QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 108: Something only I can give

Chapter 108

Daphne POV

Evelyn is like the sun, I think to myself as she drags me around the town with her hand in mine.

I can’t hide my smile.

I genuinely thought I ruined her life, dragged her down from gilded halls to muddy streets — but she’s so happy.

Happier than I’ve ever seen her.

The market is noisy today, filled with voices calling out fresh produce, baked goods, cloth bundles dyed in bright colors. Chickens cluck and flap nearby, and children dart through the crowd, laughing with bare feet slapping against dusty stone.

Evelyn doesn’t seem to notice any of it.

Her attention is fully on me.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she says, a teasing lilt to her voice, even as a faint blush starts to bloom on her cheeks.

I smirk.

"You’re beautiful," I say without hesitation.

She immediately rolls her eyes, turning her head away to hide the pink spreading across her face, but she doesn’t let go of my hand.

In fact, her fingers tighten slightly around mine.

My chest warms.

She can try to act unaffected all she wants, but I know better.

We keep walking, her grip steady, her stride confident even on the uneven dirt path that winds between the small village houses. A breeze picks up, carrying the scent of fresh bread, wildflowers, and the faint salt of the sea beyond the hills.

I let myself soak it all in — the simplicity, the peace, the weight of her hand in mine.

The ordinary magic of it.

"You keep staring," she mutters after a while, not meeting my gaze.

"I can’t help it," I say, amused.

"You’re ridiculous."

"And you’re mine," I say simply.

That makes her stumble a little, just a small hitch in her step, but she catches herself quickly, pretending it didn’t happen.

Still, I catch the shy smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, even as she tries to fight it.

"Can you not?" she teases, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye.

"I’ll think about it," I reply without shame.

The marketplace buzzes around us — merchants calling out their wares, children laughing, the clatter of hooves against cobblestone — but it all fades into background noise.

There’s only her.

We pass by a stall selling little trinkets, and she pauses, dragging me over.

"Look," she says, picking up a small wooden carving of a bird with clumsy wings.

"It’s crooked," I say.

She laughs, a real, bright laugh that makes my heart stutter in my chest.

"Exactly," she says, setting it back down carefully.

"But it was made with love. You can tell."

I watch her as she smiles at the stall owner and drops a few coins into his hand, buying the lopsided bird anyway.

Love, I think.

It always leaves marks — messy, imperfect, stubborn.

Just like us.

She tucks the little bird into her basket and resumes walking, swinging our joined hands between us like we’re teenagers sneaking out at night.

"You’re happy," I say softly, half in wonder.

She glances at me again, this time fully, her blue eyes clear and honest.

"I am," she says. "For the first time in a long time, I am."

I swallow against the lump in my throat.

I want to give her the whole world if I could.

But she doesn’t need the world.

She just needs this.

And me.

And that’s something I can give her.

***

Evelyn POV

I laugh quietly to myself as I sit on the bench, basket resting in my lap.

The men had dragged Daphne—Mr. Han—away earlier, roping her into some nonsense about mending the new barn roof. I can still see her across the square, sleeves rolled up, hammering away as if she’d been born into a carpenter’s family.

Sometimes I forget how easily she can fit in anywhere.

She turns, laughing at something one of the villagers says, and for a moment our eyes meet. The smile she gives me is pure and unguarded.

I duck my head quickly, cheeks warming.

The other women notice, of course.

"Aw, look at ’er," says Maeve, the weaver’s wife, nudging me with her elbow

. "Blushin’ like a maid."

Another woman, Brenda, cackles softly. "And her husband can’t keep his eyes off her neither."

My face feels like it’s about to catch fire.

"She’s got Mr. Han wrapped ’round her little finger," one of the younger wives says teasingly.

I open my mouth to protest but realize anything I say will only make it worse, so I busy myself fiddling with the frayed edge of my basket.

They chatter warmly among themselves, praising "Mr. Han’s" strength and good manners, and my heart squeezes painfully.

They think we’re a normal married couple. Husband and wife. And somehow, despite everything, I want to hold onto this little lie a bit longer, maybe forever.

It’s so... normal.

So easy.

A soft sigh escapes me.

It feels nice to be treated like anyone else for once—not a duchess, not an ornament, not a pawn on some political board.

Just... Evelyn.

"Tell us, dear," Maeve says, her voice coaxing.

"When are you and your good husband planning to have children?"

The words hit me like a stone to the chest.

All the women turn toward me expectantly, faces full of innocent curiosity and well-meaning cheer.

I falter.

I look down at the crooked wooden bird in my lap—the little trinket Daphne had carved for me two weeks ago. My fingers trace the uneven grain, grounding myself.

"We..." I start, throat dry. I force a smile that I know doesn’t quite reach my eyes. "We can’t, sadly."

A hush falls over the group.

For a long, breathless moment, the only sound is the distant clang of a hammer striking wood.

"Oh, my dear..." one of the elder women murmurs, laying a wrinkled hand over mine.

Another woman leans closer, her expression soft and full of sympathy.

"You’re still young. Maybe it’ll happen, if God wills it."

Brenda shakes her head gently. "And if it doesn’t, it makes no difference. You’ve a good husband who loves you. That’s more than most have."

"You’ll be happy regardless," Mary says firmly, nodding. "Children or no."

Their kindness—their fierce, unquestioning acceptance—makes something tighten deep in my chest. I blink rapidly, willing the sudden sting of tears to stay at bay.

They think it’s an affliction. That one of us—me or Daphne—must be barren. And in their simple, generous hearts, they don’t hold it against us.

They still see us as whole.

And somehow, that misunderstanding feels more merciful than any truth I could have offered.

I press my hand over the little bird, swallowing thickly.

"Thank you," I whisper hoarsely.

They crowd around me, offering small comforts—a squeeze of my hand, a shared loaf of bread, a cup of sweetened tea. None of it feels like pity. Only community.

And I realize something, then.

Here, in this sleepy village at the edge of nowhere, with no titles or crowns to shield me—

I am more loved than I ever was in the palace or the duchy.

I lift my gaze and spot Daphne—or Mr. Han, rather—laughing as one of the village boys tries to clumsily copy her sawing technique.

Her hair sticks to her forehead, a sheen of sweat across her temple, sleeves pushed up, muscles flexing beneath sun-worn cloth.

Strong.

Steady.

Mine.

She glances over again, catches me staring, and winks shamelessly.

I roll my eyes, flushing anew under the amused smiles of the women around me.

"Go to him," Brenda urges with a soft laugh. "Before he thinks you’ve run off."

They shoo me gently toward the square, their laughter warm and knowing.

"Finished with the help they requested from you," I say once I’m close to her. She wraps an arm around my waist without hesitation, tugging me in with that easy, boyish charm of hers.

She leans in, trying to steal a kiss—but I turn my head quickly, cheeks flaming. I can feel the stares of the village women on us, like a hundred curious needles.

Daphne clicks her tongue in mock annoyance, but she doesn’t let go of me. Instead, she guides me forward, keeping her arm firmly around my waist as if daring anyone to comment.

"I swear," she grumbles, "they are taking advantage of me. Like they aren’t the same ones that looked down on me for being so small for a man."

She says it with such genuine indignation that I can’t help but laugh—a soft, helpless thing that slips out before I can stop it.

"This is your fault," I say, bumping her gently with my hip. "You went above and beyond to prove otherwise."

She puffs out her chest a little in mock pride. "I wanted to prove to Mrs. Han that Mr. Han was no less than other men despite not having a—"

I immediately slap a hand over her mouth, mortified.

Her words, her audacity—it never changes.

She merely looks at me, thoroughly amused, eyes sparkling with mischief.