Because you nearly died for me. Because you saved me twice. Because you’re alone and you shouldn’t have to be. Because I care.
“Because you helped me,” she said simply. “Now it’s my turn.”
For a moment, he just looked at her—really looked—like he was memorizing the shape of her face in the fading light. And then, slowly, he nodded. A surrender. Not of strength but of fear.
She reached for him, and he didn’t pull away.
Poppy pushed the torn edge of his shirt higher, just enough to expose the swollen skin above the bandage line. Mingxi tensed, and she understood it was not from modesty, but pain. His breath stuttered through clenched teeth.
“It’s spreading,” she whispered.
Dark veins crept outward like ink bleeding beneath the skin—slow, but unmistakable. Not a normal infection. Not blood poisoning. Something colder, crueler, that pulsed in a sick, unnatural rhythm.
“Shadow-born wounds corrupt,” Mingxi managed, voice thin. “They’re meant to.”
“And you didn’t tell me that?”
“I didn’t want to frighten you.”
She gave him a look sharp enough to cut. “Too late.”
Her hand hovered above the darkened skin, unsure where to touch—afraid of hurting him, afraid of doing nothing at all.
“Poppy…” he murmured, eyes closing under the strain. “Don’t—”
But he didn’t finish. Because her fingertips brushed him. Bare skin to bare skin. A tentative touch meant only to steady him. It wasn’t tentative for long. The reaction was instant—a soft, silver pulse like moonlight trapped beneath her skin flaring to life.
Mingxi gasped—from something that stole the breath from both of them.
Poppy froze. “Mingxi? Did I… did I hurt you?”
His hand shot out blindly, gripping her wrist—not to pull her away, but to hold her there. “No,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Stay.”
She blinked, confused, heart pounding. “What’s happening?”
He swallowed, jaw trembling as the corruption under her touch seemed to… slow. Recoil. The black threading through his skin shivered and then pulled faintly inward, like ink being drawn toward a single point.
“Poppy,” he breathed, eyes opening—bright, fevered, disbelieving. “You’re purifying it.”
Her heartbeat faltered. “I’m what?”
His grip tightened—not painful, but desperate. “Moonborn magic… your kind could channel lunar threads into the body. But no one living has ever—”
He hissed as the silver pulse deepened.
Poppy panicked and tried to pull her hand back.
“Please, stay,” he said sharply.
She froze again.
“You’re helping me,” he gasped. “I can feel it. The corruption is… retreating.”
Her breath trembled. Very carefully, she let her hand settle fully against his skin, palm smoothing over the fever-hot flesh. Exposure minimal. Contact intentional.
The reaction intensified.
Not a flare of light, nothing grand or cinematic. Just a quiet, deep cooling, a subtle glow beneath skin, as if her touch were drawing out the poison thread by thread. Like moonlight soothing a burn from the inside out.
