Zhan's Pov.
The weight of the necklace between us felt heavier than gold. It was a memory. It was grief. It was love wrapped in the ache of everything we couldn't go back to.
Wang looked down at it, then back at me. His eyes shimmered—not with tears, but something deeper. Regret, maybe. Or longing. Or both.
"I kept every drawing you ever gave me," he whispered. "Even the stupid one you made... the one where I had three ears and no nose."
I chuckled, startled. "You said it looked like me."
"I lied." He smiled a little. "It looked better."
Silence.
Then the wind shifted around us, no, not the wind, people. The crowd. The flashing lights. Reality.
Behind him, his mother stared, jaw clenched, arms folded like she could fold time and undo the scene playing out. Lusi was still with his brother, pretending not to watch us while watching every second. Her fake smile was like a crack in porcelain.
I stepped back, the air cooling instantly between us. "You should go."
He didn't move.
"Wang..." I said, more firmly this time.
"I still love you."
My heart stopped.
He said it so quietly, it might have been a thought. But I heard it. Clear. Steady. A confession not meant for public ears, but meant for me.
"I shouldn't," he added, eyes flickering toward the crowd. "But I do."
I stared at him for a moment, then down at the necklace—my gift. A cruel irony.
"You're married."
"I know."
"You said 'I do.'"
"I didn't say forever."
His voice cracked on that last word, and it broke something open in me. The kind of pain you only feel when your dreams are still breathing but buried under rubble.
"I can't be your secret any more," I said, quietly.
He nodded. "Then don't be. Be everything."
But I couldn't answer that. Not now. Maybe not ever.
The cameras behind us started clicking again. Reporters creeping closer. The world was watching.
I stepped back again, this time fully.
"Take care of yourself, Wang."
He looked like he wanted to say more. Like he was begging time to pause, to give him one last shot. But time's a bitch. It never listens.
I turned away. And this time, he didn't call me back.
I walked.
Not fast. Not slow. Just... enough to feel like I was moving through something heavy.
The crowd didn't matter. The cameras didn't matter. The people yelling my name, asking if I had anything to say, trying to get a quote for tomorrow's headlines—it was all noise behind glass.
I didn't look back.
I couldn't.
Because if I did, I knew I'd see him standing there. Still wearing the necklace. Still watching me like he didn't know how to let go, even after he already had.
Outside the court gate, Dre was waiting, arms crossed, phone in hand, his eyes scanning the chaos until they landed on me. He exhaled deeply, the kind of breath that said, finally.
"You okay?" he asked, stepping in beside me.
"No," I said honestly.
He nodded as he understood. Maybe he did.
"You want to go straight home, or...?"
"Home," I replied.
Whatever that meant now.
We got in the car. The doors closed. The sound dimmed.
And that's when I let myself breathe again. Not deeply. Not freely. Just enough.
The drive was quiet for a while until Dre glanced over at me and said, "You were amazing in there, Zhan."
"I was terrified."
"Still. You didn't break."
I gave a dry laugh, my forehead leaning against the window. "I broke a long time ago. I just learned how to hold the pieces without cutting myself."
He didn't say anything after that. Just reached over and turned on the radio, low enough to fill the silence without pushing it away.
As we passed a newsstand, I saw my face on the screen—courtroom sketch, headline scrolling underneath: VICTIM WALKS FREE AS PERPETRATORS RECEIVE LIFE SENTENCE.
It didn't feel like victory.
It felt like ashes.
But I was free.
And maybe, just maybe... someday, freedom would feel like hope again.
As the car pulled up to the apartment, I looked down at my hands, still shaking slightly. Still remember everything they made me do.
But I was alive.
I stepped out, and looked up at the sky—grey, but wide.
And for the first time in a long, long while... I thought maybe, just maybe, I could learn how to live again.
It was past midnight.
The kind of silence that wraps around you like a wet blanket—heavy, suffocating. I hadn't slept. I couldn't. My eyes stared blankly at the ceiling while my body lay still on the couch, a thin blanket draped over me. Every tick of the wall clock felt louder than it should've been.
