The lantern outside her chamber remained lit after the third bell.
That alone was enough.
Han Jisoo stopped in the corridor when he saw it, heart tightening before he had time to decide whether he would continue forward. Night duty had ended an hour ago. There was no official reason for him to be here.
And yet—
He approached anyway.
He knocked once.
"Enter," her voice said from within.
The door slid open.
Seo Yerin was seated near the low couch, hair unbound, robe loose and pale in the lanternlight. It was tied, but carelessly so, as though the knot had been made and forgotten rather than secured with intention. The room was warm. The scent of oil—faint, clean—already lingered in the air.
Han bowed deeply. "You summoned me, Lady—"
"You may stop there," she said calmly. "And close the door."
He did.
The sound was soft.
Final.
She gestured toward the low table beside her, where a shallow bowl and folded cloth waited. "You know how to apply oil," she said. "I have seen you do it for injured disciples."
"Yes," he replied. "But—"
"This is the same," she said. "I am sore."
He hesitated, then nodded. "As you wish."
She rose slowly and turned her back to him.
"Do not rush," she added. "I do not need efficiency tonight."
That was new.
Han crossed the room and knelt behind her, movements careful, controlled. He poured oil into his palm, rubbing his hands together briefly to warm it before touching her.
When his hands settled at her shoulders, she inhaled.
Not sharply.
Deeply.
"Begin there," she said. "And move down."
He obeyed.
The oil spread easily across her skin, his palms firm but restrained as they moved along the line of her shoulders, then down her back. The robe loosened under his hands as he worked, fabric slipping lower with each pass until bare skin replaced silk.
He noticed.
So did she.
She did not correct it.
"Lower," she instructed.
His hands followed, gliding along her spine, spreading warmth along skin already sensitized by memory. Her posture changed subtly—less rigid, more open—her breathing deepening as the massage continued.
"You are tense," he murmured before he could stop himself.
She turned her head slightly. "So are you."
He swallowed. "I will correct it."
"Good," she said.
He tried.
The oil made everything smoother, closer. His hands lingered longer now, not because he chose to, but because the line between necessary pressure and unnecessary awareness had begun to blur.
She shifted her weight.
Not away.
Toward him.
His breath caught.
"Han," she said quietly.
"Yes?"
"Look at me."
He did.
She had turned enough that he could see her face now—calm, observant, eyes steady. The robe had slipped further, baring one shoulder completely, the curve of her collarbone catching lanternlight.
"You may untie it," she said.
His hands froze.
"My lady—"
"I said you may," she repeated. "Not that you must."
The distinction mattered.
Slowly, carefully, he reached for the knot at her waist and loosened it. The robe parted and slid from her shoulders, pooling around her hips as she stood, bare above the waist, unhurried, unashamed.
He did not touch her then.
He waited.
"Continue," she said.
His hands returned to her skin, oil-slick now, palms gliding over her back and sides, thumbs brushing close enough to the front that awareness sharpened dangerously. Her breath warmed the air between them.
She turned fully to face him.
They were close now.
Too close to pretend this was still neutral.
"Do you understand what you are doing?" she asked.
"Yes," he said, voice low. "I do."
"And you remain?" she asked.
"Yes."
She stepped closer, closing the last of the space between them without touching. Her hand rose and rested lightly against his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath her palm.
"Do not move," she said.
He didn't.
She leaned in.
Their breaths mingled.
The kiss came slowly—deliberate, unhurried—her mouth pressing to his just long enough for him to respond before she drew back a fraction, denying momentum without breaking contact entirely.
Again.
Slower.
His hands lifted instinctively—
"Stay," she said.
They froze.
She guided him backward until he was seated, then stepped between his knees, close enough that proximity itself became instruction. Her hands rested on his shoulders, not pushing, not pulling—holding him exactly where she wanted him.
"This is where it ends," she said quietly.
He looked up at her, breath unsteady. "Now?"
"Not tonight," she replied.
She leaned down, forehead resting briefly against his, their breathing uneven, shared.
Then she stepped back.
"Dress," she said. "And leave."
He obeyed.
Immediately.
***
Later, alone, Seo Yerin stood by the window, robe retied loosely, awareness still gathered beneath her skin.
She had not crossed the line.
But she had brought him to it.
And now she knew—
He would come again.