A Crack in the Ice
The penthouse front door opened. Crystal lights in the ceiling glowed softly, scattering light across the luxurious, modern room. The black marble floor shone, and floor-to-ceiling windows displayed a night-city panorama, twinkling like a sea of stars.
With long but careful strides, Yu Chen carried Xiaoxi across the expansive living room, descending the deep gray carpet that swallowed every sound. The fragile body in his arms felt so light—a stark contrast to the formidable aura of the man holding her.
Without hesitation he went to his master bedroom—the room almost never entered by anyone else. The door sighed open to cool air from the AC. The room was minimalist yet elegant: a king-size bed draped in off-white linens, one large abstract painting on the pale wall, and a soft scent of sandalwood parfume in the air.
Yu Chen set Xiaoxi gently on his own bed. Her black hair splayed across the satin pillow, her pale face sunk beneath the dim lamp light. For a moment he stood frozen by the bedside, eyes deep, holding back something even he could not name.
He exhaled slowly, then crouched and, with stiff fingers, smoothed a strand of hair stuck to Xiaoxi's cheek.
"What are you hiding… that made you fall so weak?" he murmured, barely audible.
The bedroom's silence held only the soft hum of the AC and the ticking of the wall clock. For the first time, Wei Yu Chen's private room—the most private space of a man the world considered perfect—was occupied by another presence.
Jiang Fan stood at the bedroom threshold, glancing at his friend now seated by the bed, eyes fixed on the faint figure. His expression carried something hard to define—a mix of worry, confusion, and perhaps a hint of hope.
With a thin smile he said softly,
"Ge, I'll head out first. I need to handle the IT team issue." In his heart, Jiang Fan thought, Besides… maybe you two need some space. I hope... some kind of miracle happens between you.
His words sounded more like a light prayer.
Yu Chen only nodded briefly; his face remained expressionless. He rose and walked to the built-in fridge in the corner, pouring a glass of water into a clear tumbler. The trickle of water sounded clear, cutting through the night's hush.
After Jiang Fan left and the main door clicked shut, the penthouse sank back into silence. Yu Chen took a small sip, then set the glass on the kitchen bar. A moment later his long strides carried him back to the master bedroom.
The door opened slowly. A soft diffuser scent greeted him, contrasting with the faint antiseptic smell still clinging to his clothes after hours at the hospital. On the large bed with white sheets, Xiaoxi still slept; her face calm though her skin remained pale.
Yu Chen paused in the doorway, leaning his shoulder once against the frame, eyes dim as he watched the small figure. No words were spoken—only a long breath, as if trying to soothe the turmoil stirring in his chest.
On the bed, Xiaoxi tossed, lips moving faintly; she muttered in a hoarse, tired voice:
"I'm tired… working nonstop… damn it… this world has no mercy… if I die from overwork, tell my boss… I'll haunt him every night…"
Her tone was prickly and characteristically humorous, even half-conscious. Yu Chen stood silent, watching her for a long time; his eyes narrowed slightly, as if in disbelief that even on the verge of fainting, Xiaoxi could still speak like that.
His gaze then fell on her clothing. Sweat soaked through the thin shirt, making the fabric cling to her skin. Yu Chen drew a deep breath, then strode to the walk-in closet in the corner.
The closet was spacious, lined with dark wooden racks displaying dozens of suits and shirts in monochrome hues. His hand stopped on a white Givenchy shirt—premium cotton, soft and light, a slim cut with small mother-of-pearl buttons catching the light. Simple, yet undeniably high-end.
With the shirt in hand, Yu Chen returned to the bedside. He stood frozen, staring at the small body still lying there. His fingers curled slightly.
Do I have to change her clothes? After all… she is a woman, he thought, his brow knitting. But the room was empty and quiet. There was no one else he could trust to do it. Aunt Li had gone home. No other staff remained.
Yu Chen looked down, eyes deep—cold, but uncertain.
"If not me, then who?"
He stepped into the large bathroom. A thin steam rose from the marble tub filled with warm water; its scent mingled with the cedarwood soap. He soaked a small towel, wrung it out slowly, then carried the basin of warm water back to the bed.
Xiaoxi still lay with irregular breathing, a cool sweat coating her forehead. Yu Chen sat on the edge of the bed, watching her for a long moment before reaching out and placing the warm towel against the pale skin at her temple.
His movements were controlled, precise, yet there was something unusual beneath them. As the towel slid gently along the neck and thin arm, Yu Chen felt as if his own body warmed faster than the water in the basin. Each touch wasn't mere care—there was a tiny spark he had never known before.
A wet strand of Xiaoxi's hair clung to her cheek; her lips moved lightly, mumbling. Yu Chen paused, looking at her face at such close range. His own breath felt heavy, as if the air in the room had thinned.
Why am I… he murmured inwardly, his fingers hovering at the line of Xiaoxi's jaw—delicate yet fragile. Something bound him, held him, pulled him closer.
In that night's hush, the cold that had wrapped him for so long began to crack. The warm water in his hands became a symbol—slowly burning down the walls of Wei Yu Chen.
The bedroom remained silent. Only the clock's tick blended with the AC's whisper. At the bedside, Wei Yu Chen watched Xiaoxi's thin, wet clothing cling to her skin.
With a decisive but hesitant motion, Yu Chen folded back the blanket, then began unbuttoning the rumpled buttons of Xiaoxi's simple shirt. Each button undone felt like peeling away a layer of his own calm. He exhaled softly; his eyes dimmed but did not move.
As the fabric parted, Xiaoxi's pale, soft skin revealed itself beneath the dim light. The small body was fragile, yet there was a subtle beauty in its lines that made Yu Chen's gaze unable to look away.
He dipped the small towel back into the warm water and, with gentleness, pressed it against her chest. His movements were careful, as if each touch carried risk. But behind his practiced calm, his chest thudded. A strange tremor crawled from his fingertips through his body.
When the towel traced from collarbone down to her chest, Yu Chen froze for a moment. His eyes followed the gentle curve—not with base desire, but with the wonder of a man who had never allowed himself to be moved by a woman's touch.
His breathing quickened slightly—silent but present. He leaned in a little, then abruptly turned his face away, jaw clenched.
What is happening to me…? he mouthed inwardly, restraining feelings he had never known.
His hands continued, cleaning her slowly, though his mind had flurried into chaos. For the first time, Wei Yu Chen's coldness trembled violently under the heat he had kindled himself.