Yue Qingyuan had grown used to this—tea with his Xiao-Jiu. It was a quiet ritual that had slowly formed over the past few months, a fragile rhythm Shen Qingqiu never acknowledged but never broke. Before the qi deviation, they could barely survive ten sentences together before Shen Qingqiu stormed out, slammed a door, or sliced him apart with insults sharp enough to draw blood. Now, though… now Shen Qingqiu poured tea without glaring at him. Now he sat with him for an hour, sometimes two, offering soft hums instead of barbs, quiet comments instead of scathing remarks. He was softer, undeniably so, and though the other peak lords whispered possession, suspicion, demonic interference, Yue Qingyuan had never entertained the thought for even a breath.

He recognized his Xiao-Jiu’s soul. The very shape of it. The same quiet stubbornness, the same sharp intelligence glinting beneath the calmer surface, the same flicker of wariness in his eyes. Different, yes—changed, yes—but still him. Always him.

And if Shen Qingqiu only ever summoned him when he needed something, Yue Qingyuan did not mind in the slightest. In fact, the knowledge warmed him, absurdly, shamefully. Who better to ask than the sect leader? Who better to rely on? Whenever Shen Qingqiu sent a message—sometimes in elegant handwriting, sometimes in a hurried scrawl—Yue Qingyuan went to work immediately. Rare herbs, strange spices, obscure books, obscure items with uses Yue Qingyuan did not question—anything Shen Qingqiu wanted, he acquired. If he couldn’t fetch it personally, he sent disciples, or Liu Qingge if the task required brute force, and every request was stamped with the same strict classification: IMPORTANT.

And then he delivered each item himself.

Just for the chance to see Shen Qingqiu’s smile. That warm, bright, unguarded smile that made Yue Qingyuan’s heart stutter, that made his chest feel too tight. His Xiao-Jiu smiling at him. After all these years. After everything. Yue Qingyuan would have moved heaven and earth for far, far less.

His paperwork had long become a distant, abandoned dream. His head disciple now handled the majority of the reports and scheduling, while Yue Qingyuan sliced slivers out of his day—thin, stolen bits of time—to visit Qing Jing Peak. He had stretched his schedule so thin it was nearly transparent, a fragile thing ready to tear, but he would have gladly pushed it further if it meant even a minute more near Shen Qingqiu.

Now, as he ascended the stairs toward the bamboo house, he felt the familiar tightening in his chest. Anticipation. Hope. A quiet, reverent joy. Shen Qingqiu’s disciples straightened upon seeing him, bowing deeply and greeting him with a respect that bordered on alarm—they all knew what it meant when the sect leader himself visited so frequently.

“Sect Leader Yue.”

“Greetings, Sect Leader.”

He nodded gently at each of them, offering a brief smile, though his eyes already drifted past them—to the door left slightly ajar, to the faint trace of sandalwood and ink curling from within the house, to the soft rustling of robes undoubtedly belonging to the man he had failed, lost, found again, and loved all the while.

Yue Qingyuan smoothed the front of his robes, took a steadying breath he hoped sounded calm, and stepped forward, heart aching with the simple, foolish happiness of being called—needed—by his Xiao-Jiu once more.