MELTING POINT | ONESHOT VER.
IN WHICH Emperor Zhanghao uses the imperial command to wed both you and Prince Shen. Normally, one would be happy to be wedded to a prince and become one of the most powerful ladies in the Empire. However, the young master of the Ducal house of Shen is said to be a cold and indifferent man. Oh! And did I mention that your duchy and his are enemies? Right! The cherry on top—I almost forgot that you have a weak body too haha… How will you survive the harsh Northern lands? Will you get along well with your husband? Will you be treated alright in an unfamiliar environment? Shall you just return back to the comfort of your home?
FEATURING Zerobaseone’s Ricky as the son of Duke Shen, Prince Shen Quanrui and you as the daughter of Duke Han, Princess Han Y/N.
GENRE romance, angst, fluff | historical fantasy, supposed enemies to lovers, forced marriage, northern duke au
WARNINGS (13k words) non-gender neutral reader (reader will be using female pronouns/titles), forced marriage, infidelity, mild swearing, mentions of abuse, and miscommunication.
NOTE hello! this is finally the end for melting point. I’m so proud of my work and I hope you all enjoy it! A tad bit sad that this has finally ended but I am so glad I picked back my writing docs and finished this. Love you all and I hope you enjoy!
MORE WORKS — navigation | zb1!masterlist | story!masterlist
CHAPTER ONE: THE HUNTER AND THE PREY
WHAT DO YOU DO WHEN, all your life, you’ve been told to hate someone because they’re your family’s opponent and then all of a sudden (in a matter of five days), you need to act as if you’ve been on good terms with them? No guidebook or school course could have prepared you for what’s to happen right now.
Yes, of course you’re aware that you’d be married off to your father’s choice of family for all your life, you think you’ve accepted it already. I mean, one would think so after being reminded of it all your life right? It’s not like it’s uncommon anyways. Everyone in the nobility marries through convenience and then has flings with their lovers. It’s more common than you think. You’d know, since you caught one of your father’s friends with their mistress once.
Yet, who’d assume that you’d be married off to the Ducal House of Shen of all people? You don’t think you would have put that in your bingo (yes, bingo exists back then) list this year—or any year to be honest.
For a bit of background to the confused readers (breaking the fourth wall let’s gaurr), The Zerose Empire exists with four ducal houses: Park, which exists in the west; Kim, from the South; Han of the East, and Shen of the North. Your family, The Ducal house of Han, has always been in opposition with the Ducal house of Shen. It was a fact that everyone knew, and it was a dislike that stemmed from way back then. (one so long that you don’t even know the reason anymore, just that you weren’t supposed to like them.)
And yes, the dislike is still rooted to this day. You could imagine how tired the Emperor, other noble houses, and ministry workers were. By this point they were quite sick of the petty arguments from both the ducal households. So sick, in fact, that Emperor Zhanghao IV, used the imperial command and declared that “Duke Han shall bring forth his most beloved daughter to marry Duke Shen’s successor.”
Your father almost had a heart attack after the declaration, but it was of no use to bargain since the imperial command was used.
In your opinion, father was a pretty good man. Not perfect or clean of course, but good. Your mother was the first wife, and surprisingly, the only wife he truly loved. It was unfortunate that mother died a year after you were born because of her weak body, and even more unfortunate that her only child turned out to be pretty weak too. He had remarried once more since then, and has had a few mistresses and children out of wedlock in an attempt to cure his aching heart. Despite the new ladies, you were still the first in his heart considering you were the only child he had out of the wife he loves.
Having a big room beside your father’s in the second floor all to yourself when all the others had to be in the first floor spiked a few jealous hearts, but your father was persistent and only allowed you the best despite your not-so-healthy body. So it was to no one’s surprise that Emperor Zhanghao meant for your father to pick you to be married to the young master of the Shen Ducal house.
That was five days ago. Your father had begged for your understanding to comply with the Emperor’s words despite him not liking the command either. He had told you that it was for the unity of the Empire and that the Ducal house of Shen had promised to your father and the Emperor that they would treat you with utmost respect; and that if they break that promise, you would be sent back with ten times the alimony paid by your father. (and boy was the original alimony already a crazy amount)
You had told your father to not worry about it as you knew your father worried for you greatly. After all, in his eyes, you were still the weak baby that he held in his arms just last week. How could he send a weak child to the harsh northern lands where you were unfamiliar with everything? Of course, you had your own worries too. Different from your father’s, though. Mostly about your own soon to be husband.
Unlike your family, where many children reside, the Ducal house of Shen only had one heir. The young master of the North, Shen Quanrui, was said to be a cold man according to the rumors you’ve heard from your maids. He was quiet and reserved, only showing his face in high society once in a blue moon. Similar to you in that matter, except it was because you were often too sick to attend rather than introverted.
You too had only met him once, in the Empire’s founding anniversary ball. Though you didn’t have the best memory, you could easily recall that face of his. Blonde hair that seemed to be dyed and striking blue eyes, it was as if he stepped out of a fantasy storybook. You’re sure he wore colored contacts back then, considering that both the Duke and Duchess had dark eyes. Nevertheless it didn’t change the fact that he was probably the most handsome man you’ve ever seen. You remember exchanging eye contact with him for a bit longer than you should have, and you remember how he raked your appearance with his eyes as if he was the hunter and you were the prey. You rolled your eyes and left back then despite the butterflies you got.
The sound of your bedroom door opening strips you out of your imagination.
”Sister,” said the voice of a young boy, “can I come in?”
”Yes,” you answered, “come in, Yujin.”
Han Yujin, the son of your father and his second mistress, was the only half-sibling you deemed close to you. His mother had died early on due to the same sickness as yours did, leaving him alone to fend off all the jealous eyes around him. You had sympathized with him, so you decided to keep him close and make him untouchable as one of your people. The young boy has since then grown attached to you, listening attentively to everything you say. Now, the young boy had become strong and wise, making him one of the successor candidates.
”I heard from father that you’d be married to that damned man, Shen Quanrui or whatever,” Sulked Yujin.
”That damned man,” you sighed, “is still a respectable man who fended off the wild beasts and is a close aide of the Emperor, you shouldn’t speak of him with that tone.”
“But—sister! He’s our enemy, we’re not supposed to like him! And—and, I heard from the maids that he’s a cruel and heartless man. What if he treats you harshly and locks you up in a tower or something!? What if he’s an indifferent husband who never looks after his wife and just messes around with other women? You deserve someone who’d love you and treat you as the apple of their eye—someone like—”
”Yujin,” Your voice stopped his train of thoughts as you held his hand, “don’t worry too much, okay? It’s not like I’m going there alone. My personal maids and Dr. Seok would be with me in the North, and they would report to father if anything happened. If he ever treats me cruelly, then I’ll be back here before you know it.”
”But still…I don’t want you away from me..”
“AWEE is my baby brother worried for me~” you teased as you squished him into a hug, emitting a loud Hey! from him as he tried to get out of your tight grasp.
Whether your words were to reassure him or you; however, you don’t know.
Who would have known that you’d get married to that man two weeks from now? Who would have known that you’d have to pretend like you didn’t hate this man all your life because you’re supposed to marry him? Who would have known that the first time you’d exchange pleasantries with your soon to be husband would be in your wedding aisle? Who would have known that you’d be moving away from your father’s protection and into the cold and dangerous land in less than a month? Goodness, may the heavens spare you.
YOU’RE CLOSE TO SLAPPING Emperor Zhanghao. Okay, so maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration unless you want a one way ticket to a death penalty. But what the hell man. It was so (notice the sarcasm?) nice of him to let you marry a man you’re supposed to hate that he even gave you a due date of two weeks to be locked in for life. What is the meaning of marriage to him? Homework? I mean it might as well be since no one wanted this…
But here you are preparing for your wedding as the maids have meticulously worked their magic on you. Hours of hard work to make you “the most beautiful bride to ever exist that not even the cold young master could resist.” (says them) They expected him to fall on his knees and have his spring blossom the moment he laid eyes on you. Though you didn’t believe it, you still laughed along with them.
