“Loosen here,” he said, placing two fingers gently between her shoulder blades.
She nearly melted at his touch.
“And here,” he added, brushing her wrist.
He stepped back, letting her move.
Poppy took another step. Then another. The third step flowed—smooth, fluid, almost graceful.
Mingxi inhaled sharply. “You learn fast.”
“I have a very strict teacher.”
“Not that strict,” he said quietly.
Something unreadable flickered in his eyes. Something that said he’d seen many Foxborn try this. And fail. Or take years.
She took one more step—too abruptly—and nearly pitched forward again. Mingxi caught her waist this time, pulling her back against him. Her breath hitched. His didn’t, but his hands tightened a fraction before he let go.
“You’re improving,” he said, voice steady but lower than before.
“You’re distracting,” she muttered.
Mingxi blinked. “Me?”
Poppy could feel the heat rise to her cheeks. “Forget I said anything.”
They stopped at midday beneath an ancient stone outcrop draped in moss. Mingxi laid out a simple meal—steamed buns Minghua had packed, dried fruit, tea leaves he brewed into a small clay cup.
Poppy ate quietly, occasionally sneaking glances at him. After a long moment, Mingxi set his cup down.
“Are you ready?”
“For food?” she teased.
“For practice.”
Her heart stuttered. “Yes,” she breathed.
He stood, motioning her to join him in the cleared patch of mossy ground. “Start with breath,” he said softly. “Slow. Even.”
She inhaled deeply. Exhaled.
“Now movement.”
He stepped beside her—mirroring her this time, not behind or guiding. Their arms rose together. Their hands arced in unison. Her moonlight stirred.
“Good,” he murmured. “Again.”
They moved like two halves of a single shape—breath synchronized, hands tracing curves in the air, feet shifting lightly. A thread of silver light unfurled between her fingers again—brighter this time, more deliberate.
Mingxi stopped cold. “Poppy…”
She looked up, startled. “What’s wrong?”
“That.” He pointed at the light.
She frowned. “It worked, didn’t it?”
