The river changed at night.
What had seemed calm earlier now carried a deeper sound—water folding over itself in slow, heavy currents, mist rising where the moonlight touched it. The forest leaned closer here, trees thick and dark, their shadows long and unmoving.
Seo Yerin stepped nearer to the water's edge, lifting the hem of her robe to keep it from soaking through.
"Careful," Han Jisoo said, moving instinctively toward her.
"I see it," she replied, though her attention was on the water, not the ground beneath her feet.
That was the mistake.
It happened too fast to name properly—a sudden movement, a sharp pressure, then pain blooming hot and immediate along her inner thigh. She gasped and staggered back, her foot slipping on damp earth.
"Yerin—!"
Han caught her before she fell, arms tightening around her instinctively. She clutched his sleeve, breath short and sharp.
"There—" she said, pointing weakly.
The snake was already retreating, a dark shape vanishing into undergrowth.
Han swore under his breath.
"Sit," he said immediately, lowering her onto a flat rock near the water. "Don't move."
Her breathing was uneven now, pain radiating outward in a slow, spreading throb. She pressed her palm against her thigh instinctively and felt warmth beneath the fabric.
"Where?" he asked.
She hesitated—only for a second—then lifted her hand and showed him.
The bite was higher than it should have been. Too close to the line where modesty and urgency collided.
Han froze.
The moonlight revealed the darkening mark beneath the silk, already swelling, already wrong.
"I need to see it," he said, voice tight.
"You already are," she replied faintly.
"That's not what I meant."
She looked at him then—really looked.
"You don't have time to be careful," she said. "If you hesitate, it will spread."
His jaw clenched.
"I know."
"Then do it."
He reached for the hem of her robe.
His hands shook.
"Tell me to stop if I hurt you," he said.
She nodded once.
He lifted the fabric carefully, exposing skin to the night air. The silk fell away higher than either of them acknowledged, leaving her vulnerable to the open forest and the moon above.
Han forced himself to look only where he needed to.
The wound was small, but angry—two punctures already darkening, skin flushed and tight around them.
"We need to bind it," he said. "And draw out what we can."
"I know," she replied.
He tore a strip of cloth from his sleeve with his teeth and tied it tightly above the wound, hands moving faster now that purpose had overridden hesitation.
"Stay with me," he said. "Breathe slowly."
She did.
The pain pulsed with each heartbeat.
Han knelt in front of her.
"I'm going to—" He stopped. Swallowed. "This is the fastest way."
She reached out and gripped his wrist.
"Don't apologize," she said quietly. "Just do it."
He leaned in.
Not gently.
Not carefully.
With urgency.
He did what he had to do—focused, efficient, refusing to think beyond survival. When he pulled back, he spat into the dirt and repeated the motion once more, then again, until his breathing was ragged and his hands were steady with effort.
He leaned back finally, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes unfocused for a moment.
"It should slow it," he said. "We need to get you back. Now."
She was pale, but her gaze was sharp.
"You didn't look away," she said.
"I couldn't afford to."
She nodded, then winced as she shifted.
Han helped her stand, arm firm around her waist, supporting more of her weight than he meant to. The closeness was unavoidable now—her body leaning into his, his arm tight around her to keep her upright.
They stood like that for a moment too long.
"Lean on me," he said quietly.
She did.
They moved slowly along the path back, the forest closing in around them, the river fading behind. Every step drew them closer, bodies pressed by necessity rather than intention.
When they reached a clearing, she stopped.
"I need a moment," she said.
He lowered her carefully onto a fallen log, keeping his arm around her shoulders until she steadied.
"You should rest," he said. "Just a breath."
She nodded, then looked up at him.
"You saw me," she said.
He didn't pretend not to understand.
"Yes."
"And you stayed."
"Yes."
The night pressed in around them—moonlight, forest, silence broken only by the distant river and their breathing.
Han looked away first.
"We shouldn't—" he began.
She reached out and caught his sleeve.
"Don't," she said softly.
He turned back.
The look they shared was different now—fear still present, yes, but something else threaded through it. Something that had not existed before the bite.
He leaned in.
Not urgently.
Not desperately.
Slowly.
Their foreheads touched.
Their breaths mingled.
For a heartbeat, nothing else existed.
Then she pulled back—just enough to break it.
"We go back," she said. "Now."
"Yes," he replied.
They did not speak again on the return.
But neither of them forgot.