I had to wait.
Wei Wuxian was stuck in court all morning, wrestling with ministers and pretending not to be seconds away from flipping a table. Which meant I couldn't talk to him about Yuling's little "might-be-pregnant-oh-god-what-now" situation.
Yuling, for her part, was still curled up in my bed, nibbling on pickled plums and humming a lullaby like she was both nauseous and in denial.
Which meant, naturally, it was up to me to figure out how not to let her be accidentally poisoned by royal kitchen soup or "soothed" into miscarriage by the wrong incense stick.
So, like any responsible ex-modern girl with too many palace dramas in her bloodstream, I did the only thing I could:
I broke into the royal library.
Disguised in a servant cloak, hair wrapped up tight, heart pounding like I was committing scroll-based treason.
Because here's the problem:
There's no Google.
No baby forums. No Mayo Clinic. No "10 Early Signs of Pregnancy (Palace Edition)." I couldn't even ask someone without risking Yuling's safety—or life.
So it was me, a cold stone floor, and shelf after shelf of dusty, deeply suspicious scrolls. I hunched behind a carved divider in the Restricted Remedies section, muttering to myself as I squinted at the brushwork.
Modern brain: "You have no medical prenatal training."
Desperate brain: "But you've read fanfic and watched three dozen dramas."
Slightly unhinged brain: "You are the midwife now."
I started jotting notes on the back of a decorative fan:
Ginger: good.
Hawthorn: very bad.
Too much mugwort = possible spontaneous demon possession (??)
Eggs soaked in plum wine = absolutely not, what the hell??
I was elbow-deep in scrolls and paranoia when I smelled it—sandalwood and ink. Subtle, expensive, unmistakable. Definitely not a servant. I froze, my fingers stilling on the scroll, because I knew that scent. It wasn't just fragrance—it was a signature. A quiet declaration that said: I belong here. I own this hallway. And my robes cost more than your last five decisions combined.
And sure enough—"Consort Li."
I turned slowly, my heart already sinking. And there he was. That same man. Tall, composed, draped in silks the color of ink under moonlight. Hair tied neatly. Hands behind his back. Face carved by someone who clearly had no mercy for mortals.
And just like last time—
The moment our eyes met—
A flash of heat lanced through my skull, sharp, sudden but gone in seconds.
Then—tightness. My chest pulled tight like grief had just brushed through me, gentle but unbearable.
Also gone quickly and it left a hollow echo behind. His gaze softened, just for a heartbeat. Like he recognized something he hadn't seen in years. Then his expression reset.
Polished. Distant. Unbothered.
"You're terrible at sneaking," he said mildly. "You breathe like a fugitive monk with nose congestion."
"I've been sick," I said, scrambling to hide the fan. "And that's a rude thing to say to a woman researching prenatal care."
He blinked. "You're pregnant?"
I nearly choked. "No! No no no, not me. It's for a friend. Totally platonic. Spiritually supervised. Extremely hypothetical."
"…Of course it is."
He stepped forward.
And there it was again—That strange pull. Like he was walking into a memory I didn't have. I took half a step back. He paused.
"You're in the wrong section," he said finally. "That scroll suggests boiling dried centipede for 'temperamental wombs.' Possibly fatal."
I stared at the scroll, horrified. "Oh my god."
"You're welcome."
He turned and walked to the next aisle like he lived there. Plucked a slim, well-preserved scroll from the third shelf without even looking.
Came back and offered it to me.
"Nurturing the Precious Vessel. Written for imperial midwives. Less folklore, more results. I believe it only calls for duck sacrifice once."
I took it slowly. "Why do you know this?"
He gave a faint smile. "Because I make it my business to know everything that matters."
And for a moment, I hated how charming that sounded.
"How did you even find me?" I asked.
"I didn't." He turned. "I found the truth, and you happened to be near it."
Before I could press him for more—his name, his job, his entire existence—he bowed just enough to mock propriety and said, "Until next time… Consort Li."
And vanished into the shadows like a ghost. Again.
