Bai Yeqing's thoughts swam in a thick, disorienting haze. The world seemed veiled in gauzy fog. Yet, her image pierced through with startling clarity: the flustered blush staining her cheeks, the nervous darting of her eyes, the way her fingers trembled slightly against the bottle.
She wasn't the wary, defensive kitten he'd first encountered years ago. Now, she reminded him of a pure, skittish rabbit poised for flight.
"Scared?" he rasped, the word thick on his tongue, yet laced with a familiar, provoking edge.
"Just close your eyes!" she insisted, her voice tight with embarrassment.
He found her flustered state inexplicably amusing. A ghost of a smirk touched his lips before he reluctantly complied, letting his heavy eyelids fall shut.
Xingchen braced herself, the pungent scent of alcohol sharp in the tense air. Dipping the cotton ball, she began the task with excruciating care: the defined planes of his abdomen, the dip of his navel, the powerful lines of his thighs… Lower, lower still. Her cheeks burned. She forced her focus onto the clinical necessity, each pass of the cool cotton a battle against the intimacy of the act.
Finally, mercifully, it was done. She couldn't meet his gaze, busying herself with putting the cap back on the bottle, her movements jerky. "You should… try to rest," she mumbled, staring fixedly at her hands. "I'll check your temperature again later."
A low, noncommittal grunt was his only reply. Exhaustion claimed him swiftly; within moments, his breathing deepened, easing back into the heavy rhythm of unconsciousness.
Xingchen tidied the medical supplies with meticulous care, then gently drew the sheet up over his bandaged torso. His face remained flushed crimson, radiating heat even from a distance. Worry, cold and persistent, coiled in her stomach. Sleep was out of the question tonight. Vigilance was the only choice.
But why? The question echoed, sharp and unwelcome. Why did his suffering knot her insides like this? She shoved the dangerous thought away, refusing to let it take root.
The shrill ring of her phone shattered the heavy silence. Heart leaping, she snatched it, diving out of the room before the sound could disturb him.
"Xia Xingchen!" Weiyang's voice exploded down the line. "What in the name of sanity are you playing at?"
Xingchen winced, holding the phone slightly away from her ear.
"Have you lost your mind?" Weiyang raged. "Years! We worked towards that exam for years! And you just walk away? What possible reason could be worth that?"
The fury vibrated through the speaker, making Xingchen's own temples throb. The loss didsting. That coveted position at the Foreign Ministry – gone. The thought of all those discarded hours of study brought a pang of bitter regret.
"It's done," Xingchen said, her voice flat. "I'll… find something else."
"Reason!" Weiyang demanded, the word cracking like a whip.
"..." Xingchen glanced back at the closed bedroom door. "A friend. He… fell seriously ill. Needed someone."
"Friend? Male?"
"...Yes."
"The one you're living with?"
"We're not really living together," Xingchen countered quickly, feeling the heat rise to her own face now. "Circumstances forced us under one roof. Honestly, we barely know each other."
"Barely know him?" Weiyang's incredulity was palpable. "And you threw away the Foreign Ministry for a stranger? Where's his family? Why you?"
The questions struck a nerve. Weiyang voiced the very doubts swirling in Xingchen's own mind. Why her? Why not the trusted staff who had served him for a decade? His long-time housekeeper? His fiercely loyal chief of staff?
Why put this impossible trust in me?
Yet… against all logic, the weight of that trust settled strangely on her, a fragile warmth amidst the worry.
"It doesn't matter now," she murmured, avoiding the crux.
"Damn right it doesn't," Weiyang snapped, her tone softening slightly with shared frustration. "Your name was on the final rejection list. Just came out."
Expected. And honestly, even if she had miraculously passed, caring for him now would have made starting the job impossible. At least this saved awkward explanations.
Weiyang's baffled disappointment hung heavy, but Xingchen couldn't explain further. They exchanged a few more strained words before hanging up.
Silently, Xingchen cracked the bedroom door. Relief washed over her seeing him still deeply asleep, the feverish flush undiminished but his expression less tortured. Quietly, she padded to the kitchen.
Food. He needed sustenance. Something restorative.
The kitchen, like the rest of the safe house, was surprisingly well-stocked. Fresh, high-quality ingredients filled the fridge and pantry. Her own stomach growled; she quickly boiled some plain noodles, eating them standing over the sink, her mind churning.
What to make for him? He was critically injured. Bland. Easily digestible. But… he possessed a notoriously discerning palate. Her culinary skills extended to simple home cooking – the most basic kind. Would he tolerate it?
She weighed options, mentally discarding richer dishes. Finally, she settled on shredded chicken congee. Soothing, gentle, nourishing. She began the slow simmer, the rhythmic bubbling soon filling the quiet kitchen. It would be ready whenever he woke, whenever his fever might relent enough for him to stomach it.
As the pot simmered, filling the air with its simple, comforting aroma, Xingchen leaned against the counter, watching the gentle steam rise. Outside, unseen guards patrolled the perimeter. Inside, the President of the Republic lay wounded and dependent, his survival resting, in part, on her humble pot of congee and her unwavering vigil. The absurdity of it was almost crushing, yet beneath it, that fragile thread of trust held fast.