Chapter Text
Mo Ran had not slept. Not even for a moment.
The abandoned house was still dark, the lantern’s faint flame trembling in a small pool of dying light. Dawn hadn’t reached inside yet; it only brushed the cracks in the wood, thin silver lines creeping through the gaps.
Cold seeped into everything: Into the walls,into the floorboards, and even into the air.
But not into Mo Ran’s arms.
Because Chu Wanning was there.
Pressed against him, lying between his arms as if he belonged there, his breath warming the hollow beneath Mo Ran’s collarbone. His weight rested trustingly against Mo Ran’s chest. Mo Ran’s arm was still wrapped around his waist, the other braced lightly between his shoulder blades, steadying him each time he shifted or murmured in sleep.
Mo Ran told himself he kept holding him because it was cold. Because Wanning had been shaking.Because letting go might wake him.
But he knew better.
He didn’t want to let go.
He had spent the entire night awake, listening to every sound outside the house: the groan of wind pushing against rotten boards, the rustle of something moving in the underbrush, a distant animal cry. Every noise made him tighten his hold on Wanning just slightly, a protective instinct he swore he didn’t have.
Except he did.
He had held Chu Wanning through every tremor of the nightmare, through every broken whisper of fire and blood and falling skies. He had stroked a hand through his hair when his breath hitched. He had kept him anchored when his body jerked as if he were drowning.
Now Wanning lay still, completely peaceful and unaware.
Maybe too unaware.
Mo Ran looked down at him in the dimness. The soft rise and fall of his chest. The warmth of him. The calm that had finally settled into his features.
It made something in Mo Ran twist.
He shouldn’t be doing this; getting used to the weight of him, the feel of him, the softness that came only when Wanning stopped being the Oracle and simply became a person.
He wanted revenge. That was the truth hammered into every bone in his body.
Revenge for his people.
For his father.
For the lineage wiped out by the empire Wanning served.
And yet here he was, holding the Oracle like something he wasn’t willing to lose.
Mo Ran’s jaw tightened. He stared at Wanning’s face for a long time, letting the conflict coil inside him until it hurt. Wanning shifted slightly in his sleep, turning more toward him. His fingers curled faintly against Mo Ran’s bare skin, seeking warmth or comfort or safety—Mo Ran wasn’t sure.
But the touch burned through him.
He swallowed hard, heat gathering low and dangerous, nothing to do with desire and everything to do with instinct. The kind of instinct he wasn’t supposed to have anymore.
He reached up and brushed a lock of hair from Wanning’s forehead before he could stop himself. The gesture was too tender. Too familiar.
He hated himself for it; but even with that, he didn’t stop.
Time dragged, minutes stretching into long, silent breaths. The cold continued to creep through the cracks of the old house, but Mo Ran barely felt it. His focus was entirely on the man in his arms, on the faint twitch of his eyelids, on the slow deepening of his breath as waking slowly pulled at him.
Chu Wanning stirred.
Mo Ran’s pulse jolted.
Wanning’s fingers twitched first. Then his shoulders shifted. A faint sound caught in his throat, a slow inhale as consciousness chased away the remnants of sleep.
Mo Ran didn’t move. Not even to loosen his arm around him.
And then Wanning’s eyes opened: drowsy, unshielded, maybe too close. Their faces inches apart, the two of them basically breathing each other’s air.
The dying lantern flickered, casting warm, unsteady light across both of them.
Mo Ran held perfectly still, unable to look away.
Chu Wanning blinked once, then twice.
Realization settled.
Heat. Confusion.
Something raw and unguarded flashing in his gaze.
For several heartbeats he simply looked at Mo Ran, breathing quietly against his chest. He didn’t move, didn’t tense, didn’t remember to be careful.
He just looked. And Mo Ran felt all of it: the soft and hesitant fondness blooming unbidden like warmth under frost; then the desire, just a small flick, but unmistakable there. So quick Wanning might have convinced himself it hadn’t happened at all.
But Mo Ran saw it.
It hit him like a blow he hadn’t prepared for.
He had told himself he was imagining it before.
But this…This was real enough to make his breath stutter.
Wanning blinked, and the moment wavered. Confusion seeped into his gaze, as if he wasn’t sure what he was seeing in Mo Ran’s face, or what Mo Ran was seeing in his.
Neither of them spoke.
