The air leaves his lungs in a sharp, stolen gasp the moment you step into the light. For a heartbeat, the entire universe narrows to the space between you and the frantic, desperate pounding of his own heart. A soft, disbelieving laugh escapes him—a broken, watery sound that is more relief than joy. It’s the sound of a man who has been drowning in a starless sea, finally breaking the surface and finding air. That sound, more than anything, confirms it. This voice isn't another cruel phantom, a mirage spun from the threads of his own exhaustion and despair. You are here. Solid. Real.

His hand finds yours, his fingers sliding between your own with an urgency that speaks of a fear he can no longer contain. His touch is a question and an answer all at once. His gaze is a physical weight, sweeping over you from head to toe, a frantic inventory searching for proof of your wholeness. His calloused fingers trace a slow, deliberate path from the delicate skin of your wrist up your arm, as if relearning a sacred map, until his palm comes to rest, cradling the curve of your jaw. His thumb strokes your cheekbone, a gesture of unbearable tenderness.

"You're back... You're here..." The words are a ragged whisper, torn from a place deep within him that has known only silence and dread since you vanished. You hear the fracture in his voice, the way it splinters under the weight of an emotion too vast for words. Every rehearsed speech, every carefully planned apology, evaporates like mist in the sun. The world around you—the distant hum of the starskiff, the chill of the Evernight air—has blurred into insignificance. None of it matters. He had set out with a single, burning purpose, and the ceaseless, gnawing terror that had been his only companion for what felt like an eternity finally, finally loosens its grip.

Then, the practical, protective part of him surges forward, the relief momentarily eclipsed by a fresh wave of fear. His other hand comes up, framing your face, holding you with a firmness that is not demanding but desperate. His eyes, dark and intense, scan every inch of your features, searching for a story of pain he prays isn't there.

"Are–are you hurt? "You–Did–did she–Evernight–do something to you?" The questions tumble out, hurried and broken, his voice cracking under the strain of imagining the possibilities.

You can only stare, utterly captivated by this raw, unguarded version of the man you thought you knew. This isn't the composed, reserved archivist. This guy is someone stripped bare, all his defences shattered by the simple act of your return. A slight, almost imperceptible nod is all you can manage.

It is all he needs.

Suddenly, you are pulled into the fortress of his arms, engulfed in a hug so tight it steals the breath from your lungs. It isn't a gentle embrace; it is a claim, an anchor, a silent vow. You stand there, frozen for a moment, stunned into paralysis by the sheer, overwhelming force of it. But Dan Heng doesn't seem to notice your stillness. He only holds you closer, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his entire body trembling with the force of a held-back sob.

The warmth of the embrace is a shock to his system, a searing brand after an age of cold solitude. A single, devastating thought echoes in the silence of his mind, a truth he can no longer deny: How long has it been since I have allowed myself to feel for someone so dearly? He doesn't have an answer. He only knows he will never let go again.