Chapter 13
Yun-yao woke to the soft rustle of silk and the faint scent of osmanthus drifting through the air. She blinked slowly, disoriented by the unfamiliar warmth of sunlight already spilling through the window. Her usual routine began before sunrise, but today, the room was bathed in golden light.
She sat up, noticing the faint scattering of petals across her bedding—soft pink and white blossoms, delicate and fragrant.
Her breath caught. The sight was achingly familiar, straight from the pages of The Consort’s Spring Romance, a scene she’d read countless times in secret.
The heroine had woken to such a gesture, the first sign of her lover’s devotion.
Before she could gather her thoughts, the door creaked open. Zhen-ting stood there, holding a tray laden with steaming tea and warm pastries. His eyes, usually so serious, sparkled with mischief as he took in her stunned expression.
“Chapter thirteen,” he said simply, setting the tray down on the low table beside her bed.
Her cheeks flushed. “You remembered that scene?”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “I’m taking notes.”
She stared at him, torn between laughter and mortification. “You’re not supposed to act on those stories,” she protested, lips curving into a smile despite herself.
“Why not?” He leaned against the bedpost, arms crossed, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “If it makes you smile, it’s worth it.”
Her hand brushed over the petals, their softness grounding her. “This is ridiculous,” she murmured, though her voice lacked conviction.
“Ridiculous, perhaps,” he agreed, his tone light. “But effective.”
Her gaze flicked to his, and she found him watching her with an intensity that made her breathless. There was something so tender and unwavering in his eyes that it made her heart thrum.
“You waited until morning to do this,” she said slowly, piecing it together. “You knew I’d be sleeping in. You told the maids not to wake me.”
He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “You looked peaceful. I thought you deserved a quiet morning.”
Her chest tightened. It was such a small gesture, yet it spoke volumes. He’d noticed her exhaustion, the weight of the past week’s social obligations, and had quietly arranged this.
“Thank you,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
He stepped closer, his hand brushing hers as he reached for the teapot. “You’re welcome,” he murmured.
For a moment, they simply existed in the quiet—her surrounded by petals, him pouring tea, the sunlight weaving through the space between them. It felt like something out of one of her stories, yet it was real and tangible.
Yun-yao glanced at him, catching the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. “You’re going to spoil me,” she said, half-teasing, half-accusing.
“Good,” he replied without hesitation. “You deserve it.”
Laughter bubbled out of her, light and unrestrained. He grinned, clearly pleased with himself, and handed her a cup of tea.
As she sipped, her gaze lingered on him. He might not be the hero from her novels, but in that moment, he was something far better.
Yun-yao discovered the folded paper tucked beneath a teacup Zhen-ting had casually placed back on the tray after he left. Curious, she unfolded it delicately, her breath catching at the lines inscribed within.
The clouds are gone, the sky is clear
Moonlight shines on dreams made real
My heart stirs, waiting in the quiet
For the flower to bloom under the stars
Her heart skipped in her chest, caught between embarrassment and surprised delight. A love poem! She read it again, savoring the tender care evident in each word. His words were simple but sincere, a love confession and a promise to wait. She found her cheeks flushing at his boldness.
She scrambled out of bed to her desk. Answer. I should give him an answering poem. The brush trembled slightly between her fingers as she tried to find words that were not too bold, not too cold. She considered possibilities, discarding hesitant first attempts until finally, she was satisfied.
In morning’s hue, sweet blossoms entwine
Fragrance fills the garden unseen
Through heart and home, hope shines bright
Petal by petal, the flowers unfurl
The effort thrilled her, this clandestine poetry exchange was a lover’s ploy steeped in romantic tradition, secrets wrapped within literary lines.
She folded the paper into a neat square and slipped it inside his military satchel.
Would he notice before leaving for duty?
She hoped not. It was meant to be discovered later.
Before sunset, a reply appeared like a secret conspiracy, deftly slipped beneath her embroidery frame inside the pavilion; she traced the brushstrokes gently, as if they could unlock answers to every unspoken question.
The warm breeze caresses the flowers gently
Nudging them to bloom as summer unfolds
If your heart should ever echo mine
Sunlight and moonshine will dispel all doubts
Her cheeks warmed; the poetry was remarkably intimate. Her heart felt both restless and shy, a small flame that flickered whenever she thought of him.
THREE DAYS PASSED BEFORE the next surprise arrived.
The summer heat had grown oppressive, turning the courtyards into furnaces and driving even the servants to seek shade during the afternoon hours.
Yun-yao had retreated to the pavilion with her latest huaben, fanning herself listlessly as she read.
The pavilion’s bamboo wind chimes clattered softly as she turned another page, the afternoon heat pressing against her neck. A shadow fell across the text—Zhen-ting stood framed between the pillars, sleeves rolled to his elbows, holding a big watermelon.
“Watermelon,” he announced, “chilled in the well since dawn.”
Her lips twitched at the absurdity—Chapter Nine of Summer Blossoms, Winter Fruit featured a hero presenting chilled melon slices during a heatwave. She’d just mocked the scene last week, yet here he stood.
She found her eyes following the droplets sliding down his strong forearms as he split the fruit with a dagger, then snapped up again as he offered her the heart’s sweetest crescent. Heat crept up her neck. This summer was just too stuffy, no wonder she was hot.
