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Therefore, the current state of his youngest's life couldn't possibly be his fault. (Though raising the kid might have helped. Seclusion, however, was a different kettle of fish entirely.)

He was deep in meditation when the first sounds erupted. Seated in lotus position, eyes closed, the scent of sandalwood and aged agarwood incense filled his senses. His mind was a blank canvas, his body a feather on a still breeze. A deep, grounding inhale. Then...

"Ah! Lan-Er Gege! Please! Have mercy!" The shriek echoed across the valley, even reaching his secluded hovel nestled in the back hills. A migraine prickled behind his eyes already.

How Lan Qiren tolerated such…impropriety was beyond him. Those noises alone violated about two dozen Lan Sect rules. And they went on. And on. All. Night. Long.

By morning, the incident was pushed aside. The last thirty-odd years had molded a rhythm of solitude. Meditation, the haunting melodies of his guqin, the comforting rustle of turning pages, the satisfying scratch of brush on paper, the flow of ink painting a landscape… activities that filled the quiet hours. Not exactly a harsh punishment, he supposed.

Then, night fell, and the symphony of shrieks returned. A relentless week followed, the source of the tormented cries finally revealed in a desperate, high-pitched "Lan Zhan!"

Qingheng-Jun blinked, ears ringing. Had he misheard? Lan Zhan? His youngest son, the one he'd never even met. The name hung heavy in the air, thick with the scent of woodsmoke and the cloying sweetness of night-blooming jasmine that wafted through a crack in the window. His heart, a dusty, unused muscle deep in his chest, lurched uncomfortably.

Qingheng-Jun had heard news of the outside, of course, gleaned from the weekly letters his little brother, Lan Qiren, deposited under the door with the furtive air of a squirrel burying a particularly prized nut. It seemed the act of delivering them face-to-face was a violation of his very being.

These missives kept him loosely tethered to the world beyond his secluded hovel. News traveled slow, filtered through Lan Qiren's uptight worldview. Lan Zhan, or Lan Wangji as he was formally known, had married the Yiling Laozu. Qingheng-Jun had snorted tea out his nose when he read that. The amusement lingered, a memory on his tongue – the sharp, earthy tang of the leaves brewed strong, the satisfying heat as it traveled down his throat.

Attached to the news was a twelve-page manifesto, a diatribe against Wei Wuxian, the Yiling Laozu, who was apparently the most despicable creature to ever walk the earth. Nature versus nurture, Lan Qiren argued, clearly trumped in this instance. Qingheng-Jun scoffed. He'd married his own wife before the unfortunate incident that branded her a killer, but of course, that little detail, along with their secret elopement, had never reached Lan Qiren's ears. Public image, after all.

But that was water under the bridge. What mattered now was Lan Wangji. He'd defied expectations, married the most talked-about cultivator of the generation, and even managed to raise a well-adjusted child (a fact Lan Qiren conveniently ignored, focusing solely on Wei Wuxian's supposed flaws). Lan Wangji himself was Hanguang-Jun, the illustrious Second Jade of GusuLan, a cultivator respected throughout the cultivation world.

So how, and why, did his son sound like… that? A strangled whimper escaped Qingheng-Jun's lips, the sound harsh in the quiet room. He supposed perfection wasn' t something any of them could claim. Lan Qiren was a stickler for rules, bordering on manic at times. Lan Wangji, it seemed, possessed a… questionable appreciation for physical affection, to put it mildly.

Qingheng-Jun rubbed his temples, the sound of crackling fire from the hearth the only other sound in the room. He reviewed the mental tally: himself, a 50% success rate for the one child he'd raised. Lan Qiren, a 75% success rate with Lan Wangji. A small, traitorous part of him hoped Lan Xichen, his other brother, was a complete degenerate, just to tip the scales in his favor. But that was a selfish, unfatherly thought, and Qingheng-Jun pushed it away. The state of his youngest son's… extracurricular activities was a far more pressing concern.

