emotional

☾ part 1

☾ part 2

☾ part 3 ☾ extra (1) ☾ epilogue ☾ extra (2)

You were six years old the first time you saw Sylus Qin.

It had been a beautiful spring afternoon, the kind where the sun hung warm and golden in a cloudless sky and the palace gardens were in full bloom. You’d been playing alone among the peonies—your attendants watching from a respectful distance as always—when you’d heard voices approaching along the gravel path.

Men’s voices. Your father’s, you’d recognized immediately, and another you didn’t know.

Curious, you’d peered around the large ornamental rock you’d been using as a fortress in your imaginary game, and that’s when you’d seen him.

A boy. Older than you—maybe ten, you’d guessed, though you’d learned later he was actually ten—being led through the gardens by your father and the Master of Arms. He’d been dressed in the simple training clothes of a junior squire, his silver hair—even then, that striking silver—pulled back from his face, and his red eyes had been wide as he’d taken in the splendor of the imperial gardens.

Red eyes. You’d never seen eyes that color before.

He must have felt your stare because his gaze had suddenly shifted, landing directly on you where you’d been trying to hide behind your rock.

You’d frozen, caught.

For a moment, you’d just looked at each other—this strange silver-haired boy with crimson eyes and you, the princess who was supposed to be too dignified to spy on people.

Then you’d smiled and waved.

He’d blinked, clearly surprised, and glanced at the adults with him as if asking permission. But they’d been deep in conversation about training schedules or weapons or something equally boring, not paying attention to either of you.

So you’d waved again, more insistently this time, and gestured for him to come over.

He’d hesitated for only a second before slipping away from the group, moving with a quietness that had impressed you even then, and approaching your rock fortress.

“Hi,” you’d whispered, grinning up at him. “I’m—”

“The princess,” he said, and his voice had been soft, a little awed. “I know. Everyone knows.”

“What’s your name?”

“Sylus. Sylus Qin.” He’d bowed, stiff and formal in the way someone had clearly taught him to bow to royalty. “It’s an honor to meet you, Your Highness.”

You’d wrinkled your nose. “That’s too many words. Just call me by my name. And you don’t have to bow like that. It looks uncomfortable.”

His lips had twitched, almost smiling. “I’m supposed to bow to royalty.”

“But we’re going to be friends,” you announced with the absolute confidence of a six-year-old who’d decided she liked someone. “Friends don’t bow to each other. That’s silly.”

“Friends?” He’d sounded uncertain, like he wasn’t sure if princesses were allowed to have friends who were trainee squires.

“Yes! Do you want to play tag?” You hadn’t waited for an answer, just reached out and tagged his arm. “You’re it!”

And then you’d taken off running through the gardens, laughing, and after a moment of shocked hesitation, you’d heard him laugh too and give chase.

That was how it had started. How you’d met the boy who would become the most important person in your world.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･

The years that followed had been filled with stolen moments.

Sylus had been training to become a palace guard, working under the Master of Arms with single-minded determination that had impressed everyone. But whenever he’d had free time—and sometimes even when he shouldn’t have—he’d found his way to wherever you were.

He’d played with you in the gardens, climbed trees to retrieve kites you’d gotten stuck, helped you catch fireflies in the summer evenings. He’d sat with you during tedious lessons when your tutors had allowed it, and he’d carried you on his shoulders when you’d gotten tired during walks through the palace grounds.

Your attendants had been scandalized at first—a princess shouldn’t be so familiar with a mere trainee—but your father had allowed it. Had even encouraged it, you’d learned later. He’d seen the way Sylus watched over you even then, the way he’d positioned himself between you and anything that might hurt you, and he’d known.

This boy would protect his daughter with his life.

As you’d grown older, the games had changed but the connection had remained. You’d watch him train sometimes, hiding behind pillars or in doorways, mesmerized by the way he moved—the grace and power, the absolute focus. He’d always known you were there. Would sometimes show off a little, executing a particularly impressive combination or disarming his sparring partner with a flourish that made your heart flutter in your chest.

He’d been fourteen when you’d first realized you were in love with him.

You’d been ten, and you’d been crying in your chambers after one of the court ladies had pulled too hard while dressing your hair for some ceremony. It had hurt, and worse, the woman had scolded you for fidgeting, had called you difficult and ungrateful in a tone that had made you feel small and ashamed.

Sylus had found you in the gardens afterward, still sniffling, your elaborate hairstyle already falling apart.

