The palace wasn't built for men like Bai Song.
Everything here was quiet stone, brushed gold, and etiquette folded ten layers deep. Bai Song was mud and ink and years of dried herbs wedged beneath his fingernails.
He entered the east wing court just after the morning bell, wearing robes that were a few years out of fashion and a traveling hat covered in dust from the northern roads. One sandal was slightly crooked. His walking stick tapped the marble tile like a minor rebellion with every step.
The guards at the entrance gave him the kind of look reserved for suspicious vegetables at the market.
He ignored them.
Yue met him halfway across the courtyard.
"You look like you robbed a cemetery."
Bai Song pulled his hat off with a flourish and grinned, revealing the three crooked teeth he never bothered to replace. "You look like you haven't slept since the last time I saw you. Which was, what… three missed meals and a whole bad decision ago?"
Yue rolled her eyes and reached for his satchel. "Let me—"
He slapped her hand away with his cane. "I'm not that old."
"You're ancient. I saw moss growing on your boots."
"It's not moss, it's wisdom."
"It's green."
"Then it's healthy wisdom."
Yue laughed—short, sudden, bright. The kind of sound she only made when she wasn't trying to be anything. And it rang clear through the courtyard, where it bounced up along the archways and floated to the second floor.
Ji An heard it before he realized it was her.
He stood on the far balcony, mid-turn toward the eastern wall, half-listening to a minor report from his steward. The words had already started to blur—routine, mostly. Security details. Grain storage updates. The kind of administration he could recite half-asleep.
But her laugh cut through it.
Unfamiliar.
Not because it was loud.
Because it was open.
Ji An turned, slowly, and looked down.
She stood with a man who moved like he owned the space, like he'd been here too long to care what polished marble thought of his boots. They were talking, fast and familiar, and Yue wasn't smiling with her mouth. She was smiling with her entire face—eyes crinkled, posture relaxed, hand waving mid-insult.
Ji An's steward paused beside him, unsure whether to continue.
The prince didn't speak.
Didn't move.
He just watched her laugh again.
And then, without a word, turned away.
"I told you not to run yourself ragged," Bai Song said, elbow-deep in a plate of tea cakes. "And yet here you are, pale as a ghost and hunched like an old scrollworm."
Yue didn't look up from the kettle. "That's rich coming from someone who once passed out in a compost pile because he 'needed to understand fermentation more intimately.'"
"That was academic curiosity."
"That was idiotic."
He waved a cake at her. "You used to be nicer."
"I used to be shorter."
"You're still short."
"I'm taller than your pride."
Bai Song laughed—loud and unapologetic. It filled the small side room like steam, curling into the shelves and warm wood paneling. The sun from the narrow window painted lines of gold across the teacups.
It was rare to see Yue like this.
Sitting cross-legged on a cushion, sleeves rolled back, her hair pinned carelessly at the nape. No protocol. No palace posture. Just the girl who once snuck extra dried berries into the clinic's winter storage and blamed it on the cat.
Bai Song leaned back with a groan. "They work you too hard here."
Yue poured the tea. "They don't ask more than I can give."
He raised an eyebrow. "That's what you say when you're proud of suffering."
She passed him a cup. "I'm not suffering."
He sipped. "Then you're lying."
Outside, just beyond the window's lattice, a shadow passed.
Not loud. Not clumsy.
Just a figure—tall, still, pausing near the edge of the wall. Ji An.
He hadn't meant to stop.
Not at first.
He was on his way to the inner archives when he heard her voice. Not clipped. Not filtered through duty.
Warm.
Quick.
The way she spoke to this man—sharp and fond—was unlike anything Ji An had heard from her. He knew her hands, her tone in treatment, her calm detachment. But this—
This was something different.
He stood there for one moment too long.
Then walked on.
Inside, Bai Song nudged Yue's ankle with his foot.
"You laugh more when I'm around."
She rolled her eyes. "I insult more when you're around."
"Same thing."
The palace garden was quiet in the late afternoon, touched by a breeze just strong enough to stir the hanging silk lanterns along the outer walkway. It was too early for supper, too late for formal business—just the sort of forgotten hour Ji An usually used to walk alone.
But today, he wasn't walking.
He stood on the upper terrace overlooking the garden, half-hidden behind a stone pillar, as Yue and Bai Song moved along the path below.
They weren't walking quickly. There was no rush in their steps, no stiffness in their posture. Bai Song's cane tapped against the tiles at irregular intervals, usually punctuating something animated he was saying. His free hand gestured wildly, as though he were giving a speech to the trees.
Yue didn't look like she was paying attention.
But her arms were crossed loosely over her chest, her head tilted just enough to indicate she was listening. Every few paces, she'd glance sideways and say something sharp enough to make the old man bark a laugh.
She smiled often.
It wasn't her polite court smile.
