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The seven-day journey was meant to bring Prince Xìn Xuān and Princess Lù Zhāo closer—to give them time and space away from the palace, to allow affection to blossom between strangers turned betrothed.
But from the very beginning, the rhythm of their journey was quietly stolen by two others.
For Lù Zhāo, it was Shèng Méi—her calm voice, her gentle way of listening, the subtle intelligence behind every reply. The princess found herself asking Shèng Méi to ride beside her, to share her meals, to sleep closer at night than necessary. It was… comforting. And strangely intimate.
For the prince, it was Shèng Lín.
Wherever Xìn Xuān went, his gaze trailed after the stoic knight. It was something about the silence around him, the way he held his blade like it was part of his soul. The prince found excuses to speak to him, even if Shèng Lín rarely spoke back. Every time the knight walked away, it left something aching in Xìn Xuān's chest—though he couldn't explain why.
It was the last night of the trip.
They had stopped by a mountain lake, where the water shimmered silver under a cloudy sky. A small celebration was held—simple food, quiet music, a rare moment of peace.
Everyone was relaxed, laughter rising into the night air. Cups were raised, old songs shared. Even the princess smiled softly as she poured tea for Shèng Méi, who sat beside her, eyes glowing in the lantern light.
But two people stayed outside the joy—Shèng Lín, who did not drink, and Prince Xìn Xuān, who had yet to touch his cup.
When the fire had burned low and sleep had claimed the rest, the prince stepped away from his tent and found Shèng Lín by the outer trees, watching the shadows like always.
"Shèng Lín," Xìn Xuān called, his voice low, "if you don't mind… could you keep me company while I drink?"
There was a pause.
"I'm the princess's knight," the other replied, hesitant. But when Xìn Xuān simply looked at him—tired, a little lonely, rain starting to patter gently on the leaves—Shèng Lín gave a reluctant nod. "Just for a while."
They sat by the dying fire, the prince uncorking a bottle of strong mountain wine. He drank quickly, wordlessly, finishing two bottles in silence while the rain intensified, falling harder and faster, drumming against the tents and stones.
"Another," the prince slurred, waving toward the cart. "Please."
Shèng Lín rose, vanishing into the dark and rain.
When he returned minutes later, soaked through, his long hair plastered to his skin and his dark clothes clinging tightly to his body, Prince Xìn Xuān looked up—and forgot to breathe.
The rain painted Shèng Lín like a sculpture come to life. His chest rose and fell beneath wet fabric. His eyes, under the moonlight, shimmered like tempered steel. Water slid down the slope of his throat.
The prince took the bottle and drank deeply, but his gaze never left Shèng Lín.
And then, without warning, without even thinking—
He pulled the knight forward by the wrist and kissed him.
It wasn't gentle.
It was messy, hungry, and sudden. Rain soaked both their faces as their mouths met. Shèng Lín stiffened in shock, wide-eyed as the prince's lips moved against his, his tongue tasting wine and something deeper. It was bold, desperate, and confusing.
For a moment, Shèng Lín couldn't even move. Couldn't push away. Couldn't speak.
Then—just as suddenly as it began—the prince slumped forward, his head resting against Shèng Lín's shoulder.
Passed out.
Shèng Lín stood frozen, his breath uneven, lips still wet, chest rising fast.
But before he could step back, darkness took him too—and he collapsed beside the prince, the storm washing over them both.
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