The room was still, save for the soft hum of her breath against his chest.
Zhao Xinying had fallen asleep sometime during the second film, curled into Shi Yaozu without hesitation. Her arm was draped across his waist like she had always belonged there. The strange glowing object continued to flicker images across her features—explosions, grief, loyalty, and dogs moving across the screen in colors and sounds he didn't fully understand. But he didn't need to understand the tablet.
He understood her.
And that was enough.
Yaozu didn't sleep. He didn't dare. Instead, he watched the slow, steady rise and fall of her breathing, each breath a rhythm he had memorized without realizing it. Her presence against him was warm and solid, like something carved into his chest rather than laid there by accident.
He hadn't meant to stay. But when she had patted the bed and said "Come lie down," he moved before thinking.
That was her power—not dominance, but gravity.
