Song Luan’s head was spinning, drifting somewhere between dreams and reality. She felt someone lifting her up, an arm locking tightly around her waist. She groaned in protest.

Her body felt like water—weak, weightless. She could barely breathe through her stuffy nose, making her even more miserable. Then she sensed a pair of hands gripping her chin, forcefully prying her mouth open. A pungent, bitter smell assaulted her senses. She frowned, clenching her teeth shut, refusing to cooperate.

Zhao Nanyu was running out of patience. He tightened his grip on her jaw, his voice cold and firm against her ear.
“Open your mouth. Drink the medicine.”

But Song Luan stubbornly refused. Just the smell was enough to tell her how bitter it was. Feeling awful already, her temper had taken a nosedive. Her soft, weak hands gave a feeble slap as she mumbled, eyes still shut, “I don’t want it!”

Zhao Nanyu couldn’t help but think—despite her unreasonable fuss, this was a glimpse of the girl she used to be. Only now, instead of being infuriating, it was… almost endearing.

If she wouldn’t give in to gentleness, he’d just have to be forceful. He pinched her jaw with two long fingers, applying just enough pressure to force her mouth open. With the other hand, he raised the bowl of dark, bitter medicine and poured it straight down her throat.

The taste hit her like a punch—sharp, bitter, unbearable. Tears welled up and spilled from the corners of her eyes. The medicine went down too fast, and with her struggling against it, she started coughing violently. The fit of choking snapped her out of her haze completely.

When she opened her eyes, she found herself cradled in Zhao Nanyu’s arms, with that wretched bowl of black sludge still half-full.

Seeing her awake, Zhao Nanyu’s voice softened, coaxing gently,
“You’ve got a fever. You won’t get better unless you drink the medicine. Come on, finish the rest.”

Song Luan, still groggy and half-delirious, blurted out her response without thinking. Her voice was soft and sticky-sweet, sounding almost like she was pouting.
“I don’t want to… It’s too bitter.”

Zhao Nanyu didn’t seem angry. He pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and gently wiped the medicine stains from the corner of her lips, his touch careful and patient. “You need to drink the medicine to get better. You don’t want to stay sick forever, do you? Be good.”

Song Luan pulled a face, snatching the bowl from his hands. Tilting her head back, she downed the entire concoction in a few gulps. The dark, murky liquid was so bitter that her face lost what little color it had left, her flushed cheeks paling considerably.

She sat there for a long moment, struggling to recover, a suffocating bitterness coiling in her chest. On impulse, she thrust her hand toward him. “That was awful. I want candied fruit!”

Zhao Nanyu blinked, momentarily stunned. Then he let out a quiet chuckle, showing no sign of displeasure as he placed two pieces of candied fruit into her palm. As an afterthought, he reached out and lightly stroked her cheek. “Eat.”

It wasn’t until the words had left her mouth that regret hit Song Luan. Had she really just ordered Zhao Nanyu around? She must be getting bold.

Feeling conflicted, she popped the candied fruit into her mouth. The cloying sweetness quickly washed away the lingering bitterness of the medicine. But the fever medicine wasn’t some instant cure—her mind still felt sluggish, and she remained weak and drained.

Zhao Nanyu stood, his presence steady at the foot of her bed. “Get up. Have dinner before you go back to sleep.”

Song Luan lowered her head, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not hungry. I just want to sleep.”

But Zhao Nanyu was already draping a thick cloak over her shoulders. “Put it on. Even if you don’t feel like eating, you have to.” He paused, then added, “And stop wearing so little. You brought this fever upon yourself.”

Song Luan still looked pale and miserable. Reluctantly, she wrapped the cloak around herself, and as she got out of bed, Zhao Nanyu graciously extended a hand to steady her.

Quietly, she muttered, “Thank you.”

The dishes on the table had already been reheated once, but the sight of the bland, flavorless spread killed Song Luan’s appetite. She wanted something spicy, something sour! But judging by the food in this household, no one here could handle spice—she had never once seen a dish with any real kick.

She suddenly felt sorry for herself. Traveling through time was bad enough, but not even getting to eat properly? Tragic.

Resting her chin on one hand, she listlessly poked at the rice in her bowl with her chopsticks, refusing to take a proper bite. Zhao Nanyu took in the scene, amused. The way she used her bowl and chopsticks to vent her frustration made her look like a petulant child throwing a tantrum.

After dinner, Song Luan still wasn’t feeling great. Yawning nonstop, her eyelids heavy, she rolled straight back into bed, not sparing Zhao Nanyu a single glance.

Zhao Nanyu lingered in her room for a moment, standing silently beside her bed, his eyes fixed on her face, studying her intently. After a long while, he finally turned away and left the bedroom, coming to a stop by the window with his hands clasped behind his back.

A maid stood behind him, her back slightly bent, not daring to breathe too loudly. With careful reverence, she presented a letter. “Young Master, this was delivered to Madam this afternoon by a messenger from the He family’s young master.”

Zhao Nanyu let out a cold laugh, his eyes sharp enough to kill. The He family’s young master—one of Song Luan’s old flames. Back then, she had schemed endlessly to marry a man with the surname He. Not him.

He took the letter, unfolded it, and scanned the contents. His lips curled into a smirk, but the chill in his gaze only deepened, frost creeping into every inch of his expression. Then, slowly, deliberately, he began tearing the letter apart—bit by bit—until nothing remained but scraps.