When you looked at yourself in the mirror, you were honestly taken aback. Clad in a simple yet elegant dress with your hair up, you looked like a painting. Damn, did they really outdo themselves. If that man doesn’t fall in love with you (or at least find you the slightest bit attractive) at first sight then he’s probably just not into women. (It honestly doesn’t sound impossible considering that you’ve never heard of him being in a relationship with a woman before.)
It doesn’t really hit you that you’re getting married until your father comes in. The moment you see the tears in his eyes, you also feel your eyes water. You remember being young and dreaming of how you’d marry someone you love. You remember planning your dream wedding. This was it. This was what you had always imagined. Yet, all at the same time, it seemed so different. The reality of your situation juxtaposing the wedding you have always dreamed of. Oh, to be young and naive.
You bite your lip and look down, unable to face them. It seemed as if your father could read your thoughts as he took your hands in his.
“Oh y/n…” He started carefully, as if thinking on what to say next so you wouldn’t feel upset on your big day.
“It’s fine—”
“I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“I-I know you’ve been dreaming of this day for a long time, I’m sorry we only had a short time to prepare for it. But, I promise you, I did my best to make it as grandiose as I could possibly do so and—”
“No, seriously, it’s fine,” you denied, despite not being the most pleased, you know that your father had tried his best for you and you didn’t want to seem ungrateful, “I’m just melancholic that we won’t be as close anymore. I was informed that even though the Duke and Duchess are here in the capital, Prince Shen handles the matters in the North.”
“Ah!” Exclaimed your father as if he had just realized, “Don’t worry about that! The North has the fastest trains in the kingdom. You can visit us anytime, it would only take you five hours.”
“Oh really?” You said, pretending that you didn’t know that fact, “That’s great then, I can visit anytime I want.”
“Yes yes—now come, hold my hand once more. It’s time to walk the aisle.”
You hold his arm, finally walking out of the dressing room and towards the venue. The walk was mostly silent, and no one talked until you both reached the closed door that opens to the venue.
“Y/n.” said your father in a heavy voice.
”Yes?”
”I know I don’t say this often, but I hope for your happiness. If he ever makes you unhappy, then come back to me. I’ll even commit treason if the Emperor stands in the way, haha.”
“Father…”
”I know, I know. Gosh, I sound so old. Ready to meet the son of that corpulent piece of shit?”
”Father!”
“Oops sorry, old habits die hard. I mean, ready to meet your husband?”
”Yeah yeah, let’s just go already.”
Your father signaled the attendant to open the door, and shortly after, you could hear the announcer call your title. You realize that this may be the last time you’d be called with the surname Han.
You had little time to ponder on it though, as soon the gates opened and you had to focus on not tripping on your heels as you walked beside your father down the aisle.
The wedding venue was…wow, honestly. Your father is surely a big liar, you conclude. Pretty? Not even words can describe how beautiful the venue is. You’d think the wedding was planned for two years if you were an onlooker. The venue was held in a historical building which had lots of carved statues and decorative designs. Huge pillars hold up the roof, each pillar covered in vines and flowers. The roof in itself had hand-painted art that seemed to wash out from time, and a huge chandelier held on to the roof in the middle, sparkling so bright that it seemed like diamonds. Fresh white and purple flowers decorated the guests’ tables, and all around the venue were violinists in white dresses, standing on a short and small podium, seeming to mimic the sculptures that decorate the walls.
The road in front of you seemed to be shining, and you don’t realize how near you are until you feel your father let your hand go. Ah, this was it. He transferred your hand to an unfamiliar one, and it was only now that you finally looked at your soon-to-be’s face. It was slightly distorted thanks to the veil, but from what you could tell, the man was wearing a full white tux made from silk and decorated by pearls, with a black tie to complete his outfit.
‘At least he doesn’t have a boring fashion taste,’ you conclude.
Time passes, and before you know it, you have already said your promises and ‘I do’s.
“Please exchange rings,” says the priest.
Prince Shen takes the ring first, and then holds your hand. As he puts the ring on you, you could slightly feel his hand tremble.
‘Ha?’ you think, ‘does he despise me so much that the touch of my hand makes him furious?’
It leaves a bitter taste to your tongue, surprisingly. Your thoughts make you miss the lingering touch of his thumb on your ring finger. And, when it got to your turn, you quickly put the ring on his finger, letting go of his hand right after.
“You may kiss the bride to seal the promise,” declares the priest.
You could see his hands hold the bottom of the veil, before lifting it, finally giving you an opportunity to see his face. You conclude that God certainly took a long time to make that face. His face was the same as you remembered. Striking and attention-grabbing in a good way. The only thing that bothered you seemed to be his eyes. It seemed cold and distant, yet sharp. It was as if he was able to uncover all your secrets, and it made you nervous.
You feel his hand reach out to your chin, and you hold your breath. It was like you couldn’t breath, eyes searching all over his face on what he’d do next. He leans in, and your thoughts flood in a panic. It was like you were frozen, unable to move. Your heart starts beating so loud that you can't hear anything else. What should I do? How should I react? Why is he getting so clo—
“May I?” He breathed out, and you can just feel his breath right in front of your lips.
No? I don’t know. No, thank you. No, no, no—
“Yes,” you answered breathlessly, as if finally letting yourself take in the air.
And before you could overthink once more, his lips crashed into yours, so desperate for it that you had to hold his arm to stabilize yourself. It was as if he had been waiting for this for a long time—like an impatient tiger having to wait for the right time to finally strike its prey. And, just like a tiger who never lets go of its prey, he doesn’t seem to have any intention in letting you escape.
CHAPTER TWO: AN UNWELCOME BRIDE
THERE WAS NO TIME LEFT for an afterparty. Just right before your first night, Prince Quanrui immediately got a message urging him to return to the North. You didn’t really get the full story, but it seemed to be related to the wild beasts invading a town near the border. He had gone with his subordinates first to see the situation, and had told your attendees to have you leave the following morning. You parted from your father and brother early in the morning after hearing the news, taking the first train available that morning. Whether the call would be a blessing or a curse, you choose to be positive for now.
Nevermind.
Everyone seemed to praise the bolt trains of the North so much that they forget to mention how nauseating it is to actually ride it. Fast? Yeah, for sure. Safe? You have to think twice. Long travels already take a toll on you normally, so this was basically a freeway to being bed-ridden for at least a week.
Thank goodness your personal doctor, Seok Matthew, had chosen to accompany you to the North. Without him, you would have definitely felt a lot worse than you do now.
Now. Right—now. Now, you are in the chambers of what once was your enemy, and now of someone you must pretend to care for. You had wished to at least make a good first impression to your subordinates, but your head was killing you by the time you left the train. This was how you ended up being escorted to your new chambers immediately, and also how you have been spending the next two days. Bedridden, with Dr. Seok and your personal attendants right beside you.
At the very least, you have met the head butler, Hanbin, and he assured you that no one bears harsh feelings for you just because you weren’t able to greet them properly. ( you weren’t so convinced, but you let it go in your heart to reassure yourself. )
A knock disrupts your thoughts.
“Madam, this is Hanbin, can I come in?”
”Oh—yes, yes. Please come in,” you rushed out, sitting straight and fixing your messy hair.
The door opens, and a sturdy bachelor walks in with your afternoon snacks. Three finger sandwiches and a pot of chamomile tea—despite the feelings going around your head, your stomach seems to agree with today’s choice of snack.
Hanbin placed down the dish as you watched him with uneasy eyes. He was nice—in fact, too nice. It didn’t feel right that a person of the duchy would show such hospitality to a bride of the enemy house, despite the “truce”. You kind of expected more hostility than whatever is happening to you…like—for example; someone “accidentally” spilling water on you, or combing your hair harshly, perhaps even someone giving you the evil eye.? ( you swear your paranoia was caused by the amount of evil step-mother novels you’ve read.. )
He seemed to sense the stare you gave, as he let out a cough, breaking your trance.
“Uh—is there anything you need, madam?” He asked awkwardly, throwing a funny smile.
“I’m curious about something, if that would be okay for you to answer,” You replied hesitantly.
“Oh, of course! How can I help?” He replied instantly, kind of reminding you of a puppy…
“When will my husband come back home?” I ask.
“Ah..” he seemed hesitant; you narrowed your eyes, “perhaps in two days.? I’m not so sure, madam.”
