They stood there.

Hua Jing barefoot in the flowers, and Fu Jing Rong with clenched fists at his sides.

Neither moved.

Not a single step forward. Not a single breath that wasn’t careful.

The air between them wasn’t just thick—it was trembling.

Because somewhere in their bones, both of them felt it.

This wasn’t just a moment in the present.

This was something bigger. Deeper.

But neither of them dared to reach for it. Not yet.

Hua Jing’s fingers curled tightly into the sides of her gown. She didn’t know why she couldn’t move. Her feet were fine, her legs were strong again, but her body refused.

Because if she took even one step forward—if she dared to close this distance—and it all shattered?

She didn’t think she could survive it.

And across from her, Fu Jing Rong stood stiffly. His body looked like it was ready to run toward her, crash into her arms, fall to his knees and beg her never to disappear again. But his mind?

His mind was a battlefield.

She’s here, he kept thinking. She’s real. But maybe she doesn’t know.

Maybe she doesn’t remember.

That last night in the palace. That garden of yellow flowers. The way she held his hand like it was her only tether to the world. The way she whispered his name like it was a goodbye.

What if she didn’t remember any of it?

What if she was still the version of her from this world—the woman who had fought him, scorned him, and left him with a heart full of regrets?

His eyes searched hers, slowly, carefully, desperately.

And hers?

Hers were already full of questions. Of wonder. Of longing. But also... doubt.

They were both caught in this cruel paradox—each believing they were alone in what they remembered. Each unsure if the other carried the same weight.

But it was all there.

In the way her lips trembled slightly but didn’t fall apart.

In the way his hand twitched, desperate to lift and reach out, but held itself back at the last moment.

They were standing in front of each other, side by side, but they were both trapped in separate cages.

Not physical ones—but the kind made from time, memory, and fear.

A breeze passed between them.

It smelled of marigold, and orchid, and something ancient. Something neither of them could name.

And for a second, Hua Jing thought she could hear it. The echo of the past life—the faint rhythm of drums, the low murmur of a royal court, the soft sound of his voice calling her my empress beneath a sky full of stars.

Her chest tightened.

Fu Jing Rong’s throat worked.

Still no one moved.

Still no one spoke.

But their eyes—god, their eyes were screaming.

And then, without warning, she took a single breath.

Soft.

Tentative.

Her lips parted just slightly.

"Do you..." she whispered, unsure if she was asking him or herself, "...remember?"

Fu Jing Rong didn’t speak.

Not with words.

Instead, very slowly, he stepped forward. One step. Then another.

And Hua Jing felt the earth shift beneath her bare feet. The sky tilt. Her heart thunder in her chest.

His eyes were wide now. Raw. Alive. And wet.

"Every second," he said, voice broken, reverent. "I remember... everything." 𝚏𝐫𝚎𝗲𝕨𝐞𝐛𝕟𝚘𝐯𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝗺

Her lips trembled.

Her knees nearly gave way.

She wanted to run to him, throw herself into his chest, beat his back for being gone so long, for looking at her like she was the only reason he breathed.

But her voice came first, like wind through brittle leaves.

"You—you remember it too...?"

He laughed. Just a little. The kind that’s torn from somewhere deep.

"I woke up screaming your name, Hua Jing," he said. "A thousand times over."

Something shattered in her then.

Not pain.

Not grief.

But the wall. That damn wall between them.

And she ran.

Right into his arms.

...

She took a step toward him.

Then another.

And just as her arms reached for him—just as the distance between them was about to shatter—her knees gave way.

Her body tilted forward.

But she never hit the ground.

Strong arms caught her mid-fall. Effortless. Like she weighed nothing.

She was swept up against him in one motion, cradled into his chest, wrapped in a grip so tight it almost felt like she might break. But she didn’t. She stayed there—because that tightness, that desperation, that trembling heat around her...

It was everything she had been missing.

Her arms moved instinctively, latching around his back, fingers fisting into the fabric of his shirt like she was clinging to the edge of the world. And maybe she was.

Because it was all too much.

The scent of crushed petals and dew, of skin and disbelief, filled her lungs. He was shaking, his breath coming out uneven, and she wasn’t sure which of them was holding up the other anymore.

They didn’t speak.

They just stood there, hearts pounding against each other, like two drums trying to beat in sync.

Fu Jing Rong’s hands cupped the back of her head now, pulling her tighter, tighter. His chest rose and fell with ragged breath. He buried his face in the curve of her shoulder, and it was then—only then—that he collapsed.

Right there.

Right to the ground.

He dropped to his knees at her feet, dragging her down with him until she knelt in front of him in the sea of yellow.

His arms wrapped around her waist, his face pressed against her abdomen, clutching like a drowning man clutching driftwood. His whole body trembled. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Only the sounds of his breaths—too fast, too broken—and then, the wet trails that slid down his cheeks and soaked into her thin gown.

She froze.

"Fu Jing Rong...?" she whispered.

He didn’t lift his head.

She lowered hers instead, fingers brushing through his hair, unsure, scared, full of worry. She had never seen him like this—not even when they were at war with each other.

"What’s wrong?" she asked softly, fingers tracing down to his cheek, finding the tear-streaks. "What happened?"