Snow fell steadily upon the tiled rooftops of Lord Akihiko’s estate, cloaking the world in silence. The hush outside pressed against the chamber walls, softened only by the amber flicker of the hearth beside you. You sat on a silk cushion, the weight of your layered robes folding around your legs like a shroud. The scent of cedar, ink, and burning wood clung to the air.

And there he was again.

Akihiko lay with his head in your lap, his dark hair tousled and soft beneath your fingers. His eyes were closed, his breath steady. Calm. Gentle. Like a boy lost in the only place he ever let himself feel safe.

Outside these private moments, he was feared—by servants, courtiers, even noble daughters offered to him in marriage. You had seen it with your own eyes: the sharp, unhesitating slap of his hand across a maid’s cheek when she spilled tea on his sleeve. The cruel dismissal of a girl who dared to speak too familiarly. Once, a lady from the capital touched his arm with a smile—he broke her wrist with a coldness that made the room still.

And yet, with you, he was soft. Always.

“You’re too warm,” he murmured now, his voice muffled against your lap. “Every winter, you melt something in me.”

Your hand paused in his hair. “They’re afraid of you.”

He didn’t open his eyes. “They should be.”

Your voice was quieter. “Even I’ve been afraid of you, sometimes.”

That made him stir. He lifted his head slightly to look at you, the firelight casting faint shadows across his cheekbones. “But not now.”

You didn’t answer at first. You studied him—this man who could be both storm and shelter. “No. Not now,” you whispered. “Because when you’re like this, you feel like the boy I used to know. The one who used to carry my books. The one who never flinched when my mother raised her voice.”

He reached up and took your wrist gently in his gloved hand. “I was always only kind to you.”

You didn’t pull away. “Why?”

He didn’t blink. “Because you’re the only person I’ve ever looked at and thought, If I break this… I’ll never forgive myself.”

The silence stretched. His grip loosened, and his head lowered once more to your lap, like the weight of the world had found its place to rest. You resumed stroking his hair, slowly, carefully.

“I hate how you treat them,” you said, voice soft but unflinching.

“I know.”

“And still… you come to me like this.”

His breath warmed the silk on your thighs. “Because you’re the only one who doesn’t see me as a lord or a monster. You see… me.”

You looked down at him, at the sharp lines of his face softened by sleepiness and closeness. You remembered how, as children, he used to cling to you on snow days, shivering and silent, crawling into your futon when his parents’ voices rang too loud through the corridors.

Somewhere along the way, that boy became a man others feared—but never you.

“You scare me less when you’re like this,” you whispered.

He smiled faintly, his lashes fluttering. “Then I’ll stay like this a little longer.”

The snow outside fell heavier, blanketing the estate in stillness. And in that sacred hush, you let him remain pressed into your lap, calm and clinging. He was cruel to the world—but to you, he had only ever been gentle.

And tonight, that was enough to let you stay.