”..Alright.” I let out, “tell him to visit me once he does. I must speak to him.”
“Yes, madam.”
And when Hanbin leaves and the door shuts, the echo of your loneliness is met once more.
TWO DAYS PASS, and you finally rise from bed, steadier than before. Your doctor assures you that you’re well enough to start moving around, and Hanbin—not quite hiding his relief—tells you in that gentle voice that your husband has returned.
You nod, brushing off invisible dust from your sleeves. Good, you think. You need answers. Not just about the household, or the expectations now hanging over your shoulders like lead chains—but about him. Your husband.
You don’t expect a warm welcome. That much, you’ve already let go of. But you do expect a meeting. A greeting. Some kind of acknowledgment. Any kind, actually.
So when you stand at the doors of his office—not your chambers, not a dining table, but his private space—and are told that “His Grace is occupied and unavailable,” your patience splinters.
( No one’s ever said no to you also, so that added to your annoyance. )
The guard—no, not Hanbin this time, someone else; tall with brown hair who introduced himself as Gyuvin—bows and repeats it with more formal stiffness.
“His Grace has requested not to be disturbed, Your Grace.”
Your Grace.
A title you never asked for, from a man you barely know.
You stand there a few more seconds, not moving, just breathing. Deep, quiet. And then, you turn.
DINNER IS HELD in the eastern hall that evening. There’s an absurd number of candles, a quartet of musicians playing something soft and forgettable in the corner, and a long table that stretches too far for a dinner with just one attendee.
That one attendee being you.
You stare at the empty chair at the other end of the table. No second plate. No poured wine. No footsteps down the hallway. You wait ten minutes. Fifteen.
Nothing.
A maid comes near, asking if you would like the food reheated.
You inhale slowly to calm your anger, count to three, and shake your head.
“Tell Dr. Seok I may have overestimated my recovery today. I’ll turn in for the evening.”
Except you don’t go to your chambers.
YOU PUSH OPEN THE DOOR to his chambers.
The scent hits you first—cold metal, faint leather, something darker underneath. It’s a battlefield in here, dressed as a room. Sparse. Austere. Distant.
Prince Quanrui doesn’t look up right away. He’s standing by the dresser, shrugging off a bloodied cloak. The faint drag of his shirt across his shoulder reveals a flash of red—dried, but angry-looking.
You speak before he can say anything, tone snappy.
“So you are back.”
He stiffens. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
“Is this how you greet your wife?”
“I told them not to let anyone in.”
“Well, they didn’t let me,” you say tightly. “I walked in myself.”
A pause. He turns, slowly. The moment your eyes meet, it feels like ice against glass—clear, cold, cracking with pressure neither of you fully understand.
“I just came from the field,” he says. “It’s not… sanitary.”
You scoff. “Don’t worry, I’m not that delicate.”
He says nothing to that. Instead, he crosses the room and begins unstrapping the belt at his waist—calm, impersonal. As if you’re a servant, or worse, a stranger.
“Are you avoiding me?” you ask.
He doesn’t even blink. “I’ve been busy.”
“You didn’t even come to dinner.”
“I ate in my office.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“I wasn’t aware I had to report to you for every schedule.”
You flinch. Then your jaw sets.
“Right. Of course not. Silly me, assuming a husband would want to dine with the wife he was forced to marry.”
That gets him. Briefly. He stills mid-motion, eyes sharp. “Don’t twist my words.”
“Then say them properly,” you snap. “If you have something to say—say it.”
Silence again.
You take a shaky breath. “I came here to try. I didn’t expect warmth, but I didn’t expect this. Being iced out. Ignored. Dodged like I’m the plague.”
He turns to you fully now, voice clipped. “Would you prefer I fake it, then? Smile and ask you about your health like we’re old friends?”
“God, I’m not asking for that either!” you burst. “I’m just—I don’t know—basic courtesy? The bare minimum? Something human?”
“I am being human,” he mutters. “I’m staying out of your way.”
“That’s not—!” You drag your hand through your hair. “You really think that’s what this is about? You hiding in your office is somehow a noble sacrifice?”
“I didn’t want to come near you like this.” His voice is low, almost too quiet. “Covered in blood. Smelling like war.”
You blink, caught off guard. “Why would that matter to you?”
He exhales through his nose. “Because you looked—fragile.”
“Oh, so now I’m fragile and dramatic.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
He runs a hand over his face. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re emotionally constipated!”
You both freeze.
Then:
“What?” he says, frowning.
You cross your arms. “You shut down the moment anyone asks how you feel. You deflect, disappear, or grunt. I don’t even know if you like horses or not.”
He stares. “Why would you need to know if I like horses?”
“That’s—!” You give a strangled laugh. “It’s an example. gosh, you’re dense.”
“You’re the one storming into rooms unannounced and making everything personal.”
“It is personal! We’re married!”
“We’re political allies.”
Your expression falls. Just slightly. “Is that all you think I am?”
He doesn’t answer.
And somehow, that silence says more than he could have with words.
You swallow, hurt threading through your voice now. “You kissed me like you meant it.”
That gets him. His jaw tenses. His gaze flickers.
You take a step back. “Forget it. You know what? If you didn’t want this marriage, you could’ve said something before the wedding.”
He finally speaks, low and frustrated. “Do you think I had a choice?”
“No,” you whisper. “But you do now. You have a choice now, to decide what kind of man you’re going to be to me.”
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Opens it again.
But the words don’t come. Whatever he wants to say is buried too deep, rusted over with years of silence and swords and frost.
You shake your head.
“I don’t need you to love me, Shen Quanrui. I just need to know you’re not going to treat me like a ghost haunting your estate.”
Still nothing.
You give him a last look, one filled with unsaid things.
Then you turn to the door.
Just as your hand touches the handle, he says—soft, almost bitter:
“I’m not good at this.”
You freeze.
A heartbeat passes. You turn your head slightly over your shoulder.
“Then learn,” you say. “Because I’m not going to live in this house as a stranger to my own husband.”
You leave.
And this time, the echo of your footsteps is the only sound that follows.
CHAPTER 3: THE PAST CHASES
IT’S NOT LONG BEFORE you have to finally attend an official event, even when you haven’t fixed things internally with Quanrui.
After all, duty is duty.
The event in question was the Emperor’s ball.
The ballroom glittered like something out of a dream — gold-gilded ceilings arched high above the crowd, their domes painted with legends and forgotten wars. Chandeliers swayed ever so slightly from the summer breeze pushing in through the open balconies, the crystals catching and breaking the candlelight into a thousand scattered diamonds across the marble floor.
You arrived on Duke Shen Quanrui’s arm.
His hand rested on yours, gloved and still, like you were porcelain. He looked every inch the Northern Duke — tall, composed, and cold, dressed in midnight blue military formal with his House’s sigil sewn in silver thread over his chest. People turned to look. Some whispered. Some bowed. None of them could tell that the space between your bodies — though small — felt like an entire frozen ocean.
You didn’t speak as the herald announced your names. You only felt Ricky’s fingers tighten slightly around yours, a reflex, perhaps. Protection? Possession? Habit?
“Smile,” he murmured under his breath, not looking at you.
You did.
Only because you knew how, not because you wanted to.
Every greeting was a performance. Nobles bowed. Countesses curtsied. A few dared to speak to you directly — women with jeweled fans and sharp eyes, testing your worth as the new Duchess of the North.
“My, you’re even lovelier than the rumors,” one of them said sweetly, though her eyes flicked to your hand on Quanrui’s arm. “And brave, too. I’d never have imagined the Duke of the North would ever settle down.”
You smiled politely. Ricky said nothing.
You wanted to look at him. Just once. To catch any sign of how he felt being here with you — under a thousand watchful eyes, with all the weight of expectations pressing down on your joined names.
Will he give you a look of regret? Of remorse?
But Ricky only led you through the room with practiced calm, nodding to diplomats and bowing to royals. The mask he wore never shifted. And each step made you wonder: Had he worn that same mask the day he agreed to marry you?
The music swelled, a waltz beginning from the musicians’ corner. People drifted to the dance floor in glittering pairs. You turned slightly, already planning to step back, to rest—
But Ricky caught your wrist.
His fingers, bare now, wrapped around you with startling ease. Not forceful. Just… unwilling to let go.
