Chapter Text
Maomao had long ago accepted that her life would never be ordinary.
She and the Moon Prince had come to an understanding. No matter the storms that gathered, no matter the schemes of court or fate, they would not part. That decision had quietly reshaped everything.
Acceptance bred a different sort of intimacy—one that no longer paused at lingering glances or teasing words. Doors were locked more often. Lamps were lowered earlier. The careful distance he once insisted upon dissolved into shared warmth beneath heavy quilts, into hands that no longer pretended restraint. Their fingers traced familiar paths with growing confidence; his no longer pushed her away, and instead drew her closer.
With that closeness came nights that stretched long and breathless, filled with whispered arguments that ended in laughter, with stubborn pride that softened against bare skin. By morning, her hair would be hopelessly tangled, his composure equally so. She would complain about the loss of sleep; he would look insufferably pleased.
They did not speak of it in daylight.
But the quiet understanding between them deepened with every night she refused to examine too carefully under the sun.
The frequent summons to his residence had become routine. Silk cushions, rare teas, delicacies flown in from distant provinces. At first she had eaten with caution, suspicious of excess. Now she simply enjoyed it. A physician needed proper nutrition, after all.
Not that she minded being spoiled.
Between the rich dishes from the prince’s household and En’en’s increasingly ambitious cooking experiments, Maomao had softened in ways even she could not ignore. The sharp angles she once carried had mellowed; her waist remained slender, but it now flowed into fuller curves. Her breasts had grown rounder, filling out her robes in a way that made men take a second look much to the Moon Prince’s displeasure. Her hips had widened, lending her steps a subtle sway she pretended not to notice. Even her backside had gained a pleasing weight to it, something she only became aware of when certain silk skirts clung more stubbornly than before. A faint layer of softness had settled at her belly as well—hardly enough to call plump, but enough to make her figure undeniably, unmistakably feminine.
The Moon Prince had looked far too pleased the last time he traced the curve of her waist, his fingers lingering as though confirming what his eyes already admired. His expression had turned almost smug, as if he alone were responsible for her transformation.
Even Suiren had smiled in quiet approval, which was far more unnerving than flattering.
Lahan, however, had no such restraint.
When he’d glimpsed her during a courtyard gathering, his sharp eyes had swept over her with calculating interest. “Ah,” he’d declared thoughtfully, adjusting his spectacles. “Improved proportions. Increased curvature in optimal areas. Statistically favorable growth. It did well on your numbers—”
The rest of his observation was cut short by the solid impact of Maomao’s foot against his toes.
He barely flinched.
“…Steel-capped shoes,” he noted blandly.
Her eyes narrowed.
“Then I suppose I’ll aim higher next time.”
Despite everything, Maomao continued her duties at the medical pavilion as a junior physician. Her world there remained reassuringly practical. Bandages, decoctions, patients with ailments that could be named and measured.
She had gathered a small circle of friends among the court ladies assigned to the pavilion. En’en, sharp-eyed and earnest. Yao, sweet and endlessly worried. Changsa and Yo, who drifted in and out like background music. Even Tianyu, though he was more nuisance than companion.
That morning the pavilion was unusually quiet.
Most of the physicians had been dispatched to investigate rumors of smallpox outbreaks in surrounding districts. Maomao had not been included.
She scrubbed a bandage with unnecessary force.
Her father had requested that she limit exposure to infectious patients. The Moon Prince had likely ensured the order was obeyed. Dr. Liu would not dare refuse him.
Annoying men.
Beside her, En’en hummed softly while rinsing bandages. Yao worked with methodical precision. Tianyu lounged nearby, pretending to sort herbs while clearly doing nothing of value.
Maomao plunged another bandage into water as though it had personally offended her.
Then her stomach tightened.
She paused.
Another wave followed, sharper this time.
Yao’s hands stilled. “What is the matter?”
Maomao forced a neutral expression. “Perhaps I'm having some indigestion.”
