The restaurant sat tucked away behind a line of ivy-covered walls, candlelit and quiet—almost like it had been waiting just for them.
He Ran had made the reservation days ago, under no one's name but hers.
When Shen Miao arrived, the hostess greeted her by name and led her through a garden-lined path, her heels clicking softly on the polished floor until she saw him.
He stood as she approached, dressed in a deep navy shirt that hugged his shoulders, his usual edge softened by the way he smiled—small, unsure, like he still couldn't believe she said yes to dinner.
"You look..." He Ran blinked slowly. "Beautiful doesn't cover it."
She felt the warmth crawl to her cheeks. "You clean up alright yourself."
Their table sat in a private alcove, lit by amber lamps and a small glass vase holding a single white rose. It echoed the one he had placed on her desk.
He pulled out her chair with the kind of quiet grace she'd forgotten he had, and once they settled in, the evening unfolded like a slow song.
Wine was poured. Soft jazz floated around them. Dishes came and went—creamy risottos, seared sea bass, fresh strawberries in champagne glaze—but neither of them paid much attention to the food. Their eyes, their words, were fixed only on each other.
"You always twirl your fork twice before eating pasta," he said, amused.
"You always eat your dessert first," she countered with a grin.
"I'm afraid to blink," he murmured, lowering his voice. "Afraid you'll disappear again."
She looked down, heart tight. "I'm here now."
He reached across the table, brushing her fingers. "Stay."
Before she could answer, his phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen—and his jaw tensed.
"Irene," he muttered.
Shen Miao's expression shifted subtly.
He ignored the first ring.
Then it came again.
He sighed and picked up the call, not moving from her gaze.
"Irene. Not now."
A pause.
He Ran's voice dropped. "No. I'm not coming back tonight. Don't call again unless it's about the company."
Another beat.
"I'm done letting you interfere in things that never concerned you."
He hung up. His hand clenched slightly before he relaxed.
"Sorry," he said, his eyes returning to Shen Miao. "Where were we?"
She tilted her head. "I think dessert was just served."
---
Later That Night — He Ran's Apartment
The apartment was nothing like she imagined.
Minimalist in structure, but warm in lighting and detail. Tall glass windows opened to a balcony view of the city skyline. Shelves lined one wall—books, old records, a few framed photos that caught her attention.
She wandered slowly as he poured them wine. On the hallway shelf, a small faded Polaroid. Them, from high school, grinning in uniforms, her face pressed into his shoulder.
"You kept this?" she asked softly.
He came to stand beside her, handing her the glass. "I kept everything."
There was a woven friendship bracelet in a dish, the corner of a paper note she had once passed him in class, even her handwriting on the side of a notebook tucked under an old speaker.
The past hadn't just been remembered. It had lived here.
"I used to fall asleep on the couch," he said quietly, "pretending you were still here. I never had the heart to change this place."
Shen Miao walked to the balcony, the wind brushing her hair back.
He followed.
They stood in the open air, the city below pulsing with light, the sky overhead glowing faint with stars.
He leaned close. "Can I ask you something?"
She nodded.
"Why did you kiss me?"
She didn't turn. "Because I never stopped wanting to."
He set his wine down. "I still don't believe I deserve it."
She finally looked at him.
"Then earn it."
He stepped closer, his hand brushing a loose strand from her face. His fingers lingered on her cheek, sliding down to her jaw. Her breath caught.
And then—
He kissed her.
Softly, reverently. Like a prayer. A memory returned in full color.
Her hand found his chest, his heartbeat beneath her palm matching hers.
His lips moved from hers to her jaw, then her earlobe, each kiss deeper than the last.
Her wine glass tilted slightly in her hand, forgotten.
His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her close.
She gasped softly as his hand traced the curve of her back, feeling the warmth beneath her blouse.
Every kiss tasted like the words they couldn't say—yet somehow understood.
"I missed this," he whispered against her skin.
"Show me," she replied, her voice breathless.
He took her hand and led her inside.
He Ran's hand remained curled around hers as they crossed from the balcony into the living room.
The apartment now felt warmer, dimmer—like the night had wrapped its arms around them.
Shen Miao's fingers brushed the spine of an old book resting on the coffee table. Her high school bookmark still peeking from inside.
"You really didn't throw anything away," she murmured.
"I didn't want to forget you," he said. "Even when I thought I had to."
She turned to him, eyes glossy under the soft light. He stepped closer, and without another word, she rested her forehead against his chest.
His arms moved around her naturally, slowly, like the moment had always belonged to them.
"You feel the same," she whispered.
