Lin Xiaoxiao wrenched her hand free. "I'm married," she said coldly. "Touch me again, and you'll regret it."

Divorcing Zhou Huai'an was one thing—but getting involved with a spineless man like this? Never. Basic decency mattered: while still tied to Zhou, any entanglement with another man was out of the question.

Chen Wei stared in disbelief. This was the same girl who had once begged for his attention—
(The same girl he had almost seduced last spring, before her father stepped in.)

He made a sudden grab for her wrist.

But Lin Xiaoxiao was quicker. She seized his arm, pivoted sharply—hip meeting thigh—and threw him hard onto the pavement. The crack of his spine against the concrete echoed in the air. He lay gasping, the wind knocked out of him.

Xiao Yan watched, mouth agape. This was no lover's quarrel. This delicate-looking woman had just taken down a full-grown man.

Without a word, Lin Xiaoxiao dusted off her hands, shot Xiao Yan a dismissive look, and walked away.

The ward was dark when she returned. Zhou Huai'an was asleep, heavily medicated. Her stomach growled—she hadn't eaten since noon. She made her way to the dimly lit cafeteria and bought two coarse grain buns stuffed with pickled radish.

Back at Zhou's bedside, she tore into the dense bread. It was dry and scratchy; she had to sip water between bites. Under the weak glow of the lightbulb, her silhouette cast onto the wall—a picture of weary tenderness.

Zhou Huai'an surfaced from nightmares—visions of comrades laughing one moment, screaming in blood-soaked mud the next. Disoriented, he turned toward a soft rustling sound.

Lin Xiaoxiao was hunched over, nibbling at the stubborn bun with cat-like delicacy. Her neck arched slightly as she swallowed. Something tightened in his chest. This quiet, diligent version of her was nothing like the Lin Xiaoxiao he thought he knew.

"You're awake? No solid food yet, but you can have water."

Thirst spiked through him. He tried to push himself up—

"Don't move!" She pressed him firmly back down, her hand steady on his shoulder. "You'll tear your stitches."

He flushed deeper. How to say it?

Understanding flickered in her eyes. Men. Always so shy about these things. "Do you need the bedpan?"

"I can manage—"

"Nonsense. The doctor said no straining until morning." She slid the enamel pan beneath the blanket and tugged his trousers down with clinical efficiency.

Zhou Huai'an shut his eyes, too weakened by anesthesia to protest.

Only then did heat rush to Lin Xiaoxiao's cheeks—the intimacy of adjusting his hips, the warmth of his skin under her fingers.

Doctors see no gender, she reminded herself. But this man... is my husband.

Flustered, she carried the bedpan to the bathroom, her face burning.

Zhou Huai'an wasn't faring any better. He'd been tended on the battlefield by fellow soldiers—never like this. Embarrassment spread from his neck to the tips of his ears.

In the bathroom, Lin scrubbed her hands until they were raw. What was I thinking? She thumped her forehead lightly. So much for professional detachment. That's my husband.

When she returned, the silence between them felt heavy.

Zhou Huai'an cleared his throat. "Have you been to see your family?"

"Not yet." She smoothed her shirt. "I'll wait until you're more stable."

He gave a stiff nod.

Desperate to fill the silence, Lin blurted, "The doctor said you can eat once you pass gas. Is there anything you'd like?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Well," she pressed on, ignoring his terseness, "I'll make you chicken soup."

Chicken soup. The irony almost made her laugh. Back home, her penthouse was filled with archery medals and show-jumping trophies. Her mother always sighed: "My daughter—born in the wrong era, always chasing after boys' adventures." Now those very "adventures" might be what put food on the table.

Exhausted, Lin collapsed onto the spare cot in the room and was asleep almost instantly. Zhou Huai'an lay awake until dawn tinged the window gray.

She rose before first light. Zhou was still sleeping soundly as she slipped quietly out of the room.

Down by the riverbank, mist clung to the reeds. The colony of ducks rustled in their hidden sanctuary—protected by deep water and sharp instincts.

No boat. No net. Lin assessed the situation. Even if I hit one, how would I retrieve it?

Then an idea came. She gathered smooth, marble-like stones and fastened the bicycle valve rubber to a forked branch, fashioning a crude slingshot.

One stone plinked harmlessly into the water. The ducks burst upward in a fury of wings—

Lin pulled the rubber taut, eyes fixed on a plump mallard. She never noticed the figure watching silently from the willow trees.