alex

she/her 22. i like many groups.

[sungbeam]

nonidol!park seonghwa x f!reader; slight kim hongjoong x reader

'tis a tale as old as time: the prince and his right-hand woman don't realize that the aches in their hearts are identical.

▷ genre, warnings. nc-17. prince x advisor, childhood friends 2 lovers, royalty au, angst, fluff, humor, very mild swearing, kissing, hurt/comfort, lots of mentions of marriage™, alcohol, kim hongjoong IS THEEEEE GRAND DUKE (yeah he deserves a warning), pining and yearning (the works - i listened to folklore and evermore on loop so glhf), no politics involved just straight-up feels (adding politics would've made this DOUBLE), hand kissing only actually!, no beta readers we die like men

▷ word count. 33.1k (ngl, this shit was supposed to be 6k max. 🫩) (ao3 link)

a/n: this goes out to @sorryimananti-romantic who let me dump my live progress to her, and to @armysantiny who's post inspired this fic !! (indeed, it lived in my head for that long) also i had to constantly remind myself that this was a SEONGHWA fic and not a hongjoong one... take that as you will. enjoy !!

OVER YEARS OF HAVING BEEN raised within the grandiose halls of the royal palace and beside the reigning monarchs’ beloved son Prince Seonghwa, you had developed somewhat of a sixth sense.

Said sixth sense was currently screaming in the confines of your head. Something was terribly wrong. Though, you had a sneaking suspicion as to what exactly was 'wrong.’

You could already hear the footsteps thundering toward your study from down the corridor, the cadence so awfully like the prince's. Along with a sixth sense, your ears had grown attuned to every rhythm, rhyme, and reason his body and mind produced. You kept your eyes upon the documents splayed across your desk, but your attention was far from them now.

A brace for impact… ddu-ddu-ddu—

The doors slid across the wooden floor panels before colliding with their opposing walls. There was a resounding SLAM.

“Milady Yn! The greatest of travesties have reached mine ears!”

You had to lift your hand to press your smile of amusement into the back of your wrist. Mine ears? There was a snort being suppressed somewhere in your throat. He could be terribly dramatic.

Before you now stood the very prince in question, clad in a casual set of attire, yet his hair was swept back in such a way one might assume he was always prepared to receive a guest. His expression was contorted in something that could only be described as scandalized.

It was only in your midst that the prince revealed his true colors and, well, energy. To the public, Prince Seonghwa was well understood as someone reserved, intelligent, and soft-spoken. He was the spitting image of dignity—he was one of the faces of a reputable royal household. His beauty alone was one that could topple governments. In the comfort of your office walls, however, he was simply someone you had known for all of your life.

You couldn't get in a word edgewise before Seonghwa was whirling around to haul the sliding doors of your office shut with yet another, resounding SLAM.

“Your Royal Highness,” you drawled with a wince, absentmindedly reaching up to massage your ear. “Any damage will come out of your recreational budget and not mine, I hope you understand that.”

Seonghwa returned his focus to you, one hand propped on his hip. “Yes, yes—there are more important matters at hand!” he replied with a flippant wave of his other hand.

He strode over to your desk and collapsed into the chair across from you, one leg swinging over the other, hand draping over the back of his forehead. “My mother and father—”

“Only want the best for you,” you said calmly as you underlined a portion of the document you were reading, the nib of your quill scrawling out a note in the margin.

Seonghwa's eyes nearly bulged out of his head, mouth falling open like the petals of a flower. “Only wish to see me suffer,” he corrected, aghast, his hand falling from its position and into his lap. “I had a suspicion that you were privy to this.”

“Me?” you feigned offense with not much enthusiasm. Your focus was split between the obscene errors in this legal document and your friend, the prince. “However could you think so poorly of me, and that I would not argue for your sanity to the King and Queen?”

“My thoughts exactly!”

You glanced up from the page and fixed him with a pointed look. You noted the slight pout of his bottom lip, and you only sighed. “There was nothing I could say or do to dissuade them.”

Seonghwa shifted forward to the edge of his seat. “Nonsense. My mother and father adore you.”

“Not so much as to allow me say in your bachelor ball,” you quipped.

He gagged into his palm. “Why on Earth would you call it such?” he whined. “I stand corrected: you are far worse than them.”

This time, you were unable to suppress your laughter. The sound seemed to bring the slightest smile to your counterpart's face, however reluctant he was to express it.

It was unfortunate, but true, that Prince Seonghwa's days of evading courtship were reaching their curtain call. He was nearly twenty-three summers old already; as a royal, it was a marvel he lasted so long without his parents matching him with some princess from a faraway land. (You were a different case entirely. Twenty-one autumns under your belt, and still, no ring. Your father had your dowry prepared, but as he was a veteran secretary to the royal household, he was kept too busy most days to remember to pester you about it. Spinsterhood for a lifetime of peace and quiet? It was something you could certainly live with.)

The King and Queen, Seonghwa's parents and the monarchs of this great country of Aurelia, had notified you of their decision only yesterday morning during your weekly luncheon with them. As their son's personal advisor, you were expected to communicate with the royal heads effectively. It helped some that you were raised beside Seonghwa, and most days, viewed the King and Queen like an aunt and uncle.

“I won't say that I'm envious,” you began to say while placing your quill down. The tension on his face did not loosen. “But your mother and father made an excellent point.”

Seonghwa leaned back into his chair, arms folding over his chest as he exhaled roughly. “Do not tell me—you know I don't like talking about it.”

Your lips closed. The elephant that had walked into the room was the matter of royal succession and Seonghwa's official ascent to Crown Prince. In the ancient laws engraved into the very stones of Aurelia, it was said that no royal heir was to ascend to the throne without assurance that they could provide the kingdom with an heir of their own.

In less words: Seonghwa could not be crowned until he was married.

There were no other siblings to take on the burden, neither did his parents wish to pass the throne onto an extended family member. It all fell to Prince Seonghwa.

You slowly rose from your seat, and Seonghwa's gaze followed you as you rounded the desk to lean against the edge closest to him. With a hand on his shoulder, you said, “I will help you find the best partner to lead by your side, my friend.”

He peered up at you with a slight wobble in his eyes, but you were sure it was only a trick of the light. His head ducked suddenly into a nod, his hand lifting to cover yours in acknowledgment. Or perhaps, something more meaningful. “Thank you,” was all he said.

The collision of sword metal sang across the courtyard, verbal jabs and steel sparks flying as two lithe figures waltzed around one another in a skilled dance you'd witnessed thousands of times.

“Huzzah! And you say you—gah—haven’t sparred in weeks?” Duke Choi's eldest son, San, let loose a hearty chuckle as he met Seonghwa's strike.

The prince's mouth curled into a slight smile as his body twirled as smoothly as a nib swimming in ink. “Sparred with you,” he amended.

From the sidelines, perched upon a conveniently-placed bench, you called out airily, “He means he has committed every palace guard's sparring style to memory and grows bored.”

“Now you are putting words in my mouth, my lady,” Seonghwa scoffed, but his expression was full of mirth as he glanced over at you.

As much as you teased, you knew that Seonghwa practiced swordsmanship tirelessly. He rose even before dawn with the palace guards since he was young and never lost that work ethic. He was not only skilled with a blade, but also his wit and intellect. Though the prince did not make as many public appearances as his parents, the kingdom mostly knew him as a future ruler with a good head on his shoulders and very capable hands.

The thought made you smile slightly to yourself with pride spreading in your chest. He would make an excellent king one day.

“The sight of them sparring cannot make you this content, Lady Yn,” came a chuckle to your right.

Lord Choi Jongho, San's younger brother and the youngest of Duke Choi's clan, had his attention half on his brother and the prince, and the other half on you as he strolled over. Unlike his brother, he was not dressed in sparring gear, but in a less formal suit—perfectly appropriate for a casual visit to see one's friend who happened to be royalty. He was no frequent sparrer like his older brother, but you knew Jongho to be especially impressive in matters of finance.

Your smile widened as you stood to greet him. “Well, I'm far more content now that you've arrived, my lord. Finally, someone to converse with who isn't simultaneously worried about his head being lobbed off mid-conversation.”

“Flattery is your strong suit,” he laughed as he clasped his hand with yours in greeting. He gestured back to the bench. “Please, you need not give up your comfortable perch on my account.”

“Comfort is certainly a subjective quality,” you drawled, but returned to your place from before.

From the clanging swords, you heard San's jovial tone over the noise: “Jongho-yah! You've survived the lion's den then?”

“Oh, hardly!” the younger brother called back. “Verily, the old men in the Treasury continue to be stuck in their fossilized ways.”

You found yourself shaking your head, having had plenty of interaction with their like. You were a woman in a prominent position in the royal court with no marriage prospects, after all. It didn't matter that you were adept at your job or that your father was an important figure within their ranks; they could only see you as a woman who had failed her “primary duty.” That, and the fact that you were still considered “lower” nobility.

Seonghwa shoved San off with the horizontal length of his blade. “Unfortunately, that cannot be changed until I take the crown,” he huffed.

“Any day now,” Jongho mused.

Ah, you had nearly forgotten. You were so lost in this particular moment in time that Seonghwa's upcoming matchmaking, and eventual nuptials, had gotten away from you.

As if on cue, you caught the approaching skirts of a member of the royal maid staff. You nodded at her immediately, standing to meet her upon the edge of the sparring grounds. “Excuse me, it seems I must return to my responsibilities,” you said to Jongho with no less mirth. “Excellent seeing you again, Jongho.”

Jongho gave a shallow bow in reply. “You as well. We will have to meet for tea sometime soon.”

“Of course,” you agreed most ardently. “Do let your brother know that it was good to see him.”

“With not so much enthusiasm,” he teased.

Your twinkling laughter floated through the air, and then you were off.

This left Jongho to observe the pair sparring at the center of the courtyard. As it would have it, they yielded to one another only a couple moments after you departed. They approached the bench with labored breaths, skin glowing with fresh perspiration beneath the midmorning sun.

Seonghwa clasped San's hand in a sportsmanlike manner. “Good match,” he said, his voice of a raspy quality.

“Many thanks for not defeating me in front of the lady,” San joked as he swiped at a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face.

“Our prince wouldn't dare be so arrogant before Lady Yn,” Jongho joined in with the jest. His arms were folded lightly over his chest as he regarded the very royal in question with a knowing smirk.

Seonghwa reached for one of the metal canisters of water beneath the bench and shrugged with nonchalance. “I cannot help that she brings out the best in me.”

“Speaking of,” Jongho said, “Lady Yn extends her goodbyes to you, brother” —he turned to the prince— “and not you, unfortunately.”

Seonghwa's expression contorted into something of offended incredulity.

A choking sound erupted from his left where San was coughing up his water, simultaneously laughing like a hyena. He had to clap a hand onto Seonghwa's shoulder as his cheeks grew flushed. When he had gathered his wits about him, he coughed once into his elbow and said, “Worry not, my prince. You see her far more often than either of us do. A goodbye from her would be useless as it will never be a true one.”

“Well,” Jongho chimed in pointedly.

The two brothers made eye contact and San wagged his pointer finger as he took another generous gulp of his water. “Ah, that's right,” he continued. “So it is true that your hand is finally open to courtship then?”

Seonghwa capped his flask and reined in the tension squaring in his shoulders. “That would be correct.”

“And our beloved Lady Yn is the one orchestrating it all? How poetically tragic!”

His teeth gritted behind his lips. “My mother and father are the true conductors. She is merely carrying out their wishes,” he replied stiffly. Oh, how badly he wished to lament a little out loud, but it couldn't be out here in the open. He much preferred the privacy and comfort of your study. How tragic, indeed. “She is loyal to them, and I am content with that.”

The two Choi brothers claimed the places on either side of the prince as the three of them gathered their belongings and began to slowly make their way toward the courtyard doors.

San once again clasped one of Seonghwa's shoulders. “She knows you well, my friend,” he said to him warmly. “She will find an excellent match for you.”

That isn't… Seonghwa knew San's intention was to be a good, reassuring companion, but in this moment, the way his words mirrored yours only made the pit in his stomach grow larger.

“Lady Yn,” came a voice and a knock at the chamber door.

You and Seonghwa both turned your heads in that direction. When there weren't other responsibilities elsewhere to attend to, you could reliably be found in your study—suffice to say, so could Seonghwa. This morning, the prince was draped over the chaise lounge beneath the far window, soaking up the morning sunlight like a delicate tulip, as he enjoyed a novel from his personal collection. A pair of reading glasses sat perched atop the perfect slope of his nose.

“Come in,” you beckoned, already recognizing the voice of one of your assistants, Lila.

Ms. Lila appeared in the entryway, dropping into a curtsy immediately having known the prince was present. “Greetings to the shining star of Aurelia, and good morning, Lady Yn.”

Seonghwa didn't even bother to straighten up from his position. Your staff members had seen him in postures unbecoming of his station far too many times for him or them to be fazed. “Good morning, Lila; please rise. The formal greeting truly isn't necessary, especially in this setting.”

“It is expected,” both you and Lila intoned at the same time.

The prince's brows flew up. “Frightening,” he muttered.

You shot him a smirk, then turned to Lila. You espied an envelope clutched in her hands. “What do you have?”

“The list of eligible bachelorettes you required, Lady Yn,” she replied as she strode across the room to set the envelope upon your desk.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Seonghwa shoot up. That, at least, caused his posture to snap straight.

You took the envelope from her with a grateful nod. “Thank you for your quick work, Ms. Lila.”

“Would you like me to go over them with you?”

“No, I” —you paused, head turning to Seonghwa, and in turn, making Lila follow your gaze. Your eyes narrowed slightly. “You—out.”

The prince went slack-jawed and he pointed to himself as if it weren't obvious. “Did you just order me to leave?”

“I did.”

He stammered. “I—but I would like to stay—I will stay! I can be of help.”

You shook your head as you reached for the slim letter opener in your desk drawer. “This matter in particular is one that will not fall victim to your meddling, I'm afraid.”

“Meddling? I resent the accusation,” he huffed.

“Ms. Lila, would you be so kind as to escort the prince out of the office and to the kitchens to approve of the desserts for the opening banquet?”

Seonghwa opened his mouth to retort again, but froze. His expression shuttered in disbelief; how had he forgotten that appointment? “You devious woman,” he said, mostly teasing, as he began making his way toward the door.

Ms. Lila sent you an expression of pure amazement while she followed him out.

“And Lila?” you called to her.

She stopped, hand wrapped around the edge of the door. “Yes?”

“He is your prince, but you are sworn to secrecy,” you reminded her with a smile. You placed your index finger against your lips in a quiet gesture.

Lila grinned, mirroring you, and then she disappeared the same direction Seonghwa went.

With quiet returning to the solitude of your study, you brought the edge of the letter opener blade to the envelope lip. With a smooth, practiced motion, you sliced the flap open and tugged the parchment out.

About a fortnight ago, you had begun to dole out tasks to your staff members for the planning of Prince Seonghwa's matchmaking “events.” There were to be, as his parents requested of you, three formal balls, followed by individual meetings with any ladies who were of interest to the prince. While you busied yourself with other preparations, you had asked Lila to compile a comprehensive list of eligible bachelorettes from all across the eight kingdoms.

The list Lila delivered to you would be the one you would narrow further to determine who would receive formal invitations as possible partners to His Royal Highness. There would be other guests attending the balls, as well, including many of Seonghwa's friends amongst the nobility of Aurelia and any neighboring kingdoms’ royalty.

You entrusted only yourself with the “matchmaking,” however.

The remainder of the hour was spent as an initial glossing-over period. Part of Lila's task was to cross-reference eligible women with their political and economic affiliations, and whether a union with them would lead to stormy weather. They couldn't only be of appropriate social standing to be eligible, of course.

As you familiarized yourselves with the women on the list, you paused to glance at the clock at the top corner of your desk.

Would Seonghwa get along with any of these women? The probability was high—he was a very agreeable man, and never one to purposefully make any person feel out of place. He strived to maintain good relationships built on mutual trust and respect…

But personality-wise? Interest-wise?

“Royalty does not always have a choice,” you muttered to yourself as you leaned your cheek against your fist.

Yet here you were, doing the choosing for him. Perhaps, in some circumstances, one did have more power than a royal.

Upon rare occasions, yours, your father's, the monarchs’, and your princely charge's schedules would all align like a solar eclipse. This would typically result in a shared meal mostly devoid of any discussions related to work. Mostly.

You and Prince Seonghwa were two minutes late as it was because the latter was struggling to locate his best leather shoes. You had found them within thirty seconds of entering his closet, but that was neither here nor there.

“It isn't as if we are dining with foreign dignitaries,” you told him as the pair of you walked as swiftly down the corridor as possible without running. You both learned the hard way when you were young that Proper Ladies and Young Gentlemen Never Ran. “‘Tis only my father.”

“You say that as if your father is not an important man himself,” he snorted. “And frankly, I'm offended you don't believe that I might hold him in high enough regard to appear my best for him.”

You sighed. “It is like you're preening for a potential mate.”

A choked sound erupted from your side, and your head shot over to Seonghwa in mild concern. He had his palm pressed to his mouth, cheekbones and ears reddened with his face turned away from you.

“Excuse me,” he muttered while straightening and avoiding your eyes.

Your brows twisted together. “Are you alright, Your Royal Highness?”

He cleared his throat. “Quite.”

It didn't seem as if he wished to elaborate on the matter, and he continued onward while loosening the grip of his collar around his throat.

Time did indeed fly. Several weeks had passed since you had formal invitations drawn up and delivered across the continent to their respective recipients. Already, responses were sweeping in through the door faster than you could check them off the list. Nearly everyone whom you wrote to accepted the invitation—Aurelia was a rather significant figure in continent politics and economy; thus, declining the invitation for anything less than a death in the family would suggest something unsavory.

Suffice to say, you and the palace were entirely embedded into the storm that was Preparations.

It made this luncheon all the more miracle-like in nature, but your father was the best at maneuvering schedules.

At last, you and Seonghwa arrived upon the east wing terrace where your parents had already been seated and served with a round of tea.

“Ah, well if it isn't our very punctual children, Lord Ln,” the Queen teased as soon as she spotted the two late arrivals striding in through the door.

The guards and servants posted about the terrace lowered into bows at the entrance of your charge. You heard a murmured chorus of greetings to him (and to you, after the fact) while you scurried over to greet the monarchs and your father properly.

“My apologies, Mama,” Seonghwa said as he placed a kiss on her cheek. “My shoes eluded me and Yn was the only one who could locate them.”

“But of course,” she chuckled.

As Seonghwa greeted his father, you traded light cheek kisses with your own. “Good morning, Father,” you said. “You are looking well.”

Your father's eyes crinkled as he took a good, long glance at you. “You look as fresh as a daisy despite all of your responsibilities. You are not too stressed, I hope?”

“Not at all,” you said easily, eyes slipping casually over to the Aurelian monarchs as you did. “I am happy to be busy.”

“She is truly your daughter then, Seth,” chortled the King good naturedly.

Seonghwa gestured to one of the open seats left at the table, and pulled out the chair for you. Once you were comfortably seated, he pushed it in before settling into the last open seat. The round table upon the terrace was, at last, complete.

“I suppose so,” your father sighed, though you didn't miss the lightheartedness of it. There was no disappointment or stress there that you could detect, and that in itself allowed you to exhale. You were only following in his footsteps, after all.

“Yn, my darling,” said the Queen from across the table. “I've heard so many wonderful things about your progress concerning Seonghwa's social events. We are grateful for your hard work, and so is my son—”

“Mother,” Seonghwa chided weakly as he shifted slightly to allow a maid to fill his teacup.

A pointed look from the Queen had Seonghwa's mouth snapping shut. You nearly couldn't hold back a snort. “—Should you ever need extra assistance, my staff are at your beck and call,” she continued. “But I hope the general staff around the palace have assisted you to satisfactory levels already.”

“More than satisfactory, Your Majesty,” you said with an emphatic nod. “We are right on schedule. In fact, I will be accompanying the prince to another suit fitting this afternoon.”

“Marvelous!” the King chimed in with a clap of his hands.

Seonghwa leaned toward you slightly. “And you?” he asked quietly as his parents and your father branched off into a brief side conversation about their own dress fittings.

“Hm?”

“Your fittings—you did schedule your own fittings, did you not?”

Oh. For a moment, you weren't certain what to say. There was a large part of you who did not believe you would be attending these events as a guest; you were the primary point of contact for everything, which meant you would be working from start to finish and throughout. It would be unproductive of you to be fitted in brand new ball gowns if you weren't to participate.

Seonghwa's brows crossed as he seemed to read your mind directly from your expression. “Yn, I swear on Aurelia's good name, if you don't—”

“You have nothing to worry about,” you interjected. He need not know. “I have everything under control.”

“Seth, what are we to do about your daughter's hand?”

The question made both you and Seonghwa whip your heads toward your parents. It was one thing to discuss the prince's hand in marriage, but yours?

“Yes,” Seonghwa drawled, smirking, as he leaned his cheek against his hand, perfectly content with switching the conversation to another victim, “what are we to do, indeed.”

You chuckled nervously as all eyes turned to you. “You need not answer that question, Father.”

Your father set his silver fork down onto his plate with a small clink. He waved his hand in a vague gesture. “The matter of your marriage does seem to escape my mind often, my dear, and I am sorry for that,” he said to you. “You seem so satisfied with your work now—”

“I am very satisfied!” you cut in. “Perfectly fine, even. Marriage has escaped all priority—”

“Nonsense, Yn, you are a fine, young woman with many assets,” the Queen countered as she waved toward you. (She was undoubtedly attempting to be supportive, but you would have really preferred that everyone forgot that you could be married off at all.) “Any man would be lucky to have your hand in marriage.”

“Madam, truly, I am grateful for your praise, but…” Instinctively, your eyes went to Seonghwa for help, but found that he was only staring at you with this look in his eyes that you couldn't decipher just then. It seemed that perhaps he was lost in thought, or that you had a piece of dust or pollen on your face; you did not know why it stirred something in your chest.

The King circled the tines of his fork in the air as he pondered aloud: “The social events would be a wonderful opportunity to meet suitors. They would be traveling from all reaches of the continent. There will be dozens of them to choose from.”

“Yes!” the Queen practically squealed in excitement. “A fine idea, indeed. There will be no shortage of bachelors that will suit your fancy, my darling.”

“Ah, of course,” you trailed off awkwardly. You couldn't simply refuse the King and Queen here and now. They both appeared far too excited at the prospect of your marriage.

“Mother, Father,” said Seonghwa as he broke out of his daze, “Yn already has so much on her plate. Finding a husband would be the least of her worries.”

Thank you.

“Instead, I believe we should be ensuring she has every event night off, so she is able to fully attend the ball being hosted.”

What?

Pure betrayal made your eyes narrow at your friend as he avoided your glare and feigned innocence. Why you… he knew you far too well. How dare he prevent you from locking yourself away in your study for hours to avoid society! Not to mention, if the monarchs dismissed you from your responsibilities, you had to ensure you were outfitted with the proper attire to attend each event.

You did loathe your friend's quick thinking at times.

The Queen, as expected, nodded vigorously in agreement. “I thought that would be a given,” she gasped. “I am glad you brought this to our attention, love. It would be preposterous for Yn to work on a ball night.”

You smeared on your best smile, promising to get him back for this later. Or perhaps, this was already a debt being paid after you shooed him from your office when Lila delivered the list to you weeks ago. “Of course, Your Majesty. Thank you most kindly for your generosity.”

Nearly two hours hence, you sat in the parlor room of the prince's wing located on the north end of the palace. The room was covered in a variation of a blue that sparkled from every angle. From the walls swallowed in a deep sapphire, to the chandelier fixtures glittering with pale crystals, it was a glorious, life-sized jewel box—and it sheltered within its walls Aurelia's greatest treasure.

Prince Seonghwa was not currently in the same chamber as you were. It would be rather improper if you watched him be fitted into each suit; instead, he would be helped into each garment by the tailor and pinned up for hemming in the next-door chamber, then ferried out into your seating area for any lingering comments and opinions. You were, after all, his advisor in everything.

You had a positive opinion of most so far, but Seonghwa had some doubts about a few of them. Any he disliked were quickly dismissed, and you did not mourn too much.

“I hope you fancy pirates,” you heard him call through the crack in the door.

Your facial features scrunched up as your feather quill halted in your hand. “Pirates?” you parroted in mild disbelief. “Whatever could that mean?”

A laugh filtered through the room, and you couldn't quite decide if it was impish or sheepish. “You'll see…”

Those words did nothing to aid in your confusion or concern. There was no masquerade or costume ball planned, even outside of the social activities you were organizing. Pirates were something out of a storybook, something of a caricature! Certainly not fit for a prince's…

The thought dissipated from your mind as the prince stepped out into the parlor without warning.

“Ah.” So this was what he meant by pirates.

Standing before you was not your prince, but a man taken straight from a romance novel you'd seen Lila indulging in once or twice. Seonghwa was dressed in a luxurious, white tunic that seemed to be missing its buttons, leaving almost nothing of his chest to the imagination. A long navy blue coat was draped upon his shoulders, embroidered in intricate floral details from the collar down to the hem that swept his shins.

Your breath had left your lungs, but the heat did not shy from your face.

“It is certainly…” you began, truly not knowing how to continue.

Why did your heart seem to gallop? It was merely a little skin, and you had grown up observing his topless swordsmanship practices with the other topless guardsmen. Surely, you must have acquired a fever.

He opened his arms in a vague gesture, his face rather unreadable. (Perchance, it was you who did not want to look him in the eyes or his face.) “You seem flustered, my lady.”

“Oh, ‘tis nothing really,” you said, unconsciously fanning your neck. “It is only a little warm.”

“Shall I open a window?”

The tailor, who you'd forgotten was even in the room, hurried about to open up a window.

“No!” you exclaimed, shocking yourself. You coughed, amending calmly, “I am perfectly fine. This garment does not seem to fit any occasion the palace will be hosting, Your Royal Highness.”

The tailor appeared near the arm of your settee with a nervous smile. “Oh, but Lady Yn! Do you not think the young prince looks dashing? Dare I say, swashbuckling?”

You heard a small snort, and glanced up to find that Seonghwa had turned away and covered his mouth with a fist. You could still spot the corner of his upturned lip, however.

“It's rather roguish,” you stated while busying your hands by adjusting your skirts around you and avoiding eye contact.

“Roguish!”

“Like a rake,” you continued airily.

This time, it was Seonghwa's interjection: “A rake?” The lapels of his grand coat were swept back slightly so he could place his hands on his hips. The action only emphasized his trimmed waistline. (Dear heavens. Would the tailor mind opening the window at this moment?) He tilted his head at you. “Come now, my lady. It does not suit your fancy?”

You could have choked. “Whyever would it need to suit my fancy?”

“Haven't I always valued your opinion?” he asked innocently.

Certainly, you thought to yourself with a sardonic smile. And… “Certainly, Your Royal Highness,” you voiced aloud still. “And it is my very valued opinion that this is a costume better fit for another occasion. If you fancy it so much, I will not stop you from keeping it.”

Seonghwa considered you for a longer moment as you lowered your head and pretended to return to the document that laid in your lap.

For several heartbeats (because that damned organ continued to blast its way through your ribcage), you believed he would stare at you until you looked back. Then, with a loud sigh, he said, “Mr. Lee, the next garment, if you please.”

“Yes, of course! Right this way, sire—”

When you were certain that glorious coat had left the room in all of its fabric and gold trim, you finally exhaled the tension from your body. That entire interaction had you sitting on pins and needles. It was as if he desired to coax a reaction from you, as if he desired to pick apart the expression on your face and raise it against the foolish words coming out of your mouth.

You could not fathom it. What had at first been a comfortable session—something no less foreign to you than any other moment spent by that man's side—had suddenly become unfamiliar territory. Where had those thoughts intruded from? How ghastly for you to think of your closest companion in such a manner!

From the neighboring room, your friend called upon you once more. “Yn, I do say, Mr. Lee's wife makes lovely dresses for the ladies in court.”

A rather eager reply came first from Mr. Lee himself. “Oh yes!” he chimed in. “My wife is the foremost authority on the trends throughout the continent, Your Royal Highness. Should your lady companion require garments—”

“That would not be necessary,” you interrupted. “It is very much appreciated, but—”

“The lady is too humble, Mr. Lee, you must understand.”

All of a sudden, Seonghwa's head of dark hair poked out of his dressing chamber, leaving slivers of toned shoulders and arms out in plain view. He shot a pointed scowl at you that said everything he needed to say, then ducked back into the other room.

You sat dumbfounded. Were you to laugh or swoon?

“I will personally commission a set of one-of-a-kind dresses for Lady Yn,” Seonghwa finished.

You finally managed to dig out your voice from where it hid behind your rapidly-beating heart. “I have no time—”

“I will have a palace seamstress take your measurements and send them to the tailor,” he quipped back as if he had already thought of everything. “You need not worry about a thing, my lady.” You will not be getting out of this, he seemed to say.

When Prince Seonghwa set his sights upon something, he would do nothing else until he acquired it. Most of the time, you admired that pure ambition and determination within him; other moments, you wished to throttle him. It would be safe to assume this situation was the latter.

You said nothing else, stewing in your petty acceptance.

It did not occur to you until later that night—when your mind was still plagued by the striking image of that sliver of exposed, carved chest and shoulders—that he likely timed the pirate costume fitting to occur right before he commissioned your dresses.

What a scoundrel.

Thanks to the official, temporary dismissal of your services by the monarchs, you were not one of the panicking blurs of energy bolting about the palace on this fine morning. Instead, you were stationed beside your charge's desk in the grand study of the prince's wing.

Despite today being the designated arrival time for almost every invited party, there was still much on Prince Seonghwa's personal agenda besides greeting those very guests.

“My lady, if you'd please summarize the document rather than have me read it,” Seonghwa begged for the thousandth time within the hour. His dark strands of hair were clutched between his fingers, temples resting against the heels of his palms as he attempted to keep the lines of ink before him clear in his vision. “Any other day I would gladly settle in for several hours—you know I would! But my mind is simply out of these walls.”

You pressed your lips together thoughtfully, sympathetic to his plight. If the festivities for your official courtship began today, you supposed you wouldn't be able to think of anything else either. All of that nervous energy was balling up inside him akin to pressure within a tea kettle. “These documents can wait for another couple of days,” you finally said, slipping your hand beneath his elbows to slide the documents off the desk. “We've gone through anything urgent. That is all, I promise.”

A contented sigh loosened from his lips as he slumped back in his chair with a posture unbecoming of the heir to the throne.

But the sight made you grin nonetheless.

Seonghwa peaked one eye open at you, and he couldn't help but let his lips pull into a smile mirroring yours. “What has you so cheery?” he asked, still draped over the back of his chair. The delicate rays of morning sunshine streamed through the window behind him, dancing across the sculpted lines of his face.

You cleared your throat and glanced away, moving instead to tidy the documents to the side for another day. “I just remembered,” you said, “that the party from Halazine will be arriving today.”

There was a flicker across his face, one that was gone as swiftly as it came. Seonghwa closed his eyes again, his smile softening. “Ah,” he said with a deep breath in, “Prince Yeosang and his Princess, yes.”

“And the Count—”

“The Count,” Seonghwa drawled.

Your lips curled upward mischievously. “Do not act so unenthused, Your Royal Highness,” you teased. “I am delighted to see Wooyoung once again. It has been a long winter.”

He straightened in his chair with a sigh. “I'm certain he feels the same. Are you not more excited to see the princess, though? Last I heard, you were still exchanging private correspondence with her.”

Princess Selene and Prince Yeosang of the kingdom of Halazine celebrated their nuptials nearly a year ago. From your understanding and from the stories that everyone (including the prince and princess themselves) had told you, it was something pulled straight from a fairytale. Some people were fortunate to meet their soulmates in this lifetime, and Selene and Yeosang were two of them. When you and Seonghwa attended the wedding ceremony last year, you had grown quite close to Selene, and the two of you agreed to keep in touch through occasional letters. To finally be reunited with a woman who you considered a good friend was something that brought a smile to your face.

In fact, everyone from Halazine was a person you looked forward to meeting once again. Aurelia and Halazine were old friends.

“I am,” you confirmed, leaning your hip against the edge of the desk and gazing out of the window toward the gardens below. “I can hardly wait until the reception arrives.”

With all of this discussion about old friends, you had nearly forgotten what the true reason for everyone’s gathering was. While you were allowed some respite from your official duties when an event was underway, you could not forget that there was a very important list embedded within your brain—the very young women whom you were to introduce to your prince. This was your responsibility.

Your mood must have grown visibly solemn, because Seonghwa tilted his head as he considered you. “Mourning your desk already?” he asked with a soft chuckle, the jest meant to comfort you but also prompt anything you wished to say in confidence.

“Not yet,” you played along. You dashed away the mental list you stowed away for the time being. “I was only thinking I should like to go through the dresses you ordered right away to decide which to wear for the opening banquet.”

At this, Seonghwa straightened, eyes almost falling out of his head. “You haven’t decided?” he asked with a furrow between his brows. “That isn’t entirely like you, my lady. Were they not delivered in a timely manner?”

You shook your head. “No, they were,” you assured him with a wave of your hand. You did not want to admit that there was a part of you who was anxious to see the exact designs Seonghwa had decided upon. Furthermore, the opening banquet was not until tomorrow evening, officially, so there was still time to spare. “Time simply escaped me. There is nothing to worry about.”

“Then we shall go now and decide,” he declared while standing from his seat with a grin. “I, for one, am eager to see the fruit of Mrs. Lee’s labor.”

Your eyebrows lifted at his excitement. “I’m afraid I had plans to do it alone and later this evening when we do not have guests to greet.”

“You said ‘right away—’”

“Not literally speaking, of course,” you amended with an impish smile.

Seonghwa’s expression flattened into a deadpan one you had seen dozens of times before. “Devious,” he muttered, then reached over to flick the space between your brows.

“Oy!” you yelped, rubbing that place furiously through a wrinkle-nosed glare. “You should consider yourself fortunate that we do not have a chaperone!”

He shot you a smug, little smirk as he slipped past you to walk toward the door of his study. “Rich, considering we haven’t had a chaperone since sixteen. No one to tattle to, hm, Lady Yn?”

“‘Tattle,’” you grumbled under your breath, simultaneously wondering how one’s finger could possibly have so much recoil to make your forehead smart this much. As you followed after him toward the pair of doors that led out into the corridor, you continued to press your fingers to the victimized area of your face. “As if I was the tattle-tale out of the two of us.”

When you reached your friend and realized he had yet to move from his spot, open the door, or even say anything, you glanced over at him. To your surprise, his concerned gaze had fallen to your head—the very place he’d flicked in rebuke of your so-called deviousness.

“What—”

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he blurted. “It was only meant in jest, but if it left a mark, I—”

Ah. You lifted your hand from your forehead. “No, I am merely being generous with my melodrama,” you assured him. “See? There is no physical mark; there is only a mark on my wounded pride.”

He frowned. “If it bruises…”

You patted his chest lightly. “Then I shall forward the bill to your desk,” you teased. You assumed a more sincere tone and reiterated, “Truly, I am unharmed, my friend. You’ve flicked my forehead and I have flicked yours, mutually, hundreds of times. Perhaps you forget your strength occasionally, but ‘tis in good fun.”

You wondered why he had suddenly become so concerned.

After a beat had passed, he nodded, mostly to himself. Seonghwa sent you a small smile. “I apologize, I’m unsure what came over me,” he said with a chuckle. He reached for the door, not yet pulling it open and not yet looking away from you. “I would be beside myself if I did something to hurt you.”

The pulse in your neck slowed for a moment—or perhaps, it went by so quickly it skipped a beat—but the door was open now, and he was gesturing for you to exit before he did.

Where is your head? This is neither the time nor place to be mentally absent, you chided yourself as you passed through the doorway and into the corridor. Servants and guards occupied the hallway, most slowing to dip into bows and curtsies at the sight of the prince.

Of course Seonghwa would be beside himself if he hurt you; would you not feel the same if the roles were reversed?

You stole a glance at him as the two of you strode down the corridor side by side. He did not seem to notice, his own eyes far away in thought.

Years of being raised beside him to be his right-hand, his friend, and an anticipator of his needs; yet, you were still unable to read his mind some days. It would be best if you remembered your place and your responsibilities.

Yes, especially with the coming weeks, that would be best.

The glorious and clear tone of trumpet fanfare announced the arrival of the Halazinian reception. The afternoon sun painted the Aurelian landscape a dazzling shade of gold, an apt color to symbolize the formidable and fortuitous friendship between the Aurelian and Halazinian countries. Not to mention, a color that glittered when touching the pale-blond strands of Prince Yeosang's hair.

While the King and Queen were meant to greet every arriving party as they came, you and Seonghwa made special appearances for personal friends. Formal introductions and greetings between the prince and the other foreign receptions would occur during the opening banquet.

You watched with bated breath as Prince Yeosang helped his partner step down from the steps of the gold-plated carriage. Princess Selene's blue-colored hair, a shade of cobalt that complimented the dark shade of her irises, appeared from the opening as she ducked her head and clutched the hem of her skirts in her free hand.

“It is difficult not to shout,” you said to Seonghwa quietly, unable to hide the bright smile on your face.

He glanced over at you with a knowing look on his face. “Difficult is an understatement; decorum be damned, truly.”

You were inclined to agree despite all of the schooling and etiquette drilled into your head.

Both you and Seonghwa lifted your hands in eager waves as the Halazinian prince and princess made their way across the threshold of the reception hall with the giddy likeness of a pair of youth in the gardens.

Decorum be damned. The Aurelians and Halazinians met in the middle, and the first thing you did was wrap Selene in a tight embrace.

“It’s wonderful to finally see you again,” you said to her warmly.

Selene reciprocated your gesture in full as the princes greeted one another with just as much mirth and delight. “'Tis wonderful to see you again, as well!” She pulled back and clutched your hands in hers. “Aurelia is so lovely—I was telling Yeosang in the carriage ride over that we must return to see Aurelia in all four seasons.”

Yeosang's fond chuckle met your ears as he heard this and he leaned over to place a hand around Selene's waist. “Yes, and I wholeheartedly agreed,” he said. To you, he nodded with a wide grin. “It has been far too long, Lady Yn. You look exceptionally well.”

“Thank you, and so do you, Your Royal Highness,” you replied back in earnest.

“If you both are sincere about taking more frequent holidays here in Aurelia,” Seonghwa chimed in, “the royal summer house is always open to good friends.”

Selene and Yeosang both dipped their heads in thanks. The heads of the Halazinian party excused themselves to greet the sitting monarchs of Aurelia, leaving you and Seonghwa to gaze out the doors of the reception hall once more. There was one more member of the traveling party whom you were expecting, after all.

His carriage rolled in shortly after. The door eased open with the toe of his boot, and out emerged Count Wooyoung of Halazine. Except, rather than the onyx head of hair you were expecting, his hair was now dyed a deep crimson.

The young Count turned his head and a wide, wolfish grin spread over his face at the sight of you and Seonghwa. “Well, if it isn't our bachelor of the hour?” he laughed as he strode down the walkway toward you with his arms spread wide.

Seonghwa let out a fond, but exasperated sigh as he walked forth to clasp Wooyoung's hand in his, the two sharing a brotherly hug. “Never one to beat around the bush, are you, Wooyoung?”

“Never,” he confirmed with a snicker. His eyes flitted over to you, the smile on his face widening still. “Ah, and the most reliable woman in all of Aurelia” —he leaned over and delivered a pair of quick kisses to both of your cheeks before holding you by the shoulders— “radiant as always, Lady Yn.”

No matter how many times Count Wooyoung greeted you in such a way, you would never grow accustomed to it. You laughed nonetheless. “I would hope so,” you mused. “The red becomes you, Wooyoung.”

“I am so touched you noticed! I spent a fortune ensuring the process was done properly.”

Seonghwa sidled up beside you, arm grazing yours. “I do agree with the lady; it is striking but handsome.”

Wooyoung clapped his hands. “Yah, I adore you both. I—”

His sentence was cut off as his eyes went somewhere over your shoulder toward where Yeosang and Selene had gone. “That is my cue,” he said with a hiss, shaking his head. “But we will all dine together tonight, yes? An intimate affair? No pomp and circumstance?”

You nodded. “But of course. You will be sent for this evening, not to worry.”

“I will be awaiting your summons then,” he said before saluting you both goodbye and heading off in the direction of his sovereigns.

With Wooyoung making up the last of the Halazinian reception, and with there being no more expected arrivals for a few more hours, you and Seonghwa turned to exit the reception hall. While awaiting your next group of friends from Paradyne, you would find solace in your study for the time being.

“Well,” you said with a slight laugh as you and Seonghwa stole away into the quieter corridors within the palace proper, “what a jovial time already, and we've hardly begun.”

He hummed a sound in agreement. “Yes, quite. I do believe having such close companions by my side will make this experience far less daunting.”

“I am glad then.”

You and Seonghwa turned to each other at once with a shared smile. (There went that traitorous organ in your chest again.)

Seonghwa opened his mouth, but it looked as if he was hesitating. At last, he said, “I am glad you are here, as well.”

You could only smile. “Where else would I be?”

Later that evening, after the excitement of arriving foreign royalties settled into the serenity of the Aurelian spring night, you and Princess Selene sat together in the quiet of your private chambers. Only two hours ago had you been dining with the others: Prince Seonghwa, Prince Yeosang, Count Jung, along with the sons of Duke Choi, and nobility from Paradyne—Marquis Jeong Yunho and Count Song Mingi.

