In the days after the rain stopped, the weather remained uncertain between sunshine and clouds, like Yan Hanxie's recovery process. There were repeated fluctuations. Just when people's hearts, which had been lifted, began to settle slightly, it would suddenly sink again.
The doctor adjusted the dosage several times, and the rehabilitation therapist also began to intervene, but the process was painfully slow. Yan Hanxie was still taciturn, spending most of her time immersed in her own world. Only occasionally, when Zong Yi walked into the ward carrying the faint cool air from outside, would she lift her eyes and follow her figure with her gaze until she sat down.
That gaze was no longer completely empty. There was something more in it, something difficult to describe.
Zong Yi could feel that gaze sometimes linger on her for a long time—from the slightly messy ends of her hair, to her cheeks that had grown noticeably thinner from running back and forth, and then to her wrist that was faintly revealed when she held the thermos or organized things—along with the dark Buddhist beads on it that never left her side.
In that gaze, there was scrutiny, there was exploration, and perhaps also a trace of extremely subtle longing that even Yan Hanxie herself had not noticed.
Whenever that happened, Zong Yi would feel the places brushed by that gaze grow slightly warm, and her movements would unconsciously stiffen a little.
She did not dare to look back. She could only pretend to remain calm while doing what was in her hands, yet in her heart it felt as if she were holding a restless rabbit, thumping wildly.
She brought light clothing for the change of season, made of soft fabric that felt comfortable against the skin.
Once, she was bending over to help Yan Hanxie adjust the angle of the back pillow. The distance between them became very close—close enough that she could smell the faint medicinal scent on Yan Hanxie's body and the very light fragrance of laundry detergent lingering on the front of her own clothes.
Yan Hanxie's gaze then fell beneath the collar of Zong Yi's slightly open neckline caused by bending over—onto that small patch of pale collarbone.
Her gaze lingered there longer than it ever had before.
A fine shiver instantly rose along the back of Zong Yi's neck.
She suddenly straightened up, her cheeks flushing with a suspicious redness she could not control, and she hurriedly stepped back half a step.
But Yan Hanxie had already withdrawn her gaze. Her expression remained calm and unchanged, as if that brief moment of staring had only been Zong Yi's illusion.
But Zong Yi knew it was not an illusion.
There had been heat in that gaze.
A kind of heat that belonged to Yan Hanxie's nature—carrying a hint of predation—suppressed by illness and medicine yet still stubbornly emerging from the ashes.
This realization made Zong Yi flustered and restless, yet faintly stirred a secret thrill that even she herself despised.
She began to pay more attention to her clothing and behavior, yet every time she approached, she could not help but secretly anticipate that gaze falling upon her, as if that silent watching was proof that Yan Hanxie was still "there," that she had not been completely devoured by illness.
Yan Hanxie's body, amid this silent undercurrent of gazes and avoidance, steadily improved at a pace that even the doctors found somewhat surprising.
First, her blood oxygen saturation no longer needed to rely on the nasal oxygen tube for long periods.
Then the waveform on the heart monitor became stable and regular.
After that, the time she could slowly walk in the ward with support extended from five minutes to ten minutes, then to fifteen minutes.
Although she was still pale and thin, and speaking required effort, the haze in her eyes seemed to be slowly dissipating. Occasionally, when listening to Zong Yi briefly report the company's recent situation, she would nod slightly, and even ask one or two extremely crucial questions.
When the doctor made rounds, there was rare praise in her tone.
"Ms. Yan, your recovery is better than we expected. Neurological function is gradually rebuilding, and the burden on your heart is also decreasing. Keep it up, and your emotions must remain stable."
Emotionally stable.
When Zong Yi heard this, she was standing by the window in the corner of the ward, pretending to look at the newly green treetops outside.
She did not know whether Yan Hanxie's "emotional stability" had anything to do with her daily visits, those silent gazes, and the occasional heated glances they accidentally exchanged.
She did not dare to ask.
She only knew that once, because she had to deal with a sudden work phone call and arrived half an hour later than usual, when she pushed open the ward door she saw Yan Hanxie sitting against the bed with her gaze resting on the doorway. The trace that flashed in her eyes—something that could almost be called "waiting"—made Zong Yi's heart feel as if it had been gently soaked in warm water, sour and soft.
Yet when she walked closer, Yan Hanxie only asked in an extremely flat tone, "You're late?" before shifting her gaze away.
As if that momentary trace just now had been another illusion of Zong Yi's.
The days passed within this subtle and restrained balance.
Yan Hanxie could sit up for longer and longer periods. Sometimes she would even ask the nurse to raise the head of the bed so she could stare blankly at the scenery outside the window.
She could drink nearly half a bowl of the soup Zong Yi brought.
The rehabilitation therapist praised her for being very cooperative. Although the progress was slow, every step was steady.
Everything seemed to be developing in a good direction.
Until one unusually stifling afternoon.
The air was so sticky it seemed as if water could be wrung out of it, and the cicadas outside chirped hoarsely and noisily.
The ward's air conditioner was on, and the temperature was comfortable, yet an inexplicable irritability still seeped out from the depths of the heart.
Zong Yi had just finished a long cross-department conference call. Her head was splitting with pain. When she hurried to the hospital, a thin layer of sweat still lingered on her temples.
She pushed open the ward door and saw that Yan Hanxie was not leaning up as usual but lying flat, staring at the ceiling with a faint frown between her brows. Her complexion looked even paler than usual.
"President Yan?" Zong Yi's heart tightened, and she quickly walked to the bedside.
Yan Hanxie slowly turned her head and looked at her.