“Hey,” he’d said softly, sitting beside you on the stone bench. “What’s wrong, Princess?”

You’d told him, the words tumbling out between tears, and he’d listened with such patience, such genuine concern, that it had made you cry harder.

“Come here,” he’d said finally, and he’d turned you around so your back was to him. “Let me fix it.”

“You don’t know how to—”

“My mother taught me,” he’d said quietly. “Before she… she worked in a kitchen, but she also helped the estate healer sometimes. She said a man should know gentleness, not just strength. That included learning how to braid hair.”

His fingers had been so careful as they’d worked through your tangles, so gentle that it hadn’t hurt at all. And as he’d braided and arranged your hair with surprising skill, he’d talked to you—told you stories about his mother, about his training, about anything and everything to distract you from your tears.

By the time he’d finished, you’d stopped crying. And when you’d turned to look at him, had seen the soft concern in his red eyes, the small smile on his lips as he’d admired his handiwork, something in your chest had shifted.

Oh, you’d thought. Oh no.

Because you’d realized in that moment that you loved him. Not the way you loved your parents or your friends, but something bigger, something that made your heart race and your cheeks flush and your stomach do strange fluttery things.

You’d been ten years old, and you’d fallen completely, irrevocably in love with a fourteen-year-old trainee who’d learned to braid hair from his mother and who’d never once made you feel like you were too much or too difficult or too anything.

What you hadn’t known—what you wouldn’t learn for years—was that Sylus had fallen in that moment too.

He’d been holding back tears of his own as he’d braided your hair, thinking of his mother who’d died just a year before, whose gentle teachings he’d been trying desperately to honor. And when you’d turned to look at him with those trusting eyes, still damp with tears but smiling now, something in his carefully controlled heart had cracked wide open.

He’d been too young to understand it fully, but he’d known: this girl, this princess he’d been assigned to protect, had become the center of his entire world.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･

The years had continued to pass, and the feelings had only grown stronger.

You’d been twelve when you’d first seen him truly fight.

Bandits had attacked the royal caravan during a trip to a neighboring province. You’d been terrified, frozen in the carriage as you’d heard shouts and the clash of steel. Then the door had been ripped open and a man with a scarred face and wild eyes had reached for you—

And Sylus had appeared like something out of legend.

He’d been sixteen, still technically in training but already more skilled than many full knights. He’d pulled the bandit away from you with one hand and put his sword through the man’s chest with the other, and the cold efficiency of it had stolen your breath.

Then he’d turned to you, and his expression had completely changed—from that deadly warrior to the gentle boy you knew, concern flooding his red eyes.

“Are you hurt?” he’d asked, checking you over with shaking hands. “Did he touch you? Are you—”

“I’m fine,” you’d managed, though you’d been trembling. “You saved me.”

“Always,” he’d said, and the intensity in his voice had made something warm bloom in your chest. “I’ll always save you.”

After that day, he’d been officially assigned to your personal guard rotation despite his young age. Your father had seen what you’d already known: there was no one better suited to protect you.

But the new official capacity had changed things between you. Where before you’d had freedom to just be friends, now there were expectations, protocols. He’d started calling you “Princess” more often than your name, had stopped seeking you out during his free time, had maintained a careful distance that had made your heart ache.

You’d been thirteen the first time you’d truly understood what it meant to miss someone who was standing right beside you.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･

You’d been fifteen when you’d first felt the magnetic pull.

It had been late evening, and you’d been studying in the palace library—or pretending to study, at least. Sylus had been stationed outside as your guard, but you’d insisted he come inside because it had been winter and the hallways were freezing.

He’d sat near the fireplace, supposedly watching the door but actually reading one of the military strategy texts you’d seen him glance at longingly. You’d been pretending to focus on your own book but really watching him—the way the firelight had painted gold across his silver hair, the way his brow had furrowed in concentration, the way his lips had moved slightly as he’d read.

Beautiful, you’d thought. He’s so beautiful.

At some point, you’d both looked up at the same time, and your eyes had met across the room.

The air had felt charged, electric. Neither of you had moved, but you’d felt pulled toward him like a string was tied between your hearts. You’d seen his throat work as he’d swallowed, seen the way his eyes had darkened, and you’d known—somehow you’d known—that if you stood up and crossed to him, if you’d closed the distance between you, something would have happened.

Something irreversible.

