Archive of Our Own

Maomao

Maomao adored being pregnant. Not exactly because of the baby, well, maybe a little, perhaps too much. It was genuinely cute being pregnant, especially at nearly eight moons along, but mostly because of the unexpected freedoms the condition granted her. No one questioned her when she ate pickles with honey for breakfast. No one looked at her strangely when she mixed preserved ginger with sweet bean paste. "Pregnancy cravings," they said, with indulgent smiles, and she could finally experiment with combinations she had always been curious to taste without seeming completely insane.

But the confinement, ah, the confinement was an exquisite torture that not even the worst poison could equal. She hated it with every fiber of her being. Being trapped in the pavilion while the world happened outside, banquets, intrigues, poisonings she could not investigate. Her mind would not stop. Her body, forcibly domesticated, quivered with restlessness.

Last week, she had managed to escape. Forty glorious minutes of freedom. She had slithered through the side corridors, dodged the patrols, made it almost to the medicinal herb storehouse. Almost. Because she had run straight into Lihaku, who recognized her immediately, his kind eyes wide with pure panic.

"Princess! For the love of heaven, what are you doing out here alone?"

"Walking," she had answered, trying to sidestep him with the dignity of a cat who had just knocked over a vase.

Lihaku had grabbed her by the elbow and dragged her back. She had protested, kicked her feet, tried to bite his hand, which he took with surprisingly good humor, but it was no use. She was returned to the pavilion like a rebellious package, complete with an imaginary bow on top.

And then she and Jinshi had fought. Fought badly.

"You could have fallen!" he had exclaimed, his face pale with fear. "Something could have happened to you, to the baby, and I wouldn't even know where you were!"

"I just wanted herbs! I am not made of glass!"

"You are carrying our child!"

"And does that make me your prisoner?"

The word hung between them, sharp as a blade. Jinshi had recoiled as if struck. They went two days without speaking properly. She slept facing the wall with the dedication of a scholar. He slept in the study with the enthusiasm of a punished dog.

But now, now everything was fine. Supposedly.

She lay on the futon, her head propped on soft cushions, her swollen feet resting in his lap. Jinshi massaged her soles with skillful, patient fingers, applying the exact pressure she needed. Every so often he would lean down and kiss the arch of her foot, her ankles, each tiny bone, as if they were precious relics. She laughed, softly, and he smiled against her skin, and the world briefly remembered what peace felt like.

She was lucky. So ridiculously lucky it sometimes hurt to think about it. Jinshi, the most beautiful and important man in the empire, massaging her feet as if it were the most natural thing in the universe. He who could have any consort, any lady, any person, and he had chosen her, the peculiar one obsessed with poisons, the one who could not dance or play instruments, the one who preferred the scent of dried herbs to the perfume of noble flowers. The man clearly had questionable taste. Thank heaven.

"You are being strange," she said, without preamble.

His hands stopped for a second. A second too brief, brief enough to be deeply incriminating.

"Strange how?" he asked, resuming the massage, his thumbs circling her ankles with studied innocence.

Maomao narrowed her eyes. She knew poisons, but she also knew omissions. And Jinshi reeked of a lie just as much as a suspicious tea reeked of aconite.

"I do not know," she admitted, because the thing he was hiding had no name in her extensive mental catalog. "You are... distant. Even when you are here."

He lifted his gaze to her, and for a moment she saw something raw in those amber colored eyes. Something he hid too quickly, like a squirrel burying a nut and pretending it had done nothing at all.

"I am here," he said, and kissed the curve of her foot. "I am right here."

But his brow was tense. His shoulders, rigid. And in recent days, she had noticed, he left earlier and returned later. He said it was work. He did not look her in the eyes when he spoke, which for a man who could gaze at her for hours like she was the moon itself was practically a confession.

Maomao felt the baby move, a strong kick against her ribs, as if even the baby knew something was not right. Smart child. Definitely hers.

She did not press. She did not know how. The words for this, for fear, for insecurity, for "please do not hide things from me," did not exist in her mouth. So she simply closed her eyes and let him continue the massage, the kisses, the affection that was real but that, that night, also felt suspiciously like a distraction.

