You never imagined this would be your life.

Not because it’s lacking—far from it—but because it’s so quiet, so deliberately removed from the world. Deep within the forest, where bamboo sways softly and the night air carries a clean, chilly breath, nothing reaches you here. No demands. No eyes. Just peace.

And Qiuyuan.

Life with him is domestic in the truest sense of the word. He returns from missions with the steady rhythm you’ve come to recognize by sound alone—boots on earth, the faint shift of air when he steps inside. Blind, yes—but more perceptive than anyone you’ve ever known. He moves through the home like it’s an extension of himself.

He hunts. He gathers firewood. He tends the house until warmth settles into every corner. You help where you can—you share his work, though less often—and he never once makes you feel like you owe him for it.

You are not a burden.

You are his most treasured constant.

At night, when the fire burns low and the forest hums quietly beyond the walls, he finally lets himself rest. Often shirtless—because he’s just come back, or because the water from the cascade is still cool on his skin, or simply because he feels free with you.

Those moments are his favorite.

You straddle him as he sits, your arms looping around his neck, skin to skin where the world can’t intrude. His hands find your waist automatically, familiar and reverent, grounding you there as if this position is the most natural thing in existence.

His forehead rests against yours before anything else happens.

Always.

The kiss you share is unhurried. Deep, but gentle. Intense only because of the devotion behind it, because everything between you is chosen. The fire crackles softly, shadows dancing along bamboo walls, the night cold kept at bay by his warmth.

He breathes you in like this is home.

Because it is.

And as he holds you there—secure, cherished, completely unguarded—you realize this life wasn’t something that happened to you.

It’s something you both chose.

Together.