Lin Yue and Mo Shan spent the entire afternoon shaping soil.
They made bowls, plates, small pots—one after another. None of them were quite right. The rims bent inward. The bases were uneven. Some leaned slightly to one side, as if they might collapse the moment fire touched them.
Lin Yue didn't seem discouraged.
Instead, he laughed softly each time something failed, wiping soil from his fingers and trying again. "It's harder than it looks," he admitted, eyes bright with curiosity rather than frustration.
Mo Shan watched him closely, offering suggestions, steadying the spinning shape when it wobbled. "The soil is too soft," he said once. "Or maybe your hands are moving too fast."
"Like this?" Lin Yue asked, adjusting.
"Almost."
From a short distance away, Feng Lihan stood in silence.
He had told himself he wouldn't interfere. That this was harmless. That Lin Yue was simply learning something new.
But the longer he watched—Mo Shan kneeling close, their shoulders nearly touching, Lin Yue listening so intently to another man's voice—the tighter his chest became.
Another plate collapsed.
Lin Yue sighed, then smiled again. "It's still not right."
That was when Feng Lihan moved.
He stepped forward and crouched behind Lin Yue, close enough that his shadow fell over both Lin Yue and the half-formed pot. Without asking, he reached past Lin Yue and placed his hands over Lin Yue's wrists.
"Not like that," Feng Lihan said quietly.
Lin Yue froze, then looked back at him, surprised. "Feng Lihan?"
"Sit still," Feng Lihan said. "Watch."
He guided Lin Yue's hands—slower, firmer. "Not force," he continued. "Control. Let the soil follow you."
His voice was low, steady, carrying absolute certainty.
Lin Yue followed instinctively.
Under Feng Lihan's guidance, the shape began to change. The sides rose evenly. The curve smoothed. The base settled, balanced and strong.
Mo Shan watched without speaking, his expression darkening.
In minutes, something new stood before them.
Not a bowl.
Not a plate.
A shallow pot—wide, perfectly rounded, solid.
A cooking pan.
Lin Yue stared at it, eyes widening. "It's… perfect."
He turned, face lighting up completely. "Wow! Feng Lihan, you're amazing!"
For a moment, Feng Lihan forgot everyone else existed.
"You learn fast," he said, releasing Lin Yue's hands.
Lin Yue laughed, pure delight in his voice. "You're incredible. I didn't know you could do this!"
Mo Shan's fingers curled slowly at his side.
"Of course he can," Mo Shan said lightly, though the warmth was gone from his tone.
Feng Lihan straightened and finally looked at him.
A faint, unmistakable smirk crossed Feng Lihan's lips.
"Of course," Feng Lihan said coolly. "I'm his husband."
The words landed like a blade.
"I need to be better than anyone else."
Lin Yue, still glowing with excitement, didn't notice the tension sharp enough to cut skin.
"We should show the clan!" he said eagerly. "They'll be so surprised!"
Feng Lihan picked up the newly shaped pan with care. "We will."
Mo Shan looked at the pan once more—perfect, complete, unmistakably claimed.
Something burned quietly behind his eyes.
The soil on his hands had dried.