His voice was like ice. “She must not find out.”

“Yes, master.”

…

The next day, Song Luan didn’t wake up until nearly noon. After another round of medicine and a good long sleep, her fever had finally subsided. She no longer looked as sickly as she had the day before, and some color had returned to her cheeks.

Mustering what little energy she had, she dragged herself out of bed. Just as she finished dressing, a maid entered, carrying a basin of warm water for her to wash her face. Once she was freshened up, the unfamiliar-looking maid suddenly addressed her, “Miss.”

Song Luan blinked, a little thrown off.

“The Master’s birthday is in two days,” the maid continued. “The invitation has already arrived at the manor. You and the Young Master should attend together.”

Song Luan quickly realized that this maid must have been part of her dowry, sent over from the Song household.

She hadn’t even known that Master Song—her father—had a birthday coming up. Coughing lightly, she simply responded, “Mm.”

The maid’s face lit up with relief. “That’s good. At least the people in the manor won’t have more gossip to spread.”

It was always the same tired rumor—that she and Zhao Nanyu had a strained marriage.

Song Luan didn’t particularly care. Her reputation had never been good, no matter where she went. As long as her skin was thick enough, nothing could bother her.

Though pleased, the maid still harbored some doubt. She had been by Song Luan’s side since she was ten years old and knew her temperament well—willful, emotional, impossible to dissuade once her mind was set. She loved fiercely, and she hated even more so. If she disliked someone, that dislike would last a lifetime.

And yet, the woman who used to bristle at the mere sight of her husband, who couldn’t stand to be in the same room as him, had changed. Lately, she barely quarreled with Zhao Nanyu. And now, she was even willing to return home with him for her father’s birthday. The change was… not small.

She had only mentioned it in passing—never expecting Song Luan to actually agree.

But it was good that she did. For the past three years, Song Luan and Zhao Nanyu had always visited the Song household separately, never once arriving together.

During breakfast, Song Luan casually asked, “Where did Zhao Nanyu stay last night?”

“The Young Master returned to the front courtyard.”

“Oh.” She made a soft sound of acknowledgment and said nothing more.

As lunchtime approached, little Shige suddenly appeared in her courtyard, his tiny legs working hard to walk forward. Surprisingly, there wasn’t a single servant following him. Under the warm spring sunlight, his small face looked almost translucent, his fair skin glowing in the light. But he didn’t seem very happy—his lips were slightly pursed in displeasure.

Song Luan was startled by his sudden arrival. She crouched down so that they were at eye level and met his clear, innocent gaze. “What are you doing here?”

Shige took two steps forward but lost his balance, stumbling toward her. She hurriedly caught him, only to realize that his shoes were on the wrong feet. Unable to help herself, she let out a soft laugh. “What’s this? You even put your shoes on the wrong way.”

Being laughed at made the little boy’s face turn bright red. Embarrassed, he buried himself into her embrace and awkwardly asked, “Are you sick?”

He still hadn’t called her “Mother”—his tone was polite but distant.

That morning, after finishing the writing assignments his father had given him, Shige had finally learned about her illness. From that moment on, he lost all interest in his toys—nothing seemed fun anymore.

Just now, he had hesitantly asked his father if he could visit. Once he got permission, he had rushed to put on his shoes and ran straight over, his little boots clattering against the ground.

Maybe he had been in too much of a hurry or maybe it was something else, either way, he hadn’t even noticed that his shoes were on the wrong feet.

Song Luan gently cupped his face and gave him a light pinch. “So, you already found out, huh? It’s nothing serious—you don’t need to worry.”

Her words came more easily around a child. Unlike when she was with Zhao Nanyu—where every conversation was brief, stiff, a simple exchange of question and answer. In fact, she almost preferred silence between them, as if it would be better if neither of them spoke at all.

Not bothering to ask for his opinion, she picked Shige up and asked, “Have you eaten lunch yet? Want to eat with me?”

The little boy nodded shyly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yes.”

Then, for the first time, he reached out his small hands and wrapped them around her neck. Song Luan took the chance to hold him closer, and for once, mother and son shared a rare, peaceful moment together.

When Zhao Nanyu arrived, the maids had just finished setting the table. Song Luan hadn’t expected him—he hadn’t sent word or even announced his presence. He had simply come.

Shige sat up straight and obediently greeted him, “Father.”

Zhao Nanyu ruffled the boy’s hair before shifting his gaze to Song Luan.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Her stare had been too focused, too intent—so much so that even if he wanted to ignore it, he couldn’t.

Song Luan coughed twice and shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

She set down her chopsticks, her heart pounding. After a brief hesitation, she clenched her teeth, lifted her chin high, and forced out the words in a stiff, almost arrogant tone. “My father’s birthday is in two days. You’re coming back with me.”

She didn’t want to be the one to say it first—it felt unnatural, awkward but what choice did she have? If she didn’t bring it up, Zhao Nanyu definitely wouldn’t.

And if she was going to say it, she had to say it like she was giving an order.

Zhao Nanyu let out a soft chuckle, his lips curving slightly. He looked even more stunning when he smiled than when he didn’t.

His eyes locked onto hers, an unreadable glint in their depths. Song Luan felt her skin prickle under his gaze. Just as she braced herself for whatever he was about to do, he simply said, “Alright.”

=^_^=

Author has something to say:

A’Luan: I’m super fierce

A’Yu: Yes, yes, yes, of course you are