Meanwhile, on the far side of the galaxy, wrapped in silence and drifting through the endless sea of stars, sleep evaded Dican completely.
He lay flat on the narrow bed, his back pressed against the cold sheets, eyes locked onto the black metal ceiling above. The artificial lights had long since dimmed, the soft, regulated hum of the spaceship's engines serving as the only reminder of movement. Beside him, Bian lay curled slightly on his side, his soft snoring rhythmic and undisturbed. One pale hand rested gently on Dican's waist, the warmth of it a tether holding him in place.
But Dican couldn't settle.
His eyes, faintly reflecting the dull glow of the emergency lights, flicked downward to the hand laid over him. He stared at it for a long moment—at the way Bian's fingers curled slightly, at how natural it looked resting against his side. There was no discomfort in it. And yet… something inside him stirred, an emptiness he couldn't explain.