The silence thickened, heavy and fragile, filled with the warmth of shared breath and the memory of how Wanning had clutched at him during the night. Mo Ran’s heart beat too fast, too close to the surface, expression slipping between wanting to pull him closer and forcing distance between them.
He wondered, just for an instant, if Wanning could feel the tremor running through him.
Wanning swallowed, the movement small, his throat brushing Mo Ran’s collarbone. His lips parted, a quiet breath leaving him. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words didn’t come.
Mo Ran felt the tension coil tighter.
He shouldn’t be noticing this. He shouldn’t be wanting anything from him. He shouldn’t be letting this man, this Oracle, sink into his thoughts in ways that threatened his resolve.
But Wanning’s gaze stayed on him, warm and lost and painfully human.
Mo Ran felt himself sinking anyway.
Finally, Wanning wet his lips, voice quiet, still rough with sleep.
“Good… morning.”
The words barely broke the silence.
Mo Ran’s breath caught, just for a second. Wanning was still against him, still held by his arms, still close enough that Mo Ran could feel the heat of his skin through thin clothes.
He forced himself to answer, tone steady but softer than he intended.
“Good morning.”
And that was what finally broke the spell.
Wanning’s eyes widened slightly, as though the simple exchange suddenly reminded him of the reality of the position they were in. Heat swept across his face, blooming too fast for him to hide. He tensed and shifted, clearly mortified, clearly overwhelmed, clearly trying to regain the composure he’d misplaced somewhere between Mo Ran’s heartbeat and his own.
Mo Ran loosened his arm slowly, giving him room to move without making it feel like rejection.
Wanning gently eased out of his hold, movements hesitant, almost careful, as if afraid any sudden motion might snap whatever thin, delicate thing had settled between them overnight. He pushed himself upright, breath shallow, eyes darting away.
Mo Ran sat up as well, slower, hiding the brief ache of cold that rushed in the moment Wanning left his arms.
They didn’t speak. At least not yet. But something new hung in the space between them: something undeniable, something both dangerous and tender, something neither of them was ready to name.
Mo Ran lifted the shirt he had abandoned last night. The cloth was stiff in places where the blood had dried, dark stains marring the fabric. He didn’t put it on—he didn’t even try. He simply gathered it in one hand, fingers tightening around the ruined garment before looking back at Wanning.
“You were moving a lot last night,” Mo Ran said carefully, testing the waters. “Did you… dream?”
Wanning’s breath hitched.
His eyes lowered.
His posture shifted, subtle but unmistakable.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I… think I did.”
Mo Ran kept his voice even. “What kind?”
Wanning frowned, rubbing his temple lightly, as if trying to dislodge something that wouldn’t come loose.
“I don’t remember most of it,” he said quietly. “Just flashes. I can’t make sense of any of it.”
Mo Ran studied him closely, watching for even the smallest sign of recollection of the dream he had, of how scared he had been when he told Mo Ran about it. But there was nothing.
“And if I said anything,” Wanning added, voice tightening with embarrassment, “I don’t remember that either.”
Perfect.
Mo Ran exhaled slowly, letting the tension bleed from his shoulders.
“You didn’t say anything strange,” he lied with smooth ease. “Just restless.”
Wanning nodded, relieved but still flustered.
Mo Ran looked down at the blood-stained shirt in his hand, then deliberately shifted the topic.
“There’s a river close by,” he said, tone returning to its usual calm, controlled warmth. “I’m going to wash this.” He lifted the ruined cloth slightly. “If you want to clean up before we leave, you should come too.”
Wanning hesitated only a second.
“Yes,” he said softly. “Thank you.”
Mo Ran stepped toward the doorway, ducking slightly beneath the splintered frame. The morning light caught the lines of his bare shoulders and back, tracing every old scar, every burn mark. He didn’t look back, but he knew Wanning was watching.
“Come,” he said, steady and quiet. “I’ll show you the way.”
They stepped out into the pale morning light without speaking. The ruins lay quiet and brittle around them, the cold sinking into every crack and shadow. Chu Wanning followed a few steps behind Mo Ran, each step careful, controlled, though his mind was anything but that.
Mo Ran didn’t look back, but he felt him.
The steady footfalls.
The faint rustle of robes.
The lingering warmth of those moments in the abandoned house.
A warmth Mo Ran should not be thinking about.
He led them through a thin cluster of trees until the river revealed itself, dark and cold beneath drifting morning mist. Its steady flow broke the silence at last.
