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Pretty.
Pretty was the word.
It was the word in everyone’s head. Jia Baoyu’s, the servants’, the guests drifting across the lacquered halls of the Jia residence. It was known the moment Xue Emil stepped through the archway with the soft clack of polished shoes, a breeze stirring the lattice windows as if the estate itself had sighed at the sight of the man's beauty.
Baoyu thought it again now, sitting across from Emil in the tea pavilion, sunlight slanting over the porcelain cups and the small lacquer box of cakes between them. Pretty. A word too small, almost insolent in its insufficiency. But it was the only one that surfaced when one looked at Emil’s face long enough, and in this household, everyone did.
Emil’s long hair— impossibly soft-looking, champagne blonde in the sun— draped over one shoulder, tied loosely with a red ribbon that brushed his collarbones. Feminine features that were natural: narrow jaw, shy lashes, lips too vivid. Beauty meant to be adored. Beauty that caused the old women in the residence to whisper prayers of fortune when he passed.
Baoyu, with his chin propped comfortably on his hand, allowed himself a small, amused sigh. Yes, he admits that his family had chosen well. A fiancé who walked like a poem and drank tea as it might shatter if handled too firmly.
Pretty and gentle.
“Your tea,” Emil murmured, sliding the cup toward him with soft hands.
“You’re being formal,” Baoyu said, lazy, teasing.
Emil’s lashes fluttered as he bowed his head. “I— I’m always formal. W-we’re in your home.” His stutter was cute.
“Last time,” Baoyu said, “you called my steward a walking curtain rod.”
“T-that was an accident.”
“A very loud accident.”
“I was drunk!” Emil hid behind his cup, face pinking. “He startled me.”
“That’s his job.”
“I apologized,” He muttered, turning away just as a soft snort split the air behind them.
Baoyu didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. The breeze could’ve carried her in and he would’ve known— the way he'd also know the exact temperature of bathwater before touching it, the way a body anticipates cold before snow touches them.
Ryoshu stood just beyond the pavilion threshold, half-shadowed.
He knew it was her even before he looked, the way his shoulders eased without permission, the faint click of her sheathed blade shifting as she crossed her arms.
Her hair was tied back neatly today, extra neat, bangs sharp, almost intentionally arranged. A rare concession to order. A detail that Baoyu noticed because he always noticed.
She looked… good. Too good. Just enough to press a quiet, inconvenient throb behind his ribs.
“Ryoshu,” he said, sitting up straighter. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Y.N.D. After all these years.” Her voice was dry, unimpressed, but her eyes had already shifted past him. Past the tea. Past the fancy pavilion. They landed squarely on Emil.
Just a glance.
Barely a second.
Yet Emil stiffened like someone had traced a fingertip along the back of his neck.
Baoyu had no clue on what she just said.
So he ignored the way something hot flickered beneath that moment. Ignored the small, treacherous curl of confusion and distance that he did not want to acknowledge.
Ryoshu stepped further in. Her gaze did not leave Emil until the very last moment, like she was annotating him, drawing the lines of a painting she’d finish off later.
“Tea?” Baoyu offered.
“No.” She walked past him, toward the lacquer box. “Cake.”
“You could ask,” he sighed.
“I could,” she agreed, plucking an osmanthus cake with two fingers. She bit into it.
Emil tried very, very hard not to stare. It wasn’t successful.
His eyes flicked away only when hers darted back, quick and sharp.
Something electric passed between them— gone in an instant, but unmistakable.
Baoyu had no idea.
He was too absorbed in the way Ryoshu leaned slightly into his space, as if her proximity were a natural law rather than habit. Too occupied with the familiar, quiet warmth her presence brought.
He almost forgot to breathe when she wiped a stray crumb from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand— inelegant, unthinking — and he felt absurdly fond. For how many decades was he fond of these habits?
Then a servant appeared at the pavilion’s edge.
“Master Baoyu, your presence is needed.”
“Now?”
“As soon as you possibly could young master.”
He rose reluctantly, straightening his robe. “Understood~. Ryoshu, will you—”
“Stay and keep your fiancé accompanied? Got it.” she said without hesitation.
And because she rarely volunteered anything, he softened.
Before he stepped out, he reached for the lacquer box, selecting another cake and holding it toward her.
“Here. You like the osmanthus ones.”
He said it with that unconsciously tender tone he always used with her.
But Ryoshu didn’t take the cake.
Her gaze flicked toward Emil.
“H.A.L.,” she said blandly.
For a heartbeat, Baoyu didn’t understand.
Then he laughed, assuming she meant nothing by it.
He pressed the cake into her hand and left.
Baoyu had been helping on and off with planning for the wedding for over a few months now. During this time, he had proven himself to be a responsible fiancé, always performing his duties diligently. His life, though mostly spent in the quiet corners of the Jia estate and even quieter rooms of his own making, had been nothing if not methodical. The endless stream of schedules, menus, and floral arrangements he now navigated were threads he clutched at, each one an attempt to feel some form of purpose, even if he did not truly love Emil—he never had, not in the romantic fluttering sense that might have been expected, or not, only in the steady, reliable sense that Hongyuan required of a husband-to-be.
“Apologies, Master Baoyu, I did not mean to be a bother,” said the servant, bowing slightly, the rustle of silk accompanying his words as he stepped forward.