“We’re being watched,” he said slowly, softly—eyes fixed forward. “Dance with me.”
Your breath caught for a moment. Not because of the order — but because of how close his voice was. Like it belonged to another version of him entirely. One who didn’t keep you at arm’s length.
You nodded.
He pulled you into a standard ballroom hold, one gloved hand pressed against your back, the other cradling your hand in his. You moved together through the slow tempo, your bodies never touching too closely — just enough to make it convincing. Or maybe not. You couldn’t tell anymore what was real with him.
“You’re tense,” he muttered quietly, eyes not on you but just over your shoulder.
You met his gaze. “I wonder why.”
A pause. A flicker of something behind his eyes. Regret? Annoyance?
Then he said, softly, “I didn’t want you humiliated tonight.”
Your lips parted, surprised. “You think showing up in silence with a stranger counts as not humiliating?”
“I’m not a stranger,” he replied. “You just don’t know me yet.”
That made your throat tighten, bitter. “Whose fault is that?”
Silence. But his grip on your hand tightened, just for a moment.
Then the room seemed to hush around you as he leaned in, not enough for anyone else to notice — only you could hear what came next.
“Do you regret not marrying Kim Taerae?”
The question cracked through you like thunder.
You nearly stumbled at the unexpected mention of your ex-fiance, and he steadied you instantly, hand tightening at your back. But his expression was unreadable — calm, still, like he hadn’t just ripped open a wound you didn’t know was still bleeding.
Your voice, when it came, was quieter than you wanted. “That’s none of your concern.”
“Isn’t it?” he asked, still not looking at you.
The music ended before you could answer. He let go of you too quickly.
YOU RETREATED TO THE SIDELINES after that, needing air — or distance, or maybe just space to remember who you were before all this. Before you belonged to someone who only looked at you when no one else was watching.
A noblewoman approached you soon after, feigning friendliness with every syllable.
“His Grace rarely dances, you know,” she said, eyes gleaming behind her fan. “Not even when the Crown Princess tried to tempt him, back when he first returned from the Northern Border. But he danced with you. Curious, no?”
You didn’t reply. Because what could you say? That the dance had felt like a battle you didn’t agree to fight?
She took your silence as permission to lean in a little closer.
“They say he watched you for years,” she whispered. “Long before the Emperor suggested the match. I’d take that as a compliment. Or a warning.”
Then she smiled, curtsied, and vanished into the crowd.
You stood there, frozen.
Watched you…?
Had he?
You didn’t get the chance to ask, because another voice broke the peace of silence you almost had.
This time, one that was more familiar to you than you’d care to admit.
“My lady,” the voice greets, a shadow falling on your shoulders.
You turn—and there he is. Kim Taerae; the man you almost married.
He bows, ”It seems that fate had other plans.”
You want to focus on Taerae, but you can’t for a second— because that’s when you saw him leaving the ballroom.
Not storming, not rushing. But purposeful. Like something had shaken him loose.
And just like that, Duke Shen Quanrui disappeared into the back corridor with another man. One you’d never seen before — taller, purple-haired, with a casual swagger that didn’t belong in a place like this.
THE CANDELIGHT OF THE BALLROOM hadn’t even faded from his shoulders when Ricky felt a firm grip tug at the back of his collar.
“Running off already, Your Grace?” came the voice — smooth, smug, and unmistakably Western.
Ricky didn’t turn. “Not in the mood, Gunwook.”
“Oh, that’s obvious,” the Duke of the West said, falling into step beside him, a hint of laughter in his voice. His violet-dyed hair caught the torchlight as he leaned sideways, dramatically peering into Ricky’s face. “You looked like you were ready to strangle someone on the dance floor. So naturally, I followed.”
“I didn’t strangle anyone,” Ricky muttered.
“No. But you did look like you wanted to rip Kim Taerae’s arms off for touching your wife,” Gunwook said brightly, as if discussing the weather. “Which, I must say, is very unlike you. Should I be concerned?”
Ricky halted in front of a heavy set of mahogany doors. “Leave it.”
Gunwook only grinned wider. “Oh no, I’m definitely not leaving it.”
Before Ricky could protest, Gunwook swung the doors open and shoved him forward with a little too much force for it to be accidental. The scent of wine and citrus filled the room — and lounging on the chaise, holding a goblet of golden liquor, was the last person Ricky wanted to see right now.
Emperor Zhanghao raised a brow. “Well. That took longer than I thought.”
Ricky sighed, low and slow. “You too?”
Gunwook shut the door behind them with a click. “Yes, both of us. Because someone needed to sit you down before you iced your entire marriage in front of half the nobility.”
Zhanghao took a leisurely sip, then tilted his head at Ricky. “Was it the dress?”
“…What?”
“Your wife’s dress. Was it the reason you looked like your blood pressure doubled?” He smiled — infuriatingly calm, like he was enjoying a private joke. “I did approve the embroidery pattern myself, after all. Subtle House Shen motifs on a royal-cut train? Flattering, I know.”
Ricky ran a hand over his face. “Why am I here?”
Gunwook threw himself dramatically onto a velvet seat. “Because you’re losing your mind.”
“Because you’ve been avoiding her since the wedding,” Zhanghao added.
“Because you’re too scared to admit you care,” Gunwook said, kicking his legs up.
“Because I ordered this marriage and I will not have it crumbling over your inability to flirt.”
Ricky exhaled sharply. “I don’t need to flirt.”
Zhanghao looked positively offended. “You don’t want to. That’s different.”
“She was talking to her ex,” Ricky bit out.
There it was. The truth cracked free from between his teeth before he could stop it.
Gunwook let out a low whistle. “So you were jealous.”
“I wasn’t—” Ricky started, but the look from both of them shut him down instantly.
Zhanghao stood slowly, setting down his goblet. He walked toward Ricky, stopping just short of reaching him. His voice, when he spoke, was quieter now. “You’ve watched her for years, Quanrui. Don’t insult her by pretending you didn’t.”
Ricky’s jaw clenched.
Gunwook added, “You wanted this. She was supposed to be someone else’s, and you let it happen. Don’t pull the cold husband act now just because you don’t know what to do with her.”
Zhanghao gave him a knowing look. “Do you even know what she looked like when you walked away after that dance? Do you think she didn’t notice?”
“I was trying to protect her.”
“From what?” Gunwook asked, suddenly serious. “From being loved properly?”
Ricky didn’t answer.
For a moment, all three of them were silent. The tension coiled thick in the air — not malicious, but weighted. Heavy with truths left unsaid.
Then Zhanghao clapped him on the shoulder.
“Go find her,” he said. “And for once, try wanting out loud.”
Gunwook leaned back lazily. “Tell her she’s beautiful. Ask her to dance again. Maybe even smile. You know — things people do when they actually like their spouses.”
Zhanghao smirked. “And if you don’t, I’ll have no choice but to assign her to Gunwook next.”
“Hey!” Gunwook protested, grinning. “Not that I’d complain.”
Ricky turned on his heel without another word — but they caught the shift in his expression. The tightness of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders.
He was already walking back toward the ballroom.
He wasn’t running this time.
He was chasing.
YOU WEREN’T SURE HOW LONG you’d been standing by the colonnade when Taerae found you again.
The ballroom music pulsed behind you, but here—beneath the stone arches overlooking the gardens—it was quiet. Breezy. Safer, maybe. Or maybe you were just tired of looking composed.
Taerae offered you a cup of wine you didn’t ask for.
You took it anyway.
“Still don’t like crowds?” he asked lightly, leaning against the stone rail beside you.
You exhaled a laugh through your nose. “Still remember that?”
“I remember a lot of things,” he said. Then added, with a crooked smile, “Especially about you.”
You looked away first.
There was nothing inappropriate about the conversation. Not technically. Your voices stayed soft, your bodies politely distanced. But the history hung between you like an unfinished letter.
You spoke about nothing — court events, the weather in Hwanghae, a minor scandal involving a duchess and an overeager poet. He made you laugh once, softly. It was strange, how easy it was to fall into old rhythms, like old furniture your body still remembered the shape of.
But then you shifted your stance and the heel of your shoe caught on a loose stone tile.
“Ah—!”
Your wine tilted dangerously, your balance thrown—
Taerae caught you.
