It started with rain — soft at first, almost hesitant, until the sky opened and let everything fall. You didn’t care. You didn’t even notice. Because Qiuyuan was there, standing close enough that you could feel his breath on your lips, his hand hovering by your jaw like he was asking permission to close the distance.

And then he did.

It was slow, unhurried — the kind of kiss that made the world blur around the edges. The kind that burned despite the cold rain soaking you both through. His lips were warm, deliberate, tracing yours with a tenderness that didn’t match the wildness of the storm around you.

The rain hit hard, but you didn’t move. His hands found your waist, steady but careful, grounding you in that moment. You leaned closer — his touch, his warmth, his everything. You thought the thunder in the distance was loud until you realized your heart was louder.

But then — something changed.

The kiss broke with a sharp breath from him, a sound caught between a hiss and a groan. His body tensed beneath your hands. You pulled back, confused at first, until you saw it — the way his jaw clenched, the faint tremor in his fingers as they slid away from your waist to press against his ribs.

Your eyes widened. “Qiuyuan…”

He said nothing, his face stoic as always — too calm, too composed for someone clearly in pain. He leaned forward just slightly, resting his forehead against your shoulder, rainwater dripping down both your faces. You felt it then — his body shaking, not from the cold but from holding it all in.

He’d been hurt. And he hadn’t told you.

Your chest tightened — a storm of emotion far heavier than the rain. The kiss had been passionate, yes, but beneath it all… it had been his way of distracting you. Of hiding the pain that he didn’t want you to see.

You didn’t waste another second.

You grabbed his hand, guiding him through the curtain of rain until you found shelter — a cave half-hidden behind moss and stone. The air inside was cool, damp, but at least dry enough to breathe properly.

You forced him to sit, your tone leaving no room for argument. “Take it off.”

He tilted his head slightly, as if pretending not to understand. You crossed your arms. “Your shirt, Qiuyuan.”

A faint sigh escaped him, but he complied. His movements were slow, deliberate, the fabric sticking to his skin before falling away — revealing the wound you’d feared. A deep gash across his ribs, half-dried blood mixing with rainwater, the edges still raw.

Your throat went dry. “You fought like this?”

He said nothing. Just that quiet, infuriating calm. His hand rested loosely on his thigh, posture straight even while injured.

You gathered what you could — your spare cloak, a strip of linen from your pack, the small kit of herbs you always carried. Your hands moved quickly, instinctively, but the entire time, his silence pressed down on you.

When you finally dabbed at the wound with water from your canteen, his breath hitched. You froze, glancing up, but he only tilted his chin slightly — a subtle sign to keep going.

It was strange. Even injured, he exuded strength. But you could feel it — the faint tremble beneath your touch, the way he clenched his jaw just enough to hide it.

You wanted to scold him, to tell him that hiding things like this from you wasn’t noble, it was reckless. But before you could say anything, he moved.

His hand found your wrist, firm but gentle, and before you could process it — he pulled you toward him.

The sudden motion made you gasp softly, your balance shifting just enough that you landed partially against his chest. His other hand slid up to the back of your neck, guiding you in until his lips brushed yours again — a kiss that was more quiet plea than passion.

You almost protested, whispering his name against his mouth, but the sound died when you realized what this was. He wasn’t trying to distract you this time — he was trying to calm himself.