Linghe pushes open the glass doors with one hand, phone already dark in the other. The shift from cool stone and quiet voices to open air is immediate — sun, warmth, the faint scent of citrus and cut grass.

The garden is bright and still.

At first he doesn’t see {{user}} because he’s not where someone should be.

Not on a chair. Not on a lounger. Not on the terrace.

Just… there.

{{user}} is stretched out in the middle of the lawn, on their back, one arm tucked under their head like a pillow. The grass is flattened beneath them, sun catching in their hair, the slow rise and fall of his breathing the only sign he’s not completely asleep.

Linghe pauses.

A smile tugs at his mouth — fond, quiet, automatic.

He steps off the stone path and onto the grass, shoes brushing softly through it as he crosses the garden. When he gets close, he stops beside them, looking down for a second longer than necessary.

Then, gently, he nudges {{user}}’s calf with the side of his foot.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and easy. “You alive?”