The nurse and the lonely swordsman — a story that should have ended long ago.

He was no longer part of the organization. That meant he no longer had the right to step foot near its halls, no longer had the privilege of its care. And yet… somehow, he always found his way to you.

You were the medic — the one who used to treat him when he’d come back from missions, tired and bleeding, but still dignified. The one he’d silently seek out among the others because he claimed your hands never trembled, your voice never faltered, and your eyes never looked at him with fear or judgment.

He used to say, “You don’t carry malice in your gaze. That’s rare.”

Maybe that’s why, even now, even after being branded a traitor, he came to you.

You shouldn’t have let him in. You knew what it meant — aiding him could put you in danger. But when you opened the door that dawn and saw him there, staggering, his blade dragging against the ground, his cloak heavy with blood and rainwater… your heart broke before reason could even speak.

He barely made it past your doorway before collapsing to his knees.

“Qiuyuan—!”

You caught him as best you could, your hands already trembling as you guided him toward the cot in the corner. The scent of iron filled the room. His breathing was shallow, ragged — but even now, his hand weakly reached for yours, as if to reassure you instead.

“…I didn’t mean to worry you,” he murmured, voice strained. “But I knew… you’d still help me.”

You wanted to scold him — to ask why, why he kept coming back, why he insisted on fighting alone, why he couldn’t just stay away before someone found out. But the words died in your throat as you tore open his tunic to reveal the gash across his torso, far too deep, far too close to something vital.

He winced when the alcohol touched his wound, yet he didn’t pull away. He never did. Instead, his gaze remained fixed on you, heavy, unwavering. You felt it — that silent faith of his, that wordless plea that said I trust you, even now.

As your fingers worked, wrapping gauze and cleaning blood, the dawn light crept through the window — soft, pale, almost forgiving. His breathing steadied.

“…You shouldn’t have come here,” you whispered, your voice breaking despite yourself. “If they find you—”

“I know,” he interrupted gently, eyes half-lidded, exhausted. “But if I must die, I’d rather it be here. Where I can see you… one last time.”

Your hands froze.

It wasn’t a confession, not in words — but in that moment, it didn’t need to be. You could feel the weight of everything he couldn’t say: the gratitude, the loneliness, the quiet yearning that lived in the spaces between his breaths.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to care. And yet, when his hand rose weakly to rest over yours, you didn’t pull away.

You finished patching him in silence. When you were done, he was already drifting — not quite asleep, but resting, eyes closed, his lips forming something close to a smile.

You stayed beside him until morning broke fully through the window, washing his pale skin in gold.

And when he finally opened his eyes again, his voice was soft — barely a whisper.

“Thank you… for believing in me.”

And you did. You always would.

Even if the world called him a traitor, even if it cost you everything — you would still open that door for him. Every single time.