The train sliced through the snow-dusted Alps like a silver line drawn by a calm hand. Inside their private cabin, the world outside looked painted — white peaks, scattered cottages, flocks of birds cutting across the sky.
Qing Yun pressed her forehead against the glass. "It's like the clouds have fallen down."
Ze Yan glanced up from his tablet. "And you're trying to restore them with your eyes?"
She smiled faintly. "I would if they cracked."
He closed the screen, watching her reflection on the glass. "You're getting poetic."
"Must be the altitude."
They exchanged quiet laughter that filled the space between the soft hum of the train. Outside, the light shifted — snow giving way to green hills as they approached Florence, then the deeper shades of vineyards stretching toward Chianti.
---
Arrival at the Estate
By afternoon, they reached a countryside villa perched on a small slope, surrounded by rows of sleeping vines. The owner — a gray-haired Italian woman with bright eyes — welcomed them with open arms and stories that tumbled faster than her English.
When she left, the house felt suspended in sunlight. Wooden beams, long tables, the faint scent of olive oil and rosemary.
Qing Yun ran her fingers over the old stone counter. "Everything here looks like it's been loved for centuries."
Ze Yan stood by the doorway, his coat still on. "And still works perfectly. I could use that lesson."
She turned to him, amused. "You mean patience?"
"I mean not rebuilding something just because you can."
"That's new," she teased. "You usually rebuild before anyone asks."
He raised a brow. "You're rubbing off on me."
"Good," she said softly. "Then I'll call it even."
---
In the Kitchen
Later that evening, they joined the villa's chef for a private cooking class. The kitchen was warm, fragrant with garlic and butter. Qing Yun tied her hair into a loose bun, sleeves rolled up, while Ze Yan read the recipe like it was a quarterly report.
"Two eggs, 200 grams flour," he recited. "Precise."
"This isn't data analysis," she said, cracking an egg with one hand. "It's feeling."
"Feeling doesn't measure yield."
"Try it," she said, handing him the bowl. "If you break the yolk, that's your KPI."
He smirked, but did as told. Predictably, the yolk broke.
"Failing your first quarter already?" she said, laughing.
He stared at the bowl, then looked at her — and for a moment, she saw the younger version of him, the one who had chased precision as safety.
"Fine," he murmured, smiling, "teach me feeling."
She stepped behind him, guiding his hands through the dough, their movements slow, messy, and warm. Flour smudged across his sleeve; a strand of her hair brushed his cheek. When they looked at each other, laughter caught somewhere between amusement and affection.
"Better," she said quietly.
He nodded. "You make chaos look manageable."
---
Late Afternoon Drives
In the following days, they drove through sun-soft hills, stopping wherever the road invited them. Farmers waved from their vineyards; dogs barked from porches.
Qing Yun loved the rhythm of it — the hum of the old car, her scarf fluttering in the wind, the smell of cypress trees and fresh bread.
Ze Yan glanced at her profile. "You look like you belong here."
She turned, half-smiling. "As a tourist?"
"As someone finally breathing."
Her gaze softened. "You really notice everything."
"I've had five years to practice," he said quietly.
They stopped at a small winery. The owner poured them glasses of ruby-red Chianti, speaking about patience and weather, about vines that survive frost only to bloom stronger in spring.
Qing Yun listened intently. "They're stubborn."
"They're alive," Ze Yan replied.
When she took the first sip, the wine spread warmth down her throat. She looked at him. "You'd like this — it tastes mature, but not arrogant."
He raised a brow. "Like me?"
"Like who you think you are," she said, hiding a smile behind the rim of her glass.
---
Candlelight
That night, they dined on the terrace overlooking the valley. A simple meal — truffle pasta, grilled vegetables, and local wine. No music, only the hum of crickets and the faint murmur of distant bells.
Qing Yun leaned her elbows on the table, chin resting on her hands. "You know, this is what I used to imagine when people talked about peace."
"Just pasta and quiet?"
"And someone who doesn't need to talk to fill it."
He watched her for a long moment. "You're changing."
"Am I?"
"Yes. You're smiling more."
She looked down, pretending to focus on her fork. "Maybe Italy's to blame."
"Maybe," he said softly, "it's you forgiving yourself."
She froze slightly, the words sinking in.
"Don't overthink it," he added gently, reaching across the table to touch her hand. "I like watching you forget the noise."
Her thumb brushed his. "Maybe I am learning."
---
Vineyard Morning
The next morning, mist curled over the vines. Ze Yan found Qing Yun outside again, sketching the old wooden fence while sunlight filtered through the fog.
He handed her a mug of coffee. "What are you drawing today?"
"The cracks on the fence," she said. "They remind me of old manuscripts — fragile but still holding everything together."
"Sounds like someone I know."
She looked up, smiling faintly. "If you say it's me, I'll throw this pencil."
"I was going to say me," he said. "But clearly, you're defensive."
She laughed, shaking her head.
He watched her sketch quietly, then said, "You could stay here for months and never get bored."
"Maybe because it's a place that lets you rest without asking for anything."
"Then it's the opposite of us," he said with a small grin.
She tilted her head. "You think we ask too much of each other?"
"Only everything."
Her eyes softened, amused and touched all at once. "That's fair."
---
Sunset Promise
Their last night in Chianti glowed gold. They sat on the low wall behind the villa, watching the sun slide behind the hills. The smell of grapes lingered faintly in the wind.
Qing Yun exhaled. "You planned this perfectly."
He smiled without answering.
"Where next?"
"Further north. Maybe colder."
"Another secret?"
"Another view," he said. "You'll like it."
She looked at him, then leaned her head against his shoulder. "If this is your idea of a honeymoon, you might have set the bar too high."
"I can live with that."
For a long moment, they stayed silent, the world dimming around them.
Qing Yun whispered, "Ze Yan… thank you."
"For what?"
"For letting me feel alive again."
He turned slightly, pressing his lips to her hair. "That's all I ever wanted."
---
When they packed the next morning, the villa owner hugged Qing Yun tight, pressing a jar of homemade olive oil into her hands. "For love," the woman said in thickly accented English.
Qing Yun smiled. "For patience," she corrected softly.
They drove away as the first light stretched across the vines. The road wound toward the north, toward the fairytale towns waiting ahead — and for the first time, neither of them looked back.
---