4.6 | Dark Ages ✓

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- 0 0 : 0 7

SHE COMES AND goes, like the wind.

And he cannot get enough of her.

He needs her, constantly. Every second spent in her company has him discovering something new to fall in love with, and every minute with her makes him want more. He catches every word that falls from her lips; he memorizes the way she smiles like all is right with the world. He aches with the desire to reach for her. He's like a desperate man, trapped in the dark for so long, who's finally been given a ray of sunlight, and he selfishly wants her with him for as long as she'll have him.

Unfortunately, his other self seems to need her just as much, if not more.

That is a Taehyung forged in the flames of the Dark Ages, embittered from years of self-loathing and guilt, isolated by his brilliance and arrogance. Not knowing that he'd been innocent in the creation of zombies, that Taehyung is a monster of his own making and the villain of his own story.

He feels a twinge of guilt whenever he remembers that he'd had a hand to play in this. After all, he'd prevented her from telling his other self the truth about Strand F. So he lets her go whenever his other self needs her, counting down the hours until she returns.

She always does.

Every few hours, she drops by her lab to check on him. And each time, she comes up with something new to tell him.

"One of the first stories my mom ever told me was about you," she says, when he brings up the photograph. "Her drunk ex had pushed her into the river, and she thought she would drown. But a man showed up and saved her, only to be swept away by the currents himself. She bought this house after that, and would bring me to the river on the same day every year to tell me about you."

"Hoseok knows that you're a time-traveller," she tells him on another occasion. "He's been tracking your work ever since, but he knows that the other version of you isn't the same one he'd met long ago. You can trust him—he won't say a word."

"I did see you at the café five years ago," she says, while sitting with him that afternoon. His other self had gone to the research facility again, and she'd brought him tea in his own mug. She'd apologized when he winced at the taste, and explained that the other Taehyung preferred tea.

He'd rolled his eyes at that. The other Taehyung could really go hang, he decided.

"I know you did," he says now. "But how?"

"Just a hunch." She shrugs. "While I was talking to your other self, I felt someone watching us. And when I looked up, there you were. I was really glad when I saw you," she adds. "For a while, I wondered if I'd actually imagined you visiting me two weeks before."

He blinks, confused, then remembers that their perceived chronological order of events is not the same. Where he'd seen her meeting his other self in the first jump, then met her two weeks prior in the next jump, she would've met him first and then met his other self.

"What were you two talking about, anyway?" he asks, unable to stop his curiosity.

At that, her expression softens. "You told me that you'd made a mistake. One that would change the world as we knew it forever. Of course, based on what you'd told me earlier, I already knew what you didn't do—but you didn't. You asked if I would be willing to help you save the world. I said yes."

He stops, struck by the simplicity of her answer, before letting out a sigh. "I didn't do it, but I still caused it somehow," he admits. "How do you look at me and not see a monster?"

Surprise flits across her features. Then, slowly, she takes a step closer to him. He swallows at their sudden proximity, but his hands twitch by his sides, eager to pull her into his arms. She notices and reaches down for his hand, giving his fingers a small squeeze.

"Because I've known you all my life," she says softly." I knew you as the man that you are, then as the man that you were, and then as the monster that you thought you were. And I've loved all versions of you."

He drags in a sharp breath. He wants so desperately for her words to be true, but he knows there's a distinction between his selves. "You don't even know this version of me."

"I know all versions of you," she insists. "There is this you—brave, selfless and resilient—who goes back in time to save the world and risks his life for me. Then there is the other you—brilliant, confident and strong—who works unceasingly on a cure and stays with me through the Dark Ages. Then there is another you—angry, depressed and tired—who comes out on bad days but always returns to me no matter what. I know you," she finishes quietly. "And I have always loved you."

He stares at her, stunned by just how much she knows him. She knows him more than even he knows himself—but then, hasn't it always been this way? He drags in a deep breath as affection sweeps through him, he feels it—filling him—the absolute surety of loving her, and he opens his mouth to tell her.

But uncertainty flickers across her features at his initial silence. She drops his hand, moving to take a step back. He doesn't think. He doesn't let her. He snags her wrist within his long fingers to keep her anchored to him.

"Don't go," he whispers.

His other hand moves without him realizing, reaching up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers linger, brushing the shell of her ear. In his mind's eye, he can see himself on the bridge five years in the past, doing the same thing.

I remember this, he thinks, looking at her. Do you?

She does. Her cheeks darken into that alluring red; her breath catches in her throat. But her eyes meet his; one corner of her lips pulling up in the faintest hint of a smile.

Without saying a word, she nods.

Slowly, as if they have all the time in the world, he lowers his head to hers. When his lips brush hers, the air leaves his lungs in a rush. Desire surges through him, but with it is a familiarity that sets his nerves aflame: her lips pliant beneath his, her skin soft under his fingertips, her body trembling against his. He has imagined this. He has dreamt of this. He must've done this hundreds of times, but then never before.

I remember this, too, he thinks, capturing her bottom lip between both of his. Do you?

She does. With a breathless sound that makes his gut clench, she melts into him. Her lips move against his, gently at first, then she opens her mouth at the first slide of his tongue. Her arms come around his neck to pull him closer until not a hairsbreadth separates them. He feels every inch of her: her breasts pressed against his chest, her legs trapped between his and, oh yes, her stomach rubbing deliciously against the length of his arousal.

This is real.

Every imagination, every dream is nothing compared to this. He is shaking with want, with need. But he steels himself with self-control and allows her to lead, because she knows him better than he does himself. He memorizes every slide of her tongue against his, every sound that he wrenches from her, every movement of her body. She kisses him softly, deeply, hesitantly, passionately; and he matches her every move and more.

Teach me how to kiss you, he thinks, sliding a palm up to her cheek. Because I've forgotten how.

This time, I will remember.