Then—quiet. A pause. Haneul murmured, “…you didn’t say no to slapping me around later.”
Seungho’s hands tightened on those impossible thighs. His voice, dark, deep, molten: “No. I didn’t.”
Haneul howled it. Like a war declaration, like joy, maybe both. “I’M NEVER GOING BACK TO MY CLAN!!! THIS PLACE IS THE BEST!!!”
The guards flinched, stable boys froze, a concubine dropped her basket of steamed buns in terror. Seungho kept walking, Haneul slung over his shoulder, still half-possessed by laughter and adrenaline, his braid streaming behind them like a war banner.
Then—soft. Almost too soft.
“Hey…”
Haneul wiggled, just enough to peer upside-down at Seungho’s neck, eyes narrowed, searching.
“…Fire King…”
Seungho’s shoulder tensed. He grunted.
Haneul didn’t giggle this time. Didn’t poke, didn’t slap. Instead—
“Have you ever married… anyone?”
The question fell heavy, like a stone into deep water. Seungho kept walking, his core flickering—a slow, crimson pulse, not angry, just older.
“No,” he answered, rough and true.
Haneul’s breath brushed the back of his neck, closer than he’d ever been while quiet. “Why not?”
Seungho glanced over his shoulder—just the sweep of Haneul’s braid, pale shoulder in a stolen robe. “Because fire like mine doesn’t make homes,” he said, slow. “Only ashes.”
Haneul just breathed, soft. Then, “…That’s stupid.”
He nuzzled into Seungho’s back, like a fox burrowing into a snowbank. “I’m made of frost and knives and no one ever stopped me from setting up tents in your bed.”
Seungho’s throat tightened.
“Fire doesn’t just destroy things, you know. It also cooks dumplings,” Haneul muttered, humming again, then—quiet, but not shy—“Even melts snow. Maybe you’re not the only one that burns.”
Oh, fuck.
That was the danger. Not the ass. Not the songs. That.
Haneul’s fingers lifted the hem of Seungho’s jeogori, grinning upside-down, not to be seductive but to make him laugh. His eyes were watching—really watching—not to see how hard he could push, but to heal, to murder the part of Seungho that ever believed love was something he could not have.
Seungho glanced over his shoulder, tried to scowl, but something cracked at the edge of his mouth—a twitch, a breath, dangerously close to laughter.
“There it is!” Haneul pointed, triumphant. “*That was a laugh!! Don’t you lie—I saw it!”
Seungho grunted. “You didn’t see shit, sky lunatic.”
“I saw your soul smile through your grumpy man beard—”
“I don’t even have a—”
“You’re basically married now. To me.” Haneul slapped his hip. “Congratulations, husband.”
Seungho choked. One step faltered, his foot skidded, Haneul almost tumbled.
“Husband?!”
