The rain still drummed against the wide glass panes of the mansion when Gu Ze Yan finally loosened his grip on Lin Qing Yun. For a long moment, he had clung to her as though his very heartbeat depended on it. His arms had trembled, his breath had been uneven, his chest crushed against hers with the desperation of a man who had almost lost his world for the second time.
Qing Yun, calm and steady, tilted her head and murmured, "Mr. Gu… you're getting me wet."
The words were not harsh. They were almost gentle, practical, the same tone she might use to remind someone that the kettle was boiling. But it was enough to make him pause, enough to force him to release her. He looked down—truly looked—and saw how her hair was damp from his soaked clothes, how droplets clung to her collarbone.
His arms reluctantly fell away. Yet his eyes did not leave her, afraid she might vanish if he blinked.
---
The Explanation
"Where were you?" His voice was hoarse, his throat dry from shouting her name in places she never was. "Why didn't you answer? Do you know—" His words broke, his chest tightening. "Do you know what I thought?"
Qing Yun's gaze held steady. There was no flicker of guilt, no apology, only that deep calm that was hers now. She answered simply, "You didn't look well this morning. Your complexion was pale. I thought… I should make you the soup I used to cook when you were ill."
Ze Yan froze.
She continued, eyes lowering as though recounting something trivial, "But the kitchen here doesn't have the herbs I needed. So I went out to the herb store. My phone was on silent. Later… the battery died. I didn't hear your calls."
The words were plain, devoid of drama. But to him, every syllable landed like a thunderclap.
She noticed.
She cared.
After all these years, after all the walls she had built, after all the silence she lived in… she still remembered the taste of soup she once made for him. She still wanted to take care of him.
His chest ached with something sharp and tender.
---
Qing Yun's hand lifted, cool fingers brushing against his forehead. The contrast was startling—her skin icy, his skin burning. Her brows furrowed ever so slightly. "You're burning," she said softly. "You should take a bath, eat something warm, drink medicine, and rest."
Ze Yan caught her wrist, holding it against his cheek. "Don't. Not yet. Stay with me."
She looked at him with that calm, almost detached patience. "You'll get sicker."
"I don't care." His voice cracked with boyish stubbornness. His eyes searched hers, vulnerable in a way only she could strip him down to. "If I let go, will you disappear again?"
Her lips curved—barely a smile, more like a sigh given shape. She lowered her hand to his, interlacing their fingers. "I'll be here when you finish showering."
That promise, simple as it was, broke his resistance. Slowly, reluctantly, he let her guide him toward his room.
---
The master bedroom of Gu Ze Yan was spacious, serene, with soft lighting and the faint scent of sandalwood. While he disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of running water filling the silence, Qing Yun's steps carried her deeper inside.
She saw the walk-in wardrobe—half of it filled with meticulously arranged suits and shirts, the other half empty, waiting for clothes that never came. The tie rack, once neatly hung with silk, lay untouched, dustless yet unused, as though abandoned on purpose.
Her eyes moved to the top of the drawer.
There—like an altar—stood the small collection:
A framed photograph of her, one she didn't even remember being taken.
The velvet ring box that once held his proposal.
The hairclip he had bought for her during that Ferris wheel night.
The bank card she had returned when she left him.
All laid out carefully, spotless, like relics he prayed to each day.
Her chest tightened. The air seemed heavier, filled with unsaid devotion, years of longing solidified into these few objects.
He had waited. Even when she had disappeared. Even when she had shattered his world. He had waited.
The bathroom door opened with a soft click. She turned.
Gu Ze Yan stood there, damp hair falling across his forehead, steam curling around him. He looked weary, paler than usual, yet his eyes softened when he saw her standing by his drawer.
He walked over, slipped behind her, and without a word wrapped his arms around her waist. His lips brushed her shoulder, a feather-light kiss, silent gratitude for her presence.
Qing Yun closed her eyes briefly, then whispered, "Lie down. I'll prepare food."
---
The Caretaker
He obeyed, too weak to argue. Soon she returned with a tray: chicken soup with herbs, warm water, a few pills for his fever. She set it on the bedside table and sat beside him.
"I have no appetite," he murmured.
Her eyes flicked to him, sharp and unwavering. That was enough.
He straightened immediately, almost like a child caught misbehaving. He took the spoon, ate obediently, bite after bite.
And then it hit him—the taste. The exact same taste of years ago, when she had silently cared for him. His throat closed, memory pouring in. Nights of fever when she stayed up to keep him warm, mornings when she left soup by his bedside without a word, the way she would scold him softly if he skipped meals.
Now here it was again, in his mouth, in his chest, alive.
He swallowed hard. Grateful. So painfully grateful.
She passed him the warm water, the pills. He obeyed without protest, swallowing them quickly.
"Rest," she said.
But he caught her hand, eyes fierce though his body trembled with fatigue. "Don't leave."
Qing Yun hesitated, then sat back down. "I won't."
Only then did he close his eyes. His breathing slowed. Sleep took him, still clinging to her fingers.
---
The Morning Light
When dawn came, pale gold slipped through the curtains.
Gu Ze Yan stirred, his fever lighter, his body still heavy but no longer burning. His first instinct was panic—was she gone?
He turned his head.
And there she was.
Lin Qing Yun lay beside him, not leaving, not running. Her face was turned toward him, strands of hair falling across her cheek, her breathing steady.
For the first time in years, peace washed through him. He reached out, gently brushed the hair from her face. She didn't stir.
A smile broke across his lips, faint but real.
He whispered, almost reverently, "Thank you."
And held onto that moment like it was the rarest treasure.