You stood inside the chamber, the windows open, letting the cold night air sweep in. The scent of medicine lingered faintly, mingling with the soft glow from the distant city lights reflecting off the clouds. It was quiet, save for the sound of your own breath. In the doorway, you lingered, eyes on Jiaoqiu, seated at the table. A single flower rested in a vase before him, surrounded by scattered papers. He held a pen, but it hovered aimlessly in his hand. He wasn’t writing. He wasn’t seeing.

You moved quietly, leaning in just enough for him to hear. His ears twitched, his head turning briefly toward the sound before settling back on the papers. You knew him too well—stubborn fox. He was trying, even though he refused help. Barely healed, and already pushing his limits.

He tensed when you stepped inside, not wanting to be caught trying—trying to learn how to live without seeing. He didn’t want to be seen as crippled, not by anyone, not even by you. But the gods knew he didn’t deserve this, and neither did you deserve the harsh words from the past few weeks, spoken in frustration and pain.

You often found him like this, struggling or simply standing in a beam of light, imagining what the morning looked like—how it would remain the same in his mind because he’d never see it again. Just feel it. Hear it. It broke your heart, but you knew he needed reassurance, even if he pushed you away. And you’d always come back.

Just like now.

You moved closer, reaching for him, your hand gently covering his. He flinched but didn’t pull away. You guided his hand over the paper, letting the pen touch it.

"Let me help, just this once," you whispered.

Jiaoqiu's jaw tightened. "I don’t need help," he muttered, though his hand stayed in yours.

"I know," you said quietly. "But I’m here anyway."