Chapter 26

Chi Zhihan never ended up asking Qi Cheng what he meant by those words.

By the time Dr. Li came in with a pile of medications, they had already returned to a safe distance. Chi Zhihan was taking a call from Lin Jingwu, while Qi Cheng, with his free hand that wasn’t connected to the IV, was sketching in his notebook, head lowered.

But something had changed.

When she took the detailed medical instructions Dr. Li had specially printed for her, she felt the weight of the paper differently—not because she had suddenly realized the responsibility she needed to bear, but because of the lingering coolness of Qi Cheng’s fingertips.

That temperature, along with the sharp ache in her heart, had crystallized into an untouchable point deep within her. Something wild and dangerous was sealed within that point—she vaguely knew what it was, but had no desire to confront it.

She glanced secretly at Qi Cheng.

He maintained his quiet demeanor, focused intently on painting with his watercolors. The folding table on his bed was custom-made, with a large surface and partitions that could safely enclose him.

When he didn’t feel like talking to her, he would press a button to raise this tabletop.

It was him who had turned the atmosphere into this, yet his posture made him look utterly innocent.

“You can have porridge tonight,” Chi Zhihan said, waving the long list of medical instructions, making them rustle noisily. “But for now, it’s just plain white porridge.”

“Normally, adding a little oil before cooking makes the porridge more fragrant, but you can’t have any fat right now, so I just soaked the washed rice for an hour,” she continued with her typical rambling, explaining the cooking process in detail.

But since it was just plain porridge, she quickly ran out of things to say.

Qi Cheng didn’t react, still painting with his head down.

“I’ll go back to sleep across the hall tonight. If you need anything, call me. The nurses will check on you regularly too,” Chi Zhihan bit her lip, changing the subject.

She desperately needed a conversation to suppress the increasingly turbulent emotions rising within her.

Qi Cheng showed a slight reaction to this topic. His brush didn’t stop, and his head remained lowered, but he asked, “Did you ask Dr. Zhao?”

“He said it’s still too early,” Chi Zhihan replied, wrinkling her nose afterwards. Besides that, Dr. Zhao had been quite excited, believing that Qi Cheng’s proactive decision to take responsibility for her was far more important than the bruises on his back.

A breakthrough…

This also made Chi Zhihan realize something: Dr. Zhao’s composed attitude indicated that he had always been aware of all the interactions between Qi Cheng and her, from her initial discomfort to her current embarrassment.

The surveillance in Qi Cheng’s room had likely been on ever since she returned.

Dr. Zhao’s apparent unreliability was just superficial. She now even suspected that all her actions had been analyzed and predicted by him—otherwise, he couldn’t have trusted her so blindly.

Qi Cheng finally looked up, glancing at Chi Zhihan who was lost in thought with her wrinkled nose. The fingers that had touched her earlier trembled slightly.

“Not afraid of hospitals anymore?” he asked, his tone returning to normal as he lowered his head again.

“…Still afraid,” Chi Zhihan’s face flushed. Who was the patient here, anyway?

“Then why go back?” His tone was matter-of-fact.

…

Chi Zhihan looked up, tilting her head as she watched him.

“I just realized you’re not as meek as I thought,” she said. He had a temper and insisted on his own opinions when he disagreed. When they maintained a safe distance, he would use those half-commanding statements. When they were close enough to make him uncomfortable, although nervous, he would accurately express his views through body language.

Want meant want, and don’t want meant don’t want. Unless forced due to health issues, most of the time, he wasn’t as submissive as she had imagined.

Qi Cheng froze, looking up.

Chi Zhihan smiled, her eyes curving into crescents as she tilted her head. The atmosphere that had been disrupted by his sudden movement seemed to have returned to normal.

“Sleep here. I’ll tell you before I have an episode,” he said, slightly relieved. His tone remained unchanged, though something in his eyes dimmed.

The hand that had touched her was numb with pain.

He didn’t know why he had made such a gesture, but he had seen Chi Zhihan’s expression.

She had been startled—a moment of bewilderment, then an instinctive flinch.

Her eyes showed surprise and fear.

He was the employer, and she was just a staff member Dr. Zhao had brought in to help treat his psychological illness.

She knew his entire medical history and had seen him at his most vulnerable.

He must have been bewitched by her not treating him like a patient. In that moment when he reached out, it was only because the loose hair by her ear was covering her cheek.

Her pink, round cheek, with its expectedly soft touch.

Chi Zhihan’s smiling face and repeated boundary-pushing had given him something like false hope, making him think that maybe he wasn’t beyond saving.

It was just a momentary impulse—that strong desire to touch something beautiful… nothing more.

But why had he still wanted to stop her from going back to sleep across the hall?

And why hadn’t she refused?

She had even nodded, glancing at her phone.

“As long as Dr. Zhao doesn’t call me immediately, it means he tacitly agrees,” she said, her bright eyes curving into fox-like crescents. “So I’ll keep sleeping on the couch.”

