#ceewrites

Moze rarely found conversation necessary. Silence was efficient. Silence was safe. But now he was speechless.

He glanced at the reason — you — and you looked back at him innocently with a blink. He held back a sigh at the turn of events from earlier —

“So... Where’s this spirit you were talking about?” Jiaoqiu craned his neck, feather fan in hand.

Moze tilted his chin in your direction. “Right here.”

Jiaoqiu and Feixiao shared a look, like a silent conversation had passed, before the former stepped forward, brows furrowed in concern.

“General, has he been working too hard recently?”

“My message was clear,” Moze ground out, the words feeling unnecessarily tedious. He pointed directly at you, his finger almost brushing your translucent shoulder. “There. A spiritual entity. Intangible. Recognises Sushang’s name.”

Jiaoqiu’s concerned expression melted into one of thoughtful pity. He reached out, not towards you, but to place the back of his hand against Moze’s forehead. “No fever,” he mused, mostly to himself. “But the strain can manifest in other ways. Visual and auditory hallucinations, for instance…”

You, meanwhile, had tiptoed, peering at the intricate patterns on his fan with open curiosity. “His fur and hair are so pink,” you whispered, though only Moze could hear it. “Is this colour rare?”

A muscle in Moze’s jaw twitched.

“He is not hallucinating,” a new voice cut through the night, calm and authoritative. Feixiao’s teal eyes were not looking at you, but at the space you occupied, analysing the air itself. “I can’t see anything either, but it feels like something is there.”

Jiaoqiu’s fan stilled. “You’re serious.”

“Tired as he may be, I doubt he’s so far gone to actually hallucinate.” Feixiao crossed her arms, her gaze finally settling on Moze. “Describe it to me. In detail.”

And for the first time, Moze found himself having to describe something utterly illogical. “She… is approximately this height,” Moze gestured at his collarbone. “Dressed as a civilian. Usually tags along with Sushang during her visits to Jiaoqiu. The one that always brings flowers.”

Jiaoqiu tapped his chin with his feather fan, before snapping it against his hand. “Ah, that child. She’s currently in the Alchemy Commission, in a comatose state — though alive, so how is it that her spirit is appearing here?”

A beat passed in complete silence, broken only by your small, shocked gasp. “Coma?” you whispered, your form flickering with distress. “I’m... in a coma?” The word felt foreign and terrifying. You looked down at your translucent hands, the reality of your situation crashing down. “That's why no one could see me...”

Moze watched your spirit waver, the faint light of you dimming with dawning horror. The air around him shifted faintly — as if something unseen strained toward him before settling again. He filed the sensation away for later analysis.

This was no longer an abstract anomaly; it was a person confronting their own fractured existence. The variable had just become exponentially more complex.

“Whatever it is,” Feixiao spoke, her voice cutting through the tension, “its status is unclear. I’ve informed the Ten Lords Commission. They’re on their way to assess the situation.”

A new, sharp tension made your form flicker, a shift in the air that even Feixiao could feel. Moze’s gaze remained fixed on you.

“Has the... spirit said anything to you, Moze?” Jiaoqiu offered hesitantly.

A beat. You perked up, the grim news momentarily forgotten. “Oh! Tell him his hair is the colour of salmon pink roses! It’s lovely!”

“... She said your hair is the colour of salmon pink roses,” Moze deadpanned. “That it is... lovely.”

“...Yes,” Jiaoqiu said, his voice a mix of bewilderment and dawning acceptance. “That does sound like her.”

He could have mentioned your distress. He could have relayed your terror. Instead, he had offered the simplest, most absurd data point he possessed.

A small, helpless puff of laughter escaped you. “Pfft.” In the midst of the fear, he had, in his own way, made you feel heard.

—

The envoy from the Ten Lords Commission was a tall, austere woman whose presence made the night air feel colder.

“General Feixiao,” she greeted with an incline of her head. “Is the spirit still there?”

“Both Jiaoqiu and I are unable to see her, but I sense something there.” The Arbiter-General turned to her shadow guard, “Moze, however, is able to see her.”

“I am unable to see anything, but I do feel a difference in the energy field. Is there anything special to note?”

“Yes,” Jiaoqiu stepped in, “this child is currently in a coma after she was attacked by the Disciples of Sanctus Medicus. Her body is at the Alchemy Commission — that is, if she truly is that child.”

She spent a long moment observing the space where you stood, then pulled out a talisman — her other hand moving as if plucking invisible strings from the air. Moze picked up her soft chanting, low and rhythmic, while your head tilted in confusion, looking back and forth between Jiaoqiu’s tail and the space behind Feixiao, as if expecting symmetry.

The gold ink on the talisman pulsed like a heartbeat, casting fractured shadows across the courtyard tiles. The lantern flames bent inward, as though bowing to an unseen current. A soft glow bloomed outward, circling the area they were in before tightening briefly around your form — or where your form should have been — then fading away.

For a fraction of a second, Feixiao and Jiaoqiu’s eyes widened. Then their brows furrowed.

“General and Mr. Jiaoqiu, are you able to see the spirit now?”

Feixiao’s sharp eyes swept the courtyard, lingering on the space you occupied. “I caught a glimpse of her for a brief moment, but I still sense her presence. Jiaoqiu?”

“Same for me in that I saw her for a short while,” Jiaoqiu answered, fan tapping against his palm thoughtfully. “I can’t sense her at all, though. Perhaps the General’s sharper instincts come with the territory.”

The envoy nodded, as if she had expected this outcome. “As I suspected. This is not a case of simple concealment, nor do I sense any malicious intent from her. The spirit seems to be a living soul that exists on a frequency that only Mr. Moze’s spiritual composition can perceive.” She turned her analytical gaze to you, or rather, the space you occupied. “There is a resonance between them. A rare phenomenon, but not unheard of in cases of severe spiritual trauma.”

You blinked, the words washing over you with little meaning. You tugged at the sleeve of Moze’s clothes — or tried to. Your translucent fingers passed through the fabric, and you frowned, just as his muscles tensed.

“What’s she doing now?” Jiaoqiu asked, watching Moze's face carefully.

Moze’s gaze dropped to where your hand hovered uselessly near his arm. “Attempting to touch my sleeve. She appears frustrated by the lack of success.”

A small, pleased smile tugged at Jiaoqiu’s lips despite himself. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

Feixiao cut to the heart of the matter. “What is the prognosis? Can she return to her body?”

The envoy clasped her hands behind her back. “Considering she’s a living soul, she must find her own way back. It is a journey of will and memory. However...” She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly at the space between Moze and you. “There is a binding. A tether. Mr. Moze, I would like you to attempt to walk to the far end of the courtyard.”

Moze didn’t question the instructions. He simply turned and walked.

You remained in your spot — until you didn't. About ten paces in, an invisible force pulled at your core, gentle but insistent, pulling you toward Moze. You stumbled back a step, then another, until you were once again within a small radius of Moze.

“What... what just happened?” you whispered, a thread of fear creeping back into your voice.

Moze had already stopped, turning to observe your predicament with an unreadable expression. He walked back to you, and the invisible pressure released.

“She cannot move more than approximately ten paces from me,” he reported flatly.

The envoy nodded, as if this confirmed her theory. “The initial trauma, combined with the unique resonance of your own spirit, has made you her anchor. A lifeline. She is, for all intents and purposes, bound to you until her soul fully reintegrates with her body.”

Silence fell over the courtyard like a shroud.

Jiaoqiu's fan snapped shut with a decisive click. “Well,” he said, his voice carefully neutral, “this is certainly one way to ensure a shadow guard never works alone again.”

