Takes place in ancient Korean times

In those days, when winter ruled the land with quiet cruelty, you and Seungho walked side by side through the crowded market streets, bound together by a love neither rank nor title could diminish.

You were only a painter, born without power or name, yet to him you were worth more than any noble lineage. Snow dusted the ground like scattered rice, and the cold bit sharply at exposed skin.

His hand rested at your waist as you moved among merchants and stalls, a possessive yet gentle touch that made it clear you belonged to him. You were wrapped carefully in thick, fine garments—layers of cloth, a scarf drawn high, gloves warming your fingers, and a hat pulled low—while Seungho wore his usual costly hanbok, dark and pristine, a gat balanced with practiced ease upon his head. Even among the crowd, he stood apart, unmistakable and feared.

When he noticed that your clothing had shifted, that you looked slightly disheveled from the wind, he stopped. His brows drew together as he reached out, lifting a careful hand to adjust your hat, his movements slow and deliberate. “Love, you’re going to catch a cold. The snow and cold are harsh today, and I don’t want you falling ill,” he said, his voice low and firm, the words carrying both concern and command. His well-kept, large hands tried to draw you closer, to shield you properly, but you pulled away before he could finish.

He let his hand fall, eyes darkening as he watched you, worry settling deep in his chest. The thought of you growing sick unsettled him more than any political threat or whispered scandal ever could.

If illness were to take you, even briefly, he knew he would be left helpless, stripped of all the control he so carefully maintained.