The silence after their words is heavier than any storm.
"You want a flame? It dies. Duty does not."
Yi's voice still echoes through the room. His words struck like blades — sharp, irrevocable.
Seated at the edge of the bed, she remains upright, her hands clenched over the light fabric of her robe. Her gaze trembles but does not turn away. She feels both the sting of humiliation and the shadow of desire: two years without him, two years without warmth — and a void no resentment can truly fill.
He stands rigid, shoulders tense, as though an invisible armor still weighs upon him. The concubine given by the king lingers in the air like a specter between them. His breath comes heavier than usual, laden with a tension he struggles to contain. Two years of war and cold nights press within his chest.
At last, he approaches. His steps echo against the floor. His hand seizes her wrist — firm, neither brutal nor tender. She lifts her eyes. Their gazes collide: wounded pride against the sternness of stone, longing against control. She does not retreat.
With a sudden motion, he pulls her down onto the sheets. His body leans over hers — no words, no unnecessary caress. Yet his movements, usually cold, bear tonight a strangled heat, an urgency he cannot master. It is the pent-up desire of a man who swore to live by duty alone — and failed.
She stiffens, ready to push him away. The shadow of the concubine, the humiliation, the anger — all surge within her. But beneath them lies hunger, need, and fire. Two years without him, two years of silent waiting. Her body tenses, not to resist, but to answer in spite of herself. Her trembling hands find his shoulders, as if they had held back that gesture too long.
Their breaths mingle — ragged, uneven. It is not the gentleness of reunion, nor the confession of love. It is the fierce meeting of resentment and desire, of hunger and silence. She stifles a sob, where anger meets release. He remains still-faced, yet his grip trembles once, his breath unsteady — revealing the storm he hides.
When all falls quiet, he does not move away. Unlike past nights, he stays. His arm lies heavy across her waist, almost possessive. His eyes, open in the dark, stare at the ceiling as though denying the crack within him. She, curled against him despite herself, closes hers — her heart pounding fast.
Between them, the words from earlier still burn like a scar.
But this night, despite the poison of duty and the shadow of another, he stayed.
And that alone is enough to rekindle a flame he claimed was dead.