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The forest was too quiet.
Heavy pines loomed like guards over the narrow clearing, their branches brushing together in the wind, whispering things Maomao didn’t want to hear. Beyond the treeline, distant shouts from search parties had long faded. It had been three days since Jinshi and Maomao had slipped off the path—one wrong step during an imperial errand, a fall into a ravine, and no signal fire or messenger since.
Now, the imperial noble-turned-missing-person sat awkwardly near a weak fire, trying to look less miserable than he was.
He had already torn his robe. His hair had come loose. The once-immaculate figure that courtiers bowed before was currently pouting over his lack of tea and paperwork.
Maomao sat a few paces away, crouched near a patch of weeds she had judged suitable for steeping. Her fingers moved steadily, separating the roots, but her ears were trained on every shuffle from Jinshi’s direction.
She wasn’t watching him. Not really.
He was watching her, though.
Maomao's POV
I should’ve let him go on alone. Let him tumble off some cliff with that beautiful face of his. Would’ve served him right.
But no, I followed. Like some overgrown watchdog.
Now we’re stuck here, him, his twisted ankle and his endless sighing.
I glance up.
He’s watching me again. Of course he is. Nothing better to do than get in my space. Can’t forage, can’t cook, can’t tie his own damn sash properly.
"You're quiet," he says, tilting his head.
"You're not," I mutter, tugging a little harder than necessary on a root.
He huffs. "You could at least pretend to be worried."
"I’m too busy keeping you alive to be worried."
"How gallant."
I don’t answer. I toss a root into the pot, swirl it with my stick. A good bitter root tea will fix his swelling—and shut him up.
Maybe.
Third Person
Jinshi stared into the fire for a while. The shadows cast across his face made him look older—less like the palace ornament everyone adored and more like the man beneath the silk.
He didn’t speak for a long time.
Maomao stirred the pot, lips pressed in a firm line. The silence should’ve been peaceful. It wasn’t.
“Gaoshun’s probably furious,” he said at last.
She glanced at him. “More like exhausted.”
He smiled faintly. “He always said I’d wander off someday.”
“And look. You did.”
His eyes met hers. “You followed me.”
She frowned. “Only because I needed to harvest mushrooms.”
“…Of course.”
Jinshi’s POV
I can never tell if she’s teasing me or just cruel. She always speaks like she’s somewhere else—like her words are just noise she tosses into the air so people stop bothering her.
But when she looks at me—really looks—I forget how to breathe.
I shift closer. She doesn’t react.
This is what I want, isn’t it? To be close. Just close enough.
But not quite enough.
Third Person
By the time night fell, the fire had burned low and the wind sharpened. Maomao lay curled beneath the blanket they shared, turned firmly away from him.
Jinshi lay beside her, a few inches of space between them. But it might as well have been a canyon.
After a while, she heard him shift. Then again.
And again.
“…Stop fidgeting,” she muttered.
“I’m cold.”
“Then get more wood.”
“Or I could move closer.”
“No.”
He was quiet.
Then: “I’m still moving closer.”
She felt his warmth press along her back.
“Jinshi-sama,” she warned.
“It’s for survival.”
His arm hesitated before sliding around her waist.
“…You smell like burnt grass and herbs,” he mumbled.
“And you smell like expensive soap and bad decisions.”
He chuckled, breath warm on her neck. “But you’re letting me stay.”
She didn’t answer.
He held her tighter.
Maomao’s POV
I can feel him breathing behind me.
He’s trying to be subtle, but he’s terrible at it. His warmth is everywhere—against my back, curling under the blanket like it has every right to be there. His hand hasn’t moved. Not since he draped it lightly over my waist, like I wouldn’t notice.
I noticed.
It would be so easy to shove him off and mutter some excuse—sore shoulders, itchy skin, fire too hot. He’d back away with a smile that wasn’t a smile, and we’d both pretend it hadn’t happened.
But I haven’t moved.
Maybe I’m tired.
Maybe I’m stupid.
Maybe I’m curious what happens if I stay still.
“Maomao,” he says softly, his voice barely above the wind outside.
I keep my eyes closed. I don’t answer.
“I’m not doing anything,” he adds.
“You already are.”
“…Do you want me to stop?”
Yes. That’s what I should say. That’s what someone like me, who’s spent her entire life on the outside of warmth, should say.
But it doesn’t come out. My mouth is dry.
“You’re a noble,” I finally whispered. “You sleep on brocade pillows. With a real goose down.”
He exhales through his nose. I can feel his lips almost brush my ear.
“And yet I’m here. With you. In the dirt. Clinging to what’s left of my pride and this extremely scratchy blanket.”
“Your fault for falling into a ravine.”
“Are you saying you wouldn’t have come after me?”
I go silent.
He doesn’t press the question. Not aloud, anyway.
His thumb moves, just slightly. Rests against the seam of my robe. Not pressing. Not groping. Just… touching.
I hate how aware I am of every inch of him. How my body recognizes the slope of his chest behind me, the rhythm of his breath, the scent of pine smoke in his clothes. He’s always been like this. Annoying. Persistent. Too pretty for his own good.
