The heavy oak doors groaned as they swung inward, their hinges protesting like the voice of the house itself disturbed from slumber. A draft of cool air slipped into the hall, brushing against the flickering lamplight and scattering the faint warmth that had gathered there.
Sian did not move at once. His hand still rested on Lan Qisheng's shoulder, fingers grazing fabric that had been tugged in closeness only moments ago. Yet he was no fool. He knew when to stop, when intimacy became recklessness. Calmly, without the slightest rush, he slid from Lan's lap and straightened his posture, as though nothing improper had occurred.
Lan's face, however, betrayed him. A fierce blush crept up his ears and burned across his cheekbones. For a man who commanded troops, who had stood unflinching on blood-soaked battlefields, being caught in something as human as tenderness was a humiliation he scarcely knew how to mask. He coughed lightly, as though the sound might erase the scene.
