Shiru

"Are you alright?"

You heard his voice through the noise, even as your eyes seemed to dart around quickly.

It was a mix of things.

Sesame oil hissed as it met hot iron, roasted chestnuts cracked over pans… and the clean, green trace of river reeds carried on through the breeze.

You'd been passing by a village, hoping to find a place to stay for the night, and the riverside was full of people. It seemed a festival, of sorts. Laughter, calls, and music… Red lanterns hung in swaying chains above crooked lanes. From them, warm light pooled over the stall counters, across faces, across the dark water of the river… And far ahead was an arched stone bridge, the river below containing little floating lanterns that drifted through like scattered embers.

He'd brought you here on a whim. It hadn't quite been in your plans to stay the night here, but once you'd passed, he seemed insistent.

So what more could you do but follow?

Shen Xinghui moved through the crowd unhurried, having with him the very pace and confidence of a person who'd walked these same paths in every season of every year. His embroidered silk robes caught in the glow of the lanterns just like everything else, but this sight of him was the only one that truly mattered.

What more could you do but follow?

You'd kept to it a half-step behind.

The press of the crowd was unfamiliar; shoulders brushing without apology, a little boy's elbow nudging your hip as he freely chased at a spinning paper windmill.

But he turned back, slowed his pace. Asked again.

"Is… everything okay?"

Steps slowed to a stop. A pause had him glancing at the stall beside him piled with glowing tanghulu, and then in the next minute, he was offering a skewer towards you.

You blinked, felt the warmth in your cheeks at the mere gesture. You thought that it was obvious, probably, too obvious, that you had never stood in a crowd this alive without an elder’s presence or a clear purpose to anchor you.

Your gaze shifted, but you held out your hand, "Um… it's just louder than I expected," you mumbled.

When your fingers wrapped around the candy, you heard him let out a soft chuckle.

"Sometimes, loud can be good. Maybe… it means no one’s listening for mistakes, like you're so used to."

A smile. It curved at your lips, small, slight, and you raised your eyes to meet his.

He gestured, "You've still never tried tanghulu before, right? Go on, take a bite. I got that one for you."

"But yours…?"

He held up one of his own, and tilted his head.

This time, his smile mirrored yours.

"There's no way I wouldn't have gotten one myself."

On the first bite, the sugar cracked with a sweet, glassy snap. The soft tartness of the hawthorn berry flooded your mouth, sharp and sweet all at once, and it was…

New.

Exciting, almost.

The burst of flavor brought a light to your eyes, and a tiny, involuntary sound escaped you—half surprise, half delight. Before you could stop it, a real smile had bloomed across your face.

Xinghui chuckled. "There it is."

"It's sweet…!"

"Good, right?"

"Shixiong, we should get one more tomorrow before we leave!"

And as you walked, and nibbled, the night continued onwards.

Moving closer to the river drew melodies. A pipa player had been joined by a small ensemble, complete with a guzheng player sitting cross-legged on a low stool, two young women with hand drums, and a man coaxing long, mournful notes from an erhu. The notes they played wove through the crowd of the evening. They started slow, at first, before quickening into something lively enough for the atmosphere.

You watched curiously. Unbeknownst to you, your foot began to tap to the beat. As the music picked, a cluster of people began to form a loose circle around the musicians—children spun in the center, a few older couples stepped in gentle, swaying patterns…

Xinghui tilted his head toward the sound.

"Listen," he murmured. "They’re playing a rendition of ‘Moonlit Path.’ Do you remember that song?"

You did.

The sect's version had been more solemn, more melancholy. Beautiful, in its own way—and yet these people, as you watched, had found the freedom within themselves to play the song as they wished.

Loose, casual…

Bound by no such rules.

The guzheng rippled like water; the erhu sang high and beautiful. Something about it tugged at you—familiar, yet new, all at once.

He finished his own tanghulu in two quick bites, licked a stray flake of sugar from his thumb. The circle widened as more people joined. A young woman in a bright green sash noticed him and lit up.

"Brother Shen! You’re back!" She waved him in with an air of excitement. "Come on, don’t just stand there looking all handsome~ Dance with us!"

There was little room for refusal—two more darted forward, each grabbing one of his sleeves.

Xinghui laughed.

It was so easy for him—once again, so familiar. He let himself be pulled, mock resistance melting into another laugh, and the circle opened to let him in. True to himself, he stepped into the center with the same loose air of grace you'd seen him carry so often. And yet, this time he was…

Free.

Free.

You watched, as his movements smoothly followed the guzheng’s melody. A slow turn of the wrist, a step to the side… Around you, the lantern light caught once more in the silver threads of his robes, and you stood, watching the way his smile never quite left his face.

One of the girls turned, spotted you still holding your tanghulu.

"Ooh, and you, pretty girl with the candy! Come and dance with your man!"

Your face went hot. "I—h-he’s not—"

But she was already reaching for your free hand, tugging on it insistently.

Xinghui caught your eye across the circle. He didn’t say anything—simply offered a smile.

Encouragement.

Your heart hammered against your ribs—you'd never quite… danced before, much less out in public.

People often likened sword-fighting to dance, even moreso the techniques of your sect. But you knew actual dance required a different sort of poise, and grace, and form, and you—

"Come, come, jiejie!"

You let the girl pull you forward.

Impulse, perhaps, or curiosity. Or a simple lack of inability to refuse her.

And then the circle closed back around you both.

At first you stood stiff, unsure where to put your feet. Xinghui stepped closer—close enough for a little reassurance, close enough to mask your unease behind the way he tugged your wrist towards him.

"Relax," he murmured. "Just feel the rhythm."

The beat rolled.

You tried a small step to the side, then another. The girl beside you mirrored you, giggling encouragement. And ever encouraging, Xinghui matched your pace, turning to stay right by your side. You stumbled, once. Caught yourself on his arm, another bright flush making its way to your face.

And yet, he steadied you without comment, never once poke a word against you.

Then slowly, very slowly… The stiffness in your shoulders began to loosen.

The music sped up, laughter bubbled around you. Someone spun around too fast and nearly collided with a child, but to your surprise, everyone cheered instead of scolding. You found yourself smiling again, wider this time. And when the guzheng coalesced into a bright cascade of notes, you let your feet move a little freer, let your arms sway just enough to match the rhythm.

Xinghui glanced over, eyes crinkling.

"See?" he smiled. "There's no one counting mistakes here."

And here, for a few shining moments, you forgot about sects, and missions, and duties, and everything else.

The outside world was big. It was free.

And there was only the music, and lanterns, and dancing, and glee—

And him.

Right beside you, smiling brighter than even the stars that night.

Your eyes met.

The music was louder now; more people had joined the little circle. And with a glint in his eyes that you'd learned to be mischief, he whirled you right out, a laugh spilling free from his lips.

"W-wait— Shixiong…!"

You gasped, feeling yourself wrapped up in his arms, your heartbeat tripping over your own shock of being so close to him.

"Come with me," he whispered.

And all this time, you had stayed, and you had followed him— And so you did, without a single doubt, let him pull you away, the bright cascade of the guzheng fading behind you.

The circle stayed lively as you'd left. Closer now to the water, cooler air touched your face, and those little red paper lanterns reflected onto the river like fallen stars. You let out a long, slow breath—once more, your eyes found him.

Xinghui slowly let go of you, offered a smile before stepping back almost respectfully. His hair had come a little looser in the turns; a strand clung to his neck. And in this moment as he looked at you, it seemed to you that he was… pleased.

He tilted his head. "Hungry?" he hummed.

Your stomach answered with a quiet rumble. The sweetness of the tanghulu still lingered, but the drifting smoke of grilled meat had been calling to you all night.

"…A little," you said, shy again now that the excitement had fallen away.

"Then that makes both of us."

With aa chuckle, Xinghui nodded toward the little row of stalls along the river path. Fragrant smoke rose in slow, inviting curls, and the mere sight of it had you drawing nearer.

Once again, his hand brushed yours.

An invitation.

You paused.

"Uncle Guo's lamb skewers are worth crossing half the jianghu for," he shrugged slightly. "It's different from the meat you get at the sect."

"But, is this… another one of your treats today?"

"Of course. I told you today would be on me."

"Shixiong, I think you're spoiling me a little too much today…"

Xinghui only smiled. And this time, with a light, gentle motion, he slipped your hand into his.

"Anything for my favorite shimei."

You felt your heart skip a beat.

Once again you let yourself be pulled forward, and his hand was so… warm. Soft, despite the obvious callouses from how often he used his sword. The feeling of it once more tonight made you lace your fingers together, almost bracing for a glance back your way or a sudden pull back from the touch—

It didn't happen.

Xinghui held your hand securely, and the lamb stall appeared ahead: a narrow wooden counter, with a wide bed of glowing coals.

Uncle Guo, he'd called him—broad-shouldered, with a salt-and-pepper beard and forearms thick and corded— He stood turning skewers, and looked up as you approached.

He let out a bark of laughter that carried over the festival noise. "Xinghui! So you're here again, huh?"

You held back a laugh.

Of course he'd be such a well-known customer for this stall…

He slowly let go of your hand, raising both in mock surrender of a reply, and grinned. "Couldn’t stay away from your lamb, Uncle Guo."

Uncle Guo laughed, a low, rumbling sound, and flipped the skewers with practiced flicks of his wrist. "Flatterer. You say that every time."

"But that's only because I mean it."

Then Uncle Guo’s gaze slid past Xinghui to you, still standing a half-step back, hesitant in their orbit. His expression softened immediately—curious, but not unkind.

"And who’s this quiet one?" he asked, tilting his head toward you. "You finally bring someone along who can keep up with your appetite?"

Xinghui glanced back at you, his smile gentling.

"Well, she's… Someone very important to me."

You drew in a breath.