But here in the dark, there’s no palace. No court. No poisoned pastries or hidden agendas.
Just the sound of his voice, soft and uncertain.
“Do you hate this?”
“…I don’t know.”
Another pause. Then: “Can I hold you a little tighter?”
Stupid man. Dangerous man.
I nod.
Third Person
Jinshi shifted slowly, mindful of her silence, of the way she let him closer but not quite in. His arm slid more firmly around her, and her body tensed briefly—then stilled again.
He didn’t push. He didn’t speak.
He just breathed her in.
Maomao’s POV
I’ve never done this before.
Not just this closeness. This silence. This terrifying calm. My heart shouldn’t be pounding from something as simple as an embrace. I’ve seen bodies torn by poison, split open on the autopsy table. I’ve dosed noblewomen in labor and tended to the dying.
But this…?
This makes me feel more exposed than anything I’ve touched in a clinic.
He shifts again. His chin brushes the top of my head. His fingers curl slightly over my stomach.
“You know I’m serious, don’t you?” he says.
I swallow. “You flirt with everyone.”
“I’ve never looked at anyone the way I look at you.”
That’s unfair.
I can’t argue. I don’t want to.
I turn slightly in his arms, enough to see his face dimly lit by the ember-glow. He’s watching me like I’m a fragile thing. Like I might disappear.
“I thought I made you uncomfortable,” I murmured.
“You did,” he says. “At first. Then you just made me want to know you more.”
“That’s a terrible idea.”
“I have many of those.”
He leans forward. Not a kiss. Just close enough to ask permission without asking.
I don’t move.
Then—his lips touch my forehead. Not possessive. Not dramatic.
Just warm.
It lingers.
Too long.
When he pulls back, I whisper, “You’re going to regret this.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But not tonight.”
Jinshi’s POV
She let me hold her.
That alone feels like a miracle.
Not in some romanticized, star-crossed way. Not like the court poets would say with ink-stained flair. No—it's the quiet miracle of someone like her not pushing me away. Of her breathing in time with me. Of her eyes meeting mine without a sneer or scowl.
Maomao is a wall of medicinal smoke and prickly sarcasm. She doesn't let people touch her. She doesn’t let people stay.
And yet here we are—wrapped in the same blanket, her head resting against my shoulder, my hand on her waist. She hasn't said anything in a while. But her fingers tapped once against my chest. Not to push. Just… a touch.
Like she's grounding herself.
I want more.
But I can’t ask.
Not unless she says it first.
Still—I can't help myself.
My lips brush her temple. She doesn’t flinch. They trail down to her cheek, soft, feather-light, then pause just above her jaw.
She shifts slightly. Looks up at me. Her face is unreadable in the dark, but her eyes aren’t pulling away.
“Jinshi,” she says, almost warning.
“I know.”
But I still press forward.
My mouth finds hers gently—testing.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t kiss back. But she doesn't stop me either.
So I stay still and soft. My fingers tighten slightly on her hip, drawing her closer by inches.
She exhales into me.
That’s when she kisses me back.
And it’s like swallowing sunlight.
Third Person
The wind outside picked up, scattering a few embers skyward. The fire hissed faintly, but neither noticed. They were too still. Too tangled in a silence no longer awkward, no longer uncertain.
Jinshi kissed Maomao slowly, reverently. His hand stayed where it was—anchored, never straying. Her hands clutched the front of his robe, bunched fabric between her fingers, not quite sure if she meant to pull him in or push him away.
When they parted, she stared up at him.
“I didn’t want this to happen here,” she whispered. “Not like this.”
“I didn’t either,” Jinshi murmured, brushing her hair behind her ear. “But it did.”
She looked away. “It’s not romantic.”
“It’s real.”
A beat passed. Then she asked, “Are you going to bite me again?”
“…Would you let me?”
She didn’t answer.
He leaned in slowly, watching her face.
And when she didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t stop him—he did.
His lips found the curve of her shoulder, the dip of her collarbone.
Then he bit.
Soft. Then firm.
She gasped—not in pain, but in surprise.
Her fingers gripped him tighter.
Maomao’s POV
I should tell him to stop.
This is the worst place to do this. In the forest. In the cold. While we’re still dirty and exhausted and without even a damn change of robes.
But his mouth is moving across my skin like he’s memorizing it. His breath is warm. His hands are shaking slightly—even now, even with all that confidence he parades around in the palace.
It’s not a charm. Not some act.
This is real.
Too real.
I feel his lips press to my throat, his body aligning with mine slowly, gradually.
And even as I think this should end, my hands are pulling him closer.
“Just… get it over with,” I mutter.
He stills.
Then lifts his head and looks at me—really looks.
“No,” he whispers. “Not like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve wanted you for too long to rush this. Even if it’s foolish. Even if it’s inconvenient. I want this to matter.”
I go silent.
Because I want that too.
And I hate that I do.
Jinshi’s POV
She’s looking at me like I’m about to make a mistake.
And maybe I am. But I don’t think I’ve ever wanted something — someone — with such terrifying clarity.