Mo Ran walked directly into the shallows, kneeling as he sunk his blood-stained shirt into the biting water. Red unfurled in soft swirls, carried away downstream.
Behind him, Chu Wanning hesitated at the riverbank.
Not long. Just long enough that Mo Ran noticed.
Wanning’s gaze flicked toward him, toward the broad line of his bare back, the muscles shifting beneath skin as Mo Ran worked the blood from the fabric. Realizing that Mo Ran’s shirt was still in his hands, still filthy, Wanning’s expression tightened with something like restraint.
Then, quietly, he stepped a little further from Mo Ran and turned his back.
His fingers moved to the ties of his robes.
He paused again.
Just a breath.
Just enough for his ears to tint red with embarrassment.
Mo Ran’s hand stilled on his shirt at the sound of it.
Wanning inhaled slowly, as if bracing himself, then untied the first knot. His robe loosened. He exhaled. The second knot. His shoulders tensed. The third. His breath hitched, almost imperceptibly.
He was not shy, even though he was inexperienced and had never been naked in front of anyone who wasn’t a maiden or a monk back when he was a kid; but being this exposed, with Mo Ran standing only a few paces away felt different.
It felt wrong. Or perhaps too right.
Fabric slid down his arms, soft and controlled, but his hands were faintly unsteady as he folded the robe and set it aside. Every movement was careful, deliberate, as if he feared making a sound that would draw Mo Ran’s eyes.
He stepped into the water quickly, almost gratefully, letting the cold swallow him before his own embarrassment could.
Mo Ran did not turn around.
But he heard everything.
The slide of fabric.
The shallow intake of breath when the cold water reached Wanning’s skin.
The faint, uncharacteristic awkwardness in every motion.
Mo Ran clenched his jaw and focused on the shirt beneath his hands, scrubbing it harder than necessary.
He shouldn’t be aware of every breath Wanning took.
He shouldn’t care this much.
He shouldn’t want...
Behind him, water rippled as Wanning moved deeper in, trying to gather himself.
“Is the water… too cold?” he asked, a carefully measured tone that couldn’t quite hide the fluster beneath it.
Chu Wanning didn’t turn.
“It’s fine,” he answered. His voice came out too low. “I can handle it”
Mo Ran dipped the shirt again, keeping his gaze fixed on the river. His shoulders tightened, fighting instincts he didn’t trust.
Behind him, Wanning moved again, the sound of water on skin sending something sharp through Mo Ran’s chest.
He didn’t have to look to know he would want what he saw.
And wanting Chu Wanning was the worst complication he could have.
After a few more minutes, Chu Wanning finished his bath. The cold helped him to steady his breath and to stop thinking about the lingering heat beneath his skin from waking up in Mo Ran’s arms.
He submerged once more, letting the river wash over him, then stepped out into the morning air. A shiver ran through him as droplets trailed down the curve of his spine. He reached for his robes hurriedly, fingers slightly clumsy, painfully aware of the man only a few steps away.
Mo Ran still didn’t look.
By the time Wanning finished tying the last knot, Mo Ran had wrung out the shirt as well as he could. Instead of hanging it to dry, he shrugged it back on, the fabric cold and heavy against his skin. It clung to him, damp and uncomfortable, but it would dry faster this way.
More importantly, it meant they could leave, and he needed to leave this river before he lost whatever control he had left.
Chu Wanning noticed him tugging the wet shirt into place. “You’re wearing it?”
“It’ll dry as we go,” Mo Ran said simply. “We shouldn’t delay.”
Wanning nodded, smoothing a stray lock of damp hair behind his ear. “Let’s return to the house.”
They walked back together in silence, the space between them filled with everything unspoken: Mo Ran’s awareness of every step Wanning took, Wanning’s lingering confusion at how raw everything felt in Mo Ran’s presence.
At the house, they gathered their belongings without a word. Dust settled behind them as if the abandoned home was relieved to see them go.
Outside, the horse waited patiently.
Wanning approached it, placing a steady hand on its neck. He hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, before mounting. A moment Mo Ran felt like a tug at his ribs.
Mo Ran took the reins, standing beside the horse, the wet shirt clinging to him, drying slowly under the rising afternoon sun.
“We should get moving,” he said, voice rougher than he intended.
“Yes,” Wanning replied quietly.
They set off down the road, side by side: one on horseback, one walking; both pretending the morning had been ordinary.Neither believing it for a moment.
