The moon hung low and heavy, casting its silvery glow across the tiled rooftops and the empty courtyards of the Zhang estate. It was well past the hour of silence, yet Zhang Zheng could not rest. He stood by the koi pond, its surface still as glass, his reflection fractured with every ripple caused by a drifting petal.
His jaw was tight. His chest, tighter. Lu Qinian's voice still echoed in his mind, sweet and oily like poisoned wine. The snake's presence had made itself at home, lounging with the children, whispering in the servants' ears, brushing his sleeves too freely.
Zhang clenched his fists. He wasn't afraid of being seduced—he was afraid of what it would cost. His children were no fools. They watched. They listened. And even now, he could see the tension in their little shoulders, the way they shrank when Qinian laughed too loudly or smiled too long.
He couldn't do this. He couldn't hand his family to someone like that.
Footsteps. Soft, deliberate.
Mihir appeared under the moonlight, robed in a shade of twilight gray, his long hair tied with a modest red string, and his eyes reflecting the stars. Zhang turned toward him, the storm on his face faltering for a breath.
"You're still awake," Mihir said quietly.
Zhang looked away. "I could ask you the same."
Mihir smiled, stepping closer. "I couldn't sleep."
Zhang stared at the ground, jaw shifting.
There was silence. And then, Zhang turned, slowly, deliberately. "Mihir."
"Yes?"
"I need to ask you something. Not as a guest. Not as a priest."
Mihir's brows lifted slightly. "Go on."
Zhang's voice dropped, ragged and low. "Marry me."
Mihir froze.
Zhang stepped closer, inches between them now. "If I marry Lu Qinian, my children will suffer. My second son, my youngest—he's already being watched, judged. My stepmother says I need a new spouse to 'keep the household in order,' but I know what he truly means. Someone to control me. Control them. Qinian will bind me with silks and choke me in the name of elegance."
Mihir looked into Zhang's eyes. There was no pride in the man's voice. Only desperation. Only a quiet, shaking need.
Mihir swallowed. "You don't have to do this to protect them."
"I do," Zhang said. "But I want to choose how I do it."
He paused. "I want you."
The words hung heavy in the night.
Mihir's heart pounded in his chest. He remembered his guru's voice on that snowy morning in Tibet: 'One day, the river of your dharma will split. You will be asked to step down from your mountain. That moment will test not your faith—but your love.'
He had laughed then, called it poetic nonsense.
But now… he understood.
Mihir stepped forward. "You know what I am. What I've taken vows against."
Zhang nodded. "And yet, here you are."
Their eyes met—an entire conversation exchanged in silence. Moonlight kissed the edges of their faces. The air between them sparked.
Zhang reached out, fingers trembling, and touched Mihir's cheek. Mihir didn't flinch. Instead, he leaned into it.
"I'm not asking for you to be a wife," Zhang said. "I'm asking for you to be mine. Whatever shape that takes."
Mihir's breath hitched.
The air thickened.
And suddenly, Zhang's other hand was on Mihir's waist. The priest's robe parted slightly, showing the fine slope of his collarbone. His skin was warm, soft—
Zhang's lips hovered near Mihir's throat, not touching. Mihir's hands balled into the folds of Zhang's sleeve, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.
Their breaths mixed, shallow and uneven.
Mihir tilted his head back a little, eyes fluttering shut for just a heartbeat—
Then a branch cracked loudly behind them.
Both jerked apart like lightning had struck between them.
The moment scattered, wild and messy, but the heat remained.
Zhang chuckled under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "I shouldn't have touched you."
Mihir's lips curved into a crooked smile. "Then you really don't know what priests dream of."
Zhang stared at him.
Mihir turned away, hiding his blush behind his hair. "Let me think on it."
"Will you?"
"I already am," Mihir said, walking back toward the house, his steps slow, uncertain.
Zhang stood there alone, the moonlight painting silver lines across his broad shoulders, and something—something unspoken—was already changing.
The proposal had been made.
And now, the gods, the stars, and the men below would all be watching.