The boardroom emptied quickly, but He Ran remained seated, staring at the financial report spread across the table. Shen Miao hesitated at the door, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.
He didn't look up.
> "Miss Shen," he said finally, voice low, "what's your take on the new marketing strategy? Is it bold enough for the LUMIGO rebrand?"
She stepped forward, trying to keep her voice steady.
> "The concept is strong, but it needs a sharper edge to appeal to younger customers. We could push a limited edition line with interactive social campaigns—something fresh and daring."
He nodded slowly, eyes never leaving hers. The air between them shifted, charged with memories and things left unsaid.
> "Daring… just like you," he murmured.
Her heart stuttered, but she met his gaze, refusing to look away.
> "You always liked to push boundaries too, He Ran."
He leaned forward, his hand resting on the table just inches from hers.
> "Some things don't change."
"Neither does the way I feel when you challenge me."
Her breath hitched. The magnetic pull was undeniable, a silent dance of power and vulnerability.
Suddenly, he stood and circled the table, closing the space between them. His voice dropped to a near whisper.
> "Tell me, Shen Miao—how do you stay so calm, so composed, when everything inside must be breaking?"
She swallowed, feeling his presence like a flame inches from her skin.
> "I learned a long time ago how to hide what I feel."
His gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes.
> "Maybe it's time to stop hiding."
The moment stretched. His fingers brushed hers—soft, electric.
> "We're supposed to be professionals," she breathed, trying to pull away.
"But some rules… maybe they're meant to be broken."
He smiled, that slow, dangerous smile that once made her heart race.
> "Good. Because I intend to break them all—with you."
The charged silence hung between them as Shen Miao slowly pulled her hand back, a flush rising in her cheeks.
> "I should go," she whispered, her voice barely steady.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a hush that only she could hear.
> "You don't have to."
Her eyes searched his, a storm of emotions swirling—longing, fear, hope.
> "We can't," she said, the weight of reality pressing down.
"Not here. Not now."
He nodded, but didn't move away.
> "Then tell me when," he challenged softly, "because I'm not going to wait forever."
Her breath hitched as his fingers brushed a stray strand of hair from her face — a simple, intimate act that spoke louder than words.
> "Maybe…" she started, then stopped, overwhelmed.
He cupped her cheek gently, thumb tracing the curve as if memorizing her.
> "Maybe," he echoed, voice thick with emotion. "We'll find a way."
They stood there, inches apart, caught in the fragile space where years of silence threatened to collapse into something new — or shatter completely.
Finally, Shen Miao stepped back, her heart aching.
> "I have to finish the campaign," she said, forcing a small smile. "We both do."
He nodded, releasing her like a whispered promise.
> "Until next time, then."
She walked away, but the touch of his hand lingered on her skin — a haunting reminder that some loves never truly leave.
—Flashback Begins —
The sewing club room smelled like old fabric and dreams. Shen Miao sat alone, frowning at the tangled red thread in her hands, struggling to make it pass through a delicate embroidery needle.
> "You're not even a club member," she muttered to herself.
> "Need help?"
She looked up to see He Ran leaning in the doorway, holding his sketchbook.
> "What are you doing here?" she asked.
> "I come here sometimes to sketch," he shrugged. "It's quiet. Plus, I figured you'd still be trying to defeat that thread."
She scowled playfully, then laughed. "It hates me."
He walked over, took the needle gently from her fingers, and, without a word, licked the end of the thread and slid it through smoothly.
She stared, surprised. He grinned.
> "Magic hands."
> "That's gross," she said, trying not to smile.
> "That's art," he said, holding up his sketchbook. "See?"
He flipped it open, revealing a pencil sketch — a quiet girl sitting by a window, chin in hand, eyes full of wonder. Her.
> "You sketched me?"
> "You always look like you're imagining a whole other world," he said softly. "I just tried to catch it."
Her cheeks warmed.
They sat in silence for a moment. Then she asked, "Why don't you hang out with your friends during lunch?"
He shrugged. "Don't have many."
> "But you're… you. Cool, silent, mysterious."
> "Yeah," he said with a quiet smile. "But people don't stay when you stop smiling."
She looked at him then, really looked — and saw not the confident boy others imagined, but someone quietly searching for a place to belong. Just like her.
> "I'm not great at staying either," she whispered.
> "Then maybe we can stay… just a little, for each other.
That day, he didn't sketch anymore. He sat beside her instead, helping her finish her embroidery. Red thread twisted and knotted between their fingers — a tangled mess, but somehow... it held them together.
Back in the LUMIGO meeting room, Shen Miao blinked as He Ran handed her a pen during the strategy session — their fingers brushing once again.
She stared at the pen, then at him.
That thread between them…
Maybe it had never broken. Just stretched across years, stubborn and silent, waiting to be tied again.