♡♡Tae-hyun's POV: The Night You Couldn't Hurt Me
I wasn't asleep that night.
Not truly. Not since I felt the weight of your absence in my room, the echo of your silence, the lingering trace of every bruise I hadn't healed. I knew you were there. I always knew when it was you.
I could hear every breath you took.
Every quiet, uneven step as your bare feet kissed the cold floor. A whisper against the marble. A secret sound only I could hear.
I felt the shift of the air as you hovered above me—knife trembling in your hand, the metal cold, precise, lethal.
The silence between us was louder than a scream.
You thought I was dreaming.
But how could I sleep, knowing the person I had broken so completely, the one whose world I had splintered and remade in the shadows of my obsession, was holding a blade over my heart?
I kept my eyes closed. My breathing steady, controlled.
I let you believe I was unaware. Vulnerable. A man who could be hurt in his sleep.
Because I needed to know.
Would you do it? Could you?
Could the one who once smiled at me with sunlit eyes—the one whose laughter could crack the most solid walls—could you finally end me? Could you let yourself become the weapon I always feared you'd be?
I felt your fingers tighten around the hilt. I felt the tremor in your wrist, the shallow inhale that betrayed every thought and hesitation.
The tip of the knife touched my chest. A sting. No deeper than a pinprick, yet enough to let me know you could.
And still… you stopped.
I heard the strangled sob, muffled and raw, that racked your body. I knew you thought it was only grief or fear or a flicker of defiance.
It was all of them. And none.
It hit me harder than any weapon ever could. Not because it hurt—but because it didn't surprise me.
I knew you.
You could never hurt anyone. Not me. Not anyone.
And in that twisted moment—where you knelt on the floor, sobbing, thinking you had failed to kill me—I smiled.
A stupid, ridiculous smile. The kind you give when you win a bet with yourself without anyone else even knowing the stakes.
You still loved me enough not to hate me completely. Or maybe you hated yourself more than me. That night, in the quiet and the darkness and the weight of your grief, you were the most human thing I had ever seen. And terrifyingly beautiful.
Your shaking hands, the knife slipping once from your fingers, the sobs that you thought were private—all of it—was the most mesmerizing kind of mercy.
I could have opened my eyes, grabbed your wrist, turned your own weapon back against you. But I didn't. I let you kneel there, raw and trembling, because I needed to see you. I needed to see the truth in you. The woman who had once run from the world but now had the courage to hold a blade over the man who had taken everything from her.
You don't know it yet, but I'll remember that night for the rest of my life.
Not because you held a knife over my heart.
But because you couldn't drive it in.
Because even in the chaos of blood, grief, rage, and betrayal—you stopped.
And somehow, that made me feel more owned by you than I ever made you feel owned by me.
I felt your pulse hammering through your fingers. I felt the heat of your body in the cool air. I smelled the faint iron scent of fear mixed with determination, the tang of perfume and sweat. Every detail, every nuance, was a confession.
I opened my eyes slowly.
You froze.
The blade hovered just above my chest, a trembling monument to your hesitation, your restraint, your chaos.
I reached out, not touching you, not even acknowledging the knife, just letting my gaze meet yours. The moment stretched, fragile as glass.
"I could have," I whispered softly, my voice low, meant only for you. "You know I wouldn't stop you if you wanted to."
Your shoulders trembled. Your lips parted, words caught in your throat.
But you didn't.
You couldn't.
And in that silence, I understood something I had always feared: you were more dangerous to me in restraint than you could ever be in action.
I shifted slightly, letting a hand brush the back of your head, not to touch, not to claim, but to anchor. A subtle mark, a reminder that I was still here, still breathing, still alive.
Your sobs slowed. You pressed a palm to your mouth, trying to quiet them. I watched, unflinching, knowing that the act of holding back the violence, the act of mercy, had carved a wound in you that only I could see.
"You hate me," I said, almost rhetorically, eyes locking with yours. "Or you think you do. But you couldn't hurt me if you tried. Not really."
You shook your head. Tears streaming down, silent, shaking.
"I hate you," you whispered finally, voice raw. "I hate you… so much… for making me feel this way. For making it so hard to kill you…"
I smiled again. Not smug, not cruel—just quietly. The kind of smile reserved for impossible truths.
I knew you. Knew your strength and your weakness. Knew your resolve and your fear. And I also knew that for all your rage, for all your fury, for all your careful plotting and hidden rebellion… you had never wanted to truly destroy me.
Not in that moment.
Because beneath the anger, beneath the knife, beneath the weight of grief and blood and betrayal, there was still a sliver of something I recognized. Something I had always known.
Love. Or whatever fragile, stubborn, complicated thing your heart refused to name.
I reached out with deliberate care, sliding a hand under your arm, lifting you gently, pulling you toward the bed. You protested with a strangled breath, trying to push back, but your body betrayed you. Your exhaustion, your heartbreak, your humanity—they all let me move you with ease.
And when you finally collapsed against the mattress, shivering, sobbing, I held you. Not possessively. Not violently. Not as a conqueror.
I held you because I could. Because no one else could. Because you let yourself be fragile, if only for a moment, and I would not waste that trust.
My arms circled you, drawing you closer, burying my face in the curve of your neck, inhaling the scent of your hair, your skin, your grief. Every breath a silent vow.
And then… I slept. Or at least I let my body relax, falling into a heavy, exhausted peace. Arms wrapped around you like a shield, a claim, a prayer.
I had survived monsters. I had lived through betrayals and blood. I had faced enemies who would kill without thought.
And yet, nothing had ever felt as terrifying or as pure as holding you that night.
Because you had come to kill me—and you hadn't.
Because you had stood over me, trembling, with the power to end me, and you chose mercy instead.
Because in your restraint, I realized something undeniable: the one I feared losing to darkness, the one who had the courage to face me, the one who had every reason to hate me… still had the power to own me completely.
And I had never wanted anything more than to surrender to it.
The blade lay forgotten on the floor. Your body pressed against mine. The night stretched endlessly around us, silent but alive with the weight of unspoken confessions.
And in the quiet, I realized that no war, no betrayal, no knife could ever sever the invisible thread that bound us.
Not fully. Not ever.
Because that night… you tried.
And failed.
And in that failure, you gave me something more powerful than any act of violence: proof that even in your fury, even in your grief, even in your heartbreak… you could not destroy what was ours.
And somehow, that was enough.