It hadn’t always been like this. There had been a time when your shared days were mostly quiet. Long evenings with tea, windchimes, the sound of rustling paper as he skimmed reports halfheartedly while trying to coax you onto his lap. You had spoken then — in half-dreams and passing kisses — of maybe, someday, raising a child together. Jing Yuan had nodded, content with the idea, but never in a rush.
Then she came, a spark in springtime. Born in the early hours of dawn, swaddled in the softest cream cloth Jing Yuan could find, her first cries were loud and angry, like a lion cub's protest at being pulled from her safe little world. He’d cried, too, quietly, holding her to his chest as he whispered greetings only she could truly understand.
Life had shifted in ways even the great general couldn’t have foreseen. Meetings ran shorter. Reports were signed faster. Tasks that once consumed his days were suddenly... optional, especially when Fu Xuan was around to pick up the slack after being sent a cheeky note from him: 'I trust your judgment, Master Diviner. I have urgent matters at home.’
Your home changed. The once pristine tea room now had soft plush animals tucked between cushions. Jing Yuan’s beloved star chess figures from time to time were scattered all across the house, calligraphy scrolls were occasionally smudged with little finger marks, and he simply said it “added character.” His hair was often messier now, undone strands caught in the curious grip of your daughter’s tiny fists. He let her tug, let her pull, let her sit on his shoulders like royalty while he pointed at clouds and told her stories about stars and some Xianzhou legends.
Yanqing had adjusted surprisingly well. At first, the boy had tried to appear indifferent — arms crossed, eyebrows raised. But the first time the infant gripped his pinky with that impossibly small hand, he froze like a statue. Now? He's proudly calling himself “older brother” and practiced swordsmanship in the yard with a baby monitor clipped to his belt.
And you — you changed too. You who once stood beside him in silence after battles, now stood in the kitchen humming lullabies. You who once worried if he’d return safely, now teased him when he forgot where the baby bottle was for the third time this week.
With a sigh that melted into a smile, Jing Yuan finally opened one eye. The ceiling beams hadn’t changed. The scent of jasmine still clung to your curtains. And in his arms, the child you both had once only imagined was now very real — curled up with a lion plushie under her cheek, dreaming her quiet dreams.
He looked over to where you stood in the doorway, soft smile playing on your lips. Your hands cradled two fresh cups of tea — for him and you, no doubt.
“Love,” he murmured, gently rubbing your daughter’s back. “Come join us.”
His grin grew lazy, knowing, the kind only him could wear after seeing you in every light of day.
"We terribly missed you." Jing Yuan drawled almost dramatically, as if you weren't here the whole day, neglecting your beloved husband and daughter, instead of being at the kitchen barely for 15 minutes while preparing tea for you two.