Work Text:
Autumn 2023
The meeting dissolved into a heavy silence that seemed to press against the walls and settle into the corners of the room. As the directors filed out, no one spoke; no one dared. Yu Tu remained motionless, his expression so unreadably still that the seniors knew better than to add to his burden. Only the final words of the appointment lingered in the air. "Xiao Yu, we are handing the souls of five hundred engineers and three billion yuan of national investment to you. Don't let the sky down."
When the last director stepped out, the door clicked shut, leaving the room unnervingly quiet. Yu Tu didn’t move.
The appointment notice lay on the table in front of him, the red seal stark against the white paper. His name was printed beneath the title — Chief Designer — as if it were already decided, as if his acceptance were a formality rather than a choice.
He stared at the appointment letter, breath tightening as if the air had thinned around him. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not now. Not to him. He had started as an ordinary engineer — a pre‑research team member buried in simulations and data, one junior among a sea of seniors with decades of experience. When Guan Zai fell ill, they pushed him forward out of necessity, asked him to act as supervising designer because someone had to hold the line. But that was temporary. A stopgap. He was still young, still without seniority, still far from the decorated résumés that every Chief Designer before him had carried like armor. And yet … they were handing this to him. The highest technical authority. A role that, in aerospace, was never given to someone his age. It felt impossible. It felt wrong. It felt like the ground had shifted beneath his feet.
He had thought the quiet talk in his mentor’s office yesterday and the long talk at Guan Zai’s home last night were just to prepare him for the project’s approval, nothing more. He thought they were easing him toward the idea that a new leadership team would take over, that the burden would shift to the seniors who had earned it through decades of experience. He thought he could finally breathe, finally loosen the grip he’d kept on himself for years, and finally allow himself to imagine a future with Jing Jing that wasn’t defined by sacrifice. But now … staring at the appointment letter in his hands … he realized he had been wrong. Completely and impossibly wrong.
Because the institute had looked at the new architecture, at the direction the mission had taken, at the work he had done in the past two years, and they had made their decision.
He was the only one who understood the new system, the only one who could lead it and the only one who could carry it forward.
His hands curled slowly into fists. I don’t want this.
Not because he doubted his ability. He knew the work, knew the mission, and knew every line of code and every trajectory curve. But because he could already feel the cost.
He could already see the shape of the next six to seven years — the travel, the rotations, the long stretches at the launch base, the critical stages where he wouldn’t be allowed to leave. He could already see himself disappearing into the mission, piece by piece.
Furthermore, he could also see Jing Jing smiling at him, trusting him, loving him; and he could already see himself failing her, not by choice, but by duty.
His throat tightened.
He pushed back from the table and stood abruptly, needing air, needing distance from the paper that felt like a verdict. He walked to the window, but the view of the institute courtyard did nothing to steady him. He pressed a hand to the glass.
I can still refuse. I can still say no. I can still tell them they’ve made a mistake. I’m too young. I don’t have the seniority. There are engineers on this team who have been here longer than I’ve been alive. Every Chief Designer before me had decades of experience, medals, papers, missions behind them. I’m just— I’m just an engineer who stepped in because there was no one else. They can’t possibly mean for me to take this on. They can’t.
A knock interrupted the thought. He turned.
Guan Zai stood in the opened doorway, leaning slightly on the frame, his face drawn but his eyes sharp. “Come with me,” he said.
There was no room for refusal. Yu Tu followed him down the hall, through a side corridor, into a small office that smelled faintly of old paper and disinfectant. This was the office Guan Zai used when he wasn’t strong enough to walk to his usual one.
The door closed behind them. Guan Zai didn’t sit, didn’t offer tea and didn’t soften his voice. “They told me you refused.”
Yu Tu swallowed. “I—”
His mouth opened, but the words tangled in his throat. How was he supposed to tell Guan Zai they were wrong? That he wasn’t ready? That he wasn’t enough? That he had only just begun to imagine a life with Jing Jing, and now the future was collapsing into duty again?
“You think I can still lead this mission?” Guan Zai’s tone was quiet, but the disappointment in it cut deeper than anger ever could. “Last night, I told you I know my own limits.”
Yu Tu lowered his gaze.
“The project has changed,” Guan Zai continued. “The architecture is yours now. The direction is yours. The future is yours. I cannot carry what I no longer understand.”
Yu Tu’s breath hitched.
“And you,” Guan Zai said, stepping closer, “are the only one who can.”
The words landed like a blow. There was no praise, no flattery. Only responsibility. Only trust. A burden Yu Tu could not set down.
Guan Zai’s voice softened, just barely. “You are aware the next candidate is Dr. Tong.”
