Jinhai sat beside her, his hand tightening over his knee as he watched her talk. Her voice was small, almost breaking, yet she trusted him enough to let it out. To cry. To laugh a little between tears.
And every word cut him open.
Because she didn't know.
She didn't know that the man she was being forced to marry was his brother.
And he was the only one sitting here with the truth lodged like glass in his throat.
Tell her, a voice inside him whispered. Tell her before this goes any further. Before she looks at you with that trust in her eyes.
But if he told her now—what would happen?
She would shut down. She would build her walls back up, brick by brick. He would lose the fragile bond they had just begun to build.
He couldn't risk that. Not when she needed someone. Not when, for the first time, she wasn't alone in her pain.
He forced his gaze away, staring at the night sky, though her presence pressed on him with every breath. He could feel the warmth radiating from her shoulder, could hear the faint tremor in her exhale.
How do I tell her?
If he said the truth—I'm Lihyun's younger brother—it wouldn't just ruin the moment. It would crush her. She already felt trapped, betrayed by her own family. To learn that the only person she'd found comfort in was tied to it all? It would feel like another betrayal.
No. He couldn't do that to her. Not tonight.
His throat tightened as he looked at her again. The lamplight caught on the wet streaks still clinging to her lashes. She looked so breakable it made his chest ache.
She needed a friend right now, not another chain dragging her down.
So he swallowed the truth. It burned going down, left a weight heavy as stone in his stomach. But there was no other choice. Not now.
Later, he promised himself. Later, when she was stronger. Later, when it wouldn't shatter her.
For now, he would be what she needed him to be—
A listener.
A safe place.
Someone who stayed when everyone else tried to control her life.
Even if it meant living with this guilt clawing at his chest.
He glanced at her again, her head tilted against the glass, her eyes half-closed as she murmured about dreams of love and freedom. She looked peaceful, for once.
And he knew he couldn't take that away from her.
Not tonight.
_________________________
The car fell quiet after their conversation, their words still hanging like smoke in the air. Lily leaned her temple against the cold window, her breath fogging the glass in little puffs.
Jinhai didn't break the silence. He knew better. Sometimes silence said more than comfort ever could. He simply let the engine hum, the streetlights sliding shadows across her tired face.
She shifted, rubbing her sleeve across her cheek. "You know… I think I've said more to you tonight than I've said to anyone in years."
Jinhai's lips curved faintly. "Then I'll count myself lucky." His voice was light, but his chest throbbed. Lucky. He felt lucky, but cursed all the same.
She chuckled softly, almost to herself. "I don't even know why. You just… make it easy."
Her words warmed him like sunlight—and cut him like glass. Because if she knew who he really was in her story, she would never speak so freely.
"Want me to drive around a little?" he asked suddenly, breaking the tension. "Sometimes moving helps me think."
Her tired eyes flickered toward him, a small, grateful smile tugging at her lips. "Okay. As long as you don't get us lost."
"I never get lost." He flicked the blinker on, merging onto a quieter road lined with trees.
For a while, they just drove. The night air slipped in through a cracked window, carrying the faint scent of rain. Jinhai reached for the stereo, pressing a button until a soft song spilled through the car. Something mellow, almost playful.
Lily laughed—a light, surprised sound. "This is your taste?"
"Don't judge," he said, mock stern.
"I'm not." She shook her head, smiling for real this time. "I like it. It's… freeing."
Her laughter eased something tight in him, just for a moment. He stole a glance at her, committing the curve of her lips, the glow in her eyes, to memory.
Minutes bled into more minutes, and eventually her laughter faded. Her body eased against the seat, her head tipping slowly until her cheek rested against the seatbelt strap.
"Hey," Jinhai said softly, glancing at her. But she didn't answer. Her lashes fluttered once, twice, and then stilled.
She was asleep.
The weight in his chest shifted. He should have woken her, nudged her gently. But instead he let her rest. Her features, always tense with held-in words, had softened. She looked younger. Softer. Untouched by the world that demanded so much of her.
She had trusted him enough to fall asleep.
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, guilt and tenderness twisting together until he could hardly breathe.
"Where to?" he whispered to the empty car.
And then he remembered—earlier, while they were talking, she had murmured her grandparents' address almost absentmindedly, as if it were just another detail.
So that's where he drove.
By the time he pulled up in front of the modest, ivy-clad house, the night had deepened, and Lily was still sleeping soundly, her breathing even.
Jinhai cut the engine. For a long moment, he sat there, staring at the rise and fall of her chest, the way her hair had slipped into her face.
And then, moving carefully, he slipped out, walked around, and opened her door.
"Sorry, Lily," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "I'll carry this secret just a little longer."
He slid his arms beneath her, lifting her effortlessly. She stirred faintly, her head falling against his shoulder, but didn't wake. She was warm, impossibly warm, and she smelled faintly of rain and lavender.
The guilt seared him. Carrying her felt like holding something precious he didn't deserve.
Still, he carried her up the path, each step heavier with unspoken truth. At the door, he raised a hand and knocked softly, his heart pounding harder than it should have.
Because he knew that as much as he wanted to freeze this moment—to keep her safe in his arms, to protect this fragile trust—it was only a matter of time before the truth ripped it all apart.