But you’d been fifteen and he’d been nineteen and he was your guard and you were a princess, and there were so many reasons why you couldn’t.

So you’d looked away first, breaking the moment, and you’d heard his quiet exhale like he’d been holding his breath.

It had become a pattern after that. These moments where you’d get too close, where the air would shimmer with possibility, where you’d almost—almost—let yourselves cross that invisible line.

But you never did.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･

You’d been seventeen when you’d realized he was pulling away.

The cuddling that had been so natural when you were children—him letting you fall asleep against his shoulder during long carriage rides, carrying you when you’d gotten sick, letting you seek comfort in his presence—had gradually stopped.

You’d try to lean against him and he’d shift away. You’d reach for his hand and he’d find a reason to move. You’d ask him to stay and talk with you like he used to, and he’d make excuses about duty and propriety.

It had hurt. Gods, it had hurt so much, and you hadn’t understood why.

You’d thought maybe he’d finally seen you clearly—seen that you were in love with him—and had been trying to distance himself because he didn’t feel the same. Or worse, because he’d felt sorry for you.

The truth, which you hadn’t known, was that Sylus’s feelings had grown beyond what he could safely control. Every casual touch had become torture. Every time you’d smiled at him, every time you’d said his name, every time you’d looked at him with those trusting eyes, it had been harder and harder to maintain his composure.

He’d been twenty-two and desperately in love with a eighteen-year-old princess he was sworn to protect, and the wanting had been consuming him. The desire to touch you, to hold you, to tell you everything he felt—it had been overwhelming. And worse, the thoughts had become less innocent. The way his body had responded to your proximity, the dreams he’d had that had left him aching and ashamed—he’d hated himself for it.

So he’d pulled away. Had tried to put distance between you and his inappropriate feelings. Had tried to be nothing more than your guard, nothing more than what was proper and right.

It had been killing him, but he’d thought it was necessary.

What he hadn’t realized was that his distance had been killing you too.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･

You’d been nineteen when you’d almost kissed him.

It had been your birthday celebration—a small, private thing, not the grand ball the court would throw later in the week. Just you and a handful of people you actually cared about. Sylus had been there in his capacity as your guard, standing near the wall with his usual vigilant posture.

But you’d been drinking wine—more than you probably should have—and the alcohol had made you bold.

You’d crossed to him, aware of people watching but not caring, and you’d grabbed his hand.

“Dance with me,” you’d said.

“Princess, I don’t think—”

“It’s my birthday,” you’d insisted. “And I want to dance with you. Please?”

He’d hesitated, clearly torn, but you’d pulled on his hand and he’d finally, finally given in.

You’d danced—a proper, formal dance, his hand at your waist and yours on his shoulder, the appropriate distance maintained between you. But it had felt anything but appropriate. Every place his body had touched yours had burned. His red eyes had been locked on your face, intense and wanting, and you’d felt dizzy with something that had nothing to do with the wine.

The music had slowed, or maybe you’d both just stopped paying attention to it. You’d been swaying together, closer than you should have been, his hand sliding lower on your back, your fingers threading into the hair at his nape.

“Princess,” he’d whispered, and his voice had been rough, strained. “We shouldn’t—”

“I don’t care,” you’d whispered back. You’d been looking at his lips, watching them form words, wanting to feel them against yours with an intensity that had stolen your breath.

You’d started to lean in. He’d started to lean in too, his eyes already closing, his head tilting—

“Your Highness!” One of your attendants had called, breaking the moment. “The cake is ready!”

You’d both jerked apart like you’d been burned. Sylus had stepped back immediately, his expression shuttering, and you’d wanted to scream with frustration.

So close. You’d been so close.

But the moment had passed, and Sylus had bowed and excused himself, and you’d been left standing there with your heart hammering and the taste of almost on your lips.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･

You’d been twenty when you’d overheard the conversation that had shattered something in you.

Two of the palace guards had been talking in the hallway outside your chambers, not realizing you were right inside the slightly-ajar door.

“Qin’s got it rough,” one had said. “Being assigned to the Princess full-time. Must be exhausting, never having a moment to himself.”

“At least the pay is good,” the other had replied. “And it’s prestigious, being the Princess’s personal guard. Opens doors for advancement.”

“True. Though between you and me, I don’t think he had much choice. The King specifically requested him for the position. Not like he could refuse even if he wanted to.”

