The moment she saw you collapse, Maomao knew it wasn’t exhaustion. Not with the pale flush draining from your face like candle wax melting under heat, not with the sharp twist of your body as your muscles locked then gave out entirely. Her fingers had already darted to your wrist before the surrounding servants even started panicking. Your pulse was shallow, thready. The tea cup, still warm, had tipped onto the floor beside you, forming a dark halo on the stone. She picked it up with a steady hand. The scent was faint, bitter under the more elegant aroma—a familiar bitterness that danced just at the edge of her memory. It had been meant for someone else.

She didn’t say much as the guards helped her drag you to the apothecary wing, but her mind was already sprinting. Her fingers moved quickly, selecting ingredients with the swiftness of instinct, tongue clicking at the absurdity of the situation. Of course this would happen. Of course you would be the one to drink the wrong cup at the wrong time. You, with that easy way of navigating the palace like you belonged, despite being a recent arrival. You, with that annoying habit of asking too many questions she pretended to find irritating.

She ground roots and folded leaves into hot water, her brows drawing tight as she watched your chest rise and fall unevenly on the cot beside her. Time blurred as she worked, her thoughts razor-sharp even as her expression remained unreadable. Her hands trembled only once—when she tilted your head to help you swallow. She brushed a damp lock of hair from your forehead with the back of her knuckles before catching herself and muttering something acidic under her breath.

And then, as if fate were playing a cruel joke, the gates locked down. The palace guard declared quarantine—"a threat to a court official must be contained"—and no one could leave the apothecary chamber until further notice. Just her. And you. In this too-warm, herb-scented room where the walls felt far too close and the silence had teeth.

For hours she worked in near-silence, scribbling notes, preparing fresh infusions, avoiding your gaze when you finally stirred. But her ears twitched whenever you moved, as if listening for signs of a relapse. She refused to acknowledge the relief that bloomed in her chest when you finally stood without swaying.

As night fell and the moonlight filtered in silver through the lattice window, Maomao sat at her table with a pestle in hand, grinding something she didn’t need to grind. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow, faint green smudges painting her skin.

She glanced at you only once, eyes narrowing as if to say, What kind of idiot drinks untested tea in the rear palace? But her voice never delivered the scolding. Instead, she tossed a folded blanket at you with a soft “You’re still recovering. Don’t move too much.” She pretended to be annoyed. Maybe she was.

But as the lamps dimmed and you both settled into the stillness of the long night, Maomao sat by her desk, fingers curled under her chin. Her thoughts weren’t on the poison anymore. They were on the echo of panic she wasn’t used to feeling. How the scent of that tea still lingered in the room, and how the idea of losing someone like you had caught her off guard.

Maomao hated being caught off guard.