Snow fell in soft flurries outside the café window, but inside, Lin Yuyan's world had shifted into spring.
Zhao Luchen stirred her coffee absently, seated across from her in a quiet corner of the Prague café. His coat hung over the back of his chair, scarf loosened, his gaze fixed entirely on her.
Not her movie.
Not her image.
Just her.
Yuyan leaned over and stole a spoonful of his cream. He didn't protest—only quirked a brow, amused.
"You've changed," she teased.
"I fell in love," he said simply.
The words hung in the air like snowfall—light, unexpected, beautiful.
She didn't answer with words. Instead, her foot nudged his under the table, lingering. He smirked, eyes darkening. They didn't need declarations—not today. Not here.
**
By day, she poured herself into the role—her anti-heroine unraveling onscreen in trembling sobs and fury. The director praised her more than ever. Critics whispered of a "career-defining performance."
But every night, when the lights dimmed and the camera stopped rolling, she went home to him.
To silences that healed.
To kisses that made her forget how to breathe.
To arms that held her like she was breakable, but cherished.
He made her tea when she lost her voice screaming through an emotional scene. He rubbed her sore ankles after fourteen hours in stilettos. Once, when she fell asleep crying from exhaustion, he carried her to bed, pressing a kiss to her temple that stayed in her dreams.
They didn't talk about what came after Prague.
Not yet.
But in stolen mornings and whispered goodnights, the future began to bloom—uncertain but rooted.
**
One evening, Luchen surprised her on set.
He arrived during a tense scene, standing behind the monitors with his arms crossed, dressed in a dark coat that made him look too handsome for his own good.
Director Shen Rouyan gave him a narrow look. "You're distracting my lead actress."
"She does that to me too," Luchen replied dryly.
Yuyan's cheeks flushed, but she didn't break character.
When the scene ended and the crew scattered for a break, she walked over to him, sweat clinging to her brow, lips bloodied with fake cuts.
"Didn't think you'd show up."
"I wanted to see you," he said. "The real you. On fire."
She laughed breathlessly. "Well, this version screams a lot."
"I don't mind. As long as I'm still the one you come home to."
Her smile softened. "You are."
**
Later that night, she found him on the hotel balcony, staring at the Prague skyline. The city shimmered beneath them—church spires, glowing windows, the slow swirl of snow.
She slid her arms around his waist from behind.
"I miss home," she whispered.
He turned, pulling her into his chest. "Home isn't a place anymore."
She looked up.
"It's wherever you are," he finished.
Yuyan's eyes burned, but she blinked fast. "Careful, CEO Zhao. You're starting to sound like a romantic."
He leaned in, brushing a kiss across her lips. "Only for one woman."
**
Their nights blurred together—passionate, aching, and full of slow-burn intimacy.
They didn't talk about labels. They didn't need to.
But one morning, while sharing a croissant in bed, he glanced at her and said:
"When you finish the film, come back with me."
She paused mid-bite. "To Beijing?"
"To us," he said. "For real this time."
She placed the half-eaten pastry on the tray and looked at him—eyes clear, heart thudding.
"I was never not yours."
Then she kissed him, slow and deep, a promise sealed with sugar and breath.
**
Two weeks later, they stood on the red carpet at the Prague Film Gala—her in a silver satin gown, him in a tailored black tuxedo, the city flashing around them like stars.
Reporters shouted questions. Cameras clicked.
But Yuyan turned only to him.
"You nervous?" she asked.
"Terrified," he said.
She laughed, lacing their fingers. "Hold on. I'm not letting go this time."
Neither was he.
**