Physical discomfort made Jiang Zhi frown.
His blunt question left her flustered—she knew little about "that aspect."
Hiding her face in the pillow, she nodded—a soft "mm" escaping, barely audible, yet Shang Chi caught it.
His heart raced—he forced calm, whispering, "Smoke break."
Climbing out, he grabbed cigarettes and a lighter, heading to the balcony.
Jiang Zhi relaxed—first time experiencing such intimacy, strange yet not unpleasant.
Pleasure tingled—she didn't hate it, even enjoyed it.
Lifting her teary eyes, she glanced at his tall back—a mix of emotions swirling, pushed down.
Discomfort persisted—she went to the bathroom.
On the balcony, Shang Chi lit a cigarette—bandaged hand shaky, the other holding the lighter.
Click—flame ignited, tip glowing red.
He inhaled deeply—nicotine calming his restlessness.
Night breeze carried her faint scent—real, not a dream, a memory of her touch.
First time losing control—like a teenager, emotions on display.
Returning, he found her back turned—pretending to sleep.
He hugged her from behind—she tensed slightly.
Smelling her hair, he whispered, "Won't touch you—sleep."
His voice, usually cold, held a hint of tenderness—did she imagine it?
True to his word, he held her—strong arm, warm body, steady breath.
Jiang Zhi relaxed, drifting off—strangely familiar, though first time.
Shang Chi's eyes opened—dark, alert.
He shifted closer, interlocking fingers with her smaller hand, arm tightening—as if merging her into his bones.
Next morning, he woke early—hand injury meant needing her help dressing.
Despite last night, she felt shy—avoiding eye contact.
Thankfully, he said nothing awkward.
Post-breakfast, they went to work—Jiang Zhi, as Jiang Qinian's agent, handled tasks.
Back at the mansion, he naturally asked for help—changing, bathing.
No physical contact since that night, but "requests" during baths.
This lasted half a month—Jiang Qinian's attempts evaded.
One night, he had a dinner—first time eating separately.
Returning at 11 PM, he expected her asleep—she was awake, hearing his quiet steps.
Planning to feign sleep, she remembered his injury—sat up, Lift the blanket.
He frowned. "Awake?"
She shook her head, getting up to help—habitual, unbuttoning his suit.
His faint alcohol scent lingered—normal for socializing.
As she undid the first button, his large hand stopped her—showing his healed hand.
"Better—sleep. I'll manage."
She paused, seeing the scabbed, nearly healed palm.
Embarrassment—her eagerness rejected.
She withdrew, blushing. "Okay."
Returning to bed, she heard his movements—undressing, bathroom water.
His perfect body filled her mind—tormenting.
She tossed and turned—awake until he emerged.
He climbed in, pulling her close—whispering, "Waiting for me?"
His post-bath scent—crisp, faintly alcoholic—enveloped her.
Half a month of nightly hugs—she'd grown used to it.
Adjusting, she replied, "Insomnia."
He said nothing, eyes dark—knew her sleep quality, never restless before.
Gripping her tighter, he smiled faintly. "Can't sleep? Let's have fun."