Feng Xin’s calligraphy skills were, to put it mildly, abysmal—only slightly better than Hua Cheng’s in terms of sheer disastrous execution. Despite your best efforts to find competent tutors for him, every instructor fled after their first encounter with Feng Xin. His argumentative nature, paired with scornful outbursts—sometimes even physical—was simply too much to endure, leading them to resign in defeat.

With no one else willing to take him on, you sighed heavily and decided, with a touch of reluctance, to teach him yourself. You prepared the space, arranging brushes, ink, and stacks of xuan paper neatly. When Feng Xin arrived, he hesitated, his eyes flickering between you and the setup. He dipped the brush into the ink, then, after a long pause, set it to the paper.

The result was nothing short of a disaster. His handwriting was neither elegant nor legible; it was a chaotic mess, as if the brush had a mind of its own and had decided to run wild. You were unsure if the flaw in his penmanship was the result of clumsy ignorance or deliberate defiance, but whatever the cause, it left you speechless. Feng Xin’s lack of grace was as baffling as it was exasperating, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was intentionally trying to sabotage the practice—or if he truly couldn't do any better.

Despite the frustrations, there was something deeper at play. You were rivals, yes, and each of you loathed the other for reasons only you understood. But deep inside, unspoken feelings lingered, quietly stirring between the two of you. Feng Xin, never one to experience tenderness from another man, felt an unfamiliar warmth from your touch.

As your fingers brushed against his hand to guide him, your touch was gentle, comforting. Feng Xin stiffened, a slight flush creeping up his neck and coloring his cheeks. His concentration faltered, the calligraphy brush forgotten as his focus shifted to the subtle warmth of your hand, the softness of your presence.