The room was quiet.
Not the stillness of peace—but the tense, anticipatory kind. The kind that waits just before lightning strikes.
We had cleared the space in Wei Wuxian's outer chamber. Only a single oil lamp burned in the corner, its flame low and flickering. One thin strand of incense sent up a curl of sandalwood smoke that twisted lazily toward the ceiling.
Lan Wangji sat near the back wall, guqin already in place. Wei Wuxian stood beside him, arms crossed, gaze sharp but unreadable.
In the center, Shen Kexian and I sat facing each other, knees nearly touching, the floor beneath us layered with thick cushions to absorb the impact if one of us collapsed.
He extended his hand—palm up, steady, waiting.
I looked at it for a breath longer than I should have.
Then I placed mine in his.
Warmth spread instantly—not physical, but energetic. Like sinking into hot spring water, only it touched inside me. My chest, my ribs, something under my skin I didn't have words for.
Shen Kexian's gaze locked with mine, serious but unafraid.
Then he closed his eyes—and activated the array on his side.
What came next was nothing I could have prepared for.
Pain.
Pure, blistering spirit-deep pain—like molten wire had been pressed against my shoulder blade. I gasped, unable to contain it, my body arching slightly as a cry escaped my throat.
The agony radiated outward, sharp and unrelenting, and then—
It moved.
Spreading across my chest like wildfire. Burning through the connection, threading into my ribs, my lungs, my heart.
Tears slipped from the corners of my eyes before I even realized I was crying.
But just when I thought I might die from it, he was there.
Shen Kexian's power pulsed into me—warm and full, not in dominance but in steadiness. Like a second heartbeat layered under mine. He didn't try to stop the pain. He didn't smother it.
He held it.
And through that shared thread, I felt the truth of him—his discipline, his intensity, the sharp focus of someone who had learned to control pain rather than erase it. He poured it into me, carefully, like silk wrapping a wound.
Then, behind us, the first notes of Lan Wangji's guqin rang out.
Soft. Clear. A single melody line that shimmered like water over stone. Not loud. Not demanding.
It was anchoring.
The music moved in waves, curling around the burn in my chest. Wrapping it. Soothing it. Drawing it inward like it could make room for it without letting it consume me.
I shook. My hands trembled in his. My breathing was shallow, every inhale edged in fire.
But it was bearable now.
Because I wasn't alone inside the pain.
Because his presence was steady. And the music—Lan Wangji's music—threaded through my soul like light finding its way through smoke.
It felt like forever.
Time stretched, warped by pain and focus, like the world had narrowed to the burning thread between us. My body was drenched in sweat, my fingers stiff from gripping his hand like a lifeline.
Then—just as suddenly as it had come—the pain began to ebb.
First a flicker, then a slow receding tide.
I gasped softly, blinking through the haze of tears I hadn't realized were still falling.
The fire dulled.
The pressure lifted.
Across from me, Shen Kexian was still holding my hands, his brow slightly furrowed—not from pain, but concern.
He didn't let go.
"Are you alright?" he asked, voice low. "Take your time."
I wiped at my cheeks, tears still drying against flushed skin, and forced myself to inhale deeply.
I nodded once. "Let's get this done."
Then I turned to Ming Yu.
He wasn't even the one in pain, and yet—he looked like he was.
His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, his eyes storm-dark, jaw tight like he was fighting back every instinct not to intervene.
I gave him a soft, reassuring nod. Without words, he understood.
Now it was Shen Kexian's turn. For this—I couldn't do it alone. This wasn't pain I could guide him through on my own. I wasn't strong enough. Not in that way.
So I did what any rational, modern girl-turned-spiritual-vessel would do:
I prayed.
Lianshui, I thought, if you're listening, if you're in there, if you're not currently napping in some divine spirit hot spring—this is your cue.
Come out. Take over. Goddess up.
When Shen Kexian activated the array, it hit instantly.
