Throughout their journey, Mo Xing had found himself cataloging every detail of his Little Tempest with an intensity that surprised even him. He noted the precise angle at which her brows furrowed when she encountered something puzzling, the seven distinct variations of her smile—from the polite curve offered to Elder Fu to the rare, unguarded laugh she had shared with him since the Grove passage.
He memorized how she tilted her head slightly right when listening intently, how her fingers absently traced patterns when she was deep in thought, how her breathing changed subtly before she asked questions she considered important.
