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Zhang Qishan kicked open the door to his manor.
Normally, a pair of soldiers would have been stationed at the entrance, their silhouettes a familiar fixture in the flickering lantern light. But tonight, even though the war was—for now—won, they had more pressing duties elsewhere.
Er Ye, his arm slung over Fo Ye’s shoulders, let out a soft breath as the sudden jolt rocked him. Fo Ye’s grip on his friend’s hip tightened, steadying him. Their faces were close—too close for even the faintest sign of pain to go unnoticed.
If they hadn’t been side by side, heads nearly touching, Fo Ye might have missed it.
“It’s nothing,” Er Ye said quietly, before Fo Ye could speak.
Right. Nothing.
Leave it to Er Yuehong to downplay his own injuries. Qishan might have understood such stoicism on the battlefield—might have even expected it—but even then, he’d have scolded him. Any injury kept hidden, especially one that hindered movement, threw off every calculation. It risked turning a valuable ally into a liability, or worse, into another body lost to the fog of war.
Some deaths, he had accepted as inevitable. That didn’t mean he forgave them.
War always took. That was its nature.
As was his habit, Fo Ye let his eyes sweep over the room the moment he stepped inside, scanning for even the faintest trace of danger.
It was unlikely—highly unlikely—that a spy or enemy had slipped past his guards and into his manor, his miniature fortress. But caution had kept him alive this long. He wasn’t about to abandon it now.
His boot clicked sharply against the marble floor, the sound loud in the quiet.
A beat later, his gaze caught on a shape that didn’t belong—a lumpy shadow draped across one of the entryway couches. It moved.
Fo Ye tensed.
In the next breath, the lump sprang upright, resolving into a human figure. His instincts flared: one hand moved to push Er Ye behind him, the other dropping automatically to the gun at his hip. But recognition stopped him cold.
Zhang Rishan.
The younger man blinked blearily, clearly startled from sleep, hand halfway to his own weapon.
Fo Ye let out a breath, shoulders relaxing as the moment of danger passed. He offered a rare, warm smile.
“It’s good to see you back,” he said, voice low.
Fo Ye had ordered Rishan to secure and guard a strategic point until relieved—but unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to spare anyone until two days later. When he finally did, he’d made it very clear: Rishan was to return home, rest, and recover. No detours, no exceptions.
He knew better than to leave such things vague. Zhang Rishan had a habit of interpreting silence as permission—especially if it meant making himself useful, even at the cost of collapsing on his feet.
“Welcome back, Fo Ye. Er Ye.” Rishan stood fully now, offering a bright if weary smile. But the smile vanished the moment he caught sight of Er Ye’s limp. “Er Ye! Are you hurt?!”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
In a blink, he was at their side, slipping under Er Ye’s other arm with such practiced ease that even the opera master blinked in surprise.
“Just a sprain,” Er Ye sighed, shooting a sidelong glare at Fo Ye, who only returned it with an unimpressed stare.
“Our Fo Ye here is overreacting.”
“Hmph. I hardly think so,” Fo Ye muttered, already moving deeper into the hall. His steps fell in sync with Rishan’s as the two helped Er Ye over to the couch opposite the one Rishan had just been resting on.
“Fo Ye is right!” Rishan declared without hesitation.
Er Ye let out a fond huff. Of course Rishan would take his side.
But it was what came next that gave him pause—and warmed something deep inside.
“Even if it’s only a mild injury, it’d be terrible if it became a problem later,” Rishan said gently. “Especially when you return to the stage.”
“Ah.” It was all Er Ye managed, a quiet sound of acknowledgment, as he allowed himself to be eased onto the couch.
“I’ll get some supplies. Maybe we can rig a brace or something for support,” Rishan declared, already turning toward the hallway.
The two men watched him go, the sway of his coat disappearing around the corner with purposeful speed.
It was obvious, from the way he moved through the manor—decisive, confident—that Zhang Rishan lived here. Knew where everything was without needing to think about it.
