The pale light of dawn slipped through the gauzy curtains, carrying the soft fragrance of plum blossoms from the garden outside. The room was silent, only the faint hum of the heater and the slow, steady sound of breathing filling the air.
Qing Yun stirred.
Her lashes fluttered once, twice, before she opened her eyes fully. For a brief moment, she didn't remember where she was. The ceiling was high, painted in a muted cream that softened the edges of morning light. The sheets beneath her were not the rough cotton she had always known, but fine, cool silk that clung lightly to her skin.
She shifted, realizing she had fallen asleep on the wide bed that was not hers.
And then she saw him.
Gu Ze Yan was lying on his side, a few steps away, his gaze fixed entirely on her. He had been awake for some time, it seemed, but hadn't moved. His dark eyes were unreadable, quiet, as if afraid that the smallest sound might cause her to vanish.
For a fleeting second, Qing Yun's heart tightened.
She reached out almost instinctively, her fingers brushing his forehead, the familiar gesture of checking temperature. His skin was cooler than last night, though his face still looked pale, drawn from the fever he had carried through the storm.
"You're awake," her voice was soft, almost a whisper. "The fever's gone. But you're still weak."
Ze Yan's lips curved faintly, more in relief than in joy. He didn't answer, only watched her as if the simple act of her speaking was enough to ease his chest.
"You should rest more," she added, withdrawing her hand. She sat up, the blanket sliding from her shoulders. "I'll make you breakfast. And medicine."
Without waiting for his response, she gathered the tray from last night—the empty soup bowl, glass, thermos—and moved gracefully toward the door.
Ze Yan wanted to stop her, to hold onto her sleeve, to say, Stay. But he swallowed the impulse. If this was her way of caring for him, he would not break it with selfishness.
---
The mansion's kitchen gleamed, surfaces polished to perfection. Qing Yun placed the tray in the sink and washed it quietly, sleeves rolled back.
She had always been precise with her hands, deliberate in every movement. When she set rice to simmer, added the chicken broth, and crushed the herbs into the pot, it was with the same calm rhythm she once used to copy lines of English in her old notebooks.
The air filled with the gentle fragrance of ginseng and goji berries, soothing and warm.
While the congee bubbled slowly, she stepped into the powder room nearby. She washed her face, combed her hair back into a neat knot, and changed into fresh clothes provided by the housekeeper. No jewelry, no powder—just clean, plain elegance.
The maid, Aunty Luo, peeked in as Qing Yun was checking the pot. "Miss Lin, should I watch this for you?"
Qing Yun nodded slightly. "Please. Just let it thicken a little more."
Her voice was polite, but distant, carrying the cadence of someone who had learned to speak with restraint.
---
By the time she returned to the master bedroom, carrying a tray with the steaming bowl of congee, a thermos of warm water, and a small set of medicine, Ze Yan was still asleep.
His breathing was steady now, his brow relaxed. Against the wide, pale sheets, he looked younger somehow—like the boy he must have been before responsibility hardened his edges.
Qing Yun hesitated. She set the tray on the low table by the bed and stood there, simply watching him.
She didn't want to disturb his rest. But congee could not wait forever.
Leaning closer, she touched his arm lightly. "Mr. Gu," she said gently, "wake up. Time to eat."
Ze Yan stirred, lashes trembling before his eyes opened. His gaze found her at once, and in that moment his lips curved, faint but real.
"You made this?" his voice was hoarse from sleep.
"Eat first," she deflected.
He pushed himself up, back against the headboard. His body was still heavy with fatigue, but he didn't argue. When she placed the bowl in his hands, he ate obediently, spoon by spoon.
The congee was simple, but warm, flavored with ginger and herbs. Each bite felt like it melted straight into him. He ate slowly, yet he finished it all.
When she handed him the medicine, he took it without complaint, drinking down the warm water she poured for him.
Watching this, Qing Yun's eyes softened for just a moment, but then she looked away.
---
"Come," she said later, when the dishes were cleared.
He frowned slightly, but she insisted. "Fresh air will help."
Together they walked into the garden, moving along the stone path. The koi pond glittered, the bamboo rustled softly, and the first buds of spring pushed through the branches of the plum trees.
Ze Yan inhaled deeply, feeling warmth seep into his bones. The chill of the fever receded with each step.
Qing Yun walked at his side, her hand resting lightly on his arm, steadying him whenever his steps faltered. She said little, but her presence was steady, unwavering.
And for Ze Yan, that was enough.
---
Later, the house was quiet.
Qing Yun sat on the sofa in the living room, a book open on her lap. Her posture was upright, her expression calm. The late light through the windows bathed her in soft gold, making her look almost untouchable.
Ze Yan sat across from her, but instead of reading or resting, he only watched her.
His gaze was steady, filled with something deep and unspoken.
Finally, she noticed. Lowering her book slightly, she looked at him. "What is it? Why are you staring at me like that?"
Ze Yan's lips curved. His voice was low, almost a murmur. "Because I don't want to get better."
Her brows furrowed. "What?"
"If I stay sick," he said softly, eyes never leaving hers, "you'll keep caring for me like this."
For a second, her lips parted. She almost said something sharp, but the words didn't come.
Instead, she simply looked at him, her gaze unreadable.
"What did you say?" she asked finally, her tone flat.
Ze Yan smiled quickly, shaking his head. "Nothing."
The silence stretched, but it wasn't heavy. It was filled with the faint sound of pages turning, the quiet rhythm of breath, the knowledge that for the first time in years, she was here.
---
As dusk fell, Ze Yan spoke again.
"Qing Yun," he said carefully, "do you want to go back to Luminar? Shen Qiao told me she'd take care of you if you're ready. It might help… to have routine. Something to do."
Qing Yun didn't answer immediately. Her eyes drifted to the side, thoughts flickering behind them. She sat very still, weighing something unseen.
At last, she nodded lightly. "Yes. I want to."
Ze Yan exhaled, the relief almost invisible but present in the way his shoulders loosened.
"Then I'll tell Shen Qiao," he said softly. "You can start next Monday."
She gave no reply, only returned to her book.
But for Ze Yan, that small nod was more than enough. It was a beginning.
---
That night, as he watched her in the lamplight—her hair falling loose over her shoulders, her face calm as she read—Ze Yan thought of how easily he could lose her again.
And silently, in his heart, he vowed:
Even if her care was faint, even if her light was dim, he would guard it with everything he had.