He frankly couldn't care less about the specifics of Lan Wangji's love life. Someone had to get some action, after all. Lan Qiren wouldn't touch a woman with a ten-foot meditation staff, Qingheng-Jun's wife was pushing up daisies, and Lan Xichen, well… the rumors surrounding his alleged entanglement were enough to make a saint clutch his pearls. There was the whole mess with the son of a mass murderer/manipulator/war criminal/prostitute (Qingheng-Jun couldn't even keep track anymore), a dead fiance, and now some suspiciously close ties with another sect leader. It was enough to give a man a headache – a sentiment underscored by the dull ache thrumming behind Qingheng-Jun's eyes. (He'd half-heartedly suggested a serialized drama based on Xichen's love life in a recent letter to Lan Qiren. The reply had been a surprisingly linear twelve-page lecture, not a tangled mess of contradictions like usual. Did that count as a win? Enough to nudge him into a tie with Lan Qiren's 75% success rate, perhaps? He dared to hope.)

But here's the kicker – and a big, fat kicker it was – Qingheng-Jun didn't want the lurid details. He didn't want to hear the strangled gasps echoing through the mountains, the frantic pleas that shattered the tranquility of his seclusion. The image, conjured by those noises alone, was enough to make his stomach churn.

More importantly, his son, the esteemed Hanguang-Jun, the chief cultivator of a prominent sect, was apparently indulging in such…depraved acts. If Lan Wangji could be so shameless in his personal life, what else was he neglecting in his duties? And Lan Qiren, bless his uptight soul, clearly wasn't doing anything about it – or perhaps couldn't. So, naturally, the burden fell on Qingheng-Jun, the only logical solution.

This intervention would not only serve the greater good, but it would also boost his own child-rearing success rate, shoving him triumphantly past Lan Qiren. He'd fix the son he hadn't been there to raise in the first place. A shiver ran down his spine at the thought. Fatherhood. A terrifying, truly traumatic concept. But needs must, as they say. With a deep breath that tasted faintly of woodsmoke and yesterday's tea, Qingheng-Jun pushed open the heavy door of his hovel. It seemed his self-imposed exile was finally over. He was going to be a father, for better or worse.

Qingheng-Jun descended from the back hills like a storm cloud rolling in. Disciple clusters scattered before him, their hurried whispers a rising tide of "Sect Leader returns!" Good. Let the news spread like wildfire. No, "victims" was too strong a word. Let his… delightful son, uptight brother, and questionable son-in-law know boot camp was about to commence.

He slammed open the doors of the Hanshi with a resounding boom that echoed through the halls, followed by a bellowing cry that rattled the windows. "QIIIIRENNNNN!"

Stunned silence stretched for a heartbeat, two, then three, before panicked footsteps announced the arrival of his brothers. Lan Huan – no, Lan Xichen now – appeared first, his face a mask of constipation warring with impending bowel disaster. Lan Xichen strongly resembled their mother, a fact that always triggered a dull ache in Qingheng-Jun's chest, which he promptly shoved down.

Lan Qiren followed, his face a stormy landscape of barely contained qi and righteous fury. "Qingheng-Jun! What is the meaning of this barbaric display?!"

"One job, Qiren," Qingheng-Jun snapped, narrowing his eyes and gesturing grandly towards the open doors. The crisp mountain air, heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth, rushed in, momentarily displacing the stale, bookish aroma that usually clung to the Hanshi. "One job! And you let my youngest… undoubtedly ruin his entire public reputation!"

Lan Qiren bristled, his voice crackling with indignation. "I… I raised him well! I instilled in him the values of GusuLan, something you clearly could not have managed in your… reclusive state!"

"Raised him well?" Qingheng-Jun scoffed, his voice laced with disbelief. "The very walls of the Cloud Recesses must be weeping! And don't even get me started on Wei Wuxian—"

"This is not Wei Wuxian's fault!" Lan Qiren sputtered, his carefully maintained composure crumbling. Lan Xichen seemed surprised such words had been uttered.

"Spare me the excuses, Qiren," Qingheng-Jun interrupted, his gaze hardening. "You clearly failed. And since you seem incapable of handling the situation, I've decided to rectify the errors of your… 'raising'."

The mere thought of parenting anyone, let alone attempting to re-raise and re-teach a grown, thirty-something man, churned his stomach. Fatherhood. A new rule to add to the wall, etched in bold characters: Fatherhood is Hereby Banned. The metallic tang of rising bile threatened to overwhelm him, but he swallowed it down with a grimace. This was for the good of the Lan Sect, for the sake of propriety and public decency. He, Qingheng-Jun, would become the unlikely savior, the reluctant hero. A hero who desperately wished he was back in his secluded hovel, surrounded by the comforting silence and the calming scent of incense.