Mo Ran walked beside the horse, keeping his eyes forward, refusing to let himself look at Chu Wanning again. Not after the river. Not after the way Wanning’s breath had hitched, the way his hands had trembled when he tied his robe, the way Mo Ran’s own heartbeat had refused to settle.
The rhythm of the horse’s steps was steady, almost soothing.
Almost.
“Are you cold?” Chu Wanning asked suddenly.
Mo Ran blinked. “What?”
“Your shirt,” Wanning said, eyes fixed ahead. “It’s still wet.”
“I’ve endured worse.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to.”
Mo Ran stopped walking for a heartbeat.
Something small and warm flickered in his chest, and he crushed it before it could grow.
“We need to reach shelter before nightfall,” he said. “Don’t worry about me.”
But Chu Wanning looked down at him with quiet, soft eyes, and for a moment Mo Ran wondered if the Oracle was seeing more than he meant to show.
Mo Ran looked away again and murmured, “Just… let’s go.”
They continued down the dirt road. For hours.
The sun dragged itself across the sky, slowly bleeding into orange, then red, then purple. The shadows grew long and thin. Their footsteps and the horse’s hooves left soft impressions in the dusty ground. Neither spoke. The tension between them was quiet but unmistakable, a weight that followed them like a second shadow.
Eventually, as dusk thickened, the outline of a settlement appeared.
A small town, with barely more than a cluster of buildings gathered around an old well. Lanterns glowed faintly behind shuttered windows. A few villagers looked up as they passed, eyes cautious and guarded.
Mo Ran scanned the street, jaw tightening.
“No inns,” he muttered.
Chu Wanning looked around as well. Every building was small, private, lived-in. No signs. No empty rooms. Just a quiet community that didn’t take in strangers at night.
“We could ask…” Wanning began.
Mo Ran shook his head. “No. They won’t take us in. And even if they would… it’s better if we don’t stay.”
Something in his tone made Wanning fall silent.
They continued through the town. No one approached them. No one offered shelter. They were watched, measured, and quietly avoided.
By the time they reached the last house on the far end of the road, true night had fallen.
Wanning let out a breath. “Then we keep going?”
“We’ll find something,” Mo Ran said. “Even if it takes until dawn.”
The horse snorted softly, as if weary, but Mo Ran placed a hand on its neck and whispered something low, something steadying. It calmed immediately.
Chu Wanning watched that small gesture, his expression unreadable.
The night air grew colder. The road ahead darkened, stretching into trees and deeper shadows.
They moved forward quietly with Mo Ran leading, and Chu Wanning high on the horse, both of them wrapped in the same fragile silence from before. But now, with the night swallowing the path and only the two of them alone beneath the sky, that silence felt heavier, charged enough to spark.
And their journey continued deeper into the dark.
They left the quiet little town behind, its dim lantern glow fading into the distance until it was nothing more than a faint memory against the dark horizon. The road narrowed further, flanked by tall grass whispering with the wind. Above them, the moon was thin and sharp, like a blade tracing the edge of the sky.
They walked for a long time.
Long enough that the air grew colder, long enough that the path vanished into a forest trail, long enough that Wanning’s legs ached from the rocking rhythm of the saddle. The trees closed around them, tall and dark and old, branches overlapping to form a canopy that smothered the starlight.
Finally, Mo Ran stopped.
“Listen,” he said softly.
Wanning held still. The forest was quiet, almost unnaturally so. No birds. No insects. Just the whisper of leaves shifting in the night breeze.
“We’re close to shelter,” Mo Ran said. “Follow me.”
He tugged the reins gently and guided the horse off the path, weaving between trees. Wanning had to duck low branches, the cold leaves brushing his hair as they pushed deeper into the forest. The moonlight barely reached through the canopy, and every step felt heavier, as if the shadows around them thickened with each pace.
Then Mo Ran stopped again, looking to the right.
“There.”
Between two massive boulders, half-hidden by vines and thick foliage, was the dark mouth of a cave. Not large enough to be a threat, not small enough to be useless. Just deep enough to shelter them from the wind and the cold.
Mo Ran moved aside and let Wanning see it clearly.
“It’s not comfortable,” he said, voice low, “but it will keep us warm. And safe enough.”
Wanning dismounted slowly, stretching his stiff legs. The closeness of the forest, the darkness, the long hours… everything weighed on him. He looked at the cave, then at Mo Ran.
“Did you know this place?” he asked quietly.
