The morning sun filtered over the training grounds, scattering pale light across the cobblestones and the well-worn practice areas. Nie Xiaohuan moved with precise, fluid motions, guiding other buddy disciples through the intricacies of sword control, while Roulan demonstrated the techniques alongside him. The rhythm of strikes, blocks, and stances filled the air, punctuated by the occasional clang of wooden swords.
Shen Lianxiu stood off to the side, holding his own wooden practice sword, mimicking the motions with careful attention. Yet every now and then, his gaze flickered toward Xiuyuan, who watched silently from the edge of the courtyard, his presence calm, composed, and impossible to ignore.
Lianxiu stiffened at each glance, ducking his head, adjusting his stance unnecessarily, and focusing obsessively on every movement of his sword. He couldn't meet Xiuyuan's eyes — not since last night — and the weight of guilt pressed heavy against his chest.
"Concentrate on your form," Nie Xiaohuan instructed, his voice calm but sharp, catching Lianxiu's distracted movements. "Don't let your attention wander."
"Yes… yes," Lianxiu muttered under his breath, the word leaving a faint blush across his cheeks. He swung his wooden sword with exaggerated care, imagining it was his focus alone keeping him grounded.
Roulan shot him a quick glance. "You're trembling," she said quietly. "Relax, or you'll hurt yourself."
"I… I'm fine," he whispered, lowering his head further, gripping the sword with just a hint too much tension.
All around him, the other disciples moved in rhythm, the sounds of practice echoing off the walls. Lianxiu kept his distance from Xiuyuan, ducking slightly whenever the senior's gaze wandered in his direction. Every measured step Xiuyuan took was a reminder of the closeness they had shared — a closeness Lianxiu simultaneously longed for and feared.
Later, in the theory hall, Wen Yao and Mu Yichuan's lecture filled the room. Scrolls, diagrams, and carefully written talismanic formulas covered the tables, their subtle energies humming faintly in the air. Lianxiu sat at the edge of the room, fingers fidgeting lightly with the strap of his satchel, eyes trained on the text — though he could barely focus.
Whenever Xiuyuan's shadow moved across the room — adjusting robes, observing the lecture with his usual calm focus — Lianxiu ducked his gaze, nodding quickly if spoken to, but never daring to meet the his eyes directly.
"Concentrate on the symbols," Wen Yao's voice echoed gently. "Understand the underlying principle, not just the words. Only then will your binding be precise."
Lianxiu repeated the mantra in his mind, each syllable a reminder to focus, to maintain control. And yet, beneath it all, his heart beat rapidly with the memory of last night, the stolen kiss, and the warmth of Xiuyuan's presence.
Even as the lecture continued, and the other disciples scribbled notes diligently, Lianxiu's wooden sword leaned beside him, a quiet reminder of the boundaries he had yet to cross — and the pull he could not resist.
By the time the lecture ended, Lianxiu's cheeks remained flushed, his hands slightly trembling, and his posture stiff, yet his eyes never strayed toward Xiuyuan. The avoidance was complete, deliberate, and painfully effective — at least on the surface.
Yet in the quiet moments, when no one was looking, Lianxiu's gaze lingered just a fraction too long, betraying the careful mask of propriety he forced himself to wear.
Days slipped by like water over stones, each one carrying the same quiet rhythm through the halls of Jingshou Sect. Shen Lianxiu moved like a shadow, careful to keep distance from Xiuyuan, yet never far enough to completely escape the pull of his presence.
At the training grounds, the scene repeated almost mechanically. Other practiced, their movements sharp and precise, while Lianxiu mimicked their motions with his wooden sword. Every glance toward Xiuyuan — who observed quietly from the edge of the courtyard — made his fingers tense around the hilt. He avoided eye contact, nodded quickly when addressed, and whispered obedient affirmatives, but every action carried the weight of guilt and longing.
For a week, there was no conversation beyond necessary words — a quiet nod here, a faint reply there. Yet every word, every glance avoided, resonated between them. Lianxiu felt a constant ache in his chest, the memory of that night's impulsive kiss gnawing at him. He wanted to run, hide, and at the same time, he longed to be near Xiuyuan, even if it was only to feel the steady pull of his presence.
Xiuyuan, for his part, noticed. The calm composure he wore like armor was beginning to crack ever so slightly. He observed Lianxiu's careful avoidance — the way the boy's eyes darted away, the subtle tension in his shoulders, the deliberate distance maintained at meals and training alike.
It affected Xiuyuan in ways he did not yet fully understand. He found himself lingering at the training ground longer than necessary, adjusting his robes slowly to see if Lianxiu's gaze would meet his. In lectures, he stayed attentive but noticed every tremor of the boy's hands, every skipped glance, every careful avoidance.
Even in the quiet moments, when the sect seemed to breathe around them in a steady rhythm, a subtle, unspoken tension threaded the space between them. It was a delicate, fragile thing — like a cord stretched taut, threatening to snap yet refusing to break entirely.
Lianxiu's avoidance became almost ritualistic, yet it did nothing to lessen the pull of his feelings. And Xiuyuan, though silent and restrained, felt the growing weight of absence — the quiet ache left by a week without proper conversation, a week that left both of them restless in their own ways.
By the seventh day, the pattern had become painfully clear to both. The forest, the tree, and the night's impulsive closeness seemed a distant memory, yet the mark remained, invisible but undeniable. And in that quiet, lingering space, both Xiuyuan and Lianxiu felt the unspoken truth: avoidance could not erase the connection between them.
It only made it stronger.
The afternoon sun cast long, lazy shadows across the courtyard. Lianxiu moved with careful precision, trying to stay unnoticed, yet Xiuyuan's sharp gaze caught him anyway.
"Shen Lianxiu," Xiuyuan called softly, but with that quiet authority that brooked no refusal.
Lianxiu froze mid-step, heart hammering, eyes dropping instinctively. "Y-yes, Shixiong," he muttered, voice barely above a whisper.
Before he could react further, Xiuyuan's hand was on his arm, firm but not harsh, guiding him gently yet decisively. "Come with me," Xiuyuan said. The words were calm, even, but carried an unshakable weight.
Lianxiu's chest tightened. His stomach twisted with nervous anticipation and guilt, and he followed wordlessly, obedient yet trembling. Every step toward Xiuyuan's quarters felt like crossing an invisible line he had been avoiding for a week.