7

The days following Prince Jaemin's arrival blurred into a surprisingly pleasant rhythm for Jihoon, considering his constant internal clock counting down his remaining moments. He was still researching, still subtly trying to keep the novel's plot off-kilter, but his focus had irrevocably shifted.

He found genuine camaraderie with Jaemin, whose wide-eyed wonder and cheerful clumsiness were a refreshing balm. They'd spend hours in the library, or strolling through the ancestral garden, Jihoon patiently explaining the differences between various Goryeo herbs while Jaemin excitedly pointed out particularly fluffy bees. It was a bizarre, yet comforting, friendship, entirely unforeseen by the original author.

His illness, however, remained a stubborn, unwelcome companion. The coughing fits, while usually discreetly managed, were becoming more frequent and jarring. He'd often excuse himself during a particularly intense discussion with Madam Ahn, retreating to his room to gasp for breath and wipe away the tell-tale crimson. He was tired, perpetually tired, but the constant activity of managing the household and now, the unexpected warmth from General Taeyoung, kept him going.

General Taeyoung had perfected the art of the 'casual' appearance. Jihoon would be overseeing the preparation of a new herbal tea blend in the kitchens, and Taeyoung would materialize by the doorway, ostensibly checking on troop provisions, his dark eyes, however, fixed on Jihoon. He'd ask about the complexity of a dish or the sourcing of a rare spice, his voice a low rumble that made Jihoon's ears tingle.

He was always finding reasons to be near, always that subtle touch of "Jihoon-ah" in his tone, that particular gaze that made Jihoon's cheeks warm. It was unnerving, yet undeniably... pleasant.

One crisp morning, while Jihoon was attempting to decipher a particularly archaic ledger in the chilly main hall, Taeyoung entered, fresh from the training grounds, smelling of sweat and clean air. "Jihoon-ah," he rumbled, his presence filling the vast space. "You spend too much time bent over dusty scrolls. A healthy body is as important as a sharp mind."

He then grinned, a surprisingly boyish, teasing grin that utterly disarmed Jihoon. "Come. Train with us. A bit of exercise will do you good." Jihoon blinked, aghast. "Train? General, with all due respect, my 'scholarly pursuits' do not extend to… swinging swords or wrestling."

He gestured vaguely at his relatively delicate frame. "My stamina is, shall you say, a work in progress." In reality, his stamina was nonexistent, a casualty of his illness. He could barely walk up a flight of stairs without feeling winded. Taeyoung merely chuckled, stepping closer. "Nonsense. Even a scholar needs strong legs." He reached out, unexpectedly, and lifted Jihoon's arm, testing the lightness of his muscle. Jihoon flushed furiously. "Perhaps just a light warm-up. Come, I insist." The General's grip was firm, persuasive, and utterly impossible to resist.

Dragged to the training grounds, Jihoon felt a wave of immediate regret. The soldiers, fresh from their drills, were a picture of toned muscle and boundless energy. They exchanged amused, but respectful, glances at the sight of their formidable General gently, almost dotingly, coaxing his fiancé.

"The General's truly smitten," one whispered to another, a gruff old veteran. "Never seen him so patient. Remember when he snapped at Commander Choi for a crooked spear?"

The idea of the "God of Death" playing personal trainer to his delicate fiancé filled them with a mixture of awe and baffled feeling toward their leader.

Taeyoung, meanwhile, was oblivious to their observations, his full attention on Jihoon. He handed him a ridiculously light wooden staff. "Just swing it, Jihoon-ah. Slowly. See how your stance is?"

Jihoon tried. He really did. But after three pathetic swings, his arms felt like lead, and a familiar wheeze started in his chest. He coughed, a soft, dry sound he hoped was inconspicuous, and clutched his side.

"Alright, alright," Taeyoung said immediately, catching the subtle distress, his brow furrowing with concern. He relieved Jihoon of the staff and gently placed a hand on his back.

"Perhaps running is more your speed? A gentle jog around the perimeter?" Jihoon looked at the vast perimeter, then at Taeyoung's perfectly unruffled form. "General, I believe my 'speed' is more akin to a leisurely stroll," he managed, trying to sound witty, though he was genuinely out of breath.

