“Boss, what on earth would bring Miss Rong out here alone in the middle of the night, sitting in front of the clinic?”

Xu Mo kept his eyes on the road, his gaze flicking to the rearview mirror now and then. By now, Rong Qian had been pulled close and held firmly in Shen Yi’s arms.

Rong Qian had been wrapped in two coats — one of which Shen Yi had stripped from Xu Mo on the spot — and yet even so, Shen Yi could still feel her shivering.

Her body was as cold as ice. He had been cupping her hands in his, trying to warm them, for quite some time now, and they still felt nowhere near warm.

Getting no response, Xu Mo didn’t press further. He thought to himself — the boss must be hurting inside right now.

Hurting was an understatement. Shen Yi felt as though his heart might shatter.

He didn’t know how long Rong Qian had been sitting alone at the clinic door. He didn’t know what had gone through her mind when she first arrived — when she went to his home and found it sealed off.

How helpless she must have felt. How alone.

Shen Yi didn’t dare let his thoughts go any further. The more he thought about it, the more it pained him. The only thing he could do was hold her as close as he could, letting her feel the warmth of his body.

So that she could feel, even in her sleep, that someone was holding her — so that, at least in her dreams, she might not be so cold.

Shen Yi now lived at a different residence. Since the property was registered in Fu Bozhong’s name, it had not been affected. It wasn’t as grand as his original home, but this detached house with a garden was still a comfortable size.

When they arrived, Xu Mo pulled over, quickly got out and held an umbrella to shield Shen Yi as he carried Rong Qian inside.

Shen Yi wasted no time giving instructions: “Xu Mo — go fill a basin with hot water and bring it to my room. Bring a few towels as well. And phone Dr. Qiao Junche — ask him to come over.”

“On it!”

Xu Mo rushed off to the bathroom to fill the basin. When he carried it to Shen Yi’s room, he found Shen Yi in the middle of unfastening the buttons on Rong Qian’s clothing.

Xu Mo set the basin down on the table, told Shen Yi to call if he needed anything, and quickly stepped back out to phone Dr. Qiao Junche.

Shen Yi didn’t dare put Rong Qian straight into a hot bath. Instead, he changed her first into a warm set of pajamas, then used hot towels to warm her body.

Her lips had cracked from the cold — there was not a trace of color in them. She murmured that she wanted water, but when Shen Yi brought a cup over and held it to her, Rong Qian was not conscious enough to drink.

In the end, Shen Yi drank from the cup himself, and then passed the water to her mouth to mouth — only in that way did he manage to quench her thirst.

When Dr. Qiao Junche arrived, he took her temperature first and confirmed she had indeed developed a fever. A drip was set up, and by the time all the fussing was done, Shen Yi had not slept a wink. He kept watch over her through the night.

Rong Qian didn’t wake until the following noon.

The moment her eyes opened, she looked around.

The room was unfamiliar. The décor was simple and understated — a bookshelf to one side, lined with all manner of books, a natural wood-toned desk kept tidy and clear, documents and contracts arranged in neat order.

Gray carpet, black-and-white cabinetry — no matter which detail you looked at, it was clear the owner had refined taste.

And from the cool, monochrome tones throughout the room, it was just as plain that the owner was male.

Rong Qian glanced down at herself — deep charcoal-gray cotton pajamas, loose and oversized, the sleeves far too long. These were clearly a man’s clothes. Who had put them on her?

She also noticed, then, the faint mark on the back of her hand where the intravenous needle had been.

Rong Qian recalled — she had spent last night huddled at the entrance of Dr. Qiao Junche’s clinic. So was this actually Dr. Qiao Junche’s room? Were the pajamas his as well?

That thought made her feel rather awkward. She was just about to take them off when the door opened.

Shen Yi walked in — having been awake all night, looking visibly worn, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose.

Rong Qian looked up at him. She took a careful look first — confirmed it wasn’t Mu Chaoxue — and then called out with undisguised joy: “Shen Yi!”

Her voice came out slightly hoarse from the cold, but her tone was full of brightness and energy, the kind that couldn’t help but pull other people along with it.

Shen Yi heard her voice and paused — and then he saw Rong Qian smiling, face lit up, waving cheerfully at him.

In that instant, without a second thought, Shen Yi crossed the room and enveloped her in an embrace, pulling her down onto the bed and holding her tightly.

Rong Qian even patted the top of his head, as though to comfort him. “Hey — it’s only been half a day apart. Did you miss me that much?”

“A’Qian — to you, it’s been half a day. To me, it’s been three years.”

Shen Yi looked at her with a soft, deep gaze full of tenderness, the two of them with foreheads pressed together. He closed his eyes — as though replenishing something from within himself, as though she were the only place he could recover what had been lost.

Rong Qian cupped his face in her hands and studied it, careful and unhurried.

Time truly does leave its mark on a person’s face.

Compared to three years ago — the vibrant, spirited version of him at twenty-eight — the Shen Yi before her now, at thirty-one, carried something unmistakably different in his brow: the quiet steadiness and solidity that only years of living could bring.

He was no longer young. Young was simply not a word that belonged to him anymore. In its place had come composure, and gravity.

It meant he would no longer boil over with passion, and would no longer act on impulse. Just looking at his face, you would find yourself settling without knowing why.

This was the kind of magnetism that years bestow upon a person — but it was clear that these years had not been easy for him. Rong Qian could already see the weariness and weathering etched into his face.

Having gone all night without sleep, even a slight stubble had grown in. Looking at him, Rong Qian felt keenly, in the most tangible way, how time slowly wears a person down.

She thought back to the first time she had ever seen him — he had still been a twelve-year-old boy. And in the blink of an eye, he had become this man, worn by wind and frost.

Then she thought of herself. Rong Qian’s eyes couldn’t help growing wet. And this time, it was her turn to hold him tightly…