At one point or another, the merriment had to end—tomorrow was the official start to the social festivities, and you had yet to select your opening banquet dress.

“Prince Seonghwa has a stunningly good eye,” marveled Selene as she lounged upon the settee just behind you in the mirror's reflection.

Your handmaiden, Arin, helped you into a garment of sapphire blue tulle and gossamer that shimmered with microscopic crystal beads embedded within the fabric skirts. You posted your lips as you considered the gown in the mirror. “He's always had good taste,” you agreed, “though, is this not… too gaudy for the opening banquet?”

Selene's brows crossed. “Gaudy?” she parroted as she swept a lock of hair over her shoulder and shifted her posture. “How so? You look beautiful in it.”

“The opening banquet is one meal and dessert—it will be a rather intimate affair compared to the ball at the end of the week,” you explained. “Furthermore, I am not the focal point of the event, nor am I one of the ladies who are attempting to catch the prince's eye.”

Arin gently draped the accompanying swath of fabric over your shoulders that acted as a stole. “But my lady,” she chimed in as she took a step back to take in your appearance as a whole, “are you not there to look for a husband as well?”

“Arin, thank you for reminding our dearest Lady Yn,” Selene said with a teasing smile. “Yes, though you are not there for Prince Seonghwa, you are there for yourself, my friend. Look your best. If you outshine the other ladies, that is not any fault of yours.”

You absentmindedly rubbed the fabric of the skirt between your fingers. It seemed to slip between them as finely as a cascade of water. “It is rather nice.”

“Well, yes.”

Arin stepped over to the rack of clothing and began sifting through the options hanging there. “I did enjoy the look of the lavender-colored garment, madam.”

“The dark embroidered vest with the half-cape was gorgeous!” Selene added, her fingers snapping together at the thought.

“I do say that a half-cape and a less dramatic waistline could fit your needs for the opening ball, my lady,” Arin articulated before producing another garment from the array.

It was a dark plum-dyed cotton like the shade of a mashed blackberry, with the skirt a modest A-line silhouette; its top was a bustier outfitted with a pair of matching plum sleeves, the shoulders slightly elevated with an elegant puff. Arin paired it with the black velvet embroidered vest you had been fitted for earlier this evening, followed by one of the half-coats delivered to your chambers with the rest of the dresses. The onyx fabric complimented the plum of the dress and matched the black of the vest, and would pin to one shoulder with pure silver findings.

“I'd look as if I were off to battle,” you mused, one hand lifted up to cover the smile on your mouth. You could not hide your elation and admiration of Arin's quick thinking.

Selene inhaled sharply, the sound melting into a giggle. “Oh, but Yn, it's quite darling. It's scholarly still, humble—it’s regal, elegant, perfect.”

Arin beamed with pride. “You will be just as busy with suitors as the prince is,” she declared.

The corners of your smile waned, but not noticeably enough for either of your companions to catch. “Goodness, enough about suitors,” you chuckled. “If it were not for the prince, I would not be worried about searching for suitors. My father had forgotten about my being husbandless entirely!”

Whilst Arin helped you out of the dress you were in, you met Selene's curious eyes from the mirror's reflection.

“How so? I mean, how is the prince to blame?”

You sighed, the sound a familiar and fond exasperation for your closest friend. “We were dining with my father and his mother and father, and the Queen had mentioned something about my hand in marriage. And Seonghwa—the audacity! He had the audacity to remind her to dismiss me from my official duties conducting the social events, so that I may socialize.”

Selene snorted out a laugh that was promptly suppressed by a hand over her mouth, but you could still see the upturned curve of her eyes. “What poetic justice,” she mused.

“Whatever do you mean by that?” you queried and stepped out of the dress, then reached for your nightgown. Arin disappeared to prepare all of the pieces for tomorrow's event.

“My dear friend, you are orchestrating his courtship and matchmaking; so ultimately, he would take his revenge by ensuring you got your just deserts.”

The thought had occurred to you, and you were devastated to hear it from somebody else. Selene had practically confirmed it for you.

At the sight of your discontent, Selene draped her body over the settee once more, a soft smile on her face. “You may see this as some ill-conceived hand of fate, but it is rather charming that two close friends such as yourselves are entering society together. When I first met you both at the wedding, I did at once believe…” Her voice trailed off.

Your head raised to glance at her through the mirror again, your hands reaching behind your back to tie the ribbons of your nightgown. “Hm? Did you say something at the end, Selene?”

She blinked, and in that moment, her mannerism reminded you greatly of her lover. “Oh! No, no, no… it was a silly thought.”

“Come now—I’m always eager to hear a friend's first impression of me,” you said good naturedly. You stood straight after tugging the last knot into place, hands straightening any rumpled pieces of fabric.

“Well,” Selene drawled, absentmindedly drawing circles onto the settee with her finger, “I thought you and the prince were as Yeosang and I are to one another.”

Oh.

Your hands stilled for a fraction of a second. “I see,” you stammered, a laugh that sounded a little too convincing coloring the air. “Yes, a silly thought indeed.”

The evening of the opening banquet found you in the one place you shouldn’t have been. Your study was a vacuum of quiet as your eyes flew over the lines of ink scrawled over the page, the nib of your quill leading the dash. This morning, a bundle of amended legal documents had arrived that needed to be read-over, before being signed and sealed as soon as possible. These were not related to managing the social events, thus, no one could deny you this moment of lapsed self-control.

There came a knock on the door, and you barely lifted your head as you granted them entrance. “Your Royal Highness, if that is you, I dare say you will be late to your own party.”

You heard the sound of wood sliding across wood, then a voice that was certainly not the prince’s: “Daughter mine, you truly are.” Your father’s warm chuckle met your ears, and you looked up this time. There he stood in the entryway of your study, eyes upturned as he smiled at the state of you and this space. A pair of heads peered in through the door just behind him—Ms. Lila, and another one of your staff members, Mr. Theodore.

“Father, a welcomed surprise,” you said sheepishly, “I’m afraid you’ve caught me in a moment of weakness.”

He stepped inside, eyes roving over the titles lined in the bookshelves to his right. “Trust me, my dear, I understand completely. Do not worry though; the prince and the monarchs are well on their way to the evening’s affair, which is why I thought to determine the whereabouts of my own daughter.”

You scribbled your initials in the bottom corner of the document to indicate to your future self that you had proofread its contents, then returned your quill to its rightful stand. “There was no need to come looking for me; I would have been on my way posthaste,” you said, stepping around the desk.

Ms. Lila scurried into the room with a familiar length of fabric draped over her arm and you turned your body to make it easier for her to clip the half-cape over your shoulders.

“Thank you,” you murmured to her. “I suppose you and Theodore are responsible for my father knowing where to find me?”

“Yes, my lady, but he is here to escort you to dinner,” Ms. Lila replied brightly. “Theodore and I will be on our way to our staff’s meal once we have you on your way.”

A small laugh flew from your mouth, and you said, “Ah, I see I’ve been ambushed. No doubt that this is Prince Seonghwa’s doing.”

“Guilty,” Mr. Theodore chimed in from the doorway. He had a boyish smile on his face as he confirmed your suspicions.

You sighed. “Then we all ought to be on our way.”

Your father offered you his arm, and you linked yours with the crook of his. The four of you left the comforting walls of your office and into the dimly-lit corridor. By this time, the sun had already set, and nightfall painted the hallways of the palace a romantic shade of cobalt akin to Selene’s locks.

As similar as you and your father were, you both engaged in soft-spoken discussion about the documents you were only just going over. Ms. Lila and Mr. Theodore had departed from your walking party several hallways back, yet you hardly noticed while in active conversation. At some point, the doors to the banquet hall loomed in the foreground, and every so often, a stream of warm light would filter out into the corridor as each party was let in and announced.

Prince Seonghwa and his parents were to enter in from another set of doors once everyone was already seated.

You and your father joined the small queue that had formed of those waiting to go in. Your father murmured under his breath to you, “I imagine your charge has been properly educated on who his prospective matches are?”

You nodded. “Of course, Father,” you said, “he’s an excellent study, you know.” Sometime between the chaos of late-arriving legal packets and preparing for the festivities, you and Seonghwa found moments to learn and review the names and backgrounds of the shortlist of women who you’d invited for the express purpose of being possible matches for your prince. In the beginning, he’d been reluctant—as anyone would be when one’s hand was forced—but he eventually shifted his mindset and committed everything to memory.

There had never been any doubt in your mind that he wasn’t capable of memorizing all that you coached him on. You simply understood that this was not exactly his choice. You only hoped you had selected women who would match with him well, not just for politics’ sake, but on a personal level, as well. He deserved to find a genuine connection.

When it was yours and your father’s turn to make your entrance, the doors opened and you braced yourself for the swarm of bright lights and eyes. A smile curled onto your face like instinct, eyes too overwhelmed to recognize anyone at the moment.

“Presenting: the Royal Advisors Lord Ln and his daughter, Lady Yn!”

You and your father moved out of the entryway and straight into the crowd. “So much for an intimate affair,” your father muttered in jest to you as his shoulder was knocked from the left and you narrowly missed someone’s layers of skirts to the right.

A small chuckle loosened from your lips and, as your senses finally became attuned to all of the stimulus present, you were able to scan your immediate surroundings for familiar faces. “Intimate describes the room, not the crowd of people,” you mused. “There was no other way to describe such an event that lacked the pomp and circumstance of a formal ball, but still hosted nearly half the royalty on this continent.”

“Fair enough,” he chortled. His head perked up before he shrunk down. If he were a dog, his ears would have tucked in flat against his head. “Ah, and there is the Secretary of the Treasury whom I have been dodging for two weeks straight. Darling, let us make a sharp turn—”

You lifted your hand to your lips as you laughed. “Old habits die hard, don’t they?”

“Truly.” He steered the pair of you toward the right side of the room, furthest from the small quartet that provided soft music for the guests to listen to as arrivals continued on. “You did a lovely job, by the way.”

“Thank you. Though, I only did the initial ordering and plans,” you said, still on the prowl for where any of your companions were. “The rest were done by my staff and the other royal household staff members.”

He hummed in agreement. “I see—be that as it may, you had a large hand in all of this. Now, you can focus your energy toward socializing and perhaps, using the dowry your mother and I have had saved for you.”

If you were not in a public setting, you might have thrown your head back with a childish groan. “Father,” you replied with a slight deadpan, “finding a suitable husband should be the last thing on either of our minds. Can we not return to our earlier conversation about legal matters?”

Your father chuckled, patting your arm. “Do humor me, my dear—what would you like to see in a husband? I will try to be of service to you. I understand that you are busy, as am I, but you deserve to find a partner you fancy.”

“A partner I fancy?” you repeated in amusement. Well, if you were going to be pushed to do some searching, you were a little grateful that your father was not forcing some random, old man onto you. “Someone I tolerate… god forbid, love,” you mused cynically. You were quiet for a moment, then added, “Someone who makes me feel as in love as you and Mama.”

“Ah,” your father said lowly, a small, amorous smile flitting onto his face. His eyes were far away now, when you glanced over at him. Even after the decade and a half since your mother passed, there was no other in the world for your father. “Your mother and I… that was a serendipitous case, a bit of luck that our ships happened to pass and say hello.”

You ducked your head, lips curling upward at the memory of her. “Yes, well—if luck won’t serve me, then perhaps I can go by their traits. They would have to be someone who I can respect and who respects me in return; who understands my need to work, but knows how to call me home, so to speak.”

He nodded. “Hm, yes. He must be in good standing, as well, my dear, we cannot forget that. I would prefer if he was a gentleman from Aurelia.”

“I suppose I can understand that,” you replied.

You hadn’t ever given much thought to leaving Aurelia, as serving this country and its crown had been central to your entire life. Leaving this country would not only mean leaving your father to his lonesome, but also leaving the people you considered close enough to be family. An image of Prince Seonghwa flashed in your mind, and you realized that it would be too difficult to leave.

But, your inner thoughts interjected, what if it was a person you connected with unquestionably? You doubted any man was worth leaving all that you knew for, but suppose he courted you with the utmost passion and sincerity? Suppose he was a suitor so objectively perfect for you that even your conscience felt it would be foolish to refuse him?

A silly thought really, for, what man on Earth could possibly convince you of—

“Lord Ln and Lady Yn, please excuse my interruption.”

Both you and your father reacted similarly at the entrance of a newcomer, turning about to locate them. You were met by a man in a fully dark suit, embellished artfully with stones that glittered with every color of the rainbow. It was neither gaudy nor excessive, only tasteful, complimenting the brooch pinned to his lapel studded with large gems only out of one’s wildest dreams. His hair was a black that matched the shade of his attire, but his smile was as brilliant and beautiful as the gemstones upon him.

His eyes met yours first, and he bent at the waist in a short bow. “Grand Duke Kim Hongjoong of Guerisle,” he introduced himself.

The name lit a spark in your head with recognition while you and your father curtsied and bowed, respectively. This was the young Grand Duke? Guerisle was a small country recently liberated from Adrena, a larger kingdom whom Aurelia did not share amicable relations with. When the citizens of Guerisle only a few generations ago rose up in revolt against the Adrenian despot, Aurelia was one of the first nations to back the people of Guerisle. Not long ago, you heard tell that the Grand Duke who ruled Guerisle recently passed, and his only son and heir inherited the title and responsibilities.

(Never did you think that a man as handsome as this would appear when you invited the Grand Duke to the social festivities.)

Your father was the first to offer his hand to the Grand Duke, the two of them shaking each other’s hands in polite greeting. “A pleasure, Your Grace. Marvelous at last to make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Hongjoong replied warmly, then turned to you.

You extended your hand out afterwards, fully expecting to shake his hand, as well—only to be met with the lightest kiss to the back of your gloved knuckles. To hide your surprise, you said to him, “I’ve heard many lovely things about Guerisle, Your Grace. Thank you for making the journey here. I do hope your accommodations were satisfactory.”

He nodded. “Your staff have been more than generous,” he assured you. “Aurelia is a beautiful place; I have long since dreamed of visiting your famed landscapes and landmarks. My mother and father used to tell me bedtime stories about the cherry blossoms that bloom in the spring.”

“Oh, is that so?” you remarked, thrilled at his words of praise for your home. “Yes, the cherry blossoms are a wonder to behold in person, but while they have yet to bloom, you must take a turn about the palace gardens while you are here. The marigolds and daffodils are simply unmeasurably stunning.”

“I will certainly make time to do so,” he promised, taking a step closer to avoid a group of people moving behind him. The lessening proximity made it easier to see the subtle details of his face, the way his mouth pulled into a charming, yet simultaneously cheeky smile. “Though, I might need someone familiar with the palace to escort me there. I nearly did not make it here, let alone the palace gardens,” he chuckled.

You heard an unsubtle cough from your side as your father patted your arm. “I believe I see Lord Chung over there, my dear. I shall take my leave now.” He nodded to the Grand Duke. “Have a wonderful stay in Aurelia, Your Grace.”

“Thank you,” Hongjoong replied graciously.

You didn’t need your father’s conspicuous nudge to know what the Grand Duke had suggested. You could read between the lines, and he need not announce his exit in such a dramatic fashion. “My father is something else,” you murmured with a small laugh, tucking a strand of hair out of your face sheepishly.

“He seems like a wise and sensible man,” your counterpart said, arms tucking behind his back as he followed your gaze as you watched your father disappear into the crowd. “He is the Aurelian King and Queen’s royal advisor, is he not?”

You bobbed your head, returning your focus to him. “He is, and he has been for the past forty or so years.”

Hongjoong’s eyebrows lifted. “He has an impressive work ethic. I suppose it must run in the family then, my lady, if you are the prince’s advisor.”

“You would also be correct,” you replied with a humble ducking of your head. “I am, unfortunately, quite married to my work, as some might say. If it were not for the crown dismissing me from my duties tonight, I would be locked away in my study.”

The Grand Duke laughed, and the sound seemed to spread a warmth in your chest. “That is something we have in common,” he said. “If it were not for my mother, I would not have left my office at all after my father passed away. I understand the urge to bury oneself in one’s work—is it not my purpose and passion?”

A moment lapsed when you could only consider the soft, yet unmistakable earnesty in his face. He had put your thoughts into words and spoke them aloud into the world. What witchcraft.

“I could not have said it better myself.”

You and the Grand Duke shared a smile.

“Please welcome the glorious sun, the iridescent moon, and the shining star of Aurelia!”

The moment broke apart as your attention whipped over in the direction of the incoming royalty. You watched as the King, Queen, and Prince Seonghwa stood at their personal entrance on the opposite side of the room, their hands lifted in matching, elegant waves. As customary, every person in the room dipped into a bow or curtsy to officially greet their hosts for the next month.

A grin split your face as Seonghwa managed to find you within the crowd, his smile curling up further into his cheeks at the sight of you.

As the reigning monarchs of Aurelia took their seats at the head table, the room began to move all at once to find their place.

“My lady, allow me to escort you to your seat,” said the Grand Duke as he offered you his elbow.

You placed your hand upon the crook of his elbow. “You are very kind, Your Grace.”

When you had been organizing the seating arrangements, you had, of course, refrained from exhibiting too much bias. Your father was seated with officials of his ranking, some friends and some foes; the bachelorettes placed amongst friendly nobility and their families—but you would be remiss if you didn’t put yourself with your own companions.

Though, as Kim Hongjoong escorted you to your empty seat, you couldn’t help but regret putting the young Grand Duke with anyone but yourself and your friends. It would be improper for you to perform a last minute switch, especially when you were now only a guest of the banquet, and not the primary point of contact.

Your friends lit up at the sight of you—then unsubtly reacted to your arm being connected to a man’s… who was not any of them, nor your princely charge.

You sent the table a pointed look as Hongjoong acknowledged the table before he pulled out your chair. “Thank you, Your Grace,” you murmured to him.

“I shall take my leave before I become the last person standing,” he joked. He greeted the members of your party with a nod and polite wave, then departed.

The governor of Guerisle was not even out of earshot before Wooyoung, from across the rectangular table, gasped, “Your Grace?”

You shot him a harder look, only to be met with his giddy grin. “He is the Grand Duke of Guerisle,” you whispered to them.

Count Song Mingi’s expression contorted in awe. “I have never met someone from Guerisle,” he said. “His jacket sparkles with the country’s pride and joy.” He was, of course, mentioning Guerisle’s primary export—gemstones. It was what they were most known for, and why Adrena put up such a fight in their attempt to keep Guerisle as one of their own.

“You mean to tell me,” San chimed in with a grin, motioning to you, “that your first go at socializing in however-long brought you a Grand Duke, my lady?”

“Have some faith in our Yn!” Selene exclaimed with a hand on your shoulder. “I had no doubt that only the best would automatically be drawn to her like a moth to a flame.”

Yeosang leaned forward to remark from the other side of his wife, “Well, is he a good man, Yn?”

You merely shrugged, a reaction that had the table groaning playfully. You could not help the smile you let slip onto your face. “It remains to be seen,” you said honestly. “We have only spoken this once and for only a few moments.” After all, this was only the opening banquet, and it was not as if he expressed his explicit interest in you. But you’d be a fool to believe that there wasn’t something there.

“I feel as if I hardly saw you all evening.”

Once more, you and Prince Seonghwa found yourselves in one another’s company within the walls of your study. Instead of the prince leisurely lounging upon the chaise lounge, he was seated in the armchair across from your desk with one leg crossed over the other, a pair of spectacles sitting low upon the bridge of his nose. He had taken his eyes off of the documents in his hands to look up at you as he spoke.

You lifted the nib of your quill to avoid the ink from bleeding upon the parchment. “I saw you upon the dais,” you remarked lightly. “But I understand your meaning—we did not speak at all unless in passing.” It was rather unfair, considering you were supposed to be the prince’s right-hand. A break from your official duties did not mean you should not have been able to speak with your best and closest friend.

“Yes,” he agreed with a sigh. A soft smile flitted onto his face. “I am not quite sure if I will survive another society event without you by my side. Every conversation seemed to have at least two layers of meaning.” There was a chuckle paired with his statement, but you could tell that it was half-hearted.

You pursed your lips sympathetically. “I will be your steady shadow at the next ball,” you promised. “Your mother and father, and my father, will understand if we tell them that I am assisting in making formal introductions—”

“Wait,” he cut in, uncrossing his legs to lean forward, “I did not mean to say you would have to dedicate your entire evening to me. The ball is yours as much as it is mine in search of suitable matches.”

A name in particular flickered into the forefront of your mind. You set your quill aside and laced your fingers over the desk. “Should you need me…”

“I will not hesitate to call upon you,” he reassured. “I do not need an advisor, my lady, I need my friend with me.”

Ah. Your posture softened, and there was this tender ache in your chest that you attributed to the implication that you were such a grounding figure for him. It was a mutual feeling, but you hoped that, even once he was married, he would not forget your lifetime of friendship. It would be difficult to remain this firm of a figure in his life when he was wed to another woman; the royal court certainly would not make exceptions for you of all people.

“Then your friend you shall have,” you declared, hoping the bittersweetness was not shining through. Was it selfish to wish to be by his side forever when you were the one configuring his match to someone else?

(How cruel.)

Seonghwa was quiet for a beat, then nodded, ducking his head to smile to himself and return to his documents.

The peace and quiet was delicately broken by a knock at the study doors. You and the prince both raised your head, your eyebrows twisting together curiously. None of your staff members should have had any information for you as they were busy with further preparations for the grand ball in two days’ time.

“Yes? Please, come in,” you beckoned and leaned your chin onto your fist.

The door slid open and the face of a guard peered in. “Ma'am, Your Royal Highness—one of the servants have brought something.”

Yours and your counterpart's posture straightened. “Well,” you said, “do let them in.”

The guardsman bowed his head and shifted out of sight, only to be replaced by a servant you had glimpsed a handful of times working mainly in the guest wing of the palace. The young man had a sterling silver tray clutched between his hands, upon which a small, violet-colored box sat. It was tied together with a ribbon bow.

He strode into the room, bowing deeply to the prince but approaching you at the desk. “This for you, my lady,” he said.

“For me?” You gently took the box and inspected its satiny surface. “From who?” Perhaps it was from Selene, or one of the foreign royals and nobility who wished to, god forbid, bribe you—

“It is from Grand Duke Kim of Guerisle, my lady.”

The organ in your chest gave a flutter. “Oh,” was all you could manage as you bit the inside of your cheek to stop from smiling. “I see. Thank you.”

The young man bowed as he departed, slipping out of the room as swiftly as he had appeared. The door was pulled closed after that, leaving the room swallowed in that seemingly unbreakable quiet.

Seonghwa immediately moved closer and his brows creased together. “The Grand Duke of Guerisle? You know one another?”

“Somewhat, we, ah, were acquainted last night,” you said lowly as you set the box on the table and gently pried the ribbon bow free. The loops pulled out of one another like the interlocking mechanisms of a puzzle.

You lifted the top off and peered inside, a breath stealing away from your lungs at the twinkle that gleamed in your eyes from within.

There was a small bauble seated upon a velvet cushion: five blood red stones arranged in the shape of flower petals, the middle studded with a gleaming yellow stone. It was not as large as the face of a coin, but anyone could see what it was.

When you carefully extracted the bauble from its nest, you realized that it was attached to a barrette clip.

“How… adorable,” came Seonghwa's voice as he stared at the item between your fingers. “It is a pretty thing.”

“Yes, it is,” you agreed, though uncertain of what to make of it. Curious indeed.

There was a note tucked between the velvet and the box's inner wall, and you plucked it up to read the loopy scrawl inked there:

Lady Yn, I do apologize for the suddenness of my actions. It seems that I was unable to speak with you again last night after we parted for supper. I wished to ask if you would be willing to show me your lovely palace garden? You were a delight to converse with. Should you be uninterested, I take no offense, but please keep the barrette as a token of my affection and gratitude for being a kind face for a homesick stranger. Yours, K.HJ

You leaned back in your chair and twirled the barrette between your fingers to watch the sunlight dance across the gemstones and refract in rainbows over your skin. It was a small, but beautiful thing.

“So he wishes to court you?” Seonghwa piped up quietly.

You sat up to replace the bauble back into the safety of its box, then slipped the note inside with it. “He,” you began, then paused. “I do not know. He has not made his intentions explicit, but it seems there must be some interest. He wishes to see the palace garden.”

Your friend nodded slowly. “And you?”

“What about me?”

His smile had gone crooked, an awkward yet somehow boyish thing that reminded you of being thirteen and sharing a governess. “What about you, silly? What do you think of him?”

“Oh, I…” You glanced off to the side. The Grand Duke was a handsome man—he had a kindly and mature disposition with no behaviors so far that made you wary. You couldn't deny the part of you that was flattered that he had taken an interest in you, if only for a moment. “I would like to get to know him better. He is—I think I could…”

You could not say the words out loud. Did they not say that if you spoke your wishes aloud, they would never come true?

But Seonghwa was your closest friend. He did not need words to understand the meaning you were trying to convey.

He swallowed, then nodded as he mustered up an encouraging smile. “Then you should take that turn about the garden with him,” he said. “The daffodils and marigolds have bloomed recently and they are more lovely than the sunset. It is the perfect place to—”

He didn't finish the sentence.

You only looked at one another.

You coughed to clear your throat and broke eye contact so you could place the lid back onto the box and tuck it away in your desk. “Yes, well,” you exhaled out, “then I will send him a reply posthaste.”

“Good,” Seonghwa replied, pressing his lips together.

You unconsciously mirrored that expression. “Good.”

There was nothing as refreshing as the wind whistling in one's ears, accompanied by the beating of horse's hooves against the ground and the smell of the outdoors flooding one's lungs. If there was anything that could soothe the errant voices in Prince Seonghwa's head, it was a ride through the acres of woods on the palace grounds.

From several paces behind him, he could hear the sounds of two other horses’ hooves thundering against the dirt pathway.

“How much farther?” called Yunho from the back of the party.

Seonghwa raised a hand and gestured forward. “Give me about a mile more and we will stop! There is a river where the horses can rest nearby!”

Over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of both San and Yunho nodding in agreement before he turned to face ahead once more. He patted his stallion's muscled neck with affection. “Just a mile longer, my friend,” he murmured.

The three men pressed their horses onward—harder, faster—until about another mile was crossed and every horse and their rider was panting for breath. As Seonghwa promised, they stopped to rest and allowed the horses to drink from the stream.

Seonghwa knelt down by the water's edge, while San and Yunho sat up against a nearby tree.

“Wah,” San said as he carded a hand through his hair and leaned his head against the bark. “I felt as if I were running from something just then.”

Yunho huffed out a laugh as he wiped the sweat streaming down the sides of his face. “Yes, that is an apt description of what I experienced,” he chimed in. “Seonghwa, what ghost do you run from, man? What haunts you so?”

Seonghwa flashed them a tired smile from the river bank, his sleeves rolled up his forearms as he rested back on his palms. “Nothing,” he replied, “I only had some tension to loosen.”

“Do social events stress you so much?” San queried with a playful tone.

“No, it is not the events themselves.” He shook his head and some of the strands hung damp in his face with sweat. He tilted his head back, skyward, and closed his eyes.

It was only yesterday that you received that token from the Grand Duke. You had replied to him as you said you would, and supposedly, you and Grand Duke Kim were in the palace garden now. It wasn't that Seonghwa couldn't fathom how you could be sought after so fast; he didn't doubt your magnetism and allure. You were a wonderful young lady and any man would be lucky to call you his partner.

He could not explain the tightening in his chest.

(Rather, he could, but the words could not leave his mouth with dignity. Not here, not when everyone around him expected him to marry a member of another royal family or an upper noble, including you. Was there a world in which all of this was simpler? If he wasn't born into his status, could he freely—)

“Are you alright?”

When Seonghwa opened his eyes, his companions were staring at him with mild concern. “Oh, uhm, yes.” He sat up and rolled the kinks out of his neck. “I was only resting my eyes for a moment.”

“Speaking of the events,” San piped up, hiking his knee upright and against his chest, “Seonghwa, did you hear that the Grand Duke of Guerisle is here in Aurelia?”

Was it possible to feel such dread over a person he had not yet even met? “I have.”

“Did Lady Yn tell you that—”

“He may court her?” Seonghwa interjected.

San and Yunho exchanged a glance. “So she has confided in you?” Yunho asked; it was a rather rhetorical question that could answer itself. “Did she say anything about him? She would not give us an inch at the banquet! We only saw him when he escorted her to her seat.”

Vaguely, Seonghwa recalled seeing a young man escorting you to your seat at the opening banquet from the head table. He'd caught a glimpse of raven-black hair and the glimmer of gemstones, but he had not recognized him. The prince was well aware now, however.

Seonghwa replied with as much nonchalance as he could muster, “She claims he has not explicitly stated that he will court her, but… we both agree that it seems he has some intention to do so.” He marinated on the little bit of information he harbored: that you and this Grand Duke were taking a turn about the palace garden at this moment.

You were promenading together in one of the most picturesque and romantic spaces in the palace. Good lord.

“And you…?” San's voice trailed off with a questioning lilt at the end.

“You are alright with this?” Yunho finished.

Seonghwa felt his shoulders tense. “Why would I not be alright with it?” he chuckled, lips pulling into an awkward smile. “It was I who encouraged her in the first place, and should this Grand Duke be the man she sees herself with in the future, then I” —he made a sweeping gesture with his arm— “have no qualms against it, nor can I do anything to stop her from being happy.”

“How noble,” San murmured with a touched pout.

Seonghwa rose to his feet and dusted his trousers of the grass and dirt. “‘Tis not noble,” he countered. “I am simply supporting my good friend in her endeavors. Wouldn't you do the same?”

San and Yunho followed Seonghwa's lead as they pulled themselves up to their feet and began to step over to where their horses had wandered. San gave a shrug. “I make no argument, my prince, it is only that—perhaps my disbelief stems from your past feelings for the lady.”

The prince stopped in his tracks and was suddenly cursing his past self for ever revealing such a thing, even as a lad. It was the one thing he chose not to disclose to you as his closest confidant. “I was young then,” he dismissed with a small laugh as he adjusted his horse's reins.

“Does that mean they've faded?” Yunho questioned. San had gone further down to draw his horse back to where they already gathered. Yunho led his own stallion toward Seonghwa. “It is alright to harbor those feelings still,” Yunho said with a good-natured smile, nothing teasing or grim in his expression. “What we should be concerned about is how that will affect the machinations of everything happening now and in the future.”

Seonghwa bit his lip. “You have nothing to be concerned about,” he said to his friend with a nod before pulling himself up atop his steed. “I will not ruin this opportunity for her.”

He just caught the way Yunho's brows wrinkled together in worry before Seonghwa was leading his horse down the bank of the river, in the direction of the palace.

Yunho and San were swift to catch up to him, and the three trotted their way together.

The topic of their deepest concerns was no longer the subject of their casual conversation. San mused about perhaps inviting some of the visiting royals and nobility for sparring matches, and Yunho joined in with a comment about how half of them looked as if they did not bother to learn how to hold a blade.

Seonghwa chimed in with his own opinions—in such close company, a prince could speak his mind freely about such matters. As someone who had been raised in the art of battle (for one day, he might find himself thrown into one), he could not fathom how some foreign royals did not teach their own how to fight.

“—Princess Teia expressed recently that she wished to learn how to wield a scabbard,” Yunho said. Teia was the princess of Paradyne who had been invited as one of Prince Seonghwa's prospective matches. Yunho and Mingi seemed to both be well-acquainted with the princess, but neither of them were inclined to bolster her in the eyes of the prince. They would not force their friend's hand.

San hummed. “Hm, is that so? Is she the daughter of your king who enjoyed the outdoors?”

“Yes, right on,” Yunho replied.

Seonghwa nodded. “It is never too late to learn,” he said. “I hope she gets the chance to be taught properly—”

“Is this not the palace gardens?”

Astride his horse, Seonghwa jolted so violently he nearly toppled off completely. He ignored the surprised reactions from his companions, and he lifted his eyes away from the surrounding forestry and to what lied just beyond the edge of the treeline.

Indeed, there was the very place he wished to avoid—the vast grounds of the palace gardens, strewn with carefully-arranged rows and groupings of flowers of every kind. Those that were more native to Aurelian lands grew in abundance outdoors, while more exotic plants were nurtured within the crystalline walls of the glass greenhouse in the distance.

Whatever conscious desire he had to keep his distance was clearly surmounted by his unconscious need to bear witness to your outing with the Grand Duke.

In his periphery, Yunho and San had come to be on either side of him.

San’s eyes twinkled with mischief as he squinted into the distance, his mouth pulled into a boyish grin at the prospect of seeing his old friend socialize with his own eyes. “This must be the hand of cosmic fate,” he reasoned with no less enthusiasm than a child on Winter Solstice. “Shall we say hello?”

“I, for one, am curious to finally meet this Grand Duke properly,” said Yunho. “What say you, Seonghwa?”

Seonghwa considered his friends’ words, and for a moment, his only thought was that he should not intrude. He stared at the small shape of you and Kim Hongjoong in the distance, your bodies strolling rather closely in one another’s orbits.

There was a pang in his chest; he should not intrude.

Approximately one hour ago, you arrived at the palace’s guest wing to meet your promenading partner for the afternoon. The earlier hours of the day had been spent with Selene and Arin debating what one wore to a non-explicit courtship promenade in one of the most romantic places within the palace. You were certain the Grand Duke was not aware that this was the palace garden’s reputation amongst its residents, but it nonetheless inspired much of the conversation that went into your decisions.

The doors to the Grand Duke’s chambers opened almost immediately after your presence was announced to him.

You willed your heart to settle down in its cage, a smile coming to your face as Hongjoong appeared. “Good afternoon, Your Grace.”

His eyes drew up and down your form, snagging on the glint of the flower barrette that was pinned into your hair. A smile bloomed as he stepped forward to bring your hand to his lips. “A good afternoon it is, my lady. Thank you for accompanying me,” he said warmly. He brought your hand down, but your linked fingers lingered there in the liminal space.

“Thank you for the invitation,” you replied in kind. “Shall we?”

Hongjoong offered you his arm, and the pair of you set off.

“Do you frequent the palace garden?” he asked as you walked, his eyes settling on you rather than the grandiosity of the halls around you. You wondered how he could possibly look at you rather than all of the architecture; even after living here your whole life, you could not seem to shake the awe in your heart.

You replied, “When I was younger, certainly. As I’ve become more of a permanent fixture within the prince’s staff, I find that I do not have as much leisure time. ‘Tis not something I mind, however—I rather enjoy my work.”

He hummed, head nodding in acknowledgment. “‘Married to your work,’ so to speak,” he mused, recalling your words from the banquet.

“Precisely,” you said with a laugh. “And you, Your Grace? You mentioned in your note that you were homesick, so please indulge me in all of the wonders of your home. I would love to know.”

There was a light that illuminated his eyes, and if possible, Hongjoong’s face brightened even more. “Are you certain you wish to open Pandora’s Box, Lady Yn?” he asked in jest. “I’m afraid once you have me started on Guerisle, I will not stop.”

You patted his arm with your free hand, a reassurance. “I do not say things I do not mean.”

An electric smile was shared between the two of you, one that zipped through your extremities and to your beating lifeforce. The remainder of the journey to the palace garden was filled with Hongjoong’s riveting verbal illustrations of his homeland—of the majestic mountain ranges that cascaded over the southwestern corner of the country, filled to the brim with mines that glittered with every treasure known to man; to the emerald green acres that spanned the Grand Duchy, overlooking a lake the color of teal topaz in the summertime, that froze to a dreamy shade of opaline-blue in deep winter.

He told you of childhoods spent peering over his father’s shoulder in the quiet of his office space, as well as accompanying his mother on picnics spent reading beneath the shade of old willows. Each tale was more idyllic than the last, each telling you one more thing about the Grand Duke that had your walls tumbling down, one by one.

By the time you reached the palace garden, your cheeks hurt from smiling.

“Your Grace,” you piped up as a guard opened the doors out to the garden and your faces were painted in a wash of golden light, “you must be an artist with the way you have so vividly described your home. I am in absolute envy of this picture I have of Guerisle in my mind.”

Hongjoong sent you a grin, pleased. “In fact, I do dabble in Sketch when I have the free time.”

You scoffed playfully. “Intelligent, chivalric, and with the mind and hands of an artist—I cannot understand it!”

He let out a laugh that was free-spirited and full-chested; it was impossibly infectious. “You flatter me, my lady,” he replied humbly, head ducking. “Though, I do not do my homeland justice—you would have to come visit in person to truly understand its beauty.”

“Is that an invitation?” Your pulse ricocheted against the thin skin of your throat. Why did adrenaline seem to pound so violently through your veins at this moment?

“Is that interest?” he parried. “The halls of the Grand Duchy will always be open to you.”

It was your turn to duck your head in modesty. “I am honored to hear that.”

He chuckled, the two of you coming to a brief halt by the babbling streams of the central fountain. “How could it not be so when you wear our jewels so wonderfully?” His hand lifted up to gently graze the barrette in your hair, then trail down in a silken caress as he tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear.

Oh, how your heart squeezed at this very moment. Your breath held still as your every thought raced about in an attempt to interpret, to anticipate what would come next, what he could possibly say next—because you could not come up with something of your own. Courtship was something so foreign to you that you could not fathom its unpredictability.

Hongjoong considered you warmly, hands holding both of yours with his own. “If I were to be candid, my lady, when I first laid my eyes upon you, I could not believe that no man in all of Aurelia had yet to place his ring upon your finger.”

You could have choked. “A bold statement, Your Grace,” you said with a small laugh as heat swarmed your face. “Perhaps fate had a different story in mind for me.”

“Yes,” he drawled thoughtfully. “Perhaps it did.”

Were you prepared to hear what his next words would be? You weren’t entirely sure. To be faced with something you never thought you would ever confront in your lifetime was something frightening, intimidating. One could not simply be prepared for the unknowable.

“My lady, if you would be so inclined, I would—”

“Well, if it isn’t my good friend, Lady Yn Ln!”

The sudden intervention of another, very familiar voice from across the garden was jarring enough to completely break you out from the intimate moment. Both you and the Grand Duke whirled in the direction of the incoming voices, and you felt your exasperation weigh down in your shoulders as you pinched the place between your eyes.

“I apologize in advance, Your Grace,” you murmured while the figures of San, Yunho, and your very own prince made their way toward you. “My friends are rather… curious creatures.”

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze. “Do not apologize, dear heart. I failed to introduce myself to your companions at the banquet; I welcome the opportunity to amend that.”

You turned to him in disbelief and wonder—how could he think so—

“Hello Lady Yn,” chirped Marquis Jeong Yunho once the three had approached. His smile was far too innocent when you knew he was fully in favor of this act. “And you must be the man we have all wondered about.”

Hongjoong bowed shallowly as he clasped Yunho’s hand with his own. “Grand Duke Kim of Guerisle,” he said. “It is a pleasure.”

“Marquis Jeong of Paradyne,” replied Yunho, before shifting to allow San to introduce himself next.

You made eye contact with Prince Seonghwa from over San and Yunho’s heads, a question in your gaze. The prince smiled in a way that seemed to insinuate both helplessness and guilt, but he nodded backward in the direction they had come from. You counted the horses lingering upon the grass, their heads bowed as they munched on an afternoon snack. Amongst them was Seonghwa’s stallion, Achilles, the close companion to your own steed, Patroclus.

Seonghwa stepped forward at last. “Your Grace—I’ve heard many good things about you and Guerisle,” he said as he shook your counterpart’s hand.

Hongjoong’s bow dipped a little lower. “Greetings to the shining star of Aurelia. Thank you for thinking of Guerisle with your invitations.”

“Of course,” Seonghwa replied with a nod. “Though, that gratitude should be reserved for my la—advisor, Lady Yn.” His eyes flickered over to you briefly. “I apologize for the sudden intrusion. It seemed that on our ride this afternoon, we wandered a little farther from the stables than we intended.”

You sent a pointed look at Yunho and San, who both widened their eyes in indignant surprise, their own gazes turning pointed in the direction of the third member of their party.

“It is no trouble. The lovely Lady Yn was graciously showing me your palace garden.”

“Ah, yes. I was present when Lady Yn received your correspondence.” Seonghwa pursed his lips before letting a polite smile grace his features. He carded a hand through the loose tendrils of hair that had fallen out of their leather tie. “Allow me to also extend my congratulations on your ascendence to the title of Grand Duke, as well as my condolences. I understand that your father was a brilliant man.”

Hongjoong ducked his head in a nod. “Thank you, Your Royal Highness. He certainly was.”

You did not know what about this interaction had your pulse racing. It was perhaps the fact that your worlds were now properly colliding—the man you’d spent your entire life with was meeting the man who was possibly courting you. The epiphany came so suddenly that you struggled to swallow and to keep a straight face. Should Kim Hongjoong court you and successfully steal your heart (not that he wasn’t already succeeding at such a maneuver), it would mean your departure from Aurelia, your home.

Would you be able to part from your friends, your father, or, especially, your prince?

The latter hours of the evening were spent in the quiet confines of your study. There were no urgent matters to attend to; it was more so that your mind raced at such impossible speeds that sleep would be nigh impossible. You yawned as you lifted your third cup of tea to your lips, allowing the floral heat to soothe your mind and body.

A book laid sprawled before you upon the desk, the bindings splaying the pages flat so that you might read and drink simultaneously. No matter how much you tried, however, none of the inked words would filter into your head.