“No. I heard the wind change,” Mo Ran said. “There’s a hollow in the rock that shifts the sound. Most people wouldn’t notice.”
Wanning felt something flicker in his chest: surprise, respect and even admiration. Things that he quickly smothered to avoid thinking too deep into them.
Mo Ran lifted the saddlebag from the horse and slung it over his shoulder.
“Stay close,” he murmured.
Wanning nodded.
They approached the cave together, footsteps muffled by moss and fallen leaves. The air grew cooler near the entrance, but not unbearably so. It smelled of stone, damp earth, and a faint trace of old smoke; someone else had sheltered here once.
Mo Ran stepped inside first, scanning the interior. The cave wasn’t deep, just curved enough to offer shelter from wind and rain. He walked to the back, tested the ground with the heel of his boot, then turned to Wanning.
“This will do,” he said.
Wanning exhaled slowly, the long journey finally settling in his bones. He walked toward the center of the cave, brushing past Mo Ran without meaning to. The accidental touch was brief, barely a brush of sleeve against bare skin, but Mo Ran felt it like a spark down his spine.
“Sit,” Mo Ran said, quieter than before. “I’ll start a fire.”
Wanning hesitated, looking at him in the dimness, but then he nodded and sank slowly to the ground, exhaustion catching up with him at last.
Mo Ran watched him for a heartbeat too long before forcing himself to turn away and gather wood.
The forest outside rustled softly. The cave breathed back its silence.
The night closed in around them.
And the tension, quiet, fragile, unavoidable, settled with them like a third presence in the dark.
Mo Ran returned with an armful of dry branches, the faint sound of twigs snapping under his boots echoing lightly against the cave walls. He crouched near the entrance, arranging the wood with practiced hands. Sparks caught quickly when he struck flint to stone, and soon a small fire crackled between them, warm light painting the cave in soft amber.
Chu Wanning sat with his knees drawn slightly toward his chest, robes gathered around him. The fire cast shifting shadows across his face, making him look both impossibly young and impossibly tired. He watched Mo Ran in silence.
Mo Ran felt the gaze. He always did.
He fed another piece of wood into the flames and sat down across from Wanning, close enough to feel the warmth of him beneath the layers of cloth, but far enough to pretend it meant nothing.
For a while, they remained quiet.
The fire popped. The wind outside rustled the leaves. A soft breath escaped Chu Wanning, and Mo Ran looked up despite himself.
Their eyes met.
In the warm, flickering light, Wanning’s expression was softer than usual: curious, cautious, a little raw. It tightened something in Mo Ran’s chest. He looked away first.
Chu Wanning let the silence linger before speaking.
“Earlier,” he said quietly, “you knew there was shelter nearby. You said you heard the wind change.”
Mo Ran didn’t respond immediately. He kept his eyes on the fire. Wanning continued, voice still gentle, but edged with genuine curiosity.
“How do you know that? How can you tell when something like a cave is nearby just from the wind?”
Mo Ran’s hands stilled. For a heartbeat, he didn’t breathe.
He felt the truth rise like heat under his skin: something old, instinctive, a knowledge carried by a bloodline that no longer existed. It pulsed in him the way memory lived in bone, deeper than thought. But he forced it down, burying it in the dark where it belonged.
He forced a slow exhale.
“I traveled a lot when I was younger,” he said at last. “My father took me through the mountains often. He taught me how the air shifts near stone hollows. How sound changes when there’s an opening nearby.”
It wasn’t a lie… just incomplete.
Wanning listened. His gaze didn’t waver.
“You were very observant,” he said softly.
Mo Ran almost laughed. “Necessity makes people observant.”
“You mean survival,” Wanning said.
Mo Ran glanced at him, surprised at how easily he read the truth beneath the surface.
“Yes,” Mo Ran admitted. “Survival.”
The firelight flickered between them, warm and intimate.
Wanning shifted slightly closer without realizing it. Mo Ran noticed; he noticed everything… and his breath caught for a moment, shallow and quiet.
Wanning looked at him again, eyes reflecting the fire. There was a softness in them. Sympathy, empathy, something tender he didn’t know how to offer openly.
Mo Ran felt it like a touch.
Their gazes held a moment longer than either expected.
Close. Warm.
A little dangerous.
Wanning was the first to look away, but he didn’t move back.
The fire crackled again, filling the silence.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“For finding this place.”
Mo Ran studied him. The quiet sincerity of it.
