Mingxi knelt to start a fire. Poppy lowered herself onto a woven mat, pulling his cloak more tightly around her. She felt his attention flick toward her at the movement, the firelight reflecting in his eyes.
They ate quietly—rice congee with ginger and fox-root Mingxi had prepared with deliberate, skillful hands. She tried not to watch him. She failed entirely. Every time he reached for the pot or stirred the bowl, his sleeves shifted, revealing the carved lines of his forearms. She pretended not to stare. She also failed entirely at that.
When her flask ran dry, she sighed softly. Mingxi handed her his own without hesitation. She drank, grateful, and then froze as realization struck. Her lips had touched where his had been. Heat flooded her face. She nearly choked.
Mingxi went very still, eyes flicking to her mouth before quickly—too quickly—looking down at his hands. A sharp swallow moved down his throat.
They finished eating beside one another in silence that was no longer awkward, just warm and charged and aware. As the fire dimmed and the night deepened, Poppy drew her knees to her chest, shivering more from nerves than cold. Mingxi shifted closer. She didn’t think he noticed how much, but then she realized he did.
Their shoulders brushed—lightly and then again when neither moved away. Poppy stared into the fire. He stared at her. Neither spoke.
“Are you cold?” he asked softly.
“No,” she whispered.
But she didn’t move an inch, and he didn’t either. For the first time, the closeness wasn’t accidental. It wasn’t necessity. It wasn’t circumstance.
It was a choice.
The fire crackled softly between them, throwing sparks into the dark as Poppy leaned just slightly toward him—barely enough to count, but enough to shift the air.
Mingxi inhaled sharply. Not loudly—just enough for her to feel the warmth of it. If she leaned one inch more, if he turned one degree closer, they would cross something neither of them could come back from. But neither moved. Neither pulled away. So they sat shoulder to shoulder, breath mingling in the flicker of firelight, two hearts beating too fast and too close.
Poppy finally felt safe with someone.
Not safe because he was strong.
Safe because he stayed.
The fire burned low, golden light dancing across the hollow as night deepened. Poppy swayed with exhaustion, the warmth of Mingxi’s cloak and the steady presence beside her lulling her mind into a softness she didn’t recognize.
She leaned—hesitantly, instinctively—until her temple rested against his shoulder. Mingxi went still. Not uncomfortable. Not alarmed. Just… surprised. When she didn’t move away, he shifted minutely—barely a breath—giving her a steadier place to rest.
Her eyes fluttered shut.
Poppy didn’t fall fully asleep right away.
Her breath slowed, softened… but her mind lingered somewhere between waking and dreaming, the firelight brushing her face in flickering gold.
Chapter 59
Mingxi adjusted the cloak around her shoulders, careful not to disturb her, but she spoke before he could withdraw his hand. Very quietly. Barely a breath.
“I trained for nineteen years to kill them.”
Mingxi froze. Poppy’s eyes remained closed, her voice drifting like someone speaking from miles away.
“My parents,” she murmured. “Everyone thought I was grieving. Or fragile. Or broken.”
Her fingers curled weakly in the fabric of his cloak.
“But I wasn’t. I was waiting.”
Mingxi’s throat tightened, and Poppy leaned a fraction closer, temple brushing his shoulder.
“They hurt people,” she whispered. “They hurt me. Hurt my sister. Hurt… so many.” Her breath trembled, not with fear, but exhaustion. “I thought if I could destroy them… maybe I could finally stop feeling like a ghost in my own life.”
Mingxi’s heart twisted sharply.
