The first thing you noticed was the silence.
Not the peaceful kind — the suffocating kind, thick and damp like the fog curling through the iron gates in front of you.
The cab driver had barely looked you in the eye when you told him your destination.
"Up there? At this hour? You sure?" he'd asked, fidgeting with the meter.
Now, standing in front of the sprawling, ancient mansion that rose out of the mist like something from a forgotten century, you were starting to wonder if maybe he'd been right to sound worried.
Your boots crunched against the gravel driveway as you approached the entrance. The air smelled faintly of rain and… something older, something like dust trapped in velvet.
The door was tall, black, and carved with intricate patterns — vines, roses, and something that looked suspiciously like thorns. You raised your hand to knock.
But before your knuckles could touch the wood, the door swung open.
He stood there.
Tall, broad-shouldered, framed by the dim golden light spilling from inside — Kim Taehyung.
His eyes caught you first. Deep, warm brown, glinting as though they'd been waiting for you. His voice followed, low and velvet-smooth.
"You must be… her."
You blinked. "Uh… Y/N. The new caretaker."
His lips curved into a smile that could have melted ice. "Yes. I know."
For a moment, you forgot the cold. You forgot the warnings. You forgot everything except the way his gaze lingered just long enough to make your pulse stutter.
He stepped aside, gesturing for you to enter. "Come in. It's freezing out there."
The inside was breathtaking — high ceilings, a grand staircase, walls lined with oil paintings. The flicker of a chandelier made shadows dance across the marble floor.
"It's… beautiful," you murmured.
"She has her moods," Taehyung replied, his tone playful but with an undertone you couldn't quite place. "Like me."
You laughed softly, not sure if he was joking.
Over tea in the sitting room, he was nothing short of charming. He asked about your studies, your favorite books, the kind of art you liked. He listened — really listened — his chin resting on his hand, a faint smile playing on his lips as though every word you spoke was poetry.
And yet…
Every now and then, his eyes would shift. Just for a second.
The warmth would drain, replaced by something sharper — calculating. Like a predator watching, not listening.
Then it would be gone, replaced again by that disarming, gentle gaze.
If you hadn't been paying attention, you might have thought you imagined it.
When he showed you to your room, you passed a long hallway lined with closed doors. One of them was bolted shut, heavy chains wrapping around the handle.
You slowed. "What's in there?"
His steps didn't falter, but his voice was different now. Lower. Flatter. "Storage."
And just like that, the warmth in his tone was gone — replaced by something that made you instinctively move faster to keep up with him.
That night, lying in bed, you couldn't stop thinking about him.
About the way his smile had made you feel like you'd known him forever.
And about the way, for a heartbeat, he'd looked at you like you were already his.
You drifted into uneasy sleep to the sound of faint footsteps in the hallway outside your door.
You woke to the faint creak of your bedroom door.
Your eyes flew open, heart thudding in your ears.
Moonlight spilled into the room, painting silver shapes across the floor. The door stood slightly ajar — though you were sure you had locked it.
And there, leaning casually against the frame, was Taehyung.
"Did I wake you?" His voice was warm again, the kind that almost made you forget he was in your room without permission. Almost.
You sat up, clutching the blanket. "Is… something wrong?"
He stepped inside, closing the door with a soft click. "No. I just couldn't sleep." His gaze roamed the room slowly, as if memorizing every detail — the stack of books on your nightstand, the scarf draped over your chair, the pen lying beside your journal.
Finally, his eyes found yours again, and he smiled. "I like knowing you're here."
Something in your chest tightened. The way he said it — it was tender, almost intimate.
But then he took another step toward the bed, his shadow stretching long in the moonlight. His smile didn't waver, but there was an intensity now that made the air feel thinner.
You swallowed. "I… I should probably get some sleep. Big day tomorrow."
He tilted his head, studying you. "Of course."
And just like that, the warmth in his eyes vanished. His face was unreadable, his tone flat. "Lock your door tonight."
A second later, he was gone, the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall.
The next morning, you found him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, humming to himself as he made breakfast. He looked… perfect. Like the kind of man who belonged in an old romance novel, cooking for his beloved in a sunlit home.
"Good morning, Y/N," he said with that same honey-smooth voice from yesterday, sliding a plate of pancakes toward you. "I hope you slept well."
You hesitated. "