They walked side by side through marbled halls and sun-drenched courtyards, ruling the court not just with calculated precision, but with something warmer—laughter that echoed off high ceilings, stolen glances that softened hard stares, and the subtle chaos of two people who never truly left the honeymoon stage.
At night, they teased and tangled like fools with crowns, whispering jokes beneath silk sheets and giggling too much for royalty.
Each morning, Lily insisted on dressing Yen herself. What began as a ceremonial gesture—her first act as his empress—soon became routine. She claimed it gave her control. He claimed she just liked seeing him half-naked. Both were right.
And she still got tickled for doing it wrong.
"You're doing this on purpose," Yen murmured, squinting down at her suspiciously as she attempted to fold the outer robe over the inner sash with all the grace of a drunk tailor.
Lily blinked, wide-eyed. "I'm not! Your robes are just… complicated."
He said nothing.
Instead, he tickled her. For three full, merciless minutes.
"You're a tyrant!" she gasped between squeals and flailing limbs.
"You're a criminal!" he said back, flipping her onto the bed with a grin. "Mismatched robes are treason."
Later, in the soft quiet of one evening, he had an idea.
"Come here," he said lazily, reclined sideways on a low divan, half-wrapped in his bathrobe, his damp hair curling slightly at the ends. He held out a hand to her. "Let me wash you from now on. In exchange for dressing me every day."
She paused, cocking a brow. "Wash me?"
"Daily," he clarified, wiggling his fingers. "Royal exchange. Very fair."
Lily grinned and clasped her hands behind her back like a stubborn child. "Nope."
He tilted his head. Then without warning, he threw his head back in the middle of the hallway and let out a loud, exaggerated moan. "U-ugh! Lily! Not here! Ah—ugh~"
Lily went rigid. "Yen!" she hissed, scrambling to cover his mouth, her eyes darting around in full horror. "Oh my—stop that! What if someone heard you?!"
Yen laughed openly, not even trying to hide his glee.
"Relax," he said, lowering his voice and leaning close. "The west palace is empty at this hour. No guards. No servants. Just you and me." He offered his hand again. "And you did say you wanted more privacy."
She gave him the flattest look imaginable. Then grabbed his ear and pulled.
"You're a menace," she growled as he winced and awkwardly followed her down the corridor. "You've got an image to uphold!"
"I'm upholding it very well, thank you," he mumbled under her grip.
Eventually, they made it to the bath.
He washed her hair with exaggerated pride, lining up each bottle of scented oil like a soldier and squinting at the labels as if decoding a secret language. "Easy peasy," he declared triumphantly as he massaged the last rinse through her scalp.
Lily tilted her head back and smiled. "Very good."
"Where's my reward?" he asked cheekily, arms slipping around her from behind. She was seated between his legs, her back resting against his chest, the water warm and still.
"You haven't scrubbed me yet," she replied airily, lifting her chin like a spoiled queen.
Yen raised a brow, then lifted the cloth in silent salute. "As you command, Your Majesty."
He scrubbed her arms and legs with reverent care, the kind of gentleness few ever saw from him. When he rinsed her off, he pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder. "Now can I have it?"
"You haven't dried me yet."
He let out a theatrical groan, rising from the water with her in his arms. He set her down on a warm cushioned bench and began toweling off her hair, then her arms, her legs. Taking his time. His fingers lingered, as they always did.
Only once she was warm and dry did she lean forward and press a single kiss to his cheek. "Your reward."
He blinked at her, then slowly tilted his head.
Without warning, he swept her off her feet again and jumped onto the bed, pulling her down with him.
"Yen!" she shrieked, breathless.
"You told me you wanted to be a mother," he murmured, his arms cradling her against his chest. "A big family."
"Yen," she sighed, already bracing. "Please don't think big means a dozen children. I'm not a pig."
He blinked, mock confused. "Not a dozen, then?"
She slapped his chest. "Absolutely not."
They both laughed, wrapped in skin and silk and soft exhaustion.
But it wasn't always flowers and butterflies.
Soon came the summons.
War. Councils. Borders. Reports. Again. And again. And again.
It stretched into weeks, then months.
He still grinned at her. Still teased. Still let her tie his sash in the mornings, even when he was late. But the way he held her changed. His touches stretched longer. His kisses lingered as if memorizing her breath. He would cup her face after meals, thumbs brushing over her cheeks like he was grounding himself in her warmth.
"One more minute," he'd whisper into her hair when she tried to rise. His arms would tighten around her waist. "Just stay. A little longer."
"Yen…" she would ask softly, sensing the shift. "Are you okay?"
And every time, his answer was the same: "Yes. Of course."
He'd take her hand then, press it to his chest, and say gently, "Come. I'll walk you to your court."
But he didn't offer his palm anymore.
Not the way he used to—those bright-eyed, open-palmed invitations that always asked, not ordered. Instead, now… he decided. He chose for her.
He protected. Possessed.
And Lily began to notice.
She placed a hand against her belly. The swell wasn't there yet—not quite—but it was real. Growing. Quiet. Constant.
She was two months pregnant now.
Yen had touched her stomach the moment they found out, again and again, even when there was nothing to see. He'd whispered to it. Sung to it. They had made up a lullaby together on the spot, laughing between verses.
"I told you, I can handle your work," he'd said just days ago, tucking her blanket higher as she sat idly by the court window. "You just need to rest."
"I am not that weak," she muttered, pinching his cheek.
But he didn't grin. Didn't chuckle.
His eyes stayed quiet.
His thumb rested over her wrist a little too long.
And for the first time in weeks, Lily felt a flicker of worry settle in her chest—soft as the wind, and just as unshakable.