Routine did not feel like safety at first.
It felt like surrender.
⸻
On the one hundred and first day, Lin Yue woke before dawn without reason.
Not alarm.
Not urgency.
Her body simply recognized the hour.
She sat up, waited for her breathing to settle, and then reached for the kettle.
The water had not been replenished.
She refilled it.
Not because it mattered.
Because it was what came next.
⸻
Outside, the palace was quiet in the way only large places could be—never silent, just resting between movements.
Lin Yue dressed carefully.
Same layers.
Same ties.
Same pace.
She did not check the calendar.
Not avoiding it.
Trusting it to exist without her attention.
⸻
By the time she reached the annex, the sky had lightened to a pale, undecided blue.
Prince Shen Rui arrived minutes later.
Exactly minutes.
Not early.
Not late.
They nodded to each other.
No greeting required.
The day began.
⸻
They worked side by side without coordination.
Lin Yue organized documents.
Prince Shen Rui reviewed dispatches.
They did not comment on efficiency.
They had already measured it.
⸻
Midmorning, a servant entered with tea.
Lin Yue accepted the tray and placed it on the table.
She poured two cups.
Left them there.
Prince Shen Rui reached for his when ready.
No acknowledgment.
No thanks.
Routine did not require gratitude.
⸻
"This road will need reinforcement before the rains," he said, scanning a report.
"Yes," Lin Yue replied. "They'll send men too late."
"They always do."
She nodded.
"That won't change."
"No."
They marked it accordingly.
⸻
By noon, the annex had warmed slightly.
Sunlight reached the edge of the table, illuminating dust motes that drifted without purpose.
Lin Yue noticed the way Prince Shen Rui paused occasionally—not distracted, but recalibrating.
She adjusted the pacing.
Less discussion.
More space.
He followed without comment.
⸻
At midday, she left.
Not abruptly.
Not ceremonially.
Just when the work allowed.
Prince Shen Rui did not look up.
This was also routine now.
⸻
Lin Yue ate alone in her quarters.
Rice.
Vegetables.
Warm broth.
She ate slowly.
Not savoring.
Present.
Outside her window, servants crossed the courtyard, their paths intersecting briefly before separating again.
She watched them without attachment.
This was how things endured.
⸻
In the afternoon, she returned.
Prince Shen Rui was already there.
He had moved the chair slightly.
Not closer.
Not farther.
Adjusted.
⸻
They resumed.
No mention of the morning.
No anticipation of the evening.
Just the day, unfolding at its own pace.
⸻
At some point, Prince Shen Rui spoke.
"You've stopped flinching."
Lin Yue looked up.
"At what?"
"At the quiet," he said.
She considered.
"No," she replied. "I learned how to sit in it."
He nodded.
"That's dangerous."
"Yes."
"But useful."
"Yes."
⸻
A messenger arrived with news from the eastern border.
Minor unrest.
Nothing immediate.
Prince Shen Rui read it once, then handed it to Lin Yue.
She scanned it.
"Nothing here requires response today," she said.
"Tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"Then tomorrow."
They set it aside.
⸻
As afternoon faded, the annex dimmed.
A servant lit the lamps.
The light was warm.
Familiar.
Lin Yue realized she could now tell the time by the angle of shadow alone.
That was new.
⸻
"You don't leave when it gets dark anymore," Prince Shen Rui observed.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because this part of the day doesn't ask for anything," she replied.
He accepted that.
⸻
They worked until the bell rang.
Once.
Twice.
The signal that the day's official business had ended.
Prince Shen Rui gathered his documents.
Lin Yue stacked the rest.
Their movements synchronized without intention.
⸻
At the door, he paused.
"You'll be here tomorrow," he said.
"Yes."
"And the day after."
"Yes."
A pause.
"And the day after that?"
She hesitated—not because she didn't know, but because the answer had weight.
"Yes."
He nodded.
That was all.
⸻
That night, Lin Yue returned to her quarters later than usual.
She washed her hands.
Changed her clothes.
Sat on the edge of the bed.
⸻
Only then did she open the calendar.
The marked date remained.
Immovable.
Patient.
She did not trace it.
She did not count backward.
She closed the book and placed it beneath the pillow.
Not hiding it.
Resting with it.
⸻
As she lay down, Lin Yue understood something new:
Routine was not denial.
It was structure.
And structure—
Was what allowed fragile things to exist without breaking.
⸻
Across the palace, Prince Shen Rui extinguished his lamp and lay back, staring at the ceiling.
The day had been ordinary.
That was its danger.
Because ordinary days were easy to love.
And love, once attached to routine, became difficult to remove.
⸻
The palace slept.
Time moved forward.
And somewhere within repetition, both of them found a place—
Not to escape the ending.
But to stand while waiting for it.
The danger of routine was not that it distracted them.
It was that it asked for nothing—and gave everything anyway.
⸻
On the one hundred and second day, Lin Yue arrived to find the annex already prepared.
Tea steeped.
Documents aligned.
The chair angled exactly where she would normally place it.
She stopped.
Just for a breath.
Prince Shen Rui noticed.
"I adjusted earlier," he said.
"Yes."
"I thought it would help."
"It does," she replied.
And that was the problem.
⸻
She sat.
Not correcting the chair.
Not undoing the preparation.
Accepting it.
⸻
They worked without friction.
Too smoothly.
When a clerk entered with a question, Prince Shen Rui answered without looking at Lin Yue.
She did not need to prompt him.
When another messenger arrived, Lin Yue took the dispatch without being asked.
The room functioned.
⸻
At midday, neither of them noticed the time.
That was new.
⸻
"You didn't leave," he said eventually.
"I forgot," she answered honestly.
He paused.
Then nodded.
"Forgetting," he said, "is worse than choosing."
"Yes."
"But easier."
"Yes."
⸻
In the afternoon, rain began again.
Light.
Persistent.
The annex darkened slowly.
Prince Shen Rui reached for the lamp, then stopped.
"Do you mind the dark?"
"No."
They stayed as they were.
Silhouettes.
⸻
Lin Yue realized then that she could predict his movements.
The way his fingers hovered before turning a page.
The moment his breath shifted when he disagreed but chose not to speak.
This knowledge arrived quietly.
Without permission.
⸻
"You're watching less," he said suddenly.
"And noticing more," she replied.
A silence followed.
Not strained.
Settled.
⸻
When the bell rang, neither of them moved immediately.
Prince Shen Rui was the first to stand.
"You'll leave soon," he said.
"Yes."
"But not yet."
"No."
He waited.
Not asking.
She gathered her sleeves and rose.
Their timing matched again.
⸻
At the door, she paused.
"Tomorrow," she said, "I might be late."
He nodded.
"Then I'll wait."
The word landed heavier than either of them expected.
⸻
That night, Lin Yue lay awake longer than usual.
Not anxious.
Alert.
Routine had become something else.
Not shelter.
Expectation.
⸻
She turned onto her side and pressed the pillow closer.
The calendar remained beneath it.
Unmoving.
Unimpressed.
⸻
Across the palace, Prince Shen Rui found himself counting the hours backward.
Not to the date.
To the morning.
That realization unsettled him more than any prophecy.
⸻
Comfort, Lin Yue understood, was not the opposite of pain.
It was its most patient accomplice.
And patience—
Was how attachment learned to survive unnoticed.