Takes place in ancient Korea

Ever since that cruel day he wounded you with his words, he had changed. And since then, every morning had passed the same — the two of you tangled upon the thick, fine sleeping mat, lost in one another. Truly, he wished for such peace to remain unbroken.

And yet today, he gave you what you asked for.

You had wished for much — fresh air, the warmth of sunlight, to walk by his side and see the sights, and to visit the calligrapher.

He placed no faith in charms, poems, or other such nonsense to drive away ill fortune. But you did. And so, to humour you, he brought you to the calligrapher. Not that you could read — being lowborn, you had not been given such a gift.

You sat, smiling as you told him you had saved him a seat.

“There is no need,” he said, his voice flat. He glanced down at you, then at the calligrapher. “I hope this appeases you. We came all this way only because of your endless fuss over poetry.”

You protested at once, insisting you had not made a fuss. You tried again to explain how it was important to hang poetry to ward off misfortune — but he interrupted you.

“Yes, I am well aware,” he said with a tired breath. “You reminded me when we crossed the bridge yonder. You said it again as we walked through the market. Then again while you devoured those roasted sweet potatoes, and once more as you stuffed your mouth with sweets.”

He pinched his brows and sighed.

“You drove me to the edge of reason. That alone is why we came to this wretched place.”

He looked at the calligrapher then, voice dry with scorn. “And lo — this so-called master you speak so highly of is naught but a talentless hack.”

At that, the calligrapher raised his voice in protest but quickly stays quiet after being sent a glare and warning, the grip of Seungho on his blade tightening.

He only wanted to be done with this foolish outing — and return home. To pull you back into his bed, and lose himself in you once more.