18: Bound by Obsession

Shizun.. Do you want me or not...?

———

Meanwhile, in another part of the realm, Luo Binghe stood at the edge of a cliff, gazing over the vast mountains and rivers below.

The evening wind rustled through his robes, but his mind was far from calm.

Behind him, Shen Qingqiu watched in silence, his arms folded inside his sleeves.

He knew Luo Binghe well enough by now to recognize when something was off.

"...Binghe." His voice was soft, but firm.

Luo Binghe didn't turn around immediately. Instead, he exhaled slowly, as if trying to suppress something deep within him.

Then, after a long pause, he finally spoke.

"Shizun."

The way he said it—so carefully, so guarded—made Shen Qingqiu's brows furrow slightly.

Luo Binghe wasn't usually one to hold back around him.

If anything, he was annoyingly clingy most of the time.

But now? He was standing there, stiff and distant, like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.

Shen Qingqiu sighed. "What is it this time?"

Still, Luo Binghe didn't turn around.

"It's nothing, Shizun."

Shen Qingqiu narrowed his eyes.

"Nothing?" He took a step closer, his voice dipping with warning.

"Binghe, you're standing there like someone just stole your entire sect and set it on fire.

Try again."

Finally, Luo Binghe moved.

Slowly, he turned his head—just enough for Shen Qingqiu to see his face.

And for the first time that night, he caught a glimpse of something raw beneath his usual mask.

Frustration.

Possession.

Jealousy.

Shen Qingqiu blinked. "...Binghe?"

Luo Binghe clenched his fists. "Why is he touching you?"

Shen Qingqiu froze.

"...What?"

Luo Binghe's eyes darkened. His voice was still quiet, but there was an unmistakable edge to it now.

"That man. The one from earlier." His fingers twitched at his sides, as if itching to break something. "He touched you."

Shen Qingqiu's mind raced, trying to figure out what the hell he was talking about. "You mean that scholar from—?"

"You let him touch your sleeve."

Shen Qingqiu stared. "You're seriously upset about that?"

Luo Binghe didn't respond. He just stared back, his expression unreadable—but his aura spoke volumes.

The air around him hummed with barely contained energy, like an approaching storm.

Shen Qingqiu sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Binghe, people brush against each other all the time. It's not a big deal."

"It is to me."

Shen Qingqiu's breath caught.

The way Luo Binghe said it—low, quiet, completely unshakable—made his pulse stutter.

This wasn't just about some random brush of fabric.

No, this was something deeper.

Luo Binghe took a step closer, then another.

Too close.

By the time Shen Qingqiu realized it, he was already backed against a tree.

"You always do this," Luo Binghe murmured, looking down at him.

"You say things don't matter. That I'm overreacting. But Shizun…"

He lifted a hand—hesitantly, almost reverently—and let his fingers graze against Shen Qingqiu's sleeve, right where the scholar had touched him earlier.

The exact same spot.

Luo Binghe exhaled slowly. Then, in a barely audible whisper, he said, "I don't like sharing."

Shen Qingqiu felt his entire body heat up.

"Y-You're being ridiculous," he muttered, trying to sound exasperated instead of—whatever this feeling was.

Luo Binghe didn't argue. He just smiled—slow, dangerous, possessive.

"You say that," he murmured, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on the fabric of Shen Qingqiu's robe.

"But you haven't pushed me away yet."

Shen Qingqiu had no response to that.

Because, despite everything—despite the way his heart was pounding—Luo Binghe was right.

Shen Qingqiu's pulse thundered in his ears. Luo Binghe was too close—far too close.

He could feel the warmth radiating from Binghe's body, the slow, deliberate pressure of his fingers where they gripped his sleeve.

It was ridiculous. Absurd. A grown man shouldn't be having this kind of reaction just because his disciple—his overgrown, overpowered, and dangerously possessive disciple—was looking at him like that.

He swallowed. "Binghe—"

"You're not pushing me away,"

Luo Binghe interrupted softly.

Shen Qingqiu tensed.

He hated when Luo Binghe did this—backed him into a corner with nothing but words and presence alone.

It was unfair.

Everything about Luo Binghe was unfair.

"Shizun," Binghe continued, and his voice was gentle, but his eyes were as sharp as knife.

"Why do you always act as if you don't know?"

Shen Qingqiu's breath caught. "...Know what?"

Luo Binghe exhaled slowly, then—without warning—his hand slid up from Shen Qingqiu's sleeve to his wrist, encircling it completely.

Shen Qingqiu shuddered.

His grip wasn't painful, wasn't tight, but it was

firm.

Unyielding.

A silent declaration that he wasn't letting go.

"You always pretend," Luo Binghe murmured.

"Pretend that I don't feel this way. Pretend you don't see it. But Shizun…" His fingers tightened just slightly. "I know you do."

Shen Qingqiu's world spun.

He knew. Of course, he knew.

He wasn't an idiot. He had seen the way Binghe looked at him, the way he hovered, the way his expression darkened every time another person got too close.

He had ignored it, pushed it aside,

pretended it wasn't what it was.

Because what else could he do?

This was Luo Binghe. The protagonist. The world's beloved hero. The literal son of fate.

And Shen Qingqiu?

He was just some transmigrated fraud who wasn't even supposed to be here.

His throat felt tight. "Let go."

Luo Binghe didn't move.

"...Binghe."

The grip on his wrist tightened—just barely, just enough to make Qingqiu's skin tingle.

But instead of releasing him,

Luo Binghe leaned in.

Shen Qingqiu sucked in a sharp breath.

Their faces were too close.

He could see every detail—

the way Binghe's lashes lowered slightly,

the way his lips parted,

the heat in his gaze that spoke of things far more dangerous than words.

His heart slammed against his ribs.

Luo Binghe's voice was a whisper.

"Say you don't want me."

Shen Qingqiu froze.

"Say it," Binghe pressed, tilting his head just slightly—close enough that their noses almost touched.

"If you say you don't want me, I'll let you go."

Shen Qingqiu's breath hitched.

It was a trap. A blatant, merciless trap.

Because if he said it—truly said it—then Luo Binghe would know he was lying.

He always knew.

And Shen Qingqiu had never been a good liar.

"...You." His voice came out weak, shaking. "You really don't know when to stop, do you?"

Luo Binghe smiled.

"Not when it comes to you," he murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of Shen Qingqiu's ear.

Shen Qingqiu shuddered violently.

His knees nearly buckled, and Binghe felt it.

Felt it, and tightened his grip just enough to keep him upright.

Shen Qingqiu's mind was blank.

Completely, utterly blank.

Because in this moment,

with Luo Binghe's warmth pressed against him,

his words curling around his skin like an inescapable trap—

He wasn't sure he wanted to escape at all.