The morning after the Spring Festival was calm in a way that felt almost sacred. The lanterns had long since floated beyond the mountains, the flower petals had settled, and even the ever-diligent Lan disciples moved more slowly, as if the joy of the night still clung to their robes.

In the Jingshi, Wei Wuxian stretched luxuriously beneath the covers, one arm flung across Lan Wangji’s chest. His face was buried against Lan Wangji’s shoulder, hair tangled from sleep and celebration.

“Lan Zhan,” he murmured, still not entirely awake, “are you sure we didn’t get secretly married last night?”

“No ceremony took place,” Lan Wangji replied.

Wei Wuxian squinted up at him. “But we kissed under a tree during a lantern festival. That’s practically a wedding, right? Or at least an engagement?”

Lan Wangji’s fingers brushed through his hair, gentle and unhurried. “If you want it to be.”

Wei Wuxian stilled.

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected—perhaps a teasing rebuttal, or a softly delivered “mn.” But this was something else. Something quiet and open.

“I do,” he said finally. “Someday. Not today. But someday.”

“Mn.”

Wei Wuxian smiled, cheeks warm. He sat up, stretching until his spine cracked, and glanced outside. “Is it just me, or is the Cloud Recesses quieter today?”

“The juniors are cleaning the courtyard.”

“And Lan Qiren?”

“In seclusion. Again.”

Wei Wuxian snorted. “He’s probably trying to meditate the memories of my song out of existence.”

“He was not displeased with the lantern parade.”

Wei Wuxian’s jaw dropped. “Wait. Are you saying Uncle Qiren actually approved of something I did?”

“He said it was... surprisingly well-organized.”

Wei Wuxian looked genuinely touched. “Lan Zhan. That’s basically love. From him, that’s like a tearful hug and a poem.”

Lan Wangji nodded solemnly. “Progress.”

They made their way out into the courtyard, where several juniors bowed as they passed, looking very much like they wanted to say something but feared the consequences.

Lan Jingyi was less restrained. “Senior Wei!”

Wei Wuxian grinned. “Good morning to my favorite backup vocalist.”

Jingyi blushed and folded his arms. “You owe me sweet buns for that performance. Also, the verse about Lan Zhan’s pie? I still can’t look at dessert the same way.”

“It was art,” Wei Wuxian said loftily. “You’ll appreciate it when you’re older.”

Lan Sizhui approached, smiling brightly. “We’re sorting through the remaining lanterns, Senior Wei. Some of them have messages.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes lit up. “Love notes? Confessions? Scandalous haiku?”

“One... asked for forgiveness,” Sizhui said softly. “Another wished to see their lost sibling again. And one was just a drawing of a rabbit holding a sword.”

Wei Wuxian chuckled. “Sounds like Jingyi.”

“Not me!” Jingyi yelped. “Probably Zhenli.”

A few steps away, Lan Zhenli turned pink and stared hard at his boots.

Lan Wangji stepped forward and picked up a lantern that had drifted back onto the shore. It was shaped like a lotus, its paper wrinkled from dew, but still softly glowing. He handed it to Wei Wuxian.

“What does it say?” Wei Wuxian asked.

Lan Wangji tilted his head. “Your handwriting.”

Wei Wuxian blinked and took it, squinting.

“Oh,” he said quietly.

“I wish to never lose him again.”

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Wei Wuxian whispered, “That was the first one I made. Before I started joking around.”

Lan Wangji reached out, his hand brushing against Wei Wuxian’s.

“You will not,” he said simply.

Wei Wuxian smiled, the kind that was smaller than his usual grin, but deeper somehow. “I believe you.”

The rest of the day passed in slow, peaceful waves. The lanterns were collected and dried. The courtyard was swept, ribbons untied, and leftover sweets distributed (after thorough inspection to make sure none of them had been turned into vaguely romantic metaphors).

Wei Wuxian was helping Lan Sizhui organize scrolls near the library when Lan Qiren walked by, pausing long enough to say, “Next year, avoid lyrics about food and bodily features.”

Wei Wuxian blinked. “Was that... feedback?”

Lan Qiren gave him a long-suffering look and kept walking.

“That was absolutely feedback,” Wei Wuxian declared. “I’m getting through to him.”

Lan Wangji, nearby, murmured, “Do not push your luck.”

Evening fell slowly. The last rays of sun turned the stone walkways gold. Wei Wuxian stood at the edge of the pond, the water still now, only reflecting stars.

Lan Wangji joined him, sleeves brushing.

“Next year,” Wei Wuxian said, “I’ll build the lanterns earlier. Maybe even hand-paint a few. And write a new song. Something poetic. Less... pie.”

Lan Wangji looked at him.

Wei Wuxian grinned. “Fine. Maybe just one verse about pie.”

Silence stretched again, comfortable and warm.

“You know,” Wei Wuxian said, voice lower now, “I used to think this place was cold. Beautiful, but too still. Too quiet.”

He looked around—the wind shifting softly through plum trees, the soft hum of distant guqin strings, a junior humming under their breath nearby.

“But now,” he continued, “it feels like home.”

Lan Wangji didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached into his sleeve and pulled something small from within—a folded slip of glowing paper.

Wei Wuxian tilted his head.

Lan Wangji unfolded it carefully, then held it out.

It was a lantern wish.

In Lan Wangji’s handwriting.

Wei Wuxian read it aloud: “May he stay.”

For the first time all day, he was speechless.

Lan Wangji took his hand.

“I will ask each year,” he said.

Wei Wuxian laughed softly, eyes stinging. “Then I’ll answer each year.”

Lan Wangji looked up at the stars. “Then stay.”

“I already am.”

They stood like that as the stars wheeled overhead, hands intertwined.

The Cloud Recesses had never been louder than it had during the festival—but now, in the quiet, it was clearer than ever.

They had brought light to this place.

And it would never be cold again.