The storm broke on a quiet Sunday evening, nineteen days into the program.
They had spent the day apart—Wanyin in calls with the Asia team, Ye Beichen handling board fallout from the video release. By dinner, the apartment felt like a truce zone. No work. No strategy. Just the two of them.
He cooked—simple this time. Steamed fish, rice, bok choy. She set the table without being asked. Small things that had become routine.
They ate on the balcony, city lights below, wind cool for once.
Afterward, she washed the dishes. He dried.
Domestic.
Normal.
Terrifying.
When the last plate was put away, she poured wine. Two glasses.
They sat on the couch, not touching, but close enough that their knees almost brushed.
She stared at her glass.
"I haven't done this in years," she said.
"What?"
"Quiet. With someone."
He was silent, giving her space.
She took a sip.
"After Chen Hao, I didn't let anyone in. Not friends. Not lovers. Definitely not… this."
He watched her.
"I told myself it was strength. Focus. That vulnerability was weakness."
She looked at him.
"But it was fear."
He set his glass down.
"I know."
She laughed softly. "Of course you do."
He reached for her hand. She let him take it.
"I used to think if I let someone close, they'd see the cracks and use them against me. Like he did."
He traced his thumb over her knuckles.
"The cracks are what make you unstoppable."
She met his eyes.
"You really believe that."
"I know it."
She leaned her head back against the couch.
"When I was twenty-five, I thought love was partnership. Trust. Building something together."
She closed her eyes.
"He took that and turned it into a weapon."
He was quiet.
"I rebuilt myself harder. Colder. Better."
She opened her eyes.
"And lonely."
He pulled her gently until she was leaning against him, her head on his shoulder.
"You're not lonely now."
She was quiet for a long moment.
"No," she whispered. "I'm not."
His arm tightened around her.
They sat like that, wine forgotten, city humming below.
After a while, she spoke again.
"I used to dream about him. Not the good parts. The betrayal. Waking up and realizing everything I'd built was gone."
He pressed his lips to her temple.
"Those dreams stopped when you moved in."
He stilled.
She turned to look at him.
"I sleep better with you here."
He exhaled, slow.
"I sleep better with you here too."
She smiled, small and real.
"Nineteen days left."
He brushed her hair back.
"Or nineteen days to start something new."
She leaned in.
Kissed him.
Soft.
Slow.
No desperation.
Just choice.
When they pulled apart, she rested her forehead against his.
"I'm still scared."
"I know."
"But I'm more scared of going back to who I was before this."
He cupped her face.
"Then don't."
She kissed him again.
They didn't make it to separate bedrooms that night.
The walls weren't just cracked anymore.
They were gone.
And in the quiet, with his arms around her, she realized something.
The devil hadn't come to take anything.
He'd come to give her back the parts of herself she'd buried.
And for the first time in years, she wasn't afraid to feel them.