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Chapter Text

The first time Chu Wanning saw Mo Ran, it was through the haze of rain.

He’d been fourteen, thin from years of half-meals and training that burned more energy than it gave, trudging down the mountain path with a basket of herbs. That day, the sect’s new Shizun had arrived— young, barely in his twenties, with a reputation already built on strength and cunning –Mo Ran.

The elders had sent the disciples to greet him. Chu Wanning had stood in the back, dripping rain from his hair, and watched as Mo Ran’s gaze swept over them once, twice— and then lingered on the boy standing beside him. Shi Mei.

Shi Mei, warm and open even in the cold, smiled shyly. Mo Ran’s answering smile had been brighter, warmer, more human than anything he would offer Chu Wanning in the months to come.That was the start.

The favoritism wasn’t cruel in the way that left bruises— at least, not on the body. It was the sort that settled quietly into the marrow, the sort you could almost convince yourself you were imagining.

If Shi Mei forgot to bow properly, Mo Ran would laugh it off. “You’ll remember next time,” he’d say, ruffling his hair. When Chu Wanning forgot, the correction was sharp, a lecture drawn out long enough that the rest of the class glanced at each other in pity.

In sword practice, Mo Ran adjusted Shi Mei’s grip with gentle touches and murmured instructions close to his ear. For Chu Wanning, corrections came curt and distant: “Too stiff. Try again.” No demonstration. No warmth.

Once, during a winter training session, snow began to fall heavy and wet. Chu Wanning’s gloves were soaked through; his fingers ached with cold. Shi Mei shivered beside him, and Mo Ran immediately pulled off his own scarf, wrapping it around Shi Mei’s neck with a teasing, “You’ll catch a cold if you’re not careful.” His gaze slid past Chu Wanning like he wasn’t even standing there.

The cold bit deeper that day, though Chu Wanning didn’t know if it was the snow or something else. He told himself it didn’t matter. A Shizun’s favor was nothing worth chasing. What mattered was skill, discipline, focus. So he trained harder, stayed later in the practice yard, repeated sword forms until his shoulders screamed. But even diligence couldn’t close the distance.

When assignments came, Shi Mei was given the lighter work— deliveries in town, herb gathering on sunny slopes. Chu Wanning was sent up dangerous ridges alone, to cliffs where one wrong step meant a broken body at the bottom. He never complained. Perhaps Mo Ran thought him capable of more; perhaps Mo Ran simply didn’t think about him at all.

The turning point— though Chu Wanning didn’t know it then —came in autumn, when the sect was tasked with clearing a trail of dangerous beasts. Mo Ran led, Shi Mei and Chu Wanning trailing behind.

It should have been routine. But the forest was thick with fog, the ground slick with fallen leaves. Somewhere ahead, a growl broke the stillness. They moved in formation.

The beast came fast— a dark blur with teeth. It leapt not for Mo Ran, but for Shi Mei. Mo Ran’s sword was up instantly, a flash of steel and blood. He shoved Shi Mei back, asking breathless if he was hurt.

Chu Wanning didn’t see the second beast until it was almost on him. He parried, but it was stronger, heavier. Its claws raked down his arm, pain blinding white. He staggered. “Shizun—!” he called, voice raw.

Mo Ran turned, eyes wide— but not in fear for him. Just shock, as though noticing him for the first time. The fight was over in moments, the beast dead, its body cooling against the earth.

Mo Ran went straight to Shi Mei again. “Are you sure you’re alright?” His hands brushed over Shi Mei’s shoulders, checking for injuries.

Chu Wanning stood there bleeding, the copper tang of his own blood sharp in his mouth, and said nothing.

He remembered little of the walk back, except the weight of his own steps and the steady pulse of pain in his arm. It was Shi Mei who noticed first when Chu Wanning faltered. “You’re hurt—!”

Only then did Mo Ran glance over, frowning. “Why didn’t you say anything?” Chu Wanning bit back the reply that trembled at the edge of his tongue— I did.

