Snow had only just melted from the peaks surrounding the Cloud Recesses, leaving trails of glistening water along white stone paths. Winter’s chill clung to the air in a stubborn sort of way, but Spring Festival preparations had already begun, bringing a warmth of their own.

Wei Wuxian stood at the center of the courtyard, arms outstretched, eyes alight with mischief and something that closely resembled wonder.

“Lan Zhan,” he announced, turning dramatically on his heel, “I have come to save the Gusu Lan Sect from yet another dangerously boring festival.”

From beside a flowering plum tree, Lan Wangji raised a single brow.

“It was not boring.”

“Not boring?” Wei Wuxian gasped. “Lan Zhan, last year you served plain tofu as the highlight of the meal.”

Lan Wangji’s brow did not lower. “It was silken tofu. Seasoned.”

Wei Wuxian waved a hand. “My point exactly. This year, we’re spicing things up. Quite literally.”

Lan Wangji didn’t protest. He simply closed the scroll in his hand, set it down gently, and stepped closer. “What are you planning?”

Wei Wuxian grinned, already dragging a woven basket out from behind a nearby column. “Well, I found some chili oil, five packets of Sichuan peppercorn, a crate of firecrackers, and—this is the best part—glow-in-the-dark ink for the lanterns.”

Lan Wangji blinked.

Wei Wuxian's grin widened.

“They glow in the dark, Lan Zhan. Can you imagine how much more romantic the sky will be? All those little glowing love notes floating over the courtyard?” He paused. “You do plan to let people write love notes on the lanterns, right?”

Before Lan Wangji could answer, a sudden crash sounded from the kitchen.

“…Right after I go check on that,” Wei Wuxian added, already bolting.

Inside the kitchen, chaos ruled.

Lan disciples—nearly all of whom were trying to act calm in the face of utter disaster—tiptoed around a toppled clay jar and a suspiciously smoky wok. A plume of spice-laden steam rose from one corner where Wei Wuxian’s experimental hotpot was bubbling with an alarming shade of red.

Lan Qiren stood at the threshold, clutching a handkerchief to his nose.

“Wei Wuxian!”

Wei Wuxian winced, yet still approached the elder with hands out and an apologetic smile.

“It’s not that spicy, Shufu—”

Lan Qiren's glare could have frozen lava.

A nearby disciple opened a window, fanning the smoke with a bamboo tray. Several others coughed quietly, cheeks pink.

Lan Wangji entered in time to witness Wei Wuxian using a ladle to scoop out floating red chilis like they were decorations, not warnings.

“I was just trying to add a little flavor,” Wei Wuxian said innocently. “This is the Spring Festival, not a funeral banquet.”

“This is the Cloud Recesses,” Lan Qiren bit out. “We do not incinerate our internal organs in the name of festivity!”

Wei Wuxian turned pleadingly to Lan Wangji. “Tell him spicy food is good for the soul.”

Lan Wangji gazed into the pot.

Then he looked at Wei Wuxian.

“…Perhaps a milder broth.”

Wei Wuxian sighed. “Fine, fine. Mild broth it is. But the dumplings are still going to be heart-shaped.”

Lan Qiren muttered something about “depravity” and retreated in the direction of the library pavilion.

Back in the courtyard, the glow-in-the-dark ink had become the new attraction. Several junior disciples gathered around as Wei Wuxian demonstrated how to write a poetic message on a paper lantern.

He held up a half-finished one proudly. It read:

“The moon above sees all,
Even when I sneak into your bed at dawn—
Lan Zhan, don’t scowl.”

Lan Wangji exhaled through his nose. That counted as a reaction.

“You're corrupting the lantern tradition,” he said mildly.

“They’re supposed to carry our wishes,” Wei Wuxian replied, “and I wish for more cuddles.”

This time, Lan Wangji did something even more shocking: he smiled.

Just a soft curve of the lips—barely there—but every disciple within twenty feet froze like they’d been hit by a stun spell.

One of the juniors dropped their brush. Another whispered, “Did you see that?! He smiled!”

“Is he sick?” another asked.

Lan Wangji blinked at the sudden burst of whispers and stepped back with practiced grace.

Wei Wuxian, of course, noticed all of it and grinned smugly.

“That’s one,” he muttered to himself. “Two more to go.”

Lan Wangji turned his head, but not fast enough to hide the color rising in his ears.

As the afternoon wore on, the Cloud Recesses transformed. Ribbons of silk had been tied around the pavilion beams, tiny bells hung from tree branches, and lanterns floated gently from ropes stretched across the courtyard like stars waiting for dusk.

Wei Wuxian, fingers stained with ink and the faint scent of chili oil clinging to his robe, stood admiring the view with Lan Wangji beside him.

“I have to say,” Wei Wuxian murmured, “you people are more festive than I expected, once you loosen up.”

Lan Wangji tilted his head. “You have that effect.”

Wei Wuxian blinked.

It wasn’t just the words—it was the warm, golden edge to Lan Wangji’s voice. The very suggestion of a tease. Wei Wuxian turned to face him fully.

“Lan Zhan. Was that flirting?”

Lan Wangji didn’t answer. But he reached out and straightened a fold in Wei Wuxian’s robe, fingers lingering a second too long.

Wei Wuxian’s smile softened. “Two.”

Lan Wangji raised a brow. “Two?”

“Smiles,” Wei Wuxian whispered. “I’m counting.”

At that moment, as if the heavens themselves approved, a loud bang went off from the firecrackers Wei Wuxian had left drying under the sun. They had, unfortunately, been placed too close to a torch.

Everyone jumped.

Lan Qiren stormed out again, voice booming across the courtyard: “Wei Wuxian!”

Wei Wuxian scrambled behind Lan Wangji, holding him like a human shield.

“I swear I didn’t light it! They just… self-combusted!”

Lan Wangji sighed, long-suffering, but didn’t move away.

The third smile came just after dinner.

They were alone under a plum tree, sharing the leftover dumplings (which had, indeed, turned out heart-shaped). A soft lantern light bathed them in gentle hues. Wei Wuxian picked up his flute, fiddling with the reed, and whispered, “I wrote you something.”

Lan Wangji watched him quietly, gaze unwavering.

Then Wei Wuxian began to play.

It was soft. Silly. A tune that meandered like a drunken rabbit down a hill. And the lyrics—Lan Wangji realized, too late, there were lyrics—were even worse.

“Oh Lan Zhan, your eyebrows are stern,
But I know they twitch when you yearn.
You don’t talk a lot, but your guqin says hi,
And when you blush, the stars sigh.”

Wei Wuxian finished the verse with a little flourish, then peered over the flute to see Lan Wangji’s reaction.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then—

The corner of Lan Wangji’s mouth curved. And this time, it was more than just a twitch.

It was a full smile.

Wei Wuxian gasped. “Three!”

Somewhere on the other side of the courtyard, a teacup shattered as a passing disciple tripped.

“Why is Hanguang-jun smiling again?” one junior whispered.

“Is the world ending?” another asked.

Wei Wuxian was already laughing, leaning against Lan Wangji’s shoulder.

“Worth it,” he said. “So, so worth it.”

Lan Wangji glanced at the chaos, at the smoldering firecracker ashes, the crooked lanterns swaying in the breeze, and the overly spicy scent still wafting from the kitchen.

Then he turned back to Wei Wuxian.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “It is.”