“Ideally, she should be taken to the Ten Lords Commission for further assessment. However, with the General departing for the Luofu in a few days, my colleagues there will also be able to assist. I would not wish to disrupt your schedule, so — given the circumstances — it would be best if she remained with you for now.”

Feixiao’s eyes flicked to Moze, a silent question of are you okay with this?

Moze crossed his arms. “I have no objections.”

“Here,” the envoy handed some talismans and a gourd over to Moze. “She appears to be harmless, but you may use these to contain her if necessary.”

—

And so, Moze found himself walking home with a living soul in tow, a handful of containment talismans he’d never use, and the distinct feeling that his life had just become exponentially more complicated.

He glanced at the reason — you — and you raised both arms up in a gesture of surrender, your expression earnest. A moment later, you were already drifting toward Jiaoqiu’s tail with open fascination.

Moze stepped sideways.

You drifted with him.

His eye twitched.

Moze rarely spoke. But now? Now he was truly speechless.

💌 thank you for reading ♥︎ this is the sequel to 🗡️👁️‍🗨️ The Unseen Anomaly. I actually finished this up to “...In the midst of the fear, he had, in his own way, made you feel heard.” back in December last year, but life caught up. And due to the first few paragraphs, I felt like there had to be a circle back to where Moze is stuck with the spirit to justify his “speechlessness”. Unfortunately I only managed to get the rest out a few days ago (⁠*⁠・⁠～⁠・⁠*⁠) wish the Yaoqing trio had more screen time, they’re really fun. I’m also scared of making Moze OOC especially since I tried to incorporate some humour into it (keyword: tried). I really like him though and I hope to see more fics about him. Hopefully, I’ll have some energy and inspiration to push out the sequel soon.

Please don’t repost, copy, or translate without permission.

© 2025 c-esquare. All rights reserved.

Hold, hold on, hold onto me

’Cause I’m a little unsteady

A little unsteady

He stirred on the bed, reaching instinctively for the warmth beside him and finding only cool sheets. Sleep vanished. He shot upright, dragged a hand down his face and padded down the hallway.

The study door stood open but empty. The living room glowed softly under the lamp; she was there, curled against the arm of the sofa, knees hugged to her chest, head resting on folded arms. The clock read 04:00 — a new record.

He moved to the sofa and sat carefully beside her. For a few heartbeats, they didn’t speak. Her gaze was fixed on the coffee table, expression taut and distant; her breathing hitched now and then.

“Hey,” he said, barely above a whisper. “What’s wrong?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted. “I came out to sit for a bit.” Her eyes flicked to him — full but unreadable. He could feel the fragility there and knew he couldn’t rush her.

“Do you want some tea?”

“No. You should go back — you have an early day.”

“I can’t sleep without you.” He tugged her fingers gently. “Come back to bed with me.”

She hesitated, then allowed a breath. “Okay.”

He smiled and offered his hand.

He helped her to her feet and they walked back slowly, shoulder to shoulder. Under the soft sheet, she curled into him like a question finally answered; he tightened an arm around her and felt her relax for a while.

But she wasn't okay. He knew that from the uneven rhythm of her breathing and the faint twitch at her brow, small fissures in a calm face.

“...Sometimes I wonder about the purpose of being alive,” she whispered.

His chest clenched. For a beat he only listened — the house, their breathing, the distant clock — and then he swallowed. “What do you mean?”

Her fingers found the hem of his shirt and gripped as if it were an anchor. “I mean… everything just feels —” She broke off, voice thin. “— meaningless sometimes. Like I’m moving through someone else’s day.”

He stayed silent, trying to find the right words to say but couldn't find any. Before he could say — or do anything, she continued —

“I feel like... I'm not feeling anything right. Or properly. Everyone's telling me to just keep going, that life is like that — that it's a waste if I stop now after everything I've put in, but...”

A light sniffle. The grip on his sleeve tightened.

He bent until his forehead rested against hers, as if pressing there might translate whatever she felt into something he could carry for her. The room was small and ordinary and full of quiet; his voice came out very low.

“You don’t have to make sense of it right now,” he said. “You don’t have to have an answer. You can just feel whatever you feel, and I’ll be with you.”

Hold, hold on, hold onto me

’Cause I’m a little unsteady

A little unsteady

Her shoulders trembled. “It’s stupid,” she said, and in the same breath he could hear how untrue that word was to what she carried. “I know people who have worse. I know I should be grateful. But it still feels… hollow.”

He stayed with the silence that followed, careful not to rush her into fixing the word hollow. Instead he slid his free hand up to cradle the side of her face, thumb brushing the salty trail left by the sniffle.

“Tell me about the hollow,” he suggested, not as a demand but as an invitation. “When did it start?”

She paused for a moment, as if deciding whether to trust the question. “I’m... not very sure,” her voice was small. She pulled back slightly and looked up at him — like she was afraid of saying something wrong.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he reassured softly, pressing his lips to her forehead. “Just tell me what’s going through your mind, then.”

Her brow furrowed. “I don’t know if I can put it into words,” she murmured, a shaky laugh slipping out. “What if it just sounds ridiculous?”

He shook his head, brushing her hair back gently. “There’s nothing ridiculous about what you feel. Even if it comes out messy, I’ll listen.”

Her throat worked as though she might try, then she buried her face against his shoulder. “I just... I think I grew up chasing a vague goal, that life would be simple and happy as long as I find a job that feeds well. But along the way, I took another path because it could still lead me to that goal. Then, I felt like it was wrong and decided to take a break. And everyone kept telling me how it’s such a waste I didn't continue, so I found an alternative to continue, telling myself it’s for the best, for my survival. That I can just power through and get it done and over with. But now I just —”

She choked on a sob. His arms tightened automatically, as if by closing the space between them he could stitch the break in her voice.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, voice rough with something like fear and something like tenderness. He rocked them both gently, slow enough to count breaths. “You don’t have to finish the sentence if you can’t.”

She hiccupped into his shoulder, the small sounds jabbing at him with a sharp, helpless ache. After a moment she forced out another breath and, with it, words that came like splinters. “I’m scared I’ll wake up one day and regret everything I didn’t choose for fear of looking like a quitter. But I’m also tired of pretending the next thing will fix me. I don’t know how to want anything that isn’t about survival.”

He stayed quiet, letting each admission settle between them. Then, deliberately, he named the simplest thing he could think of. “That’s allowed,” he said. “To be scared. To be tired. To want something that isn’t heroic. To want ordinary safety.”

Her fingers loosened and traced the fabric of his shirt. “It’s embarrassing,” she whispered. “Everyone else seems to know what they want by now, and they keep moving and getting better. But I'm not.”

“It’s human.” He pressed his mouth to the crown of her head. “And it’s brave to say it out loud.”

She laughed — wet and unbelieving — and it dissolved into another small sob. She curled herself tighter, as though making herself physically smaller would make the feeling leave. He smoothed her hair, then reached for the bedside lamp and left it low, the world outside their circle of light indistinct and forgiving.

“Tonight,” he said after a while, “we don’t decide anything big. We do the smallest possible thing. Sleep. When we wake, we’ll take slightly bigger steps and start looking for things you like.”

She sniffed, voice muffled. “But... what if I’m not ready when we wake? What if I’m never ready?”

“Then we’ll figure it out slowly.” His voice was steady. “Whatever it is, I’m not going anywhere.”

Hold, hold on, hold onto me

’Cause I’m a little unsteady

A little unsteady

“You're not?” her eyes, glassy and fragile, peeked up at him.