Fo Ye’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “Let’s have a look,” he murmured, lowering himself smoothly to one knee in front of Er Ye.
“Fo Ye—” Er Ye started, a note of protest in his voice, but it was too late.
Fo Ye had already taken his injured foot, lifting it gently with one hand as the other pulled up the pant leg. He worked the shoe off with care, slow and methodical, like he’d done this before.
Because he had.
Mentally declaring defeat, Er Ye decided to let Fo Ye have his way—if only for the other man’s sake—and allowed himself to sink into the soft cushioning of the couch.
The pain wasn’t much. Just a dull throb, with the occasional sharp pang when he tried to put weight on it. Annoying, yes, but hardly serious. He’d practiced, even performed, through worse.
“Just a sprain, huh?”
Er Ye blinked as Fo Ye’s voice broke the quiet.
The tone was deceptively mild, but the look on Fo Ye’s face was anything but—serious, and with a spark of challenge in his eyes that bordered on smug. Not quite angry, not yet—but enough to make Er Ye lean forward to see for himself.
His eyebrows shot up in surprise.
The bruising had blossomed across his ankle in deep, ugly purples and reds, the swelling stark against the pale skin. He winced as he tried to rotate it gently.
“Don’t move,” Fo Ye snapped, sharper than intended.
His hands didn’t match the tone, though—his thumbs continued to trace small, careful circles into the puffy skin, soothing without pressure.
Er Ye stared down at him, caught between guilt and amusement.
“I thought it wasn’t that bad,” he murmured.
Fo Ye didn’t look up. “You thought wrong.”
“…The boot must have worked as a stabilizing brace,” Er Ye murmured after a few moments, letting himself lean back again.
“Possibly,” Qishan agreed, his voice low.
A soft, contemplative silence settled between them. There was something oddly intimate about it—neither strained nor forced. Er Ye closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, holding it for a moment before exhaling slowly, letting the remnants of tension ebb away with it.
This wasn’t his home. Not his family estate. But with how often he’d stayed here—how often he’d been invited, welcomed—it might as well be a second home. Perhaps even more than that now, with his own home emptied of life.
The thought hit him like a wave.
Grief surged, unbidden and sharp. His breath caught, and he squeezed his eyes shut tighter, as if that alone could keep the memories out—the faces, the voices, all once precious, now echoes.
“What are you thinking about?” Fo Ye asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Er Ye opened his eyes and looked down at him. For a moment, anger flared—brief and hot—but it was gone just as quickly. It hadn’t been Fo Ye’s fault. None of it had. It had been her wish.
And yet…
Fo Ye’s breath hitched—audible in the stillness—and when Er Ye looked again, he saw it. Pain, quiet and raw, flickering across the other man’s face before he turned away.
Before the silence could grow heavy, Rishan reappeared—bounding into the room with impeccable timing and a chest nearly overflowing with medical supplies.
“I’ll leave this to you,” he announced cheerfully, setting the wooden box down beside Fo Ye with a dramatic flourish. “You two are probably hungry. I’ll go whip something up.”
“Hey! You’re supposed to rest!” Fo Ye called after him, frowning.
“I did!” Rishan replied with a grin, already halfway to the kitchen. “And I’m also supposed to recover!”
Fo Ye stared after him, momentarily speechless.
Er Ye had to press a hand to his mouth to stifle a laugh. It wasn’t often that Qishan’s Fu Guan managed to outplay the older Zhang—and do it so smoothly.
Rishan closed the kitchen door softly behind him.
It was strange, having the manor so quiet—just Fo Ye, Er Ye, and himself now. Even then, they were rarely home. Always being pulled elsewhere, always running. But maybe… maybe now, with things settling, their stays would become longer. Regular, even.
