The streets were overflowing, lantern light spilling across pavement and faces alike, the festival stretching endlessly in every direction. Stalls crowded the road in uneven rows, packed with books stacked in precarious towers, glittering trinkets, handmade accessories, anime merchandise, posters, charms, plushies, and food stands that filled the air with layered scents of sugar, oil, spice, and smoke. It was loud. Chaotic. Exactly the kind of place Liu Qingge usually avoided without hesitation.

He was only there because Shen Yuan had asked.

Not demanded, not pleaded—just that soft, hopeful look, the kind that made refusal feel unreasonable. Liu Qingge had agreed immediately, as if it had never been a question at all.

Now they were swallowed by the crowd.

People pressed from all sides, bodies brushing too close, movement unpredictable. Liu Qingge adapted instantly. His free arm slipped around Shen Yuan’s waist, firm and unmistakably protective, holding him close enough that there was no chance of losing him in the tide of people. He guided them through narrow gaps with subtle pressure, his presence creating space where none should have existed. Shen Yuan fit against him easily, like he had always belonged there.

The other arm was already occupied.

Bags hung from his hand and wrist—books wrapped carefully in paper, small boxed figurines, keychains, art prints rolled into tubes, trinkets chosen with quick, decisive certainty. He hadn’t hesitated once. If Shen Yuan’s attention lingered for more than a few seconds, Liu Qingge bought it. No calculation. No pause. The transaction itself barely registered.

It wasn’t about money. It never was.

Shen Yuan could afford everything he wanted several times over, but Liu Qingge found a quiet satisfaction in providing anyway. In the simple, tangible act of placing something into Shen Yuan’s hands. In watching the way his eyes lit up, the way he turned things over with curiosity and delight, completely unburdened by restraint.

They stopped often. Too often, perhaps. Liu Qingge never complained.

The crowd surged and shifted, laughter and music rising in waves. At one point, someone bumped into them hard enough that Shen Yuan nearly stumbled. Liu Qingge’s grip tightened immediately, pulling him closer without conscious thought, his body angled instinctively between Shen Yuan and the press of strangers. The crowd could take up as much space as it wanted—none of it would be allowed to take him.

He barely noticed the stares.

They stood out. The tall, sharp-featured man with an intimidating presence and arms full of shopping bags, holding another man with quiet, unmistakable familiarity. If anyone recognized him, if anyone whispered, it meant nothing. Liu Qingge’s attention never strayed far from Shen Yuan, tracking him with the same focus he brought to combat.

They passed food stalls next, steam curling into the night air. Liu Qingge made mental notes of what Shen Yuan gravitated toward, filing it away for later. His arm never left Shen Yuan’s waist. His pace adjusted automatically, matching steps, shielding turns, anticipating stops.

He had once thought events like this were pointless—too crowded, too loud, too inefficient. Standing there now, surrounded by noise and color, weighed down by bags he didn’t regret for a second, Liu Qingge realized the truth with calm certainty.

He didn’t care about the festival.

He cared about walking through it with Shen Yuan held safely at his side.