Page 27 of The Scholar's Improper Wife

His laugh was low, exhausted, but real. “Fine. But if you distract me, I’m confiscating your manuscripts.”

She beamed. “Deal.”

The routine soon slipped into place, like those childhood days when they used to sneak out and read together in the gardens.

Each morning after breakfast, Yun-si would slip through the garden paths, her pale pink skirts brushing against the bamboo stalks, and let herself into Ting-zhi’s study. The servants assumed she was visiting the clan school’s library for more books. The family assumed she was buried in her own rooms, asusual. No one looked twice at the quiet third daughter coming and going like a shadow.

The first day, she perched on the edge of the wooden stool by the window, grinding ink with deliberate care while Ting-zhi bent over his examination essays. The rhythmicshhh-shhhof the inkstone filled the silence. Sometimes, when his brush paused mid-character, she’d glance up to find him watching her, his peach-blossom eyes crinkled in amusement.

“You’re supposed to bestudying,” she murmured.

“Hard to concentrate with you making that face,” he’d counter, tapping his brush against the rim of the inkstone. “You look like a disapproving immortal judging my calligraphy.”

She huffed and turned back to her grinding, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her.

Days fell into an effortless rhythm, and they justeasedinto each other again. As if they never had the two years apart. As if he hadn’t grown into someone who towered over her. As if his scent hadn’t deepened into that warm, spiced aroma that made her secretly breathe a little deeper whenever she thought he wasn’t looking.

She took her half-finished manuscripts and worked on them beside him. Hours flew by too fast each day, while they worked in companionable silence, interrupted only by tea and scowls and pastries.

Another day, another black sesame pastry. Yun-si nibbled at it absentmindedly, bent over a particularly stubborn sentence, and did not even notice when it was gone. A few flakes of golden crust clung to her lower lip. She didn’t notice those either, until Ting-zhi’s thumb brushed them away. The first time, she’d jerked back like a startled lamb.“I—I can do it myself!”Her cheeks had burned for hours after.

But now?

Now, she barely paused her writing. The brush in her hand stilled for half a heartbeat as his warm thumb grazed her skin before she exhaled and let him.Maybe he still treats me like a child,she thought, watching the ink bleed into the paper.Someone who can’t even wipe her own mouth.Like how she still absentmindedly dabbed at Yun-hai’s chin when he ate too fast, smudging food across his grinning face. The comparison soured in her chest.

If her pulse jumped, it was only from the mortification of it.

Ting-zhi, though, wasn’t thinking of children.

His thumb lingered a second longer than necessary, tracing the softness of her lower lip before retreating. The ink on his fingers left the faintest smudge on her skin—hismark, however temporary. His gaze flicked to her profile, the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks when she focused, the way her tongue peeked out to wet her lip where he’d touched.

The brush in his hand snapped.

Yun-si’s head jerked up. “You—! That was a good brush!”

He blinked at the broken brush in confusion for a while. “It was dropped... last night?”

Yun-si stared at him in disbelief.

Ting-zhi watched her hair tendrils curl against her neck and wondered how long he could keep pretending this was justresearch.

One afternoon, as rain pattered against the paper windows, she read him a passage from her latest draft about a scholar in a courtesan house.

“The moment he entered, three courtesans surrounded him—one pouring wine, one playing the pipa, one leaning close to whisper poetry in his ear.”

Ting-zhi snorted. “No.”

“Nowhat?”

“That’s not how it works.” He set down his brush. “Courtesans don’t throw themselves at every man who walks through the door. Especially not young idiots with three taels in their pocket. They expect you to listen to their music and quote poetry first.”

She frowned. “How would you know?”

His expression went very carefully neutral. “I wouldn’t.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’vedonethis.”

“Sometimes.” He didn’t look up. “Sometimes the scholars have gatherings at these places. You know that.”