En’en gasped. “Was it my cooking? I swear I checked the mushrooms twice. Miss Yao, you are not feeling unwell, are you?”
Yao blinked. “I feel fine.”
“It is nothing,” Maomao said. A third wave struck, and she flinched despite herself. “I will use the toilet and return.”
She stood.
En’en’s eyes widened. “Maomao, your skirt.”
Maomao looked down. A spreading stain of red darkened the fabric.
“Oh,” she said calmly. “It seems my monthly cycle has begun. I will change.”
Yao frowned. “You do not look well.”
“I'm fine.”
She grabbed a fresh skirt from the storage chest and made her way toward the latrine.
The moment she sat, the pressure intensified. This was wrong. Far too strong. The sensation was not the dull ache she was accustomed to.
She looked down and felt her composure crack.
There was too much blood.
Another contraction gripped her, forcing a sharp breath from her lungs. Heat pooled low in her body. Instinct rose before logic could catch up.
Impossible.
She calculated automatically - dates, cycles. The careful avoidance of fertile days. The fact that she had continued to bleed each month.
This cannot be happening.
Another contraction.
Her hand moved, assessing without panic, and then her thoughts shattered.
A child's head is crowning.
She stared at the closed door in disbelief. “Is this really happening?,” she muttered to her own body.
There was no time for further analysis.
Carefully, she shifted from the seat to kneel on the floor, silently grateful that she had scrubbed these tiles herself an hour ago.
“A child? My child?” The words escaped before she could stop them.
A contraction rolled through her again, stronger, demanding.
She inhaled slowly, forcing her mind into clinical focus.
One push.
Two.
A sharp cry pierced the quiet of the pavilion.
Then silence, broken only by the small, outraged wail of new life.
Maomao exhaled, trembling.
In her arms lay a tiny girl, slick with blood and impossibly warm. Fine dark hair clung to her small head. Even scrunched and red from birth, her features were already taking shape.
A narrow nose. Long lashes. A face that would, without doubt, grow unfairly beautiful.
Maomao stared at her for a long moment.
“You truly want to be born huh?” she murmured, brushing a careful finger over the child’s cheek. “And you already resemble him. How troublesome.”
The baby protested loudly.
Maomao let out a shaky breath that turned into a laugh before she realized she was crying. She wrapped the child more securely in the clean skirt she had brought and wiped away what blood she could.
“Such a sneakly little girl,” she whispered, pressing her forehead lightly against the infant’s. “But I suppose I will keep you.”
Outside, Tianyu stiffened.
“Did you hear that?” he asked.
Yao frowned. “Hear what?”
“A baby.”
En’en blinked. “A baby?”
The cry sounded again, unmistakable.
Tianyu straightened. “Who brought an infant into the medical pavilion?”
Yao’s expression shifted. “Maomao went to the toilet.”
All three exchanged a look.
They hurried to the latrine door. The crying was louder now.
Yao knocked firmly. “Maomao.”
“I am occupied,” came the strained reply.
En’en pressed her hands to the door. “We hear a baby.”
There was a pause. Then, “That would be mine.”
Silence fell outside.
Tianyu stared at the door. “Your what?! Come outside now.”
“I cannot stand yet,” Maomao said calmly, as though discussing herbal stock.
That was enough for Tianyu. He crouched and examined the lock. “Forgive me.”
The latch gave way with a soft click.
The door swung open.
Yao and En’en gasped.
Maomao sat on the floor, pale and bloodstained, her hair clinging to her temples. In her arms was a newborn girl, bundled in cloth, glaring at the world with furious indignation.
Tianyu’s jaw dropped. “How?”
Maomao looked up at them, exhausted but composed. “It appears I miscalculated.”
The baby wailed again.
En’en pressed a hand to her mouth. Yao burst into tears.
Maomao adjusted the tiny bundle with surprising gentleness.
“Well,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “Since you are all here, you may as well fetch warm water.”