"Your Highness… then I will wait outside."
From beyond the door, the shadow guard captain Ying Yi's voice carried a tension he failed to hide.
Iris scrambled to gather the clothes scattered across the hay.
The inappropriate contact. The tangled heat.
And his body's unmistakably honest reaction—
In the pale morning light, all of it felt absurd.
"Get dressed."
She turned her back on him, teeth clenched. Her fingers trembled despite herself.
Prince Chen lowered his gaze.
His robe hung open. Blood seeped through the bandages.
Mud, straw, and the sticky residue of cold sweat clung to his skin.
For someone with severe cleanliness obsessions, this was worse than losing a limb.
"—Ah."
Iris's heart jumped. She turned instinctively.
He had tried to sit up.
The moment he braced himself with his injured arm, his strength gave out.
His body swayed violently.
Cold sweat broke across his forehead.
The once-elegant brocade robe now hung in tatters, stained with dirt and dried blood.
Pathetic. Barely holding together.
In his current state, modesty wasn't even an option. Staying upright was already a struggle.
Iris forgot the embarrassment.
She moved on instinct, catching his shoulder.
"Don't move."
Her fingers closed around his pulse. Her expression darkened.
"Thin. Rapid."
"You're close to hypovolemic shock. Where did that bravado from earlier go?"
"The poison isn't spreading." she said.
"But your body's still paying for it."
He leaned against her, breathing heavily.
Those sharp, fox-like eyes—usually cold and cutting—were unfocused now, dulled by fever and exhaustion.
He glanced down at himself.
Filthy.
Enough to make him want to peel his skin off.
"Call… Ying Yi."
The words were forced through clenched teeth.
Iris sighed, then raised her voice."Come in."
The door opened a crack.
Ying Yi slipped inside with his head lowered, eyes carefully fixed on the floor—the posture of someone who had decided he was both blind and ignorant.
"Your Highness, pardon me for arriving late—"
"Look up."
Prince Chen's voice was weak.
The authority was not.
Ying Yi lifted his head.
His eyes widened.
What he had expected was an awkward scene—something private, interrupted.
What he saw instead—
Blood on the floor.Shredded bandages. A face pale as paper.
An ugly, open wound.
"Your Highness— you're injured?!"He nearly lunged forward.
"Stay where you are."
Prince Chen drew a slow breath, forcing down the nausea rising in his stomach—triggered by the grime coating his body.
"Go to the carriage," he ordered.
"Bring a plain set of clothes. Nothing noticeable."
A pause.
His throat moved.
"And have hot water prepared. Boiling."
"Yes! Immediately!"
Ying Yi finally understood the severity of the situation.
He asked no questions and rushed out.
A quarter hour later.
Steam curled from a wooden basin.
A clean, moon-white cotton robe lay folded beside it.
Ying Yi knelt by the bed, sleeves rolled up.
"Your Highness, let me help you."
He wrung out a rough cloth and reached for Prince Chen's neck.
The moment that calloused, dust-stained hand neared his skin—
Prince Chen's pupils contracted sharply.
His stomach seized.
"—Ugh."
He lurched backward, slamming into the wooden boards.
His face shifted from pale to ashen.
His body shook uncontrollSevere injury. High fever. And a night spent struggling in filthy water.ably.
A stress response.
The cleanliness obsession he had suppressed by sheer will finally collapsed.
"Your Highness?!" Ying Yi dropped the cloth in panic.
"Don't— touch me."
Prince Chen gripped the hay beneath him, veins standing out on the back of his hand.
His eyes held nothing but physiological rejection.
"Get out."
A cool hand suddenly closed around Ying Yi's shoulder.
Iris—now fully dressed—pulled him upright without ceremony.
"Out. Now."
Her tone was flat. Absolute.
"He's in fever-induced stress. Neural overload." She glanced at Prince Chen, soaked in cold sweat.
"Your blood scent is too strong. The closer you get, the worse his nausea becomes. Guard the door."
Ying Yi hesitated, torn between fear and reluctance.
Then he bowed his head and left, shutting the door behind him.
Only the two of them remained.
Iris exhaled.
She poured the remaining half-bottle of sanitizing solution into the basin.
A faint lemon scent rose, cutting through the stale odor of the room.
She rinsed a soft cotton cloth and approached him.
"Move your hand."
Prince Chen leaned against the wall, chest heaving.His gaze was sharp with warning.
"You… leave as well."
"I'm a doctor."
She ignored his resistance and pried his arm away from his chest.
