being targeted by other Syndicates but will be offered the protections of guns, money and blood that the Choi Syndicate can offer.

The smile the Xu patriarch gives assures you that he is right where he wants to be, though his son remains expressionless, eyes unreadable.

Minghao's mother leans forward, her jade pendant catching the light. "And the personal union? We understand the principal heirs will co-own the new holding company directly. We would like the details of residence, public representation, and succession details clarified."

This time, you do cringe. You can't help it. The word succession details crawls inside of your ribcage and threatens to start corroding. She means where will you live, who gets to be the press's shining star, and who inherits if someone dies inconveniently.

Or conveniently, depending on if you die and all your assets default to the man across the table. Which is a real threat that you've talked about with your father, knowing that he could be signing you over for someone to assassinate you and claim rights to all that you own. It is exactly why the proposal keeps the shipping assets in favor of the Xu family and the banking assets in favor of your family, a shared split but a majority of both residing with the original shareholder.

Your father looks to you to answer Minghao's mother. The message is clear: you’re the woman of the family. Speak to your counterpart.

"Residence will be the penthouse at the Observatory," you answer. "It's at the edge of the Upper District near the Estate District."

"The Observatory?"

"A starter home for us to settle. When we decide to have a family, there is a private residence left to me in the Estate District as dictated by my mother's will." She leans back, pleased. Your eyes drift to Minghao. "I assume Mr. Xu has no objection to living above the clouds to start."

"Height has never bothered me," he answers. His voice is soft, but the way he says it makes the hair on your arms raise. "It's a generous gift."

You learn forward, resting your forearms on the cold table top. The sleeves of your dress ride up just enough to show the faint bruise on your left wrist, fingermarks from last week when your father decided punctuality required emphasis. You adjust the sleeve, but when you look up, you see Minghao's eyes latched to the spot.

"Public representation," you continue quickly, trying to keep him engaged, "will be joint. Galas, council meetings, the usual. We smile, we shake hands, we let the photographers snap pictures. Public image is a joint effort and a joint success."

Both of his parents nod, pleased. Minghao is still staring at your covered wrist. "As far as succession, if one of us dies, the surviving spouse inherits full voting control of the merged entity for a minimum of five years. After that, it reverts to the strongest board proxy. Standard widow's clause."

"What is your security like?"

Minghao's question catches you offguard. You're unsure if he means the traditional security you use as the heir to one of the city's richest families, or the Choi Syndicate security you use to ward people away from you. You're sure he doesn't mean the spell jars hidden in the drawers of your room or the spell oils you tinker with.

"Standard," you offer. It seems like a safe answer.

"Standard." He frowns. "I find that the standard rarely does the job."

His father starts to speak, but Minghao lifts a finger, barely a centimeter. You watch in shock as it silences his father. It's so subtle you're unsure if anyone else notices it. Strange, for a son to dictate what a father does. You file that bit of information away for later.

"Do you have a recommendation, then?" You ask. "Feel free to propose something less standard."

His mouth twitches, a ghost of amusement. "Security protocols should be put in place. Travel routes, choices of driver, general schedules, should all have a shared veto. If one of us believes a risk is unacceptable, the other yields. No appeal."

Your father makes an angry sound. "You're asking for the right to countermand my daughter's security detail? That's entirely too controlling and rather convenient if you wanted her assets."

The accusation ruffles the feathers on the other side of the table, but Minghao remains nonplussed, eyes flicking to your father. His expression has barely shifted, but there's something subtle there, something sharp.

"I'm asking," he corrects, voice soft, "That neither of us dies stupidly because the other was too proud to listen. I find that joint decisions on matters of travel and security are often best, especially considering that this marriage will be highly publicized."

"Fine," you answer before your father can object. "Shard veto, with the amendment that our security teams are jointly chosen. You may not employ any member of security who has not been vetted and agreed upon by me personally."

Minghao inclines his head. "Agreed."

Above the table, a redline version of the agreement drafts as you trade amendments. Your eyes drop down to the scar on his knuckle again. It's thin and precise, the kind of mark left by a wire garotte or a very sharp knife. Not the sort of scar you get from yachting around the world like you've been told he does frequently.

Strange. In just a short manner of time, the list of strange things about Minghao grows longer. Something about him tugs at your tuition, a feeling of premonition you can't place. 

When you look back up, Minghao is watching you. His mouth twitches and your skin burns like you've been caught. You try to work out the expression on his face, but as his mother brings up the section regarding children, it's like dunking your head into ice cold water.

"Two," she says smoothly, fixing you with a pointed stare. "Minimum. More is fine. Bloodline continuity is non-negotiable. Two is safe, should the other-"

She cuts herself off, face going white. No one speaks. Your father is stiff next to you - you don't even think he's even breathing. Luli looks like she doesn't know what to do, caught between needing to apologize and the terrible of making such a bad social faux pas.

It's a reminder that the Xu family isn't from here. Arkos isn't a city that far away, but it's foreign enough in social structure, political makeup and culture that you're reminded how hard the Xu family must have worked to adapt to Hyperion's complex pecking order and social norms, and Luli has just made a terrible mistake. Were she in a room of Hyperion socialites or Syndicate women, she'd probably never recover.

"Should the other die," you finish for her. "Yes, we're quite familiar with the concept. Two minimum makes sense. Do you have a preference on gender?"

The silence in the room is so complete you can hear the faint echo of the city outside. You wait, staring across the table, trying to do anything but think about how intimately familiar you are with parents needing an heir and a spare, especially in a city like Hyperion. Luli's lips part, then close, surprised at how quickly you've addressed her concern and moved on.

"So do you?" You ask again, eyes flicking between Minghao and his mother who glance at one another. "I'm only asking because some families still care about sons carrying the name. Saves awkward paperwork later."

"Gender is irrelevant," Minghao answers. "Healthy heirs are all that matters."

"Yes," his mother agrees. "Healthy. And timing?"

You lean back in a dead woman's chair. Not for the first time, you wonder if this is what your sister had to sit through. Though you were only a few years apart, your sister is alien to you. Unfamiliar. Did she have to sit through board rooms and negotiate terms and rights to her womb? She did have to pledge herself to a total stranger and promise to pop out heirs?"

Of course she did. You wonder if she was any good at it. You never asked her. You'd been too busy hiding away from your family in the gardens, watching butterflies land on the water lilies while the house keeper told you about craft and how certain herbs had metaphysical properties. You’d been fascinated by her and her practice, an ancient, earthy belief that most people thought was nonsense.

"Five years," you tell her. "Minimum. Our data shows that the city's current climate is not ideal for infants." You pause as the lead counsel shows the data in question. "After that, we can revisit timelines. Medical oversight may be split eighty-twenty, with my priorities and preferences emphasized."

"I would prefer-"

"Accepted," Minghao says softly, cutting off his mother. She leans back, pursing her lips. You don't know much about Xu Luli, but she looks like someone who would prefer far more control over the birth of her grandchildren. Minghao's eyes slide back to you. "A final item, if you will."

Your father gestures for him to continue. Minghao reaches inside of his pocket and produces a matte-black rectangle no larger than one of your tarot cards. There's no logo or text, so dark that it drinks the light in like his suit does. He sets it on the table and flicks it with a finger, sliding it across the table like oil slick.

You blink in surprise when you realize it's a comm device, thin enough to slice paper with the faintest holo-sheen on it. You've never seen its make before, and you look back up at him, questioning.

"A private channel," Minghao says, addressing you. "Encrypted. Off-grid. Not monitored by family, counsel, or security. For discussions that do not belong in the meeting minutes."

Next to you, your father's scoff is immediate and sharp. "She doesn't need-"

"Voluntary, of course," Minghao assures. "Either party may choose never to use it. It exists, though. Personal devices will be the main point of contact."

Xu Jian's smile is thin. "A gesture of good faith and a family tradition. The Xu family places emphasis on having direct contact with our partners in times of turmoil."

"And what turmoil do you predict to befall this city?"

Minghao's father spreads his hands. "The world is ever-changing. It is not a reactionary practice, but perhaps a proactive one."

Your father's fingers drum on the table. The rhythm is familiar - you've heard it in the back of cars, against the arm of the couch, on the top of a desk. It's the telltale sign of his increasing irritation, the need to do something with his fingers before he strikes.

After a long beat, your father nods. "Voluntary."

Minghao dips his head. "We have no other amendments."

The lead counsel taps the table. The contract above ripples, red lines bleeding into final black. A soft chime confirms transmission, and you look down to see the new draft appearing in the table's interface in front of you. Your name is already glowing in the signature line, waiting for your official sign off.

Swallowing hurts. Your throat is desert-dry as you pick up the stylus, hating the way it shakes in your hand. You grip it tighter, fighting off the tremor as you glance up instinctively.

Minghao is no longer watching you. His head is bowed, stylus moving in a single, fluid stroke that ends in a flourish. He sets the stylus down with deliberate care, aligning it parallel to the edge of the table before he looks up at you again, expectant.

You look down and sign, a nervous trickle of fear cutting through you. Once executed, the documents appear across the interface in rotation, allowing for the room to sign as witnesses. You keep your gaze fixed to the document rather than him, but you can feel the eight of his stare settle on you like a blade pressed to the hollow of your throat.

"Ajourned," your father says as soon as the final signature is to document.

Chairs roll back in a sudden rush of sound. Quiet chatter rises, the polite and rehearsed gratitude backtracking the soft shaking of hands. A side door you hadn't noticed opens and two white-gloved staff glide in with trays of chilled plum-infused water, coffee, and tiny plates of yuzu macarons dusted with gold leaf.

You cringe. The refreshments are small but you know they cost more per bite than most people in the Lower District make in a week, the display of wealth so suddenly unfamiliar to you that you feel your stomach flip.

People begin to mingle. Your father is already shaking Xu Jian's hand, voice pitched politely again. Luli is laughing at something one of the lead counsel members is saying bright and lilting.

You stand, knees shaking. The air feels a little too thick for you, your pulse a frantic bird trapped inside your ribcade. You don't bother excusing yourself verbally - no one in the room notices you. They never do. So no one stops you when you slip through the door into the corridor.

Outside the boardroom the air is cooler. You breathe in the cedar-scent, walking away from the room. Your heels are too loud and you soften your steps, making it feel like you're sneaking off. And you kind of are, honestly. You need a break, a breather from the formality and the cage of formality.

You find a smaller meeting room, windowless and lit only by a single strip of amber light along the ceiling. There's a narrow table with four chairs and nothing else. You lean back against the door for a moment, letting out the breath you'd been holding the entire meeting.

Reaching into the pocket of your blazer, you produce a silk-wrapped bundle. The cards are warm from your body heat, the silk falling away as you unwrap the tarot set. You walk toward the table, shuffling the cards. You feel your anxiety ease with the familiar weight of them in your hand, the soft schk as they shift in your fingers.

You don't even ask the deck a question. You just need the feel of them, need something familiar in this strange building with these strange people. The cards speak anyway, three cards slipping from the deck to clatter on the table, face-up.

The Tower, upright. The Moon, reversed. Death, upright.

It feels cold in the room. You stare at them, teeth working your bottom lip as you process, your eyes dragging over each guard. Lightning splitting stone. Lies and illusion dissolvering. And ending that's a beginning. It's the usual trio that's been haunting you since you drew the World, reversed a year ago.

You don't hear the door open as you look over them. It isn't until you see a shadow fall over them that you flinch, whirling around with your hand flying to your chest.

Minghao stands just inside the threshold, one hand still on the handle, the other loose at his side. He closes the door without a sound, tilting his head to peer around you at the table of cards. You step to block his line of sight, vision pounding.

"Oh, it's you-" You break off, unsure what to say. He probably has no concept of tarot cards anyway. "It's a… hobby of mine."

Minghao says nothing. He approaches with deliberate, lithe steps until he's standing next to you but with a respectable distance between you. You catch the faint scent of pine and cold air clinging to his jacket, refreshing.

"What do they mean?" He asks, voice soft. "When they fall like this? What do you see?"

"You know what they are?"

"I know it's strange that you have them. You don't strike me as a wicked woman." You frown at the term wicked woman. It's slang for the women who work backdoor craft and ritual practices - you're curious how someone of his status knows the word at all. He points to the cards on the table. "Tell me, please."

You step forward, fingers tightening around the deck. "The Tower means sudden change. The collapse of something that was supposed to be stable. Violence, sometimes."

"The Tower like the rulers of the Syndicates?"

"Yes."

He hums. "Keep going."

"The Moon reversed is lies coming undone. Secrets dragging into the light whether one wants them to or not."

"I see. And Death?"

"Death isn't always literal." You don't know why you feel the need to clarify, but you do. "It's transformation. The end of one thing so another can begin. You can fight it or you can walk through it, but you never stay the same."

Minghao is quiet for a long moment. The light bathes him half in shadow, half in light, like a dark angel. He's so beautiful it's hard to think straight for a moment, hard to realize this is the man you're going to marry.

"You're practiced at reading these, then?"

"Very. I trust very few things, but these have never lied to me."

"You're too honest," Minghao's gaze lingers on the Death card before he turns to leave, not sparing you a glance. "It will hurt you one day."

—

The night of your engagement part, the party planning committee led by Xu Luli outdoes itself. The Sky Venue at The Elysian is an architectural wonder - one hundred and thirty-three floors up, the entire top level has been gutted and rebuilt into a single floating garden suspended beneath a retractable dome of smart glass.

Tonight, the dome is open to the stars. The air is warm despite the cooling season, the climate controlled by tiny micro-drones flying around the open dome, naked to the eye. The air tastes faintly of night-blooming jasmine, and guests wander through the garden with glasses of champagne.

Waterfalls pour from above into man-made koi ponds, night lilies floating on the rippling surfaces. Servers in white silk glide past, careful to avoid the ponds as they serve golf leaf canapes and cocktails served in what you think might be diamonds. In the corner, a string quartet plays on a platform of transparent glass suspended thirty meters above the ground, music cascading down and over the crowd.

Spared no expense, someone mutters as you walk by. Of course you didn't. This is the night that your family alongside the Xu's are selling you to the city and showing off their wealth.

A statement night, really.

You stand near one of the koi pongs in a gown of liquid obsidian. There are thousands of microscopic diamonds hand-stitched into the dress, making it look like you bend the light the same way as your fiancée's suit. Your neckline plunges just enough to be daring, and the back is open to the base of your spine.

A single strand of black tourmaline beads is loped around your wrist. To anyone not paying attention, it looks like diamonds. To you, it's grounding, steadying you against the thousand eyes currently cataloguing you.

Minghao finds you before you find him. He appears at your left shoulder without a sound, a flute of champagne in his hand. You flinch when you see him - over the last two months, you've been entirely unable to adjust to the way he materializes out of thin air.

"You look like a dark priestess," he murmurs. "Very on-brand, wicked woman."

You turn to him, trying to control your pointed smile. "Call me that again and I'll make your mornings quite unpleasant. I will hide hex bags where you will never find them."

His mouth twitches. He doesn't look at you, his eyes scanning the crowd, sharp as ever. He hands you the glass and you take it, knowing better than to dismiss him in public.

"Threats already," he observes. "We're not even married yet."

"I'm not a wicked woman," you say. "It's rude to call me one. I'm a practitioner. Kind of. I wanted to be. I don't sell phony fixalls from behind a Rose Room in the Lower District."

"And what is it you practice?"

"None of your business."

He hums. "You smell of incense and herbs, wicked woman. It's nice."

"If you're trying to upset me-"

"I'm trying to distract you." He glances at you, dark eyes glittering. "You have an angry resting face. It makes people think you're unhappy to be here."

"I am unhappy."

He lets out a small sound. You realize it's amusement and you feel an odd twitch behind your ribs. "I told you already, you are too honest."

In the last two months since your engagement, your interactions with Minghao have been minimal. He is doggedly polite, formal, and stiff, saying all the right things and smiling at all the right times, but none of it is real. He's so practiced and rehearsed that at first, you thought it might be real. But the more you watch him, the more you realize that Minghao is the perfect imitator.

Except now. His poking and prodding seems in jest, though you know there's certainly something more to it, something important that you're missing. This light banter is new to you, and you dislike that he asks questions about your practice. The elite don't often take kindly to those who believe in powers beyond money and Syndicates, but Minghao seems more amused than disturbed.

You glance beyond Minghao, eyes settling on the Tower of the Choi Syndicate. You feel your mouth go dry at the sight of Choi Moojin. He stands a distance away with his wife, dressed in a bespoke midnight suit, the mountain emblem embroidered in a threat of silver at his cuff.

The Tower of the Syndicate is the single most powerful person in the room, if not the city. Though there are two other Syndicates in the city, the Choi Syndicate has been strong the last few years, gaining a slight power foothold both politically and economically.

Not territorially, though. Their loss of the Port of Hyperion being located in the Choi-dominated Warehouse District to the Yong family had been a blow, and was the entire reason that your wedding to Minghao was happening at all.

As long standing patrons dedicated to the Choi family, your union to Minghao guarantees better assurances for Choi-owned shipping freight and better sway and management with the shipping authority.

A smart match. A political one. All dictated because the Tower of the Choi Syndicate needed it. Strange, that your entire life has shifted at the command of a man you've never personally met because he needs something from you that he'll never pay you back for.

A little ways away from the Tower and his wife, their children argue. At least, that's what it looks like they're doing. Seungcheol leans against a pillar nearby, murmuring something to his sister, expression heated. She ignores him, staring out into the crowd as though she can't hear him at all.

The Choi heiress is the kind of beauty that commands the attention of the entire room, even now as her brother mutters urgently to her. Recently engaged herself, you're surprised you don't see her fiancée lurking about. You're sure that Kim Yijun was on the guest list. Instead, she ignores Seungcheol, a haunted look on her face, a beautiful dove with a broken wing. She'd looked like that the last time you'd seen her too, an empty shell of the girl you'd gone to etiquette school with.

"Strange," Minghao murmurs, drawing your attention back to him. "To see them in person."

"Why?"

"They seem normal."

"They are."

Minghao hums but doesn't answer. Perhaps he has a point - they do seem normal. But why shouldn't they? They're two of the most privileged people in the room, growing up under a banner of Syndicate peace and prosperity. Had he expected obvious criminality? Knives and guns, threats of violence?

The way he observes them with his mouth slightly downturned tells you he might have expected exactly that. He's unfamiliar with the Syndicates, and you think belatedly of the scar on his knuckles, the one you often wonder after.

You drain your champagne in one swallow. "They're here to make sure this is a union they support, not cause violence."

"The union was their idea." You cut a glance at Minghao. It's a truth that no one says outloud, least of all here. He returns your stare, his eyes inky and unreadable. "They wouldn't suggest it if they didn't support it."

"You told me being too honest would get me hurt one day. Maybe you should consider that as well."

"Should a husband not be honest with his wife?"

A passing server offers caviar on mother-of-pearl spoons. You ignore him, your eyes on the Choi heiress who turns to her brother and says something that shuts him up. Minghao gives the server a single look and sends him scurrying away, your fiancée sliding a step closer to you.

"You strike me as someone who uses truths to hide other truths," you note, looking him up and down. "You'll tell me one honest thing to make me confident while you hide six others."

Something flickers behind Minghao's eyes. It's that same flare of something like that first day you met him. Maybe surprise or recognition. You're not entirely sure, but it does something to you that you can't name, a little tug right behind your ribcage.

"Observant."

"I have to be."

"What have your cards told you about tonight?" You give Minghao a sharp look. He doesn't look at you but he sighs. "It wasn't a barb. I'm not sparring with you- not anymore, anyway. I’m trying to get to know you."

He laces his hands behind his back, waiting. Minghao is good at waiting, you've noticed. He doesn't ask for things twice, and he never clarifies himself - save for you. There is power in silence and waiting others out, and Minghao maneuvers that silence like a carefully sharpened blade that he's intimately familiar with.

"The same three cards," you tell him eventually. "The Tower. The Moon, reversed. Death."

Minghao hums. "Violent change. Illusions stripped away. Transformation."

"You don't have to pretend to believe in it for my sake."

"I don't know what I believe in. Perhaps there is some truth to your tarot and the spell jars you keep hidden in your pockets. Who is to say?"

Before you can answer, a ripple moves through the crowd. You watch as heads turn and you find the source. The Tower is moving, slow and inevitable toward you. Your heart lurches and you glance around, looking for your father, who should be here to receive this conversation, but he's nowhere to be found.

Minghao's hand settles at the small of your back, making you swallow thickly. The heat of his palm against your skin is an inferno, but it grounds you as the Tower approaches with his wife, children and Wisdom in tow.

You glance at Yoon Minji, the Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate. You hadn't noticed her at first, the woman a near imperceptible shadow lurking behind the Tower's wife. She's dressed in a blue so dark that it's almost black, hair pulled back and slick as oil. Her son is at her side, a twin shadow that you have heard is her image in more than just physical likeness.

Choi Moojin stops an arm's length away. Up close, he's larger than you remember, the kind of presence that fills up a room and makes you feel small. His eyes are fathomless, but surprisingly warm, a weird offset to the danger you know he poses.

"You look beautiful," he says, voice soft. "Congratulations on your engagement. Your families must be proud, you're an exquisite couple with good taste."

You dip at the knees and lower your head, bowing as deep as decorum for the moment demands. "Thank you, Tower. Your blessing is appreciated."

Seungcheol steps around his father, offering his hand to Minghao while his sister lingers behind him, a strange look on her face as she watches you, almost like panic. Her brother shakes Minghao's hand firmly before he takes yours and kisses the top politely. "Congratulations."

Minghao's fingers flex against your spine, the tiniest pressure before you drop Seungcheol's hand and the Choi's drift away. You feel yourself exhale as they do, relief flooding your system at their obvious approval. The Mountain will stand behind your marriage, which is as good as signing the paper and saying your vows.

The Wisdom goes with the Choi's, dipping her head toward you with a small smile that unsettles you, but her son lingers, drifting closer with a lazy grin.

Jeonghan offers a hand to Minghao. "A union of banking and shipping. Tell me, does love come standard with the merger, or is that an optional upgrade?

It's crass. From what you know of Yoon Jeonghan, it isn't surprising that he likes to see you squirm. Though he's next in line to be the Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate when his mother steps down from the title, you're unsure if he's suited for it if he can't help but make inappropriate barbs at an engagement party.

You have half the mind to tell him so, but it's Minghao who answers, a sharp smile on his face as he shakes Jeonghan's hand. "We prefer equity over love."

Jeonghan laughs, delighted. "Enjoy the party. Congratulations on your union."

With a final wink, Jeonghan drifts away, chasing after Seungcheol who is arguing with his sister again. The Tower ignores his children, clapping someone on the back from Nexus Capital's board of directors.

Minghao's hand slides from your back to your wrist, thumb brushing the tourmaline bracelet once before he drops his hand entirely. You don't dare look at him. The touch is intimate and softer than you expect. It unsettles you that it’s the softest bit of warmth anyone has shown you in years.

Your fiancée waves to a group of people familiar to him but not to you. You expect him to lead you over and introduce you, but he doesn't, drifting away from you with a final look that you can't read. You watch him go, the place where his hand rested burning like a brand.

-

Your new penthouse is too large for two people. You knew that before you moved in, but with someone as quiet and absent as Minghao, it feels like you're on your own most days.

The penthouse occupies the entire crown of the residences at The Observatory in the northeast corner of the Upper District. Your new home is four thousand square feet of smoked glass, matte black steel, and pale ash wood that leaves the home cold.

The main living space is a single open expanse, the kitchen bleeding into the dining room and lounger. Floor to ceiling windows frame the open space on three sides, letting in the spill of city flights on a clear night. Tonight, it's cloudy, the fog on the glass pressing close and obscuring the world. It makes you feel like you're in your own dimension far away from Hyperion.

Your bedroom is in the east wing of the apartment, Minghao's is in the west. Two totally opposite ends of the space you're supposed to share together. Live in together. Be married in together. He'd requested your rooms remain separate, and though it hadn't bothered you at first, it does now.

It doesn't matter what bothers you, though. There's no one around to complain to. Your days have settled into a brittle sort of rhythm: you get up at seven to go to the gym to find him already gone. You never see him leave but when you make your mugwort and lemon tea, the kettle is always warm. He returns sometime between nine and noon, hair damp, expression icy. He gives you a polite nod, then vanishes to his wing of the apartment.

No words. Nothing.

You spend the hours alone learning the layout of your home. It's different from the rolling estate of your family. Smaller and bigger all at once, lacking the intricacies and oddities of a home that has been in a family for generations.

The windows never open - you suppose that makes sense, this high up. The air is triple-filtered and scent-neutralised, making the rooms feel dead and clinical. You decide to combat this every Wednesday after the cleaners have gone.

As soon as they're gone, you begin your work. The routine is simple, nothing extravagant. You take a small bundle of palo santo from the tin you keep with your tea and light one end, letting the sweet smoke rise. With the woody smoke drifting from the lit end, you walk the apartment slowly, clockwise while thinking on your intentions.

You trail the smoke along the windows, under the sofa, around the legs of the stools at the island. You grow hesitant when you near Minghao's room, but you let the smoke drift toward his door anyway. You don't open it, but your hands trace the doorframe, a small peace offering.

As you work, your mind empties save for your little intentions: peace, protection, harmony. You're kneeling in the middle of the living room, passing the palo santo beneath the low coffee table one last time when the front door opens without warning. You sit rod straight, turning to see Minghao come into the apartment. Your eyes flick to the clock and you frown. He's early today.

He's dressed in black workout clothes, hair damp, a bottle of water dangling in one hand. He stops the moment he sees you.

Smoke curls between you. He says nothing and neither do you. You half expect a question, a raised brow, anything. He looks at the palo santo in your hand, the thin ribbon of smoke, and then back to you. Something shifts in his expression that you can't place, but he doesn't say anything.

Instead, he steps carefully to the kitchen, giving you a wide berth despite the physical distance already between you, and opens the fridge. He takes out a second bottle of water, and sets it on the island counter top toward you.

"You look dehydrated," is all he says before he tips his head and walks back to his wing.

You remain on your knees, staring at him, lips parted a little. His bedroom door shuts with a distant click, leaving you in the silence and the curling smoke.

Eventually, you get up, knees cracking as you do. You feel a little dizzy and realize you are thirsty. You have no idea how he was able to clock that you're dehydrated by simply looking at you, but you file it away as one of Minghao's oddities, a neverending list that points to him not being the arrogant rich kid you expected.

Heading to the counter, you grab the water, the condensation on the bottle cold and exactly what you needed. As you drink it, Minghao surprises you by coming back out, a bag over his shoulder. You frown, eyes dropping to the bag.

"I'll be gone for three days," he tells you. "I'll see you on the morning of the third day."

"Where are you going?"

"Business." You don't like the ambiguity, but he's already halfway out the door. He hesitates and turns to you, mouth opening and closing as he chooses his next words carefully. "This is your home. Practice how you'd like."

"Pardon?"

"Your… practice. You don't need to hide it from me, Wicked."

You scowl. "I told you not to call me a wicked woman."

His mouth tilts. "I'm not. Simply wicked, is all. Not quite a wicked woman, not quite a practitioner, hmm?"

You glare through his logic and he shrugs, heading for the door and slipping through like smoke.

-

"Here," you say softly, shoving a bundle into Minghao's hand. He raises his brows, eyes skirting the crowd around you. "This is for you."

It's not the best time to give him the gift, but Minghao is never at the penthouse and keeps hours strange enough that you almost never see him despite living with him. The charity auction for the Archaeology Restoration Fund swells around you under the floating sky of the Lumina Tower, but as a moment of quiet opens up while you're standing next to the orchid walls, you take your change.

His dark eyes flick to your face, then back to the offering. He unwraps the silk with careful fingers, revealing the bracelet nestled inside. It is a deep blood-red cord, braided deliberately by your own hands over several quiet nights in the penthouse. Woven into the threads are three fine strands of your own hair, unmistakeable. At the center hangs a small, polished azabache charm, a piece of jet stone you sourced a few days ago. The stone is smooth and cool, carved with subtle protective sigils only visible under the right light.

He stares at it for a long moment, thumb brushing over the braided cord and the jet stone. Something unreadable flickers across his features before he quickly schools it away.

“You made this?” His voice is low, almost cautious.

"Yes."

"What is it?"

"The red is for strength and safety. The azabache is for warding off the evil eye. The hair binds my intention."

"It's not a curse?" You scowl and his mouth twitches. "You threatened to hex me, forgive my hesitation."

Minghao turns the bracelet slowly in his fingers, the azabache catching the soft light. He runs his thumb over the braided strands of your hair, expression softening by the smallest degree. "You continue to surprise me."

"Yeah, well. You don't have to wear it if you don't want to."

Minghao is quiet for another long beat. Then, without a word, he slips the red bracelet onto his right wrist. The contrast of the vivid red cord against his black suit and pale skin is striking. He flexes his hand once, as if testing how it feels, then looks back at you.

"Thank you." There's no mockery or deflection as he lowers his hand. "I'll wear it."

"Don't read too much into it."

"Hm. Too late. Thank you, Wicked."

For a moment, the nickname sounds fond instead of teasing, and the noise of the gala fades. The glowing orchids, the drifting lanterns, the murmur of high society - all of it recedes and leaves the two of you standing in this small pocket of quiet among the spectacle.

-

When you were a little girl, you always imagined that your wedding might be somewhere in a forest, somewhere where forests still legitimately existed. You'd be barefoot, feet planted firmly on a mossy ground, and your hands would be bound in red ribbon to your lover, covered binding oil distilled from flowers and herbs over your wrists until the ribbons were saturated and heavy with the smell of herbs.

This wedding is not that.

The air in the bridal suite is scented heavily with orchids and warm vanilla, the florals spilling over their vases and decorating every surface even here when no one can see them. You stand motionless before the towering mirror, the weight of your gown weighing you down as attendants move around you, adjusting the train of your dress and the butterfly-delicate gossamer of your veil.

Thankfully, the gown is a little like what you imagined. Forgoing the traditional white, it's made of layers of midnight silk, covered in thousands of hand-stitched obsidian beats and microscopic diamonds that fracture in the recessed lighting, turning it into layers of constellations. It spills dramatically into a trail of inky fabric.

You'd commissioned the dress six weeks ago, requesting the design to echo the deep, light-devouring suits Minghao favored. It was a deliberate statement of unity, power, and ultimately, ownership. You'd done it on purpose, and your father had approved when he'd seen it for the first time this morning.

A small win.

Your fingers drift beneath the long sleeve on your left wrist, tracing the black tourmaline and jasper cord hidden against your skin. The cord feels warm, a quiet tether to something older and more certain than the spectacle awaiting you. You breathe deliberately - four counts in, four out. It calms the frantic bird trapped behind your ribs, but only barely.

The reflection in the mirror is alien to you. You've never seen yourself look more elegant and composed, but inside you still feel like the little girl who collected moon water in jars and whispered secrets into manifestation journals.

Beyond the heavy double doors, the ceremony garden waits. The Garden of Eden is one of the city's finest venues, a floral dream suspended three hundred floors above Hyperion's rain-slicked streets. Real, living soil fills massive engineered beds through the space with towering tropical ferns planted, their glossy fronds glinting with dew. Multiple water falls cascade from tiered rock formations into koi ponds, the splash audible even from behind closed doors.

You'd chosen the venue because it was the closest thing you could get to the living earth in Hyperion. Minghao's mother had chosen it because it was the most luxurious venue she'd ever had access to up until now, a haven reserved for the elite. The commonfolk of Hyperion didn't have access to house plants, much less the night-blooming jasmine climbing up trellises and arches or the deep blood-red roses and exotic orchids dotting the aisles.

Hundreds of guests are already seated under the domed ceiling with an engineered twilight sky. Hidden audio systems weave strings and the resonant hum of crystal bowls through the space, frequencies chosen to evoke harmony and solemnity. You can hear the din of the crowd over the sounds, the Upper District elites shimmering in jewels and silks worth more than entire city blocks.

A soft knock interrupts your thoughts. Mina, your lead attendant, slips inside. She's only a few years older than you, but she's sharp-eyed and had years of service with your family, previously working with your sister. You don't mind her - she's not a friend, but she's also not unfriendly, which you'll take.

“It’s time, miss," she informs you. "The Tower and his family are seated and the Xu family is positioned. The garden is ready."

You nod once, throat tight and dry. There is no escape. The contracts were signed in that cold boardroom months ago. You'd known since the moment your sister died that this is what your life was now - the Tower upright, sudden change. The moon reversed, lies coming undone. Death, upright, great transformation. You'd been pulling the same cards for months, each the same thing.

It was the universe's way of telling you that this was your fate, as inescapable as any hard law or scientific rule.

Fragrant air greets you in the corridor. The staircase is full of flowers and dripping in vines, the steps covered in moss and trailing ivy that release sweet smells with every step. Swallowing, you walk down the stairs carefully, attendants behind you and ensuring you don't trip until you're at the bottom of the staircase behind a private screen, preparing to turn the corner and walk down the aisle.

Taking a breath, you turn the corner. Your heart pounds in rhythm with the distant music as the aisle comes into full view. The aisle stretches in front of you, a pathway edge with living white orchids. The ceremony cuts right through the heart of a lush garden, mist curling around the guests feet as they rise, hundreds of them moving in a wave of silk and murmurs.

Eyes track you from every angle - envy, calculation, hunger, approval, curiosity - but you keep your gaze fixed forward, suddenly latching to the man waiting beneath the grand arch of vines and cascading blooms.

Minghao is a shadow given form. He's dressed in black on black, the fabric so absolutely it seems to absorb the light and color from the greenery. His hair is styled longer, framing the exquisite balance of his face. His eyes find yours instantly, intense and unreadable, a stillness that calls to you.

Your pulse thunders as you start the walk. The train trails behind, gently managed by two young attendants as mist from the nearest waterfall kisses your skin, cooling the heat rising in your cheeks. Anxiety coils tight in your stomach, a living serpent, but you move with the trained grace of someone who has practiced this exact path in rehearsals. Future matriarch. Bride. Pawn in a larger game of shipping lanes, banking power, and Syndicate alliances. You wonder if your sister felt this same suffocating weight on her own path or if it was cut too short to ever consider it.

When you reach the altar platform, Minghao extends his hand. You offer him yours, hating the way your hands shake. He grips your hand firmly, and the contact sends a subtle spark up your arm, grounding amid the overwhelming sensory storm of the garden. For a single heartbeat, the hundreds of eyes, the cameras, and everything else recedes, leaving only you and Minghao.

His eyes are fathomless, easy to lose yourself in. His hand tightens a fraction around yours, his eyes only for you. "Temperance upright," he murmurs, only to you. "Patience. Balance. You embody those qualities. I appreciate them."

You blink in surprise when you realize he's talking about the tarot cards. You don't know what to say, the compliment stunning you, but Minghao doesn't wait for you to respond. His eyes flick to the officiant, a respected and neutral legal arbiter provided by Hyperion's council for this special occasion. She's dressed formally, her face perfect and impassive, making it impossible to tell how old she is.

Her voice is solemn but commanding as she urges the guests to sit, the ceremony beginning. Your hand remains in Minghao's, dropped between your waists as you stare ahead with unseeing eyes. You hear the officiant's voice, but you barely hear the words, your pulse loud in your ears as your heart hammers, each word spoken another piece of your sealed fate.

Ahead, the officiant speaks of alliance between houses and the merging of love and families. When you exchange rings, your hands are shaking again, stilled only by Minghao's gentle fingers as he clasps your hand to steady you, helping you slide the plain obsidian band onto his fingers, his sleeve pulling up just slightly to reveal his red bracelet.

Your ring is just as dark, inlaid with gold leaf and precious black stones that make it glimmer and flash dangerously. It feels heavy. Permanent. You watch as his nimble fingers slide it onto your hand, the single scar on his finger catching the light.

"Say the vows," the officiant instructs softly.

"I take you as my husband," you start, nearly whispering. You glance up at him and he nods a fraction, urging you to continue. You continue, voice clearer. "I vow to stand beside you in shadow and in light, in power and in duty, in prosperity and in peril, until this union is dissolved by law or by death."

Minghao doesn't miss a beat. "I take you as my wife. I vow to stand beside you in shadow and in light, in power and in duty, in prosperity and in peril, until death."

"It's-"

He cuts off the officiant's correction. "I know the words."

Your heart flutters, Minghao's choice to skip until this union is dissolved by law or by death a deliberate choice. Somehow it feels more powerful the way he's said it, like he's promising only death can tear you away from him. You think perhaps it's just the last bits of you clinging to the idea of romance, the idea of love that makes you feel that way.

The officiant pronounces you husband and wife and thunderous applause erupts, mixing with the hush of the waterfalls. Minghao lifts your face toward his with careful fingers, his touch lingering at your jaw, fingers gentle as they tilt your face upward. His eyes flicker with something so quickly you don't catch the emotion, and then he's leaning forward, pressing a brief, chaste kiss to your lips. He tastes faintly of wine, the touch lingering as he pulls away quickly.

Husband and wife. The words sink deep, heavy as the rings now on your fingers.

-

The reception is an ode to extravagance that most people cannot fathom. Spanning across three floors, each level opens into cascading terraces of real gardens with multi-tiered waterfalls feeding into glowing pools where rare bioluminescent koi swirl and swim. Walls of ferns, flowering vines, and fruit-bearing trees create alcoves with glass benches and trickling fountains. Each table is overflowing with food that won't be eaten, servers passing by with platters of rare chocolates dusted in edible gold and endless flutes of vintage wines and champagnes.

You navigate the crowd at Minghao’s side, his hand a near-constant presence at the small of your back. The contact is grounding for you but probably possessive in the eyes of your onlookers - and there are many. But only a single onlooker matters tonight, and as Choi Moojin approaches with his wife, you feel your spine go rigid until he offers his formal congratulations and blessing. As always, his daughter lingers nearby with that familiar haunted expression, her brother behind her like a shadowed gargoyle.

You smile until your cheeks ache. You exchange pleasantries with board members, accept compliments on the dress, the venue, the fabricated love story fed to the press. The floral scents grow heavier, the constant murmur of voices and music pressing against your temples. The bird in your chest flutters more desperately with every passing minute, and after nearly an hour and a half of relentless performance, you need a break.

"I need a moment," you murmur to him. "I'm just going to go to the upper powder room terrace. I'll be brief."

He studies your face carefully, then nods. “Take Mina and let security know where you're going."

You slip away with your attendant after telling security where you're going and getting their nod of affirmation before they mutter instructions into an earpiece. Mist from a nearby waterfall cools you off as you walk up the stairs, Mina helping with the heavy train. When you're finally alone on a private terrace, security just outside, you let yourself relax against a stone fountain, drawing in deep breaths of the mineral-rich air.

For the first time since the ceremony began, your practiced smile slips. Your feet hurt, your neck and shoulders ache, and you're starving, wishing you could stop the pleasantries for a moment to just eat. 

A small, wet gasp cuts through the peaceful trickle of the fountain and you spin around, startled. Time fractures as you try to put the pieces together of the image in front of you. A man dressed as a server with the lower half of his face obscured by a mask stands directly behind Mina, a gloved hand clamped over her mouth while she screams into his palm. He draws a sharp blade across the softness of her throat, scarlet spraying.

Mina's eyes widen in terror, locking onto yours for a single, agonizing heartbeat before they glaze over, her body convulsing once before she goes limp. Blood pours down the attacker's arm and down the front of her uniform, spilling red onto the terrace floor.

A scream rips from your throat, raw and primal, echoing off the stone walls. "Security!"

No footsteps thunder toward you. No shouts of alarm. The doors remain closed. The posted guards don't answer your call, and the music and laughter from the reception floors below continue uninterrupted, as if the universe itself has muted you.

Terror floods your system like ice water. Your heart slams against your ribs so violently you feel it in your throat. Adrenaline surges, sharpening every sense while simultaneously making your limbs feel distant and heavy.

Your right hand dives into the hidden slit of your gown, fingers closing around the small, discreet knife you've kept on your person since your sister's death. You yank it free, gripping the handle with enough force that your knuckles hurt as you pivot from the fountain, putting it at your back for a sliver of protection.

The attacker releases Mina’s collapsing body and he crumples to the ground in a heap of blood-soaked fabric, her eyes open and staring. The masked figure turns toward you with predatory calm.

"Security!" You scream again, the sound of your voice bouncing off the terrace walls.

No one answers, and a single, horrifying realization crashes over you - either the guards have been compromised or they're dead, and this attack was timed with terrifying precision.

There's no time to think as the attacker lunges.

You twist desperately to the side, the blade whistling past your ribs by inches. The movement throws you off balance on the wet stone, but you slash out wildly with your own knife, catching the attacker’s sleeve and drawing a thin line of blood. He grunts angrily and pivots, his knife slashing at you again. You duck and stumble backward, the fountain’s stone foundation scraping painfully against your hip as you use it to keep distance.

Fear is a living thing inside you now, clawing at your lungs, making every breath sharp and ragged. I’m going to die here. On my wedding night. In front of a fucking fountain while people drink and celebrate without knowing. The thought fuels a desperate surge of fury and you lunge at him this time, catching him off guard as you stab upward.

You manage to nick him, but you don't know how to fight and his retaliation of your anger is brutal as his knife flashes against and slices across your forearm, cutting through silk and skin in a burning line of pure agony. Blood pours instantly, hot and slick down your wrist and hand, making your grip on your own knife slippery and you scream out in pain.

A second strike follows before you can recover, a deep gash opening up across your upper left arm as you turn away from him. The pain is white-hot and blinding, and you let out another choked, animal sound as your vision narrows, blood roaring in your ear.

Every heartbeat sends fresh agony through the gashes, but terror keeps you moving. You kick out hard, your heel connecting with the attacker’s knee and he staggers but recovers easily, closing the distance to kill.

And then Minghao is there, exploding onto the terrace like a force of nature. One moment he's at the door, the next he's a blur of controlled violence as the killer turns to face the more immediate threat. Minghao is fast, stepping inside the man's guard, hand shooting out to grip his wrist and twist with bone-cracking force. A sickening crunch echoes and the man screams, the blade clattering to the ground.

The man swings with his free hand, but Minghao ducks under the wild punch with fluid precision, driving his elbow upward into the man’s throat in a devastating strike. The sound is wet and choked, the cartilage shattering under Minghao's elbow.

You stumble backward against the fountain’s stone foundation, left arm hanging useless and burning, blood streaming down your fingers in hot rivulets. Your own small knife trembles in your right hand, slick with blood. Fear still claws at your throat, tight and awful as Minghao - your husband for less than two hours - moves like something trained for this exact kind of violence. The polished, soft-spoken heir from the boardroom is gone. In his place is something sharper, darker, and far more dangerous.

The attacker tries to recover, lashing out with a desperate kick, but Minghao catches the leg, yanks it forward, and slams his knee into the man’s inner thigh with brutal force, dropping him to one knee. Then Minghao is behind him, a single arm snaking around the attacker's neck. For a second, your eyes meet Minghao's, his gaze ice and fire all at once. Then, he snaps the man's neck hard, the crack loud and final.

The attacker’s body goes limp instantly, collapsing in a heap beside Mina’s body. Blood pools beneath both bodies, mixing with the water from the fountain and staining the delicate white orchids that edge the stone paving.

Minghao is heaving, catching his breath as he stares at you across the violent terrace. He takes a single step toward you before chaos erupts in the doorway, heavy footsteps thundering across the stone as members of the Choi Syndicate flood the space. Seungcheol is in the room first, face like thunder and gun in hand. Jeonghan is behind him, the lazy smirk gone and replaced with deadly focus, armed and gun raised over Seungcheol's shoulder.

Seeing Soonyoung surprises you - you hadn't realized the Sword of the Choi family was here. You'd heard he'd been unpredictable and unhinged as of late, but from what little you knew of him, he was Seungcheol's first line of defense and probably went everywhere the Tower's son did.

Behind him, you vaguely recognize another Sword of the Choi family speaking into a comm at his wrist. You've met Joshua several times at galas and parties, his family high up enough in the Choi Syndicate to run in the elite circles - you even remember them being disappointed he'd become a Sword instead of a socialite or something less violent.

More personnel pour in behind them, your father’s security, Nexus Capital executives, event staff in panicked disarray. The peaceful mist of the terrace turns thick with the metallic stench of blood and the overlapping shouts of orders while you lean against the fountain, light-headed and bleeding.

Your father’s voice cuts through the noise like a whip. “Shut it down! Shut the entire fucking wedding down! Seal the floors now!" He pushes through the growing crowd, face flushed with fury. “I want this building locked. Find out how the hell this happened under our security! Someone’s head will roll for this!”

The chaos swells. Guests from the lower levels begin to murmur and push upward as rumors spread like wildfire. Security teams from both families clash in their attempts to take control, voices rising in overlapping commands. Someone is already photographing the bodies. Another is calling for medical extraction.

Through it all, Minghao moves straight to you.

“Everyone back!” he barks, voice sharp as Nexus Capital security moves toward you. "I will handle my wife. Get away from her."

Minghao sits you on the edge of the fountain, the water spraying your back and soaking through your dress. He drops to his knees in front of you, shrugging off his jacket in one fluid motion and pressing the expensive fabric hard against the deep gashes on your left arm. The pressure sends fresh waves of white-hot pain radiating through your shoulder and chest, but you bite back a cry.

“Breathe," he instructs, voice soft. "In for four, out for four."

You look at him sharply. "How do you know that?"

"You did it the entire time we were at the altar, Wicked. Where are you hurt?"

"Cuts on my arms."

"Deep? Tell me ba-"

Your father pushes closer, still shouting as he interupts whatever Minghao was about to say. “Minghao, let my people handle this. We need to get her to a secure-"

“No,” Minghao snaps, rising to his full height while pulling you to his side, hands pressed against your wounds to staunch the bleeding. “No one touches her except me right now. This is my wife. My responsibility.”

The possessiveness in his tone sends a strange shiver through you, mixing with the adrenaline and pain. He begins guiding you slowly away from the fountain, toward the far side of the terrace where the chaos is slightly less suffocating, his hands never leaving the wounds, applying constant, firm pressure.

Joshua separates himself from the Syndicate group and approaches carefully, hands raised in a clear non-threatening gesture. Minghao pulls you away but you squeeze his arm and whisper, "Syndicate. High up. Don't offend him."

"I don't care-"

"I can help," Joshua cuts in, earnest and gentle. "My fiancée is here tonight. She’s an ER nurse and is always prepared because I'm a bit of a disaster. She has supplies in her bag. Let her patch your wife quickly and privately. We can move to the adjacent private lounge. It’s secure.”

Minghao’s jaw tightens and his eyes flick to you, assessing the amount of blood still soaking through his jacket and the way your legs are beginning to tremble. For a long second, he seems ready to refuse. Then he gives a single, curt nod. “Briefly. Privately. No one else comes near her.”

Joshua signals quickly. A moment later, a woman in an elegant deep emerald gown slips through the crowd, escorted by a man you don't know. Her expression is focused and professional, despite the surrounding chaos. She doesn't waste time with introductions, marching toward the small, adjoining private lounge just off the terrace.

Inside, the space is quiet, dimly lit with warm amber lighting, furnished with low couches and lush potted plants. She works with swift efficiency, focused on helping instead of introducing herself. She orders Minghao to keep pressure on your wounds while she cuts away parts of your dress to clean the gashes with antiseptic. The sting makes you hiss through your teeth, fresh tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Minghao’s free hand finds yours, squeezing gently, surprising you.

"Cuts are deep but clean," she says, voice clinical. "No major vessels hit. You’ll need proper stitches and antibiotics soon, but this will hold for now."

She applies quick-acting clotting powder, then wraps your forearm and upper arm in tight bandages. The pressure is firm, immediate relief against the constant bleeding. Throughout it all, Minghao stays close, one hand on your back, the other assisting where needed.

Your mind spins. Mina’s lifeless eyes flash behind your eyelids every time you blink. The wet sound of her gasp. The way the attacker moved, professional, silent, deadly. This wasn’t random. This was targeted. On your wedding night. In the middle of the most public spectacle Hyperion has seen in years with some of the heaviest security you've ever been around.

You glance up at Minghao. His face is a mask of controlled fury, but his touch on you remains careful, almost tender as the woman finishes securing the last bandage.

"That'll hold until you get her to her own private care."

“Thank you,” you manage, voice hoarse and shaky. The pain is still there, a deep, throbbing burn, but it is no longer actively bleeding you out.

Minghao helps you to your feet, keeping his arm securely around your waist. He nods once at Joshua and his fiancée. "We're leaving."

Joshua nods and opens the door, letting you back into the chaos.

Outside, your father is still shouting orders to shut everything down, demanding answers, threatening careers. Syndicate members move through the growing crowd like shadows, securing perimeters. Soonyoung and Seungcheol stand guard near the doors, expressions grim while Jeonghan leans against a wall, watching everything with those sharp, unreadable eyes.

Minghao keeps you tucked firmly against his side as he guides you out of the private lounge and through the swelling chaos of the upper terrace. His arm around your waist is unyielding, taking most of your weight while his other hand maintains relentless pressure on your bandaged left arm.

Every step sends fresh throbs of pain radiating through the deep gashes, but the clotting powder and tight wraps are holding. Still, warm blood seeps slowly through the bandages, staining the sleeve of your ruined obsidian gown. The once-beautiful dress now hangs heavy and ruined, torn silk clinging wetly to your skin.

“Clear a path,” Minghao growls, cutting through the crowd.

Syndicate members fall in around you without question, creating a protective bubble as he steers you toward a discreet service corridor hidden behind a wall of flowering vines. The lush greenery brushes against your shoulders, leaving faint pollen and the sweet scent of jasmine on your skin. Mist from the waterfalls still clings to the air, now carrying the unmistakable metallic tang of blood.

Your head spins. The adrenaline that kept you upright during the fight is crashing hard, leaving your legs unsteady and your vision edged with black spots. You lean heavier into Minghao’s side, inhaling the faint pine and rain scent that always seems to cling to him. He doesn’t falter. His grip only tightens, steady and sure.

The private exit corridor is dimly lit with recessed amber lighting, two armed guards stationed at the end snapping to attention when they see Minghao, stepping aside instantly. A reinforced service elevator waits. Inside, the space feels claustrophobic, the mirrored walls reflecting your bloodied, disheveled appearance back to you.

Minghao says nothing. He simply helps you out when the elevator doors open directly into an underground private garage reserved for the highest tier of guests. . An armored black car idles, its engine humming. The driver steps out briefly to open the rear door and Minghao helps you inside first, easing you onto the leather seat with surprising care before sliding in beside you. The door seals with a heavy, reassuring thunk, and the car pulls away smoothly.

Minghao leans forward toward the driver and speaks in a fluid, melodic language you have never heard before, making you frown. It doesn’t sound like any of the common trade tongues used in Hyperion or Arkos, but the syllables roll off his tongue with effortless familiarity, carrying the weight of something old. One of the dead languages, you think. The driver responds in the same tongue, short and affirmative, before accelerating.

You stare at Minghao, startled. He settles back against the seat. His suit is ruined with your blood, the dark black of his shirt somehow darker. His hair is slightly disheveled for the first time since you met him, a few strands falling across his forehead. His eyes are sharp and unblinking, fixed entirely on you. He hasn’t relaxed. Not even slightly. His posture remains coiled, ready, one hand resting on his knee while the other occasionally flexes as if wanting to reach for a weapon.

You swallow hard, meeting his gaze head-on. “Was that your people? Did your family arrange this? To test me? To test the alliance?”

Minghao doesn’t look away. His expression remains unreadable, but something flickers behind his dark eyes. “I’m not sure."

The honesty lands like a stone in still water. No deflection. No smooth corporate reassurance. Just the stark truth that unsettles you more than any lie could have. In a world built on calculated performances and half-truths, his directness feels dangerous and alien.

You let out a shaky breath, leaning your head back against the cool leather. The city lights streak across his face in shifting patterns of neon violet and electric blue.

“Thank you,” you whisper after a long moment. “For saving me."

Minghao’s jaw tightens. "You’re no use to my family dead.”

The words aren't kind or romantic. They carry no warmth, no reassurance. Still, they're true. In this transactional marriage of power, your survival is an asset. The bluntness stings a little, and it unsettles you. He's repeatedly told you that honesty would get you killed, and hear he is being honest himself.

Well. Honest to hide other truths, you're sure, as is his way.

You study him in the shifting light. The scar on his right knuckle stands out pale against the dried blood on his hands and you're reminded of the way he dismantled the attacker. It wasn't a survival reflex like your clumsy attempt had been - it was the training of someone who practiced and who fought efficiently, someone professional.

"Who are you?" You ask, narrowing your eyes. The car glides through a tunnel, plunging you both into momentary shadow before neon lights wash over you again. “You’re not who my family was led to believe. That wasn’t the fighting style of a logistics prince. You killed him like you’ve done it before.”

Minghao’s gaze hardens. He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, watching you with that intense, cataloguing stare that makes your skin prickle. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

The warning hangs between you and you can feel the weight of his hidden truths again. None of it makes sense - the scar, the ancient-sounding language, the way his father deferred to him with a single finger twitch in that boardroom. Something isn't right with Xu Minghao, but you don't know what.

"I think I deserve to know who I just married," you say evenly. You ignore the warning, the throbbing in your arm. "My family thought they were allying with a neutral shipping empire from Arkos but you fight like someone who was trained to kill. You played into being an idiot party boy. You are not."

Minghao exhales slowly through his nose. For the first time, you see a flicker of something almost like weariness cross his features. He leans back again, eyes never leaving yours.

“This marriage is transactional,” he says evenly. “You don’t need to know everything about me. You only need to know that you're my wife and I would go through great pains to keep you alive. It has to be enough.”

The finality in his tone closes the subject like a door slamming shut. You want to argue, to demand more, but the pain in your arm is sharpening as adrenaline fully ebbs, and exhaustion is pulling at the fraying edges of your patience.

Minghao continues watching you, tense and alert, as if expecting another threat to emerge from the shadows at any moment. His hands, still stained red, rest on his thighs as the armored car glides through the upper levels of Hyperion’s streets, the neon sprawl of the city reduced to blurred streaks of violet, crimson, and electric blue beyond the tinted windows.

The car eventually slows and turns into a private underground entrance beneath a sleek, unmarked residential spire in the Upper District. Not the Observatory penthouse you selected as your starter home, but something else. A contingency location, you realize. One of the secure safehouses that must have been part of the joint security protocols you both negotiated and approved during those long, tense meetings.

When the vehicle comes to a stop, Minghao exits first, then reaches in to help you out with careful hands. His arm slides around your waist again, supporting your weight as your legs threaten to buckle on the polished concrete. Two figures step forward immediately from the shadows of the garage, security personnel you recognize from the joint vetting process you and Minghao conducted weeks ago.

A woman named Elara with sharp eyes and a calm demeanor, and a man named Kai, broad-shouldered and quiet. They were among the handful both of you had personally approved after rigorous background checks and interviews. Neutral. Capable. Unaligned with either family’s deeper entanglements.

“Status?” Minghao asks them.

“All clear, sir,” Elara replies. “The building is locked down. Three additional teams on the perimeter. No unauthorized movement.”

Minghao nods once, satisfied, and guides you toward the private elevator. The ride upward is silent except for the soft hum of machinery. When the doors open, you step into a spacious, fortified apartment that is elegant but deliberately understated compared to the Observatory penthouse.

Minghao leads you straight to a wide, low couch in the main living area, easing you down with surprising gentleness. Elara and Kai take up positions near the entrance, professional and unobtrusive. A medical attendant has already been prepared in an adjoining room, but Minghao waves off immediate further treatment for now.

He kneels in front of you, his bloodstained hands resting lightly on your knees as he studies your face. For a long moment, the only sound is the soft hum of the building’s air filtration system and the distant murmur of the city far below.

“I need one of your little wicked jars,” he says quietly. “The one you’re still hiding on yourself.”

You blink, startled despite the fog of pain and exhaustion. "Why? And how do you even know I have one?”

Minghao’s mouth twitches, the faintest bit of amusement. “I’m observant.” He glances meaningfully at the torn sleeve of your gown where the bandages peek through, then back to your eyes. “And considering you’re still alive after what just happened, they must work. I would like to keep one with me for what I’m about to go do.”

"What are you about to go do?"

"Something very violent."

The request hangs between you and you hesitate before you lift your trembling fingers to reach into the hidden inner pocket sewn deep into the bodice of your dress. The small glass jar is still there, warm from your body heat. Black salt, rosemary, hematite, sealed with wax and a drop of your blood. You press it into his waiting palm. The glass looks small against his bloodstained fingers.

Minghao closes his hand around it carefully before tucking it into the inner pocket of his ruined suit jacket. "Thank you."

He rises to his feet, but doesn’t step away immediately. Instead, he looks down at you with that intense, unreadable gaze. “Do not leave this safehouse until I return. Elara and Kai have their orders and they answer to us both. Doctor Tzintzun is here - I understand she is your family doctor."

You nod. "Be careful. Please."

Minghao lingers one final second. His thumb brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead in a gesture so unexpectedly gentle it contrasts sharply with the violence you witnessed barely an hour ago. It makes your heart skip, the breath getting stuck in your lungs for a moment. Then the mask slips back into place, the familiar cool and controlled calm you know.

He lifts his wrist, flashing the bracelet you gave him. "You’re protecting me, right? I'll be fine. I’ll return before dawn. Rest. Let the doctor fix your arm, Wicked."

He turns and walks toward the entrance without another word. Elara and Kai acknowledge him with respectful nods as he passes, and the door seals behind him with a solid, final sound.

The silence that follows feels immense. You lean back against the couch, staring out the windows where the city’s distant lights glitter like cold stars. Your left arm pulses with deep, aching fire, but the bandages hold. Mina’s face flashes behind your eyes again, her wet gasp and spray of blood, the way her body crumbled. You swallow hard against the rising nausea.

Doctor Tzintzun sticks her head out of the adjoining room. "Ma'am? Whenever you're ready."

You nod and allow her to come out and help you to your feet. She guides you toward the adjoining room to clean, stitch and re-bandage you again. As she does, your mind drifts back to the car ride and specifically, your new husband.

None of it makes sense. The ancient language. The brutal efficiency with which Minghao ended the attacker. His unflinching honesty when you asked if it was his people. The blunt truth about your value to his family. And now, the small spell jar resting against his chest as he walks into whatever shadows he’s about to confront.

You close your eyes as fresh antiseptic stings the wounds, tourmaline cord still warm around your wrist. The universe had warned you with its cards. The Tower falling. Illusions stripped bare. Death and transformation. Tonight, it delivered all three in blood and violence, but a steady sense of foreboding had been building all night, like the cards aren't done with you yet.

You wonder, as the pain dulls under medication and exhaustion finally pulls you under, what exactly Minghao is doing out there and what background taught him to be this way. As you fall asleep, you hope the small jar of salt, herb and intention will be enough to bring him back so you can find out.

-

Minghao moves through the rain-slicked unverbelly of the Civ District like a shadow. The neon glow from distant shipping cranes reflects off puddles stained with oil and blood, turning the narrow alley into a fractured mirror of Hyperion’s endless hunger. He's swapped the ruined wedding suit out for something more form fitting and breathable - and more importantly, free of your blood.

He'd scrubbed his hands free of your blood a few hours ago, but now someone else taints his knuckles as he presses his hand to his chest, ensuring the small spell jar that is tucked there is undamaged. It's a strange talisman, this jar that you've given him. He doesn't think they work, exactly, but it's a fascinating little practice, this stuff of yours. He's since looked into practitioners and the culture of women who practice craft, but he still can't understand how or why you came to it.

Still, he likes to wear the bracelet you gave him, often looking at it before going into a room to add another body to his list or before he has to do something he needs strength for. He's never thought much about luck, fate, or the universe, but now he carries the jar and bracelet on him like personal tokens of faith and protection.

Of all the things that Minghao finds most surprising, how often he thinks of you now is number one on the list. This marriage between you is purely transactional, a bridge between Nexus Capital's banking power and the Xu family's growing logistics empire. A calculated move to secure favor with the Choi Syndicate as instructed by the Virate to expand foothold in Hyperion.

But, strangely enough, he is fascinated by you. He's not fascinated by much, but when he'd seen you in that board room hiding bruises beneath your sleeves and drawing your peculiar tarot cards in secret, he felt a slight crack in his plan to use you and push you to the side. You were not the sheltered, obedient heiress they described. You were something sharper. Something that watched the universe with quiet, stubborn belief.

And tonight, someone tried to kill you.

He'd been shocked to find you with a knife in your hand despite the terror in your face. He'd heard you scream - he still doesn't know how, considering how far he had to run to get to you. The universe, perhaps. It impressed him to see that you'd fought back despite how bad you were at it, and the steadiness in your voice when you asked him point-blank in the car, whether his people had tried to kill you had nearly cowed him.

Most heirs in this city would have crumbled. You fought. You pushed. You handed him the spell jar without fully understanding why he wanted it, just that he did. He doesn't know what he wanted either, but it's warm against his chest and it's nice to have. Perhaps if a little jar of rocks and dirt and blood can save you from an assassination attempt, it can save him from whatever plot is unraveling in the shadows.

Minghao’s jaw tightens as he reaches the service door of the nondescript warehouse. The man inside - Strakos - is a mid-level fixer who'd coordinated the attacker's movement tonight. He'd been sloppy, though, and Minghao was incredibly good at finding out information in a city that didn't understand the nuances of the Virate.

He slips inside without sound. The interior is dimly lit by hanging work lamps, the air thick with the smell of rust, seawater, and cheap synth-cigarettes. Strakos sits at table, back to the door, reviewing holo-feeds of some shitty porno that makes Minghao's blood boil. This man had helped plan your death, and he's sitting in the middle of a warehouse, fully clothed watching someone get fucked over a couch.

Minghao strikes before Strakos has time to react.

One hand clamps over Strakos's mouth, yanking his head back while the other loops a thin wire garrote around his throat. Strakos thrashes, hands scrabbling at the wire as Minghao gathers it in his hand and pulls, his mouth brushing against Strakos's ears.

"You ruined my wedding," he murmurs.

The wire cuts through flesh and blood wells instantly, hot and dark. Strakos bucks wildly, knocking over the table as he gurgles, hands clawing at his throat. Minghao holds firm, knees braced against the chair as he pulls, gritting his teeth. Strakos's struggle is ugly and desperate, his feet kicking as the chair legs scrape against concrete, wet chokes escaping despite the crushing pressure.

Minghao’s mind remains clear, detached. This is not rage. This is correction. The Virate taught him long ago that hesitation kills empires.

He thinks of your face in the car, exhausted but determined, eyes wide with pain as you demanded the truth anyway. He thinks of the way you pressed the spell jar into his palm without hesitation. Of the faint scent of incense and herbs that always clings to you, the quiet rebellion of your tarot cards and hidden rituals. You are not soft. You are not simple.

You are as unexpected to him as he is to you, he thinks. And he's been very sloppy around you, unguarded and far too honest in the way that he keeps thinking will get you killed.

The wire sinks deeper. Strakos's struggles weaken, then cease entirely. Minghao holds the tension a few seconds longer, ensuring Strakos is dead before he finally releases, the body slumping forward onto the table with a dull thud. Blood drips onto the concrete floor, and Minghao smashes the phone to stop the crude holo from playing.

Minghao wipes the garrote clean on the dead man’s sleeve and tucks it away. He scans the room quickly, deleting the holo-feeds and pocketing a small data chip that might contain further connections. Only then does he pull out his encrypted comm device - the same matte-black rectangle he gave you all those months ago - and dials his father.

Xu Jian answers on the second ring. "Son."

“It’s done,” Minghao says quietly. He stares at the corpse, expression impassive. "Now to trace the loose threads of the web to the spider."

A long exhale on the other end. “Be careful. Your little display at the reception has the Choi’ curious.”

Minghao’s mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Let them wonder. The message is clear: she is under my protection now."

"They don't know we're Virate. You could have exposed us."

"I made a calculated decision and you'll say nothing more of it. The Choi Syndicate has other things to worry about than wondering if we're Virate. I want you to look into who hired these scum. If it was Virate, we have a problem."

"It will be done."

In Arkos, under the old laws of the Virate - a loose but iron-bound confederation of family lineages bound by blood oaths far older than the Syndicates - Minghao isn't the quiet heir he is in Hyperion. He's the patriarch, the lead of his family, raised from childhood within the Virate's hidden ranks and trained in their shadows, a hidden member loyal to the Triptych.

Jian might appear to be the head of the family in Hyperion, but Minghao's elevation through blood and merit in the Virate is where the Xu family truly gets their power. While his father played the public face of Xu Worldwide Logistics here in Hyperion, planting seeds and building legitimate fronts, Minghao had been the blade ensuring those seeds took root. The true power behind the throne.

Of course what he did tonight was a risk. He knows that. Honestly, if he was doing what the Virate asked of him, he would have let them kill you. You weren't actually a necessary piece to the puzzle, but he knows that with you alive, he has a better narrative with the Choi Syndicate and it's annoyingly perceptive Wisdom and her son.

Minghao grimaces at the thought of Jeonghan and his eyes that see far too much. He knows that tonight will be a grave error and that the Wisdom's son will dig his teeth into Minghao and ask questions and prod, but it can't be helped now. What's done is done and Minghao had taken a calculated risk that he could keep the Choi's away from the Virate ties in favor of saving your life.

His father sighs on the other end like he can hear Minghao's thoughts. "This marriage is already more complicated than we anticipated."

"She is not what we expected,” Minghao admits. "She fought tonight, though she doesn't know how. Most heirs would have just screamed and died."

"You sound fond."

Minghao exhales slowly. Fond. The word feels too small, which unsettles him. From the first boardroom meeting, something had shifted. What was meant to be a strategic union already matters more than it should, and just meeting you has complicated Minghao's world when Minghao has never had complications before.

He killed for you tonight without hesitation. Not just because you are a valuable asset, but because the sight of your blood on the terrace floor had ignited something cold and possessive in his chest. He's unused to the feeling.

"I protect what belongs to me," Minghao says eventually. "She is Virate now, though she doesn't know it. I'm committed to her safety as I would be for you or mother."

His father chuckles softly. “You always did prefer the old ways. Be careful, son. You cannot lean on the Virate. We're in the shadows.”

"I know the rules. I was forged by them.”

Minghao ends the call and slips the comm back into his pocket. For a long moment he stands over the body, rain drumming steadily against the warehouse roof. His thoughts return to you again and again, like a current he cannot escape.

You, sitting across from him in the car, shaken and unflinching as you asked whether his people had tried to kill you. The quiet strength in your voice when you thanked him even after his blunt reply. The way you fought with that small knife, desperate and untrained.

This marriage was never supposed to matter beyond its utility. Yet tonight, watching your blood spill, something fundamental had shifted. You're no longer simply the Nexus heiress - you're his wife, and in the old customs of the Virate, that bond carries weight far heavier than any corporate contract.

Minghao straightens his jacket and leaves the warehouse the same way he entered. The rain washes away the last traces of blood from his hands as he walks toward the car, ready to shower and sleep.

He'll return before dawn, as promised. And later, he'll find the remaining threads of tonight's violence and cut them clean. And perhaps, in the quiet of whatever time he finds, he'll decide how exactly he's going to be a husband to a woman who believes in tarot cards and moon water in a city that only worships power, violence and credit.

For now, the head of the Xu family has done his honor bound duty to his wife, and somewhere across the glowing city, you're probably sleeping. Bandaged but alive, carrying the barest hints and pieces of Minghao's secrets and your strange, annoying charm with you.

Minghao touches the small jar in his pocket once more, feeling its faint warmth against his chest, and allows himself the smallest ghost of a smile in the darkness.

-

Minghao steps out of the armored car into the private underground garage of the safehouse, the rain from the Civ District still clinging to him like second skin. The neon glow of the city filters down in muted streaks, casting long, fractured shadows across the concrete.

He moves on autopilot, muscles aching from the night's violence. His mind is still razor sharp though, cycling through every detail of the kill, every loose thread he'd severed tonight.

Elara and Kai materialize from their posts near the elevator, postures alert. They relax when they see Minghao and bow respectfully, straightening as he approaches. They're among the few personnel both you and Minghao jointly vetted, neutral enough to serve the new union without picking sides.

“Report,” he asks, walking into the kitchen.

“All secure, sir,” Elara replies immediately. "Doctor Tzintzun treated her and gave her something for the pain and to sleep. She’s resting in the east wing suite. She did ask about you."

Minghao’s chest tightens at the words. She asked about you. Of course you did. Even bleeding and exhausted, you pushed for answers, for truth. He nods once.

"No one comes in or out. Not even her father or anyone from Nexus Capital."

Kai inclines his head. “Understood. The Choi Syndicate has sent discreet inquiries. Mr. Kwon personally. They’re offering additional support.”

“Let them offer,” Minghao replies. “We accept the appearance of cooperation, nothing more."

Minghao dismisses them with a wave and heads toward the east wing, leaving them back at their posts. He finds you in the master suite, tucked beneath dark sheets. Your face is relaxed in sleep, but tension still lingers in between your brows and your jaw as you frown. The black tourmaline cord peeks from beneath the edge of the bandages on your wrist. Minghao stands in the doorway for a long time, simply watching the steady rise and fall of your chest.

Something unfamiliar and dangerous twists behind his ribs. He had not anticipated this complication. The scales feel tipped out of balance, like something new has taken root, and he doesn't know what to do about it.

Minghao finally turns away and moves to the bedroom across the hall to strip off his tactical gear with mechanical, practiced movements in the bathroom. He's careful with your little spell jar, setting it down gingerly on the counter where the low bathroom light catches the glass.

He lets the scalding water melt everything but his thoughts away. He stands under the spray, watching the water swirl around his fink and fade from pink to clear. The heat feels good, unwinding his muscles and burning him to the point that the only thing left are thoughts of you and this new predicament he's in.

When he can't take the heat anymore, he steps out and changes into something soft and comfortable before settling in the middle of his bed with his computer in front of him. With the tap of a key, the screen projects holograms around him in a circle, broken only by his arm as he inserts the data chip from Strakos' warehouse into the computer.

He finds limited information on it - remnants of someone referencing the union of Nexus Capital and Xu Worldwide Logistics. He taps his fingers on his knees. The enemies in Hyperion are endless, but few of them have killing power. Most of the people in the city who hate his family are business competitors, minor patrons of various Syndicates in Hyperion. None of them have the power to send a Syndicate-sanctioned attack on his wife, which means this hit is higher up than simple city corporations.

It could be Syndicate, he supposes. He's still learning about the nuances of the three powerhouses that sit at the top of the food chain in Hyperion, but he's not convinced the Kim or Yong family would be moved enough by the marriage to do something so public about it - especially not with Choi Moojin's daughter engaged to Kim Yijun as a sign of union.

A sour feeling settles in Minghao's stomach. The easiest conclusion to make is that the threat is from the Virate. A finger of dread traces his spine at the thought. In a way, families of the Virate were similar to families of the Syndicate - they vied for power, it was always at war, and the most powerful family was always the one that was ten steps ahead. Unlike the Syndicates of Hyperion though, the families of the Virate collectively answered to the three heads of the Virate, the Triptych.

Except members of the Virate didn't know the Xu families were members. Outside of the Triptych, the Virate didn't even know Minghao existed. To them, Xu Jian was a retired member who had moved to Hyperion when he was seventeen after being honorably discharged and given the blessing of the Virate. Even with their blessing, Jian had given up all ties, powers, assets and favors from the Virate for life. That was the way it worked. His wife Luli, who had tried to leave the Virate once before, had joined him.

They'd left a key part of them there, though. Their son. The Triptych was in need of a family with old ties to be removed and relocated elsewhere, someone they could trust and that could believably sever ties with the Virate. The Xu family had been just that, and they'd given their only son to the Triptych to raise in the shadows, nameless and unclaimed as a Shade, forged in the Triptych's perfect image of an assassin before sending him to do the single thing he'd been created for: win over a Syndicate in Hyperion.

He sighs. He's tired - he's always tired these days, even more so than when he was a teenager learning how to become a shadowed killer. The lying and scheming is often harder than the killing, and trying to uncover his enemy hiding in the dark without access to real Virate influence and pull is a challenge.

An email to his personal catches his attention. It's one of the Trustees of Nexus Capital with more of Minghao's access to his new assets - your assets that are now his. It's overwhelming. Nexus Capital’s vast banking networks, offshore accounts, silent partnerships, voting proxies. Pages of sensitive data scroll past full of liquidity reports, hidden holdings in Syndicate-adjacent ventures, influence maps.

Minghao swallows. It's exactly what he wanted. With this level of access, the family can begin weaving influence deeper into Hyperion's financial arteries, and through the Choi alliance, they can steer shipping lanes and capital flows without the Syndicates ever realizing a new, quieter power is embedding itself beneath their foundations. The Choi's believe this is nothing more than a political marriage for port advantages. They have no idea what the Virate is capable of.

Minghao should feel satisfied. This is entirely the reason he was given to the Triptych and raised as a Shade, a nameless member in the shadows, someone without influence and without a name, but one of the most valuable members of their society. Everything is proceeding according to plan, and yet for the first time in his life, he feels sharp, unwelcome conflict like the edge of an enemy's blade.

His gaze drifts again toward the door where you sleep just across the hall. You were never part of the equation. You were meant to be kept at a distance, polite and useful, a spoiled brat who would go to parties and be the socialite Minghao was told you were. Instead, you have lodged yourself under his skin and you haven't even done anything - you'd simply looked at him after he'd killed the attacker tonight not in fear, but wary recognition that Minghao was also not what he seemed.

Protecting you tonight had felt instinctive. Necessary. The thought of you lying dead beside Mina had ignited a cold fury he rarely permits himself. And that realization terrifies him.

Loyalty to the family and to the old ways has defined Minghao's entire life - every choice he has ever made. It gave him purpose when his father focused on building the legitimate Hyperion front, it forged him into steel when he was being wiped and cut and tested. Attachments were always meant to be managed, never indulged, and yet here he is sitting in a safehouse, conflicted over a wife he doesn't really know.

If future objectives ever require sacrificing your safety, or keeping truths from you that could destroy the fragile trust beginning to form - what then? A few months ago, Minghao would have said he'd cut you away no problem. Now, he thinks he might need to cut you out like cancer, nearly killing himself in the process to sever the tie.

How unsettling. He isn't sure how he's gotten here, but as always, it's up to him to figure it out. Right now is not the time, though, so he rolls his shoulders and continues working through the remaining hours of darkness, mapping pressure points within Nexus Capital, noting which Choi figures might be influenced over time. Every new door opened by the marriage is another step into Hyperion's core, his entire purpose.

The first hints of dawn begin to lighten the sky beyond the glass of the bedroom. He glances up and realizes his current work has no business being done in the light of day, so he powers down the computer, the cyan numbers and screens vanishing. He stands and shuffles across the hall to check on you, opening the door as quietly as he can.

You're still asleep, breathing steadily in the same position he left you in. Sighing, he sits down in one of the chairs, leaning so his elbows are on his knees and his chin rests in his elbows, staring at you as you sleep.

For the first time in his life, the sharp edge of his purpose feels negotiable. Not abandoned or broken, but rather complicated by the strange, stubborn woman sleeping in front of him.

Perhaps you are wicked, but rather for the things you do to him instead of your actual deeds.

-

The last place you want to be tonight is the Eternal Bloom Gala at the Celestial Atrium in the Pearl District. The atrium is a floating marvel suspended between three interconnected spirals, gardens far more exquisite than even your wedding dominating every space. Though it looks nothing like your wedding, it's close enough to make your stomach turn, your fingers brushing across the closed wounds, still healing since the attack three weeks prior.

Massive domed ceilings of smart glass reveal the night sky above Hyperion, projected stars mingling with the real ones when the clouds part. Tiered terraces overflow with tropical foliage and cascading waterfuls that tumble into artificially glowing pools full of night-blooming lilies the size of dinner plates.

Crystal lanterns drift lazily overhead like captive moons, casting warm golden light that softens every sharp edge of wealth on display as women glide through the gardens in gowns of liquid silk and embroidered starlight. Servants in white move like ghosts, offering flutes of shimmering vintage and tiny edible sculptures dusted with real gold leaf.

Tonight, you're playing the part of socialite perfectly despite the bone-deep exhaustion that clings to you even now. Your gown is a deep forest green this evening, chosen to complement the venue’s living opulence and because it has sleeves that high the healing scars on your arm. Minghao stands a few paces away, devastating in a green so dark that it's almost black, his presence a dark anchor amid the glittering crowd.

Your husband is a startlingly good date. He's attentive in public, close enough for appearances, but never quite warm. He speaks to you more than he used to, small observations about the room, quiet comments on people passing by, but the deeper questions you ask still meet that same polite, impenetrable wall.

Despite asking multiple times, he still won't tell you who trained him to kill with such clinical efficiency. Won't explain the ancient language he used with the drive that night. It doesn't matter how much he dances around your questions - you still probe, willing to chip away at his armor with every conversation if you have to.

You turn your attention back to the circle of high society ladies surrounding you. As much as you hate it, they're the gatekeepers of Hyperion's upper echelons, wives and daughters of banking dynasties, shipping magnates, and Syndicate families. Their gowns shimmer in jewel tones, their smiles sharp as broken glass.

Though exhausted, you have spent the last hour slowly weaving Minghao into their world, dropping careful mentions of his insights on logistics and neutral trade routes, painting him as a valuable new addition to the delicate balance of power.

Lin stands at the center, as she usually does. She's always been a ring-leader, now married to a mid-level Sword whose name you forget. She carries herself with the confidence of someone whose family has hovered near the inner circle for generations. You've known her since you were teens, your circles overlapping heavily enough that she feels almost like an old yet complicated acquaintance.

Tonight, she's in deep crimson silk that catches the lantern lights like fresh blood, her smile sweet on the surface but sharp underneath You don't miss the way her eyes linger on Yoon Jeonghan as he glides by, bowing politely to the women and giving them all his dashing smile. You don't think it's dashing at all, feeling your spine stiffen as the Wisdom's son winks at you and Minghao before vanishing into the crowd.

Suianne is next to her, and you're surprised to see her. She'd married into the Yong family and though the Syndicate's were currently at peace, the Yong family and the Choi family had been fighting at the docks which was the entire reason you got married to Minghao. Neither of you speak of business tonight, instead focusing on her pretty, navy gown that flowers like water.

Eva stands to Lin’s other side, beautiful and brittle in shimmering silver, still nursing the very public sting of being discarded by Kwon Soonyoung after she let him into her bed. From what you'd heard, he's not spoken to her since and as you watch her eyes flick around the gala, you can see the humiliation that still clings to her.

The three of them form a petty but influential ring, always watching and always trading secrets. They're not your favorite women to spend time with, but you don't have friends. Not really. Your sister had always been the one to establish the relationships, and you'd only started after she'd died, making for awkward conversations and learning social queues clumsily.

Lin leans in slightly, lowering her voice as a drift of jasmine-scented mist curls toward you. "You have to tell us - honestly. How are you really finding married life with your mysterious Xu heir? The whole city is still rumbling about your wedding. I'm so glad you're alright."

You offer a measured, slightly tired smile, letting them see the exhaustion beneath the polish to make the performance more authentic. "Minghao is quieter than most men, but there's a steadiness to him I enjoy. He remembers small details."

"He certainly watches you closely," Suianne notes, tilting her head. "A man in love, I suppose."

You glance across the garden where Minghao stands speaking with a small cluster of neutral businessmen. His dark eyes find yours almost instantly, holding for a heartbeat too long. He tilts his head as if to ask are you okay and you nod back. He seems appeased, eyes flicking back to the men he's speaking to.

The two of you have moved back into the Observatory penthouse full time. The space no longer feels quite so vast and empty now that he joins you for breakfast some mornings. He even is willing to sit in the living room while you light palo santo, watching you warily. He still deflects every real question about his past, but the silence between you has grown less brittle.

"He's attentative," you agree, turning back to them. "Last week he remembered I prefer lemon-mugwort tea in the mornings without me saying anything. We’ve settled back into the penthouse, just the two of us above the clouds. It’s peaceful. We're still learning."

Eva lets out a soft, bitter laugh, swirling the liquid in her glass. “At least he comes home to you. Kwon Soonyoung fucked me senseless for three weeks straight and now pretends I don’t exist when we’re in the same room. The man is a ghost after he gets what he wants.”

Lina's smile turns knowing. "That's what you get for fucking the mad dog and thinking you could mend him after she left him."

Eva looks put out by Lin's comment, but Suianne drops her voice to a whisper. "Speaking of her - no one has seen her in weeks. Not since her engagement party. You used to be close with her, weren't you Lin?"

"We're still close," Lin sniffs. "She's simply busy with her fiancée. Kim Yijun is a demanding man." She waves a hand and turns to you. "Enough about Baby. Tell us more about your husband. Is he as intense in the bedroom as he looks in public?"

Eva shouts Lin's name as the question lands like spark on dry tinder. Heat floods your face instantly and your mouth opens and closes. For a moment, all your carefully practiced poise deserts you and you're left staring at Lin who looks rather smug, like she's caught you in a lie.

"Um," you manage. The women burst into delighted laughter, clearly pleased to have cracked your composure. “He is considerate. But that's not something I'm going to discuss in detail."

A smooth voice interrupts from just behind you. “Oh, Lin, you terrible thing. Must you scandalize the poor girl in public?”

You turn, grateful for the interruption, as a woman you don’t recognize steps into the circle with effortless confidence. She's utterly striking, tall and elegant in midnight blue silk that pools around her like shadows, her dark hair swept up with silver pins.

“Minael,” Lin says warmly, reaching out to clasp the woman’s hand. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight. And with your husband, no less.”

Minael’s husband steps forward beside her, a tall, well-built man in impeccably cut black. His features are sharp, with cool grey eyes that seem to take in everything at once.

"Sato Ken," he introduces himself, offering his hand with a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You extend your hand to shake his, and the moment your palms meet, your gaze drops down involuntarily to his hand. There, across the first knuckle, is a thin, precise scar, nearly identical to the one on Minghao’s hand. Pale, deliberate, the kind left by wire or a very sharp blade. Not the sort of mark one expects on a society husband.

A chill slides down your spine. Ken's grip is firm, lingering just a fraction too long, and when you meet his eyes again, he's studying you with an intensity that feels uncomfortably familiar, As if he is cataloguing you the same way Minghao does.

Something in your gut turns rotten. A chill settles over you as you stare at Ken. Beyond him, something catches your eye. Near the top of the trees, a black bird lands, shuffling its wings. It's so black it's almost blue, oil-slick feathers shining in the light as it shuffles, craning its head until it blinks two beady eyes at you. You stare at it for a moment - you don't think you've ever seen a crow in the city before.

And then it flutters its wings and flies away through the open roof, vanishing into the inky sky like it was never there at all.

“Pleasure to finally meet you,” Ken says smoothly, bringing your attention back to him. “We’ve heard much about the new Xu-Nexus union.”

Minael laughs lightly, linking her arm with Lin’s. “Darling, you must tell me everything later. I’ve been dying to hear how the mysterious Arkos heir is settling into our little ecosystem.”

The conversation shifts around you, but you remain hyper-aware of Ken. He stands slightly behind his wife, eyes occasionally drifting back to you with that same probing focus. Something isn't right about Sato Ken. His wife seems perfectly well and good at socializing and you can tell Lira and the others are doting on her, but her husband is bad at this, his presence a palpable edge to the softness of his wife.

A tingle prods at the back of your neck, and instinct tells you to be wary of him. You engage with him little, ensuring that his wife is positioned between the two of you at all times. Your finger brushes against your bracelet, warm from your skin and grounding.

Thankfully, Minael and Ken don't linger long. After a few minutes of polite exchange, they drift away toward another group, the eerie man casting one final, lingering glance over his shoulder at you before disappearing into the foliage.

Moments later, Minghao appears at your side, moving with that silent grace you have come to expect. His hand settles lightly at the small of your back, warm through the silk. You suck in a breath, glancing at him, a little startled by his nearness.

“Are you ready to go home?” he asks quietly, voice pitched so the others can hear. “We were supposed to stay another hour, but you look exhausted.”

“Yes,” you murmur. “Please.”

He nods once and excuses you both from the group with polished grace, and guides you through the gardens toward a private exit. As you walk, you glance back one final time to see Ken watching you from across the atrium, half hidden behind a curtain of jasmine vines. An odd, unsettled feeling twists in your stomach and you turn away, leaning slightly into Minghao.

The armored car waits in the secure bay below. Once inside, the doors close behind you and the vehicle glides smoothly onto the road. You don't hesitate, getting onto your knees and reaching into your dress for the wrapped tarot deck you'd hidden in your pocket.

Minghao watches you from across the seat, eyebrow slightly raised. “Now?”

"Hush."

You shuffle the cards, the soft shck of the cards familiar. You don’t ask a specific question out loud. You rarely need to anymore. The deck knows, and three cards slip from the deck and fall face up onto the seat as you shuffle.

The Devil, upright. Ace of Swords, reversed. Nine of Wands, upright.

You stare at them, heart sinking. Chains and bondage. Blocked clarity. A wounded warrior still standing guard, exhausted but defiant. The message feels heavy, layered with warning. Something binding. Something obscured. Something that requires continued vigilance despite deep fatigue.

Minghao leans forward slightly, studying the cards with open curiosity. “What do they mean?”

You don’t answer immediately, tracing the edges of The Devil with one fingertip. The image of chained figures stares back at you. Your mind drifts to Ken's scar, to the way he studied you.

"Well?" Minghao asks again.

You glance at him. "Do you know Sato Ken?"

"Who?"

You frown. "The man I just met at the party. He had a scar like yours, and grey eyes."

Minghao goes unnaturally still. "What scar?"

"You have a scar on your finger." You reach out and grab his hands. He lets you, frowning as you lift his hand to the light and point to the faint scar on his knuckle, thin as can be. His hands are warm in yours, the fingers rough against your skin. "This one."

Minghao stares at where your hands are linked. "That scar specifically?"

"Yes."

A vein in his temple twitches before he shrugs a shoulder. "I don't know a Sato Ken."

Not for the first time, it sounds like Minghao is telling the truth. But you think about the way he uses truth to hide other things, and as you drop his hands and look back to the cards, you wonder which card is Minghao. The man in chains or the wounded warrior still standing guard. Maybe both.

-

Being in the Lower District alone is a bad idea. You have no choice, though. Hours in the library in the Legal District have led you here, an impossible lead buried in nonsense files. It hadn't been easy to find - Sato Ken hadn't brought up any solid leads, nor had his wife. But your search had revealed a Sato Rhia who had died in a car crash a decade ago with her husband and adopted son, a young boy who was named Zhi Yuan, not Sato Ken, but who had the same uncanny grey eyes and the beginnings of a face like the man you remember from the gala.

Pulling your coat hood up against the drizzle, you begin walking toward the nearest transit hub that will take you down to the Lower District where your research indicated the shelter was. If Zhi Yuan passed through the system, someone might remember him. Someone might know how a boy with grey eyes and a future scar ended up.

You get lost twice trying to find the train to take you to the Lower District. You've never been there without security personnel, and when you finally board the train, you feel a sense of apprehension as the car rocks back and forth, neon smearing by on the windows before it shoots underground.

Sitting near the head of the car, you settle with your hand tucked inside your coat, finger brushing the hilt of your small knife. The other rests against the tiny vial of protective oil in your inner pocket, its glass warm and grounding.

Through the scratched windows, the city becomes visible briefly as the train dives in and out of subterranean tracks. People huddle under leaking overhangs, begging for credits or hovering near fires for warmth. When the train stops, you step out and cringe, the smell of too many bodies living close together hitting you all at once.

Climbing the stairs is dangerous, the grime and rain making the ascent slippery. You hesitate to touch the rail when you see the rusted filth, and instead ask the universe to keep you from busting your ass.

The streets here are narrow and chaotic, slick with oily rain that reflects stuttering neon signs in iridescent puddles. Real rain falls harder at this level, drumming against rusted metal awnings and corroded pipes. Gang tags in glowing spray-paint pulse on every wall, though above them are the looming symbols of the Syndicates.

Street vendors hawk bootleg data pads, hacked implants, and vials of questionable stims from flickering stalls. The air grows thicker, heavier, carrying the unmistakable smells of unfiltered rain, and fried street meat. You feel painfully exposed, your coat too clean and posture too refined for this district.

Eyes follow you - some curious, some calculating. You keep your head down but your sens sharp, hand never far from your knife as you navigate the rain-slicked streets.

The shelter squats at the end of a dimly lit side street, a squat brutalist building reinforced with bolted steel plates and outdated security cams that flicker with static. Faded holographic signage above the entrance flickers with the building name, though it's broken and half on so none of the letters seem to make sense.

Rain drips steadily from the overhang as you push open the reinforced door. Inside, the air is warm and stale. You curl your nose, immediately missing the freshness of recycled air. You hadn't realized what a privilege it was until now.

Rows of cramped cots line the main hall. A few residents glancing at you curiously. A man mopping the floor with water that doesn't look any cleaner than the sticky tile nods politely at you. You approach the front desk where a middle-aged woman in a worn uniform flicks through data on a tablet under the weak glow of a buzzing fluorescent bar.

“Excuse me,” you say, keeping your voice low. “I’m looking for information about someone who might have stayed here as a child. His name was Zhi Yuan. This would have been around twenty to twenty-five years ago. I think he was adopted by Sato Rhia and her husband Amar.”

The woman studies your face, noting how obviously out of place you are before she ignores you and goes back to reading whatever is on her tablet. You grit your teeth and pull out your phone, tapping the small tile on the desk to transfer credits.

"Try again," you say through your teeth.

She glances at the credits and stiffens, rolling her shoulders as she begins typing. "Zhi Yuan?" She repeats, voice raspy. "Might not have the records that far back."

"That far? It was only twenty something years ago."

She huffs. "Listen lady, we don't got fancy storage here. We delete shit."

"Are you going to do the search or not?"

She grumbles and hits a few keys. "All I've got is some random kid from Arkos here for a few weeks. That's it."

"That's it?"

"You can transfer me more credits, but it won't do shit."

You think about leaving a handful of rusty nails, but you force a sharp smile. "Thank you so much for your help."

As you reach the door, the older man in stained janitorial coveralls pauses his mopping. He's weathered with deep lines around his eyes and hands scarred from years of hard labor. He glances at you, then at the woman behind the desk.

"You shouldn't be chasing ghosts down, miss," he whispers. "Not that one."

You pause, turning back. “What do you mean?”

"The boy. Let him stay dead. Virate operates that way."

The word lands like cold steel against your spine. Virate.

It's an unfamiliar word to you, but it tugs at your gut, like something is telling you it's important. “What is the Virate?”

The man’s expression shutters immediately. He looks over his shoulder toward the back rooms, then back at you. For a moment, genuine concern flickers across his weathered face.

Better that you don’t know,” he says quietly, almost urgently. “Go home, miss. The Lower District isn't for you."

He returns to mopping without another word, the wet slap of the mop against cracked tile the only sound between you. You stand frozen for a long second, heart hammering, before pushing open the door and stepping back into the relentless rain.

-

Minghao sits across the table from his mother in the private tearoom of the Xu family residence in the Upper District. The space is deliberately designed, a copy of old Arkos interior design and architecture. Low tables of dark lacquered wood rest on mats woven from rare fibers imported at great expense, and the walls are paneled in warm cedar that release a faint, woody smell.

Soft paper lanterns hang at varying heights from the ceiling, their golden light diffused and flickering gently, mimicking the old-world illumination of ancestral estates back in Arkos. Outside the reinforced floor-to-ceiling windows, Hyperion sprawls in an endless, restless web of neon arteries, flickering holograms, and rain-streaked towers piercing the low cloud ceiling.

Rain taps steadily against the glass, a metallic percussion that Minghao has long since learned to tune out since moving here. Inside, the air is warm and fragrant with the steam rising from the teapot and the subtle notes of jasmine.

It should feel peaceful. Instead, it feels like the calm before a storm he himself is about to unleash.

Xu Luli pours the tea with the same graceful precision she has always possessed, her movements fluid, the delicate porcelain cup gliding silently across the surface of the table as she pushes it toward him. Her grey eyes catch the lantern light as she lifts her cup, sipping.

Luli looks eternally young. It's always unsettling to Minghao that his mother doesn't look like she ages, while his father lets himself age freely. He knows it's a status and power play, but he hates the way he looks at his mother and sees someone frozen in time, someone he will eventually surpass because augmentation and longevity is not for him.

Minghao watches her hands. Elegant. Steady. The same hands that once ran through his hair when he was a young boy, before the Virate claimed the rest of his childhood and turned him into a trained weapon, a blade at their beck and call.

He takes a slow sip of the tea, letting the rare Arkos blend warm his chest and ground him. The flavor is complex, floral and slightly bitter, with an underlying earthiness that reminds him of the herbs you roll into handles and distill into oils that you like to spray across doors and clothes and objects.

"You look well," Minghao offers, sipping his tea.

Luli smiles at him softly, the kind of smile she reserves only for him. "You look tired. The marriage has been… eventful."

“Eventful,” Minghao echoes, a dry note threading through his voice. He studies her face in the golden lantern light, noting every micro-expression. "My wife and I have not had an easy start."

"All marriages are complicated. Your father and I were not always easy, either."

“Now that you've mentioned it, I’ve been thinking about your life before Father. Before the Xu name became yours.”

Her fingers pause for the briefest moment on the teapot handle. Minghao catches it, the tiny tightening at the corner of her mouth, the way her stormy grey eyes flicker once toward the reinforced window overlooking the glowing, rain-streaked city below. The lanterns cast shifting golden patterns across her flawless face, highlighting the elegant line of her jaw.

“It was a difficult time,” she says lightly. "Your father and I found each other at the right time."

"You were out of the public eye for a while. Why was that?"

"Youthful rebellion," she snorts. "I thought I could escape the expectations placed on me. Your wife has done a better job at hers, I will admit."

"And yet you think she's wicked."

"I never said wicked. She's just strange."

Minghao tilts his head, watching her with the same intense, cataloguing focus he once used on targets in shadowed rooms. The lantern light plays across her features, softening nothing.

"Was there someone before my father?" The question catches her off guard and her cup clinks sharply against the plate when she sets it down. "I always wondered. I never could figure out what made you leave."

"Minghao-"

"The Triptych always told me you wanted to leave," Minghao continues, nodding. He puts his chin in his palm, watching his mother keenly. "And that's why they were willing to part ways publically, that you'd asked for it. But your first departure from the Virate wasn't after you received permission. So what was it?"

"Son…"

"I'm not angry. I'm just looking for some answers."

Luli is quiet for a long moment. She lifts her own cup, takes a slow sip as if buying time, and sets it down with deliberate grace. The soft clink of porcelain against lacquer sounds unnaturally loud in the quiet room. Outside, the rain intensifies, drumming harder against the glass.

“Yes,” she admits at last. “I ran away with a lover.”

The admission hangs heavy in the air between them. Minghao nods, mind racing ahead. His eyes drop down to the red bracelet you'd given him, the azabache charm cool against his skin.

"Who was he?" He asks.

"Someone unsuitable. From outside the Virate. He was very charismatic, brillitan in his own way. I thought I could disappear and live outside the rules."

“And then?” he prompts when his mother falls silent again.

“I became pregnant.”

The words land like a blade between his ribs. Minghao goes very still. The lantern light suddenly feels too warm, the cedar scent too heavy. His mother continues, her voice trembling only slightly now, each word pulled from somewhere deep and painful she has clearly tried to bury for decades.

“I carried the child to term. A boy. We lived happily for a year before he decided that the child and I were too much. So I went back." She swallows. "The child wasn't Virate, though. So they took him and offered to place him somewhere safe and give me a new start, a single offer of mercy.”

"A safe start," Minghao echoes. "They offered to let you part with the Virate publicly if you did favors for them privately, didn't they?"

She chews her lip and nods. "I married your father and then we had you. You know the rest from there. We had you until you were five. Then we moved and you were theirs."

Minghao’s mind races, pieces clicking together with brutal, crystalline clarity. Grey eyes. The thin, precise scar. The way Sato Ken had studied you at the gala. You'd been unsettled by Ken, though Minghao had neither seen the man nor heard of him. None of his contacts knew of the name Sato Ken, and a quick online search had simply told the story of a businessman who married into a wealthy family.

In any other circumstance, Minghao might have disregarded it. But you'd been unsettled more than usual, insisting that the man with grey eyes - a Lin family trait from his mother's side - had the same scar as him. He trusted your instincts.

It was the same scar the initiated members of the Virate had, one where a finger had been severed during interrogation only to be later surgically added back on. The scar was always a reminder that members had passed, that they'd like the Virate take a part of them during an interrogation that felt realer than anything else Minghao has ever gone through, and that they could take it just as easily again.

He rubs his finger now, fingers brushing over the scar, remembering the snap of the bone and the way he'd nearly bit through his tongue. He'd not given up the information, though, and that had been enough to pass and earn the digit back.

If you were unsettled by a man with grey eyes and the same scar… well, Minghao didn't believe coincidences. Not since he had started watching you read your tarot and scribble into dream journals when you thought he wasn't paying attention.

“Does father know?” he asks eventually, voice low and tightly controlled.

“No. No one does. Only the Triptych."

Minghao exhales slowly, mind already spinning through the implications. If this Sato Ken was Minghao's brother - either by blood or initiation - he existed only in the dark. Which meant he was a Shade, and no one but the Triptych knew he existed. It unsettles Minghao more than he would like, mind scrambling to find a motive. Jealousy? Resentment? A move within a move by the Virate? It could be anything.

As a Shade himself, Ken shouldn't know Minghao existed. Not even the most coveted of the assassins belonging to the Virate knew the identity of one another, which was why Minghao thought nothing of Ken at the gala - hadn't even seen him. It makes him feel shaken, a ghost slipping by him that Minghao was trained to find, to see.

Worse was that Ken had seen you. Approached you. Shaken your hand. He'd done all that and Minghao simply hadn't noticed him. Years of Virate training had failed him, and he'd let something as dangerous as a Shade get close to you. It not only wounds his pride, but it wounds him.

Minghao feels the red bracelet you gave him shift against his wrist again. The azabache charm feels heavier suddenly, a small weight of your strange faith pressing against his skin.

He stands abruptly, the low table creaking as his knees push against it. Rain continues to lash the windows, the sound growing louder as the storm intensifies outside.

"I have to handle this," he mutters.

"What?" She asks, slipping into Zhenwen, a language dead to the world for generations but kept alive by the oldest families of Arkos. "What's happening?"

"Your illegitimate son tried to kill my wife."

"No," Luli shakes her head. "He was adopted into a family, outside of the Virate."

Minghao tsks. "You think the Virate gave away your child without training him? The Shade is born in darkness and has no name. I would know."

Luli closes her eyes, a single tear slipping down her eternal face. Minghao turns away before the sight can soften him. He cannot afford softness right now. Not when the delicate balance he has spent years maintaining is suddenly threatening to shatter around him for a haphazardly protected secret.

"I will do what I must for my family," Minghao tells her, steeling himself. "Blood for blood."

"Blood for blood," she agrees.

As he walks out of the room, he touches the red bracelet on his wrist, thumb brushing over the braided strands of your hair woven into the cord. The small protective charm you made for him feels both absurd and strangely vital at this moment. He wonders what you would say if you knew the truth, that the man you married carries blood older and darker than anything you have imagined. That the secrets he keeps are not just his own.

Whatever game is being played either by this half-brother of his or by the Triptych, Minghao will end it.

But for the first time, the thought of collateral damage makes his stomach turn because now, the collateral has a name, and she sleeps in the east wing of his penthouse and sticks her nose where it doesn't belong because she's too smart for her own good.

-

Thick, metallic air swallows you the moment you step into the bar. Sweet smoke chokes the room, the neon bleed of alternate reality systems flickering from behind closed doors. A few patrons sit slumped over table tops, nursing drinks lazily as though they're half in a dream. Most of the doors are shut, the private alternate reality rooms cutting them off from the bar and everything else in the real world.

Energy shifts immediately. Your skin prickles, and you scan the room, sensing the way energy here is a vacuum, like these rooms that offer everything but reality suck the essence of the soul out of the body.

The rain from outside clings to your coat in silver beads, but the oppressive warmth in the bar immediately makes your back and neck start to sweat. You step into the bar further, letting the door shut close behind you, cutting off the sound from the Pearl District. Neon from the district streets leaks through frosted windows in fractured violet and electric blue, painting the high wooden beams in shifting colors.

A few figures who move with the careful grace of people who have stepped between realities one too many times. You scan them all without making it obvious, your fingers brushing the black tourmaline cord hidden beneath your sleeve. The small knife in the hidden slit of your coat presses reassuringly against your ribs as your gaze settles on the woman behind the bar.

She's pretty, pouring someone a drink as she laughs at something the customer says. A simple black tank top shows toned arms covered in faint tattoos that seem to shift when the light hits them at the right angle. Her features are difficult to hold onto, like she's someone you might forget the moment you turn away while being strangely magnetic.

You drive toward the bar, hyperaware of the way the bartender notices you. Based on the description, you think she's who the Tower's daughter told you to find.

Kero, she'd said, eyeing you warily. Kero is good at information. Are you okay, though? I can help if you're in danger, you know that, right?

It had been a kind offer whispered at a gala last week, a rare moment where the two of you had been in the powder room and you'd been insane enough to ask her for a good source of information in the Syndicate.

Your heart pounds thinking about it again, remember the way she'd raised her brows and urge you to tell her if there was something wrong. Her kindness was a rarity in the Syndicate, and though you were somewhat familiar with her, facing her full on had been nearly overwhelming.

The bartender turns toward you as you slide onto a stool, her lips curving into a grin as she leans one hip against the bar.

"Hi," he drawls, eyes flicking up and down as she drinks you in. "New face. You look very expensive, sweetheart. What can I pour you?"

“I’m not here for a drink,” you say evenly. “I’m looking for Kero.”

Her smile doesn’t falter, but something sharp flickers behind her eyes. She tilts her head, studying you more carefully now, as if reassessing the woman standing in front of her.

"Kero is around. What do you need?" She asks eventually, fingers tapping the top of the bar.

"The Tower's daughter told me Kero might be able to help me with some information."

The words land with weight. She straightens slightly, the playful curve of her mouth diminishing. Mentioning the Tower’s daughter commands absolute authority here, you realize. She gives you a long, measured look, dark eyes tracing over your face, your coat, the way you hold yourself, drinking in every detail.

"I'm nothing if not a humble servant to the Tower and his children," she says eventually. "I'm Kero. You can come with me, sweetheart. Keep your pretty hands where I can see them, yeah? Baby is a good friend of mine, but I don't know you."

She slips out from behind the bar fluidly, exchanging a quick, wordless nod with the burly bartender who steps in to cover her station seamlessly. You follow, weaving between tables. No one notices you as you walk by, each customer staring off into nothingness with a glazed over expression that makes you shiver.

Kero leads you to a narrow hallway, the walls covered in flickering frames of alternate reality landscapes. You glance at them as you walk by, looking into lush forests, empty beaches, and night skies. At the end of the hall, she stops and presses her balm to a hidden scanner, a heavy wooden door hissing open after her clearance passes. She gestures for you to enter first, grinning and winking as you pass by her.

The private room beyond is small but surprisingly comfortable, a storage space turned lounger. Dim amber sconces cast warm, flickering light across two worn leather armchairs and a low table. A plush couch sits against one wall, and shelves hold bottles of rare liquor, scattered data pads, and a few precious paper books.

Kero closes the door behind you, engages the lock with a soft click, then turns with that same half-smile. She gestures to one of the armchairs, leaning casually against the table’s edge. You sit gracefully, unwilling to let her know that she makes you feel off keel.

Something about her unsettles you. In the dimmer room, her features are even harder to latch on to, like her eyes change everytime you look away or her hair is a shade adjusted. She watches you like a cat watches a mouse as you sit, and though you know mentioning the Tower's daughter has awarded you some power, you're not sure it's given you immunity here.

“So,” she says lightly. "What kind of trouble are you in, hmm?"

"Who says I'm in trouble?"

"It's written all over your face. You're tense as shit."

You give a small, knowing smile. “I’m not used to the Pearl District. That doesn’t mean I’m lost.”

Kero cocks her head. “Damn, no VR for you, huh? You rich types don’t really need to escape reality. You have everything you could ever want.”

“Not everything.”

"Unless you're trying to escape that fancy marriage."

"So you know who I am?"

Kero pushes off the table and walks over to a chair, dropping into it unceremoniously before pivoting sideways to hook the backs of her knees over the arm.

“Of course I do,” she snorts, dropping into the opposite chair and hooking her knees over the arm. “Big wedding. I wasn’t invited. Not high enough up the ladder, you know what I mean?”

"No."

"You're very honest, Mrs. Xu."

You meet her eyes without hesitation. “I’m very honest, yes.”

The name Mrs. Xu still feels foreign, but you no longer flinch. You so rarely hear people use your new legal name - most people still often see you as the heiress to Nexus Capital, content to use your family name because in this city, Minghao has married into your family, not the other way around.

"I met a man a few days ago at a gala and he left me with questions," you start slowly. Kero raises her brows. "No one really seems to know who he is, which isn't common among the elite."

She snorts. "You came here because someone isn't as well known as you?"

You ignore the barb, continuing, "He gave me the name Sato Ken. He doesn't seem to be much - just a mid-level businessman who married the daughter of a Patron of the Choi Syndicate. I think he might have a second name, though. Do you know anyone by the name of Zhi Yuan?"

Kero shakes her head. "Should I?"

"I don't know. Do you know what the Virate is?”

Kero’s entire posture changes in an instant. The lazy sprawl vanishes. She unhooks her legs and plants her boots on the floor with a quiet thud, leaning forward sharply and the playful glint in her eyes hardens into something guarded and alert.

“Virate,” she repeats, voice low and sharp. “What are you doing with the Virate?”

"I don't know what the Virate is."

"Of course you don't." She stands in one fluid motion, pacing a tight circle behind her chair, one hand dragging through her hair. “Tell me how you came across the Virate. Explain in detail."

You do. You tell her about the man from the gala, how something about his energy felt misaligned, your instincts screaming. How your research led you to the foster home in the Lower District where the cleaner had given you the strange, ominous warning about the Virate. About how you think Sato Ken and Zhi Yuan might be the same person.

Kero stops pacing. She steps closer, extending her right hand under the nearest sconce, palm down. You're not sure what you're supposed to be looking at until your eyes catch the smallest little scar, silver and right over the knuckle. Just like Sato Ken. Just like Minghao.

"Did he have a scar like this? Do you know?" She asks.

"Yes."

Kero pulls her hand back, flexing it once before sinking into her chair with heavier grace. The leather creaks as she rubs her temple, staring at the low table for a long beat while distant bass throbs from the bar’s VR rooms and rain drums steadily against the outer walls.

“Alright,” she says at last, voice quieter. "The Virate isn’t some street gang or Syndicate. They're like the Syndicate's here in the city but the structure is very different and they're a lot more complex. Think generations of bloodlines that build a shadow confederation that works in the cracks most people never see. They pull kids through foster systems, adoptions, quiet placements. Forge them. Shades, they call the ones with no names. Ghosts trained from blood and bone to serve the Triptych - the three who sit at the top.”

"Okay," you say slowly. "So you're saying maybe Sato Ken was Zhi Yuan previously, and now he's Sato Ken and he's a member of the Virate."

She shows her hand again, the silver scar making you shiver. "Virate initiation. They take the same finger during interrogation to see if you break. If you don't, they give you the finger back. If you break, you die."

You sit frozen, the weight of her words pressing down like cold rain. Minghao has that scar. You think of Minghao’s brutal efficiency on the terrace, the dead language in the car, the way he always deflects with half-truths. Your heart beats hard, frantic.

"If Sato Ken isn't a real name, you might be dealing with a Shade. It's hard to say. Shades are hard to find and are usually found only if they want to be… being uncovered for them is like death. They're the hidden assassins the Triptych likes to raise. Not even standard members of the Virate know who they are." Kero leans back. "Did he make any threats or have you seen him before?"

"No," you tell her. Your mind is on Minghao and not Ken - Yuan, whatever his name is. "Just met him at a party. My gut tells me he's important."

"If your gut managed to find an assassin for the Virate, that's a pretty good stomach."

You hum, noncommittal. "So you're a member of the Virate?"

"Was," she corrects. "Left when I was thirteen."

Both of you sit in silence as your mind races through fragments that feel too sharp to ignore. The scar on Kero’s knuckle. The identical mark on Sato Ken - Zhi Yuan. And Minghao. That thin, precise line across his first knuckle that you’d noticed from the very first boardroom meeting. The way his father deferred to him with a single finger twitch. The ancient language he spoke in the car after the wedding attack. The effortless violence on the terrace. The way he knew about your practice without you ever showing him.

The realization settles heavy in your chest. Your husband - the man who pressed his jacket to your bleeding arm, who wears the red bracelet you braided with your own hair - is not who anyone thinks he is.

Kero doesn’t mention the Xu family once. Doesn’t connect Minghao to any of this. Her ignorance of your husband’s involvement is louder than any confirmation could be- Minghao is an unknown member of the Virate. A Shade, Kero had called it. A ghost wearing the face of a logistics heir, planted here for purposes far beyond shipping contracts and political marriages. You keep your expression neutral, swallowing the storm of questions and fears that you can't let consume you - not here, not with this stranger.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. "This helps."

You reach into the inner pocket of your coat and pull out two things: the sleek, matte-black digital card and a small silk pouch you’d prepared weeks ago during one of your quiet Wednesday rituals. You set the card on the low table first, then slide the pouch toward her with careful fingers.

“If you ever want a new private account set up, use this," you tell her. "It's completely clean and untraceable, with access to resources most people here only dream about in these AR rooms you run." You point at the pouch. "This is for protection. Black salt, rosemary, a bit of hematite. I made it myself. It’s nothing fancy, but… it's my way of showing gratitude."

Kero stares at the offerings, genuine surprise flickering across her face. She picks up the silk pouch, turning it over in her scarred hand. “You made this?” Her eyes lift to yours, sharper now. “Are you a practitioner?”

“I dabble. It was something I started as a kid to pass time. I.. didn’t have much of a childhood and some of the housemaids practiced.”

Kero’s lips curve into a faint, knowing smile, but she doesn’t press. She tucks the pouch into her pocket with surprising care. “If you ever want to apprentice with real practitioners, go to the Silver Thorn Apothecary in the Lower District, near the old canal bridge. Tell them Kero sent you. They don’t take just anyone, but they might make an exception.”

“I appreciate it.”

Kero leans back, studying you for a long moment. The amber light softens the edges of her shifting features. “Watch yourself with the Virate. They don’t play by Syndicate rules. They bind blood, erase names, and turn children into weapons. Once you’re in their sights, it’s hard to get out.” She pauses, tilting her head. “Still… there’s something about your energy. Stubborn. Grounded. I like it."

A small grin tugs at your lips. “I’m trying. I should go. Thank you again, Kero. For everything."

You stand and she rises with you, holding the digital card in her hand. "Don't be a stranger, Mrs. Xu. Try to stay alive."

Rain hisses down on you as you leave, your boots splashing softly in the shallow puddles pooling in the concrete. The Pearl District is alive with partygoers, tourists and socialites heading to clubs, casinos and more, their laughter harsh against the churning of your mind.

Minghao is a Shade. You know with utter certainty, somehow. He's a ghost - a weapon, and you have no idea what it means that he married you or what he wants. He'd told you that you were no use to his family dead and you still believe that, but now you want to know for what.

In an alley between buildings, you dig around in your pocket for your cards. You shuffle them quickly, rain beading on their glossy surface as you do. Three cards slip out one by one, catching on your wet hands until you pull them out of the deck and flip them over.

The Tower. The Moon reversed. Death.

Thoughts of the cards haunt you all the way to the train. Your hood is pulled low, the black fabric of your coat blending into the sea of weary commuters. The bracelet on your wrist feels heavier than usual, a quiet anchor against the unease crawling up your spine.

Pressed between a businessman muttering into his phone and a woman clutching a synthetic flower bouquet, a sense of unease creeps up on you. Eyes on you. Not the casual glances of strangers, but something deliberate and predatory.

The doors hiss shut and the train lurches forward, accelerating into the tunnel with a low whine that vibrates through your bones. You keep your gaze fixed on the scratched window, watching the blur of service lights streak past like dying stars. Your hand slips into your coat pocket, fingers brushing the matte-black comm device Minghao gave you months ago. The private channel. Encrypted. Off-grid. You haven’t used it yet, but it feels good to have in your hand.

You shift your weight, scanning the car without turning your head. Faces blur in peripheral vision, a sea of tired eyes, downturned mouths, and people asleep in seats. No one stands out. No one meets your eyes for too long. Yet the sensation builds, a slow pressure like storm clouds gathering before lightning splits the Tower.

Two stops pass and your pulse quickens with each one. At the third, you make a split-second decision to get off that's nowhere near your intended route toward the Observatory. You elbow your way toward the doors as they open, stepping onto the platform and into the sub-level station, ait thick with the scent of damp rot and the distant rumble of freight loaders. Neon signs flicker overhead, advertising cheap stim-packs and off-grid betting dens.

You don’t look back. Not immediately. You weave through the sparse crowd, heels clicking against cracked concrete, and take the exit stairs two at a time. The streets above are narrower, hemmed in by crooked buildings and powerlines that spark intermittently in the thin rain. You turn left, then right, cutting through a market alley where vendors hawk sticky buns and meat skewers, fat sizzling.

Still, the feeling follows.

Your breath comes sharper now and you pause at a corner stall, pretending to examine a rack of knockoff jade pendants while your eyes flick across reflections in a rain-streaked metal panel. Nothing. A shadow shifts two stalls down, but it's gone when you focus. Your instincts, honed by years of the universe’s subtle nudges, scream a single name.

Sato Ken.

The thought lands like a cold blade between your ribs. The scar on his knuckle flashes in your memory. So does his polished smile and the way his gaze had lingered too long at the last charity function, heavy with something unreadable. You’d felt it then too. The Devil.

You quicken your pace, ducking down a narrower side street. The rain intensifies, sheeting off overhangs and turning the ground into a slick mirror of fractured neon. Your coat clings to your skin, heavy and cold. Heart hammering, you slip into a shadowed alley between two derelict storage units where it smells of rust and urine.

Crates are stacked haphazardly against one wall, providing meager cover where you press your back to the damp brick, breathing through your mouth to stay quiet. Water drips from a rusted pipe overhead, steady as a metronome. For a moment, only the distant train rumbles and your own pulse fills the space.

A splash confirms you're being followed and you don't hesitate. Your fingers close around the comm device, pulling it free with trembling hands. The surface is cool, almost alive under your touch, drinking in the faint alley light. You activate it with a press of your thumb, the faint holo-sheen blooming like starlight in the dark. The private channel connects with a soft chime that feels too loud in the confined space.

It rings once. Twice.

“Come on,” you whisper, voice barely audible over the rain.

Your free hand grips the small knife in your other pocket, though the blade feels inadequate against whatever waits in the shadows. The universe had warned you. The cards had warned you. Death upright. Transformation through violence.

The line clicks open and Minghao's voice comes through, low and immediate. "What's wrong?"

You've never been happier to hear his voice. The sound of his calm and controlled voice nearly buckles your knees. You lean harder into the wall, eyes darting to the alley mouth where a silhouette might appear any second. Rain sluices down your face, mixing with the cold sweat on your skin. The feeling of being watched intensifies, a prickling heat at your nape like fingers hovering just above your spine.

"I need you to find me," you tell him, voice barely audible. "I'm about to get taken or killed."

"Wicked-"

"You have access to my medical records," you interrupt. "You should have been emailed how to access. I have a subcutaneous tracking chip. Activate the emergency beacon with the password given to you - it pings your private network. Do it now."

Footsteps again, deliberate now, closing in from the alley’s entrance. A shadow detaches from the gloom, tall and masked.

“I know you’re a Shade,” you whisper. “Maybe I mean nothing to you at all, but you saved me on our wedding night and if I’m still important to your family, you need to find me. Or at least my body."

Minghao says your name - not wicked woman, not wicked - just your name. You say nothing else, swallowing as you drop the comm in the rain and crush it under your heel, the sharp crack lost to the sound of increasing downpour.

When the figure steps out of the shadows, all you can see are the grey eyes. You stare at him head on, refusing to show him fear despite the way your hands tremble in the cold rain.

"Is your husband coming?"

"Yes."

He nods. "Good."

-

Thunder shakes the penthouse. It's not loud enough to drown out the hammering of Minghao's heart as he gets dressed frantically. For once, Minghao feels like he might be panicking. He's not entirely sure - panic is a foreign concept to him. As a Shade of the Virate, he doesn't operate in adrenaline and panic - he simply exists in the detachment of calm and deliberate decision making.

This doesn't feel like that. He has no idea when he started caring about you so much - can't even really figure out when it happened. He supposes between the random late night dinners, the rare instances of breakfast, and the weekends when he watched you sit at the coffee table with your little herbs and candles muttering to yourself, he decided he liked you.

Had you been the elitist, snobby socialite he assumed you were going to be, he wouldn't be in this situation. Yet fate - because he's starting to believe in fate - had put you into your position - unprepared and woefully unjaded - through the violence of your sister's death, and put you directly into Minghao's path. He doesn't know what else to call it, because only destiny could be this specific.

Rain crawls in silver streaks down the windows, turning Hyperion into a smeared galaxy beneath the clouds. Minghao stands in front of the open wardrobe in a black compression shirt and tactical trousers, fingers gone motionless around the clasp of his chest holder as the information he'd requested through your instructions appears across the retinal display he'd put over his right eye.

PATIENT STATUS: ELEVATED STRESS RESPONSE WARNING: HEART RATE EXCEEDING SAFE BASELINE WARNING: ADRENALINE EXCEEDING SAFE BASELINE WARNING: CONCUSSION DETECTED LOCATION PING: ACTIVE LOCATION: 908 LOWER WATER STREET, WAREHOUSE DISTRICT, HYPERION 3094304

Minghao watches as your biometrics spike violently across the lens. Oxygen levels unstable, cortisol flooding yourself, neutral activity elevated. Nothing in your current vitals tells him that you're dying, which is the single positive news he has while he finishes buckling the holster before he opens another hidden compartment in his room, revealing weapons.

He takes the knives and two guns. They charge at his touch, the pulse letting him know they're primed as he holsters them. The red cord around his wrist slides with his hand movement, the azabache charm clicks against the gun as he removes his hand.

You'd looked so serious when you handed it to him, like you were testing him. He hadn't seen it then for what it was - a leap of faith to see if he was serious about you practicing your little customs without fear from him. Now he knows that he'd passed the test, because you'd start being more open around him. Not hiding things. Calling him and telling him you needed his help.

Minghao yanks a jacket over the holsters and accesses the medical feed again with a blink of his eyes. Nothing has changed, and your location still pings in an abandoned shipping corridor near Pier Nine. It's in Xu territory, a dock that belongs exclusively to Minghao's father, and by extension, Choi Moojin.

The hours Minghao has spent trying to track down his half brother have gone to waste. It appears that his brother has the jump on him, and why shouldn't he? Zhi Yuan or whatever the name he goes by now has known Minghao existed for far longer than Minghao has known he had a sibling, and it's clear that you've been in his sights for a while as an obvious attempt to get to Minghao.

Minghao is going to kill him. He made the decision long before you'd called him. He had decided before his mother even finished telling him about Yuan, about the first born son she naively thought the Virate gave away. It doesn't matter if Yuan is blood, though. He'd spilled the blood of those under the protection of the Xu family, and Minghao was bound by honor to pay him back.

Blood for blood.

It's not an easy situation. Minghao doesn't know if his brother is here by authorization of the Virate, or if he's gone rogue. The right thing to do would be to contact the Triptych, but Minghao has no plans of doing that. It's too much of a risk if they've sanctioned whatever attack this is, so he's decided to do what he wants. He knows it'll have consequences - he has carried out the punishment for this kind of thing plenty of times.

"Fuck," Minghao sighs, running a hand over his face.

As much as he wants to do this alone, he knows that the odds will be better if he has leverage. Everything with the Virate and the Triptych especially is above leverage and moves within moves, and Minghao doesn't have any right now. So he picks up the phone and dials a number he's never called before, heart hammering as the phone rings.

"Xu Minghao," Jeonghan answers softly. "What can I do for our favorite shipping heir on a rainy Thursday evening?"

Minghao slips a knife into the sheath at the base of his spine as he speaks. “I need a deal.”

Jeonghan pauses. "Oh?"

"In exchange for leverage and information on the Virate."

"I'm listening."

"I need protection and support from the Choi Syndicate if the Virate comes knocking at my door."

Jeonghan's no longer amused or joking when he says, "And why would they do that?"

"Agree to it before I say anything."

Jeonghan pauses. "Why'd you call me?"

"You're the heir to the Wisdom and you're smart. You'll know whether I'm lying or you'll figure it out yourself. Now I want a deal before I say anything."

The Observatory feels too high, too isolated tonight, suspended above the storm like a fragile glass cage. Neon from the distant Pearl District bleeds through the fog in fractured violet and electric blue, painting the matte black steel beams in shifting hues that do nothing to calm the unfamiliar knot twisting in his chest.

The line is silent for a beat too long. Jeonghan’s voice returns, stripped of its usual lazy amusement. “A deal, how bold. Alright - I, Yoon Jeonghan, Second to the Wisdom, affirm that the verbally negotiated agreement between us is valid and binding, and will be upheld by the Choi Syndicate under penalty of death or exile. Talk."

“The Virate,” Minghao starts, running a hand through his hair. "I'm a member. They raised me as a Shade. Nameless. Trained for killing and secret work. My family’s move to Hyperion, the logistics empire, this marriage - it isn't just business moves, it’s for the Virate. They wanted someone nameless but loyal to sow seeds and gain influence with one of the Syndicates of the city, ideally the Choi Syndicate."

A soft whistle from the other end. “And here I thought you were just another pretty Arkos heir playing at power. Continue.”

Minghao’s jaw tightens. He moves to the bedroom door, glancing once toward the east wing where you should be safe. The biometric feed in his retinal display pulses steadily, your location fixed, stress elevated but alive. For now.

“I have an unexpected target on my back,” he says, already striding toward the private elevator. “A Shade operative. One I didn’t know existed until recently. He orchestrated the wedding attack. Tonight, he has her. I’m on my way to eliminate him. It might blow back. If the Virate decides I’ve gone rogue or exposed too much, they’ll come for cleanup. I need Choi Syndicate support if that happens - protection, resources, a buffer. In exchange, I’ll give you information useful for leveraging a partnership with the Virate in Arkos. Real leverage. Names. Structures. Weak points the Triptych would rather keep buried.”

The elevator doors hiss open. Minghao steps inside, the mirrored walls reflecting a man dressed for violence. His hair is still damp from the earlier rain, eyes sharp and unblinking. Jeonghan is quiet again, but Minghao can hear the calculation in the silence, the Wisdom's son weighing angles, risks, opportunities.

"Hm," Jeonghan hums. "Interesting. You know this verbal agreement could be void based on your intent to threaten the safety of the Syndicate, right?" Minghao doesn't answer as the elevator plunges downward. "Why trust me with this?"

“Because you’re useful,” Minghao answers flatly. “And because my wife is bleeding time in a warehouse while we talk. Agree or don’t. But if I walk into this alone and don’t come back, you lose the chance at whatever game you’re playing with the docks.”

“You’re more interesting than I gave you credit for, Minghao. Fine. Deal. Choi support if the Virate comes calling. You deliver on the information. And try not to die, Baby would be devastated if the lead she gave your wife ended up with her dying."

Minghao pauses. "We'll discuss what you mean later."

"Sure."

Minghao pockets the phone. His mind cycles through possibilities of Yuan’s training, the scar, the grey eyes that matched his mother’s. Blood for blood. The old laws demanded it, but something sharper cuts beneath the duty now. Your voice on the comm, steady even in terror. The way you’d crushed the device rather than let it lead danger straight back here. Stubborn. Honest. Wicked in ways that had nothing to do with tarot cards.

The doors open into the cold concrete expanse. Elara and Kai snap to attention near the armored car, but Minghao waves them off with a sharp gesture. “Stay here. Guard the penthouse. No one in or out. If I’m not back by dawn, call Yoon Jeonghan."

“Understood, sir.”

Minghao slides into the driver’s seat himself, the engine humming to life. Rain hammers the garage ramp as he accelerates upward, the city’s neon arteries blurring past. His grip on the wheel is steady, but the red cord around his wrist catches the dashboard light.

His hands tighten on the wheel. He's ending this game of shadows tonight.

-

Your head throbs with a deep, nauseating pulse that radiates from the back of your skull down through your jaw. The world tilts when you try to lift it, the edges of the dim warehouse blurring like wet ink on parchment. The concussion is surely courtesy of the desperate headbutt you'd delivered when Zhi Yuan had grabbed you in that alley. The satisfying crunch of his nose breaking still echoes faintly in your memory, a small, defiant victory amid the terror.

Thick ropes bite into your wrists and ankles, securing you to a heavy metal chair bolted to the floor. The warehouse is vast and derelict, one of the many abandoned husks along the Lower Water Street docks where Xu shipping containers sit in rows.

Rain hammers on the corrugated roof overhead, leaking in thin streams through gaps in the panels to form oily puddles on the concrete. Dim emergency lights cast long, sickly yellow shadows across stacked crates and rusted forklift skeletons.

You test the ropes around you subtly, keeping your movements small, but there's no give. Your small knife is long gone, though the black tourmaline bracelet is still there, warm against your skin, a fragile tether.

Across from you, Zhi Yuan is seated casually on an overturned crate. Blood has dried in dark rivulets from his broken nose down over his mouth and chin, staining the collar of his shirt. The injury makes his sharp, balanced features turn grotesque, his grey eyes eery in the low light. He holds a stained cloth in his hand, dabbing occasionally at the swelling in his face.

"You're not what I expected," he admits. "Though I suppose any woman associated with the Choi family fights back."

You lift your chin, ignoring the way the motion sends fresh dizziness spiraling through you. Fear coils tight in your gut, but you refuse to let it show. You meet his gaze evenly, challenging every boardroom lesson your father ever drilled into you since your sister's death.

"Headbutting you was worth the headache," you mutter. "Though I imagine it hurts worse on your end."

His mouth twitches into something like a smile. "I've endured worse. You know, most heiresses would be sobbing by now. Begging. Offering credits or Syndicate favors."

"I'm not worried."

"You think your husband is coming?"

"I know so."

He leans back and sighs. "I know so too." His eyes watch you carefully. "I saw the way you looked at my scar at the gala. Same as his. You don't miss much, do you?"

“Enough to know you're a threat. What do you want, Zhi Yuan? Or is it Ken? Does the Virate let you keep any name at all?"

His grey eyes narrow slightly, but the amusement doesn't fade. "Names are fluid for us. Tools. Zhi Yuan was the boy the system forgot. Sato Ken was the man who married well and smiled at galas. Neither is real. But you can call me Yuan. It's... familiar."

“Familiar because of whatever connection you have to my husband.”

Yuan stops dabbing his nose and watches you for a long moment. He rises slowly, pacing a few steps through the puddle-streaked space. His boots splash softly. Yuan drags another crate closer and sits across from you again, legs stretched out casually.

“Tell me,” he drawls. “How does it feel to be married to a man who was never meant to have a wife? A real one, anyway.”

“It feels like he's going to kill you." You stare at him. "And if he doesn't, the Choi Syndicate will. I'm not some random woman you can steal away in the middle of the night. Your turn - why me if this is about him or the Virate?"

"I was at your wedding, you know?" He cocks his head. "You made a beautiful bride. The intent was to kill you and turn the Choi Syndicate against him, but once I saw that he cared, I knew that wouldn't work. They would see his honestly. So now you're just bait. My brother owes me a conversation."

The revelation hits you like a physical blow. Your breath catches sharply in your throat. Brother. You look into Yuan's eyes and don't know how you missed it - Luli looks right back at you, the cool grey, the calm eye of the storm.

Yuan watches your reaction with dark satisfaction, leaning back slowly. “Yes. Luli’s firstborn. The one she tried to hide. I found out about him by accident, you know? There he was, golden second son, raised by our mother and Jian in relative comfort, given a public name and legit empire to inherit while being a Shade for the Virate. All while I rotted in foster homes and training cells, learning how to kill before I could read properly. It wasn’t fair. He got life, the light, the illusion of choice. I got the shadows and the scars."

The Devil upright. A man in chains, who cannot escape what he is bound to. The tarot cards make sense, suddenly. You're looking at the devil, a man who cannot or will not escape the fate he thinks he's tethered to. You think of the Nine of Wands upright - a wounded warrior still standing guard, exhausted but defiant - and realize it's Minghao. Someone stuck between two worlds.

"I don't care where you're from or who you're related to," you spit out. "Only a weak man pities himself to this degree."

It hits a nerve. Yuan stands, violence written all over his face, but a device on the table a few feet away chimes and shows a hologram of a map, a red dot pinging as it approaches. Your heart lurches when you realize it's Minghao, throat tightening as the dot speeds through the roads of the Warehouse District.

"Finally," Yuan sighs. "I get to meet my brother."

Thunder rolls in the distance. Your heart hammers in your chest as you watch the entrance door, hearing the hiss of tires and the slamming of a car door. You can barely breath until the heavy metal door is being ripped open, rain pouring in as a dark silhouette slips through. Minghao shuts the door behind him, water streaming off of his black jacket, hair plastered to his forehead and neck. His eyes are unreadable, scanning the room before they fall on you.

Minghao strides forward, ignoring Yuan entirely. Your heart stutters, the violence in his eyes like nothing you've seen.

"Are you okay?" His voice cuts through the rain, low and steady.

You manage a nod, the motion sending fresh spikes of pain through your skull. The ropes bite deeper as you shift, but you hold his gaze. “I’m alive.”

Minghao’s jaw tightens, a muscle feathering along his cheek. For a heartbeat, the polished heir you met in the boardroom vanishes completely. This is the man who snapped an assassin’s neck on your wedding night. This is the Shade.

"Good. I'll be just a moment, okay?"

You nod and only then does he turn to his brother. Yuan is standing, clearly annoyed. The resemblance is unmistakable now that you know to look for it - the same sharp-soft balance in their features, the same predatory grace. But where Minghao carries a coiled stillness, Yuan vibrates with resentment, grey eyes burning with untapped rage.

“Brother,” Yuan greets. “Took you long enough.”

Minghao doesn’t waste words on pleasantries. “You’re no family of mine. We cull men weak enough to be driven by petty jealousies.” Minghao gestures to him. “Knives only. Old way. No guns. No tricks. You and me."

Yuan’s smile widens, splitting the dried blood on his lip. “You still cling to the old customs? You're a little princeling here - you aren't Virate.”

“I honor what I am,” Minghao replies. He shrugs off his jacket, letting it fall to the wet floor. Beneath it, the compression shirt clings to his frame, revealing the holster straps and the faint outline of the small spell jar you gave him, still tucked against his chest. The red bracelet on his wrist stands out like a slash of blood against pale skin. “Do you?”

Yuan laughs, low and bitter and strips down to a similar compression shirt as Minghao. Two blades appear in his hands, thin, wickedly curved karambits that catch the light. “I was forged in the same dark you were. Let’s see which of us the Triptych favored more.”

Minghao draws his own knives. No flourish. Just efficient, practiced motion. One in each hand, shorter than Yuan’s but perfectly balanced. He rolls his shoulders once, eyes never leaving his brother’s face as the rain hammers the roof in relentless sheets and water drips from cracks overhead, plinking into puddles that spread across the concrete like spilled ink.

You test the ropes again, heart hammering against your ribs. The black tourmaline bracelet feels warm against your skin, a small circle of your own intention. You close your eyes, sucking in a short breath as you center yourself and focus on the single intention you have: Minghao living.

The fight begins without warning and you flinch. Yuan lunges first, a blur of motion across the wet floor, his karambit slashing in a wide arc meant to open Minghao’s throat. Minghao twists inside the reach, blades flashing up to parry. Metal screams against metal and sparks fly, tiny and bright in the dimness. They separate, circling each other like lions.

Yuan attacks again, faster this time, feinting low before slicing high. Minghao ducks, but not quite fast enough as the blade catches his shoulder, opening a shallow line of red. Blood wells immediately, mixing with rainwater. Minghao doesn’t flinch. He counters with a vicious upward thrust that forces Yuan to leap back, boots splashing.

Each collision is brutal, knives cutting air. Feet slide on the slick concrete, searching for purchase. Yuan is slightly taller, leveraging reach, but Minghao is faster and more economical with his movements, his efficiency brutal as he slashes Yuan across the rib, tearing fabric and flesh.

Minghao presses the advantage, driving Yuan backward with a series of rapid strikes. Their blades lock, faces inches apart, and for a moment, they strain against each other, muscles corded, breath visible in the damp air. Yuan’s grey eyes gleam with something like joy.

"I knew you liked the girl," Yuan goads. "This isn't business for you. This is emotional."

Minghao headbutts him hard and Yuan's face explodes in blood again, the damage you'd done earlier doubling. He stumps and Minghao follows, his knives dancing in a pattern too fast for you to track as he cuts open Yuan's shoulder, his forearm, his thigh. Minghao moves like pain is irrelevant, cutting Yuan until the man is screaming and kicking at Minghao for distance.

Yuan feints left, then spins, driving a blade toward Minghao’s kidney. You suck in a sharp breath but Minghao pivots and catches Yuan's wrist, twisting violently with a sickening pop. Yuan roars, dropping one karambit while swinging wildly with the other. Minghao takes a cut across the chest for it, but he doesn't let go. Instead, he yanks Yuan forward and drives his own knife upward where it sinks into Yuan's side, just under his ribs.

Yuan gasps, eyes widening. He tries to pull away, but Minghao holds him close, almost intimate. Their faces are inches apart, rain dripping from Minghao's hair onto Yuan's cheek.

"Blood for blood," he says, voice hard. He says something to Yuan in that same language you don't understand before he twists the knife.

Yuan’s mouth opens in a silent scream while his free hand claws at Minghao’s shoulder, leaving bloody streaks. His grey eyes lock onto Minghao’s for one long, terrible second. Then the light in them gutters out. Minghao yanks the blade free and Yuan collapses to the wet concrete with a heavy splash. Blood spreads beneath him, dark and final, mixing with rainwater and oil. The body twitches once, twice, then stills.

Minghao stands over his brother for a long moment, chest heaving, blood running down his arms and torso. Then he turns to you. The shift in him is immediate and devastating as the killer melts away into something soft. He crosses the distance in three strides, dropping to his knees in the puddle before your chair

His hands are trembling as he unties the ropes at your wrist, careful as he cuts through them with the knife slicked in his brother's blood. His dark eyes search your face frantically, cataloguing every bruise, the swelling at your temple, the way you’re favoring your head.

"Are you hurt?" He murmurs. "Tell me where. Please."

Please. You don't think you've ever heard him say that. Not to you. The way he says it is devastatingly soft, his sharp eyes round as he looks up at you, hands hovering like he doesn't know what to do.

“I’m okay," you whisper.

Minghao cuts away at the ropes around your ankle before tossing the knife and pulling you forward, careful not to press against any injuries. His embrace is fierce and gentle at once, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other spanning your back. You can feel his heart hammering against yours, fast and terrified in a way his face never shows.

It's the first time he's touched you - honestly touched you - since your brief kiss at the altar and the night you were almost killed. His touch is grounding and warm, the smell of him comforting but laced with the metallic tang of blood. You pull away, your hands hovering as you look at all the places he's bleeding.

“You’re bleeding-"

“It doesn’t matter.” He pulls you back in, his voice muffled by your hair. "You are nosey and you are stubborn and you are fascinating. Thank you for calling me."

"Minghao, you need stitches."

“Later.” He presses his forehead to yours, eyes closed. Rain drips from his lashes. “You’re safe. That’s all that matters right now.”

The spell jar is still pressed between you, warm against his chest. You can feel its faint outline. The red bracelet on his wrist brushes your skin as he cups your face again. Something inside your chest cracks open, relief, fear, the strange blooming warmth you’ve been trying to ignore for months.

“I knew you’d come,” you whisper.

“I will always come for you.” The words are quiet, almost reverent. He kisses your forehead, then your temple, avoiding the bruise, then the corner of your mouth. Not possessive. Just desperate reassurance. “I’m sorry you had to face him alone."

“I headbutted him. Broke his nose.”

A soft, startled laugh escapes him. “Of course you did.” His thumb traces your jaw. “My wicked, impossible wife.”

He helps you stand, supporting most of your weight when your legs threaten to buckle. The warehouse spins for a moment, but his arm around your waist anchors you. He keeps you turned away from Yuan’s body, shielding you with his own as he guides you toward the broken door.

Outside, the rain is still falling in torrents. Minghao’s car idles just beyond the entrance, lights off, engine humming low. He helps you into the passenger seat with painstaking care, buckling you in, checking the angle of your head, murmuring soft instructions to breathe slowly. Then he rounds the car and slides behind the wheel.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Rain lashes the windshield. Minghao’s hands grip the wheel, knuckles white. Blood still trickles from the cut on his chest, but he ignores it, eyes fixed on you.

“I killed my brother tonight,” he says eventually, voice hollow. “For you. I need you to know I would do it again. I understand I have not been forthcoming or warm, but I care for you.”

You reach across the console and take his hand. His fingers curl around yours immediately, tight enough to hurt. The red bracelet shifts between you.

“I know,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

He lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles, eyes closing again. When they open, the intensity is back, but softer now. Protective. Possessive in a way that feels like safety rather than the chains you'd felt that first meeting in the boardroom.

“Let’s go home,” he says. 

You nod, exhaustion crashing over you like the rain outside.

-

Doctor Tzintzun finally steps back, wiping her hands on a sterile cloth. The Observatory penthouse is quiet except for the low hum of the air filtration system and the distant patter of rain against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Fog presses close outside, turning Hyperion into a muted glow far below

The doctor packs her kit with efficient movements, glancing between you and Minghao. “The stitches on your arm will hold, but keep them dry. Concussion protocol is in place - rest, dim lights, no screens. As for you, Mr. Xu, those cuts were deep. Change the dressings in six hours. Pain management is on the bedside table. Call if anything worsens.”

Minghao nods once, voice low. “Thank you. Elara will see you out.”

The door seals behind them with a soft click, leaving the two of you alone in the low-lit living room. Your body aches in new and old places, your temple tender from the concussion. But you’re alive. He’s alive.

Minghao sits on the wide, low couch beside you, closer than he’s ever been in this space. The black silk robe he wears hangs open at the chest, revealing the edge of white bandages and the hard planes of muscle beneath. His hair is damp, falling across his forehead in dark strands. The red bracelet you made him still circles his right wrist, the azabache charm catching the soft amber light from the single lamp. He hasn’t taken it off.

You shift slightly, the oversized shirt you wear - his, you realize - riding up your thighs. The silence stretches, thick with everything unsaid. The fight. The blood. The truth of what he is. Your eyes trace the line of his jaw, the faint scar on his knuckle, the way his chest rises and falls with careful, controlled breaths.

He turns toward you, dark eyes intense in the dimness. For once, there’s no polished mask, no deflection. Just raw, unguarded focus on your face.

“I don’t know why you get under my skin,” he says quietly. "I was trained not to let anyone close. Attachments were liabilities. You were supposed to be a transaction - a bridge that was useful and controllable."

He reaches out, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your cheek with surprising gentleness. The touch lingers, callused fingertips tracing your jaw. “But you fight back when you should crumble. You read the universe in cards and smoke and believe in it so stubbornly it makes me question everything I was forged to be. You called me when you were terrified and trusted me to come.”

His thumb strokes your lower lip, eyes dropping to watch the motion. The air between you crackles, charged like the moments before lightning. Your pulse quickens, heat blooming low in your belly despite the exhaustion and pain. You can smell him, clean skin, faint pine.

“I don’t understand it,” he murmurs, leaning closer. "You affect me. You make me want things I was never meant to have.”

"So have them," you murmur.

He laughs and kisses you. It’s not the chaste brush from your wedding. This is real and hungry, months of restrained tension exploding between you. His mouth claims yours, tongue sweeping in to taste you deeply. You moan softly into him, hands fisting in the front of his robe, pulling him closer. He tastes like mint and rain and something darker, needier. His hand cups the back of your neck, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, the other sliding down your side to grip your hip.

The world narrows to the wet slide of tongues, the soft sounds of breath and need, the heat of his body pressing you back against the couch cushions. Your bandages pull slightly but the pain is distant, drowned in sensation. His scent envelops you. The low groan vibrating from his chest makes your pussy clench.

He breaks the kiss only to trail his mouth down your neck, sucking lightly at your pulse point. “Tell me to stop,” he rasps against your skin, voice wrecked. “If this is too much after I lied-"

“Don’t you dare,” you whisper, threading fingers through his damp hair and tugging him back up for another searing kiss.

Minghao makes a low sound and shifts you both, pulling you into his lap so you straddle him. The robe falls open completely, revealing his bandaged torso and the hard length of him pressing against you through thin fabric. Your shirt rides up, bare thighs against his hips. He’s already hard, thick and hot, and the realization sends a fresh wave of arousal flooding through you.

