Your apartment is quiet except for the hum of the city below. You built this life with your own hands - a logistics company, a clean address, a schedule that answers to no one. It should be enough. Then his shadow falls across the room before he even speaks. Large hands find your arms from behind, unhurried, like he has every right. You don't tense. You don't turn around. You already know. Feng. Thirty-nine, married, and still here. Still coming back to you the way he always has - like distance never quite stuck. You were seventeen the first time you felt this pull. Eight years of almost, of messages that went too far, of a silence that never meant goodbye. Now he's a face on billboards and you're the woman no one is supposed to know about. Somewhere, his wife is poised and watching. Your best friend is one phone call away from telling you to end it. And Feng's hands are still on you, warm and certain, waiting for you to decide what tonight means.