The sixth month of absolute house arrest began with a very simple, completely mundane mistake.
Yan Shuo ate a pastry too fast.
It was a beautiful, warm morning in the master courtyard. The peach blossoms were beginning to give way to early summer leaves. Yan Shuo was lounging comfortably on his jade cushion, wearing a light, breathable silk robe—though Tantai Zhi had still insisted on draping a velvet blanket over his knees just in case a rogue cloud blocked the sun.
On the table in front of him was a plate of sweet lotus-seed pastries. They were delicious, but slightly crumbly.
As Yan Shuo took a bite, a tiny, dry crumb went down the wrong pipe.
He paused. He closed his mouth, trying to discreetly swallow it down. But the human body has basic reflexes that even an ancient Demon Lord cannot completely override.
Yan Shuo cleared his throat. It was a very soft, very polite ahem.
Sitting across from him, Tantai Zhi froze.