The trust he hadn’t asked for, but somehow kept receiving.
“You’re welcome,” Mo Ran said, voice lower than he intended.
Wanning’s eyes lifted slightly, drawn by the tone, but he didn’t comment.
The silence between them shifted again; not cold, not tense, but charged with something fragile and unspoken. The intimacy wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was in the quiet glances, the soft breaths, the shared warmth in a cave far from anyone else.
Mo Ran looked at him through the firelight and thought, not for the first time: “This is going to ruin me.”
And he still didn’t move away.
Finally, Chu Wanning spoke again.
“I was twelve when they came for me.”
His voice wasn’t steady. It wasn’t cold.
It was quiet, soft in a way Mo Ran had never heard before.
Mo Ran lifted his head. “Who?”
“The emperor” Wanning said. “I don’t know who my parents were. Whether they gave me away or whether I was left somewhere. When I first began having visions as a child, the monks considered it a sign. A calling.”
Mo Ran leaned forward slightly, instinctively.
Chu Wanning didn’t seem to notice.
“By the time I understood anything at all, I was already living in the monastery,” Wanning continued. “They raised me. Strictly, but not unkindly. I was taught meditation, clarity, discipline, and silence.”
Mo Ran’s brow tightened. “Silence?”
Wanning nodded. “An Oracle must be an empty vessel. Clear. Unbiased. Untouched by emotion. They said feeling too much would interfere with the visions.”
“You were a child,” Mo Ran said, a dangerous softness in his voice. “You should have been allowed to feel something.”
Chu Wanning exhaled. It wasn’t quite a laugh, not quite bitterness.
“It was not cruelty. Just expectation. Purpose.There were others like me, other children with visions. I never saw them again after we grew older. We are separated once we are chosen. Too much contact is considered a distraction.”
Mo Ran’s jaw ticked.
“When I came of age, they sent me to the Emperor,” Wanning continued. “And there, too, I learned my place. Revered, but not known. Respected, but not seen. My duty was to interpret what the heavens showed me, whether people wished to hear it or not.”
His hands tightened faintly in his lap.
“The older I grew, the more the court stopped seeing me as a person. I became ‘the Oracle.’ A title. A tool. A holy instrument meant to serve.”
His voice dropped to almost nothing.
“Sometimes I wonder if there is anything of Chu Wanning left at all.”
“There is.” Mo Ran whispered
Wanning looked up, startled by the certainty in his voice.
“You’re not a vessel,” Mo Ran said quietly. “Not to me.”
Something raw flickered through Chu Wanning’s expression. A longing so carefully buried it barely had shape. He swallowed it down with visible effort.
“You don’t have to say that,” he murmured.
“I’m not saying it because I have to.”
Their eyes locked. Both of them motionless, both of them caught in something that felt perilously close to honesty.
Outside, the forest wind murmured.
Inside the cave, tension curled between them like a living thing, tender, dangerous, inevitable.
Two men, one hiding his nature, the other hiding his worth, sat facing each other, each already far more entangled than they should be.
The silence between them shifted, warmed, thickened.
Not uncomfortable.
Not exactly comfortable either.
Something in between, charged in a way neither dared name.
Chu Wanning’s eyes dropped first. He reached for his outer robe, sliding it around his shoulders with a quiet rustle. The motion brought him a little closer to Mo Ran, the cave too narrow to hold any real distance. When he tied the fabric in place, the back of his hand brushed Mo Ran’s knee.
He froze. Mo Ran did too.
For a heartbeat neither of them breathed.
Wanning withdrew his hand, but the movement wasn’t abrupt, just careful, composed, the way he had lived his entire life. He didn’t retreat. He simply folded that part of himself inward, smoothing the emotion before it could be seen.
Mo Ran watched him with a heavy tightness in his chest.
He’d seen Chu Wanning frightened. Reserved. Cold. Exhausted.
But this soft, startled embarrassment… he wasn’t prepared for it.
It made something inside him twist sharply, painfully.
It made him want.
And wanting was dangerous.
Chu Wanning spoke first, voice low. “We should… prepare for the night. It will get colder.”
Mo Ran rose to his feet. “I’ll check the entrance.”
He brushed past Wanning as he moved, his dry shirt whispering against the sleeve of Wanning’s robe. The faint contact sent a subtle tremor through Wanning’s body. Mo Ran noticed.
He wished he didn’t.
Wishing was dangerous too.
