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They were both half-drowsing after a long day — Maomao with a medical scroll spread over her stomach, Jinshi lying beside her, absently tracing the edge of her sleeve.
She spoke without looking up.
“You know, you never really asked.”
He blinked. “Asked what?”
She turned a page. “To marry you.”
Jinshi sat up slightly, scandalized. “What? I absolutely did.”
“No. You hovered. Then panicked. Then mumbled something about legal arrangements and how it was a good investment.”
“I did not say that.”
“You implied it.”
“I was being tactful.”
Maomao hummed. “You were being weird. You do that, sometimes.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You’re revising history.”
“I’m the one with the better memory.”
“That’s debatable. You still forget lunch.”
“I forget lunch because I’m working.”
“You forgot lunch on our wedding day.”
She didn’t even blink. “You asked me if I wanted to be yours. That’s not the same as proposing.”
Jinshi scoffed. “That was so much better than proposing.”
“How?”
“It was honest.”
A pause.
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “You were flushed.”
“It was hot.”
“You were holding your breath.”
“I thought you might throw something at me.”
“I almost did.”
“Exactly.”
Silence stretched. Jinshi laid back down with a small huff, one arm flung across his forehead in faux-dramatic defeat.
“…You said yes,” he said eventually.
Maomao didn’t answer right away.
“I said, ‘you’re an idiot.’”
“Same thing.”
A beat.
He felt her hand settle on his chest, light but steady.
“…It was a good kind of idiot,” she muttered.
Jinshi smiled into the ceiling, the kind of smile that didn’t need to be seen to be known.