A hand steadying your elbow, his other gently brushing your waist to keep you upright. His face was suddenly much closer than it had been a second ago—eyes wide with concern, breath caught halfway through a sentence.
“Are you alright?”
You were. But you couldn’t answer.
Because in the very next moment, a shadow fell over both of you.
A voice —low, cold, and dangerous— broke through the air like a blade.
‘What’s this?”
You turned.
Ricky stood a few feet away, eyes trained on Taerae’s hand still on your waist.
His expression wasn’t angry. It was worse.
He looked calm. Carefully composed. The kind of quiet fury that didn’t raise its voice — because it didn’t need to.
Taerae dropped his hands immediately and straightened. “Duke Shen,” he greeted smoothly.
“Count Kim,” Ricky returned, his tone polite but flat. “I wasn’t aware the South sent such… personal envoys tonight.”
Taerae gave a thin smile. “Only a brief conversation.”
“With my wife?” Ricky asked, eyes narrowed.
It wasn’t a question. Not really.
You took a breath, stepping in. “He was just—”
“I saw what he was just doing,” Ricky said, eyes never leaving Taerae’s. “I assume the part where he touched you was also part of the conversation?”
Silence.
Taerae raised a brow. “Would you rather I let her fall?”
Ricky smiled. It was not kind.
“I’d rather you remember she’s not yours to catch.”
You could feel the tension slicing through the air like sharpened glass. The nobles in the ballroom hadn’t noticed yet — but if this continued, they would. The Duke of the North and the Count of the South publicly trading barbed words over you was not exactly the kind of court entertainment you wanted to provide.
You turned toward Ricky, voice firm. “Can we talk? Alone?”
He didn’t look away from Taerae right away. But eventually, he gave a stiff nod.
Taerae gave you a subtle glance before he bowed—to both of you—and walked away into the colonnade shadows.
You and Ricky stood in silence for a long moment.
Then you asked quietly, “Why did you come back?”
He looked at you like it was the stupidest question in the world.
”Because you were gone. And so was I.”
CHAPTER FOUR: A SWEET RENEWAL
The next morning, everything was… different.
Yet also the same.
You still woke in a room colder than you’d like, in sheets warmer and twicefold heavier than you’d use back in the East. You still had the same title, the same last name, the same view of snow-dusted stone terraces outside your window.
But something had shifted.
You saw it in the way Ricky hesitated in the doorway when he came to check on you. Not barging in. Not commanding. Just..lingering.
“I asked the staff to serve your breakfast upstairs,” he said, eyes flicking briefly to the tray. “You looked tired.”
You nodded. “Thank you.”
He didn’t move.
You waited for him to leave—but he didn’t. Instead, he stepped further into the room, hands behind his back, posture tense like he was preparing for a duel.
“Do you—” he cleared his throat. “Do you still feel… unwell?”
You blinked. He’s checking in?
“No fever,” you reply quietly. “I just didn’t sleep well.”
Ricky nodded once. “Would you like something for that? A draught, or…”
His voice faded, unsure. He sounded like someone reading from a manual he’d never opened before.
“It’s alright,” you said gently. “Just… stay—if you’re not too busy.”
That caught him off guard.
“I’ll stay,” he said, almost too quickly.
He sat—stiffly, of course—in the armchair by the hearth. For a long while, neither of you spoke.
You ate quietly. The sound of the spoon tapping the bowl filled the silence between you.
Then, abruptly, he stood. Crossed the room. Pulled the blanket from the foot of your bed—and without meeting your gaze, carefully draped it around your shoulders.
“Your hands were cold,” he said, almost like an apology. Like it was his fault your hands turned freezy and not the atmosphere’s.
You looked down at them. They were. You hadn’t noticed.
“…Thank you,” you murmured.
He nodded again, then walked back to the armchair—only to stand again two seconds later. This time pacing—then stopping halfway. Then crossing his arms like he wasn’t sure what to do with them.
“You can sit,” you said, unable to stop the small smile that tugged at your mouth.
He looked mildly offended. “I wasn’t going to leave.”
“I didn’t say you were,” you replied, tilting your head.
Another silence. This one, less heavy.
Finally, he muttered, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
You blinked. “Pardon?”
Ricky turned towards you fully, completely, for the first time that morning. His face was unreadable, but his voice was softer now. Almost… uncertain.
“I’ve never—” he paused. “—been married. Or… or close to someone like this. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
You stared at him for a moment.
“I’ve never been married either,” you said, voice quieter than before. “So we’re even.”
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But close.
You tucked the blanket around yourself tighter, fighting the absurd urge to laugh. “Is this our truce, then? A mutual agreement that we’re both bad at this?”
“I’m not bad at this,” he said quickly. Then paused. “Just… inexperienced.”
You couldn’t help it. The laugh slipped out.
Ricky blinked. Then tilted his head, like he hadn’t expected the sound of your laughter to be so… nice.?
“I didn’t mean that kind of inexperience,” he said, voice flat.
That only made you laugh harder. He looked away, ears faintly pink at the tips.
A WEEK LATER, the sun filtered through the high windows of the gallery hall. Your steps echoed faintly as you walked beside him—slow and steady, more for your own comfort than anything else.
You weren’t used to walking beside him like this. As equals. At court, you’d seen him from afar, always ahead of others, always silent. But here, his pace matched yours. Half a step behind, even. You don’t know why you noticed.
“I never liked this corridor,” you said suddenly.
Ricky glanced sideways. “Why?”
You gestured loosely to the frozen statues that lined the walls. “It’s cold. Pretentious. All these marble war heroes look like they’ve never lost anything.”
He hummed, the sound low in his throat. “That’s because none of them wrote their own histories.”
You raised a brow at him. “That almost sounded wise.”
“I do believe I have moments.” He replied almost sassily.
A beat of quiet passed. Then he cleared his throat.
“I know you used to walk gardens in the East,” he said. “Dr. Seok told me you preferred sun to snow. I could have the north courtyard warmed. Have you seen it yet?”
You blinked. “No. I didn’t know it had plants.”
“It doesn’t,” he admitted. “But I can change that.”
Your steps slowed.
He wasn’t looking at you, not directly. But his voice was earnest. Awkward, yes — but unpolished in a way that made you believe it. He’d paid attention. Asked someone. Made a plan.
“I’m used to the cold by now,” you said finally. “But… thank you.”
He nodded once, as if that settled it. Like the moment was locked away in his memory.
You stopped before the tall stained-glass window near the arch, gazing out at the distant horizon where the snow met sky. The East always looked so green in your memory. Warm and humming and golden.
“You must have hated the idea of marrying into the East,” you said quietly. “When they first told you it was me.”
Ricky turned to you. “I didn’t hate it.”
“You didn’t fight it, either.”
“No,” he said. “Because it was you.”
You looked up sharply.
He met your eyes, steady now. “I didn’t want marriage. But if I had to belong to someone, I didn’t want it to be a complete stranger. And you weren’t.”
Your breath caught.
He didn’t explain further. He didn’t need to. The truth sat between you — clean, heavy, unmistakable.
You’d known each other in childhood—albeit not the nicest impressions. When you were children, you were forced to be besides each other at court dinners, though never quite close enough to matter. But he remembered. And apparently, so did you.
“I thought you didn’t remember those years,” you murmured.
He glanced back toward the window. “I remember a lot more than you think.”
THE SNOW WAS FALLING harder by nightfall.
You hadn’t meant to stay in the gallery that long—but the light through the stained glass was gentle, and for once, Ricky’s presence wasn’t stifling. Just quiet. Thoughtful.
So you lingered. And maybe it cost you.
Because hours later, back in your chambers, the ache in your bones sharpened. The dull throb behind your eyes turned to a pounding. Your breaths came shallower. And the cold—goodness, the cold—it settled under your skin like frostbite.
You didn’t notice the tears until they slipped down your cheeks.
Your hands were trembling too hard to ring the bell. You curled in on yourself at the edge of the bed, trying to breathe through the flare of pain in your stomach and the pressure climbing your chest.
The door slammed open a moment later.
Ricky.
He looked as if someone had told him you’d collapsed—which, you realized vaguely, someone probably had.
