at the apartment

The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the sounds of the street. Mike set the suitcases in the corner, then exhaled a long breath as if he’d been holding it all the way from the airport.

“Well,” he said, “that went better than I expected.”

Don was standing in the middle of the living room, looking around slowly. The place was familiar to Don — he had visited Mike here many times — but the way he moved now was new. His hands folded loosely in front of him, head tilting slightly as though waiting for instructions.

“You can relax now,” Mike said, forcing a smile. “It’s just us.”

“I am relaxed,” Don replied softly.

Mike watched him walk toward the kitchen. Don’s steps were quiet, his hips moving with a subtle sway. He opened cabinets one by one until he found the tea, then began boiling water without asking.

“You’re still doing it,” Mike said.

Don turned, puzzled. “Doing what?”

“That… Xue Li thing. The way you stand. The way you talk. We don’t need it now — there’s no one watching.”

Don’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t change. “This is how I stand now.” He tapped his chest. “And how I talk.”

Mike moved closer. “Don, we’re in my apartment. Nobody’s here. You can just be you again.”

For a moment, Don looked at him — really looked — and something flickered behind his eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by that same soft, careful gaze Xue Li had always used.

“I am me,” Don said. “Maybe… she just part of me now.”

Mike’s throat tightened. “Part of you, or replacing you?”

Don didn’t answer. The kettle clicked, and he poured the hot water over the tea leaves with deliberate care. The scent filled the room — the same jasmine Xue Li had brewed in her tiny apartment in China.

Mike realized then that even here, half a world away from where she’d lived, Xue Li was still alive. And she was winning.