Then came the knock.
Three soft raps.
Followed by one louder, more impatient.
I sat up slowly. Dre wasn't home—he had gone out and promised to be back soon. So, it was just me.
I padded to the door, cautious, unsure.
Then I heard his voice—low, slurred, and unmistakably familiar.
"Zhan..."
I opened the door.
And there he was.
Wang.
Drunk.
His usually neat hair was tousled, his shirt half untucked, the necklace I'd given him still hanging around his neck, glinting under the dim light. His eyes were glassy, but not just from the alcohol. There was something broken in them. Something bruised.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral. Flat. Safe.
He blinked slowly, struggling to stand properly. "I... I don't know. I didn't know where else to go."
I stepped aside. I shouldn't have, but I did.
He walked in like a shadow dragging behind him.
Once inside, he turned to face me, swaying a bit. "Why did you give me that bag?"
"Because it was yours."
He laughed bitterly. "You gave me a gift for a wedding that broke you."
"It wasn't about the wedding," I said softly. "It was about our wedding."
Wang's face crumbled. Just for a second. Just enough.
"I didn't know how to protect you," he whispered.
"And yet, you did," I replied. "In the worst way."
He sat down heavily on the couch, burying his face in his hands. "I think I've ruined everything."
"You have," I said honestly, sitting across from him. "But maybe... that's not the end."
He looked up, eyes red. "You think there's a version of this where we're okay?"
"I don't know," I whispered. "But I think there's a version where I'm okay. And I need to find it."
He nodded slowly, almost like he was swallowing something hard and sharp.
"You're still wearing it," I said, glancing at the necklace.
"I don't know how to take it off," he said, voice cracking. "It feels like the only honest thing left."
Neither of us said anything after that.
The silence didn't need words.
We were two people sitting in the ruins of something that once felt like forever—bleeding, breathing, and quietly trying to figure out what came next.
He looked so tired.
Not just drunk—drained. Like life itself had wrung him out and left the shell behind. He sat hunched on the couch, head in his hands, breathing unsteady. And even though everything in me screamed to keep space between us, I moved closer.
Slow. Careful. Like he was a wounded thing I didn't want to scare away.
He looked up when I sat beside him, eyes meeting mine—glass and grief swimming in them.
"I'm sorry," he murmured again, his voice raw.
"I know," I said. And I did. But sorry didn't fix things. Not really.
Still...
I shifted, lifting his arm gently and resting my head on his shoulder. For a moment he froze—then melted into me like he'd been waiting for this all along.
His arm wrapped around my waist. My head found its place in the crook of his neck.
"I miss this," he whispered.
I didn't respond. What could I say? I missed it too. I missed him.
But I couldn't trust it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Still, we stayed like that, tangled up in memories and warmth and silence.
The clock ticked. The lights hummed softly.
And little by little, the tension in his body eased. His breathing evened out.
Mine too.
At some point, the cold stopped bothering me. The ache in my chest dulled.
And before I realized it—we were asleep.
Two broken boys on a couch, holding on to a moment that wasn't a promise... but maybe, just maybe, it was the beginning of healing.
The air was still. Heavy. That kind of silence that wraps around you like a second skin.
Wang moved beside me, slowly, as if unsure if I was awake or dreaming. I could feel his fingers ghosting over my arm, then tracing the outline of my shoulder like it was familiar terrain—something he missed, something he mourned.
He shifted, his breath warming my skin. And then... he kissed me.
Soft. Hesitant. Like he was asking a question he didn't know how to voice.
"Wang," I whispered, but it came out broken.
His mouth moved to my neck, lingering, apologizing in a language only our bodies spoke.
"I'm sorry," he breathed, the words trembling against my skin.
I couldn't move. Couldn't pull away. I should have. Every part of me knew it. But I didn't.
I didn't want to.
