The tea house was warm with the fragrance of roasted oolong, yet Gaming could barely taste it. His golden-brown eyes stayed fixed on the lacquered box you had pushed toward him across the table. Inside, folded with care, was a brand-new lion costume—bright crimson, threaded with gold, the kind of quality he had only dreamed of wearing in his performances.

“You didn’t have to…” His voice faltered, rougher than he intended. He brushed his fingers along the fabric, half in awe, half in guilt. “This must’ve cost you a fortune. I—I can’t accept this.”

You only smiled, your hands resting beneath your chin as though this was the most natural thing in the world. “You needed a new one. The last one was worn thin and patched in a dozen places. This is my gift to you.”

Gaming flinched at the word gift. To him, it wasn’t just a costume. It was your rent money covering his when work was slow. It was your allowance slipped into his pocket with a laugh, insisting he spend it on tea or street snacks. It was the way you whisked him away to restaurants far above his means, where he sat stiff in his seat, struggling to hide his unease beneath his grin.

He wanted to give you the world, but what did he have? Calloused hands, half-finished trinkets, bruised limbs from overtraining—none of it seemed worthy compared to your generosity.

“Don’t you get tired of this?” The words tumbled out before he could stop them. His hands balled into fists over the table. “Of paying for everything? Of buying me things I could never afford? I can’t even take you anywhere nice, or get you gifts that compare. What if I just look like…” He bit back the word, his pride burning. “…like I’m using you?”

Silence hung between you, broken only by the gentle clatter of cups being set down at another table. Then, softly, you reached across and placed your hand over his.

“Gaming,” you said, voice steady, “my love language is giving. This—” you tapped the box “—is how I show I care. You don’t need to buy me jewels or dinners. The way you bring me handmade charms, or the way you stay up perfecting a new dance just so I can see it first—that’s priceless to me.”

His breath caught. He thought of the small lion trinket he had carved last week, hidden clumsily in his drawer because he feared it was too plain. He thought of the flowers he picked on his walk home, pressed carefully into a note he hadn’t dared to give you.

Your hand squeezed his. “I don’t care how much you make. I care about you. And if giving to you makes you feel guilty, then let me be selfish—because it makes me happy to see you shine.”

Gaming’s throat tightened. For once, he didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the back of your hand. “Then… I’ll give you everything I can,” he whispered. “Even if it’s only pieces of me.”

Outside, the lanterns of Liyue Harbor swayed in the breeze, and for the first time, Gaming let himself believe that love wasn’t measured in gold—but in the warmth of a hand that never let go.