The night air was thick with cicada cries when the black sedan rolled out of Luminar's underground garage.
In the backseat, Gu Ze Yan sat with his tall frame bent forward, cradling Lin Qing Yun in his arms. She was curled tightly against him, her face buried so deep in his chest that not even the streetlamps streaking past the window touched her.
Her body trembled with every breath. Her fingers were knotted in his shirt, twisting the fabric until it was a damp mess. Tears soaked endlessly into him, warm against his skin, spreading until the cotton clung heavy to his body.
She did not speak. She did not lift her head. She only cried.
And he did not let go.
Ze Yan's chin rested lightly on her crown, his palm moving in a steady rhythm down her back. He murmured nothing, offered no platitudes. Words were too small. All he could give her was his warmth, his solidity, the absolute refusal to let her shatter alone.
The driver glanced once in the mirror, then wisely turned his eyes back to the road. The car interior was filled with silence, broken only by Qing Yun's muffled sobs and the faint rustle of her breaths against his chest.
It was a silence heavier than thunder.
---
When they reached the Liangcheng mansion, the butler and staff hurried forward, but Ze Yan's sharp gaze froze them in place.
"I'll take her," he said, his voice quiet but absolute.
He carried her through the doors himself. The marble foyer glowed with warm light, polished to brilliance, but he did not pause. His arms adjusted around her, protective, as though afraid the world might touch her if he loosened his hold.
In the living room, he lowered himself onto the long sofa, but did not set her down. Instead, he sat with her on his lap, her small frame tucked fully against him. The curve of her cheek pressed into his chest, her arms still looped tightly around him like a child refusing to be separated from her anchor.
And so he held her.
Minutes stretched. Then hours.
Her sobs raked through him—raw, unrelenting, decades of silence cracking open all at once. His shirt grew wetter and wetter, sticking to his skin, but he did not so much as flinch. His arms began to ache, his back tightened from sitting rigidly, but he embraced the pain.
Because every moment she wept into him was a moment she finally trusted him with her fragility.
The wall clock ticked softly. Shadows shifted across the polished floor as the sun sank outside, turning the garden into a blur of orange and gold. The staff moved about on muted feet, exchanging worried glances but keeping their distance.
Ze Yan barely noticed. His world had narrowed to the woman trembling in his arms.
---
At last, her sobs weakened. They slipped into hiccups, then into faint, uneven breaths.
He lowered his gaze. Qing Yun's lashes were clumped with tears, her cheeks streaked, her lips parted with exhaustion. Her body slackened slowly, weight sinking heavier into him.
She had cried herself to sleep.
Ze Yan let out a slow breath. The tension in his shoulders eased just enough for him to carefully shift her, laying her gently on the sofa cushions. Her head lolled slightly; he adjusted a pillow beneath it, then drew a blanket over her frame.
For a long moment, he just stood there, looking down at her. Her face in slumber was fragile, vulnerable, almost childlike. His chest tightened, and he leaned down, brushing a damp strand of hair away from her temple with uncharacteristic tenderness.
"Qing Yun," he murmured softly. It was not meant to wake her. It was simply the only word he trusted himself to say.
Straightening, he spoke in a low tone to the chef who had appeared at the doorway. "Prepare something light for her. Congee, steamed vegetables, nothing heavy."
The chef nodded quickly and vanished.
Only then did Ze Yan retreat upstairs.
---
The hot water of the shower poured over him, loosening the tight knots in his muscles. His arms ached from holding her without pause, his shoulders stiff from bracing her weight. Yet when he closed his eyes, all he felt was a strange warmth—almost satisfaction.
To be the one she clung to, to be the one who held her when she broke apart… it was worth every ounce of pain.
He toweled off, changed into fresh clothes, and ran a hand through his damp hair. The reflection in the mirror showed a man whose expression had softened, his sharp lines blurred by something almost tender.
When he returned to the living room, the sight waiting for him made his steps falter.
Qing Yun was awake.
She sat curled on the sofa, the blanket still around her shoulders. Her eyes were swollen, lids red and heavy, but no tears lingered. She looked as though a storm had swept through her—ravaged, but calmer now that the winds had passed.
Ze Yan crossed the room without a word. He sat beside her, leaned down, and pressed a kiss against her forehead.
Her lashes fluttered faintly.
He placed a pillow across his lap and guided her gently down, urging her to rest her head there. His arm curved around her shoulders, his free hand combing slowly through her hair.
