Chapter 8
1156 Words
The clouds had been sulking all morning.
Yue didn’t mind. She liked overcast skies — they felt honest. No blinding optimism, no painted sunsets, just soft light and the threat of something inevitable.
She had just finished collecting a tray of fresh shānzhā root from the herbal pavilion, sleeves damp from condensation and hands full of earthy sweetness, when the first fat drop landed squarely between her shoulder blades.
“Of course,” she muttered, adjusting the lacquered tray in her arms.
The second drop hit her left cheek.
The third — her sash.
By the fourth, the sky had opened without preamble. It poured like it had been holding back all week and had finally lost patience. The stone walkway slicked in seconds. The wind shoved her hair into her mouth.
Yue broke into a jog, boots splashing through puddles, tray held high.
She veered left toward the nearest structure — an open-air overhang near the eastern edge of the training yard, where the archways were deep enough to offer shelter. She ducked under, shaking out her sleeves with a curse.
“Stupid weather—stupid wet roots—stupid palace—”
She froze mid-shake.
Someone was already there.
He stood at the far end of the overhang, half-shadowed by the rain’s grey curtain. His training robe clung to him, soaked through. A wooden practice sword hung loosely in his grip, its tip resting on the stone floor. His dark hair was wet and slicked back, a few strands clinging to his forehead.
Crown Prince Ji An.
Of course.
Yue straightened.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t even glance at her for the first three seconds.
Then — slowly — he turned his head. Just enough to meet her eyes.
She raised the tray of roots slightly in silent explanation. Rain delivery service.
He blinked once. No visible reaction. Then turned his head forward again, gaze returning to the courtyard where the downpour battered the practice yard in relentless sheets.
Yue exhaled through her nose and edged toward the opposite end of the shelter, careful not to slosh too much mud onto the stone. She knelt, set the tray down with a soft thud, and tugged the hood of her outer robe higher.
No words.
No acknowledgment.
Only the sound of water slapping stone, the rhythmic dripping from the roof tiles above, and two hearts — silent and separate — beating on opposite ends of the same small space.
The rain didn’t ease. If anything, it grew bolder.
Water splattered across the courtyard, streaming down the columns in long, twisting rivulets. The sky overhead rumbled—not dramatically, not threatening thunder—just a low, constant growl, like the heavens were grumbling about their own mood.
Yue crouched beside her tray, wiping droplets from the waxy paper wrapped around the roots. A few leaves had blown loose and stuck to the stone floor near her knee. She peeled one off and flicked it outside.
Ji An hadn’t moved.
He stood with the same military stillness he always carried: feet planted evenly, posture straight, one hand loosely resting on the hilt of the practice blade at his side. The rain had soaked through his tunic. Even under poor lighting, Yue could see the deepening bruise on his left forearm—just below the sleeve’s frayed edge.
She pulled her damp cloak tighter.
The silence between them stretched—not heavy, not awkward. Just… wet.
She glanced toward him once.
He was already looking at her.
Her fingers paused at her collar.
He said, without inflection, “You’re out of uniform.”
Yue blinked.
Then looked down at herself.
She was wearing her clinic-layered robe today—practical, mid-length, sleeves tied back with a looped band, and a half-sash instead of the formal cord. Technically still within dress code. Barely.
She looked up, expression dry. “So are you.”
Ji An didn’t react right away.
Then—
Almost imperceptibly—
His gaze dropped. Once. To her sleeves.
Then back to the rain.
He didn’t respond.
But he didn’t walk away, either.
Which was, as Yue was quickly learning, his version of agreement.
She exhaled slowly, settling onto her heels.
There was something strange about this moment. Not intense. Not meaningful. But also not nothing.
She wasn’t here as his physician right now.
And he wasn’t here as her patient.
They were simply two people, waiting out a storm.
The wind shifted.
Not strong—but sharp. A sudden current that cut through the stillness, threading beneath the overhang and curling its damp fingers up Yue’s sleeves.
She barely moved.
Just curled her hands beneath her knees and adjusted the way her cloak overlapped at the collarbone. Her hair, loosened by the rain, clung to the back of her neck in heavy strands.
Across from her, Ji An remained perfectly upright. Unbothered. Or, at least, he looked unbothered. But his gaze flicked toward her again, once.
Not obviously.
Not long.
Just enough.
Yue pretended not to notice.
Another gust swept across the tile.
She didn’t shiver—but her shoulders tensed.
And then—
A soft swish. Fabric folding through the air.
Something landed beside her with a dull, weighted sound.
She looked down.
A robe. Black. Thick. Lined with faint embroidery along the sleeves—barely visible unless one knew where to look. Imperial issue. Slightly oversized.
Ji An’s.
She looked up sharply.
He was already looking away.
His left shoulder—where the outer layer had been removed—was now bare but for the soaked training tunic underneath. He made no comment. No explanation.
Yue stared at the robe.
Then at him.
He didn’t glance back.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t wait.
It wasn’t an offer.
It wasn’t a command.
It was just… there.
Left.
Between them.
She reached for it slowly, dragging it across the stone with two fingers, then pulled it into her lap without a word.
It was warm.
Damp at the hem, but warm at the collar where it had clung to his neck.
She folded it loosely and draped it over her knees.
Not around her shoulders. Not against her skin.
But she kept it close.
Ji An said nothing.
And neither did she.
The rain softened.
Not stopped—just shifted to a light mist that hissed gently against the tile, like the sky was exhaling after an outburst.
Yue stood slowly, brushing water from the hem of her robe. She tucked the robe he’d given her under one arm and cradled her tray of roots with the other. No glance back. No goodbyes.
Ji An moved first.
He stepped out from under the overhang and into the courtyard, water beading across his hair and shoulders. He didn’t look at her again as he left. Just walked—fluid, deliberate—into the thinning rain.
She waited a beat longer before following a different path back toward the quarters.
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