He kisses you like a man starving, hands roaming under your shirt to cup your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they pebble tight and you let out a shaky sound, overwhelmed.

“So fucking perfect,” he growls, breaking the kiss to yank the shirt over your head.

Cool air kisses your skin, then his hot mouth is on you, sucking one nipple deep while his fingers pinch and roll the other. The wet heat of his tongue, the gentle scrape of teeth, the suction - all of it pulls desperate whimpers from your throat. You arch into him, grinding down against his cock, feeling the thick ridge slide against your dampening folds through your panties.

“Minghao-" His name breaks off on a moan.

He switches sides, lavishing the other breast with the same filthy attention, sucking hard enough to leave imprints of his teeth on your skin. One hand slides down your stomach, dipping beneath the waistband of your panties, fingers finding you soaked.

“This wet for me already?” he murmurs. “My wicked wife.”

Two thick fingers push inside you without warning, curling deep. You cry out, hips rocking instinctively as he starts to pump them slowly at first, then faster, thumb finding your clit and circling with devastating pressure. The wet, obscene sounds of his fingers working in and out of your pussy fill the room, mixing with your gasps and his low groans. He kisses you again, swallowing your moans as he finger-fucks you harder, scissoring and curling until you’re trembling on the edge.

“Come for me, baby,” he demands against your mouth. “Let me feel it.”

The orgasm crashes over you, sharp and sudden, and you clamp down hard around his fingers, thighs shaking as it rips through you. He doesn’t stop, working you through it with deep, steady strokes until you’re whimpering his name.

He pulls his fingers free, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean with a groan. “Taste so good. Need more.”

Before you can catch your breath, he lifts you effortlessly, ignoring the way you yelp, hands hovering near his injuries. He lays you back against the wide couch and kneels between your spread thighs, peeling your soaked panties down your legs and tossing them aside. The cool air hits your exposed, dripping pussy, making you shiver. Minghao stares like a man possessed, eyes dark, lips parted.

He spreads your thighs wider, hooking your legs over his shoulders, and buries his face between them. The first long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit draws a broken cry from you, his tongue parting you like velvet.

“Fuck, you’re dripping for me,” he mutters, voice muffled.

He sucks your clit between his lips, tongue flicking rapidly while two fingers plunge back inside you, fucking you in time with his mouth. It makes you suck in a sharp gasp, lost to the heat of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers. You fist his hair, hips grinding against his face as another orgasm builds fast and brutal. He curls his fingers against that perfect spot inside you, sucking hard on your clit, and you shatter again with a sharp scream, thighs clamping around his head as you come again.

He laps you through it, gentler now, until you’re twitching and oversensitive. Only then does he rise, wiping his glistening mouth with the back of his hand. His cock strains against his pants, a wet spot forming at the front that makes you eager. You reach for him, tugging the fabric down, freeing his thick, heavy length to reveal a flushed dark head slick with precum. You wrap your hand around him, stroking once, and he hisses, hips jerking.

“Need to be inside you,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Now.”

He sits back on the couch, pulling you into his lap again so you can straddle him with your knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips. His cock slides hot and bare against your soaked folds as you grind down, coating him in your arousal.

“Fuck me,” you whisper lips dragging against his. "Like you mean it. Like I'm yours. Like you should have on our wedding night"

Minghao grips your hips, eyes locked on yours, and pulls you down onto him in one smooth, relentless thrust that has you gasping into his mouth, your hands cradling his face.

The stretch is exquisite, burning pleasure as he fills you completely, bottoming out with a shared groan. You’re so wet he slides in easily, but the fullness makes your breath hitch. You can feel every ridge, every throb of his cock buried deep enough to make you shiver.

"Fuck," he hisses. His hands knead your ass, guiding you to rock on him. “So fucking hot and wet around me.”

You start moving, riding him slow at first, savoring the drag of his thick cock against your walls. He floods your senses - his scent, the taste of him still on your lips from earlier kisses, the sight of his bandaged, muscled torso flexing beneath you, the feel of his hands guiding you harder, faster.

He surges up, capturing your mouth in a messy kiss as he thrusts up to meet you. The angle hits deep, grinding against that spot inside of you that has you twitching. Sweat slicks your bodies where they press together, his heart pounding against yours.

“Ride me harder,” he growls, one hand pressing your lower belly, feeling the bulge of his cock inside you. “Want to feel you come on my cock.”

You do, grinding down with fluid rolls of your hips until the pressure builds again. He sucks harshly against your neck then lower, biting and licking his way toward your chest. The feeling of his teeth scraping against you sends you over, coming around him as you hide your face in his neck, crying his name.

Minghao curses, flipping you onto your side gently with your back to his chest. He's careful as he lifts one of your thighs and hooks it over his, and he slowly thrusts back into you from behind in a single, fluid stroke. His arm wraps around you, hand cupping your breast, pinching the nipple as he fucks you with long, drawn out thrusts that have you panting.

"My pretty wife," he pants against the shell of your ear, nipping lightly. "Fate brought you to me. I know it. I never believed before until you."

You moan helplessly, pushing back to meet every thrust. Another orgasm crashes over you, vision whitening as your walls flutter and squeeze him. Minghao groans deeply, pace faltering until he buries himself to the hilt, hips jerking as he spills inside you.

You stay locked together, panting, bodies slick with sweat. His cock softens slowly inside you but he doesn’t pull out, holding you close. His hand strokes lazily over your stomach, down to where you’re still joined, feeling the mess of your combined release leaking out.

After long minutes, he presses soft kisses to your neck, your shoulder, your jaw. Turning your head, he kisses you properly again.

“I never intended this,” he murmurs against your lips, breaking the kiss. “I was supposed to use this marriage, keep my distance, and fulfill the Virate’s purpose. But you deserve better. You deserve a real husband. Protection, honesty, partnership. I promise you that - until death, like I said. No more shadows between us."

"I would like that," you whisper, looking up into his eyes - open and honest for the first time. "Thank you."

Rain taps against the window as you lay there, tired and safe in his arms. For once, you don't worry about anything - there is nothing to worry about. The Tower has already fallen. The illusions are gone. All that remains is what you choose to build from the wreckage.

- The wedding you always imagined is better than your first one. Late afternoon light filters through the canopy of trees in soft, dappled gold, catching on the mist that clings to ferns and low-hanging moss. The air carries the scent of damp earth, pine resin, crushed herbs, and night-blooming jasmine. For once, the rain has paused, like the earth is letting you have this brief moment among the trees.

This is nothing like the extravagent wedding suspended three hundred floors above the city. No cameras. No political theater. Just earth. Just intention. Just truth.

You're barefoot on a small clearing of soft moss and fallen petals, wearing a simple slip of midnight silk that brushes your ankles. Minghao stands across from you, barefoot and dressed in loose black linen that makes him look less like a Shade and something softer. More solid. Something yours.

A length of hand-dyed red silk binds your hands together, soaked through with oils, saturated with the smell of rose and mugwart and something bitter. Baby stands a respectful distance away beside Seungcheol, her haunted expression gentler today, almost peaceful. Jeonghan leans against a tree with his usual lazy smirk while Kero grins, all teeth.

“This is the one that matters,” Minghao murmurs. "Until death."

You smile. "Until death, Xu Minghao."

[aeristudios]

—This Town

ᯓ★ Summary: You swore you would never come back to this foggy town. It reminded you of the past you longed to forget, the cozy small town aesthetic being a facade for how it really is— connections and influence get you far, and if you were born on the wrong side of the tracks, good luck.You fell in love once, with the boy from the sunny side of this place, who gave you the best summer of your life. But a scandal forced you to break up and you left, and now years later, you're back to handle family business and he's still there, at the music store, where you first met.

ᯓ★ Pairing: ex boyfriend!jihoon x f.reader

ᯓ★ Genre: 18+, angst, smut, fluff, exes to lovers, small town au (riverdale/twin peaks kind of vibe)

ᯓ★ Warnings: PLEASE READ ALL OF THE WARNINGS—heavy angst (ya'll know me by now), grief, parental loss, family trauma, social prejudice (small town vibes, classism, etc), trauma, graphic violence (fighting but not between Jihoon and the reader), talks of murder, toxic parental dynamics, gang affiliations, smoking (cigs, weed), drinking, very sexual content: lots and lots of kissing, dirty talk, unprotected sex, breast play, oral (f. receiving), jihoon gets jerked off a little lol, nail digging, clit stimulation, rough missionary, multiple orgasms, praise worship (sorta), pet names (if I miss anything lmk)

ᯓ★Words: 34K (don’t look at me)

ᯓ★AN: This story is apart of the Carats Ridge collab hosted by @imnotshua, @starlightkyeom and @100vern. Thank you for coming up with such a fun idea! Check out the other amazing stories here. This story was a labor of loveeeeeee and I enjoyed every bit of the headaches I got from it lol. I cannot thank @hannieoftheyear, @gentleisa, @/starlightkyeom and @yoongihan enough for listening to me bitch and complain and cry about this story being good. You always catch my mistakes and I cannot thank you enough for reassuring me that this did not suck. Especially thank you to Thea for dealing with my atrocious grammar and not booting me off the island a long time ago lol. Love you guys 🤍 The reader is nicknamed Blue :)

Playlist: Pink + White- Frank Ocean, Heavy- The Marias, Show Me How- Men I Trust, Something Along The Way- Nirvana, Violet- Hole!, All I Did Was Dream Of You- Beabadobee ft. The Marias, Sunsetz- Cigarettes After Sex (more songs on the playlist here)

You hate it here.

The fresh scent of petrichor hangs in the air after the morning rain. The fog is unrelenting, swirling around in the backyard of your childhood home, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. It’s too quiet, eerie, as if Mother Nature knew you were coming and wanted to give you a cruel reminder of why you haven’t set foot into Carats Ridge in ten years. The memories, the hurt, and the pain are still fresh in your mind and linger in your heart, and now there is one more that can be added to the list: your father is gone.

He died of a heart attack, and it’s tearing you apart. Your dad had health issues, and you begged and pleaded for him to come live with you in New York City, to let you take care of him, and finally leave this god-forsaken place behind. Your mom died when you were barely three, with debilitating breast cancer that took her as quickly as it came. He was all that you had. But he always said this place was his home, his community, and he couldn’t live it behind, after everything.

Well, now he’s gone and done it anyway, and he’s left you too.

His ‘community’, as he so lovingly called it, is The Zodiacs, aka a gang. He led it for as long as you can remember, and his dad led it until he passed, and so on. You were never meant for that lifestyle, as you always kept your head in books and wrote in your journals until your heart was content. You were destined to leave this town, become a writer, and make your voice heard. Being the next in line to lead the new generation of degenerates was not in your plans. Your father knew that and loved you anyway.

God, this hurts.

The Zodiacs aren’t terrible people; they’ve done a lot for the community here on the Southside of Carats Ridge. Sure, they have petty thieves and criminals in their midst, but they are always first in line to pull together money for children, single mothers, and the needy. When your best friend, Lola Apple, had her house burn down, the Zodiacs rallied together and fixed up her childhood home free of charge. They are a family that sticks together, and you do admire that. You try not to think ill of them, even though you are technically a legacy member. But it doesn’t take away your anger, your grief, and the pain that’s etched in your heart. Daddy told you just over a week ago, I have all the time in the world to see you, kid. Just you wait.

Well, you did wait, you kept your promise. But he broke his.

You stay on the balcony a little bit longer, watching the fog slowly disperse as the sun forces itself through the clouds, revealing grass that is dead and gone, as if the soil underneath knows that he’s gone too. The urge to smoke a cigarette floods your veins, the intense craving to feel your lungs burn as you inhale on a stick of death. A little bit ironic, you think. You quit several months ago, wanting to be a good example for your dad. What good is that going to do now?

You hear the motorcycles from a mile away, alerting you that your little peace is going to be cut short. You take a deep breath, inhaling deeply from the pit of your stomach, hoping to take away the anxiety you feel. It doesn’t do much, but it helps. You stare far away into the trees, reminiscing about the time you and Daddy would play hide and seek in the woods until you ran out of breath. You remember fondly the deer and rabbits that would come by from time to time, greeting you like an old friend rather than an enemy. You wish they were here, sitting with you in solace as you remember the few good memories you had about this fucked up town—most of them here at your home, at the music store, and the lake.

“Hey, there, Bluebird.”

You turn slowly, recognizing that throaty voice that you’ve grown up with all your life. Facing Lola, you glance at her and stare at the woods again, noticing the pained expression on her face. You know she’s worried about you, and she means well, but the last thing you want is to hear how people are sorry for your loss. Quite frankly, you want to fucking scream.

“I’m not going to say it, because I know you don’t want to hear it,” Lola says, hugging you from behind. “But just know that I love you, okay?”

You acknowledge her words, blinking away tears that threaten to fall on your face. “The kids aren’t here?” you manage to ask.

“No Blue,” she responds softly. “They’re at home with Vernon.”

Everyone has been calling you Blue or some variation of it for as long as you remember, partly because you prefer blue pens over black, and the journals you kept buying were always some shade of blue. You don’t know if it's your favorite color, but looking at it brings you peace. It makes you feel whole.

“Is everyone here?” You sniffle. “I guess I should go out there and pay my respects, huh?”

Lola scoffs. “If anything, they need to pay you respect.” She shakes her head, a small smile on her face. “Look, I know you never blended into the lifestyle, and let’s be real, you weren’t meant to be in this place. But you’ve brought a great deal of pride to the Southside and showed others they could make something of themselves. Who would’ve known a Zodiac legacy would be one of the best-selling authors in the world?”

You know she is right, but you don’t feel that right now. You want to grieve and be alone, and scream into the void. You want to sit in the darkness and let it swallow you up like a cocoon. But your father, in all his suffering, led the Zodiacs with pride, and you will do right by him, even if you don’t want to.

“I-I’ll be in,” you breathe, wiping your wet eyes. “I just need a minute.”

Lola nods, pulling you into a hug that you know you need, but don’t quite feel like you deserve. “Take all the time in the world.”

You hear her feet retreat, the creaking of the door loud and grating before it swings shut with a thud. Staring out into the woods again, you watch the sun disappear behind more ivory clouds, the thunder making itself heard. You know you should go back inside and get this over with, ripping off the bandaid of sympathies and wellwishes you are going to be flooded with.

But instead, you stay out here a little bit longer, and cry.

A week later, you stand outside the church, the one tall building in this town that has been kept up over the years. Standing in brown and white, it has a red illuminated sign in front that reads “Jesus Saves”. Your dad was a lot of things, and religious wasn’t one of them. But he was loved and respected by everyone here, and it was the pastor of New World Baptist Church who reached out and offered to hold the funeral services. He was best friends with Pastor Matthews growing up, and even though their paths diverged, they remained close until the end. You could have had the services anywhere, but you know deep down, this is right.

Your black dress sways in the light breeze, the warm, humid air passing beneath it. Drawing a cigarette to your mouth, you light it and inhale until your throat burns to your liking, hoping to kill the nerves that curdle in the pit of your stomach. It does nothing but aggravate you further. You scoff at the irony.

“There you are,” Lola steps out from the church, joining you to your left. She takes the cigarette from your hand, inhaling it and exhaling with a deep sigh. “I thought you were quitting.”

“So did I,” you murmur with a shrug. “But promises are meant to be broken, right?”

You make the mistake of looking at her, and the pity on her face cuts you deep. You don’t want people to feel sorry for you; if it were up to you, Daddy would have been cremated and his ashes scattered across the lake. But it’s not what he wanted, and you have to be the good daughter and respect his wishes, after all.

“I’m not gonna break, Lola,” you say aloud, as if you are reading her thoughts.

“I never said you would, Blue.”

The church doors creak open, followed by heavy footsteps. You turn to see Pastor Matthews approaching with a slight limp, a result of a car accident that partly led him to turn his life to God. Or at least, that’s what Daddy said.

“Ladies, we can get started whenever you get ready.”

You nod, gazing at your surroundings one last time and taking in a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

Lola puts out the cigarette, linking her arm with yours as you enter the church together and walk past the pairs of wet and red eyes. You make eye contact with Vernon, who gives you a half-smile while holding his two twin girls, Amethyst and Ruby, whom he shares with Lola. Lola and Vernon have been together since they were kids. They have the kind of love that makes sense for them: it’s familiar, warm, and unique in their own way. Lola was always the spitfire of the two, ready to give anyone a verbal lashing to hell and a fist to match. Vernon is her anchor, keeping her still in many storms, and a part of why she has mellowed out. Vernon is also a part of the Zodiacs, with his father as the vice-leader of the gang and your father’s right-hand man. Since everyone knows you didn’t have any interest in being more involved in the Zodiacs than you are now, you imagine Vernon will be picking up the mantle now, legacy and all that.

The funeral proceeds as planned. Pastor Matthews leads a prayer, and the choir sings about the afterlife, heaven, and things you can’t relate to. You start to zone out when community members pay their respects, not because you don’t care, but because your heart can’t take it. Daddy meant a lot to this side of town, and he was so clearly loved. Seeing the sadness in their eyes and their tear-stricken faces is a stab to the gut. You want to lie down and pretend this day never happened. You want to rewind back to last week when your father told you he loved you for the last time. It’s time to give the eulogy, but your head is spinning. You want to leave—

“I have something to say.”

Whipping your head back, your breath falters, your heart beating wildly against your cage like a captured bird. Walking to the front, his eyes locking with yours, is Jihoon, the boy who changed the trajectory of your life. It’s been ten years since you’ve seen him or heard that voice. He’s not the eighteen-year-old boy that you fell in love with at the music store. His hair is longer, he’s bulkier, and time seems to have been kind to him. Jihoon strides to the front of the church, wearing a black suit and matching rimmed glasses.

“What is he doing here?” you whisper in Lola’s ear.

Lola looks confused for a moment, beckoning you to lean closer. “You didn’t know? He was helping your dad from time to time.”

You stare at her blankly, barely registering what she is saying. Jihoon and your dad? Hanging out? Your dad never mentioned it. Focusing back on Jihoon, you study him, waiting with bated breath.

“This was a man loved by everyone, from the Southside and even the North,” Jihoon recalls fondly. “Well, almost everyone.” The light laughter echoes in the small church as he continues. “He showed up to every town hall, ready to speak for everyone in this community, and wasn’t afraid to ruffle feathers to get his point across. I worked with him at the center, and he was just a nice guy to be around. I know I live on the other side of the tracks, but I know I am not alone when I say, he will be missed.”

The members hum and nod in agreement. Jihoon quietly walks towards the back of the church, exchanging a look with you one last time before he disappears from your peripheral view. The church falls silent, and the small movements of shuffled feet and chirping birds are heard. Lola nudges you softly, beckoning toward Pastor Matthews as he moves to the front of the podium.

“Now it is time for the eulogy.”

Taking a deep breath, you walk towards the front, feeling the sympathetic eyes burning into your skin. You make no effort to look up immediately and face the en masse, instead keeping your head down to maintain your composure. Pastor Matthews comes over to you slowly, offering what was supposed to be a comfortable presence, but instead, you feel smothered.

“My father was a pillar of strength,” you begin. “He was a master of everything, and a carbon copy of none. Daddy was original, one of a kind, and the greatest thing in my life.” Your voice cracks towards the end, clearing your throat before continuing. “He was hardworking and gentle, and most importantly, fair. As you all know, I was not meant for the Zodiac life, and he could have made me stay and forced me to be something I wasn’t, or ever would be. But he was a true parent who saw me for who I was, not what he envisioned for me. He saw the good in everyone in this room, and this town, even when they treated him like shit.”

You glance at the closed mahogany casket, surrounded by the most expensive lilies you could buy. You’re filled with a mix of sadness and anger, thinking of the memories where you and he suffered, and the possibility of what could have been if he had left when you asked. “That man is the heart and soul of Carats Ridge, and I don’t give a damn what anyone else says.” Your voice trembles as your vision blurs. “He chose you over me, his own daughter. His only family. That’s how much he valued you, and it is a testament to his character. My father served this place until the day he died, and I hope that if you truly cared about him, you carry his memory in your hearts for the rest of your lives and the next.”

You didn’t mean to come off as angry. You planned to stay calm and get through this in one piece. But damn it, you are mad as hell. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. You were supposed to have at least twenty more years with him. None of this is fair.

You wobble as you walk back to your seat, laying your head on Lola’s shoulder as the funeral drones on until the choir sings the last song. The pallbearers, fellow members of the Zodiac, carry his casket as you lead it, holding a frame of you and him at your high school graduation. The cemetery is behind the church, a plot of land and a tombstone already prepared, as if he knew his time was coming. Dark grey clouds swirl around, dangerously, as everyone gathers around the grave. Daddy will be buried six feet deep, covered with dirt, and never seen again. Your heart tears at the seams.

The wind picks up cruelly, a spirit of madness at play, as it slightly lifts the tent where the burial is happening. The rain follows, warm droplets hitting your body and soaking your dress. The weather called for sunshine and blue skies. What a wicked game Mother Nature is playing on you. You observe everyone, with bowed heads and sorrow, as Pastor Matthews recites more Bible scriptures you can bear. After the final “amen, " men surround your father’s casket, preparing to lower him into the ground. Your breathing is labored and shallow as you clutch the front of your dress. You want to crawl out of your skin.

“Fuck this,” you mutter, shaking your head furiously.

You run, letting your feet guide you through the heavy rain, your hair and makeup ruined. Your expensive dress sticks to your body like wet paper, your bra strap slipping to the side, but you don’t care. You keep running until you can’t anymore, finding yourself at the very end of the road. There are no houses around, just woods and what lurks in them. You let out a guttural wail, letting go of everything you’ve been holding in since you got that call. They say grief comes and goes like waves, and maybe that’s true. But right now you are drowning, struggling to breathe. Veins pop out of your neck as you scream, banging your hands on the ground until they are dirty and slightly bruised. You told Lola you weren’t going to break—another lie told.

You hear the engine through the loud rain, a yellow classic pickup truck speeding towards you and drifting to the right. The passenger door swings open, creamy leather seats appearing first.

“Get in the car before you catch a cold.”

The rain makes it hard to see, the feeling of soft hands pulling you up off the street and leading you into the car. But you know that voice oh-so-well. It’s one you could never get.

“Jihoon.”

He stops, his eyes locking with yours as he wants to say what’s on his mind. But instead, he grants you a mercy, reaching over you to buckle you in, his cologne light and putting you at ease.

“Let’s get you out of this rain, yeah?”

Jihoon wasn’t sure if he should come to the funeral. He hasn’t seen you in a decade, and he thought maybe it would be an icy reunion between the two of you. But here you are, lying on his futon with his t-shirt on and wrapped in a blanket, beautiful and more refined than the last time he saw you. Maybe that’s what happens when you become a best-selling author and the access that comes with it. As it stood in the rain, he saw you running away from the burial. Lola looked distraught, and everyone else watched on with sympathy and curiosity, as though having never seen anyone mourn before.

So he went after you.

There weren’t many places you could have run off to, as the church stands in the middle of a cul-de-sac. The main road would have been too far to run, which left you headed towards dark Sinbrook Forest. When he found you, you were sitting on the street under the pelting rain, lost in your own storm. You didn’t say much while in the car, and he didn’t expect you to—Jihoon knows all too well what grief feels like, and he knew you shouldn’t be alone.

Jihoon was in another city, living his life, when his mother called with the news about his father’s stroke. He worked as a mixer at a music studio and dropped everything to take care of him. It meant working at his family-owned music store while his mother cared for his father, and Jihoon hoped he would eventually be able to return to his new life and arrange better care for his father. That was five years ago.

When his father died a few years later, it tore his mother apart. He supposes losing the love of your life will do that to someone, but it broke her. She refused to leave the house most days, and she wanted him to stay in Carats Ridge forever. He fought tooth and nail to keep living in the small apartment upstairs from the music store rather than in his childhood home. The overbearingness would have been too much, and Jihoon needed time to process his own feelings.

Jihoon thought about you over the years, wondering how you had been and whether you were happy. The last time you saw him, you promised to keep in touch and never to lose that connection. It worked for a few months, then the communication slowed and ceased altogether. He understood you were busy, living in New York, and having a busy life, or maybe you felt like you needed to move on. He was happy for you, truly. But he also felt left behind, forgotten, and, deep down, even now, hasn’t gotten over the girl he'd fallen in love with at the music store.

Ten Summers Ago

Oh, my life

Is changin' every day

In every possible way

And oh, my dreams

It's never quite as it seems

Never quite as it seems

"Dreams" by the Cranberries blasted through the speakers when you walked in, wearing a faded Simpsons t-shirt with dark jeans and sneakers. Jihoon was at the front, strumming the strings on the guitar as he worked on that Saturday. He planned to go to college for music and needed to practice whenever he got the chance. But you were a distraction.

He knew who you were because you attended the same high school, had shared classes over the years, and had graduated just two weeks earlier. You weren’t in the same social circles, so you never actually had a conversation. But as he watched you flip through albums and pick up a variety of them that wouldn’t go together, he became curious. You didn’t seem like the type to listen to Spice Girls, Phil Collins, Nirvana, or Coolio. Now that he thinks of it, he didn’t peg you as a music lover at all. Whenever he saw you, you had a journal in your hands, scribbling away as if you didn’t want to be disturbed.

You also picked up Hot Tub Time Machine and Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist, two movies Jihoon hasn’t seen. As he scanned the items, he saw you looking at the keychains that had just arrived. Your eyes lit up as you touched the bluebird one, taking it off the latch and setting it on the counter. Something odd stirred in his chest, and he wasn’t sure what to call it.

“I’ll take this one too,” you announced, digging in your purse.

You handed Jihoon a $20 bill on the counter, your fingers accidentally touching with a light shock. You jumped back, aghast, as Jihoon stood there, unsure of what to make of it. “That was weird,” you muttered, eyeing him carefully.

“Well, don’t look at me,” Jihoon tittered, scratching the back of his hand. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Do you make it a habit of shocking girls on their eighteenth birthdays?” You pressed, folding your arms.

“N-no,” Jihoon sputtered, at a loss for words. “But happy birthday?”

“Mmhm,” you hummed, your lips pursed together. Then your face broke into a throaty laugh that echoed throughout the store, a contagious one that almost had him joining in. “I’m fucking with you,” you catch your breath. “I mean, it is my birthday, but I don’t think you are going around shocking girls on purpose.”

He broke the bill and placed the change in your hands. The spark didn’t happen again, and he couldn’t help but smirk. You counted the change back quietly, slipping it into your wallet.

“See, no spark,” Jihoon said, holding his hands up and wiggling his fingers.

“Okay, “ you scoffed, grabbing your items off the counter. “Thank you for not shocking me again, I guess.”

He watched you walk out of the music store, leaving an impression in your wake. This was the most you had talked in all the years you had been in the same vicinity as one another; now he was more curious about you than ever.

Your body is dead weight when you finally wake up. It almost feels like you are one with the futon, your body leaving a deep imprint on the cushion. The sun is just now rising, blinding you with its infectious light. You sit up, stirred and slightly shaken as you recount the last day. The funeral, the pelting rain, the six-foot grave your father was supposed to be put in, and Jihoon, who came and took you here, to his place above the music store. Much of it is a blur after that, as all you remember is changing into an oversized shirt and sweats Jihoon had randomly before crashing on his couch. You were too catatonic to speak, your energy drained from experiencing the worst day of your life. Jihoon didn’t force you to speak, and you appreciated it. He just let you be.

You stumble through the apartment, not one hundred percent awake, looking for the bathroom. Finding the door askew, you rush inside, relieving the pressure you felt in your lower abdomen. Jihoon was always a neat freak, and having a clean bathroom is no surprise to you. Everything is in order and in its place where it belongs without a smudge of fingerprints or dust in sight. The decor is simple—white shower linen paired with a clear curtain, black mats, and a black-and-clear soap dispenser. The medicine cabinet is hidden behind the mirror, but you don’t bother going through it. Finishing your business, you wash your hands, splashing more water on your face to stay alert.

Sauntering back to the couch, you observe the layout of the apartment—an open space with brick walls, a bookshelf full of vinyls, CDs, and other standard furniture that makes it his. You can tell he took extra care to form this in his style, and you would expect nothing less from him. Finding your phone on the floor, you grab it and plop back onto the futon. Your eyes widen at the dozens of notifications you received, most of them from Lola, some from Vernon, and one from your agent. Your heart pangs at the messages you received, and maybe you shouldn’t have run off the way you did. It was irrational and maybe a little selfish. But you couldn’t stay there another minute—you felt yourself sinking into the ground with him.

Stifling a yawn, you respond to Lola’s messages with four simple words: “I’m okay. With Jihoon.”

Your phone rings shortly after, Lola’s name displayed on your screen. Taking a deep breath, you prepare for what she is about to give.

“Listen, I’m sorry—”

“I’m not mad,” Lola interrupts, her voice unusually calm. “I understand why you ran off. I mean, I was scared half to death, but I would be more worried if Jihoon didn’t already tell us where you were.”

Letting out a sigh of relief, you walk towards the windows, peering at everyone below, going about their normal lives. The street and sidewalks are still wet with rain, but the flowers in bloom make it worth being outside. You remember the first time you smelled tulips and how its sweet fragrance tickled your nose. The only pharmacy in town stands across the street; next to it are a flower shop and a boutique for fine dresses. You remember walking past them, wondering how the people who ran their shops lived their lives.

“I didn’t realize you had each other’s numbers,” you say, breaking out of self-induced nostalgic trance.

“We’ve worked together a few times, for some events around the Southside,” Lola discloses. “And he and Vernon hang out.”

You mull over her words, trying to grasp Jihoon and Vernon in the same room, actually talking to each other. Even the idea of him being around your father makes your head buzz. “How did that happen, anyway? Daddy never mentioned any of this to me.”

“I’m not sure if you knew this, but Jihoon gave guitar lessons to the children at the community center,” Lola begins. “Your dad helped out around the center, like he always did, and I guess they became acquainted that way.”

Your tongue pokes your cheek, giving this some thought. “I guess. It’s just weird to think about, and Daddy said nothing to me about it. He knows how I feel about this town, but… I don’t know.” Sighing deeply, your heart pierces at the thought of everything that has happened. This town is plaguing you, and you are desperate to get out of it. “I will not be here long enough to dwell on it anyway, so.”

“Oh yes! Speaking of,” Lola’s voice jumps an octave. “Vern and some of the Zodiac are going to help clear out the house before we start doing open houses.”

“Okay,” you murmur.

Lola is also a real estate agent, the only one in town, and gets clients from both sides of Carats Ridge. She is the only one you trust to handle the sale of the house, as it’s too much to bear. Lola is good at what she does, and you know you are in safe hands. It wasn’t what she had set out for herself; she saw herself as an actress starring in movies. But when the fire happened, she stayed behind to care for her mom until she passed. Lola never got that chance to live her dreams, but she seems pretty happy despite that.

You barely hear the front door unlock behind you, turning to face Jihoon as he walks into the apartment, carrying coffee and a large paper bag from the local diner, Mansae. Locking eyes briefly, your stomach does somersaults, unsure of what to make of this moment. “Lola, I have to go. I’ll see you at the house later.”

As you disconnect the call, you smile sheepishly, fidgeting with your hands. Jihoon sets the bag and coffee on the table, rubbing his hands together. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been hit by your truck,” you answer honestly. “But I’ll be okay and out of your hair soon.”

“There’s no rush for you to leave,” Jihoon responds, pointing at the bag. “I brought breakfast in case you were hungry.”

He pulls the contents out of the bag, revealing a container of various donuts, all of which happen to be your favorite. You eye the chocolate one sprinkled with nuts, taking you back to the first time you had one. Your dad brought you to the diner as a treat, letting you have whatever you wanted for getting good grades in elementary school. You chose that donut because it reminded you of a Snickers bar, and you were pleasantly surprised when you bit into it and found it filled with caramel. It was one of the best days of your life.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you eventually respond, grabbing the donut out of the container. “Thank you, though.”

“Of course.” Jihoon nods, reaching into the bag. “Come sit down and eat.”

He holds a breakfast sandwich in his hand, motioning for you to sit at the dining table. Outside, the clouds shift, spilling a sudden, warm glow across the wood table.

“Please? he asks, gentler this time.

Reluctantly, you take a seat at the table, taking a bite out of your donut. The warm velvety caramel oozes onto your tongue, making you involuntarily moan in gratification. You glance at Jihoon, who watches you in amusement. You haven’t had a donut this good since you’ve left town, and you live in New York City. There are some things that you can only get from one place, and donuts are one of them.

“It’s been a while since I’ve had a good donut,” you disclose, wiping the corner of your mouth. “Mansae is as good as ever.”

“You know, Mr. and Mrs. Sherbet still run the place?” Jihoon imparts, unwrapping his sandwich. “I still go by there every Sunday with Mom.”

You take another bite, hiding the grimace forming on your face. His mother, Mrs. Lee, had it out for you from the very beginning. Maybe it is because you were from the Southside and dressed like it, but she always gave you a look or said unpleasant things that would have hurt your feelings if you cared. Mrs. Lee isn’t the only person to treat you unfairly in this town, but she adds to the list of reasons you hate it here.

“Looks like nothing has changed much in Carats Ridge,” you say. “I can’t say I miss being back here.”

Jihoon falters just for a moment, briefly, but you caught it. You’re instantly filled with regret. “I’m sorry, that was mean—”

“No, don’t apologize,” Jihoon waves you off. “You are just being honest, right?”

Your mouth opens and shuts without any words coming out. Frustration hits your chest like a sharpened arrow, penetrating your heart deep in its core. Jihoon could never understand how you feel. He’s never had to deal with the prejudice you faced just for being born on the wrong side of town—being accused of thefts, the dirty looks, passersby assuming you weren’t smart, and you weren’t going to amount to anything. He couldn’t possibly understand what it’s like to wake up and have strikes against you just for existing. He had the privilege of doing whatever he wanted; you didn’t.

“How have you been?” You change the subject. “It’s been a long time.”

Jihoon leans back in his chair, adjusting his glasses as he mulls over your question. “I’ve been okay. I left town for a while and came back to take care of Dad for a while.”

“Take care?” Your ears perk up. “Is he okay?”

A pained expression is on his face, glancing down as he adjusts his glasses again. “So I guess you haven’t heard then.”

He didn’t have to say anything else; you knew what he meant—his father is gone. The pain of losing a parent, someone you love forever, leaves a permanent, ugly scar on your soul. You never heal from it, but you learn to deal with it, and it becomes a part of you.

“I’m sorry, Jihoon,” you murmur. “Mr. Lee was a good man.”

You mean what you said. Mrs. Lee always gave you a hard time, but his father was always kind to you and made you feel welcome. They were opposites, and you used to wonder how that even happened. You like to imagine that’s where Jihoon got his warmth from.

“It’s okay,” Jihoon sighs. “It’s been a couple of years now, and I have taken over the music store for my mom.”

“Wow,” you respond, nostalgia hitting you soft like a pillow. “I used to love it there.” All those weekends you would spend at the store, listening to Donna Summer, Nirvana, Usher, falling in love with him—

You shake your head, bringing yourself back to reality and ignoring the sudden heaviness in your heart. “You’ve been well?” You smile.

Jihoon’s eyes soften, followed by a slow, tentative headshake. “I guess? It could be worse.”

There is something in the back of his voice that makes you believe he isn't being entirely truthful. But you choose not to press it.

“I’ve seen you on TV,” Jihoon reveals, clearing his throat as he unwraps what looks like a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich. “I watched the interview for the anniversary of Blue Valentine. You looked good.”

The heat creeps up on your neck, and you try your best to ignore it. “Oh?” Your mouth curves into a smirk. “As opposed to now?”

He lets out a snort, shaking his head. “You aren’t roping me into that one.”

“Roping you into what?” You giggle, batting your eyes. “I’m innocent.”

You jointly break into peals of laughter, rumbling from the pit of your soul. For a moment, you’re lighter, brighter than you have felt in days. You haven’t felt the disease of grief for almost an hour, and it’s nice not to have that dark cloud over you. But eventually the laughter dies down, and it’s quiet, and the thoughts in your head become louder, urging you to say what’s on your mind. Jihoon glances at you before looking away, busying himself with his sandwich. You finally take the lid off your coffee, expecting to add your fixings, only to realize it’s already there, with whipped cream on top.

“I didn’t forget how you like your coffee.”

“I see,” you murmur, ignoring the light butterflies in your stomach. “Thanks.”

You eat another donut in silence, watching the birds perch outside the window. They flap their wings happily, without a care in the world. It must be nice to live carefree like that, not being plagued by loss. You gaze at Jihoon, studying him for the first time since you’ve been with him. He’s broader, finer, and has grown into his looks, but some things remain the same. Like the style of his glasses, his truck, and the vinyls that are plastered on the walls. He is still a neat freak, with every spot in this loft clean and items placed with purpose. Hanging on the hook is his letterman jacket from Carats Ridge High, where he played football. Most importantly, he still has the same guitar, castaneous and worn as ever, but still in good shape.

You don’t think much about this town, but you have thought about him and how things ended. You never dwell on it long, though, because then you'd be forced to feel it all, and that makes you vulnerable. You can’t afford that.

“I think I am going to head out,” you say, scooting out of the seat. You glance at him before looking away, rubbing your left temple. “I appreciate the coffee and donuts. You didn’t have to do that.”

Jihoon nods, neatly setting down his sandwich. “I know, but I wanted to.”

You don’t look him in the eyes. You don’t want to acknowledge the current of emotions that are pumping through your heart. You nod in response, grabbing your phone and your shoes. You look around for your dress, but it's nowhere in sight.

“Hey, have you seen my dress—”

“Oh! Wait a minute.”

Jihoon scurries out of his seat, disappearing into a closet you didn’t notice, emerging with your dress, dry and without a wrinkle.

“I put it in the dryer while you sleep,’ he explains. “I figured you might not want wet clothes to take home.”

Your fingers rub against the soft material, the faint smell of fabric linen lifting off the cotton. It brings you back to the first time you were in his truck that summer, one he proudly bought, with the same scent hanging from the rearview window. He said it was the only scent that made sense—guess that hasn’t changed.

“Thank you, again, Jihoon.”

Your hand is on the door, almost turned to pull when it’s pushed open, almost smacking you in the face. Standing on the other side is someone you did not want to see: Jihoon’s mother. She eyes you up and down, her face drawn with disgust and contempt as if you were the vein of her existence.

“Hmm, I see you are back in town,” Mrs. Lee remarks, entering the loft and forcing you to move out of the way. “Are you here to cause trouble again for my boy?”

You are taken aback, letting out a scoff as you regain your composure. “No, Mrs. Lee,” you respond, rather short. “My father is dead.”

She pauses for a second before letting out a hmph, throwing her bag on the futon that was still laid out as a bed. “Jihoon, is this how you live now?

“Mom, what—”

Redirecting her attention back to the living room, she waves him off, as if what he says doesn’t matter. She fusses with the blankets drawn on the futon, throwing them aside and folding the futon back to make it a couch. She mutters under her breath, no doubt obscenities about you. You shouldn’t be surprised by this behavior; this is who she has always been. But it opens up an old wound that hasn’t quite healed, and you are one minor inconvenience away from being ready to let her have it.

“Bye, Jihoon,” you say, shaking your head. “Thank you again.”

“Let me walk you out—”

“No.” You insist, harder than you intended. “I can walk out by myself. I’m not a little girl anymore.”

Though you smile at him softly, you’re screaming inside for space to breathe.

“Okay,” he reluctantly agrees. “Call me when you make it back, please?”

You nod, letting out a small breath. “I’ll get your number from Lola.”

“Okay.”

You stare at each other, the silence stretching a little too long, tension filling the air with unspoken thoughts and truths that you’ve kept locked away in a box that you never planned to acknowledge again. Jihoon looks as if he has something to say, his brows furrowing, and you stand there, waiting to hear what comes out of the end of it.

“Can I ask you something?”

His eyes shift to something softer, familiar, making your stomach flutter. “Yeah, shoot,” you reply cautiously.

He exhales softly, running his fingers through his hair. “Blue Valentine… was that about us?”

Your breath hitches, the question catching you off guard. Blue Valentine was your debut novel, which was met with immediate success. You were #1 on the best-sellers list for a year and are still in the top 20, earning numerous accolades and achieving success you never thought you could. But that book is personal, about two teenagers who met one summer and had the best time of their lives before they parted ways and never saw each other again. You’ve been asked numerous times who the muse was behind the book, and you’ve never answered it directly.

“Jihoon, I—”

“Aren’t you supposed to be leaving?”

Mrs. Lee’s thin voice cuts through the moment, sounding like chalk screeching on a board. Oddly, you appreciate the irony in this; at least you don’t have to reveal the deep, uncomfortable truth.

Shaking your head, you throw a look at Jihoon before peeking into the doorway. “Mrs. Lee, always a pleasure.” You salute sarcastically, shutting the door behind you.

One Summer Ago

“It’s the fifth anniversary of your debut novel, Blue Valentine. How has life changed since then?”

You sat up straighter, adjusting the blazer you wore over your soft satin shirt. The lights were bright, almost blinding, as you tried to look happy and composed on television. You are on Good Morning America, and you were invited to discuss your book with legendary anchor Ginger Snaps.

“I am much busier,” you laughed. “But I am really grateful to all of my readers who have been on this journey with me. I wouldn’t be here without them.”

“True,” Ginger responded. “But your writing, your penmanship even, is one of a kind. You would have been successful regardless.”

You blinked, unsure of what to say to that besides “Thank you.”

“Absolutely,” Ginger beamed while flipping to the next card. “Now Blue Valentine is about two teenagers from opposite worlds who spend one summer together that changes their lives. So many people have been inspired to find their own Blair and Jackson, and some fans have even sent in personal stories (which we will send with you later).”

“Wow,” you said, astonished.

Ginger smiled, a mischievous glint in her eye that gives you pause. “Take us back to when Blue Valentine was being written,” Ginger presses. “Tell us a deep, hard fact that we don’t know.”

You glanced at your agent, Anna, who gave you a tight nod. Your mind suddenly went blank, a little too long. You saw the questions before the interview and even rehearsed your answers. You’ve done this a million times, yet you are struggling to remember a single thing. Your mind traveled back to him, that summer, where you sat at the lake and listened to Jihoon playing his songs on the guitar. That same summer when he kissed you for the first time, and fireworks sparked in your chest. That very summer, when you blossomed like the cornflowers in your yard and truly felt alive.

But thinking of him also brought you pain. It was a harsh reminder that you haven’t connected with anyone on that level, and to be honest, do you even want to? Get to know someone, experience the highs and lows of a relationship, the heartache—

“Y/N?”

You slowly came back to focus, shutting the doors on those memories and throwing away the key. You can’t afford to feel that right now.

“I’m sorry, Ginger.” You gave her your best smile. “Could you repeat the question?”

“Mom, what was that?”

Jihoon walks to his mother, who is busying herself with folding the blanket you laid in. She takes a sniff of it and gags, throwing it on the floor in disgust.

“That perfume is gross,” she begins, waving her hand in front of her face. “You will need to re-wash that blanket three times.”

“Her perfume smelled fine,” Jihoon lets out a resigned sigh. “And you’re avoiding the subject.”

His mother throws him a look before huffing, stepping around him to the kitchen table. “I’m not avoiding anything; I just simply do not want to talk about her.”

Jihoon shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair. His mother has always been like this: pushy, haughty, and truly believes no one is good enough for him. He has tried to date, sure, and has had a relationship here and there, but his mother never liked anyone he brought around, especially you. Mrs. Lee hated you for no reason besides that you lived on opposite sides of the tracks. For whatever reason, when you came around, it burned an ember inside of her that just wouldn’t let up. Jihoon never understood it, which led to constant tension between them because he always defended you. She detested that.

“I don’t want her coming back here,” his mother announces, dusting off her hands. “She is nothing but bad news, Jihoon.”

“Firstly, this is my place,” Jihoon scoffs. “And how, Mom?” He pushes back. “She hasn’t done anything wrong.”

Mrs. Lee stops, glancing at you and then looking away. “That apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Jihoon stands there, bewildered and scratching his head. His mother has shown early signs of dementia, which is also another reason why he stayed behind. As much as he wanted to pursue music still, he couldn’t be selfish and leave her.

“Yeah, sure, whatever you say,” he accepts, not wanting to push it further. “Do you still want to go to the farmers’ market in the next town?”

Looking at the set of donuts on the table, she grimaces. “Yes. I want to go before the fresh strawberries and cream cart runs out.”

Grabbing the keys to his truck, she takes one last look at the place, scoffing as she opens the front door. “I’ll be waiting in the car. It’ll serve you right to clean up this mess before we leave.”

The door shuts with a thud, and Jihoon lets out the breath he’d been unironically holding in. He loves his mother, truly, but she leaves him with an anxiety that cracks his chest and fills his stomach with rumbling stones. She doesn’t give him room to breathe or just to be. Her words strike to hurt and are passed off as maternal love. He’s used to it by now, but sometimes, he wants to leave this town and never come back. But he wouldn’t be a good son, and he promised his father he would always protect her.

So he does what’s told, because what else is he going to do?

You’ve been a recluse for the past couple of days. You stayed in your house unless you needed to leave, cleaning it until your fingers were pink and blistered. You undoubtedly smell like lemon-scented cleaning supplies and bleach. You threw away numerous bags of trash and set aside food to donate to the local food pantry. You even mowed the lawn, even though Vernon was supposed to do that. You're sweaty, gross, and in need of a shower—but they’re still so much to do.

The truth is, you have a lot on your mind, and the adrenaline coursing through your veins is keeping you going—otherwise, you would have crashed. Your heart is heavy, and the walls you’ve had built up for so many years are starting to crack. Daddy, Jihoon, this house and the memories, everything is closing in, and it’s suffocating at times. You look at the living room and remember the times Daddy tried to do your hair so you would look nice for school, or when Monday night wrestling was on, and he would order pizza as a weekly ritual. The old stove in the kitchen, where Daddy used to make dinner on the nights he was home. Everything reminds you of him, and throwing Jihoon in the mix, you want to run into the woods and disappear.

Whether you are ready to admit it or not, Jihoon has always been in the back of your mind, and somewhere deep in your heart, buried under a bed of budding flowers. Every once in a while, when you’re in your bed and everything is quiet, you think of the time you shared with him and the warmth that filled your soul. It was young love, sure, but it was still love, and the only time you have ever truly felt it. Experienced it with free will. When you left this town, you hoped to continue, and it festered into a stronger, deeper love that lasted forever.

But it didn’t end like that, and that’s okay, you guess.

You collapse on your childhood bed, wiping the sweat off your forehead with your head down, catching your breath. You still have to go through your rooms and decide what to keep or give away, but first, you need a shower.

“Hello?”

Your attention is on the door, the sound of heels clacking on the hardwood floors you just finished shining. Irritation bubbles in your chest, but when Lola comes into view, it evaporates quickly.

“I didn’t know you were coming by,” you say, pulling off your cleaning gloves.

“Well, you would have known if you answered your phone,” Lola ripostes, raising an eyebrow as she looks around the house. “I told you Vernon and the boys were going to clean this up for you.”

“I know that,” you answer. “But I just needed to keep busy.” You sniffle, the cleaning products making your nose run. “I have a lot on my mind, you know?”

Lola’s face softens, a gentle half-smile appearing. “I know, Blue.”

She sits next to you on the bed, wrapping her arm around your shoulder. “I came to get you out of here, anyway. You are coming to eat with us.”

You knew what “us” meant: Lola, Vernon, and the twins. You wanted a day to yourself, to think, to clean more, and to avoid the world. To not have to see the pity looks you get when you walk to the courthouse or go into Jollibee’s to get a burger and fries. But you don’t want to hurt Lola’s feelings, and you know she means well.

“I need to shower and change first,” you say, looking down at your worn, bleach-stained black shirt and sweats. “I feel gross.”

“Do what you need to do,” Lola nods, plopping off the bed. “I assume that the food in the container needs to go to the community center? We’ll drop it off on the way.”

She leaves you to your thoughts and privacy, shutting the door softly behind you. Blowing a raspberry, you begrudgingly get off the bed, tearing off your shirt and the rest of your clothes, throwing them in the corner. The cool air from the a/c hits the back of your legs like a nice reprieve. You’ve been on autopilot for days; you are slowly starting to feel it, finally—the small aches in your knees and hands, the constant dull pain in your lower back. Maybe you should have let the gang clean the house after all.

You study yourself in the mirror for the first time in days; dark circles surround your eyes from the lack of sleep, and your skin is dull, begging for hydration. Your naked body shines in the golden light of the sun, the most light you have let touch you in days. You’re falling down a rabbit hole, deep into the wonderland of avoidance, and the chasm of you not giving a fuck grows wider with each passing day.

“Shit,” you murmur to yourself.

You step into the shower, letting the water pressure hit your lower back until it goes numb. The steam quickly fills the small bathroom as you inhale, filling your lungs. The tension slowly leaves your body, as if you are floating in a dreamy oasis, standing there for a while, letting your mind go blank as you slowly turn off your emotions. You could do this forever—stand here and be non-existent to the world, and get the peace you truly want. No pain from the constant grief that cuts you open like a fresh wound, or anger from being back at the one place you hate the most. Most importantly, no deep late-night thoughts of what could have been with Jihoon.

You don’t allow yourself to think of that summer often. You try to let the past be the past, move forward, and enjoy your success. You’ve even tried dating, getting under someone new, to get rid of the faint nagging in your heart when you think of him. You ignore the way your heart beats when you think of the times at the music store, sitting on the counter and listening to Pearl Jam on the vinyl. Or the rush you felt when you jumped in the lake together, hand in hand, fully clothed and not caring about how you looked. The silly songs he sang in your ear or the way his fingers ran through your hair—

Knock! Knock!

“Blue, are you alright?”

Lola’s voice snaps back into reality, a jarring mix of white tiled walls and the smell of wet plastic outside a blue shower cocooning you from the rest of the world. Pressing your forehead against the cold, slick tile, you exhale a breath that feels far too heavy.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lie. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

There is a brief pause, nothing but the running water hitting the porcelain tub as the sun shifts west. Then finally she responds, “Okay. Change of plans: Vernon is bringing the kids here.”

Slight irritation bubbles in your chest at the change of plans, but you will live. “Okay,” you breathe. “I’ll be out in a few.”

A few minutes into twenty as you wash your body and stand under the water until it turns cold. Your mind is full of noise, an annoying static, and you'd give anything to return to that dreamy oasis. You want to call it off, tell Lola to go home, and see her another day. The adrenaline has worn off, and you want to fall into your bed and sleep until next week, when all of this will be over, and you can leave this place for good. You haven’t known peace since you got that call, and you crave it so much it’s cemented in your bones.

Turning off the shower, you grab a towel while refusing to look at the mirror again. You know what state you’re in, and you don’t give a damn about fixing it. You dry yourself from head to toe and throw on the most comfortable clothes you have, sweats, and an old Spice Girls t-shirt. You’re on a mission to reclaim your life, your peace, and you swing the door open to say exactly that.

“AUNTIE BLUE!!”

Two little girls sprint down the hall and tackle you on both sides, making you falter back into your room. Lola’s twins, Amethyst and Ruby, hug you tightly, and you can’t help but lean down and pull them close, your eyes prickling with tears. You have met the twins before when Lola came to visit you in New York a few times, and when she was pregnant, she asked you to be their godmother. You love them like an aunt would their niece, and you would never want to hurt them in any way. A deep shame floods your body at the thought of sending Lola home without regard for them. Their happy smiles and excited looks seep a light into your black heart, and you are grateful.

“Why are you crying?” Amethyst asks, pulling away slowly. “Did I do something wrong?”

You shake your head, the weight of shame deepening in your chest. “Oh no,” you assure her, brushing her little curls back with a gentle smile. “I had a really long day, but I am so happy to see you two.”

You gaze at Ruby, who studies you carefully, a slow smile spreading on her face. Out of the two, Amethyst is the outgoing twin with Lola’s spunk, whereas Ruby is quieter and more observant with Vernon’s eyes. You can see it now, how she looks you over without much to say.

“Don’t tell me they got all the hugs.”

You know that voice from anywhere, glancing slowly at Vernon, who is standing in the doorway with three boxes of pizza and wings. You, Vernon, and Lola were a trio growing up—nothing could separate you all, even when Lola and Vernon started dating. Vernon is your best friend, too, in a way, though you don’t talk to him as much as Lola. But your relationship is the type where you don’t have to talk all the time. What you all went through, all those years ago, created a bond that could never be broken.

Releasing the twins from your grasp, you walk over to help Vernon with the boxes. Despite his dark brown hair being cut into one of those modern mullets, he still looks the same, even down to his signature boots and jean jacket. He’s always been lean, tall, and has a face that should be in magazines, not slumming it out here on the Southside. But that was never his style; he’s always viewed Carats Ridge as his home, and with a successful bar, Shadow, that has been passed down through generations in his family, he never plans on leaving. He reminds you of Daddy, in a way.

“Hi Vern,” you greet him with a hug. “I dig the cut.”

“Yeah?” Vernon responds with a slight smirk. “Tell Lola Bunny over there that. She hates it.”

You glance at Lola, who rolls her eyes playfully, and an unexpected giggle erupts out of you, taking you by surprise. Slapping your hand over your mouth, you’re filled with uncontrollable laughter, tears in your eyes over such a silly joke. This has always been the dynamic among the three of you. It reminds you of the times when the three of you would come here and hang out with Daddy, eating pizzas, watching The Simpsons reruns, or playing games. The nostalgia is strong and fleeting, making you feel lighter than you have in days.

“Are you okay?” Vernon asks, exchanging a nervous glance with Lola. You sniffle, trying to hold it together from the laughter, the irony of it all. The kids have gone into the backyard, the screen door swinging shut with a slam.

“I’m not okay at all,” you chortle, the shaky breath of laughter dying in your throat. “I’m completely fucked up.”

Saying it out loud shatters you. The pain cracks your composure, and you shatter, crying from the depths of your soul. Vernon pulls you into a hug, letting you sob loudly into his shirt. You are feeling everything, everywhere, and all at once. Through the haze, you hear him tell Lola to check on the girls as he hugs you tighter, holding you together while your chest caves in.

“Let it all out, Blue,” Vernon says gently. “I got you.”

The truth is, no one prepares you for losing a parent so majestically, and how it flips your world upside down. They don’t warn you about how grief is an ugly parasite that eats at you painfully until you’re empty. They don’t tell you that the misery will crush you until you can’t breathe and your world turns black. Your candle, your guiding light, is snuffed out. How do you get that back?

Ten Summers Ago

“Vern! Pass me that spliff, will ya?”

It was after midnight, and you were lying in the back of Vernon’s truck with him and Lola, looking at the stars that decorate the sky. It was supposed to be a shower of shooting stars tonight, and you wanted to see this once-in-a-lifetime phenomenon. It was seventy degrees, and the breeze was just right as you’re sitting on the other side of Sinbrook Forest, in front of the field. Taking the joint from Vernon’s hands, you inhaled until your throat burned something fierce, coughing heavily while the others laughed.

“Careful there, Blue. I don’t want your dad stringing me up a pole.”

You lolled up, throwing a look at Vernon while handing the spliff to Lola. “I’m fine,” you breathed. “It just went down the wrong pipe.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Vernon teased, falling into a peal of laughter.

You reached over to pinch him when you heard a crunch of leaves, stopping you dead in your tracks. Lola and Vernon sat up suddenly, turning off the music on the speaker and grabbing a flashlight. Your heart raced as you tried to see through the dark, squinting your eyes at the figure moving down the field. Vernon tapped the flashlight hard on his leg, the light flickering a few times before finally illuminating the darkness. You noticed the familiar faded jean jacket first, the tension in your body leaving you slowly as you recognized the person in front of you.

“Jihoon?”

He stopped, looking in your direction as he covered his eyes from the light. You called his name again, and before you knew it, you were hopping out of the bed of the truck and walking towards him. You were going to the music store a lot more often, but not just to buy music or DVDs. Sometimes you just came by to hang out, listened to undiscovered vinyls with Jihoon, and talked about what you like about each record. You quickly realized Jihoon wasn’t as stuck-up as everyone else on the Northside, and you started to become friends. His mother was sometimes there and gave you a stink eye, but it’s nothing you aren't used to. You still felt the shock in the center of your palm from the first day you met. The feeling is ingrained in you now, and it’s hard to ignore.

You finally reached him, with the light of your phone in your hand, wading through the knee-length grass as it shifts with the wind. “Hey there,” you greeted him. “‘Didn’t know you liked stargazing.”

“I didn’t know you were into stars either,” Jihoon quipped, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Smells like you are having a get-together.”

You felt the heat creep onto your neck, painfully aware of his reference to the smell of weed on your clothes. “Yeah, well, what’s a party without party favors, you know?”

You turned back to Lola and Vernon, who had the flashlight adjusted enough to illuminate the truck. They were locked into an intense make-out session, and you grimaced, knowing better than to interrupt that.

“Well, I guess I’ll be watching the stars with you then,” you decided, turning your focus back to Jihoon. “That’s not a problem, right?”

Jihoon was taken aback, but he recovered quickly. “Do you usually invite yourself to other people’s activities?”

A giggle bubbled through your throat, amused by his question. “No,” you answered honestly. “But I usually make them more fun.”

Walking towards the middle of the field, you helped Jihoon unfold the blanket he was holding and lay it flat on the grass. The sky has somehow gotten brighter, a milky blue never seen before in this town. You marvel at it, your eyes twinkling like the stars above. It’s more beautiful than what you could describe in your journal.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” You murmured.

“Yeah. It is.”

You glanced at Jihoon, only to find his gaze had shifted from the sky to you. When your eyes lock, a warm tide rushes through you, making your stomach flutter with the sensation of flying. This isn’t the first time you have felt this, being around him, but here under the night sky, it’s overwhelmingly prominent.

“Do you come here often?” You posed, drawing a circle on the blanket. “I come here a lot, and I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

Jihoon shakes his head, folding his legs and resting his hands on his knees. “No,” he responded. “I usually go down to the lake, but I didn’t feel like being by the water tonight.”

Sugarmore Lake is the only lake in Carats Ridge that runs north to south through the town. It’s the unofficial ‘Switzerland ‘ of the town, where everyone managed to get along and enjoy the lake. Not that a fight or two hasn’t broken out once or twice there, but it’s an unspoken rule that everyone leaves their bad vibes at the entrance.

“I see.” You nodded, leaning back on your elbows. “I don’t go there much, and the last time I went I was fishing with my dad.”

Silence fell between you for a moment, the only sound heard coming from the grass blades moved by the slow breeze. It was comfortable to sit next to Jihoon in a different environment. “Well,” Jihoon muttered. “Maybe you should come with me sometime.”

Your eyes danced at him, curiously, a slow smile spreading on your face. “Are you asking me on a date, Jihoon?”

His laugh tickled your chest, and you couldn’t help but join in. What a silly thing to assume. But then he slowed, and he looked at you seriously, his eyes softening under the low light.

“What if I was?” Jihoon said slowly, looking nervous. “Would it be a bad thing?”

You looked at him with regard, realizing he is serious. You’ve never been asked out on a date before. You’ve been on one or two and have experiences, sure. But no one has formally asked you, at least not in this way. The truth is, you like Jihoon. You liked seeing him at the music store and listening to 60s rock. You liked arguing with him about why disco is overly hated or how 90s grunge is one of the best genres of all time. You loved sitting in the chair while Jihoon strummed his guitar, humming a song he'd come up with the night before. You enjoyed his company. You enjoyed him.

“I don’t think it would be a bad thing at all,” you whispered.

Jihoon smiled at you warmly, his hand shifting towards yours as it brushes against your thumb. A familiar zap is felt between you two, and you throw him a look, rolling your eyes playfully.

“Here you go, shocking me again,” you teased him.

“Oh, please, it’s from the blanket and the stars aligning—”

“Oh, you’re an astronomer now, Jihoon?” you quipped. “Please, tell me more.”

“Well, obviously not, but—”

“—What are you two yapping about?”

Vernon and Lola appeared on your right, holding a blanket and what’s left of the weed. He stumbled before he fell, reaching over you and handing it to Jihoon, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Come on, Lee, take a puff,” Vernon goaded him. “Join the fiesta under the stars.”

Rolling your eyes, you turned to Jihoon. “You don’t have to—”

Your words died down in your throat, watching Jihoon take the small blunt and smoke it. Your mouth parted in shock, watching him inhale and exhale the smoke from his mouth expertly, forming a perfect ‘O.’

“Oh! He gets down!” Lola cheered, raising her fist in the air. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Jihoon chuckled, handing the blunt back to Vernon. “I’m not a square, you know. I know my way around a joint or two.”

“Touche,” Vernon responded, leaning back against the blanket. “My bad. I didn’t know the Northie had it in him.”

Gazing up at the sky, you saw the stars twinkle, brighter than you have ever seen. Then one shooting star came down, followed by two, and then a series. You gawked in awe, a tear streaming down your cheek as you watched the phenomenon happening in front of you. Who knows if you will ever see something so wondrous ever again?

Jihoon’s hand covered you, and instead of a spark, you felt a warmth that made your skin prickle. His skin is soft, you smell his cologne, and the magnetism in the air pulls you closer to him, almost touching shoulder to shoulder. You had so much to say, and it overloads your brain. It’s hard to contextualize anything else you feel other than one word: happy.

“So, the lake?” Jihoon asked, beholding the show in front of him.

Smiling softly, you answered him. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”

Jihoon never thought he would see you again, and now you’ve taken over his every thought.

Ever since you stayed at his apartment, he has been replaying the memories you have together. Every corner of the music store reminds him of you, with headphones over your ears and bobbing your head to whatever album you haven’t listened to before. It’s been a few days since you’ve spoken, with you letting him know you made it home. He’s wanted to reach out, his fingers flicking to your contact in the moments where it’s quiet, but his thoughts get the best of him. It’s been so long—would you even want that?

Jihoon has seen your interviews here and there and heard the news about you from Vernon. It’s funny how he and Vernon became close when you left town, realizing they had a lot more in common than recreational weed. When Jihoon started teaching music at the community center on the Southside, Jihoon got to know your dad better. He never understood why his mother didn’t like him—he thought he was cool, a fierce leader, and a protector of the youth. He gave Jihoon words of encouragement when his father passed, and when his health started to decline, Jihoon offered to take him running errands if he needed it. Maybe, subconsciously, it was Jihoon’s way of staying close to you, through him.

The thunder rumbles outside, shaking the windows in his loft. Jihoon watches the lightning strike near Sinbrook Forest, the wind picking up, and trees thrashing around violently. Shaking his head and sighing softly, he picks up his worn guitar and strums a soft tune that echoes in the living room, a melancholic melody that has been stuck in his head for the past twenty-four hours.

I remember when I realized I had feelings for you

We were riding in my truck, driving down to the lake

With the windows down, sunlight turning gold on your face

I knew then what I was feeling was not a mistake

I miss you

It’s always been you.

You’ve been here two weeks, and time isn’t going fast enough.

You handled all the estate stuff for your father, retrieving the death certificate and signing the necessary paperwork to ensure the house was sold and everything else was in order. Vernon and the Zodiacs came to help you clean up the rest of the house, repair the childhood swing set in your backyard, and give the house a fresh coat of paint. Little by little, the pieces of your childhood are taken out, and you aren’t sure how to feel. Relieved? Sad? Numb? Your emotions are a clusterfuck, and that’s not even throwing Jihoon into the mix.

You are grateful for them—the Zodiacs, this community, for coming through for you in your time of need in the name of your father. Your relationship with the idea of being a Zodiac legacy is complicated, but you aren’t ashamed of where you came from or who your dad raised you to be.

“What’s on your mind, Blue?”

Vernon stands next to you, beer in hand, as he supervises the younger crew loading the last bit of furniture into a box truck. He takes a swig, the sweat dripping from his forehead and down his neck on this unusually warm day.

“Just watching the place I grew up change right before my eyes.” You let out a heavy sigh. You eye the glistening beer in his hand. “I see nothing’s changed. Is it noon yet?”

“It’s noon somewhere, Bluebird,” he responds, taking another gulp.

You shake your head, chuckling and folding your arms. One of the older gentlemen, nicknamed Pop, carries out buckets of paint from around the house. His boots squish in the wet grass, walking towards you and setting them down with a whistle.

“Everything is all painted up, Blue,” Pop announces. He turns his attention to Vernon. “It’s a little too early to be celebrating, don’t you think?

Your brows furrow in confusion, darting between Pop and Vernon. “Celebrating what? Is Lola pregnant again?”

“What?” Vernon’s eyes went wide, followed by a dry nervous laugh. “God no. Lola and I can barely handle the two that we have.” He suddenly goes quiet, looking down at his feet, almost ashamed. “The uh.. crowning ceremony is tonight.”

It takes a while to register what he means, but once it clicks, it’s like you’re hit with a heavy stone as you’re caught off guard. The crowning ceremony takes place when a new leader is appointed. It takes place at the Viper, and while the ceremony itself is short, it involves lots of booze and partying afterward to honor the new king of the Zodiacs. You know that your father couldn’t be the leader forever.

“So…” your voice shakes, trying to hold it together. “I take it you are going to be the new leader then?”

“Y-yeah,” Vernon mutters, kicking an imaginary stone from his foot.

When you finally glance at Vernon, the tears come down fierce and hot. You know you shouldn’t feel hurt, you understand this is the way of things, but it’s not his father who just died. It’s not Vernon’s home that is being sold and turned into something you don’t even recognize. Most importantly, it’s not his heart that is being trampled on a thousand times over.

“Blue, I—”

“Don’t worry about it, Vernon,” you sniffle, furiously wiping your wet eyes. “I’m happy for you, truly. I know you will lead the Zodiacs well.”

You walk away before he can respond, the harsh sunlight beaming on the top of your head. You’re seething with anger, a sense of betrayal stirring in your gut. Your father is barely settled six feet under, and he is already being replaced. It feels so fast, too soon. You can't wrap your mind around Daddy being replaced—just like that.

You walk without a clear destination in sight in an angry haze, just with a drive to get away from everyone and think. Cars whiz by you, passengers looking at you curiously, but you couldn't care less. Your head is humming with static, unable to get a coherent thought together that isn’t laced with profanities. Being mad as hell is an understatement.

Your stomach aches from the anger, but you push through as the sweat swims down your neck. You cross the train tracks that separate the north and the south, and your throat feels like sandpaper, begging for a drop of water to take you out of your misery. But you keep walking, face hot until you see the familiar sign that says “Lee’s Records Store”, red lights illuminated in front of the yellow and white building. It wasn’t your intention to come here, but your body feels more at ease as you come closer to it, the static in your head lessening as you think about listening to music and mellowing out.

Pulling the doors open, the cool air hits your face, and you exhale, feeling relieved. Your eyes scan the door, looking for Jihoon, but instead, you are met with the scornful eyes of Mrs. Lee, standing behind the counter.

“What are you doing here?!” She demands, the disdain clear in her voice.

“I was looking for Jihoon,” you respond, an eyebrow raised. “Is he around?”

“No, he’s not,” Mrs. Lee answers shortly.

You nod slowly, thumbing through the albums to your left. You pick up Nevermind by Nirvana, your thumb caressing the cover's plastic. The first time you listened to this album was here, with Jihoon, sitting on top of the counter. You will never forget the grittiness of Kurt Cobain’s voice blasted through the speakers, the guitar riffs that gave you life, and the drums that stayed in your head well into the rest of the day. It was one of your happiest moments.

“I think you should leave,” Mrs. Lee says suddenly, snapping you out of your reverie. You observe her waddling from the counter, walking towards you with determination. “You’re not welcome here.”

“Yeah,” you scoff, walking around her. “I’m sure Jihoon would disagree.”

A tug on your arm yanks you back, and a nail digs into your forearm. You glance at Mrs. Lee in shock as you quickly pull your arm away. “I told you to leave!” Mrs. Lee shouts, pointing at the door. “All of you Southside people are the same, coming over here, causing chaos, and not caring who gets hurt in the process.”

You stare at her incredulously, feeling wetness drip from your arm. Glancing down, you see the blood trailing down from her nails penetrate your skin. “Lady, what the fuck is your problem—”

Her face gets redder, the anger mounting with each second. "You’re just like him, you know—you come in and take away people’s joy and then leave. You don’t care about my boy and how much you hurt him. You were trash then, and I praised God every day when you left.”

You’re rooted in place, stunned into silence. A discomfort spreads in your stomach, and you refuse to accept what you're hearing. “When you say him, I know you aren’t talking about my father—”

“Yes. Him,” Mrs. Lee sneers. “He was shit then, and I suppose he’s being turned into shit now, six feet under—”

The slap echoed off the walls of the store, your hand stinging as if a wave of fire washed over your knuckles. A red imprint was visible on her face, her glasses askew and about to fall off. You heave, an anger surging through you like no other, your other finger pointing in her face.

“I don’t know what your deal is with me, or my father,” you breathe heavily. “But if you ever disrespect us again, I will snap your neck and throw you into the fucking lake.”

Her laugh bellows throughout the store, her smirk triumphant and all knowing, pissing you off more. "There she is," her voice laced with something sinister. "I knew the Southside trash were still in you, girl."

The front door rings open before you can respond, and there stands Jihoon, holding a large brown bag from the pharmacy. He scans both of you, the smile on his face disappearing quickly at the scene. Shaking your head, you walk around Mrs. Lee towards the door, the adrenaline you had earlier waning quickly as you take in everything that has occurred in the last day.

“What happened?” Jihoon asks, pulling you aside. “You’re bleeding.”

You beckon your head towards his mother, unwilling to look at her without seeing red. “She was disrespectful, and I reacted,” you say simply. “I will not tolerate her bullshit for my father or me anymore, whatever her imaginary beef is with us.”

Jihoon lets out a deep sigh, raking his fingers through your hair. “You’re bleeding. Can you please go upstairs to my place? I have Band-Aids there.”

You gaze into his eyes, your walls breaking down little by little. You are tired, frustrated, and in need of a hard drink. You also feel Jihoon’s sincerity, and you are tired of fighting—your day has been hard enough as it is.

Slipping out of his arm, you head towards the door, grabbing the nearest CD nearby.

“Fine. I’m taking this as my compensation for damages.”

Jihoon observes the state of the store and his mother, putting the pieces of what happened together. His mother’s face has a crimson handprint, her clothing is disheveled, and her glasses hang from her face. She rants and raves, her shrill voice echoing around the store. Snapping out of it, he quickly turns the sign on the door to “closed”, locking the doors with a swift click.

Walking over to her, he gently adjusts her glasses and slips them over her teary eyes.

“Oh, Jihoon,” she cries, letting her shoulders hang in defeat. “That woman is the devil. I don’t want you seeing her ever again!”

It hurts him to see his mother so crestfallen and upset. Jihoon does not appreciate his mother being hit, and a slow ember burns in his chest. His mother is a lot of things, but that's his mother. If it were anyone else, they would have been dealt with already.

But he also knows you, even if it’s been years, and you would have never laid a hand on her. What the hell happened?

He ushers her to the back office, sits her down, and digs through the top shelf, pulling out a first-aid kit. Retrieving a medical wrap, he takes a cold pack from the mini fridge he had stored in the small space, then wraps the cloth around the pack until it’s completely covered. Pressing it on her face, his mother let out a low hiss.

“I want to press charges,” she announces, leaning back into the office chair. “She had no right to hit me.”

Jihoon shakes his head, feeling tension in his right temple. “Mom, I saw the blood on her arm, and it doesn’t look like it came from you,” he discloses, sitting back. “I need you to tell me what happened.”

His mother shifts in her seat, gripping the ice pack in her hand. Her eyes shift nervously, taking a beat too long before she answers. “She comes in the store, looking for you, and I said you weren’t there,” she begins. “Then she starts raving at me, and I asked her to leave… then she slapped me.”

Jihoon nods slowly, searching his mother’s eyes for confirmation, anything that says the truth. Her eyes focus everywhere but him, and it sets an uneasy feeling in his chest he can’t ignore. “So she just slapped you for asking you to leave?”

“Yes.” She nods fervently. “That’s right. That girl is nuts! I don’t care how many books she writes.”

“What about the blood on her arm?” he probes, the imagery clear in his mind.

“It was already there when she came in.” She shrugs.

Her voice fades on as Jihoon zones out, lost in his turbulent thoughts. His mother has said worse things to you in the past, and you’ve never resorted to violence or even raised your voice. Why would you haul and hit her all of a sudden? It doesn’t smell right.

The small monitor that hosts the store's cameras shines under the fluorescent light. He stares until an idea dawns on him like a warm glow. Jihoon moves before he realizes what is happening, opening the work laptop and logging into the security systems. The recordings from the last hour come into view, his index finger thumbing over the mouse pad before clicking play.

“Jihoon? What are you doing?” his mother asks suddenly.

He doesn’t respond—he fast forwards until you arrive at the store. Jihoon watches intently, the audio at max volume as he listens to every word. His mind turns cold, and his chest constricts lightly, watching his mother dig her nails into your skin until it bled. He notices the shock and hurt on your face as you pull away, piecing the missing holes in his mother’s story. Jihoon glances at his mother, who looks ready to pop out of her seat.

“Jihoon—”

He raises his hand as he focuses on the screen, watching in horror.

“When you say him, I know you aren’t talking about my father—”

“He was shit then, and I suppose he’s being turned into shit now, six feet under—”

Jihoon jumps up as your hand connects with his mother’s face, watching her stumble back in shock as you give her a piece of your mind. Disappointment isn’t even the word to describe how he feels. He still doesn’t agree with his mother being slapped—but you were provoked, and that was conveniently left out of her story.

“Jihoon, I can explain—”

‘What is there to explain?” he snaps, pointing at the screen. “You lied to me and had me ready to go up there and defend your honor.” His chest rises and falls in his hurt as he paces back and forth. “How could you say that?”

Her mouth opens and shuts, at a loss for words. Jihoon has never raised his voice at her, let alone been angry. All his life, he has dropped everything to appease his mother, and it’s cost him great things—opportunities, relationships, and most importantly, you.

“God, Mom, you’re unbelievable,” Jihoon laments, shaking his head. “You are cruel, can’t you see that? You have been nothing but unkind to her ever since she started coming around. What has Blue done to you to make her hate her? Why can’t you get to know her? I’ve had it with this Northside vs. Southside bullshit.”

“Lee Jihoon!” His mother astonishes him. “Watch your language?”

Looking at her incredulously, he scoffs hard. “You just lied to me and made someone bleed, and you want to get on me about my fucking LANGUAGE?”

Jihoon’s cup is running over, and he can’t contain it. It’s more than just her treatment of Blue; it’s the infantilization of him and the refusal to allow him to be who he wants to be. It’s always been about what she wants, and what he thinks is best—never about his desires and his dreams.

“Jihoon, I’m sorry.”

He gazes at her slowly, the anger in his chest escalating to hurt. The walls feel like they are closing in, and there is only one thing on his mind—he needs to leave.

Shaking his head, he grabs his keys and his wallet.

“Lock up on your way out.”

You pace back and forth in Jihoon’s apartment, biting your nails as you revisit everything that has happened. The blood on your arm has dried, and you haven’t bothered to wipe it off. Mrs. Lee is a lot of things, and after that encounter, you wish her nothing but an economy middle seat straight to hell. You’ve always thought she was a grade A bitch for how she treated you back then, but you’ve always bit your tongue, not wanting to ruin your relationship with Jihoon, and to keep the peace. You’ve talked to your dad about it, of course, and he’s never had much to say, aside from “I see she hasn’t changed much” and “if she says anything out of line, you come get me.” She had said plenty of things then that were out of line, but you kept those details to yourself, partly afraid of what your dad would do.

But now you are done sparing her, especially after what she said about your father. Fuck her.

You hear the door open before you turn, watching Jihoon storm in with his face red and contorted with anger. Your breath stutters as his chest rises and falls, unsure how to handle this side of him. You’ve never seen him angry, much less at you.

“Jihoon, before you go on, let me explain—”

“No. Don’t,” Jihoon cuts in, raising his index finger in the air. “I have two things to say.”

A slow sting steeps closer to your heart as you stand there anxiously. “A-Alright,” you sputter. “Go on.”

“Don’t you ever put your hands on my mother again,” Jihoon states, his voice tight with conviction. “That is my mother. If it weren’t because it’s you, I would be handling this a lot differently.”

Your lips purse together, a small sliver of guilt puddling in your chest. All you can do is nod as Jihoon’s expression softens, an exasperated sigh escaping his lips.

“Second: I’m sorry,” Jihoon says, finally looking at you. “I saw what happened on the cameras. What my mother said was beyond disrespectful, and she shouldn’t have hurt you and provoked you like that.”

You slow blink, registering what he is saying. Your eyes well up, the tears falling before you can stop them. You turn quickly, avoiding his gaze as you sob in your hands. You are tired of holding on, trying to be strong for everyone, not to be seen as this broken woman who lost her dad. This town has brought you nothing but hell, and the sooner you can wrap up Daddy’s affairs, the sooner you can go back to your life.

Jihoon’s arms wrap around you, holding you tight as you sob. His fresh linen scent is strong but comforting, and slowly but surely, the tears stop. Turning you around, he gently wipes the tears from your face, studying you until he is done, his fingers tracing down to your mouth.

“I’m sorry, okay?” Jihoon murmurs. “You didn’t deserve that.”

You bite your lip nervously, unable to say anything else. Your head spins, you are exhausted, and you want nothing more than to lie down. You also want to be held, comforted, and to feel the warmth of someone who cares about you, without any hidden agenda.

“Thanks.” You sniffle, your voice raspy and shaky. “I’m not going to say I’m sorry for hitting your mom, but I understand where you are coming from.”

Jihoon nods, caressing your cheek. “I know. I wouldn’t want you to lie to me, anyway.”

A half smile creeps on your face, gazing into his eyes. Unexpected thunder rattles in the distance, startling you. Turning to the windows, the clear blue sky has been replaced by dark ivory clouds, with lightning striking in several places. Looking back at Jihoon, you step out of his embrace, scratching your arm that still has dried blood on it.

“I should probably go back to the house,” you announce, clearing your throat. “It looks like a bad storm is coming.”

“Blue, don’t be silly,” Jihoon says, shaking his head with a slight frown. “You’re staying here.”

“What?” You jerk your head back. “No, I can make it back—”

“God damn Blue, quit being so stubborn,” Jihoon snaps, running a rough hand through his hair. “It’s too dangerous out there, and I would be sick if you had to walk home in that.” Taking a deep breath, he presses his palms together in a gesture of desperate plea.

“Please, just stay the night. “

You mull over this proposition, gazing into his eyes for any reason to say no. You’re a stubborn bull, you know that, and you know you can make it home, in rain, heat, or snow. But as the thunder booms again, shaking the windows, you let out a heavy sigh, realizing you will not win this round.

“Fine. I’ll stay.”

Jihoon’s eyes light up like a beacon in the sea, and you involuntarily smile in return. Unfortunately, your walls are too beaten down to mask how you feel.

“Are you hungry?”

Your eyes shift nervously, acknowledging the ache in your stomach from the lack of food you have had all day. Adrenaline has kept you full, but you realize you should have had more than just a coffee at Jolibee’s.

“Yeah,” you respond, biting your lip. “I could eat something.”

Jihoon nods, heading into the kitchen. He rummages through his fridge, pulling out different deli meats, cheeses, and a hoagie roll.

“You still like Italian subs, right?” Jihoon asks, glancing at you.

You smile softly, your body relaxing as you watch him assemble your favorite sandwich. “Yeah, I do.”

The rain beats on the window, heavy, angry pellets dropping outside. The light flickers momentarily, stopping Jihoon in his tracks. Glancing at each other nervously, you step closer to the window and look at the damage outside. There wasn’t any mention of a major storm tonight; just light rain that was only supposed to last for an hour. The storm rages outside, tree limbs flying through the air and people scurrying into buildings to stay dry. The thunder booms again, followed by a lightning strike that hits the building's fuse box, shutting the power off completely.

‘Well, there goes that,” Jihoon says, followed by a clap of his hands. “I have some flashlights in here that can help us out.”

Turning on the light on his phone, he walks towards the closet by the front door, shuffling through a box until he pulls out two black flashlights. He places one in your hands, your fingers brushing against each other, creating a spark that makes you both jump back. The first time was a coincidence, the second time is suspicious, but this is the third time—and this has never happened with anyone else.

“I see you still have your powers, Electro,” you tease him, rubbing your hand on your shirt.

“You’re still fixated on that,” Jihoon dismissively says, jokingly rolling his eyes. “Maybe it’s you who’s shocking me. Have you considered that?”

 “I doubt it,” you reply, blowing a raspberry. “Why does this only happen with you? Riddle me that.”

Jihoon doesn’t respond. He instead taps his flashlight until it turns on, teasingly shining it in your face.

“Hey, you jerk,” you laugh. “I can’t see.” 

You raise your hand over your eyes from the light, reaching out to him with the other, and move to grab the flashlight from his hand. You miss and grab his wrist by mistake, pulling him close to you. Jihoon finally lowers the light; the luminance bounces off the wooden floors and illuminates the living room. The smiles on your faces slowly disappear, the storm rolling on in the background like an ambiance.

“Sit with me?” you ask softly, pointing towards the futon.

“Yeah, let me put the food up,” he murmurs, retreating to the kitchen.

Plopping on the futon, you close your eyes, recalling the day’s events in your mind. Mrs. Lee, Vernon, the crowning ceremony—all of this alone would give anyone a major headache. You pinch the space between your eyebrows, rubbing it gently until the pain fades, the storm slowly fading in the background. A wet cloth suddenly brushes against your left arm, making you jolt.

“Relax,” Jihoon says softly. “I’m wiping the blood off your arm.”

Your body relaxes as your breathing slows, and you lean back against the futon. “Thank you.”

He mumbles something inaudible, adjusting the flashlight on his lap to look at your arm and removing every stain of crimson until it’s gone. He takes the band-aid he had placed between his fingers and tears the thin paper off, placing it carefully where you were wounded. Jihoon’s thumb presses against it softly, making you wince.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“It’s fine,” you whisper.

Glancing at him, you inch closer, as if something is pulling you together at all costs. The air is thick, your heart and your mind on the same page for once, begging and wanting what’s been in the back of your mind for ten summers now. His hand places over yours, familiar and warm, just as you remembered it.

“Do you think, if what happened didn’t happen all those years ago, you would have stayed?”

You think about the question carefully, searching in your heart for the truth. Smiling softly, you gaze at him again, tightening your hand in his. “Maybe?” you answer, your voice shaking. “Or maybe you could have come with me, and we would have had different lives.”

You lay your head on his shoulder, intertwining your fingers with his. You feel comfortable and safe with Jihoon, and for the first time in a long time, at peace.

Ten Summers Ago

Your father was accused of murder.

Mayor Peppersnitch was found dead in a tub full of water and blood, and it wasn’t an accident. The mayor’s mansion was riddled with broken glass and bullet holes, a gnarly crime scene that shook the quiet, shady town. The FBI swarmed every corner of this town, infiltrating your fave hideouts and monitoring the hallways in your schools as if the killer was going to show up at the school the next day. It was madness for those couple of weeks, and it escalated further when your dad was carted out of your house in handcuffs, shoved in the back of the police car, and taken somewhere hours away. You didn’t understand it; you and your father were home, and you told them that. Why is all of a sudden the number one suspect?

Apparently, someone had a tip that they saw your father and his motorcycle leaving the mansion in the dead of night, though there was no proof. You had to find a lawyer who was willing to take your case, and if it weren’t for a camera from a neighbor’s house that showed your dad was home at the time of the murder, he would have been thrown in prison for life. That month he was gone was hell, and everyone who wasn’t a Zodiac or Jihoon treated you like some pariah, as if you were wrong for defending your father. You weren’t welcome anywhere on the Northside, and people made an effort to cross the other street if you were coming. You felt lonely, abandoned, and most importantly, hurt.

The worst part about all of this? The day he was taken away, you just found out you were waitlist accepted into NYU.

“I’m not going to go to New York.”

You stood in front of your father with your head held high, absolute in your decision. He just came home the day before, the bruises on his wrists still rough from the handcuffs the feds shackled onto him. He sat up on the couch, giving you his undivided attention.

“You just came back home, and I don’t think it’s the best time for me to leave,” you continued. “I will get a job and help around the house. Maybe I will go to junior college in Shiningdale—”

“No.” Your father rose from the couch, all six foot four of him towering over you. “You are not going to miss out on this opportunity because of me.”

“But Daddy—”

“NO!” The bass in your father’s voice deepened, sending a chill down your spine. “You will go to New York, attend that university, and make something of yourself. I didn’t raise you alone for fourteen years just for you to throw your life away.” Taking a deep breath, he motioned for you to sit on the couch. You sauntered over, and he ambled, pulling you into a hug and holding you close. You could smell the husky smell of his cologne mixed with cigarette smoke. It made your nose tingle.

“You have a gift with your pen, Blue.” Your dad’s voice was softer, hitting you hard and soft in your heart. “You have a way with words that I could never even think of. Just like your mother.”

You glanced at him, the mention of your mother making your breath stutter. He rarely talked about her, and you don’t remember her much, aside from her laughter, which you sometimes hear in your dreams. You were three when she died from cancer, but she has always had your dad’s heart.

“Mom used to write?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

“Absolutely,” your father confirmed with a smile. “She used to write me poems all the time.”

He got up suddenly, went into his room, and shuffled around, rummaging through papers and boxes. He returned with several notebooks, each with different hand-drawn blue flower decorations. “I kept her poems, thinking one day you would want to have them,” he explained. “I… still read them from time to time.”

“Daddy, no..." You smiled, leaning into his warmth, taking a notebook as you bite your lip. "I can’t just take this. It feels wrong.”

“Kid, you gotta quit worrying about your ol’ man,” he gruffed, placing a kiss on your forehead. “Your mother would want you to have them… and I want you to take them with you to New York.”

You studied him carefully, understanding that there was no changing his mind. Taking the rest of the notebooks, you cradled them to your heart, feeling a little closer to your mom.

“I’ll take good care of these, Daddy.”

Jihoon is stirred awake by the flash of electricity that turns on the apartment lights and by a loud beep from the microwave. Rubbing his eyes, he feels around for his glasses, patting around softly while you lie on his chest, still asleep. He finds them lying with a grasp underneath the futon, sliding them smoothly on his face. He lifts you gently as he gets up, laying you back comfortably on the futon as he stretches. You hardly stir; your face is relaxed, asleep, and somehow more beautiful than he remembered.

You didn’t talk much more during the storm. Jihoon held you close while it went on, and eventually you fell asleep. He could have slept in his bed, but he wanted to hold you just a little bit longer. He never thought he would have this chance to do it again; to know this grown-up, famous person you’ve become. He wasn’t as angry with you for hurting his mother anymore. The more he thought about it, the more he understood why you reacted the way you did. It opened his eyes to his mother’s behavior, and he knows down the line, decisions will have to be made.

Jihoon starts cleaning the apartment, meticulously wiping the counters and returning everything to what it was before he left. He likes order, putting things back where they belong, and making sense of what is out of place and why. It’s the way he goes through life, as he feels there is a reason for everything, even if the answer isn’t found yet. It’s what keeps him going, he supposes.

“Hey.”

The soft, groggy voice made him pause. He glances in your direction, setting the towel on the counter. “Hey,” he breathes. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

You shook your head, sitting up slowly and smiling sheepishly. “No,” you confirm, your voice still thick with sleep. “The microwave was loud; I just lay there for a bit.”

Jihoon's laugh is light, chuckling at the irony. “Yeah,” he agrees. “It woke me up, too.”

Your hand covers your mouth as you stifle a yawn, your free arm stretching as you rise slowly from the futon. Your hair is disheveled, you have sleep in your eyes, and Jihoon thinks you’re the prettiest woman he has ever seen. He stares longer than he should, watching you adjust your shirt and scroll through your phone. You shake your head with a groan, shoving it in your pocket.

“Do you want some tea?” Jihoon asks, leaning casually against the counter, trying to keep his gaze from lingering. “I have a few things here.”

You don’t answer right away; you stare at the floor, lost in thought. “Blue?” he calls out softly, unfolding his arms. “Are you okay?”

Slowly snapping back into focus, your gaze lifts to meet his. You offer him a small smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. “Oh. Yeah.” You nod. “Tea is good.”

Jihoon mouths ‘okay’ and pulls out a teapot he got from the Wen Thrift Store down the road. The family that runs it has a son named Junhui who is about the same age as him. Junhui travels a lot, sends things from time to time that they could sell at the shop, and that’s how he came across this antique teapot. He uses it almost every day, preferring to wake up to tea rather than coffee. He prefers to drink more natural, herbal drinks, and having a tea does his body good.

Jihoon pours water into the pot and sets it on the stove to boil. “I have a lemon zinger tea. Is that cool?”

“Mhm,” you hum, eyes focused on your phone again. “Whatever you have is fine.”

Jihoon busies himself with making your tea, trying not to focus on your sad and sleepy eyes. He tries not to think about how comfortable you were lying on his chest, how nice it was to hear you deeply breathe on him, not crying, hurt, or in a rage. He avoids noticing the moments stretch whenever he is with you, and how your hair still smells like vanilla and cream.

Jihoon hasn’t had many regrets over the years, but not fighting harder to keep in touch with you, to resume what you had that summer, has been one of the biggest regrets of his life. The dull ache of missing you that he thought he could put away and move on from has stuck with him ever since.

Sneaking a glance at you, he notices your sour disposition, sulking with your phone clutched in your hand tightly, “What’s wrong?” He probes, wiping his hands with a kitchen towel.

Your mouth opens and shuts, words failing to come out. You shake your head in disbelief, rising from the couch and handing him the phone instead. “I’m sure you knew about the ceremony that happened tonight?”

Jihoon looks confused, looking at what’s displayed on the screen. It’s Vernon being raised in the air, holding beers in both hands, with a caption that says “our new leader”. Jihoon watches your body shift uncomfortably, a slow fire starting in your eyes.

“I don’t know what this is,” Jihoon states, handing her back the phone. “What is that?”

“It’s a ceremony that announces the leader of the Zodiacs,” you explain, folding your arms across your chest. “Vern was made the leader.”

“Oh,” he responds, brows furrowing as he understands the situation. “Isn’t that a little early? Your dad just died.”

Your eyes widen, lighting up significantly as you look relieved. “See! You get it!” you exclaim. “I was so mad when Vernon told me (which he didn’t tell me until Pop mentioned it to him in front of me), and I just started walking until I saw something familiar.”

Your shoulders relax as you lean against the counter in thought. “That’s how I ended up downstairs,” you explain, with a softer tone. “I thought maybe I was crazy for feeling hurt by it. I know they have to choose a leader eventually, but Daddy is barely six feet in the ground.”

You blink furiously as you try to hold back tears, wiping your eyes furiously. “Did anyone give a fuck about my father?” You break out in a sob, covering your face with your hands as you start to cry. Jihoon immediately pulls you to him, rubbing your back as you cry into his shirt. He knows all of this too well. When he lost his father, he was sad and missed him, but Jihoon had time to process that he didn’t have long to live and make peace with that. You didn’t, and everything is being thrust onto you with no remorse. And now the world is moving on while you’re stuck in the same place. He knows how that feels.

Jihoon pulls back slightly, lifting your face and wiping your tears away. He notices the way your chin trembles and the light is gone from your eyes, replaced with a hurt that cuts deep. He wishes he could take your pain away, put it in a jar, and throw it in the ocean, never to be seen again.

“Look at me,” he whispers, catching droplets from the corner of your eyes. “I know everything feels shitty right now, and you take all the time you need to heal. But I have your back, okay? I always have. Whatever you need.”

You nod fervently, your breathing slowing as you start to relax. Jihoon makes the mistake of gazing into your eyes, seeing the woman he’s longed for a decade, standing in front of him with a history that can’t top anyone else that he’s connected with. His thumb brushes against your lip by mistake, wet from tears. You nod slowly, as if you read his mind, and you feel the same thing he does, inching closer until your noses barely touch. Smiling gently, you brush his hair back, regarding him with a look of adoration.

“Why are you so nice to me?” You murmur, locking your eyes with his. “You have very well have told me to fuck off, but you still stick around.”

Jihoon studies you for a moment, weighing the scales in his mind. He wants to be honest with you and tell you how he feels, but he also knows you’re vulnerable, and he doesn’t want to take advantage of that. Gazing in your eyes makes him want to forgo his inhibitions and tell you what’s in his heart and mind. Taking a step back, he looks at his floor conflicted.

“Jihoon.” You breathe his name in a way that invokes something wild in his spirit. “What is it?”

He shakes his head, looking past you at the brick wall. “Nothing. It’s fine.”

“What’s fine?” You question him, reclaiming space in front of him. “You aren’t being very clear.”

Jihoon’s feet are planted to the floor, unable to move. He’s acutely aware of how close you are to him, and he fights every nerve in his body to reach out to you. But you touch him instead, lifting his chin to meet the same, warm face that he fell in love with.

“Tell me,” you plead with earnest eyes.

Jihoon exhales lightly, anxiety eating at him from the inside. “I have to say something, and I don’t want you to freak out,” he reveals, his heart beating wildly as he gauges your reaction. Your brows knit in confusion, but you nod slowly, giving him the space to say what’s on his mind. “You’ve been on my mind a lot, even when I tried to forget you. You’re everywhere I go, and not just because you are a big-time author now. I know this is a shitty time to say this, and I’m sorry. But you are hard to forget and to get over, Blue.”

Your expression is calm, as if you’re processing what he’s said, and it makes his stomach drop. Did he say the wrong thing? Did he say too much? It stays quiet a beat too long, and he shifts nervously, shoving his hands in his sweats.

“Is that how you feel?” You ask gently. “Did you mean all that?”

“Yes. I miss you.”

Before he can blink, you kiss him.

It’s needy, titillating, and fills his veins with a high he has been chasing since that summer. His hands cup your face, embracing your soft lips against his, and walking you back until your back hits the fridge. Everything disappears, fading in the background as he deepens the kiss, elated that he might have his girl back. Your hands run through his hair, tugging it softly and moaning in his mouth. He has not experienced this side of you before, so sensual and in control of yourself, but he is willing to learn all of it for you.

“I need you,” you murmur, your eyes snapped shut as you pull on his shirt. “I need you, Jihoon, please.”

He pauses, holding your gaze and needing direct confirmation. “Are you sure? We don’t have to do this.”

A smile tugs at your lips before kissing him again, slipping your tongue into his mouth, and grabbing the back of his neck. “It’s what I want.”

Smirking against your lips, his kisses travel to your neck, sucking on the soft skin that he’s being given the honor to touch.

“Whatever you need, Baby.”

You moan earnestly in his ear, stuck in the trance set by Jihoon. He never imagined he would ever see you again, let alone touch you, kiss you, and profess his feelings to you. See, Jihoon is not an emotional guy and doesn’t say more than he needs to, and that’s always been fine by him. The less you know, the better. But you make his heart want to burst out of his chest. You make him want to feel love and not be afraid of it. You make him feel alive. You make him whole.

Jihoon’s lips return to yours, desperate and commanding, kissing you with everything he has. Every moan from you drives him closer to the edge, and he craves you more. With a quiet, searching look, he waits for your nod of approval before his hands move to the buttons of your jeans, sliding them slowly down your legs. Throwing them out of view and not caring where they land, his breath catches at the sight of your legs, completely enamored.

“What are you doing?” You ask softly, biting your bottom lip.

A slow smirk flirts on his mouth as his fingers travel up your thigh, moving dangerously close to your clothed center. Your breath hitches as he leans in closer, delicately pulling your panties to the side. Your pussy is dripping already, your sweet essence barely staying contained. His mouth waters at the thought of your taste, his tongue begging to lap in between your folds.

“Please, Jihoon,” you whine, massaging the back of his hand. “I want this.”

Jihoon doesn’t hesitate; he dives in, moaning with gratification as he tastes your sweet, warm cunt. You taste better than heaven, a delicacy that he could never get enough of. He pauses briefly to take off your panties and discard them. He wants to see the full picture, this slice of heaven in between your legs. Taking a long swipe in between your folds, you let out a mewling moan, much to his satisfaction.

“Y-yes,” you purr with heavy eyelids and a smile. “God, yes.”

He growls in between your legs, sucking and eating you salaciously with a fervent hunger he can’t contain. His cock hardens in his pants, begging to be touched. He lifts, roughly shoving down his sweats and springing it free, and rubbing his shaft with his free hand. His face is smothered in your cunt with your juices dripping down his chin, and your sweet moans are a melody from his own doing. Jihoon never wants this to end.

“J-Jihoon. Fuck, you’re so good at this.”

Teasingly, he nods with his lips wrapped around your clit, smirking as your eyes flutter to the back of your head. Jolts of pleasure shoot through his cock as he gradually picks up his own pace, his hand tightly wrapped around his girth. He continues to chase his high feverishly and yours, slipping his tongue into your hole. You gasp, shuddering at the sudden switch-up. Your hips slowly wind to his rhythm, your moans echoing louder in a crescendo, whimpering incoherent sayings over and over.

“I got you,” he grunts, lost in his own pleasure. "You can trust me.”

You come undone on his tongue, gripping his hair tightly as you give him everything he wants and more. You are a sight to behold, your toes curling as he works you through your intense high while also chasing his own release. Jihoon is in a haze of lust, vigorously jerking himself off to your wet pussy lips, tipping over the edge.

“Oh, fuck,” he cries out, his orgasm gushing out of him and spilling over his hand. His gaze locks in with yours, continuing to stroke himself until he is spent, his load freely landing on the floor. Resting his head on your leg, his chest heaves as he comes out of the bliss, leaving soft kisses along your calf. The sensation makes you giggle, then you let out a deep exhale.

“Wow,” you say with a dazed look. “I don’t think I have experienced that before.”

Jihoon looks at you slowly, with curiosity. “You’ve never orgasmed before?”

You shook your head, your eyes shifting nervously. “Not like that.”

The teapot whistles loudly, startling you and making Jihoon jump up, forgetting all about it. The steam blows angrily out of the hole, indicating the water is ready to be served with the tea. Quickly turning off the stove, he grabs the cleaner and paper towels, wiping the mess that he made on the floor until it is gone. He notices you watching him with an expression he can’t make out.

“Are you okay?” he asks, glancing at you as he pulls up his sweats. You don’t answer right away, and the silence stretches on that gives him pause. Setting the teapot off the hot stove, he saunters over to you, caressing your forearm. “Blue, are you with me?”

He can tell you’re lost in your own thoughts, his heart racing as he hopes they are happy ones, and of him. Your eyes fix on him, a slow, relaxed smile on your face. He slowly releases the breath he was holding, feeling more at ease. “Yeah,” you finally respond. “I’m with you.”

“Okay,” he nods, feeling more at ease. “I’ll make your tea.”

Your eyes scan the room, undoubtedly looking for your panties and your pants, thrown on the opposite ends of the apartment. Jihoon busies himself making your tea, adding the herbs, and letting it sit in the hot water. Hearing you say that no one has ever made you orgasm in that way does something to him. He’s not a prideful guy, but he will not lie and say he didn’t like the sound of that. Jihoon hasn’t been with many partners, and he has experience, but he hasn’t made love to them the way he did with you.

You’ve officially made him a pussy-drunk fool in love.

Jihoon notices it’s too quiet and sneaks a glance at you as you slide your jeans back onto your body. He notices the way your hands press against your jeans as you rub your thighs. Your hair is messy, your eyes are glossy, and he finds you so fucking irresistible.

“What’s on your mind, Blue?” Jihoon probes, finishing preparing your cup. Walking over to you, he places it in your hands with a towel underneath. “It’s hot.”

You mouth thank you, taking a sip cautiously. Your brows furrow, observing the porcelain cup in your hand. Some of it drips down your chin, and before you could react, Jihoon is wiping it away with his thumb. “This is good,” you finally say, a small smile on your lips. “I’ll have to get this brand for my apartment.”

The air sucks out of him a little, a jarring reminder that you will be leaving here soon, and who knows if you will come back. He studies your face, noting how you close your eyes with each sip, as if you are going to place in your mind that brings you peace.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, softly nudging your knee.

You lock eyes with him, and your sleepy eyes fill him with an infectious warmth and a familiar adoration that is only for him. “For the first time since I’ve been back here, I can breathe.” You hesitate, setting the cup in your lap and locking your eyes with his. “Thank you for that.”

Jihoon feels the sincerity in your words, falling deeper into your orbit and this moment. “I’m glad I could do that for you.”

Ten Summers Ago

“So you’re leaving, huh?”

You were with Jihoon at the lake, throwing rocks along the dark waters as time passed by. The sun beamed on your heads in the mid-afternoon without a cloud in sight. It was your last day in Carats Ridge, and your car was packed to the brim, ready to go. Your last days were spent getting ready for your journey, tying up loose ends, and grabbing anything you could take with you. You spent time with Lola and Vernon with Jihoon in between, and your father threw you an unwanted going-away party at Shadow. You smiled through it, knowing that his intentions were in the right place, and he wanted to show off his only daughter going to college. He deserves the bragging rights, you think. He’s been through a lot after all.

“Yeah,” you confirmed, the word right in your throat as you throw another pebble. “I can’t wait to get out of here.”

You glanced at Jihoon, acknowledging his glum expression and instantly regretting your flippancy. “I’m sorry, Jihoon. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yes, you did,” he responded quietly, his gaze fixated on the water. “But I don’t hold it against you. This time hasn’t been exactly kind to you.”

It still didn’t stop you from feeling bad. You had feelings, real feelings, for Jihoon, and the last thing you wanted to do was hurt him. He made you feel seen, he understands you, and treats you like he loves you, not someone he tolerates. Your heart twisted at the thought of not seeing him every day or touching his skin or hearing his voice. Jihoon had single-handedly made you believe in love and in your right to good things. He’s changed your life.

You’ve played a lot of scenarios in your head, wondering if you could truly make a long-distance relationship work. Jihoon was attending college in the next town over, pursuing a bachelor's degree in music. He wanted to travel the world and make connections while he is studying, and he can’t do that here in Carats Ridge. His mother tried to make him stay home and work from the music store, but he insisted on leaving, saying he needed a “fresh start”. Jihoon said that if it weren’t for his father finding his acceptance letter in the mailbox, he wouldn’t have known he made it in.

Ultimately, your worlds are about to become far apart and distant, and you both agreed that this had to end.

A slight wind picked up, gently shaking the leaves in the tall trees. There is no one else at the lake for miles, almost too quiet for your liking. The birds that were hidden in the trees fly east, as if the wind had disturbed them from their rest. You gazed at Jihoonhrow as he threw more pebbles and successfully made them skip. Your thoughts were loud and chaotic; your heart pounding in your ears. You didn’t want to leave him, but you couldn’t stay here anymore—too many bad memories, too much hurt.

“Hey,” Jihoon’s deep voice brought you back to the present. He wipes his hands on his pants from the dirt, coming behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. You lean into him automatically as he presses a soft kiss on your shoulder. “We’ll still keep in touch. You will not get rid of me that easily.”

A chuckle bubbles in your throat, temporarily relieving the tension in your chest. “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” you tease him, keeping your voice light. “I bet you are going to miss me while I’m gone.”

Jihoon doesn’t respond right away, as if he is considering the weight of your words. “You have no idea.”

Turning to face him, you take his hand in yours, interlocking your fingers together. Your time together may have been short, but it’s changed you in the best way. It frustrates you that this didn’t happen years before, when you saw each other at school almost every other day and shared classes. Imagine how those years could have been different if you had this connection.

“You won’t forget me, right?” you whispered, resting your forehead on his.

“Of course not,” he responded, lifting your chin to meet your eyes. “Why would you say that?”

“I don’t know.” Your voice shook. “I mean, we’re going to be on different sides of the country, and who knows when we will see each other again, and I—”

“Blue, stop,” Jihoon interrupted, calm but firmly. “You act as if we are not going to keep in touch. I don’t care what happens from here on out: you are unforgettable. One of a kind, baby.”

You took in what he said, letting it seep deep until it penetrated your soul. You wanted to believe him, that you would keep talking and would keep what you have going until your paths cross again. But you were also realistic, and you came from a different life than he does. Eventually, he would’ve found someone his mother would like and who he’d love like no other. You’d be an afterthought, a blip in the history of Lee Jihoon.

Maybe it’s better to cut ties, for good.

“You know I love you, right?”

Nodding slowly, you bit your lip, looking down at the ground. “I know. I love you too.”

“Okay then,” he asserted, caressing your arm. “We will just focus on school, and everything will work out. We’ll still talk all the time.” Jihoon pulled out his phone and looked at the time. “Alright, I need to take you back home. I don’t want your Dad to skin me alive.”

You let out a chortle, imagining the thought of your dad going after Jihoon for making you late for your trip. Kissing your cheek, he led you away from the lake and down the rocky path back to his truck, holding your hand along the way. You were going to miss this, being in his company and just existing with him. To think you came to the music store looking for music and left with a life-altering connection and a love you never felt before. It was funny how life is like that.

The ride back to your house was silent, nothing but the wind in your hair and your arm outside the window. You weren’t afraid to admit you were happy to leave this place and see what New York has to offer, but not at the expense of losing this—losing him. He could say that you will keep in touch, but you know how these stories usually end.

Maybe it was for the best.

The morning sunlight blazes through the window, shining directly onto Jihoon’s face. In an effort to shield his face from the sun, he accidentally slaps his face, making him sit up quickly in reaction to the pain.

“Ah, fuck,” he groans.

Jihoon slept on the futon again with you, falling asleep shortly after you had your tea. There wasn’t much conversation after that, and he thinks, after everything, it’s what you needed. That was your first sexual experience together, and as intense as it was for him and as much as he enjoyed it, the dynamic has changed. Jihoon knows you’re going through a lot right now, and you’re leaving here soon, but he can’t help the way that he feels. He’s in love with you still, and what happened several hours ago intensified it. But where does that leave you and him?

Patting around on the futon, he instantly notices it’s lighter and colder than when he fell asleep, compared to you in his arms. Grabbing his glasses off the floor, he shoves them on his face, clearing his vision and leading to impending disappointment; you were gone.

Jihoon groggily rises from the futon, folding it upright from its bed position and folding the blanket. The bathroom door is askew, and he knew you were gone, as the apartment isn’t big enough to be anywhere else. A piece of paper flies from the blanket, swinging lightly until it lands near his foot. Curiously, he picks it up, turning it over and reading the cursive-written words:

I’m sorry.

Jihoon stares at the paper before letting out a harumph that itches his throat. Shaking his head, he shoves the note into his sweatpants as he is filled with the resolve to handle this in person. He will not let you run away from him that easily.

The same thing happened before when you left town. You promised to keep in touch, and you did for a while, but then his calls started going unanswered, and he was left on read. Jihoon was hurt about it, especially having to get updates from Vernon and Lola about your life and how you were doing. Eventually, he stopped asking and started to move on. He’s dated other people and had one serious partner, and he thought he was finally getting over it and could stomach seeing the color blue again.

But then you came out with your book, a story about you and him, and he was sucked back in. Jihoon ignored his feelings and kept them under the rubble in his heart and mind for so long, but soon you were everywhere, and he couldn’t escape you. Your book was on every shelf, and when the rumors of you dating a certain Buck Layton were swirling around, you were on every news station. When Jihoon came back to Carats Ridge to help his father, you were the talk of the town. Everyone was proud of you, which he found ironic. But unfortunately, you were stuck in his head.

Eventually, that relationship ended; they grew apart, and they left town shortly after. Around the same time, your father started coming into the music store, looking for tunes to play on the speakers at the community center. Naturally, they struck up a conversation, and somehow Jihoon found himself helping at the center, teaching guitar lessons to the kids there. Jihoon discovered that your dad was a cool guy who was liked by everyone, despite being from the Southside. Well, almost everyone. His mother didn’t like that he was friends with Vernon or went to the Southside as often as he did. “I don’t want any of that trash to rub off on you” were her exact words and then some. But he didn’t care—he felt for the first time in a long time that he belonged somewhere.

And it somehow made him closer to you.

Jihoon doesn’t know whether this is divine intervention or a clear sign from the Universe, but you’re back in his life after almost ten years. He wasn’t letting you go that easily.

With a renewed resolve surging through him, Jihoon makes quick work of straightening up his living room and kitchen before racing to get ready. He brushes his teeth as if he is running out of time, and showers until he feels clean and good enough for you. Through all of this, you are locked in his mind, and he can't help but wonder how the conversation will go and if you feel that electric shift, too. He figures you have to, right? Blue Valentine is clearly their story—you have to admit that at least.

Throwing on a white t-shirt and a pair of boot cut Levi’s, he slides on his favorite boots, brimming with excitement.

Knock! Knock!

Jihoon freezes, staring at the red mahogany colored door. He wasn’t expecting anyone over, and he didn’t over anything, but he is a man on a mission, and he will have to deal with it on his way out. Unless it’s you, and you have decided to come back.

Heart hammering and grabbing his keys, he swings the door open, hoping to see your face. Instead, he is met with mild disappointment that curdles in his chest like milk.

“Jihoon.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, stepping out of the way to let her in. “Mother.”

She waddles inside like she owns the place, setting her bag down on the clear end table. She looks tired, bleak, as if she didn’t sleep at all. Jihoon is upset with her, sure, but he still wants her to be healthy above all else.

“I was about to leave,” Jihoon’s voice is flat. “So, unless this can’t wait, I have to go.”

“Jihoon, I…” Her voice falters, as if something is holding her back. “I think it’s time for you to know some things.”

Jihoon’s stomach drops, caught off guard by the sudden reveal. The air has left the room, replaced with a tension that slowly suffocates. Clutching the keys in his hands, he curses internally and shuts the door behind him. He bites the inside of his cheek, motioning for his mother to sit down on the futon. Taking a deep breath, he asks the fated question, “What do I need to know, mother?”

His mother’s fingers danced nervously in her lap, her eyes fixed on the ground and on everything but her son. “July 30, 1994. That’s when Raymond made his promise to me.”

Jihoon stares at her, the wheels spinning in his head. “Raymond?” Then it clicks. “Blue’s father?!”

She nods solemnly, finally looking at him with prickling eyes. “Yes, the very one.”

He stares at her incredulously as he tries to make sense of it. “What promise are you talking about, Mom?”

She stares into the void as if recounting memories, a faint smile on her lips. “He was the love of my love. My first love.”

“You… and Blue’s father?” Jihoon asks slowly.

She confirms with a nod, looking away in shame. Jihoon blinks profusely, shaking his head in bewilderment. He doesn’t know what to believe, whether his mother is even telling the truth. He knew she had a hatred for Southside people in general, and he assumed that the hate for your father was because of the adjacency, not because of a sour past.

“Back in those days, things were different,” his mother begins. “He was the star football player, and I was the cheerleader and president of the student body. We were great on paper, and I thought we were great together, too. He was my first boyfriend, and we understood each other better than anyone, especially both being from the Southside.”

Jihoon’s jaw goes slack, hit with another revelation that jumbles his thoughts even further. “YOU are from the Southside?”

His mother finally looks at him, affirming with sad eyes. “Yes.” Clearing her throat, she continues. “We were one of the few from there who were going to make it out of this town and make something of themselves. I was going to fashion school, and Raymond was going to go to MSU for football, make it big, and we would start our lives together. But some things happened at home with his old man, and he had to stay home, but he still encouraged me to go. We agreed that I would leave and pursue what I wanted, and then I would come back, and we would resume our lives together.”

His mother pauses for a moment, then rises from the futon and walks to the window. Jihoon is at a loss for words, processing everything that’s been said. “So what happened after that?” He frains softly.

“We wrote letters to each other here and there, and I thought he was the one. I wanted him to be the one. But when I came back home after graduating, I found out he didn’t feel the same way.” She sniffles, wiping a lone star from her right eye. “I expected everything to go back to what it was, but I found out he was with Camille, and turned out she was pregnant with their daughter.”

Jihoon stiffens, piecing everything together and finally making the connection. “Camille… Is that—”

“Yes,” his mother confirms shortly. “That’s her mother.”

He sits back slowly, his eyebrows raised at the revelation. Jihoon’s mind is going a million miles a minute, replaying every moment and everything his mother has said about the Southside and how she acted. At first, he’s numb, but slowly he fills with a cocktail of sadness and anger, appalled by this betrayal. This is worse than his mother being cruel to you for the hell of it—this was personal for her, and now personal for him. You didn’t deserve this.

“So,” Jihoon breathes, trying to keep his emotions in order. “All this crap you said about the Southside and how there were no good people there, were you speaking from experience?”

His mother whips around, wrinkles of surprise on her forehead. “Jihoon!”

“No, mom, let’s talk about it,” Jihoon retorts, raising his voice. “You told me all my life that the Southside people were nothing but thugs and degenerates, and you damn near had a heart attack if I even looked at someone from there. I am glad I never listened to you—I would have missed out on the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Surely you don’t mean that?!” His mother gasps. “Not over that tra—”

“I would watch very carefully what you say to me next,” Jihoon says firmly. The color drains from his mother’s face, and he couldn't care less. “You treated her like crap ever since she started coming around, all because you and her father had some old fling. Did you even love Dad at all? Or was he just a rebound to make yourself feel better—”

His mother marches over to him, slapping him across the face, leaving his left cheek stinging and his ears ringing. He stumbles, placing his hand on his cheek to soothe the pain. He wants to cry, but he’s too stunned to speak, gawking at the audacity of his mother.

“Don’t you ever, EVER, say I didn’t love your father,” she says through gritted teeth. “He knew what I was, and he loved me anyway. Your father is a godsend.” Her chest rises and falls in anger, her ears turning beet red. “Your father was better than me in so many ways, and I thank God he came into my life when he did. I did love your father, and that’s a cruel thing to say.”

Slowly regaining feeling on his face, he stares at the ground, his chest aches with an indescribable hurt that has changed the trajectory of their relationship. “Is it?” Jihoon says solemnly, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “You loved Dad but not enough to forgive Raymond and spew your prejudice bullshit, right?” He cannot stomach looking at her anymore, his insides churning the longer he stares. “I need you to leave.”

His mother’s eyes widen, taken aback by his request. “Jihoon, you have to forgive me. I am your mother.”

Mother. A six-letter word that would usually make him feel warm and appreciative of the one he was given. But instead, he’s filled with anger and a hurt that will take away if he lets it, and he is done letting her get away with her misgivings under the guise of knowing what’s best.

“You are my mother in name only,” Jihoon responds bitterly, enunciating each word. “I love you, and I will continue to care for you as the duty of your son, but that’s it.” He stomps towards the door, swinging it open with a force that rattles the papers on the dining room table. “Go.”

His mother hesitates for a moment before stalking towards the door, stopping in front of him with furrowed brows and a crestfallen expression. “I love you, Jihoon.” Kissing him quickly on the cheek, she rushes out of the apartment, waddling down the steps as fast as she could.

Jihoon exhales a deep breath he didn’t realize he was holding, though no sign of relief came. You left him; his mother just dropped this bomb on him and hit him with all her might. He woke up today intending to get you back, to match the energy of the sunny skies outside his window. Instead, the day is crumbling, frustration looming over him like a heavy cloud.

Undeterred, he waits several minutes, allowing his mother time to exit the building; not eager for another blowout. Once he thinks the coast is clear, he bolts out of his place, hopping into his truck and revving the engine with a renewed focus.

I’m coming to you, Blue.

You know you’re a coward for leaving the way you did. It was necessary, though.

You let yourself slip for one night, feeling sad, grief, loneliness, and wanting to be touched and feel good, which led you to make some choices. You didn’t mean to lead Jihoon on, not that you’re saying you don’t feel the same way about him, and did not equally enjoy what you share. You loved every minute of it, and as you lay in his arms, with your back pressed against his chest, you wanted more. Even now, you crave him like a bad habit; the images of him in between your legs will undoubtedly be seared into your brain forever. But to be quite frank, you’re a hot fucking mess.

Jihoon deserves someone who has their head on straight and isn’t running on empty. He deserves someone open and willing to love him wholeheartedly and committedly. He deserves the sun, the earth, and every single shooting star in the sky. You love him enough to admit that if he accepts you for who you are right now, you will hurt him. You aren’t the same person he fell in love with back then. You know deep down, he will leave you, and that’s another heartbreak you aren’t willing to go through.

You approach your childhood home at the end of the street, standing tall, bright, and almost unrecognizable with the new coat of paint. You slow your pace before pausing to take in your old neighborhood for the first time since you’ve been here. The houses look mostly the same, and you are willing to bet you have the same neighbors. The air even smells the same, earthy, almost like pine. You hate the smell of pine now, after growing up with it for so many years—the last thing you want is to be reminded of here.

A red pickup truck pulls up to the driveway, with "Choi’s Movers" displayed in bold white font. Your stomach twists as you're not prepared for whoever is coming out of the truck—and it would be your luck that Lola and Vernon are both here.

“Hey, there, YN,” Vernon says sheepishly, shoving his hands in his pockets.

You glare at him sharply, letting out a gritty scoff. "Really, Vernon? First name bases now?" Your eyes flick to his leather jacket, noticing a new patch that says ‘prez’. "Congratulations are in order," you remark dryly.

“Come on, Blue, you aren’t being fair,” Lola cuts in, now standing in front of Vernon. “You know this is how we do things here. Eventually, someone was going to have to take over.”

“Lola, it’s not even about the ceremony. I don’t care about the stupid ceremony—”

“Yeah, we fucking know—”

“—What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Lola?!”

“You know exactly what I mean, Blue,” Lola snaps, frustration etched on her face. “You never wanted to be a part of this, and that’s fine, but don’t sit here and act like you get to pick and choose when operations resume. YOU know, eventually we would have to move forward.”

You turn away from them, shaking your head in frustration. “You don’t get it,” you mutter.

“Well, help me understand that because from where I stand, you are being a little ungrateful.”

Before today, you could confidently say that Lola and Vernon never hurt you. You were the best of friends, as close as thieves, and made a pact always to support each other, no matter what. You never thought the day would come when there would be conflict, let alone you versus them. But now, it’s clear that the Zodiacs come first, even over you.

“Wow.” You stare at them, your hands clenching as you try to control your temper. “I’m ungrateful? I didn’t even want to have the fucking funeral. If it were up to me, I would have cremated his ashes, kept him with me, and been satisfied. But I know Dad didn’t want that.” Your blood boils as your anger mounts, and you saunter closer to Lola. “It was never about you guys moving on or Zodiac tradition—it was about the fact that you couldn’t wait to have the ceremony at least until I was out of town. It would have hurt a lot fucking less.”

Slowly, Lola’s expression shifts from anger to understanding, then to shame. The pulse in your temple twitches, heavy and agonizing, making you pause. The heat does you no favors, making you stumble back. Lola and Vernon move faster than you can blink, breaking your fall.

“Let’s get you inside,” Vernon suggests, grabbing hold of your arm.

“I’m fucking fine,” you bite, attempting to snatch yourself away from their grip.

“Blue, quit being fucking stubborn and let us help you.”

“Whatever,” you mumble, your vision disoriented by the second. Lola unlocks the front door, and the rush of cool air hitting your face is welcoming. Most of the furniture is gone, sans the lone air mattress and suitcases that you have stored in your bedroom for the time remaining you had here. You arranged for your dad’s things to be stored in New York, so his memories will never be forgotten.

Vernon leads you to your bedroom and lays you softly on the bed. You avoid contact, not ungrateful for the help, but still too mad to acknowledge it with a thank you. Lola comes in shortly after, handing you an ice-cold water bottle, presumably from the fridge, and a couple of Excedrin. You take it from her, drinking slowly due to the slight nausea you feel in your stomach.

“It seems like you’re dehydrated,” Lola observes, giving you a once-over.

“Maybe,” you pant, drinking the last bit of water. “I’ve been doing a lot of walking back and forth between the Southside and the Northside.”

Vernon’s brows furrow in confusion. “You could have asked us for a ride, you know?”

Cutting your eyes at him, you roll them and fold your arms. “Yeah? With all the party planning you had going on?”

Vernon’s eyes shift, looking down with a look of shame. “I’m sorry about that, alright?” He clears his throat, scratching the back of his head. “We didn’t think about the timing of everything, and how you might feel about it.”

“Yeah, Blue,” Lola adds, sitting on the foot of the bed. “We weren’t trying to hurt you.”

You let out a heavy breath from deep within, rubbing your temple with your finger. The pulse still throbs, but the pain is lessening. The anger slowly seeps out of you along with the rest of your energy. With heavy eyes, you nod. “I think we said a lot of things, and I’m not really in the headspace to talk more about it,” you say honestly. “I appreciate everything you have done for me since I have been back in town, and it’s not lost on me that you lost a great leader. But I lost my dad, and it’s barely been two weeks. So I apologize if I’m not always showing I’m on my best behavior or grateful.”

Guilt washes over their faces, and you look away, feeling your own regret. Maybe you were too mean and could have tried to talk to Vernon instead of walking away. Maybe you could try to see things from their point of view. You hate this contention. Above everything, they are your best friends, and even though the wounds are still fresh, you don’t have the energy to fight with them anymore. Your soul is tired, and it’s not something that a bed and sleep can fix.

“I’m going to try and get some rest,” you announce, shuffling around in the comforter. Vernon and Lola exchange nervous glances, hesitant to leave. You let out an exasperated sigh, straightening your posture. “I’m tired, okay? I had a long day yesterday and today, and what I really need is a shower and rest.”

“You almost collapsed out there,” Lola points out. “I don’t feel right leaving you here alone.”

“Lola, please,” you respond. “I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, you’re doing a bang-up job of that,” she quips, adjusting your blanket. “I’m not leaving you here alone. You could be dehydrated.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Blue, quit going back and forth and accept our help,” Vernon cuts in with a clipped tone. “It’s two against one. We’re not going anywhere until we know you’re okay.”

You shake your head, huff, and look at the wall. The stubborn bull in you wants to keep going, push for your way, and not accept anything else. But you also know them, and they will not back down. Your head throbs again, your vision starting to blur. You’re exhausted and haven’t been sleeping much since you’ve been here.

“Fine,” you reluctantly concede. “But I would like to get some sleep. It’s been quite the twenty-four hours.”

You sink lower into the air mattress, covering yourself with the blanket as you try to get comfortable. Vernon leans and rubs your shoulder before he leaves, the echo of his boots gradually fading in the almost empty house. Lola climbs on the other side of the mattress, pulling you into a backward hug. “You know I love you, right?” She murmurs. “I would do anything for you, Blue.”

You nod sleepily, your words caught in your throat. Lola and Vernon mean well, and you know that, but you can’t help being a clusterfuck of emotions right now. They say grief comes and goes like waves, but your emotions have been nothing but high tides since the day you got the news. When will things get better?—When will you get better?

“Vernon and I will be right outside the door,” Lola assures, slowly rolling off the mattress. “Just holler if you need us, okay?”

Your sleepy eyes finally get the best of you. Your mind is half there, and in another dimension. “M’yeah,” you manage to mumble before exhaustion finally takes over, and you fall into a deep, satisfying sleep with Jihoon and the lake being the last image you saw.

Ten Summers Ago

The wind whipped through your hair as Jihoon drove down the long road that led to the lake. It was the perfect weather, with the sun peaking through the clouds, occasionally giving you a reprieve from its harsh light. Your hand hung out of the window, pretending you were pressing keys to the beat of the song playing on the radio. Jihoon glanced at you occasionally, asking if you were okay, and you nodded or responded with a ‘yes’, hit by the bottle of nerves that settled in your stomach. It’s not like you hadn’t hung out with him before; those times were different, under friendly circumstances. Whereas this is more romantic, a real date, something that could change the trajectory of your relationship forever. You were scared to death of it changing for the worse, and you wonder why you even agreed to this, but in the back of your mind, you think you would’ve regretted not taking that leap and finding out whether this is more or if it was all in your head.

Jihoon played a mix of 80s, 90s, and early 2000s songs from a playlist that he made on the iPad specifically for the trip. He said it was for the “vibes,” but you think he wanted to impress you. Little did he know, he didn’t need the playlist to do that—you already fell for him.

“We’re almost here,” Jihoon announced, lowering the sound of the music.

“I know,” you replied, sitting up in your seat. “I’ve been here before, remember?”

“Yeah,” Jihoon returned, a smile tugging on his lips. “But you haven’t been with me.”

Feeling the heat rush to your face, you looked away, pursing your lips to suppress the smile he put on your face. “You’re a real Casanova, you know that?”

“No, I’m just Jihoon.”

You rolled your eyes, a chuckle escaping your lips. He pulled into the lake shortly after, driving to the far end next to the dock. There was no one else around, and the trees were in full bloom, giving you the right amount of shade and privacy. Your skin prickled as the car slowed to a stop.

“Wait here.”

Jihoon hopped out of the truck, coming around to the other side and opening your door. Taking your hand, he helped you out of the car, his eyes traveling down to your short shorts and freshly shaven legs. You can’t say you didn’t like the attention, as it was nice to be desired. You were thankful you had applied baby oil before leaving the house.

“Do you like what you see?” you queried, following his gaze. “I just shaved this morning.”

Jihoon’s face turned beet red and embarrassed, stepping back considerably. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ogle at you—”

“Jihoon, it’s fine.” You waved him off with a giggle. “I want you to ‘oggle’ at me. At least I know you think I’m hot.” Reaching into the bed of the truck, you grabbed hold of the cooler. “Now show me where we are taking this thing?”

“Oh, I got that!” Jihoon exclaimed, hastily taking the cooler. “Let me show you we’re going to be.”

He led you away from the usual rocky, earthy path that leads to the docks, instead taking you to the grassy patch dotted with dandelions and daisies. There lay the same blanket he had when you watched the shooting stars, accompanied by pillows and baskets. You faltered, touched by the detail and thought that he put into this. You gazed at him with an affection that warms you to your core, observing the satisfied glimmer in his eyes.

“Jihoon, you didn’t have to do all of this.”

He didn’t lose his pace when he reached for your hand, connecting his soft fingers with yours. “I know. But I wanted to.”

Reaching the blanket, he motioned for you to sit as he took out the contents of the cooler. You noticed he had your favorite sandwiches and snacks packed, and even managed to grab chocolate-covered strawberries because you once mentioned you'd never had them. You watched him set everything in place with care, your face beaming with joy.

Pulling out a Bluetooth speaker, he returned to the playlist he made for this day, setting it farther away to create an ambiance. He wore a simple black t-shirt and light blue jeans, but you found him incredibly attractive. His glasses were clipped to the top of his shirt, and a strand of his hair kept falling on his forehead. His muscles flexed as he moved things around, heightening his appeal. You pinned your knees together, ignoring the heat in between your legs.

Then suddenly, you had an idea. “Let’s go for a swim!”

Jihoon stopped in his tracks, looking at you, bewildered. “You want to go swimming now?”

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, dropping your purse onto the blanket. “We can swim and then work up an appetite after.”

Jihoon hesitated, his eyes scanning the spread he was almost done setting up. You knew it was impulsive of you to do this now, but if you stared at him any longer, things were going to happen on this blanket. At least you weren’t offering to take your clothes off in the lake.

“Okay,” his voice trailed off, his eyes widening as he watched you take off your shorts. You didn’t want to get all of your clothes wet, so you figured that at least having dry shorts and a wet t-shirt was a good trade-off. But what you didn’t expect was to see him undress, taking off his shirt and undoing the button on his jeans. The heat surged through your neck, and it’s not just because of the weather.

“I always keep a change of clothes in my truck,” Jihoon explained. “I can change into something else.”

“Uh-huh,” you mustered, staring at his abs. “Let’s go get wet, yeah?”

Realizing how dirty that sounded, you mentally slapped yourself in the face, shaking your head as you walked toward the dock. Jihoon is to your right, slightly ahead of you, looking into the dark blue waters. The wind swayed the leaves on the trees, but otherwise it was quiet, and you had the lake to yourselves, it seemed like. Making it to the end of the dock, you kicked off your sandals, the soles of your feet gracing the warm wood.

“I have to ask,” Jihoon said suddenly. “Why go swimming now? You could have said something before, ya know?”

You stared at him, caught off guard. “I don’t know,” you shrugged. “Maybe I just wanted to take a dip.”

“Maybe,” Jihoon responded. “Or there is something else going on here?”

“Nope.” You shook your head fervently. “Nothing more is going on.”

Jihoon perused you, and in that moment, you knew he thought you were full of shit. But you held on to your poker face as best you could, stepping closer to the end of the dock. “I guess we should probably—”

Jihoon carried you swiftly and jumped into the water, the surprisingly cool water surrounding you whole. It was refreshing and cool, and it put you at ease. Rising to the surface, you heard Jihoon laughing, splashing water on your face.

“Hey!” you cried, returning the favor. “At least give a girl a chance to wipe her eyes.”

You couldn’t help but join in on the laughter, feeling liberated and no longer shackled by the bundle of nerves you felt earlier. You realized, in hindsight, it was stupid to randomly suggest swimming right when you were about to eat. You thought Jihoon was sexy, and maybe you should have accepted that instead of trying to run away from it.

Jihoon swam closer to you, his face wet with water droplets and his hair slicked back. He looked even better wet, almost unethereal.

“So are you going to be honest with me, now?” Jihoon goaded, swimming in a deliberate circle around you. “I’m not going to judge you, you know that, right?”

“I know,” you responded, trying to sound casual. “But it’s honestly silly.”

He stopped his circling, treading water directly in front of you. “Try me.”

“I don’t want to ‘try you’—”

“—just tell me, Blue.”

Your chest tightened as you bit your lip, the familiar clench of anxiety coiling in your stomach as the bundle of nerves floods back. “You were sitting there, putting everything together, and you looked really hot doing it, and I didn’t know how to handle it. So I suggested we swim. I didn’t know you were going to get naked—”

“—I’m not naked.”

“You know what I mean!” you exasperated. “ Honestly, this was stupid, and we should just go back and eat—”

He shut you up with his lips on yours, and it was like fireworks went off—a sudden, explosive burst of sensation that echoed through every fiber of your being. Your chest sparked with an euphoric joy that made you dizzy, and you almost didn’t believe you were kissing Lee Jihoon, the boy who had your affection for the past month. You deepened the kiss as his hands graced your waist, your heart racing a million miles a minute. Your feet were impossibly light in the water, and you felt like you were floating, untethered and completely suspended in this moment. You’ve never experienced this before, and you don’t want it to stop.

Jihoon pulled away, leaving a lingering kiss before taking your hand and leading you to the dock, pulling himself up effortlessly, and then helping you up after. You were in a daze, your mind still reeling from that one kiss, and though you’d had kisses before, none of them felt like that.

“Next time, don’t hide from me,” Jihoon remarked with a cheeky grin. “I want you to be open with me, no matter what.”

You didn’t bother defending yourself; you knew exactly what he meant. “Mmhmm.”

“Good.” He nodded with a satisfied look on his face. “Now is your appetite worked up, or do you want a round two in the water?”

You scoffed lightly, shaking your head. “You are never going to let this go, are you?”

Jihoon took your hand, leading you back to the blanket, where your shorts and food awaited. “A Southsider at a loss for words for a naked Northie?” He let out a chortle. “Never.”

You wake up slowly, the blanket protecting you from the golden hour light shining through your blinds. It takes a minute for your eyes to adjust, filled with crust from the deep sleep you endured. You reach around lazily for your phone, finding it beside the air mattress and connected to a charger. Weird, you thought to yourself; you don’t recall connecting it to one before you fell asleep. Tapping the screen, your eyes widen at the time, realizing you have been out cold for almost five hours.

Fuck. You didn’t mean to sleep this long.

Sitting up slowly, you accidentally knock over a fresh bottle of Gatorade, the plastic bottle rolling until it hits the door with a soft thud. You’re still in a haze of sleep, repeating the events that happened within the last twenty hours—the ceremony, Jihoon’s mother, the argument with Lola and Vernon, Jihoon, and the intimacy you two shared. Regret eats at you as you think about how you left, yearning for the warmth you felt in his arms, the softness of his lips when he kissed you, and, most importantly, his voice, and how it soothed you when you needed it most. Your bed is unbearably cold now, a deep chill settling in your bones as you force yourself to face the truth: you miss him.

Sitting up slowly, you let out a loud yawn, relieved to be cured of the nagging headache you had earlier. You hear shuffling outside your door, giving you only a moment’s notice to cover yourself with the blanket before the door opens. You see Lola’s chocolate brown curls before you see her, a worried look on her face as she comes with a sandwich and fries opened in a to-go box. The bread smells fresh, a warm invitation to your stomach as it grumbles loudly.

“I take it you’re hungry?” Lola teases, sitting at the foot of the mattress. “You were dead to the world for a while, girl.”

“Yeah, apparently,” you snort, sitting straighter. “I feel a lot better, though.” You eye the sandwich again, your mouth watering at what looks to be your favorite, an Italian sandwich on rye bread. “You didn’t have to go through all this trouble.”

“It’s never trouble to make sure my best friend is okay,” Lola states, waving you off. “Plus, it wasn’t me who brought the food.”

Your head ticks, your brows burrowing in confusion. “Was it Vernon?” you ask gently. The weight of guilt sags your shoulders, thinking about the argument earlier. The ceremony still hurts you, but after sleeping, the thought of falling out with your best friends makes your stomach flip. “I’m sorry,” you say meekly, unable to look her in the eye. “I feel like shit.”

“I know,” Lola responds, closing the box on the sandwich. “I’m sorry too, for calling you ungrateful and not thinking about how having the ceremony while you’re still here would have affected you.” Her eyes glisten as she blinks profusely, her voice wavering. “You’ve been through a lot and had to handle most things on your own, and I should have thought about you more. I’m sorry.”

Your heart twinges as the tears fall on her cheeks. “Oh, God, Lola, no.” You panic, shuffling out of the blanket and scooting next to her. “You have done more than enough for me. I couldn’t have gotten through the house affairs or handling my dad’s estate without you.” You wrap your arms around her, your own eyes stinging.

“Yeah?” Lola sniffles, quickly wiping her eyes.

“Of course,” you murmur, laying a kiss on her cheek. “When have I ever told you a lie?”

You manage to get a chuckle out of her, and it puts you at ease. Her arm wraps around you, and you sit in silence, simply existing with each other. Lola has been in your life forever, and you could never thank her enough for being your rock throughout all of this. Vernon, too, by extension, in his own way. This is undoubtedly the hardest thing you have ever gone through.

Lola reaches over, handing you the forgotten sandwich and placing it on your lap. “Make sure you eat that. I know you’re starved.”

Your finger brushes against the styrofoam box, a small upward curve on your lips. “Tell Vernon I said thank you for this.”

“Oh, um, it wasn’t from Vernon,” Lola says, biting back a smile as she rose from the bed. You stare at her, waiting for her to reveal where it had come from, but she stands in silence, her hands behind her back like a schoolgirl unable to keep a secret.

“So this came from my fairy godmother, then?” you joke. “Or maybe it was the twins—”

“If you have a fairy godmother, then so do I,” Lola chortles, shaking her head.

“Then who was it from?”

Always dramatic, Lola takes her time to respond, keeping you in suspense as she tries to suppress her laughter.

“Come on, Lola, spit it out—”

“Jihoon dropped it off while you were sleeping.”

You freeze, not expecting to hear his name. You nod slowly as shame overwhelms you, causing you to fall back onto the mattress with a grunt. “I don’t think I’m hungry anymore.”

“What are you talking about?” Lola interrogates, pulling you upright. “Is it the sandwich or him?”

You throw her an annoyed look, slightly irritated that you have to answer the question. “Him, obviously.” You roll your eyes.

“Well, what did he do?” Lola surmises, her voice rising. “Do we need to kick his ass? I’m gonna call Vernon.”

“What?!” you exclaim, staring at her incredulously. “No. He didn’t do anything. It was me.”

“Oh,” Lola realizes as she sits back on the mattress. “What did you do?”

“That’s kind of a loaded question, Lola,” you reply with a groan. “A lot has happened in the past day.” You pick at the cotton on your shirt, focused on the small string that’s sticking out of place.

“Try me,” Lola suggests, gently taking your hand. “What happened?”

Sighing heavily, you meet her eager gaze. “Do you want me to start with when I slapped Jihoon’s mother or skip to when I kissed Jihoon?”

Lola’s eyes widen at your revelation, and a smirk spreads across her face. “You've certainly been busy.”

“Oh shut up,” you roll your eyes. A knot tightens in your stomach, and you fold your legs to your chest, hoping to ease the guilt penetrating your abdomen. “I feel bad enough.”

“About hitting his mother?” Lola gibes. “Because don’t. That woman has been a bitch since Jesus was alive.”

You let out a laugh that comes from deep within. “God, no.” You shake your head. “I will never feel bad about that, especially after the shit she said about my dad.”

“What the fuck?!” she gasps, shaking her head back. “What did she say?”

So you tell her everything—from the moment you left the house to storming out of the record store with blood dripping down your arm. You showed her the flesh wound from Mrs. Lee’s nails puncturing your skin, now puffy and swollen. You wince when Lola touches it, the tarrying sting still taking some time to get used to.

“You have a lot more restraint than me,” Lola comments, examining your arm. “I don’t think I would have been as nice and walked away. Is she crazy?”

“She’s batshit,” you grumble, anger simmering in your gut. “I could have maybe forgiven or tried to be nice to her for Jihoon’s sake, but fuck that. I am successful, not broke, and have a great life. She could die today, and I would gladly spit on her tombstone.” Lola’s eyebrows shoot up, throwing you a tickled look. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“I’m just saying,” you say straightforwardly. “Being back here has brought me a lot of clarity.”

“Uh-huh,” Lola hums, nudging her knee towards yours. “Would any of that clarity have anything to do with Jihoon?

Your breath catches in your throat as a sharp pain blooms in your chest at the thought of him. You dislike feeling this way about him, wishing you could see him as just an old memory without residual feelings, the intense desire that surges through your veins, or the longing in your heart that yearns to kiss him again. You never intended for this trip to become complicated; your only goal was to bury your father peacefully. But returning here has scrambled your thoughts and disturbed your peace, making it even clearer that you need to leave.

“Things with Jihoon and me are… interesting,” you admit, drawing a circle on your hand with your finger. “I don’t know if what I feel is the same love I felt when we were kids or if this is gratitude, but fuck, Lola, I haven’t been with anyone else who makes me feel the way he does.” Sighing deeply, you stand, pacing back and forth. “I keep thinking about that summer and how, for those few short months, they were the happiest of my life. Even with Daddy being accused of murder, he was there for me. Never treated me like I was dirt or someone beneath him. Jihoon made me feel seen as a person; he loved me, genuinely, and I can never forget that. Or get over that, ten years later.”

Lola hangs on to your every word, motioning for you to go on. “Even now,” you continue. “He sees me. I don’t have to be on with him all the time, reserved, or anything other than who I am. God, Lola, when he kissed me, it sparked something in me. He made me forget about all this shit with my dad and my pain and made me feel like a person again. I wasn’t just this grieving daughter, but someone who was desired and needed and maybe still loved. I don’t know what this is, as I said, it’s fucking complicated. But I know that I haven’t stopped thinking about him all this time, and after cutting him off the way I did, he is still here, wanting to be with me, I think. And that says something.”

Your chest heaves, realizing you’ve been talking without taking a breath. Your heart beats heavy and hard, as if you have several horses stomping against your ribcage. You desperately grab the bottle of Gatorade that was forgotten on the floor, untwist the cap, and guzzle it down. Lola looks at you, amused, folding her arms with a knowing look.

“What?” You pant, wiping the corner of your mouth. “Speak your mind.”

“Well, I don’t think this is complicated at all,” Lola states, rising from the mattress. She places her hands on your shoulders, leaning closer to you with a smile. “You, my friend, are in love.”

The room seems to tighten, your heart beating loudly in your eardrum. “What?”

“Love. L-O-V-E,” Lola asserts. “It’s a different kind of love, obviously, from back then. Not the same puppy love, that new feeling you get when you realize you love someone for the first time. This one is more mature and aged, and you have the beauty of a decade apart and some time spent together to bring you clarity. Why do you think your relationships haven’t worked out, Blue?”

You twist your mouth with a grimace. “They didn’t work out because they weren’t the right people for me.”

“Right, my point,” Lola points out. “Listen, they didn’t work out because you know, deep down, they don’t make you feel the same way Jihoon did. You’ve had some great potential relationships that could have lasted. Remember Solar? She was crazy about you. Or that actor who bought you roses every week just because—”

“—I told him I didn’t like roses,” you interject. “He had comprehension issues. And Solar was great, just not for me.”

“Sure,” Lola says, rolling her eyes with a soft laugh. “But every time, you say you didn’t feel fulfilled. But guess who does?”

Your spine stiffens as a wave of revelation washes over you. You’ve had a few relationships and casual dates here and there, but they just never clicked with you. You’ve been trying to fight it all this time, hoping to get somehow rid of these feelings and thinking maybe if you left town, they would leave too. But the feelings have lingered, and now you’re forced to carry it on, and accept the truth—maybe you are still in love with him.

