Chapter 16

Take sixteen bites.
In the middle of the night, Ying Tao woke up thirsty once.
Half-asleep and muddled, she only felt unbearably hot—like she was sitting right beside a furnace—so hot her mouth was dry and her tongue felt parched.
Still dazed, she mumbled that it was hot, then kicked off the thin blanket covering her. A fine sheen of sweat beaded at the tip of her perky nose. Her lips were so dry they were starting to peel.
She complained dully, “Water… I want water…”
She wasn’t fully conscious at all.
Her lashes trembled slightly. She forced her eyes open into the tiniest slit. A blurry shadow swayed in front of her, but she couldn’t see who it was.
In her dizziness, she only felt her body being lifted, supported in midair.
A man’s slightly hoarse voice fell right by her ear, heavy and low.
“Open your mouth.”
Long fingers held a cup.
The cool cup wall pressed against her soft lips. Her lips parted slightly, revealing a glimpse of tender, pale pink.
Obediently, she lowered her head and drank from the cup in the man’s hand.
The cool plain water slid down her throat, easing the dryness that felt like smoke in her windpipe.
But she drank too fast.
She suddenly choked, coughing into herself.
The water she coughed out spilled down the corner of her lips, soaking the collar of her clothes. The man’s hand at the base of his thumb also got wet from the water sloshing out of the cup.
She only drank half the cup.
The other half was basically poured onto her.
At her collar, the wet stain spread quickly. The thin fabric clung to her chest, and the mint-green outline showed through clearly, sketching a fresh, pale color.
She had always loved being clean.
Every time she finished training with the gymnastics team, drenched in sweat, the sticky leotard clinging to her body made her uncomfortable. The first thing she did back in the lounge was shower and change.
That damp, clinging sensation made her feel utterly miserable.
In her haze, she thought she was back in the past—just finished training, just stepped off the floor.
Without thinking, she wanted to pull off the skirt that had been “dirtied” and change it, as if it were an unnecessary shackle.
Just a bit of plum wine had made her tipsy.
She acted purely on like and dislike. A strange heat burned through her until her whole body felt hot, even the corners of her eyes flushed red. Her soft lips looked damp, still glistening with leftover water.
She fumbled around for a long time and couldn’t figure out how to take the dress off.
In her confusion, she managed to tug the zipper down her back a little.
Her back was thin; bones subtly protruded. Her skin was fine and pale, like warm mutton-fat jade, glowing with a soft sheen.
“Don’t move.”
The man’s hoarse voice seemed to be right at her ear. His hot breath brushed the fine hairs there, leaving a humid warmth.
A dim, yellow bedside lamp cast a hazy, intimate outline of the two of them leaning together.
She was half-held, half-embraced—firmly kept in the man’s arms.
Like some small animal that had only just begun to understand the world, her crow-long lashes fluttered, but she couldn’t open her eyes.
She searched for him by scent alone.
Her small nose wings moved lightly as she sniffed along his chest.
What lingered in her nose was a faint woody scent—dry yet warm, like a winter fireplace.
Like a fir tree after snow, a handful of fresh snow in the woods—clean and sharp, yet dry.
For an instant, the fog in her mind seemed to be pricked numb, like clarity was about to break through.
But it was dragged back down immediately.
She became a little addicted.
She sank into the sense of safety that familiar scent gave her.
Her body wobbled, like she couldn’t sit steady.
Instinctively, she clung to the person in front of her.
It was like being in an endless world of ice and snow—vast, white, desolate.
But in the forest there was a treehouse.
A fire burned in the hearth, the wood crackling.
She stumbled in by accident. That dry fir scent rushed at her, and even her body seemed to take on the smell.
Heat toasted her until she was warm all over, so warm she couldn’t help wanting to doze off.
And yet it was contradictory.
Her fur was still dusted with winter snow.
Warmed by fire, the frost melted—damp and clinging to soft white fuzz, making her uncomfortable.
Restless, she padded in circles on the clean carpet by the fireplace.
The deep pile left delicate little plum-blossom paw prints.
“Hot…”
She lowered her lashes like crow feathers, wronged.
They were glossy, faint droplets clinging there.
“Uncomfortable.”
The clothes were wet. Wearing them felt awful.
Her voice sounded so pitiful it made people want to give in.
He Mingye didn’t let her do whatever she wanted.
He caught her misbehaving hand and held it down.
Maybe it was too hot.
She only felt that being held like this was comfortable—cool, soothing.
Her slender arms unconsciously wrapped around the man’s lean waist. The hoodie string fell at her collarbone, itchy. She instinctively tucked her neck in.
The man bent one leg to brace against the bedframe, circling her in a high, looming posture so she wouldn’t fall.
Her fingers slid to the hem of his clothes.
The soft pad of her fingertip brushed his waist and abdomen by accident.
