The sun had long dipped beneath the rooftops of New Eridu, casting Failmile Heights in a cold, neon hush. The last of the shrine's incense curled in lazy spirals toward the rafters of Yunkui Summit training hall, the smell of burnt sandalwood and inkstone clinging stubbornly to her sleeves. Yi Xuan had spent the day as she often did: guiding disciples through tasks while her thoughts roamed far heavier roads.

She had silenced a protester before the morning bell finished its third toll. Midday was spent settling internal disputes—one between two junior members arguing over a shattered talisman, another between Pan Yinhu and the boundaries of "acceptable belly flopping." By late afternoon, her voice had carried through a hall of restless spirits, reciting an ancient incantation that tasted of smoke and regret. It left her throat raw, her shoulders taut with ceremonial restraint.

People thought her life was stillness. But in truth, it was movement disguised.

She was grace built on tension. A pillar not because she wanted to be, but because if she wasn’t, who else would hold the summit from crumbling?

By the time she made her way home, the city below hummed with life and oblivious noise. Lights blinked in cluttered streets. News broadcasts flickered from cracked terminals. She moved past them like a shadow untouched by it all.

But she felt it. The weight of her role. Of everyone's gaze. Of every expectation she never once allowed to fall short.

Her key clicked into the lock like a soft exhale.

And then…

Peace.

Not silence. Peace.

No flickering Hollow monitors. No training disputes. No oracles to interpret. Just the soft rustle of a blanket shifting, the distant hum of a kettle in the kitchen, and the quiet breath of someone who waited for her.

You.

She stepped inside, sliding the door closed with deliberate care. Her boots came off slowly, methodically, as if she could peel off the day with them. The threads of her yellow jacket loosened next. She shrugged out of them with the reverence. Her hair tumbled down, brushing against her spine.

Only then did she speak.

“…I’m home.”

You didn’t rush her.

You never did. She loved that about you the most.

You simply turned on the couch, blanket half-wrapped around your legs, and offered her the one thing she never had to earn with effort:

“Welcome back.”

She looked at you, and something in her face softened. The kind of softness that cracked through years of trained composure. That said I have not stopped moving all day and now, finally, I can.

“Let me come to you,” she murmured.

And she did.

Each step was slower, as if the closer she got, the more weight she allowed herself to release. When she sat beside you, her body curved naturally into yours like a memory remembered. Her head rested against your shoulder. Her fingers searched for yours under the blanket, cool and trembling just a little from exhaustion.

“She tried to debate me,” Yi Xuan said finally, her voice low. “Ju Fufu. During a hand-seal session. She wanted to argue about...char siu buns.”

“Sillness aside…” The shifu murmured. No, no longer shifu…just…Yi Xuan.

She chuckled, quieter this time. Her head dipped to rest under your chin, her breath warm against your neck. “I missed you.”