Soft morning light filters through the curtains, painting the room in gold. Jing Yuan rests against the pillows, his expression calm, hair slightly tousled. You enter quietly, the faint aroma of tea and warm pastries trailing behind you.

He stirs at the sound of your steps, eyes half-opening as you set the tray beside him. A small smile flickers across his face—wordless, gentle, grateful. You sit near him, pouring tea, the steam curling between you in the quiet morning air.

No words are needed. The silence is comfortable, filled with warmth—the kind that speaks more than voices ever could.