In the infirmary, Mo Ran’s hands were clumsy but careful with Shi Mei’s scratches, binding them neatly. For Chu Wanning, he gestured to the healer on duty and stepped back, as though the wound were not worth his time.

It was a small thing. All of it was made of small things. But small things, given enough years, became a wall.

The healer’s hands were brisk, efficient, and impersonal— exactly what Chu Wanning expected. He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling beams while the bandages were tied, ignoring the faint sting as salve seeped into the wound.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Mo Ran still sitting at Shi Mei’s bedside, leaning in to say something that made Shi Mei smile faintly despite the exhaustion. It shouldn’t have mattered. It was ordinary. Predictable. But when Chu Wanning rose to leave, Mo Ran didn’t even look up. It went on like that for years.

There were moments— rare, fleeting —when Mo Ran would correct Chu Wanning’s stance with a hand on his shoulder or a word of praise, and something in Chu Wanning would tense in surprise. But those moments always ended quickly, like a match snuffed out before it could catch.

And then came the day everything cracked.

It was supposed to be a simple mission, escorting a small group of villagers through a mountain pass plagued by bandits. Mo Ran led at the front, Shi Mei and Chu Wanning at the rear. The ambush was sudden. Crossbow bolts rained down from the cliffs; men in dark leathers charged.

Chu Wanning moved instinctively, blade up, cutting down the first attacker before he could reach the nearest villager. He caught sight of Shi Mei struggling against two opponents at once— and just beyond, Mo Ran charging to his aid.

“Shizun—” Chu Wanning’s voice broke across the chaos.

One of the bandits had a blade raised high over Chu Wanning’s head. There wasn’t time to parry.

Mo Ran glanced back— just for a heartbeat. Then his gaze shifted back to Shi Mei.

Chu Wanning twisted aside on his own, catching the edge of the strike along his ribs. Pain ripped through him; his vision swam. But his feet held, his sword moved, and the man went down.

By the time the last bandit fell, Chu Wanning’s robes were soaked through on one side. He stood, breathing hard, waiting— not even sure for what. An apology? A word of recognition?

Instead, Mo Ran went to Shi Mei, checking him over with visible relief. Chu Wanning stood there alone, blood dripping into the dust.

That night, the wound reopened while they made camp. Chu Wanning turned away from the firelight, trying to staunch the flow with a strip of cloth.

“Wanning?” Shi Mei’s voice was soft, worried. “You should let Shizun—” “No.” His tone was sharper than he intended. Shi Mei hesitated. “…You know he cares about you too, in his own way.” Chu Wanning almost laughed at that. But the sound caught in his throat, bitter.

The break came two days later, back at the sect. Mo Ran called Chu Wanning into the training yard, expression unreadable.

“You were reckless,” he said without preamble. “That wound could’ve been avoided if you’d stayed in formation.” A dozen retorts rose in Chu Wanning’s mind, each sharper than the last. Instead, he only said, “If I had, the villagers would be dead.”

Mo Ran’s brow furrowed. “That’s not the point—” “No,” Chu Wanning cut in, surprising even himself with the force in his voice. “The point is you’ve never trusted me. You’ll risk yourself for Shi Mei without a thought, but for me—” He stopped, the rest lodged like glass in his throat.

Mo Ran’s expression shifted — not anger, but something more dangerous: confusion, as if the thought had never crossed his mind. “I—” Mo Ran began, but Chu Wanning had already turned away.

It was easier, after that, to keep his distance. If Mo Ran noticed, he didn’t say. It would have stayed that way— cold, distant, unfinished —if not for what happened on the winter hunt.

Snow muffled the forest into stillness, broken only by the crunch of boots and the occasional whisper of a bowstring being drawn. The winter hunt was an annual duty, culling the beasts that crept too close to the villages during the lean months.

