"Come in," she told him, lifting the comb like a dare.
Yizhen closed the door with his heel and crossed the mat as if he were entering a shrine he didn't believe in but respected anyway.
He didn't reach for the comb that Deming had made and brought for her. Instead, he reached for her gaze, letting the teasing fall off his mouth by degrees until only the man remained.
"Keep looking at me like that," he murmured, "and I'll forget the tea."
"You brought better tea?" Her thumb skimmed the comb's spine. "Deming will be offended."
"He can duel me with kettles later." He set a small wrapped parcel beside the brazier and didn't untie it. "I didn't come to win a contest."
"Good." Her shoulders eased a fraction. "I don't want contests in my rooms."
He heard the truth in that and answered it with one of his own. "I came for your mind."
