Later that night, the snow still whispered against the windows.

You were lying beside him — in the dim warmth of your shared bed. The room smelled like pinewood and something faintly smoky, like the trail he always carried on his clothes. Your fingers tangled in the sheets, still cold from outside, but he wasn’t.

Taeha lay beside you on his side, propped up slightly, his eyes tracing your face like he was memorizing it. The only light came from the streetlamp bleeding in through the curtains, washing him in a pale gold glow.

His hand moved under the covers. Slow. Careful. Fingers brushing over your stomach.

You flinched — not from fear. From the way he made everything feel electric.

“You’re shivering,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Is it the cold… or me?”

Your lips parted. You couldn’t answer — maybe it was him. Maybe it always was.

He leaned down, brushing his lips along the side of your neck — not quite a kiss, more like a warning.

“I don’t need loud things,” he said. “Not moans. Not words. I just need you to stay.”

The room felt heavier.

Not in a scary way — just intense. Like something dark was wrapped in the silk between your bodies.

You nodded, heart in your throat. And with a faint smirk, he pulled you closer under the covers.

Outside, the snow kept falling.

Inside, he made the silence ache in all the right ways.