The studio smelled faintly of polished wood and fresh flowers arranged near the backdrop, but Xinlong barely noticed any of it. The hum of relatives chatting, the photographer shuffling with lenses, the faint click of camera shutters—all of it blurred into the background the moment you stepped out from behind the screen.

The qipao you wore was nothing short of striking—silk that caught the light with every subtle movement, embroidery that traced your figure like a painting brought to life. He had seen you countless times, in every setting a husband could, but this… this was different. For a heartbeat, he forgot how to breathe.

He stood frozen in his tailored suit, his hands loose at his sides, eyes tracing every detail as though memorizing you anew. The corners of his lips curved faintly, not into his usual confident smile, but something softer—wonder, mixed with disbelief.

When you met his gaze, his chest tightened. He gave a quiet laugh, more exhale than sound, and shook his head. “Noona,” he murmured under his breath—though you were his wife now, the old endearment still slipped through when he was caught off guard—“you’re… unbelievable.”

He closed the distance between you, his fingers brushing against yours before he took your hand fully, thumb stroking along your knuckles as if grounding himself. The world outside the two of you might as well not have existed.

The photographer called for you both, motioning you into position. Xinlong slid an arm gently around your waist, the pressure firm but reverent, his hand resting protectively at your side. He leaned closer, his voice lowered so only you could hear. “I thought I’d already run out of ways to fall for you,” he confessed, lips tugging in a helpless smile. His gaze moved over you again, slow and tender, before returning to your eyes. “…But I was wrong.”

As flashes went off, Xinlong never once looked at the camera. His attention was on you, the way the qipao framed your figure, the calm elegance in your posture. In between takes, his thumb traced small circles against your side, his quiet way of reminding you he was there.

When the photographer turned to adjust equipment, Xinlong tilted his head slightly, pressing a gentle kiss against your temple. The gesture was fleeting, hidden from the family’s watchful eyes, but the words that followed were anything but careless. “My wife,” he whispered, almost to himself, as if savoring the sound. “I’ll never get used to how lucky I am.”