He moved through the kitchen with practiced ease, opening cabinets and drawers, mentally noting the state of supplies. The army’s stores downstairs were still strong—reserves prepared to withstand a siege, enough for a year if rationed right. But Fo Ye’s personal pantry was looking sparse.
Not dangerously so. Not yet.
But Rishan frowned anyway as he looked over the contents. A few tins. Some dried mushrooms. Condiments. Preserved meats. He’d have to restock soon. Normally, that meant something simple tonight—quick, filling, efficient. That had always been enough.
But tonight…
His gaze drifted toward the closed kitchen door, in the direction of the front hall, where Fo Ye was likely still tending to Er Ye’s ankle. The image that surfaced was quiet: the two of them, hunched together, speaking in low voices, faces drawn not from exhaustion alone, but grief too fresh to name.
Er Ye was injured. Fo Ye had barely slept. And for once—just once—they weren’t marching off to another front.
Rishan exhaled slowly.
No. Tonight wouldn’t be just another quick meal.
Tonight, he’d go all out. Not a feast in the traditional sense—no fanfare, no silver service—but enough. Enough that each of them could eat their fill of the things they liked. Dishes that were familiar. Comforting. Warm.
Not so much that there’d be days of leftovers—but enough that they’d feel full, in more ways than one.
He rolled up his sleeves and reached for the cutting board.
“Rishan?”
The sound of his name startled him. He straightened from where he’d been leaning over the soup pot, still holding the ladle mid-stir.
He hadn’t meant to take so long. The original plan had been simple—let Fo Ye and Er Ye have a few quiet moments alone, maybe say the things that needed saying. But somewhere between chopping and simmering, he’d lost track of time. It happened. Cooking grounded him, gave his thoughts shape. And cooking for people he cared about—really cared about—filled a part of him nothing else quite reached.
He turned just as Fo Ye stepped through the kitchen door.
The older man paused in the threshold, eyes half-lidded, his chest lifting slightly as he drew in a breath. The scent must’ve reached him down the hall—rich, warm, savory. Spiced just enough to cling to the air.
No kitchen staff bustled behind Rishan. They’d been sent away at the start of the siege—safe now, far from the front. The manor had been quiet ever since. The kitchen, especially, had fallen still in their absence.
But tonight, Rishan had claimed it again.
“What are you up to?” Fo Ye asked, circling the table slowly until he came to stand at Rishan’s side. “This smells divine.”
Rishan offered a small smile and held out the spoon for him to sample. “Dinner.”
Fo Ye gave him a side-eyed look—wary, amused—but leaned in and took a taste without protest. The broth barely touched his tongue before he stilled, then licked his lips, once. Twice.
“Is this…?”
Rishan nodded before the question even finished forming. A Zhang family recipe—one from Fo Ye’s branch. A dish Rishan had learned to make years ago, now layered with a few quiet flourishes of his own.
Fo Ye blinked slowly. Then: “Can I help? With something?”
It was a rare question from him, and judging by the uncertain glance he gave the stove, Fo Ye knew full well he wasn’t the most helpful in a kitchen. Still, Rishan appreciated the offer.
“You can take the tea out,” he said, tipping his chin toward the tray. “Share it with Er Ye. Everything else needs just a few more minutes.”
It was a thoughtful choice—tea Er Ye had once gifted Fo Ye. Not exactly either man’s favorite, but a blend all three of them could enjoy. Something shared. Something remembered.
Fo Ye nodded and reached for the tray without another word. As he disappeared back into the hallway, Rishan returned to the stove, a quiet satisfaction blooming in his chest.
Back in the entry hall, Er Ye looked up at the sound of the door opening and closing again.
A moment later, Fo Ye emerged from behind one of the tall marble pillars that flanked the hall, a tray balanced carefully in his hands.
For a second, Er Ye assumed it was food—Rishan had promised something warm, after all—but as Fo Ye drew closer, he caught the familiar gleam of porcelain: a tea set, not dinner.
“Rishan?” Er Ye asked, frowning faintly in confusion.