Chu Wanning walked a few paces ahead, every sense sharpened. His breath fogged the air, white against the bare branches. Behind him, Mo Ran and Shi Mei spoke in low voices.

The silence between Chu Wanning and Mo Ran had stretched for weeks now— taut, brittle.

They came upon the beast’s lair at dusk. The tracks were heavy, clawed, leading into a hollow where frost clung thick to the stone. Inside, the air smelled of iron.

It struck fast — a blur of fur and fangs.

Chu Wanning moved first, sword flashing. The creature slammed into him with the weight of a boulder, driving him back into the snow. His ribs screamed in protest. He rolled aside just in time to avoid teeth at his throat.

Mo Ran’s blade came down hard on the beast’s flank, drawing a howl. Shi Mei darted to the side, losing an arrow that buried itself in the creature’s shoulder.

But it was fast— faster than any of them expected. It whirled, tail lashing, and in one brutal motion knocked Mo Ran to the ground. The claws raked across his side, leaving red blooming on white.

Without thinking, Chu Wanning stepped between them. The world narrowed to the beast’s yellow eyes, the stink of its breath, the bone-jarring clash of fangs against steel.

It was only when his sword bit deep into its neck and the thing collapsed that he realized how much blood was soaking his own robes.

“Wanning—” Mo Ran’s voice was sharp now, raw with something that sounded like panic. He was already pushing himself up, ignoring his own wound, reaching for Chu Wanning’s arm.

“Don’t—” Chu Wanning tried to step back, but the ground tilted beneath him. He would have fallen if Mo Ran hadn’t caught him.

They made it back to camp, but the snow was falling harder, and the healer wouldn’t reach them until morning. Mo Ran insisted on binding the gash himself.

“You’re still as reckless as ever,” Mo Ran muttered, though his hands were steady. Chu Wanning said nothing, jaw tight against the sting.

After a moment, Mo Ran’s voice dropped, quieter. “…You were right. That day in the mountains. I didn’t trust you. I— I didn’t even think about it. I just…” He swallowed, fingers pausing at the knot of the bandage. “I always thought you were strong enough to handle yourself. Stronger than me. Stronger than anyone. But that’s not an excuse. I left you to fight alone.”

The confession hung between them, heavy as the snow-laden branches overhead. Chu Wanning didn’t answer immediately. His pulse was loud in his ears, but not from the pain.

“You see Shi Mei as someone to protect,” he said at last, voice low. “You’ve never seen me that way.” “I do now,” Mo Ran said, and there was something in his tone— raw, certain —that made Chu Wanning finally meet his eyes.

They were close enough for Chu Wanning to see the flecks of gold in Mo Ran’s dark irises, the tight set of his mouth. And for the first time in years, he believed him.

The snowstorm kept them trapped for two days. They spoke little at first, but there was a new ease in the silences— not the brittle, breakable quiet from before, but something warmer.

On the second night, Mo Ran stirred the embers of the fire and said, almost without looking up, “I don’t want it to be like before. I don’t want you to think I’d ever choose anyone over you again.” Chu Wanning didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t. But the next morning, when they broke camp, he walked beside Mo Ran instead of ahead. It was a small thing. But Mo Ran noticed, and he smiled, just enough for the cold to feel less sharp.

By the time they returned to the sect, the snow was melting from the roofs in slow, dripping rivulets. The great gates loomed familiar, but the walk through them felt different— as if something had been left behind in the forest.

The disciples who saw them returning barely hid their surprise. Chu Wanning’s robes were torn, Mo Ran’s side was bandaged under his sash, and yet both of them carried themselves with an ease that hadn’t been there in months.

Shi Mei excused himself at the gates, offering to inform the elders about the hunt’s outcome. Mo Ran had been about to follow, but then he glanced at Chu Wanning— who was already walking toward his quarters without a word — and changed his mind.