His eyes swept over you, and for the first time since you’d arrived in the North, the mask cracked.
“Get Dr. Seok,” he snapped to the servant behind him. “Now!”
He crossed the room in two long strides and knelt by your bedside. His hands hovered—not touching, not yet—like he didn’t know where it hurt, and was terrified of making it worse.
You tried to speak. Couldn’t.
“Hey—hey, breathe,” he said, voice lower now. Softer. “Look at me. Just—don’t cry. Please, don’t cry.”
Your vision blurred. You hated crying in front of people. You especially hated that it was him seeing it.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t apologize,” he said quickly. “You’re not in trouble. Just—what do you need? Tell me what to do.”
You didn’t know.
That’s when Dr. Seok arrived.
Everything moved faster after that—cool hands on your forehead, medicine against your lips, Ricky following every instruction like his life depended on it. Like yours did.
“Her core temperature’s unstable,” Seok said sharply. “This always happens when she overexerts herself in winter. You knew she went out today?”
Ricky looked stricken. “Yes.”
“Blankets. No more than three. And do not overheat the room.”
“I’ll do it,” Ricky said instantly. “Tell me what else.”
And he did. For hours.
He helped you sit up to breathe easier. He ran the cloths under cold water himself when your fever spiked. He held you through the shaking when the cramps got worse, even though his arms were rigid and unsure.
Once, when he thought you were asleep, you heard him mutter:
“If you die, I’ll never forgive you.”
Thankfully, the worst of it passed just after midnight.
Dr. Seok left once your fever stabilized, though not without a long lecture about warm food, layered clothing, and letting your body recover. The servants, quiet and efficient, took away the basin and bloodied cloths. The fire was stoked one last time.
Then they were gone.
Leaving only you. And your husband.
The room was quiet save for the soft crackle of flames.
You shifted slightly beneath the blankets, your body sore and spent. You could feel the sweat clinging to your skin, but you didn’t have the strength to move. The cold no longer gnawed at you, but your head felt far too light, like it might float off your neck entirely.
You didn’t have to look up to know he was still there.
Ricky sat beside your bed, his chair pulled as close as it could go. One elbow rested on his knee. His eyes were trained on your hand, limp against the blanket.
You turned your palm upward. Just barely.
It was an invitation.
He took it.
Carefully, hesitantly—like the gesture might break you all over again—Ricky wrapped his fingers around yours. His grip was gentle, but firm. Anchoring.
“You’re not… dizzy anymore?” he asked, his voice low and hoarse.
“Not dizzy,” you murmured. “Just… tired.”
He nodded, but didn’t let go.
Another silence bloomed. But this one felt different. Not awkward. Not stiff. Just..quiet.
“I didn’t know what to do,” he said after a while. “I’ve read every war manual there is. Nothing in any of them prepares you for this.”
You managed a weak smile. “You did fine.”
“You cried,” he said, and you heard something strange in his voice. Shame. Guilt.
“I was in pain.”
“You looked scared.”
You were. But you didn’t want to say it out loud.
“I’m used to it,” you offered instead.
He shook his head once. “You shouldn’t have to be.”
The fire popped gently. A spark fell and disappeared.
Ricky leaned forward, resting his forehead against the back of your hand.
“Just tell me next time. Before it gets that bad. I’ll listen. I swear I’ll listen.”
His voice was too raw, too close to breaking for you to do anything but squeeze his hand back.
You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that—his hand in yours, your breathing finally even, the weight of the night pressing soft and heavy against your skin.
Eventually, Ricky shifted in his seat. Not away from you. Just enough to lift his head.
“Does it… happen often?” he asked, voice quiet.
You blinked up at the ceiling, too tired to lie. “Not as often as it used to. But yes. Especially in the cold.”
He nodded, as if logging it away. Then, after a pause:
“Since when?”
You hesitated.
“I was fifteen when it started,” you said finally. “They thought it was just stress, or the court air. But it didn’t stop. Got worse every winter. Some summers, too.”
He looked at you carefully. “Is it from…?”
“My mother,” you confirmed, before he could finish. “Not the current Mistress. My real mother, the Duchess. She died young. No one talks about it, but I’ve read her letters. She knew it would pass to me.”
A long silence.
You weren’t sure why you kept talking. Maybe it was the warmth of his palm. Or maybe it was the way he hadn’t let go of your hand since Dr. Seok left.
“They tried to hide it,” you said softly. “Said it would ruin my marriage prospects. That no one wanted a wife with..well—complications.”
Ricky’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t interrupt.
“I wasn’t supposed to tell you,” you added. “My father said it would give the North something to laugh about.”
“I don’t find it funny,” he said flatly.
“I know. That’s why I’m telling you now.”
His thumb brushed against the side of your hand. You looked at him—really looked—and saw something shift behind his eyes. Something heavy. Thoughtful.
“I wish you’d told me earlier,” he said after a moment. “So I could’ve started worrying sooner.”
That surprised a laugh out of you.
“I’m serious,” he added, softer now. “I’m your husband. Even if I’m not good at it… I should at least be allowed to care.”
The laughter faded. A different kind of quiet settled between you. Fragile. Real.
“Then I should tell you something else,” you said, barely above a whisper.
He looked at you. Waited.
“There’s a chance I… might not be able to bear children. Or that it would be dangerous. They’re not sure yet.”
He didn’t react right away. No anger. No disappointment. Just stillness.
You braced yourself for the worst.
Instead, he said calmly:
“Then we don’t.”
You blinked. “What?”
“We don’t have children. Or we adopt. Or name an heir some other way. I don’t care.”
You stared at him.
“I married you,” he said, holding your gaze. “Not your bloodline. Not your womb. Just… you.”
A knot that had lived quietly in your chest for years began to loosen.
“Everyone else seems to care,” you murmured. “About heirs. About legacy. About—”
“I’m not everyone else.”
He reached up—slowly—and brushed a strand of hair from your cheek. His fingers were clumsy. Gentle. New.
“I don’t need a dynasty,” he said. “I need a reason to come home.”
You didn’t respond right away.
Because that line—
You weren’t sure what unsettled you more—the gentleness of it, or the terrifying fact that you wanted to believe him.
So you did what you always did when things felt too close.
You looked away.
Pulled the blanket tighter.
And said softly, “I’ve been feeling lonely here.”
He blinked, clearly startled by the shift. But he didn’t push back.
Instead, he adjusted in his seat and asked, carefully, “What do you mean?”
You stared at the flames in the hearth. “I don’t know anyone. The staff is kind, but formal. There’s no one to talk to. Not really.”
“You talk to me.”
A small laugh escaped your lips—not mocking, but light. Tired.
“I talk at you, sometimes. It’s not the same.”
He looked thoughtful. A shadow passed through his expression—something like guilt, quickly swallowed.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
You turned your head to him. “Why?”
“For being the kind of man who makes you feel alone, even when I’m in the room.”
That silenced you.
Because you hadn’t expected him to get it.
You hadn’t expected him to say it out loud.
And now that he had, your throat tightened.
“I miss having someone who knows me,” you said. “Before all of this. Before the titles. Someone who doesn’t see a duchess, or an Eastern bride. Just me.”
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he asked.
“How can I help with that?”
The question was simple. But it landed like a stone in still water.
You blinked. Your mouth parted slightly.
“Could I…” you hesitated. “Could I see my brother? Or Jiwoong? Just for a short visit.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look insulted or annoyed.
Instead, he nodded. “If they’re willing to come, I’ll have them escorted here safely. As soon as possible.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
“Yujin may be busy,” you said softly. “He’s preparing for the inheritance rites this season. But Jiwoong will come if he can.”
“The Marquess?” he asked, lips twitching faintly. “The one with the sharp tongue and louder coats?”
You smiled. “The same.”
“Then I’ll send a rider at dawn.”
He said it like a promise. Like it was the easiest thing in the world—to bring a piece of your home to you.
You felt the sting in your throat again.
But this time, it wasn’t from pain.
JIWOONG ARRIVED TWO DAYS LATER in the early afternoon—draped in a fur-lined cloak too extravagant for spring and dragging two terrified servants behind him with a box labeled “emergency tea collection.”
“My lady,” he declared as he stepped into the tea room, arms wide and voice scandalously loud for Northern halls, “you look positively faint. Has no one brewed you proper jasmine since you got here?”
