Wolf in sheep's mask.. Luo Binghe
———
Shen Qingqiu's entire body was on fire.
Not from anger—though he wanted to be angry.
Not from embarrassment—though he should be embarrassed.
But from something far, far worse.
Luo Binghe had bitten him.Twice.
And Shen Qingqiu—
like an absolute fool—
had let him.
The second bite had sent a violent tremor through his body, his fingers twitching, his mind short-circuiting as heat coiled in his stomach.
And then—he realized.
He couldn't let this continue.
So before Luo Binghe could sink his teeth in again, before he could get any more bold, any more smug, any more devastating—
Shen Qingqiu slapped him.
The sharp crack echoed in the air.
Luo Binghe froze.
For a long moment, there was silence.
Shen Qingqiu's palm stung where it had connected with Binghe's cheek, and the warmth of it snapped him back to his senses.
His chest was heaving,
his breath wild and unsteady.
His heart pounded, his mind raced, and his body—traitorous as ever—still tingled where Binghe had touched him.
But he forced himself to focus.
Luo Binghe was staring at him.
Not in anger. Not in shock.
But in something worse.
Something dark. Something unreadable.
Shen Qingqiu's stomach dropped.
He had expected Binghe to react—to snap, to shout, to demand an explanation.
Instead, Luo Binghe only smiled.
Soft. Pleased. Absolutely, devastatingly wrecked.
Shen Qingqiu felt a chill crawl down his spine.
"You hit me," Binghe murmured, tilting his head. His voice was breathless.
"Shizun, you actually—"
"Don't," Shen Qingqiu hissed, taking a step back.
He needed distance.
Immediately.
Luo Binghe's eyes darkened.
"Are you leaving again?"
"Yes," Shen Qingqiu snapped, not caring how obvious his retreat was. "And don't follow me, or I swear I'll—"
"You'll what?" Luo Binghe interrupted.
His lips curled slightly, his cheek still pink from the slap. "Hit me again?"
Shen Qingqiu wanted to die.
This bastard was enjoying this.
No. No. He refused to be dragged into Binghe's madness again.
So he turned.
And he ran.
Because if he didn't get away right now—
He didn't know if he'd have the strength to stop the next time.
—
Shen Qingqiu ran.
His heart slammed against his ribs, his breath uneven, his steps quick and unsteady. He had to get away.
Away from that look. Away from the way Luo Binghe had smiled after getting slapped.
Away from the suffocating, unbearable heat curling in his stomach.
But before he could escape—before he could convince himself that he had won this time—
A hand snatched his wrist.
Too strong. Too fast. Too desperate.
Shen Qingqiu barely had time to react before he was yanked backward—straight into Luo Binghe's arms.
The impact nearly knocked the breath out of him. He struggled, but Binghe didn't let go.
"Shizun," Luo Binghe whispered against his ear.
His voice wasn't playful anymore.
Wasn't teasing.
It was shaken.
Shen Qingqiu froze.
Because when he turned his head—when he finally looked—
Luo Binghe's eyes were wet.
Tears clung to his lashes, barely held back, as if he was fighting himself.
As if this was the moment hewould break.
Shen Qingqiu's breath caught.
Luo Binghe had never—never—criedlike this.
Not from anger. Not from frustration.
But from something deep. Something aching.
Something terrifyingly vulnerable.
"Why do you always run?" Luo Binghe whispered, voice trembling.
Shen Qingqiu couldn't answer.
"Why do you always push me away?"
Binghe continued, his grip tightening.
His head lowered, his forehead resting against the crook of Shen Qingqiu's neck.
"Do you hate me that much?"
Shen Qingqiu's chest ached.
He should say yes.
He should pull away.
He should end this.
But Luo Binghe was crying.
—
Shen Qingqiu's heart pounded.
Tears clung to his lashes, his grip was tight, unyielding, desperate.
His forehead rested against Shen Qingqiu's neck, and his voice—that broken, trembling voice—made something deep inside Shen Qingqiu waver.
He should say something.
He should push Binghe away,
tell him to stop being ridiculous, stop being so unbearably—so heartbreakingly—Binghe.
But he couldn't.
Because if he spoke now—
if he let himself soften, even a little—
He wouldn't be able to leave.
So he did the only thing he could.
He fled.
With a sharp breath, Shen Qingqiu forced spiritual energy into his limbs and wrenched himself free.
Luo Binghe's fingers clawed after him, trying to hold on—but it was too late.
In one fluid motion, Shen Qingqiu summoned Xiu Ya.
The sword flashed, catching the light of the setting sun as it appeared beneath him.
And before Binghe could react—before he could pull him back, whisper something that would ruin him completely—
Shen Qingqiu soared into the sky.
The wind rushed past him.
His robes billowed,
his pulse thundered in his ears.
He didn't look back.
He didn't dare.
Because if he did—if he saw Binghe's face, the betrayal, the pain, the unshed tears—
He might turn around.
And that, more than anything else, scared him.