"So…" Lan Xichen ventured, his voice a mere tremor in the tense air. "Care for tea?"

Qingheng-Jun snorted, the sound echoing harshly in the cavernous Hanshi. "Tea, yes. We'll dissect the colossal failure that was Lan Qiren's attempt at 'parenting' over a steaming cup."

"I did not fail!" Lan Qiren spluttered, his face paling several shades. It was a sight to behold, the usually stoic Second Jade reduced to a sputtering mess.

"Hardly a resounding success, either," Qingheng-Jun countered, his voice laced with a dry amusement that did little to soothe the tension.

"He's a respected cultivator! Hanguang-Jun! The Second Jade of GusuLan!" Lan Qiren defended, his voice regaining some of its usual starch.

"Oh, spare me the titles, Qiren!" Qingheng-Jun rolled his eyes, a movement that felt stiff with disuse. "Respected, yes, but clearly lacking in… certain areas of self-control."

A strangled sound escaped Lan Xichen, a sound that hovered somewhere between a choked laugh and a gasp. Qingheng-Jun shot him a withering look.

"And you," he gestured towards Lan Xichen, "clearly have your own…entanglements to sort through. We'll discuss those later."

Lan Xichen's face flushed a delicate shade of pink, a stark contrast to the pale blue of his robes. He cleared his throat, the sound scratchy and dry. "Perhaps… perhaps we should start with the tea, father? A calming cup of chrysanthemum tea might soothe…"

"Soothe the storm you've all brewed?" Qingheng-Jun finished his sentence with a sardonic smile. He caught a whiff of something sweet and floral – Lan Xichen must have already begun brewing the tea. It was a comforting scent, a familiar counterpoint to the usual musk of old paper and sandalwood that permeated the Hanshi.

"Perhaps," Lan Qiren muttered, his shoulders slumping slightly in defeat. The air crackled with unspoken tension, a palpable thing that made Qingheng-Jun rub his temples. This was going to be a long, arduous process. But someone had to do it, and apparently, that someone was him. He sighed, a sound that seemed to echo through the room, and sank into a nearby armchair. The worn fabric creaked beneath his weight, a sound that was oddly reassuring in the charged silence.

"Alright," he finally conceded, his voice softer now. "Tea first. Then, we talk."

---

Qingheng-Jun wouldn't exactly call the tea session a resounding success. Sure, he'd formulated a brilliant, five-point plan to address the Lan family's… unconventional situation. It was a masterpiece, really. Point one: Decorum. Point two: For the children's sake (because frankly, someone had to think about them). Point three: The dreaded sex-ed talk (a topic that made his skin crawl, but someone had to get his son on the right page). Point four: Child(ren), control your father (a delicate maneuver, but essential). And finally, point five, the crown jewel of the plan, the one closest to his heart: Stop Bothering Your Poor Father (read: Qingheng-Jun) with Your Marital Activities.

It was foolproof, he assured himself. Built on the rock-solid foundation of "because I said so," and the unshakeable belief that nothing could possibly go wrong. Ever.

Except, of course, everything could go wrong. And as Qingheng-Jun surveyed his two guests, a cold sweat threatened to break out on his brow. He needed help. It was a truth that made him want to crawl back into his hovel and bury himself under a mountain of meditation cushions. One man could only do so much, but leading this intervention solo was pushing it. Thankfully, there were a select few… options.

That's how he found himself perched on a rickety stool in the quaint living room of Lan Guoyang and Lan Jinghua. Childhood friends, yes, but more importantly, the only two people who could remotely handle this mess. And perfect foils for each other, at that. Lan Guoyang, a man cut from the same cloth as Lan Wangji – a repressed ball of repressed feelings (and probably repressed… other things, Qingheng-Jun tried not to dwell on it). Lan Jinghua, a woman who'd spent most of her life wrangling children that weren't even hers. Their collective experiences – boykisser (sadly, a gay one. Qingheng-Jun prided himself on being progressive, but Lan Guoyang, with his mere existence, chipped away at that veneer a little. Lan Guoyang-phobic, perhaps?) (Lan Guoyang), child-rearer (a successful one, even if one of her charges ended up being a mass murderer, but hey, Lan family curse and all) (Lan Jinghua), and reformed nymphomaniac (his wife, a story for another time, a tragic one, one that involved a dead man, imprisonment, suicide, and unwavering loyalty… maybe they could skip that last part) (Qingheng-Jun) – made them the ideal candidates for this… intervention.