Their love was strange. It did not have the easy words that other people used. But it had this: massaged feet, kisses on swollen ankles, silences that screamed loud enough to wake the dead.

And it had secrets. She just did not know his yet. Keyword: yet.

But she could not stand it any longer. He was acting far too strange, and her patience, never her strongest virtue, had officially left the building. She was going to yank it out of him. Lying to a pregnant woman was a blasphemy, a crime against nature, and possibly a violation of several palace regulations she intended to invent on the spot.

The air in the room changed. It grew dense, heavy, like the moment before a summer storm, or the moment before she identified a poison correctly and everyone around her started sweating.

"I am giving you two options," Maomao's voice cut through the silence, calm and sharp as a scalpel. "Either you tell me, or I find out. Which is the less terrible choice?"

Jinshi's hands stopped completely. Checkmate.

"Maomao."

She propped herself up on her elbows with the grace of a rising empress. He had called her by her name, not some sweet nickname. Bad sign. Terrible sign. A sign that made her want to throw a pillow at his perfect face.

"Ka Zuigetsu. Tell me. Now."

"Do not call me that. It is Jinshi!"

"Ka Zuigetsu!"

Jinshi sighed, a long and defeated sound. His shoulders slumped. Beautiful even in surrender, Maomao noted with a pang of irritation. How dare he look like a tragic poem while keeping secrets.

"There is going to be a banquet. With two foreign emissaries. A delegation from the west. An important diplomatic event. The Emperor will be there, the Empress, the consorts, court officials..." He paused, and the pause stretched like taffy. "And me."

The silence that followed was absolute. Even the baby stopped moving, as if taking notes.

"I see," she said, her voice far too neutral, the voice she used when cataloging lethal dosages. "Minus the princess who is pregnant with the prince's child, correct?"

The words fell like stones into a very still pond. Jinshi closed his eyes, which was wise because her gaze could have melted steel.

"Maomao, I..."

"How long have you known?"

"Two weeks."

Two weeks. Two entire weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty six hours, give or take. Plenty of time for him to decide she did not need to know. That the apothecary who unraveled plots with a single glance did not even deserve the truth about a damn banquet. The audacity. The sheer, breathtaking audacity.

She pulled her feet from his lap. The movement was brusque but contained, like a volcano politely informing a nearby village that it was considering eruption.

"You decided for me."

"I did not want to worry you. Luomen said that stress..."

"No. You did not want to deal with me worried. That is different."

Jinshi reached out to touch her face. Maomao dodged it with the reflexes of a woman who had dodged assassination attempts and overzealous court ladies. The gesture seemed to strike him like a physical blow, and a tiny, petty part of her was satisfied.

"I did not want to see you sad because you could not go," he whispered. "I did not want to see you looking out the window while all of us... while I..."

"While you go."

The words escaped before she could filter them, and she hated how they sounded. She averted her gaze to the window. The moon was high, indifferent, probably enjoying the show.

"There will be people there. People who are not swollen. Who do not need help getting up. Who do not get nauseous from the smell of perfume. People who can see their own feet."

"Maomao..."

"I am just speaking. These are facts. It means nothing."

It meant everything. And they both knew it. The baby kicked as if to say, "Mother, you are a terrible liar."

"Maomao. Look at me."

She did not want to. She wanted to stare at the wall and cultivate her irritation like a prize winning bonsai. But something in her, or in him, or in the universe's twisted sense of humor, made her yield. She turned her face and met his eyes.

"There is no one," he said, his voice firm enough to build a fortress on. "No emissary. No princess. No one. Do you understand?"

She understood. But understanding did not dissolve that idiotic knot in her throat. It just sat there, stubborn and unwelcome, like a guest who had overstayed their welcome. She merely nodded.

"It is already decided. You are going. It is fine. Let us sleep."

It is fine. The two most dishonest words she had ever spoken, and she had once told a court official that his experimental antidote was "probably safe."

She turned on her side, facing the wall with the dedication of a woman who intended to become one with the plaster. Jinshi did not move. Then he lay down behind her, slowly, cautiously, like a man approaching a sleeping dragon. He did not touch her, but came close enough for her to feel his warmth, which was somehow worse.

