Bai Qian~
The teahouse bustled with afternoon patrons—perfect for my purposes. After that Jade pool incident where Ye Hua had stood before me in nothing but a semblance of dignity, I needed witnesses.
Many witnesses.
“Perhaps the Jade Willow Teahouse for wine and tales?” I tapped my lower lip thoughtfully. “The one perched over West Lake. Their storytellers once moved the Immortal Queen of the Eastern Seas to tears—and she hasn’t shed a drop since the Great Flood.”
Ye Hua’s mouth tightened at the corners—not quite a frown, but the familiar prelude to one of his lectures on propriety. His shoulders squared beneath immaculate robes.
“Alcohol before sunset is unseemly,” he pronounced, “and common storytelling hardly exercises the cultivated mind.”
I tucked my hands into my sleeves to hide my twitching fingers. With one foot, I traced the character 悶—stuffy—into the dirt between us.
“Ah, I see,” I sighed with exaggerated sympathy. “You can’t hold your wine. Not everyone has the capacity. Like other capacities, it varies among men.”
His eyes flashed—obsidian daggers catching sunlight. I tilted my head innocently, allowing my gaze to drift downward, lingering just below his waistband.
Then, with the innocence of a maiden who’d never once teased a man to death, I leaned forward until my jade earrings swayed against my neck, and murmured, “We could always go for another swim.”
He choked on air. Crimson streaked up his neck to his ears like dawn breaking over snow-capped mountains as he fumbled, hands instinctively crossing before his groin like a man caught between shame and battle stance. His long fingers twitched against the immaculate folds of his midnight-blue robe.
“I have,” he sputtered, each syllable crisp despite his fluster, “an extremely high tolerance! And the Princess must know—there is nothing I’m not good at!”
“Hmmm,” I hummed, barely suppressing my grin, tracing one fingertip along the rim of an imaginary cup. “We’ll see.”
He scowled, the tips of his ears still flaming like autumn maple leaves, eyes dark beneath the severe furrow of his brows. “I do not want to have to carry you home tonight, stumbling through moonlit streets. I hope you can handle yourself.”
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Jade Willow Teahouse, famous for its amber lanterns and silver-threaded draperies that swayed gently from the rafters. Mortals and minor spirits crowded the low lacquered tables, their laughter and conversation blending with the faint plucking of a guqin being tuned behind a silk screen. The air smelled of roasted chestnuts, sweet plum wine, and sandalwood incense curling like pale ghosts toward the beams above.
Bai Qian’s gown was pale apricot silk, layered with gauzy cream that shimmered with a faint frost-like sheen when she moved. The sash around her waist was tied in a loose, playful bow; her hair half-gathered into a soft knot, fastened by a single jade comb shaped like a fox tail. A few wisps framed her face deliberately—an artful imperfection that drew every eye.
Ye Hua, as always, looked as though propriety itself had stepped down from the heavens and put on human form. He wore a robe of deep charcoal and indigo silk, embroidered with faint silver cloud motifs that rippled when he moved. The front of his dark hair was bound neatly into a topknot secured by a slender silver crown-pin, the rest cascading down his back like midnight water. He was in every sense composed—serene, solemn, and just faintly insufferable.
They took a quiet table near the raised stage, where an elderly storyteller sat cross-legged behind a low red-lacquer table, his long white beard spilling like river mist over faded plum robes. His eyes, bright and shrewd despite his age, darted between the crowd and the painted backdrop behind him: a screen depicting celestial palaces floating in the clouds, dragons coiling among stars, and a lone moon maiden whose painted smile glimmered under lamplight.
A serving girl approached, her apricot-colored robe whispering against the polished floor as she bowed, sleeves pooling like petals around her wrists. Jade hairpins clinked softly against each other in her braided topknot. “Would the honored guests care for Spring Dew Tea, clear as mountain mist, or Peach Blossom Wine, sweet as first love?”
“Tea,” said Ye Hua crisply, each syllable cut like ice.
“Wine,” said Bai Qian at the same time, her voice honeyed and deliberate.
They turned to each other, their gazes locking like crossed blades beneath the swaying amber lanterns. A silent battle of wills passed between them—his dark stare cool and unyielding as obsidian, hers glinting with sly amusement like sunlight on rippling water. The serving girl, caught in the crackling tension, wisely poured both liquids: tea the color of pale jade and wine the hue of sunset clouds.
