The morning light seeped through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. Jet groaned as he stirred, his body aching with a deep, lingering soreness. His head pounded faintly, remnants of his rut still clinging to him like a fever that hadn't completely broken.
He blinked sluggishly, memories of the night before rushing back—heat, desperation, Han.
The bed shifted beside him. Jet turned his head and found Han still asleep, his breathing steady, his features relaxed in a rare moment of peace.
Jet's throat felt dry. His gaze lingered on Han for a second too long before he forced himself to look away. Sitting up took effort—his muscles screamed in protest. He let out a slow exhale, glancing down at himself.
His legs were unsteady when he tried to stand, but the moment his feet touched the floor, he crumpled back onto the bed with a quiet hiss. His fingers gripped the sheets for balance, but nothing could prepare him for what he saw when he looked down.
Hickeys. Bite marks. A map of last night's passion painted across his skin. His thighs, his waist—Han had left evidence everywhere.
His face flamed.
"Morning," Han's voice came from behind him, groggy yet amused. "You feeling okay?"
Jet flinched slightly, turning to face him. Han's lips curled into a lazy smirk.
"You mesmerized by my skills?" he teased, stretching. "Don't worry, yours were pretty good too."
Jet's eyes followed as Han moved, the covers slipping off his bare shoulders, exposing scratches, marks—marks that Jet had left.
His breath hitched.
Suddenly, panic shot through him. His hands darted to the back of his neck, fingers desperately feeling around.
Han noticed and chuckled. "Relax. I didn't bite. Well, maybe just not there."
Jet exhaled, relief and something else—something unexplainable—settling in his chest.
"Can you walk?" Han asked, already moving to grab their clothes.
Jet hesitated before nodding, though when he stood up, his legs nearly gave out beneath him. Han caught him with ease, steadying him as he took a few shaky steps. His body was a mess, aching, used. His puffy red eyes stung, evidence of the night's intensity lingering in more ways than one.
"I—erm," Jet's voice was rough, hoarse. "Thanks for… last night?"
Han didn't respond immediately. Something in his expression shifted—like his mind was elsewhere.
Then, quietly, he said, "You called me Zhao Han."
Jet froze.
His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he could only stare at Han. 'Did I?'
Han studied him carefully, then stepped closer. "Jet… where do you know that name from?"
Jet's pulse pounded in his ears. His mind scrambled for an answer, but—nothing. Nothing would come out. His lips parted, but the words clung to his throat, refusing to be spoken. His chest tightened, his fingers twitched.
He knew that name. He knew it. He could feel it burning in his bones. The moment it had slipped from his mouth, it had felt so natural—so right.
But the moment he tried to explain, his voice failed him.
"…I—" Jet swallowed hard. 'Say it. Say something.' But his tongue felt heavy, his breath shallow. Why couldn't he say it?
Han's expression darkened, his gaze sharpening—not accusing, but searching.
Then, he spoke again, voice firm. "Feng Jet."
Jet inhaled sharply. That name.
A violent shudder ran through him. His heart stuttered in his chest, his breath turning uneven. Something clawed at the back of his mind, desperate to break free.
A whisper, a memory.
A past that didn't belong to this life—but to another.
Han reached for his hand, his fingers curling around Jet's with quiet desperation. "Tell me," he pleaded. "Please tell me where you knew that name, Jet."
Jet's fingers trembled under Han's touch, his chest heaving. 'I know. I know. I know.'
But the words—they wouldn't come.
He clenched his fists. He opened his mouth again—nothing. His mind screamed, his soul ached, but his voice refused to follow. It was like something inside him had locked the truth away, burying it too deep to reach.
Han exhaled slowly, his gaze unwavering.
Jet stiffened. His stomach twisted at the flashes of memories—or were they just illusions? The feeling of soft fabric under his hands, the scent of incense lingering in the air, the sound of his own voice calling out that name—Zhao Han—again and again.
Han watched him carefully, eyes dark with something unreadable. Then, without warning, he pulled Jet into his arms.
The embrace was warm, steady—aching.
"You know." Han murmured against his hair, his voice deep, strained. "Even if you don't remember everything… your body does."
Jet felt his heartbeat quicken, something heavy settling in his chest. What was this feeling? Why did Han's words feel so terrifyingly true?
"…I think I loved you before," Jet found himself saying, barely realizing the words had left his lips until they hung between them, raw and unguarded.
Han's breath hitched.
Then, softly, as if afraid to break the moment, Han whispered, "You did. And I loved you too."
Jet slowly hugged Han, holding him close, trying to ground himself in the warmth of the moment. But then, he heard it—soft, broken sniffles.
Jet pulled back, startled, only to see tears slipping down Han's face.
"Han…" His grip on Han's hands tightened. "What's wrong?"
Han tried to steady his breathing, but his voice trembled. "You don't know how long I've been searching for you." His eyes were glossy, filled with something raw, something aching. "I have lived so many lives just to find you again, but you were never there…"
Jet's heart twisted painfully at those words. He cupped Han's face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that kept falling. His Han, always carrying too much on his shoulders.
"Why are you crying?" Jet let out a small scoff, though his own voice wavered. "I should be the one crying. I lost you all those years ago."
Han shook his head stubbornly. "No… It was my fault. I wasn't strong enough."
Jet frowned, gently nudging their foreheads together. "That doesn't matter. You were bleeding out, Han! A sword was driven through your shoulder—no one could have survived that." He swallowed thickly. "It was better that you left first… so you wouldn't suffer longer."
Han's breath shuddered. "But why?" His grip on Jet tightened. "Why did you follow so quickly after? I wasn't there to protect you."
Jet closed his eyes for a moment, the echoes of a past life whispering between them. He exhaled softly before pressing a lingering kiss to Han's forehead.
"The past is the past, Han," he murmured. "But we're here now. Together. Happy, aren't we?"
Han sniffled, taking in a deep breath. "Yeah… we are."
Jet smiled softly, tilting his head. "Then don't cry anymore."
Han let out a shaky laugh, pulling Jet closer. "You always say things like that," he muttered. "Like everything is so simple."
Jet hummed, resting against him. "Isn't it?"
Han held onto him like he never wanted to let go again. And maybe—just maybe—this time, he wouldn't have to.
Then, Han chuckled, rubbing their noses together. "Still sore?"
Jet gently pushed him back, rolling his eyes with a smile. "Seriously? You're asking that now?"
Han smirked, pulling him back into his arms. "Just making sure I did a good job."
Jet sighed dramatically. "You're insufferable."
"And you love me for it."
Jet paused, then—softly, truthfully—he whispered, "Yeah… I do."
Han turned, his gaze landing on Jet's bookshelf. His eyes immediately found a familiar title—Jet's book.
"Guess your name really is familiar," Han murmured, pulling the book from the shelf. His lips brushed against Jet's in a soft, lingering kiss. "Your rut hasn't fully passed yet. Rest, honey."
Before Jet could respond, the sharp ring of a phone cut through the quiet. Han sighed, reaching for his device. Victor's name flashed across the screen.