Gu Lian no longer waits. He reaches. And Ai Miao begins to yield.
August of Yongxi's seventeenth year passed in a delicate haze. Since that rain-soaked confession, Gu Lian and Ai Miao's relationship had entered a new phase—intimate, yet distant.
One afternoon near the end of the month, Gu Lian was reviewing memorials when his hand brushed against Ai Miao's as he sorted documents. Ai Miao paused, but didn't pull away. He simply continued organizing the papers.
"This memorial on canal reform needs priority," Ai Miao said, voice calm as ever, as if the touch had never happened.
Gu Lian's heart raced. He took the document, letting his fingers deliberately graze the back of Ai Miao's hand. "You're right."
Ai Miao looked up, gaze steady. "Your Highness should focus on governance."
These subtle tests continued. Gu Lian would hold Ai Miao's hand when passing items, lean closer during walks, request a hug before parting at night.
Ai Miao allowed every gesture—but never initiated. He seemed to be fulfilling a promise, not responding to affection.
In early September, the palace began preparing for the Double Ninth Festival at the Western Hills retreat. Gu Lian was unusually excited.
"I hear the red leaves are at their peak," he said after class. "We should stay a few extra days."
Ai Miao tidied the desk. "Your Highness mustn't neglect state affairs."
"With you by my side, I can govern anywhere," Gu Lian whispered, leaning in.
Ai Miao subtly stepped away. "Your Highness—someone's here."
Murong Che stood at the door, holding his finished essay. He saw their closeness and a flicker of pain crossed his eyes.
"Sir," Murong Che said hoarsely, "I've completed my analysis."
Ai Miao took the scroll, skimmed it, and nodded. "Improved. But your assessment of Beijing's situation lacks depth."
"I understand." Murong Che lowered his head. "I'll revise it."
Gu Lian watched his retreating figure, feeling both smug and guilty. He knew Murong Che's feelings—and knew his own actions were salt on a wound.
On the ninth day of the ninth month, the royal entourage departed for the Western Hills. It was Gu Lian's first overnight trip with Ai Miao since their confession, and he was elated.
The retreat was freer than the palace. After the banquet, Gu Lian used "state discussion" as an excuse to keep Ai Miao in his chambers.
"The moonlight here is lovelier than in the palace," Gu Lian said, opening the window.
Ai Miao stood by the sill. "Your Highness should rest. Tomorrow we climb the mountain."
Gu Lian turned to him. "Do you remember what you promised me that night?"
"I remember."
"Then tonight…" Gu Lian's voice softened. "Stay."
Ai Miao hesitated. "I'll keep watch in the outer room."
"I want you here." Gu Lian tugged his sleeve. "Like in the palace."
It was the first time Gu Lian explicitly asked to share a bed.
Ai Miao looked into his expectant eyes. At last, he nodded. "Alright."
That night, Gu Lian lay beside him. Though they kept a respectful distance, it was a milestone.
He listened to Ai Miao's steady breathing, inhaled the faint scent of ink on his robes, and felt a quiet, overwhelming joy.
After returning to the palace, Gu Lian grew bolder. He kissed Ai Miao's cheek in private, slipped into his room at night, asked for tighter embraces.
Ai Miao never refused—but never reciprocated. He maintained the boundary: indulgent, but unmoved.
One day in the garden pavilion, Gu Lian hugged him from behind. "Your birthday's next month. What gift do you want?"
Ai Miao gently pulled away. "I need nothing."
"I want to give you the best."
"Your peace and happiness are the best gift."
These exchanges always ended in quiet frustration. No matter how Gu Lian tried, Ai Miao's wall of propriety remained.
In October, Gu Lian noticed Ai Miao's behavior toward Murong Che had changed. He was stricter, more distant.
"Sir seems busy lately?" Murong Che asked after class.
"Beijing's situation is shifting. I must prepare." Ai Miao didn't look up.
"Can I help?"
"Focus on your own duties."
Gu Lian overheard, feeling both reassured and uneasy. Ai Miao was keeping his distance—but something else was occupying him.
That night, Gu Lian visited Ai Miao's quarters and found him speaking with a stranger. The man left quickly when Gu Lian arrived.
"Your Highness," Ai Miao greeted him.
"Who was that?" Gu Lian asked.
"A clerk from the Ministry of Rites. Delivering documents from Beijing." Ai Miao's answer was flawless.
Gu Lian didn't press. But doubt took root.
What troubled him more was the stagnation between them. Ai Miao allowed hugs—but only for three breaths. Accepted kisses—but only on the cheek. Shared a bed—but never crossed the line.
This "given but never taken" stance left Gu Lian emptier each time. He wanted more—real possession, true confirmation.
In mid-October, palace maids came to teach Gu Lian about intimacy. One was a carefully chosen beauty. But Gu Lian, thinking only of Ai Miao's cool gaze, said:
"Leave. I don't need this."
That night, he made a bold decision—he summoned the royal archivist and requested the hidden scrolls: illustrated texts depicting male intimacy.
On October 18, the eve of Ai Miao's birthday, Gu Lian dismissed his attendants and waited in the study.
When Ai Miao arrived to report on Beijing, Gu Lian pushed a gift toward him—not gold or jewels, but a rare copy of Annotations on the Nine Provinces, and a purple bamboo brush engraved with "Unity of Thought and Action" in Ai Miao's favorite calligraphy style.
"Where did Your Highness find this?" Ai Miao, usually composed, couldn't hide his joy. The book was crucial to his strategic planning.
"I'm glad you like it." Gu Lian looked at him. "And… I've requested Father to appoint you to the Privy Council once Murong Che returns."
The weight of the gift was immense. It catered to Ai Miao's intellect—and gave him the platform he'd long desired.
Ai Miao's fingers tightened around the scroll. He bowed. "Thank you, Your Highness."
"I don't want thanks." Gu Lian seized the moment, grasping his wrist. "I want you… to stay with me tonight."
It was the first time Gu Lian's request came with an exchange. He held his breath.
Ai Miao was silent. The candlelight flickered. His strategist's composure cracked—just slightly.
"…Alright," he said at last.
That night, Gu Lian held him again. But for the first time, Ai Miao didn't pull away after three breaths. He let Gu Lian rest his head on his shoulder. He even adjusted the blanket after Gu Lian fell asleep.
At the end of October, the emperor ordered preparations for the autumn hunt. When Gu Lian learned Ai Miao would join, his heart surged with anticipation.
That birthday night had changed everything. Even a small shift gave him hope.
"This hunt," Gu Lian said during evening lessons, brushing Ai Miao's hand, "I hear the deer are fat this year."
Ai Miao didn't pull away. He paused, looked up, and said—softly, for the first time:
"Bring your silver fox cloak. The nights in the hills are cold."
That simple care struck Gu Lian like lightning. Joy flooded him.
He looked at Ai Miao's profile in the lamplight. The bold thought born from those secret scrolls now crystallized into resolve:
During the autumn hunt, he would truly, completely claim this man.
The autumn wind swept through the palace, scattering golden leaves.
Gu Lian stood by the window, watching Ai Miao's retreating figure.
He no longer hesitated.
Some boundaries must be broken by his own hand.
Some joys must be seized.
And Ai Miao's wall—was beginning to crack.