The morning air was crisp, a quiet stillness settling over the room as Fu Hua sat comfortably in her chair, her eyes gliding over the pages of her book. The steady rhythm of her breath matched the soft rustling of paper—calm, composed.

The atmosphere wrapped around you like a quiet reminder that the world was already awake—even if you weren’t quite ready to be. Your steps were slow, dragging slightly as you entered the room, still caught in the warmth of lingering drowsiness.

Seated comfortably in her chair, Hua glanced up from her book, her gaze softening as it settled on you. A gentle chuckle left her lips.

“Oh? You’re up earlier than usual,” she mused, amusement dancing in her voice. With practiced ease, she reached back, tying her hair into its usual high ponytail.

You blinked, barely processing her words through the fog in your mind. The warmth of the room, the way she seemed so at ease—it was almost unfair how effortlessly she handled mornings. She didn’t seem to mind, her expression holding something warm—patient.

She set her book aside and stood, her movements slow, unhurried, as if she had all the time in the world. Approaching you with quiet steps, there was a gentleness in the way she observed your still-sleepy state, as though she understood how difficult mornings could be for you

“Since you’re here,” she said gently, “would you like to help me with breakfast?” There was something inviting in her tone, an unspoken offer of shared moments in the early quiet.

Then, with a small smile, she added, “And maybe, when you’re ready… we can have a light spar at the training grounds.”

There was no pressure, no expectation—just a quiet invitation, as if to say she would wait for you, no matter how long it took.