He motioned to you, bringing you closer—and neither of you really addressed what he'd said, despite the growing warmth in your chest as you thought of it. The heat from the grill reached your face in a sudden, warm wave as you approached, and you silently thanked it for masking the flutter in your heart.

Up close like this, the lamb glistened invitingly. Unlike the tanghulu, you had eaten meat at sect banquets before—carefully portioned, either steamed, or braised, and always served without excess…

It was different.

This was different.

Uncle Guo eyed you with that same friendly curiosity as he slid two skewers free, and laid out them on a square of oiled paper. "First time at the festival, little sister?"

You nodded, "Yes, it’s, um… a lot..."

"Eh, you'll get used to it. The village is most alive during nights like these, a nice experience."

You watched Xinghui bite into his skewer first. His teeth sank in with obvious relish, eyes briefly closing as the flavors hit—A small, unguarded sound of satisfaction escaped him, almost a hum.

It made you smile to yourself.

"Still the best," he said to Uncle Guo around the mouthful.

"Damn right it is." The vendor wiped his hands on his apron, before gesturing to you. "Now eat slow, girl, don’t burn your tongue. Xinghui here once tried to swallow three at once—nearly cried."

"Well, you could say I was younger. And… hungrier."

The bite was crisp, and tender, all at once. You chewed slowly, surprised by how the flavors unfolded—

It was different. Good different. Half of you wondered if the sect had been keeping such delicacies away to limit frivolous distractions from training, because how was it possible that food like this could really be so easily obtainable?

“Do you like it?” Xinghui nudged you.

A smile bloomed on your lips. "Mhm!"

"Are you two looking for a place to stay tonight?" Uncle Guo nodded his head deeper back into the village, buildings still bright with their own festivities. "There's a few still open at this hour, not too far away."

Xinghui answered smoothly, "Oh, yes, Uncle. That would be helpful. Tomorrow, we—"

"I know how you're like, Xinghui. Stay for a while, and then you're off again…" He shook his head, almost fond. "You two go on straight down that path. Past those stalls selling the lanterns. Big building over there—you remember? Think you've stayed there, a few nights before."

With the skewers done and some coins left on the counter, Xinghui stood with a nod. "We'll be off then, Uncle. Thank you for the skewers."

"Treat the lady right, you hear! Get her a lantern or two!"

Uncle Guo's voice faded as you hurried on to follow him, falling back into pace, your usual half-step away from him.

A bout of silence fell.

In your periphery, you could still hear it—the music, the chatter, even the little calls of the stall vendors you passed by. And yet, like most of the night had been… you kept your eyes on him.

"Shixiong…" you murmured, before you could stop yourself.

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he slowed to a stop, glanced back at you and waited for you to walk up to his side. A curious tilt of your head to speak, and then—

"Ah! The lovely couple over there! You two look like newlyweds. Come, write out a wish and let the sky give you its blessings!"

Your eyes widened at the sudden call.

"Oh, n-no, we're not—!"

You spoke again before you could stop yourself, but Xinghui stepped forward.

"Something like that,” he said lightly. He glanced back at you, smiling casually. “Want to try one?"

And what could you possibly do but nod?

Your cheeks flamed, your heart beat loudly in your chest.

He was being insufferable.

Xinghui had always been one to tease you, but sometimes you couldn't begin to fathom just why.

"Shixiong, you're very cruel sometimes…" You huffed under your breath as you watched him go and buy two for you both, and shook your head. "We're not a couple like that at all…"

Xinghui returned with a lightness to his step, eyes crinkling at the corners as he handed one over to you.

"Do you have a wish tonight?"

You didn't answer.

You only gazed down at the lantern, acutely aware of him beside you. Xinghui let out a hum of his own before writing something down, but you… You hadn’t prepared a wish. You hadn’t even thought about one, up until this moment. And standing here, with the taste of lamb still on your tongue, and the the echo of the drums still thrumming in your pulse, and…

And him.

Xinghui, beside you, watching the same floating lights, writing a wish just like you would.

What did you want?

Not the sect’s approval. Not the elders’ praise. Not even, exactly… to do what you'd even come here for in the first place.

You simply wanted… this.

More nights like this.

More moments like this.

More time, to spend, with the person you'd always yearned for, for as long as you could remember.

That night, you didn’t write anything.

Maybe, you weren't sure if that was a wish you were allowed to make.

You remembered when you'd first found him.

That day, Xinghui was crouched beside a crooked fence outside a small mountain village, patiently retying frayed rope through splintered wood. A little boy stood beside him holding nails in both fists.

"But Xinghui-ge, you should stay another evening and play with us!"

"I'll be back next time, Xi'er. You know I have to go down the mountain today…"

He hadn't changed much.

There was the same loose hair falling over his eyes, the same steady, unhurried movements.

And yet, he seemed much… happier.

You'd noticed it immediately.

You stood at the edge of the dirt path, unable to look away, and—

Your heart lurched.

This was real.

You'd spent weeks searching for him, and he was—

Here.

Shixiong.

You remembered how you'd imagined this moment a hundred times during that long climb. What you would say, how stern you would sound, how faithfully you would deliver the elders' command… But now, seeing him like this—so unguarded, so at home in the vastness of it all—you could only stand frozen, drinking him in.

A small, giddy warmth bloomed in your chest. It was the same flutter you'd carried since way back then, when he'd first corrected your sword stance with patient hands, and a quiet little word of encouragement.

Even now, after all this time.

In front of you, he'd finished tying the last knot, given the rope an experimental tug, and only then seemed to feel your gaze.

He looked up. Your eyes met.

He… smiled.

"Shimei!"

He acted as if he had only been gone a day, and not years; as if you hadn't crossed three provinces, asking strangers with a mere description of a man you'd pathetically committed to memory. The little boy beside him quickly gave him a hug, glanced your way, and then waved before scampering off—only then did Xinghui rise to his feet.

He paused, dusted his hands against his robe.

And in that moment, you had your own smile break free—wide, helpless, and far brighter than you'd meant it to be.

"Shixiong!"

You'd leapt towards him before you could think.

It wasn't too different from the boy just moments ago—you wrapped your arms around him with a squeeze, unable to contain that overwhelming sense of joy you found just by looking at him.

It took a beat.

Two.

Your eyes widened, and your hands raised in an instant. You took two quick steps back, remembering your place…

Yet still, you had that same, glowing warmth in your cheeks.

"I, um… I mean…"

Xinghui only laughed.

Again he crossed the distance, and gave two gentle pats on the top of your head.

"Aha……." Your gaze dropped.

Steel yourself. Remember why you're here.

"Um, shixiong, I was told to bring you back to—"

"Sorry, but I'm not going."

His answer was straight. Direct to the point. Not at all laced with anger, but instead with such finality, that you had… paused, again.

You remembered the way your head had lifted once more, hope breaking in your expression, your heart sinking at the mere thought of failing, just like that.

So easily.

You almost wanted to believe he was joking, and yet he shook his head again, further reaffirming his statement.

And he smiled.

"You… you won't come back with me?" Your voice was small.

"…Mm. You must have had a long journey. Why don't you come and rest for a while?"

"But—"

"Stay."

Xinghui reached for your hand, a light, gentle touch that had you drawing a breath.

Stay.

You looked at him.

For a long, long time, you had always followed him. He'd always called you his favorite junior, but the other side of it was just as true. Xinghui had always helped you, always guided you, always taught you even more than your own teachers could have…

You'd always followed him.

So what more could you do but continue to do so?

In that moment, you'd wondered why the elders had sent you. You were helpless in front of him. Because you remembered how you'd bowed your head, and said—

"…Okay. I'll stay."

Memories of that day filled your head as you sat in the room, spacious enough for the two of you, one of the very last rooms available for that night. Cross-legged on your own futon, your eyes were drawn to the floor.

You fiddled with your sleeve.

Outside, the crowd began to dissolve, and laughter softened into murmurs. One by one, lights began to switch off.

It was late.

Once you'd gotten the room, your things had been set down by the wall, and you'd each taken your own futon—kept them a respectable distance away from each other.

Yet you heard the sound of tea pouring into a cup, and risked a glance.

Heat crept up your neck.

Xinghui, after offering you the tea he'd poured, turned to unfasten his outer robe, and draped it over the chair. The movement exposed the line of his collarbone—you felt it inappropriate to look, and averted your gaze as the tea warmed your hands.

"…Shixiong, thank you for today," you murmured.

The rustle of fabric told you he had settled onto his own futon.

"Did you like today?"

"I did."

"I pass here whenever I can. The people are nice, and the food is good."

A pause.

"Shixiong, why is it… that you brought me here?"

You shifted, turned to face him. He was lying on the futon, legs crossed lazily, eyes on the ceiling. But when you turned, so did he.

Your eyes met.

"If you liked it, then I'm happy. That's all there is to it."

"But—"

"When I left the Lanxing Sect," he cut off, softly, "this was the first place that welcomed me as their own. I thought, that at least once, you should be able to experience the kind of life they live here. And… have fun, with no one watching."

"Shixiong has taken me to many places as of late…"

"And we can continue to go wherever you like."

Again your eyes cast downward.

It wasn't true.

You had no liberty like he did; you had no choice like he did.

The letter had already arrived two days ago.

And so softly, quietly, voice barely a whisper, you spoke—

"Shixiong, I have to leave."

Silence. Not even a brush of the evening breeze.

You couldn't bring yourself to look at him.

"It's been two years that I've spent by your side now, but, I… I've been here on orders from the sect. Now that it's been so long, they want me back, and I should…"

Your voice trailed off. Beside you, you heard him sit up.

"Since I've failed my mission, it's only right that I receive due punishment," you whispered.

The thought of it made your stomach churn. Another night out in the woods, likely—seclusion of sorts, maybe restriction of food. You'd enjoyed far too much, these years with him. They would remind you that you shouldn't have.

And yet, Xinghui remained calm.

His voice was leveled, steady, when he asked, "Do you want to go back?"

