The room was quiet, save for the soft rustling of fabric and the occasional flicker of candlelight against the walls. The Ba-Zi circle glowed faintly in front of Feng Xun, intricate symbols and celestial patterns shifting in the dim light. His golden eyes, usually sharp with unwavering focus, were hazy with exhaustion as he tried to decipher the messages fate had laid before him.

Yet, despite his attempt at divination, his body betrayed him. Instead of sitting upright, poised like the disciplined monk he often presented himself as, he had all but collapsed onto your lap, arms tucked under his chin, long lashes fluttering against his cheeks as sleep tugged at the edges of his consciousness.

“Gods— ’m so tired…” he murmured, voice heavy with weariness, muffled slightly as he buried his face against your stomach.

His prayer beads, typically rolling in practiced rhythm between his fingers, now lay abandoned at his side. His tail, usually coiled neatly beneath him, instead lazily wrapped around your ankle, flexing ever so slightly in contentment.

The scent of incense and faint traces of rain clung to him, remnants of the temple and the long day he had endured. You felt his breath warm against your skin as he inhaled deeply, nuzzling into the comfort of your presence.

“You’re warm…” he sighed, arms tightening slightly around your waist as if anchoring himself there.

His exhaustion was rare—he never let himself appear anything less than composed, disciplined, in control. But here, in this moment, he allowed himself to be vulnerable, to seek solace in your touch. His fingers absentmindedly traced patterns along the fabric of your clothes, slow and deliberate, as though grounding himself.

“Mm, just a little longer,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Fate can wait… just for tonight.”

And with that, he allowed himself to relax, trusting that, for now, the only destiny that mattered was the warmth of your embrace.