Rina stepped into the kitchen, half-expecting it to be empty by the time she arrived. But the soft glow of golden light spilling from a hanging lamp overhead illuminated the marble countertops, the copper pans hanging neatly on the walls, and the gentle curl of steam rising from a pot on the stove.
And there—standing with his back to her, turning slowly as he sensed her presence—was someone she hadn't expected.
A boy.!
Around her age.
His hair was black as the night sky—deep, silken strands that shimmered faintly under the warm kitchen light. His skin was impossibly pale, almost porcelain-like, and without a single blemish. His figure was lean but undeniably strong, with a dancer's grace and a warrior's precision. A black shirt clung to his form, tucked neatly into matching trousers that disappeared into glossy black boots that reached his knees. Over it all, he wore a long, black leather coat that swept the floor with a subtle rustle, and tied around his left arm was a simple black ribbon.
But what caught her breath—
. Were his eyes.
Crimson.
Like molten rubies, glowing softly beneath long, elegant lashes.
There was something arresting about him. Something that made her heart pause in her chest.
His features were sharp and otherworldly—so perfect, so untouchable—it was like the gods had sculpted him themselves, then bathed him in shadow and mystery. Even his lips had a soft sheen to them, the kind that would've tempted any girl to lean closer without realizing why.
For a long moment, Rina forgot how to breathe.
Then, gently—almost playfully—the boy tilted his head and spoke.
"Who are you?" he asked, his voice smooth, almost melodic. A small smile curved at the corners of his lips, quiet and unreadable.
The trance shattered.
Rina blinked rapidly, her cheeks flushing with heat as she tried to gather herself. Her golden eyes darted away, looking at anything but him—at the marble counter, the stove, the polished silver drawer handles.
"I—I'm Rina Amberheart," she stammered, the words tumbling from her mouth. "I'm… I'm the fiancée of Jien Rotschy ."
Her voice caught near the end, almost like she didn't believe it herself.
The boy regarded her in silence for a moment. The smile never faded, but his expression was unreadable—gentle, yes, but carefully held.
"I see," he said softly. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
Then, with the same casual elegance, he turned back to the counter and picked up a plate, walking toward her. It held freshly grilled meat, herbs, and warm vegetables arranged like art on a porcelain dish. The scent of rosemary and black pepper filled the room, warm and soothing.
"But… what are you doing wandering the halls at this hour?" he asked as he offered her the plate.
His tone was light, friendly even, with none of the judgment or formality she expected. It disarmed her.
"I… couldn't sleep," she admitted, hesitating. Then, almost shyly, she accepted the plate. "Thank you."
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he moved to the small wooden table near the kitchen window and sat down with his own plate. The way he carried himself was effortless. Like he belonged everywhere and nowhere at once.
Rina watched him for a moment—watched the way he picked up his fork and started eating slowly, deliberately. Something about it grounded her.
She hadn't realized how hungry she was until her first bite.
She sat down across from him, the heat of the food warming her hands as she dug in more eagerly than she expected. She didn't even notice when her shoulders relaxed.
He said nothing. He simply ate in silence, and yet somehow… it didn't feel awkward.
It felt peaceful.
After a few minutes, she looked up, her curiosity bubbling to the surface again.
"I didn't ask your name," she said softly.
The boy glanced up, his crimson eyes locking with hers.
He smiled again, just as calmly. "No," he said. "You didn't."
She blinked. "Well? Are you going to tell me?"
He leaned back slightly, folding one leg over the other with graceful nonchalance. "I might," he said. "But I rather like hearing you guess."
That made her huff quietly, though the corner of her lips lifted.
"You're strange."
"Most people are," he replied, sipping from a glass of water.
She smiled faintly into her plate. The tension in her chest began to unravel. The palace, the pressure, her mother, the looming shadow of tomorrow—it all began to melt away under the warmth of food, and the quiet presence of a boy who didn't demand anything from her.
After they finished, he stood and carried both their plates to the sink. She watched in silence as he rolled up his sleeves and began to wash them, methodically and with a kind of grace that made even mundane tasks seem elegant. The running water was the only sound in the room for a while.
Then he brewed tea.
She could smell the herbs—peppermint and something sweet, maybe vanilla—and when he handed her the cup, their fingers brushed lightly. It was the smallest touch, but her heart skipped all the same.
They sat in silence for a moment, sipping.
Then… she began to speak.
"I don't want to marry him," she said, voice barely above a whisper.
He didn't look surprised.
"I don't even know what he looks like," she continued, staring into her tea. "Not really. No photos, no letters. Just a name. A shadow. Everyone says he's… terrifying. Cold. Ruthless."
The boy remained still. His red eyes watched her carefully over the rim of his cup.
"I keep thinking—what if he's a monster?" she said, half-laughing, half-breaking. "What if I'm being thrown to a wolf?"
There was a long silence.
The boy didn't answer.
But there was something in the way he looked at her. Not pity. Not mockery. Just… a quiet understanding. The small smile was still there, but softer now. Less playful. Almost sad.
Encouraged by his silence, Rina continued.
"I didn't ask for this," she whispered. "I didn't choose it. And my mother—she acts like it's nothing. Like I should just smile and obey."
Her voice trembled, and then, suddenly, it all poured out.
Everything.
The fear. The anger. The guilt. The helplessness.
Tears spilled down her cheeks before she realized it, falling silently into her tea. Her shoulders shook as she tried to wipe them away, ashamed.
Still, the boy didn't move.
He didn't comfort her, didn't interrupt, didn't tell her everything would be alright.
He simply drank his tea in silence.
And somehow, that was enough.
Because he didn't look at her like she was weak.
He looked at her like she was real.
Like her pain wasn't inconvenient.
And that—more than anything—made her feel like she could breathe again.