Taeyoung simply watched him, a knowing look in his eyes. He knew Jihoon was hiding something, sensed the fragility beneath the bravado. And instead of mocking or dismissing, his gaze held only a fierce, protective tenderness. Jihoon felt a warmth spread through him, utterly unconnected to his physical exertion. He was falling, not just into a role, but into something real.

As the weeks passed, the preparations for the wedding, now officially set for a month hence, became all-consuming. Jihoon, constantly attending dress trials, was rapidly losing his mind. "Sir, this fabric is too heavy for the summer months!" Madam Ahn would declare, holding up a voluminous, embroidered outer robe. "But this one is too sheer!" Jihoon would counter, feeling suffocated in layers of silk.

"I swear, the original Jihoon must have been a masochist to enjoy this." Prince Jaemin, a frequent visitor, often found Jihoon slumped dramatically amidst piles of fabric. "Oh, Sir Jihoon, you look like a colorful, defeated silkworm!" Jaemin would exclaim, dissolving into giggles. Jihoon would groan. "Help me, Your Highness. My soul is slowly being strangled by brocade." Jaemin, with his innate good nature, proved surprisingly helpful, offering genuinely insightful opinions on colors and cuts, and even distracting Madam Ahn with questions about royal embroidery techniques. Their bond deepened, a genuine friendship forged in the bizarre crucible of wedding preparations and shared, quiet anxieties about the future.

The General, meanwhile, grew increasingly vocal, and perhaps a little more possessive, about the approaching nuptials. "Is everything in order for the wedding, Jihoon-ah?" he'd ask, not as a question, but as a subtle demand for perfection, his eyes gleaming with an almost territorial satisfaction whenever the topic came up. He'd even begun to attend some of the less-formal preparations, often finding Jihoon in the middle of a flurry of tailors or florists.

His presence was a quiet declaration, a powerful statement that this marriage was not merely an arrangement, but a fiercely desired union for him. He'd watch Jihoon intently, a faint smile playing on his lips, occasionally interjecting with a surprisingly precise opinion on a color or a fabric, clearly having paid far more attention to Jihoon's trials than he let on. The soldiers noticed too.

"The General's positively beaming about the wedding," a stablehand confided to a cook, "like a cat with a particularly plump mouse." The general who usually lived and breathed only war now had a new focus, one that was strangely captivating to watch.

One afternoon, Jihoon had escaped the tyranny of the tailors, seeking refuge in a quiet alcove in the main hall, trying to catch his breath after a particularly long coughing fit. His chest felt tight, and a faint, metallic taste lingered in his mouth.

He leaned his head back against the cool stone, closing his eyes. A familiar presence made him open them. General Taeyoung. The General was standing over him, a small, intricate wooden carving of a wolf in his hand. He hadn't noticed Taeyoung approach, as usual. "You push yourself too hard, Jihoon-ah," Taeyoung murmured, his voice a low rumble, laced with genuine concern.

His eyes, usually sharp and assessing, were soft, almost vulnerable. He reached out, gently cupping Jihoon's cheek. His thumb brushed over the faint flush of exertion, then the pallor around Jihoon's lips. Jihoon's breath hitched. The simple touch was agonizingly tender, filled with an unspoken depth of emotion that made his heart pound. He felt an intense wave of longing, a desperate need to lean into that warmth, to confide in this formidable, caring man. He yearned to tell him everything—about the transmigration, about the novel, about the terminal illness that silently consumed him. But the words stuck in his throat. "I... I am fine, General," Jihoon whispered, his voice trembling. He tried to pull away, but Taeyoung's hand stayed firm, gentle.

Taeyoung's gaze dropped to Jihoon's lips, his own breath visibly deepening. "Are you, Jihoon-ah?" he murmured, his voice husky, the unspoken questions hanging heavy in the air. The concern in his eyes was almost unbearable, a testament to the meticulous care he showed Jihoon, a care that extended beyond mere formality. This wasn't the fleeting interest of the first meeting, or the casual teasing; this was something profound, something building, something real.

