12

Lily came after lunch.

The silence in the office was heavy when she entered—oppressive, like the air had thickened into something that clung to her skin. The curtains were half-drawn, the lanterns dimmed to a dull amber glow that barely reached the far corners of the room. Shadows moved like they were breathing, slow and sluggish, as if they too were tired of the day.

Yen sat at his desk, hunched slightly forward, one arm resting across an unfinished scroll. His other hand held his forehead, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose like the thoughts inside were too loud, too sharp. His eyes were closed, brows drawn tight in frustration, and every few breaths, he exhaled slow and deep through his nose.

She didn't say anything. She never did, not right away.

Instead, she moved with soft steps, the hem of her robe whispering across the stone floor. She approached the table, the tea tray in her hands steady despite the tension in her wrists. She had brewed it herself—oolong, bitter and warm. He drank it on days like this. Days where letters piled too high, and elders questioned too much, and Lily couldn't do anything to help except offer him silence and heat.

She set the cup gently at his side.

Yen didn't acknowledge her. Not with words. Not with a look.

But he didn't flinch either.

That was enough.

Lily stood for a moment, eyes studying his profile. She noticed the small twitch near his jaw—how tightly it was clenched. The subtle tension in his shoulders. The way his hand curled around the scroll like he was holding back from tearing it in half.

Gently, she reached out and touched his arm.

His skin was cool.

Still no reaction.

But he didn't shrug her off.

So she moved closer. Slowly. Carefully.

She slipped beside his chair and wrapped both arms around his elbow, pressing herself into the crook of his side. Her cheek rested against his upper arm, and her fingers splayed across his chest, rubbing slowly through the layers of fabric, a soothing motion that had no weight behind it—just familiarity.

It was routine.

Something she had done a hundred times before.

When he was angry, when he was quiet, when he hadn't spoken in hours and the air in the room was too heavy to breathe… this was how she calmed him. Not with words. Never with words.

Just closeness.

Touch.

Obedience.

She leaned into him more, pressing her forehead to his shoulder.

"I ate lunch," she whispered, though he hadn't asked.

Yen didn't move for a while.

The only sound was the crackle of a dying flame and the soft whistle of wind through the high windows.

Then, without a word, he pushed back from the desk and stood. He didn't let go of her arm. His hand slid down and wrapped around her wrist, tight, firm—but not painful.

He tugged once.

She followed.

He didn't need to speak. She already knew.

-----

He led her toward the back of the office, where the curtains were drawn thick across the private alcove—an enclosed space with a sunken mattress surrounded by hanging silks and plenty of pillows. The scent of parchment, ink, and lingering smoke hung in the air, familiar and suffocating.

Yen shoved the curtains aside with one hand and pulled her in with the other.

He didn't bother lighting the lanterns.

He pushed her onto the mattress.

Not rough. Not cruel. Just direct.

Then he laid down beside her.

His hands were already moving—grabbing, adjusting, tugging her into place. He pulled her tightly against him, her back to his chest, his arms encircling her with that unmistakable kind of possessive desperation that always followed his silence.

"Warm me," he said.

The command was quiet, muffled against her shoulder.

Lily moved slowly.

She shifted in his arms, turning so she could face him, their legs tangling loosely under the sheets. Her hands pressed to his chest again, rubbing slow, small circles as she rested her forehead against his collarbone.

His robe was cold.

She moved to unfasten the buttons near his neck, loosening the fabric until she could slip a hand inside, letting her palm rest directly over his heartbeat.

His breath hitched.

"I heard about the concubines." she said softly, barely audible.

Yen didn't answer.

His fingers curled around the back of her neck, pulling her closer until her nose brushed his throat. He exhaled, long and low, burying his face in her hair.

Lily blinked slowly. Her hands moved across his chest, smoothing the wrinkles from his robe, adjusting the fabric like she was fixing him from the outside in. She didn't ask now. She didn't push.

Because she knew the truth.

When he grew silent like this—when he paced, and snapped, and let shadows flare before settling back into quiet—something had slipped. Some thread inside him had frayed just enough that only her warmth could pull it back together.

That was her role.

The one thing he allowed her to be.

His tether.

-----

Minutes passed in silence.

Yen's breathing slowed, deepened. His hands, once tense and gripping her too tightly, relaxed slightly. He rested his chin on her head now, eyes closed. She felt the weight of him settle—physically, yes, but also emotionally. Like a man returning to shore after nearly drowning.

She traced small circles over his ribs.

Then, softly: "Should I bring the mint candle next time?"

He made a sound in his throat. Not a word. Not quite a sigh. Something in between.

She took that as a yes.

-----

They stayed like that for a long while.

Neither moved.

Not until a faint knock tapped at the outer doors—Jang, no doubt, with more scrolls. More demands.

Yen didn't respond.

He didn't even raise his head.

And the knock didn't come again.

Instead, the office returned to stillness.

But this time, it was different.

Not cold.

Not heavy.

It was quiet in a way that felt earned.

Yen kept holding her.

And Lily, in the safety of his arms, told herself not to think too deeply about how tightly he clung to her. Or how cold his hands had been. Or how fast his pulse was still beating under her palm.

She just breathed.

And warmed him.