Chapter 58 #2
Poppy exhaled shakily when the trail widened again. She barely had time to recover before a hidden root snagged her boot, and she jolted forward—straight into Mingxi’s waiting arms. He caught her fully this time, arms wrapping around her waist, her palms braced against his chest.
They froze. His breath whispered past her temple. Her heartbeat thudded wildly between them. Neither moved.
Finally, slowly, he let her go.
“You’re safe,” he said.
The words felt heavier than a simple reassurance.
The higher they climbed, the colder the air grew. A sharp breeze cut through the trees, and Poppy shivered. Without a word, he unclasped his cloak and draped it around her shoulders, his hands brushing the sides of her neck as he fastened it. She went very still.
“Better?” he asked quietly.
She nodded, though her cheeks burned. His hands stayed there—resting lightly, as if reluctant to withdraw—before he finally stepped back.
When they reached a pair of boulders blocking the trail, Mingxi reached down to her with an outstretched hand.
“Give me your hand.”
She placed hers in his without thinking. He lifted her up easily, steadying her when her foot slipped against the stone. His thumb brushed her wrist in a soft, inadvertent stroke that sent heat spiraling through her.
Then they walked on.
Too close. Not close enough. Her thoughts spiraled out of control.
This was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. His Foxborn grace, his quiet strength, the way he moved with precision and confidence—she’d noticed all of that before.
But after the stream… after seeing him shirtless, sculpted like some divine weapon…
after he pulled his robes over that eight-pack like it was nothing—Poppy was disintegrating internally.
It wasn’t fair. No one should look like that without trying. Humans didn’t. Humans couldn’t. Even the statues Poppy had seen hadn’t looked as beautifully masculine as he did.
Her face heated as he glanced back at her, golden eyes catching the sun. The cloak smelled like him—warm cedar, faint foxfire, cold air—and she hated how much she wanted to bury her face in it.
Mingxi, for his part, seemed calm. Too calm.
But she saw the subtle things—the way his breath hitched when he’d caught her, the way he stepped closer when the wind grew sharp, the way he watched her when he thought she wasn’t looking.
He was controlled, yes, but beneath it something coiled tight whenever she stumbled or shivered.
The path grew quieter, more intimate, and her voice dropped to match the hush of the valley.
“Will we reach the moonwell in time for the full moon?”
“Yes,” he said. “Just before it. It would’ve been faster by portal, but as you know, we couldn’t use them.”
She absorbed that in silence, feeling the weight beneath his calm.
By the time the sun dipped low, the path opened into a sheltered hollow between two pines. Moss blanketed the ground, and a rock overhang offered just enough shelter to make camp.
Mingxi knelt to start a fire. Poppy lowered herself onto a woven mat, pulling his cloak more tightly around her. She felt his attention flick toward her at the movement, the firelight reflecting in his eyes.
They ate quietly—rice congee with ginger and fox-root Mingxi had prepared with deliberate, skillful hands.
She tried not to watch him. She failed entirely.
Every time he reached for the pot or stirred the bowl, his sleeves shifted, revealing the carved lines of his forearms. She pretended not to stare. She also failed entirely at that.
When her flask ran dry, she sighed softly. Mingxi handed her his own without hesitation. She drank, grateful, and then froze as realization struck. Her lips had touched where his had been. Heat flooded her face. She nearly choked.
Mingxi went very still, eyes flicking to her mouth before quickly—too quickly—looking down at his hands. A sharp swallow moved down his throat.
They finished eating beside one another in silence that was no longer awkward, just warm and charged and aware.
As the fire dimmed and the night deepened, Poppy drew her knees to her chest, shivering more from nerves than cold.
Mingxi shifted closer. She didn’t think he noticed how much, but then she realized he did.
Their shoulders brushed—lightly and then again when neither moved away. Poppy stared into the fire. He stared at her. Neither spoke.
“Are you cold?” he asked softly.
“No,” she whispered.
But she didn’t move an inch, and he didn’t either. For the first time, the closeness wasn’t accidental. It wasn’t necessity. It wasn’t circumstance.
It was a choice.
The fire crackled softly between them, throwing sparks into the dark as Poppy leaned just slightly toward him—barely enough to count, but enough to shift the air.
Mingxi inhaled sharply. Not loudly—just enough for her to feel the warmth of it.
If she leaned one inch more, if he turned one degree closer, they would cross something neither of them could come back from.
But neither moved. Neither pulled away. So they sat shoulder to shoulder, breath mingling in the flicker of firelight, two hearts beating too fast and too close.
Poppy finally felt safe with someone.
Not safe because he was strong.
Safe because he stayed.
The fire burned low, golden light dancing across the hollow as night deepened. Poppy swayed with exhaustion, the warmth of Mingxi’s cloak and the steady presence beside her lulling her mind into a softness she didn’t recognize.
She leaned—hesitantly, instinctively—until her temple rested against his shoulder. Mingxi went still. Not uncomfortable. Not alarmed. Just… surprised. When she didn’t move away, he shifted minutely—barely a breath—giving her a steadier place to rest.
Her eyes fluttered shut.
Poppy didn’t fall fully asleep right away.
Her breath slowed, softened… but her mind lingered somewhere between waking and dreaming, the firelight brushing her face in flickering gold.