“It is meant to be informative.”
“That’s your version of comforting.”
He felt the barest twitch soften the corner of his mouth, but then he shifted his weight, and something in him stuttered. A small wince escaped before he could stop it—quick, tight, immediately masked.
Poppy’s steps slowed. “You’re hurt.”
“I am functional.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“It is the answer most relevant to our goal.”
She stopped walking. “Mingxi.”
He took two steps more before halting, bracing against a truth he didn’t want acknowledged. When he turned, he held his left arm close to his ribs.
“The wound from the Winter Garden,” he said. “The confrontation with Lysandra reopened it. It stopped bleeding though.”
She stepped closer. “No. It didn’t.”
He stood rigid, jaw ticking once—a small, brittle fracture of control.
“Mingxi,” she said more gently, “you’re hurting.”
He looked away first, and he knew that, more than anything, told her she was right.
“My healing is… slow,” he admitted, voice low. “Slower than it should be.”
Poppy frowned. “I thought fox spirits healed fast.”
“Most do.” He was exhausted but tried to hide it. “But because my mother was human. Part of me still is. Mixed blood slows regeneration, especially after contact with death-magic.”
Her eyes widened a fraction. “But you have four tails.”
Her comment surprised him, but then he felt something like shame, and then something heavier.
“Yes,” he said softly. “But even four tails do not make me fully yaohú. Not in body. Not yet.”
“So you’re strong,” she said slowly, “just… not invincible.”
The faintest laugh escaped him—dry, self-deprecating. “Far from it.”
“And you’ve been pretending otherwise?”
His gaze lifted. “I did not want to worry you.”
“Well,” she said, voice tight but steady, “you are failing spectacularly.”
Something in him cracked—just a little. Enough to let truth slip out. “I did not want you to see me weak.”
A breath caught in her chest. Not because he was weak—but because he believed vulnerability made him so.
“Come here,” she said quietly.
He paused—just long enough for her to see the flicker of resistance, the instinct to retreat behind composure. Then, slowly, he stepped closer.
Poppy reached out, fingertips brushing the sleeve near his elbow. She tried not to be restraining—just anchoring.
