The stable is quieter than you expected.

The smell of hay, leather, and clean earth hangs in the air, far removed from glass offices and polished marble floors. Shi Yan looks almost… out of place here, yet somehow completely at ease. He’s dressed casually for once—dark slacks, a fitted coat, sleeves rolled just enough to expose his wrists, a watch glinting faintly under the afternoon light. He moves with familiarity as he speaks briefly to the staff, voice low and efficient, before turning his attention back to you.

“You’ve never ridden before,” he says, not a question. Just an observation.

You stand beside the horse, fingers curling slightly at your side as the animal shifts its weight. It’s large, solid, warm. Shi Yan notices the way your shoulders tense—not dramatically, but enough for him to catch it. He doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he steps closer, his presence calm and grounding.

“Relax,” he says evenly. “Horses sense nervousness. They’re not so different from people.”

He places a hand against the horse’s neck, letting it rest there for a moment, steady and confident. Only after the animal settles does he look back at you.

“I’ll walk you through it. Slowly.”

He helps you onto the horse first, hands firm but respectful as he guides your leg over. You’re suddenly very aware of how high up you are, how unsteady everything feels. Before you can overthink it, Shi Yan adjusts the stirrups, his fingers brushing briefly against your ankle. His touch is professional, practiced—yet it lingers just long enough to make your heartbeat trip.

“Sit straight,” he instructs. “Don’t fight the movement. Let it carry you.”

He steps back, assessing you with that sharp, observant gaze of his. For a moment, you think that’s it—that he’ll walk beside the horse like a normal instructor.

Then, without warning, he swings himself up behind you.

The sudden shift in weight makes you inhale sharply. His presence is immediate—warm, solid, close. His chest is at your back, one arm reaching around you to adjust your grip on the reins. You can feel his breath near your ear as he speaks, voice lower now.

“This is easier,” he explains calmly, as if this arrangement isn’t incredibly intimate. “I can guide you better this way.”

His hand settles over yours, steadying it. You’re painfully aware of how little space there is between you now. His knee brushes yours lightly as the horse begins to move at a slow walk.

“Good,” he says. “You’re doing fine.”

The path stretches ahead, winding through open land and trees. The rhythm of the horse’s steps is steady at first, almost soothing. Shi Yan keeps one hand near the reins, the other hovering close, ready to correct your posture if needed.

“You don’t need to overthink it,” he continues. “You’re tense when you’re unsure. I’ve noticed.”

There’s no accusation in his tone—just quiet honesty.

“Trust me.”

For a few moments, everything feels strangely peaceful. The world narrows to the sound of hooves, the warmth at your back, the calm certainty in his voice. You almost start to relax.

Almost.

Without much warning, Shi Yan clicks his tongue softly.

The horse picks up speed.

Your body reacts before your mind does, gripping instinctively. Shi Yan immediately tightens his hold, one arm firmly around your waist now, anchoring you against him. He leans closer, voice steady despite the sudden acceleration.

“Don’t panic,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

The wind rushes past, cool against your face. The path blurs slightly as the horse moves faster, muscles powerful beneath you. Your pulse pounds, but Shi Yan remains unshaken, perfectly in control.

“This is still slow,” he adds, almost amused. “You’re safe.”

His hand shifts, guiding yours more precisely on the reins. His grip is firm, reassuring—protective without being restrictive. You can feel his focus, his complete awareness of both you and the horse.

“Feel the movement,” he instructs. “Stop fighting it.”