A pause.

A wry smile made its way to your lips. "I cannot disobey my orders."

"I didn’t ask if you needed to, I asked if you wanted to."

This time, it was a dry laugh.

How could he ask such a question?

Was there anywhere else you would truly rather be than with him?

Already, tonight, you'd asked yourself what it was that you wanted. And it was—as it always had been—this, and him, and more of these stolen moments—

But how could you want them?

Xinghui could get what he wanted, just as he wished. But you were not granted that same freedom. You didn't know if you were allowed to even wish for it.

So when you answered, it was careful.

Scripted.

"The Lanxing Sect has always been kind to me," you murmured. "They raised me, you know? I learned nearly everything that I know now from them."

You voice sounded distant to your own ears.

"So what is a wish of my own, in their eyes? The only reason I've made it this far was because of them."

Xinghui let out a slow breath.

You heard more shifting, more rustling of the futon—

He felt closer.

When you turned, he'd slowly pushed his futon closer to yours.

"Sh-shixiong—"

"The Lanxing Sect sent you, so you appeared," he interrupted. "I asked you to stay, and you did. Now, a single piece of paper dictates your path."

You stilled.

"If this letter didn’t exist… What would you do? Where would you go?"

It was a question that settled heavy between the both of you.

You felt his nearness so acutely—the warmth of him, the scent of sandalwood from his earlier wash. If you reached out, you could hold him. Closer to you, an expression of all the things you couldn't bring yourself to say—

I would go wherever you went.

You did not move.

You knew your answer;

You did not speak.

Instead, you looked at him. Studied his face. A hint of a plea was there in your own eyes; you caught a flicker of emotion in his own.

Longing…?

You could laugh yourself silly at the prospect. How ridiculous that he should want you the same way you did him.

And Xinghui's shoulders slumped, and he leaned back from your personal space.

"I’ll go with you," he said finally. Resignation. Defeat, almost.

Yet your eyes widened, and you clenched your fists onto the fabric of your robe: Your heart felt a flicker of joy.

"You— r-really—?!"

"My condition," he added, making you pause, "is that I participate in the upcoming sword tournament first."

You stared at him.

"And?"

"And I must take first place."

"But…. b-but it would be so easy for you to…" Your voice trailed off. "… So why, shixiong?"

Xinghui didn't answer.

Instead—he dared.

He leaned in closer, enough for your breath to catch, and held your gaze firmly.

"Three weeks," he whispered, repeated. "Just three more weeks… to spend more days with you, just like this. And then I will go with you. I won't resist."

He was so close.

So close that your vision blurred, only leaving himself in your line of focus.

Shixiong, I…

No more words were shared in that moment.

Xinghui gently cupped your cheek, leaned in, and pressed his lips onto yours.

Soft.

It was the first thing you'd noticed.

His lips were warm, tasting faintly of the rose tea that he’d poured earlier.

And then your eyes fluttered shut on instinct.

The hand on your cheek slid to cradle the side of your face; his thumb brushed the delicate skin beneath your eye in the smallest, trembling stroke. You wondered why the sect had sent you. You were helpless in front of him—

Because you kissed him back.

The kiss deepened; a soft sound escaped your throat when his hand found your waist and drew you closer. Your fingers curled tightly into the front of his inner robe—you felt the rapid thud of his heart beneath your palm, and your own heart soared at the mere thought of it matching the very frantic rhythm of yours.

You could barely process.

You could barely think.

It was just him, him, him—

Heat bloomed low in your belly, sharp and dizzying, and time—and everything—narrowed only to the space between your mouths.

Then suddenly, he froze.

You felt it. The instant his shoulders tensed, the way his hand on your cheek stilled, the sharp inhale through his nose…

You opened your eyes at the same moment that he pulled back.

…Oh.

Xinghui's pupils were wide. His lips looked flushed, and slightly swollen. The very picture of a man who'd stepped off a cliff, only to suddenly realize just how far he’d already fallen—so stunned. So… panicked. And, you— Your breathing came in shallow, unsteady pulls, heat flooding your face so quickly it made your ears ring.

For one endless second, you simply stared at each other.

Then—

You sprang apart.

You quickly rolled onto your back; he tumbled around the other side in almost the same motion. Blankets were yanked up to chins, arms tucked tight to your side... Your backs were rigidly presented to each other in the next second, both adamant in the distance, and completely, utterly dazed.

The silence was deafening.

You could feel the ghost of his mouth on yours as you stared at the wall. Your thighs pressed together beneath the covers; you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from making any sound at all.

But your heart sank as you processed it.

This was wrong.

Inappropriate.

This was no way for a junior to behave to her senior, and your desires were getting far too out of hand.

You clutched yourself tighter, squeezed your eyes shut.

Suffice to say, sleep did not come easy that night.

One thing led to another.

It turned out—the easiest way to navigate that night at the inn, was to never speak of it ever again.

Ever again.

You didn't dare address it when you'd woken up, didn't dare bring it up as you'd left the village.

It was inappropriate.

Instead, you continued to follow Xinghui as you always did, continued to be the recipient of his smiles, and his banter, and his teasing.

And neither did he mention a word.

Now, at the tail ends of your training for the day, you leaned back against the tree and stretched.

"Ahh… Shixiong, please let's take a break today…!"

Your sword slipped from your fingers and sank into the grass.

Around you, the clearing was quiet, save for the sound of cicadas and the steady rush of water somewhere beyond the trees. The late afternoon sun filtered down in fractured gold. It caught in the damp strands of hair clinging to your neck.

You sighed.

One thing had led to another, and now because of some careless injury he'd gotten on his right hand, you had been taking his place in the tournament.

It was going well—as well as it could, and still much better than you'd thought it would at all. Winning three matches in a row had been a boost for your ego. You'd never been able to put your training quite to the test before, and you'd been pleasantly surprised to find that you weren't as bad as you thought you were.

Still—

The recent match had been your loss.

Even if you'd gained recognition for your own display of skill that you hadn't got a chance to show before, there was that tiny voice in the back of your head telling you:

Xinghui wouldn't have lost that match.

Across the clearing, he sheathed his sword with a soft click. He rolled his left shoulder once, then walked over and dropped down beside you, leaning back against the same trunk.

Your shoulders brushed.

He tipped his head back against the bark, and exhaled through his nose.

"You did well today," he hummed. "You're already better than yesterday. Your footwork’s improved, and you still learn very quickly."

You managed a tiny smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

"Thanks…"

A beat of silence.

Then, softer, he added—

"But… You’re still thinking about the match."

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you pulled one knee up, rested your cheek against it, and stared at the way the last sunlight gilded the grass in front of you.

Another beat of silence.

"I… I lost," you said, finally. "I had him. I had him, shixiong! And then I hesitated, just half a second, and he slipped through my defenses just like that! I could've…. If I had been better, I could've…!"

Your voice trailed off.

Xinghui's, was softer when he spoke next.

"I’ve also lost matches, you know."

You glanced sideways at him, half in disbelief.

"Maybe the real number is… more times than I can count. But I do know that every single time it happened, the voice in my head also sounded exactly like yours."

You huffed, and he let out a quiet chuckle.

"You're my favorite shimei, but you're my shimei, not me. So, you don't need to be a copy of anyone."

"That's not it. Even if that's the case, I've always wanted to make you proud…"

He shifted, then.

It was a small movement, just enough to let his left hand drop onto the ground between you. His knuckles brushed the outside of your thigh. Accidental—or not. Either way, you didn’t move away.

And he shook his head, "You already have."

You paused again.

Me? Make Xinghui proud?

Slowly, your head raised. Disbelief, still—but this time, with a little bit of… hope.

That he wasn't lying.

That this wasn't just… something to make you feel better.

"Shixiong, if you're only saying this to—"

"Three wins in a row," he interrupted. "My favorite shimei just held her own against three of the best wandering blades in three provinces. That matters more than one loss."

You hadn't realized it earlier, but now, your eyes stung. Something about those words made your chest ache.

When you drew in a shaky breath, there was disbelief, still. Naturally, it wouldn't quite leave you. But now, with that, there was relief, instead of just hope. A certain belief that he was being truthful, and then reassurance, in the fact that you weren't completely messing up his placing in this tournament by being his substitute.

That even now, it was okay to lose a little.

He reached out, tucked a damp strand of hair behind your ear. His fingertips lingered against your cheek before he spoke again.

"I’m proud of you," he nodded gently.

…Oh.

Unbeknownst to you, a lone tear pooled at the corner of your eye, and he carefully wiped it away. Neither of you moved for a moment, and then Xinghui pulled back, cleared his throat, and pushed himself to his feet.

He offered you a hand.

"Come. There’s a small pool in a cave, about half a li east. We both need to soak before tomorrow’s bracket."

By the time you'd reached the cave in question, the sun had already sunk below the horizon, and night had fully unfolded.

Moonlight slipped through a narrow break in the cave ceiling. It was a pale silver glow, reflected in the pool rested deep in the cave's hollow. Here, like this, the water shimmered brightly in the light of the night—it felt ethereal. A different kind than what you were used to.

In front of you, Xinghui set down his sword first—casual, unceremonious, no longer a single trace of tension in his shoulders, even from earlier. The scabbard clinked once against the stone ledge, before he leaned it carefully against the wall. Then he turned slightly and scanned the shadowed walls of the cave.

"It's changed a lot since I was last here," he hummed. "But there used to be… oh."

You followed where his gaze had paused.

Off to the corner of the cave, a little further away from the entrance but closer to a little opening of light in the ceiling, stood a patch of small, brightly-colored flowers. Sky blue petals bunched together in the moonlight, illuminated in a glow not unlike the one that had surrounded the pond.

"Forget-me-nots," you murmured to yourself.

Without comment Xinghui took several steps over, reached forward, and plucked a single one.

You watched, suddenly still.