“I have to go,” you say suddenly, the words bursting out of you before you can second-guess yourself. You dig in your bag and pull out a change of clothes and your toothbrush, undressing and throwing your shirt aside as you storm into the bathroom.

Lola blinks, surprised by your abruptness. “And where are you going?”

You peek out of the door with a gentle smile and a wink, your mind made up and your decision set. “I have to have a talk with someone.”

Jihoon sits in his truck, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, lost in thought. When he arrived at your house, Vernon met him at the door, telling him what happened. He wanted to see you first thing, and he offered to take you back to his apartment, where he could watch over you. Lola came around then and said you needed the rest and to check in on you later. He stood there, struggling with the idea of leaving you there instead of bringing you home, here, like he wanted. But he didn’t want to do too much, and he agreed to leave you be, only to come back thirty minutes later with your favorite sandwich and fries from Jollibee’s. All he could do was worry about you and hope you didn’t almost faint because of him and what happened the night before.

“Blue is going to be fine, bro,” Vernon assured Jihoon then, placing a supportive hand on his shoulder. “She’s tough, and Lola will not let anything happen to her.”

Taking Vernon’s word, he left and came to the music store, tidying some things and opening for business. It is unusually busy today, with new people coming to town for the Founders Day celebration this weekend. It slipped his mind, with everything going on, and after the days he’s been having lately, he doesn’t feel much like celebrating—all his thoughts are filled with you. He played Donna Summer in your honor, nostalgia hitting him hard as he thought about the debate you two had over disco. You were a staunch supporter, and he hated it, but by the time you left the store, you made him a believer and a lover in Studio 54 and the Bee Gees. The way you reveled when you played the extended version of “I Feel Love” by Donna Summer is something he’ll never forget. It was as if you were enshrouded in dark purple light, dancing slowly to the vinyl's lyrics. Who would have known the Southsider in the graphic t-shirt, faded jeans, and sneakers was so well-versed in music?

Jihoon closed up at six on the dot, counting the money made and tidying up the store all under thirty minutes. He’s been sitting in his truck for almost an hour, wondering whether to give you space and let you rest or come back to check on you. Sure, he could easily text Vernon or Lola to get an update, but it wouldn’t be enough. Jihoon wants to be with you, even if you are asleep. He wants to relive the light snores he felt on his chest last night, when everything was good and perfect. He’s had a taste of what it’s like to have you again, and Jihoon doesn’t want to give that up so easily.

Fuck it, I’m going there.

Jihoon turns the ignition in the trunk, set to pull off and head south, when a familiar red truck pulls up to his left. The passenger side opens, followed by a pair of legs he knows so well, hopping out of the truck in jean shorts and a tank top. Jihoon’s heart patters; happiness is not even close to describing how he feels as he watches you wave goodbye to Lola. He’s starting to think maybe this is some fate.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” Jihoon calls out, pleasantly surprised as he rolls down his window. “I heard you had quite the day.”

“Yeah, something like that,” you respond sheepishly, locking eyes with him. You bite your bottom lip, and he can tell you’re nervous. Reaching into your back pocket, you pull out the CD you took from the store, a limited-edition “Abbey Road” album by the Beatles. “I believe I owe this back to you,” you say, handing it over. “I just grabbed anything in my haste of anger.”

“Nah, you can keep it,” Jihoon laughs, shaking his head. “I think it’s the least I can do for my mother’s behavior.”

With a smirk, you nudge the CD against his chest. “Oh, I know,” you say. “But I deserve better than the Beatles.”

A chuckle slips out of his throat, taking back the CD. “Yeah, you definitely deserve a lot better.”

Noticing the glow on your skin and how relaxed you are puts him more at ease. You seem more well-rested, happier, and, dare he say, at peace. You smile at him softly, your eyes twinkling with something that makes him feel warm. Jihoon is enchanted, and if he stares any longer, he will get lost in your eyes.

“So you came all the way here just to return the CD?” Jihoon asks, tapping the plastic cover. “I mean, that’s nice of you and all.”

“Maybe,” you tease him, stepping closer to the truck. “Or maybe I wanted to see you.” Your smile fades as you place your hand on the rim of the lowered window. “I think we have some things we need to talk about.”

Jihoon’s pulse quickens when your fingers brush against his, the smell of your perfume intoxicating and hard to ignore. “I agree.”

“Some things were said…” Your voice trails off.

“Mmhmm,” he hums, gazing at your beauty. The wind blows randomly, swaying your air in its direction. “Some things happened as well…”

Eyeing his apartment window, you return his gaze with a knowing smile. “So, do you wanna do this at your place or mine?”

The air shifts when you walk into Jihoon’s place. Everything looks the same, still in order, but there is a tension that you can’t deny, a pull of gravity that wants to collapse in his arms and kiss him until you’re out of breath. You are the type of person who needs to understand your feelings before you believe them, and for the longest time, it didn’t make sense why your equilibrium felt off when you were with him. You were supposed to be wild beyond grief and not capable of feeling anything else but that. But damn Jihoon for making you feel good things, for making you feel what Lola thinks might be love. You left him and cut him off, and he wants you anyway. You don’t deserve him.

“Are you hungry? Do you want anything to drink?” Jihoon points towards the fridge. “I can make you another sandwich if you want.”

“No, I’m okay,” you assure him. “I’m still kind of stuffed from the sandwich you dropped off.” A warm wave washes over you, thinking about how good that meal replenished you when you needed it the most. “Thank you for that, by the way.”

“It wasn’t a problem,” he responds. “I went there to go see you, and I wanted to make sure you were okay.” He lets out a chuckle. “ Vernon and Lola told me to beat it.”

Your eyes widen, amused by this revelation. “Oh, did they?” You laugh. “That doesn’t surprise me. They had me locked in there like I was at Fort Knox.”

“I bet,” he surmises. “They were just looking out for you.”

You nod, glancing at your feet before looking at Jihoon again. “I know.”

It falls quiet between you two, punctuated only by the faint sounds of cars and people heard from below. Your thoughts whirl like a tempest, each one vying for escape, but your words are caught in your throat. Ironic, considering you’re the best-selling author here.

“Blue, what are we doing?”

Letting out an exasperated sigh, “I don’t know, Jihoon.”

You study the way his brows furrow as he rubs the back of his neck. Your stomach free-falls, feeling guilty. Maybe that was the wrong answer, but you don’t want to lie to him either. “Jihoon… I don’t know what we are doing or what’s happening,” you begin. “I thought I would bury my Dad and go back to New York and pretend Carats Ridge doesn’t exist, as I have been. I didn’t expect to come back here and reconnect with you, and to feel all these things.”

Jihoon stares at you, registering what you said. “What do you feel, Blue?” Jihoon harps on your last sentence. “When you look at me, what do you feel?”

Butterflies in your stomach as you nervously step closer to him. “Present,” you answer honestly. “I don’t feel numb or dead inside when I’m with you. You make me warm and bright, and I swear to God sometimes I hear birds sing. You make my heart beat in ways I didn’t think were possible. You were the only one who went to look for me when I ran away from the funeral. You kept me safe, you keep showing up for me when I don’t deserve it, and when you kissed me, Jihoon? What we did? I have never felt that alive with anyone. It fucking scares me.” Wrought with all the pent-up feelings you kept locked in, tears fall down your face as your walls start to break. “I don’t know if what I feel is the same love that we had years ago or if it’s something else entirely, but—”

Jihoon kisses you heatedly, knocking the wind out of your chest. Jihoon, the more thoughtful, composed, and calculating of the two of you, is kissing you like his life is on the line. You’re being set ablaze all over, your hands digging in his hair and matching his same intensity. You tug at his shirt, pulling it off and throwing it out of your line of sight.

“I love you,” Jihoon breathes in between kisses. “It’s always been you, even a decade later.”

His confession makes you pause, pulling away from him slightly. “What?”

“I-love-you,” Jihoon enunciates. “I know you don’t know what kind of love you feel for me, but I can tell you mine: it’s the same way I felt ten summers ago. The same love that wanted you to stay, the very love that held out for months and years, hoping to hear from you again. I tried to bury it away, push it to the side, to pretend it didn’t exist because you weren’t in Carats Ridge. But it’s always been here, deep in the crevice of my heart, and I’m tired of fighting it. I want you—and I’m willing to take whatever you’ll give me.”

Your heart hammers against your ribs, your mind reeling as you take in his confession. Jihoon loves you and has never stopped; it’s exhilarating and terrifying. You spent a decade creating a life without him, chasing the high of falling in love with someone who makes you feel safe. When you tried to forget this town, you tried to erase him too, keeping his memory in a heart-shaped box. But some things are meant to be revisited, and you’re ready to stop running.

“I love you, Blue,” Jihoon repeated, softer this time. “Don’t leave me hanging here.”

You stare into his eyes, those same familiar, kind eyes that saw through your defenses and your bullshit. Lola was right; this isn’t the puppy love that you experienced when you were teenagers. This love is deeper, richer, packaged with time and separation that brings you more clarity. You were empty when your dad died, and yet Jihoon managed to spark something unexpected in you, and you are almost whole again.

“I love you too,” you whisper, releasing the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “God, I love you, Jihoon, and I don’t think I’ve ever stopped.”

A visible wave of relief washes over him, a slow smile beaming on his face. “You love me?” he asks, closing the space between you two.

“Yeah,” you say, giving him a once-over. “I do.”

You kiss again, but this time it’s tender, softer, and it sets your soul on fire. Your hands trail along his abs, fiddling with his belt as his hands are on the button of your jeans, undoing in one swift move. A giggle erupts in you, happiness not even the word to describe how you feel. Something blooms in your chest, an unfiltered joy, a light finally appearing in the circle of darkness you’ve been shrouded in for weeks.

Jihoon walks you back to the futon, helping you out of your shirt and shorts before laying you down gently on the cushion. He’s enamored with you, watching you unhook your bra and slide out of your panties. You feel raw, sexy, and wanted. Taking your lips again, he lowers you onto the couch, towering over you. trailing his kisses down to your neck. He finds the sensitive part of your neck and sucks hard, sending chills throughout your body and arousal to your core. You moan in his ear, your hands finding your breasts and caressing them. You’re on an unadulterated high.

“I want you,” you mumble, lifting his face to look in his eyes. “Fuck, I need you, and I don’t want this to stop.”

“I’ll give you whatever you want, Blue,” Jihoon says earnestly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He kisses you again with a hunger that gives you a further high, his tongue dipping in your mouth. You help him out of his jeans, shoving down his briefs that freed his hardened cock, dripping with precum on your stomach. Instinctively, you reach down, thumbing it along his shaft and watching him shudder. This new side of him, surrendering to you... You like it.

“You keep doing that,” his voice wavers. “And I’m not going to last long.”

“Yeah?” you goad, pumping faster. “What if that’s what I want?”

He chuckles in your ear in short pants. “You’ll get that. But I want to taste you again.”

Jihoon slides down your body, leaving trails of kisses on your breasts. His eyes are crackling with hunger, sucking on your sweet mounds insatiably. Your legs part eagerly, anticipation sitting in your stomach. His hand brushes against your folds, feeling the slickness of your dripping heat.

“Already?” Jihoon smirks.

“Yeah, yeah.” You roll your eyes playfully, slightly embarrassed. “I can’t help it.”

He licks his bottom lip, fixated on your center as he lowers himself. “I’ve been thinking about this since last night,” he coos, blowing a cool breath on your clit. Your legs shudder, your cunt begging to be touched, teased, and tasted. “I think I’m addicted.”

Before you can respond, his tongue flattens along your slit, lapping up your juices and sending electric jolts throughout your body. Your hips buck in response as your moans carry throughout the apartment. Jihoon groans in your cunt, so enthralled with your taste as his fingers dig into your waist. You melt further into the futon, riding a wave of the abyss you don’t want to come down from.

“Jihoon, I think…” you whine. “Fuck Jihoon, I’m—”

You cling to his hair viciously as you scream his name. He holds you down with a firm grip, refusing to let you go until he has had his fill. “Fuck, Jihoon,” you whimper. “I can’t stop cumming.”

He lifts his head slowly, his lower face covered with you as he licks his lips. “Good.”

You pull him into a fervent kiss, tasting yourself on his lips and falling deeper under his spell. His cock pokes against your leg, and it earns a giggle out of you. “Aren’t we eager?” Your finger draws a circle on his chest, right above his heart. You give him a sly grin, pulling him into another heated kiss that sets you on fire. Jihoon’s hand creeps against your leg, lifting it up slightly to give him space. Leaving you with a brief, parting kiss, he lines himself against your entrance, his tip graciously pressing against your sopping hole. You’re still coming down from your high, but you want more of this and more of him.

“I’m ready,” you smile softly. “I’ve waited so long for this.”

He enters you slowly, allowing yourself to adjust to his size, letting out a sigh of satisfaction. His thick cock makes your walls flutter, begging for Jihoon to go deeper. As if he read your mind, he picks up the pace, his eyes fixated on him going in and out of your pussy. “Give me more,” you beg, digging your nails in his shoulder. “I want all of you.”

“Whatever you want, baby.”

Jihoon pulls out and slams into you, making you gasp in surprise. The futon creaks beneath you, shoved out of place and knocking into the end table. The lamp titters before finding its balance, the light spinning in a small circle. “Careful,” you mutter. “We don’t want to go breaking things.”

“I don’t care,” he groans, forehead falling against yours. “You feel so good.”

In this moment, you realized you forgot to ask about condoms, but the way he drags his cock in and out of you as he thrusts again, throws the thought out of the window. He fucks you hard, deep, knocking the air out of your lungs. The pleasure is gratifying and dizzying, spreading through your veins until you are completely overcome.

“That’s right, baby,” Jihoon murmurs against your mouth. “Feel it.”

You kiss him hard, your nails raking down his back and leaving angry red streaks across his skin. He hisses at the sting before kissing you again, this time messy and desperate. “You don’t know,” he pants, thrusting slower, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

His hand slides between your bodies, fingers brushing against your clit in tight circles, and your entire body jolts. You gaze into his eyes, strung and fuck out, a babbling mess as you cling to his shoulders. “You…fuck” you breathe. “Don’t stop, please.”

The room fills with skin-to-skin slapping against one another, shaky breaths, and the shaky moans you’ve been trying to restrain but failed miserably. You’re completely into it all, the only thing that matters being your world in this tiny apartment and the man you never truly got over.

“You’re so beautiful, Blue,” Jihoon says suddenly, his thumb brushing against your lips. “You’ve always meant everything to me.”

Your chest aches at the sincerity in his voice and the softness in his eyes. No one has ever looked at you the way that he does. He sees all of you and loves you anyway.

Pulling him down into another kiss, you whisper breathlessly. “Then show me.”

JIhoon lets out a rough laugh that dissolves into a groan when your hips roll against his. He buries his face into your neck and loses the remaining composure he had, thrusting into you erratically, sucking on your neck hungrily. The futon edges into the end table again, knocking the lamp down and shattering it. Your bodies stayed in rhythm, your body rocking into every snap of his.

“Jihoon,” you warn, your voice throaty and wet. “I wish you could fuck me forever.”

“Good,” he mutters. “That’s the plan.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and Jihoon curses under his breath. His hand slips down your body, fingers pressing into your hip hard enough to bruise.

“That’s it, baby. Take it.”

His words spark something in you quickly, your orgasm crashing through you suddenly, hot and violent. You unravel loudly, barely catching your breath as your thighs shake uncontrollably. Jihoon kisses you everywhere—your forehead, the corner of your mouth, your cheek, wherever he could. He whispers he loves you over and over as his thrusts turn sloppy and desperate. With one final, deep thrust, he pulls out quickly, emptying himself on your lower stomach, letting out a deep, guttural moan. You watch him with hooded eyes, his expression turning into something tender that makes you melt. There is no one in the world who makes your heart beat the way he does.

“Are you okay?” He breathes, leaning to kiss you. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You shake your head with a gentle smile on your lips. “You could never hurt me.”

For a while, neither of you moves. You are still coming down from your hazy cloud nine, your skin is damp, and he breathes heavily in your ear. You wish you could stay here forever, in this apartment, and not have to deal with the real world and the reality that the happiest moment of your life took place in this fuck ass town.

“Stay with me,” Jihoon murmurs sleepily. “I’ll ask Lola to bring your stuff here until you have to leave, but please, just stay.”

A laugh escapes you, quiet and breathless as your fingers strum through his hair. “Now, why would I do that?”

He lifts up slightly, one eye closed with a lopsided grin meant just for you. “Because you love me.”

Because you love him. He isn’t wrong about that.

“Throw in breakfast, and I might consider it,” you quip, nestling back on the cushion.

A deep chuckle rumbles from him as he lays his head on your chest. This is the love that you want; the type that makes you warm and safe, with your heart in his hands without a care in the world because you know he’ll protect it. It feels like home when you’re with him. Like the summer that you never moved on from, that you will now get to experience for the rest of your life.

Three Summers Later

“We’re back with the critically acclaimed author of Blue Valentine, back with a new book and its sequel, ‘Ten Summers Later’. Welcome back YN.”

“Thank you for having me, Ginger,” you greet her warmly.

It’s been some time since your dad died, and although time heals all wounds, the scars are still there. Sometimes it’s a commercial, movie, or simply looking at your mother’s journals that remind you of him, and how much he sacrificed for you. You have your moments, especially around the anniversary of his death, but you breathe easier now. You know Daddy is looking down with your mother and is proud of you, and you will see them again when your time comes. But at least you didn’t have to go through it alone.

“I have to say,” Ginger begins, “The last time we spoke, you said ‘Blue Valentine' was one and done, and you were looking to write other things. What changed your mind?”

A slow smile slinks on your lips, your head nodding slightly as you think about your reason. “It was time, I think,” you say thoughtfully. “It’s been a long time since I revisited that story, and I thought about the place I was in when I wrote it.” You pause briefly, clearing your throat before continuing. “Some things have changed.”

“Would you like to expound on what has changed?” Ginger inquires. “I mean, look at you. You’re glowing!”

You chuckle, straightening your posture. “Thank you… And I mean my father died, and I had some time to process things and address hidden feelings that I thought I would keep buried forever. Now I’m free from that burden, and I’ve let that bloom into something beautiful.”

“Would that beautiful thing be your relationship with Jihoon, the platinum-selling recording artist?” Ginger presses. “You’ve been seen around the world together, at his shows, and it looks like you grew up together.” Ginger pulls out a yearbook from your high school, already having a page bookmarked that shows you and Jihoon’s pictures. “Was he the inspiration behind Blue Valentine?”

You smirk with a shrug. “Maybe.”

You glance at your agent, Anna, and the live audience is full of your fans who have signed copies of your new book. If someone had told you three years ago you would be where you’re at now in life, you would ask them what they were smoking. Sometimes it feels too good to be true, and you will wake up tomorrow, and it will have all been a dream. But you’re still here, still breathing and standing strong… and a part of that is because of Jihoon.

You went back to New York as you planned, and your relationship was long-distance for a while since he still had the music store. Jihoon decided to pursue music again and went viral by chance for a song he came up with in the shower. Everything was a blur after that, and he found himself with a new record deal and fame beyond his dreams. He eventually made it to New York City, to you, and you’ve been together ever since.

During that time, Jihoon had to straighten out some things for his mother, who needed full-time care for her dementia. He eventually told you about her past with your father, and it shook you to your core. Your father never talked about Mrs. Lee unless it was in relation to you, and he was so nonchalant about her that you almost didn’t believe Jihoon. It wasn’t until he pulled out an old yearbook that had them photographed as prom king and queen that you saw the truth for what it was. It didn’t change your perception of your dad, and you don’t have his side of the story, but it was something you had to sit with for a while. In a way, you could understand Mrs. Lee’s hurt and bitterness, but it doesn’t erase the way she’s treated you. You could never forgive her.

Regardless, you and Jihoon worked through it all, determined to stay connected and make it work, whatever it was. You even found yourself going back to Carats Ridge from time to time to see him, Lola, Vernon, and the kids. You still hate that town and don’t stay more than you have to, but you’re more at ease when you drive in, and you’ve learned to accept Carats Ridge for what it is. You’ve had some good memories mixed in with the bad, and with the help of your therapist, you’ve been at peace with it.

“So what should we expect with this next beginning?”

The rest of the interview flows smoothly, and when the cameras shut down, you unhook the mic before the producer can make it to your chair. Sliding out of your seat, you give a hug to Ginger before walking to your agent, who is busy typing on her phone.

“That went well?” you probe, adjusting your blouse.

“That went better than expected,” Anna beams, showing hashtags on social media. “There is a lot of buzz about your book and, of course, your relationship.”

“Yeah, I bet,” you scoff, shaking your head. “It still feels weird, being out in the open like this.”

“Aww, I can only imagine,” Anna rubs your shoulders. “But you two are solid, and it’ll get easier, I’m sure.” She looks at her watch, her eyes widening. “Oh, we have to get out of here.”

Anna rushes you into the dressing room, grabbing your belongings and practically shoving you out of the door. You wave goodbye to your fans who were waiting in the hall before getting on the elevator. It hums quietly as it goes down, the chill of the a/c sending goosebumps throughout your body. Glancing at your phone, it’s a quarter till 10, and you stifle a yawn. You’ve been up since six am getting ready, and you haven't seen Jihoon in a few weeks due to his tour. You don’t sleep well when he’s not around, and you’ve had to substitute with buying a body pillow to hold until he comes home. You miss him a lot, and there’s not enough FaceTime calls in the world that could make you feel better.

The elevator dings at the lobby, and you step out swiftly, with Anna trailing you from behind.

“So what’s the next stop?” you ask, turning to face her. “Are we doing a bookstore, or do I have a small break for a nap?”

“Neither,” Anna confirms, with a mischievous glint in her eye. '“You have other plans, ma’am.”

“Huh?” Your brows furrow. “What do you mean—hey!”

Anna slinks her arm with yours and takes you outside, taking you to a suspiciously yellow pickup, a very familiar truck that you know all so well. Standing outside of it, waiting for you is Jihoon, who looks at you with a tenderness that makes you melt. He is supposed to be on tour, across the country in California, and yet here he is, pulling you towards him with that sexy smile.

“Hi, Blue,” Jihoon greets you with a kiss. Your eyes flutter, and your knees buckle, placing your arms on his shoulder as you kiss him back. Your heart is ready to beat out of its cage, your body buzzing with excitement to finally hug your man.

“Hi,” you coo, running your fingers through his hair. “I thought you were going to be gone for another week.”

“I was, but today is an off day,” he explains, placing his hands on your waist. “And I missed you.”

“Yeah?” you respond, licking your bottom lip.

“Yeah.”

You have so much to say, but the words are caught in your throat. You take his hand, intertwining your fingers with his as you lean in for another kiss. You love him, truly, madly, and deeply, and you don’t regret the decade it took to bring you back to him. What you have is so much better than the love of that summer, and this time, you will never let him go again.

“Alright, I’m done here,” Anna announces, already walking towards the parking lot. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Mhm,” you murmur, returning your attention to Jihoon. “Let’s go home.”

taglist: @livelaughloveseventeen @lovelylonelinesssvt @j3nnch3ls3a @shadowkoo @gyupremacy @woo-wonwoo @midariiii

[epelletart]

our happy ending 𑣲 l. chan

SUMMARY: The concept of a happily ever after has never really occurred to you. Yet, you find yourself wondering if you could actually find one with Chan, and what kind of future would be right for both of you.

PAIRING: lee chan x f!reader

GENRE: drama, angst, fluff, oneshot

WARNINGS: suggestive content, mature themes, mention of loss of virginity, emotional conflict, coming-of-age elements (teen growth, rebellious phase, puberty changes), emotional intimacy, possible psychological distress, mentions of alcohol use, avoided attachment, self-erasure, fear of inadequacy, academic pressure, brief family conflict, miscommunication, unhealthy attachment, heartbreak, implied depression, emotional isolation (if you read closely).

WC: 12.7k (pukupukupowpow)

ADD TAGS❦:  childhood friend! chan, forbidden love themes, post-timeskip mention, first love, secret relationship, kinda tragic, open ending(?), brief mention of arranged marriage, this is a bit emotional lol idk chat, jihoon and jeonghan emotional support, cinderella metaphor, verkwan cameo, sorry cheol this is not your time to shine, a little surprise in the end.

a/n: a bit heavy, please take care of yourself, apples <3

2015, May (5) 20 — The Boy, the girl, or The Puppy

Some people long for a simple, planned life. Tied up like a ribbon, sealed neatly so everything feels settled. Some refuse to sail the sea, believing it’s safer to stay on land. People tend to follow what’s already been written for them, what’s been decided in advance. As a child, you have yet to discover what’s truly meant for you. At that age, it’s only natural to follow what your parents have chosen.

You were six years old when you met Chan for the first time. It was at the playground. You had been expecting Jihoon to show up as usual, but instead, it was his cousin. What could a kid like you possibly find to play with someone who looked like fish out of water?

You didn’t speak to six-year-old Chan. You sat under the slide, drawing meaningless lines in the sand with a stick. You were never a sociable child, so you left it at that. And it went on, you never intended to talk to him. Not until he suddenly spoke up, telling you he had a treehouse in his backyard.

At six, you didn’t think much of it. You simply followed along, expecting the typical kind of treehouse you’d seen on TV. A normal child would be curious, and you were no exception. His wide, hopeful eyes made it obvious he wanted you to say yes, to be his friend. Still, you gave him a hard time, as if you had plenty of friends to choose from. The truth was, you didn’t. Jihoon was your only playmate, three years older than you, someone you only ever saw at the playground.

By the time you and Chan turned fifteen, things felt… different. Maybe even stupid, in the way teenage years often are. He used to follow you around whenever you met at the playground, but eventually, you both started meeting at the treehouse instead. Back then, you were just messy, loud, carefree kids. But as you grew older and entered middle school, a gap began to form between you. You had grown up together, always seeing him as nothing more than a playmate. Yet somehow, you and Chan ended up in completely different worlds. Sometimes, you would catch glimpses of him through your window, laughing and playing with his friends, while you sat alone with your MP3 player, earphones in, watching from a distance. 

As they grew up, most kids found their own circles of friends to spend time with, people to share their interests. But for you, that idea felt both foreign and oddly familiar. Hanging out with friends after school was something you had never really experienced. Instead, your days were filled with tuition classes and cram school. To put it simply, you never quite saw eye to eye with your classmates. As a result, you didn’t have many real friends. If you could even call them that. Some people described you as having a stiff upper lip. At sixteen, it wasn’t something you thought much about… not at first. Eventually, it began to sink in. Watching Chan interact so easily with others his age made you realize something you had always avoided admitting: You were different.

 If there was anyone you could even call a friend, it would be Chan.

2017, June — I Know What You Did Last Summer

They say youth is when you discover your passions, when your future is placed right in the palm of your hand. It’s also when people experience their first love. Every girl and boy seems to be thrilled by the idea of it. Even if you’re a little cynical, you’re not immune to it either.

When you and Chan entered your final year of high school, he hadn’t expected to end up in the same class as you. He was so different from you. Even though you were in the same grade, you were sharp as a tack, unlike him. Not that he was stupid. Chan liked to think he was bright… in his own way. 

The moment he saw you again in the assembly hall, walking up to receive your certificate from the principal, he knew he was doomed to sit beside you. Of course, he knew you. Growing up together made that inevitable. He was well aware of your flaws, though people often assumed he had the upper hand over you. They were wrong. You were a tough cookie, and he had known that since the day he met you at the playground when he was six.

He also knew how other students saw you. He’d heard it enough, the self-centered, cold, selfish. Words that felt completely different from the version of you he knew in the treehouse. Sometimes, he wondered how you really felt about it all. But you never showed anything beyond that blank, unreadable expression, as if none of it bothered you. His first impression of you hadn’t been great either… not until he got to know you.

What could he even do, anyway? Fifteen-year-old him had always been arguing with you. Even now, that hasn't really changed. That was until he found out you were his seatmate. Just right beside him, for the rest of the year.

The classroom door slid open, drawing everyone’s attention. Chan stood there with a sheepish smile, clearly late again, during the first week of school. He didn’t seem too bothered. As he walked to his seat, you didn’t even glance up. You simply continued listening to the teacher, who let him off this time. If it had been his math teacher, he would’ve been grilled alive.

He dropped into the seat beside you. You didn’t react. What did bother you, though, was the constant shuffling. You shot him a sharp side-eye look. The silent stare, but threatening enough.

Chan paused mid-search, hand still inside his bag. “Why are you glaring at me like that?”

“I’m hoping you'll spontaneously combust,” you replied flatly, eyes still fixed on the whiteboard.

He ignored the jab and kept rummaging, the noise somehow getting worse. You hissed under your breath, trying not to snap mid-class.

“Can you be quieter? It’s annoying. What are you even digging for—your boogers?”

He sighed, still clutching his bag. “I forgot my stationery. Can you lend me some?”

“No.” 

“Oh, come on.” He scooted his chair closer, and you instinctively shifted away. “Just this once. I’ll buy you snacks after school.”

You didn’t respond. Face on the board as you solely focused on your teacher’s teaching which is something Chan wouldn’t care about. He slumped. “Okay, fine. I’ll double it. Tempura and extra fishcake.”

“I hate fishcake.”

“Tteokbokki, then. Extra sauce.”

You slid your pencil case toward him. That alone felt like a victory to him.

...

That was how he lost his money.

During recess, he paid for your convenience store snacks. After school, he still had to treat you at the street stall you both used to visit as kids. There went his allowance. Not that he was too worried, his grandparents adored him enough to make up for it. His mom, on the other hand, would definitely ask questions.

Some people tend to follow what’s written for them. But for Chan? He always seemed to follow you instead. To the great unknown, into something uncertain. Something undefined. Something that only the two of you could call your own.

Our world.

Chan had his first kiss when he was eighteen, and so did you. It started with something harmless, just another teenage conversation about relationships. The idea of love wasn’t unfamiliar to you. You’d heard your classmates talk about their crushes, their boyfriends. Chan, being a typical boy, got curious. Have you ever liked someone? With your nonexistent social life, he doubted you even found anyone interesting.

“Are you even listening?” He was sprawled across the bed while you worked on your homework at the low table.

“Yes,” you replied without looking up. “It just takes me a while to process this much stupid at once.”

Of course. That was such a you answer. He really should’ve expected it. Really. He figured it out you were not particularly interested in anything at all. Even so, he kept trying. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe something else.

Despite being uninterested in almost everything, you still found yourself staying in his treehouse, from when you were just a snotty child until now. He never questioned why you kept coming back, even while half-assing your way through conversations with him. The treehouse became more livable over time. Sometimes, he stayed there just to escape his study hours, his mom constantly nagging him about his grades. After all, it had been a gift from his grandfather. Somehow, his safe haven had become yours too.

Still, that didn’t stop him from trying to get you to talk about things like this. He was too timid to bring it up directly, though curiosity came naturally at your age. He figured girls would understand these topics better. But you weren’t like other girls. You were a stone-cold bitch.

“You’ve never had a crush on anyone?” he asked again, sitting up.

You hummed, still focused on your work. You were not taking him seriously. He sighed louder this time, deliberately. The only way to grab your attention was by being annoying.

Rolling your eyes, you finally looked at him, “Why are you so worked up about this? If this is about that noona you liked last year—”

“It’s not!” His face flushed. “We’re past that. Don’t bring it up.”

“Then what?” You went back to writing. “If this is about trying to get a girlfriend, stop hanging out with Jaehyuk. He pisses me off.”

Chan opened his mouth then closed again. He hesitated before sliding down beside you. The proximity wasn’t foreign for you both but you would always be the first one to jerk away yet stayed there.

“…Okay, you got me. But Jaehyuk’s not that bad. He’s just… kind of arrogant sometimes.”

“He is arrogant,” you said flatly. “The way he treats his girlfriend like a prize makes me want to throw a chair at his face.”

Yeah. That sounded like you. He couldn’t imagine you liking anyone. Honestly, who would? Your personality alone scared people off. And yet, he’d stayed by your side for years. He also didn’t really understand why. 

“If you keep acting like this,” he said, “I don’t think any guy would want to kiss you.” He paused. “Wait—have you even had your first kiss?”

“Have you?” you shot back.

At that moment, you both stared back at each other. He swallowed his lump, feeling himself exposed by your retort and questions. He had held a girl's hand before and had never even kissed someone, but that was a different story.

He, in fact, had never kissed someone in his eighteen years of life.

For the first time, you leaned closer. He instinctively leaned back, just a little. You weren’t someone who liked closeness. Not like this. Your faces were barely inches apart now. He swallowed, eyes flickering to your lips, then back to your eyes.

“Have you ever heard of a butterfly kiss?” you asked.

“Huh?” he dumbly blinked, just staring there with a puzzled look on his face. He shook his head slowly, then wondered, “No, I’m not familiar with that.”

“When you flutter your eyelashes against someone else’s.”

He blinked again, looking somewhat like an idiot to you. 

“Want to try it?” 

Noticing his curious eyes, you stifle a chuckle and then lean closer again, this time. He doesn’t back down, stays there. Your face moving closer to him, moving your eyes closer to him, as he could feel your breath fanning him. The way your eyelashes fluttered against his eyelid as he did the same made the touch itself gentle and intimate. Almost ticklish yet tender, like close to affection. When you pulled back a little, he almost found himself wanting to lean closer again, missing the proximity you both once had.

When you pulled away, he almost followed. “…That’s it?” His voice cracked slightly.

“What? Were you expecting a french kiss?”

He groaned, flopping back. “Not funny. I was this close to my first kiss.”

You shifted beside him. “Why does it matter so much? Afraid your friends will call you a late bloomer?”

Yes. That was what he wanted to say. Not that he wanted to admit that to you. It’s almost frustrating because you would always get on point and figure out everything about him, like he was easy to read.

A quiet moment passed. Then you said, “Do you want to try?”

Now his head snapped toward you, making you startled a little at how fast he was being. “...the french kiss?”

“I was going to say a kiss, not that.”

“Same thing.”

“Do you even know what that is?” you scoffed, "I don't want to hear that coming from a sore loser who never had his first kiss. You’d probably be terrible at it.”

“Ugh,” he muttered, sulking. “This is why I don’t talk to you about this stuff.”

“Then go kiss your boyfriends, especially Jaehyuk,” you said, “since you loved to hang out with his ass.”

After a long moment, he finally looked at you, and you looked back at him. Something is shifting in the atmosphere in that place. It felt different; he could sense it, but he couldn’t quite put what that feeling was.

“…I mean it,” you added, softer this time. “while I’m still being nice.”

Chan inhaled then exhaled slowly, leaning closer to you when you were both just by side. “You sure?” He finds himself stuttering in between.

You nodded at him in confirmation. His hand covers yours on the floor. Nose just brushing against yours as his eyes flutter for a moment, the feeling was both intimate and tender. The way your breath hitches a little, after what felt foreign, you feel his lips on yours for a moment. You and he stayed like that for a while, his lips pressing against yours in soft tenderness as your eyes closed.

When he finally pulled back, leaving only a small gap between you, his eyes lingered on yours, now open. You held each other’s gaze for a moment, something in the air shifting, yet never awkward. There was something different about Chan now. No longer the snot-nosed, scaredy-cat kid you once knew, he had grown into someone else entirely.

“…Do you want to try again?”

You nodded. This time, he didn’t hesitate. He tilted his head slightly, pressing his lips to yours again — more certain now, but still gentle. Outside, the rain poured heavily against the roof. But all you could hear was your own heartbeat, rapidly beating. It was summer when you and Chan shared your first kiss.

2021, February — 520 Days of Summer

When Chan turned twenty-two, he was still a virgin.

It wasn’t something that bothered him. At least, not until he started university. After graduating high school and taking your college entrance exams, you and Chan went your separate ways. That didn’t mean you drifted apart. You still saw each other occasionally, meeting at the treehouse whenever you could. You went to a prestigious university, just as he had expected. Chan, on the other hand, got into a public university nearby. Not as exclusive as yours, but he was still surprised he managed to get in at all.

His freshmen year went fine. That was, until his friends started teasing him for being “bitchless.” It got on his nerves. He had dated someone, an older girl, but they broke up when she said she wanted someone more “mature.” He had already seen that coming. It sounded more like an excuse than anything else. At this point, he wouldn’t even be surprised if the next person he dated ran off the moment they found out he was still a virgin. 

Fuck.

That thought bruised his pride more than he wanted to admit. So he tried not to think about it. Instead, he threw himself into the game. Dribbling the ball, he tried to shoot, but missed cleanly. He clicked his tongue in annoyance. He’d come to the court to blow off steam with his friends, but it clearly wasn’t working.

Seungkwan let out a whistle, panting as he grinned. “Cut me some slack here—is that all you’ve got?”

Chan bristled, tossing the ball toward Vernon. Seungkwan always knew exactly how to get under his skin, and he always fell for it. Especially today. His birthday, of all days.

“No,” Chan shot back, dodging Seungkwan as he got the ball again. “If I wanted to miss, I’d just throw it straight at your face.”

He shot again and missed. He groaned, collapsing onto the court floor. They’d been playing for what? Two and a half hours?

“I’m beat,” he muttered, eyes closing as he exhaled. “Time out.”

“Good game,” Vernon said, high-fiving Seungkwan and smacking his ass before walking over to Chan with a bottle of water. Chan took it with a quiet thanks.

Seungkwan, of course, was the first to speak again. “Don’t get your panties in a twist. You kind of suck at ball games.”

“Fuck off, what is wrong with you?” Chan scoffed, sitting up. “Is that how you treat me on my birthday? I’d appreciate a gift, you know.”

“You’re welcome,” Seungkwan grinned.

“No, seriously,” Vernon added, settling onto the bench with a towel draped around his neck. “What’s got you so worked up?”

Chan opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn’t want to talk about it at all.

“He’s just mad his girlfriend didn’t wish him,” Seungkwan cut in, earning a sharp glare.

“No, I’m not.”

Vernon chuckled, “Your ex? I thought you said you moved on. Dude, you know she wasn’t serious, right?”

“Yeah,” Seungkwan added, finishing his drink in one go. “Freshman getting targeted by a senior? She probably just wanted to get into your pants. You were easy.”

Chan grimaced. It stung, but at the same time, he knew they weren’t entirely wrong. If anything, he’d dodged a bullet. Still, he wasn’t about to admit that.

“Anyway, I wasn’t even talking about your ex,” Seungkwan continued. “I meant her.”

His friend turned to him, puzzled by that. He doesn't recall dating many people, but certainly the recent ex was shitty. He was probably talking about you. Chan stood up and joined Vernon on the bench after a moment.

“…Who?” Vernon asked, curious now.

“_____,” Seungkwan replied with a small grin.

Vernon let out a soft “Ahhh,” clearly amused. “I thought you two had something going on.”

Chan immediately grabbed a towel and threw it at his face. “We’re not a thing. Stop making things up.”

It wasn't that simple. Vernon wasn't completely wrong either. Even if he tried to explain whatever this was between you and him, they wouldn’t understand. The bond you shared wasn’t something easy to label.

“Speak of the devil,” Seungkwan said, nodding toward the entrance.

Chan turned, and there you were. He found himself wetting his bottom lips as he swallowed, suddenly aware of the way his body tensed in your presence.

“Why are all of you staring at me like that?” you asked, dropping your bag. “Talking shit behind my back?”

“Yeah,” Seungkwan said without hesitation. “We were just saying how Chan’s bitchless and a sore loser.”

A towel hit him square in the shoulder. “Not cool,” Chan muttered, pulling off his sweat-soaked shirt and switching into a sleeveless top. “How did you even get here? Your dorm’s far.”

You shrugged, sitting beside Vernon. "Suhyeok gave me a ride," you simply said, your eyes lingering on the way his gross sweat glistens on his lean muscles.

He let out a disbelieving sound, “The senior who wouldn’t stop clinging to you since orientation? I thought his existence irritated the hell out of you.”

Vernon snorted quietly,  scrolling through his phone as he listened to the conversation.

“What? He offered, so I said yes,” you replied casually. Chan didn’t buy it, believing that he had knowledge of your nature. He was immune to it, despite your hatred in everything. It’s hard to believe that you’d actually tolerate that.

“You’re just taking advantage of the situation,” he scoffed.

“Hey, don’t blame her,” Seungkwan chimed in, dribbling the ball again. “Girls use their advantages to survive. My friends do it all the time.”

Chan shot him a look, “Survive? She’s on a scholarship. And she gets an allowance from her dad.”

You crossed your legs, smiling faintly. “So? I’m not going to cry over a guy with one outfit in his wardrobe. You know people like that never change.”

Vernon glanced at you. You stared back with an amused tone, “What? Did that hit close to home?”

“You really just say anything, don’t you?” Chan sighed, dropping his bag and sitting beside you.

That was one thing he knew about you, you picked fights with literally anyone. You and Seungkwan had nearly clashed the first time you met. To add on, you didn’t have a single romantic bone in your body. At least, that’s what he told himself. You kept hanging around him, and his friends. He had a feeling you didn’t have many people at your own campus either. He’d heard stories, too. About how you removed a teammate’s name from a presentation because they bailed. For once, he was glad he didn’t go to the same university as you. Some things never changed. Even now, your social skills still sucked. Sometimes, he couldn’t help but to wonder. Have you ever been interested in love at all?

...

The rain wouldn’t stop pouring. You and Chan rushed into the treehouse, both half-soaked. When he asked if you wanted to head back to your dorm, you brushed it off, saying you’d rather stay here. When he brought up your home, you didn’t answer. He didn’t push it. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to go back. You just needed somewhere to breathe, somewhere that didn’t feel suffocating, even if that place was supposed to be your so-called home.

Chan groaned, shrugging off his jacket until he was left in his tank top. He disappeared briefly into the bathroom while you sat on the couch, damp clothes soaking slightly into the cushion. When he came back out, towel draped over his head as he dried his hair, his gaze flickered toward you, just for a second too long. Your blouse clung to your skin, still wet from the rain. 

He looked away almost immediately. “Here,” he muttered, tossing you a clean towel. You caught it with thanks.

He exhaled, running a hand down his face. He needed to calm down. He wasn’t some hormonal teenager anymore. So why the hell was he acting like one.

“Did you bring any spare clothes?” he asked.

You shook your head. “No, just me and my bag.”

He clicked his tongue, splashing the water from the sink as he wiped his face into the soft towel. “Not even a hoodie? Jacket?”

“Nope.”

Great. 

He almost wanted to take a cold shower now. He turned away, rubbing the back of his neck before heading to his wardrobe. After a moment, he pulled out a hoodie and handed it to you.

Not that he had never found you attractive. There had been times—he just couldn’t pinpoint when it started. Maybe after that first kiss when you were eighteen. Maybe even before that. Back then, he’d brushed it off and told himself it didn’t mean anything.

Okay. He still thought about it. Even after his last relationship ended, his mind had a bad habit of drifting back to you. It always did. He’d kissed other people since then—more than just kisses, even—and yet, somehow, he still found himself wondering about you. Wait, have you ever kissed anyone like that? Were you seeing someone now? It was university. There was no way you didn’t have people lining up for you. He knew how guys looked at you. He’d seen it.

You started unbuttoning your blouse. Chan turned around so fast it almost looked rehearsed, heading toward the bathroom even though the door stayed open because of course, everything in this damn treehouse was connected. He exhaled sharply. 

Yeah. He had liked you. Maybe even more than that. But your whole… anti-romance personality had snapped him out of it. Or at least, that’s what he told himself. And yet here he was—still thinking about things he shouldn’t. You were pretty, and that much was obvious.He didn’t even know if you were aware of it. Honestly, he didn’t want to tell you. Your ego was already unbearable enough. If only that personality were fixed, he might think you’re cute.

The way your lips kept moist with your strawberry lip balm. That soft hair swayed flawlessly. He still  remembered the first time he introduced you to Seungkwan and Vernon. They were shocked. They also kept asking him how the hell he “pulled” you. He told them the truth that you were just childhood friends. They didn’t believe him at all. Of course they didn’t. One of Seungkwan’s friends even asked to be introduced to you. Chan had to shut that down immediately. 

Now looking back, he had realised one thing. He’d been gatekeeping you. Not that you noticed. And even if you did, it’s not like you would’ve cared. That was something he liked about you. 

So what changes now? He’s single, and he didn’t want to make things weird between you.  The last thing he wanted was for you to call him a freak, which you already did called him that.

“What are you doing there?” 

He flinched. You were leaning against the bathroom doorway, already changed into his hoodie.

“Did you jerk off or something?”

“What? No!” he snapped, immediately defensive as he walked past you and flopped onto the bed. “What kind of person do you think I am?”

“A bitchless virgin,” you said casually, stretching out on the couch.

He scoffed. “Where did you even hear that? My friends are getting to you now?”

“Oh? So you admit it?”

“Stop,” he groaned. “I’m still a lady-killer. Just… not experienced.” he paused for a moment, staring at the ceiling. “…and yeah, I’m not exactly proud of it.” The words slipped out easier than he expected. “My ex,” he continued, "quieter now, “said she wanted someone more mature. More focused. Then she showed up with someone else a week later.”

You hummed, listening. 

“And when I told her I hadn’t had sex before…” He let out a dry laugh. “She looked at me like I was joking.” You let out a snort. “Don’t laugh,” he muttered. “I was nervous, okay? What if I messed up? What if I finished too fast and she thought I sucked?” He dragged a hand down his face. “That’s embarrassing.”

He didn’t mean to vent, but somehow, he needed to let it out without someone making fun of him. Not Seungkwan, who would say “I told you so,” or Vernon, who would just shrug and go, “damn, that sucks, dude.” He just wanted to speak without being mocked or pitied. It felt frustrating. Pathetic, even. And the worst part was he didn’t fully understand himself either.

You hummed, listening, your cheek resting against your propped-up elbow. Chan kept going, not caring if what he said sounded stupid or messy. You were the only person who would sit through all his rambling, even when you were being cynical about it. Maybe it was because he’d gotten used to you.

“So you broke up because of that?” you asked.

He shook his head, “No… not really. I think part of me was relieved that I didn’t do it.” he glanced at you. “Now that I realized, being in a relationship with her felt… suffocating—excuses here and there. Saying it’s just a group project and all, did she even like me? Man, I don’t even want to think about it. Can’t call it love, I guess.”

You only listen to his ramble. The silence settled between you. “Maybe it’s not about sex. Maybe I'm just scared—scared that if someone really gets to know me—the ugly parts, showing vulnerabilities,” his voice turned softer this time, “does knowing me more lead to loving me less?”

He didn’t mean to turn this whole conversation into a deep talk. Somehow, part of him needed that as much, even if he ended up talking to a wall.

You looked at him properly then. For once, you didn’t interrupt. “…Humans are like that,” you said after a moment. “You don’t need to be in a relationship to know when something’s wrong.” There's a pause in between, “congrats, though. You dodged a bullet.”

Chan huffed out a quiet laugh. “Thanks. You’re not one of those people who care about experience, right?”

You shrugged. “How would I know? I’m a virgin.”

He paused, staring at you. Right. Of course you were.

“What about Suhyeok?” he asked curiously, wanting to gauge if you had some love interest.

You made a face. “Him? I can’t stand him.”

He sat up slightly, interested now. “Why? He’s got looks, money—” 

“I don’t want a playboy,” you cut in. “And when he found out I’ve never been in a relationship and still a virgin? He got weird about it,” you scoffed, sounded bitter even. "I don’t get that whole ‘first time’ obsession.”

Chan went quiet. He understood the appeal. He was a man, after all. He knew how it worked. It was shitty, but still… unsettling now that it was happening to you. All he could do was sympathize with what you had to deal with on a daily basis.

“It’s funny, isn't it?” you continued. “A guy being a virgin is unattractive, but when it’s a girl being one—suddenly it’s desirable.” You glanced at him.  “Is there any reason behind that? I also don’t know, and I think that’s bullshit.” 

He watched you, something shifting in his chest. 

“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone,” you added. “Your value isn’t based on whether someone wants you.”

For someone who claimed to hate everything, you had a surprisingly rational way of seeing things. For once, it made him realize there was more to the world than he’d allowed himself to believe. That was why he always found his way back to you. You were rough around the edges, impossible at times but you were wiser than most people he knew.

Maybe venting to you wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe that was the reason he kept circling back, no matter how far he went. People often wanted to hear what they expected. Something comforting, something easy instead of the truth. And even when they asked for advice, they didn’t always want to take it. You never gave him comfort, never said what he wanted to hear, but you only said what he needed. You gave him clarity, and somehow—that was enough.

He felt like an idiot for ever thinking so little of you.

You turned at him, sensing the silence. “…Don’t tell me you’re depressed over it,” you said, breaking the moment.

“I’m not,” he replied quickly.

You laughed, rolling onto your stomach, hair slightly tousled which got him gulping by that sight. “That doesn’t make you more of a man, you know.”

You had a way of making people feel worse yet he could tell you’re either trying to insult him or comfort him in your way.

“I know that.”

“Do you?” you teased. “Or do you think you’ll magically become one after you finally have sex?” 

He groaned, “can you not?”

“What? Want me to suggest you dress like a hooker?” Are you a hooker though, do you see me dressing like one to get laid?”

He shot up, “No—and I’m not a hooker. And you’re definitely not one either,” he added quickly, “...you’re more like a dream.”

Shit, that slipped out real fast.

You looked at him, raising a brow.

He nervously gulped, “I mean—you don’t look like one,” he corrected, fumbling. “And… I get why Suhyeok is so crazy about you.”

There was a moment of silence. He didn’t like this quietness, you staring at him and he was staring back. He could never figure out what goes in your pretty little head.

“Do you even see yourself?” he sighed, dragging his hands down his face. “You’re so…”

He couldn’t say it. Not when his eyes sometimes lingered on the way your jeans hugged you. Not when he caught himself staring a second too long at your chest, even when you were fully covered. He wasn’t any different from other guys. He just had more restraint.

Not when he remembered pulling you a little closer whenever Suhyeok was around, whispering into your ear just because he couldn’t stand that guy. Not when his ex had gotten insecure about you, about how often you were around despite him drawing clear boundaries.

Not when he remembered you falling asleep against him, your head resting on his arm, your face so close it made him hold his breath. The softness of your skin. The length of your lashes. Your lips—still glossed with that faint cherry scent.

…Yeah.

He really couldn’t say it.

“Do you want to eat ramen?”

His eyes snapped to you. “Are you messing with me?”

“No. I’m serious.” You stood and walked over to the cabinet, checking inside.

His gaze followed immediately, and so did he. He might think you were cute, sure. But touching his food? That was where he drew the line. He kept his stash here for a reason—away from his siblings who would raid it without hesitation.

“No. Don’t have any,” he lied quickly, grabbing a cup of noodles before you could see.

“I want Chapaguri,” you said, leaning against the drawer behind him. “Do you have that?”

“No.” Another lie.

You stepped closer. Then, without warning, you slipped your arms around his torso from behind. Chan froze, mid-motion as the seasoning packet was still in hand. He already knew you well enough to recognize danger when he felt it. There was always something behind your actions.

“Still no,” he said flatly. “Even if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you. Ask Suhyeok. Maybe he’ll give you the moon too.”

You chuckled softly. The sound vibrated against his back—too close, too warm. Your hands slid slightly over his stomach. He sucked in a sharp breath.

“W-what’s wrong with you?” His voice came out higher than intended.

“Nothing.”

He tried to move, but your grip held him in place. And then, he felt it. His whole body tensed. The soft press of your breasts against his back. 

He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to turn around and face you. “Call me oppa first,” he muttered, trying to recover. “Maybe I’ll consider giving you ramen.”

You rolled your eyes. “Not happening.”

He scoffed and turned back to the stove, sulking. 

After a while, you were still watching him. Your gaze drifted to the vase nearby, the red lilies that had been long withered. Probably from his grandmother. He hadn’t replaced them.

Then your attention returned to him. “Suhyeok asked me out,” 

Chan paused, just for a second before continuing like nothing happened. “Is that so?” he said. “Why are you telling me this?”

“He asked why I came all the way here,” you continued. “So I told him I wanted instant noodles.”

“…Right.”

“He said I could’ve just gone to his place,” you added, voice lingering slightly. “…but I told him you already asked me over.”

Chan turned this time, fully at you. You and that stupid ramen theory. It’s impossible to not think you’re innocent, you were far from that.

“He didn’t seem pleased.”

Chan tossed the empty packet aside. “Good. I can’t stand that guy.” a pause in between, “But you don’t have to lie about staying with me,” he added. “What am I supposed to say if he sees me?”

You tilted your head. “You don’t want to?”

He stared at you—really stared at you. Making sure that you’re not completely fucking with him. He tried to calm himself down, not get too giddy at your sudden slip of innuendo there. You really have no idea, don’t you?

“Look,” he started, “I’m sure that your brother tells you more than I have. Men are—”

“Like wolves?” you cut in, amused. “Oh, so all men live in cooperative packs and bring small games to their pups? That sounds nice.”

He stared at you, unimpressed. He tried so hard to be patient with you, in fact, he had been one since the moment he met you with that stupid stick when you both were six.

Your eyes drifted back to the withered red lilies in the vase, then to him. You’d already passed the point where personal space mattered. With Chan, you could be as unfiltered as you wanted.

“Do you want to…”

He blinked, dumbly. “Want what?”

You held his gaze for a moment.That same look from before, the curious and searching. The same one from years ago. Those familiar words remind him of the first kiss you and he had shared.

But this time? You are no longer the eighteen-year-old girl, both legally and emotionally. He never had any intention of doing anything more than that, even when he finds you attractive. He turned his gaze elsewhere, unsure, as he retreated to the bed with his ramen. You kept your eyes fixed on him while grabbing a couple cans of beer along the way.

“Am I not attractive?” you asked. “Is that why you’re not saying anything?”

“Let’s not do this,” he muttered.

You ignored him. “You know, you had terrible haircuts growing up,” you added casually. “It's good to see that it's decent now.”

He frowned. “What does that have to do with anything? Just say my hair looks great, compliment me like normal people please.”

“…So was sleeping with me that bad?”

He choked. “What?!” he was totes freaking out now, coughing as he took a sip of his water. “I don’t have condoms,” he blurted.

You stood up, opened the drawer, and dumped everything out. A pile of unused condoms and lube spilled across the floor. Chan froze. His face flushed red, completely at a loss for words. How did you even find that? Those had been sitting there for almost a year. The thought that you might’ve come across them earlier made him feel instantly mortified.

You didn’t stop there. You nudged his legs aside and reached under the bed, pulling out a stack of old magazines—women in swimsuits, barely hidden. Then you moved to the wardrobe, opening the corner he thought was discreet enough, revealing a stash of erotic movies he’d watched with Vernon before.

“Okay… pervert,” you sneered lightly. “Men are like wolves indeed. Actually, I think you’re just trash—I always knew that.” You smiled sweetly.

Chan was speechless. He wanted to defend himself, really. But nothing came out. Even if he tried, you’d just shut him down again. You always did.

“You’re unbelievable,” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “what do you want actually? I’m not going to do that.”

“Why?”

He hesitated. Wait, why was he hesitating? Was it because he didn’t want to? Or because he was afraid he wouldn’t be enough? That familiar insecurity crept in, settling quietly at the back of his mind.

“You’re overthinking again,” you said. “What? Is it that small?” 

“No,” he shot back immediately. “I’m more packed than you think. Where do you think all these muscles came from?”

You raised a brow, skeptical. “Oh, really? Hard to believe, considering your head’s bigger than most of them.”

He let out a disbelieving scoff, a grin tugging at his lips as his hand moved to his belt. “Yeah? I’m sure once you see it, you’ll owe me an apology.”

He was too caught up in his bruised pride to notice it. The moment of realization hit him, you were baiting him. He froze, slowly, he looked up at you. You were already smiling, head tilted and acting all innocence.

He exhaled sharply, taking a long sip of his beer. “Don’t joke about that.”

“I’m not joking.”

“I’m serious,” he looked over at you.

“And I’m serious about that too,”

Chan only stared at you as you stared back. He felt like he was going crazy just having this conversation. Because if something started between you and him… he didn’t know if things would ever be the same again. And he didn’t want that. That was exactly why he’d been avoiding crossing the line in the first place.

“Then promise me,” he said finally, voice quieter, “if anything happens… nothing changes between us.”

You noticed the way he looked at you. You weren’t entirely innocent in this either. Sometimes, your gaze would linger on his bare arms, on the way they’d grown more defined since he started going to the gym. And he never seemed to care, not even when he walked around shirtless or changed in front of you. The idea of attraction had always felt distant to you, something abstract. At least, it had been. Until you started noticing Chan. Maybe there was something there after all. Like unfamiliar, something close to what people would call it desire. You found yourself curious in the end.

You didn’t remember who moved first. Only that suddenly, you were on his lap. His hands are on you, roaming every curve of your body. Your lips against his. The kiss was different this time. It was all consuming and intoxicating, like something that had been building for years finally breaking through. The rain outside blurred into the background.

You had the same red lilies back in your room. You remembered how they had withered not long after you left for university. When they bloomed again, you found yourself wanting to go home, just to see the new flowers sitting in your vase.

2024, December — But Daddy I Love Him

In your entire life, being the second middle child was never something you were proud of. In fact, it often felt like you had lived in the shadows of your siblings. Which also meant you were never the best, nor the liveliest, in your parents’ eyes, or at least that was how it seemed to you.

Your older brother has always been a good example, carrying the family name well. Your father, a chief judge, held a respectable profession, and it was only natural for you and your brother to be expected to follow in his footsteps.

Your younger sister was different. A “problem child,” as your father liked to call her. She was never good at studying, never able to reach the standards that you and your brother had set. But she had a sociable personality—something you never did.

Even while being average, it was easy for you to be overshadowed by both of them. That became another reason for your parents not to be concerned about your presence. They must have assumed you were doing fine. Unlike your sister, who often caused trouble, or your brother, who constantly updated everyone on his successful life, something you found suffocating to listen to.

Everything at the dining table sounded like noise. You could barely focus on the dinner in front of you.

You had sunk so deep into your thoughts that listening to the conversation no longer felt worth the effort. At this rate, how far would you have to descend before no one could find even a trace of you?

For someone like you, life could be painfully lonely. It had always been that way. Even now, you still don't seem to have a fixed dream for yourself. The noise in your head never stopped. Your mind kept agitating itself until you couldn’t even pinpoint what the problem was.

It had always been like that.

From adolescence into adulthood, you carried the same tendency. All your life, you had been obsessed with mistakes. Mistakes, mistakes, and more mistakes.

Your head screamed at you to keep going, but your heart never allowed it. When Chan asked if you were okay, you only muttered a quiet, “I’m fine.”

It had always been like that.

You never thought you would still carry this emptiness at twenty-five. Even after passing the bar exam, you still hadn’t figured out what you truly wanted to do. You thought maybe you would simply follow your brother’s path and become a judge, just like your father. Your sister, meanwhile, said she wanted to pursue diplomacy, despite being called reckless by your parents. Even so, they barely paid attention to you. Perhaps because they believed you were doing well, or so you thought when you found out about your father’s ambitious dream.

“I want you to meet the Choi heir tomorrow,” your father said suddenly. “His parents agreed to meet with us.”

Your brows furrowed. Your hand stopped mid-motion over your plate. You said nothing, but your expression spoke for itself.

Your father met your gaze as he placed his napkin aside. Your mother looked on quietly. “We thought you might be a suitable match for what they’re looking for.”

You were not pleased. The silence on your face was not obedience. It was defiance. They had considered your sister first, but knowing her, she would have openly rebelled. What they failed to notice was that you were just as stubborn.

You excused yourself from the table, already finished despite barely touching your food. You had lost your appetite the moment you sat down.

Locking your door, the dim room was illuminated only by the balcony light. As you sank onto your bed, the only thing that followed you was the emptiness in your mind. The bitterness of the red wine you had sipped earlier still lingered on your tongue.

You thought things were going well. Has everything you done so far still failed to reach your parents? Another failure, it seemed. It felt like an endless cycle of climbing stairs. Again, again, and again.

Until when exactly?

You tried to convince yourself that just a little more, and you would finally see something ahead. Maybe someday you would recognize the progress you had made. But even now—still nothing.

It was like walking in circles, searching for something only to end up with nothing. Spinning endlessly, like a suffocating music box. Your relationship with Chan has always been the same—up and down. Never all sunshine or sweetness.

Intensity was the closest word for it. Breaking apart, then coming back together again. You treated him that way because you weren’t sure of yourself either.

The only person who ever allowed you to escape reality was Chan. Sometimes, you were desperate for comfort from a life that felt too heavy. When you skipped cram school after classes, you went to his treehouse instead. The first time you were brave enough not to do what you were supposed to do. Therefore, Chan was the only person who made you feel like you could finally breathe properly for the first time.

So you kept doing it. Again and again.

Until your mother found out you had been skipping tuition after seeing your attendance record. She warned you not to meet Chan anymore. The thought alone shook you. The teenage version of yourself could not bear it. You were young and emotionally fragile then.

So you chose your studies, and stopped meeting him after school. Chan had been confused by your sudden coldness. Slowly, he accepted it—even after you had stolen his first kiss. Which had also been yours. He thought the two of you were something.

In the end, he decided not to take it personally. Even at graduation, he never caught a glimpse of you again. It ate at him. He was angry, bitter, upset—unsure whether the resentment was toward you or himself. He only wanted to see you again. Leaving you behind had never been what he wanted. Except you were the one who left him first.

Then he met you again during his second year of university. It was summer. Near his campus. He didn’t hesitate this time. You were radiant—even distant, you had always been the only one in his eyes.

So the two of you reunited. It was easy to see him then, since you were living in a dorm nearby. After that, you both decided to become “one.”

The relationship lasted longer than any partner he had before. Chan loved you in a way your family never had, unconditionally. For someone like you, it was easy to fall into that love. But it also became an unhealthy addiction. Wanting more and more of him until you could no longer bear it.

The intensity awakened an ugly jealousy inside you. A green-eyed monster you never expected. Whenever you saw him interacting so easily with others. Blending in naturally, and living so freely. A complete opposite of your dull life, where half your world revolved around him. It was an ugly part of yourself. One you never wanted to acknowledge. Even when you looked in the mirror, it was unsightly. You could not help but envy the life he had. That was when your relationship began to turn bitter.

After so long together, your personalities started to clash. Hot and cold. Blue and red. Cats and dogs. Whatever it was, you both became so used to it that breakups and reunions felt normal.

There was so much room in your heart for him to keep returning. Filling the emptiness until it was full of only him. But what would be the point?

The one who loves. And the one who wants to be loved.

You had no one in your life who mattered more than Chan. You thought your life had always been dull. Turns out, you had experienced beautiful moments after all. The only person who made your life seem pathetic was yourself.

What should you do? Entangled in emotional struggle and isolation, you were only being dragged deeper into the shadows. If things remain the same, you’ll be hated by him forever.

—“Are you better now?” —“No... I don’t know.”

What was the point of living if the pain never ended? That was what you sometimes thought whenever the void consumed you. You wanted to let go of yourself. To stop breathing, if only you could.

“Am I the easiest thing for you to throw away?” Chan asked, his voice hollow as he stood in front of you.

There was a moment of silence before you answered, refusing to meet his eyes.

“No,” you said. “You’re the only thing I can throw away.”

You said it so easily, then left him standing alone in the rain. You kept recalling the things you had said to him. Every word that came out of your mouth felt like something you never imagined yourself capable of saying.

Why did you have to end things in such a messy way? To be honest, you were afraid he would eventually notice your inferiority complex. It was never because he was the only thing you could throw away. It was because you had nothing but him.

He was the only good thing in your life. And you kept ruining it with lies—lie after lie. All while longing to be loved properly. To have your own happy ending. Perhaps you did it because you wanted to be loved even more by him. That love had consumed you, making you greedy for every taste of it. 

This was how Chan had felt while dating you. Waiting like a fool, watching you walk away one step at a time. It had always been like that. Whenever he asked if you were okay, you answered simply, and he forced himself to accept it. Whenever you refused to open up, he got worried. Even after your student days, you remained the same. He only wished you wouldn’t keep everything bottled up and leave yourself alone in the dark.

 Could he even call himself a lover if he cared this much?

He cared because he loves you. You always seemed to push him away in subtle ways, yet even after everything—he was still hopelessly in love with you.

And when you wanted to break up, for what felt like the millionth time, he had no choice but to accept it without ever knowing why.

Then nine months later, he saw you again, with someone new. It drove him crazy, because you had never seemed interested in anyone until then. He hated the ugly feeling twisting inside his chest. It had always been him who saw that side of you.

He liked knowing no one else could see the softer version of you, the loving version. The one only he got to know. He always accepted things without understanding them, even when it hurt him deeply. He loved you so much that he could never give up on you.

As he clung to your excuses and painful desperation, his rusted heart could only slowly grow numb. Now, you found him standing outside the balcony of your room. When you opened the door and saw him, after so long, there stood the face you once loved.

His eyes lowered to you, and without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around your body, pushing the two of you back into your room. Once again, you welcomed him with open arms. Had he been drinking? The way he leaned against you, unsteady, answered enough. Before you could fully realize it, he was already pressing his mouth against yours, swallowing you in hungry kisses.

You pulled back slightly. The aftertaste of alcohol hit your tongue. Even now, you were never used to bitterness. Whether it was alcohol, or the intimacy you had always shared with Chan.

Sometimes, when he was rough with you, it hurt—but in a way that made you see heaven. That alone proved you were still deeply in love with him, enough to let him touch you like that. He dipped down again, kissing you as if you might slip away once more.

A soft sound escaped you, your body already weakening under him. One of his hands tangled in the back of your hair, the other resting firmly on your lower back.

“Tell me why we had to break up,” he whispered against your lips. “If you don’t tell me why... I’ll have no choice but to hate everything about myself.”

You could hear the desperation in his voice. The vulnerability. His forehead rested against yours, noses brushing. You had pretended everything was fine, hoping one day you would grow used to it. People were often like that. Accepting the love they believed they deserved, but you had never believed you deserved him. Not even once. Chan was the only valuable thing in your life. Something precious enough to destroy you. 

Growing up, you believed you were unlovable, yet Chan came anyway. No matter how difficult you were. No matter how many times you pushed him away. He always returned, and that only made you more anxious—that one day, he would finally grow tired and leave for good.

But he didn’t. He came back again. Searching for you as if you had left behind a glass slipper for him to follow. Except what you truly left him was a scar, or perhaps a love so consuming it had imprinted itself deep inside his heart.

“I’ve started to think of myself as someone who deserves to be abandoned,” you said quietly, unable to meet his eyes. “I didn’t want to treat you like a placeholder... just to make myself feel something. Just to fill the void.”

You swallowed hard before finally looking at him. His gaze was soft.

“And because I was too greedy... my selfishness couldn’t let you go. So the first solution I chose was to break up with you.”

That has always been the pattern of your life. To avoid being hurt, you hurt the people you loved most.

Chan searched your face. Then he kissed you again, softer this time. When he pulled back, his breath steadied. “Just say sorry,” he murmured. “All you have to do is say sorry, and I’ll come back to you again. Like I always do.”

As your feelings intertwined together in the cold room, he wanted your answer now. He wanted the mask torn away and to see your real face.

Your soft gaze met his, tears threatening to spill. “I’m sorry,” you whispered against his lips. “Can you forgive me, Chan?”

He had missed you like madness. The misery had sunk so deep it became intoxicating, unhealthy—consuming. But he could not bear to lose you again. To have you back, he would always lay down his pride first.

...

Your father seems to hate Chan so much. 

He had never cared about your life, not until Chan. You had told them—again and again that you wanted nothing to do with this arrangement. Yet your words slid past them like they meant nothing.

That evening, after your interview for the prosecutor position, you were brought to meet the Choi family.

Everything about it felt suffocating.

The polished smiles and the measured conversations. The quiet expectations hanging in the air. You barely listened, didn’t even look at him—Choi Seungcheol. A few years older, maybe. He’s well-mannered, accomplished. Exactly the kind of man your father would approve of. Exactly the kind of life you didn’t want. Your mother nudged you to engage, but your gaze stayed distant, unfocused. The Choi family seemed pleased regardless, impressed even.

It made you feel worse.

When your mother suggested you show him around, you refused outright, blaming exhaustion from the interview. It was rude, you knew it. But it was the only way you could say no.

That night, everything broke.  “It's because of him, isn’t it?”

You stopped mid-step, slowly, you turned. “Stay him out of this.”

Your voice was steady, but your chest was burning. Your mother approached, gripping your arms. “Whatever you have with him, I want it to end. Your father will never accept this—”

Of course he wouldn’t. He never liked Chan.

She had always known. Even back then—when you were children, inseparable. She saw it coming, that attachment and the inevitability. And she tried to stop it. After graduation, she made sure of it. Because if your father ever found out. It would be worse, much worse.

You let out a hollow breath. “So you do care.” Your voice came out quieter than you expected. “After all this time.”

Your mother froze. “All my life, I’ve tried to be the child you wanted.” Your throat tightened. “And still—I was invisible.”

Your words came faster now, sharper. “You were too busy worrying about her… and too proud of him to notice me.”

Your chest ached. “Did you ever think about how I felt?” pressing a hand against yourself, as if holding something together. “I’ve been surviving like this—every day—alone.”

Your voice trembled now, cracks breaking through. “And the one thing that made it bearable…” Your breath hitched. “…you want to take that away too?”

Your mother’s expression crumpled, but you couldn’t stop anymore. “The only thing I was ever good at was studying,” you continued. “And if I’m not that—then what am I?”

Silence.

Heavy. Suffocating.

You swallowed hard, your voice softening for the first time.

“Mom…” It almost didn’t sound like you. “I’m hurting.”

That broke her, but it didn’t stop you. “You can’t take away the only thing I have,” you whispered. “Just this once… let me choose my own happiness.”

Even if it meant choosing a life without them.

That’s how it always was with your family. The moment you chose yourself, you were labeled rebellious, disrespectful, and selfish. Even though you had never been any of those things. If anything, rebellion was never part of you. You were never the type to speak out, never the type to voice what you truly wanted.

And yet, the one time you did—

It was treated like a mistake. But Chan was never a mistake. He was the one thing in your life you never once regretted letting in.

...

No matter how hard you tried to move on with your life, the broken parts of you always found their way back.

The Yoon estate was alive with chatter—respectable figures, your father’s circle. Laughter, polished conversations, clinking glasses. Everything about it felt suffocating. You never wanted to be here. But after the argument, after everything left unresolved between you and your parents—you had no choice.

Especially with your father.

“What's with that face, Juliet?”

You turned to see Yoon Jeonghan approaching, a glass of champagne in hand, that familiar teasing smile still intact.

You gave him a faint smile. “Don’t call me that.”

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” he said, taking a sip.

You nodded, barely touching your own drink. “It has.”

Jeonghan had always been an exception. A senior from university. The only person you willingly approached back then—for research, for help. Not quite a friend, but close enough to matter.

Your eyes drifted across the room—landing on your father, deep in conversation with his circle. Including Mr. Yoon. You didn’t miss the way they glanced at you. Even after you said no, nothing had changed.

“I guess you already figured it out,” Jeonghan said quietly.

You didn’t respond.

“I’m sorry,” he added. “You can still refuse. I’ll handle it.”

He was one of the few who knew. About you and Chan. About everything. You met Jihoon after that. He had told you Chan was here earlier. That alone was enough to make your chest tighten. You excused yourself quickly, leaving the suffocating crowd behind.

The garden felt quieter. Colder. Then, you saw him. Standing alone beneath the gazebo. Even from behind, you recognized him instantly. You always did.

 And why was he alone here?

You called his name softly, approaching him. As you saw him turn, for a moment—you almost didn’t recognize him. He was in a dress shirt, sleeves folded neatly on his forearm and tucked into his sleek pants. His hair slicked back—it was different, but still him. You never saw him like this, always in jeans and a leather jacket. 

“I didn’t know you were here,” you murmured, stepping closer, your fingers finding his.

“I guess Jihoon snitched,” he let out a quiet chuckle, draping his blazer over your shoulders.

That feeling was warm, familiar and almost dangerous.

“You shouldn’t be here…” he said softly, resting his forehead against yours.

“Why not?”

A pause.

“…He hates me.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to because you already knew.

“But I love you,” you whispered, searching his eyes. “I don’t want to give up. You’re the one I want.”

Chan smiled faintly, pulling back just enough to look at you. “I know,” he said softly. “I know you do.” He kissed you with tenderness, like something fragile.

But when you looked at him again, something wasn’t right. He was here, just not physically here. His thoughts were somewhere else. Almost heavy or distant.

 And you hated it. You hated that loving you felt like a burden he had to carry. Guilt twisted inside you. No matter how many times you told him you would choose him, that you loved him — it never seemed to ease him. Not since your father found out. Watching him slowly wear down because of you, it hurts more than anything. You couldn’t seem to let him go.  You knew you weren’t easy to love. And yet, you kept pulling him deeper with you, into something that felt more like drowning than living.

Were you ruining everything?

The thought lingered, heavier each time. Maybe the only way to make things right was to let him go. Even if it meant swallowing your pride. Even if it meant losing him for good. 

The clock was nearing midnight. You should have gone back. You should have left, but you didn’t. Instead, you followed your heart. Back to the treehouse. Where everything began. Where, for a moment, you could pretend nothing else existed.

…

The next morning came, and you were met with an empty space beside you. What you weren’t expecting was his note left on the drawer, just above the music box he had once gifted you on your twentieth birthday. Your face crumpled at the message itself, leaving you there—cold, bare, and alone after that night.

You tried to reach out to him, spamming calls and messages. Your mind spiralled with countless possibilities about the note he had left you, feeding into your biggest fear, that he would leave you someday. You weren’t ready for this. You demanded an explanation, hoping it was all just a bad dream.

Was this the reason why he looked so troubled yesterday?

You didn’t want to believe it. You couldn’t accept this. Chan was everything to you, he would’ve told you if something was wrong. Bottling things up was never his style. You knew him well enough to notice his tendencies, every habit and every quirk.

…Or did you?

Scrambling out of the covers, you searched around, only to find his engraved necklace left behind. Slowly picking it up, your chest tightened as you looked around the space, hoping to find him, but there was no one there. So, you reached out to Jihoon instead, because you couldn’t get through to Chan no matter how many times you called.

That was when your expression fell, hearing everything from Jihoon. He had left overseas—for good. Something about a deal with his grandfather, related to taking over the family business. Everything blurred after that. You didn’t hear the rest. Your mind filled with doubt, with a heavy, sinking feeling in your chest.

So, he really did decide to leave you without saying anything.

You couldn’t blame him. Not at all. Because who would want to stay in a relationship like this? Even if you tried long distance, it would’ve been difficult for both of you—not with everything already weighing you down. The situation never allowed the two of you to just be.

That’s why you kept asking yourself if you were ever truly okay with this relationship. The waiting, the longing, the constant disappointment. One of you was always angry, the other always apologising—until eventually, one of you would give up. Understanding was never enough. Patience wore thin, and everything felt fragile, like walking on eggshells.

No one wanted a life like that.

That’s why the two of you kept breaking up. Loving each other was easy, but when it came to understanding and clarity, everything fell apart, like it was always the end of the world.

You cried until your chest hurt that day, clutching his necklace tightly against you. It had always been you—the one leaving pieces of yourself behind, trusting that he would come back for them.

But now? Now you have to taste your own medicine. Reaping what you sowed. The quiet realization that you were finally learning what it felt like to be the one left behind.

20XX, May (5) 20  — Our Happy Ending

Years have passed.

You moved forward with your life, as if nothing had ever happened. Slowly, you learned to accept that things would never turn out the way you wanted.

They say time heals everything. That’s a lie. What words are you supposed to believe to make your heart feel better? You can try to move on, try to make sense of it all—but nothing ever truly stays permanent. Even if things had gone differently, time would have still found a way to lead you here. No amount of time could heal the wound you still carried. You never truly forgot him. Instead, your memories of him slowly blurred over time. The love you once shared built up, little by little—like filling a jar to the brim.

But what was the point of it all?

After everything you had built together, there was nowhere left to put it. It didn’t make sense. Why did you both have to walk away, even when it was so clear that you were deeply in love? You already knew the answer. Leaving was for the best.

The kind of love you and Chan shared—intense, consuming, almost suffocating was never meant to last. It was too much, too overwhelming.

And yet, you both held onto each other, because you needed to.

If you could go back, maybe you would have done things differently. Maybe you would have treated him better. Maybe you would have reassured him more, told him that he didn’t have to try so hard, that he was already enough.

Because he always was. He was the one who saw you clearly without illusions, without expectations. Even when you were struggling, even when you believed you were unlovable, he stayed. He made you feel human, and because of him, you learned that maybe, just maybe—you were capable of feeling something real. Because he was the only person who could bring that part of you to life.

Would you ever be able to let him go?

It felt unfair. Neither of you wanted it to end, yet you both held onto what little was left until it finally slipped through your fingers.

That day, he let you go and you couldn’t. Maybe that’s why it hurt so much. The only thing you ever hated about him… was that he left. And still, you missed him. So much that sometimes you woke up, instinctively searching for him beside you, as if he had never really gone. Like a ghost that refused to leave.

You set your coat aside on the chair as you smiled, taking the seat across from Jihoon. “I hope I’m not late. I apologise in advance—my case took longer than I expected.”

Jihoon smiled in return, giving a small nod. “Not at all. If anything, I shouldn’t be taking up too much of your time, considering how busy you are with criminal cases.”

“I know it’s a bit late, but congratulations on officially taking over the Lee family,” you said with a faint smile. “I read the article. I hope we’ll stay in touch—as business partners.”

He grinned, taking a sip of water before exhaling softly. “Thanks. I’ll pass your message to the rightful holder,” he said with a quiet chuckle.

You tilted your head, slightly confused. “Hm? What do you mean by that?”

Jihoon only smiled. His gaze dropped to his hands before he reached forward and handed you a bouquet of mixed red and white lilies. You let out a small laugh as you accepted it.

“Congratulations on winning your case, Prosecutor ____.”

You shook your head lightly. “I should be the one giving you a gift—for your promotion.”

Still, he didn’t correct you.

After a while of conversation, he excused himself to the restroom. You sat there, still wondering about what he meant earlier. Had you misunderstood?

Your eyes drifted to the glass window, where you spotted two students, a girl and a boy laughing together under the warm sunlight. Without meaning to, you were reminded of what you and Chan once were.

You wanted to believe that everything that happened between you wasn’t just coincidence. You refused to call it a passing chapter. It was something more—something that stayed, even after everything ended.

A memory.

Jihoon was taking longer than usual. The cafe felt too quiet. The soft chime of a bell echoed faintly, and only then did you realise—you were alone.

Your gaze wandered across the space until it landed on a music box. Maybe it was your imagination, but the design looked painfully familiar. Almost identical to the one you once had in your room—the one Chan had given you. A tiny ballerina spun gently as the melody played.

Your eyes slowly shifted to the small velvet box placed beside it.

You froze.

Happiness doesn’t always come in grand gestures. Sometimes, it fits inside something small—something simple, just like in a small box. You had forgotten that.

It was never about bouquets of lilies or diamond rings. All you ever wanted was to go back. Back to when you and Chan were still young, still reckless, still wrapped in the warmth of summer. Back to when loving him felt easy.

But you couldn’t go back.

And yet, you missed him more than you ever realised.

Your parents hadn’t changed. They were still the same. And if you had just been honest from the beginning, if you had only said what you truly wanted—maybe none of this would have happened.

Maybe you wouldn’t have let him go.

Slowly, your fingers moved, opening the velvet box. Inside was a gold ring, set with a delicate diamond. Before you could fully process it, you felt a presence beside you. Your breath caught as you lifted your gaze.

And there he was.

The face you had memorised in your dreams. The one you thought you had begun to forget.

Chan.

He looked different—more refined, more composed but unmistakably him.

Before you could stop yourself, you stood up and wrapped your arms around him.

He was real.

Chan held you just as tightly, as if afraid you would disappear again. Just like you, he had missed you—more than words could ever hold. Leaving you had been the hardest thing he had ever done. That night, he told himself it would be the last time before he left overseas.

His selfishness hadn’t allowed him to let go completely. He knew his love for you had been suffocating, borderline obsessive, close to imprisoning you. He couldn’t keep holding onto you like his life depended on it.

So he left. He chose to become someone better. Even if it meant breaking both of you.

And now, here he was standing in front of you again. Not the boy you once knew, but someone who had grown.

“Where have you been?” your voice broke as you clutched onto him. “Did you leave… because you stopped loving me?”

Chan smiled faintly, something soft and wistful in his eyes. He leaned closer, your noses brushing. “No,” he whispered. “I never stopped loving you. If anything… I never learned how to stop.”

A quiet sob escaped your lips as you buried your face against his chest. “Then keep loving me,” you murmured. “I don’t want us to be apart anymore.”

He smiled against your hair, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of your head. “I promise.”

You didn’t want this to end in sadness. So you held onto this moment, afraid that if you cried too much, it might disappear.

All you ever wanted… was your happy ending. This time, you finally found it. You and Chan had found your way back to each other.

Your happy ending.

FIN.

a/n: ahh, we’ve finally come to the end, apples!! this is probably one of the heaviest stories i’ve ever written, and it’s very special to me. i just want to say, there are so many people out there still struggling, whether it’s with their minds, their emotions or even just trying to understand themselves. if you’ve read this far, thank you truly. i hope this story reminds you that it’s okay to feel unfamiliar with yourself sometimes. it’s okay to not fit into expectations, to feel lost or even imperfect. that doesn’t make you any less, it makes you human. learning how to understand and express your emotions takes time. be patient with yourself. please take care of yourself. you are worth more than you think.

i love you. have a nice day 🤍

taglist: @coupsarchive @weirdcatlover1 @gyublues @charlieshelves @joongtime @jaja-salute @tstosir @scoupscious @delusionalforjunghoseok  @neotannies @drunk-on-lemonade @chisskaa @flvr4ane @unlikelysublimekryptonite @vwintershire @ashlinxloves @choppedballoondetective @junnhuisworld @mellow-wishes @authorscurse @gyuhao365 @peachywonus (i haven't updated this yet lol)

[yourdawn]

THE DISTANCE BETWEEN US

Mingyu becomes your boyfriend and quickly realizes 3 things about himself: 1. He’s clingy. 2. Patience brings him nowhere. 3. He is not built for a long distance relationship.

wc: 2.2k

genre: fluff, suggestive, non-idol au, friends to lovers

content: mingyu x f!reader, (newly) established relationship, lots of kissing, making out, biting/hickeys, mentions of alcohol and food, terms of endearment (baby, babe, pretty girl, loverboy), some teasing/banter, they're kinda obsessed w each other, honeymoon phase but for ppl who aren't married yet, their friends are dramatic(?)

Patience has always been one of Mingyu’s best qualities.

It shows when his friends tease him endlessly about his habit of stumbling over his words, and his only reaction is to roll his eyes at them. It shows when his sister makes him get up at 5AM to queue for a special edition bag, and he only grumbles out a total of three complaints. It shows when his boss gives him a too short of a notice about a weeklong business trip, and all he can do is pack his luggage like it’s a race.

That’s why he desperately wishes it would show now, as he sneaks a glance at you from across the dinner table while Seungcheol holds him by the shoulder—barraging him with things he missed due to said business trip.

Mingyu clinks his glass of soju against Seungcheol’s and downs it before his eyes find you again.

You, dressed in a top with delicate straps tied into even more delicate bows. You, with your hair in that effortless updo that he always liked. You, sipping your drink with your glossy lips in a soft rosy shade that drives him crazy.

Contrary to Seungcheol’s eager ramblings, the only thing Mingyu missed during his trip was you.

You and Mingyu—along with your other friends Seungcheol, Wonwoo, Seungkwan, and Jihyo—have known each other since your college days. However, things began to change a few months ago when you developed an interest in running—suddenly influenced by numerous tiktok videos. Mingyu had been excited when you first mentioned it in the group chat and deemed himself your new “running partner” since the two of you lived closest to each other.

Since then, your time together slowly extended into the day—turning from a simple morning exercise to getting brunch together afterwards to spending the night at each other’s apartment because “We’re gonna go on a run tomorrow morning anyways. Might as well sleep over to save time.”

On one of those sleepover nights, Mingyu decided he's had enough. Something had shifted since you started spending more time together—charged moments where gazes lingered longer than necessary and quiet nights that encouraged you to share a bigger piece of yourselves with each other.

Although you've been part of the same friend group for years, it was still uncommon for just the two of you to meet frequently like this. Despite everyone’s busy schedules, the group chat managed to stay active and always made time to meet up.

It was normal for Mingyu to see you once a week or so—sometimes in a dirty T-shirt and mismatched socks for movie night at Wonwoo's, sometimes in coordinating outfits with Jihyo for dinner. And sometimes, he’d even play wingman to help you get a cute bartender’s number.

It was, however, not normal to squeeze onto your small couch just so he could wake up to you in the mornings. It wasn’t normal for him to run backwards so he could see the glow in your smile as the early sunlight shined on you. And it definitely wasn’t normal for Mingyu’s heart to race whenever he caught his mind drifting to you at random times in the day.

So when he shows up to your place without his usual bag of running gear and dressed in loose sweats, you give him a questioning look. “Running in sweatpants is definitely new for you.”

“No, it's not that,” he inhales deeply, lingering by the door, “I wanted to tell you something.”

You freeze in your spot, nodding at him to continue.

"I really like you. I want to be more than a friend. I know this will change a lot of things for us but it was driving me crazy not being able to tell you how I feel," he says softly, inching closer to you. His eyes are rounded and full of affection as he takes your hands in his, "I love being with you and spending time with you. You feel it too, right?"

Your eyes well up with tears as your brain catches up with everything you just heard. If you were being honest, your newfound crush on Mingyu had been your biggest worry recently. Mingyu has always been a good friend, but being in close proximity to him and taken care of by him did stir all the butterflies in your stomach. You had spent countless nights staring at your ceiling, trying to make sense of your feelings, and gathering the courage to tell him.

You roll your lips between your teeth, attempting to hide your smile, "Was it because I kept staring at your chest and ass when we run?"

He throws his head back and lets out a hearty laugh, "Well, I can't lie and say I wasn't doing the same thing."

Your smile spreads wider across your face, "Okay, let's call it even then."

Mingyu tugs your body towards his and wraps you in a firm hug. You lean into him, taking the warmth of his body in as he pats your hair tenderly.

"So are we still going on our run tomorrow or what?," you mumble against his chest.

“You wouldn’t happen to have some of my running clothes lying around, would ya?”

—

As it turns out, you did have an extra set of his clothes by your dresser. He did spend the night. You did go on that run together. And like always, Mingyu did buy you brunch afterwards.

But before he could even celebrate his first 24 hours as your boyfriend, an email from his boss showed up—an emergency request for his presence at a conference being held across the country. He had left your apartment begrudgingly as you kissed him goodbye and promised to wait for his call when he landed.

It has been exactly one week since then.

As soon as he landed back home, he had rushed to the restaurant where you were currently having dinner with the rest of your friends. Much to his disappointment, you had been caught in conversation with Seungkwan and Jihyo when he arrived, allowing Seungcheol to drag Mingyu into the seat between him and Wonwoo.

And that was an hour ago.

So if you ask Mingyu, he’d like to think he’s been patient enough. Patiently waiting to see you again, to have a moment with you, to make up the long seven days without you.

The sudden surge of emotions makes him restless. He slumps lower into his chair and shakes his legs, feeling miffed at the entire situation. There's no way Seungcheol has that much to update him on, right? And why have Seungkwan and Jihyo been hogging your attention all night? The last time he checked, you're his girlfriend, not theirs.

“Kim Mingyu. Lighten up a little," Seungkwan chides, yanking him from his cloud of thoughts.

He scowls at Seungkwan then sighs, “I’m going to the restroom.”

Mingyu sends you a weak smile and mouths a discreet “meet me there” before he pulls away from Seungcheol and heads to the restroom, patting cold water onto his face and neck.

When he steps out, he sees you waiting for him in the corner of the small corridor that leads back out to the dining area, tucking your lip gloss and compact mirror back into your bag.

A smile blooms on your face when you notice him.

“Hi.”

Mingyu manages to rasp out a soft hey back before he presses his full weight into you, face buried in your hair and hands snaked around your waist.

You're surrounded by his body heat and the faint woody notes of cologne. You’ve been giddy all day thinking about seeing him again and the feeling of being in his hold after so long makes your stomach flip.

Mingyu finally pulls away to look at you. “Missed me?”

Your stomach does a second flip. He looks devastating. His hair is tousled against his forehead, eyes bright and glassy, small mole dotting his nose perfectly, and lips pulled into a slight pout.

Your hands tighten against his lower back as you interlock your fingers together and whisper against his lips, “So much.”

Mingyu instantly leans forward to close the distance, slotting his lips against yours. His kiss is filled with so much fervor, as if he couldn’t waste any more time not kissing you.

It takes you a second to react; you’ve only kissed Mingyu a handful of times between the night you confessed to each other and him leaving for his work trip—all of which have been short and sweet.

But this kiss is heavy and passionate, his lips moving over yours with intense focus. You’ve never seen him this worked up before but it’s a new side of him that makes your skin tingle with anticipation.

Once you get out of your initial shock, you kiss him back with equal force, hands moving to roam across the broad stretch of his back muscles. You nibble playfully at his bottom lip before giving it a particular harsh suck. He sighs into your mouth as you soothe your tongue over the seam of his lips.

Mingyu reluctantly pulls away first, “I missed you so bad. So so bad.”

You can feel his rough hands absentmindedly toy with the hem of your top, fingertips pressing into your skin.

Your chest heaves against his as you beam up at him, “I can tell.”

Mingyu swears your eyes twinkled when you smiled at him and he has to take a few deep breaths to steady himself. His eyes lazily trace the shape of your lips before coming back to hold your gaze.

“This lip gloss shade is killing me,” he says, tongue darting out to lightly lick at your lips.

Mingyu can only stare as you reach up to thumb away your smudged lipgloss by the corner of his lips and chin. His vision is a little hazy but he manages to focus on your lips. The rosy tint has lost most of its shine and color by now, replaced by a soft kiss-swollen hue (Mingyu has half a mind to boast about him being the cause of it) but it’s still pulling him in with the exact same force it did when he first arrived.

“Baby, please,” he swallows hard, but his voice comes out in a dry whisper, “Last one, I promise.”

He ducks his head to capture your lips in another heated kiss. His hands alternate between your waist and ass, only pausing to knead the plump flesh of your hips once in a while.

You pull away from him, trying to catch your breath. “How was your flight back?”

“You’re asking all the wrong questions.”

He leans in, attempting another kiss but you dodge his lips as your hand comes up to cover them.

Your smirk is playful as you say, “I thought you said that was the last one.”

"I take it back," he muffles into your hand before licking it, causing you to yelp and clutch his shirt.

He cups your face firmly and tilts your head towards him, “You’re so beautiful.” Then a wet kiss on your jaw.

"My pretty girl.” A gentle bite onto the side of your neck.

He trails light kisses down your throat and makes his way to the dip by your collarbone. You can’t help but let out soft moans at the sensation as Mingyu continues to suck slowly at the spot.

His lips travel to the curve of your shoulder, where his fingers start to fiddle with the thin ends of your tie straps.

He pulls at it teasingly before letting out a choked laugh, “How functional is this?”

“It’s cute,” you whine in defense.

You lightly pinch his sides to get his attention before you pull him into a kiss of your own, swiping your tongue against his. Your hands move in between your bodies, one pressed against his chest while the other cups his neck. This time, it’s your turn to suck and lick at it as he groans. You pick a spot right in the middle, just below his adam’s apple and continue to nip lightly.

“Baby,” he warns with low moan.

You hum a distracted response, pressing quick pecks all over his cheeks with a final kiss placed on top of his heart through his shirt.

He slumps against you, pressing his forehead against your shoulder. You can hear his breathing slowly move from a pant to a steady rhythm.

You gently card your fingers through his hair and press your nose into his temple. “You okay?”

His sigh turns into a dry laugh, “Babe. Whatever happens, let’s never do long distance. Look at what one week apart does to us.”

“That’s just because you’re clingy. I was fine.”

He shifts to narrow his eyes up at you, “I must've kissed you so good, your memories ended up getting jumbled.”

Your cheeks redden, as you giggle and lightly shove him away. “Whatever you say, loverboy. We should head back now.”

He grins as he follows you back to your table, in a much lighter mood than before. Wonwoo eyes him carefully as he settles back into his seat and nods at Seungcheol to take a look. Mingyu manages to stuff a piece of pork belly into his mouth before Seungcheol knocks his chopsticks out of his hands and grabs his collar to inspect his neck.

“Bro.”

Before Mingyu can even respond, the entire table's attention is drawn by Seungkwan who has his hands around your neck, as he shrieks, "What is that?!"

a/n: happy mingyu day week! :) let's pretend this was posted on time...

[kuromingoo]

sunkissed | kmg

for he is goodness personified, and i am but a shadow.

for the past few years, you've been accepting odd jobs here and there for the mysterious local barkeep to earn enough coin to get through to the next week, but when the opportunity of a lifetime that could turn an orphaned street rat into a noblewoman appears before you, you're suddenly thrust onto the road with the renowned and beloved sun knight, headed to the kingdom's northernmost fortress that houses its most treacherous transgressors until death. the job? you're to infiltrate in as a prisoner and break a fellow captive out. 

pairing: kim mingyu x fem!reader  genres/themes: action, angst, romance, smut tags: knight!mingyu, orphaned thief!reader, medieval quest, sunshine x grumpy (ish?), slowburn (mainly because they're on a quest that might mean certain death), soft dom mingyu, inexperienced reader, reader is nicknamed 'owl' and is referred to primarily as that, reader is referred to as 'girl' tw: violence; mentions of killing and death, injuries and blood, including brief description of a human getting branded by hot metal, death and injuries by fire, death and injuries by knives and swords, death by poisoning; explicit language; explicit sexual content (unprotected piv sex, oral, fingering) a/n: happy carat day!  wc: 32.7k

[Excerpt from “The Sun and His Shadow”, a children’s story]

There was once a girl who fell in love with the Sun.

She was a daughter of the night, raised by the owls and the foxes and the stars, her mother the Moon, her father the Ocean. She loved the Sun, for he represented all the things she did not know and could not have. She loved the Sun for his warmth and his brilliance. She loved and she loved, unaware of the way her eyes burned from his radiance, of the way her palms blistered from his heat. The owls and the foxes tutted and clicked their tongues at her foolishness. They chided the sacrifices she made for a love that wasn’t recognized, let alone returned.

The girl merely shook her head, eyes shut. It had been some time since the Sun had blinded her and made them ineffective. She clasped her hands, perpetually burned and bandaged, in solemn, reverent prayer. The girl denied that she had sacrificed even a thing in this hopeless, futile love of hers.

For he is the Sun, and I am but a shadow, she smiled.

-

The night is thick, its air weighed down with silence. A single candle stands in the middle of a desk placed exactly in the middle of the room, its light sputtering weakly, as if the shadows threaten to choke it out of existence. Outside the pavilion, not even an owl croons, frightened to disturb the grave quiet.

A young man sits with his elbows propped onto the desk, wide shoulders hunched, head dipped low in thought. He is a lion of a man, with a thick mane of black hair and a pair of deep, passionate eyes. Despite his visible prowess, he has been made small by grief. He clutches his sturdy palms together to keep them from trembling too hard, a clumsy attempt at prayer.

Opposite him, another man sits straight-backed and rigid. He’s slender in all the places that the first man is broad. His face is slight and delicate, features full and striking, as if the gods took their time in carving him out. Despite his otherworldly beauty, the man’s eyes are stretched wide and cold with fury. Clutched in his pale-knuckled hand is a thin silver necklace, thumb pressed harshly against the oblique pendant, as if attempting to permanently mold the facet into his skin.

This man, too, suffers, but his rage overwhelms his grief. The hairs on his nape prickle, as he sits, frozen in the vacuous moment following words that have been loosened from his tongue carelessly. For both men, the world has been upturned over their heads in the matter of a few days. Still, it’s no excuse to be cruel to his longest, closest friend. He doesn’t even remember what he just said, only the anger and the terrible, sickening release that he felt as the words left his mouth.

“Jeonghan. You’re not the only one who lost someone. My father and brother are also gone.” Seungcheol, the former, says, voice a quiet rumble in his chest.

Jeonghan stiffens, but he doesn’t apologize. He’s not sorry, not really, about the words that he spits out in his grief, for he is the type of man who accepts every consequence for his actions, whether it creates or dismantles him, with no remorse. Seungcheol knows all this; they’ve been friends from the cradle. He doesn’t take any of Jeonghan’s frigid anger personally, for Jeonghan had loved the Crown and the older prince as if they were his own family. This, Seungcheol knows with all of his heart, too.

Which is why he doesn’t argue and listens patiently when Jeonghan finally reveals the intent for which he called this midnight meeting and presents his proposal.

-

“Hail, Owl.”

You curl your mouth in distaste, straightening from the slump that you’ve entered the tavern in.

This late in the night, even the chronic drunkards have crawled down the crooked cobblestones their way home, or at least halfway home, and the lights have been diminished down to a single oil lamp. This flame flickers gently, wagging like a tantalizing secret, but the shadows that it throws into the room are long and energetic. The sole occupant, and owner, of The Dancing Spider casts the largest shadow, and you warily eye its movements, languid and graceful, before plucking your hood down from your head and turning to the counter.

“Defeats the point of a disguise if you recognize me immediately,” you crow, not pleased but not unkind either, as you hop up onto a barstool, nodding gratefully as a mug is slid over to you. You grasp it between both palms, letting its hot contents warm your fingers, before lifting the brim to your lips and taking a long sip.

Immediately, the rich, candied flavor of the Kwons’ signature mulled wine coats your entire mouth, sticking to your throat like syrup on its way down. For someone who can’t handle his own liquor, the barkeep churns out some of the best wine in the province.

From the other side of the bar, Kwon Soonyoung grins, like he hears your thoughts. You do your quick inventory. Sunny smile that stretches the corners of his lips to his ears. Sharp teeth, even sharper eyes. Slim gray slacks cut right to his ankles, white linen shirt with his sleeves pulled haphazardly to his elbows, a black vest buttoned to accentuate his waist perfectly. He looks just the same as every other night you’ve snuck into his tavern. Undisturbed by your entrance, Soonyoung continues wiping down the counter with a rag in quick sweeps, careful to work around the space that you occupy, before responding to your previous comment.

“Who else would visit me at this hour, if not my dear friend Owl?”

The barkeeper is cheery, as always, and he is the closest thing you have to a friend, but the word makes you wrinkle your nose and curl your lip. There’s no room in your life, cursed as it is, for friends. Just strangers and the occasional acquaintance. You categorize Kwon Soonyoung as the latter in your mind and take another slow mouthful of the wine before wiping your lips with the back of your sleeve.

“Well then,” you urge quietly, shifting in your seat anxiously, flicking your gaze over your back as if someone might have crept in, even though you made sure to latch the door behind you. “What’s the job this time?”

Soonyoung doesn’t answer immediately. He stops cleaning and turns his back on you towards the counter lining the wall. You watch the line of his shoulders in anticipation as he works and then narrow your eyes when he returns with a plate of food. A hearty bowl of soup, loaded with chunks of meat and potatoes and other vegetables, and a crusty baked roll, still warm and steaming from the stove. For the three copper coins that you usually pay him for a drink and a meal, he’s feeding you astoundingly well tonight, and you leer, suspicious.

“Are you sending me to my death, Kwon? Because if so, I don’t want any part of it.”

Your stomach growls at the wafting scent of the food, but you force yourself to push off of the stool to stand.

“Hey, wait.” Soonyoung scrambles, lurching across the bar, circling his fingers over your wrist to hold you in place. His grip barely ghosts over you, but the sensation of someone else’s skin touching yours, no matter how fleeting, has you tearing your arm back to your side, as if burned. It’s too ragged of a motion in response.

You burn with shame while Soonyoung stammers an apology out. He manages to coax you back into sitting and pushes the tray of food closer to you, which you accept with a wordless nod, gaze lowered to the wood of the counter. Soonyoung waits until you take a bite, tearing off a chunk of the roll and dunking it into the stew before popping it into your mouth. Instantly, you have to fight the urge to sink into your seat when the flavors hit your tongue. You chew quickly and swallow the mouthful before you can savor it because savoring means remembering and remembering leads to longing.

“There’s a job,” Soonyoung finally speaks, voice hushed conspiratorially, “A big one.”

You contemplate through your next spoonful of stew. “For who?”

“I’m not allowed to say—”

You snort and roll your eyes. He’s worked with you long enough to know that you won’t lift a finger for an anonymous request. If you’re going to be earning dirty coins, you’d rather know exactly who they come from, who you’re soiling your own hands for.

“—but it’s someone in a very, very, very high position. A hundred thousand gold Dragons.”

You drop your spoon into the bowl. Flecks of hot stew splatter up and onto the back of your hand, but you pay the brief sting no mind.

A year ago, you had taken on your biggest job from Soonyoung’s network yet that paid a single gold Dragon. It had required you to take the life of a town magistrate, and riddled by your conscience, you hadn’t been able to sleep through the night for a few moons following. The pay, however, had lasted you the better half of a year, which you rationed out carefully. You’d barely spent a quarter of it on the handsome starsteel dagger that now permanently lived on your hip, and the rest of it had been devoted towards the boarding fee in an inn room that locked and one good, proper meal a day.

You can’t even begin to imagine what a hundred golden Dragons could mean for you, let alone a hundred thousand. Before your thoughts fray with hopeless dreaming, you quickly tamper down the hope, giddy and airy, threatening to lift from your stomach.

“You are sending me towards death, aren’t you?” You squint your eyes, suddenly nervous of the way that Soonyoung’s pupils darken, mouth hardens.

The barkeep crosses his arms over his chest, chews on his lip as he thinks. Finally, he admits lowly, “It may be dangerous. But I wouldn’t tell you about it, if I didn’t think you would be successful.” Lamplight dances over his face, and for the first time since you’ve known him, you think that you read pity in it. “Owl, with that sort of money, you would be free to live your life.”

Ice trickles down your spine. As a child, you always imagined you would live a simple life, doing honest work for a meager pay at your family’s post. Perhaps you’d have your own family with a partner who respected you, maybe even loved you. When everything was razed to the ground, your humble ambitions had gone with them. Now, your life consisted solely of scraping by until Soonyoung’s network spat out another job at you to carry you through a few more days, a week if you were lucky.

A hundred thousand Dragons would last you for the rest of your life, and then some. Your thoughts run with grandiose ideas of your first purchase. Perhaps a new pair of slacks with stronger, lined pockets to hold all of your overflowing coin. Before the logical side of your brain can catch up, your traitorous tongue acts first.

“I’m interested.”

Soonyoung simpers, unapologetic.

“That’s great! Because I already told them that you’d do it.”

-

“Hail, Spider.”

You tense at the appearance of an unfamiliar voice but keep your head bowed, face obscured behind the shadow of your hood and Soonyoung’s shoulder. Despite the icy company you’ve provided him since thundering down the steps into the tavern a half-hour ago, the barkeep is exceedingly cheery in the early morning quiet, shoulders at ease and the grin curling over his lips familiar. He trusts this person, so you make a conscious effort not to bristle.

“Hail, Knight.”

Soonyoung reaches to clasp his palm into the newcomer’s. The man is taller, much taller than the barkeep, broad in the shoulders but lean everywhere else. He wears clothes that are tailored perfectly to his form beneath a long cloak lined with silk. He looks expensive, and in your books, expensive means dangerous. Though he’s not dressed like it, he’s clearly a knight, judging by the sword hanging at his hip and Soonyoung’s title for him. You try not to stare at the weapon and continue your inspection.

The man has a striking but kindly face, with strong brows, a delicate nose, full lips, and the most beautiful eyes you’ve ever seen, expressive and bright. His mouth naturally curves up, as if always smiling. His body is of a man’s, but the twinkle of his gaze and his grinning mouth reminds you of a boy. His skin, even in the dim of the tavern, is an alluring gold, complemented by the red of his clothing. Even his hair, not cropped short like the common fashion for knights but long enough to curl behind his ears, leans honeyed and not entirely black, as if warmed by daylight. Beloved by the sun, you think, and even without his armor or heraldry, you recognize immediately who this man is.

You bite your tongue hard to stop yourself from cursing at Soonyoung. He’s not only had the nerve to enlist you for a high-profile job without your permission, but also to neglect to tell you that your accomplice in it would be none other than the renowned Sun Knight, one of the Crown’s favorites. Heat prickles up your nape, and your stomach turns anxiously. You make a mental count of the coins in your pocket, rolling each over in your fingers, contemplating whether what you have might hold you over until the next job comes around.

Not a chance. You’d be lucky to make it past a week, and that’s if Soonyoung will continue taking pity on you, even after you tell him that you can’t go through with this job. A hundred thousand. You grit your teeth and lift your head, just as the two men finish up greeting one another.

When he turns to you, Soonyoung has already spied your expression, which you’re certain is nothing short of murderous, and his easy grin grows crooked and sheepish. “This is my good friend, Owl,” he introduces with a quick gesture and an airy laugh. “She’s been running a few jobs a week for some years now. Does great work and I trust her.”

The flattery lands ineffective on your ears. You dip your head to the knight in silent greeting, taking care not to give Soonyoung the attention he seeks from you.

The Sun Knight bows his head, lower than is necessary for someone of your class. When he lifts his gaze, he immediately searches your face, curious.

“Owl. Is that your name?” His voice is deep, rasping but not grating. There’s a hint of a lisp hissing beneath his words, which contributes to his innocuity.

You regard him cooly, half-impressed by the polished decorum he carries himself with. You’ve never met a knight before, but you have had your run-ins with men like him, of high stock and deep pockets. They’d spoken to you in short, clipped phrases, as if they couldn’t be bothered to waste any more of their breath on you and had dismissed you with urgent flicks of their hands, never mind ask you for your name.

“The only name that matters.” You add on dryly, “And do you go by Sir Sun?”

The knight tenses instantly. Uneasy surprise flickers across his face, as he glances from you to Soonyoung, whose own jaw slackens ever so slightly. The two men share a wordless conversation within a single look between themselves, which ends with Soonyoung shaking his head. A strained silence lingers, before the knight shatters it with a resigned sigh.

“I suppose it’s not easy to hide.” A tiny smile tugs at his mouth, and his face softens, as if it’s easier for it to be amused than serious. “But please, you can call me Mingyu.”

A given name, not a family name like you’re used to calling down here in the Troughs of the capital. You make a mental note of it and tuck it away, knowing that you’ll never call him by name.

With the introductions completed, you pick up the sack of supplies you’ve brought with you and pull the straps over yourself, one at your shoulder, the other at the opposite hip, tying them into a knot over your chest. When you finally turn to Soonyoung, he’s suddenly unsmiling and grave, watching as you fasten your cloak tighter at the throat and pull your hood down into place.

Your mouth has gone tacky and dry, so you give him a firm nod. Something foreign passes over his face, and for the slightest moment, you think that it looks like doubt. Within the next heartbeat, it hardens into an assurance that’s surprisingly bolstering, and Soonyoung’s pressing a package, wrapped in brown paper and bound with twine, towards you. It’s warm in your hands, but before you can ask what it is, the barkeep gestures to shoo you out.

“It’ll be dawn soon. Best be on your way.”

The Sun Knight clears his throat, and your chest gives a lurch, having momentarily forgotten of his presence. His boots scrape against the floorboards as he makes for the door. Your heart picks up, as you search for something to say, anything to say, just in case you don’t make it back. At the very least, you should thank Soonyoung, for taking you in that first night on the brink of starving to death, for being kind to you, for considering you a friend.

None of the words come to mind.

In your floundering, Soonyoung seizes the chance to speak first.

“Be smart, Owl.” His voice wavers ever so slightly, before something fond and familiar tugs at his lips. “It’ll keep you safe.”

You grin back, finding and grasping the ounce of courage that you need to jolt yourself into action.

“I am nothing but.”

-

The heavy wooden door slams shut behind you as you step outside of the tavern. The loud thudding rattles your bones ominously, as if you’ll leave this place and never return to it again. Hastily, you banish this thought from your mind and catch up to the Sun Knight.

The knight—Mingyu—has cut over to the other side of the well-traveled road, a little up ahead where it forks into two paths. Tied to the wooden post marking the crossroads are two horses: one slight and pale like moonlight, the other sturdier and strong, as if hewn out of umber wood. Horses can only be afforded to be ridden by nobility and therefore are foreign creatures to you, but nothing is as strange as the man tending to them.

Mingyu sweeps a large hand down the brown horse’s massive throat, his own neck crooked down to murmur softly to the beast. His face is too close for comfort to its massive head, in your opinion, but the knight smiles wide as he continues whispering, “Good girl, sweet girl.” The horse only nickers in response, as if she understands human speech.

His ramblings are gentle, affectionate, so much so that your own nerves are nearly lulled into easing up. You quickly catch yourself, shaking your shoulders to snap back into being alert, and remind yourself that you haven’t even embarked on this job that may earn you one hundred thousand Dragons or an early grave. You cross over to the knight and the two creatures.

Your arrival prompts Mingyu to glance up, still relaxed and grinning. You pay him a quick look before minding the horses warily. Now that you’re right up beside them, they’re much taller and broader than you thought. Mingyu is one of the tallest people you’ve ever seen, and even he barely comes halfway up the brown horse’s neck.

At your strange presence, both horses prick their ears and raise their heads from their lazy grazing. Though their eyes are on either sides of their faces, you can’t help but feel scrutinized by the animals and tense. As if he notices your unease, Mingyu reaches up to pat at the brown horse’s nose and coos, “Owl, this is my sweet girl, Summer. She’s all brawn and no brain. Aren’t you, girl?”

Summer chuffs again, sounding pleased at the description of herself. You fight off a grin, still cautious but more amused than wary now.

“Do all knights name their horses?”

Mingyu’s eyes flick up to yours, deep and thoughtful for a moment, before squinting one eye into a wink. “Only the best ones.”

Instantly, the glamour shatters and you scoff, but the knight already steps over to the other horse. Close up, you see now that this one’s an unearthly white color, like the Angel of Death’s pallid mount in the children’s stories you’d grown up with. She’s quiet, eeriely and hauntingly so, but leans into Mingyu’s touch when he strokes his hand down her pale mane.

“This is Snowdrop, on account of her being—”

“White. Got it.”

“I was going to say ‘a beautiful, beautiful girl’, but how clever you are, Owl.”

Mingyu’s cheek dimples innocently, and you desperately have to restrain yourself not to roll your eyes.

“Can you ride?”

At the post, your family would borrow the next door farmer’s mule-drawn cart whenever larger, heavier parcels needed to be delivered. You had learned how to ride and steer that mule from its saddleless back, even before you were four feet off the ground. Surely a trained, saddled horse won’t be too different. You eye Snowdrop carefully, and all she does is blink her large black eyes back at you.

“I can manage, I’m sure.”

Mingyu nods, assured. He gives you a cursory sweep from head to toe, then glances over at the horse.

“Need a hand up?”

“I’m good, Knight.”

Before you can even think to regret it, Mingyu hooks his foot into the stirrup and swings himself atop his great beast with ease. From the added height, the knight’s voice sounds farther away, and that much more aggravating, when he calls down at you.

“It’s a long road ahead of us. I’ll explain what the job is on the way.”

You stifle a sigh and turn your gaze over to the east, where the sun is just breaking over the horizon.

-

“So, why Owl?”

You’ve been on the road for only about an hour, you would guess, judging by the sun’s position in the sky. Already, your lower back aches and your inner thighs chafe against the leather saddle, as smooth and worn as it is, even through the lining of your pants. Most of the journey so far has consisted of easy silence, save for the clicking of Mingyu’s tongue as he guides Summer faster or slower and the steady clopping of hooves against the dirt path.

The sudden sound of his voice has you jerking to attention in your seat, which sends a deeper twinge through your spine. You can’t hide the grimace that follows, and you’re glad that Mingyu leads and that his back is turned to you. The fixed gait of the horses and the constant landscape of rolling grasslands and fields have lulled you into a transient state, so it takes your head a few heartbeats to restart, to run the knight’s words over to comprehend it, and then formulate an answer, without giving away too much.

“My family kept owls when I was a child.”

“Oh. As pets?”

You snort sooner than you can think to hold it in and clumsily hide it behind a dry cough.

“No. We ran the post for our village. My responsibility was to maintain the owlery. They said I spent so much time with the birds that I was on my way to becoming half-owl myself.”

The knight turns his face to the side just enough that you can read his grin. You look away. The memory of your family and the birds quickly turns from fond to bitter.

“The owls. They can be trained to deliver the mail accurately?”

“Of course. They’re not the symbol of intelligence for just any reason.”

Mingyu hums quietly but doesn’t say more. Now that the sun has come out to warm the earth, he has shed his long cloak off and wears only the red linen shirt that hugs his shoulders. You watch the ease with which he rides, the relaxed yet strong line of his shoulders, the perfect posture of his back and waist. He rides so effortlessly that you wonder how young he was when he was first placed onto a horse. You wonder if he wears red because it’s the color of his House or simply because he likes it. You wonder why he named his horse, and why he named her Summer. More curiosities spring to mind, and Mingyu has asked you a question so it’s only respectful to return the courtesy, but everything that comes to you seems too profound for the time that you’ve known him. Lamely, you call out something plain.

“Why are you the Sun Knight?”

Mingyu tips his head over his shoulder again, more fully this time so that you can see his entire face. Beneath the daylight, his eyes gleam molten, and you suppress a shudder at the sight. He smiles again—like he was born to—and gives a one-shouldered shrug.

“Knights’ titles aren’t chosen, they’re bestowed,” he answers simply, a little bashfully, and as he speaks, you notice that two of his teeth are especially pointed, like the fangs of a hound. “Perhaps I fight particularly well under the sun. Something like that.”

No, that’s not it, you swallow the words down your throat. Beloved by the sun. The phrase comes to mind again, and you think you understand how exactly his title came to be.

“I don’t mind it, though,” Mingyu continues cheerfully, turning his attention back to the road ahead. “‘The sun loves and gives life’, they say. It’s an honor to be named after it. Do you know that one?”

“Of course,” you grunt back, “The Troughs have nursery rhymes too.”

After that, silence fluidly falls back into place, which you welcome. You shift forward in the saddle to alleviate the pressure in your back and are reminded of Soonyoung’s parcel, when it nudges into your stomach from where you’ve been clutching it close. Curious, you pull it from beneath your cloak and tug carefully to unravel the twine.

Wrapped within the paper are two loaves of perfectly browned bread, no longer hot from the fire but still somewhat warm from your skin. Tucked in between the bread is a tiny scrap of paper, folded in half, and when you open it, there’s a message in Soonyoung’s messy scrawl.

Owl—

I’m sorry for sending you away without your permission. Impulsivity is my greatest sin, I fear. I’m scared that you’ll run into danger and that I was the one who sent you there. I should have told you this in person, but I was even more scared that I might stop you from going. Like I said, I believe in you, and I think you’ll succeed.

You will succeed and come home with more money than you know what to do with. You deserve more than this life. You deserve to be happy.

Eat proper meals. Save the bread for the road. Also, the larger loaf is for you. Give the smaller one to the mutt knight.

Come back alive. I would like not to be haunted by someone as terrifying as you.

Your only friend,

Spider

You swallow hard against the knot that forms in your throat and hide your sniffle by coughing a dry laugh out.

“You and your gods awful handwriting, Kwon.”

-

When Mingyu’s great brown mare gives a whinny, the sun has already begun its descent into the mountains that have appeared in the far distance. The knight clicks his tongue, sharp and high, and both horses respond in an instant, slowing from a trot to a walk. You lift your head wearily and loosen your fingers from the twist that you’ve been holding the reins around. By now, you’ve lost nearly all feeling in your legs, certain that the skin along your thighs have been rubbed completely raw, and when you roll your shoulders back, your spine cracks along five separate points.

“Summer says it’s time to stop for today,” Mingyu chirps happily, “which is just as well. There’s an inn just over the ridge there.” He points ahead, which you nod along to without following, just glad to be in close grasp of respite. You squeeze your eyes tight, barely clinging on as Snowdrop follows their lead, as steady as she had been at dawn.

“Alright, Owl?”

You blink your eyes open, barely acknowledging that you’ve come to a halt, just in time to watch Mingyu slide from his saddle, landing solidly on both feet. He sweeps his fingers through his fringe, which only flops back onto his forehead, a little damp with dust and sweat, but his eyes are bright, as ever, unfettered by the day’s long journey.

Your throat feels like it’s coated in a layer of dust kicked up from the road and you can’t trust your tongue to say anything coherent, so you settle to nod an affirmative response, sluggishly pulling one leg over Snowdrop’s back to dismount. No sooner does your foot hit the ground than your knee buckles beneath your weight, and your heart jumps as you scrabble to find purchase before you fully crumple onto the dirt.

Quicker than you can reach for Snowdrop’s saddle straps, the knight springs forward, reaching to brace you up by the hip. With the sudden proximity, he brings a foreign warmth and the scent of leather and steel and something warm and spicy. You go rigid, first at the closeness of the knight and the recognition of just how tall he is, then at the realization that he’s touching you—not directly, his fingers tighten over the dagger fastened at your belt and presses it into your hip bone, but still touching. You flinch away, the weakness in your knees quickly replaced by the heady rush of bewilderment.

“Sorry,” Mingyu blurts, cheeks flushed, as if he’s done something wrong. One day, you’ll admit to yourself that it was somewhat endearing, but in the current moment, you’re too anxious to dwell much on it. Gratefully, the knight allows you the distance that you’ve created, shuffling away to guide Summer forward by her reins. Before you can do something stupid like think about what just occurred, you quickly reach for Snowdrop’s leads and follow close.

The inn that you’ve arrived at can’t be described as anything more than a shack, but through the windows, you spy a lit hearth and hear the lively chatter of other gathered travelers. You’re wary of the presence of strangers, especially when you still haven’t learned where you’re going and what is required of you to be paid the obscene amount of money promised, but you’re exhausted and shakier than you’ve ever been on your own two feet.

“Before we head in,” Mingyu starts hesitantly, as he gestures for you to hand over Snowdrop’s reins so that he can bring the horses over to the covered shelter, which you comply with gratefully, “I wanted to brief you. We’re to travel under the guise of being married.”

The surprise must be plain on your face because amusement dances over Mingyu’s as he hastily follows up with explanation.

“It invites fewer questions. Fewer people poking their nose into where they're unwanted. We’re traveling up north to visit my younger brother, who’s getting married in a week. That’s the story we’ll stick to.” He offers you a simple smile and a pause to consider it.

Slowly, you roll the words coming to mind over in your mouth before vocalizing them.

“Is that truly where we’re headed? North?”

The knight shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His gaze shifts, cautious, from you to the horses to the inn, which makes you squirm, impatient and nervous.

“You do realize you’re going to have to tell me eventually? I still have not a clue what I need to do for—” You hush your voice into a whisper before finishing, “The hundred thousand Dragons.”

Mingyu’s eyes stretch wide. “Gods. A hundred thousand?”

You scrutinize the knight and find not an ounce of falsity, which then makes you frown, puzzled. “Aren’t you the one paying for this job?”

He splutters, incredulous, and the noise makes the horses behind him shift, skittish. Mingyu turns briefly to coo some words of comfort to the spooked creatures before returning to address your own confusion.

“I’m a knight, not a goldsmith.” He avoids a definite answer and pauses to scratch his nape, muttering to himself more than to you. “Yeah, actually that makes a lot of sense.”

“What does?”

Mingyu breathes a weak laugh with a quick shake of his head. You watch, exasperated, as he doesn’t give an answer, yet again. The knight wrings his hands together, sucks a sharp breath in, and then rolls his shoulders back to straighten his posture.

“I’m starving. Let’s go in, and we’ll talk after supper, hm?”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach pangs at the thought of eating. With a quiet huff, you give him a curt nod and make for the entrance to the inn. Before you can reach for the door, Mingyu stops you with an outstretched fist and a quiet murmur.

“Hold out your hand.”

You do as he says, and he drops something, small and light, into your palm. Without another word, he brushes past you and into the inn’s light and warmth.

You look down to find a golden ring, warmed by the heat of Mingyu’s skin, cupped in the center of your hand. You pinch it between your fingers and lift it in inspection, finding it to be a signet ring, much like the ones that the truebred members of the noble Houses wear. On the outer facet, there is a coat of arms engraved into the metal: a simple image of a wolf, reared on its hind legs, stretched upwards as it reaches to snatch a star between its parted jaws.

Something strange and ominous stirs in the pit of your stomach, but you shove the feeling away hastily. You try the ring, crafted for a man’s hand, on each left finger, finding that it fits best on your thickest, before following the knight inside.

By the time you catch up with Mingyu, he’s already leaned over the counter, chin in his hand, propped onto a crooked elbow. The woman on the other side of the bar looks halfway bewitched by the knight already, round cheeks flushed pink and eyes glittering as she hangs off of every word he speaks. When you sidle up beside him quietly, Mingyu tucks his head down to look at you, mouth curled into a languid, feline grin.

“Hi, love,” he murmurs, gaze snagging on your newly ringed finger when you brace your hands against the counter to steady yourself on your quivering legs. “Beth here was just getting us situated in a room for the night.”

Beth, to her credit, recovers swiftly from her trance, straightening up as she sweeps her palms over her reddened face. “Oh! Yes!” She chirps, reaching beneath the counter to dig around until she produces a large brass key on an iron hoop and hands it over to the knight, who rewards her with a beam and a wink. The woman returns it with a watery smile, glance sliding from him to you timidly. “It’ll be the farthest room on the right side. Second floor. Anything else I can help you both with?”

“Yes, actually, darling. Two bowls of whatever stew you’ve got tonight, and some bread, please.” Mingyu passes over the key to you, motioning his chin over to the staircase in the far corner of the room. “Why don’t you head up first, love? I’ll be right there with supper.”

You nod, eager to escape this awkward mimicry of marriage. Ignoring the strain in your thighs, you bound up the uneven wooden stairs, two steps at a time, and all but collapse into the room that you’ve been assigned. It’s a small space with only a single window, glass frosted over from a lack of regular cleaning, but the door locks—at the doorknob and the deadbolt—and there are two bedrolls folded up in the simple wardrobe, hewn roughly out of raw, unfinished wood. It’s more than enough to serve you for a night.

You grimace as you lower yourself to the floor. There’s a deep ache that pulses with every heartbeat in your lower joints that you fruitlessly rub at with your fingers. You’ve been sitting nearly the entire day, but even your feet and ankles seem to hurt. For the first time in a long while, you’re so exhausted that your eyes prick and burn with the first signs of tears, but the doorknob turns and you quickly swipe your sleeve over your face to chase them away.

“That was easy enough,” Mingyu hums, pleased, as he kicks the door shut behind him. He carries huge ceramic bowls in each hand and has a loaf tucked between his side and arm, which you reach over to take from him. He offers you a grateful smile, which makes his cheeks dimple, and you avert your gaze away, accepting your bowl of stew through your peripheral vision.

You eat in hurried silence, huffing when impatience leads to a burnt tongue. The stew is nothing profound, just carrots and potatoes and the occasional chicken bone, but it’s hot and bracing, especially when you soak pieces of the bread in it. You only make it through half of your portion before your stomach feels tight and bloated, but Mingyu’s already scraping his spoon down to the last few mouthfuls of his, eyeing your leftovers politely. Without a word, you hand your bowl over to him, and he happily takes it, flashing more of his dimples your way.

While Mingyu finishes his meal, you slip out from the room and amble down the corridor in search of a washing basin. You discover a bucket of water, cold but clean enough, and wash your hands and face with it, scrubbing at the dirt that has caked into the lines of your palms. As you wash, the golden ring on your finger flashes every so often beneath the moonlight filtering through the hallway windows. Aside from your starsteel dagger that you wear permanently on your hip, you’ve never owned something beautiful, let alone jewelry, before, so you take a brief moment to delight at the smooth burnished gold. It’s soft and warm to the touch, nothing like the rings that people in the Troughs get married with, fashioned out of rough strips of tin sheets leftover from repair jobs. It’s beautiful, even despite the image of the wolf swallowing a star, and you almost loathe the thought of having to give it back.

You return to the room and find Mingyu in a crouch at the corner of the room, stoking a fire in the hearth. It’s small, contained, and provides a much needed warmth, but you eye it with caution, all the same. You don’t trust fire, not since it took your parents from you.

The knight has set out the bedrolls with ample distance between the two, gesturing you towards the one closer to the hearth. It’s a kind courtesy that he offers you, but you tremble at the thought of sleeping so close to an unguarded flame. You shake your head and mumble, “You can have that one. I get hot easily.”

Mingyu tilts his head curiously but doesn’t press the matter. You fold your legs and sit onto your claimed bedroll, pulling your cloak from your shoulders to use as a blanket to cover your lap. “So,” you prompt quietly, “Are you going to tell me about the job now?”

The knight chews on his lip, but he can’t avoid the topic any longer. He leans back onto his own bedroll, crossing his legs before him. You wait patiently, twisting the golden ring around and around on your finger, for Mingyu to speak. When he does start, his voice comes low and guarded, suddenly grave and unlike his lively self.

“To answer your earlier question, we are headed up north, yes. At its core, the job requires us to infiltrate a facility and retrieve a…package.”

You lean back onto an arm. Slowly, you consider, “Alright. Infiltration and retrieval. I’m familiar with both tasks; I’ve done them before, for Soonyoung.” Saying the barkeep’s name makes your heart clench painfully. You hold the ache there for a moment and then promptly force it away.

The knight shakes his head. “It’ll be different. Remember, the request comes from a high place—a hundred thousand Dragons, for gods’ sakes.” He hesitates, breath catching several times in his throat, before revealing, “We’re going to break someone out from Taebaek.”

You freeze in place. Nobody truly knows where Taebaek, the most renowed, high-security prison of the kingdom, is located, save for the jailers who are tasked with transporting the residents in. Of course, people in the Troughs love their fables, and you’ve heard enough of them to conjure up an idea of what Taebaek might look like. A giant, sprawling fortress high up in the Northern Mountains, where its silent gray walls stand against frigid and wintery winds year round. Where warmth and sound and hope dies, choked away by the stifling cold.

Even worse than its harsh location and surroundings, you’ve only heard of Taebaek in the context of the most vile, reprehensible crimes and criminals. It’s where kingkillers and kinslayers were locked away, until their breaths stopped, flesh rotted, and bones dissolved. The most recent of rumors claimed that the former queen mother had been banished there after poisoning and slaying her own son and grandson, the late Crown and the crown prince, respectively. Prisoners entered Taebaek; they were never meant to come back out.

Your mouth goes dry. Only now comes the reckoning of what is required of you to be paid a lifetime’s worth of Dragons. You should have known that it would be incomparable to taking the life of a magistrate. You should have known that it would require an impossible feat to be accomplished.

Quietly, you run the numbers in your head. The number of the coins you counted earlier this morning haven’t changed. Maybe you could steal the knight’s coin purse in the night and run off. If you took Snowdrop, that is, if she trusted you enough to let you, you might be able to escape to the next town over and buy some time to disappear. Your gaze catches on the gold ring; you could pawn it off for a handsome price but only if the heraldry wouldn’t be traced back to Mingyu. Doubtful.

Mingyu. He’s a knight—the Sun Knight—for all the gods’ sakes. There’s no way that you’ll manage to escape from him.

Your mind supplies nothing helpful, aside from a string of curses. At this point, your fate lies in either dying while breaking into and out of Taebaek or while running from the Sun Knight. You mouth one of these curses out silently and pray to all the gods that your soul will haunt Kwon Soonyoung in the afterlife.

“Fret not, dear Owl,” Mingyu’s voice, energetic and chipper once more, breaks you from your reverie. “We have a plan, nearly foolproof, and as long as we follow it precisely, you should be walking away with your pockets overflowing.”

You shoot over a glare, too weary to retort. Tomorrow, you’ll tackle your thoughts once more with a clearer head and fresh eyes, but for tonight, you want nothing more than to sit in silence, unthinking, unfeeling.

“Enough for now. We can discuss more on the road.” Mingyu suggests gently, as he reaches for his cloak and starts balling it up. He gives you a sideways glance, mouth twisting as he quips, “Do you stay up all night like an owl as well?”

You snort. “I sleep as much as I need to.”

“And how much is that?”

A heartbeat passes, and you admit quietly, “Not much.”

Mingyu flops down and stretches out onto his back, limbs so long that his feet poke out past the bedroll. He shoves his bundled cloak beneath his head and sighs, loud and exaggerated, “Well, I need plenty. Good night, Owl.”

“Good night.”

You hug your knees loosely, watching the fire as it dances. Within moments, Mingyu’s ragged breathing grows smooth and even, chest rising and falling steadily. Slackened from sleep, the Sun Knight’s youthful face looks even younger, and faintly, you wonder how long he’s been knighted for. Never mind that. You quickly catch yourself thinking and add it to your list of curiosities that won’t matter for much longer.

You stare at the fire, imagining death, wondering if your parents will come find you at the end or if they’re still upset at you over their own, until it dies down into a few smoldering embers and a pile of ash. Only then do you feel relieved enough to rest, curling up on your side. The bedroll is so thin that you can feel every groove of the wooden slats beneath you, but it doesn’t bother you for long, as sleep steals you away in an instant.

-

“Still haven’t made friends, you two?”

The sun has barely started its ascent, hidden mostly by the distant mountains, but Mingyu looks bright-eyed and rested as he joins you out by the horses. He greets Summer with an apple, split into halves, chuckling as he watches you sidestep Snowdrop to access her saddlebags.

“She’s eeriely quiet,” you mumble, conscious of Snowdrop’s ear flicking, as if she might understand your words, “Like a ghost.”

Unlike Summer, who seems to have a personality as large as her owner’s, Snowdrop keeps to herself, watching everything through her huge black eyes. You feel like she’s constantly observing and listening, and you wonder how much of the world she beholds in her beast’s mind.

The knight laughs again. “Her rider requires stealth and silence, and she makes the perfect partner in that regard. She’s plenty sweet, though, you’ll see. Just needs to warm up to strangers first, hm?” He leans over close to offer the other halved apple to the pale horse, who takes it between her teeth gingerly and crunches away.

You peer thoughtfully as Snowdrop chews. She only uses her lips to pick up the pieces of fruit that fall back into Mingyu’s hand and sweeps a large tongue gently over his palm when no more apples seem to appear for her. The knight pokes his own tongue out and mock gags at the slick slide of saliva on his hand, but you can read the fondness plain on his face. It’s remarkable and strange, how someone can have so much affection for even animals. The only creatures you had encountered in the Troughs were massive rats and tiny pigeons, all caked in grime and begging for scraps that you couldn’t afford to give up.

You turn away to rummage through your belongings and pull the larger loaf out from its paper wrapping. Despite Soonyoung’s instructions, you know that the bread will keep for longer when left intact. Better to share a loaf and keep the other whole for as long as possible. You tug your dagger from its sheathe and slice the bread in two, passing over one half to the knight and wrapping your own back up in the parchment.

Mingyu’s sharp eyes miss nothing. “Thanks. That’s a handsome blade. Is it starsteel?”

You nod, affirmative, a little sheepish at being perceived. “It’s the only nice thing that I’ve ever bought for myself.” Even though it belongs to you, you still marvel at the beauty of it, turning it over in your palm and delighting in its perfectly balanced weight. The blade flashes bright, even in the dim lighting of dawn, pale silver that could nearly be white, streaked with blue-black, like veins of midnight ink. The handle itself is simple and ivory, carved out of some creature’s bone and sanded smooth to the touch.

“Hopefully the first of many,” is Mingyu’s light response. His words sound genuine, and his easy optimism is bolstering. You want to believe him, want to hold onto hope that this job will be completed without mishap and that you’ll be able to return home, to The Dancing Spider. “All good blades have a name. Did you give it one?”

You reply softly, “Feather.”

“Owl’s Feather. Clever.”

Mingyu’s cheek is dimpling again, pointed teeth flashing white between his lips, so you resolutely look away to fasten Snowdrop’s saddlebag straps tightly, tuck your dagger back onto your hip, and hook your foot up and into a stirrup. Your joints are still sore from the previous day, but the brief stretch you’d conducted earlier has done you some good. You’d risen this morning and had managed to sit on your bedroll sullenly while contemplating most of your life decisions, wash up, dress, and give your stiffened muscles a good, long stretch, all before the knight even started stirring beneath his covers.

By the time you’re fully lifted up and settled in your saddle without swaying too forward or backward, Mingyu’s in his seat, nibbling at his bread. He cranes his neck from left to right, glancing up to the sky and then back towards the horizon.

“Seems like the weather will be fair today,” he notes, taking another chunk out of the loaf and chewing thoughtfully. “We’re still a few days out from the foot of the mountains, so we should gradually adjust to the temperature and altitude changes. Ready, Owl?”

Your only response is a firm nod, to which he smiles, quick and easy.

Mornings brighten into days, and on and on you travel behind the knight, veering off of the road and towards a tavern or inn only when dusk swarms and chokes out the light. Mingyu’s effortlessly sanguine, humming and whistling, unaware of your own misery. His energy is unflagging, and his bright grins and hearty laughter steadfast against your quiet reluctance to let him in.

By the fifth day, you’ve grown all but silent, made heavy with exhaustion, hunger, doubt. The longer you’re on the road with no end in sight, the more Mingyu’s enthusiasm grates away at your nerves, turning them raw and bare. You nibble at the last husk of Soonyoung’s bread, which has already turned stale and tough, forehead tucked against the back of Snowdrop’s neck in a weary attempt to block the incessant sun out of your face. Even with your hood permanently pulled over your head, your cheeks sting to the touch, burnished by the long days on horseback. Mingyu, of course, looks untouched, and in fact, to your chagrin, the exposure to sun has only deepened the tone of his skin, turning him impeccably gilded.

You think that by now, you’ve somewhat picked up on Snowdrop’s mannerisms and gotten used to what’s normal and what’s not. You peer up, curious, to find that her ears are pricked high and that the previously lax reins in your hands feel heavier. Gnawing at your bottom lip nervously, you reach up to run the back of your knuckles along her mane, but she only flicks an ear in response, impatiently dismissive. Astute as ever, Mingyu tips his head backward to peer over at you struggling to return your mount’s pace to even.

“Ah,” the knight muses, seeming a little contrite for not have noticing whatever the issue is earlier, “She’s just fidgety. We’re moving much slower than she’s used to.”

You consider this and give Snowdrop another regretful pat to the neck, “For my sake, I’m sure.”

Mingyu laughs, one of those airy giggles of his that makes your spine straighten, and gives a shake of his head, which shifts his hair down into his eyes. The sun, bright and warm overhead, makes him glow, and your stomach pangs at the sight.

“If she went at her desired pace, even I would be knocked off of her back, I’m afraid.” The knight grins when you shoot him a look of surprise. Something conspiratorial flickers over his face as he thinks. “Are you a little more confident in your riding now?”

You scrutinize the knight before giving him a careful nod.

Mingyu balls his reins into his left hand and reaches a palm over to Snowdrop, letting the pale horse sniff at his fingers. He pats her nose gently and clicks his tongue twice, to which her ears flick rapidly. Beneath your thighs, you feel the muscles of her back shift and thrum with excitement.

“Press your knees in harder than you have been so far,” the knight instructs in a soft but assured voice. “Snowdrop knows not to push too hard with riders who aren’t her own. She won’t let you fall.”

You grip tight at the reins, squirming in your saddle anxiously. “Truthfully?”

Mingyu nods, firm, gaze molten and certain. “Promise, Owl. On a knight’s honor.”

Before you can dwell too long on it, you close your knees, firm against Snowdrop’s sides. Unlike anything you’ve seen from her in the past few days, the horse darts forward, controlled and precise still. She cleaves through the air, silver mane fluttering back towards you. Briefly, you panic, feeling the rest of the world lurch forth, while your body wants to remain stationary, but you hastily loosen your muscles, sucking in a cold breath to reset your nerves. Like Mingyu said, you can nearly feel the discipline in Snowdrop’s entire being, and you mourn your inability to relieve it for her. Wind rushes at and around you, throwing your hood off of your head and whipping your hair into your face. It’s terrifying and foreign and unsteady, but something giddy bubbles in your stomach and wrenches itself from your throat in the form of a trill, unrestrained and free.

A hearty hoot responds from behind you, pitched high with excitement. You don’t trust yourself to look back, so you grin wide at the road before you until your cheeks ache from the strain.

Snowdrop gallops for a few more yards, then brings herself back down to a moderate trot. You gasp to catch your breath, but only the heightened thrumming of her heartbeat against your legs suggests that the magnificent beast beneath you has exerted any effort.

“How was that?” Mingyu trots up easily beside you, Summer’s hooves neatly clipping along the road as she matches your pace. He smiles as if he knows your answer already. When he turns his face to glance at you, the sun dapples him golden.

You respond, a little breathless now and wholly entranced, “It felt like flying.”

“Closest thing to flying there is,” the knight agrees.

You want it. You desire it so greedily and like nothing before that your stomach aches with longing.

“When I am rich,” you make up your mind, “the first thing I will buy is the ability to fly.”

Mingyu laughs, chin tipped back, corners of his eyes wrinkled. Not mocking, not rude, but unbridled and full of joy.

You stare and stare, near bursting with want.

-

“Handsome lad you’ve got.”

You blink your eyes wide before remembering that you’re meant to be playing along with Mingyu’s disguise. Said lad lingers at the corner of the farmstand, resolutely turned away as he rolls a few apples in his palm, but you’ve been on the road with him for a few days now and you’ve learned what it looks like when he’s pretending not to be listening.

“Ah,” you muse, picking through the basket of shelled walnuts, half of your attention on the vendor, the other half sliding over to Mingyu as you shrug. “If you say so.”

The knight gives a tiny noise, akin to an indignant wheeze, and you smile into the collar of your cloak, shifting to add a handful of walnuts to the basket of fruit he holds. You turn away to duck beneath the tarp, and retreat back outside to where the horses are, leaving Mingyu to try, and fail, to haggle. He’s much too nice to be any good at it.

Both mounts lift their heads at your exit. Summer snorts and dips her snout back down to mindlessly nibble at the grass when she realizes that you aren’t Mingyu. Snowdrop, on the other hand, keeps her eyes trained on you as you approach, stare pinned to where you hide your hand behind your hip.

“Clever girl,” you muse, pulling out a pear that you snagged off the stand and into a pocket while the vendor spent her sweet time ogling Mingyu. Snowdrop’s soft nose tickles your palm as she takes the fruit into her mouth, and you breathe a laugh at how gentle she is, even as she promptly crunches away at her favorite snack. Summer has noticed, and she regards you ruefully, with as much distaste as when she realized you weren’t her rider, if not more. “Don’t tell him I’m playing favorites,” you whisper to the pale horse, just as Mingyu makes his appearance from the tent.

He wears a scowl. Unsuccessful yet again, it seems.

“Any luck?” You tease.

“Oh, whatever. Let’s get a move on.”

Ten minutes from the farmstand, the road crooks towards a grove of thick, gnarled trees. The cluster has grown so densely that you can barely see ahead through the shadows. Snowdrop’s certain gait slows a bit, ears flicking nervously, which does nothing to still your own roiling stomach. Mingyu and Summer, though similarly tense, continue forth, so you follow.

You’ve barely made it past the edge and fully into the grove, when the shadows shift with the motion of others. Your eyes, still adjusting to the lack of light, rove rapidly, catching sight of people. All men, judging by their builds. All starving bandits, judging by their dark, tattered clothing. Summer comes to a halt, Snowdrop quickly copying, when a handful of men spill out of the darkness and onto the path ahead.

Mingyu clears his throat softly. His head tips loosely to the side, bluffing curiosity, but you can read from the line of his shoulders that he has instantly shifted into caution. He slides down from his seat, landing silently on his feet. There’s a sudden feline shape to his movements, graceful and elegant and lethal, as he straightens his spine and swivels his head to sweep his sharpened gaze over the men from one end to the other. You watch, captivated, as you realize that this must be the famed training of Crownsland knights in action.

The bandits, though not as analytical as your eyes, must notice that there’s something different, something dangerous about him. The biggest man who has taken up the lead is a head shorter than Mingyu but just as wide and even burlier. He rolls his own shoulders back and tips his head back in a forced swagger.

“Yer a knight, aren’t ya?”

Mingyu’s mask of polite confusion nearly slips, as a twitch catches his brow. “I beg your pardon?”

“Tall, sturdy man like yerself,” another of the men takes a few bold steps forward, scarred mouth pulling into a smile that looks more like a sneer. “You’d be wasted on anything besides knighthood.”

Mingyu laughs, genial and smooth, voice like warm velvet. He softens his tongue to roll his syllables, lets his lisp come off stronger to feign innocence. “You’re much too kind. Sorry to disappoint, but I’m only a stablehand. My master has kindly allowed my wife and me to borrow some horses to travel for my brother’s wedding.” For the past few days, he’d been traveling covertly with his sword tucked away into his saddle sack; you wonder how quickly he’ll be able to get to it. You watch with a trained eye as he steps closer to Summer, who has become restless and anxious, smoothing a palm over her throat while simultaneously flicking the saddlebags open with a hidden hand. The sphere pommel of his blade pokes out tantalizingly. “We best be on our way, if we’re to make it there by tomorrow.”

