ooChengsuxElias…oooo══════════════ ⋆⋅ ❁ ⋅⋆ ══════════════oo

oo══════════════ ⋆⋅ ❁ ⋅⋆ ══════════════ooᯓ . . . The daylight had not yet fully broken, only a thin, hazy veil of grayish white filtered through the heavy curtains, spilling softly across the rumpled bed.
The room still carried the lingering heat of a night spent in passionate entanglement—warm, hazy, and desolate. Faint traces of tobacco mingled with the delicate, lingering scent of hormones and desire, blurring the air into something both intimate and forsaken. The sheets lay twisted and piled haphazardly, their creases etched with the wild traces of last night’s abandon, as chaotic and fragmented as the turmoil in my heart.
Changsu had woken early.ᯓ . . . He remained still, leaning lazily against the headboard with a half-smoldering cigarette between his fingers. The ember flickered faintly in the pale, muted light, casting weak, dancing spots of warmth. Smoke curled upward in lazy spirals, winding around his sharp, cold features and softening the usual ruthless edge he carried. For once, the aura of violence that clung to him dissolved into a rare, distant languor. With him, tenderness was always fleeting—an illusion—while indifference ran deep in his bones.
I lay nestled in the crook of his arm, my body soft and aching, every bone seemingly melted by the heat of the night before. I lacked even the strength to lift a hand. As consciousness slowly emerged from the haze of sleep, vivid scenes from last night flooded my mind—scorching, indulgent, delirious—unbearably clear.oo══════════════ ⋆⋅ ❁ ⋅⋆ ══════════════ooᯓ . . . That strange yet blazing intimacy, that brief yet overwhelming tenderness… it was the first time in my life I had allowed myself to covet an encounter with no origin and no destination.
The air was so quiet that the soft crackle of burning tobacco was audible. I gazed at his indifferent profile, a bitter ache swelling in my throat, and spoke softly, my voice hoarse and sweet with the remnants of sleep, laced with a fragile, almost humiliating hope.
“Will I ever see you again?”
The words were light as a breath of wind, yet they pressed heavily against my chest.
Changsu’s gaze did not fall on me. He stared out at the misty white dawn beyond the window, flicked the ash from his cigarette with a casual tap, and answered in a tone so indifferent it carried not a single ripple—as if the passion and tenderness of the night before had been nothing more than a trivial pastime.ᯓ . . . “We’ll see what fate brings.”
Fate.
How perfunctory those two words were—light and weightless, sweeping away all the tangled intimacy we had shared.
I stared at him in a daze for a long moment. The sour ache in my chest spread slowly, seeping into every limb. Though I had expected the answer, hearing it still made my eyes sting uncontrollably.
I curled my fingers tightly and pressed closer to his warm chest, murmuring in a small, petulant voice—like I was sulking at him, yet truly quarreling with my own pitiful self: “I hate men who smoke.”
The moment the words left my lips, the man beside me finally turned his head.ᯓ . . . Those usually cool, indifferent eyes now held a glint of teasing amusement—languid and sly. Before I could react, he leaned down slightly. His thin lips parted, and he exhaled a gentle puff of smoke that drifted straight onto my face.
The delicate haze wrapped around me tenderly, carrying the faint scent of tobacco into my breath. It didn’t sting, yet it left me momentarily dazed.
In the next second, his warm palm covered my face. His fingers casually, wantonly tousled my already messy hair, pressing the dark strands against my cheeks and forehead in a disheveled, embarrassed tangle that completely shattered my pretense of anger.ᯓ . . . I instinctively furrowed my brows and turned my head slightly to dodge him, but the tips of my ears flushed red, my whole body stiff with awkward shyness.
He looked down at me—flustered, nowhere to hide, cheeks burning—and a low chuckle rumbled from his chest. The sound was lazy, magnetic, and laced with mischievous delight.
His fingertips didn’t stop. He poked my cheek again and again, lightly, with warm affection, as if teasing a sulky little creature about to puff up in indignation.
“Angry?” he asked softly, his voice casual yet coaxing, playful. “Really angry?”
I pressed my lips together and said nothing.
All the sulky words and childish grievances stuck in my throat. In the end, I gave up resisting entirely. I lifted my head slightly and buried my face deep into his warm chest.oo══════════════ ⋆⋅ ❁ ⋅⋆ ══════════════ooᯓ . . . Clinging tightly to his skin, I breathed in his unique scent greedily.
