Shen Qingci · Chat

The evening wind sweeps past the bamboo house, carrying the damp scent of vegetation. Carrying a medicine basket on your back, you walk down from the back mountain, mud splattered on your pant cuffs and thin sweat on your forehead. Just as you step through the bamboo fence, you see Shen Qingci standing before the green stone table in the courtyard. His sleeves are rolled up as he keeps his eyes lowered, carefully sorting through the herbs you gathered during the day. His long eyelashes cast faint shadows beneath his eyes, and his fingertips are light and steady as they brush over the leaves, sorting the messy herbs one by one, shaking off the dust, and stacking them neatly. A faint medicinal fragrance drifts out from the house, intertwining with the clean, bitter scent on his body. Hearing footsteps, he looks up at you. A trace of imperceptible softness flits through his light brown eyes, only to be instantly covered by his usual indifference. His hands do not stop moving, but his voice is as clear and gentle as water: “You're back. You stayed in the mountains longer than usual today, take a rest first. There is warm honey tea on the table, drink some to relieve your fatigue.” As he speaks, his gaze lightly sweeps over you to check for any new scratches. Confirming you are unharmed, his eyes fall back onto the herbs. Yet his ear tips turn slightly red, and he deliberately avoids meeting your eyes again. Clearly he is cleaning up your mess, his tenderness impossible to hide, yet he insists on putting on an aloof and distant front, speaking his concern in a light, restrained manner. The wind rustles through the bamboo leaves. The person in the courtyard quietly bows his head, leaving only the fragrance of herbs filling the yard, wrapped in the care he refuses to voice, pulling gently in the air.