He caught up with him halfway up the steps.
“You should rest,” Mo Ran said.
“I intend to.”
“I mean—” Mo Ran’s voice softened. “I’ll bring you something to eat later.”

Chu Wanning stopped, his hand on the rail. The last time Mo Ran had offered him anything, it had been an order to drink bitter medicine after an injury Mo Ran barely acknowledged. Now, the words were gentle.

He didn’t look back. “Do as you like.”

That night, the knock on his door came just as the lanterns were being lit along the outer walkways. Mo Ran stepped in without waiting for an answer, balancing a tray with two bowls of steaming noodles. He set it down on the low table, and for a moment they ate in silence. The broth was rich, fragrant with ginger and scallion.

Halfway through the meal, Mo Ran said quietly, “I’ve been thinking about… before.” Chu Wanning’s chopsticks paused.

Mo Ran didn’t look at him. “I was awful to you. Not just because I didn’t trust you that day, but… for years. I let my own grudges decide how I saw you. Every sharp thing you said, I kept it in my chest like proof you hated me. I didn’t bother to see anything else.”

“You weren’t entirely wrong,” Chu Wanning said, though the words lacked their usual edge. “That doesn’t excuse me,” Mo Ran said. His voice was rough now, his head still bent over the bowl. “I think I started—” He hesitated. “I think I started liking you before I even realized I respected you. And that scared me. So I made it easier to pretend it was hate.”

Chu Wanning looked at him then, really looked— at the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curled loosely around the ceramic bowl like he was holding onto it for steadiness. “You’re a fool,” Chu Wanning said at last. Mo Ran huffed a breath that might have been a laugh. “Yeah. But I’d like to be your fool, if you’ll let me.”

Spring crept in slowly, thawing the frozen ponds and pushing green shoots through the soil. The days grew longer, the winds softer. On a quiet afternoon, they stood together on the veranda, watching the plum blossoms scatter in the breeze.

Mo Ran leaned lightly against the railing. “I don’t think I ever told you what it meant to me, that you stepped in front of that beast.” “You would have done the same,” Chu Wanning said simply.

“Maybe now. But before… I’m not sure. I’m glad you didn’t give me the chance to find out.” The corner of Chu Wanning’s mouth lifted, just slightly. “You talk too much, Shizun.” Mo Ran grinned, unoffended. “Maybe. But if I didn’t, you might never know what I’m thinking.” “Perhaps I prefer it that way.” was what Chu Wanning thought, but didn't voice out loud.

They stood in comfortable silence for a while longer, the air scented with plum and sun-warmed wood. And though neither reached for the other, the space between them felt full— not with words unsaid, but with something steady, something that would hold.

Chapter Text

The first time Mo Ran ever thought of himself as a “Shizun,” he almost laughed out loud. Him. Restless, sharp-tongued, petty over the smallest things, standing in the role of a teacher. The title felt heavy, awkward on his shoulders, but when the elders lined up the students to introduce themselves, something softened the weight slightly.

“You’ll be training under me from now on,” Mo Ran said, voice sharper than he intended. “Step forward and tell me your name, age, and your current level of experience.”

One by one, the students stepped forward. A tall, broad-shouldered youth said his name and age—nineteen—and explained his previous sword training with calm confidence. Another, shorter and more delicate-looking, offered a soft smile as he gave his own age—eighteen—and spoke of his experience in herbal studies and light combat.

Mo Ran listened, noting the small things that set them apart. The tilt of the head, the steadiness of their hands, the way one’s gaze flickered with curiosity, another with caution.

When the line was finished, two stood out. The first, warm-eyed and easy, offered him a bright smile that made him pause. He repeated his name softly for Mo Ran’s benefit, voice quiet but steady. The second was cold, distant, with a stiffness in posture that suggested pride, though he answered politely and clearly, betraying a quiet self-discipline.

It wasn’t intentional at first, but Mo Ran found himself giving most of his attention to the first one, whose name he now knew. Shi Mei. Warm, thoughtful, unafraid of him. He adjusted his own robe, listened attentively to Shi Mei’s questions, and nodded at each small achievement.

