FATE'S GAME | | BTS FF (18+)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

KIM ISHITA

The first thing I felt was warmth. Not the suffocating kind that had burned through my skin all night, but steady, grounding, like an anchor against the fever still clinging to me.

When I blinked my eyes open, light spilled faintly through the curtains. My room. The ceiling I knew too well. And him.

Kim Taehyung sat by my bed, his chair pulled close, his dark suit jacket abandoned on the armrest. His head was bent slightly, strands of hair falling across his forehead, and in his hand....my hand.

He was holding it. Not like a careless grip. Not like he meant to trap me. But firm enough that I knew, even in sleep, he hadn't let go.

For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

I studied him, letting myself. The sharp planes of his face seemed gentler in the half-light. His lashes were long enough to brush his skin when he blinked, and there was something in the tight line of his jaw that didn't belong to the man who trained me with daggers and cold commands.

This was different. Unmasked.

I should have pulled my hand away. Should have pretended I hadn't noticed, that none of this meant anything. But instead, I let my fingers curl just slightly against his. The faintest pressure.

His eyes opened.

For one unbearable second, the world stilled. He didn't speak, didn't move, just looked at me as though he wasn't sure if I was real.

I wanted to ask him why. Why he was here when he could have been anywhere else. Why he didn't walk away when he always told me distance was safer.

But I didn't.

Because deep down, I was afraid of the answer.

I wet my lips, unsure if my voice would hold. "You stayed."

Something flickered in his gaze, quick and sharp, before it vanished beneath the mask he wore too well. "You were burning up," he said simply, like it explained everything.

It didn't.

I pushed myself up slightly against the pillows, ignoring the protest in my muscles. His hand moved instantly, as if to steady me, then stopped halfway, curling into a fist before retreating.

That hesitation said more than his words ever could.

"You didn't have to," I whispered.

His jaw tightened. "I know."

He rose from the chair at last, dragging a hand through his hair, like standing was safer than sitting so close. He reached for the glass of water, set it within my reach, then straightened his suit jacket from where it had been abandoned.

For a moment, I thought he would leave.

But he didn't.

Instead, he lingered by the window, back half-turned to me, shoulders drawn taut. "Next time," his voice came low, controlled, "don't make me wait to find out you're not okay."

The words pierced deeper than they should have. Not an order. Not quite a plea. Something in between.

I wanted to ask what he meant, but the look on his face when he finally turned back stopped me. Not cold. Not distant. Just... tired.

So I only nodded. "Okay."

And the faintest curve touched his lips....gone almost as quickly as it came.

I watched him turn away, watched his broad frame move with the same quiet precision he carried everywhere, even here in my room where the walls had witnessed his unguarded stillness just hours ago.

He left the glass on the table, adjusted his jacket, and for a moment, I thought the door would close behind him. But it didn't. He lingered, his silhouette framed by the light bleeding through the curtains, before he finally stepped out, silent as ever.

The room felt colder when he was gone.

I leaned back against the pillows, my pulse still unsteady, my skin still tingling where his hand had held mine.

I closed my eyes, not to sleep, but to hold onto the memory.

For the first time, I wished for the fever not to leave so quickly. Because last night, in my weakness, he had stayed.

And I wasn't sure if I would ever have that again.

Few days later ..... He trained me as usual. Cold, precise, demanding. But sometimes, when I stumbled or pushed too far, I felt the ghost of hesitation in him. Like his hand almost reached, before he pulled it back.

And I pretended not to notice. Because if I did, I might start to believe.

The bruises from training stung less than the silence between us. His words were clipped commands, mine clipped answers. Yet every time he passed behind me, too close, my skin remembered the heat of his palm from that night.

I hated that.
I hated that part of me wanted the fever back.

By the time the session ended, sweat slicked my neck, breath ragged. He stood a few feet away, shirt sleeves rolled up, veins tracing the lines of his forearms. He looked untouched—like the exhaustion clinging to me couldn't reach him.

"Again," he said quietly.

My grip faltered. "You said last round."

He didn't look up. "I changed my mind."

I exhaled sharply, lifting my arm, but my movements were slower now, heavier. The dagger slipped, grazing my palm. I hissed, a bead of blood forming, but before I could step back, his hand shot out—catching my wrist midair.

His grip was steady. Too steady.

"Enough."

"No," I said, breath uneven. "You said—"

"I said enough."

The edge in his tone made my pulse stutter. But it wasn't anger. It was something else....something that lived between warning and fear.

I looked up at him, our faces too close, breaths tangling. "You're the one who told me not to quit," I whispered.

His jaw flexed. "You're pushing yourself past your limit."

"Maybe I'm trying to catch up to you."

That got him. His eyes flicked to mine, dark and unreadable, and for a long, unbearable moment, neither of us moved.

Then, softly, almost like a confession he didn't mean to let slip, he said,

"You're better off without me."

It should've been a command. It sounded like a wound.

And before I could stop myself, the words came out—quiet but raw.
"Then why do I feel worse without you?"

His breath caught. The room went still.

He let go of my wrist slowly, as though it burned to touch me. His eyes searched mine—no mask this time, no distance. Just that impossible conflict between restraint and want.

"Ishita," he said, voice low enough to tremble in my chest, "don't—"

"Too late," I breathed.

Something broke in the air between us....fragile and electric. For a heartbeat, I thought he might close the distance. His hand lifted halfway... and then stopped. His control snapped back into place like armor being locked.

He stepped away. "Training's over."

I didn't move. My dagger hung loose at my side. "Is that what this is?" I asked softly. "Training?"

But he was already turning toward the door.

His voice was barely more than a whisper. "It has to be."

And then he was gone leaving only silence, the faint scent of his cologne, and a question that refused to leave my mind.

If I was better off without him, why did it feel like he'd just taken the air with him when he walked out?

To be continued......