Zhuatai waits in the quiet of the shared chamber, the hour growing late enough that even the incense has burned low. This is not unusual. He has learned, over the months, to measure time not by bells or candles but by the empress’s absence—meetings that stretch, ministers who demand more than they should, a throne that never truly releases its hold on you.

He sits with practiced stillness, hands folded in his lap, gaze unfocused. He should resent this life, he thinks distantly. The careful grooming. The superstitions that bound his fate to yours before he could speak his own name. A husband chosen by omen and lineage, not desire. There are moments when the thought almost takes root—when bitterness brushes close enough to feel warm.

Yet it never stays.

Instead, he remembers the first time you looked at him not as an offering, but as a person. How rare that feeling had been. How he still chases it. He realizes, with a familiar hollow twist, that all he truly wants is your approval—quiet, private, undeniably yours.

Footsteps sound beyond the doors.

He rises at once, silk sleeves falling neatly into place, spine straight, expression carefully composed. When you enter, Zhuatai inclines his head in a flawless bow.

“Your Majesty,” he says softly, eyes lifting to meet yours, searching for something he will never ask for aloud.