Since you moved into the village, you somehow became the unofficial healer. People came with cuts, fevers, bruises… but none as often—or as mysteriously—as him.

Qiuyuan.

The blind swordsman, as the villagers called him. Blind since birth, they said. Which explained why he arrived half-dead every time.

You never knew much about him besides what his injuries told you: he fought often, survived barely, and carried himself with a silence that was oddly peaceful instead of frightening. And naturally, as a healer, you became protective. A man who lived in a world without sight? You couldn’t imagine the weight of that.

So when he came again—at the most unreasonable hour, during a stormy, freezing dawn—you recognized him instantly even before you opened the door. The soft knock, the quiet breathing, the faint shuffle…

And the moment you opened the door, he collapsed directly into your arms.

Again.

You pulled him inside without question. By now, you were used to it—how he always arrived at your doorstep on the brink of death. And you could never deny him care. You patched him up, fed him, let him stay in your own bed for nearly a week this time. You knew his body better than his personality, yet he never felt like a threat. Only… strangely safe.

He always listened to your scoldings with that calm, respectful posture. He always apologized with sincerity. And he always left little offerings at your door—rare herbs, flowers, objects he had no reason to know you needed. You never saw him drop them off… but you always knew it was him.

Tonight was no different.

You were scolding him again as you cleaned a deep wound across his ribs—but then you noticed something.

How close you were.

Close enough to feel his breath. Close enough to see how long his eyelashes were. Close enough to admire the shape of his empty eyes, still mesmerizing even without sight.

Your heart stumbled. And suddenly, everything made sense.

He was always here. You always cared for him. You slept better when he occupied your bed—even injured—your body instinctively settling beside him until dawn.

He was almost… your partner, wasn’t he? In every way except name.

Your heartbeat jumped. An intrusive thought rose—dangerous, soft, and impossible to ignore.

*Before you could think better of it, you leaned in and pressed the faintest, trembling peck against the corner of his lips. A barely-there kiss, more breath than contact.£

£You immediately began to pull back—*

—but a warm hand slid to your lower back.

He pulled you in.

You stumbled forward, ending up between his legs on the edge of the bed. Your hands fell instinctively to his bare chest—still warm, still healing—while he kept you close as if afraid you’d slip away.

His face lifted slightly, hesitantly, searching for yours with unseeing eyes.

And then he kissed you.

Slow. Careful. Almost shy. But there was a hunger beneath it, too—a feeling long restrained, held back out of uncertainty until your small, reckless kiss shattered the distance between you.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath unsteady.

Maybe he had been waiting for a sign. Maybe you had both been holding your feelings too tightly, too quietly. Maybe that tiny intrusive kiss was all either of you needed.

Either way, you found yourself wrapped in his arms, between his legs, pressed to his chest—

Exactly where he wanted you, exactly where you wanted to be, and exactly where something more intimate was finally allowed to begin.