"So do you," he murmured.
Her lips tilted upward.
He Ran's hand trailed up her back as he tilted her face gently toward him. His kiss was slower this time, deeper. Their lips moved together like they'd been waiting years for this rhythm.
Shen Miao's hands threaded through his hair, pulling him closer. Her back arched instinctively into his touch.
He kissed her again—softer, then firmer, as though memorizing the curve of her mouth.
His lips trailed from hers to the delicate line of her jaw, then to the slope of her neck. Her pulse fluttered beneath his touch.
She gasped when his lips found the hollow of her collarbone, breath shaky.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered, pausing.
But she didn't.
Her hands slid under his shirt, fingertips skating across the warmth of his skin. He shivered beneath her touch.
He kissed her again, this time with no hesitance.
Their bodies spoke now, every movement full of trust, longing, and history.
He lifted her gently, carrying her down the hall to his bedroom. The door shut behind them with a soft click.
The room was cozy, elegant—lit only by the soft glow of a wall lamp. A painting of the night sky hung above the headboard. The same sky they had watched years ago.
Shen Miao's breath hitched when he laid her gently on the bed. He knelt beside her, reverently, as if she were something sacred.
His kisses moved lower—along her shoulder, the curve of her neck, stopping only to whisper her name like a secret.
She arched into him, her skin tingling with every graze of his fingertips. He touched her as though tracing memory itself—slow, intentional, tender.
His hand skimmed the side of her thigh, thumb brushing the inside slowly. Her breath caught again.
She reached up, pulling him toward her.
He kissed her lips again—deeper, hungrier now. His hand slid beneath her top, trailing the warmth of her waist, drawing tiny goosebumps with every movement.
Her shirt slipped over her head. He paused, eyes searching hers for permission, reverence in every breath.
"You're beautiful," he murmured.
She leaned forward, brushing her lips to his earlobe, whispering, "Then show me what that means to you."
He did.
He kissed her with a new depth—slow, searching, like he needed to feel every second of their closeness. His hand moved beneath her, guiding her gently toward him as if afraid to break the fragile magic around them.
His fingers grazed her thigh, tracing upwards with aching slowness, feeling the goosebumps bloom across her skin. She gasped softly when his touch found the curve of her waist, slipping under the hem of her top, palms warm and firm.
Their bodies moved in perfect rhythm, breaths matching, hearts racing.
His lips left hers only to trail down her neck, then the sensitive dip at her collarbone, where her breath caught. Her hands pulled at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin. He responded, shrugging it off, never breaking the kiss that had begun again—deeper now, hungrier.
She arched into him as his hand slid along her back, fingertips finding the clasp of her bra with practiced gentleness. Her top slipped away, and she shivered—not from cold, but from the heat pooling between them.
He pressed kisses along her shoulder, her ribs, her stomach, every place that made her gasp and cling tighter. Her fingers tangled in his hair, guiding him back up until their mouths met again—slower this time, soaked in meaning.
Everything about their touch was layered with history. No rush. No regret. Just two hearts meeting where they'd left off, finally allowed to feel everything they had once buried.
The night stretched long around them—filled with soft moans, whispered laughter, shared glances, and the kind of intimacy that went beyond skin.
The world outside ceased to exist.
Only this mattered.
Only them.
They didn't just rediscover each other.
They made something new.
In the warmth of tangled sheets, breathless kisses, and the truth that lived in silence, Shen Miao found the version of He Ran she never stopped loving.
And He Ran held her like he'd waited forever to deserve her.
When they finally lay wrapped in each other, breath steadying, he brushed her hair back and whispered against her temple:
"This time, I won't let go."
She nestled closer.
"This time, I won't let you."
Flashback — The Night of the Festival
Five years ago, under the soft glow of paper lanterns and a sky just starting to bloom with stars, He Ran and Shen Miao had stolen a moment.
The school festival buzzed behind them—laughter, music, the smell of roasted sweet potatoes and sugar candy—but they had escaped to the old music room terrace. No one knew they were there.
Shen Miao had wrapped herself in her cardigan, the evening breeze brushing her hair as she stared at the constellations.
He Ran stood beside her, quiet, almost nervous.
"I read somewhere," he said, eyes fixed on the stars, "that when two people wish on the same star without knowing, their hearts align."
She laughed softly. "Sounds cheesy."
He turned to her. "So wish with me. Just in case."
Their eyes met. She didn't say what she wished for. Neither did he.
But he reached out—tentatively—and held her hand for the first time.
No one saw it. No one needed to.
That night, something shifted. Not spoken. Not defined.
But real.