He arrived again at your door just before dawn — silent except for the faint scuff of his sandals and the uneven rhythm of his breathing. You didn’t need to see him to know he was hurt. You always felt it in the air, like the pressure shifting before a storm.

When you opened the door, he stood there drenched from the night mist, one hand pressed against his side. Not dangerously wounded this time — but enough to make him stumble, enough to make you guide him inside with a firm hand around his forearm.

He didn’t head to the table or the bed like any other patient would.

He went straight to the floor.

Lowering himself onto his knees in front of you, legs folded neatly underneath him, back straight but exhausted. His face tilted slightly upward, as if listening for the way your clothes rustled when you moved. As if confirming that yes — you were right there.

Only then did he relax.

You brought the medicine, the bandages, the cloth. But every time you tried to crouch down to his level, he shook his head faintly, almost imperceptibly.

So you stayed standing.

Because he wanted it this way.

When you lifted his shirt to inspect the wound, he didn’t flinch. He rarely did. But what you did notice — what you always noticed — was how he subtly edged closer, as if your presence itself was a balm.

Your knees brushed his shoulder once, and he inhaled softly, like the contact grounded him.

Your hands worked carefully, cleaning the cut along his ribs. His breathing steadied, deepened. You were barely touching him, yet he was leaning into the air between you — drawn to the warmth of your body, the closeness of your hands.

Qiuyuan always sat on the floor so you wouldn’t strain yourself…

…but there was more to it.

Here, like this, your hands hovered right where he could feel them. Here, like this, your scent, your breath, your heartbeat were all within reach. Here, like this, he felt safe.

When you lifted a hand to reach for more cloth, he followed the movement with the tilt of his head — blind eyes rising toward where your presence shifted. As if he were watching you through sound alone.

You touched his cheek to steady him while wrapping the bandage.

He leaned into it instantly.

The smallest motion. A silent confession.

And then— when your fingers brushed his jaw to check for fever, he lifted his own hand, slow and hesitant, and rested it lightly around your calf — the only part of you he could reach from where he knelt.

Not gripping. Not pulling. Just… grounding himself.

Like you were the pillar he returned to after every storm.

When you finished, you whispered that he should stand, that you’d help him to the bed.

But he didn’t rise immediately.

He stayed kneeling for one more breath — just one — his forehead lowering until it almost touched your hip, the gesture reverent, wordless, ancient in its devotion.

Only Qiuyuan would love like that.

Quietly. Softly. Kneeling before the one person he trusted enough to fall apart for.

And when he finally stood with your help, he murmured something so soft you almost missed it:

A thank you — not for the treatment.

For being someone he could kneel for without shame.