No fear. Just the two of them.
Breathing the same cool air.
Holding the same warmth between them.
When dusk finally deepened, they built a small fire together. Their hands brushed over the flint, over the kindling. Poppy laughed when their fingers collided for the fifth time; Mingxi looked away, ears flushing faintly red in the firelight.
They slept close, not touching, but close enough that she felt his presence as surely as her own heartbeat.
The night passed quietly.
The world let them rest.
Chapter 62
Mingxi moved with his usual disciplined precision, securing their packs and checking the path ahead. Poppy tightened her cloak and slung the satchel over her shoulder, still glancing at him occasionally.
Every time she caught his eye, she looked away. Every time she looked away, Mingxi’s lips twitched—almost smiling.
They began walking. The forest was quieter, as if aware of the shift between them. Poppy’s steps were light but uneven on the rocky path. Mingxi noticed before she did.
“Your stance,” he said gently. “You’re leaning too much to the right.”
“I am?”
“You are,” he confirmed.
Without warning—but never without consent—he stepped behind her again, hands hovering just above her waist.
“May I?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
He guided her hips a fraction left and then centered her weight with small, precise motions. His breath warmed the crown of her head.
“Walking with qi alignment keeps your magic stable,” he murmured.
“You’re telling me walking wrong makes my magic worse?”
“It makes it unpredictable,” he said. “Which is worse.”
Poppy huffed a small laugh and straightened. Mingxi continued walking beside her, close but no longer touching. He tried to make his presence like a gravitational force—steady, warm, anchoring her steps.
They walked in companionable silence until the path narrowed between tall pines and uneven stone. Poppy tripped on a root, stumbling forward. Mingxi caught her elbow instantly, grip firm but careful.
“Careful,” he murmured.
Her cheeks reddened. “Maybe you should teach me how to… not trip over air.”
He stopped walking. “That,” he said seriously, “I can teach.”
She laughed softly.
He stepped in front of her, demonstrating the delicate Foxborn footwork—light steps, weight shifting from heel to ball, body relaxed but ready.
“This is how Foxborn move when our qi is active,” he explained. “Light. Centered. Balanced.” He looked up at her. “Try.”
She mirrored him, hesitantly at first. Her posture was too stiff; her shoulders were tense.
