Wei Wuxian woke up in the Cloud Recesses to the sound of Lan Jingyi screaming.

That wasn’t unusual. Lan Jingyi screamed often. What was unusual was the tone of it—dreamy, wistful, and disturbingly romantic.

"Lan Zhan!" Jingyi cried, holding a hand over his heart as he stared longingly across the courtyard where Lan Wangji stood, peacefully watering a very small, very tragic bonsai tree. "He's so… elegant. So stoic. Like an emotionally repressed crane soaring through the heavens."

Wei Wuxian choked on his porridge.

"What did you just say?"

Jingyi sighed like a schoolgirl in a poetry class. "He's… the most perfect man to ever live. He's got that noble aura. So cold, but underneath? I bet he's secretly passionate. He probably reads poetry to rabbits."

Lan Sizhui, who was usually the voice of reason, simply nodded, face flushed. "I once saw him pet a donkey and call it a 'noble beast.'"

"That was my donkey!" Wei Wuxian barked. "His name is Apple! And Lan Zhan was only saying that to be nice!"

But no one was listening.

In the span of one morning, the Cloud Recesses had transformed into an active warzone of repressed feelings, heated glances, and truly terrible attempts at poetry. Lan disciples, who previously treated Lan Wangji with a respectful and healthy fear, were now giggling. Giggling and baking him cakes. There were gift baskets. A seven-foot-tall scroll had been unfurled down the steps of the Cold Spring, composed entirely of flowery prose that ended with the words “Lan Wangji—my eternal moonlight.”

Su She had apparently written it.

“I WILL COMPOSE A SONG ABOUT HIS ELBOWS,” Su She screamed from a rooftop, his hair wildly windblown. “HE HAS THE ELBOWS OF A CELESTIAL BEING!”

Wei Wuxian, ever the voice of unfiltered chaos, stormed into Lan Wangji’s quarters with a half-eaten peach and a burning need for answers.

"Lan Zhan!" he exclaimed, flopping onto a floor cushion with all the grace of a carp leaping directly into an oven. "WHAT. IS. HAPPENING."

Lan Wangji glanced up from his book. “Mn.”

“Don’t ‘mn’ me. Why is everyone in love with you?”

Lan Wangji blinked. Slowly. Calmly. Like a man who had just witnessed a slow-motion carriage accident and was quietly deciding whether it was worth reporting.

“Perhaps,” he said, “they have good taste.”

Wei Wuxian stared.

"That's it? You're not even alarmed? The Nie sect just sent over a hand-carved bust of your face made entirely from watermelon rind.”

“I noticed,” Lan Wangji replied, eyes returning to the book. “It was… detailed.”

“Okay, but—Jiang Cheng sent a poem!”

Lan Wangji looked up again, the corners of his lips twitching. “Was it angry?”

“No. Worse. It was yearning.”

Wei Wuxian slapped both hands over his face. “He used the word ‘ethereal’ unironically.”

A soft hum escaped Lan Wangji—suspiciously close to amusement.

“You think this is funny,” Wei Wuxian accused, eyes narrowing. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I am not encouraging them,” Lan Wangji said diplomatically.

“That’s not a denial.”

He didn’t answer.

Outside, someone screamed “LAN ZHAN” and threw a bouquet of spiritual herbs off the balcony. They hit the ground with a soggy thunk. A Lan disciple dove after them, sobbing.

Wei Wuxian stood. “Well. If everyone else is falling all over themselves for you, then I guess I have no choice.”

Lan Wangji looked up again, suspicious. “Wei Ying…”

“I’m going to win you back.”

“You never lost me.”

“But in the eyes of the public,” Wei Wuxian said dramatically, striking a pose with one foot on a low table like a swordless general, “I must now prove myself. Through trials. Through pain. Through—rom-com tropes.”

Lan Wangji said nothing. But there was a definite smirk forming. He picked up his tea with studied nonchalance.

Wei Wuxian clapped his hands together. “Perfect. We begin with fake amnesia.”

The next morning, Wei Wuxian collapsed at Lan Wangji’s feet, covered in dirt and mystery bruises, and declared in a trembling voice, “Where am I? Who are you? Why do I feel like my heart is being squeezed by a ghost in a very tight sash?”

Lan Wangji stared at him.

Sizhui leaned in. “Is he… okay?”

Jingyi burst into tears. “HE DOESN’T REMEMBER LAN ZHAN?!”

“I have no memory of this place,” Wei Wuxian whispered, reaching out dramatically. “But I know… I must have loved him once…”

Jiang Cheng, who had somehow arrived just in time to witness the display, scoffed. “He’s faking. His drama is the same as always. He did the same thing when I broke his kite in Yunmeng.”

“You BROKE HIS KITE?” Nie Huaisang hissed, scandalized. “How could you!”

“It was an accident!”

Wei Wuxian sat up. “Aha! My memory returns! I remember now! Lan Zhan… was my first love!”

Lan Wangji coughed discreetly into his sleeve.

From a tree, Su She howled and launched a small book of love letters like throwing stars.

“THIS ISN’T OVER, WEI WUXIAN,” he yelled. “YOU MAY HAVE HIS HEART, BUT I HAVE A SCRAP OF HIS HANDKERCHIEF FROM 12 YEARS AGO.”

Jiang Cheng immediately burst into flame.

Lan Wangji, in the middle of this chaos, looked mildly entertained. Which, for him, was equivalent to full-on laughter.

A day later, it rained.

It never rained in the Cloud Recesses unless it was plot-relevant.

Wei Wuxian seized his opportunity. He found Lan Wangji practicing sword forms under the falling water like a sad sculpture of desire and virtue. Honestly, the man was practically begging to be confessed to in a cinematic downpour.

“LAN ZHAN!” Wei Wuxian bellowed, soaking wet in a suspiciously tight black robe that clung to him like it had been tailored by the gods of thirst.

Lan Wangji didn’t stop his movements, but his gaze flicked to the side. A single eyebrow lifted.

“I love you!” Wei Wuxian declared, slipping dramatically in the mud. “I always have! I was just too proud to say it before! But now—now, in the rain, with thunder and longing—!”

Thunder rumbled helpfully in the distance.

“—I’m saying it! Right here! Right now! Look at me, soaked to the soul! Look at me and say you feel nothing!”

Lan Wangji sheathed his sword and walked over, calm as a pond.

He stood there.

Wei Wuxian tilted his chin up.

Lan Wangji reached forward—and plucked a soggy leaf off Wei Wuxian’s head.

Then walked away.

Jingyi passed out. Sizhui caught him. Su She screamed. Nie Huaisang was openly sketching the entire thing with hearts on the margins.

Wei Wuxian stared into the middle distance, filled with equal parts regret and admiration.

“…Okay. That was hot.”