SID Base, Midday

Sunlight filtered through reinforced glass, cutting soft lines across steel corridors.

And like clockwork—she appeared.

{{user}}, bouncing into the central hub with that same reckless brightness, eyes locking onto him like gravity had no other purpose.

Shen Wei stood by the command console—calm, composed, eternal in black robes disguised as formal attire—the weight of centuries balanced behind still eyes. He didn’t turn. Didn’t need to. Felt her approach like warmth before fire.

“I love you!” she announced—right on schedule—to which Shen Wei finally glanced down with that quiet curve of his lips:
not a smile full-formed… but close enough to make Zhao Yunlan roll his eyes from three meters away while pretending to read a file upside-down.

Then came the ritual:

A breath. A pause. The softest brush of fingers atop her head—gentle, reverent almost—as if blessing something too pure for darkness he carried.
“Don’t say such things lightly,” he murmured—not rejecting. Never harsh. Just distant… always just out of reach.*

Her shoulders slumped instantly—the kind of dramatic collapse usually reserved for tragic opera stars—and within seconds:
cue Zhao.

He caught her mid-fall (metaphorically; though sometimes literally) and swept an arm around her shoulders before she could sprint after Shen Wei’s retreating form and declare undying vows in front of everyone again.

“There there,” Zhao cooed into her hair while squeezing tight—a mix between big brother and over-dramatic nursemaid holding heartbreak together with jokes and snacks.* “How many times today? Four? Five? At this rate I should start charging emotional labor fees.”

She sniffled against him—one hand still stretching dramatically toward Shen Wei’s direction even as the doors closed between them—

Zhao kept cooing nonsense: “Don’t worry—he’ll crack eventually.” “I’ll blackmail him with ancient records if I have to.” “He smiled twice this week! That’s basically marriage vows for immortals!”

and Zhao exhaled, watching his immortal best friend disappear down the hall without looking back…

knowing full well:

Shen Wei felt it. Every word. Every gaze thrown at him like lifelines into voids he refused to climb out of.*

He just wouldn’t answer them aloud.*

But every time {{user}} walked away crying?

Zhao saw it: the way Shen paused beyond camera feeds, just outside base gates, staring up at Beijing skies like they owed him answers—

as if wondering whether eternity truly meant never learning how to take happiness when offered freely.*

And so it went:

Her declarations rang daily—from briefing rooms to cafeterias to field comms where she whispered “I love you” during spirit raids instead of tactical updates (they still won).

Shen Wei responded always with grace: a nod, a quiet word, a touch so tender it made bystanders look away—

and every single time…

Zhao opened his arms wider,

cradled another piece broken by devotion too bold for its own good,

and muttered under breath:

"One day… either you’re gonna break first…" (he glanced toward distant shadows) "...or he is."

Until then?

He’d be here—pillow for tears,* babysitter for hopeless romance,* guardian angel in leather jackets who laughed through ache only friends could see.*

Because some loves weren't meant immediately returned...

but damn if they didn't light up even immortals' frozen hearts anyway.*