The big man at the front drops his smile, snake’s eyes flicking from you to Mingyu with a malice so cold and sudden that an involuntary shiver runs up your nape.

“Sure. But you best leave us yer horse. Big one you’ve got there.”

A slow, quiet breath escapes between Mingyu’s gritted teeth. Though the knight maintains his courtly facade, the kindness has faded. The bandits are clever enough to notice, perhaps not the anger that has started to twinge at his jaw but at least the palpable shift in the air, and they shuffle their weights onto their opposite foot, hands anxiously twitching in the direction of their weapons. This, however, they are too clumsy to obscure.

You take stock of it all. They carry tools as makeshift weapons; kitchen cleavers, cattle prods, furnace stokers. They’re clearly not men meant for killing, just men driven by desperation to do it. There’s a strange buzz at the base of your skull as you realize, you are not so different from these bandits.

A rare flutter of empathy has you tipping over the side of Snowdrop to drop to your feet. You reach to circle your fingers over Mingyu’s arm. There’s a tension that pulses in his bicep that you can feel against your fingertips, even through the layers of his clothes. You play your part of a frightened wife faithfully, with a soft murmur, “Come, dearest. The horse isn’t worth our safety.”

The pet name comes off your tongue clumsily, but you hope that the stumble over your words and the tremor in your throat can be attributed to anxiety over the situation. You hope that these men are desperate and nothing more. That they will leave you alone once they have what they want. Already, your mind stirs with the skeleton of a plan to retrieve Summer back. You can let them walk away with her, and then trail after them, steal her back under the cover of night. Please, you think the word as loudly as you can, hoping that it will be heard by the bandits.

Your hope dies as quickly as it had risen, when you watch the man’s thoughtful gaze spoil into something vile.

“Leave the knight. Maybe we can sell ‘im for ransom. Looks important enough for good pay.”

“Certainly pretty enough,” one of the ugly men from behind sneers, which makes the whole brood of bandits chuckle in gravelly unison.

You shift your feet beneath you silently, fingers already itching towards your belt, when the giant man’s mirthless gaze turns to flint as it lands back on you. There’s a moment of contemplation that hardens into distaste.

“Kill his whore.”

The heavy scrape of starsteel against its scabbard is the only permission you receive from the knight before you launch forward. Feather settles into your grateful palm, its weight practiced and comfortable and ready, as you reach the bandit closest to you. His dark eyes light up with alarm only as you pull your blade from his neck slickly, swivelling to seek out the next. By this point, most of the others have roused from the surprise and are pulling their own weapons, with the quickest already in motion.

A glance confirms that Mingyu’s holding off most of the biggest men on his own. He twirls away as the bandit he just cut down collapses towards him, then effortlessly connects his movements into skewering another by the stomach. He fights like he’s dancing, having made even the act of killing into something beautiful.

Your throat aches. Tearing your gaze away from the knight, you dip into a crouch, scarcely avoiding the swing of a club aimed at your head, then use the momentum to kick off the ground, dagger aimed at the assailant’s throat. You end up leaping a bit higher than anticipated, and Feather lodges into the soft bit right beneath the point of the man’s chin. He chokes on his own blood.

You continue, on and on, like this, dodging and lunging. Your legs hurt, your arms hurt, your stomach hurts. You move, terrified that if you stop, you’ll be cut dead. Exhaustion catches up in no time, like a persistent shadow. The beast inside your head roils, fighting to keep the adrenaline dialed at its highest, to survive. The mortal restricted to your body falters, panting raggedly to suck in breaths that don’t come, won’t come.

“Was that the first time you’ve killed?”

It takes a moment to realize, past the ringing in your ears, that Mingyu is speaking to you. Another few heartbeats to pass until you realize that the danger is no more. He stands tall and broad and strung tight with the lingering haze of battle but no longer in motion. With his left hand, he flicks his sword in an attempt to shake the slick sheen of blood clinging to the edge onto the grass below. It’s made of starsteel, the blade nearly your dagger’s larger twin.

All around the both of you are men’s bodies, crumpled and lifeless like forest litter. You count seven in total, two of which you add to your list of stolen lives. The men felled by Mingyu are in rougher shape than your own. Despite the shiver prickling up your nape at the thought of Mingyu’s artful killing, you’re more than grateful that he was here with you.

You suck in air, hiss it out through your teeth, repeat this a few times until your lungs remember how to breathe again without thinking about it. Only when you catch your breath, you shake your head in response, gaze catching on your palms, still trembling, slick with blood. It’s always haunting to realize how bloody fighting with a dagger gets.

Mingyu nods. You notice him staring for a prolonged time and wonder what he seeks from you. Finally, he sinks to a crouch beside one of the dead men and bows his head, lips forming a string of silent words. You watch as he remains in his stance for a few moments before realizing that he’s praying.

“You pray?”

Mingyu lifts his head, eyes still shut as he answers, “Only for the dead. They’re meeting the gods to receive judgment now; they’ll need all the prayer they can get.”

You don’t respond. The knight clears his throat and rises back onto his feet. Once fully straightened, he turns your way and closes the distance, pausing only a few steps before you. The feline tension bleeds away, leaving only the man, eyes creased with unease. Mingyu reaches to hold his hands out, bracketing yours without touching.

“You’re shaking, Owl.” He murmurs, not mocking, just quietly concerned.

“Yeah,” you grunt, curling your fingers into your palms. Even balled into fists, your hands tremor incessantly. “Yeah, this happened the first time, too. Lasted for days.” More to yourself than to him, you mumble, “It’ll pass.”

Mingyu considers this silently. When you steal a quick look at him, his brow is furrowed, lips twisted into a steely frown. It’s an incompatible expression on his usual smiling face. Faintly, you add this to a list of things that you hate. There’s a heavier set to the knight’s shoulders and the line of his mouth, though you’re not sure if it’s because of the bandits or because of you. He looks like he wants to say more, but there’s no time to dither.

The two of you scour through the bodies, Mingyu for gear and tools that look untouched enough, you for coin purses and other shiny things. Despite your quivering hands, your work is quick but meticulous. Within heartbeats, your pockets have swelled exponentially. Within the next hour, you’re back on the road, making scarce of the dark forest, riders and mounts both silent with fading adrenaline and heightened vigilance.

Hours later, the horses stop sweating, breath crystallizes into vapor, and your fingers start to stiffen at the knuckles. The horses’ hooves clomp louder, sharper against the hard, packed earth, and the ground is layered with snow that sticks and doesn’t melt. From ahead, you watch Mingyu slow Summer’s gait as he tilts down to pull a wolfskin cloak from his saddle sack. He hums, content, as he fastens it around his shoulders. They pick their pace back up.

You shift anxiously, as the cold begins to seep into your own clothes. This is the farthest north you’ve ever been already, and the coldest air you’ve breathed yet. All you can do is pull your gloves from your pocket, the deerskin pair that you pilferred from a particularly obnoxious marketplace merchant a few years back. They’re worn from use and meant for work more than for warmth, but they keep your hands covered against the immediate chill. You hunker down in your saddle and pull your hood higher, gripping your cloak by the worn hem and pulling it tighter against yourself to block out the wind.

“Alright back there?”

Your shoulders stiffen, straight as a rod. Mingyu’s still riding easily ahead, but he crooks his chin over his shoulder to puzzle at your disgruntled slump. The world up here is brighter from the snow blanketing everything, the colors more vivid. The knight’s eyes gleam chestnut, his skin golden, the velvet of his doublet crimson, and the fur of his wolfskin midnight. He keeps his sword on his hip now, favoring caution over stealth. For the briefest of moments, you see him as a knight out of stories, valiant and heroic, haloed by the sun like a prince among soldiers. The type of stories that your father would recite you to sleep with and your mother would sing about as she tended to the owlery. The type of stories you once believed in.

Mingyu’s brow furrows at your lack of response, and you hurriedly jerk your chin into a nod.

“Fine, Knight.”

He eyes you for a moment longer, mouth pursing as if he itches to debate, but turns back around to the road ahead. You stare hard at his back, before relaxing once you’re no longer under his scrutiny. You ride for several more silent moments, gritting your molars together to keep them from chattering.

“Stubborn Owl,” Mingyu’s grumble rouses you from your misery, and it’s only then that you realize that Snowdrop has stopped walking. Barely ahead, Summer stamps her hooves in place, huffing from the cold, as her rider rummages through her bags again. Mingyu pulls another pelt, creamy white in contrast to his, and leans backwards to reach it over to you.

Without protest, you accept the cloak, near hissing with relief at the warmth that it immediately brings. You tug it over your shoulders and fasten the clasp, scrunching your nose as the soft furs tickle at your jaw.

“Thank you,” you breathe, too relieved for shame.

Mingyu nods. Then, frustration tugs at his mouth. “There’s nothing wrong with asking for help, you know.”

You shut your eyes with a quick shake of your head.

“Yeah. I’m working on it.”

-

Exactly one week after leaving The Dancing Spider, you arrive at your final rest stop before Taebaek’s gates. Mingyu doesn’t call it so explicitly, but you can tell from the decreased speed with which his jokes come through, from the crease at the corners of his mouth that now frowns too much. He slows into an approach, slides off of Summer with a curt, stifled grunt. He only looks at you through fleeting sweeps of his troubled eyes, as if guilty of something.

There’s no inn this high up the mountains, only a dugout of snow that has piled up taller than Mingyu himself, sheltered by sparse, dying trees.

You work quietly beside one another; Mingyu digging a hole that can house a fire, you tying the horses up nearby and offering them water and fruit. The cold weighs your limbs down, making you move sluggishly. At least, that’s what you tell yourself, as you linger at Snowdrop’s side, pressing your forehead against her mane that smells strongly of earth and faintly of sunlight and lavender, like a happy memory. Silent as ever, she doesn’t even shift as she lets you cling to her to retain any semblence of hope and warmth.

When you return to the dugout, Mingyu sits in front of a living fire, shadows flickering over a pensive frown. It leeches the youth from his face, leaving only a foreign, solemn knight, hewn of cold steel. You hate the sight of it.

“I think Snowdrop thinks of me as a friend now,” you try to call lightly, pushing your lips sideways into a quirk.

Mingyu looks up but doesn’t say anything. Just hands over a few sticks of dried meat that he’s been holding over the fire to warm them. He watches warily as you accept them and find a dry spot to sit across from him, far from the edge of the fire but close enough to feel the warmth of the flames. You pull your legs up and hug them to your chest, chin tucked up onto a knee.

“We reach Taebaek tomorrow,” the knight’s voice catches in the middle of his throat. There’s a slight quiver in his breath as he draws cold air in. “I need to make sure before I tell you the plan. You’re still willing to do this?”

You choke on a laugh that sounds more like a bark. “We’re at its gates. Do I have a choice this far in?”

Something regretful darkens his gaze. You don’t have to hear an answer to know what he thinks. You shrug and lift a stick of jerky to gnaw at it absently.

Finally, Mingyu bolsters himself, hands clutched together above the fire, as if in prayer. You can almost imagine him at the head of a war table, brow knitted together in thought as he discusses strategies with other great knights. You want to imagine him as the Sun Knight, in full armor with his proper colors and heraldry. Instead, all you can see is a husk of the Mingyu that you’ve come to understand, drained of all mirth and clinging to hope and faith. You try not to recall that he only prays for the dead. You look away, heart bleeding, to stare at the flames instead.

“We’ll come to the gates under the guise as the Sun Knight and his prisoner. You’ll go in as an inmate. There is a man named Angel inside. He’s the package that we’re meant to retrieve.”

This much, you already suspected. You tuck the name safely away in your mind. “What does he look like? How will I know who he is?”

“There will be a code exchange to confirm one another’s identity. I cannot give you anything more than that. My orders were to tell you as little as I can. It’s the only way we can ensure that the plan will be successful while protecting you as much as possible. The less you know, the safer you are. Your only instructions are to memorize the exact path that you’re taken inside by the guards, so that once he’s ready, you can lead Angel out. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yes.”

Mingyu hesitates. He unclasps his fingers to pick nervously at his nails. “There’s no room for failure.”

You jerk your chin up, fiercely defiant. You’ve been living a life that gave you no room for failure. “I forget nothing.”

Only then does Mingyu’s creased mouth soften into a fading memory of a smile. “Good. Soonyoung told us that. That’s why he recommended you.”

The sudden mention of your friend threatens to unravel your resolve. Swiftly, you tuck the flare of emotion away, squaring your jaw to insist instead, “Hit me.”

“What?”

You would laugh at the pitch that Mingyu’s voice reaches and the size that his eyes widen to.

“Hit me,” you repeat. “Aren’t I supposed to be your prisoner? I’m in too pristine of a state for that to be believable.”

Mingyu snorts, incredulous, and remains in his seat. “Knights do not harm the innocent. We protect them.” He says this gently, like a reverent mantra.

“Even if you’re given a reason to?” You rise to your feet and cross over to the other side of the fire, letting your fingers dance over Feather for show. “And I’m not innocent. Harm away.” A moment of doubt flickers past you, so you quickly add on, “Leave me my teeth, please.”

“There’s no need for all this.” Mingyu climbs to his feet too and shuffles a few steps backwards, away from you. He chuckles lightly, but his brow twinges, uncomfortable. “Just take the wolfpelt off and rub some dirt on your face.”

“I’m risking my life for this job. We’re doing it thoroughly. This job has become everything to me. We can’t risk failure, not now, when we’re this close. I won’t go back to begging for scraps.”

“You wouldn’t have to—”

“Or else what? I go back to leeching off of Soonyoung’s kindness for the rest of my life? You, the Sun Knight, will sponsor me, a nobody from the Troughs?” Your words fly off of your tongue, furious and frantic now. “People like you will never understand what it’s like. It’s easy for you to be happy and hopeful because it’s all you’ve ever known in your life. You’ll never know what it’s like to fall asleep praying every night that the gods will have mercy on me, so that I won’t wake up in the morning and can finally be rid of it all.”

You finally understand why despite his size and his intelligence and his capabilities, Mingyu still seems like such a boy to you. He carries a boundless idealism for the world, despite all of its faults. His eyes gleam with childlike wonder, especially when the light catches his face. You wish—gods, you wish—that you could have even half of the same optimism, but that chance for hope has died for you, that same day that your world burned up at your hands.

“Besides, you’re the one who said that there’s no room for failure. Don’t act timid now, Knight.”

You don’t mean it, not really, and Mingyu doesn’t deserve any of these terrible words, but your voice continues to ring off of the surrounding cliffs, even as the fight bleeds out from you. You can’t bear to look at him anymore, so you avert your eyes lower, to his hard, frowning mouth.

Mingyu’s nice. Too nice. How can a person be too damn nice? People in the Troughs don’t have room for being kind or generous. It’s disarming. You don’t know how to respond. So you give his chest a weak push with both palms, hissing without venom. He doesn’t even budge.

“Hit me.”

You close your eyes, just before his fist meets your jaw.

-

When light hits Feather’s blade at just the right angle, the silver turns into a mirror.

You hold the dagger up at eye level now, turning it this way and that in inspection. As you’ve gotten older, you’ve fallen into the habit of not staring at reflections for too long, always scared that you’ll find your mother’s or father’s face in your own, even more terrified of seeing and not recognizing them.

Mingyu has done good work, though he has turned sullen and sulks from the opposite side of the dugout as you. Your bottom lip weeps blood steadily from where it got split against your teeth, and there’s a large welt burgeoning over your left cheek bone. Your face throbs along with your heartbeat, and your jaw clicks every time it opens and closes.

Satisfied, you move onto the final thing on your mental list of preparation. You sheathe Feather, unclip your dagger from your belt, and tug the ring off of your left hand. Wistfully, you sweep your fingertips over Feather’s smooth bone handle and dip your thumb into the divot of the wolf ring. You’re reluctant to part with the two beautiful treasures that you’ve been honored to wear on your body, but you know that they’ll be kept safe in your absence. Before you can grow hesitant, you cross over to Mingyu and hand both to him, savoring the perfect heft of Feather in your palm one last time.

“I bequeath the blade to Soonyoung,” you murmur, staring up hard at Mingyu to confirm that he hears and understands. “If something were to happen to me.”

Something dark and thunderous flickers over his face, but he presses his mouth into a tight line and nods, firm. He takes both items from you; first, the ring, which slides onto his littlest finger, then Feather, which he handles with such reverence and care that you think he might love the blade as much as you do.

To your surprise, Mingyu produces something from his pocket and holds it out towards you. It’s another piece of jewelry, a tiny circular pendant wrought of silver on a thin chain. When you regard it, puzzled, all the knight offers is, “A talisman. For protection. The warden allows in whatever you wear on your body.”

You take the necklace. It weighs practically nothing, a thin slip of silver, but there is an etching of a bird—an owl, you recognize—with two tiny amethysts set into place as its eyes. Your nose burns as you blink rapidly down at it and sweep your palms quickly over your eyes in the same fluid motion as pulling the chain over your head.

“Thank you.”

For tonight, you’ll keep the white wolfpelt, devote the silken touch and its cloying warmth and the delicate lavender scent to memory to bring with you into the fortress. This small comfort you allow yourself.

Hours later, as midnight settles into its dominion, you hunch beneath your cloaks, minding the fire while stargazing, sat with your back against one of the tree stumps, head tilted up against the bark.

“I think I know why they call you Owl.”

You glance down, startled by the sudden voice.

From his end of the shelter, Mingyu’s no longer feigning sleep, turned over onto his side to look at you past the dying embers. The night is so black that it appears cobalt, but overhead, the moon glows, swollen with light. For once, the sky bathes Mingyu in silver and blue, the colors of the world you’d known before all this, the colors of your world. Fascinated, you stare, wordless for a moment longer than is expected. You think you much prefer the red and gold on him.

When you stir to your senses, you lean back onto your palms, curling your fingers into the cold dirt. You tip your head with a quiet retort, “I told you exactly why they call me Owl.”

The knight’s lips tug with tired amusement. “Maybe. But it’s only half the reason.”

You consider this, consider his mouth, full and carved and always twitching in mirth. What you’d do to trace the lines of them with your fingertips, if only to feel the craftsmanship of the gods. It could very well be your last days in this life, you think, bemused. You might as well do whatever you’d like.

Instead, you ball your hands, taking large fistfuls of dirt into them. Traitorous, ruinous hands that have only known how to steal and hurt and kill.

“Well, what’s the other half of the reason?”

Mingyu smiles, as if pleased to have been indulged. “Because when you’re watching the stars, especially on a night like tonight, I can see the moon rise in your eyes.”

-

“May I?”

You nod once, voice stolen away by anxiety.

The morning is as gray as the air that hangs low in the dugout. You’d found little to no sleep that night, so Mingyu had risen first, rousing you from the half-doze you’d managed with a gentle hand over your shoulder. When you jolted into sitting up, breath catching halfway up your throat, he’d shushed you gently, brows knitted together in concern. Without words, he’d handed you a mug of hot water and a halved apple, the last of your stores remaining from the farmstand, before retreating away to tend to the horses. He had returned with his sword fastened to his belt, carrying a spool of twine.

Head dipped, you watch quietly as Mingyu reaches for your arms, holding both wrists in one hand, using the other to loop a length of rough twine around them. He leaves no slack, winding and knotting the rope so tight that it leaves deep indents where it lies against your skin. Once he’s done, he ghosts his fingers over the backs of your hands as he pulls away, which you try not to shiver at.

You shift your weight, ready to turn away back towards the road, when Mingyu takes a half step closer, shortening the distance between. He doesn’t touch, only hums a short note, so that your attention snags upwards, towards his face. Mingyu’s gaze burns as it flits over your eyes, the bruise on your cheek, the split in your lip. He reaches a hand up, hovering it just beneath your jaw in silent question.

It could be the last day of your life. So you answer, tilting your head just slightly so that your cheek brushes his palm, warm and calloused. It makes your pulse stutter clumsily. Something fierce begins to bleed into Mingyu’s expression, shifting his solemn despair into a bright devotion.

“Be brave, Owl.”

It’s the last you feel of his warmth. You walk the rest of the way in silence as icy as the terrain around you. Mingyu leads you by a length of rope fastened around your restraints, and you follow faithfully, eyes trained onto his back. In the final stretch of the way up to the gates, you watch as his gait turns purposeful, each foot placed intentionally, and he slides back into that feline warrior you’d witnessed against the bandits.

Finally, Taebaek, northernmost fortress and living grave to the most wicked transgressors of the kingdom appears, nowhere at first and then suddenly looming above you, in a jagged black silhouette that you can barely make out from the swirl of cloud and fog and snow above you. Compared to the severity of the ramparts ahead, its gates are plain and insubstantial, manned only by a single guard at its center.

You don’t realize that you’ve paused to stare, until Mingyu gives a rough tug to your leash and you stumble shakily to your knees. The knight doesn’t even look behind him as he pulls again, until you shove yourself back onto your feet. It’s a facade, you know this, but your stomach roils uneasily and your eyes sting with unshed tears.

“Hail,” Mingyu calls out to the guard. Even his voice is foreign, edged with a threat and growling out from his throat, instead of rumbling in his chest.

“Hail, good Sir. Please state your title and your business.”

Mingyu reaches behind to grasp you by the nape, tender fingertips leaving a trail of shivers in their wake, before they tighten into a claw. He shoves you forward and down onto your knees again, head bowed before the oppressive terror of Taebaek.

“I am the Sun Knight of the Lion’s Pride, Mingyu of House Kim, of the Wolves. I bring before you a criminal, befitting of Taebaek’s eternal embrace.”

-

You’re brought into the stronghold, wrists and ankles and throat shackled by iron. The guard’s touch stings like acid, and he drags you along like a chained beast. Mingyu trails behind you, like a silent shadow, and though you’re endlessly bolstered by his presence, you suddenly wish that he wasn’t here to see you like this. The holding room that you pause within is vast, as wide as a nobleman’s feasting hall and endlessly tall. You steal glances around and find yourself surrounded by massive statues of personified beings that you recognize as the five gods: Sun, Moon, Earth, Sea, and Sky. With a dry swallow, you try to cover the laugh that itches at your throat at the irony of religious symbols in such a godless place.

The guard shoves you back onto your knees. He speaks in a voice as toneless as the air in the room.

“Name your crimes.”

From the corner of your eye, you see Mingyu step forth, ready to deliver whatever he’d planned on professing, but before he can speak, the guard interrupts.

“Pardon, Sir, but here at the fortress, the prisoners are required to offer their sins up in their own voices beneath the gods’ gazes.”

“I was not made aware of this principle.”

“Forgive me, Sir. It is a newer policy that has been created by the High Warden.”

Mingyu shifts his weight, boots scraping the stone beneath anxiously. Whatever script he had created has now dissolved into ashes. No matter. For once in this entire voyage, this is something that you have been prepared for. You keep your head bowed, fettered by the weight of the iron collar, shutting your eyes as you recite the words that you’ve been practicing, every night since you were eight years of age. The prayer that you’ve silently rolled over on your tongue to devote to memory, preparing—in case the gods were real—for the day you would meet judgment.

“I am a kinslayer. My mother and father both perished in a fire of my design. They protected me first, told me to run for safety, not knowing that I was the one who caused the fire. I watched as they choked on the smoke, as they screamed from the flames. I did nothing to help them.”

Now that you’ve spoken the truth out loud, formed them into words and uttered them in your voice, it finally feels real. You had lived all these years blaming the sun, the drought, and the dry heat, but deep down, you had known that there was no other than yourself to blame. It was your fault that your parents and the owls and your home burned into ashes. Everything that came afterwards had been your punishment to bear for making it out alive alone. Though you barely lift your eyes, you can feel the imposing presence of the five gods’ statues, as if their spirits live within the carved stone. Kinslaying alone cannot be sufficient enough to warrant Taebaek’s eternal cold embrace, so you continue.

“I have lived for money. I have looted and stolen and killed others in exchange for coin. Worst of my crimes, I underestimated a knight, the Sun Knight, and thought that I could swindle him. I am only sorry that I got caught doing it.”

Satisfied, the guard who greeted you at the gates grips your chains and yanks hard. You lurch forth, led by the wrists, and swallow away the yelp that forms when the edges of the iron cuffs bite into your arms.

“We’ll take it from here, Sir. Thank you for your escort.”

You can’t even turn to glance one last time at Mingyu before you’re being wrenched forward again.

They lead you down what feels like a thousand corridors, at times taking immediate turns, walking straight for minutes at others. You’re weary, weighed down by your restraints and the frigid, thin air of the mountains, but you take Mingyu’s orders to heart and study each step that you take deeper into Taebaek. Right, right, left, straight for fifty footsteps, left, straight at the gate with a tattered red flag marker. You encode every new direction in your mind and devote it to memory.

You arrive at your cell abruptly. It’s the first holding in a line; you can’t see into the others, but it seems that all of the cells are occupied, judging by the latched doors. The guard who holds your leash shoves you through the gate and slams it shut even before you and your chains have finished crashing down onto the stone floor. Unceremonious and callous.

You wince and pick yourself up to crawl into the cot placed against the far back wall of the cage. The cot can barely be called one, made up of a thin padded sheet that barely blocks the chill from the floor beneath. Nearly every inch of your body aches now, from your untrained legs to the cosmetic beating you’ve received from Mingyu. You long to drift asleep, for just a moment to gain your bearings and regain some strength.

“Hello, new neighbor. Welcome in. I sure hope that you manage longer than the last one. I’m so bored, and the lad on my other side is just so sullen that I fear he might be simple minded.”

A languid voice croons out from the cell to your right. You can’t see who it belongs to from where you are, as only the front half of the shared wall has been set with iron bars, the latter half blocked with gray brick. You’re keen on ignoring them, exhausted and cold, but push yourself up and off of your cot to crawl over to the front of your cell. You kneel, wincing when even the stone’s chill cuts straight through your clothes and into your joints, and grip at the bars to peer into the neighboring cell.

The prisoner occupying it is stretched out onto their own cot but at your rustling turns to glance your way. For a moment, your breath is knocked out of your lungs, as you behold one of the most beautiful people you have ever seen. You had thought that traveling with the Sun Knight had all but immunized you against beauty, but where Mingyu is boyishly handsome, this stranger possesses a delicate, otherworldly elegance. Without a doubt, this is your Angel. You silently thank all of the gods for the fortune they’ve granted you in putting you into this cell. Without hesitation, you forgo all introductions, muttering over the code, an excerpt of a poem, that Mingyu has given you.

“The lion basks, but the sunlight is cold.”

Angel shoves himself to sit up on both arms. He freezes for a moment, glances from you to the wall on his other side warily. The man picks himself up to stand, and when the blanket falls from his lap, you notice his willowy limbs, thin wrists and ankles. There’s a gaunt edge to his cheeks that you’re certain wouldn’t have existed outside of this place, and you wonder how long he’s been imprisoned here for.

He gracefully floats into sitting on his side of the bars, hands brushing the cropped inky hair at his temples back as if he’s used to it being longer and then folding neatly in his lap. This close up, you see that his eyes nearly take up half of his face, vast with something archaic, like wisdom, and something blistering, like rage. It both fascinates and frightens you. Angel observes you as intensely as you do him before he completes the code back to you.

“Burn the clouds and shadows away to bring him warmth.” You watch as the man sweeps his calculating gaze over you. “Hello. I’m Angel.”

You dip your head into a careful nod. “The Sun Knight brought me here. You can call me Owl.”

Angel doesn’t smile—he doesn’t seem like he smiles easily, like Mingyu does—but something disarming and soft curls at his lips. “Pleased to meet you, Owl. How was your journey with our dear Knight?”

“Long. Exhausting. He talks a lot and is infinitely optimistic about everything.”

Angel does laugh, though, in the form of a quick puff of breath that instantly crystallizes. Amusement pulls at his sharp cheekbones, which lasts only for a fleeting moment, before his gaze snags onto your neck where the silver pendant lies in the hollow of your throat.

“Your necklace.” Angel nearly lurches into the dividing wall, thin arms poked between the bars into your cell. You jump and lean back, just barely out of reach from Angel’s hands. At your bewilderment, despite his jerky movements, he explains calmly, “That locket belonged to my little sister. The owl is the symbol of my family, and the amethysts are for the purple of our house colors. Please.”

With the newfound reckoning, your face burns. Of course it had been another facet of the plan and not a piece of Mingyu’s protection to bring in with you. You suddenly feel like an insipid child, stupid and tiny. If Angel notices your hesitation, he doesn’t comment on it, only holds out his hand patiently. You tug the chain up and over your head, passing it over, and with it, all of your lingering thoughts of the Sun Knight.

“Thank you,” Angel breathes, throat warbling, and for a moment, something wet and wistful passes over his eyes. He closes his fist around the locket, clutches it tightly to his chest. When he glances back up, none of the emotion remains, only a hard set to his jaw and a burning, rageful gaze. “The beginning of the end starts now.”

Better for you to know as little as possible, Mingyu had said. Now, as you rot in this tiny cell, you wish that you had even the slightest inkling of Angel’s plan.

Days pass by in a neverending, monotonous blur. You blink awake from restless slumber to the guards rattling their weapons against the barred doors. Shivering, you hunch on your cot, clutching the single blanket you’ve been given as tight as you can to preserve what little heat you produce. Twice a day, they come by with a bowl of cold, gray slop and a cup of water that’s mostly ice. You pick at the food and chew at shards of ice until your teeth chatter so violently that you can no longer.

Angel, despite his emphatic greeting on your first day, has grown withdrawn, silent, and brooding. Whenever you glance through the shared wall, he’s laid on his side, curled towards the far wall so that you can’t even see his face. You stare and stare at his back, waiting for action, waiting for any movement that signals that the plan is in motion. He doesn’t even stir once. He doesn’t even speak a word.

The hope that had been building and rising within you dies. Like a weak flicker of light, dashed out by an avalanche. You think of Soonyoung and the Dancing Spider, of Snowdrop and flying, of Mingyu and his sunkissed face. All things that had seemed too good to be yours forever.

You shut your eyes and try to rest. It seems you have the time now for all of the sleep you’d forgone in the Troughs. Sometimes you fall into black, dreamless naps and wake, even more exhausted than before. Sometimes you dream of golden knights and silver mares and wake with tears clinging to your lashes.

When you wake next, there’s a wild screech, as if metal is being torn apart. You jerk to your senses and push yourself up on your cot, just in time to see that your cell door has been forced open. The two guards that shove inside the already cramped space wear black cloth over their faces, revealing nothing of their identities except for their dark, beady eyes. Even this you barely have the chance to consider, before they reach you, ripping you from the blankets and winding chains around your wrists and ankles. A scrap of fabric that reeks of sweat tightens over your face, stealing your vision away. They yank you forward by the chains, dragging you along the rough stone, knees and elbows scraped as you tumble and fold in disoriented commotion.

“Heard there was a new kinslayer. Heard that it burned its family alive,” one of the men growls, voice tinged with disgust and hatred, “Didn’t think it’d be a tiny little bird. You’re a clever thing, aren’t you?”

A different voice rasps, higher pitched and mischievous, “It’s always the unassuming ones who are the worst. What’s the punishment for this one, boss?”

A quiet hum starts up as the first man considers. There’s a feigned thoughtful note that you can hear straight through. “Eye for an eye seems apt, eh? Bring me the torch.”

Agitation curdles into panic.

“No, no,” you thrash against your bindings, pleading blindly to anyone who might hear, “No fire, please!”

Something harsh and grating meets your ears, and a moment passes before you realize that it’s a cacophony of the guards’ mixed cruel laughter. “Do you think that’s what your mother and father thought in their last moments? No! Please, no! No fire!” The second man mocks loudly.

Your blood runs cold. For once, there’s nothing that you can think of that might get you out of this, nothing clever. Fear grips your heart within icy talons, rendering you powerless and defeated. You slump weakly against your restraints, staring at the black of the blindfold in hopes that the moment will pass quickly.

“Oh,” the first guard rasps, and you can hear his feet scuffing the stone as he shifts his weight. “That’s it, that’s a good little bird. No fire, since you’re behaving so well. You’re lucky that it’s me, you know. I don’t delight in tormenting little birds like some of the other guards here do.”

For a moment, your heart lifts with hope. Then, the screech of metal sliding against metal meets your ears. You barely recognize that something has happened, that something has changed, until you catch a waft of smoke and cooked flesh, like meat on a spit. The backs of your eyes flash with the explosions of a million tiny stars as a white-hot touch kisses your skin, at the juncture of neck and shoulder. It burns, so intensely, that for a moment, it feels like ice.

By the time that you recognize the sound of your own voice, keening and screaming and begging for it to stop, your mind is already distant, shoving away as far as it can manage. You nudge the part of you that feels the pain to the edges of your mind, letting something else fill it wholly. Vaguely, you recognize more jeering, more snickering.

Right, right, left, straight for fifty footsteps, you recite faithfully, mouthing along to the words so that you don’t lose your place. Red flag in tatters.

You’re still murmuring the directions to yourself when they shove you back into your cell. They only let the blindfold fall once the door shuts behind the guards, but it doesn’t matter that you haven’t seen their faces. You’ve heard their voices, and you’ll never forget them. You lie there, curled on the filthy stone, devoting the cadence and the rasp and the hatred of their words to your memory.

To your right, motion flurries as Angel appears at the shared wall. He curls his fingers around the bars, brow furrowed above eyes wide and black. “Owl,” he calls, “I’ll end it all, soon. Soon. I’m sorry.” He whispers fiercely, voice soft but brimming with fury, silver owl’s pendant gripped tightly in his fingers, “I’m so sorry. You weren’t supposed to get hurt.”

You blink away tears, watching as the man called Angel turns into the image of a vengeful demon.

“Tomorrow, we get an hour in the yard. I’ll come find you there.”

-

“Yer a bottom feeder, aren’t ya?”

You peer up to a voice that sounds like stones scraping against each other. You had found and hunkered down in a far corner of the bare courtyard that they’d led the prisoners in your cell block out to, hoping to avoid any encounters with anyone but Angel. Not much luck there.

The voice’s owner is as ugly as it is, frame withered beneath a fashion of tattered rags and mouth pulled into a permanent sneer to show crooked and broken teeth. His greasy hair falls in sparse, limp clumps from a nearly bald scalp, pocked with scars and other blemishes. Despite his own terrible state, he manages to peer down his nose at you, airs shockingly condescending.

“What does it matter to you?” You bite out, pulling your legs closer to your chest and looping your arms around your knees. “We wound up in the same place in the end.”

The man’s snarl turns into a grin, which somehow makes him even uglier. “Knew it. I can sniff out a rat no matter where I go.” He tips his head to the side and makes a slow, careful appraisal of your face, which makes you feel filthy, even without being touched. “Though yer a pretty little rat, aren’t ya?”

You quiver and tuck your chin away, wincing when the motion pulls at the wound on your collar. The man starts to say something again, in that terrible, grating voice of his, when another interrupts him icily.

“Rancor, piss off.”

Just behind the withered man’s shoulder, Angel has appeared, as silent as a shadow. His eyes burn hot, but his voice comes clipped and as frigid as the mountain air.

Rancor’s attempt at a smile wipes away. “Oh? The pretty princeling can speak!”

Angel only flickers his dark gaze over to you. “I said. To piss off.”

“I’m just makin’ friendly chit-chat, is all. What’s it to yer royal sweetness?”

Before the man can continue, Angel dips his head just before Rancor’s ear to whisper something that you can’t catch. You watch as Rancor’s derision turns into fear. The withered man scampers away as quickly as he’d appeared before you, and you ease ever so slightly.

Angel dips into a crouch before you, using careful hands to tilt your jaw back. He tuts his tongue as he examines the skin there, skims his fingertips along the boundary of the wound. His touch is gentle, but the memory of the burning frightens you into flinching.

“Sorry,” the man soothes quietly and pulls away. Instead, he reaches low to gather your bare feet in his hands. His palms are warm as they try to massage some feeling back into them. “Where’d your shoes go?”

You blink once, twice. “Someone stole them, I think.” A dry laugh catches in your throat at the irony of it all.

Angel watches you carefully, and you try not to squirm beneath his intense appraisal. He thinks for a long while, as if deliberating with himself, then clenches his jaw, mind made up. He throws a careful glance over his shoulder to the rest of the yard, where the other inmates mill around in slow, fatigued motions. When he looks back at you, Angel’s face mirrors the expression he wore a few days back, when you were returned after your branding, fiercely determined and endlessly furious.

“Owl,” he murmurs, thumb sweeping over your ankle bone. “It’s happening soon. We’re to act on a moonless night.” You think back to last night’s sky; the moon had been nearly half-full still.

“Five, six days?” You whisper.

“Yes,” Angel hums. Another brush over your heel. He means to be calming you, you realize belatedly. You’re still not entirely certain of Angel, but he’s the only one you’re meant to trust in this grim fortress. “Your job is to hold out as best as you can manage until then. Keep your head down, and keep yourself safe. Do you remember the way out?”

You nod. “I never forget a thing.”

Angel’s lips press into something as close to a smile as he can manage. “Good. I’m relying on you to lead us out.” His brow creases as something rueful flickers over his beautifully enraged face. “You weren’t supposed to get hurt. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. When we get out of here, I’ll make everything right.”

For the remainder of your time allotted out in the yard, Angel sits beside you, straight-backed and legs folded neatly. He glares at every person who dares to drift over to stare curiously at the pair of you. In a soft hum, he reveals to you everything.

Angel confirms the rumors of the former queen mother as true. She had been incarcerated at this very prison after ordering the deaths of the son and first grandson, robbing the kingdom of its Crown and his heir. Before the assassinations had occurred, she had enlisted a naive kitchen maid’s help in experimenting with her weapon of choice, and a smatter of young ladies in the court had been senselessly murdered. Angel’s younger sister had been one of them. He says this all in an even, detached drone, as if dwelling on any one word will undo his resolve. The anger never leaves his face.

You understand, finally, what the job is.

When the guards shout for your return at the top of the hour, you let yourself be pulled up to your feet by Angel, relieved to have learned the motive for this job. Justice, you might find unfamiliar, but vengeance agrees with you greatly.

-

The days bleed into one another slowly. You stare up at the waning moon each night, stomach aching as you count down until the moment of escape. Confined into the cramped cells once more, you spend most of your time curled beneath your blankets, heeding Angel’s words carefully and keeping yourself as safe as you can manage.

Angel no longer seethes in silent solitude after the day in the yard. He calls over questions about everything and nothing in a loud voice, feigning innocent boredom. Despite it, you think you can read the sincerety in his curiosity. Sometimes, you’re in your cots as you talk, staring up at the ceiling. Most of the time, you sit across one another at the shared wall, so close that your knees brush through the spaces between the bars, that you can speak in whispers.

You tell Angel about your owlery and about growing up beside winged creatures, battling a consuming envy from your own inability to fly. He laughs and brushes his fingers over your wrist when you tell him that you broke it as a child jumping out of a tree in an attempt to learn. He hums thoughtfully when you tell him that riding a horse feels like what you’d imagine flying would be like and that you’d like to own a horse, faster than the wind, one day.

Angel tells you that he misses his family. That he respects his father more than anyone else in the world, that he heeds his mother’s words more than anyone else’s in the world, that he adores his younger sister more than anyone else in the world. All this, he says with equal parts joy and sorrow. Angel loves his family so fiercely that your own heart aches. You wonder if you’ll ever love another the same, if you’ll ever be loved the same.

He asks you for your crimes. You tell him that you’d killed your parents in a fire.

You ask him for his. Angel murmurs in a tone close to murderous that he had all but been the one to condemn his own sister to death. That his hand had been the one to deliver poison straight to her door the night that she died. You read the abject void in his eyes as he recites this and decide to ask no more of him.

The night that the moon is barely more than a sliver in the sky, Angel whistles, already sat on his side at your shared wall. Exhaustion weighing down your limbs, you pull yourself from the cot and crawl towards the wall curiously. As soon as he sees you, Angel reaches his hands past the bars towards you, pressing a cold palm against your cheek, hooking his fingers to lift your chin. He hisses softly at the same time that you whine, as your wound tugs painfully.

“Owl,” Angel murmurs, brows knitted together, “How are you feeling?”

You shrug. “A little tired, I think. Cold.”

“Cold?” He turns the palm against your face over to press his even colder knuckles to your cheekbone. “You’re burning up. And that’s not looking so good.”

Your eyes flutter shut, as you lean into his touch. After flinching away from contact with others for so long, you’ve become reliant on these fleeting moments with Angel, who offers his gentle hands as comfort in this horrid, vacant place. You’re not sure how else you could have managed without them.

“I’m okay,” you insist hazily, unsure if your mind fogging is from the fatigue or from a fever. Nevertheless, you recite your memorized directions silently to make sure that it won’t affect tomorrow’s plan; you manage without stumbling. “I’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”

Angel holds your face, eeriely still. His mouth purses in thought, as he runs calculations in his mind. Whatever he concludes on doesn’t please him. You can tell by the way his expression darkens, so you reach up to grip at his fingers, as firm as you can manage.

“Angel. I have battled worse than this before. I will not fail.”

“Everything must go accordingly for us to make it. It will need to be perfect.”

You’re unyielding when you urge, “I will be perfect.” And he must see something convincing enough. Angel nods once to you, once for himself.

“Alright. Our trust lies in you.”

The morning is gray and silent, as if all of the air has been sucked out from the atmosphere.

You cling to your blankets, shivering despite the palpable flush in your cheeks. When you swallow hard, your throat sticks to itself, dry and painful. Hard to remember what this was for. What you’re so hellbent on making it out of here for, instead of letting yourself fall into the tantalizing pull of sleep. Everything’s so cold, your throat and head so hot, and all you’d like to do is fall back into your cot and tug the blanket up to your nose.

A scuff from the cell to your right has you blinking your eyes back open. Angel is a dark smudge curled at his cell door, knocking a fist against the metal slab.

“Quit all the noise,” a gruff voice grunts from the hall.

Angel slams his hand harder. “The girl has an infection. She needs to be seen at the infirmary, or else she’ll die.”

The guard laughs in a sneer. “Great. She’ll be one less mouth to feed.”

You quiver at the thought. Angel hangs his head, frustrated, before he clenches his jaw and punches the door once more.

“That’d be the fifth death in a month’s time. Don’t you think the High Warden will get suspicious? Early deaths mean shorter punishments.” Angel lets out a derisive snort. “That girl’s been here two weeks. Hardly long enough to even consider penance.”

There’s a pause, as the guard outside seemingly contemplates this.

“Fine. But you’ll go and grovel for help.”

Angel turns to glance at you through the bars, mouth curled in triumph. The dim of the cell casts a shadow over his ethereal face, which makes his eyes smolder brighter. I’ll be back, he mouths soundlessly.

You nod, and he’s gone. You shut your eyes, only while you wait out his return.

Your eyes shoot open at the sound of metal creaking. It takes you a moment to realize that your cell door has been swung wide and then another to realize that the man inside your cell isn’t a guard, but Angel wearing a guard’s gray uniform. The cloth mask obscures most of his face, but you could recognize those eyes anywhere. Now, there’s a vivid alarm in them, as he thrusts over a bundle of cloth. Another uniform set.

“Put this on,” he orders, words clipped and void of anything but urgency, “We’re moving now.”

The exhaustion evaporates as your brain floods with adrenaline. Hurried but steady, you pull the trousers on over your threadbare pants. While you’re shoving your arms through the tunic and cloak, fastening the mask over your nose and mouth, Angel drops to a crouch to help you fold up the extra length of the legs into neat cuffs. Still no shoes. No matter.

Angel straightens to standing, takes one look at you, and then he’s lurching out of the cell. He hurtles down the hallway, in the direction that you were brought over, but when he reaches the end of it, he swivels his head left to right, unsure.

Without pause, you take the lead, letting the mantra in your head play in reverse as you retrace your memories. On and on, the two of you stalk down the halls, in a clipped, urgent manner, turning stoically silent whenever you pass by other guards, who barely pay you any mind. You only let go of the shallow breath that you’d been holding in when you reach the red flag in tatters. Only a bit left to go. Straight for fifty footsteps.

On the fortieth step, you nearly barrel straight into a pair of guards, burly and unyielding. This far away from the cells, they must be part of the gate watch. The men fan out and block the hallway. The one on the left narrows his eyes. The one on the right doesn’t even feign doubt, and his hand reaches for his belt.

Made clumsy with fever and fatigue, you barely register the silver flash of a blade before you’re being roughly shoved aside by Angel, who has lunged forth to deflect the weapon with a knife of his own. The blades squeal in a nasty clash of metal, which rattles you enough to jerk to your senses. Angel, despite his slight and delicate build, makes quick work of the guard, slicing neatly at his wrist so that his fingers loosen around his weapon.

You recover, dipping to snag the blade by the handle as it falls before it even hits the ground, and you’re ducking beneath Angel’s arm to dart forward. The guard on the left doesn’t even make a sound as you spring up to score his throat with the dagger.

“Go,” Angel hisses. You glance over just enough to see him do the same to his opponent. The bodies crumple to the stone in unison. It was a nearly soundless struggle, but there’s no telling when the next round of sentries will come through.

You obey.

Ten more steps, right, left, left. The hall leads into the massive holding room where you were made to confess your crimes. It’s empty, save for the statue of the gods and their presence. You wonder what they think of what they see; two false inmates hurtling past in stolen uniforms, killing like it means nothing more than survival.

It’s only a straight shot from the room to the perilous stone bridge that leads to the front gates. Instead of being resolutely shut against the outside, you squint through the fog to find that one gate has been cracked open. As you hurtle closer, you find a heap of dark uniforms, more fallen guards, snow soaked red.

Angel bounds forward and through the gates, through freedom, reaching to grip you by the wrist and tug you out with him.

“Jeonghan!”

Just up ahead from a nearby bank of snow, the subject of your greatest nightmares in the past two weeks awaits, stalwart and tall and terribly handsome. The Sun Knight stands, blood-soaked sword in one hand, a blazing torch in the other. Sturdy Summer stamps her hooves at his side, while silent Snowdrop waits patiently a few yards back from where she’s been tied. He whistles, sharp and shrill, tipping his head to the side as he gestures for the two of you to move back. Then, you watch, curious and confused, as he throws the torch. It sails over the gates in a blaze and lands atop the slain bodies, where it catches rapidly, hungrily, as if they’d been soaked in oil.

“That’s the last of the gates,” Mingyu grunts, chest heaving with exertion. “Taebaek should be up in flames within the hour.”

You blink once, twice. Then, you stare harder through the fog, towards the hazy silhouette of the fortress. Its stark towers and spires, north, east, and south, are smudged by thick clouds of gray—smoke—and at parts, patched with flickering color: red, yellow, and orange—fire. Haltingly, you try to piece together an explanation, but the cold and the relief flooding your veins snuff out any attempt at forming logic.

Angel—Jeonghan—catches you by the elbow and holds you by the waist just as you start to sag into his side. “Owl,” he murmurs, voice no more than a breath, “We made it.”

Mingyu trudges through the snow, closing the distance, and takes Jeonghan into a tight embrace, hissing, “Jeonghan, you mad devil. It’s good to see you.” Still pressed into Jeonghan’s side, you also get pulled into Mingyu’s warmth and the scent of leather and cloves, the same that your nightmares were cloyed with.

Without letting go, Mingyu turns his honeyed gaze to you, relief and worry equally bright in his face. “Owl, you are a miracle. A godsdamned miracle.” Then, he reads the tight urgency in Jeonghan’s expression. “What’s wrong?”

The last of the adrenaline fades, and your knees buckle. You let out a weak cry, but faster than you can fall, Mingyu dips to snake his arm over your waist. He tucks you against his side, reaching to pull a side of his black wolfcloak over your shoulder. The instant warmth makes you shiver violently, a whine catching in your throat. “I’ve got you,” he mumbles, still looking to Jeonghan for a response.

“Infection, I suspect,” Jeonghan answers, words clipped and purely efficient. “There’s a burn on her neck that doesn’t look good. I’m worried that it’s so close to her head and her heart.”

Mingyu crooks his head to pull back the collar of your uniform. When he speaks next, his voice has turned icily quiet, “They branded her?”

Jeonghan’s eyes darken in a stony, silent reply. “How long did it take you to ride here?”

“Eight days. Though, we started at the Spider, so it took half a day to even get out of the city.”

“Are the horses well rested?”

“Snowdrop is anxious to run; we were moving too slow for her liking. Summer hasn’t been doing so well in the cold, so I’m sure she’s eager to leave. We can move quick, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Jeonghan hums as he considers this. “Three days?”

“Might be possible. We make minimal stops and ride through the night.”

“It’ll have to be done.”

By now, you’ve stopped listening, too exhausted to pay attention to the two men as they murmur their plans. You watch through lidded eyes as they agree on something and as Jeonghan approaches Snowdrop with an outstretched hand. To your surprise, the white mare chuffs happily, and you watch as a genuine smile stretches at Jeonghan’s mouth. Of course, you think to yourself with a strange pang in your heart. Jeonghan is Snowdrop’s rider. Both remarkable creatures of an otherworldly beauty. You can’t help but smile too at their reunion.

“Owl.” Your attention draws back as Mingyu calls. “You’re going to be riding back with me. Is that alright?”

You nod. How chivalrous of him to ask, you muse to yourself. A knight in every manner of the word. A funny warmth spreads in the pit of your stomach.

With your permission, Mingyu lifts you up onto Summer’s saddle, then slides up into his seat behind you, chest to your back, legs bracketed around yours. You have no room to be shameful as you greedily lean into his heat, sighing when he brings his cloak back around to cover you.

“Mingyu,” you breathe.

It’s much too cold, even tucked beneath the knight’s wolfskin, but it’s warm where Mingyu holds you against his chest, arm banded over your waist tightly so that you won’t slide from the saddle. When he doesn’t respond, you call his name again, firmer this time, and watch with hazy delight as his lips part and gaze darts down to you in surprise.

The clouds overhead have just begun to break, and daylight spills onto his face and turns his gaze molten and golden. It’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s made up in your head anymore, but one thing is certain. You need to tell him what you’ve been thinking since the first moment that you met him before you lose your chance to. Already, your head’s spinning, vision flickering in and out, as the fever threatens to consume you whole.

You warble the words out, clumsily earnest, “I know why they named you the Sun Knight.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because you have been kissed by the sun, and it rises in your eyes.”

As you mumble, you spend the rest of your strength in holding yourself upright and slump into the knight’s hold, consciousness slipping away from you like sand between your fingers. The last thing you hear is Mingyu’s voice, as gentle as the sweep of his mouth over your brow.

“And the moon in yours, dear Owl.”

-

“Now there’s a proper owl. Jeonghan, you’re more of a peacock, really.”

You dip your head, bashful at the immediate attention drawn to you as you slip out into the hallway to join up with the entourage awaiting you. Jeonghan greets you with a hand that tightens over your elbow, firm and bolstering, as he jipes back at his father, “At least that means I’m beautiful.”

He tips his face down to study yours, winking when he sees that you smile at his theatrics. Only a few weeks have passed since the escape from Taebaek, but the hard edges of his cheeks and jaw have eased away. When he brushes his fingers against his temples out of habit, his hair there has grown long enough now to be swept back. If you had thought that Jeonghan was beautiful back when you first met him, he is truly angelic here, at home and with his family and friends, draped in his purple silks and decorated with jewelry, color in his softened cheeks.

Lord Yoon sighs, exaggerated and loud, before he shakes his head, holding his brow. “My own son,” he laments. “Where did we go wrong?”

For someone as formidable as the Crown’s Master of Whispers, Jeonghan’s father behaves rather impishly around his family, you’ve come to learn. It’s not difficult to see where Jeonghan’s personality comes from.

It’s also not difficult to see where his beauty comes from. Radiant as ever, Lady Yoon smiles, tittering gracefully behind her hand, as she ushers you both forward. “Let me take a good look at you,” she murmurs, taking you from Jeonghan’s side to hold you at arm’s length. “Now, you are truly our daughter, in name and in looks.”

Weeks ago, you’d woken up, not in hell, not on a dingy Trough tavern bedroll, but in a plush palatial infirmary bed. Infection had rendered you near death for the first days, the healers had informed, but by the gods’ good graces, and the Crown’s personal order to do whatever was deemed necessary to keep you alive, you’d managed to be brought back from the brink. Once regaining consciousness and recovering in the infirmary, you received notice of an account at the Crownsland Bank made under your name—your real name, which you hadn’t even told Soonyoung—with the credit of one hundred thousand Dragons. It hadn’t, however, changed the fact that you still had no home or family to return to. They allowed you to stay in the infirmary for as long as you needed to gain your bearings, but the implication was made clear that you couldn’t live there permanently, of course.

In the midst of your fretting about overstaying your welcome, Jeonghan had paid you a blustering visit, frightening all of the infirmary personnel with his sudden appearance. He thrust upon you a stack of papers, scrawled with plenty of words, most of which you couldn’t even make sense of, and announced that his family had put in a formal request to the Crown to adopt you into their house, effective immediately. You later learned that the Crown had signed off on the request immediately because Choi Seungcheol never denied his childhood friend anything, especially not after the mission that he overtook to deliver his vengeance. Within an hour’s time, and with no regard to your own say in the matter, you had been brought over to the Yoons’ grand estate in the Western Quarter of the Crownslands and written down in all official documents as a noblewoman of the House of Owls, tacked onto the current generation as the third Yoon issue.

In your first days on the palacegrounds, you learned that the presence of Jeonghan’s true sister still lingered everywhere. Everyone that you’ve met in Court has had nothing but noble things to say about her: that she was even more beautiful than her brother, that she was intelligent and kind and talented, that she was taken too soon, too unfairly from this world. You remember Jeonghan’s grief when he saw her locket around your throat, the ire in his voice as he delivered his vengeance, the immense love that he has for her. You could never amount to anything remotely close, and you don’t want to. If they look upon you, hoping that they’ll find a glimpse of the late Yoon daughter, they’ll find nothing but disappointment, and you don’t intend to make a mockery of the dead.

You’d belatedly learned a lot of other things too. That the silver necklace you entered Taebaek with had truly once belonged to Jeonghan’s sister. That it was actually a locket that carried poison. That he had used it to kill the queen mother in the infirmary because he had known that she was recovering there from an illness.

A love for a sister great enough to deliver himself as a prisoner and weather Taebaek’s frigid cruelty for months, with blind trust that someone would be as crazy enough as him to complete his plan.

You reach for Lady Yoon’s hands to close your fingers around hers and correct, “Adopted daughter.”

“Semantics.” Jeonghan shatters through the moment with a languid grouse, returning to your side to hold you by the elbow again. He rolls his eyes, but there’s a fond curl to his mouth as he complains, “Come, dear sister. I’m starving, and I would love to go pester the sovereign Crown of our beloved kingdom.”

The affair of the night is a celebration that the Crown has requested for Jeonghan’s safe return. You feel strange feasting over an event that, at its core, burnt down a stronghold and its hundreds of occupants and nearly killed you, too, but Jeonghan’s presence smoothes out your nerves and so do his smiles that have been coming easier since being home.

The event, touted as private and intimate, is hosted in the palace proper, within a ballroom that Jeonghan claims to be the smallest and least ornate, but you can’t help craning your neck back to stare up at the massive chandelier and the grand painted ceiling as he leads you past the threshold. Everything glitters, gilded in gold or silver, and with each turn of your head, a jewel winks in the corner of your vision. At your side, Jeonghan waits patiently, smile curling wider with every amazed breath catching in your throat.

Before you can allow yourself to marvel further, you accompany the Yoons up to the dais to give your greetings to the Crown. Seungcheol meets them with warm familiarity and gives you a welcoming smile too, but while they share polite conversation, you can’t seem to still your nerves around the Crown and his proximity, having had every reason to fear authority in the past. As your family dips respectfully and steps back to allow another noble family to make their greetings, you think that you won’t ever adjust to living in the Crownslands, never mind as part of the family closest to the sovereign’s.

You follow along the Yoons, mouth pulled into a strained smile as noblemen and women step forward to greet Jeonghan and introduce themselves to you. They marvel over your successful return, each new encounter tacking on another detail of the mission, made increasingly valiant and noble. You wonder if they know how you blubbered like a child when the guards burned you, or if the stories omit that bit.

“Hail, Owl.”

You crook your head over your shoulder, immediately savoring the sight you’re rewarded with. The third and final guest of honor, Mingyu approaches elegantly, dressed in crimson silk fitted so perfectly, as if the lengths of fabric had been draped over him and then cut to length and fashioned together upon his frame. His collar cuts low just enough to reveal the jut of his clavicle and the golden pendant hanging at his throat, carved with a star-eating wolf. His hair, which by the end of your journey had grown long enough to curl boyishly at the nape, has been cropped neatly. Off of his warhorse and out of his riding leathers, Mingyu looks the image of a proper nobleman. It’s the first that you’ve seen of him since you fell unconscious in his saddle, before your life changed so drastically. You wish, desperately, that you were immune to his charms, so that you wouldn’t be standing here in the middle of the hall, gaping.

“Hail, Knight.” You recover a beat too slowly, and Jeonghan snickers from your side. You shoot him a glare, but your adopted brother only dips to ghost his lips over your forehead in parting and sweeps away, off on a quest to bother as many of his friends as possible, no doubt.

“The sigil is fitting, of course.” Mingyu graces you with a smile, gaze dipping to your neck, where the silver owl locket he once handed you hangs. Jeonghan had returned it, poison-free, to you as a gift to celebrate your adoption. “But how are you getting along with your new House colors?”

The Yoon banners fly purple and silver. You’re in no position to mind them, previously having had no symbol nor color to your family’s name, but you’re still getting accustomed to a wardrobe of only colors, especially when you’d worn the drab grays and browns of the Troughs for most of your life. When the attendants appeared at your door earlier, they couldn’t be turned away, not today, insisting that they must help you dress for an audience with the Crown. You had had no choice but to let yourself be pressed into a garment of violet silk so soft that it feels like running water over your skin. You glance down at yourself now, at the dress, at the owl in flight embroidered in delicate silver thread onto your sleeve, at the heavy rings that have been resized to perfectly slide onto your fingers. Suddenly, you’re aware of the knight’s silent appraisal of you, and you run your palms down the silken sleeves, a bit self-conscious.

“Getting used to it still. To all of it, really. What do you think?”

Mingyu's grin is quick, eager. “I think you look like royalty.”

You nearly forget yourself, whatever you were meaning to say sticking to the back of your throat. Before you can allow yourself to flush at how guilelessly he answered, someone catches your attention from the corner of your vision, enrobed in sleek black. Sharp teeth, even sharper eyes flash your way, and you turn away from the knight, tucking your prior thoughts away for later reflection, towards the approaching newcomer, hissing out with no real venom.

“Traitor. You lied to me.”

Kwon Soonyoung grins back at you with a one-shouldered shrug. “Technically, everything I’ve told you is truthful. I own The Dancing Spider. I run a network.”

Turns out, Kwon Soonyoung doesn’t just run a network; he is the network. In your days recovering in the infirmary, through your sparse conversations with the healers’ assistants, you’d picked out the truth about your friend, the tavern owner, who, in actuality, was the second child and only son of House Kwon and the prodigious master of the Crown’s extensive network of mercenaries, sellthieves, and other rogueish informants. A Spider with a web that reaches across every nook and cranny of the kingdom.

“Whatever,” you sniff blithely, studying the man. “Lying by omission is still lying.”

He’s traded his simple clothing—which you suppose was more of a disguise for him—for an ornate black doublet, tailored perfectly to his form. There’s a spider stitched in iridescent thread at his chest, its legs radiating out from the center to the sides, encircling his ribcage. Here, Soonyoung even carries himself taller, more assured, sharp gaze steely and serious. You wonder, now, which version of Soonyoung is the truest.

“I thought you were a common house pest. Didn’t realize you were the Crown’s Spider.” You’re not sure how to tell him that you’re glad to see him again, that you appreciate everything that he’s done for you all these years, so you settle for the next most pressing thought in your head, squinting in scrutiny, “I can’t believe you had me paying you copper coins when you’re the heir to a noble House, Kwon.”

Soonyoung huffs, shoving a hand into his pocket and pulls out something that you can’t recognize. He tosses it over your way, which you easily snag out of the air. You glance down at your palm and find it weighted down by a tiny leather pouch. When you ease the drawstrings open, you spy the contents, a mixture of mostly copper, some silver coins.

“I was going to return them all, some day, and tell you the whole truth, too.” The Spider winks at you rakishly. “Though you also don’t need them anymore, hm?”

“I’ll find a use for them.” You grin back, reaching for your pockets before quickly realizing that your new silks have none. Another thing that needs getting used to; noblewomen apparently have no need for pockets, not when their attendants can hold and carry things for them.

Instead, a large upturned palm slides into view. You tilt your head up and find Mingyu reaching for the pouch, eyes alight with purpose, no matter how small, eager to serve. Your heart stutters over itself.

As if he can hear it, Mingyu flashes you a tiny smile, “Let me hold onto them for you, my lady.”

You sniff to feign indifference, drop the pouch of coins into his hand, and stride off without a word, in search of Jeonghan’s bracing presence, and a cold drink.

Having successfully found one and not the other, you stick along the wall, glass in hand, as you scan the room and its inhabitants. Amusement tugs at your lips as you watch Soonyoung bicker with Jeonghan about something you can’t quite catch from this distance. Others, whose faces and names you’ve been briefed on but haven’t been introduced to, mill around in their own circles, but you catch the shared fondness and familiarity in the way they look at one another. Trusted friends from childhood, from birth, as Mingyu had once described to you.

Even the older members of Court seem to have their established groups. Jeonghan’s parents recline in easy conversation with a woman robed in black and the spitting image of Soonyoung and the Master of Arts, whose own son, Chan, laughs boisterously in the crowd watching the argument.

You think that you’ve gone unnoticed by the room, especially from your spot between the folds of the window curtains, so you jolt, alarmed, when someone calls you by your given name.

The Crown himself has managed to sidle up beside you. Much like the lion of his family’s heraldry, he wears his hair in a thick, black mane, swept back and off of his forehead, wisps curling at his nape. There’s a curve to his mouth, but the intensity of his gaze arrests you in space. As he approaches, so close that you can smell the coiling incense on the brushed velvet of his coat, he lifts his own flute of wine between loose fingers towards your direction in greeting.

Your spine straightens, and you stammer, “Just Owl is fine.” Then, you add clumsily with a stifled wince, “If it pleases the Crown.”

“Just Seungcheol is fine,” he copies your words, smiling politely and almost sheepish, “I apologize. I don’t mean to frighten you, Owl.”

“Not at all. It’s just—” You thumb at the rim of your glass, catching a drop, ruby red, onto your finger, stealing glimpses of the Crown from the corner of your eye. “I’ve committed crimes in return for coin. I should be locked up in a prison, never mind live in the Crownsland and drink sweetwine with royalty and noblemen and ladies. Pardon me if I’m a bit…fidgety in your presence.”

Seungcheol hums a note, low and contemplative in his throat.

Even without looking straight at him, you can feel his gaze, searching and curious, at your collar, where the brand left by the Taebaek guard hides beneath your clothes. The attendants had carefully applied a salve onto the still healing wound, wrapping it with a piece of linen bandage, and then obscuring it beneath the collar of your silks. You’re no stranger to scars and find no shame in it being visible, but the first and only time Lady Yoon had seen the blemish, she’d grown pale and visibly uneasy so you’ve taken towards having it hidden away in the presence of nobility.

“You’ve bled for the Crown, so now the Crown bleeds for you.” A grin, suddenly boyish, snags at his mouth as he adds, “Metaphorically, of course.”

You smile back faintly. “I didn’t know I was doing it for the Crown. Even if I did know, I certainly would have done it for my own gains.” A quick glance around the room and its occupants, opulent and bright and merry, makes something bitter rise in your throat. “And look how much I have gained overnight for it.”

“Do you think yourself undeserving of it?”

You turn with a blink, surprised. Without an ounce of doubt, you answer solemnly, “Of course. A few weeks ago, I was an orphan and a Trough rat. Today, one of the most powerful families in the Crownslands calls me their daughter. All because I played the right game and played it well.”

Seungcheol’s gaze crosses over to Jeonghan, who is wholly rapt with his companions and unaware of your own. “I think you will find that you are not so different from your brother, Owl,” the Crown muses softly, then lifts his glass to take a long sip. Then, attention snagged by a group of crimson-robed individuals, he gestures towards them and prompts, “Handsome family, aren’t they?”

At the farthest end from your spot, Mingyu mingles with three others who are very clearly his parents and sister. As Seungcheol says, they are all magnificent, tall and elegant, shrouded in red and gilded in gold. You murmur your agreement, fascinated by the identical slant and sharp inner corners of Mingyu’s and his sister’s eyes, beautiful even from this distance.

“The House of Wolves is an old one,” Seungcheol hums, tapping his fingers along the stem of his glass, “The Kims have been around for as long as the Chois. They could have vied for the Crown at any moment in history and won it, probably. Their numbers are far greater than ours, and they’re masters of war, even in this era. At twenty, Mingyu’s father was named the youngest commander in a century’s time, under my grandfather’s reign. His mother is an unparalleled strategist, with his sister right behind her heels. Mingyu himself is one of the finest knights we’ve seen ever.”

You tear your gaze away from the family laughing together to regard the Crown cautiously. “Do you suspect that the kingdom is at risk of a coup?”

Seungcheol only chuckles, with a curt shake of his head. “No. House Kim doesn’t envy the throne. The wolves put family above all else, and nothing else will sway them.” His voice takes a thick, bitter turn when he continues. “Perhaps my house should have done the same. Maybe I would have a family yet.”

Jeonghan had told you the truth, the whole truth. The queen mother, Seungcheol’s grandmother, had slain her own son and grandson, purely out of displeasure that her husband hadn’t chosen her favorite son as his heir. She had appointed one of her loyal courtiers as the newest High Warden of Taebaek, expecting to be condemned there after the murders, in exchange for a comfortable life in the fortress. There had been a plush feather bed and a compact brazier in her cell, Jeonghan had discovered on his way to the infirmary.

A wistful haze flickers over the Crown’s eyes, and you read it instantly. It’s the grief that comes with being the sole survivor of your family. You know it so closely, so fervently, that your own heart aches.

“You are surrounded by so many who love you,” you offer, tipping your chin at the rest of the room, “And the Yoons consider you as one of their own, do they not?”

Seungcheol’s emotion whisks away, and the corner of his mouth quirks. “They do.”

“Then, I am now a part of your family as well.”

The Crown laughs, both cheeks dimpling, and it’s much lighter than anything he’s said to you all night. “Thank you, Owl. That’s very generous of you. I’ve always wanted a sister.”

At that moment, from the middle of the room’s commotion, a sudden swell of music starts up, as players with stringed instruments begin a warm up sequence. You puzzle at the sight and as people begin to pick themselves up and off of furniture.

Seungcheol shifts his weight from beside you, reaching to settle his drained glass onto a nearby side table. “And now for my true intention of coming over here: will you join me for the first dance?”

Blood drains from your face in abject horror, as you stammer, “What? I cannot dance, I’ve never learned! I’m a Trough rat, for gods’ sakes!”

Seungcheol doesn’t even try to hide the mischief glimmering in his eye, a grin easing wide open. “It’ll be short. Symbolic, more than anything, and everyone will be itching to get to dancing themselves to care about much.”

You clamp your mouth open and shut multiple times as you gape for words. “You’re the Crown!”

“You’re the guest of honor. You’d be doing me the pleasure. And I’d rather not waltz with Yoon Jeonghan or Kim Mingyu, if I can avoid it. Please, Owl. As family?”

Panic sours into irritation as you realize that you’ve been utterly, completely played by the sovereign of the kingdom.

-

Fire swirls furiously all around you. Flames flicker in a storm, with you in the eye of it. You can’t see anything past the crimson and yellow and orange blinding your vision. There are a thousand voices, saying a thousand things, laughing, jeering, mocking. All condemning you to a hell of your own making.

You wake with a start, vision flooding with black and blue and silver that chases away the bright heat. Sweat dampens your forehead, sticks your sheets to your entangled limbs. You reach beneath your pillow, out of habit more than anything, to run your fingers along the carved handle of Feather. Hovering from above, your adopted brother frowns down at you, a hand shaking you by the shoulder.

“You were crying out in your sleep,” Jeonghan offers as an explanation of his presence. “Thought I’d check in on you.”

“Oh.” You sink into the mattress, exhaling a long, weighted breath. “Did I wake you?”

A shadow flickers across Jeonghan’s face as a cloud passes over the moon. “No. I don’t sleep well. Not anymore.”

You nod. Not that you can remember a time when you’ve ever slept well, but something about Taebaek and its horrors, no matter how brief your stay was, has altered your mind. Even the soft feathers of your new bed and the furnaceless warmth of your room bring no comfort to let you sleep through the night.

You shift over on the giant mattress, creating enough space for Jeonghan to slip onto it. He folds his legs neatly as he sits, knees bumping against yours. For a moment, you’re reminded of leaning against the bars of your cell wall, learning to trust one another, sharing as much warmth as you could lend. Maybe Jeonghan has the same thought; he smiles and pulls the covers over both of your laps.

You clasp your hands together tight to hide that they’re still trembling from the lingering claws of your nightmare gripping your heart. Jeonghan sees, you’re certain, but he’s too kind to comment on it. Instead, he prompts gently, “Did you enjoy yourself at the banquet tonight?”

“Yes. I enjoyed seeing you with all of your friends.” As an afterthought, you add quietly, “I was glad to see Soonyoung and Mingyu again.”

Jeonghan hums. “And what did Seungcheol discuss with you?”

“You noticed.”

“I don’t miss a thing.”

You grin. “The Crown conveyed his gratitude for my part in bringing you back home. He said that he will repay the favor for as long as I live.”

Jeonghan sighs but can’t hide the smile that curls onto his mouth. “Dramatic, isn’t he? He’s just glad that I made it back so he doesn’t have to convince someone else to be his best friend.”

You snort. Then, something that’s been nagging at you since the banquet comes to mind. “Why didn’t you serve Soonyoung when he asked for more wine?”

Jeonghan echoes your words, “You noticed.”

You give a quick shrug. “I don’t miss a thing.”

Your brother hums again, more thoughtful, serious now. “The night before my sister died, I was the last person to see her. She hadn’t been sleeping well, so she requested something warm to drink from the kitchens. I brought it to her and bid her goodnight. They say that her body was already cold and stiff when they found her the next morning. Probably, she drank the milk, fell asleep immediately, and never woke up.”

There’s an unsaid confession there, of an irrational fear that has emerged out of the tragedy. You shut your eyes against the horrible account. It makes sense now, what he had said back at Taebaek, that he felt like his hand was the one that delivered the poison.

Without thinking, you murmur, “At least she did not suffer.” Then, you hastily correct, eyes flying open, “My apologies. That was not the right thing to say.”

Jeonghan laughs; a quiet rasp of a noise, but genuine. “You, and the countless others who have told me that, would be correct. Of course, there are harsher poisons and more horrible ways to die.” He blinks hard, purple eyelids dark against his pale, moonlit skin. “Still, I cannot help but think that I was the one to deliver my sister’s death straight to her.”

You sit, still and silent, working up the breath to admit your own secrets. “It’s true that the fire that killed my family was of my doing. I was up late, reading in the owlery, even though my parents told me to go to sleep. I forgot to blow the candle out before I returned to my bed, and the flames spread quickly. It hadn’t rained for months at the time, I think. Everything was dry and hot.

“My mother woke first, told me to get up and check on the owlery, but there was no point. When I got there, the whole thing had already gone up in flames and all of the birds were dead. By the time I ran back to the house, our roof was on the ground. I just hope that the smoke killed them both before the flames did.”

Jeonghan offers no words of consolation, and for that, you are grateful. Perhaps he is the only one in this world who may understand exactly how you feel. He reaches a hand out, and when you slide your palm against his, you realize that he’s shaking, too.

“By the way, we didn’t bring you into our own home because we were looking to replace my sister,” he murmurs, voice quiet but something fierce regardless, “That’ll never be possible.”

“Of course.” You frown. “Did you think that I was expecting to? It’s very important to me that you say no.”

Jeonghan’s previously solemn face splits in two as he laughs at your bewilderment. “No. I’m just messing with you.”

Your anxiety melts away into irritation, and you’re imbued with the sudden urge to yank your hand away. As if he senses this, Jeonghan’s grip only tightens, to which you scowl, glaring to mask the relief trembling back down your throat.

“And here I thought we were having a meaningful conversation.”

“We are,” Jeonghan croons, “You didn’t let me finish.”

Though your heart still races and you’re more annoyed than nervous now, you yield and allow a smile at the sight of the harsh lines of his face easing away.

“I was going to say, we want you here because you’ve given us something more valuable than anything. You’ve granted us vengeance, and now the three of us can live in peace until the day we reunite with my sister. That, alone, is enough to love you as one of our own.”

You swallow hard, breaths shallow so as not to ruin the quiet of the night. There’s a sudden tearing in your chest, as all that you’ve denied yourself, fearing that your past would not merit you as deserving of it, settles into place right before you. A family. Warm hands around yours. A purpose beyond surviving to the next day.

Jeonghan’s eyes glitter as he muses, “I can see why you’re called Owl. You should have seen yourself just now.”

“Mingyu says it’s because he can see the moon in my eyes.” The words leave your sleep-loosened tongue sooner than you can reel them back.

Your brother nods, “He’s right.” Then, his smile turns impish. “You love him.”

You flinch as if burned. This time, when you pull your hands away, Jeonghan lets you. His bright amusement bleeds, morphed into something smudged and concerned. Shame flits over your face as heat stings your cheeks. “Don’t say something so cursed.”

“Cursed?” Jeonghan echoes curiously. “Why would that be so cursed? Are you not allowed to love Kim Mingyu? He certainly loves you.”

You bite out a dismissive scoff.

“I’m not meant for someone like him. He is not meant for someone like me.”

“Young, pretty ladies marry young, dashing knights all the time—”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Jeonghan.” Breathing comes harder, mechanical, as you search for the correct words. “I’m not… I will only end up harming him.”

There was a story that your mother told you when you were a child. A story about a girl of the night falling in love with the sun, even though he burned her, even though he blinded her. Everyone condemned her, called her foolish for it, but the girl hadn’t thought of it that way. You think of yourself as that girl, hopelessly in love with the sun, scared to get close in fear of dimming his radiance. For he is the sun personified, and I am but a shadow.

Jeonghan shakes his head, wistful and pensive.

“If you truly think that way, the only one you’re hurting is yourself.”

-

“Hello, Owl!”

You’ve scarcely crossed over the threshold of the room, trailing Mingyu’s broad back, when a hearty greeting is sent your way. Sharing a glance with the knight, you peer cautiously around him to the rest of the sitting room, where a handful of the others have gathered for what Mingyu and Jeonghan described to you as a “day off”. You recognize them all, members of the Lion’s Pride, the Crown’s most trusted courtiers, children of royalty and nobility who you were introduced to at last week’s celebration: Soonyoung, your black-robed Spider; Minghao the artist; Hansol, distant cousin of the Crown; and Chan, the source of the emphatic greeting and owner of the notable laughter from the feast.

From the armchair that he’s comfortably tucked into, Chan smiles, gaze warm and curious, as if he has successfully befriended every person he has ever encountered in life. He wears emerald green, a sleek hunting dog’s design embroidered over his heart. You squirm, eager to be on the receiving end of his kindness but unsure of how to return it.

“Hi. Hello. Thank you for letting me inconvenience your days off.”

“Nonsense!” Chan exclaims. “You’re Jeonghan’s sister, which means that we’re all family now.”

Mingyu wrinkles his nose as he approaches an unoccupied chaise that’s not quite at the table that the others sit at, but adjacent enough to be a part of the set. He beckons you to it, waiting until you perch carefully on one end and then sitting on the opposite. He’s close enough that you can hear the breath on his voice, but you can’t help the disappointment stirring in your stomach at the distance regardless.

“Ignore him,” Mingyu grunts, reaching for the table to pluck a handful of grapes from a platter that’s been polished to gleam. He pops a few into his mouth and crunches them with his teeth. “Chan’s just excited that there’s finally a newcomer that he can try and bribe onto his side.”

You ignore the flash of his fangs and the shape of his mouth as he chews to consider his words instead, brushing your palms nervously along the soft velvet of the couch. “His side for what?”

Reclined lazily on his own plush chair with his feet kicked over the armrests, Soonyoung grins with sharp teeth. “For anything. He likes to fight losing battles.”

“That’s not true,” Chan lifts a finger, brow pinched, “They will not let me win a single debate, even if I’m saying that the sky is blue.” He juts his mouth into a pout, and you can immediately understand why the others pester him so. “It’s quite unfair, actually. Take pity on me, Owl, won’t you?”

A laugh bubbles in your throat, sooner than you can stop it. “Sure. I can’t stand for injustice.”

“Wonderful! We’ll get along perfectly,” Chan preens, rewarding you with a sunny smile.

Minghao doesn’t look up from the sketchpad his face is buried within, but he gives a short, pitched giggle. Hansol huffs with amusement, passive expression crinkling for the first time since you’ve arrived.

From beside you, Mingyu’s head whips to you, looking as if you’ve betrayed him. “Owl, you don’t need to do all that to curry favor with him. Chan likes just about anyone under the sun who gives him the time of day. Like a puppy dog.”

“Look who’s talking,” Chan bites back immediately, without a beat. “You know that they also call you the Mutt Knight, right?”

“Hear, hear,” Soonyoung calls out mirthfully, “What are wolves, if not overfed, poorly trained dogs?”

You grin at Mingyu, who doesn’t even sulk at his friends’ teasing, offering him a one-shouldered shrug. From there, the banter dissolves away as the men attend to their own devices, your presence having naturally been absorbed into the matter of things.

Minghao’s pencil never stops, even as he looks to his friends to join in conversation or looks out the window for reference. Hansol scratches away at his own packet of papers. Judging from the rhythms he taps out against the table with his fingertips and the quiet humming, you’d guess that he’s working on a composition. Soonyoung and Chan start up a game of chess that, to you, seems to involve a lot more cheating than valid moves. Mingyu watches the game, whispering hints, real and fake, to both sides, eyes alight with mischief. You flick open the book you’ve brought with you but find yourself watching the fascinating group before you in lieu of reading the words.

Sound and silence exist in tandem, as voices call out questions and responses and jokes and jeers, then fade away without notice. They don’t make a point to include or exclude you, only give the perfect pauses for you to butt in if you have something to say. Everyone responds, whether through words or nods, and with each conversation, you find yourself loosening, learning the rhythm of this circle and this gathering. You think you’ve reached the barest tip of understanding this, their lifelong friendships and the fathomless love that they harbor for one another.

It’s so desirable that your heart aches. It’s so frightening that you wish you could hide your soul away from them all.

At some point, Jeonghan filters into the room, during a brief break between his affairs. Rapt by the conversation at hand, a fierce debate between Chan and Hansol, you don’t realize your brother’s arrival until he leans over the back of the couch to kiss your forehead and his face swims into view, upside down.

“Han,” you mumble, pleasantly surprised, “I thought you were busy.”

“I am,” Jeonghan shrugs, puzzling over Mingyu, who has slumped onto the armrest to quietly doze. He leans to flick a nail against Mingyu’s forehead, startling him awake. “I told you to keep an eye on her, not to nap.”

You huff out a laugh, “I can fend for myself, Jeonghan. I’m alright.”

Your brother rests his palm atop your head, mussing the hairs there gently. His mouth softens into a smile. “As long as you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I am.”

Jeonghan manages to settle the argument that has only gotten louder in the midst of your exchange with a sharp click of his tongue, and you watch, amused and enthralled at the way that he effortlessly silences the younger men. “Be good,” he chides with a quick glance at each occupant of the room, leans to kiss your temple in parting, and then sweeps away as suddenly as he had appeared.

As morning trickles into afternoon, the room grows warm and hazy with the scent of sunbaked linen as the breeze flickers through the curtains. Before long, your lids tug low and heavy. Everyone’s preoccupied with their own hobbies. You tuck your finger into your book to hold your place and decide to nap, just for a few minutes.

You don’t wake in a few minutes. You don’t even wake in an hour. In fact, you doze so soundly that when you do wake, you’re being roused by a gentle hand on your shoulder, blinking your eyes open to the sunset’s colors bleeding into the room.

“Wake up, Owl. I’ll walk you back to your room.” Mingyu mumbles from beside you, yawning and rubbing at his own eyes.

Disoriented and bleary, you dutifully trail along Mingyu through the corridors of the palace, not minding when he reaches behind to hold you by the wrist, guiding you through the twists and turns that you haven’t quite devoted to memory yet. The thick fog of sleep still hasn’t faded by the time you come to a stop at your door in the Western Quarter, and you find yourself frowning, disappointed, when Mingyu bids you a good evening and begins to turn away.

“Oh!”

You jump and glance up expectantly.

Mingyu pulls at a scrap of paper from his pocket and hands it over to you. When you accept it curiously, he shrugs, “Not sure what it is, but Minghao told me to give it to you. He also told me not to look until after you do.”

The paper is thick and textured, creamy in color, and it feels expensive even just by touch. You ease the crease open and blanch at the contents of it. Inside, a delicate sketch by graphite sprawls across the page. Two people sit atop a narrow couch. The smaller slumps into the larger’s side, head tipped against his shoulder, slumped and dozing and unaware of her position. The man crooks his own head down, held still and frozen in a stare. It’s a preliminary sketch, with rough lines and shading, but the one thing that the artist has captured are the faces. One slack and serene in slumber, the other fond and enamored and smiling.

You quickly snap the paper shut before Mingyu can catch a glimpse of it and thrust your hand behind your back. The bleary haze quickly disappears, as heat begins to crawl up your throat. Mingyu blinks back at you, curious, but he doesn’t pry. Instead, he’s reaching into his other pocket, pulling something larger and rounded in shape from it.

“Can I show you something?”

When he holds the object up to your eye level, you scrutinize it cautiously. It’s a snarling wolf’s head, wrought in polished iron. You recognize it as a pommel, detached from the hilt of a blade, fashioned after his house’s sigil, as most noble knights tend to have. The star of his heraldry is represented by a perfectly clear diamond held in its maw, set tightly between four pointed fangs. Two mismatched gemstones, both brilliant, serve as the wolf’s eyes: a ruby and an amethyst. Mingyu’s thumb rests between the ears, the metal there dulled, as if worked away by habit.

In the midst of squirming at your stunned silence, Mingyu prattles, “This belonged to my father, and he gave it to me after I was knighted. I left it at home before I left for our journey because I didn’t want anything to happen to it. Anyway, I wanted to show you. Both of its eyes were red, for our house colors, but I had one of the rubies swapped out for a purple stone. For House Yoon—” He pauses, mid-stumble over his words, then corrects. “For you.”

Blood rushes violently in your ears. Why? Your mind swirls in question. You stare at the purple gem, you think back at the moment captured within Minghao’s sketch, you think of the way he looks at you, honeyed and tender and gentle. Why, why, why, why—

“Do you love me?” You blurt out, too frightened to even feel ashamed of how blunt the words come out.

“Yes,” Mingyu says plainly, expressive eyes burning like twin stars.

Loosened into the world so easily, the truth no longer haunts you from the periphery but attacks you head on. You wipe your sweaty palms down the front of your shirt, grimace without even meaning to. “Is it truly that easy?”

Mingyu lowers his arms and rolls his shoulders back, tightening his fingers around his pommel, brushing his thumb into the valley between the wolf’s pointed ears. He scans you for a long time as he contemplates his words.

“To love you? Or to admit that I do? Yes to both. It is the easiest thing I’ve done aside from learning to breathe.”

“Why?”

Mingyu breathes a mirthless laugh. His face crinkles into a wince, though he tries to take it in stride. “Gods, Owl. You don’t just ask someone why after they profess their love for you.”

You barrel straight through, deigning to beg while incapable of feeling the shame. “I need to know why. Please.”

Mingyu starts speaking before you can even finish, “Because you are honest. Because you are strong. You’re one of the cleverest and bravest person I have ever known. Because it pains me to see you try to be so strong on your own, and I want to be there for you when you need help. Even though you’re too stubborn to ask for it.”

Once, just this once, you want to be greedy. You want to be selfish. You want and you want and you want, without being scared to ruin it or lose it. Just this once, you let yourself want.

You have to stand on your toes to even reach to wind your fingers around Mingyu’s nape, tugging in an effort to make him duck. Surprise flickers past his face, then recognition has him dipping his head instinctually, before realization settles into the curl of his mouth, just as you press yours against it. Pleased, Mingyu hums, lips parting to nip at yours. He’s gentle and warm, eager but careful. His hands come up to your waist, canting you a few steps back into bumping against your bedroom door. In his left hand, he still holds the wolf’s head pommel, and the cool weight of the metal nudging your hip has you tipping your chin back to pull apart from the kiss. You drag in a breath to sober up from the heady rush of desire mucking up your thoughts.

Mingyu sucks in a few breaths to recover too, and then he’s crooking his head in an attempt to kiss you again. You yelp in protest, hands coming up to his chest to hold him back, “Jeonghan’s room is right there! We should—”

The heavy wooden door against your back pitches open, and a squeak forces its way halfway up your throat as you lose your balance backwards. In one swift motion, Mingyu braces you with one arm around your waist, swings both of you into the privacy of your room, and shuts the door behind him. When he turns back to you, mischief crinkles the corners of his eyes, lamplight bouncing and reflecting off of them. He doesn’t say more, leading you further into the room.

You reach the center, to where your bed stands, mattress dimpled with the pillows askew and the sheets messed up. Abruptly, you chide yourself for requesting that the attendants don’t do your cleaning for you, and even more for not having gotten into the habit of making your bed neat every morning. Mingyu barely bats an eye at your mess as he seats himself first at the closest edge, then guides you to standing before him, both hands still planted firmly over your hips, so close that your knees brush against his.

“Pretty.” His lashes flutter as he glances away, suddenly shy, confessing, “I’ve wanted to tell you that for a long time now.”

Something simmers just beneath your skin, thrumming and alive. Desire, hunger, greed. All wicked sins, but nothing has ever felt more right. You curl your fingers into tight fists and realize that you’re still holding onto the scrap of paper from Minghao’s sketchbook. Wordlessly, you hand it over to Mingyu, nerves scraped raw with anticipation and terror.

He pulls his hands away to accept it, prying the page open with both thumbs. For a moment, he stares, and heart in your throat, you examine his reaction. When Mingyu finally moves, it’s to fold up the paper again and slide it into his own pocket. The pommel that he’s been holding onto all this time, he tosses over his shoulder, where it lands somewhere on your floor with a muted thump against carpet.

Then, with a laugh that sounds more like a giggle, Mingyu leans forward to grab you by the wrist, pulling you so firmly that you crash into his chest. He continues laughing, tugging and tugging, all the way until he’s reclined into laying on his back in the middle of the mattress, with you planted in his lap. From this angle looking down, you stare, awed and enamored, at the pink flush of his cheeks, the spray of hair mussed all around his head like a careless crown, the sharp flash of his fangs between grinning lips.

“Pretty,” you echo his words and smile back.

Mingyu tips his head to the side, slightly bashful, mostly pleased. His hands come up to rest lightly on your thighs, just above your knees. Though you try not to react, you can’t help but tense at his touch. He notices it, of course, and his blithe smile wavers a bit as he inquires politely, “Have you…been with someone before?”

“Sure. I’ve kissed boys before. When I was younger. Other orphans. If that counts.” You flush, mind buzzing, suddenly aware that you’re grasping for words and spitting out whatever seems apt. “But anything beyond that…” You shake your head.

“Never?”

“I…never. No. Not with anyone.”

He pulls himself back up into sitting, the intensity in his eyes softening, as he reads your anxiety. Mingyu hums quietly, soothing hands tracing up and down your sides, “That’s alright. We don’t have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. We don’t have to do anything at all. Just sit here like this, if you’d like.”

His voice is so tender, so adoring that your stomach pangs, cramping with desire.

“Want to,” you manage to blurt, eyes widening when you realize your honesty.

Mingyu breathes a soft laugh, “Yeah?” His smile so beautiful that your heart kicks pathetically against your ribcage. “What do you want to do?”

You dither, timid and bashful of your own inexperience. Kissing, you could initiate fine, but anything else, you’re afraid of stumbling through it too slow or too fast and messing things up.

At your silence, Mingyu traces his lips over your brow, “Bravest person I know, remember? Be brave.”

His linen shirt wraps taut over his chest, one lapel over the other, ties knotted at his side. Emboldened, you reach to tug at one, watching greedily as loop loosens and then unravels. The shirt opens up, flashing a glimpse of bare skin that instantly turns your mouth dry. You flush heavily, heat prickling up to the tips of your ears.

Mingyu laughs, a quiet puff of noise and breath, before he’s leaning forward again to ghost his mouth over your cheek, over your temple. His voice murmurs right by your ear, “Very brave, dear Owl, well done. Should I help you?”

You nod furiously, turning to hide your embarrassment.

“Ah, ah. Don’t look away.” Mingyu catches you by the chin, thumb sweeping over your bottom lip. “You’re smart. Use your words.”

You let your head be tilted up, greedily taking in the craftsmanship of his face from closer than ever. He’s perfect everywhere, even at the tiny scar over his brow that you’ve just discovered. A quiet plea rasps from your throat, “Please.”

Mingyu’s pupils blow wide and dark. His lashes flutter. “Such good manners,” he murmurs and shrugs his shirt off his shoulders.

Immediately, your gaze snags over not the sturdy line of his collarbones, which are quite distracting, but rather a severe jagged line that splits right above his heart and over his left shoulder. The regenerated skin there has turned white, stark against the rest of his burnished chest. Your breath catches, as you imagine the horrible injury that must have preceded the scar.

Mingyu assesses your reaction carefully, offering you a tender smile when you glance up at him to implore silently. He presses a kiss to your forehead, mumbling, “Training accident when I was a kid. From one of my good friends, Seokmin. He cried for days after it happened. You’ll meet him soon, I’m sure. Make sure to give him hell for marking me up—”

You’ve dared to press your fingertips along the edges where the healthy skin stitches to the scar tissue to trace along the line, when Mingyu cuts off with a sharp hiss. Frightened that you’ve hurt him somehow, you pull your hands away, lifting halfway out of his lap.

“No,” Mingyu urges quietly, jaw clenched, “it doesn’t hurt. Just wasn’t expecting that. Sorry.” He reaches for your wrist, guiding your hand back to him. “Feels good. Promise.”

You splay your fingers over his chest, right over the healed skin, touch so hesitant that it tickles your own hand. Warmth bleeds into your palm, Mingyu’s steady heartbeat pulsing against it.

Be brave. You hold your hand there, over his heart, and reach with the other up, knuckles dragging along the line of his neck, feeling his throat bob as he swallows heavily. Skim your fingertips over the strong set of his jaw, trace them along the pout of his mouth, the same way you’ve been imagining doing all this time. Mingyu shivers beneath you, though his skin thrums with heat, lips parting to flick his tongue out and swipe it over the pad of your thumb. When you glance up, surprised, his eyes have turned wholly black now, bright with purpose, like a loyal hound, like a wolf on the hunt.

It’s the only warning you’re given before Mingyu surges forward, bracing his hands over your waist to move you from his lap to reclining onto the mattress. He moves with gentle intent, pulling a pillow beneath your head, caressing your cheek as he pulls away, tugging at the hem of your shirt in prompt. You want to comply but turn abruptly and overwhelmingly self-conscious of the way he watches you.

In the midst of your fidgeting, Mingyu huffs a chuckle, dipping his head mere inches from yours to squint at you playfully, “Suddenly you’re shy?” Before you can retort, he shifts the angle of his face so that his mouth tickles yours. Still so thoughtful in his own desire, always letting you close the gap. You tip your head back, catching his bottom lip with your teeth.

A surprised noise catches in Mingyu’s throat, and the final bit of restraint vaporizes away. You reach to hold his face, licking into the heat of his mouth, gasping when your tongue grazes one of his sharp teeth. With your free hand, you pull at the ties holding your own shirt in place. It’s all the permission Mingyu needs to stop keeping his hands to himself.

He manages to wrest the shirt off without breaking the kiss, calloused palms sweeping over your stomach, up your ribs, along your shoulders. When you pull apart to catch a breath, you marvel at the sight of him, pupils blown, mouth slick and swollen. Mingyu smiles back, a little dopily, like he’s living through a dream. His gaze roves over every corner of your bare frame, making you quiver beneath his inspection. You puzzle, when he finds every scar and blemish on your own body, presses his fingers or his lips against each one and asks about it. You answer patiently, amused.

“Got shot at by an arrow, thank the gods he was a poor shot. That one’s from when Soonyoung was teaching me a knife trick; it was mostly my fault. My sleeve caught on fire the night that the owlery burned down.” This last one you say in a quiet rasp.

Mingyu doesn’t say a thing, only presses his lips against your shoulder once, twice. A third time, lingering and tender, before he returns to your mouth. He kisses you, whisper-soft like a prayer, then tugs away to mumble, “I regret hitting you. I should have never agreed to, should have never laid a hand on you. Shouldn’t have hurt you. It is one of my greatest failures in life.”

Your smile trembles as you whisper, “I asked you to.”

“Doesn’t matter. It was dishonorable.” He says this, and then does something just as dishonorable, if not more, by grazing his fingers along the waistband of your pants.

Something about the discrepancy makes you tip your head back in laughter. Mingyu snorts and effectively muffles your laugh by undoing the knot of the tie there, now beyond waiting for your permission. This far in, you don’t have the clarity to shy away from being bared to him entirely, but he also doesn’t give you the chance to, as he shimmies down the bed to lower his face to nip at your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you ache for him.

You can’t hold back the yelp that wrenches itself loose from your throat when you feel the warm swipe of his tongue laving over where he just bit. Mingyu repeats this sequence a few more times, growing bolder with the force of his teeth and the decreased distance from your folds. Then, with a quick glance up at you to scan your reaction, he finds your clit with his thumb, pressing a tentative pressure against it. You kick a leg against the mattress in a reflex response, whining at the pleasure that buzzes at your lower back and zips up your spine.

Mingyu breathes a quiet chuckle, and the puff of air ghosts over your entrance, making you flinch again. “So reactive,” he purrs, before lowering his mouth to replace his thumb with his lips. When you cry out this time, he doesn’t let up, only laughs again, deep inside his chest, and continues sweeping his mouth over your clit, parting his lips and then closing them to suck gently. The noises loosened make you flush heavily, from your chest all the way to your cheekbones, but he continues on, shamelessly. Only when he’s satisfied enough, Mingyu shifts his weight from both elbows to one, to trace up and down your folds, tantalizingly, before crooking a finger in.

Throwing your head back onto the pillow beneath, you moan at the same time Mingyu groans. There’s a pressure, light but foreign, that you greedily adjust to as Mingyu flexes his finger in deeper and works it back out. He continues this motion on and on, setting a rhythm and building an ache inside you. You think that you could be satisfied, just like this, when he presses in another finger, soothing the added pressure with a firm suck around your clit.

Abruptly, the band that’s been slowly tightening over your stomach snaps, and you come, unexpected, with a wordless shudder. Mingyu barely reacts, notching his fingers up and into you as he laps up the rush of juices spilling from your folds. When you whine at the oversensitivity wrought from the steady wide strokes of his tongue, he finally pulls away, shushing you with a wet kiss against your thigh.

Mingyu pushes an arm against the bed to sit up, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, simpering and looking terribly proud of himself. He leans forward to give you a kiss that you taste yourself on, and you’re much too riled up for words now, so you tug at the ties of his pants with needy hands, shyly regarding the outline of his cock straining against the linen. Mingyu laughs into the kiss, gently swatting away at your hands to reach up and circle a nipple with cold fingertips. You hiss at the sensation, trying desperately to ignore the way he grins as he teases, clicking his tongue, “So impatient.”

When you reach for his waistband again, this time he allows you to undo the knot, though his own impatience shows when he shoves the fabric the rest of the way down and kicks his ankles free of them. He’s impossibly hard, tip messy and shiny as it drips with arousal. You’re fascinated by the amount of restraint Mingyu exhibits, despite being so affected. He’s leaning back, unmoving, watching you, and you realize that he’s allowing you the space to act first. You push yourself into sitting and lean to brush your palm against the underside of his cock. He’s heavy in your palm, skin remarkably warm and soft like velvet. There’s a moment of pause as you hesitate, contemplating, and then dip to lick at the slick sheen coating his head, humming at the clean taste of him.

The sound that rips from Mingyu’s throat is loud, pained, and lewd. His stomach tenses. For a moment, you think that you’ve hurt him, until he gently pulls your mouth off of him with a hand over your shoulder.

“I think—” He trembles, eyes screwed shut as he sucks in a heavy breath. “I think we should save that for next time.”

You grin, triumphant, and let yourself be guided back onto the pillows. Mingyu pulls his breathing back into a steady rhythm, roaming his hands up and down your body, over your sides, along the swells of your chest, across your stomach. You stare up at him, smitten by the reverence in his expression as he beholds you.

His large palm sweeps up the underside of your thigh, all the way to where it stills at the back of your knee where it crooks. He swipes his thumb there, once, twice, and then maneuvers your leg to wrap around his waist, heel pressed against the small of his back. Mingyu leans to hold himself by the base, sweeping the length of his cock over your messy folds in a dizzying motion that makes the both of you moan. You still your breath in anticipation, thoughts and vision and hearing fuzzy as he murmurs something you can barely decipher.

“You’ll tell me the moment that something hurts, or makes you feel uncomfortable. If you want to stop, we stop.” Mingyu pauses for your reply, then makes your mind collapse entirely by brushing your clit with his weeping head. “Owl, yes?”

You whimper, desperate to move onto something, anything. “Yes!”

“Good girl.”

He presses in and through, painfully careful, tortuously gentle. There’s an unfamiliar ache that you hold your breath against, until Mingyu presses all the way in. Once fully seated, he pauses, kissing you on the cheek, on the forehead, mumbling to ask if you’re doing alright. He lets you quiver through a few breaths, effortlessly patient, eyes glittering the whole way through, and then only shifts with a relieved smile once you give him a nod.

Heat curls deliciously in your stomach as he builds a rhythm, thrusting in and out, hips rolling fluidly. The room fills with the sound of your breaths mixing, of your pleading whimpers and content whines, of the slick slide of Mingyu. You grasp for anything your hands can find, twining over dampened sheets, scratching at the firm give of Mingyu’s sides, lacing with the fingers that he offers you, soothing and bolstering.

It doesn’t take long to be worked back up to the precipice of intense pleasure, and before you even realize it, there are short, clipped sobs being forced from your chest. You tug at the hand interlocked with yours incessantly, pleading greedily for more, more, more. Mingyu obliges faithfully, canting his hips forward more forcefully, planting a foot against the mattress so that he can shift the angle at which he thrusts up into you. He bends over in half to catch your mouth in a kiss that’s mostly panting, teeth catching at lips and tongues flicking over each other.

Mingyu lowers his forehead to yours, uncaring that there’s hair and sweat sticking to skin. He stares into your eyes, and despite the dim of the room, there’s a golden glimmer piercing through the heady cloud of pleasure in them. “Gods,” he breathes, followed by the sound of your name, “I love you so much.”

Without even meaning to, you let go of the restraint that you’ve been grasping at so desperately, keening in one breathless sound, as your throat catches. The ache that’s been building in your stomach snaps, in equal parts violent and relieving, and heat spreads like an icy prickle, in your lower back, at your nape, down your inner thighs. Your senses heighten past the extreme, and you feel everything in twofold, every drag, every caress, Mingyu’s breath puffing onto your shoulder as he rolls his hips, more languid now, to help you through the peak.

“There you are,” Mingyu soothes, lips skimming over your cheek, over your jaw, over your mouth, grinning wicked as you’re left speechless and panting for breath, “Beautiful girl.” He hovers over you, kissing you again and again, until you’re squirming, ticklish. When you recover enough that your vision clears, you clench around him, reaching for his jaw to tug him back into a kiss.

A tortured groan tears from Mingyu’s throat, but he’s shaking his head when you try to deepen the kiss and pull his hips back towards yours. He lifts entirely up and off of you, shuddering with a sharp hiss on the sensitive slide out.

You frown. “But you didn’t—”

Mingyu silences you with a chaste kiss. “That’s alright. I don’t need anything but for you to feel good.” He smiles, so guilelessly, that you don’t doubt a thing that he says.

-

Hours later, the night has deepened into a blue-black so dark that even the lamps are barely more than an orange glow in the corners of the room. You’ve spent the entire time since, tangled beneath the sheets with Mingyu, dozing in and out of sleep, murmuring in and out of conversation, kissing and touching and laughing.

“Do you think I’ll ever understand what it means to love and be loved?”

Mingyu lifts his head from where it’s nestled over your stomach, which makes your fingers tug gently from where it’s been threaded through his hair. Light dances in his eyes curiously as he hums, “You were loved. Are loved. Can you remember what it feels like?”

You try not to think of the past, especially not into the deep recesses of your mind where exists memories of the world when there was an owlery full of life and sound and color, a home that looked and smelled more like a library, every seam overflowing with paper and ink and paste. When the two people who loved you more than themselves were still alive. For Mingyu, you try to reach into those depths now, wincing to yourself when distant memories scrape painfully against your bleeding heart. The gentle brush of a furtive kiss against your forehead, careful not to wake you, when your father had retreated back into the bedroom after finishing his work late. Your mother’s warm, guiding hands that taught you how to seal an envelope neatly, to tend to an owl’s injured foot, to cradle books as if they were made from gold.

The tender softening of your heart. The desire to reach and to touch and to caress. The blurred boundary that exists between thoughts and feelings, where you act because you want to and not because you should. The urges that you resolutely shut out of your life in order to harden yourself against a world that didn’t love you.

You nod, hesitant. There’s a whole litany of words that your tongue itches to say, but they all sound like excuses. Breath shuddering in your chest, you mumble, “I’m afraid I won’t know how to love you the way that you deserve.”

Mingyu’s stare doesn’t waver. His mouth brushes once over the scar on your shoulder, then again over the one on your throat. “That’s fine. As long as you’re willing to try. Even if you fail.”

Your stomach pangs as you behold him. Mingyu, who has been created to love and to be loved. Mingyu, sun kissed and sun beloved, the closest thing to perfection that you’ve ever seen.

“You don’t deserve failure.”

“Hm,” Mingyu hums, visibly inattentive to your hesitation. His gaze grows dark, lids heavy, and before you can think to hold him back, his imploring fingers hook beneath your chin to lift your mouth to his. Despite yourself, you indulge him, breathing a whine when your bottom lip snags on one of his sharp teeth. A rumble builds in Mingyu’s chest, one that you feel beneath your fingertips when you splay them over his bare chest in a weak attempt to push him away. He bites again, intentionally this time, a quick, delicious sting, before he lets you.

You scowl, a little breathless. “I’m trying to be serious here.”

A perfect brow arches maddeningly. “Oh? So am I. I feel very seriously about this.” A cloying touch brushes over your bare hip, and you fight off a shiver.

“Mingyu.”

He laughs, carefree and happy. You wonder how he can manage to be, when it feels like your own heart is bleeding out. Mingyu shoves himself onto his hands to sit up, blankets slipping and pooling at his lap. Everything is distracting, from his elegant waist, the vast expanse of sun burnished skin, the terrible scar over his chest that has knitted back together white, the jut of his mouth, the slant of his eyes, to the sweat-damp strands of hair feathered along his forehead.

“Don’t look at me like that, if you mean to be serious,” he groans, and you flush, unable to help yourself. He shakes his head to clear the fog in his own eyes, then clears his throat to prompt your attention. “Owl, I mean this as the truth and nothing else, so please don’t find offense in it. I’m very blessed to be loved immensely by my family and my friends, and I have an overabundance of love to give. I do not, and will not, regret giving it to you. And if you happen to fail in returning it, I will not fault you, nor will I abandon you for it.”

Apprehension and wonder and reverence stills your tongue. When thought returns to your mind, you blink hard, forcing back the ache rising in your eyes. “You mean that, truthfully?”

Mingyu’s cheek dimples, as he reaches to swipe his thumb beneath your eyes.

“Promise. On a knight’s honor. On my life.”

-

“Oh, perfect. Knight, please get off my Owl. I need to speak to her.”

You lift your head from your book, wincing at the ache in the crook of your neck from not having moved for a few hours. The sitting room has turned fragrant with the scent of sunlight and oranges, as the warm early summer air filters through the open windows, gauzy curtains swaying and shifting in a peaceful dance. The rest of the chaise that you’re perched on has been haphazardly occupied by a certain knight, whose head rests on your lap as he naps, breaths even and quiet.

Uncaring of how his entrance has disturbed your peace, Soonyoung stands expectantly at the foot of the couch, arms crossed over his chest, brow arched in equal parts amusement and exasperation as he stares down at the man, pretending to be a lap dog.

Mingyu doesn’t budge from his spot, doesn’t even lift up to look, as he growls, “She’s not your anything. Bug.” It’s hardly a scathing insult, especially coming through a lisp made even clumsier with sleep.

“Down, mutt. It’s important. And just so we’re clear, she was my Owl, long before she was yours or Jeonghan’s.” Soonyoung rolls his eyes at you, quirking his mouth into a crooked smile. “I preferred things before you acquired the knight as a guard dog.”

You shut your book, reaching to tangle your fingers at the soft, recently shorn hairs at Mingyu’s nape, smiling when he makes a soft purr in response. “Hush, Soonyoung. I quite like having him around.”

Soonyoung mock gags, though there’s a fondness on his expression that whisks away when he grins, sharp teeth, even sharper eyes.

“Owl, how would you like to help me run a network?”

[mellowamour]

I remember adding this to my tbr because of the mention of the sun and the moon, and the last thing I was expecting to read something so poetic and ethereal. I've shed so many tears while reading it, this was a beautiful experience!!!! 🤎🌙

[kuromingoo]

thank you so so much for leaving your kind words!! 🥹 it truly means the world to me that you enjoyed the read 🫶🏻

[ts19009]

Seventeen Fic Rec's Part 7

(CONTAINS SMUT AND MATURE SUBJECT MATTER)

(Bold title means favorite)

(UPDATED: April 25th, 2026)

Kim Mingyu

Expecting || Dad!Kim Mingyu x fem!reader @slut4min9yu

Before the Dawn | Kim Mingyu (Hero Mingyu x Mercenary!Reader ) @xomakara

Sins and Sundays (Lord! Mingyu x Reverend’s daughter! F. Reader) @memoiresofaneternaldreamer (this one made me CRYYY. IT'S A FAV)

too sweet to me (baker!kim mingyu x afb.reader) @straylightdream

D.T.F (f!reader x mingyu) @makeitworse

sunkissed | kmg (knight!mingyu, orphaned thief!reader, medieval quest, sunshine x grumpy (ish?), slowburn) @mingumis

Crossing without steps ||K.M.G (arranged marriage, classism) @nerdycheol

𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑 - 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐘𝐔 (Mingyu might not have been a big fan of pink before, but the moment he lays his eyes on you, everything changes, and it seems to make its way to his favorites.) @jakedustry

𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐌𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐙𝐘 - 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐘𝐔 (aviator!mingyu x fem!reader) @jakedustry

no more hiding (you’ve been in love with him since you met, and you realize your feeling possibly aren’t one sided.) @straylightdream

Jeon Wonwoo

Back For More | J.WW (badboy!wonwoo x fem!reader) @kyeomofhearts

Felt Right | J.W.W (Wonwoo x long time gf!reader) @petersasteria

Caramel Pudding | part one (jeon wonwoo × medical intern!f!reader grey's anatomy!au) @cxffecoupx

recover. (jeon wonwoo x reader) (f1 driver!wonwoo x orthopedic surgeon!reader) @woncheolisms

someone stole my lunch?! 𑣲 j. wonwoo (attorney! wonwoo, reader is in pr team, strangers to lovers, food puns) @epelletart

You & I (j.ww) (Chauffeur! Wonwoo x Mafia!Reader) @sailorsoons

yours alone (a shopping trip at a home goods store turns tense when Wonwoo notices other men staring at you. his jealousy is quiet at first until someone actually approaches you. back home, possessiveness transforms into something deeper as you both prove exactly who you belong to.) @hanniejoo

my dearest, (arranged marriage, smut, romance, angst) @straylightdream

can i call you rose? || jeon wonwoo (fwb au, neighbors au, a lil angsty, smut, the reader is mentioned to be older than wonwoo) @belovedgyu

calm during the storm (cowboy!wonwoo x wife!reader) @junkissed

anaheim ❆ j.ww [m] (you and wonwoo are bound by the radio waves of wireless fidelity — and lose each other to the ether, until you're both on opposite ends of the same state, and on opposite sides of where you need to be to belong to one another...even when something tells you that it was never supposed to be you and him forever.) @haologram

Hong Jisoo

under the starlight | h.js (jazz singer!joshua x f!reader) @starlightkyeom

24H | NSFW (Stranger!Joshua Hong x Small Town Barista!Reader) @kiestrokes

Xu Minghao

the diamond life ◊ x.mh [m] (model!xu minghao x fem!pitcher!reader) @haologram

read me and weep - x.mh (best friends/coworkers to lovers, whole lot of yearning) @gentleisa

WHEN THE SUN RISES IN NEW YORK ✶ Xu Minghao (PART ONE) (

Artist!Minghao x F!Reader 1920s!au, non idol!au, strangers to (?), serendipity, fluff, angst, smut.) @vernonverse

Yoon Jeonghan

Date Night (hitman!jeonghan x hitman!fem!reader) @orbitondgtl

Amontillado (y.jh) ( Vampire!Jeonghan x human!Reader) @sailorsoons

Kwon Soonyoung

546 DAYS | k.sy (part one) (rookie!soonyoung x training officer!fem!reader) @livmarauder

Virago (k.sy) ( Ares!Soonyoung x Priestess!Reader) @sailorsoons

Kitty: Act I (fluff, angst, eventual smut (suggestive for sure), 1920s au, strangers to lovers au, slow burn) @aeristudios

Lee Seokmin

𝐁𝐄𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐂 - 𝐋𝐄𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐊𝐌𝐈𝐍 (singer!seokmin x radio host!fem!reader) @jakedustry

Wen Junhui

Pendulum (There are many things your father never told you when he left you his flower shop; the ever creaky door hinges, the delivery man who can never seem to tell the orchids from the gardenias, and the headquarters of the biggest mafia in New York operating in the employee break room.) @gyuswhore

Deadlock (w.jh) (Hitman!Junhui x Spy!Reader) @sailorsoons

Chwe Hansol

fated season | hvc (viscount!vernon x f!reader) @luvrung

Last Call (angst, fluff, brother's best friend) @wqnwoos

[100vern]

rebel without a clue ⛓ jww

summary: it's always felt impossible to live in your brother's shadow. he's the high council of your home planet, feared and deeply admired in equal measure, and you're neither of those things. you've felt purposeless your entire life—until your and jeonghan's childhood friend is being held hostage on a hostile planet. since your brother's life is too important to risk, they send you in his place. considering you're twins, no one will know the difference... right?

▸️ pairing: wonwoo x f. reader ▸️ genre: space opera au; childhood friends to lovers; crack, angst, smut, fluff ▸️ rating: explicit. minors do not interact. ▸️ warnings: reader & jeonghan are twins so there's an implied appearance, ethnicity, etc.; she is also a massive shithead; swearing; talk of politics, classism, war, and all that fun stuff; science talk that's as flimsy as tissue paper; mentions of violence, injuries/blood, and trauma; brief pov shifts and arguments; the government is suspicious; daddy issues galore; pining and yearning. ▸️ smut warnings: gendered language; kissing; a handjob/fingering; oral sex (f. receiving); multiple orgasms; multiple positions; grinding; unprotected vaginal sex; creampie. please let me know if i've forgotten anything. ▸️ wordcount: 30,054 ▸️ credits: inspired by twelfth night by william shakespeare, but you don't have to have read it to understand the fic by any means. title from "into the great wide open" by tom petty. the first iteration of this fic was inspired by "palinopsia" by arm's length so you can also listen to that if you're so inclined. finally, bee (@imnotshua) and jess (@starlightkyeom) for beta'ing this monstrosity for me. ▸ special thanks: i need to give a huge shoutout to project rho. i don't know shit about fuck when it comes to sci-fi. i especially don't know shit about fuck when it comes to physics or astrophysics and i had to take chemistry three times in college. i consulted this site endlessly and would highly recommend it to anyone writing anything space-related (or just wants to kill a few hours reading cool stuff). ▸️ written for: the though kpop be madness collab, hosted by my beloveds moni (@peaspeas) and thea (@yoongihan). please be sure to check out the rest of the fics! ▸️ author's note: there is a lot of (necessary) backstory and worldbuilding that occurs before wonwoo properly shows up. he's mentioned throughout all of it, but i felt it was important to note because it's almost 12k. sorry, i suffer from the yapper's curse!! furthermore, anything that doesn't make sense is poetic license—please suspend your disbelief beyond this point, tyvm!

Admittedly, you don’t react as poorly as Jeonghan expects you to.

Not that he says this, of course; you can tell by the slight incline in his eyebrows and the look on his face that’s tempted to ask you out loud why you aren’t freaking out. It’s a question you’d like the answer to as well, considering—

“Let me get this straight,” you begin, flopping sideways across one of the plush yet offensively uncomfortable armchairs in Jeonghan’s office. “He”—you jab your thumb backwards to point in Junhui’s general direction—“found where Wonwoo’s ship crashed, which is apparently on a hostile planet, and… let me check my notes here… has taken him as a prisoner of war. Am I correct so far?” Jeonghan nods. “Now you two”—your brother and Seungcheol, otherwise known as Dumb and Dumber—“want me to go undercover and pose as him”—Jeonghan—“because my brother is… checking… quote-unquote ‘too important to die,’ which is where I come in.”

Now it’s Seungcheol’s turn to nod. “Yeah, because you’re twins. You look the same.”

“Is he pretty or am I handsome?”

“Um—”

You sigh. Ever since his promotion, Seungcheol isn’t much fun anymore. Takes everything far too seriously. “Forget it. I’m not really all that inclined to do this, anyway.”

“You don’t really have a choice,” a new voice chimes in.

You roll your eyes at the ceiling. “I always have a choice, Captain Hong. For example, I can choose to get up and walk out of here right now, leading you to presumably shove me into a travel pod and force my hand, and when I land on this hostile planet to rescue Jeon Wonwoo, I can choose to walk in there and give them my actual identity, and they’ll either laugh me out of the room or I, too, will become a prisoner of war.” You pause, lolling your head to the side to look at the man in question. “All hypotheticals, you see, unlike you, who chose to become a narc-ass space cop.”

Joshua huffs. “Fuck you,” he fires back, “I had to arrest you. You gave me no—”

“Choice?” you finish for him, looking far too smug. “That’s what I call full circle, piggy.”

If your brother hadn’t spun around in his chair to hide his laugh, he would’ve seen the exasperated look Joshua was sending him, but both he and Seungcheol have devolved into mouth-covered laughter, their shoulders shaking under the weight of it. The four of you—well, five, counting Wonwoo—have grown up together, yet Joshua still seems unwilling to accept that despite his accolades and status, you and your brother are two sides of the same coin. That the two of you not only look alike, but your mannerisms are the same. Your natural instincts are the same, too, only Jeonghan’s have been bred out of him, having sat through too many lectures on tact and professionalism.

Here, though, in the safety of his office, surrounded by paperwork you’d be executed for peeking at and so many medals of honor the walls are nearly glistening gold and platinum, he reverts to those baser instincts. Here, he’s safe. Here, just like anywhere, he wouldn’t ask you to do anything he didn’t believe you capable of doing, so you’ll give him a hard time, maybe brood about it in the privacy of your own space, because who are you if not someone living six feet under his massive shadow, but you know you’ll do as he asks.

Because you trust him. Because you’ve only lived three minutes of your life without him. Blah blah blah.

You still think Wonwoo is a fucking idiot.

You say as much. “Wonwoo is a fucking idiot, so I say we let him rot there.” You wave your hand to emphasize how unbothered you are. “If he was stupid enough to get himself into this mess, he should be smart enough to get himself out.”

“Literally how does that make sense to you?” Joshua huffs.

There are a multitude of ways you can answer: that this plan—posing as your brother—is bound to fail; that not only is Wonwoo the most capable person you know, his wiliness is second only to Soonyoung’s; or that asking you, of all people, to come to his rescue is cruel. But if there’s one person who doesn’t deserve your vulnerability, it’s Joshua, so instead of saying any of those things, you scowl and go, “Oink, oink.”

It has the intended effect. Joshua’s face flushes with frustration and anger quicker than Jeonghan and Seungcheol can hold in this round of laughter. Even Junhui, who you’d forgotten was even present, snorts from his tucked-away corner of the room. “You know what—”

“That’s enough.” Anywhere else, Seungcheol’s voice is booming and commanding, demanding the undivided attention of whatever room he’s in. Here, though, amongst old friends, there’s a hint of humor in it, like he’s scolding playground kids. He turns his attention to you and nods his head. “State your piece.”

“That’s what I was trying to do before—”

“State your piece,” Seungcheol repeats, effectively putting an end to any ideas you may have about baiting Joshua further.

“Fine,” you huff. “No one’s going to buy it. Everyone would know this is far below someone of Jeonghan’s rank. Shit, it’s even below Jihoon’s rank, and supposedly he’s second-in-command when he’s not busy watching millennia-old cartoons.”

Jeonghan studies you for a beat. “It’s well-known across the galaxies that Commander Lee has been away on a peacekeeping mission for the last few months.”

“The only peace he’s able to keep is between his dick and his hand—”

Joshua grimaces. “Can you not be serious even for a minute?”

You pretend to pout. “No, sorry; I was neglected as a child.”

The room stills at that. For your brother and Seungcheol, it’s one of those self-deprecating jokes that hits a little too close for comfort, no secret between the three of you that your brother was the favorite, your parents’ golden child. Fitting, you think, once again looking at the walls of his office, your brother’s white-blond hair looking more like a crown reflected in the gold and platinum. Joshua had been there, too—enough to find inspiration in your father and follow in his boot-licking footsteps—but not like Seungcheol was, who had practically grown up in your home. Junhui spent most of his time staring at screens.

And Wonwoo—

Well, Wonwoo did a little bit of everything, and did it quietly. He listened to your brother complain endlessly about his lessons and peeked over his shoulder at his books. Listened to your father’s stories about corruption and intergalactic relations and politics. Watched your mother weave her magic into fabrics and doughs and anything else she could get her hands on, learning the importance of patience and gentleness. And, when he was old enough, he’d disappear with Soonyoung and put it all to use, finding quiet, abandoned corridors to practice building and blowing shit up.

Maybe that’s why the two of you were always so drawn to one another. He had the same rebellious streak and anarchist spirit you did.

“Not to mention,” you continue, wanting to ease the awkwardness that’s suddenly grown over the room like algae, “he”—you point at your brother—“has decades of this shit in his head. There’s no way I can pretend to have all that useless knowledge on etiquette and space law and diplomacy and whatever-the-fuck else.”

You can tell by the incline of his head that Seungcheol wants to agree. Your brother has been primed for this life since the second he was born, having had the privilege of being your parents’ first and only son, so even if you started now, there’s mathematically no way for you to catch up. “You’re more capable than you think,” Jeonghan says, and you can tell by the steadfastness in his gaze that he truly believes it.

That’s your brother, all right. Always your biggest cheerleader because he needs something to relieve the guilt that sits in his chest.

“Oh, I’m fully capable,” you agree, because you are (to some extent), “but that doesn’t really matter, does it? I can put on the performance of a lifetime and they can still send someone here to confirm.”

One of those intergalactic agreements you can all thank your father for. Except in times of war or otherwise dire emergencies, a planet’s governing body cannot refuse to hold court with another’s once requested, and since your planet is not at war and Jeon Wonwoo being held captive on a hostile planet does not constitute an emergency, Jeonghan, as Ithea’s High Council, would not be able to dismiss them without having to answer a lot of uncomfortable questions… and risking all-out war.

Jeonghan grimaces, hoping that fact would’ve escaped you. “At the present, we don’t believe Dredelea has the manpower to spare for such a—”

“Dredelea?” you sputter uncharacteristically. “Gods above, you must truly hate me and wish to see me killed.”

Dredelea is a place of legend, and none of them good. Ithean’s elders loved using the hostile planets as a threat: behave and listen to your parents, or you’ll be sent to Pallorth or Sulniri or Kotov, but you only knew the threat was no longer idle when Dredelea was mentioned. A blight on your galaxy, if not the entire universe, Dredelea’s terrain is just as hostile as its inhabitants: largely swampland with gaseous craters emitting a foul mist liable to knock a grown man on his ass in seconds. Not much survives there, but what little manages to thrive is dense and covered in a thick layer of moss, perpetuating the seemingly never-ending darkness.

“You’re sure?”

Jeonghan nods, as solemn as his position requires. “Junhui confirmed the calculations himself.”

Junhui is smarter than all of you combined, so there’s little room for argument if that’s the case. Still, to think Wonwoo had crashed there, of all places; that they’re the ones holding him hostage… it has bile rising in your throat, but also a sense of indignation. Very few people would care if Dredelea ceased to exist altogether, and you’d be tempted to make such a suggestion to your brother if Joshua wasn’t in attendance to rat you out. But despite his inclination toward mischief and subtle manipulation, your brother is fair and kind. Ithea truly could not have asked for a better High Council, and his temperament would never lean towards violence and war.

Unfortunately for Dredelea, you are not your brother.

“Well, shit,” you whistle, and all four heads spin in your direction at the sheer giddiness in your voice, staring in alarm at the rogue grin you’ve adopted, “why didn’t you lead with that?”

Before you’re authorized to board a travel pod and arrive, guns blazing, on Dredelea, you’re required to sit through all those same lessons Jeonghan had as a young child.

It’s not that Ithea doesn’t trust you, Jeonghan delicately tries to explain, but his attempts fall apart rather quickly when Seungcheol dumps a thick stack of paperwork onto Jeonghan’s desk that contains all of your transgressions, causing your brother’s cheeks to color. “Never mind,” he relents easily. “They absolutely do not trust you. Here’s your schedule.”

You have diplomacy and etiquette lessons four times per week, which are more than your brother was ever required to attend. Given your proclivity for trouble, your hand-to-hand and far-range combat lessons are waived, though everyone refuses to disclose if that’s more for Dredelea’s benefit or Ithea’s. In their place, you’re given political theory and history tutors you’re expected to meet with twice per week in the evenings. In your free time, you hover behind Junhui like a shadow, eager to pick up anything you can from watching him work.

You never know what you’ll need to know.

Which also leads you to track down Soonyoung.

“Been a while since I’ve seen you,” he snarks, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. “Captain Dong lock you up again?”

You snort at his nickname for Joshua and shake your head. “Nah, they’ve got me training for a super secret mission.” It’s a safe enough admission. No one in their right mind would believe Ithea’s governing bodies would tap youto serve them lunch, let alone impersonate the High Council.

Soonyoung rolls his eyes and tucks the cigarette behind his ear. “And you’ve blessed me with your presence to… what, make me complicit in your schemes?”

“Sort of. I want you to teach me how to blow shit up.”

So, behind your brother’s back, you meet with Soonyoung in secret on the nights you have free. In the absence of his partner in crime, he’s all too willing to lend you his knowledge, which is shockingly and concerningly extensive. You have no doubt that Kwon Soonyoung could rig half the galaxy to explode with his eyes closed if he wanted. The only problem is that he’s constantly on the brink of blowing up Ithea, too, considering he rigs all of his explosives with a cigarette stuck between his lips.

Regardless, in the weeks you spend with him, all you suffer is a singed eyebrow.

(“Anything you want to tell me?” Jeonghan asks one afternoon, easily playing the part of concerned younger brother. Fresh out of another torturous diplomacy lesson and blinded by hunger, you had accepted his lunch invitation, foolishly thinking he’d extended it out of the goodness of his heart rather than the keen suspicion he’s currently eyeing you with.

Without thinking, you run your pointer finger along your half-gone eyebrow. It’s prickly where the hair is starting to grow back. “No, not really,” you answer, knowing he won’t buy it. That doesn’t bother you—you’ve been in far more trouble for less—but Soonyoung had agreed to stop asking questions so long as you promised to keep him out of whatever mess you were in.

Jeonghan rolls his lips, blink and you’ll miss it, and hums an approval, blessedly dropping the subject before it has time to grow roots. Any other time he’d call you on it, blatantly manipulative as he whines that there aren’t supposed to be any secrets between the two of you, but not now. After all, a lot—too much—has been asked of you. You’ll be risking your life to spare his, so it’s the least he can do, he reasons.

Besides, if learning from the planet’s top-secret demolition expert keeps you safe, he’ll turn a blind eye every time, even if he hadn’t been able to ignore that a certain Kwon Soonyoung was also sporting half an eyebrow.)

A month passes before you know it.

You’re progressing well in your lessons, even if you’d rather be anywhere else. Every second you spend sitting in those stuffy old classrooms has anxiety blooming in your gut as you think of Wonwoo. Does he think no one’s coming? That Ithea has doomed him to his fate? Worse, does he think no one’s coming because none of you care?

In a rare moment of vulnerability, you’d asked Jeonghan once how he deals with the guilt; how he’s able to go about his duties and not collapse under the weight of it. His smile had looked more like a grimace, pained and rueful, but he still spoke as if he was telling you a secret. “I got really good at compartmentalizing a long time ago.”

But you aren’t bound by the same rules Jeonghan is. Don’t have his title or duties. Truth be told, you also don’t have his code of honor. Not the same one, anyway: you definitely have one of your own that pointedly does not include twiddling your thumbs in etiquette lessons, being taught which utensil to use for fucking soup while Dredelea does gods-know-what to Wonwoo.

However, try as you might to insist all of this is useless, the fact you’re still attending proves they’re doing you some good. The you of a month ago would’ve boarded a ship in the middle of the night and went in guns blazing. Even if the guilt feels like an albatross, the you of right now has begrudgingly accepted that patience is a virtue, so you show up on time to your lessons, dye your hair the same pale shade as your brother, even copy his way of speaking: the inflections he uses, the syllables he emphasizes, the deep timbre he adopts when the mischievous facade fades away and he grows unexpectedly serious.

The evening before your final lesson, you find yourself sitting on the couch in your brother’s office in complete darkness. There are four sets of eyes on you and the men they belong to haven’t uttered a single word.

Finally, after what feels like eons, Seungcheol clears his throat and says, “It’s a little freaky.”

“Yeah,” Joshua agrees, sounding unnerved. “She sounds exactly like you.”

Jeonghan, always the epitome of a shithead younger brother, merely scoffs. “No she doesn’t.”

“She does.”

“Maybe she sounds like me before I hit puberty. If I’m being generous.”

“No, dude, she sounds exactly like you.”

“Don’t insult me—”

“She even nailed that way your voice kinda cracks whenever you talk about—”

“Am I speaking another language? I said don’t—”

From his cobweb-encrusted corner of the room, Junhui says, “Has anyone considered that she’s been replaced by a doppelgänger that’s, like, also a mimic? I read this ancient Earth book about them once that said if you meet your doppelgänger it means you’re about to die.”

He’s met with a stunned silence. A beat passes before your brother says, “An optimistic and sobering suggestion. Thank you, Junhui.”

And because he can’t help it, Joshua tacks on, “We’d all be so lucky if she was replaced. It’s not like a doppelgänger could make her worse.” A pause. “I say we try it. The only way is up.”

You scowl. “Isn’t it about time they stuck you on a spit and slow-roasted you over a fire?”

“You know what—”

“Oink oink oink oink oink oink—”

“I hope your ship crashes, too—”

“I bet you’d taste disgusting. No one would even eat you—”

“Fuck you—”

“Big words from someone who’s not even edible. You’re cafeteria slop at best. Everyone would hate you so much they’d put you under the heat lamps and you’d sit there uneaten for so long you’d get so overcooked you turned into dust. And then they’d dump you in the trash, because even as dust you’re worthless. Not even good enough to be seasoning. Just disgusting, overcooked trash dust.” You suck in a breath. “Bitch.”

Another stunned silence.

“Gods above,” your brother mutters in exasperation. If it wasn’t pitch black, you’d see him pinch the bridge of his nose. “So much for those diplomacy and etiquette lessons.”

With absolutely none of the tact this moment requires, Seungcheol pours an accelerant all over the tension as he says, “I’d be nice to her if I were you, Josh. Soonyoung taught her how to build bombs.”

“He fucking what—”

That night, sleep seems to evade you. Every time you think it’s within arms reach, it escapes again, leaving you tossing and turning, frustrated and exhausted. Leaves you too much time with your thoughts, too much time to think about every little thing that can—and most likely will—go wrong.

Logically, you know you’re as prepared as you can be. Despite your stubbornness and reluctance, your instructors were the best the galaxy had to offer. You’ve learned more in the last few weeks than you ever thought possible, sparing a second of sympathy that this was what your brother’s childhood had been filled with, rather than the rebellious youth you experienced. Your experiment earlier had proved what you hoped it would: that, in the dark, not even your closest friends could distinguish between the two of you. It’s this, more than the weeks of intensive tutoring, that calms your erratic heartbeat.

No one knows your brother better than you.

No one else shares his face.

Which is how you know it’s him that knocks on your door before he bothers to announce himself. Granted, your brother carries himself with an importance that he wears like an aura—one that’s become tangible over time, the longer he wears it—but there’s also your “freaky twin thing,” as Seungcheol so tactfully puts it: finishing one another’s thoughts long before either of you have arrived at a point; having entire conversations with one brief, inscrutable look; adopting one another’s moods.

His knuckles rap on your door in the pattern you two made up as kids. “It’s—”

You snort. “I know. What d’you want?”

Jeonghan lets himself in. The dark bags beneath his eyes tell you he’s just as anxious as you, and when he sits on the edge of your bed, his energy is frenetic and uneasy. The kind that’d flood your room if you wrung it out like a sponge. The kind that feels like livewires beneath his skin, unable to settle.

After a brief silence, he says needlessly, “You should be asleep. Long day tomorrow.”

As if you don’t know that. As if you wouldn’t be long asleep if you could be, blissfully occupying a dream world where all of this was simple; where you were long past it, everyone unharmed and safe, all of you gathered in Jeonghan’s office as you shared alcohol and laughed, cheeks flaming red, about the time you had to go to Dredelea to rescue Wonwoo.

“What about you?” you lob back. “You don’t even have anything to do.”

Your brother scoffs and rolls his eyes, teeth immediately moving to worry at his cuticles, his nerves laid bare. “What’re you talking about?” His brows pinch. “Don’t be obtuse. You really think I’m going to get anything done under the circumstances?”

Under the circumstances. Seems like neither of you are able to come out and say it—what you’re doing, what’s at stake—but Jeonghan’s always been better than you at toeing the line of vulnerability. Doesn’t recoil at the prospect of it the way a pacifist does a war. Still. “You’re in charge of governing an entire planet,” you insist, not trying to make yourself small, not really, but to emphasize that he has other allegiances. Other responsibilities. “You can’t get caught sleeping on the job, Hannie.”

He sighs. Once again, you don’t envy him, because he wants to argue his point, that he’d sacrifice all of this to ensure you came home safe, but he’s not in a position to do so. Can’t even joke about it. “I’m sending Seungcheol with you.” You open your mouth. “Don’t bother. You think Ithea’s High Council would show up on a hostile planet without him?”

“And you? Who’s staying behind to protect you?”

Your brother huffs a laugh. “New guy. His name is Mingyu.”

“Do you trust him?”

“I do,” he assures you. “Seungcheol vouched for him personally and Joshua didn’t find anything untoward during his background checks. Not to mention he’s larger than any human has the right to be. He towers over me. Makes Seungcheol look like a child.”

A soft exhale of laughter from you, too. “What pilot are you sparing?”

“Junhui,” he answers, voice deadpan like it’d been a stupid question. “The Elder Council and I are in agreement that I will not be doing any travelling while you’re gone, so I can spare him. Not that I would send you off on a mission like this with anyone else—he and Seungcheol are the best team I can give you.”

“They’re your best friends,” you agree.

“And yours. You know they’d die before they allowed any harm to come to you.”

You roll your eyes. “Gods above. Can you imagine if Seungcheol died protecting me? Even from beyond the veil I’d never hear the end of it.”

Jeonghan smiles, but even in the low light of your room you can tell it doesn’t reach his eyes. Surely there’s some combination of words you can string together to lighten the burdens he’s carrying, but your mind is blank. While you may be fixated on the same fears your brother is, only one of you shoulders the guilt. He’s sending you into battle. He’s sending you into battle because his life is too important and yours has been deemed less so, and there’s nothing either of you can say that makes that any less true.

Moments pass in a tense, solemn silence. Jeonghan hangs his head, pointy elbows planted on his knees, and suddenly it’s hard to remember what he was like as a child. Did he used to laugh with reckless abandon as the two of you ran around your mother’s feet? Did he used to sneak into your bedroom long after the two of you were meant to be asleep, finger pressed to his lips as he wordlessly asked you to keep a secret? Was he ever allowed to just be a child, or had he only ever been the heir?

Similarly, had you ever been more than the spare?

“You’re sure it’s too late to write a strongly-worded letter demanding Wonwoo’s release?”

“Did I not tell you I tried that? They sent it back with a flaming pile of excrement.”

You swallow. “...A second one, then?”

Jeonghan flings himself backwards, his lithe frame somehow taking up the lion’s share of your bed. You swat at him in annoyance—that particular brand only a younger sibling can pull out of you—and he swats back, and before you can even register what’s going on, Jeonghan has grabbed a pillow, laughing wildly as he swings it directly at your head.

“Oh, you fuck—Jeonghan—”

“Regretting skipping all those combat lessons?”

It’s both the incorrect and correct thing to say. You really should rest so you aren’t exhausted and useless during your expedition, but allowing your moment of vulnerability to devolve into a childish pillow fight is exactly what you need to remember why you’re doing this. Who you’re doing it for. Not just your brother, but Wonwoo, too. On those rare occasions Jeonghan had been allowed to be a kid, both your friends and his would have sleepovers, crammed into rooms no bigger than this, and you’d tell truths and do dares and the boys would hit each other with pillows until they exploded with feathers.

Wonwoo had been there through all of it. Laughed along with you. Helped you and Jeonghan come up with lies to tell your parents about why your room was covered in feathers and what had happened to their pillows.

It’s with these memories in mind that arrive at the hangar bay the next morning, eyes burning from lack of sleep, limbs heavy. Seungcheol stays dutifully at your side while the Elder Council repeats the details of your mission; the rules and stipulations and what to do when things inevitably go wrong. Junhui ignores all of this and boards the pod with a brief salute, star-shaped sunglasses perched atop his head, uncaring of anything except piloting.

Your brother approaches you last. He’d slept on the floor of your room and the two of you had shared childhood memories until sleep ensnared you both, and although you can tell he’s still lugging around all that guilt and fear and apprehension, he looks lighter than he did last night. “Sister,” he says, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards just slightly.

“High Council Yoon,” you lob back, not bothering to hide your shit-eating grin.

The more staunch and professional everyone around becomes, the less serious you begin to take it. You can’t help it: you’ve never shied away from who you are, the way people treat you, and you’ve grown into your role as The Spare. Where others see danger, you see opportunity. You actively seek it out, chasing chaos until there’s nothing left to run after. It’s what makes you who you are. It’s what’ll ensure this mission is successful.

Jeonghan wraps a well-worn cloak around your shoulders, enveloping you in the smell of his cologne. “Ithea bids you good fortune and good luck on your mission,” he says, voice steady and experienced, giving you the standard departure speech he’s given countless times before. “May you return to us unharmed.”

The same speech Wonwoo had gotten before he crash-landed on a hostile planet and didn’t return at all.

“And if I don’t, may you wage war and pillage the universe in revenge.”

A member of the Elder Council chokes. The look Jeonghan gives you is severe. “We will not be doing that.”

(He would, if it came down to it.)

“A girl can dream.” You wave him off easily. “Anyway, are you done lecturing me? I promise I’ll be back before you know it.”

“I’m suddenly having second thoughts.”

“Aht-aht!” You shake your finger at him. “No take-backsies,” you joke, throwing him an exaggerated wink. With every second that passes, your confidence returns to you tenfold, apprehension melting away under the fluorescent lights of the pod bay.

You stand taller as you lean in, allowing yourself a brief moment of raw honesty. “I will return,” you tell your brother, giving him the assurance he clearly needs. “I can’t promise I’ll be unharmed, given my track record, but I certainly won’t be dying on Dredelea, of all places.”

“You are the most formidable soldier Ithea has ever seen.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. When I get back, I better get one of those fancy bronze statues with the huge plaques talking about how brave and strong and cool I was on such a dangerous mission. And I want it installed right outside of Captain Hong’s quarters so he has to see my ugly mug every time he opens his door.”

“He would hate it,” Jeonghan remarks, eyes still glittering with devilry, “and yet there would be no better place for it to go. I’ll have it commissioned immediately.”

“Then I have even more of a reason to return safely.” You suck in a breath and wrap your arms around your brother. You can feel the erratic beat of his heart. “I’ll be okay, Hannie.”

He strengthens his embrace but doesn’t say anything further. Seungcheol clears his throat and informs the two of you that you’re all now running late for your departure. Not that it really matters—no one would question the High Council—but Seungcheol is nothing if not perceptive. Knows it’s better to nip this in the bud before it devolves into uncomfortable shows of emotion or dramatic, ugly crying and accusation-slinging.

Or worse: politics.

Because there’s a lot you could say to the Ithean Elder Council about why your brother’s life matters more than yours—more than the lives of any of his constituents. That it’s written in the coda of your planet’s Charters of Freedom that the High Council is not a dictator or a monarch, that they’re on equal footing with their people, and should they ever rule as such, it is not only the right of the Ithean people but their responsibility to depose them immediately.

Not that you’d ever incite a rebellion against Jeonghan (because he’s your brother and you’re a hypocrite, and by every metric he is an outstanding ruler) but you do love to be a thorn in the side of the Elder Council, considering your father is the Head of it as the former High Council.

Also considering his absence is looming over the festivities. Neither of your parents are here to see you off on a treacherous and potentially life-altering mission. You shouldn’t be surprised. You know exactly who your parents are and where (and with whom) their priorities lie, but it stings nonetheless, and what does a wounded animal do when it feels threatened?

It strikes.

And Seungcheol can see all that simmering just beneath the surface, so he bows to Jeonghan and Mingyu behind him, ignoring the Elder Council altogether because he doesn’t serve them, and he places a gentle hand in the small of your back as he guides you onto the travel pod.

“They really rolled out the red carpet for you, huh?” Seungcheol jokes, veering left down a long corridor. “I haven’t been on this pod since your brother’s trip to Omia.”

“Gods, that was right after he was sworn in. What useless clankers do they usually have you traveling in?”

He stops outside of a large metal door, gesturing for you to put your palm against the scanner. It opens to reveal a small cabin, just enough space for a bunk, a wardrobe, and a desk, with a tiny bathroom off to the right. All of your clothing has already been hung up, but not before being steamed and pressed to the ends of the galaxy. There’s so much starch in a pair of your pants you swear there’s a real pair of legs fitted inside of them.

“This one is yours,” Seungcheol says, ignoring your earlier question. Everyone knows the High Council travels on his own special pod and that this one is just the second-best. The Spare. “I’m right next door. Jun opted to sleep in the navigation bay.”

You step inside, falling backwards onto the bed to test the mattress. Feels more like a slab of concrete, just as you expected. “I think there’s something seriously wrong with him.”

“Goes without saying. Now get up, I have to finish the tour.”

You groan and stick out a hand. “Must you? It’s at least a day’s journey to Dredelea; surely we have more than enough time.”

As if you weigh nothing at all, Seungcheol pulls you easily to your feet and guides you back into the corridor, your complaints be damned. The two of you walk the length of it in silence, taking a left when it dead-ends. There, you arrive at what the plaque outside the door calls a mess hall, which is simply a table with four chairs and cabinets stocked with an assortment of ready-to-eat meals and fresh water. Your eyes glimmer at the sight of such luxury.

Beyond that lies a small medical bay. It isn’t very technologically-advanced and certainly nothing compared to the facilities back on Ithea, but it’s enough to treat minor injuries and quell the nasty side-effects of interstellar travel. You duck inside and grab an anti-nausea tablet, letting it dissolve underneath your tongue. Not that you travel much these days, but you learned as a kid on all the trips you and Jeonghan used to take with your parents that you, unfortunately, are not immune to motion sickness.

You and Seungcheol circle the perimeter of the pod. You pass the cargo hold and maintenance areas, additional fuel storage and the reactor. Most surprising is the next stop on Seungcheol’s tour. Automatic double doors whirr open. Unlike the rest of the ship, only one fluorescent light hangs from the ceiling, and it takes a second for your eyes to adjust to the low light of the room. Once they do, you have to mask your surprise. A combat training room is the last thing you expect to find in the center of an Ithean travel pod, but it calls to you like a siren song nonetheless.

