Feng Suyin knew she couldn't keep avoiding him forever. She just didn't know how to stop.
Every night she came home late from the hospital, she stood in the hallway a beat longer than necessary before stepping inside. She told herself it was just habit, just the transition from the fluorescent buzz of the ward to the quiet of the apartment. But she knew what she was doing. She was waiting for her pulse to settle before she had to face him.
Ji Yuzhe never pushed. That was the problem.
One evening she came home to find him in the living room, settled into the couch with his head tipped back and his eyes closed. Not asleep. She could tell by the stillness of him — the particular kind of stillness he had when he was listening.
She stood in the entrance and didn't move.
She should say something. She knew she should. But watching him breathe, calm and unhurried while her own chest felt like a fist was wrapped around it, she couldn't figure out where to start.