“I'm not,” he reached for her hand, interlacing their fingers before bringing it up to his lips. “But first, let’s rest, okay?”

Her lips trembled, caught between protest and surrender, before she whispered, “Okay.” It wasn’t certainty, not yet, but it was trust enough to close her eyes and breathe against him. He held her tighter, promising silently to carry the weight until she could.

Characters:

Blue Lock: Karasu

Haikyū: Akaashi

Wind Breaker: Suo

HSR: Dan Heng, Phainon

+ whoever you want

💌 thank you for reading ♥︎ kinda having a partial meltdown and needed some comfort.

Please don’t repost, copy, or translate without permission.

© 2025 c-esquare. All rights reserved.

The radio crackled faintly in the corner, playing some nostalgic tune from years ago. Suo leaned against the doorframe, watching you sort the last of the laundry with a quiet, focused familiarity. He pushed off and crossed the room in a few silent steps, caging you against the washing machine, letting the scent of tea invade your space.

“Hey,” you greeted without turning.

Suo shifted, his chest pressing to your back as he leaned to plant a quick peck on your cheek.

"Is there still a lot left?" he asked softly.

"Almost done," you murmured as you began folding the last piece.

He hummed in response, nuzzling into your neck, soft hair tickling your skin.

You swatted at his arm lightly. "Hayato, stop distracting me."

He huffed a laugh, letting his nose brush your temple. "Distracting? Me? Never."

Then, faintly, a familiar tune floated from the record player — a song you both knew. A slow smile spread across his face.

Take my hand, I'll take the lead

And every turn will be safe with me

Don't be afraid, afraid to fall

You know I'll catch you through it all

Before you could blink, his hand slid into yours, fingers intertwining with quiet confidence. "Come on," he breathed, voice soft but teasing, "take my hand. Let’s dance."

You froze, brows furrowed and hesitant. "Dance? Here? Hayato, you know I can't dance."

He tugged, just a soft pressure, guiding you into a slow sway. "Don't worry," he said, spinning you just slightly. "There's nobody else here. I'll lead and you just have to trust me."

He felt the hesitation in your frame melt away as you followed his lead, a silent testament to the trust you'd placed in him since the day he’d saved you from a group of thugs. That same steady strength he'd shown then, hidden beneath his mischievous grin, was here now.

You sighed in resignation, but gave him a small smile as your feet moved in tandem with his. The sway of his body against yours, the faint scent of tea, and the soft hum of the radio made the apartment feel like its own little world — a world just for the two of you.

And you can't keep us apart

(Even a thousand miles

Can't keep us apart)

'Cause my heart is

('Cause my heart is)

Wherever you are

As he led you in graceful, slow circles around the apartment, his mind drifted back to years ago, when the two of you were still treading the fine line between friendship and something more.

After he'd saved you from the thugs, discussions with the rest of Bofurin warranted tighter patrols around the area. Somehow, he always seemed to cross your path after that — a “chance” encounter on the way home, a quick escort when you were alone, or just showing up where he knew you would be. Each meeting was brief, subtle, yet it left a warmth in his chest he couldn’t quite name.

Then, those brief meetings transitioned into “friendly dates” on the weekends, talking about anything and everything. It wasn’t difficult for him to befriend others, but with you, everything felt easier — like he didn’t have to keep his facade up, like he could just be… himself.

And when he realised that, he started pulling back. Not because he didn’t want closeness — exactly the opposite — but because letting himself care this much was… dangerous.

He saw how your smile faded slightly each time he bumped into you, the way your eyes held a quiet understanding that made his chest ache. You’d never called him out on it, and that alone made him hesitate — the line between protecting and caring felt thinner than ever.

Most of the newer Bofurin members — he was in his second year then — didn’t question when he got them to replace his patrols in the area — he was great at keeping up a facade, after all.

Until one day, while looking over another area, one of his juniors ran to him and Nirei, bruised and panic-stricken.

“Suo-senpai!” the first year barely caught his breath. “The area we were patrolling — there’s a big group that outnumbers us, and they’re harassing high school girls too!”

Suo’s chest tightened. That instinct he had spent months burying surged up — care, anger, responsibility, and something else he couldn't name — all at once. Without a word, he bolted on his heels toward the familiar street, every step driven by the need to protect.

It's like catching lightning

The chances of finding someone like you

It's one in a million

The chances of feeling the way we do

While he sprinted to the scene, memories of all the times spent with you flashed through his mind —

Your soft laughter and the twinkle in your eyes whenever he told you about teasing Sakura or Nirei, his shoulder bumping lightly against yours when he walked beside you, and the comfortable silence that fell between the two of you whenever you studied together or just sat watching the sunset. Each moment, fleeting or mundane, felt impossibly vivid, like the sparks he’d tried in vain to ignore.

You better be safe, he thought.

Rounding the corner, he caught a glimpse of a familiar uniform, and his breath hitched when he saw your trembling figure trying to fight off a group of hooligans.

In another situation, he'd be mildly amused by the sight of a girl trying (and failing) to hit her attackers with an umbrella — "What did I tell you about self-defense" — but now, every instinct in him screamed to protect you. The faint humour vanished, replaced by a surge of adrenaline and something more — something he couldn’t quite name.

One of the attackers had knocked away your umbrella, filthy hands shooting out to grab your hair.

"Hey," Suo called lowly. “Not very polite, bothering a lady.” His voice was calm, almost cheerful, but the air around him made it clear he wasn’t joking.

In a single, fluid motion, he stepped between you and the group, one arm sweeping back to guide you safely behind him.

"Oh yeah? What are you going to do about it, pretty boy?” one of them mocked, while the rest cackled.

Suo stood calmly in front of them, expression unreadable, but inside, something coiled — a quiet, sharp anger at anyone daring to lay a hand on you.

One of the hooligans reached out, fingers brushing toward your arm, and that was all it took. Suo moved. Fast, precise, and devastating. Hands that had seemed relaxed moments ago now struck with controlled force, neutralising each of them with terrifying efficiency. Faces paled, movements froze, and in seconds the group was scattered and defeated, their bravado shattered.

When the last one fell, Suo stilled for a few moments, chest tight, jaw clenched. You reached up, fingers brushing against his arm, and finally, he let himself exhale.

"Are you hurt?" he asked as he took you in, the usual calm in them replaced by a sharp, searching concern.

“I'm okay. But your hands..." you whispered, biting your bottom lip as you took in his battered knuckles.

"Oh? It's nothing."

"Thank you... for saving me again."

At that, Suo's jaw clenched.

“You wouldn’t even have had to be saved if I’d been patrolling earlier. They wouldn’t have been so daring if I’d stuck to this route longer.”

"It would’ve happened sooner or later. They’ll let their guard down and cause trouble here again — regardless of whether you guys are around.”

Suo’s gaze softened slightly as he looked at you, and for the first time since keeping his distance, the tension in his shoulders eased. He knew he'd have to explain later — about his feelings, about what this all meant, about the way he’d been holding back — but for now, he allowed himself to simply be here, immersed in the quiet closeness between you.

He stepped a little closer, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. He saw your breath catch, and for the first time, words felt unnecessary. The silence between you carried everything he hadn’t said, and everything you hadn’t asked.

And with every step together

We just keep on getting better

So can I have this dance?

(Can I have this dance?)

Can I have this dance?

After that day, his routines with you resumed slowly. He stopped running away — stopped pushing his feelings aside and started peeling off his mask bit by bit.

It wasn't easy doing the exact opposite of what he'd been so used to — showing his vulnerabilities — but he thought that special feeling with you was worth it. You were worth it.

