Poppy laughed, heart warm. “It’s the least I can do. You’ve all been speaking English for my sake.”
“That is because we are polite,” Mingjun said, wiping tea off his sleeve, “but hearing you say dàrén nearly ended me.”
“Mingjun,” Mingxi said sharply.
“What?” Mingjun gestured helplessly. “It was adorable—”
“Mingjun.”
“Fine, fine.” He held up his hands. “Respectful. It was respectful.”
Mingxi finally looked at Poppy, and she nearly forgot to breathe. His expression wasn’t proud. It wasn’t amused. It wasn’t even touched. It was… something deeper.
Quiet awe.
Like seeing her try—not perfectly, not fluently, but sincerely—cracked open a door in him he’d kept locked for a century.
He lowered his head slightly. “Zao an, Poppy,” he said softly.
And something warm flooded her chest.
She took her seat beside him, still flushed, still glowing.
Xu Yunlian poured Poppy a cup of jasmine tea and passed it to her with both hands—a sign of respect.
“You are trying to honor our customs,” she said gently. “That is worth more than flawless speech.”
Poppy hesitated. “I… want to belong. Even just a little.”
Mingxi looked at her again. “You already do.”
The warmth of breakfast—steam, sunlight, and soft surprise—settled around the table like a blessing.
The courtyard was beginning to cool, the last strands of sunset brushing the tiled roofs in soft coral light. Foxfire lanterns flickered awake one by one, casting gentle gold across the walkways.
Poppy walked with Mingxi toward the inner pavilion, pleasantly tired from a day filled with new words, new customs, and so many warm faces she could hardly keep track of them.
Minghua had scampered ahead to fetch sweets.
The air smelled faintly of plum blossoms and simmering broth. Then—a sharp yelp split the peace.
Poppy jerked toward the sound just as a young fox-kit—half shifted, ears and tail out—stumbled into the courtyard, clutching his arm. A wooden practice staff rolled across the stones behind him.
Two older teens ran after him, mortified.
“Jìngyuan, I’m so sorry.”
“We didn’t mean to hit…”
The kit wobbled, eyes bright with pain.
Poppy moved before she thought. She knelt in front of him, gentle hands steadying his shoulders.
“Hey, hey, easy,” she murmured. “Let me see.”
The kit blinked at her in startled confusion—humans rarely touched fox kits unless invited—but something in her tone seemed to make him trust instinctively. He held out his arm. A bruise was already rising, swollen and angry.
Poppy exhaled softly through her nose, focusing.
