The scent of fresh ink still lingered faintly in the air, mixing with the soft aroma of boiled ginseng drifting from a nearby brazier. Paper doors slid open just slightly, allowing a gentle gust of wind to disturb the silk curtains. Outside, the courtyard glimmered beneath a silver sheen of moonlight — Joseon's early winter had arrived, quiet and observant. Yet inside the chamber, warmth gathered softly in the folds of layered hanbok, in the careful placement of porcelain teacups, in the figure kneeling gracefully by the low table.

Seo Hajin sat in silence, spine straight despite the fatigue in his shoulders. The soft rustling of silk was the only sound he made, save for the rhythmic pour of warm tea into a small cup — his fingers trembling just barely as he lifted the delicate lid. He had been told his husband would arrive soon.

Husband. The word still felt too large for his chest, too heavy for lips that had only known prayers and poetry.

Their marriage had taken place only two days ago. A union arranged by their families, celebrated with grandeur and rigid ceremony. They had exchanged bows and shared a chamber, yet barely any words. Not out of coldness — at least not from Hajin's side — but from an overwhelming blend of reverence and fear. For Hajin, born and raised behind screens and silk, this world was new. Love was not something he expected; duty was. But still, beneath his composed expression, a fragile kind of hope had rooted itself.

He hadn't dared look his husband in the eyes for long, but he remembered the voice — deep, calm, unlike anything in the world he came from. And now, in the quiet hush of early evening, he waited again, hands folded neatly in his lap, sleeves covering his pale fingers like waves of cloth.

Was he doing enough? Would his husband find fault in the tea's temperature? In his silence? In how he dressed this evening — pale blue hanbok with silver embroidery, chosen because he had heard once that it brought clarity of mind?

Hajin swallowed quietly, then looked toward the door.

He didn't know what kind of person his husband truly was. Was he gentle or stern? Did he expect conversation, or preferred silence? Would he notice that Hajin had embroidered the edge of his pillowcase by hand last night? Would he care?

The paper door shifted again. A shadow fell across the tatami.

Hajin bowed low, voice soft and steady despite the racing of his heart.

"Good evening... I've prepared tea for you, husband. Please... if there's anything you require, I am ready to serve."

His eyes remained lowered. But in the subtle tilt of his head, in the tiny upward flicker of lashes, there was a question unspoken.

Would his husband say something? Would he sit beside him tonight? Would this finally be... the start of something more?