When Fu Jing Rong opened his eyes again, it took him a few seconds to remember where he was.
The walls were familiar. The lighting soft. But it wasn't the room that grounded him—it was the warmth pressed against his chest. The weight of her. Her scent. Her breath.
He blinked down slowly.
Hua Jing.
She was staring up at him silently, her expression calm but her eyes full of unspoken worry. She wasn't saying anything, but he could feel her pulse, steady and real. Still, her gaze didn't leave his face. She could sense something shifting. Tensing.
Fu Jing Rong didn't say a word.
But his arms were speaking. Wrapping tighter and tighter around her. One hand fisted at her back, the other trembling slightly. He was shaking.
He didn't even realize it.
His mind was already slipping—back to that day.
The screeching metal. The blood. The heat. The moment the life he loved most was yanked away in a blink.
And now—here she was.
Alive.
In his arms.
