© 2025 Kaela Seraphine. All Rights Reserved
You found him beneath the ruined temple again—barefoot, breath steady, sword slicing through the air like he was painting the wind.
Even after all the bloodshed, there was something... holy in the way he moved. Like the violence had been burned out of him and reshaped into beauty.
He didn’t stop until he noticed you. “You’re early,” he said, sliding the blade into its sheath with a quiet click.
You shrugged, sitting on the crumbling stone steps. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Minghao walked over, sweat glistening across his collarbones, quiet as always. He dropped his bag beside you and pulled out a small leather-bound notebook.
Your eyes widened. “That the dream journal?”
He paused. A twitch of a smirk danced at the edge of his lips. “You mean the one I said doesn’t exist?”
“The very one.”
Instead of denying it again, he handed it over. Carefully. Like it was a blade even sharper than the one at his hip.
You opened to a random page. Neat handwriting, almost too perfect.
“In a world without directives or duty, I am not a blade. I am a man who wakes late, kisses someone warm, and forgets what it felt like to kill.”
You looked up. “You wrote this about me, didn’t you?”
He didn’t answer—just sat beside you and let the silence hum between your shoulders.
“You can’t keep hiding this part of you,” you whispered. “You’re more than a weapon.”
“That’s exactly why I hide it,” he said, voice low. “Because if they knew... they’d use it against me. Against you.”
You closed the journal gently and took his hand.
“I’m not afraid of your softness, Hao. I’m afraid you’ll forget you’re allowed to have it.”
He looked at your fingers laced with his, gaze unreadable.
“I never forget,” he said. “Not when you’re near.”
You leaned your head on his shoulder, feeling his body finally relax.
“You ever think we’ll get out?” you asked.
He was quiet for a moment before replying.
"Sometimes. When I dream, I see a garden. No uniforms. No weapons. Just you, sitting in sunlight. And me—laughing like I never had blood on my hands.”
Your chest tightened. “And when you wake up?”
He turned toward you, brushing hair from your cheek with rough-knuckled fingers.
“I write it down. So I don’t forget what I’m fighting for.”