The snow stretched out around us like a blank canvas, open and waiting, yet hauntingly indifferent. The bitter cold gnawed at my skin, stinging with a fierce, honest bite that mirrored the rawness sitting heavy in my chest. It was strange—the kind of day where everything seemed to break and fall away, yet I could almost hear a tune rising from the quiet, steady like a heartbeat, resonating with the ache of standing up and moving forward even when the ground feels unsteady beneath you. There was a certain resignation, yes, but also a strange, soft courage—a refusal to crumble.

Lying there beside Jimin, his warmth faint yet undeniable in the biting cold, I felt the weight of it all—the anger, the absurdity, the sheer emptiness of finding nothing, of throwing punches and walking away from that sterile room with nothing gained but bruises, on our faces and in our pride. But that quiet resignation was more than defeat. It was survival. Like the song, it was the feeling of saying, Yes, I know life cuts deep and everything feels so small, but I’m still here.

The moon cast a pale glow on Jimin’s face, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling with measured breaths. The weight of the world could’ve buried us, and yet, lying here, the snow pressing into our backs, I felt the faintest spark of something that felt like hope, or at least, something enough to keep going. We are, even if it all feels so small, even if nothing is certain.

After a long, weighty silence on the couch beside Jimin, I felt the need to step away. The room was thick with remnants of today’s frustration and helplessness, the kind that clung to the walls, to my skin, refusing to dissipate no matter how many breaths I took. Quietly excusing myself, I slipped into the hallway and found myself instinctively drawn to the end of my world, as if her presence could somehow unknot the chaos inside me.

She sat in the dim glow of her bedroom, her gaze softening when she saw me approach, sensing, perhaps, that I was carrying something heavy. Without a word, she shifted to make room, patting the space beside her. The silence between us was almost comforting as I lowered myself down, letting the moment settle before I could gather the courage to speak.

“Today…” I began, voice barely a whisper, my eyes locked on the floor as if I couldn’t bear to meet hers just yet. “Today was… rough.” The weight of it all pulled me down as I struggled to find the words. “Jimin, he tried to keep everything steady, to hold his ground, and… and I let him down. I let us both down. It was like no matter how hard we tried, it all just… slipped.”

She didn’t interrupt, just waited, her hand finding mine and anchoring me with a gentle squeeze.

“And then,” I continued, my voice a shade darker, “that man, Cha… he wasn’t just vile. He was, he was revolting. He looked at Jimin like he was something to own, to belittle and dismiss, like he was nothing.” The anger surged again, boiling up as I remembered Cha’s eyes, his sneering gaze, the mockery in his voice.

“And then… and then he had the nerve to talk about you, to suggest…” I broke off, jaw clenched, feeling sick just thinking of it.

Her hand remained steady in mine, her warmth coaxing me back to calm. Her gaze never faltered, unwavering, like she understood every silent thought that I couldn’t quite voice.

"What did he suggest, Kook?"

"I cannot say that. I cannot bring myself to think of you, of any woman, of any living creature like that."

“Kook,” she said softly, her voice a gentle balm, grounding me. “You don’t have to carry this alone. It’s okay to feel this way, to be disgusted, angry. It’s human. You stood up for Jimin, and you’d do the same for anyone you care about.”

“But he just… he tore Jimin down with his words,” I said, my tone edged with helplessness. “Jimin’s been through so much, and to see him like that, to see him hurt, knowing I couldn’t take that away… and then to have that man bring you into it…”

She shifted closer, wrapping her arms around me, her embrace as reassuring as a shelter from a storm. “It’s not on you, JK,” she whispered, voice soft but firm. “People like him? They’re the, I don't have good words. 'I'll use the wrong kind of terms for them', ones. Not you, not Jimin. No one wins against such people. You did everything you could to stand by him, to protect him. That’s what matters.”

Her words lingered in the air, seeping into the cracks I hadn’t even realized were there, her entirety somehow filling the empty spaces the day had left behind. She leaned her head against my shoulder, and for a moment, everything felt lighter, more bearable.

“Thank you,” I murmured, letting myself sink into her embrace, feeling the weight slowly start to dissolve, knowing that here, at least, I didn’t have to hold it all alone.

As I gazed into the night, a cascade of quiet thoughts washed over me, stirring memories of who I used to be. How had I changed so profoundly? I, who had once been an untamable force, wild and reckless, unable to even stand up for myself, now found myself willing to fight, even kill, if it meant protecting those I loved. The transformation was a mystery and a revelation, one that had slowly shaped me into something I barely recognized—yet couldn’t imagine being without.

Y/n lay beside me, nestled close, her laughter breaking through the silence. It was soft, pure, and held the power to quiet my wandering mind. Her voice was like a warm current, gently drawing me back to her, back to us.

“Love,” I murmured, staring into the vastness above. “What do you think it would be like if everyone on this planet ceased to exist, leaving just you and me?”