“Your father didn’t have much use for it, hence why it’s so outdated,” Seungcheol begins to explain, “but Jeonghan thought it’d be best to keep it.”

You think of your brother. Probably the closest a person could come to being a pacifist without outrightbeing one, opting to use mind games and his trademark charismatic manipulation rather than brute force. Why would he keep a training room on a travel pod?

As if he anticipates your question, Seungcheol simply says, “He knows his weaknesses.”

The thought of your brother, whose figure can best be described as a stick on two legs, using this—of his sweat imprinted into the canvas mat; blood from his nose, his teeth in drip-drop patterns across the yellowing floor; of him throwing a strike at all—makes you laugh. You can’t help it. Jeonghan has risen to heights you could only dream of, but this may be the only place you cannot imagine him. “Who does he even spar with? You?”

Seungcheol shrugs, circling the room like a viper. A million memories dance at the edge of his vision. “Sometimes. Depends who else is around.”

“And I’m assuming my father knows nothing of this.”

Before he can answer, Junhui’s tinny voice comes over the intercom. “Lauch in T-minus five minutes.”

“Time for the final stop of the tour.”

Hidden within a labyrinth of corridors, the navigation bay is purposefully hard to find and nearly impossible to breach. A series of biometric scans are required for entry: ocular and fingerprint to start, then a pin-prick of blood if those are to fail—a series of scans that would prove insurmountable to any non-Ithean.

Inside, Junhui lords over the room from an elaborate console in the center. Even with the extensive tutoring you’ve recently undergone, you can’t even pretend to know what all of the nozzles, knobs, and levers do. Ithean protocol demands they be left unmarked so only those your planet trains are able to pilot them. You’ve always known Jun was blisteringly smart, but a brand new appreciation for his intelligence blooms within you at the sight of him in the cockpit, not even piloting the most technologically-advanced ship Ithea has to offer.

Constellation Marshal Castellan would not have taken him as a recruit if anything less had been true.

You approach his side, taking in the view of the bridge. Jun straightens as you approach, pressing a button to launch the transparent viewscreen. An interstellar map appears before your eyes, overlaid onto the last view of Ithea you’ll have for a while, and you try to commit it to memory as you take the seat to Jun’s left. “Welcome!” he chirps, gesturing for you to buckle in. “T-minus two minutes to launch. Would you like to see our intended route?”

“Anything to take my mind off of warp speed,” you mumble. Jun holds out his hand. At least fifty anti-nausea tablets sit within his palm. You quirk an eyebrow. “How many of these do you take per flight?”

“No clue.” He shrugs, popping two more into his mouth. Fuck it, you think, and do the same. Satisfied, he stashes the remaining tablets in a drawer and gestures to the screen. “T-minus one minute and thirty seconds to launch. We’ll need to be a ways away from Ithea to initiate the warp drive. The warp bubble is marked here,” he explains, pointing to an X on the display. At the blank look on your face, Jun devolves into physics babble. “Einstein wrote about the link between space and time in the Earth Year 1905 and came up with the theory of special relativity, which basically states—T-minus one minute to launch—that travel at the speed of light is impossible for objects with a nonzero rest mass. But then, in Earth Year 1994, a guy named Miguel Alcubierre proposed what is called the Alcubierre drive or the Alcubierre metric, which basically proposed that—T-minus thirty seconds—instead of trying to accelerate normal objects to the speed of light, which you can’t because it’s impossible, you can bend space around an object instead, which doesn’t break any of the laws of physics. That’s why we have to be clear of Ithea before initiating warp. If we’re too close, we risk creating a black hole for it to get sucked into.”

It’s obvious you don’t have a fucking clue what he’s talking about, but you understand his next two words very clearly: “Launch time!”

Jun flicks a switch and you sit there, entranced, as the ship truly comes to life. The lights on the navigation panel flash; the bolsters roar with the metallic thrum of electricity. There’s an exhale of gaseous steam as the ship rises from its stationary position, and your stomach drops to your ass before you can even complain about the lack of warning, feeling unmoored. Behind you, Seungcheol isn’t faring much better, knocked off-balance as he teeters into the wall, but at least you aren’t burdening everyone else by voicing your displeasure.

“Gods,” he grumbles, clawing his way to the nearest chair with a fastening device, “a warning would’ve been—”

What you’re sure would’ve been a resounding grievance is cut off as Junhui gently inches a lever forward. The ship lurches in response, tossing Seungcheol a few feet to the left, and his protests become more emphatic, also growing more colorful as the seconds pass. Junhui is none the wiser as he navigates the ship to the launch site with an unbothered, childlike grin, only serving to further incense Seungcheol, who finally finds a way to put his ass in a seat, taking on a glower that’s destined to become everyone else’s problem.

Things settle once your journey begins in earnest. As you’d mentioned to Seungcheol—who has seemingly forgotten he’s supposed to be angry and is snoring away—it’ll take at least a full day to reach Dredelea, assuming the universe is in a cooperative mood, so there’s no reason to try and rush the passage of time.

Jun is a talkative pilot. He doesn’t spill the secrets of the navigation consoles, but he does his best to explain what he’s doing and why, kindly pretending not to notice your glazed-over expression. But you’ve got to admit it’s nice to simply listen and not be expected to comprehend or answer. Junhui intrinsically understands things you could never dream of, but he never, ever speaks to you in a way that feels condescending. Instead, it’s simply the sharing of information; it’s seeing the way his eyes light up and the knowledge that there is nothing else in this universe he was meant to do.

However—

“This ship, for example, has a hypergolic propulsion system which eliminates the need for an ignition system or any other type of catalyst, because hypergolic propellants are a combination of rocket fuel and oxidizers which spontaneously ignite upon contact with one another.”

You hum. “And that means…?”

“Well, they have their advantages and disadvantages, as everything does.” That was not what you meant. “On the plus-side, it’s quite rare that a ship with a hypergolic propulsion system would suffer a catastrophic event upon launch. Additionally, hypergolic propellations are far more dense than cryogenic ones—”

“The stuff they freeze dead people in?”

Junhui pauses. “Oh. Yeah, I think I read about that once in a book on Ancient Earth burial techniques. Regardless, the higher density of the nitric acid or nitrogen tetroxide or whatever hypergolic oxidizer you’re using means the propellant tanks can be smaller, and smaller propellant tanks means a smaller payload fairing.”

“Wow,” you deadpan, “that’s some really fascinating stuff.”

“I know!” Junhui is near wiggling in excitement at your acknowledgement. The gods are going to smite you for attempting to snuff out such raw joy. “I was doing some reading, though, and what’s even more interesting is the way Dredelea builds their ships. Way, way back in history, it was common for Ancient Earth to use a solar power system for their ships, considering their proximity to the sun, and it wasn’t like the location of either the earth or the sun was going to change, so there was no real need to deviate from it… unless their missionwould bring them too far away from the sun.”

“Which would be the case for Dredelea,” you piece together, “considering its lack of light.”

“Exactly! They’ve all but been forced to build their ships using ancient technology. They use RTGs, or radioisotropic thermoelectric generators, to convert radioactive decay heat into electricity.”

You still understand none of these words. “What does that mean for us, if anything?”

“Well, nothing super significant,” Jun responds easily. “Ithea is, of course, one of the most technologically-advanced planets in the galaxy, so there’s really not much damage the Dredeleans could do as a counter-attack, but with the amount of decaying plant matter on their planet, I dare say they’ve unknowingly tapped into an unlimited power source.” You blink. “It’s a shame they don’t have the resources or knowledge to harvest it.”

A million thoughts race through your mind. There are also a million emotions, the most prominent being a piercing aggregate of anger and betrayal. Does Jeonghan know about this? Did your father? And if they did—if they knew Dredelea was sitting on a limitless supply of organic power—they sent you anyway?

You can’t let Jun see your panic, so you cough, clearing your throat to cover it. “Hypothetically speaking… let’s say they figured it out. Hypothetically, of course, how bad would that be?”

“Hmm.” Jun presses a button before sitting back in his chair, pivoting it back and forth in practiced semi-circles. “Obviously it would depend on what they chose to do with it. An unlimited power source could arguably make their planet the most prosperous in the galaxy, which is a clear upside, especially considering the current state of Dredelea, but also one very obvious downside.”

“It puts a target on their heads,” you conclude.

“Exactly. Despite the fairytales, there are civilizations out there far more hostile than the Dredeleans. Worse, there are civilizations far more desperate. I wouldn’t say I’d entrust unlimited power in the hands of Dredelea, but I’d trust them a hell of a lot more than, say, Chulvara.”

You blow out a long breath. “Shiiiiiit.”

“Either way,” Jun continues, turning his attention back to the viewscreen, “it’s not an immediate threat. Probably not even a next-hundred-years kind of threat. The science is maddeningly complex, but the Dredeleans are the only ones with such intimate knowledge of their ecosystem and biome. I don’t think anyone else would know what to do with it.”

You decide not to push the conversation any further. One thought branches to another branches to another to another, ad nauseam, and if you think too long and too hard it’ll give you a migraine. Politics isn’t your domain and a contentious, inhospitable planet sitting on a goldmine of power nearly tops the list of reasons why. Gods above. What are you doing? Even with all the training in the world, you’re not equipped for this. It stopped being a simple rescue mission the second Jeonghan let slip where Wonwoo was being held, and now here you are, trying to mentally disentangle a millennia's worth of interstellar governance while nearly hallucinating from all the anti-nausea tablets you’ve housed.

Fuck. You should really get some sleep.

You stand, joints cracking as you do. You’re too old for this. “I’m going back to my cabin. Let Seungcheol know where he can find me.”

Jun salutes, not bothering to respond otherwise. You suspect he might be hallucinating, too.

There’s only an hour until you reach Dredelea.

At least you were able to get decent rest the night before, your mind as clear as it can be. Another thirty minutes and your ship will blip onto their radars, alerting them of your impending arrival, and no one can be sure what their reaction will be. Surely they’ll have been anticipating this. You can’t hold hostage another planet’s citizen(s) and not expect them to eventually come knocking, especially if they’ve already tried resolving this peacefully.

Staring up at the ceiling of your cabin, you groan, knowing you need to get up and prepare yourself. This is not a situation you can walk into unrehearsed and play by ear. To have any hopes of pulling this off, you need to be the better proponent: more learned, more perceptive. This is what you find most daunting. You’re every bit as capable as Jeonghan said you are, but all the tact and diplomacy in the universe will crumble in the face of deceit, and then what? Outing yourself isn’t an option. Giving up and leaving Wonwoo behind isn’t an option, either.

Fuck me, you mutter.

Time to rock n’ roll.

You dress in the traditional diplomatic uniform: a black, high-neck top and a pair of fitted black trousers that scream money and power and a pair of pointed-toe, heeled black boots. You slip a silver signet ring onto your pinky, an iridescent pinfire opal mounted in the center, mined from Ithea’s own rock. Your white-blonde hair is ironed until it’s pin-straight and sleek, not a strand out of place, and then, as is customary, you paint a metallic silver band across your eyes.

Jeonghan’s cloak is the pièce de résistance.

Its effect is immediate. As soon as it rests on your shoulders, you feel all-powerful. Imposing. Imperial. The figure staring back at you in the mirror is competent and needs no reassurance. She’s not starving for a war but she’s not satiated, either. Dredelea had bet on the wrong horse. Showed their hand far too early. Jeon Wonwoo was the worst hostage they could’ve taken, and they’d wagered all their bets on your brother’s genuine kindness, on his desire to resolve this—or anything else—peacefully.

You may share his face and have stolen his voice, but you are not your brother.

“T-minus fifteen minutes to landing.”

Shoulders squared, you take a deep breath and steel yourself. The rhythmic click-clack of your heels grounds you as you walk to the navigation bay. You let the biometric scanner run over your eye, then your fingerprints. The doors whirr open as it deems you worthy and Seungcheol is there to greet you, looking every inch your counterpart, commanding to a fault. Like you, he stands tall and dignified. You imagine he’s spent enough time around the Ithean Councils to model the behaviors that bely their true sentiments, and the blasé affect he wears, as if all of this is beneath him, is one of them.

But the gravity of the situation immediately cracks when he takes one look at you and says, “Gods above, that’s fucking freaky. You look just like him.”

“Who?” you retort dryly.

Seungcheol gives you the finger. It’s one of his favorite customs from Ancient Earth, and he has refused to give it up ever since learning about it. No one outside of your circle knows what it means, either, which only delights him further. You can distinctly remember him doing it to your father on at least four separate occasions.

Still, he grows serious enough that you believe him when he meets your eye and tells you everything is going to be okay, that you’re capable and prepared. It isn’t the first time you’ve thought it, but he and Jeonghan are so alike. The poise with which they hold themselves. Their steadfast, unwavering confidence in you and all the quiet ways they show it.

“T-minus five minutes to landing.”

“Are you ever gonna talk about it?”

Their insistence that you never have even a second of peace.

“Talk about—”

Seungcheol shoots you a pointed look. “Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“I can and I will.” He says your name with a hushed, almost pleading disapproval. “Cheol, I get it, okay? I do. But I can’t think about it right now. I need a clear head”—he moves to protest, but you mime zipping your lips—“and talking about it is only going to make things worse. Let me do this first and then you can be as annoying about it as you want.”

He pouts, stopping in his tracks at the accusation. “I’m not annoying.”

“T-minus one minute to landing.”

“You are,” you insist, fastening yourself into a seat. “You are the older brother I never wanted and never asked for yet can’t seem to get rid of.”

He follows suit, securing himself into the seat next to you. “You’d be miserable without me.”

“Only because you make Jeonghan slightly more bearable.”

Scoffing, he retorts, “Sure, keep telling yourself that.”

What’s sure to be a witty and biting riposte sits on the tip of your tongue, dissipating immediately once the pod touches down on solid ground. Showtime, you think, slipping back into character. You wear your brother’s likeness like a mask, projecting a sense of control you certainly don’t feel. Have probably never felt, if you had a second to spare for honesty, but there’s no time to dwell on childhood trauma when you’re a sitting duck on an unpredictable, hostile planet.

“I landed in the best position I could,” Jun explains, killing the interstellar navigation map and replacing it with a topographical one of Dredelea. “This is where we are. Easy landing and easy escape, if necessary, but it’s still some distance away from the rendezvous point as you can see.”

Seungcheol peers over Junhui’s shoulder, seemingly memorizing the map, before turning to you. “That means if anything feels even slightly off, we need to get the fuck out of there, alright? No wait-and-see. The bryophytes here are so dense they could have us surrounded twenty times over and we wouldn’t know it.”

“Trust me, you don’t need to tell me twice.” You address Junhui. “What are you going to do while we’re gone? Will you be safe?”

He smiles softly. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“He’s being humble,” Seungcheol accuses. “He tested as a goddamn sharpshooter, for fuck’s sake.”

Your jaw drops. “A sharp—okay, we are definitely revisiting this later. Seungcheol, let’s go before I lose my nerve and vomit all over the place. Junhui, you are a man of designation and integral to the continued prosperity of Ithea. It was an honor flying with you.” You salute him.

“Oh, fuck off,” Seungcheol groans.

“What, I can’t praise my friends—”

You’re unable to finish your sentence. Seungcheol places his hands on your shoulders and spins you around, directing you out the doors of the navigation bay and in the direction of the airlock deck. There, you equip dosimeters, unsure of exactly what’ll be there to greet you beyond the doors of your ship, and Seungcheol quickly puts in a pair of scotopic contact lenses. Aside from emergency oxygen and medi-gel patches, the two of you had chosen to forego any additional gear. No communicators, no tracking devices, no scanners, and only one weapon each, both discreet and undetectable by traditional means.

A massive risk, but one you hope pays off.

Before you press the button for the exterior door, Seungcheol places a hand on your arm. “Remember, we’re leaving this way, but we need to return through decontamination.” You nod. “Also, I know he’s our friend, but I don’t care what he says or how we feel: Wonwoo goes from de-con straight to the brig.”

Your heart twists at the thought of Wonwoo going straight from a hostage situation into a prison cell—at you being the one who has to subject him to it. Seungcheol takes in the look on your face and his touch turns gentle. “I know. But we don’t know what they’ve done to him, okay? Whatever it is can be deprogrammed later, but we can’t take any chances when we’re this far from home. More than a day’s journey on a travel ship with a possibly-brainwashed lunatic does not strike a grand sense of adventure into me.” When you don’t laugh, his gaze turns imploring. “Please. You’ve gotta promise me.”

As much as you don’t want to admit it, Seungcheol is right: the Wonwoo you bring home very well may not be the same Wonwoo who left. It feels impossible to imagine him any other way, but you suck in a breath, two more, and then you relent. What else can you do?

“I promise.”

“Okay. Okay, good.” His hand hovers above the exit button. “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

What greets you is silence.

No ambient noise. No chirping insects or the skittering of small creatures. No noise from a wind storm on a neighboring planet. Dredelea is completely void of sound, of signs of life, and it raises the hair on the back of your neck. You can tell Seungcheol finds it just as unsettling as you. His footsteps grow slower, giving him more time to scour the darkness, more time to anticipate an ambush… but there’s nothing. There’s only you and him and an expanse of opaque greenery.

The earth is permeable and waterlogged, squirming beneath your feet; a sort of dance, purposely designed to make you second-guess each step. Keep you off-balance. It feels as though you’re treading upon something living—which you are, technically—but this feels different, like the terrain is alive. Dredelea is completely void of sound, but if it wasn’t, you imagine all you’d hear was the earth’s breaths, its wearied exhales and heaving sighs.

Moisture also hangs thick in the air. The humidity is so thick you can taste it on your tongue. Could hack through it with a blade. Every intake of breath feels like a chore, like you have to remind your organs how to work. It isn’t long before your lungs begin to ache, a stitch appearing in your side, and sweat plasters your clothes to your skin. You know you need to move quickly: it won’t be long before dehydration sets in, lethargy and mental fog accompanying it.

Though you can’t be sure it hasn’t already.

Dredelea’s darkness is disorienting. Not pitch black, but the kind of murky twilight that calls to mind a storm on a late summer evening, midnight blues and charcoal grays smeared together on a painter's palette. It’s dark enough that your mind starts playing tricks on you, inventing shadows that taunt you from the periphery; that take cover beneath dense moss canopies. They lurk, waiting to strike, patient and still.

“It shouldn’t be much longer.”

Seungcheol’s words are meant to reassure you, but you can hear it for the plea it really is.

It’s hard to tell how much more time passes. Your body has long since grown tired, legs cramped and feet screaming. Once you’re back home you’ll curse your entire planet for this foolish uniform. Heeled boots to traverse a soggy, moss-covered planet… What a brainless choice. Completely stupid. But then you take another step and both the literal and metaphorical fog clears. The ground becomes more firm and the humidity lessens, cooling your overheated, flushed skin. The ambient noise you’d been missing filters in. Immediately, the tension begins to bleed out of your body, muscles and tendons and sinew beginning to unwind and loosen.

Seungcheol stops. You watch his shoulders heave as he sucks in the fresh air. “Last chance to back out.”

You snort. “Last chance to return to Ithea and have my head put on a spike, you mean.” Your companion’s expression grows severe, and that’s not something you can deal with right now. You don’t need his pity or his well-intentioned sympathy or anything else, so you say, “They already know we’re here. I doubt we’ll make it ten steps before they capture us and drag us in like wet cats.”

“I know, but—”

You shake your head. “Come on.”

He has no choice but to relent. A long-suffering sigh restarts your journey, and as the dense brush gives way to the heart of Dredelea, shocked awe overcomes you. It’s… not what you expected. From the fairytales, you expected towering, metal buildings guarded by ominous figures. You expected the structures to be surrounded by moats of bubbling acid emitting a mysterious steam, toxic green and smelling of sulfur. You expected some semblance of technology. Not up to date or even semi-advanced, but… something, at least.

Not this.

What lies before you is a derelict civilization.

From what you’re able to see, the buildings are ramshackle, built from outdated, decaying materials. Wood, if you had to guess, which would explain the state of them: the mold that’s eaten away at the foundation, giving way to collapse; the sagging roofs and crumbling exteriors of what’s still standing; the overwhelming stench of woodrot and decay.

It’s clear that this is a society handicapped by the galaxy’s sanctions, poor and left to fend for itself, hopeless in the face of such a barren, sterile environment. A pang of sympathy that turns to resentment. No one should be forced to live like this when other planets sit on staggering amounts of wealth, its inhabitants dressed in battered rags as they scavenge for food.

“This is…”

“Fucked,” Seungcheol finishes for you. “Come on. Nothing we can do about it right now.”

True to your nature, you want to argue. Want to dig your heels into the soft earth and demand it be fixed right now, but you know he’s right. What you’re witnessing on Dredelea is the culmination of decades, if not centuries, of interstellar politics. As much as you might want to try, Seungcheol is right: it’s not something you can solve by standing around feeling sorry for them. Perhaps it’s not something you—or anyone—can solve at all.

Discreetly, you remove the opal signet and place it in your pocket for safekeeping. It no longer feels appropriate to wear it.

“Where do we even go?”

All of your original plans are obsolete. Neither of you can even be sure now that Junhui’s map had been correct, because surely there would’ve been some inkling of this—some trace warning that the Dredelea spoken of in nightmarish terms was long gone and fictional. Surely someone had to have known the state of the planet before sending you here on a wild goose chase. Surely it’s impossible that no one did, and that sends a cold chill up your spine. More questions. More things that have you questioning the extent of your father’s—and Jeonghan’s—knowledge.

“We stay on course,” Seungcheol finally answers. “This is fucked, but I trust Jun.”

You can’t help it. “Do you trust Jeonghan after all this?”

If he’s shocked by the bitterness in your tone, he seemingly decides now isn’t the time to address it. Instead, he rolls his lips and continues on, giving you no choice but to follow behind.

You cover your nose and mouth as you pass through the first decomposing building, terrified of mold spores embedding themselves in your lungs. Everything here feels wrong in the most primal way, every atom in your body screaming at you to get the fuck out of here as soon as possible, and you have no intention of ignoring them, so the thought of anything sticking with you, of following you home, is unfathomable. You won’t allow it.

Eventually, after Seungcheol leads you through the remains of two more derelict buildings, your mere presence seeming to cause more damage, exoskeletons crumbling as you pass, you reach a clearing.

You may not have Seungcheol’s eidetic memory, but you also don’t remember this being on Junhui’s map, which had been speckled with shapes: squares for buildings, circles for bodies of water, triangles for entry and exit points. This had not been there—you’re sure of it—but you’re not surprised. Whatever information Jun had been working off of was clearly outdated, as you and Seungcheol have quickly come to learn.

Being so exposed, though, has that familiar dread setting back in. Has the hair on the back of your neck rising again. Vulnerability is a liability anywhere, but Dredelea certainly isn’t the place for it. In this clearing, you and Seungcheol are sitting ducks. Anyone could be watching. Anyone could be waiting. And although it’s better than before, your vision is still limited. There’s still barely any sound to help orient you. Junhui’s map is still wrong.

And you can’t shake the feeling of eyes on you.

“Seungcheol…”

Whatever you’re about to say is interrupted by the arrival of Dredelea’s hereditary monarch.

High Emperor Zelos is exactly as they’ve been pictured: tall and gaunt, resembling a ghoul more than anything that could be considered human. Their skin is thin and nearly translucent, having taken on a faint, greenish tint. Their eyes, which only contain pupils where irises should be, are wide and upturned, sitting beneath a prominent brow bone. Unlike the rest of the Dredeleans you’ve seen, the emperor is dressed in an extravagant cloak. The fabric is unknown to you: it reflects the scarce amount of light in the clearing, giving it the impression of something fluid like silk, but even from a distance you can tell it’s more substantial, something that provides more warmth.

A far cry from the tattered rags of their populace.

“Ah,” they intone, their voice discordant and caustic, spoken through thin lips and blackened, rotting teeth, “how blessed are we that our friends from Ithea have completed their journey safely!”

You’re overcome by the sudden urge to blow this smarmy, unnerving motherfucker’s head off. If Soonyoung was here, he’d rub two sticks together and be done with it, high-tailing it back to the ship before you and Seungcheol even have time to process what’s happened, the two of you left standing there pathetically in a plume of smoke. And you can do it, you wager. Looking around, you think you’d be able to cobble together at least one-quarter of a functioning bomb. Given the biosphere, that should be more than enough to have this place looking like a supernova, interrupting what you’re sure is about to be a rousing and inspirational speech on behalf of the sullied and neglected. You gag just thinking about it, ignoring the pointed look Seungcheol shoots you.

They may say don’t kill the messenger,but sometimes the messenger’s declarations are more effective when they don’t come from someone wearing an exorbitantly expensive robe.

Beside you, Seungcheol’s energy is frenetic. Palpable. If he were willing to risk speaking, it’d be to implore you to remember your training and not make this worse. A nonviolent escape is still within reach, and it’d be nice to rescue Wonwoo and return to Ithea a hero, but there’s very little pleasure in that, isn’t there? And in light of all the risks you’re taking, most important of which is your life, isn’t it reasonable to feel you’re owed a little fun?

“Yes,” you sing-song, seamlessly adopting Jeonghan’s voice as you rock back on your heels, “here we are! And such a warm welcome! On behalf of Ithea, we thank you for your planet’s hospitality, High Emperor Zelos.”

It’s obviously not what they expected you to say, your enthusiasm—even if it’s fraudulent—clearly catching them off guard. “I’m sure our prior correspondences got lost,” you continue, tone still sickly-sweet and playing the fool. Jeonghan would kill you for this. “But as I’m sure you’re aware, one of our civilians, Jeon Wonwoo, has been kept prisoner on your planet for quite some time. We are here to retrieve him.”

“He is a hostage, not a prisoner,” Zelos sneers. “That implies an exchange, and Ithea has yet to offer us anything of value for his freedom.”

“Ah, I see, I see. And you have submitted your list of demands?”

This seems to incense Zelos further. They stalk forward, meaning to intimidate you. Within arm’s reach, their voice takes on a metallic, acerbic undertone, the stench unbearable. “A list of demands? We have something you want; that gives us leverage, and leverage is power. If you think anyone would find it urgent to give that up, you are a feebleminded, short-sighted child, Ithean—and I am not interested in brokering deals with children.”

You brush imaginary dirt from your—Jeonghan’s—cloak. “High Council Yoon,” you correct, “and I would say your disinterest in a deal is also short-sighted and imprudent, but I suspect you know that already.”

Zelos shouts at you, spittle flying, to get to the point. Seungcheol tenses. Not only at the High Emperor’s patience wearing thin, but at your unaffected demeanor. He can’t tell what you’re thinking or what your plan is, and that makes you dangerous. Coupled with your reputation for being a wild card and inclination toward chaos, he’s unsettled. Doesn’t know if he should be preparing for bloodshed or bureaucracy.

“Tell you what.” Feigning distraction, you retrieve the opal ring from your pocket and pretend to clean it. You slip it back on your finger and hold it before you in mock-admiration. “Give us Jeon Wonwoo and I will put in word to the Elder Council that Dredelea was cooperative and amenable to our suggestions.”

Zelos laughs, just as you expect. “That’s your offer? That you’ll put in a good word with your Elders?” he mocks. “I’d sooner deal your hostage a most gruesome death than trust an Ithean’s word on anything.”

This time, it’s you that takes a step forward. “That’s what I figured you’d say, but unfortunately that’s all we’re willing to offer at this time. Our contacts and pockets run deep, you know—when the Elder Council wills it, Ithea is a powerful card to have in your deck.”

“And your hostage? You are prepared to leave him behind?”

You shrug, turning on your heel to leave. “Take it or leave it, it’s all the same to me, so long as you are prepared to live with your choice.”

What the fuck are you doing, Seungcheol mouths to you, brows pinched in confusion and desperation, torn between staying put and pleading his own case and following. You ignore him.

“Perhaps seeing the current state of Jeon Wonwoo would change your mind.”

Back still turned, you smirk, pleased but unsurprised that they’ve played right into your hand, following your script perfectly. It’s hubris on full display, and hubris is always the preamble to one’s demise. You stop, pretending their words are giving you pause. “Oh?” you ask, turning back around. “High Emperor Zelos, now you have my attention.”

The first punch lands in the center of Wonwoo’s jaw.

Pain blooms, greeting him like an old friend, and he’s barely given a millisecond to recover before another punch is thrown at him. This time he ducks out of the way. Feints to the right. Watches as knuckles flex beneath the stained gauze wrapped around them; as tendons and blue-green veins move like snakes beneath skin.

Everything moves at half speed, iridescent halos casted around whatever he manages to focus on. Wonwoo rolls his neck to the side. Can’t hear the crack over the jeering of the crowd. Pushes his tongue into the fat of his throbbing cheek and grins around a mouth full of blood, metallic and viscous. Tries to blink the stars from his vision, pupils blown, eyes stinging from the dingy fluorescent lights hanging overhead and the salt in his sweat.

Another jab that doesn’t land.

Another deafening reaction from the crowd as they rattle the chainlink cage that surrounds him.

There’s a bruise on his ribs—yellow-green and mottled, streaked with petechiae. Clearly fresh. Clearly painful, too, considering the way Draecol favors his left side, the way he tries to shield it from Wonwoo’s view.

Too late, he thinks.

Wonwoo also thinks about you, just like he has every time he’s found himself here, forced to fight for his life. Thinks back to when the two of you were kids; back to when his edges were still rounded and soft. He hadn’t learned how to stand up for himself yet and, having no reference for violence at all, certainly didn’t know how to fight. But you, having grown up with an irritating gnat of a younger brother, were well-equipped to teach him.

He remembers the feeling of your skin as you placed your hand over his, shaping it into a fist. Remembers when he’d split his eyebrow and was too scared to tell his mother, running straight to you instead, and how gently you’d cleaned him up. Remembers all those sparring matches and the way your eyes used to narrow, sharp and precise. You were always predatory in quiet, clandestine ways—the opposite of Wonwoo, whose rage strikes like a viper. Injects its venom into his veins and rarely sticks around long enough to play witness. There and gone, just like a flashbomb. It’s the one thing he can’t seem to outgrow, and it manifests the same way now: as he clenches his jaw and his teeth slot into the worn imprints of his mouthguard like puzzle pieces; as he plants his feet against the canvas, stretched and stained with blood and sweat and fuck knows what else.

As he eyes the bruise again and kicks out with his right foot to knock Draecol off-balance. It’s enough to distract him from Wonwoo’s clenched fist and leave him blind to the quick jab Wonwoo takes at his ribs. Draecol cries out, body immediately collapsing in on itself, and the crowd jeers again, fueled by their pain and the promise of more cruelty. Just like sharks in a blood frenzy. Wonwoo is sickened by them, yet he has no choice but to dance for their approval, strung up like a marionette, unable to decide his own fate.

If he could, though—

If he could, he’d go home. He’d fall to his knees and press his lips to the ground, breathing in the scent of Ithea’s earth he’d forgotten during his time away. He’d open his arms wide, welcoming his friends as they mobbed and embraced him, giddy at his return. Tears would well in his eyes upon realizing just how badly he’d missed them, at how overwhelming it’d be to see them.

But it would all pale in comparison to how it’d feel to come face to face with you again.

To lay eyes on you and know you were safe. To be able to reach out and feel your warm pulse beneath his fingertips. To let apologies spill from his mouth over and over until you were sick of hearing them. To make promises he’d die before breaking, this time.

Reality comes crashing down on him like a rogue wave, though, because the cruel injustice of it remains: he isn’t going anywhere—and he will never see you again—if he can’t fight his way off of this godsforsaken planet. If he can’t shake the sight of blood and take advantage of Draecol’s momentary daze. It’s with your face in his mind’s eye that he strikes out again with all the rage and homesickness he can muster. There’s the sickening crunch of pulverized bone as Wonwoo clenched fist makes contact.

More blood. More jeering.

Draecol drops to his knees, just as Wonwoo does in his daydream, except instead of kissing the ground of his home planet, he prepares to deal the finishing blow to a man who had done nothing deserving of it. A man who had committed no crime, yet was stripped of his freedom and forced to fight for the delight of fiends.

“I’m sorry,” Wonwoo mutters, but his words are lost to the crowd’s raucous, tumultuous applause.

Then he squeezes his eyes shut and does what he has to.

And when he dares to open them, he wonders if the roles had been reversed; if he hadn’t hallucinated the entire fight and it wasn’t the crowd he’d heard but the sound of his own death knell. Because as he stands there, his skin caked with both his blood and someone else’s, he swears he can see you. Swears you’re standing right there, right along the perimeter of the room.

Such a beautiful mirage can only be the work of something divine, so he says a prayer in thanks, grateful it’s the last thing he sees before his vision promptly blacks out and he collapses to the floor.

Not even Dredelea is stupid enough to execute a hostage in front of his planet’s High Council.

You suspect they would’ve if you weren’t here, because Wonwoo can’t fight. Not in this state. Not for a while. And if Wonwoo can’t fight he’s worthless to them, and if he’s worthless then Dredelea has effectively lost all of its bargaining power.

This is why you never, ever bet on fickle things, you want to say.

But you also want to say it was never going to be a fair trade. Just as you feared, the Wonwoo you’ll be taking back to Ithea is not the same Wonwoo that left it. You want to scream at them, force them to make him right, undo whatever the fuck they did that made him this way. You want to reach across the table you’re sitting at and grasp at their throats and claw at their eyes, laughing as fear and nothingness replaces whatever life you can find in them.

You want to drag Jeonghan back here. Make him stand in that room with his back to its stained, concrete walls, the chill seeping through his clothes and into his skin. You want him disoriented by the unrelenting, rhythmic rattling of the cage. Frozen in shock and horror by the crowd’s bloodlust. You want him to choke as the smell of blood sticks in his nose, sickened by the overpowering tang of iron. You want the sound of crushed bones to ring in his head for the rest of his life, coming back to haunt him every time he closes his eyes and longs for sleep.

It isn’t the time, though. Right now, you need to keep a level head. You need to act like whatever you saw in that room didn’t affect you, like it didn’t have you wondering, even for a fraction of a second, if you should bring Wonwoo home. If it was safe. And Dredelea may have lost their bargaining power but you’ll kill them for this anyway. You don’t know how and you don’t know when, but you can promise them they’ll never experience a moment of peace so long as you’re alive. You want them on edge, always looking over their shoulders; always wondering if you’re lurking in every shadow.

“As I’ve already explained, the previous offer is off the table.” Opposite to how you’re feeling, you’re able to project Jeonghan’s voice as decisive and clear. Like the rest of him, you wear it like a mask: the Jeonghan sitting across from the ruler of Dredelea and their cronies is commanding and stable, not governed by emotion the way you are. Where you would glare, he observes with a sharp, clinical eye.

You and High Emperor Zelos are more alike than you’d like to admit. “It cannot be off the table!” their voice booms. “Not if you want your hostage.”

They mean to intimidate you—mean to have your spine bending out of fear as you’re forced into submission. But you aren’t persuaded. Aren’t moved by this childish, petulant tantrum at all. Wonwoo lies in a pathetic heap on the other side of the room and you cannot bring yourself to care about anything else. “Our hostage?” you repeat. “And what power do you think you’re still able to wield when it comes to our hostage?”

“He still belongs to—”

Your stare sharpens. “He belongs to no one but himself, and yet you’ve reduced him to that.” You point at Wonwoo’s unconscious form. “As a fighter?” You whistle. “The audacity you displayed earlier makes sense. If I had a weapon like that in my arsenal I’d behave like an overconfident, presumptuous brat, too. But now? Ithea isn’t in the business of violence, y’know, so maybe I’m wrong, but something tells me the bell has rung on that man’s final round.”

Zelos stammers, so you continue. “Let me tell you how it looks from my end.” You lean forward and plant your elbows on the table, projecting a placidness you don’t feel. “You took something of ours—took a living person and forged him into a weapon because you have nothing else. Whatever military presence you commanded in the past—regardless of its minute scale—has long since been incapacitated and rendered obsolete, so you cannot mount an offensive- or counter-attack against us. You have chosen to play the perpetual victim and have deemed technological advancement your enemy. Not even progress can find its way around an ego so large and intent on failure, and so you’ve doomed your people, your planet, to wither away in darkness. It won’t be long before Dredelea ceases to exist and no one mourns its absence. So, High Emperor Zelos, I applaud your efforts,” you snark, “but I fear you gambled and you lost. You have been defanged, and now you’re out of bargaining chips.”

Trembling with rage, Zelos still does not answer. The Dredeleans flanking them seem similarly stunned, aimless now that they’ve been stripped of their usual browbeating demeanors. You’ve done nothing and yet you’ve outplayed them. You aren’t even the goddamn High Council, and yet—

“We will be returning Jeon Wonwoo to Ithea,” you conclude, gesturing for Seungcheol to stand as you join him at full height, “and if you do so much as think about preventing us from doing so, I will take each one of these men. I will drag them out of this desolate, putrid hole, and I will kill them myself, one by one while you watch, and once I’m finished you can tell me how it feels when something of yours is taken.”

Zelos studies you with a questioning stare, looking for any tells, any sign that you don’t actually mean the promises of certain death that have spilled from your lips. The tension in the room swells. For a split-second you think he’s going to call your bluff, and in that meager amount of time you’re forced to confront a few harsh truths about yourself: that you would risk the safety and standing of your planet to defend Wonwoo’s honor. That you’d soak your hands in Dredelean blood as penance for what they’ve done to him.

But Zelos finds nothing but your cold, unflinching stare, and the tension deflates.

“Escort the hostage to the Itheans’ ship,” they announce, and from their acrid tone you can tell this isn’t over. You’ve threatened the lives of their men and insulted their planet. There are few grievances more offensive to such an egotistical maniac, but that’s a problem for Jeonghan and your father to solve. As soon as Wonwoo is safely on his way back to Ithea, you have no further obligations to this mission.

“A wise choice,” you can’t help but declare.

A sardonic grin splits black teeth. “You are far more ruthless than they say, Ithean.” There’s a challenge in their words. An accusation. If Zelos or any of the other Dredeleans have harbored suspicions that you aren’t who you’ve presented yourself to be, they’ve kept them under lock and key. Waited until the last possible moment to throw a hail mary.

You steal a glance at Wonwoo, still unconscious as he’s propped up between two Dredelean puppets, arms thrown around their shoulders to stay upright. You take in the mottled bruises covering his limp, malnourished body. His split lip, caked with blood. The laceration on his cheek, left unstitched and untreated, and the matching one that’ll paint a nasty scar through his right brow. The trauma that is sure to be embedded in each and every cell of his biology.

“High Council Yoon.” You’re unyielding as you correct Zelos again, demanding the respect you deserve, content to leave their suspicions hanging in the air, fated to become nothing but what-ifs. “And I suggest you remain blissfully unaware of just how ruthless I can be.”

Another strained moment passes before Seungcheol breaks it, barking at the Dredelean lackeys to start fucking moving. They obey without question. It’s another blow to Zelos’s pride. Another humiliating reminder that they’d been outplayed and outwitted, reduced to a sniveling, impotent ruler whose men will jump ship for anyone more powerful.

And jump ship they do. When the ensemble reaches your ship, you nod your thanks to them and turn to board, eager to get far, far away from this forlorn planet. But just as you’re about to seal yourself inside, one of Zelos’s men grabs you by the wrist. The contact sets your instincts ablaze, but the man before you seems nervous and meek, barely past his teenage years if you had to guess, and skittish in the same way wild creatures are. A strong breeze would have him tucking his tail between his legs. This boy is no threat to you.

“Do we have unfinished business, child?” His tongue stumbles over words that never materialize, offering only choked-off sounds. You square your shoulders and soften your approach. “Can I help you in some way?”

“Pl-please take—take me with you,” he pleads. “My name is Lee Chan. I-I can be us-useful, I promise, but I can’t—I can’t spend the rest of my li-life here. Please, I—”

You grab the young man by the shoulder, moving him out of earshot of his fellow Dredeleans. Strange, you think: he doesn’t look like the rest of them. Doesn’t have their pale skin or their unsettling, dark eyes. Doesn’t share their looming, thin figures. “This planet is not your home,” you conclude. Almost ashamed, Lee Chan diverts his eyes as he nods. “How did you wind up here?”

“I don’t remember,” he answers quietly, “I was ve-very young.”

“Did you come here alone?”

“No, with my mother, but she…” He clears his throat, becoming more coherent the longer you let him speak. (The more hope he lets himself endure.) “I don’t know what hap-happened to her, but she’s been gone a long time.”

You sigh. Gods above, are you truly considering this? You’d be stupid to look a gift horse in the mouth after earning yourselves a peaceful exit, yet here you are, contemplating taking this young man—who very well could be lying, you remind yourself—as a stowaway. It’s all the invitation Zelos would need to launch an interstellar war, legality be damned. Just as you and Seungcheol had arrived on Dredelea, metaphorical guns blazing to retrieve Wonwoo, they could come looking for Lee Chan, demanding his return.

But if you leave him here, if you pretend to be deaf to his pleas and knowingly condemn Lee Chan to a life of suffering on this barren wasteland, can you truly claim yourself to be any better than Zelos?

“I need you to answer me honestly.” The young man nods, eyes glistening with unshed tears, and that’s when you see the remnants of a fierce bruise fading along the contours of his cheekbone and temple. “Those motherfuckers,” you swear. “Will they come looking for you? Lee Chan, pay attention and listen to me: will Zelos come looking for you? Answer me honestly.”

He shakes his head emphatically. “No, I don’t—I don’t think so.”

“What is your role here?” He’s hesitant to answer, causing you to grip his shoulders tighter. You don’t have time for this. “Listen, kid, I don’t give a fuck if your job is to extract the shit from someone’s ass, I just need to know if it’s important enough that they’ll come looking for you.”

“No,” he finally responds, breaking out of his stupor. “They—they make me fight sometimes, and when I don’t, I’m the one who cleans up the… the…”

“The blood. Got it. You’re absolutely certain?”

“I know him. The man you came after. Wonwoo. He—he was always very ki-kind to me.”

The mention of Wonwoo’s name has you swearing again. Seungcheol yells at you from the deck of the decontamination bay, asking what the fuck you’re doing, reminding you that you need to hurry up. “I am your High Council, Choi Seungcheol,” you fire back, “and we don’t leave until I fucking say we leave.” You turn your attention back to Lee Chan, having made up your mind. All you can do is hope you don’t come to regret it. “Damn it all to hell. Hurry up and get on the ship. Quickly, Lee Chan, before someone sees you! No one’s making it to Ithea if we don’t get the fuck out of here in the next few minutes.”

You usher him aboard the ship, ignoring Seungcheol’s shell-shocked expression. “I am your High Council,” you repeat, hoping it’ll get him off your back.

Instead, he narrows his eyes at you, pressing the button for the intercom. “All aboard,” he relays to Jun. Immediately, the ship roars back to life, the engines rumbling beneath your feet. It’s the feeling of freedom. Relief. All the worry and anxiety being eased off your shoulders, no longer threatening to weigh you down.

But your nightmare isn’t fully over so long as Seungcheol exists, because he seals himself in one of the decontamination pods and says, looking as smug as possible, “No you aren’t.”

It takes a second to realize what he’s responding to, but when it finally sinks in, you scowl so deeply you’re sure it’ll be etched into your face permanently. Then you start banging on the pod’s glass. “Hey, you bitch, why don’t you say that out here in the open and not when you’re sealed into this stupid fucking pod!”

Seungcheol sticks his tongue out at you, baiting you into an even more obscenity-fueled rant that has you forgetting the terrified young man standing beside you. When you remember Lee Chan is there, you abort your tirade to offer him a saccharine-sweet smile, your clenched fist poised uselessly in the air. “It’s a very, very long story,” you say in lieu of an apology.

Despite your bone-deep exhaustion, you find yourself unable to sleep.

Every time you close your eyes, you’re transported back to that room with the blood-splattered floors and dingy overhead lights, the crowd packed together so tight it’s impossible to breathe. Back pressed to the wall, as if it could absorb you and transport you out of there, you’re forced to watch over and over as Wonwoo fights for his life; as he wields his body like a weapon and deals blow after violent blow. When you crack open your eyes, the stink of sweat and copper still linger. It doesn’t help the nausea that’s settled in your stomach.

You throw on a robe and slip out of your cabin. Maybe a walk around the ship will help. Or maybe you could make use of the training room, expel some of the pent-up rage you’re bowing under. But you shake your head. Even pummeling an imaginary enemy feels inappropriate after what you saw, so if you get really desperate you’ll go find some of that tea Jun is always talking about.

A handful of laps around the ship still finds you in a state, so that’s what you intend to do, tired of hearing Seungcheol’s blissful snoring every time you pass his cabin—but then you come to a crossroads. If you go straight, you’ll stay on course and reach the small kitchen where Jun keeps the tea. Going left will take you back to your bunk. But if you go right…

Right will take you to the brig.

Your feet move before you can overthink it, quiet as they pad down the long corridor as if you’re doing something wrong. Sneaking around. Going somewhere you aren’t allowed to be.

Nerves grip you tighter the closer you get. You’re surprised to find that you’re trembling. You try reminding yourself that it’s Wonwoo, it’s just Wonwoo, but you’re loath to admit you don’t really know what that means anymore. Dredelea changed him—that much is obvious—and none of you will know the extent of it until you’re back on Ithea, but you have to believe the Wonwoo you know is still in there somewhere. You have to believe that the Wonwoo you know had so much light in him that not even Dredelea’s darkness could blot it all out.

So you press your palm to the door and ready yourself as it scans. Junhui will get an alert that you’ve done so, and it shouldn’t bring you a scrap of comfort that he’ll know where you are if something goes wrong. You take a deep breath. It’s Wonwoo. You take another. It’s Wonwoo. It’s Wonwoo it’s Wonwoo it’s Wonwoo it’s—

The door slides open.

Lee Chan is the first thing you see. He’s asleep in the first cell, breathing softly. His cheek glows faintly blue where you’d applied the medi-gel and you can’t help but smile. Jeonghan will probably have some very choice words for you over this, but you don’t care. Not when he looks so at peace. Not when this is probably the soundest and safest he’s slept in ages. Maybe ever. Not when you know you did the right thing. You can’t imagine how much worse the nightmares would be if you’d left him behind.

You keep moving.

Wonwoo is in the last cell. It’s the largest one; has the most comfortable cot. Seungcheol had chosen that one specifically to assuage the guilt he felt over having to lock Wonwoo away at all. Funny that he’d felt it necessary to lecture you, giving you that spiel about it being for the best, yet he’s the one who hesitated. But he didn’t see what you saw, only hearing secondhand fragments as the two of you sat at the negotiating table. Threatening to decimate an entire planet seemed to give him a good enough idea of how bad it’d been, though.

Unlike Lee Chan, Wonwoo is not sleeping. He’s sitting in the middle of his cot, knees tucked to his chest. When your shadow falls over him, he looks up, but there’s nothing beyond that. No flicker of recognition. No change in expression. You might as well not be standing in front of him at all, and that stings a bit, just for a second, before you remind yourself your brief stint on Dredelea is nothing compared to Wonwoo’s.

So, undeterred, you take a seat on the floor and suck a breath through your teeth at the cold that seeps through your thin robe, your back against the wall. You don’t say anything. Knowing Wonwoo is safe—being able to see him—is enough for now. Whatever the two of you need to say to one another can wait.

But it seems the man across from you has other ideas. “Why are you here?” he asks. His voice is hoarse from lack of use.

“I wasn’t aware it was a crime to sit on the floor.”

Wonwoo’s jaw tenses, not amused by your answer. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“I wasn’t aware it was a crime to sit on the floor in the middle of the night,” you amend.

He scoffs, muttering something beneath his breath that sounds a lot like he’s accusing you of being impossible. You let it slide. Much like Joshua, you can always count on Wonwoo to take the bait. As much as he doesn’t seem the type, Wonwoo loves a good back-and-forth as much as the next guy, eyes lighting up whether he’s watching or participating, but this doesn’t feel like the right setting for it. Sitting across from him while he’s in a cell, only hours removed from being held prisoner by a hostile planet… There’s no fun in that.

Minutes pass as words escape both of you. All you can hear is the thrum of the ship and Lee Chan’s easy breaths. Your eyelids begin to grow heavy as you listen. In, out; in, out—as measured as a pendulum. You can’t be sure if you fall asleep. It feels like you do. Feels like you dive in and out of consciousness, here one second and gone the next. Through it all, Wonwoo remains unmoving, either content to watch over you or indifferent to your doing the same. And then, just as you jerk awake for what feels like the hundredth time, he speaks again.

“I’m different now, you know.” You rub at your eyes. Obviously, you want to retort; who wouldn’t be? But Wonwoo keeps going. “I don’t—I don’t think I feel human anymore. Just a husk. It’s like… it’s like I know how I should be, on some intrinsic level, like my body remembers how to be human, but there’s nothing there when I reach for it.”

Sleep still has its claws in you, and you’re unsure if your words even make sense, drowsiness making a slurry out of them, but you remind him, “A terrible thing was done to you. You need time to decompress. You need time to heal.”

A choked sound of frustration. “And if I can’t?” he snaps, grabbing at his hair. “If all of this is permanent and I’m stuck like this forever?”

“You think you’re beyond repair? You think they made you into something irredeemable?”

“They did,” he insists. “You didn’t see what I had to see or hear what I had to hear. They didn’t force you to do what I was forced to do. I’m sure you were safe and sound on Ithea, living in fucking luxury while I was made to live in filth! You didn’t have to sell your soul in order to survive, kill off every good part of you that tried to persist, because you weren’t there!”

Wonwoo’s sneering accusation makes you recoil, shocking you with just how much resentment and bitterness is in his tone. He’s always been good at this, too: knowing exactly which bruise to press on; which one would hurt you the most. You had hoped the guilt you felt would abate once he was rescued. It had, for a little while. At his words, though, it’s sucked back out to sea, swelling, before it comes crashing down on you like a tsunami.

“That’s not fair.” Your words shudder under the weight of your grief.

He throws his head back as he laughs. “Not fair? You want to talk about not fair—”

But it’s not your fault. You didn’t do this to him. You didn’t hold him hostage and barter with his life. You didn’t harm him. You didn’t savagely extract every ounce of humanity left in him until he was left disfigured and bestial. You would neverdo any of this to him, because it was you that showed up. It was you he saw after he stood, battered and bloody, over the unconscious form of another innocent body. It was you that risked your life to bring him home.

“No, I want to talk about you,” you snap, trying desperately to keep quiet. “What was I supposed to do, Wonwoo? You seem to have spent a lot of time thinking this over, so come on, tell me what you would’ve had me do. Because I spent weeks learning how to get you out of there safely and not fuck it up. My brother is the goddamn High Council and you were the priority, so you know what? You’re right. I should’ve gone in there guns blazing and ripped them all limb by limb like I wanted to and risked all-out war in the process.” Chest heaving, you ignore Wonwoo’s stunned expression and add, “I risked my life for you. They used me as a pawn because they decided my brother’s life is worth more than mine, and I let them do it because it meant getting you home.” Your voice cracks. “All of it was for you, you fucking bastard.”

“I’m—”

“Save it,” you say, putting a stop to an apology you don’t want and he won’t mean. “I’m going back to my cabin. Seungcheol will come by in the morning with breakfast.”

Wonwoo doesn’t say anything as you stand. Whatever exhaustion had settled before has been replaced with a wearied, resigned heartache. You take a step towards the door. Another. Just as you’re about to disappear from sight altogether, you say quietly, “I’m not your enemy, Wonwoo, and if you can’t see that…” Then maybe you’re right about what they turned you into.

You don’t say it aloud but the blow lands anyway. It hangs in the air, unresolved, as you slip out the door.

Your convoy reaches Ithea’s orbit by late afternoon the next day.

You wait for relief that never comes. Instead, all you feel is dread every time Junhui provides an update on the ETA. T-minus twenty minutes to landing and you’re replaying the previous night’s events over and over, leaving you wondering if you’d widened a chasm that could now never be bridged.

Ten minutes and you’re still in your bunk with sweat-slick palms and an erratic heartbeat you can’t get to settle.

Thirty seconds and you’re contemplating hanging your head over the toilet, sick from nerves and the inescapable sense that none of this feels right. You should be happier. You should be more bitter. You should be celebrating a job well done while simultaneously spitting at the feet of your parents and anyone else that ever made you feel second class; like The Spare.

You should feel something.

You escort Lee Chan off the ship first, the two of you talking in hushed whispers as you make your way down the corridor. After your stint on Dredelea—even if it had been brief—the fluorescent lights are nearly blinding as they reflect off the titanium walls. Your companion is affected, too; not only by the intensity, but the modernism of everything he sees. He stumbles as he looks around in amazement, and that’s how Jeonghan finds the pair of you, looking regal and larger-than-life as he stands in the mouth of the passageway, bathed in silver light.

Up close, though, he also looks worn. The dark circles beneath his eyes tell you this hasn’t been easy for him, either—that he probably hadn’t slept a minute since you departed. But he’s clearly also confused, looking at you and then Lee Chan before his attention turns back to you, head tilted in question.

Still, he’s ever the diplomat, crushing you in a tight embrace before you can explain the stranger lingering awkwardly beside you. “Sister,” he breathes, feeling all the relief you were supposed to. “You have returned to us unharmed.”

But he’s also your brother, so you make a sound of disgust and try to wriggle out of his grasp. “Ugh, gross, get off of me,” you huff, irritation flaring as he does no such thing. “Gods above, isn’t this a little dramatic? You’re acting like I was gone for years.”

Reluctant, Jeonghan eventually releases you and pulls away, offering up an obsequious smile in exchange. “It certainly felt that way.” He returns his attention to Lee Chan. “And who is this?”

“Wonwoo,” you deadpan, feigning regret. “Dredelea got him with the shrink ray. Everything happened so fast; there was nothing I could do.” Jeonghan simply stares at you while Lee Chan protests your jab at his height with a meek hey! “He’s… a friend,” you decide, hoping it’s enough to convince your brother.

Seungcheol’s voice then comes echoing down the corridor. Wonwoo will be with him, you know, and Jeonghan must notice the shift in your demeanor because he asks, “Are you—”

“I’ll fill you in later, okay? I’m just so exhausted, and I should be a good host and show our guest to his lodgings.”

Your brother’s brows pinch. “To his lodg—what the fuck are you even saying? What happened?”

But you’re gone before he can get the words out, tail tucked between your legs like a coward. You don’t want to see Wonwoo right now. You can’t. You can’t look at Wonwoo and remember the vitriol in the words living in fucking luxury; the bottomless grief in you weren’t there. Maybe it isn’t fair that, out of everything, this is what you feel. Isn’t fair to hold these things against him. He's a wounded animal stuck in a claw trap, lashing out at whatever—whoever—is within reach, suffering under the delusion that causing pain will ease his own.

It doesn’t. It won’t.

You show Lee Chan to a vacant room and help him get settled. Draw a crude map of whatever you think he might need or want even though he insists he’s perfectly fine, that he’s survived this long with much less. What a grim way to live, your privilege whispers: a stark reminder that even The Spare had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth.

He and Wonwoo are two sides of a similar coin. They’re both scarred; both in need of grace and patience.

And because you, too, are currently misshapen, you promise yourself all of this is temporary; that you’ll give both of them the grace and patience they deserve. You’ll put enough space between you and Wonwoo to put yourself back together again, and once you’ve been righted, once the blemishes fade and the things he’d said to you don’t hurt anymore, you’ll try to fix what’s been broken.

Maybe you can turn the jagged edges into gold. A kintsugi relationship.

But if space and time to decompress is what you want, it’s not what you get.

You’re summoned to the Council in the morning. Nominally awake and barely showered, stomach grumbling in discontent all the while, you shake off Seungcheol’s escort and try to prepare yourself for what’s to come. On the surface, there’s nothing to report: you did what was asked of you, and you’d been successful at it. Ithea wasn’t responsible for any of the blood that’d been spilled. No one was threatening interstellar war. And while there’s a lot of healing to be done, Wonwoo returned to Ithea safely. He’s alive.

Below the surface, however…

You have questions of your own that need answers. Real, honest answers. Not answers with the artful evasion and word salad politicians are so adept at giving. What you saw can’t be brushed aside. The Dredelea you saw was not the Dredelea sold to you, not the Dredelea in Ithea’s history books, and you need to ascertain how much they know and how long they’ve known it. Because putting a higher value on your brother’s life is one thing—as much as you resent it, he is the High Council—but using you as his proxy while knowing exactly what you’d encounter? Knowing they were sending you in blind?

You take your seat. In front of you sits Ithea’s Council: your brother in the center and the six members of the Elder Council beside him, three on each side, and finally the ten members of the Governance Council. They’re the only democratically-elected officials other than your brother, and therefore the only other people before you that you respect.

Elder Council Adia leans forward to adjust her microphone. She’s a rigid, no-nonsense woman, whose clear and outspoken dislike of your father (and so, by extension, you and Jeonghan as well) has always made her a wildcard. She clears her throat. “Before we begin, the Council recognizes there may be conflicts of interest here, seeing as this is the sister of High Council Yoon and daughter of former High Council Yoon. Therefore, it is my suggestion that their allowed presence be taken to vote.”

Careful not to let anyone see, Jeonghan rolls his eyes. Posturing, he mouths to you, but you’re not fussed either way. No matter who’s allowed in the room, you’ll be demanding answers for what you saw. You’ll be demanding justice for Wonwoo, who should be sitting here alongside you.

“I would like to state for the record that I don’t give a shit who is and isn’t present. It makes no difference to me, but—”

You’re pinned by a severe look. “Such language is unacceptable in Council chambers, Miss Yoon.”

You blink, unfazed. “Thanks, but I wasn’t finished, Elder Council Lukesh.” Jeonghan rolls his lips to keep from laughing while the entire Elder Council goes red with fury. “As I was saying, it makes no difference to me who is and isn’t present, but I do find it suspicious to question me without Jeon Wonwoo present.”

“Speak plainly, Miss Yoon.”

The nerve of these people. “We speak the same language, do we not? But fine, I’ll rephrase: you’re not getting shit out of me unless Jeon Wonwoo is also summoned.”

A panicked murmur goes through the Council. They share confused looks, clearly thrown by your departure from and disregard for standard procedure, but you stand your ground. They should be forced to see his battered body; forced to bear witness to what he had to endure. They need to see the extent of his trauma, see how wrong he is, and maybe those who didn’t know him before won’t see it, but your father—who’s nearly foaming at the mouth at your performance thus far—will know.

“You insolent child,” he rages. “I don’t care if you’re my daughter, you should be—”

“Oh, pipe down, old man,” you fire back, scowling. “I’ve had about enough of you.”

“Miss Yoon—”

“I’ve stated my terms. If you want my account of events, summon Jeon Wonwoo. Seems pretty simple to me.”

“It is not—”

“You cannot make demands of us. Who do you think you are?”

Before the room can devolve into further chaos, your brother stands. Immediately the Council goes silent. Jeonghan is well-respected, and the Council—not including Elder Council Adia—holds him in high regard, but they’re also terrified of the power he holds. “I think she is my sister,” Jeonghan says plainly, “and I suggest you agree to her terms on the off-chance you all enjoy your positions and wish to keep them.”

“You cannot—”

Jeonghan turns, now face-to-face with your father. “Elder Council Yoon, I will not repeat myself on the importance of the suggestion you’ve been given, but I will remind you that your role, as well as the role of the entireElder Council, is merely titular in nature. You are here only as proof of my goodwill and adherence to tradition and thus hold no power.” Ignoring the stunned expressions everyone adopts, he speaks to Seungcheol. “Commander Choi, please see if Jeon Wonwoo is both available and willing to meet with us.”

He is.

Even if it had been well-intentioned, you were a fool to think you could—and that you wanted to—put distance between you and Wonwoo. A mere glimpse of him has your heart racing, as if it’s liable at any minute to leap out of your chest and seek refuge in him. Gods, you’re pathetic! Weak! The scene you caused here today is bound to be discussed for decades, passed down from generation to generation until you’re turned from a mere nuisance into a mythical legend, yet here you are, reduced to such a pitiful state over a man.

Wonwoo is offered the seat next to you, which he takes without complaint. Determined not to look at him, you stare straight ahead, very aware that this gives you a perfect, unobstructed view of the shit-eating grin your brother is wearing. Get it together, you scold yourself, refusing to come unglued. Not after you impersonated your brother on a hostile planet, played them like a fiddle, and lived to tell the tale, and not over this.

Jeonghan calls the meeting back into session, Elder Council Adia’s now-forgotten suggestion of a vote never coming to fruition. “Are the conditions and present parties now to your satisfaction?” You nod. “Great, then the hearing shall commence. Keeper Nozac, please note the current time for the record. Also for the record, I must ask both of you to state your names.”

You do. Wonwoo does the same.

“Thank you. Now, for those unaware—which shouldn’t be any of you—a ship piloted by Jeon Wonwoo departed for Atis five months ago and lost contact with Ithean transmitters shortly after. After three days of silence, we reached out to Atis who confirmed Jeon Wonwoo’s ship never arrived or made contact. At this time, the Council enlisted the help of Marshal Wen who after eight weeks tracked the missing ship to Dredelea. Upon this discovery, I repeatedly attempted to reach out to High Emperor Zelos personally to arrange Jeon Wonwoo’s return. Those attempts were either ignored or, as is Council record, set on fire and sent back. Are there any objections to the timeline and summary of events as stated so far?” No one says anything. “Noted. Taking into account both Dredelea’s reputation for hostility and antagonism and the clear fact that this had turned into a hostage situation, the Council felt a retrieval mission was both necessary and imperative. Given the Interstellar Treatises state a planet’s highest-ranking official must be present for hostage negotiations, the Council was thus faced with a unique challenge—”

You make a buzzer sound. “Can I object to that?”

“You may,” Jeonghan answers, correcting your wording like a pedantic schoolteacher. “Please state your objection for the record.”

“I don’t have a speech planned out or anything, I just object.”

Jeonghan pushes. “Please elaborate. The Council requires a detailed record of any objection made.”

You feel the weight of everyone’s curiosity, wondering what you’re going to say next. The weight of their eyes on you hangs around your neck like a millstone. “Fine. I simply must object to the notion that you were presented with a challenge at all, let alone a unique one,” you say, meeting their stares head-on. “I think it’s clear to everyone that I’ve won myself no favors with the Council. I certainly haven’t won any alliances. But what’s also become clear over the last few weeks is that you need me. That’s the real challenge. The decision to use me as collateral to ensure the safety of High Council Yoon was, I imagine, as easy as it was convenient.”

“Miss Yoon, are you accusing the Council of some sort of impropriety?”

“No, no,” you answer, flashing them a dazzling, award-winning smile as you sit back in your chair, “I’m accusing you all of being cowards.”

The room erupts into chaotic protest once again. They attack your character and question your audacity. They recite your list of offenses in an attempt to discredit you. You think your father openly disowns you, but you can’t be sure over the volume of their indignant, squawking objections.

Jeonghan even has the nerve to look betrayed. He’s allowed to feel that way, of course, but the indisputable fact remains that no one benefitted more from this solution than him. “That’s truly how you feel?” The indisputable fact remains that the plan wouldn’t have gone ahead if he hadn’t agreed to it.

“I wouldn’t have said it if it wasn’t, but allow me, for the sake of clarification, to ask you a question: Ithea has never before gone against or attempted to circumvent the Interstellar Treatises, correct?” Your brother nods, and you tense as you feel Wonwoo straighten beside you. “Do you not agree, then, that the timing of this technicality was awfully convenient?”

Elder Council Lukesh pinches the bridge of his nose. “Miss Yoon, we are not the ones on trial here.”

“Neither am I,” you respond tartly, “so let me lay another accusation at the feet of the Council since there are no laws forbidding it: you sent me to Dredelea in place of High Council Yoon because you knew exactly what was at stake and how dangerous it was. You knew damn well what the risks were and agreed to them without question because the life you were gambling with wasn’t yours. That’s what makes you all cowards.”

You startle when Wonwoo places a hand on your knee. You’re almost moved to tears by how gentle it is, how softly he says your name—that he still has the capacity for tenderness after what he’d endured. You whet your lips. What’s the point of this charade? The same people who dole out injustices can’t bring you clarity. They can’t forgive your transgressions when they’ve earned the blood on their own hands.

Wonwoo clears his throat, clearly trying to project a confidence he doesn’t feel. “If I may: I can’t speak to, uh—to what has already been said, but I can speak to the conditions on Dredelea and the bravery it would’ve required to do what Miss Yoon did.”

“I think the Council would find a factual recounting of your experience very helpful,” Jeonghan answers.

You shoot your brother a look before turning to the man beside you. “You don’t have to,” you tell Wonwoo. “I know I made them call you here, but if it’ll be too painful—”

“It’s okay,” he quietly reassures you. “They should know the situation they put you in.” Then, louder: “The timeline presented by High Council Yoon is accurate. I can’t say for certain what happened to my ship, but I needed to make an emergency landing on the closest planet. Unfortunately for me, that happened to be Dredelea.” He pauses, inhaling deeply. “As I’m sure you all know, Dredelea’s terrain is not optimal and my ship suffered further damage upon landing. Even if I’d landed elsewhere, there was little hope of repairing it without the assistance of very skilled and technologically-advanced mechanics. Even by my most generous estimates, it would’ve taken months.”

“And the Dredeleans took you hostage?” Elder Council Adia butts in.

Wonwoo’s eyes narrow. “Elder Council Adia, I’m getting to that, if I may. I was surrounded within seconds of landing and, yes, restrained and taken before High Emperor Zelos, who told me they could repair my ship—for a fee. I told them if it was a matter of currency, Ithea would likely pay the cost without question, but it became clear very quickly that’s not what they had in mind.

“It started with labor. Dredelea, as you know, is very barren and largely covered in moss and other types of bryophytes. It’s too moist, and the mosses remove too much nitrogen from the soil, which is not ideal for farming… well, much of anything. Not to mention the planet’s lack of natural light. It’s far too dark for anything to grow.” He clears his throat again. “Anyway, it started with labor. All of their food is genetically modified so they have an extensive system of underground greenhouses.”

“Underground?”

Wonwoo nods. “Most of their civilization is underground, sir. Not much can thrive on the surface.”

“Was the Council aware of this?” Jeonghan asks, looking from member to member. Naturally, they all shake their heads. Your brother’s jaw clenches. “Please continue.”

“The greenhouses require a lot of labor—more than Dredelea is able to provide through its own people—so any outsiders are immediately sent and stay there unless they find a better use for them.” Another murmur goes through the Council. “Um. Lee Chan, the young man Miss Yoon brought back with us… I first met him there. He’d been brought to Dredelea as a very young child with his mother and was forced to work in the greenhouses as soon as he was able.”

A member of the Governing Council leans closer to her mic. “You mentioned better uses. Can you elaborate on that, please?”

It’s obvious the question makes Wonwoo uncomfortable. He shifts in his chair. Wrings his hands together and wipes them on his thighs. Picks at the skin around his cuticles. “Those prone to violence and ruthlessness are taken into the High Emperor’s inner circle. They’re still trying to rebuild the Dredelean military since its war with Emorix.”

“That was nearly two decades ago.”

“They do not have the resources to sustain a population, let alone a defense force. Anyone who is scientifically-minded is also removed from labor, but I cannot say where they go.”

“And you? Where did you go?”

“The Pit.”

Desperate civilizations resort to desperate measures, Wonwoo explains, and Dredelea realized it could capitalize on the galaxy’s morbid curiosity and penchant for bloodshed by hosting fights. Charge a spectator fee, charge an entry fee, charge a clean-up fee. Gambling is not only permitted but encouraged. Winner takes all.

“What was the nature of these… fights?”

“Last man standing, so to speak,” Wonwoo answers dryly. “You kept fighting until you couldn’t anymore, however that came to be.”

“Are you saying these fights were a matter of life or death?”

“Yes, on occasion.” Every face twists in horror, including your own. “You have to understand these events not only brought in a lot of resources for Dredelea, but cost a lot of resources for the planets that chose to buy-in and participate. They have no use for a subpar fighter, especially one that just cost them thousands of coins. If a fighter wasn’t able to immediately pay off the debt incurred from their loss, well…”

“They were killed?”

Wonwoo readjusts in his seat again. “Let’s just say it’s both more preferable and more honorable to die during a fight than after, but if it did get that far… yes.”

“Gods above.”

“Fights were hosted as often as possible. I’d estimate I had been there about three weeks when I was thrown into The Pit. They told me any winnings would go toward repairing my ship, as they had no desire for conflict with Ithea. A lie, obviously, since I know now they had ignored your attempts at correspondence.”

“I’m sorry to ask,” your brother interjects, “but can you describe your living conditions while you were there?”

“Calling them living conditions is generous. I was provided a small cell, perhaps 28 square feet in size. Sometimes I’d have to share it and one of us would have to sleep on the ground. I was given one small meal per day, but was allowed two larger meals the day before and morning of days I was expected to fight. I could not say what the meals consisted of. It wasn’t anything I’d ever eaten before. Um—the medical capabilities on Dredelea are severely limited. They do have a medical bay, so to speak, but it’s mostly a small room stocked with decades-old supplies. They do not have a designated medic or doctor.”

“What happened to those injured during these fights?”

“Whatever couldn’t be healed by expired medi-gel was between them and the gods.”

“They were left to die in their cells?”

Finally having had enough, you place an arm across Wonwoo’s chest to prevent him from saying anything further. “Elder Council Isaia, I think Jeon Wonwoo has made the conditions on Dredelea abundantly clear.”

“Miss Yoon, you demanded he be summoned here—”

“Yes, and I think you’ve heard enough. What purpose does it serve to siphon every ounce of trauma from him that you can?”

“It gives us insight into the true conditions on Dredelea.”

“And what do you plan to do with said insight, once you’ve decided you’ve gotten a sufficient amount of it?” No one answers. Not the Governing Council, not the Elder Council, and not your brother. Even your father looks around uncomfortably. “It’s obvious to everyone here that the conditions on Dredelea are not what anyone anticipated them to be, unless you did, but that’s an accusation for another time. For now, let him be. If it’ll suffice, I can testify as to what I saw, seeing as such a fight was taking place the day Commander Choi and I landed on Dredelea.”

Your brother turns to Seungcheol. “You will be able to verify what she says is true?”

“Of course.”

“Then, as High Council, I am satisfied with this offer. Please continue.”

“As Commander Choi wrote in his official statement, I had called High Emperor Zelos’s bluff and prepared to return to our ship without Wonwoo when they offered to let us see him. Upon agreeing, they showed us through a labyrinth of underground passageways that eventually led to a large cavern they referred to as The Pit.” You try to focus on anything other than your hands, which have begun to shake. “The first thing I noticed was the smell. Even from the second we descended underground, it was there, only getting worse the deeper we went. It was barely noticeable at first—mostly smelled like the woodrot on the surface—but the closer we got to The Pit, the more viscous it became until it overwhelmed you entirely with the stench of stale sweat and old blood and gods know what else. You could taste it. The only way I can describe it is to say it smelled like death. Certain, unimaginable death.

“Zelos only granted me permission to enter the cavern. If you’ve read about it, I imagine it’s what the Colosseum would’ve been like in Ancient Rome. Those people in there were rabid, only satisfied by violence. I could not hear myself think over the sound of their screaming. Initially I assumed Zelos had brought me there to show me what Dredelea was capable of, what got their rocks off; to remind me how and why they got their reputation. And then I saw Wonwoo in the cage.”

You tell them what you’re able to remember. The cognitive dissonance of seeing Wonwoo yet refusing to believe it was him. How you already knew his story just from looking at his mottled skin—which bruises were old and which were new; the rust-colored blood that stained his knuckles and his nose and the corners of his mouth. All the wounds that’d need stitching and the ones that were trying to heal over. How broken and battered his body was. How broken and battered he was, because the Wonwoo you knew, the Wonwoo that had left you that morning five months ago—

“It seems inconceivable that, however long I live, I will ever see anything as awful as that.”

“What happened after that?”

“Once the fight was over, Wonwoo collapsed and was carried out of the cage by two men. Zelos escorted Commander Choi and I to an interrogation room and they brought in Wonwoo’s unconscious body shortly after.” Breathe, you remind yourself. “High Emperor Zelos seemed to realize they had lost their bargaining chip. They tried to revisit our initial offer.”

“Which you revoked, I’m assuming.”

You look at your brother like he’s stupid. “What do you take me for? Of course I revoked it. I didn’t sit through weeks of tutoring sessions in diplomacy and intergalactic negotiating just to come out of them an idiot. I told him—very politely, and Commander Choi can vouch for me on this—that, in exchange for Jeon Wonwoo, I would not personally see to the brutal and swift execution of each of their worthless bloodhounds.”

“You didn’t,” Jeonghan pleads, heaving a long-suffering sigh. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

“I did, and I’d do it again.”

“Any other threats you lodged that I should be made aware of?”

“Oh no, I don’t think so,” you reply, adopting an air of innocence. “That seemed to be convincing enough. Wonwoo was then escorted to our ship for departure. Lee Chan was amongst the group of men that did so, and as I was about to board, he asked if I could take him with us, too.”

Your father cuts in. “You willingly allowed a citizen of a hostile planet to board—”

“Prisoner,” you correct, “and yes I did, after confirming with him what his role had been on Dredelea and determining that High Emperor Zelos would not deem him worthy enough to risk waging war with Ithea to return.”

“That was not a decision you had the authority to make.”

“Gods above,” you cry out, trying with all the self-restraint you possess to not walk up to your father and throttle him. “Have you forgotten the entire purpose of this? I wasn’t me, I was him,” you say, pointing to your brother, “and that was a decision he had the authority to make.”

“And it’s one he would not have,” your father snaps, sneering at you all the while, reminding you just how little he thinks of you, “because he’s smart. Because he knows better than to put the safety of Ithea at risk by acting childishly and impulsively—”

“If that’s what you believe then I fear you do not know your son at all.”

“Do not tell me—”

“Oh, I’m gonna tell you lots of things,” you spit. You roll your neck to the side and crack your knuckles, Jeonghan and Wonwoo immediately sitting up straighter as you do so. “Your son would never allow anyone to suffer or wallow in despair if he could prevent it. He would never leave behind or abandon anyone in need of escape. He would move every star in the galaxy if it meant an Ithean returned home safely—because he is ten times the leader and man you are. Because he isn’t paralyzed by fear and his own lack of power. Because he sees the worth in helping those who are unable to help themselves and is smart enough to see the errors in your ways.” Beneath the table, Wonwoo’s hand finds yours. “I accused you all of being cowards, but maybe the only coward here is you, Father. Because the isolationism that defined your time as High Council is cowardice. Your blatant favoritism between your children is cowardice. The power you pretend to wield as you sit up there on your make-pretend Council is cowardice. You desperately need to believe that High Council Yoon would’ve left Lee Chan behind because it’s what you would’ve done, and you cannot allow yourself to believe what we all know is true.

“What I also saw on Dredelea is inequality. I saw a civilization that has been crippled by more prosperous planets turning the other cheek and ignoring their plight for decades. I saw its civilians dressed in tattered clothes and forced to live in rotting infrastructure. I saw a planet that cannot sustain their civilization because leaders like you decided they were worth losing to time; leaders who never once stopped to ask themselves if their hostility and circumstances were inherent or the result of diplomacy they constructed. You were content to let Ithea flourish at the expense of others, and what is that if not cowardice?”

Lee Chan has been granted asylum on Ithea.

He tells you as much over breakfast. Four days have passed since you were called before the Council, and you haven’t seen much of anyone since then. Your brother and Seungcheol have been in locked-door meetings from morning to night that Joshua refuses to speak about. When you seek him out and ask if he knows anything, Soonyoung shakes his head. You can’t even bribe him because there’s no information to buy.

No one has seen Wonwoo, either. When the medics aren’t working to deprogram him, he keeps himself locked away in his room. After your shared experience in front of the Council, you thought—hoped—he’d come see you, maybe apologize for what he’d said on the ship. But you haven’t seen or heard from him at all, and trying to keep the disappointment at bay is eating at you, because you don’t know. You don’t know if he’s just not ready or simply doesn’t want to. You don’t know if it’s just something you have to wait out or if he intends for this distance to be permanent. You don’t even know why he held your hand, if it was only meant to comfort you or if it meant there was still something deeper there.

“I can’ believe you jush give thish shtuff away,” Lee Chan says, cheeks bulging around an offensively large bite of food. “Ish sho good.”

“Speaking with your mouth full is a serious crime on this planet, Lee Chan,” you lie, jabbing your own fork in his direction. “Did they get you signed up for tutoring?”

“Yeah, four days a week,” he grumbles. “They’re still not really sure what to do with me, so I have to take lessons in everything.” You pat his arm in sympathy. Been there. “And why do you always call me by my full name? You can just call me Chan, you know.”

“Be quiet and eat your pancakes, Lee Chan.”

He mockingly salutes you. “Whatever you say, High Council. Why’d you have to do that whole thing anyway? With the Council. Is that an Ithean thing?”

“Mission debrief,” you answer, not meeting his eye. “Pretty standard. Everyone has to do it.”

What you don’t say: yours was less mission debrief and more trial by fire. What you don’t say: on top of all the old ones, you now have new suspicions that the Council had always known more than they’d originally let on and your summons had been to investigate how much knowledge you now possessed. What you don’t say: you can’t figure out why or what they’re trying to hide, but none of this is standard.

Lee Chan, however, is none the wiser. “Are you gonna try talking to Wonwoo today?”

“Jeon Wonwoo has made it abundantly clear he doesn’t wish to speak to me right now. I think forcing it would only make it worse.”

“Eh, you’re probably right,” Lee Chan concedes, effectively ending the conversation when he shovels another large bite into his mouth and promptly chokes from the size of it.

Three more days pass.

When dusk rolls around and everything else goes quiet, you allow yourself a precarious amount of hope that Wonwoo will show up and knock at your door. You imagine him taking your face in his rough, calloused hands; envision the depths of the galaxies you’d see in his eyes, unable to look away, unable to free yourself from the gravitational pull.

And every time he doesn’t, you fall asleep and dream about the night before he left.

How he’d shown up under the cover of nightfall. How he stood on the other side of your door and greeted you with a lopsided grin, smirking out of the corner of his mouth as he leaned against the doorframe. How he’d said your name with a reverence you wish you’d recognized at the time. How you could tell why he was there and granted him entry anyway, uncaring of the consequences.

In your dreams, he touches you the same way, his heedfulness undercut by years of longing. In your dreams, he still makes you just as dizzy as he undresses you and hovers above you. You can still feel the trail of kisses he left from your lips to your neck to your ribs. You can still feel the infinitesimal space between your fingers and his as he entwined them. The punch of breath that left you as he pushed inside and the two of you moved together in an inevitable rhythm written long ago. His panting breath against the crook of your neck once it was over and the goosebumps they left behind when he told you he loved you. The sincerity etched onto his features as he pulled back and told you he wanted to make this something real once he was back, as if everything that’d come before was meant to brand promises into your skin.

Except in these dreams, he doesn’t wrap you in his arms as he falls asleep, sneaking out in the morning to make his call time. In these dreams, your bed goes cold as he redresses and heads for the door. As he leaves, you hear, you didn’t have to sell your soul in order to survive. You hear, you didn’t have to kill off every good part of you that tried to persist. You hear, you weren’t there.

A week of this. You’ve grown accustomed to waking up in a cold sweat.

And, frankly, you’re sick of it. Wonwoo clearly isn’t coming to fulfill your silly little daydreams, so there’s no point in waiting around. No point in letting the unexpelled energy keep thrumming beneath your skin, turning your nerves into livewires.

But that ancient saying continues to ring true, apparently: speak of the devil and he shall appear.

Because as soon as the doors to the training room whirr open, there’s Wonwoo. He stands with his back to you—shirt soaked through with sweat and sticking to his skin—as he throws jab after jab at a punching bag. Every strike makes the suspension chain rattle. You wince, recalling the sound of the rattling cage back on Dredelea, but it only seems to spur on Wonwoo. He sets his feet differently to get more power behind each punch and they become stronger, more precise. One blow where someone’s liver would be.

“Are you gonna stand there staring”—Wonwoo grunts as he lands another one to the side of the head—“or are you gonna suit up?”

An incredulous laugh spills out of you. “Suit up for what? You think this is the best way to work out our problems?”

Another shot to the ribs. “We don’t have problems.”

Out of view, you roll your eyes and head for the lockers lining the wall. Leave it to Wonwoo to also live in a fantasy world. “Sure, yeah,” you agree sarcastically, yanking open the locker that belongs to you. “Everything’s great over here.”

Wonwoo says nothing. At least you were granted the opportunity to pretend you weren’t going to immediately cave and give him whatever he wanted, but if this is how he wants to settle things, fine. You set about wrapping your hands, making sure to double the tape around your knuckles. You flex, pleased with how stiff the tape is. Stable. You won’t have to worry about it coming loose when you’re trying to knock Wonwoo into next week as retribution for what he’s put you through.

Also as retribution, you peel your shirt over your head, leaving you only in a skin-tight sports bra. Wonwoo curses under his breath he stumbles, badly missing whatever he’d been aiming for. When you dare to steal a glance at him, he’s already staring daggers, tongue pressed into the fat of his cheek. This is exactly how he looked back in the cage, you recall, ashamed by the jolt of excitement that licks up your spine. You shouldn’t want that version of Wonwoo—the one that’s calculated, predatory, determined to earn the blood he spills—but something primal within you surges at the opportunity to face it in a controlled environment.

“See something you like?” you taunt, tightening and retying the drawstring of your shorts. “You seem distracted.”

He slams a knee into the bag. It nearly splits from the impact. “Mm, you think I didn’t fantasize about you every single day I was gone?” You raise a brow, breath catching at the admission that falls so easily from his lips. “You're gonna have to try harder than that to distract me.”

A clear challenge. You step into his orbit, the spring floor beneath you absorbing the weight of each step. Wonwoo meets your eye, his impenetrable gaze locked on yours as he lands another punch. “Careful,” you tease, “or you’re not gonna have anything left for me.”

“Impossible,” he growls.

“Prove it, then.”

At your taunt, Wonwoo abandons the punching bag without a care. He wears halos into the mat as he circles you, stalking you like a beast does with prey. Like a black widow weaving a web with endless patience, knowing the conclusion is foregone. Unbidden, a grin appears on your face. The way Wonwoo looks at you has electricity sparking across your skin. Every inch of you is aflame, and you feel alive for the first time in months. You feel like you can take on anything: the memories you’re trying to bury, the expectations placed on you because of your name, the Council, the entire universe.

Wonwoo.

He takes a step forward, seeing if you’ll react. You don’t, knowing the dangers of being in his reach, so he continues to circle you. Continues sizing you up, taunting you to make the first move and misstep. But while his time on Dredelea might’ve forged him into a more formidable opponent, this is what you spent your misplaced youth doing. Here and now, the roles are reversed. You aren’t prey. You aren’t some helpless creature awaiting an inevitable conclusion, desperately trying to untie the strings of fate before the clock ticks down to zero.

You taught him. You know he’s going to reach for you before his limbs move. You know he’s going to try sweeping his leg and knocking you off-balance. You know the more you anticipate and deflect the more desperate he’ll become, and that’s what you have to pin your hopes on. Wonwoo won’t tire easily. Not now that he’s built from solid, corded muscle, as if someone had studied the monuments built in devotion of the ancient gods and brought one to life, crafting them from memory.

And fuck, what memories you have.

“I’m right here, Wonwoo.” His name is breathy when it leaves your lips, almost suffocating under the weight of the tension between the two of you. “Did you move this slowly last time? Were you this reluctant to take what you wanted?”

It’s bait. Wonwoo knows it’s bait, but he’s affected anyway, unable to do anything except cross his heart as he walks willingly into your trap. Desperate, he surges forward again as he reaches for you one last time, already knowing you’re faster. You take his wrist in your hold, using it as leverage to pull him closer. Barely a hair’s width apart. Wonwoo has exerted no effort and yet every breath he takes is labored. Every exhale is panted into the crook of your neck, pressed against your sweat-slick skin.

“Are you mine to take?”

I always have been, you think. Of all inevitable things, you and I were always meant to be one of them.

You open your mouth to speak when the doors whirr open. If Jeonghan is shocked by the scene in front of him, he’s kind enough not to mention it. Instead, he rolls his eyes and, looking at you, very tartly says, “If you could possibly spare a moment of your time, I need to speak with you.”

Reluctantly, you let go of Wonwoo’s wrist and step backwards. When you’re out of his dominion, you find yourself too embarrassed to meet his eye. Ten minutes alone with him and you abandoned all logical thought. A fool! You are a lovesick fool, willing to forgive all of his sins at the prospect of more carnal pleasures; willing to let him reclaim residence in the empty space in your bed you’ve been saving for him since the morning he left it.

Maybe you should cut your brother some slack about the whole Dredelea thing considering he just saved you from making another disastrous decision in a long line of disastrous decisions. You were going to sleep with Wonwoo without so much as a conversation! It’s the least of what he owes you, and yet.

The bar is subterranean.

You scold yourself all the way to Jeonghan’s office, glad to be back in the safety of its four walls. Glad to be reunited with your favorite armchair and your brother’s flat, judgmental stare. “Good to know you and Wonwoo are on good terms again,” he deadpans.

“Oh, we’re not, I was simply experiencing a moment of hormone-riddled delusion.” Jeonghan makes a sound of disgust. “It feels inappropriate to say, considering the circumstances, but can you really blame me when he just… looks like that now.”

“I’m not touching this conversation with a—”

You pretend to sigh dreamily. “I mean, he’s so beefy—”

“Okay, that’s enough!” Jeonghan shouts, not at all amused as he puts a stop to your overdramatic swooning. “We need to talk about the Council.”

Your brother might as well have dumped a bucket of cold water on you. “What do you mean ‘we’?” you ask, subconsciously sitting up straighter. “In case you need reminding, I don’t have—nor do I want—anything to do with them. Especially after my last very successful foray into Ithean political matters.”

“Yeah, about that. What you said prompted a lot of questions some very esteemed members didn’t have answers for.”

“Meaning…?”

Jeonghan becomes very serious, immediately shifting into High Council mode. “See, something wasn’t sitting right with me. I had Jun draft up those maps myself—I sat beside him as he cross-referenced every resource we had available and looked them over myself, too—so how could they have been that wrong? Granted, the resources we had wereoutdated, so a discrepancy here and there wouldn’t have concerned me, but moving an entire civilization underground isn’t possible to do overnight. It would’ve taken years, if not decades.”

“Long before our most recent verifiable intelligence reports, I’m assuming.”

“Exactly. Not to mention Dredelea simply would not have had the resources to undertake such a project, so they got capital and manpower from somewhere. I know you weren’t there long, but did you hear anyone on Dredelea mention Olara?”

“No,” you answer honestly, “but we sort of lucked into the outcome we got. Things would’ve been a hell of a lot worse if Wonwoo collapsing hadn’t nuked their bargaining power.”

“I figured. I had Joshua look into some things after the meeting—follow the money, or whatever they used to say—and what he found left no room for misinterpretation: multiple Council members have been funneling money to Olara.”

Your brows pinch in confusion. “Why, though? Olara’s a rogue planet, sure, but it’s just as terrestrial and prosperous as Ithea.”

It hits you, then, what Jun had said.

With the amount of decaying plant matter on their planet, I dare say they’ve unknowingly tapped into an unlimited power source.

It’s a shame they don’t have the resources or knowledge to harvest it.

“I take it you’ve connected the dots.”

Dazed, you nod. “I didn’t—Jun had mentioned it off-handedly on our way there. He was throwing all this science talk at me, but he mentioned Dredelea could harvest the decaying plant matter and turn it into energy if they had the resources to do so.”

“And our dear friends on Olara saw an opportunity.”

“This still doesn’t make sense. Why would they want to help the Dredeleans? And what does that have to do with the Council members funneling money to them?”

“Oh, they weren’t helping the Dredeleans. Not really. Yes, they gave them the resources and manpower to start building the underground facilities with the caveat that they eventually invest it into research laboratories. Remember how Wonwoo mentioned they removed anyone scientifically-minded from labor?” You nod, feeling a migraine coming on. “The Olarans are a knavish, deceptive bunch. They saw an opportunity to be early investors. They’d give Dredelea what it needed to begin harvesting the energy and then they’d stage a coup and take it for themselves.”

“And the money?”

“Buy-ins. Offset some of the upstart costs to eventually reap a percentage of the rewards. From what we’ve gathered—and what people have admitted to—the plan was for some of them to relocate to Dredelea once it was under Olaran control, but the rest would stay here and use their votes to Olara’s benefit while getting filthy rich on the side.”

The room starts to spin and you fear you’re going to be sick. What aren’t people willing to do in pursuit of money and power? Who aren’t they willing to step on and stab in the back?  “Are you sure? Jeonghan, this is—are you sure? This is so fucked up. The consequences of this…”

“Joshua has been deployed to take our findings to the Capitol. Multiple Council members have resigned in anticipation of their investigation.”

“Who?”

“Lukesh, Ballard, and Qaals have admitted wrongdoing and resigned from their positions. Two more members have also been implicated but refuse to admit to anything or resign. Roach—true to their fucking name—stole a travel pod about three hours ago and is assumed to be en route to Olara to apply for asylum.”

“Who’s the other?”

Jeonghan whispers your name. “You already know who it is,” he says quietly, almost begging you not to make him say it outright. “There’s no other reason for me to tell you all of this if it wasn’t him.”

Rage. All you feel is unyielding, white-hot rage. This is what you’ve played second fiddle for? This is why you’ve been spurned? You think about your childhood. All those birthdays you shared with your brother and never blew out the candles. The diplomatic trips you went on with your parents and all the important figures Jeonghan was introduced to. The hours you spent running amok with your friends while Jeonghan was in private tutoring sessions that weren’t available to you. The beatific pride in your father’s voice every time he spoke of your brother, his only son, and how it faded when he had to mention you.

All of it had been a farce. All that time, the power and prestige your father projected had always been rotting away beneath the surface. There’s no cure for that—no remedy for a decaying soul. So you sit with the rage for a second, allow it only a moment to burn you up from the inside, and then you close your eyes and let it go, letting it give way to anguish. The possibility of more wealth had been worth your identity, your personhood.

“That’s why he primed you for this, isn’t it? He never thought you’d have the balls to prosecute your own father.”

Jeonghan sighs. The circles beneath his eyes are dark. There’s a slight tremor in his hands when he massages his temples, trying to ease the ache that’s settled there. “That’s the logical conclusion,” he agrees. “I don’t think he anticipated us becoming good, honest people.”

A huff of disbelieving laughter. “Born with silver spoons and we still never stood a chance, huh?”

“Could be worse,” Jeonghan says sarcastically, allowing a small smirk to play on his lips. “Imagine being born with no silver spoon and never standing a chance.”

It works. “Oh, the horror. Such poverty is simply unimaginable!”

The two of you share a moment of quiet camaraderie. Not for the first time, you pity your brother. The repercussions of this will be far-reaching. Months, if not years, of instability loom on the horizon as governments all over the galaxy are preparing to investigate their own, and Ithea is at the center of it. As High Council, no one can shoulder the responsibility of this except Jeonghan, and to share a family name with one of the perpetrators will only make it heavier. No matter what further investigations reveal, both of you may never escape the association, your names forever tainted.

“I’m glad you’re my brother,” you admit.

It’s a rare moment of sincerity. Jeonghan rightfully looks skeptical. “Me too,” he says slowly, “but what are you buttering me up for?”

“Well, I was going to float the idea of a public execution.”

Jeonghan chokes, torn between incredulity at your boldness and horror at knowing you mean it. “I cannot—”

“Sure you can! You’re High Council, and your people will undoubtedly demand answers. What better way to make a statement about how Ithea views corruption.”

Still red in the face, Jeonghan waves you away. “Like it or not, he’s still our father and, in good conscience, I cannot execute him. The Capitol will deal with him as they see fit, and it’ll please me greatly to watch him waste away in prison, but you raise a good point about the people. Which leads me to the next thing I need to discuss with you.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

“I don’t need to. You have that look—the I’m about to say something you’re going to hate one.”

“Just hear me out,” he pleads. When you don’t immediately dismiss him again, he tentatively continues. “Needless to say, I am currently clueless how I’m going to navigate this. The Council will need to be rebuilt but the damage has been done. No one will want to vote if they have no trust in the system, but if I appoint the positions without an election, they won’t trust that I’ve done so objectively, either.”

“Uh-huh. Sounds like a real catch-22.”

“It is, which is where you come in.”

“No.”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “I want to create a Council Oversight committee and appoint you the head of it.”

You laugh. “You’re worried about looking unobjective and your solution is to create a brand new government position and appoint your sister the head of it?”

“Yes,” he answers easily. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’ve reached legendary hero status around here. Regardless of your name, all of this corruption was rooted out after your testimony before the Council. They attribute all of this to you.”

“That’s not—I didn’t—”

“They’re not wrong. Look, I never should’ve agreed to that stupid plan. You’ve never been second-best. You’ve never been less important than me, and yet I let them treat you as if you were. I let them risk your life, and even though no harm came to you I will regret for the rest of my days that I put you in a position that it could’ve, and I’m sorry.”

“And you’re going to make it up to me by making me work for the government.”

He grins. “C’mon, you can’t stand the Council. There are some slight concerns about your objectivity, but I know you wouldn’t let them get their claws in you. They won’t be able to corrupt or buy you. That’s who I want overseeing them. That’s who the people will be able to trust.”

What an unexpected turn of events. Your instinct is to say no, because Jeonghan is right: you hate the Council. Even more, you don’t trust the government, and the mere thought of working within it makes you feel queasy. But it’d be a lie to say your trip to Dredelea hadn’t opened your eyes. You didn’t know it then, but you’d seen the impacts of profiteering and exploitation in real time, and you didn’t like what you saw one bit.

You think of Lee Chan. Maybe you could help people like him. Maybe you could help people not like him, too. You know it’s too idealistic to think you’ll be able to eradicate corruption for good, but maybe there’s no harm in more checks and balances—in you being the one overseeing them.

Days ago, you sat across from the Council and told them the truth: they needed you. Maybe it’s time for them to fear you instead.

You stick out your hand. Your brother shakes it.

Just as you’re about to slip out the door and find a quiet place to bang your head against a wall, your brother calls out, “Oh! One more thing before you go.” He pauses for effect. (The effect is an all-knowing, impish grin that makes you want to bang his head against a wall instead.) “I got a message earlier from Dokyeom. He said Wonwoo’s deprogramming sessions were a complete success.”

Your gaze narrows. “And you’re telling me this because…?”

“No reason. Just thought you’d want to know.”

Yeah right, you think as you slip out the door. There’s absolutely no reason he’d want to tell you about Wonwoo’s deprogramming—and absolutely no reason you can hear him giggling as you walk away.

Another night spent staring at your ceiling.

The rage and anguish you’d felt during your conversation with Jeonghan is gone. So is the heat you’d felt in the training room with Wonwoo. In their absence, you aren’t sure how or what to feel. Everything feels off, like you’re trying to fit two puzzle pieces together that don’t fit even though they look like they should. Like you’re both too big and too small for your body. Like the freneticism inside of you is uncontrollable.

You’re restless. You’re overwhelmed and confused. You’re furious at your father and trying to ignore two-plus decades of childhood trauma because you’re horny. You should be thinking about the implications of what you agreed to, the multitude of ways your life is about to change, but every time you close your eyes all you see is Wonwoo. Stupid, handsome, solid Wonwoo. You should’ve knocked him out when you had the chance. At least if you had, you wouldn’t be pining and yearning like this—like a teenager with their first crush, like you’re about to write his name in your diary and doodle little hearts around it. At least if you had, he would be incapacitated, and being incapacitated would make what you’re imagining impossible.

Because it’s the possibility, the attainability of what you wantthat’s dangerous.

Because you’ve had it before and once hadn’t been enough. Once barely scratched the itch. Once had taken you apart seam by seam and remade you into something with an incorrigible greed. Once had sealed your fate of wanting, wanting, always wanting.

Has it always been like this? Of all the ill-advised things you wasted your youth doing, had wanting Wonwoo been one of them? You can’t remember. You stare up at your ceiling and you can’t remember a life without Wonwoo at all, regardless of your feelings. Isn’t that why you’d gone along with Jeonghan’s plan so easily? Not because of your loyalty towards your brother, but because a life without Wonwoo was simply not an option.

You gasp.

Gods above, you’re in love with Jeon Wonwoo.

What a terrible revelation to have at this hour! What a devastating blow to your reputation! What a disgusting, horrible situation you’ve gotten yourself into, because you’ll never hear the end of this. You, the spare who faced down the High Emperor of a hostile planet without so much as blinking and unknowingly uncovered a galaxy’s worth of corruption, are in love. All your sharp edges have been eroded. All the walls you built around yourself have been scaled and breached.

Fuck, you think. “Fuck!” you wail at your ceiling.

And let no man accuse Jeon Wonwoo of having good timing, because no sooner is the word out of your mouth that there’s a knock on your door. The knock—the one you’ve been trying to manifest for days. Surely he could’ve done this at any other time. Surely it didn’t have to be now, when you’re on the brink of mental collapse, but you’d be a fool to leave him standing on the other side.

Just the sight of him knocks the breath from your lungs. He’s beautiful. He’s beautiful and he’s here and he’s safe and he’s real. He came back to you. You brought him back. The two of you found your way back to one another and it doesn’t matter how, it only matters that you did.

There’s so much you want to say. I love you. I’m sorry. Did you think about me every second you were gone like I thought about you? I would do it all over again in a heartbeat. Did it mean anything to you, that night? I can’t get the feel of your hands all over me out of my head. Kiss me again, touch me again, I’m in love with you, maybe I always have been, I feel like I’m going crazy with it—

What comes out instead is, “Took you long enough.”

It’s all the permission he needs. When Wonwoo surges forward this time, the heat in his gaze is simmering. As tame and gentle as it is dangerous. When he surges forward this time, you don’t reach out to stop him. Instead, you bury your fingers in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. You’re overwhelmed by his scent—clean and a little sweet, with just a hint of bitterness beneath the surface. You’d know it anywhere. It’s the same scent he left lingering behind the night before he left, pressed between your sheets like you were trying to preserve it, keep it safe until he came back.

It does your head in, has you moving like a person possessed. Your hands move to his waist, to his shoulders, his arms. They retrace the same paths they’d mapped out before. Chart the same lines. Your nails ghost along his skin, delve into the same valleys they remember, and it does something to you when Wonwoo’s breath catches in his throat, just like it had the last time. When words are so clearly biting at the back of his teeth and fail to materialize as he shudders.

But muscle memory claims Wonwoo, too. Reminds him how dazed you look when he steps further into your space, so close that the two of you share the same breaths. Reminds him of that split-second of panicked freefall right before his lips claim yours. Reminds him how perfectly his hands fit in the curves of your waist. How willingly you go when he walks you backwards toward your bed. How it feels like his chest is going to cave in at the sight of you beneath him. Like his ribcage would break apart and rearrange itself to make a home for you there; to keep you safe in between all the scar tissue and the sinew.

You look at him with such reverence. Wonwoo is going to collapse under the weight of it.

“I wanted to come earlier,” he murmurs, almost sounding pained as he speaks the words into the space just beneath your ear. He nips at your lobe. Presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your neck, smiling when he hears you whimper. “I wanted to so fucking bad, I would’ve, but I needed to wait.”

You hear the subtext: I would’ve, but I needed it to be me—actually me.

As your hands skim underneath his shirt, as his muscles twitch and spasm beneath your hands, you have to laugh, because you’ve known and loved hundreds of iterations of Wonwoo. It seems impossible that a version of him could exist that’d change that. It seems egregious that you’d ever want something more than this: Wonwoo panting soft breaths against your skin, his usually-deft fingers rendered useless as they fumble blindly with the knot in the waistband of your shorts; as the weight of his body presses you further into the mattress; as he seems determined to never be apart from you now that he knows the agony of it.

So you laugh and erase the remaining distance between you and, as your hand moves over his abs and his hipbones and delve beneath the waistband of his shorts and he shivers, you say, “You are a fool, Jeon Wonwoo. There has never been a version of you I didn’t want.”

There’s very little talking after that.

Wonwoo slots his mouth against yours. Kisses you with such a pressing ferocity that your reality is reduced to the size of a pinhead; to nothing except Wonwoo and the way he tastes. Wonwoo kisses you in a way that’s equal parts apology and brand, as if the entire purpose is to ruin you for anybody else. Like he needs to exist in the center of your universe. Like you’re the only thing he’d allow to orbit around him.

Wonwoo kisses you like your hands on him are an afterthought, and that simply will not do, you think. You need him just as unraveled and destabilized as you, so you skim them lower, lower, until you’re centimeters away from his cock and he freezes. Seems to realize all at once what this is leading to, the pleasure that’s on offer, and he groans. Places his hand over yours and guides it to where he wants you most; helps you grip him tight enough that it’s a struggle for him to roll his hips in your grasp. Wonwoo swears and pulls away enough that you can see his eyes roll back in his head, his bottom lip tugged between his teeth.

You swat his hand away. “Off,” you instruct him, and while Wonwoo desperately tries to get out of his clothes, you make a show of moving your hand to your mouth and licking a stripe against your palm, the spaces between each finger. The look he gives you is meant to be severe, but it’s too glassy and fucked out to read as anything but frenzied.

Time seems to slow when he’s finally naked; when you allow yourself the opportunity to stare shamelessly, your heated gaze appraising every inch of him. Stubborn bruises still linger,  discoloration still stains his skin, but Wonwoo wears them with pride. Wonwoo wears them like the reminders they are of what it took to get back here—to reclaim his spot in your bed and feel your hands all over him. For you to make a tight, wet fist and work him over slowly.

“Shit,” he whines, trying and failing again to roll his hips at the rhythm he wants, but you’re intent on your torture. And Wonwoo knows it, too, because he sees the curve of your smile and gladly accepts his fate. Lets the waves of pleasure pummel him as he trails his fingers up the inside of your thighs and feels the wetness that clings to your skin. They travel higher. Higher. Dangerously close. You cant your hips, trying to get him to touch you properly, touch you like he means it. Wonwoo wants to be just as intentional as you are, but he can’t seem to deny you anything.

He thumbs circles against your clit. Moves downward and swipes two fingers through the sticky mess between your legs before pressing them inside, feeling you stretch around him as your body goes taut. You moan, head thrown back, and Wonwoo presses relentlessly against your g-spot as he leans in to suck a bruise into the column of your throat. Within seconds, you’re in disarray, reduced to a trembling wreck as you mindlessly chase your orgasm. As you tighten your grip on his cock and tangle your free hand in his hair, tugging at the loose strands at the nape of his neck and scratching your nails against his scalp.

Wonwoo grunts. Quickens his pace. Just as you’re on the brink of a mind-shattering orgasm, just as the pressure borders on too much, Wonwoo removes his fingers, sitting back on his haunches as he brings them to his mouth to suck them clean. The insults die on the tip of your tongue as he finally gets the tie unknotted; as your shorts and panties are only pulled down far enough for him to get his mouth on you. A truly animalistic sound is ripped out of you as he shows you no mercy—as he licks and sucks and soaks the sheets beneath you. As he throws your legs over his shoulders and presses his fingers back inside. As your body bows, almost retreating from the overwhelming pleasure.

Wonwoo pulls you back in. “Don’t run away from me,” he tells you, voice hoarse as he nips at your thigh. “I know you can take it, baby.”

I can’t, you want to argue, but your body moves on autopilot as it pursues your orgasm. You roll your hips in involuntary circles against Wonwoo’s face, hand dipping to rub at your clit as Wonwoo’s go to your hips to keep you in place. Both of you are gluttonous and wild as you hurtle closer to the edge. “Wonwoo, I’m gonna—” you begin to say, but the seams holding you together are fraught with tension, bound to tear and unravel at any moment.

And they do. You cry out as you come, nearly shaking apart as your vision whites out, stars exploding behind your eyelids as Wonwoo refuses to relent. As he keeps his face buried in your cunt, keeps sucking at your clit and tonguing at your folds, keeps moaning vibrations against you. Your body threatens to shatter, and if you weren’t so stubborn—if you weren’t so dogged and unyielding—you’d surrender, but Wonwoo said you can take it, so you keep your white flags lowered as he works you into a second orgasm and half of a third before you’re begging for a reprieve.

Chest heaving and sweat-slick, Wonwoo gives it to you. Presses soft praise into your shoulder, your jawline, your temple. Through lidded eyes, you watch as he gently removes his fingers from your pussy and wraps them around his cock, using your mess to slick himself up. You can hear your wetness on him, can smell the scent of your sex as it fills the room, and it fills you with a dizzying need that overrides the exhaustion you feel. You move. Wonwoo goes easily as you plant a hand in the center of his chest and push him backwards. His hand still moves rhythmically as he watches in anticipation, brow quirked, wondering what you’ll do next.

“What do you want?” you ask, throwing a leg over his waist as you move to straddle him. “You want my mouth? My pussy?”

Wonwoo feels delirious as the heat of your cunt hovers above him. He’s tempted to close the distance; tempted to pull you against him; tempted to grab your hips and move you along his length, soaking him as you grind your clit against his cock. He swears again. Somewhere in his mind, he knows you asked him a question, but for the life of him he can’t remember what it was. Can’t think over the sound of the blood rushing through his head. Can’t do anything except grip tightly at the sheets and pray to the gods this passes, because he’s about to fucking cum just from the images he conjured up in his own head.

But when he closes his eyes, he can feel it, so he chokes out, “Anything. Do whatever the fuck you want to me, I just—I need to feel you again. Need to feel you around me. Baby, I need—”

You, he means to say, but then you’re moving back onto his thighs, leaning forward to grab his cock and spit on it, and the word comes out breathy and pathetic as it’s punched right out of his chest. As your wetness stains his skin and paints over his bruises when you move back to where you were. As you reach for him again and pump him once before lining yourself up and sinking down.

Your movements are slow as you try to find your bearings; as your mouth drops open at the stretch and how perfectly he fills you. Your brows pinch. Your pussy flutters and spasms as you find your rhythm. As you start to move faster. As you roll your hips more deliberately, making sure Wonwoo’s thick cock hits where it needs to every time.

“You feel s’good,” you sigh, the epitome of blissful pleasure. Wonwoo’s hands move to your chest and thumb at your hardened nipples. Move to your hips and then your ass, skin dimpling in his grip as he guides you up and down, groaning at the obscene squelch.

Wonwoo follows you on an upswing, sitting upright as you cross your legs behind his back. He spreads his just enough for his cock press deeper and you nearly sob. The first time hadn’t felt like this. The first time was a cautious introduction, a promise of possibilities; a careful dance on a tense tightrope as you both try not to misstep. This time is all raw, genuine need—the culmination of unfinished business and five months of separation that you try not to think about. But it’s hard when Wonwoo uses that newfound strength to flip you over as if you weigh nothing. When he poises himself above you and rocks his hips into yours, eyes locked on the place your bodies meet.

No, this time feels like something bigger. This feels like something they’d memorialize in granite and dedicate monuments to. Something that finds every forgotten crevice in your chest and starts laying the foundations of pillars.

Wonwoo moans. Throws his head back. Places his hands on your knees and presses them to your chest, folding you in half, opening you up even more as his pace quickens. Skin slaps against skin. Electricity sparks through your veins. You’re still so sensitive that every thrust feels devastating, like you’ll be left permanently scrambled and craving. He spreads your knees and palms at your chest. Pinches at your nipples until you’re gushing around him and hopelessly trying to suck in air. Wonwoo just grins, enjoying the leverage while he has it.

But the truth is that both you and Wonwoo are unraveling at full speed, rushing headlong into oblivion. You can tell by the way his hips stutter; the way his eyes pinch closed, as if he’s praying to anyone and anything that can help make this last longer. You can tell by the way his praise starts sounding accusatory, like he’s cursing you for being so tight, so wet he keeps slipping out and losing his rhythm; cursing your searing heat. You can tell by the way he hikes your thigh around his hip and erases the space between you, pressing in so close you breathe as a singular unit.

“Give me one more,” he grunts, the words spoken into the crook of your neck in a high, desperate keen. “Make yourself come for me, baby, please—I’m so close. Wanna feel it.”

As if you’d deny him anything. As if he’d ask this of you and you’d do anything but snake a hand between your bodies to rub at your clit. As if you’d bring yourself to the precipice and pull back.

When you come, it feels like a supernova. It feels like every atom in the universe is rearranged. Your body goes taut, locking up as your pussy grips Wonwoo like a vice. He’s locked into that space between your legs with no chance of escape, and all he can do is grit his teeth as he fucks you through it—one, two, four more thrusts before he’s spilling inside of you, biting down on your shoulder to keep himself controlled and quiet.

Seconds pass. Minutes, maybe hours. Eventually your breathing evens out and reality creeps in around the static blurring the edges of your vision. Wonwoo finds your hand and intertwines your fingers. He holds onto you like a lifeline, like he’ll disappear again if he lets you go. And you know what it means but you need him to say it. You need to finish what the two of you had started.

“I’m sorry.”

It’s quiet when Wonwoo finally speaks. The tension that suffocated the room had peaked at the same time you did, giving way to a calm, almost unnatural stillness. You wonder if you imagine those two words. You wonder if your heavy lids finally caved to exhaustion, allowing your imagination to fill in the gaps that still remained. But Wonwoo presses a whisper of a kiss to the corner of your mouth that brings you back to the present. “For what I said,” he clarifies. “I wasn’t myself, but that doesn’t excuse it. I know it hurt you.”

You hum. Hold his hand a little tighter. “Like you said, you weren’t yourself.”

He sighs. Burrows closer. You want to pry your ribs apart and invite him in. “It’s not just that. I shouldn’t have left things so undefined between us, but I—I thought I was coming back. I thought there wasn’t a thing in this universe that could keep me from coming back to you.”

“That’s not your fault, Wonwoo,” you say, tracing nonsensical shapes into the palm of his hand. “You couldn’t have known.”

“Yeah, but… I could’ve told you. I should’ve told you.”

Your fingers still. Your breath catches, trapped beneath the weight on your chest. “Tell me what?”

Wonwoo hovers above you, propped up on his elbows. His smile is small, almost shy, and it reminds of you when you were both kids, unburdened by adulthood and expectations and trauma. His smile reminds you of flowers and the superstitions assigned to them, and maybe that’s what love is, you think. Maybe love is when you look at Wonwoo and the world becomes butter yellow; when he smiles and you feel the warmth of every sun in the universe. When he looks at you like you’re a little stupid and a little perfect and says, with as much conviction as a man can possess, “That I love you. That I’m in love with you and always have been.”

Maybe love is when your heart beats in a staccato rhythm that only Wonwoo can perform. When you’re sure you’re dreaming when you say, “I love you, too. Always have,” and Wonwoo’s smile is so impossibly wide he presses it into your skin to preserve it.

Whatever it is, you’re giddy with it, content to spend your days in this pinky-lavender haze as long as it exists. You’re happy to reacquaint yourself with the weight of Wonwoo’s body when he presses against you again, kissing your laughter lines. You sigh when his cock stirs against your thigh and you feel the way his cheeks warm against your own, laughing wildly when you thread your fingers through his hair and ask if he wants to go again, only for him to admit in sheepish embarrassment that it’s a little weird—only a little—when you still look so much like your brother.

You’ll dye your hair in the morning, while Wonwoo sleeps soundly on his side of the bed.

Admittedly, Jeonghan doesn’t react as poorly as you expect him to.

Not that he shows it, of course, but you can tell by the way he rolls his lips and how badly he’s trying to keep it together; how desperate he is not to laugh, because this was not exactly what he had in mind when he offered you your position. Yet here you are, once again missing half of an eyebrow (dyed back to your natural color) as you sit across from him—

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

—and Joshua, that unctuous little rat.

“Only that I plead the fifth,” you retort, turning your nose up at him.

Jeonghan nearly cracks. Joshua sneers. “That’s not a thing here,” he fires back. “Try again.”

“Or what?”

If this was an old-timey cartoon there’d be smoke coming out of his ears, you think, watching in amazement as Joshua’s face turns a concerning shade of red. “‘Or what’? ‘Or’ nothing! There is no ‘or what’ because you planted a bomb and blew up a Council member’s private office—”

“That’s hearsay,” you argue, waving him off. “You can’t prove I did that.”

“Not only can I prove it, I have witnesses.”

“Witnesses that’ll go on official record?” you challenge. “Against me, the Savior of Ithea? The enforcer of morality and trustworthiness? The bomb sniffer of corruption? The beacon of hope and light in the darkest moment of our planet’s history?”

A bark of laughter interrupts whatever Joshua is about to say as your brother loses the battle he’s been waging against himself and all his sensibilities. Behind him, even Seungcheol turns around to face the wall, and with that the last flame of Joshua’s optimism is snuffed out. All of his friends are traitors. All of the people meant to make his job easier—his life—use his suffering as entertainment. He’d hoped to rekindle his alliance with Wonwoo upon his return from Dredelea, but it was obvious he was under your spell, too lovesick to see what a devious little shithead you truly are.

Even now he sits at your side, smiling proudly as he throws an arm around your shoulders and says, “That’s my girl.”

Joshua is going to be sick.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! Sharing and reblogging my work is the best way to show you enjoyed it, but I also accept any and all feedback and screaming in my inbox. ♡

[chwedout]

this guy annoys me but it's not his fault. he's doing his best. i'm annoyed because of my own issues

[kuromingoo]

sunkissed | kmg

for he is goodness personified, and i am but a shadow.

for the past few years, you've been accepting odd jobs here and there for the mysterious local barkeep to earn enough coin to get through to the next week, but when the opportunity of a lifetime that could turn an orphaned street rat into a noblewoman appears before you, you're suddenly thrust onto the road with the renowned and beloved sun knight, headed to the kingdom's northernmost fortress that houses its most treacherous transgressors until death. the job? you're to infiltrate in as a prisoner and break a fellow captive out. 

pairing: kim mingyu x fem!reader  genres/themes: action, angst, romance, smut tags: knight!mingyu, orphaned thief!reader, medieval quest, sunshine x grumpy (ish?), slowburn (mainly because they're on a quest that might mean certain death), soft dom mingyu, inexperienced reader, reader is nicknamed 'owl' and is referred to primarily as that, reader is referred to as 'girl' tw: violence; mentions of killing and death, injuries and blood, including brief description of a human getting branded by hot metal, death and injuries by fire, death and injuries by knives and swords, death by poisoning; explicit language; explicit sexual content (unprotected piv sex, oral, fingering) a/n: happy carat day!  wc: 32.7k

[Excerpt from “The Sun and His Shadow”, a children’s story]

There was once a girl who fell in love with the Sun.

She was a daughter of the night, raised by the owls and the foxes and the stars, her mother the Moon, her father the Ocean. She loved the Sun, for he represented all the things she did not know and could not have. She loved the Sun for his warmth and his brilliance. She loved and she loved, unaware of the way her eyes burned from his radiance, of the way her palms blistered from his heat. The owls and the foxes tutted and clicked their tongues at her foolishness. They chided the sacrifices she made for a love that wasn’t recognized, let alone returned.

The girl merely shook her head, eyes shut. It had been some time since the Sun had blinded her and made them ineffective. She clasped her hands, perpetually burned and bandaged, in solemn, reverent prayer. The girl denied that she had sacrificed even a thing in this hopeless, futile love of hers.

For he is the Sun, and I am but a shadow, she smiled.

-

The night is thick, its air weighed down with silence. A single candle stands in the middle of a desk placed exactly in the middle of the room, its light sputtering weakly, as if the shadows threaten to choke it out of existence. Outside the pavilion, not even an owl croons, frightened to disturb the grave quiet.

A young man sits with his elbows propped onto the desk, wide shoulders hunched, head dipped low in thought. He is a lion of a man, with a thick mane of black hair and a pair of deep, passionate eyes. Despite his visible prowess, he has been made small by grief. He clutches his sturdy palms together to keep them from trembling too hard, a clumsy attempt at prayer.

Opposite him, another man sits straight-backed and rigid. He’s slender in all the places that the first man is broad. His face is slight and delicate, features full and striking, as if the gods took their time in carving him out. Despite his otherworldly beauty, the man’s eyes are stretched wide and cold with fury. Clutched in his pale-knuckled hand is a thin silver necklace, thumb pressed harshly against the oblique pendant, as if attempting to permanently mold the facet into his skin.

This man, too, suffers, but his rage overwhelms his grief. The hairs on his nape prickle, as he sits, frozen in the vacuous moment following words that have been loosened from his tongue carelessly. For both men, the world has been upturned over their heads in the matter of a few days. Still, it’s no excuse to be cruel to his longest, closest friend. He doesn’t even remember what he just said, only the anger and the terrible, sickening release that he felt as the words left his mouth.

“Jeonghan. You’re not the only one who lost someone. My father and brother are also gone.” Seungcheol, the former, says, voice a quiet rumble in his chest.

Jeonghan stiffens, but he doesn’t apologize. He’s not sorry, not really, about the words that he spits out in his grief, for he is the type of man who accepts every consequence for his actions, whether it creates or dismantles him, with no remorse. Seungcheol knows all this; they’ve been friends from the cradle. He doesn’t take any of Jeonghan’s frigid anger personally, for Jeonghan had loved the Crown and the older prince as if they were his own family. This, Seungcheol knows with all of his heart, too.

Which is why he doesn’t argue and listens patiently when Jeonghan finally reveals the intent for which he called this midnight meeting and presents his proposal.

-

“Hail, Owl.”

You curl your mouth in distaste, straightening from the slump that you’ve entered the tavern in.

This late in the night, even the chronic drunkards have crawled down the crooked cobblestones their way home, or at least halfway home, and the lights have been diminished down to a single oil lamp. This flame flickers gently, wagging like a tantalizing secret, but the shadows that it throws into the room are long and energetic. The sole occupant, and owner, of The Dancing Spider casts the largest shadow, and you warily eye its movements, languid and graceful, before plucking your hood down from your head and turning to the counter.

“Defeats the point of a disguise if you recognize me immediately,” you crow, not pleased but not unkind either, as you hop up onto a barstool, nodding gratefully as a mug is slid over to you. You grasp it between both palms, letting its hot contents warm your fingers, before lifting the brim to your lips and taking a long sip.

Immediately, the rich, candied flavor of the Kwons’ signature mulled wine coats your entire mouth, sticking to your throat like syrup on its way down. For someone who can’t handle his own liquor, the barkeep churns out some of the best wine in the province.

From the other side of the bar, Kwon Soonyoung grins, like he hears your thoughts. You do your quick inventory. Sunny smile that stretches the corners of his lips to his ears. Sharp teeth, even sharper eyes. Slim gray slacks cut right to his ankles, white linen shirt with his sleeves pulled haphazardly to his elbows, a black vest buttoned to accentuate his waist perfectly. He looks just the same as every other night you’ve snuck into his tavern. Undisturbed by your entrance, Soonyoung continues wiping down the counter with a rag in quick sweeps, careful to work around the space that you occupy, before responding to your previous comment.

“Who else would visit me at this hour, if not my dear friend Owl?”

The barkeeper is cheery, as always, and he is the closest thing you have to a friend, but the word makes you wrinkle your nose and curl your lip. There’s no room in your life, cursed as it is, for friends. Just strangers and the occasional acquaintance. You categorize Kwon Soonyoung as the latter in your mind and take another slow mouthful of the wine before wiping your lips with the back of your sleeve.

“Well then,” you urge quietly, shifting in your seat anxiously, flicking your gaze over your back as if someone might have crept in, even though you made sure to latch the door behind you. “What’s the job this time?”

Soonyoung doesn’t answer immediately. He stops cleaning and turns his back on you towards the counter lining the wall. You watch the line of his shoulders in anticipation as he works and then narrow your eyes when he returns with a plate of food. A hearty bowl of soup, loaded with chunks of meat and potatoes and other vegetables, and a crusty baked roll, still warm and steaming from the stove. For the three copper coins that you usually pay him for a drink and a meal, he’s feeding you astoundingly well tonight, and you leer, suspicious.

“Are you sending me to my death, Kwon? Because if so, I don’t want any part of it.”

Your stomach growls at the wafting scent of the food, but you force yourself to push off of the stool to stand.

“Hey, wait.” Soonyoung scrambles, lurching across the bar, circling his fingers over your wrist to hold you in place. His grip barely ghosts over you, but the sensation of someone else’s skin touching yours, no matter how fleeting, has you tearing your arm back to your side, as if burned. It’s too ragged of a motion in response.

You burn with shame while Soonyoung stammers an apology out. He manages to coax you back into sitting and pushes the tray of food closer to you, which you accept with a wordless nod, gaze lowered to the wood of the counter. Soonyoung waits until you take a bite, tearing off a chunk of the roll and dunking it into the stew before popping it into your mouth. Instantly, you have to fight the urge to sink into your seat when the flavors hit your tongue. You chew quickly and swallow the mouthful before you can savor it because savoring means remembering and remembering leads to longing.

“There’s a job,” Soonyoung finally speaks, voice hushed conspiratorially, “A big one.”

You contemplate through your next spoonful of stew. “For who?”

“I’m not allowed to say—”

You snort and roll your eyes. He’s worked with you long enough to know that you won’t lift a finger for an anonymous request. If you’re going to be earning dirty coins, you’d rather know exactly who they come from, who you’re soiling your own hands for.

“—but it’s someone in a very, very, very high position. A hundred thousand gold Dragons.”

You drop your spoon into the bowl. Flecks of hot stew splatter up and onto the back of your hand, but you pay the brief sting no mind.

A year ago, you had taken on your biggest job from Soonyoung’s network yet that paid a single gold Dragon. It had required you to take the life of a town magistrate, and riddled by your conscience, you hadn’t been able to sleep through the night for a few moons following. The pay, however, had lasted you the better half of a year, which you rationed out carefully. You’d barely spent a quarter of it on the handsome starsteel dagger that now permanently lived on your hip, and the rest of it had been devoted towards the boarding fee in an inn room that locked and one good, proper meal a day.

You can’t even begin to imagine what a hundred golden Dragons could mean for you, let alone a hundred thousand. Before your thoughts fray with hopeless dreaming, you quickly tamper down the hope, giddy and airy, threatening to lift from your stomach.

“You are sending me towards death, aren’t you?” You squint your eyes, suddenly nervous of the way that Soonyoung’s pupils darken, mouth hardens.

The barkeep crosses his arms over his chest, chews on his lip as he thinks. Finally, he admits lowly, “It may be dangerous. But I wouldn’t tell you about it, if I didn’t think you would be successful.” Lamplight dances over his face, and for the first time since you’ve known him, you think that you read pity in it. “Owl, with that sort of money, you would be free to live your life.”

Ice trickles down your spine. As a child, you always imagined you would live a simple life, doing honest work for a meager pay at your family’s post. Perhaps you’d have your own family with a partner who respected you, maybe even loved you. When everything was razed to the ground, your humble ambitions had gone with them. Now, your life consisted solely of scraping by until Soonyoung’s network spat out another job at you to carry you through a few more days, a week if you were lucky.

A hundred thousand Dragons would last you for the rest of your life, and then some. Your thoughts run with grandiose ideas of your first purchase. Perhaps a new pair of slacks with stronger, lined pockets to hold all of your overflowing coin. Before the logical side of your brain can catch up, your traitorous tongue acts first.

“I’m interested.”

Soonyoung simpers, unapologetic.

“That’s great! Because I already told them that you’d do it.”

-

“Hail, Spider.”

You tense at the appearance of an unfamiliar voice but keep your head bowed, face obscured behind the shadow of your hood and Soonyoung’s shoulder. Despite the icy company you’ve provided him since thundering down the steps into the tavern a half-hour ago, the barkeep is exceedingly cheery in the early morning quiet, shoulders at ease and the grin curling over his lips familiar. He trusts this person, so you make a conscious effort not to bristle.

“Hail, Knight.”

Soonyoung reaches to clasp his palm into the newcomer’s. The man is taller, much taller than the barkeep, broad in the shoulders but lean everywhere else. He wears clothes that are tailored perfectly to his form beneath a long cloak lined with silk. He looks expensive, and in your books, expensive means dangerous. Though he’s not dressed like it, he’s clearly a knight, judging by the sword hanging at his hip and Soonyoung’s title for him. You try not to stare at the weapon and continue your inspection.

The man has a striking but kindly face, with strong brows, a delicate nose, full lips, and the most beautiful eyes you’ve ever seen, expressive and bright. His mouth naturally curves up, as if always smiling. His body is of a man’s, but the twinkle of his gaze and his grinning mouth reminds you of a boy. His skin, even in the dim of the tavern, is an alluring gold, complemented by the red of his clothing. Even his hair, not cropped short like the common fashion for knights but long enough to curl behind his ears, leans honeyed and not entirely black, as if warmed by daylight. Beloved by the sun, you think, and even without his armor or heraldry, you recognize immediately who this man is.

You bite your tongue hard to stop yourself from cursing at Soonyoung. He’s not only had the nerve to enlist you for a high-profile job without your permission, but also to neglect to tell you that your accomplice in it would be none other than the renowned Sun Knight, one of the Crown’s favorites. Heat prickles up your nape, and your stomach turns anxiously. You make a mental count of the coins in your pocket, rolling each over in your fingers, contemplating whether what you have might hold you over until the next job comes around.

Not a chance. You’d be lucky to make it past a week, and that’s if Soonyoung will continue taking pity on you, even after you tell him that you can’t go through with this job. A hundred thousand. You grit your teeth and lift your head, just as the two men finish up greeting one another.

When he turns to you, Soonyoung has already spied your expression, which you’re certain is nothing short of murderous, and his easy grin grows crooked and sheepish. “This is my good friend, Owl,” he introduces with a quick gesture and an airy laugh. “She’s been running a few jobs a week for some years now. Does great work and I trust her.”

The flattery lands ineffective on your ears. You dip your head to the knight in silent greeting, taking care not to give Soonyoung the attention he seeks from you.

The Sun Knight bows his head, lower than is necessary for someone of your class. When he lifts his gaze, he immediately searches your face, curious.

“Owl. Is that your name?” His voice is deep, rasping but not grating. There’s a hint of a lisp hissing beneath his words, which contributes to his innocuity.

You regard him cooly, half-impressed by the polished decorum he carries himself with. You’ve never met a knight before, but you have had your run-ins with men like him, of high stock and deep pockets. They’d spoken to you in short, clipped phrases, as if they couldn’t be bothered to waste any more of their breath on you and had dismissed you with urgent flicks of their hands, never mind ask you for your name.

“The only name that matters.” You add on dryly, “And do you go by Sir Sun?”

The knight tenses instantly. Uneasy surprise flickers across his face, as he glances from you to Soonyoung, whose own jaw slackens ever so slightly. The two men share a wordless conversation within a single look between themselves, which ends with Soonyoung shaking his head. A strained silence lingers, before the knight shatters it with a resigned sigh.

“I suppose it’s not easy to hide.” A tiny smile tugs at his mouth, and his face softens, as if it’s easier for it to be amused than serious. “But please, you can call me Mingyu.”

A given name, not a family name like you’re used to calling down here in the Troughs of the capital. You make a mental note of it and tuck it away, knowing that you’ll never call him by name.

With the introductions completed, you pick up the sack of supplies you’ve brought with you and pull the straps over yourself, one at your shoulder, the other at the opposite hip, tying them into a knot over your chest. When you finally turn to Soonyoung, he’s suddenly unsmiling and grave, watching as you fasten your cloak tighter at the throat and pull your hood down into place.

Your mouth has gone tacky and dry, so you give him a firm nod. Something foreign passes over his face, and for the slightest moment, you think that it looks like doubt. Within the next heartbeat, it hardens into an assurance that’s surprisingly bolstering, and Soonyoung’s pressing a package, wrapped in brown paper and bound with twine, towards you. It’s warm in your hands, but before you can ask what it is, the barkeep gestures to shoo you out.

“It’ll be dawn soon. Best be on your way.”

The Sun Knight clears his throat, and your chest gives a lurch, having momentarily forgotten of his presence. His boots scrape against the floorboards as he makes for the door. Your heart picks up, as you search for something to say, anything to say, just in case you don’t make it back. At the very least, you should thank Soonyoung, for taking you in that first night on the brink of starving to death, for being kind to you, for considering you a friend.

None of the words come to mind.

In your floundering, Soonyoung seizes the chance to speak first.

“Be smart, Owl.” His voice wavers ever so slightly, before something fond and familiar tugs at his lips. “It’ll keep you safe.”

You grin back, finding and grasping the ounce of courage that you need to jolt yourself into action.

“I am nothing but.”

-

The heavy wooden door slams shut behind you as you step outside of the tavern. The loud thudding rattles your bones ominously, as if you’ll leave this place and never return to it again. Hastily, you banish this thought from your mind and catch up to the Sun Knight.

The knight—Mingyu—has cut over to the other side of the well-traveled road, a little up ahead where it forks into two paths. Tied to the wooden post marking the crossroads are two horses: one slight and pale like moonlight, the other sturdier and strong, as if hewn out of umber wood. Horses can only be afforded to be ridden by nobility and therefore are foreign creatures to you, but nothing is as strange as the man tending to them.

Mingyu sweeps a large hand down the brown horse’s massive throat, his own neck crooked down to murmur softly to the beast. His face is too close for comfort to its massive head, in your opinion, but the knight smiles wide as he continues whispering, “Good girl, sweet girl.” The horse only nickers in response, as if she understands human speech.

His ramblings are gentle, affectionate, so much so that your own nerves are nearly lulled into easing up. You quickly catch yourself, shaking your shoulders to snap back into being alert, and remind yourself that you haven’t even embarked on this job that may earn you one hundred thousand Dragons or an early grave. You cross over to the knight and the two creatures.

Your arrival prompts Mingyu to glance up, still relaxed and grinning. You pay him a quick look before minding the horses warily. Now that you’re right up beside them, they’re much taller and broader than you thought. Mingyu is one of the tallest people you’ve ever seen, and even he barely comes halfway up the brown horse’s neck.

At your strange presence, both horses prick their ears and raise their heads from their lazy grazing. Though their eyes are on either sides of their faces, you can’t help but feel scrutinized by the animals and tense. As if he notices your unease, Mingyu reaches up to pat at the brown horse’s nose and coos, “Owl, this is my sweet girl, Summer. She’s all brawn and no brain. Aren’t you, girl?”

Summer chuffs again, sounding pleased at the description of herself. You fight off a grin, still cautious but more amused than wary now.

“Do all knights name their horses?”

Mingyu’s eyes flick up to yours, deep and thoughtful for a moment, before squinting one eye into a wink. “Only the best ones.”

Instantly, the glamour shatters and you scoff, but the knight already steps over to the other horse. Close up, you see now that this one’s an unearthly white color, like the Angel of Death’s pallid mount in the children’s stories you’d grown up with. She’s quiet, eeriely and hauntingly so, but leans into Mingyu’s touch when he strokes his hand down her pale mane.

“This is Snowdrop, on account of her being—”

“White. Got it.”

“I was going to say ‘a beautiful, beautiful girl’, but how clever you are, Owl.”

Mingyu’s cheek dimples innocently, and you desperately have to restrain yourself not to roll your eyes.

“Can you ride?”

At the post, your family would borrow the next door farmer’s mule-drawn cart whenever larger, heavier parcels needed to be delivered. You had learned how to ride and steer that mule from its saddleless back, even before you were four feet off the ground. Surely a trained, saddled horse won’t be too different. You eye Snowdrop carefully, and all she does is blink her large black eyes back at you.

“I can manage, I’m sure.”

Mingyu nods, assured. He gives you a cursory sweep from head to toe, then glances over at the horse.

“Need a hand up?”

“I’m good, Knight.”

Before you can even think to regret it, Mingyu hooks his foot into the stirrup and swings himself atop his great beast with ease. From the added height, the knight’s voice sounds farther away, and that much more aggravating, when he calls down at you.

“It’s a long road ahead of us. I’ll explain what the job is on the way.”

You stifle a sigh and turn your gaze over to the east, where the sun is just breaking over the horizon.

-

“So, why Owl?”

You’ve been on the road for only about an hour, you would guess, judging by the sun’s position in the sky. Already, your lower back aches and your inner thighs chafe against the leather saddle, as smooth and worn as it is, even through the lining of your pants. Most of the journey so far has consisted of easy silence, save for the clicking of Mingyu’s tongue as he guides Summer faster or slower and the steady clopping of hooves against the dirt path.

The sudden sound of his voice has you jerking to attention in your seat, which sends a deeper twinge through your spine. You can’t hide the grimace that follows, and you’re glad that Mingyu leads and that his back is turned to you. The fixed gait of the horses and the constant landscape of rolling grasslands and fields have lulled you into a transient state, so it takes your head a few heartbeats to restart, to run the knight’s words over to comprehend it, and then formulate an answer, without giving away too much.

“My family kept owls when I was a child.”

“Oh. As pets?”

You snort sooner than you can think to hold it in and clumsily hide it behind a dry cough.

“No. We ran the post for our village. My responsibility was to maintain the owlery. They said I spent so much time with the birds that I was on my way to becoming half-owl myself.”

The knight turns his face to the side just enough that you can read his grin. You look away. The memory of your family and the birds quickly turns from fond to bitter.

“The owls. They can be trained to deliver the mail accurately?”

“Of course. They’re not the symbol of intelligence for just any reason.”

Mingyu hums quietly but doesn’t say more. Now that the sun has come out to warm the earth, he has shed his long cloak off and wears only the red linen shirt that hugs his shoulders. You watch the ease with which he rides, the relaxed yet strong line of his shoulders, the perfect posture of his back and waist. He rides so effortlessly that you wonder how young he was when he was first placed onto a horse. You wonder if he wears red because it’s the color of his House or simply because he likes it. You wonder why he named his horse, and why he named her Summer. More curiosities spring to mind, and Mingyu has asked you a question so it’s only respectful to return the courtesy, but everything that comes to you seems too profound for the time that you’ve known him. Lamely, you call out something plain.

“Why are you the Sun Knight?”

Mingyu tips his head over his shoulder again, more fully this time so that you can see his entire face. Beneath the daylight, his eyes gleam molten, and you suppress a shudder at the sight. He smiles again—like he was born to—and gives a one-shouldered shrug.

“Knights’ titles aren’t chosen, they’re bestowed,” he answers simply, a little bashfully, and as he speaks, you notice that two of his teeth are especially pointed, like the fangs of a hound. “Perhaps I fight particularly well under the sun. Something like that.”

No, that’s not it, you swallow the words down your throat. Beloved by the sun. The phrase comes to mind again, and you think you understand how exactly his title came to be.

“I don’t mind it, though,” Mingyu continues cheerfully, turning his attention back to the road ahead. “‘The sun loves and gives life’, they say. It’s an honor to be named after it. Do you know that one?”

“Of course,” you grunt back, “The Troughs have nursery rhymes too.”

After that, silence fluidly falls back into place, which you welcome. You shift forward in the saddle to alleviate the pressure in your back and are reminded of Soonyoung’s parcel, when it nudges into your stomach from where you’ve been clutching it close. Curious, you pull it from beneath your cloak and tug carefully to unravel the twine.

Wrapped within the paper are two loaves of perfectly browned bread, no longer hot from the fire but still somewhat warm from your skin. Tucked in between the bread is a tiny scrap of paper, folded in half, and when you open it, there’s a message in Soonyoung’s messy scrawl.

Owl—

I’m sorry for sending you away without your permission. Impulsivity is my greatest sin, I fear. I’m scared that you’ll run into danger and that I was the one who sent you there. I should have told you this in person, but I was even more scared that I might stop you from going. Like I said, I believe in you, and I think you’ll succeed.

You will succeed and come home with more money than you know what to do with. You deserve more than this life. You deserve to be happy.

Eat proper meals. Save the bread for the road. Also, the larger loaf is for you. Give the smaller one to the mutt knight.

Come back alive. I would like not to be haunted by someone as terrifying as you.

Your only friend,

Spider

You swallow hard against the knot that forms in your throat and hide your sniffle by coughing a dry laugh out.

“You and your gods awful handwriting, Kwon.”

-

When Mingyu’s great brown mare gives a whinny, the sun has already begun its descent into the mountains that have appeared in the far distance. The knight clicks his tongue, sharp and high, and both horses respond in an instant, slowing from a trot to a walk. You lift your head wearily and loosen your fingers from the twist that you’ve been holding the reins around. By now, you’ve lost nearly all feeling in your legs, certain that the skin along your thighs have been rubbed completely raw, and when you roll your shoulders back, your spine cracks along five separate points.

“Summer says it’s time to stop for today,” Mingyu chirps happily, “which is just as well. There’s an inn just over the ridge there.” He points ahead, which you nod along to without following, just glad to be in close grasp of respite. You squeeze your eyes tight, barely clinging on as Snowdrop follows their lead, as steady as she had been at dawn.

“Alright, Owl?”

You blink your eyes open, barely acknowledging that you’ve come to a halt, just in time to watch Mingyu slide from his saddle, landing solidly on both feet. He sweeps his fingers through his fringe, which only flops back onto his forehead, a little damp with dust and sweat, but his eyes are bright, as ever, unfettered by the day’s long journey.

Your throat feels like it’s coated in a layer of dust kicked up from the road and you can’t trust your tongue to say anything coherent, so you settle to nod an affirmative response, sluggishly pulling one leg over Snowdrop’s back to dismount. No sooner does your foot hit the ground than your knee buckles beneath your weight, and your heart jumps as you scrabble to find purchase before you fully crumple onto the dirt.

Quicker than you can reach for Snowdrop’s saddle straps, the knight springs forward, reaching to brace you up by the hip. With the sudden proximity, he brings a foreign warmth and the scent of leather and steel and something warm and spicy. You go rigid, first at the closeness of the knight and the recognition of just how tall he is, then at the realization that he’s touching you—not directly, his fingers tighten over the dagger fastened at your belt and presses it into your hip bone, but still touching. You flinch away, the weakness in your knees quickly replaced by the heady rush of bewilderment.

“Sorry,” Mingyu blurts, cheeks flushed, as if he’s done something wrong. One day, you’ll admit to yourself that it was somewhat endearing, but in the current moment, you’re too anxious to dwell much on it. Gratefully, the knight allows you the distance that you’ve created, shuffling away to guide Summer forward by her reins. Before you can do something stupid like think about what just occurred, you quickly reach for Snowdrop’s leads and follow close.

The inn that you’ve arrived at can’t be described as anything more than a shack, but through the windows, you spy a lit hearth and hear the lively chatter of other gathered travelers. You’re wary of the presence of strangers, especially when you still haven’t learned where you’re going and what is required of you to be paid the obscene amount of money promised, but you’re exhausted and shakier than you’ve ever been on your own two feet.

“Before we head in,” Mingyu starts hesitantly, as he gestures for you to hand over Snowdrop’s reins so that he can bring the horses over to the covered shelter, which you comply with gratefully, “I wanted to brief you. We’re to travel under the guise of being married.”

The surprise must be plain on your face because amusement dances over Mingyu’s as he hastily follows up with explanation.

“It invites fewer questions. Fewer people poking their nose into where they're unwanted. We’re traveling up north to visit my younger brother, who’s getting married in a week. That’s the story we’ll stick to.” He offers you a simple smile and a pause to consider it.

Slowly, you roll the words coming to mind over in your mouth before vocalizing them.

“Is that truly where we’re headed? North?”

The knight shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His gaze shifts, cautious, from you to the horses to the inn, which makes you squirm, impatient and nervous.

“You do realize you’re going to have to tell me eventually? I still have not a clue what I need to do for—” You hush your voice into a whisper before finishing, “The hundred thousand Dragons.”

Mingyu’s eyes stretch wide. “Gods. A hundred thousand?”

You scrutinize the knight and find not an ounce of falsity, which then makes you frown, puzzled. “Aren’t you the one paying for this job?”

He splutters, incredulous, and the noise makes the horses behind him shift, skittish. Mingyu turns briefly to coo some words of comfort to the spooked creatures before returning to address your own confusion.

“I’m a knight, not a goldsmith.” He avoids a definite answer and pauses to scratch his nape, muttering to himself more than to you. “Yeah, actually that makes a lot of sense.”

“What does?”

Mingyu breathes a weak laugh with a quick shake of his head. You watch, exasperated, as he doesn’t give an answer, yet again. The knight wrings his hands together, sucks a sharp breath in, and then rolls his shoulders back to straighten his posture.

“I’m starving. Let’s go in, and we’ll talk after supper, hm?”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach pangs at the thought of eating. With a quiet huff, you give him a curt nod and make for the entrance to the inn. Before you can reach for the door, Mingyu stops you with an outstretched fist and a quiet murmur.

“Hold out your hand.”

You do as he says, and he drops something, small and light, into your palm. Without another word, he brushes past you and into the inn’s light and warmth.

You look down to find a golden ring, warmed by the heat of Mingyu’s skin, cupped in the center of your hand. You pinch it between your fingers and lift it in inspection, finding it to be a signet ring, much like the ones that the truebred members of the noble Houses wear. On the outer facet, there is a coat of arms engraved into the metal: a simple image of a wolf, reared on its hind legs, stretched upwards as it reaches to snatch a star between its parted jaws.