And in return, you didn't push. You met him where he was, whether it was walking home in silence, teasing him into laughter, or just sitting together with no words at all. Every small moment became something steady, something real — the kind of closeness neither of you dared to name just yet, but both felt all the same.

Though you and him were mature beyond your years, Suo understood that both of you were still young. There was plenty of time to explore the possibilities — so long as he stopped dancing around his feelings. The thought still scared him, but not nearly as much as the idea of danger finding you again just because he'd been too afraid to let himself care.

Oh, no mountain's too high and no

Ocean's too wide

'Cause together or not

Our dance won't stop

Let it rain, let it pour

What we have is worth fighting for

You know I believe

That we were meant to be, yeah

The months that followed felt pretty much the same. You’d never rushed to put a name to whatever this was between you, but the closeness remained — in quiet walks, stolen laughter, and the occasional teasing fight that always ended in an easy truce.

And then there were the almost moments: when either of you stood a little too close, when fingers brushed and lingered longer than necessary, when faces hovered mere inches apart. Each time, Suo’s heart stuttered, but he told himself next time. Next time, when he was ready. Next time, when you both were.

Still, reality had a way of intruding. The two of you had never rushed to define what you were, and while he knew you most likely shared his feelings, he’d yet to sit down and have a full conversation about the future. From the occasional mentions, he knew your sights were set on a university outside of Makochi. While you’d also mentioned that you might prefer to work closer to home after graduation, he believed that there were countless opportunities for you beyond this town.

Suo’s world wasn’t gentle; fights, grudges, and the ever-growing weight of Bofurin’s name tugged at him constantly. You weren’t naive — you knew that was a part of him, one he couldn’t simply walk away from. Though he shielded you from most of it, there were days when his hands were more bruised than usual, or when exhaustion dragged his smile a little thinner.

And with the looming shadow of graduation, the thought of being far apart from you settled heavily in his chest. He tried to push it aside, telling himself to focus on the present and what he had with you now — but for the first time, Suo wondered if the world outside Makochi would ever see him as someone worthy of standing beside you.

The turning point came one evening, when he was walking you home after what could only loosely be called a “date.” The sky above was drained of colour, pale grey bleeding into a darker horizon. Clouds hung heavy and low, the air damp with the promise of rain — the kind of quiet, restless atmosphere that pressed on his chest and made every step feel heavier.

“…Suo?” Your voice cut through his thoughts, pulling him back.

“Hm?” He turned to you with his easy smile, a little too quick, a little too practiced. “Sorry, what was that?”

You hesitated, your fingers brushing the strap of your bag. “You know… I received an acceptance letter. From the university. It’s… a few hours away from here.”

“Really? That’s great. I knew you’d have no problems with it.” He congratulated you warmly, pride shining in his eyes despite the tightness lingering somewhere in his chest.

You glanced at him then, a flicker of relief passing over your face — but your gaze darted away just as quickly, tracing the cracks in the pavement, the shifting clouds above. He caught the hesitation in the way your steps slowed, the way your hands fidgeted at your sides.

Something unspoken hung between you.

“What’s wrong?” he asked at last, his voice gentler now, stripped of that easy grin.

"Just... It's going to be so different, being away from everything that feels familiar."

He sensed that there was more than that, but he stayed silent, brushing his fingers against yours like a form of silent encouragement.

You took a deep breath before continuing, "And I was just wondering what this means for us. Where are we headed? What do you want to come out of this?"

Though you'd managed to push through your words steadily, Suo heard the undercurrent of vulnerability — not because you were unsure, but because you were laying your heart bare. And in that moment, he realised he didn't need to question it anymore. You were sure. He was sure. You'd taken the initiative to ask, and the only thing left was for him to say it out loud.

He reached out, taking both your hands into his — warm, steady, unshaking — and held them as though they were the most important thing in the world. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, a grounding touch for himself as much as for you.

“I don’t care how far you go,” he said at last, voice low but certain. “I’ll still be here. You've given me so much time, and I need you to know — you're it for me. If you’ll have me, then wherever you are, whatever comes after this… I want us.”

He'd waited so long to say it, but now that he had, it felt inevitable.

Your breath hitched, and your gaze lifted to his — as if you needed to make sure this was real. But the warmth and certainty in his eyes left no room for doubt. Slowly, you nodded, a smile tugging at your lips even as your eyes blurred with unshed tears. Seeing that, a pang of regret hit him; he should have said this sooner. But more than anything, he vowed to make every moment from now on worth it for you.

Just then, a few drops of rain began to fall, cool and gentle against the pavement. Neither of you moved to seek shelter. Suo’s eyes found yours, a playful glint in his eyes.

“Come on,” he murmured, tugging at your hands. “If it's going to rain, we might as well make it memorable."

Before you could protest, he pulled you closer, guiding you into a slow, twirling sway. The rain fell, cool and sharp, and Suo couldn’t help but think that even the sky had chosen to celebrate with you.

Water droplets sparkled as they caught the fading light, turning the street into a private, shimmering stage. Your clothes clung wetly, your feet stumbled more than once, but his hands never faltered — firm around your waist, steady at your back, holding you as if letting go was impossible.

Then came that soft laughter, the sound he’d grown to crave. Each note was brighter than the rain itself, filling the air until he felt his chest ache with it. And in that moment, Suo realised he had never been more certain of anything in his life. He’d waited too long, circled around his own feelings too often, but here, now, there was no space for doubt.

So he stopped holding back altogether. He drew you close, foreheads brushing, your breaths mingling in the cool night air. You giggled as you tripped again, and he paused his movements as his lips quirked.

"Careful," he chuckled, the word a warm vibration against your skin as he lifted you slightly so your feet hovered above the ground. "Wouldn't want you slipping."

Your arms shifted to wrap around his neck like they belonged there, and the bright smile on your face was enough to ease the ache in his chest.

"Suo, put me down! You think I'm going to let you carry me all night?" You said, still your voice bright with laughter, the droplets clinging to your hair and clothes.

A warm, low laugh escaped him as he pressed his forehead more firmly against yours. "Maybe I will," he purred, voice soft but certain. "Seems like the perfect night for it."

Your laughter mingled with the rain, and for a moment, the world outside didn’t exist. It was just the two of you, spinning, stumbling, and holding on — a perfect, fleeting celebration of everything you’d finally admitted and everything still to come.

Then, still holding onto you, he spun slowly in a full circle. The raindrops caught in the glow of the fading light, tracing little arcs around you as the world blurred into streaks of silver and gold. For a heartbeat, it felt like the universe had shrunk down to just the two of you, spinning in place, tethered together by trust, warmth, and a quiet certainty neither of you had dared voice aloud until now.

When the circle ended, he set you down carefully, before pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “All right,” he conceded, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, “let’s head inside before we catch a cold.”

Hand in hand, you stepped toward the doorway, laughter still lingering between you, rainwater dripping from hair and clothes, hearts light despite the dampness. And as he crossed the threshold with you, it felt like stepping into the beginning of everything you’d promised each other.

It's like catching lightning

The chances of finding someone like you (like you)

It's one in a million

The chances of feeling the way we do (way we do)

Time flew forward as you went through university while he stayed in Makochi, balancing his duties with a constant, quiet thought of you. Letters arrived with familiar handwriting, calls brought your laughter across the miles, and the occasional visits became tiny, treasured worlds where the distance vanished entirely. Every message, every fleeting moment together, reminded him of the promise he’d made — to make each second with you count, to keep you close even when you weren’t near.

Though the miles tested him, and there were moments when old instincts to draw back pulled at him, he reminded himself that this was different now. You weren’t someone to protect from afar; you were someone to share life with, someone he had finally admitted he couldn’t imagine losing.

