[“It’s fine,” she said. “I bought two tickets.”]

“Why do you insist so much on making me return to China with you?”

They sat together on the living room sofa, less than ten centimeters apart—the closest they’d been in days.

“My demands aren’t limited to this one thing,” she clarified. “I also insist that you tell me everything that happened seven years ago.”

He furrowed his brows, steering the conversation back. “How does whether I return to China or not affect you? Do you really have to cling to this issue?”

His question sounded reasonable, but Zhou Leqi found it absurd.

“How could it not affect me?” she countered, her gaze deepening. “How can we be together if you stay abroad?”

This was a seemingly fearless question, but in reality, it took great courage to ask, since Zhou Leqi herself wasn’t sure what their relationship was at this point.

Were they still lovers? But how could lovers separate for seven years without reason, then act so cautiously upon reuniting?

Just friends? But which friends could live together like this, while being so deeply affected by each other’s words and actions?

At this moment, his expression faltered, his eyes wavering as he looked at her. After a pause, he averted his gaze and muttered, “We clearly already…”

…broken up.

He didn’t say the word outright, unsure whether it was to avoid hurting her or himself.

But Zhou Leqi had no such reservations. She directly asked, “Clearly already what? Broken up?”

He remained silent.

She even smiled faintly. “Hou Zihao, you only sent me a text saying ‘sorry.’ Does that count as breaking up?”

“We were in a serious relationship. Is sending three words—’I’m sorry’—really enough to end it?”

“How could you have the power to unilaterally decide to break up without consulting me?”

She grew assertive, like an excellent debater seizing an opponent’s weakness. He had no room to counter, retreating step by step.

“I admit I was a jerk,” he said helplessly. “Then what do you want me to do now? I can…”

“Compensate me, right?” Zhou Leqi cut him off sharply, her words speeding up. “Fine. Then tell me what happened seven years ago. Why did you leave without saying goodbye? Give me some kind of explanation.”

He frowned. “I’ve already said it—it was because my family had an upheaval, so…”

“You’re lying,” she interrupted again, her gaze piercing. “If it was just an upheaval, you could’ve explained it to me. And you wouldn’t have needed to leave the country.”

“You’re hiding something big.”

She was someone with exceptionally clear logic, and she always held the upper hand in their relationship. The influence of their youth ran too deep, giving her lifelong leverage over him. Even when she was in the wrong, she wouldn’t lose—and this time, she was obviously in the right.

He was cornered, falling silent once more.

Zhou Leqi took a deep breath, not pressing too hard. After a pause, she shifted the topic. “If you don’t want to talk about it now, that’s fine. I understand. Everyone has wounds they don’t want to reveal. You need time—I can wait. But I won’t allow you to vanish from my sight again.”

“Either return to China with me, or tell me the truth about what happened seven years ago. You choose.”

Her ultimatum was delivered.

The final standoff occurred on the fourth night.

After turning off the lights, they lay down to sleep—one on the bed, the other on the floor.

Past midnight, Zhou Leqi still couldn’t sleep. She felt thirsty and wanted to get up for a glass of water. But as soon as she moved, his voice came through the darkness. “What are you doing?”

So he hadn’t fallen asleep either.

“Want some water.” She stayed lying down, responding softly.

Sure enough, he immediately got up to fetch her a glass of water.

The kitchen light flickered on and off. He returned quickly, sitting beside her bed and handing her the cup.

She slowly sat up to drink, feeling drowsy and disoriented. In the darkness, she heard his voice again.

“I’ll return to China with you…”

His voice sounded unusually low, as if speaking something difficult for him.

“…And then, can we consider ourselves broken up?”

“Broken up.”

These two words struck a nerve in Zhou Leqi, causing her hand holding the glass to tremble slightly. For a long time, she couldn’t respond.

Two minutes later, she finally found her voice, though it was still unsteady. “…You want to break up with me?”

In the darkness, she couldn’t see his expression, only hearing a deeper “Mm” come after a delay of one or two seconds.

“…Why?” She clutched the glass tightly and asked, “Because you can’t face me after what happened in the past?”

“No,” he denied.

She gave a faint smile, paused for a moment, then asked again, “Then why? Because you no longer like me?”

This time, he didn’t respond.

He used to be far from silent. In the past, he would constantly throw out interesting topics to make her feel comfortable, to make her laugh.

So did he really no longer like her?

Zhou Leqi felt confused and couldn’t help but sigh.

But I still like you.

I like you just as much as before.

Even more… I increasingly want to be with you.

A sudden impulse akin to infatuation descended upon her.

She reached out and hugged him, kissing him in the dark.