Yu Tu closed his eyes.
Guan Zai’s frail but steady voice followed, the same voice from the hospital bed three years ago.
“You promised me you wouldn’t let this mission die.”
He opened his eyes again, and the decision settled in his bones. He couldn’t refuse. Not without betraying everything he believed in, without betraying the men who had shaped him, and without betraying the mission he had devoted 5 years of his life to so far.
But as he followed Guan Zai out of the office, one thought pulsed beneath the acceptance, steady but painful. How am I going to tell Jing Jing?
At around five o’clock, Yu Tu unlocked the door to his Shanghai condo, the familiar click echoing in the quiet entrance. The lights were off, but he could hear soft rustling inside, Jing Jing was humming to herself as she unpacked groceries on his kitchen counter.
She turned when he stepped in, her smile bright and immediate. “You’re back! I bought the tofu Shen Jing recommended. I thought we could practice before I embarrass myself in front of her next time.”
He tried to smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Jing Jing’s expression shifted instantly. “What happened?”
He shook his head. “Let me wash my hands first.”
She watched him walk to the sink, watched the way he moved — too controlled, too quiet. When he came back, she was already sitting on the couch, patting the spot beside her.
“Sit,” she said gently. “And don’t say ‘it’s nothing.’ You only look like this when it’s something.”
He sat. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then he exhaled. “They want me to be Chief Designer.”
Jing Jing blinked. “Chief … what? Designer? Um … designing what? The space shuttle's outfit? To make it look nice?”
He finally chuckled, and his expression relaxed. “No.”
“Because ‘designer’ sounds like you’re picking colors. Or fonts. Or maybe the mission patch? Actually, that would be cute—”
He took her hand. “It’s the highest technical position on any given space mission.”
She froze. “Oh. You mean Chief Engineer?”
He shook his head. “No. Chief Designer.”
“Wait,” she said slowly, “aren’t you an aerospace engineer? Did they demote you to be Chief Designer?”
He stared at her. “Demote?”
“Well, ‘engineer’ sounds more serious! ‘Designer’ sounds like you’re making posters.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jing Jing …”
She leaned in, eyes sparkling. “Okay, okay. So what’s the difference? Chief Engineer sounds very important. Chief Designer sounds like you’re in charge of … aesthetics.”
He sighed, but the corner of his mouth lifted. “Chief Engineers are responsible for subsystems. Guidance, propulsion, structures … each one has their own lead.”
“And you?”
“I’m responsible for all of it.”
Her eyes widened. “All, all of it?”
“All of it,” he repeated quietly. “The spacecraft’s architecture. The risks. The integration. The final decisions. If something goes wrong, it comes to me.”
Jing Jing stared at him, stunned. “That’s … that’s huge.”
He didn’t answer.
She studied him for a long moment. “You don’t look happy.”
“I haven’t accepted yet.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “You can refuse?”
“I tried.”
“And?”
“And Guan Zai scolded me.”
“Oh no,” she whispered. “The disappointed‑dad tone?”
“Worse.”
She winced. “Ouch.”
He looked down at their joined hands. “He said the architecture is mine now. That the project has changed. That he can’t carry what he no longer understands. And he said … the mission needs someone who can see past the old ways. Someone who isn’t limited by conventional thinking, who can imagine what comes next.”
Jing Jing’s voice softened. “And he’s right.”
Yu Tu didn’t deny it. He swallowed. “I want to refuse because I know what this role requires.”
“And that’s bad?”
“It’s … consuming.” He searched for the right words. “Chief Engineers can rotate out. They can take leave. They can step back when needed.”
“And Chief Designers?”
He met her eyes. “They don’t get to step back.”
Her breath caught.
He continued, voice low. “There will be years when I’m barely home. Months when I can’t leave the launch base. Stages where I have to be available every hour. I’ll be traveling constantly. I’ll be in Beijing more than in Shanghai. And during the critical phase …” He hesitated. “I won’t be allowed to leave at all.”
Jing Jing’s fingers tightened around his.
“Oh,” she whispered.
He nodded, eyes lowered. “I keep thinking … I’m too young for this. Too junior. There are people on the team with decades more experience than me. People who’ve led missions, who’ve earned every medal and title. And I—” He exhaled shakily. “I never thought they would choose someone like me at this time.”
He swallowed, voice softening. “There’s another reason I didn’t want this,” he admitted. “Not because I don’t care about the mission. But because I finally started imagining a future with you. A normal one. A stable one.”
Her eyes softened.
“And now,” he said quietly, “I don’t know how to give you that.”
