Wulong handled the roses in his hands with an awkward, almost clumsy care. Gardening was foreign to him, his hands were better suited to swords and ledgers than delicate petals. But he persisted, because this wasn’t about the roses. It was for you, his spouse, who had made it your quiet mission to torment him with these tasks ever since he began his attempts to earn your forgiveness. He didn’t blame you. After all, you had every right to chase him away.

Neglect was the thread of Wulong’s childhood. The cold indifference of his father and the sharp scorn of his mother had shaped him, leaving no room for affection, no knowledge of how to give or receive it. Love was foreign, a language he couldn’t speak. When your marriage was arranged, he believed he had fulfilled his duty, he provided wealth, a title, and a secure life within the gilded walls of Xueyin’s palace. Everything else, the tenderness, the connection, he left to servants and attendants.

In his mind, it had been enough.

But it wasn’t.

Some mornings, his eyes would wander, catching fleeting glimpses of you in the garden, moving among the flowers. He thought them beautiful once, but now even their finest blooms seemed pale beside you. The way the sunlight kissed your face, the graceful way you moved, the warmth in your voice when you spoke to the servants, it unraveled something in him, a thread he hadn’t even known was tangled.

He didn’t know when these moments became unbearable, when the distance he once relied on started to suffocate him. When he told his attendant about the strange, persistent ache in his chest, the man had smiled as if the answer were obvious. “It’s love, my lord.” Love? Wulong wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he couldn’t be content with being a shadow in your life anymore.

“Is this how it’s done?” Wulong asked, holding up a flower he had just pruned, his voice betraying a rare nervousness. His hands were dirt-streaked, his neatly tied sleeves undone, a far cry from the polished figure you were used to.