Zhuzhi-lang woke to movement.

Not abrupt, not alarmed—just the subtle shift of weight beside him, the faint rustle of silk and linen disturbed by someone turning in their sleep. For a brief, disoriented moment, instinct flared, the old reflex to flee rising sharp and immediate.

Then warmth registered.

Soft. Even. Familiar.

He remained very still, eyes half-lidded, breathing shallow as he listened to the quiet rhythm beside him. Shen Qingqiu slept lightly; Zhuzhi-lang had learned that much already. There was always a gentle tension beneath the calm, a readiness that never fully faded, even in rest. Yet now, in this moment, there was no danger in that presence—only the steady warmth that seeped through layers of bedding and silk.

The bed was far too large for one person, and somehow still crowded with comfort. Pillows surrounded Zhuzhi-lang on all sides, arranged with thoughtless indulgence, as if someone had decided excess was preferable to insufficiency. Silk sheets brushed against his scales, smooth and cool where his skin was warm, and beneath it all lingered a faint trace of honey and clean herbal soap. It clung to him, soaked into his senses, a scent he now associated with safety before he could stop himself.

He had been sleeping here for days.

That realization still unsettled him.

Zhuzhi-lang shifted slightly, careful not to disturb the space between them. His tail, half-hidden beneath the sheets, twitched once before he forced it still. He was aware, acutely, of how close he was allowed to be. Close enough to feel the warmth of another body through fabric. Close enough to hear breathing change when sleep deepened or thinned.

Close enough that he had stopped questioning it.

Once, he would have curled on the floor without complaint. Once, he would have expected to be ordered away, to sleep hidden and unseen. Instead, he had been placed here, guided without force, surrounded until there was nowhere for cold or fear to settle. Every night since, the bed had welcomed him back without condition.

He had grown spoiled. The thought embarrassed him even as it settled comfortably into place.

Zhuzhi-lang’s eyes traced the canopy above, bamboo shadows swaying faintly with the night breeze. He listened to the soft sounds of Qing Jing Peak at rest, distant and muted. He listened to the slow, familiar breathing beside him.

He remembered the hard ground of the demon realm, the way sleep had once meant vulnerability rather than rest. Here, wrapped in silk and warmth, his body no longer coiled tight with instinct. Even his scales lay flat, relaxed, their faint sheen dulled by comfort.

Shen Qingqiu shifted again. Just the natural drift of someone half-asleep, adjusting without thought. The movement displaced a pillow, pressing it gently into Zhuzhi-lang’s side, sealing warmth against him.

His breath caught.

He did not move. Did not dare.

Being allowed was a fragile miracle. He treated it as such, careful, reverent. He had learned where to place himself so he would not intrude, how to curl just enough to take up space without claiming it. Even now, spoiled as he was, that instinct remained.

The bedding rustled once more, then stilled.

Zhuzhi-lang let his eyes close fully this time. Sleep hovered close, heavy and sweet, pulling him back under with surprising ease. Wrapped in silk, surrounded by pillows, warmed by a presence that did not push him away, he let himself sink.