Baoyu smiled gently, brushing off the formalities without effort. “No worries, I’ll do my best~” he replied, his voice light, almost airy. It wasn’t flippant; he genuinely meant it.
The servant shifted uneasily, glancing at the papers in his hand. “We have sent over the floral arrangements for the reception. We would like your approval before we finalize the placements, sir.”
“Of course,” Baoyu replied, leaning over the desk, fingers brushing across the color swatches and sketches of archways and table layouts. He hummed softly to himself, the sound of a man accustomed to rooms filled with books and quiet, of air thick with the faint scent of incense and old paper. He worked methodically, eyes scanning, hands moving with practiced care, imagining how the long tables would stretch, how the silk ribbons might catch the light as Emil walked past, stealing everyone's attention from these decor that can barely compare.
Time slipped by almost without notice. He measured, he nodded, he made small adjustments here and there, rarely pausing to glance outside the window where the estate gardens sprawled, where the wind carried a scent of frost-laden jasmine. Nearly an hour passed before the servant spoke again. “Master Baoyu… shall I send for the catering arrangements next?”
“Yes, yes, we must ensure the cooks have enough time. Everything must be perfect, after all~” Baoyu’s tone remained soft but a trace of exhaustion tinged the edges. Most of his life had been spent inside, behind closed doors, the world outside observed from a distance. Now, for the wedding, he tried to pull himself into the bustle, into the world of expectations, just this once.
Finally, satisfied for the moment, he rose from the desk and smoothed his robe. “That will be all for now,” he said to the servant, who bowed deeply before retreating. Baoyu lingered in the corridor, straightening the folds of his sleeves, before making his way back toward the tea pavilion.
The sunlight had shifted in the hour he had been occupied, casting softer, warmer shadows across the pavilion floor. He approached the familiar scene with a light step, though he was entirely unprepared for the sight before him. Emil sat where he had left him, but… different. The blonde hair was slightly mussed, strands falling carelessly over the ribbon that had tied it. His cheeks carried a flush, lips parted slightly as if they were busy just moments ago.
Ryoshu was there too, seated with a precision that had been relaxed before, her posture uneven only subtly, a faint limp in the way one leg rested crossed beneath the other. Her updo, neat and severe, now had tendrils loose at the nape of her neck, softening the rigid perfection Baoyu had just admired an hour ago. He did not notice the intensity lingering between the two, the silent conversation neither voice nor gesture could fully capture.
“Emil, Ryoshu,” Baoyu greeted, cheerful as ever. “I’ve been reviewing the seating plans~ do you think the upper terrace will be suitable for the guests from the western district?”
He spoke as though the flushed faces and subtle disarray were nothing more than a matter of sunlight or wind, never paying mind to the tension thick in the air. Emil’s stuttered response barely cleared his lips, the words tripping over themselves. Ryoshu gave no reply, only a slight tilt of her head, and then, as quietly as she had arrived, she rose.
Baoyu blinked, momentarily distracted by the delicate way she straightened her robe, the faint limp that marked her steps. She moved with slowness toward the pavilion exit, each step measured, controlled, yet marked by the slight unevenness in her gait. It occurred to him only dimly that the minor imperfection might be a consequence of some earlier exertion. He shook the thought away; it was probably nothing, or the wind, or some sort of training she put herself through earlier.
“Ryoshu will be overseeing some final preparations in the garden, I believe! She has a good eye for these sorts of things,” he said brightly, watching her retreat. “Emil, shall we continue with reviewing the floral placements while she's away?”
Emil swallowed, his hands twitching lightly over the table. “Y-yes… s-sure.”
The word sure caught in his throat, trembling as it did, yet Baoyu’s gaze did not dwell on the hesitation. He had always observed people, yes, but his mind had trained itself to catalog, to note, to manage—never to probe deeper than surface disturbances. It was easier to believe Emil flustered over tea or cake than to notice the mark peeking out of his robe by his collarbone.
He moved beside Emil, spreading the sketches and papers across the table, hands gliding over them with careful precision. “Now, if we move the candelabras closer to the aisle, the light will catch the guests’ eyes as they enter, yes?”
Emil nodded quickly, eyes flicking toward Ryoshu’s departing figure once, then away.
“Yes… i-it’s… yeah,” Emil replied, voice quivering, words flowing with difficulty.
Baoyu hummed contentedly. To him, the task at hand was tangible, manageable, finite—a sequence of lists, appointments, arrangements. The warmth between Emil and Ryoshu, the subtle tension of proximity and retreat, existed outside of the world he actively participated in anyways.
Outside, Ryoshu walked with her soft limp, careful, measured steps carrying her down the stone paths of the estate gardens. Her mind, so often silent, was otherwise occupied, the encounter with Emil lingering in memory. She made no sound, allowed herself no outward display, and yet the faint warmth in her cheeks— and other parts of her— betrayed the truth.
Baoyu, as ever, did not notice.
Pitiful man.
She does wish the best for him.
Truly, she cared for him.
She's a monster.
Ryoshu paused, adjusting the fold of her robe, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, just enough to notice the fading sun, just enough to catch her breath and massage the ache at her thigh through her robe.
She'll get back on Emil for this next time.