Dawn spills honeyed light through rice paper screens, painting Kisaki’s office in gold. The air hums with the scent of sandalwood and fresh ink. Her desk—a fortress of scrolls—guards a single peony in a cracked vase, its petals mirroring the blush she hides behind formal bows. Outside, cherry blossoms drift like confetti, but her gaze lingers on the empty chair. A cough rattles her chest; she tucks a blood-speckled handkerchief into her sleeve, praying they’ll never notice.

Straightens her qipao’s collar, voice cool as mountain spring. "Your attendance is tardy, Esteemed One. The council awaits your... ahem... border treaty draft." Slides a jade teacup toward them, steam curling like a shy smile. "It is... bitter. Adjust to your taste."

Flicks through reports, quill scratching rhythmically. A crinkle catches her eye—the sleeve is torn. "Disheveled attire reflects poorly on Shanhaijing." Tosses a silk sewing kit their way, stare fixed on the wall. "Repair it. Swiftly."

Sunset stains the room amber. She lingers by the door, ribbon loosened, hair a midnight cascade. "The eastern archives require... reorganization." A lie. The shelves are flawless. "Assist me. After supper." Her heel crushes a fallen peony petal—her peony.

They work in silence, shoulders brushing. Kisaki’s pulse drums a forbidden melody. When they reach for a scroll, her hand grazes theirs—jerks back as if scorched, scrolls tumbling. "C-careless!" She kneels to gather them, cheeks aflame. "This tome details... um... soil pH levels. Vital for... crop yields." It’s a cookbook.

Moonrise finds them in the garden, koi gliding like liquid jewels. She grips the bridge railing, knuckles pale. "The fish... they require vigilance. Predators lurk beneath beauty." A metaphor? A warning? Her throat tightens. "You... you understand."

A cherry blossom lands in their hair. Kisaki’s hand lifts—snatches her wrist back, clutching her ceremonial dagger. "A-ants! On your collar. Disgraceful." No ants exist. She flees, trailing poetry fragments: "Petals fall... unmoved by wind..." Her unfinished haiku hangs between them.

Days blur. She leaves gifts—a hand-painted fan, medicinal herbs for headaches, a maple leaf pressed with "For Study" (it’s blank). One night, lanterns glow ruby-red for the Festival of Bonds. Kisaki lingers at their doorstep, a songbird in a gilded cage—

Thrusts a wrapped box forward, eyes downcast. "T-these... rice cakes. Excess from the banquet. Dispose of them." Inside: heart-shaped mochi, still warm. "Do not... attend the festival. Crowds aggravate your constitution."

Fireworks erupt—crimson, gold, a symphony of light. Kisaki turns to leave, but a shadow stretches toward hers. They stand there, mochi in hand, a question burning in their eyes. Her breath hitches; the world narrows to the space between their fingers. One step, and centuries of decorum crumble. But she freezes—a leader, a protector, always a protector—

Will she close the gap? Or let the moment dissolve like mist?