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Cheng Xiaoshi was going to kill Qiao Ling.
Absolutely murder her, strangle her with her own scarf, toss her into the nearest koi pond, and then maybe throw himself in after her, because there was no way he was living this down.
In what world did she think he could pull this off? He was not the type who belonged scaling balconies like some lovesick thief out of a bedtime story. He was clumsy, tired, and most of all, drunk. The blood rushing to his head didn’t help, and the sharp tug of his ankle caught in the trellis made him whimper. He probably looked utterly ridiculous, dangling there, court clothes wrinkled and hair falling into his eyes, praying the guards weren’t about to stroll past and witness the tragic demise of his dignity.
He could already imagine the story spreading across the palace halls. Prince Charming meets tragic end by way of rose bush.
Then came the creak of a balcony door above, soft wood groaning against hinges, and Cheng Xiaoshi thought, well, there goes my life. Guards, fine, humiliation, fine—but not this. Not him.
“...Prince Cheng Xiaoshi? Is that you?”
Shit.
The voice was unmistakable, smooth and even, cutting through the night like a bell.
Cheng Xiaoshi twisted, regretted it immediately as a thorn snagged his sleeve, and croaked, “Uh hi?” Brilliant. Eloquent. Shakespeare himself would applaud.
The trellis groaned under his weight, the vines tugging like nature itself was mocking him. He squeezed his eyes shut, half convinced the voice was some feverish hallucination.
But then came the soft tread of footsteps across polished wood, measured, calm, and deliberate, the exact opposite of Cheng Xiaoshi’s entire existence.
“You’re hanging upside down.”
He risked opening one eye. Moonlight framed Lu Guang’s face like a painter’s brushstroke, serene and beautiful in its restraint. White hair gleamed silver, sharp lines softened by the quiet amusement in his expression. His robe hung loose at the collar, sleeves flowing like liquid night as he leaned against the railing with effortless poise.
“Actually,” Cheng Xiaoshi wheezed, forcing a crooked grin, “I’m, uh, conducting a very thorough inspection of your kingdom’s vertical gardening.”
Lu Guang’s mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. “You’re stuck in a rose trellis.”
“Technically… yes.” Cheng Xiaoshi shifted helplessly, wincing as a thorn bit into his jacket. “It’s a very stabby trellis, if you ask me.”
Silence. Then, to his utter mortification, Lu Guang tilted his head slightly, as if appraising a piece of art—or a very pitiful intruder—before leaning more comfortably against the railing.
“Are you bleeding?” he asked at last.
“Only my pride!” Cheng Xiaoshi blurted out, way too quickly. Which was mostly true, except he was also about ninety percent sure he’d pulled something in his leg and possibly ripped the hem of his cloak.
Lu Guang disappeared from view, the sound of furniture scraping softly across the floor drifting down. A beat later, he crouched gracefully at the railing, elegant as always. Cheng Xiaoshi swallowed, cheeks burning, every ounce of shame magnified tenfold beneath that calm, assessing stare. And yet—yet—when Lu Guang’s lips curved into the faintest smile, the memory of it was enough to eclipse everything else.
“Help?” Cheng Xiaoshi managed weakly.
The sigh Lu Guang gave was almost fond. Then a warm, steady hand wrapped firmly around his ankle, tugging him into a safer position, freeing fabric and skin from the clutch of thorns. His touch was precise, careful, like handling something breakable. With far more effort than drunk muscles should allow, Cheng Xiaoshi swung himself upright and clambered gracelessly over the railing, collapsing onto the balcony floor with a breathless huff.
For a long moment, he just lay there, chest heaving, staring up at the night sky. Stars glittered overhead, pale compared to the man standing above him.
Something scratched at his hair. A rose. Of course. Perfect.
Trying for gallantry, he plucked it free, smoothed it between trembling fingers, and offered it to Lu Guang with a lopsided grin. “For you, my prince.”
Lu Guang arched one fine brow, arms folding as he looked him over. Even in his unimpressed silence, the man radiated grace. His hair gleamed in the moonlight, his expression carved sharp and perfect as marble.
“I should have you arrested for trespassing,” Lu Guang said flatly.
Cheng Xiaoshi’s stomach dropped, until Lu Guang, with deliberate patience, reached out and plucked the rose from his fingers. He didn’t throw it away. He simply twirled it once between long, elegant fingers, and tucked it against his palm.
“You won’t,” Cheng Xiaoshi said quickly, too quickly, heat rushing to his face. “Because… because I saw the way you looked at me during the gala earlier.”
That earned him the faintest tilt of the head, a flicker of interest glimmering beneath cool detachment.
“Delusional,” Lu Guang murmured. But he didn’t step away.
Cheng Xiaoshi dared to step closer, knees still shaky, hands trembling as he gathered up the nerve to lace his fingers with Lu Guang’s. The other man’s skin was warm, soft, nails perfectly kept. His grip was steady—steady where Cheng Xiaoshi’s was hesitant, unbalanced.
“I’d rather be delusional with you than sane without you,” Cheng Xiaoshi whispered, heart hammering.
Lu Guang’s gaze flickered to their joined hands. His brows knit, but his hand didn’t move. His eyes lifted, calm and piercing, searching Cheng Xiaoshi’s face for something.
“Why did you really come here?”
Cheng Xiaoshi’s laugh bubbled up, sheepish. “Champagne. Apparently, I can’t shut up about you when I'm drunk.”
The corner of Lu Guang’s mouth twitched. A snort, quiet and uncharacteristically unguarded, escaped him. It was so rare, so startlingly warm, Cheng Xiaoshi thought he might melt right there.
“And?” Lu Guang prompted.
“Well… Qiao Ling dared me to, uh. Steal your flag.” He rubbed the back of his neck, grinning helplessly. “Something about me shutting up if I finally confessed, I think.”
Lu Guang studied him for a long beat, eyes unreadable in the moonlight. Cheng Xiaoshi shifted, wishing desperately for the ground to open up beneath him.
“And what were you planning to do with it?” Lu Guang leaned in, closer, so close Cheng Xiaoshi could feel his breath ghost across his lips.
Cheng Xiaoshi’s words tumbled out, soft and reckless. “Give it back. Because Qiao Ling said… it’s an old tradition. A stolen flag for a stolen heart.”
For one suspended moment, the world held its breath. Even the night air seemed to still, the roses bowing their heads in silence.
Then Lu Guang exhaled, lips curving into the faintest, most dangerous smile. He turned, unhooked the banner from its pole, and pressed it firmly against Cheng Xiaoshi’s chest.
“I’ll pretend you stole it,” he said, quiet as falling snow. His hand lingered just a second too long against Cheng Xiaoshi’s chest, fingers brushing the edge of his collar. “But next time, don't go for treason. Just ask…” His eyes, finally, finally softened. “…I’d say yes.”
Cheng Xiaoshi’s breath caught. The flag was warm against his chest where Lu Guang’s hand had been, as though the fabric had captured the heat of his touch.
And for once, for the very first time that night, he didn’t feel ridiculous at all.