Hóng Yè didn’t look up. But his shoulders dropped, just slightly, and Yàn Shū counted that as a win.

~

Prom pickup was chaos.

Three teenagers crammed into his small sedan, all elbows and loud music and the smell of too much cologne. Hóng Yè sat in the front seat, arms crossed, staring out the window with an expression of profound suffering. In the back, his friends, Jun and Mei, were arguing about something Yàn Shū couldn’t follow.

"You’re late," Jun said.

"We’re not late," Hóng Yè said. "You’re early."

"The invitation said seven."

"It said seven-thirty."

"It definitely said seven."

"It said seven-thirty."

Yàn Shū focused on the road and tried to remember a time when his life had been simple.

The drop-off was at a restaurant downtown, some place with string lights and a line out the door. The kids piled out, and Hóng Yè paused at the window.

"Thanks," he said.

Yàn Shū smiled. "Have fun."

Hóng Yè snorted. "It’s prom. It’s not supposed to be fun. It’s supposed to be endured." He walked away, shoulders straight, red hair catching the light.

Yàn Shū watched him go, and felt, not for the first time, like he was failing at something important.

Afterwards, he didn’t go home.

He drove instead, aimlessly, through streets he knew and streets he didn’t. The city was alive around him, lights and noise and people living lives he couldn’t imagine.

He ended up at the library.

It was closed, of course. The lights were off. The doors were locked. But he sat on the steps anyway, looking up at the dark windows, and thought about Bai Yue.

Stars. And forests. And a woman with amethyst eyes.

He pulled out his phone. He had looked her up, after that first meeting. Found her on the company directory, marketing department, Stellar Dynamics. He had stared at her photo for longer than he cared to admit.

He could text her. He had her number. He had found it in the library’s guest register, which he knew was creepy, but he couldn’t help it. He needed to know if she was real.

He typed a message. Deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that too.

Finally, he put the phone away and went home.

~

Hóng Yè wasn’t back yet. The apartment was quiet. Yàn Shū made himself a cup of tea he didn’t want and sat on the couch, staring at the wall.

He thought about his son. About the years he had spent trying to raise him alone, trying to be enough, always falling short. He thought about his ex-wife, about the way she had looked at him when she said she was leaving, like she was sorry but not sorry enough to stay.

He thought about Bai Yue.

Amethyst eyes. 𝘧𝘳𝘦ℯ𝓌𝘦𝒷𝘯𝑜𝑣𝘦𝓁.𝒸𝘰𝓂

Hmmm.

He finished his tea, washed the cup, and went to bed.

~

She was cooking.

The fire was open, flames licking up around a black iron pot. The smell was incredible, spicy and rich, something that made his mouth water and his eyes sting.

She stood at the fire, her back to him, stirring the pot with a long wooden spoon. Her hair was dark, falling in waves down her back. She was wearing something simple, a wrap of some kind, and her shoulders were bare.

Behind her, three men were arguing.

Yàn Shū recognized them, somehow. He didn’t know their names, but he knew them. The first was tall and broad, with white hair and ice in his eyes. The second was lean and sharp, with nine tails swishing behind him. The third was massive, dark, with claws that gleamed in the firelight.

They were arguing about her. About who had been with her last. About who would get to sit beside her at dinner. Their voices rose, overlapping, and Yàn Shū felt a spike of irritation that didn’t belong to him.

"Enough."

She didn’t turn around. She didn’t raise her voice. But the men fell silent.

"You’re going to scare the cubs," she continued. "And you’re going to burn the soup. Sit down. All of you."

The men sat immediately.

Yàn Shū wanted to step forward. Wanted to see her face. But his feet wouldn’t move. He was frozen at the edge of the clearing, watching, aching.

She turned.

Bai Yue.

Not the Bai Yue from the library, with her pencil skirt and her careful smile. This Bai Yue was wilder, fiercer, her eyes the color of amethysts, catching the firelight.

"You’re late," she said.

She was looking at him. Directly at him. Her eyes met his, and he felt something crack open in his chest.

"I’m sorry," he heard himself say. "I was—"

"Writing," she finished. "You’re always writing." Her lips curved, soft and fond. "Come eat, scholar. The soup is getting cold."

He moved toward her.

The dream shifted. The fire faded. The men disappeared. And it was just the two of them, standing in the dark, her hand reaching for his.

"I dreamed of you," he said.

"I know," she said. "I dreamed of you too."

Her fingers brushed his.

Yàn Shū woke up crying.

He didn’t know when the tears had started. They were just there, streaming down his cheeks, soaking his pillow. His chest heaved. His throat ached. He felt like he had lost something, something precious, something he couldn’t name.

He sat up, pressed his palms to his eyes, and tried to breathe.

The soup. The fire. The men arguing behind her.

She had called him scholar.

What in God’s name was happening to him? Why was he dreaming of another woman? Why did he feel like he could recognise them?

The poor librarian rubbed his eyes, thinking he was already running out of his damn mind.

Those men...

They looked very much like....

He picked up his phone to check again, and his eyes widened when he set his eyes on the faces he had seen in his dream.

The infamous Zhao Yan, and the ice CEO Han Shan.

What is going on?