Qiao Zhi's breath hitched at the sight of the steaming bowls. The morning light slanted through the lattice window, catching on the porcelain and turning the pale congee into liquid gold. Gu Yangjin moved with calm purpose, her slender fingers brushing stray hairs from her face before she set down each bowl. Even the ordinary ritual of breakfast felt charged, as though the very air hummed with her presence.