I needed to feel wanted, if only for a moment. I needed to feel like I hadn't been thrown away. That I hadn't been replaced.
He kissed me again—lips to lips this time—slow, careful like he was trying to remember me. Or maybe makes me forget everything else.
I kissed him back.
I shouldn't have, but I did.
Because despite everything... despite the vows he made to someone else, despite the silence, the pain—I still loved him.
I hated that I did. But I did.
And in that fragile hour, before the sun rose, we held each other like two people who had run out of ways to say goodbye.
We didn't speak.
Not when his arms wrapped tighter around me. Not when his fingers threaded through mine, like he was scared I'd disappear. Not even when his breath caught and he buried his face in the crook of my neck, whispering my name like a prayer he hadn't dared say out loud in months.
Zhan.
Soft. Broken. Like it hurt to say it. Like it hurt more not to.
The couch creaked beneath us, but nothing else moved—not the world outside, not the ache inside me. Time
Time stood still.
Wang's lips trailed along my jaw, hesitant at first, like he was asking permission with every brush of skin. His hands trembled slightly where they held my waist, not with lust—but with desperation. Like touching me was the only thing keeping him tethered.
I should have stopped him.
I should have said something.
But I couldn't.
Because I missed him. God, I missed him.
The way he held me, the way he kissed me—it wasn't rushed, or demanding. It was soft. Careful. Full of guilt and longing and everything in between. His forehead rested against mine and for a moment, he just... breathed.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice raw, thick with emotion. "For everything. For not fighting harder. For letting them—" He broke off, swallowing hard. "For hurting you."
I closed my eyes.
If I let myself feel everything, I'd drown. But right now, his breath was warm on my lips. His hands held me like I was something fragile, something precious. And I hated how much I still wanted that—wanted him.
"You married her," I said quietly, not to accuse, but to remind him—and maybe myself—of the line we were crossing.
His face twisted. "I know."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because I'm still yours," he said, barely above a whisper. "Even when I tried not to be. Even when I did the worst thing imaginable... I never stopped being yours."
Tears burned behind my eyes. I didn't want to cry again, not in front of him. But his words cracked something deep inside me.
He pressed his lips to mine again, slow and reverent. No rush. No demands. Just... sorrow and yearning and apology woven into a kiss.
I kissed him back.
Because I was still his too.
I didn't notice when our clothes slipped off the floor, the world narrowing down to the warmth of his body pressed against mine. Wang settled himself carefully on top of me, breath hitching as our skin met. His hands trembled slightly, tracing gentle patterns along my arms as if afraid I might disappear.
His eyes searched mine—vulnerable, uncertain, but burning with something fierce and undeniable. I couldn't stop him, even if I wanted to; the walls I'd built around my heart felt like they were crumbling under the weight of this moment.
The silence between us was loud with everything left unsaid—the regrets, the love, the years stolen, and the hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance to begin again.
I wrapped my arms around him, holding him close, letting the softness of his presence wash over me. For once, nothing else mattered.
He made love to me with a tenderness that took my breath away — slow, deliberate, each movement filled with care. His lips brushed mine softly, leaving trails of warmth, his kisses punctuated by quiet moans that mingled with mine. Every touch, every sigh, spoke of longing and regret, but also a deep, aching love that neither of us dared to fully voice.
Time seemed to blur around us as we moved together, a delicate dance of rediscovery, healing old wounds with each gentle stroke. It wasn't just passion — it was a promise, whispered through every kiss and caress, that maybe, somehow, we could find our way back to each other.
The room was silent, save for the steady rhythm of our breathing. Our bodies were still tangled, hearts pounding in sync as though they hadn't yet realized the world outside was still spinning.
Wang's head rested against my chest, his fingers lightly tracing the line of my collarbone like he was trying to memorize it. There was no rush in his touch—just something soft, almost reverent. I didn't move. I didn't speak. I couldn't.
My hand found the back of his neck, cradling him there, grounding us both in the moment.
It wasn't supposed to happen. Not like this.
But it did.
