Font Size:
Evening.
After dinner, the most mischievous Ming Zhao was nowhere to be found.
And you know what they say —when a child is quiet, they’re probably up to no good.
When Zhou Tingyun opened the study door, he found her curled up on the sofa, a tablet in her hands.
She was wearing a dark green silk nightgown, similar in style to the one before, its delicate spaghetti straps resting on her rounded shoulders. Sitting with her knees hugged to her chest, the hem of her dress had ridden up slightly, revealing a glimpse of her calf. Her slender ankles, bathed in soft light, glowed with a faint, porcelain-like hue.
Noticing him, she looked up and smiled, her bright, sparkling eyes locking onto his.
Zhou Tingyun averted his gaze and asked in a calm voice, “Why aren’t you wearing a jacket again?”
“I don’t want to,” she replied, brushing off his concern as he reached for the garment. “It’s too hot. Don’t bother”
Zhou Tingyun glanced at her.
“There’s no one else here,” she argued convincingly. “What does it matter?”
“If you sweat, it’ll be a hassle.”
Once she set her mind on something, not even ten oxen could pull her back. Zhou Tingyun knew her well enough not to push further.
Inside the study, he reviewed documents while Ming Zhao sat nearby, sketching conceptual designs for architectural exteriors.
She had always had a talent for this, ever since she was young, and many of the group’s landmark buildings were inspired by her ideas. This time, the project was relatively simple—an exterior design for a high-end brand’s storefront.
Sleek lines, a clean color palette—elegant yet understated. High-end, in every sense of the word.
She finished quickly, then rested her chin on her hand, quietly watching Zhou Tingyun.
Her light-colored pupils were bright and clear, full of vitality, brimming with vitality yet tinged with mischief.
As Zhou Tingyun reviewed the submitted plans, he suddenly felt an unexpected weight onto his laps.
Looking down, he saw a pair of fair legs.
Slender ankles led up to well-proportioned yet soft calves—clearly belonging to someone who didn’t exercise much. Their plush, slightly chubby curves carried a delicate warmth.
Following the line of his gaze, he found Ming Zhao lazily leaning against the sofa. Before he could say a word, she blinked up at him, her voice laced with feigned helplessness.
“I walked a lot today, and my legs are so sore.”
The unspoken request was obvious.
Zhou Tingyun arched a bro., “Is this how you plan to enslave me?”
“What’s wrong with that?” Ming Zhao huffed, raising her eyebrows in protest. “Am I not allowed? Are you going back on your word?”
So headstrong.
Without another word, he reached out, grasping her leg with a calm and measured touch.
“Sure.”
As their skin made contact, Ming Zhao instinctively tensed. She had acted boldly, yet now, faced with his quiet acceptance, a flicker of hesitation surfaced.
His palm was broad, his fingertips slightly calloused as they pressed down—firm yet gentle. A slow, steady pressure sent waves of fine, unbearable tingles through her.
The warmth of his hands molded against her skin, kneading and shaping the soft flesh of her calf with an absentminded ease. His focus remained on his documents, as if entirely unaffected.
Ming Zhao pressed her lips tightly together, her ears burning.
She had intended to make him dote on her, yet now, it felt as if she were the one being toyed with—kneaded and shaped at his whim.
Flustered, she tried to retract her leg discreetly, but his grip held firm.
Panic flickered in her heart.
And then, his voice, calm and unshaken, broke the silence.
“Didn’t you say your legs were sore?”
Ming Zhao didn’t know why, but a sense of relief washed over her.
“It feels much better now. Thank you, brother.” Her voice was deliberately steady, obedient.
Zhou Tingyun said nothing, simply releasing her.
With the moment of crisis averted, Ming Zhao—true to her forgetful nature—made no move to leave. Instead, she remained lazily draped over him, swaying back and forth with a playful air.
Her normally fair skin was now tinged with a faint pink from his kneading, and as she shifted against his firm thigh, the lingering warmth of his touch remained.