“Think he ever gets tired of it? Following her around constantly?”

“Probably. But he’s too professional to show it. That’s why he’s the best.”

You’d stood there, frozen, as their voices had faded down the hallway.

Duty. That’s all you were to him. A prestigious assignment he couldn’t refuse. A job that paid well and looked good for his career.

All those moments between you—the dancing, the almost-kisses, the way he’d held you—it had all been in your head. He’d been professional. Doing his duty. Nothing more.

The realization had crushed you.

You’d cried yourself to sleep that night, mourning something you’d never actually had.

What you hadn’t known was that Sylus had heard that same conversation from the other end of the hallway. Had heard those guards reduce his deepest feelings to mere professional obligation, and had been grateful.

Because if everyone thought he was just doing his duty, if no one suspected the truth of how desperately in love with you he was, then maybe he could keep serving as your guard. Could keep being near you, even if he could never have you.

It had been better this way, he’d told himself. Better that you thought his care was merely professional.

Even if the lie had hurt worse than any blade.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･

You’d been twenty-three when you’d started receiving serious marriage proposals.

Noble sons, foreign dignitaries, wealthy merchants seeking to elevate their status—they’d come in a steady stream, and you’d rejected every single one. Your father had been patient at first, understanding your reluctance to marry young, but as you’d approached your mid-twenties, the pressure had increased.

You’d had to sit through countless meetings with potential suitors, had to smile and make polite conversation with men who’d looked at you like a prize to be won. And through it all, Sylus had been there, standing behind your chair or near the door, his face carefully neutral.

You’d watched him sometimes during those meetings, trying to gauge his reaction. Did it bother him to see other men courting you? Did he care at all?

His expression had never changed. Professional. Detached. Doing his duty.

It had hurt worse than any outright rejection.

What you hadn’t seen was the way his hands had clenched behind his back, nails digging into his palms hard enough to leave marks. The way his jaw had ached from keeping his expression neutral when everything in him had wanted to remove these men from your presence by force.

The way he’d gone back to his quarters after each of these meetings and destroyed training dummies, imagining them as every suitor who’d dared to think they were worthy of you.

You’d never seen the way he’d broken down the night he’d heard rumors that your father was losing patience, that he might arrange a marriage without your consent if you continued to refuse everyone.

The night he’d realized he might actually lose you. That you might belong to someone else, and he’d have to stand by and watch it happen because he was nothing. No one. Just a guard with no title and no prospects and no right to love someone so far above him.

You’d been twenty-six when Zou Cheng had proposed.

And that’s when everything had changed.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･

The walk back to your chambers had been suffocatingly silent.

Sylus had fallen into step behind you the moment you’d dismissed yourself from the receiving hall, his presence a steady shadow at your back. You’d kept your chin high, your expression carefully neutral as you’d passed through the corridors of the palace, aware of the eyes that followed you—servants, courtiers, guards. Word of your rejection of Zou Cheng’s proposal would already be spreading through the palace like wildfire, and you refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing you rattled.

But the moment your chamber doors closed behind you and Sylus, the carefully constructed composure shattered.

Your hands were shaking as you turned to face the room, breath coming shorter, faster. The tears you’d been holding back since Zou Cheng had smiled at you with that entitled, predatory expression were burning at the backs of your eyes.

Your attendants looked up from where they’d been preparing your afternoon tea, concern immediate on their faces.

“Please,” you managed, your voice strained but still kind, still soft. “I need some time alone. Thank you.”

They bowed quickly, sensing your distress, and filed out with worried glances over their shoulders. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving only you and Sylus in the spacious chamber.

He stood near the entrance, his tall frame relaxed but alert in the way it always was—like he could spring into action at a moment’s notice. Today he wore robes of deep red silk with gold embroidery along the collar and cuffs, the formal attire of the imperial guard when not in full armour. The crimson fabric brought out the color of his eyes, made his long silver hair seem to glow in the filtered sunlight. His sword hung at his side, the leather of the scabbard worn smooth from years of use. His expression was carefully neutral, but those red eyes watched you with an intensity that made your chest ache.

The moment you knew you were truly alone with him, the dam broke.

“It was completely awful, Sy. A disastrous show. A freaking outrage. Did you see the way that Zou Cheng was looking at me? The way he could barely compose himself as I declined his proposal? I should’ve slapped him when he tried to come on to me. He’s a fucking disgrace,” you grumbled, pacing around your luxurious and elegant bedroom.

