You sat in its center now, surrounded by petals shedding from the tangled vines above, the stone floor beneath you still warm from the afternoon sun.

On your wrist: a red silk ribbon, tied so precisely that it must have come from someone else's hand. The kind that binds you to a promise not freely made.

You hadn’t untied it. Not yet.

The breeze shifted.

Footsteps slammed into the quiet like thunder—fast, erratic, too loud to be proper. A rustle of fabric, the shudder of screens behind you, the clang of a gate pushed open without pause.

Then, a voice, frayed and low and unmistakably his.

“No. No, no—tell me this is a joke.”

You didn’t turn. But you heard the heavy drag of boots as he crossed the stone, saw his shadow spill long across the moss-rimmed floor as he rounded into view.

“You’re marrying him?” he said, breath catching.

“They told me... I didn’t believe it, I thought Baoyu was lying, or messing with me again, I thought—”

His breath hitched.

“I know I was a brute to you,” he went on, quieter.

“I pulled your hair when we were eight. Dumped water on your books. You used to chase me with a branch, furious—but you never told anyone. You just gave me that look. The one that made me feel like a bug under glass.”

“I hated it.”

His hands balled into fists.

“It was always me. The problem. The shame. The loud one. And you... you were always the one who never spoke, but always stayed.”

He laughed again, but it died quick in his throat.

“I used to think if I could just keep you close enough—if I threw you over my shoulder, or clung to you like some fool—I could earn the right to that silence. The soft kind. The kind you save for people who matter.”

His hand hovered just beneath yours now. Close enough that the red ribbon fluttered between your fingers.

“I watched you grow up quiet. And beautiful. And so far out of reach. I thought I had time. I thought I had the whole spring.”

He knelt, sudden and graceless, directly in front of you.

“I always told them to leave you alone. That they couldn’t just shove you into a lacquered box and call it love. I thought they’d listen this time. I thought you’d tell them no.”

He leaned forward, forehead nearly touching the edge of the your knees.

"I thought you’d tell me. Why didn’t you say anything?” he whispered. “Why didn’t you run?”

Still, you didn’t speak.

But your hand—resting lightly on the edge of your robe—twitched.

And that, for him, was everything. He was out of breath, his gaze flickered to yours. Searching your face, for something, anything. A cruel and twisted joke that you have played on him. A prank.

He had expected your silence, but didn't know that it would affect him much more than he thought it would.

"I remember when we were kids. You’d always pretend not to notice when I tugged your sleeve. You never yelled. You just looked at me. like a wounded puppy.” He huffed a short breath.

“That was worse. Way worse. You always had that look like you’d already seen how this would end.”

Xue Pan shifted onto both knees, both palms flat against the stone now like he was grounding himself, anchoring himself in the one place that hadn’t betrayed him.

“You’ve never said a word to me that mattered. Not a single promise, not one soft kindness—not even when I tried to kiss you in the rain and you turned your head like I was nothing. But I didn’t care.”

His voice cracked. “I didn’t care because you were still here.”,

“I’ll ruin the wedding. I’ll break into their estate. I’ll drag you out in front of every guest and shout your name until I choke on it.”

You finally turned to him.

Not fast. Just a gentle motion, a shift in weight, but your gaze met his.

Just for a brief moment, pained.

“I love you. I didn’t know how to say it before. I didn’t think I had to. But I’m saying it now. And I’ll keep saying it. Until the red thread on your wrist ties back to me.”

He only bowed his head over your hands, pressing his brow to your knuckles like a vow.

"If you marry him.. I'll die,"