The sun hadn't risen yet when Yue opened the door.
She didn't expect anything.
The morning was the same dull gray as every other—courtyard stones slick with dew, birds barely stirring, a soft hush still lingering over the inner palace like a held breath. The kind of hour no one enjoyed unless they were old, anxious, or terribly dutiful.
She was all three.
Her foot caught on something.
A scroll.
Thin, pale, sealed—not in wax, but with the faint imprint of a cinnabar stamp.
Her fingers froze above it.
She knew that seal.
Not because she'd ever seen it on paper before.
But because she'd seen it carved into the hilt of Ji An's short sword. The same character: 安.
A single name, pressed with pressure that was somehow both precise and impersonal.
Yue crouched and picked it up.
The paper was cool from the night air. The crease on the edge indicated it had been rolled tightly, then carefully released—handled with more discipline than most handwritten notes deserved.
She carried it inside before opening it.
Han Jue was still asleep—blanket kicked off, one sock missing, mouth slack with what looked like heroic levels of unconsciousness. Good.
Yue sat at the edge of her bed and unrolled the scroll.
There was no salutation. No greeting. No instruction.
Just a list.
Sweet flag root – low amount
Dried persimmon – not soaked
Cinnamon bark – only winter use
Bitter orange – avoid
Osmanthus – preferred scent (mild only)
Each item was written in clean brushstrokes, each character evenly spaced. The ink was dry, dark, restrained.
At the bottom, in one neat line:
Seal: 安
Yue stared at it for a long time.
She knew what this was.
It wasn't a request. Not officially. There was no record. No protocol.
It was just… information.
Shared.
Voluntarily.
By him.
And that made it heavier than any royal command.
She ran her fingers lightly over the bottom of the scroll, tracing the seal but not pressing down.
Then folded it once.
Tucked it into her sleeve.
And told herself she wouldn't read it again.
(But she already had.)
Yue didn't mention the scroll.
She didn't bring it up at the infirmary. She didn't hint at it during pulse checks. She didn't even glance at Ji An differently when they crossed paths in the eastern courtyard on the way to the morning drills.
She just changed his blend.
That evening, the new tonic was lighter—less bitter, with a trace of cinnamon that lingered faintly in the cup but never overwhelmed. She added a sliver of sweet flag root. Not soaked, as requested. Just washed and pressed, steeped for exactly six minutes.
The servant returned the cup empty.
No note.
No flower this time.
But no leftovers, either.
The next morning, she altered his bath treatment. A lower heat, less aggressive detoxifiers. She used a mortar to grind osmanthus petals by hand, folding them into the infusion so they wouldn't float visibly. He didn't need to know they were there.
But he would smell it.
She recorded none of these changes in the official physician's log. There, she wrote:
Adjusted dosage to match seasonal blood pressure variation. Tonic accepted. Vital signs stable.
But on the slip of parchment she kept tucked between the pages of her private casebook, she wrote simply:
First note received. Osmanthus, cinnamon. Preferences acknowledged.
No signature.
No comment.
Just a silent exchange between two people who rarely spoke, but somehow understood what had been given.
And what was being returned.
Yue had been careful.
She kept the scroll tucked inside the inner flap of her satchel, pressed flat between clean gauze sheets and an unused diagnostic chart. She never left it on the desk. Never near her bedding. She'd even angled the cabinet drawer to avoid prying eyes.
And still—somehow—Han Jue found it.
"Explain," she said flatly, holding the scroll open like it was evidence in a high-level trial.
Yue didn't look up from her salve kit. "Put that back."
"You said it was nothing."
"I didn't say anything."
"Exactly," Han Jue replied, waving the scroll at her like a fan. "Which, for you, means everything. You're a compulsive not-talker when something bothers you."
"Or maybe I just don't want my roommate rummaging through my belongings like a raccoon with too much free time."
Han Jue walked over and unceremoniously sat cross-legged on Yue's mat. "Let's talk about this list."
"It's a list of ingredients."
"It's a list of preferences. Bath preferences. From the Crown Prince. Who doesn't speak to anyone unless legally required."
Yue plucked the scroll from her hand, rolled it carefully, and set it beside her kit. "It's a professional note."
Han Jue leaned closer, eyes glinting. "He signed it."
Yue's hands froze.
"He stamped it, Yue. Do you understand what that means?"
"It means he owns ink."
"It means he wrote it himself. And he wanted you to know that."
Yue picked up a strip of linen and began folding it with exaggerated calm. "You're projecting."
"No, I'm interpreting," Han Jue said, now lying on her side with her head in one hand. "This is romantic in Ji An language. A scroll. Sealed. With detailed feedback. It's his version of whispering poetry under moonlight."
Yue gave her a look. "Do you hear yourself?"
Han Jue ignored the warning. "It's very intimate. 'Avoid bitter orange' might as well be a love confession."
"I'm going to smother you with this gauze."
"Do it gently. That way I can die in the scent of osmanthus."
Yue snorted—then immediately regretted it.
Han Jue pounced. "That was a smile. I saw it."
"It was a cramp."
"From where? Emotional denial?"
Yue shoved a pillow in her face.
