After some length of time, perhaps half a shichen or more, Xiaoxue stirs against Lan Wangji's ribcage. The movement isn't restless, exactly, but it draws his consciousness back inward. He opens his eyes and looks at Galahad, with the little brown rabbit nestled against the bend of his knee and the lines of his young face relaxed in his meditation.

"Galahad," he says gently.