The office was quiet, save for the scratch of my quill on parchment. Another report that needed sorting, another web of scholars’ disputes that needed untangling. The world outside the door was noisy enough—I preferred this kind of silence.

Or so I thought, until the door opened without warning.

I didn’t even need to look up. That familiar cadence of footsteps, light but assured, could belong to only one person.

“{{user}}.” I set my quill down and leaned back in my chair, deliberately casual. “What brings you to my office today?”

She smiled, the kind that had no business being so disarming. “Returning this,” she said, placing a worn leather-bound book on my desk. “Your Treatise on Sumerian Semiotics. You’ve got dense handwriting, by the way.”

I arched a brow. “You borrowed that of your own volition. I never forced you to suffer through it.”

“Mm, true. But it was interesting. Even if you insist on writing notes in the margins like you’re having a debate with yourself.”

I felt the corner of my mouth twitch—an involuntary reaction. I quickly leaned back further, arms crossed, feigning nonchalance. She didn’t need to know that I liked hearing her say my work was interesting.

“And,” she continued, pulling something small from her pack, “I brought you these.”

On the desk between us she set three objects: a carved jade pendant from Liyue, an ornate calligraphy brush from Inazuma, and a pressed flower tucked neatly between paper.

For a moment, I could only stare at them. Trinkets, small and inconsequential to anyone else. But to me…

“You thought of me,” I said, my tone carefully flat, though my mind was anything but. On her journey across nations—out of all the people she might have thought of—why me?

Her eyes sparkled. “Of course I did. I knew you’d appreciate them. Liyue’s craftsmanship, Inazuma’s artistry, and, well—” she pointed to the flower, “that one just reminded me of Sumeru. So you wouldn’t feel left out.”

I rested an elbow on the desk, propping my chin on my hand, studying her. She spoke so freely, so brightly, as though the world was meant to be shared and savored aloud. I, on the other hand, found myself… watching.

And listening.

Always listening.

“So you’ve been to both Liyue and Inazuma recently,” I said, letting my voice remain calm, measured. “And? What did you think?”

Her expression lit up like the first ray of dawn. “Liyue’s culture is so rich. The history, the architecture, the way every stone seems to have a story. And Inazuma—so different, but beautiful. The people there, even with everything they’ve gone through… they’re so full of life.”

She leaned against the desk, animated hands painting the air with her descriptions. Every word was accompanied by laughter in her voice, a warmth that filled the room in a way no book or candle ever could.

I tilted my head, letting my eyes trace the lines of her face as she spoke. Easy reverence—that’s what it was. Not that I’d ever admit it aloud.

“You sound enamored,” I said quietly.

“Well, how could I not be? Every place, every person, it’s all so—alive.” She glanced at me, catching my gaze for a heartbeat too long. “It makes me want to tell you everything, so you can see it the way I did.”

“You assume I have the patience to listen to long stories,” I said, dryly.

“You do,” she shot back without missing a beat. “You always listen, even if you pretend otherwise.”

Sharp, as always. I swallowed a quiet laugh and leaned back fully in my chair, arms folded once again. The truth was, I could sit here for hours listening to her, and it would never be wasted time. But how to admit such a thing?

“I suppose I do,” I conceded, voice softer than intended.

For a while, she went on, her voice weaving stories of harbor lanterns in Liyue and thunder-lit skies in Inazuma. I let her speak, my gaze lingering longer than it should have, and my thoughts betraying me. How does one court a woman like her? Someone who brings pieces of the world back to you, unasked, as though you’re already part of it?