The clouds had been sulking all morning.
Yue didn't mind. She liked overcast skies — they felt honest. No blinding optimism, no painted sunsets, just soft light and the threat of something inevitable.
She had just finished collecting a tray of fresh shānzhā root from the herbal pavilion, sleeves damp from condensation and hands full of earthy sweetness, when the first fat drop landed squarely between her shoulder blades.
"Of course," she muttered, adjusting the lacquered tray in her arms.
The second drop hit her left cheek.
The third — her sash.
By the fourth, the sky had opened without preamble. It poured like it had been holding back all week and had finally lost patience. The stone walkway slicked in seconds. The wind shoved her hair into her mouth.
Yue broke into a jog, boots splashing through puddles, tray held high.
She veered left toward the nearest structure — an open-air overhang near the eastern edge of the training yard, where the archways were deep enough to offer shelter. She ducked under, shaking out her sleeves with a curse.
"Stupid weather—stupid wet roots—stupid palace—"
She froze mid-shake.
Someone was already there.
He stood at the far end of the overhang, half-shadowed by the rain's grey curtain. His training robe clung to him, soaked through. A wooden practice sword hung loosely in his grip, its tip resting on the stone floor. His dark hair was wet and slicked back, a few strands clinging to his forehead.
Crown Prince Ji An.
Of course.
Yue straightened.
He didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Didn't even glance at her for the first three seconds.
Then — slowly — he turned his head. Just enough to meet her eyes.
She raised the tray of roots slightly in silent explanation. Rain delivery service.
He blinked once. No visible reaction. Then turned his head forward again, gaze returning to the courtyard where the downpour battered the practice yard in relentless sheets.
Yue exhaled through her nose and edged toward the opposite end of the shelter, careful not to slosh too much mud onto the stone. She knelt, set the tray down with a soft thud, and tugged the hood of her outer robe higher.
No words.
No acknowledgment.
Only the sound of water slapping stone, the rhythmic dripping from the roof tiles above, and two hearts — silent and separate — beating on opposite ends of the same small space.
The rain didn't ease. If anything, it grew bolder.
Water splattered across the courtyard, streaming down the columns in long, twisting rivulets. The sky overhead rumbled—not dramatically, not threatening thunder—just a low, constant growl, like the heavens were grumbling about their own mood.
Yue crouched beside her tray, wiping droplets from the waxy paper wrapped around the roots. A few leaves had blown loose and stuck to the stone floor near her knee. She peeled one off and flicked it outside.
Ji An hadn't moved.
He stood with the same military stillness he always carried: feet planted evenly, posture straight, one hand loosely resting on the hilt of the practice blade at his side. The rain had soaked through his tunic. Even under poor lighting, Yue could see the deepening bruise on his left forearm—just below the sleeve's frayed edge.
She pulled her damp cloak tighter.
The silence between them stretched—not heavy, not awkward. Just… wet.
She glanced toward him once.
He was already looking at her.
Her fingers paused at her collar.
He said, without inflection, "You're out of uniform."
Yue blinked.
Then looked down at herself.
She was wearing her clinic-layered robe today—practical, mid-length, sleeves tied back with a looped band, and a half-sash instead of the formal cord. Technically still within dress code. Barely.
She looked up, expression dry. "So are you."
Ji An didn't react right away.
Then—
Almost imperceptibly—
His gaze dropped. Once. To her sleeves.
Then back to the rain.
He didn't respond.
But he didn't walk away, either.
Which was, as Yue was quickly learning, his version of agreement.
She exhaled slowly, settling onto her heels.
There was something strange about this moment. Not intense. Not meaningful. But also not nothing.
She wasn't here as his physician right now.
And he wasn't here as her patient.
They were simply two people, waiting out a storm.
The wind shifted.
Not strong—but sharp. A sudden current that cut through the stillness, threading beneath the overhang and curling its damp fingers up Yue's sleeves.
She barely moved.
Just curled her hands beneath her knees and adjusted the way her cloak overlapped at the collarbone. Her hair, loosened by the rain, clung to the back of her neck in heavy strands.
Across from her, Ji An remained perfectly upright. Unbothered. Or, at least, he looked unbothered. But his gaze flicked toward her again, once.
Not obviously.
Not long.
Just enough.
Yue pretended not to notice.
Another gust swept across the tile.
She didn't shiver—but her shoulders tensed.
And then—
A soft swish. Fabric folding through the air.
Something landed beside her with a dull, weighted sound.
She looked down.
A robe. Black. Thick. Lined with faint embroidery along the sleeves—barely visible unless one knew where to look. Imperial issue. Slightly oversized.
Ji An's.
She looked up sharply.
He was already looking away.
His left shoulder—where the outer layer had been removed—was now bare but for the soaked training tunic underneath. He made no comment. No explanation.
Yue stared at the robe.
Then at him.
He didn't glance back.
Didn't move.
Didn't wait.
It wasn't an offer.
It wasn't a command.
It was just… there.
Left.
Between them.
