The city glowed outside the tall windows, neon lights painting streaks of color against the dark sky. Inside the penthouse, the lights were dim, the quiet heavy, broken only by the sound of breathing.
Qing Yun lay against the cool sheets, her body bare beneath the weight of his. Ze Yan's lips moved across her collarbone, slow and deliberate, as though memorizing the taste of her skin.
"Gu Ze Yan…" Her voice trembled, caught between protest and surrender. She pressed her hands against his shoulders, but his strength was unyielding. "Stop doing this… you never use protection. What if… what if—"
His mouth brushed hers, swallowing her words. "What if what?" His tone was low, husky, almost teasing.
Her cheeks burned. She couldn't bring herself to say it.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes dark in the shadows. "I thought this is what we're going to build," he said softly. "A family."
Her breath caught.
"Not now," she managed, the words spilling out with the rhythm of his kisses down her throat. "You came here to accompany me so I can walk toward my dream. Not make me stray further from it…" Her voice broke on the last word as his mouth found the sensitive hollow at her neck.
"Mn." His agreement was noncommittal, his lips still grazing her skin, his hands still roaming her body.
Then she felt him, deep and sudden.
Her eyes flew open. "Ze Yan…" His name left her lips in a half-groan, half-rebuke, her tone laced with exasperation.
His breath was warm against her ear. "It's the last time," he whispered, steady, unrelenting. "Tomorrow I'll be back in Liangcheng. Let me have this."
She bit her lip, torn between irritation and the helpless rush of sensation. His movements were controlled but possessive, each thrust a reminder of his claim.
So this, she thought faintly as her body trembled beneath him—this was the real Gu Ze Yan when he no longer held himself back. The gentle man who brushed her hair at night was still here, but beneath it all was the absolute, dominant man the world called a CEO. And with her, he no longer hid it.
Her arms wrapped around him despite herself. She let him take what he needed, let herself be carried with him, breathless and overwhelmed.
---
Dawn crept slowly across the sky.
Qing Yun stirred awake, her body sore, the quilt pulled high around her. She turned her head to find him still there, his arm heavy around her waist, his breathing steady.
When she shifted, he opened his eyes.
"You're awake," he murmured, voice low with sleep.
She nodded faintly. "You should rest more. You'll be leaving soon."
His gaze lingered on her face, quiet. Then he reached out, brushing damp strands of hair from her cheek, pressing a kiss to her temple.
Later, when he rose to dress, he said only, "Call me every night."
Her reply was simple, calm. "Every night."
The farewell was quiet. No grand words, no promises beyond what they both already knew. He left for Liangcheng, and she stood at the window long after his car had disappeared from sight.
---
The following days filled quickly.
Qing Yun began her classes at the restoration institute. The halls were bright and orderly, filled with the faint scent of old books and chemical cleansers.
From the first lesson, her precision stood out. While other students struggled with delicate brush strokes or handling fragile fragments, her movements were steady, patient. Professors paused to watch her hands, nodding with approval.
"You've done this before?" one asked.
Qing Yun shook her head modestly. "Just a little practice."
Her classmates glanced at her with admiration. Some whispered, others smiled at her quietly, sensing the calm confidence she carried.
Though she kept to herself, she found herself gradually drawn into small circles. A lively girl with quick words often sat beside her, while a quiet, thoughtful boy offered to share notes. Qing Yun responded with polite warmth, surprised at how natural it felt. She was still herself—reserved, composed—but no longer closed off.
---
Life in Guangjing had its own rhythm.
Mornings were for study: handling fragments, learning techniques, practicing with brushes and tools. Afternoons were lectures, sometimes long discussions about philosophy of preservation. Evenings, she wandered the streets near Yuelan District, where cafés and bookstores dotted the sidewalks, where neon signs glowed but the air still carried a quiet safety.
At night, she returned to Cloudpeak. Her penthouse was serene, every detail prepared with Ze Yan's foresight. From the balcony, she watched the city lights, the streets alive below.
Her phone buzzed almost on schedule.
Ze Yan's name lit the screen.
She answered, and his face appeared—slightly blurred by the dim light of his office, tie undone, fatigue shadowing his features.
"How was the first day?" he asked, voice low, familiar.
She leaned against the sofa, her tone calm but tinged with quiet pride. "The professors praised me. They said my hand was steady."
His lips curved faintly. "Good."
Silence lingered for a moment, but it wasn't heavy. Then he added, "I told you—dreams are fragile. Don't let anyone take this from you."
She nodded. "I won't."
The call stretched long into the night. They spoke of small things—her classmates, his meetings, the weather in each city. When words ran out, they simply stayed connected, the sound of each other's breathing filling the silence.
Gradually, drowsiness pulled at her eyes. She curled up on the sofa, the phone still in her hand.
On the other side of the screen, Ze Yan watched her. His voice softened, barely above a whisper. "Sleep. I'll still be here."
Her lashes lowered, and for the first time in years, she felt no fear of tomorrow.