You didn’t realize how much you’d missed him until you saw him.
You barely waited for the servant to bow before launching into his arms.
He caught you with ease, arms warm, cloak even warmer, his familiar cologne a small miracle in a house that smelled only of stone and snow.
“I thought you’d be busy,” you murmured against his shoulder.
Jiwoong pulled back, eyes gleaming. “Please. For you? I nearly left in the middle of court. The Emperor said I was dramatic. I said I was loyal.”
You laughed, guiding him to sit across from you as the staff brought in fresh porcelain and delicate finger food.
Ricky had arranged everything perfectly. Even down to the jasmine.
Jiwoong noticed.
“Well,” he said, lifting the tea to his nose. “Your Northern Duke has taste. Or at least money.”
You smiled without meaning to. “He’s… trying.”
“Oh?” Jiwoong’s brows rose. “That was not your tone last time we talked.”
You looked down at your cup. “It’s complicated.”
“I assumed it would be. You did marry a man who glares for sport.”
You shot him a look.
He leaned in, resting his chin in his palm. “But go on. What did he do? Save your life? Apologize with a bouquet? Cut off his own arm in penance?”
“No,” you said, cheeks warming. “He… stayed with me. When I was sick. Took care of me himself.”
Jiwoong blinked. “And?”
You frowned. “What do you mean, and?”
“I mean—is that all it took?” he said, mock-scandalized. “[reader], I took care of you when you had a cold once and all I got was your brother threatening to exile me.”
You rolled your eyes. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Wasn’t it?”
You were quiet for a beat.
Then: “He held my hand. All night. He didn’t have to.”
Jiwoong’s teasing faded just slightly. He tilted his head, watching you.
“And how do you feel about him now?” he asked.
You hesitated. Sipped your tea. Avoided his gaze.
“That bad?” he said gently.
“No,” you murmured. “Not bad.”
He leaned back in his chair, smiling like a fox who’d already found the prize.
“Well,” he said, lifting his cup to toast you. “I’m not saying you’re in love, but…”
You glanced up.
“You’re closer than you think.”
You looked away quickly, but something inside you jolted.
The words echoed as you sat there, tea warm in your hands, the scent of jasmine curling in the air.
You didn’t want to admit it—not even to yourself—but maybe he was right.
Because lately, Ricky’s name didn’t sound like frost anymore.
It tasted like warmth.
CHAPTER FIVE: THE CONFESSION THAT PROGRESSES IT ALL
The tea room was quieter now.
Jiwoong’s echo still lived in the cushions — in the jasmine-soaked air, in the slight smudge his rings left on the porcelain. His warmth, his chaos, his knowing gaze. It had all vanished the moment he walked out.
And yet, you sat there. Still.
Fingers curled around your teacup, now lukewarm.
You weren’t sure if you were savoring the moment or hiding from the one that would come next.
The hallway creaked softly.
Your gaze lifted—and there he was. Ricky, standing by the threshold. Not quite in, not quite out.
You hadn’t even heard him approach.
He didn’t speak. Just studied you in that quiet way of his, unreadable eyes drifting from your face to the abandoned tea set, then to the second cup still half full.
He stepped forward.
“I didn’t know you liked jasmine,” he said at last.
You nodded. “It’s my favorite. My mother—” You caught yourself, then finished softly, “She used to bring it back from the eastern markets when I was a child.”
He didn’t sit across from you. Instead, he circled around and picked up the second teacup—Jiwoong’s.
He sniffed it, eyes narrowing just slightly, then set it back down with care. “He’s bold. Your friend.”
You smiled. “He’s loyal.”
There was something unreadable in Ricky’s posture. Not exactly tense. But not relaxed either.
“He said something to you,” Ricky said. “After I passed him on the stairs. I could tell.”
You blinked. “You were listening?”
“No,” he said. “But I noticed. Your face changed.”
You looked down at your tea.
“He said I seem to be falling for you,” you admitted.
A pause.
You could feel it—the silence between you stretching, winding tight like a pulled bowstring.
“And are you?” he asked, apprehensive.
Your eyes flicked up to his.
But he wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t cold.
Just… there. Waiting. Open in a way he hadn’t been before.
“I don’t know,” you said honestly. “I think I’m starting to want to.”
His jaw moved slightly. Not clenched—just thoughtful.
He reached across the table.
You froze.
But he didn’t touch your hand. Just the edge of your sleeve, brushing away a tiny tea stain.
You watched his fingers. Long, careful, slightly trembling.
“Thank you,” you said, barely audible.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You stayed.”
His hand paused.
You looked up again—and something in his gaze cracked, just for a second.
“I’ll keep staying,” he murmured—a tender promise.
THE STUDY HAD GROWN WARMER since the first time you’d entered it.
Back then, it felt like a war room — all cold stone, iron candleholders, scrolls stacked like shields. Now, it breathed with a softer kind of stillness. A few fresh peonies sat in a shallow dish near the window, and the fireplace crackled steadily, offering golden light against the long table.
You sat at the far end, sleeves rolled just enough to write, a thick stack of estate ledgers and correspondence open before you.
He sat at the other.
You had both been working in silence for nearly an hour.
And yet… it wasn’t uncomfortable.
Ricky’s head was bowed as he scanned one of the farming contracts from the outposts near the river. Every so often, his brow furrowed and he made a note in the margin. It was strange — seeing a man who once held a sword with such command now holding a quill with equal focus.
And yet… fitting.
You have spent weeks beside him now. Not always talking. Sometimes just existing in the same space. And still, there were moments like this where you caught yourself watching him too long. Wondering who he was before he became a duke. Before duty shaped his shoulders.
“Did you always want this?” you asked, softly.
He didn’t look up at first.
Then, slowly: “What. The estate?”
You nodded.
He leaned back in his chair, quill lowered to the table.
“No,” he said. “I didn’t want any of this.”
Your hands stilled on the page.
“I wanted to be a soldier. At first.” His voice was steady, but something in it had dulled — like a blade turned blunt from overuse. “When I was twelve, I begged my father to let me join the outer battalion. I thought it would make me—I don’t know, worthy? I thought… maybe if I was good enough at protecting something, he’d stop looking at me like I was a burden.”
You watched him. He didn’t meet your eyes.
“I trained harder than anyone. I was better than men twice my age by the time I was fifteen. But it didn’t matter. He still sent me away to fight battles that weren’t mine, just to get me out of his way.”
“Is that where the scar on your shoulder came from?” you asked quietly.
He glanced up, a flicker of surprise on his face. “You noticed that?”
“You took off your coat once. Near the fire. I saw it.”
He didn’t answer for a moment.
Then he nodded. “Yes. First winter skirmish I led. I lost fourteen men that day. I was nearly the fifteenth.”
You closed your ledger.
Something about his tone told you this wasn’t a story he shared often. Maybe never.
“I think,” he said after a while, “I stopped feeling like a person back then. Everything was about surviving. Winning. Keeping the North strong. But I stopped knowing who I was outside of that.”
Your voice came before you had time to think.
“You were a child.”
He looked up sharply.
“You shouldn’t have had to carry all that alone,” you said. “It wasn’t fair.”
His expression didn’t change. But his throat worked like he was swallowing something down.
“Maybe not,” he said. “But no one ever told me that before.”
A silence settled between you. Not sharp—just soft. Like snow.
“I don’t think you’re cold,” you said suddenly. “Not really.”
His eyes met yours.
“I used to think you were. In the beginning,” you admitted. “But now I see it’s not coldness. It’s… armor.”
He didn’t speak. But something in his posture eased.
You hesitated, then added, “I think I understand it now. Loneliness doesn’t always feel loud. Sometimes it just makes you quiet.”
His gaze dropped again. To your hands. Your ink-stained fingers.
“And you?” he asked. “Were you lonely too?”
You took a breath.
“Yes,” you said. “But not in the same way.”
You turned slightly in your seat, facing him more fully.
“I was never on the battlefield. But I spent most of my teenage years in bed. Sickness after sickness. Fevers that left me too weak to walk. My nurses tried to be kind, but I could hear their whispers. ‘Poor thing. Too fragile.’”
You folded your hands in your lap.