The familiar yet distant scent sent her heart into a subtle tremor. The person before her was no longer the teenage boy from seven years ago but a steady, mature man. Yet, even now, he could still make her heart race. That kiss left her both sorrowful and dizzy.

For a brief moment, he froze, not expecting her to kiss him so suddenly. But after a short stiffness, his body gave her the most passionate and genuine response. His breathing instantly became erratic, and the skin beneath her palm burned hot almost immediately.

That was… desire.

Desire for her.

—Yet, in the end, he still chose to reject her.

He stood up from the bedside, moving several steps away. If not for the heavy breathing still lingering in the room, she might have thought the kiss had never happened.

“Why?” she asked him. “You clearly still like me—why do you want to break up?”

He didn’t answer her directly but instead offered another piece of information.

“The other day, when Yuan Jiahui came to see me, she also wanted me to return to China,” he said hurriedly, his voice sounding unusually cold. “She wants me to work at her family’s company—I… plan to agree to this.”

This sudden revelation completely stunned Zhou Leqi.

If she had been more careful, based on his words, she could have analyzed the hidden clues behind them, answering many of her questions about the truth from seven years ago. But humans are emotional creatures, and at that moment, her attention shifted to another direction: his relationship with Yuan Jiahui.

“You mean… you want to break up with me and then be with Yuan Jiahui?”

Her voice was already faltering, a sign of her chaotic emotions.

In truth, he had no such intention. He knew he would only ever love her, and he could never become entangled with anyone else. But precisely because of this, he chose to mislead her, to hurt her, so she would decisively give up on him without hesitation.

He wanted to remain alone in the darkness.

Silence was the most powerful form of deception at this moment, conveying enough information. She was so smart—she naturally understood his implied agreement. This left her silent as well, sinking into a quiet stillness.

On the fifth day, he began packing his luggage and opened his phone to buy a plane ticket. Flights were scarce during the pandemic, and the earliest available ticket was half a month away.

Just as Hou Zihao was about to explain this to Zhou Leqi, she cut him off with a single sentence.

“It’s fine,” she said. “I bought two tickets.”

He: “...”

“They’re for today,” she added indifferently, glancing at the time on her phone. “We’re almost out of time—you should hurry up and pack.”

He: “………”

It wasn’t until they boarded the plane that Hou Zihao realized Zhou Leqi had lied when she said she would stay in Rome indefinitely. In reality, she could only last five days before returning to China. And in the end, he couldn’t resist her—he always ended up giving in.

After boarding the plane, she quickly closed her eyes to rest. Whether it was due to the sleepless night making her exhausted or simply because she didn’t want to talk to him, her emotions had turned cold and rigid after their conversation the previous night. He wasn’t sure if she was merely angry or, as he had hoped, beginning to despise him.

He couldn’t dwell on it too deeply. Even he would find it unbearable. He forced himself to watch two movies on the plane, the headphones filling his ears with lively sounds, but he hadn’t absorbed a single line of dialogue. All his attention was focused on the sleeping girl beside him. She was so gentle, so beautiful, so bright and clear, just like the tranquil girl from their youth—and even better than before.

But he had already…

He stopped himself from thinking further, unwilling to let more weight affect his emotions. It would hinder their dignified farewell, and he didn’t want things to become ugly. Yet, another thought stubbornly surfaced in his mind:

Would this be the last time they’d see each other once the plane landed?

Zhou Leqi… Is this the last time we’ll sit together?

The plane once again crossed through time and space, but this time was different. It wasn’t traveling westward, using the time difference to reach the past—it was flying across the darkness, through the clouds, toward the future.

The plane landed at Beijing Airport at 3:00 PM Beijing time. Domestic epidemic prevention measures were much stricter than abroad, with a series of health declarations, temperature checks, and medical inspections coming one after another. Even though the entire process was conducted efficiently, it still took several hours.

Finally, they were able to board a designated vehicle to the quarantine site.

During registration, a dilemma arose. Hou Zihao wasn’t sure whether he should apply to stay in the same room as Zhou Leqi. Rationally, they should stay in separate rooms since they no longer had any ties, and staying together would seem strange. But emotionally, he wanted to spend 14 more days with her. Moreover, her injured left foot still required his care—she couldn’t manage on her own.

“…How should we handle accommodations?”

He bent down and cautiously asked her, his curved back resembling a large, guilty dog—completely non-aggressive, only gentle, only careful, only attentive to her reaction.

But she didn’t look at him or respond to his question. Her cold attitude left him helpless. The only stroke of luck was encountering an understanding staff member at the quarantine site.

Dressed in full protective gear, the staff member glanced at them while registering, then quickly lowered their head to record and said:

“Husband and wife, right? Room 302.”