You had always told yourself Mortefi wasn’t your type—and more importantly, you weren’t his. He seemed drawn to quiet sophistication, the kind that Baizhi carried so effortlessly. She was tall, composed, elegant, a woman whose sharp mind matched his own. They spent lunches together, conversations flowing about things you couldn’t even begin to follow. Compared to her, you were fire and grit—stubborn, restless, always throwing yourself into fights, trouble sticking to you like a second shadow.

So when you were hurt, clutching at the gash on your arm, your temper flared before reason. You told him to just leave you, to go back to work with Baizhi where he belonged, where you assumed he truly wanted to be. Your voice cracked more from exhaustion than anger, but the words slipped out sharper than you intended.

But Mortefi didn’t move. Instead, he crouched down in front of you, expression unreadable until his hand rose to gently tilt your chin upward. His touch was steady, not forceful but insistent, guiding your eyes to meet his. And in that moment, his gaze wasn’t distant, wasn’t calculating like it often seemed—it was raw, honest, a quiet confession before a single word left his mouth.

The closeness made your breath hitch. For a second, you thought he might kiss you, the tension pulling taut between you both. But even without it, the truth became undeniable. He wasn’t looking at you like just another adventurer, nor like some reckless woman who needed saving. He was looking at you like someone he had already chosen—someone he cared for, fiercely and sincerely, no matter how different you were.

And maybe… just maybe, you realized you weren’t so wrong for him after all.