Time: Jinghe Year One, a deep autumn night
Location: Eastern Warm Chamber, Palace of Heavenly Purity
The candlelight flickered, casting a soft amber glow across the quiet chamber. The imperial desk was piled high with memorials, now finally reviewed. The vermilion brush rested on its stand, still faintly warm. Gu Lian leaned against the couch lined with golden cushions, head propped on one hand. At some point, he had drifted into deep sleep.
His breathing was steady. Long lashes cast gentle shadows beneath his eyes. The sharp, penetrating gaze he wore by day was now closed, lending his face a rare softness—one that matched his age.
Ai Miao quietly closed the final document and placed it in order. He straightened, rubbing his shoulders, sore from hours of sitting. His gaze naturally fell on the sleeping emperor.
His steps, without conscious thought, grew light. Slow.
He approached the couch as if nearing a priceless treasure, and stopped beside it. The only sounds in the room were the occasional crackle of the candlewick and the interwoven rhythm of their breathing.
Ai Miao stood there, eyes lowered, gazing at Gu Lian. The eyes that were always calm and unreadable in court now rippled like a deep well disturbed by a single stone— Stirring emotions no outsider could ever name.
There was longing. There was pain. And a tenderness so reverent it bordered on worship.
He saw the faint crease between Gu Lian's brows— Even in sleep, the weight of the empire lingered.
Ai Miao's fingers twitched, almost lifting to smooth it away— But stopped midair.
Instead, he slowly, solemnly lowered himself to one knee, placing himself at a position of reverent gaze. It was the posture of a subject before his sovereign— But also the posture of a man who, in his heart, had always regarded this person as sacred.
His eyes drifted to Gu Lian's lips— Lips that had once hurled the harshest accusations at him, And also spoken the most burning promises.
But he dared not trespass.
His gaze finally settled on Gu Lian's hand, resting casually at the edge of the couch. It was the hand of a young emperor—long, strong, with calluses from years of writing and sword practice. This hand held the power of the realm. And once… had interlaced with his own, passing warmth and strength that could not be denied.
Ai Miao held his breath. Drawn by something unseen, he slowly, carefully reached out— As if touching fragile glass— And gently lifted that hand.
His own fingers were cool. Gu Lian's palm, even in sleep, held warmth. The contrast made Ai Miao's heart tremble.
He lowered his head. Dark lashes veiled the storm in his eyes. Then, like a devout believer kissing a sacred relic, He pressed his lips—cool, soft, reverent— To the callused joint of Gu Lian's middle finger.
The moment skin met skin, time seemed to stop.
A silent sigh stirred in his chest— Like a feather brushing across still water.
Your Highness… My Emperor…
If you were awake, I would never dare such boldness.
This empire is too heavy. The throne too cold.Let me be your foundation—shielding you from every arrow,Holding up this vast land beneath your feet.
All the unspoken past, all the necessary schemes—Were for this moment.To guard your sleep.To trade for your peace.
It was a fleeting kiss— As light as autumn wind brushing past osmanthus blossoms.
When it ended, Ai Miao seemed to awaken from a dream. He released the hand, placing it gently back where it had been. His movements remained soft, but now carried a trace of haste.
He rose quickly, stepped back, straightened his spine. All visible emotion vanished in an instant— Replaced by the composed, calculating Lord Wen'an.
He cast one last glance at the sleeping Gu Lian, Then turned and extinguished the nearest candle— Leaving only a single night lamp to guard the emperor's rest.
He exited the chamber without a sound, As if he had never been there.
Just as the door closed with a soft click— On the couch, the lashes of the supposedly sleeping Gu Lian trembled faintly. In the darkness, his lips curved into a subtle, knowing smile.
The hand that had been kissed curled slightly inward— As if trying to hold onto that fleeting, cool, tender touch.
…Audacious.