The garden had transformed beneath winter's veil, its once vibrant greenery buried under layers of snow that clung to the stone walkways, the skeletal branches, the curled remnants of once-blooming flowers. Silence sat over the landscape like a weight—heavy, unbroken, yet strangely comforting. In the heart of it all stood the pavilion: a delicate structure, its wood dark against the pale canvas of snow, its open sides draped in silk sheets that fluttered like lazy ghosts in the cold breeze.
Inside the warmth lingered, not from fire, but from presence. Yen and Lily sat at a low lacquered table adorned with steaming bowls and plates—roasted duck, pickled greens, sticky rice, and clear soup that smelled faintly of ginger and ginseng. The scent curled up into the air, rich and calming.
They sat close, their knees brushing beneath the table, movements fluid and eerily synchronized, like clockwork cogs tuned only to each other. Yen reached for the roasted duck, slicing thin pieces with precision. As the blade parted the tender meat, Lily plucked up the piece he had just cut and brought it to his mouth before he could so much as glance up. He didn't need to look; he simply parted his lips, accepting the offering as though it were natural, as though she'd been feeding him all his life. Perhaps she had.
She chewed quietly when he handed her another bite, the flavor of soy and five-spice spreading across her tongue, warm and grounding. Their fingers occasionally touched when they passed the shared porcelain cup of water, the cold rim warming each time it touched her lips then his. When it emptied, Lily refilled it without a word, her movements habitual. Not rushed. Not dutiful. Just... certain.
A speck of sauce lingered on the corner of her mouth. Yen caught it with his thumb, then licked it off with a flick of his tongue. Lily didn't flinch. Instead, she reached for her napkin and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with practiced care, then gently scraped a flake of rice from his cheekbone. He turned his head slightly, letting her clean him like he belonged to her—or perhaps the other way around.
When he leaned closer, she met him halfway, holding up another bite for him. He took it without breaking eye contact, his gaze dark and steady. Softened only by the faint tilt of his head as she scooped more rice into his bowl. He always ate more than her. He always had.
Outside the silks, snow continued to fall in lazy spirals, like time itself had slowed to match the rhythm of their quiet communion. The world, for now, existed only in this bubble—this pavilion steeped in shared heat and half-spoken ritual.
Then, the inevitable crack of reality intruded.
"Okay. You are both scary. And disgusting. And I'm jealous."
The voice cut through the silence like a pebble tossed into a still lake. Zion.
He strolled toward the pavilion like he owned it—robed in a deep crimson that clashed with the snow around him, his boots leaving clean, sharp impressions in the white path. He stopped just outside the silk sheets, squinting at them before dramatically sweeping one aside. His smile was crooked and far too pleased with itself.
He flopped onto the floor across from them, folding his legs with an ungraceful thud. His gaze flicked from the food to the couple and back again. "You two need supervision."
Yen didn't respond immediately. He chewed. Slow. Deliberate. His eyes never left Zion's face as he swallowed, the motion sharp in his throat.
"I should cut your tongue," Yen said flatly. "It's irritating."
Lily, completely unbothered, was already reaching for another napkin to wipe Yen's mouth. He tilted his head, letting her. Her hand was steady even as Zion's grin widened.
"Not my tongue," Zion said, the gleam in his eye unmistakably smug. "The women love it when it enters their—"
"I told you to come after lunch," Yen cut him off, voice like a blade sheathed in silk—quiet, but full of warning.
Zion shrugged, unrepentant. "What can I say? I was hungry. For company."
Lily, ever graceful, poured tea with the steadiness of someone used to this exact rhythm of male nonsense. The steam curled like breath from the cup as she slid it across the table to Zion. He reached out with both hands—but it wasn't the tea he cared for. His fingers brushed hers—intentionally. Slowly. A gentle rub of his thumb against her nail.
Yen's hand paused midair.
"Sorry for my lewdness, my lady," Zion added smoothly, as if that made up for it. His gaze clung to her, openly appreciating the fall of her hair over her shoulder, the curve of her fingers as she withdrew her hand.
"You haven't changed," Lily said, tone light, but distant. "I'm used to it."
Then—
Thunk!
A fork blurred past Zion's face, grazing his cheek and embedding itself in the wooden pillar just behind him with a sharp, metallic twang. A faint tremor buzzed in the air as the utensil quivered in place, humming with leftover force.
"Yow!" Zion recoiled instinctively, clutching his right eye even though it hadn't been touched. "My eye! You almost hit my eye!"
He leaned back, fingers splayed protectively across his face, peeking through them like a child.
Yen, unfazed, simply picked up the spoon. His fingers curled around the handle as if considering his next projectile.
Zion held up his free hand in surrender. "Okay, okay! Message received! I come in peace, I swear." He glanced between the two of them, then smoothed down the front of his robes with exaggerated care. "Anyway, I do have good news. And since you're almost done eating... I'll just, you know, go fetch Arkon now."
He stood with a flourish, straightening his deep red outer robe until it fell in crisp lines down his lean frame. The single silver earring hanging from his left ear caught the light as he turned, flashing like a wink.
Lily didn't watch him leave.
She had already returned to refilling Yen's cup.