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The night wind atop Wangshu Inn blew past, cold as invisible blades, slicing through the silence and piercing straight into Xiao’s mind. He sat there, on the familiar rooftop edge, legs dangling over the void, his polearm standing upright beside him like a silent companion. His golden eyes reflected the full moon—cold, deep, yet now shimmering with a trace of hesitation he himself did not notice.
Tonight, Liyue was at peace. No sign of monsters, no lingering breath of karmic miasma. And yet, within him, waves of unease stirred—a vague, restless feeling, like a tiny crack forming in the ancient ice encasing his heart.
Lumine had not visited him for five days.
Five days were not long. But to Xiao, every passing moment left behind an unbearable discomfort. Throughout these five days, they had still exchanged letters—fragile sheets of paper carrying her delicate handwriting, still lighthearted and cheerful as always. Lumine told him about the faraway lands she had traveled to, the brilliant skies over Sumeru, the bustling streets of Mondstadt, and the strange new dishes that never failed to amaze Paimon.
Her letters, at a glance, were no different from before. Yet the words could not erase the emptiness within him.
Each time he received a letter, Xiao read it over and over again. He could picture her bright eyes as she wrote, hear her gentle, joyful voice ringing in his ears. But no matter how hard he tried, the silence around him remained unbroken.
And slowly, his unease grew clearer with each passing day.
Like thousands of ants crawling beneath his skin, it left him restless and unsettled. It was a foreign sensation—neither pain nor anger, but a nameless kind of agitation.
He did not like this.
He did not like unconsciously waiting for something. He did not like the disappointment that crept in when his gaze swept past Wangshu Inn’s entrance but failed to find her familiar figure.
He did not like how accustomed he had become to Lumine’s presence—to the point where, in her absence, everything suddenly felt unbearably empty. He counted the days without meaning to, even as he tried to deny it.
Every time she appeared, she brought with her a warm breeze—her radiant smile like sunlight breaking through the clouds, her voice as soothing as a stream flowing through the mountains, and the gentle touches she left on his cheek or forehead. He always told himself he did not need them, that an adeptus like him had no room for such mortal sentiments. But now, her absence left behind a hollow space—not the pain of karmic burden, not the familiar solitude, but something new, something alive, something haunting.
Tonight, while patrolling around Wangshu Inn, Xiao unintentionally overheard soft laughter from below. He had not planned to stop—human affairs had nothing to do with him. But a strange feeling, like an invisible thread, tugged him toward a hidden corner on the balcony, where he could observe the inn’s interior.
Under the warm glow of golden lanterns, Verr Goldet stood beside her husband, Huai’an. They were fixing a wooden table, their movements synchronized like a well-rehearsed dance. But then, unexpectedly, Huai’an leaned down and pressed a light kiss against his wife’s lips.
Verr Goldet laughed, cheeks flushed, nudging his shoulder in playful protest. “Honestly, we’re working here!” she scolded, her voice as sweet as spring wind.
Huai’an chuckled, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her closer. “I can’t go a day without kissing you,” he murmured, his eyes glimmering with a warmth Xiao could not comprehend—something gentle yet intense, like an undying flame.
Xiao stood frozen in place.
His heart, which had always beat steadily like a lifeless machine, suddenly skipped an erratic beat. A tightness coiled in his chest, not from pain, but from an unexpected heat rising from deep within.
That kiss—a simple, fleeting act—carried a force he could not explain. He watched Verr Goldet smile, watched Huai’an hold her, and he wondered:
Why did this sight feel like it was pulling him into an endless abyss?
Why did it make him think of Lumine?
He teleported back to the rooftop, sitting down, his hands gripping his polearm as if searching for an anchor amidst the storm of emotions swirling inside him.
“Is this how mortals love?” he murmured to himself, his voice dry and uncertain.
He tried to analyze, tried to understand, but the more he thought, the more lost he became. A kiss on the lips—not the cheek, not the forehead, but the lips—seemed to hold a deeper meaning, a connection he had never touched before. And then, like a flood, images of Lumine crashed into his mind, consuming his thoughts.
He remembered the times she kissed his cheek—a light touch, as delicate as a butterfly’s wing, carrying her warmth, the faint scent of wind and flowers from the lands she had traveled through.
He remembered the times she kissed his forehead, when he sat exhausted after a battle, her eyes shimmering with concern, her voice whispering, “Rest now,” like a lullaby.
Each time, he felt a warmth spreading from where she touched, running down his spine, seeping into every corner of his being. He had always suppressed it, telling himself it was merely a bodily reaction, that an adeptus like him did not need, did not deserve such things. But now, looking back, he realized a terrifying truth—he had not only felt it.
He had craved it.
Craved.
The word echoed in his mind like a bell, clear and relentless.
He wanted more. Not just fleeting kisses, not just touches that stopped at the boundaries he had drawn for himself. He wanted to be closer to her, to feel her the way Verr Goldet and Huai’an felt each other.
He imagined her lips pressing against his—not his cheek, not his forehead, but his lips—and the thought alone made his heart pound violently, as if trying to break free from his chest. He imagined her warmth mingling with his breath, her hand resting on his chest, feeling the heartbeat he had always hidden. He wanted to know what that felt like—not through observation, not through stories, but through experience.
But that longing did not come alone. It carried confusion, fear, and something akin to pain.
He was an adeptus, a being born of darkness and duty. He was not allowed to want, not allowed to need.
He had once told Lumine that adepti did not have emotions like mortals, that he existed only to fight and protect her. But now, those words felt like a curse, binding him in a lie of his own making. He wanted to break free, to step beyond the invisible walls he had built around his heart, but he did not know how.
He feared that if he let her come closer, he would lose himself—become something no longer Xiao, no longer the adeptus she once knew.
He closed his eyes, letting Lumine’s image consume him. He saw her eyes—bright as the stars, yet sometimes tinged with sadness when she looked at him. He saw her smile, the way she tilted her head when telling him stories of her journey. And he felt her touch—gentle, warm, yet always stopping at a distance he once thought was enough.
But it was not enough.
He wanted her closer. He wanted to feel her breath against his lips, hear her heartbeat match his own. He longed to touch her, not just with his hands, but with his soul, in a union he had never dared to dream of.
“I want that,” he whispered, his voice barely audible against the night wind.
The confession made him tremble—not from the cold, but from confronting a part of himself he had never known.
He longed for Lumine. Not just her presence, not just fleeting touches, but something deeper, something irreversible.
He wanted her to kiss him—not as comfort, but as a declaration that he was hers, and she was his.
Standing up, his golden eyes gazed out over the misty valleys.
That longing burned within him like a fire, yet it was fragile as moonlight on water.
But he knew he could no longer run from it.
He would find Lumine. He would face her—and face his own heart.
Under Liyue’s moonlit sky, Xiao—the lone adeptus—felt the first stirrings of desire.
And he knew it would lead him to her.