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Maomao didn’t stumble. Not really. She simply took one wrong step on the way back from the inner chambers, leaned slightly too much to the left, and knocked a tray of neatly prepared tea bowls to the floor.
It shattered. She didn’t flinch. But the moment she stood frozen, blinking just a second too long—Jinshi noticed.
“You’re pale,” he said later, not even pretending to be casual.
“I’m always pale,” she muttered, waving him off with the energy of a disgruntled cat. “I work indoors. You’re the color of a moonbeam and no one accuses you of illness.”
“You’re listing sideways.”
“That’s just how I walk.”
He said nothing else. Just quietly called for a break in his schedule and then somehow—somehow—she ended up in his quarters, face flushed not from fever but from sheer embarrassment.
“This is ridiculous,” she croaked. Her throat was tight. “I’m not your responsibility.”
“And yet, here we are,” Jinshi replied smoothly, setting down the compress he’d insisted she use.
“Shouldn’t you be preparing for something courtly and useless?” Her voice was sharp. Defensive. She hated how weak she sounded.
He gave her a look—infuriatingly patient. “I cancelled it.”
Maomao blinked, genuinely startled. “What?”
“Whatever it was. It can wait.”
“You’re avoiding your duties for this?” she gestured at herself. “I’m sweaty and contagious.”
He crouched beside her, adjusting the damp cloth at her forehead. “And you’re my wife.”
She blinked again. Harder this time. “You don’t get to pull that card just because I’m horizontal.”
He smiled, which only irritated her further.
“You’re insufferable,” she muttered, turning her face away, cheeks hot in a way that had nothing to do with the fever.
“And,” he said softly, brushing a strand of damp hair from her cheek, “you’re letting me fuss over you.”
“I’m letting you because I lack the strength to kick you out.”
He chuckled, low and warm, but didn’t push further. Instead, he sat beside her, back propped against the wall, watching her with the quiet attentiveness of a man who had chosen to be still for once in his life.
Minutes passed. Then more. And finally, Maomao sighed and leaned her head—just barely—against his shoulder.
“Don’t get used to this,” she said.
“I won’t,” he replied. “I’ll treasure it like the rare event it is.”
She scoffed.
But she didn’t move away.
And when she woke up later to find a blanket draped over her and a cooled cup of herbal tea by her side, his scent lingering faintly on the cushion beside her—Maomao stared at it for a long time, suspiciously warm in her chest.
She would never admit she missed the weight of him next to her.
But she did.
By the next morning, Maomao had decided she was fine.
She sat upright too fast, winced, and pretended she didn’t. She dressed herself, ignoring the slight tremble in her fingers. She even attempted to pin her hair up, only to stab her scalp twice and mutter a curse under her breath.
Then she marched herself to the apothecary storeroom.
Or…she tried to.
Jinshi was already waiting at the doorway, arms crossed. He looked too composed for someone who hadn’t slept much. Which, of course, only annoyed her more.
“I’m returning to my duties,” she said flatly.
“You are not,” he replied, equally flat.
“I have inventory to check.”
“You’re feverish.”
“I’m upright.”
“You’re swaying.”
Maomao narrowed her eyes. “Are you surveilling me now?”
“I call it concerned observation,” Jinshi said smoothly, stepping forward to block her path. “You were sick less than twelve hours ago. I’m not letting you drop dead in a pile of dried mandrake.”
“I’m not that fragile.”
“No,” he said, voice lowering just a touch. “You’re the least fragile person I know. Which is precisely why someone needs to stop you before you work yourself into the ground.”
That hit too close. Her mouth opened. Shut. She looked to the side.
“I’m fine,” she repeated, quieter.
“You’re flushed.”
“I always flush when you’re annoying.”
He stepped even closer. Close enough for her to see the faint shadows under his eyes. “You’re still warm.”
“You’re still clingy.”
“I’m married to you,” he murmured, tone dipping. “And you’re still trying to do everything yourself.”
Her breath caught. The reminder shouldn’t have startled her. But somehow, it always did when he said it like that—like a promise, not a fact.
“I don’t want to be looked after like I’m helpless,” she muttered.
“I know,” he said gently. “But I want to look after you because you never ask for it. Not because you’re helpless—because you’re mine.”
Hers. His.
She hated how it burned sweet and soft at the same time.
Jinshi leaned down, not quite touching, just enough to tip her chin upward with a knuckle.
“You can rest for one more day,” he said. “Then you can resume concocting poisonous nonsense and glaring at everyone as much as you want.”
She stared at him.
“Fine,” she muttered.
He blinked, then smiled.
“Don’t gloat.”
“I would never,” he said, already smug.
And when she turned back toward their rooms, footsteps slightly heavier than usual, Jinshi followed behind at a careful distance—just in case she needed to lean again and wouldn’t say it.