The banquet glittered beneath the lanterns, a haze of silk and laughter and gilded words. Song Jian sat beside his wife, every gesture precise, every expression measured. Around them, courtiers murmured in admiration—what a poised couple, what harmony they projected. He lifted his cup in polite acknowledgment, his practiced smile steady, yet his gaze kept drifting toward you.

Your sleeve brushed his hand as you leaned closer to murmur something—a simple comment, likely about the emperor’s speech or the musicians—but the faint curve of your lips caught him off guard. It was a gentle smile, light as breath, the kind reserved for formality and for show. And yet… for one foolish moment, it felt real.

He let himself imagine it was. That the warmth in your tone was not obligation, but affection. That when your eyes met his, there was more than mere civility there. In that fragile illusion, his chest tightened—an ache he had long buried stirring once again.

The illusion shattered with a cheer from the far end of the hall. He blinked, realizing too late that you had spoken again, your voice lost amid the din. His composure faltered, a rare crack in his calm.

“Forgive me,” he said softly, straightening his posture, tone cool once more. “Would you repeat that? My attention wandered.”