Work Text:
Golden light filtered through the lattice windows, dappling the small kitchen in a soft, shimmering glow. The room smelled faintly of ginger and soft herbs, the air warm with the promise of something comforting. Mo Ran stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with flour as he worked a mound of dough with practiced ease. His broad shoulders swayed slightly with the rhythm of kneading, his deep voice carrying across the space as he spoke, almost absently.
“And that’s why you’ve gotta press hard here, you see? Otherwise, the dough’s too tough, and the dumpling skin tears when you fold it,” he explained, hands moving deftly, like this task was second nature to him.
Across the room, Chu Wanning stood stiffly, arms folded in his sleeves. He watched in silence, his face expressionless as always. But inside, there was a flicker of curiosity, a quiet yearning to step closer, to join him. The sight of Mo Ran so at ease, humming softly as he worked, was something he wasn’t used to. Domesticity was foreign to both of them, their lives filled with sharp blades and harsher words. And yet, here they were, steeped in a golden glow that made everything feel softer, safer.
Mo Ran looked up, catching his shizun’s gaze. A mischievous grin tugged at his lips, accentuating his dimples. “Want to help, Shizun? Or are you just going to stand there looking pretty?”
Chu Wanning’s ears burned, though he refused to let it show. “I’m not particularly interested,” he replied flatly, shifting his gaze to a patch of sunlight on the floor. “But if you insist, I suppose I could assist for a moment.”
Mo Ran chuckled under his breath, the sound warm and indulgent. “Sure, sure. Come on, then.” He gestured to the counter, stepping aside to make room.
Reluctantly, Chu Wanning approached, his movements precise and deliberate as though he were stepping into a battlefield rather than a kitchen. He glanced at the bowl of flour and the neatly rolled dough, his brow furrowing slightly.
Mo Ran found this charming—the great Yuheng Elder, unshakable and unyielding, suddenly hesitant in the face of dumpling-making. “Here,” Mo Ran said, taking Chu Wanning’s hand and pulling him closer. “First, we sprinkle some flour—like this. Go on.”
Chu Wanning hesitated but followed the instruction, his fingers brushing through the powdery flour.
“Good,” Mo Ran said, his voice softer now, more coaxing. “Now press down gently here. Not too hard. It’s about finesse, not strength.”
Chu Wanning tried, but the dough stuck awkwardly to his hands. He frowned, clearly unused to such tasks. “This is pointless,” he muttered.
Mo Ran laughed, low and affectionate. “No, it’s not. You’re just clumsy, Shizun.” Ignoring the glare shot his way, he stepped behind Chu Wanning, his hands coming up to cover his. “Here, let me.”
The warmth of Mo Ran’s body against his back made Chu Wanning’s breath stutter. Mo Ran’s hands were firm yet careful, guiding his movements with an ease that made something in Chu Wanning’s chest tighten. His heart thudded louder, and his face felt unbearably warm.
Mo Ran leaned closer, his breath tickling Chu Wanning’s ear. “See? Like this.” His voice was low, a murmur meant only for him.
Chu Wanning swallowed hard, willing himself not to show how flustered he was. But the way Mo Ran’s larger hands enveloped his, the steady warmth of his presence, the way the light caught in his eyes when he glanced up—it all felt too much, too intimate.
When the dumplings were finally rolled and folded, with deliberate slowness, he stepped back, out of Mo Ran’s not-quite embrace, the distance between them sudden and almost jarring. Cold and unwelcome.
Chu Wanning brushed his hands clean. His voice clipped as he said, “Thank you for the demonstration.” But the blush on his cheeks betrayed him. His fingers lingered over the fabric of his sleeves longer than necessary.
Mo Ran turned, a soft, sincere smile on his face. “You’re welcome, Shizun.” His gaze lingered, filled with something quiet and tender.
There was a smudge of flour on Chu Wanning’s cheek, and Mo Ran couldn’t help but laugh softly at the sight. Then—sharp and painful—It brought back a memory, a different kitchen, a different lifetime. The night Chu Wanning had tried to make wontons for him after Shi Mei’s death, when he’d thrown them to the floor in a fit of grief and rage.
The memory twisted in his chest, a wound that lay bleeding, never to close, and before he realized it, his eyes were wet.
Chu Wanning noticed. “Why are you crying?” His voice was careful, but there was a hint of worry beneath it. He reached out, hesitant, his fingers brushing against Mo Ran’s arm.
Mo Ran caught his hand, pressing it to his face. “I don’t deserve you,” Mo Ran whispered, his voice rough with emotion. His thumb brushed gently over the pulse point at Chu Wanning’s wrist. “I’ve done so many things—things I can’t ever undo. But…” He lifted his gaze, meeting Chu Wanning’s startled eyes. “I love you, Wanning. More than anything. More than air. I’d burn the world for you, but I’d let myself burn first if it meant you’d never hurt again.”
Chu Wanning’s blush deepened, but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t know how to respond, the weight of Mo Ran’s words sinking into him like stones into water. The guilt that weighed on the man before him—the man he loved—was a shadow he feared he’d never be able to lift, no matter how fiercely he tried.
