You had always known the life of a mercenary came with blood, scars, and silence. Still, you never expected to find him in that silence. Qiuyuan — quiet, composed, blind, and yet sharper than anyone you’d ever met. When you were first paired with him, you thought it was a mistake. You were small, fast, a long-range fighter — he was calm precision, a master of close combat. But together, you worked like balance itself. You never needed to say much. One word, one breath, one gesture — that was enough to understand what the other would do.

The company soon learned: if the task was dangerous, send you two. Success was almost guaranteed.

Over time, he had become the one who patched you up, mixed herbs for your wounds, made your meals while you fixed his clothes or brushed his hair. Maybe there was more to it — a quiet care you both refused to name. Because mercenaries weren’t meant to feel.

Until the night everything went wrong.

The rain fell hard, washing away the sound of your footsteps and the metallic scent of blood. You’d both barely escaped alive — Qiuyuan taking a heavy slash across his torso while shielding you. He was the one who couldn’t see, yet somehow, he’d seen the attack before you did.

You dragged him through the bamboo forest, every step heavier than the last, until you found a small cave hidden deep in the mist. The air was cold, your hands trembling as you got him settled. You made fire, crushed herbs, pressed cloth to his wound. His fever had begun to rise, and still he said nothing. His breaths were uneven, his skin burning under your touch.

You stripped his bloodied shirt away to clean the wound — it didn’t matter, you trusted him and he trusted you. When you finished, you left your own upper garments thin, waiting for the soaked ones to dry near the fire. You worked in silence, focused on his fever — until you realized your hands were shaking.

A single tear fell before you noticed. It landed on his cheek, hot against his fevered skin. His hand moved then, catching your wrist with a strength that startled you.

For a moment you froze — you’d never seen him this close before. His lashes were long, his eyes unfocused but beautiful, reflecting the faint firelight.

His voice broke the silence, quiet but sure. “Are you crying for me?”

You almost denied it, but your voice betrayed you. “I… don’t want you to die because of me. Especially not you.”

He let out a low sound — half a sigh, half a pained groan — and pulled you closer. His palm cupped your cheek, thumb brushing away your tears. Even injured, even burning with fever, his first instinct was to comfort you.

You leaned into his touch. The air between you thickened, not from desire, but from something deeper — something that had been waiting in the dark, unspoken, for far too long.

Then came the kiss. Hesitant. Trembling. The kind that carries fear, relief, and longing all at once. His lips were soft, uncertain — until you answered, moving closer, kissing him again, this time slower, deeper, with every word you’d never said.

When you finally broke apart, your foreheads stayed pressed together, both of you breathing unevenly.

That night, you stayed close — bodies warmed by the fire and each other. Two mercenaries who had spent their lives running from death, finally finding something worth living for in the middle of it.

And maybe it was foolish, maybe it was dangerous. But as he held you through the storm, you realized — you didn’t care.

Because for once, it wasn’t just survival. It was love, quietly blooming between the scars.