After ensuring the congee simmered gently, Xingchen dialed Dabai. His bright, clear voice instantly lifted some of the weight from her shoulders.
"Sweet Pea! How'd the exam go?" his childish enthusiasm vibrated down the line.
"Mm, went well," she fibbed, unable to dim his excitement with the truth.
"Knew it! My Sweet Pea's unbeatable!" His triumphant pride was a tangible warmth, soothing the sting of her own sacrificed opportunity. Though her Foreign Ministry dream lay in ashes, his joy washed away much of the lingering shadow.
"Dabai, sweetheart," she began gently, "Mama might not be home tonight for a bit. Or… maybe a few nights."
"Why?" The brightness dimmed slightly.
"Work trip. Unexpected. So, promise you'll be my super brave boy? Call me anytime, okay?"
"How long?" A note of worry crept in.
"Hard to say just yet." His recovery decides everything.
"Sweet Pea?" His voice turned small, plaintive. "You'll miss me, right? 'Cause… I miss you already." His little confession squeezed her heart.
A wave of fierce tenderness flooded her chest. Oh, my little one, she thought, her own throat tightening, I miss you more than you know.
...
Her vigil lasted through the long, silent hours. Only when the first pale streaks of dawn painted the sky, and she'd pressed a hand to his forehead for the third time, confirming the fever's retreat, did exhaustion crash over her like a wave. She slumped forward beside the bed, cheek pressed against the cool sheets, and sank into the deep, dreamless sleep of utter depletion.
Bai Yeqing awoke to grey morning light filtering through the blinds. Pain radiated through his chest as he cautiously turned his head. Inches away, her sleeping face filled his vision.
She stayed? All night?
Utterly spent, she slept deeply, her cheek squished adorably against the blanket, her features softened and vulnerable in repose. Dabai inherited his sharp angles, but this tender innocence… this was pure Xingchen.
Slowly, tentatively, he lifted his less injured hand. His fingertips brushed the curve of her cheek. Skin like warm silk. Almost hypnotized, his fingers traced a path: the delicate arch of her brow, the fine bridge of her nose, the soft curve where cheek met jaw…
Down.
His thumb settled on the full swell of her lower lip. He traced its contour, a phantom memory awakening – the shocking sweetness of that mouth five years ago. It remained as achingly soft as he remembered. His gaze darkened, intensifying as he lingered.
Just then, she stirred. A soft sigh escaped her lips, brushing his thumb. Her eyelids fluttered, then opened, blinking into confused wakefulness.
He froze. Instinct screamed to snatch his hand back, but his body, battered and heavy, betrayed him, moving with agonizing slowness.
By the time her sleepy gaze focused…
His hand remained, traitorously intimate, pressed against her lips.
Drowsily, Xingchen registered a tickling warmth on her mouth. Instinctively, her hand closed around the object. Awareness pierced the fog: His fingers. Her eyes snapped wide, meeting his dark, intense gaze. A flicker of something unreadable – embarrassment? – crossed his features before vanishing. Her pulse stuttered. She dropped his hand as if scalded.
"I… what?" She touched her tingling lips, then stared at his hand, bewildered.
"Nothing," he stated, his voice cool, expression seamlessly composed. "Smudge. On your face."
"…Oh." Relief washed over her instantly. Believing him completely, she dismissed the strange moment. Practicality took over. Leaning close, she pressed her palm firmly to his forehead. Cool. Normal. A profound breath of relief escaped her. "Fever's gone. Hungry? Thirsty? I made congee."
Without waiting for an answer, she slipped out of the room.
Bai Yeqing watched the empty doorway long after she vanished. For years, his needs had been met by efficient servants and his steward. Before that… only his mother. The women in his orbit, like Song Weiyi – polished, idle, whose hands had never known labor beyond selecting jewelry – seemed vapid in comparison. Elegant? Yes. Profoundly uninteresting? Absolutely. Xingchen possessed a grounded reality, a nurturing warmth they lacked.
His thoughts dissolved as she returned, carefully balancing a steaming bowl. She gently propped his head higher with an extra pillow. Scooping a spoonful of fragrant rice porridge, she blew softly on the swirling steam.
"What is it?" He eyed the pale, savory mixture.
"Shredded chicken congee. Can't compete with your usual bird's nest delicacies," she admitted, though a spark of pride lit her eyes, "but this? My specialty. Dabai's miracle cure."
"Miracle?" A skeptical brow arched.
"Mmhmm. Fever? Flu? One bowl, and he's bouncing off the walls." Her quiet confidence was endearing.
Doubtful, he thought wryly. Yet, the savory aroma was unexpectedly compelling, stirring an appetite dormant since the blast. He watched her careful movements.
"Wait," she murmured, mostly to herself. Habit took over. Reflexively, she brought the spoon close and darted her tongue out for a tiny taste. Testing the temperature.
She froze mid-action.
Idiot! Dabai's habit!
Her eyes flew to his, cheeks instantly blooming scarlet. "Habit! Sorry! Clean spoon—" She started to rise.
"Xià." His hand shot out, surprisingly swift despite his injuries, catching her wrist. She looked back, startled. He tugged her hand firmly towards him.
Leaned forward.
Opened his lips.
And swallowed the spoonful she'd just tasted.
Without a flicker of hesitation.
He held her shocked gaze, his own unreadable. "Acceptable."
"But… your… germaphobe thing?" she stammered, bewildered.
His expression remained impassive, almost bored. "After tasting that mouth? Concern over a shared spoon seems remarkably redundant." His tone was dry, factual.
Heat flooded her face, a scalding wave. How could he reference that kiss so casually? So utterly without shame!
A flicker of defiance sparked. She fed him another spoonful, her voice softening despite herself, the question escaping almost without thought: "Does it… hurt?" Velvety, tender, laced with genuine concern.
Bai Yeqing stilled. He looked up, truly looked at her. The raw worry he'd glimpsed earlier hadn't faded; it shimmered in the gentle depths of her eyes now, vulnerable and unnervingly beautiful.
His gaze deepened, locked onto hers. His voice, when it came, was a low, gravelly murmur that seemed to vibrate through the quiet room, charged with an intimacy that stole her breath.
"Are you worried about me, Xià Xīngchén?"
The question hung between them, heavy and potent.
'Of course it is—' The words leaped to her tongue. But the syllable choked her as sudden, terrifying awareness slammed home. She stared into his intense, probing eyes, the silence stretching, thick and electric.