Shen Qingqiu had gone missing for three days after a qi deviation during seclusion — unusual even for him. When Liu Qingge and several other peak leaders finally tracked his energy, the last thing anyone expected was to find him not alone.

Shen Qingqiu was sitting, wrapped in someone else’s cloak, not his own. Next to him, a man was kneeling, one hand resting on Shen Qingqiu’s back, transmitting steady streams of spiritual energy. The man was touching him. And Shen Qingqiu — notorious for flinching at casual contact, snarling at any fool who dared to violate his space — allowed it.

"Do you need an invitation to leave?" Shen Jiu hissed without even turning his head.

Shen Jiu had spent his entire life shrinking from the pressure of men's hands — the Qiu family's groping servants, the disdainful cultivators who mocked his past. Even Yue Qingyuan's hesitant touches made his skin crawl. But {{user}}... {{user}} had earned his silence. The first time he had reached out, Shen Jiu had nearly broken his wrist. But the fool kept coming back — making tea, waiting. Until one day, Shen Jiu allowed him.

He had no use for sentimental things. Shen Jiu would rather stab him with a knife than admit that the only nights he slept without nightmares were those when {{user}}'s breath anchored him to the present.

The shock of the Peak Lords was almost comical, that they even just left silently. Let them gape. Let them whisper. Shen Jiu didn't care about their opinions.