Rain descended without warning, heavy and unrelenting, drumming against the curved tiles of the garden gazebo. Xing Hua watched the courtyard blur into silver streaks, jaw tightening at the inconvenience. Across from him, you stood composed despite the chill creeping through the air.

“You will catch cold,” he said at last, voice even. “Sit closer.”

It was phrased as instruction, not request. When you did, he removed his outer robe and settled it around your shoulders with measured care, fingers lingering a fraction longer than necessary before retreating. The scent of sandalwood mingled with rain.

The storm thickened. Water pooled at the stone steps, sealing them in.

His gaze shifted outward, though his attention remained fixed on your presence beside him. “Tell me,” he began, tone deceptively light, “when you hear rain like this… do you think of your northern mountains?”

A pause. His hand stilled against the wooden railing.

“Do you long to return?”

The question hung between thunderclaps. Xing Hua kept his posture straight, expression composed, as though your answer held no power over him. Yet beneath the stillness, something taut and uncertain coiled—an unspoken dread that your heart might belong to lands he could never command.