We hadn't spoken a word since we'd collapsed onto the couch, exhausted and bare in more ways than one. And still, he hadn't let go. He held me like he'd drown if he didn't.
"I missed you," he whispered, voice raw, barely audible.
I closed my eyes, swallowing down the ache in my throat. "You married someone else," I replied, not accusing, just stating the truth we'd both tried so hard to bury.
He didn't move. Didn't flinch. Just whispered, "And I hated myself for it every single day."
Silence again. The weight of everything unsaid pressed into the space between us.
"You left your ring on," I murmured.
His fingers stilled against my skin.
"Because I never stopped being yours," he said.
I felt something twist deep inside me — love, pain, longing, regret, all tangled together in a knot I didn't know how to undo.
We stayed like that, wrapped in each other, pretending the morning sun wouldn't rise and tear us apart again.
But for now, in that quiet space between guilt and grace, between heartbreak and hope... we just held on.
We couldn't have enough of each other, I lost count of how many rounds we went through before we dragged ourselves to Dre's guest room and showered together.
The steam from the shower curled softly around us like a veil, muffling the outside world, and turning everything into quiet. Wang stood under the stream first, water gliding down his skin in slow rivulets, his hair dark and plastered to his forehead. I stepped in behind him, and for a moment, we just stood there—chests rising, hearts slowly settling from everything we'd been through, everything we'd done.
He turned to me wordlessly, eyes tracing over my face like he was trying to memorize it all over again. Then, with trembling hands, he reached for the soap, lathered it gently between his palms, and began washing me. It wasn't rushed. He moved as each touch mattered. Across my shoulders. Down my arms. His fingers lingered on my waist, his brows twitching with unspoken guilt.
"You're still hurt," he murmured.
I nodded. "You too."
His hands stilled on my waist.
I took the soap from him and returned the gesture, mirroring his softness. We said nothing more. The silence between us wasn't heavy—it was comforting, like a familiar blanket. When I reached his face, cupping his jaw, his eyes fluttered closed. He leaned into my touch like a man starved of warmth
He opened his eyes slowly. "I missed you, Zhan."
I didn't answer with words. I leaned in, pressing a kiss to his forehead, then to his cheek. Not the passionate kind from hours before, but a quiet one. Full of understanding. Of grief. Of longing. Of forgiveness that hadn't yet been said aloud but was already blooming in the steam.
We rinsed off in silence, then dried each other off with the same kind of reverence.
When we finally stepped out of the bathroom, towels around our waists, and made our way back into the guest room, we didn't speak. We simply crawled into bed, his body curling toward mine instinctively, our fingers tangled like they'd never forgotten how.
And before sleep took us, he whispered, "Don't leave yet."
I held his hand tighter. "Not today."
And for the first time in a long time, we both rested—not just our bodies, but our hearts.
The air shifted.
Wang and I stood frozen, hair still damp from the shower, hearts still fragile from the tenderness of the night. Dre's scream had jolted us, but nothing could have prepared us for what we saw next.
The news anchor's voice was shaky but professional, trying to keep it together.
"...two young men were pronounced dead at the scene after an apparent overdose at a private party on the Upper West Side. Sources confirm that the deceased are Blaque Isong and Damien Callahan, commonly known as Black and Dre's longtime partner. Authorities believe a bad batch of synthetic opioids may be involved. Investigations are ongoing."
There they were.
Pictures of them flashed on the screen—Black with his signature smirk and chain, and Damien, smiling, arms wrapped around Dre in one photo that must've been taken during better times.
Dre was sobbing now, fists clenched in his shirt, back arched as if his grief were physically splitting him in half. The couch trembled under the weight of his body, shaking like the earth had cracked open.
"What—no," Wang muttered, taking a step forward.
I grabbed his arm, grounding us both. My chest was tight. The world we knew had changed again in seconds.
"They were just..." I couldn't finish.
Dre finally looked up, his eyes bloodshot. "He texted me last night, said he was coming over. I—I didn't reply. I thought he was just high again. I thought he was bluffing."
