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Zhou Tingyun released his grip, and Ming Zhao hurriedly sat up.
Once the video call connected, an unfamiliar background appeared on the screen. Ming Zhao’s mother immediately asked, “Sweetheart, aren’t you at home?”
“It’s raining too heavily, Mommy,” Ming Zhao explained. “I’m staying at my brother’s place for the night.”
Only then did her mother recall that today was Zhou’s grandfather’s birthday banquet.
“What about your brother?”
At the mention of him, the girl let out a small huff. “He’s right here.”
She then pointed the camera towards Zhou Tingyun with a careless flick of her wrist— her perfunctory movements clearly expressing her dissatisfaction.
Ming Zhao’s mother chuckled. “What’s going on, sweetheart? Did you get scolded?”
“Did you make your brother angry again?”
How had she even angered him?
“Mommy! It was clearly him—”
She stopped mid-sentence, turning to glare at Zhou Tingyun, her brow furrowed.
Why wasn’t he stopping her?
Not only did Zhou Tingyun make no attempt to stop her, but he sat there calmly, as if waiting for her to tattle.
Ming Zhao gnashed her teeth.
“…He hit me,” she finally said, her sweet voice dripping with grievance.
Her mother, however, was unfazed. She was used to their playful banter—especially since Ming Zhao was often the one taking charge, acting spoiled with her brother, and hiding behind him whenever she caused trouble.
However, Ming Zhao’s mother still played along, adopting a serious tone as she asked, “What? Your brother actually dared to hit our baby? Where did he hit you? Let Mommy see.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, an odd silence fell over the call.
“…”
Ming Zhao’s mother glanced at her daughter’s suddenly flushed face, then at the brief flicker of silence on her son’s face. For a moment, she was at a loss.
Meanwhile, Ming Zhao was cursing Zhou Tingyun internally. Frustrated, she reached out to pinch him discreetly, only for him to catch her wrist with ease.
She yanked back with all her strength—futile.
Undeterred, she tried kicking him instead, pressing her foot against his lower leg in a clumsy attempt at retaliation. Her movements were haphazard and lacking any real force. Her slender, fair ankles, tinged faintly pink, made her efforts resemble playful nudges more than actual kicks.
Zhou Tingyun, simply looked away and calmly changed the subject. “Mom, how’s the Xiangzhou project going?”
At the mention of work, Ming Zheng instantly forgot the little incident, seamlessly switching gears to complain about Zhou Tingyun’s uncle. She didn’t hold back, cursing his incompetence and accusing him of sending corporate spies to stir up trouble.
Then, as if remembering the real reason for her call, her tone softened. Despite her busy schedule, she reassured Ming Zhao, promising to come home for Chinese New Year this year.
Ming Zhao, however, remained indifferent. She had heard too many of these promises before, and most had fallen through.
Truthfully, the festive atmosphere of the New Year felt even stronger abroad. As an international student, she was surrounded by peers who longed for home, making their celebrations even more heartfelt.
They would wake up early to buy lanterns and red envelopes, stuffing dumplings with hidden coins and taking turns showcasing their culinary skills. In the evening, they gathered around to watch the Spring Festival Gala, playfully critiquing performances, before heading up to the rooftop to set off fireworks—creating some of the most lively and unforgettable Spring Festival celebrations of her life.
In short, it wouldn’t be as lively as celebrating in China.
After ending the video call, Zhou Tingyun caught her leg as she tried to kick him from under the covers and pulled it back.
He wrapped her securely in the blankets, holding her close while drying her hair.
Ming Zhao didn’t want to cooperate, but being bundled up like a large, immobile spring roll made it difficult to resist.
The warm air from the hairdryer blew over her, yet her small face remained as cold as an ice cube. If you poked it, ice shards might fall off.
Halfway through drying, the hum of the hairdryer suddenly stopped.
Zhou Tingyun had already calmed down and begun reflecting on his actions.
No matter how frustrated he had been, he shouldn’t have resorted to force. Even though he had controlled his strength, she was no longer a child—he couldn’t teach her a lesson in such a manner.
When it came to her matters, often acted too impulsively.
The moment Ming Zhao heard him apologize; she straightened her back instantly.
“Zhou Tingyun, do you even realize how excessive this is?! Do you think I don’t care about my dignity?!”
Her tone grew more assertive. “It’s clearly your fault, and you’re making such a big deal out of drying my hair.”
“Yeah, I was in the wrong.” He admitted his mistake, sensing that her anger had mostly subsided, and gently resumed combing her hair.
Her fine, silky strands were difficult to manage, requiring careful attention.
Like a wobbly tumbler, the ‘spring roll’ swayed back and forth, bumping against him.
“You’re so annoying. Don’t think you can just get away with a few sweet words.”
“Then what should I do?” Zhou Tingyun asked sincerely.
“Don’t rush me. I have my own rhythm,” she huffed, swaying her head side to side. “I need time to carefully plan how I’ll enslave you in the future.”
“The word ‘enslave’ is quite accurate,” Zhou Tingyun agreed. “It perfectly describes the past eighteen years… and will likely sum up the next few decades as well.”
Ming Zhao was stunned for a moment, taking a while to react.
“Zhou Tingyun, are you being sarcastic?”
“I wouldn’t dare.” His voice was steady.
Ming Zhao glared at him, immediately announcing her punishment. “Your room is nice, but it’s mine now. I’m sleeping here; you can take the guest room.”
Without waiting for his agreement, she plopped down onto the bed, looking determined to stay put.
The master bedroom was naturally better than the guest room and Zhou Tingyun had intended for her to sleep there anyway.
He patted the plump ‘spring roll,’ reminding her, “Take off your shirt; don’t let it chafe.”
Otherwise, the princess would have a restless night.
As soon as he finished speaking, the spring roll on the bed rustled for a moment, then a slender white arm emerged. A soft, rosy fingertip hooked the black shirt and casually tossed it onto Zhou Tingyun.
It was, in fact, a perfectly normal action.
But perhaps because the shirt had been against her skin for so long, or because of the warmth of the blanket, it carried her scent.
It was simply…
Overwhelmingly fragrant.
At that moment, Zhou Tingyun felt a sharp pain in his temple. Why did she smell so good?
They say that if a person doesn’t wear perfume, yet you still catch their natural scent, it means your genes have made a choice.
He used to think that this choice was a blessing from heaven—a gift that have given him the world’s most precious and only relative.
His sister’s scent had once been a soft, milky fragrance—warm like winter sunlight, fresh like early morning dew, light as a breeze rustling through the trees. It had been vibrant and joyful.
But at some point, it had changed.
Now, it was something richer, sweeter—captivating, intoxicating. It wrapped around him, subtle yet inescapable, making his heart tremble.
Like crushed lychee flesh, it left his mouth watering.
If that sweetness touched his lips…
He couldn’t let his thoughts go any further.
Yet, they strayed anyway—dangerously, inexorably.
What if it went deeper? Would there be more intense, richer, drenched in honeyed warmth?
Zhou Tingyun’s gaze darkened. A cold edge crept into his expression as he forcibly suppressed the thought.
Without another word, he rose to leave.
“Don’t stay up too late playing on your phone,” he said, still.
Yet, beneath the steadiness, a faint, almost imperceptible hoarseness lingered.