“Achoo!” She stopped and sneezed.
A warm hand reached over.
“Stop fooling around. It’s time to go home.”
It was an ordinary line, said in a way that suggested they just had a small quarrel. Only it wasn’t a quarrel, but a divorce.
“Achoo!” she sneezed again. The coldness was sinking in.
“Let’s go,” he said, holding her hand tightly. His palms were as dry and warm as before.
Frankly speaking, wasn’t a living, breathing person way better than a cold tombstone?
Yan Huan sneaked a peek at his chiseled chin. The look on his face was as hard and aloof as always. Indeed, he wasn’t warm or soft enough, but that was who he was, a man with an icy face and a tender heart.
He never changed.
If so, who changed?
Was it her? Was it time?
Or did everything change after all?
Lu Yi opened the door, took out some clothes from the closet, and passed them to Yan Huan.
“Go take a shower. I’ll make you some ginger soup,” he said.
Yan Huan looked like a drowned rat, and Lu Yi not much better. He gave her a little push.
“Go.”
Hugging the clothes, Yan Huan threw him a last glance before heading to the bathroom. Everything there smelled like him. Feelings that should have died came to life again, and the cause of that was none other the living Lu Yi.
As hot water rushed to fill the tub, Yan Huan huddled up and began crying softly.
What should she do? She couldn’t give him up in the end, despite knowing that she would only condemn him to a childless life.
Even so, she couldn’t bear to part with him. What should she do? What was the right choice here?
She stepped out of the bathroom and slipped into a pair of clothes she had bought and brought here a long time ago; she wasn’t a picky dresser, and would wear anything that was comfortable and pleased her eyes.
Lu Yi emerged from the kitchen with a bowl of soup in his hand. Hot steam billowed from the bowl.
“Drink it,” said Lu Yi, setting the bowl before her.
Yan Huan took a whiff, immediately recognizing the sharp tang of ginger. Her body was strange; whenever she caught the flu, a bowl of ginger soup would fix her right up. The soup never fails to make her sweat, and she wouldn’t even have to take medication afterward.
In the past few years, she had caught many colds, but not taken many medicines. Most of the time, she would recover after a bowl of ginger soup and a good sleep.
Lu Yi took a dryer, beckoned her to sit, and began drying her hair.
Yan Huan blew at the soup and began draining it. Warmness permeated her body as soon as the soup hit her belly. There was a unique spiciness in the raw ginger, but consuming the soup had made her warm and comfortable.
She placed the bowl down after finishing its content, then turned and looked at Lu Yi. His clothes were still wet, his palms still dry.
He reached over, brushed the corner of Yan Huan’s eye with a finger, and smiled at her.
Wetness condensed at Yan Huan’s drooping lashes, forming into droplets and rolling off her cheeks.
Suddenly, she threw herself around Lu Yi’s waist, unconcerned about his draggled clothes. Through the sodden clothes, she felt his warmth, the warmth that was all too familiar to her. Nothing had changed, really.
“My clothes are wet,” said Lu Yi as he stroked her hair gently. It had been too long since she showed him any affection.
Yan Huan sniffed and buried her face within his chest, listening to the pounding of his heart.
Can you hear it? My heart is beating.
Can you hear it? I’m still alive.
Can you hear it? I will still be here for a long time.
Lu Yi couldn’t hear what she was mumbling, but he caught one line.
“Rather than a cold tombstone, I want to hold you while you are living and breathing.”
Suddenly, he felt a tingling sensation at his nose. Emotions surged through him, tearing a hole at the corner of his eyes, making it dry and painful.
A thin ray of sunlight slanted through the window, illuminating the king-sized bed. A lavender teddy bear sat at one end of the bed, smiling innocently. A lump moved beneath the soft covers. The figure pulled the covers to one side. The sun irritated her eyes, so she shifted uncomfortably until her head and feet swapped places. A tender white foot stretched out and rubbed itself against the bedsheet. Her soft, curled toes looked like crystalline grapes. A pretty woman always has pretty feet, as the saying goes, but will the owner of this pair of feet live up to the saying?
A large hand reached over and grabbed the small foot. Her dainty foot was around the same size as the man’s hand.
The large hand then proceeded to stuff the foot back into the covers. The light spilling through the windows was getting stronger. No wonder she had to rotate herself to get some sleep.
The man stood up, walked to the windows, and closed the curtains, cutting out a part of the light from outside.
The woman nestling in the covers appreciated that, her pretty lips curving slightly. She was clutching the covers, her sleepiness intense, her smooth dark hair streaming down her shoulders like seaweed. In the center of those lustrous black hair was an exquisite face. The saying was right after all.
27 wasn’t a young age, but she still looked like she was 20. Her porcelain skin that was interspersed with blushes seemed as though it might break at a touch. The gods had favored her. Time gave most age and wrinkles, but its gift to her was exquisite beauty.
Then again, 27 was a young age too. She was three years away from hitting 30, and nine from 36. If she liked, she could still play the role of young girls, like what Liang Chen used to do. Liang Chen had been playing schoolgirls at the age of 32.
“Sign this, Huanhuan,” said Lu Yi as he set down a stack of documents before her.