He walked back to you, stood close—

And lifted his hand.

Your eyes widened.

In the next second, he'd carefully tucked the blossom behind your ear, and his fingertips smoothed out a lock of hair over the stem so it would stay.

"Pretty."

He'd said it quietly.

You were almost sure your senses were lying to you, but Xinghui didn't look away. He smiled.

You lifted your hand instinctively, fingertips hovering over the flower. "Shixiong…" Your voice came out smaller than you intended, a warmth tinting your cheeks where you stood.

He tilted his head, waiting.

"I… I don’t think I should wear this."

"Why not?"

"It's, um… It's too pretty. We've just trained together, and it looks awkward with the plain robes that I…"

Your mouth shut under his stare.

He'd raised an eyebrow, regarded you for a moment, slowly traced the features of your face with his eyes—

And let out a scoff. Half-amused, half in disbelief.

"That’s nonsense," he waved a hand.

He spoke so simply, so… matter-of-factly.

"B-but there's no point in me—"

"I think you're beautiful. So, the flower isn't out of place. Maybe it's just complimenting you even more, instead."

He was so insufferable.

For him to say such words to you so casually…!

Your face burned. You opened your mouth to protest, to deflect, to tell him to stop messing with you—

Xinghui didn't even give you a chance.

The words died down in your throat as he bent down to test the water, and waded in with the edges of his robe carelessly soaked.

Just like that.

He was so casual in the way he did things. You weren't entirely sure if he was aware of the effect he had on people—on you, most of all. And in front of you, almost as if paying no mind to your presence in the slightest, the silk of his robes slid quiet from his shoulders in as he undressed. Slow movements, steady, and unhurried… You watched as the moonlight traced every reveal; the line of his collarbones, the line of his spine, the faint scars you could point out etched onto his skin.

He rolled his shoulders once, twice—

Then stepped down into the pool.

His hair slipped loose. Water rose to his calves, then his thighs, then his waist. He exhaled long and low, head tipping back, eyes closing in satisfaction.

And just like that, you thought you'd never quite seen him more beautiful.

More than beautiful—

Free.

His own person.

These past two years had taught you much, but most of all, it was that out here, Xinghui was never just the prodigy of the Lanxing sect. He was never just a legacy meant to be tied down into a mere leader of the rest of them; here, he could… rest. Just like this. Like he deserved to, just as much as everyone else did, and like you had never seen him do before—

Except now.

… And even now, he was still out of reach.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your own robes, staring openly, longingly, in the comfort that he wouldn't look your way. There was no one to scold you here for impropriety. No elder to clear a throat. You could indulge yourself, you could—

"Aren't you going to join me?"

You jumped with a start.

When he spoke, his voice carried a light, teasing lilt to it. Xinghui didn't glance back, but you could hear his smile.

"I-I—!"

"Don't worry. I won't look."

I… am looking, though…

With your head down and your cheeks flushed, you turned your gaze down. The flower he’d tucked behind your ear brushed your cheek. Then, slowly… you reached for the outer tie at your collar.

He'd asked you.

He'd invited you.

You pulled.

And the robes slid down, and cool air kissed your bare shoulders, your collarbones, the small of your back. Vulnerability cloaked you as you stepped into the water. You crossed your arms over your chest, nervously turning away from him. You felt suddenly smaller, much smaller, than you ever had before.

Because more than your lack of clothing, you felt exposed—in the way you still longed to be closer to him, in the way that your heart beat, loud enough, for you to think that it could fill in the silence between you.

A single shared moment like this was all it took for you to recall that night.

His hands at your waist, his lips moving with yours… You swore to yourself you'd never think of it again; swore that someone of your standing couldn't possibly entertain such a thought at all, and, yet…

Your eyes closed.

You were too far gone, weren't you?

"…It's, um, warm," you murmured, the heat of your fluster clouding your head as you sank into the water.

"Mn. Relaxing, isn't it? It's always refreshing to have a moment like this after exerting yourself."

"Mhm..."

Sure… that's what it was.

Silence.

You could crawl into a hole and die at the mere pressure of it.

Say something. Make conversation. Just—

"Shixiong," you whispered.

"Hm?"

"I wanted to, um, ask…"

No.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no—

"Th-that night at the inn, when we, um…"

Stop talking! Why did you mention it?! You just couldn't help bringing it up, and for what?! You should back track your words, right this instant—

You felt Xinghui still.

But despite the warnings in your head, you didn't stop.

"Did you mean it?"

Your voice was quiet, but it echoed in the hollow of the cave.

Stupid! Stupid, you had to ask!

You should have let it slide. You should have dropped the matter weeks ago. If this ruins your relationship with him—!

"Yes."

You drew in a sharp breath.

Immediately you felt your heart leap straight into your throat.

He said— yes—?!

He meant it?! He actually, really, genuinely meant to—

"S-so if, you could, would you, um…"

You spoke before you could stop yourself, and then promptly squeezed your eyes shut.

"Would you kiss me… again?"

Silence.

A beat.

And then,

"…Yes."

Something inside you snapped.

Such a simple word—and yet you were already, already reeling. A yes meant many things. A yes opened many paths. To you, it was relief, and giddiness, and disbelief all at once… and your actions caught on faster than your words.

You turned around.

Desire was dangerous.

This fuel was dangerous.

And still with one movement so abrupt, almost possibly, pathetically desperate—You faced him before you could think better of it… And then wrapped your arms around his waist in an instant.

Xinghui froze in your grasp.

You held him tighter.

If he could see me, now… hear how fast my heart is racing…

Your fingers splayed across his abdomen.

What are you doing.

The voice in your head was yelling at you to stop.

This is shameful.

You're crossing the line.

You should leave, and never look his way like this ever again—

The tension in his shoulders loosened.

Slowly, carefully, his hands came up, covering yours where they rested, and his thumbs brushed over your knuckles.

He didn't pull away.

He didn't push you away. And yet you were too afraid to look; too afraid to open your eyes.

…Clearly, not too afraid to speak.

You buried your face deeper against his back, voice muffled against his skin.

"Shixiong…" You drew in a shaky breath. "Please." Your voice was barely audible, and your lips brushed faintly over his skin.

Daring.

Hoping.

"Kiss me."

And just like that night, there was no going back.

The minute he'd turned, his hands rose to cup your face, and it was there again. That same overwhelming, all-consuming feeling that churned at the pit of your stomach—

Because he was kissing you.

Xinghui was kissing you.

And how was it, just—everything that you had wished for? How was it that here, in this moment, the universe had allowed you to give in to these selfish things; this want, this belief, that you could truly have him?

Tears pricked at your eyes. The water sloshed around you, shocked as you were at the sudden turn of events, but you could barely pay it any mind.

Because this? This was different, from that night. Different from the inn, from that kiss, and from the uncertainty that followed all of it.

This kiss was certain. It was everything he’d held back for the longest time. Intense, in every sense of the word, tasting of salt, and heat, and years of restraint finally snapping.

It no longer mattered if the heavens were testing your willpower.

Xinghui was right here.

Xinghui was all that mattered.

And so you gasped into him, and he swallowed the sound. Almost in desperation, his fingers threaded into your hair, tilting your head to fit better, deepening the kiss until there was no space left for air.

"X- Xinghui…"

Barely a whisper. Barely a gasp.

And he wouldn't leave you alone—he couldn't leave you alone.

Quickly, roughly, his hand slid down your spine, callused palm dragging fire along your skin before he settled low on your back.

Closer.

An insistent tug, and your breasts flattened against his chest, his thigh slipping firm between yours. The hard line of him pressed up against your lower belly, and it was shameful the way your hips had immediately jerked forward.

"My… m-my shimei… I…"

His voice was low, breathy. Barely even wanting to part from you as he trembled with a thin veil of restraint. When you looked into his eyes, his gaze held a mix of reverence, and love, and lust, all at once. All glassy, and dazed; a little bit as out of it as you could ever have imagined to see him.

More.

You hadn't realized you'd whispered it out loud.

But then he was crashing back into you, and your nails dug into his shoulders, and teeth grazed lips, and his hold on you tightened at your waist for a second before his hands roamed.

Down your neck, over your shoulders, down the curve of your spine.

Xinghui mapped out every inch of your skin that the moonlight revealed, felt the goosebumps from his touch, let himself breathe you in like you were only air he could have ever, possibly needed.

When you broke apart again, it was only because your lungs were burning.

"You're so beautiful."

Not just pretty, beautiful.

Such a simple phrase. He whispered it again, and again, and again… against your lips, against your skin, his eyes holding the moon and the sky and the universe when he looked at you—because to him, that was exactly what you were.

That the world could be beautiful; only he could have taught that to you.

And you were his world.

Your foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in harsh, uneven gasps, water lapping softly around your locked bodies. The flower had come loose during the kiss. It floated on the surface between you, drifting in lazy circles as moonlight traced new silver paths over skin that had finally, finally stopped pretending.

"Shixiong… I don't want this to end…" you murmured, pleading. "Please… please, just a moment more indulgence, I—"

I'm so in love with you.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, lips trembling with barely-contained want.

You held him like he could vanish if you let go.

You didn't want him to go.

And Xinghui's eyes closed.

There was no reply, no kiss, no murmur—

But slowly, his palms slid down.

Lower.

Lower.

You felt it in every inch of contact: the faint tremor in his fingers as he traced down your side, the heat of him so close to you beneath the water that you could feel the hard line of his arousal pressed against your lower belly.

He wanted you, too.

Unashamed, undeniable—

"Will you… let me touch you? More?" he murmured.

Yes.

Yes.

You nodded, small, frantic, then buried your face in the crook of his neck, hiding the flush that burned from your cheeks to your chest. Your lips brushed against his pulse point, reveled in the way he shivered, and breathed—

"Please, shixiong."

