The air was heavier that night.
The moon was high, pale, and watching. The fire was low in the study. Taehyung sat at his desk, tracing old scars on his knuckles, lost in thoughts he never voiced. The mansion was silent — not cold anymore, but still tense. Still waiting.
Then, she walked in.
No knock. No warning. Just her , barefoot, her soft sweater slipping off one shoulder. Her eyes weren't warm this time — they were scared. Not of him. But of what she was about to say.
He stood quickly.
"Is something wrong—"
"Sit," she interrupted gently.
And that alone made him listen.
She didn't speak right away. She just looked at him. Not like a girl to a man. Not like a wife to a husband. But like a heart speaking to another — trembling, but real.
Then she whispered:
"I've been pretending to be okay, tae..."
He froze.
"All this time… smiling, laughing, making this place feel like home. But I've been scared. Not of you — never of you. But of me. Because I don't know when it started… when I stopped feeling like a prisoner and started feeling like I didn't want to leave anymore."
She took a breath.
And then the dangerous part came — the part that could break them both.
"I think I'm falling in love with you."
Silence.
"And that terrifies me, because I know what you're capable of, what you've done. And yet… I still see the man who covered me with a blanket. Who waters my daisies when he thinks I'm not looking. Who memorized how I like my tea."
Her voice cracked.
"So tell me, tae… what does that make me?"
He looked at her — and the world he built, brick by brick, command by command, began to melt.
The man known for cold executions and colder words… broke.
He walked toward her slowly, his eyes dark with something deep — fear, affection, guilt, and something too fragile to name.
He stopped just in front of her.
"It makes you the most dangerous thing that's ever entered my life," he murmured, voice rough.
"Because you made me want things I never thought I deserved. You made me dream again, y/n. And dreams… in my world, they get people killed."
She didn't flinch. She stepped closer.
"Then let me be your danger."
"You already are," he whispered.
And in that moment, the king of the underworld didn't hold her like a man claiming possession — he held her like a man finally letting go.
Arms around her waist. Her head against his chest. His heartbeat frantic, like it had waited years just to be heard.
No kisses.
No fire.
Just two broken hearts, clinging.
Because love didn't have to explode.
Sometimes it melted.