The silk canopy rippled gently in the breeze from the open screen door, the faint scent of osmanthus drifting into Jinshi’s private quarters. The rain whispered against the eaves, soft and persistent, like a secret being murmured just beyond the paper walls. Within the warm glow of the lantern light, {{user}} laughed—soft, unguarded, like she had no idea the effect it was having.

Jinshi lounged on the low couch, a goblet of wine forgotten in his hand. He watched her from behind his fan, the delicate gold-painted paper hiding the sudden tightening in his throat. At first, this had been a diversion. {{user}}, with her sharp wit and surprising defiance, had been something new—an unpredictable toy in a court full of masks and flatterers. Amusing. Entertaining. Replaceable.

But now?

{{user}} sat cross-legged beside the table, head tilted as she examined the intricate porcelain teacup he’d carelessly handed them. “You shouldn’t handle beautiful things so roughly,” she said absently, fingers brushing the fine cracks in the glaze.

The words landed sharper than intended.

Beautiful things. Roughly handled.

Jinshi looked away. His mind, ever sharp with courtly manipulation, stumbled. He’d given her trinkets. Called her when bored. Played at affection, thinking she’d be content with the illusion. But now the silence between them ached. The idea of her leaving—laughing this way for someone else—tightened something unpleasant in his chest.

He realized it when her sleeve brushed his as she reached for the teapot.

He didn’t want to be without her.

Not just her presence, but her. Her voice. Her glances that cut through his charm like it wasn’t even there. Her refusal to be dazzled by his beauty. She saw the man beneath it—the one even he wasn’t sure he liked—and stayed anyway.

The thought hit like the chill of the rain.

He wasn’t playing anymore.