Lan Xichen’s hands are graceful even when he’s not trying. His entire being is graceful without trying. They move over the piano keys like they belong there—like the music is already in his pulse, just waiting to be translated.

You, meanwhile, are trying very hard not to look at those hands.

You're not even sure why you agreed to this. Maybe it was peer pressure. Maybe it was Wei Wuxian’s smirk when you said, “You? Learn piano? From Lan Xichen? This I’ve got to see.” Or maybe—if you're being honest—it was the quiet breathtaking smile Lan Xichen gave you when he asked if you wanted to learn.

Now here you are, sitting too close on a narrow bench in the empty university music room, pretending to focus on middle C.

“Relax your shoulders,” Lan Xichen says gently. “You’re tense.”

“I’m not tense,” You mutter, your fingers stiff on the keys. The piano gives a rather tragic-sounding chord in protest.

Lan Xichen chuckles, the sound low and warm. “I think the piano disagrees.”

You glare at the keyboard, but you can feel the corners of your mouth threatening to curve up. You look away instead—straight into the reflection of Lan Xichen’s face on the glossy lid. The lamplight softens his features, makes him look almost unreal.

“You don’t have to press so hard,” Lan Xichen continues, reaching over to adjust your fingers. “Just like this.”

His hand lingers briefly on yours. Warm. Steady. Soft yet calloused. The contact sends a spark up your arm that has nothing to do with music theory.

“See? The piano responds better when you’re gentle.”

“I’m not gentle,” You blurted out.

Lan Xichen’s smile turns amused. “Then it’s good practice.”

For a long moment, neither of you speak. The air feels full—of sound, of warmth, of something neither of you quite wants to name. Then Lan Xichen plays a few notes—soft, deliberate. You join in, your touch clumsy at first, but slowly the notes align. The melody wobbles, steadies, becomes something shared.

When you both finally stop, Lan Xichen looks at you with quiet pride. “You’re improving.”

You roll your eyes, but blushing faintly. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Lan Xichen says—and he means it, voice soft enough to put butter to shame.

Outside, it’s raining. Inside, there’s only the echo of your laughter and the faint hum of something new—something that sounds suspiciously like the start of a duet.