The next morning dawned crisp and clear, sunlight catching on dew-soaked petals of plum blossoms scattered around the Cloud Recesses. The gentle breeze smelled of pine and a faint, lingering spice—remnants of Wei Wuxian’s bold culinary experiments.

Wei Wuxian awoke sprawled across a floor mat in the Jingshi, one leg thrown over Lan Wangji, who was sitting upright with a book in hand. Somehow, Wei Wuxian had migrated during the night. Again.

“Mornin’, Lan Zhan,” he mumbled, eyes still half-shut as he cuddled closer, unbothered by his awkward position. “How many juniors fainted yesterday, would you say?”

Lan Wangji flipped a page. “Two. One due to spice. One… from surprise.”

Wei Wuxian chuckled. “The power of your smile should be a national treasure. Really, I ought to charge a fee every time it happens.”

“You smiled more,” Lan Wangji said without looking up.

“That’s because I’m always happy when I’m with you.”

That earned him a brief glance, and something in Lan Wangji’s eyes softened just enough to make Wei Wuxian’s heart flutter. Not a smile—not yet—but promising.

“Today,” Wei Wuxian said, sitting up and stretching, “we begin Phase Two of Spring Festival: rehearsals for the lantern parade, music preparation, and—most importantly—my performance of ‘Lan Zhan’s Very Serious Love Song.’”

Lan Wangji closed his book.

“There is… more?”

“Oh yes. I’ve written three more verses. You haven’t even heard the one about your forehead ribbon.”

Lan Wangji stood in a single, elegant movement. “I will assist the juniors with the lantern rigging.”

Wei Wuxian grinned after him. “You can run, Lan Zhan, but I’ll sing it under your window if I have to!”

By midday, the courtyard bustled with activity. Disciples carried stacks of lanterns shaped like clouds, cranes, rabbits—even one unfortunate-looking phoenix that drooped sadly to one side. Strings of bells were being strung between pillars, and Wei Wuxian darted from group to group with wild enthusiasm.

“Remember,” he called out, “the goal is to delight, not terrify! No more demon-shaped lanterns!”

One junior blinked, holding a flame-shaped lantern with tiny fangs. “But Senior Wei, you said—”

“That was before Lan Qiren saw it and nearly had a stroke.”

Wei Wuxian whirled around and crashed straight into Lan Jingyi, who was balancing a tray of sweet rice cakes.

“Oof! Sorry, Jingyi. Are those for me?”

“They’re for everyone,” Jingyi grumbled, dusting crumbs off his robes. “Also, Senior Wei… about the glow ink. It’s, uh, glowing too much. One of the rabbits lit up so bright last night that Hanguang-jun personally had to extinguish it.”

“Glow ink can’t be extinguished,” Wei Wuxian said, confused.

Lan Jingyi gave him a look.

“…Ah. Right. Doused in tea. Got it.”

Meanwhile, Lan Sizhui was arranging the younger disciples into lines for the parade rehearsal. They were all dressed in festive white robes with subtle gold embroidery, looking much too serious for a group that included a boy currently trying to wear his lantern as a hat.

Wei Wuxian trotted over. “Sizhui! Looking handsome as ever. You ready to lead the parade?”

Sizhui smiled, a bit shy. “I’ll do my best. Everyone’s excited… even Jingyi, though he won’t admit it.”

“I heard that!” Jingyi called.

“Perfect. Now, listen—tomorrow, I’ll be performing my song as the lanterns rise, and I need someone to throw flower petals during the final verse. Very important. Symbolic. Romantic. Volunteers?”

Dead silence.

Even Sizhui hesitated.

Wei Wuxian frowned. “What, no one wants to contribute to a legendary moment of romantic glory?”

“It’s not that,” Jingyi muttered. “It’s just… your lyrics are…”

Wei Wuxian gasped. “You’ve read them?”

“We found your notebook.”

A wave of horror hit Wei Wuxian. “You mean the notebook? The one with the bridge verse about Lan Zhan’s thighs?”

Several juniors suddenly found the sky very interesting.

Wei Wuxian buried his face in his hands. “I can never show my face in Yunmeng again.”

“Maybe just… rewrite a few lines?” Sizhui suggested gently.

“No!” Wei Wuxian groaned dramatically. “Art must be raw! Honest! Unfiltered!”

A moment later, Lan Wangji appeared beside him, as if summoned by embarrassment alone. “Is everything alright?”

Jingyi, ever helpful, blurted, “Senior Wei said your thighs are poetic.”

Lan Wangji blinked once. Slowly.

Wei Wuxian coughed. “...Out of context.”

Lan Wangji turned to Sizhui. “Are the preparations proceeding?”

“They are, Hanguang-jun.”

Wei Wuxian watched Lan Wangji disappear into the storage hall to retrieve another scroll and muttered, “That man has the patience of a thousand Buddhas.”

Jingyi elbowed Sizhui. “I think he smiled again.”

“That makes four,” Sizhui whispered.

“Four?”

“Senior Wei said he’s counting.”

The afternoon passed in a flurry of ribbon-tying, flute-testing, and the occasional explosion of rice flour from the kitchen. One junior got tangled in lantern string and had to be cut free by Lan Wangji himself. Another accidentally knocked over a dye basin, turning a section of the path soft pink.

“Festive,” Wei Wuxian commented. “Accidental, but festive.”

He returned to the Jingshi just as twilight crept across the peaks. He found Lan Wangji seated by the guqin, tuning it with precise fingers. The faint hum of the strings filled the air like a heartbeat.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian said, sitting beside him. “Everything’s nearly ready. Tomorrow, this place will be so full of light, even the moon will get jealous.”

Lan Wangji’s hands stilled.

“You’ve worked hard.”

“I’ve had fun,” Wei Wuxian admitted. “I didn’t think your sect could be this lively.”

“It wasn’t. Before.”

Wei Wuxian turned his head, surprised by the quiet sincerity in Lan Wangji’s voice.

“It is now,” Lan Wangji added. “Because of you.”

A long pause settled between them, peaceful and warm.

“…Lan Zhan?”

“Mn.”

“Can I play you the revised version of the song?”

Lan Wangji’s lips twitched. “If you must.”

Wei Wuxian grabbed his flute. “No ‘thighs’ this time. I promise.”

He played it softly, the notes dancing like candlelight. The lyrics were still a little silly, but gentler now. More sincere.

“Oh Lan Zhan, your silence speaks,
In every brushstroke, every string.
Your gaze is calm, your hands are kind—
And with you, I’ve found my spring.”

When he finished, he looked up.

Lan Wangji was staring at him.

Then—

He smiled.

The full kind. Quiet but unmistakable. Soft as morning sun on snow.

And this time, no disciples dropped anything. No one screamed. There was no audience—just them, surrounded by plum blossoms and shadows.

Wei Wuxian reached over and took Lan Wangji’s hand.

“That makes five,” he whispered.

Lan Wangji’s thumb brushed his knuckles. “I will smile again.”

Wei Wuxian laughed.

“Greedy man,” he teased. “But I’ll earn it.”

That night, as the Cloud Recesses slept, the wind carried the scent of incense and distant laughter. And in the Jingshi, beneath a sky waiting to be lit with lanterns, Wei Wuxian dreamed of a hundred more festivals—each brighter than the last.