Woosan OneShot Compilation

One Forbidden Night

Seoul, 1770

The evening at KayQue Hall was alight with splendor, the ballroom aglow beneath candle-lit chandeliers, casting golden hues upon the polished floors and swirling silk. Lord San Zane, sixth Marquess of Choi, cousin to Prince Yunho, stood to the side, where his mother insisted he remain, flanked by cousins and ever-watchful relatives, each keenly aware of the noblewomen fluttering about, exchanging glances in his direction. Their eyes told the same story: every family here sought to align themselves with his name, his title, and the legacy his marriage would secure.

Yet, San's own heart beat for a different longing. He was wary of this charade, and for reasons that would shock his family to their very core. His gaze drifted idly over the gathering, though he felt no true interest in the parade of powdered wigs, garish satin and taffeta and glittering smiles that crossed his line of sight.

And then he saw him.

Sir Wooyoung Isaiah, fourth Earl of Jung. The man was the very opposite of what San's world dictated he should find appealing. He was beautiful and lithe, with a fox-like smirk that seemed ever on the verge of laughter. His dark hair fell artfully to his shoulders, wild in a way that suggested he'd resisted any taming attempts. Wooyoung was both dashing and improper, his presence all sharp glances and sassy quips that made him the darling and scandal of any gathering.

As their eyes met across the room, a spark seemed to pass between them—a current unseen by others, yet palpable to them both. Wooyoung's gaze was daring, his mouth curved in an amused invitation, and San felt the breath leave his chest.

He could barely understand it, this immediate and irresistible pull toward a man so clearly unsuitable by his family and societies standards. Yet San found himself drawn as though by an invisible thread, all else fading as Wooyoung began a slow approach.

When they finally stood before one another, Wooyoung tilted his head, those fox-like eyes glinting with mischief. "Are you always so very serious, my lord?" he asked, his voice a low, mocking purr.

San's breath hitched, his usual composure faltering. "Only as my duties demand, sir," he replied, forcing his voice steady, though he could feel the heat in his cheeks.

Wooyoung smirked. "What a pity. One should only attend such gatherings to escape duty, don't you agree?"

"Such luxuries are not mine to enjoy," San replied, trying to suppress the longing his own words betrayed.

Wooyoung's gaze softened just a touch. "Perhaps I might teach you otherwise."

In that moment, the gravity of his family's expectations seemed to slip from San's shoulders, if only for an instant. For the first time, he felt truly seen—something that no glimmering noblewoman could provide. And in that fragile, breathless space, he allowed himself to hope that he might escape, if only for one forbidden night, the rigid life his title demanded.

San knew the dangers of lingering too long with Wooyoung, yet he found himself rooted in place, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to break the spell between them. Wooyoung held his gaze, a glimmer of interest sparking in his eyes, and with a boldness that set San's heart racing, Wooyoung extended his hand, palm upturned in silent invitation.

"Come," Wooyoung murmured, his voice like velvet over steel, "let us steal a moment where the world cannot see."

The invitation was reckless, improper, and deeply scandalous. But something wild flared within San, a longing so fierce it overpowered his caution. Without a word, he placed his hand in Wooyoung's, feeling the warmth of his touch seep through his skin.

Wooyoung led him out of the ballroom, slipping unnoticed through the grand hallways until they found a secluded terrace overlooking the moonlit gardens below. The air was cool, fragrant with the scents of blooming night jasmine, and San felt his pulse quicken as Wooyoung released his hand, though he remained tantalizingly close.