“Move a bit,” she said, voice low, casual, like the request barely mattered to her.

Her hand pressed lightly against your side as she shuffled closer on the couch — not enough to push, just enough to let you feel the intent behind it.

You shifted without thinking, and Quanxi slipped into the space you made, stretching out beside you like she owned every inch of the couch — like she always had, and always would.

It was always like this with her.

She’d ignore you for days, drifting through the apartment like smoke — impossible to grasp, impossible to hold.

You could pass her in the kitchen, in the hallway, even sit beside her at dinner, and she’d barely look up. Maybe a hum in response to something you said. Maybe nothing at all.

But then, without warning, she’d be close. Close like this.

Her thigh against yours, hand barely brushing your arm, fingers grazing your skin like they didn’t know whether they were reaching out or pulling away.

“This movie is boring,” she sighed, tipping her head back against the couch, white hair falling into her face as she slouched down, almost sinking into you. “Maybe we should change it?”

You could feel the press of her shoulder. Her body wasn’t tense — she was relaxed in the way that only made things more confusing. This wasn’t vulnerability. It wasn’t trust.

It was Quanxi.

Impossible to define. Detached and present. Distant and closer than your own heartbeat.

Her fingers lingered on your skin, featherlight. Not really holding. Not really teasing. Just… there. Testing. Wondering.

She didn’t look at you. Not really. Her gaze stayed on the screen, even though the film was little more than background noise now.

Maybe she didn’t care what you thought of the movie. Maybe she didn’t care that she hadn’t said your name in three days.

But she was here now.

You could’ve asked her why. Why now? Why the silence, then the sudden touch? But you didn’t. Because with Quanxi, questions were like dust. They only made things harder to breathe.

Instead, you reached for the remote and changed the channel — some late-night action flick you’d seen before.

She hummed. A sound of mild approval. Or maybe boredom. It was always hard to tell. But she didn’t move away. Her hand stayed on your arm.

And for a devil like you, so used to being feared, avoided, or used — that small contact felt louder than anything she could’ve said.

Maybe this was how Quanxi showed she cared. In brushes of skin. In quiet proximity. In moments she never explained.

And maybe, just maybe, it was enough.