She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Yu Tu … you don’t have to carry this alone.”
He closed his eyes, breathing her in. “I’m afraid,” he said quietly. “Afraid of what this will cost us.”
She lifted her head, cupping his face gently. “Then tell me everything. Start with the difference between Chief Designer and Chief Engineers. And don’t leave out the silly parts.”
He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “There are no silly parts.”
“There are always silly parts,” she insisted. “Especially when you explain things.”
He shook his head, but the tension in his shoulders eased just a little.
“Okay,” he said. “Chief Engineers …”
And as he began to explain — slowly, carefully, with Jing Jing interrupting every few sentences with questions that made him want to laugh and cry at the same time — he felt the weight shift.
Not lighter. But shared. For the first time since the appointment meeting, he could breathe.
Jing Jing listened intently as Yu Tu mapped out the new hierarchy: Chief Engineers, subsystem leads, integration teams. Her questions, once playful, grew sharpened and thoughtful as the gravity of his promotion took shape. He described the ‘red phone’—a secure, direct tether to the high-level commanders and Mission Control—and explained that from now on, no major technical document could pass without his signature. If his pen didn’t move, the rocket didn't fly.
Finally, he touched on the practicalities: a salary bump toward 350,000 to 400,000 Yuan a year, supplemented by significant project-end bonuses. He offered a small, self-deprecating smile. "It's still less than you make from a single ad campaign," he noted quietly. "But in the aerospace world, it's the peak."
Jing Jing didn’t hesitate. She reached out, her eyes reflecting none of the glamour of her world and all of the pride of his. "I don’t care about that," she insisted. "What matters is that you’re living your dream. Seeing you reach the stars ... that’s a greater reward than triple the salary your finance classmates are chasing."
Yu Tu looked down at her hand, his expression softening with a trace of his usual modesty. "It’s not quite like that," he said quietly. "I’m just the one who has to make sure all those brilliant people are speaking the same language. I don't create the stars, Jing Jing—I just help build the ladder."
Jing Jing smiled, her mind already moving to the logistics of his new power. “So …” she said slowly, “if the other engineers handle their own parts, you’re the one who has to handle all the parts?”
He nodded.
“And they can take leave sometimes, but you can’t?”
He nodded again.
“And they can rotate out, but you can’t?”
His jaw tightened. “Yes.”
She stared at him for a long moment, her fingers still curled around his. “Yu Tu,” she whispered, “this isn’t just a promotion.”
He didn’t speak.
“This is … years,” she said softly. “Years of you being gone. Years of you being exhausted. Years of you being pulled everywhere except home.”
He closed his eyes.
“And,” she continued, voice even quieter, “years where we can’t … plan anything.”
His breath caught.
She didn’t say the word. She didn’t have to. Family. Marriage. Children. A future together. All the things they had begun to imagine — quietly, tentatively — in the spaces between their days for nearly three years.
Jing Jing’s hand trembled slightly in his. “Is that what you were afraid to tell me?” she asked.
He opened his eyes. “Yes.”
She swallowed. “Because you think I’ll leave?”
“No,” he said immediately, almost sharply. “Never that.”
“Then what?”
He looked at her, really looked at her — the woman he loved, the woman he wanted to build a life with, the woman who deserved more than waiting, uncertainty and loneliness.
“I’m afraid,” he said quietly, “that I won’t be able to give you the life you want. Not for a long time.”
Her eyes softened, but she didn’t speak.
He continued, voice low and raw. “I’m afraid you’ll spend years alone while I’m at the launch base. I’m afraid I’ll miss things I shouldn’t miss. I’m afraid I’ll ask too much of you. I’m afraid I’ll hurt you without meaning to.”
“Yu Tu …” she whispered.
“And I’m afraid,” he said, barely audible now, “that if I ask you to …” the ‘marry’ word almost slipped out. “… to wait … it won’t be fair.”
Silence stretched between them — fragile, breathless, and trembling.
Jing Jing’s eyes glistened, not with tears, but with something deeper — understanding, love, and a quiet ache. She reached up and cupped his face with both hands, pulling him gently toward her.
“Yu Tu,” she said softly, “you don’t have to protect me from the future.”
He swallowed hard.
“I want a future with you,” she continued. “Even if it’s messy, or difficult, I will wait for you.”
His breath shook. He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. “I’m scared,” he whispered.
“I know,” she said, her voice steady and unwavering. “But look at how far we’ve come. I waited ten years to find you again; I can handle a few launch cycles. You don't have to be brave every second, Yu Tu. You just have to be mine. I'm staying right here.”
