The letter had elicited a snort so robust that a passing servant nearly dropped a gleaming silver tray outside her intricately carved door. Mei-Ling lay sprawled across her rumpled bed, the parchment crinkled loosely in her delicate hand, as she grinned at every wildly chaotic sentence. Jingfei's handwriting, once elegant and steady, had spiraled into a beautiful frenzy since she became a mother. This particular missive bore a food smear along its edge and featured a playful doodle—perhaps a ramshackle portrait of Little Grape wearing a tiny crown, or maybe a cleverly drawn diaper.
Her eyes danced over the words for the fourth time, each read drawing her deeper into the delightful absurdity of the script. Across the room, Lorientfel had not blinked since breakfast, emanating a stoic aura unbroken by the morning's events. Fror and Gror had tried their best to "uncle" in a clumsy display of familial endearment, while Yueli's eyes brimmed with tears as she sobbed quietly, and even stoic Xueyi had nearly made a daring escape through a nearby window. It all confirmed one truth: Little Grape ruled this house with the sticky, unyielding power of an iron fist, yet, inexplicably, they were managing to endure the chaos—barely.
Mei-Ling's laughter erupted again, softer this time, a warm ripple that bubbled up from deep within her chest. It was the kind of tender laugh that resonated long after its sound had faded, her eyes misting with the ache of genuine joy—or perhaps, the weight of everything else she carried.
Then came the knock—sharp, steady, and insistent, each tap resonating with a cadence she knew by heart without even asking. Before her mind could catch up, her body instinctively sprang into action—she shoved the cherished letter beneath the soft blanket, hunching her shoulders and lowering her eyelids to a delicate half-close. With the dramatic flair of a seasoned theater actress entrenched in a tragic role, she slumped back into her customary "poor, delicate patient" pose.
The door creaked open to reveal Aelric standing in silent regality. His posture was immaculate, and his jaw cut a line sharper than any of the kingdom's famed blades. Today, he was adorned in soft, sumptuous palace linens instead of his usual armor, and his hair lay slicked back with military precision. He looked as though he had just stepped out of a grand war council painting, every detail meticulously arranged.
In his strong, measured hands he held a bowl of steaming soup. Mei-Ling blinked up at him, her voice a whispered tease: "Have you come to finish me off?"
"I brought lunch," he replied coolly, his tone entirely unfazed by her theatrics.
He moved to her bedside with deliberate care and placed the bowl on a nearby table, setting it down alongside a neatly folded napkin and an exquisitely carved wooden spoon that hinted at quiet luxury. Mei-Ling propped herself up slightly, deliberately swaying just enough to maintain the fragile, delicate appearance she so adored. "Did you make it?" she asked, leaning forward to inspect the inviting bowl. "It smells suspiciously edible."
"I requested the best, personally supervising the herbs," he explained with a quiet pride that made each word seem significant.
Her eyes widened in amused disbelief. "You supervised?"
"I made sure to tell the kitchen—no onions," he stated firmly.
"Oh, my hero," she deadpanned, pressing a hand to her chest in overdramatic delight. "Truly, I swoon at your brilliance."
Though he offered no smile, his eyes betrayed a subtle spark—a slight twitch, a fleeting flicker that was the Aelric equivalent of a hearty, understated laugh. Mei-Ling sank further into her pillows and declared with playful melancholy, "But alas, I am too weak to feed myself."
A brief pause enveloped them before he silently pulled a chair closer and sat down by her side. Mei-Ling blinked in surprise, "Wait—you're actually—?"
He dipped the spoon into the bowl and, with deliberate care, lifted it toward her mouth. "Open," he instructed.
More amused than hungry, she parted her lips, allowing him to gently spoon in the first morsel. Her brows lifted in pleasant astonishment—it was hot, richly fragrant, its spicy ginger aroma mingling with the earthy perfume of a wild mushroom she did not recognize. In that quiet moment, she mused internally that things were becoming ridiculously delightful; how could she possibly continue pretending to be feeble when each spoonful felt like a warm embrace sent from heaven itself?
"Eat," he said softly.
And so she did—slowly, teasingly, each graceful spoonful punctuated by a playful observation or a flirtatious banter. He rarely responded, yet his attentive silence spoke volumes; his unwavering presence was a testament to his genuine care.
"This is very intimate, you know," she remarked around her seventh spoonful. "A woman being lovingly hand-fed soup in bed is practically a proposal in itself."
His only response was a cautious sideways glance that lingered on her lips just a moment too long, making her heart flutter with that infuriating, tender beat.
"Where does it still hurt?" he inquired once the bowl was nearly empty.
Every glance from him stirred a thousand silent confessions in her, but she only pointed vaguely to her side and pouted, "Here. And maybe... and perhaps here, too." Her delicate fingers tapped her collarbone lightly. "Also, possibly my soul."
Aelric leaned in closer, his hand hovering near the blanket as if contemplating whether to bestow some gentle caress. His fingertips brushed the edge of the fabric delicately, barely grazing her skin. His expression, usually inscrutable, was now softened—closer, more intimate—so achingly tender.
Then, with an abrupt and shattering knock, the fragile intimacy was broken. A muffled voice drifted through the room: "Your Majesty, the council requests your presence in the war room. Urgent matters require you."
Aelric closed his eyes for a brief moment, his face tensing with the weight of responsibility, then stood and nodded slightly. "I'll return," he promised, his voice layered with both duty and regret.
Mei-Ling's gaze lifted through her fluttering lashes. "Promise?"
For a heartbeat, his eyes remained locked on hers—an unspoken dialogue of lingering emotion. "I promise," he said softly, then turned, his boots clicking rhythmically on the polished floor as he left. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving a resonant silence in its wake.
For a few long, introspective seconds, Mei-Ling lay there, absorbing the now-quiet room before groaning and flopping back into her mound of plush pillows. "Of course," she muttered dryly into the silence, "right when it was getting interesting."
With a tender sigh, she reached under the blanket, pulled out Jingfei's letter, and clutched it tightly to her chest, a big, silly grin spreading across her face. "That man is going to be the death of me," she whispered, a playful promise mingling with the chaos of the moment.