Chapter Text
The bookstore is packed, a low hum of conversation filling the space. People stand in clusters, holding copies of All the Ways to Love You, their fingers resting on the embossed gold lettering of my name. A few fans glance my way, whispering excitedly as I take my place behind the signing table. The nerves haven’t fully settled, but they aren’t as suffocating as they used to be.
Wei Wuxian leans against a bookshelf nearby, arms crossed, watching me with that familiar smirk. He looks too at home here, as if he belongs in the pages instead of outside them. Maybe he does. Maybe he always has.
I exhale slowly and pick up my pen. The first reader steps forward, a young woman clutching the book to her chest. Her eyes shine with something between excitement and curiosity.
“I just finished it last night,” she says breathlessly. “I loved it. It felt so... real.”
I smile, the words hitting me harder than they should. “Thank you.”
She hesitates, then asks, “Was it hard? Writing something so personal?”
I glance at Wei Wuxian, who raises an eyebrow as if daring me to say the truth.
“It was terrifying,” I admit. “But also... freeing.”
The line moves forward. Each person has their own reaction to the book—some gush about the romance, some admit they cried, some tell me how much they related to the protagonist’s fears. I sign their books, nodding, listening, absorbing.
By the time the last book is signed, I’m exhausted but satisfied. A different kind of exhaustion—the kind that comes after something good, something fulfilling.
Wei Wuxian slides into the empty chair beside me, grabbing a leftover copy and flipping through it. “So, Mr. Bestselling Author, how does it feel?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s just a book signing.”
“Just a book signing?” He scoffs, tapping the cover. “Your first signing for a book that actually means something to you. That’s a big deal.”
I don’t reply because he’s right. It is.
A staff member gestures toward the small stage set up at the back of the store. “Mr. Lan, we’re ready for your interview.”
I stand, suddenly aware of every step as I make my way to the armchair under the spotlight. The interviewer, a woman with sleek black hair and a warm smile, greets me as I sit down.
“First of all, congratulations on All the Ways to Love You. It’s already topping charts, and critics are calling it your most intimate work yet. How does that feel?”
I glance at Wei Wuxian in the audience. He gives me an exaggerated thumbs-up, and I almost laugh. Almost.
“I think this is the first book I’ve written where I wasn’t just crafting a love story—I was living it. I had to understand it before I could write it.”
The interviewer nods. “This book is so different from your previous work. Your protagonists have always been controlled, emotionally distant—”
“Yeah,” I interrupt, shaking my head at myself. “I used to think love was about perfection. That there was a right way to love someone. But this book... it’s about all the ways love happens. The ways it breaks, the ways it heals, the ways it surprises you.”
A murmur of agreement ripples through the audience.
The interviewer leans in. “Many have speculated about the inspiration behind the love interest in the novel. Care to comment?”
Wei Wuxian smirks at me from the crowd.
I clear my throat. “Let’s just say... some characters write themselves.”
The audience laughs, and Wei Wuxian winks.
After the interview, we leave the bookstore together. The air is crisp, the city buzzing with life around us. We don’t speak for a while, just walking side by side, until we reach my apartment.
Inside, I throw my coat over a chair and sink onto the couch. “Well, that was... a lot.”
Wei Wuxian drops onto the couch next to me, stretching out. “You survived.”
I smirk. “Not bad for a formerly ‘emotionally constipated’ writer, huh?”
He turns his head toward me, grinning. “Are you... flirting with me?”
“Maybe.” I tilt my chin up, pretending to examine my nails. “I’ve had a good teacher.”
Wei Wuxian laughs, low and delighted. “I’m impressed. And impressed men reward good behavior.”
Before I can question him, he shifts forward and kisses me—slow, deliberate, teasing. His lips linger just enough to leave me breathless before he pulls back, eyes flickering with amusement.
I stare at him, half in shock, half in something else entirely.
“Well?” he murmurs. “How was that?”
I swallow. “I think I could get used to this.”
He grins. “Good. Because I’m not done teaching you yet.”
And as he leans in again, I realize that maybe love isn’t about endings or beginnings. Maybe it’s about the moments in between—the quiet, uncertain, breathtaking moments where everything changes, and you don’t even see it coming.