The antiseptic smell of the hospital still clings to my skin as I sit on my worn sofa, Huang Xing beside me. The tea cups are empty, but the tension between us is thick enough to cut with a knife. His confession hangs in the air - he felt a pull toward me from the moment he saw me on that gurney. Me, a man twice his age with a body covered in old scars and a mind that never stops replaying case details.

"Kids these days just say whatever comes to their mind," I mutter, more to myself than to him. He withdraws his hand slightly, and I immediately regret the words. This is the closest I've let anyone get to me in years, and I'm ruining it with my usual defensiveness.

The morning light filters through the curtains, casting golden streaks across his face. He looks younger in this soft light, vulnerable despite his bold confession. My stab wound throbs faintly, a reminder of how close I came to death last night - and how alive this man makes me feel right now.

He starts to stand, clearly interpreting my silence as rejection. "I should go," he says quietly, avoiding my eyes.

I reach out before I can overthink it, my hand closing around his wrist. The contact sends a jolt through both of us. Our eyes meet, and in that moment, I know I have a choice to make - the same choice I've been avoiding my entire life: push him away, or let him in.