The park was quiet.
The sound of their footsteps brushed against fallen leaves, the faint glow of a lamp overhead spilling circles of gold on the pavement. Lin Qing Yun had asked him softly if he would go home for New Year, and Gu Ze Yan had smiled—a calm, sad smile—and answered: "I have no family to go to."
Silence followed. The kind of silence that could cut, if one tried to fill it too quickly.
But Qing Yun didn't rush. She didn't flutter with comfort, didn't offer quick reassurances. She only turned to him, her eyes soft, her lips pressed lightly together, her gaze steady and quiet like the still surface of a winter lake.
It wasn't pity. It was presence.
And that… somehow eased him.
Ze Yan tilted his head slightly, his chest loosening. "You're not going to say anything?"
Qing Yun shook her head gently. "I'll listen."
Something in him cracked open.
A Confession
He exhaled, a breath he hadn't known he was holding. "I was born in the States, you know. My father—my real father—he was Chinese-American. He died when I was three. I don't even remember his face. Just fragments, like an old photo left in the sun too long."
Her eyes softened, but she didn't interrupt.
"My mother… she wanted happiness. She got it, I suppose, when she remarried. Zhao Ming Liang—my stepfather. He treated me well. Better than most would, in his position." Ze Yan's lips curved faintly, though not in amusement. "But I was never invisible to everyone else. An outsider. An interloper."
The word lingered, sharp.
He lowered his gaze briefly to his hands, clasped loosely together. "Every time I worked harder, every time I achieved something, it only fed the whispers. That I wanted to take what didn't belong to me. That I was competing for love I wasn't entitled to."
His voice was even, calm, but beneath it lay the echo of years.
Qing Yun leaned just slightly closer, the smallest shift—but he felt it, and it was enough to make him go on.
"My stepbrothers hated me. They still do. Maybe because my stepfather favored me sometimes. Or maybe because I reminded them that blood doesn't guarantee worth. Either way, it didn't matter what I did—it was never right."
He paused, staring at the faint steam of his breath. "The irony? My mother finally had the marriage she wanted. A wealthy family. Stability. She was happy. And yet… it made me feel more invisible. Like I had to be grateful for existing in the first place."
He laughed once, quietly, but it was without humor. "So I worked. I studied. I built something of my own. Luminar isn't Zhao Corporation. It's mine. No one can claim it was handed to me."
The words fell into the quiet air. For a moment, he wondered if he'd said too much.
Then it struck him. He never spoke like this. Not to anyone. He had always been careful, measured, untouchable.
But tonight, with her… the words poured out like water breaking through a dam.
Maybe it was because she was Sunny. The girl who carried light without trying, who could make the busiest diner feel like home, who smiled at strangers as if she'd known them forever.
Maybe it was because she was the first person who had ever looked at him without expecting anything.
She didn't hurry to respond.
She didn't shake her head and say no, you're wrong, or don't think like that. She didn't cover over the cracks with easy plaster.
She just stayed there. Her gaze never left his face. Her posture was open, calm, like she was giving him all the space he needed. Her silence wasn't emptiness. It was steady ground.
For a moment, he almost felt embarrassed at how much he'd revealed. But when he looked at her, saw the quiet warmth in her eyes, the thought slipped away.
When his words finally trailed off, the air between them grew still. The lamp above buzzed faintly, casting a halo over the bench.
Then she moved.
No hesitation, no awkwardness. Lin Qing Yun leaned in and wrapped her arms around him.
It wasn't the clumsy, half-excuse hug she'd once given him before. This was different. Her arms were firm, steady, her presence enveloping. One hand slid gently into his hair, stroking softly, and the other patted his back in a rhythm that reminded him of comfort he'd never known he needed.
Her voice came quiet, but certain:
"You must be tired. You've carried too much. Thank you for working so hard, all these years. You are good. And everything will be alright."
Ze Yan froze for a breath. Then something in him, something wound tight for years, loosened. His arms lifted, wrapped around her, pulled her closer. He held on like a man who had been drifting and suddenly found the shore.
For once, he didn't need to be the one who steadied someone else.
For once, he could let himself be understood.
They stayed like that for a long time. He didn't count the seconds. He only knew that when she finally shifted back, their arms reluctant to let go, their faces ended up very close.
Too close.
Her eyes met his. Wide, shining, still soft with the remnants of warmth. Her breath brushed faintly against his lips, carrying the faint sweetness of tea.
Ze Yan's heart thudded once, heavy. His gaze lowered, lingered at her mouth, then lifted again.
Slowly, almost without realizing it, he leaned in.
Closer.
Her breath hitched, but she didn't move away.
The world around them went still—the park, the lamps, the night air—all holding its breath with them.
His lips hovered just a breath away from hers.