Ling Yue returned to the room after a few hours, hoping — perhaps foolishly — that Han Junhui's mood would have softened by now. But the moment he slid the door open, a gentle wave of daisy fragrance mixed with sandalwood drifted out.
He knew it was from Han Junhui, but he could never understand why. Why did Han Junhui have two scents? Tonight, it was thicker. Almost overwhelming.
The lantern flickered weakly above him as he headed toward Han Junhui's bed, where he was still lying exactly as Ling Yue had left him earlier.
"Han Junhui," he called gently, a small hope stirring in his chest, hoping he would turn. "Are you feeling any better? Do you want to talk now?"
But there was no response. Not even the sound of a breath shifting.
Ling Yue moved closer, stopping at the edge of the bed. He studied the broad line of Han Junhui's back and the faint rise and fall of his breathing. For a moment, Ling Yue wondered what was going on with him.