"I do not want to go," he murmured. "I do not want to be in a place where you are not. But I am the Crown Prince. I have to..."

"I know."

"They are going to look at you," she murmured, the closest thing to a confession her stubborn heart would allow. "And I will be here. Staring at the wall. Cataloging its texture."

His arm slid over her, his hand resting on her belly. She did not push him away. Nor did she snuggle closer. It was a compromise. A very annoying, very warm compromise.

"Then I will not go."

"You have to go."

"Then I will think of you the entire time. I will be physically present and mentally here, which will probably cause a diplomatic incident when someone asks me a question and I answer with your name."

"That is inefficient."

"It is love."

She snorted. A short sound, almost indignant. Almost amused. Almost.

"Fine. But tomorrow you tell me who is going. And what they will serve. And if anyone looks suspicious. And if anyone looks at you for longer than three seconds. For security purposes."

"So you can analyze poisons from a distance?"

"Someone has to do it. The empire is full of incompetents."

He laughed softly, his breath warm on her nape, and the sound melted something in her chest that she would never, ever admit to.

"Agreed."

The accursed day of the banquet dawned with brilliant sunshine and a disgustingly clear sky, as if the universe was personally mocking her. She had prayed to the heavens for it to take its time, for a minor earthquake, for anything, but no, one week had passed far too fast. Time was a traitor.

Maomao woke up irritated. An irritation that came from the depths of her bones, that made her skin too sensitive, her eyes too narrow, her mouth too bitter. If irritation were a poison, she could have felled an army.

En'en tried to help her dress. It lasted three minutes. One look from Maomao, silent, cold, clinically empty, a look that could curdle milk at twenty paces, was enough for the assistant to retreat, murmuring something about tea. The tea never came. En'en was far too intelligent to return to a crime scene.

Xiaolan appeared later, cheerful as a puppy who had no idea it was about to be scolded. "Lady Maomao! I heard there is going to be a banquet today, and that one of the emissaries has golden hair, and that she is apparently very beautiful, and that..." Maomao turned her head slowly, like a possessed doll in a horror story, and stared at her. Xiaolan froze mid sentence. She retreated a step. Then another. She dropped the tray of fruit on the nearest table and practically ran out. A muffled thud was heard in the corridor, probably her tripping over her own skirt. Maomao made a mental note to apologize later. Much later.

Even the baby was uncooperative. He was agitated, kicking as if he too was lodging a formal protest against the universe's unfairness. Like mother, like son.

Maomao spent the morning reorganizing herbs that were already perfectly organized. She categorized them by toxicity, then by color, then by how much she wanted to throw them at someone. Gaoshun appeared at the door, assessed the scene with the wisdom of a man who had survived actual wars, and vanished before she could unleash the death glare on him. A survivor of battles, yes, but not of a grumpy, pregnant apothecary with access to poison. The man had his limits.

The sun rose. The sun descended. And then Jinshi entered the room.

Ready. He was ready. Impeccable hair, formal attire in the colors of royalty, embroidered sleeves that probably cost more than a small village, his face lightly made up to enhance features that were already unfairly perfect. He smelled of expensive incense and bad timing.

Maomao felt something twist inside her. It was not the baby. It was something sharper, pettier, and deeply unwelcome.

"You look beautiful," she said, and her voice came out wrong. Too flat, too dry, as if she were reading a report on weather patterns.

Jinshi hesitated in the middle of the room, sensing danger the way a gazelle senses a lion.

"Maomao..."

"You will be late. The Emperor does not like delays. Go."

She heard his footsteps approaching. She did not look. She felt his hand on her shoulder. She did not move. She was a statue. A grumpy, pregnant statue.

"I will come back early. I promise."

She did not answer. The baby kicked, hard. She swallowed a groan. She would say nothing. Because if she did, he would stay. And she did not want him to stay out of pity. She did not ask for things. She never asked. Asking was for people who had not learned that the world usually said no.

