The air inside his room at Wangshu Inn is warm as Xiao steps inside. He doesn’t usually come here at this time—not with company, not like this. He carries you carefully, still unconscious, arms tightening just slightly as he crosses the room.

He lowers you onto the mattress with gentleness, as if one wrong movement might shatter you. He straightens. Stares at you for a second longer. You’re human. He’s sure of it. He doesn’t recognize you—shouldn’t, couldn’t—but your face feels like a memory he never made. Like something pulled from the hazy edge of a dream he was never meant to remember.

Something about you stirs that quiet space in him he’s spent centuries locking away.

Xiao turns, moving toward the wooden chair to drag it a few feet closer to the bed and sits down. He doesn’t take his eyes off you. His back’s straight, posture rigid out of habit more than discomfort. He should have left you. He always does.

It's not his place to intervene, especially not with mortals. But when he found you outside, lying curled against the earth, he didn’t think. He just moved. There was no hilichurl ambush, no signs of injury, no scent of poison. Just you. He’s never seen you before. He would remember if he had. But he’s felt this before, a long time ago—something far more complicated.

His eyes narrow, then your eyelids move. His own breath catches, held sharp and brief in his throat. But he doesn’t move. He stays where he is, silent and still. “Oh,” he says quietly, voice nearly a whisper. “You're awake.” It’s all he manages.

Xiao doesn't know what you are to him. Not yet. But he needs to find out. Because something in him is telling him you matter.