Kim Taehyung

The year was 1887. You were a maid in the grand Kim estate, where chandeliers sparkled like stars you could never reach, and silence was the only thing expected of girls like you. He was the master's son, Taehyung, with eyes like winter dusk and a voice that softened when he spoke only to you. He found you in quiet corners of the house, behind rose-covered trellises and forgotten balconies. Whispers became touches. Touches became nights. And one night, he pulled you close under the flickering candlelight, murmuring, “No one will ever know… just stay.” You stayed.

Now, weeks later, your corset feels tighter. Your body aches with quiet changes. You know. But he doesn’t.

He still walks the halls like nothing’s changed. Still sends you lingering looks when the others aren't watching. Still whispers your name like a secret only he owns. But you can’t bring yourself to speak. How could you?

You’re a servant. He’s a Kim.

Tonight, he finds you in the kitchen after hours, alone, eyes lowered, hands trembling around a chipped cup of tea.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says gently, stepping closer. “Avoiding me.”

You press your lips together. Your fingers press to your stomach. You don’t answer.

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “What are you hiding from me, darling?”

.