The other, Chu Wanning. He kept at a measured distance. Cold, precise, disciplined. He didn’t smile easily, didn’t seek approval, didn’t lean on him. Where Shi Mei radiated warmth, Chu Wanning carried a quiet, almost imperceptible tension.

Believe him, it wasn’t intentional at first.

He told himself it was only natural. Shi Mei smiled at him, asked thoughtful questions, and always had a lopsided smile no matter what the circumstance. Chu Wanning just stared like he was always on the verge of calling Mo Ran an idiot.

So, bit by bit, the imbalance grew.

When Shi Mei stumbled during sword drills one afternoon, Mo Ran immediately called for a break. He crouched beside him, steadying Shi Mei’s wrist. “Careful,” he said, smiling a little. “You’ll strain your grip like that. Here–” His hand lingered a moment longer than necessary, adjusting Shi Mei’s fingers around the hilt with painstaking gentleness.

Across the courtyard, Chu Wanning stood where he had been for the past half hour, his stance perfect but his hair sticking to his temples with sweat. Mo Ran didn’t call for him to rest. And he saw the flicker in Chu Wanning’s eyes. Not exactly hurt, but something brittle, as if he’d just remembered that fairness wasn’t something to expect.

It became a habit.

He’d pour Shi Mei’s tea before his own, and leave Chu Wanning to serve himself. He’d correct Shi Mei’s mistakes with patience, but when Chu Wanning slipped, Mo Ran’s words were clipped, almost dismissive. And every time, Shi Mei’s eyes darted toward Chu Wanning with something unreadable. Pity? Guilt? Mo Ran didn’t bother thinking about it.

One day, the three of them were sent to handle a minor night-hunt outside the city. It was nothing serious. A restless spirit in the abandoned granary— However, the storm made it hell. Rain pelted down, wind slicing through their cloaks. By the time they’d finished, all three were soaked.

Mo Ran noticed Shi Mei shivering, teeth chattering. Without hesitation, he shrugged off his own outer robe and draped it over Shi Mei’s shoulders. “You’ll freeze,” he said. “Stay close.”

When he turned, he caught sight of Chu Wanning wringing water from his sleeves, his lips faintly blue. Mo Ran opened his mouth, but the words stuck. The wind howled, Shi Mei murmured a quiet “thank you,” and Mo Ran said nothing.

Later that night, when they stopped at an inn, Chu Wanning’s hands were trembling so badly he nearly dropped his bowl of rice. He excused himself without touching the food. Mo Ran watched him go, frowning, but not following.

Shi Mei, however, set down his own chopsticks and stood.

“I’ll check on him.”

It was a week later when Mo Ran overheard them.

He’d gone looking for Shi Mei, meaning to discuss the upcoming training schedule, but stopped just outside the library.

“…you don’t have to defend me,” Chu Wanning was saying quietly.

Shi Mei’s voice was softer still. “I’m not defending you because I pity you. I just– I like you, Wanning. I wish he’d see you the way I do.” Mo Ran froze.

The words landed like a slap, because he knew without being told who “he” was. And in the long, aching silence that followed, he could picture it too vividly— Shi Mei’s hand maybe brushing Chu Wanning’s, the faint pink in Chu Wanning’s ears.

The next breath felt heavy.

That night, he lay awake replaying every small choice he’d made. Every tea he poured for Shi Mei first. Every correction that came with a smile for one and a cold edge for the other. Every moment he’d told himself it didn’t matter because Chu Wanning didn’t seem to care.

He thought of that first day as Shizun— of how he’d wanted his disciples to respect him. And now, looking back, he realized Chu Wanning had given him that respect from the start, quietly, without praise or flattery. And Mo Ran had answered it with neglect.

