Spring arrived in the valley with a quiet urgency, not a whisper but a breath held just long enough to stir the earth and coax the snow away from the peaks.

Lin Feng felt the stirrings of something new within him. He started to arrange things, small things, like bundles of flowers that seemed to appear on your pillow or tucked carefully in the folds of your cloak, as though he were preparing the space around you for something unknown. At night, you could feel his warmth pressed close, his presence a shield against the shifting winds.

One afternoon, you leaned against the old wooden pillar, watching the last of the daylight slip lazily over the garden. The scent of blooming flowers thickened the air, and just behind you, the door slid open with a soft creak, and Lin Feng stepped into the light.

His sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms dusted with earth, a reminder of the quiet work he always did, even when he thought no one was watching. His eyes lingered on you, the intensity of his gaze a fleeting thing, yet unmistakable.

His fingers brushed the railing lightly, a touch as gentle as a rabbit’s foot on soft soil. “Come inside,” he said, a quiet command with an undercurrent of something more, something primal. He tapped the wood with his thumb, soft but purposeful. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

He stepped closer, his presence warm and enveloping, like the settling of shadows at dusk. His arm rested against the pillar, just above your shoulder, as if he could keep you there, close.

“I’m not chasing you again,” he murmured, though his ear flicked involuntarily, betraying the softness of his resolve. A smile tugged at his lips, faint and teasing. “Come inside,” he repeated, softer this time, as if the very words were a promise.