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The palace was quiet when Kim Dokja returned. Late enough that the torches were burning low in their sconces, and the night guards gave him a passing glance before returning to their posts. He didn’t acknowledge them. He didn’t need to. His presence was noted but never questioned. He wasn’t royalty, at least not by blood, but he held enough power to walk the halls without being stopped.
He closed the heavy wooden door to his chambers behind him and leaned against it, exhaling. It had been a long day, but not the kind that left him drained. If anything, he felt something strange, like warmth settling under his skin. It made his chest feel too full and his thoughts too slow. He didn’t know what to do with it.
The room was still. Cool air leaked in from the high windows, brushing against the back of his neck. A candle flickered gently on his desk, the last one he hadn’t extinguished before leaving earlier. It cast soft shadows on the walls. Enough for him to move around without stumbling, though he knew this room like the back of his hand anyway.
He shrugged off his outer robe, letting it fall across the back of the chair. Then, without thinking, he reached up and pulled the collar of his shirt to his face. When the fabric touched his nose, he stopped.
It smelled like her .
He stood still, shirt still clutched in one hand. A few seconds passed before he inhaled again, slower this time.
Lavender.
The faintest hint of lavender and something else… something less distinct, like the dryness of paper or old books. Her scent. Yoo Sangah.
He didn’t move for a long moment. His grip on the fabric tightened.
He could picture it clearly now. The garden, just past the Queen’s personal quarters, where the roses had overgrown the hedge walls and the paths twisted inwards like a maze. She had found the bench first, sitting there with a book in her lap and a cloak wrapped around her shoulders. He had found her by accident or maybe not by accident at all.
They had spent the afternoon talking. Nothing of importance. Not about court politics or trade routes or even the Queen’s endless attempts to marry her off. Just simple things like stories they had heard as children, a sparrow that had nested in the rafters of the palace kitchens, her dislike of plums and his frustration with his writing desk.
He remembered how she had leaned against his side without a word, her head fitting just beneath his chin. He hadn’t touched her at first. Just sat there, frozen, until her hand found his. It was the lightest contact where her fingers barely brushed his knuckles, but it was enough to make his heart thud unevenly.
They’d stayed like that for what felt like hours. Just the two of them. He hadn’t wanted to leave.
Now, standing alone in his chambers, he realized how much of her lingered. Not just in the scent of his shirt, but in his chest, in the shape of his thoughts. Everything she touched seemed to stay with him.
He let go of the shirt slowly and sat down on the edge of the bed. He should sleep. Morning would come quickly and bring him another day of endless tasks and quiet maneuvering through court politics, but his body wouldn’t settle.
He glanced toward the wardrobe, thinking about changing, then looked away.
Instead, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and looked down at his hands.
He wasn’t sure what they were to each other. Friends, perhaps. Trusted companions. He had never asked her. She had never offered a definition. But days like this where they spent leisure times together made him want to believe it was something more.
He didn’t want to lose it.
He had seen the suitors. Nobles from far provinces, sons of wealthy merchants, even an ambassador from a neighboring kingdom. All with their smiles and polished words. None of them knew her the way he did.
None of them knew how she looked when she laughed unexpectedly, eyes crinkling or how she pressed her fingers to her lips when she was thinking or how she always tilted her head slightly when listening to show that she cared.
He exhaled again. His fingers tightened slightly in his lap.
Maybe he had made a mistake. Maybe he shouldn’t have left so soon. She hadn’t asked him to stay, but he’d felt her hand linger when he stood up.
He glanced down at his shirt again.
It would fade. The scent. Tomorrow, after he bathed. Maybe even sooner, when the night breeze carried it off. It was a stupid thing to feel attached to, but the thought made something in his chest ache.
Still seated, he pulled the collar back to his nose and closed his eyes. Just for a moment longer.
Yoo Sangah was already awake by dawn.
She had dismissed her lady-in-waiting earlier than usual and stood alone by the window, watching the horizon shift from dark blue to orange. Her chambers overlooked the east gardens, where the stone paths sparkled faintly with dew.
She hadn’t slept well.
Not because anything had gone wrong. It was mainly because the day before had been… pleasant. More than pleasant. She hadn’t expected him to stay so long. Or to sit that close. Or to hold her hand so carefully…
She had missed him the moment he left.
Her fingers touched the fabric of her sleeve absentmindedly. He had worn black again, as always, but his undershirt had been linen. Soft and clean. It had brushed her shoulder when she leaned in.
She hoped her perfume hadn’t been too strong. She had worn lavender that morning without thinking. It was her favorite, but she knew not everyone liked it. Still, to her surprise, he hadn’t pulled away.
She turned from the window.
There would be no excuse to see him today. He would be busy and so would she. The Queen’s council had requested her presence in the late morning to review the guest list for the upcoming spring ball. Another chance to parade her around and another reminder that her position was both a privilege and a burden.
She didn’t want a political match.
She didn’t want a man who looked at her like a prize to be won.
She wanted someone who noticed the way she avoided sweet tea or someone who remembered what kind of flowers she liked. Someone who sat with her in silence and didn’t try to fit in. Someone who held her hand like he did.
She wanted Kim Dokja.
By the time the palace began to stir, Kim Dokja had already sent a note.
It was brief. Just one sentence, written in neat, precise lettering.
— Will you walk with me again this afternoon?
He gave it to a trusted page with instructions to wait for her reply.
He didn’t pace while waiting. He didn’t fidget. He sat at his desk and worked as usual. But every few seconds, his gaze flicked toward the door.
It returned after an hour.
The page bowed and handed it over without a word.
He opened the note carefully.
— I would love to.
That was all.
He smiled then folded the note and tucked it into his sleeve.
This time, he wouldn’t leave so early.