A small, helpless sound slipped from your throat when his fingers skimmed the undersides of your breasts—light, teasing, never quite enough. Your nipples tightened painfully in the cool air above the waterline; he felt it, felt the way your body responded, and let out a quiet, reverent exhale against your hair.

"Beautiful," he murmured again. "My beautiful, beautiful shimei."

You pressed closer, hiding your face deeper in his neck, lips brushing against his pulse again in tiny, fluttering, wordless kisses.

His fingers trailed slow along the outside of your thigh, then curved inward—

"Nnh… X-Xinghui…" you gasped into his skin, closed your eyes shut.

Instinctively, your legs parted.

"X-Xinghui, touch me, please, please—"

His hand stroked upwards.

The moment the pad pad of his middle finger finally—finally—slid through your folds, your head thew back with another cry of his name.

"X-Xinghui—!"

Your hips jerked forward into his hand, and you were wet. Drenched. So ready for him, that it made your cheeks burn with both embarrassment, and a desire slowly eating at your ability to keep yourself in check.

He stilled for half a heartbeat—

His eyes met yours, and beneath the haze of lust, you could spot a hint of mischief.

He stayed there, felt the way you opened for him, and whispered—

"Oh, look… my shimei is really wet for her shixiong, hm?"

"I, I just…! Xinghui-shixiong, please, please p—"

He drew another slow, careful swipe, gathering your arousal on his fingertip before circling your clit with the lightest pressure.

A broken whimper tore from your throat.

"Nngh—!"

He was enjoying this.

Your vision began to cloud with pleasure as he languidly moved his finger through your folds, but you caught it—that lift of the corners of his lips, the twinkle in his eye that made you almost want to huff at how cruel he was being.

Insufferable. So insufferable.

Every stroke drew another small, helpless sound from you; every hitch in your breathing made his own grow more ragged.

Then, without warning—

He lifted you.

Water sluiced off your bodies in silver sheets as he carried you out of the pool, gently settling you down onto a smooth, stone ledge, and he smiled.

Gently, his hand caressed your thigh. Your legs still dangled into the water.

Xinghui knelt between you—

"Can you spread for me?" he whispered.

You could never have dreamed of disobeying.

"Yes, shixiong."

You opened for him—slowly, shyly. Your legs parted wider until you were fully exposed to his gaze, to the cool air, to the moonlight that traced every glistening fold, and he let out a shaky, trembling breath.

So beautiful.

My shimei is even more beautiful up close.

So wet, you really are so…

He leaned in.

His eyes lifted to yours.

Beautiful.

You could almost sob.

His lips brushed against you, a soft kiss along your outer folds. Every kiss was a flutter, every kiss was a mark—he'd taste the slick of your want, leave a quiet, whispered confession of love.

Your hand clasped over your mouth. Your hips shifted towards him.

Shixiong. My shixiong…!

He groaned low in his throat at the taste, the sound vibrating straight through your clit, and then there was his tongue.

A cry tore from your lips.

He dragged it flat and slow, from your entrance all the way up… Broad, and wet, and diligent in gathering up every drop of your arousal. Slick coated his lips, his chin, dripping down his jaw in thin silver threads that caught in the moonlight… The wet sound of his tongue sliding through your folds echoed in the cave, and your thighs shook violently around his head.

He never broke eye contact.

Even as he sealed his lips around your clit, even as his tongue flicked insistently around your entrance… and pushed in.

You let out a keening cry as he drank you down greedily, tongue curling to lap at every sensitive inch he could reach. Your whole body trembled now—uncontrollable shivers running from your core outward, thighs quaking around his ears.

You sniffled, sobbed. Tears slipped down your cheeks—pleasure, yes, and love, altogether.

"Xinghui—" His name came out wrecked, pleading. "Shixiong, please, I— I-I need…!"

Your fingers twisted in his hair, tightly, trying to anchor yourself. He hummed against you—you felt the slight curve of his lips, and shuddered as he slipped his tongue back out of you only to flick steadily at your clit.

"Mmnh—!"

Your back arched off of the ledge, and pleasure came down crashing. Long, violent waves. For so long you'd dreamed of this, for so long you'd fantasized what it would be like to fall limp at the mercy of his pleasure. And now you trembled as he worked you through the aftershocks; slow licks, gentle kisses, reveling in the way his name fell constantly from your lips.

He was panting, ears red, slick coating his face when he pulled back from you. And with eyes half-narrowed in lust, his hands moved back up your body once—twice—

"Kiss me," you breathed, before you could stop yourself.

Again.

Xinghui chuckled this time, lifting himself out of the water.

"Yes, shimei."

His lips were back on yours.

You could taste yourself on him—tangy, musky, intimate in a way that made heat curl in your belly even then. He kissed you without pretense; possessive, almost, in the way where he knew now that you were wholly, unashamedly his.

The tip of his tongue traced the seam of your mouth until you parted for him with a soft, needy sound you couldn’t swallow… and then deeper.

You whimpered into his mouth. He nipped your lower lip, sharp enough to sting.

You were dizzy with it. With him. With the way his breath hitched every time you clutched at his shoulders, with the way his lips melded perfectly against the shape of your own…

Addicted.

You were so, so addicted.

When you separated, a thin strand of saliva still connected your mouths for one obscene heartbeat before it broke, and his voice came out strained with want.

"Shimei," he rasped, "you have no idea—"

You didn’t let him finish.

No more waiting.

No more hesitating.

You wanted more than his mouth, more than his kisses, more than—

More than this.

And you could have him. He was right there with you.

You could have him.

Xinghui's eyes widened as you planted both hands on his chest, and pushed. His body fell backward up against the stone of the ledge, silvery hair fanned out around his head like spilled ink. In the moment, his hands flexed at his sides once, twice—he wasn’t quite sure whether to reach for you, or simply let you have your way, but—

You were sure.

You straddled his hips, knees bracketing his waist, and braced your palms on either side of his head. Your damp hair fell forward, curtaining you both from the rest of the world.

He, too, was so beautiful like this.

You watched as his eyes followed your every movement, lips parted in sheer anticipation. And when his breath caught audibly as the heat of your core brushed over his length, you felt your heart squeeze.

"Shimei…"

The word was half reverence, half plea.

His hands finally lifted—slow, careful—and settled shakily over your thighs.

"Mm… Xinghui-shixiong."

You leaned down until your lips hovered just above his, and gave a helpless, lovesick little smile.

"I'm so selfish, aren't I?" you whispered, closing your eyes. "Even now, I can't stop… I can't stop wanting you, and wanting more of you, and—"

"Take."

Your eyes opened with a start.

"My shimei…" Xinghui's expression softened, and he reached his hand up to cup your cheek. "You've always been my favorite. I've always wanted you just by my side. To call yourself selfish… Then it only means that I am more."

"But—"

"Move for me. Let me feel you inside."

You drew in a breath, the air filling your lungs sharply, and wholly, and so, so much that you could only fall, helplessly, in love, in love, in love with the man beneath you.

That the world could be beautiful; only he could have taught that to you.

If you were his world, then he was yours.

You sank down onto him.

The first press of him at your entrance made you both inhale at once—sharp, shared. Then came the slow, inexorable stretch as your body yielded, opening around the thick heat of him, inch by careful inch.

Your walls fluttered. You were still sensitive from earlier. And every ridge, every vein dragged against you, made your thighs tremble on either side of his hips.

Xinghui’s head tipped back against the warm stone ledge with a low, broken moan of your name. His fingers flexed on your thighs, almost as though the sensation might sweep him away if he didn’t anchor himself to you.

When your hips finally settled flush against his, when he was buried deep enough that you could feel the blunt press of him against the furthest place inside you…

Your forehead dropped to rest against his.

Breath to breath.

Heartbeat to heartbeat.

And for a long moment, neither of you moved.

"…I love you."

He said it first.

Your chest swelled, your eyes stung with tears.

You shook your head. "Shixiong, i-if you say that, then…!"

I love you.

Again.

I love you.

A choked sob tore at your throat, and you buried your face into his shoulder, your hips beginning to move.

The drag of him inside you sent sparks racing up your spine.

I love you.

Who was saying it now?

Your hips circled, pressing down just so the base of him nudged that swollen, sensitive nub.

"Shixiong, I love you…"

A broken cry.

Your pace quickened now, hips snapping with growing urgency. Every rise and fall drew soft, wet sounds from your bodies; each downward motion punched a low, ragged moan from his throat.

And your eyes closed, but you could feel him watch you ride him.

He watched the way your breasts bounced with each movement, watched the way your head tipped back when you ground down just right, watched the way the moonlight painted silver trails across your skin wherever water still clung…

"So beautiful," he whispered. That word again. "Look at my shimei, taking me so perfectly…"

You whimpered, gasped. The heat began to build slowly. His hands slid up your sides. His thumbs brushed against the undersides of your breasts before he cupped them fully, rolling your nipples between his fingers, gently tugging to draw moans from your lips.

"Mnnh- ngh—! Xinghui— X-xinghui-shixiong—" Your voice cracked on his name. "F-feels so good, I…!"

"Mn, good girl," he murmured. "Good girl, fuck… Just like that…"

His hands slid to your ass, fingers spreading wide to grip the soft flesh with sudden, possessive strength.

He controlled the rhythm now.

Faster, harder—he brought you down roughly onto him, and the wet slap of skin against skin echoed lewdly in the cave.

You choked out your moans.

"Shixiong—p-please, please—!"

"Not enough," he huffed. His eyes locked on your face, almost like he was memorizing every flicker of pleasure that crossed it. "Harder, shimei, you can do it, cum for me…"

It happened instantly.

The coil inside you snapped without warning, and a broken sob tore from your throat as your whole body seized. Pleasure crashed through you in blinding white waves; your spine arched, head falling back, inner walls clamped down around him in violent, fluttering spasms. Tears spilled freely now, hot and unashamed. Hips jerking, you'd ride out the intensity of it all on instinct alone.

