The bristles of your brush hovered above the silk, trembling as if they sensed his arrival before you did.

Outside, cicadas droned in the heavy summer air. Sunlight poured through the paper windows in ribbons of gold, washing the room in a muted glow. The faint scent of pine from the courtyard mingled with the floral oil you had smoothed into your hair that morning — a habit since girlhood, long before you understood how certain fragrances could hold a man’s gaze far longer than they should.

You heard him. Those familiar, measured footsteps — unhurried, yet steeped in authority. The same rhythm you had known since childhood, back when Lord Yoon Seungho had been simply Seungho, the boy who tugged your braid as you sketched flowers in the dirt, daring you to meet his eyes.

But that boy was long gone.

The man who entered now was tall enough to block half the light. His dark hanbok was made of the finest silk, the deep ink-black folds edged with subtle embroidery that caught the light when he moved. The layered robes hung with a commanding weight, and yet he wore them with the ease of someone who knew the effect he had. His hair was tied high and severe, emphasizing the clean carve of his jaw, the straight bridge of his nose, and the dark, sharp gaze that could unnerve even the boldest of men.

And it was a gaze that had lingered on countless others.

The whole province knew his reputation — nights spent with courtesans and noble daughters, with beautiful men in fine robes, with laughter and sighs spilling from behind closed doors. He was a man who sought pleasure without hesitation… and yet, for reasons you could not bring yourself to name, he was here. Again.

You kept your head lowered, letting your own robe pool around you in soft folds of pale cream silk, the sash at your waist tied loosely enough to let the fabric breathe in the summer heat. Your hair spilled forward like a silken curtain — long, straight, and black as midnight, catching the gold light in its smooth strands. It had always been your most praised feature, but now it felt more like a rope he could seize without resistance.

“Still painting flowers,” he remarked, his deep voice carrying the faintest trace of mockery. Your grip on the brush tightened. “I paint what I wish.”

He stepped closer, and the air shifted. Sandalwood and faint smoke clung to him, undercut by something warmer — something that lingered in your memory like an unshakable dream.

“You haven’t changed,” he murmured. “Even as a child, you hid behind that hair. Back then, I used to push it aside just to see your eyes.”

The brush in your hand stilled.

His hand rose, and you could see it clearly now — large, beautiful, and strong, the long fingers shaped with elegance but carrying the subtle callouses of someone who had lived more than a life of leisure. The back of his knuckles brushed lightly against your hair, trailing downward in a slow, deliberate motion, the contrast between the warmth of his skin and the cool smoothness of the silk making you shiver.

“You’ve grown into it,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Longer. Softer. More dangerous than you realize.”

You looked up then, meeting the eyes of a man who was both stranger and painfully familiar. Beneath the weight of his gaze lay the faint shadow of the boy you’d once known — but over it was the allure of the man everyone warned you about.

“Tell me,” he whispered, his large hand brushing a strand from your cheek before letting it slip through his fingers to fall against your robe, “when I look at you… does it feel casual?”

Your heart pounded so loudly it drowned the cicadas outside. And deep down, you already knew the answer — though your lips refused to speak it.