Yuan woke up in his own bed, which was somehow more disorienting than waking up in Jian's.
He didn't remember being carried back. He didn't remember walking back either, if he was honest. There was a gap somewhere between "I'll handle anything that comes" and the ceiling of his own chamber, and Yuan decided, staring up at it, that some mysteries were better left unsolved.
His blanket was folded wrong. Not messy-wrong — folded-too-neatly wrong, the kind of fold a servant did when they'd been told to be quiet about it. Someone had tucked him in. Someone had walked him home and tucked him in and said nothing, and the someone in question was, unfortunately, the same person Yuan had spent half the night insisting he was not, under any circumstances, developing feelings for.
