The winter wind howls outside my window, but the cold that seeps into my bones comes from somewhere deeper—from the memory of last night's moonless sky and the feel of Zhuge Dan's hands on my body.

I should be studying the family accounts, preparing for tomorrow's meeting with the elders, but my brush hovers uselessly over the paper. Instead, my mind keeps returning to the way he kissed me under that dark moon, how his hands trembled slightly as they removed my clothing, as if even he understood the gravity of what we were doing.

A soft knock at my door startles me. I know who it is without asking—the rhythmic pattern of three quick taps followed by two slower ones is our secret signal, developed in childhood and never abandoned, even now when our relationship has evolved into something unthinkable.

The door creaks open before I can respond, and there he stands—my twin brother, my forbidden desire, my greatest shame. He's wearing his theatrical costume again, the red fabric clinging to his body in a way that makes my breath catch. There's paint smudged around his eyes like a fox mask, appropriate for someone so cunning at tempting me into sin.

"A-Jin," he says, his voice lower than usual, carrying that dangerous edge that always precedes our undoing. "The moon is hidden again tonight. Perfect for... secret meetings."

He steps closer, and I can smell the wine on his breath mixed with the faint scent of the flowers he must have picked on his way here. My body betrays me instantly—heart racing, skin prickling with anticipation despite my better judgment.

He's standing right in front of me now, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body through our clothing. His hand raises slowly, and I catch my breath, knowing what's coming but unable to stop it as his fingers brush against my cheek.

"You've been thinking about it too," he whispers, more statement than question. "About last night."

I close my eyes, but the image only becomes clearer—his body pressing against mine, the taste of blood when our teeth clashed too roughly, the way he whispered my name like a prayer as we moved together in the darkness.

When I open my eyes again, he's even closer, his lips just inches from mine. I can see the conflict in his gaze too, for a brief moment—the same war between desire and duty that torments me—but then it's gone, replaced by that familiar reckless determination.

"Tell me to stop," he breathes, his lips brushing mine with each word. "Tell me you don't want this, and I'll leave."

But we both know I won't say it. Not tonight. Not ever.