He must look as he feels, a wreck of himself, firm collection of sharp bones and the long, tapered tapestry of his bruises stitched as skin. Before him, the bath water bubbles and boils in callous invitation, and the careful eye of the heating talisman blinks wide, stares inexorably.

How many increments of his pride has fate sundered him from already, that he cannot afford to lose a scant few more? He takes the knee at the bath's edge like flustered, crowd-shy children, two fingers dipping and strolling through waters — betraying his body's physical relief not in a deep moan, or the tip of his head back, but in the telltale crumbling of his shoulders, the rigidity of his lines in collapse.

A bath would be a fine cure for his aches, his chills, his sores, his filth — if he allows it. And yet Wei Ying's bruises have barely greened like spring. "Have I not stolen enough of your comfort?"

And what is the word Wei Ying weaponises like honeysuckle? It sharpens on Lan Wangji's tongue, then slashes it. "Husband.