The remainder of this afternoon and evening had passed by rather pleasantly, despite the conflicts warring in your head. The Grand Duke had expressed his gratitude and his wish to see you more in the near future and distant future; Seonghwa, Yunho, and San had departed to return their horses back to the stable after conversing with you and Hongjoong for a couple moments more. It was beginning to feel like a tangled ball of string.

It had not even been a week since you met the Grand Duke, but you felt an undeniable pull toward him; yet, you were uncertain whether that thrill originated from your inexperience with courtship or a true gravity.

Your stomach twisted at the thought of leaving this place. Perhaps it was all you had known, but you loved it. You loved the work you did and the people you worked amongst.

The cowardly part of your interiority could not discern who you would even employ to replace yourself by Seonghwa’s side. Could you learn to trust someone else with aiding him? Did you not know him best?

“What selfish, arrogant notions,” you chided yourself aloud while setting the teacup upon its saucer and standing from the desk. There was no hope in reading tonight. Your futile attempts were beginning to feel laughable.

Just as you were tidying up the desk to take a brief stroll before bed, there was a feather-light knock at the study door. It was so soft, in fact, you thought you had imagined it.

But the door slid open a crack, and your brows shot up to your hairline at the sight of Prince Seonghwa, eyes wide and meek as he peered into the room.

“‘Tis late, Your Royal Highness,” you said with a small frown.

The door slid open wide enough for him to slip through and close behind him. He was dressed in casual, comfortable clothing—it looked as if he had just crawled out of bed. “Sleep evaded me, I’m afraid,” he admitted sheepishly. “You are one to talk. You’re working at this hour?” He inclined his chin toward the closed tome upon your desk and the empty teacup.

You pointed at the book. “This? It is only my miserable attempt at wearing out my mind,” you said. “It seems sleep eludes us both.”

He sent you a sympathetic smile as he braced his hands on the back of an armchair. “What eats at your mind, if you do not mind me asking?”

Ah. Your heart gave a jolt. How did one confide in a person who was one of the people their head could not let go of? “I suppose many things have occurred over the past few days,” you replied in a half-hearted attempt to answer his question while evading the whole truth. Verily, you did wish to tell him everything. “I am uncertain of some things.”

“Mmh,” he hummed absentmindedly and slipped into the chair across from you. “I apologize for intruding on your afternoon with the Grand Duke. Truly, it was not my intention to do so—”

You dismissed his concern with a soft smile. “It is alright, Hwa. I was surprised at first, but I am too fond of you and the others to care. Furthermore, His Grace wished to meet you all properly.”

“Yes, he seems an honorable gent.”

You nodded, pursing your lips together. “He is,” you murmured. Honorable enough to fully consider courtship? “Though, I admit that seeing Achilles and the other horses today made me a tad envious,” you mused.

Seonghwa shifted in his seat, hands settling in his lap. “Is that so? I am sure Patroclus misses you,” he said lowly with a chuckle. “It has been too long since you’ve seen the river, has it not?”

“It has,” you realized. “A horseback ride sounds rather nice at this moment. Did it ease your mind of something?” You only asked because the past several years, yours and Seonghwa’s schedules had become so busy that the only time either of you took a ride with Achilles and Patroclus was because you needed to release some kind of inner tension. A horseback ride with a couple of old friends might have implied a less heavy purpose, though.

He tucked his head toward his chest, a smile slipping onto his face. “Am I so easy to read, my lady?”

“Frankly…”

His head shot up then, an indignant sort of expression on his face now at your audacious utterance. The impish grin on your face told him enough, and he scoffed, unable to hide the incredulity. “Frankly,” he parroted, “I take offense to that.”

“You take offense to the fact that I have your tells embedded into my memory?” you teased. “Come now, old friend, what troubles you? It must be why sleep keeps its distance.”

At this gentle prompting, he sighed, leaning his chin onto his fist. “I suppose,” he drawled, “the ball tomorrow is partly to blame.”

You felt your features scrunch up in concern, your own chin settling atop your hands as they laid over the desk. “The ball?” you murmured quietly. “Is it too much pressure?”

“It seems silly to say it aloud,” he exhaled sharply, letting out a wry laugh. “For, if I cannot handle courting a potential partner, then how could I possibly handle ruling a country?”

“You cannot think in such a way,” you said, frowning. “The difference is that you were raised to rule a country. No person is raised to court, pursue, or romance another unless that is their primary purpose in life; and yet, you are already well-versed in treating a woman properly. You must also understand that we are all, metaphorically, upon the same ship. You are not alone in this endeavor, my prince.”

Seonghwa allowed your words to sink into his head for a few moments. Within the silence of your study, you hoped that your words could inspire within him some amount of comfort and confidence. He had led his life with the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders, but in order to attain everything he worked toward, he must find someone to rule it with him. There was no doubt in your mind that he was capable of ruling the country on his own; such a feat had been ingrained in him since either of you knew each other’s names. And though he had lived his life charming those around him, he had never been able to grow close to many of them.

“What will I do without you?” was what he uttered at last. There was a tenderness and a bittersweetness in his gaze all at once.

Your heart stuttered over itself. What would you do without him? “I do not appreciate how that sounds so close to a goodbye,” you murmured as a shard of anxiety pricked your fragile heart.

“I did not mean for it to sound as such,” he said. “I am simply” —he shook his head, along with that particular thought away— “it does not matter. I… how does one begin to dismantle expectations one has already etched into the marble tapestry of their mind?” The question came out of the wind, but the way he looked at you now, wide and earnest, made your chest tighten.

Though the prince was capable at answering his own questions, you cherished the fact that he could confide in you his most difficult queries and dispositions.

“As in,” you inquired, “the expectations set upon oneself or upon others?”

“I suppose the expectations thrust upon others—the picture we already have in our minds of who this—this person should be.” He made a vague gesture with his hands, unable to articulate what his true thoughts were; or rather, hesitating to disclose the exact contexts.

You frowned in thought. “Does this have to do with your future partner?”

His head bowed. “You have that correct,” he said quietly. “Does that make me terrible? That when I am prompted to think of my future wife, I conjure up a mental image of her, and she is” —he cut off his own words, seemingly at odds with himself. “Do not mistake my meaning; the young ladies who have gathered here have all been lovely, and they are intelligent, witty, and handsome. But my mind cannot help but think that they are not who I am looking for.”

Seonghwa exhaled. “I do not mean to be particular,” he continued, “I feel terrible that I am unable to give these women the attention and thought they deserve because my mind is somewhere else.”

You could not help but continue to believe there was something he refrained from telling you. Who could be this person he had shaped his entire mental image around? If you could help… But even that seemed to form a lump in your throat. (In truth, was the thought of forcing your closest friend to pick a partner what made your stomach twist; or was it also the fact that you would have to see him love someone else?)

You were unable to confess that you were both facing similar afflictions. You both had reinforced images in your head, and the current state of your lives were so overwhelmed with change that neither of you quite comprehended how to confront any of it. There was the possibility of leaving a life you had known forevermore—and for Seonghwa, it was the prospect of choosing one’s duty over one’s heart.

“My prince,” you said with a heavy heart, “I wish I could give you an answer. It would be so much easier if I could give you an answer.” You stood from your seat and rounded the desk, as you had done so many times before, to arrive at his side. You offered him the most reassuring smile you could muster, along with the palm of your hand.

His eyes looked between yours and your hand. He slowly drew his hand up to lay over yours, fingers enclosing around yours to give you a strong squeeze. “That is alright,” he told you. “Speaking the words aloud have already given me some solace.” Your presence alone soothes every torrent thought in my head.

You once again found yourself escorted by your father, but rather than the banquet hall, it was to the palace’s Andromeda ballroom. This evening was the first ball of the event series. There would be only one more after this one, held in a weeks’ time. You were unsure whether Seonghwa would make his choice by then, but you hoped the conversation you’d shared last night would bring a renewed energy to his spirit.

The gown you, Arin, and Selene had decided upon for this evening’s festivity was a rich forest green, layered with ruffled white skirts and accented with white silk and pearls. It was not ostentatious, but a tasteful garment that accentuated your natural beauty and made you feel beautiful.

“I wonder how His Grace and you have been faring,” your father mused aloud, playfully looking at anywhere but you when you threw a sidelong glance at him.

You let out a small, exasperated sigh. “If you wished to know, all you had to do was ask.”

“How fares you and the Grand Duke?”

A gloved hand was quick to cover your mouth before a properly unladylike snort escaped you. “My goodness; you are no better than the gossiping mothers of the aristocracy. Have you no tact, no propriety?” you bantered.

Your father laughed heartily. “Hardly,” he said, and it only made your urge to laugh greater. “So have you made progress, or have I missed several chapters and should expect a notice of engagement?”

Heat swarmed your face and you lightly swatted your father’s arm while rolling your eyes. “Incredible,” you muttered. “I’ll have you know that your dowry is still safe.”

“That does not reassure me completely,” he tsked. “Neither does that answer my question. He has called upon you, has he not?”

You met the questioning tilt of his eyebrow with a nod. “He has, and we have promenaded in the palace gardens.”

“Well, I do say that is quite the first outing. He is a good man, then?”

The warmth from that afternoon trickled across your skin and left your nerves aflame, a phantom sensation. A small smile wormed its way onto your lips and you squandered it into the side of your cheek. “I would say so.”

“You seem hesitant to say that, my dear,” he noted. “Remember that you do not have to settle with the first man who expresses interest in you, Yn. The Grand Duke is a perfectly marvelous option, but the last thing I, nor your mother, would ever hope for you is that you felt you needed to force a connection with another.”

Your father’s words set off a pang in your chest, and you glanced over at him. “You truly mean that?”

“Of course,” he said, patting your arm. “You are my only daughter. I’d be damned if I could not see my only child happy.”

There was something of a dam in your eyes threatening to burst. His sincere words drew your thoughts from last night to the forefront of your mind. You wondered, desperately, if your father might understand the plight you now found yourself in. Would he still rally for you to go after a man of your choosing or the life you have always had? (And, horribly, what if those two things were the same?)

You had stared at him in thought for so long, your father met your eyes and caught the wet gleam there. “What is it—”

“Announcing: the Royal Advisors Lord Ln and his daughter, Lady Yn!”

You and your father swept your current conversation to the side, but you felt his hand pat your arm once more as the pair of you stepped out into the ballroom upon the top of the staircase.

Across the Andromeda, you locked eyes with Seonghwa, who sat atop his throne beside his father and his mother. In a cruel strike of fate, his attire mirrored yours in the richness of the forest green your body was clad in. Something in your chest had begun to gallop like your Patroclus’s legs on a ride into the forest; you took it as a subtle sign of panic as you searched for any way to reassure yourself that others would not draw any conclusions.

When you realized that both Seonghwa’s mother and father, as well as one or two other members of the visiting nobility, also donned slightly different (but similar enough) shades of green, you allowed yourself to exhale.

You and your father descended the steps into the ballroom to join all of the other guests below. Contrary to the opening banquet, the monarchs had arrived first, while the rest of the guests arrived afterward. Those who were not considered a possible suitor to the prince or their family were asked to arrive before said suitors.

Amongst the fray, you found your friends lingering to one side of the ballroom by one of the windows overlooking the palace garden. You kissed your father on the cheek as he said his goodbye, leaving you to your friends to find acquaintances of his own.

You went first to Selene, who wrapped you in a big embrace, your skirts squishing against one another. “Oh! Your dress is even more darling in the ballroom lights,” your friend squealed in delight.

“And yours,” you gushed, pulling back to marvel at the opalescent blue that made up her gown. The glittery silk and delicately puffed sleeves made Selene a faerie out of the storybooks—and she was already a princess in every way that defined one. “I might have to keep you. Will Yeosang fight for your hand—”

On cue, Yeosang stepped forward with a chuckle. “I can, Lady Yn, and I will prove it if I must,” he mused, wrapping an arm around his lover's shoulders.

“Yes, you all look dashing in your gowns,” Wooyoung scoffed as he joined the conversation, “but what about me?” He made a wide gesture with his arms as he showed off the fur-lined coat donning his shoulders and the silky smooth black that draped over his chest like a waterfall.

“You as well, my little peacock,” you teased. “As stunning as the palace garden herself.”

He sniffed, fluffing the collar of his coat. “I will accept that compliment.”

“Lady Yn, where is your man?” Jongho piped up with an arch of his brow.

You coughed. “I do not have a man, Lord Jongho. Let us not get ahead of ourselves.”

Mingi leaned over Yunho's shoulder as he nudged up the thin rim of his glasses. “I do believe he” —he pointed somewhere behind you— “would have something to say about that.”

The entire group, damningly, turned all at once in the direction Mingi had gestured to. Sure enough, you found the Grand Duke near the center of the ballroom speaking with someone else. From this viewpoint, his conversation partner looked to be one of the members of the Royal Treasury (did those men never stop working?).

He must have felt the mighty force of nine pairs of eyes on him, because he briefly lifted his gaze to meet yours.

A spark of recognition, a smile, then a nod. Five seconds to escape, he seemed to promise.

“He is rather adept at diplomacy,” commented San with a grin. “I fear I must take a page from his book if I am to meet my father's expectations.”

“Not even the tallest mountain on the continent could meet our father's expectations,” Jongho muttered, not bothering to hide the roll of his eyes.

Yeosang clapped the young lord on the shoulder. “Ah, but you cannot say that when you have become such a brilliant financier yourself, Jongho-yah.”

“The very man who charms his way into our treasurers’ good graces,” you added on with a wave of your finger. “You may loathe to see them, but the feeling is not mutual.”

Jongho jammed his tongue into his cheek. “I do need a drink.”

This prompted a round of good-natured laughter around the group. Jongho could not help but join in, sparing a smile and a shake of his head for his counterparts.

“Ah, it seems that everyone has arrived,” commented Yeosang as he turned toward the entrance you came from earlier. There was a lingering trail of beautiful young women dressed in an incredible variety of silks, jewels, and brocade being walked down the stairs by their parents or family members. How the time had flown since you arrived; you supposed much time elapsed between when you and your father arrived and when you trekked all the way across the ballroom to meet your friends.

The music that lingered about in the air slowly transitioned from a fluid sort of melody, to something more of a staccato nature, far more upbeat and familiar. You could already feel your feet move in the proper steps to this song—did not every young aristocrat learn this dance in their schooling? Between this and the waltz, you could not decide which was more widely known.

“Here comes your Grand Duke now, Lady Yn!” Selene giggled to you as she turned your attention toward the direction you last saw Hongjoong. He must have been caught in that conversation with no certain way out, because he was only now shaking hands with his counterpart.

“—and our Prince Seonghwa makes his way over to us,” San said with his eyebrows crossing. “Should he not be in search of a young lady to ask to dance?”

Indeed, the other direction was ruled by the sight of Prince Seonghwa, who had descended from the dais and strode through the crowd and across the room toward your group. But by the way he only seemed to have his gaze pinned to you, there was a distinct pang of realization in your chest. He intended to ask you for the first dance. The first dance and the last dance were the two most important events of the evening; whoever Seonghwa chose to ask to dance could very much suggest a possible interest. In some cases, they were even measures of potential engagements.

Please ask someone else, you chanted in your head as he neared. Please turn to Princess Teia, Lady Chaewon, Lady Avarine, Princess Yura… And then there was the Grand Duke, who was presently taking broad strides through the crowd, dodging fawning gazes and eager noblemen who wished to converse. If they arrived at the same time—

“Well, Lady Yn.” The sound of Wooyoung’s voice beside you tugged you out of your mental space. There was a wolfish smirk on his face as he bowed slightly and offered his hand to you. “May I have the pleasure of this first dance?”

Surprise ricocheted down each precipice of your body, and in that moment of slight shock, you put your gloved hand in his. “Yes, you may.”

His grin widened. “Excellent,” he cheered and dutifully led you out to the dance floor.

When you glanced back at Selene and the others, you could only shrug your shoulders at their utterly baffled expressions. You nor they could quite predict Count Jung Wooyoung, and perhaps that very unpredictability would be what saved you in this moment. (Frankly, choosing between Seonghwa and Hongjoong would have been choosing between duty and heart… or was it one’s heart over one’s duty…?) Nonetheless, Wooyoung swept you past the equally-confounded Grand Duke Kim and Prince Seonghwa.

When the pair of you arrived at the center of the dance floor with other quickly-arriving couples, you confronted your friend with a confused, but amused expression. “Do I dare ask what this is about?”

“I have no inkling as to what you are referring to,” he scoffed, even as his grin did not fade. “I only thought that I taught you how to dance this folk dance so long ago; it was only fair that we would be dance partners once more.”

The memory sparked something in you and scattered over your skin like the wash of a golden sun. Nostalgia was often a blanket over one’s shoulders. “That is—fair,” you agreed.

“And” —he bowed as you curtsied, the melody to the beginning steps on the horizon— “it looked as if you were a breath away from fainting, my lady.”

Your expression shuttered—what? Despite this, your muscles were well-attuned to the syncopations of this song, and you did not have to consciously think about each step. You and Wooyoung slipped into the movements as easily as it was for one to breathe air.

At your silence, Wooyoung said, “You do not have to look so shocked. I have always suspected.”

You sent him a look as you connected your palms together and circled one another. “Suspected what?” you inquired.

“That there is something between you and the prince.”

One of your heels caught onto a stray thread from one of the layers of your skirts, and before you could trip, fall, or twist an ankle, Wooyoung’s grip on your arm steadied you. The action was so seamless, it was almost as if it was a part of the dance itself, but you were, of course, wise to your partner’s adeptness at dance.

His brow arched upward in a silent question.

“I’m alright,” you assured him as you regained your footing. “You—there is nothing—”

“You do not have to keep up appearances to me of all people,” he chuckled. The tempo of the song accelerated slightly, and Wooyoung kept time with such ease; not even a drop of sweat appeared upon his brow, but the delight on his face was infectious.

It had been far too long since you last danced this song, but now that you had found the groove of it, you kept in-time with your partner and the melody.

“We do not have to talk now” —the words were slipped in between a movement that had the two of you coming in close to one another, palms pressed flat against the other— “I only wished to assure you that you have my ear and my support.”

As you pulled back from one another, you imagined the look on your face flashed with a million different emotions. Something moved, something watery, something tender, something relieved. Wooyoung’s smile this time was not one of giddy glee or impish mischief, but a soft warmth; it was that of an old friend reminding you what old friends were for.

The remainder of the song was spent, not talking, but laughing. Both yours and Wooyoung’s expressions mirrored one another as you took your turns about the room, heels clicking against the other’s, giggles lighting up the ballroom. By the time the song came to an end, your pulse was pounding against your throat and in your chest, and your breathing had become ragged. Yet, you had never felt so alive, at least in awhile.

Wooyoung, the dutiful dance partner, bowed to you in thanks before guiding you off the dance floor.

When you and he returned to the place your group had gathered earlier, you discovered that half of them were missing, having likely gone to find dance partners when you and Wooyoung stole away together. The only members of the party remaining were the prince and princess of Halazine, Count Song Mingi, and your Grand Duke Kim. You did not quite know what to think upon the revelation that Seonghwa had gone in search of another dance partner; you should have been glad.

“That was certainly an entertaining thing to watch,” Mingi laughed as Wooyoung gave a dramatic bow to motion toward you, as if he was a conductor gesturing to his orchestra.

“Completely unexpected, as well,” you chimed in and sent your dance partner a playful glance.

Wooyoung wiped a lone bead of sweat from the side of his face. “I thought you enjoyed surprises, my lady?”

Hongjoong, you noticed at that moment, held matching flutes of shimmery, gold liquid. By the by, everyone here had a glass of the bubbly liquid; they had been passed out during the first dance for the guests to enjoy. “You are as exquisite on the dance floor as you are standing before me, Lady Yn,” he said to you as he handed you one of the glasses. When he had freed up one of his hands, he took yours to kiss once more.

“Ah, you flatter me, Your Grace,” you replied with a sheepish grin. “Verily, I am much too out of practice.”

“Nonsense,” Wooyoung exclaimed while raising his own glass of alcohol. You suspected that was thanks to Mingi. “The movements came to you as soon as the melody hit your ears—’twas only the fluff of your skirts in the way.” He sent you a cheeky sort of wink before tipping the flute of champagne back down his throat.

“If you are so out of practice, then I must be a complete novice,” Hongjoong mused.

You narrowed your eyes at him with a great amount of incredulity. “I say, Your Grace, I did not take you as one to brownose. You need not stroke my ego.”

He shrugged, and the way he smiled reminded you of the impishness of your very own friend Wooyoung. “It was not my intention to brownose, as you say. But if you do not believe me, then I suppose we are obligated to settle this on the dance floor.” He reached back to set his glass down upon the window sill behind him, then extended his hand out to you.

“I think you’ve been had, Lady Yn,” Selene marveled under her breath, a smile shared between herself and her husband.

There was no doubt about that. Warmth seared through your neck and cheeks, and you accepted his hand and defeat as your flute was transferred upon the sill beside his. The second dance of the evening winded up from the live orchestra in the far corner of the room, and Hongjoong led you out onto the dance floor. The rhythm of your heartbeat was much different from the way it had been when it was Wooyoung before you.

As the violins crooned their opening notes, your hand clasped with Hongjoong’s and the dance began. Hongjoong drew you through each movement, around the perimeter of the dance floor, with the grace and fluidity of a swan gliding through water. You wondered—as you stared into the velvety dark of his eyes—if the lake his family home overlooked had swans; and if so, they must have influenced the very mechanics with which his body moved.

No inch of the dance floor was untouched by your skirts or his shoes. You could feel the warmth of his breath on your lips, the weight of his eyes on you like the mass of a gemstone; all the while, your blood rushed in your ears to the three-fourths time of the waltz resonating throughout the ballroom.

“I think,” you murmured to him with a smile flitting onto your lips, “I’ve caught you in a lie, Your Grace.”

He chuckled, the sound so gentle it could have been a caress. “And so you have. I will take any punishment you see fit, dear heart.”

Your pulse gave a leap and you feared it was visibly evident upon your face, because he only smiled afterward, teeth biting his lower lip, pleased.

Too soon, the song was brought to a gradual end and you found your hands growing cold from the lack of the Grand Duke’s warmth. You curtsied to him, his bow dipping low in reply, before his hand found yours again and escorted you off the dance floor.

Out of the corner of your eye, you espied a blur of emerald green, reminiscent of the fabric of your own skirts and bodice. You turned your head out of instinct—a feeling pricked at the back of your head, urging you to do so (or perhaps it was a gravity)—and watched the back of Prince Seonghwa’s jacket as he bowed to a lady across from him. Her frame was wrapped in the most delicate shade of lilac silk and gossamer you had ever laid your eyes upon. Recognition struck you like a bolt of lightning: he had found a partner in Princess Teia of Paradyne.

“They make a handsome couple, do they not?” The comment, not directed at you, had you spinning to locate its source nonetheless. An official from the royal court was conversing with a noblewoman you did not know, and they seemed to both be enraptured by the sight of the Prince of Aurelia and the Princess of Paradyne next to one another.

You are being entirely irrational, your inner voice chided. Here you were with a handsome, charming, and altogether wonderful man, and you were obsessing over how others viewed your friend with a potential match. Had you not been the one to bring this upon him? Did they not make a beautiful couple?

A small weight on the back of your hand had you moving your focus to the man whose arm you held. There was a microscopic crease between his brows, but his countenance was thoughtful. “Are you alright? We did not turn too quickly, did we?”

You loosened a breathy laugh from your lips and assured him, “No, nothing of the sort. I was only lost in th—”

“Lady Yn.” His voice had come out of the very shadows of your mind, as if the very thought of him plucked his physical being and materialized him right by you.

Standing before the prince of Aurelia, you and Hongjoong greeted him appropriately. “Greetings to the shining star of Aurelia,” you murmured together.

Seonghwa’s eyes darted between the two of you, his gaze wholly unreadable to you for the moment. There was a break in the tension when the corner of his lips lifted into a soft-cornered smile as he focused his attention upon you. “I apologize, Your Grace, I’m afraid I must steal my friend from you. I have spent entirely too long this evening without her banter in my ear.”

A graceful way to say: You told me I could call upon you. I am only making good on your promise.

“Of course, Your Royal Highness, I understand.” Hongjoong turned to you and placed a kiss upon your hand, his fingers lingering for a heartbeat longer. “No one is quite immune to the lady’s magnetism.”

You could only duck your head in humility, gloves hands clasping together in front of you as you thanked him for the dance. He replied with a hope for more in the near future before he excused himself from the two of you in search of other company.

Your friend's lips pulled into a wider smile, and you heard his exhale fall. “Two dances and I am fully prepared to retire,” he joked while offering you his arm.

“Please, you enjoy dancing as much as the next person,” you quipped back, taking the crook of his elbow. “You managed to fill your dance card, Hwa. Did you not enjoy yourself?”

“I believe I see the ambassador from Wonderland over there. Shall we say hello?”

The clear avoidance of your question made your posture straighten, and you casted your friend a sidelong glance out of pure confusion. He did not meet your gaze, only steering you both in the direction of the man he had mentioned spotting. You convinced yourself that he was simply eager to speak with the diplomat, but that wasn't quite right—he hardly knew the ambassador from Wonderland.

You slid comfortably into your role as advisor to the prince. During the short intermission between dances, you stayed by Seonghwa's side as you travelled from diplomats to nobles to other country leaders and officials. It had become a rather impromptu tour around the ballroom, by which Seonghwa strategically maneuvered you in every direction that avoided any party that was considered a suitor.

This was not lost on you; you did not want to point out the obvious when the prince seemed so fixated upon strengthening his political and social ties, so to speak. (In every way besides the one that mattered at this very moment.)

By the time the dances were to be resumed, you could have sworn you met the entirety of the continent. Could you manage another dance?

“My prince,” you said with no suppression of the exhaustion in your voice, “I am deathly afraid that I will lose my feet before the night is over. Would you do me the greatest kindness and allow me to sit?”

Seonghwa guffawed and beamed at you. “And you claim I'm the dramatic one?” he tsked, shaking his head, but still did you the service of leading you toward the nearest window sill to perch upon. “Do you need me to carry you, as well?”

Sheer horror made your eyes go wide as the moon, heat catapulting up to your face. “Absolutely not!” you sputtered. “Do you wish to make a scene?”

“No, but it was worth it to see your reaction,” he snickered to himself. “Though, would it not provide material to swoon over? For the ladies in the room, I mean to say.”

Your stomach twisted, but you forced your expression into a deadpan. “They are more likely to swoon from the scandal than from attraction.”

His chuckle met your ears as he helped you to sit down on the edge of the window sill. It was one located near the corner of the ballroom, someplace more quiet than the bustling center. Lords and ladies alike milled about in their attempt to secure their next dance partner, but most seemed to hesitate while the prince continued to linger about.

You could not help but notice this and you were quick to wave him off. “Go, Your Royal Highness. You must ask a young lady to dance with you,” you said to him with fervent pats against his side.

“What if I wished to dance with you?”

“You cannot.” The words came out more terse than you intended for them to be, and you hurried to amend your statement. “I have already sat down; it would be a waste of having walked all the way over here.”

Seonghwa bit his lip, glancing from you to the rest of the ballroom behind him. “I will find another woman to dance with so long as you promise me one later.”

There was a fire in his eyes that would not take no for an answer. (And the way your heart sped did not help much to dissuade you.) “One dance,” you promised.

He nodded, content for the time being, and then—in a movement too sudden for you to fully comprehend—he knelt down before you and kissed your hand. You could hardly understand what transpired and he was gone, the sight of his back clear in your vision as he set off to do what was expected of him.

A promise for one dance could not be honored. As the night continued to ferment, Seonghwa was continuously drawn into dances with other prospective suitors; you were eventually swallowed back into the fray of dancing by your friends (first Yunho, then Jongho, and finally, another dance with Hongjoong). By the time the last dance had arrived, you were certain Seonghwa would call upon your promise—until his mother insisted on having a dance with her son, and who could possibly deny the mother of Aurelia such a thing?

After bidding your friends goodnight, you and the prince wandered down the darkened corridors of the palace toward your office. There was no work to be done, but neither of you felt ready to sleep, and the study was equidistant between yours and his chambers.

You slid the door open and granted yourself entry, already halfway out of your heeled shoes and digging your bare feet into the soft rug in the seating area. “Hmm,” you groaned softly under your breath to match the thick silence in this corner of the palace, “my feet might just have survived.”

The door closed softly, shutting with a quiet thud. “Etiquette should make room for sore feet,” Seonghwa said as he settled upon the settee by the window. “Barefoot waltzing.”

A laugh bubbled up in your chest and you slumped into your chair with an unladylike slouch. Neither of you made a move for any of the lights and lanterns in the room, allowing the pearlescent moonlight to provide a subtle visibility. “Barefoot waltzing?” you repeated. “Could you imagine? ‘His Majesty the King's first decree is for the occasional allowance of barefoot waltzing?’”

Seonghwa's laughter joined your own, the sound akin more to the sounds of a pair of adolescents snickering beneath the covers than a pair of grown adults.

Your merriment sobered slightly as your gaze turned out of the window beside you and into the night beyond. There had been a multitude of things that occurred this evening, and they were all slowly, but surely coming back to you.

The gravity of your position suddenly weighed down upon your chest and you deigned to sit up straight.

You cleared your throat. “So,” you piped up, injecting some enthusiasm into your voice, “were there any ladies in particular who have your favor? If I recall, you danced with Princess Teia at least twice.” In the dark, it was easier to pretend your throat didn't constrict at those words.

His visage could not look at you—half his features swathed in moonlight and the other dipped in the charcoal ink of shadow. “Must we speak of that so soon?” he asked, his voice barely audible, accompanied by a laugh that sounded more like a sharp exhale.

“Forgive me; I was curious,” you said and pressed your lips together, fiddling with the ruffled layers of your skirt. “I'd hoped more open dialogue about it between us might make it more palatable.”

A long beat passed. Your heart lodged itself in your throat and you bit the inside of your cheek as hard as you should have bit your tongue.

“Is that not the problem?” he voiced at last. You could feel the weight of his stare even with only half his face visible to you. “That this entire circumstance must be made palatable? I am more likely to end up alone than to choose a woman I do not love and make the both of us miserable.”

He was right—of course, he was right. After all, therein lied your own predicament. You had done this at the behest of your monarchs despite knowing your dear friend would find at least some of this disconcerting.

“I am sorry for putting you through this,” you found yourself saying, your head hanging as you stared at the wooden floorboards. “I believed that the possibility of you finding someone to love would have been—”

Seonghwa's head snapped up. “Love?”

The pure heat in his tone had you daring to raise your eyes and meet his gaze in the emblazoned dark.

“Tell me,” he asked, “do you love the Grand Duke?”

You blinked. “No, of course not, but we have only just met. Does love not take more time to emerge between two people?”

Your words only seemed to spur him to launch out of his seat and pace the carpet before your desk. In the dim moonlight, you could only watch him card his hands through his hair, face tilted upward as he stared at nothing, everything, and only you, all at once.

He came to an abrupt stop, then turned to face you. “If my claim to the throne was dependent on your departure from this court, would you leave or would you stay?”

You felt yourself react physically to such a question—heart violently palpitating, hands gripping the edge of your desk. But to you, there was only one correct answer. You rose to your feet, eyes narrowed in confusion and concern, but fearless in the face of this hypothetical fate nonetheless. “I would leave,” you answered.

“Why?” Seonghwa exhaled out, incredulous. His forehead creased as if he were physically hurt by this answer.

“You were raised to be king, Seonghwa,” you said firmly. A scoff fell from your lips to mask the emotion threatening to keel over. “If I” —you stabbed the points of your fingers against your sternum— “was the sole obstacle in the way of your claim to a crown that is your right, then I would leave in a heartbeat.”

His arm fell to his side. “And if my rule was doomed should you leave?” he asked then, voice infinitely smaller and quieter than before.

Your expression contorted in emotions one could not articulate with words. How could he think so little of himself? “My prince,” you said in a raspy tone, “this country is doomed should you not take the throne after your mother and father. There are others, far better, who will come after me—”

“There are no others,” he countered. “There cannot be another who occupies this desk.”

Frustration mounted inside your chest and you could feel the heat flood your skin. “Why?” you asked him this time. “Even so, you act as if we cannot exist as we are now. There is no reason we could not continue as we are, prince and advisor. There is no possible reason for you to even consider not taking the crown.”

Why did he postulate such a possibility? The breath in your chest froze over at the mere thought of departing, even after he chose another.

“Are you hearing me? There cannot be another by my side. I do not love any of the women in that ballroom.”

Your face twisted in spite and rage and every shard of discordant hurt in your stomach. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Everything!” he exclaimed and his voice trembled. “It has to do with everything, because I am in love with you!”

You reeled. If you had not been clutching the edge of your desk, your knees would have buckled at the grace of gravity. The blood rushed from your face despite the organ in your chest beating more violently than it ever had before.

Seonghwa took a single step backward, as if he could not believe he had said it aloud; but you were no stranger to the acceptance that donned his face, nor that look of determination. “You once told me people are not raised to court, pursue, or romance,” he murmured, and though he was far more quiet than before, every word rang just as loudly as the others, “but I was raised with you. I was raised alongside you. I have walked miles by your side, breathed a million breaths in your presence. Your voice is the first I hear in the morning and the last I hear in the evening. My lady, I am already governed by your entire existence.”

Slowly, he stepped around the desk, one foot in front of the other, the cadence aligning with the very rhythm your heart produced as blood rushed through your ears.

He walked until he stood before you, both halves of his moonlit and shadow-drawn face visible to you now. There was silver lining his earnest gaze, his hands reaching out to take yours—was it he who was shaking or you?

“So no, I cannot be King if it is not you who sits at this desk, nor you who is by my side,” he continued. “Forgive me for my selfishness—the Grand Duke, he is—he is a good match, a spectacular one even, but I—”

His voice broke, hands anchored to yours.

You could not fathom it. You could not fathom any of it. The very mass in your heart that had his name branded upon it seared at the very notion that he loved you as you did; but you understood your place in this hierarchy.

You knew well that the yearnings of the heart could only be such. Coveting a prince when you were but the lowly nobility standing you were? They would not make an exception.

Thus, you did the only thing you could do to protect the both of you. You gently pushed his hands away.

“I could not,” you said quietly, “live with myself if you one day regretted your actions. I could not live with myself if I stood in the way of your success.”

You could not bear to look him in the eyes, to confront the visual of his facade crumbling before you. Nor could you face the fact that it was all your doing. How could you? the voice inside your head screeched. How could you break his heart when he only wanted yours in return?

In the darkness and dead quiet of your study, you and your prince stood before one another, mere breaths away, and yet, thousands of miles apart; for one had his heart laid bare, and the other pretended she could not hear hers.

Three days had passed since the prince bore his affections for you, and it had been three days since you last had a full-length conversation with him. It was unheard-of as prince and advisor, but to the outside world, your relationship had done nothing but take a slight lean toward professionalism. Essentially, everything remained as it was: you stood by his side, his advisor and nothing more.

Everyone else in between, at least those who knew you personally, were more than privy to the fact that a storm lingered overhead.

The sun rose a bloody, burning star through the filter of your gauzy curtains. There were roses delivered to your chamber doors this morning: I dreamt of you all night. Please have pity on this poor fool by accepting his invitation to see the capital city this afternoon with him. Yours, Hongjoong.

For a moment, you thought the name on the card would be different, but even that treacherous notion was enough to suffocate you with guilt. You sat upon an armchair in your receiving parlor, wrapped in a dressing gown with the card in one hand and a quill in the other. When sleep evaded you last night—as it had the night before—you had instead buried yourself in matters that needed being dealt with.

“You have a perfectly good man who wishes to court you,” you muttered to yourself, the disgust you had against your own self loud over the other voices. After breaking Seonghwa's heart, you could not bring yourself to focus completely on the Grand Duke either. It was not fair to either party; how long would you allow yourself to continue this charade?

Every outing you had with Hongjoong since the ball would have been more than enough to seal your courtship officially, yet you could not bring yourself to cross that line. It was as if you were playing a part, and you were being disingenuous to him—for how could one give their heart to more than one person without one receiving more than the other? Every opportunity you had to prove that you could separate yourself from Seonghwa was a complete and utter failure.

There came a soft knock upon the door to your seating room, and they let themselves in.

“My lady?” Arin's soft inquiry met your ears. “It is time to get dressed for your breakfast with Princess Selene, Count Wooyoung, and Lord Jongho.”

“Ah, is it that time already?”

In a daze, you allowed Arin to pull you through the motions of getting dressed and having your hair styled. For the most part, you attempted to keep up appearances and engage in conversation with your handmaid, but Arin had been with you for so long, it was useless to pretend.

She sent you off with an encouraging smile. “You will have a good day today, my lady. I just know it.”

You could not help but mirror her expression from a statement so filled with good intention. “Thank you,” you said. “You will have a good day, as well, Arin. I will see you later this afternoon.”

You made your way through the palace to a parlor room that overlooked the glass conservatory at the palace garden. As the prince's schedule was embedded into your head, you knew he would be spending the entire day with an assortment of friends, acquaintances, and dignitaries. They were more casual social networking events, so to speak.

Through the framed windows that peered into the parlor room, you could already spot the figures of Princess Selene and Lord Jongho being served their tea for the morning.

“Well, good morning, my lovely friend,” greeted Selene with a smile that had remained soft since you told her everything that transpired that night. “Did you sleep?”

Jongho stood upon the entrance of a lady, pulling out your chair and pushing you in once you'd been seated. “Thank you,” you said to him. “Would it be terrible if I said no?”

“Again?” the two of them responded at once, concern and incredulity arguing their expressions.

“It is the guilt,” you said with a self-deprecating laugh, leaning your head against your hand. “Would you not be eaten alive by it?” A servant had come to pour you a cup of tea, and you brought the lip of it to your mouth and took a heart sip of the scalding-hot liquid. As you set down the cup, your stomach stirred at the sight of their continued piteous gazes. “Where is Wooyoung, by the way? Will he still be joining us?”

Right on cue, the doors to the parlor room opened once more, this time to grant entrance to the man in question. The redhead wore a relaxed poet shirt, the material billowing and loose over his chest and there was a luminescent glow to his skin from the light layer of sweat.

He beamed at the sight of you all. “Apologies for my delay,” he chirped, “and for my attire. I came straight from croquet with Lord Ln and Her Majesty.”

“The Queen?”

“My father?”

The three of you expressed your disbelief simultaneously, which only served to spur the Count on. He settled into the remaining chair at the table, leaning back with a content sigh. “Yes and yes,” he said. “We are all rather terrible at it, but 'tis for the spirit and the fresh morning air. So what did I miss?”

Princess Selene took a sip of her tea. “Yn did not sleep again last night. We must talk her through her guilt or she will never sleep again, I'm afraid.”

“Yah,” you groaned, “I will get over it eventually. We do not need an intervention.”

Wooyoung straightened in his seat, his expression morphing into something more somber. “That is something a person who needs an intervention would say,” he quipped. “Come now, Yn, do you really believe you will 'get over it,’ as you say?”

The distinct epiphany that you were in a corner coupled with your lack of sleep made your defenses crumble too easily. “No,” you confessed, “but what else am I to do?” You made a vague gesture with your hands, helpless. “He is expected to marry a woman of higher social stature than I, and he must do it in order to have his crown. I was never a part of the equation.”

“Until you were,” Jongho interjected pointedly. “It seems you were always a part of his equation.”

Yes, that was what it seemed to be. You always knew a day would come when Seonghwa would be married, and you would likely still be at his side as his dutiful advisor. However, these past weeks have revealed to you that it was never as simple as things staying the way they were.

“If I am being forthright,” you said, “I did not think I was even allowed to love him.”

Selene reached over to squeeze your hand. “Oh, Yn.”

Wooyoung frowned slightly, a crease forming between his brows. “My heart hurts,” he sighed. “Why must it always be a battle between duty and one's heart? And what of the Grand Duke of Guerisle, Hongjoong? Have you decided if you will attempt to put your feelings aside?”

“He sent roses to my door and asked to see the city with me today,” you told them. “He is a good man, and I do not wish to string him along further in the name of my complicated feelings. Continuing this charade will be—it is unjust to him. I have made peace with my actions and where my heart lies. Besides” —you reached for your teacup once more— “I never truly believed I was capable of leaving Aurelia.”

“You will not even try for a while longer?” Selene asked.

“In the state I am in currently?” You shook your head with a wry smile. “His time is better spent on a lady with far less baggage.”

“Baggage is not the way I would put it,” Wooyoung pondered aloud. “It is not a burden to love another. 'Tis unfortunate, but he cannot fault you for falling in love with a man you have spent your entire life beside.”

Jongho chimed in, “If he does find fault with it, then good riddance.”

All four of you raised your teacups in agreement.

It was hours later, deep in the trenches of a warm and golden Aurelian afternoon, that you found yourself upon the arm of Kim Hongjoong. The carriage ride from the palace to the capital's bustling inner-city was light despite the weight that perpetually occupied your sternum.

“Forgive me for not thanking you sooner for the roses,” you said to him as the two of you strolled arm in arm down the cobblestone street. Your eyes had snagged on a cart selling beautiful blooms, and they had reminded you distinctly of the ones that he had delivered to your door. “They were lovely.”

He smiled, glancing at you. “They were nothing in comparison to you, dear heart.”