Bai Qian rested her chin on her hand, her embroidered silk sleeve slipping down to reveal the elegant line of her wrist, pale as moonlight against the dark lacquered table. “You really don’t drink, do you?”
He arched a brow, perfect as a calligraphy stroke. “Celestials prefer clarity of mind to indulgence.” His fingers, long and elegant, remained perfectly still beside his steaming cup.
“Clarity,” she echoed dryly, swirling the wine in her cup so that it caught the lantern light in ruby spirals. “How tragic. Some of us prefer a little chaos. It keeps the mind…” her lips curved like a new moon, “…flexible.”
He looked ready to argue—his lips parting like a tightly sealed scroll finally breaking its wax seal, his hand twitching near his teacup—when the storyteller struck the rim of a small bronze gong. The clear note rippled through the room like a stone dropped in still water, silencing even the kitchen chatter and the clinking of porcelain.
The old man’s voice carried with practiced authority, smooth and sharp as a reed flute played at midnight. His white beard trembled with each syllable. “Tonight,” he announced, eyes glittering like polished river stones, “I bring a tale of devotion and destiny… of the Crown Prince of the Heavens—”
Ye Hua’s spine went visibly taut, straight as a temple pillar, intrigued.
The storyteller paused, gnarled fingers spreading his sandalwood fan with a snap, letting the tension build before adding, with a theatrical sweep that made his embroidered sleeves billow, “—and the Runaway Princess!”
Ye Hua’s teacup froze midair, the steam curling around his perfect features like mountain mist. His expression remained stoic as carved jade, but a tiny vein pulsed at his temple, blue as a lightning strike. Bai Qian hid a fox-sharp smile behind her sleeve, eyes dancing above the embroidered peonies.
He leaned forward in his chair, the silver ornaments in his hair catching the light like stars, voice low but deadly precise as an assassin’s blade. “The what now?”
The show-off narrator flung his arms wide, sleeves puffing out like theatrical banners as his voice hit a dramatic crescendo. “The Crown Prince chased the Runaway Princess across jagged mountains and storm-tossed seas, darted through peasant huts and demon palaces alike! Her laughter danced in his dreams; her beauty shattered his calm like glass on marble! He vowed—no tempest, no battlefield, not even the Heavens themselves could tear him from his one true love!”
A flurry of appreciative oohs and ahhs rippled through the crowd.
Ye Hua, however, looked as thrilled by romance as a cat is by bathwater. He set his teacup down with the snap of a sword sliding home. “Complete fabrication,” he declared flatly. “No self-respecting immortal would act so… melodramatic.”
Bai Qian’s lips curved into a sly smile. “Melodramatic? You mean romantic.”
“Romance,” Ye Hua replied with a scoff, “is just chaos dressed up in pretty words.”
She leaned in, eyes glinting with mischief. “Chaos with purpose, then.”
He blinked, clearly off balance. “Chaos has no purpose.”
“It does, when it ends in devotion—or scandal,” she countered softly. “Either way, it’s infinitely more entertaining than… decorum.”
His brow twitched. “Scandal is never entertaining. It’s inconvenient.”
A playful dimple flickered on her cheek. “So says the man who was recently sharing an afternoon with me without so much as a robe on.”
Ye Hua nearly choked on his tea. “That was—” his voice pitched up an octave — “a grievous misunderstanding!”
She hummed, pretending deep thought. “That’s exactly what the Runaway Princess would say.”
He sputtered, affronted. “You can’t seriously compare me to that over-the-top fairy tale.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she teased, tracing the teacup rim with a fingertip. “You’ve got the princely composure down—only thing you’re missing is the whole chasing thing.”
Ye Hua snorted. “I chase no one. Especially not a woman.”
“Really?” Her tone dripped disbelief. “Never even followed one?”
He folded his arms so stiffly he looked like a marble statue. “A proper prince doesn’t chase. He proceeds—with purpose.”
Bai Qian leaned closer, a fox-like grin curving her lips. “So if a princess bolted from you…”
He met her gaze, cool as winter glass. “I’d assume she was either hopelessly confused or utterly insane to run from me. More likely,” he added dryly, “she’d be running at me—while I was doing my best to avoid her like a contagious disease.”
