Would You Be Willing

But caring was not possible.

Caring was soft, warm, something that wrapped around a person entirely.

Lin Qingyan could not bring herself to vent her anger on someone who cared about her, because she knew Emperor Luo genuinely meant well.

Yet neither could she confide in someone who cared about her, because she knew what Emperor Luo said might be right.

So she gave no answer.

Instead, she stood up, offered a salute, turned around, and left.

When she stepped out of the warm pavilion, her strides were steady, her back straight—exactly the same as when she entered.

Lyu Fang lifted the door curtain for Lin Qingyan and even noticed that her face still perfectly conveyed indifference.

It was the usual expression of Jingzhe of the Heavenly Master Residence: cold, aloof, as if no one else mattered.

But only Lin Qingyan knew what lay beneath that facade of indifference.

Beneath it was the silence of the entire carriage ride from the warm pavilion back to the Heavenly Master Residence—clutching the hem of her robe the whole way until it was creased with wrinkles.

Beneath it was the silence of every step slower than the last, from descending the carriage all the way to the top of the Silent Heart Tower.

Beneath it was the silence of those brief moments when she sat alone atop the tower, yet could not come up with a single answer.

Would Gu Chengyin marry her?

Lin Qingyan did not know.

She really did not know.

She had spent so many days with Gu Chengyin—from Jingzhe of the Heavenly Master Residence to Little Aunt.

From Junior Preceptor Gu to Chengcheng, from cold distance to knocking him unconscious first and talking later.

Lin Qingyan thought she had finally won Gu Chengyin.

She thought that those entanglements, those kisses—that was the answer.

But Emperor Luo’s words were like a needle, piercing precisely into the corner she least wanted to face.

Gu Chengyin had never said he would marry her.

Not once.

He had said she was the most important person to him, but never that he would wed her.

Those words—Lin Qingyan had waited for them for so long.

Waited until now, until she had given herself to him.

Waited until she thought those words no longer needed to be said—yet she still had not heard them.

So Lin Qingyan was not angry that Emperor Luo had said those words; she was angry that she could not refute them.

So she returned to the Heavenly Master Residence.

She sat alone atop the Silent Heart Tower, suppressing all her anger and grievance deep in her heart.

She used her supreme Golden Core cultivation to crush it all and swallow it down.

After swallowing it all, she found her stomach was full, but her heart was still empty.

And now, Gu Chengyin stood right before her.

His palm pressed against her cheek, his thumb still lingering at the corner of her eye.

His fingers ran through her hair, and she could feel her scalp tingling slightly.

His gaze fell on her face, unwavering, gentle and steady.

Like someone who had finally cupped his most treasured desire in his hands.

Watching carefully, afraid that a single slip would shatter it all.

Gu Chengyin looked at Lin Qingyan’s stunned expression, at her dazed gaze.

At that thin, shimmering layer of moisture in her eyes that had never spilled out.

Then he smiled, his voice soft:

“Little Aunt.”

Gu Chengyin’s voice was so light it was like a feather landing on water—not even a ripple.

But where the feather fell, something beneath the surface silently cracked.

Not shattered—melted.

Like ice dissolving slowly from beneath by warm water; the surface still seemed intact.

But the undercurrent had already worn that thin layer of ice thinner and thinner.

“You still don’t trust me.”

These words were spoken very calmly, as calmly as stating a truth that had been verified countless times.

No accusation, no questioning, no grievance.

Just: I know.

I know you don’t believe in me.

I don’t blame you.

Because I know why you don’t.

Because I never gave you a reason to trust.

Because I never said the words I will marry you.

So it’s natural that you don’t believe me.

This cannot be blamed on you.

Lin Qingyan’s eyelashes trembled violently.

The tremble was intense, like a butterfly whose wings had been caught.

Flapping desperately, trying to fly, but unable to.

Her lips parted slightly, then closed, then parted again.

She wanted to explain, to say that she did trust him, to say that she was just…

But she couldn’t say anything.

Because Gu Chengyin was right.

She did not trust him.

Not that she didn’t trust him as a person, not that she didn’t believe his feelings, not that she doubted she was the most important person to him.

Lin Qingyan believed all of that.

She believed he liked her, believed he cared for her, believed he placed her in the most important spot in his heart.

But she simply could not believe Gu Chengyin would marry her.

The difference between the two was as vast as the distance between heaven and earth.

Liking meant being together, holding each other tightly in every moment they could.

It meant wrapping his arms around her waist from behind when she curled up under the blanket.

It meant casting aside all reason, kissing her purely on instinct and impulse.

But marriage was a promise—the rest of one’s life.

It meant writing their names into the family tree, carving them into a tombstone.

Their names placed side by side.

Wind could not blow them apart; rain could not scatter them; time could not wear them away.

Liking could be a passing infatuation, a surge of emotion, a moment of passion.

But marriage was a lifetime.

A lifetime of treating this person well, a lifetime of bearing responsibility for this person’s joys and sorrows.

A lifetime of turning “you and I” into “we.”

Would Gu Chengyin marry her?

Lin Qingyan did not know.

She really did not know.

Gu Chengyin looked into her eyes, saw the turmoil and struggle within—that mix of wanting to believe and fearing to believe.

Like a butterfly trapped in a web, flapping desperately but never escaping.

His thumb brushed her cheekbone again.

“Little Aunt, for me, this question is not whether I will marry you.”

Gu Chengyin’s gaze swept over Lin Qingyan’s face, from her eyebrows to the corners of her eyes.

From the bridge of her nose to her lips, tracing every contour inch by inch.

“It is whether you are willing to marry me.”

Not a promise of “I will marry you,” not a guarantee of “you can rest assured I will marry you.”

But something deeper than a promise, heavier than a guarantee, more weighty than any responsibility.

It placed the choice entirely in Lin Qingyan’s hands.

“I will marry you” was from above to below—an offering, a blessing.

It meant I am giving you what you want most.

“Will you marry me?” was from below to above—a plea.

It handed over all initiative to the other person.

Lin Qingyan’s eyes turned red.

Not gradually, but in an instant, flushed completely.

As if something had exploded in her eye sockets, splashing all the blood to the edges.

The moisture that had hovered in her eyes for most of the day finally coalesced into teardrops, sliding from the corners of her eyes.

As if something had struck her deepest chest all at once.

The blow made her entire body go soft.

All her defenses collapsed in that instant.

What remained was only the most primal, most instinctive reaction—one she could not even control.

She cried.

Without a sound, without sobbing. The tears just slipped from the corners of her eyes.