Page 70 of The Scholar's Improper Wife

Then, to his immense relief, the sword lowered just an inch. Two.

Finally, she exhaled sharply through her nose, the fight draining out of her posture. “I...” She hesitated, then shook her head, the braid whipping behind her like an annoyed cat’s tail. “I think I’d betternotkill you here.”

Ting-zhi let out a slow, careful breath, his fingers still pressed to his chest. The wounds stung, but it was nothing compared to the relief he felt at her anger fading. Still, he kept his expression carefully miserable, just in case she changed her mind.

The sword clattered to the moss as Yun-si’s grip loosened. She stood there, chest heaving, staring at the dark stain spreading across his robes.

Ting-zhi didn’t move. The forest held its breath.

“Will you forgive me?” The words tore free before he could stop them, raw and unguarded. His voice cracked. “I’m sorry.”

Yun-si’s fingers twitched at her sides. She looked at the sword, then at him, then at the blood seeping between his fingers. A muscle jumped in her jaw.

“You’resuchan idiot,” she whispered.

His breath hitched.

She knelt abruptly, pressing her palm against his chest. The warmth of her skin seared through the fabric. “Does it really hurt?”

Ting-zhi swallowed. “Yes.”

Her lips thinned. “Good.”

“Hold still.”

Before he could react, she ripped a strip from her sleeve and pressed the wadded cloth to his chest. The pressure stung, but he didn’t dare flinch.

“...I’ll think about it,” she muttered.

The forest exhaled. Birds resumed singing. Somewhere, a stream trickled.

Ting-zhi let himself breathe.

A branch snapped.

Ting-zhi turned his head slowly.

A red fox with a crescent moon on its forehead sat three paces away, tail curled around its paws, watching them with curious eyes.

YUN-SI JOLTED AWAKEwith a gasp, her fingers clawing at the embroidered quilt as if it were the hilt of a sword. The morning light spilled through the lattice windows, painting stripes across her rumpled bedding. She blinked, disoriented, then—

A laugh bubbled up, wild and breathless.

Shehad done it. She hadscreamedat him. She hadstabbedhim. Not just once—repeatedly. And he hadbled. And he hadapologized.

Her chest still heaved with the remnants of dream-fury, but beneath it, something lighter, something almost giddy, fizzed in her veins. She flopped back onto the pillows, grinning at the canopy above. The silk tassels swayed gently in the draft, utterly unaware of her triumph.

“Serves you right,” she muttered to the empty room, imagining Ting-zhi’s dramatic, wounded expression. The way his voice had cracked when he saidI’m sorry. The way he’d pressed his hand to his chest like a tragic hero in one of her own stories.

She rolled onto her side, hugging a pillow to her middle. The dream had felt soreal—the weight of the sword, the resistance of his robes as the blade bit into fabric, then skin. The way his dark eyes had locked onto hers, wide and afraid. Not of the blade. But of her anger.

A shiver ran through her, half thrill, half lingering anger.

Outside, a magpie chattered in the peach tree, its cry sharp and mocking. Yun-si kicked free of the quilt and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet pressing into the cool wooden floor. The dream’s euphoria still hummed under her skin, but now, in the waking world, the edges of it were already softening. Doubt crept in, quiet and insidious.

He didn’t actually apologize.Not in real life. Not with words she could hold onto.

She padded to the washstand, splashed her face with water from the porcelain basin. The cold shocked her fully awake. In the bronze mirror, her reflection stared back—cheeks still flushed, eyes too bright, hair tumbling from its loose braid. She lookedalive. More alive than she had in weeks.