The moment of the meal was a sanctuary. The savory, melting morsel of food that entered Xiao's gorge felt like a tiny, gentle ripple—not of disturbance, but of deep satisfaction—spreading across the surface of silent, sun-warmed water. In the quiet elegance of the dining chamber, time seemed to slow, measured only by the small, constant acts of kindness.
Lànhuā and Língxi sat on either side of the boy, their movements synchronized in their care, occasionally placing a choice tidbit onto Xiao's plate or simply touching his shoulder. It was in these unassuming, repeated motions of shared affection that Xiao felt, for the first time with complete certainty, the true definition of a family. It was not a grand concept, but a tangible warmth that radiated from their skin to his. His small, gray eyes, usually wary and darting, now rested between the two adults. A great wave of profound peace washed over him, assuring him that the long, painful storm that had ravaged his soul was, at last, slowly receding.
The conversation had naturally quieted, replaced by the comfortable rhythm of dining. Yet, in the lingering, loving looks they exchanged, there was a visible, beautiful tiredness—the exhaustion of guardians who had fought relentless battles to earn this moment of rest. Xiao, utterly present and acutely aware of the fleeting nature of happiness, found himself deliberately slowing his pace. He savored each grain of rice, wishing he could somehow stretch the minutes into an endless afternoon.
Língxi noticed. He always did. The Elder's eyes, trained for centuries to analyze and protect, were not designed to miss anything related to the boy. Xiao's unconscious, sweet, and fundamentally childish maneuver—this desperate attempt to cling to time—pulled at Língxi's ancient heart in a way he couldn't yet name. It was a potent blend of protective rage against the world that had stolen Xiao's true childhood and overwhelming fondness for the vulnerability he now displayed.
A faint, tender, and smug smile touched Língxi's sharp lips, the look of a possessive parent thoroughly pleased with their beloved child's antics. His gaze flickered to Lànhuā, who met his eyes with a serene expression and tried hard to suppress her own wide, joyous smile.
Without warning, Língxi's slender, powerful fingers reached across the lacquered table and gently encompassed Xiao's right hand. He didn't apply pressure; the touch was merely a transmission of warmth and presence. His thumb casually toyed with the jade chopstick resting in Xiao's grip.
Xiao looked up, startled by the sudden intimacy. His cheeks, already warm from the steam of the food, deepened to a faint, embarrassed blush. His gray eyes widened slightly. "Um... Uncle..." he whispered, caught off guard by the silent, gentle exposure of his stalling tactics.
Língxi gave his hand the faintest squeeze. "So, I said it before, my little one: nothing goes to waste. Especially not this quiet time we have earned." His voice was low and melodic, entirely free of accusation. He set his own chopsticks down and used his free hand to smooth a stray lock of his silver-white hair.
"Don't worry about what you think I might be thinking," Língxi said, the statement carrying a profound, adult certainty. He selected another perfect piece of steaming fish—tender and flakeless—and brought it to Xiao's mouth with infinite gentleness. He gave no opportunity for argument or resistance; the act was final in its tenderness. The hot, rich slice of fish immediately dissolved on Xiao's tongue, replacing his inner panic with a wave of absolute contentment.
Xiao chewed the fish, blinking slowly, his cheeks hollowing. He was completely grounded, focused only on savoring the moment.
Língxi's gaze, however, turned distant and profound, touching on a theme of melancholy beauty. "We should simply feel the moment, remember its texture, and live the moments with more life, breathing deeply into those memories." He watched Xiao intently. "And you, my brave child, do not need to worry about losing these moments. They will be always yours, soft and enduring, like family itself, unless you let your own soft breath fade away," Língxi concluded, his voice fading into a profound, almost lost whisper.
The phrase hung in the air, weighted with the unspoken history of their struggles. It was a statement of love, but also of a chilling, existential responsibility.
Lànhuā, who had watched the entire exchange with a calm, discerning gaze, reached out and gently patted Xiao's cheek, pulling his focus away from the intensity of Língxi's words. Her gentle touch was a lifeline.
"My little one, relax. It is time to relax so you can be completely with us now. You're exhausted—more physically, and certainly more emotionally, than even Língxi or I. Don't stress about such a small thing as eating slower," Lànhuā comforted, her voice a low, soothing stream. She knew exactly how to dismantle the anxiety the Elder could inadvertently create. "It only makes our Elder more smug and full of himself."
Língxi chuckled softly, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. His usual ice-power, the invisible aura of chill he carried, completely dissolved under the warmth of Lànhuā's gentle, playful reprimand.
He turned and looked at Lànhuā, a look of deep, ancient affection passing between them. He then rose, smoothing the rich silk of his robes and sleeves.
"The lunch is done," Língxi said, his voice now returning to its soft, adult tone. "Both of you are tired, both of you deserve rest. Xiao must go downstairs to his chamber and sleep. No stress, no sneaking out, only sleep. I hope I will not see you two awake before the shadows lengthen and the moon is high."
He gave a final, firm, but infinitely tender look to Xiao, injecting the quiet kindness deep into the boy's weary soul.
Língxi then moved to the doorway. As he approached, the quiet servants, who had been waiting for the signal to clear the room, bowed low to him. He returned the gesture with a swift, almost imperceptible nod—a rare acknowledgment. He paused, gave a quick, affirming nod back to Xiao and Lànhuā—a silent confirmation of their shared security—and then stepped out, closing the heavy wooden door behind him, leaving them in the enveloping silence.
Left in the quiet room with Lànhuā, Xiao let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief. The sudden relief was almost overwhelming. The physical weariness settled into his limbs, heavy and profound. He needed to be clean; the lingering taste of tension and the fear of his own exposed vulnerability made him crave oblivion.
He went to take a long, deep shower, washing away the emotional residue. When he returned, his hair was half-wet and smelled faintly of soap and herbs. He collapsed onto the large, plush bed, his eyes screaming for rest. Sleep was slow in coming, a heavy, velvet cloak settling over him piece by piece. The joy he now felt—the sheer privilege of simply existing in peace—felt like the unexpected reward after an impossible, grueling marathon. He smiled, a deep, sleepy, unguarded smile, and finally made himself comfortable, burrowing into the soft blankets.
"Sleep well, Xiao. Don't scare me like that again," Xiao mumbled, half-asleep, the words directed at Lànhuā, though they were a plea meant for the entire volatile day.
Lànhuā responded with a low, contented chuckle. She shifted, turning towards him completely, her eyes already closed, her face serene.
"Your father is by my side, little one," she answered, her voice a drowsy murmur. "He will not let anything touch you, not as long as you and I are within his sight."
She reached out and began to gently run her fingers through his damp hair. Her hands, always warm, always knowing, were true magic—they quieted the noise in his head and erased the lingering chill in his heart. Xiao was half-asleep too quickly to resist.
Within moments, Lànhuā's slow, peaceful breath filled the room, joining his own. The sound was soft and constant, a beautiful melody of security that enveloped them both. Side by side, safe within the cocoon of their love, they drifted, effortlessly and completely, into the deep, restorative darkness of their dreams.