At that very moment, when Margaret's voice changed—becoming hoarse, trembling, and as fragile as the breath of someone clinging to fear—Frankestein finally stopped.
Yet, he didn't pull away. Instead of distancing himself, he drew Margaret even closer, as if to confirm that she was still there in his arms—still real, and hadn't truly slipped away.
He buried his head in the crook of her neck, staying there, heavy and warm. His breath brushed against her skin in a much slower rhythm now; no longer ravenous, but restrained—as if he were desperately trying to regain control over a soul that had nearly lost its way.
As Margaret realized that Frankestein had truly gone still, her body—which had been taut with tension—finally found a sliver of space to breathe.
Slowly, she drew a long, deep breath, filling her lungs until they felt tight, then released it through her nose in a hurried, jagged rhythm. She repeated the cycle several times; each inhale and exhale was a desperate attempt to steady her trembling frame and calm the frantic, racing beat of her heart.
A few seconds after she began to feel more composed, Margaret lowered her gaze, her eyes falling upon the crown of Frankestein's head—still resting heavily against her shoulder, near the curve of her neck.
"O... Oppa?"
Her voice was soft now, even gentle, with no lingering traces of the tremors that had choked her moments ago.
"Frankestein Oppa?"
She called out to him again.
But Frankestein still didn't lift his gaze. Instead, he nuzzled his nose against the skin of her neck with a touch so soft and light, reminiscent of a kitten yearning for its owner.
"Oppa? Frankestein Oppa?"
Once more, Margaret called his name.
Yet, Frankestein didn't budge an inch from her neck. Finally, Margaret let out a long sigh—a breath of surrender that escaped slowly, as if she had finally chosen to stop fighting altogether.
Then, she lifted one hand. There was a clear hesitation in her movement, a faint tremor rippling from her fingertips to her wrist. It took a few seconds before she finally found the courage to touch his left cheek. Her palm pressed against his skin—soft, warm, and cautious. She stroked it gently.
"Oppa? Can you hear me?"
"If you don't lift your face from my neck, your muscles are going to get stiff and sore."
Unfortunately, Frankestein remained stubborn. He didn't respond to her words, didn't lift his gaze, and stayed right where he was—anchored in the hollow of her neck.
His eyes were squeezed shut, but his nose continued to drift against her skin in long, slow strokes. Every now and then, he would inhale deeply, breathing in the sweet scent that radiated from her neck. That fragrance, instead of fueling his restlessness, acted as a balm—making him feel calmer, more grounded, and finally back in control.
He could feel the soft touch of Margaret's hand on his cheek.
Every gentle stroke made him want to close his eyes even tighter, to surrender to the drowsiness that was slowly enveloping him, letting his entire body dissolve into a peace that was strange yet profoundly real. He imagined he could fall asleep right there, tucked into the hollow of her neck, holding her tight while the outside world simply faded away.
But then, his consciousness clawed its way back, dragging him relentlessly into reality.
Frankestein slowly began to pull back.
His arms remained locked around Margaret, keeping her close even as he shifted only a few centimeters away. His eyes lifted, finally meeting hers.
"I hate women... everything about them... I hate it all."
His voice came out hoarse, breaking in the air as if his throat were being forced to work despite being parched and exhausted.
His hand then rose—slowly but surely—to reach for Margaret's hand, which still lingered on his cheek.
With a movement that was almost painfully careful, Frankestein lowered her hand, bringing it close to his lips.
His gaze dropped, focusing entirely on Margaret's small, pale fingers; his eyes traced every curve with an attention that felt almost obsessive. His thumb stroked her skin gently—a conscious, minute movement—as if he were trying to soothe not only Margaret, but his own trembling soul as well.
Then, with a deliberate, drawn-out pause, Frankestein pressed a soft kiss against those fingers. It wasn't rushed, nor was it forceful.
He slowed the transition of his lips from one finger to the next with an awareness that was almost agonizing, as if he wanted to memorize it all—the shape, the warmth, and the delicate texture of the skin held within his grasp.
"And yet, since the moment I met you, there is something else I find myself wanting to know. It isn't about women… it is about you, Margaret."
His gaze lifted slowly once more, after the final kiss lingered on Margaret's pinky finger.
"Who would have thought..."
He paused.
He deliberately let the silence hang between them as his eyes caught the glimpse of the reddish-purple marks on Margaret's neck.
A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face—brief yet unmistakable—before his hands, still holding hers, moved slowly.
He guided her hands, one by one, placing them onto his shoulders until they rested there. Finally, he brought his own hands back to settle firmly around her waist.
"...Who would have thought... that a seven-year-old child could make a twenty-one-year-old man fall in love?"
"I tried to fight it. I felt so insane for liking a child... But, if this is truly my fate, shouldn't I have waited for you to grow up before telling you?"
His voice remained hoarse, dropping to a near-whisper as he continued,
"And today... I am declaring my feelings to you."
"I know you're shocked. I know you might not like me... perhaps there isn't a shred of romantic love for me in your heart, is there? Because you've always seen me as a brother—someone who loves you and is always there for you."
"But, Margaret..."
He paused once more.
One of his hands rose, gentle and steady, as he tucked a stray lock of Margaret's hair behind her ear—hair that had suddenly fallen to veil part of her face.
"If I may be a little arrogant... I am a genius doctor. Not just because of my ability to treat patients, but because I can sense exactly what they are feeling."
"And behind those eyes of yours, the ones that didn't want me to leave back then... I realized something that shocked even me. It wasn't just me. You feel the same way, don't you?"
"You love me too, don't you, Margaret?"
"You love me… not because you are afraid I will leave, but because that feeling truly exists in your heart. Is that right, Margaret?"
Margaret froze instantly; her body went completely still, as if all the energy within her had been sucked into a single point in her chest.
It wasn't out of fear, nor was it because Frankestein had finally unmasked her secret—realizing that the very same feelings she thought were hers alone actually mirrored his own. No, that wasn't what silenced her.
What truly paralyzed her was a sudden flood of memories, surging through her mind like a tidal wave.
Among the flashes of the past, one memory stood out with striking clarity: her childhood, in the old house that was always warm with the scent of wood and sunlight streaming through the windows. She could see her younger self, running through the backyard, laughing without a care in the world, while hearing the voice of the person she now knew so intimately—Frankestein—following her, playing along, and keeping watch over her.
At that same moment, Frankestein did the same. The gaze he fixed on Margaret grew calm and deeply understanding, as if an invisible bridge had formed to connect their minds. As the glow of Margaret's childhood memories radiated within her head, he stepped into them as well.
Eleven years ago, at Margaret's house...