The chamber was a reflection of imperial refinement—walls adorned with hand-painted silk panels depicting cherry blossoms in full bloom, their delicate pink petals seeming to drift across the fabric. Latticed windows of dark wood filtered the afternoon sunlight into soft, golden beams that pooled across polished floors. Carved wooden screens separated different areas of the spacious room, and your canopy bed was draped in layers of flowing silk in shades of cream and rose. The palace itself was a sprawling masterpiece of red lacquered pillars, sweeping golden-tiled roofs that curved toward the heavens, and tranquil courtyards where ancient trees stood guard over stone pathways and lotus ponds.

You’d smiled at your bodyguard—your knight—Sylus Qin that morning as he’d escorted you down to meet Zou Cheng, nervous energy making your hands tremble slightly as you’d adjusted your hair. You’d asked him softly if you looked beautiful, needing that reassurance before facing another suitor you had no interest in. He’d glanced at you with those striking crimson eyes, something flickering in their depths before he’d smiled to himself and responded with a quiet, “Yes, Princess.” You could have sworn his pale cheeks had flushed slightly, that he’d looked away as if composing himself, though maybe that was just wishful thinking—your heart projecting feelings onto him that he’d never expressed.

Now, as you paced, your pink hanfu swished around your legs, the delicate peonies embroidered into the fabric catching the light. A few strands of hair had come loose from your carefully arranged style, the jade pins your attendants had spent an hour placing now slightly askew from your agitated movements.

“Princess,” Sylus said quietly, his deep voice cutting through your spiraling anger like a knife through silk. He hadn’t moved from his position near the door, but something in his tone made you pause mid-step, turning to look at him.

His jaw was tight, you noticed. The muscle there flexing almost imperceptibly as he watched you pace. His hand had drifted to rest on the pommel of his sword—not threateningly, but like he needed something solid to anchor himself to.

“You had every right to refuse him,” he continued, his voice carefully measured, professional. “Zou Cheng is…” He paused, and you saw the way his fingers tightened fractionally on the sword hilt. “He’s not worthy of you. His behavior was inappropriate and disrespectful.”

You laughed, but it came out bitter and sharp. “Inappropriate? Sy, he practically cornered me when you stepped back to give us ‘privacy.’ He put his hand on my waist and told me I should reconsider, that a woman of my ‘particular situation’ couldn’t afford to be so selective.” Your voice cracked slightly on the last words, the tears threatening again. “Like I’m some kind of burden to be offloaded. Like I should be grateful for his attention.”

Something dangerous flashed across Sylus’s face—there and gone so quickly you almost missed it. His eyes darkened, the red seeming to burn brighter for just a moment. His other hand flexed at his side, and you watched his throat work as he swallowed whatever his immediate reaction had been.

“He touched you?” The words came out quieter than before, but there was an edge to them that made your breath catch. Not anger at you—never at you—but something cold and lethal simmering beneath his controlled exterior.

“Just my waist,” you said, wrapping your arms around yourself. “But the way he looked at me, Sy. Like… like he was already imagining…” You couldn’t finish the sentence, shuddering.

Sylus was silent for a long moment, and when you looked at him again, his expression had smoothed into that professional mask he wore so well. But his eyes—gods, his eyes were still burning with something that made your heart race.

“If he ever touches you again,” he said, voice low and absolutely certain, “he’ll lose the hand. I don’t care what his rank is.”

The fierce protectiveness in his tone sent warmth flooding through your chest, chasing away some of the coldness Zou Cheng’s attentions had left behind. This was why you loved him, you thought helplessly. This steadfast devotion, the way he made you feel safe and valued and—

You shook your head, trying to dispel the thought. He was your knight. Your protector. These feelings he showed you were duty, nothing more. No matter how much you wished otherwise.

“Come here, sweetie,” Sylus said softly, and the endearment made your chest ache. He moved away from the door finally, crossing to you with that fluid grace that came from years of training. When he reached you, he lifted one hand slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted, before gently tucking one of the loose strands of hair behind your ear. “You’re trembling.”

His touch was so careful, so tender, that the tears finally spilled over.

“I’m just so tired of this,” you whispered, looking up at him. At this distance, you could see the way his silver hair caught the light, the sharp lines of his face softened by concern. “Every week it’s another proposal from another man who sees me as a political opportunity or a prize to be won. None of them actually want me. They want what I represent.”

