Jun lingered on the rooftop long after the stars had begun their slow crawl across the sky. The clay tiles beneath him were still warm from the afternoon sun, but the air had turned cold.
His cloak did little to chase away the mountain breeze, but he didn't move. Couldn't. Not while his heart beat this heavily in the quiet.
In his hand, the scroll Mei Lin had given him felt heavier than mere parchment. She hadn't spoken when she handed it to him earlier that evening—just a faint nod and the brush of her fingers against his as he took it.
The word belonging, etched in charcoal, stared up at him like a silent promise. Or a curse.
It wasn't a confession. Not really. But it had been the first time she'd given him anything personal.
His gaze drifted across the village from his perch. Below, most windows were dark, shutters drawn against the night.
Except one—her room. Candlelight flickered behind the paper-paneled window, soft and golden, throwing her shadow faintly against the screen.
He shouldn't have been watching.
But he always found himself drawn to her—like a moth circling a flame it knew would burn.
Earlier that day, he had returned from the northern slopes, a basket of herbs slung over his back. He'd taken the long path, the one that passed the old weaving hut now used for storage and solitude.
Its door had been ajar, creaking slightly with the wind. He might have walked past—should have—but something made him pause.
Inside, Mei Lin had stood frozen, her back to him. Her posture, usually so purposeful, had wilted like a flower under snow. In her hands was a letter—creased and worn at the edges, its once-crisp folds soft from too much reading.
A single thorn had nicked her finger. Blood dotted the parchment, but she hadn't noticed. She was clutching it too tightly, pressing it against her chest as if by holding it close, she could stop the ache from widening.
She never cried.
But her eyes… they were looking far away. At something—or someone—he couldn't see. Someone who had written that letter. Someone who wasn't him.
He had slipped away before she noticed.
Now, sitting above a slumbering world, he finally understood. Mei Lin's heart already had a name whispered in it. One she never spoke. One that kept her grounded and haunted all at once.
A breeze picked up, rustling the trees at the edge of the village. Jun sighed and leaned back, the ache in his chest dull and persistent. He wasn't angry—not with her. Just tired of hoping.
Still, he would stay. Not for love. But for purpose. For duty.
For her.
---
The next morning broke with sharp urgency.
Jun had just stepped into the courtyard, his hands full of freshly laundered bandages, when the clatter of hooves echoed across the outer path. Heads turned. Doors creaked open. Children paused in their morning chores.
A rider, mud-spattered and panting, galloped through the main gate. His horse staggered to a halt, foam flecking its mouth, chest heaving. The man looked barely older than Jun, but his eyes were wide and haunted.
Elder Lin was the first to step forward. "State your purpose."
The rider dismounted with difficulty, half-falling. "Urgent message," he rasped, holding out a sealed scroll wrapped in oilcloth. "For Healer Mei Lin."
Jun's heart dropped as Mei Lin appeared from behind the healer's quarters, her long braid undone and damp from an interrupted wash. She took the scroll with steady fingers, eyes narrowing at the crimson wax seal.
No one spoke as she broke it open.
Her gaze scanned the words, and a change came over her. The calmness in her face remained, but something had sharpened beneath it—like a blade drawn quietly in the dark.
"There's been a breakout," she said at last, her voice low but clear. "In Dawan City. South quarter."
Murmurs spread instantly through the gathered villagers.
"What kind of outbreak?" someone asked.
"They don't name it yet," Mei Lin said, eyes still fixed on the parchment. "But it spreads fast. Five have already fallen. Symptoms are sudden."
Jun stepped closer. "Are they asking for help?"
She nodded. "Dr. Ansel Liu has returned. He's set up a temporary camp outside the city. He's requesting experienced healers—now. He'll be waiting at the Red Willow Gate by sunrise tomorrow."
Another murmur. Dawan City was far—two days by foot. Unless...
Jun glanced at the rider's exhausted horse. Even that wouldn't survive a return trip without rest.
But before he could speak, Mei Lin turned to him.
"Pack your things, Jun," she said. "You're coming with me."
He blinked, stunned. "I—I am?"
"You've trained under me for months. You know our herbs, our methods. You're quick and you learn. It's time you act."
His breath caught.
The words weren't gentle. They never were with Mei Lin. But they carried weight. Trust. Recognition. Not just as an apprentice—but as a partner.
He straightened. "Yes. I'll be ready."
Her eyes lingered on him a second longer than necessary. Then she nodded and disappeared into her quarters.
---
That night, the village was tense and quiet.
Mei Lin stood in the center room, sleeves rolled up, arranging her traveling pack with practiced precision. Glass vials clinked softly as she counted doses. Poultices, needles, gloves. She paused to sharpen her blade—not for combat, but for incisions if the fever swelled. Her movements were sure, calm.
Jun watched from the doorway, his own satchel half-packed. He had never seen her falter. Even now, with the shadow of a plague, she moved as though carrying all their lives in her hands.
He wanted to speak. Ask her about the letter from the hut. About the name she held close in her heart.
But he didn't.
Instead, he said, "If you want, I can take the red root. You always said it should stay cool—my pack's lined with sheepskin."
She looked up briefly and gave him a small, approving nod. "Good. We'll need it if the fevers are burning through organs."
He took the root and placed it carefully inside his pouch.
Silence returned. But it wasn't awkward. It never had been.
"You don't have to protect everyone alone," he said after a while.
"I know," she replied. Her voice was softer now. Almost weary.
Jun took a step inside. "Even if you still think about him. Whoever he was… he's not here now. I am."
Her hands froze briefly over a string of herb bundles. Then she went back to her work.
"I know," she said again. But it wasn't dismissal. It was gratitude hidden in armor.
That was enough for now.
---
Before dawn, the village gathered at the eastern path to see them off. Mei Lin wore her traveling cloak, dark and lined with silver stitching—one of the few luxuries she'd allowed herself. Jun stood beside her, his satchel slung across his shoulder, posture tall despite the nerves twisting in his gut.
Elder Lin approached. "Be careful in Dawan. If the sickness spreads…"
"We'll contain it," Mei Lin said, firm.
The old man nodded solemnly.
As they walked into the misty hills, Jun cast one last glance over his shoulder.
The village was disappearing behind them. And ahead—beyond the stone ridge, past the rivers and broken paths—Dawan waited.
So did whatever darkness had begun to stir in its streets.
But they would face it.
Together.
Even if her heart still beat for someone else.