And then came the ugly, petty, idiotic thought. Jealousy. Green eyed, sharp clawed, completely irrational jealousy. She ground her teeth. Damn pregnancy. Damn hormones. She, who had faced assassins without flinching, who had tasted poisons just to catalog their effects, now reduced to a sentimental version of herself, afraid of a banquet. The irony was not lost on her.

Jinshi was still there, his hand on her shoulder, radiating concern and expensive incense. She refused to yield. She would rather swallow a wasp.

And then the baby kicked her ribs. It was not a normal kick. It was violent, precise, a targeted strike hitting the most sensitive spot with the accuracy of a tiny martial artist. She arched her back with a muffled groan.

"Maomao! What is it?"

She massaged her ribs. The pain was real. But as the pain subsided, something cleared in her mind, something brilliant and devious and utterly unworthy of her scientific integrity. She could lie. Exaggerate the pain. Say it was worse. He would stay. It was a simple plan, efficient, logical, and completely unethical.

As logical as it was risky. Because Jinshi knew her. He knew her faces, her tones, her tells. If he realized... it would be worse than the banquet, worse than the jealousy, worse than everything. She would rather drink pure aconite than have to explain that she had invented a pain because she could not stand the idea of other women looking at him. The confession alone would kill her.

But if it worked... if it worked, he would stay. Without her having to verbalize anything. Without her having to say the words that stuck in her throat like fish bones.

The baby kicked again, weak, as if asking: are you really going to do this, mother? Are we really stooping to this level?

And then came the third kick. Like a lightning bolt. Divine intervention, or perhaps divine comedy.

Maomao felt the air vanish. The stab was so intense her vision darkened. She tried to inhale and could not. The sweet baby had hit her diaphragm perfectly. This was not acting. This was the universe taking the decision out of her hands and running with it.

"Gods," she gasped, her voice hoarse, completely involuntary.

Damn. She had not wanted to say anything. But her body had betrayed her, and now Jinshi was there, pale as a ghost, gripping her shoulders like she might evaporate.

"Maomao? Maomao, what is it?!"

She tried to wave her hand dismissively. Nothing came out. Just another wheeze. Very convincing. Very dramatic. The baby deserved a standing ovation.

Jinshi dropped to his knees faster than a man confessing his sins. His hands were trembling. She saw his face, so close, his eyes wide with fear, and behind him, his reflection in the mirror: a perfectly dressed prince, ready for a banquet that was now the last thing in the entire world on his mind. The contrast was almost comical.

"I will call Luomen."

She grabbed his sleeve. No. She did not need Luomen. She needed air. And, apparently, for her son to stop treating her ribs like a percussion instrument.

"Just... no air..."

"Do you want me not to call Luomen?" he asked, incredulous, but already kneeling again, already forgetting the door, the exit, the damn banquet. The banquet could burn down for all he cared.

She nodded weakly. The air returned little by little. The baby quieted down, as if realizing the chaos it had caused and deciding to nap through the consequences. Typical.

Jinshi did not leave her side. He held her hand, kissed her fingers, murmured things she could not quite hear but that sounded suspiciously like desperate endearments. When she finally breathed normally, he was still there, his formal robe crumpled, his perfect hair beginning to escape its bindings.

"You will be late," she said, her voice hoarse.

"To hell with the banquet."

"Jinshi..."

"To hell with it. You almost fainted. I am not going anywhere. The empire can survive one evening without me."

She should have argued. It was her duty as a logical person to argue. But the pain was still throbbing, and his hand was still holding hers, and she was so tired, and logic could take a short vacation.

"Alright," she murmured. And this time it was not a lie. It was a surrender. A very small, very quiet surrender.

Jinshi stood up, kissed her forehead with the reverence of a pilgrim at a shrine, and went to the door. She heard his voice echoing down the corridor, firm and leaving no room for argument: "I will not attend the banquet. Inform the Emperor that Consort Maomao has fallen ill. The baby... Yes, call Luomen as well, as a precaution. No, this is not negotiable."

His footsteps retreated and then... returned. Fast, determined, as if he could not bear to be away from her for more than thirty seconds. The man was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. She kept him anyway.