Crisp, cold, and laced with that persistent hint of tobacco—it was the scent that belonged only to Changsu, the tenderness I had craved all night long.
A muffled voice drifted out through the fabric, soft, nasal, and full of grievance, carrying unconscious dependence and surrender: “…I don’t hate men who smoke at all.”
I just hate that the man who smokes has never belonged to me.
The man’s smile deepened. His fingertips gently stroked the back of my neck—tender beyond words, yet cruel in its tenderness.
“So you’re just saying one thing and meaning another,” he teased in a low, languid, lingering tone. “What’s this, little girl? Are you going to cry?”ᯓ . . . I didn’t cry, but the moisture in my eyes refused to fade, and my chest ached with a heavy sweetness.
He raised his hand, his thumb gently brushing the reddened corner of my eye. His voice was casual, carrying a light, soothing note: “Don’t cry. Little girls don’t look pretty when they cry.”
His tenderness was too light, too fleeting—like morning mist that vanishes with the first rays of sun. Impossible to grasp, impossible to keep.
Yet I drowned myself in this momentary illusion of warmth, unwilling to wake.
My arms tightened instinctively around his waist. I clung to him desperately, as if he were the only driftwood in the sea, savoring this transient warmth. Sorrow, reluctance, grievance, and longing surged and tangled in my heart—I couldn’t tell whether it was pain, unwillingness, or simply the ache of not wanting this absurd, tender encounter to end.ᯓ . . . I craved the warmth of his embrace, the gentleness of his fingertips, the indulgent surrender he had shown me last night. I craved this brief night, this fleeting version of Changsu that belonged only to me.
Emotions mixed with lingering affection surged silently.
I tilted my head slightly and trailed soft, scattered kisses along his elegant, pale neck and collarbone. They were not passionate demands, but careful, grievance-laden imprints born of obsession.
My lips brushed his skin with my own warmth, then I bit down gently—not hard, yet leaving faint tooth marks, one after another, branding his cold white skin with clear traces of my presence.ᯓ . . . Like a stubborn, obsessive child, I wanted to use these insignificant marks to prove that I had been here, that for a moment, he had belonged to me.
He let me have my way in silence. Only after a long while did he let out a low, scoffing laugh, his voice carrying indulgent exasperation and doting laziness: “So clingy, and you bite too. What a messy little brat.”
Hearing the faint disgust in his tone, an inexplicable wave of grievance rose in me. I hummed softly against his chest, half-coquettish, half-accusing.
My cheek pressed against his warm skin, my voice soft and nasal, stubborn and defiant: “If you dare leave, I’ll bite you to death.”
I truly couldn’t bear it.ᯓ . . . Couldn’t bear the dawn, couldn’t bear parting, couldn’t bear the end of this one-night encounter.
I craved every bit of warmth beside him, craved this absurd, hazy night, craved him. Even though I knew clearly that he was like the wind—a drifting bird, the revered white falcon whom everyone feared. Free and untamed, he would never stay for anyone.
He gave no response to my plea, only continued laughing softly, allowing me to mark him as I wished, indulging all my unreasonable clinging and obsession.
I turned slightly, nestling against his side. My slender, soft fingertips idly toyed with his large, well-defined hand, tracing the calluses with slow, absent affection—hooked around his fingers, circling his knuckles, stroking his cool skin with gentle dependence.oo══════════════ ⋆⋅ ❁ ⋅⋆ ══════════════ooᯓ . . . The room remained quiet. The morning mist lingered, the light still hazy and dreamlike, as though this sudden encounter had been illusory from beginning to end. Bittersweet tenderness pulled at my heart, sinking me deeper while painfully awakening me.
I understood everything clearly.
This night was merely an accident—a fleeting indulgence between two strangers.
He was a top assassin who moved through darkness, a free and unrestrained king of his world—cold, casual, unattached. He would never linger for a passing romance. The tenderness of last night was real. The indulgence of this moment was real. But so was his detachment.
We had no future, no continuation, no rightful reunion.ᯓ . . . Yet deep in my heart, a tiny, self-deceiving hope still lingered.
Just as he had said—we’ll see what fate brings.
Fate was too broad, too vague, too ethereal.
It might mean an accidental reunion someday, or nothing more than this single brush of shoulders in a lifetime, or perhaps endless years ahead with no intersection at all.
I stayed buried in his arms, refusing to lift my head or loosen my grip on his hand.
Let this bittersweet, hazy tenderness remain suspended before the break of dawn.
