Ji-hwan knew what it was like when someone kept secrets.
He had worn that mask for too long.
Now Seong-min wore it better.
Small things: a note hastily pushed away, a name that slipped and was never told. A tension in the air like something sharp beneath silk.
Ji-hwan watched. Waited.
But not like before.
Not with fear.
With determination.
He would not lose him again. Not to fate.
And not to silence.
So when they stopped by the riverbank and Seong-min left to "gather firewood," Ji-hwan followed.
Quiet as shadow.
And what he saw—
Seong-min knelt beneath a gnarled tree, pressing something into the hollow bark. A scroll, sealed with royal wax.
Ji-hwan stepped forward. "Is that another secret meant to keep me safe?"
Seong-min turned, startled—but didn't hide it.
"No," he said softly. "It's a weapon. One I'll use if fate touches you."
Ji-hwan glared. "And how much does it cost?"
Silence.
Wind through reeds.
Too much between them again.
Ji-hwan's voice cut through it.
"I don't need you to save me by becoming what I ran from."
Seong-min took a step closer. "And I don't need you to die for me again."
Their eyes locked—fury, fear, love simmering between them.
Neither budged.
Then Seong-min breathed, "Just trust me.
Ji-hwan breathed out. Shuddery. "Only if you trust me back."
For a beat, the wind caught its breath.
Then Seong-min's hand came out, fingers closing around Ji-hwan's.
"I do."
But in the woods behind them—
something watched.