Same night, two hours after the hot-spring incident
A summer thunderstorm barrelled over the foothills without warning—first wind like a cracked whip, then rain in sheets hard enough to bruise.
Sentries shouted; tents flapped like wounded birds.
Lan Yue, still drying her hair by the healer's brazier, grabbed her bow-case and ran to help lash supply wagons.
Shen emerged from the command pavilion bare-headed, cloak snapping; he shouted orders, voice barely winning against the gale.
Within minutes every spare hand worked in a frantic ballet of ropes and iron stakes.
Collapse
A junior cadet lost his grip on a pavilion guy-line; the canvas reared, caught the wind broadside, and toppled onto two supply tents.
Oil-skins ripped; medical chests skittered toward the mud-slough.
Yue flung herself onto a sliding crate, but the ground gave way—ankle still tender from tunnel timber—and she went down hard.
Before the crate could drag her into the mire a pair of arms locked under hers, hauling her free.
Shen, soaked to the skin, steadied her only long enough to confirm she breathed, then turned back to the chaos, shouting for tarpaulins.
The Tent That Would Not Rise
The storm snapped two main poles of the junior officers' tent; repairs in darkness were impossible.
Half the cadets would sleep wet or crowd into senior shelters already cramped.
Yue, wiping rain from her eyes, heard Yuan curse:
"No canvas, no fire, no damn dry stitch in sight."
She was opening her mouth to offer space in her small healer-allotted tent when Shen's voice cut through rain:
"Archer-Cadet Lan, a word—now."
An Order, Not an Invitation
He stood beside her two-man field tent—the only one still upright on its ridge-line, thanks to her earlier double-stake job.
Rain streamed from his hair; cloak plastered to shoulders like dark armour.
"Your shelter is rated for two," he said.
"Regulation requires commander to ensure rest of officers.
You will share.
I will take floor, you cot.
No argument."
He spoke rapid-fire, eyes on the storm, but colour rode high on his cheekbones—whether from wind or earlier memory she could not tell.
Protocol screamed against it; the same protocol was drowning.
She saluted, opened the flap, and tried not to notice how his fingers fumbled the tie.
Inside – Canvas Against the World
The tent was barely four paces wide, cot on one side, waterproof ground-sheet on the other.
A single storm-lantern swung from the ridge-pole, throwing gold triangles that danced with every buffet.
Rain hammered like arrows on a shield-wall; inside smelled of wet wool, pine-smoke, and the faint mineral scent the hot-spring had left on both their skins.
They stood, dripping, uncertain who moved first.
Finally she knelt to unbuckle his mud-sucked boots—soldier's habit, care for gear—then realised what she was doing and froze.
He bent simultaneously to stop her; foreheads nearly collided.
They ended on their knees laughing—breathless, ridiculous, relieved.
Changing – The Dance of Courtesy
He produced a dry undershirt from his saddle-roll; she turned her back while he peeled sodden layers.
Fabric rustled like secrets.
When she risked a glance he was clothed to the waist, wrapping a spare blanket as sash—prince reduced to refugee, and the sight twisted something tender behind her ribs.
She shed her outer tunic, hung both cloaks on the same peg; water droplets slid from green wool onto indigo, merging, falling together.
He looked away, studied the lantern flame as if it held battle plans.
The Cot Compromise
"I told you—floor," he insisted.
"Your ankle—"
"—is fine," she lied, putting weight on it and wincing.
He caught the flinch, expression hardening into command.
"Cot.
That is final."
She exhaled through her teeth, then compromised:
"Half and half.
We both need rest; tomorrow we ride at dawn."
Before he could object she shifted to the wall-side, leaving a hand-span of canvas.
He hesitated so long the lantern guttered, then lay stiffly on top of the blanket, boots off, sword within reach, staring at ridge-pole as if it might court-martial him.
Rain-Song and Heartbeats
Storm settled into steady drumming, wind easing to a lullaby hiss through seams.
Darkness made the tent smaller; every breath sounded amplified.
She listened to his rhythm—carefully measured, then gradually real—until both pulses slowed toward sleep.
Lightning flashed, silhouetting his profile: straight nose, rain-cooled lips, lashes surprisingly long for a man who rarely blinked in danger.
She closed her eyes, but the image stayed branded inside her lids.
Turning
Sometime in the night cold crept under the canvas; the lantern had burned out.
She woke shivering, discovered they had both shifted toward warmth—his back to her front, her forehead against his shoulder-blade.
One of her hands lay fisted in the blanket that now covered them both; his fingers rested over hers, not holding—just covering, as if protecting a small bird.
She felt the tremor in his arm: not chill, but restraint vibrating like a drawn bow.
She should move; instead she breathed him in—rain and cedar-smoke, the faint iron scent of command.
His voice came barely louder than rain:
"Lan Yue… if this is—"
"It's warmth," she answered, surprising herself.
"Nothing the storm can steal."
A shaky exhale; his fingers relaxed, still covering hers.
Neither moved away.
Morning – The Retreat of Rain
Dawn leaked grey through canvas; rain dwindled to a drip-drip song.
She woke first, found their hands still linked on the blanket, her cheek now against his spine—fabric thin enough to feel heartbeat through.
For a moment she let herself pretend the world outside did not exist.
Then a trumpet sounded stand-to; the tent needed striking.
She eased away, but as she sat up his grip tightened once—not挽留 (detention) but acknowledgment—then released.
He sat simultaneously, raked a hand through sleep-tousled hair, and met her eyes.
No words; the storm had said them all.
Yet when he reached for his sword-belt their knees touched, and neither jerked back.
Folding Canvas – A Dance of Two
They worked in practiced silence: her folding poles, him rolling guy-lines, hands brushing, pausing, continuing.
Each contact shorter than lightning, longer than law allowed.
When the tent lay packed he lifted it onto her mare; his fingers lingered on the strap beside hers.
He spoke at last, voice low:
"Tonight we reach High-Post Garrison.
Baths there are communal—no secluded pools."
A flush climbed her throat; she answered with equal softness:
"Then we will remember last night as the storm's gift—and repay it with discretion."
His smile was small, lopsided, entirely unprincely.
"Discretion I can manage.
Forgetting I cannot promise."
He turned before she could reply, but the imprint of his hand stayed on the saddle, ghost-warm against her knee when she mounted.
Riding Out – Same Column, Different Air
The column formed under clearing skies; puddles reflected a sunrise scrubbed clean.
Yuan trotted past, took in their matching tired eyes and identical half-smiles, and raised an eyebrow but said nothing—yet his grin was the loudest silence she had ever heard.
She took her place in line; Shen rode ahead, straight-backed, commander once more.
But when the path narrowed and the column strung single-file, he dropped back until hoof-beats aligned with hers.
They did not speak; they did not need to.
Between them rode the memory of rain, the warmth of shared blanket, and the promise that the next time the world narrowed to two heartbeats, protocol might not be the only thing to surrender.