Chapter 13
The plum grove lay hushed beneath a fresh dusting of snow.
Inside the pavilion, heavy embroidered curtains had been hung between the pillars, shielding the family from the winter wind while allowing glimpses of the delicate plum blossoms beyond.
Bronze braziers glowed in each corner, their warmth chasing away the chill.
Beneath the glow of lanterns, a round table had been set in the centre of the pavilion, laden with steaming dishes and bowls of freshly made glutinous rice balls in sweet ginger broth.
The Shen family gathered around it as they did every Winter Solstice, their voices mingling with the crackle of charcoal and the soft rustle of plum branches outside.
Yun-si picked at her bowl of glutinous rice dumpling balls, watching as Ting-zhi—flawless in his dark green robes—inclined his head at something her father said.
The Gu family had always been invited to the Shen family’s annual Winter Solstice dinner, a tradition that began after Ting-zhi’s mother passed away when he was ten.
“Mm..” her elder sister Yun-yao murmured behind her sleeves. “Ting-zhi’s manners grow more refined each year.”
Yun-si’s spoon clinked against porcelain. Refined. The same hands that had caught her mid-swoon last week now lifted his teacup with affected delicacy. The same mouth that had whispered “Heroic enough?” against her hair now formed polite platitudes for her mother.
“Third Sister.” Yun-jia nudged her elbow and whispered. “You’re staring.”
She blinked. The white glutenous ball in her bowl had split open under the constant attack of her spoon, dark sesame paste oozed out from the pristine white ball.
Him.
An innocent smooth and pristine white exterior hiding black wickedness inside.
And she’s the only one who gets to see past the perfectly proper scholar to the shameless tease beneath.
Yun-si’s teeth sank into the ball. The burst of dark sweetness flooded her tongue, tasting nothing like what the black goo had suggested.
Just like him again.
Ting-zhi chose that moment to glance up. His gaze flickered over her spoon, then her face. One brow quirked in silent question before he turned back to Chancellor Shen with flawless decorum.
“—all prepared to take the imperial examinations next spring,” he was saying, voice smooth as polished jade.
Yun-si stabbed another dumpling ball.
“Careful.” Yun-yao hid a smile. “You’ll poke through the bowl.”
Across the room, Ting-zhi’s sleeve brushed a wine cup. He caught it before it could topple—quick as he’d caught her wrist yesterday when she’d tripped on the door-step—then smiled apologetically at the servant.
Liar. The boy who’d once hidden crickets in her writing box was still in there, grinning behind that impeccable facade.
The scholar who’d held her so carefully in the moonlight now sat straight-backed and proper, all while his foot tapped an idle rhythm against the floor—three quick beats, a pause, then another three quick beats.
Their childhood signal for meet me later.
Her spoon froze mid-air.
Ting-zhi sipped his tea, eyes downturned. The candlelight caught the curve of his lashes, the smile hiding at the corner of his mouth.
Yun-si’s ears burned. She focused very hard on not crushing the remaining dumpling balls.
Outside, the first winter winds rattled the blossoms. Inside, Gu Ting-zhi—scholar, gentleman, absolute menace—lifted his cup in a toast to the family, the picture of a perfect gentleman.
Yun-si exhaled through her nose.
Black sesame dumpling ball.
TING-ZHI SLIPPED AWAY when Chancellor Shen and Master Gu descended into their cups, their voices growing louder with each toast to the winter solstice.
His feet carried him through the familiar paths without conscious thought. Past the moon gate, around the artificial hill, toward the secluded corner where the potted pines were.
His pulse thrummed in his throat as he rounded the corner, nervous with what he has been planning for tonight.
She would be there. Their unspoken understanding had developed its own rhythm over these months of “research.”
And there she was.
Yun-si stood between the ceramic planters, her breath forming small clouds in the crisp air. The camellia pink of her winter cloak made her look like a delicate flower herself, though he knew better—knew the sharp mind beneath all that ethereal beauty.
His heart hammered against his ribs, he forced his voice to remain steady, but it came out huskier than usual. “Do you still want to do the kiss research?”
