The financial district glittered with glass and order, the kind of place where mornings began with espresso machines and contracts instead of steamed buns and bicycles.
Inside the top floor of Luminar Systems, Gu Ze Yan leaned back in his leather chair, pen idle against an unopened report. His gaze wasn't on the city skyline. It wasn't even on the stack of investor proposals that required his signature.
It was still on the way Lin Qing Yun had dozed off against the car window last night, her hair loose, her expression unguarded, soft in a way she never allowed when awake.
His lips curled slightly before he caught himself.
"Boss."
Chen Rui's voice broke the quiet. He appeared at the door with a tablet under one arm, his shirt collar deliberately unbuttoned for style rather than comfort.
"You've been staring at the same page for ten minutes," Chen Rui observed, dropping into the chair across the desk. "Should I call the paramedics? Or are we diagnosing a rare case of… post-romantic trauma?"
Ze Yan's brow arched lazily. "Trauma?"
"Ah, my mistake." Chen Rui steepled his fingers dramatically. "Not trauma. Love sickness. Symptoms include sighing at windows, ignoring billion-yuan contracts, and smiling at nothing like a man who just discovered puppies exist."
"I wasn't sighing."
"You were sighing," Chen Rui said firmly. "With feeling. If I had recorded it, the office stock price in you would have plummeted."
Ze Yan set the pen down, lips twitching. "Do your job."
"This is my job," Chen Rui retorted, leaning forward conspiratorially. "I'm saving the company from a CEO who's currently living in a bookstore café instead of a boardroom."
Ze Yan smirked faintly but didn't deny it. His phone, placed face down beside him, buzzed once. He didn't flip it. Not yet.
Chen Rui's grin widened. "See? Your girlfriend texted."
"She's not—"
"Not yet," Chen Rui cut in smoothly, standing with a flourish. "Anyway, carry on, Boss. Try not to let the whole office drown in your romantic aura. I, for one, can't swim."
The door clicked behind him, leaving Ze Yan alone with his thoughts—and that buzzing phone he couldn't ignore.
It wasn't a message. Only the clock reminding him time was slipping.
He tapped his finger once against the table and thought: Tonight, I'll see her again.
Qing Yun's morning began differently.
Her alarm went off at four-thirty, pulling her into another day that already knew her schedule by heart. She tied her hair back, slipped on her jacket, and left the small apartment before dawn had properly arrived.
At the grocery warehouse, forklifts beeped and stacked crates of soy sauce and rice flour. Qing Yun balanced her clipboard, counting boxes, teasing Uncle Wu into working faster by promising tea eggs as payment.
By ten, she was on her scooter delivering lunch boxes across the city. Rain misted the visor of her helmet, neon signs still half-asleep. She dropped off mapo tofu to a receptionist, congee to an office worker who bowed his thanks, stir-fried greens to an old auntie who pressed mandarins into her hand as thanks.
Her smile never wavered. But when she parked for a breath of rest at the curb, she flexed her fingers, the ache deep in her wrist returning. She shook it out, rubbed her palm once, then went on.
In the afternoon, she took a few hours for translation work at home before heading to the bookstore. By the time the clock struck five, she was behind the counter, apron strings knotted neatly, hair tied tighter.
She stacked novels, straightened receipts, and hummed faintly as the shop filled with the warmth of paper and lamplight.
To anyone who saw her, she looked the same as always—bright, dependable, like the store itself ran better because she was there.
But her mind was elsewhere. Or rather, on someone.
She caught herself glancing toward the door more than once, lips quirking before she smoothed them into neutrality.
Her coworker noticed. "Sunny," he teased, "you keep checking the door. What's the matter—expecting a VIP customer?"
Qing Yun laughed, brushing a strand of hair back. "If someone really wants to impress me, they should buy all the dictionaries. Then at least my translations would finish faster."
"Ah," her coworker nodded solemnly, "so you're the practical type."
"Always," she said with a grin.
When the bell above the door finally chimed, she glanced up.
And there he was.
Gu Ze Yan entered without hurry, the air around him sharper than the winter evening outside. He was in a dark coat, sleeves neat, stride unhurried. Yet his presence bent the room, like the quiet that follows when someone strikes a single clear note.
He didn't greet her immediately. Instead, he moved to the café corner, ordered a coffee from the young barista, and sat with a book that looked far too boring to actually be read.
Qing Yun tried to hide her smile, failed, and bent over the receipts instead.
From his seat, Ze Yan's gaze slid toward her. She was laughing at a customer's joke, reaching up to adjust a tilted display, crouching to wipe a child's spilled drink without a trace of irritation.
She never stopped moving. Never stopped smiling.
And something about it unsettled him—not because it was insincere, but because he wondered how much of her strength was habit rather than ease.
When the crowd thinned and her coworker waved her toward the back, she finally had a chance to approach him.
"You're here," she said lightly.
"I said I'd come."
"Still pretending to read?" Her eyes flicked at the book.
"Pretending is a skill," he replied. "I'm very good at it."
She tilted her head, amused. "Coffee and philosophy. Dangerous combination."
"Not as dangerous as sesame tangyuan," he murmured, low enough that only she heard.
Her lips curved despite herself.
After her shift ended, he was waiting at the door.
"I'll drive you," he said. No question in his tone.
"You're spoiling me," she protested.
"Get used to it."
The car hummed warm against the cool night. She settled into the seat with a sigh she didn't mean to let escape.
He glanced at her. "Long day?"
She nodded, smiling faintly. "Normal day."
"Your normal is exhausting."
"Maybe." She turned toward the window. "But it's necessary."
He didn't argue. Only drove, his gaze steady, his hand loose on the wheel.
At the apartment gate, she reached for her bag, but he stopped her with a small paper bag placed in her hands.
Inside: a couple bottles of vitamin drinks, packets of fatigue medicine, and—she blinked—a box of cartoon panda bandaids.
Her laugh escaped before she could stop it. "What is this?"
"Emergency kit," he said smoothly.
"You sound like Auntie Zhu."
"At least someone should look after you."
She shook her head, but her eyes softened. "Thank you."
They stood by the stairwell, light buzzing faintly above.
"Good night," she said, her usual warmth in place.
"Good night, Lin Qing Yun."
The way he said her name made her breath catch, just for a second.
She went upstairs with the paper bag in her arms, mismatched slippers squeaking softly.
Ze Yan lingered outside, gaze fixed on the window light above.
He thought, It's not just her sister's dream I want to protect. It's her. Even if she doesn't know her own dream yet, I'll build a place where she can rest.
For once, the CEO who conquered investors and algorithms admitted it plainly to himself:
He wasn't just curious. He wasn't just admiring.
He was falling in love.