The rain decided not to fall. It hung overhead like a rumor, interesting but uncommitted.
Lin Yue tied his sash in the bronze mirror and nodded at his reflection. The face looking back at him wasn't the one he grew up with, but it had potential: steady eyes, even breath, a mouth that could pretend to be polite while engineering an escape.
Outside, the side courtyard was suddenly everyone's favorite shortcut. Servants drifted past in twos and threes with the furtive energy of people who wanted to witness a spectacle without being caught witnessing it.
"—marrying him off today—" "—a relief for the Lin Clan—" "—Jian Zhi deserves better—"
It was almost sweet, how openly they spoke when they thought the walls could eat words. Lin Yue slid his door open and the conversation decapitated itself mid-syllable. Three servants found great urgency in the far horizon and wandered off in different directions, the way cats pretend they never meant to push the vase.
He stepped into the light. Red silk arched from eave to eave, bright as fresh peppers, and a lacquered carriage lurked at the gate like a well-bred beast that promised not to bite unless invited. The horses snorted ghost-clouds into the cool air.
Footsteps approached, sure and unhurried. Jian Zhi came down the covered walk in ceremonial crimson, which turned his usual quietness into something effortlessly dignified. He stopped an arm's length away and studied Lin Yue's sash knot as if it were a puzzle box.
"May I?" he asked.
Lin Yue lifted his chin a fraction. The knot surrendered itself to Jian Zhi's fingers and returned a moment later, suspiciously perfect.
"Tradition says the couple should meet before the procession," Jian Zhi said. "It's meant to be lucky."
"I'm pro-luck," Lin Yue said. "I just prefer it to arrive by appointment."
Jian Zhi's eyes did that small brightening that wasn't a smile, but made one consider it. "Duly noted."
The ride down from the Lin estate wound through wet bamboo and low stone walls. Jian Zhi lifted the carriage curtain just enough to breathe the morning. Lin Yue watched the way he did it—carefully, like someone used to reading rooms before stepping into them.
"Your village," Lin Yue said, "is tidy."
"Tidy," Jian Zhi echoed, amused. "We aim high."
"Clean lines," Lin Yue clarified. "No wasted motion." He paused. "I approve."
There it was again—that quick, quiet light in Jian Zhi's gaze, as if someone had opened a window in a room that had forgotten windows existed.
They arrived to color and noise: lanterns strung like a constellation of small suns, children chasing each other with paper fish, the smell of incense and dumplings competing politely. People stared, as people do. Most were simply curious; a few had the particular pinched-mouth expression of judges at a contest no one else signed up for.
The ceremony itself ran like a well-oiled device—wrist-binding, bows, a chant precise enough to measure rice by. When the red cloth slipped from their hands, the village sighed as one, relieved to have survived a day's worth of talking points.
They retreated to Jian Zhi's courtyard: small, swept, loved. A willow leaned over the wall as if listening. Lin Yue counted three things in need of repair and two that were charming enough to be forgiven. Jian Zhi shook off a bead of water from his sleeve with the practiced flick of someone who disliked being obvious about hating rain.
"It's not much," Jian Zhi said. "But—"
"It's ours," Lin Yue finished, because sometimes finishing a sentence was kinder than letting it fall.
Tea appeared. Lin Yue didn't see where it came from, only that Jian Zhi had already set out two cups as if he'd rehearsed this for months with ghosts for company. The tea tasted like chrysanthemums and a clear conscience.
"I appreciate your restraint," Lin Yue said.
"In marrying you?" Jian Zhi asked, pleasantly startled.
"In not commenting on the morning's chorus," Lin Yue said. "The village sang. Not in tune, but with enthusiasm."
A thread of laughter escaped Jian Zhi—light, quick, real. He set his cup down with care and looked as if he might actually relax.
The door slid open.
A woman in her forties swept in wearing the expression of someone permanently disappointed by gravity. "Zhi," she said, and then registered Lin Yue as if he were a new piece of furniture too large to return.
"Aunt," Jian Zhi said, cordial with a protective layer of silk. "Welcome."
Her gaze tapped Lin Yue's robe, his posture, the economy of his cuff. "So the Lin Clan sent… this."
"Congratulations," Lin Yue said mildly. "You've discovered the shape of me."
"Shapes can be hollow," she said. "What do you bring?"
"An appetite, two hands, and a talent for ignoring foolishness," Lin Yue said. "Would you like a demonstration of the third?"
Aunt stared. Jian Zhi's eyes dipped; Lin Yue suspected he was hiding a smile behind the cup.
"Be at the banquet," the aunt said at last. "Arrive. Sit. Don't make me chase you with a ladle." She turned to go, then paused at the threshold. "The east roof leaks."
"After the banquet," Lin Yue said, already cataloguing nails, pitch, ladder. "We'll fix it."
"We?" Aunt repeated, as if he'd confessed to sorcery.
"We," Jian Zhi said, calm as a closed fan.
