She halts at the door to his study, having announced herself in a voice so small he didn't hear, still focused on his book. So still studies on his own, even if Ji Mong is no longer around to guide him. Looking at him, brows furrowed and lips slightly pursed in deep thought, Soo wonders how he would react to the wonders of Seoul, the quick information of the twenty-first century and all the technology she was used to. She remembers how he tried to reason with the king when she was his unwilling bride and pictures him in a carefree life, winning debates in class, wandering through a bookstore reading about princes in a world that didn't need them anymore. She's glad that she could at least bring something with her, that she could cover the scar that afflicted him, just like everybody else did in her time, covering their imperfections and aspiring to be greater and better, a better version of themselves. She liked the old version of himself, not the one who threatened her, but the one she came to know. She was still learning about the new him, the one who wouldn't let go of her. They had time.

When he puts the book away and starts writing, she's reminded of somebody else. The memory comes so violently that the tea set she's carrying rattles against the tray, as if she had let go, if only for a split second. So looks up at her and smiles but her own is forced, just like her bow, and she tries her best not to tremble when she pours his tea. She mentally thanks Lady Oh for her diligence in her training.

I owe it to him, she thinks later, eyes focusing for a long time on the same page of a new book So bought her. He deserves to know the truth. He's saved me like he promised. Her thoughts and feelings battle for coherence in his presence, she feels like that is not quite that reason, not the whole reason, but it's the reason she accepts.

"It was the eighth prince." She blurts out, out of nowhere, like the sudden rush of the present after a nightmare. Outside, the cicadas perform a symphony. "Back then it was, I was— It was the eighth prince." When So only stares at her, eyes large and unblinking, she feels the need to continue. "After I died— almost died, he brought me comfort, he was kind and he and Myung Hee made me feel like I belonged." Her eyes well up with tears but she doesn't let them fall, feels they're out of place once her cousin's name fall from her lips. "Even when she was around, I..." Her words hang in the air, her own heart sinking to the bottom of her stomach.

"You couldn't change the direction of your heart."

Through the fog of her tears she sees him, but he doesn't see her, he's looking outside and away. He says it like it's a fact but it's a memory, a half-remembered memory in the back of her mind, and the days before and after the memory make her cry, not for the man but for herself, for her embarrassment. Wang So doesn't comfort her, not this time, he lets her cry. He abandoned me, he lied to me, she thinks and she mutters and she sobs, and the worst part is that she couldn't understand why, not the turning point or the final point, the jealousy and the promises and the wait. He always made her wait. It still hurt. Hurt more when she thought she never understood the people who left her behind.

She doesn't remember falling asleep or moving to her bed. She only knows it's morning by the light in her room and the soft footsteps that wake her up. He's gone before she can call out his name, she can't remember how he reacted other than the way he moved his jaw in displeasure. She didn't want them to fight, she told him because they had promised not to fight anymore and that was the second biggest secret she kept in Goryeo. He didn't say anything or even go near her and her chest feels cluttered with knives when she thinks about it all and that's when she sees it. The piece of paper folded neatly on the table. She picks it up and unfolds it and takes a moment to absorb it.

It's a poem.

She reads it once and she's not sure she understands it all, because of her lacking knowledge and because it's a poem sure to contain many meanings, but still she rushes outside and almost gives the servants who were about to enter her room to help her get dressed a heart-attack. She asks them if they saw the prince and they inform her he's already left for his daily routine and her shoulders visibly fall. It's one of the days he'll be surrounded by soldiers and she can't approach him. She's disappointed and anxious because she's not sure how to respond when she sees him, a thank you would feel out of place but she's not yet ready to pick a poem of her own, what if she chose the wrong one, the wrong meaning, no, that wouldn't do. Resigned to wait, she tries something else instead. Her brushstrokes feel awkward on the blank sheet, tracing over his writing in a poor imitation, and she narrows her eyes in concentration. By the tenth attempt she feels she understands it a bit better; the poem, the meanings, the man whose writing was that of a prince and not a monster.

She doesn't even notice him coming up behind her until he snatches the poem away from her hands and inspects it with apparent interest. She's embarrassed, almost feeling like the girl who drew emojis for a different prince, once upon a time. After the eternity of an entire minute, Wang So folds the poem and puts it away in his robes.

"I'll accept your response," he says, looking down at his blinking wife with ink smudged on her cheek. He lets out a short laugh and moves to brush it away and Soo never looks away from him, she's happy that he's there, that he's laughing and that he's still himself, and she feels... surprised. Wonders if he decided to forget it all or accept it all, just like that.

He keeps his fingers on her face for longer than would have been necessary, until she knows it's a caress, until she sees the new So, the So who said he loved her, who married her, look down at her. Until the smile falters in his lips.

"Wook was planning a coup," he starts, voice low and paused. "Before the king's passing. On the day of the peace gathering, I saw him wearing armor under his robes. And even before that, I told him... I told him who had plotted to kill the crown prince and who framed you and he didn't do anything."

Hae Soo blinks up at him. For the next seconds, she doesn't know what to do with the new information other than to pile it up with the other lies and disappointments. She thought she didn't have any tears left but they fall down from her eyes freely. There's no sobbing this time, only her eyes, filled with tears, looking at Wang So, who kneels before her and wipes her tears away. He had made his way to her, so far he was the night before, but he crept closer and closer, her hands still smeared with the ink spent on his poem the entire day. If she fell, he would be close enough to catch her.

"I thought he wouldn't change," she says, her voice and sight unfocused. "He said he was going to marry me."

"I'm glad he didn't."

She's forced to look at him, properly, fully, and his eyes blink slowly, unapologetic. She's halfway to heartbreak, halfway back to the misery of the one year she spent as a water maid, how could he be glad about this, and it's outrageous and upsetting but he grabs her hand and pulls her and embraces her and she knows why. She should feel a little betrayed that he would be glad despite her pain but he was consistent. He had said before that he would kill the man she loved and she still wasn't sure if he meant it or not but he always said it all. And after, when she thought about it, there were so many what if's she could hang on to; what if she had married Wook, what if they had been happy, what if he abandoned her like Taejo abandoned Lady Oh, what if she had never been betrayed, what if she had never gone to Goryeo?

She feels cold that night and So walks her to bed, tucks her in and looks after her. She lets him lie down next to her and he has the grace not to smile, looking down at her and running a hand up and down her arm. He's not glad she was abandoned, not really, she knows that much, just like she knows why he spoke about Wook, why he shared what he knew. There were already so many promises between them, spoken and unspoken, that she falls asleep easily, without thinking of anything, and wakes up to him, unguarded and vulnerable, concealer faded to nothing during the night. There is no worry on his brow or pressure on his jaw, there's just sleep, his arms close to his body as if in a conscious effort to not invade her space. She touches his scar with her fingertips, careful not to disturb him, and thinks of what if's.

She closes her eyes again, there's still time before dawn, she's half asleep and half conscious, indulging in the warmth of his body and of the present.