Chapter Thirty-One: A Little Surprise

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The rain outside had stopped at some point, and daylight filtered through the gauze curtains, casting hazy patches of light across the bedroom floor.

Yu Ling awoke to the lingering dryness in her throat. She moved her eyelids, and her consciousness slowly and heavily rose to the surface, like a survivor dredged ashore after a shipwreck.

The first thing she felt was a perfectly measured warmth against her forehead—a fresh, damp towel. Her throat was still somewhat uncomfortable, but the searing pain had eased considerably, replaced by a cool, soothing relief. She turned her head slightly, and her gaze fell upon the bedside.

Zhao Chen sat in the chair that had kept him company throughout the night, one hand supporting his forehead, his eyes closed as though he had fallen asleep. The morning light outlined the deep contours of his profile. Faint shadows lay beneath his eyes, while a fine blue-green stubble darkened his chin, lending him an added air of weary dishevelment. His loungewear was wrinkled, the collar slightly open to reveal a short stretch of sharply defined collarbone.

Yu Ling’s heart gave a soft, entirely unexpected flutter.

Fragments of the previous night’s confused memories slowly fell into place—the feverish heat of her forehead, his gentle wiping, his patient murmurs, his solid and comforting embrace, and the almost magical palm that had soothed her cough again and again… Every detail carried a searing warmth, vivid enough to make her cheeks grow faintly hot. As she watched his exhausted sleeping face, a warm current unlike anything she had ever known quietly flowed through her heart, mingling tenderness with gratitude.

Perhaps sensing her gaze, Zhao Chen’s thick lashes trembled. He slowly opened his eyes.

His amber irises were still clouded with sleep at first, but the instant they met Yu Ling’s eyes, they became clear and intent.

“You’re awake?” He immediately straightened, his voice husky with sleep yet unable to conceal his concern. “How are you feeling? Do you still have a fever?” He instinctively reached out to touch her forehead.

The cool back of his hand rested against her skin. Yu Ling’s heartbeat inexplicably missed a beat, yet she did not pull away as she had before. Instead, she even tilted her head up slightly to make it easier for him to touch her.

“Much better…” Her voice was still somewhat hoarse, though far clearer than the night before, carrying a faint, almost imperceptible note of dependence. “My throat doesn’t hurt as much either.”

Zhao Chen carefully gauged the temperature of her forehead. At last, his tense brows relaxed, and a relieved smile appeared, like sunlight breaking through dark clouds.

“Good. The fever’s gone.” He withdrew his hand and rose. “You must be hungry. I’ll make you some porridge and stew a crystal pear with rock sugar.”

He turned with brisk efficiency, yet his movements carried an unmistakable, unquestionable tenderness.

Watching his tall figure disappear from the bedroom, Yu Ling curled up beneath the covers, which still held traces of his scent. She could only feel that the lake within her, frozen by illness and doubt, was quietly melting beneath an unfamiliar warmth. The vulnerable self he had guarded so attentively the previous night seemed to be gradually replacing the wary woman who had been constantly prepared to flee.

Before long, the fragrance of rice porridge and the sweet scent of crystal pear drifted in from the kitchen. Supporting herself with her still-weak body, Yu Ling sat up and leaned against the headboard. The bedroom door was not fully closed, allowing her to hear the faint sounds of Zhao Chen moving about in the kitchen—the rush of water, the gentle clink of porcelain, and the soft sound of a pot lid being carefully lifted and replaced.

These most ordinary sounds of daily life carried, at that moment, a strange power that soothed her heart.

She looked around the bedroom, now softly bathed in morning light. The “economical” props Zhao Chen had brought out the night before to deal with his parents’ surprise inspection—a bear-shaped mug, a checkered sofa cushion, and coasters from the supermarket—were all still in place, silently recounting the effort he had made to preserve the illusion of being “ordinary.”

Her gaze fell upon the bedside table. There stood the glass of water she had drunk from before going to sleep, with a small opened bottle of throat lozenges beside it. The cap had been left askew, clearly prepared especially for her by Zhao Chen.

An indescribably complicated emotion rose within her.

This man was unfathomable, a walking mystery. He might even possess an immense background capable of overturning everything she thought she knew.

And yet this was the same man who would spend the middle of the night murmuring comfort at her bedside because she said her throat hurt; who would stay awake all night changing her towel and giving her medicine because her fever would not break; who would tie on an apron and bustle about the kitchen because her parents had casually mentioned that they liked home cooking…

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He had woven a colossal lie, yet at its very heart, he had poured in the truest tenderness and protection. That tenderness was like a vine, quietly winding itself around the reason she had tried so hard to defend—and around the cold contract between them.

“Lingling, the porridge is ready. Can you get up and eat?”

Zhao Chen’s voice sounded from the doorway, interrupting her thoughts. He entered carrying a tray. Upon it sat a bowl of soft, fragrant white porridge, a small dish of crisp pickles, and a bowl of crystal pear stewed with rock sugar, steam rising from its translucent surface.

“Mm.” Yu Ling nodded and lifted the covers, intending to get out of bed.

The moment her feet touched the floor, weakness swept over her, and her body swayed.

Zhao Chen immediately set down the tray and crossed the room in a single stride, firmly catching her by the arm.

“Slowly.” His voice was low, carrying a force that brooked no refusal. “Sit down. I’ll bring it over.”

Half supporting, half embracing her, he guided her back to the edge of the bed. Then he picked up the bowl of porridge, sat beside her, and scooped up a spoonful. He blew on it carefully before bringing it to her lips.

