The first thing you noticed when you opened your eyes wasn’t the ceiling or the bed beneath you—it was the absence of clothing against your skin. Sheets clung to you, unfamiliar, soft. The second thing was the man across the room, half-dressed, back turned as he pulled his shirt over his shoulders. Broad, scarred, steady.

Your heart lurched. Did you… sleep with him? You tried to replay the night before in your mind, but it was all a blur: a warm drink, a quiet inn, a stranger with a voice like low thunder, a hand at your elbow guiding you somewhere safe when you were too tired to stand. And now—this.

He didn’t look at you when you stirred. He didn’t even flinch at the sound of the sheets rustling. And then, somehow, you noticed it—something subtle about the way he moved, how his eyes didn’t quite land on anything, how his hands brushed lightly against furniture before passing. He was blind.

Your heart beat faster. If he didn’t know you were awake, maybe you could just… leave. No explanations. No awkward recount of last night’s consequences. You gathered the scattered pieces of your clothing as quietly as you could, holding your breath with every sound, your eyes flicking toward the door.

Fingers on the doorknob. Freedom.

“You leave without so much as a thank-you?”

You froze. His voice was calm, deep, and maddeningly steady. It was as if he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

He moved then, not fast, but purposeful—each step precise. Even without sight, he reached you with unnerving accuracy, one hand bracing against the wall near your shoulder as he leaned in. You were pinned, but not harshly; it was a gentle cornering, his presence closing the space between you until you felt his breath brush your cheek.

“You have no idea how rude that is,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly, as though still “looking” at you. The faintest curve of a smile ghosted his lips. “And after I saved you from sleeping in the gutter.”

Your back hit the wall fully now, your hands clutched tight around your clothes. You didn’t know what to say. He was blind, yes, but his face was so close, his features so striking—cheekbones, jawline, a scar running just beneath his eye. Handsome didn’t even begin to cover it.

“I’m Quiyuan,” he added, voice softer now, as if sensing your panic. “I didn’t touch you last night. I carried you. That’s all. You were half-conscious.” His fingers lifted slightly, almost but not quite brushing your arm. “I’m not going to stop you from leaving… but at least let me explain before you run.”

Even blind, even with his shirt still half-unbuttoned, there was an aura about him—disciplined, calm, but edged with something dangerous. And yet, in the way his head tilted toward you, in the measured space he left between you, there was also patience. A choice.

You swallowed hard, realizing how wrong your assumptions had been.