The room was quiet again, except for the shallow breaths that still lingered between them.
Hua Jing lay sprawled against the smooth surface of the piano, her cheeks flushed, strands of hair sticking to her damp forehead. The faint sheen of sweat on her skin glowed in the dim light, making her seem both fragile and luminous.
Fu Jingrong bent over her, his hand brushing those errant strands away from her face. His touch was feather-light, almost reverent, as though afraid she might break if he pressed too hard. His gaze, however, was another matter—deep, unguarded, and so filled with love that Hua Jing felt her chest ache.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Their eyes did the speaking—hers shimmering with tears, his with a kind of relief that words could never capture.
