Chapter Text
The morning came quietly.
Pale light filtered through the silk curtains of Jinshi’s quarters, the kind of light that softened every edge and dulled the sharpness of the world. It brushed across the polished wood of the floor, over the faintly smoking lamp left burning through the night, and finally touched the low table near the window where Jinshi sat.
A scroll was spread before him, its neat lines of ink waiting to be read. But his eyes had traced the same character a dozen times without comprehension. The words dissolved, replaced by the weight of memory. He leaned back slightly, his shoulders heavy though the fever had broken. He was no longer burning, but weakness clung to his body like damp fog.
What remained with him more than the fever was the memory of cool hands, a cloth pressed to his brow, the soft rustle of fabric as Maomao moved with quiet precision around his chamber. She had been sharp-tongued, of course - she always was—but the tremor in her hands had betrayed her. Her sharpness had been a shield, hiding the fear she would never voice.
And she had stayed.
The thought unsettled him more than any lingering dizziness. Maomao had stayed when she could have gone. She had chosen to keep vigil beside him, not as an attendant bound by duty, but as herself. He felt the truth of it in every shallow breath, in every beat of his unsteady pulse.
The soft creak of the door pulled him from his reverie.
She slipped inside without ceremony, the apothecary girl in her rumpled robes, her steps quiet but sure. The shadows beneath her cat-like eyes revealed her sleepless night more than anything else. She crossed to the medicine chest near the wall, her movements brisk and practical, but Jinshi’s gaze followed her all the same.
For a fleeting moment, she glanced his way. Her eyes caught his - and though she quickly looked away, the mask of disinterest frayed. There, in that bare instant, he saw it again: a trace of concern, unguarded and fragile.
He lowered his eyes to the scroll before her attention could dart back. But the mark of her gaze lingered like a brand.
The silence held, fragile but not uncomfortable, until the door opened again.
Gaoshun stepped inside.
He had served Jinshi for years, longer than most could remember. He had watched the Moon Prince endure the endless weight of palace life - the expectations, the scrutiny, the dangerous envy disguised as admiration. Jinshi had borne it all with dazzling grace, perfect composure, a smile so flawless it left no room for doubt.
But Gaoshun knew better. He had seen the exhaustion behind those smiles, the quiet moments when Jinshi’s shoulders sagged once the last courtier was gone. He had seen the toll it cost to be perfect.
And now… he had seen how Maomao changed him.
Gaoshun had not understood it at first. She treated Jinshi with a frankness that bordered on insolence, utterly unimpressed by his beauty or charm. She did not bow and scrape as others did; she did not clamor for favor. She argued, she rolled her eyes, she dismissed him with a clinical tone that would have earned anyone else his wrath. But instead of offense, Jinshi seemed—lighter. More himself.
Today, Gaoshun paused at the threshold, struck by the sight before him.
Maomao had drifted closer to the cushioned bench, perhaps intending to sit while she read. But exhaustion had stolen over her, and she had succumbed. She lay half-curled on the floor, her head pillowed on Jinshi’s lap, her breath even and soft with sleep. One hand rested on the edge of the bench, her fingers still curved faintly as if she had fallen asleep mid-task.
And Jinshi… Jinshi sat utterly still, afraid to move, his eyes lowered to the girl in his lap. The mask was gone. No dazzling smile, no imperious composure. His expression was bare, stripped of every pretense, suffused with a tenderness so raw it made Gaoshun’s chest ache.
It was as if Jinshi were seeing something precious, something irreplaceable, and feared that even a breath might shatter it.
When Jinshi’s gaze lifted to meet his, Gaoshun found himself held still by the quiet plea there. Jinshi raised one long finger to his lips, a faint smile curving his mouth - not the blinding grin that swayed courtiers, but a smaller, gentler thing.
Gaoshun’s throat tightened. For all his years of service, he had never seen this side of his master. The boy he had raised and guarded like a son was no longer just the Moon Prince, untouchable and dazzling. Here sat a young man, vulnerable and human, leaning into a fragile thread of trust spun by a single girl’s care.
A soft rustle sounded behind him.
Suiren had peeked through the door, drawn by curiosity. Her eyes widened at the sight, and then they sparkled, mischief bubbling to the surface. She covered her mouth to stifle a laugh, her shoulders trembling with the effort.
Gaoshun turned, his expression stern out of habit, but the lines of his face softened. Suiren’s mirth was not cruel; it was warm, touched with delight at a sight so rare. Their eyes met, and for the first time in a long while, Gaoshun’s lips curved into a smile. It was small, fleeting, but real.
Together, without a word, they withdrew, leaving the quiet sanctuary of the quarters untouched.
Inside, silence resumed.
Jinshi lowered his gaze again. Maomao stirred faintly, her lips parting as she mumbled something incoherent in her sleep. The sound was soft, fragile, like a secret she would never confess while awake.
His hand hovered above her hair, trembling with hesitation. He had touched countless faces before, smiled and charmed, played every role demanded of him. But this - this was different. This was not performance. This was not mask.
At last, he let his fingers brush lightly against her hair, tucking a loose strand away from her cheek. The touch was fleeting, cautious, but the weight of it pressed heavy against his heart.
She did not stir. Her breath remained slow, even, untroubled.
Relief loosened his chest, though it left behind something deeper, more dangerous: longing.
He leaned back slightly, careful not to disturb her, and let the silence wash over him. The morning light streamed across the floor, bathing the chamber in pale gold. The lamp guttered out at last, its flame surrendering to the dawn.
For the first time in longer than he could remember, Jinshi allowed himself to simply sit. No mask. No smile. No performance. Just himself, and the girl who had stayed.
The fever had broken. The night had passed.
But something had shifted, quietly, inexorably. A thread had been woven between them - delicate, unseen, yet strong enough to alter the rhythm of his heart.
And as the sun rose higher, Jinshi knew: whatever lay ahead, he would never forget the night she chose not to leave.