The motion was steady, soothing, the way one might calm a child after a nightmare.
---
For a long while, the only sounds were the cicadas outside and the faint tick of the clock.
Then, Qing Yun's voice rose, quiet and hoarse.
"Ze Yan… have you ever felt so grateful, so indebted, that you can't stop trying to repay it?"
His fingers paused for the briefest moment before continuing their gentle strokes. His gaze softened. "Mn. Why do you ask?"
Her throat worked. "At first, it's real. You mean it. You're grateful, and you give your best, from your heart. But then… it changes. It becomes an obligation. A guilt. People say, how can you not repay them, after what they've done for you? And you… you start to believe them."
Her voice trembled, each word peeling away something she had buried for too long.
"I loved Si Yao," she whispered. "I took care of her. I sacrificed everything, because I wanted to show I was grateful. But after a while… it felt sickening. Like carrying a mountain. And when she was gone…" Her breath hitched. "When she was gone, I felt… relieved. I felt free. Isn't that horrible?"
Her body shook under his hand.
"I told myself, as long as she achieved her dream, I'd be fine. My job would be done. But that day never came. And if she was only my obligation—" Her words broke, tears slipping down once more. "Then why do I miss her so much? Why do I want to do it all over again, even if I had to turn back time?"
The questions cracked the air, raw and jagged. Her tears soaked into his trousers now, hot, relentless.
---
Ze Yan's arms tightened. He bent over her, wrapping her fully against his chest.
"Because you loved her," he said, his voice steady, low, carrying the certainty she lacked. "What you did wasn't obligation, Qing Yun. It was love. Pure, from your heart."
Her sobs quieted, her breath hitching with uncertainty.
"You only think it was duty because of what others said to you. You let their voices weigh on you. But your actions… they were yours. They were love." His thumb brushed her cheek, catching the tears as they fell. He pressed his lips to her temple, lingering there.
Her body softened slightly under his words, though the tears did not stop.
He held her until her breathing steadied again, then asked quietly, "Do you want to see her? Tomorrow. At her grave."
Qing Yun froze. Then she nodded against his chest, lips trembling but firm.
Ze Yan exhaled, pressing another kiss to her hair. "Then we'll go. Together."
---
They sat like that for a long while, the room steeped in silence. Her body curled into his, his hand stroking her hair, their breaths blending.
The weight of grief still hung heavy, but it was softened now, cushioned by the quiet promise between them.
Minutes stretched, the clock ticking steadily onward.
Then, unexpectedly, Qing Yun's voice emerged, small, almost sheepish.
"…Ze Yan."
His brows arched faintly. "Mn?"
"I'm… hungry."
For a moment, silence. Then a laugh escaped him—low, warm, vibrating against her ear.
She tilted her head up, eyes still red but glimmering with something lighter.
"Then," he murmured, pressing his forehead against hers, "let's eat."
---
They rose together, hand in hand.
The dining room lights glowed softly, casting golden halos across the polished table. The chef had laid out congee, steamed greens, and braised tofu, simple and fragrant.
Ze Yan pulled out a chair for her, seating her with quiet care. But instead of taking the opposite seat, he settled beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed.
He ladled congee into her bowl himself, steam rising in delicate wisps. "Eat slowly. It's hot."
Qing Yun lowered her gaze, lifting the spoon. The first mouthful slid down her throat, warm and soothing after hours of raw tears.
Ze Yan watched her quietly, a faint curve at his lips. When she paused after a few bites, he nudged the bowl closer. "Another. Don't stop after two spoons."
She gave him a sidelong glance. "You sound like a nanny."
His lips curved further. "Then I'll be your nanny for tonight."
She blinked, startled. Then, against her will, a soft laugh escaped. It was small, fleeting—but it was laughter nonetheless.
The heaviness in the air eased.
They ate slowly, the silence between them no longer crushing but gentle. When she put her spoon down at last, Ze Yan reached over, brushing a grain of rice from the corner of her lip with his thumb.
Her breath caught.
He leaned closer, his voice quiet, tender. "Tomorrow, we'll see her. Tonight, just stay with me."
Qing Yun lowered her gaze, her lashes trembling. Then she nodded.
---
That night, in the quiet of the mansion, grief and love coexisted. The burden she had carried for years was no less heavy—but for the first time, she was not carrying it alone.
And as they walked back toward the living room together, her hand still in his, Qing Yun realized that even in sorrow, warmth could still be found.