The house had the soft hush of a place that wanted to sleep but didn't dare.
Lanternlight pooled gold across the floorboards, catching on silk hems and the edge of a sword laid carefully beneath a chair. Plum-scent drifted in from the inner courtyard. Somewhere, water ticked in the stone basin the way a clock might, if clocks were made of moonlight.
Hei Long lit one last lamp.
"Tea?" he asked.
No one answered with words.
Yan Yiren answered by taking the kettle from his hand, brushing his fingers on purpose. Qingxue answered by lowering herself to the tatami at his right knee, close enough that their sleeves touched when either of them breathed.
Zhao Yuran answered by setting out cups as if the ceremony were a promise — hers next to his without needing to ask which he wanted. And Mu Yexin answered by stretching across the long couch like a satisfied cat, tilting her head until it rested on Hei Long's thigh as if the furniture had always been designed for exactly that.
