Evening clouds stretched pale across the Liangcheng sky, their edges brushed with fading gold. Inside the mansion, warm light spilled across the polished floor, wrapping the house in a quiet that felt almost too careful, as though even the walls sensed something unsaid.
Qing Yun sat in the study, books spread across the desk, pen poised but unmoving. Her eyes lingered on the open pages, yet her mind was elsewhere. Hidden between two heavy art volumes lay the brochure from Shen Huai Zhen's studio, its folded edge peeking out like a secret begging to be uncovered.
Her hand hovered over it once, then withdrew.
Across the room, she heard faint footsteps—measured, steady. Ze Yan entered without announcing himself, as he always did. He carried the calm weight of someone who belonged everywhere in this house, his presence filling the air more surely than any light.
"Still awake?" His voice was low, tinged with the gentleness he reserved for her.
Qing Yun looked up, forcing a smile. "Mm. Just notes."
Ze Yan's gaze swept across the desk, lingering for a fraction of a second on the stack of books, before settling on her face again. His expression betrayed nothing. "Don't stay up too late."
He set down a small plate—steamed buns still warm, their fragrance rising. A habit of his, these small interruptions of sweetness, as though he couldn't stop himself from feeding her piece by piece.
Qing Yun's lips curved faintly. "You spoil me too much."
"Not enough." He spoke so simply it left her chest aching.
She reached for a bun, fingers brushing the porcelain plate. For a moment, silence stretched between them. She could almost feel the brochure's weight pressing against her back, like a hidden truth whispering insistently.
Yet he didn't mention it.
---
Later that night, the two sat in the living room. The television glowed faintly, muted news anchors moving without sound. Qing Yun curled into the sofa corner with a blanket, her knees drawn up. Ze Yan sat beside her, one arm stretched across the back of the sofa, his posture relaxed but his gaze attentive, as though she were the only thing worth watching.
"Are you tired?" he asked after a while.
"A little," she admitted.
He shifted closer, adjusting the blanket around her shoulders. His hand lingered, fingers brushing the curve of her arm. It was such a simple gesture, but it carried the weight of all the things unsaid between them.
She bit her lip. Her heart pushed against her ribs, whispering that she should speak—that she should tell him about Guangjing, about the brochure. But the words stuck in her throat.
"Ze Yan," she began softly.
His head tilted, eyes steady, waiting.
Her courage faltered. She lowered her gaze, whispering instead, "Never mind."
Something flickered in his eyes, gone too fast to catch. He leaned back slightly, expression unchanged, but she sensed it—the patience of a man who had already decided to wait her out.
---
Days passed in this quiet rhythm.
Mornings began with the smell of coffee and the sound of Ze Yan's voice reminding her to eat breakfast before work. Evenings ended with his presence at her side, whether in the living room, the study, or slipping silently into her room after she had fallen asleep.
Yet always, beneath the comfort, was the weight of what she hadn't said.
She caught herself staring at the brochure more often. Sometimes, late at night, she unfolded it, tracing the images of worktables, tools, and bright-eyed students. Six months in Guangjing. Six months building a foundation for something she wanted to call her own.
Her chest tightened every time she imagined it.
One evening, she sat at her desk, lamplight spilling across the pages. The brochure lay open before her, the bold letters staring back like a challenge. She touched the paper lightly, heart twisting with guilt.
Behind her, the door creaked open.
"Qing Yun."
She turned sharply, fingers snapping the brochure shut. Ze Yan stood in the doorway, his tall frame framed by the soft light of the corridor. His expression was calm, unreadable.
"You should rest," he said.
"I will," she murmured, slipping the brochure back between the books as if it were nothing.
He lingered for a moment longer, eyes flickering toward her hands, then stepped forward to smooth a lock of hair from her cheek. His touch was gentle, familiar. "Don't overwork yourself."
And just like that, he left, closing the door softly behind him.
Qing Yun stared at the shut door, her heart pounding. He hadn't asked. He hadn't pressed. But something in his gaze made her certain—he knew.
---
That night, she lay awake longer than usual, listening to the hush of the mansion. Her thoughts circled endlessly: six months, Guangjing, Ze Yan's silence.
Her chest ached with the weight of it.
He was giving her space. He was waiting for her to speak.
But how long could she keep the words trapped inside?