I Abandoned My Beast Cubs for the Protagonist... Oops?

Chapter 206: Hóng Yè’s First Kiss Was Not What He Expected

Many Days Later

The festival was dying.

The fires had burned low, casting long orange shadows across the clearing. The dancers had staggered off to their huts, too exhausted to walk straight. The drums had fallen silent an hour ago, and someone had forgotten to put away the leftover meat, which meant the snake twins were circling the tables like opportunistic vultures.

Hóng Yè stood at the edge of the visitors’ huts, his hands shoved into his pockets, his tail tucked tight against his legs.

He did not want to say goodbye.

He had been telling himself all evening that it was fine. Lì Jìng was from the southern marshes. She had a home there. A family. A life that did not involve him.

She was going to leave.

And he was going to stand here and watch her go, and then he was going to walk back to his father’s hut and pretend that his chest did not feel like someone had scooped out everything soft and left only the sharp, jagged edges.

" You are doing the face again," Lì Jìng said.

Hóng Yè looked up.

She was standing in the doorway of the visitors’ hut, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, her pale green scales catching the firelight. She had changed out of her festival clothes into something simpler, a soft grey wrap that made her look smaller, softer, more real.

"I am not doing a face," he said.

"You are. The brooding face. The one where your eyebrows get very close together and you look like you are planning a funeral."

"I am not planning a funeral."

"Then what are you thinking about?"

Hóng Yè opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Nothing came out.

He could not tell her that he was thinking about how she was leaving. That would sound desperate. Pathetic. He was not desperate. He was not pathetic. He was just... aware. Of time. Of distance. Of all the ways that things could end before they even began.

Hóng Yè’s jaw tightened. He looked away, staring at the dying fire, at the embers glowing like scattered stars.

"Thank you," he said finally. "For everything."

"You already said that."

"I am saying it again."

"Why?"

"Because I mean it."

Lì Jìng was quiet for a moment. Then she stepped out of the doorway and walked toward him, her bare feet silent on the grass.

She stopped in front of him.

Close. Too close. Close enough that he could smell the marsh on her skin, damp earth and water lilies and something green growing in the sun.

"You are very strange," she said.

"I know."

"I like that about you."

Hóng Yè’s ears went warm. "Why?"

"Because everyone else tries to be interesting. You just are." She tilted her head again, studying his face. "You do not pretend. You do not perform. You just... exist. Loudly. With your eyebrows."

"My eyebrows are not loud."

"Your eyebrows are screaming right now."

Hóng Yè’s hand flew to his forehead. His eyebrows were not screaming. They were just... existing. Normally.

Lì Jìng laughed.

It was a small sound, soft and warm, and it made something in Hóng Yè’s chest crack open.

She reached up.

Her fingers brushed his cheek.

Hóng Yè stopped breathing.

Lì Jìng leaned in.

Her lips pressed against his cheek, quick, warm, soft, and then she pulled back, her cheeks flushed, her jade eyes bright.

"Goodnight, Hóng Yè," she said.

She turned to walk away.

Hóng Yè’s hand shot out.

He caught her wrist.

She stopped.

He did not know what he was doing. His body was moving without permission, his heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, and every rational thought in his head was screaming at him to let go, to run, to hide in his father’s hut and never come out.

But he did not let go.

He turned her hand over.

Her palm was warm. Her scales caught the firelight, pale green and shimmering. She was looking at him with those jade eyes, confused and curious and waiting.

"I..." he started.

Nothing.

His throat was too tight. His tongue was too thick. He could not find the words.

So he stopped trying.

He raised her hand to his mouth.

And he kissed it.

Lì Jìng went very still.

Hóng Yè let go of her hand.

His face was burning. His ears were on fire. His tail had wrapped itself around his leg so tightly it was cutting off circulation.

"Goodnight," he said.

His voice cracked.

Lì Jìng stared at him.

Then, very slowly, her lips curved.

"You kissed my hand," she said.

"I... yes."

"That is very old-fashioned."

"I am old-fashioned."

"You are seventeen."

"Emotionally, I am eighty."

Lì Jìng laughed again, louder this time, and the sound of it made Hóng Yè’s chest feel less like a battlefield and more like something that could heal.

"Goodnight, Hóng Yè," she said.

"Goodnight, Lì Jìng."

She walked into the hut. The door closed behind her.

Hóng Yè stood there for a long moment.

Then he turned and walked back toward his father’s hut, his hands shoved into his pockets, his tail still wrapped around his leg, his heart still pounding.

He was halfway across the clearing when he heard it.

Whistling.

He looked up.

Zhāo Yàn was leaning against a tree, his arms crossed, his nine tails fanned out behind him like a peacock’s display. His crimson eyes were gleaming.

"Well," the Fox Lord said. "Well, well, well."

Hóng Yè’s soul left his body.

"How long have you been standing there?" he demanded.

"Long enough."

"How much did you see?"

"Everything."

"Zhāo Yàn—"

"You kissed her hand."

"I did not—that was private—you should not have been watching—"

"You kissed her hand and then you stood there like a frozen fish while she walked away."

Hóng Yè’s face went from red to purple. "I am going to kill you."

"No you are not."

"I am going to tell Mama you were spying."

"Tell her. She will think it is romantic."

"NOTHING ABOUT THIS IS ROMANTIC."

Zhāo Yàn pushed off from the tree and walked toward him, his smile softening into something almost genuine.

"Boy," he said, "that was the most romantic thing I have seen in years. And I have seen a lot of romantic things. I am very romantic."

"You are insufferable."

"I am supportive. There is a difference."

He reached out and ruffled Hóng Yè’s hair. Hóng Yè ducked away, but not fast enough.

"She likes you," Zhāo Yàn said. "Do not mess it up."

"I am not going to mess it up."

"You are going to mess it up."

"I am—"

"You are going to overthink every conversation and second-guess every gesture and drive yourself insane trying to figure out what she wants. Do not." Zhāo Yàn’s eyes held his. "Just be there. That is all she needs."

Hóng Yè stared at him.

"Who are you," he said, "and what have you done with Zhāo Yàn?"

The Fox Lord smirked. "I am capable of wisdom. It is just usually hidden under layers of charm and good looks."

"Your layers are very thick."

"Thank you."

"That was not a compliment."

"Everything is a compliment if you try hard enough."

Zhāo Yàn walked away, his tails swaying, his whistling drifting back through the dark.

Hóng Yè stood alone in the clearing.

He touched his lips.

He could still feel her knuckles against his mouth. Warm. Soft. Real.

He walked home.

He did not sleep.

He thought about jade eyes and pale green scales and the way she had laughed when he kissed her hand.

He thought about the marshes, and the distance, and the end of the festival.

And then, very quietly, he smiled.