Her laugh chimed, light and teasing. “Then heaven help any woman who actually catches your eye—because you’d never give chase.”
“On the contrary,” he said smoothly, “I’d simply wait. Why waste my energy? Anyone sprinting in circles eventually comes back around.”
She arched a brow. “Confident, are we?”
“Accurate,” he corrected. “Confidence leaves no room for doubt.”
Her smile widened, mischievous and bright. “Tell me, Ye Hua—has anyone ever called you fun?”
He paused, tapping a finger on his cup. “No.”
She burst into laughter that made nearby patrons glance their way. He stared momentarily stunned—not by her words, but by the light in her eyes when she laughed. For the briefest instant, her warmth pulled at him—a small, startled twitch at the corner of his lips that might’ve been a smile if it weren’t smothered in time.
Bai Qian noticed, of course. She always did. “See?” she murmured. “Even you can laugh, Your Highness.”
He cleared his throat, straightening his back as though sheer posture could restore his shattered dignity. “It was a facial tic,” he announced stiffly. “A dragon thing. Comes from… long whiskers.”
“Ah,” she said sweetly. “Sure. Of course it is.”
Before he could answer, the storyteller’s voice rang out again: “And when the Crown Prince finally caught her, he declared his love before all Heaven—saying he would trade his throne for one night beside her!”
Ye Hua stiffened like a calligraphy brush dipped in ice water. “Preposterous,” he said, each syllable precise as a temple bell at dawn.
Bai Qian sipped her wine, the crimson liquid catching the lantern light as it passed her lips. “Some might call that passion.”
“Some,” he said, glaring into his tea where steam curled like mountain mist against his perfect jade-cut features, “might call that stupidity.”
“Maybe passion and stupidity aren’t such distant relatives,” she mused, one slender finger tracing the delicate lotus pattern etched into her cup.
“Then I’m glad we’re not related,” he muttered, a muscle in his jaw tightening like a bowstring.
She laughed again, softer this time, her voice brushing the air like silk sliding across bare skin. The sound rippled through the teahouse, making the flame in their table lantern dance. “Not yet, anyway.”
Ye Hua froze, his fingers suspended mid-air like a statue carved from imperial marble. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Before she could answer, the storyteller clanged his gong again, signaling intermission. The serving girl returned with refilled cups—tea for Ye Hua, wine for Bai Qian.
“Drink,” Bai Qian urged, sliding his cup toward him with her pinky. “It might help dislodge that celestial stick from your imperial backside.”
“I don’t drink,” he said, eyeing the cup like it contained live scorpions.
“You don’t laugh, you don’t drink…” She ticked off on her fingers. “Do you do anything fun, or is that against heavenly protocol too?”
He sniffed. “Maintaining dignity is not a character flaw.”
“Neither is enjoying himself.” She raised her cup in mock salute. “One sip. I promise your crown won’t fall off.”
After two more refusals and her theatrical impression of him (“I am Ye Hua, too important for frivolous pleasures; I only drink the morning dew collected from my dragon whiskers”), he finally snatched the cup. “Fine. One.”
One cup turned to two then three. Seven cups later, his perfect topknot listed sideways and he squinted at the table lantern with the concentration of a scholar deciphering ancient text.
“You’re completely sloshed,” Bai Qian whispered, delighted.
“I am perfectly—” he hiccupped, “—composed. Celestials have superior… things. And excellent… other things.” He attempted to pour more wine and missed the cup entirely, creating a crimson puddle.
“Oh yes,” she giggled, “I can see that superior self-control dripping off the table.”
He leaned forward, nearly knocking over the teacup between us, his imperial topknot listing dangerously to one side. His eyes—normally sharp as winter frost—had softened to the consistency of spring honey. “You’re trying to… to bewitch me, aren’t you?” he accused, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper that three nearby tables definitely heard.
I blinked. “What?”
He nodded with such exaggerated gravity that his hairpin nearly clinked against his forehead. “Indeed. I may be slightly…” he waved one elegant hand in circles, searching for the word, “…elevated in spirits, but I recognize your tactical seduction offensive when I see it.”
