Xu Meilin said nothing as she stepped out of the bathroom.
She didn't glance at him on the balcony. Didn't ask why he stood there, silent, like a statue against the moonlight.
Her hair was damp, a few strands sticking to her neck. She wore a loose, cream-colored nightgown that fluttered slightly with every step she took. Barefoot, soft, ghostlike. She walked past him as if he didn't exist, just like he had tried to do to her earlier that day.
But he felt her presence trail behind her like a fragrance.
Like regret.
She climbed into bed without a word, pulled the blanket over herself, and turned her back to him.
Li Zeyan stood still.
The glass door remained open behind him, the night air brushing his skin, but all he could feel was the heavy, impossible pull toward the woman lying in his bed.
Their bed.
He closed the door slowly, quietly, and turned off the lights.
Darkness swallowed the room, leaving only the pale glow of the moon cascading across the floor.
He moved toward the bed, his heart heavy, confused.
They had been married for exactly one month.
Thirty days of shared silence, awkward meals, stiff rides in the car, and passing each other like shadows in the hallway.
They had never talked about dreams.
Never asked favorite colors.
Never even used the word marriage.
And yet...
He found himself watching her more than he should.
He sat on the edge of the bed and turned slightly, eyes adjusting to the dimness, until he could see her face clearly.
She was already asleep.
The curve of her cheek was smooth and untroubled in rest. Her lashes were long, casting tiny shadows beneath her eyes. Her lips, soft and slightly parted, held no trace of the defiance she wore during the day.
She looked... peaceful.
No, more than that.
She looked like a painting, delicate, quiet, and too fragile to touch.
He drank her in silently.
Why…?
Why am I so drawn to someone I barely know?
The memories came without permission.
That moment in the car, when she had fallen into him and their lips brushed for a fleeting, breath-stealing second.
The night he burned with fever and begged her to stay, placing his head on her laps.
The mall, when he kissed her forcefully, not for show, not for love, not for anything that made sense. Just because he couldn't stop himself.
The nights they shared this bed, not speaking, not touching, but still breathing the same air.
And now?
Now he was standing at the edge of something he couldn't name.
Not love.
Not yet.
But something dangerous.
Something real.
His hand moved slowly, hesitantly, as if it wasn't his own.
He reached forward and brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek, barely grazing her skin.
She didn't stir.
He exhaled softly, then slipped under the covers beside her.
The space between them was small.
Too small for all the distance they kept during the day.
And then...
Carefully. Cautiously.
He let his arm drift around her waist.
Slow.
Gentle.
Like approaching a porcelain doll that might shatter from the slightest touch.
His fingers rested just above her hip.
Her waist was impossibly small… soft beneath the fabric.
He felt her warmth seep into him.
Like sunlight bleeding into frost.
He held his breath, waiting, afraid she would stir, pull away, ask him what the hell he was doing.
But she didn't.
She stayed still.
And so did he.
For a long time, he didn't move. He just lay there, heart beating steadily against the quiet of the room, his hand still resting lightly against her waist.
She's too delicate, he thought. Too soft for this world I live in. She'll break if I'm not careful.
And he didn't want her to break.
Not her.
He closed his eyes, breathing in the soft scent of her damp hair, a quiet kind of peace settling into his bones.
For the first time in a long time, Li Zeyan drifted into sleep not with clenched fists or a mind filled with war.
But with his hand wrapped gently around the only warmth he didn't know he needed.
Her.