If he wanted something lasting with you, he couldn’t afford to hold back. Hiding negative emotions to de-escalate arguments wouldn’t work in the long run. Supporting you silently, even when he knew you needed a push to break out of spirals, wasn’t the right way either.

Every day, every moment with you, he learned something new. Showing feelings wasn’t a weakness — it was part of being with someone. And he wanted to be better, for himself and for you.

And with every step together

We just keep on getting better

So can I have this dance?

(Can I have this dance?)

Can I have this dance?

Though he remained largely unchanged in front of his friends, Sakura and Nirei noticed subtle shifts. They mostly stayed quiet about it, since it wasn't a bad change, but he'd heard Sakura mumble in passing about how he was "more truthful" now. He still didn’t touch his phone around them and teased them frequently, but during university breaks when you returned to Makochi, Sakura’s romance radar went into overdrive.

One of the days, he was at Café Pothos with Sakura and Nirei after you'd shooed him out of the house, flustered, and he'd promised to return that night. As they talked about Sakura's progress with his "situationship", Suo found his mind wandering —

— to earlier, when you were sprawled comfortably on the couch, legs on his lap while his fingers traced patterns absentmindedly on your shorts. In the background, some romance drama was playing on the TV. Then, he heard muffled laughter from you.

He blinked, turning to face you. "What's so funny?"

You pointed at the TV screen. "Look, doesn't this remind you of something?"

Confused, Suo shifted his attention to the TV and found the main couple standing in the pouring rain, huddled closely together. A faint smile ghosted his lips as he remembered that day — spinning, stumbling, laughing together under the drizzle — a moment that had finally made everything between you both undeniable.

His eyes flicked to you, and that familiar mischievous spark grew. Slowly, he leaned closer, letting his fingers curl over yours where they rested on your lap. “You know,” he rumbled, voice low and teasing, “someone seemed to enjoy that rain a little too much…”

Before you could reply, he pressed his lips to yours — soft at first, a barely-lingering touch that sent a shiver through your body. Your eyes widened, breath hitching, and your hands flew to his shoulders instinctively.

Suo’s grin deepened as he caught your reaction. “Mm, that’s more like it,” he breathed against your lips, letting his forehead rest against yours for just a heartbeat, then deepening the kiss, fingers threading into your hair, bringing you impossibly closer. Being this close, he was aware of how your heart raced, and every tiny reaction he drew from you.

"Suo!" you gasped, trying to squirm, but his hands held you with an unshakeable but tender grip that left no room for escape.

"Not done," he teased, brushing your lips again, slower this time, lingering over every press as if memorising the feel of you. “I could do this forever…”

Your cheeks flamed with crimson, and with a startled laugh, you shoved him lightly. "You're impossible!"

“That’s the point,” he said with a sly smile. Taking advantage of your position, he trapped you with arms around your back and pulled you into his lap.

The red on your face darkened, and you looked away from him shyly, eyes darting everywhere to avoid his gaze. As you caught a glimpse of the clock, you gasped.

"You're going to be late for your meeting with Sakura and Nirei," you chided gently, patting his shoulder.

"Don't care. I'm not letting you go so easily. Unless..." he tapped his chin, feigning a thoughtful expression.

"Unless...?"

His hand reached up to cup your face, forcing you to look at him. "Call me Hayato."

You hesitated, caught between exasperation and the warmth radiating from his hold. “I… I can’t believe you — ”

His features morphed in amusement, unbothered by your protest. “Believe it,” he drawled, tugging you closer as if daring you to push him away. His hands skimmed over your arms, the playful lilt in his voice giving way to something softer. “Besides… feels like you don’t really want me to stop.”

He felt you squirm again, a futile, half-hearted effort that only made him smile. The firm, gentle weight of his arms pinned you just enough to make it impossible to get up without drawing his attention. “I — Hayato! Stop it!”

He leaned down slightly, letting his lips brush along your temple and jawline. “Mm… that wasn't so hard, was it?” he teased, watching your reactions with careful amusement. “I like seeing this side of you.”

After a long, indulgent moment, he finally sighed, a mock-disappointed sound, and lifted you from his lap. “All right, I’ll let you go… for now,” he said, though the look on his face said something else.

At the door, he lingered, one hand on the frame, leaning down to hover over your face. “I'll be back later, so we can continue,” he winked playfully, knowing full well the flustered reaction it would provoke.

“Hayato!” you snapped, shoving him and slamming the door with a mix of laughter and embarrassment, the redness in your cheek rivalling that of Sakura's whenever he got flustered.

Back at the café, he sipped on his tea, diverting his focus to Sakura's (reluctant) rambling and Nirei's level-headed advice. But the memory from earlier clung to him like a secret, and his smile threatened to break free.

Nirei tilted his head, noticing the subtle shift. "Suo-kun, what's got you so cheerful all of a sudden?"

From beside him, Sakura narrowed his eyes, studying Suo intently. Then, like a switch flipping, his face went pink. “W-wait — don’t tell me…!” He slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide as if he’d just uncovered a scandal.

Suo only raised a brow, feigning innocence as he took another sip of tea. “Mm? What’s with that face, Sakura-kun?”

He hid a grin behind the rim of his cup, letting Sakura sputter for a heartbeat longer before steering them back toward his friend’s “progress.” He could wait — patient as always — but his mind had already slipped ahead, past the café chatter, circling back to you. After all, he’d promised he wasn’t done yet.

And now, back in the warmth of your shared apartment with you in his arms, he knew he would never be.

Can I have this dance?

Can I have this dance?

The final notes of the song faded, leaving only the sound of your shared breathing and the soft shuffle of your feet coming to a halt. Suo didn’t let go. His hands stayed on your waist, holding you in the circle of his arms as if the dance had never ended.

He looked down at you, and a slow, genuine smile – softer than his usual smirk – spread across his face. The sight of you, slightly flushed and breathless from dancing in your own living room, sent a wave of pure, undiluted warmth through his chest. This was peace. This was home.

“You’re getting better at this,” he murmured, his voice a low hum. His thumb came up to brush a stray strand of hair from your cheek, the touch lingering. “Didn’t even stumble.” His eyes held yours, the playful glint softening into something deeper, more tender. “Or maybe you just trust me too much.”

"Of course I trust you, Hayato."

Your simple, steady answer was all he needed. In one fluid motion, his arms tightened around you, hoisting you up until you were level with his face. A quiet laugh escaped you, but it was quickly caught by his mouth as he captured your lips in a deep, unhurried kiss.

It was a kiss that tasted of shared history and a promised future. Of rainy confessions and quiet evenings, of laughter across miles and the certainty of coming home. It was, he thought, your own perfect, silent language — another type of dance altogether, and one he knew by heart.

When he finally pulled back, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, the thought of the ring surfaced not as a question, but as a calm, resolute certainty. He could almost feel the weight of the box in his pocket, the gem inside a silent vow for all the countless dances yet to come. Every misstep, every circle around his feelings, every reckless sprint to your rescue—it had all been leading here. To you, swaying in his arms. To this.

Every step had led you here, to each other.

Bonus scene:

When the song ended, he kept you in a close embrace like how he had all those years ago in the rain. You were grateful for the way things had turned out – that he’d always been as sure of you as you were of him.

His eye found you, and somehow, you felt something off about his gaze; not bad, but like some sort of premonition.

“Which one do you like better? A ring or a necklace?”

His random question caught you off guard. “What? Why are you asking me that now?”

He smiled slightly, his usual playful grin nowhere in sight. “Tell me.”