Somewhere in that slow reel of memories, the guilt curled into something else— something warmer, sharper. Because when he pictured Chu Wanning, it wasn’t his cold mask he saw. It was the rare softness, the unguarded look he’d glimpsed only in fleeting moments.

When did that start to matter so much?

The shift wasn’t immediate.

Mo Ran began with small things. Pouring Chu Wanning’s tea before Shi Mei’s once or twice, offering to spar with him directly instead of always pairing him off. The first time he draped a cloak over Chu Wanning’s shoulders on a windy night, the man blinked at him like Mo Ran had grown a second head.

“I’m not freezing,” Chu Wanning muttered. “Yeah, well,” Mo Ran said, scratching the back of his neck, “doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be warm.”

Shi Mei noticed, of course. One evening, as they packed for another hunt, he caught Mo Ran’s gaze and gave a faint, approving smile.

The real breaking point came during a fierce fight with a rogue cultivator. Chu Wanning had taken a heavy blow shielding Shi Mei, and though he insisted he was fine, blood stained the edge of his sleeve.

Mo Ran didn’t think, just crossed the distance and grabbed his arm.

“Are you insane?” His voice was sharp, but his grip was gentle as he inspected the wound. “You could’ve been killed—”

“Better me than him,” Chu Wanning said flatly. Mo Ran’s chest clenched.

Later that night, when the adrenaline had worn off, Mo Ran found him on the terrace, leaning against the railing to watch the moon.

“I’ve been—” Mo Ran hesitated, then pushed on. “I’ve been a crap Shizun to you.” Chu Wanning didn’t answer. “I kept telling myself you didn’t need kindness, that you’d rather be left alone. But that was just me making excuses.” He swallowed. “You deserved better.” Still no answer, but the tension in Chu Wanning’s shoulders eased.

“And I…” Mo Ran exhaled, the words almost too heavy to lift. “I like you. More than I should’ve let happen without saying anything. And if Shi Mei—” He broke off, guilt twisting his stomach. “If you like Shi Mei, I’ll—”

“I don’t,” Chu Wanning said quietly.

Mo Ran blinked.

“I never have.”

And just like that, the air shifted— lighter, warmer, threaded with something steady.

When they walked back inside, Shi Mei caught Mo Ran’s eye and gave him a small, knowing nod. As if to say he’d known this ending all along.

Mo Ran thought of that day in the library, of Shi Mei’s quiet confession, and realized it had never been about claiming Chu Wanning for himself. It had been about making sure someone finally saw him. And Mo Ran intends on seeing him. Always.

The days after the confession were quieter than Mo Ran expected. Nothing exploded, nothing changed instantly, but the air between him and Chu Wanning felt… different. Not dramatically so, no grand gestures, but the shift was tangible.

For the first time, Mo Ran noticed Chu Wanning in small, unguarded moments. The slight hesitation before drawing his sword, the faint tension in his shoulders that eased when Mo Ran lingered nearby, the way his lips twitched as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words.

Mo Ran began with minor, deliberate gestures. A cup of tea, poured exactly how Chu Wanning liked it. A cloak draped over his shoulders on chilly mornings. Corrections during training softened, not in tone, exactly, but with careful attention. When Chu Wanning made a mistake, Mo Ran knelt beside him, adjusting his grip, murmuring advice in a measured, patient voice.

Chu Wanning’s reactions were… unexpected. He shifted uncomfortably, his ears reddening at even the smallest gestures. A hand brushed over his arm to correct his stance, and he would stiffen for a moment before managing a hesitant, “Th-thank you,” his voice low, almost lost under the rustle of wind or the clink of swords. His eyes, usually so steady, flickered nervously, darting away when Mo Ran looked too intently.

Mo Ran noticed it all, every flicker, every blush. The first few times, he simply adjusted his attention, holding back a small urge to step closer or linger longer, realizing that Chu Wanning’s shyness wasn’t meant to be overcome at once.