“Tactical seduction offensive?” I repeated, choking back laughter as a passing servant girl nearly tripped, clearly eavesdropping.
He jabbed a finger that missed my face by several inches. “Your face is like… like the moon goddess if she were prettier and less… moony.” He frowned at his own logic. “These tactics won’t work on me.”
I pressed my lips together. “Ye Hua—”
“Furthermore,” he continued, his silken sleeve dragging through a puddle of spilled wine, “your laughter sounds like… like jade chimes in a summer breeze. Not,” he added hastily, straightening his crooked collar, “that I find that sound pleasing. Unlike weaker men, who would fall over themselves, I am entirely immune to such… auditory enchantments.”
“Naturally,” I said, biting the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood.
“And your hair,” he declared, leaning so close I could smell the sweet plum wine on his breath, “is the blackest black that ever…” He squinted hard. “…blacked.”
I propped my chin on my hand and leaned in, watching him with sham amusement. “Your eloquence astounds me, Crown Prince.”
“But it reflects the lantern light,” he persisted earnestly, his gaze fixed somewhere above my head. “Like a… like a raven’s wing dipped in starlight. It’s very distracting. You should wear a hat.” He paused gravely. “A big one that covers your entire face.”
I rested my chin on my hand, the jade bracelet at my wrist catching the light. “What kind of hat would you suggest, Crown Prince?”
“I don’t know,” he said, furrowing his brow with the concentration of a scholar facing an impossible riddle. His gaze traveled to my face, and he scowled. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” I leaned closer, the scent of peaches and osmanthus rising from my robes.
“Like…” His eyes dropped to my mouth, lingering there before darting away like startled fish. “Like you’re about to transform into a nine-tailed fox and steal my… my imperial… something.”
“Ye Hua,” I whispered, letting my smile curve slow and deliberate as the teahouse chatter swirled around us, “I am a nine-tailed fox.”
He stared at me, the dignified Crown Prince of the Celestial Realm now slumped against a wooden table in a mortal teahouse, utterly vanquished. “That,” he sighed, “is precisely the difficulty.”
By the time the storyteller finished his tale, Ye Hua was slumped against the table, his long lashes lowered, expression somewhere between dazed and besotted. His hand, resting near mine, twitched as if it wanted to move but couldn’t decide where.
“Ye Hua,” I whispered softly, “Let’s go.”
He frowned in his sleep, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like, “I am not chasing anyone…”
I smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “Of course not, but come on, let’s get you moving.”
His weight leaned heavily against me, all six-plus feet of immortal arrogance sagging like a felled tree. For a man who’d sworn he would not be the one carried home, he was putting my strength through divine trial.
“Honestly,” I grumbled, shifting under his arm, “for someone who claims to have ‘superior constitution,’ you collapse faster than a drunken squirrel.”
He mumbled something incoherent, his breath warm against my ear, scented faintly of plum wine and moral superiority gone sour. “It wasn’t my idea,” he slurred. “It was Mo Yuan’s. He can be a bully. I told him it would be chaotic. I made my point by not bringing orchids.”
That stopped me mid-stagger. Mo Yuan? My arms tightened instinctively to keep him from toppling. “What did your brother suggest?” I asked, voice soft, curious. “What was his idea?”
Ye Hua tilted his head toward me, eyes glassy but earnest, like a philosopher who’d just discovered a profound truth about noodles. His hairpin slipped further askew as he stumbled against a merchant’s cart, nearly sending a cascade of persimmons tumbling across the cobblestones.
The merchant—a squat man with a shiny pate and a tunic the color of over-steeped tea—let out a strangled squawk. His sleeves were rolled high, revealing wiry arms and a belly that jiggled with outrage as he rushed to steady his wares. A great mole dominated the left side of his cheek, dark and glossy, sprouting three proud white hairs that quivered with each indignant breath.
Ye Hua froze, staring at the mole with deep, intoxicated reverence. Then, very solemnly, he raised a finger.
“Look,” he whispered, swaying slightly, “a celestial omen! A perfect likeness of Mount Kunlun—complete with three spirit pines.”
The merchant blinked, torn between horror and pride. “It’s a mole,” he said flatly.