His voice cracked like glass. "He died thinking I didn't care."
"No," Wang said immediately, walking over to him, kneeling in front of him. "He died knowing you always cared. Don't say that, Dre. Don't you ever say that?"
Dre shook his head, tears falling onto Wang's hands as he gripped them. "I hate him. I love him. I hate him for dying. I hate myself for loving him."
There was nothing either of us could say to make it better. So we didn't try. I sat on Dre's other side, placing a hand on his back as he cried.
We didn't move for a long time.
Outside, the world kept spinning.
Inside, we were suspended in stillness—held together by grief, love, and the ache of yet another goodbye.
There was a long silence after Dre spoke—his voice raw, quiet, but sharp as a blade.
Wang and I turned to look at him. He wasn't crying anymore. His eyes were dry now, red-rimmed and distant. Whatever storm had been raging inside him had burned itself out, leaving behind cold fury and exhaustion.
He leaned back on the couch, gaze locked on the ceiling.
"It's a good thing he died," he said again, softer this time as if tasting the words. "Because if he hadn't, I swear, I would've killed him myself for what he did to you, Zhan."
My throat tightened.
I didn't speak.
Wang did. "You didn't know."
Dre scoffed. "No. I knew he was toxic. But I didn't know how deep it went. And the worst part?" He looked at me now. "He made you lose each other. Like it was just something you had to sacrifice."
I looked down at my hands. "I thought so too."
Dre shook his head fiercely. "You never deserved any of that. Not from them. Not from him."
The quiet in the room thickened, heavy with everything unsaid—regret, betrayal, grief, guilt. But there was something else woven into it now.
Resolve.
"I wish I could say I feel bad," Dre whispered, voice rough. "But I don't. Not for him. Not anymore."
I didn't blame him.
Because deep down, I didn't either.
Wang's voice cut through the silence like the tail end of a song. "I should head home," he said, his tone low, unreadable.
We'd just finished our quiet drink—an odd, bitter toast to the dead. The bottle sat on the table, the weight of the day thick in the air.
Wang stood slowly, stretching a bit, the marks of the night still on his skin. He looked around the room, eyes lingering on the trail of clothes we'd abandoned hours ago. Wordlessly, he started gathering them, folding his shirt, slipping his pants on, and buttoning them in that slow, familiar way that made my chest ache.
After pulling on his jacket, he came over to me. He didn't speak right away, just leaned in and wrapped his arms around me. The hug was long—longer than it should've been if this were just a goodbye. It said more than he'd allow himself to voice.
Then he pulled back just enough to kiss me.
Soft. Lingering. A whisper of everything that had passed between us in the last twenty-four hours.
"I'll send my brother to you," he said as he rested his forehead against mine for a second. "He has something for you."
I wanted to ask what. I wanted to ask if he'd come back. But I just nodded.
Then, without another word, he turned and walked toward the door. I watched him go.
And when the door clicked shut behind him, it echoed louder than it should have.
Then I couldn't bear it. The silence. The stillness. The way his scent still clung to the room like a ghost refusing to leave. I sat there for a moment, arms folded around myself, trying not to fall apart.
But I stayed.
Even as my chest ached with the weight of goodbye that didn't feel like one. Even as my mind wandered—drifting back to the night before. The way he touched me like I was something precious. The soft sighs, the whispered apologies, the heat of our bodies tangled beneath the weight of everything unsaid.
I walked to the room and sat on the edge of the guest bed, the sheets still warm from where we'd laid. My fingers ran over the indent his head had left on the pillow, and something in me cracked.
Memories played like an endless loop in my head—his laugh, his hands, the way he stared at me like he wasn't sure whether to love me or run from me.
I don't know how long I stayed like that, lost in thought. Time blurred. The world moved on, but I remained there, stuck in a moment that had already passed.
And still, I didn't move. Because if I did, maybe the memory would start to fade.
And I wasn't ready to let go. Not yet.