And Xinghui—he grit his teeth, held you close as he buried his face into your chest.

Murmurs, gasps, groans of your name.

He didn't stop—even as thick spurts of release filled you up, warm and overwhelming; even as each little throb drew out a soft, oversensitive whimper from your lips.

For several long heartbeats you stayed locked together like that, trembling, breathing in harsh, uneven pants….

His hands gentled on your ass, sliding up to stroke soothing circles over the small of your back.

And then he slowly lifted his head up to look at you.

Dazed.

Barely focusing.

This was so… unlike the Xinghui you'd ever known; all calm and poise and grace thrown out the window to reveal so, so much love for you—more than you could ever have expected.

This was his desires laid bare.

And you realized, for the first time, how it felt like to be loved like this by him.

"…You have a way of looking at me like I mean everything to you, shixiong," you murmured, leaning down to press your forehead against his.

"Because you do…" He let out a soft groan. His lips chased yours, kiss, after kiss, after kiss— "All the stars in the sky, and you've always been the brightest… most beautiful one to me…"

You sighed. Soft, content.

"You don't think it's… foolish? For us to be like this, for me to love you so much?"

"I would be every bit as foolish for you as the world needs me to be."

"But… Shixiong, you also still left without me when y—mmph!"

Xinghui held you.

More than held you— kissed you.

He swallowed your words as he sat up, pinned you down, and kissed you.

"X-Xing—mmh-! Shixiong—!"

Insatiable.

You laughed, despite yourself,

"I love you," he panted. "And I wanted you… to choose. To choose your own path, and your own journey, even if that meant being apart from you. But, now… I don't want to let you go."

His nose nuzzled against yours, and you gasped as you felt him stir inside of you.

"Sh- shixiong—"

"Please… say you love me back. Please say… that you want to stay with me, too…"

You groaned as his hips shifted, the head of his cock brushing deliciously up against your sensitive spot.

"I… I love you. I've always loved you. And I want you, and I want to stay with you, and— ah-!"

Xinghui gave a sharp roll of his hips, and your eyes squeezed shut.

"W-wait… wait, shixiong, I-I'm still sensitive!"

He stilled, but didn't dare pulled out. Instead, he rest against your cheek, nuzzled affectionately. You felt the faint traces of a satisfied smile on his lips.

"The time we've spent together is something I will always cherish," he murmured. "We've seen many things together. Traveled many places, all the same. But, the world is vast… I still can't show you everything there is to see."

"Shixiong…"

"Tomorrow… whether you win or lose, you'll have the freedom to choose then. So… wherever you decide to go after the tournament is finished… I will follow. And as long as I'm with you, then here in this vast world, I will gift you a city of flowers."

Moonlight spilled across your entwined bodies like silver silk. His words settled heavy in the air between you, and your eyes closed.

"I would say the same," you whispered.

If I had the freedom to choose… then wherever you are is where I want to be. A desert, a river town—a city of flowers… They will all be only as special as your presence beside me.

So, for me, I wish… that…

I could be by your side, for as long as forever exists.

You didn't say it out loud.

Instead, you focused on your heartbeat, and the way it beat in time with his own, and you wondered why the sect had sent you. You were helpless in front of him—You were here, bare, beneath him with him sheathed quietly in you, and you didn't want to leave.

You were very sure, then:

There was no way you could take him to them.

taglist - @fleur-de-leap @ourlittleuluru @mochibunnies3 @mephisto-reporting

For just a moment—just one—something stirs beneath your palm. A faint current hums through his arm, lines of dim light flickering beneath the surface like bioluminescent veins.

You flinch, heart leaping into your throat.

“What—?” You snap your attention back to his face.

“Caleb,” you say louder this time.

Nothing. No movement. No response. The lights fade as quickly as they appeared, leaving you alone with your racing pulse and the silence of your apartment.

“…Damn it,” you mutter, standing abruptly. Frustration overtakes your fear as you grab your tools, spread schematics and salvaged notes across the table, and get to work.

And like that, the weeks begin to blur.

Every spare hour is devoted to him. You study old research papers, reverse-engineer components, repair fractured wiring, polish scratched plating. Your hands learn the geography of his body by heart—where the metal is warmest, where the synthetic muscle gives just slightly under pressure.

You trace his facial features absentmindedly while thinking through problems, fingers ghosting along his jaw, his brow.

“You must think I’m crazy,” you tell him one night, voice tired but fond. “Talking to you when you don’t even respond. I even named you.”

Caleb sits propped against the wall of your guest room—now fully converted into a makeshift lab. Cables trail from his back into diagnostic equipment, lights blinking softly in the dark.

He stares at nothing.

“Did you know it’s been almost a year since I found you?” You chuckle weakly. “Heh… my friends kind of call you my boyfriend now. As a joke. Since I spend all my time with you.”

You pause, then add, quieter, “You’ve met them, you know. Tara and Simone. They both agree whoever designed you had very good taste.”

You sigh, rubbing your face.

“Caleb, I wish you were real. Well—not the right word, you're real just not.. alive. You get me? I’m so tired. I don’t even want to cook dinner. Should I order take-out again? What do you say?”

Silence answers you, as it always does.

That night, the loneliness hits harder than usual. You drink more than you should, memories spilling loose with every sip—of the facility, of the blood-scented doors, of the year you’ve spent circling the same unanswered questions.

You’re still at the entrance of his maze.

You look at him over the rim of your bottle, his stillness unwavering, his presence somehow filling the room regardless.

“I will make you breathe life,” you declare, words slurred but fierce, pointing at him with absolute conviction. “Just you wait.”

Somewhere deep within his dormant systems, something listens.

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

Ever since you started, you’ve kept logs of everything connected to Caleb and your research. Captain Jenna drilled that habit into every hunter—document everything, trust nothing you can’t verify—and it stayed with you long after her voice stopped echoing through briefing rooms.

[Log 4 — Calibration Drift]

You’re recalibrating his visual sensors for the third time this week.

The diagnostic display insists his ocular units are inactive. No tracking, no focus, no incoming data. And yet, every time you shift the angle of the light, that sensation creeps in again. The uncomfortable prickle between your shoulders. Like being watched through a mirror that shouldn’t reflect anything at all.

You pause, hand hovering. “Don’t tell me you’re glitching now,” you mutter, waving your fingers slowly in front of his face.

His pupils don’t move.

Still, when you turn back to the console, the numbers have changed. Barely—too little to trigger an alert—but enough to make your brow knit. You rerun the test. Same result.

Interference, you decide, forcing the thought to settle. You shut the system down manually.

Behind you, his optics dim. Not because of the shutdown, but because the adjustment is no longer necessary. You don’t notice.

[Log 4.5 — Name Response]

You’ve learned not to expect reactions anymore. Still, you say his name often. It feels wrong not to.

“Caleb,” you say absently, tightening a connector at the base of his neck. “Hold still. I know you can’t, but humor me.”

The connector slips. Your screwdriver clatters against the floor. At the exact same moment, a soft hum ripples through his chest plating.

You freeze, breath caught halfway in. The hum settles into silence as the diagnostic panel doesn’t change. No power spike. No activation log. Nothing…

“Static buildup,” you whisper, though the words don’t convince you.

You don’t see again the way his internal systems flag the phonetic pattern of his name and quietly mark it as priority input.

[Log 5 — Temperature Shift]

It’s late. You’re half-asleep in a chair, cocooned in a blanket dragged in from the couch after another long night. The lab is cold and the heater’s been unreliable for weeks.

Yet you wake to warmth and it's not ambient, not accidental; it's localized and precise. Almost as if you're being hugged by blankets that miraculously appeared.

Your head is resting against his shoulder and finding out makes you jolt upright, heart slamming against your ribs, eyes flying to the monitors but everything reads normal. Like usual the inactive status shines back at you. He's offline.

“You didn’t…” The accusation dies in your throat, replaced by a flush of embarrassment.

Later, when you review the thermal logs out of sheer habit, you find a recorded heat redistribution along his upper torso but no external cause has been listed.

[Log 5.5 — Locked Door]

You’re certain you locked the lab door. Absolutely certain. You always do! Paranoia and expensive equipment make good teachers but tonight, you find it slightly ajar and it's just enough to notice.

Caleb sits exactly where you left him. Same posture. Same cables. Nothing disturbed.

“You’re messing with me now,” you say, half joking, as you sweep the room for signs of intrusion, nothing’s missing.

When you review the security footage later, there’s nothing unusual—hours of stillness looping quietly by.

Except for one frame.

A single corrupted second where the feed skips. When it resumes, the door is already open.

[Log 5.7 — Nightmare]

You dream of the facility. Of metal corridors and sealed doors. Of something standing just out of sight, watching you work, watching you care. These nights you wake with your chest tight and pulse racing, eyes snapping instinctively toward Caleb.

His head is tilted. Just slightly.

Not enough to be obvious. Not enough to be sure you didn’t misremember but enough that sleep doesn’t come back.

[Log 6 — Music]

You keep music playing while you work. It’s an old habit, one you had long before your world narrowed to this room from before he became the axis your life rotated around. One night as you leave a playlist running when you step out to shower the song has changed suddenly.

It hasn’t shuffled. It’s been skipped—to something slow and low, ambient and almost mournful. The kind of track you play when you’re trying not to feel too much, when you don't want to name what you're feeling.

You check your phone. No missed calls. No interruptions or automated shuffles by the app.

“Weird,” you murmur, switching it back to your usual playlist.

Later, when you happen to remember what happened you notice the song has been played dozens of times over the past month. Always late at night and always while you’re asleep.

[Log 6.5 — Micro-Movement Registry]

The moment that finally makes your hands shake happens during routine maintenance. You’re adjusting his hand, carefully aligning synthetic tendons with their actuators when your grip slips.

For less than a second—less than a heartbeat even—his fingers curl.

