He braided slowly, fingers confident and careful, weaving her hair into something elegant and soft. When he finished, he tied it with a thin strip of his own cloth.
Mingxi lifted the braid, letting it fall gently along her back.
“You should wear it like this,” he murmured. “It suits you.”
She turned her head slightly, and his face was closer than she expected—too close, too warm, his eyes molten amber.
“Mingxi,” she whispered, “this place… all of it… I never knew the world could feel like this.”
He reached out—hesitated—and let one finger trace the braid he’d made.
“You are seeing it as you truly are,” he said softly. “And perhaps… so am I.”
Poppy’s breath caught. They didn’t move. Not for a long time. As twilight deepened, Mingxi gathered fallen branches and coaxed a small fire to life. The flames crackled softly, painting the clearing in amber light.
Poppy hugged her knees, watching embers drift upward like fireflies.
“Is the moonwell frightening?” she asked quietly.
Mingxi paused, gaze reflecting the flames. “It is… honest.”
“Honest?”
“It shows you what you fear. And what you hide. And what you are.”
Her throat tightened. “What if someone doesn’t want to see those things?”
“Then they should not go to the moonwell alone.”
She looked at him. He did not look away. Warmth curled through her chest—soft, fragile, terrifying. The fire burned low.
Mingxi rose. “Rest. I’ll keep watch.”
She curled beneath her cloak, braid brushing her cheek, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breathing as the world faded into night. The last thing she felt was safety settling over her like a second blanket.
Chapter 58
The valley wind shifted around them, cool and gentle, as if holding its breath. Morning light spilled gold over the clearing. Mist drifted from the stream in soft ribbons, turning the water’s surface into a mirror of silver and shade.
Poppy stepped out between the trees and froze. Mingxi was at the water’s edge, shirtless, kneeling to fill his hands in the cold stream.
And he was… Good. Gods. Her brain didn’t supply words. Just sensations.
His back moved like liquid strength—lean muscle under sun-warmed skin, perfect lines shifting with every breath. When he straightened and turned slightly, Poppy made a sound. A tiny one. The kind that escapes before dignity shows up to stop it.
Because his torso… eight clean, brutal ridges ran down his abdomen, carved so sharply they looked inked on. Obliques cut across his hips in devastating, angled lines. His waist tapered into a V her eyes should not have followed but absolutely did. He was sculpted—lean, dangerous, impossibly symmetrical. No human looked like that without dehydration, starvation, or dark rituals.
Mingxi’s head snapped up at her soft gasp. “Poppy?”
She slapped both hands over her eyes. “Oh no. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to… ah… interrupt. Or see. Or… anything.”
He blinked, and then blinked again, as though her reaction confused him more than being half naked.
“You’re awake,” he said gently.
“You’re—” Her voice cracked. She cleared it and continued, “You’re not wearing a shirt.”
“Yes,” he said patiently. “I was washing.”
