That night, as the lanterns flickered and the rain began to fall, Zhang sat outside Mihir's room — his son asleep inside beside the scholar's bed.
Zhang leaned his head back against the wall, exhaling slowly.
"You make the bad things quiet," he whispered. "That's what he said..."
From behind the door, Mihir's voice replied through the wooden frame:
"And what do you say, General Zhang?"
Zhang smiled.
"I say... stay longer."
SOME MOMENTS LATER---
The rain had passed, but the room still smelled of petrichor and sandalwood.
Mihir sat by the open window, robe slightly loosened at the neck, his long braid damp at the ends. He'd lit no candle. The only light was from the moon spilling over the paper screens. His mind was tangled in chants, scriptures, Zhang Zheng's callused hands, and a pair of intense eyes that saw far too much.
He should not be here.
He should not have stayed.
He should not feel what he felt.
Yet when the door slid open without warning, and Zhang stood there with half his robe untied, chest heaving from a night run, hair wild, Mihir did not move.
"…You're still awake," Zhang said.
"I'm a priest," Mihir replied quietly. "Sleep doesn't come easily to men with guilty hearts."
Zhang walked in, leaving the door open behind him. "Do you regret staying?"
Mihir should have said yes.He rose slowly instead, stepping forward. "I don't know."
Their breath mingled in the narrow space between them. Outside, crickets chirped. The moon rose higher. Mihir's robe brushed Zhang's bare arm. Neither moved back.
"You... smell like sandalwood and rain," Zhang said lowly.
"You smell like sweat ," Mihir whispered. "It suits you."
Their lips didn't meet. Not exactly.It was more like their souls leaned in — and the edges of their mouths caught each other in a moment that could've burned entire temples down.
Zhang's hand rose, as if to hold Mihir's face—Mihir leaned forward, eyes half-closed, breath quickening—
A scream broke the world.
Both men jumped apart.