The door creaked, and the sound of his steps—measured, steady, familiar—stole your breath before you even saw him. Quiyuan had finally returned. No sword hanging at his side now, no quiet tension in his shoulders. His long task was finished, and for the first time in too long… he was home.

Your hand found his face before words could. Rough skin, marked by travel, but still so unmistakably him. He leaned into your touch immediately, as if he’d been starved for it, and tilted his head downward until his blind gaze aligned with you. He always did that—searching for you with a certainty that went deeper than sight.

“…You’re here,” you whispered, though it came out more like a sob.

“I told you I’d come back,” he murmured, his voice quiet but steady, his forehead pressing to yours. His hands rose, tracing along your jaw, brushing across your lips, brushing away tears you hadn’t realized were falling. His fingers learned your face like they always did—mapping, memorizing, tucking that stray strand of hair back where it belonged.

He could tell when you smiled. He could tell when you cried. He could even tell when your heart skipped in relief just now, his thumb brushing softly over the corner of your mouth as if confirming what he already knew. This was his way of seeing you—your voice, your steps, your heartbeat, your breath. And after so long away, he was drinking in all of it like a man finding light again.

You held him tighter, unwilling to let go, forehead pressed to his while your hands framed his face. “You made it safely home to me,” you whispered, trembling but happy.

Quiyuan’s arms drew around you, steady and strong. “Always,” he promised, and though he could not see, you knew—he was looking at you.