She turned to me, her eyes bright with a hint of mischief. “Quite the apocalyptic thought, Kook,” she replied, a smile playing on her lips. “I think… I would feel lost. To cease to exist is to lose the path, the purpose. But if it were only you and me, well… I'd still have to die at the end anyways.” She laughed, a melodic sound, even as her words lingered with a somber undertone.

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “And why’s that?”

“Well,” she said, her voice tinged with humor, “to repopulate the world, we’d need to become the new Adam and Eve. That means I’d have to bring a lot of little ones into the world. And let’s face it, that would be exhausting. I’d die from all the work eventually.” Her laughter bubbled up again, filling the air around us with a lightness I hadn't realized I craved.

I grinned, nudging her playfully. “Come on, who’s thinking about babies right now?”

“Not now,” she admitted, her tone softening as her gaze drifted off. “But… someday, maybe. Don’t you think we’d have a few of our own?”

I smirked, meeting her curious eyes. “Well, unless one of us is secretly sterile, I’d say it’s a definite possibility.”

She chuckled, eyes sparkling with excitement as she leaned in closer. “Alright then, if we had a son, what would you name him?”

I tilted my head thoughtfully, my fingers tracing patterns on her arm as I pondered. “A son? No… I think we’d have a daughter.” Her expression softened, and I continued, “Something that means dawn—Aurelié, Zora, Akira… or maybe Jihyo.”

“Beautiful choices,” she murmured, a fond smile gracing her lips. “But if it’s my turn… I think I’d go with something more unique. Maybe Snow, or Journey, or… Artemisia.”

I arched an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of my lips. “Artemisia… as in Gentileschi? The Italian Baroque artist?”

She nodded, her smile widening. “Yes! Doesn’t it sound powerful?”

“More than just powerful. It’s graceful, strong… like her mother,” I said, causing her to giggle, that gentle, carefree sound that I’d gladly chase for the rest of my life.

“And at home,” she continued, voice softening, “we’d call her Mai.”

I let out a light laugh, shaking my head. “Not a chance. Mai will always belong to Cheonseok. I’ve already got Esmé, but as for Mai? I’m still looking for her, but only for my lady.”

Her laughter mingled with the night, a harmony of shared dreams and soft breaths. And in that moment, I knew that no matter how much I had changed, one thing would remain constant: wherever she was, I was home.

The night deepened around us, blanketing the world in a tranquil silence. Stars glimmered softly overhead, their light gentle and distant, like whispers in the dark, filling the air with something fragile yet beautiful—something I could only feel when she was beside me. The cold didn’t matter, nor did the roughness of the ground beneath us. I was anchored by her presence, warmed by a shared silence that held every word we hadn’t yet spoken. It felt like a secret between just us, woven from every unspoken promise, every unguarded glance.

“Y/n,” I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper. “Do you ever think about just… letting go of everything?”

She looked up, her eyes catching the starlight, her expression soft and searching. “Letting go… like giving up?”

“No… not giving up,” I said, struggling to shape my thoughts into words. “More like… releasing everything that’s held us back. Every fear, every weight we’ve carried.” I could feel the tension in my chest, a quiet longing for freedom I hadn’t realized was there until that very moment, a pull to let the world fall away, leaving only the raw simplicity of this—us, lying under the open sky.

Her gaze softened, and she reached for my hand, her touch grounding me in a way that was both gentle and unbreakable. I felt a warmth pass between us, a quiet understanding, as if she, too, knew what it was to carry burdens in silence, to wish for release without the certainty of where we’d land.

“You know,” she began, her voice as delicate as the snow settling around us, “sometimes, I do imagine that. Just the two of us, with no expectations, no fears… only us, bound to nothing but our own choices.” Her fingers traced soft patterns on the back of my hand, soothing and electric all at once, and I could feel her own unspoken desires slipping into that rhythm.

It was a melody we were creating without words, something tender yet fierce—a desire for freedom that was somehow wrapped up in our connection, in the vulnerability we allowed ourselves to share. The cold bit into our skin, but her warmth chased it away, her presence filling the emptiness around us.

“Maybe that’s what love is,” I murmured, the words surprising even myself. “A kind of freedom that doesn’t feel like running away… but like finding the one person who makes you feel safe enough to stay.”

She smiled, her eyes softening as she listened, and I could see her breathing shift, her gaze brightening, like a light growing in the dark. “If that’s true,” she whispered, “then I think… I think I’ve finally found that freedom with you.”

My chest tightened, a warmth spreading through me, deep and steady. And as she looked at me, I knew this was something we’d fought for together, a fragile yet unbreakable connection that could only be built through trust, through honesty, and a silent promise to never let go.

We lay there, caught in the gentle spell of our closeness. The sky stretched out above us, vast and unending, but none of it felt overwhelming with her here, her warmth grounding me, her heartbeat steady against mine.

"Last question, my love." I felt as if every burden, every fear, had dissolved into the starlit air. There was only this—the comfort of being fully known, and the courage to let everything else fall away.

"Will you marry me, Esmé Bijoux Albertson?"