She turned, and even in the dim lantern light, he caught the flush spreading across her cheeks. “The kissing research?”
“Mmm.” He stepped closer, close enough to catch her familiar peach blossom scent. “Unless you’ve changed your mind.”
“No.” Her voice was barely a whisper. She tilted her head up, and bit her lips again. “I... want to. For the sake of... research.”
The sound of approaching footsteps—servants clearing the outdoor braziers—cut through the moment like a blade. Without thinking, Ting-zhi caught her hand and pulled her deeper into the shadows, past the ornamental rocks to where the garden wall created a hidden alcove.
They pressed against the cold stone, hearts racing from more than just the sudden movement. The servants’ voices drifted past, discussing tomorrow’s cleaning duties, then faded toward the kitchens.
Silence settled around them like silk.
“Here?” she breathed.
The moonlight caught in her eyes, and Ting-zhi felt a blooming warmth in his chest. This was Yun-si. His Si-er. The girl who’d shared stolen pastries and midnight conversations, who trusted him with her dreams and her reputation, who comforted him when his mother died.
Who was looking at him now like he held all the answers to questions she didn’t know how to ask.
“Here,” he confirmed, his voice rougher than intended.
And leaned down to close the space between them.
Light. Barely there. Like moonlight given weight—cool and bright and gone too soon. His heart stumbled, then raced. The kiss lasted three heartbeats, maybe four, before he pulled back just enough to breathe.
The rational part of his mind screamed warnings—Chancellor’s garden, servants nearby, her reputation—but the rest of him had stopped listening the moment their lips touched.
Ting-zhi cupped her face, thumbs brushing the delicate line of her jaw, and kissed her again. Not the careful press of a scholar demonstrating technique. This was the kiss he’d imagined in a hundred sleepless nights—the one that tasted of confession and stolen futures.
Her gasp became his as he deepened it, pulse roaring in his ears. The cold garden wall at her back, the scent of frost on leaves, none of it mattered beyond the way she melted against him, pliant and warm despite the winter air.
Si-er.
The endearment burned in his chest, unspoken. His hands slid to her waist, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them, no pretense of research or friendship. Just this—her breath mingling with his, her heartbeat answering the frantic rhythm of his own.
When he finally forced himself to break away, it was only to pull her tightly against him, as if she were the only piece of driftwood in a drowning sea. Their ragged breathing was the only sound in the hidden alcove.
He shouldn’t have done that.
He would do it again.
So he did.
The third kiss was soft, tender, lingering like a promise.
Yun-si’s fingers clutched the fabric of his robes, dizzy.
Do all kisses feel like this? Or only his?
“Have you—” The words tumbled out before sense caught up. “Have you ever kissed someone before?”
His eyes shifted. Not quite meeting hers. “Maybe.”
The single word gored her like a spear through her chest. Maybe. Which meant yes. Which meant there had been someone else—some girl whose name she didn’t know, some girl he’d kissed before this, some girl he liked—
Her head went blank. White noise and winter cold.
They stood there in the garden, shielded by the night. Yun-si’s lips still tingled from the kiss—soft, careful, achingly brief. Her first kiss. Their first kiss. Not his first kiss.
Research, she told herself firmly, even as her heart hammered. That was research.
Ting-zhi was watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite read.
She needed to say something. The silence was stretching too long, becoming weighted with things she didn’t know how to name. Her mind scrambled for words, any words, to fill the space.
“That was—” she started, then stopped. What was she supposed to say? Thank you for the kiss? “I mean, the research was very—it’s helpful. Very helpful.”
He tilted his head slightly, opening his mouth to say something, then stopped, not looking at her. Still silent.
The silence made her nervous. She kept talking.
“I don’t know what I would do without you, honestly. This whole... endeavor.” She gestured vaguely, as if ‘endeavor’ could encompass secret novel-writing and kissing in gardens. “It’s so—I’m so grateful to have someone I can trust with this. Someone who understands. Someone who...”
She was babbling now. She could hear herself babbling. But the words kept coming, tumbling over each other like stones down a hill.