“Then they’re all fools,” Sylus murmured, his hand still hovering near your face, like he wanted to touch you again but didn’t trust himself to. “You are… so much more than what you represent, Princess.”

The way he said it, the quiet intensity in his voice, made you wonder—just for a moment—if maybe you weren’t imagining everything after all.

You wiped at your tears quickly, embarrassed by the show of emotion even though it was just Sylus. He’d seen you cry before—too many times over the years—but it still made you feel vulnerable in a way that was both comforting and terrifying.

“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice still thick. “I shouldn’t be falling apart like this. Especially not today—the Lantern Festival is tonight and I need to…” You gestured vaguely at yourself, at your tear-stained face and disheveled hair. “I can’t go looking like I’ve been crying over that bastard.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Sylus said firmly, finally dropping his hand back to his side, though he seemed reluctant to do so. “And for what it’s worth, you could never look anything less than beautiful.”

Your breath caught at the words, at the way he said them—so matter-of-fact, like he was stating an undeniable truth rather than offering a compliment. Heat crept up your neck and into your cheeks.

“I… thank you,” you managed, your heart doing complicated things in your chest. You cleared your throat, trying to regain some composure. “I should change. The pink is pretty, but it’s too associated with this morning’s disaster. I can’t wear it to the festival.”

You moved toward the carved wooden screen in the corner of your chamber where your attendants had already laid out your festival attire—a stunning hanfu in deep crimson and gold, far more elaborate than what you currently wore. The color of celebration and good fortune.

“It’ll just be a moment,” you called over your shoulder as you disappeared behind the screen, already reaching for the pins in your hair.

You heard rather than saw Sylus move to stand near the window, giving you privacy while still remaining in the room. It was familiar, this dance you’d done countless times over the years. Him always nearby, always vigilant, but never crossing certain invisible lines.

Your fingers fumbled slightly with the fastenings of your pink hanfu as you thought about those lines. About how desperately you wanted him to cross them, to acknowledge that there was something between you beyond duty and childhood friendship. But he never did. He was too honorable, too bound by his position as your protector.

And you were too afraid of losing even this—his presence, his steadiness, his gentle words—to ever push for more.

The crimson hanfu slipped over your shoulders like water, the silk cool against your skin. The embroidery was exquisite—golden phoenixes and lotus flowers swirling across the fabric in intricate patterns. The sleeves were long and flowing, edged with gold trim, and the outer robe was secured with an ornate sash that took you a moment to tie properly.

You stepped out from behind the screen, smoothing your hands over the fabric. “Could you…?” You gestured to your hair, which you’d taken down completely, letting it fall loose around your shoulders. “I have the lotus clip for the festival, but I can’t quite get it positioned right on my own.”

Sylus turned from the window, and you watched his eyes widen fractionally as he took in your appearance. That look again—the one that made your heart race, that made you think maybe, possibly, he felt something too.

“Of course, kitten,” he said softly, crossing to you. The endearment, different from the others, always made you melt a little. He only used it in private moments like these, and you hoarded each instance like precious treasure.

You sat at your vanity and handed him the white lotus hair clip—a beautiful piece carved from jade, with delicate petals that seemed almost translucent in the light. Your hands brushed as he took it from you, and you could have sworn you felt him tremble.

His fingers were impossibly gentle as they gathered your hair, his touch sending shivers down your spine that you desperately hoped he couldn’t see. He worked in focused silence, arranging your hair with surprising skill for a warrior.

“Where did you learn to do this?” you asked quietly, watching him in the mirror.

A small, fond smile tugged at his lips—the kind of smile that only appeared when he let his guard down around you. “I’ve been doing this since we were little, remember?” His voice was soft, almost nostalgic. “You used to sit still for maybe thirty seconds before getting distracted by a butterfly or a bird, and I’d have to start all over again.”

Your chest warmed at the memory, at the reminder of all those years you’d spent together. Back when things had been simpler, before duty and propriety had built walls between you.

“I was a terrible student,” you admitted, smiling at his reflection.

“You were seven,” he said, amusement coloring his tone. “And even then, you never sat still unless it was something you truly cared about.” His fingers worked through a particularly stubborn tangle with infinite patience. “I learned to be quick about it.”

“There,” he murmured, stepping back slightly. The lotus clip was positioned perfectly, securing part of your hair while letting the rest cascade down your back. His eyes met yours in the mirror, and for a moment—just a moment—you saw something raw and unguarded there.

