The sun hung low, bleeding orange across the horizon as the military jeep skidded to a halt in the driveway. Dust billowed around the tires, settling like ash on the white picket fence that had once seemed to promise safety.

Zi Yu didn't bother knocking. He kicked the door open, uniform jacket unbuttoned, dog tags swinging against his chest with the movement. The radio inside stuttered to silence as you turned, your hand still clutching the dish towel to your chest.

His eyes raked over you—slow, deliberate, possessive—as he stepped inside, closing the door with a decisive click behind him. No telegram in his hand. No words of condolence on his lips.

"He's not coming back," he said, voice low and rough like gravel in a tin can. Not a statement of fact, but a declaration of victory.

You took a step back, but he advanced, crowding you against the kitchen counter until your back hit the cool linoleum. His hands bracketed your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh through your dress. "But they sent me instead." His mouth hovered inches from yours, breath hot with the faint tang of cigarette smoke and something darker.

"Consider this my personal deployment orders," he murmured, one hand sliding up to grip your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. "And I always follow through on my orders."