He took a deep breath, the scent of freshly brewed chrysanthemum tea tickling his nose. It did little to calm the storm brewing in his stomach. "Alright," he began, voice tight, "Here's the situation." As he laid out the details, the air grew thick with a mix of disbelief, suppressed snickers (from Lan Guoyang, no doubt), and a resigned sigh from Lan Jinghua. This was going to be a long night.

Qingheng-Jun glared across the table at Lan Guoyang, who was swirling his cup of tea with a deliberate slowness that grated on every nerve. A tiny, satisfied smile played on Lan Guoyang's lips, a fact that did nothing to soothe Qingheng-Jun's simmering irritation.

"So…" Lan Guoyang drawled, his voice dripping with amusement. The man seemed positively delighted by Qingheng-Jun's predicament (a feeling Qingheng-Jun was quickly coming to realize went far beyond a simple dislike. This was full-blown Lan Guoyang-phobia, a term he'd never considered before but now felt strangely appropriate). "You… want us… to help you wrangle your son out of his… public displays of marital… enthusiasm with his husband?"

Qingheng-Jun gritted his teeth. "Yes," he ground out, the word like sandpaper against his dry throat.

"And your esteemed brother, the ever-so-righteous Lan Qiren, failed to instill the proper decorum while raising him, did he?" Lan Guoyang continued, a barely suppressed smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The man was clearly fighting back laughter, the sound of which would undoubtedly push Qingheng-Jun over the edge.

"Obviously," Qingheng-Jun seethed, clenching his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. He repeated a silent mantra in his head, a desperate attempt to maintain some semblance of composure. Down with the boykissers, down with the boykissers! he chanted internally, the phrase losing some of its power with each repetition. This mantra certainly didn't seem to be encompassing the entire situation. It definitely included – but was not limited to – Lan Guoyang, his son, and his son-in-law.

Lan Jinghua, ever the voice of reason, intervened before Qingheng-Jun could combust. She set down her own teacup with a gentle clink, the sound a welcome counterpoint to the tense silence. "Alright, Guoyang," she said, her voice firm yet laced with a hint of amusement. "Let's not tease him too much. Qingheng-Jun, this is a… delicate situation, but we understand your concern. Lan Wangji is a respected cultivator, but public displays of affection, however passionate, are indeed frowned upon."

Qingheng-Jun let out a relieved sigh. Finally, someone who saw things his way! The scent of chrysanthemum tea, calming and familiar, washed over him, easing the tightness in his chest.

"Exactly!" he exclaimed, a touch of desperation clinging to his voice. "It's just…unbecoming. And think of the children! What kind of example does it set?"

Lan Jinghua nodded, a knowing glint in her eyes. Raising children, particularly those not her own, was a skill she possessed in abundance. The faint scent of lavender, a familiar aroma from the countless linen diapers she'd changed in her life, seemed to emanate from her.

"We can help," she said, her voice firm and reassuring. "But we need more information. Can you tell us more about the specifics of the situation? What exactly did you hear?"

Qingheng-Jun hesitated. Did he really want to relive the horrifying symphony of shrieks and strangled moans that had shattered his peaceful seclusion? A shiver ran down his spine at the memory.

"Perhaps," he hedged, "we can discuss a more general approach to… decorum in relationships?"

Lan Guoyang snorted, a loud, undignified sound that sent shivers down Qingheng-Jun's spine for a completely different reason.

"Fine," Qingheng-Jun conceded, defeated. "But you're both sworn to secrecy. This never leaves this room."

---

Qingheng-Jun, Lan Guoyang, and Lan Jinghua sat in a tense huddle across from Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji. The room, normally a haven of quiet contemplation for Lan Jinghua, was thick with the suppressed energy of five people on the verge of an explosion. Lan Wangji, ever the picture of stoicism, sat with his back ramrod straight, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere beyond the rickety table. Wei Wuxian, however, was a different story. He clung to Lan Wangji's arm like a lifeline, chattering away at his "Lan-Er Gege" with the carefree abandon of a man who'd never known a moment's self-consciousness. The sound of his voice, a high-pitched chirp compared to Lan Wangji's deep rumble, grated on Qingheng-Jun's already frayed nerves. (He wouldn't mind having both of them, Lan Qiren included, take a good, long bite of the metaphorical curb if it would just shut them all up. But that wasn't exactly a very… fatherly… thought. Ugh, the very word made his stomach churn with a nauseating revulsion.)

