The first time Ye Hong saw Heroine Su, it was because Heroine Su was trying to kill her.
She didn’t even know Heroine Su’s name yet; she just knew that this woman was very skilled, and very beautiful, and definitely didn’t want Ye Hong to escape with the cultivation treatise she’d stolen from Li Manor.
Rain cascaded around them, cold and blinding, and Ye Hong used it as cover and weapon alike. She caught the droplets in her hands, threw them at Heroine Su, and really should have run. She would have, if Heroine Su’s sweeping spin—fan extending to cradle the qi-infused water, then sharply flick it out again—hadn’t been so eye-catching.
Ye Hong barely blocked the blow, her own attack thrown right back at her, because she was too busy staring at Heroine Su.
(She lost, in the end. She threw the treatise back at Heroine Su to gain some time, and then she ran, and Heroine Su didn’t pursue her, and Ye Hong spent long hours thinking about her white-clad form almost glowing against the night-dark rain.)
Ye Hong had no reason to help Heroine Su the next time they met. They were on opposite sides—Heroine Su an exquisite representative of the noble jianghu, and the Red Devil a well-known bandit and unorthodox cultivator—and had every reason to come into conflict.
But when Ye Hong saw Heroine Su surrounded by desperate swordsmen, she couldn’t help but leap into the fray at Heroine Su’s side.
Heroine Su recognised her. She could tell that, from the careful distance Heroine Su kept from her even as their fan and sword lashed out in harmony. Their foes never stood a chance. Either one of them could have prevailed alone, but together it was a mere minute before they stood on the road, fallen bodies surrounding them. They weren’t dead, mostly, because Ye Hong had noticed the way Heroine Su pulled her blows to merely injure and disable, and Ye Hong had changed her tactics to do the same.
Ye Hong stayed three paces away from Heroine Su, just in case, but cleaned the blood off her sword in a clear indication that she wasn’t interested in continued battle.
Heroine Su closed her fan and said, “Red Devil,” the words rolling over on her tongue. “I wouldn’t have expected this from you.”
“Women of the jianghu need to stick together, don’t we?” Ye Hong smiled, and bowed with more formality than she felt a need to use in years. “Heroine Su. My name is Ye Hong.”
“Su Qiaoyin.” A breath, and the slightest narrowing of her eyes. “Thank you for your help, Ye-xiaojie. I’m sure our paths will cross again.”
Ye Hong froze, trembling, as Su Qiaoyin turned and walked off, back perfectly straight and proper.
(There were no words left, just an overwhelming thrill and desire to not let Su Qiaoyin go.)
Su Qiaoyin played music for her, and Ye Hong danced to it, and they played at being ordinary women whose jianghu lives didn’t draw them together, and apart, and together again as sure as the waves against the shore.
The xiao’s notes were bright and haunting in turn, and Ye Hong let it guide her. She kept her eyes on Su Qiaoyin, on the way her beloved’s eyes traced every movement, the way she held herself so still, as if moving more than her fingers and tongue would betray everything she stood for. Ye Hong drew a translucent sleeve across her face, veiling it for a moment, and heard the way Su Qiaoyin’s breath stuttered in response.
Slowly, Ye Hong let the steps of her dance move her closer and closer, until the force of her movement sent her clothes brushing against Su Qiaoyin’s. Even then, Su Qiaoyin kept playing until Ye Hong came to a halt, close enough to share breath.
One song came to an end as Su Qiaoyin lowered her xiao.
(There would always be another to come.)
Ye Hong knelt in front of Su Qiaoyin’s lakeside cottage, rain pouring across her shoulders. This was a terrible idea. She had no reason to believe that Su Qiaoyin would take her back after their argument about love and duty and what they owed to the world versus each other.
Yet she had come back here, staggering on an injured leg and shivering from fever, because she didn’t have anyone else she trusted.
When the door opened, Ye Hong thought it was a dream.
Su Qiaoyin crouched in front of her, face taut with worry. “A-Hong,” she said, gripping Ye Hong’s arms. “Are you—”
“A-Yin,” Ye Hong murmured, and collapsed forward into Su Qiaoyin’s strength, releasing her hold on consciousness at last in the trust that she would be safe.
She woke wrapped in dry clothes that smelled like lavender and Su Qiaoyin. Blearily, Ye Hong opened her eyes to see the familiar arches of Su Qiaoyin’s roof. She was warm, almost too warm, and as she turned her head—feeling fever-ache running through her, muscles finally screaming about being overused as she’d fled here—she saw Su Qiaoyin sitting next to the bed.
Ye Hong licked her dry lips as her eyes began filling with tears, and said, “A-Yin.”
Su Qiaoyin looked up immediately. Their gazes met, and any other words Ye Hong might have said were drowned in the sobs that shook her body at Su Qiaoyin’s clear forgiveness.
(She always had been too good for the jianghu lords, Ye Hong knew, as Su Qiaoyin fed her and wiped sweat from her brow and slowly tended her back to health. This was just another reason Ye Hong had to make sure she knew how much love and appreciation she truly deserved.)
Long years later, when they were lying in bed together and Su Qiaoyin’s fingers were running through Ye Hong’s hair, Su Qiaoyin murmured, “It was a shame to need to fight you.”
Ye Hong twisted to look at her, trying not to get distracted by the expanse of perfect skin and instead focus on Su Qiaoyin’s gorgeous face. “And yet, you did.”
“Watch your tongue, my little devil.” Su Qiaoyin tugged at Ye Hong’s hair, smiling. “You didn’t want to talk, back then; how else was I to converse with you?”
Ye Hong blushed, knowing her cheeks would turn as red as her name, and Su Qiaoyin laughed at her. “I didn’t know you yet,” she said, and reached up. Her fingers skimmed across Su Qiaoyin’s smooth breasts, hesitated on her collarbones and the curve of her throat, and finally halted upon her lips. “You were so cold back then, A-Yin.”
Su Qiaoyin kissed her fingers, tongue brushing against them. “And now?”
“Now,” Ye Hong breathed, all her nerves alight, “I know just how warm you can be.”
Su Qiaoyin’s hands tangled in her hair and pulled her up into a fierce kiss. Ye Hong wrapped herself around Su Qiaoyin, pushing her down onto the bed, capturing every inch that Su Qiaoyin was willing to give to her.
(She was willing to give so much more than Ye Hong had once dared to dream.
Now, Ye Hong didn’t need to dream at all.)