Jihoon felt himself drowning in the intensity of Taeyoung's presence, the quiet strength that had slowly, surely, burrowed its way past all his defenses. He saw the General now, not as a character, but as the man who brought him soup when he was tired, who silently placed a blanket over him when he dozed off in the library, who protected him with a glance from Madam Ahn's sharper edges. He saw the genuine, fierce affection that this intimidating man felt for him. And then, Taeyoung leaned in, slowly, giving Jihoon every chance to pull away. But Jihoon didn't. He closed his eyes, anticipation coiling in his gut.

Taeyoung's lips met his, tentatively at first, a soft, exploring touch. Then, with a low groan that Jihoon felt vibrate against his own lips, Taeyoung deepened the kiss. It was everything Jihoon hadn't realized he craved. It was gentle, yet passionate, a slow burn that quickly flared into an inferno. Taeyoung's arms wrapped around Jihoon's waist, pulling him flush against his broad chest, eliminating all space between them. Jihoon's own hands, as if by instinct, clasped around Taeyoung's neck, pulling him closer still, burying his fingers in the soft hair at the nape of the General's neck. The kiss became more urgent, more demanding, a desperate exchange of unspoken emotions. Taeyoung's tongue lightly traced Jihoon's lower lip, seeking entry, and Jihoon, with a gasp, parted his lips, inviting him in. It was a dizzying, sensual dance, a fiery affirmation of the deep, burgeoning love Jihoon had started to feel for this powerful, utterly devoted man. Every fiber of his being responded, shedding the weariness of illness, the fear of the plot. All that existed was the raw, breathtaking intimacy of this moment, this man.

They finally broke apart, breathless, their lips swollen, their eyes locked. Taeyoung's gaze was tender, possessive, a silent question in their depths. Jihoon, unable to speak, simply leaned his head against Taeyoung's chest, listening to the powerful, steady beat of his heart. In that moment, he felt utterly safe, utterly cherished. The General, the supposed antagonist, was anything but. Jihoon had fallen, truly and irrevocably, in love with him.

But even in the aftermath of that profound, life-altering kiss, the world refused to stop turning. As Jihoon slowly pulled away, still dazed, Taeyoung's voice, now back to its usual authoritative tone, sliced through the haze of emotion. "By the way, Jihoon-ah, the King has specifically inquired about Prince Jaemin's comfort. He is content here, in our mansion, under my protection, but he seems... lonely. Perhaps you can spend more time with him, ensure his well-being during his stay in Goryeo."

Jihoon's heart, still thrumming from the kiss, froze in his chest. Prince Jaemin. The name hit him like a physical blow. Jaemin. The original main character. The illegitimate prince. The novel's protagonist. His heart hammered, a frantic drumbeat against his ribs, making him feel dizzy. His ears buzzed. This wasn't some distant plot point anymore; this was the catalyst. He remembered his sister's endless descriptions: "Oh, and then Prince Jaemin, so pure and kind, finally arrives at the Goryeo capital, completely lost..." He'd mentally tuned out that part, focused only on his own demise. He'd focused on the banquet as a means of survival, a way to impress the General, to make himself valuable. And by inviting the soldiers and their families, by creating a banquet that wasn't overly grand and thus more accessible to commoners, he hadn't just impressed Taeyoung, he'd unknowingly shifted the timeline, delaying Jaemin's entry into the broader social circles of the capital where the plot's machinations would truly begin. He had thought he bought himself time. And he had, in a way. Jaemin was here, in the mansion, under Taeyoung's watchful, albeit detached, eye.

The King's concern for Jaemin, however, was a fresh pressure. This meant Jaemin wouldn't be staying a quiet, forgotten guest forever. It meant the plot, however twisted by Jihoon, was still inevitable. Min Youngjin was out there, somewhere, destined to find Jaemin. And Jihoon's own death was just around the corner. The joy from the kiss evaporated, replaced by a cold dread.

He had bought time, yes, but how much?

And could love, real love, possibly save him from a fate already written

*****