Chapter Text
Night had settled over the Inner Palace, but for Maomao, time was dictated by the moonlight and the necessity of finding the perfect specimen of a rare frog species, essential for a new experiment. She was stealthily moving on the periphery of the medicinal garden, where wild flora mingled with cultivated herbs. The air was heavy with post-rain humidity and the intoxicating scent of wet earth.
She was crouched in front of a dense tangle of ferns and moss. Her concentration was absolute. Her thin cotton gloves protected her hands but allowed the tactile sensitivity needed to distinguish a beetle larva from a smooth-skinned amphibian.
A faint rustle of luxurious fabric, followed by the unmistakable scent of sandalwood and something citrusy and clean, announced the arrival of the usual nuisance: Jinshi.
— A nocturnal treasure hunt, Apothecary? — His voice was a whisper, yet carried the light authority of a nobleman who went wherever he pleased.
Maomao straightened with an internal sigh of frustration. — It’s not a treasure. It’s a frog, — she replied, without turning around. — For medicinal purposes. I ask that you do not disturb me. They are sensitive to noise.
— And beauty? — he teased, but kept his voice low. He approached and lit an oil lamp, whose golden light flooded the small clearing. — Allow me to help. If it is a rare ingredient, it is best to find it quickly so you can rest.
Maomao hesitated. The last thing she needed was his dazzling presence, but the extra light would make a significant difference.
— Alright, — she conceded, crouching down again. — Illuminate inside the bush. And, please, do not move suddenly.
Jinshi sat on the damp grass with an elegance that annoyed her by its sheer effortlessness. He positioned the lamp ideally. Maomao returned to her search, plunging her arm into the thicket.
The frog in question was known to hide in damp crevices and holes. She felt the base of the roots, sensing the rough texture of the earth. She needed to go deeper.
In her effort to stretch and reach a particularly promising fissure at the base of a fallen log, Maomao lost her balance. Her body leaned forward, and instinctively, she stretched out her left hand to the side to brace herself, desperately grasping for something firm to avoid falling into the mud.
Her fingers closed around something long, warm, and strangely firm under the fine silk of Jinshi's garments, who was crouching much closer than she had anticipated.
The tactile shock jolted her. The object did not have the cold, damp, and floppy skin of a frog. It was alive, pulsating, and hard beneath the fabric.
In the blink of an eye, Maomao's face flushed hot. She pulled her hand back as quickly as she would snatch it from a lit furnace. She realized: in her desperate attempt to balance, she had inadvertently grasped Jinshi's manhood through his trousers.
The silence that followed was absolute. The lamplight flickered, but Jinshi did not move. His breathing was suspended, and Maomao could feel the heat radiating from him, intense and suffocating.
— I... I am so sorry! — Maomao's voice was thin and high-pitched, a mix of fear and shame she rarely experienced. She shrunk down, wishing she had the capacity to self-inject a potent sedative. — It was a mistake. I... I was trying to brace myself and didn't see how close... Young Master Jinshi, I swear it was unintentional!
Jinshi released the breath he was holding, a rough, uneven sound. His eyes, the color of brilliant amethysts under the golden light, fixed on hers with an intensity that nearly made her faint. There was no anger in his gaze, not even disgust, but a deep, overwhelming mix of repressed desire and vulnerability.
— Maomao, — he murmured, her name a thread of silk in his throat.
He slowly set the lamp on the ground. The gesture was deliberate, as if he needed both hands free to maintain control. He rested his elbows on his knees, leaning slightly toward her, the physical distance respected, but the emotional proximity, crushing.
— Your fingers are incredibly cold, — he observed, his voice deep, almost hoarse, but with a touch of forced humor. — You nearly gave me a heart attack. And you confuse me with a frog... You are the only person who would do such a thing.
Maomao couldn't look away. The color of her face did not diminish. The scent of sandalwood seemed stronger now, almost suffocating. She could feel, even at this distance, the stiffness of his body beneath the luxurious clothes—a silent testament to the reaction her accidental touch had provoked.
— I... I know I am at fault, — she managed to say, clenching her gloved hands in her lap. — You may punish me as you wish. I have no excuses.
Jinshi shook his head, a slow, negating movement. — Punishment? Maomao, how could I punish you for what... I feel? — He paused, looking at the ground, appearing more human and less like the Jade Immortal the court revered.
— I desire you, — he confessed, his voice low, but the sincerity so strong it echoed in the stillness of the night. — Since the first day. Your brain, your indifference, your strange beauty. I know you avoid me. I know you see me only as a hindrance, a superficial being.
