Page 28 of The Scholar's Improper Wife

She did. But it didn’t ease the sour feeling in her chest.

Yun-si also lamented about her nemesis whenever she was free. “Old Wang grumbled that the shop opposite his had long queuesagain—all because Moonlit Brush released another huaben. Honestly, what’s so special about his books? They don’t even have duels!”

Ting-zhi went very still. “Have you ever read his books?”

“Hmpf. Why would I? He keeps stealing my place at the top of the bestsellers chart. I used to be the one there...”

“Well... you do write different genres. It caters to different readers.”

Yun-si gifted him a vexed scowl and returned to writing with a vengeance.

Chapter 12

Yun-si banged her head against the table. Once. Twice. The third time, Ting-zhi’s hand was there protecting her head.

“What is it this time?” he asked with amused resignation.

“I need... thatfeeling. See?” She said, pointing at her manuscript, “This is where the maiden and the swordsman meets secretly in the garden. I need that breathless, heart-pounding, moonlit feeling that will make my heroine sigh and my readers swoon.”

A few hours later, Yun-si found herself crouching behind a potted ornamental pine, her breath fogging in the frigid night air. The garden was a graveyard of shadows, the moon a sickle of pale light barely piercing the cloud cover. This moonlight rendezvous thing was romantic in theory butfreezingin practice.

A twig snapped.

She whipped around, skirts rustling like a startled hare. Ting-zhi stepped from behind the rockery, his usual scholar’s robes replaced by a plain dark tunic that fit close to his frame. Yun-si stared. Since when had he grown such broad shoulders? The tall, lean man who bore little resemblance to the gangly boy she remembered moved soundlessly across the frost-stiffened grass, as if he’d done this a hundred times before.

“You’re late,” she hissed.

“You’reloud.” He crouched beside her, his warmth radiating like a furnace. “The entire household probably heard you sneeze from the east wing.”

“I didnot—”

“You did.” His breath curled between them, visible in the cold. “Twice.”

She scowled. “This isyouridea of romance? A moonlight stroll inwinter? My hands and toes are already numb.”

Ting-zhi’s teeth flashed white in the dark. “Si-er, if you wanted a heated chamber and silk blankets, you should’ve just asked. I’d be happy to oblige.”

Her face burned. “That’s not what I meant! I meant thesetting! Theatmosphere! The—” She gestured wildly at the skeletal trees, the frozen pond, the moon doing its best impression of a disinterested spectator. “This issupposedto be poetic!”

“Mmm.” He stood, offering a hand. “And yet, here you are, shivering like a plucked goose, about to sacrifice your fingers to frostbite for the sake of literature.”

She ignored his hand. “I need tofeelit. The anticipation. The stolen moment. The—” Another gesture. “Thesighing.”

Ting-zhi tilted his head. “You want me to sigh?”

“No!” She groaned, pressing her forehead against the cold ceramic pot. “I want tounderstandwhy heroines in stories would riskeverythingfor a midnight meeting. Right now, I’d risk everything for a cup of hot ginger tea.”

Silence. Then—

A low chuckle. The sound wrapped around her, richer than the brocade cushions in her chamber. “Come here.”

She lifted her head. “Where?”

“Come.Here.” He crooked a finger.

Yun-si hesitated, but stood anyway. The cold bit at her exposed wrists, her ankles, hernose—but when she finally stepped forward, the space between them vanished.

Ting-zhi’s arms enclosed her.