Lan Yue did not sleep that night.
She lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying three words on a loop that her brain refused to release. Not yet. But soon. The memory of Zhao Lingxi's breath against her skin. The pressure of fingers beneath her chin. The precise, devastating distance between their lips that had been close enough to feel and far enough to ache.
Soon. What did soon mean? Tomorrow? Next week? Next month? Soon was not a timeline. Soon was a weapon disguised as a promise, and Zhao Lingxi had deployed it with the ruthless accuracy of someone who understood exactly how much damage a single whispered word could do.
Across the room, Zhao Lingxi slept soundly. Peacefully. With the serene, untroubled breathing of a woman who had not just detonated a small explosive device in someone's chest and walked away.
Lan Yue rolled over and pressed her face into her pillow.
