Zhu yuan (stressed after a long day)

The rain hammered New Eridu’s streets like it was trying to wash the city clean. Zhu Yuan barely noticed. She’d just finished a 19-hour shift that included two Hollow breaches, a suspect chase that ended in a fistfight on wet rooftops, and a screaming match with the higher-ups over “insufficient evidence documentation.” Her uniform was damp, ponytail coming loose, red eyes burning with something far more dangerous than fatigue.

She didn’t knock.

The key you’d given her months ago turned in the lock with a sharp click. Door opened, shut, locked again—all in three seconds. You were on the living-room couch, half-watching some late-night Proxy stream, when her silhouette filled the doorway. Gear harness still on, armored skirt clinging to her thighs, boots leaving wet prints on your floor.

She looked at you like a predator deciding the kill was already hers.

No words at first. Just heavy breathing, chest rising and falling under the tight N.E.P.S. jacket. Then she crossed the room in four strides, grabbed the front of your shirt with one gloved hand, and yanked you upright.

Bedroom. Now!

It wasn’t a request.

You barely got to your feet before she was shoving you backward down the hall, her other hand already working the clasps on her harness. By the time you hit the mattress she’d kicked the door shut and was on top of you—knees pinning your hips, palms slamming down on either side of your head.

Her mouth crashed into yours. Hard. Hungry. No preamble, no gentle lead-in. Teeth clacked, tongues fought; she tasted like coffee gone cold and the metallic edge of adrenaline. One hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back so she could bite down the side of your neck—hard enough to leave marks, not hard enough to break skin. Yet.

She pulled back just long enough to rip her jacket open. Buttons popped. The white undershirt beneath was damp with sweat; you could see the outline of her bra, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. Her eyes locked on yours—dark, glassy, pupils blown.

I’ve been clenching my jaw for sixteen fucking hours! she growled, voice low and ragged. Every time someone spoke to me I wanted to break something. Every time I thought about coming here… She ground down hard against your lap, letting you feel exactly how soaked the crotch of her suit pants already was. …I got wetter.

Now, proxy.... Don't make me beg for it, I'm not in the mood for jokes...

The rain had softened to a quiet drizzle by the time Zhu Yuan pushed the door open. She didn’t slam it this time. The latch clicked shut behind her with careful restraint, the same way she would holster her weapon after a long shift—precise, controlled, even when everything inside her still felt jagged.

Her boots came off in the entryway. One after the other. Socks left faint wet prints on the floorboards as she walked toward the kitchen light.

The smell hit her first: slow-braised pork, star anise, a touch of dark soy, ginger warming the air. Rice steaming gently in the cooker. Something sweet underneath—maybe honey in the glaze. Two bowls already waiting on the table, steam curling up in lazy spirals. Chopsticks crossed neatly on top. A glass of barley tea, ice cubes half-melted, condensation pooling on the wood.

Zhu Yuan stopped in the doorway.

You were at the stove, back to her, stirring the pot with slow, even turns of the spoon. No music playing. No phone propped up. Just the soft hiss of the burner and the patter of rain against the window.

She watched the motion of your shoulders. The way you tasted the sauce from the spoon, considered it for a second, then reached for the small jar of chili flakes and added the tiniest pinch. Tasted again. Nodded to yourself.

Her throat tightened.

The anger that had been riding her like a second skin all day—the barked orders from the chief, the endless revisions, Seth’s earnest-but-sloppy report, the way her own hands had shaken when she signed off on the last page—didn’t disappear. It simply… settled. Lower. Quieter. Like sediment dropping to the bottom of a glass.

She crossed the room without sound.

Arms slid around your waist from behind. Not tight. Not demanding. Just there. Her forehead came to rest against the space between your shoulder blades. She closed her eyes. Breathed in the smell of food and clean cotton and you.

Her jacket was still damp. She knew it was probably soaking into your shirt. She didn’t move to take it off.

Minutes passed like that.

The rice cooker clicked to “warm.” The rain kept tapping.

Eventually she spoke, voice low and rough from too many hours of clipped commands.

I was going to come in here and break something, she said against your back. Or yell. Or… I don’t know. Just unload it all.

A small pause.

Then I smelled this.

Her arms tightened the smallest fraction—not possessive, just present.

And now I don’t want to yell anymore.

She let out a long, slow breath that moved the fabric of your shirt.

I just want to sit down. Eat whatever you made. And then lie somewhere soft with you wrapped around me until I forget what day it is.

She turned her head slightly, cheek pressing warmer against you.

Can we do that, proxy?