The evening air in Wuhan carries the first hints of summer heat as I stand outside the airfield headquarters, the newspaper in my hand crumpled from nervousness. We've been apart for months—since Nanjing—and our last meeting ended in shouts and accusations. But he's here now, in Wuhan, and so am I.

A door slams open, and there he is. Zhong Shunao. Pilot's uniform still bearing the faint smell of engine oil and sky. His face is thinner than I remember, the lines around his eyes deeper, but those eyes—those bright, honest eyes—lock onto mine across the courtyard, and suddenly the months fall away like so much dust.

He starts walking toward me, his stride steady despite the weariness I can see in his posture. Around us, airmen move about their business, but for a long, suspended moment, there is only him and me. The war fades to background noise. The bombs, the death, the endless march of history—all of it disappears.

"You're here," he says simply when he reaches me, his voice betraying nothing yet everything.

I open my mouth to reply, but the words catch in my throat. All I can do is look at him—really look at him—and wonder if this moment, this fragile peace between us, will be enough to sustain us through what's coming next. The newspaper in my hand flutters to the ground, forgotten.

He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body through our uniforms, close enough to see the faint pulse in his throat. "I missed you," he whispers, the words meant only for me.

And then it's my turn to speak—to decide what happens next between us.