Page 32 of The Scholar's Improper Wife

“It’s getting late,” he said, still in that pleasant, distant voice. “You should head back before someone notices you’re gone.”

“But—”

“I’ll see you at the next research session.” He was already stepping back, putting distance between them. Physical distance that somehow felt like miles. “We can discuss the next scenario then.”

He bowed—formally, the way he would bow to any lady of rank—and turned away.

She stood there in the gathering dark, watching him walk away with that measured stride, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders straight and careful.

And she didn’t understand what had just happened. Didn’t understand why the warmth from moments ago had suddenly drained away, leaving only this cold, hollow feeling in her chest.

He made it to the garden gate steps before his legs decided they were done cooperating.

Not dramatically. Nothing so obvious as stumbling. Just—a slowing. A stop. His hands found the wall without his permission, palms flat against the cold stone, and he just stood there, looking at nothing.

Brother.

The words rang in his ears like a death knell. He’d kissed her—carefully, tenderly, pouring years of want into that single moment.

And she had said:like a nicer brother.

His hands were shaking. He pressed them flat against the cold stone of the garden wall and tried to remember how to breathe.

Had he invented all of it?Every blush, every caught breath, every moment her eyes had lingered half a second too long? He was not a man who misread rooms. He had spent his entire life reading rooms—reading people, filing away what they wanted, what they feared, what they were trying not to show. He had been so certain.

Had he constructed an entire romance out of nothing but his own desperate hope?

He heard her footsteps behind him. Light. Hesitant. Of course she followed. Because that was what you did when your trusted nicer brother seemed upset. You followed him and asked what was wrong with that small crease between your brows, and he was supposed to saynothingwith a reassuring smile, and everything was supposed to be fine.

He straightened. Took one breath, slow and even, the kind he used before examinations and difficult conversations and every difficult moment in his life.

When he turned, he was perfectly composed again.

“Did you forget something?” he asked mildly.

She stood a few steps away, hands twisted in her sleeves, brow furrowed. “You’re upset.”

“Not at all.”

“You are. I said something wrong. I don’t—Ting-zhi, I—”

“You said nothing wrong.” His voice was gentle. Patient. Everything a good older brother should be. “I simply remembered I have an early meeting tomorrow. I should go.”

“Oh.” She looked small suddenly, biting her lips,the lips he had just lovingly kissed, uncertain in a way he’d rarely seen her.

He made himself smile. Made himself step forward and—because he was a fool, because he couldn’t help himself—reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

His fingers brushed her temple. She went very still.

“Goodnight, Si-er,” he said quietly.

Then he walked away before he could do something stupid.

Like kiss her senseless, or say something he couldn’t take back, or beg.

He kept walking, past the pavilion where the lanterns and laughter were still on-going, past the old plum tree where they’d climbed as children, through the little door that led to the Clan School’s compound—

Research,she had said, right after the third kiss.Very helpful.