Se-Ri's POV
The next morning in Shanghai broke quietly. Pale light filtered through the sheer curtains, casting soft shadows across the room. The city below moved slowly, almost reverently, as if it too had witnessed something unspoken the night before.
Leo and I didn't talk about what happened. Not about the shattering glass, or the way his mother's words had sliced deeper than any object ever could. Not about the way he broke down, forehead pressed to my shoulder like he was holding in years.
But something had shifted.
We moved gently.
He made coffee while I found bread in the fridge and toasted it. We ate in companionable silence, the kind that didn't need to be filled. Something had been exchanged between us — not spoken, but understood.
After breakfast, Leo leaned against the kitchen counter, arms folded loosely.
"Take the day off," I said, sipping my coffee.
He looked up, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "I already did."
I grinned. "Then show me your Shanghai."
We skipped the postcard version of the city.
No glitzy towers or glossy rooftop bars. Leo took me through his own map — the real Shanghai. Narrow lanes, open balconies, grandmothers sweeping stoops.
At a noodle shop he said he hadn't visited since he was twelve, we sat on uneven stools, sharing a bowl of hand-pulled noodles and passing a single can of Coke like two kids who didn't know how to grow up.
Later, we wandered into a used bookstore tucked between two bakeries. The floor creaked with every step, and the air smelled like musty jackets and forgotten stories.
I found a weathered English travelogue.
He picked up a Chinese poetry book scribbled through with someone else's handwriting.
"Let's make this our trip journal," I said, thumbing the cracked spine.
Leo raised an eyebrow. "You want to vandalize literature together?"
"I want to remember this... the way we see it."
He didn't respond. But he took both books to the counter and paid in quiet agreement.
That evening, we sat cross-legged on the floor of the penthouse, takeout containers spread around us, a half-finished bottle of red wine nearby. Jazz curled softly through the speakers.
We'd started writing in the books — notes, sketches, quotes we half-remembered.
I peeked at Leo's and tried to snatch it.
"Let me see!"
He pulled it away, laughing. "Nope. That's against the rules."
My phone buzzed. Rhea. I ignored it.
Then Leo's rang. He answered on speaker, and Ren's voice immediately filled the room.
"My mom's lost it this time," Ren whined. "She's made a list of jobs and said if I don't start working part-time, I'm getting cut off from Netflix and the credit card."
Leo rolled his eyes. "Honestly? Good. You need a little chaos."
I leaned over and said, "He could intern at my office. We're taking marketing interns next month."
Leo put Ren on mute. "Are you serious? He'll charm your whole department and sleep through meetings."
I smiled. "He's smart. He just needs focus — and a little pressure."
Leo unmuted. "Hey, you up for it?"
Ren groaned. "Only if Se-Ri doesn't treat me like her cute little brother."
"Absolutely not," I said. "You'll be treated like every other unpaid, overworked intern."
Leo grinned. "Promise you won't ruin him with too much love."
"I make no promises," I said, bumping my shoulder into his.
Leo told Ren to check in next week and hung up.
We wrote more in our journals after that, stealing glances at each other's pages, scribbling small teases and thoughts into the margins — a secret dialogue between us, written in ink.
It felt like a memory I'd carry forever.
I didn't know how he felt, truly.
I didn't know if this — us — was forever.
But this moment?
It was a kind of forever.