Not the one she used for senior physicians or titled nobles. Not the one Ji An had seen her wear in silence during morning reports. Not even the one she sometimes gave Han Jue when she was too tired to protest the teasing.
This smile was unfiltered.
Too wide. Too quick. Sometimes accompanied by a snort she clearly tried to smother. At one point, she even rolled her eyes and hit Bai Song lightly on the arm with the edge of her scroll.
Ji An's hand tightened around the stone balcony rail.
He wasn't sure why he was still watching.
He told himself it was curiosity. That it was strange, seeing Yue—normally so composed, so precise—move with such looseness. That it was disorienting to hear her voice echo with something close to joy.
But the tightness in his jaw wasn't curiosity.
Not exactly.
And the way his chest ached when Bai Song leaned in and whispered something that made her choke on laughter—it wasn't concern.
Ji An let go of the railing slowly.
Then turned.
And walked away.
The door to his receiving chamber slid open with its usual soft groan.
Yue entered, sat, and unpacked her tools with the same quiet precision she used every night. There was no ceremony to it anymore. No stiffness. Just rhythm.
Ji An was already seated.
He didn't speak as she laid out the cloth, checked the light, adjusted the placement of the armrest beneath his wrist.
She didn't ask about his day.
She never did.
Instead, she reached forward, cool fingers brushing his skin, and placed three fingertips lightly over his radial pulse. The silence between them was familiar now—dense, but not cold.
She counted the beats in her head, measuring for variations. There were none.
Except—
He hadn't looked away.
Ji An's eyes were still on her face.
Unmoving.
She kept her own eyes down.
"Your pulse is even," she said, quiet. "Less strain than yesterday."
He didn't nod.
Didn't hum.
Didn't shift.
Then, softly:
"That man… he taught you?"
Her fingers paused. Just for a moment.
She looked up.
His gaze didn't waver.
There was no suspicion in the question. No edge.
Just… something close to curiosity.
Yue nodded once. "Since I was seven."
She hadn't meant to say it so gently.
But something about the way he was watching her—like he was trying to picture her that young, smaller, in simpler robes—pulled the sharpness out of her voice.
Ji An didn't reply.
Didn't question further.
But he didn't move his wrist from beneath her hand either.
She didn't rush.
Didn't pull back.
Just let her fingers rest there a moment longer.
And in that stillness, a kind of answer passed between them that didn't need to be spoken aloud.
The beat of his heart was steady.
Not fast. Not tense.
Just… present.
Yue could count every thrum of it beneath her fingertips. Even. Subtle. Consistent.
There was no clinical reason to keep holding his wrist. No test she hadn't already run. No data to gather from one more second.
But she didn't move.
And neither did he.
Her eyes were still on his hand. His palm was open, fingers relaxed. His sleeves had slid just enough to reveal the sharp curve of his wrist bone. She could feel the warmth of him under her skin—barely there, like the last trace of sun before evening fell.
He watched her.
She knew that without looking.
The weight of his gaze was quiet but full, like a hand pressed to glass.
She didn't lift her head.
Didn't make a sound.
Her own pulse was rising—slowly, but undeniably. She could feel it in her throat now, behind her ears, in the tips of her fingers where they touched him. A slight tremble threatened to give her away, so she held herself perfectly still.
Let it pass.
He hadn't asked anything else.
He didn't need to.
The question had been simple.
"That man… he taught you?"
And her answer had been the truth.
"Since I was seven."
But somehow, that had opened something. Not wide. Not obvious.
Just enough.
And now here they were—silent, not speaking, not moving—caught in a stillness neither of them seemed in a hurry to end.
A breeze moved the curtain at the window.
The flame in the lantern shifted slightly, casting new shadows across the edge of the mat.
Yue finally withdrew her hand. Slowly.
Carefully.
Like she was putting something fragile back in place.
Ji An didn't speak.
But he watched her gather the cloth.
And he didn't look away.
The candle burned low by the time Yue returned to her room.
She placed her case down softly, not wanting to wake Han Jue—who was, of course, already awake.
"Was that your late check?" Han Jue asked, voice muffled under a blanket she hadn't fully committed to.
Yue didn't answer immediately.
She reached for her logbook.
Opened it.
Dipped her brush.
She wrote:
Pulse steady. Sleep strain reduced. Reflex sensitivity normal. Temperature unchanged. No visible signs of fatigue.
That was all.
Then she stared at the bottom of the page—at the blank space beneath her careful script. She dipped her brush again.
Paused.
And set it aside.
Across the room, Han Jue yawned loudly. "Did he say anything weird?"
Yue loosened her robe sash and lay back on the mat. "No."
"Nothing at all?"
"Nothing important."
A beat of silence.
Then Han Jue mumbled, "You're getting worse at lying."
Yue rolled to her side, arm tucked under her head.
The air still smelled faintly of osmanthus.
She closed her eyes.
But she didn't sleep.
Not yet.
Not for a long time.