The world stood still for one breathless moment after their almost-kiss. The moon watched. The air thickened.
And then —CRAAAAAASH.
Ceramic shattered.A child screamed.
Zhang's eyes snapped open, and Mihir startled back as though a bell had tolled inside him.
They ran.
From incense smoke and forbidden heat, straight into the cold slap of reality — across the hall, down the steps, into the open courtyard.
There, under the peach tree, the five-year-old stood with wide, tear-brimmed eyes and blood on his lip — not from a wound, but from biting it too hard. Pieces of a celadon vase lay scattered around him like fallen stars. His tiny fists were clenched. His chin trembled.
Before him stood the stepmother — tall, poised, arms crossed in his ink-dark robes, not a hair out of place. But his face…
It was a quiet fury.
"You little brat," the stepmother said in a voice soft enough to kill. "That was from the previous dynasty."
The child's voice rose like thunder, defiant. "I DON'T CARE!"
Zhang froze halfway across the courtyard.
Mihir reached first, bending to the child. "What happened?"
"I— I just— I just touched it a little!" The boy's words shook. "He was talking about DAD getting married again and I got mad!"
Zhang's head snapped toward the stepmother.
The older man merely shrugged. "I was speaking to a guest. Children should not eavesdrop."
"You said Dad needs to marry again," the boy screamed. "You said he needs a man who can make us behave!"
Zhang stepped forward now, slow and stiff. "Enough."
His voice wasn't loud. But it struck like cold iron.
The stepmother turned with a cool, expressionless face. "You can hardly deny it, Zheng'er. The children are wild. Their mother is— ashes. You are half-living. This house is a fire waiting to catch."
The child threw his arms around Mihir's legs, glaring up at the stepmother like a cub baring milk-teeth.
Mihir placed a gentle hand on the boy's head, heart still thudding from moments ago — from almost kissing a man, from sprinting like a storm, from holding a child trembling like a candle.
Zhang's eyes met Mihir's across the space.
Not angry.Not ashamed.
But something raw.Wounded. Like a soldier who never expected anyone to step between him and the pain.
"I'll clean it," Mihir said suddenly. "Let the boy sleep."
The stepmother studied him, fan tapping once against his palm. "You're a guest, priest. Not a nanny."
"I'm many things," Mihir said quietly, kneeling to gather shards.
There was blood on one. His own finger.It stung less than the ache blooming in his chest.
That night, Mihir sat with the child until he slept.The broken vase had been from a fallen kingdom.The child had cried until his body folded into exhaustion.Zhang had not come in.
But outside the screen door, Mihir saw a shadow standing silently……until dawn.