He Mingye’s breathing shortened.
He grabbed her wrist hard, without mercy, gripping tight.
She had no awareness.
Even if she sobered up tomorrow, she wouldn’t remember what she did tonight.
With her hand pinned, she couldn’t move. She only sat there blankly, looking very obedient.
He Mingye held her hand with almost no effort.
Her hand was small—so small there was still extra space even with his fingers closed around it.
He lowered his eyes thoughtfully, looking at her.
His thumb pressed against the joint on the back of her hand and slowly rubbed once.
“Do you know who I am?”
He spoke, voice hoarse beyond measure.
Ying Tao seemed to hear him—yet also seemed not to.
Slow and dull, she lifted her head. Her eyelids rose weakly twice, then fell again.
She was still sleeping in a heavy, dizzy way.
Her cheek pressed against his hand, and she nuzzled it, dependent and soft.
Like a little fox that had been carefully raised—sneaking back into the wild—
Only to run back again when winter came, unable to endure the cold wind and snow, returning to its owner for comfort.
Only the road back was too long.
She’d stumbled the whole way. Not only was her fur dusted with snow and wind, even her soft paws were cut and bleeding, with countless tiny scars.
She crawled obediently across her owner’s leg. A long, fluffy tail hid a body full of wounds.
She curled her legs slightly, exposing a slim curve of waist. On that fine skin was a pinkish scar.
He Mingye’s gaze shifted. It landed on the scar at her soft lower back.
It was a surgical scar.
The doctor’s stitching had been good—almost erasing the memory of the once-twisted centipede-shaped wound.
She clutched his hand as if it were a lifeline, holding it under her cheek, hugging his arm in a posture that screamed insecurity, refusing to let go.
Soft light fell over her slightly flushed, tipsy face.
Her eyes were closed; she slept in a daze, unaware of everything, inexplicably sweet and soft.
Maybe she didn’t sleep steadily.
She whimpered for a long while, brows knitted tight.
Then suddenly, the back of his hand brushed against warmth.
Her soft lips, unthinking, pressed to the raised tendon on the back of his hand.
An inexplicable heat spread.
He Mingye’s arm held still, rigid.
Slightly long bangs shadowed his brow bone.
His fingertips brushed the sleeping girl’s cheek, his gaze dark and difficult to name.
“This time… you came to me yourself.”
“I won’t let you leave again.”
…
Early the next morning, when Ying Tao woke up, her head still hurt badly.
She held her forehead and sat for a long time before she could gather her senses.
She opened her eyes, bleary.
The light outside the window was so bright it stabbed her.
She lifted a hand to shield it, then groped for her phone.
The moment she saw the screen, she jolted—
It was already almost ten o’clock.
Ying Tao woke up instantly.
She didn’t even bother putting on slippers. Barefoot on the floor, she rushed out, flung the door open—
And slammed into the man who’d just returned from outside.
He’d just finished a morning run. There was still dampness clinging to him.
Ying Tao’s eyes widened. “Why are you in my house?”
He Mingye looked at her with no particular emotion, brows lifting slightly. “Your house?”
Ying Tao froze and looked around.
The living room setup wasn’t unfamiliar.
She’d lived here for a long time too.
Annoyed, she grabbed her hair. Her head hurt badly; her brows pinched tight as she asked hesitantly, “H-How am I here?”
“What?” the man asked, amused and unhurried. “You don’t remember what happened last night?”
Ying Tao frowned. She only remembered drinking a little.
The plum wine had been sweet and tangy, tasting good—like fruit juice. She’d secretly drunk a lot by herself.
After that, everything was broken and patchy. She couldn’t remember clearly.
Thinking about it made her irritated. She gave up, choosing not to think.
She watched him warily, clear eyes sweeping him up and down.
He always had a habit of morning runs—a habit he’d formed back when Uncle He threw him into the troops for training.
She just hadn’t expected that, even now, he still kept it—rain or shine.
He Mingye wore a black tracksuit. His shoulders were sharp and straight. A white band wrapped his wrist.
His slightly long bangs were damp, hanging down over his forehead. Those deep eyes looked like they’d been washed clean—dark, bright, and clear.
“You didn’t take advantage of me last night, did you?” Ying Tao asked.
“While I was out of it, you didn’t do anything bad to me?”
Waking up in the same room as him, after sleeping under the same roof last night, it was hard not to suspect he’d seized the chance to get revenge.
He Mingye’s gaze swept her once, flat and calm. A playful brow lifted.
“You’ve learned to accuse first, huh?”
“…”
“Want me to help you remember what you did last night?”
“How you used alcohol as a weapon, and how you—”
He lowered his eyes lazily, gaze falling on the girl’s dewy face. His lips curved into a half-smile, voice deliberately lowered.
“Touched me.”