My deep soul

Chapter 26

The pale light of dawn slipped through the paper windows, softening the clinic’s shadows. Jinyoen stirred beneath the covers, her lashes fluttering. For a moment, the memory of last night pressed against her chest—tears, confessions, the unbearable weight of her family’s deaths. She expected to wake alone, her sorrow heavy as always.

But when she opened her eyes, she froze.

There, seated just beside her bed, was Jidiwi. His posture was rigid, but his head leaned slightly forward, as though exhaustion had pulled him into a light doze. His hand rested on the edge of the blanket, not touching her but close—so close it made her heart flutter strangely.

Her throat tightened. 'He stayed… all night.'

The sound of her shifting made him stir. His eyes opened slowly, dark gaze sharpening the moment it landed on her. Relief softened his face.

“You’re awake,” he said quietly, his voice rough from the long night.

Jinyoen blinked at him. “You… didn’t leave?”

“I couldn’t,” he admitted, his eyes never wavering from hers. “You cried yourself to sleep, Jinu. I couldn’t bring myself to walk away.”

Her heart clenched at the sincerity in his tone. She turned her face slightly, trying to mask the tears that threatened again. “You didn’t have to trouble yourself… I’m used to being alone.”

Jidiwi’s jaw tightened. He leaned closer, his voice low but firm. “Don’t say that. You are not alone. Not anymore.”

His words struck something deep inside her. She wanted to believe him, wanted to let herself rest in the promise of his presence—but part of her still trembled, afraid of losing yet another person she cherished.

She studied him for a moment. His eyes were shadowed with fatigue, yet steady, unwavering. There was no mockery in them, no pity. Only a kind of fierce determination that made her chest ache.

“Why?” she asked softly, almost a whisper. “Why do you care so much for me?”

He paused, as though weighing whether to speak his truth. At last, he said, “Because you matter to me more than you can imagine. Your smile, your tears, your silence… all of it matters. I can’t stand seeing you hurt.”

Her breath caught. She looked away quickly, clutching the blanket tighter to her chest. “Don’t say things like that… you’ll make it harder for me to keep my heart guarded.”

Jidiwi tilted his head, a faint, almost sad smile on his lips. “Then don’t guard it. At least not from me.”

The words lingered in the air between them, delicate and dangerous. Jinyoen felt her cheeks warm, a strange heat spreading through her chest. For years she had built walls to protect herself from loss, from heartbreak—but here was Jidiwi, quietly sitting at her bedside all night, his very presence pulling those walls down piece by piece.

She swallowed hard, then reached out almost without thinking. Her fingers brushed his sleeve lightly, tentative. “Thank you… for staying.”

Jidiwi’s eyes widened at her touch. Slowly, as if afraid she might retreat, he placed his hand gently over hers. His grip was careful, not binding, but steady—like an anchor.

“I will always stay,” he whispered.

For the first time since her world had shattered, Jinyoen felt a flicker of warmth in her chest. A fragile comfort, but real. She didn’t answer him, not with words—but she didn’t pull her hand away either.

Jidiwi’s heart pounded, but he only squeezed her hand once, gently, before leaning back, allowing her the space she needed. His silent vigil had spoken louder than any vow, and Jinyoen knew, deep down, that her heart was beginning to shift toward him.

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The afternoon sun filtered through the clinic windows, painting warm amber across the shelves of herbs and scrolls. Jinyoen was humming softly to herself as she ground herbs into a fine powder, her sleeves rolled neatly back. The hum was faint, almost absentminded, yet there was a gentleness to it, the kind of sound one makes when the world feels a little lighter.

The wooden door creaked open. She looked up, expecting Pi Jooki—or perhaps a patient. Instead, her breath caught.

Jidiwi stepped inside, his strides confident, eyes fixed straight on her. His lips curved into that unmistakable smile—the one that always seemed to disarm her no matter how hard she tried to stay stern.

“I was looking for my heart,” he said as he closed the door behind him. His tone was smooth, playful, but his eyes held a depth that made her chest tighten. He came to stand before her, then lowered himself onto the bench beside her. “And I found it.”

Jinyoen blinked, startled. “Your… heart?” she repeated, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Yes,” Jidiwi leaned just a little closer, his gaze unwavering. “My heart is you.”

Heat flared across her cheeks so suddenly that she turned her face away, pretending to busy herself with the mortar in her hands. “You—You shouldn’t say such things so carelessly,” she murmured.

“Carelessly?” His voice dropped low, almost tender. “There is nothing careless about it. Every word I speak to you, Jinu, comes from the deepest part of me.”

Her pulse quickened. The way he said her nickname, the way his voice wrapped around it, sent a strange warmth through her chest. She tried to muster her usual sharp retort, but it faltered on her tongue.

Instead, she asked quietly, “Why are you here, Jidiwi?”

He leaned back just enough to smile at her, a boyish curve to his lips. “To remind you that tonight is the Hwarang festival. You are going to come, aren’t you?”

Jinyoen hesitated, tracing her fingers along the edge of the table. “I… haven’t thought about it.”

“What?” He straightened immediately, mock outrage flashing across his face. “You haven’t thought about it? Lady Jinyoen, this is unacceptable. You must come.”

She arched a brow, folding her arms across her chest. “And why must I?”

“Because I’m planning on dancing for you,” Jidiwi declared without hesitation, as though the entire festival was nothing but his stage and she his only audience. His eyes softened as he leaned in once more, voice lowering until it brushed against her ear like a secret. “I need you there. Only you. Tonight.”

Jinyoen’s lips parted, but no words came. Her throat tightened, her heart thundering against her ribs. His words—so simple, so direct—made something inside her tremble.

And then, without asking, Jidiwi reached into his sleeve and pulled out a single flower. Its petals were pale, delicate, yet carried a quiet beauty. He studied her for a moment, then gently tucked it into her long dark hair, just above her ear. His fingers brushed against her temple with the lightest of touches, making her breath catch.

“There,” he said softly, drawing back to admire his work. “Perfect. You always were, but now the world will have to admit it too.”

Jinyoen, her cheeks aflame, pushed his shoulder lightly. “You are too much, Jidiwi.”

“Too much?” He grinned, standing and looking down at her with that same unshakable confidence. “For you, never enough.”

Before she could recover or answer, he turned and strode toward the door, leaving the faint scent of the flower behind. Just as he reached the threshold, he glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes lingering on her.

“Tonight,” he reminded her, voice like a promise. “Don’t make me dance without my heart watching.”

And then he was gone, leaving Jinyoen sitting with her hand pressed against the flower in her hair, her heart thudding wildly.