The kitchen's warmth wrapped around them like a well-worn quilt, the lantern's amber glow flickering soft on the clay walls, casting long shadows that danced lazy across the herb racks. Steam rose gentle from the chamomile pot, carrying that earthy flower-sweet scent—mild and soothing, mingling with the ginger's faint zing and the cinnamon's lingering ghost from the day's bakes. Yelan leaned against the counter, mug cradled in both hands, the rough clay warm against her palms, sipping slow to let the heat chase the hall's leftover chill. The tile floor felt cool and steady under her bare feet, grounding her after the sneak, the faint tick-tickof the cooling pot the only rhythm in the quiet nook. Jinshi stood close, his own mug steaming untouched on the wood beside her, purple eyes thoughtful in the low light—watching her like she was a puzzle half-solved, the air between them easy but charged, like the hush before a good story unfolds.
He'd been mid-sip when it caught him. The slip of her robe collar in the stir, pale skin showing just so under the lantern's kiss. And there—small silver holes, pin-sharp and tiny, dotting her shoulder like frost pricks on glass. Glistening faint. Wrong. Not a bruise. Not a scratch. Something colder. His mug paused halfway down, the steam's curl forgotten, heart giving a hard kick. What the hell? The words stuck a beat, worry rising fast—not the light tease from the hall, but deep, adult kind, the sort that twisted in your gut when someone you... cared about hurt quiet.
"Yelan," he said, voice low but edged—worried rough, like gravel under careful step. "Your shoulder. What happened? Those marks... what's that?"
She froze mid-sip, mug hovering, the chamomile's warmth suddenly too hot on her lips. He saw. Her hand went up quick—fingers brushing the spot casual, like swatting a fly, robe tugged back to cover. But her laugh came forced, light and brush-off. "Aha, it's nothing. Just... pulled something earlier. In the rush with Xiao Mei. No big deal."
Jinshi didn't smile. Didn't tease back. His eyes stayed on her, steady and serious—adult worry creasing his brow faint, the kind that came from seeing too much hurt in the palace, hidden under smiles and bows. He set his mug down slow, clinksoft on wood, leaning in a touch—close enough his spice scent cut the steam, cinnamon warm but his tone heavier. "I'm not joking, Yelan. I asked something. What are those? They look... wrong."
The words landed heavy. Yelan's breath caught, mug lowering shaky, her grin fading fast. Fear flickered—real, sharp, like a door creaking open on something she'd locked tight. He won't drop it. What if he pushes? What if he thinks I'm... broken?Her eyes dropped to the counter, fingers white-knuckling the clay, heart thumping loud in her ears—shy panic mixing with the old ache from the scars, silver pricks stinging faint under skin like cold reminders. The kitchen's coziness shrank, air thick now, steam's curl mocking the knot in her throat.
Jinshi saw it hit. Her face—eyes wide, shoulders hunching just a fraction, that spark dimming like a snuffed wick.Shit. Scaring her. Guilt twisted quick, softening his edge. He exhaled slow, voice dropping calmer—gentle now, like easing a spooked horse, hand lifting half-way then falling back, no touch. "Hey... easy. I'm not mad. Just... worried. You don't have to hide it from me." A beat, eyes searching hers soft. "Does it hurt? Those spots... from Xiao Mei? The healing?"
Yelan swallowed, mug set down thud too hard, tea sloshing faint over the rim—gold drop trailing warm on clay. She met his gaze hesitant, fear easing slow under his calm, like ice under sun. He's not pushing. Just... cares. The words tumbled out small at first, hints more than full spill—voice quiet, like testing water. "Yeah. From her. Sort of." A pause, fingers tracing the mug's chip absent, rough edge grounding her. "It's... a gift. Or curse. You pick. When I heal—or help like that—I get a piece back. Equal pain. One scar. Depends on what I'm fixing."
Jinshi's brow furrowed deeper, but gentle—no judgment, just leaning in, voice steady as the pot's simmer. "Equal pain? Like... you felt her cold? For real?"
She nodded, eyes on the steam curling between them—misty veil, chamomile's sweet masking the knot in her chest. "Yeah. The silver chill? Jumped a little. Into me. These..." Hand brushed shoulder light, sting faint like needle ghost. "Pins from it. Frost echoes. Stays till... I don't know. Fades maybe. But it's the price. For knowing scents that deep. Pulling the wrong out."
He stayed quiet a beat, mug forgotten, the lantern's flickthrowing gold on his face—worry lines soft, but eyes warm, like holding space without crowding. "Price? That's no gift, Yelan. That's... heavy. Why didn't you say? In the apothecary—Maomao saw you pale, but this?" Voice dipped lower, kind edge sharpening to care. "You carry it alone every time? For maids? For... anyone?"
Yelan shrugged small, smile trying but wobbly—teeth peeking half-hearted, wild spark dimmed but flickering back. "Have to. Can't stop. If I smell the hurt... it calls. Like today. Xiao Mei's bite—sweet poison, northern twist. I knew. Had to." A sip then, tea hot on tongue, mint bite waking her—sharp, clear. "It's not all bad. Makes me useful. Palace needs that. But yeah... alone. Mostly."
"Not alone," he said quick, words firm but soft—no command, just truth, like handing over a shared weight. "Not anymore. If it's from helping... from today... tell me how to fix it. Herbs? Rest? Something." Hand hovered near the counter, close but not touching—space given, but there.
She looked up, surprise cutting the fear—his face open, purple eyes steady like anchors. He means it. No pity. Just... help. Heart eased, shy warmth blooming slow. "Fix? Don't know yet. Frostroot helped the cold. Maybe... time. Or more tea." Laugh small, real now—giggle edge, teeth flash pretty-sharp. "Gift's got rules. Equal in, equal out. But... thanks. For asking. Not dropping it."
Jinshi's smile returned faint, relief softening the worry lines—eyes crinkling just so. "Not dropping. Promise. But if it worsens... you say. No brushing." Mug lift, sip shared—chamomile's calm sinking in, steam's curl a bridge between.
Yelan nodded, mug to lips again, the kitchen's hum wrapping back—pot's tick cooling, herb rustle faint in draft. "Deal. Your turn—how'd you fake that limp? Looked real. Owe me the trick."
He chuckled low, tension breaking like thin ice. "Trade secret. But... next sneak, you teach barefoot quiet. Fair?"
"Fair." Words hung easy now, the silver pricks on her shoulder stinging less—echoes, but shared ones.