Maomao was reclining against the cushions, still recovering, when Suiren, En'en, and Xiaolan entered. Xiaolan was still a little shaky, clutching a fresh tray of tea like a peace offering.

"Princess Maomao! I heard you fell ill! Do you need a cold cloth, more cushions, a detailed description of the emissaries so you can properly despise them from afar..."

"I am fine," Maomao cut her off, but her voice was strangely light, almost buoyant.

And then it happened. A laugh. Low, short, an escape of steam from a kettle that had been boiling too long.

Xiaolan froze. En'en raised an eyebrow so high it nearly left her forehead. Suiren continued adjusting the blanket, but her lips curved in a way that spoke volumes.

"Princess... did you just laugh?" Xiaolan tilted her head like a confused sparrow.

"No."

"You did! I heard it! It was a laugh! A small one, but definitely a laugh!"

"I just thought of something. Nothing important."

"What? Was it about the emissaries? I heard that one of them has golden hair and eyes like the sea, and that..."

Suiren's gaze met En'en's. An entire conversation passed between them in a single glance. En'en cleared her throat pointedly.

"Xiaolan, weren't you going to fetch ginger tea? For nausea."

"But she is not nauseous..."

"Xiaolan," Suiren smiled, sweet as honey laced with sedative. "The tea. Now."

Xiaolan left grumbling, her sense of dramatic timing once again thwarted. Silence settled in like a comfortable cat.

"He is not going to the banquet," Maomao said, as if commenting on the weather.

"We heard," Suiren replied. "The entire corridor heard."

"It was the baby. He kicked my ribs. Right on time."

"What a remarkable coincidence," Suiren murmured, examining her nails.

"It was not a coincidence," En'en spoke, her analytical eyes fixed on Maomao with the precision of a fellow scientist. "You have been irritated since morning. Irritated enough to frighten small animals. When he showed up ready, you got even worse, which I did not think was physically possible. The baby kicked, and suddenly..."

"Suddenly what, En'en?"

"Suddenly the Prince of the Moon canceled his attendance at a banquet full of foreign women. And you no longer seem irritated. You seem almost... pleased."

Maomao averted her gaze to the window with tremendous dignity. "I did not ask him to stay. It was the baby. The baby acted independently."

"Of course," Suiren agreed, her voice smooth as silk.

"The baby decided all on his own. I am merely a bystander in this situation."

"Naturally," En'en agreed, her face completely straight.

"I had nothing to do with it. I was simply... breathing insufficiently."

"Evidently."

"They say babies feel what the mother feels," Suiren smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle on the blanket. "If the mother is, for example, consumed by jealousy she refuses to acknowledge, they react. They intervene. They kick at strategically opportune moments."

"Are you insinuating something, Suiren?"

"Me? I am merely commenting on the fascinating bond between mother and child. Purely scientific interest."

En'en let out a sound that was definitely not a laugh. Definitely. Maomao narrowed her eyes.

"Is there a problem, En'en?"

"None at all. I was just thinking that this baby has truly impressive timing. World class timing. Especially for stopping his father from attending a banquet full of foreign women who might find him attractive. A true prodigy."

Maomao felt her face heat up. Traitorous face. Traitorous cheeks.

"The banquet was diplomatic. There was no reason to stop him. I had no motive."

"Of course not," the two said in perfect unison, like a chorus of polite disbelief.

The crooked smile returned to Maomao's face, unstoppable and completely incriminating.

"You two are insufferable. Both of you. I am surrounded by insufferable people."

"We?" Suiren brought a hand to her chest with theatrical innocence. "We are merely taking care of you, Xiaomao. With great dedication. And observational skills."

Just then, a muffled crash echoed from the corridor, followed by Xiaolan's indignant voice: "I am fine! I just dropped the tray again! The tea survived! Mostly the tea! The floor, however, is very wet!"

Maomao closed her eyes and made a mental note. She definitely needed to catalog the side effects of pregnancy on the sanity of the people around her. It would make a fascinating study.

He appeared at the door to the room like a vision, or perhaps a very determined ghost.