“Must you recreate every contrived gesture?”
“Only the effective ones.” He bit into his portion, juice staining his thumb. “Though next time I'll duel a rival beneath your window. Feng’s agreed to play the villain if I—”
“Don't you dare.”
But her fingers lingered on the rind he'd brushed against hers, the pulp sweeter than any she'd tasted.
In the days that followed, Yun-yao found herself watching doorways, listening for his footsteps, wondering which scene he might recreate next.
She told herself it was merely to prepare her defenses, not because a part of her—growing larger by the day—eagerly anticipated each new gesture.
The servants had noticed too, exchanging knowing glances whenever the General appeared with some new token or surprise.
The next opportunity arose when storm clouds gathered over Shangjing, turning the afternoon sky pewter-dark.
Yun-yao was crossing the courtyard when the first drops began to fall, quickly escalating into a proper downpour.
She ran for the covered walkway, but Zhen-ting intercepted her beneath the ginkgo tree, cloak already unfastened. The walkway beckoned tantalizingly behind him, just out of reach.
“No.” She stepped back. “Not the ‘heroic sheltering’ scene from Love’s Torrential Downpour.”
His mouth quirked. “You’ll catch a cold.”
“The servants are watching!” She gestured wildly toward the storehouse porch, where two maids pretended not to gawk.
“Let them.” He closed the distance in a single stride, the cloak billowing as he draped it over her shoulders. The weight settled around her like a second skin, sunshine and summer storms clinging to the lining.
Thunder cracked—she jumped, straight into his embrace. For three heartbeats, their reflections tangled in the rain-slicked flagstones.
Then he stepped back, leaving her swathed in his warmth while the downpour drenched him anew.
“Go inside.”
She didn't move. “Your clothes—”
“Are less precious than your health.” A direct quote from page forty-two. Yet the rawness in his voice belonged to him alone.
A week passed before the next scene unfolded. The door slammed open as Zhen-ting barreled into her chamber, breathless. “Assassins in the courtyard!”
Yun-yao dropped her embroidery hoop. “What—”
He swept her into his arms before she could protest, ducking them both into the wardrobe. Silk robes brushed her cheeks as he yanked the doors shut, plunging them into darkness thick with the scent of sandalwood and their racing pulses.
Her heart hammered. “Zhen-ting, what’s happening? Who’s—”
“Shh.” His finger pressed gently against her lips. Their bodies were pressed impossibly close in the confined space, her back to his chest, his arms still wrapped around her waist.
A minute passed. Then another. No sounds of pursuit. No danger. Realization dawned.
“You're acting out another scene,” she hissed, half-turning to face him in the darkness. “This is from The Bandit’s Forced Embrace, isn't it? The wardrobe scene!”
His chuckle vibrated against her spine. “You noticed.”
She pushed at his chest. “I'm getting out—”
“Shh.” His palm pressed against her lower back, anchoring her against his chest. “They’ll hear.”
Footsteps pattered into the room. Two maids chattered as they tidied the dressing table. Yun-yao froze, her temple grazing the scar along his jaw.
“General’s so devoted,” a maid sighed beyond the doors, folding a robe. “Bought our Lady mooncakes shaped like rabbits yesterday.”
“—sheltered her through the rain with an umbrella last week. Didn’t care if the whole Shangjing saw!”
Heat crawled up Yun-yao’s neck. Zhen-ting’s thumb traced idle circles through her thin summer gown—a silent I told you so.
The wardrobe’s confines magnified every shift: his exhales warming her crown, her hipbone slotting against his as she strained to listen.
“Better than Minister Jia. His wife tripped, and he yelled about ruined slippers!”
A huff escaped Yun-yao. Zhen-ting’s chest shook with suppressed laughter, his nose nuzzling her hair.
“Stop that,” she mouthed, squirming.
He turned her around fully and caught her wrist, pressing it to the wardrobe wall. Sunlight seeped through the lattice, striping his smirk golden.
The maids’ voices faded down the corridor.
“Well?” His lips hovered a hair’s breadth from her ears. “Shall I stage more scenes from The Bandit? Perhaps the waterfall confession? Or the midnight—”
Her teeth sank into his shoulder.
Zhen-ting gasped, eyes widening at the unexpected bite. She pulled away, face composed into a serene lady-like expression, lips pursed as she straightened her robes with dignified precision.
“Totally inappropriate,” she huffed.
Yet beneath her perfect posture, Yun-yao’s heart fluttered traitorously, her insides melting like peach resin syrup—warm, tender, and achingly sweet.
That night, Yun-yao lay awake long past the usual hour, staring at the bed canopy. Sleep felt impossible with her thoughts churning like storm clouds. When flute music drifted through her window sometime after midnight, she wasn't entirely surprised.
Moonlight silvered the courtyard when she peered through her window—Zhen-ting leaned against the scholar’s rock, playing a folk tune, badly.
“Must you serenade me like a thief?” She leaned on the sill, night robe slipping.
His gaze dipped, then snapped upward. “Chapter Fifteen mandates nightly performances until the heroine relents.”
“The heroine relented four chapters ago.”
The flute stilled. “Did she?”
Silence pooled between them, thick with unsaid words.