Li Zhaoye casually drew Changtian from his person and slammed it onto the table with a clang.
He sprawled onto the windowsill seat, loosened his robes, and began hastily tending to his wound.
Luo Luo: "..."
She had averted her gaze just in time, but still caught a glimpse of what she shouldn’t have.
His inner garment was carelessly tugged open, revealing a firm chest and a lean, toned waist.
A thin sword wound stretched below his abdomen, blood trickling down.
Unsure if he might strip further, Luo Luo quickly turned her back, pressed her lips tight, and retrieved bandages and hemostatic pills from the qiankun pouch she’d brought, handing them over without looking.
He reached out—his movement broad, his calloused fingers brushing unabashedly against the back of her hand, leaving a lingering warmth.
She could feel his gaze on her even as he dressed his wound.
Her spine tingled.
"What’re you hiding from?" He laughed. "Since I’m your fiancé, you can look all you want."
Luo Luo: "..."
She muttered, "I didn’t want to."
"Really didn’t?"
"Really!"
"Hmm." He lazily shifted topics. "That sword-retracting technique of yours—was it like this?"
He tapped the blade with two fingers.
Before Luo Luo could react, a metallic zing echoed behind her. Changtian, lying on the table, dissolved into a streak of light and shot straight into her sword mansion.
The sword, still warm with his blood, invaded her space, sending a shudder through her.
He smirked, unbearably pleased. "Go on, say it again. Did you want to look?"
Watching her squirm, watching her stubborn denial.
Luo Luo: "Fine, I looked!"
She whipped around to glare, only to find he’d already draped his robes back—loose and sloppy, but decent.
His expression was mock-regretful. "Too late. Next time, be quicker."
Luo Luo: "..."
How had she ever fallen for such an infuriating man?
Luo Luo climbed into bed, turning her back to him, facing the wall. She yanked the blankets up, burying herself entirely.
Soon, her breathing steadied into soft, even rhythms.
Li Zhaoye hopped onto the windowsill, leaning against the frame, one knee bent. He plucked a long blade of grass and chewed on it absently.
The stem bobbed as he swung it.
Occasionally, his eyes flicked toward the bed.
He didn’t believe she wouldn’t sleepwalk.
The moon drifted behind crimson-flowered branches as the night deepened, the wind growing heavier.
Just as drowsiness crept in, a sweet, tense voice whispered by his ear: "You’re injured. You take the bed."
Tch. Knew it.
He glanced up—then froze.
No one was there. Moonlight cast his solitary silhouette onto the floorboards. Luo Luo remained sound asleep in bed, no sleepwalking in sight.
So what had he heard?
In his daze, another memory surfaced.
A younger version of her, several years ago, stood stiffly by the wooden window, insisting with utmost seriousness that he sleep in the bed.
"Fine."
His past self’s lazy agreement echoed in his mind.
Then, the younger Li Zhaoye leapt down from the sill, strode across the room, and flopped onto her bed—messing up her neatly arranged blankets and sprawling his limbs everywhere.
The present Li Zhaoye raised a brow.
So stabbing himself had actually worked.
The fragmented memory seeped into his consciousness, pulling him back to that night. Wounded and hastily bandaged, he lay on her bed.
At first, he noticed nothing. But after a while, warmth and fragrance enveloped him.
He turned his head—her pillow carried a faint, fresh scent his didn’t. He tugged the blanket up for a sniff. Also sweet, still carrying her body heat, cozy and inviting.
His wounds suddenly ached less.
Amazed, he waved at her. "Hey, come here!"
The girl, who’d been slowly climbing onto the windowsill, obediently trotted over and stood by the bed, peering down at him.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Get up here." He grabbed her wrist and yanked her onto the mattress.
She froze, statue-still, letting him maneuver her like a puppet.
He pushed her down. "Don’t move."
"...Okay."
He flopped beside her, lacing his hands behind his head, and inhaled deeply.
Satisfied, he sighed. "You must eat a lot of medicine, huh?"
Her scent was downright analgesic.
The girl blinked. "...Huh? I guess... sometimes?"
"Good. Sleep."
"Okay."
Luo Luo remembered that night well.
Her first time sharing a bed with Li Zhaoye—she’d been so stiff, limbs locked like carved wood.
She’d already liked him for a while then.
He was hurt. She couldn’t bear to make him sleep on the windowsill, but couldn’t bring herself to send him away either. After much deliberation, she’d swallowed her nerves and offered her bed.
Then he’d dragged her into it too, pinning her down, her heart pounding like a drum.
...Thankfully, she’d held it together.
Of course, he hadn’t done anything strange—just wanted her beside him. Probably felt bad hogging the bed.
His presence was as overwhelming as he was.
Lying next to him, she’d felt lightheaded. Whatever he’d said, she’d barely processed, replying with nonsense.
There wasn’t enough air.
She might’ve fainted rather than fallen asleep.
That night, her dreams were all him.
With him right there, she didn’t dare dream anything improper—just mundane things like sharing sweets, rose cakes, or practicing sword forms together.
Dawn came, his scent still lingering in her breath.
She kept her eyes shut for a long while.
After all... a man and a woman, alone all night...
