Hai hour to mao hour. There are exceptions, because Lan Wangji has a husband, and he has duties, and some things in this world are of greater import than routine. Barring those exceptions, however, he sleeps soundly each night: hai hour to mao hour.

Often, when he first unmoors himself from consciousness, he is alone. Wei Ying stays up late reading or drinking or experimenting, and Lan Wangji prefers his solid, living presence in the bed, but after several years of marriage, it is easier to rest assured that his husband will not slip from his grasp. Wei Ying will come to bed, and he will continue to live.

Until then, Lan Wangji stretches out on his back, his hair neatly braided. He shuts his eyes; he sleeps. If he dreams, he dreams rarely. His mind is a well-tended garden. From time to time, it offers him some fantastical scenario, memories of home or particular views of the husband who will inevitably come to his side. He may dream of the years of his seclusion, long shichen stretching out before him with only the walls of the jingshi to keep him company. Perhaps he will dream of the streets of Caiyi, waterways flanked by fishermen and merchants and children laughing, of walking those streets and all the little familiarities that are lost to him now. Or perhaps the people he has learned to love in his absence from Gusu will make their appearances, newer faces that are nonetheless stamping themselves into his heart and mind. Wherever his mind drifts, his body will remain anchored, waiting for Wei Ying.