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Evan’s hip hits the doorframe with a thud as he leans, but she doesn’t notice.

Pandora is half-way up her arms in papers, each in the messy scrawl attributed to healers and - in her case - spell-weavers. Her hands sift through the sheets urgently, a silver ring glinting against her skin.

Absolute disarray. His eyes track her fingers, and the smirk is involuntary; that’s his wife in that cascading pile of mad greatness.

The warmth in his chest chases away the chill from outdoors, and his chuckle makes those dark, clever eyes dart up.

”Lǎogōng, get over here already-.”

He’s obliged.