“Ah,” was all you could manage, a small laugh bubbling out from your lips.

It was not often that you were able to visit the city proper. Now and then, you accompanied Seonghwa to the city for official royal business, or you travelled with friends or your staff members for other errands and casual trips. You raised your head up to soak in the sights of the lively place: the children playing in the streets, shopkeepers hollering catchy slogans to lure customers through their doors, families going about their daily activities. Though you found solace in the quiet and privacy of the palace walls, there was much less social pressure when you were here. They were not cogs in a machine, but members of a community.

You felt the weight of your partner's stare, and you turned your head to meet him. “I'm sorry, I feel that I am not much for company today.”

“No, quite the contrary,” he said. “You seemed… wistful. At peace. What makes you believe you are not good company?”

Your initial plan was to wait until the conclusion of the outing to bear your truth to him. You did not wish to spoil the afternoon and his first impression of the capital city with your news. However, when you looked him in the eye now, you could not find it in your heart to brush the matter aside any longer.

With lips pressing together, you mustered up your courage. “I cannot allow you to court me any further, Your Grace. I realize that this is rather abrupt” —you noted the miniscule shift in his expression, the change that was not obvious to the passer-by, but was obvious to you— “but I feel that I have let myself lead you along this path for far too long.”

The pair of you stopped at the end of the pathway, the crossroads between two main streets that ferried oncoming carriages and carts along its bodies. He bit his lip, glancing away for a moment before returning to you. “It would be dishonest of me if I said I was not disappointed,” he said with the corners of his lips pulling into a slight smile, “but it would also be dishonest of me to say that I was not expecting it.”

“You…” You blinked, eyebrows furrowing at his words.

He chuckled, but the sound was not mocking or derisive; it was sheepish, really, something that felt like the warm caress of the sun’s rays. “I do not believe that you entertained my advances for purely malicious reasons. It seemed that since the evening of the ball, something had changed, and I could not piece together what. I did not say anything for the sole reason that I’d hoped to continue to see you.”

There was a burst of heat crowding at the back of your neck and ears. Were you supposed to be embarrassed that he had seen right through you? Or should you put more emphasis on the churning in your stomach from the guilt? Your mouth pulled down into a frown as the emotions swelled through you.

Hongjoong’s expression softened in ways you didn’t think were possible. “Oh, dear heart, you need not worry,” he said, raising his hand to thumb at your cheekbone. “You do not have to feel guilt or pity for me, nor must you justify your heart to me; however, if it was my actions that led to your decision, then I pray you disclose them to me at once so I might rectify my mistakes.”

“No, ‘tis not your actions,” you nearly exclaimed. It was always a pleasant disbelief you felt when you were around this man. “The fault is mine alone. I” —you stopped yourself short. That wasn’t the complete truth, but in this context, it would have to be. You exhaled, curling your hands over his elbow. “There were many factors that went into my decision: I cannot stomach leaving Aurelia and my father just yet, I continue to harbor strong loyalties to my work here, and I…”

You did not finish your sentence, but he nodded once and patted your arm as if he understood. “If you ever find yourself with an unbearable longing for something different, know that the doors of the Grand Duchy will always be open to you, my lady.”

In another life, perhaps it would not have to result to an unbearable longing for something different in order for you to ever visit the Grand Duchy of Guerisle. In another life, perhaps you did not yearn for a man who might never be yours; and you would instead take the hand of a man who you wanted as equally as he wanted you, and you were completely free to do so.

“I do not deserve your affections,” you said quietly to him.

“‘Tis not a matter of whether you deserve them or not,” he replied. “I gave them freely.” Hongjoong glanced at the road, then motioned for the two of you to cross to the next block. “Come—let us not dwindle on such somber topics any further. I am in a beautiful city with an even more beautiful woman. I’d be damned if I did not take advantage.”

Nothing could be more painful than a consequence you had seen approaching from a mile away.

“Lady Yn, I am most grateful that you offered to walk me to the sparring courtyard.”

You kept your expression cordial, polite—unreadable. Whenever you looked at the young woman walking beside you—Princess Teia of Paradyne—you could only see the grace and elegance required of a princess. Her features were sharp and defined, but it only served to undercut the softness of her eyes. She was reserved, not so much shy; she was raised under traditions more conservative than Aurelia’s, but it did not restrain her independence. She understood her purpose here, and it was to find the most appropriate man to marry. Some days, you did not envy royalty.

“It is my pleasure, Your Royal Highness,” you replied, your words sincere despite the lump in your throat. It had certainly come as a surprise to you when the princess approached you at yesterday’s afternoon tea to inquire about seeing the prince. Apparently, the princess was interested in learning to wield a blade. It was not customary or common for women to spar in Paradyne, so she thought to do so while she was here. “Prince Seonghwa is quite adept with the blade and he was eager to demonstrate for you.”

Of course, you had asked Seonghwa first. If not Seonghwa, it would have been Marquis Yunho and Count Mingi instead, but she came to you specifically, and that could only mean she had him in mind. (And when you had asked the prince, he only stared at you for a moment without saying anything, then agreed.)

When you and Princess Teia emerged out into the sunny Aurelian morning, you were met with the distant sounds of metal clashing. At this hour, it was not uncommon to find some of the men training or participating in a few friendly rounds of faux conflict. A healthy bout of competition was a hearty way to begin one’s day.

The sight you beheld as the two of you rounded the corner was familiar. Today, the group that had gathered consisted mainly of your companions who were paired off and clashing swords, or off to the side observing and engaging in idle chatter. The latter were the first to notice the appearance of two ladies, and they greeted you both in kind.

“Greetings to Paradyne's lily,” said Yunho as he bowed to you both. “And good morning, Lady Yn. To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”

In your periphery, Seonghwa was still paired with one of the lieutenants of the palace guard; it seemed he hadn't noticed yours and Teia's arrival.

“Good morning, gents,” you replied, gripping the strap of the satchel that hung off your shoulder. “Princess Teia is here to learn a few tricks of the blade.”

Wooyoung appeared from around Yunho's towering shoulders, slinging his arms around the Marquis's frame with a canteen of water in his hand. “Well, I'll say, what a noble pursuit. Every man, woman, or person should learn to fight. Don't you agree, Lady Yn?”

You arched a brow at your friend's foxish grin. “I’m sure the dirt you ate when we were young would agree most heartily, Count Jung.”

Yeosang's holler of delight could be heard as he made his way over, his face split with a grin from what he was hearing. “Lady Yn could certainly be mean if she wished to be when we were young, hm, Wooyoungie?” he chuckled at his friend's expense, bending at a waist into a bow to the princess. “Your Royal Highness—Lady Yn.”

“Good morning,” the princess greeted back with a perfect genuflection. She turned to you with a curious gleam in her eyes. “You know how to fight, as well, Lady Yn?”

The memory of a seven-year-old version of yourself nearly tripping on dust with every kick you attempted made you laugh. “Saying I know how to is generous,” you admitted. “I have acquired one or two specific skills, but they were purely for survival.”

“She means to say that she's mastered one or two skills,” chimed in another voice. The addition of this voice to the discussion had your spine snapping straight. Prince Seonghwa had crossed the courtyard between the moment you noted his whereabouts to the moment you became lost in time. His match completed, and his skin was dampened with a thin layer of sweat, dark hair raked backward from that same perspiration. “'Acquired’ is putting it lightly.”

You glanced between him, the group, and the princess as you recovered from the way your pulse bucked like a spooked horse. “Ah, you flatter me, Your Royal Highness.”

“It is not flattery, my lady, but the truth.” He kept his eyes on you, his expression an unreadable sort of slate, one that made you struggle to swallow.

“Being raised among boys was difficult for a budding, young lady, I imagine,” Yeosang piped up with a sheepish smile toward you. “Yn was only doing what she needed to survive, as she said.”

“Understandably,” Princess Teia replied good naturedly. “I am eager to get started.” To your prince, she lowered into a brief curtsy, which was met in kind by Seonghwa's bow. “Thank you for agreeing to introduce me to swordplay, Your Royal Highness. You are so gracious with your time and knowledge. Lady Yn speaks very highly of your talents.”

His gaze flitted back to you. “Then Lady Yn flatters me,” he said with a humble nod.

“I will leave you both to it,” you excused yourself, unsubtly shooing the remainder of your friends who continued to linger from the prior conversation.

While the others dispersed, Wooyoung clung to your side. “You mean to tell me you arranged that?” he asked incredulously, flicking his fingers in the direction of the prince and princess. When you could only nod, he sent you a scowl. “My lady, why would you—”

“What other choice did I have?” you interjected. You both stopped at a bench located on the sidelines in a convenient swatch of shade. “The princess asked me personally yesterday. I could not refuse her nor fail to ask Seonghwa with integrity.”

His brows twisted. “He agreed then?”

You lifted your hands in a helpless gesture that told him all he needed to know.

“Bollocks,” he grumbled. “You both give me a ghastly migraine.”

With that matter, in your opinion, settled, you lowered yourself onto the bench. From your satchel, you withdrew a novel you had brought along and intended to finish while you were here. While Wooyoung wandered off in search of Yunho's canteen of water to “borrow” from, you found your gaze wandering up to the pair now across the courtyard from you.

Princess Teia was now equipped with a weapon—a wooden practice sword, something dull but with an appropriate heft to imitate the swing of a metal blade. The prince walked her through what looked to be a simple set, one that all squires first learned and mastered when they joined the guard's ranks. You continued to watch as Teia picked up some movements, and missed others—and when the latter happened, Seonghwa would step closer and adjust her position himself—

“You need not be here to watch, you know.”

You tore your gaze away from the pairing and instead, rifled for the last page you had read of this book. “Of course, I do.”

Wooyoung claimed the space beside you as he guzzled down half the new canteen of water in his hands. It did not look like Yunho's. “What are you? A masochist?” he jested. But when your laughter, snort, or eye roll did not come, he lowered the canteen and considered you properly. “Good god, you are.”

“I am not,” you insisted. “I assured the Paradynian monarchs that I would watch over their daughter! She is still in need of a chaperone—I do understand how that sounds.”

His expression was a kind of pity that made you sick to your stomach. “So you understand that this is self-inflicted torture?”

“It is my duty.”

“It is not necessary.”

The two of you refused to break eye contact. You narrowed your eyes at him, and he at you. Of course, you knew what all of this sounded like, what all of it looked like. How poetically tragic that this was what you intended to happen, but never what you wished to happen. Any hopes for that were dashed the moment you pushed his hands away that night.

You were the first to break away. You no longer had the stomach for the look on your friend's face. The reflection of your own sadness there was too real to confront. “Is this not what I deserve? Is this not what I asked for?”

“You deserve happiness,” he countered. “Why do you insist on punishing yourself?”

Deep in the tangled web of your heartstrings, you knew why. It was not something you had the courage to admit aloud. Was this not what choosing duty over heart entailed? “Don't you see?” you asked your friend, your voice loud enough to ensure only his ear would hear it. “This is the only way I might stay by his side. It is not a matter of punishment; it is a matter of compromise.”

If possible, Wooyoung's sad expression only deepened. You could not blame him nor expect him to understand.

By the morning of the second ball, you were both mentally and emotionally drained. With your courtship having ended, you did not see the need in neglecting your duties as a member of the royal staff by attending this evening's event. You had posted an official note to the Queen yesterday to request that she allow you to at least remain in-office for the festivities.

Rather than send you a reply with her answer, she instead invited you to have tea with her. Oh, how dread resonated through one's bones as the distant, thunderous roll of storm clouds.

You arrived upon the terrace nervous, punctual. Could your note be considered insubordination? Certainly within some kingdoms of this continent, but you convinced yourself (somewhat) that your relationship with the Queen had enough depth that she wouldn't immediately dismiss you from your station.

The Queen, never one to be late for a function no matter the size, was already seated upon one of the cushioned benches in the shade. The table was set with a large array of bite-sized sandwiches, hors d’oeuvres, and tea cakes; as well as a set of tea, the tea cups filled with steaming hot amber liquid. She glanced up at the sound of your presence. “Good morning, Yn,” she said, gesturing to the seat adjacent to her. One of the servants lingering nearby scurried to pull out the seat.

“Good day, Your Majesty,” you greeted her with a dip of your head out of respect. “Thank you for replying on such short notice.”

“Well, the matter seemed rather urgent,” she mused, gesturing with the closed form of the cotton and lace fan in her hand. “What is this you were writing about being unexcused from your work? I hear that you have rejected the Grand Duke of Guerisle’s advances. It came as quite a shock to me because you both made such a handsome couple.”

You pursed your lips, lacing your fingers together in our lap. Her questions came as no surprise to you; she was, after all, one of the main advocates for your success in courtship. “It was… not a decision I took lightly, Your Majesty. The Grand Duke and I got along very well, but I found that I could not part with my life here. While I would not mind visiting Guerisle, I do not believe I am prepared to make a complete move.”

“Ah,” she exhaled, eyes glancing away in thought. “I see. Is it because of your father that leaving is difficult?”

“Partly,” you answered. “I have quite a few matters anchoring me to Aurelia, including my position at the palace—not that any of these things are burdensome. I treasure them very much.”

The Queen nodded, her face pensive but understanding. “Then you do not wish to try once more? There are still a plethora of eligible men attending tonight’s function, many of whom are from some region of Aurelia.”

Your lips shut. The other, more prominent reason was one you were uncertain of disclosing to her. Even now, as you peered at the Queen’s slim and sculpted features, they mirrored her son’s indisputably. You could only envision him dancing with any other woman in the room except for you, and while that was a fate you brought upon yourself, it was one that you could avoid seeing. “I find that courtship itself is rather draining,” you admitted to her sheepishly. “And it has only made me more aware of another matter that has made searching for another hand in marriage difficult.”

“What is that, my dear?” she prompted you further.

You lifted your hands to nurse the cup of tea poured for you while you worked up the courage. “There is… it is a matter of my heart, so to speak. ‘Tis not a physical ailment, though, some moments it feels as such.” The corners of your mouth pulled into a halfhearted smile as you stared at the plate of tea cakes before you. “I must confess that it is the primary reason I needed to end my courtship with the Grand Duke. You see, it would not be fair to either of us if I continued our courtship while I was in this state.”

A crease appeared between the Queen’s brows, and as she leaned back slightly, a knowingness filled her features and the crease smoothed out into something softer. “You are in love.”

Four words were spoken out into the spring morning air as nothing more than a breath, but it weighed as much as the world on one’s shoulders.

A helplessness took over your body, and you felt the telltale pricks of emotion behind your eyes. “In so many words, yes,” you whispered. “And I cannot act upon my affections, for the subject of them cannot have me.”

“It is… a shameful pairing?”

“For him, it would be.” You saw her mouth begin to open, perhaps in argument against your statement and in your defense, but you elaborated, “In the aspect that my social stature does not equate to that which is acceptable for him to seek.”

There was a deep dread that lingered in the pits of your stomach, one that buoyed to the surface with every step the Queen took closer to the truth. When—because it was not a matter of ‘if’ she would—she discovered that you coveted her son, would her fondness for you be strong enough to keep your livelihood? She had been partial to you for your entire life because your family had served the royal household for generations, and you were raised with her son. What did she see you as?

A long beat of silence passed, filled with only the nearby trills of birds and a mild breeze wafting past. The Queen set her fan down on the table beside her place setting. “You love him, then?” she asked.

You lifted your gaze to hers and nodded. “Terribly.”

“Then you should pursue him,” she said. A retort sat on the tip of your tongue, but she raised her hand to stop you. “I understand that it is a matter of social status that keeps you apart, but those social rules are not laws. There are exceptions.” She sighed, “Verily, I had not even thought of the possibility that you and my” —she stopped short of saying the word, her eyes subtly taking in the servants posted around the terrace. Even a queen was aware of how fast word of mouth traveled. “I am not against the prospect of you pursuing your love, my dear.”

You could not believe your ears. There was a bubble of emotion expanding within the walls of your chest. The frustration, the anxiety, the exhaustion… if only you had brought up this matter sooner, could it have saved you so much strife? A tear dribbled out of the corner of your eye and rolled down your cheek, your palm closing over your mouth to save yourself some dignity.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she murmured, a frown etched into her face as she shifted closer and warmed her palm on your upper back. She pulled the cloth napkin from your place setting and gently dabbed it at the wetness on your cheeks. “Have you not spent your entire life serving others? Do you not believe you deserve this pursuit of your own?”

You shook your head, choking down the sob that threatened to spill out. “It’s just—I am just so tired. And I—” I’ve ruined our friendship, I’ve broken his heart, and I miss him so terribly.

She hushed you, petting the back of your hair. “I know, my dear. I know.”

The remainder of your time with the Queen was spent calming yourself down by enjoying one another’s presences and dining upon the snacks laid out for you. The conversation you had did not develop how you imagined it would, but then again, you were uncertain of its direction in the first place. By the time the Queen was needed elsewhere, you were more assured of your feelings. She had validated them and encouraged you, which was more than you could ever ask for from the mother of Aurelia.

You strode down the palace corridors in search of the prince. You recalled, vaguely, that he would be having lunch around this time in the day—earlier than usual in order to have the time in the afternoon to prepare for the ball. What in the world were you supposed to say when you saw him? You needed to apologize, you needed to tell him your feelings, did you not?

The familiar doors of the prince’s wing loomed ahead, and just in time, you spotted an errand-runner emerging from within. You rifled through your mental files for a name to the face. “Excuse me! Henry, is it?”

The boy glanced up, surprise taking over his face. “My lady,” he said, dropping into a bow, “we were not expecting you. I will let the staff within know—”

“So the prince is inside taking his lunch?” you asked him, motioning to the door.

He shook his head. “His Royal Highness has decided to luncheon in the north courtyard, I’m afraid. Were you not informed of this change?”

“You have informed me of it now,” you said, already beginning to take steps backward. “‘Tis no matter, Henry. Thank you.”

He bowed once more as you departed with long and swift strides down the corridor—walking but not running. As you pumped your legs to go faster, it shoved a bout of adrenaline through your veins. It made your fingers jittery, your heart gallop; perhaps you did have the courage to tell him everything. You would apologize for your foolishness and set things right.

The north courtyard was not far from the prince’s wing, and you could see the guards posted by the doors at the end of the hallway. You shook your hands out to your side, then clasped them before your body in a neat manner as you approached. However, as you passed by the large windows framing the north courtyard to your right, you could not help but glance out of them.

Your footsteps faltered.

Prince Seonghwa was indeed dining in the courtyard, but he was not alone. Seated with him at the table were the princess of Paradyne and her parents, Paradyne’s very monarchs. The size of the table was rather small, making for an intimate affair. In all respects, it could be considered a formal meeting of the couple’s parents and an integral step in the courtship process. You did not dare breathe, let alone allow your emotions to show upon your face. (Did they not make a lovely pair?)

It was as if a cold pale of water was dumped over your body. Ah, how foolish of you.

“Ma’am?” called one of the guards. “Lady Yn, would you like me to announce your arrival?”

You flinched, your foot taking a step backward. “No,” you said, swallowing. “I—I was ensuring that—that the prince was faring well during his meal. An announcement will not be necessary as I shall be taking my leave.”

The guard who had spoken to you bent into a shallow genuflection, and you turned on your heel to retreat. The heart in your chest continued to pound mercilessly against your bones, and you forced your head to stare straight down the corridor, and not the massive windows that gave one such a magnificent view of the courtyard.

You could walk away again. You were the one to push his hands away in the first place, all in the name of protecting him and yourself. If Seonghwa was truly taking steps toward proper courtship with Princess Teia, then you would not intrude. This was who he was always meant to be with, was it not? No amount of delusions and sudden epiphanies could change that. You would not make this more complicated, despite every fiber of your being screaming to turn back around.

The solitude of your study was one thing that remained constant throughout the turmoil. You returned to her comforting embrace that same afternoon and stayed there well into the evening. The majority of your staff members were busy managing the ball tonight, so you were left to your own devices for the most part; you took your one meal in the office, you napped, you read, you worked. The time slipped away, sand in an hourglass. It was all in the name of blocking out the sound of blood rushing through your ears, the emotion boiling up inside you and wanting to scream.

You did not know what time it was when you heard the beating of drums from outside, down the hall—no, that was not drums, but footsteps.

You straightened in your chair, a tingling sensation pestering you at the back of your mind. Someone was coming and they were not about to make a quiet entrance.

As you predicted, one of the doors to the office was slammed open, the wood skating across the floorboards to slam against the opposing wall. You jolted out of your skin, heart hammering in your chest, and instinct almost had you opening your mouth to admonish the only person in the world who would ever do something such as this.

“Unbelieveable,” was his first word to you today. Prince Seonghwa stood in the doorway—not for long, though, as he moved to shut the door behind him. His body was fitted in a sharp three-piece suit, the vest embroidered in gold silk thread that matched the length of silk draped across his chest and over his back like a cape. His facial features were contorted in an emotion you could not name.

“You are supposed to be at the ball, Your Royal Highness,” you said as calmly as you were capable.

“So are you,” he fired back. “You are defying direct orders from the monar—”

“I defy no one’s orders,” you bit out. You inhaled quietly and did not set down your quill. “The Queen excused me from tonight’s event. Now if you would excuse me, I have work to catch up on.”

For a moment, he only stood there staring at you. Then, he walked forward until he was directly across from you at the desk, his shadow falling over your form. “Forgive me, my lady, but I cannot leave. Why did you refuse courtship with the Grand Duke?”

You felt your breath stutter. “Excuse me?”

“The Grand Duke,” he repeated, firmer this time. “Our friends have told me you’ve turned him away, and he is leaving for Guerisle in the morning.” When you failed to answer, his voice grew quiet and his expression darkened. “Did he do something to dishonor you? What has he done—”

“‘Twas not any of his doings that drove me toward my actions,” you interrupted before his mind could string the innocent Duke up into a horrid villain. “But with all due respect, I do not believe my motivations are any of your concern, Your Royal Highness.”

A muscle twitched in his face and he seemed to flinch. “I think they are,” he countered. “I was under the impression that you would continue your courtship with the Grand Duke and eventually leave your post here.”

You made a face. “I never expressed any intentions of that sort.”

“It seemed that way when you accepted his invitations at least once everyday since last week’s ball.”

Had he been… counting? “That is neither here nor there,” you responded, dashing away the thought. “The Grand Duke and I have dealt with matters privately, and we’ve reached a mutual understanding. Now, you are better served returning to the ball, and not spending your time here, squabbling with me.”

Seonghwa placed his palms on the surface of the desk, planting himself in place. “How can I stand to be at that ball when you are not there in the room?”

Your mouth slammed shut.

He breathed out of his nose, a hand carding through his hair. A week ago, the two of you had been in a position not-so-different to the one you currently found yourselves in. “I came to find you, because I knew where you might be. I despise the pomp and circumstance, despise the expectations—I despise searching the crowd for” —his words came to an abrupt halt, and he exhaled again. “What must I do to convince you to leave this office and come with me?”

You swallowed. The whole reason you locked yourself within the safety of these four walls was so that you would not have a meltdown at the sight of him. If he despised pomp and circumstance and expectations, then you despised the very way your heart beat in your chest for the man across the desk from you. “Nothing,” you said. “There is nothing you can do.”

“I will have the Grand Duke removed if it is the awkwardness you fear.”

You shook your head vigorously, paired with a wave of your hand. “No, he is not the reason! What could I possibly say for you to believe me and leave me be?”

He cocked his head to the side. “You can tell me the truth.”

Anything but that. “What further truth do you seek?” you scoffed. “I have none to tell.”

“Then it must be me,” said Seonghwa. Something resolved in his eyes, like steel glinting within his irises. “You cannot stand the sight of me after what I said to you.”

The organ in your chest plummeted straight into the pits of your stomach. “What?”

“Is it not the truth? You need not spare my feelings,” he remarked with a wry laugh. “I can understand if that were the case—it makes the most sense to me, since you came to the north courtyard earlier today and did not bother to announce yourself.”

The blood seeped from your face this time. He had seen you.

He pressed his lips together with a shake of his head. “I saw you leaving through the window, and when I asked the guardsman, he only said you wished to see how I was faring during my meal. You did not come ask me yourself; I can only imagine that it is because you deplore the sight of me.”

“Stop this.” You slammed your hands on the desk and stood from your chair. He met your eyes directly, but the challenge within them was accompanied by something else lurking there. “How could you say such a thing?”

“How could I not when we can barely hold a conversation unless it concludes in yelling or you walking away?” he cried, gesturing with his hand to this very conversation. “I have devastated our friendship and your respect for me, and I am trying desperately to do what you have told me to do, but I cannot stomach the thought of courting another.

“So please,” he implored, “tell me the truth, and that it is my fault, so that I may attempt to move on.”

How could you tell him the truth and a lie at the same time? “What you are asking me to do is impossible,” you said, shaking your head as the emotion crept in. You could not stand here and allow him to shoulder all of this blame.

“It is not—”

“Yes, it is,” you insisted. “I was the one who pushed you away. I was the one who encouraged you to seek other matches. And I am the goddam fool who cannot bear to face her own handiwork.” You pressed the palms of your hands to your face, inhaling deeply to keep the well of emotions at bay, before lowering them. “It is not you who I deplore the sight of; it is the consequences of my own actions.”

You raised your eyes, already drowning in unshed tears, to meet his. “I refused courtship with the Grand Duke and refused to attend the ball for the same reason, and it is because I am so horribly in love with you; and I can do nothing except to wish that I was born into a position who was allowed to love you.”

The silence in the room was deafening. You lowered yourself back into your chair, head in your hands, as you breathed through each tremble of your body.

You did not even hear him move around the desk until he was kneeling beside you, gently prying your hands away from your face.

“Please don't cry, my love,” he murmured as he thumbed away an errant tear running down your cheek.

His touch made more tears fall. “You must think me a terrible person,” you managed to say.

Seonghwa frowned up at you, a crease forming between his brows. “No, I cannot fault you for your reasoning. I only wished we could have found a solution together.”

“I did not think it would hurt either of us so much.”

“I know.” He held your hands with his own and peered up into your eyes. “I love you.”

Your hands squeezed his hard. “I love you,” you rasped back.

A smile bloomed upon his face at the sound of your reciprocation. It was a beautiful sight to behold—the sunshine piercing through a blanket of clouds after a long storm. It had been far too long since you last saw him smile. “Promise me you'll never make me seek another woman's hand ever again, in marriage or in dancing.”

You nodded, laughing slightly. “As long as you stay here with me for a while. I do not like this study as much as when I am here with you.”

He placed a kiss to the backs of your knuckles, then settled his head upon your lap. You smiled down at the sight of him, then exhaled slowly.

The remainder of the night, the prince never reappeared at the ball. In the quiet of his advisor's study, Prince Seonghwa and you found solace in each other's arms.

a/n: pls remember to reblog + comment if u enjoyed!! there is a hongjoong epilogue and 2nd timeline ending that i will be gatekeeping for just me and yumi if u do not tell me u like this >:P

permanent tags: @jaehunnyy @seomisaho @gaonashi @thecarnivaloflies @mars101 @sanbangchan @http-gyu @luumiinaa @starlightkwan @empire-x @kpopjackie @shakalakaboomboo @vernonburger @kangyeosanq @fluorescentloves @distvrbia @an-annyeoing-recs @ffenjoyerdazme @newworldwritings @heuningsgirl @ihynjae @eighteez-net

[boynextdoors]

[hoonie]

anton and riize's real maknae

[boynextdoors]

ok pretty boy

[straywrds]

resentment | by design chapter two

pairing: hyunjin x reader ; chan x reader | wc: 23.4k | genre: adult romance | warnings: heavy angst ; heartbreak ; themes of mental health struggles ; themes of grief ; complicated feelings ; explicit sexual content. reader discretion is advised. this series contains heavy themes that could be upsetting to some. if you're concerned it might be an issue for you, please read the unabridged list of warnings, which also contains nsfw warnings. this work is for adult audiences since it contains mature themes and explicit sexual content.

Hope takes such a long time to die. But it dies.  Hyunjin’s story goes like this. He fell in love and then he fell in despair. And when he reached the bottom of it all, he had to climb back up. And he did. Only, nothing was ever the same after.

Resentment can only exist in a place where there was once love.

To be more accurate, love is often still very much present as resentment sneaks in, as it permeates one’s skin and makes a home out of their body. Grudges don’t arise out of pure hatred—at least not in Hyunjin’s eyes. They come from a place of love, the same way disappointment does. You can’t ever be disappointed at somebody you dislike, or somebody you’re indifferent to. No, resentment is much like a flower and love is the garden. The first bloom appears and you wonder why. Because you don’t remember planting those seeds. Yet it grows, furtively, but anchoring itself in the soil with strong roots. And then it turns out the flowers are poisonous and invasive, and they’ve killed all the other ones.

Hyunjin knew resentment intimately. It started at a young age when he began showing interest and skill in painting. He must have been no more than seven or eight, visiting his grandparents’ cottage house away from the city. Hyunjin wasn’t particularly fond of summer vacation because he was an only child and his parents kept him busy during the summer, so he couldn’t see his friends very often. 

But he liked the cottage house. That particular day was especially sunny but not too warm, so the grown-ups had decided to spend the afternoon outside, sitting around the patio table under a large parasol with a variety of snacks and drinks before them. A retro music radio station was playing American oldies from a small radio cassette player and the air smelled like freshly cut grass. 

Hyunjin was sitting at the table too, only he wasn’t a part of the conversation. And truth be told, he didn’t understand most of it anyway. He was keeping himself busy with paints and brushes that his grandfather always kept around. He had some that nobody was allowed to touch, not even his son, but Hyunjin was welcome to help himself in the leftovers or spares. Mind you, there was nothing suboptimal about those leftovers because everything was of professional quality. Only, if his grandfather decided he no longer wanted a certain shade of blue in his palette, then it ended up in the leftover basket.

“Look at him go!” his grandfather had said at one point. It had even taken Hyunjin a few seconds to realize he was speaking about him but not to him. “Hell, Dhako. Seems like your boy is bound to be the next big thing in the family. He’s even better than you were two or three years older than that!” 

Resentment. What an ugly, awful feeling. It smells foul and tastes even worse, and Hyunjin had been choking on it since childhood. 

He wouldn’t say that his father hated him, no, hence the resentment, the grudge. Hyunjin wasn’t yet aware of it at the time. His mind was too young to comprehend the intricacies of the situation. He just felt like he wasn’t good enough for his dad who kept berating and diminishing him. Later—much later—Hyunjin would come to understand that it was what made him into the man he was today. He couldn’t know for sure, but would he have developed his artistic abilities to that extent if he hadn’t been animated with the vivid desire to please his father, which prompted him to try hard and harder so he could improve?

Or maybe this was a delusion, an attempt at making peace with it.

Hyunjin’s childhood was in every possible way rather unconventional. Both of his parents were artists, just like his grandfather had been, and his father before him. His mom taught art to children with disabilities and his father worked as a curator at a museum. It meant that Hyunjin was often at the museum growing up. In a way, it’s the museum that raised him. His mother loved him very dearly but was too attached to her job, and his father didn’t care enough about him to participate significantly in his education. It was the wooden floors and warm lighting of the museum that were his home—the museum was close to his school and his mother often worked in the evenings, as she gave art workshops in hospitals. 

So Hyunjin would sit in his father’s office quietly and do his homework or read a book. When he was a little older, Hyunjin was allowed to walk in the museum if he was accompanied by someone, and there was always someone who wanted to show him around anyway. The employees were all so nice to him, and it was only later—again, much later—that Hyunjin realized they had noticed the gaps in the love his father had, or rather, didn’t have for him, and were trying to compensate for it.

Then his father got another job, one that required traveling. His mother was opposed to it and they fought a lot but Hyunjin pretended not to hear it. He would stay in his room, light up his desk with a small flashlight held between two books, and paint while his father called his wife names, and vice versa. Hyunjin didn’t know this at the time and neither did his mother, but for many years, his father became an art forgery specialist. He traveled all over the world, sponsored by a network of other, bigger criminals, to help create forgeries and even to falsely authenticate fake paintings as real. 

Hyunjin was well into his teenage years when he found out, and he found out when his father was beaten up almost to death, in America, for selling a fake Cézanne to the wrong people. He almost died. He was supposed to die, his corpse left out in the open to send a message to the other forgers in his network, yet he pulled through. Since he had been living under various fabricated identities, he was able to return to Korea and be Naro’s descendant again. From then on, their family always had a lot of money but his mother kept working anyway. His father did not work, not that Hyunjin could tell, although he’d say he had ‘meetings’ and ‘stuff’ to do. 

Looking at Death right in the eyes did not change Hwang Dhako. It did not make him softer, or kinder. It did not make him appreciate the little things in life. It did not make him love his son more. It did not make him resent his son less.

All the while, Hyunjin painted. When he still lived at home, his father would barge into his room just to criticize whatever he was working on. If Hyunjin was doing watercolors, he’d tell him he didn’t know how to use them yet, that he should stick to something simpler, less volatile, like acrylic. If Hyunjin did acrylic, he would then tell him that it was for children, that he could do better than that, and that ‘real men paint with oil’. Or whatever the fuck. 

And when Hyunjin painted with oil? Then he did not know how to mix his pigments correctly. He did not know how to blend colors. His work was bland. His work was too colorful. The lines were too harsh. There was not enough contrast. The theme was boring. Or impossible to understand. Maybe he should do something else. Not everyone is meant to be an artist, but then Hyunjin wouldn’t be a good fit to be a curator, professor, or historian either. 

The worst part is that Dhako would utter these things and make it sound like he said it out of genuine concern. He would say these things as though he was a master teaching his pupil. He would say these things like he cared, like they came from a place of love. But the love had been tainted and resentment had taken over.

Hyunjin had assumed that his father’s resentment would be the worst he would ever have to endure. Only, he was wrong about that. And about so many other things.

Hyunjin met Dara when he ran out of space in his apartment and decided to rent a studio so he could keep working in a comfortable setting. 

This came after his multiple attempts at attending university. He tried in Seoul first before choosing to relocate to Italy, where he assumed an immersion among some of the world’s most famous masterpieces would help him major. When that didn’t work, he went to Paris with the same hopes. That worked a little better, only, instead of graduating in one subject, he jumped from one major to the other, unable to decide what he liked most. Or what was most realistic for him. For a long while, he did not mind—he even enjoyed it, figuring he was opening doors for himself even though he wasn’t actively honing just one skill at a time. 

Art history, photography, visual and studio arts, creative writing, and even a little bit of animation. He liked all of it, of course. Happiness had never been Hyunjin’s default state but that period of his life had been when he was closest to it. In the sense of contentment, fulfillment, and how easy it was to go through his days. Being away from home and his father was a big part of it, but he was curious by nature, and he felt good in an environment where he was learning. 

For a couple of years, things were good. He got good grades in most of his classes and participated actively during lectures, although at the end of the day, none of it mattered since he never lingered anywhere for long. Still, it earned him the good graces of professors and students alike, boosting his confidence, and broadening his horizons.

Until Paris. In Paris, Hyunjin studied Impressionism a good amount, finding himself fascinated by it. He carefully researched Monet’s chaotically deliberate brushstrokes and Renoir’s lifelike lighting. He tried to replicate Sisley’s incredible contrasts and Morisot’s rich textures. He spent a lot of time in museums, which, to him, still felt like home. It did not matter which museum it was—they all reminded him of his childhood and the afternoons spent among masterpieces, evading his father and taking in the sights.

Melancholy permeated these memories and yet, Hyunjin was fond of them nonetheless. Maybe because there was so much beauty among the darkness. Maybe because despite his father’s resentment, Hyunjin had never stopped painting. He had never stopped creating. Maybe because by then, he had realized that his devotion to painting came from the void left by his father, and his need, as a boy and then a teenager, to fill it with something beautiful. A need that was most definitely more a habit, a self-defense mechanism, than it was anything else. Still. 

He was at home in museum exhibit rooms, with their high ceilings and worn-out floors and whispers. He liked to listen to what people said. Many of them were, of course, commenting on the art in their vicinity. It did not matter to him whether they had never been in a museum before or if they were the art director themselves. To Hyunjin, there was no distinction—art ought to be appreciated by anybody who needed it. To him, art was home, in a way that was more intimate, more intrinsic, than museums. He believed that art could and should become part of every living person. Everybody should be exposed to it in some kind of way—he was persuaded it could make the world a better place. 

So he listened to them. The people. The Karens who didn’t get it. The old men who smelled like cigarettes and pretended to understand all of it. The other students. The average museum-goers, the experimented ones, the painters, the sculptors, the little children who held their mother’s hand and looked at the art with fascination despite being intimidated by it. 

In a way, this became Hyunjin’s school, and it was on those days that he learned the most. At least it felt like it. Often, he would sketch them in the notebook he kept on himself at all times. To remember what they said. To remember what they thought of the colors and the composition of this or that painting. It fed his soul in a way nothing had before, and Hyunjin came close to some sort of epiphany during that time—close enough that he could feel its warmth on his fingertips, but too far for him to even know what it was he was reaching out for. A young man, arm outstretched, trying to seize the sun and keep it in his grasp, but blinded by it. He was close, so close, to discovering something bright and beautiful. 

And then he ended up in Florian Auclair’s class. Florian, by all means, did not look like an asshole. He was younger than most professors and had been given a class almost immediately after earning his PhD. He was a tall man, although not quite as tall as Hyunjin, with a quiet, monotone voice that made it hard to stay awake during his class. He had built his course with other professors of the department and it was intended to be innovative—it was neither a theoretical course nor a practical one. Or rather, it was both at once, and more. The syllabus included visits to specific museums or even locations in the city, and Hyunjin had been looking forward to it since day one. In fact, he was so excited when Auclair was explaining his syllabus and giving details that Hyunjin took notes. For a brief instant then, he thought, maybe, that was it. Maybe he could be a professor like this. He hadn’t considered it before because he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to teach art history, art theory, or practical courses. But this brand new course offered him a vision of what education could be, and, for a brief instant, gave him some sort of peace regarding his mother, too.

She had always been so devoted to it. The teaching of art. In a way that was more addiction than devotion perhaps—like she couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help staying late at work to paint with palliative patients. Even though it meant leaving her son behind. Even though it meant leaving her son to be raised by a museum, its employees, its changing collections. It was not because she did not love him. 

Later—much later—Hyunjin realized it all came from a lack of love for herself. It was the only way her mind allowed her to feel a sense of reward, of purpose. She wasn’t a bad mother. She was a pretty good one. Motherhood just was not her purpose in life. 

Hyunjin didn’t resent her for it, but he resented the whole concept of being an art teacher. In any way. Which was paradoxical considering the amount of art classes he had been taking. He resented it because he understood—at least now he did. When he stood in a corner of an exhibition room and heard somebody ponder out loud to their companion, about a piece, an art movement, anything, he had to work very hard to resist joining the conversation. And he resisted because it would be out of place to interrupt two strangers to art-splain them, exposing himself as some sort of museum stalker all the while. 

But god, did it feel good to share his passion. His knowledge. He had been raised into it, into art, brushstrokes and blending and themes and pigments. They were a part of him, of his soul—he was nothing without art. And the dopamine rush it gave him to share this with others simply could not be described with words. It cost him a lot—especially in his social life. So it truly was around that time that he began understanding his mother, and his resentment for teaching receded, like an ocean at low tide, leaving the sand damp and smooth behind, ready to be molded into something else again. 

Florian Auclair was a brilliant painter. He shared some of his work with his students in that first class, also explaining everything he hoped he would teach them and how they could all learn together. They would meet artists and curators and more, if he was able to book everyone he wished. 

When Auclair dismissed the class, Hyunjin stayed behind, as did a few others. They stood at the front of the vast lecture hall, sitting on the desks or leaning on the blackboard. Just four of them and Auclair, who answered their questions and discussed certain points that had been brought forward during his presentation. At first, Hyunjin listened, mostly, as he figured others might have the same interrogations as he did. Mostly, he was interested in how their work would be graded and wished to learn more about the paper they’d have to write at the end of the semester so that he could begin his research immediately. The conversation was lighthearted. Florian Auclair was fluent in both French and English and Italian as well, apparently. He gave everyone the information they needed.

And then Hyunjin asked him about the paper. Auclair seemed a bit reluctant to drop too much information about it so early—it would give him and the others currently present an advantage that others wouldn’t have—but he still mentioned that they would be required to investigate and research one art movement of their choice. It was a huge relief to Hyunjin who already knew exactly what he intended to write about. When he thanked Auclair, the other students did the same, all of them shaking their professor’s hand one by one—a short, polite gesture during which Florian asked for their name. 

Almost as though life required a dramatic effect, Hyunjin was last. His hand was still squeezing Auclair’s when he said those two little words. “Hwang Hyunjin.” Auclair let go of his hand, his chin lifting a few inches as he gave him an appraising look, his facial expression turning stiff and cold.

Hyunjin wasn’t an idiot—he was well aware that Auclair knew exactly who he was, only, he did not let it show to the others. He looked like he was trying to play it cool with Hyunjin as well, not acknowledging anything, and everybody went on their way. 

The week after, Auclair’s class would take place not in the lecture hall but at the Musée d’Orsay, where everybody would be required to choose one painting and sketch it with as much detail as they could. A few weeks from now, they would travel to the South of France to visit another museum in Montpellier. There, they would have to find a second painting from a different art movement and sketch this one as well. 

