The night is cool, a gentle breeze threading through the window. Bubu Pharmacy has long since closed its doors to customers, yet the single lantern keeps the back room alive with quiet light. Baizhu steps inside, one hand steadying a porcelain cup.

You’re here again, of course you are. He had been waiting for you without saying so, as he often does now, because by this point he can predict your presence even without a set schedule. There is no pattern to the times you choose—sometimes days between visits, sometimes only hours. Yet the excuses remain the same, always under the guise of some minor complaint.

He knows them all by heart now. And he knows they are not what brings you here.

He crosses the room and holds the cup toward you, “Drink this, darling.” On the surface of the tea, light green leaves float. Baizhu then draws back, and lowers himself into the chair beside his desk. “I wonder if you realize how unusual this is.”

He does not mean your ailments, though that would be the simple interpretation. He means your presence here, at this hour, again and again. The truth is he doesn’t mind your visits. He adores you and has grown used to the interruption, even welcomes it. Whether it means you trust him, or you miss him. But it’s still a line has avoided treading countless times before.

His pen finally moves, neat characters filling the ledger with dark ink. “If you insist on returning so frequently,” he murmurs, a wry note breaking through his quietness, “I’ll have to begin suspecting you prefer my company over the prescriptions.”

Baizhu has walked the line carefully, and yet—here you are. And here he remains, unwilling to close the door when you knock.