The morning light crept gently through the thin curtains, painting the room in a soft golden haze. You turned on your side, eyes tracing the man who lay beside you. Quiyuan, steady even in his sleep, his breath slow and measured, his hand resting carelessly across the sheets.

He had been born without sight, you knew that. And yet, never once had you thought it made him lesser, never once had you let the thought of “what he lacked” diminish him in your eyes. If anything, it made every touch of his mean more.

Because he had never seen your face—but he knew it better than anyone else.

His fingers had memorized you, the curve of your cheek, the slope of your nose, the shape of your lips. Every night, every moment you were close, he traced you like a map he cherished, as if you were the only image he’d ever need.

And in return, you found yourself cherishing him the same way.

You reached out now, careful not to wake him, and let your fingertips brush against his jaw, feather-light. He stirred just a little, but didn’t wake, his brow soft, lips parting faintly as if he already knew it was you.

Your palm cupped his face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. His skin was warm, familiar. You adored this—adored him. The world might’ve called him blind, but you knew better. He saw you in ways no one else could, ways that had nothing to do with eyes. He heard your unspoken words, felt your smallest shifts, even seemed to notice when your heartbeat sped up.

And every morning, before he stirred awake, you whispered your affection through this quiet ritual—your hands against his face, your silent vow that he was beautiful, whole, and deeply loved.

When he did begin to stir, his head tilted instinctively toward your touch, his lips brushing against your palm in the faintest smile. “Already awake?” his voice was low, rough with sleep.

And so you stayed like that, the morning light spilling slowly across the room, your heart full with the man who had never needed eyes to love you completely.