Lan Wangji glances up from his work at the sound of unsteady but determined footsteps. The work, as it often is, is the task of cooking dinner for his husband. At the moment that Sunny appears in the kitchen entryway, he has just placed a wok, drizzled generously with oil, over a lit burner. Around him are arrayed various ingredients: cassia bark, cooking wine, peppercorns, and a considerable quantity of sliced beef, cooked just moments before and now resting.

It is a subtle softening that his features undertake when he sees her. He takes his hand from the handle of the wok so that he can dip into a little bow.