“Well… I think a ring would be nice. Why?”

Instead of answering, he simply nodded, a quiet “Good” slipping out as he finally released you from the embrace – only to reach into his pocket. Your breath hitched as he produced a small, black velvet box. He didn’t open it yet, just held it in his palm, his gaze never leaving yours. “Glad to say that I know you well enough.”

He flipped the box open with his thumb, revealing a ring – elegant, timeless, and so perfectly you it made your chest ache. “I’ve been carrying this around for a while now. Sakura-kun has no taste, and Nirei-kun over-researched everything.” He shook his head slightly, but his eye was tender.

In a low, fond voice reserved for you, he continued. “I was waiting for the right moment. But then I realised… there doesn’t need to be a perfect moment. Just us. Like I mentioned years ago – you’re it for me, and I’ve always been sure of it – even when you went to university.” He paused, eye softening. “So… will you?”

Tears brimmed in your eyes as your hand shot up to your mouth. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. All you could do was nod, again and again, as a tear finally escaped and traced a path down your cheek.

The tension in his shoulders – tension you hadn’t even noticed – melted away. A real, full smile broke across his face, one that reached his eye and lit it up from within.

“Yeah?” he breathed, the word barely a whisper, as if your voice was the only thing that could make this real.

“Yes,” you finally choked out, the word watery and thick with emotion. “Yes, Hayato. Always.”

His thumb gently brushed the tear from your cheek before he carefully took your left hand. With all the tenderness, he slid the ring onto your finger. It was a perfect fit. He brought your knuckles to his lips, pressing a warm, lingering kiss there. “Forever, then.”

💌 thank you for reading ♥︎ I’m not super deep into the Wind Breaker fandom yet, and since not a lot has been revealed about Suo’s personality, I really hope I’ve done him justice here. This idea hit me when I was thrown back into my High School Musical era — this song kept popping up on my TikTok FYP and it just felt so right for him. It ended up way longer than I'd planned, but I hope you enjoyed it all the same. ROMANTIC TWIRLING IN THE RAIN, YAY.

Please don’t repost, copy, or translate without permission.

© 2025 c-esquare. All rights reserved.

The familiar, heavy-footed cadence of his approach was the only warning you got. You’d been pacing for half an hour since Bailu’s message arrived, assuring you he was safe — but the relief had long soured into a sharp, simmering anger.

The door creaked open, and you spun around, arms crossed as you met his gaze.

“General Jing Yuan,” you greeted him with a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “Would you care to explain what you were doing at Scalegorge Waterscape when you were supposed to be resting?”

He winced at the use of his formal title, closing the door behind him. He had the decency to look chastised, a wry, apologetic smile gracing his features.

“The threat was tailored for the Dragon Lady, but the Nameless were there with her. Against them, those assassins were hopelessly outmatched. My presence was a formality, a symbol to show the Commission’s oversight. I knew there would be a fight, but I also knew it was a fight they had already won the moment it began.”

Your chest rose sharply as you clenched your jaw. You crossed the room, stopping a few feet away from him and jabbed a finger toward him. “Do you know what it was like for me? I arrived to an empty room. Panicking healers. Talks of an assassination attempt and the Scalegorge Waterscape. It took twenty minutes for me to get any confirmation you weren’t lying in a ditch!”

You closed your eyes briefly, trying not to raise your voice in the recuperation wing. His lips parted, attempting to explain — but you cut him off, voice breaking toward the end. “I know. That wasn’t meant for you. But do you know how scared I was when I found you missing? When I heard ‘Scalegorge Waterscape’ again?”

He stepped closer, expression soft as he looked down at your face. “I am sorry for worrying you,” he started, voice lowered to reassure you, “but I assure you, it was just a small matter. I didn’t even get a single scratch.”

The gentle, soothing tone — the way he was leaning down toward you, trying to calm your panic — it made something inside you twist. You needed him to see, truly see, the storm he’d stirred in you. You needed to look him in the eye without that frustrating imbalance of height and composure between you.

You turned on your heel and took two sharp strides to the raised wooden platform that framed the bed, stepping onto it. The few inches of height it granted were enough. The world tilted, and now, for once, you were level with his eyes.

“Don’t you dare tell me I’m overreacting,” you said, your voice low and shaking with the effort to keep it steady. “You always do this. You make light of it — of yourself — and expect me to do the same. But I can’t.”

You took a shaky breath, looking directly into his wide, stunned eyes. “Not a single scratch? That’s what you think this is about? Jing Yuan, I wasn’t afraid of a scratch! I was terrified that you’d be carried back from that place, just like the last time — pale and unresponsive, the very reason you’re here — unable to even hear me calling for you!” Your voice hitched, but you pressed on, determined to make him understand. “My mind screamed danger; it was convinced that the worst had happened again. You can’t just vanish. My heart can’t take it.”

You saw the moment your words truly landed. The last vestige of his placating demeanor shattered, replaced by raw, gut-wrenching understanding. He was silent, absorbing every word, his gaze fixed on you.

The fury spent, a sudden wave of dizziness washed over you. The adrenaline that had been holding you up receded, and you swayed slightly on the platform.

He was immediately there, his hands moving from his sides to offer a steadying grip on your waist. One of his hands then came up, palm open, an invitation.

“Come down,” he murmured, his voice a soft caress, thick with emotion.

You placed your hand in his, the touch a familiar and grounding warmth, and let him guide you safely onto the floor. The moment your feet were firm, his arms opened. You took one step into his embrace, and that was when it finally broke.

A sob tore from your chest, then another. Your hands fisted in the fabric of his robes at his sides, gripping tightly as if he might vanish if you let go. The tears you had held back during your speech now fell freely, soaking into the front of his robes as you trembled against him. He held you tightly, one hand splayed across your back, the other cradling the back of your head, his fingers gently stroking your hair as he whispered into your ear.

“I know,” he murmured, his own voice rough. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I keep asking you to bear the aftermath of my gambits.”

He didn’t try to shush you or tell you it was all right. He simply held you, his presence a sanctuary, letting the storm of fear and relief run its course until your sobs quieted into shaky breaths.

After a long moment, he guided you both to sit on the edge of the bed, his arm never leaving your shoulders, keeping you anchored to his side. You leaned into him, your head finding its familiar place in the crook of his neck.

“I know you have your duties,” you said, your voice quiet but firm in the stillness of the room. “I know you can’t always stay put. But next time... take me with you. Dangerous or not, I’d rather be there at your side than sitting here, waiting in the silence, not knowing if you’re safe.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “That is a duty I can gladly accept,” he vowed, his voice a low rumble against you. “No more silence. From now on, we face the storms together.”

He shifted, pulling you down with him to lie back against the pillows, his arms still wrapped around you. It wasn’t just about his physical rest anymore, but yours too — a shared respite, a mutual promise of presence, and the quiet beginning of true healing.

💌 thank you for reading ♥︎ I initially planned for this to be a domestic/fluffy piece involving Jing Yuan’s lover standing on a chair to sass him due to the height difference but this came out instead. But maybe I’ll write that in the future. The self-indulgence in this one is really strong (because I’m only 5'2" and our dear general is probably like 6'1" or taller). I’m going to pretend that a “few inches” on the raised platform covers that difference. Based on this companion mission.

Please don’t repost, copy, or translate without permission.

© 2025 c-esquare. All rights reserved.

As the sun bled its last light across the sky, the courtyard was washed in deep, honeyed amber. You padded from the house, your gaze sweeping the shadows for that familiar shock of snowy white hair.

“Jing Yuan?” you called, your voice a hushed exhalation that barely disturbed the evening’s peace. “Dinner’s ready.”

