Chapter 6
1136 Words
Yue had barely finished sipping her morning tea when a servant burst through the outer gate of the physician’s wing, nearly tripping over his own shoes.
“Physician Linh Yue,” he gasped, bowing so quickly he nearly slammed his head on the floor. “You’re needed—His Highness—training yard—he’s been injured—refusing treatment—”
Yue was already standing before he finished.
Han Jue, halfway through biting into a steamed bun, muttered around a mouthful, “He does this once a season. Throws a blade, bleeds dramatically, refuses help. You’d think he was allergic to attention.”
“I’ll bring the kit,” Yue said, brushing past her.
Five minutes later, she crossed the threshold of the training courtyard, boots crunching over gravel.
The air was sharp with early sun and metal. Three court physicians stood to the side, rigid and helpless. Several guards surrounded the Crown Prince, who sat on the stone edge of the sparring ring, holding one arm close to his chest, blood soaking through the sleeve of his robe.
Yue walked directly through the line of men without stopping.
“I told you,” one physician hissed quietly, “he won’t let anyone near—”
“Then stop acting like a fence post and let me work,” Yue said, already dropping to a kneel in front of the Crown Prince.
Ji An looked up.
Their eyes met.
He was pale, but calm. His breathing steady. The wound clearly painful but not life-threatening.
His left shoulder was slick with blood.
The fabric was torn.
Yue clicked her tongue. “You’re being dramatic.”
He didn’t respond.
She pulled a small blade from her side pouch and sliced the fabric clean open to assess the damage.
The gash was deep, just beneath the collarbone, running toward the shoulder socket. Likely a poorly blocked strike or a misstep during the final arc of a kata. Not life-threatening. But painful. Potentially damaging if untreated.
The other physicians behind her sucked in their breath at her casual movement.
The prince… remained still.
He watched her with a gaze that neither invited nor refused.
Yue met it.
“I’m going to stop the bleeding,” she said, her voice calm and low.
Still, he said nothing.
But he didn’t pull away.
That was answer enough.
She reached for her cloth, hands bare, and pressed it against the wound.
The heat of his blood soaked instantly through the linen.
Her fingertips brushed his collarbone.
His skin tensed.
But he still didn’t move.
So neither did she.
And in that moment, under morning sun and the watchful eyes of the entire courtyard, silence settled between them—not empty, not cold, but dense with something unfamiliar.
Not refusal.
Not anger.
Something else.
Something closer.
“Everyone out,” Yue said without raising her voice.
The silence around the courtyard cracked like ice.
One of the physicians stammered, “But—Physician Linh Yue, the protocol states—”
“Unless any of you are planning to kneel beside me and explain to the Crown Prince why your hands are shaking too much to clean a wound,” she said, “I suggest you leave.”
No one moved.
Until Ji An turned his head just slightly toward the group—nothing but a shift in weight, the faintest flick of his eyes—and the entire courtyard cleared.
The doors slid shut behind them.
Just like that, it was only them.
Yue set her cloth aside, reached for her herbal wash, and unstoppered the vial. The scent of crushed mugwort and goldthread root filled the air—clean, sharp, bitter. She soaked a pad of linen and pressed it against his skin.
He didn’t flinch.
She cleaned the blood slowly, precisely, like painting backwards. Her hand moved with practiced ease, but her eyes kept flicking—upward, toward his throat, his face, his eyes.
He was watching her.
Not in judgment. Not with discomfort.
Just… watching.
She squeezed the cloth tighter.
His breath hitched, barely.
She stilled.
He said nothing for a long moment.
Then finally, a single word—soft, low, almost lost to the walls:
“Continue.”
She did.
Her hands worked efficiently: antiseptic balm, pressure wrap, thread prepped for stitching. She threaded the needle silently, rolled the knot between her fingers, and leaned in. Her shoulder brushed his.
The first stitch broke the skin.
He inhaled, but didn’t flinch.
She didn’t speak. Neither did he.
With every pass of the needle, the silence thickened—not tense, not awkward. Heavy. Electric.
She tied the last knot and pressed a final dressing over the wound.
Then her fingers lingered.
Just a second too long.
The side of her hand rested against the edge of his collarbone, skin still warm from the pressure of her palm.
His eyes were on her again.
Her lips parted. A breath caught.
She drew back quickly, returning to her kit, heart drumming somewhere too near her throat.
He didn’t speak.
But he hadn’t stopped her.
And that, in itself, said everything.
Yue packed her tools with quiet precision.
She didn’t rush. Didn’t glance up. But her fingers trembled slightly as she wound the thread back into its case. Her pulse had steadied, but only on the surface. Beneath it, something stirred—slow, unfamiliar, impossible to categorize.
Ji An sat in complete silence, his now-bandaged shoulder resting against the wooden support beam behind him. The bloodstained scraps of his inner robe were folded and discarded at his feet, forgotten. His posture was perfect. Regal. Cold.
But he hadn’t left.
And that mattered.
She snapped the latch shut on her case and finally spoke.
“You should rest.”
His voice came seconds later.
“I don’t need rest.”
Yue stood, lifting her kit.
“That wasn’t a request,” she said, not unkindly.
A quiet fell between them—not awkward, not sharp, but strange. Something had shifted in the space between touch and silence, and now neither of them seemed willing to acknowledge it.
Yue turned, walking slowly toward the courtyard exit.
Halfway to the gate, she paused. Looked back over her shoulder.
Ji An was still sitting where she’d left him, gaze fixed forward.
Then—he moved.
Stood.
And just as she opened the gate to leave, she felt it: the pull of his eyes. He was watching her.
She didn’t turn again.
She didn’t need to.
The tension had settled like dust in her hair—impossible to shake.
And as she walked back into the cool corridors of the palace, she realized something both simple and terrifying:
She no longer knew where the line between patient and prince began—or if it still existed at all.
- Writer
