For days, Yuyan avoided him.
She focused on her scenes, battled through nausea, and dodged both Zhao brothers like landmines. But Luchen's silence was louder than Lemin's words. No drama. No ambushes. Just quiet waiting.
Until the sixth day.
He arrived at the studio entrance with no driver, no bodyguards—just a thermos of ginger tea and exhaustion in his eyes.
"You're pale," he said when she tried to pass. "You're hurting, and you won't tell me why."
She hesitated. Her hands trembled, hidden in her coat.
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not." He held out the thermos. "You don't have to talk. Just drink something."
She took it, more out of habit than warmth, then set it on the table beside her and walked into the dressing room.
Ten minutes later, she found him still there.
Still waiting.
Luchen stood when she approached, his posture uncertain. "Yuyan, I know I hurt you. I crossed a line I can't uncross. I've been trying to give you space, but… I'm not good at pretending anymore."
She stayed silent.
He pressed on. "You don't owe me anything. But I need you to know… that night—what I did—I thought I'd already lost you to Lemin. And I lost control. That's not an excuse. It's just the truth."
Her throat closed. She hadn't expected him to say it out loud.
"I'm not proud of it," he whispered. "I hate the part of me that could hurt you like that. But if there's any part of you left that doesn't hate me—I'll wait. As long as it takes."
Yuyan bit her lip.
Something in his voice cracked her open—not the words, but the way they sounded like surrender. Not possession.
Her vision blurred. Before she could stop herself, tears spilled.
She hated crying in front of him.
She hated how warm his arms were when he reached to hold her—and she didn't pull away.
"I'm tired," she whispered.
"I know."
"I don't even know who I am anymore."
"You're Yuyan," he said, voice steady. "You've always been Yuyan. The woman who stood on a rooftop in Paris and made me forget how to breathe."
She closed her eyes, letting the moment wrap around her like a fragile shield. For the first time in weeks, she let herself rest against him. Not out of defeat. But because she couldn't keep carrying it all alone.
After a long silence, she pulled back just enough to say: "One week. I need one more week to finish filming. After that…"
He met her gaze. "After that?"
"I'll come home."
His arms tightened once—like a man catching something he thought he'd lost forever. But he didn't speak. He just nodded, once, and stepped back.
She turned and walked away.
But for the first time, it didn't feel like she was running.
It felt like she was returning.
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