Leaving me with a scroll in one hand, a pounding heart, and that same strange ache in my ribs that didn't feel entirely physical.
By the time I got back from the library—with the scroll hidden in my sleeve, a thousand questions in my head, and his face still burned into the backs of my eyelids—Wei Wuxian was finally out of court.
I found him in the side hall of the Prince's quarters, surrounded by Ming Yu, Lan Wangji, and enough tea cups to stage a formal truce between kingdoms.
They looked up the moment I entered.
"Mei Lin," Wei Wuxian said, standing quickly. "You look—"
"Terrified? Emotionally scorched? Slightly smarter than a palace physician?" I dropped into the nearest seat. "Good. We've got a problem."
Ming Yu was already on alert. "What happened?"
I glanced around the room. The door was shut. No servants. Just us. I took a breath.
"It's Yuling," I said.
Wei Wuxian looked confused. "What about her?"
"She's pregnant."
The room stilled. Not a blink. Not a breath.
Wei Wuxian: "...Are you serious?"
I nodded. "Morning sickness. Missed period. Barley tea aversion. And I nearly fainted when I remembered how many historical dramas start like this and end with poison and regret."
Lan Wangji looked concerned. Ming Yu looked like he had just been hit in the face with the consequences of his own plan.
"She doesn't want anyone to know," I continued. "Which is fair, because if the Queen or the Wang family gets wind of it before we have a plan, they'll twist it, smear it, or worse—end it."
I tossed the scroll onto the table.
"This is what I found in the royal library. The only useful thing between five hundred scrolls of duck-liver soup and womb-alignment astrology. 'Nurturing the Precious Vessel.' Someone needs to go through it and figure out how to keep Yuling alive and un-poisoned for the next seven months."
"We can't use palace physicians," Lan Wangji said.
"Exactly," I replied. "Not unless we want the baby to die from spiritual imbalance caused by suspicious plum blossoms or whatever excuse they'll give."
Ming Yu finally spoke, his voice tight. "We need someone from our side. Someone skilled. Quiet. Loyal."
Then Wei Wuxian finally spoke.
"I can have someone brought in," he said. "From the outer province. But it'll take a few days. We'll keep this quiet until then."
His words were measured, but something was off.
He wasn't looking at any of us. Not really. His gaze hovered somewhere on the table, unfocused, like he was staring through the scroll instead of at it.
He tried to fold his hands, but I noticed the paper beneath his fingers shift—just barely. The parchment crinkled, a tremor in his grip so slight it could've been missed.
But I didn't miss it.
Wei Wuxian was rattled. Not in the loud, dramatic, flip-the-table way.
No. This was something quieter. He didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just… froze for half a heartbeat too long. His mouth was set, but his jaw had gone tight. His spine, usually so relaxed even in chaos, now held tension like a drawn bow.
He wasn't reacting like a prince. Or a tactician. Or the maddening, overconfident genius I was used to arguing with. He looked like someone who had just heard the word "father" for the first time—and wasn't ready.
And then, without saying a word, Lan Wangji reached across the table and placed a hand on his shoulder.
Not a dramatic gesture. No speech. No deep sigh of solidarity.
Just a hand. Steady. Present.
Wei Wuxian didn't flinch. He didn't say anything.
But he looked at him.
And whatever panic had been twisting underneath—whatever fear he hadn't dared let out in front of us—eased.
A fraction of breath returned to his shoulders. His fingers relaxed around the scroll.
And in that one look between them, I saw it:
You're not alone. This isn't too much. I'm still here. I'll always be here.
The storm hadn't passed. But it had somewhere to land.
I glanced at Ming Yu, and he glanced back.
We didn't say anything either, but we didn't need to.
They needed this moment. Just the two of them. Just that unspoken history between them holding steady while everything else spun.
I stood up slowly and cleared my throat. "We'll give you two some space. Let us know when the physician's ready to see her."
Wei Wuxian didn't respond immediately, but he nodded. A real one this time—grounded, focused.
As Ming Yu and I slipped out, I didn't look back.
Some moments aren't meant to be witnessed twice.