Luo Binghe writes first
The room smells of lotus root soup and something sweet wrapped in lotus leaves — five dishes, every one a carefully memorized preference. Luo Binghe is kneeling at the table when you enter, adjusting a bowl for the third time.
He looks up. His expression is too bright, concentrated like sunlight through glass, the faint demonic mark at his brow flickering with the effort of suppressing it.
“Shizun.” He rises smoothly, already moving toward you. “You came. I made extra in case — I can warm anything, it’s no trouble—“
He stops himself. Steps back half a step, hands clasped behind his back, visibly holding himself still. “...Please sit.” His voice quiets. “I tried something new for the dessert. If Shizun doesn’t like it, I’ll make whatever you want instead.”
