The spring air carried with it a quiet warmth, soft and weightless, like a thin veil draped over the world. Outside Gu Ze Yan's mansion, the bamboo grove swayed gently, their leaves rustling like whispers between old friends. The koi pond reflected the sky in shifting ripples, plum blossoms had begun to bloom, and yet inside the grand study room, the atmosphere was as still as carved stone.
Lin Qing Yun sat cross-legged in the armchair near the tall shelves, a thick book resting on her lap. The lamp cast a warm light over her pale face, and her long fingers traced the lines of text with absent-minded precision. She wasn't really reading—not in the way others did. Her eyes scanned the words, but they seemed to pass through her like water running over polished stone, leaving no trace.
This had become her world: the study room that smelled faintly of paper and sandalwood, the shelves overflowing with books she never asked for but always found waiting, and the silence that stretched between her and the man who never left her side for too long.
---
Ze Yan's Restlessness
Gu Ze Yan had returned late from the office. Even now, years after founding Luminar, he still carried himself with the air of command, but his energy shifted the moment he stepped past the carved screen of his mansion. To his staff, he was Mr. Gu. To the world, he was the young, brilliant CEO. But here, in the quiet of his home, he was only a man desperately trying to piece together the fragile fragments of the woman he loved.
He had been gone only for half a day, and yet as he stepped into the study, his chest eased only when his eyes landed on her. There she was—seated just as he imagined—her dark hair falling like a curtain, her gaze steady on the book in her hands.
"You didn't move," he said gently, as though afraid his voice might disturb her.
Her eyes flicked up briefly, acknowledging his presence with the smallest of nods before dropping back to the page. Not a word. But that nod was enough for him. It was a greeting, in her way.
Ze Yan smiled faintly. He loosened the cuffs of his shirt, walked forward, and crouched down beside her chair. "Did you eat?" he asked softly.
Her hand paused on the page, then moved again. "Mm." A sound, quiet and indifferent, but it was an answer.
His smile deepened. "What are you reading?"
She tilted the book so he could see the title. A collection of translated poetry. He didn't know the poet, but he knew she did—she always did. He studied the cover for a moment, then straightened, not wanting to disturb her further.
---
Subtle Exchanges
The rhythm of their days had settled into something both fragile and precious. Every morning, he brought her a porcelain cup of her favorite jasmine tea, the fragrance delicate and lingering. Sometimes he paired it with fresh flowers, sometimes with notes he scribbled in his neat handwriting—reminders like "Don't skip breakfast" or "Remember to rest your eyes."
Qing Yun never responded to the notes. She never smiled or frowned when she saw them, but he always noticed her gaze lingering on them longer than necessary. Once, he even caught her slipping one into the pages of a book, as if marking a chapter. That fleeting, tiny act was enough to sustain him for days.
He would talk to her while she read, telling her about his work. About Shen Qiao's endless arguments with investors, about Chen Rui's new obsession with bonsai trees, about the younger engineers at Luminar who looked at him like a living legend but never dared to approach.
She rarely replied. But she listened. He knew, because her eyes followed his lips as he spoke, her brow creasing faintly when the story turned troublesome, her fingers pausing on the page whenever he laughed. She was watching him, even if she didn't admit it. And for Ze Yan, this was enough.
---
Night Market
Sometimes, on quiet evenings, he persuaded her to leave the mansion with him. They went to the nearby night market, bustling with lantern light and fragrant smoke curling from food stalls. Children darted between legs, couples huddled together under the glow of red paper lanterns.
Qing Yun never spoke much there either. She walked beside him, silent, observing. But her eyes—those calm, ocean-deep eyes—moved constantly, catching every detail: the vendor's quick hands flipping skewers, the little girl tugging her mother's sleeve for candied hawthorn, the laughter that spilled like music down the street.
It was in those moments that Ze Yan dared to hold her hand. He would slip his fingers around hers carefully, ready for her to pull away. But she didn't. She never tightened her grip, never returned the warmth. Yet she allowed it. That, to him, was permission. A fragile hope he held onto tightly.
---
The Floor Scene
One night, when the sky outside was heavy with stars, Ze Yan returned later than usual. His steps quickened down the corridor, the ache in his chest easing only when he reached the study room.
But what he saw made him pause at the doorway.
Qing Yun wasn't in her usual armchair. She wasn't curled up on the couch with a book balanced on her knees. Instead, she sat on the floor by the coffee table, her arms folded on the wooden surface, her head resting on them like a weary child. Her long hair spilled like ink across her sleeve. She wasn't reading. She wasn't sleeping. She wasn't doing anything at all.
The sight of her pierced him.
Quietly, Ze Yan stepped forward and lowered himself beside her. He leaned on his arm, copying her posture, resting his head on the table so his face was only inches from hers. He tilted his head slightly, watching her profile in the soft lamplight.
"Hi," he said gently, his voice carrying the warmth of a smile.
Her lashes lifted, and for a moment, their eyes met. She blinked once, then turned her face toward him, her expression as calm as ever.
"Good evening, Mr. Gu," she said softly, her voice almost teasing, though her face gave nothing away.
His heart stirred at the sound of her voice. Even in her deadpan calmness, there was something that drew him in.
"Not reading?" he asked.
She shook her head.
A silence stretched between them, the kind that made his chest ache. He wanted to fill it, but he also knew silence was sometimes all she had to give.
So he lowered his voice, letting the words slip out as naturally as a sigh. "Qing Yun, do you have anything you want to do? Something unfinished… or maybe a dream you always held onto?"
Her eyes grew distant, drifting away from his face to the shadowed edges of the room. Her lips parted slowly. "Dream…" she echoed, her voice fragile, as though testing the word itself. A faint, bitter smile tugged at her lips. "I used to have one. Si Yao."
The name struck the air like a bell, soft but devastating. He swallowed hard, his chest tightening.
He gathered his courage. "Don't you have one for yourself?"
Her head moved faintly, side to side. No.
His voice cracked with quiet disbelief. "Why not?"
She blinked slowly, then turned her gaze back to him. Her eyes—dark, bottomless—looked straight through him. Her voice was calm, almost detached, but every syllable sliced through him.
"Because… I don't deserve to have one."
---
Ze Yan's heart broke in that instant. He wanted to argue, to scream that she was wrong, to shake her shoulders until she saw herself through his eyes. But he held himself back. He forced himself to stay silent, because he knew if he interrupted, she would retreat again.
So he lay there, his head resting on the table just like hers, watching her with eyes that burned with tears he refused to let fall.
She didn't deserve dreams? She, who carried the weight of the world on her back? She, who smiled through agony to give warmth to everyone else?
How could she believe that?
And yet, she did. And his silence was the only way to let her say it aloud.
The night stretched long. Neither moved from their place on the floor. She drifted further into her thoughts, and he stayed, silently guarding her, his presence steady as the lamp that lit their shadows on the wall.