Her breath is shaky. Her hands still grip my robe. And her eyes haven’t left mine.
I rise slightly, moving over her slowly, letting the blanket fall around us like a curtain drawn against the world. My weight settles between her thighs, careful, restrained. I watch her for the smallest sign of discomfort. She’s not fragile — not Maomao — but I would never forgive myself if I moved too fast.
She doesn’t stop me.
She just swallows hard and says, “You're heavy.”
I smile, almost laughing. “I’ll try not to crush you.”
“You’d better not.”
My hand cups her face, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw. Her skin is cold, but warming beneath my palm. I lean down, slowly, and kiss her again — properly this time. Deep. Certain.
And she answers me.
Maomao’s POV
I always thought it would be awkward. The first time. Full of fumbled limbs and forced breath, maybe a candle lit and snuffed before it began.
But this is… quiet.
Soft.
Dangerous, in the way it leaves no room for sarcasm or retreat.
His body presses down on mine, firm but not demanding. His lips move over my skin like he’s memorizing me again — slower, deeper, no longer tentative. His hands trace the outline of my waist, up to my ribs, then back down like he doesn’t know what part of me to worship first.
His mouth opens over the mark he left earlier and I shiver, not from cold.
He’s kissing me like he wants to stay. Not just for tonight. For longer.
Too long.
“Jinshi,” I breathe.
“Yes?”
“I-I’m scared.”
He stills. Pulls back to meet my gaze. “Of me?”
“No. Of how much I want this.”
He closes his eyes, resting his forehead to mine.
“I want you too,” he says, “but if you want me to stop—”
“I don’t.”
He kisses me again. This time, there’s no hesitation. No teasing. Just two people who finally stopped lying to themselves.
His hand slides under my robe, his touch reverent. When our bodies align, I tense out of instinct, but he hushes me, gently coaxing me through the discomfort with patience I never thought him capable of. His lips are everywhere — cheek, shoulder, neck, chest — and his breath shakes against my skin as he enters me.
It’s strange.
Not painful. Just overwhelming. The closeness, the way he holds me like I’m something to be cherished, not possessed.
I had always thought intimacy was something people used to feel good. This… this feels like a promise.
His fingers twine with mine. His name falls from my lips before I can stop it.
When we move together, it’s slow. It’s messy. But it’s real.
And when it ends, he doesn’t pull away.
He just breathes. Quietly. With me.
Third Person
The morning light spilled in like gold dust through the canopy, dappling their tangled forms beneath the worn blanket. Maomao’s robe was wrinkled, Jinshi’s sash had long since disappeared, and their hair was an equal mess of disarray.
Maomao stirred first.
Jinshi’s arm tightened around her immediately. “Don’t.”
“You’re awake?”
“Barely.”
She turned in his embrace, met with his sleepy, unguarded expression. The usual polish and fanfare had slipped. This was the real man beneath the paint.
“Stop looking at me like I’m about to bolt,” she muttered.
“Can’t help it,” he murmured. “You look like a fever dream.”
She pinched his side lightly. “You talk like a poet when you’re tired. It’s disturbing.”
“Only because you’ve infected me with sentiment.”
She stared at him for a long moment. Then, softly:
“…Do you regret it?”
He frowned. “No.”
She didn’t say anything after that. Just let the silence stretch. But she stayed close.
And he let her.
The sun had barely risen when they heard the distant thump of hooves and the unmistakable bark of Basen’s voice.
Jinshi sat up slowly, sighing. “Took them long enough.”
Maomao began dressing in silence. Her eyes were downcast, focused on each fold of her robe like it was her last line of defense. He watched her fingers shake slightly when she tied her sash.
He reached out. Took her hand.
“They won’t know,” he said gently.
“They’ll guess.”
“Let them.”
She didn’t answer. But she didn’t pull away either.
By the time Gaoshun and Basen burst through the treeline, Jinshi had already smoothed his hair back and straightened what remained of his dignity. Maomao was crouched by a fern, pretending to sort medicinal roots.
Gaoshun looked like he hadn’t slept in two days. “Master Jinshi, thank the heavens—!”
“We’re unharmed,” Jinshi said.
“Speak for yourself,” Maomao muttered.
Basen eyed them both with suspicion, but said nothing.
Jinshi’s POV
I wonder if Gaoshun will figure it out.
Probably.
But it doesn’t matter. Not today.
She’s walking ahead of me now, arms crossed, chin tilted in that impossible way she does when she’s trying not to show how much she feels. But I can see it. The way her steps are slower. The way she glances back more often than she realizes.
She let me in.
And I don’t plan on leaving.
Maomao’s POV
I don’t know what will happen tomorrow.
Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.
We’ll return to the palace. He’ll be Jinshi again. And I’ll be just another face in the servant halls. Maybe he’ll speak to me like this never happened. Maybe he’ll smile that too-beautiful smile and keep his distance.
But when I think of last night—of his warmth, his voice, his arms around me—I remember something I’ve never allowed myself before.
Hope.
And that’s far more dangerous than any poison I’ve handled.