Zhou Tingyun, unfazed, allowed her antics while he answered a call. His deep, composed voice flowed effortlessly through precise English technical terms, his long fingers idly twirling a pen as he jotted down key points.
He was truly workaholic.
Feeling neglected, Ming Zhao pressed her foot lightly against his side.
Without sparing her a glance, he set down the pen and—without hesitation—placed his hand back over her ankle.
Warmth seeped through his slightly calloused fingers as they absently traced her skin, occasionally pressing into her calf in slow, unhurried motions.
…Help.
Ming Zhao quickly raised her tablet, using it as a shield, pretending to study the screen with intense focus—despite the fact that her ears were completely flushed.
It wasn’t as if this hadn’t happened before.
But now, with the shift in her mindset, with the realization of what she truly felt, what once seemed natural between them suddenly carried an entirely different weight.
For a fleeting moment, her conscience pricked at her—oh, so she really had no boundaries.
As Zhou Tingyun wrapped up his work, he glanced at the time, prepared to tell her to go to bed.
But when he turned back, he found her slumped against the sofa, fast asleep. Her head tilted slightly to the side, her breathing soft and steady, the fair skin below her collarbone rising and falling with each breath.
Zhou Tingyun bent down and, without hesitation, picked her up.
The next second, the girl’s arms automatically wrapped around his neck.
The slight movement seemed to stir her from sleep. Her hazy eyes, still laced with drowsiness, held a trace of confusion—until she recognized the person holding her.
Then, her beautiful eyes lit up with a faint smile.
She buried her face against his neck, nuzzling into him with soft, affectionate rubs.
Her warm cheek pressed into his skin, and the delicate, sweet breath she exhaled wrapped around him like an invisible web—silent, yet inescapable.
“Brother…”
The murmur, laced with sleepy dependence and trust, was barely audible.
“Mm.” Zhou Tingyun responded softly.
But she didn’t reply. Instead, she seemed to have drifted back into slumber, her breathing deep and steady.
He carried her to the bedroom, laid her on the bed, and gently patted her arm—a silent cue to let go.
Ming Zhao feigned ignorance, tilting her head questioningly.
As if unintentionally, her soft lips lightly brushed against the man’s Adam’s apple.
Zhou Tingyun’s body stiffened, ever so slightly.
Noticing his prolonged silence, Ming Zhao’s delicate brows furrowed—like a still pond disrupted by the faintest ripple.
“Brother?” she called softly.
Her slightly parted lips, tinged with a sleepy flush, moved with an almost hypnotic rhythm—like the mythical siren, capable of pulling her prey into the depths with nothing more than a whisper.
The lamplight cast subtle shadows in Zhou Tingyun’s slightly pale irises. His gaze rested on her lips for a fleeting second, a silent undercurrent stirring beneath his composure before it faded into calm restraint.
“You should go to sleep.” His voice was steady as he took her slender wrist, gently peeling her arm away—his warmth betraying nothing.
Ming Zhao suddenly relented, unexpectedly obedient.
“Oh,” she murmured sleepily. “Good night, brother.”
Her voice was soft, steeped in drowsiness, as if drifting between dreams.
Then, as if recalling something, she hazily tilted her head and pressed a light kiss to the wound on his forehead—repeating the words he used to comfort her when she was little.
“All better now.”
For the briefest moment, she felt the grip around her waist tighten.
Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone.
She was lowered gently onto the bed, tucked in with quiet care.
Keeping her eyes tightly shut, she pretended to be asleep, as if the playful exchange had been nothing more than a fleeting, dreamlike moment.
Zhou Tingyun leaned down, adjusting the hem of her dress before tucking the covers snugly over her.
His gaze lingered on her cheek for a moment. Then, with a faint hesitation, he reached out and brushed a stray strand of hair aside.
His fingertips barely skimmed the soft curve of her face—unaware of the way her eyelashes trembled, ever so slightly.
“Good night,” he said softly.
The door closed behind him with quiet finality.
—