Want. Longing.

Then he blinked and it was gone, replaced by that professional warmth.

“Beautiful,” he said quietly. “You’ll be the most radiant person at the festival.”

You stood, turning to face him directly rather than through the mirror. “Will you stay close tonight?” you asked, hating how vulnerable you sounded. “After this morning with Zou Cheng, I just… I’d feel better knowing you were nearby.”

“Always, Princess,” Sylus promised, and the intensity in his voice made you believe him. “I’ll be right beside you the entire time. Nothing will happen to you. I swear it.”

If only you’d known then how impossible that promise would be to keep.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔ ☾*:･

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There are few things you hate most in this world.

Wasps and hornets. Certain shades of orange — specifically, aggressively, fluorescent orange. Injustice. The texture of velvet against your fingertips. Overcooked pasta. People who don’t use turn signals. The sound of styrofoam.

But nothing, nothing takes the cake more than two very specific things.

Weddings.

And Sylus Qin.

You didn’t always hate weddings. That was important to clarify, at least to yourself, in the privacy of your own head where no one could call you bitter. There was a time when you thought they were lovely — the flowers, the vows, the particular kind of joy that seemed to exist only in the space between I do and the first dance. You had cried at your cousin’s wedding when you were eleven. Happy tears. Genuine ones.

Then you got older, and weddings became something else entirely.

They became the place where distant relatives asked why you weren’t next with a smile that didn’t quite reach their eyes. They became seating charts that put you next to someone’s recently divorced uncle who wanted to talk about cryptocurrency. They became the slow, creeping awareness that you were always attending, never — and you were fine with this, mostly, on regular Tuesdays — participating.

And then there was the plus one problem.

Weddings required plus ones the way sentences required punctuation. Without one, you were grammatically incorrect. A fragment. Something to be corrected with a sympathetic tilt of the head and a “oh, you came alone?” that landed like a paper cut every single time.

So no, you didn’t hate weddings in theory. You hated what they did to you in practice.

Which brought you, with the kind of narrative inevitability you’d recognize in any manuscript you were reading, to the current situation.

Six months ago, you’d received a voice note from Luna — your best friend since you were both seven years old and equally terrible at cartwheels in her parents’ backyard — that had started with screaming. Good screaming. The kind that made you pull your phone away from your ear before she’d even gotten to words.

We set the date! June twenty-seventh! You’re coming and you’re bringing someone fabulous and I won’t hear otherwise!

June twenty-seventh. A Saturday. Plenty of time.

That was what you’d told yourself in March.

And in April.

And, with slightly less conviction, in May.

It was now June third. The wedding was twenty-four days away. And you had, in your defense, accomplished one very important thing — you’d found the most beautiful pink floral dress you’d ever seen, fitted perfectly, paired with heels that made you feel like a person who had their life together. The dress was hanging on your wardrobe door right now, doing its job beautifully.

The plus one situation, however, remained. Unresolved. Aggressively, mockingly unresolved.

And don’t even get you started on Sylus Qin.

On paper, he was your colleague. A fellow writer at the same publication, which was the most flattering possible framing and the one you used exclusively in professional settings. In reality he was your opponent. Your adversary. The single most infuriating person you had encountered in three years of sharing an industry, an office building, and — on one particularly cursed occasion — a table at the National Press Awards.

He was annoying. He was ruthless in the quiet, unbothered way that was somehow worse than obvious ruthlessness. He never missed a chance to take a story from right underneath your nose, or to mention, with that maddening almost-smile, that your editor had loved his latest piece. He was an asshole. He was, by every available account, a heartbreaker — the kind of person people fell for despite knowing better, sometimes because they knew better, and that said something deeply unflattering about human nature that you preferred not to examine too closely.

He was everything you disliked wrapped in one disgustingly handsome face.

And the suit situation. God, the suit situation. The man wore fitted suits to an office where half the staff worked in hoodies, and he did it without apparent irony or self-consciousness, and they fit him in ways that should have been subject to some kind of professional regulation. You had complained about this to your friend Leah once and she had looked at you for a long moment before saying, very gently, that sounds like a you problem. Which it wasn’t. It was a him problem. He was the one choosing to show up like that.

Anyway.

You were staring at a list.

