4

The ink arrived with barely a sound, the door creaking open just long enough for Jang to step through. He didn't look at her, not really. His head remained low as he walked across the polished stone, the sealed ceramic pot cupped in his hands with reverence. The guards outside didn't need to glance in. They already knew how quiet the room needed to be.

Lily was already kneeling on the floor by the hearth, her gaze fixed on nothing. Not even Jang. Not Yen. Just the red embroidery of her robe pooling around her knees, where the dragon's jaw curled open in thread and flame.

Jang bowed low to her—out of habit, out of respect, maybe even pity—and carefully placed the ink on the stone table beside Yen's arm. Then he bowed to Yen too, a little deeper, and took his leave without a word.

The door shut again then she moved without needing to be told.

Lily rose to her feet and drifted to the low table where the ink waited, the hem of her robe whispering across the floor like silk against bone. She sat by his side—his left, always the left—and gently unsealed the pot. The scent of fresh ink bloomed up, rich and earthy and faintly metallic. She took the ink stone with both hands, and began grinding.

Yen didn't speak. His brush was poised, but unmoving. His eyes followed the lines he'd written before—some report, some decree, some matter of dynasty that required absolute precision. He didn't even glance at her, though her presence sank into the air beside him like heat pressed into skin.

The sound of grinding ink filled the space between them. Slow. Patient. Rhythmic.

The way he liked it.

She didn't rush. She didn't ask if it was dark enough or ready. When it was, she merely dipped the brush in and held it up for him to take. He did, without looking, fingers brushing hers as he resumed writing.

She returned the stone to its spot and sat with her hands folded in her lap. Silent. Watching.

It went on like that for an hour.

He worked like a man possessed—swift, sharp strokes on the parchment, each character deliberate and cold. His jaw tightened every time the brush flicked upward, every time a stroke didn't land exactly as he wanted. His back tensed more and more, the stress knotting up his shoulders, until even Lily could feel it from where she knelt.

His sigh came suddenly. Deep and frustrated.

She moved again.

Lily rose soundlessly to her feet and stepped behind him, her bare soles barely tapping the polished floor. Her hands, small and pale, found his shoulders without hesitation. He didn't flinch, didn't pause his writing. Her thumbs pressed gently at first, testing the tension in his muscles.

Then firmer.

She knew how to do this. Knew his body better than her own. Where to press. Where to knead. Where the knots were worst.

Her fingers slid beneath the folds of his inner robe, working at the tight cords of muscle along his shoulder blades. He was tense—he was always tense—but today, it felt carved into him. Like stone pretending to be flesh.

He let out a breath through his nose. Not quite a sigh. More like... permission.

Her hands climbed higher, thumbs circling at the base of his neck. She leaned in closer, letting her warmth bleed into his back. She knew he liked that too—the heat of her, the scent of her, subtle and clean and his. He'd made her stop wearing perfume. He said her skin had its own.

She dragged her fingers up through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp the way he liked. He was still writing, though slower now. Sloppier.

Her lips hovered over the crown of his head, not quite touching. He was taller, always taller, even seated. Her breath brushed through his hair as her hands massaged his temples, the pads of her thumbs pressing slow, soothing circles.

His brush paused again.

His shoulders dropped half an inch.

Another breath.

"Should I press harder?" she whispered at last, voice low, barely audible.

He didn't respond. Not with words. But his head tilted just enough to lean into her touch, and she knew.

She kept going. Moving in practiced patterns. Neck, scalp, shoulders, down his spine where she could reach. Her hands wandered lower with careful reverence, smoothing over his ribs and back up, never daring to touch too low.

He worked through another paragraph, and she could feel the way his muscles moved under her hands. Like watching a storm from behind glass. All that pressure and control, waiting to crack.

The ink in the pot began to dry at the edges. She noticed but didn't move. He would ask for more when he needed it. Until then, her job was this.

He set the brush down.

Finally.

"Tea," he said, voice dry, eyes still on the parchment.

She stepped away, walking toward the tea set in the corner. Everything was already prepared—Jang had brought fresh leaves earlier—but it was Lily who always brewed it. Always poured. The way he liked. Hands just so. Motions fluid. Quiet.

Steam curled from the spout as she poured, not a drop spilling. The scent of jasmine filled the room. She brought the cup to him and knelt, offering it with both hands.

He took it without looking. Sipped. Then set it beside the ink.

His hand reached for her and she let him grab her wrist.

He pulled her forward, until she was in his lap.

Her breath caught for half a second, but she didn't resist. Just let herself settle against him, her knees straddling his thighs as his arms circled her waist. The heavy fabric of his robe was coarse beneath her legs, but his chest was warm where it pressed into hers.

His head dropped against her shoulder.

She stroked his hair again, fingers combing slowly through the strands, tugging gently at the knots near the nape. Her other hand smoothed down his back, slow and calming.

His breath was hot against her neck. She felt it more than heard it—tight, uneven, like his lungs were fighting something invisible.

His grip on her waist tightened. Not bruising. Not yet. But firm.

And he stayed.

The candles flickered. The ink cooled. The tea grew cold.

But neither of them moved.