Her tone carried an exaggerated excitement that even she could detect.

She genuinely didn’t mind sleeping here—the medicinal smell across the hall was too strong, and the nurses’ conversations she would catch in her half-sleep always left her feeling heavy-hearted.

She had overheard them talking about Qi Cheng’s condition.

“Completely broken down. A man not even thirty—what a shame,” one nurse had said, her tone like discussing a young person on their deathbed.

“Those antidepressants, none of them are good for the body. He’s endured for ten years,” another nurse had added wistfully. “Such a pity.”

They didn’t specify what was a pity, but it made Chi Zhihan grab her pillow and blanket and flee.

Years ago, nurses had described her the same way: What a pity, a girl just starting university, suddenly losing her father, and her mother running away.

The word “pity” was the most sympathy strangers could offer to misfortune.

Two words, coupled with sighs and head-shaking, turned it into someone else’s story happening behind a wall, outside a window.

She didn’t like this word, and by extension, didn’t like anyone using such words to describe Qi Cheng.

He wasn’t pitiable—he was greedy, had a small temper, had hobbies, he still sought help.

So she preferred curling up on Qi Cheng’s large couch, watching the man in bed listlessly playing with his IV tube before sleep, winding it around his finger once, twice, then unwinding it once, twice.

She would gradually fall asleep, occasionally dreaming of her father, curled up on their family couch, poking her waist with chopsticks.

“Girl, change the channel! What’s with all this wailing!” his voice would boom with vigor.

Suddenly waking, she would look up to find that man also asleep, his face pale, brows slightly furrowed.

Her eyes would sting, but no tears would come.

What was there to pity? Both she and he were still alive, still breathing, however difficult it might be.

…

Dr. Li’s early recovery diet was troublesome—rice water, vegetable and fruit juice, six meals a day, 100ml each time.

Without any seasonings allowed, Chi Zhihan could only put extra effort into the juice combinations, experimenting with different mixtures of pear, white radish, carrot, and tomato. The taste couldn’t be particularly good, but Qi Cheng finished everything each time.

Without even furrowing his brow, he drank whatever she gave him.

At night, she still curled up on the couch, watching as the number of nurses across the hall gradually decreased and the medical equipment slowly being returned to her locked room on the third floor.

“Only three nurses left,” Chi Zhihan announced on the fifth day of liquid diet, holding up three fingers triumphantly as she came over. “You must be getting better soon.”

Qi Cheng’s lips curved slightly upward as he kept his head down, drawing.

After that day, a subtle balance had formed between Qi Cheng and Chi Zhihan.

During those five days, he only had voices in his ears one night. After struggling to endure it, he finally decided to keep his promise and wake Chi Zhihan. But just as he sat up, he saw her sitting on the couch in her pajamas, hugging her pillow and staring at him.

“I heard your breathing change,” Chi Zhihan explained, then grabbed her pillow and shuffled across in her slippers.

The next day, they acted as if nothing had happened, with her making her bed on the couch again. On nights without episodes, he even grew accustomed to the sound of Chi Zhihan getting up for water in the middle of the night.

Days passed peacefully, almost deceptively improving, just like Chi Zhihan’s daily reports of decreasing medical equipment and nurse numbers—inexplicably lifting their spirits.

“This is for you,” he pulled two drawings from his folding table and handed them to Chi Zhihan, the slight curve of his lips maintaining that angle.

Chi Zhihan took them puzzledly, then her eyes widened.

Both were cartoon-style food illustrations—one of egg shrimp and one of lotus root stuffed with osmanthus sweet rice. The colors were vivid and rich, with a signature in the bottom right corner that seemed strangely familiar to her as an internet enthusiast: Cheng Yi.

Both dishes were ones she was planning to make for tomorrow’s winter season video recording. He had asked about the cooking steps and plating yesterday, but she had just thought he was craving food.

“You drew these?” She often saw him drawing when he was in good spirits, but had never imagined the finished products could be so stunning. And why did that simple black signature seem so familiar?

“Take these with you when you go to record tomorrow, give them to Lin Jingwu,” Qi Cheng carefully wiped the paint off his hands with a wet tissue, massaging his left wrist. “Tell him these two are promotional drafts, and for the remaining winter season food videos, I’ll provide ten refined illustrations. He’ll know what to do when he sees the signature.”

“Don’t tell him I’m Cheng Yi,” he added finally, slowing his speech, his expression serious.

Chi Zhihan nodded instinctively—Qi Cheng rarely had such serious moments.

Why was the name Cheng Yi so familiar?

“This should help boost your video’s popularity quite a bit,” Qi Cheng said, his mood seemingly good, his lips maintaining their rare upward curve.

“You…” Chi Zhihan hadn’t completely figured out the situation yet, but vaguely felt he might have done her a huge favor.

“My sister told me you were docked pay for staying here,” Qi Cheng met her eyes. “I’ll make it up to you.”