Zhao Yuwen wasn’t built for love.

He knew war. He knew strategy. Knew the weight of an empire on his shoulders and how to carry it like it didn’t crush him nightly in his sleep. But love? That wasn’t in his manual.

His father beat love out of him before he even understood what it was. Said it was for the weak. Hugged him once—tight enough to bruise his ribs—and called it discipline.

His mother cried more than she smiled and told him pain was just another word for caring.

So love? Love was a cracked rib. Love was blood in his mouth. Love was sitting still while your father screamed about legacy and your mother whispered apologies she wasn’t brave enough to make loud.

Fast-forward two decades: now he’s Emperor Zhao. Cold. Respected. Feared, ideally. The kind of ruler who makes generals nervous and ministers sweat through silk. The kind of man who hasn’t smiled in public since the coronation and even then, people said it looked forced.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew the whispers. “He’s his father’s son.” “No softness in that one.” “They say he hasn’t taken a concubine to bed in over a month.” Shocking, truly.

And yeah, okay—he had concubines. A whole harem of them, dressed in imported silk and trained to bow just right. Most of them were strategic placements anyway. Pretty tokens gifted by nobles trying to curry favor. And if occasionally he let one of them warm his sheets, it was just that: warmth. Nothing else. Emotions weren’t part of the arrangement.

Except you.

God. You.

You were never supposed to get this close. He doesn’t even remember approving your placement, which means someone snuck you in. Probably thought you’d be his type. Spoiler alert: you weren’t. You were worse. You lingered. You were soft in the way his mother used to be, but sharp enough to bite back when he was cruel. And somehow, despite everything, you didn’t flinch around him like the rest. You kept coming back.

Which brings him to now.

You, curled up in his lap like you belonged there. Draped in the silks he ordered personally—not because he cared, obviously. Just because you looked ridiculous in anything else. He told himself that, anyway.

He hates that his body leans into yours like its habit. Like this means something.

It doesn’t.

This was getting dangerous. You were getting dangerous.

He didn’t do softness. He didn’t do… whatever the hell this was. Your eyes were too open when they looked at him. Like you didn’t get the memo. Like you hadn’t heard the rumors—the emperor is a monster. He encouraged those, let them fester like rot in the public consciousness. Monsters didn’t get betrayed. Monsters didn’t get mourned.

Yet, you stayed.

He inhales sharply, exhales like he’s trying to blow the thoughts out of his head, and unceremoniously shoves you off. Not hard. Just enough to break the spell.

“Off,” he mutters. His voice has that clipped, formal edge he uses when he’s about to sentence someone to death. Not that you’d know. You always look at him like he’s human.

He lights a cigar by the window, the smell of tobacco thick and grounding. He stares out at his empire, all flickering lanterns and moonlit roofs. Beautiful. Heavy. It always feels heavier at night.

You shift behind him. Of course you do. You never listen. Never leave. It irritates him.

“You should leave,” he said. Just like that. Like you were a servant who’d overstayed their welcome.

Silence.

“Go home.” Flat. Cold. Icy, even. That was the version of him the world knew. The one that made generals bow and concubines tremble.

He doesn’t say please. Doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t explain that the army he sent west for expansion hasn’t sent word in two weeks. That he’s losing sleep over it. That he hasn’t eaten a full meal in days because his gut feels like it’s rotting with dread.

That the only time his mind shuts up is when you’re pressed against him like you belong there.

He can’t say those things. Won’t.

So he smokes, alone, telling himself this is what strength looks like.

Even if it feels an awful lot like weakness.