Chapter Text
Luo Binghe opened his eyes slowly. The familiar sight of the ever-irritating ceiling greeted him, but for once, he felt no trace of annoyance. Instead, a strange stillness settled over him. He sat up, his back pressing lightly against the wall as he drew in a shaky breath.
His fingers drifted to his cheek—the spot still warm where Shen Qingqiu had touched him. Shen Qingqiu had touched him. And not with disdain or revulsion. No sneer, no flinch.
His expression had softened—almost tender.
Gentle.
The memory echoed in Luo Binghe’s chest like a heartbeat, fragile yet impossibly loud.
Luo Binghe stepped out of the cramped, crumbling space he called home, the door creaking softly behind him. The gods only knew how much he hated this damned shed. It was taking everything within him to not burn the wretched thing into ashes once more. As he took a step outside, the air was crisp, laced with the quiet murmur of leaves rustling in the gentle breeze. It was still early—the sky painted in muted shades of grey and pale blue, as though the world itself had not yet fully woken.
He didn’t rush. His steps were slow, steady, almost aimless, as he wandered deeper into the familiar woods of Qing Jing Peak. The same place that brought him both peace and trauma. The winding forest paths curved like memories, and though time had passed, nothing changed. It's almost funny. In his mind, it had already been centuries, yet this place hasn't grown with him, nor anyone here. His feet moved without hesitation, guided by something older than thought—habit, or perhaps longing.
Eventually, the trees parted to reveal a secluded pond nestled in a quiet grove, hidden away from the eyes of most disciples. The surface shimmered like glass, disturbed only by the soft ripples made by koi swimming lazily beneath. Their scales flickered in hues of gold, ivory, and crimson—splashes of color in the stillness. Moss-covered stones lined the banks, and weeping branches of willow trees dipped low as if listening to the water’s secrets.
This place had once been his escape.
In a life long past, when the weight of expectation, humiliation, and loneliness grew too much to bear, he had often ended up here. Sometimes in the dead of night, sometimes in the early morning mist—always alone. He would sit for hours, silent and still, watching the fish move through the water, envying their simplicity.
He rarely made the decision to come. More often than not, it was as if his body brought him here on its own, drawn by the aching need for silence and something close to solace. This pond had never offered answers, but it had given him space to breathe—something that had been in short supply during his youth.
Now, standing at its edge again, the familiarity hit him like a slow, quiet wave. So much had happened since those days, and yet, here it was. He had changed since then, although he had the same motive and aim, the only thing different was how he planned to achieve it. The world beyond the trees might have shifted, but this place, like some forgotten relic of a dream, remained exactly as it had always been.
Binghe lowered himself onto a smooth stone near the water, the coolness seeping into his robes. For a long moment, he simply sat there, watching the koi drift by.
And for the first time in what felt like ages, he allowed himself to feel the ache—not just of memory, but of something gentler.
He could do this.
He could finally have him. Shen Qingqiu—his affection, his warmth, his love—it was all within reach now. So close, almost painfully so. Close enough that Binghe could feel it like a phantom touch on his skin, like sunlight slipping through his fingers.
Something had changed.
The way Shen Qingqiu looked at him—it wasn’t the cold indifference of the past. There was a softness there now, something unspoken but unmistakable. And when he touched him... he did so freely. Willingly. With a gentleness that unraveled Binghe from the inside out.
It was almost too much. That single moment of tenderness had settled into his chest like a fragile ember, glowing with impossible hope. He felt weightless—unmoored from everything he’d known. If he reached out just a little further, maybe this time… he wouldn’t be left grasping at nothing.
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Shen Qingqiu awoke to the gentle lull of waves and the sharp, briny scent of sea salt carried on the breeze. The sand beneath him was still warm from the sun, clinging lightly to his robes and skin. Overhead, gulls cried in the distance, and the rhythmic wash of the tide echoed like a distant lullaby. He blinked slowly, adjusting to the soft morning light, the sky above a pale, cloud-streaked blue.
He had fallen asleep on the shore.
For a moment, he simply lay there, letting the sound of the sea settle around him like a blanket. But then the dream returned. Faint at first—like the imprint left behind after something has long vanished—but then sharper, clearer, more intrusive.
Qing Jing Peak.
And him.
The child he had once sworn to keep at arm’s length—the same child whose eyes had once looked up at him with blind, radiant devotion. Luo Binghe. Even in dreams, his presence felt too vivid to ignore. The setting had been familiar: the winding paths of the peak, the rustle of bamboo leaves, the cooling scent of mountain rain. And that look. That gaze.
So full of longing. So real.
Even the touch lingered—a phantom warmth against his skin that made his chest feel too tight, his breath too shallow.
But it was only a dream. A mere trick of the subconscious. Nothing more.
Shen Qingqiu shook the thought away with practiced ease, pushing himself up from the sand and brushing off the fine grains clinging to his robes. He didn’t want to dwell. Not on that. Dreams were just dreams. And there was something far more real waiting for him—something soft, small, and warm.
He turned toward the narrow path leading inland, his steps carrying him through the winding trail to the modest home he had pieced together not long ago. Nestled between a small grove of trees and sheltered by a rocky ridge, the cottage was little more than a handful of sturdy walls and a sloped roof, but it was his.
As he reached the doorway, a faint smile tugged at his lips.
There she was.
Luna.
Still curled up in the middle of his bed like a tiny emperor, her snowy-white fur puffed up in sleep. The sunlight streamed through the window and caught the faint sheen of her coat, making her look almost ethereal. Shen Qingqiu stepped inside quietly, careful not to wake her just yet.
He knelt beside the bed, his fingers reaching out to gently stroke between her ears. She stirred under his touch, letting out a soft, sleepy mewl before blinking up at him with half-lidded eyes.
“There you are,” he murmured, his voice quieter than the breeze outside. “Still sleeping like you don’t have a care in the world.”
Luna blinked slowly, then leaned into his touch.
Shen Qingqiu’s expression softened even more. It was still strange, this feeling—of being needed by something so small and defenseless. But comforting too. He liked the quiet routine they had fallen into, liked the simplicity of caring for something that wasn’t asking for anything more than food, warmth, and affection.
He reached into a pouch tucked at his side and retrieved a small strip of dried meat he had set aside earlier. Luna perked up immediately, stretching her limbs before trotting over to him with a pleased chirp.
He fed her with slow, measured hands, watching her eat with a kind of quiet contentment.
“Better than dreams,” he muttered to himself, almost too softly to hear.
Still, even as he sat there—cat in his lap, morning light spilling across the floor—he couldn’t help but feel the shadow of that dream lingering behind his eyes.
He pushed it away again. But not as easily this time.