She reached for it slowly, dragging it across the stone with two fingers, then pulled it into her lap without a word.
It was warm.
Damp at the hem, but warm at the collar where it had clung to his neck.
She folded it loosely and draped it over her knees.
Not around her shoulders. Not against her skin.
But she kept it close.
Ji An said nothing.
And neither did she.
The rain softened.
Not stopped—just shifted to a light mist that hissed gently against the tile, like the sky was exhaling after an outburst.
Yue stood slowly, brushing water from the hem of her robe. She tucked the robe he'd given her under one arm and cradled her tray of roots with the other. No glance back. No goodbyes.
Ji An moved first.
He stepped out from under the overhang and into the courtyard, water beading across his hair and shoulders. He didn't look at her again as he left. Just walked—fluid, deliberate—into the thinning rain.
She waited a beat longer before following a different path back toward the quarters.
By the time she reached her room, Han Jue had already commandeered both floor cushions and was halfway through a bowl of rice crackers.
"You missed the best drama," she said as Yue entered. "Apparently Lady Fei Yan fainted in the Hall of Tranquility because someone stepped on her dress train. No one even touched her, but she managed to fall down three whole steps like she was acting in a palace opera."
Yue dropped the tray gently on the cabinet and peeled the damp robe from beneath her arm.
Han Jue squinted. "Wait. Is that…"
"No," Yue said, too fast.
Han Jue gasped. "It is."
"It's not."
"Yue."
"It's raining."
"Oh my god, he gave you clothing? Voluntarily?"
Yue turned to glare at her. "Don't make it a thing."
"It is already a thing," Han Jue said, sitting up straighter. "You touched him, he gave you clothes, and now you're protecting his robe like it's a dying swan."
Yue folded the robe neatly. "I'm returning it tomorrow."
"I bet if you wear it once, he'll marry you out of habit."
Yue grabbed the robe and stuffed it deep into the drawer under her sleeping mat. "You're the worst."
"And you're flustered."
"I'm professional."
"You're smitten."
"I'm leaving."
The next morning, she passed through the inner courtyard on her way to the infirmary and paused outside the prince's private hall. The bench beside the door was empty.
She pulled the robe from the crook of her arm and placed it there. Folded precisely. Sleeves tucked in. Edges aligned.
No note.
No words.
Just left.
And gone.
____________
The next week passed without mention of the robe.
No one brought it up.
Not Ji An.
Not Yue.
Not Han Jue, though she did make suspicious humming sounds every time Yue entered the room with her writing brush tucked behind one ear.
The Crown Prince's routine resumed like clockwork: morning training, midday inspection, evening tonic. Yue saw him twice a day now—brief, structured visits during which her hands moved fast, her words moved faster, and his eyes stayed mostly on the floor or wall behind her head.
But sometimes…
Sometimes, she caught him watching her. Just for a second. Never long enough to say anything.
Once, while she was checking the pulse point beneath his wrist, he turned slightly—just enough that their knees almost touched.
She didn't pull away.
He didn't either.
It didn't happen again.
But the closeness had felt… different.
Quieter than intimacy. Louder than nothing.
One morning, she found herself scribbling in her logbook more than necessary:
Patient's sleep improved. Pulse stable. Muscle recovery progressing. Left shoulder less resistant. Still won't speak unless forced. Possibly part-time statue.
She stared at the last line.
Crossed it out.
Then rewrote it in the margins with an arrow: Correction: animated statue. Slightly more mobile. Occasionally sarcastic.
She closed the book with a snap just as the prince re-entered the room.
He paused near the table. His gaze flicked to the book in her lap.
She didn't open it again.
He didn't ask.
But he glanced back once as he exited the chamber.
Just once.
She noticed.
She always noticed.
The appointment was routine.
As always, Yue took her time. Checked Ji An's pulse, adjusted the pressure on a tight muscle group just below his clavicle, and offered her latest concoction for post-training inflammation. He accepted it without comment.
She spoke little. He spoke less.
But she could feel it—the shift in temperature between them.
He didn't watch her like an obstacle anymore. Not like a stranger either. More like… a piece of furniture that kept rearranging itself without warning.
She packed up her case as usual. Everything in order. Scroll sealed. Brush cleaned.
She bowed.
Turned.
Walked to the door.
"You forgot your pouch."
The words landed behind her like a pebble in still water.
She paused.
Turned.
Ji An didn't move from his seat. His gaze had dropped toward a small ink-stained pouch resting near the far stool, just beside the open medical notes she'd used during diagnosis.
Yue blinked once. "Right."
She crossed back, picked it up, tucked it into her sleeve.
"Thank you," she almost said.
Didn't.
Instead, she nodded—barely—and left.
The door closed behind her with the same soft click as always.
But that night, long after Han Jue had begun her usual nasal breathing routine of near-comatose sleep, Yue lay on her mat staring at the ceiling.
The ink pouch rested beside her pillow.
She hadn't even realized she'd forgotten it.
He had.
And for the first time, it occurred to her:
He noticed things.