Night settled quietly over Qingxu village. A breeze rustled the trees outside. Inside the tiny cottage, everything was still.
Jia Yu was half-laughing, her fingers flicking a dry leaf off her sleeve. "Your sword grip is honestly the worst. You hold it like a broom."
Yan Qing raised an eyebrow. "And you fight like someone holding a broom."
She grinned, bumping his shoulder lightly with hers.
They sat near the hearth. The fire had burned low, casting a soft orange glow across the floor. At some point, the laughter faded. Neither of them moved. The silence wasn't awkward. It was... warm.
Eventually, their heads leaned in. Their bodies shifted closer. It wasn't planned. Nothing was said.
But they fell asleep — right there, on the same mat — tangled together like it was always meant to be that way. Sometimes past midnight, Yan Qing stirred.
His arm felt pinned, heavy. His eyes opened slowly. Her head was resting on it.
Jia Yu was fast asleep. Her breath warm against his collarbone and her hair spilled across his chest like it belonged there. He blinked twice.
His entire body went still.
She shifted slightly in her sleep, curling closer. Her hand slid across his ribs, gentle, unconscious, his pulse jumped. He should've pulled away. But instead... he looked at her, lovely, warmly. It was a longing looked. She wasn't just a girl anymore. Not to him. There was something different now. Something too dangerous.
Her face — so peaceful. Her lips slightly parted. A small crease in her brow, like she was worried even in her dreams. And him?
He just lay there, heart thudding like a drum in a sealed room. You're not supposed to feel this. He cautioned himself.
She's the mark. The trap and the target. But she wasn't. Not anymore, not when she looked like this. Not when she felt like this in his arms. He clenched his jaw, looking away.
This was wrong.
He slipped his arm out from under her head, slowly, trying not to wake her. She shifted, murmured something, and reached out — like her body still knew he was there.
He stood. Fast, his breath came out shaky.
"I can't do this," he whispered, mostly to himself. He turned and walked out the door, the cold night swallowing him whole.
The next morning, he hadn't slept.
He'd walked the village roads all night, hands stuffed into his sleeves, shoulders hunched like he was carrying something far too heavy.
Everywhere he turned, it was like her warmth followed him. Her face a d her scent. That sound she made when she laughed through her nose. By the time he returned, the sky had already begun to lighten.
He stopped at the door. Inside, she was already awake.
She was by the fire, stirring something in the pot. She'd tied her hair back messily, a few strands falling into her eyes.
He didn't move. Just watched from the doorway. She set a bowl aside and then another.
She didn't even look up. "I saved yours," she said quietly. "It's still warm." He stepped inside, not saying anything.
She turned, just slightly. Their eyes met for a second without response. No accusations, No questions.
Just... her usual look, open, gentle. Like he hadn't just vanished into the night. He hated that.
"Here," she said, setting the bowl on the table. He didn't sit nor thank her right away.
"…Thanks," he muttered eventually, his tone flat. She blinked, confused by the change in him, but didn't push. He sat and ate in silence. Later that day, they were sent to fetch corn from the far fields.
The walk was long. She tried to talk — little things, jokes, comments about the wind — but he gave her nothing. Just short answers, no eye contact. His stride ahead of hers.
Finally, she stopped. "Are you mad at me?" "No," he said without looking back. "Then what—?" "Just focus on the corn." He answered. His voice was sharp, a little too sharp. She said nothing more after that.
The field stretched golden under the sun. Rows of tall stalks waving like they didn't care who was breaking inside. She tied up her sleeves and got to work, humming softly under her breath. A nervous habit.
He watched her from the edge. His hands were clenched. This was supposed to be easy. She was supposed to pay.
He turned toward a dip in the field — a spot where the ground dipped near an old erosion pit. It wasn't deep, but a wrong step could twist an ankle. He crouched, grabbed a few corn cobs, and laid them near the edge. It wasn't meant to really hurt her. But just enough pain to remind him — to remind her — that this wasn't real.
That he was never supposed to feel safe beside her. And he walked away, fast, not looking back.
A few minutes later: Ahh—!"
Her cry cut through the field like a blade.
He froze and turned sharply. There she was — on the ground, holding her ankle, blinking back tears. Dust clung to her dress. She winced as she tried to sit up.
His whole chest tightened. He hadn't even noticed he was running until he dropped to his knees beside her. "What happened?" he asked, out of breath.
She looked up, startled. "I… I didn't see the hole. I stepped on something…"He gently reached for her foot. "Don't move."
She bit her lip, watching him. "I thought you were still upset with me," she whispered.
He didn't answer. He just scooped her into his arms, cradling her close. She didn't resist, she didn't say anything.
Just leaned into him.
And he walked — past the golden stalks, past the shadows — carrying the one person he swore he'd never care about.
But it was too late. She wasn't the one falling. He was.
When they got home, Yan Qing didn't say a word to her.
He laid her down carefully by the fire, then stood up without a glance. His footsteps were already moving toward the back of the room.
Jia Yu's voice broke through the silence, soft and shaking.
"Don't leave me…"
He paused but didn't turn around."I need something to tie your leg," he answered dryly. She watched him pull an old cloth from the basket, return to her side, and begin wrapping her ankle without a word.
His hands were steady, detached. Like he was tending to a stranger.
Her fingers suddenly reached out, clutching his wrist. "Yue…" she whispered, her eyes searching his face. "I don't know what I feel for you. But if you leave me, I'll kill myself. I can't continue living without you."
The cloth slipped from his fingers.
He stared at her — no mask, no sharp retort.
Just silence. The words had caught him completely off guard.