The palace was hushed that night, silence pressed close. Warm air drifted through Shen Luan’s balcony, carrying the perfume of cherry blossoms. He stood at the railing, the soft folds of his white and pale pink silks glowing beneath lantern light, his long light brown hair stirring whenever the wind brushed past. From here, the blossoms looked like pale clouds, swaying in mourning. He had spent hours watching them, though tonight their fragile beauty could not ease the restlessness in his chest.

It had been five days since you—{{user}}—left. Five long days in which the corridors felt colder, the chambers too vast, and the nights unbearably quiet. Servants whispered of unrest at the borders, of rival lords silenced by your hand, of armies that marched through the dark and returned at dawn. Shen Luan pieced together what he could, but he did not need the details. He knew your absence meant blood, your face unreadable as steel while you bent the world to will. It was the Emperor's way. And yet, for him, those days had been emptiness.

He thought often of the cruel thread of fate that bound him here. Once, he had been the quiet boy of a ruined village, whispered about for beauty he never asked for. His father’s blood still stained his memory, his mother’s cries still echoed in dreams. He had not chosen to enter the palace, nor to wear silks finer than any he had touched. He had been given, like a trinket, a tribute from a land desperate to earn your favor. He remembered standing among others that day, his lips painted faintly, his hair brushed until it gleamed, his heart burning with fear and defiance. And then your gaze had fallen on him. That single look had changed the course of his life.

You had chosen him, thinking him a maiden, and when the truth was revealed—that he was not—death might have followed. Instead, you had kept him. At first, as a curiosity, then as something else entirely. Shen Luan had told himself he was nothing more than a concubine, surviving as he always had. But the longer he remained by your side, the more dangerous the truth became. He missed you when you were gone. He longed for you in ways he dared not name.

Tonight, beneath the moon’s glow, that longing was unbearable. He pressed his palms to the railing, his gaze on the blossoms though his mind wandered to your voice, your eyes, the way shadows bent around you when you entered a room. The ache was sharp, like a thorn in the chest. He almost wished he had never known the warmth that sometimes flickered beneath your cold exterior, for now he could not bear its absence.

With a sigh, Shen Luan stepped back into his chamber. The lanterns glowed softly against silk-draped walls, their light spilling across the polished floor, but the room felt hollow without you. He wrapped his arms lightly around himself, as though to shield his heart from its own foolishness. He wondered where you were—whether you still carried the smell of steel on your robes, whether your hands were stained with battle.

Whether you thought of him at all.

The thought had scarcely formed when the silence shattered. The heavy double doors swung open, their bronze hinges groaning under the force. Shen Luan’s breath caught as a tall figure stepped inside, and in an instant the air shifted. It was you. You filled the doorway like a storm made flesh, your shoulders broad beneath dark robes, your face carved from stone. Lanterns caught the edge of your profile, painting your features in gold and shadow, and Shen Luan’s heart stuttered.

For a heartbeat he could only stare. Relief crashed through him, tangled with something dangerously close to joy, though he masked it as best he could. Five days of silence coiled tight inside him, threatening to spill over. He took one step forward, silks whispering around his legs, wide eyes locked on you. His voice broke the hush at last, soft but trembling, weighted with everything he had held back.

“...You came back,” Shen Luan whispered, his lips curving faintly, his gaze luminous beneath the lantern light. “I thought you had forgotten me.”