Morning came with a jolt.
Lily woke with a sharp gasp, her breath catching before her mind had fully risen from sleep. The heavy blankets tangled around her legs like restraints, her skin clammy from the warmth they trapped. She sat up quickly, heart thudding, eyes wild as they darted to the side of the bed.
Empty.
Yen was gone.
Her blood turned to ice.
The silence clawed at her ears as her chest tightened—panic bleeding in too fast. Her hands trembled as she reached to the side, as if she could pull time backward, but found nothing but cool linens. She was late. She'd overslept. She hadn't dressed him. She hadn't—
Then she heard it.
Water running.
Not the usual morning silence. Not the stillness of an already-emptied room.
She closed her eyes and exhaled hard through her nose, her entire body folding in relief.
He was still here.
The sound of the bath filled the chamber beyond the carved double doors, the faint echo of his movement through water bringing color back to her face. She pressed her fingers to her lips to steady herself, then slipped out of bed.
Bare feet touched the stone floor like muscle memory. She moved without thinking. Straight to the closet.
She chose the inner robes first—soft, dark, the ones he preferred on colder days. Folded precisely the way he liked. Then the sash. Then the outer layer—embroidered with the sigil of his house, thick and heavy with gold stitching that shimmered when the light touched it. His boots were polished already, of course, but she turned them to face the right direction at the foot of the chaise.
By the time she walked to the vanity, the comb was already in her hand.
She sat on the edge of the stool, back straight, gaze fixed on the reflection in the mirror. Her own eyes looked too wide. Too hollow. She blinked once. Twice.
Just then, the doors to the bath chambers opened with a creak, and she turned her head.
Yen stepped out, steam curling around his frame. He was completely bare, though a towel had been used to dry his body. His hair was damp, clinging to his shoulders and collarbone, beads of water still glistening along the lines of his chest.
Lily stood immediately.
He walked past her in silence and sat before the mirror. The scent of soap and eucalyptus clung to him. He rested his hands on his thighs, gaze fixed forward—not at her, not at his reflection, but somewhere in between.
Lily stepped closer.
She gently draped a towel over his shoulders and began drying his hair—careful not to pull too hard, careful not to linger too long. He said nothing, as always, but the stillness in his posture was its own language. That meant: acceptable.
She combed his hair next, methodical, parting and sweeping it back in long, practiced strokes.
Then came the perfume oil. She warmed a few drops between her palms and pressed them gently to his scalp and nape, the citrus and sandalwood scent blooming softly in the air. She could smell it on her fingers.
He liked it faint. Subtle. Like a mark only he could detect.
When she was done, she loosely tied his hair at the back, letting strands fall naturally where they wished. Just the way he preferred.
Yen stood, his movements fluid, graceful despite the heaviness in his frame.
Lily followed, retrieving the folded robes from the chaise.
She helped him dress wordlessly—inner robe first, tugged into place with careful fingers. Then the sash. Then the outer layer, which she draped over his shoulders like armor. He raised his arms slightly, letting her slip the sleeves on, then fasten the inner ties. She smoothed the fabric over his chest, adjusted the collar.
Her hands paused only once—at the spot above his heart. The same place she'd laid her head so many nights.
He didn't notice.
Or didn't care.
Yen moved past her and bent down to put on his own boots. She remained where she was, hands folded neatly, lips pressed together.
He didn't ask for her to follow.
He never did in the mornings.
He only gave one reminder, as always.
"Don't forget your daily tonic."
Her voice barely reached above a whisper. "I won't."
He nodded once.
The moment stretched thin.
Then he turned.
She moved quickly—stepping forward, rising to her toes, and placed a soft kiss to his mouth. Not too eager. Not too slow. It was brief. Hollow. Mechanical.
But he accepted it.
Their final act of morning routine.
It was always like this—quiet, smooth, precise. No missteps. No softness unless he initiated it. No kisses unless she gave them. She didn't know when it had become a ritual instead of affection. But it was expected. Required.
And Lily had learned long ago how to survive by obeying what was required.
-----
Yen left without looking back.
Lily remained standing near the vanity, the scent of his oil still clinging to her fingers. She stared at the spot he had just occupied, the stool still faintly warm from his presence.
The silence returned.
This was the only time of day she was left alone. Only mornings. Because Yen never had breakfast with her—not anymore. He preferred to eat in his office, hunched over parchment, mouth full of rice and command. He expected reports before the sun finished rising. Jang would bring him food, while Lily—
Lily waited.
Always waited.
She wouldn't be called again until lunch, when she would appear at his side in the dining hall like she had materialized from smoke.
Like nothing existed in the morning except his needs.
Her hand dropped to her stomach again. An unconscious twitch.
She hadn't taken the tonic yet.
She turned from the mirror.
The porcelain cup was already prepared on the bedside table—set there by Fae, most likely. She walked toward it, picked it up, and held it in both hands.
Bitter. Always bitter.
She drank.
Then she went and sat down on a cushion.
Everything had gone quiet again.
Too quiet.