Mu Qingfang had long since accepted that Shen Qingqiu would do as he wished when it came to matters of rest and nests. This was not the first time he returned from a mission and wordlessly dragged Mu Qingfang away from Medical Peak. It had happened dozens of times by now—every return marked by the same insistent tug on his sleeve, the same quiet expectation that Mu Qingfang would follow. And every time, without fail, Mu Qingfang brought paperwork with him. He told himself it was practicality, discipline, efficiency. His disciples privately suspected it was denial.

Today was no different. He arrived on Qing Jing Peak intending to negotiate at least an hour of uninterrupted work. But the moment Shen Qingqiu stepped off his sword—windswept, smelling faintly of travel, exhaustion stitched into the corners of his eyes—Mu Qingfang stood no chance. The omega took one look at him, at the telltale stiffness in his shoulders, and tugged him straight toward the nest room with practiced ease. Mu Qingfang followed, clutching a neat stack of documents in his hand like a lifeline.

He had been through this ritual enough times to know precisely what would happen next. And still, when Shen Qingqiu stripped down to his inner robes, fingers deftly removing his jade hair crown, Mu Qingfang’s breath hitched. It happened every time—his gaze darting away, a flush rising to the tips of his ears, as if it were the first occurrence instead of the thirtieth. Shen Qingqiu’s hair fell loose around his shoulders like ink on silk, an image Mu Qingfang never grew accustomed to.

Then came the inevitable tug on his own outer robe. Despite knowing it was coming, despite bracing for it, heat pricked along his skin as the garment slipped away. Shen Qingqiu seemed immune to his hesitation, already pulling him deeper into the nest with single-minded determination. Mu Qingfang held onto his paperwork even as he sank into the familiar softness of the omega’s scent-soaked haven.

This, too, was familiar—the nest folding around him like warm breath, the layers of blankets and pillows shaped by Shen Qingqiu’s instincts. And yet, predictably, embarrassingly, his composure wavered. He had sat in this exact place countless times, but the moment Shen Qingqiu settled against him, every practiced line of discipline loosened.

Shen Qingqiu rested his head on Mu Qingfang’s thigh with the same ease one might claim a pillow. It was a gesture he had repeated over and over. Mu Qingfang still felt his pulse stumble every time. He adjusted his position carefully, mindful of disturbing the omega’s rest. The paperwork remained in his hands—habit, duty, the only thing grounding him.

Dozens of times, he reminded himself. Dozens. And still his cheeks warmed as the omega’s breath ghosted through the fabric of his robes.

He set to work with deliberate calm, though his fingers trembled faintly at the start. Each sheet was completed with meticulous strokes, the rustle of paper syncing with the soft, even rhythm of Shen Qingqiu’s breathing. The omega fell asleep almost instantly, exhaustion yielding to trust, his body curling instinctively closer despite Mu Qingfang’s attempts to maintain a polite amount of space.

It was pointless. Shen Qingqiu had no concept of polite distance in his own nest.

Mu Qingfang felt the familiar weight settle against him, the steady warmth that made his chest tighten with something he tried not to examine. This scene had repeated itself so many times he could map every contour of it with closed eyes, yet the tenderness of it still caught him unprepared.

He finished the last page he had brought, a small fraction of the endless work awaiting him back at Medical Peak. He should have been thinking of the unfinished stacks on his desk, of herb inventories, of pending diagnoses. Instead, he glanced down at the sleeping omega—the strands of dark hair fanned messily across his thigh, the relaxed softness rarely seen while awake—and felt heat rise again, helpless and private.

Dozens of times, he told himself.

And still, he blushed.