Chapter 9 He's still the same person who gets sick...
After that, the atmosphere between the two subtly changed.
The once lively conversation was reduced to the occasional clinking of cutlery, sounding particularly lonely amidst the clamor of the surrounding crowd.
Xia Zhiyao continued eating naturally, picking up food while answering his fragmented questions, her expression relaxed, as if she hadn't noticed anything amiss.
But Zhou Yue clearly sank in; his movements as he peeled the shrimp became slower and slower. His fingers were covered in sauce, which he didn't wipe off, leaving a slight sheen of oil on his fingertips. He turned the shrimp around several times but still couldn't peel it open.
His brow furrowed slightly, fine beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, his breathing became intermittent, and he unconsciously slumped in his seat, his eyes showing fatigue and sluggishness.
Xia Zhiyao finally realized something was wrong, and immediately looked up at him, asking, "What's wrong with you?"
Zhou Yue looked up a beat late. He pressed his fingertips against his temples and said in a low, hoarse voice, "It's nothing... I might be a little stuffy."
He spoke casually, but his voice betrayed obvious weakness and absent-mindedness. Sweat was already trickling down his temples, and his breathing was shallow and rapid.
Xia Zhiyao's eyes narrowed, and she leaned forward unconsciously. She raised her hand to touch his forehead, and the moment her fingertips touched him, he froze.
"You have a fever." She said in a low voice, her tone immediately becoming serious. "Your throat has been sore for the past two days, you're probably getting a cold."
Zhou Yue gritted his teeth and tried to stand up: "I can drive, I'm really fine..." Before he could finish speaking, he swayed and staggered, his strength drained by the high fever and cold sweat.
Xia Zhiyao reacted quickly, immediately standing up and reaching out to support him. Her arm firmly supported his waist, while her other hand held his forearm. Her voice was low and cold, carrying an undeniable decisiveness: "Don't be stubborn."
Her movements were swift and decisive, yet her strength was steady. She pulled him slightly toward her, almost half-supporting him to stand up. His body temperature shone through her thin shirt and was surprisingly hot.
She glanced down at his back; his white shirt was already soaked with sweat, the fabric clinging to his back and even revealing the curve of his spine.
"Let's go." She picked up her bag and decisively helped him up, her words carrying an unyielding firmness. "I'll take you home first."
That familiar strength and sharpness, at this moment, became a reassuring support. He didn't insist anymore, his body finally allowed to relax, and he leaned against her.
His throat was dry and burning, his vision blurred in waves, and a low, buzzing tinnitus filled his ears. He could hear his own rapid breathing, carrying an uncontrollable heat.
He leaned against her, surrendering his weight to her without reservation. Even his body temperature began to blur; he couldn't tell if it was her heat or his own fever.
She had a faint fragrance that seeped into his already hazy consciousness, and with each step he took, he felt light as a feather.
This time, however, he suddenly hesitated and wondered if he were to fall into her arms right now and completely lose control, would she also hold him back?
It wasn't the kind of strength a sister would use to help her brother, but rather... the kind of embrace that belongs to a lover.
But in the end, he didn't dare to try.
Raindrops pounded against the car window, a dense, relentless patter that assaulted the senses. The entire car was enveloped in the sound of rain, as if sealed off by a layer of damp, oppressive air.
In the passenger seat, Zhou Yue leaned back, sweat dripping from his forehead. He barely kept his eyes open, staring at the windshield streaked with raindrops.
Streetlights and car headlights intertwined, creating fragmented light and shadow. He tried to concentrate, but struggled between a daze and a blank mind. His thoughts were sometimes blown high by the scorching wind, and sometimes plunged heavily into the deepest part of his chest.
The wipers swept back and forth across the windshield, but could never keep up with the speed of the falling rain. Outside the window, a city was blurred and swallowed up by the rain.
In the driver's seat, Xia Zhiyao's brows were furrowed, her eyes calm to the point of being sharp. The car sped along and finally arrived at Zhou Yue's apartment building.
She suddenly pushed open the car door, took a few steps around to the passenger side, and bent down to support him.