He raised his eyes, and there was something desperate in his look. — But this body, — he gestured slightly to himself, — which you accidentally touched, is not just the shell of a beautiful worm. It reacts to you. Only to you. And I resent having to hide it all the time.
Maomao felt a knot tighten in her throat. He was being honest. Without the posture, without the mask. And this vulnerability was the most dangerous thing he could have revealed.
— I am not trying to force you, — he continued. — If you tell me to leave, I will. If you tell me I can never touch you again, I will do my best to obey. But... — He slowly reached out his hand, not toward her, but toward the lamp. He picked it up and set it aside, plunging the clearing into a softer darkness, lit only by the crescent moon.
— In the darkness, I am not Young Master Jinshi. You are not the Apothecary Maomao. We are just a man and a woman who had an... unexpected moment. Allow me one intentional touch. Just so you know there is no malice or coercion in this. Only... desire.
The scientist in Maomao was in full operation. She analyzed the proposal. An experiment. An unforced touch. A permission. The curiosity she reserved for poisons was now directed toward this man.
Slowly, she raised her hand. Not the one that had made the mistake, but the other.
She hesitated for a moment, and then, with a decision that seemed to defy all her defenses, she touched Jinshi's cheek.
His skin was soft, warm, and perfectly smooth. Maomao felt the tension in his jawline, and the quick pulse in his temple beneath her fingers.
He closed his eyes at the contact, as if receiving a long-awaited relief. The smile on his face was pure and disarmed.
— This is your touch, Maomao, — he breathed again, the sound of her name on his lips feeling like a prayer. — Genuine. Not by mistake. Not by obligation. Thank you.
He opened his eyes and, with extreme slowness, took the hand that was on his face. Instead of kissing it, he brought it to his chest. Maomao felt his heart beating rapidly and erratically beneath the fabric of his robes.
— My heart is always like this when you are near, — he confessed. — A dysregulated heart rate. An illness that only you can cure... or exacerbate.
He released her hand, but the warmth of his chest lingered on Maomao's palm. Silence returned, but now it was not one of embarrassment, but of understood intimacy.
— I value your mind, Maomao. Your ability to see past the façade, to get to the truth of things. No matter what happens between us, I will not ask you to become someone else, — he promised.
Maomao felt something strange in her chest, something that was not irritation or fear, but a warm acceptance. He was seeing and accepting the apothecary, and not just the beauty she concealed.
— Are you afraid of me? — he asked, his voice soft, almost paternal.
— Not anymore, — she replied, the honesty that defined her rising to the surface. — I am afraid of what I feel for you. It is... unsettling.
Jinshi smiled, and the smile was no longer that of a seducer, but of a man genuinely satisfied. — I can live with the unsettling. As long as you don't avoid me entirely.
He stood up, extending his hand to help her rise. Maomao accepted, and for a moment, their hands fit together perfectly. He did not release her immediately.
— The frog, — she reminded him, her voice returning to its usual tone, albeit softer.
— Yes, the frog, — he repeated, still holding her hand. He gently led her out of the thicket, guiding her to the edge of a small stream that ran nearby.
— They gather near the water. Insect larvae are a delicacy for them, — he explained, showing an unexpected knowledge of nature.
As they passed a muddy patch, he tightened his grip on her hand to ensure her stability.
— Maomao, look, — he whispered, pointing to the moss by the stream bank.
There, perfectly camouflaged, was the frog she was looking for. It was light-skinned, exactly what she needed.
As Maomao prepared for the capture, Jinshi released her and, instead, picked a small white flower growing near the roots. He delicately placed it on the side of Maomao's braid.
— To remind me of the datura, — he said, his eyes fixed on her. — Beautiful and lethal. But I take the risk.
Maomao blushed but did not remove the flower. That gesture, the attention to her physical safety, and the silent acknowledgment of her complex nature, touched her more deeply than any flattery.
— If you go into the Palace, do not let anyone see it, — Maomao instructed, referring to the flower. — They will question it.
Jinshi nodded. — It is our secret, then. Like this night.
Maomao took a small ceramic pot and, with her characteristic agility, captured the frog.
— Thank you for the help... Jinshi, — she said, using his given name for the second time, the word sounding more natural now.
— Thank you for allowing me to be just a man for a moment, — he replied.
They walked back to the Inner Palace, side by side. There was no hurry, just the new and palpable intimacy. The sexual tension did not disappear, but it was now a silent promise, tempered by mutual respect and curiosity.