“Everyone thought I’d break if I did anything remotely taxing,” you said. “So they stopped letting me try.”
He looked at you. Fully now. No armor.
“I always wanted to dance at court,” you said with a weak smile. “But my body wouldn’t let me. I wanted to ride, to fence, to run. But I couldn’t. So I read. I studied. I dreamed. And every time I got better, I fought harder to do just one more thing they were sure I couldn’t.”
A beat passed.
“You fought, too,” he said, voice soft. “Just a different kind of war.”
You looked at him. Really looked.
And something in you warmed.
“Maybe that’s why I admire you,” you said. “You didn’t give up. Even when it cost you parts of yourself.”
His brows drew together—like he didn’t know what to do with praise.
But then he said, quietly, “That’s what I thought… about you.”
You blinked. “Me?”
“I never said it,” he continued with a small nod, “but I used to wonder how someone so often in pain could still look that composed in public. You wore silk and jewels twice your weight. You smiled, even when I knew you were cold.”
He leaned forward slightly.
“I didn’t realize it then. But I see it now. You were fighting, too.”
You felt your throat tighten.
“Why are you telling me this now?” you asked.
“Because,” he said, “I think I’ve started seeing you for who you are. Not just who I expected. Who I admired.”
A pause.
“And I want you to see me, too.”
Something in your chest cracked open.
Slowly, wordlessly, you reached across the table and placed your hand near his.
He didn’t move for a moment.
Then, inch by inch, he covered your hand with his.
No pressure. Just presence.
No one spoke.
But everything was said.
THE BEDROOM WAS QUIET except for the sound of the fire.
You lay on your side, facing him across the small stretch of space between you. He wasn’t under the covers yet — just sitting at the edge of the bed, half in shadow, hands loose in his lap.
You’d gotten used to this… the way you occupied the same room now. How it wasn’t quite awkward anymore, but not entirely comfortable either. A strange, heavy peace. Something unnamed but not unwelcome.
“You’re staring,” you said softly.
He didn’t look away. “So are you.”
You huffed a laugh. “Touché.”
He finally turned, pulling the blanket over his legs. You watched the way his jaw shifted as he settled beside you, still a little stiff, still unsure of how to be near you.
So you closed the gap.
Just a little.
Reached forward, fingers brushing his cheekbone.
He flinched—not in fear, but in surprise. His eyes widened.
You kept your touch featherlight.
“You always look like you’re bracing for battle,” you whispered. “Even in bed.”
His lips twitched. “Habit.”
You let your palm rest gently against the side of his face. He didn’t pull away. His shoulders dropped a little — and then a little more.
“Do I make you nervous?” you teased.
He swallowed. “Not nervous. Just…”
You waited.
He didn’t finish.
Instead, he leaned into your touch, eyes softening in that rare, unguarded way. The way he only looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching.
You opened your mouth.
And so did he.
“I—”
The fire popped sharply, a log splitting open with a loud, crackling burst.
You both froze.
The spell shattered.
You drew your hand back. He cleared his throat and turned onto his back, eyes on the ceiling. You mirrored him after a second, heartbeat loud in your ears.
Neither of you spoke.
But your fingers drifted slightly under the covers.
And when they found his… he let them stay.
THE GARDEN HAD CHANGED.
Where once frostbitten branches had hung bare and brittle, soft petals now danced in the wind — blush peonies, pale narcissus, crocus in quiet bloom. The warmth enchantments worked better than expected, drawing life from the ground like it had been waiting all along.
You sat on the stone bench beneath the archway, fingers toying with the hem of your sleeve. The winter sun peeked through the glass ceiling, gentle and golden.
Behind you, footsteps echoed.
You turned just in time for a familiar figure to appear at the edge of the path—dark cloak, Eastern seal stitched at the collar.
Han Yujin.
Finally, after a long wait, your beloved brother was free from his duties and able to visit you.
Your brother’s smile was slow and fond as he approached. “So this is the infamous Northern garden, hm? Looks more like a conservatory now.”
You stood to greet him, letting him pull you into a tight hug.
“It’s beautiful,” you murmured. “He had it warmed… for me.”
Yujin glanced around, one brow raised. “Did he now?”
You rolled your eyes, but didn’t deny it.
He walked a few steps ahead, crouching to brush his fingers along the base of a camellia bloom. “You look better,” he said softly. “Less pale. Still tired, though.”
You smiled faintly. “It’s been a long few weeks.”
He nodded, then stood, folding his arms as he turned back to face you. “Jiwoong told me a little. Said you’re adjusting. Slowly.”
There was a pause.
You both knew what was coming.
“I just…” Yujin tilted his head. “I want to ask you something.”
You gestured for him to sit beside you.
He did.
And then: “What are you waiting for?”
You blinked.
He didn’t look at you when he said it—eyes still on the garden, voice low.
“You’re healing. He’s trying. You’re no longer strangers. So why do you still look like you’re holding your breath every time someone mentions his name? You know we aren’t enemies anymore. The grudge is done and gone”
Your heart squeezed.
“I’m not—”
“You are,” he said gently.
He turned to look at you now, gaze soft but unrelenting.
“What are you afraid of?”
You inhaled, fingers curling slightly over your skirt.
“I don’t know.”
“You do.”
You hesitated. Then admitted, “I’m afraid… it won’t last.”
He nodded once.
“And if it doesn’t?” he asked. “You’ll survive. You always have.”
You closed your eyes for a moment.
Then, softly: “I think… I’m afraid that if I love him, and he doesn’t love me back… I won’t know how to go back to being strong again.”
Yujin’s voice was quiet. “You don’t have to be strong all the time.”
You looked at him.
He smiled. “Not alone.”
The wind shifted. A few petals scattered across the stone path.
“You’ve always been brave,” he said. “Even when you were sick, even when Father made things harder than they had to be. You still stayed kind. You still stayed you.”
He paused, then added:
“Don’t let fear of loss stop you from choosing love.”
Gosh, when has your baby brother matured so much?
Your throat tightened.
You didn’t speak.
But your eyes drifted across the garden—toward the doors that led back inside. Toward the room where Ricky might still be.
Waiting.
Just like you were.
YOU FOUND HIM in the sitting room, legs stretched out along the velvet couch, hair slightly mussed from what looked like a failed nap.
A book sat closed on his chest. His eyes, however, were open—as if he’d sensed you coming before you even touched the doorknob.
Ricky didn’t sit up immediately.
He just blinked, and then said, “You’re back.”
You walked in. Quietly. Lightly.
“I didn’t leave for good,” you said. “You think I’d leave you alone with the estate documents?”
He huffed a quiet sound — somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “I hoped.”
You raised a brow. “Are you saying I’m bad company?”
“I’m saying you scold me more than Gyuvin, our steward, does.”
You placed a hand over your chest in mock betrayal. “I scold you because I care.”
That made him pause.
You didn’t mean for it to come out like that. But it hung in the air anyway, soft and glowing.
He sat up slowly. His shoulders looked less heavy than they did last week.
“Do you… want to sit?” he asked, nodding to the space beside him.
You did.
The couch dipped as you curled your legs under you. Not too close—but close enough that your knees brushed when you shifted.
“I talked to Yujin,” you said. “He says you look better fed than when we first saw you in the wedding hall.”
“He’s not wrong.”
You laughed. “He also thinks you have no fashion sense.”
Ricky tilted his head. “He was wearing fur-lined shoes. Indoors.”
You covered your mouth with your hand. “He says they’re Eastern couture.”
“They’re ridiculous.”
“Don’t say that in front of him. He’ll challenge you to a duel.”
“I’ve fought worse,” he deadpanned.
That made you laugh. Bright and real.
And he laughed too—quietly, but genuinely.
The sound lingered for a moment.
When it faded, you turned to him.
Your voice was soft. “I care about you, you know.”
He blinked. Almost startled by how gently you said it.
“I didn’t expect to,” you added. “But I do. And I want to try.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you.
Then—carefully—he reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“I want to try too,” he said, voice barely more than a breath. “If you’ll have me.”
Your heart stuttered.
But you smiled.
“Good,” you whispered. “Then we’ll start here.”
And when you both laughed again—this time softer, shy—it wasn’t just laughter.
It was a beginning.
— THE END.
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