After I finished stitching the last wound, I stared at him in silence, my heart pounding harder than when I first found him. His breathing was shallow, his body unnaturally cold despite the fever threatening to rise. I bit my lip. If I had been a minute later, would he still be alive?
His stab wound was inflamed, the flesh angry red with edges turning black. I had to cut away part of the rotting skin. The scent clung to my hands even after scrubbing—sharp, metallic, and sickly. If not for the years I'd spent patching myself up after... everything, I might've hurled on the floor. But I didn't. I held myself together like I always had.
After the gruesome cleanup, I located the bullets buried in his shoulder and thigh. My hands shook, but I worked quickly. I was the only chance he had.
"Don't die on me," I whispered, though I didn't know why. I didn't even know his name was.
I stitched him up with the best precision I could muster, wincing as the needle pierced through his torn flesh. Once done, I placed the final band-aid gently over the cleaned wound. He looked peaceful now, despite the war that had clearly been fought on his body.
I rose slowly, massaging the stiffness in my neck. The scent of disinfectant, and blood still clung to the air. I cleaned up the mess like a ghost haunting her own home, moving through the room in a daze.
My stomach growled so loud my face reddened but thankfully no one aside the unconscious man was around. I hadn't eaten since morning. No wonder my hands were trembling.
I stumbled to the kitchen, made a hot cup of cocoa, and devoured some mooncakes in silence. I moaned in satisfaction because this was what i needed after a long day. Forgive me but I'm one hell of a sweet tooth. I glanced at the window; night came like a thief in the dark, cloaking the world outside in uncertainty.
I changed into my nightdress and went into his room to check on him. I watched his face, pale and still, save for the beads of sweat on his brow and his chapped lips.
"You're gonna make it," I whispered.
I stepped out again, fetching warm honeyed water, clean towels, and a bowl of lukewarm water to help reduce his fever.
But as I entered, a low groan echoed in the room.
"I can't believe I was betrayed by Mo Che... MOOO JINGGGG," he muttered, delirious. I froze at the door. His breathing quickened. His fingers twitched.
His eyes darted beneath closed lids as though trapped in a nightmare.
"Assassins... running... Mo Che..." His voice cracked. Then suddenly—"That girl..."
My heart stopped. Was he remembering?
He jerked slightly as if trying to sit up, the towel on his forehead falling onto the bed. I reached to stop him, but his hand brushed against mine—warm and trembling. He turned his head toward me. A shadow of recognition flashed in his eyes.
Then, with surprising gentleness, he reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered. His gaze was sharp, yet unreadable.
"She's… beautiful," he murmured, almost to himself.
I blinked. My breath hitched in my throat.
As I leaned closer to check his fever, he stirred again. This time his eyes opened—dark, bottomless, and glassy.
"You're awake," I breathed in relief, my heart thundering.
"Did she… care for me?" His words were broken, hesitant, but his eyes studied my face with shocking clarity.
"Thanks for saving me."
"It was… no problem." I tried to smile, but the exhaustion and tension etched into every corner of my body betrayed me.
"I'm Mu Xie Jing," he said, his voice firmer now.
"Li Lei La," I replied. And just like that, a strange tether pulled between us.
He tried to sit up.
"Don't—!" I cried, holding him down. His hand landed on my chest, unintentionally. We both froze.
I yanked my hand back like I'd been burned. "Sorry!"
"If you move too quickly, your stitches will tear," I said, quickly composing myself.
He nodded slowly, his eyes still locked on mine.
"I'll get something to protect the wound during your bath," I said, dashing out before I embarrassed myself further.
I came back with waterproof band-aids and a clean change of clothes. As I set them down, he grabbed my hand.
"Why did you save me?" he asked, his voice soft—vulnerable.
I forced a grin, trying to deflect the thundering in my chest. "Who wouldn't save a handsome guy? Not every day a bloodied warrior crashes into my garden."
I fled the room again, cheeks aflame. Behind the door, I collapsed against the wall, heart in my throat.
"Li Lei La… don't fall again," I whispered. "Feng Rushi already broke you once."
I steadied myself, pulled my hair into a neat bun, and forced the memories of Teng Rushi—his betrayal, his manipulation—into a locked box.
Love had once been a sweet lie. I wouldn't fall for it again.
Maybe a business marriage, a loveless arrangement, would be better. Safer. Predictable.
I prepared a light breakfast—steamed buns, chicken porridge with ginseng, and a medicinal red soup for strength.
When it was ready, I knocked this time. "Come in," he said.
His voice—low, calm, commanding—sent a chill down my spine.
I entered, steadying my nerves. "I'm here to change your bandage."
He nodded and lifted his shirt.
I blinked. His body was lean and defined, with every line sculpted like marble. My eyes traced the muscles of his chest, the faint bruises beneath, the sharp cut of his abs. Then the v-line—
"Get your head out of the gutter, Lei La," I snapped in my mind.
I cleaned and re-bandaged him swiftly, trying not to show the flames heating my cheeks.
"Em… Mu Xie Jing—"
He looked at me, and I nearly forgot what I wanted to say.
"I made breakfast. If you'd like..."
He smiled—and the room lit up.
"Sure."
I led him to the dining area. Every step I took, I felt the weight of his eyes on my back.
Why was he looking at me like that?
"This is the first time a woman has made me feel… anything," he thought, watching the way she tucked a stray hair behind her ear. The way her back straightened when she poured tea. The way she didn't ask questions, even though she had every right to.
Once I, Mu Xie Jing, laid eyes on her—she became mine.
"Have a seat," I said gently as I moved around the table.
"Well, Mu Xie Jing—"
"Xie Jing," he corrected, his voice warm.
"What?"
"Call me Xie Jing," he repeated with a slight smile.
Her cheeks flushed again. "Then… you can call me Lei La."
She lifted the lid of the porridge pot.
"I made something light, less oily, and mildly spicy so it won't hurt your wounds," she said, trying to sound casual. "Chicken porridge—kind of like fish potato porridge. But richer. You'll understand once you taste it."
She winked, serving it with freshly baked buns.
He took one bite—and paused. The flavors hit his tongue like a surprise melody. Rich broth, soft rice, the subtle burn of ginseng. Comfort. Warmth. Safety.
He looked up, stunned.
"You're full of surprises, Lei La."
She smiled one that didn't quite reach her eyes.
And somewhere, beneath the surface of kindness and food and soft words, danger brewed like a thunderstorm waiting to strike.
---