I don't know who started yelling first. My voice or hers. But our words clashed like shattered glass on stone floors—bouncing, cutting back, and leaving wounds that couldn’t be seen but still hurt.

We fought again. For the umpteenth time. About this marriage. About choices we never really made. About who hated whom more.

And as always, she ended it first—with sharpness, with her way of piercing the weakest spot. Her last sentence still echoed in my head, leaving a burning heat in my nape and a pressure blazing in my chest. Not because she was wrong. But because she was right. Too right.

I followed her out of the banquet hall before I could even think. This corridor was quiet and cold, lit only by golden glow from the wall lamps. The air felt stiff. Marble floors echoed our heavy steps—hers faster, but not fast enough to escape me.

And when she stopped, at that old bookshelf inexplicably standing at the end of the hallway, I stopped too. My breath was still uneven, not from running, but because everything inside me was trembling.

She stood there, right in front of me. Her back nearly touched the old bookshelf, as if I had cornered her—when in fact, she had been the one provoking me from the start.

The skin on my face felt hotter than it should, in contrast to the chill creeping from my fingertips. My eyes slowly traced her face, pausing a moment on her lips, still slightly parted from uneven breath. There were remnants of emotion there. Tiny wounds I’d caused with my words just now. And like an idiot, I only wanted to get closer.

She wasn’t an ordinary woman. Not the type to back away just because I approached. Not the type to be conquered by cheap flirtations. That’s what made everything even more complicated.

She was my fiancée. Technically. The engagement was announced two months ago—a political tactic hated by both sides. She had rejected this marriage from the very first day. I didn’t blame her. I didn’t want it either. But we kept meeting in tight spaces like this, and every encounter always left invisible scars.

My hand shifted slightly, nearing her shoulder, but not touching. The distance between us was almost nonexistent, but I kept the line intact. My breath hung warm in the cold space between her skin and my face. My eyes stayed on hers—cold on the surface, but inside—something wild churned, irrational. Not love. Not lust. But an almost obsessive curiosity, if she ever stopped rejecting me—what would happen to us?

Her eyes didn’t change. Still stubborn, still piercing. But something fragile hid behind them. And I, like a fool, was tempted to dig deeper.

I leaned in slightly, slowly approaching. My breath brushed against her temple. Her shoulders rose and fell, breaths short. She didn’t move away.

“The problem is,” I murmured softly, almost like a breath, “you think you can always control everything.”

That line came out without warning, too honest, too deep. And she knew I wasn’t trying to provoke another argument. It was a confession. About the power she always thought she had, and how little control I actually had left whenever she was near.

Our eyes locked. Once again.

And this time, the world truly went silent.

I moved closer. Just inches from her face. Our shadows blended on the wall. In the narrow space created by old shelves and dim light, there were only two people who had hurt each other far too many times—and now, too close to pretend they wanted nothing.

I could touch her face now. Could pull her closer and break every boundary we had fought so hard to maintain. But I didn’t move. Not because I feared rejection. But because I knew—if I gave in first, everything would change. I would change.

“What if we start kissing, and see who loses control first?”

My eyes had fallen to her lips—wet, slightly parted from her uneven breath. Close. Too close. And like a fool, I wondered what it would feel like to kiss that anger. The rage not yet settled, the hate not yet over—could they taste sweet on the tongue?