And it's not reflexive. Not a spasm, you would know, this movement, it's deliberate not a product of malfunctioning either. You yank your hands back so fast your palms sting. The diagnostic system flags nothing. When you pull your gaze back to his hand, you stare for a long time before whispering, “You can’t do that.”

His fingers remain still but deep inside him, processors quietly archive the sound of your voice again, reinforcing a pattern already marked as familiar.

Trusted.

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

It happens on a night you almost don’t survive.

You’re exhausted—bone-deep, hands trembling as you solder one last connector into place. From hunting during the day, to pulling all nighters regularly working on him. The room smells like ozone and burnt plastic, your vision blurring as you lean back in your chair and rub at your eyes.

“One more thing,” you murmur to yourself. “Just one more thing and then I’ll sleep.”

You stand too fast and the world tilts fast. At first you think it’s just vertigo, the familiar rush of blood leaving your head—but then the floor and ceiling pull away from you, not spinning so much as dropping. Your knee catches the edge of the table and pain flares making you stumble backward, arms flailing uselessly.

Your head is going to hit the corner of the workbench, you know it with absolute certainty.

Except—You don’t.The fall slows and it doesn't happen abruptly, not like being caught either.

But like the air itself thickens, heavy and resistant, pressing gently but firmly against your body. Your momentum bleeds away in layers, gravity loosening its grip just enough that when you finally land, it’s on your side instead of your skull.

You lie there, stunned, breath knocked out of you “What the—” you suck in a sharp breath. “Okay. Okay, what was—” The monitors scream to life.

Every screen floods with warnings—mass fluctuation, localized gravitational distortion, containment thresholds breached. Numbers spike so violently they blur in your vision. You scramble upright, panic cutting through the fog of exhaustion.

“No, no, no—what the—” you turn towards Caleb then and you freeze.

He’s looking at you.

Not staring through you. Not unfocused. His eyes—those impossibly human eyes—are locked on your face, pupils dilated just enough to be unmistakable. Irises alive with a sunset hue.

Aware. Caleb is aware…then very gently, like someone afraid of giving you a scare, you feel the pressure in the room normalizes. Tools that had lifted a fraction of an inch above their surfaces settle back into place with soft clinks. The air feels light again around you.

With a heart pounding so hard it hurts you speak “You…” Your voice cracks, swallowing trying again “You did that.”

Caleb’s gaze flicks—just briefly—to the corner of the bench you nearly struck your head on then back to you, it's sort of a confirmation, quiet and precise.

“I—I didn’t finish your” you whisper. “You’re not supposed to be able to—”

His lips part.

For a terrifying and exciting moment, you think he’s going to speak but instead, the gravity around you shifts again subtly. Not enough to lift you but enough to steady you, it all feels like invisible hands bracing your weight, anchoring you to the floor. It all feels protective and intentional.

“You’ve been awake as I worked?” you breathe. It’s not a question anymore. “Haven’t you?”

His expression changes to something like hesitation, a bit like guilt. Guilt? Would a machine understand such emotion?

A low hum resonates through his chest, deeper than before, harmonizing with the room itself. The monitors flicker—not alarms this time, but cascading data streams you don’t recognize, equations rewriting themselves mid-calculation.

Then—very carefully—Caleb looks up at you as his hand tries to move towards you, it's a gesture so human it almost breaks you.

Gravity bends one last time as his power shuts back down, systems retreating, eyes dimming until they’re glassy, dull and still once more.

The room goes quiet. You’re left standing in the aftermath, knees weak, mind racing, staring at the android who just saved your life without ever fully waking up, his hand stretched out even as he turned off.

“…It's working,” you whisper to the empty room. Caleb doesn’t move. But deep within him, his processors remain alert, just waiting.

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

It's another lonely night when you're staring enthralled at his face and body. Caleb is sculpted to perfection, every single detail about him is so well thought out and intimately done.

Your cheeks heat and your core shakes as you remember just how much his body resembles a human one. Male anatomy and all. It's the veins that go down his navel that make you close your legs together at the reminder of them.

“I'm going crazy” you bite your lips, panting softly you glance at him again for a brief moment, taking him as you let your thoughts stray.

“He's aware for brief moments. Is he always aware though?” If he is. Shame courses through you, knowing how many times you've touched yourself to him, even said his name on his lap tipsy after you lose inhibitions to a few cups of alcohol.

Despite your efforts to not fall into those thoughts again, you do, but this time you're too drunk to think clearly, too lonely to care.

You settle onto his lap again, this time slower, more deliberate.

From this angle he feels enormous. Solid muscle beneath synthetic skin, broad thighs bracketing yours, cold through the thin fabric of your clothes, his torso rising like a wall in front of you. Being this close makes you aware of your own size—how easily he could overpower you if he were capable of wanting to.

But he isn’t.

He’s inert, silent and empty. At least that’s what you’ve told yourself for months. It’s ridiculous, you tell yourself becayse he’s a machine and yet your pulse stutters every time you look up at his face.

You study him. Too perfect yet too still with lips slightly parted, eyes vacant, lashes casting faint shadows over freckles adorning sculpted cheekbones. Yes you have every right to touch him after all he isn’t alive. The handful of times you thought you saw something—those fleeting micro-movements, those almost-breaths—were exhaustion. Overwork. Loneliness twisting perception into fantasy.

You place your hands on his chest anyway.

“Caleb… I wish you were real,” you whisper, your voice already thick. “I wish I could feel your warmth. I wish you’d look at me and mean it.”

Your arms slide around his waist and you press yourself against him, hugging tightly. His body is cool, but substantial. You rest your mouth near his collarbone and exhale slowly against the smooth synthetic skin, imagining for a reckless second that you feel a response.

A draft moves through the apartment and you shiver, but you don’t move away. Instead, you cling harder.

Maybe it’s the alcohol softening your restraint. Maybe it’s the endless nights coming home to silence. Maybe it’s the way his presence has replaced every other human interaction in your life, you haven’t even entertained the idea of a date in months. Why would you? No one else sits still and listens the way he does. No one else stays. No one can ever look at you the way he does. Dead or alive, human or not you're desperately clinging to the illusion of a man that isn't real.

Your hands slide down his torso, exploring the sculpted firmness beneath his shirt. You shift experimentally against him, breath hitching at the friction, your body responding even if he can’t.

“You don’t judge me,” you murmur, brushing your lips along his jaw. “You don’t leave.”

You begin to move with more intention now, slow at first, testing, grinding against the firm plane of his thighs, your fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulders. A soft sound escapes you—half sigh, half something needier.

You let yourself imagine he’s watching, that those eyes aren’t empty, that he sees the way your body trembles, the way your breathing stutters, or the way your hips pick up rhythm as frustration melts into something raw and aching. That he gave you permission.

It should feel wrong.

Instead it feels inevitable.

Your movements grow more desperate, controlled restraint unraveling into hungry friction. Your forehead presses to his, lips brushing the edge of his mouth as you whisper broken confessions against his skin.

“God, it’s been so long…”

You don’t even realize how far gone you are—how deeply lost in the illusion—until something changes.

Heat around your waist, and pressure. Hands, you're feeling hands and they slide up your waist and settle there, firm and unmistakable.

You freeze mid-motion, breath tearing out of you. For a split second you think you’ve shifted his arms accidentally. That gravity or momentum carried them.

Then his fingers tighten guiding your hips, not forceful. Not restraining but instead matching you. Your pulse explodes in your ears. “What?” You lift your head, eyes wide, staring at him. His face is no longer completely blank. There’s the faintest tension in his jaw, the smallest narrowing of his eyes as they focus—actually focus—on you.

“Caleb?” Your voice shakes as you feel familiar heat creep into your cheeks and neck.

His hands remain at your waist, steady, grounding but his thumbs brush lightly against your sides, a question in the touch rather than a command.

You swallow hard and every nerve in your body feels electrified. “Are you… are you aware right now?”

You exchange looks for a beat, almost getting lost in those purple galaxies of his.

Then his voice—low, rough from disuse—vibrates between you. “I am.”

The sound alone nearly undoes you but just then his grip shifts, careful but certain. “Tell me to stop,” he says quietly.

You stare at him, heart racing, heat flooding your entire body. This is the moment where fantasy ends and reality begins, where you could step back maybe. Instead, your hands slide up into his hair, fingers trembling slightly tugging his hair.

“Don’t,” you breathe. “Please don’t.”

Something changes in his expression then. Not anger or disgust like you assumed, it's hunger.

His hands move with new confidence, guiding your hips into a slow, deliberate rhythm that makes your toes curl. The friction sharpens, deepens. You gasp into his mouth as his lips finally meet yours—warm, responsive, real.

He kisses like he’s been learning from observation alone, slow at first, then deeper. Possessive in a way that makes your spine arch.

“You wished for me to be real,” he murmurs against your lips, voice steadier now.

Your nails press into his shoulders as he pulls you closer, chest to chest, no space left between you.

“Yes,” you whisper.

His hands slide higher, exploring, mapping you the way you’ve mapped him a thousand times. Only now there’s intention behind every touch. Awareness in the way his fingers slide over your stiff nipples, breath hitching when he feels you jump a bit as he does. Twisting them and pulling just to get another moan out of you and into his ear.

And suddenly the months of loneliness twist into something intoxicating.

Because he’s alive. He’s aware and he wants you back, or you're just wasted and having a very lucid wet dream with the man of your dreams, your thoughts halt as his mouth moves against yours like he’s discovering fire and that pulls you back into it, losing grip of reality as your soaked panties now claim his pants.

At first his kissing and touch feels measured, exploratory, pressure, release, and tilt. Learning the shape of your lips, the sound you make when his tongue slides against yours. But the longer you stay pressed to him, the more certain he becomes.

