The rain turned to snow overnight.
Prague shimmered in white silence, a fairytale dressed in frost. But Lin Yuyan, wrapped in the wine-colored coat he had sent, felt anything but magical. Every breath came out in soft clouds, but the ache in her chest remained heavy—warm, aching, alive.
She hadn't seen him since that brief shadow on set. Not truly. Not up close. Not face to face.
But he was here.
She felt it.
In the way her footsteps slowed at the café across from her hotel.
In how her gaze lingered at every passing stranger's silhouette.
In the way her hands trembled before she opened her door each night, wondering if he'd be waiting on the other side.
He never was.
And still, her heart kept preparing for him. Like a moth waiting for the flame it couldn't help but love.
**
Three weeks passed.**
The role drained her—body and soul. Long hours. Bruised knees. Screamed lines that felt too real.
But on a Wednesday evening, after a scene where she begged a lover not to forget her—Yuyan broke again.
She stepped off set, eyes glassy. Her assistant moved to help her, but Yuyan shook her head and walked away, coat flaring behind her like a cape.
She didn't know where she was going.
Only that her feet carried her through the snow-dusted streets of Old Town, heart pounding with every step.
It wasn't until she reached the quiet bridge over the Vltava that she saw him.
Zhao Luchen.
Standing at the center of the bridge, hands in the pockets of his long black coat, snowflakes clinging to his hair.
Waiting.
Their eyes locked.
She stopped breathing.
He didn't move. Didn't speak.
But there it was again—that silent gravitational pull between them, strong enough to bend stars.
She stepped closer.
So did he.
And when they finally stood a breath apart, neither said hello.
They didn't need to.
He reached out, brushing the snow from her lashes with trembling fingers.
"You didn't send the message," he murmured.
She blinked, stunned. "How did you—?"
"I know you," he said softly. "I felt it. The moment you wrote it."
Yuyan swallowed. "I wanted to."
"I know."
She looked up at him, eyes brimming. "Why did you come?"
He hesitated, then cupped her cheek with one gloved hand. "Because I couldn't stand one more night pretending I didn't miss you."
Her lips parted, but no words came.
"I was scared," he continued. "Scared I'd hold you back. Scared you'd leave again if I clung too tightly."
"And now?" she whispered.
He smiled, the barest curve of lips—bitter and broken and beautiful. "Now I'm just scared you'll never forgive me."
She leaned in until their foreheads touched.
"I was waiting," she breathed. "All this time, I was waiting for you."
And then she kissed him.
Not gently. Not cautiously.
It was a kiss of months unsaid, of tears shed alone in foreign beds, of whispered voicemails and missed calls and aching silence.
He wrapped his arms around her like he was drowning. Like she was the only air he had.
The snow kept falling. The bridge faded behind them. The world disappeared.
There was only this kiss.
And the way her heart finally stopped hurting.
**
Later, they sat in a corner café, fingers intertwined beneath the table, sharing quiet sips of hot chocolate.
"Are you staying?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
His answer was immediate.
"Yes."
"I thought you had work—"
"You are my work now," he said. "My everything."
Yuyan stared at him, eyes glistening. "What about the company?"
"I'll handle it."
"And… us?"
He laced their fingers tighter. "This time, I'm not letting you walk away without a fight."
She smiled, softly.
"I'm not leaving without you."
**
That night, in her hotel room, she curled into his chest under a thousand tangled blankets.
No secrets. No distance. No walls.
Just warmth.
Just heartbeats.
His voice rumbled against her ear as sleep claimed her.
"Don't disappear from me again."
Her last thought before sleep:
"I won't."
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