His agony slammed into me like a shockwave—raw, unfiltered, impossible to brace for. It wasn't just pain. It was him, breaking open from the inside out.
And it was enough to wake her.
Lianshui surged forward—not like before, not gently—but all at once.
Her love for him poured out like a river bursting through a dam, rushing toward his wounded soul, wrapping around his pain with something deeper than comfort. Devotion. Pure and consuming.
I felt it flood my chest, thick and warm, and then—my arms moved without me.
They rose and wrapped around him, cradling his back as if I were trying to physically shield him from the pain tearing through his spirit.
I didn't do that.
She did.
I couldn't even bring myself to look at Ming Yu. Couldn't bear to see what this must look like from his side of the room. But I couldn't stop her.
Because the more Shen Kexian hurt, the stronger Lianshui became.
Her presence expanded, pressing outward through me, steady and overpowering. I couldn't feel my legs anymore. My spine felt like water. My breath wasn't even mine. It was hers.
Across from me, Shen Kexian gritted his teeth, sweat lining his forehead as his body shuddered through the worst of it. But he didn't cry out. He didn't fall.
He endured.
Lan Wangji's music threaded around him, notes like ripples moving through a storm, trying to hold the edges together.
And for a moment, it seemed like it was working.
But then—I felt it.
Something shifted. Wrong.
Not in him.
In me. In us.
My head—
I couldn't move it anymore.
It was like someone had poured stone into my spine. My limbs were no longer mine. My breath wasn't mine. My body wasn't mine.
She had taken full control.
Lianshui.
I tried to speak—to say stop, to say wait, to say something's not right—but my lips wouldn't move. My tongue wouldn't obey. The words died somewhere in my throat, buried under pressure I couldn't push through.
I was still there, still inside, but pushed to the back like a passenger on a boat that no longer needed my hands on the wheel.
Just as the pain dulled—just as the last line of the array burned itself into place—Shen Kexian let out a slow, unsteady breath.
He opened his eyes, his grip loosening on my hands as he leaned back slightly to look at me.
"Are you alright?"
No. No no no I am not alright.
But I couldn't say it. Because I couldn't speak. I couldn't even nod. Lianshui hadn't let go.
She was still in control—tighter than before. Her presence wrapped around me like silk soaked in water, gentle but suffocating. I screamed internally, tried to claw my way back to the surface of my own body, but she didn't yield.
I felt my lips part. I heard my voice say, soft and aching,
"Kexian…"
Not me.
Her.
And before I could stop it—Before I could even blink—
She leaned forward.
And kissed him.
My body—my mouth—moved on its own, lips pressing to his in something tender, reverent, and terrifying.
Holy crap. Holy crap.
What do I do???
I was screaming it inside my head, over and over, while my body—my actual body—was off somewhere kissing Shen Kexian like we were in some tragic, star-crossed romance that spanned centuries.
Shen Kexian froze.
For three full seconds, he let her kiss him—didn't move, didn't pull away. Just stayed there, stunned, like the weight of memory had fallen squarely into his chest.
Then, gently, almost reluctantly, he pulled back. Behind us, Ming Yu shot to his feet, the scrape of his chair sharp against the floor.
But Shen Kexian didn't react. He simply lifted a hand—calm, silent—a quiet signal for wait.
And somehow, Ming Yu did.
His fists were clenched, jaw tight, eyes burning. But he stayed where he was.
Shen Kexian looked at me again—really looked, something searching behind his eyes.
"Lianshui?" he asked, voice low. Gentle. Like her name alone might shatter me.
And then—my head moved.
She nodded.
Everyone in the room went still.
Wei Wuxian's smile was gone. Lan Wangji's hands hovered over the strings of his guqin, motionless.
"Lianshui," Shen Kexian said again, his voice barely above a whisper now. "You're… awake?"
She nodded slowly, eyes brimming with tears—my eyes, but not my tears—and they spilled over in delicate, silent streaks down my cheeks.