After that brief closeness on the sweltering afternoon, the air in the hospital room seemed as if a small stone had been thrown into it. The ripples were not obvious, yet they continued spreading, quietly changing certain textures.
Yan Hanxie was still taciturn, but within that silence there was less of the lifeless self-exile, and more… calm contemplation.
The time her gaze lingered on Zong Yi seemed longer, and more focused.
No longer merely empty staring or subconscious following, but carrying a clear, undisguised appraisal.
That gaze often fell on the back of Zong Yi's neck when she lowered her head to tidy things, on the faintly tightened line of her waist when she bent over to adjust the IV tube, and on the lips that opened and closed lightly when she spoke or listened.
Zong Yi could clearly feel the weight and warmth of that gaze, like tangible tendrils silently brushing over her skin, bringing waves of subtle, unsettling tingling.
She became extremely careful with her movements, trying not to make actions that might attract long attention, yet in some careless instant she would still collide with Yan Hanxie's deep-pool-like eyes, then hurriedly look away, the tips of her ears burning.
The doctors and nurses were delighted by Yan Hanxie's recovery speed.
Her blood indicators steadily improved, the results of cardiac load tests grew better each time, and during rehabilitation the distance she could walk and her stability clearly increased.
The pale face gradually gained a faint trace of color. Though still thin, the hollowed weakness was fading away, replaced by the clear and fragile composure of someone recovering from a serious illness.
"Miss Yan, your recovery speed is practically exemplary here," the attending doctor said during rounds, with undisguised praise. "It seems your mindset has adjusted well. That works better than any medicine."
Mindset?
Zong Yi stood at the side, her fingertips curling unconsciously.
She secretly glanced at Yan Hanxie on the bed. The other woman had lowered her eyes and was quietly listening to the doctor, her face expressionless. Only the fingers resting on the blanket moved almost imperceptibly—rolling slightly.
That was her habitual movement when thinking or when her emotions fluctuated, the subconscious motion of wanting to roll Buddhist beads, even though her wrist was already empty.
Zong Yi's heart trembled slightly because of that small movement.
Had Yan Hanxie's "mindset" really adjusted "well," as the doctor said?
Or beneath that calm exterior, was something brewing that even Yan Hanxie herself had not fully realized, yet had already begun quietly driving her body toward recovery… a certain "motivation"?
The thought made Zong Yi feel a secret tremor, mixed with sweetness and fear.
Life continued.
Yan Hanxie began to sit up and read for a while (the light novels Zong Yi had carefully selected), and when the weather was good in the evenings, a nurse or Zong Yi would help her slowly walk a circle in the small garden downstairs.
She still spoke little, but she showed a clear preference for the soups Zong Yi brought every day. Occasionally she would even briefly comment, "Too salty today," or "The heat was just right."
Zong Yi would feel as if she had received some extraordinary praise. Her heartbeat would skip, and the next time she made soup she would put in even more care.
There was still little verbal exchange between them. But the nature of the silence had changed.
It was no longer frozen, suffocating distance, but more like a thin, warm veil covering the two of them.
Many unspoken things quietly flowed through exchanged glances, the occasional accidental brush of fingertips, through Zong Yi's meticulous care and Yan Hanxie's silent acceptance.
Until one weekend afternoon.
The sunlight was very good, shining through the spotless glass window and filling the hospital room with warmth and brightness.
Yan Hanxie had just finished a round of rehabilitation. She was somewhat tired but in decent spirits, half-leaning against the head of the bed. A book rested in her hand, opened yet unturned for a long time. Her gaze was directed outside the window, as if thinking about something.
Zong Yi sat in the chair by the window with a laptop on her knees, handling some less urgent emails.
Sunlight fell across her side profile, coating her focused brows and eyes with a soft halo.
Today she wore a light gray cashmere sweater that made her neck look long and fair. When she lowered her head slightly, a strand of loose hair fell down, and she casually tucked it behind her ear, revealing a small earlobe and the elegant line of her jaw.
At some unknown moment, Yan Hanxie's gaze had withdrawn from the window and fallen onto Zong Yi.
That gaze was quiet and deep, like water in a winter abyss—calm on the surface, yet with silent undercurrents surging below.
