The afternoon sun spilled through the glass walls of Luminar, gilding the marble lobby.
Inside his office, Gu Ze Yan's phone buzzed. A message from Chen Rui.
"Boss, Lin Qing Yun just left the office. She didn't tell anyone."
Ze Yan froze.
His chest tightened immediately, as though the floor had dropped beneath him.
Not again… not again…
Memories struck him like lightning—the night he returned home and found nothing but a ring box, a hairclip, and a goodbye note. The fear had lived in him ever since, a shadow lurking behind every smile she gave, every quiet glance she spared.
His hand clenched around the phone.
For a moment, he was one breath away from running out the door, abandoning the stack of contracts on his desk.
But then… he remembered her words.
"I won't make it hard for you anymore."
Slowly, painfully, he forced himself to stay seated. His knuckles whitened as he loosened his grip, forcing his hand to release the phone. He had promised himself—he would trust her. He had to.
The minutes crawled. Every second burned in his chest.
Then finally, his phone buzzed again.
A message. From her.
"Yi Lan forgot some documents. I'll deliver them. I'll be home myself."
Ze Yan read it twice, then a third time.
That last word—home—blurred in his vision. He pressed the phone against his lips, exhaling shakily.
She had called it home. Not "your house," not "the mansion," but home.
Something inside him loosened. For the first time in years, he felt as though she was no longer drifting out of his reach.
Quiet Kisses
In the days that followed, a new rhythm settled between them.
Qing Yun still wasn't "Sunny." She didn't smile for the world, didn't pretend, didn't bend herself into anyone's expectations. But she kept her promises. She didn't vanish. She didn't shut him out.
And she cared. In her own way, she cared.
Sometimes, in the still of a fine afternoon, Ze Yan would sit close, the rustle of pages between them the only sound. Without warning, he would lean forward and kiss her—softly, long, without fire or demand. Just the press of lips that said: I love you. No reason. No condition.
And each time, she didn't push him away. She didn't laugh. She simply let it happen.
For Ze Yan, it was enough. More than enough.
He never imagined that a kiss without desire could feel so complete.
A Bookstore, and a Chilling Joke
One weekend, they strolled together through a bookstore downtown. Qing Yun's steps carried her directly toward the non-fiction section, fingers brushing along spines of crime and mystery titles.
Ze Yan followed, pulling one book from the shelf. He read the synopsis, frowned deeply.
"These are disturbing. Why would you want to read something like this?"
Qing Yun's tone was calm, almost casual.
"It's good for learning."
Suspicion prickled in him. "Learning what? How to depress yourself?"
She glanced at him sideways, lips curving faintly.
"You know… maybe one day I'll need it. How to dispose of a body. Make an abductor disappear."
Ze Yan's blood ran cold. "Qing Yun!"
Her expression didn't shift. "For science. For knowledge. Real-life situations. It might be useful."
Ze Yan's jaw dropped, horrified.
"That's not funny. Not at all."
Her smirk deepened, a rare glint of mischief in her calm eyes.
"One day, maybe."
"Absolutely not," he snapped, grabbing her wrist and tugging her away from the shelf. "No more creepy books."
"But I wanted that one," she said over her shoulder, pointing at a thick black volume.
"No." His tone was firm, almost paternal, as if dealing with a rebellious child.
For a moment, she let herself be dragged out of the aisle, eyes amused. He was terrified, she could see it, and yet her lips curved faintly. Perhaps she liked how much he cared.
The Antique Studio
Later, Ze Yan acted on a thought that had lingered since their riverside stroll.
He asked Chen Rui to investigate the antique restoration studio they'd stumbled upon. What he learned shocked him: the kindly old man who had welcomed Qing Yun was none other than Shen Huai Zhen, once considered a legendary master of restoration in China, known in museums and universities, but retired and reclusive.
Ze Yan kept this knowledge to himself. He wanted Qing Yun to discover it in her own way.
So on weekends, he would drive her back to the riverside, to that humble studio.
The old master always greeted her warmly, as though expecting her.
"You came back," Shen Huai Zhen would say with a smile, his eyes kind.
And each time, he offered her something small—a brush to try, a faded page to smooth, a tiny crack in porcelain to observe.
At first, Qing Yun hesitated, afraid of ruining valuable work. But the master would reassure her gently:
"This one is not rare. Don't fear. Just focus. Your hands are steady."
And when she tried, she surprised herself. Her movements mimicked his almost flawlessly.
The master's eyes lit. "You see? You were born with the heart for this. Calm hands, calm breath. That is what restoration needs."
Ze Yan, standing aside, watched her.
For the first time in years, he saw something flicker in her gaze—curiosity, even faint excitement. Not for him, not for obligation. For herself.
And his heart swelled.
Honest Happiness
As weeks passed, their closeness grew warmer.
One fine evening, Ze Yan leaned close to kiss her. It wasn't heated, wasn't demanding. Just lips pressed softly against hers, again and again, until the world blurred away.
He never knew it was possible to kiss someone just for love itself, no other reason.
And when she let him, when she allowed him that closeness without hesitation, it was as though his soul was finally home.