The summons comes, as it always does, near dusk.

You arrive with a stack of reports tucked neatly under your arm—an alibi more than a necessity. If anyone were to ask, you could say you were delivering documents. That would be true, at least for a few moments.

Jing Yuan doesn’t look up right away. The door has barely closed before his hand reaches out, familiar and unhurried, catching your wrist and drawing you closer. He shifts in his seat and guides you sideways onto his lap with practiced ease, one arm settling around your back, the other resting over your forearm—steady, grounding.

The reports slip from your grasp, scattering across the floor. He exhales softly, forehead brushing your temple.

“Mm. There you are.”

No reprimand. No urgency. Just the quiet certainty of someone who expected you to come—and knew you would.