Ye Hua nodded sagely. “Exactly. The Kunlun Mole. Rare. Auspicious. You should charge admission.”
The poor man’s jaw worked soundlessly, his lips opening and closing like a startled carp while I pressed my hand to my mouth to stifle laughter. The drunk Crown Prince of the Heavens was blessing facial blemishes now—surely a new entry for the annals of divine absurdity.
I sighed inwardly, already imagining tomorrow’s headlines in the gossip courts of Qingqiu: Heavenly Crown Prince Interprets Merchant’s Mole as Sacred Mountain. At this rate, I thought, half-amused and half-resigned, by dawn he’ll claim he can read the fate of the realms in people’s pores.
“You know…” he began, his imperial voice now as wobbly as a newborn colt, “Qian Qian. Why do you keep…”
He squinted at me through those impossibly long lashes. “Why do you bother me so much? Like a—like a splinter in my celestial robes. Can’t see it but feel it… always there… bothersome and…” he waved his hand in circles, “glowing.”
“Glowing?” I steadied him as he nearly toppled into a paper lantern hanging from a teahouse eave.
He halted so abruptly I collided with his chest, the scent of sandalwood and plum wine enveloping me. His eyes widened like twin harvest moons before drooping again, and he jabbed one elegant finger that missed my nose by several inches.
“Did you—” a hiccup that would scandalize even Zhe Yan himself, “—use an enchantment spell? Or—or fox magic that makes you all luminous and shiny like the Celestial Silver Vein at midnight?”
“Luminous and shiny?” I bit my lip to keep from laughing as a night watchman with a bamboo clapper eyed us suspiciously. “Crown Prince, you sound like you’ve swallowed a poetry scroll backwards.”
He shook his head with such vehemence that his topknot swung like a temple bell, nearly sending him sprawling into a cart of silk ribbons. “Don’t think I’ll attend your full-moon nude prancing in the peach forest!” he announced with imperial conviction, loud enough that two elderly women carrying prayer candles gasped in unison, clutching their jade pendants.
“My what?!” I hissed, mortification burning hotter than the red lanterns swinging above us.
He nodded sagely, swaying like a willow in spring wind. “That’s what you foxes do, isn’t it? All that…” he made a twirling motion with his fingers, “…tail flicking and nude dancing under the full moon.”
I exhaled through my nose, torn between laughter and the urge to leave him prostrate on the moonlit cobblestones for the night patrol to find. ” Rest assured, Crown Prince,” I muttered, hauling him past a fortune teller’s stall, “if there’s ever any full-moon prancing, your name will be conspicuously absent from the invitation list.”
His eyes were like a content cat’s, and his lips formed that lethal half-smile.
“Sending me an invitation would be a waste of time” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear as he leaned closer, “because I’d probably climb over the palace walls and come anyway—but I’d cover my eyes like this.” He lifted one elegant hand, covering his face with mock solemnity… then promptly peeked through the splayed fingers.
That nearly made me stumble. I caught him before he fell, muttering under my breath, “You’re lucky you’re handsome when you’re insufferable.”
He hummed, leaning closer, voice a warm whisper that brushed my hair.“ You think I’m handsome… because I certainly am. What did you think of me, guāngshēn—all nude? Divine, wasn’t I?” He paused, his smile turning slow and smug. “There was even a slight cool breeze that day, if you know what I’m saying?”
For a heartbeat, I forgot to breathe. Then it hit me all at once—his words, the smug slur of guāngshēn, and the absurd self-satisfaction glowing in his eyes like a drunk firefly trying to look profound.
My voice cracked like the snap of a fan as I hissed, “Ye Hua!” biting down a laugh that trembled in my throat. “You—You can’t just ask a lady something like that!”
He blinked, utterly unrepentant, swaying like a reed in the wind before catching himself with what he clearly believed was divine grace. “Why not? It’s a fair question.”
He leaned in, waggling his eyebrows in a way that might have been seductive if he weren’t two cups past dignity. “You were looking… quite intently.” He tapped his temple with a finger that missed its mark—twice. “I have eyes like a hawk. Or a dragon. Or maybe a hawk-dragon. The point is—” he paused for dramatic effect, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “—I caught you checking out my celestial assets.”
