Lily woke with the hush of early dawn clinging to her skin.
She lay beneath the heavy silk canopy of their bed, the world still dim except for the faint gold peeking in through the velvet curtains. The air was cold, but she was warm—too warm. Trapped, almost. Yen's body was pressed close behind her, one arm draped over her ribs, the other curled under her neck. His breath warmed the crown of her head. His lips rested lightly in her hair.
She was entirely enclosed.
And her clothes had changed.
Her eyes fluttered open fully, and a strange stillness filled her chest. She didn't remember walking to bed, didn't recall undressing. Just fragments remained—falling asleep to the soft sway of the carriage, the sensation of being lifted, strong arms wrapped around her as her head lolled against his chest. The gentle rasp of cloth on skin. A whispered shush against her ear as he dressed her like a doll.
She must've drifted in and out. But now she was here. In her nightgown. In his arms. In his bed.
And she couldn't move.
Yen's grip wasn't tight, but it was absolute. She could shift slightly, breathe gently—but not escape. Not without waking him. So she didn't try. She stared up at the ceiling, tracing the soft pattern etched into the woodwork. Her eyes followed it silently as if she could read answers there.
So she waited.
Waited until his breathing shifted, until the first flicker of consciousness stirred behind his closed eyes. She felt it before he moved—the faint change in energy, the soft intake of breath that signaled he was waking. Then, as naturally as the morning light spilling across the floor, he moved.
His face nuzzled closer into her hair, and the first thing he did—before a word, before a sound—was smile.
Then he kissed her temple.
"Good morning," he murmured, voice thick with sleep and still threaded with dream.
He didn't say anything else at first. Just hugged her tighter, resting there for a moment like this embrace was the only thing that mattered. Eventually, he stirred, uncoiling from around her with slow, languid grace. She sat up with him, brushing her hair back, her nightgown whispering against the sheets.
They went to the bath.
The chamber was still cool, and steam curled above the water like silk threads dancing in air. She scrubbed his back in silence, her small hands dragging the soapy cloth along the pale plane of his shoulders, down the curve of his spine. When she touched his jaw, he tilted into it like a cat—closing his eyes, rubbing his cheek lazily against her palm, as if her touch alone soothed something deep in him.
He smirked when she caught the corner of his mouth with her thumb. She knew that look. He was playful in the mornings. Needy in the quiet hours before his crown returned to his head.
After the bath, he stood still, dripping, watching her as she toweled him dry. His gaze never left her, even as her hands worked silently. Then she began dressing him in the formal black-and-gold robes he favored for court—her fingers tugging gently on the sleeves, smoothing the layers against his tall frame.
When she struggled to reach the ornate clasp at his collar, he leaned down with a little bow of amusement, resting his forehead briefly against hers.
He stole a kiss.
Then another.
Always more than one. Always too many.
She rolled her eyes and covered his mouth with her hand, silencing him gently but firmly.
"I want to go to the capital," she said, her voice quiet but steady.
His breath stilled beneath her palm.
The room held the hush of steam and silence. His lips pressed against her skin, unmoving, unreadable.
Then slowly, very slowly, he pulled her hand away from his mouth—his fingers curling around her wrist as if it were something precious. Or breakable.
"Why?" he asked, softly. No smile now. Just a question, bare and waiting.
"It's been weeks," Lily murmured, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve as if the motion could distract from the truth in her words. "I'm feeling… cramped up in here."
The room was quiet, save for the faint rustle of fabrics and the distant echo of water dripping in the bathing chamber behind them. Morning light filtered through the tall windows, soft and golden—too gentle to match the weight hanging in the air.
Yen didn't respond at first. His eyes narrowed slightly, not in irritation, but in that unsettling, calculating way he often did when he was measuring something—her mood, her words, her motive. Then, without fanfare, he tilted his head, as if weighing the sky outside the window.
And nodded.
Lily smiled. It was small, a breath of relief dressed up in politeness. She didn't expect him to agree so easily. Maybe he—
"I will accompany you."
Her smile faded instantly.
Just like that. Like a candle snuffed out.
But Yen didn't seem to notice. Or more likely, he did—and simply didn't care.
"But not now," he added smoothly, straightening the cuff she'd just touched, eyes flicking briefly to hers. "Let's have a date instead. Hm… maybe three days from now."
"Yen—" Her voice caught somewhere between a plea and a protest.
"Lily." His tone wasn't raised. But it landed like a brick.
She stared at him. He stared back.
And the moment stretched long between them.
Then her gaze broke first. It always did. Her eyes dropped to the floor, lashes dipping low, her mouth pressed into a thin, pale line. Her hands curled quietly around each other in her lap.
Yen stepped forward.
"Don't sulk, my love," he murmured as he lowered himself onto one knee before her, wrapping his arms around her waist with a tenderness that felt all the more dangerous for how practiced it was. He rested his cheek lightly against her abdomen, eyes closing as he held her there—like he was praying at an altar.
"Let's wait until your period's over," he said softly, his voice dipped in something far too warm for the weight of his words. "You should feel more productive by then."
Lily didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Just stared at the far window again, where morning spilled through the panes and the outside world still looked deceptively open.