The rooftop was silent, save for the low rustle of the breeze brushing through the plants and the soft hum of the city below. The moon hung like a pale lantern in the sky, casting silver light over the neatly tended rooftop garden—Ji Yanluo's sanctuary.
Bai Zhiqi hadn't expected to find him there.
She came for the quiet—her thoughts had been louder than usual lately. But when the elevator opened and the garden doors slid aside, she paused, seeing the figure leaning against the railing.
Ji Yanluo.
His jacket was draped over one arm, sleeves rolled up, and he was staring out over the skyline as if waiting for something to appear in the dark.
"I didn't mean to interrupt," Bai Zhiqi said, already half-turning to leave.
"You're not," he said without looking. "Stay. It's not my garden alone."
She hesitated, then stepped forward, her bare feet making no sound against the stone. She walked over to the low bench by the flowerbed and sat, letting the cool night air brush over her skin.
For a long while, neither spoke.
Then, Ji Yanluo broke the silence. "You always come up here at night."
She gave a quiet hum. "It's quiet. The only place where I don't feel like I'm being watched."
He glanced at her. "You are. Just differently."
She looked at him, brows raised.
He continued, voice softer, "People look at you with curiosity. I watch to understand."
That earned him a sideways glance. "And what have you understood?"
Ji Yanluo leaned back against the railing, folding his arms. "That you carry silence like armor. But sometimes… I hear music in your eyes, even when you're not playing."
The words caught her off guard.
For once, Bai Zhiqi didn't have a quip or a retort. Just silence—and the faintest crack in her guarded expression.
She tilted her head. "Are you trying to read me like one of your business puzzles?"
"No," he said, "You're not something to solve."
The moonlight softened his usually sharp features, and for the first time, he looked… human. Not the cold, commanding figure Lingfeng Media feared, but someone real. Present.
"You don't smile much," she murmured.
He looked surprised. "Neither do you."
She almost smiled at that.
But then he walked over, slowly, and sat beside her on the bench. Not close enough to touch, but near enough that the air between them shifted.
They sat in silence again, but this time it wasn't heavy. It was the kind of silence that asked nothing, gave space, and held meaning.
"You're not what I expected," Ji Yanluo said, after a while.
"Good or bad?"
"Dangerous," he replied. "Because I didn't plan for you."
This time, her smile did come—soft, brief, but real. "Likewise."
As a breeze drifted between them, Bai Zhiqi's hair lifted, and on instinct, Ji Yanluo reached out and tucked a strand behind her ear.
His fingers barely brushed her skin, but she stilled completely.
Eyes locked.
Something shifted.
The world shrank to that moment—their breaths, their nearness, the tension that wasn't anger or pain, but something unfamiliar and tender.
But Ji Yanluo didn't press further. He lowered his hand, leaned back again, and said nothing more.
And Bai Zhiqi didn't move away.
Instead, she looked out at the moonlit city and whispered, "This… doesn't feel dangerous. Not right now."
He glanced sideways, the corner of his lips lifting ever so slightly. "Then stay a little longer."
She did.
Not because she had to.
But because something in that quiet moment—unspoken, unfinished—felt like the beginning of something neither of them expected.
And neither dared name.