Suiren, En'en, and Xiaolan, who had returned with a fresh tray of tea, the tray still slightly askew and a new suspicious stain on her other sleeve, noticed first. Xiaolan nearly dropped the tray for the third time that day. En'en looked up sharply. Suiren smiled discreetly and began retreating with the practiced grace of a woman who knew exactly when to disappear.

But Maomao noticed nothing. She remained reclined, the teacup forgotten in her hand, her eyes fixed on some distant point. Her mind was busy calculating how many glasses of wine had already been served at the banquet, how many smiles had already been directed at the seat where Jinshi was supposed to be, how many emissaries were currently wondering where the famously beautiful Crown Prince had gone.

"Princess," Xiaolan whispered, poking her shoulder urgently. "Princess, look. Look now."

"What?"

"Look."

She turned her head.

Jinshi was no longer wearing the formal attire. The imperial silks were gone, the embroidered sleeves retired for the evening. He was in a light silk sleeping robe, his hair loose and falling around his shoulders, the ends still damp from a hasty wash. Bare feet. And his eyes, those ridiculous amber eyes, were fixed on her as if she were the only person in the entire world.

For a long, embarrassing instant, Maomao forgot how to breathe. And this time it was absolutely not the baby's fault. It was entirely the fault of the damn man who somehow managed to look even more beautiful without any adornments, without the imperial silks, without the makeup. Just him. Just his stupid, perfect face.

"We have dismissed the ladies for the day," Suiren announced smoothly, already pulling En'en by the arm with the efficiency of a general retreating troops.

En'en grabbed Xiaolan by the collar. "But I want to see what happens next," Xiaolan protested, her feet already sliding across the floor. "He looks so romantic, and she looks so surprised, and I think this is the part where..."

The door slid shut with a decisive click. One last muffled murmur floated through the wood: "But he looked so beautiful, and I wanted to see her face when..." followed by the unmistakable sound of someone being gently but firmly dragged down the corridor.

Alone. Finally, completely alone.

Jinshi crossed the room in silence, his bare feet making soft sounds on the wooden floor. He climbed onto the bed with the casual grace of a cat, navigated around the mountain of cushions she had accumulated, and slipped under the covers beside her as if he belonged there. Which he did. Unfortunately for her dignity.

Maomao remained immobile. "What are you doing?"

"Lying down. In my bed. Next to my wife."

"I can see that. Why are you doing it here instead of at the banquet?"

He turned his face to her, and a slow, devastating smile spread across his features. "Because this is where I want to be. Unless, of course, you would prefer I go to the banquet. Meet the emissaries. The ones with golden hair. Xiaolan mentioned that one of them is stunningly beautiful. Apparently her eyes are like the sea. Very poetic."

Maomao narrowed her eyes until they were practically slits. "You are doing this on purpose."

"Doing what, my love?"

"Provoking me. Deliberately. With malice aforethought."

"Me?" He blinked with the innocence of a man who had never done anything wrong in his entire life, which was a blatant lie. "I am just commenting on facts. Gathering data. Just like you always do."

"I do not make that face when I gather data."

"What face?"

"That one. The smug one. The one of someone thoroughly enjoying themselves at my expense."

He propped his head on his hand, his elbow sinking into the pillow, his loose hair falling around him like a silk curtain. He looked like a painting. An annoying, smug, breathtaking painting.

"You know, I was thinking. The brilliant apothecary who faces assassins without flinching. The woman who drinks poison out of scientific curiosity and then takes notes on the flavor profile. The same one who has repeatedly informed me that feelings are inefficient and jealousy is an irrational waste of mental resources..."

"Jinshi."

"...was so jealous that her own unborn son felt compelled to intervene. The baby had to physically stop me from leaving. That is a level of jealousy that deserves academic recognition."

The silence in the room was absolute enough to hear a pin drop. Or a reputation shatter.

Maomao felt her face burn with the heat of a thousand suns. "I was not jealous."

"Of course not."

"It was diplomatic concern. The emissaries could be spies. It was a security assessment."

"Security of the empire," he nodded, solemn as a judge. "And that is why you wanted me to report on every woman who looked at me for more than three seconds. Purely for threat evaluation."