That hot and heavy body was like a burning ember, its heat seeping through her shirt and into her palms inch by inch. With each step closer, her heart tightened.
He tried to stand on his own, but his steps were unsteady. She practically dragged and carried him upstairs. The key was inserted into the lock, the door opened, and the lights in the room suddenly turned on. Zhou Yue could no longer hold on and collapsed heavily into her arms.
She staggered, gritted her teeth and held him tightly, almost dragging him to the bedside and pressing him down.
Only then did she see him clearly. His face was burning red, but his lips were sickly pale, and his eyes were vacant, almost unable to open.
The shirt was already soaked with sweat, clinging to the body, the lines of the neck and collarbone faintly visible, rising and falling slightly with each rapid breath, as if all the strength had been evaporated from the body, even the breathing exuded a fragile fragility that was about to collapse.
She gritted her teeth, disregarding everything else, and almost swiftly and without hesitation, pulled off his shirt and pants without even a second's pause. The next moment, she began rummaging through the room for medicine.
She opened the drawers, searched the cabinets, the corners, the bedside table... everywhere, but they were all empty.
A vein throbbed on her forehead, and she couldn't help but mutter under her breath, "How on earth have you survived until now?"
She turned and rushed into the bathroom, turned on the tap, grabbed a clean towel, soaked it, shook off the excess water, and came back to place it on his forehead and neck.
The heat hit her face. She was very close, her gaze sweeping over his sweat-dampened hair and pale lips, and her heart sank heavily.
She leaned down, one hand pressing on the towel, the other gently patting his cheek, her voice low and urgent: "Lie still, I'll go back to the hotel to get the medicine, I'll be there soon."
“…Hmm…” he responded hoarsely, his voice as soft as the lingering warmth emanating from the deepest part of his body, weak and weary, yet tender enough to break one’s heart.
After that sound faded, he slowly closed his eyes, as if sinking into a dreamless deep sea. He had a high fever, and his body was still burning hot, but his expression was more peaceful than ever before, even... gentle.
It was as if no matter how long, painful, or burning the night was, he was no longer afraid.
Because she was there.
Xia Zhiyao rushed out the door without looking back. The rain was pouring down even harder, as if it were going to swallow the whole city.
She drove at breakneck speed back to the hotel, rushed into the room, practically ripped open her suitcase, squatted on the floor frantically rummaging through it, grabbed the entire medicine box, and then turned and rushed back into the torrential rain.
The elevator lights were blindingly cold. She stood there, her wet hair plastered to her face, water droplets dripping down her chin and into her collar, her fingertips gripping the medicine box tightly.
Pushing open the door, the only light in the room was the dim yellow lamp by the bedside. Zhou Yue lay there, the towel on his forehead and neck already warm from his body heat, his brows furrowed, as if he were fighting against some nightmare.
His chest heaved violently, each breath like a scorching wind, chaotic and heavy.
Ignoring her own dripping body, she rushed to the bedside, knelt down, and placed the medicine bottle, fever-reducing patch, and bottled water all over the bedside.
She lifted the towel and patted his cheek. Zhou Yue's eyelashes trembled slightly, and he finally slowly opened his eyes. His eyes were bloodshot, his focus was wandering, and he was not yet fully conscious.
She steadied his shoulder, and with her other hand, she tore open the fever-reducing patch and placed the cool patch on his forehead. In that instant, he subconsciously frowned and let out a suppressed groan.
Without stopping, she unscrewed the water bottle, peeled the pills, and decisively helped him up: "Take your medicine first."
She pulled half of his body into her arms, her soaked body pressed against his burning skin. The contrast between cold and heat seemed to represent all the unspeakable tug-of-war and intoxication between them.
He leaned against her, weak but unwilling to relax. The room was silent except for his rapid breathing and her cold knuckles trembling on his burning skin.
His body temperature was burning hot, but her movements were calm to the point of instinct. She cradled the back of his head with one hand and held a water glass in the other, carefully bringing it to his lips.
He was breathing heavily, his lips were cracked, and each breath seemed to be torn from the depths of his throat. She brought him water, and he finally managed to drink a few mouthfuls, his lips becoming wet.