But when Han Jue eventually drifted off, muttering nonsense into the side of her blanket, Yue picked up the scroll again.
She didn't reread it.
She didn't need to.
She just smoothed the crease gently with one thumb and folded it along the same lines she had the first time.
Then placed it back in the satchel.
Carefully.
As if it were something worth keeping.
By the fourth day, it was undeniable.
Ji An had started to speak.
Not much. Not about anything personal. But words came now—spare and deliberate, like coins counted one at a time.
The first was during a pulse check. Yue had moved to adjust the padded mat under his wrist. It shifted slightly, angling his hand downward. He tensed—not much, just a flicker of discomfort.
She paused.
"It's too hot," he said quietly.
Her head lifted.
He didn't repeat it.
Didn't look at her either.
She adjusted the mat and said nothing.
The second was during a consultation on his lung function. A lingering tightness had returned in his chest after sword drills during the morning fog. She was preparing the tonic blend when he muttered, "Less bitter."
Yue didn't glance up. Just altered the ratio.
The third happened two mornings later. She reached to palpate the muscle behind his right shoulder blade—tight, again. He exhaled through his nose.
"Move slower."
This time, she did look at him. Just briefly.
He wasn't scowling. Not exactly.
But he wasn't not scowling either.
"Sensitive?" she asked, tone light.
"No," he replied flatly. "Exacting."
She pressed with more precision.
He said nothing more.
But didn't flinch.
She made a quiet note on her chart. Not about the injury.
About the talking.
Patient began offering specific verbal feedback. Brevity consistent. No hostility detected. Adjustment accepted without protest.
She didn't mention that she liked the sound of his voice when it wasn't wrapped in cold command. Or that his words, short as they were, felt like drops of water landing after a long drought.
It wasn't about what he said.
It was that he was saying anything at all.
Yue had always liked acupuncture days.
The stillness it demanded suited her. The precision. The quiet. There was something sacred in the practice — the slow tension of breath and balance, the subtle responses of the body as it adjusted to each point. Most patients either fidgeted or fell asleep.
Ji An did neither.
He sat in silence, spine straight, eyes half-closed, never twitching once as the needles entered the skin.
The room they used for these treatments was smaller than his receiving chambers — less formal. A single chair, a low table, and a wall scroll depicting a pine tree twisted in winter wind. It had been gifted to the Crown Prince by a minor governor and ignored ever since.
Yue had already placed five of the eight needles. The next went at the upper shoulder, just beside the tension point she'd marked the day before. She reached for the needle, delicate and thin, then paused as she noticed the slight lift of his brow.
He'd noticed her pause.
She smirked.
"Don't worry," she murmured. "I haven't missed since I was sixteen."
Ji An didn't open his eyes. "That's comforting."
She leaned in and placed the sixth needle with practiced care.
Silence.
Then, after a beat—
"You're unusually tense," she observed.
"It's raining," he replied.
"You're not a roof tile."
"No," he said, "but I listen better when it rains."
Yue tilted her head. "And what are you listening for?"
He didn't answer.
She didn't push.
She placed the seventh needle — then the final.
He exhaled. Slowly.
Not discomfort. Not pain.
Just release.
Yue stepped back and eyed the precise alignment of the needles. She couldn't help herself.
"You're just less prickly when you're full of needles."
Ji An's eyes flicked open.
Very slowly.
And for the briefest of seconds—
His mouth twitched.
Not quite upward.
But not quite neutral either.
A shift.
A breath of expression.
The kind that barely happened unless caught by accident.
Yue didn't acknowledge it.
Didn't tease it.
Didn't chase it.
She only turned back to her kit and said, calmly:
"I'll let you sit in stillness. Let me know when your body starts telling you secrets."
He didn't reply.
But he didn't stop watching her as she moved.
There was no scroll that evening.
No folded parchment beneath the inkstone.
No knock on the door.
No messenger waiting outside with a sealed command or preference list.
Nothing.
Just the usual quiet.
Yue sat at her desk anyway, staring at her ingredients like they might give her answers. The light from the lantern beside her flickered against the copper basin where the next day's tonic was already soaking.
The choice was hers now.
He hadn't told her what to use.
He hadn't told her not to, either.
She picked up the osmanthus last. Dried petals, faintly golden, barely fragrant until crushed.
She ground them slowly.
Pressed the scent into the tea blend without fanfare.
Without explanation.
It wasn't part of the standard recipe. It wasn't listed in the official chart. But when the blend was poured and sealed the next morning, the subtle floral note drifted upward and clung softly to the air.
She sent the cup with the usual servant boy.
Didn't follow.
Didn't wait.
Didn't ask.
The cup returned.
Empty.
No message.
No flower.
No seal.
But she noticed something when she checked the return tray: it had been wiped clean with an embroidered hand cloth. Palace issue. Folded with military neatness.
Ji An's.
Most cups came back smudged. Rinsed. Barely touched.
This one looked like it had been set down carefully.
Yue stood in the doorway of the infirmary, watching the cup, still warm from the return trip.
She didn't smile.
But she didn't need to.
Some things didn't require acknowledgement.
They just needed to happen.
And be quietly noticed.