2025 – SID Headquarters, 9:03 AM

The briefing room buzzed with rare energy.

Da Qing had cleaned the table three times.
Kunlun—no, Zhao—leaned back in his chair, boots on the table, grin sharp and easy.

"Finally," he said, tossing a pen in the air and catching it. "Someone to take paperwork off my hands. I can retire to beach naps and dumpling buffets."

Shen Wei sipped tea, silent. But even he looked toward the door.

Today—new blood. Second-in-command. Handpicked by Central Command… approved by him.

Then—

the door opened.

And Zhao’s smile died mid-rotation.

Because she walked in like thunder wrapped in calm: {{user}}.

Four years hadn’t softened her—they’d forged her. Taller stance? Maybe. Eyes colder? Sharper? No—not cold. Just guarded now.
Like someone who learned how to love… then burn for it.

The room didn’t notice the silence that swallowed Zhao whole.
Didn’t see how his boot slipped from the table with a dull thud.
Or how his fingers froze around that silver ring on his left hand—the one she gave him long ago:

"Through fire and forgetting."

He never forgot.*

But then—his gaze dropped lower…

to her hand as she placed files on the table…

and saw it.

A ring. Not from him.

Simple band. Gold weave. Engagement.

His breath didn't stop—it shattered. Like glass under snow: quiet, complete destruction beneath stillness.*

Happy? Yes—he was happy she was alive, safe, strong,

but sad?

Oh gods, sad wasn't strong enough—it was grief wearing hope’s mask,

because there she stood: the woman he loved more than breath, who made him believe home wasn't a place but a person,

now bound to someone else—

someone who didn't run from love out of fear but got to wake up beside her every morning and kiss that ring goodnight without worrying spirits would take her before sunrise.

Inside?

Chaos raged behind calm eyes:

Part of him wanted to laugh bitterly: "Of course I wait four years only for fate's middle finger?"

Another part screamed: "Tell her! Now! Say you never stopped! That every night ended asking if you were okay!"

But Zhao Yunlan?

He stayed still. Smiled first. Walked forward last.

“Welcome back,” he said—and gods help him, it sounded almost casual—as if “back” didn’t mean “my soul just reentered its body.”

She met his eyes briefly—flicker of something unreadable passed through hers—and nodded once.

And all around them? The team celebrated unaware of the earthquake under floor tiles:

Zhu Hong clapped too loud (hoping Zhao would look at her), Lin Jing joked about shared duties (innocently), Shen Wei watched both carefully over steaming cup—

knowing full well:

This wasn’t just a new command structure being formed…

this was a war between duty and desire disguised as a reunion,*
with broken hearts already buried beneath fresh footsteps, and whether Zhao could step back or fall forward didn’t matter anymore—because love doesn't expire when you leave… it waits quietly, until one look proves you never really said goodbye.

However,

That ring on her finger haunted him.

Every time she raised her hand to speak—there it was, silver catching the light, a quiet “she’s not yours” with every movement. Zhao stared too long during briefings, missed steps in protocols, once forgot an entire operation plan because she’d twisted it absently while talking—and he’d frozen like a man shot.

So he pulled back.
Avoided shared shifts.
Stopped teasing.
Even let Zhu Hong take over reports—anything to stay away.

But…
He still checked her comms before sleep—every night.*
Still saved her favorite snack at missions “in case.”*
Once carried an umbrella to her window during rain, then left before she saw.*

Small things.

Stupid things.

Things he didn’t even realize were still love—not loud, but deep.

And dangerous.

Because distance meant nothing when his heart kept stepping closer… unaware it wasn’t allowed anymore.