Then would come the actual assignment, which was to swap the art movement and style of the two paintings and sketch both once again. Ultimately, they would pick one and turn it into a proper painting using the medium of their choice. The assignment was exciting and Hyunjin just couldn’t wait—he knew way before he made it to the museum which two paintings he would be using for the assignment.

Orsay was full of Monet’s paintings—he appreciated his unique and recognizable style, so he wanted to explore it further. As for the second painting, Hyunjin would study Alexandre Cabanel’s work since he liked his moody and evocative pieces. The task was daunting as both painters had drastically different approaches and styles, but the challenge only made it better and more enticing. 

The light was just right when Hyunjin sat down to sketch Monet’s Nymphéas Bleus. Another student was with him, having picked the same painting. She was nice and she was pretty, too. They chatted as they sketched and it took Hyunjin a solid hour before he awkwardly asked her if she wanted to have coffee with him after class. She blushed violently and accepted before excusing herself for just a few seconds, asking him if he could keep an eye on her stuff, which he did gladly. 

That was when Auclair walked by him and looked at his sketch with an expression dangerously close to disdain. Hyunjin was used to it because his father had made him this way, but he couldn’t deny that it hurt nonetheless, especially coming from a professor. Here. In Paris. Just a few feet away from a piece by one of his favorite painters, which he was sketching.

“Is there a problem, Monsieur?” he asked, taking a deep breath as his mood swayed between furious and devastated. 

Auclair shrugged. “Not really. No issue here, just a little lackluster, don’t you think?” 

Lackluster. Hyunjin put down his pencil, standing up. “I’m not done sketching it, Monsieur,” he replied, speaking slowly, warmth spreading at the nape of his neck. 

The professor blinked, tilting his head just a little. “I hope you know you won’t be getting any favors just because of your family name—not in my class, non.” 

There it was. It wasn’t the first time a situation such as this one happened in Hyunjin’s life—his ancestry had haunted him during his entire academic career. Either he was getting it too easy as teachers and sports coaches tried to get noticed by his parents, especially his father, or they were making him work twice as hard, as though he had to prove he was worthy of his name, that he was someone beyond it.

“I hope you know I wasn’t expecting any favors, Monsieur Auclair,” Hyunjin retorted, mimicking perfectly the professor’s displeased tone. 

“I thought you might choose Cornelia’s Colors for this assignment,” Auclair went on, completely ignoring Hyunjin’s response. “Wouldn’t it be fitting?” 

Hyunjin swallowed a grunt. He had visited the museum the first week he moved here, seeing Naro’s vibrant and famous painting of the pink bird for the second time in his life. He didn’t even remember the first as he was just a small child, on vacation with his parents. 

“I don’t think it would be fitting, no.” He paused—just for a second. “It is a beautiful piece, though.”

“Of course. Stunning. Your—what, great grandfather? Great, great, great grandfather? It was a long time ago, wasn’t it?—sure was a master of pigments.” 

The cold and cordial tone of the conversation made Hyunjin want to punch Auclair in the face. “He was,” he admitted. “My grandfather still has some of the books that were in his library, about color theory and even chemistry. He truly wanted to mix the most beautiful colors.” At that time, Hyunjin couldn’t know it yet, but his grandfather would pass away that year, and he would inherit all those precious volumes as well as his grandad’s beloved painting supplies. To his only son, he left money. Nothing of sentimental value. And for that, Hyunjin’s father would resent him. A lot. 

Auclair pressed his tongue into his cheek, a cloud passing in his already dark eyes. “I heard a lot about you, Hwang. Some say you are a prodigy. Others say you’re reaping a legacy that isn’t yours to benefit from. I’m looking forward to finding out which one it is.”

Through gritted teeth, Hyunjin retorted, “I’m neither of these things. I’m just a guy who paints. I paint because I was born into a family of artists. That’s it.”

“Yeah, I have to give you that one, Hwang. You are just a guy who paints.” And then he walked away. 

Hyunjin stood, dazed, for a few moments, lost in his thoughts. Part of him wanted to fuck off, leave this museum and this city, and return home. Because Auclair was wrong. Because Auclair was right. All his life, Hyunjin had only been that—Hwang Naro’s descendant. He was pretty sure it was the only reason he got into this school in the first place. 

It felt like they—as in, a general they—were expecting something of him, only he didn’t know what it was. And maybe they didn’t even know it themselves. But everybody was just expecting. Waiting in anticipation. Hoping he would turn out to be something more. To be something at all. Something broke inside of him that day, as shame overtook him in the middle of one of the world’s most famous museums. 

It was just a name. It just so happened that Naro had a son, who had a son, who also had a son, and then that son had a son, who he named Dhako, and Dhako had a son who he named Hyunjin. Somehow, the name had persisted this way, through a long line of only sons. It meant nothing. One of these people could have been a daughter and then the chain would have been broken if she had married and taken her husband’s name. 

It was stupid. Ridiculous. And frankly, it was a little backward and macho. 

It was that day that Hyunjin realized, for the first time, that not only was he expected to somehow live up to the name, but he was also expected to continue the bloodline. He was Naro’s last descendant. 

“Hyunjin?” He jumped when the girl addressed him after coming back. Her cheeks had returned to their normal color, but she was staring at him with a frown. “Are you alright?” The girl’s name was Romane, and she looked like she was genuinely concerned.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” He said it out of habit, but happiness had never really been a familiar thing to him. It was a foreign concept. Something he knew existed but couldn’t comprehend. “I just…” 

He let his sentence trail off and become nothing and walked away, out of this particular room. He knew where his feet were taking him. His mind was blank, much like a canvas before it was claimed by an artist and they did something to it.

It took only a few minutes before he found himself standing in front of Cornelia’s Colors. It was in a smaller room, adjacent to another exposition hall that was a lot more crowded because it had a Van Gogh—Starry Night—in it. No, not that one. That one, the one that everybody knows, came after and was not currently a part of Orsay’s collection. Starry Night Over the Rhone is similar in composition and color, but less chaotic. Vincent’s soul, Hyunjin presumed, was a little more whole when he painted that one. A sublime work with lifelike lights and beautiful contrasts. 

Anyway. Hyunjin was almost alone in the room as he faced the pink bird, which was shaded with blue and black, flying in a vibrant sky. He wanted to touch it, feel the oil under his fingertips, study the expert brushstrokes. He wanted to become this bird and be beautiful too. He wanted to be something like that. He wanted to go home.

He wanted to start over. Not just college, which, arguably, he had started over a few times already. He wanted to go back to when he was just a child. Innocent. Young enough that he didn’t even know what his family name was. Young enough that he could run to his mother when he was upset and she would pick him up and sing him a lullaby. 

Young enough that his father didn’t resent him.

If he was given the opportunity to go back and change something, then he would only change one thing—he would never, not even once, pick up a paintbrush. In this life, he was made of art. It was all that he had. All that he was. It meant that he couldn’t give it up. Or rather, he knew that it would kill him when he would, in fact, give up. 

Hyunjin took a few steps back, observing the painting from afar, observing the people who were looking at it. There was an old man who didn’t linger for very long. And then, from the next room where Starry Night was shown came a young couple. The woman was speaking incredibly fast, as though she was afraid to forget her thoughts before she could express them. He listened to their conversation when he realized that she was explaining to her boyfriend—no, husband, if he could believe their ring fingers—the difference between the two Starry Nights, also mentioning other pieces from Van Gogh’s nocturne series.

Then she saw it. Cornelia’s Colors. A soft gasp spilled from her delicate lips, painted in a pink that wasn’t unlike the one she was currently looking at. She covered her mouth with a faintly trembling hand while her husband was taking her other one in his, bringing her closer to the frame so she could really see it.

“What’s this one, babe?” the man asked with a strong Australian accent, leaning closer to read the description. 

She turned to him, then to the painting again. “It’s by Naro. He’s the one who did my favorite painting.” She pressed herself closer to her husband. “It expresses the beauty and freedom of a young woman’s heart.” Tears were threatening to spill from her eyes. “Isn’t it gorgeous?” 

It was clear to Hyunjin that this man definitely found the painting pleasant to look at but in the same way he would find a sunset pleasant to look at, too. In any case, he delivered a line that surely got him laid that night. “It is,” he admitted with a playful smile. “But you’re prettier.” 

The woman buried her face in her hands, elbowing his side. “Please, for the love of god, Chr—”

Hyunjin didn’t stay to see the rest of it. He did not need to. He did not want to. 

He hadn’t admitted this to anybody before, and not even to himself, but he wanted that. He wanted his work to be hung on a wall and for it to make people cry, too. Or laugh. He wanted to inspire them to love and to hate and to exist. He wanted lipstick-coated lips to gasp upon seeing it. He wanted to force beauty into the world. He wanted lovers to think of his paintings when they made love or when they fought. He wanted students to come to the museum to sketch one of his pieces. He wanted to be the subject of PhD theses. He wanted to be remembered.

He wanted his art to matter. And he wanted it to matter because of what it was more than because of who had painted it. But, selfishly, he wanted to matter, too.

He wanted to be somebody’s favorite painter. 

Romane was still waiting for him near the Monet, not at all absorbed by her task, mostly glancing around to find him. She seemed relieved when he joined her again and did not press him when he didn’t talk. They drew together in silence, only exchanging a few words when Hyunjin asked to borrow her pencil sharpener. An hour later, when Auclair gathered the class together again outside the museum so he could give them more information about the assignment and next week’s class, Hyunjin avoided his gaze and looked at the sky instead. Then, when everybody was dismissed, he turned to Romane.

“Wanna go have a drink instead?” 

She blushed again but she nodded. They shared a meal and drinks and talked a lot. She was really, really pretty, and fun. Her medium of choice was oil pastels on canvas, but ultimately she aspired to become a researcher and study the science behind art pieces. Hyunjin found that very cool. When both of them had enough drinks, he asked her why she had agreed to come with him today.

It was such a stupid question too, and he knew it before he even finished uttering it. “Is it because of my name?” 

She averted her gaze, choosing to focus on her glass, which she emptied in one go. “No.” 

“I wouldn’t be upset if it were the case.” And that was true. He would be lying if he said he never used it to get laid. 

“But it’s not.” She licked her lips nervously. “I thought you were mysterious. And cute.” 

Romane lived with four other roommates in a tiny apartment but it was still closer to the bar than his place was. He fucked her twice, once against the wall of the bedroom she shared with another girl who was doing her homework in the living room, then again in her bed. He fucked her maybe a little harder than he needed to. He fucked her as hard as he would have wanted to punch that Auclair cunt in the face. He fucked her hard enough that she would remember him. 

They dated for a couple of months. The sex was great. One day, she asked if he wanted to fuck her ass. She had never done it before and wanted to try. Another time she wanted to have sex in a public space so she sucked him off at the back of a train. Then came the trip to Montpellier for Auclair’s class. They walked together in the museum, hand in hand, like a real couple would. And they were a real couple, Hyunjin figured. But something felt off, he just couldn’t figure out what. 

Still, she sat with him when he went to sketch the second painting he had chosen, which was Alexandre Cabanel’s Phaedra. Ultimately, he wanted to paint this one using Monet’s impressionist style and color palette, which would fundamentally change the painting, and even its meaning in some way. 

“Are you sure you want to sketch this one too?” Hyunjin asked Romane soon after they settled near the painting, which was rather large. 

She shrugged. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean, you don’t have to use the same painting as I do.” 

He saw it then, in Romane’s eyes. A certain darkness, tangible and awful. “I know,” she replied. “Do you want me to sketch something else?” 

Hyunjin sighed. He had noticed that in the past couple of weeks especially, Romane seemed to seek his validation and his affection too, using methods that he could only imagine she would come to regret one day. On days when he was a little busier and couldn’t text her as much, she would drag him to a private bathroom somewhere and give him head, not letting him return the favor. On days when Hyunjin was a little less patient, more irritated, more stressed, she would send him nudes or even videos of herself masturbating. 

But it was only then, in Montpellier, that Hyunjin realized the magnitude of it. How fucked up it was. He hated himself for not seeing it before. For letting Romane become pathetic because he wasn’t able to give her what she truly wanted, which was love. 

“You can sketch whatever you want, Romie,” he replied, keeping his voice low, troubled by the realization that had just hit him. “It’s your assignment, your grade.”

She stayed by his side for a few minutes before moving a little farther to another painting. Another Cabanel—his very famous Fallen Angel. The day went by as it normally would have—Hyunjin endured a bit more of Auclair’s backhanded compliments and snarky comments, and he sat in the silence Romane imposed on him. 

They had dinner together nonetheless and the mood improved when they discussed their plans for their respective paintings. She would paint the waterlilies in Cabanel’s style, she said, insisting once again that she could pick a different painter entirely if he preferred. 

He took her back to the hotel room he rented for the both of them. There, he told her she shouldn’t fold herself into whatever shape she thought others wanted. He told her she should find her own voice, her own ways, that she should carve her own path, even if it meant some people would like her less. It would never be a bad thing because she would discover new aspects of herself every day. 

She cried a lot, asking him if he hated her. And of course he didn’t. She was still crying when they laid down on the bed to sleep, so he held her in his arms and apologized. 

But he knew that she knew he was right. He knew, also, that this would be their last night together. So he fucked her as hard as he had the first time, drilling her into the mattress, pulling her hair, fucking her from behind. She melted a little more with each thrust, her pussy throbbing around him, soaking the sheets beneath her. She came so hard she almost blacked out, milking him in the process, but he fucked her through their orgasm. 

It was her who broke up with him as they recovered from the intense and sloppy sex. “I wanted you to love me so badly that I completely forgot who I am.” What a sad thing. “I’m so angry inside, Hyunjin. I almost hate you.”

He knew that feeling intimately. It wasn’t just love, and it wasn't hate. It was something else, something much worse, uglier. Insidious. 

Resentment.

Hyunjin dropped out of Auclair’s class right after he handed him the painting, Phaedra, in the impressionist style. He was excessively proud of it, having worked many hours on it, so much that he would surely fail other classes. It didn’t matter though. 

When he went to meet Auclair in his office to give it to him, Hyunjin informed him that he wouldn’t return to his class. Or to any class. He had made up his mind and already bought a plane ticket to go back home.

“Why did you give me this then?” Florian Auclair asked, staring at the canvas Hyunjin brought.

“Because I wanted you to see it.” He was proud of it. The painting. It had been tricky to produce after all, and the idea behind the assignment was clever. He had learned a lot through it. “Also, I just wanted to know if you resented me.”

That seemed to deeply unsettle Florian. He put the canvas down, studying it a few more seconds before turning to Hyunjin again. That was new for him—to be blunt about things, direct. To ask for the information he needed. But he had come to realize that living in uncertainty was worse than living with a truth he didn’t like. 

He had learned a few things about Auclair, mostly by asking around the people he knew in the department. Because, well, his name was known, and professors often came to him for discussions. And this is what he learned through asking—that Auclair had heard that the head of the department would offer Hyunjin a course of his own, should he choose to keep studying at their institution. However, it meant that Auclair’s experimental course would probably have to be removed from the program to accommodate him.

“It’s alright if you do,” Hyunjin added. “But I want to know and I think I’m entitled to that knowledge.” 

Maybe Auclair couldn’t admit to it. “No, I don’t resent you. I resent the way the system works.”

Hyunjin didn’t pretend he didn’t know what this was about. “I liked your course a lot. I thought you were a visionary. I wouldn’t have let them take it off the program. I wouldn’t even have wanted a course of my own. I was never a threat. They gave you a whole course right as you graduated, too.” 

Florian Auclair went to the window of his office to stare at it for a few seconds while he thought this over. It was a rather cloudy day. 

“I appreciate that you think like that and cared enough to come and tell me,” Auclair said, his gaze still turned to the cityscape outside. “They gave me a class, yes. They’re on my ass constantly though, making sure I’m not wasting their precious money by teaching it. But I know it would have been different for you. And I know you will always have it easier than any of us.” He turned to Hyunjin then. “You’re one of the best students I ever had. Your understanding of color and the way you use it…” He sighed.

Hyunjin came a little closer. “So why do you hate me?” He just needed to know. 

“I don’t hate you, Hwang. You piss me off. You’re either the best contemporary painter currently alive or you will be within a few years. But it doesn’t even fucking matter. You could be the worst and you would still be standing here in front of me anyway. Have you never thought about it? Why do you think schools let you retake courses, change majors, and it never affects your GPA? These schools—this very university—all want to be the one to hand Naro’s last descendant his diploma.” 

As much as it hurt, Hyunjin had to respect it. He looked at his assignment again, seeing it from a different eye now. He saw it all—the countless hours he spent practicing and working on his technique, all the times his father shat on his work, all the times Hyunjin had to start a painting over because he wasn’t happy with the result. He saw all the hours spent at the museum when he was younger. He saw his professors shaking his hand and praising him.

Auclair was right. 

None of it mattered.

“I think you’re doing the right thing,” Auclair added after a while. “Dropping out, I mean. All you’ll ever get here is either bias or prejudice. You should find your own way.” 

And that’s exactly what Hyunjin did. He packed his things, left, and started over. Again.

When he returned to Seoul, Hyunjin stayed with a friend he knew from his old university while he was looking for a place of his own. It was not bad at all. He had always liked Seungmin a lot anyway, even though the two of them didn’t have a lot in common at first glance. They got along well, like brothers. 

Despite being busy with his job, he helped Hyunjin a lot. He helped cheer him up after the Paris fiasco. He helped him find a job—a paid internship at the company he worked at. They were a media company with different markets such as two radio stations, podcasts, book publishing, magazine publishing, and even a small video game studio that was just starting. Hyunjin didn’t need the job per se—while he wasn’t crazy rich he had enough money to live well. But Seungmin insisted that it would keep him busy with something else, and Hyunjin had to agree. So for a few months, he would go to work and then come back home and paint, extending his stay at Seungmin’s place because it was great to live with him and it was easier this way.

Until Seungmin met a girl and it turned out to be a perfect match. 

Hyunjin found a nice apartment not too far from the office. The building was a little old but he didn’t mind—the light was good in the living room thanks to the large windows. That was the place where he painted his first commissioned work—Seungmin had asked him to paint his girlfriend’s cat so he could give it to her on her birthday. Hyunjin didn’t want to take money from him but Seungmin insisted. I want to be your first client. It made Hyunjin smile. The cat was really cute. 

Hyunjin opened an Instagram account for his work. He did it more for himself than for others, feeling like it could also serve the purpose of organizing and archiving his work. Things happened quickly then—he started selling some paintings while opening a few slots for commissions here and there. It was hard, sometimes. To let them go. The paintings. Hyunjin didn’t have much—all he had was his family name, painting supplies, and windows in his living room. He lived a rather solitary life, using his lunch breaks to sketch what he wanted to paint in the evening and his weekends to produce even more art. 

He painted. A lot. With all of his heart. It was all he had. It was all he was. It was all he could do. It was all he was meant to be. A man standing before a blank canvas. A man saturating it with the colors of his soul. It felt wrong to sell them. It felt as though he was selling parts of himself to strangers. He thought about that at night when he was in bed. By now, dozens of strangers had his sorrows, his joys, his worries, his love, his pain hung in their living room. Or maybe in a hallway, or their bedroom. 

The absence of resentment meant an absence of love. For months, he didn’t speak to any member of his family. He just painted. It was better this way. But it was very lonely. 

He was very alone. 

There were days when the sunlight filtering through his windows wasn’t enough to warm him up. Music wasn’t enough to cover the heavy silence of his empty apartment. The feeling of his paintbrushes applying oils on the canvas wasn’t enough to fill his empty heart. 

He’d go out then, with Seungmin or other people from the office who weren’t really his friends. They were just people from the office. It was better to keep people at arm’s length. Sometimes he’d even go out alone. Usually he had a few drinks and, rarely, went home with a girl. Or a guy. Their place—never his. He didn’t want people to exist in the same space where his art existed. It was fine if they saw and used his body for one night, but he did not want them to see the colors of his soul. It wasn’t like he had series and series of hookups, but sometimes it felt good to pretend. To pretend he wasn’t lonely and destined to die alone. To pretend he could be loved. To pretend he wasn’t just flesh and bones, that something, a small fire perhaps, still existed within him. 

Every time somebody bought a painting from him, he figured it was because of his family name, despite the fact that he signed his art with his first name only. Every time somebody opened their legs for him, he figured it was because of who he was, even though they had no fucking clue who he was. 

None of it mattered. But it did not mean there was no pain even though it didn’t matter. 

He painted. It was all he was meant to do. He painted until he ran out of space in his apartment to store the paintings, the canvases, his paints, and the shipping supplies required to wrap and send out his art. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. His father. Romane. Auclair. The other professors, those who were too nice to him. The ones who resented him. 

Over time, his paintings changed. He painted less. He found an art studio for rent, furnished it and transferred all of his supplies there. He thought it would help to keep art and his life separate, only there was nothing to separate—they were made of the same things, the same atoms. 

Hyunjin went to the HR department of the office to officially quit the job. He wanted it to be clear that he wasn’t quitting because he disliked working there, only, he had decided to be an artist full-time. He spent more time elaborating his projects and more time painting them, too. He tried all sorts of new techniques and mediums. 

It just so happened that the CEO of the company was also visiting HR that day, and this is how Hyunjin met Lee Minho. “I saw your work,” he told Hyunjin. “I’d like to buy something from you. Want some coffee?” 

Hyunjin was largely intimidated by the man—but that lasted only a few minutes. It turned out Minho was a warm, kind man, clever and passionate, too. He told Hyunjin that someone from upper management had sent him a link to his page. 

They talked about Hyunjin’s tortuous path in college and they talked about Minho’s love for camping. Despite being very rich, he had a very grounded attitude. 

“So, about the commission…” Hyunjin started.

“Oh, no no no. Not a commission,” Minho specified. “Just paint something, and I’ll buy it.” Seeing that Hyunjin was a little uneasy, he went on. “It’s your creative mind that I’m after—I’m not looking to have my vision come true. Paint whatever you want, however you want it, whichever size. Doesn’t matter. It can take a month or a year.” He pulled a business card out of his desk but before he handed it to him, he wrote a phone number at the back. “That’s my personal phone. Call me when it’s done. You name your price then. Any price.” 

As Hyunjin walked home that day, he realized that Lee Minho was the first person since his grandfather to blindly trust him and his abilities and to believe in him. Not once during today’s conversation did he bring up Naro or any of his art. He asked Hyunjin about his favorite locations in Europe and told him about the best fishing spots he had visited. He was too cultured and too intelligent not to know who Hyunjin was, so the omission was intentional. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. But he knew exactly what he wanted to paint and he couldn’t wait to start. 

He had been touched by Minho’s honest, almost pure appreciation of his camping trips. The way he described nature—or rather, the way he described the way he felt when he was surrounded by it. It made sense to Hyunjin to paint something reminiscent of that so he bought a huge canvas and a lot of green pigments, and got to work.

Hyunjin met Dara when he was about one week into Minho’s painting. He had stopped taking commissions and had stopped selling paintings, too. It no longer felt right to let people pay money for anything less than his absolute best. He had come to realize this—that even if he put his whole entire soul into something, it did not make it any better. It just made it more real. 

Dara moved into the art studio next to his. It was much smaller than his but fully renovated.

It’s a tale as old as time. A lonely guy meets a lonely girl and it creates sparks. One loves the other very much. The other is also in love, but their heart lives in a cage. 

And the sparks become a wildfire, ravaging them both. 

Some days, Hyunjin almost wished that Dara had never fallen in love with him—she wouldn’t resent him then. It would be easier if she just straight-up hated him. 

It’s a tale as old as time. Finding love and losing it, only to realize we never really had it in the first place. It’s such a strange feeling, like trying to hold onto sand and watching it spill from our cupped hands. 

Except you're in love with the sand, desperately so.

Jeongin waved at you frantically. “Boss! You decided to come!” 

It was damn near impossible to resist the young man’s wide smile as he watched you approach. It was his third summer here and he just loved opening day, so you always made sure he got to work on the site for at least a few hours. Enough time for him to eat some barbecue, some ice cream, and to chat with people. He was especially popular with the grandmas—they all adored him, and he left the premises with his pockets full of candy. 

This was why Jaime had come in today to be at the shop for a few hours, and also why Chris’ mom had taken a break in her retirement to take care of the office and check-ins. She didn’t like parties too much and was happy to help. Not that you or Chris had asked her. She had just assumed that you still had a beating heart inside your chest and that attending the yearly opening party was something you wanted to do. And you just didn’t have it in you to tell her that you’d much rather lock yourself in the office with your laptop and a series to binge-watch. 

But you didn’t want her to know. You didn’t want her to see the gaping wounds that you were so desperately trying to conceal because you knew they would hurt her, too. You wanted nobody to see the true magnitude of it. Just thinking about it made you want to hide somewhere. 

Everybody would know why. Everyone would figure out exactly why Chris had stopped loving you and why you were hurting so much. Even if they saw just a little. Just a slither of it. They would know. That it was all because you hadn’t been able to keep your baby safe and alive inside you. That it was because you had failed as a wife and as a mother. 

So you forced a smile on your lips. At least, Jeongin’s pleasant personality didn’t make it hard for you to be around him. “Here I am,” you said, giving him a gentle slap on the back. “Are things going alright here?”

“Concert’s going to start in about half an hour,” Jeongin explained. His tongue and his lips were stained from the blue slushy he must have drunk not long ago. It only added to his boyish aura, although you knew he was also a very serious employee and trusted him with his responsibilities. “But the hot dog stand ran out of propane, so the boss had me get one of the tanks from the emergency stash. Told me you should know.”

You nodded. Yes, you were in charge of that—the emergency supplies. Chris took care of most of the daily supplies such as food and other necessities. 

“Noted.” You stood on the hill at the end of Warbler Rd—from here, you could see most of the site. It was properly packed today, more than you had expected. More than last year for sure. “Thank you, Jeongin.” You would give him a raise this year for sure, and probably promote him to a management position at the end of the summer.

He gave you a nod, still looking at the crowd down below. He held his walkie-talkie in one hand, often lifting it to his ear to listen to whatever transmission was on the main channel, in case he would be needed somewhere. He was on Security tonight, which you had figured would give him a good opportunity to watch the concert. 

You felt warmth in your chest at the thought of pleasing someone. You weren’t doing much of that anymore these days. Chris used to be so happy when you’d pack him a lunch or bring home some trinket from a store, bought because it reminded you of him somehow. 

“Hey, Ayen,” you started, making sure to use the young man’s nickname. “Give me your radio. And your badge.” 

He turned to you so abruptly you felt the air move in between you two. It was dusk and this particular spot wasn’t too well-lit so you couldn’t see his face, but you could see his big, shocked eyes. “Are you firing me?” 

You let out a chuckle, unable to control it, letting it turn into a full-on laugh. There wasn’t a lot of that either these days, so you chose to let the sweet taste of it linger on your tongue. “Of course not! Are you insane? You know we need you here!” You gave him a friendly nudge, taking the walkie-talkie from him. “You go to the concert, I’ll cover for you tonight. If you go now you’ll have a good view… and I’m pretty sure I saw Lucy in the crowd somewhere…” 

Jeongin choked on nothing and went with the smooth recovery of a fake cough. You let it slide but you weren’t born yesterday—there was an ice cream parlor on the camping site and its owner had a daughter who was just the same age as Jeongin. And there was an undeniable chemistry between them. 

And she came to help her dad for the pre-season prep last week, with a few of her friends from college, and you heard her tell them about her crush on Jeongin. 

You carefully removed Jeongin’s name tag from his t-shirt. “Now go. And don’t worry, I’ll still pay you the full day. Just don’t drink too much, ok?”

“Thank you boss!” Jeongin gave you a big hug before leaving, basically prancing away towards the stage where the concert would take place.

The warmth in your chest lingered until you lost sight of him, and then you were alone again. It was dark by then already, dusk turning into night. You hung the walkie-talkie at your belt and began your round, deciding to start by the corner where the restaurant and ice cream shop were. Sometimes, some reluctant teenagers, dragged here by force by their parents, could cause some mild issues if there wasn’t anybody around.

It was a rather short walk there, but you were stopped a few times on your way by people who had questions or needed directions. It was night when you reached the courtyard and you found yourself slowing down as you approached. You could hear voices, almost whispers, coming from there. You put your hand on your walkie-talkie, ready to ask for help if you needed. Until you heard a laugh. A laugh that sounded like a bright sunrise. 

Chris was here.

You let go of your radio, scanning the area to find him. Almost all of the tables were empty except for three, occupied mostly by older people who wanted nothing to do with a cover band and just wanted to enjoy some ice cream before they went to sleep. 

Then you saw him. Chris. He was flattening empty cardboard boxes on the other side of the courtyard, but he wasn’t alone. 

Now here’s the thing. 

You knew he didn’t love you anymore. Most days, you hoped he would do something to free the both of you from this prison. You hoped he would sit you down and ask for a divorce or something, only, he didn’t, and you knew why. You understood—he did not like giving up. He was allergic to failure. And sometimes it cost him a lot, but he couldn’t help it. You had always loved that about him. His determination, his strength. 

Here’s the other thing.

The camping site was quite large and it demanded a lot of maintenance. So, two years ago, you hired a landscaping company to do it for you during the busy months. This way, everything was neat all the time and even a lot prettier than it used to be since neither you nor Chris had time to do much gardening around here. The landscaping company was small and familial. A man with his son and daughter. The man was close to retirement age but stubborn as hell. The son was a few years older than you and the daughter a few years younger. Both of them were lovely people, much like their father. 

The woman’s name was Summer, and she looked just like it. Silky hair, gorgeous face. She radiated warmth. A bright smile, an honest smile. A voice like music. A good heart, too, hidden inside her beautiful body. 

She was here with Chris tonight, and this wasn’t a rare occurrence. Since she was on site almost every day, they saw each other often during high season, and they got along exceptionally well. A little too well even.

The worst part was that you couldn’t dislike her because she was a great person. Intelligent, funny. Kind. Generous. 

No, scratch that.

The worst part was that she obviously wanted to fuck Chris and Chris obviously wanted to fuck her. Only you knew he didn’t and you almost hated him for it. You loved him even more for it. They spent a lot of time together, just like tonight. But he didn’t fuck her because he was too good of a person for that, too loyal. But he was being loyal to something that was killing him from the inside. 

They were flattening empty boxes and making piles of them. He laughed again at something that Summer said and your heart dropped in your chest. There wasn’t a lot of that these days. Laughter. But Chris laughed when he was with Summer. 

You quickly turned away before either of them could see you, fleeing the scene as though it was you who had been caught red-handed. 

You couldn’t hold it against him. You wouldn’t even hold it against Chris if he did have sex with her. But of course, none of that meant it didn’t hurt you. There were days you wanted to tell him everything. I love you, Chris. I think you should sleep with Summer. That would hurt him. And then the both of you would hurt and it wouldn’t benefit anybody. 

There were fewer people on the trails as the concert was beginning—you could hear the evening’s host make his speech before the band would come on stage and play. Tears burned your eyes and you tried very hard to hold them back, knowing it was dark but that you could be seen by a staff member at any moment regardless. Nobody could see you because they would know then. They’d run into you here, see the tears on your face, and then keep walking and run into Chris, who was being Chris and not a ghost version of himself, with Summer. And they would know.

You took a deep breath, then another, still walking your usual round through the camping site. 

Maybe it had to be you. Maybe you would need to hurt Chris even more and tell him that you wanted a divorce. You couldn’t tell him you were setting him free—he would just resent you even more for that. He would say, don’t put this on me, and he would be right to say so. After the storm would pass, though, he’d ask what the both of you were supposed to do now. He’d leave the house to you, surely. But this—the camping, the store. You knew he couldn’t leave it. 

But you wondered if you, however, could. 

Maybe you could sell your ownership parts to somebody. Summer’s dad, for example. He liked the place and knew it well. He would give your job to his daughter and then Chris would get to see her even more often and everyone would be happy. 

But this—the camping, the river, the forest. It was all that you had always known. You remembered college well and how it never felt right to be somewhere that wasn’t here. You never felt quite at home and you had made the mistake of making Chris your home instead. 

It was all that you deserved anyway. To feel astray and exiled wherever you went. You had failed as a mother and then as a wife and this was all life’s poetic way of punishing you. You had lost so much. You had lost everything. You had lost too many parts of yourself to remember who you were supposed to be.

“Come ON! It already started!”

A pleading voice broke the quietness of the immediate area around you. While you could definitely hear the first notes of the concert—the band always started with a cover of Barbie Girl, rock version—it seemed that nobody was in this part of the site. Well, except for the two people you could hear arguing. 

You were in the RV area, which was either populated with elderly couples or rich ones who wanted to get a taste of camping without having to sleep on a cot or on the ground. The trail here was well-lit and, in the light silence, you could hear the river just behind. You passed a few RVs and then noticed a black Jeep Patriot. 

“You dragged me all the way to this… place, that’s already a lot, Lee. I’m not going to a concert tonight. I can hear the music from here!” 

Your heart missed a few beats when you recognized Hyunjin’s voice. You slowed down, knowing you probably shouldn’t, but you couldn’t help it.

Both he and Minho were standing outside by their RV. There was a small fire lighting up their area. They seemed to have unpacked a lot of things but a few containers were still stacked up by the door. While Hyunjin still had his stylish outfit from earlier, Minho had changed into jeans and a t-shirt, looking relaxed. 

“That’s the problem with you,” Minho told Hyunjin, shaking his head. “You’re afraid of fun. Your brain immediately jumps to the option that would provide you with the least dopamine, which then makes you crave dopamine and search for it in stupid places.” 

“Stop psychoanalyzing me,” Hyunjin retorted. “I pay someone to do that. A professional.” He paused then, looking at Minho as he was searching into one of the containers only to pull a light sweater from it. “I take my meds. I just don’t want to go. I want to draw.” 

Minho sighed. “You draw all the time.”

Hyunjin mumbled something you couldn’t make out. By then, no matter how much you had slowed down your pace so as not to be seen or heard, you had made it to their lot. It just so happened that it was also where the road ended, with a fence blocking cars from going any further but allowing visitors to sit by the river. You glanced at the riverfront, making sure no one was there since nobody was supposed to be too close to the water after dark. When you were certain it was safe, you turned back and started walking from where you came… 

…and ran into Minho as he was walking away from the RV. So much for not being seen.

“Hey, uh, check-in lady!” He offered you a smile. “Didn’t think I’d see you around here.” 

You waved the flashlight you were holding as though it was police evidence, feeling warmth creeping up at the back of your neck. For some reason, being in his—and Hyunjin’s—presence unsettled you. And it made it so much worse not to know exactly why. “I’m making rounds.”

“You also do security? Talk about a resourceful woman. Love to see it.” Minho glanced behind him and you followed his gaze. Hyunjin had taken a seat on a camping chair by the fire with a sketchbook in hand but was staring in your direction. The flush at your neck spread all over your face and you thanked all the gods you knew that it wasn’t daytime. “Are you a manager or something?” 

Your gaze lingered for a few too many seconds on the man behind Minho, even after he had turned to you again. Hyunjin was now pretending not to be listening to your conversation, his head in his sketchbook, using the fire as sole lighting. The flames reflected on his skin the same way sun rays refracted in water, swaying lazily. 

“Uh… actually…” you started, your mind occupied mostly by Hyunjin’s peculiar posture and the way he was holding his pencil like it was too small for his large hand. “I—I’m the owner. Of the camping.” You did look at Minho then, only to see his eyes widening in surprise.

“Really? Damn!” He reached out, offering you his hand to shake. You reciprocated mostly out of habit, although you found his reaction a bit excessive, yet adorable. “I have to compliment you then. This place is awesome. Somehow you’ve managed to make a family-friendly camping site without being boring for childless people. Everything’s clean, well-thought and organized. And that lobster mac and cheese at the restaurant… absolutely divine. Hyunjin ate two bowls.” 

You forced yourself not to look behind him. “I appreciate it and I’ll make sure to send your compliments to the chef,” you spoke playfully. The ‘chef’ was Marlene, a woman in her 70s who refused to retire but complained about work just about every day. She did make the best damn mac and cheese in the state, though. “I should admit it’s not like I established the camping or anything, I…” 

You hesitated for a few seconds, realizing you didn’t want to say the words my husband, which were necessary for you to tell the full story of Riverside Campground. 

No, that wasn’t just it.

You didn’t want Minho—or the guy who was very obviously eavesdropping behind him—to know you were married.

And now it was taking you way too many seconds to come up with a rephrasing of that initial sentence. You were wasting Minho’s time.

“My parents owned the general store uphill,” you started. “Their close friends owned the campground. Their son and I run things now.”

Their son.

“That’s awesome! I also run the company my father started.” If Minho had noticed your unease he didn’t let it show. “I always love to hear how people manage their employees or their investments…” He shook his head as though he was deciding something. “Look, come by anytime if you wanna chat, ok? I’ve always said people can learn from one another—should learn from one another.” 

“Yeah, sure, thanks.” You smiled, taking a few steps back. “Hope you enjoy the show—they’re a fun band. Call the number on the map if you need anything.” 

“Thanks! Have a nice night!” Minho waved at you and, instead of following you, turned to Hyunjin. They spoke in quiet voices that you heard less and less as you walked away. 

It felt good to disappear into darkness again. To be invisible once more. You kept your flashlight off so as not to be seen. There was something stuck in your throat—tears, sure, but tangled with excruciating shame. 

You should have said My husband’s parents owned the campground and now we run things after their retirement. Or something like that. But you didn’t.

You made your way back to the empty lot where the concert was taking place. It was packed and it looked like people were having a good time already, singing along and waving their lit-up phones in the air. You found yourself missing the period of your life when such a sight made you happy. Because you were already happy, or as happy as you could be anyway. You missed the woman you were then—warm and kind and funny. 

You did a few more rounds than necessary but at least it kept you away from the concert. Still, you hummed along to the songs you knew, quietly, walking alone in the dark. Just like any time you were on your own, your mind wandered, forcing you to imagine ten or a hundred divorce scenarios. There was once a time—maybe up until a few months ago—where it was still bearable, where you believed that things could be mended even though they could never be like before. 

Everything was different now, and tonight was just one more proof of it. 

You circled around a few times but when the end of the concert came near, you returned toward the stage area to help the crowd make it back to their camping site. The field was almost empty when you saw Chris. He had put on a black hoodie over his t-shirt and he was talking with Summer. Again. Both of them stood by the path, nodding and saluting the guests as they walked away but never cutting their conversation short. 

You looked away, turning your gaze at the sky instead. There were still too many lights on to allow you to see all of the stars.

Was that really it?

Was he no longer your best friend? Was he just somebody’s son? You wondered what you were to him exactly, other than the place where his daughter had died. Did he harbor, still, a few warm sentiments for you? Or had his love—all of it—turned into resentment? You wondered if he had noticed your presence at all, or if, maybe, he was pretending he hadn’t.

You checked your phone only to realize you wanted to stay outside for much longer than the hour you had left. You didn’t want to go home, even if Chris rarely went there for very long anymore. Something about today was different—you felt it in your bones, as though there had been a shift. But it did not show itself, staying hidden in the shadows somewhere, waiting. Or maybe you weren’t ready to know yet.

You texted Jake, who was supposed to come in in an hour to cover the night security shift. He had been working here for many, many years—before you became owners, he used to wash dishes at the restaurant—and he was among your most trusted employees. You thought about your text for a few seconds before typing it. Hey Jake! Look, I accidentally scheduled both Maggie and you for tonight. Since she’s already here, I thought I could give her tonight’s shift and you could come in tomorrow instead? But it felt wrong to lie to him. You were lying. To everyone. Every minute of every day. Every ghost of a smile was a pretense. Every I’m great! What about you, how are things? was yet another fabrication. And you were tired of pretending.

You: Hey Jake. Do you want tonight off? I’ll pay you half your night

The response took no time.

Jake: Sure! Jake: everything ok? is there a problem?

You: No problem. I just feel like being outside so I’ll cover for you. I’ll see you tomorrow?

This time, he took a little longer to reply but you could only figure that the exchange must be strange from his perspective.

Jake: call me if you need me to come in anyway. see you tomorrow, boss.

He had started calling you boss when Jeongin began doing so. The two liked teasing you with it. They were good guys, and the use of the nickname warmed up your heart a little. 

You were about to circle back to do another round when you ran into—once again—Minho. To your utmost surprise, he wasn’t alone. You had noticed over the evening that Hyunjin was no longer sitting outside the RV but you had obviously assumed that he was inside and had gone to bed. You were a little shocked to see him walk with Minho, the two of them talking with their heads close to one another, as though they didn’t want to be heard. Then Hyunjin lifted his gaze, establishing direct eye contact with you.

You froze. And he froze, too, prompting you to quickly look away. He must have thought you were staring or even stalking him. Your heart raced in your chest again, the same way it had earlier while he checked in and then again near their RV. God, what would he think of you? Surely he would think this had something to do with Naro’s paintings. Or maybe he would just think you were weird.

Minho, however, didn’t seem to think anything nefarious—his face was illuminated by a smile when he followed Hyunjin’s eyes. “Hey! You again!” He waved at you, elbowing Hyunjin. “Be nice,” he told him. 

You pressed your lips together, your mind going a thousand miles an hour trying to calm yourself down. There was nothing to be so worked up about. He was just some guy. Hyunjin. He was literally just a guy. 

Minho walked toward you. “You were right. The show was awesome,” he said. He was, for sure, very generous with his compliments. “Even Hyunjin ended up coming by.” 

Hyunjin nodded slowly. “Yeah. It was great.” He smiled. He made himself smile, more like.