“Because you were naked!” I blurted before I could stop myself.
He nodded solemnly, as though I’d just proven his point. “Precisely. So? What did you think?”
I covered my mouth, half horrified, half hysterical. “That the Heavens truly favor the bold!”
His faint smile grew lopsided—a drunken attempt at seduction that landed somewhere between constipated and smug. “Bold? No… blessed.”
He tapped his own chest, missed by a good inch, then tried again with exaggerated precision. “Perfectly sculpted by fate—like a divine dumpling.”
He patted his abdomen with the solemn reverence of a temple gong. “These abs? Heavenly decree. It’s really… a burden.” He sighed dramatically, swaying on his feet. “Only I can handle being this magnificent. The lesser immortals would crumble.”
I had to look away or risk bursting into laughter loud enough to wake the entire mortal district.
He leaned in, one eyebrow arched with the confidence of a peacock who thought he’d invented feathers. “Don’t worry,” he stage-whispered, “I won’t hold it against you for staring. Most do. It’s like trying not to look at the sun during an eclipse—dangerous, but irresistible.”
He attempted a wink that landed somewhere between a blink and a facial spasm.
My composure crumbled completely. I was in stitches, crying, as he sat there, so proud of himself. “Ye Hua,” I said finally, fanning myself furiously. “You are dangerous when drunk.”
He blinked lazily, the corner of his mouth lifting. “And yet…” He gestured vaguely between us. “You’re still here.”
He grinned drowsily, the kind of grin that could ruin kingdoms. “I know… that I’m devastatingly handsome. I won’t blame you if you fall in love with me. It’s inevitable.”
“Keep talking and I’ll drop you,” I warned.
He laughed softly, the sound low and rough, more honest than anything he’d said sober. “See? You’re doing it again… shining, and using that tone of voice…trying to charm my ears.”
By the time we reached the nearest inn, I was half carrying, half dragging him like a sack of divine potatoes. Every step left a trail of royal groaning. His arm hung over my shoulder, heavy and possessive, as though he were a king and I his reluctant throne.
The innkeeper—an old mortal with eyebrows like willow branches—took one look at us and wisely said nothing, only gesturing toward a side room with a futon and a painted screen of plum blossoms.
I maneuvered him through the doorway with all the grace of a woman wrestling a drunk dragon. He collapsed onto the bed in a heap of silks and sighs; the air leaving his chest in a long, defeated exhale.
I pressed my hands to my hips, panting. “You,” I said between breaths, “are the heaviest man in all the realms.”
Ye Hua blinked up at me through half-lidded eyes. “That’s because I’m made of… virtue,” he mumbled solemnly. “Virtue is dense.”
I nearly snorted. “Then you must be carrying a mountain’s worth of it.”
He frowned faintly, as if considering that. “Maybe that’s why I can’t float anymore.”
I laughed softly, pulling off his outer robe to keep it from wrinkling. He didn’t protest—just watched me with that dazed, glassy-eyed sincerity that only comes from wine and wounded pride.
“You smell,” he said unexpectedly.
I froze mid-fold. “…Excuse me?”
He squinted up at me, head lolling slightly. “You smell like… spring rain on peach petals.” A pause. Then, as though correcting himself: “I don’t like it.”
My lips twitched. “Oh, no?”
“It’s distracting,” he muttered. “Makes everything feel… warm and softer.” His voice faded into a mumble. “Fox tricks again…”
He yawned, the sound small and boyish despite his regal bearing. Then, before I could step away, his head tilted, resting clumsily against my lap.
I froze, pulse leaping. His hair spilled across my thighs like a skein of black silk, heavy and warm.
“Ye Hua,” I whispered, touching his shoulder. “Get up.”
No response. Only the slow, steady rise of his chest, the faintest smile playing at his lips—as if even in sleep, he was dreaming of correcting someone’s decorum.
I sighed, brushing a lock of hair from his face. “Honestly,” I murmured, “for a Crown Prince, you make a very convincing fool.”
His hand twitched in sleep, fingers brushing against my sleeve, murmuring something that sounded suspiciously like, “Shining again…glowing.”
The corners of my mouth softened despite myself. “Sleep, Crown Prince,” I whispered. “Tomorrow, I’ll remind you of every word.”