Aunt made the sharp sound that happens when a lifelong skeptic finds a coin behind her ear and left, unwilling to be seen as impressed. The silence she left behind felt lighter than the air before it.
They went to the banquet through streets that smelled of rain deciding things. Food occupied long tables beneath a canvas awning: steamed buns with pleasing folds, fish so fresh it had probably expected to survive the day, greens glossy with garlic. The headman gave a speech about harmony that had nothing to do with anyone present; people applauded anyway because applause is easier than honesty.
Lin Yue sat beside Jian Zhi and watched the village in the reflective way a lake watches boats. A cluster of young men tried for swagger and landed somewhere near damp bravado. Two older women assessed Lin Yue with the professional detachment of buyers at a horse market. A small child with heroic mud on both knees waved solemnly at Jian Zhi. Jian Zhi waved back with the exact same solemnity, ruining the women's attempt not to soften.
The headman finally remembered to be welcoming. "Young Master Lin," he said, smiling with careful muscles, "your clan is generous."
"Generosity has many dialects," Lin Yue said. "I will try to learn this one."
Polite laughter ran around the tables like a cat skimming chair backs. Jian Zhi's sleeve brushed Lin Yue's knuckles under the table—not accident, not quite intention—just a brief, anchoring touch that said: seen.
They might have escaped without incident if not for the rain remembering its schedule and the youths remembering they were supposed to be unkind.
The tallest of the trio drifted across their path near the gate, flanked by two friends who were already composing future tales in which they were braver. "Fragile phoenix," the tall one said to Jian Zhi with the lazy drawl of someone trying on cruelty and finding it slightly loose, "you caught yourself a scholar. Will he write poems about your leaks?"
"Possibly," Lin Yue said. "But first I'll fix the leak. I prefer my metaphors dry."
The boys blinked. Wit is rude; it refuses to wear the uniform expected of it.
"We were talking to Zhi," the second one tried. "Not you."
"And yet," Lin Yue said, perfectly amiable, "you did it in the public road, which belongs to everyone and is presently needed for elders and brides. Unless you'd like to explain to the headman why you blocked a wedding path during a festival?"
Rain obligingly thickened. The boys exchanged glances and discovered they had urgent appointments elsewhere.
When they were gone, Jian Zhi let out a laugh so quiet it might have been the sound of the willow shaking off drops. "You could have ignored them."
"I did," Lin Yue said. "Efficiently."
They returned to the courtyard in easy silence. A pale wash of late light dropped itself along the wall where the willow traced green shadows. Inside, Lin Yue found a small basket of nails and a coil of old hemp rope; Jian Zhi found a ladder that had survived three owners and an unfortunate encounter with a pig.
"After you," Jian Zhi said, steadying the ladder.
"Careful," Lin Yue said, testing a rung. "I'm new to this world; I'd prefer not to leave it through poor carpentry."
The roof accepted him with a long hollow sigh. The leak was obvious: a row of tiles shifted by wind. He set them right, wedged a small piece of cedar in place, and sealed it with pitch that smelled like pine and stubbornness. Below, Jian Zhi watched, hands pocketed in his sleeves, rain making small polite points along his hair.
"You've done this before," Jian Zhi called up.
"Roofs?" Lin Yue set the last tile. "No. Problems? Yes."
He climbed down to find Jian Zhi looking at him with that clear, careful expression that made honesty seem like the most luxurious thing in the room.
"Thank you," Jian Zhi said.
"For roofs?" Lin Yue dusted his hands. "I aim high."
"For not letting them set the story," Jian Zhi said.
Lin Yue nodded once. "Stories are tools. Better we pick them up first."
They cooked a simple supper with the leftover fish and a handful of greens that didn't object to being reassigned. Jian Zhi moved like someone used to making small things taste like care. Lin Yue chopped with exactness and the faintly alarming confidence of a man who had once calibrated equipment capable of puncturing reality.
Afterward, they stood under the eaves and watched the village put itself to bed. Lamps went out like a constellation deciding to be modest. Somewhere a dog negotiated philosophy with the moon.
"Do you regret it?" Jian Zhi asked, not a whisper and not quite steady.
"Regret implies I had a better option," Lin Yue said. "I didn't. Now we will."
Jian Zhi turned that over and seemed to like the balance. "We will," he said, as if trying the plural on and finding that it fit.
They banked the lamp. The room surrendered to calm. Lin Yue lay down and listened to the roof not leaking, which was satisfying in a small and essential way.
Just before sleep, something warm and impossible brushed the edge of his awareness—like standing in sunlight after a long winter hallway. It was not the pocket world he'd found; he kept his distance from that for now. This was simpler, nearer. It was the steady, careful rhythm of the person a few steps away who, even dreaming, seemed to practice not taking up space.
"Good night," Lin Yue said, barely audible.
There was a soft, half-awake answer. "Good night."
The rain didn't fall. It waited. Sometimes patience is the kindest weather.
And in the morning, Lin Yue decided, they would begin—properly.