86: Roll into a ball

Mo Yuhan’s breathing instantly hitched, his body stiff as a stone, not daring to move even a single fingertip.

He could feel his cheeks and earlobes uncontrollably heating up.

Xiao Yu was clearly stunned too.

She lay on him, motionless for a long while, her rapid gasps clearly audible at such close proximity.

She seemed to want to prop herself up immediately, but as soon as she exerted force with her arms, she lost her balance again due to the slipperiness of the moss beneath her and her awkward posture. Her elbows softened, and her entire body fell heavily back into place.

This time, her forehead nearly bumped Mo Yuhan’s chin, and a few strands of loose hair brushed against his cheek and neck, bringing a fine itch, like being gently tickled by the softest feather, yet stirring up a tumultuous storm in his heart.

“Uh… sorry!”

Xiao Yu’s voice finally sounded, carrying an unprecedented panic and a hint of almost imperceptible vexation.

She fumbled to prop herself up again, pressing her palms onto the moss beside Mo Yuhan, trying hard to avoid direct contact with his body.

She twisted her waist, and that troublesome long leg finally began to shift, attempting to move away from his side.

This clumsy struggle, however, only increased the area of physical contact and the degree of friction between them.

Every unintentional brush was like a spark thrown onto dry kindling, causing the already pervasive heat to surge, and the air seemed to become thick and scorching.

Mo Yuhan could even clearly feel the taut muscle lines of her waist as she twisted, and the strange, silky, and slightly cool sensation of her red skirt sweeping across his lower leg.

He instinctively held his breath, his gaze uncontrollably drifting upwards, sweeping over the undulating curves beneath the disordered red dress, finally settling on her face.

Xiao Yu finally managed to kneel on one knee, half-propping herself up. She was slightly panting, a few strands of dark hair stuck to her smooth forehead and abnormally flushed cheeks with sweat, and the purple petals at her temples dangled precariously.

Her eyes were somewhat evasive, lacking their usual spiritedness, instead resembling a startled deer, veiled with a thin layer of moisture, carrying lingering fright and an unplaceable shyness.

However, when her gaze met Mo Yuhan’s eyes, that panic quickly became covered by a forced, senior sister-like authority.

“Cough!”

Xiao Yu cleared her throat, trying to maintain composure in her voice, but the end of her words carried an undeniable slight tremor, “Are… are you alright? This cursed place, the moss is too slippery!”

Her gaze quickly swept over Mo Yuhan’s even messier hair, which was still clinging to a few blades of grass, then quickly moved away, landing on the flattened moss beside him.

She stood up briskly, her movements carrying a hurriedness that seemed to try and cover something up, as if staying for another second would be unbearable.

Xiao Yu lowered her head, her hands quickly patting away the moss green stains and dirt on her red skirt, then haphazardly tidied her loose long hair, trying to regain some semblance of decency.

Her slender white fingers trembled slightly, imperceptibly, as she moved.

“Just now…”

She paused, not looking at Mo Yuhan, her gaze fixed only on a stubborn stain on her skirt, her voice extremely low, almost melting into the rustling of wind-blown vine leaves, “It was purely an accident, you… you’re not allowed to tell anyone, understand?”

Her tone carried a commanding firmness, yet it couldn’t hide the underlying hint of shyness and lack of confidence, like thin ice coated in sugar, ready to shatter at a touch.

Mo Yuhan finally found some strength, propping himself up with his arms. The damp, cold fabric of his shirt clung to his skin, bringing a chill, but this chill could not dissipate the ignited heat within his body.

He instinctively raised his right hand, his palm seemingly still retaining the sensation from the earlier chaos, when, somehow, it had briefly pressed against her waist—through the thin fabric, her waist was slender yet resilient, with astonishing elasticity and warmth, like an imprint left by a branding iron, impossible to erase.

His throat was somewhat dry, he wanted to respond, but only managed a vague “Mm.”

Xiao Yu seemed to have received the assurance she wanted, or perhaps she simply wanted to escape this suffocatingly awkward situation immediately.

However, she still tried hard to maintain the composure of a senior, but the slightly trembling end of her voice and her flushed earlobes completely betrayed the turmoil within her.

Her voice trembled much more, “In the academy, if you have any questions about swordsmanship, you can come find me anytime.”

This promise was no longer a formality, but a heartfelt acknowledgment and acceptance.

The warmth of her palm came through his hair, bringing a comforting strength. Mo Yuhan felt the gentle caress on his head, looking at Xiao Yu’s warm smile that no longer felt distant, and a warm current also surged in his heart.

From the initial unfamiliarity, to today’s embarrassment due to Xue Ni’s indiscretion, and now, the resonance and closeness born from the sword and intertwined by accident, an invisible bridge seemed to have quietly been built under the witness of these ancient wild trees.

The sunlight was just right, lengthening the two figures, one large and one small, one blue and one black, their shadows intertwining on the bluestone slab, like nascenttacit agreement.

She said no more, not even glancing at Mo Yuhan again, and abruptly turned around, stepping to leave this messy mossy ground.

Just as she turned, the hem of her skirt lifted in a somewhat hurried arc due to her swift movement.

That burning color, like a corner of the evening glow swept up by the wind, carrying a sense of decisiveness and panic, brushed against Mo Yuhan’s hand, which was still propped on the ground, neither too much nor too little.

It was just an extremely light and quick touch.

Like a scorching feather brushing by, or being unexpectedly singed by the lingering afterglow of the sunset.

Mo Yuhan’s entire body trembled suddenly, the skin on the back of his hand instantly tensing.

The sensation was exceptionally clear, not pain, but a strange, tingling itch with a lingering heat, winding its way up from the nerve endings of his fingertips, all the way to his heart, where it gently plucked once.

He abruptly withdrew his hand, as if burned by an invisible flame, his fingertips curling, tightly clenching into a fist, trying to lock in that fleeting yet incredibly vivid sensation.

Xiao Yu’s figure had already hurried into the hanging curtain of flowers ahead, leaving only the disheveled deep green moss that had been pressed down, the air filled with the scent of crushed flowers and earth, and a faint, almost imperceptible, clear and light fragrance belonging to her.

Mo Yuhan remained standing still, the invisible scorching sensation on the back of his hand where the skirt hem had brushed had not receded; instead, like a pebble dropped into a deep pool, the ripples spread out in circles, silently stirring the damp air around him.

He slowly uncurled his clenched fist, his gaze falling on the back of his hand, where there was clearly nothing, yet it felt as if there truly was an imprint of the evening glow, hot and stubbornly lingering.

The wind passed through the vines, bringing distant, faint sounds, and the wisteria blossoms swayed gently in the deepening twilight.

He slowly stood up, his lower hem also stained with moss and mud, the damp, cold fabric of his shirt clinging to his skin, bringing chills.

However, this chill and the strange burning sensation on the back of his hand formed a stark opposition, like the silent tug-of-war between ice and fire within his body.

Mo Yuhan bent down, taking one last look at the mossy ground where their bodies had left clear marks, those chaotic imprints like an unspeakable secret, branded onto the damp earth of late spring.