“I can do it myself…” Yu Ling felt awkward and tried to take the spoon.

Being fed by him made her feel as though she had returned to infancy. She was embarrassed, yet… inexplicably reluctant to give up the sensation of being cared for.

“Open your mouth.”

Zhao Chen’s tone was gentle but carried a quiet insistence. His amber eyes looked at her, clearly reflecting her slightly pale face.

“You don’t have any strength in your hands. Don’t force yourself.”

With a natural motion, he brought the spoon a little closer. The fragrance of the porridge lingered beneath her nose.

Looking at his face so close to hers, serious and filled with concern, the refusal caught in her throat. In the end, she parted her lips.

The warm porridge slipped into her mouth, soft and fragrant, its temperature just right. It instantly soothed her empty stomach and aching throat. Zhao Chen fed her with great patience, one spoonful at a time, neither too quickly nor too slowly. Occasionally, he would use the edge of the spoon to gently brush away a grain of rice clinging to the corner of her lips, his movements so natural that he seemed to have done it hundreds of times before.

Sunlight streamed through the window, dancing across his lowered brows and focused profile. Yu Ling watched the long lashes cast small shadows beneath his eyes, watched him carefully blow the porridge cool, watched his chest rise and fall slightly as he leaned nearer…

A tranquil, warm happiness unlike anything she had ever known was like a hot spring, gently enveloping her whole being.

The sharp questions concerning his identity, their contract, and his deception all seemed distant and indistinct in the soft golden warmth of morning.

She even forgot to ask where the vanished orange Lamborghini had gone. At that moment, the bowl of porridge he had cooked with his own hands, this sunlit bedroom filled with his scent, and the feeling of being cherished and protected—those were her entire world.

“Is it sweet?” Zhao Chen asked softly, a smile touching his eyes as he watched her eat the pear in tiny bites.

Yu Ling nodded. A small piece of sweet pear rested in her mouth, cool, moist, and so soothing that her eyes narrowed slightly.

“Mm. It’s sweet.”

Her voice held the softness that followed an illness.

Watching her contented expression, catlike in its satisfaction, Zhao Chen’s smile deepened. His eyes held the pure fulfillment of seeing someone precious to him safe and well. He picked up a tissue and, with effortless familiarity, wiped the syrup from the corner of her mouth.

His fingertip brushed lightly across her lips through the soft tissue, sending a faint electric current through her. Yu Ling’s heartbeat quickened again beyond her control, and her cheeks grew warm, yet strangely, she did not pull away.

Recovery from illness came slowly. For the next two days, Zhao Chen forcibly kept Yu Ling at home to recuperate under the pretext that she was “a patient.” It was as though he had activated the ultimate mode of the world’s most devoted husband.

Each morning, he arrived on time with lukewarm water, her medicine, and a carefully prepared breakfast. Sometimes it was thick chicken-and-rice porridge with refreshing side dishes; sometimes it was a golden fried egg with crisp toast. Once, he even produced a bowl of authentic little wontons from somewhere, their wrappers thin, their fillings generous, and their broth rich and savory.

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“There’s a new breakfast shop downstairs. The food’s pretty good—I tried it myself.”

Facing Yu Ling’s astonished gaze, Zhao Chen explained without batting an eye, casually placing a plump, peeled boiled egg into her bowl.

During the day, he spent most of his time at home as well. A comfortable armchair had been temporarily moved into the living room, and he sat there with an entirely ordinary-looking laptop in front of him. Yu Ling recognized it as the one he often used when he was “working overtime.” His fingers flew across the keyboard, producing a crisp, steady tapping. The screen displayed dense streams of code that Yu Ling could not understand at all.

“I have a small project to finish, so I’m handling it at home.” Noticing her gaze, Zhao Chen looked up and gave her a gentle, harmless smile. His eyes were clear and open. “Don’t worry. I won’t disturb your rest.”

Wrapped in a soft blanket at the other end of the sofa, Yu Ling watched the sunlight fall across his focused profile. She watched his long fingers dance over the keyboard in a dazzling rhythm and listened to the tapping that represented “ordinary work.” A sense of peace and serenity filled her heart.

She could not even be bothered to wonder what kind of “small project” required him to type code so complex that it made her uneasy. She simply… enjoyed having him beside her.

He reminded her to take her medicine on schedule and brought her warm water and peeled throat lozenges.

He adjusted the air conditioner according to her temperature and condition, ensuring that she remained comfortable.

Whenever she read or browsed her phone, he would silently hand her a cushion or a cup of warm honey water.

He even left a small bouquet of fresh calla lilies on her bedside table after she woke from her afternoon nap. They stood in an equally “ordinary” glass vase, filling the room with a delicate fragrance.

“I saw a flower shop having a sale on the way back, so I picked them up.”

Zhao Chen entered carrying freshly washed fruit, his tone as casual as if he were saying he had bought a head of cabbage.

Yu Ling looked at the elegant white calla lilies, clearly worth a considerable sum, then at his expression of frugal domestic virtue. The corner of her mouth twitched despite herself.

On sale? He might as well try fooling a ghost! This man’s talent for hiding his true strength behind an innocent facade was truly unparalleled.

Strangely, though, instead of suspicion or anger, she felt an impulse to laugh. She even found his clumsy excuse somewhat endearing.

A sweetness born of being carefully protected and tenderly indulged, like fine sugar frosting, gradually wrapped itself around her heart.

She began to grow accustomed to his presence, to his care, and even to looking forward to his awkward yet heartwarming “little surprises.”

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