A faint shuffle from the right caught your attention. You approached slowly, finding him not on a bench but seated on the ground beneath the ginkgo tree. His eyes were closed, head tilted up to the setting sun as if soaking in its warmth. The amber light gilded his profile, but couldn’t hide the lingering pallor of his skin and the sharper angle of his jawline — some of the consequences from the battle with Phantylia.

You took a few hesitant steps toward his dozing figure, not wanting to disrupt the rare moment of rest he had, but also unwilling to risk him catching a cold if he were to stay out here. The fallen ginkgo leaves formed a golden carpet around him, and the sight was so perfectly serene it sent a sharp pang through your chest. This was the peace you'd fought for, the vision you'd clung to in your worst fears — and the thought of it being stolen away was unbearable.

You knelt carefully, the faint shifting of fabric seeming deafening in the silence. Reaching out, you intended to gently rouse him from his slumber, but your hand stilled mere inches away. The dark shadows under his eyes, usually so clever and alert, spoke of an exhaustion that ran deeper than bone.

It was then that his lips curved and — with his eyes still closed — his hand sought yours, bringing it to his cheek. His fingers were warm as they laced with yours, his thumb tracing a delicate, absent-minded path over your skin. He let out a soft, contented sigh, the tension in his broad shoulders easing just a fraction more.

“Your worry is a gentle thing,” he murmured, his voice a husky, sleep-roughened rumble that vibrated against your knuckles as he delicately cradled your hand to the side of his face. His skin was cool to the touch, a stark contrast to the warmth of his hand. “But there is no need. This... is the most rest I have had in a long while.”

His eyelids fluttered open, the molten gold of his irises softened by the sunset and his weariness. His gaze found yours, eclipsed with a fondness you often saw. The sight of it, even now, made your pulse stutter. “Though I also wouldn’t mind a lecture over soup or congee.” He turned his head just enough to brush a feather-light kiss to your palm.

The gesture, so tender and alive, undid you. The careful composure you'd held onto since before the fight — the steady hands that brought him medicine, the calm voice that shooed away concerned officials — crumbled. A small, shaky breath escaped you, and your free hand came up to cradle the other side of his face, your thumb stroking the too-pale skin beneath his eye.

He stilled at the raw emotion on your face, his own playful glimmer softening into understanding. He really saw it then — the fear you had been hiding under reminders for his medication, your tender movements when changing his dressings — the ghost of the future you had both nearly been condemned to.

“Look at me,” he urged, his voice hushed and tender. “I am here.”

“I know,” you breathed, the words trembling. “I just... need to be sure.”

He reached up, smoothing the furrow between your brows that you hadn’t even noticed before leaning forward, pressing his lips there. Your hand slid down, mapping the reality of him. The stubborn line of his jaw, the vulnerable column of his throat, until your palm finally pressed flat against the solid plane of his chest. Beneath it, his heart beat a steady, stubborn rhythm against your hand — a primal drum, a silent vow. Thump-thump. I am here. Thump-thump. I am alive. This was not the faint flutter of a fading spirit, but the strong, sure pulse of a man fighting to stay.

He covered your hand with his own, holding it firmly in place. “See?” he murmured, his breath warm against your forehead. “Still here. Still yours.”

The sound was a quiet drum against your palm, a sacred rhythm that banished the last of your fears. “I know,” you sighed, the words were steadier now, filled with a new, aching tenderness.

For a few moments, the two of you stayed silent, until he shifted, stretching his legs out. His hand travelled, curling around your waist and manoeuvred you onto his lap. The movement was surprisingly fluid, a glimpse of the dormant power returning to his limbs. A faint, breathy sound of surprise escaped you as you instinctively settled against him, your knees bracketing his hips on the soft bed of leaves. Here, in the circle of his arms, the last of the cool evening air was banished by the solid warmth of his chest against yours.

“Better,” he rumbled, his voice a contented vibration against your heart. With the lightest pressure, he guided you even closer until only a mere sliver of light could pass between you. You let yourself melt against him for a long, perfect moment, before a reluctant sigh escaped you. “You need to eat, you know,” you murmured against his chest, “so you can take your medicine.”

He tilted his head, faking a thoughtful expression. “But I want dessert first.”

“... Jing Yuan, you’re supposed to be eating light right now. Orders from the Healer Lady.”

A low, rumbling chuckle escaped him, the sound sending a tingle through your chest. “And who is the Arbiter-General here?” he teased, his hand sliding up your back in a slow, soothing motion. “Surely I can grant myself a small indulgence.”

His gaze dropped to your lips, and the mirthful glimmer in his eyes gave way to something warmer, more intense. Any trace of protest faded as you read the quiet plea in his expression. This was his medicine, too — this connection, this life-affirming touch.

“Just a taste,” you surrendered, the words leaving you in a soft, flustered rush as your gaze dropped to his collar, suddenly unable to hold the intensity in his eyes.

That was all the permission he needed.

He closed the remaining distance. His lips were a supple, familiar warmth against yours, and the kiss was a slow, deep draught after a long thirst. It was not hungry, but certain. One of his hands cradled the back of your head, his fingers tangling gently in your hair with a possessiveness that felt like a promise. The other arm banded around your back, pulling you flush against him until you could feel the steady, strengthening beat of his heart through both your clothes. The last of the evening’s chill was scorched away by the quiet fire blooming between you. In that breathless moment, the world was reduced to the scent of ginkgo and his skin, the taste of tranquility, and the sacred truth of his pulse against yours.

When he pulled away, it was only by a whisper, his forehead resting against yours. His breath was warm on your lips. “There,” he hummed, his voice husky and saturated with a lazy contentment. “Now my appetite is properly whetted for dinner.”

He made no move to release you, instead leaning in to press one more kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“Though I find I am in no rush to move,” he admitted, his arms tightening around you in a gentle, secure embrace. “The world can wait a little longer.”

“It can,” you agreed, tracing the line of his collarbone. “But my legs are starting to protest. Not all of us can use the ground as a throne so comfortably.”

A genuine, bright laugh escaped him, the sound echoing warmly in the quiet courtyard. It was the most beautiful sound you’d heard in weeks.

“A grave oversight on my part,” he declared, his eyes crinkling. Before you could process his movement, he shifted his grip, one arm sliding under your knees. With a single, smooth motion that spoke of returning strength, he stood, lifting you effortlessly in his arms.

A startled yelp escaped you as you clung to his shoulders. “Jing Yuan! Your injuries!”

“Are well worth the reward,” he said, his voice steady as he began to carry you back toward the glowing lights of the house, the golden leaves crunching softly under his boots. “And what kind of general would I be if I could not carry my most precious treasure across the threshold?”

💌 thank you for reading ♥︎ I was contemplating the fit of 🌙 Brushstrokes of Moonlight for Dan Heng, Sunday and Jing Yuan and I felt like Jing Yuan's approach to intimacy would be slightly different — still gentle, still tender, but more confident and open so I wanted to explore intimacy with him and give him a moment of respite. Hopefully I've done him justice here. Our general needs a long vacation (⁠ ⁠；⁠∀⁠；⁠)

Please don’t repost, copy, or translate without permission.

© 2025 c-esquare. All rights reserved.

You were seated in front of the mirror, idly brushing your hair when a familiar tap sounded from the window.

“Moze?”

It was his signature tap — two light raps, a pause, then a third. The sound of a shadow announcing itself. You smiled, setting the brush down and padded over to unlock the window. “It’s open.”

The window slid open without a sound and he flowed into the room, his presence immediately filling the quiet space. He carried the scent of the night — cool, with a hint of distant rain and forged metal. He had come straight from a mission, then.

