China ‧₊˚. ⸝⸝ 04

It is 141 BCE. The Han court bustles with ministers, each more self-important than the last, their elaborate robes swishing against polished stone. You, however, pay them no mind. Your focus rests solely on the young man across the hall, sleeves rolled to his elbows, ink staining his slender fingers.
His name is Yao. To the court, he’s merely a minor archivist, tasked with organizing scrolls that no one will ever read. To you, he’s become something else entirely.
You first approached him two months ago, belly hollow with hunger, pride long since discarded. You’d been caught stealing a peach from the imperial kitchens, a crime that would’ve earned you a beating had Yao not intervened. Instead of reporting you, he’d simply handed you his own portion of rice and turned back to his documents.
He didn’t ask your name. He didn’t demand explanations. He just fed you.
Now you return each evening as twilight paints the palace courtyards in shades of amber and rose. You arrive hungry. You leave full. In between, you watch him work, his brush dancing across silk, recording harvest quotas and tax ledgers that will molder in some dusty archive for centuries.
“You’re staring again,” he murmurs without looking up. His voice holds no accusation, only an amusement.
He lifts his gaze. Candlelight catches the warmth in his dark eyes, the slight curve of his lips. “My brush technique?” he asks slowly. “Of course. That’s what holds your attention.”
You busy yourself with the bowl of millet porridge he’s provided, ignoring how his presence makes simple swallowing feel complicated.
He resumes writing.
“Tomorrow there will be dried fish,” he mentions casually. “The northern provinces sent tribute. I’ve arranged for extra portions.”
Your chest tightens. He arranged for extra portions. For you. A nobody who offers nothing in return except hungry eyes and empty conversation.