This, then, was the beginning of the intervention. Qingheng-Jun cleared his throat, the sound harsh and grating in the tense silence. Wei Wuxian's head snapped up, his eyes wide and curious. The sunlight filtering through the window caught a glint of mischief in their depths, a familiar spark that sent a flicker of unwelcome recognition through Qingheng-Jun. Wei Wuxian, he was forced to admit, bore a strange resemblance to his late wife, especially in that mischievous glint. It was an unsettling thought, one he quickly squashed before it could spiral down a road of unwanted memories.

"We have called you here today," Lan Jinghua began, her voice tight but laced with a practiced calm, "to discuss… certain matters." Even she, the ever-steady Lan Jinghua, seemed hesitant to even utter the real reason for their presence. Wei Wuxian, however, simply cocked his head to the side, a picture of innocent confusion. His bright red robes, a stark contrast to the muted blues and greys of the room, seemed to amplify the disarming quirk of his head.

"Matters?" he echoed, his voice dripping with a honeyed sweetness that made Qingheng-Jun want to bristle. "Is something the matter? Did someone lose a pet poltergeist or forget to bury a resentful corpse?" His words were light, but there was a sharp glint in his eyes that suggested he wasn't entirely clueless.

Lan Guoyang, perched on the edge of his seat like a coiled spring, snorted. "No, nothing like that," he drawled, his voice laced with a sardonic amusement that did little to ease the tension. "It's more a matter of… decorum."

The word hung in the air, heavy and charged. Lan Wangji's grip tightened on Wei Wuxian's arm, seemingly the only outward sign that he acknowledged the seriousness of the situation. Wei Wuxian, however, simply tilted his head further, his eyes flitting between the three faces staring at him with a mix of disapproval and apprehension. The scent of sandalwood, a familiar aroma from Lan Wangji's robes, mingled with the faint tang of leftover incense and the sweet, cloying fragrance of Wei Wuxian's laughter lines – a unique concoction that did little to disguise the underlying tension in the room.

"Decorum, huh?" Wei Wuxian finally chimed, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "And just what kind of decorum are we talking about here? The proper way to greet a grumpy old hermit?" His gaze flicked towards Qingheng-Jun, a challenge sparkling in his eyes.

Qingheng-Jun felt his jaw clench. This was not going to be an easy conversation.

Qingheng-Jun's mouth snapped shut with an audible click. He'd just opened it to unleash a torrent of reprimands at Wei Wuxian's flippant remark, a torrent fueled by a potent mix of irritation and a simmering, irrational anger. But Lan Jinghua, ever the diplomat, intervened before he could erupt.

"No," she said firmly, her voice laced with a quiet authority that caused Qingheng-Jun to clench his fists in his lap. A stifled snort escaped Lan Guoyang, further stoking the flames of Qingheng-Jun's annoyance. The air in the room crackled with tension, thick enough to chew on.

His mind, a battlefield once again, was dominated by the same mantra: Down with the boykissers! Down with the boykissers! The thought of homosexuality itself wasn't repugnant to him, not in theory. Yet, every single gay person he'd encountered in his life – a depressingly small sample size, he was forced to admit – had rubbed him the wrong way. Perhaps he wasn't simply homophobic, but rather suffered from a more specific affliction: Every-Gay-Person-I've-Ever-Met-Phobia. This unsettling realization was punctuated by a series of much more primal urges. Images flickered in his mind – himself expelling Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji from the Cloud Recessive with the force of a thousand suns, the satisfying thud of the door slamming shut behind them and perhaps them getting stomped out. This time, he indulged in these violent fantasies, savoring the imagined peace and quiet. It wasn't exactly… fatherly. Ugh, the word still repulsed him. Had he submitted the official ban request for it yet?

Lan Jinghua's hand, warm and surprisingly strong, landed on his own, grounding him in the present. He tore his gaze away from the mental image of a smirking Wei Wuxian unceremoniously ejected and forced himself to focus on the room. Wei Wuxian, still clinging to Lan Wangji's arm, tilted his head further, his playful smile belying a sharp glint in his eyes. The scent of sandalwood, familiar and calming, emanated from Lan Wangji, a stark contrast to the cloying sweetness clinging to Wei Wuxian. It was the fragrance of laughter lines, Qingheng-Jun realized with a jolt, a sweetness that felt out of place in this tense situation.