It slowly slid across Zong Yi's smooth forehead, her long eyelashes, the straight bridge of her nose, and finally stopped on her slightly pursed lips—serious in appearance, yet beautifully shaped.
The sunlight painted a faint, lustrous sheen upon those lips.
Yan Hanxie looked at them, her eyes gradually deepening.
Her fingertips tightened unconsciously on the page, making the paper rustle softly.
A thought crashed clearly and violently into her not-yet-fully-recovered mind, which had already begun stirring again:
She wanted to kiss her.
Not the unconscious closeness and the light brush of a nose tip from last time when she was muddled with illness.
But a sober, deliberate kiss, filled with possessiveness, pressed onto those lips that looked a little stern yet must be unbelievably soft.
She wanted to feel that warmth.
She wanted to taste it.
She wanted to cover Zong Yi's breath with her own.
She wanted to see those always calm and self-controlled eyes ripple with panic, shyness, or anything else… belonging only to her, because of her kiss.
The thought surged so violently that it nearly caught her off guard.
Her heart began beating heavily in her chest, carrying a long-lost longing that was almost painful.
Blood seemed to accelerate through her body, washing over her limbs with a hidden heat.
Yet beneath that heat was still the clear weakness of her body.
Her arms would ache if raised too long.
Standing too long made her dizzy.
If her breathing quickened even slightly, her chest would still feel faintly tight.
She looked at Zong Yi in the sunlight—at the slight crease between her brows as she focused on work, at the slender outline of her waist rising and falling gently beneath the cashmere sweater with each breath…
She wanted to hold that waist.
She wanted to pull her into her arms.
She wanted to feel the strength and warmth hidden beneath that slender body.
She wanted to lock her firmly with her still-weak arms.
She wanted to kiss her.
She wanted to hold her.
She wanted…
Many things.
The premise was—
Her body had to recover first.
This realization was like a basin of cold water mixed into the burning desire, leaving her both clear-headed and restless.
What if… before she recovered, she scared the woman away?
What if this overly direct, overly eager longing was exposed, letting Zong Yi notice it—letting those eyes that always tried to maintain distance and calm reveal panic and retreat?
In her current state, she needed someone to help her walk.
Even speaking too much made her breathless.
With what could she pursue?
And with what right could she keep someone who clearly could have turned and left, yet stayed here day after day, doing far more than the duty of a "subordinate" or "colleague"?
Yan Hanxie's fingertips tightened until the page was almost torn.
She forced herself to move her gaze away, returning it to the glaring sunlight outside the window.
Her heart still pounded.
Her longing still burned.
But that rationality and restraint embedded deep within Yan Hanxie's bones were struggling to regain control.
She could not rush.
At least, not yet.
She needed time. Time to nurse this broken body until it could at least support a proper embrace, a kiss that could not be refused, a pursuit… perhaps a long one.
Before that, she had to endure.
She had to hide the blazing heat in her eyes and restrain the longing in her fingertips.
She had to be like a lurking beast, patiently licking her wounds, gathering strength, waiting for the moment when the prey was most relaxed—and most suitable to strike.
Sunlight flowed quietly.
In the hospital room, there was only the occasional light tapping of Zong Yi's keyboard and the intertwined breathing of the two of them, not entirely calm.
Yan Hanxie picked up her book again. Her gaze fell upon the lines of text, yet she could not read a single word.
What kept circling in her mind were Zong Yi's soft lips in the sunlight, her slender waist, and her own heart struggling between illness and desire, trying to become strong again.
She secretly raised her eyes and looked toward the figure by the window once more.
Zong Yi seemed to have finished her emails. She closed the laptop and lifted a hand to rub her brow, revealing a small section of her pale wrist and the string of deep-colored Buddhist beads upon it.
Yan Hanxie's gaze paused on that string of beads for a moment.
Keep wearing them.
She said silently in her heart.
Keep them for me for now.
When I… come to take them back myself.
Together with you.
This thought, carrying unquestionable resolve and a hint of almost obsessive tenderness, settled heavily back into her heart, becoming the most secret yet most powerful motivation supporting her in continuing her struggle against illness and weakness.
She lowered her eyes again.
At the corner of her lips, a very faint, almost invisible curve appeared.
It was no longer self-mockery, nor fatigue.
But something… belonging to a hunter.
A quiet patience.
—
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