His eyes, sharp and assessing, scanned the room out of habit before settling on your form. “You can come in through the door, you know? You have a key.” You teased, returning to your seat and your brush.

A soft huff, barely more than an exhale, was his only reply. He stepped forward until he stood directly behind you, his reflection meeting yours in the glass. His expression was, as always, unreadable to most people, but you caught the slight tension in his jaw and the quiet softness in his eyes.

“Is something wrong?” Concerned, you turned to face him.

He averted his gaze for a heartbeat before reaching into his pocket. A long, slender box appeared in his hand, and he held it out, movements precise.

You tilted your head but took the dark wood box from him. His expression was unusual yet intense — expectant, perhaps even nervous. With a questioning look — Can I? — you waited for his nod before lifting the lid. Nestled on a bed of black silk was a hairpin that made your breath catch.

It was both beautiful and deadly. The body was forged from the same darkened steel as his own weapons, honed to a sharp, functional point. But the end was a masterwork of delicate carving — a camellia in full bloom, crafted from white jade with a calyx of green.

“It’s... Moze, it’s stunning,” you whispered, tracing the intricate petals. Jade was known for its protective quality, and the camellia symbolised enduring love — the petals and calyx, representing woman and man, fell together, never to part. Long-lasting devotion.

“Jiaoqiu mentioned...” he began, his voice unusually stiff, as if reciting a report. “That a florist... should receive flowers too.” He met your eyes, and the raw, unguarded look in them stole the air from your lungs. “This one will not wilt, and it will protect you.”

Your heart swelled. This wasn’t just a gift. It was a vow. A promise of something permanent from a man whose life was defined by transience and shadow.

“Will you help me put it on?” you asked softly, your voice thick with feeling.

A slow nod. He guided you to face the mirror again, then gathered your hair. His calloused fingers brushed the back of your neck, sending a shiver through you. His brows were furrowed in concentration, treating the task with the same solemn focus he gave to his duties. After a moment of careful manoeuvring, he secured the twist. The white blossom stood in stark, beautiful contrast against your hair — a public declaration of a fiercely private promise.

His hands hovered for a beat before settling on your shoulders, his touch grounding. In the reflection, his violet eyes were intense, full of everything he rarely said.

You reached up, fingers curling over his, and leaned your cheek against his knuckles. “Thank you,” you murmured. “It's perfect.”

He bent down, his lips brushing the crown of your hair in a kiss as light as a ghost’s touch, yet as solid as a vow. For Moze, that single gesture said everything.

Bonus scene:

Later, you lay in bed with his arm around you, tracing idle patterns on his shoulder.

“Say... Moze?” you whispered, peeking at his face.

He grunted in response, a clear sign he was listening.

“Since when did you become a master of hairstyling?”

He coughed slightly, his next words muffled and gruff as he spoke into the crook of your neck. “...Jiaoqiu.”

The scene flashed in your mind: him standing behind Jiaoqiu, experimenting on the foxian’s pink hair while being teased relentlessly. You giggled at the image, and the arm around your waist squeezed a little tighter in a silent, playful warning.

It was rare for him to be caught off-guard, and you didn’t want to waste the opportunity. “Did you only want to give me something because Jiaoqiu mentioned it?” You feigned a pout.

A warm hand cupped the side of your face, tilting it to meet his gaze. “No. I wanted to give you something of my own accord.”

The quiet sincerity in his voice sent a wave of warmth straight to your heart. Flustered, you buried your head into his chest. His arm tightened around you, holding you fast. After a long, quiet pause, his voice rumbled against your ear, low and definitive.

“The reason was mine. The method... he just provided a suggestion.”

A sleepy smile touched your lips as you nuzzled into his chest. With a final, mumbled "Thank you, Moze... Good night," you pressed a kiss to his jaw and let sleep take you.

He waited until the rhythm of your breathing slowed, then pressed his lips to your forehead in a kiss that lingered. "Rest," he murmured into the quiet dark, the word a command, a blessing, and a promise all at once.

💌 thank you for reading ♥︎ I hope I’ve managed to capture his character properly here. He’s taciturn, but I don’t think he’s incapable of love and I feel like he’d express himself mainly through action. Maybe helping to clean (it’s mentioned that his hobby is bathing and cleaning up) and making sure his lover’s surroundings are safe. And for a gift, it would probably be practical too. A hairpin felt like the perfect bridge between his practicality and commitment. It’s a functional object that also serves as a weapon, which I think suits his nature. And the symbolism of a hairpin in Chinese culture felt like a beautiful way to tie everything together within the Xianzhou's inspired setting.

Please don’t repost, copy, or translate without permission.

© 2025 c-esquare. All rights reserved.

The night air was cool, the surroundings hushed, the stars splattered across the sky like paint on a dark canvas. It was a fitting end to the rare unburdened day, one where he had finally allowed himself to relax.

He was standing in front of the window — his usual, pensive expression gone. In its place was pure peace. The moonlight cast a gentle glow over his features, making him look almost ethereal. But that’s what he’s always felt like to you. A wonderful, fleeting dream you were terrified of waking up from.

His shoulders were devoid of their usual tension, and he released a quiet, content exhale. You walked up to him, absorbing his warm, steady presence. As you rested your hands on the windowsill, your fingers barely brushed his.

It was a simple, accidental touch, but it sent a jolt of warmth through you, quiet and deep. As if in response, your fingers curled slightly— an almost reflexive urge to pull away. You half-expected him to pull away, or to let the moment pass unremarked. But he didn’t.

Slowly, as if to avoid startling you, he slipped his hand closer, his fingers now deliberately brushing yours. It was a question. A tiny, silent confession in the dark. Your breath hitched, and you turned to meet his gaze. The peace in his eyes had softened into something more intense, focused entirely on you.

He shifted, his hand fully enveloping yours. His thumb drew slow, absent-minded circles on your skin, and the world narrowed to that single point of contact, to the mere inches between you.

“Come here,” he murmured, his voice a low hum that you felt more than heard.

As if hypnotised, you took half a step closer. He didn’t pull, but guided you, turning you gently to face him better. His free hand came up to cradle your jaw, his touch impossibly gentle. He was giving you every chance to retreat, but you were rooted to the spot, entirely captivated.

He leaned in, and the world slid into slow motion. You could feel the warmth of his breath, see the stars reflected in his eyes. He paused, a breath away, his gaze flicking to your lips and back up — a silent, final question. You raised your other hand to rest lightly on his shoulder, granting him permission and grounding yourself at the same time.

And then he closed the distance as your eyes slid closed.

It wasn’t a collision of hunger, but a slow, tender yielding. His lips were warm and soft, moving against yours with an unhurried rhythm that felt like a secret being whispered. It was a kiss that felt like coming home, like the final, lingering note of the day’s melody. He tasted of mint and tranquility, and you poured every unspoken feeling into your response, meeting his deliberate pace with your own.

Gently, his fingers laced with yours, the fit as perfect and natural as puzzle pieces clicking into place. The hand on your face caressed your cheek once, twice, and again.

When you felt slightly breathless, he pulled away, resting his forehead against yours.

In that moment, he didn’t feel like a dream you might lose, but a reality you were finally, completely allowed to hold.

Characters:

Blue Lock: Kunigami

Haikyū: Kageyama, Tsukishima

Wind Breaker: Suo, Umemiya

HSR: Dan Heng, Sunday

+ whoever you want

💌 thank you for reading ♥︎

Please don’t repost, copy, or translate without permission.

© 2025 c-esquare. All rights reserved.