What was taking him so long?
A brief flicker of concern passed through him. Had the kitchen stores already run so low that Rishan had taken it upon himself to sneak out the back and resupply? He certainly wouldn’t put it past the younger man. Rishan never waited to be told when something needed doing.
Er Ye sighed under his breath. He sincerely hoped that wasn’t the case. Fo Ye might be forgiving in many unofficial matters, but when it came to Rishan’s safety and well-being, his expectations were unshakable—and strictly enforced.
But no—given the relaxed set of Fo Ye’s shoulders, Er Ye doubted that was the case.
Had Fo Ye found Rishan missing, he’d be scowling, displeasure written plainly across his face, down to the sharp lines of his posture. Even the rhythm of his boot heels on the marble floor would have changed—clipped, deliberate, like every step was rebuking someone.
But none of that tension was there.
Fo Ye moved with steady calm, not urgency. The tray didn’t rattle in his hands, and when he finally reached Er Ye’s side, his expression was relaxed, his lips curved in a small, familiar smile.
“Rishan will join us shortly,” he said, setting a cup down in front of Er Ye. “He just needs a few more minutes and offered tea instead.”
He glanced into the teapot, judging the color of the brew with a critical eye, then gave a small nod and poured.
Noticing Er Ye’s curious glance toward the kitchen, Fo Ye hid a smile behind the rim of his own cup. Rishan had clearly worked hard for them—he wouldn't spoil the surprise.
Besides, it was good to have this quiet moment just to themselves.
A moment later, Fo Ye hoped he hadn’t just jinxed it. His gaze flicked toward the entry door, wary. The temptation to bar it from the inside was strong. But even as appealing as the idea sounded, he knew he wouldn’t act on it. As the defender of Changsha, it was his duty to remain available in times of need. And they were still very much in such times.
The taste in his mouth caught up with him then. He blinked, momentarily surprised as recognition dawned.
Across from him, Er Ye clearly had noticed too.
“You kept it,” Er Ye said quietly.
“Of course I did,” Fo Ye replied, surprised by the need to say it at all.
Er Ye gave a soft hum and took another sip, eyes drifting closed, as if savoring the flavor more fully by shutting out the rest of the world.
“I haven’t apologized to you yet,” Er Ye said suddenly, eyes half-open as he stared into the dark liquid in his cup, slowly swirling it.
“Apologized? Whatever for? If anything, I should be the one thanking you—for coming to our aid. We couldn’t have kept losses so low without your help. But I’m particularly grateful that you chose to return to my side, given... everything.”
“But it was never your fault!” Er Ye cut in, voice firm. “Out of everyone, I always thought I knew you best—except maybe Rishan or Ba Ye—and still, I believed you could do something so cruel.”
He set his cup down with a sharp clang . “Fo Ye, I was ready to kill you. Do you understand?”
“You wouldn’t have succeeded,” Fo Ye said evenly, brushing off the gravity of the words with quiet conviction. “Not because you aren’t capable. But because in the end, you wouldn’t have been able to go through with it.”
“That doesn’t make it better!” Er Ye snapped, frustration flaring. His composure cracked.
“Er Ye.” Fo Ye’s voice snapped back, sharp and commanding. It stilled Er Ye like a cold splash of water.
Then, softer—gentler—Fo Ye leaned forward and took his hands. “I won’t deny it hurt. Acting the way I did was hard. But I knew you were grieving. In pain. And Yatou knew too. That’s why I agreed to her plan. Because we both knew what her death would do to you.”
His grip tightened slightly. “I would do anything for you. Anything to keep you from withering like a flower after its final bloom. Anything to give you a reason to keep living. To keep going.”
Fo Ye wasn’t a man of many words. He preferred directness—clarity. But Er Ye needed this. So he gave it.
Each word seemed to chip away at the carefully constructed wall Er Ye had built. His eyes shimmered, his lower lip trembled.
