I fell in love with him at three in the morning.
Which is not a romantic hour.
It's the hour of bad decisions, cold tea, and the quiet confidence that tomorrow me will somehow deal with the consequences.
He was standing under palace lanterns, half in shadow. Naturally.
Secondary characters never get proper lighting. That privilege is reserved for emperors, generals, and people with plot armor thick enough to survive common sense.
His face was calm. Polite. Reserved.
The expression of a man who has learned, very early in life, that showing emotion is rarely rewarded.
I stared at the screen.
"…Seriously?"
He was that guy.
The concubine's son.
The chancellor's apprentice.
Smart, subtle, painfully competent — and emotionally locked like a drawer labeled Do Not Open Unless You Want Feelings.
The man hopelessly, quietly in love with the female lead.
And what a female lead.
A general.
An actual one. Armor, strategy, battlefield authority, the whole terrifyingly impressive package. She led armies, saved the country, and married another general because of course she did. Power couples don't just happen — they conquer nations.
She wasn't a prize.
She wasn't confused.
She wasn't waiting to be rescued.
She was busy.
And she never chose him.
Not because he wasn't worthy — but because she already had a life, a mission, and a very clear understanding of what she wanted.
He understood that too.
Which somehow made it worse.
I knew the story.
I knew he would admire her quietly.
I knew he would never confess.
I knew he would smile faintly at her wedding like a man who had already accepted disappointment as a lifestyle.
Men like him don't beg for love.
They politely step aside and pretend they're fine.
"I really should stop doing this to myself," I said, watching him calmly deliver a report that would save an entire province and earn him absolutely nothing in return.
I was a grown woman.
I paid rent.
I owned matching socks.
I had opinions about office chairs.
And yet here I was, emotionally invested in a fictional man from historical China who didn't even get enough screen time to be properly tragic.
Was I embarrassed?
No.
Mostly annoyed.
"You don't even get a dramatic breakdown," I told the screen. "No rain scene. No anguished monologue. Nothing. You're suffering efficiently."
The screen flickered.
I blinked.
For one very unsettling second, it felt like he looked straight at me.
Not at the camera.
Not into the distance.
At me.
"Don't," I warned the universe. "I'm an adult. I know better than this."
The light flickered again.
The room tilted.
My last clear thought was surprisingly reasonable:
If I wake up in this drama, I am not competing with a female general. I respect women with swords. But I am absolutely changing the script.
Because honestly?
Someone had to love him.
And then the couch vanished.
The screen went black.
And my perfectly normal life ended without even a courtesy notice.
Which, in hindsight, explains a lot.