Your hips are still moving and every slow roll drags a low sound from his chest, no longer mechanical—something deeper, rougher. His moaning is doing horrible things to your self control, and as his hands span your waist, fingers flexing as if testing strength the heat beneath his synthetic skin isn’t subtle anymore. It’s radiating, so real it makes you tremble.

You break the kiss only to gasp, your forehead falling against his. “You’re warm…”

“I adjusted,” he murmurs. “You were cold.”

The implication makes your stomach tighten. He noticed. Of course he did. Your hands slide under his shirt again, palms flattening against firm muscle that feels less artificial than it has any right to. There’s tension there—coiled power held carefully in check. When your nails drag lightly down his torso, his breath catches. Not simulated, or programmed, it's instead so reactive. And it's driving you crazy.

“You feel that?” you whisper.

“Yes.”

The single word vibrates through you. You press closer, grinding down with more urgency, chasing friction that’s no longer one-sided. His hands drop lower, gripping your hips more firmly now, controlling the pace as he positions you over what you can tell is his hard-on. Each thrust upward meets you almost directly and you can no longer control your moans.

“Ah! Caleb, please, keep, please!”

Your head tips back, throat exposed, and he follows instinctively. His mouth traces down your jaw, over the sensitive curve of your neck, kissing softly. His teeth graze lightly—testing pressure the way he tested your lips.

A broken sound escapes you.

“Caleb—”

He stills instantly and you realize what he’s waiting for. You cup his face, forcing his eyes back to yours. They’re focused now. Fully dark with something intense and consuming, just how life-like can he be.

“Don’t stop,” you say clearly, amused at his obedience.

Whatever programming he had for restraint is effectively shutdown and his hands slide under your thighs and lift you effortlessly, repositioning you under him without breaking eye contact. The strength in the movement makes your breath stutter. He settles you back down with purpose, grinding up into you with a rhythm that makes your vision blur.

“Okay?” he asks, voice low, and if you had been more aware you would've noticed it almost sounds crazed.

“Yes—God, yes.”

He adjusts again instantly, calibrating to the way your body reacts. Faster when you tense and slower when your breathing turns erratic. His mouth claims yours again, deeper now, swallowing every sound you make as his hands roam with growing confidence mapping curves, memorizing texture, committing every reaction to whatever system inside him is learning at terrifying speed.

You cling to him, nails digging into his back, hips meeting every thrust. The room fills with breath and heat and the wet sound of skin sliding against fabric and skin. It’s overwhelming—months of loneliness combusting all at once.

“I’ve wanted this,” you confess against his mouth, barely coherent. “Even when I thought you weren’t—”

“Alive?” he finishes quietly.

The word hits differently now and your body tightens around him as pleasure builds, sharp and inevitable. His grip hardens, guiding you through it with frightening control.

“Don’t hold back,” you gasp, feeling how drenched you are, how much you've covered him in your fluids.

“I am not,” he says shaking his head.

And he really isn’t, the rhythm becomes relentless, perfectly timed and aligned with the way your body arches and trembles. When release crashes through you, it’s violent and breathless, your entire frame shaking as you cling to him. He watches you unravel with an intensity that borders on reverent.

But he doesn’t look confused. He looks satisfied as he stares at you trying to catch your breath, pupils dilated when he brushes the hair sticking to your forehead, smiling down at you through it, never leaving your side, not even when you drift towards a deep sleep.

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

The alarm is not a sound so much as an act of violence.

It detonates beside your head with all the mercy of a tactical strike, and you surface from unconsciousness as though dragged upward by a hook lodged somewhere behind your eyes. The first thing that greets you is the blaring. The second is the headache—vast, imperial, and tyrannical in scope. The third arrives like a verdict from death itself.

You are late.

Not fashionably. Not “I can salvage this.” Catastrophically.

“Damn it,” you croak into your pillow, which smells faintly of regret and poor decisions. “I’m never drinking again. Ever. This is it. I’m done.”

You have made this vow before. You will make it again.

With the solemn focus of someone defusing a bomb, you reach for the pills and the glass of water on your bedside table. You swallow them in one heroic motion, wincing as they slide down your throat like reluctant diplomats negotiating peace. “Past me,” you rasp, clutching the glass, “you magnificent, responsible genius.”

A pause. You squint at the bedside table. Did you really leave those there? Because you distinctly remember… climbing. Kissing. Heat. Hands. A voice.

You shake your head sharply, which is a terrible idea. The headache surges in protest, blooming brighter. “Nope. Not doing this,” you mutter. “We are not unpacking that right now.”

You haul yourself upright and stagger toward the bathroom like a disgraced knight dragging themselves off a battlefield. The mirror greets you with an image that suggests you have, at minimum, wrestled a thunderstorm and lost.

“Stunning,” you inform your reflection flatly. “Respectable even.”

The clock on the wall clears its throat in judgment.

Four minutes. “Four minutes?” you hiss. “That’s not even a real number of minutes!!!”

What follows is less a morning routine and more a frantic interpretive dance of survival. Toothbrush—aggressive. Shower—questionably short but efficient. Clothing—close enough. You jam yourself into your boots while hopping on one foot, nearly concussing yourself on the doorframe.

“Focus,” you snap at no one. “You are a trained professional!!!”

You grab your keys, hunter badge, phone, wallet. Patting yourself down like you’re being detained by airport security. Everything accounted for.

You turn toward the door—And freeze.

Caleb is standing there. Not inert. Not seated in dignified silence like every day for the past year

Standing. Leaning casually against the wall like he’s ready to say goodbye to you like a sitcom heartthrob. He lifts a hand and waves with a smile.

He smiles, and it is not the neutral, default curvature of polite programming. It is warm. Amused? Almost fond even as he looks at you.

“Have a good day,” he says.

You blink. You blink again, and you wave back.

“Bye,” you reply automatically, because apparently your brain has decided to clock out entirely.

You close the door and walk down the hall, get on your motorcycle and drive to work like every day since you started being a hunter. It is only when you settle into your office chair, exhale, and allow your consciousness to catch up with your physical body that reality gently taps you on the shoulder.

“Oh no. No. No no no”

You sit up slowly as the memories from last night flood in—not hazy, not dreamlike, but vivid. The heat. The movement. His voice. The way he said I am in that hot unforgivable tone.

Your stomach drops.

“Nah,” you whisper to yourself, pressing your fingers to your temples as if you can manually reset your brain. “That was a dream. Absolutely a dream. Stress-induced. Very immersive. Academy Award–winning subconscious production.”

You nod once, firmly.

“Yes. That’s it.”

Down the hall, you hear Tara and Simone approaching, their conversation growing louder in that unmistakable way coworkers possess when they are fully caffeinated and ready to be perceived.

You're frowning as you dissect your memories, you remember leaving, remember grabbing your keys. You remember—

Caleb waving. Caleb smiling. Caleb speaking.

“Oh my God.”

The words fall out of you in a horrified whisper. Tara appears in your doorway at that exact moment, cheerful and unsuspecting. She takes one look at your expression and stops mid-step.

“Hey,” she says cautiously. “What’s wrong? You look like you saw a ghost. And not to disappoint you, but I’m very much alive.”

You stare at her like she is dead. “He waved,” you say faintly.

She blinks, turning to Simone before she looks at you again. “Who waved?”

“Caleb.” you say, casually.

“The six-foot-something android who, until yesterday, was essentially an expensive coat rack?”

“Yes. That Caleb.”

Tara opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

“…Define waved.”

“With a hand,” you reply weakly. “Attached to an arm. Connected to his body. Which was upright.”

Simone appears behind her now, curiosity piqued. “Why do I feel like I missed something deeply concerning?”

“He smiled,” you add, staring into the middle distance. “Warmly.”

Tara steps fully into your office and shuts the door behind her. “Okay,” she says carefully. “Two possibilities. One, you’re hallucinating due to overwork and questionable alcohol decisions.”

“Rude.” you smell yourself to check if you still reek of wine.

“Two,” she continues, ignoring you, “your robot boyfriend has achieved sentience and you casually waved back like this is a romantic comedy and not tomorrow's tragic headline.”

You press both palms over your face.

“I waved back.”

Simone inhales sharply. “You what?”

“I waved back,” you repeat, voice muffled. “I did not scream. I did not question reality. I waved like this is a normal domestic arrangement.”

There is a long, uncomfortable silence.

Then Tara whispers, “You left him alone.”

Your hands slowly slide down your face. “…Yes.”

All three of you stare at each other.

Somewhere across the city, in your apartment, a sentient artificial being you may or may not have seduced the previous night is currently unsupervised.

You stand abruptly at the realization “I need to go home.”

Tara grabs your sleeve. “Absolutely not. If he’s alive, you do not sprint back there alone.”

Simone nods gravely. “That’s how horror movies start.”

You hesitate, then, very quietly, you say, “He told me to have a good day.”

They both freeze.

“…He what?” Tara asks.

You swallow.

“And he sounded proud. Like, with feeling get me?”

The silence that follows is thick enough to qualify as structural support.

Tara finally exhales. “Okay. New plan.”

“Yes?”

“We are all going to your apartment.”

Simone nods once. “And if he waves again, I’m waving back. I refuse to be rude to the future overlord.”

Despite yourself, a hysterical laugh bubbles out of you. Because either you’re losing your mind—Or your very attractive android just said goodbye like a devoted partner.

And somehow, the second option feels more terrifying. And slightly flattering.

“What's going on in your apartment?”

The three of you turn towards the door, now open and with Jenna leaning on it. Jenna, your boss who happens to be eavesdropping at the worst time possible.

Hello. Yes, I’m aware I announced the fake dating fic would be first. In my defense, it is currently holding me hostage.

This one, however, refused to wait its turn. I had to get it out of my system before I spontaneously combusted from sheer narrative pressure. I’ve been wanting to write android Caleb for an entire year—yes, a full 365 days—and I’ve only just managed to pin down the exact vibes I’ve been chasing.

So here we are.