By the time he returned, Wanning had only shifted a little, adjusting his posture near the cave wall. Mo Ran sat beside him, close enough their shoulders nearly touched, leaving only the thinnest space between them.
Wanning didn’t move away.
The cave dimmed. The forest hummed beyond the entrance.
Their breaths mingled softly in the cold air.
It should have been peaceful, but it wasn’t.
Wanning tilted his head, watching him in a glance he probably thought subtle. He seemed on the edge of speaking, but hesitated, trapping the words in his throat. The restraint tightened something in Mo Ran’s chest.
“You should rest,” Wanning murmured. “You kept watch last night.”
Mo Ran blinked, surprised.
A soft, warm lie came before he could stop it.
“I slept enough.”
Wanning accepted it with a nod: trusting, without any suspicion, and Mo Ran felt a strange pull inside him. Something like guilt. Something like tenderness. Something he didn’t want to feel.
Chu Wanning leaned a fraction closer, instinctively seeking warmth. Not enough to touch. Just enough that Mo Ran felt the shift like a pull on his heartbeat.
He didn’t move.
Their shoulders brushed, a light contact, barely there, and the tension between them deepened, swelling in the quiet cave.
“Mo Ran…” Wanning whispered. Whatever he meant to say dissolved on his tongue.
Mo Ran turned toward him slowly, careful not to frighten him, to break the fragile air between them.
Their faces were close. Too close.
Wanning looked away first, cheeks faintly red. “We should sleep.” He repeated, as if he was trying to convince himself.
Mo Ran hummed in agreement, though something inside him resisted the idea of closing his eyes. Still, he shifted back just enough to let Wanning settle.
They remained side by side, their warmth shared in the cave’s cold breath, pretending not to notice the way their bodies aligned.
Wanning closed his eyes.
Mo Ran didn’t.
He stayed awake a while longer; watching the cave entrance, listening to Wanning’s breath steady beside him, feeling the weight of too many contradictions pressing against his ribs.
Outside, the forest exhaled.
Inside the cave, something fragile and dangerous exhaled with it.
A shiver passed over Wanning’s body, faint but unmistakable. Mo Ran noticed it instantly. He hesitated only a second before shifting even closer, close enough that the heat between their bodies gathered even more.
Wanning didn’t push him away. He didn’t even flinch.
Instead, after a long moment, he unconsciously leaned the smallest degree toward the warmth, as if gravity itself had pulled him.
Their arms touched softly.
Mo Ran’s heart throbbed once, hard.
“Are you comfortable?” He asked quietly, sure that Chu Wanning was not asleep yet.
Wanning’s response took a moment. “It’s fine,” he murmured, though his voice was soft in a way that suggested the opposite. “The nights are colder outside the capital. I had forgotten.”
Mo Ran swallowed. “You’re not used to this kind of travel.”
“No,” Wanning admitted. “I was never permitted far beyond the palace walls. And when I was, someone always prepared the way in advance. A sheltered path, a warm carriage, assistance…”
He trailed off, as if realizing how soft the confession sounded in the dark.
Another silence settled; comfortable now, warmer. Chu Wanning’s eyes remained closed. His breathing slowed. The tension in his body unwound gradually, as if being allowed to rest in someone’s presence was a foreign luxury.
He shifted again, unconsciously, and his head came to rest near Mo Ran’s shoulder. Not touching, but close enough that Mo Ran felt the ghost of heat.
“Mo Ran…” Wanning murmured, barely audible.
“Yes?” Mo Ran whispered back.
A pause.
Long enough that Mo Ran wondered if he’d imagined the sound.
“…Goodnight.”
Mo Ran closed his eyes for one slow second.
It hurt in a way he did not have a name for.
“Goodnight,” he answered.
Wanning drifted off first, his breath settling into a soft, steady rhythm. His features softened in sleep, the usual discipline slipping away, leaving something tender and unguarded.
Mo Ran stared at him far longer than he intended.
He told himself he was being vigilant.
Watching the cave entrance.
Making sure Wanning rested safely.
But the truth was quieter, tighter.
More dangerous.
The truth was that he couldn’t look away.
Only when the weight of exhaustion finally pressed behind his eyes did Mo Ran allow himself to lie back fully, still angled protectively toward the sleeping Oracle.
He closed his eyes.
Sleep crept in slowly, reluctantly.
And the last thing he felt was the warmth of Wanning’s presence, steady beside him in the dark.