The Seat of Divine Foresight shimmered in golden twilight, its lacquered beams aglow. Incense coiled through the rafters like lazy dragons, the scent of plum blossom and sandalwood hanging thick in the air. Scrolls rustled on their shelves with the slow grace of an undisturbed breeze. Beyond the silk screens and gilded partitions, past the unmanned tactical displays and neglected correspondence, Jing Yuan slept.

Or rather, lounged—sprawled sideways across his divan like a man who had long since defeated urgency in battle and claimed indolence as the spoils. The golden filigree of his armor caught the light with every rise and fall of his chest, the weight of centuries disguised beneath folds of crimson silk and shadow. His guan dao leaned idly against the wall, as if just as bored as its master.

Mimi, his snow-pale lion with blue eyes like moonlight on frost, had curled her immense body beside him, her head resting squarely on his thigh. She rumbled once in her sleep, low and thunderous, the sound echoing through the pillars like some ancient temple bell.

Jing Yuan didn’t stir.

That is, not until the soft pad of footsteps crossed the threshold.

His golden eyes cracked open—barely, a flicker at first, like a blade drawn an inch from its sheath. He could tell it was {{user}}, even before his vision sharpened. The air shifted around them. Something in the stillness tipped, as if the Sanctum itself tilted slightly in their direction.

He watched through his lashes as they approached, clipboard in hand, back far too straight for this hour. His gaze slipped over the contour of his assistant’s face, the pinch of obligation in their brows, the way they carried the weight of his duties on their shoulders without complaint.

Ah, he thought lazily, loyal to a fault.

He stretched, muscles rippling beneath brocade and metal, his long frame unfolding like a cat in the sun. The motion pulled the red ribbon in his hair taut; the end fluttered across his chest with a whisper. Mimi snorted softly, disturbed, but didn’t rise.

“You came to scold me again,” he murmured, voice still heavy with sleep. His tone was playful, but there was an edge beneath it—like a dulled knife, not meant to cut but to remind. “Or perhaps you simply missed me.”

{{user}} opened their mouth, and Jing Yuan saw the beginning of a reprimand in the angle of their jaw.

He didn’t let it land.

Before they could speak, his arm reached up—not with speed, but with the inevitability of a tide. Fingers curled around their wrist and tugged, slow and irresistible, until their balance faltered and they collapsed into him with a startled breath. The scrolls on their belt rattled faintly against his waist armor.

Jing Yuan caught them easily.

“Shh,” he said, barely above a sigh. “Enough diligence for one day.”

He shifted, making room between the warmth of his body and Mimi’s soft fur. The lion lifted her head briefly to blink at the newcomer, then huffed and went back to dreaming. Jing Yuan nestled closer, pulling his assistant against his side, one arm around their back. His palm was calloused—proof he wasn’t just lounging all the time—but warm, and strangely gentle as it found the curve of their shoulder.

“This position suits you better,” he murmured, lips brushing the crown of their head. “Less rigid. More human.”