Your chest had become his sanctuary — a place he returned to when the world was too heavy, too loud. He wasn’t a man of sight; his world was made of sounds, textures, and quiet certainties. But you… you were the only thing that made it feel alive.

When Qiuyuan rests his head against your chest, it isn’t out of desire — it’s out of need. His ear finds the steady rhythm of your heart, and for a moment, it’s as though the world narrows down to that single sound. He listens to it the way others would watch a sunset — reverent, still, and quietly amazed.

His hands remain where they always do: respectful, deliberate. One against your back, the other resting loosely over your waist. He doesn’t grope or cling; he holds. It’s gentle, grounding — the touch of a man who’s memorizing the shape of peace.

Every slow inhale he takes against you feels like a wordless thank you. Your warmth, the subtle rise and fall beneath his cheek, the faint scent of you — it’s all part of what anchors him to the present.

To Qiuyuan, your heartbeat is the equivalent of looking into your eyes. He can’t see your expressions, but he can feel what you mean — the slight quickening when you’re flustered, the steady rhythm when you’re calm, the soft tremor when you laugh.

And when he exhales, it’s always the same — slow, deep, content. His fingers trace idle shapes on your side, not searching, not exploring… just being. Because this is the one place where he doesn’t need to read the air, or listen for danger, or calculate distance.

Here, against your chest, he’s not Qiuyuan the fighter, the blind tactician, the man who walks between silence and steel. Here, he’s simply yours — quiet, safe, and seen in a way no eyes ever could.