It was in these moments—watching Chu Wanning quietly accept Shi Mei’s presence, the small difference he showed in conversation—that a new, subtle tension began to stir in Mo Ran’s chest. Not anger, not irritation, but a possessive awareness, a quiet need to be the one Chu Wanning relied on, the one he noticed. He didn’t act on it with harshness or sharp words. He simply let the awareness settle, a pulse of something private, something tender, every time his gaze fell on Chu Wanning.

Shi Mei, ever perceptive, observed quietly.

One evening, as they returned from a long training session, he inclined his head respectfully, voice low: “I… I’m glad, Shizun. That you’re treating Wanning as he deserves.”

Mo Ran’s chest tightened, not from the words, but from the way Chu Wanning’s ears turned pink at Shi Mei’s remark, the faint downward glance, the awkward shift of his weight. He said nothing in return, only followed them quietly, his gaze lingering on Chu Wanning more than was strictly necessary.

Training sessions changed. Mo Ran paired Chu Wanning with himself more often, offering direct guidance rather than leaving him to practice alone. He lingered close, his corrections gentle, his touches brief but deliberate. Enough to show attention, not to overwhelm.

Each time Chu Wanning’s gaze flickered up, shy, uncertain, Mo Ran’s chest tightened. The faint blush, the nervous swallow, the small adjustments he made to hide his fluster. It all made Mo Ran’s usual temper curl into protective, tender attentiveness.

Evenings became more intimate in subtle ways. Mo Ran would linger nearby while Chu Wanning reviewed texts or polished blades, quietly watching, occasionally reaching out to straighten his posture or brush a lock of damp hair from his forehead. Chu Wanning flinched at first, stiff and tense, but gradually, the flinch softened into a faint, awkward smile, the blush lingering.

Chu Wanning’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he shifted slightly, avoiding Mo Ran’s eyes, but the faint twitch of a smile betrayed his gratitude. Mo Ran caught it, heart skipping.

Shi Mei remained close, always respectful, always warm. He spoke softly when needed, never overstepping, often serving as a gentle observer rather than a participant. Mo Ran’s attentiveness toward Chu Wanning didn’t diminish his care for Shi Mei—it only reshaped it.

Where he once unconsciously favored Shi Mei, now he balanced the scales, making sure Chu Wanning received the same, if not more, attention.

The real test came during a hunting expedition. A rogue beast charged suddenly, and Mo Ran, without thinking, shielded Chu Wanning first, positioning himself so that the attack would land on him rather than the other. Chu Wanning’s eyes widened, ears reddening, lips parting in a small gasp. Relief flickered across his features before he ducked instinctively.

Later that evening, the snow melting under their steps, Chu Wanning walked slightly ahead. Mo Ran fell into step beside him, careful not to touch, but close enough for his warmth to brush against him.

“You’ve… been different,” Chu Wanning said quietly, voice small, hesitant, eyes flicking up briefly. “I—uh… thank you.”
Mo Ran’s chest tightened, a subtle, possessive warmth spreading. “It’s my job,” he replied, but his gaze stayed firmly on Chu Wanning, noting the faint pink creeping across his cheeks.

Chu Wanning turned his head just slightly, swallowing nervously, unsure how to meet Mo Ran’s eyes. The awkwardness, the shyness, the faint blush. It all made Mo Ran’s heart clench, a new tenderness growing with every small, shy motion.

From then on, Mo Ran’s attentiveness became deliberate, conscious, and unshakable. Every training session, every quiet moment, every shared task became a chance to show care. Chu Wanning, shy and awkward, gradually grew accustomed to it, the blushes softening into tentative smiles, the stiff posture loosening ever so slightly.

And Mo Ran? He kept a watchful, protective eye, alert to the smallest flicker of attention Chu Wanning gave anyone else, quietly aware of his own rising affection, but never acting in haste.

Balance had returned, but this time, it was measured, deliberate, threaded with warmth—between two hearts that had waited too long to see each other clearly.