She subconsciously reached out to wipe his face, and the moment her fingertips gently touched his cheek, he suddenly raised his hand and grabbed her wrist.
The force was unexpected. He didn't open his eyes, his mind half-awake, his voice low and hoarse, almost inaudible, yet he called out every single word: "...Sister Zhiyao..."
Xia Zhiyao was taken aback. She lowered her eyes and looked at him. His face was burning red, his expression was blurred, his lips were chapped, but his hand was stubbornly holding hers tightly, refusing to let go.
Her heart felt as if it had been suddenly tightened, experiencing a violent contraction.
In that instant, the voice seemed to echo from the past, when he had a fever, she held him, gently patted his back, and coaxed him again and again, "Sweetie, just one more sip."
It felt as if time had turned back, and I was back on that summer afternoon.
Sunlight fell on his sweaty forehead. Her eyes were lowered, and her voice was soft and gentle, so soft that no one dared to make a sound to break the silence.
At dusk after school, he cried as he looked for her shadow at the school gate; on a rainy day, he was soaked to the bone, but stubbornly clung to her arm and wouldn't let go.
He grew up, became taciturn, and hid his emotions in his eyes.
But at this moment, in this feverish, delirious night, he was still the child who clung tightly to her whenever he fell ill.
Xia Zhiyao took a deep breath, suppressing the soreness rising in her throat.
She slowly raised her other hand, covered his fingers, and gently but firmly pried open his clenched hand, bit by bit, inch by inch, and then gently tucked it back into the blanket.
"It's alright," she said softly, her voice gentle and steady, as if patting someone's back. "I'm here."
Her eyes were red at the corners, but her gaze was surprisingly calm. It was as if she had swallowed all her emotions back in one breath, without letting a single drop spill out.
As dawn broke, Zhou Yue woke up with a dry and sore throat, feeling weak all over and his head throbbing. He blinked slowly, his consciousness gradually returning, and the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was her.
Xia Zhiyao was sleeping on the carpet next to his bed, wearing his T-shirt and shorts, half-covered with a thin blanket, her hair was messy, and a few strands fell down her forehead. She was obviously exhausted and had fallen into a deep sleep.
Memories of last night vaguely surfaced in my mind: she rushed in through the pouring rain, her soaked clothes clinging to her body, yet her hands still steadily held a water glass, pills, and a towel.
He propped himself up, moving very slowly, his muscles aching so much that he even had to breathe carefully, afraid of waking her, afraid that this dreamlike scene would be easily shattered.
The room was quiet. The curtains rustled softly in the morning breeze. He just looked at her, his gaze sinking deeper and deeper, as if he were trapped in a vortex of memories and desires.
He reached out his hand, his fingertips lingering in mid-air for a moment before gently sliding down her forehead, across her brow, down her nose, and finally resting above her lips.
His fingertips finally brushed against that soft touch. In that instant, he trembled as if he had been burned, but he forced himself not to pull his hand away. His breath hitched, and the emotions in his eyes surged to the point of being almost pathetic.
He knew this was wrong.
She was the "Sister Zhiyao" he had called since childhood, the only direction he dared to direct all his suppressed emotions during his youth, and the only figure that surfaced in his heart when he was anxious, depressed, and on the verge of collapse.
But he couldn't resist, even if it was just secretly, quietly, in her unsuspecting sleep, getting a little closer and closer, drawing a sliver of warmth from the last remaining gap.
She slept soundly, her brow furrowing slightly occasionally, but she never woke up.
He looked down at her, his eyes as deep as an ancient well, his emotions roaring and churning within, yet he dared not utter a single sound.
He knew he had crossed the line. Even if she knew nothing, even if he did nothing but look at her, get close to her, and touch her lips, it was still an unforgivable offense.
If she opens her eyes now, he will immediately withdraw his hand, step back to his original position, and maintain that proper and obedient distance. Even if his heart is full of holes, he will smile and say, "Sister, I feel much better."
Then lock all the silence and absurdity back into the deepest part of your chest.
Never mention it again.
A note from the author:
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