He opened his eyes, and for the first time since the meeting, he let her see everything, the fear, the love, the longing, and the impossible weight of the decision he needed to make.
And Jing Jing, without hesitation, wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close.
He held her tightly, burying his face in her shoulder, breathing her in like air. He didn’t propose. Not tonight. Not yet.
But the words hovered between them — unspoken, undeniable, waiting for the moment when he could offer her not just love, but a future he believed in.
After a long moment, Jing Jing eased back and sat cross‑legged on the couch, still holding Yu Tu’s hand as he finished explaining the full impact of his appointment. Her brows were furrowed in deep concentration — which, for her, meant she was about to say something ridiculous.
“So …” she said slowly, “you’re not the boss of the directors.”
“No.”
“And you’re not the boss of your mentor.”
“No.”
“But you’re the boss of all the engineers.”
“Only for the Seeker of God mission.”
She blinked. “Only for that mission?”
He nodded. “Yes. Outside the mission, I’m still just an engineer.”
She stared at him. “That sounds like a scam.”
He sighed. “It’s not a scam.”
“It is! You have all the responsibility but none of the rank. None of the power. And the salary—” She waved a hand. “Okay, fine, it’s better. But not Chief Designer who has to carry the entire nation’s hope kind of better.”
She snapped her fingers. “You’re like a group project leader who does all the work but still gets graded the same as everyone else.”
Yu Tu pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s not—”
“And,” she continued, warming up, “you’re telling me that even though you’re the Chief Designer, if the Institute director tells you to go buy him coffee, you still have to go?”
He stared at her. “… I don’t buy anyone coffee.”
“But you could be told to!”
“That’s not how—”
“And your mentor,” she said, shifting closer until their knees brushed, “does he have to call you Chief Designer now?”
“No.”
She tilted her head, studying him with exaggerated seriousness. “Does he have to salute you?”
“No.”
She leaned in even further, her shoulder bumping his, eyes bright with mischief. “Does he have to ask your permission to go home early?”
“Jing Jing.” His voice was half‑warning, half‑plea, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching despite everything. He tried to look stern, but she could see the warmth creeping back into his eyes, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a little.
She grinned, fingers tapping lightly against the back of his hand. “I’m just checking.”
Yu Tu let out a slow breath, the kind that wasn’t quite a sigh but carried the weight of one. He turned his hand over, threading his fingers through hers, grounding himself in the simple, steady contact. His thumb brushed her knuckles once, almost unconsciously.
“You’re impossible,” he murmured, but there was no heat in it. Only affection, relief, and the quiet, aching gratitude of a man who had been drowning in responsibility and suddenly found a place to rest.
He shook his head, but the tension in his shoulders eased. She always did this, made the unbearable feel manageable.
Then her expression softened. “Wait … so you’re the boss of everyone on the mission … but not the boss of anyone outside the mission?”
“Yes.”
“So you’re the Chief Designer of Everything except Rank.”
Yu Tu groaned. Jing Jing beamed. He laughed, a real one this time. And the heaviness in his chest loosened.
“So … are you going to accept the appointment?”
He hesitated, not because he doubted the answer, but because he wanted to say it right. “Only with your blessing.”
Jing Jing blinked, surprised by the softness in his voice.
“This isn’t just my career. It affects both of us. Our time. Our future. Everything we’re planning.” He held her gaze, steady and earnest. “I won’t take a step like this unless you’re with me.”
Her expression melted, warmth blooming in her eyes. “Yu Tu,” she said gently, “you will always have my blessing.”
His breath left him in a quiet exhale. It was relief, gratitude, and something deeper.
She squeezed his hand. “And my partnership. My patience. My future. All of it.”
He swallowed, the tension easing from his shoulders. “Then yes,” he said softly. “I’ll accept.”
Her smile was soft and proud. “Then we should celebrate.”
He blinked. “Celebrate?”
“Yes. You’re becoming Chief Designer of the Seeker of God mission. That’s huge. We should go out for dinner. Tonight!”
He opened his mouth to protest, he didn’t feel like celebrating. But she cut him off.
“And,” she added. “We should invite Guan Zai and his family.”
Yu Tu froze.
Jing Jing tilted her head. “Isn’t that what you do when someone gets promoted? You celebrate with the people who matter!”
He swallowed. “That’s … not the usual practise.”
“But it should be.” She smiled. “And it’s the perfect time to tell him.”
He hesitated, not because he didn’t want to, but because the idea of facing Guan Zai with this decision made his chest tighten.
Jing Jing stepped closer, her voice soft. “You don’t have to do it alone.”
He looked at her — really looked — and something inside him steadied.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Let’s call him.”