It had been almost a month since that fateful day when chaos had tried to swallow their peace, and since then, an almost sacred quiet had blanketed the household. The walls of the palace, once echoing with tension, with hurried footsteps and the constant murmur of whispered worry, now basked in a calmer rhythm of life. No assassins lurking in shadows, no sudden intrusions. For the first time in what felt like years, life resembled something close to normal.
Shan had healed well, almost astonishingly so. The throbbing ache that used to pulse behind his eyes, the cruel reminder of his fall, had gradually faded until it was no more than a distant echo. His body no longer betrayed him with weakness, and the stiffness of caution had given way to freer movements. But even more striking than the mending of flesh and bone was the slow, almost imperceptible change that had unfolded between him and Kang.
The distance between them—once cold, brittle, and defined by a thousand unspoken walls—had begun to thaw. Not with sudden declarations, not with dramatic gestures, but with small, almost tender shifts. A conversation that no longer stumbled with awkward silences. A passing glance that lingered a fraction too long. The comfort of existing in the same room without tension knotting in the air. Shan had been almost afraid to hope for this quiet warmth, this strange sweetness creeping into their interactions. But it was there, undeniable, soft as the spring sunlight that slanted through the palace windows.
It was this growing warmth, this fragile confidence, that carried Shan to the heavy oak door of Kang's study that afternoon. His hand hesitated for only a second before he lifted it, knuckles rapping gently against the carved wood. There was a muffled rustle inside, the sound of paper being shifted, before Kang's gruff voice called, "Come in."
Shan entered quietly, shoulders straight, his request already balanced carefully in his mind. The study smelled of paper and ink, undercut with Kang's faint cologne. Tall shelves loomed behind the desk, their rows of books standing in strict order, just like the man who owned them. Kang sat amidst a scatter of documents, head bent, the sharp crease between his brows showing his immersion in business.
"Mr. Kang," Shan began, his voice even, though the formality still felt unfamiliar on his tongue after all this time.
Kang's head snapped up, and a flicker of irritation crossed his face like a shadow. His dark eyes sharpened as they met Shan's. "Shan," he rumbled, low and firm, "how many times have I told you? No formalities. Call me Jin-ho. Just Jin-ho. Not 'Mr. Kang' like everyone else."
The rebuke was not harsh—it carried no real anger—but it was insistent, weighted with the significance only Kang could give to such a simple thing.
Shan nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It was such a small request, really, this stripping away of formality, and yet it meant so much. For Kang, who commanded respect from all corners of the city, to demand such intimacy from him—it was a step closer, a soft dismantling of the invisible barrier between them. Shan's heart warmed at the thought, though he masked it with careful composure.
He let the silence hang for a heartbeat, then drew a slow breath before continuing, his tone softened. "Jin-ho… I was wondering if it would be alright for Jain and me to go shopping today." He paused, then rushed on, his words tumbling slightly faster, betraying the vulnerability beneath his calm. "It's been so quiet lately, no trouble in a month, and well… I thought Jain could use a treat. And… you hadn't mentioned it, so I thought I'd ask."
His voice carried something subtle, fragile—the quiet hesitance of a man who had learned not to expect much, who treaded carefully in asking for anything beyond what was freely given. He lived in Kang's world now, under his roof, his protection, his rules. And though he was cared for, sheltered, provided for, Shan still felt at times like a guest—a delicate presence unsure of his true place.
Kang leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly beneath his weight. He studied Shan across the polished surface of the desk, his expression unreadable. The pen he held was balanced idly between his fingers, forgotten for the moment.
He knew Shan well enough now to recognize the layers beneath that small request. Shan never asked for anything. He accepted what was given without complaint, folded himself into the life around him without demands. Jain, by contrast, was all youthful honesty—his laughter echoing through the halls, his curiosity leaving no corner unexplored. But Shan… Shan carried a stillness, an unease that had not yet dissolved. A man always holding back. Always unsure.
"Shopping?" Kang repeated, his deep voice thoughtful. He weighed the idea in his mind, considering the risks, but also recognizing the truth in it. Shan was right. Perhaps he had been too protective, confining them to the estate, binding them with invisible chains of caution. It was normal to want more than safety. It was human to want to live.
"Yes, of course," Kang said at last, the decision firm. "Go ahead. I have some work to finish here." He gestured with the pen toward the door, but then his tone sharpened slightly with protective instinct. "I'll send some of the bodyguards with you. And Ron and I will join you later, when we're free. You're taking Davey, yes?"
"Yes," Shan replied quickly, relief washing through him, loosening his posture. "I thought Davey might like to come too. It's been a while since we've had time to just… be friends. Jain loves playing with him."
"Good." Kang gave a brief, approving nod, returning his attention to the papers before him, though his tone softened once more as he added, "Go and have fun. But be careful, Shan."
Shan paused at the door, his hand resting lightly on the carved handle. Something in Kang's voice, the almost tender concern hidden in the last words, made him turn back. He met Kang's gaze fully, and this time, his smile was genuine—unguarded, bright enough to reach his eyes.
"We will," he said softly. "Thank you, Jin-ho."
Then he slipped out of the study, his steps light, carrying with him a new kind of ease. It had been so long since he had felt this way—like the walls around his heart were no longer a cage, but slowly, carefully, being dismantled brick by brick.