Chapter 9
824 Words
By the time she reached her room, Han Jue had already commandeered both floor cushions and was halfway through a bowl of rice crackers.
“You missed the best drama,” she said as Yue entered. “Apparently Lady Fei Yan fainted in the Hall of Tranquility because someone stepped on her dress train. No one even touched her, but she managed to fall down three whole steps like she was acting in a palace opera.”
Yue dropped the tray gently on the cabinet and peeled the damp robe from beneath her arm.
Han Jue squinted. “Wait. Is that…”
“No,” Yue said, too fast.
Han Jue gasped. “It is.”
“It’s not.”
“Yue.”
“It’s raining.”
“Oh my god, he gave you clothing? Voluntarily?”
Yue turned to glare at her. “Don’t make it a thing.”
“It is already a thing,” Han Jue said, sitting up straighter. “You touched him, he gave you clothes, and now you’re protecting his robe like it’s a dying swan.”
Yue folded the robe neatly. “I’m returning it tomorrow.”
“I bet if you wear it once, he’ll marry you out of habit.”
Yue grabbed the robe and stuffed it deep into the drawer under her sleeping mat. “You’re the worst.”
“And you’re flustered.”
“I’m professional.”
“You’re smitten.”
“I’m leaving.”
⸻
The next morning, she passed through the inner courtyard on her way to the infirmary and paused outside the prince’s private hall. The bench beside the door was empty.
She pulled the robe from the crook of her arm and placed it there. Folded precisely. Sleeves tucked in. Edges aligned.
No note.
No words.
Just left.
And gone.
____________
The next week passed without mention of the robe.
No one brought it up.
Not Ji An.
Not Yue.
Not Han Jue, though she did make suspicious humming sounds every time Yue entered the room with her writing brush tucked behind one ear.
The Crown Prince’s routine resumed like clockwork: morning training, midday inspection, evening tonic. Yue saw him twice a day now—brief, structured visits during which her hands moved fast, her words moved faster, and his eyes stayed mostly on the floor or wall behind her head.
But sometimes…
Sometimes, she caught him watching her. Just for a second. Never long enough to say anything.
Once, while she was checking the pulse point beneath his wrist, he turned slightly—just enough that their knees almost touched.
She didn’t pull away.
He didn’t either.
It didn’t happen again.
But the closeness had felt… different.
Quieter than intimacy. Louder than nothing.
One morning, she found herself scribbling in her logbook more than necessary:
Patient’s sleep improved. Pulse stable. Muscle recovery progressing. Left shoulder less resistant. Still won’t speak unless forced. Possibly part-time statue.
She stared at the last line.
Crossed it out.
Then rewrote it in the margins with an arrow: Correction: animated statue. Slightly more mobile. Occasionally sarcastic.
She closed the book with a snap just as the prince re-entered the room.
He paused near the table. His gaze flicked to the book in her lap.
She didn’t open it again.
He didn’t ask.
But he glanced back once as he exited the chamber.
Just once.
She noticed.
She always noticed.
_______
The appointment was routine.
As always, Yue took her time. Checked Ji An’s pulse, adjusted the pressure on a tight muscle group just below his clavicle, and offered her latest concoction for post-training inflammation. He accepted it without comment.
She spoke little. He spoke less.
But she could feel it—the shift in temperature between them.
He didn’t watch her like an obstacle anymore. Not like a stranger either. More like… a piece of furniture that kept rearranging itself without warning.
She packed up her case as usual. Everything in order. Scroll sealed. Brush cleaned.
She bowed.
Turned.
Walked to the door.
“You forgot your pouch.”
The words landed behind her like a pebble in still water.
She paused.
Turned.
Ji An didn’t move from his seat. His gaze had dropped toward a small ink-stained pouch resting near the far stool, just beside the open medical notes she’d used during diagnosis.
Yue blinked once. “Right.”
She crossed back, picked it up, tucked it into her sleeve.
“Thank you,” she almost said.
Didn’t.
Instead, she nodded—barely—and left.
The door closed behind her with the same soft click as always.
But that night, long after Han Jue had begun her usual nasal breathing routine of near-comatose sleep, Yue lay on her mat staring at the ceiling.
The ink pouch rested beside her pillow.
She hadn’t even realized she’d forgotten it.
He had.
And for the first time, it occurred to her:
He noticed things.
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