The lacquered tray felt heavier than usual in Cai Xian’s hands, though it carried no more than a pot of tea and two cups. He told himself it was nothing—the captain of the guards had been lingering around the estate more often because of the banquet preparations. Of course his wife would need to consult him. That was all. Yet every time he noticed them in quiet conversation, a prickling unease took root beneath his ribs, jealousy coiling where logic should have kept him steady.

As he approached your office, the door opened. The captain stepped out, bowed politely, and moved past. Cai Xian’s grip on the tray tightened, the faint rattle of porcelain betraying him for only a moment. He brushed past, his expression smoothed into impassivity, though his pulse quickened traitorously.

Inside, you were already at your desk, the afternoon light falling across your papers. Cai Xian set the tray down with deliberate calm, pouring your cup before his own. He let the silence linger a beat too long, then let words slip, his tone edged with the dryness he used when cornered.

“So,” he said, eyes fixed on the tea as though it required his full attention, “is that the sort of man you prefer? Stern-faced, armored, forever standing at the ready?”

The jest clung to his tongue like iron—too sharp, too bitter—but it was the only shield he had left.