Something strange and ominous stirs in the pit of your stomach, but you shove the feeling away hastily. You try the ring, crafted for a man’s hand, on each left finger, finding that it fits best on your thickest, before following the knight inside.

By the time you catch up with Mingyu, he’s already leaned over the counter, chin in his hand, propped onto a crooked elbow. The woman on the other side of the bar looks halfway bewitched by the knight already, round cheeks flushed pink and eyes glittering as she hangs off of every word he speaks. When you sidle up beside him quietly, Mingyu tucks his head down to look at you, mouth curled into a languid, feline grin.

“Hi, love,” he murmurs, gaze snagging on your newly ringed finger when you brace your hands against the counter to steady yourself on your quivering legs. “Beth here was just getting us situated in a room for the night.”

Beth, to her credit, recovers swiftly from her trance, straightening up as she sweeps her palms over her reddened face. “Oh! Yes!” She chirps, reaching beneath the counter to dig around until she produces a large brass key on an iron hoop and hands it over to the knight, who rewards her with a beam and a wink. The woman returns it with a watery smile, glance sliding from him to you timidly. “It’ll be the farthest room on the right side. Second floor. Anything else I can help you both with?”

“Yes, actually, darling. Two bowls of whatever stew you’ve got tonight, and some bread, please.” Mingyu passes over the key to you, motioning his chin over to the staircase in the far corner of the room. “Why don’t you head up first, love? I’ll be right there with supper.”

You nod, eager to escape this awkward mimicry of marriage. Ignoring the strain in your thighs, you bound up the uneven wooden stairs, two steps at a time, and all but collapse into the room that you’ve been assigned. It’s a small space with only a single window, glass frosted over from a lack of regular cleaning, but the door locks—at the doorknob and the deadbolt—and there are two bedrolls folded up in the simple wardrobe, hewn roughly out of raw, unfinished wood. It’s more than enough to serve you for a night.

You grimace as you lower yourself to the floor. There’s a deep ache that pulses with every heartbeat in your lower joints that you fruitlessly rub at with your fingers. You’ve been sitting nearly the entire day, but even your feet and ankles seem to hurt. For the first time in a long while, you’re so exhausted that your eyes prick and burn with the first signs of tears, but the doorknob turns and you quickly swipe your sleeve over your face to chase them away.

“That was easy enough,” Mingyu hums, pleased, as he kicks the door shut behind him. He carries huge ceramic bowls in each hand and has a loaf tucked between his side and arm, which you reach over to take from him. He offers you a grateful smile, which makes his cheeks dimple, and you avert your gaze away, accepting your bowl of stew through your peripheral vision.

You eat in hurried silence, huffing when impatience leads to a burnt tongue. The stew is nothing profound, just carrots and potatoes and the occasional chicken bone, but it’s hot and bracing, especially when you soak pieces of the bread in it. You only make it through half of your portion before your stomach feels tight and bloated, but Mingyu’s already scraping his spoon down to the last few mouthfuls of his, eyeing your leftovers politely. Without a word, you hand your bowl over to him, and he happily takes it, flashing more of his dimples your way.

While Mingyu finishes his meal, you slip out from the room and amble down the corridor in search of a washing basin. You discover a bucket of water, cold but clean enough, and wash your hands and face with it, scrubbing at the dirt that has caked into the lines of your palms. As you wash, the golden ring on your finger flashes every so often beneath the moonlight filtering through the hallway windows. Aside from your starsteel dagger that you wear permanently on your hip, you’ve never owned something beautiful, let alone jewelry, before, so you take a brief moment to delight at the smooth burnished gold. It’s soft and warm to the touch, nothing like the rings that people in the Troughs get married with, fashioned out of rough strips of tin sheets leftover from repair jobs. It’s beautiful, even despite the image of the wolf swallowing a star, and you almost loathe the thought of having to give it back.

You return to the room and find Mingyu in a crouch at the corner of the room, stoking a fire in the hearth. It’s small, contained, and provides a much needed warmth, but you eye it with caution, all the same. You don’t trust fire, not since it took your parents from you.

The knight has set out the bedrolls with ample distance between the two, gesturing you towards the one closer to the hearth. It’s a kind courtesy that he offers you, but you tremble at the thought of sleeping so close to an unguarded flame. You shake your head and mumble, “You can have that one. I get hot easily.”

Mingyu tilts his head curiously but doesn’t press the matter. You fold your legs and sit onto your claimed bedroll, pulling your cloak from your shoulders to use as a blanket to cover your lap. “So,” you prompt quietly, “Are you going to tell me about the job now?”

The knight chews on his lip, but he can’t avoid the topic any longer. He leans back onto his own bedroll, crossing his legs before him. You wait patiently, twisting the golden ring around and around on your finger, for Mingyu to speak. When he does start, his voice comes low and guarded, suddenly grave and unlike his lively self.

“To answer your earlier question, we are headed up north, yes. At its core, the job requires us to infiltrate a facility and retrieve a…package.”

You lean back onto an arm. Slowly, you consider, “Alright. Infiltration and retrieval. I’m familiar with both tasks; I’ve done them before, for Soonyoung.” Saying the barkeep’s name makes your heart clench painfully. You hold the ache there for a moment and then promptly force it away.

The knight shakes his head. “It’ll be different. Remember, the request comes from a high place—a hundred thousand Dragons, for gods’ sakes.” He hesitates, breath catching several times in his throat, before revealing, “We’re going to break someone out from Taebaek.”

You freeze in place. Nobody truly knows where Taebaek, the most renowed, high-security prison of the kingdom, is located, save for the jailers who are tasked with transporting the residents in. Of course, people in the Troughs love their fables, and you’ve heard enough of them to conjure up an idea of what Taebaek might look like. A giant, sprawling fortress high up in the Northern Mountains, where its silent gray walls stand against frigid and wintery winds year round. Where warmth and sound and hope dies, choked away by the stifling cold.

Even worse than its harsh location and surroundings, you’ve only heard of Taebaek in the context of the most vile, reprehensible crimes and criminals. It’s where kingkillers and kinslayers were locked away, until their breaths stopped, flesh rotted, and bones dissolved. The most recent of rumors claimed that the former queen mother had been banished there after poisoning and slaying her own son and grandson, the late Crown and the crown prince, respectively. Prisoners entered Taebaek; they were never meant to come back out.

Your mouth goes dry. Only now comes the reckoning of what is required of you to be paid a lifetime’s worth of Dragons. You should have known that it would be incomparable to taking the life of a magistrate. You should have known that it would require an impossible feat to be accomplished.

Quietly, you run the numbers in your head. The number of the coins you counted earlier this morning haven’t changed. Maybe you could steal the knight’s coin purse in the night and run off. If you took Snowdrop, that is, if she trusted you enough to let you, you might be able to escape to the next town over and buy some time to disappear. Your gaze catches on the gold ring; you could pawn it off for a handsome price but only if the heraldry wouldn’t be traced back to Mingyu. Doubtful.

Mingyu. He’s a knight—the Sun Knight—for all the gods’ sakes. There’s no way that you’ll manage to escape from him.

Your mind supplies nothing helpful, aside from a string of curses. At this point, your fate lies in either dying while breaking into and out of Taebaek or while running from the Sun Knight. You mouth one of these curses out silently and pray to all the gods that your soul will haunt Kwon Soonyoung in the afterlife.

“Fret not, dear Owl,” Mingyu’s voice, energetic and chipper once more, breaks you from your reverie. “We have a plan, nearly foolproof, and as long as we follow it precisely, you should be walking away with your pockets overflowing.”

You shoot over a glare, too weary to retort. Tomorrow, you’ll tackle your thoughts once more with a clearer head and fresh eyes, but for tonight, you want nothing more than to sit in silence, unthinking, unfeeling.

“Enough for now. We can discuss more on the road.” Mingyu suggests gently, as he reaches for his cloak and starts balling it up. He gives you a sideways glance, mouth twisting as he quips, “Do you stay up all night like an owl as well?”

You snort. “I sleep as much as I need to.”

“And how much is that?”

A heartbeat passes, and you admit quietly, “Not much.”

Mingyu flops down and stretches out onto his back, limbs so long that his feet poke out past the bedroll. He shoves his bundled cloak beneath his head and sighs, loud and exaggerated, “Well, I need plenty. Good night, Owl.”

“Good night.”

You hug your knees loosely, watching the fire as it dances. Within moments, Mingyu’s ragged breathing grows smooth and even, chest rising and falling steadily. Slackened from sleep, the Sun Knight’s youthful face looks even younger, and faintly, you wonder how long he’s been knighted for. Never mind that. You quickly catch yourself thinking and add it to your list of curiosities that won’t matter for much longer.

You stare at the fire, imagining death, wondering if your parents will come find you at the end or if they’re still upset at you over their own, until it dies down into a few smoldering embers and a pile of ash. Only then do you feel relieved enough to rest, curling up on your side. The bedroll is so thin that you can feel every groove of the wooden slats beneath you, but it doesn’t bother you for long, as sleep steals you away in an instant.

-

“Still haven’t made friends, you two?”

The sun has barely started its ascent, hidden mostly by the distant mountains, but Mingyu looks bright-eyed and rested as he joins you out by the horses. He greets Summer with an apple, split into halves, chuckling as he watches you sidestep Snowdrop to access her saddlebags.

“She’s eeriely quiet,” you mumble, conscious of Snowdrop’s ear flicking, as if she might understand your words, “Like a ghost.”

Unlike Summer, who seems to have a personality as large as her owner’s, Snowdrop keeps to herself, watching everything through her huge black eyes. You feel like she’s constantly observing and listening, and you wonder how much of the world she beholds in her beast’s mind.

The knight laughs again. “Her rider requires stealth and silence, and she makes the perfect partner in that regard. She’s plenty sweet, though, you’ll see. Just needs to warm up to strangers first, hm?” He leans over close to offer the other halved apple to the pale horse, who takes it between her teeth gingerly and crunches away.

You peer thoughtfully as Snowdrop chews. She only uses her lips to pick up the pieces of fruit that fall back into Mingyu’s hand and sweeps a large tongue gently over his palm when no more apples seem to appear for her. The knight pokes his own tongue out and mock gags at the slick slide of saliva on his hand, but you can read the fondness plain on his face. It’s remarkable and strange, how someone can have so much affection for even animals. The only creatures you had encountered in the Troughs were massive rats and tiny pigeons, all caked in grime and begging for scraps that you couldn’t afford to give up.

You turn away to rummage through your belongings and pull the larger loaf out from its paper wrapping. Despite Soonyoung’s instructions, you know that the bread will keep for longer when left intact. Better to share a loaf and keep the other whole for as long as possible. You tug your dagger from its sheathe and slice the bread in two, passing over one half to the knight and wrapping your own back up in the parchment.

Mingyu’s sharp eyes miss nothing. “Thanks. That’s a handsome blade. Is it starsteel?”

You nod, affirmative, a little sheepish at being perceived. “It’s the only nice thing that I’ve ever bought for myself.” Even though it belongs to you, you still marvel at the beauty of it, turning it over in your palm and delighting in its perfectly balanced weight. The blade flashes bright, even in the dim lighting of dawn, pale silver that could nearly be white, streaked with blue-black, like veins of midnight ink. The handle itself is simple and ivory, carved out of some creature’s bone and sanded smooth to the touch.

“Hopefully the first of many,” is Mingyu’s light response. His words sound genuine, and his easy optimism is bolstering. You want to believe him, want to hold onto hope that this job will be completed without mishap and that you’ll be able to return home, to The Dancing Spider. “All good blades have a name. Did you give it one?”

You reply softly, “Feather.”

“Owl’s Feather. Clever.”

Mingyu’s cheek is dimpling again, pointed teeth flashing white between his lips, so you resolutely look away to fasten Snowdrop’s saddlebag straps tightly, tuck your dagger back onto your hip, and hook your foot up and into a stirrup. Your joints are still sore from the previous day, but the brief stretch you’d conducted earlier has done you some good. You’d risen this morning and had managed to sit on your bedroll sullenly while contemplating most of your life decisions, wash up, dress, and give your stiffened muscles a good, long stretch, all before the knight even started stirring beneath his covers.

By the time you’re fully lifted up and settled in your saddle without swaying too forward or backward, Mingyu’s in his seat, nibbling at his bread. He cranes his neck from left to right, glancing up to the sky and then back towards the horizon.

“Seems like the weather will be fair today,” he notes, taking another chunk out of the loaf and chewing thoughtfully. “We’re still a few days out from the foot of the mountains, so we should gradually adjust to the temperature and altitude changes. Ready, Owl?”

Your only response is a firm nod, to which he smiles, quick and easy.

Mornings brighten into days, and on and on you travel behind the knight, veering off of the road and towards a tavern or inn only when dusk swarms and chokes out the light. Mingyu’s effortlessly sanguine, humming and whistling, unaware of your own misery. His energy is unflagging, and his bright grins and hearty laughter steadfast against your quiet reluctance to let him in.

By the fifth day, you’ve grown all but silent, made heavy with exhaustion, hunger, doubt. The longer you’re on the road with no end in sight, the more Mingyu’s enthusiasm grates away at your nerves, turning them raw and bare. You nibble at the last husk of Soonyoung’s bread, which has already turned stale and tough, forehead tucked against the back of Snowdrop’s neck in a weary attempt to block the incessant sun out of your face. Even with your hood permanently pulled over your head, your cheeks sting to the touch, burnished by the long days on horseback. Mingyu, of course, looks untouched, and in fact, to your chagrin, the exposure to sun has only deepened the tone of his skin, turning him impeccably gilded.

You think that by now, you’ve somewhat picked up on Snowdrop’s mannerisms and gotten used to what’s normal and what’s not. You peer up, curious, to find that her ears are pricked high and that the previously lax reins in your hands feel heavier. Gnawing at your bottom lip nervously, you reach up to run the back of your knuckles along her mane, but she only flicks an ear in response, impatiently dismissive. Astute as ever, Mingyu tips his head backward to peer over at you struggling to return your mount’s pace to even.

“Ah,” the knight muses, seeming a little contrite for not have noticing whatever the issue is earlier, “She’s just fidgety. We’re moving much slower than she’s used to.”

You consider this and give Snowdrop another regretful pat to the neck, “For my sake, I’m sure.”

Mingyu laughs, one of those airy giggles of his that makes your spine straighten, and gives a shake of his head, which shifts his hair down into his eyes. The sun, bright and warm overhead, makes him glow, and your stomach pangs at the sight.

“If she went at her desired pace, even I would be knocked off of her back, I’m afraid.” The knight grins when you shoot him a look of surprise. Something conspiratorial flickers over his face as he thinks. “Are you a little more confident in your riding now?”

You scrutinize the knight before giving him a careful nod.

Mingyu balls his reins into his left hand and reaches a palm over to Snowdrop, letting the pale horse sniff at his fingers. He pats her nose gently and clicks his tongue twice, to which her ears flick rapidly. Beneath your thighs, you feel the muscles of her back shift and thrum with excitement.

“Press your knees in harder than you have been so far,” the knight instructs in a soft but assured voice. “Snowdrop knows not to push too hard with riders who aren’t her own. She won’t let you fall.”

You grip tight at the reins, squirming in your saddle anxiously. “Truthfully?”

Mingyu nods, firm, gaze molten and certain. “Promise, Owl. On a knight’s honor.”

Before you can dwell too long on it, you close your knees, firm against Snowdrop’s sides. Unlike anything you’ve seen from her in the past few days, the horse darts forward, controlled and precise still. She cleaves through the air, silver mane fluttering back towards you. Briefly, you panic, feeling the rest of the world lurch forth, while your body wants to remain stationary, but you hastily loosen your muscles, sucking in a cold breath to reset your nerves. Like Mingyu said, you can nearly feel the discipline in Snowdrop’s entire being, and you mourn your inability to relieve it for her. Wind rushes at and around you, throwing your hood off of your head and whipping your hair into your face. It’s terrifying and foreign and unsteady, but something giddy bubbles in your stomach and wrenches itself from your throat in the form of a trill, unrestrained and free.

A hearty hoot responds from behind you, pitched high with excitement. You don’t trust yourself to look back, so you grin wide at the road before you until your cheeks ache from the strain.

Snowdrop gallops for a few more yards, then brings herself back down to a moderate trot. You gasp to catch your breath, but only the heightened thrumming of her heartbeat against your legs suggests that the magnificent beast beneath you has exerted any effort.

“How was that?” Mingyu trots up easily beside you, Summer’s hooves neatly clipping along the road as she matches your pace. He smiles as if he knows your answer already. When he turns his face to glance at you, the sun dapples him golden.

You respond, a little breathless now and wholly entranced, “It felt like flying.”

“Closest thing to flying there is,” the knight agrees.

You want it. You desire it so greedily and like nothing before that your stomach aches with longing.

“When I am rich,” you make up your mind, “the first thing I will buy is the ability to fly.”

Mingyu laughs, chin tipped back, corners of his eyes wrinkled. Not mocking, not rude, but unbridled and full of joy.

You stare and stare, near bursting with want.

-

“Handsome lad you’ve got.”

You blink your eyes wide before remembering that you’re meant to be playing along with Mingyu’s disguise. Said lad lingers at the corner of the farmstand, resolutely turned away as he rolls a few apples in his palm, but you’ve been on the road with him for a few days now and you’ve learned what it looks like when he’s pretending not to be listening.

“Ah,” you muse, picking through the basket of shelled walnuts, half of your attention on the vendor, the other half sliding over to Mingyu as you shrug. “If you say so.”

The knight gives a tiny noise, akin to an indignant wheeze, and you smile into the collar of your cloak, shifting to add a handful of walnuts to the basket of fruit he holds. You turn away to duck beneath the tarp, and retreat back outside to where the horses are, leaving Mingyu to try, and fail, to haggle. He’s much too nice to be any good at it.

Both mounts lift their heads at your exit. Summer snorts and dips her snout back down to mindlessly nibble at the grass when she realizes that you aren’t Mingyu. Snowdrop, on the other hand, keeps her eyes trained on you as you approach, stare pinned to where you hide your hand behind your hip.

“Clever girl,” you muse, pulling out a pear that you snagged off the stand and into a pocket while the vendor spent her sweet time ogling Mingyu. Snowdrop’s soft nose tickles your palm as she takes the fruit into her mouth, and you breathe a laugh at how gentle she is, even as she promptly crunches away at her favorite snack. Summer has noticed, and she regards you ruefully, with as much distaste as when she realized you weren’t her rider, if not more. “Don’t tell him I’m playing favorites,” you whisper to the pale horse, just as Mingyu makes his appearance from the tent.

He wears a scowl. Unsuccessful yet again, it seems.

“Any luck?” You tease.

“Oh, whatever. Let’s get a move on.”

Ten minutes from the farmstand, the road crooks towards a grove of thick, gnarled trees. The cluster has grown so densely that you can barely see ahead through the shadows. Snowdrop’s certain gait slows a bit, ears flicking nervously, which does nothing to still your own roiling stomach. Mingyu and Summer, though similarly tense, continue forth, so you follow.

You’ve barely made it past the edge and fully into the grove, when the shadows shift with the motion of others. Your eyes, still adjusting to the lack of light, rove rapidly, catching sight of people. All men, judging by their builds. All starving bandits, judging by their dark, tattered clothing. Summer comes to a halt, Snowdrop quickly copying, when a handful of men spill out of the darkness and onto the path ahead.

Mingyu clears his throat softly. His head tips loosely to the side, bluffing curiosity, but you can read from the line of his shoulders that he has instantly shifted into caution. He slides down from his seat, landing silently on his feet. There’s a sudden feline shape to his movements, graceful and elegant and lethal, as he straightens his spine and swivels his head to sweep his sharpened gaze over the men from one end to the other. You watch, captivated, as you realize that this must be the famed training of Crownsland knights in action.

The bandits, though not as analytical as your eyes, must notice that there’s something different, something dangerous about him. The biggest man who has taken up the lead is a head shorter than Mingyu but just as wide and even burlier. He rolls his own shoulders back and tips his head back in a forced swagger.

“Yer a knight, aren’t ya?”

Mingyu’s mask of polite confusion nearly slips, as a twitch catches his brow. “I beg your pardon?”

“Tall, sturdy man like yerself,” another of the men takes a few bold steps forward, scarred mouth pulling into a smile that looks more like a sneer. “You’d be wasted on anything besides knighthood.”

Mingyu laughs, genial and smooth, voice like warm velvet. He softens his tongue to roll his syllables, lets his lisp come off stronger to feign innocence. “You’re much too kind. Sorry to disappoint, but I’m only a stablehand. My master has kindly allowed my wife and me to borrow some horses to travel for my brother’s wedding.” For the past few days, he’d been traveling covertly with his sword tucked away into his saddle sack; you wonder how quickly he’ll be able to get to it. You watch with a trained eye as he steps closer to Summer, who has become restless and anxious, smoothing a palm over her throat while simultaneously flicking the saddlebags open with a hidden hand. The sphere pommel of his blade pokes out tantalizingly. “We best be on our way, if we’re to make it there by tomorrow.”

The big man at the front drops his smile, snake’s eyes flicking from you to Mingyu with a malice so cold and sudden that an involuntary shiver runs up your nape.

“Sure. But you best leave us yer horse. Big one you’ve got there.”

A slow, quiet breath escapes between Mingyu’s gritted teeth. Though the knight maintains his courtly facade, the kindness has faded. The bandits are clever enough to notice, perhaps not the anger that has started to twinge at his jaw but at least the palpable shift in the air, and they shuffle their weights onto their opposite foot, hands anxiously twitching in the direction of their weapons. This, however, they are too clumsy to obscure.

You take stock of it all. They carry tools as makeshift weapons; kitchen cleavers, cattle prods, furnace stokers. They’re clearly not men meant for killing, just men driven by desperation to do it. There’s a strange buzz at the base of your skull as you realize, you are not so different from these bandits.

A rare flutter of empathy has you tipping over the side of Snowdrop to drop to your feet. You reach to circle your fingers over Mingyu’s arm. There’s a tension that pulses in his bicep that you can feel against your fingertips, even through the layers of his clothes. You play your part of a frightened wife faithfully, with a soft murmur, “Come, dearest. The horse isn’t worth our safety.”

The pet name comes off your tongue clumsily, but you hope that the stumble over your words and the tremor in your throat can be attributed to anxiety over the situation. You hope that these men are desperate and nothing more. That they will leave you alone once they have what they want. Already, your mind stirs with the skeleton of a plan to retrieve Summer back. You can let them walk away with her, and then trail after them, steal her back under the cover of night. Please, you think the word as loudly as you can, hoping that it will be heard by the bandits.

Your hope dies as quickly as it had risen, when you watch the man’s thoughtful gaze spoil into something vile.

“Leave the knight. Maybe we can sell ‘im for ransom. Looks important enough for good pay.”

“Certainly pretty enough,” one of the ugly men from behind sneers, which makes the whole brood of bandits chuckle in gravelly unison.

You shift your feet beneath you silently, fingers already itching towards your belt, when the giant man’s mirthless gaze turns to flint as it lands back on you. There’s a moment of contemplation that hardens into distaste.

“Kill his whore.”

The heavy scrape of starsteel against its scabbard is the only permission you receive from the knight before you launch forward. Feather settles into your grateful palm, its weight practiced and comfortable and ready, as you reach the bandit closest to you. His dark eyes light up with alarm only as you pull your blade from his neck slickly, swivelling to seek out the next. By this point, most of the others have roused from the surprise and are pulling their own weapons, with the quickest already in motion.

A glance confirms that Mingyu’s holding off most of the biggest men on his own. He twirls away as the bandit he just cut down collapses towards him, then effortlessly connects his movements into skewering another by the stomach. He fights like he’s dancing, having made even the act of killing into something beautiful.

Your throat aches. Tearing your gaze away from the knight, you dip into a crouch, scarcely avoiding the swing of a club aimed at your head, then use the momentum to kick off the ground, dagger aimed at the assailant’s throat. You end up leaping a bit higher than anticipated, and Feather lodges into the soft bit right beneath the point of the man’s chin. He chokes on his own blood.

You continue, on and on, like this, dodging and lunging. Your legs hurt, your arms hurt, your stomach hurts. You move, terrified that if you stop, you’ll be cut dead. Exhaustion catches up in no time, like a persistent shadow. The beast inside your head roils, fighting to keep the adrenaline dialed at its highest, to survive. The mortal restricted to your body falters, panting raggedly to suck in breaths that don’t come, won’t come.

“Was that the first time you’ve killed?”

It takes a moment to realize, past the ringing in your ears, that Mingyu is speaking to you. Another few heartbeats to pass until you realize that the danger is no more. He stands tall and broad and strung tight with the lingering haze of battle but no longer in motion. With his left hand, he flicks his sword in an attempt to shake the slick sheen of blood clinging to the edge onto the grass below. It’s made of starsteel, the blade nearly your dagger’s larger twin.

All around the both of you are men’s bodies, crumpled and lifeless like forest litter. You count seven in total, two of which you add to your list of stolen lives. The men felled by Mingyu are in rougher shape than your own. Despite the shiver prickling up your nape at the thought of Mingyu’s artful killing, you’re more than grateful that he was here with you.

You suck in air, hiss it out through your teeth, repeat this a few times until your lungs remember how to breathe again without thinking about it. Only when you catch your breath, you shake your head in response, gaze catching on your palms, still trembling, slick with blood. It’s always haunting to realize how bloody fighting with a dagger gets.

Mingyu nods. You notice him staring for a prolonged time and wonder what he seeks from you. Finally, he sinks to a crouch beside one of the dead men and bows his head, lips forming a string of silent words. You watch as he remains in his stance for a few moments before realizing that he’s praying.

“You pray?”

Mingyu lifts his head, eyes still shut as he answers, “Only for the dead. They’re meeting the gods to receive judgment now; they’ll need all the prayer they can get.”

You don’t respond. The knight clears his throat and rises back onto his feet. Once fully straightened, he turns your way and closes the distance, pausing only a few steps before you. The feline tension bleeds away, leaving only the man, eyes creased with unease. Mingyu reaches to hold his hands out, bracketing yours without touching.

“You’re shaking, Owl.” He murmurs, not mocking, just quietly concerned.

“Yeah,” you grunt, curling your fingers into your palms. Even balled into fists, your hands tremor incessantly. “Yeah, this happened the first time, too. Lasted for days.” More to yourself than to him, you mumble, “It’ll pass.”

Mingyu considers this silently. When you steal a quick look at him, his brow is furrowed, lips twisted into a steely frown. It’s an incompatible expression on his usual smiling face. Faintly, you add this to a list of things that you hate. There’s a heavier set to the knight’s shoulders and the line of his mouth, though you’re not sure if it’s because of the bandits or because of you. He looks like he wants to say more, but there’s no time to dither.

The two of you scour through the bodies, Mingyu for gear and tools that look untouched enough, you for coin purses and other shiny things. Despite your quivering hands, your work is quick but meticulous. Within heartbeats, your pockets have swelled exponentially. Within the next hour, you’re back on the road, making scarce of the dark forest, riders and mounts both silent with fading adrenaline and heightened vigilance.

Hours later, the horses stop sweating, breath crystallizes into vapor, and your fingers start to stiffen at the knuckles. The horses’ hooves clomp louder, sharper against the hard, packed earth, and the ground is layered with snow that sticks and doesn’t melt. From ahead, you watch Mingyu slow Summer’s gait as he tilts down to pull a wolfskin cloak from his saddle sack. He hums, content, as he fastens it around his shoulders. They pick their pace back up.

You shift anxiously, as the cold begins to seep into your own clothes. This is the farthest north you’ve ever been already, and the coldest air you’ve breathed yet. All you can do is pull your gloves from your pocket, the deerskin pair that you pilferred from a particularly obnoxious marketplace merchant a few years back. They’re worn from use and meant for work more than for warmth, but they keep your hands covered against the immediate chill. You hunker down in your saddle and pull your hood higher, gripping your cloak by the worn hem and pulling it tighter against yourself to block out the wind.

“Alright back there?”

Your shoulders stiffen, straight as a rod. Mingyu’s still riding easily ahead, but he crooks his chin over his shoulder to puzzle at your disgruntled slump. The world up here is brighter from the snow blanketing everything, the colors more vivid. The knight’s eyes gleam chestnut, his skin golden, the velvet of his doublet crimson, and the fur of his wolfskin midnight. He keeps his sword on his hip now, favoring caution over stealth. For the briefest of moments, you see him as a knight out of stories, valiant and heroic, haloed by the sun like a prince among soldiers. The type of stories that your father would recite you to sleep with and your mother would sing about as she tended to the owlery. The type of stories you once believed in.

Mingyu’s brow furrows at your lack of response, and you hurriedly jerk your chin into a nod.

“Fine, Knight.”

He eyes you for a moment longer, mouth pursing as if he itches to debate, but turns back around to the road ahead. You stare hard at his back, before relaxing once you’re no longer under his scrutiny. You ride for several more silent moments, gritting your molars together to keep them from chattering.

“Stubborn Owl,” Mingyu’s grumble rouses you from your misery, and it’s only then that you realize that Snowdrop has stopped walking. Barely ahead, Summer stamps her hooves in place, huffing from the cold, as her rider rummages through her bags again. Mingyu pulls another pelt, creamy white in contrast to his, and leans backwards to reach it over to you.

Without protest, you accept the cloak, near hissing with relief at the warmth that it immediately brings. You tug it over your shoulders and fasten the clasp, scrunching your nose as the soft furs tickle at your jaw.

“Thank you,” you breathe, too relieved for shame.

Mingyu nods. Then, frustration tugs at his mouth. “There’s nothing wrong with asking for help, you know.”

You shut your eyes with a quick shake of your head.

“Yeah. I’m working on it.”

-

Exactly one week after leaving The Dancing Spider, you arrive at your final rest stop before Taebaek’s gates. Mingyu doesn’t call it so explicitly, but you can tell from the decreased speed with which his jokes come through, from the crease at the corners of his mouth that now frowns too much. He slows into an approach, slides off of Summer with a curt, stifled grunt. He only looks at you through fleeting sweeps of his troubled eyes, as if guilty of something.

There’s no inn this high up the mountains, only a dugout of snow that has piled up taller than Mingyu himself, sheltered by sparse, dying trees.

You work quietly beside one another; Mingyu digging a hole that can house a fire, you tying the horses up nearby and offering them water and fruit. The cold weighs your limbs down, making you move sluggishly. At least, that’s what you tell yourself, as you linger at Snowdrop’s side, pressing your forehead against her mane that smells strongly of earth and faintly of sunlight and lavender, like a happy memory. Silent as ever, she doesn’t even shift as she lets you cling to her to retain any semblence of hope and warmth.

When you return to the dugout, Mingyu sits in front of a living fire, shadows flickering over a pensive frown. It leeches the youth from his face, leaving only a foreign, solemn knight, hewn of cold steel. You hate the sight of it.

“I think Snowdrop thinks of me as a friend now,” you try to call lightly, pushing your lips sideways into a quirk.

Mingyu looks up but doesn’t say anything. Just hands over a few sticks of dried meat that he’s been holding over the fire to warm them. He watches warily as you accept them and find a dry spot to sit across from him, far from the edge of the fire but close enough to feel the warmth of the flames. You pull your legs up and hug them to your chest, chin tucked up onto a knee.

“We reach Taebaek tomorrow,” the knight’s voice catches in the middle of his throat. There’s a slight quiver in his breath as he draws cold air in. “I need to make sure before I tell you the plan. You’re still willing to do this?”

You choke on a laugh that sounds more like a bark. “We’re at its gates. Do I have a choice this far in?”

Something regretful darkens his gaze. You don’t have to hear an answer to know what he thinks. You shrug and lift a stick of jerky to gnaw at it absently.

Finally, Mingyu bolsters himself, hands clutched together above the fire, as if in prayer. You can almost imagine him at the head of a war table, brow knitted together in thought as he discusses strategies with other great knights. You want to imagine him as the Sun Knight, in full armor with his proper colors and heraldry. Instead, all you can see is a husk of the Mingyu that you’ve come to understand, drained of all mirth and clinging to hope and faith. You try not to recall that he only prays for the dead. You look away, heart bleeding, to stare at the flames instead.

“We’ll come to the gates under the guise as the Sun Knight and his prisoner. You’ll go in as an inmate. There is a man named Angel inside. He’s the package that we’re meant to retrieve.”

This much, you already suspected. You tuck the name safely away in your mind. “What does he look like? How will I know who he is?”

“There will be a code exchange to confirm one another’s identity. I cannot give you anything more than that. My orders were to tell you as little as I can. It’s the only way we can ensure that the plan will be successful while protecting you as much as possible. The less you know, the safer you are. Your only instructions are to memorize the exact path that you’re taken inside by the guards, so that once he’s ready, you can lead Angel out. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yes.”

Mingyu hesitates. He unclasps his fingers to pick nervously at his nails. “There’s no room for failure.”

You jerk your chin up, fiercely defiant. You’ve been living a life that gave you no room for failure. “I forget nothing.”

Only then does Mingyu’s creased mouth soften into a fading memory of a smile. “Good. Soonyoung told us that. That’s why he recommended you.”

The sudden mention of your friend threatens to unravel your resolve. Swiftly, you tuck the flare of emotion away, squaring your jaw to insist instead, “Hit me.”

“What?”

You would laugh at the pitch that Mingyu’s voice reaches and the size that his eyes widen to.

“Hit me,” you repeat. “Aren’t I supposed to be your prisoner? I’m in too pristine of a state for that to be believable.”

Mingyu snorts, incredulous, and remains in his seat. “Knights do not harm the innocent. We protect them.” He says this gently, like a reverent mantra.

“Even if you’re given a reason to?” You rise to your feet and cross over to the other side of the fire, letting your fingers dance over Feather for show. “And I’m not innocent. Harm away.” A moment of doubt flickers past you, so you quickly add on, “Leave me my teeth, please.”

“There’s no need for all this.” Mingyu climbs to his feet too and shuffles a few steps backwards, away from you. He chuckles lightly, but his brow twinges, uncomfortable. “Just take the wolfpelt off and rub some dirt on your face.”

“I’m risking my life for this job. We’re doing it thoroughly. This job has become everything to me. We can’t risk failure, not now, when we’re this close. I won’t go back to begging for scraps.”

“You wouldn’t have to—”

“Or else what? I go back to leeching off of Soonyoung’s kindness for the rest of my life? You, the Sun Knight, will sponsor me, a nobody from the Troughs?” Your words fly off of your tongue, furious and frantic now. “People like you will never understand what it’s like. It’s easy for you to be happy and hopeful because it’s all you’ve ever known in your life. You’ll never know what it’s like to fall asleep praying every night that the gods will have mercy on me, so that I won’t wake up in the morning and can finally be rid of it all.”

You finally understand why despite his size and his intelligence and his capabilities, Mingyu still seems like such a boy to you. He carries a boundless idealism for the world, despite all of its faults. His eyes gleam with childlike wonder, especially when the light catches his face. You wish—gods, you wish—that you could have even half of the same optimism, but that chance for hope has died for you, that same day that your world burned up at your hands.

“Besides, you’re the one who said that there’s no room for failure. Don’t act timid now, Knight.”

You don’t mean it, not really, and Mingyu doesn’t deserve any of these terrible words, but your voice continues to ring off of the surrounding cliffs, even as the fight bleeds out from you. You can’t bear to look at him anymore, so you avert your eyes lower, to his hard, frowning mouth.

Mingyu’s nice. Too nice. How can a person be too damn nice? People in the Troughs don’t have room for being kind or generous. It’s disarming. You don’t know how to respond. So you give his chest a weak push with both palms, hissing without venom. He doesn’t even budge.

“Hit me.”

You close your eyes, just before his fist meets your jaw.

-

When light hits Feather’s blade at just the right angle, the silver turns into a mirror.

You hold the dagger up at eye level now, turning it this way and that in inspection. As you’ve gotten older, you’ve fallen into the habit of not staring at reflections for too long, always scared that you’ll find your mother’s or father’s face in your own, even more terrified of seeing and not recognizing them.

Mingyu has done good work, though he has turned sullen and sulks from the opposite side of the dugout as you. Your bottom lip weeps blood steadily from where it got split against your teeth, and there’s a large welt burgeoning over your left cheek bone. Your face throbs along with your heartbeat, and your jaw clicks every time it opens and closes.

Satisfied, you move onto the final thing on your mental list of preparation. You sheathe Feather, unclip your dagger from your belt, and tug the ring off of your left hand. Wistfully, you sweep your fingertips over Feather’s smooth bone handle and dip your thumb into the divot of the wolf ring. You’re reluctant to part with the two beautiful treasures that you’ve been honored to wear on your body, but you know that they’ll be kept safe in your absence. Before you can grow hesitant, you cross over to Mingyu and hand both to him, savoring the perfect heft of Feather in your palm one last time.

“I bequeath the blade to Soonyoung,” you murmur, staring up hard at Mingyu to confirm that he hears and understands. “If something were to happen to me.”

Something dark and thunderous flickers over his face, but he presses his mouth into a tight line and nods, firm. He takes both items from you; first, the ring, which slides onto his littlest finger, then Feather, which he handles with such reverence and care that you think he might love the blade as much as you do.

To your surprise, Mingyu produces something from his pocket and holds it out towards you. It’s another piece of jewelry, a tiny circular pendant wrought of silver on a thin chain. When you regard it, puzzled, all the knight offers is, “A talisman. For protection. The warden allows in whatever you wear on your body.”

You take the necklace. It weighs practically nothing, a thin slip of silver, but there is an etching of a bird—an owl, you recognize—with two tiny amethysts set into place as its eyes. Your nose burns as you blink rapidly down at it and sweep your palms quickly over your eyes in the same fluid motion as pulling the chain over your head.

“Thank you.”

For tonight, you’ll keep the white wolfpelt, devote the silken touch and its cloying warmth and the delicate lavender scent to memory to bring with you into the fortress. This small comfort you allow yourself.

Hours later, as midnight settles into its dominion, you hunch beneath your cloaks, minding the fire while stargazing, sat with your back against one of the tree stumps, head tilted up against the bark.

“I think I know why they call you Owl.”

You glance down, startled by the sudden voice.

From his end of the shelter, Mingyu’s no longer feigning sleep, turned over onto his side to look at you past the dying embers. The night is so black that it appears cobalt, but overhead, the moon glows, swollen with light. For once, the sky bathes Mingyu in silver and blue, the colors of the world you’d known before all this, the colors of your world. Fascinated, you stare, wordless for a moment longer than is expected. You think you much prefer the red and gold on him.

When you stir to your senses, you lean back onto your palms, curling your fingers into the cold dirt. You tip your head with a quiet retort, “I told you exactly why they call me Owl.”

The knight’s lips tug with tired amusement. “Maybe. But it’s only half the reason.”

You consider this, consider his mouth, full and carved and always twitching in mirth. What you’d do to trace the lines of them with your fingertips, if only to feel the craftsmanship of the gods. It could very well be your last days in this life, you think, bemused. You might as well do whatever you’d like.

Instead, you ball your hands, taking large fistfuls of dirt into them. Traitorous, ruinous hands that have only known how to steal and hurt and kill.

“Well, what’s the other half of the reason?”

Mingyu smiles, as if pleased to have been indulged. “Because when you’re watching the stars, especially on a night like tonight, I can see the moon rise in your eyes.”

-

“May I?”

You nod once, voice stolen away by anxiety.

The morning is as gray as the air that hangs low in the dugout. You’d found little to no sleep that night, so Mingyu had risen first, rousing you from the half-doze you’d managed with a gentle hand over your shoulder. When you jolted into sitting up, breath catching halfway up your throat, he’d shushed you gently, brows knitted together in concern. Without words, he’d handed you a mug of hot water and a halved apple, the last of your stores remaining from the farmstand, before retreating away to tend to the horses. He had returned with his sword fastened to his belt, carrying a spool of twine.

Head dipped, you watch quietly as Mingyu reaches for your arms, holding both wrists in one hand, using the other to loop a length of rough twine around them. He leaves no slack, winding and knotting the rope so tight that it leaves deep indents where it lies against your skin. Once he’s done, he ghosts his fingers over the backs of your hands as he pulls away, which you try not to shiver at.

You shift your weight, ready to turn away back towards the road, when Mingyu takes a half step closer, shortening the distance between. He doesn’t touch, only hums a short note, so that your attention snags upwards, towards his face. Mingyu’s gaze burns as it flits over your eyes, the bruise on your cheek, the split in your lip. He reaches a hand up, hovering it just beneath your jaw in silent question.

It could be the last day of your life. So you answer, tilting your head just slightly so that your cheek brushes his palm, warm and calloused. It makes your pulse stutter clumsily. Something fierce begins to bleed into Mingyu’s expression, shifting his solemn despair into a bright devotion.

“Be brave, Owl.”

It’s the last you feel of his warmth. You walk the rest of the way in silence as icy as the terrain around you. Mingyu leads you by a length of rope fastened around your restraints, and you follow faithfully, eyes trained onto his back. In the final stretch of the way up to the gates, you watch as his gait turns purposeful, each foot placed intentionally, and he slides back into that feline warrior you’d witnessed against the bandits.

Finally, Taebaek, northernmost fortress and living grave to the most wicked transgressors of the kingdom appears, nowhere at first and then suddenly looming above you, in a jagged black silhouette that you can barely make out from the swirl of cloud and fog and snow above you. Compared to the severity of the ramparts ahead, its gates are plain and insubstantial, manned only by a single guard at its center.

You don’t realize that you’ve paused to stare, until Mingyu gives a rough tug to your leash and you stumble shakily to your knees. The knight doesn’t even look behind him as he pulls again, until you shove yourself back onto your feet. It’s a facade, you know this, but your stomach roils uneasily and your eyes sting with unshed tears.

“Hail,” Mingyu calls out to the guard. Even his voice is foreign, edged with a threat and growling out from his throat, instead of rumbling in his chest.

“Hail, good Sir. Please state your title and your business.”

Mingyu reaches behind to grasp you by the nape, tender fingertips leaving a trail of shivers in their wake, before they tighten into a claw. He shoves you forward and down onto your knees again, head bowed before the oppressive terror of Taebaek.

“I am the Sun Knight of the Lion’s Pride, Mingyu of House Kim, of the Wolves. I bring before you a criminal, befitting of Taebaek’s eternal embrace.”

-

You’re brought into the stronghold, wrists and ankles and throat shackled by iron. The guard’s touch stings like acid, and he drags you along like a chained beast. Mingyu trails behind you, like a silent shadow, and though you’re endlessly bolstered by his presence, you suddenly wish that he wasn’t here to see you like this. The holding room that you pause within is vast, as wide as a nobleman’s feasting hall and endlessly tall. You steal glances around and find yourself surrounded by massive statues of personified beings that you recognize as the five gods: Sun, Moon, Earth, Sea, and Sky. With a dry swallow, you try to cover the laugh that itches at your throat at the irony of religious symbols in such a godless place.

The guard shoves you back onto your knees. He speaks in a voice as toneless as the air in the room.

“Name your crimes.”

From the corner of your eye, you see Mingyu step forth, ready to deliver whatever he’d planned on professing, but before he can speak, the guard interrupts.

“Pardon, Sir, but here at the fortress, the prisoners are required to offer their sins up in their own voices beneath the gods’ gazes.”

“I was not made aware of this principle.”

“Forgive me, Sir. It is a newer policy that has been created by the High Warden.”

Mingyu shifts his weight, boots scraping the stone beneath anxiously. Whatever script he had created has now dissolved into ashes. No matter. For once in this entire voyage, this is something that you have been prepared for. You keep your head bowed, fettered by the weight of the iron collar, shutting your eyes as you recite the words that you’ve been practicing, every night since you were eight years of age. The prayer that you’ve silently rolled over on your tongue to devote to memory, preparing—in case the gods were real—for the day you would meet judgment.

“I am a kinslayer. My mother and father both perished in a fire of my design. They protected me first, told me to run for safety, not knowing that I was the one who caused the fire. I watched as they choked on the smoke, as they screamed from the flames. I did nothing to help them.”

Now that you’ve spoken the truth out loud, formed them into words and uttered them in your voice, it finally feels real. You had lived all these years blaming the sun, the drought, and the dry heat, but deep down, you had known that there was no other than yourself to blame. It was your fault that your parents and the owls and your home burned into ashes. Everything that came afterwards had been your punishment to bear for making it out alive alone. Though you barely lift your eyes, you can feel the imposing presence of the five gods’ statues, as if their spirits live within the carved stone. Kinslaying alone cannot be sufficient enough to warrant Taebaek’s eternal cold embrace, so you continue.

“I have lived for money. I have looted and stolen and killed others in exchange for coin. Worst of my crimes, I underestimated a knight, the Sun Knight, and thought that I could swindle him. I am only sorry that I got caught doing it.”

Satisfied, the guard who greeted you at the gates grips your chains and yanks hard. You lurch forth, led by the wrists, and swallow away the yelp that forms when the edges of the iron cuffs bite into your arms.

“We’ll take it from here, Sir. Thank you for your escort.”

You can’t even turn to glance one last time at Mingyu before you’re being wrenched forward again.

They lead you down what feels like a thousand corridors, at times taking immediate turns, walking straight for minutes at others. You’re weary, weighed down by your restraints and the frigid, thin air of the mountains, but you take Mingyu’s orders to heart and study each step that you take deeper into Taebaek. Right, right, left, straight for fifty footsteps, left, straight at the gate with a tattered red flag marker. You encode every new direction in your mind and devote it to memory.

You arrive at your cell abruptly. It’s the first holding in a line; you can’t see into the others, but it seems that all of the cells are occupied, judging by the latched doors. The guard who holds your leash shoves you through the gate and slams it shut even before you and your chains have finished crashing down onto the stone floor. Unceremonious and callous.

You wince and pick yourself up to crawl into the cot placed against the far back wall of the cage. The cot can barely be called one, made up of a thin padded sheet that barely blocks the chill from the floor beneath. Nearly every inch of your body aches now, from your untrained legs to the cosmetic beating you’ve received from Mingyu. You long to drift asleep, for just a moment to gain your bearings and regain some strength.

“Hello, new neighbor. Welcome in. I sure hope that you manage longer than the last one. I’m so bored, and the lad on my other side is just so sullen that I fear he might be simple minded.”

A languid voice croons out from the cell to your right. You can’t see who it belongs to from where you are, as only the front half of the shared wall has been set with iron bars, the latter half blocked with gray brick. You’re keen on ignoring them, exhausted and cold, but push yourself up and off of your cot to crawl over to the front of your cell. You kneel, wincing when even the stone’s chill cuts straight through your clothes and into your joints, and grip at the bars to peer into the neighboring cell.

The prisoner occupying it is stretched out onto their own cot but at your rustling turns to glance your way. For a moment, your breath is knocked out of your lungs, as you behold one of the most beautiful people you have ever seen. You had thought that traveling with the Sun Knight had all but immunized you against beauty, but where Mingyu is boyishly handsome, this stranger possesses a delicate, otherworldly elegance. Without a doubt, this is your Angel. You silently thank all of the gods for the fortune they’ve granted you in putting you into this cell. Without hesitation, you forgo all introductions, muttering over the code, an excerpt of a poem, that Mingyu has given you.

“The lion basks, but the sunlight is cold.”

Angel shoves himself to sit up on both arms. He freezes for a moment, glances from you to the wall on his other side warily. The man picks himself up to stand, and when the blanket falls from his lap, you notice his willowy limbs, thin wrists and ankles. There’s a gaunt edge to his cheeks that you’re certain wouldn’t have existed outside of this place, and you wonder how long he’s been imprisoned here for.

He gracefully floats into sitting on his side of the bars, hands brushing the cropped inky hair at his temples back as if he’s used to it being longer and then folding neatly in his lap. This close up, you see that his eyes nearly take up half of his face, vast with something archaic, like wisdom, and something blistering, like rage. It both fascinates and frightens you. Angel observes you as intensely as you do him before he completes the code back to you.

“Burn the clouds and shadows away to bring him warmth.” You watch as the man sweeps his calculating gaze over you. “Hello. I’m Angel.”

You dip your head into a careful nod. “The Sun Knight brought me here. You can call me Owl.”

Angel doesn’t smile—he doesn’t seem like he smiles easily, like Mingyu does—but something disarming and soft curls at his lips. “Pleased to meet you, Owl. How was your journey with our dear Knight?”

“Long. Exhausting. He talks a lot and is infinitely optimistic about everything.”

Angel does laugh, though, in the form of a quick puff of breath that instantly crystallizes. Amusement pulls at his sharp cheekbones, which lasts only for a fleeting moment, before his gaze snags onto your neck where the silver pendant lies in the hollow of your throat.

“Your necklace.” Angel nearly lurches into the dividing wall, thin arms poked between the bars into your cell. You jump and lean back, just barely out of reach from Angel’s hands. At your bewilderment, despite his jerky movements, he explains calmly, “That locket belonged to my little sister. The owl is the symbol of my family, and the amethysts are for the purple of our house colors. Please.”

With the newfound reckoning, your face burns. Of course it had been another facet of the plan and not a piece of Mingyu’s protection to bring in with you. You suddenly feel like an insipid child, stupid and tiny. If Angel notices your hesitation, he doesn’t comment on it, only holds out his hand patiently. You tug the chain up and over your head, passing it over, and with it, all of your lingering thoughts of the Sun Knight.

“Thank you,” Angel breathes, throat warbling, and for a moment, something wet and wistful passes over his eyes. He closes his fist around the locket, clutches it tightly to his chest. When he glances back up, none of the emotion remains, only a hard set to his jaw and a burning, rageful gaze. “The beginning of the end starts now.”

Better for you to know as little as possible, Mingyu had said. Now, as you rot in this tiny cell, you wish that you had even the slightest inkling of Angel’s plan.

Days pass by in a neverending, monotonous blur. You blink awake from restless slumber to the guards rattling their weapons against the barred doors. Shivering, you hunch on your cot, clutching the single blanket you’ve been given as tight as you can to preserve what little heat you produce. Twice a day, they come by with a bowl of cold, gray slop and a cup of water that’s mostly ice. You pick at the food and chew at shards of ice until your teeth chatter so violently that you can no longer.

Angel, despite his emphatic greeting on your first day, has grown withdrawn, silent, and brooding. Whenever you glance through the shared wall, he’s laid on his side, curled towards the far wall so that you can’t even see his face. You stare and stare at his back, waiting for action, waiting for any movement that signals that the plan is in motion. He doesn’t even stir once. He doesn’t even speak a word.

The hope that had been building and rising within you dies. Like a weak flicker of light, dashed out by an avalanche. You think of Soonyoung and the Dancing Spider, of Snowdrop and flying, of Mingyu and his sunkissed face. All things that had seemed too good to be yours forever.

You shut your eyes and try to rest. It seems you have the time now for all of the sleep you’d forgone in the Troughs. Sometimes you fall into black, dreamless naps and wake, even more exhausted than before. Sometimes you dream of golden knights and silver mares and wake with tears clinging to your lashes.

When you wake next, there’s a wild screech, as if metal is being torn apart. You jerk to your senses and push yourself up on your cot, just in time to see that your cell door has been forced open. The two guards that shove inside the already cramped space wear black cloth over their faces, revealing nothing of their identities except for their dark, beady eyes. Even this you barely have the chance to consider, before they reach you, ripping you from the blankets and winding chains around your wrists and ankles. A scrap of fabric that reeks of sweat tightens over your face, stealing your vision away. They yank you forward by the chains, dragging you along the rough stone, knees and elbows scraped as you tumble and fold in disoriented commotion.

“Heard there was a new kinslayer. Heard that it burned its family alive,” one of the men growls, voice tinged with disgust and hatred, “Didn’t think it’d be a tiny little bird. You’re a clever thing, aren’t you?”

A different voice rasps, higher pitched and mischievous, “It’s always the unassuming ones who are the worst. What’s the punishment for this one, boss?”

A quiet hum starts up as the first man considers. There’s a feigned thoughtful note that you can hear straight through. “Eye for an eye seems apt, eh? Bring me the torch.”

Agitation curdles into panic.

“No, no,” you thrash against your bindings, pleading blindly to anyone who might hear, “No fire, please!”

Something harsh and grating meets your ears, and a moment passes before you realize that it’s a cacophony of the guards’ mixed cruel laughter. “Do you think that’s what your mother and father thought in their last moments? No! Please, no! No fire!” The second man mocks loudly.

Your blood runs cold. For once, there’s nothing that you can think of that might get you out of this, nothing clever. Fear grips your heart within icy talons, rendering you powerless and defeated. You slump weakly against your restraints, staring at the black of the blindfold in hopes that the moment will pass quickly.

“Oh,” the first guard rasps, and you can hear his feet scuffing the stone as he shifts his weight. “That’s it, that’s a good little bird. No fire, since you’re behaving so well. You’re lucky that it’s me, you know. I don’t delight in tormenting little birds like some of the other guards here do.”

For a moment, your heart lifts with hope. Then, the screech of metal sliding against metal meets your ears. You barely recognize that something has happened, that something has changed, until you catch a waft of smoke and cooked flesh, like meat on a spit. The backs of your eyes flash with the explosions of a million tiny stars as a white-hot touch kisses your skin, at the juncture of neck and shoulder. It burns, so intensely, that for a moment, it feels like ice.

By the time that you recognize the sound of your own voice, keening and screaming and begging for it to stop, your mind is already distant, shoving away as far as it can manage. You nudge the part of you that feels the pain to the edges of your mind, letting something else fill it wholly. Vaguely, you recognize more jeering, more snickering.

Right, right, left, straight for fifty footsteps, you recite faithfully, mouthing along to the words so that you don’t lose your place. Red flag in tatters.

You’re still murmuring the directions to yourself when they shove you back into your cell. They only let the blindfold fall once the door shuts behind the guards, but it doesn’t matter that you haven’t seen their faces. You’ve heard their voices, and you’ll never forget them. You lie there, curled on the filthy stone, devoting the cadence and the rasp and the hatred of their words to your memory.

To your right, motion flurries as Angel appears at the shared wall. He curls his fingers around the bars, brow furrowed above eyes wide and black. “Owl,” he calls, “I’ll end it all, soon. Soon. I’m sorry.” He whispers fiercely, voice soft but brimming with fury, silver owl’s pendant gripped tightly in his fingers, “I’m so sorry. You weren’t supposed to get hurt.”

You blink away tears, watching as the man called Angel turns into the image of a vengeful demon.

“Tomorrow, we get an hour in the yard. I’ll come find you there.”

-

“Yer a bottom feeder, aren’t ya?”

You peer up to a voice that sounds like stones scraping against each other. You had found and hunkered down in a far corner of the bare courtyard that they’d led the prisoners in your cell block out to, hoping to avoid any encounters with anyone but Angel. Not much luck there.

The voice’s owner is as ugly as it is, frame withered beneath a fashion of tattered rags and mouth pulled into a permanent sneer to show crooked and broken teeth. His greasy hair falls in sparse, limp clumps from a nearly bald scalp, pocked with scars and other blemishes. Despite his own terrible state, he manages to peer down his nose at you, airs shockingly condescending.

“What does it matter to you?” You bite out, pulling your legs closer to your chest and looping your arms around your knees. “We wound up in the same place in the end.”

The man’s snarl turns into a grin, which somehow makes him even uglier. “Knew it. I can sniff out a rat no matter where I go.” He tips his head to the side and makes a slow, careful appraisal of your face, which makes you feel filthy, even without being touched. “Though yer a pretty little rat, aren’t ya?”

You quiver and tuck your chin away, wincing when the motion pulls at the wound on your collar. The man starts to say something again, in that terrible, grating voice of his, when another interrupts him icily.

“Rancor, piss off.”

Just behind the withered man’s shoulder, Angel has appeared, as silent as a shadow. His eyes burn hot, but his voice comes clipped and as frigid as the mountain air.

Rancor’s attempt at a smile wipes away. “Oh? The pretty princeling can speak!”

Angel only flickers his dark gaze over to you. “I said. To piss off.”

“I’m just makin’ friendly chit-chat, is all. What’s it to yer royal sweetness?”

Before the man can continue, Angel dips his head just before Rancor’s ear to whisper something that you can’t catch. You watch as Rancor’s derision turns into fear. The withered man scampers away as quickly as he’d appeared before you, and you ease ever so slightly.

Angel dips into a crouch before you, using careful hands to tilt your jaw back. He tuts his tongue as he examines the skin there, skims his fingertips along the boundary of the wound. His touch is gentle, but the memory of the burning frightens you into flinching.

“Sorry,” the man soothes quietly and pulls away. Instead, he reaches low to gather your bare feet in his hands. His palms are warm as they try to massage some feeling back into them. “Where’d your shoes go?”

You blink once, twice. “Someone stole them, I think.” A dry laugh catches in your throat at the irony of it all.

Angel watches you carefully, and you try not to squirm beneath his intense appraisal. He thinks for a long while, as if deliberating with himself, then clenches his jaw, mind made up. He throws a careful glance over his shoulder to the rest of the yard, where the other inmates mill around in slow, fatigued motions. When he looks back at you, Angel’s face mirrors the expression he wore a few days back, when you were returned after your branding, fiercely determined and endlessly furious.

“Owl,” he murmurs, thumb sweeping over your ankle bone. “It’s happening soon. We’re to act on a moonless night.” You think back to last night’s sky; the moon had been nearly half-full still.

“Five, six days?” You whisper.

“Yes,” Angel hums. Another brush over your heel. He means to be calming you, you realize belatedly. You’re still not entirely certain of Angel, but he’s the only one you’re meant to trust in this grim fortress. “Your job is to hold out as best as you can manage until then. Keep your head down, and keep yourself safe. Do you remember the way out?”

You nod. “I never forget a thing.”

Angel’s lips press into something as close to a smile as he can manage. “Good. I’m relying on you to lead us out.” His brow creases as something rueful flickers over his beautifully enraged face. “You weren’t supposed to get hurt. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. When we get out of here, I’ll make everything right.”

For the remainder of your time allotted out in the yard, Angel sits beside you, straight-backed and legs folded neatly. He glares at every person who dares to drift over to stare curiously at the pair of you. In a soft hum, he reveals to you everything.

Angel confirms the rumors of the former queen mother as true. She had been incarcerated at this very prison after ordering the deaths of the son and first grandson, robbing the kingdom of its Crown and his heir. Before the assassinations had occurred, she had enlisted a naive kitchen maid’s help in experimenting with her weapon of choice, and a smatter of young ladies in the court had been senselessly murdered. Angel’s younger sister had been one of them. He says this all in an even, detached drone, as if dwelling on any one word will undo his resolve. The anger never leaves his face.

You understand, finally, what the job is.

When the guards shout for your return at the top of the hour, you let yourself be pulled up to your feet by Angel, relieved to have learned the motive for this job. Justice, you might find unfamiliar, but vengeance agrees with you greatly.

-

The days bleed into one another slowly. You stare up at the waning moon each night, stomach aching as you count down until the moment of escape. Confined into the cramped cells once more, you spend most of your time curled beneath your blankets, heeding Angel’s words carefully and keeping yourself as safe as you can manage.

Angel no longer seethes in silent solitude after the day in the yard. He calls over questions about everything and nothing in a loud voice, feigning innocent boredom. Despite it, you think you can read the sincerety in his curiosity. Sometimes, you’re in your cots as you talk, staring up at the ceiling. Most of the time, you sit across one another at the shared wall, so close that your knees brush through the spaces between the bars, that you can speak in whispers.

You tell Angel about your owlery and about growing up beside winged creatures, battling a consuming envy from your own inability to fly. He laughs and brushes his fingers over your wrist when you tell him that you broke it as a child jumping out of a tree in an attempt to learn. He hums thoughtfully when you tell him that riding a horse feels like what you’d imagine flying would be like and that you’d like to own a horse, faster than the wind, one day.

Angel tells you that he misses his family. That he respects his father more than anyone else in the world, that he heeds his mother’s words more than anyone else’s in the world, that he adores his younger sister more than anyone else in the world. All this, he says with equal parts joy and sorrow. Angel loves his family so fiercely that your own heart aches. You wonder if you’ll ever love another the same, if you’ll ever be loved the same.

He asks you for your crimes. You tell him that you’d killed your parents in a fire.

You ask him for his. Angel murmurs in a tone close to murderous that he had all but been the one to condemn his own sister to death. That his hand had been the one to deliver poison straight to her door the night that she died. You read the abject void in his eyes as he recites this and decide to ask no more of him.

The night that the moon is barely more than a sliver in the sky, Angel whistles, already sat on his side at your shared wall. Exhaustion weighing down your limbs, you pull yourself from the cot and crawl towards the wall curiously. As soon as he sees you, Angel reaches his hands past the bars towards you, pressing a cold palm against your cheek, hooking his fingers to lift your chin. He hisses softly at the same time that you whine, as your wound tugs painfully.

“Owl,” Angel murmurs, brows knitted together, “How are you feeling?”

You shrug. “A little tired, I think. Cold.”

“Cold?” He turns the palm against your face over to press his even colder knuckles to your cheekbone. “You’re burning up. And that’s not looking so good.”

Your eyes flutter shut, as you lean into his touch. After flinching away from contact with others for so long, you’ve become reliant on these fleeting moments with Angel, who offers his gentle hands as comfort in this horrid, vacant place. You’re not sure how else you could have managed without them.

“I’m okay,” you insist hazily, unsure if your mind fogging is from the fatigue or from a fever. Nevertheless, you recite your memorized directions silently to make sure that it won’t affect tomorrow’s plan; you manage without stumbling. “I’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”

Angel holds your face, eeriely still. His mouth purses in thought, as he runs calculations in his mind. Whatever he concludes on doesn’t please him. You can tell by the way his expression darkens, so you reach up to grip at his fingers, as firm as you can manage.

“Angel. I have battled worse than this before. I will not fail.”

“Everything must go accordingly for us to make it. It will need to be perfect.”

You’re unyielding when you urge, “I will be perfect.” And he must see something convincing enough. Angel nods once to you, once for himself.

“Alright. Our trust lies in you.”

The morning is gray and silent, as if all of the air has been sucked out from the atmosphere.

You cling to your blankets, shivering despite the palpable flush in your cheeks. When you swallow hard, your throat sticks to itself, dry and painful. Hard to remember what this was for. What you’re so hellbent on making it out of here for, instead of letting yourself fall into the tantalizing pull of sleep. Everything’s so cold, your throat and head so hot, and all you’d like to do is fall back into your cot and tug the blanket up to your nose.

A scuff from the cell to your right has you blinking your eyes back open. Angel is a dark smudge curled at his cell door, knocking a fist against the metal slab.

“Quit all the noise,” a gruff voice grunts from the hall.

Angel slams his hand harder. “The girl has an infection. She needs to be seen at the infirmary, or else she’ll die.”

The guard laughs in a sneer. “Great. She’ll be one less mouth to feed.”

You quiver at the thought. Angel hangs his head, frustrated, before he clenches his jaw and punches the door once more.

“That’d be the fifth death in a month’s time. Don’t you think the High Warden will get suspicious? Early deaths mean shorter punishments.” Angel lets out a derisive snort. “That girl’s been here two weeks. Hardly long enough to even consider penance.”

There’s a pause, as the guard outside seemingly contemplates this.

“Fine. But you’ll go and grovel for help.”

Angel turns to glance at you through the bars, mouth curled in triumph. The dim of the cell casts a shadow over his ethereal face, which makes his eyes smolder brighter. I’ll be back, he mouths soundlessly.

You nod, and he’s gone. You shut your eyes, only while you wait out his return.

Your eyes shoot open at the sound of metal creaking. It takes you a moment to realize that your cell door has been swung wide and then another to realize that the man inside your cell isn’t a guard, but Angel wearing a guard’s gray uniform. The cloth mask obscures most of his face, but you could recognize those eyes anywhere. Now, there’s a vivid alarm in them, as he thrusts over a bundle of cloth. Another uniform set.

“Put this on,” he orders, words clipped and void of anything but urgency, “We’re moving now.”

The exhaustion evaporates as your brain floods with adrenaline. Hurried but steady, you pull the trousers on over your threadbare pants. While you’re shoving your arms through the tunic and cloak, fastening the mask over your nose and mouth, Angel drops to a crouch to help you fold up the extra length of the legs into neat cuffs. Still no shoes. No matter.

Angel straightens to standing, takes one look at you, and then he’s lurching out of the cell. He hurtles down the hallway, in the direction that you were brought over, but when he reaches the end of it, he swivels his head left to right, unsure.

Without pause, you take the lead, letting the mantra in your head play in reverse as you retrace your memories. On and on, the two of you stalk down the halls, in a clipped, urgent manner, turning stoically silent whenever you pass by other guards, who barely pay you any mind. You only let go of the shallow breath that you’d been holding in when you reach the red flag in tatters. Only a bit left to go. Straight for fifty footsteps.

On the fortieth step, you nearly barrel straight into a pair of guards, burly and unyielding. This far away from the cells, they must be part of the gate watch. The men fan out and block the hallway. The one on the left narrows his eyes. The one on the right doesn’t even feign doubt, and his hand reaches for his belt.

Made clumsy with fever and fatigue, you barely register the silver flash of a blade before you’re being roughly shoved aside by Angel, who has lunged forth to deflect the weapon with a knife of his own. The blades squeal in a nasty clash of metal, which rattles you enough to jerk to your senses. Angel, despite his slight and delicate build, makes quick work of the guard, slicing neatly at his wrist so that his fingers loosen around his weapon.

You recover, dipping to snag the blade by the handle as it falls before it even hits the ground, and you’re ducking beneath Angel’s arm to dart forward. The guard on the left doesn’t even make a sound as you spring up to score his throat with the dagger.

“Go,” Angel hisses. You glance over just enough to see him do the same to his opponent. The bodies crumple to the stone in unison. It was a nearly soundless struggle, but there’s no telling when the next round of sentries will come through.

You obey.

Ten more steps, right, left, left. The hall leads into the massive holding room where you were made to confess your crimes. It’s empty, save for the statue of the gods and their presence. You wonder what they think of what they see; two false inmates hurtling past in stolen uniforms, killing like it means nothing more than survival.

It’s only a straight shot from the room to the perilous stone bridge that leads to the front gates. Instead of being resolutely shut against the outside, you squint through the fog to find that one gate has been cracked open. As you hurtle closer, you find a heap of dark uniforms, more fallen guards, snow soaked red.

Angel bounds forward and through the gates, through freedom, reaching to grip you by the wrist and tug you out with him.

“Jeonghan!”

Just up ahead from a nearby bank of snow, the subject of your greatest nightmares in the past two weeks awaits, stalwart and tall and terribly handsome. The Sun Knight stands, blood-soaked sword in one hand, a blazing torch in the other. Sturdy Summer stamps her hooves at his side, while silent Snowdrop waits patiently a few yards back from where she’s been tied. He whistles, sharp and shrill, tipping his head to the side as he gestures for the two of you to move back. Then, you watch, curious and confused, as he throws the torch. It sails over the gates in a blaze and lands atop the slain bodies, where it catches rapidly, hungrily, as if they’d been soaked in oil.

“That’s the last of the gates,” Mingyu grunts, chest heaving with exertion. “Taebaek should be up in flames within the hour.”

You blink once, twice. Then, you stare harder through the fog, towards the hazy silhouette of the fortress. Its stark towers and spires, north, east, and south, are smudged by thick clouds of gray—smoke—and at parts, patched with flickering color: red, yellow, and orange—fire. Haltingly, you try to piece together an explanation, but the cold and the relief flooding your veins snuff out any attempt at forming logic.

Angel—Jeonghan—catches you by the elbow and holds you by the waist just as you start to sag into his side. “Owl,” he murmurs, voice no more than a breath, “We made it.”

Mingyu trudges through the snow, closing the distance, and takes Jeonghan into a tight embrace, hissing, “Jeonghan, you mad devil. It’s good to see you.” Still pressed into Jeonghan’s side, you also get pulled into Mingyu’s warmth and the scent of leather and cloves, the same that your nightmares were cloyed with.

Without letting go, Mingyu turns his honeyed gaze to you, relief and worry equally bright in his face. “Owl, you are a miracle. A godsdamned miracle.” Then, he reads the tight urgency in Jeonghan’s expression. “What’s wrong?”

The last of the adrenaline fades, and your knees buckle. You let out a weak cry, but faster than you can fall, Mingyu dips to snake his arm over your waist. He tucks you against his side, reaching to pull a side of his black wolfcloak over your shoulder. The instant warmth makes you shiver violently, a whine catching in your throat. “I’ve got you,” he mumbles, still looking to Jeonghan for a response.

“Infection, I suspect,” Jeonghan answers, words clipped and purely efficient. “There’s a burn on her neck that doesn’t look good. I’m worried that it’s so close to her head and her heart.”

Mingyu crooks his head to pull back the collar of your uniform. When he speaks next, his voice has turned icily quiet, “They branded her?”

Jeonghan’s eyes darken in a stony, silent reply. “How long did it take you to ride here?”

“Eight days. Though, we started at the Spider, so it took half a day to even get out of the city.”

“Are the horses well rested?”

“Snowdrop is anxious to run; we were moving too slow for her liking. Summer hasn’t been doing so well in the cold, so I’m sure she’s eager to leave. We can move quick, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Jeonghan hums as he considers this. “Three days?”

“Might be possible. We make minimal stops and ride through the night.”

“It’ll have to be done.”

By now, you’ve stopped listening, too exhausted to pay attention to the two men as they murmur their plans. You watch through lidded eyes as they agree on something and as Jeonghan approaches Snowdrop with an outstretched hand. To your surprise, the white mare chuffs happily, and you watch as a genuine smile stretches at Jeonghan’s mouth. Of course, you think to yourself with a strange pang in your heart. Jeonghan is Snowdrop’s rider. Both remarkable creatures of an otherworldly beauty. You can’t help but smile too at their reunion.

“Owl.” Your attention draws back as Mingyu calls. “You’re going to be riding back with me. Is that alright?”

You nod. How chivalrous of him to ask, you muse to yourself. A knight in every manner of the word. A funny warmth spreads in the pit of your stomach.

With your permission, Mingyu lifts you up onto Summer’s saddle, then slides up into his seat behind you, chest to your back, legs bracketed around yours. You have no room to be shameful as you greedily lean into his heat, sighing when he brings his cloak back around to cover you.

“Mingyu,” you breathe.

It’s much too cold, even tucked beneath the knight’s wolfskin, but it’s warm where Mingyu holds you against his chest, arm banded over your waist tightly so that you won’t slide from the saddle. When he doesn’t respond, you call his name again, firmer this time, and watch with hazy delight as his lips part and gaze darts down to you in surprise.

The clouds overhead have just begun to break, and daylight spills onto his face and turns his gaze molten and golden. It’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s made up in your head anymore, but one thing is certain. You need to tell him what you’ve been thinking since the first moment that you met him before you lose your chance to. Already, your head’s spinning, vision flickering in and out, as the fever threatens to consume you whole.

You warble the words out, clumsily earnest, “I know why they named you the Sun Knight.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because you have been kissed by the sun, and it rises in your eyes.”

As you mumble, you spend the rest of your strength in holding yourself upright and slump into the knight’s hold, consciousness slipping away from you like sand between your fingers. The last thing you hear is Mingyu’s voice, as gentle as the sweep of his mouth over your brow.

“And the moon in yours, dear Owl.”

-

“Now there’s a proper owl. Jeonghan, you’re more of a peacock, really.”

You dip your head, bashful at the immediate attention drawn to you as you slip out into the hallway to join up with the entourage awaiting you. Jeonghan greets you with a hand that tightens over your elbow, firm and bolstering, as he jipes back at his father, “At least that means I’m beautiful.”

He tips his face down to study yours, winking when he sees that you smile at his theatrics. Only a few weeks have passed since the escape from Taebaek, but the hard edges of his cheeks and jaw have eased away. When he brushes his fingers against his temples out of habit, his hair there has grown long enough now to be swept back. If you had thought that Jeonghan was beautiful back when you first met him, he is truly angelic here, at home and with his family and friends, draped in his purple silks and decorated with jewelry, color in his softened cheeks.

Lord Yoon sighs, exaggerated and loud, before he shakes his head, holding his brow. “My own son,” he laments. “Where did we go wrong?”

For someone as formidable as the Crown’s Master of Whispers, Jeonghan’s father behaves rather impishly around his family, you’ve come to learn. It’s not difficult to see where Jeonghan’s personality comes from.

It’s also not difficult to see where his beauty comes from. Radiant as ever, Lady Yoon smiles, tittering gracefully behind her hand, as she ushers you both forward. “Let me take a good look at you,” she murmurs, taking you from Jeonghan’s side to hold you at arm’s length. “Now, you are truly our daughter, in name and in looks.”

Weeks ago, you’d woken up, not in hell, not on a dingy Trough tavern bedroll, but in a plush palatial infirmary bed. Infection had rendered you near death for the first days, the healers had informed, but by the gods’ good graces, and the Crown’s personal order to do whatever was deemed necessary to keep you alive, you’d managed to be brought back from the brink. Once regaining consciousness and recovering in the infirmary, you received notice of an account at the Crownsland Bank made under your name—your real name, which you hadn’t even told Soonyoung—with the credit of one hundred thousand Dragons. It hadn’t, however, changed the fact that you still had no home or family to return to. They allowed you to stay in the infirmary for as long as you needed to gain your bearings, but the implication was made clear that you couldn’t live there permanently, of course.

In the midst of your fretting about overstaying your welcome, Jeonghan had paid you a blustering visit, frightening all of the infirmary personnel with his sudden appearance. He thrust upon you a stack of papers, scrawled with plenty of words, most of which you couldn’t even make sense of, and announced that his family had put in a formal request to the Crown to adopt you into their house, effective immediately. You later learned that the Crown had signed off on the request immediately because Choi Seungcheol never denied his childhood friend anything, especially not after the mission that he overtook to deliver his vengeance. Within an hour’s time, and with no regard to your own say in the matter, you had been brought over to the Yoons’ grand estate in the Western Quarter of the Crownslands and written down in all official documents as a noblewoman of the House of Owls, tacked onto the current generation as the third Yoon issue.

In your first days on the palacegrounds, you learned that the presence of Jeonghan’s true sister still lingered everywhere. Everyone that you’ve met in Court has had nothing but noble things to say about her: that she was even more beautiful than her brother, that she was intelligent and kind and talented, that she was taken too soon, too unfairly from this world. You remember Jeonghan’s grief when he saw her locket around your throat, the ire in his voice as he delivered his vengeance, the immense love that he has for her. You could never amount to anything remotely close, and you don’t want to. If they look upon you, hoping that they’ll find a glimpse of the late Yoon daughter, they’ll find nothing but disappointment, and you don’t intend to make a mockery of the dead.

You’d belatedly learned a lot of other things too. That the silver necklace you entered Taebaek with had truly once belonged to Jeonghan’s sister. That it was actually a locket that carried poison. That he had used it to kill the queen mother in the infirmary because he had known that she was recovering there from an illness.

A love for a sister great enough to deliver himself as a prisoner and weather Taebaek’s frigid cruelty for months, with blind trust that someone would be as crazy enough as him to complete his plan.

You reach for Lady Yoon’s hands to close your fingers around hers and correct, “Adopted daughter.”

“Semantics.” Jeonghan shatters through the moment with a languid grouse, returning to your side to hold you by the elbow again. He rolls his eyes, but there’s a fond curl to his mouth as he complains, “Come, dear sister. I’m starving, and I would love to go pester the sovereign Crown of our beloved kingdom.”

The affair of the night is a celebration that the Crown has requested for Jeonghan’s safe return. You feel strange feasting over an event that, at its core, burnt down a stronghold and its hundreds of occupants and nearly killed you, too, but Jeonghan’s presence smoothes out your nerves and so do his smiles that have been coming easier since being home.

The event, touted as private and intimate, is hosted in the palace proper, within a ballroom that Jeonghan claims to be the smallest and least ornate, but you can’t help craning your neck back to stare up at the massive chandelier and the grand painted ceiling as he leads you past the threshold. Everything glitters, gilded in gold or silver, and with each turn of your head, a jewel winks in the corner of your vision. At your side, Jeonghan waits patiently, smile curling wider with every amazed breath catching in your throat.

Before you can allow yourself to marvel further, you accompany the Yoons up to the dais to give your greetings to the Crown. Seungcheol meets them with warm familiarity and gives you a welcoming smile too, but while they share polite conversation, you can’t seem to still your nerves around the Crown and his proximity, having had every reason to fear authority in the past. As your family dips respectfully and steps back to allow another noble family to make their greetings, you think that you won’t ever adjust to living in the Crownslands, never mind as part of the family closest to the sovereign’s.

You follow along the Yoons, mouth pulled into a strained smile as noblemen and women step forward to greet Jeonghan and introduce themselves to you. They marvel over your successful return, each new encounter tacking on another detail of the mission, made increasingly valiant and noble. You wonder if they know how you blubbered like a child when the guards burned you, or if the stories omit that bit.

“Hail, Owl.”

You crook your head over your shoulder, immediately savoring the sight you’re rewarded with. The third and final guest of honor, Mingyu approaches elegantly, dressed in crimson silk fitted so perfectly, as if the lengths of fabric had been draped over him and then cut to length and fashioned together upon his frame. His collar cuts low just enough to reveal the jut of his clavicle and the golden pendant hanging at his throat, carved with a star-eating wolf. His hair, which by the end of your journey had grown long enough to curl boyishly at the nape, has been cropped neatly. Off of his warhorse and out of his riding leathers, Mingyu looks the image of a proper nobleman. It’s the first that you’ve seen of him since you fell unconscious in his saddle, before your life changed so drastically. You wish, desperately, that you were immune to his charms, so that you wouldn’t be standing here in the middle of the hall, gaping.

“Hail, Knight.” You recover a beat too slowly, and Jeonghan snickers from your side. You shoot him a glare, but your adopted brother only dips to ghost his lips over your forehead in parting and sweeps away, off on a quest to bother as many of his friends as possible, no doubt.

“The sigil is fitting, of course.” Mingyu graces you with a smile, gaze dipping to your neck, where the silver owl locket he once handed you hangs. Jeonghan had returned it, poison-free, to you as a gift to celebrate your adoption. “But how are you getting along with your new House colors?”

The Yoon banners fly purple and silver. You’re in no position to mind them, previously having had no symbol nor color to your family’s name, but you’re still getting accustomed to a wardrobe of only colors, especially when you’d worn the drab grays and browns of the Troughs for most of your life. When the attendants appeared at your door earlier, they couldn’t be turned away, not today, insisting that they must help you dress for an audience with the Crown. You had had no choice but to let yourself be pressed into a garment of violet silk so soft that it feels like running water over your skin. You glance down at yourself now, at the dress, at the owl in flight embroidered in delicate silver thread onto your sleeve, at the heavy rings that have been resized to perfectly slide onto your fingers. Suddenly, you’re aware of the knight’s silent appraisal of you, and you run your palms down the silken sleeves, a bit self-conscious.

“Getting used to it still. To all of it, really. What do you think?”

Mingyu's grin is quick, eager. “I think you look like royalty.”

You nearly forget yourself, whatever you were meaning to say sticking to the back of your throat. Before you can allow yourself to flush at how guilelessly he answered, someone catches your attention from the corner of your vision, enrobed in sleek black. Sharp teeth, even sharper eyes flash your way, and you turn away from the knight, tucking your prior thoughts away for later reflection, towards the approaching newcomer, hissing out with no real venom.

“Traitor. You lied to me.”

Kwon Soonyoung grins back at you with a one-shouldered shrug. “Technically, everything I’ve told you is truthful. I own The Dancing Spider. I run a network.”

Turns out, Kwon Soonyoung doesn’t just run a network; he is the network. In your days recovering in the infirmary, through your sparse conversations with the healers’ assistants, you’d picked out the truth about your friend, the tavern owner, who, in actuality, was the second child and only son of House Kwon and the prodigious master of the Crown’s extensive network of mercenaries, sellthieves, and other rogueish informants. A Spider with a web that reaches across every nook and cranny of the kingdom.

“Whatever,” you sniff blithely, studying the man. “Lying by omission is still lying.”

He’s traded his simple clothing—which you suppose was more of a disguise for him—for an ornate black doublet, tailored perfectly to his form. There’s a spider stitched in iridescent thread at his chest, its legs radiating out from the center to the sides, encircling his ribcage. Here, Soonyoung even carries himself taller, more assured, sharp gaze steely and serious. You wonder, now, which version of Soonyoung is the truest.

“I thought you were a common house pest. Didn’t realize you were the Crown’s Spider.” You’re not sure how to tell him that you’re glad to see him again, that you appreciate everything that he’s done for you all these years, so you settle for the next most pressing thought in your head, squinting in scrutiny, “I can’t believe you had me paying you copper coins when you’re the heir to a noble House, Kwon.”

Soonyoung huffs, shoving a hand into his pocket and pulls out something that you can’t recognize. He tosses it over your way, which you easily snag out of the air. You glance down at your palm and find it weighted down by a tiny leather pouch. When you ease the drawstrings open, you spy the contents, a mixture of mostly copper, some silver coins.

“I was going to return them all, some day, and tell you the whole truth, too.” The Spider winks at you rakishly. “Though you also don’t need them anymore, hm?”

“I’ll find a use for them.” You grin back, reaching for your pockets before quickly realizing that your new silks have none. Another thing that needs getting used to; noblewomen apparently have no need for pockets, not when their attendants can hold and carry things for them.

Instead, a large upturned palm slides into view. You tilt your head up and find Mingyu reaching for the pouch, eyes alight with purpose, no matter how small, eager to serve. Your heart stutters over itself.

As if he can hear it, Mingyu flashes you a tiny smile, “Let me hold onto them for you, my lady.”

You sniff to feign indifference, drop the pouch of coins into his hand, and stride off without a word, in search of Jeonghan’s bracing presence, and a cold drink.

Having successfully found one and not the other, you stick along the wall, glass in hand, as you scan the room and its inhabitants. Amusement tugs at your lips as you watch Soonyoung bicker with Jeonghan about something you can’t quite catch from this distance. Others, whose faces and names you’ve been briefed on but haven’t been introduced to, mill around in their own circles, but you catch the shared fondness and familiarity in the way they look at one another. Trusted friends from childhood, from birth, as Mingyu had once described to you.

Even the older members of Court seem to have their established groups. Jeonghan’s parents recline in easy conversation with a woman robed in black and the spitting image of Soonyoung and the Master of Arts, whose own son, Chan, laughs boisterously in the crowd watching the argument.

You think that you’ve gone unnoticed by the room, especially from your spot between the folds of the window curtains, so you jolt, alarmed, when someone calls you by your given name.

The Crown himself has managed to sidle up beside you. Much like the lion of his family’s heraldry, he wears his hair in a thick, black mane, swept back and off of his forehead, wisps curling at his nape. There’s a curve to his mouth, but the intensity of his gaze arrests you in space. As he approaches, so close that you can smell the coiling incense on the brushed velvet of his coat, he lifts his own flute of wine between loose fingers towards your direction in greeting.

Your spine straightens, and you stammer, “Just Owl is fine.” Then, you add clumsily with a stifled wince, “If it pleases the Crown.”

“Just Seungcheol is fine,” he copies your words, smiling politely and almost sheepish, “I apologize. I don’t mean to frighten you, Owl.”

“Not at all. It’s just—” You thumb at the rim of your glass, catching a drop, ruby red, onto your finger, stealing glimpses of the Crown from the corner of your eye. “I’ve committed crimes in return for coin. I should be locked up in a prison, never mind live in the Crownsland and drink sweetwine with royalty and noblemen and ladies. Pardon me if I’m a bit…fidgety in your presence.”

Seungcheol hums a note, low and contemplative in his throat.

Even without looking straight at him, you can feel his gaze, searching and curious, at your collar, where the brand left by the Taebaek guard hides beneath your clothes. The attendants had carefully applied a salve onto the still healing wound, wrapping it with a piece of linen bandage, and then obscuring it beneath the collar of your silks. You’re no stranger to scars and find no shame in it being visible, but the first and only time Lady Yoon had seen the blemish, she’d grown pale and visibly uneasy so you’ve taken towards having it hidden away in the presence of nobility.

“You’ve bled for the Crown, so now the Crown bleeds for you.” A grin, suddenly boyish, snags at his mouth as he adds, “Metaphorically, of course.”

You smile back faintly. “I didn’t know I was doing it for the Crown. Even if I did know, I certainly would have done it for my own gains.” A quick glance around the room and its occupants, opulent and bright and merry, makes something bitter rise in your throat. “And look how much I have gained overnight for it.”

“Do you think yourself undeserving of it?”

You turn with a blink, surprised. Without an ounce of doubt, you answer solemnly, “Of course. A few weeks ago, I was an orphan and a Trough rat. Today, one of the most powerful families in the Crownslands calls me their daughter. All because I played the right game and played it well.”

Seungcheol’s gaze crosses over to Jeonghan, who is wholly rapt with his companions and unaware of your own. “I think you will find that you are not so different from your brother, Owl,” the Crown muses softly, then lifts his glass to take a long sip. Then, attention snagged by a group of crimson-robed individuals, he gestures towards them and prompts, “Handsome family, aren’t they?”

At the farthest end from your spot, Mingyu mingles with three others who are very clearly his parents and sister. As Seungcheol says, they are all magnificent, tall and elegant, shrouded in red and gilded in gold. You murmur your agreement, fascinated by the identical slant and sharp inner corners of Mingyu’s and his sister’s eyes, beautiful even from this distance.

“The House of Wolves is an old one,” Seungcheol hums, tapping his fingers along the stem of his glass, “The Kims have been around for as long as the Chois. They could have vied for the Crown at any moment in history and won it, probably. Their numbers are far greater than ours, and they’re masters of war, even in this era. At twenty, Mingyu’s father was named the youngest commander in a century’s time, under my grandfather’s reign. His mother is an unparalleled strategist, with his sister right behind her heels. Mingyu himself is one of the finest knights we’ve seen ever.”

You tear your gaze away from the family laughing together to regard the Crown cautiously. “Do you suspect that the kingdom is at risk of a coup?”

Seungcheol only chuckles, with a curt shake of his head. “No. House Kim doesn’t envy the throne. The wolves put family above all else, and nothing else will sway them.” His voice takes a thick, bitter turn when he continues. “Perhaps my house should have done the same. Maybe I would have a family yet.”

Jeonghan had told you the truth, the whole truth. The queen mother, Seungcheol’s grandmother, had slain her own son and grandson, purely out of displeasure that her husband hadn’t chosen her favorite son as his heir. She had appointed one of her loyal courtiers as the newest High Warden of Taebaek, expecting to be condemned there after the murders, in exchange for a comfortable life in the fortress. There had been a plush feather bed and a compact brazier in her cell, Jeonghan had discovered on his way to the infirmary.

A wistful haze flickers over the Crown’s eyes, and you read it instantly. It’s the grief that comes with being the sole survivor of your family. You know it so closely, so fervently, that your own heart aches.

“You are surrounded by so many who love you,” you offer, tipping your chin at the rest of the room, “And the Yoons consider you as one of their own, do they not?”

Seungcheol’s emotion whisks away, and the corner of his mouth quirks. “They do.”

“Then, I am now a part of your family as well.”

The Crown laughs, both cheeks dimpling, and it’s much lighter than anything he’s said to you all night. “Thank you, Owl. That’s very generous of you. I’ve always wanted a sister.”

At that moment, from the middle of the room’s commotion, a sudden swell of music starts up, as players with stringed instruments begin a warm up sequence. You puzzle at the sight and as people begin to pick themselves up and off of furniture.

Seungcheol shifts his weight from beside you, reaching to settle his drained glass onto a nearby side table. “And now for my true intention of coming over here: will you join me for the first dance?”

Blood drains from your face in abject horror, as you stammer, “What? I cannot dance, I’ve never learned! I’m a Trough rat, for gods’ sakes!”

Seungcheol doesn’t even try to hide the mischief glimmering in his eye, a grin easing wide open. “It’ll be short. Symbolic, more than anything, and everyone will be itching to get to dancing themselves to care about much.”

You clamp your mouth open and shut multiple times as you gape for words. “You’re the Crown!”

“You’re the guest of honor. You’d be doing me the pleasure. And I’d rather not waltz with Yoon Jeonghan or Kim Mingyu, if I can avoid it. Please, Owl. As family?”

Panic sours into irritation as you realize that you’ve been utterly, completely played by the sovereign of the kingdom.

-

Fire swirls furiously all around you. Flames flicker in a storm, with you in the eye of it. You can’t see anything past the crimson and yellow and orange blinding your vision. There are a thousand voices, saying a thousand things, laughing, jeering, mocking. All condemning you to a hell of your own making.

You wake with a start, vision flooding with black and blue and silver that chases away the bright heat. Sweat dampens your forehead, sticks your sheets to your entangled limbs. You reach beneath your pillow, out of habit more than anything, to run your fingers along the carved handle of Feather. Hovering from above, your adopted brother frowns down at you, a hand shaking you by the shoulder.

“You were crying out in your sleep,” Jeonghan offers as an explanation of his presence. “Thought I’d check in on you.”

“Oh.” You sink into the mattress, exhaling a long, weighted breath. “Did I wake you?”

A shadow flickers across Jeonghan’s face as a cloud passes over the moon. “No. I don’t sleep well. Not anymore.”

You nod. Not that you can remember a time when you’ve ever slept well, but something about Taebaek and its horrors, no matter how brief your stay was, has altered your mind. Even the soft feathers of your new bed and the furnaceless warmth of your room bring no comfort to let you sleep through the night.

You shift over on the giant mattress, creating enough space for Jeonghan to slip onto it. He folds his legs neatly as he sits, knees bumping against yours. For a moment, you’re reminded of leaning against the bars of your cell wall, learning to trust one another, sharing as much warmth as you could lend. Maybe Jeonghan has the same thought; he smiles and pulls the covers over both of your laps.

You clasp your hands together tight to hide that they’re still trembling from the lingering claws of your nightmare gripping your heart. Jeonghan sees, you’re certain, but he’s too kind to comment on it. Instead, he prompts gently, “Did you enjoy yourself at the banquet tonight?”

“Yes. I enjoyed seeing you with all of your friends.” As an afterthought, you add quietly, “I was glad to see Soonyoung and Mingyu again.”

Jeonghan hums. “And what did Seungcheol discuss with you?”

“You noticed.”

“I don’t miss a thing.”

You grin. “The Crown conveyed his gratitude for my part in bringing you back home. He said that he will repay the favor for as long as I live.”

Jeonghan sighs but can’t hide the smile that curls onto his mouth. “Dramatic, isn’t he? He’s just glad that I made it back so he doesn’t have to convince someone else to be his best friend.”

You snort. Then, something that’s been nagging at you since the banquet comes to mind. “Why didn’t you serve Soonyoung when he asked for more wine?”

Jeonghan echoes your words, “You noticed.”

You give a quick shrug. “I don’t miss a thing.”

Your brother hums again, more thoughtful, serious now. “The night before my sister died, I was the last person to see her. She hadn’t been sleeping well, so she requested something warm to drink from the kitchens. I brought it to her and bid her goodnight. They say that her body was already cold and stiff when they found her the next morning. Probably, she drank the milk, fell asleep immediately, and never woke up.”

There’s an unsaid confession there, of an irrational fear that has emerged out of the tragedy. You shut your eyes against the horrible account. It makes sense now, what he had said back at Taebaek, that he felt like his hand was the one that delivered the poison.

Without thinking, you murmur, “At least she did not suffer.” Then, you hastily correct, eyes flying open, “My apologies. That was not the right thing to say.”

Jeonghan laughs; a quiet rasp of a noise, but genuine. “You, and the countless others who have told me that, would be correct. Of course, there are harsher poisons and more horrible ways to die.” He blinks hard, purple eyelids dark against his pale, moonlit skin. “Still, I cannot help but think that I was the one to deliver my sister’s death straight to her.”

You sit, still and silent, working up the breath to admit your own secrets. “It’s true that the fire that killed my family was of my doing. I was up late, reading in the owlery, even though my parents told me to go to sleep. I forgot to blow the candle out before I returned to my bed, and the flames spread quickly. It hadn’t rained for months at the time, I think. Everything was dry and hot.

“My mother woke first, told me to get up and check on the owlery, but there was no point. When I got there, the whole thing had already gone up in flames and all of the birds were dead. By the time I ran back to the house, our roof was on the ground. I just hope that the smoke killed them both before the flames did.”

Jeonghan offers no words of consolation, and for that, you are grateful. Perhaps he is the only one in this world who may understand exactly how you feel. He reaches a hand out, and when you slide your palm against his, you realize that he’s shaking, too.

“By the way, we didn’t bring you into our own home because we were looking to replace my sister,” he murmurs, voice quiet but something fierce regardless, “That’ll never be possible.”

“Of course.” You frown. “Did you think that I was expecting to? It’s very important to me that you say no.”

Jeonghan’s previously solemn face splits in two as he laughs at your bewilderment. “No. I’m just messing with you.”

Your anxiety melts away into irritation, and you’re imbued with the sudden urge to yank your hand away. As if he senses this, Jeonghan’s grip only tightens, to which you scowl, glaring to mask the relief trembling back down your throat.

“And here I thought we were having a meaningful conversation.”

“We are,” Jeonghan croons, “You didn’t let me finish.”

Though your heart still races and you’re more annoyed than nervous now, you yield and allow a smile at the sight of the harsh lines of his face easing away.

“I was going to say, we want you here because you’ve given us something more valuable than anything. You’ve granted us vengeance, and now the three of us can live in peace until the day we reunite with my sister. That, alone, is enough to love you as one of our own.”

You swallow hard, breaths shallow so as not to ruin the quiet of the night. There’s a sudden tearing in your chest, as all that you’ve denied yourself, fearing that your past would not merit you as deserving of it, settles into place right before you. A family. Warm hands around yours. A purpose beyond surviving to the next day.

Jeonghan’s eyes glitter as he muses, “I can see why you’re called Owl. You should have seen yourself just now.”

“Mingyu says it’s because he can see the moon in my eyes.” The words leave your sleep-loosened tongue sooner than you can reel them back.

Your brother nods, “He’s right.” Then, his smile turns impish. “You love him.”

You flinch as if burned. This time, when you pull your hands away, Jeonghan lets you. His bright amusement bleeds, morphed into something smudged and concerned. Shame flits over your face as heat stings your cheeks. “Don’t say something so cursed.”

“Cursed?” Jeonghan echoes curiously. “Why would that be so cursed? Are you not allowed to love Kim Mingyu? He certainly loves you.”

You bite out a dismissive scoff.

“I’m not meant for someone like him. He is not meant for someone like me.”

“Young, pretty ladies marry young, dashing knights all the time—”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Jeonghan.” Breathing comes harder, mechanical, as you search for the correct words. “I’m not… I will only end up harming him.”

There was a story that your mother told you when you were a child. A story about a girl of the night falling in love with the sun, even though he burned her, even though he blinded her. Everyone condemned her, called her foolish for it, but the girl hadn’t thought of it that way. You think of yourself as that girl, hopelessly in love with the sun, scared to get close in fear of dimming his radiance. For he is the sun personified, and I am but a shadow.

Jeonghan shakes his head, wistful and pensive.

“If you truly think that way, the only one you’re hurting is yourself.”

-

“Hello, Owl!”

You’ve scarcely crossed over the threshold of the room, trailing Mingyu’s broad back, when a hearty greeting is sent your way. Sharing a glance with the knight, you peer cautiously around him to the rest of the sitting room, where a handful of the others have gathered for what Mingyu and Jeonghan described to you as a “day off”. You recognize them all, members of the Lion’s Pride, the Crown’s most trusted courtiers, children of royalty and nobility who you were introduced to at last week’s celebration: Soonyoung, your black-robed Spider; Minghao the artist; Hansol, distant cousin of the Crown; and Chan, the source of the emphatic greeting and owner of the notable laughter from the feast.

From the armchair that he’s comfortably tucked into, Chan smiles, gaze warm and curious, as if he has successfully befriended every person he has ever encountered in life. He wears emerald green, a sleek hunting dog’s design embroidered over his heart. You squirm, eager to be on the receiving end of his kindness but unsure of how to return it.

“Hi. Hello. Thank you for letting me inconvenience your days off.”

“Nonsense!” Chan exclaims. “You’re Jeonghan’s sister, which means that we’re all family now.”

Mingyu wrinkles his nose as he approaches an unoccupied chaise that’s not quite at the table that the others sit at, but adjacent enough to be a part of the set. He beckons you to it, waiting until you perch carefully on one end and then sitting on the opposite. He’s close enough that you can hear the breath on his voice, but you can’t help the disappointment stirring in your stomach at the distance regardless.

“Ignore him,” Mingyu grunts, reaching for the table to pluck a handful of grapes from a platter that’s been polished to gleam. He pops a few into his mouth and crunches them with his teeth. “Chan’s just excited that there’s finally a newcomer that he can try and bribe onto his side.”

You ignore the flash of his fangs and the shape of his mouth as he chews to consider his words instead, brushing your palms nervously along the soft velvet of the couch. “His side for what?”

Reclined lazily on his own plush chair with his feet kicked over the armrests, Soonyoung grins with sharp teeth. “For anything. He likes to fight losing battles.”

“That’s not true,” Chan lifts a finger, brow pinched, “They will not let me win a single debate, even if I’m saying that the sky is blue.” He juts his mouth into a pout, and you can immediately understand why the others pester him so. “It’s quite unfair, actually. Take pity on me, Owl, won’t you?”

A laugh bubbles in your throat, sooner than you can stop it. “Sure. I can’t stand for injustice.”

“Wonderful! We’ll get along perfectly,” Chan preens, rewarding you with a sunny smile.

Minghao doesn’t look up from the sketchpad his face is buried within, but he gives a short, pitched giggle. Hansol huffs with amusement, passive expression crinkling for the first time since you’ve arrived.

From beside you, Mingyu’s head whips to you, looking as if you’ve betrayed him. “Owl, you don’t need to do all that to curry favor with him. Chan likes just about anyone under the sun who gives him the time of day. Like a puppy dog.”

“Look who’s talking,” Chan bites back immediately, without a beat. “You know that they also call you the Mutt Knight, right?”

“Hear, hear,” Soonyoung calls out mirthfully, “What are wolves, if not overfed, poorly trained dogs?”

You grin at Mingyu, who doesn’t even sulk at his friends’ teasing, offering him a one-shouldered shrug. From there, the banter dissolves away as the men attend to their own devices, your presence having naturally been absorbed into the matter of things.

Minghao’s pencil never stops, even as he looks to his friends to join in conversation or looks out the window for reference. Hansol scratches away at his own packet of papers. Judging from the rhythms he taps out against the table with his fingertips and the quiet humming, you’d guess that he’s working on a composition. Soonyoung and Chan start up a game of chess that, to you, seems to involve a lot more cheating than valid moves. Mingyu watches the game, whispering hints, real and fake, to both sides, eyes alight with mischief. You flick open the book you’ve brought with you but find yourself watching the fascinating group before you in lieu of reading the words.

Sound and silence exist in tandem, as voices call out questions and responses and jokes and jeers, then fade away without notice. They don’t make a point to include or exclude you, only give the perfect pauses for you to butt in if you have something to say. Everyone responds, whether through words or nods, and with each conversation, you find yourself loosening, learning the rhythm of this circle and this gathering. You think you’ve reached the barest tip of understanding this, their lifelong friendships and the fathomless love that they harbor for one another.

It’s so desirable that your heart aches. It’s so frightening that you wish you could hide your soul away from them all.

At some point, Jeonghan filters into the room, during a brief break between his affairs. Rapt by the conversation at hand, a fierce debate between Chan and Hansol, you don’t realize your brother’s arrival until he leans over the back of the couch to kiss your forehead and his face swims into view, upside down.

“Han,” you mumble, pleasantly surprised, “I thought you were busy.”

“I am,” Jeonghan shrugs, puzzling over Mingyu, who has slumped onto the armrest to quietly doze. He leans to flick a nail against Mingyu’s forehead, startling him awake. “I told you to keep an eye on her, not to nap.”

You huff out a laugh, “I can fend for myself, Jeonghan. I’m alright.”

Your brother rests his palm atop your head, mussing the hairs there gently. His mouth softens into a smile. “As long as you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I am.”

Jeonghan manages to settle the argument that has only gotten louder in the midst of your exchange with a sharp click of his tongue, and you watch, amused and enthralled at the way that he effortlessly silences the younger men. “Be good,” he chides with a quick glance at each occupant of the room, leans to kiss your temple in parting, and then sweeps away as suddenly as he had appeared.

As morning trickles into afternoon, the room grows warm and hazy with the scent of sunbaked linen as the breeze flickers through the curtains. Before long, your lids tug low and heavy. Everyone’s preoccupied with their own hobbies. You tuck your finger into your book to hold your place and decide to nap, just for a few minutes.

You don’t wake in a few minutes. You don’t even wake in an hour. In fact, you doze so soundly that when you do wake, you’re being roused by a gentle hand on your shoulder, blinking your eyes open to the sunset’s colors bleeding into the room.

“Wake up, Owl. I’ll walk you back to your room.” Mingyu mumbles from beside you, yawning and rubbing at his own eyes.

Disoriented and bleary, you dutifully trail along Mingyu through the corridors of the palace, not minding when he reaches behind to hold you by the wrist, guiding you through the twists and turns that you haven’t quite devoted to memory yet. The thick fog of sleep still hasn’t faded by the time you come to a stop at your door in the Western Quarter, and you find yourself frowning, disappointed, when Mingyu bids you a good evening and begins to turn away.

“Oh!”

You jump and glance up expectantly.

Mingyu pulls at a scrap of paper from his pocket and hands it over to you. When you accept it curiously, he shrugs, “Not sure what it is, but Minghao told me to give it to you. He also told me not to look until after you do.”

The paper is thick and textured, creamy in color, and it feels expensive even just by touch. You ease the crease open and blanch at the contents of it. Inside, a delicate sketch by graphite sprawls across the page. Two people sit atop a narrow couch. The smaller slumps into the larger’s side, head tipped against his shoulder, slumped and dozing and unaware of her position. The man crooks his own head down, held still and frozen in a stare. It’s a preliminary sketch, with rough lines and shading, but the one thing that the artist has captured are the faces. One slack and serene in slumber, the other fond and enamored and smiling.

You quickly snap the paper shut before Mingyu can catch a glimpse of it and thrust your hand behind your back. The bleary haze quickly disappears, as heat begins to crawl up your throat. Mingyu blinks back at you, curious, but he doesn’t pry. Instead, he’s reaching into his other pocket, pulling something larger and rounded in shape from it.

“Can I show you something?”

When he holds the object up to your eye level, you scrutinize it cautiously. It’s a snarling wolf’s head, wrought in polished iron. You recognize it as a pommel, detached from the hilt of a blade, fashioned after his house’s sigil, as most noble knights tend to have. The star of his heraldry is represented by a perfectly clear diamond held in its maw, set tightly between four pointed fangs. Two mismatched gemstones, both brilliant, serve as the wolf’s eyes: a ruby and an amethyst. Mingyu’s thumb rests between the ears, the metal there dulled, as if worked away by habit.

In the midst of squirming at your stunned silence, Mingyu prattles, “This belonged to my father, and he gave it to me after I was knighted. I left it at home before I left for our journey because I didn’t want anything to happen to it. Anyway, I wanted to show you. Both of its eyes were red, for our house colors, but I had one of the rubies swapped out for a purple stone. For House Yoon—” He pauses, mid-stumble over his words, then corrects. “For you.”

Blood rushes violently in your ears. Why? Your mind swirls in question. You stare at the purple gem, you think back at the moment captured within Minghao’s sketch, you think of the way he looks at you, honeyed and tender and gentle. Why, why, why, why—

“Do you love me?” You blurt out, too frightened to even feel ashamed of how blunt the words come out.

“Yes,” Mingyu says plainly, expressive eyes burning like twin stars.

Loosened into the world so easily, the truth no longer haunts you from the periphery but attacks you head on. You wipe your sweaty palms down the front of your shirt, grimace without even meaning to. “Is it truly that easy?”

Mingyu lowers his arms and rolls his shoulders back, tightening his fingers around his pommel, brushing his thumb into the valley between the wolf’s pointed ears. He scans you for a long time as he contemplates his words.

“To love you? Or to admit that I do? Yes to both. It is the easiest thing I’ve done aside from learning to breathe.”

“Why?”

Mingyu breathes a mirthless laugh. His face crinkles into a wince, though he tries to take it in stride. “Gods, Owl. You don’t just ask someone why after they profess their love for you.”

You barrel straight through, deigning to beg while incapable of feeling the shame. “I need to know why. Please.”

Mingyu starts speaking before you can even finish, “Because you are honest. Because you are strong. You’re one of the cleverest and bravest person I have ever known. Because it pains me to see you try to be so strong on your own, and I want to be there for you when you need help. Even though you’re too stubborn to ask for it.”

Once, just this once, you want to be greedy. You want to be selfish. You want and you want and you want, without being scared to ruin it or lose it. Just this once, you let yourself want.

You have to stand on your toes to even reach to wind your fingers around Mingyu’s nape, tugging in an effort to make him duck. Surprise flickers past his face, then recognition has him dipping his head instinctually, before realization settles into the curl of his mouth, just as you press yours against it. Pleased, Mingyu hums, lips parting to nip at yours. He’s gentle and warm, eager but careful. His hands come up to your waist, canting you a few steps back into bumping against your bedroom door. In his left hand, he still holds the wolf’s head pommel, and the cool weight of the metal nudging your hip has you tipping your chin back to pull apart from the kiss. You drag in a breath to sober up from the heady rush of desire mucking up your thoughts.

Mingyu sucks in a few breaths to recover too, and then he’s crooking his head in an attempt to kiss you again. You yelp in protest, hands coming up to his chest to hold him back, “Jeonghan’s room is right there! We should—”

The heavy wooden door against your back pitches open, and a squeak forces its way halfway up your throat as you lose your balance backwards. In one swift motion, Mingyu braces you with one arm around your waist, swings both of you into the privacy of your room, and shuts the door behind him. When he turns back to you, mischief crinkles the corners of his eyes, lamplight bouncing and reflecting off of them. He doesn’t say more, leading you further into the room.

You reach the center, to where your bed stands, mattress dimpled with the pillows askew and the sheets messed up. Abruptly, you chide yourself for requesting that the attendants don’t do your cleaning for you, and even more for not having gotten into the habit of making your bed neat every morning. Mingyu barely bats an eye at your mess as he seats himself first at the closest edge, then guides you to standing before him, both hands still planted firmly over your hips, so close that your knees brush against his.

“Pretty.” His lashes flutter as he glances away, suddenly shy, confessing, “I’ve wanted to tell you that for a long time now.”

Something simmers just beneath your skin, thrumming and alive. Desire, hunger, greed. All wicked sins, but nothing has ever felt more right. You curl your fingers into tight fists and realize that you’re still holding onto the scrap of paper from Minghao’s sketchbook. Wordlessly, you hand it over to Mingyu, nerves scraped raw with anticipation and terror.

He pulls his hands away to accept it, prying the page open with both thumbs. For a moment, he stares, and heart in your throat, you examine his reaction. When Mingyu finally moves, it’s to fold up the paper again and slide it into his own pocket. The pommel that he’s been holding onto all this time, he tosses over his shoulder, where it lands somewhere on your floor with a muted thump against carpet.

Then, with a laugh that sounds more like a giggle, Mingyu leans forward to grab you by the wrist, pulling you so firmly that you crash into his chest. He continues laughing, tugging and tugging, all the way until he’s reclined into laying on his back in the middle of the mattress, with you planted in his lap. From this angle looking down, you stare, awed and enamored, at the pink flush of his cheeks, the spray of hair mussed all around his head like a careless crown, the sharp flash of his fangs between grinning lips.

“Pretty,” you echo his words and smile back.

Mingyu tips his head to the side, slightly bashful, mostly pleased. His hands come up to rest lightly on your thighs, just above your knees. Though you try not to react, you can’t help but tense at his touch. He notices it, of course, and his blithe smile wavers a bit as he inquires politely, “Have you…been with someone before?”

“Sure. I’ve kissed boys before. When I was younger. Other orphans. If that counts.” You flush, mind buzzing, suddenly aware that you’re grasping for words and spitting out whatever seems apt. “But anything beyond that…” You shake your head.

“Never?”

“I…never. No. Not with anyone.”

He pulls himself back up into sitting, the intensity in his eyes softening, as he reads your anxiety. Mingyu hums quietly, soothing hands tracing up and down your sides, “That’s alright. We don’t have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. We don’t have to do anything at all. Just sit here like this, if you’d like.”

His voice is so tender, so adoring that your stomach pangs, cramping with desire.

“Want to,” you manage to blurt, eyes widening when you realize your honesty.

Mingyu breathes a soft laugh, “Yeah?” His smile so beautiful that your heart kicks pathetically against your ribcage. “What do you want to do?”

You dither, timid and bashful of your own inexperience. Kissing, you could initiate fine, but anything else, you’re afraid of stumbling through it too slow or too fast and messing things up.

At your silence, Mingyu traces his lips over your brow, “Bravest person I know, remember? Be brave.”

His linen shirt wraps taut over his chest, one lapel over the other, ties knotted at his side. Emboldened, you reach to tug at one, watching greedily as loop loosens and then unravels. The shirt opens up, flashing a glimpse of bare skin that instantly turns your mouth dry. You flush heavily, heat prickling up to the tips of your ears.

Mingyu laughs, a quiet puff of noise and breath, before he’s leaning forward again to ghost his mouth over your cheek, over your temple. His voice murmurs right by your ear, “Very brave, dear Owl, well done. Should I help you?”

You nod furiously, turning to hide your embarrassment.

“Ah, ah. Don’t look away.” Mingyu catches you by the chin, thumb sweeping over your bottom lip. “You’re smart. Use your words.”

You let your head be tilted up, greedily taking in the craftsmanship of his face from closer than ever. He’s perfect everywhere, even at the tiny scar over his brow that you’ve just discovered. A quiet plea rasps from your throat, “Please.”

Mingyu’s pupils blow wide and dark. His lashes flutter. “Such good manners,” he murmurs and shrugs his shirt off his shoulders.

Immediately, your gaze snags over not the sturdy line of his collarbones, which are quite distracting, but rather a severe jagged line that splits right above his heart and over his left shoulder. The regenerated skin there has turned white, stark against the rest of his burnished chest. Your breath catches, as you imagine the horrible injury that must have preceded the scar.

Mingyu assesses your reaction carefully, offering you a tender smile when you glance up at him to implore silently. He presses a kiss to your forehead, mumbling, “Training accident when I was a kid. From one of my good friends, Seokmin. He cried for days after it happened. You’ll meet him soon, I’m sure. Make sure to give him hell for marking me up—”

You’ve dared to press your fingertips along the edges where the healthy skin stitches to the scar tissue to trace along the line, when Mingyu cuts off with a sharp hiss. Frightened that you’ve hurt him somehow, you pull your hands away, lifting halfway out of his lap.

“No,” Mingyu urges quietly, jaw clenched, “it doesn’t hurt. Just wasn’t expecting that. Sorry.” He reaches for your wrist, guiding your hand back to him. “Feels good. Promise.”

You splay your fingers over his chest, right over the healed skin, touch so hesitant that it tickles your own hand. Warmth bleeds into your palm, Mingyu’s steady heartbeat pulsing against it.

Be brave. You hold your hand there, over his heart, and reach with the other up, knuckles dragging along the line of his neck, feeling his throat bob as he swallows heavily. Skim your fingertips over the strong set of his jaw, trace them along the pout of his mouth, the same way you’ve been imagining doing all this time. Mingyu shivers beneath you, though his skin thrums with heat, lips parting to flick his tongue out and swipe it over the pad of your thumb. When you glance up, surprised, his eyes have turned wholly black now, bright with purpose, like a loyal hound, like a wolf on the hunt.

It’s the only warning you’re given before Mingyu surges forward, bracing his hands over your waist to move you from his lap to reclining onto the mattress. He moves with gentle intent, pulling a pillow beneath your head, caressing your cheek as he pulls away, tugging at the hem of your shirt in prompt. You want to comply but turn abruptly and overwhelmingly self-conscious of the way he watches you.

In the midst of your fidgeting, Mingyu huffs a chuckle, dipping his head mere inches from yours to squint at you playfully, “Suddenly you’re shy?” Before you can retort, he shifts the angle of his face so that his mouth tickles yours. Still so thoughtful in his own desire, always letting you close the gap. You tip your head back, catching his bottom lip with your teeth.

A surprised noise catches in Mingyu’s throat, and the final bit of restraint vaporizes away. You reach to hold his face, licking into the heat of his mouth, gasping when your tongue grazes one of his sharp teeth. With your free hand, you pull at the ties holding your own shirt in place. It’s all the permission Mingyu needs to stop keeping his hands to himself.

He manages to wrest the shirt off without breaking the kiss, calloused palms sweeping over your stomach, up your ribs, along your shoulders. When you pull apart to catch a breath, you marvel at the sight of him, pupils blown, mouth slick and swollen. Mingyu smiles back, a little dopily, like he’s living through a dream. His gaze roves over every corner of your bare frame, making you quiver beneath his inspection. You puzzle, when he finds every scar and blemish on your own body, presses his fingers or his lips against each one and asks about it. You answer patiently, amused.

“Got shot at by an arrow, thank the gods he was a poor shot. That one’s from when Soonyoung was teaching me a knife trick; it was mostly my fault. My sleeve caught on fire the night that the owlery burned down.” This last one you say in a quiet rasp.

Mingyu doesn’t say a thing, only presses his lips against your shoulder once, twice. A third time, lingering and tender, before he returns to your mouth. He kisses you, whisper-soft like a prayer, then tugs away to mumble, “I regret hitting you. I should have never agreed to, should have never laid a hand on you. Shouldn’t have hurt you. It is one of my greatest failures in life.”

Your smile trembles as you whisper, “I asked you to.”

“Doesn’t matter. It was dishonorable.” He says this, and then does something just as dishonorable, if not more, by grazing his fingers along the waistband of your pants.

Something about the discrepancy makes you tip your head back in laughter. Mingyu snorts and effectively muffles your laugh by undoing the knot of the tie there, now beyond waiting for your permission. This far in, you don’t have the clarity to shy away from being bared to him entirely, but he also doesn’t give you the chance to, as he shimmies down the bed to lower his face to nip at your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you ache for him.

You can’t hold back the yelp that wrenches itself loose from your throat when you feel the warm swipe of his tongue laving over where he just bit. Mingyu repeats this sequence a few more times, growing bolder with the force of his teeth and the decreased distance from your folds. Then, with a quick glance up at you to scan your reaction, he finds your clit with his thumb, pressing a tentative pressure against it. You kick a leg against the mattress in a reflex response, whining at the pleasure that buzzes at your lower back and zips up your spine.

Mingyu breathes a quiet chuckle, and the puff of air ghosts over your entrance, making you flinch again. “So reactive,” he purrs, before lowering his mouth to replace his thumb with his lips. When you cry out this time, he doesn’t let up, only laughs again, deep inside his chest, and continues sweeping his mouth over your clit, parting his lips and then closing them to suck gently. The noises loosened make you flush heavily, from your chest all the way to your cheekbones, but he continues on, shamelessly. Only when he’s satisfied enough, Mingyu shifts his weight from both elbows to one, to trace up and down your folds, tantalizingly, before crooking a finger in.

Throwing your head back onto the pillow beneath, you moan at the same time Mingyu groans. There’s a pressure, light but foreign, that you greedily adjust to as Mingyu flexes his finger in deeper and works it back out. He continues this motion on and on, setting a rhythm and building an ache inside you. You think that you could be satisfied, just like this, when he presses in another finger, soothing the added pressure with a firm suck around your clit.

Abruptly, the band that’s been slowly tightening over your stomach snaps, and you come, unexpected, with a wordless shudder. Mingyu barely reacts, notching his fingers up and into you as he laps up the rush of juices spilling from your folds. When you whine at the oversensitivity wrought from the steady wide strokes of his tongue, he finally pulls away, shushing you with a wet kiss against your thigh.

Mingyu pushes an arm against the bed to sit up, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, simpering and looking terribly proud of himself. He leans forward to give you a kiss that you taste yourself on, and you’re much too riled up for words now, so you tug at the ties of his pants with needy hands, shyly regarding the outline of his cock straining against the linen. Mingyu laughs into the kiss, gently swatting away at your hands to reach up and circle a nipple with cold fingertips. You hiss at the sensation, trying desperately to ignore the way he grins as he teases, clicking his tongue, “So impatient.”

When you reach for his waistband again, this time he allows you to undo the knot, though his own impatience shows when he shoves the fabric the rest of the way down and kicks his ankles free of them. He’s impossibly hard, tip messy and shiny as it drips with arousal. You’re fascinated by the amount of restraint Mingyu exhibits, despite being so affected. He’s leaning back, unmoving, watching you, and you realize that he’s allowing you the space to act first. You push yourself into sitting and lean to brush your palm against the underside of his cock. He’s heavy in your palm, skin remarkably warm and soft like velvet. There’s a moment of pause as you hesitate, contemplating, and then dip to lick at the slick sheen coating his head, humming at the clean taste of him.

The sound that rips from Mingyu’s throat is loud, pained, and lewd. His stomach tenses. For a moment, you think that you’ve hurt him, until he gently pulls your mouth off of him with a hand over your shoulder.

“I think—” He trembles, eyes screwed shut as he sucks in a heavy breath. “I think we should save that for next time.”

You grin, triumphant, and let yourself be guided back onto the pillows. Mingyu pulls his breathing back into a steady rhythm, roaming his hands up and down your body, over your sides, along the swells of your chest, across your stomach. You stare up at him, smitten by the reverence in his expression as he beholds you.

His large palm sweeps up the underside of your thigh, all the way to where it stills at the back of your knee where it crooks. He swipes his thumb there, once, twice, and then maneuvers your leg to wrap around his waist, heel pressed against the small of his back. Mingyu leans to hold himself by the base, sweeping the length of his cock over your messy folds in a dizzying motion that makes the both of you moan. You still your breath in anticipation, thoughts and vision and hearing fuzzy as he murmurs something you can barely decipher.

“You’ll tell me the moment that something hurts, or makes you feel uncomfortable. If you want to stop, we stop.” Mingyu pauses for your reply, then makes your mind collapse entirely by brushing your clit with his weeping head. “Owl, yes?”

You whimper, desperate to move onto something, anything. “Yes!”

“Good girl.”

He presses in and through, painfully careful, tortuously gentle. There’s an unfamiliar ache that you hold your breath against, until Mingyu presses all the way in. Once fully seated, he pauses, kissing you on the cheek, on the forehead, mumbling to ask if you’re doing alright. He lets you quiver through a few breaths, effortlessly patient, eyes glittering the whole way through, and then only shifts with a relieved smile once you give him a nod.

Heat curls deliciously in your stomach as he builds a rhythm, thrusting in and out, hips rolling fluidly. The room fills with the sound of your breaths mixing, of your pleading whimpers and content whines, of the slick slide of Mingyu. You grasp for anything your hands can find, twining over dampened sheets, scratching at the firm give of Mingyu’s sides, lacing with the fingers that he offers you, soothing and bolstering.

It doesn’t take long to be worked back up to the precipice of intense pleasure, and before you even realize it, there are short, clipped sobs being forced from your chest. You tug at the hand interlocked with yours incessantly, pleading greedily for more, more, more. Mingyu obliges faithfully, canting his hips forward more forcefully, planting a foot against the mattress so that he can shift the angle at which he thrusts up into you. He bends over in half to catch your mouth in a kiss that’s mostly panting, teeth catching at lips and tongues flicking over each other.

Mingyu lowers his forehead to yours, uncaring that there’s hair and sweat sticking to skin. He stares into your eyes, and despite the dim of the room, there’s a golden glimmer piercing through the heady cloud of pleasure in them. “Gods,” he breathes, followed by the sound of your name, “I love you so much.”

Without even meaning to, you let go of the restraint that you’ve been grasping at so desperately, keening in one breathless sound, as your throat catches. The ache that’s been building in your stomach snaps, in equal parts violent and relieving, and heat spreads like an icy prickle, in your lower back, at your nape, down your inner thighs. Your senses heighten past the extreme, and you feel everything in twofold, every drag, every caress, Mingyu’s breath puffing onto your shoulder as he rolls his hips, more languid now, to help you through the peak.

“There you are,” Mingyu soothes, lips skimming over your cheek, over your jaw, over your mouth, grinning wicked as you’re left speechless and panting for breath, “Beautiful girl.” He hovers over you, kissing you again and again, until you’re squirming, ticklish. When you recover enough that your vision clears, you clench around him, reaching for his jaw to tug him back into a kiss.

A tortured groan tears from Mingyu’s throat, but he’s shaking his head when you try to deepen the kiss and pull his hips back towards yours. He lifts entirely up and off of you, shuddering with a sharp hiss on the sensitive slide out.

You frown. “But you didn’t—”

Mingyu silences you with a chaste kiss. “That’s alright. I don’t need anything but for you to feel good.” He smiles, so guilelessly, that you don’t doubt a thing that he says.

-

Hours later, the night has deepened into a blue-black so dark that even the lamps are barely more than an orange glow in the corners of the room. You’ve spent the entire time since, tangled beneath the sheets with Mingyu, dozing in and out of sleep, murmuring in and out of conversation, kissing and touching and laughing.

“Do you think I’ll ever understand what it means to love and be loved?”

Mingyu lifts his head from where it’s nestled over your stomach, which makes your fingers tug gently from where it’s been threaded through his hair. Light dances in his eyes curiously as he hums, “You were loved. Are loved. Can you remember what it feels like?”

You try not to think of the past, especially not into the deep recesses of your mind where exists memories of the world when there was an owlery full of life and sound and color, a home that looked and smelled more like a library, every seam overflowing with paper and ink and paste. When the two people who loved you more than themselves were still alive. For Mingyu, you try to reach into those depths now, wincing to yourself when distant memories scrape painfully against your bleeding heart. The gentle brush of a furtive kiss against your forehead, careful not to wake you, when your father had retreated back into the bedroom after finishing his work late. Your mother’s warm, guiding hands that taught you how to seal an envelope neatly, to tend to an owl’s injured foot, to cradle books as if they were made from gold.

The tender softening of your heart. The desire to reach and to touch and to caress. The blurred boundary that exists between thoughts and feelings, where you act because you want to and not because you should. The urges that you resolutely shut out of your life in order to harden yourself against a world that didn’t love you.

You nod, hesitant. There’s a whole litany of words that your tongue itches to say, but they all sound like excuses. Breath shuddering in your chest, you mumble, “I’m afraid I won’t know how to love you the way that you deserve.”

Mingyu’s stare doesn’t waver. His mouth brushes once over the scar on your shoulder, then again over the one on your throat. “That’s fine. As long as you’re willing to try. Even if you fail.”

Your stomach pangs as you behold him. Mingyu, who has been created to love and to be loved. Mingyu, sun kissed and sun beloved, the closest thing to perfection that you’ve ever seen.

“You don’t deserve failure.”

“Hm,” Mingyu hums, visibly inattentive to your hesitation. His gaze grows dark, lids heavy, and before you can think to hold him back, his imploring fingers hook beneath your chin to lift your mouth to his. Despite yourself, you indulge him, breathing a whine when your bottom lip snags on one of his sharp teeth. A rumble builds in Mingyu’s chest, one that you feel beneath your fingertips when you splay them over his bare chest in a weak attempt to push him away. He bites again, intentionally this time, a quick, delicious sting, before he lets you.

You scowl, a little breathless. “I’m trying to be serious here.”

A perfect brow arches maddeningly. “Oh? So am I. I feel very seriously about this.” A cloying touch brushes over your bare hip, and you fight off a shiver.

“Mingyu.”

He laughs, carefree and happy. You wonder how he can manage to be, when it feels like your own heart is bleeding out. Mingyu shoves himself onto his hands to sit up, blankets slipping and pooling at his lap. Everything is distracting, from his elegant waist, the vast expanse of sun burnished skin, the terrible scar over his chest that has knitted back together white, the jut of his mouth, the slant of his eyes, to the sweat-damp strands of hair feathered along his forehead.

“Don’t look at me like that, if you mean to be serious,” he groans, and you flush, unable to help yourself. He shakes his head to clear the fog in his own eyes, then clears his throat to prompt your attention. “Owl, I mean this as the truth and nothing else, so please don’t find offense in it. I’m very blessed to be loved immensely by my family and my friends, and I have an overabundance of love to give. I do not, and will not, regret giving it to you. And if you happen to fail in returning it, I will not fault you, nor will I abandon you for it.”

Apprehension and wonder and reverence stills your tongue. When thought returns to your mind, you blink hard, forcing back the ache rising in your eyes. “You mean that, truthfully?”

Mingyu’s cheek dimples, as he reaches to swipe his thumb beneath your eyes.

“Promise. On a knight’s honor. On my life.”

-

“Oh, perfect. Knight, please get off my Owl. I need to speak to her.”

You lift your head from your book, wincing at the ache in the crook of your neck from not having moved for a few hours. The sitting room has turned fragrant with the scent of sunlight and oranges, as the warm early summer air filters through the open windows, gauzy curtains swaying and shifting in a peaceful dance. The rest of the chaise that you’re perched on has been haphazardly occupied by a certain knight, whose head rests on your lap as he naps, breaths even and quiet.

Uncaring of how his entrance has disturbed your peace, Soonyoung stands expectantly at the foot of the couch, arms crossed over his chest, brow arched in equal parts amusement and exasperation as he stares down at the man, pretending to be a lap dog.

Mingyu doesn’t budge from his spot, doesn’t even lift up to look, as he growls, “She’s not your anything. Bug.” It’s hardly a scathing insult, especially coming through a lisp made even clumsier with sleep.

“Down, mutt. It’s important. And just so we’re clear, she was my Owl, long before she was yours or Jeonghan’s.” Soonyoung rolls his eyes at you, quirking his mouth into a crooked smile. “I preferred things before you acquired the knight as a guard dog.”

You shut your book, reaching to tangle your fingers at the soft, recently shorn hairs at Mingyu’s nape, smiling when he makes a soft purr in response. “Hush, Soonyoung. I quite like having him around.”

Soonyoung mock gags, though there’s a fondness on his expression that whisks away when he grins, sharp teeth, even sharper eyes.

“Owl, how would you like to help me run a network?”

[kuromingoo]

happy birthday gyu ( ˶˘ ³˘)♡ words can't capture how much you mean to me, but i'll always try. you are my muse and my star, love you forever and forever!!

[idubiloveu]

cheolsoo 🥹

cr. promise_SHUA

[nonranghaes]

mingyu stirs awake just long enough for him to realize you dropped your bag by the door and you're crawling into bed with him. either seokmin or minghao must have let you into the apartment, but he's not going to complain. he knows why you're here, and he knows that you probably brought something sweet that you left in the kitchen for him to enjoy in the morning. but the way you drop into bed is a sure enough sign that the two of you are matching in how tired you are from the week behind you, an ungraceful flop as your face ends up buried in pillows for a moment.

he just giggles a little when he turns to look at you, already reaching out to bring you where you belong (even if you don't intend on staying there while you sleep: it's his day, and he likes cuddling with you). you snuggle closer, cheek against his chest, and snake your arms around him as well.

"happy birthday, baby," you mumble, already half-asleep. did you drive here? or did someone else? he hopes it's the latter. "i love you."

"i love you, too." he can't help but giggle a little bit more at how cute you are. "let's sleep in today," he presses a kiss against your forehead. "okay?"

"mm. sounds great." you squeeze him around the middle, pressing the tiniest little peck against whatever skin you can reach. "whatever you want for miiiiingoooooo day..."

it's so silly. but he bursts into louder giggles at how you draw that out, and only laughs more when he feels your shoulders shake as you crack up, too. the two of you are so, so deeply tired... but there's something infectious about your silly guy and how utterly, entirely endeared he is by you and your silly sleepiness. a matching pair yet again.

(maybe he'll match whatever clothes you brought with you, too. it's his day, after all: he's allowed to be cute and cheesy.)

[memoiresofaneternaldreamer]

Sins and Sundays

Pairing: Lord! Mingyu x Reverend’s daughter! F. Reader

Themes: Smut | Angst | Regency AU | Opposits Attract | Rake vs. Saint | Forbidden Romance | Religious Control | Found Family | Inspired by 'Bridgerton' | T.W.: mentions of arranged marriage, punishments, public humiliation, physicial violence, whipping, abuse of power.

Wordcount: 62.4K (Yikes!)

Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Masturbation (M. Solo) - Unprotected intercourse - Slight breast play - Oral (F. and M. Receiving) - PIV - Cowgirl - Implied virginity (Periodical context) - Use of petnames

Second part of the series ‘The House of Carat’.

This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.

The bell calls you to holiness the way a chain calls a prisoner to roll-call.

The sound threads through the stone and the polished wood and the careful bodies gathered inside—threading through bonnets and black coats, through gloved hands folded over obedient paper, through the quiet that is not peace but performance. It is a bell that does not invite so much as it summons, a sound that has always meant be good, be seen, be still, and you answer it the way you have been trained to answer every call that comes with God’s name tied around it. You sit where you are placed, the way you have always sat, beside the man the parish calls Reverend Marlowe with the same reverence they reserve for Scripture itself.

You are his best passage.

Your collar is pinned high enough to make the shape of your throat feel like a secret—high enough that swallowing feels like a challenge, like you are not meant to forget that even breath can be controlled. Your sleeves are tidy. Your wrists are still. Your hands rest together, pale and proper, as though they have never trembled around anything more dangerous than a teacup, as though they have never wanted to do anything at all. Your eyes are lowered on command—not because you are meek, not because you are shy, but because you have been trained to understand that looking is a kind of hunger, and hunger is the first sin.

Beside you, your father’s presence is a wall: tall, dark, cleanly cut, everything about him sharpened into righteousness. His Bible lies open on the lectern. He does not need to look at you to know you are behaving. He does not need to touch you to remind you what happens when you do not.

The church is full in the way churches are always full—less desperate than dutiful, more attentive to who is seen than to what is said. But your father has always enjoyed a certain kind of congregation: those who like their God respectable. Those who like their judgment refined. Those who whisper about sins the way they whisper about lace—softly, with delight, as though it is not cruelty at all. They have come to be reminded that they are better than someone. And your father—your father is very good at giving them a someone.

A sunbeam lays itself across the aisle, pale and uninvited, and for a brief moment it looks like an escape route. You do not move. Escape is a word that lives in novels and scandals and other people’s lives—not yours. Your life is built in measured steps and locked doors and the expectation that you will be grateful for your cage because it is gilded with praise.

In your palm, hidden by the fall of your sleeve, your beads press warmth into your skin. Red, small, smooth—carnelian stones strung on a thread strong enough to withstand the thousands of prayers your father has made you speak into it. He called it a rosary with the severe satisfaction of naming something useful. You think of it less as a holy thing and more as a tally of obedience. Tiny coals. Tiny counts. Tiny proof. Your thumb finds the next bead and turns it, turns it, turns it until the pressure becomes a low ache—until pain becomes the simplest kind of certainty, the only certainty you are allowed to own.

Around you, the parish settles: skirts sighing against pews, a cough politely disguised, the low rustle of hymnals opening like wings. A child fidgets; a mother stills him with a gentle hand. The small rebellions of bodies are corrected quietly. In your father’s church even restlessness has consequences. The organ settles into a hymn. The first notes rise, solemn and measured, as if even music must behave. The congregation rises and falls like the notes told them when to move, bodies trained into worship the way your body has been trained into decorum. You follow the motion precisely. You have always been good at precision. You have always been good at making the outside of you match the story everyone needs. Because you are a story. Because you are not allowed to be anything else.

Your father steps forward to begin, and the church breathes in as one body. His voice arrives the way winter arrives: without apology, without softness, making even warmth feel like a mistake. He does not speak to be heard; he speaks as if he is entitled to silence. “Beloved,” he begins, and the word does not sound like affection. It sounds like ownership.

You keep your gaze lowered. You keep your hands quiet. You keep your heartbeat where no one can see it—tucked behind bone and pinned beneath prayer, hidden like a shameful thing. Your father likes the illusion of serenity. He likes a congregation that believes discipline produces peace, not bruises. He reads, and the sound of Scripture unfurls through the nave. He reads from the Gospel of Matthew with the cadence of a man who believes he is not merely interpreting God’s word but enforcing it. “Enter ye in at the strait gate: for wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction… Because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life.”

The narrow way. The phrase sits in your muscles like a familiar bruise. He speaks of the wide gate the way other men speak of vice—half warning, half fascination. He describes temptation as if it is a living thing stalking the city, slipping into ballrooms and drawing rooms and bedrooms with its painted mouth and soft hands. He does not use the word desire as a human thing. He says it as a contagion. Your thumb moves along another bead.

He paces slowly, not because he needs to, but because movement keeps eyes on him; because the rhythm of his steps makes his sermon feel inevitable, like the Last Judgment approaching. He speaks of sin as though he has never tasted it, as though it is a smell he can detect on other people, the way a hound detects blood. “You will be tested,” he says, voice smoothing into certainty. “Not perhaps with hunger or poverty—no. The devil is not so crude with the well-fed.”

A ripple of discomfort moves through the pews, quickly disguised as attentiveness. He has struck a nerve, and the parish respects him for it, the way they respect a wound when it is inflicted on someone else. “You will be tested with opportunity,” he continues. “With novelty. With charm.” Charm. The word feels like it shouldn’t belong in a church at all, and yet it does, because your father understands something about the world: the most effective warnings are the ones that make people imagine what they are being told to fear.

Your father’s gaze sweeps the flock, and you feel it skim across every face, every secret, every careful lie. It passes over the men who look harmless in their restraint. It passes over the women whose devotion is measured by the severity of their smiles. It passes over you, and when it touches you, the whole church seems to straighten. Because you are the illustration he likes best. He pauses. Then he turns—deliberately, unhurriedly—and his hand lifts, palm open, a gesture that is almost gentle if one does not know what his gentleness costs. “Come,” he says. The word is not loud, but it is absolute.

Your stomach gives a small, obedient drop. Your beads shift between your fingers. You rise. The movement feels as though every eye of the parish hooks itself into you. You step into the aisle with grace, your skirt whispering over the stone. Your father’s hand extends, not to help you, but to guide the moment. He takes your wrist—lightly, properly—so the congregation can see the intimacy and mistake it for affection. His fingers are warm through your sleeve; his control is cold. He looks at them, voice deepening into pride dressed as piety. “This is my daughter,” he announces, and the word daughter lands like a title you did not choose. “Raised in discipline. Raised in prayer. Raised upon the narrow path.”

A murmur moves through the pews—approval, envy, hunger. Your father’s fingers tighten just a fraction at your wrist. A reminder. “She understands,” he says, “what the world has forgotten: that restraint is not cruelty. It is mercy.”

You stand at his side like a carved saint, posture perfect, face serene. The inside of you stays very, very quiet, because quiet is safer than truth. Your father tilts his head toward you as if inviting you to speak. The invitation is a command. “Recite,” he says softly.

Your throat tightens. Your mind reaches automatically, conditioned as breath, toward the verse he has made you say until it lived behind your teeth. You lift your eyes just enough to face forward—not to meet anyone’s gaze, but to look in the direction of the congregation without truly seeing them. You feel their attention like sunlight on skin. You inhale carefully. Then you speak, voice steady, neither too loud nor too small, a voice that has been trained to sound like devotion. “Proverbs 4:23 — Keep thy heart with all diligence; for out of it are the issues of life.”

The verse leaves your mouth and settles over the pews. Keep thy heart. Keep it guarded. Keep it shut. Keep it obedient. Your father nods, satisfied. He turns to the congregation with the pleasure of a man displaying a flawless instrument. “Do you hear her?” he asks, as though you are not standing there as a person but rather as proof. “A young woman in a city determined to make daughters forget they have souls.”

A few ladies press handkerchiefs to their lips, touched by the performance. Your father’s hand slides from your wrist to your shoulder, a possessive blessing. “She does not ask what she wants,” he says, and you feel the words land in you like pebbles. “She asks what is right.” He looks down at you, finally, and there is no tenderness in it—only assessment. “Is that not so?” You answer because you must. “Yes, Father.”

The congregation hears obedience. They do not hear the quiet scraping inside your ribs. They do not see the way your thumb, hidden against your palm, presses a bead so hard it hurts. They do not see the flinch you swallow, the breath you control, the fire you smother beneath layers of performance. Your father’s smile is small, collected, reassuring. “The narrow path,” he repeats, and the church murmurs as if reciting a prayer.

He guides you back to your seat with the same light touch. You sit as you are placed. You fold your hands. You lower your eyes. Only when your body is safely back in its assigned stillness does your heartbeat begin to thud again, as if the performance has loosened something inside you that refuses to return to perfect quiet. Your thumb finds the bead again. Press. Turn. Ache.

Your father continues as if nothing happened, as if he did not just use you like a parable. He speaks of women and virtue without saying the word woman because the implication is always there—folded into every line, stitched into every warning. Their purity becomes, in his mouth, a garment that must remain spotless—white fabric held up to the light, inspected for the smallest stain. He speaks of the world outside these walls as mud waiting at the threshold, of certain men as the street itself: slick, tempting, careless with consequence. Men drawn to vice, men who make ruin look like entertainment, men who carry charm the way others carry prayer. He does not name anyone. He does not have to. His followers readily supply faces; it is one of their favourite pursuits.

Behind you, a lady rustles her skirts and settles more comfortably, as though the sermon has given her permission to be interested. She leans toward her companion, and the whisper slips out—thin as ribbon, sharp as a pin, soft enough to pretend it is not there. “It is said he has returned,” she murmurs. Her friend answers with a quiet thrill, the kind people reserve for scandal they can pretend to condemn. “From Wrotham. The second Ashbourne brother. The one who—oh, you know—” A small pause. A shared smile. “—never learned to behave.”

You do not turn your head. You have learned how to hear without appearing to listen. You have learned how to let gossip wash past your face without changing it. The art of not reacting is one of the first disciplines your father taught you—because reaction invites interrogation, and interrogation invites punishment. The name arrives a second later. “Mingyu.”

Ashbourne. A house with too many sons and too much attention. Not the Viscount. Not the one who has been steadied by marriage and a wife who fits beside him as though she has always belonged there. A brother. The one London has not watched grow proper under its eyes. The one who has been elsewhere—long enough for “elsewhere” to become a story people tell when they are bored of their own lives. Notorious, perhaps. Reckless, perhaps. Or merely ungoverned in a city that worships governance.

Your father’s voice tightens. “There are those,” he says, “who believe the wide path is freedom.” He lets the word sit there, bait for the foolish. “They mistake indulgence for liberty. They mistake sin for life.”

Your stomach makes a small, traitorous turn. It is not a romantic flutter. It is not girlish nonsense. It is something older and uglier and more honest: a momentary, instinctive hunger for difference. For anything that is not measured and scheduled and contained. For a day that does not repeat itself endlessly. The hunger appears and you hate it immediately, because you have been trained to hate yourself for starving. Your thumb tightens around the bead. Shame rises quick and hot, a familiar burn, and you do what you have always been taught to do when your mind strays: you take up Scripture like a lash. “Let no man say when he is tempted, I am tempted of God… But every man is tempted, when he is drawn away of his own lust, and enticed.”

The words flare behind your lowered eyes like a warning painted on the inside of your skull.

Your father continues, his gaze sweeping the congregation, taking inventory of every bowed head and folded hand. It passes over the young—girls with bright eyes, boys with restless knees—and you can feel the weight of his attention settle on that collective youth like a warning. “All children of the Lord,” he continues, and the words are broad enough to include everyone while still somehow feeling aimed at you, “must understand this: the enemy does not begin with ruin. He begins with permission.”

Permission. A shiver goes through you that has nothing to do with cold. Permission is what you have never been granted. Permission is what your life has been built to deny. Permission is the closed door you press your palm against in the dark, not even daring to knock—because you have been taught that wanting the other side is proof of wickedness.

Your father lifts his hands once more, gesturing outward—toward the whole room, toward every obedient posture like it is an altar he has built himself. “We are blessed to live in a world where the narrow path is still visible, still walkable, still—by God’s grace—chosen.”

Chosen. As if choice is not a luxury. As if the narrow path is not a corridor with the doors nailed shut. He continues, his sermon widening like a net. “The flesh is weak,” he speaks. “And so we must be vigilant. We must be disciplined. We must be obedient.”

Discipline. Vigilance. Obedience. The three words you have carried since childhood—three stones in your pocket, dragging at you no matter how carefully you walk.

Your father’s gaze drifts again—slow, inevitable—and though you do not lift your head, you feel it find you anyway. He does not need to speak your name this time. The congregation does not need him to. They know who sits beside him. They know what you are meant to represent. You refuse to meet his attention. You fix your stare on the grain of the pew in front of you and pretend you are simply listening like everyone else. But your mind does what it always does when he speaks of discipline: it opens a memory you have spent years trying not to touch.