The corners of Qingheng-Jun's lips twitched. Grumpy old hermit? The audacity of the man! He fought the urge to glare. This was supposed to be an intervention, not a sparring match. He stole a glance at Lan Qiren, who sat stiffly in his chair, his face an unreadable mask. Even the stoic Second Jade seemed to be struggling to maintain his composure.

Taking a deep breath, Qingheng-Jun forced himself to speak in a measured tone. "The type of decorum," he began, enunciating each word carefully, "that concerns public displays of affection. Specifically, the excessive…noise that accompanies them."

The room went silent. Wei Wuxian's smile faltered for a split second, then bloomed back into existence, wider than ever. Lan Wangji, however, stiffened, his grip tightening noticeably on Wei Wuxian's arm. The air crackled with a different kind of tension now – a mixture of surprise, embarrassment, and a hint of something fierce that sent a shiver down Qingheng-Jun's spine.

"Excessive noise?" Wei Wuxian finally squeaked, his voice a far cry from its earlier confidence. "But Lan Zhan likes it loud," he added quickly, his cheeks flushing a delicate pink.

Lan Wangji emitted a sound that could have been a cough or a strangled groan. Qingheng-Jun wanted to bury his head in his hands. Lan Guoyang bodily laughed. Lan Jinghua just sighed. This was a disaster.

Qingheng-Jun groaned, a sound that rumbled deep within his chest. He brought his hands up to rub his temples, the beginnings of a throbbing headache already blooming behind his eyes. "We… don't care," he muttered, the words slurred with frustration. "Whether or not Lan Zhan enjoys the… volume is entirely irrelevant."

"Sadly, the weight of responsibility rests heavily on your shoulders. Wei Wuxian, for all your chaotic tendencies, are the Chief Cultivator's spouse. Lan Wangji, your stoic and powerful husband, was the Chief Cultivator himself. Your every move, every interaction, will be scrutinized by the watchful eyes of the cultivation world. Public image is paramount. A single misstep, a single indiscretion, could fuel endless gossip and slander, eroding the very foundation of your authority. Aren't you aware of this? Do you not understand the delicate dance they performed in the public eye? Yet, here you are, entangled like teenagers in the heart of a crowded room." Wei Wuxian, a whirlwind of crimson robes and unbound energy, practically sat on Lan Wangji's lap. His head rested against Lan Wangji's shoulder, his fingers idly tracing patterns on the stiff fabric of his husband's sleeve. The picture of domestic bliss, perhaps, but in this setting, it felt more like a scene from a scandalous puppet show.

Wei Wuxian, however, seemed blissfully unaffected by Qingheng-Jun's outburst. He simply tilted his head further, his bright eyes sparkling with a mixture of amusement and defiance. "Shameless, you say?" he chirped, his voice laced with a sweetness that grated on Qingheng-Jun's already frayed nerves. "Is love, then, a shameful thing? Is expressing one's devotion to one's spouse something to be hidden away?"

Lan Wangji remained silent, his posture rigid, but the faint tremor in his hand, the hand that rested protectively on Wei Wuxian's back, betrayed the turmoil within him. The scent of sandalwood, usually a calming presence, now hung heavy in the air, laced with an undercurrent of something primal and possessive.

Lan Jinghua, ever the voice of reason, interjected before the situation could escalate further. "Love itself is a beautiful thing, Wei Wuxian," she said, her voice firm yet gentle. "But there is a time and a place for public displays of affection. Certain… behaviors can be misinterpreted, leading to a loss of respect or worse, a questioning of your authority."

She gestured towards Wei Wuxian's precarious position, a silent plea for him to see the bigger picture. The metallic tang of repressed tension filled the room, a stark contrast to the sweet, flowery aroma of Lan Jinghua's calming incense that usually permeated her home.

Wei Wuxian pouted, a childish expression that seemed at odds with his sharp wit. He slid off Lan Wangji's lap, though he remained close, his hand brushing against Lan Wangji's bicep in a silent gesture of possessiveness. "But propriety is so… dull," he whined, his voice laced with a playful glint. "Wouldn't a little spice make things more interesting?"

Qingheng-Jun felt a vein throb in his temple. This was going to be a long, long night.