England, 1943.

The war was still clawing at the world, even if the papers tried to dress it up like it was nearly done. Bombs may have stopped falling in London, but the silence left behind felt heavier than the air raid sirens ever did.

Time didn't stop after Jonathan left-it just forgot how to move without hurting.

Every morning, you woke in a bed that smelled less like him. You counted the days by the sound of the postman's bike, by how long the tea kettle took to boil, by how often you stared out the window and wondered if this would be the day he'd return like the war had just been a fever dream.

You wrote him letters every Sunday, never missed a single one. You poured ink over every ache in your chest, every garden flower that bloomed without his hands to tend it. You told him how the church bells sounded lonelier now, how Mrs. Penbrook next door had finally died, how you'd taken to sleeping in his shirts because the house didn't feel safe without the weight of his scent.

And he wrote back. God, did he write back.

His letters were stiff at first, full of orders and updates, but then slowly they softened. As if he were peeling off the uniform in ink and becoming your Jonathan again.

"Babe, they let me keep your letter in my breast pocket. You're with me, even when the shells drop."

"I dreamt of your laugh last night. Woke up crying. Can you believe it? A grown man sobbing like a child."

"When this is over, I'm taking you to the sea. You'll wear that yellow dress. The one that makes me believe in God."

You kissed every envelope when it arrived. Held every page like a relic. Those letters kept you alive. They kept you his.

But war doesn't let anything stay beautiful for long.

It was a Tuesday. Rain again. The postman dropped a thick envelope through the slot. You heard it fall and ran-barefoot, heart hammering.

"Please," you whispered, clutching it, "please let it be him."

But when you opened it, the world split. No handwriting. No affection. Just a seal. A stamp. An official tone colder than a winter grave.

We regret to inform you that your husband, Jonathan Cartwright, was killed in action during an operation in occupied territory. No remains were recovered.

Prior to his death, Lieutenant Cartwright expressed a final wish regarding your welfare. Due to circumstances beyond the standard protocol, arrangements have been made in accordance with his request.

You are hereby advised to prepare for the arrival of General Jeon Jungkook of the Korean Independent Allied Forces. General Jungkook has agreed to honor a private agreement with your late husband, ensuring your protection, accommodation, and status as his wife.

You had never heard of him. You only knew what the letter told you-that Jonathan, your Jonathan, had sold you off like a piece of broken property to a man cold enough to honor a widow as if it were a battlefield command.

You dropped the letter. Fell to your knees.

How dare he. How dare he protect you with someone else's arms.

He arrived on a Wednesday.

Not with roses, not with apologies-just a black car and silence that wrapped around him like a second uniform.

General Jeon Jungkook didn't knock. He stood at the gate in his long coat, shoulders squared, face unreadable beneath the brim of his cap. He waited until you opened the door, until your eyes met his, and then he removed his hat-not out of respect, but routine.

You stared.

You'd expected an older man. A withered colonel with whiskey breath and a limp. But Jungkook was young. Maybe thirty. Maybe less. And every inch of him looked carved, as if God Himself had etched the cold into his cheekbones. His skin was smooth, golden-marked only by a scar above his right brow, a thin line like a broken thought.

He bowed his head slightly. "Mrs. Cartwright," he said. His voice was soft. Not warm. Not cruel. Just... measured. The kind of voice that had learned long ago that feelings were a liability.

The first days were strange. He didn't try to touch you. Didn't ask for a room. Didn't even eat the food you left out. He was a shadow in the house, a presence. Like the furniture had grown eyes.

It was raining again.

The kind of rain that didn't just fall-it lingered. Clung to the windows like a ghost desperate to be let in. You sat by the fireplace, knitting something you'd never give him. A scarf, maybe. Or a noose, depending on the mood.

The clock struck six. Right on time, the car rolled up the path like an executioner on schedule.

You stood, smoothing the creases from your skirt out of habit, not desire. Because even after all this time, there was still a sick, hollow pull in your chest when you heard the door creak open.

General Jeon Jungkook stepped inside, dripping with rain, shadows clinging to his shoulders like armor. He shook off his coat with mechanical ease, not once glancing your way. His beret stayed on. His eyes, those unflinching blades of brown, passed over you like you were a piece of furniture he wasn't ready to move.

His sigh-familiar now-came low and tired. "You don't have to wait for me like a puppy every time, you know."

"You take this arranged marriage very seriously," he muttered, pulling off his gloves with sharp, practiced flicks. "But I don't want to play your perfect husband." He turned his back and added, casually:

"Did you do something useful today... like make my dinner? I'm starving."