Se-Ri's POV
That morning in Shanghai was quieter than most.
I woke before Leo. The first light of dawn slipped through the edge of the curtains, spreading across the sheets like soft breath. The city below hadn't started humming yet, and for once, it felt like we had the whole world to ourselves.
Leo lay beside me, one arm across his chest, lips slightly parted. He looked impossibly young like this — peaceful, open, real. I couldn't help smiling. There was no trace of the careful, composed man who guarded his feelings like a fortress.
I sat up slowly, careful not to wake him, and reached for the journal on the nightstand.
I opened to a blank page and began to write.
He sleeps like a story you don't want to end.
His skin catching morning light like silk.
I want to kiss him.
I want to draw the way he breathes when he dreams.
He's warm — even when he tries not to be.
Then I began to sketch — just his profile. The curve of his shoulder. The way his hand rested near mine, even in sleep, like he was reaching out without knowing.
His voice, rough and low, broke the quiet.
"Are you drawing me?"
I glanced down. He'd opened one eye, barely.
"Maybe," I said.
He reached out and tugged me gently toward him, his face nuzzling into the crook of my neck.
"You should sleep more," he murmured.
"I have to leave tonight," I whispered.
That woke him up.
He blinked at me. "Already?"
"You shouldn't waste time," I said, running my fingers through his hair. "Make the most of today."
And we did.
We skipped plans and itineraries. Leo took me to parts of the city guidebooks wouldn't dare mention — a quiet teahouse with chipped cups and jasmine that made you forget your name, a riverside park where toddlers raced with kites shaped like dragons and sunflowers.
We stopped at a tiny dumpling stall where the oil sizzled louder than the chatter. He knew the vendor. I teased him for being a secret local celebrity.
We wandered into antique shops and tried on sunglasses from the '70s. We made up stories about strangers passing by.
We laughed. Hard.
We joked about Ren's upcoming internship — how he'd flirt with the receptionist on Day One, refuse to take the 9 a.m. seriously, and probably start pitching his own "AI marketing startup" by the third week.
Leo laughed so hard, he spilled soy sauce on his shirt.
It was perfect.
That evening, we sat on the wide ledge of his penthouse window. No music. No distractions. Just the heartbeat of the city below — a luminous map of lives we didn't know, stitched together in motion and light.
Leo held my hand in both of his. Not tight. Just sure.
We didn't say much. We didn't need to.
Time passed too fast.
And then, the airport.
We stood just beyond security. The overhead announcement called my flight. I shifted my bag on my shoulder and tried to pull my hand from his.
"Leo," I said softly. "You have to let me go now."
His eyes were glassy. He shook his head. "No."
I gave him a tight hug. A forever kind.
"I'll come," he said into my hair. "Wait for me."
I smiled, even as my chest pulled tight. "I will miss you every day."
"You should," he whispered. "Miss me a lot."
I kissed him gently on the cheek. "Promise me you'll call the moment you land in Canada."
He nodded, resting his forehead against mine. "I promise."
Then I turned.
I didn't look back.
But I felt him — behind me, around me — still holding on. Not to my hand anymore, but to every moment, every word, every breath we hadn't yet shared.
This time, I was leaving him…
To find my way back to him.
This time, the distance between us was just geography — not silence, not doubt.
This time, I wasn't running.
I was waiting.
For the right moment.
For the next chapter.
For him.
And this time — finally, undeniably —
we were choosing each other.
Even across oceans.
Even in the pause between now and next.