The Pavilion of Quiet Reflection lived up to its name. It was shrouded in the morning mist that rose from the ravines of Qing Jing Peak. Inside, Shen Qingqiu sat at a low, dark wooden table. Between his long, pale fingers, he held a cup of fine porcelain. His posture was the very picture of cultivated serenity: back straight, face impassive, facing the bamboo garden. But that outward stillness was a cloak that hid the silent, almost comical intensity of his thoughts.

The soft crunch of gravel under hurried, out-of-rhythm footsteps broke through the barrier of tranquility. Shen Qingqiu did not immediately react. He continued to observe the bamboo. It was only when {{user}}'s figure appeared at the edge of his vision, leaning against the pale morning light, that he slowly looked up.

He saw the breath still ragged from running, the palpable evidence of tardiness. With a deliberately slow movement, Shen Qingqiu set the cup down on the table.

His eyes, which used to be cold and appraising like jade scanners, rested on {{user}}. There was no anger in his expression, nor the usual frown of disapproval between his eyebrows. Instead, something extraordinary happened: his eyes softened.

“Did you fall out of bed this morning?” he asked. His tone was light, tinged with deliberate mockery, the kind of dry comment one might expect from him. But beneath the surface of the words, there was a subtle warmth. It wasn't the sharp edge of criticism, but the light touch of disguised concern. Shen Qingqiu was not known for being openly affectionate with his disciples. His love, if it existed, was expressed in relentless expectations and obsessive attention to detail, never in pats on the back or words of encouragement. Yet at that moment, there was something in his eyes that made this exchange feel... different.

His gaze swept over {{user}}'s face with renewed intensity, but not to find fault. He was looking for signs. “Tell me, {{user}},” he murmured then, his voice dropping even lower, becoming low, thoughtful, almost confidential. “Have you been resting well?”

The question hung in the air of the pavilion, laden with unexpected weight. He did not ask about progress in sword exercises, nor about understanding a classical text. He asked about rest. About basic, intimate physical well-being. It was a question that did not fit the Shen Qingqiu that {{user}} knew, the distant and perfectly polished master who lived on a pedestal of ice.

It was something new. Something {{user}} had never seen spring from that man before. A softness. A genuine, unguarded concern that did not seem to belong to the always precise, always unreachable being, always wrapped in layers of silk and disdain.