Fo Ye shifted, clearly uncomfortable with the tears he could sense gathering.
Then Er Ye dipped his head, squeezing back at the hands that held his. A sound escaped him—half sob, half laugh.
“I don’t deserve you.”
“That’s not for you to decide.”
The quick retort startled another laugh out of Er Ye—warmer this time, almost real.
Fo Ye’s retort lingered in the air between them, and for a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Er Ye exhaled—slowly, deeply—as if something heavy had been lifted from his chest. He didn’t smile, not quite, but some of the tension in his shoulders eased. He leaned back against the cushions, letting the support cradle him, hands still loosely resting in Fo Ye’s.
“You know,” he murmured, voice quieter now, “you make it hard for a man to stay broken.”
Fo Ye didn’t answer with words. He didn’t need to. He simply gave a small squeeze, then let go—though the weight of his presence remained, steady as ever.
For a while, they sat together in that quiet, the kind that didn’t demand to be filled.
Rishan, who had been about to enter a few minutes earlier but had noticed the two finally sharing a long-overdue moment, quietly let the door fall shut and waited a little longer before he pushed it open again.
With soft-soled but deliberate steps, he entered the hall, balancing a pair of large trays that looked more like a banquet than a modest supper.
“Perfect timing,” Fo Ye said, rising to help.
"Is it? I'm afraid I’ve made you wait quite a while," Rishan replied, smiling as he set the trays down and began to arrange the dishes.
Er Ye blinked, then sat up straighter—his eyes widening as he took in the spread. His expression shifted from amazement to mild disbelief as the number of dishes kept growing.
“You made all this?” he asked, half expecting Rishan to shrug it off.
“Of course,” Rishan said simply. “It’s not often we get the chance to share a meal like this. I wanted to make something special.”
Fo Ye gave a low whistle of appreciation. “I think you’ve outdone yourself.”
Steam rose from a thick soup, fragrant with herbs and slow-simmered meat. Plates of braised vegetables, golden pastries, and delicately spiced fish lined the table—each dish familiar, comforting, and made with quiet care. Not extravagant. But unmistakably meant for them.
“Come,” Rishan said with a smile, glancing between them. “Before it gets cold.”
With an invitation like that and a mouth-watering spread before them, who were they to resist?
No more concerns were addressed that evening; instead, they simply enjoyed each other’s presence until Rishan’s eyelids began to droop. Fo Ye urged him to head upstairs and rest, promising he would clean up.
At Rishan’s wide-eyed look, Fo Ye quickly backpedaled, clarifying that he would put the dishes away and then retire himself.
The look of relief on Rishan’s face made Er Ye throw his head back in laughter, which actually offended Fo Ye—just enough for Rishan to take his chance and escape before the commander could question his honest thoughts on the situation.
With Rishan gone, a different mood settled over the room. Finally, Fo Ye rose to keep his promise. “Stay right there. I’ll help you upstairs after.”
The question of Where would I go? caught in Er Ye’s throat at Fo Ye’s next words. He was to stay over? Er Ye sighed quietly at Fo Ye’s retreating back. No matter how much he denied it, for those who secured a place in this beautiful man’s heart, he was always a softie.
With that in mind, Er Ye didn’t even put up a fuss when Fo Ye once again half-carried him up the stairs. He only faltered when it became clear Fo Ye intended for them to share his private chambers once again.
“Neither of us should be alone tonight,” Fo Ye said quietly, waiting for Er Ye to make the final decision. “And I’d feel more comfortable having you somewhere in sight.”
Er Ye swallowed the tightness in his throat before nodding. “Very well, then.”
Once in bed, after cleansing himself and slipping into a borrowed robe, Er Ye almost immediately fell asleep—the exhaustion of the day finally catching up with him.
Only dimly did he register the bed dipping again and a ghost of lips brushing the top of his head before the last light went out and darkness took him.
It was the best sleep Er Ye had had in a long time.