Work Text:
The nights on Qing Jing Peak were piercingly cold, even as spring had begun to gently touch the valley with softer winds. The chill crept through the gaps in the paper doors, and the silence of the dormitory was broken only by the wind whispering between the floorboards, as if ancient spirits wandered the halls. Curled beneath a thin, worn blanket, Luo Binghe tried to stay still, every breath sending sharp pains through his bruised ribs.
The senior disciples had gone too far again that afternoon, taking advantage of the masters’ absence to strike with more than just words. He endured in silence, as he always did. Crying was not an option—not in front of those waiting to see him break, not under the watchful eyes eager for the slightest crack.
But the purpling bruises across his arms and the barely-covered gash beneath his thin robe spoke louder than any tears could.
That was when he felt it—not heard—a soft shift at the door. A subtle sound, like a secret slipping through wood. A dark bundle, unadorned and unmarked, had been carefully pushed through the gap. It was the fourth or fifth time this had happened, always on nights when the pain was hardest to bear.
With effort, Binghe sat up, muscles protesting with every movement. Trembling hands unwrapped the dark cloth, and inside was what had come to be familiar: a small jar of ointment with a recognizable scent, a few bitter healing leaves, and two steamed buns still warm to the touch. The aroma that drifted up was soothing—soft lavender blended with a hint of understated sandalwood.
The same scent, every time.
He knew it.
The first night, he had doubted. Thought it a cruel trap, like the fake gifts some of his shixiongs had left just to laugh afterward. The second time, he assumed it was a mistake—a package delivered to the wrong disciple. But now, he was certain. Certain because even in the deepest part of the night, the scent left in the cloth told him the truth.
Shang Qinghua.
Peak Lord of An Ding.
An alpha.
And yet, not like the others.
Shang Qinghua did not carry himself with dominance. He didn’t march through courtyards with pride. He was the kind of peak lord who spoke quickly and smiled often, always surrounded by scrolls and disciples stumbling with crates, wrapped in an organized chaos only he seemed to understand. An alpha who, on the outside, seemed ordinary. Inside… that was harder to tell.
But for some reason Binghe couldn’t understand, he had been seen. Noticed.
And cared for.
Luo Binghe remembered with striking clarity all the times he had seen Shang Qinghua wandering around Qing Jing Peak. It almost always happened under the cover of night, when the sect was asleep and the entire clan submerged in silence. Shang Qinghua would visit Shen Qingqiu with the ease of someone sharing an old past — muffled laughter, low-voiced conversations, like two alphas far too calm to raise suspicion. But Binghe watched.
Not that he had a reason to — alphas talking wasn’t anything unusual. But there was something about Shang Qinghua that caught his attention. Maybe it was the carefree way he walked, or the barely-there tension in his shoulders as he approached Shen Qingqiu’s hall. Or maybe it was simply the natural curiosity of an omega in hiding.
Because he was an omega, after all. Even if no one knew.
He always kept his distance, tucked away in the shadows, holding his breath and moving with quiet, careful steps. He never let his scent slip, never let himself be noticed. But sometimes, when Shang Qinghua’s gaze swept the area a little too thoroughly, Luo Binghe couldn’t help but wonder if he knew. And the thought of being discovered by that particular alpha left him restless in a way he couldn’t quite explain — a subtle fear, almost reverence, almost... expectation.
He doubted Shang Qinghua would ever harm him. In fact, out of everyone in the sect, he was probably the one who helped him the most — always discreetly, as if he understood just how much Luo valued his privacy. There were never any intrusive questions, no quiet judgment. Just small gestures. Comfortable silences. And food.
The buns he left last time… they were delicious.
Shang Qinghua always left snacks — sometimes wrapped with a care that bordered on motherly, other times simply stacked on the stone behind the pavilion, where only someone very attentive would think to look. Always tasty. Always warm. As if he somehow knew exactly when Luo would show up.
It was a kind of quiet kindness that Binghe didn’t know how to repay. And perhaps that was what confused him the most.
After all, why would an alpha like Shang Qinghua care about someone like him?
With gentle hands, he applied the ointment to his wounds. It stung at first, but the relief followed soon after, like a whisper of comfort. And when he held the still-warm buns, his throat tightened. It was hard to understand why such a small gesture affected him so deeply. But deep down, a part of him longed for something like this—for care that wasn’t obligatory, for kindness that asked nothing in return.
The next morning, still limping but determined, Binghe crossed the rainbow bridge that connected the peaks. He wanted to see for himself. Wanted to be sure of what he already knew.
He kept low as he arrived at An Ding’s courtyard, hiding among the pillars and shadows. He spotted Shang Qinghua giving instructions in his usual lively voice, directing two disciples hauling large crates on their shoulders. He was smiling, as always, but his eyes were sharp, watching everything with quiet precision.
For a brief moment, Shang Qinghua looked in his direction. He didn’t smile. He didn’t wave. But his eyes paused on Binghe and recognized him.
Just a moment.
And without a word, the meaning was clear.
"I know you know. And that’s okay."
Luo Binghe looked away quickly, cheeks burning with embarrassment—and something softer, something deeper. Then he ran back across the bridge, his heart still heavy—but a little less cold. A silent thread of warmth had wrapped around him, as if an invisible line tethered him to someone in that vast world.
Shang Qinghua didn’t have to do it.
But he did.
And maybe, just maybe… it meant he mattered. That someone cared.
And for someone like Luo Binghe, that was everything.