---
The days at Shèng Měi's house had fallen into a gentle rhythm—early mornings, quiet meals, walks through the fields, shared chores and books by candlelight.
But not every moment was soft.
Some held heat.
Some, tension.
And some, like this one—an unfamiliar sting.
---
It happened during a routine trip to the market.
Shèng Měi had stopped to greet a woman near the flower stall—a tall, elegant herbalist named Jiāo Yún. She wore a blue ribbon in her hair and had eyes like polished jade. Her smile was bright and open, and when she greeted Shèng Měi, she reached out and touched her arm with easy familiarity.
They talked for several minutes.
Too comfortably.
Too closely.
Lù Zhāo stood by the tofu stall, watching.
She didn't know what she was feeling at first. Her fingers curled against the edge of her sleeve. Her jaw tensed. The market noise blurred around her.
Shèng Měi didn't laugh easily—but now she did. Her smile had a softness Lù Zhāo had only seen at home.
Was this jealousy?
She wasn't sure.
But she hated it.
---
"Who was that?" Lù Zhāo asked later, as they walked home with a bundle of greens.
Shèng Měi blinked. "Jiāo Yún. She sells healing teas and dried herbs. We trained together a few years ago."
"I see," Lù Zhāo said, trying to sound neutral.
Shèng Měi glanced sideways. "She's just a friend."
"I didn't say anything," Lù Zhāo replied.
"You didn't have to."
They walked in silence for a few steps.
"…She's pretty," Lù Zhāo said softly.
"She is," Shèng Měi admitted.
Lù Zhāo's chest twisted.
But then Shèng Měi added, without hesitation:
> "But she's not you."
Lù Zhāo stopped walking.
Shèng Měi turned, confused. "What?"
The princess looked at her—eyes serious, voice quiet.
"…You confuse me."
Shèng Měi didn't smile. Her expression mirrored the intensity in Lù Zhāo's.
"You confuse me too," she said.
---
That night, things were quiet.
They ate dinner shoulder to shoulder, neither speaking of Jiāo Yún again. But Lù Zhāo found herself glancing more often. Watching the way Shèng Měi stirred the soup. Noticing the scar on her wrist. Wondering if anyone else knew how her smile tilted when she was proud of her cooking but didn't want to say it.
Jealousy hadn't hurt her.
It had made her want to understand her more.
And that scared her more than anything.
---