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The morning sunlight, usually a chaotic intrusion of warmth, now entered Jinshi’s private manor in a suspiciously orderly fashion. It filtered through polished lattice screens as if it had been personally briefed on proper decorum. This unnatural peace was the direct result of the panic that began exactly three months prior, when the blunt little apothecary had confirmed her suspicion.
Jinshi watched Maomao stir her rice porridge. He looked like a tragic hero awaiting a fatal diagnosis—his face a sculpture of worry wrapped in silken self-control.
“You have eaten less than yesterday,” he said, voice low and grave, as though she had just confessed to drinking poison.
Maomao set her spoon down with clinical precision. “I have eaten exactly the required amount for my current size and level of activity. Overindulgence leads to unnecessary weight gain, which would make my eventual delivery more difficult.”
The sound Jinshi made in reply could only be described as a dying kettle. Her logic, as always, was flawless and deeply unromantic. The porridge itself tasted like nutrition and despair—both of which he had ensured were prepared to the medically correct degree.
They were nearing their first year of marriage. The announcement of her pregnancy had sent the entire palace into hysteria. Some had rejoiced; others had whispered. Jinshi had expected as much. But he had not expected himself to become the primary source of the hysteria.
The Moon Prince’s Pavilion soon became a fortress. Guards doubled, food checked, and even the air was suspect. Jinshi had tried to have the sunlight filtered—literally—until Maomao pointed out that this would cause a health deficiency.
He even, in a rare moment of secrecy from his wife, accepted his formidable father-in-law’s offer to send handpicked staff to guard and serve his “precious daughter and her fragile condition.” Grand Commandant Lakan was renowned for recruiting the most talented people in the empire. Jinshi knew this, and he appreciated the help. Suiren and Chue, who had been valiantly managing Maomao’s moods and Jinshi’s nerves, would need all the help they could get. He just also suspected that half of those “assistants” were there to spy on him and file weekly reports on whether he was fulfilling his husbandly duties properly. He decided to tolerate it. Anything for Maomao’s safety and comfort.
Maomao, for her part, sighed—deeply, fondly, and with just a hint of exasperation. He was absurd, but his absurdity came from love. Her own decision to abstain from work at the Medical Pavilion had been immediate. No perfumes, no banquets, no poisons, and no lurking court ladies pretending to admire her complexion while assessing her pulse rate.
What surprised her most, however, was that she was starting to sound like him. Somewhere between the first wave of nausea and Jinshi’s daily “don’t lift that, it looks heavy” reminders, she began instinctively protecting her belly, avoiding questionable herbs, and glaring at people who walked too close.
Her maternal instinct had arrived early—uninvited, stubborn, and as fierce as Taomei’s scoldings. She had once feared she wouldn’t know how to be a mother. But the thought of anything happening to her child now filled her with such primal protectiveness that even Jinshi’s paranoia looked almost reasonable.
Still, she had her own secret. She had quietly accepted Lakan’s offer to send a few additional helpers for when the baby arrived. The old fart had promised they were trustworthy and capable. Maomao believed him. She just hadn’t told Jinshi yet. He would overanalyze it, suspect a conspiracy, and possibly conduct background checks on their ancestors. But really, she thought, her husband trusted her father’s competence—even if he called him “that infuriating old fart” under his breath.
Her current work was far safer. She was confined to her “safe laboratory,” a sanitized paradise where nothing sharper than a pestle existed. Jinshi had even commissioned new drawers so she wouldn’t have to bend down. The entire setup screamed: “Ergonomically Approved by a Man Terrified for a Pregnant Woman.”
A thick hemp-bound ledger written in Luomen’s mercilessly neat handwriting dictated her every activity. She was limited to mixing harmless cold remedies, antipyretics, and digestive aids—nothing remotely exciting or lethal. It was the kind of work that could bore a corpse back to life.
Outside, the garden glowed under the late spring sun. Jinshi had taken to escorting her on morning walks. “Escort” being a polite term for “hovering with catastrophic anxiety.” He held her hand as though the gravel path was an active battlefield.
“The air is cleaner in the garden’s eastern wing,” he said seriously. “I had the watering system checked for leaks. We must avoid all possibilities of accidental slipperiness.”
Maomao raised an eyebrow. “Mmmm. I see.”
He nodded, pleased by her apparent agreement. She was, in fact, just humoring him.
They returned to the lab, where Jinshi consulted what he proudly called his “visitor schedule.”
“Meimei will arrive shortly,” he said, flipping through the pages. “I sent a deeply apologetic note requesting she come in the most unadorned fashion possible. No makeup. No perfume. She has promised to smell only of clean laundry. Also, she will bring the scrolls I cataloged last night.”