She resolved to act normal, greet him, wake him up.
But when she finally looked—the space beside her was empty. Not a trace left.
He’d bolted long ago, the sheets cold.
Of course. That man’s mind held only cultivation and swordsmanship. Nothing else.
The younger Li Zhaoye tossed and turned, restless.
He rolled onto his side, studying her sleeping face.
Leaning closer, he inhaled. The warm, sweet aroma soothed his pain but left an itch under his skin—a restless, indefinable discomfort.
He’d never liked any fragrance—not flowers, incense, or perfumes.
Yet hers? He couldn’t get enough.
It was addictive. Pleasant. But also... agitating.
After staring at her for a long while, he landed on an answer that felt almost right: He wanted to bite her.
The thought startled even him.
"Tch. Can’t do that."
His junior was too meek, too earnest. If she got mad, she might refuse to spar with him.
Where else would he find someone this durable?
Regretfully, he tore his gaze away, exhaling at the ceiling. Just as he settled back, he noticed her smiling.
Lost in some sweet dream, her lips curled faintly, secretly.
His eyes fixed on her mouth—and stayed there.
Under the moonlight at night, her face appeared as if dusted with powdered sugar, and her lips floating atop it looked like two rose petals.
Utterly tempting. They looked delicious.
She giggled softly to herself, her lips parting slightly as she mumbled something in her sleep.
He leaned closer, straining to hear.
When he moved even nearer, his ear suddenly tingled—that rose-like mouth of hers had brushed against his earlobe.
He had never touched anything so soft in his life.
Startled, he jerked back, staring at her as if she were a ghost.
"What kind of lips are these, so tender?"
She was still murmuring in her sleep, her words unclear, but the breath escaping between her lips was sweeter than roses.
He didn’t dare lean in again, sensing something dangerous.
"Hey." He poked her cheek hard with his index finger. "What are you mumbling about in the middle of the night? Let people sleep!"
Her powdered-sugar face dimpled under his touch, springing back to its plump, smooth shape the moment he withdrew his finger.
The young Li Zhaoye blinked slowly, then raised his hand and poked her again, just for fun.
Finally, she stirred.
With a displeased whimper, she drowsily rubbed her cheek and slurred, "What are you doing…?"
He guiltily leaned back.
After a moment, when she showed no further reaction, he bent close again and teased, "How about treating me to some powdered sugar?"
No response. He nudged her and repeated the question.
She let out a vague hum.
He grinned. "You said it yourself!"
Suddenly, he leaned in, studying her face up close before opening his mouth and biting down.
Before her soft hands could push him away, he swiftly pinned her wrists.
Teeth gently gripping the plush flesh of her cheek, he smirked, mumbling dismissively, "Eating powdered sugar. My turn first, then yours!"
She obediently mumbled, "...Mmm."
Letting him indulge.
He nibbled her fragrant, soft cheek, then bit her other side.
When he finally pulled back and saw the faint teeth marks on her face, he burst into laughter, so hard his wounds split open.
After the powdered sugar, his gaze fell on the rose petals.
Despite all his earlier mischief, his heartbeat had remained steady.
But now, staring at her lips, a storm began raging in his chest.
He drew closer.
His youthful voice dropped to a husky murmur, "Rose pastry—can I have a taste?"
Taking full advantage of her deep slumber.
Sure enough, she hummed in agreement.
Chuckling low, he didn’t hesitate—he bit down.
His teeth sank effortlessly into the petal-like softness.
Just as sweet as he’d imagined.
Emboldened by his earlier feast, he marked her lips with his teeth without restraint.
At one point, she whimpered in discomfort, squirming slightly.
Like a glutton, he instinctively swallowed the sound and breath that escaped her.
He felt drunk.
Releasing her lips, he flopped backward onto the pillow with a thud.
His chest swelled with overwhelming satisfaction.
The young Li Zhaoye laughed heartily. "Little fool, you didn’t even notice I feasted on you all night!"
Adult Li Zhaoye: "..."
All night, and this was all he did.
The boy finally drifted off, still dreaming of powdered sugar.
But the memory wasn’t over.
At dawn, half-asleep, he felt a dull ache from his wounds—and another kind of pain, the restless ache of youth.
Instinctively, Li Zhaoye shifted toward the warm, sweet presence beside him, turning Luo Luo’s face toward his.
Forehead pressed to her temple, he nudged her nose with his, dangerously close.
Just as he was about to bite her again, his body froze.
Her hand.
Her hand, resting at her side, had brushed against him.
Before he could retreat, her fingers instinctively closed around him, gripping as if holding a sword hilt.
His eyes flew wide, a sharp inhale escaping him.
"...Sword?" she mumbled sleepily. "Such a big sword."
A vein throbbed in his temple as he pried her hand away. "This is my sword, not yours. Let go!"
"Oh..." She obeyed, but not before giving it a few idle strokes, as if testing its weight.
"Hiss—!"
He leaped off the bed, hunched over, and hobbled out of Liuguang Pavilion in disgrace.
"You’ll pay for this!"
Adult Li Zhaoye: "..."
This was something he’d actually done?
What an embarrassment to godhood.