“It’s like having a nicer brother,” she said, and even as the words left her mouth, some part of her knew they were wrong. But she couldn’t stop. “You know? Someone I can rely on completely. Someone who’s always looked out for me, ever since we were children. Someone safe. Someone who, who—”
She stopped.
The air had changed.
Ting-zhi’s expression hadn’t shifted. Not exactly. But something had gone very, very still behind his eyes. The kind of stillness that came before a storm, or after one. The kind that made the space between heartbeats feel endless.
“A nicer brother,” he repeated. His voice was perfectly even. Perfectly pleasant.
Perfectly wrong.
“I just mean—” She floundered, suddenly uncertain. “We’ve known each other so long, and you’ve always been so kind, and I trust you, and—”
“Of course.” He smiled. It was his public smile—the one he used with strangers and acquaintances and people who didn’t matter. She’d never seen him use it with her before. “I’m honored to be of service.”
Something in her chest twisted.
“Ting-zhi—”
“It’s getting late,” he said, still in that pleasant, distant voice. “You should head back before someone notices you’re gone.”
“But—”
“I’ll see you at the next research session.” He was already stepping back, putting distance between them. Physical distance that somehow felt like miles. “We can discuss the next scenario then.”
He bowed—formally, the way he would bow to any lady of rank—and turned away.
She stood there in the gathering dark, watching him walk away with that measured stride, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders straight and careful.
And she didn’t understand what had just happened. Didn’t understand why the warmth from moments ago had suddenly drained away, leaving only this cold, hollow feeling in her chest.
He made it to the garden gate steps before his legs decided they were done cooperating.
Not dramatically. Nothing so obvious as stumbling. Just—a slowing. A stop. His hands found the wall without his permission, palms flat against the cold stone, and he just stood there, looking at nothing.
Brother.
The words rang in his ears like a death knell. He’d kissed her—carefully, tenderly, pouring years of want into that single moment.
And she had said: like a nicer brother.
His hands were shaking. He pressed them flat against the cold stone of the garden wall and tried to remember how to breathe.
Had he invented all of it? Every blush, every caught breath, every moment her eyes had lingered half a second too long?
He was not a man who misread rooms. He had spent his entire life reading rooms—reading people, filing away what they wanted, what they feared, what they were trying not to show. He had been so certain.
Had he constructed an entire romance out of nothing but his own desperate hope?
He heard her footsteps behind him. Light.
Hesitant. Of course she followed. Because that was what you did when your trusted nicer brother seemed upset.
You followed him and asked what was wrong with that small crease between your brows, and he was supposed to say nothing with a reassuring smile, and everything was supposed to be fine.
He straightened. Took one breath, slow and even, the kind he used before examinations and difficult conversations and every difficult moment in his life.
When he turned, he was perfectly composed again.
“Did you forget something?” he asked mildly.
She stood a few steps away, hands twisted in her sleeves, brow furrowed. “You’re upset.”
“Not at all.”
“You are. I said something wrong. I don’t—Ting-zhi, I—”
“You said nothing wrong.” His voice was gentle. Patient. Everything a good older brother should be. “I simply remembered I have an early meeting tomorrow. I should go.”
“Oh.” She looked small suddenly, biting her lips, the lips he had just lovingly kissed, uncertain in a way he’d rarely seen her.
He made himself smile. Made himself step forward and—because he was a fool, because he couldn’t help himself—reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
His fingers brushed her temple. She went very still.
“Goodnight, Si-er,” he said quietly.
Then he walked away before he could do something stupid.
Like kiss her senseless, or say something he couldn’t take back, or beg.
He kept walking, past the pavilion where the lanterns and laughter were still on-going, past the old plum tree where they’d climbed as children, through the little door that led to the Clan School’s compound—
Research, she had said, right after the third kiss. Very helpful.
He fisted his hands and hit the tree beside him.
She is just confused. He tried to tell himself. I can show her. I will show her.
He would study harder. Place higher. Present himself to her father through the proper channels.
If he did not die of heartbreak first.