"To me, you're just a pile of protein that needs cleaning. Don't flatter yourself."
Warm, damp cloth met his neck.
He flinched instinctively. Muscles tensed.
But the expected nausea never came.
No rough friction. No foreign sweat.
Only the steady warmth of her fingers.
Her movements were careful, precise.
She avoided every wound, wiping gently along his collarbone, his throat.
His shaking eased.
Prince Chen lowered his gaze, watching her from inches away.
His breathing slowed.
The cloth moved lower.
To clean the blood along his abdomen, Iris had to lean closer.
When her fingers traced the lines of his tightened muscles through the damp fabric, she felt them contract sharply—hard as stone.
The air thinned.
She looked up.
Met his eyes.
The weakness had receded, replaced by something darker.
Dangerous.
His ears burned red. His voice came out hoarse.
"Woman… do you know where your hands are?"
Her hand jerked back as if burned.
She tossed the cloth into the basin, water splashing.
"I'm cleaning!" she snapped, turning away.
"And whose fault is it you're covered in mud?!"
She grabbed the folded clothes and shoved them toward him.
"Change your trousers yourself. That part is not my responsibility."
After changing, Prince Chen leaned against the bed.
Still pale. But the aristocratic composure had returned.
When he stood, his body swayed.
"Return to the capital?" Iris asked."The carriage is ready."
"No."
The refusal came without hesitation.
He looked toward the capital through the broken window.
His eyes were cold.
"In this state, if I'm escorted into the city, the news will spread before half an hour passes."
A humorless laugh.
"I won't let those waiting in the capital know I'm injured."
He turned back to her.
"Find a place. Two days. I need to catch my breath."
Iris studied him.
This time, she didn't mock him.
"Fine. Two days."
She turned to pack her medical kit.
Then added flatly, without looking back—
"But my fee doubles. And one more thing."
She shot him a sharp glare.
"I am not sleeping in a haystack again. I want a bed."
...
Ying Yi worked fast.
A small fishing village near the river. A rented side courtyard.
Clean. Quiet.
The yard smelled of dried nets and seawater.
The fishing couple who owned the place were honest, simple people.
The woman glanced at Prince Chen—pale, supported by Ying Yi—then at Iris with her medical kit.
Understanding dawned.
"Oh dear, young master, that looks serious."
She sighed while making the bed.
"You should take better care of your husband, miss. "
Iris opened her mouth to correct her.
Prince Chen spoke first.
"Thank you, Auntie."
He leaned against the pillows, weak but amused.
"My wife is shy. Please don't tease her."
Iris shot him a murderous look.
He ignored it and closed his eyes peacefully.
The next two days passed… quietly.
His injuries were worse than expected.
Most of the time, he couldn't get out of bed.
The feared and decisive Seventh Prince—now needed medicine fed to him one spoon at a time.
And he was an exceptionally difficult patient.
Iris noticed it gradually.
The man who rarely showed expression, who carried authority even in silence,
now frowned over medicine like a child.
Too bitter.
Too hot.
Too slow.
He complained, quietly—but persistently.
It was absurd.
And yet, when the spoon paused, his eyes followed it without thinking.
...
"Bitter."
He frowned at the dark liquid, staring at it like poison.
"Good medicine is bitter."
Iris pushed the spoon into his mouth without expression.
"Drink. Or I'll use needles."
"I don't mind poking another hole in your other arm."
He swallowed reluctantly, brows tightly knit.
Later, he watched her change bandages under the lamp.
No schemes. No assassinations. No throne.
Only this small, fish-scented courtyard—and a woman threatening to stab him with needles.
On the second night, the fever finally broke.
Iris, exhausted, fell asleep beside the bed.
Prince Chen turned his head and watched her quietly.
For the first time, the word clean didn't mean spotless robes.
It meant a person.
For twenty years, he had tolerated no one's touch.
Contact was noise. Something to be endured, never sought.
Yet now.
She was the only exception.
His body didn't reject her.
More than that.
The urge rose, sharp and instinctive,
to reach for her.
He lifted his uninjured hand, intending to touch her cheek—
Stopped halfway.
She stirred, frowning in her sleep, and grabbed his hovering hand.
Pulled it close like a pillow, cheek brushing against his palm.
Prince Chen froze.
Then the frost in his eyes shattered.
He didn't pull away.
He stroked her cheek gently.
"Two days are up," he murmured. So softly that only the moon could hear.
He didn't want to admit it—
But those two days, far from court and conflict, had been peaceful.
With Su Mo.
And for the first time, something began to take root.