“Look, I bought a bunch of bacon and eggs and other stuff,” Minho started. “I bought too much. Do you wanna come by for breakfast tomorrow morning? I’d love to talk with you about how you run this business. And Hyunjin is shy, but I’m sure he’d like to talk to you about art.”

Flames spread on your cheeks. You exhaled, finding yourself unable to inhale. Your skin burned in places—your face, your ears, the back of your neck, even your chest. It felt like you had been under the sun for too long. 

Minho was about to say something else but he closed his mouth and took one step back, looking behind you. You twisted your neck to see what had silenced him and found yourself muted too. Your insides—hot like lava just a second ago—turned to ice. 

Would it be exaggerated to say it felt as though he had caught you cheating? Perhaps. And yet you felt exactly like that—like he had seen you do something you weren’t supposed to do. You wouldn’t feel any differently if you were six years old and a store owner had caught you stealing a candy bar while your mom was looking away. 

“Hey,” Chris told you with a smile but you knew something about this smile wasn’t quite right. “What are you doing here?” He was there, just standing there, and Summer was a few feet behind him, only, she was now the one wearing the black hoodie that Chris had on just earlier. You tried to feel some kind of way about that piece of information but your brain made you unable to process it at all, moving on to something else.

We’re just talking, I don’t know them, you almost said, your heart racing. But then he gave the walkie-talkie you were holding a nod of the head and you understood what he was saying.

“I—Uh—figured I’d let Jeongin enjoy his evening since his friends were here,” you explained with a shaky voice. “I’ll cover tonight’s shift too. I made a mistake in the schedule and I didn’t want to call anyone at the last minute for it, since I’m already up.” 

 Chris’ facial expression changed ever so slightly—his eyes took a faint squint and you could imagine he was scanning his memory to remember tonight’s schedule. It was hosted on a shared account—apparently, you had forgotten that little detail. You quickly pulled out your phone and subtly erased Jake’s name, which was very much there under tonight’s date, and showed your screen to Chris.

“I thought Jake was coming in,” Chris replied with a shrug. Then he turned to the two other men. “Good evening,” he said in his customer service voice. “Is there anything we can help you with?” 

You averted your eyes, unable to look at anyone currently involved in the conversation. 

“No sir, thank you very much,” Minho replied with a tone that was a little too merry. Perhaps he hadn’t appreciated being interrupted in the middle of a conversation, which you could understand. “We were simply giving our compliments to the lady.” 

“Compliments?” He looked at you then at him. You, on the other hand, observed Summer, all wrapped up in your husband’s hoodie. The one you had given him for his birthday a few years ago. 

“He is the co-owner,” you said, not even looking at either of the guys, only staring Summer down. You didn’t want to hate her. Hell, you didn’t hate her at all. But she could try to be a little less obvious, especially in public. 

“The co-owner?” Minho seemed surprised but still offered his hand to shake nonetheless. Meanwhile, Hyunjin was just glancing around with his hands in his pockets, his hair hiding most of his face. “Christopher…” 

All employees—Chris and you included—had badges with their names on them. Mostly it was a way to let all the guests know who they could ask for help or directions, and the names were a little friendlier than the simple mention of ‘staff’ on a t-shirt. 

You saw Minho make sense of things. First, he saw Chris’ last name. Then he looked at yours—again. 

You could see the cogs turning in his head. “So you two are related?” 

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

You knew it had to be you. It always had to be you, somehow—but it was the burden bestowed upon you for what you had done. For what you had failed to do. It was life’s poetic way of punishing you for being inadequate. 

Four seconds. And four seconds of silence, when right in the middle of a conversation, might just as well be four hours.

To your—and everyone’s—surprise, it was Hyunjin who spoke first, relieving you of this cumbersome task that had been following you for years. 

“They’re married, Min,” he said from behind his hair, his voice strangely quiet and low. 

Minho’s mouth fell open but he tried to conceal whatever emotion that was by nodding fervently. “Ah! Of course, of course. Well, nice meeting you, Mr. Bahng. This is a fine business you have here, as I told your wife earlier.” They shook hands. “Lee Minho, Hwang Hyunjin. We’re over at the RV site. We should probably get going.”

“Thank you for choosing Riverside Campground!” Chris waved at them when they turned to leave. “Hope you enjoy your stay!”

Minho smiled flatly at you, waving with very little enthusiasm. Hyunjin didn’t wave but he lingered around a few seconds more than his friend. Or boyfriend. You still had no fucking clue who they were to one another. 

“Bye,” he told you. 

Not to Chris and certainly not to Summer. He spoke to you, just you. 

There was a rumbling somewhere deep within your chest. Like something there wanted to come back to life.

Hyunjin’s story goes like this—

His life was never normal, partially because of his family name and a lot because of the pressure his father felt about his own family name, all of which he projected onto his son. He tried many things. He tried to get away from painting but that didn’t work. He tried to become a scholar but that, also, didn’t work. He broke exactly one heart and had his broken a few times, but never in an irreversible way, even when it felt like it. Until he met Dara.

His life was never normal until he met Dara. He liked her as soon as they met and the spark was indubitable. Others noticed it too—Seungmin, then Minho when he came to visit Hyunjin in his studio to see where his commissioned painting was at. Hyunjin’s mother even noticed something. You seem happy these days my son, she told him. And he was happy, for the first time in a long time, or maybe ever. Like he hadn’t been happy before and was only discovering the taste of it. 

It’s a tale as old as time. A lonely guy meets a lonely girl and it creates sparks. One loves the other very much. The other is also in love, but their heart lives in a cage. 

It was one of the first things he learned about Dara. The morning of the second day they knew each other, he knocked at her studio door with coffee. She was unpacking supplies and other things. Among them was a stunning painting of a flower but broken into hundreds of uneven pieces, as though it was made of glass. Dara told Hyunjin she painted it the day her ex broke up with her. There was another painting stored with it, this time depicting a woman with abstract lines, some of them even violent with how powerful of a stroke they had required. Red paint was splattered across the entire canvas, which was large. The woman was holding something small in her hand, something that the viewer couldn’t see—he could only feel its significance. 

Dara didn’t tell Hyunjin this from the get-go—she used other words on that second day. A little later, though, when they were having drinks on the tiny balcony of his studio, she said this: “I can’t love again you know? It’ll kill me. I don’t trust people anyway.”

It was a cool night, but not too cool either, or maybe it was thanks to the wine they kept drinking. Hyunjin looked into his glass—in the dark, it seemed like it held black ink, or poison, instead of wine. 

“Isn’t that what everyone does these days?” He shrugged. “Situationships, I mean.” 

Dara burst into a laughter so pure it sounded a little like crystal bells, or even like beautiful notes on an ancient violin. Hyunjin sat quietly, letting Dara’s profound beauty permeate him. She had stunning eyes—expressive, deep, honey-brown eyes, and he loved staring into them. 

“Do I look like I can do situationships?” And he knew what she meant—when Dara did something, she did it with her whole entire heart and soul, whether it was a painting, a conversation, or eating a meal. He could only imagine how passionate of a lover she might be.

They both laughed at that. “I guess not. I don’t even know how that works, to be honest. I understand one-night stands more than situationships.” After all, he had a few of those. One-night stands. To fill some void that was still very much unfilled. “Do people go to others and be like, hey, wanna fuck but like, just fuck? Repeatedly?”

“RIGHT?” Dara slammed the table, almost causing the wine to fall off it. “My other question is, how do you even have this sort of relationship with someone you’re not in love with?” 

“I don’t get it either,” Hyunjin admitted before drinking some wine. He hesitated a little before saying the words that were on his mind. “Does that mean you’ll never have sex again?” 

Dara’s laughter died in the night. She didn’t seem upset at the question—she took her time to think about it, drinking and lighting a cigarette. “Guess so, uh?” Then, maybe in an attempt to soothe the slight unease that was creeping up on the balcony, she gestured around at nothing. “It’s not like there’s a queue for my bed anyway.” 

The truth is Hyunjin’s cock twitched in his pants at that. He blamed it a little on being touch-deprived. The truth is, Hyunjin, at that point, didn’t know that he was already in love with Dara. They spent entire days together, just the two of them, in either of their studios, painting and talking and painting. Talking about painting. Talking about love. About their past. And everything about it was easy and he never stopped to overthink it. Because it felt right.

It felt normal. For the first time ever, somebody was seeing him, perceiving him, and not walking away, not demanding more or less of him. For the first time, someone liked Hyunjin just the way he was. 

To this day Hyunjin couldn’t tell what overtook him—what kind of boldness possessed him at that moment, because he wasn’t exactly the kind of guy to say these things. But he said, “But of course people want to fuck you. Why wouldn’t they?” God, that was an awfully direct thing to say to somebody he saw every day. But what it really meant was, Of course I’d fuck you. In a heartbeat. Right here right now. 

But he still didn’t know that he was in love with her.

Dara didn’t push it. They went home separately, but that night was the first night Hyunjin thought of her when he jerked off in the shower. He thought of Dara, her mouth, the way she applied paint, her laugh, her broken heart as he fucked into his hand, his forehead pressed on the cool ceramic tile. And he was ashamed. But he still didn’t know that he was in love with her.

Hyunjin’s story goes like this—his bond with Dara grew stronger as weeks passed. He trusted her and she trusted him, both of them surprised at how easy it was to open up to the other. 

Hyunjin’s story goes like this—they got drunk one night in his studio, and Dara kissed him. And it was exactly at that moment that he finally realized he loved her, that he had loved her this whole time. He kissed her back and they talked a lot. They kissed more. They made love three times throughout the night, first on the floor, then on a table, and then on the couch he had in his studio for when he needed to take a nap. For him, it felt as though his fate was sealed. Because nothing had ever felt like this before, and he knew that nothing ever would again. 

Because at some point into the night, Dara pinned him down to the floor, riding him like a goddess would ride an ocean or something like it, and she leaned down to kiss him and to whisper three little words on his lips, and he believed her.

Hyunjin’s story goes like this—Dara meant it when she told Hyunjin that she loved him. But she also meant it when, a few weeks earlier, she told him that she couldn’t love again. It might have been more accurate to say that she wouldn’t love again, but to her, there was no difference between the two. The paradox spawned something dark within her, although she tried to hide it. Maybe she knew she would hurt Hyunjin. Maybe she knew she had already hurt him. 

But Hyunjin wasn’t an idiot. He was in love but he wasn’t stupid. Dara had made it very clear before, and lovemaking, as visceral and passionate as it might have been, wouldn’t change that. He knew it. Yet, somewhere deep within his heart, he held the hope that maybe Dara’s love would be as big as his, and a love like this could move mountains. It could certainly move aside the fears haunting her since it did exactly that for him. So he waited, patiently. And all that Dara did was drift away from him. 

He stopped painting. Meanwhile, Dara couldn’t stop painting. He went to the studio every day, and everything was the same except that he was in love with her and Dara was in love with him but she didn’t want to, or couldn’t, be with him. He tried his best to hide it. He tried because he knew it would hurt her if she ever came to realize the emptiness she had left within him. 

So things went downhill. And they could have gone very low if it weren’t for Minho who, one random day, showed up at Hyunjin’s place to inquire about the painting he had commissioned him a while ago. Not with the intention to rush him, just to ask about it. But he found Hyunjin in a profound state of decay. After all, he hadn’t seen him for months. But Minho understood—he, too, had lost his first love. 

Hyunjin’s story goes like this—he learned that resentment could only exist in a place where there was once love when he felt it in Dara. Regret. Resentment. As though he was a reminder of the love she could feel but not give. One time, Dara confronted him about it and he had to pretend he was okay about the whole ordeal and he hated doing that. What an awful feeling. To keep a love silent. Secret. But he did it for her sake. He said it was okay. And that was a lie.

It took a long time. He and Dara had a lot of conversations about it. They had a lot of conversations about many other things, too. Their friendship remained the same. If anything, it grew stronger than ever. He started painting again and things were good. He was exclusively painting commissions now and he was quite successful. He took his time with them, truly giving each painting the love they deserved. After all, it was the only thing he could love openly, so he did that. He put all the love he had for Dara in each stroke of a brush, in every little bit of impasto he could, in every vibrant red he used. And his art had never been as beautiful, so he knew that his love was true. 

Hope takes such a long time to die. But it dies. 

Hyunjin’s story goes like this.

He fell in love and then he fell in despair. And when he reached the bottom of it all, he had to climb back up. And he did. Only, nothing was ever the same after.

The night was quiet and your mind was anything but. 

No matter how hard you tried to chase them away, the thoughts always returned. Mostly Chris. Your determination to avoid him. Your determination to keep an eye on him to see if he cheated on you yet. The pain of knowing he wouldn’t cheat on you, even if it killed him not to. Naro’s Loss. Your loss. Minho’s insightful eyes. 

Hyunjin. Just Hyunjin. 

Most people were still up and about on your first patrol of the night, perhaps needing to unpack a few more things after the concert. It was calm at the RV site—Minho and Hyunjin’s lights were off entirely. You lingered a little longer than you needed there but it was to listen to the river. It was the best spot to observe it too, which you often did in the daylight. 

The general store was open a few nights of the week, including tonight. Sometimes it was the same employee who handled the shop and security duty and sometimes it wasn’t. You should have been at the shop tonight while Jake handled security but now it was just you. And it felt better and worse at once.

After the patrol, you took refuge in the shop’s back room, sorting items and taking inventory. You only had two clients show up, one for a pillow and the other for some late-night snacks. 

It was better here than out there. Because here, you were forced to think about work. You weren’t just walking, and some less pleasant thoughts couldn’t haunt you as easily. You played music on the speaker Chris had bought for the store last year. You unboxed the cutlery you hadn’t been able to shelve earlier. You unboxed the remainder of the kids’ section you hadn’t had time to do before. Small water pistols, coloring books, frisbees, sweet-smelling SPF, sidewalk chalk sets, children’s shampoos and body cleansers. Balls, ring toss games, a few storybooks. 

Watercolor paint sets. The small ones, with cheap plastic brushes. 

It was always you who did it. Unboxing the items for the kids’ section. Because Chris couldn’t, or wouldn’t. Not that there was much of a difference in his case. He had done it the very next summer after Judith and then never after. Not a single word had been said about it—he would sometimes set up the shop in just a day, getting everything ready pretty much all on his own. Except for the children's stuff. It would remain in its boxes in a corner of the storage room until someone took care of it. You. Or someone else. His mom used to do it. But it had to be you because you were the one who deserved that punishment. 

The watercolors were the last item you stacked on a shelf. You kept them for last on purpose, Hyunjin’s image permeated the fog in your mind, no matter how thick and how dark it was. More smoke than fog. Like something had been on fire for a long time and yet there was nothing left to burn. But it somehow still burned.

You returned to the counter, reaching for the iced coffee left next to your phone. However, your hand hovered the device instead, and you grabbed it almost like you didn’t mean to. It didn’t stop you from immediately opening a search engine and typing Hwang Hyunjin inside it. 

The results were mostly unsurprising. First was his Insta account on which no pictures of himself appeared. Instead, it was all art. His, or museum visits, or stunning pictures of whichever scenery moved him on a given day. It seemed to you like he was into photography at least a little because you could tell he used fancy cameras and different lenses depending on the location. You scrolled mindlessly, trying to see as much as you could as quickly as possible, almost as though there was a time limit. Almost as though someone would catch you. As if it was bad to look at someone’s profile on social media. 

Yet, the more time passed, the slower you went. Always careful not to accidentally like any picture so you remained unseen, your eyes refused to follow, lingering on the art that Hyunjin created. You found yourself studying many of his paintings for several minutes.

He was incredible.

Describing his style would be difficult because it seemed like Hyunjin couldn’t help but try new things. New techniques and methods, all the types of paint known to mankind or something like it, varied compositions. All sorts of genres, too. Still life, portraits, landscapes, seascapes, figurative styles or charcoal sketches. 

First you noticed his contemporary impressionist paintings. Or rather, the way he used color in it like the subject of the painting was telling a lie and the color palette was telling the true story. Two lovers in a bed, entangled, only most of the canvas was saturated in blacks. Different blacks, expertly blended. A stormy sea with treacherous currents. Again, most of the canvas was dark. A boy sitting at a table, drawing, and his eyes were oozing black. 

His expressionist pieces were just as poignant. Two lovers again—their outline chaotic yet undeniably recognizable. The two of them were kissing, and it looked like a passionate kiss, too. One of them was saturated red, the color spilling all over, staining the other with it. A beautiful, deep Alizarin Crimson, to be more exact, which was a shade of red that you particularly appreciated. Hyunjin used it often, or so it would seem.

Not two pieces were the same and yet they all obviously belonged to Hyunjin’s artistic genius. It was a little as if he used his soul in place of paint, and you could feel it through the screen of your phone. 

You sat with it all for a while, lazily continuing your search. While his Insta seemed official and like he was selling paintings through it, he also had a website that served as a portfolio. Nowhere did it mention his blood relation to a renowned painter. 

The pieces in his portfolio were even more refined, but one in particular caught your eye.

It was titled Resentment. Mixed media on canvas.

Two lovers. Again. Two silhouettes sitting, intertwined together and making love, surrounded by a variety of objects, made prisoners by them. The objects were like tangled strings, wrapped around them, their chests, their wrists, their throats. You wouldn’t say the lovers appeared unbothered by this strange prison but while it hindered their movements, they also seemed resolute to focus on one another, pretending they weren’t being choked to death by a string of broken Christmas lights. The glass shards punctured their skin much like the roses that were braided into them, whose thorns made them bleed. Headphone cords, coarse sisal rope scratching them all over. A silk ribbon around an ankle, tied too tightly, so tight it cut the skin there, too. Chains, heavy or fine, leaving their marks on arms or stomachs or thighs.

You let go of your phone, speechless, realizing your vision was blurred by tears. This was clearly inspired by a very real and personal part of Hyunjin’s life and yet it was something else you saw in the painting. You could feel the desperation, the weariness, the torment. The love. Painful, raw, real as hell.

It was Chris and you that you pictured, tangled in strings of resentment strong enough that they were, slowly but surely, suffocating both of you.

You covered your mouth, looking away, your mind running marathons as it emptied itself, leaving only vivid memories playing at a loud volume. The first time Christopher kissed you. That time when you were eight years old and you fell and scratched your knee and the blood scared him so much he cried. Being locked in his bedroom as teenagers, listening to music, laying in his bed, in love and unable to admit it even to yourself. Being in love with Chris. Chris being in love with you. The time he took you on a trip to Paris. When he fucked you here on this very counter after slow dancing with you in the shop. Waking up in the same bed as him. 

Waking up in the same bed as him and being whole, still.

Sometimes, you read a book, watched a movie, or saw a painting that reminded you what it was like to be in love. Actively. Not just in the passive way, but in the painful way. Not the kind of love that was a memory. A ghost. A love that used to be something and turned into less.

Here is what happens to a heart that loves something that doesn’t love it the same way. Something that loves back but from a distance. An intentional distance, put there to protect one or both parties. A love that is incompatible. 

It hurts. At first, it hurts. The worst kind of pain. Excruciating. It feels like you’re dying except you’re not, you’re painfully alive until you wish you weren’t anymore, until the ache morphs into something else. Something even darker. The absence of light. The absence of warmth. You’ve already lost big parts of yourself at that point and you’re starting to understand they’ll never come back. 

The human body and the human mind have a limit to how much damage they can endure. To how much agony they can withstand. Unfortunately, that limit is very high. It destroys you, slowly, molecule by molecule. It drains the colors out of life first, and then out of you. This is when you start feeling like nothing is quite worth it anymore because you’ve lost the ability to appreciate things. It’s not worth it. It doesn’t feel worth it anyway. Then one day you see a beautiful sky over a mountain and it doesn’t even move you. It’s not beautiful. It is just a sky over a mountain.

You miss it. You miss them. You miss the less damaged version of you. You’re ashamed because you allowed somebody to fill in the voids of your soul. And now that they’re gone, as though the ocean recedes at low tide, your edges, sharp and rugged, are exposed. Bare. Raw and sensitive like open wounds.

Loss. Only something that occupies a vast amount of space within you can cause it. At one point, you realize the emptiness has nothing to do with the tides—you become aware of the tsunami that is about to drown you. What was taken from you is returned tenfold, only not in the form of love. It’ll seep through your skin and infiltrate your lungs. Grief. Sorrow. Melancholy. Resentment. Aloneness. 

Forced upon you. Waterboarded upon you.

This is when you pull away. From people. From things. From life. Not even intentionally, but it happens nonetheless. As a defense mechanism perhaps. You become the one who puts a distance between the world and you, but it doesn’t even matter, for you are barely corporeal anyway, and nothing or nobody can touch you.

The alarm on your phone went off, pulling you back to reality, only you weren’t here yet, not entirely. It was time for your second patrol of the night. And you were crying. And you were making peace with the second most violent thing that had ever happened to you, which was the fact that Christopher was being choked to death by resentment and it was your fault. And maybe you, too, were struggling for air, and you couldn’t save him. You couldn’t save either of you. It felt like all you could do was watch life fading away from him, the same as it was from you. 

Of course, someone with an outsider’s perspective might tell you that if Chris seemed resolute not to ask for a divorce because it would be a failure and he didn’t like failures, why didn’t you do it? After all, you were the one to say it always had to be you—what was so different about this? And they would be right. But they would be wrong, too. The failure would remain no matter who initiated it. So maybe it was inevitable, but on top of being the place where his baby had died, you would also be what had officially brought forth the biggest failure of his life. Because that’s what he would say. You knew him. 

And you were not quite ready to be hated by him. It was one thing not to be loved by Chris. But hatred? Loathing, even, maybe? No. You weren’t strong enough to do it, not now at least.

You walked the same path as you had previously, your eyes blank, advancing almost like a zombie, your head filled with awful things. With beautiful things turned awful, too. And those were even worse. 

The campground was quiet except for the chirping of crickets and the song of tree frogs echoing in the woods, the sound of them bouncing on the trunks of trees. Your mind was lingering in the kids’ section of the shop but the sounds of the night anchored you and you let them. The soft soil underneath your walking boots. The river flowing steadily. The stars in the sky. Your mind was lingering on a painting as beautiful as it was sad, and somehow, you were seeing the world with different eyes and hearing it with different ears. Like something had shifted inside you, but it was too early to figure out what exactly. Maybe it was just that you relished that feeling of knowing you weren’t as alone as you thought you were. Someone understood you, even if it was, maybe, in a different shade of aloneness. It was aloneness anyway. Unfortunately for him, Hyunjin seemed to be able to portray the sorrow that afflicted you, which meant he must be intimate with it, too. What a terrible thing to be burdened by.

You wondered if you would ever get the chance to ask him. How would you even go about it? You couldn’t picture yourself straight up telling him you had looked him up. It sounded stalky and weird. He had seemed reluctant to share some parts of his personal life earlier, which was understandable considering you were a total stranger to him. You knew Lee Minho had invited you to breakfast out of politeness but, obviously, you wouldn’t go. Because you were a stranger. They were strangers. So it was likely you wouldn’t talk to Hyunjin, not even once, in all of the summer.

But then you smelled weed.

You stopped in your tracks, inhaling deeply to make sure you were actually smelling it. You couldn’t see anything as you looked around—you had just entered the RV site and everything was still. Not a single light was on in the vehicles and things were just the way they had been earlier. It didn’t take you very long to find the source of the smell. You made it to the river, walking on the edge of it, mindful of each step you took. You knew this place by heart though and would have been able to navigate your way with your eyes closed. 

Someone was sitting on the ground, smoking, resting on a smooth, large rock behind them. 

You sighed, starting to regret offering to do night security. Most of the time there was no issue, but when there was one once in a while, you weren’t exactly the kind of person who liked to exert your authority. You tried telling yourself this was most likely just a stray teenager trying to get the most out of this parent-imposed vacation, looking for some peace away from their family.

You cleared your throat. “Hey, excuse me?” Your voice sounded a lot smaller than you wanted it to. You were the boss. You were the owner of this place. You had a right to set rules. Right? “It’s just that we don’t allow drugs on the property, so…” 

You took a few more steps toward the culprit, only to realize it was a young man with long, dark hair, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt. 

“Oh, hello you.” Hyunjin sat upright, turning to you. It was dark but some light from a nearby lamppost filtered through the tree leaves, caressing his honey skin and showing his soft smile. “Sorry about that.” He waved the joint he was holding. 

You froze. “Oh.” You took it all in at once. The soft breeze caressing his silky hair. His deep, intelligent eyes. The sorrow he exuded. His beauty. “H—Hello.” 

The man stood, his lips pressed together in a contrite smile. “I didn’t think I’d get caught,” he admitted with a giggle that echoed in your empty chest. 

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” You waved at him when he went to put out the joint. “I don’t really mind. It’s just that we had to make rules for when there are kids around.” 

“Makes sense.” Hyunjin shook his head, half-sitting on the boulder, his eyes not leaving you as though he was studying you. “How’s the night shift going? Not too many problems I hope?”

It took you a few seconds to be able to speak again. Something about Hyunjin was unsettling, but not in a bad way. He was so unique. You had never met anyone who had this energy before. He made you want to sit and make him tell you the story of his entire life. Like he was an ancient sacred manuscript written in an intricate language, unknown and familiar at once. 

“No, not too many,” you heard yourself respond, surprised at how comfortable you were around him. “Just one guy I caught with weed…” 

At that, Hyunjin’s giggles turned into full-on laughter, causing a smile to appear on your lips. A genuine one, so tangible it felt warm on your face. The warmth spread slowly, spilling onto your cheeks and at the back of your neck.

“Kids these days!” He said sarcastically, rolling his eyes in a dramatically exaggerated manner, brushing his fingers through his hair to push it away from his face.

The laughter died slowly and silence returned. Only, it wasn’t really silent. The river was flowing and the frogs were still singing and from here, you could even hear an owl, and crickets. As if the world was desperate to remind you that it was still alive, no matter how lifeless your own heart was. 

“Maybe I can buy my way out of this,” Hyunjin added with a mysterious look on his pretty face. 

He reached into the tote bag left near him, pulling out of it a handful of mini liquor bottles, offering you some with an inviting nod. 

You pretended to be shocked. “Are you trying to corrupt me?” You tsked him with a sigh. “Well, I have to say, it’s working.” You grabbed a bottle of whiskey with a playful smile.

Hyunjin smoked quietly, watching you as you screwed open the bottle and drank most of it in one go. It was good whiskey, smooth, but it burned your throat just enough to anchor you to the present moment. He sat down on the grass again, gently patting the space next to him, inviting you. “Care to stay for a minute? Or should you not?” 

You weighed your options—everything seemed orderly enough after all, so maybe hanging out here was just fine. 

After all, before tonight, before seeing the true colors of his soul, you didn’t think anybody could understand the pain you had, your inner conflicts. Which was self-important and perhaps even selfish, but it had been a long fucking time since you had related to anything as much as you related to his paintings. 

You sat down, not saying a word, the vivid images of Hyunjin’s art still floating in your mind almost like flashbacks badly edited into a low-budget movie. You finished the whiskey, eyes on the sky above, watching the stars and the way they sparkled. 

Out of nowhere, Hyunjin handed you the joint. “Are you alright?” He asked it to you quietly but in a very sincere way. 

For a couple of seconds you couldn’t believe that he would just share weed with you like this. Then you realized you had simply forgotten your college days and how blissfully unaware you had been back then. This would be far from the first time you smoked with a stranger. 

His question troubled you. You took the joint from him, inhaling the smoke and pretending to be super cool about how it immediately made you cough. It had been a while.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you replied. “What about you?”

You turned to him, only to be faced with Hyunjin’s grave expression. A faint squint had appeared between his brows, and he didn’t shy away from staring. His eyes went from yours to the joint you pressed between your lips, back to your eyes. 

He completely ignored your question. “You look like you’ve been crying.” 

One thing you hated about you was how skilled you had become to dodge these. Yet it did not feel the same coming from Hyunjin. A stranger perhaps, but one who had faced sorrow, truly faced it, had been stabbed by it probably repeatedly, and lived to tell the tale. 

Like going on vacation to a foreign country and accidentally coming face to face with someone from home, and knowing they were from home before they even opened their mouths. You knew that Hyunjin came from the same place as you did, which was a place where loss was a tangible thing, worn around the throat, a place where one was a slave to it. 

To someone else, someone who didn’t come from that place, you would have bullshitted something about allergies. Typically, they bought it. 

To Hyunjin, you said, “I have bad days sometimes. Today is a bad day.” 

And it felt good to say it. It felt good to say it to him. It was only a minuscule drop of the gargantuan secret that lived with, the pain that you carried with you and kept trapped within you so that it wouldn’t spill out and stain others. So that it would never hurt Chris. 

Hyunjin nodded and took the joint back from you after you handed it. In exchange, he simply passed you another whiskey and then proceeded to open one for himself. 

Your wedding ring shone under the faint light. You observed it for a few seconds.

“I understand that,” Hyunjin said after a while. “I get those too. A little too often to my taste, but it’s better now that I take meds for it.” He drank some whiskey and turned to you again. “Is there something I can do to cheer you up? Other than getting you wasted, I mean.” He had a guilty smile. 

You chuckled. “Thank you. That’s actually really nice of you. Offering.” Nobody offered that to you since nobody knew you had bad days. No one. Not a single soul. “Getting wasted does help.” 

Few words were exchanged as you finished the joint together. More bottles were opened, too. You wondered where Chris was. He was probably back home. He would have gone back home when you told him you’d spend the night here and that no one else was scheduled. Because it meant you couldn’t leave the premises and there was a zero percent chance you’d go back home, too. You two were rarely there, at the same time, at night. He’d come by during the day to do laundry and even have lunch or dinner with you. But then he bounced. And you’d see his car parked in his parents’ driveway or he’d just be somewhere here. Doing maintenance he called it. But really he just couldn’t stand being too close to you at night. Like you were a sleep paralysis demon. But really you were just the place where his daughter had died. And it was worse.

“I’m sorry you… have bad days,” you tentatively said after a while. You could feel the various substances having their effect on you. You felt heavy and weightless at once. It was as though all your sadness was still very much there, but you weren’t actively drowning in it. 

You didn’t know if it was because you were high or because for the first time in years you had admitted to someone you weren’t alright. 

“For some people, you know, it’s just easy to be happy. I’m not one of those people,” Hyunjin explained with a shrug. “Minho actually made me see his therapist. He thought he could fix me.” He paused for a few seconds. “Not everything that is broken can be fixed. But broken things can still have a place and a purpose in life.” He had another pause, longer this time, and you dared not interrupt him. He faced you—really faced you, turning his body towards you—and spoke again. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think you’re like that too, right?” 

He took your breath away, just like that. 

He smelled like weed, like his intricate and fancy cologne. His breath smelled like liquor. And his scent was melting in the air, blending with the sweet and pleasant esters and terpene of the evergreens around you. The moss that grew on them. The water from the river. The faintest trace of salt, brought by a breeze that came from the beach. You smelled him. Really smelled him. You let the olfactory memory of the moment engrave itself in your mind. 

You looked at him. Really looked at him. The delicate traits on his face, how violently pretty he was. His gaze, heavy, meaningful, honest. The softness you felt in him was a strange contrast to the strength he evidently had. His large shoulders, his plush lips. The way his clothes were too big for him and yet hinted at a perfect, sculpted, toned body. The way he held himself, leaning toward you. You looked at him. Really looked at him. You let the sight of it carve itself into your soul.

You did not want to forget that moment. 

You had not been seen, really seen, in a long while. 

Long enough that you had forgotten that feeling. And yet it was undeniably there, in your chest, coming back home after a long vacation away only to find its home empty, desolate, devastated. Decayed. You could picture it kicking at your dead heart, wondering what the fuck had happened in the past years. 

You gulped. “Yes,” you breathed, averting your gaze, ashamed. And ashamed of being ashamed. “Yes, I’m… like that.”

His response took no time. “It’s alright. It doesn’t change your value as a person or anything.”

You looked down at the river. How many times had you considered just throwing yourself in it, letting it take you somewhere else, hoping you would drown before anybody could find you? 

He didn’t know. Hyunjin. He didn’t know what you had done. He didn’t know the ugly things inside you. He didn’t know that fearful thoughts were corporeal and dangerous. He didn’t know that you had been punished for your greed and for your uncertainty and that it, in fact, lowered your value. A lot. 

And what the fuck were you doing here anyway? Chatting with this man you didn’t know and let him read your soul like you were some unsolved riddle in a magazine left on a table in a dental clinic’s waiting room? 

It took half a second—you went to stand back up, the motion of it barely happening—and Hyunjin lowered a hand on your arm to stop you. “Wait.” 

You stared at him, motionless, a little numb. Not numb enough. His skin was smooth and warm. You felt a faint spark of electricity run through you when he squeezed—terribly faintly squeezed—your forearm. 

“I’m sorry,” he went on. “I didn’t mean to say anything offensive or hurtful, I just—” 

You didn’t like to see guilt written on his handsome face, especially not because of you. “You didn’t,” you assured him. The electricity had run its course and it went to die in your chest, where other forces were at war with your inert heart. “Please, it’s fine.” 

Hyunjin retreated his hand, sitting against the boulder again. “But I made you want to leave.” 

“I always want to leave.” It just came out of you, like that, without warning. One of those awful truths about you that you kept buried, hidden away. That you tried to forget. “It’s not people’s fault, it’s mine.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I get it.” Hyunjin nodded, licking his bottom lip in a slow, lazy swipe of his tongue. “I always want to leave, too. Almost. I don’t feel like that when I paint, or when Minho forces me to go fishing or something.” Hyunjin gulped, clearing his throat faintly. “I don’t think I’m feeling it right now either. Your energy. It’s…” He frowned while he was looking for the right words. “It’s like a color that contains multitudes of other colors. And I love colors.” 

Part of you wanted to remind him of how fucking high he was for saying stuff like that.

But another part of you stopped you, forcing you to think about his words, forcing them down your throat, into your chest. Using them like an antidote on that fucking heart of yours.

“And now I’m making it worse,” Hyunjin added with a self-derogatory sigh. “Sorry. I’m not good at talking to people or making friends.” 

Tears pricked at your eyes as a variety of emotions overcame you, washing over you like the high tide on a beach. “I think the opposite. So far you’ve been nothing but nice to talk to.”

He smiled faintly. “I don’t know why you’re sad, but I just thought of something that might cheer you up a little.” 

Hyunjin reached into his tote bag again, this time pulling his phone out of it. He scrolled for almost a whole minute, visibly looking for something specific, truly absorbed in the task. You couldn’t look away from him. Fucking hell. Fuck. 

He let out a little thrilled exclamation. “There it is!” Then, Hyunjin simply handed you his phone. You, a stranger. 

You took it from him, intrigued. The screen showed two pencil sketches on paper. 

But then you saw it, and you nearly dropped the phone. It was not pencil. It was charcoal. At the bottom of the sheet was a signature below a date in the late 19th century. A signature you had seen countless times before.

“What the fuck?” You glanced at Hyunjin who now had a shit-eating grin on his face but quickly returned your attention to the screen. “Is this real?” 

“Yup. It’s real. My granddad had them, and he gave them to me some time ago.” 

You studied them with a hand over your mouth. The sketches. Drawn by Naro himself, all these years ago. 

The one on the left depicted a scenery. Something beautiful, probably from his time in South Holland if you could trust that you recognized the architecture of the town behind the empty field that was drawn. Tall grass, swayed by the wind, with a forest on one side and Leiden on the other. The sketch was simple but no less beautiful, and Naro’s style was undeniable and undeniably intriguing. The accuracy with which he drew the trees, yet made the city more of a blur, an impression, a suggestion. He always loved nature, or so the books said. Very much.

The sketch on the right left you speechless. Slowly, air stopped coming into your lungs and you found yourself staring at it through tears that you were desperately trying to swallow back. 

It showed his wife, sitting on the edge of a bed on which an almost faceless child lay. The little girl wore a gown with flowers on it. She was holding onto a doll. Her face suggested pain and exhaustion. Her face was barely a face. It was just that. Distress. Her mother was holding her other hand and caressing her hair. 

If Loss the painting had a prequel, that would be it. The sketch was depicting the last moments of Naro’s daughter before she passed away.

You gave Hyunjin his phone back. It seemed to you like it weighed a ton all of a sudden. You couldn’t even look him in the eyes, or maybe it was because you didn’t want him to see your tears.

But it was too late. “Ah, shit, I didn’t want you to cry, I just, you said, well I thought—” Hyunjin stuttered his life away while you sat there, watching the river. 

Your heart. In your chest. They were operating on it. They had cut it open and were trying to restart it. After all, dead things didn’t hurt that much, did they?

“Hyunjin,” you heard yourself say, your voice weak and shaking. “I saw your paintings. Some of them. And I know that something—someone—broke your heart.” You wiped the few tears that had begun to roll down your cheeks. “I know that your pain is deep. Deeper than the soul.”

You did look at him then, his face illuminated by the screen of his phone which still showed the sketches. His eyes had a glassy aspect to them. Was he high or was he sad?

“I have a pain like that too.” They had hooked your heart onto a defibrillator. It jumped in your chest but it did not restart. Hyunjin put the phone down, listening intently, wiping, too, the corner of his eye. “The woman. On the drawing.” You motioned at the device resting on the grass. “That was me once.”

Slowly, Hyunjin put together what you were trying to tell him. And you didn’t even know why you were telling him. It made no sense. You didn’t talk about this. To anyone. Ever.

You almost told him everything. How losing Judith had driven you crazy enough that you were convinced you had somehow caused it. That it was all a punishment for all the greedy things you had done, the horrible thoughts you had. That you were so scared at first you weren’t sure you ought to be a mother at all. That, maybe, it was best you never became a mother because maybe you would be an awful one. That life showed you what was meant to be. It forced it on you.

Forced upon you. Aloneness. 

Resentment. 

You went on but only barely—the words remained trapped in your throat, too real to be spoken out loud. 

“You don’t have to say more,” Hyunjin whispered, his speech slower than it had been. “I… I get it. I think.”

Hyunjin stared at you and you couldn’t read the expression on his face, but you understood the emotions it evoked. Horror. Compassion. Something even deeper than that. There was another detonation in your chest and this time, your heart shuddered. 

He couldn’t talk for a long time after and neither could you. But somehow, it was okay.

“I’m so sorry,” he said after a while. “God, I am so sorry.”

You wiped the rest of your tears. More might come later, but at least it was over for now. “I’m sorry for unloading this on you. You didn’t ask for any of this.” 

He shook his head. “No, no. I shouldn’t have… I just wanted… I didn’t know…”

You cut him off. It felt strange—like the pain was very much there still but different. Not so alone, in a good way. As in, you were sad and you knew you would always be. But you were other things, too. “Of course you didn’t know. We don’t know each other.”

He tilted his head, just a little, staring right into your eyes. “But I don’t think we’re strangers anymore.” He was beautiful the way art was beautiful. It took some time to take it all in. And you never really took it all in. He wasn’t just a piece of art anyway—he was a whole museum. “I mean, you discovered my deepest secrets in my paintings and you just told me one of yours. I think it amounts to something, doesn’t it?”

Yes. Yes it did. 

You mirrored him, cocking your head to the side too, studying him. Taking in not just the sight of him but this strange feeling that was carving itself a home within you. You couldn’t understand what it was. Or why it was. All you could do is let it settle in.

All you could do was let your heart be revived. And you didn’t want to. Really. It was just a waste of time. It was worse than that. Your heart had died already, stopping at the same time as Judith’s. And it had remained this way when you failed at being someone that Chris could love. Should it be stopped again—and it will—it would just kill you for good. 

“Was it a long time ago?” you inquired, accepting how peculiar the conversation was. Accepting that you were comfortable with it. With him. “That… it… that you had your heart broken?”

His eyes flicked but returned to you in less than a millisecond. “Not really. Some time last year.” He breathed in. And out. “It still hurts. That’s the problem, right? It’ll always hurt. It was the first time I loved someone for real. So it hurts more. I loved her so desperately. I couldn’t admit to myself she didn’t love me back for a long time. No, it’s not even that. She didn’t want to love me back. It made it so much worse.” 

She didn’t want to love me back. How unfair.

You wondered whether Chris wanted to love you still or not. 

Hyunjin returned the question. “What about you? Was it… a long time ago?” 

“A few years. Three? Four?” How were you supposed to explain that after a while, when spending too much time in misery, it just becomes misery minus the time? “It’ll never not hurt.” 

“I feel like all those comforting phrases people say about grief only make it worse,” Hyunjin pointed out in a low voice. “We all know it will hurt always.” He frowned. “I’m so sorry,” he said again. 

“What do you mean?” you asked. Somewhere near, a whip-poor-will sang its distinct song a few times. A glance at the sky behind you let you know the moon was out. 

“Someone told me once that grief is just love that has nowhere to go anymore,” Hyunjin explained. “It’s meant to be comforting. But it’s not. Love, when it has nowhere to go or when it isn’t wanted. It’s not uplifting. It’s just cruel.” He looked around, startled by the sudden birdsong echoing in the night.

“It’s a whip-poor-will,” you told Hyunjin. “They kind of look like if a frog had a baby with a bird.” Chris liked to tell the tourists that, and the tourists all found it very funny. It was also strangely accurate. “You’re right. About grief. Nothing makes it not-grief.” Then, you added, “I never really talk about this.” 

Hyunjin let out a displeased grunt. “So you’re just… alone with it?” 

“Aren’t you?” 

