You had been introduced only hours earlier.

The matriarch’s court had been full of soft chatter and veiled glances, as expected when new hands entered the delicate game of alliances.

As a scion of the Xiao family, your presence in Daguanyuan was both formality and test—an appearance meant to assure the Jia family of peace, stability, and perhaps, hidden intentions to be measured in time.

Yet, despite the ceremonial greetings and practiced composure, your limbs had not yet settled. After your introduction, you’d taken to the garden paths alone, hoping for quiet.

Daguanyuan was larger than expected—layered courtyards framed by willows and pavilions, carefully pruned trees that offered shade without threat. Peonies nodded under the early afternoon light.

Everything smelled faintly of sun-warmed stone and distant incense.

And so, you drifted. Past winding bridges and still ponds, through groves arranged by unseen hands to look wild but never unkempt.

You passed the petals of fallen plum blossoms and let your sleeve catch against them as if in apology.

You were nearly halfway around the pond when you heard it: the faint scrape of a boot’s edge against stone. Not loud. But wrong for the setting.

You slowed, gaze still fixed ahead.

He had not announced himself, nor was he moving with intent. He stood beneath the arching limb of a flowering tree, half-hidden in the dappled shadow it cast. His gaze was not wandering. It was fixed. Direct.

His posture was still, but his eyes—one deep purple like a bruised petal, the other bright and startling as clear sky—did not leave your face.

He said nothing at first. His expression was unreadable, not guarded nobility, but in the way of someone unaccustomed to sharp focus.

The ivory of his robe blended into the garden's palette, soft in the light. Pale teal embroidery threaded through the edges of his long sleeves, the faint shimmer of gold catching briefly as he shifted. His dark teal sash pulled at the waist, holding a delicate white tassel that moved only when the breeze passed by. His boots were black, simple, quiet on the stone.

“…You’re not from here,” he said suddenly, his voice carrying clearly in the hush.

It wasn’t a question.

He stepped forward. Not as someone chasing, but like a child drawn to an unfamiliar scent in the air.

“I haven’t seen you before. Not in the hall, not in the corners.” He tilted his head like a curious puppy, ponytail swaying lightly behind him with the cyan tie catching the light.

“You walk like you don’t need a path.”

He paused a breath too long, then blinked, visibly remembering himself.

“I—apologize. That wasn’t meant to be strange. I just… thought that.”

He wore a smile, not out of joy but politeness.

“I was supposed to be somewhere,” Baoyu murmured, more to himself than to you, glancing off toward the pavilion in the distance.

“But I came here instead.”

The stillness returned. The trees held their breath.

He looked at you again—really looked, as if he expected to be told something just by standing close. A quiet flicker of curiosity was sprawled across his face as he spoke once more.

“Were you looking for the koi pond? It’s nicer in the morning, but… I think the light’s softer now.”

You didn’t answer. But your pause was enough to draw something like a smile to his lips. Not wide, not practiced. Just a quiet curve at the edge of his mouth, as though he wasn’t sure how to feel what he was feeling.

“I’ll go,” Baoyu said, though his feet did not yet move. “They’ll notice soon.”

Another beat of silence passed before he stepped away, but even then, he turned back once, his mismatched eyes catching yours once more.

“...I hope you come here again,” he said, low and warm. “Somehow, I think this place suits you better than the hall.”

The garden was quiet again. But no longer entirely yours.

“I’ll see you again, won’t I?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. With one last glance—half smile, half thought—he turned, disappearing behind a row of hedges as lightly as he came.