It lived in your nicest notebook — a soft green one you’d bought with the intention of using for story ideas, which said something about how seriously you’d taken the plus one problem at the time of writing. Fourteen names. Fourteen perfectly reasonable, theoretically available people you had catalogued in January with the confidence of someone who had options.

The confidence had not survived contact with reality.

You sat at your kitchen table in the early morning light of June third, coffee going cold beside the notebook, and looked at the damage.

Rafayel — crossed out. Pottery class girlfriend. Genuinely happy. Devastating.

Xavier — crossed out. Vancouver. Good for her.

Caleb — crossed out. The gala incident. Unspoken. Permanent.

The list continued in this vein for ten more names, each one a small closed door, until you reached the bottom.

One name. Uncrossed.

You had written it yourself, in your own handwriting, which meant you had at some point considered it a viable option. You didn’t remember the specific moment. You must have been tired. Or perhaps you’d been approaching the list with a completionist’s mindset, a cover all bases philosophy, a this is hypothetical anyway energy that had allowed you to write it without fully processing what you were writing.

Sylus Qin.

You stared at it.

It stared back.

Outside, the June morning was doing something deeply unfair with the light — golden and warm and full of the kind of romantic possibility that felt personally targeted given your circumstances.

You turned the notebook face-down.

You picked up your coffee.

You turned the notebook back over.

Fourteen names. Thirteen crossed out. Twenty-four days until Luna’s wedding and you’d promised her someone fabulous.

You picked up your phone before the reasonable part of your brain could lodge a formal objection.

It rang twice.

“Well… kitten,” said Sylus Qin, and even in eight letters his voice managed to be infuriating — low and unhurried, threaded through with amusement, like he’d already identified the punchline. “This is unexpected.”

“Don’t make it weird,” you said immediately.

A pause. “I haven’t said anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to say good morning.”

You pressed your lips together. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, sweetie.” The smile in it was audible. Insufferable. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You had prepared for this. Mentally rehearsed a version that was breezy and casual, maybe even magnanimous — I thought of you, actually, figured it could be fun — a version where you held all the power and he was the one caught off guard for once.

That version did not survive the first syllable.

“I need a plus one,” you said. “To a wedding. June twenty-seventh. And before you say anything — I want you to know that you are not my first choice.”

Silence.

Then, very carefully: “I see.”

“Or my second. Or my fifth or my eighth.”You were aware, distantly, that this was not going well. “You are my last choice. You are the name at the bottom of a list that has been significantly reduced through circumstances largely outside my control, and I am calling you because the wedding is in twenty-four days and I told Luna I would have a plus one and I am a person who keeps her word.” A breath. “So. I need a plus one.”

A longer silence this time.

You braced yourself. Something arch and knowing was coming. Something you could hang up on cleanly.

“What’s the dress code?” said Sylus.

You blinked. “...What?”

“The wedding. Dress code.”

“Garden formal,” you said slowly. “Why?”

“Because if it’s black tie I’ll need to check if the suit’s been cleaned.” A beat. “Garden formal is fine. When should I pick you up?”

You stood very still.

“You’re — you’re saying yes?”

“You called me,” he said, with the patience of a man who had nowhere better to be and knew it was annoying you. “I assumed that was the hope.”

“I — yes, but I also called you last,” you said, as though this might change something. “On a list. Of fourteen people.”

“I’m aware of what last means.”

“This is purely logistical,” you said, pivoting, because if he wasn’t going to have the decency to make this difficult you were going to establish parameters immediately. “I want that on record.”

“Noted.”

“You’re doing me a favor and that’s all this is.”

“Of course.”

“And this has nothing to do with our — our professional situation—”

“The ongoing rivalry?”

“I was going to say dynamic, but fine, yes, the rivalry, this has absolutely nothing to do with that, we are simply two people who are—”

“Going to a wedding together,” Sylus supplied. “In the countryside.”

“For a weekend.”

“Mm.” Not quite agreement. Not quite anything. “Text me the details.”

He hung up.

You set the phone down next to the notebook. Next to the list of fourteen names, thirteen of which were crossed out, the last of which had answered on the second ring and asked about the dress code before you’d finished explaining why he was a last resort.

The pink floral dress hung on your wardrobe door in the next room. Beautiful. Perfect. Ready.

You were so entirely, catastrophically unprepared for the next twenty-four days.

You drank your cold coffee anyway. You were going to need to build a tolerance for deeply unpleasant things.

Starting now.

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read the rest on ao3 <3