The tension had finally started to dissolve. With the Jian-Wang partnership secured and their families—reluctantly—accepting their bond, Xiao Zhan and Wang Yibo could finally breathe again. For the first time in weeks, their lives didn't feel like a constant battle between business meetings and personal wars.
One quiet Saturday morning, Zhan woke up to the scent of freshly brewed coffee and soft music playing from the kitchen. He sat up on the couch, stretching as he followed the sound. Yibo was there, sleeves rolled up, flipping pancakes with a concentration that made Zhan's lips curve into a soft smile.
"You cook?" Zhan teased, walking over and wrapping his arms loosely around Yibo's waist from behind.
"I'm not just good with bikes," Yibo smirked, leaning into the touch ever so slightly. "I have layers."
"Like a pancake?"
"Exactly," Yibo laughed, flipping the last one onto the plate.
They sat down at the tiny kitchen island, the morning sunlight dancing through the window. It was simple, quiet—yet something about it felt profound. A moment stolen from time, far removed from all the chaos they'd endured.
Zhan sipped his coffee thoughtfully. "Do you ever wonder… if they had moments like this too?"
Yibo looked at him, understanding instantly. "Wei Ying and Lan Zhan?"
Zhan nodded, gaze lowering to his cup. "We see them in dreams, in flashes. Always during chaos. Pain. War. But… were there soft mornings for them too?"
Yibo was silent for a long moment, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to Zhan.
"I found this yesterday, in the temple archive."
Zhan unfolded it gently. It was a page from a forgotten text, faded but still legible. A story—short and unfinished—of two disciples who found peace on a misty mountain, drinking wine and watching the moon.
"They had moments too," Yibo said softly. "We just never saw them before."
Zhan traced the final lines of the story. He didn't need the characters' names to know who they were.
"It's beautiful," he whispered.
"Like you," Yibo said without thinking.
Zhan blinked, heart fluttering as he looked up. The words had slipped from Yibo so naturally, like a truth too heavy to be contained.
There was a pause—short, but weighty.
"Say that again," Zhan said, barely audible.
"You're beautiful," Yibo repeated, more clearly this time. "In every life. I think I've always known it."
Zhan's breath hitched. His fingers reached out slowly, brushing against Yibo's. And when Yibo didn't pull away, he laced their hands together.
"I think I've been waiting to hear that for two lifetimes," Zhan whispered.
---
Later that week, Zhan invited Yibo to a private space within Zhang Art Gallery—a room that had once been a storage area, now converted into a creative sanctuary.
"I haven't shown this to anyone," Zhan said, flicking on the light. "But I've been working on something."
The room was filled with canvases. Dozens of them. Every single one painted in a dreamy, almost surreal style—images that didn't belong in the present.
Yibo stepped closer to one. It depicted two figures in flowing robes, standing back-to-back under a blood-red sky. Another showed a sword plunged into the ground beside a mourning figure, the other silently watching from a distance.
"These are—" Yibo's voice caught.
Zhan nodded. "I started painting them even before we met. At first, I thought they were just fictional, characters my imagination made up. But now… I realize I was remembering."
Yibo was quiet, his eyes lingering on one particular canvas that showed a familiar scene—a bamboo forest, moonlight casting shadows on two men playing the guqin and flute in harmony.
"I remember this," he whispered. "Not from a dream… it's a memory."
Zhan turned to him slowly. "You played for me."
"And you danced," Yibo finished.
It wasn't a confession—it was a knowing. A truth surfacing from somewhere deep inside them both.
"I think…" Zhan started slowly, "that love like theirs—like ours—it doesn't disappear. It finds a way. Through lifetimes. Through pain."
Yibo took a step closer. "Then let's make sure we don't waste this one."
He leaned in, not in a rush, not seeking anything dramatic. His forehead rested gently against Zhan's. Their breath mingled, the silence between them as intimate as a kiss.
"We've spent a lifetime apart," Yibo murmured. "Let's spend this one making up for it."
Zhan smiled, eyes soft. "Then promise me something."
"Anything."
"Don't run away when it gets hard again."
"I won't," Yibo said. "Not this time. Not ever."
---
That night, Zhan dreamed again.
He was running—bloodied, terrified—but his expression wasn't fearful. It was desperate. Behind him, a cliff, a roar of spiritual energy. And ahead… Lan Zhan. Standing firm, robes billowing, sword drawn.
"Wei Ying!" he shouted.
Zhan—no, Wei Ying—stumbled into his arms. The world around them collapsed in flame and thunder. And even as darkness took him, he reached for Lan Zhan's hand.
"Next life… let's find each other sooner."
Zhan jolted awake, sweat dampening his forehead. His heart raced, but beside him in bed, Yibo slept peacefully, their fingers loosely entwined.
Zhan stared at him for a long while.
They had found each other.
And this time, they weren't letting go.