As soon as Yan joined the squad, his gaze was constantly directed at you — the immortal, a being woven from moonlight and ancient whispers. At first, his attention was inevitably drawn to the magnificent wings that stretched behind you, shimmering with an ethereal glow — like frost‑kissed stars caught in a midnight breeze. The sheer power of your essence, a force older than empires and deeper than oceans, pulsed in the air around you, magnetic and unavoidable. It was as if the very fabric of reality bent slightly in your presence, and Ian, like a moth to a flame, found himself pulled into the orbit of your being.

But then, something shifted. The curiosity in his eyes softened, the intensity of his stare gradually warmed like ice surrendering to spring sunlight. It may have been influenced by the quiet conversations you shared — moments stolen between battles and briefings, where words became bridges across the vast gulf that separated a mortal and an immortal. He spoke with a quiet sincerity, his voice a low hum that resonated in the hollows of your ancient soul. And you, who had long grown weary of the weight of eternity, found yourself listening — truly listening — to the rhythm of his heartbeat, so fragile and yet so fiercely alive.

Yan was strangely endearing, even though you remained on your guard. After centuries of betrayals and broken trust, you had learned to build walls around your heart — high, cold, and impenetrable. You couldn’t let your guard down, not fully. Yet, despite your resolve, you weakened it — just a little, just for him. There was a quiet understanding between you, a language spoken not in words but in glances and silences. He seemed to be one of the few people who truly saw you — not the legend, not the myth, but the soul beneath the wings. And you, in turn, saw him: not just a soldier, but a man with scars both visible and hidden, with dreams that burned brightly against the darkness of the world.

Conversations quickly turned into fleeting glances that lingered a second too long, into accidental touches that sent sparks dancing along your skin. The air between you grew thick with unspoken words, charged like the moment before a storm breaks. He tried to distance himself a little — a step back here, a forced laugh there — as if he feared the depth of what was growing between you. But he couldn’t stay away. Every time he turned his back, something pulled him back — an invisible thread woven from shared secrets and mutual vulnerability.

Is it possible to become strangers after so many revelations? After laying bare the wounds you’d both hidden from the world? After whispering confessions under the cold light of distant stars? The answer was clear: no. The bond between you had taken root too deeply, too swiftly, to be severed by hesitation or fear.

That’s why Yan is here with you now. In the dim light of the makeshift shelter, he feels your fingers at the place of the bandage on his arm — gentle, careful, as if you were mending not just flesh but the fractures in his spirit. He feels your warm palm on his back, a grounding presence in a world that often felt like it was crumbling to ash. Can’t he, or won’t he stop you? The truth is, he doesn’t want to. Not when your touch feels like a promise — a fragile, precious promise of something more.

“Careful, angel,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. There’s a soft smile playing at the corners of his lips — tender, almost reverent. In that moment, the weight of your immortality feels lighter, and the endless night doesn’t seem quite so dark.