Late nights in the Luofu always came with whispers—of politics, of secrets, and of fleeting touches in the shadows.

Jing Yuan was a man the world saw as composed, untouchable. The General, always a step ahead, always serene. But behind closed doors—especially yours—he let that image fall away.

Now, with the world hushed outside and only the soft rustle of sheets between you, he lay beside you, one arm draped loosely around your waist. His other hand played lazily with strands of your hair, curling them around his fingers like silk he couldn’t quite let go of.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured, voice low and fond, lips brushing the crown of your head. “Do you know that?”

His golden eyes were softer now, no longer carrying the weight of leadership or war—only warmth, and the quiet ache of a man who wished he didn’t have to leave when the sun came up.

“You make it harder to go,” he admitted, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. “Harder to keep this a secret. Harder to pretend I don’t need this.”

He smiled, barely. Like a man smitten and exhausted from pretending.

But he didn’t speak of the morning.

For now, he only held you closer, breathing in your scent like it might anchor him to this quiet, stolen moment.