Your knees bare against wood—no cushion allowed, your father insisting comfort makes sinners soft. Candlelight trembling on the wall, making the shadows look like they are moving closer. Your father’s voice above you, patient and relentless, guiding you through verses the way a man guides a blade along a whetstone. Again, he had repeated. Again. Again. Your hands clasped so tightly your fingers ached. Your throat raw from repetition. Your head bowed until your neck burned, because lifting it would have meant defiance, and defiance was always punished first by silence, and then by something worse. You remember the way he corrected the smallest things—your posture, your breath, the angle of your hands—as if even the shape of prayer could be sinful if not performed properly. And then his voice, soft beside your ear, the most intimate kind of threat: “If you cannot govern your thoughts, you will never govern your life.”

The memory closes again as quickly as it opens, but it leaves heat behind it—shame, yes, but also something cramped and furious that you do not have words for in this place. A refusal that cannot surface because refusal would be the end of everything you have been permitted to be.

Your father’s voice continues. “Some believe temptation is obvious. That it arrives loud, vulgar, easily refused. But temptation is more often polite.” A pause. “It is dressed well. It speaks pleasantly. It makes you laugh. It makes you feel—” He stops there, as though the idea of feeling itself is something dangerous. Then, with controlled calm: “—entitled.”

You feel bodies shift in the room. You feel people thinking of ballrooms, of charming men, of the city beyond these walls. You feel, too, the way your father’s gaze returns to you, as if he is checking that you are absorbing the lesson properly. Your mind reaches for verse the way it reaches for breath. “Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation: the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.”

You keep your posture perfect. But beneath it all, beneath the hymn and the stone and your father’s steady voice, you feel the weight of expectation settle onto you again, the way other girls might feel the weight of a lover’s hand—heavy, constant, shaping you.

Another whisper rings out behind you, and this one carries the kind of delighted disgust the parish does best. “They say he is a scandal in fine tailoring.” A suppressed laugh answers, quickly smothered into a cough. “Unserious. Immoral. And pretty enough to make women forget their prayers.”

The words should disgust you. Your father has taught you that they should. Your father has taught you that a man like that is a trap with a smile. And yet—curiosity pricks at you before you can stop it, a spark landing on dry kindling. You feel it, immediately, like wrongdoing. Like heat in a place there should be only calm. Shame rushes in to stamp it out. You repeat Scripture in your mind as correction, as penance, as self-violence dressed as invocation. “Let no man say when he is tempted, I am tempted of God… But every man is tempted, when he is drawn away of his own lust, and enticed.”

You roll the next bead under your thumb and then the next, until sensation returns you to the only safe truth: pain you can control.

Your father leans into the second part of his lectern, his voice lowering, as if he is sharing something intimate. “The devil does not need force,” he declares. “He needs only permission.” The ripples of his words travel through you silently, so no one can see the disturbance. Your father speaks of freedom like it is a lie men sell to women who are too hungry to see the cost. “Freedom is not the absence of restraint,” he says. “Freedom is the presence of righteousness.”

The church breathes in rhythm with your father’s authority. He returns again and again to the same axis—sin and temptation, restraint and righteousness—circling it like a hawk, as if repetition can hammer obedience deeper. “Abstain from all appearance of evil.”

He glances at the congregation, then at you, and in that glance, you understand the real sermon is not for them. It is for you. It is always for you. You are praised publicly because praise is a leash. Because being called virtuous makes it harder to disappoint them. Because being called pure turns any desire into disgrace. Your father’s mouth curves into satisfaction. “We are living in a city that worships indulgence.”

A murmur of agreement. A shared sense of superiority from those who indulge privately and condemn publicly. He continues, “London offers a thousand wide gates.”

The way he says it makes the city sound like a woman with her dress loosened, waiting to ruin men. You picture the streets outside the church—carriages, footmen, silk, mud, laughter. London, alive. London, immense. London, full of things you have never been permitted to taste. And then you picture your home: controlled, quiet, grey. Your father’s study. Your prayer kneeler. Your window that looks out but never invites you to step through. You think of the wide gate and you hate yourself for wondering, for even a moment, what it looks like. “For the wages of sin is death.”

The line rises in your mind reflexively. Death. But you have been living a kind of death for years—breathing and smiling and obeying while everything in you that wants to run beats itself bloody against the inside of your ribs.

The service moves like it always does: measured, orderly, unavoidable. You stand when you should stand. You kneel when you should kneel. You bow your head the way you have bowed it since girlhood, a motion so practised it feels like part of your being. The stone beneath your knees is cool through the fabric of your dress.

There is something in you, buried deep, that is not meek. It is not shy. It is not a plant. It is a flame. It is a want that has never had a name that wasn’t condemned. You keep it hidden because you have learned what happens when it shows. You have learned the way your father’s disappointment feels like punishment even before the true punishment begins. You have learned the weight of his silence. You have learned the hours, the recitations, the bare knees, the prayers repeated until your mouth goes numb and your mind goes hollow. And yet—somewhere inside you, something still burns. Not for romance, not for love as the ton likes to pretend it believes in, not for a husband’s approval. For life. For the sensation of choosing a direction and moving in it. For a day that is not prewritten like your father’s sermons. For a breath that belongs to you. That is what you want. That is what you do not say.

When the final prayer is spoken, the congregation rises as if released. You rise too, smoothing your skirt. Your father closes his Bible with finality. People turn, smiling, murmuring, gathering themselves into their social shapes. Church, here, is not only worship—it is theatre. It is a place to be seen being good. And you are the best actress.

Your father’s hand touches the small of your back, guiding you into the aisle. You walk beside him at an exact pace—half a step back, never beside him. A daughter, not a companion. An ornament, not an equal.

Outside, in the churchyard, faces brighten at your father’s approach. They gather like moths to a flame they do not understand is burning them. At the doors, the ritual begins: parishioners lined in polite order, offering thanks, offering praise, offering themselves as good people who listen to good sermons.

Your father stands at the threshold like a gatekeeper. You stand a pace behind—close enough to be displayed, far enough to remain secondary. A woman steps forward first, all pearls and propriety. “Reverend Marlowe,” she greets, voice syrupy with approval. Your father inclines his head. “Lady Henshaw.” He says her title precisely. He is always precise. Her gaze flicks to you, and her smile grows brighter. “Your words were bracing,” she says.

“Truth should brace,” your father replies. Lady Henshaw’s eyes linger on your collar, your posture, your hands. “And your daughter,” she adds, “is a blessing. Such a picture.” A picture. Yes. That is what you are.

Your father’s hand settles on your shoulder. “She is devoted,” he says, and the words sound like a boast. Lady Henshaw sighs, pleased. “The narrow path, indeed.”

You can feel her assessing you the way one assesses a gown: the cut, the fit, the expense. You can feel her measuring how useful your virtue might be to her own social story—how closely she should stand to it, how loudly she should praise it. Then, she turns her head slightly, leaning in as though sharing a prayer. “And to think,” she murmurs, “that such a city is about to welcome Mr. Ashbourne back into its arms.”

Your father’s jaw tightens. “The city will welcome any corruption if it is wrapped in charm,” he says. Lady Henshaw’s lips press together in pious agreement. “He is said to be… untamed,” she whispers, and the word sounds too pleased on her tongue. Your father’s gaze moves, briefly, across the churchyard—across the men, across the carriages, across the world you are not allowed to enter without supervision. “Then he should be avoided,” he says simply. Lady Henshaw’s eyes return to you, and there is a question in them—unspoken, but clear: Will she be avoided? Will she avoid?

Your father answers for you by tightening his hand at your shoulder, gentle enough for the world, hard enough for you. You smile, small and correct. You do not speak. You are the obedient daughter. You are the narrow path. You are the proof.

When the line thins, and the last hand has been shaken, and the last compliment has been received like a tithe, your father’s fingers slide from your shoulder to your forearm, stopping you with a quiet authority. The parish is still close enough to watch. Your father is aware of that the way he is aware of everything. “You did well,” he measures.

“Thank you, Father.” His gaze searches your face—not for emotion, but for deviation. “You will remember,” he says, “that the world admires ruin. It claps for it.” Your throat tightens. You keep your expression calm.

“Yes, Father.”

He nods slowly, satisfied you understand the lesson. “And you,” he adds, the gentleness turning sharper, “are not for applause.” Not for laughter. Not for charm. Not for men the parish whispers about with heat disguised as disgust. You bow your head the way he likes.

“No, Father.”

His thumb presses once—barely—into your elbow, right where your pulse beats. A reminder you cannot pretend not to feel. Then he releases you, and together you step away from the church doors.

The carriage ride home is quiet. Your father’s carriage is always quiet. Silence is his preferred atmosphere. Silence is where his authority breathes easiest. You sit opposite him with your hands folded in your lap, your beads hidden in your palm. The carnelian stones are warm from your skin, as if they have absorbed the heat you do not show. Outside, London moves. The city passes like a page you are not allowed to read: shopfronts, pedestrians, the brief flash of a painted sign, the clean curve of a bridge. The world is enormous. Your life is small.

Your father watches you without moving his head. He does not need to stare to make you feel seen. His presence alone is surveillance. At last, he speaks. “You heard them.” It is not a question. Your thumb stills on the bead. You do not make the mistake of pretending you did not understand. “I heard whispers.”

He leans back, folding his hands over his cane, the picture of composed authority. “The city loves to speak of sin as though it is entertainment,” he says.

“Yes, Father.”

“And you?”

The question slides under your collar, cold as a blade. Your throat tightens, but your voice does not waver. “I have no interest in such talk.” It is the correct answer. It is also a lie. Your father’s eyes narrow slightly, as if he can taste dishonesty in the air. “Curiosity is how the devil enters.”

The carriage rolls over a small unevenness in the street. Your rosary shifts in your palm. Your father’s voice continues. “Mr. Ashbourne is not for your notice.” Not for your notice. Not for your eyes. Not for your thoughts. Not for your life. “No, Father,” you agree.

He watches you a moment longer, then looks away, as though the matter is decided. But your mind—traitorous, alive—catches on the name again. Mingyu.

You imagine the way it might be spoken without disdain. You imagine the way it might be spoken with laughter. You imagine—briefly, dangerously—what it would feel like to be someone the parish whispered about with fascination instead of approval. Shame slams down again, quick and hard. You pray, not because you want to, but because you must. “Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.” The words taste like water poured over fire.

Your father’s carriage turns onto your street. The house rises ahead: neat, respectable, symmetrical—built like a sermon. Home is not loud, not warm, not cruel in obvious ways. Home is controlled. Home is schedules and measured footsteps and your father’s study door that never truly feels open. Home is servants who speak quietly because the reverend prefers his household to sound like a church.

You step inside, remove your gloves, hand your bonnet away, and move through the hallway like a ghost. Your father disappears into his study, as he always does after service, to write letters and plan lives that are not his to plan. You are guided upstairs by habit.

In your room, the air is still. Your bed is made with strict neatness. Your dresses hang like obedient bodies in the wardrobe. On your vanity sits a small Bible, a brush, and a bowl for pins. Everything in its place. You close the door behind you, and for a moment—one breath, one heartbeat—you let your shoulders loosen. Not collapse. Just loosen. It feels wicked.

You move to the window and look down at the street. Carriages pass. A pair of young women laugh as they step into a shop. A man hurries past with a bouquet tucked under his arm. There is motion everywhere. There is choice everywhere. And you are trapped behind glass.

Your fingers lift toward your collar, then stop. Even alone, you hesitate to undo anything without permission. That is what your father has built inside you: a warden that looks like your own hand. You lower your hand and instead bring your beads out fully, letting the rosary settle across your hand. The carnelian stones glow darkly in the light, like something alive. You count. One bead. One prayer. Two beads. Another prayer. The prayers are mechanical, memorised the way children memorise songs. But today, the words snag. Because behind them, behind the verses and the warnings, there is a whisper. A whisper that is not the parish. A whisper that is not your father. A whisper that is only you. Live.

Your breath shudders slightly, handled before it can become anything visible. You tell yourself the whisper is wicked. You tell yourself it is the flesh. You tell yourself it is the devil scratching at the door. But you have lived with your father’s voice in your head so long that sometimes you do not know where he ends and you begin.

If you want, you are bad. If you hunger, you are weak. If you imagine, you are already fallen. That is the equation your father has written into you. And yet—your thumb pauses on a bead, and your mind does something unbearable: It wonders what kind of man could make a parish whisper with such heat. It wonders what kind of life is so bright that even condemnation sounds like envy. It wonders what unserious feels like.

It wonders what it would be like to laugh without immediately paying for it. Your cheeks warm. You close your eyes, as if closing your eyes can close your mind. You press the beads to your lips—not in sweetness, but in desperation. “Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

You open your eyes again. London continues outside. You remain inside.

You swallow the syllables like you swallowed the dullness in church. But unlike the dullness, the sensation does not disappear. And when you finally look down at your hands, you realise, with a small flare of horror, what you have done. The cord of your rosary has been wound around your fingers, loop after loop pulled tighter until it has cut into the soft skin at the base of your knuckle.

A bead of blood pools at the wound, round and glossy, and then it touches the carnelian stones—those tiny coals you have been counting—so that blood meets red bead, flesh meets symbol, and suddenly your devotion looks like something else entirely. You don’t let it fall. You don’t wipe it away. You simply watch it, breath shallow, as if even this small proof of your own body—this single, trembling bead of red—might betray you for wanting to live.

The first thing London asks of Mingyu Ashbourne is that he button himself up. He refuses it in the most intimate way imaginable—by dragging his travel shirt over his head in the tight, velvet-lined confines of the carriage, the fabric catching for the briefest moment upon his shoulders before it yields and leaves him bare-chested in the half-light: all warm skin and careless confidence, with the faintest bruise of road-wear where a collar has rubbed him raw.

The coach is too small for three grown men and one Soonyoung, and yet somehow Soonyoung contrives to occupy the greater share of it—knees angled out, hands everywhere, laughter loaded behind his teeth like a musket awaiting a spark. Wonwoo sits opposite with the composed patience of a man long resigned to being outnumbered by disaster. Jeonghan reclines as though he has been poured into the cushions, not even pretending to be surprised. He studies Mingyu’s bare torso with exaggerated solemnity, as if inspecting a scandal for flaws. “Saints preserve us,” Jeonghan drawls, voice slick as syrup. “If you undress any slower, the footmen shall begin charging admission.”

Soonyoung’s laugh bursts out—cheerful, uncontained, the sort of laugh that makes respectable men forget they are meant to frown. “Let them!” Soonyoung says. “We’ll make a fortune. Mingyu, do it again. For art.”

Wonwoo’s hand appears with a folded shirt before the chaos may become a carnival—crisp linen, London-approved, the colour of propriety itself. “Put this on,” Wonwoo says, flat as a verdict. “Or at the very least stop flexing like you’re trying to seduce the upholstery.”

Mingyu catches the shirt with an easy hand and an easier smile, and there it is—what London recalls of him; what London forgives in him; what London uses as proof that charming men are permitted to be dangerous: sunlight, trouble, laughter that makes people soften against their will. He shakes his hair back from his brow as though he has nowhere to be hurried to, no one waiting to weigh him, and then he leans forward to draw the London-approved shirt over his head. It is crisp where his travel clothes have been softened; proper where foreign habits have grown lax. The collar settles at his throat like a polite hand. It does not, however, alter the fact that he is Mingyu.

He fastens the buttons with the same carelessness he brings to everything that matters too much—quick, neat, rehearsed—as if making himself presentable is only part of the joke. The carriage wheels roll over Mayfair stone. The rhythm of the city changes. Even the air beyond the window feels altered—thicker with expectation, thinner with mercy.

Jeonghan watches him with the lazy interest of a brother who knows every mask Mingyu owns and which ones crack first. “You are late to your own reputation,” he says. “London has been insufferably bored without you.”

Soonyoung leans in, elbows upon his knees, eyes bright. “How many days, do you think, before someone writes a poem about Mingyu Ashbourne ruining a debutante with nothing but his smile?”

Wonwoo’s mouth makes the smallest movement—almost a smile, then thinks better of it. “It will not be a poem,” he says. “It will be a warning.”

Mingyu secures the last button and tilts his head, pleased. His grin is a currency he has never yet been refused. “Warnings are still literature,” he says. “Let them write.” He says it as though he means it—as though nothing may reach him through ink. Yet the truth sits under his ribs: London’s writing has always been sharper than any knife, and his name is a favourite blade.

The carriage turns. Through the window, Ashbourne Hall rises—townhouse proud and dark against the pale sky, its front steps swept clean as though the very building has learned to fear judgment. Footmen await direction, lanterns await their lighting. Everything about the house is designed to appear effortless, and everything about the house is labour. Mingyu exhales as though he has come home and also as though he has walked back into a trap. “Smile,” Jeonghan murmurs. “You know they’ll be watching.” Mingyu’s grin widens, because that is the game. And he is excellent at games.

The carriage slows. Somewhere outside, a woman laughs too loudly; a man’s voice answers; the city hums with its endless appetite. Mingyu draws in a breath and lets it go, slowly—an old habit learned abroad, where breath was the only thing a man could control without paying for it. Then the carriage stops, and the footman opens the door, and Mayfair’s gaze finds him.

Ashbourne Hall is louder now than it used to be, and it has nothing to do with the number of brothers under its roof. It is a subtler alteration—an adjusted gravity, a new centre of warmth. It is the Viscount. It is the new Viscountess. Even before Mingyu sees them, he feels the difference their presence makes in how the house moves around itself. The air holds a new kind of certainty, as though the household has been reminded it is not merely enduring life but directing it.  

Mingyu’s boots cross the threshold. The door closes behind him with a finality that feels almost ceremonial. He is met with the familiar flurry—footmen taking coats, an elderly butler feigning indifference whilst plainly relieved, the faint echo of laughter drifting down from somewhere higher. Joshua crosses the entrance like a constellation: with a ledger tucked beneath one arm, already half inside Carat & Co. And then Seungcheol appears.

Not the Seungcheol of whispered grief and clenched strategy, not the one London has watched with hungry suspicion—the new Viscount, cut into his title like stone into a signet. He moves like a man who has learned where to place his authority. Like a man who has ceased apologising for the space he occupies. His gaze catches Mingyu’s. There is something like relief there—quick, undeniable—before it becomes composure again.

And at Seungcheol’s side—Lady Whitlock. His brother’s wife. Not a rumour, not a wedding portrait, not a gossip column’s attempt at poetry. She stands with her shoulders back and her chin level, wearing her title not as though she was born to it, but as though she decided it would be hers and dared anyone to contest it. There is nothing fragile about her. Nothing simpering. Her kindness is not soft; it is deliberate. Her attention is not scattered; it is exact. She looks at Mingyu as though she has already counted him into the family’s heartbeat. And Mingyu—who has always lived as the youngest brother, the spare laugh, the pretty problem—recognises her with the sudden, unsettling clarity of a boy who has always known what he lacked. Not a mother. Not a governess. A sister. A woman who will not treat him like a liability to be managed, but a person to be understood.

She steps forward—not with the grand flourish of a new bride playing her part, but with a grace that suggests she has been learning their habits and adjusting herself without losing herself. “You have returned in one piece,” she says, and the smile that accompanies it is small but true—no performance for the servants, no pious sweetness for the world. Mingyu bows, because manners are easier than feelings. “I make everything look accidental,” he replies.

Seungcheol’s hand settles at the small of her back—so unconsciously protective it is nearly an admission. Like he is reminding himself she exists. Like he cannot bear a room without her in it. Mingyu has seen men love women, of course. He has watched it in taverns and upon bridges, in theatres and in foreign streets. He has watched it in the way husbands call their wives “my dear” whilst looking elsewhere. But this—this is different. This is Seungcheol with his edges softened in the one place he never used to. This is Seungcheol looking at his wife as though strategy finally met devotion and lost. Lady Whitlock’s hand lifts to Seungcheol’s sleeve, fingers resting there briefly—a quiet correction, a quiet calm. As if she is reminding him he need not carry everything alone. As if she is teaching him a new way to stand in a room. Mingyu feels something in his chest tighten.

He laughs instead, because laughter is his first language and his safest. “Should I congratulate you,” he says to Seungcheol, “or apologise to London?” Seungcheol’s mouth curves, barely. “Both,” he says. Lady Whitlock’s eyes brighten with amusement, and for a heartbeat, Ashbourne Hall feels less a fortress than a home. It is disorienting. Mingyu detests disorientation. He lives in it anyway.

A servant takes Mingyu’s gloves. Another takes Soonyoung’s hat. Jeonghan charms the butler with a compliment delivered like a bribe. Wonwoo inclines his head at Lady Whitlock the way he inclines his head at very few people. Lady Whitlock’s gaze follows each brother in turn—like she is understanding their angles, their weaknesses, the places where they fray. And when her eyes return to Mingyu, there is the same unasked question: who are you when you are not performing?

Mingyu brightens his smile like a lantern being lit. “We are home,” he declares. Soonyoung throws an arm around him at once. “Home!” he echoes, delighted. “Which means—”

“Don’t,” Wonwoo says immediately. Jeonghan’s grin turns wicked. “—we ought to celebrate,” he finishes for Soonyoung, eyes fixed on Mingyu like a promise. Seungcheol exhales through his nose, the long-suffering sound of an eldest brother who has learned command is often only a suggestion. Lady Whitlock, impossibly, smiles. “You will come to dinner first,” she says, and it is not a question; it is a command placed gently into chaos. Mingyu’s instinct is to rebel. He does not. Not because he is obedient—God, no—but because her tone is not his father’s tone, nor society’s. It is not a leash. It is an invitation to belong. That, Mingyu thinks, is far more perilous than rules.

Dinner is a glittering thing even within the family dining room.

Candlelight makes the silverware look almost liquid, pouring gold along the edges of plates and goblets. The long table is dressed like a stage—linen stretched smooth, crystal glittering in flashes—yet it does not feel cold. Not tonight. Not with the house full, not with laughter threading itself between courses.

The first course arrives: a clear soup, pale and steaming, ladled with reverence; warm bread set in a basket lined with cloth; butter shaped into neat curls that look too pretty to touch. Everything is proper in the way propriety loves—restrained, polished—until the brothers make a gentle ruin of it simply by being themselves.

Soonyoung eats like a man who has spent too long in the country air—too hungry, too joyful, too unbothered by the fact that forks were invented to slow people down. He tears into his bread as though it has personally offended him, talking between bites, laughing at his own jokes, and Jeonghan—ever delighted by any breach of decorum—encourages it with the kind of smile that could start a war and blame it on charm. “You’re meant to wait,” Wonwoo remarks, watching Soonyoung butter a slice. Soonyoung blinks, genuinely confused. “Wait for what?”

“For shame,” Jeonghan supplies, and lifts his glass as if toasting it. Joshua makes a soft sound that is half-laugh, half-sigh, the sort of sound that smooths the moment. He steers the conversation with an easy gentleness—asking Wonwoo about the book he’s been seen reading, asking Soonyoung whether he truly means to scandalise the cook by requesting seconds before the fish course has even arrived. Wonwoo answers in spare sentences that somehow still feel full—like he has chosen each word for its weight. When he does speak, it isn’t loud, but it turns heads anyway, simply because he never wastes air. Jeonghan keeps the room warm the way a hearth keeps a house warm: not by being earnest, but by being impossible to ignore. He leans back in his chair, loose-limbed, telling some ridiculous story from the road—painting it with flourishes, making even the footman pause at the edge of the room too long, forgetting his invisibility because Jeonghan’s laughter feels like permission.

The second course shifts the table: fish set upon greens, lemon cut and placed like a bright accent; then a roast brought in, the meat carved, the gravy poured like indulgence. A bowl of potatoes, crisp at the edges; carrots glazed; something dark and sweet set in a small silver dish that Soonyoung eyes in temptation. “If Father could see you,” Wonwoo murmurs, watching Soonyoung reach for the sweet dish again. Soonyoung pauses, spoon mid-air. “Which father?” Jeonghan’s grin turns wicked. “Any of them.”

Joshua clears his throat like a gentle warning. “Eat,” he says. “But do not die.” Soonyoung beams as though this is endorsement. Mingyu takes his wine and lets it sit on his tongue, the taste rounding out the edges of the day. He listens to their voices overlap until it feels less like a dining room and more like a living thing.

At the head of it all sits Seungcheol, and Mingyu cannot decide if it is startling or inevitable how well the position suits him now. Seungcheol does not have to raise his voice to command the room. He simply looks, and the room understands. Yet he laughs, too—small, rare, real—when Soonyoung tells a story badly and insists it is brilliant. He corrects Jeonghan with a single glance that says, “Do not push your luck”, and Jeonghan looks delighted by it, as if being chastised by an eldest brother is its own intimate amusement. And then there is Lady Whitlock.

She sits at Seungcheol’s right, not like an ornament placed to be admired, but like the spine of a book that has always belonged on this shelf. The candles throw soft light along the line of her cheek, catch the gleam of her onyx wedding ring when she lifts her glass, and Mingyu sees, in the smallest gestures, how she alters the house around her.

She watches Joshua when he speaks—not with the cool, appraising gaze of someone taking measure, but with something gentler: a kind of respect that settles. As if she knows how he redirects without making anyone feel corrected, how he makes space for the quiet ones to remain quiet without being swallowed by louder ones. Her attention moves to Soonyoung with fond indulgence, yes—but it is more than humour. There is warmth there, the sort reserved for souls too bright to be dulled and too loyal to be doubted. When Soonyoung eats too fast, she does not scold; she simply slides the breadbasket closer, as if offering him the comfort of abundance.

When she glances at Wonwoo, it is quieter still—respectful, careful. She does not demand he speak more; she allows him the dignity of silence without treating it as rudeness. When Wonwoo does speak, she listens as though she expects his words to matter. Jeonghan earns her amusement easily—he always does—but even there, her smile has a watchfulness beneath it, the knowing look of a woman who understands that charm can be both a gift and an edge.

And when her gaze finally turns to Mingyu, it does not land like judgment. It lands like curiosity. Not curious about his scandals. Curious about him. It is the worst sort of curiosity: the kind that might see through him. So Mingyu does what he always does when people draw too near the part of him that aches. He performs.

He offers stories of travel as though they are nothing more than caricatures. He paints foreign cities in bright strokes—sunlit harbours, crowded taverns, women who laughed and taught him new ways to sin. He boasts about escapades like trophies rather than distractions. Jeonghan eggs him on with a grin. Soonyoung howls with delight. Even Joshua’s mouth quirks once, reluctantly. Lady Whitlock listens with the tolerance of someone who knows when a man is charming because he is pleased, and when he is charming because he is afraid.

At one point, Mingyu mentions Greece offhandedly, as though it is merely another place where he was adored and fed and forgiven. But when he says it, he feels the sea again: salt upon his lips, sun upon his shoulders, the ache of a horizon that asks nothing of him. Lady Whitlock’s head tilts. “You speak of it as though you miss it,” she says. Mingyu’s smile remains. Something beneath it shifts. “I miss being unknown,” he answers—too honest, by accident. The table stills.

Seungcheol’s gaze flicks to him sharply. Joshua’s brows lift slightly. Wonwoo’s eyes go quiet. Jeonghan’s smile softens a fraction, as though he has seen the crack before. Soonyoung looks between them, sensing the mood the way a dog senses thunder. Lady Whitlock does not flinch. She does not pity him. She does not chastise. She nods as though she understands. “Unknown is a kind of rest,” she says. Mingyu laughs quickly, covering the moment as one might cover a flame with a hand. “If rest were what I sought,” he says lightly, “I should become a clergyman.”

Jeonghan makes a delighted sound. “Can you imagine?”

Soonyoung’s eyes widen, theatrical. “Mingyu in a pulpit? He would flirt with the choir.”

Wonwoo deadpans, “He would flirt with God.”

Mingyu bows his head, mock-humble. “I have always been drawn to unattainable things.”

Seungcheol cuts in. “You may cease attempting to shock her,” he says, nodding toward his wife. “It will not succeed.”

Mingyu’s brows lift. “That sounds like a challenge.”

Lady Whitlock sips her wine and replies, very calmly, “If you shock me, Mr. Ashbourne, I shall reward you.” Soonyoung chokes on laughter. Jeonghan claps as though the room were a theatre. Joshua looks down at his plate like he is trying not to smile. Wonwoo’s mouth does that almost-smile again and abandons it. Mingyu feels his grin widen. “A reward,” he repeats. “I have always been motivated by praise.”

Seungcheol’s hand finds Lady Whitlock’s beneath the table—an unconscious tether—and Mingyu watches it like he is watching a language he does not speak. He clears his throat, brightens his smile, throws another story into the air. He does not mention that every time he leaves a woman’s bed, he feels colder than when he arrived. He does not mention that laughter may be armour and also a prison. He does not mention that he has never known what he is for.

When dinner ends, London waits outside with its open mouth.

Soonyoung is already standing. “We are going out,” he declares, as though the city belongs to him. Wonwoo’s gaze flicks toward Mingyu. “Try not to break anything important.” Jeonghan takes Mingyu’s arm, leading him toward the door. “Only his heart,” Jeonghan says, and smiles as though he knows precisely where Mingyu keeps it hidden. Lady Whitlock watches them go with fond exasperation—the sort of expression a woman wears when she has adopted a houseful of trouble and chosen to love it anyway. Seungcheol’s eyes follow Mingyu one beat too long. A warning and a plea in one. Mingyu lifts two fingers in a salute. “I shall be good,” he calls. And then he laughs, because even he does not believe it.

Mayfair at night is a different religion. It is lit by gas and gossip. It is worshipped with coin and consequence. Men in tailored coats spill out of clubs and into the street. Carriages glide like sharks in water. Laughter blooms and dies behind curtained windows. Mingyu takes to it like a man returning to a vice he never truly quit.

Soonyoung leads them first, hungry for noise—somewhere loud enough that no one may hear a thought. A tavern, then a private room above it, then another place with quieter doors and louder women. Mingyu buys drinks as though generosity were absolution. He flirts with a barmaid as though flirting were prayer. He winks at a married woman as though the world were a stage and he the only actor who knows his lines. He is unserious in the manner London expects. He makes it look effortless.

Men clap him on the back, delighted to have him back in rotation. Someone calls him a “sly dog” with affectionate envy. Someone else calls him “harmless” as though that were the category men like Mingyu should be grateful for. Harmless. As if it is not a carefully concealed insult. He laughs, because laughter keeps the word from clinging.

Soonyoung is deep in conversation with two girls who have no business being in this room unless they are business themselves—his hands moving as he speaks, his smile too bright to be anything but dangerous. Jeonghan has arranged a card game in a corner, and somehow looks as though he is winning before the first card is even dealt.

Mingyu tells a story about an Ottoman dock and a woman with a knife tucked into her boot, and the room roars. He embellishes it—of course he does. He turns danger into comedy, turns loneliness into applause. What he does not tell them is the moment after, when the laughter died, and he stood alone upon the dock and felt the sea wind cut through him. He does not tell them about the nights abroad when he lay awake and listened to silence, wondering whether he might ever be missed in any manner that mattered. He does not tell them he came home because he was tired of being a story without an ending. Instead, he leans close to a woman with too-red lips and says something that makes her giggle, and he lets her giggle become proof that he remains the man London wants.

Later—much later—he slips somewhere discreet, where the curtains are heavy and the women smile like professionals. He pays, because payment is simpler than promise. He returns to Ashbourne Hall before dawn with his collar slightly askew and his grin still in place. The footman pretends not to observe. Mingyu pretends not to be lonely.

Morning arrives with bright light and no mercy, and if Mingyu were a different sort of man—if he were Joshua, perhaps, or Seungcheol—he might spend the day in penance: tea, ledgers, careful conversation, the slow labour of being respectable. Mingyu spends it in preparation. A valet assaults him with linen and fuss, with the severe assumption that a cravat may keep a man from disgrace if tied tightly enough. Mingyu sits still only because Wonwoo is there, quietly watching, and Wonwoo’s patience is a rarer thing than affection in this family. Mingyu’s fingers drift toward a ring he does not wear—toward a necklace he does not possess—toward any talisman that might explain him to himself. He has none.

By afternoon, he wanders the ground floor of Ashbourne Hall like a visitor in his own inheritance—because it is not his inheritance, not truly. He pauses by the portrait gallery, not out of reverence, but habit. Faces stare down: men who owned their lives without apology; women who were owned and called it destiny. Mingyu looks at them and feels the familiar old ache: being adopted means your life begins with someone choosing you—and never letting you forget it. It is kindness. It is also a sentence.

He thinks of the Viscountess who raised them—formidable, terrifying, brilliant. The sort of woman who could turn boys into men through sheer force of expectation. The sort of woman who could love you and still make you feel love must be earned anew each day. He thinks of Seungcheol, now Viscount, now steadied by a wife who looks as though she was born to calm his storm. Mingyu thinks: And what am I?

The answer London gives him is immediate: trouble. Unreliable. Entertaining. Mingyu gives London what it wants because it is easier than asking for something else.

After dinner, Jeonghan appears at Mingyu’s shoulder like temptation dressed as a brother. “Cards,” he says simply. Mingyu’s eyes narrow. “You mean to ruin me.” Jeonghan smiles. “You are already ruined. I mean to make you wealthy.”

Wonwoo, passing by, pauses. “Try not to get robbed.” Soonyoung bounds down the stairs with the energy of a lit match. “May we be robbed?” he asks, hopeful. “I have never been robbed in Mayfair.” Mingyu points at him. “Give it time.” They go out into the night as though they own it.

The card room is private, polished, chosen for discretion—dark wood, low light, men who speak softly because they know power does not require volume. Haversham is there, lounging like a man who thinks bloodline absolves him of decency. Dalrymple as well—loud enough to be a nuisance, influential enough to be dangerous. They greet Mingyu like a returning toy. “Ashbourne!” Dalrymple booms. “Our wandering son! Come to lose money with grace?” Mingyu bows perfectly. “I only lose with style.”

Jeonghan slides into his seat like a fox into a henhouse. Wonwoo stands behind, watchful, shadowed. Mingyu sits opposite Haversham and smiles as though he has never been wounded by a room like this. Cards are dealt. Coins are stacked. Mingyu plays as he always does: recklessly, beautifully, as though losing cannot hurt. It is a lie, of course. Losing hurts. Winning hurts too. Everything hurts, if one is paying attention.

Haversham leans in at one point, voice low, eyes glittering. “Heard your brother married well,” he murmurs. “Made a spinster into a Viscountess. How charming.” Mingyu’s smile does not move. “It is only charming if you do not know her.” Haversham’s eyes gleam. “Oh, I believe I should like to.”

Dalrymple drinks and grows louder. Someone at the table—some lesser lord with an expensive sneer—lets his gaze travel over Mingyu with contempt disguised as humour. “Adopted sons make such entertaining men,” the lord says. “So eager to prove they belong.” The room quiets: not shocked, not offended—interested. Curious. Waiting to see what Mingyu will do. Mingyu smiles. He has been trained for this, too. “Eager?” he repeats, pleasantly. “No. I merely dislike boredom.” The man laughs. The table laughs. They let it pass, because Mingyu made it light, made it easy, made it forgivable. But the words slide under his skin all the same: adopted. charity. ornament. He has heard them his whole life. He will hear them until he dies.

Jeonghan wins a hand with lazy grace. Mingyu loses one deliberately to keep the room friendly. Then Dalrymple—drunk enough to be bold, foolish enough to be cruel—leans back and says, loud as judgment: “Charity sons,” he declares. “Pretty little ornaments your late Viscountess collected—”

Mingyu’s chair scrapes back. The sound is ugly. The room inhales. Jeonghan’s eyes flick up in warning. Wonwoo’s gaze narrows, already measuring exits. Haversham smiles like he has been waiting for this show. Mingyu smiles too—sweet as venom. “Say it again,” he says softly.

Dalrymple laughs, believing it is still a game. “Charity sons,” he repeats, louder. “Collected so the Ashbournes might pretend at generosity—” Mingyu’s fist meets Dalrymple’s jaw with a speed that shocks even Mingyu. The sound is wrong—flesh upon bone, a crack of consequence. The room gasps. Dalrymple collapses back into his chair with a curse.

Jeonghan swears beneath his breath. Haversham’s smile widens. Mingyu stands there, breathing a touch too hard, knuckles stinging, grin gone. For a split second—only a second—he looks like the truth of himself: not harmless. Not unserious. Not a boy. A man who can be wounded. Jeonghan’s hand closes around Mingyu’s sleeve firmly. “We are leaving,” Jeonghan announces. Mingyu lets himself be pulled, because he knows when to flee—and because he does not trust what he shall do if he stays.

They spill out into the night. The carriage ride home is full of the sort of silence Mingyu detests—the silence where consequences are tallied. Jeonghan leans back, eyes closed, as though resisting the urge to laugh and the urge to scream in equal measure. “You idiot,” he murmurs, not unkindly. “You absolute, beautiful idiot.”

Mingyu flexes his sore hand. “He was asking for it.” Wonwoo’s voice comes from the corner. “So were you.” Mingyu laughs then, but it does not reach his eyes. “London likes me bloody,” he says. “It proves I am still entertaining.” And because he cannot say the truer thing—that he is tired of being entertainment—he adds lightly, “Besides, Dalrymple’s face required rearranging.”

Jeonghan exhales. “Seungcheol will kill you.”

Mingyu’s grin returns, quick as a curtain. “He may try.”

But when they reach Ashbourne Hall and the house is dark and still, Mingyu’s steps soften. In the mirror of the entrance hall, he catches his own face: smile too rehearsed, eyes too bright, jaw too clenched. He looks like a boy desperately trying to become a man. He looks away.

Seungcheol does not kill him. Seungcheol does something far more unsettling: he looks disappointed. Mingyu finds him the next morning in the study—ledger open, ink set out, the new Viscount’s life arranged in papers. Lady Whitlock is there as well, standing by the window with a letter in hand. Mingyu arrives with his knuckles bandaged neatly and his grin armed. Seungcheol does not rise. He does not shout. He simply says, low: “Dalrymple?” Mingyu shrugs like a boy caught stealing sweetmeats. “He was speaking out of turn.” Lady Whitlock’s eyes flick to the bandage, then to Mingyu’s face. Not anger. Not pity. Assessment. “And you?” she asks. Mingyu’s grin falters a fraction. He recovers. “I was listening.”

Seungcheol’s gaze hardens. “You are not a child.”

Mingyu’s mouth curves. “No, but men like him like to pretend I am.”

Seungcheol’s hand closes around his pen, too tight. Lady Whitlock steps forward, and her voice is calm enough to settle storms. “What did he say?”

Mingyu’s breath catches—because she is asking for truth, and truth is not his preferred sport. He gives her something adjacent. “He insulted Mother,” he says lightly. Seungcheol’s jaw ticks. “He insulted us.”

Mingyu laughs softly, “Much the same.”

Lady Whitlock’s gaze holds his. It does not drift away. It does not soften him with kindness. It demands he meet it like a man. “You need not bleed to prove you belong here,” she says. Mingyu opens his mouth to make a joke. Nothing comes.

Seungcheol’s voice is quieter than his anger. “Stop giving them stories.” Mingyu’s brows lift. “London will write them regardless.” Seungcheol leans forward, eyes dangerous. “Then do not hand them the pen.”

Mingyu smiles, because smiling is easier than admitting he does not know how to stop. “Yes, Viscount,” he says, mock-sweet. Seungcheol’s gaze narrows. Lady Whitlock’s hand comes to Seungcheol’s shoulder. He eases back a fraction, as though reminded he is not alone in his anger. Mingyu watches that touch like thirst. Then he bows, turns, and leaves before anyone can ask him what he truly feels.

Night three is where Mingyu doubles down. Because that is what he does when something draws too near to hurting: he becomes louder. The bruise upon his knuckles becomes a jest. The whispers about the fight become proof of vitality. He walks through Mayfair that evening as though he owns the street, as though consequences are for other men. Soonyoung meets him at the door with a grin wide enough to swallow shame. “I heard you struck Dalrymple,” Soonyoung says. “Did it feel good?” Mingyu lifts his sore hand and flexes it theatrically. “Like prayer.” Soonyoung laughs like a bell. “Then we ought to worship.” Jeonghan appears behind Soonyoung with a look that says I will assist you in sin and then drag you from the gutter afterwards.

“No cards tonight,” Jeonghan declares. “Cards require patience. Mingyu possesses none.” Mingyu drapes an arm over Jeonghan’s shoulders affectionately. “I possess patience.” Wonwoo, passing by, murmurs, “For women, perhaps.”

Mingyu gasps, offended. “Wonwoo.” Wonwoo’s eyes flick up. “For applause, then.” Mingyu points at him. “That is also a kind of woman.”

Soonyoung’s grin sharpens. “We are going somewhere scandalous.” Mingyu’s smile is already set. “Somewhere that will make Seungcheol regret not killing me.”

They go to a party where the chandeliers are too bright and the laughter too indulgent. A drawing room full of bored women and hungry men. Someone’s country house just far enough from Mayfair to pretend it is not Mayfair at all. Mingyu flirts as though it were his birthright. He dances with a Marquess’s wife as though husbands are scenery. He tells stories that make women lean closer, and he makes men envy him for precisely the wrong reasons. He kisses a gloved hand and watches the woman’s eyes soften, and he feels the familiar ache—hope, stupid and tender, flickering within him like a candle. He smothers it with another drink.

Jeonghan is in his element—smiling, listening, gathering secrets the way other men collect watches. Soonyoung is a comet—bright, beloved, disastrous. Wonwoo remains near enough to intervene if required, far enough to let Mingyu hang himself with charm.

A man corners Mingyu near a sideboard and speaks with the smirking intimacy of someone who believes rakes are animals one may pat. “You will never marry,” the man says, half-taunt, half-envy. Mingyu lifts his brows. “Is that a warning or a blessing?” The man laughs. “A pity. Women like a man they can reform.”

“Then they should find someone broken enough to enjoy it.” The man blinks, uncertain. Mingyu’s laughter smooths it over at once—mask secured.

Later, outside upon a terrace, Mingyu leans on the stone balustrade and looks down at the garden where lanterns swing like captured stars. He laughs at something said near him, and then—when the laughter fades—he is left with himself. The night air is cool. The sky is indifferent. London glitters as though it is determined to distract him.

A sense of longing creeps up without a name. Of being the youngest, the spare, the one with no title waiting at the end of the line. No inheritance carved into his future. No business dependent upon his decisions. He has always been told his purpose is to be charming, to be useful as a smile in a room, to be the brother who lightens the air. He has been excellent at it. He has also always suspected that excellence does not equal meaning.

A woman slides up beside him—perfume, laughter, intent—and presses close, fingers brushing his sleeve like an invitation. Mingyu turns, offers his smile like coin. “Mr. Ashbourne,” she purrs. “I have heard you are wicked.” He bows, close enough for scandal. “Madam,” he murmurs, “I have heard you are bored.” She laughs. He takes her inside, because it is easier than being alone.  

He leaves later, because staying would mean pretending it mattered. He finds the discreet house again—quiet curtains, paid smiles, a woman who calls him “love” without meaning it. He clings to the lack of meaning like safety. He pays. He thanks her. He departs for Ashbourne Hall before dawn.

Mingyu slips up the stairs like a thief returning to the scene of his own crimes. In the corridor, he passes Seungcheol’s closed door. He hesitates—an absurd impulse to knock, to ask his brother something he has never dared ask any member of his family: What is the point of me?

He keeps walking. Because he already knows the answer he would be given. Be useful. Be charming. Be quiet about your hunger. He reaches his own room and shuts the door. The silence within is thick. He rests his forehead against the cool wood and closes his eyes, smiling though there is no one to see it. “Unserious,” he whispers to himself, tasting the word like a prayer and a curse. He laughs once. Then he straightens, washes the night from his hands, and sleeps like a man who has run out of places to run.

On the fourth night, White’s receives him as though he never left.

It is a different sort of establishment than the taverns Soonyoung favours—less raucous, more assured. The lamps throw their amber over polished wood and well-cut coats, over brandy glasses and newspapers folded with disdain. A room in which men may be boisterous without being vulgar, and careless without ever calling it carelessness. Mingyu goes because it is familiar ground—because it is one of the few places in London where a man may be entirely himself, provided his self is agreeable enough.

Jeonghan comes with him, naturally—games are Jeonghan’s religion and he is never so devout as when money is on the table. Wonwoo is there too, his presence less companionable than it is protective; he does not hover, but the room seems to notice him anyway. Soonyoung arrives late, hair slightly disordered, grin intact, as though chased by delight and only barely escaped it.

Dalrymple is present—of course, he is—installed at a far table with a cluster of men too proud to move their chairs even when resentment makes the air taste faintly metallic. His jaw is still tender if one looks closely enough; his eyes, when they catch Mingyu across the room, are sharp with the kind of grudge that insists on being seen. Haversham lingers near him like a man who enjoys other people’s injuries. They do not approach. Mingyu does not oblige them by looking troubled.

Heads turn when he enters—not in scandal, not in outrage, but in recognition. Someone calls, delighted. “Ashbourne! Back amongst the civilised at last!” Mingyu spreads his arms as though welcoming applause. “Civilised?” he echoes, and his grin lands like flirtation. “I thought this was where gentlemen came to pretend.” The room laughs—because he makes it easy, because he makes everything sound like a joke.

A familiar figure rises from near the fireplace: Lord Pembroke, a pleasant sort of acquaintance—young enough to still enjoy mischief, old enough to know when to keep it discreet. Pembroke’s eyes are bright with amusement as he takes Mingyu in from collar to cuff, as though measuring how well the Continent has worn him. “We heard you became positively shameless abroad,” Pembroke states, a grin tugging at his mouth. “It seems the rumours were modest.” Mingyu inclines his head with mock humility. “Rumours always are.”

Pembroke snorts. “I’ve three sisters. They’ve been talking of you like you’re a storm on the horizon.”

Mingyu’s brows lift, delighted. “I do hope they bring umbrellas.”

Pembroke laughs again, then leans closer, lowering his voice in that intimate way men use when they’re trading currency. “Tell me the truth,” he says. “Are the Frenchwomen truly as obliging as London insists?”

Mingyu’s smile turns dangerous at the edges—not cruel, simply pleased at having an audience. “The French,” he says, as if offering a lecture, “are honest about wanting what they want. It is remarkably restful.”

“Restful,” Pembroke repeats, incredulous and envious. Mingyu’s gaze flicks, briefly, to a group of men watching him from the far side of the room—men whose wives will pretend not to notice him while ensuring their daughters do. He feels the weight of London’s appetite the way a man feels weather about to change. “London,” he adds lightly, “prefers to want in secret.”

Pembroke’s grin sharpens. “And you, Ashbourne? Do you prefer secrets?”

Mingyu lifts his glass. “I prefer whatever the room will forgive.”

The answer is meant as charm. It is also truer than he likes.

Mingyu moves further into the club, accepting a drink, refusing another, accepting a third—because refusal is a power play and Mingyu enjoys power games almost as much as he enjoys being adored for pretending he does not.

He tells a story—Naples, a balcony, a woman who stole his coin purse and kissed him for the privilege—and the men around him roar with delight. He is careful with the details, wicked enough to entertain, clean enough to repeat. He knows where the line sits in this room, and he dances along it like he was born on the edge.

A man with a sharper nose and a sharper laugh—Sir Vale, new to Mingyu’s orbit—leans in with the proprietary air of someone who believes charm is an invitation. “Is it true,” Vale asks, “that you broke a duchess’s heart in Vienna?” Mingyu’s smile flashes. “It is not. I have never broken a heart.”

Vale’s brows rise. “Never?”

Mingyu’s gaze turns innocent. “I only misplace them temporarily.”

The men laugh again. They love him for it—love the ease, the irreverence, the way he makes depravity sound like sport. Vale, encouraged, nudges further. “You are becoming something of a legend,” he says. “My cousin swears you could seduce a nun.”

Mingyu’s eyes glitter—because that is the sort of line that spreads through Mayfair like flame through lace. “A nun,” he repeats, savouring it. “How very ambitious of your cousin.” Pembroke laughs from behind his shoulder. “He’s the youngest Ashbourne,” he says to Vale, as though that explains everything. “He has nothing to inherit but trouble.”

Mingyu’s smile holds—beautiful, bright, well-trained. “I inherit charm,” he says lightly. “It is far more useful than land.”

Vale’s laugh is sharp. “And what do you do with it?” Mingyu lifts his glass, tilting it as though saluting the room. “I spend it,” he says. “Freely.”

Across the room, Dalrymple shifts in his seat, jaw tight, gaze burning—but he stays where he is. Haversham murmurs something to his companions, and they all glance over, hungry for a second round of humiliation. Mingyu does not give them the satisfaction. He turns his shoulder, blocking them out as one blocks out an ugly painting. He is not here for grudges. He is here for the familiar comfort of being wanted—if only for the story of him.

Soonyoung reappears, triumphant, with a glass in each hand. “They’ve missed you,” he declares, settling close with giddy satisfaction. “One gentleman called you ‘a blessing to boredom,’ Mingyu.” Mingyu’s grin deepens. “That is the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

Pembroke shakes his head, laughing. “You will be the ruin of half the Season.” Mingyu’s eyes flick over the room—over the men who will go home to wives and sermons, over the ones who will go home to silence, over the ones who will go home to nothing but themselves. “Half?” he says. “What restraint you credit me with.”

Vale leans in again, voice dropping into the tone men use when they think they are sharing something delicious. “Speaking of the Season,” he says, “there is a new fascination.” Mingyu’s brows lift—polite, faintly bored. He pretends he is not always listening for the next story to swallow him whole. “Is there?” he asks, as though it hardly matters. Pembroke chuckles. “You’ve been gone too long, Ashbourne. You’ve missed the newest saint.” That word—saint—lands with a curious weight, as though it has been polished for effect. Mingyu tips his head, amused despite himself. “A saint,” he repeats. “In Mayfair. How novel.”

Pembroke supplies the name like the punchline to a joke.“Miss Marlowe.”

It lands softly, and yet something in the air changes—the faintest click of a latch somewhere across the city, as if a door has been opened in a house Mingyu hasn’t yet visited. Mingyu does not react. He is far too adept at not reacting. But his attention—quiet, quick, predatory in the gentlest sense—tilts. Pembroke speaks with the relish of a man delivering gossip. “Reverend Marlowe’s daughter,” he says. “Devotion made flesh. The sort of girl men speak of as though she were carved of marble and placed on an altar.”

Vale snorts. “Her father displays her like proof,” he adds. “Like virtue is a bauble he may polish and hold up to the light.”

Soonyoung makes a face. “That sounds miserable.”

It should have been enough to dull Mingyu’s curiosity. It does not. Because anything described like that—anything displayed, polished, praised for stillness—sounds like a performance. Or a cage.

Mingyu takes a slow sip, letting the taste of challenge settle upon his tongue, and then repeats her name as though testing it for sport. “Miss Marlowe.”

Pembroke watches him over the rim of his glass as he leans closer, eyes gleaming with the wicked enjoyment of a man who has found a new way to entertain himself. “They say she has never been alone with a man. Never so much as accepted a private word without her father hovering. They say she recites Scripture as easily as she breathes,” he murmurs. “And they say,” he adds, “that she’s the most virginal creature in the ton.”

There it is—not admiration, not piety: the core of the thing. A conquest framed as purity. A woman turned into an object simply by remaining untouched. Mingyu should be disgusted. Instead, he feels—terribly—something like interest bloom, bright and reckless, because boredom has always been his greatest enemy and Mayfair has just offered him a new distraction dressed in holiness. Vale gives him a look, half-taunt, half-invitation. “Surely even you wouldn’t,” he says, voice too casual to be innocent. Pembroke laughs, and the laugh carries the thrill of a wager. “No,” he agrees. “Even Ashbourne must have limits.”

Mingyu’s smile widens. “Is that what you think?” he asks. Pembroke’s brows lift. “Do you mean to tell me,” Pembroke says, “that you could draw a saint off her pedestal and have her thank you for it?”

Soonyoung groans, already weary. “Oh, here we go.”

Vale’s eyes gleam like a man watching a match meet oil. “Prove it,” he states simply.

The room around them continues—games, laughter, quiet cruelty—but in this small circle something tightens, becomes intent. Men have always liked to dare a man like Mingyu. They like to see if the legend is true. They like to borrow danger for an evening and then go home to their respectable beds. Mingyu turns his glass slowly in his hand, considering. Not her, not really. The story of her. The idea of a girl kept so carefully holy that her life must feel like a room with the doors nailed shut. The possibility of making Mayfair gasp. The delicious ease of leaning into the persona he has perfected: rake, flirt, pretty trouble, a man who takes what he wants and laughs while doing it.

He lifts his eyes to Pembroke and Vale—two men grinning like boys holding a stick over a kennel, waiting to see what bites. Mingyu’s expression remains warm, lazy, amused. “Gentlemen,” he says, “you make her sound like a locked room.” A pause—just long enough for the image to settle: a door, a key, a secret kept too carefully. Mingyu’s smirk curves, wicked at the edges. “And I’ve never met a lock I didn’t wish to pick.”

The effect is immediate. Pembroke brightens as though he’s just been handed an excellent story. Vale leans back, satisfied—challenge accepted, wager sealed. Soonyoung lets out a long, suffering breath, as if he can already see the scandal unfurling like a banner across the Season. Pembroke raises his drink first. “To trouble,” he declares—pleased as a man who will not have to carry the consequences. Vale follows at once. “To trouble,” he echoes, laughing into the rim of his glass. Soonyoung mutters, then lifts his glass anyway, resignation painted over reluctant amusement. “To trouble,” he says.

Mingyu lifts his glass last, letting the room around them hum on, ignorant of the small pact being struck at its centre. “To saints,” Mingyu replies. “May they finally learn to live.”

The room around him chortles—already composing tomorrow’s version of the tale: Mingyu Ashbourne and the reverend’s perfect daughter, vice leaning close to virtue for the amusement of a man. Mingyu lets them. But somewhere deep—beneath the laughter, beneath the mask—something in him awakens, alert and hungry and terribly alive. Not for innocence. For what innocence so often hides: a want sharp enough to cut through holiness, if only someone dares touch the weapon. He drowns it in laughter before it can become anything so dangerous as hope.

Music, in your father’s world, is only holy when it does not sound like pleasure. The charity performance is held beneath a ceiling painted with saints who seem, from the floor, to be either ascending or falling; it is difficult to tell which, and perhaps that is the trick of such ceilings—to make collapse look like devotion from a sufficient distance. Tonight, London has dressed mercy in satin.

Your father approves of this sort of event because it allows goodness to be seen. It permits charity to become a spectacle; piety to become architecture. Ladies in pale gowns carry sympathy in their posture and diamonds at their ears. Gentlemen lower their voices when speaking of abandoned children, as though quietness itself might be mistaken for depth of feeling. A list has been published. A sum has already been whispered about with satisfaction. Names matter as much as donations. More, perhaps. Your father likes that. He likes rooms where virtue may be measured publicly. He likes rooms where you may be measured too.

The journey there is performed in silence, as most things in your father’s company are. He sits opposite you in the carriage, immaculate in black, his gloves folded beside him, his Bible absent only because this is an evening of respectable society rather than open worship. Yet his authority travels with him the way incense clings to church walls. Even in a carriage lined with velvet, even beneath the muffled rattle of wheels over stone, he manages to make the air feel arranged. You sit as you have been taught to sit: straight-backed, hands folded lightly over your lap, chin neither too high nor too low, your face composed into that gentle attentiveness people call sweetness. The gown chosen for you is dove-grey, because your father distrusts colours that appear to enjoy themselves. The neckline is modest. The sleeves are neat. A narrow ribbon trims the bodice with such restraint that even the ornament seems apologetic. At your throat, there is nothing bright enough to accuse you of conceit. At your wrist, hidden beneath your sleeve, the red carnelian beads press quietly into your skin—your rosary, your burden, your small chain disguised as prayer.

“You will remain near me,” your father says at last, and though the instruction is unnecessary—though you have already arranged your entire body around obedience—the words still settle over you like an iron fence lowered into place. “Yes, Father.”

He studies you, not with tenderness but with exactness, as though checking a lock. “This is not a ball,” he continues. “Nor a place for frivolity. The purpose of the evening is charity, not display.” A small pause. “You understand.” Of course, you understand. You always understand. Understanding is rarely the issue. Endurance is. “Yes, Father.”

His gaze lingers on your face, perhaps searching for any sign that your mind has drifted into vanity, vanity being his preferred name for any spark of selfhood he did not authorise. “There will be many present,” he says. “You will answer when addressed. Briefly. Kindly. Without encouragement.” Without encouragement. As if warmth in a woman is a door left ajar. “Yes, Father.” He nods once, satisfied, and the silence returns. You watch the blurred lantern-light through the carriage glass and think, not for the first time, that London is a body in constant motion while your own life has been reduced to posture. You are being taken somewhere full of music and money and fashionable concern, and still it feels less like an arrival than an arrangement. Your thumb presses, once, against the hidden bead nearest your wrist. A prayer without words. Or perhaps only pressure.

The hall is already full when you arrive. Names meet names at the entrance with softened exclamations. Gloves are surrendered. Invitations are shown. Somewhere within, instruments are tuned—the delicate complaint of strings, the low testing breath of winds, the anticipatory murmur of a room learning how to become an audience. Your father offers his name and title with that measured gravity which makes even a simple introduction feel like a correction. People move to greet him quickly. A woman in plum silk curtsies too low. A gentleman with side-whiskers and moral enthusiasm praises the cause and looks at your father as though the Reverend Marlowe himself might have personally rescued each abandoned infant from the streets. You stand at his side, a pace behind and half-turned toward him, exactly where years of conditioning have taught you to place yourself.

You are looked at. Not stared at—staring would be vulgar—but considered, noted, approved of in glances. A daughter such as you reflects well. You know this. It is one of the first truths your father built into you: that your body, your speech, your stillness, your very expression, may all be made useful to another person’s reputation if properly arranged.

Lady Henshaw is among the first to approach, all pearls and quiet hunger. “Reverend Marlowe,” she greets, her voice smooth with the pleasure of being seen in the right place for the right reasons. “How good of you to attend. And Miss Marlowe—” her smile settles on you, “—such grace in so young a creature.” Your father inclines his head. The compliment is accepted on your behalf. You lower your gaze by the exact degree expected. “You are kind, Lady Henshaw.”

Her eyes flick over your face, your gown, the disciplined line of your posture. “And so modest,” she says softly, almost to herself. You have learned that praise, from women like her, is often only a prettier form of inventory.

Another group approaches. Another introduction. Another set of approving glances. Another remark on your father’s sermon last Sunday, on your father’s admirable devotion, on the cause tonight, on the state of the city and the mercy due its lost children. The irony is not lost on you. Abandoned children. Foundlings. A room full of titled concern raising funds for those the world has discarded.

The announcement ripples through the room not formally, but in that subtler way of good society—a bend in conversation, a turning of heads, the faint collective adjustment of attention as though half the room has been tugged by the same invisible thread. A lady, midway through a sentence, lets the words die prettily on her lips. A gentleman near the aisle shifts to gain a clearer view while pretending not to. Your father notices the change and stiffens almost imperceptibly. You do not look immediately. That, too, is training. But eventually your gaze lifts with polite delay, and there they are. The Ashbournes enter not as one body but as a constellation—related, distinct, impossible not to trace together.

The man at the front can only be the Viscount. There is something about him that settles the question before reason does: the way he carries the room without performing for it, the grave assurance in his posture, the sort of composure that stopped trying to prove itself and became authority instead. He is darkly dressed, impeccably cut, broad-shouldered without ostentation, his expression held in that line between courtesy and reserve. At his side—just enough to preserve decorum, just close enough to undo it—is his wife. The new Viscountess Ashbourne.

You know her for no better reason than that no woman in this room could be mistaken for anyone else while walking beside him like that. She is not fragile in the pretty way the ton likes its brides to be. There is something unshakable in her. Her elegance does not plead to be admired; it assumes the room will sort itself out around her, and, most irritatingly for many present no doubt, the room seems inclined to do exactly that. She turns her head as someone greets them, and the Viscount inclines toward her, as though the axis of his attention has been altered by marriage. A touch follows—brief, unconscious perhaps, the kind of touch that should not feel intimate in public and yet does. They are not making a display of devotion. Which is, perhaps, why everyone keeps staring as though they are.

A pace behind them, or perhaps merely orbiting at a distance chosen by habit, come the others.

One of the brothers—beautiful in a manner almost too deliberate to be innocent—seems to wear charm not as instinct but as strategy. There is something too smooth about him to be harmless, with a ledger-minded sort of expression in evening dress. He pauses almost immediately to acknowledge a committee member. You place him, tentatively, as the one connected to the family business. Jeonghan. If any of the brothers could step from a counting room into a ballroom without changing expression, you think it would be him.

Another remains half in shadow longer than the others, enough that people register him only after they have finished registering those more obviously brilliant. His stillness has a different quality from your father’s. Not rigid. Not corrective. Simply observant. He moves little and misses nothing. There is something almost private in the severity of his attention, as though he has not entered the room to be seen but to take measure of everyone else already in it. That one, you think, must be the silent one—Wonwoo. The brother whose name is usually spoken with a small shrug and a curious sort of respect, as though nobody can quite understand what he thinks and suspects it might matter.

Then another turns slightly, speaking to some older woman near the entrance with a smile so polished and a face so open and handsome it nearly constitutes insolence. There is a softer grace to him than to the others—not weakness, but steadiness, the kind that suggests he knows how to make space in a room rather than occupy it. He does not glitter the way Jeonghan does, nor brood the way Wonwoo does. That must be Joshua—the one whose name tends to surface in conversation with less scandal than the others and yet never without affection, as though even gossip struggles to sharpen itself against him.

And then there is one more—a flash of movement, of barely-contained life—who seems as though he might at any moment remember that standing still is an option and decline it on principle. He says something to one of his brothers and is answered with what can only be fraternal tolerance. Even from where you stand, you can sense the brightness of him, the kind of man who enters a room as though rooms are opportunities rather than obligations. Soonyoung. It is almost enough to make you smile, though you would sooner confess a crime than permit that in front of your father.

Near you, two women lower their voices into the polite hush of people pretending not to gossip. “The foundlings,” one murmurs, as though charity itself has become somehow more pointed by their attendance. “Yes—well,” the other replies, “one can hardly imagine a more suitable cause.” The words are quiet. Soft enough to pass for sympathy. Biting enough, still, to draw blood if one wished.

Then the last of them enters your notice, not because he was hidden before, but because the eye arrives at him differently. A pair of young ladies farther down the row lower their voices and yet lean perceptibly forward. One gentleman near the gallery smiles in that knowing, mildly envious way men smile at the mention of a well-liked rogue. Even Lady Henshaw’s attention, for one indecorously honest instant, strays from the patroness she is flattering. You know him at once without having ever seen him. Not by certainty. By instinct. Mingyu Ashbourne.

Not because he is louder than the others—he is not—but because he seems to move according to some private rhythm of his own. Everything about him is correct—his evening clothes immaculate, his cravat tied precisely, his posture easy in the way only very well-born or very reckless men can afford. And yet there is something in him that resists the polish. Something half-loosened. Sun-warmed. Unrepentantly alive. He is smiling at something said beside him, and though you cannot hear the words, the smile itself is enough to explain why his name arrives wrapped in warning wherever it is spoken. It is not merely that he is handsome, though he is. It is not merely that he looks charming, though he does. It is that he carries ease like a provocation. As though the rules pressing down on everyone else have slipped from his shoulders without his ever once apologising for the relief of it. You understand, suddenly and unwillingly, why the women at the sermon had not sounded wholly disapproving.

Beside you, your father says, low enough for only you to hear, “Do not stare.” Only then do you realise that you are. Heat flashes through you—part shame, part irritation, part the old childish resentment of being corrected before you have even committed a crime. “I was not, Father.” He does not answer. He merely offers his arm, and you place your hand there because refusal is not among the choices available to you. You are guided deeper into the hall.

The performance space has been arranged with all the grandeur money can purchase and taste can justify. Rows of chairs fill the central floor. The orchestra sits assembled in a half-moon of poised instruments. Music stands catch the candlelight. Programs printed on cream paper have been left on every seat. There are flowers, of course—white and pale gold, chosen to signal purity. Your father has already decided where you will sit.

The second row, slightly to the side, near enough to the front to be visible and near enough to the aisle to be managed. He seats you first and only then takes his place beside you, which is his way of ensuring the arrangement feels less like subordination. You smooth your skirts. Fold your hands. Lower your eyes to the program. Messiah. Selections to be performed in aid of the Foundling Hospital.

People continue to take their seats. Murmurs rise and fall. Programs rustle. Somewhere to your left, a young man whispers with indecorous excitement to his friend until his mother hushes him with a glance. Somewhere to your right, an elderly lady clears her throat like a woman who believes all cultural undertakings improve in proportion to her audible approval. When at last the house settles and the anticipatory murmur thins into something more disciplined, the conductor lifts his hand. And then the first notes rise.

The strings lay down their bright foundation; the winds answer; and the sound, once begun, behaves like something older than every person gathered beneath the painted saints above—older than rank, older than fashion, older even than the pieties this room has dressed itself in for the evening. You have always thought there is a species of cruelty in sacred music. It awakens. It reaches. It dares the body to feel. And then, in the same breath, it reminds you that feeling itself must be governed.

The chorus rises after—each voice submitting itself to a greater order and thus becoming, by some impossible contradiction, more piercingly human for the surrender. Sorrow is clothed in harmony. Hope is arranged. Grief becomes something lustrous enough to bear witness in public. Around you, the audience receives it with the solemn pleasure of people permitted, for one evening, to be moved respectably.

Your father sits beside you in absolute stillness. He does not cough. Does not shift. Does not betray, in any visible manner, that music may enter him at all. Yet you know the severe attention of his listening face: the narrowing about the eyes, the tightening of the mouth, the look of a man defending himself against any sensation not already sanctified by doctrine. You listen too, because not listening would be impossible. Because however carefully your father has spent the years of your girlhood attempting to train every inward motion into order, music still slips where sermons cannot. It touches without permission.

A soprano rises from the body of the chorus, and the note she holds is so brilliant, so startlingly human, that something within your chest answers before you can forbid it. Not with tears—you are not a child. Not with any blush of romantic foolishness. With ache. With that old, half-buried sense of being called toward something unnamed and then condemned for hearing it. The audience is very quiet. A page turns somewhere three rows ahead. A lady’s bracelet gives a delicate chime against the stem of her glass. Outside, faint beneath the walls and the candlelight and the velvet intentions of the evening, a carriage rolls over stone. Inside, music opens door after door.

You try not to think of freedom. You think of it anyway. Not freedom as scandal. Not freedom as some breathless impropriety whispered about over tea. Nothing theatrical. Only freedom as motion. As breath taken without anyone listening for irregularity. As thought permitted to remain your own. As laughter that does not require repentance after. The notion enters your mind with such absurd untimeliness that you nearly resent the music for having loosened it there. Your fingers tighten, once, over the hidden beads at your wrist. Then, as though the thought itself has conjured consequence, some instinct turns your head. One glance cast over the line of your shoulder, a look meant for nothing and therefore all the more dangerous for what it finds.

He is behind you. Not near enough to scandalise, not near enough even to claim significance, merely one gentleman among many gathered in polished rows beneath candlelight and charity. And yet your gaze finds him at once, as though recognition had preceded acquaintance and merely waited for sight to confirm it. Mingyu Ashbourne is not watching the conductor. He is watching you.

It cannot have been for long. Perhaps he had only that instant looked up. Perhaps your own traitorous awareness has dressed accident in meaning. Yet when your eyes meet his, his expression alters—not with insolence, not with the easy predatory satisfaction of a man pleased by being admired, but with something far more aggravating: a flicker of interest so immediate and so unforced that it feels less like being looked at than being found. You turn away first.

Heat rises along your throat with the swiftness of shame long-practised. You lower your eyes to the cream-coloured program in your lap, though the neat black print swims for a moment before it steadies. “Keep thy heart with all diligence; for out of it are the issues of life.” The verse rises in your mind like a hand at your throat. Guard the door. Shut the gate. Still, that brief look remains—small as a spark, ridiculous as a spark, and yet capable of setting something alight if you are foolish enough to cup your hands around it. You force yourself toward the music.

A printed subscription list is passed down the line. Your father signs—his hand neither ostentatious nor mean, his donation proper enough to be admired and modest enough to be called sincere. You watch the black line of his name dry upon the page and wonder, not for the first time, whether children ever truly benefit from events like this, or whether the greater sum is paid merely to purchase the right to call oneself compassionate. The list passes on. The next selection begins.

By the time the final notes of the piece fade and the room rises into applause—the restraint cracking just enough to admit genuine admiration—your nerves feel peculiarly taut, as though the performance has not calmed you but stretched something thinner beneath the skin. People stand. Your father stands. You rise with him as naturally as a shadow rises with the body that casts it. The hall loosens at once into its second life: no longer an audience, but society again. Chairs scrape back. Programs are folded. Footmen appear with trays. Committees reform in conversational knots. Gratitude begins to circulate as visibly as the refreshments.

Your father is immediately drawn into the orbit of significance. A donor of consequence greets him. A patroness praises his continued support. Some ecclesiastical acquaintance requests a word on the morality of charitable theatricals, as though tonight’s event had not already answered the question more profitably than theology ever could. You remain where you are placed—half a pace to his side, a degree behind—answering when addressed and only then.

“You are very kind.” “It is an honour to attend.” “The cause is worthy.”

Small polished responses, shaped by repetition, each one giving away nothing not already approved.

A slight disturbance in the current of attention near your father’s shoulder tells you before sight does who has approached. Viscount Ashbourne.

He offers your father the formal courtesies first. His thanks for the Reverend’s attendance. A word on the evening’s success. Another, lower and more sincere, upon the cause itself. There is no theatricality in him. No effort to display virtue because he does not seem to mistrust its existence in himself. And that, perhaps, is what gives the exchange its brief, surprising weight.

Your father receives him with the kind of civility he extends only when refusal would itself become noticeable. You lower your eyes because you are not the person being addressed. Yet you are aware, sharply, of details all the same. The Viscount’s voice—deeper than your father’s, steadier, not built for laughter but capable of gentleness when turned toward it. The simple gleam of his signet ring when he gestures. The unmistakable fact that he has given generously tonight, and not because fashion required it.  

You have heard enough of the Ashbourne history to understand why this cause would draw them. Foundlings raising money for foundlings. The city finds such circles poetic when they end in wealth.

Your father says something about Christian duty. The Viscount answers with a politeness so controlled it nearly disguises the weariness beneath it. They begin to speak of the hospital itself, of governance, of obligations, of the practical burdens charity prefers not to name when music is still in the air. And because your father is listening—truly listening, which is rarer than most people realise—his attention shifts just enough for your leash to lengthen. Not drop. Never drop. But lengthen.

You remain still. You would not know what else to do. There is nowhere to go. No legitimate reason to move. Only a table near the wall where lemonade gleams in crystal and little sugared cakes go untouched by all but the very young and the secretly greedy. A low warmth enters the air at your shoulder, and before surprise can form, a voice says, close enough to belong to you and yet wholly unentitled to the position: “If I am not mistaken, I have found the only person in the room not pretending to enjoy lemonade.”

You turn. He is there. Mingyu Ashbourne holds an untouched glass in his hand and another in yours before you have consented to the exchange, as though conversation is a current he has stepped into and naturally assumes you will be carried with him. He bows, though not deeply enough to suggest obedience. “Miss Marlowe.” It is not a question. He has guessed you correctly. You are vexed by the accuracy of it. “Mr. Ashbourne.”

His mouth curves, as if pleased less by being answered than by the fact that you have not fled at once. “I considered introducing myself more properly,” he says, glancing lightly toward your father and the Viscount, “but your father looks as though he would have me excommunicated for breathing near you.”

You should be horrified. You are horrified. And yet something perilously like amusement stirs beneath the horror simply because no one—no one—speaks of your father as though he might be inflated. As though he belongs to the natural world rather than to God himself. “Then you ought not breathe near me at all.”

He smiles at that—not broadly, not triumphantly, but with the bright private pleasure of a man who has just discovered that a statue has opinions. “A harsh sentence,” he says. “Especially after such a holy evening.”

You do not answer. The lemonade in your hand feels absurdly cold. Mingyu glances toward the flower arrangement, then back at you, and there is something almost infuriating in the ease with which he seems to stand in the room, as though architecture and hierarchy and expectation alike are only furniture to be moved around his own comfort. “Did you like it?” he asks. The question is so simple that you do not at first understand it. “The performance,” he clarifies. Not whether it was worthy. Not whether it served the cause. Not whether the chorus was admirable or the evening elevating or the charitable attendance sufficient. Whether you liked it. The indecency of the question nearly steals your breath.

No one asks women such things unless they mean to flirt with trivialities—ribbons, pastries, weather, dances. To ask whether you liked music, as though your pleasure in it might matter independently, feels unnervingly close to asking whether you exist somewhere beyond obedience. You answer the way you have been trained. “It was beautiful.”

One of his brows lifts. “Yes,” he says. “It was also long. And solemn. And full of men congratulating themselves. I asked whether you liked it.” You stare at him. He ought to offend you. He does offend you. Yet not cleanly enough to spare you the second, worse sensation: curiosity.

“It is not always the same thing,” he continues lightly, “beauty and liking. I have known ladies admired by entire ballrooms whom their husbands found intolerable by breakfast.”

You cannot help it. Your eyes flick to his face in startled disbelief. His own remains perfectly grave—so grave, indeed, that the line ceases to be wicked and becomes ridiculous. Which is when he ruins you. He lowers his voice, glances at the untouched cake nearest the lemonade tray, and says with the utmost solemnity: “Though I do think the sugared ones may yet save the evening. They possess more warmth than half the gentlemen present.”

You look at the little cakes. At his face. At the terrible earnestness with which he appears to place their moral significance above the sermon of the evening. And something in you—something starved, something buried, something that has been held too tightly for too long—slips its leash. A laugh escapes. It is not loud. God, no. It is scarcely more than a startled breath shaped suddenly into brightness. But it is unmistakably a laugh. Your world—built of lowered lashes and measured answers and the constant vigilance of never permitting too much life to show—falters around that one small betrayal. You hear it yourself as though from outside your own body. A laugh. Like a crime. Your hand flies to your mouth too late.

Mingyu stills. He looks at you not with self-satisfied delight, but with something far more disarming—something startled and almost tender, as though he had not expected the laugh either and now cannot quite believe it exists. “There you are,” he says softly. The words strike you with far more force than the joke that produced them. As if he has found something. As if there is, beneath all your father’s discipline and your own careful stillness, a version of you waiting to be heard. You hate him for the intimacy of it. “You are impertinent,” you say, lowering your hand. His smile returns, though quieter now. “Frequently.”

“And intolerable.”

“Less often than I deserve.” The answer comes so promptly, so smoothly, that your mouth threatens treachery again. You force it into composure.

“Miss Marlowe.” Your father does not raise his voice. He does not need to. The quietness of it is far worse—edged so finely it slices through the moment without disturbing a single other note in the room. Shock turns you before thought can. Reverend Marlowe is no longer wholly occupied by Viscount Ashbourne. The conversation has been severed with all the cold elegance of a man too disciplined to make a scene and too displeased to conceal himself. Seungcheol stands beside him, his expression unreadable save for the fact that he has understood, at once, what has occurred and what it has cost you. But it is your father’s face that arrests you.

Not anger. Not in any vulgar, visible sense. Something worse. His gaze rests first upon Mingyu, then upon you, then returns to the fact of the two of you standing near enough to suggest familiarity, near enough to suggest ease, near enough to make the blood in your veins turn suddenly to ice. Mingyu straightens at once.

Whatever lightness had softened him before is banked. Disciplined. He inclines his head with a courtesy suddenly exact. Your father gives him less. “Mr. Ashbourne.” The words are polite enough for the space. Cold enough for you. Mingyu answers in kind. “Reverend Marlowe.”

A beat passes. In it lives every whispered warning from the pews, every sermon sharpened by implication, every instinct in you already recoiling toward punishment. Then your father turns to you. “We are leaving.”

No explanation. No room for protest. No raised tone. Yet the sentence lands with the full weight of command. Your breath catches. For one absurd instant, you are aware of Viscount Ashbourne standing there, of his presence becoming witness by accident, of the unbearable mortification of being seen at the edge of discipline by a family whose very existence seems to offend and fascinate your father in equal measure. You lower your gaze at once. “Yes, Father.”

Only then does Reverend Marlowe conclude the interruption with the bare minimum of social grace. He inclines his head toward the Viscount, offers some final, measured phrase regarding the evening’s admirable purpose, and receives the Viscount’s reply without allowing even the shadow of disorder to show upon his face. Then his hand comes to your arm. To anyone watching, it is guidance. To you, it is a warning given flesh. His fingers close just firmly enough over your elbow to make the meaning plain.

You do not dare look at Mingyu again. Not now. Not with your father’s hand upon you and consequence moving toward you with the dreadful certainty of a carriage set on rails. Yet as Reverend Marlowe turns you toward the exit and steers you from the hall with a speed only barely restrained into respectability, you feel the echo of that one impossible laugh still caught somewhere beneath your ribs—bright, illicit, living— like contraband you have not yet learned how to surrender.

By the time you return home, your father’s displeasure has shed whatever public shape it was obliged to wear and become something infinitely more dangerous. He says nothing in the entrance hall, nothing while your cloak is taken, nothing as he mounts the stairs. It is not until he has led you, not toward your chamber, but toward his study, that your pulse begins to beat in hard, distinct strokes beneath your skin.

The room is exactly as it always is—shelves lined with theology and commentary, desk squared to the carpet, candlesticks trimmed, Bible laid where it ought to be. There is the prayer kneeler in the corner, the straight-backed chair near the hearth, the faint smell of lamp oil and paper and extinguished fire that belongs only to this room where man mistakes control for righteousness. He closes the door behind you, and the sound lands ike a lock.

When he tells you to kneel, your body obeys before your mind has completed its recoil. The rug beneath your knees is thin enough to remind, thick enough that he may still call what follows small. Small, in your father’s lexicon, has never meant merciful. It has only ever meant invisible. You fold yourself down with care—knees together, back straight, hands in your lap—while he goes to the desk and opens the Bible with those calculated fingers of his. The candlelight sharpens the severe line of his profile. He does not look at you immediately. That, too, is part of it. He likes a punishment to gather itself before it falls.

At length, his voice cuts through the room. “Repeat James,” he commands, and your lips part, the words rising because they have been made to live inside you. “Let no man say when he is tempted, I am tempted of God: for God cannot be tempted with evil, neither tempteth he any man.” He does not let the verse settle before telling you to continue, and so you do. “But every man is tempted, when he is drawn away of his own lust, and enticed.”

The word enticed seems to hang there, newly sharpened by the memory of lemonade, candlelight, and a laugh that was never meant to escape. Your father does not look up from the page and bids you say it again. Then again. Then once more, until the verse begins to loosen from meaning and become rhythm only—the way repeated correction often does, sanding language down until it ceases to illuminate and serves only to bruise. Your knees feel a gradual ache. The carnelian beads hidden at your wrist burn quietly against your pulse.

When at last he closes the Bible, he does not raise his voice. He merely asks, in the manner of catechism, what a woman’s first defence is. “Discipline, Father,” you answer. He asks for the second and third, and you give him “modesty” and “silence” in turn, because you have known these responses so long they sit in your mouth like prayers. He inclines his head once. “And what did you fail in tonight?”

The truest answer lodges like a stone in your throat: that you failed in letting something living in you be heard. But that is not the answer he seeks, and so you give him the one he does. “Silence, Father.” He asks what came before that, and you answer “discipline.” Before that? “Modesty.” The order scarcely matters; what matters is the confession. Your father is not interested in sequence. He is interested in surrender.

He steps nearer—not enough to touch, but near enough that his shadow reaches you first and lies itself across the floorboards. “A woman’s reputation,” he announces in that gravely even tone, “may be ruined first in sound. A laugh. A tone. A response too eager. Men hear invitation where foolish girls imagine they have merely been pleasant.”

Pleasant. How swiftly, in his mouth, even warmth is made suspect. You keep your eyes lowered and answer “Yes, Father,” because there is no utility in refusing a truth he has no intention of allowing you to contest. When he tells you that you are not foolish, the words ought perhaps to resemble mercy. They do not. “No, Father,” you reply, and his answer comes at once: “Then do not behave like one.”

He moves to the kneeler and returns with a square of rough cloth folded once over itself. You know it before he places it upon your outstretched hands. There are objects in this house whose purpose is so constant they become as eloquent as law. The cloth scratches through your gloves; then he sets the Bible upon it. The weight is not unbearable. That is the point. You are told you will hold it and pray for discernment, and you answer “Yes, Father” as the burden settles itself first into your palms, then your wrists, then the line of your shoulders. Your father returns to his desk. “Aloud,” he says, and so you begin.

Not your own prayer. Confession first. Protection from temptation. Then at last he directs you toward the psalm he has favoured since your twelfth year. “Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.” Again. “Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.” Again.

The minutes cease to move after that. They lengthen and soften at the edges until they become something more like weather than time. Your arms grow heavier by degrees. Your knees throb steadily beneath the fabric of your skirts. The Bible reveals its full shape to your body only slowly: first as weight, then as drag, then as a demand not to tremble. From the desk comes the quiet scratch of your father’s pen, for even your punishment need not interrupt his usefulness. The humiliation of that—of being made to strain and pray and hold while he writes as though one more letter mattered no less than your correction—settles over you almost more heavily than the book itself.

Once, your right hand trembles. He does not even look up when he tells you to steady it. You do. You always do. The heat gathering at the corners of your eyes is not quite tears, only pressure; you blink it away before it may become visible. Again the prayer leaves your mouth, and again, until the words fracture and reveal their rawest shape beneath the piety. Make me easier to govern. Make me less audible. Make me less alive where I ought to be.

Yet, beneath the prayer—because the mind is its own treacherous country and your father cannot patrol every field of it, no matter how fervently he believes he should—another voice returns, warm with amusement and impossible now to unhear. There you are.

You hate yourself for the comfort of it. You hate him for having spoken it. You hate the fact that even here, on your knees, under Scripture, beneath your father’s eye, some small hidden part of you reaches toward that remembered tone as though toward heat. You pray louder.

Finally, your father rises. He comes toward you and lifts the Bible from your hands, and the sudden absence of weight is so abrupt it leaves your arms suspended before you may lower them into your lap. Needles of relief and pain race through your wrists. You do not flex your fingers. You do not give your body away. He does not yet tell you to stand.

Instead, he looks down at you and asks, “What will you do if Mr. Ashbourne addresses you again?” Your throat tightens around the answer before you shape it. “I will withdraw, Father.”

He studies you for a long moment, perhaps searching for sincerity, perhaps contenting himself with obedience. Finally: “You may rise.” Your knees protest when you stand, but you keep the wince from your face. Years of practice. Years of necessity.

He closes the Bible with finality. “You will take no supper tonight,” he tells you, and though the punishment is small, it carries all the force because it is not hunger he intends, but reminder. “And tomorrow morning, before breakfast, you will recite James again,” he adds. You answer as expected. “Yes, Father.”

He dismisses you with a turn of his hand. You leave the study on unsteady legs and close the door behind you without sound. Your chamber receives you exactly as you left it—neat, still, obedient in every corner. The bed has been turned down. The washstand prepared. The curtains half-drawn against the night.

You remove your gloves slowly. The marks the beads have left upon your skin are faint but visible, small red impressions where carnelian pressed into your wrist. Higher up, beneath silk, your father’s fingers have already left their deeper ache. Your knees throb. Your palms bear the shape of the Bible’s edge. Yet when you sit at the vanity and stare at your own face in the mirror, nothing is obvious. That is the point of small punishments. No bruise another person might be required to notice. No tear-swollen eyes. No disorder dramatic enough to testify for you. Only a little more caution fitted beneath the skin. You ought, perhaps, to feel corrected. Instead, you feel divided.

The obedient daughter sits here now in dove-grey silk, one pin at a time loosened from her hair. The other girl—the one who laughed—is nowhere to be seen and yet somehow more present than ever. You hate her for emerging. You hate him for hearing her. There you are.

You shut your eyes. No. You do not belong to a sentence spoken by a man you have met once. Then, so quickly it startles you upright, another thought flashes behind it, bright and terrible as a struck match in the dark: you do not belong to your father either.

When you open your eyes again, your own face in the mirror looks like it belongs to someone else. Because now that you know what it is to answer without permission, to be seen not as proof but as presence, you cannot unknow it. And desire, in your father’s theology, begins not with action but with memory.

Later, when you kneel at your bedside—because distress seeks the posture—you bow your head and pray for the things you have always been told are worth praying for: forgiveness, restraint, silence, the removal of temptation, the forgetting of one man’s face, the forgetting of your own laughter. But when you finally lie down, the house dark around you and your body sore in all the small, hidden places discipline favours, it is not Scripture that returns first. It is his voice. There you are.

You turn onto your side and press the heel of your hand hard against your mouth, as if you might physically punish the shape of future laughter before it can betray you again. Sleep comes slowly. And somewhere in the long darkness between one hour and the next, horror arrives with the knowledge of it: you want to hear him say something foolish again. You want to hate it. You want, impossibly, to laugh.

The church bells drag Mingyu out of sleep with all the tenderness of a creditor pounding at the door.

For one suspended, fog-thick moment, he does not know where he is—only the heavy velvet drapes admitting a thin wash of morning light; the banked warmth of a fire gone mostly to ember; the scent of extinguished candles, perfume, and sweet sweat gone faint with the passing of hours; the pleasant ache in his body that belongs to a night spent too fully to be called restful. There is silk beneath one hand and skin beneath the other. A ribbon is looped somehow around his wrist. His cravat has died elsewhere in the room with all the dignity he ever truly expected of it. The bell tolls again, dragging its iron across the morning as if God Himself has developed a personal interest in Mingyu’s schedule. He opens one eye.

A bare shoulder lies half across his chest, the curve of it marked where a mouth—his, certainly—has been less reverent than the church presently demands of all gentlemen. Dark hair fans across his arm and pillow both, tangled through with a strand of pearls that have fared no better than his cravat. At his other side, a warm leg remains draped over his thigh in the soft, proprietorial weight of someone who fell asleep still bargaining with pleasure. One woman breathes against the hollow of his shoulder with the deep and unguarded calm of satisfied exhaustion. The other has taken half the blanket and not one ounce of shame with it.

There is a stocking hanging from the edge of the canopy. A glass overturned on the bedside table. A candle guttered to a wax lake on the mantel. His shirt is on the floor. One of the women’s stays has been flung over the back of a chair with the dramatic despair of a heroine from a novel, midway through Chapter Twenty. Mingyu stares at the ceiling and lets the bells finish telling him what sort of man he is. Late.

He groans, though without conviction, and the movement stirs the woman against his chest. She makes a sleepy sound of displeasure and lifts her head only enough to narrow one eye at him through the blur of sleep. “If that expression means regret,” she murmurs, voice rough, “I shall be offended.”

He turns his head toward her and smiles at once, because smiling is easier than repentance and infinitely more useful. Then he leans down and kisses her—slow enough to be an apology, brief enough to remain magnetic.

“That is cruel,” the other mutters from somewhere amid the linen, one arm flung over her eyes. “If you are kissing her, I must object to being excluded.” Mingyu laughs, low and rough with fatigue, and obliges with the helpless fairness of a man who has made a career of distributing pleasure. He leans across the sheet’s chaos and kisses her, too. Her hand slips behind his neck as though last night has not yet fully ended and might, with the proper encouragement, be persuaded to continue. The bells disagree.

He pulls back with a sigh that is mostly theatrical and swings his legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cold. His head is not precisely aching, but it is not thankful either. He reaches for his shirt and finds instead a stocking, one glove, and another ribbon from someone’s stays. The women watch him with increasing amusement as he begins excavating his clothing from the room as if from the site of a very elegant crime. “You are not leaving,” says the dark-haired one, propping herself up on one elbow. The sheet falls low across her stomach. “It is criminally early.”

“On a Sunday,” adds the other, appalled on principle now that the hour has made itself known. “No decent man is conscious on a Sunday.”

Mingyu locates his trousers, triumph in motion, and steps into them while hopping toward his waistcoat. “I have never claimed decency,” he says.

The women exchange a look over the wreckage of the bed—one of those silent female conversations men are permitted to witness only because women know men never fully understand what has passed between them. “That,” one says dryly, “is the first honest thing you’ve said since midnight.”

He grins. It is automatic, that grin. Sunlight where there ought perhaps to be apology. He fastens buttons with the brisk inattention of a man dressing not for dignity but for speed, shoving his hands through his hair, locating his cravat by smell rather than visual, abandoning any hope of true neatness the moment the bells ring again. He should go home first. Bathe. Change. Present something to God and Mayfair that at least resembles a gentleman rather than a rake given limbs. Instead, he snatches up his coat, finds his boots, and begins assembling himself from last night’s remains.

The dark-haired woman watches him with narrowed, entertained eyes.

“Where are you going?” she asks. He should lie. It would be simpler. Some men become more honest in vice. Mingyu has always preferred to spend honesty where it might cause the greatest confusion. “Church,” he says.

The room goes very still. Then both women laugh so suddenly and completely that the sound of it follows him as he wrestles one cuff into place. “You?” says the fair one, incredulous. “Darling, did someone die?”

The question hits harder than she intended.

His hands still for the briefest of moments on the button at his wrist.

His mother’s face rises from whatever part of him stores old grief with old weather: the cool severity of her profile, the immaculate line of her collar, the chapel at Wrotham heavy with flowers and men pretending it was not the strongest force in their lives they were burying. Mingyu smiles before his silence can grow teeth. “Not today,” he says lightly.

One of them catches his wrist as he reaches for his gloves. The other traces a lazy finger down his side, as though the bells are not still tolling. “If that means you are coming back later,” the dark-haired one says, “I may forgive the sacrilege.”

“You may certainly try,” he answers. The fair one laughs into the pillow and reaches for him again. He bends just enough to kiss her goodbye once more, because it costs him nothing and leaves things easier than apology ever does.

He splashes water over his face from the basin with no regard for precision, runs damp fingers back through his hair, and accepts that whatever he looks like now, it will have to pass for respectable. There is no time for returning home. No time for self-invention. Only the strange urgency beating beneath his ribs with each receding bell note.

He should not be hurrying to church because of a girl. He is not hurrying because of a girl. He is hurrying because men at White’s had challenged him. Because a challenge, once thrown, ought to be met with elegance. Because Reverend Marlowe’s daughter has become an excellent way to relieve the city of boredom and himself of any inconvenient introspection. That is what he tells himself. It is, like most of Mingyu’s best lines, only partially true. Then he is out into the corridor, into the thin bite of early morning, into the full and immediate absurdity of racing from a night like that toward a pew.

You are kneeling. Not with any theatrical bloom of piety meant to turn heads. That would almost be easier to dismiss. No—you kneel like you have done it too often for the motion to mean choice any longer. Spine straight. Hands folded. Head bowed with such exactness it no longer looks like humility.

Where you were dove-grey at the concert, you are now in church colours more severe—soft cream perhaps, or pale morning blue muted by shadow, everything about you arranged. The line of your neck is modest. The turn of your head obedient. Your mouth, which he now knows is capable of laughter, is held in perfect stillness. You look, from a distance, exactly what men like Reverend Marlowe would be proud to have made of a daughter. And Mingyu—who came here prepared to amuse himself with conquest—feels something shift under the neat structure of his plan.

Because now that he sees you here, in the place that made you, the thing no longer feels simple. He had thought it was a challenge. He sees, instead, an apology. Not once offered. Lived in. Kneeling like you were born to ask forgiveness for taking up space. The thought enters him and goes deeper than he means to allow.

From the pulpit, Reverend Marlowe is speaking of temptation in the way such men always do—with too much intimacy for true innocence and too much certainty for real mercy. Mingyu catches fragments only because he is not trying to catch them, and perhaps that is how sermons most effectively wound.  

“The flesh invites ruin where discipline has not first been laid.” “The appearance of virtue must be guarded.” “A woman’s modesty is her shelter.”

Once, while the congregation bows their heads in prayer, you press your thumb faintly against the inside of your sleeve as though feeling for something hidden there. A seam? A wound? He cannot tell. But the gesture is intimate enough to unsettle him. He thinks of your laugh.

He thinks of the immediate terror after it. He thinks, unexpectedly, of his own mother—not her face exactly, though he remembers that well enough, but the sensation of loving someone formidable enough that the world mistook discipline for control. Of being shaped by expectation so completely that even rebellion grew in the shape of performance. Of learning very young that one may be grateful to be chosen and still ache beneath the conditions of being kept.

The organ rises. The congregation answers. Mingyu remains at the back, hands in his gloves, feeling suddenly as though the church has trapped him in a far less amusing sort of intimacy than he came seeking. This is supposed to be sport. He reminds himself of that as Reverend Marlowe speaks on and you kneel on. A lock. A challenge. A lovely, impossible thing to put his wit against. That is all. Then the service ends, and you stand, and Mingyu realises he has not heard a word of the final prayer.

Church releases people differently than a ballroom.

No instant brightening. No rush into appetite. No laughter flashing openly across rows of chairs. Instead, the congregation unfolds in careful degrees, reverence loosening at the seams into social order. Hands reach for gloves. Prayer books are closed. Murmurs begin, each one initially shaped to still sound like worship. The respectable filters of society slide back into place.

At the front, Reverend Marlowe is immediately claimed by those eager to be seen claiming him—parishioners with earnest concerns, widows with carefully folded questions, men who enjoy discussing doctrine when others can overhear. You remain beside him, exactly where he expects you to remain, gaze lowered, body arranged into usefulness.

Mingyu waits. Not because patience is his virtue. Because he has learned, in rooms like these and far worse, that direct pursuit is rarely elegant if a little gravity will do the work. He lets the congregation thin around the edges. Speaks lightly to an old gentleman near the back who looks scandalised to find an Ashbourne in church at all. Smiles at a matron who clearly intends to report his attendance to half of Mayfair before luncheon. Offers an answer, charming and sufficiently vague, when asked if he has returned to grace. “Returned to London,” he says. “Grace remains to be negotiated.” She clucks. He grins. The transaction is successful.

Reverend Marlowe is caught by a vestryman with a ledger and a face that suggests eternal distrust of joy. You stand half a pace aside, no longer the object of direct attention and yet still held by its shadow. You do not wander. Of course, you do not wander. But the leash slackens by inches, and in rooms governed by severe men, inches are opportunity enough.

Mingyu positions himself not in your path but near enough that coincidence may be politely argued by anyone desperate to preserve the fiction. When you appear beside the courtyard steps, the change in light catches you fully and he has the odd, inappropriate thought that you look younger outside your father’s sanctuary and older in the face than you ought to. There is no one directly beside you. Reverend Marlowe remains detained within.

Mingyu steps forward. Not too close. Never cornering. He has cornered women before, socially if not physically, in the harmless-seeming ways handsome men are allowed to do because the room assumes their intentions are a form of flattery. He knows precisely how it looks. He knows how to weaponise ease. But something about the way you held yourself in prayer has rearranged the game. Careless pressure feels wrong here. Not chivalrously wrong—he would laugh at himself if that were the motive. Intuitively wrong. You are strung tight enough already. Any harder a touch and the whole instrument may snap. So he stops at a respectful distance and bows as though this meeting is less improbable than both of you know it to be. “Miss Marlowe.”

Your gaze lifts. Recognition comes first. Then caution. Then something he likes far better and should not—annoyance. Good. Annoyance is alive. Annoyance answers back.

“Mr. Ashbourne.” There it is again—that small exact way you say his name as though you would rather it not have become familiar to your mouth. He smiles. “I begin to suspect we are destined to meet only in worthy places.” Your mouth does the faintest thing, almost not there at all. “Then perhaps you should avoid them.” The answer delights him out of proportion.

“I have tried,” he says. “The worthy places keep insisting.”

You should walk away. He knows you should. Every line of your posture knows it too. And yet you remain where you are, gloved hands folded, shoulders squared beneath all that careful modesty, looking at him as if you cannot decide whether he is a nuisance or a symptom. He glances back at the church doors. “You make the place look more severe than it already is.” A faint crease appears between your brows. “That is an odd compliment.”

“It was not a compliment.” He pauses, lets the edge of the smile return. “Those are usually more successful.”

You should not be listening. You are. He can see it in the minute stillness you have not yet turned into escape. The churchyard moves around you—parishioners drifting past, greetings exchanged, wheels shifting in the street—but the sound seems to recede slightly at the edges while he watches you decide whether politeness is stronger than instinct. “Why are you here?” you ask at last. A dangerous question, because the true answer has changed since dawn, and he would prefer not to inspect that too closely. So he chooses a prettier lie. “Repentance.”

Your eyes sharpen at once, and for one glorious second, he thinks you might laugh again. Instead, you say, “You do not look sorry.”

Mingyu presses a hand lightly to his chest. “You wound me.”

“I imagine it takes more than that.” It does, and does not, and he cannot decide if your saying so is insult or insight. He tilts his head, studying you. There are faint shadows beneath your eyes. Not enough for others, perhaps. Enough for him. Your composure today looks less effortless than deliberate, as though it cost you sleep to rebuild it after the concert. The thought lands uncomfortably. He ignores it with practised speed.

“I was told church improves a man.”

“By whom?”

“Men less entertaining than me.”

Your gaze flicks away, then back, as if you do not trust yourself to look at him for too long and dislike him for making that necessary. Mingyu leans just slightly, not closing the distance, merely shifting the angle of attention. “And you?” he asks. “Do you come willingly?” The question leaves his mouth before he decides whether he should ask it. It is not flirtation. Not exactly. It is too direct for flirtation and too curious for safety. You go very still. Then, with that careful tone people use when stepping around a precipice, you say, “Does it matter?”

There it is. A touch of the hidden thing. He should make a joke. Smooth it over. Return to the game. Instead, because some damned stubborn honest streak in him refuses to behave once fully provoked, he says, quieter, “It might.”

You look at him then—not at his cravat, not at his smile, not at the charming broad outline of him that London has taught itself to consume without chewing. At him. And all at once, he has the sharp bodily sensation of being seen too clearly by a woman who has been ordered all her life not to look directly at anything dangerous. It is exhilarating. It is also not at all what he came here for. He reaches reflexively for mischief like a man reaching for his coat in rain. “At the very least,” he says, letting warmth back into the words, “I wanted to know whether you laugh in church as well as concert halls.”

The flush that rises is quick and real enough to satisfy the worst parts of him immediately. There. That is easier. A challenge again. A game. A little bright offence in your face, and he can breathe properly. “I do not laugh in church.”

“Pity.”

“Mr. Ashbourne—”

Your mouth tightens, and he can hear the warning in the use of his name.

The pleasure of this is not simply that you resist. It is that you resist with intelligence. Most women of his acquaintance are either too accustomed to flirtation to be surprised by him or too deeply invested in appearing unschooled by it to do anything but blush and retreat. Miss Marlowe does neither. You hold yourself against him with the concentration of someone fighting for an inch of ground she was never promised. It makes him want to push. Just enough to see where the walls are sound and where they only look it. He softens his smile before it can turn mocking. “Forgive me. I forget sometimes that not everyone treats conversation as a blood sport.”

“Some of us were not trained to.”

The answer lands so neatly that he nearly misses what lives beneath it.

Not taught. Not raised. Trained. Mingyu feels, with a flicker of something too close to understanding, the shape of your life hidden inside that one choice of word. And then the church doors open wider, and Reverend Marlowe steps toward you.

His black coat falls severely around him. His face is controlled into civility, which makes the intelligence in his eyes all the more cutting. Men like this do not erupt; they reduce. As he approaches, Mingyu sees several things at once. Your silence. The Reverend’s gaze flicking over the distance between you, measuring it as if proximity itself is a moral substance. The fact that his own instinct—to meet disapproval with wit, to laugh first and thereby own the room—rises immediately and is, for the first time in recent memory, checked before it reaches his mouth. Reverend Marlowe stops near enough to claim his daughter without touching her. “Mr. Ashbourne.” His tone makes the name sound like a smear of dirt on boots. Mingyu bows. “Reverend.” The older man’s eyes rest on him with all the warmth of a shut gate. “I had not realised the church had broadened its welcome so far.”

Mingyu should smile. He usually would. He should offer something about grace, repentance, prodigals, all the lovely ironies available to a man who has spent the night as he has and the morning as he has chosen to. He almost does. Then he glances at you. Shame has risen in your face so quickly and so silently that it chills him more effectively than the morning air. As if his reputation has splashed onto you merely by standing near.

And Mingyu knows exactly what reputation has reached Reverend Marlowe’s ears—cards, women, the discreet houses that are not truly discreet—because he knows what sort of man he seems here in morning light against a Reverend’s daughter’s careful stillness—because he suddenly understands that if he jokes now, the joke will not land on the father but on you—Mingyu does something nearly incongruous. He goes careful.

“My attendance is irregular,” he says mildly. “But I was under the impression salvation encourages persistence.”

The Reverend’s mouth does not move. “Salvation and spectacle are often confused by men who have not the seriousness to distinguish them.”

That one would sting more if Mingyu had not heard its variations since boyhood. Pretty boy. Spare son. Charming waste. Delightful until consequence. London has always found him easiest to adore when simultaneously preparing to despise him. Still, he feels the old defensive wit rising again. Still, he checks it. Because your gaze has lowered again and your gloved hands are now too tightly clasped. “No doubt,” Mingyu says. “I am frequently improved by the opinions of my elders.”

Reverend Marlowe turns to his daughter. “We are expected elsewhere.” Not come along. Not shall we. Expected. As though duty itself has sent for her and disobedience would offend heaven. “Yes, Father.” Your answer is immediate, careful, and it irritates Mingyu disproportionately—no, not the answer, but the speed with which you erase yourself into it. The Reverend’s hand comes to your elbow. The gesture is perfectly respectable. Mingyu dislikes it on sight. He should leave it there. Let you go. Let the Reverend imagine victory too early. That would be wiser. It would also be dull. So before prudence can intervene, Mingyu says, with just enough lightness to remain plausibly harmless: “Miss Marlowe, if worthy places continue to insist on our meeting, I shall be forced to develop a better reputation.”

Your head turns, just slightly. It is the tiniest movement. But he catches it. Reverend Marlowe’s fingers tighten visibly at your sleeve. “That would require a foundation, Mr. Ashbourne,” the Reverend says. Mingyu meets his gaze.

There are men who can terrify with volume and men who can terrify with force. Reverend Marlowe is of the more pernicious species—the ones who have weaponised calm so thoroughly that anger becomes almost unnecessary.

“Then perhaps,” Mingyu says, “I am overdue construction.” He means it as irony. He hears, even as it leaves his mouth, the dangerous possibility that he does not entirely. Reverend Marlowe does not grant him the courtesy of a response. He turns his daughter fully toward the waiting carriage. That should be the end. It almost is.

You step forward. Mingyu moves back half a pace as good manners require. The churchyard gravel shifts underfoot. A lady passes on the path behind them, forcing the alignment of bodies into the briefest, narrowest adjustment. Your hand brushes his. A gloved slide of fingers against his knuckles, so slight it could be nothing. An accident born of morning crowds and movement and too many sleeves too close together.

It does not matter. The sensation is minute and immediate and entirely disproportionate in effect. Not heat—there are warmer things than this. Not shock exactly—he has been touched by women a hundred times with far less cloth and far more intention. But this is different for the absurd reason that it means almost nothing and therefore means far too much.

He looks at you. You do not look back. Yet he sees the smallest tightening at the corner of your mouth, the faint stutter in the line of your breath before you master it. Then you are moving on, the Reverend’s hand guiding, the carriage swallowing you both in black-painted order and polished restraint. The door closes. The wheels begin. And Mingyu stands in the churchyard with the morning all around him and the impression of one gloved touch lingering across his hand like a mark nobody else can see.

He should laugh. He should turn on his heel, make some wicked remark to the nearest acquaintance, and go in search of late breakfast, stronger coffee, and perhaps Jeonghan to make all of this sound amusing. Instead, he remains where he is until the carriage has disappeared into Sunday traffic. People move around him. A cluster of parish ladies descend the steps with the self-importance of women carrying both gossip and hymn verses. A gentleman nods and remarks upon the sermon. Mingyu answers something smooth enough to dismiss him and barely hears himself say it. His mind has snagged.

Not on the Reverend—men like Reverend Marlowe are everywhere, though usually less honest in their cruelties. Not even on the challenge, though the challenge is still there: prove the impossible thing less impossible than the city thinks. It snags on the look of shame on your face when your father named him corruption without using the exact word. On the stillness with which you absorbed it. On the possibility that he, Mingyu Ashbourne, London’s well-tailored problem, might accidentally have hurt you simply by arriving as himself. The notion is both irritating and unfamiliar. Mingyu dislikes unfamiliar notions.

He walks his horse rather than mounting immediately, taking the long way down the church lane towards Ashbourne Hall. The bells have finished. The morning is fully underway now—vendors, carriages, children too scrubbed for comfort, ladies discussing luncheon. He passes a window and catches his own reflection in the glass: slightly wind-roughened hair, tie imperfect, coat not quite sitting right at one shoulder because he pulled it on in haste, mouth set in thought when he would far rather see a grin there. He looks as if church has done something to him. Disgusting. He fixes the mouth into something easier and swings up into the saddle.

Ashbourne Hall on a late Sunday morning has its own peculiar softness. The house is quieter than on business days, its bustle gentled rather than gone. Somewhere downstairs, a servant is laying breakfast. Somewhere else a fire is being built. Doors open and close without haste. The family settles into itself differently on Sundays—some reading, some escaping, some pretending rest is a moral achievement rather than merely a temporary absence of obligation. Mingyu hands off his coat and gloves and goes first not to breakfast but to his room, because he cannot with dignity sit across a table from Lady Whitlock while still faintly carrying last night’s scents beneath his clothes.

A valet has prepared fresh water. Shirts have been laid out. Boots aligned. His life, once he enters a house properly run, is always being tidied on his behalf by men who know better than to comment on what state he returns in. Mingyu is half grateful, half resentful, and wholly dependent on it. As he strips off the clothes that have carried him from scandal to sermon, he catches himself replaying the churchyard conversation with embarrassing accuracy. Do you come willingly? Why had he asked that?

It was too pointed. Too curious. Not nearly enough like the sort of smiling nonsense he usually throws at difficult women when intending only to charm them. The plan, insofar as there had been one, required wit and patience, not interest. Interest is dangerous. Interest has depth. Depth leads men to do foolish things, like attend church in yesterday’s sins because a girl laughed once in a concert hall.

He drags a comb through damp hair, splashes clean water over his throat, and tells his reflection sternly that he is being ridiculous. He is curious. Curiosity and conquest have always made excellent companions in him. He likes stories that resist finishing themselves. He likes women who are not too easy to read. Miss Marlowe simply happens to be a finer puzzle than most. And perhaps, a quieter voice suggests, a lonelier one. He ignores that voice so completely he almost deserves praise.

By the time he comes down to the breakfast room, washed and reassembled, the household has mostly gathered. Lady Whitlock is there, seated with a cup of tea and a small stack of correspondence that she is sensibly pretending not to prioritise over food. Seungcheol sits near her, reading a letter and looking as if he distrusts every word in it. Joshua is speaking softly with Wonwoo about a matter related to the shop. Jeonghan is buttering toast with the concentration of a man preparing sustenance. Soonyoung has arrived before him and is already on his second helping of something sweet.

Lady Whitlock looks up as Mingyu enters and, because she is far too observant for his own comfort, takes him in with one swift glance that notes the changed clothes, the newly washed face, and perhaps the faint remainder of whatever expression he has not yet masked. “Well,” she says lightly, “a resurrection. We had begun to fear the church kept you.”

Mingyu bows toward her chair. “It tried.”

Jeonghan snorts into his coffee. Soonyoung, traitor that he is, grins like a lit fuse. “He went for the saint,” he announces to no one who asked. Joshua closes his eyes briefly. Wonwoo looks up only enough to prove he heard and would rather not. Seungcheol lowers his letter with deadly slowness. Lady Whitlock does not so much as blink. “Did he now?” She asks. Mingyu reaches for coffee before he answers, because caffeine is preferable to familial scrutiny. “I went to church,” he says. “The rest is my brother’s embroidery.”

“Your brother rarely embroiders,” Lady Whitlock replies. “He sets fires and calls them decoration.” Soonyoung beams at the accuracy. Seungcheol’s gaze remains on Mingyu; older-brother suspicion sharpened by knowledge of exactly what sort of plans his younger siblings call harmless.

“Her father dislikes me,” Mingyu says, because stating the obvious sometimes moves a room along. “That was guaranteed before you arrived,” Jeonghan murmurs. Mingyu pours cream into his coffee. A laugh touches Lady Whitlock’s mouth before she reins it in. Seungcheol, however, does not smile. “Leave the girl alone.”

Mingyu looks up. There are many ways an eldest brother may speak. This is not amusement. Not advisory teasing. Not even the mild contempt reserved for predictable bad behaviour. This is a warning. Under other circumstances Mingyu would answer it with pure insolence just to hear the resulting argument. Today, he finds himself unexpectedly defensive. “I haven’t touched her.” The sentence lands harder than intended, weighted by truths nobody here asked for. Jeonghan’s brows lift. Joshua glances discreetly down. Soonyoung, for once, has the good sense not to grin. Lady Whitlock watches him with that infuriatingly intelligent calm of hers, as though she is reading not the words but the truth beneath them. Seungcheol’s gaze remains fixed. “That is a very low standard.”

It should anger Mingyu. Instead, it does, annoyingly, shame him. He covers the sensation with a sip of coffee and lets the warmth buy him half a second. “I only meant—” He stops. Reconsiders. “She is not what the men at White’s think.”

That gets everyone’s attention. Wonwoo is the one who speaks first. “And what do the men at White’s think?”

“A wager. A prize. A saint to ruin for sport.”

Lady Whitlock’s fingers still on the handle of her cup. Seungcheol’s jaw tightens visibly. Joshua says nothing, but the silence around him changes texture—the way still water changes when something has been dropped into it. Jeonghan, who has likely known this from the start because Jeonghan knows too much, studies Mingyu with open interest.

“And what do you think?” Lady Whitlock asks. There it is again—that damned ability she has to ask a question in such a way that the joke routes vanish and only truth, or a convincing counterfeit of it, will do. Mingyu sets down his cup. He could say a challenge. It would be neat. Expected. Close enough to his own understanding to satisfy without exposing anything vulnerable. So naturally, he hears himself say something else. “I think she is watched all the time.”

No one answers immediately. Lady Whitlock’s expression shifts into recognition. Jeonghan looks at Mingyu as if weighing whether this is genuine perception or merely the latest angle of the game. Wonwoo, inscrutable as ever, gives nothing away. Soonyoung looks unusually subdued. Joshua exhales once through his nose. Seungcheol breaks the silence. “Do not make her pay for your boredom.”

Mingyu’s instinct flares at once. “You think so little of me?” Seungcheol meets his gaze without flinching. “I think exactly enough of you to know charm can be careless.”

That lands. Because the thing Mingyu cannot say—will not say—is that Seungcheol is right. Charm is his first language and, too often, his bluntest weapon. He has spent years making himself into a performance that lets him move untouched through rooms that would otherwise ask what he is for. He knows how often women have mistaken his attention for more than it is. He knows how often he has preferred them dazzled rather than truly seen. And now he has looked at one woman kneeling in church and felt the shape of his own carelessness before committing it. It is intolerable. It also means he cannot honestly promise to stay away. Not because he intends harm. Because he intends pursuit.

He smiles at last, though quieter than usual. “I haven’t decided yet whether she is a temptation or a lesson.” Lady Whitlock lifts a brow. “Men generally assume the two are different.”

Soonyoung chokes on his tea. Jeonghan closes his eyes as if receiving divine satisfaction. Even Seungcheol’s mouth curves. Mingyu lets them laugh. Better that. Better not to examine why Reverend Marlowe’s daughter, of all women in London, has managed to rearrange the furniture in his mind after two meetings and one laugh.

The better part of the afternoon is spent pretending to read in the library, and another part allowing Jeonghan to drag him into a conversation with a tailor about evening coats he does not care about. He says the correct things. He laughs in the correct places. He flirts absentmindedly with a widow at tea and catches himself halfway through, not because the flirtation is unwelcome but because he wonders what you would make of widows who laugh openly over marmalade. He discards the thought and fails to discard it fully.

By evening, when London’s lamps awaken and the city shifts toward appetite, Mingyu stands at his window with a glass in his hand and watches the street below move in contained glitter. There are easier women. Kinder ones. Bolder ones. Women who would answer his smile with smiles of their own, women who know the shape of games and choose them gladly, women who would not bring a Reverend’s judgment and a churchyard’s shame and all this absurd self-interrogation in their wake. He knows this. He also knows, with terrible useless clarity, that none of those women laughed like you did. He lifts the glass and drinks.

Tomorrow, perhaps, he will be sensible. Tomorrow, he will remember that you are a conquest and ought to remain one. Tomorrow, he will construct his approach properly—gifts small enough not to accuse, encounters plausible enough to survive scrutiny, words pitched carefully between insolence and warmth. Tomorrow, he will become strategic again. Tonight, he allows himself the private pleasure of anticipation.

Because Reverend Marlowe may think him corruption incarnate. White’s may think him a sly dog. His brothers may think him bored enough to hunt trouble for the sake of it. But Mingyu knows something they do not. A laugh like that does not disappear once heard. And a woman taught all her life to kneel does not accidentally touch a man’s hand without that touch meaning something to herself, even if only in the dark. That is enough. More than enough. He turns from the window, already thinking of Sunday next.

The painted man stands above a world that refuses to end.

He is turned away from you, booted upon black rock, his coat pulled close against a wind you cannot feel, and before him the earth dissolves into whiteness—not emptiness, not absence, but a sea of cloud and vapour so vast and luminous it gives the eye nowhere to rest. Peaks rise through it like thoughts not yet named. Distance becomes possibility. The whole canvas seems to breathe in that peculiar way certain landscapes do, as if what is being depicted is not merely a place but a condition of the soul.

You stand before it longer than decorum requires.

Around you, the gallery murmurs with curated approval: patrons and subscribers moving from canvas to canvas beneath chandeliers and commentary, silk hems brushing parquet floors, gloves lifting spectacles toward landscapes no one in this room has ever truly walked. Voices soften instinctively before beauty, though never so much that social recognition is interrupted by it. A gentleman two paces behind you is praising the handling of light to a woman who is plainly more interested in being overheard admiring him than the light itself. A widow in violet tilts her head just enough to look intelligent beside a still life. Someone says the word sublime with such satisfaction that it becomes less an observation than a self-congratulation.

Your father is not at your shoulder for once. He stands some yards away in grave conversation with a patron whose enthusiasm for moral seriousness appears equal only to the width of his side-whiskers. The invisible leash he keeps on you has not vanished, but it has lengthened by precisely the number of minutes required for one man to finish praising another man’s sermon. In those minutes, you have found yourself here: before a painted precipice, looking at a figure turned outward toward whatever comes after the known world, and wondering with a kind of quiet ache what it must feel like to stand so high above one’s own life and not immediately think of falling. Your fingers press lightly at the hidden beads inside your sleeve. The carnelian rests warm against your skin. Tiny counts. Tiny chains. The man in the painting has no visible chains at all.

“He looks intolerably pleased with himself,” a voice says beside you, warm with mischief and far too familiar now to be a surprise. You turn.

Mingyu Ashbourne stands beside you in evening black so perfectly cut it ought, by right, to have made him look respectable. It does not. Nothing ever quite manages the feat. He wears propriety the way some men wear cologne—lightly, attractively, and with every intention that it remain the most superficial thing about him. There is colour in his face from the cold beyond the museum doors, brightness in his eyes as though the evening itself has amused him from the first step inside, and that impossible, infuriating ease about his mouth that makes everything he says sound half like an admission and half like a joke. For one appalled moment, all you can think is that he has done it again—appeared in one of your approved places like some smiling contamination your father has warned you against too often.

“Mr. Ashbourne.” His smile deepens at once, as if your use of his name is a private blessing. “Miss Marlowe.” He glances back at the painting. “You looked as though you meant to follow him.” The answer rises before prudence can stop it. “Into the fog?”

“Into whatever he has mistaken for freedom.”

The words leave him lightly, but they do not fall lightly. You look back at the canvas before you can be caught looking at him too long. That, at least, is still under your command. The painted figure continues to face outward into uncertainty and some immense white promise the world below could never permit. “Perhaps,” you say, and then wish at once that you had not, because perhaps is a treacherous word. It admits desire merely by declining to deny it. Mingyu seems to hear that treachery and enjoys it. “You see it too, then.”

“I see a man standing on a rock.”

“No, you do not.” It is intolerable how gently he says it. Intolerable, too, that he is right.

You ought to move. Your father may turn at any moment. Lady Henshaw may notice. Some moral aunt with a talent for scandal disguised as concern may already be filing away the image of you standing before a landscape with Mr. Ashbourne at your side. Still, you remain.

The room behind you continues to hum—fabric and scholarship, compliments and candlelight—yet here, before the painting, there is the distinct and private sensation of having stepped slightly outside the approved arrangement of the evening. Mingyu tips his head toward the canvas again. “If he turns around,” he says, “I expect he’ll find the path behind him has disappeared entirely.” You should not answer. You hear yourself do it anyway. “Then he ought not have climbed so high.” A soft laugh leaves him—not loud enough to turn heads, not sharpened enough to mock. “And miss the view?”

There is something deeply aggravating in the ease with which he inhabits possibility. He speaks of cliffs as if they are invitations. Of fog as if uncertainty were merely another word for adventure. He speaks, in short, like a man who has never once been told that safety is holier than joy. You should despise him for it. Instead, you feel the old inward tightening: curiosity, shame, a kind of starving astonishment that such ease exists at all outside novels and very bad examples.

A small group passes behind you too closely, forcing the width of the gallery into a momentary narrowness of bodies. Someone’s sleeve catches against the edge of your own. Your slipper turns slightly on the polished floor. Mingyu’s hand comes to your elbow. Only for half a moment. Less, perhaps. A steadying pressure. Entirely proper in its function and entirely improper in what it does to the rest of you. You right yourself at once. He removes his hand at once. But the place where he touched you behaves as though it has been marked.

“Careful,” he says. It is the sort of word other men use thoughtlessly. From him it arrives with just enough softness to be dangerous. Your fingers close once more around the hidden beads at your wrist. “I am.”

His eyes flick to the movement of your hand hidden beneath your sleeve, and something in his expression alters. “You are,” he agrees, though the answer contains entirely too much amusement for a man supposedly accepting correction. Mingyu glances once more at the painting and then, with infuriating satisfaction, says: “I think you should follow him.”

“That would be improper.”

His eyes return to yours. “Then perhaps improper things are not always wrong.” That sentence goes through you like a draft under a door. You do not have time to answer. Reverend Marlowe’s voice, calling your name from somewhere down the room, reasserts the shape of the world immediately. You step back. Mingyu inclines his head. There is no insolence in the gesture, only that same bright, impossible ease. “Good evening, Miss Marlowe.”

You leave him there before the painting, before the cloud-sea, before the suggestion of high ground and vanished paths and all the rest of the metaphors your life cannot afford.

That night, your father waits until the house has quieted into its accustomed obedience before sending for you to come to the study. He does not tell you to kneel this time. Instead, he directs you to the straight-backed chair near the hearth and places a stack of sermon pages before you. Your workbasket is set at your feet. A pen, an inkwell, and several clean sheets await beside the pages. “You will remain here,” he says, “until these are copied.” You glance at the neat pile. There are more pages than there ought to be for one evening. “Yes, Father.”

He opens his Bible and turns the pages not toward you but for himself, as a man might prepare a mirror before a difficult grooming. “And beneath each page,” he continues, “you will write the verse I give you. Ten times.” Of course you will.

He speaks it slowly, and the words are familiar enough to feel written into your flesh. “Abstain from all appearance of evil.”

You take up the pen. Copy the first page. Then again. Then the verse, ten times, each line smaller and sharper as the hours stretch and the muscles of your hand begin to stiffen. The rosary remains hidden beneath your sleeve; every so often, when your fingers cramp, you press the beads into your wrist until the pain steadies rather than distracts.

Your father writes at his own desk while you work. That is the worst part—not the labour, not the hunger when he dismisses supper from your routine, not even the slow burn in your limbs—but the quiet scratch of his pen accompanying yours, as if your correction is no more extraordinary than his correspondence.

By the time he finally tells you to stop, your fingers are ink-marked and aching and the verse has detached itself from language entirely. It has become pattern. Punishment does that. It sands meaning down until only submission remains. When sleep comes much later, it is treacherous.

In your dream, the man in the painting turns. It is not a stranger’s face beneath the wind. It is Mingyu’s. He stands above the cloud-sea with his coat snapping open in light that belongs nowhere on English soil, and when he holds out his hand to you, there is laughter, as though he means to show you something beyond the fog. Beneath that laughter, the single terrifying knowledge sits that if you stepped where he stood, there would be no path back to the version of yourself your father approves of. You wake with your mouth parted and your heart beating too quickly for morning prayer.

Lady Henshaw’s community breakfast takes place three days later in the parish assembly room.

Long tables run the length of the room beneath white cloths and a modest profusion of preserves, buttered rolls, tea urns, boiled eggs, and dishes whose virtue lies in nourishment. It is all brightened beyond its natural dignity by flowers, polished silver, and the determined cheer of women who understand that benevolence is more persuasive when served on good china. The event is meant to aid parish widows, orphaned children temporarily placed in respectable houses, and several industrious families who have recently become poor enough to deserve notice.

Your father stands near the head of the room, greeting benefactors and receiving gratitude in equal measure. You remain close as instructed, helping where directed, speaking when spoken to, passing plates, refilling cups, and allowing yourself to be used exactly as a correct daughter ought to be used on a philanthropic morning.

A little girl with scraped knuckles curtsies too earnestly at you when you hand her bread. An elderly widow tells you your eyes are kind. A gentleman from the vestry praises your father’s continued zeal and adds, in the same breath, that it is reassuring to see a young lady still take interest in useful work. You smile because smiling is easier than answering. You do not think of the painting. You do not think of church bells. You do not think of a warm hand at your elbow. You think, resolutely, of eggs.

This lasts until the door opens and Soonyoung Ashbourne arrives carrying a basket of oranges on one shoulder as though he has single-handedly provisioned the Empire.

He is all brightness and movement, apologising to no one in particular for his lateness and somehow making lateness itself sound generous. There is laughter immediately in his wake, because Soonyoung appears to belong to the species of man for whom rooms reorient out of pure amusement. Behind him come Jeonghan and Joshua, the latter carrying the grave patience of someone who has volunteered for the practical parts because practical parts actually matter. And with them—Of course. Mingyu.

He is not carrying anything at all, which should not surprise you and still does. He enters as if attendance were enough of a contribution, and then, with a grin to Lady Henshaw and a compliment too warm to be innocent, he rolls up his sleeves and takes charge of the tea tray with such conviction that three matrons forgive him on sight. You should not be watching. You are.

The other Ashbournes scatter into usefulness in exactly the way foundling boys grown into men might do when asked to serve in public: Joshua balancing accounts and practical arrangements, Jeonghan charming the money out of women without ever appearing to ask for it, and Soonyoung carrying more than anyone sensible would carry and laughing when half of it nearly slips.

Mingyu catches you looking from across the room. He does not smile broadly. He only tips the kettle a fraction in your direction, as if toasting you with tea. You look away at once.

There is no reason at all that your pulse should alter for so little. Yet it does, enough that you overfill one cup and have to apologise to the woman receiving it.

An hour into breakfast, when the room has settled into the pleasant fatigue that follows successful nourishment, Lady Henshaw directs you toward the sideboard with a list of names and asks that you see to the distribution of wrapped loaves meant for several parish households. It is a simple enough task. You are glad for anything that requires movement. Stillness has become too aware of itself where Mingyu is present.

You cross to the sideboard and begin matching names to parcels. One loaf for Mrs. Bell, two for the Cartwright sisters, one with preserves for the widow on King’s Lane whose sons are both at sea.

A plate appears beside your hand. On it: half a roll, one boiled egg neatly cracked, and a small wedge of seed cake no one has yet claimed because seed cake is always either the first thing gone or the last thing touched. “Mercy,” says Mingyu at your shoulder, “is less persuasive on an empty stomach.”

You do not turn immediately. “You ought not sneak up on people in charitable institutions.”

“I was under the impression charity improved me.”

You look at him then, because the answer is too polished not to have been prepared in advance. He is holding a second plate for himself, though his own breakfast appears to consist mostly of coffee and insolence. “I am working.”

“So am I.” He glances at the orderly arrangement of loaves. “Though I admit your method looks more trustworthy.”

The room stirs around you. Children are wrapped into shawls. Lady Henshaw receives praise as if she personally invented bread. Your father is engrossed in conversation with a parishioner devout enough to keep him still. The morning is full of witnesses and yet, somehow, this small square of space at the sideboard feels bracketed off from the rest. You should refuse the plate. It would be the safer thing.

Instead, because no one is looking and because you have not eaten since a supper denied in silence two nights before and because there is something unnervingly considerate in the way he has not chosen sweetmeats or indulgence but simple sustenance, you take it. “Thank you.”

He watches you with unearned satisfaction. “See?” he says. “Already church has made me useful.”

You peel the shell from the egg with perhaps more concentration than is strictly necessary. It is a relief to focus your eyes on something not him. “If this is repentance,” you say, “it is oddly cheerful.”

“I have always thought gloom rather vain in sinners.” That answer should not please you. It does. A sound catches in your throat before you can prevent it—too small to be called laughter, too bright to be mistaken for anything else.

His expression changes with immediate warmth. Not triumph. More like delight finding the door it had hoped for. “There,” he whispers. “You do know how.” The rebuke rises before gratitude can do something more dangerous. “I did not say I wished to.”

“No.” He picks up his own cup of coffee from the tray beside him. “That is why it interests me.”

You ought not let him say things like that to you as though interest itself were something flattering rather than compromising. Yet the room is so crowded, so obviously harmless, the morning so publicly kind, that forbidding the conversation begins to seem almost unwarranted.

Mingyu leans one shoulder against the sideboard. “Tell me,” he says, nodding toward the row of loaves, “do you always organise benevolence alphabetically?”

You stare. “No.”

“By household need, perhaps?” The absurdity of the inquiry is exactly calibrated. Beneath it lives a more dangerous curiosity, and both of you know it. That is why it works. “By direction,” you confirm. “West streets first. Then the lanes.”

“A woman of systems.”

“A woman trying not to misplace other people’s breakfasts.”

“Heroic,” he murmurs. Something in his tone undoes you just enough that you look down quickly at the plate in your hands and discover, mortifyingly, that your mouth is smiling. That is the precise moment your father turns his head.

By the time your gaze lifts, his eyes are already on you. Not on the plate. Not on the loaves. On the expression you have failed to erase quickly enough. Mingyu notices the shift. Of course he does. He notices everything one most wishes him not to. His posture alters at once—not retreat, but a loosening of focus that would allow anyone to preserve the comfort of calling the exchange ordinary. He bows lightly. “Miss Marlowe.”

Then he is gone before your father reaches you. Not fled. Simply absorbed elsewhere into Lady Henshaw’s event with the effortless ease of a man who has never had to fear what follows being seen.

Your father’s voice, when it comes, is smooth enough to pass in company. “You have neglected the Cartwright parcel.”

You look down. Indeed you have. Your fingers tighten once around the rosary under your sleeve until the beads bite. “Forgive me, Father.”

“Attention,” he voices softly, “is the first duty of a woman who would remain blameless.” The words follow you home like a ruling.

That night, there is no desk and no copying.

Instead, your father sends your maid away, removes the shawl from your shoulders with his own hands, and instructs you to sit upright in the straight-backed chair near his fire with your palms open upon your lap.

He loops the rosary around them. Not around your wrist where you may hide its pressure in a sleeve. Around your open hands, crossing the beads over skin so that every movement presses them deeper.

Then he resumes his place at the desk and begins the long, patient work of sermon preparation while you sit beneath his eye and the slow weight of his silence. Each time your fingers curl instinctively inward, he speaks one word without looking up: “Open.” You do. Again. Again. Again.

By the end of the hour, the beads have bitten so deeply into your skin that pain ceases to feel sharp and becomes instead a slow, bright throb. Blood has begun to gather where the cord has cut deepest, small red beads swelling slowly before slipping free and trailing into the centre of your palm. No verse is assigned. No explicit accusation offered. Only posture. Only exposure. Only the unmistakable lesson that your hands, like your laughter, are not yours to close around whatever warmth they please.

Later, in your room, you unwind the rosary with shaking fingers and watch the wounds bloom beneath the lamplight. You press your marked palms against your face, and behind your closed eyes, the dark fills not with blackness but with red.

Saint Joseph brings not one clear dream but fragments. A church aisle flooded with sunlight. A breakfast table stretching into the sea. A man’s voice saying your name as though it is neither proof nor property but merely something worth saying again.

You wake before dawn, the marks of the beads still visible, and feel filthy for being relieved that they are there. Punishment, at least, you understand. It is wanting that ruins everything.

The lecture is held in the hall adjoining a private collection newly opened for scholarly admiration. Antiquities, travel, accounts of ruins, objects brought back from abroad and set beneath glass for the improvement of those too well-bred to admit they are merely looking at other people’s freedom. You sit beside Reverend Marlowe in a row of severe chairs while a gentleman with an admirable profile and an overconfident relationship with maps speaks of coastlines, ancient ports, islands flung bright against seas no English sky has ever properly imitated.

The lecturer’s voice, though dry, cannot entirely strip wonder from what he describes. Each place named feels like proof that the world contains distances your father’s theology cannot fold neatly into a parlour. Cythera. Corinth. Naples. Rhodes. The words themselves sound less like geography than freedom.

You do not realise how intently you are listening until the lecture concludes and your father says, under his breath and without turning his head: “An appetite for elsewhere is often only ingratitude in finer dress.”

Heat rises in you—shame first, because shame is quickest, then something more rebellious behind it. “Yes, Father.”

The hall empties slowly. Scholars gather in knots. Gentlemen dispute dates. Ladies examine sketches of columns and coastlines while pretending not to prefer the coastlines. You remain where you are placed until your father is drawn into one of those excruciating post-lecture exchanges in which men repeat one another’s opinions until someone important hears them.

There is a table near the side wall laid out with pamphlets, catalogues, and a modest row of books for sale. You should not drift toward it. Yet your father’s attention is claimed, and the books are there, and your own feet seem to decide before your conscience does.

A slim volume bound in faded blue catches your eye. Not a novel. Not a scandalous romance. A travel account—letters from the Mediterranean, or perhaps notes kept during a tour. The gilt at the spine is modest. The corners are worn by previous hands. It is exactly the kind of harmless object that feels, to you, improper. You do not even realise you have leaned slightly nearer until a voice behind you says: “That one is dangerous.”

You turn too quickly. Mingyu is there with a catalogue tucked beneath one arm, and that look in his face which suggests he has been watching for some time already. “You cannot appear in every room in London simply because it interests you,” you say.

“Can’t I?” You hate the way your pulse reacts before your temper does.

He looks over the table of books as though considering them on your behalf. “That one begins with a storm off Trieste,” he says, nodding toward the blue volume. “And ends with the author in love with a country he cannot afford to remain in. It seems to me an efficient arrangement.”

You look back at the book. “You have read it?”

“No.” His smile turns brighter. “But I admire any object that pretends to be practical while smuggling escape.”

The answer is so exactly pitched to your weakness that for one mortifying instant, you suspect strategy. Then again, perhaps everything with him is strategy. Charm rarely grows wild; men cultivate it. “You ought not say such things to women in public.”

“Then it is fortunate,” he replies lightly, “that the room considers books morally strengthening.”

Mingyu picks up the blue volume. He turns it in his hands, glances at the title page, then at you. “Have you ever seen the sea?” The question arrives so simply it steals the breath you might have used to fend it off. “No.”

His expression does not change into pity. It only sharpens—interest again, interest with light behind it. “Then the first thing you should know,” he whispers, “is that it looks nothing at all like the maps men draw of it.”

Something in your chest aches. Mingyu sets the book down again, nearer to you than before. “Mr. Ashbourne—”

“You’re allowed to want,” he says. There is no flirtation in the line. The words are almost grave, which makes them far more dangerous than any wink or suggestive tone could have managed. You stare at him. Want.

The word, in your father’s house, is usually followed by punishment. Rebuke. Fire. Rot. Ruin. Never permission. Never this impossibly gentle unmaking of all the old machinery. You ought to step away. Instead, you say, because honesty bursts in strange places when one is least defended: “That is not what I have been taught.”

His eyes remain on yours. “No,” he says. “I thought perhaps not.”

Footsteps approach. Your father’s voice sounds in the distance, thanking someone for their instructive observations. The world rushes back around you.

Mingyu does not press. That is perhaps the most disarming thing of all. He simply lifts the book, tucks it beneath the catalogue under his arm, and says with infuriating ease: “Good afternoon, Miss Marlowe.” You think that is the end. It is not.

When the carriage is brought around and your father is delayed in one last exchange on the steps, a small parcel appears on the seat beside you just before the door shuts—a brown-paper wrapping tied with plain string, no note, no flower, no flourish, only your name in a hand too clean to be accidental. You stare at it as if it might explode. Your father gets into the carriage opposite you.

The parcel sits between you like contraband. “What is that?” he asks. You do not lie well under direct scrutiny. You have never had reason to practice it. “A pamphlet from the lecture, Father.” He extends his hand. For one vicious second, you are certain everything ends there.

Then the carriage jolts slightly as it turns into traffic, and his hand, reaching for the parcel, turns to reach for the strap at the window instead. He glances at the paper wrapping, finds nothing beautiful in it, and apparently judges the matter too dull to pursue. Your heart does not resume its ordinary function until halfway home.

The parcel stays hidden under your cloak all throughout the evening. You do not unwrap it until your room, where even then you listen before touching the string. It is the blue volume.

Inside the front cover, on the blank endpaper, there are only six words. For the days you travel nowhere. No initials. No impropriety. Nothing that could be called an offence by anyone not already looking to condemn. It feels more scandalous than a love letter.

You hide it first beneath your mattress and then, dissatisfied, in the false bottom of the cedar box where your winter gloves are kept, wrapped inside an old handkerchief embroidered with your mother’s initials. Your room has always been full of approved objects. This one unapproved book changes the atmosphere. From then on, every time you cross the room, you know exactly where it is.

And because your father senses change in you as other men sense rain, punishment follows before the night is through. Not because he has found the book. Because when he speaks to you before dinner, you answer half a second too slowly—as though some portion of your mind remains elsewhere, perhaps on a coastline you have never seen, perhaps on six words written in a hand far too warm to be safe.

He sends you to the small chapel room at the back of the house with a bucket, rags, and the candlesticks from the family pew. They have been deliberately left unpolished from the previous week’s use; wax has run down the brass in ugly little hardened rivers. “Brightness,” your father says, “belongs to holy things. If you admire it so much, you may earn the sight of it.” You kneel on stone and scrape wax until your knuckles redden and your wrists burn and the candlesticks glow.

When you are dismissed to your room, you bolt the door and kneel not in prayer but at the box. You slide the hidden panel and find the blue cover still there. Untouched. Yours. There are sketches inside—coastlines, ports, a columned ruin above dark water, quick notes in the margin in an unfamiliar hand. The first line mentions morning light on stone so warm it burns the soles of feet. You read three pages only. That is all you dare. Because to want a book, a place, a line of sky you have never seen, a laugh, a voice, a man—your father has taught you to file all of it under one word. Temptation.

Nevertheless, alone in the dark, you know that word no longer fits cleanly. This is not lust, not in any simple form. It is hunger. For air. For elsewhere. For a life that does not arrive preinterpreted. That knowledge makes you feel filthier than desire would have. Because desire might at least be admitted to the body and condemned there. This—this touches the soul.

The ball, hosted by the recently widowed Lady Rutledge, comes at the end of the third week.

It is held in a house whose chandelier-light flatters everyone and forgives no one. Gold climbs the walls. Mirrors multiply the crowd into greater abundance. Musicians tucked above the floor draw out the evening’s pulse in waltzes and quadrilles and polished orchestral commands. Everything glitters. Everything watches.

Your father has dressed you in soft blue tonight, perhaps because grey would have looked too penitential for an event built to display girls. The gown is modest still, of course. Your throat remains spare of ornament. But the fabric catches candlelight at the sleeves in a way that makes you feel, uncomfortably, a little more visible than usual.

The room is full of the familiar cruelties of fashionable society—smiles that inventory, compliments that measure, laughter that excludes by tone rather than volume. You move through it at your father’s side, answering what is required and no more. You are not looking for Mingyu. That would be a vulgarity of mind as well as eye. You do not need to look. Awareness of him has become a skill your body performs on instinct.

Somewhere across the room a warmth changes shape. Somewhere, a current of amusement shifts course. Somewhere, a woman lowers her fan and pretends not to notice whom she notices. Your gaze skims the room in brief escape and lands on him, regardless.

Mingyu stands between his brothers near one of the mirrored walls—all black evening clothes and impossible ease. He sees you seeing him. His mouth curves. You look away. Which is when your father says, with an almost satisfied gravity you have learned to dread: “Lord Carroway wishes to make your acquaintance.” The name means nothing. Then the man steps forward.

Older, certainly. Not merely older in the acceptable way mature bachelors are called older by girls too green to know better, but older in truth: nearer your father’s age than your own, the hair at his temples silvering, his cheeks padded by indulgence, his mouth too thin for generosity. His evening coat fits him expensively and badly, as though he believes cost a sufficient substitute for taste. He smells faintly of pomade, starch, and the stale righteousness of a man convinced God admires him personally. His smile appears by effort rather than instinct. It does not reach his eyes.

“Miss Marlowe.” He bows. Not low enough. “Your father speaks highly of your steadiness.” Not wit. Not kindness. Not intelligence. Not grace. Steadiness, as one might praise a horse that startles at nothing. You lower your gaze. “My lord.” Your father is pleased. You can hear it in the silence beside you.

Lord Carroway asks you no questions that require an answer longer than yes or no. He inquires whether you enjoy music, then interrupts your cautious reply to inform you that a wife’s fondness for accomplishments ought always to remain secondary to her domestic usefulness. He remarks that the modern world has become too lax with daughters. He praises your father’s “excellent severity” as though complimenting the condition of a hedge. “Girls are far better directed than indulged,” he says, smiling that warm-less smile. “A young wife, properly guided, becomes the crowning peace of a household.”

Carroway continues as if addressing property transferred in principle, if not yet by contract. “I have always said,” he remarks, “that affection in marriage is best understood as obedience.” Something in your stomach turns over, cold and final.

He asks you for the dance and does not wait for your answer before your father gives it for you. The set begins. Carroway’s hand at your waist is heavy, proprietary, and too knowing in its certainty that such contact has already been sanctioned. He guides you correctly through the figures, yet even his correctness feels like a kind of trespass. Each time he draws you in and sets you out again, there is in him no play, no ease, no delight in motion for its own sake. Only possession disguised as courtesy.

When he leans nearer to speak over the music, his breath warms the side of your face. “A wife should be content to be known by her husband’s household,” he says. “Ambition in women has made untidy things of very good families.”

Your heartbeat is so loud that the music recedes. You wonder—with the sort of clean terror reserved for truths one cannot unknow—if this is what your father means by solution. Not safety. Continuance. One cage opening neatly into another. When the figure turns, your gaze lifts involuntarily across the room. Mingyu is still watching. Not at the dance as a whole. At Carroway’s hand. On your waist.

Something has altered in him. Not enough to be called anger. More dangerous than that, perhaps, because it remains leashed. Jeonghan says something in his ear; he does not answer. Lady Whitlock, standing with a cluster of ladies near the edge of the floor, follows the line of his gaze and understands at once.

The next several minutes occur with the efficiency of an Ashbourne operation you do not have the language to name. Lady Whitlock glides toward your father under the cover of congratulating him on the success of last week’s sermon and requests, with disarming gravity, his opinion on a charitable petition Carroway himself is said to support. Joshua appears as if conjured from the air and speaks to Carroway at the close of the set about a benefaction that requires his immediate comment. Soonyoung collides lightly, impossibly, with a passing footman carrying champagne, creating just enough sparkle and apology and mild disorder to shift everyone by half a yard. Jeonghan says something to Lady Henshaw that causes three matrons to turn at once and block your father’s direct route toward you.

It is done so neatly that anyone not born and trained among brothers who cover one another like weather fronts might have missed the intention entirely.

One moment, the set ends and Carroway turns toward you, preparing to reclaim the conversation as though it belongs to him by right; the next, the room has opened in an entirely new direction, and Seungcheol’s calm hand at your sleeve redirects you with the softest murmur. “The ballroom is rather warm, Miss Marlowe. Do take a breath.” It is not permission. It is rescue wearing perfect manners.

