Spring Blurs
The days blurred together like pages turning too quickly.
With Gu Ze Yan abroad on business, Luminar's office became a whirlpool of preparation for the early-summer tech expo. Shen Qiao had "lent" Lin Qing Yun to the event management team, and they clung to her like a lifeline.
"Miss Lin, could you translate this brochure?"
"Miss Lin, when is the client dinner again?"
"Miss Lin, help me rearrange the entire schedule—by tomorrow."
Clipboard in hand, headset on, she darted from meeting rooms to copy machines, switching languages between phone calls as easily as changing pens. By the time she collapsed onto her chair each night, it felt like she had run a marathon indoors.
And still—three times a week—she went to Ze Yan's apartment. Watering plants, feeding fish, changing his sheets on weekends. Quiet, unseen devotion.
Her own body paid the price. Meals became a swallow of instant noodles, a single steamed bun on the go. The bookstore café shifts were her only rest, and sometimes, exhaustion claimed her mid-shift.
That evening, warm lamplight draped over the shop, pages rustling faintly. Qing Yun's head drooped on her hand, eyes slipping closed.
Someone stopped before her counter.
He didn't wake her. He only stood there, silent, a faint curve on his lips.
When she stirred, blinking, the first thing she saw was a man in a hoodie and cap, half his face shadowed by a black mask. For a moment, he looked like any tired customer avoiding attention.
But then he tugged the mask down, just enough.
Xu Wei Ran.
Qing Yun blinked again, startled. "Rainy… hi."
His voice carried the same quiet cadence from years ago. "Hi."
The manager, shelving books nearby, glanced over. "Sunny, you're exhausted. Go home early today."
She shook her head. "I can manage until closing."
But Wei Ran had already stepped forward, unhurried, steady.
He stopped in front of her, his presence unmistakable even in disguise. Slowly, his hand reached the back of her apron. Fingers brushed lightly as he tugged the ribbon loose.
Her heart jumped—fast, unsteady.
His hand slid upward, undoing the second knot at the nape of her neck. The apron slackened, falling against her arms.
He leaned in, his breath warm at her ear, voice low:
"This," he murmured, "is my time now."
Her lips parted, breath caught. For a heartbeat, she thought he might kiss her. But instead, he folded the apron neatly and pressed it into her hands.
"Come on," he said with a smile. "Let's get you something to eat."
Qing Yun forced her racing pulse into calm. She tucked the apron under her arm and whispered, "Okay."
He led her to a quiet diner down the block, cap still low over his eyes, mask pulled up when others passed. Inside, the air smelled of herbs and simmering broth.
When steaming bowls of chicken noodle soup arrived, Qing Yun's eyes softened.
"You still remember," she murmured.
Wei Ran stirred his soup. "Of course. After twelve years by your side, how could I forget what you love?"
Her lips curved faintly. She took a sip—rich broth warming her tired body. For the first time in weeks, she ate slowly, savoring.
He watched her, gaze steady, as though every bite she took was proof that she was still here.
After dinner, they boarded a near-empty bus. The city glowed outside, spring lights flickering along the streets. Inside, it was quiet.
"You should rest," Wei Ran said, adjusting his shoulder.
This time, she didn't resist. She leaned against him, as naturally as she had years ago in a dusty classroom, when they shared equations and whispered debates.
His body stilled, then softened. His shoulder steadied, an anchor.
As the bus rocked gently, memory carried him away.
He remembered her silent endurance when her mother scolded her. The ache in his chest, wanting to protect her.
He remembered the long nights of study battles, the way sparks flew between them faster than anyone else could follow.
He remembered the darkest night—when she sat stone-faced after her mother left, unable to cry. He had hugged her until dawn.
And he remembered the kiss.
His room. Books scattered. The quiet hum of the lamp.
She had looked at him, eyes calm and knowing. Then leaned forward.
Their lips met—soft, certain. Not passion, but parting. Not promise, but farewell. Sweet, bitter.
A goodbye in disguise.
He had never forgotten.
Now, on the bus, her head rested against him once more. He brushed a strand of hair back, his fingers lingering. His hand stroked her head gently, the way he once did in high school when she was too tired to study.
Then, tenderly, he bent and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
Qing Yun didn't wake. She only leaned further into him, and for that moment, he let himself believe it wasn't just memory that held her close.