Her gaze was somewhat unfocused. Fine cold sweat seeped from her temples, and her breathing was more rapid than usual.
"Uncomfortable?" Zong Yi immediately raised her hand to press the call bell.
"Don't…" Yan Hanxie's voice was hoarse and weak as she lifted a hand to stop her slightly. The motion had little strength. "No need to call the doctor… an old problem. Just a bit stuffy… it will pass in a while."
Zong Yi's hand stopped in midair.
Looking at Yan Hanxie's discomfort, she felt anxious as if her heart were burning, yet she did not dare to go against her.
"Then… should I help you sit up a little? Would that feel better?"
Yan Hanxie nodded almost imperceptibly.
Zong Yi carefully bent down, one arm slipping behind Yan Hanxie's neck and the other supporting her shoulders and back, trying to help her sit up.
This action inevitably brought them very close. The faint medicinal scent and sweat on Yan Hanxie's body instantly surrounded her.
And because of weakness, Yan Hanxie almost leaned half of her body weight against her.
Through the thin hospital gown, Zong Yi could clearly feel how thin Yan Hanxie's body was, the shape of her shoulder blades, and that overly slender waist—almost small enough to encircle with one hand.
The sensation made Zong Yi's heart tremble violently, and even her fingertips went slightly numb.
Just as she tried to adjust her posture to make Yan Hanxie lean more comfortably, Yan Hanxie suddenly raised one hand. Instead of holding onto anything, she… lightly rested it on Zong Yi's arm that was wrapped around the back of her neck, slightly tensed from exertion.
Her fingertips were cold, carrying the dampness of sweat.
Zong Yi's whole body froze.
Immediately after, she felt Yan Hanxie's face tilt slightly, almost burying itself into the hollow of her neck.
Hot yet weak breathing, mixed with the scent of medicine, blew directly onto the sensitive skin at the side of her neck without obstruction.
Then there was an extremely slight movement—so faint it could almost be mistaken for an illusion—of her nose brushing lightly against her.
Like a tired beast confirming the scent of its companion.
In that moment, Zong Yi's blood rushed to her head and then froze throughout her limbs.
She stood there stiffly, unable to move, her arm maintaining the embrace as it supported most of Yan Hanxie's weight and endured that scorching breath.
The skin on the side of her neck instantly burned because of that faint touch and hot breath, the heat spreading all the way to her ears and cheeks.
She could hear her own deafening heartbeat. She could smell the extremely faint scent of hospital shampoo in Yan Hanxie's hair, mixed with the hot outdoor air that clung to her own body.
Time seemed to stop.
Yan Hanxie did not move again. She simply leaned there. Her breathing gradually became calmer, and the tightly furrowed brows seemed to relax slightly.
The hand resting on Zong Yi's arm unconsciously hooked lightly at the fabric of her sleeve with its fingertips.
After an unknown amount of time—perhaps only a few seconds, perhaps a century—
Yan Hanxie murmured something very softly and indistinctly, like sleep talk or an unconscious sigh.
Then her head moved slightly, leaving the hollow of Zong Yi's neck and resting back on the pillow. Her eyes closed as well, as if that brief closeness and touch had only been her instinctive search for comfort while feeling unwell, with no other deeper meaning.
Only then did Zong Yi come back to her senses. She hurriedly settled Yan Hanxie properly, pulling the thin blanket over her chest. Her movements were somewhat clumsy because of her panic.
Yan Hanxie did not open her eyes again. Her breathing was steady, as if she had fallen asleep, or was merely resting with her eyes closed.
Zong Yi stood beside the bed, her chest rising and falling violently, her fingertips still trembling uncontrollably.
The skin on the side of her neck that had been heated by that breath still burned for a long time.
She raised her left hand. The Buddhist beads on her wrist pressed coolly against the pulse on the inside of her wrist, which was beating fast and urgently.
That moment just now…
That closeness, that breathing, that faint touch, the entangling hook of those fingertips…
Was it Yan Hanxie's unconscious dependence while sick?
Or… some clearer, more dangerous signal?
Zong Yi did not dare to think.
She looked at Yan Hanxie lying quietly on the hospital bed, at the lingering exhaustion on her pale face, at the faint bluish shadows beneath her tightly closed eyelashes.
The wasteland deep in her heart that had been forcefully suppressed yet already surging with hidden currents now seemed to have a red-hot branding iron thrown into it. With a sizzling sound, a cloud of scorching white steam rose.
Within that mist were her own panic and confusion, her worry about Yan Hanxie's condition, the flutter from that unfinished touch… and also something deeper, something that filled her with fear—as if something was about to break through the ground.
She suddenly realized that Yan Hanxie's improving condition might not be solely due to medication and rest.
Those silent daily gazes, the occasionally revealed heat, the instinctive closeness and dependence when she was weak… were they also nourishing Yan Hanxie's heart in a secret yet powerful way, a heart that had been eroded by illness and despair?
And she herself, in this nourishment process—what role was she playing?
Was she willing to be nourished?
Or… without realizing it, had she already sunk deep into the mud, becoming an accomplice who could no longer pull herself out?
The cicadas outside the window had stopped at some unknown time.
In the hospital room, only the low hum of the air conditioner remained, and the two people's intertwined breathing, not entirely steady.
Zong Yi slowly walked back to the chair by the window and sat down.
But she no longer looked outside. Her gaze fell blankly on her own slightly trembling fingertips.
On them, it seemed that the feeling of Yan Hanxie's thin shoulder blades still lingered, and beneath the fabric, the astonishing curve of that overly slender waist.
She closed her eyes and buried her burning cheeks into her equally burning palms.
—
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