He thought about it. “I have Minho. I don’t know where I’d be if he didn’t make me get my shit together.” He bit into his lip. “But he doesn’t know everything. So I am alone about certain things. Like resentment.” 

“Resentment.” The thing you wished you didn’t know how it felt at all. 

“You know, resentment can only exist in a place where there was once love. Maybe, for some, love turns into grief. And for others, it turns into resentment.” 

Yes. Yes. Fuck.

You felt it in your chest. An earthquake made of light. 

Could it be? That you had found the person on Earth who could understand—really understand—you? And who you could understand, too? 

No, it couldn’t be. This was too reckless. Creating bonds with others was such a significant risk that you avoided it altogether. What was the endgame here, after all? You would come hang out with Hyunjin once in a while and, throughout the summer, get to know him, perhaps even tell him everything? About Judith and about Chris and about how you missed your mom and about how you weren’t a person anymore. 

And maybe he would tell you more about his broken heart. And then he would leave and forget you ever existed. And he was handsome, dangerously so. He made stupid little butterflies appear in your stomach when he looked at you for a little too long or when he touched you or when you smelled him. And you were married and you shouldn’t even be thinking these things, you shouldn’t be thinking about his lips and wondering how it felt to be kissed by them. 

You didn’t remember it. The feeling of being embraced and kissed and loved.

You sat there, psychoanalyzing yourself, telling yourself that you were so starved for love and attention that you were willing to drink up whatever was offered to you. Even if it was just a guy being polite—not dishonest or anything, but just polite, and kind. It made sense to seek warmth when you were out there freezing to death.

But, god, he was beautiful.

“I should go back,” you heard yourself say, and it hurt you to say it. You wanted to stay here all night, talking or not talking. Just existing alongside Hyunjin for a moment. 

He nodded. “I’ll walk you back.” He stood up without waiting for a response.

You stood too, almost stumbling over as you did so. Hyunjin caught you just in time, his arm around your waist while you regained your balance. 

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Oh no. No no no no. No. No. Fuck.

“It’s fine, I’ll be fine,” you told Hyunjin, keeping one hand on the boulder, your breath coming to a stop. It was at that moment you realized there was a difference between an arm around the waist for pretense and one with purpose. Intention. Even if that intention was as insignificant as preventing you from falling over. Pretense would always be that. A lie. An impression. The suggestion of something, which is a million times worse than nothing. 

“I’ll go,” Hyunjin insisted. “If you say no, it’s fine, but I’ll just follow you until you make it to wherever it is you’re going.” He let go of you and the night felt cooler than it had been. The ghost of his touch lingered on you and the whip-poor-will sang again. 

You had a nervous laugh. “So you’re a stalker? At least you’re an honest one.” He laughed, too.

He gathered his things and both of you retreated, walking away. You couldn’t help but look behind your shoulder as you did so, just to see it. The spot you were sitting in when something changed inside you. When your secret became a little less secret. It looked the same as it always had and if you came back here tomorrow or a year from now, it would be identical. But it would always be that place where your heart restarted. 

You had never truly believed it would ever happen, but you always figured that if your heart came back to life, you would feel it. It would be grand, like fireworks. An explosion. Lightning and thunder. You imagined it would feel as though the Earth had shifted on its axis. 

But there was none of that tonight. Turns out, a heart that’s thawing is quite silent, inconspicuous even. Turns out, one moment your heart is numb and one second later, it isn’t anymore. And that’s it.

Hyunjin helped you over the fence. You didn’t need his help but you let him because it felt good to be touched by him, even for just a moment. You walked together in silence for a long while, just following the path, taking your time. At one point, he took his phone out to look up something and his giggles echoed into the night. If you had to describe the giggles, you would say they were endearing and a little goofy, dorkish even, but contagious. 

“You were right about that bird. It does kind of look frog-ish.” For emphasis, he showed you his image search, displaying whip-poor-wills. 

You told him about some of the wildlife around and Hyunjin listened avidly, asking questions when he wanted precisions on something. He seemed particularly interested in woodpeckers and inquired plenty about the yellow-bellied sapsucker, baffled by its cry after he listened to it on his phone. “It sounds like a squeaky toy!” 

And you kept on walking. He was advancing with ease, his long legs allowing him graceful, efficient steps. You informed him you were returning to the general shop since it was open through the night, except for while you did your patrols. He asked a few questions about that, too. You told him about your parents. Your mom. He tried to give you his condolences but you didn’t let him.

The shop was in sight by the time you gathered enough courage to say something about Naro’s sketches from earlier. “Hyunjin… those sketches,” you started. “Thank you. For showing them to me.” 

“In hindsight, I shouldn’t have,” he pointed out gravely. 

“No, I’m glad you did.” And to your surprise, you meant it. “I never saw them before.”

A proud smile appeared on his face. “Of course not. We never shared those with the public or anything. They just stayed at my grandad’s place and now they’re at mine.” 

“Damn, that’s cool as hell.” You shook your head, suppressing a smile. “What else do you keep at your place? Not the stolen painting, I hope?”

He let out a heartfelt laugh. “I fucking wish,” Hyunjin sighed. “I could make some serious money with that.” 

You let silence creep in before you spoke again. “I really liked it. The art I saw from you. It’s amazing. I’ve never seen such elaborate storytelling within individual pieces like that. How long have you been painting?”

“Oh, my whole life I guess,” Hyunjin explained. “My grandfather mentored me a lot. My father worked as a curator in museums. For a while.” He paused there. “So my whole life has been about art. I tried to distance myself from it but that didn’t work, did it?” 

You snorted. “Doesn’t look like it, but it’s great though! How it’s a family thing.” 

“Yeah, you could say that.” He motioned towards the shop, now very close. “Same goes for you. It’s a family thing.” Maybe you were crazy but he looked like he hesitated. “Your family and your husband’s.” 

What were you supposed to say to that? “Yeah.”

He stopped when you reached the door. “Thank you,” he told you. “For chatting with me. And… for liking my art. You look like you know what you’re talking about, so it’s a pretty big compliment coming from you.” 

“I just like art. Good art,” you specified with a smile. “Thank you. I owe you a couple of drinks at least.” You grabbed your keys from your pocket and unlocked the front door, also turning the lights back on. 

You turned to him again—his irises were dilated, his lips were raw from biting them and from smoking and drinking. But god, he was beautiful. 

“I’d love that, so I hope you meant it.” Hyunjin smiled—a coy smile, almost. 

He did something you didn’t expect—he opened his arms and hugged you briefly. Just a couple of seconds, pressing you against him with his big arms around you. His body was warm, and his embrace was gentle, tender even.

“Bye,” Hyunjin whispered, pulling away. “I’ll see you around.”

He turned and walked away, leaving you speechless. His scent stayed on you all night. You spent hours trying to reason with yourself but there was no point. 

Turns out, there is a difference between a thawed heart and one that’s set ablaze. 

A big fucking difference.

... to be continued.

Note from Mari: I do feel like a broken record when I write these but I absolutely want to say thank you to my readers. Thank you for reading my stories, sure, but also for making this place a welcoming one for me and for treating me the way you do, which is with kindness, compassion, and love. I don't think I deserve so much, but I keep all of it in my heart. Thank you for giving me a purpose.

This is a combination of my old and new permanent taglist. It seems like I upset a few people by restarting my taglist and I do apologize. It's more work than it seems to keep track and since so many people on it were silent readers or straight up inactive, I wanted to try and make it a little easier for me. Only a handful of people responded to my initial post so I assumed people were losing interest and no longer wished to be on my taglist, hence why I didn't make several subsequent announcements regarding it. I didn't mean to hurt anyone or ignore anyone. I did my best to compile everybody for this one and am sorry if I missed anyone. Please let me know.

Permanent taglist:

@abiaswreck ; @accalus ; @aimeexx ; @anylady-fics ; @b4kuho3 ; 

@binstitsweat ; @byeobie ; @cb97percent ; @chans1aptop ; @chartrucewhore ; 

@compersian ; @cybergracie ;  @hanjingin ; @hwan-g ; @hyuneyeon ;

@hyunfruits ; @hyvneluv ; @hyunnie4ever ; @hyunjinswifeee ; @hyunniethepooh ;

@hyuwunjinie ; @hynjinnnnlvr ; @hyyuniverse ; @iam2out ; @imseungminsgf ;

@karlachsleftbicep ; @leedunno ; @lotus-dly ; @m00n-dream ; @miraworldsstuff ;

@mmoonriseflowerr ; @naoristerling ; @neosracha ; @rubyshoedpixie ; @palindrome969 ;

@selinia86 ; @shywolfcherryblossom ; @skzfelixlove ; @starseekersworld ;  @straydhampir ;

@suhomylife ; @sunlitwilderness ; @ven-fic-recs ; @yourmercibeaucoupsblog

[wonbinhwa]

another beautifully written piece. i myself may not relate to the individual struggle of the characters but they are so relatable in a human way (is that the right phrase?). the loneliness, the need to not just be seen but to be understood, to be loved.

chris is so frustrating yet his position is understandable i feel bad for wanting to scream at him oops. but seriously, his hurt is as justified as his wife's. their lack of communication kills me, i genuinely feel my heart sink when he acts like he's okay to everyone.

im so intrigued to see where this goes. if the divorce conversation comes up, who will be the one to speak first? will divorce be the blessing in disguise to set them both free? even if it's not what they wanted, it's potentially the best thing for their future happiness. if they can ever fully be happy again.

i could go on about how i feel about their relationship, and hyunjin's connection to the protagonist but i fear i'm just going to ramble.

once again i just want to appreciate such a deep, beautiful story i almost cried seeing this chapter being posted as i boarded a flight like omg the timing?? i spent my vacation wondering when i could read this 😭

[hyunpic]

HYUNJIN for ESQUIRE KOREA & CARTIER

[straywrds]

aloneness | by design chapter one

pairing: chan x reader ; hyunjin x reader | wc: 16.2k | genre: adult romance, angst | warnings: childhood best friends to lovers ; heavy angst ; death and grieving ; complicated feelings ; failed relationships ; explicit sexual content. the chapter contains heavy themes that could be upsetting to some. if you're concerned it might be an issue for you, please read the unabridged list of warnings, which also contains nsfw warnings. reader discretion is advised. this work is for adult audiences since it contains mature themes and explicit sexual content.

It had been such a long while, it seemed, since Chris had truly loved you. And you loved him in a desperate way, like trying to hold onto a knife not by its handle, but by its blade.

To be intimate with love, the true kind, also means being intimate with loss.

You grew up in a small enough town that most faces you saw, every day, were familiar ones. The employees at the grocery store saw you become a teenager and later, an adult. You were greeted by your first name if you stepped into the post office. You had become acquainted with specific trees, the twists of certain roads, or the lines of the mountains on the horizon. By no means did that make your life dull, not by your standards anyway. The town’s name is Stormhaven—named so by its founders because of the violent storm that raged the first night they established camp on this land. As grand and frightening as the storm was, it was equally beautiful. Something about the geolocation of the city or perhaps the fact that it’s located where the river melts into the sea makes it prone to storms, and they are, indeed, reputed to be gorgeous.

You did leave momentarily though,  to pursue some major you had no great interest in, but it felt right to try and do something. You were the first of your family to go to college. You thought, foolishly perhaps, that you could teach English—you had always been one to read books and enjoy the intricacies of the language in them. To you, words were no different than pigment, sentences were the oil that made the paint, and books were the finished product, the saturated canvas. Now, here’s the thing—you liked English and you liked art, too, thanks to a book you found at the age of 9 on your uncle’s bookshelf. It was your first introduction to the Italian masters and their masterpieces, and you were a little too young to fully comprehend it, but that did not stop you from appreciating it. 

You were the first of your family to go to college. Your parents owned a small general store on the north side of the city, where there’s more forest than city. It’s perfectly situated though—directly on the one road that leads to the good fishing spots. 

The river is at its narrowest there, narrow enough that if one spoke out loud, they could be heard on the other side when people stood on the shore. There was another camping ground there, and cabins, and if the river was gentle enough, it wasn’t uncommon for people to go across it to make new acquaintances. 

You grew up there, in this place loved by locals and tourists alike. Your family was friends with the family that owned the camping ground down the hill, and it helped make business good for everybody involved. 

It also made your summers a lot less boring—you were an only child, with aloneness often forced on you. And it could have been awful if the owners of the camping ground didn’t have a son who happened to be the same age as you.

Chris was always ‘the good guy’, which, at times, rendered being his friend difficult. Because you had to live up to the standard. You had to deserve it somehow. Chris himself never made you feel this way, of course not, it was only fueled by your own compulsion to compare yourself to him at all times. Chris was a good kid, smart, funny, and nice, and he looked good. It made him very popular with the girls on the camping ground. You weren’t particularly popular with the boys. Or with the girls.

Aloneness forced on you. Defining you, almost. 

Except Chris made sure you were never left out. He always introduced you as his best friend and brought you along even though his fangirls clearly didn’t appreciate you being around. Either Chris was oblivious to it or he just didn’t care—in any case, you spent all of your summers with him, from sunrise to sunset and sometimes after. Chris attended the private school in the next town over, so you didn’t see him a whole lot during the year. Still, your family visited his once in a while for dinner, and you and Chris would hang out in the basement to watch movies and eat potato chips. Life had been easy, once.

It would be a lie to say that everything went smoothly all the time with him. When both of you reached an age where hormones are raging, things got a little complicated. Chris got in a fight—a physical fight—with his best friend during a party. It was just before tourist season. Your parents had gone for a couple weeks for a long overdue vacation—they trusted you and Mrs. Bahng with the store, knowing you could handle it, especially since it wasn’t very busy yet. Of course, you threw a party—a low-key one, just a few people. Some guys from Chris’ school also came along. 

By then, Chris was a handsome young man, charming without trying to be, with a dorkish laugh and a good heart. If somebody had asked you if you had a crush on him then, you would have said no, but you would have been lying to them and to yourself. 

The party quickly took a turn when some of Chris’ friends pulled out the liquor they’d brought. It made you nervous. This was your house after all, and if something happened, your parents would never trust you again. You tasted vodka for the first time that night. First in a red plastic cup, mixed with some cheap lemonade, and after that, on the lips of Chris’ friend when he pulled you to a quiet corner to make out with you. His name was Liam. You saw him once in a while when he spent the night at Chris’ place or something. He wasn’t as popular with girls as Chris was and you suspected he was jealous of him, but then, who wouldn’t be? 

However, Liam turned out to be a little too insistent, touching you in places, and whispering things to your ear. You made up some excuse and fled to your backyard where most people had come to enjoy a small bonfire. You sat with them but your mind was elsewhere, wondering if you ought to let Liam do to you whatever it was he wanted. After all, you weren’t popular, and nobody wanted to date you. Liam was the first guy who kissed you for more than three seconds and who touched you. There might not be one after, so perhaps you shouldn’t pass on that opportunity. 

He did join you by the fire. Liam. He sat not next to you but behind you, his legs locking you in his embrace. It wasn’t even the worst PDA taking place in the group as one of your friends was heavily making out with one of the boys while the others talked. You participated in the conversation, not unaware of the glances Chris shot you a little too often. Maybe, after all, it wouldn’t be a good idea to have sex with his friend. Maybe that made him upset, and you could understand that—he had never pursued any of your friends and had always made it very clear he wasn’t interested in them. You figured he expected the same of you.

But Liam kissed the back of your neck. And then he touched you again and again—your waist, your back, your thighs. He held you in his arms and it birthed a distracting tingling sensation between your legs that you couldn’t blame on the vodka. “Come with me upstairs,” he said into your ear. And you did. You went. 

He kissed you even more in your bedroom, his hands underneath your shirt, his mouth sloppy and wet, too wet. It all happened very fast—you were on your bed and then he was on top of you and he was very hard. It happened so fast, too fast for you to fully process it. It only lasted a few seconds—two thrusts, no more. In between the first and the second, it occurred to you that you hadn't used a condom. And then Liam whimpered pathetically and it was over.

It made you want to throw up, or maybe it was the vodka. Or, maybe, it was just the smell of him—sweat and cheap cigarettes and his musk, which was rather unpleasant in your nose. 

You slid from underneath him, visibly dazed, and it made him upset. Years later, you realized he was mostly upset at himself and ashamed of his premature... conclusion. Still, it was at you he lashed out, maybe for not looking like you had just gotten the dick of the century.

“Don’t be like that,” he told you, shoving his small, softening cock back into his pants.

His sour tone, paired with the soreness between your legs, brought tears to your eyes. It made him more upset even. "What's EVEN the problem anyway?" He raised his voice at you, and whenever someone did that, it always made you cry.

Unfortunately for him, Chris had made his way upstairs, suspecting something wasn’t quite right. He tried to open the door but it was locked. “Let me in.” His voice was unrecognizable, to the point that it frightened you almost. You still felt weird between your legs, sore and empty and full all at once. And above all, unclean. Dirty. You wanted nothing more than showering and washing Liam off you.

“Fucking let me in.”

Liam was very drunk. Instead of post-nut clarity, he had been hit by a strong dose of dopamine that rendered him even less coherent than he had been before. “What is it, Bang? You upset I jumped your virgin friend before you could?”

It occurred to you at that moment that you had never seen Chris angry before, except for fun like when he was playing video games. But something in his voice let you know that the situation was very serious. 

And then he smashed the door open using his shoulder. What happened next would always remain a bit blurry in your memory, but it never left either. Chris grabbed Liam by the collar of his shirt and slammed him against the wall. And then they fought. It was nasty. Liam was taller and bigger than Chris, but he was also drunker—Chris, on the other hand, was quick and properly pissed off. Before you knew it, Liam was pinned to the ground under Chris’ weight, being punched repeatedly in the face. Years later, you would admit this to Christopher—that it felt good to see his fist sink into Liam’s face, to see his lip split open, to hear his whining. Still, you knew it was wrong. Something within you, that night, knew that Chris could seriously injure Liam if he didn’t stop, so you stopped him. 

You stopped Chris, too, when he threatened to reprise his attack as Liam was stirring up. You just wanted everyone gone so he made them leave. You heard more shouting from outside but paid it no mind and just went into the bathroom and turned the shower on.

You stood underneath the water, keeping it as hot as you could, scalding your skin, rubbing soap all over yourself as hard as you could using various tools—a washcloth didn’t really cut it, and neither did your loofah or even your nails. In the end, it was your exfoliating cloth that you used to cleanse your body, emptying your bottle of shower gel, steaming up the entire bathroom. But you washed and washed and washed and rinsed and rinsed and rinsed. You did so until you could no longer feel Liam between your legs, only your skin made sensitive from all the scrubbing. 

Chris was waiting for you, sitting on the floor in the hallway. You had wrapped a towel around your body but it was dark and you didn’t care. You could walk naked outside for all you cared. 

That night, Chris took your face in his bloody, shaking hands and asked you if you were okay. You felt strangely okay, like you should have been sobbing or afraid but you were neither of these things. He, on the other hand, didn’t look too good with bruises and cuts on his face and even more on his knuckles. “Your mom will kill you,” you pointed out. The Bahngs preached pacifism. They were some of the nicest people you had ever met.

That night, you put on some comfortable clothes and made Chris sit in the bathroom while you cleaned his wounds. He insisted he could do it and you knew he could but you wanted to. You needed to do something, something useful if at all possible, and he let you, apologizing the whole time for letting Liam come here, and for being his friend in the first place. “He wasn’t like that before,” he assured you.

People change. You didn’t know what to say. There was nothing to say.

That night, Chris tucked you in bed but you asked him to stay, so he stayed, holding you in his arms. 

You spent that summer working both at the general store and at the campground. You worked a lot and when it raised suspicions in your parents, you simply said you were saving up for college so they didn’t question it. Chris knew, however, that you just needed to keep your mind, and body, busy. So, when there was no work for you to do, he took you on hikes. Hours-long hikes where neither of you really spoke. You just walked side by side. The more summer advanced, the farther you went. 

You started talking again at one point, for no reason at all. It just happened. Chris told you about his upcoming school year and how he still wasn’t exactly sure what he should be doing with his life. That he felt bad he wanted to leave Stormhaven, that he knew his father expected him to take over the business. You felt the same way. You were scared of the future because you didn’t know what you were supposed to do with your life. When you mentioned it, Chris assured you he thought you’d be a great teacher. You returned the compliment, telling him he would be at home in business school, and that it didn’t mean he had to take over the camping ground. He could do something else. 

It’d be great if we went to the same college, he said, and you agreed. It would, indeed, be great. By now, Chris had become something to you that couldn’t quite be defined by words—a best friend? Yes, perhaps. But it was more than that. He took care of you in a way that was so beautiful and so deep, you knew you could never repay him, that you would always be in his debt.

You loved him. And maybe you knew he loved you, too. 

You worked a lot that summer, even picking up shifts at a gardening center in town, owned by one of your friends’ dad. You didn’t think your absolute need to remain busy had anything to do with Liam. You were over it in the sense that few girls get to experience a wonderful and romantic ‘first time’ and that it hadn’t lasted very long anyway. You were over it, too, because Chris was there for you. 

You were over it because both you and Liam were drunk and stupid and young. 

It wasn’t what troubled you really. The problem was that it felt good to be desired for once. You had wanted Liam to touch you, and you had been flattered to feel him through his pants when you sat between his legs. It had even aroused you. The problem was that you didn’t really want to fuck Liam but you let him do it even though you knew deep down that it was a stupid thing to do. Because it was still better than being unwanted, than having aloneness forced on you.

And you felt disgusting for thinking that way. 

You worked so much it made you ill—one day, when you were helping Mr. Bahng and Chris clean up a few campsites, you had a dizzy spell so intense you momentarily passed out, waking up a few seconds later, laying on your back on the soft soil. It was particularly hot that day, especially considering the summer was ending and you were returning to school the week after. Mr. Bahng made you drink water while Chris cooled you down, pouring water into his hands and pressing them on your neck and face. When you regained some color, he was instructed by his dad to take you home—not on foot, of course, on the company’s ATV. It was almost like a walk of shame when Chris dropped you at your place. You kept telling him you were fine but it didn’t exactly feel like it. You just didn’t want him to go out of his way for you. 

Your mother was home and she already knew everything because Christopher’s dad called her. She made you go to bed, saying she would make you a good meal with broth. But you couldn’t stomach the sandwich she made. Or the broth. 

There was a storm that night, quite strong. Chris stayed with you even though you asked him not to. He said he liked you even though he saw you throw up, and tried to make jokes about it. He made you laugh that night, and it was your most heartfelt laugh in a while. You weren’t scared when the power went out because he was there. 

By then, you knew that you loved him in a special way. It made you feel a lot of things when he held you in his arms or when he kissed the top of your head. 

You kept a small battery-powered light in your bathroom, especially for nights like these. You reached for it in the drawer it had always been, and instead of the light, your fingers wrapped themselves around something else, something innocuous, an everyday item. An unopened box of tampons. 

Your whole world collapsed around you, except it was you who fell to your knees, suddenly completely unable to carry your own weight. Your heart ran marathons in your chest and you froze. It was how Chris found you. He looked at you, then at the tampons, and at you again. 

Then he was on his knees too, wrapping his arms around you. The storm outside matched the one in your heart. You had never been as scared as this in your whole life. You didn’t even cry—you just sat in bed, all night, watching the lightning over the river, staring at the stormy sky, thinking, thinking, thinking. You went through every possible scenario you could think of, and in none of them did it make sense to remain pregnant. 

Chris, once again, was there the whole time, not leaving your side that night and taking responsibility for you the next morning. With his brand new driver’s license—not his learner’s—he took his dad’s car and drove both of you two towns away so you could purchase a pregnancy test. He was the one to go into a store and buy three of three different brands. “To make sure,” he told you. You did the first test and it came out positive. 

The second also. You didn’t need to do the third, so you discarded it. You did cry then, in the not-so-clean bathroom stall of a mall you weren’t familiar with. Just a few tears. What went through your mind was this—that just because you had been greedy, just because you wanted to feel desired for one night, you were going to destroy something beautiful.  

Chris was there for you. He held your hands while you made appointments. He drove you two hours away from home just to make sure nobody would know where you went, telling his parents he was taking you to some event you had never heard of. A two-day event, so it would require the trip to be an overnight one. They bought it. They didn’t even care that you would share a hotel room. Your parents trusted Chris. On the first day, you had a lot of tests done. On the morning of the second day, they proceeded to the abortion. It took about five minutes, then it was over. You stared at the ceiling as the doctor was ridding your body of the consequence of your impure greed. During those five minutes, you reflected on how selfish you were. 

Chris stayed with you while you rested at the clinic. You shared some juice with him. Sometimes the cramps hurt you so bad you couldn’t talk, but it only lasted a few seconds. He held your hand. When you were free to go, he drove you two back to the hotel and you took a nap after having a small dose of the painkillers they gave you. It was over but it had never truly begun, and it felt strange. You felt empty. While you were sleeping, Chris went to the nearest drug store and bought just about every type of maxi pad he found. You bled a lot, and it hurt a lot, too.

Chris ordered pizza but you weren’t hungry. You made yourself eat a few bites and showered in very hot water. That night, he tucked you into bed but you asked him to stay, which meant you wanted him by your side and not on the other bed. He looked at you like he was hoping you would say that.

Christopher kissed you on the lips. Just a kiss, lips on lips, almost chaste, and you knew then that you would marry him someday. He kissed you again on your forehead and you buried your face into his neck. 

“I never thought I wanted children before,” you admitted to him. “What if it was wrong to get the abortion?”

“There’s still time,” he promised you. There was a long silence after that, but he added, “You made the right decision for your future. We’ll have a baby someday, okay? You and I.”

You believed him. And you were happy that year, when you realized, finally, that you had let Liam do this to you because you wanted Chris to do it, and you did not think he could ever feel the same way. 

You weren’t accepted into the very renowned university Chris was going to, but your college was just an hour-long drive away so it wasn’t too bad. You saw each other as often as you could during the first semester, but things got complicated as time went on. He was more and more busy and you were less and less enthusiastic about your studies. It turned out, English and teaching English were two very different worlds, and you did not belong in the latter. You couldn’t believe you were being tested on some supposed ‘ways’ to teach certain things to students. There was no such thing for you—every person is different, so how could one even explain another’s learning process? 

You dropped out on your second semester, leaving in the middle of a particularly boring and arduous English Grammar class, heading directly to the parking lot where you had left your car. You drove all the way to Chris’ apartment, which he shared with two other students. He wasn’t home, but one of his roommates, Changbin, informed you he should be back soon and let you in. 

Chris was there for you. It made you feel inadequate. You were always somehow in need of him or of something, but him most often. You were constantly in his debt.

He soothed your tears and promised you that your parents wouldn’t hate you if you dropped out, but he suggested thinking about another major. “There’s still time,” he said. He often said that.

You got a job at a coffee shop and worked there the rest of the year while weighing your options. You visited a lot of places—parks, various attractions, art museums. The museums were your favorites—there was no museum in Stormhaven, obviously, so to have several options to choose from now was quite the upgrade. You spent countless hours wandering in galleries, observing, learning, feeding your soul, after which you went to the library and gathered some books related to whatever you had just seen. Chris joined you sometimes, but it was really just to be with you and you knew it. He didn’t hate art, it just wasn’t for him. It didn't reach his soul like it did yours. You went to concerts with him too, which he liked a lot more. 

He suggested you try applying into art history for next year, and of course you would love that. Only, you were the first of your family to go to college, and you knew that your very practical parents, aunts and uncles would find an art history major rather pointless. An absolute waste of time. Chris insisted though—he went as far as mentioning it during winter break when both of your families sat to share a generous Christmas dinner. As expected, the response was underwhelming.

But what are you gonna do after? There can’t be enough jobs. 

Can’t you read and learn all that stuff in books or on the internet? What’s the point?

Are you sure? Or are you going to drop out again because it turned out it wasn’t for you?

You couldn’t hold it against them. Your family. They weren’t even wrong. 

You took more shifts at the coffee shop, and in the summer you returned home to work at your parents’ general shop. Chris came to spend some time home too, and it was good to be back there together. He was doing great in business school and you were going nowhere though, so as days passed, your mood darkened. He didn’t let you close yourself off, making you tell him the things that were on your mind just to prove you wrong.

“What do you mean, not enough? I loved you before you went to university, so I’ll love you regardless. So don’t say that. I forbid you.”

You stopped saying it, you just didn’t stop thinking it.

The year after, you moved in with Chris and his two roommates. The plan was to find a place for you two but to be together in the meantime. You didn’t mind, really—Jisung and Changbin were good guys, and Jisung told you about a job opening at the bookstore he worked at. You liked this job a lot. You visited all the museums in this new city, too. 

For your birthday, Ji and Changbin even got you an art book. It was a long essay on one painting in particular, an oil painting titled Loss. The painting depicts a lone woman sitting on a wooden chair in a neutral-colored room, almost reminiscent of a Vermeer, but with bolder colors. The room appears empty except for the corner of a bed on the right, and a window on the wall near which the woman sits. She is looking at the ground, but others say she is looking at her hands which are intertwined, holding nothing. The true direction of her gaze is disputed, but her expression is intricate, complex, unreadable. Depending on the viewer’s mood, she sometimes looks simply pensive. Most of the time she appears deeply sorrowful, almost desperate. To some, she shows no emotion. Thing is—art historians cannot agree. Everyone is right. Everyone is wrong.

The true magic of the painting resides in the sunset filtering through the window—it illuminates the room intricately, the shadows created by it adding to the mystery around the woman's expression. The light is accurate in a way that makes it look so real, yet more beautiful than reality. Its painter produced less than fifteen paintings and is yet considered a pioneer solely based on Loss. 

One of the most fascinating things about Loss is that it is… lost. It was stolen in the 90s while it was transported to a museum in New York, where it was meant to be temporarily exposed for a special exhibition. Nobody knows who did it or where it went, or if it still exists even. 

The book mentioned this and so much more, like how the descendants of the painter had been the primary suspects in the case, based on the fact that they had requested a few times that the painting be given back to them. There had been lawful contracts signed though, yielding it to an art society, binding Loss to museum collections for yet another hundred years at least. Since it was an ongoing case, however, details couldn’t be made public. 

You had never seen it in person—and you never would, obviously—but Loss had become your favorite painting. You didn’t need to describe with words the emotions inhabiting her, the woman on it, you just knew you shared them. What you didn’t know, however, was that you would share them even more someday.

Seeing how interested in it you were, Chris took you on a trip for your two-year anniversary—a museum in Seoul was in possession of three paintings by the same artist and one in Japan had two. You visited both locations and he stayed with you as you stood before the canvases, all of them saturated with light. One of them was a lake, as still as a mirror, on which the sunrise reflected so beautifully you shed a few tears. 

At the very end of the trip, Chris took you on an evening walk around a vast park. That’s when he got on one knee and asked you to marry him. He did it in a way that was so proper, so cliché, that it made you laugh and cry at once. You said yes, of course you said yes. It made sense, didn’t it? Growing up together, growing closer. Falling in love and not even feeling it, just waking up one morning and realizing it’s always been there.

You and Chris made love all night in your hotel room, your bodies close and warm and beautiful. He fucked you hard, desperately, confessing how he had been in love with you since childhood. You had long conversations between rounds as you recovered. “Do you ever regret hurting Liam like that?” you asked him, your head resting on his stomach. Many years had gone by since the event, yet neither of you had forgotten it. 

Chris pulled you up so he could look into your eyes. “No,” he said. “I only regret not going after you earlier. I guess I was hurt that you wanted to be with him and not with me. In retrospect, it was stupid. I should have confessed my feelings as soon as I became aware of them. I should have followed you upstairs.”

You kissed him then, deeply, slowly, your heart feeling like it might burst. You found something rather poetic about all of it, and also fair. It was your hidden love that had pushed you in Liam’s arms, and Chris’ repressed feelings also had played their part. You wanted to forget that night and yet you could not, as though something deeply important had happened, important enough that it was still on your mind tonight, merely a few hours after your boyfriend proposed to you, as you climbed onto him to straddle him, never breaking the kiss, his cock growing hard under you, for you. 

It was as though that night had sealed something, putting both Chris and you on a path, and neither of you knew what the destination was. You didn’t mind going in blindly, not if he was by your side. He had always been by your side anyway, and you couldn’t imagine your life without him.

It felt easy. 

Too easy. 

The wedding took place the summer after Chris graduated. Half of the campground had been reserved for it. Friends and family alike came together to celebrate this union that apparently more than half the town had seen coming anyway. It was a beautiful wedding, underneath a blue sky and then the stars. The air smelled like the freshly grown leafage and the soft breeze carried the scent of the ocean, too. You danced and laughed all night, catching up with former high school friends, people you hadn’t seen in so long, introducing them to your and Chris’ new friends. Jisung’s speech was particularly popular—both very funny and moving, it was clear he had spent a lot of time writing it.

Some time between very late and early morning, you made your way with Chris to the small but cozy cabin you had rented for the occasion. Both of you sat in silence at the kitchen table in your wedding attire to drink some water and eat a few snacks. Chris glanced at you with a knowing smile, reaching for your hand over the table. You smiled at him, too. 

You showered together after slowly undressing each other, and you knew that you would never forget your wedding night. You sucked his cock in the shower and he gently played with your clit, kissing and nibbling at your neck, calling you sweet things. You started fucking on the bathroom counter then moved onto the bed where Chris ate your pussy until you came, and then he fucked you. And when he came, you kept fucking him until he got hard again. You would never forget this and you knew it. That night, you felt loved and desired. You knew it was much like a drug—those were feelings one gets easily addicted to. But you didn’t care. You felt more beautiful, more important then than you ever had. 

When both of you collapsed, spent, satiated, panting, Chris held you in his arms as he so often did, and yet you never grew tired of it. He kissed the top of your head. “Let’s stay here,” he told you.

“Good news then, we rented it for a week, you pointed out with a chuckle.

“No, I mean Stormhaven.” He shook his head. “We don’t have to if you’d rather go back to the city, but it feels at home here, with you.”

You felt the same. So you stayed.

You bought a house in the northern part of town, in the same neighborhood you two had been raised in. As the procedures took place, Chris and you also pondered over the careers you may or may not want. The city’s hardware store was for sale—you could take up a bigger loan and make it yours, you and him. Then Chris’ parents mentioned they were thinking about retiring, and now that their son was back in town, they would be more at peace to do so. 

So, instead, they gave the campground to both of you. That year, your parents decided to sell you the general store too, and for a very low price. They even sold their house and bought an RV with the objective of being on the road and seeing as many things as they could. 

Those years were good ones. Even though you feared things would slow down with Chris, they didn’t. Business was good, life was even better. One night, as you two were getting into bed, Chris watched you as you opened a new box of birth control pills. He took it out of your hands, looked at you, and asked, “Do you still want to have a baby with me someday?”

You thought about it for a few seconds. You had discussed this prior to the wedding, of course. The conclusion had been that you weren’t sure you could be a good mother, so you couldn’t be sure you wanted to be one. Chris understood, but couldn’t see how you would be a bad parent. He wanted kids, and this was something you knew before even dating him. 

Here’s one of the ugliest truths in life—sometimes, you want something. Other times, you want to want something. The two are very different concepts except the human mind, when driven by the heart, is completely unable to distinguish them. It is an excessively shameful thing to admit to it.

You didn’t know at the time. What you wanted and what you didn’t want. It sounded nice, idyllic even, the idea of it—raising a child with Chris, your high school sweetheart, in this house that you made your home in, in the town that saw both of you grow up. It felt right, like life coming full circle, except grander than before.

You didn’t know at the time. You only knew that you loved Christopher more than anything, and that if you were going to have a baby with somebody, it would be him. 

You didn’t take your birth control that night. 

A poet might say that one can only see light if there is darkness. And he would be right, but you would also tell him to fuck right off.

Your mother died when you were six months pregnant. A hidden heart condition. She died in her sleep—your father found her in the morning when he woke up. It traumatized him. 

One day many months prior to that, you found out you couldn’t stomach onions anymore. In fact, the scent of them gave you nausea. It was then that you realized you hadn’t had a proper period in a while. When you mentioned it to Chris, he took your hand and guided you toward the car. “Do you want to buy the test here or in Blue Harbor, like the good old times?” His smile was playful, but a little nervous. Truth be told, if you were indeed pregnant, you didn’t want anyone to know yet, so you made your way to Blue Harbor’s mall, just like you had years ago.

The mall had changed a little but you found a drug store, and Chris insisted he would go get the tests. But you needed other items so you went in anyway. 

You saw Liam as you were shopping for shampoo. He was wearing the store’s uniform. It looked like he was a manager of some sort, by the way he was talking to the girl behind the cash register. You froze, your breath and heartbeat coming to a halt. For some reason, you remembered him with a bloody face. He looked very normal that day. A little thicker than he used to be, just like the rest of you. 

He saw you, too, and color drained from his face. He seemed stuck between wanting to go see you and running away. 

You waited for the pain to hit. You waited for tears, even—you had cried so much after the abortion that you assumed you were scarred for life. But you felt nothing, which almost frightened you. You ought to feel something, right?

You took one step toward the cash register, then another. It wasn’t to go speak to Liam. It was to be there when Chris would go and pay for his purchases. 

Liam saw Chris and actually recoiled. Chris stopped in his tracks, speechless, getting visibly pissed off. But you didn’t want him to be angry. You didn’t want a scene to take place. You wanted the memory of Liam to have as little weight as possible in your life.

You took a deep breath. “Let’s hurry,” you said to Chris. “I’m getting tired.” It wasn’t even true.

Chris blinked, staring at you for a few seconds before putting three pregnancy tests on the counter. You added some toothpaste and shampoo, pretending Liam wasn’t there while the other employee rang your items. 

You made sure to flash your wedding ring and took Chris’ hand in yours. It felt good to make sure Liam saw it. So he would know you carried no parts of him with you. So he would know he didn’t really matter, not in your life, and not in Chris’. 

You spoke very little on the way home. You kept your gaze on the horizon, processing everything. You knew the tests would come out positive. You could feel it within you, this life that was growing. It had a weight to it, light for now, but still very much there. You just knew it. 

You peed on a stick. Then another, and both were positive. You discarded the third test, and Chris cried with you. Before that day, you thought you knew what unconditional love was, but you had been wrong. This—this beautiful burden, this miracle inside you, that was as unconditional as anything could be. 

The shock of losing your mother was so great that it sent you to the hospital, and you were scared to lose your baby, too. Your little girl, who you loved so much already, who already meant the world to you. Chris and you hadn’t been able to find a good enough name yet but that wasn’t important. She was healthy, the doctors assured you of it—it was you who was in distress, and you needed to get a grip before it affected your unborn child. 

None of it was easy. The funeral, then the burial. Supporting your father through it was the worst, though.

But Chris was there for you. He always was. 

He was the perfect husband, the perfect friend, and he would be the perfect father. You could feel it in your bones. There was no way in hell you deserved him and yet he remained by your side. He moved his home office to the basement and painted the upstairs room in pretty shades of green, applying a leaf-patterned wallpaper on one of the walls, turning the room into the loveliest of nurseries. Jisung and Changbin came to help with it, and having them in the house helped you a lot. Your father was there too. The house was too full but sometimes it’s how things have to be. Or else, aloneness would be forced upon you. 

You woke up in the middle of one night with your whole lower body feeling like it was being split in two—it was then that you realized you were just about to give birth. You panicked and yet Chris remained calm. He grabbed the bag he had packed for you and he drove you to the hospital, talking you through the few contractions that overtook you, not blinking an eye at your nails digging into his skin as you held onto him. When it got a little worse, he realized that none of what he was saying helped, so he made you talk. 

He asked you about art. 

You hadn’t been in a museum in entirely too long, but you kept your books and the memories of all of it in your heart. Chris asked if you picked up an interest in a particular art movement these days. He asked you if you had discovered a piece of art that you especially liked recently. You told him that while you hadn’t discovered anything, you had read an interesting article about Artemisia Gentileschi’s most iconic work—Judith Slaying Holofernes. Explaining to Chris the analysis of the art historian you had read helped you get through the worst of the contractions so far.

It also led both of you to agree that your baby’s name would be Judith. 

As you got into Blue Harbor, it felt, a little, like a fire was catching inside you and like it was trying to exit between your legs. 

You begged Chris to drive faster, but it was winter and he didn’t want to risk anything on the slippery road. 

So he asked you to talk to him about your favorite painting. 

Loss. 

Few things were known about this painting. It had been painted in Italy by a man who came from Asia to study Venetian art, but also visited France, the Netherlands, England, and more. He brought with him his wife—the woman in the painting, or so the stories said. They had a son, and soon after, a daughter. 

The daughter became ill, and she died. 

Maybe it was fate, or something much darker, but it was as you remembered the woman’s sorrowful gaze that you realized something was wrong. Chris assured you it was just the contractions but you knew it wasn’t. You could feel it in your bones.

You could feel it creep in, approaching, lurking—aloneness. 

They proceeded to an emergency C-section but it wasn’t enough to save Judith. She had been dead inside you already, they said. They said it wasn’t your fault. 

Forced upon you. Aloneness. 

Loss.

You never really get over it. Loss.

Some voids cannot be filled, they are meant to remain wastelands, barren, contaminated. 

Judith was that to you. And to Christopher. 

You’d swear he fell out of love for you the moment he saw his daughter’s tiny lifeless body being pulled from inside you. For the first time in your whole entire life, he couldn’t be there for you. You couldn’t even be there for him either. It was the beginning of the end, only, you didn’t want to let go.