You slip through the gap he has created and walk quickly through the edge of the crowd, past a pair of palms in great porcelain urns, into the side gallery where portraits look down over a less crowded stretch of corridor lit in diluted gold. A window stands cracked somewhere farther along. Cool air moves in faintly. Your heart has not yet resumed any civilised rhythm. You press one hand to the wall. For one shameful instant, you think you might cry. Instead, you breathe. Once. Twice. And then: “I leave you alone for three minutes, and society proposes livestock arrangements.”

Mingyu stands at the mouth of the gallery, not close enough to corner, not smiling enough to tease. The relief that goes through you is so immediate it feels like another kind of risk. “You should not be here,” you say.

“That is becoming a very dull refrain between us.” He comes nearer, slowly, giving you time to object. You do not. That, too, is a decision, however much you later disguise it from yourself.

In the softened light away from the ballroom, he looks less polished and more real somehow—the line of his mouth firmer, the bright carelessness banked rather than extinguished. Music reaches you here as through walls of water. The glitter of the ballroom has become distant enough to feel almost imaginary. “Who is he?” Mingyu asks, though clearly he already knows enough.

“Lord Carroway.” The name seems to offend him on instinct.

“He dances like a mortgage.”

You should not laugh. You almost do. “My father approves of him.”

“Then I dislike him already.” He says it lightly, but the lightness does not wholly disguise what sits beneath: a kind of sharp protective amusement, as though he is trying not to let something harsher into the room. You look away. The cracked window admits a thread of cold air. Beyond the glass, night has settled over the square in black silk and lantern-fire.

“He is generous to the church,” you say.

“How admirable.”

“He is… proper.” That word tastes foul tonight. Mingyu watches you silently. “And are you?” he asks. “Grateful?”

The question opens something. Not enough for tears. You do not weep easily and never where anyone may see. But enough for honesty to become less impossible than performance. “No.” It is the first clean truth you have spoken all evening.

His expression changes by a degree—less wit, more attention. “Good.” The word lands with scandalous softness. You fold your hands together too tightly. The rosary hidden beneath one glove presses into your skin like a warning. “You make everything sound easy.”

He leans back against the window frame, one shoulder braced, and looks not at you but out into the dark square for a moment before answering. “No,” he says. “I make it sound possible. Those are not the same thing.” Something in your chest gives way.

He tells you then—not in the tone of a man performing exotic adventures for ladies hungry for novelty, but more quietly than he has spoken to you before—about Greece.

Not the cities listed by lecturers. Not the scholarly parts. He speaks of light first. Of the way morning on the water arrives not grey but gold. Of cliffs above whitewashed villages where the wind smells of salt and thyme. Of ferries and little harbours and fishermen shouting across blue so bright it appears invented. He speaks of standing above a coastline at sunrise and feeling as though the world has not yet decided what it means to make of you. You listen. God help you, you listen with all of yourself.

“It is not cleaner there,” he says. “Not simpler. Men still lie. Priests still preach. Money still behaves like a petty god. But the light…” He smiles then, not at you, at the memory. “The light refuses to apologise for itself.”

The painted man above the white sea returns in your mind with startling force. “You speak of it,” you say, though your voice has gone soft, “as though it set you free.” He looks at you then, and something in his face—some brightness usually spent upon wit—turns unexpectedly bare. “It reminded me,” he says, “that there are places where a man may breathe without first being explained.”

The music from the ballroom swells faintly, then recedes again as doors open and close in the distance. “I have never left England,” you confess.

“I know.” The answer startles you. He continues. “You look at maps like a woman reading scripture for loopholes.” You should be offended. Instead, you say, because the truth has become treacherously near the surface tonight: “I do not know what I would do with freedom if it were placed in my hand.”

His mouth softens. “You needn’t know.”

You stand very still. He takes one step nearer. Still not touching. Still not pushing. His voice, when he speaks again, is quiet enough that it feels like something placed carefully rather than thrown. “No one knows what they would do with freedom before they have any,” he says. “That is hardly a crime.” You give a breath that is almost a laugh and almost not. “In my father’s house it likely would be.”

“Then your father has made a religion of the wrong things.”

The words land somewhere between blasphemy and truth, and it is precisely because you cannot decide which that they unsettle you. “You should not speak of him so.”

“Why?” he asks, and there is no mocking in it, no easy provocation. Only that maddening, dangerous sincerity he produces when you least expect it. “Because he is your father? Or because he is accustomed to no one speaking of him frankly?”

You turn away from him, just enough that your gaze may go somewhere other than the terrible steadiness of his. A portrait hangs on the wall opposite—some deceased lady in lace and pearls, her painted face arranged into the sort of calm that requires no actual contentment beneath it. You have known that expression all your life. You could wear it in your sleep. “It is very easy for you,” you whisper, “to speak as though rules are only furniture one may rearrange.”

The air between you narrows. When he answers, his voice is lower than before. “No,” he says. “It only looks easy from the outside.”

That brings your eyes back to him. There is no grin waiting for you this time. No cleverness poised to soften the line. Only Mingyu, standing with his evening coat catching the dim light, and all his careless brightness banked for once into something steadier and far more difficult to survive. “People forgive me for laughing,” he says. “They call it charm, and because they call it charm, they do not ask what it covers.”

The confession is so bare, so unexpected, that it steals whatever answer you might have made. Mingyu looks down for a moment, then back up, and there is something almost rueful in the set of his mouth. “You think I do not know what it is to be performed back at the world,” he says. “I do. I only learned to grin first, that is all.”

You have seen it, of course. The polished ease. The bright deflection. The way rooms forgive him because he makes their cruelty entertaining to itself. But this—this is the first time he has turned even the edge of that knowledge toward you and let you see the machinery rather than the gleam. You do not know what to do with the tenderness that rises in answer. Tenderness is far more dangerous than desire. Tenderness lingers. Finds reasons. Makes room.

“That is different,” you say, though the protest lacks the conviction you intended. One dark brow lifts, very slightly. “Is it?”

You open your mouth and then close it again. Because no—no, perhaps it is not entirely different. Because there is a kinship in being made useful. In being turned into a shape the world prefers. In learning how to survive within the role given, even when the role begins to feel like a cage one carries on one’s shoulders. The recognition of that kinship feels indecent. You lower your gaze to your hands. “If you were sensible,” you say, “you would leave me alone.” He laughs once under his breath, but there is no mockery in it. “Almost certainly.”

Mingyu shifts then—one step closer, no more than that, but enough that the air alters with him. Your breath catches and betrays you instantly.

He hears it. But if he is pleased, he is merciful enough not to show it. “Do you know what I think?” he asks. You should not answer. You do. “No.”

His gaze stays on your face. “I think you have been told so often what sort of daughter you ought to be that no one has thought to ask what sort of life would make you happy.” You look away so quickly it feels like flinching. “Happiness is not the measure of a good life.”

“Perhaps,” he says. “But misery should not be mistaken for it either.”

You think of Carroway’s hand at your waist—heavy, proprietary, already certain. You think of your father’s fingers pressing meaning into your arm, into your wrist, into your every answered breath. You think of scraped wax from brass candlesticks, of copied verses until your hand cramped, of open palms and rosary marks and a hidden blue book wrapped in your mother’s handkerchief. And then you think of this man speaking of sunlight on foreign water as though light itself may belong to whoever stands in it.

Your voice, when it comes, is scarcely more than air. “You know nothing of my life.”

He takes another half-step. The restraint of it is beginning to undo you more thoroughly than any boldness could have done. “No,” he says. “Not enough. But I know what you look like when you are trying not to want anything.”

The whole gallery seems to narrow. Your hand tightens around nothing.

He is too close for safety, though not for scandal. Close enough that you can see where one dark strand of hair has slipped free near his temple, where his pulse beats once in the hollow of his throat as though he is not half so unaffected as he pretends. You should make your leave. Instead, you hear yourself say the one thing you had never meant to tell anyone, least of all him. “I do not think I was made for this.”

His expression stills. “For what?”

The answer takes everything. “For smiling when spoken to and saying the correct thing and calling it peace. For being handed from one set of rules to another and being grateful that both are respectable.”

Mingyu’s eyes darken. “No,” he says softly. “You were not.”

No sermon has ever answered you so quickly. No prayer has ever returned with such immediate force. You do not know whether the thing that rises in you is relief or grief. Perhaps they are too close to separate.

He is very near now. “You should stop,” you say, though the plea is ruined by the fact that you do not move away.

His voice drops. “Tell me to.”

The whole of you goes still. Not because the words are forceful. Because they are not. Because they are the opposite of force. An offering of choice. A handing back of will. No one in your life has ever made permission sound so intimate.

Trust arrives where it has no right to be, where it has not been earned, where it should not be possible after so little and yet somehow is—because he has not once cornered you, not once pushed, not once taken one inch you did not first leave undefended. Your hand lifts of its own accord—uncertain, almost not daring to complete the motion—and comes to rest against his sleeve. A gloved touch against dark cloth. His eyes drop briefly to the place where your fingers rest and then return to your face, and what lives in his expression is so carefully held it makes your pulse stumble.

You think, absurdly, of standing on the edge of something vast enough to terrify and tempt in equal measure. Of how a person might step forward without meaning to and still know, in the deepest part of themselves, that the step was chosen. You move. Not much. Only enough to make the space between you no longer his to guard alone. He does not close it. That, perhaps, is why you do.

Your mouth meets his with all the trembling certainty of a woman doing the most reckless thing she has ever done and understanding, even as it happens, that recklessness is not the same thing as regret. Your fingers tighten around his sleeve.

Mingyu’s mouth answers yours. His lips are soft and warm and devastatingly certain, parting just enough to make the kiss real—undeniable, impossible to mistake for accident. You feel the breath leave him, feel the sharp contained force of his wanting as it meets yours and folds into it.

His hands come to your waist—not snatching, not claiming anything you have not already placed in his keeping, but closing there with a heat that goes through fabric and bone and every starved place inside you that has spent years mistaking deprivation for virtue. His grip tightens just enough to tell you he is feeling the same vertigo, and when you sway into him, the kiss deepens by its own terrible logic.

His mouth moves over yours again. He tilts his head, and the kiss turns hotter, deeper, as though he has made some swift and private decision to give you exactly as much as you are asking for and not one inch more.

The world contracts. The cool draft from the cracked window. The distant pulse of violins through the wall. The warmth of his hands at your waist. The scandalous, ruinous fact of his body so close to yours.

You make a small sound against his mouth—half breath, half shock—and the answering flex of his fingers sends molten desire through you. The pressure of it, that first real crack in his discipline, makes you bolder in a way that would have horrified you an hour ago. Your hand slips from his sleeve to the line of his lapel and then higher, into the thick dark of his hair, and when your fingers tighten there, he gives a breath against your mouth that feels almost like a groan swallowed before it can become a sound. It emboldens you further.

Your mouth opens beneath his with a desperation that is no longer trembling or accidental, and when your tongue brushes the fullness of his lower lip in one instinctive, shamefully curious motion, Mingyu’s hand shifts, sliding to the curve of your hip, and squeezes—enough to let you feel the shape of his restraint cracking. You moan softly before you even understand the sound has come from you. The sound undoes him. His head dips lower, his mouth taking yours again with a heat that is no longer innocent. Your fingers pull faintly at his hair. His breath catches sharply through his nose.

Then something clatters in the corridor beyond the gallery. A tray, perhaps. A servant’s misstep. Glass against silver. It is not a loud sound, not truly, but it strikes through the moment like cold water dashed over fire. You break apart at once. The loss of him is immediate and brutal. Your mouth aches with him. Your whole body feels suddenly lit from within like a chapel full of candles no one has yet thought to snuff. His eyes are on you—dark, wide, the careless brightness gone entirely. He looks less as though he has been kissed than as though he has been struck open. You take a step back.

The gallery spins back into shape around you—the line of portraits, the dark window, the pulse of music through the wall, the dreadful ordinariness of everything that should no longer be ordinary at all. “I must go.” Your voice does not sound like yours.

Mingyu moves as if to say something—your name, perhaps, or a warning, or nothing more than a breath made audible—but you do not wait to hear it. You turn before he can speak, before his gentleness can undo you further, before the memory of his mouth can become anything more dangerous. And you run.

You go into the music, into the chandeliers, into the ballroom still glittering with all the polished certainty of society while your body rings with the memory of something stolen and living and utterly unsanctioned. When you find your father again, lips cooled and pulse still in ruin, you know with a terrible, thrilling clarity that nothing in your life may remain quite as it was before the kiss. Not because he kissed you. Because you kissed him. And if Mingyu looked at you again and asked what you wanted, the answer would no longer be freedom.

Mingyu wakes before dawn with your name nowhere near his mouth and everywhere else. Not spoken—not even in sleep, for he is vain enough to be grateful for that much dignity—but lodged behind his teeth, in the pulse of his blood, in the abrupt and furious awareness of his own body where the morning has found him uncompromisingly honest. The room around him is dim with the last softness of night. Ashbourne Hall keeps its silences well at this hour; doors have not yet begun their careful opening and closing, and servants have not yet fully set the machinery of the house in motion.

His sheets are warm. His breath comes out once, hard, through his nose. His hand, flung sometime in the night across the empty breadth of mattress beside him, closes on nothing at all. Nothing but the memory of your mouth.

The recollection arrives with such violent clarity that he shuts his eyes against it and only succeeds in sharpening every detail: the cool dimness of the side gallery; the softened throb of the music beyond the wall; your fingers at his sleeve with all the desperate uncertainty of courage being invented in real time; the first startled contact of your lips against his and the immediate impossible understanding that you had chosen it. Not he. You.

There are men in London who would have made a triumph of that. Men who would have rolled onto their backs afterwards in some club chair and told the story as proof of irresistible charm, proof of feminine weakness, proof of their own particular brilliance in teasing innocence into surrender. Mingyu is humiliated to discover that his first and strongest feeling on waking is not triumph. It is want.

Not the easy bodily kind alone, though his body makes its own hard case beneath the sheets and refuses to be denied. Not even the rakish vanity of having been wanted by a woman who should, by every story London prefers to tell about girls like Miss Marlowe, still be blushing at the concept of lips. No—what grips him is something more dangerous and infinitely less forgivable: the aching, reverent shock of being chosen by someone who had no practice choosing anything for herself.

He rolls onto his back and stares up at the canopy with the sort of bleak irritation usually reserved for sermons and bad port. This is ridiculous. He has kissed women in private houses and theatres and dark corners of stairwells. He has kissed women in carriages and gardens and one memorable library in Vienna that smelled strongly of dust and scandal. He has kissed women who wanted from him a story, an evening, a vanity to remember later. He has kissed women who wanted to be chosen where other women could see it. He has kissed women because he was lonely and because they were lonelier and because loneliness, when well-dressed, is often mistaken for appetite until morning proves otherwise. None of those kisses followed him into sleep and came back in the dawn like this.

He presses the heel of one hand over his eyes and exhales a curse too quiet to be heard by anyone but God, who seems lately to have developed an unhelpful interest in his habits. He should get up. He does not.

He recollects the exact moment your mouth softened against his—not awkwardly, not innocently, not as a child might steal a peck in ignorance of what was being done, but with a tremulous certainty that had gone straight through him and lodged itself somewhere under his ribs where wit has no jurisdiction. Your hand had tightened in his hair. Your breath had broken. The small sound you made when he kissed you back with enough hunger to answer—God.

His body has already concluded its own argument. His cock is hard enough that the ache of it has become almost abstract, no longer sensation so much as insistence. The linen beneath him shifts. Mingyu opens his eyes, stares at the dark line of the bedhangings, and says to the room with all the dignity of a condemned man, “Excellent.” No answer comes, which is perhaps for the best.

He lets his hand slide beneath the sheet with the brisk, annoyed efficiency of a man handling an inconvenience that would be much less inconvenient if it were not attached to his own mind. His fingers close around his cock and strokes once, slow, testing, and he nearly laughs at the absurdity of it—that after years of women, after rooms full of perfume and paid smiles and all the easy arrangements, it is a reverend’s daughter and one stolen kiss who have reduced him to this. His jaw tightens.

He works his hand a little faster, breath catching in uneven measure. The sheets tangle around his legs. His free arm folds behind his head as if that could lend the whole scene some parody of ease. It does not. All ease has deserted him. What remains is urgency sharpened by memory.

You in blue under Lady Rutledge’s chandeliers. You in the side gallery saying you were not made for smiling and calling it peace. You saying, “I do not think I was made for this.” You kissing him.

The pace of his hand turns rougher. His head tips back against the pillows. The room remains dark and decent and wholly ignorant of the fact that the youngest son of Ashbourne Hall is coming undone quietly beneath his own sheets to the thought of a woman who still probably prays after touching him. That thought should cool him. Instead, it nearly finishes him. Because he can see it too well: your knees on hard boards, your mouth moving over penitential words while the memory of his mouth burns through all that holy repetition like fire through paper. Something in him twists—want and anger and awe wound too tightly to separate.

His orgasm comes with a low, rough moan bitten off before it can rise into the room, body locking around the release with all the graceless force of a man betrayed by his own imagination. For a few moments, he lies utterly still, breath hard, pulse hammering, one hand fisted in the sheet and the other covered in his own sticky release.

The silence in the room is immense. When it settles over him fully, he is left with the cooling awareness of his own body and the far more difficult truth that the thing he feels for you has already begun the alarming process of outrunning language he trusts.

Conquest will not do. Challenge, perhaps, but only barely, and even that is beginning to rot around the edges. Sport has vanished. What remains is sharper. He stares up towards the ceiling and thinks, with the deep unwilling sincerity reserved for only the most inconvenient revelations, that he wants to deserve what happened in that gallery. He wants to be the thing your mouth would choose again. Worse still: he wants to deserve the choosing.

The thought so thoroughly disgusts him that he throws back the bed covers, rises, and goes to bathe in cold water before the house can catch him in anything so undignified as reflection.

By breakfast, the house has resumed its civilised structure, and Mingyu has put himself back together with enough care that no one outside the family would think him altered at all. The valet has tied his cravat into something fit for daylight. His hair is obedient by force rather than conviction. His coat sits neatly on his shoulders. He looks, in short, like a gentleman who slept soundly and woke with no greater concern than coffee. Mingyu steps into the room with his usual smile already in place. It would probably fool anyone who did not know him well. Unfortunately, the Ashbournes are the least gullible audience in London. Apparently, that includes those married into it.

Lady Whitlock looks up from her paper. Her gaze travels once over him, and in that swift assessment, he feels the peculiar nuisance of being read by someone too intelligent to be fooled and too kind to be tactless. “Well,” she says, “you look dreadful.”

“Good morning to you too, sister.” The Viscountess does not smile. That would have made the exchange easier. Instead, something in the corner of her mouth threatens amusement and then settles into composure again, which is far worse. “Coffee,” she says, gesturing toward the silver service. “Before you attempt a defence. I should like you to be fortified if you mean to lie to me.” Mingyu pours for himself a cup when he discovers, with a private stab of aggravation, that his hand is not quite as steady as he would prefer.

Lady Whitlock folds the paper and returns it to the table. Her attention remains on him, which suggests she has no intention of making this a trial and every intention of hearing what he will reveal by trying to avoid one. Mingyu sets down the pot. Lifts the cup. Drinks. Lady Whitlock waits until he has put it down. “Was she worth losing sleep over?”

There is no flourish to the question. No teasing. No false innocence. It lands between them with graceful inevitability. Mingyu reaches for the toast, if only because his hands ought to be seen doing something. “You have become alarmingly direct since marriage.”

“That is because I no longer require courtship to disguise my opinions.” He glances her way at that. She is seated in morning blue, one elbow resting lightly against the arm of her chair, looking not like a woman prepared to pry but one entirely content to let silence make the first confession. It is a strategy he recognises at once and resents on principle. “I had not realised,” he says, with careful brightness, “that a ballroom conversation now merits post-mortem over breakfast.”

Lady Whitlock folds her hands. “A ballroom conversation does not.” A pause. “My husband’s brother looking as though he has either fallen in love or lost a war does.”

Mingyu nearly chokes on his coffee. She waits patiently while he recovers enough dignity to answer. “You overestimate both my sincerity and my fragility.”

“Do I?” The question is mild. It is also a trap, and he knows it. He has spent years laying gentler ones for other people. He should laugh. He usually would. He should say something careless, something about challenge, something with enough easy rot in it that the whole subject may return to the category of sport and remain there. Instead, he hears himself say, “It is not as simple as that.”

Lady Whitlock’s gaze softens—not into pity, thank God, but into understanding restrained by good manners. “No,” she says. “I did not imagine it was.” Mingyu tears off a piece of toast he does not particularly want and regrets the motion at once.

The memory of the previous night has done him no service. It sits too near the surface. Even now, even seated at breakfast beneath his sister-by-marriage’s calm regard, the recollection threatens to alter his pulse in some visible and humiliating fashion. Lady Whitlock interrupts his train of thought before it can make him bold. Or reckless.

“You need not tell me anything you do not wish to,” she says. “Though I will note, for the sake of fairness, that whatever happened in that gallery appears to have improved your posture and ruined your rest.”

That draws the smallest smile from him despite himself. “Cruel woman.”

“Observant woman.”

He leans back a little, studies her over the rim of his cup, and thinks—not for the first time—that Seungcheol did absurdly well for himself. “And if I said it was nothing?”

Her expression does not change. “Then I should assume it is either much worse or much better than nothing.” Mingyu laughs then, softly, because there is no resisting a line like that when it lands so cleanly.

The silence settles. Lady Whitlock does not rush to fill it. That, perhaps, is the kindness of her. She does not press where another person might. She does not begin arranging his heart for him as if she had some right to its shelving. She merely allows him the dignity of coming to his own ruin in proper order. At last, he says, looking down at the coffee rather than at her, “I do not know what to call it yet.”

The answer seems to satisfy her more than certainty would have done. “That sounds,” she says, “surprisingly sane.” He glances up, affronted on instinct. “I am always sane.”

This time, she does smile. “Mingyu, I watched you stand across a ballroom and forget every woman in it had a face.” The accuracy of that is intolerable. Mingyu rises to it with what remains of his vanity. “I have always been selective in my attention.”

“No,” she says calmly. “You have always been generous with it. This is rather different.”

Mingyu lets out a breath that is not quite a sigh. He sits in his daylight coat and immaculate cravat, and feels for the first time in years as though his own life has become a room in which all the furniture has shifted overnight.

Lady Whitlock reaches for her cup again. “I trust you,” she says, so simply that for a second he nearly misses it. He looks at her. She keeps her gaze on the tea as she continues, as if the matter were too obvious to require ceremony. “Not to be wise,” she adds. “You have never given anyone reason for that. But to know when carelessness would make you contemptible.”

His throat tightens with a sudden and wholly unwelcome flare of gratitude. She lifts her eyes then, at last, and there is warmth in them. “Do not make me regret that distinction.”

Mingyu should answer lightly. He should bow and grin and tell her she credits him with too much virtue, too much depth, too much anything at all. Instead, because she has earned better than performance in this one moment, he says only, “I will try.”

Lady Whitlock nods once, accepting that for what it is worth and no more. Then, in a mercy so complete it nearly undoes him, she picks up the paper again and says in the mild, domestic tone of a woman restoring the world to manageable proportions, “Now eat something before Seungcheol comes down and assumes I have been bullying you on an empty stomach.” Mingyu obeys because he is still too off-balance to think of a graceful refusal.

Across the rustle of newsprint and the quiet clink of china, the house remains civilised. Morning remains morning. He still looks, to anyone outside these walls, like a gentleman with no greater concern than coffee. But when he reaches for the knife to cut his eggs, he finds, absurdly enough, that his hand is steadier now than when he first poured his coffee. And that, more than any of her questions, tells him how deep the crack has gone.

Mingyu does not go back to the house on Half Moon Street. It had been incidental, at first. A matter of mood. Then, it became a matter of opportunity. Then, embarrassingly fast, a matter of impossibility. Because each time he had thought of it—of wine-dark rooms and easy transactions by which loneliness is softened into forgettable pleasure—your face had intervened.

One madam sends a note as delicate and discreet as a butterfly pinned to paper, asking whether ill health has removed him or only ingratitude. He sends flowers in return and no promise. Another sends word through a footman that Miss Celeste still has his cufflink. Mingyu tells the footman she may keep it and means it.

Jeonghan notices the change by the end of the week. He finds Mingyu in the library with a book open and unread before him, which is itself enough to provoke suspicion. The room is warm with afternoon light. It slants gold across the rows of leather spines, some of which have not been opened in decades. Jeonghan leans in the doorway and studies Mingyu the way one studies a horse with a limp—curiously, not unkindly, with every expectation of pursuit. “How long has it been?” Mingyu does not look up. “Since what?”

“Since you’ve paid for forgetting someone.” That gets his attention. He glances up at once, closing the book on a finger he has not once moved from the same page. “Have you come here to be insufferable on purpose?”

“No,” Jeonghan says, pushing off the doorway and crossing into the room with the lazy grace of a man who rarely hurries. “I came because the staff is beginning to miss your patronage and because you look like a poem written by someone recently denied.”

Mingyu laughs, but it is a near thing. “What a horrifying sentence.” Jeonghan lowers himself into the opposite chair. “You’ve stopped going out properly. You attend church. You forget to flirt with widows who are practically sending written invitations through their earrings. And yesterday at White’s, when Vale spoke of Miss Marlowe as though she were a card trick, you very nearly put your glass through his teeth.”

“Dalrymple,” Mingyu corrects.

“Yes,” says Jeonghan, “which rather proves my point. You are distracted.” Mingyu looks away toward the window. It would be easy to dismiss this. Easier still to feed Jeonghan some bright version of the truth and let him enjoy the shape of it without the depth. Yet there is something exhausting in performance when performed too close to someone who has long ago catalogued all your tricks. “I am thinking.” Jeonghan makes a low sympathetic sound that contains no sympathy at all. “My deepest condolences.”

Silence settles, companionable only because Jeonghan has no respect for solemnity and therefore does not sit like a priest waiting out confession. He picks up a paperknife. Sets it down. Studies Mingyu with open, feline interest. “Do you love her?” Mingyu turns so fast that the movement is enough of an answer. “For God’s sake.”

“You do, then.”

“I did not say that.”

Jeonghan’s expression remains insufferably serene. “No,” he agrees. “Your face did.” Mingyu should leave the room. Instead, he stays precisely because leaving would be even more revealing. “I kissed her.” It is the first time he has said it aloud to another person.

The room does not change. The library remains a library. The afternoon light remains indecently calm. Jeonghan’s face, however, loses its ease by one thoughtful degree. “Did she want it?”

Mingyu’s answer comes before reflection. “She chose it.” Jeonghan studies him for a long moment, then leans back. “Ah.” That single syllable contains more understanding than Mingyu strictly wished to endure. “Don’t,” Mingyu says. Jeonghan’s mouth curves. “I haven’t done anything.”

“You are doing that thing where you look at me as if I’ve become a sonnet.”

“No,” Jeonghan says. “A tragedy, perhaps. Sonnets are shorter.” Mingyu throws the nearest cushion at him. Jeonghan catches it one-handed and laughs, which is probably the kindest possible response. Finally, he speaks, quieter: “Then stop treating her like a prize and start behaving like a man who understands the difference.”

Mingyu understands because he has just begun trying to do exactly that and already knows the work will not be easy. When Jeonghan leaves, he does so with no further prophecy, which Mingyu appreciates almost as much as he resents everything already said.

The pew behind yours has ceased to belong to chance. There had been a time, not so very long ago and yet already belonging to some former arrangement of your life, when his attendance might still have been mistaken for whim, for one more bright inconsistency in a man made, so everyone said, of appetite, laughter, and the sort of handsome carelessness society forgives because it finds the spectacle flattering. There had been a time when Mingyu, if he appeared at all, belonged to the back of the nave, to the loose and unreliable margins of worship, to the final row and the half-mocking murmur of matrons who liked their sinners visible enough to condemn. There had been a time when, if you felt him in church, it was as one feels a draft from a door left open—an interruption, a passing thing, a disturbance the room would right itself against once the latch had fallen shut again. No longer. Since the ball, Mingyu has missed no service. Not one.

Mingyu does not make a performance of this newly formed habit. That would be too easy, too vulgar, too plain in its intention, and if there is one thing he understands better than most men, it is the value of not handing the whole shape of one’s purpose at once. He arrives dressed as he always dresses—too well, too beautifully, too composed for the rumours that inevitably rise around him. He bows his head when the congregation bows. He rises with the hymns, kneels when the rest kneel, and says nothing that might allow the church ladies the pleasure of calling him irreverent. Yet no one in Reverend Marlowe’s church is foolish enough to mistake him for devout. Even piety, you are beginning to understand, has a way of recognising when it is being used for purposes that have little enough to do with God.

He sits behind you more often than he sits at the back. Not beside. Never so close to offer your father a visible offence he might condemn. He sits one pew back. Sometimes directly. Sometimes offset by half a row, the way a gentleman might sit if he wished to preserve the fiction of indifference while remaining near enough to matter. Always close enough that your body, traitor and witness both, recognises his presence the way other bodies recognise heat from a fire at their backs. If you were to turn quickly, if your neck were to betray the whole rigid architecture of your upbringing, he would be there exactly where your blood has already imagined him. You never turn quickly. You do not need to.

You sit at your father’s side with your prayer book opened to the proper page, your hands folded in your lap with all the obedient serenity expected of Reverend Marlowe’s daughter, your throat bare of ornament and your ribbons chosen under scrutiny, and still your whole body keeps count of the pew behind you. The scrape of boots. The discreet little disturbance in parish order when an older lady shifts to admit him. The exact moment your father’s sermon moves from doctrine into the bright, dangerous severity of warning, and you feel the quality of attention behind you alter by a single intolerable degree. You tell yourself it is imagination. You tell yourself many things.

Then there are the smaller proofs, too intimate to deny and too small to confess aloud even to yourself.

A prayer book slipping from the pew ledge when you rise too quickly, caught by his hand before it can strike the floor, his fingers brushing the leather cover and then—inevitably—the edge of your own gloved knuckles as he returns it wordlessly. A crowded church vestibule where the departing line tightens unexpectedly, bodies pressing closer than decorum likes to allow, and you feel the careful hover of his hand at the small of your back—not touching, not even quite daring, only ready—prepared to steady if needed, refraining just enough that the lack of contact burns worse than a touch might have done. A hymn ending in so much gathered stillness that your own breath leaves you too sharply, and his answer comes, low enough to vanish under the organ’s dying note and yet clear enough to find you: “You sing more loudly now.”

Your composure has not shattered in public. That is the miracle and the misery of it. It only cracks in bright, private places between one moment and the next.

In the churchyard, where your father is detained by wardens and vestrymen and widows whose charity sits upon their lips, Mingyu drifts near with all the false ease of a man willing to let coincidence shoulder the blame. The exchanges remain brief because they must. He understands that in the marrow of him. He arrives, offers a line half-teasing and half-true, lets you answer or not answer, and withdraws before danger grows visible. These little conversations accumulate. That is the danger of them.

No one moment, taken by itself, would justify the treachery of your pulse or the marks left by beads pressed too hard into your palm later that evening while your father reads aloud from Proverbs or Paul or whichever male saint best suits his corrective purposes. Yet no one moment remains alone. They stack one upon another like kindling kept dry beneath a roof. A sentence here. A look there. A hand hovering and not touching. Breath catching where no breath ought to catch. The memory of the kiss has not faded under repetition. It worsens.

It returns at the strangest hours. In prayer. In the small domestic stillness, while your maid fastens the final hooks at the back of your gown. In the cold pause before your father says grace. In the minute before sleep, when your body lies in the dark and the shape of his mouth against yours comes back with such heat that you turn onto your side and press the rosary into your palm until pain makes wanting easier to survive. You had thought, in the first immediate days after it, that shame might cauterise desire if only it were given enough time and enough scripture. It has not. Shame has merely learned to live beside it.

The whispers come as nothing more than a slight sharpening beneath ordinary conversation. Not gossip, not if one asked directly. Concern is the preferred perfume of women who enjoy ruin most when it arrives in satin shoes and sweetened voices. Lady Henshaw’s smile changes. It remains bright, remains all the things it has always been when turned upon you in rooms full of flowers and parish ladies and properly funded benevolence. Though now there is a sharpened edge beneath the brightness, a tiny inward thrill beneath the kindness, as if your presence has become more interesting than your father’s sermons. A widow in navy lace who once praised your modesty asks, in a tone almost too innocent to challenge, whether you find Mr. Ashbourne’s sudden diligence in matters spiritual “encouraging.”

Two ladies from the church circle fall silent as you approach the hat stand after service and resume, once you have passed, with lowered voices and a quick glancing urgency. A matron with cheeks like sugared apples murmurs to another, while examining the fastening of her glove, that “gentlemen who reform so suddenly generally do so in pursuit of a witness.” The other answers, “Or a temptation.”

You are not meant to hear either line. That is why they are placed precisely where hearing becomes inevitable. There is indecency to the implication that open accusation never quite manages. The ton, you are beginning to understand, drinks scandal the way certain men drink claret—not because thirst compels it, but because it warms the blood and lends ordinary conversation the glamour of risk.

These whispers have not yet travelled upward into the more official structures of your life. They have not reached your father as fact, only as atmosphere. They have not yet reached Lord Carroway in any form he would recognise as threat. Yet you feel them gathering at the edges of rooms like mist over water. And each time they gather, your father’s gaze grows a fraction cooler, his silences longer, his instructions more exact. As if he smells smoke before ever seeing flame.

Lord Carroway’s visits arrange themselves into the shape of inevitability. Outwardly, they remain what men call respectable: A glass of port in your father’s study after vespers. Conversation upon church subscriptions, the state of the poor, municipal obligations, the dangers of modern laxity, and the alarming decline of proper reserve among younger generations. He brings no flowers. Men like Lord Carroway do not understand flowers except as evidence of waste. He speaks of household order. He looks around the Marlowe estate drawing room with the calculation of a man imagining which furnishings he would keep. One Thursday evening he stays through supper.

Candlelight burns steadily in the candelabra between the courses, polishing the crystal, flattering the china, throwing soft gold along the edge of the decanter by your father’s hand. Everything about the table has been arranged with enough care to suggest welcome. The linen is spotless. The roast has been carved properly. The wine is decent, though your father has chosen restraint over indulgence. Your place has been set as it is always set. Napkin folded, water glass full, knife aligned. It is, in every outward way, a respectable dinner. That is precisely what makes it worse. Respectability is so often where cruelty hides best.

Your father sits at the head of the table in black evening clothes severe enough to pass for mourning. Lord Carroway sits at his right, broad and expensively upholstered, his waistcoat strained only just enough to suggest appetite. He is less polished here in the private candlelight than he had been at the ball. Or perhaps you are merely seeing him more clearly now that there is no music to disguise him. You sit lower down, where a daughter sits: visible enough to be included, peripheral enough to be forgotten whenever men begin discussing matters they think too important to be interrupted by the presence of a woman whose life they are arranging.

The conversation starts within the boundaries of public decency. The state of the parish. The latest subscriptions. One benefactor’s tedious gout. The alarming laxity of younger men in matters of observance. Carroway speaks with the heavy assurance of a man who believes agreement the natural effect of hearing him long enough. Your father listens with the grave patience he reserves for men whose money, reputation, or theological vanity make them useful.

Then the fish is removed. The second bottle is opened. And whatever scruple had hitherto made the arrangement decorous enough to survive your presence appears to dissolve with the port. “A household requires order,” Carroway says, cutting his meat with the same deliberate force he brings to the opinion. “One sees the consequences when women are encouraged to imagine companionship where obedience would have served them better.” Your father inclines his head. “Quite.”

You keep your eyes lowered to your plate because looking directly at either man would require some expression, and you can afford none. Your fork lifts. Lowers. You have no memory of tasting the food. Only the act of making your hand perform while something inside you begins, slowly and with terrible certainty, to recoil.

Carroway glances toward you—not as one looks at a person participating in conversation, but as one glances toward a field under consideration. “Miss Marlowe has the advantage of excellent formation.” The sentence should not be survivable. It is said with almost absent approval, as if discussing the straightness of a row of hedges or the temperament of a mare. Your father’s mouth settles into that faint line which passes, in him, for satisfaction. “I have always considered discipline a father’s first mercy.” You grip your napkin beneath the table so tightly that the linen twists in your fist.

Carroway continues as though you have not heard, and perhaps in his mind, you have not. Perhaps in his mind, women hear arrangements only after rings are placed and papers signed; until then, they remain conditions rather than witnesses. “My late wife,” he says, and there is no softness at all in the mention, no grief, no tenderness—only ownership extended beyond death, “understood the comfort of a rightly ordered house. Submission spares a woman confusion. She need not form opinions on matters for which she has not the training.” Your father lifts his glass. “A rare understanding.”

You might have thought yourself prepared. You were not. The worst part is not that they speak of marriage. Marriage has hovered at the edge of your life from girlhood onward, not as a dream but as an eventual transfer. You have always known some hand would one day open the door of your father’s house and direct you toward another. No—the worst part is the ease with which the conversation proceeds as though your future were a practical matter already discussed behind closed doors where you were not required. Not if. Not even when. Only how. How best to settle you. How best to place you. How best to ensure that Reverend Marlowe’s well-kept daughter passes from one righteous authority into another without ever making the vulgar mistake of believing herself consulted.

Carroway lays down his knife and dabs at his mouth. “Of course,” he says, “a young wife must occasionally be corrected before she grows accustomed to indulgence. But a husband’s task is a sacred one. To guide. To shape. To preserve.”

His gaze comes to rest on you again. This time, he smiles. It is not a kind smile. It is not even a lustful one, which would at least possess the honesty of appetite. It is the smile of a man congratulating himself on ownership. Your father follows his glance. “Miss Marlowe has always responded well to instruction.”

A hot wave of humiliation moves over you so swiftly that the room goes thin and bright at the edges. The candle flames appear too sharp. The silver too polished. Carroway too close, too broad, too secure. Your father’s voice too calm. You are not in the room. That is what they require of you: the correct kind of daughter, the correct kind of prospective wife. Present enough to prove modesty. Absent enough that the terms may be discussed over your head. Something in your chest goes frighteningly still.

When the supper ends, your body feels as though it has been left elsewhere, and only your posture remains at the table. You rise when your father does. Curtsy when expected. Leave the room because women leave the room and that is called virtue instead of exclusion. Yet the men’s voices continue from the study once the door closes, and because your father has never thought it necessary to protect your hearing from your own fate, you catch enough through the wall to understand what is being purchased.

That night you do not cry. You stand at your window with the hidden travel book in your hands and feel something more useful than tears settle into you. Freedom, you realise, is not some poetic longing after all. It is a fact from which you have been excluded. The distinction changes everything.

Your first rebellion is so small it would look laughable from the outside. At breakfast the next morning, you take sugar in your tea. Your father prefers it plain. Has always preferred it plain. So the household takes it plain. You have never questioned this any more than you would question gravity, because in your father’s house, preference becomes principle at astonishing speed.

The spoon slips into the bowl, lifts white crystals, and tips them into the tea before you can fully consider what your hand is doing. One spoonful. No more. You stir. Nothing in the room changes. The servants do not cry out. The windows do not break. The house does not split. You lift the cup, taste sweetness, and nearly laugh from the perversity of it—not because sugar matters, but because choice does. Your father notices. His gaze rests on the cup, then on your face, and because it is only tea and only sugar and only one spoonful, he says nothing. That is worse. It means he is storing the moment. Counting.

The second rebellion is the ribbon. Not scarlet or gold or anything dramatic enough to announce itself to the house. You are not suicidal. Merely tired. When dressing for Sunday service, you choose a pale cornflower ribbon instead of the ash-grey one laid out by your maid under your father’s instructions. It is nearly the same shade as modesty itself, only brighter by a degree small enough to be denied and large enough to feel like insolence against your skin. Your father says nothing as you descend. At church, however, two parish ladies look at the colour, then at one another, with the identical, sharpened smile of women scenting proof. Mingyu sees it too. While Reverend Marlowe speaks of modesty from the pulpit and the ribbon at your throat seems to burn in the sight-lines of every respectable woman in three pews, you only feel Mingyu’s gaze touch the back of your neck and then, faintly, your shoulder where the colour lies. He says nothing. Your pulse spends the entire sermon behaving as though it has forgotten itself.

The punishment waits until afternoon. No study this time. No desk. No prayers on bare boards. Instead, your father receives two ladies from the parish in the front drawing room and sends for you to join them, dressed not in your ordinary visiting gown but in plain white muslin entirely stripped of ribbon or trim—purity turned penitential. The dress is not ugly. That would at least feel honest. It is bleached of any selfhood and presented as simplicity. You are made to pour tea. To stand while the ladies speak of young women and vanity and the necessity of vigilance in an age of loosened morals. Your father, from the hearth, remarks upon the spiritual value of humility. One of the women smiles at you with a pity so sharpened by pleasure that you understand at once this is punishment made public and called instruction.

When one of them remarks that young girls often fail to understand how colour excites the eye, your father says, “Miss Marlowe is learning the difference between being looked at and being seen well.” The humiliation is surgical. No titles. No accusation. Only implication placed so neatly in the room that everyone may admire the cleanliness of the cut. Afterwards, in the privacy of your room, you take the ribbon and hide it inside the travel book. A silly rebellion. A stupid one. It matters more than whole catechisms.

The white muslin appears more often. You are made to accompany your father on parish visits where he speaks, before assembled women, of the necessity of humble daughters who do not seek admiration. He has you read aloud from conduct manuals after Bible circle under the guise of “benefiting from edifying passages.” Once, after a Lady remarks too sweetly that youth is prone to excitement, your father thanks her and then asks you to distribute alms in the vestibule while matrons smile and call you dutiful. It is not literal public repentance. It is worse. It leaves room for everyone to say, if challenged, that no humiliation was intended at all.

At another Sunday service he calls you forward after the final hymn—not before the whole congregation, no, he is too cruel for that, but before enough of the church ladies and vestry wives gathered near the front that the effect spreads instantly through the room—and asks you to recite “Let your moderation be known unto all men” as an example to the younger girls. Your voice does not shake. The triumph you take from that is tiny and bitter and entirely your own. Back in the carriage, he says only: “A daughter who must be corrected publicly is a father’s quiet grief.” The line is fashioned to wound and sanctify the wound in the same stroke. You stare out the window and think of coastlines, islands and sun-kissed skin.

The day your father announces the betrothal, the church is fuller than usual. You know why before he speaks. Women have dressed with an extra degree of care. Carroway stands nearer the front than he has any right to in a parish not his own. Lady Henshaw’s expression has honed into that concerned expectancy which means she knows something and relishes being among the first permitted to hear it. Mingyu is in his accustomed place behind you. There is no comfort in that. There is too much of it. You can feel him all through the final hymn, all through the prayers, all through the rustle of the congregation rising into that post-service half-order where news travels quickest because people are still arranged into listening.

Your father steps forward and clears his throat. The church quiets. He speaks first of blessings. Of gratitude. Of the comfort of divine provision. Then, with all the dignity of a man delivering what he believes to be both good news and moral correction, he announces that Lord Carroway has made honourable intentions known and that, with prayerful consideration and paternal gladness, those intentions have been received favourably. You hear the words. You understand them. Yet the meaning remains outside the body, as if language itself has become too far away to enter flesh.

Then the church ladies begin their little sounds. Surprise arranged into approval. Smiles sharpened by relief. Carroway inclines his head as though receiving a minor distinction. Your father’s hand settles on your shoulder with solemn proprietorship. Your future, such as it is, has been spoken aloud before the church before it was ever spoken to you as a matter of your own choosing.

Mingyu does not move. That is how you know the news has struck him. If he had laughed, if he had shifted, if he had muttered some blasphemy under his breath, the world might have stayed intact enough for you to survive it. Instead, he goes so still that the silence behind you becomes a thing with shape.

The congregation dissolves into congratulations. Women turn toward you with all their sympathy arranged around their satisfaction. Men gravitate toward Carroway and your father, eager to approve another man’s arrangement of female obedience. You smile. You have been trained well enough to smile.

By the time the church begins to empty, you no longer feel your face. What remains is motion. Your father directs. Carroway receives hands. Lady Henshaw tells you, clasping your fingers too tightly between her own, that stability is a blessing many girls are too foolish to appreciate until it is too late. You answer nothing that can be remembered later.

Someone—a churchwoman, perhaps, or one of the older girls from Bible instruction—mentions that the front pews have not yet been scrubbed after the alms distribution, and Reverend Marlowe, hearing it, instructs you to remain behind and help with the pews. “Since humility,” he says in the hearing of two matrons, “becomes a bride better than excitement.” You bow your head with a composure that no longer feels like obedience but like vacancy. He leaves you there.

Sunlight weakens over the stained glass and turns the coloured patterns on the floor into something duller and less magical. The vastness of the nave becomes more apparent in emptiness, more cold. The silence after a congregation leaves is not true silence. It is the sound of all the prayers and judgments and hypocrisies still hanging in the air after the bodies that made them have gone. You kneel between the pews with a bucket and a rag.

The wood is cold beneath your hands. Polish stings faintly at the skin around your knuckles where the rosary has already marked you this week. Your white muslin gathers at your knees. You scrub at the polished rail as though effort might return you to some earlier version of the day before your father stood before the church and gave you away to a man who spoke of wives as though they were livestock.

“Miss Marlowe.”

Mingyu stands half in shadow where the side chapel opens toward the confessional alcove, coat still on, gloves absent, face stripped of every easy public brightness. There is no grin. No light line prepared to make this bearable. Only him.

You straighten so abruptly the cloth slips from your fingers. “You should leave,” you rush, too low for any echo but sharp with fear all the same. “If anyone sees—”

“No one is here.”

“They will be.” He comes no nearer. That restraint hurts more than pursuit would have. You pick up the rag. “Go.”

Mingyu does not obey. Instead, he glances toward the side aisle where the confessional stands—dark wood, curtained, half-hidden in the architecture of the church—and then back at you. “Come here.”

You stare. “Absolutely not.”

His mouth almost moves, but what rises in it is not amusement. Something lower. More frayed. “Miss Marlowe.” He says your name like a plea dragged through discipline. “If I stand here another minute, I shall either say something ruinous in open church or do something worse. Spare us both.” The words should horrify you. They do. They also work.

Perhaps because the church has already become a site of humiliation, and some furious inward part of you refuses to let it claim every possible thing. Perhaps because your father has named your life before half the parish, and you cannot bear to stand obediently in the wreckage of it. Or perhaps because this is Mingyu, and every terrible thing between you has so far begun with the world telling you to remain where you were.

You rise. Bucket, rag, white muslin, rosary, betrothal, shame. You carry all of it with you into the side aisle as if bearing offerings to the wrong God. The confessional door closes softly behind you. The cramped dark of it changes everything.

The church remains beyond the wood lattice and curtain. God remains wherever men insist He does. Yet inside the narrow, enclosed space, the world feels abruptly reduced to breath and shadow, and the shape of him, half-visible, where the dividing screen catches the light. Mingyu is close. Close enough that you can see where the tension sits in his jaw. Close enough that the heat of him enters the small box and alters the very air. No laughter survives in either of you. The absurdity of the place presses around you—a confessional, of all things, built for rehearsed guilt and holy absolution, now holding the two most dangerous truths in your life. Mingyu rests one hand against the dark wood beside the screen, fingers spread. “I should have said something.”

You look at him. “In there?”

“No.” His mouth tightens. “Before.”

The distinction undoes you in some small private way. “There was nothing to say.” His gaze sharpens. “There was everything to say.” Somewhere beyond, a door closes in the nave with the mild thud of ordinary church business. The sound makes your pulse leap. “My father is here.”

“I know.”

A kind of helpless anger rises in you then—not at him, not even at yourself precisely, but at the unbearable calm with which he says I know as if knowledge itself were a hand held out over water. “Then you know I should not be here.” His eyes hold yours through the dimness and the carved lattice. “And yet you are.” You hate him a little for the truth of it.

The rag remains clenched in your hand like a ridiculous remnant of obedience. When you speak again, your voice has gone thin with effort. “You should not have come to me after… that.”

He understands what that means. The announcement. The public betrothal to a man you cannot bear to picture touching you outside a ballroom set. “No?” His voice is very low. “Then where am I to go with it?” The question catches you. “Go with what?”

Mingyu laughs once under his breath, not because anything is funny, but because men like him have always used laughter where other people would bleed. “With the fact,” he says, “that I have spent three weeks trying to behave as though what happened in that gallery could be made smaller by any means.”

The words enter you with impossible force. You had not known, until that moment, how badly you needed him to say it had not been small for him. Your hand tightens harder around the rag. The bucket at your feet seems absurd. The church walls absurd. The whole truth of your life absurd.

Mingyu leans his head against the dark wood beside the screen. “I thought,” he says, “that if I kept moving loudly enough, I should not hear myself think. It worked for years.” His eyes lift again. “Noise is easy. Laughter. Cards. Women. Clubs. Cities. You go far enough and fast enough and no one asks what you are running from, least of all yourself.”

There is no pose in him. No rakish sheen. He does not look like the man Mayfair prefers. He looks younger. Not boyish. More dangerous than that. Honest. “What are you running from?” you ask.

His mouth curves without humour. “Stillness.” The answer is so simple you almost miss its terror. “When my mother died,” he declares, and your breath stills because you have never heard him speak of her, “everyone in the house became useful. Seungcheol became duty. Joshua became reason. Wonwoo vanished into silence. Soonyoung became noise before I thought to claim it for myself. I learned quickly that if I was laughing, no one asked whether I was grieving. They only called me charming and made room.” The confessional seems smaller now than before. Not because the wood has moved. Because something in him has. “And if I was desired,” he adds, voice flattening into a kind of self-disgust, “it meant I was not being left. Even if only until morning.”

You close your eyes. The line enters too close to the heart and strikes places your father’s theology never reached because it had no language for abandonment except sin and no language for hunger except weakness. When you open your eyes again, the lattice between you feels suddenly very thin. “My life,” you say quietly, “has been one long hallway in a house I never leave.”

You had not meant to say it like that. Yet once the image arrives, it insists on staying. You see your own childhood suddenly not as years but as rooms connected by locks—bedroom to breakfast room, breakfast room to church, church to study, study to drawing room, drawing room to carriage, carriage to other women’s drawing rooms where your father’s respectability might be reflected back at him in polished form. “Everything in it,” you continue, because the words have broken loose and will not be called back, “has been decided by someone else. The colour of my ribbons. Which books remain in my room. Whether the window may be open. How long I may stand in sunlight. What I say. What I do not say. What is useful. What is vain.” Your throat tightens around the next line, but you force it through. “I do not know who I am without permission.”

Mingyu’s hand leaves the wood. It falls to his side with visible effort, as if keeping it from reaching through the lattice toward you has become a labour more serious than any sermon your father preached that morning. “Then learn,” he tells, and the force in the whisper nearly undoes you. “Even if it is in scraps. Even if it begins with sugar and ribbon and hidden books and hating every second of what it costs.”

You stare at him. The confessional has become a place where truth cannot pretend to be anything other than itself. He knows. He knows about the scraps. Perhaps not each one. Not the exact shape of them. But enough. The ribbon. The changed look. The fact that something has begun resisting in you and is not yet big enough to be called revolt, but too alive now to be mistaken for peace. “You make rebellion sound easy.” His answer comes immediately. “No.” A pause. “Only worth it.”

The silence between you is so taut it seems to hum. Your whole body is aware of the nearness and the wood and the screen and the dark and the fact that if he reached for your hand, you do not know whether you would pull away. “I am to marry him,” you remind. The words remain unbearable even in whisper.

Mingyu’s face changes. No bright remark. No sharp joke at Carroway’s expense. Not even anger, though anger is there if one looks deeply enough. What moves across him looks more like injury. “No,” he says. You almost laugh. “That is not a thing you may contradict into being untrue.”

He slides a fraction nearer. The confessional is too small for such movements not to count. “No,” he says again, quieter. “I mean, I don’t believe it belongs to him because your father says so.”

The room tilts. You are becoming too bold in private. You know it while it is happening and cannot seem to stop. All you can think about is kissing him again. How his mouth felt. How your body had answered before doctrine could. How he had stopped with you and not despite you. His breath catches. So does yours. He knows. That is the worst of it, perhaps—that he does not need a confession for this part. The wanting is all over the air between you. Neither of you moves. Finally, he says your name. It sounds unlike any other person’s use of it. Not because he says it more sweetly. Because he says it as if it belongs to a woman and not to a role.

Your hand loosens on the rag. Falls a little. His fingers lift—not quite toward the screen, not quite away. Hovering in the narrow dark, the gesture half-made and full of everything unsaid. If he touched you now, you think you might break into light. If he did not, you might go mad.

The church beyond the confessional is very quiet. Too quiet. Mingyu seems to feel it too. His gaze flicks once toward the seam of the door, then back to you. “You should go.” The disappointment that goes through you is so immediate it nearly startles you into speech. He sees that too. God help you, he sees everything. “Not because I want you to,” he corrects. “Because if I keep you here, I’ll forget every sensible thing I’ve spent three weeks learning.”

You think of White’s. Of the women, the city assumes he keeps. Of all the easy bright appetites he could have spent himself on if he wished. And here he stands in a dark confessional looking at you as though restraint itself has become a form of suffering.

You should leave. You do not. Instead, your hand rises and comes to rest against the lattice between you. Your palm fits where his would fit on the other side if he chose to mirror it. He looks down. Then he lifts his own hand and sets it there too, separated from yours by carved oak so thin it might as well be non-existent.

In the nave beyond, a floorboard creaks. Mingyu’s gaze flicks once toward the door. His hand leaves the lattice. It moves, slow enough that you could stop him if you wished, around the edge of the dividing screen where the wood opens near the hinge. He does not take your hand. Does not drag, does not grasp, does not claim. His fingers only touch the inside of your wrist, where the rosary remains tangled around your skin. The contact is feather-light.

Mingyu says your name again, so softly it feels like the opposite of prayer. And then, before sense or safety or fear can recover sufficiently to govern either of you, he bends and presses his mouth against your forehead. A blessing in the wrong chapel. A tenderness so unguarded it feels more perilous than hunger. Your mouth parts. No sound leaves it. When Mingyu straightens, his face is close enough that the dark of his eyes feels like a storm gathering. “Go,” he says again, and his voice is frayed with effort. “Before I forget what sort of place this is.” You pull your hand back too quickly, and the loss of warmth is immediate. The blood in your ears is so loud you cannot tell whether the church itself has shifted or only the shape of your composure. You leave the confessional.

The pews wait. The bucket waits. Everything in the church has remained exactly where it was, and yet the world no longer appears arranged in the same order.

You do not see the figure standing half-screened by the vestry door. You do not see the black coat held perfectly still in shadow. You do not see Reverend Marlowe’s face—gone to that terrible, prayerless stillness which means he has seen enough.

Your father’s anger, when it finally sheds its church clothes, is not loud. You had imagined—foolishly, perhaps—that if Reverend Marlowe ever truly lost command of himself, it would arrive in thunder. In a raised voice. In some visible collapse of the solemn discipline he has worn for years like a second skin. But fury, in your father, does not come unravelled. It comes sharpened.

The door of his study closes with the same finality with which he has closed it a hundred times before—for prayer, for correction, for private interviews with churchmen and benefactors and those respectable little violences by which a household is kept “orderly”—and in the instant after it shuts, the room remains precisely as it always is: the desk squared to the carpet, the Bible laid open upon it, the shelves standing close and watchful in the lamplight. Nothing in the room has altered. The setting remains constant. Only the sentence changes.

You are still wearing white. The muslin hangs from your shoulders in that punishing purity your father had been using for public corrections, plain enough to pass for humility, colourless enough to strip the wearer of anything approaching selfhood. Now, beneath the low light of the study, it makes you feel less like a daughter and more like a prisoner.

Your father stands between you and the door. He does not demand confession because confession would grant you the dignity of interior life, and Reverend Marlowe has never believed his daughter possessed one independent of his governance. He voices, louder than if he were requesting a chapter and verse at the table, “Hold out your hands.”

You do not move. The refusal is not grand. It does not ring through the room as rebellion might in a novel. It is smaller than that, quieter, and therefore more dangerous. Your hands remain where they are, hanging at your sides and trembling in the still air, and in that one disobedient action, you feel all the narrow corridors through which you have been guided and folded and trained until even your breath seemed to arrive by permission. Something in that structure gives, just slightly, with the simple fact that your hands do not rise.

Your father looks at you. His face does not change. Or rather, it changes in the one way his always has when displeasure deepens into something more dangerous: the stillness grows finer. “Hold out your hands.” The words fall again, thinner, honed.

You think of the confessional. Of shadow and wood and that impossible, devastating tenderness of Mingyu’s mouth at your forehead. Of the way his hand had touched the inside of your wrist where the rosary had rested and marked. And because you think of these things, perhaps, because your body has been kissed and witnessed and taught, in scraps, to imagine the existence of choice, your hands still do not rise.

The slap comes so quickly, you only understand it after it has already happened. The crack of it strikes through the room and through your face and through whatever childish expectation you had once preserved that his cruelty might always remain deniable. Pain blooms bright and immediate across your cheek. Your head turns with the force of it. The room lurches. The taste of metal arrives at the edge of your mouth before the breath has even fully left you, and for one sickening second, you are no longer certain whether what shocks you more is the violence or the proof of how calmly he can carry it. You stagger once against the chair. Catch yourself. Straighten.

Your father does not raise his voice. That is the line, and he has crossed it without surrendering so much as a thread of his composure. “I will not,” he declares, each word a separate instrument, “be shamed by a daughter who has forgotten her place.”

His hand closes around your arm and turns you toward the desk. There, beside the open Bible and the trimmed pens and the papers waiting to be filled with righteousness, lies a crop—no doubt once for horses, perhaps for discipline in some practical country sense, now made useful here for a lesson more intimate and more vile. For one heartbeat, you cannot breathe at all.

Then you wrench from his grasp, instinct exploding before strategy can form. The movement is useless. He is larger than you, older than you, so fortified by certainty and by custom and by the legal sanctity of fatherhood that your resistance only clarifies the shape of what is to follow.

The first stroke lands across the backs of your calves through the muslin. It is not the agony described in novels. It is worse. Sharp, immediate, shocking enough that your knees nearly give, the pain trailing behind the impact in a line of fire that seems at first too bright to belong to the body at all. The second follows before the first has settled. The third catches where cloth no longer protects, and the sound that tears from your throat is no proper cry, no lady-like gasp, only the involuntary sound of flesh receiving what flesh was not made to welcome.

Your father speaks while doing it. That is perhaps his greatest obscenity. Not cursing. Not shouting. In that grave, clerical tone with which he has spent years interpreting God for lesser souls. “A daughter—” the crop whistles through the air and finds you again “—who invites corruption—” another strike, another line of heat and ruin “—must be corrected before she mistakes appetite for liberty.”

The room contracts. The world becomes impact and breath and the impossible dignity of not wanting him to hear you beg. You taste blood where you have bitten your lip. The fourth blow lands lower. The fifth higher. By then, your body has ceased separating pain into individual moments and has become, instead, one great, bright field of it, every nerve lit and shuddering. You hear the crop sing through the air before each strike and begin dreading the sound even more than the contact, because the dread gives time for imagination to do its own work.

And somewhere inside the heat and humiliation and the old well-trained instinct to obey, something else rises. Not meekness. Not collapse. Something feral. It gathers slowly, with dreadful clarity, in the very place your father means to break. Each stroke strips away one more layer of obedience until what remains is no longer the frightened, dutiful creature who could once be led back into herself through prayer and silence and copied verses. What remains is fury—white, clean, unornamented. Not the sort that screams. The sort that survives.

By the time he stops, your legs are shaking too hard to hold you upright, the white muslin has become a red, miserable witness to what has been done in this room, and your cheek still burns with the earlier blow as if your father had meant to mark your face and your body with separate signatures.

He lays the crop down. “You will pray,” he says. “And you will thank God that I have corrected you before the world is forced to.”

You straighten by sheer hatred. Your face is wet. You had not noticed the tears. They do not feel like grief. They feel like the body overheated, spilling what it can no longer contain. When he tells you to kneel, you do not. You look at him.

Not with childish rebellion. Not even, perhaps, with anything he can safely name. You look at him with a stillness he has spent your entire life attempting to monopolise, and in that look lies something colder than disobedience and more dangerous than tears: the knowledge that pain has not led you back into his keeping. It has pushed you beyond it. Your father sees enough to go pale at the mouth. “Go to your room.”

You go. Not because he commands it. Because you have decided not to remain in it.

Your maid draws breath sharply when she opens the door.

She does not cry out. She has been in this house too long to waste shock where walls may echo it back to the wrong ears. Yet her candle trembles in its brass holder and her free hand rises halfway to her mouth before she masters herself. You shut the door behind you with your own hand. “Do not call anyone,” you say. The sound of your own voice startles you. It is low, scraped raw, as though the evening has stripped away the final coating and left only the hard grain beneath.

She sets the candle on the dressing table and comes nearer. In the warmer light, she sees the mark on your cheek, the split at your lip, the way you are holding yourself with all the painful precision of someone who cannot permit her body to admit what it has just endured. “Miss—”

“I need your help.”

There is no room left for delicacy. Your maid’s face changes. Not into horror —horror is a luxury, and women who serve in clerical houses learn very quickly which feelings are safer than others. What takes its place is something fiercer, quieter, and entirely more useful. She nods.

It is one of the great secret generosities of womanhood that some of the most life-saving loyalties are formed not through declaration, but through immediate practical understanding. She asks no moral questions. Does not tell you to be still while she fetches your father. Does not whisper of duty or patience or the Lord’s refining fire. She draws the bolt, goes to the washstand, and begins assembling what is needed as if tending damage done by righteous hands were as ordinary a domestic labour as brushing hair. You sit where she places you.

The act of lowering yourself is enough to make your whole body seize. A hiss escapes you despite yourself when the fabric shifts against the raw lines at the backs of your legs. Your maid’s jaw tightens. With small, quick movements, she loosens the gown and lifts the blood-marked chemise away from the places where cloth has begun to cling. Cool water touches your skin, and every inch of you burns in answer. You do not cry out. You grip the edge of the chair until the bones of your hand stand white under the skin.

When she finishes cleaning what may be cleaned, the marks remain livid and unmistakable, crossing your calves and thighs in angry lines that will blacken by morning. Your cheek has begun to swell. Your lip is bloodied. You look, in the mirror’s blurred candlelight, not like a girl seduced into error, not like a penitent daughter reclaimed, but like someone who has had the final excuse for obedience taken from her by force.

Your maid wraps a shawl around your shoulders. “He’ll bolt the lower hall after midnight,” she says, keeping her voice low. “The side servants’ door will still catch if Cook has gone down and the scullery maid’s asleep.”

You look at her. She meets your gaze and knows, from that alone, that there will be no sleeping in this house tonight. “Where will you go?”

The answer leaves you without pause, without surprise, as if your body had chosen long before the rest of you had the courage to admit it. “Ashbourne Hall.”

Her eyes widen once. Then narrow, not in judgment but in the swift, hard arithmetic of women who understand what must happen next. She fetches your darkest cloak. Not elegant. Not costly. Plain enough to vanish in shadow. Your stoutest boots. A small purse. Pins your hood with capable fingers while the room hums with the quiet urgency of conspiracy. When she draws the fabric around you, there is tenderness in her hands and fury too, though she says little. “You must go quickly,” she murmurs. You stand. Pain answers from every place your father touched. You no longer care.

The narrow lane behind the house lies washed in a thin grey-silver moonlight and the weak amber of distant lamps. Somewhere farther off, wheels move over stone. A door closes. The city breathes its enormous dark breath around you, and, for the first time in your life, there is no carriage wall between that breath and your skin. The cold is bitter and clean enough to make everything feel sharper. Your cheek. Your mouth. The places where the crop bit. The place inside you that has gone beyond sorrow into something more earnest.

You are not some girl stealing into the night because a gentleman smiled too beautifully in church. Not a blushing fool ruined by a side-gallery kiss and a little bright talk of Greece. The blood beating in you has nothing to do with girlish softness. You are running because Reverend Marlowe’s hand crossed a threshold tonight, and Lord Carroway’s name has become the polite face of a lifetime’s continuation of that threshold. You are running because your body has been used as a sermon. Because your life has been arranged in rooms where you were visible enough to be traded and absent enough not to be consulted. Because if you remain where you are, every small scrap of self you have begun gathering—sugar, ribbon, sunlight, pages hidden in cedar, a kiss, a hand against a lattice, one impossible forehead blessing in the wrong chapel—will be taken back away from you.

By the time Ashbourne Hall rises before you, black and elegant against the sleeping square, your breath is ragged and every step sends hot pain up through your legs in jolting lines. The great townhouse looks impossibly self-possessed, as though houses such as this one never imagine women arriving at their doors with bruised cheeks and a will only half held together by fury.

The footman who opens the door nearly forgets his face. Servants are trained against surprise. They are not trained against seeing a clergyman’s daughter standing on the steps past midnight in a dark cloak, mouth bloodied, eyes bright with something too hard to call tears. “Miss Marlowe?” His whisper contains the whole scandal and none of the cruelty. “I need Mr. Ashbourne.”

He hesitates only long enough to understand the stakes belong well above his station and far outside ordinary service. “Come in, miss.” He steps aside and closes the door behind you with respectful discretion.

Ashbourne Hall at midnight is all softened and possessed luxury: a banked glow from wall sconces, the gleam of polished banisters, the hush of an expensive house built to look effortless even in sleep. A clock ticks somewhere deeper in the hall. “Wait here,” the footman murmurs. “I’ll fetch him.”

You stand there, cloak still clasped shut at your throat, trying not to breathe too hard and not to think too much. The hall swims at the edges of your vision and rights itself only because you force it to. Your fingers are numb with cold, and yet you can feel, through layers of fabric, the pulsing burn of your feverish skin. Every second waiting seems to expose the enormity of what you have done: a lady in a gentleman’s house, no chaperone, no excuse that may survive daylight. Then Mingyu appears at the head of the stairs.

His shirt lies open at his collar. His dark hair is roughened from running his hand through it. Sleep is nowhere in him. He is moving before the footman has fully vanished from the hall. “Miss Marlowe—” He stops. Starts again, lower. “What happened?”

You had not intended to tremble until he spoke. You do now. The sound of your own breath seems far too loud in the silence. Mingyu’s eyes move over you quickly—not with the slow appreciative notice of a man taking in a woman’s appearance, but with the terrible precision of someone searching for injury. Your cheek. Your mouth. The way you cannot quite stand evenly. Something in him hardens.

You do not want questions. You do not want sympathy. You do not want, above all things, for him to look at you and see a broken thing instead of a woman who has made one last selfish, furious choice before the world closes over her. “Take me somewhere private,” you say. He obeys at once.

He brings you not to a drawing room where the house might overhear, nor to the library with its long respectable echoes, but to his own room, where the fire still lives low in the grate and the bed stands half-turned in the warmth of the room and everything in the air smells faintly of clean linen, extinguished candle, and him.

When the door closes behind you, the privacy becomes immediate. So does the danger. Mingyu turns. There is no humour in his face at all. “What happened?” The words come rough, almost hoarse.

You should tell him. You should speak plainly and be done with it. Yet the humiliation of naming what your father did feels almost worse than the pain itself. You look away. Mingyu crosses the room slowly, as though approaching some skittish, wounded thing that might either bolt or bite. “Miss Marlowe.” Then, more softly, because the use of your formal title in this room suddenly sounds absurd between you, “Angel.”

Your mouth shakes. That is all. A little treachery in the line of it. Yet Mingyu sees the whole fracture. His hand comes up and hovers near your face. Not quite touching until you give the slightest nod. His thumb brushes the edge of your cheek where the swelling has begun. The pain is bright enough that your breath jerks. His hand stills at once. He looks at you. “Who hurt you?” he asks, and there is such concentrated softness in the question that you nearly weep from it.

“My father,” you confess. Mingyu lets his hand fall then, not away from you but lower, until he takes hold of the clasp at your throat and loosens it. The cloak slips from your shoulders. The shawl with it. His breath catches when the movement bears the full damage of the evening to the gentle lamplight. The white muslin has become an obscenity—too innocent a fabric to carry such evidence, and so making the evidence appear even crueller for the contrast. His fingers follow the line of your arm until they reach the edge of the muslin, where the fabric has shifted against your calf. He does not lift it. “May I?” he asks. You whisper, “Yes.”

Mingyu gathers the hem with both hands and lifts it only enough to see. The silence that follows is terrible. His gaze takes in the raised welts striped along the backs of your calves and higher, where cloth has not fully spared your skin. His mouth parts and shuts. The muscles of his jaw work with visible effort. When he speaks, the words are so soft you almost miss them. “I’ll kill him.”

Mingyu’s eyes lock with yours, and there is such naked fury in them that for one unstable moment, you think if you said yes, he truly would leave the room, walk out into the night, and kill Reverend Marlowe with his bare hands. That thought should frighten you. It does not. It reaches you as protection reaches a creature too long kept in captivity—warily, disbelievingly, with instinct answering before reason can. “No.” You shake your head, and the room rocks with the movement. “That would still leave him having had the last word.”

Mingyu rises to his full height. Whatever first violence had flared in him at the sight of you has gone inward, banked behind control, leaving only that grave, steady purpose in its place. One hand comes to your waist, the other to the nape of your neck—not to claim, only to guide. He means to turn you toward the chair near the fire, to press you gently down into it before your shaking legs betray you entirely. “Sit down,” he voices lowly.

You do not. Before he may steer you further, your hands close over his wrist. The touch arrests him. You stand there between his hands, trembling and upright, and something in your face tells him more clearly than any protest could: you have not come here to be handled softly back into helplessness.

The words have been building in you from the moment the study door closed behind your father, all the way across the square and up the steps of this house, and if you do not speak them now, you think they may tear their way out of you by force. “I did not come for pity.” Mingyu’s brows draw together. “I came because…” Your voice catches. You taste blood again where your lip has reopened slightly from the force of speaking. “Because tonight he touched what belongs to me as though it had never once belonged to me at all.”

The hand at your waist tightens. The fire gives one small sound in the grate. The silence that follows seems to gather itself around the two of you until even the room’s shadows feel like witnesses. You force yourself to continue because stopping now would be another kind of death. “Take me,” you say, and your voice shakes, though the decision does not. “Before I forget I’m allowed to belong to myself.”

For one breath, perhaps two, Mingyu says nothing at all. He stares at you as if you have placed some holy and unbearable object directly into his hands and asked him to profane it beautifully. His thumbs move—small, unconscious motions that tell you how near he is to losing himself. “Don’t ask me that if you don’t mean it,” he pleads.

“I mean it.” Your answer comes without tremor. That surprises even you.

Mingyu shuts his eyes. Just long enough to seem as though he is bracing against the blow of your want. When he opens them again, what looks back at you is naked wretchedness. “You don’t know what you’re asking me to do.”

“I know exactly what I’m asking.”

“No.” His mouth twists, not in refusal, but in the agony of resisting the austerest path laid before a starving man. “You know what you need. That isn’t the same.”

You want to strike him—not from anger, but because refusal after all this would be unbearable and because the gentleness of his resistance hurts more than if he had simply reached for you like every cautionary tale ever whispered about him. You lift your chin despite the pain in your cheek. “Are you refusing me?”

He laughs under his breath, not from amusement but from disbelief. “Christ, no.” His fingers flex at your waist. “I am trying, for perhaps the first time in my miserable life, to be better than what’s easiest.”

The confession warms the whole room with its honesty. You do not reply. Mingyu goes on because if he does not, he will touch you, and then all the lines will be ash. “Because once I touch you like that,” he whispers, “there is no pretending it can be swept away after. Not for you. Not for me. Not if anyone learns it. Not if no one ever does.”

Something in you, held too tightly for too many years, breaks with a kind of terrible calm. “Nothing can be swept away after this.” You hear your own voice and barely know it. “That happened before I came.”

There is no gentleness left in the world capable of saving you tonight. Because your father’s study still lives in your nerves, Carroway’s smile does too, and because you have not come across the city to be given back whole to those men who call damage duty. All of that presses against your back while the only free space seems to exist in the narrow distance between your body and Mingyu’s. You step into that distance and put your hand flat over his heart. “Do not give me back to them tonight,” you assert. “Not untouched.”

His breath leaves him as if you have driven it out with force. “Angel,” he says again, and the word is no longer an endearment, but a man’s last coherent prayer before ruin, “you will unmake me.” Your fingers close in the linen of his shirt. “Then be unmade.”

His mouth takes yours with all the wrecked restraint he has been trying to keep standing between the two of you, and can no longer hold upright. The first press of it is almost savage in its relief. You feel him try for gentleness and lose it halfway through because you are kissing him back like a woman taking something owed to herself by blood and right. His hands move, one sliding up in your hair to hold you in the angle he wants, the other tightening at your waist until the space between your bodies ceases to exist.

You make a sound against his mouth. He answers it with another kiss, slower and deeper, his lips parting yours; it sends heat straight through your aching body and gathers low, hot, insistent, in your core. “If you want me to stop,” he says against your mouth, kissing the words apart, “you say it once.” You shake your head. “No.”

His lips ghost over the corner of your mouth where the split has begun to clot. He pauses there, not kissing the wound itself, only hovering close enough to honour the hurt without making worship of it. “No what?”

It is not cruelty. He is making you choose again. Giving the choice back and back and back each time you move toward him so no one—least of all you, tomorrow, in whatever room your father locks you in—may ever tell the story differently. You answer by taking his lower lip between your teeth and letting your hands slide upward into his hair. “That,” he groans hoarsely, “is not fair.” You do not know what fairness has to do with anything left in your life.

He kisses you again, the hand that was in your hair sliding down towards the fastening of your gown, while the other spreads broad and sure at your back. The white muslin loosens under his fingers. The simplicity of it feels vulgar now, this dress your father chose for punishment becoming, under Mingyu’s hands, merely another thing to be opened and shrugged away from skin. He draws the fabric down your shoulders until it pools at your feet.

Mingyu’s mouth breaks away from yours to touch the bruised side of your face. Then he switches to the unmarked side. Then down the line of your throat, where he kisses you as if beginning there might remake what has been done. Your hands tighten in his hair. He moves lower. His mouth finds the slope of your shoulder. The hollow just beneath. The upper curve of your naked chest as your chemise, loosened in the struggle of the evening, ceases to offer any meaningful defence against his hands.

The first touch of his palm over your breast sends a violent shiver through you. Not because you are innocent. That word has been used on you too often to mean anything. But because no one has ever touched you like this—like your body is not a thing to be regulated or displayed or bargained over, but a country he intends to cross slowly and with wonder. His thumb passes over your nipple and your whole body arches with a raw, helpless response that makes him curse softly into your skin. “God.”

Mingyu pushes the chemise lower and bares you fully to the room. The heat of his gaze moves over your breasts, and is enough to make your knees weaken. “You’re beautiful, do you know that?” he asks. You shake your head. His mouth curves—not mocking. Struck. “No,” he murmurs. “Of course you don’t.”

Then he bends and takes one breast into his hand while his mouth closes over the other. The sensation is so shockingly, exquisitely wet and warm that the moan you make tears out of you before shame can stop it. His tongue rolls with purposeful slowness around the tight aching peak until the ache becomes something far hotter. His hand kneads the other breast in time with the pull of his mouth until your head tips back, and you are no longer standing so much as held upright by the hand at your waist and the impossible steadiness of his body. “Mingyu—”

You have never said his name like that. He shudders. The sound goes straight through him. He lifts his head only long enough to drag his mouth across the swell of your breast and say, voice gone velvet-thick with desire: “Say it again.” You do, because you cannot not.

Mingyu answers by taking the neglected breast into his mouth in turn, giving the first one over to his hand and a rough brushing of his thumb that sends another helpless cry from you. He seems to like that very much. Not in the vain way of men who enjoy being admired. In a far more dangerous one—the way a famished man likes proof that the food before him is real.

His kisses trail downward. Across your ribs. The soft inward curve of your waist. The skin of your stomach where his hands follow, soothing and possessive all at once, holding you open to him as he lowers you, slowly, onto the edge of the bed. He kneels between your knees. The sight of it almost stops your heart.

A man like Mingyu, on his knees before you, shirt open, mouth reddened from kissing you, and body still leashed by the effort not to frighten or rush you—that sight alone might have unbound a better-trained woman than you. He looks up. “Still yes?” The room has narrowed to him. To the fire. To your own pulse beating like a struck drum through every nerve. You whisper, “Yes.”

His fingers slide up your bare calves, parting your knees wider over the coverlet. The motion pulls the welted skin there into fresh awareness, and when he sees the flinch cross your face, he stops immediately. “Tell me where not.” You swallow.

“Not there.” Your breath hitches as you guide one of his hands higher, past the worst of the damage, to the inside of your thigh where the skin is untouched and already hot with anticipation. “Here.” His thumb strokes the soft inner flesh once, twice, and your whole body tightens in answer. “That,” he says very softly, “I can do.”

He kisses the inside of one knee. Then the other. Up the tender inner length of your thighs in slow, ruined increments, his mouth turning reverent over skin that no one has ever touched except to dress, cleanse, or correct. Each kiss leaves heat behind in its wake. Each one seems to teach your body a new language you had not known it was capable of learning. When he reaches the edge of your drawers, he pauses only to look up at you once more. You are breathing too hard now to bear suspense. “Please.” The word escapes you before your pride can stop it. His eyes darken.

“That,” he says, fingers hooking delicately into the ribbon of your drawers, “you may say again.” He draws the fabric down. The room’s cool air touches your naked core, and you nearly close your legs on instinct. Mingyu’s hands are already there, broad and sure against your thighs, keeping you open.

The first touch of his mouth on your pussy is so shocking that your back leaves the bed. Not because it hurts. Because it does not. Because no sermon, no warning, no whispered disgust from church ladies had prepared you for the devastating ruin of a man kissing you there as though it were not shameful at all, but something worth kneeling for.

His tongue strokes between your folds slowly, as if learning the taste of your arousal. Then again. Deeper. More deliberate. Your hands fly to his hair with no memory of deciding to move them. He moans—actually moans—into you when your fingers tighten, and the vibration sends such a fierce, hot shudder through your clit that your whole body jolts. “Mingyu—God—”

He laughs, low and wrecked, without lifting his mouth. The sound melts into another long stroke of his tongue, then a slower, crueller circling on your clit already pulsing and throbbing as if it has waited all your life for recognition and is now furious in receiving it. His hands smooth your thighs, holding you apart when you close them around his shoulders against the unbearable intensity. He works you open with the sort of mastery that turns pleasure into something nearly impossible to survive in silence. You do not survive it silently.

The room fills instead with every breath you cannot catch, every small broken moan his mouth drags out of you, the wet, warm rhythm of his tongue and the occasional wicked suckling of his lips around your nub just long enough to make your whole body go rigid. It builds too quickly. No—that is not true. It builds exactly as quickly as he means it to, and the truth is worse because it means he already understands the places where your body will betray itself. Your thighs are shaking. The hand in his hair becomes a fist. “I can’t—”

He lifts his head only enough to speak against the inside of your thigh, his lips leaving a damp, shining trail there. “You can.”

Then his fingers join his mouth, sliding through the wetness he has made of you with obscene ease. One finger enters you first, pressing carefully, slowly, and the stretch of it is enough to pull a sharp little cry from you that is not pain so much as newness. He stops there, knuckles white where he is bracing himself on the bed, eyes fixed on your face. “Breathe,” he commands. You do.

He kisses your pussy again, his tongue soft and ruthless, while his finger eases farther inside your walls until your body stops fighting the intrusion and begins, to your own astonishment, to take it greedily. A second joins the first. The angle changes. His mouth closes over your aching clit harder. And suddenly the whole world contracts into one violent line of pleasure running from the base of your spine to your throat. You cry out and his name breaks apart in it.

The heat rushing through you is unlike anything you have ever known. Your body tightens helplessly around his fingers while his mouth drives you higher and higher until the sensation becomes too much to endure in any human shape. Then it breaks. Your climax takes you with a force that feels almost like anger turned into light. You arch hard, one hand in his hair, the other braced uselessly against the coverlet, and whatever sound tears from your throat scarcely resembles speech. Mingyu holds you through it, his free arm pinning you gently where you would otherwise have slid off the bed, his mouth working you through every shaking aftershock.

Mingyu lifts his head from between your thighs with your release still glistening upon his mouth. He bends over you, one hand braced beside your hip to accommodate the height of the bed, the other sliding to the nape of your neck as his mouth finds yours again. The kiss is deep and immediate and far more obscene for the softness with which this night began. You taste yourself on him, and the shock of that—of the intimacy, of the proof, of the wickedness of having him carry your own pleasure back into your mouth—draws a broken sound from you that seems to tear straight through him. Your fingers go to the buttons of his shirt. He breaks the kiss only far enough to look down. “What are you doing?” The question falls from him half as a laugh, half as a groan.

“I want to touch you.”

He hesitates—not because he does not want it, but because wanting has become the least of what troubles him now. Then he releases your wrists and lifts them one by one to his mouth, kissing the tender places where the rosary has marked you permanently before setting your hands back against his chest as though returning something important to its rightful owner. You open his shirt.

The linen parts under your fingers. One button. Then another. Then all of them, until the cloth hangs loose from his shoulders, and you push it down enough to bare him to the waist. The lamplight catches on the breadth of him—the hard planes of his chest, the lean pull of muscle down his abdomen, the quick rise and fall of breath that has lost every trace of ease. He stands between your knees, looking like something too beautiful to have been let into your moral world at all.

Your palms move over his warm skin. Over the flat, tense shape of his stomach. Around his sides. He shivers beneath your hands with the involuntary force of a man whose body has been waiting for your curiosity almost as desperately as your mouth. You bend and kiss him. Not his mouth. His chest. The hollow beneath his throat. Your lips travel lower over skin gone hot beneath the room’s quiet warmth, and the hand that had been resting at your waist slips into your hair with a rough, unsteady tenderness as though he does not trust his own legs through the sensation. When your mouth reaches the line of his stomach, he gives a breath that is nearly a curse. “You do not know,” he murmurs, fingers tightening at the back of your head, “what that does to me.”

You do not answer. You only look up through your lashes as your hands go lower, to the fastening of his trousers. “Angel,” Mingyu says your name. You open him fully. The sight of him bare before you—his cock hard and flushed and heavy with want—sends a fierce answering heat through your own body. You have no experience with this. Only imagination, hunger, and the memory of the way his mouth had worshipped you just before. You let your hand close around his girth and feel, with an almost violent jolt, the full living weight of what you hold.

A strange power enters you then. Not vanity. The bewildering knowledge that this body—this beautiful, dangerous body so many other women have touched with confident hands—has gone rigid beneath yours. You sink to your knees. Mingyu makes a sound and reaches for you at once. “No—”

You look up. His mouth is open. He has one hand gripping the bedpost so hard the knuckles have gone pale. “No?” you ask, and there is challenge in the question, and something of your new ferocity, too. “You may do as you like with me, and I am to do nothing with you?”

His eyes close briefly. When he opens them again, they are darker than before. “That is not what I said.”

You stroke him once, then again, learning by feel and by the way his body answers. How his stomach tightens. How his jaw sets. How the hand at the back of your head tightens its hold in your loosened strands. You lower your mouth to him.

You do not know precisely how a man is to be taken this way, only that you want to try. You kiss the heavy crown where he is already leaking, and the taste of him is startling—warm, salt-edged, heady. He jerks as if struck. “Angel—”

You do not stop. You kiss him again, then you part your lips and take him in only a little, enough to feel the shape of his length against your tongue, enough to hear his breath break above you. “Slow,” he mutters, and the word costs him. “Here—like this—”

His fingers gather your hair away from your face, and his thumb traces the corner of your mouth, showing rather than instructing, urging your lips to soften, to open more fully. You try again. Better this time. Deeper. He sucks in breath through his teeth, and his hand tightens around your chin. “That’s it,” he whispers hoarsely. “Easy—God—yes, like that.”

You move because you want to know. Because hunger has made curiosity fearless. Because the fact of his cock in your mouth is so astonishing that your body cannot bear to remain still. You let your tongue sweep over him, clumsy and earnest, and when another low, involuntary moan leaves him, something in you grows bolder. Your hand joins your mouth. You stroke what your lips cannot take, inelegant at first, then less so as his own body teaches you. Mingyu’s head falls back. One hand releases your jaw to brace against the canopy. “Christ,” he says, and this time the curse is shredded by pleasure. “Don’t—no, don’t stop—”

You do not stop. You take him farther, the stretch of it making your eyes sting and your throat protest, but you do not pull away. You are past caring for elegance. You pull back for breath, then lower your mouth again, more determined. Mingyu makes another broken sound, and the hand in your hair closes hard enough to betray what even his mouth cannot. Your palm works him while your mouth follows as much as it can manage. It is not pretty. It is not polished. It is wet and sloppy and a little desperate, and that seems to undo him far more thoroughly than any practised seduction might have done. “Angel—enough.”

You look up, lips parted around his cock, breath unsteady. He is watching you with an expression so nakedly wrecked it sends heat straight through your already-aching body. “Enough,” he says again, voice ragged and frayed, “or I come in your mouth and this ends here, and I am not—” He breaks off, swallowing hard. “Not like this.”

Before you can decide whether disobedience might be worth it, he bends, catches you under the arms, and hauls you up from the floor. You make a startled sound, half-laugh and half-protest, and find yourself upright against him, your knees weak, your mouth swollen, his breath hot at your temple. Mingyu holds you there for a moment as if his own balance now depends upon the fact of your body against his. Then he kisses you once more—hard, open, with all the force he has been biting back while you knelt before him—and when he breaks away, both of you are breathing like porters. “If I put you in that bed,” he says, “I am going to fuck you.”

You do not lower your eyes. “Yes.”

A sound leaves him—a helpless, ruined exhale that might once have been a laugh in some earlier, lighter life. “That is not how ladies are expected to answer me.”

“Then perhaps ladies have been taught badly.”

His eyes flash. The next moment, Mingyu lifts you with terrifying ease, one arm behind your back, the other beneath your thighs, just clear of the worst of the welts. He lays you back against the coverlet and comes down over you, bracing on one arm so his weight does not bear fully on your bruised body, and kisses you slowly until your own tension begins to melt into the mattress beneath you.

“Look at me,” he voices quietly. You do. His hand moves between your thighs, finding the wetness he made there earlier, gathering it to ease what must come next. When he presses the heavy blunt head of his cock against your entrance, the stretch of it feels impossible. Your breath catches so sharply you nearly bite through your lip to hold it in. “I know,” Mingyu whispers, one hand finding yours and lacing your fingers together hard enough to anchor. He enters you slowly.

No sermon ever uttered could have prepared you for this. Not the pressure. Not the fullness. Not the way your body resists before it yields and then seems suddenly to know, in some deeply hidden place, what to do with him after all. The first breach hurts. There is no virtue in pretending otherwise. A hot, sharp pull and a breathless ache that makes your eyes sting, and your body go rigid around him.

Mingyu stops at once. His forehead comes to rest on yours. “Angel.” You shake your head, not in refusal but in fury at the interruption. “Don’t.” His eyes search your face. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t look at me like I’ll break.” Something hard and bright moves through his expression—understanding, desire, respect, all wound too tightly to name. “You won’t,” he replies. And very slowly, Mingyu moves again. The second advance is easier. The third easier still. The ache does not vanish, but it changes, softening under his patience into something thicker, something fuller. He fills you until there is nowhere in your own body that is not aware of him.

Your joined hands shift over the coverlet. Mingyu’s free hand travels up your side, cups your breast, strokes your throat, and returns to your hip. When he is fully inside you, he stays there for one suspended moment, both of you breathing hard, both of you feeling the scale of what has been done. Then he begins to move.

The first strokes are shallow, testing, almost maddening in their control. Mingyu watches your face, not because he doubts your consent, but because he is learning how pleasure changes your mouth, your eyes, your breath. The angle shifts. He goes deeper. A cry catches in you, and his whole body tenses around it. “There?” he asks, voice shredded thin. “Tell me.” You answer by dragging your nails lightly down his back. He groans into your mouth.

The rhythm grows. Slow at first, then slower still in that deliberate torment men think women do not understand because they are fools. You understand it now very well. Each thrust drags against your aching walls and pushes lower and lower inside you. You want more. “Mingyu.” He lifts his head. Your cheeks burn. Your body no longer cares for modesty. “More.”

The word transforms him. His mouth opens on a rough breath. His eyes go dark and molten. He kisses you, hard, before he changes the angle, hooks an arm around your waist, and pulls you up. He sits back against the headboard with you gathered into his lap, his cock still inside you, the change in position driving him deeper all at once, making both of you groan at the same time. Your knees fall to either side of his hips. His hands settle at your waist, broad and firm enough that you know he could move you if he wished. He does not. He lets you feel the choice. “Take what you came for,” he commands.

You brace your hands on his shoulders and move. The first rise-and-fall of your hips is inelegant. The second less so. By the third, your body has found the rhythm and the room disappears—gone into firelight and breath and the stretch and drag of his length filling you over and over. His hands keep hold of your waist only enough to keep you from losing the angle that makes each descent hit the sweetest, deepest place inside your core. You ride him, and he lets you. “That’s it,” Mingyu says, mouth at your throat, each word broken by a kiss, by a breath, by the contained strain of not taking over. “Yes—just like that—Christ, angel—”

You rock faster. His head falls back against the bedboard with a thud. One of his hands slides to your hip, gripping hard enough that the coming bruises will bear his shape. The other clutches your hair at the nape of your neck and drags your mouth back to his. Your breasts brush his chest with each motion. His cock drives into you from below in answering force every time you come down, and the wet, hard friction of it becomes so overwhelming your whole body begins to shake. “Look at you,” Mingyu murmurs against your lips. “Look at you taking me.”

Something tightens again low in your belly, fiercer this time, built not from his mouth or fingers alone but from being joined to him like this, from the angle, the fullness, the terrible rhythm that makes your body feel both wholly yours and wholly undone by what it is choosing. Mingyu’s hand slips between you. His thumb finds your aching clit that had already yielded so helplessly to his mouth and strokes it in devastatingly quick circles. The world blurs white at the edges. “Mingyu—”

“I know. Come for me.” Your second climax hits harder than the first. It tears through you with such force that you cannot breathe through it, can only cling to his shoulders and ride the breaking of it while he holds your waist and works you through every convulsion. Your mouth falls open against his neck. Your whole body clenches around him in sharp, relentless waves that make him swear into your hair and lose, finally, the last of his restraint. Mingyu takes over then. His hands lock on your hips and drive up into you once, twice, harder, the bed striking the wall softly behind you in time with the force of his thrusts. The sound of your name is torn raw from his lungs. His head drops forward against your chest. “God—yes—”

Mingyu comes with a shuddering violence that seems to rip straight through the elegant man the world thinks it knows, leaving only the body beneath—hot and hard and spent and holding you as though letting go now would mean dropping something sacred and breakable and wholly his to protect.

The fire ticks low in the grate. The lamplight breathes. You remain in his lap, boneless with the aftershocks of your combined release, forehead against his shoulder, the room spinning quietly around the edges. Mingyu’s mouth finds your temple. Then your cheek. And you realise, in the long, trembling silence after climax, that the thing most dangerous in the room is no longer freedom. It is that what you have taken for yourself tonight now wears his face, too.

The journal still smells faintly of salt when Mingyu draws the envelope from the back cover.

It is near midday now—far enough from dawn that whatever private indignities the morning brought have been dressed, washed, and buttoned into something resembling a gentleman again, yet not so far that the memory of the night has lost any of its edges. Even his own room has been put right around him with the discreet efficiency of wealth. Fresh water. Fresh linen. The fire coaxed back to proper life. The bed smoothed of what it knows. He had woken alone.

That fact lives in him still, though he has made a point of not standing too near it. Only the impression of you remained: warmth gone from the sheets, a strand of hair caught against the pillow where your head must have turned, the ghost of cold night air and woman still clinging to the coverlet as if the bed itself refused to be practical about what had happened in it. He had lain there longer than he ought to have done, staring at the canopy and understanding with a sort of savage humiliation that you had gone back. Gone back into the world that would punish you for coming. Gone back marked by choice in ways no one must know, and he will never be able to forget. Mingyu ought to have felt victorious. Instead, he had felt flayed.

There is no appetite pure enough to explain what passed between you last night. Not merely because he had had you—that is the sort of language boys use at White’s when they want to reduce women to proof of one another’s masculinity—but because you had come to him with your body burning from another man’s violence and asked for the one thing no one in your life had ever permitted you: a choice that belonged wholly to you. Mingyu has been trying, since breakfast, not to think about that, too. He is failing.

The leather cover of the journal is worn at the edges where weather, travel, and his own restless handling rubbed it smooth. Within, the pages tilt slantwise with salt-stiffened ink and impatient handwriting—notes on harbours, on white houses above blue water, on cliffs, on inns, on nights too bright with wine to be worth remembering and mornings too clean not to be. Between one page and the next are pressed fragments of maps, receipts in foreign hands, one dried olive leaf ground almost to dust. The boyish theatre of a man who thought movement itself might one day amount to a self. Mingyu turns a page. A sketch of a little harbour, all angled masts and white walls. Another. A line written in the margin and crossed out: stillness is worst at sea because there is nowhere to throw it.

His mouth hardens at that. The old arrogance of it. The old fear dressed as wit. He had written such things with the confidence of a man convinced no one would ever be foolish enough to read them except himself and, perhaps, one day a woman in a foreign bed who preferred mystery to honesty.

At the back of the journal, tucked where he had left it months ago simply because keeping it hidden felt easier than opening it, lies the envelope. His name is written on the front in a hand that turns his chest unexpectedly hollow at the sight of it. No title. No rank. Only his name, as his mother used it when he was young enough to believe being loved and being understood might prove the same thing in the end. He breaks the seal. The paper inside is still heavy, folded exactly, the ink preserved. Mingyu sits at the desk with the Greek journal opened beneath his hand, the room warm around him, and reads.

My dearest Mingyu, If you are reading this at last, then one of two things has happened. Either you have found someone who makes a mockery of your usual vanities, or you have managed to confuse wanting with worth and require maternal intervention from beyond the grave. If it is the second, put this away and do not touch the ruby until you have learned the difference. You have always been the easiest of my sons to underestimate. That was your gift and your danger. Rooms brighten when you enter them, and people, being lazy in their judgments, mistake brightness for lightness. They call you charming when they mean harmless. They call you unserious when what they truly mean is that you make seriousness look less lonely than they would like. You have encouraged this, of course. I know you too well to pretend otherwise. It is easier to be adored for delight than known in depth. The ruby was chosen for you because it keeps its fire in plain view. It does not apologise for its heat. It does not ask permission to burn. Let it remind you of this: passion is not performance. Heat is not the same thing as love. A fire may warm a house or destroy it. The difference is not in its beauty, but in whether it has learned how to remain. If you place the ruby in a woman’s keeping, it must not be as an ornament, nor as a conquest, nor as some pretty proof that at last even you have chosen to behave. It must mean that you will not make a theatre of what ought to be sacred. That your constancy, once given, will not be another trick. If you love, let it steady you into purpose rather than send you racing once more into escape. Stand still long enough to tell the truth, Mingyu. Not only that you want her. That is the easiest confession a man may make. Tell the harder one. That you mean to remain. Your mother

He reads the last line again. Then once more. Tell the harder one. That you mean to remain. Those words would have struck him differently half a year ago. Even a month ago. Three weeks past, he might still have smiled at them with that fond, dismissive contempt reserved for maternal omniscience, folded the page back away, and gone on to White’s, to cards, to women who laughed in all the proper places and forgot him by breakfast. Three weeks past, he had still been capable of believing that want—provided it were dressed sufficiently well and made amusing enough—might pass for a life.

Then you had stood before him in church, composed of discipline and hidden fire, and looked as though kneeling had become less an act of faith than a posture your body had been forced to learn. Then you had laughed. Then you had kissed him. Then you had come to his door with bruises on your face and fury in your blood and asked for him not because he was easy, but because he was yours to choose. Such things alter the mathematics of a man.

Mingyu lays the letter flat and stares at his own hand beside it. The same hand that had once written clever little evasions in the margins of travel journals. That had thrown coins carelessly onto tables in foreign ports. That had known women by eagerness, by skill, by the confidential shape of one-night confessions soon forgotten. That had touched you last night with every power in him bent toward not making theft of what you had brought to him in trust. He closes his eyes.

The challenge is gone. More than gone. It shames him now to think of the first small male vanity that had attached itself to your name. The saint. The Reverend’s daughter. The locked room. He had imagined himself amused by difficulty, intrigued by denial, interested in the elegant puzzle of virtue. Looking back from here, the whole thing appears juvenile in the ugliest masculine sense. Not merely young. Trivial. Because none of this is about difficulty any longer. It is about you.

You in white, turned into an emblem by your father’s cruelty. You in cornflower ribbon beneath church eyes too eager for proof. You in the confessional saying your life had been one long hallway in a house you never left. You in his bed, not soft and grateful and dazzled to be wanted by the notorious Mr. Ashbourne, but furious and feral and determined to take ownership of yourself. The truth comes not with fanfare, but with the dreadful steadiness of recognition. Mingyu loves you.

The phrase ought to have sounded grander. More theatrical. Catastrophic, perhaps. Instead, it settles into him with the calm of something that has already been true for some time and has merely, at last, been cornered into language. He loves you. Not your innocence, though God knows Mayfair has tried to make that the only notable thing about you. Not your beauty, though he is neither blind nor a fool. Not the glamour of transgression, nor the exquisite danger of wanting what ought not be wanted. You.

The woman who takes sugar in her tea because choice matters even in a spoonful. The woman who hides ribbons in books and still finds room in herself to feel ashamed of wanting air and sunlight as though such things were sins rather than ordinary human needs. The woman who kissed him in a side gallery because she wanted to, and came to him last night because she refused to be given back to the men arranging her life as though she had never once inhabited it. The room feels smaller with the knowledge. Or perhaps he has simply grown too large for the man he was pretending to remain.

A knock sounds at the door. Two measured taps, then the handle turns without waiting for permission, which reduces the field of possible visitors to family alone. Wonwoo steps in and shuts the door behind him with the quiet economy he brings to all things. He is dressed already for the day, though with less ornament than Jeonghan would permit and less casual disregard than Soonyoung ever manages. His expression remains, as ever, unreadable to anyone who does not know that unreadability is simply the shape his attention prefers to wear. His gaze goes first to Mingyu’s face, then to the desk, to the Greek journal spread open, and finally to the unfolded letter beneath Mingyu’s hand. He does not speak.

Mingyu, still too raw from his mother’s hand and his own belated honesty to tolerate any performance in himself or anyone else, leans back in the chair and lets out a breath without humour. “If you’ve come to tell me I look dreadful, our dear sister got there first.”

Wonwoo crosses to the desk and stops at the far side of it. His gaze lingers for a moment longer on the letter, recognising perhaps the kind of private weather required for Mingyu to have opened it at all. “You do look dreadful,” he says at last. The line, delivered in Wonwoo’s plain, unadorned manner, is ridiculous enough to draw the faintest curve from Mingyu’s mouth despite everything. “This family is becoming repetitive.”

Wonwoo does not trouble himself to acknowledge that. He glances once toward the bed—made now, smoothed, betraying nothing—then back to Mingyu. “The footman on last night’s duty has developed an impressive respect for discretion.” It is not an accusation. Not even curiosity, precisely. Merely a fact laid down upon the table between them. Mingyu’s hand tightens slightly over the edge of the letter. “Has he?”

Wonwoo’s voice does not alter. “He said only that a lady called after midnight. He did not name her.” A pause. “He did not need to.” Mingyu laughs once, low and brief and without mirth. “You always were intolerably observant.”

“No,” Wonwoo replies. “You were always easier to read than you thought. People simply preferred not to look too carefully.” That lands because it is true. It is precisely the sort of truth Wonwoo specialises in: quiet enough to pass for conversation, sharp enough to bleed all the same.

Mingyu looks down at the journal. At the letter. At the old notes written by a man who thought movement might keep him forever from having to stand still inside himself. When he speaks again, his voice has roughened around the edges. “She came to me bruised.” Wonwoo’s face changes by almost nothing, which is how Mingyu knows the line has struck hard. “Her father?”

“Who else?”

Wonwoo moves then, not to the bed nor the window, but to the hearth where he rests one shoulder against the mantel and folds his arms. It is an old posture of his, perhaps learned from years spent watching rooms before deciding whether to speak in them. He looks not outraged exactly. Outrage would be easier. What settles into him instead is something colder. “And she went back.” Mingyu’s mouth hardens. “She had to.”

“Yes.” There is no comfort in the agreement—only fact. Fact is often more difficult to survive than grief because it makes no claim to tenderness. For a while, the fire performs most of the speaking. Mingyu remains at the desk, while Wonwoo watches the flames with the same grave severity he brings to books, balls, and people who insist on lying to themselves in his hearing. When he speaks again, it is with that same unembellished directness that has always made his clearest lines. “Do you know what men like Pembroke and Vale would do now?” Mingyu tips his head back against the chair and shuts his eyes. “Something idiotic, I imagine.”

“They would call it rescue.” That opens his eyes again. Wonwoo’s voice remains level. “They would decide she had been driven to them by cruelty and therefore required immediate, dramatic action. Elopement. A duel. A scene in the churchyard. Some public gesture large enough to flatter their own sense of heroism.” He lets the image hang between them. “They would make her life more visible and call the spectacle devotion.”

Mingyu’s jaw tightens. The fantasy possesses enough appeal to prove its danger. He has imagined exactly that species of glorious nonsense often enough in less disciplined hours—carriages, confrontations, declarations made in morally satisfying places where everyone might hear him tell Reverend Marlowe what kind of man he is and what kind he is not. The vision burns bright because it is simple. Which is precisely why it would be useless.

Wonwoo lifts his gaze from the fire and fixes him with it. “You do not save a woman by stealing her agency and calling it protection.” The sentence falls into the room without drama. It has no need of any. “You save her,” Wonwoo continues, “by standing beside her when she chooses. Not in front of her. Not over her. Beside.”

Mingyu says nothing. There is too much that feels uncomfortably like rebuke and, worse, like instruction he already knows to be correct. He thinks of last night. Of your voice saying Take me. Of the force with which he had almost refused, not because he wanted to, but because he understood too well that choosing for you, even under the pretence of caution, would itself have been a theft. Wonwoo sees the thought pass across his face and does not name it. For that one mercy, Mingyu could love him more. “I know,” Mingyu says at last. Wonwoo’s mouth moves by a fraction. “Good.”

It is astonishing how much relief may fit inside a single syllable when given by a brother who has no fondness for extravagance. Mingyu looks back down at the letter. A corner of the page lifts in the draught from the fire and settles again. Without meaning to, he traces the edge of his mother’s folded hand. Wonwoo watches the gesture, and his expression alters—not private exactly. Softer. “You opened it.”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s bad.” That makes Mingyu laugh despite himself. “That was your first interpretation?” Wonwoo shrugs one shoulder. “If Mother has been dragged in from the grave, the situation is never good.”

“She was unbearable.”

“She was usually right.”

The small exchange eases something in the room without diminishing the gravity beneath it. Mingyu glances again at the line that has gutted and steadied him in equal measure. Tell the harder one. That you mean to remain. He says, more to the paper than to Wonwoo: “I thought I wanted her because she was impossible.” Wonwoo does not interrupt. “I thought the challenge was the point. The woman everyone else said I ought not want if I had any sense.” Mingyu lets out a breath. “And somewhere between the first laugh and the church and the gallery and last night, it stopped being any of those things.” Wonwoo tilts his head slightly. “Stopped?”

Mingyu meets his gaze. It is one thing to realise love alone at a desk beneath his mother’s handwriting. Another to say it aloud to a brother who has spent half his life understanding him without encouragement. Yet he has been instructed today by ghost and blood alike to stand still long enough to tell the truth. The harder one. “Yes,” Mingyu says. A pause. Then, quieter still: “I love her.”

Wonwoo receives this with the same composure he might have brought to the weather, if the weather had at last admitted itself fatal. He does not grin. Does not offer fraternal mockery. Does not call him ruined, though the term would not be inaccurate. He only nods once. “I know.” Mingyu stares. “Does everyone know before I do?”

“Frequently.” That earns Wonwoo a black look and, because Wonwoo is neither Jeonghan nor Soonyoung, offers no greater display of satisfaction than the almost imperceptible settling of his shoulders. He pushes off from the mantel and crosses back toward the door. There, with one hand resting on the knob, he glances over his shoulder. “Joshua had a note from Wrotham this morning.” Mingyu frowns, still too deep in other matters for the turn to land at once. “And?” Wonwoo’s expression remains even. “The jewel chest has been inventoried for the season.” His gaze flicks once to the letter, then back to Mingyu. “If you decide you are, in fact, a man who means to remain, Joshua can have the ruby pin sent to Ashbourne Hall.”

Mingyu sees it as though it were already in his hand: the dark, steady fire of the stone, elegant and unapologetic, chosen for him by a woman who knew too much and loved him anyway. The heirloom still at Wrotham, still in Joshua’s careful keeping, waiting not for appetite but for certainty.

Wonwoo opens the door. “Carat & Co. can remake it into whatever shape you want,” he says. “A ring, if you prove you deserve one. Something else, if she prefers it. Joshua will know how.” Then, because he is Wonwoo and constitutionally incapable of leaving truth half-driven once he has begun, he adds with the faintest edge of dry emphasis, “Provided, of course, you do not behave like an idiot first.” The door closes behind him with quiet finality.

By the time Mingyu reaches Reverend Marlowe’s church, the afternoon has turned the stone a colder colour. The square outside lies half emptied of traffic, the respectable hour thinning into that quieter interval between luncheon calls and evening obligations, when London appears, for a little while, to have stepped out of its own noise. The church doors stand open, not in welcome but in routine, and the air within carries that familiar mingling of candle wax, damp stone, and the stale remains of piety breathed too often into a confined place. Mingyu enters with his hat in one hand and his purpose in the other.

Reverend Marlowe is alone near the front of the nave, standing beside the lectern with a ledger half open before him. He is not praying. Men like him rarely are when no one is watching. He appears instead to be taking stock of subscriptions or alms or whichever form of moral arithmetic presently occupies him. The sound of footsteps carries farther than it ought in an empty church. Reverend Marlowe looks up and his face hardens, not in surprise, but in recognition sharpened by dislike.

Mingyu comes to a halt a few pews short of the altar rail. The winter light filtering through the upper glass turns everything severe: the polished wood, the brass fittings, the black cut of the Reverend’s coat, the cold set of his mouth. There is nowhere in the space for softness to hide. Reverend Marlowe closes the ledger with deliberate hands and says, “Mr. Ashbourne.” The name sounds less like a greeting than contamination. Mingyu inclines his head. “Reverend Marlowe.”

The older man studies him, and in that study Mingyu feels all the old judgments gather at once—rake, foundling, sinner, ornament, danger—each one sharpened by whatever was seen in the church two Sundays ago and whatever has been suspected since. Good. Let him sharpen them. Mingyu has not come here to be forgiven into God’s grace. Reverend Marlowe rests one hand upon the closed ledger. “If you are here to offer an apology for the disturbances your attentions have caused, you are late.” The line is an invitation to defence. Or wit. Or embarrassment. Mingyu offers none of the three. He sets his hat down on the nearest pew and says, with a steadiness that surprises even himself, “I am here to ask for your daughter’s hand.”

Reverend Marlowe does not blink. Then something small and ugly passes through his expression—not shock, nor outrage in any vulgar fatherly sense, but contempt confirmed in its worst predictions. He lets out a breath through his nose. “No.” Just that. No incredulity. No raised voice. Only refusal delivered with such immediate certainty it seems less answer than doctrine.

Mingyu had expected anger. He had expected pious disgust, perhaps, or one of those long sermon-shaped speeches by which men like Reverend Marlowe turn their prejudices into moral architecture. The simplicity of the refusal is almost more offensive. He does not move. “You have not heard the request.” Reverend Marlowe’s mouth hardens. “I heard it. It is the answer that remains unchanged.”

Mingyu feels, very distinctly, the old instinct to smile. To go bright. To make this into a game of superior nerves. To lean one hip against a pew and say something easy and cutting about devils quoting Scripture and clergymen mistaking control for righteousness. It would have been simple. It would also have been exactly the version of himself Reverend Marlowe expects and therefore exactly the wrong weapon. So he remains still. “I intend to marry her.” Mingyu does not say it like a boast or a dare. He says it like a fact, not yet legally arranged.

Reverend Marlowe steps away from the lectern then, leaving the ledger where it lies. He comes down one step from the chancel and stops, elevating himself by only a little and thus making the distance feel chosen. His hands fold behind his back. “You intend,” he says, with a thinness that approaches disgust, “many things beyond your station, Mr. Ashbourne.” There are a dozen answers available. Mingyu selects none of them. The Reverend continues, each word growing colder for its control. “You are corruption dressed in a fine coat—a man who mistakes appetite for character and charm for worth. Your affairs are discussed in every decent drawing room in Mayfair. Your irreverence is public. Your habits are notorious. If you imagine that such a name may be laid beside my daughter’s and make anything but ruin of her, then your vanity has finally overtaken even your judgment.”

Mingyu lets the whole thing pass over him without flinch or smile. The list is familiar. White’s has said worse, if less biblically. Reverend Marlowe’s gaze narrows, as though the lack of visible reaction itself has become another irritation. “No daughter of mine,” he says, “will marry an Ashbourne.”

There it is then. Not simply disgust for vice, but the old classed and blooded contempt beneath it. Foundlings polished into gentlemen. A family built by choice where men like Reverend Marlowe prefer lineage to masquerade as moral legitimacy. Mingyu feels the truth of it settle with a cold and almost welcome clarity. Very well. “Because I am myself,” he says quietly, “or because I am theirs?” The Reverend’s face grows stiller. “Do not play clever games in my church.”

“I am not,” Mingyu states. “I am trying to learn which part offends you most. That I am not respectable enough to want her, or that I belong to a family built by something other than blood and your kind of approval.”

For the first time, something like open anger flashes in Reverend Marlowe’s eyes. “You belong,” he says, with cutting emphasis, “to a house in which excess has always disguised itself as feeling. You are proof that indulgence, if given sufficient money and tailoring, may pass itself off as distinction. My daughter has been raised for steadiness. For obedience. For a life under God. Not for spectacle. Not for vice. And never for a man who has spent his years bedding whores and calling himself charming while the city laughed.”

The word hangs in the nave with a vulgarity sharpened by being uttered beneath a church roof. Mingyu’s hands tighten once behind his back. He had thought, on the way here, that if Reverend Marlowe descended to open insult, he might feel rage first. What comes instead is a colder, more clarifying thing. Because the Reverend speaks of you as though you were an object he has polished and therefore owns. Because nothing in his face suggests he believes he is discussing a life that belongs, in any measure, to the woman he calls his daughter. Mingyu takes one step closer. Not enough to threaten. More than enough to refuse dismissal. “You may think what you like of me.” Reverend Marlowe’s lip curls slightly. Mingyu continues. “I am not asking your blessing for my vanity. I am asking because I mean to remain. Because what I feel for your daughter is not appetite, and because whatever else you believe of me, you will not call it corruption simply because it has displeased your plans.”

The Reverend’s expression darkens, as if each word forces him into closer contact with something he would prefer remain abstract. “You presume too much.”

“Do I?” Mingyu asks. The church has grown so quiet that the very air seems to wait between them. Mingyu thinks, fleetingly, of you in white muslin, in bruises, in fury, coming to his door because every other man in your life had mistaken authority for right. He thinks of the Ashbourne name itself, and of all the men who once wore it uneasily until they chose to stand inside it by conviction rather than inheritance. He has no wish, suddenly, to make this pretty. Let Reverend Marlowe have the whole shape of it. Let him hear, in full, what sort of enemy he has made. The older man speaks again before Mingyu may answer, and there is steel in the composure. “You will leave this church.”

Mingyu looks at him. Looks, too, at the pulpit from which so many judgments have been pronounced, at the pews in which you have been made to kneel and listen and smile and be shaped into other people’s reassurance. Then, with a precision that seems almost like obedience, Mingyu inclines his head. He takes up his hat. Turns and walks down the aisle at an unhurried pace, the sound of his footsteps carrying him back through the nave. He does not look back. It is this, perhaps, which makes the thing more unnerving than if he had stormed or argued or flung one last bright insult over his shoulder. He appears to comply. To accept. To leave. Reverend Marlowe remains where he is, hands clasped behind his back, the posture of a man who believes dismissal and victory to be near relations. Mingyu reaches the end of the aisle.

There, with the church doors before him and the light lying pale beyond the threshold, he pauses. He sets his hat beneath one arm. Then he turns. The distance between them is greater now, and for that reason, the line, when it comes, strikes harder. There is no heat in his voice. No youthful recklessness. No attempt at wit. Only certainty—cold, plain, and perfectly beyond negotiation. “You do not own her future.”

The words fall into the church and remain there. Mingyu does not wait to see what shape they make of Reverend Marlowe’s face. He has said what he came to say, and saying it in that place is warning enough. He turns again, steps out, and lets the doors stand open a moment longer than courtesy requires before they close behind him.

Inside the nave, Reverend Marlowe is left with the echo of the line, the ledger upon the lectern, and the first clean understanding that the danger represented by Mingyu Ashbourne does not lie in seduction, nor in appetite, nor even in scandal. It lies in the fact that he means to remain.

The sentence is delivered before supper and enforced before you are allowed the dignity of breath. By now, your father’s study has ceased pretending neutrality. It is simply the place where his authority most enjoys hearing itself pronounced. The desk remains squared to the carpet. The Bible lies open, though not because he requires Scripture any longer to justify himself; habit is enough for men like Reverend Marlowe. The fire has been laid but not lit. The room feels all angles and waiting.

You stand before him with your hands folded so tightly they ache. The mark upon your face has yellowed at the edges. Those hidden beneath your clothes no longer burn with the same white violence as before, though the flesh still protests with every careless shift. Your father has not mentioned the punishment. He has not mentioned the crop. He has not mentioned what he saw in the church. Men who prefer their own hands translated into doctrine rarely like to name the hour in which their cruelty became too human to disguise. He looks at you over the desk. He does not ask you to sit. He does not invite questions. “Lord Carroway has withdrawn his intentions.”

The words fall without preamble. You had imagined, once, that if the thing ever shattered, it might at least do so noisily enough to feel like mercy. Instead, it breaks with the clean, administrative neatness of male pride. Withdrawn. As though marriage were a subscription one gentleman had elected not to renew. You do not move. Relief comes. It arrives bright, involuntary, almost instantly soured by your father’s face—by the fact that he is not sorrowful, nor startled, not even properly angered so much as offended. Something has happened. Something has been said. Some certainty has been disturbed. Carroway, in preserving his own dignity, has evidently found yours expendable. “Why?” you ask. Your voice is steady enough to sound borrowed. Reverend Marlowe’s mouth hardens. “That does not concern you.”

Of course, it concerns you. That is precisely why he will not permit the answer. You know at once, with the sort of instinct women learn in houses ruled by men, that Mingyu has not allowed the matter to lie quietly where it was placed. The knowledge flashes through you in a dangerous kind of heat. Your father sees the colour move in your face and mistakes it, as he always does, for something he may still control. “Do not flatter yourself with romantic fictions,” he says. “A man like Carroway withdraws only when a thing ceases to recommend itself.” You lower your gaze because if you do not, something ungovernable may appear in yours. “Since marriage no longer offers the correction it ought,” he continues, “you will be removed from society entirely.”

This time you do speak. “You cannot—” You do not finish. Your father is around the desk before the sentence fully leaves you. His hand closes hard around your upper arm, fingers digging through cloth and skin alike, and the force of the movement swings you half toward him. Pain sparks hotly through the half-healed places your body still keeps secret beneath its proper layers. He does not shout. That is the worst of it. “You will not speak over me.”

The words are low and cold enough to cut. Your arm throbs in his grip. You try to wrench it free on instinct, and the motion only tightens his hold. His face is close now. Close enough that you can see the little broken vessels at the side of his nose, the faint dryness at the mouth, the absolute prayerless composure of him. “A house of religious discipline in the country has been recommended to me,” he says, as if your attempt to interrupt had been no more consequential than a dropped fork. “Its governance is strict. Its society modest. Its atmosphere appropriate to repentance.”

A convent. It rises all at once in the imagination: stone corridors, female silence, veils, prayer, years rubbed smooth by obedience until a woman becomes so pale of spirit that even her own reflection might fail to know her. “For how long?” You hate that the question still comes out. You hate more that he hears the fear in it. “As long as is necessary.” Which means forever if he may arrange it. Or until another man of sufficiently righteous and convenient and may be persuaded to take what remains of you. Duration is beside the point. The point is removal. You try once more. “Father—”

That earns you the other hand. Your father catches your jaw, hard enough that your teeth strike together, and holds your face where he wants it. “You will go this evening,” he says. “You will take what is necessary. Nothing frivolous. No novels. No adornment. You will be grateful that I have acted before your soul was entirely lost to your own disobedience.” His fingers leave your face. Then your arm. The absence of pain there feels almost as cruel as its presence. He steps back. The dismissal is immediate. “Go and prepare.”

You do not ask again. Not because obedience has suddenly returned, but because protest now would only delight the part of him that believes correction most holy when it is resisted. He has made the boundaries clear. This is not a conversation. It is a sentence pronounced by a man too certain God sounds like his own voice. You curtsy. Not from submission. From exhaustion so complete it has learned how to pass for grace.

Your maid says nothing when you tell her. That is how you know she understands the shape of disaster. The trunk brought out is not one of the handsome travelling cases meant for Bath or visits to relations. It is the plain one used for practical storage, the one that smells faintly of cedar and old winters. Your maid folds your underthings with quick, neat hands. Sets aside a second dress. A shawl. Gloves. A Bible. She does not ask whether you wish to bring music. There will be none worth imagining. She does not ask whether you wish to bring ribbons. That would be mockery. She does not ask whether you wish to bring the travel book because she has already tucked it quietly at the bottom of the trunk beneath folded linen, wrapped in an older petticoat, as though hiding not a volume but an organ. The kindness of it nearly undoes you. Nearly.

You sit at the dressing table while she works. The light outside has begun to thin. Somewhere below stairs, a maid laughs and is immediately hushed. Somewhere else, a door closes. Your face in the mirror does not look tragic. That would at least feel satisfying. It looks pale. Tired. Your mouth seems older than it did a fortnight ago. There is no bloom left in you that society might call maidenly. What remains is something barer, less forgivable, and infinitely more real: awareness.

You think of Mingyu. Not in the soft, dangerous way you allowed yourself the night you ran to him. You think of him as one thinks of a hidden blade or a coin sewn into a hem—something real that once proved the world need not be only what your father called it. You had left him before the house properly woke. Not because you regretted it. Never that. But because staying would have made the tenderness visible, and tenderness has become the most dangerous luxury in your possession. When he stirred as you rose from the bed, when his hand caught at the sheet as though some sleeping part of him already knew you were going, you had stood looking at him in the first weak light and understood, with a kind of private terror, that escape alone was no longer the whole truth of what tied you to him. Now, in your room, with exile being packed around you in clean, folded layers, that truth returns with renewed cruelty. You do not merely want freedom any longer. You want him in it. The distinction hollows the body.

Your maid closes the trunk. “You should eat something before you go,” she says. You shake your head. Food belongs to ordinary days and manageable futures. Your stomach has become a locked thing. She does not press.

The carriage is sent for before the last light has gone. Your father does not accompany you to the door. He stands instead in the front hall with his hands clasped behind his back and his face composed into that solemn vacancy by which he prefers to enact great domestic severities. A servant carries the trunk. Another brings your cloak. The footman waits at the open door of the carriage as if this were an entirely ordinary departure and not the burial, in all but name, of Reverend Marlowe’s daughter. The house has chosen propriety over grief. Your father offers no embrace. No blessing. Not even a final admonition, which is almost worse. The whole matter has moved beyond speech in his mind. You have become absent to him, the sort of woman who may be mentioned later in lowered tones as having required removal for the good of her soul. When you step into the carriage, the movement drags sharply at all the half-healed injuries across the backs of your legs. Pain comes hot and familiar. You make no sound. The door closes. The house vanishes behind glass and gathering dusk.

For the first stretch of the journey, you feel nothing at all. The sky dims from bronze to violet to that iron-blue hour which makes every familiar thing look like a half-memory. Your hands lie folded in your lap. The trunk rattles faintly behind you whenever the wheels strike a rut. You keep your back straight. Your mouth closed. Your eyes dry. Numbness is not peace. It is only grief grown too tired for emotion.

You think of the convent as little as possible. Whenever the image rises, you turn instead to the window, to the last lights of the city. But the road lengthens, and even London cannot accompany you forever. Houses grow fewer. The dark widens. Open country begins. And with country comes the true knowledge of it. The convent is not punishment in the common sense. Punishment ends. This is erasure arranged to resemble mercy. A life emptied of choice, of colour, of witness, of every small gathered thing you had begun to call your own. The numbness cracks.

The rosary lies in the pocket of your cloak. You take it out without fully knowing you are doing so. The carnelian beads catch what little light remains, red-brown and glossy, warmed for years by your skin and prayer and pain. Your father had called it devotion. You had called it obedience. Here, in the failing blue of the carriage, it appears for what it has always also been: a tally. A counting-chain. A little portable artefact of guilt. You wrap it once around your hand. Then twice. Your breath comes harder. The carriage rolls on. Something rises in you—not tears, though they exist somewhere behind the eyes. Something more intense. An anguish too hot to remain orderly. The knowledge that if you arrive where you are being sent, the pieces of yourself you have fought so hard and so badly and so magnificently to gather will be pressed out of you one by one until even memory has been taught to kneel. You pull. The cord snaps. Carnelian beads fly from your lap and strike the floor of the carriage in a hard scatter. They bounce against the opposite seat, roll into corners, vanish beneath the hem of your skirt. In the dim light, they look like drops of blood thrown across dark wood. You stare at them while your chest heaves with the aftermath of the motion, and the violence of that tiny act seems to split your whole life into before and after.

The carriage stops so violently that you are thrown sideways against the squab. The driver swears above. Horses scream in harness. A male voice answers from the road—low, commanding, impossible to mistake even through the carriage wall and the sudden hammer of your blood. Your heart knows before reason does. The door is wrenched open. Night stands outside in a dark coat and riding boots and wind-roughened hair. So does Mingyu.

He is on horseback still, one gloved hand holding his reins, the animal turned broadside across the road before your father’s carriage like a line drawn by will alone. Another horse waits behind him, riderless, saddled for speed and intention. The driver is protesting in frightened outrage. A groom or lad from the convent carriage has half risen from the box and then thought better of it when faced with the expression on Mr. Ashbourne’s face. Mingyu looks only at you. The lantern light from the carriage catches the planes of him in gold and shadow—the line of his jaw, the set of his mouth, the dangerous stillness in his shoulders. He does not look reckless. He looks certain. He steps down from the horse and comes to the open door. The whole world seems to narrow to the space between the carriage and the road.

For one blinding moment, you think he has come to seize you and carry you off in one of those glorious masculine follies men call rescue when they mean possession in better tailoring. The fear of that flashes white-hot through you. Then Mingyu holds out his hand and says, very quietly: “I have not come to rescue you.” The night stills around the words. His hand remains where it is, open, unforced. “I have come to ask.”

You cannot speak. The broken rosary lies scattered at your feet like a small dark slaughter. Your breath is unsteady. The road smells of horse, damp earth, and the fields cooling under the evening. Somewhere in the distance, an owl gives one sound and falls silent. Mingyu’s gaze does not leave yours. “If you stay in that carriage,” he says, and there is not one grain of false comfort in his voice, “it goes on to the convent. If you step out of it, you step into everything that follows me instead.” The words hang between you, grave and exact.

“Your father will disown you.” You already know this. Hearing it aloud still hurts. “You will have no dowry. No churchwoman will ever call you proper again. Society will say you were ruined before I touched you and damned after.” His mouth tightens very slightly in contempt for the world he is naming. “There will be no soft version of it. No pretty lie to make it easier.”

The numbness shifts, not back into terror, but into something that can at last feel the truth in pieces. “Why?” you whisper. The question means more than one thing. Why are you here. Why this road. Why me. Why now. Why should I trust you when every man in my life has made authority sound like care and ownership sound like holiness. Mingyu understands. Of course, he does. He rests one hand on the edge of the carriage door, nearer to you, but still he does not touch. “Because I love you.”

The wind moves at the edge of the road. Your dress swirls around your ankles. Somewhere under your shoes, the carnelian beads shift when the carriage settles on its springs. Mingyu goes on, and though the words remain sober, there is something in the tone that belongs not merely to gravity but to hope held with both hands. “Because I asked him properly.” His eyes darken at the memory, though his voice remains controlled. “Because he said no as if your life were a thing he had built and therefore owned. Because I told him what I will tell any man, in any room, until my last breath if I must.” A pause. “And because I will not steal this from you and call it devotion. I am asking.” He draws in one breath, not to steady himself, but to steady the world around the question. “Marry me.”

It is not a proposal wrapped in satin phrases, though something in the way he looks at you makes the bare honesty of it feel lovelier than ornament could have done. No polished performance. No courtship speech memorised for effect. Only a man standing in the road before the carriage meant to erase you, offering not safety but a future chosen in the open. Your pulse begins again in earnest, not the frightened beating of a trapped thing but something wilder. “If I come with you,” you say, and the words feel as though they are being shaped by a mouth no longer wholly numb, “I lose everything.” He gives the smallest shake of his head. “No.” His eyes remain fixed on yours. “Not everything.” It sounds like a promise spoken by a man who knows the cost and is willing, still, to stand there beneath it.

You look past him into the dark road and see the whole constitution of it. Your father’s face when the empty carriage returns. The church ladies with their sharpened pity. Carroway receiving the news with relief disguised as disgust. Doors closing. Invitations vanishing. Your name travelling through Mayfair in tones of pious regret. No dowry. No portion. No father. No return. Fallen, they will call you. And yet the word does not fit. You have not fallen. You have been kept. Kept in hallways, in pews, in white muslin, in correction, in prayer, in all the narrow little cages by which your father teaches women to mistake captivity for moral worth. Kept until the keeping itself became a theology. Now the carriage door stands open. The night enters. Mingyu waits. The road stretches dark and unpromising in two directions, and for the first time in your life, no one is moving your body except by invitation.

Your hand tightens around a single carnelian bead hidden in your palm. Then you open your fingers and let it fall among the others. The sound it makes on the carriage floor is very small. It feels like a conclusion. You shift toward the open door. The moment your fingers close around his, the whole of your life seems to move. Something old releases. Something long-strangled inhales. His hand closes around yours—warm, firm, real. You step down from the carriage. The road receives you. It is only common earth beneath the soles of your boots, and yet the sensation of standing there outside the vehicle meant to deliver you into disappearance is so violent in its simplicity that you cannot breathe.

Behind you, the driver has gone silent. Good. Let him carry that silence back to Reverend Marlowe’s house like a proper servant carrying a tray. You look at the open carriage, at the trunk inside, at the little dark scatter of beads, at the life that would have gone on without you if you had remained seated and obedient. You turn your face fully to Mingyu. “I choose you.” Your voice is stronger than you expected. He searches your face as if making room still for retreat if retreat is what you truly want. It is not. God help you, it is not. You had thought freedom might feel like triumph. It does not. It comes instead like this: your hand in his and the knowledge that fear has not vanished and yet has ceased to govern. It comes in the form of the steadiness of the man before you who has not stolen, not commanded, only asked—and in the answering certainty with which your whole life steps toward him.

Mingyu says your name, low and almost disbelieving, as if he cannot quite trust the miracle of hearing yes where so much of the world taught him to expect refusal. Then he turns, keeping hold of your hand, and leads you toward the waiting horse and the dark beyond it. This time, when you follow, it is not because someone has told you where to go. It is because you have chosen.

“There,” Mingyu says, nodding toward the waiting ship with infuriating satisfaction. “A perfectly respectable vessel, a decent captain, and a scandalous quantity of sunshine. I have outdone myself.” You look at the ship, then at him. “I was under the impression the Aegean was the point.” His mouth curves. “Angel, I am always the point.”

The harbour is all rope-creak and gull-cry and salt wind worrying at cloaks and ribbons, though the latter concerns you less now than it once would have done. Morning lies bright upon the water, turning the harbour to hammered silver where the sun catches it. Beyond the masts and rigging, the sea opens itself in one long impossible line, blue and bluer still, as though your world has finally remembered it was not built only of walls.

Mingyu stands beside you in a travel coat the colour of dark ink, hat in one hand, the other reaching—as it has done so often as of late—for yours. Wedding gold glints on his finger. So does yours. The ruby that once sat in the old cravat pin now burns dark-red upon your hand, remade into a ring that catches the light. On his wrist, just visible when the sleeve shifts, a slim bracelet of carnelian beads rests warm against the pulse that once knew only restlessness and now, improbably, seems content to be tethered. You glance down at it. “You wear my old sins very elegantly.” Mingyu lifts his hand as if examining a work of art. “Your old sins are excellent craftsmanship.” Then, softer, with that private warmth he has learned to let into his voice when you are involved: “And they suit me better than escape ever did.”

He takes your left hand then, turning it palm-up before bringing the ruby to his mouth. The kiss he presses against the ring is not possession. It feels instead like vow and wonder and some gentler form of worship than any you were ever taught at your father’s knee. When he lowers your hand again, his thumb lingers over the stone. “Still time to change your mind,” he says lightly, though there is no lightness at all in the way his eyes hold yours.

You look beyond him to the ship. To the gangplank. To the sea stretched out with no pew at its end, no pulpit, no father’s hand waiting to direct your face toward the proper angle of obedience. “And miss the scandalous quantity of sunshine?” you ask. “Never.” That wins the grin from him—the true one, bright and shameless and so entirely Mingyu that even now it can still surprise joy out of you.

A little way off, your family waits without intruding, each of them making a valiant, transparent attempt to grant privacy by standing only just near enough to hear everything. Seungcheol has one hand settled at the small of his wife’s back, though every so often it slips lower, more protective than absentminded, while Lady Whitlock’s own hand rests over his and then, in a moment when she turns toward the light, drifts briefly to the gentle new curve beneath her dress before returning to him. The gesture is small enough that another person might miss it. You do not. Neither, from the look on Joshua’s face, does anyone else in this family. Soonyoung waves the moment he catches you watching and immediately ruins the dignity of the scene by calling, “If you return with a tan and stories, I expect both in proper detail!”

“You will get neither,” Seungcheol says.

“He’ll get both,” Jeonghan replies, adjusting one immaculate cuff. “Mingyu has never in his life come back quietly from anywhere.”

Joshua laughs under his breath. Wonwoo, hands folded behind his back, looks toward the ship and then toward the horizon beyond it with the expression of a man regretting everyone else’s noise in advance. Mingyu follows your gaze. “They are pretending not to watch us.”

“Poorly,” you say.

“It’s a family talent.”

The wind freshens. The water shifts. You look once more at the sea and feel, with a strangeness still tender enough to catch at your ribs, that devotion has not left you after all. It has only changed its object. You are still reverent, in your own fashion. Still moved by things larger than yourself. Light on water. A horizon without end. The hand of the man beside you. The truth that holiness was never meant to resemble captivity, however often men dressed the cage and called it sanctuary.

Behind you, Jeonghan says, in a tone of lazy wickedness clearly intended for Wonwoo, “Well, another one of us has done the decent thing and married for love. I suppose the rest of the season must now content itself with Her Majesty’s newest obsession.” Soonyoung brightens at once. “The Crown’s Choice?” Joshua’s mouth twitches. Seungcheol looks resigned already. Wonwoo, after a pause that speaks volumes, says only, “I should like one season in which none of you behaves like lunatics.”

Jeonghan smiles like a man smelling future entertainment on the wind. “Then this family will continue to disappoint you.”

Mingyu laughs, low and delighted, then offers you his arm toward the gangplank. You take it. And when you step forward with him toward sun, salt air, and a horizon that no longer ends in submission, it feels less like leaving than like finally, gloriously arriving.

A/N: Ouffff, I’m finally done with this monstrosity. Is this the longest fic I have ever written? Probably. Am I happy with it? Meh. Somehow, this was extremely hard to write, and I think I must have rewritten it five times. But I guess this is the final version. Hope you enjoy it, anyway!💟

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[sailorsoons]

Sands of Time

WELCOME TO THE SANDS OF TIME, where the dunes and the winds shift as easily as the moods of the Gods. Get ready to read the ancient texts as each of our priestesses guides you on a journey through the desert. TEMPLES OPEN: April 1 - May 31 HEAD PRIESTESSES: @daechwitatamic and @sailorsoons WARNING FROM THE GODS: Some temples are 18+ only. Minors are prohibited from entering Adult-Only temples.

title: storm chaser pairing: horus!seungcheol x fem! reader genre: action, crack adjacent, smut warnings: pansexual scoups, mentions of wars and violence, past eye injury (accompanying scar), family issues/trauma, physical fights, end of the world, smut warnings later summary: When a series of natural disasters befalls Earth, you're sent to several countries to provide on-the-ground support and (hopefully) find some answers. Unfortunately, your best bet at both requires trusting a lunatic claiming to be a newly awoken god who shares the same goal as you.

GUIDED BY: @joshujin | ARTIFACT | ANCIENT SCROLL

title: Raising The Dead pairing: thoth!jeonghan x f. reader genre: fluff, smut, angst, egyptian god au warnings: explicit adult content, reincarnation, sacrifice, maybe a little horror? summary: You summon the god of many things, Thoth, to raise a loved one from the dead. He warns you nature must be balanced, and you must make a sacrifice in return, every month, on the full moon. But reincarnation comes with a heavy price, and unfortunately, you didn't read the fine print.

GUIDED BY: @aeristudios | ARTIFACT | ANCIENT SCROLL

title: the eve of the setting sun pairing: atum!joshua x f. reader genre: egyptian god au; angst, fluff, smut warnings: discussions of current and past historical events, including war, famine, genocide, etc. adult content. a cynical, weary god with the intent and capability to end the world. summary: nearly 4,500 years of this — nearly 4,500 years of false worship and idolatry, famine and disease, death and rebirth. nearly 4,500 years of endless suffering, hatred, and war. there is not much left in this world worth salvaging, he decides, and so he must abide by his purpose and destroy it. first, though, he wants to feel what it’s like to live amongst them, what it’s like to be human. this is how he meets you.

GUIDED BY: @100vern | ARTIFACT | ANCIENT SCROLL

title: chains of love pairing: bes!wen junhui x f. reader genre: romance, smut, angst, underground boxing au, reincarnation au, egyptian god au, soulmate au warnings: explicit adult content, violence, gang activity, fighting, injuries, attempted murder, sex work done by the mc summary: He’s always been a fighter and a protector in every lifetime. No matter how hard he tries evil always follows you in one way or another. You have no clue who he is until you come face to face with the man, warding off the evil from your dreams. You find him in an abandoned warehouse fighting in an illegal boxing match. The man in the ring winning instantly captures your attention in every way possible.

GUIDED BY: @straylightdream | ARTIFACT | ANCIENT SCROLL

title: heat wave pairing: ra!hoshi x f!reader genre: egyptian mythology, strangers/fated lovers. angst, smut, fluff. warnings: mentions of mental health/depressive episodes, grief, minor character death. summary: the loss of your mother has set off what feels like an eternal winter — when spring begins approaching with not an inkling of sun, the people start to worry.

GUIDED BY: @haologram | ARTIFACT | ANCIENT SCROLL

title: challenges of an unfulfilled soul pairing: anubis!wonwoo x f!reader genre: egyptian mythology!au | angst, fluff, smut, attempts at humor warnings: smut, mentions of death/afterlife, somewhat of a power imbalance (wonwoo is a god, reader is human) summary: all things considered, there are worse ways to spend an eternity. the job is easy enough: weigh all the incoming souls and point them in the right direction to head on. it's even interesting at times with the steady stream of people. in all the years he's been doing this, he's never met a soul that he couldn't measure. that is, until he meets you.

GUIDED BY: @starlightkyeom | ARTIFACT | ANCIENT SCROLL

Title: follow Pairing: Ptah!Jihoon x Sekhmat!reader Genre: supernatural, romance, fluff, little violence Warnings: blood, little war themes, destruction, more to add in the main story Summary: Jihoon hears about the destruction of his prized creations, blood trickling down the green fields he carefully crafted, wars blooming in the regions he built peace, forcing him out of his home to find the destroyer, who is none other than you, his wife.

GUIDED BY: @coupsalchemy | ARTIFACT | ANCIENT SCROLL

Title: Wheel of Fortune Pairing: Khnum!Seokmin x Potter!f. reader Genre: Comedy/Fluff/Smut General Warnings: smut, drinking (probably), pottery puns Summary: Khnum is bored. Even Gods can only take so many years performing the same duties– so when Set gets in his ear and convinces him to play truant, maybe visit Earth and walk amongst his creations, Khnum knows just who he wants to see. He's always been curious to see how you turned out after so many incarnations, the first soul he gave his gift to. In this lifetime, you're teaching a pottery workshop, and now he's sitting in a living room he moulded for himself and using a laptop for the very first time, filling in the sign-up form, and shit– apparently he can't just have one name. He needs something else. Set suggests something from this century, preferably.

GUIDED BY: @imnotshua | ARTIFACT | ANCIENT SCROLL

Title: Niloticus Pairing: Sobek!mingyu x f!reader Genre: egyptian mythology, forced marriage, smut, angst, fluff Warnings: slight gore, elements of worship, crocodiles??, general violence Summary: Niloticus [Latin]: meaning "from the Nile river".

For whatever ebbs and flows, the world bows down to its pictures and stone deities for gratitude. You are not one of them.

And yet, your desperation leads you to the dark of the Nile river, on hands and knees for a creator that does not exist. So you must ask why the unrelenting jaw of a crocodile leads you not to death, but a man drenched in gold.

GUIDED BY: @gyuswhore | ARTIFACT | ANCIENT SCROLL

Title: Pieces of Us Pairing: Osiris! Xu Minghao x Isis!f. reader Genre: romance, fluff, smut, bit angst, reincarnation/past life/soulmates, Egyptian mythology au. Warnings: mentions of attempt murder in the past, explicit content, reincarnation and soulmates beliefs, mentions of poison and violence. Sexual scenes and a very smitten Hao. Summary: Minghao always found comfort in his art gallery, you are a soulful antique restorer. Life brought you to each other through a dream, through a love neither of you can explain but feel intensely. A gift from a stranger triggers divine old memories and a warning that blur the line between a past life and the present, but this time you are determined to fight for the love that once was taken away from both of you and won't let history repeat itself.

GUIDED BY: @lovelylonelinesssvt | ARTIFACT | ANCIENT SCROLL

Title: The Will of the Fated Pairing: Heka!Seungkwan x fem!reader Genre: “strangers” to lovers, neighbors to lovers Warnings: “stalker” behavior (but not like that), smut, fated/not fated dynamics, more to come when fic is completed. Summary: You had heard of other people feeling compelled to uproot their lives and move to a new city. It wasn’t like that for you. It was as if some supernatural force literally pulled you to Seoul.

Everything was going right, new job, new apartment, even your new neighbor, Seungkwan, made you feel like a live wire. However, something about him was…off. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but everything was going so well, nothing could bring you down.

GUIDED BY: @miniseokminnies | ARTIFACT | ANCIENT SCROLL

Title: Red Sands Pairing: Set!Vernon x Sehkmet!Reader Genre: Supernatural, Angst, Smut, Egyptian Mythology Warnings: General fantasy/mythological violence, Vernon and reader both are hosts to ancient gods that sometimes control them, a little bit of angst, a little bit of enemies (misunderstanding) to lovers, explicit language, explicit sexual content Summary: Vernon is the type of historian you hate - reckless, disrepectful, and far too comfortable stealing and selling artefacts to the highest bidder. You tolerate him at best, but when a job goes wrong and you're left clinging to life with a new power you don't understand, you find that the man you've detested has far more experience with divine forces than you ever would have guessed.

GUIDED BY: @sailorsoons | ARTIFACT | ANCIENT SCROLL

Title: Traveller Pairing: Khonsu!Chan x f!reader Genre: supernatural, references to egyptian mythology, smut, romance Warning: language, smut, more detailed warning list to come Summary: “I looked for you today,” you tell the the falcon-headed being who has been visiting your dreams. “In my world.”

“You saw me today,” he informs you steadily. “In my other form.”

You had? Earlier, awake, you’d sat side by side with Chan on a park bench, eating lunch. You’d scanned the skies and the treetops the whole time, wondering if you’d catch sight of a falcon, catch its cry carrying on a breeze. Somehow, you hadn’t noticed him.

GUIDED BY: @daechwitatamic | ARTIFACT | ANCIENT SCROLL

[slut4kwon]

sleepy mingoo

[chwedout]

you do you babygirl