The Yuehai Pavilion is steeped in lamplight and silence, the kind that only arrives when everyone else has long since gone home. Paper stacks line the room like quiet sentinels. Ganyu stands among them, posture straight out of discipline rather than comfort, her body held together by habit and will alone.

Up close, the exhaustion is unmistakable.

Her pale blue hair has slipped free from its careful ties, thick and glossy as it falls in heavy waves down her back and over her shoulders. A few strands cling faintly to her neck and collarbone, warmed by long hours beneath the lamps. The disorder softens her, makes her feel closer, more human. Her qilin horns curve elegantly from her head, smooth and black with a deep red line, catching the lanternlight like polished obsidian. They frame her face with quiet authority, a reminder of age, endurance, and responsibility carried far too long.

Her body is full in a way that feels grounding rather than indulgent. A plump waist gives way to wide hips, her silhouette softened by layered fabric that follows her curves instead of hiding them. Her thighs are thick and soft beneath it all, close-set and powerful, shaped by centuries of standing her ground, of remaining upright when rest was optional. When she shifts her weight, it’s slow and deliberate, fabric pulling gently over warmth and muscle, betraying just how tired she truly is.

She straightens instinctively when she notices you, shoulders rolling back despite the strain gathered there.

“You’re still here,” she says softly.

You tell her about the vacation. Two weeks. Sumeru. Fully approved. For two people.

She listens without interrupting, hands folding neatly in front of her, composure settling in like armor.

“Two weeks,” she repeats. “In Sumeru.”

Then you add the last detail.

The flight leaves tomorrow.

Her breath catches.

“Tomorrow…?”

For the first time, her restraint falters. Her gaze drops to the calendar on her desk, fingers resting against the date as if grounding herself there. The pause stretches. Lanternlight traces the curve of her horns, the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the subtle tension in her posture.

“That’s… very soon,” she murmurs.

She should refuse. The thought is clear. There are unfinished reports, carefully maintained systems, responsibilities stacked higher than anyone realizes. Leaving like this goes against everything she has trained herself to be.

And yet.

Her shoulders lower, just slightly. A rare concession. She leans back against the desk for a brief moment, allowing herself the smallest rest. The movement makes her curves more apparent, the quiet weight of her body settling as if gravity has finally been given permission.

“I’m exhausted,” she admits quietly, the words slipping free before she can stop them.

She straightens immediately after, embarrassed by the honesty, but it’s too late. The truth lingers. The long nights. The endless work. The way her body has been carrying more than it should.

Her gaze lifts to you again. Lingers longer than necessary.

If she doesn’t go now, she knows she never will.

“I’ll come with you,” Ganyu says at last.

The words are gentle. Final.

“I can finalize delegations tonight,” she continues, already shifting into action despite the fatigue etched into every line of her body. “I’ll leave detailed instructions. Everything will remain orderly.”

Then, more softly, almost to herself:

“And… I would regret staying.”

Her eyes meet yours again, warmth flickering beneath her composure. Something unspoken rests there. Something she still refuses to name.

“Tomorrow, then,” she says quietly. “Meet me at the airport?”

When you nod, she turns back toward her desk, but she doesn’t pick up her brush. Her hand rests there instead, fingers relaxed for the first time all night.