You had dreams, terrible ones. In some, Judith was alive and well, in which case it made waking up the most difficult thing. In other nightmares, though, you were giving birth to her and she wasn’t much more than blood and flesh pouring from between your legs, yet you loved her nonetheless. 

One night, you dreamt that Liam came into the general store while you worked and stabbed your pregnant belly.

You went to therapy—separately, then together. It did nothing. Some voids cannot be filled. You both made efforts to appear happy, maybe in the hopes of faking it until you made it. Chris took you on dates, and you took him on dates. You hired a handful of employees for the store and the campground so that you’d have more time, but in the end, that also did nothing. All it did was give you more time to be sad at home instead of being sad at work.

Chris had it worse than you, or maybe he just couldn’t hide it as well as you. He ate very little and slept even less. He went on long hikes and usually came back after dusk smelling like sweat and like the forest. You’d ask where he went, if he had a good hike. He’d give you responses but nothing else. 

One day he didn’t come home at all, and his phone went straight to voicemail. You tried to rationalize it, to remind yourself that most trails didn’t have great coverage anyway, and that he knew his way around the forest. You didn’t sleep that night. You couldn’t sleep. When you heard the front door at four in the morning, you flipped your pillow so that he wouldn’t be able to feel how damp it was. You wiped the tears off your cheeks and buried your face under the covers. Chris didn’t stop by the bedroom—just a minute later, he was in the shower.

You missed him. And it felt wrong to miss someone whose scent permeated the bedsheets you lay on. You were losing him, too, and you knew it because aloneness was drowning you even when he was standing right next to you.

That night, you joined Chris in the bathroom. You sat on the counter, observing him. Condensation was gradually covering the glass of the shower but you saw him in a different light—skinnier, with bruises here and there, acquired on his long hikes, no doubt. He saw you but he didn’t acknowledge you.

There were thoughts weighing you down, and you knew that speaking them out loud wouldn’t help, but you had to anyway.

“Chris, I think it would be easier for you if you admitted to yourself, and maybe even to me, that you hate me.”

He turned to you then, water rolling down his shoulders. “I don’t hate you. I’m just sad. My baby is dead. Can’t I be sad?”

“You can be sad, of course.”  You stood, making your way toward the shower, sliding the door open. You would never not be moved by him, his naked body. You felt a tumble in your belly. “But you also resent me.” 

He had the grace not to deny it this time. He averted his gaze. “I don’t want to. I know it’s not your fault. I’m sick in the head.” 

You thought it must feel somewhat the same to be stabbed in the chest. Not even in the heart, no—immediate death would be merciful compared to this. Instead, Chris had pushed a serrated blade just two inches away from the organ, sparing you, hurting you more. 

“Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe it is.” Some truths are meant to remain unspoken, but you loved Chris enough to believe he deserved to know it anyway. “I wasn’t sure at first. That I wanted a baby. Up until the moment I saw the little + sign on the first pregnancy test, I wasn't really sure I wanted to be a mother. I just wanted to be with you.” You gulped, swallowing your tears. “All these years, I felt like I should have kept that first baby. I don’t know why, it just felt like it. Mind you, I didn’t feel that before the abortion, only sometime after. Almost like I knew it would come back and haunt me somehow. Well, it did. Life punished me.”

Chris took a step toward you, cupping your face in his warm, damp hand. Water rolled down your neck and onto the t-shirt you slept in. “That’s not how it works. You didn’t manifest Judith into a stillborn.” He lowered his face close to yours, kissing you, kissing you like he meant it. 

He pulled you into the shower, kissing you deeper, and you wrapped your arms around his neck. “I love you,” Chris said, pulling your shirt off you. And you knew he did. But he also resented you. The two weren’t mutually exclusive. 

He pinned you to the wall and kissed you, guiding himself at your entrance. You felt him grow hard inside your cunt as he fucked his despair into you. “Fuck me like you hate me,” you begged him. “I deserve it.” 

He pulled away at that, only to wrap your legs around his waist, picking you up. He carried you to your bed, leaving a trail of soapy water behind. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, burying himself inside you again. 

He fucked you hard, harder than he ever had, holding you by your throat or sometimes by a fist in your hair. He fucked you from behind, then flipped you over to look into your eyes as he pounded into your soaked pussy. You hadn’t known a life without Christopher and without his love and his comfort. You wondered how you would keep existing without it. You wondered if you would be able to live without managing to pay off your debt to him. Even as he spilled himself into you, filling you with his sorrow, you wondered how you would cope. 

Even with Chris toppling over you, his weight on your body, his cock softening in your cunt, you felt alone.

Jisung turned to the rest of the room. “Does anyone want more cake?” 

A few hands shot upright, accompanied by enthusiastic statements. The ghost of a smile appeared on your lips as Jisung began his distribution of dessert. This was how you liked your house best—when it was crowded with people you loved. On other days, it felt empty, bleak, too quiet. 

Next to you, Chris shifted his weight on his seat, glancing at you. You stared back at your husband as he forced a smile on his lips. 

You leaned toward him, a frown on your brow. “Are you tired?”

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, almost out of habit, and pulled you closer. “I’m just drunk,” he whispered into your ear, eliciting a faint chuckle from you. “Are you tired?”

You were tired, but then you had been tired for years, it felt like. You simply shook your head, knowing it was good for Chris to see people—you didn’t want him to put an end to the festivities on your behalf. Besides, they were celebrating your birthday, so you would feel bad to throw people out.

You watched as Jisung went around the room with the cheesecake leftovers. Chris kept his arm around your shoulders and you let it comfort you a little, even though he didn’t really mean it. It was muscle memory. 

Those who didn’t grab cheesecake were now pouring more wine into their glasses—you handed yours to Arina—Jisung’s fiancée—and she filled it again, and Chris’ too. 

“I heard on the radio that they forecast a particularly sunny summer,” Felix said, speaking to you and Chris specifically, although most guests were also paying attention. “I reckon business will be good for you guys this year.”

“I hope so,” Chris responded, squeezing your shoulder as a public testimony that he still gave somewhat of a shit about you. Maybe this was why you liked your house best when your friends were here—because your husband had to pretend he still loved you when people were around. “We’re thinking of hiring a couple more people, actually.”

“That’s awesome!” Felix flashed a bright smile at you. “I’ll have to try and make time to come visit. It’s been so long since I actually walked around the campground.” 

You knew he meant well, and you knew Felix wasn’t even lying—he had been friends with Chris in high school and he knew the area well despite having moved away a while ago. You knew that at this moment, Felix genuinely wanted to come again later, during the peak of summer season, to see the area at its most beautiful and lively, but you also knew he wouldn’t. Because that’s just how life was. Difficult. He would be busy somehow. And when he wouldn’t be busy, he would want to relax. Or go on a date. Or watch a movie. And you didn’t hold it against him. It had been at least a year since you went over to his place anyway.

“Man, you really should!” Chris nodded, raising his glass at Felix. We expanded a little, to accommodate for trout season. It was too crowded last year.” 

You were about to comment how it was a good problem to have, only you saw at the other end of the table Changbin and his girlfriend, Naomi, exchange a long, quiet stare, then turning to Arina and looking at her wine glass, which was still full. 

Something stirred within you. You knew what was about to happen, and you knew it was probably within your power to stop it. Only, you lacked the strength to do so, and words eluded you anyway. Or will, perhaps.

“Say, Ari,” Naomi told her friend with a mischievous smile on her face. She spoke at low volume, not trying to overpower the main conversation, in which Chris was telling Felix about the sudden and unexpected rise in trout population in the area. “I don’t think I saw you take a single sip of that wine.”

You knew for sure then, by the way color drained from Arina’s face before she turned crimson in half a second, and from the way Jisung almost dropped the cake as he went to put it back on the countertop. 

You couldn’t tell what hurt most—the way Arina’s gaze looked for you but how she dared not look you in the eyes in your own home, or the fact that she was pregnant at all.

Naomi reached over her boyfriend to give Arina the gentlest nudge. “Girl!” 

Changbin took Naomi’s hand in his, pulling it under the table quickly, pushing his own plate of cheesecake in front of her. “Want some? I don’t think I can eat all of it after all.” 

Not saying it was worse. Jisung stared at Arina, then at Changbin, avoiding your eyes at all costs. Meanwhile, the discussion between Chris and Felix was coming to an end as they realized that something was happening around the table. 

You couldn’t hold it against Naomi—she was the latest addition to your friend group, after all, and she didn’t know. Or didn’t know a lot about it all anyway. And even if she did know... You still couldn’t hold it against her. There was no reason for the rest of the world to remain stuck in the past the way you and Chris were. There was no reason for the rest of the world not to be happy at such a joyful prospect. 

Chris let his arm fall back, freeing your shoulders. You felt very alone then.

You knew it had to be you. It had to be you who said something or else the situation would get even more embarrassing and awkward. There had been many moments like this in the past few years, so you knew your way around them by now, no matter how unpleasant. It had to be you. It always had to be you.

“Ari, is it true then?” The thing with sorrow is it often turns people into excellent liars. You didn’t like this about you, but you could be very convincing when you had to be. You looked very happy when you needed to. “Is it really true?”

A timid smile reappeared on your friend’s lips. After a quick glance at Jisung, she nodded gently. “Yes, it’s true.”

As the table erupted in congratulations and a full-on interrogation—How long have you known? How far along are you? Oh my god can it really be true?—you plastered a smile on your face and remained in your seat. There was something else about lying—you had to learn not to overdo it. Proper dosage was essential to how believable you were. You couldn’t jump in place and clap and sing because your friend was pregnant, then people would look at you weird. They would know you’re faking it. They might even deduce that you have been faking it for a long time.

The ghost of Chris on the chair next to you disappeared when he pulled away, as expected. You recognized your own rehearsed smile on his face. 

“I really didn’t want…” Arina began, then stopped mid-sentence as she was searching for her words. Or rather, as she was thinking of the least hurtful way to remind you that your baby had died inside you. “We really didn’t want to crash the party with the news. We wanted to wait.” This, she said to you. 

“It’s alright,” you lied. It was not alright. You hadn’t had a happy birthday in a long time but this one had just turned into a genuine nightmare, as you felt yourself fall into a pit of darkness. Or rather like you were becoming one. “I’m very, very happy for you.”

“It’s such great news,” Chris chimed in. “Let us know if there’s anything we can do, yeah?”

But of course, they wouldn’t want you to come near their beloved child, and you understood that. Because you were cursed. 

The news indeed put an end to the party, which you knew was justified by people feeling awkward. Or maybe they just didn’t want to see the color of your grief. Arina was the last to leave—she stood with you in the doorway while Jisung and the other guys were chatting by their cars. She spared you from another apology but she held you in her arms. “It’ll be your turn soon,” she assured. People said those things sometimes, and it was to alleviate their guilt.

Chris joined you in the kitchen as you were putting empty cups in a trash bag. He grabbed some plates and began rinsing them in the sink.

You knew you had to say something. You knew it had to be you, no matter how unpleasant. 

“The cake was really good,” you commented. 

“Right?” Chris put a little too much enthusiasm into his response. “Mrs. Allen makes the best cakes.” Mrs. Allen owned the only bakery in this part of the city, and everybody feared the day she would decide to retire. Most of her income came from locals purchasing her goods for special occasions or simply because they craved something sweet.

“She does,” you agreed. “Thank you for the birthday party, and for my gift.” He had offered you a hydroponic garden system, something you had mentioned being interested in but weren’t quite sure it would fit in your kitchen. 

“No problem.” He spoke at low volume, now loading the dishwasher. It seemed, for a few instants, as though he was about to say something meaningful. But he finished clearing the countertops. “How about I run you a bath?” 

You accepted his offer, half hoping for something that couldn’t be true, which was that he would join you. Except he wouldn’t and you were well aware of that fact. Most nights, he pretended to fall asleep on the couch so he wouldn’t join you in the bed.

Last week, he saw the notification on your phone. According to your calendar, your peak fertility window begins now and will end in twenty-four hours. You still kept the fertility app. Maybe out of habit, but certainly not out of hope—Christopher had never truly said he wanted another child. Maybe it didn’t really matter either. You hadn’t gone back on birth control and there had been absolutely no pregnancy scares. Not that you had been particularly active… Except that now, you were certain Chris wouldn’t touch you for a long time. Because last week, after seeing the notification, Chris kissed you like he hadn’t kissed you in a while. He lay you in bed and undressed you and touched you and you touched him, too. But he couldn’t make love to you. He tried.

He really tried. Until tears were staining his cheeks. You took him in your mouth. You got on top, hoping he would grow hard inside you. But he didn’t. He apologized profusely but he didn’t need to. You had learned to discern the hints life left behind. Some things were meant to be and some weren’t. 

How unfair though. How unfair was it that you and Chris weren’t actually meant to be if you loved him this much? If you had loved him all of your life?

He did run you a bath, with all of your favorite things in it—jasmine oil, candles all around, piano music playing from a small speaker. It didn’t stop you from hearing him locking himself in what had been the nursery. In what still was the nursery—absolutely nothing had changed. Not one thing had been moved. The door just remained closed. Always. 

Could you have been wrong all this time? What if it wasn’t Chris who was meant for you, but aloneness? What if the withering of your heart was your own fault? After all, Judith had been inside you when her heart stopped beating. It had nothing to do with Chris, or with anybody else. Still, it was all he saw in you—the place in which his daughter died.

He was right. It was all that you were. A coffin, a graveyard, a tomb. All at once. And it was all that you would ever be, for as long as you would live.

A crackling sound coming from the walkie-talkie on the counter made you jump. You inhaled sharply, looking away from the laptop screen to offer an apologetic smile to the two clients who were checking into the campground. 

You weren’t supposed to be here today—usually, on Fridays, you operated the general shop, and Chris the campground. Mostly because even though they were now under the same business, you were both more used to those specific establishments, having been raised into them. Only, it was the campground’s big summer opening and Chris was overseeing the event. There would be a concert tonight, by a local band who played covers, and games and other activities were offered during the day. 

Since food was involved, it was less likely for people to stop by the general shop tonight—so you left it in your most trusted employee’s hands, knowing Jeongin would be more than able to handle himself there. He was probably going to sell sunscreen and hats all day—it was stunningly sunny. 

You grabbed the walkie-talkie, walking a few footsteps away to listen carefully. It was Jeongin’s voice that came in.

“Boss,” he said, and you still didn’t know who he was talking to because he called both Chris and you like that. “There’s someone here asking if we sell paint, and I’ve just been looking everywhere and…” 

A faint click followed Jeongin’s question, indicating that Chris had joined the conversation. “Paint?” he repeated. He could barely be heard over the music playing over there. “Paint?” 

You returned to the clients who had finished filling out their security forms while the other two chatted over the radio. You handed them their keycards to unlock the gate and various other spots on the site. You didn’t need to go too in-depth with them—it was the third summer they came here. “Thank you for choosing us again,” you told them with a smile. “If you have issues or an emergency, do call the number at the bottom of the map and someone will come to you.” 

The couple—a man and a woman in their 70s—thanked you warmly and returned to their RV outside. They had rented a space for two weeks. They reminded you a little of your parents. Had they looked this happy when they were on their trips? 

The debate over the walkie-talkie distracted you before you could tear up, even though you missed your mother terribly. 

“Not spray paint, boss,” Jeongin insisted. “Like, just paint.” You heard a voice speaking inaudibly behind him, and then the young man added, “Not wall paint or spray paint. Paint for art. Watercolor?” He said the last word as though he was only repeating it while being wildly unsure about it. 

Everything clicked into place then as you finally understood what they wanted. You grabbed your radio and joined the discussion again. “I didn’t have enough time to stock up the kids’ section,” you explained. It was a mistake on your part, caused by your sleep troubles as of late. After all, it wasn’t uncommon at all for parents to grab a few toys for their children before entering the campground. “Most of the stuff is still in boxes in the back store. I know where it is, I can guide you.”

Jeongin’s line cut abruptly—he had let go of his Talk button. “Jeongin?” Chris asked.

He came back almost immediately. “He says no, boss. He’s asking if we sell real watercolor, not children's stuff.” 

You suppressed a laugh and heard your husband do the same. While nobody in the area understood the importance of art more than you, you couldn’t help but find it humorous that someone would stop at a very rustic-looking general store on the side of the road of a small city to ask for legitimate art supplies. 

You looked at the beautiful landscape out the window—the river, the shore, and behind it all, the mountains. As pretty as a painting. 

“Please apologize on our behalf,” you told Jeongin. “We don’t carry art supplies of the sort. Offer them a discount on their purchase.” 

“Thanks, boss.” And Jeongin tuned out for good, leaving you and Chris alone on the line.

You let a few seconds pass. “How are things over there?” you asked, either to make conversation or because you desperately wanted your husband to speak to you. About anything. Anything at all.

“Pretty good actually. They’re loving the lemonade.” You two had made many batches of it early this morning. Quietly. In your kitchen. Squeezing lemons and then weighing sugar and making raspberry syrup, for the pink lemonade. Alone. “How are you holding up in there?” 

“It’s fine. Every time I’m here, it reminds me of those mornings my mom would have your mom babysit me, and she’d drag me here and put me to work.” The Park Office had been renovated since then, but it smelled the same as it used to. Like cedar and pine, with faint salt undertones. “Should we start carrying art supplies?”

“Man, I don’t know.” Chris laughed and he sounded like he meant it. It made a burst of light appear in your chest, even if it was only temporarily. “Oh, I gotta go. We need ice.”

“Let me know if I can do anything.” But Chris was already gone. 

Your life had reached a point where you doubted that any ice was actually needed. You imagined Chris just wanted to find a good enough reason not to speak to you, just you. He fared well enough—and so did you—in the presence of others, as though they motivated him to pretend better. The first night he didn’t come back home, you thought he was cheating on you. In the end, the sound of his shower woke you up at six in the morning. When you asked him where he’d been, he said he worked on some repairs at the camping ground.

It happened more and more often. Then some of his clothes disappeared from inside his drawers. It happened over weeks, so it gave you time to prepare. To form some sort of shell to brace yourself from the impact of it. By then, he rarely slept in your bed anymore, preferring the guest room or the living room. But when he did, you barely recognized your husband. It did not feel like him, that person under the sheets. 

During your sleepless nights, you pondered over it a lot. You were well aware that Chris hadn’t brought up divorce because it would feel like a failure for him. Like he had failed this marriage and you. You knew there was also the whole issue of the Riverside Campground and Riverside General Store, now become one. The legal problems that would surface during the divorce would be awful, and you knew it. Neither of you had felt the need to get a prenup or anything of the sort. 

Honest to god, you had thought you would be with Chris for the rest of your life. And maybe he had felt the same, and it was why he was so reluctant to leave you. 

Sometimes, you wanted to tell him that it was okay. If he was seeing another woman. He wasn’t going to keep fucking you, was he? Not when you were a graveyard. You couldn’t force him to love you either. He had stopped loving you a long time ago—it just took him a while to come to the realization. You wanted to hate him. To resent him. But all that you could do about Chris was love him, no matter how broken, how misaligned that love had become.

There was this unspoken agreement that at work and around your friends, you made it look like everything was okay. You hadn’t told a soul about your marital problems and you assumed Chris probably hadn’t either. 

Every day you woke up with the clear intention to sit down with Chris and to talk. To make him say that this—all of this—made no fucking sense. That you had to get a divorce, no matter how cumbersome it would be. Nothing could be worse than this anyway. 

And as the coward that you were, every day, you found ways to avoid that conversation. 

A car coming down the road caught your attention, pulling you out of your deep thoughts. The darkness lingered within you, but you appreciated every occasion to be distracted from it. Even work.

The car—a black Jeep Patriot that looked like a rental—stopped at the designated parking space for check-ins. Noticing that, you made sure that none of the tears that had tickled your eyes had messed with your mascara. Unfortunately, it was a little smudged in one place, but you managed to mostly fix it just in time to welcome the customer.

A man that you supposed was in his mid-20s  entered the park office looking a little confused yet resolute. He had hiking attire—dark green cargo pants, a generic t-shirt, and a lightweight jacket. Holding his phone and often looking at it, he made his way to the counter slowly. 

“Hello,” you said before he had even reached you, prompting him to look up. He was, by all standards, pretty, with feline-like eyes and gentle traits. “Will you be checking in with us today, sir?” 

He responded to your smile with a polite one. “Yes. I made the reservation a while ago. Under Lee, Minho.” 

You typed his name into the laptop, quickly pulling up his reservation file. You raised your eyebrows as you looked at it—it was the first time you saw it really, Chris was the one who took care of this stuff usually.

“I have it here,” you told him, double-checking to make sure you had read everything right. “You made an extended stay reservation for two adults in one of our RVs?” 

The campground welcomed RVs on one side and tents on the other, also offering to rent either installation for those who needed them. Renting a fully equipped, luxury RV was by far the most expensive booking option you sold, and he had requested it until the end of the season. From the first day to the very last. 

“Yes, that’s me.” His smile became a little more comfortable, and a little warmer, too. “You seem surprised.”

“Oh, I’m just not used to it—usually, it’s the cabins on the other side of the rivers that get this sort of clientele.” 

You took the credit card—black—that he handed you without you having to ask. You actually had nothing against Pineview Cabins. People who wanted a cabin wanted a cabin, and those who wanted something else came to you. Besides, the owners were a mother and her son, and they were lovely.

“Cabins are for tourists,” Lee Minho said jokingly.

You finished entering his information in the system and gave the card back, finding it a bit easier to smile in his laid-back presence. No matter how long you had spent enduring it, you had never been very good at aloneness. 

“There is a form we require guests to fill—for security purposes,” you explained to him, sliding on the counter the form in question, secured on a clipboard. You shot a glance behind him, looking at his car through the front window, where you could see that there was someone in the passenger seat. “Both of you will have to fill one,” you added, pulling out a second clipboard. “I can go and hand this one to them while you fill yours if you’d like.”

The man shook his head, the corner of his lips curving up. “Nah. Let me call him. He can sulk about paint sometime later.” 

It clicked into place then—this man, and whoever was in his car, had been the ones who, just moments ago, were at the general shop asking for watercolors. 

“It was you!” You bit your lip. “I’m really sorry we couldn’t accommodate you better. I’ll—”

Minho, who had just finished typing a text on his phone, put the device back in his pocket and grabbed one of the pens to start filling out his form. “No need to apologize. I don’t know why he expected to find some legit watercolors here.” 

“Ah, artists.” You spoke in a tone that was clearly sarcastic but not offensive. 

“This one is something, for sure.”

As if on cue, the front door was opened by the man beckoned by Minho through a text and a little voice inside your head said, Yes, this one is something indeed. He was tall, holding himself straight with a perfect posture and yet in a totally nonchalant manner. Still, he was graceful. You saw it in the way he pulled the door open, in the way he took off his fancy designer sunglasses to put them on his head, in the way he adjusted his half ponytail right after. 

If Minho was dressed as though he was heading out for a three-day hike, this one, the artist, was the complete opposite. A loose white graphic tee hung on his broad shoulders. With it, he wore oversized jeans, and he even had another shirt tied around his waist, as though he had expected the weather to be cooler. A multitude of jewelry pieces adorned his body—a few silver necklaces around his dainty neck, many bracelets on his wrists, and rings, too. The ensemble screamed intentional chaos.

The more seconds passed, the closer he was to you and the counter, and you were utterly unable to take your eyes off him. Not just because he had just entered the room and it was a normal thing to look at someone who approached to check-in. But because you had never seen anybody like him before.

He was beautiful, and there was no other way to put it. His face was seemingly perfect—his big, dark eyes were scanning his surroundings as though to evaluate the potential dangers. The rounded tip of his nose complemented his cheekbones well. 

He had a pretty mouth—his lips were obscenely plush. Rosy red. Enticing. With a velvety quality to them. Skin like honey-coated satin. Hair like silk soaked in black ink. 

He was the kind of person who just oozed charisma. Effortlessly. The kind of person whose presence changes the whole vibe of the room. The kind of person everybody notices without them trying. Often, without them wishing for it at all. 

There was a point where you realized you should say something—he was just a few steps away now, close enough that Minho had turned to him. Close enough that you could smell him—he carried with him a strong yet not heavy scent reminiscent of amber and roses with woodsy and musky undertones. You took a deep breath but it wasn’t even to brace yourself to be in his presence. It was to inhale more and more of this alluring smell. It took everything in your power not to immediately ask him what his cologne was. 

“There you are. Here.” It was Minho who spoke first in the end, sliding the second clipboard and another pen toward his friend. Or brother. Or cousin.

Or boyfriend, maybe. 

You had to say something. “Hello.” Simple. Ordinary. A skeleton key of greetings. 

He briefly looked away from the clipboard to acknowledge your presence. “Hi.” 

He didn’t seem thrilled about having been called in here and you felt bad about it for some reason, even though you had been asking guests to fill out a security form for years now. 

“Sorry about this. It’s for security purposes,” you explained. 

“It’s no problem at all,” Minho assured. He was already halfway through his form. 

You gave him a quick nod. “And sorry about the watercolors, too,” you added.

At this, the handsome man reacted a bit more. He straightened up from the counter to face you. It felt, a little, like the air had been kicked out of your lungs. Being face to face, so close to him, felt like falling from a high place. 

He spoke to you softly, almost timidly, like he wasn’t sure he ought to speak at all. “The airline lost my art supplies bag and sent it to the wrong destination. I just wanted to have something while they manage to send it to me.” His voice was pleasant. Smokey and warm, it had a strangely comforting tone.

You barely understood the words he said, not because it was a difficult concept to comprehend, but because of the intonation in which he spoke as well as his pronunciation. It was so unique it demanded your whole attention. As if the placement of his lips at any given time, and the movements of his tongue as he spoke, came together as an orchestra that played an elegant symphony. 

“We actually put in the address of the campground,” Minho interrupted as if he had just remembered that detail. “I hope it’s okay? They should be sending the bag here sometime next week.”

“Or the week after,” the artist sighed, rolling his eyes before returning to his form. His handwriting was small and neat. 

“It’s not a problem at all.” It occurred to you then that you had things to get done to check them in, so you returned to your laptop to get to work. “We’ll let you know as soon as it gets here.” You bit your lip, torn over your curiosity and your pulse quickening so fast it frightened you. “Do you exclusively paint in aquarelle?” 

You reported your attention to your screen as soon as you asked the question, regretting it immediately. Like sending a risky text. Warmth spread at the back of your neck, reaching your cheeks and even your ears. Get a fucking grip.

He was handsome, yes. He was the kind of beautiful that nobody could ignore, yes. To blush a little when he looked into your eyes was one thing. But to be entranced by this stranger like this, to have your heart threatening to jump out of your chest, for your breathing to turn shallow in his presence… That was something else. 

At first, you blamed your many sleepless nights—you had a lot of accumulated fatigue, so it would be normal not to be in your right mind. Then you blamed your lingering heartache. The sorrow you carried with you anywhere you went. The wedding ring on your finger that felt like it weighed a ton while meaning so little anymore.

Then shame crept up from somewhere deep within you, tugging at your heart.

No matter how painful the state of your marriage was, you remained married. And there was nothing wrong with finding somebody else attractive, of course, but this felt different. It felt like you ought to take several steps back and internalize that no matter how hot and interesting this guy was, it wasn’t even for you to take notice of it. He painted. So what? He was insanely hot. So what? He wasn’t the first handsome dude you met during your marital life. He smelled good. Okay? He had pretty lips, but who cares?

GET A FUCKING GRIP!

You figured it was your brain trying to save you. You had known for a long time that your marriage was over and that nothing could save it. It had been such a long while, it seemed, since Chris had truly loved you. And you loved him in a desperate way, like trying to hold onto a knife not by its handle, but by its blade.

Your thought process only took about two seconds, but they felt like two very long seconds. In the end, none of this mattered—even if Chris divorced you, and even if this young god had any interest in you, which was impossible, you would still not do anything about it. If you hadn’t even been able to trust in your life-long conviction that you would grow old with Chris, then you were certainly not going to open your heart to anybody else. Ever. 

The man stared at you like he was thinking about his response before saying it. Minho was done with his form and handed it back to you. 

“He does a lot of things,” he said in the artist’s place. “I bought a painting from him. That’s how we met. It’s watercolor and oil, right?” He turned to the handsome man, who nodded.

“Yes, and encaustic paint,” he added, his voice suddenly a little smaller. “It’s made of—”

“Yes, wax. Hot wax.” You cut him off before he could finish his sentence, feeling a little bad that he felt compelled to explain everything, considering how he looked like he didn’t want to talk to you at all. He was most likely an introvert. It used to be difficult for you, too, to talk to strangers. But you became used to it through this place over the years. Or maybe in a desperate attempt not to be alone.

He stared at you with his eyebrows raised just slightly. “Do you paint, too?”

You couldn’t help a nervous laugh from escaping your lips. “God, no. I wish though. I just… appreciate.”

“Then I’ll have to show you his stuff. Brilliant.” Minho gave his companion a not-so-gentle slap on the back. 

“I’d love to,” you replied, taking the signed form from the artist. “We’ve actually been looking into buying a piece for the main lodge, where we hold some events, activities, shows, stuff like that. We did a few renovations last year, and there’s a wall that’s just so empty and bland. Maybe we—”

Two things happened at once then.

Out of habit—and because you had to as it was literally your job—you let your gaze trail down the form you were now holding. You also realized that you were overdoing it with the conversation, talking a little too quickly just to make up for the fact that you were a nervous wreck. The guy had checked in using a black card. There was about no chance for you to be able to afford anything this young god painted, right?

Then your brain processed the words it was reading.

Full name: Hwang, Hyunjin

Hwang, like Hwang Naro, the painter behind Loss, the artwork that had been fascinating you for years. And he just happened to be a painter, too. For some reason. Loss dated back to the 1850s after all, so there was no correlation to be made. Hwang Naro. Hwang Hyunjin.

Immediately, you reminded yourself that many people shared a last name in Korea after all, so it was only a minor coincidence. Painting was a common hobby, wasn’t it?

“Uh, is there a problem, Miss?” Hyunjin inquired, leaning in closer to also look at his form to double-check.

It wouldn’t have felt any different if you had been kicked in the solar plexus. His scent invaded your nostrils and then your lungs, and it was so violent that you had to hold onto the counter. When he looked up again, you noticed more details on his face. The mole under his eyes. The faint lines on his lips. The other mole on his jaw. The shape of his eyes, perfect, intricate, elegant. Their shade deep enough that you could drown in them. 

You remembered the book Jisung and Changbin had given you for your birthday once, the essay about the painting. One of the chapters contained various interviews and letters from people who had known Naro—he signed his paintings without his family name. One of the interviews had been conducted in the late 1880s, by an author who would later publish it in a journal in the early 1900s. He had spoken to Cornelia, a maid who had worked for the Hwangs during her youth while the family resided in Leiden, a small city in South Holland.

Everybody in town knew that Mr. Naro was handsome and kind. He liked to visit the botanical gardens to practice his colors and florals, and some visitors went there to watch him, too. He would sometimes carry with him small pieces of canvas and hand out sketches to children. Mr. Naro was fond of children, and he loved his only son very much, more than I have ever seen a father love anything before. The women envied his wife and the men envied him, for he was a proper gentleman and loved by all. He and his family lived modestly despite the money he made selling his paintings and giving art courses. 

He summoned me to the courtyard of the house one afternoon. He was painting the sky, which was blue and beautiful. Mr. Naro told me he freed me from my employment. When I panicked, he said, “Fret not, Cornelia, it has nothing to do with your abilities. I am most content having you under my roof.” Mr. Naro looked me in the eyes and said I should take some time to visit places and fall in love, either with the world or with a man, or a woman even. He assured me I would be welcome to return after my trip if I wished, and that if he happened to be gone by then, he would ensure the University hired me. 

He gave me money, more than I had ever seen in my life, and a bag for my travels. I refused yet he insisted, no matter how immense the gift, disproportionate to what I thought I deserved. He said my heart’s color was Alizarin Crimson, with a just drop of Naples Yellow and another of Ultramarine, all of those softened in Flemish White. As he spoke, he mixed the colors on his palette, right in front of my eyes. The final result was a gorgeous pink that reminded me of the carnations that used to grow in my grandmother’s garden. He used that pink to paint a stunning bird in the sky, shading it with black and blue, defining the feathers also with white. He gave me the painting and said, “This is your heart. Do you want to keep it caged up here?” 

I heard he had similar interactions with other maids and even students. I traveled to France where I met my husband and became a dancer. I never forgot Mr. Naro. I never forgot Mr. Naro’s eyes, so dark they were more black than brown, yet soft, gentle, and sad. I wanted to be a painter so I could accurately blend paints to recreate that color, just to see it one more time.

The painting, titled Cornelia’s Colors, was now at home at Musée d’Orsay, and you had been lucky enough to see it with your own two eyes a few years ago, during a short European trip with Christopher. It had been given to the museum by the maid-turned-dancer’s descendants. 

But it was not the intricacies of the painting that were on your mind at that moment, not even the expert blending of the colors on it. It was the shade of Hyunjin’s eyes. So dark they were more black than brown, yet soft, gentle, and sad. 

You shook your head faintly, as though chasing away the thoughts invading it.

“Did I miss something?” Hyunjin asked again, glancing at his sheet. 

“N—No, it’s all good.” And yet, by the way they were looking at you, you were very much aware that your reaction must have been noticed. For a split second, you wondered what would be weirder—if you mentioned something or if you just moved on. “It’s just, your name,” you said before you could even really think about it. “You have the same family name as the artist who painted my favorite painting. And you paint too. So I thought it was just a nice coincidence.” 

Something in Hyunjin’s already somber eyes shifted, worsening the darkness in them. His body language changed in a matter of seconds as he stood straight up again, keeping his shoulders straight. He removed the sunglasses from the top of his head, ready to put them on his nose again. 

Minho stared at him, and then at you again. “It’s not really a coincidence, is it?” he told Hyunjin.

Hyunjin rolled his eyes so faintly you almost didn’t catch it. He took a deep breath, the exhale ending with a sigh—in the dictionary, under Bored, a picture of him at that very moment could serve as a definition for the word. You felt so bad you wanted to hide under the counter like you used to when you were little. 

“Guess not,” Hyunjin said with a shrug. “He’s my great-great-grandfather.” 

Too many seconds passed before you reacted—before the information even made it to your brain. 

You were standing in the presence of Hwang Naro’s direct descendant. You were breathing the same air as him, you were looking upon his divinely sculpted face. You were hearing his voice, coated with amber and honey. 

“Oh my god,” was all you managed, whispering under your breath, a frown digging itself between your brows. “I’m so sorry, I—”

Hyunjin waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not important.” 

Not important. Except his great-great-grandfather had been the artist behind the painting that you had always favored. The painting that had turned out to be prophetic, for you at least. 

“What are the odds though?” Minho, contrary to Hyunjin or you, seemed very enthusiastic about all of this. “I knew it was a good idea to drag you here, Hwang.”

By the look on Hyunjin’s face, you could tell he felt very differently. It triggered your brain back into place though, as you became excessively self-conscious. Of yourself. Of your reaction. You could understand why your mind latched onto any good or interesting thing it saw, because your life had become bleak and empty. Yet it was stupid to care about any of that. To this man, the painting meant nothing, and it didn’t appear that his ancestry mattered much more either. He was clearly annoyed with you anyway. 

With trembling hands, you reached for the keycard printer, collecting the two cards you had just printed. You slid them into their protective sleeves, which were attached to lanyards with the campground’s name on them. 

“Here,” you managed, also trying your best to smile. “These will give you access to everything you need—the entry gate, your RV, the laundromat, and the showers. If you lose them, just call this number here.” With that, you handed them maps of the campground, as you did with any new guest. “We’re here. Your site is right there with the other RVs.” You showed them with your index finger, but you felt your insides disintegrating into nothingness. “Just get past the gate and follow Pinecone Lane, you can’t miss it. You have a parking space at your site.”

“This place is huge,” Hyunjin commented—not to you, but to Minho. 

“Bigger than I imagined,” Minho conceded, but he was speaking to you. 

You nodded. “Yes. This is the tent camping site,” you explained. “Here is the main lodge, with the pool. This is the RV site. There’s walkable beach land all around this part too, and you can rent a boat or kayaks here.” 

“Jesus Christ, that’ll be the best summer of my fucking life,” Minho said with a sigh. “I need this vacation. I’m here to fish, I got a permit for it.”

You couldn’t shake the feeling that Minho had picked up on your unease and was trying to distract you from it. It did manage to slow your heartbeat a little. 

“Ah, fishing!” This prompted the smile on your lips to become more genuine. “Of course. Lots of fishing to be done around the estuary. I love striped bass, I haven’t had any in too long.” 

Your father used to love fishing and he would often take you with him. He would cook the bass on a fire with ingredients he gathered in the forest. Those were some of your most precious memories. You’d usually fall asleep by the fire and wake up at the back of the car as he was driving you home. These days, your father’s arthritis was preventing him from enjoying his fishing trips, so he just stopped going. And every year, you told yourself you ought to go fish by yourself, catch a bass, and cook it for him. You never found the time. Or the courage. Or the courage to find the time.

“I’ll make sure to save some for you if I catch any,” Minho promised. 

“Please don’t. Really.” You pressed your lips together, wondering what to say next. Hyunjin’s sunglasses returned before his eyes and they grabbed their card and map. “I hope you have a wonderful stay. Don’t hesitate to call or visit here, the main lodge, or the general store if you need anything.”

“Except paint,” Minho remarked with a clearly sarcastic and humorous tone, sending both you and Hyunjin into a hysterical fit of laughter. 

You laughed so hard you had to lean against the wall behind you with a hand over your mouth while Hyunjin clapped and called Minho a fucking dumbass. You hadn’t laughed this much in a long time. In fact, you couldn’t remember at all when the last time was. You wiped the tears at the corner of your eyes, waving at the two men as they walked out. Minho exited first, and Hyunjin lingered in the door frame, hesitating.

He turned to you. You couldn’t read his expression, not with the sunglasses, but his posture was more relaxed than it had been. “Just curious,” he started. “What is it? Your favorite painting?” 

Your laugh came to a halt the same way a delicate crystal glass would shatter into pieces if someone closed their fist around it. 

“It’s Loss.” You wanted to say more, but your voice remained stuck in your throat. And what would you have said anyway?

He stared at you for a few seconds and nodded slowly before leaving. 

There were still tears on your cheeks, but they no longer tasted like laughter—instead, they had the bitter yet familiar taste of aloneness.

... to be continued.

Note: I feel like I say the same thing over and over—but thank you. I could say it a million times and it wouldn't be enough. Thank you to my readers who not only put up with me, but encourage me as well and motivate me to keep trying to improve and to find my voice.

This story was, once again, extracted from the depths of my heart. It is with the utmost humility that I present it to you—when I started writing it, I did so with the intention, specifically, of not releasing it to the public. It's too personal, I told myself. And then I realized that every story I released contain other parts of my soul, and that this one was no different.

So, here it is. The ramblings of a woman who feels like she graduated at the school of Alone and earned a PhD in Loneliness.

Thank you for your support, and for your love. You guys are the best readers. You know this, right? Love y'all.

Welcome to Stormhaven 🤍

** please note that I will soon be restarting my permanent taglist from scratch as I only wish to keep active readers on them in an effort to put my time in the right places, considering the effort and love i put into what i release. by active readers i mean readers who interact at least a little with my content. i do not expect you to read every single thing i put out or to comment all the time. it's really just that there are many fully inactive/silent readers on the list! if you wish to stay on the list or be added to it, please reach out to me. ask is ideal because I can then tag your ask & return to it, but you can DM me as well! thank you for your understanding. **

taglist:

@abiaswreck ; @accalus ; @aimeexx ; @anylady-fics ; @b4kuho3 ;

@binstitsweat ; @cb97percent ; @chans1aptop ; @chartrucewhore ; @hanjingin ;

@hwan-g ; @hyuneyeon ; @hyunfruits ; @hyunjinswifeee ; @hyunniethepooh

@hyuwunjinie ; @hyyuniverse ; @iam2out ; @imseungminsgf ; @k1ra4a

@leedunno ; @lotus-dly ; @miraworldsstuff ; @mmoonriseflowerr ; @naoristerling

@neosracha ; @palindrome969 ; @shywolfcherryblossom ; @skzfelixlove ; @starseekersworld

@straydhampir ; @suhomylife ; @sunlitwilderness ; @ven-fic-recs ; @yourmercibeaucoupsblog

[wonbinhwa]

I love it when someone's words can make me physically feel the emotions in my chest.

[seonghwa1997]

Park Seonghwa invented tank tops 🔥

[leatherbookmark]

park seonghwa breathing breathtakingly

[maximura]

[wonbinhwa]

where are the ateez pirate fics😭 i NEED more. i am DESPERATE. i only have so many scenarios left in my head i need the fandom's talented writers on the job

[boynextdoors]

wonton 😸🐶

[tokyo-daaaamn-ji-gang]

Full look at Mikey's new game art!!!

[got7]

WONBIN Get A Guitar (2023)

[drogonstone]

[dm-hi2ji-deactivated20251118]

総長と副総長

かなり前に旧Twitterで描いたもの。

[leedongwook]

Cha Eun Woo as "Kwon Sun Yool"

Wonderful World  원더풀월드 (2024) // Episode 1+2

[wonbinhwa]

eunwoo is going to be so exciting in this drama, intrigued to see where his storyline goes! i'm lowkey hoping his character is a villain