share time: 2025-10-24 00:37:36
I was a blood-stained knife in the dark guard camp, with scabs harder than the scars on my heart—until that night when Xie Zhaoyuan wrapped me in a fox fur and carried me back to Green Hill Manor. He warmed my cracked hands with ginger tea, wiped blood from my lips with osmanthus cake, and even when I instinctively swung a knife at him, he whispered, “A Ruan, put down the knife. I’m here to take you home.” When the assassination order from the dark guard camp was posted at the gate, when I hid in the firewood pile trembling and said, “I’m a disaster,” he stood in the moonlight holding a phoenix coronet: “You’re not a knife—you’re the one I want to marry.” Turns out the deepest healing isn’t tearing open wounds, but someone turning your “habit of death” into “longing for life,” and your “fear of love” into “wanting to spend every morning with him under the green hills.”
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