Chu Wanning opened his mouth to reply—tangled with feelings he couldn’t articulate. But the weight of Mo Ran’s gaze stilled him. He hesitated, his throat tightening, unsure if anything he could say would be enough to bridge the aching depth between them.
Before he could gather his thoughts, Mo Ran moved. His hands, warm and steady, slid to Chu Wanning’s waist. The motion was fluid, decisive, and in one swift motion, Chu Wanning found himself lifted effortlessly onto the counter. The cool surface pressed against his legs as Mo Ran stepped between his knees, his presence overwhelming, his closeness an unspoken promise.
Their faces were close—closer than Chu Wanning could handle without feeling like he was burning from the inside out.
“Mo Ran—”
But Mo Ran leaned in, and whatever words Chu Wanning had prepared dissolved against the press of his lips. The kiss was soft at first, achingly so, like the brush of a petal caught on the breeze. But then it deepened, and with it came the full weight of everything Mo Ran couldn’t say.
Chu Wanning felt it in the way Mo Ran’s hands slid to cradle his face, rough palms against smooth skin, reverent but firm, like he was afraid Chu Wanning might disappear if he didn’t hold on tight enough. Mo Ran kissed him like a man trying to drink in sunlight—slow and savoring, desperate to hold on to something fleeting but essential.
The speckled light caught in their hair, dancing across their skin like liquid warmth, as if the universe itself had paused to witness this moment. Chu Wanning’s hands, unsure and hesitant, found their way to Mo Ran’s shoulders, clutching at the fabric of his tunic.
Mo Ran tilted his head, angling the kiss deeper, his tongue brushing against Chu Wanning’s with an unwavering vow: You’re safe with me. Always. The taste of him was a strange, intoxicating mix—warm tea and faint ginger, grounding and yet heady enough to make Chu Wanning feel untethered.
The all-encompassing, overwhelming heat of Mo Ran’s body pressing into his, wrapping around him like an unrelenting flame. It burned, yes, but it didn’t consume. Instead, it melted something frozen deep inside him, coaxing him open like sunlight softening frost.
Chu Wanning felt his heart pounding, its rhythm uneven and wild, like a bird trapped in a cage too small. Yet he didn’t push away. Instead, he leaned in, his own lips parting, surrendering to the pull of Mo Ran’s devotion.
When Mo Ran finally pulled back, his breath came heavy and ragged, his forehead pressing gently against Chu Wanning’s. His hands slid down to rest at Chu Wanning’s waist, thumbs tracing idle circles as if he needed the physical connection to remind himself this was real.
Chu Wanning blinked at him, lips still tingling, his face flushed in a way that had nothing to do with the warmth of the room. “What…was that for?” His voice came out quieter than he intended, his eyes darting away—chest cracked open, the flood of emotion surging through him like a dam finally giving.
Mo Ran chuckled, the sound soft and tinged with something tender, almost wistful. Chu Wanning’s words, so formal, only made Mo Ran’s heart ache with fondness—If only you knew—how just being you is reason enough—He reached up, brushing his thumb over that errant streak of flour. Mo Ran’s smile faltered, his expression shifting into something more serious.
His hand lingered, his touch impossibly soft, thumb tracing the curve of Chu Wanning’s cheek, moving so delicately it felt like a whisper of air. Then, leaning in, Mo Ran pressed a kiss there—reverent and lingering, a silent apology for every scar, every hurt, every moment he wished he could undo.
Chu Wanning’s breath hitched. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Mo Ran’s eyes—not when they were so open, so full of unguarded love that it felt like staring directly into the sun. His chest ached with something he couldn’t name, something that made him want to pull away and lean closer all at once.
Before he could think better of it, his own hand rose, tentative and trembling, and covered Mo Ran’s where it rested against his cheek. The warmth of Mo Ran’s palm seeped into him, steady and grounding, tethering him to the moment.
For a brief heartbeat, neither of them moved. Chu Wanning’s touch was uncertain but firm, the smallest gesture speaking volumes in the quiet between them. He closed his eyes, letting himself lean into Mo Ran’s hand, as though it were the only solid thing in a world that constantly threatened to fall apart.
Mo Ran’s breath stilled. His eyes softened further, taking in the rare vulnerability in Chu Wanning’s expression, the faint pink dusting his cheeks, the way his lips pressed together as if to keep himself from saying too much. Mo Ran turned his head slightly, brushing his lips over the knuckles of the hand that held his own.
“I’m here,” Mo Ran murmured, his voice quiet and steady, promising not to let go.
Chu Wanning’s heart clenched, the weight of Mo Ran’s sincerity settling over him. He didn’t speak, didn’t need to. Instead, he let his fingers curl slightly over Mo Ran’s, holding on to the only anchor in a raging sea.
As they held each other, Mo Ran thought of how impossible it seemed that he’d found this—this quiet, unspoken love, this man who had saved him and been saved in return.
The kiss that followed was softer—unhurried, a silent reassurance. Mo Ran kissed him not with desperation, but with a quiet, enduring kind of love, the kind that filled the cracks without rushing to mend them.
They were two people scarred by time, broken and rebuilt over and over, yet still standing. And here, in the glow of flour-dusted sunlight, they had found something they hadn’t thought possible: a place to rest, and a warmth that neither could deny.