"Data collection for national security."

"For the safety of the realm."

"Exactly."

"Maomao."

"What?"

"You love me. Desperately. Hopelessly. And you were so jealous you could barely see straight. It is the most adorable thing that has ever happened in this palace, and I have seen kittens."

"It is not adorable. It is an involuntary physiological reflex triggered by hormonal fluctuations."

"That prevented me from attending a banquet full of beautiful women who were definitely going to flirt with me." He tilted his head, the picture of contemplation. "You know, I think I should formally thank the baby. He inherited your intelligence and your timing. Already knows exactly when to act to help his mother."

"You are the most insufferable man in the entire empire."

"And you are blushing to the very tips of your ears. They are completely pink. It is extremely cute."

She grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at his head with murderous intent. Jinshi caught it with one hand, laughing openly now, the sound warm and bright and completely infuriating.

"Violence. Against the Crown Prince. That is a serious crime, punishable by..."

"Self defense. Perfectly legal."

"Do you know what the best part is, Maomao?" His voice dropped, softer now, more intimate. "You could have just asked me to stay. One word. Just one. 'Stay.' And I would have stayed. I would have canceled everything."

She averted her gaze, staring at the wall as if it held the secrets of the universe. "I do not ask for things. You know that."

"I know." He touched her chin, gently turning her face back toward him. His voice was softer now, all traces of teasing faded. "But you do not need to ask. Not with me. I am here. I will always be here. Banquets, emissaries, golden hair, eyes like the sea, none of it matters. Only you."

She held his gaze, searching for any hint of insincerity and finding absolutely none. Damn him. "Even when there are emissaries with golden hair?"

"Especially when there are emissaries with golden hair. I will have you know I am completely immune to golden hair."

"And what if they are experts in poisons?"

He hesitated for exactly one second. "Then I might ask to see their notes. Purely for you. So I can bring them back as a gift."

She threw another pillow. He laughed, catching it easily, and used the momentum to pull her close against him. His body molded around hers, warm and solid, his hand finding its familiar place on her belly.

"Are you jealous again?" he whispered against her nape, his breath tickling her skin. "I can feel you fuming."

"I am planning your murder. Slowly. Painfully. With something that has many, many side effects."

"What poison are you considering?"

"I am still deciding. It needs to be something that sends a message."

"Fair." He kissed the curve of her neck, slow and deliberate. "But just so you know, this does not mean I am going to stop teasing you. Especially now that I have irrefutable proof that you get jealous. I am going to treasure this information for the rest of our lives."

"I can retaliate. Do not test me."

"How, exactly?"

"I can ask Xiaolan to tell me, in excruciating detail, about every single time the palace maids have sighed over you. Out loud. At tea time. With commentary."

He paused. "That is psychological torture."

"It is self defense. And it is completely justified."

He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest against her back. And then he fell silent. And then he held her tighter, his arms wrapping around her with a tenderness that made her heart clench.

"Go to sleep, you ridiculous, jealous, beautiful apothecary."

"I am not jealous. This is my neutral face."

"Of course not. My mistake."

Silence settled over them like a blanket. Outside, the banquet continued, full of music and laughter and emissaries who would never know how close they came to being the subject of a very detailed security assessment. But here, in this room, Maomao closed her eyes and let herself sink into his warmth, into the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against her back.

The baby was quiet now, apparently satisfied with his evening's work. Jinshi's hand traced lazy circles on her belly, a gentle, unconscious motion.

Then, very softly, so softly she almost hoped he would not hear:

"Jinshi."

"Yes?"

She hesitated. The words felt foreign in her mouth, unfamiliar and terrifying. "...Thank you. For staying."

He kissed her nape, lingering, his lips warm against her skin. "Always, Maomao. Always. There is nowhere else I would rather be."

Outside, the banquet continued. But inside, Maomao smiled, a small private thing, and let herself fall asleep in his arms.

Damn man, she thought, as consciousness slipped away. Damn man who stays. Damn man who loves her exactly as she is.

She would never say it out loud. But he knew. He always knew.

THE END