Aiden returned the next day to find a small notebook and pencil at his resting area. No note, no explanation—just a simple gift. He frowned, puzzled.
Li Yueran appeared shortly after, maintaining a distance. Her smile was soft, her voice gentle. "I thought you might want to record your work or your thoughts," she said.
He stared, unsure whether to be offended or intrigued. "Why would you care?"
"Because," she whispered, as if letting him in on a secret, "sometimes even the strongest need a place to be themselves."
Aiden glanced down at the notebook. He didn't take it immediately, but the gesture lingered in his mind. There was no demand, no expectation—only a gentle offering of care.
Meilin watched, her heart aching with longing. She had always admired her mother's dedication, but now she began to feel a personal tug of jealousy. Li Yueran's gentleness toward Aiden was magnetic, and Meilin realized she herself had started feeling protective, even possessive, of him.