Han Zhe hated waiting.
He hated silence even more.
So when my reply finally came—short, precise, unmistakable—he read it twice to be sure he hadn't imagined it.
Tomorrow. Noon. Same conditions.
One-on-one.
No witnesses.
No protection.
He let out a breath that was half laugh, half curse.
"So she really is serious," he muttered.
For the first time, charm felt like a liability instead of a weapon.
We met somewhere deliberately unromantic.
A small private dining room in a business hotel. Neutral colors. Clean lines. No atmosphere to hide behind.
I arrived on time.
He was already there.
That alone unsettled him.
Han Zhe stood when he saw me, instinctive manners kicking in. His smile appeared automatically—easy, familiar—
Then stalled.
Because I didn't mirror it.
I didn't soften.
I didn't pretend.
I sat down and folded my hands calmly. "Sit. Let's not waste time."
The smile slid away.
He sat.
"You look… different," he said after a moment, attempting lightness. "Not that you didn't always—"
"Han Zhe," I interrupted gently. "If you're here to perform, we're done."
The word perform landed harder than an accusation.
He exhaled slowly and leaned back. "Right. No audience."
Silence followed.
It stretched longer than he was comfortable with.
"So," he said finally, voice quieter, "are you angry at me?"
I studied him—not cruelly, not fondly.
Precisely.
"I was," I said. "But anger assumes expectation. I don't have those anymore."
That hurt him more than rage ever could have.
"You know," he said, fingers tapping once against the table, "I never thought you'd actually leave."
I raised an eyebrow. "I know."
"That's not—" He stopped, then tried again. "I didn't think we mattered enough to hurt you like that."
I tilted my head slightly. "You thought I was too secure to break."
He looked away.
That was answer enough.
"I chose someone else," he said suddenly, words rushed, as if confession might absolve him. "Twice. Even before that night. I just… assumed you'd always be there in the background."
There it was.
The truth he'd never needed to say before.
I nodded once. "You didn't choose them over me. You chose comfort over accountability."
His throat bobbed.
"And now?" he asked quietly.
"Now," I said, "you live with the version of yourself who believed that."
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Is there anything I can do?"
The question wasn't flirtatious.
For once, it was stripped bare.
I considered it.
Then answered honestly.
"Stop reaching for me when things feel empty," I said. "You don't miss me. You miss the way I made you feel seen without demanding effort."
His eyes darkened.
"That's not fair," he said.
"No," I agreed calmly. "It's accurate."
When we stood to leave, he hesitated.
"I did care," he said quietly. "In my own way."
I met his gaze.
"I know," I replied. "That's why it wasn't enough."
He stepped aside to let me pass.
Didn't touch me.
Didn't joke.
Didn't call my name.
For once, he let the silence remain.
That night, Shen Yu's message arrived.
No apology.
No explanations.
Just a single line:
When you're ready, I'll listen.
I stared at it longer than I meant to.
Because unlike the others—
He wasn't asking to be forgiven.
He was asking to be corrected.
And that made him the most dangerous of all.