He flipped another page. “Yinghua and Seki-u will visit for tea this afternoon. I have approved the tea leaves and ordered four guards to patrol the perimeter. The sitting room has been aired thrice to eliminate any residual incense.”
Maomao hummed thoughtfully. “Mmmmm. Such devotion to safety. I feel as if I’m being managed by an entire bureaucracy instead of one husband.”
Jinshi nodded gravely. “It is my duty to ensure all precautions. The world is full of unseen hazards.”
“Mmmm. Indeed,” she said, voice dripping with false admiration as she stirred her pestle. Her faint smile lingered as she added, “Perhaps you should petition the heavens next, just in case the wind brings misfortune through the window.”
Jinshi nodded solemnly. “If that were possible, I would.”
Maomao sighed softly. “Mmmmm. Of course you would.”
She sighed, but a fond smile tugged at her lips. He was ridiculous. He was also hers.
Maomao reached for the grinding bowl. The air here was sharp with the scent of dried orange peel and ginger root. All ingredients were kept in clearly marked jars. She ran her fingers over a pile of smooth, dark seeds.
"An excellent harvest," Maomao murmured, already calculating proportions for a mild anti-nausea tonic. Her eyes swept over the spotless workspace—everything arranged with infuriating precision. After a pause, she added, tone deliberately casual, “The new setup is… efficient. The higher drawers and lighter pestles are practical.”
A faint smile tugged at her lips as she continued, almost begrudgingly, “I suppose I should thank you. It saves me the trouble of improvising around bad design.”
Jinshi beamed as if she had just confessed undying love. Maomao suspected he’d engrave the compliment on a plaque if left unsupervised.
He leaned forward, eyes soft. “My dear, is there anything—anything at all—you desire? I will command the world to bring it to you.”
She tapped her chin. “A rare poison, perhaps. But I know better than to ask.”
He paled instantly. “Maomao!”
“Then maybe,” she continued as she gave him a level stare. "Since you ask so lovingly, I have noticed a distinct lack of physical affection since the third month. My body is healthy, and the exercise is medically beneficial."
Jinshi’s soul nearly left his body. "M-Maomao! We discussed this! In the Rear Palace, complete rest is standard for all consorts. It is a necessary precaution to avoid accidental harm."
"Accidental harm from what?" Maomao leaned forward slightly, her brow furrowed in a mock pout. "From a lack of interest? Do you find me unattractive now that I am a bit more round?"
Jinshi gasped, looking utterly scandalized. His face went from rosy red to bright vermillion. "How can you say that? You are eternally beautiful! I am simply terrified of hurting you or the child! It is far too dangerous!"
“Then perhaps,” she said sweetly, “we should consult a medical expert. We could ask pops for professional advice..”
Jinshi looked as though he might spontaneously combust. The thought of discussing their marital duties with Luomen was mortifying. “You… you wouldn’t dare..”
Maomao stepped closer, her eyes glinting with wicked amusement.
She smiled. “Oh, I would..”
Moments later, Jinshi found himself cornered on the couch as Maomao advanced, eyes gleaming like a cat about to toy with its prey.
“What are you—” he began, but Maomao silenced him with a finger against his lips.
She straddled him, her weight careful but confident, her gaze steady. Her finger traced the faint scar along his cheek, the one that others whispered had marred his beauty. To her, it only made him real. The touch lingered there before sliding down to his throat, where his pulse throbbed quick and unguarded beneath her fingertips.
Jinshi swallowed hard, every inch of his princely composure collapsing under her quiet control. “M-Maomao, this is not—”
Before he could complete his protest, her mouth hungrily reached for his, cutting off any thought. The kiss was sudden, fierce, and entirely Maomao—a blend of scientific curiosity and genuine desire.
When she finally pulled back, Jinshi was left breathless and utterly stunned, his brilliant features swimming with shock and desire.
Her hand continued downward until she found the silk sash at his waist. With a practiced flick, she pulled it loose. The sound of the fabric sliding free filled the quiet room.
“Medical exercise,” she murmured. “For the sake of health.”
From outside, faint voices of attendants could be heard passing by, their steps pausing at the muffled exchange within.
“Maomao, wait—!” came Jinshi’s breathless protest, followed swiftly by a gasp that dissolved into something less coherent, far less princely.
The attendants exchanged brief, alarmed glances before hurrying away, pretending to hear nothing at all.
Inside, the meticulously boring existence of the Moon Prince’s Pavilion came to a sudden, vivid end—replaced by a far livelier kind of experiment that would, without doubt, be repeated under the strictest conditions of privacy and pleasure.