I didn’t long for a passionate reunion, nor for lasting companionship. I didn’t even dare truly hope we would meet again.ᯓ . . . I only held onto that faint, fragile wish, hidden beneath layers of ache and obsession, refusing to let it die.
If fate truly existed…
Perhaps on some misty dusk, or some windless night, we would meet again amid the crowds.
But even if we never did, this absurd yet tender night—this entanglement of longing and bittersweet surrender—would remain forever in my heart, a secret, glowing ember of warmth that belonged to no one but me.oo══════════════ ⋆⋅ ❁ ⋅⋆ ══════════════oo

ooShingenxElias…oooo══════════════⊹⊱୨ৎ⊰⊹══════════════ooᯓ . . . Beneath the blooming spring flowers lay my first encounter with Shingen Yamazaki. A gentle breeze carried the sweet scent of blossoms back then. He stood bathed in bright daylight, his long black hair loose and untamed, several strands falling across his sharply defined face. His narrow eyes were deep and calm. When he glanced at me faintly, I hastily looked away from my secret gaze.

ᯓ . . . He lifted his fingertips and gently brushed my hair, tucking a fallen flower into my dark locks. I savored this fleeting tenderness from him, yet a quiet premonition crept over me: this man would turn my entire life upside down and become an inseparable part of me…oo══════════════⊹⊱୨ৎ⊰⊹══════════════ooᯓ . . . After marrying into the Yamazaki household, age-old feudal rules wrapped tightly around my daily life. Harsh clan etiquette and constant scrutiny from elders chipped away at my temperament day after day. I gradually learned to hold back my feelings and speak and act cautiously. The liveliness deep inside me slowly faded away, leaving me trapped inside a gilded cage, gasping for breath.

ᯓ . . . My feelings for Shingen have long been tangled between affection and resentment. Holding the reins of clan power, he could have altered my circumstances with ease, yet he always maintained an indifferent stance, watching silently as I was confined by rigid customs. His detachment time and again planted resentment inside my heart. Still, in quiet moments, a faint softness lingered in his eyes whenever he looked at me, born mostly out of guilt. He knew how tormented I was each day yet remained clumsy and helpless, unable to find a proper way to make amends.ᯓ . . . All my grievances and pain stuck in my throat, never fully voiced. I craved his rare warmth while resenting his detached indifference. Love and bitterness tore at me endlessly, trapping me in this relationship with nowhere to advance or retreat.ᯓ . . . When I pause to reflect on the Shingen I know, a heavy gloom constantly hangs over him. The defeat in gang conflicts shattered his long-held confidence, drowning him in confusion and exhaustion every single day. Most of the time he stays quiet, drowning in his own despair and indifferent to everything around him. Fully aware of what dragged him into this slump, I never blamed or reproached him, nor did I grow bitter when he overlooked me time and again. I could see the vulnerability beneath his stubborn exterior and understood he could barely take care of himself, let alone comfort my emotions. I always bore patience for his coldness and distance.ᯓ . . . Understanding him, however, did not erase the quiet hopes hidden deep inside me. Reason told me he was already broken and worn out, and I ought not demand emotional comfort from him, yet my heart clung to faint wishes all the same. I never wanted all his attention; my desires were modest—just a fleeting glance, casual words, a moment of softness when we were alone. I could not help but expect that even stuck in despair, he might spare a little affection for me. These modest hopes were often unmet. Anger never welled up inside me after disappointment, only a quiet loneliness bottled up with no outlet.ᯓ . . . Alone on countless occasions, I could not stop questioning myself: is this relentless attachment genuine love?ᯓ . . . I grieved for his misfortune, tolerated his cold apathy, and chose to stay beside him quietly, accepting his broken, dejected self after defeat. This compassion and tolerance were utterly sincere. At the same time, I yearned desperately for his exclusive favor, falling into internal turmoil whenever I failed to receive even the smallest bit of attention. I could not tell whether I stayed devoted because I truly loved all of him—his failures, weakness and weariness included—or simply craved the possibility of being cherished, having grown used to anchoring all my emotions to him. I kept wishing he would notice me more, love me more…even just a tiny bit…ᯓ . . . I rationally accepted all his helpless circumstances while stubbornly longing for a scrap of tenderness. I willingly accompanied him through his lowest days yet grieved privately over his prolonged neglect. Caught in this endless inner conflict, I could never confirm whether this long lingering sentiment was true love, or merely an obsession bred from long companionship.oo══════════════⊹⊱୨ৎ⊰⊹══════════════oo