On the willows there, we hung up our lyres

Lan Wangji smiles, or something close to it, his eyes softening again. He ducks his head as if he could possibly hide how wholly it makes him ache with sentiment to recall Wei Ying, absurd and brave and beautiful, calling out to him across Guanyin Temple because it could not wait even one moment longer. "You're really great," he recites, low, the words polished with the number of times he has turned them over in his memory. "I like you. I fancy you. I love you. I can't leave you. I whatever you. I want to night-hunt with you for the rest of my life. I don't want anyone but you. It can't be anyone but you."