After that kiss on the balcony, filled with sunlight and the scent of greenery, the term "wife" had completely become something natural in Yan Hanxie's mouth, growing more justified and more… varied.
She seemed to have become fond of using those two words in different tones and situations.
In the morning, with a hoarse, sleepy laziness, her arm would wrap around her, her face buried in Zong Yi's neck as she mumbled vaguely, "Wife, sleep five more minutes…"
While working, she would poke her head out from the study, look at Zong Yi in the living room frowning at her laptop, tap on the glass partition, and when Zong Yi looked up, silently mouth, "Wife, take a break."
Even outside, in situations they had to face together, she would take advantage of moments when others weren't paying attention, slightly lean over, and quickly whisper "wife" into Zong Yi's ear—so quietly only the two of them could hear—then turn back as if nothing happened, leaving Zong Yi with reddened ears, still forcing herself to remain composed.
From being unbearably embarrassed at first, to gradually getting used to it, to later even developing a kind of indulgent mindset of "if my wife likes to call me that, then let her," Zong Yi changed.
Yet every time she was called that, the small spark that flared in her heart and the warmth on her cheeks remained completely uncontrollable.
She thought that was probably the limit.
Who would have thought that Yan Hanxie's "innovative spirit" went far beyond that.
One weekend, when both of them were free, they curled up in the home theater and picked an old movie to rewatch.
It was chosen by Yan Hanxie, a slow-paced art film.
The lighting in the room was dim, the large screen flickering with changing images.
Zong Yi leaned into the soft sofa, covered with that familiar dark gray cashmere blanket, while Yan Hanxie sat close beside her, her arm loosely around her shoulders.
Halfway through the movie, during an ordinary daily dialogue scene, Yan Hanxie suddenly leaned closer, her chin brushing against the top of Zong Yi's head, and said out of nowhere in a low voice:
"Wifey, I'm thirsty."
Zong Yi was absorbed in the film and didn't react at first. She gave a soft "hmm?" and subconsciously moved to get up and pour her some water.
But just as she moved, she realized something was off.
Wifey?
She abruptly turned her head, meeting Yan Hanxie's eyes in the dim light—eyes filled with teasing amusement.
The flickering screen light illuminated the curve at the corner of her lips, a clearly triumphant smile.
"You… what did you just call me?" Zong Yi's cheeks began to heat up again, this time with a hint of helpless amusement.
"Wifey," Yan Hanxie answered as if it were the most natural thing, tightening her arm to stop her from getting up and instead pulling her closer into her embrace. "What's wrong? Don't like it?"
There was a trace of testing in her tone, but more than that, a confident intimacy.
Zong Yi was momentarily at a loss for words.
"Wifey"… compared to "wife," it felt more grounded, more domestic, carrying the everyday warmth of shared life. Coming from Yan Hanxie—who always appeared cool and refined—it created a strange contrast, making one's heart race even more.
"Who's your wifey…" she muttered softly, turning her face away, though she didn't truly struggle free.
"The rings are already on—if not wifey, then what?" Yan Hanxie chuckled, taking her left hand, her thumb gently stroking the plain ring on her ring finger, her movements tender yet undeniably possessive. "Mine, wifey."
The last three words were spoken slowly and softly, her breath brushing against her ear like feathers, sinking straight into her heart.
Zong Yi's heartbeat skipped several beats.
The dim environment heightened every sensation—the warmth in her palm, the touch of fingertips, the breath by her ear, and that repeated "wifey" with its unique tone… making her whole body feel weak.
"Nonsense…" she retorted weakly, though her voice softened.
Yan Hanxie said nothing more, only smiled, pulling her tighter into her arms as they continued watching the movie.
But the hand holding Zong Yi's hand never loosened, her fingers idly stroking her ring and knuckles.
From then on, "wifey," like "wife," became one of Yan Hanxie's habitual forms of address, even gradually surpassing it in frequency.
She seemed particularly fond of the more domestic, more "possessive" implication behind it.
"Wifey, should I pick you up after work today?"
"Wifey, try this—I just learned it."
"Wifey, time for bed, stop looking at your phone."
Each time, she said it so naturally, as if they were already an old married couple who had lived together for years.
Zong Yi went from embarrassed protests, to helpless acceptance, and finally to a kind of indulgent tolerance of "whatever makes her happy."
Yet every time she was called that, the sweet, ticklish feeling in her heart only grew stronger.
However, Director Zong was not someone to be toyed with so easily.
After being "teased" by Yan Hanxie with those forms of address for so long, that bit of competitiveness in Zong Yi was finally stirred.
Once, the two of them attended a business banquet they had to be present at together.
Glasses clinked, fragrances lingered, and shadows of elegance moved through the crowd.
Yan Hanxie wore a perfectly tailored black suit, making her figure appear even taller and leaner (her height of 178 cm still stood out in the crowd). Her temperament was cool and noble, and she handled conversations with ease, undoubtedly the center of attention.
Zong Yi, on the other hand, wore a pearl-white satin evening gown, simple and elegant, standing at her side and cooperating with perfect tacit understanding.
Midway through, Yan Hanxie was stopped by an important partner for conversation. Zong Yi stepped aside slightly and went to the terrace for some air.
The winter night air was cool, and the distant city lights shimmered brilliantly.
She had just stopped when familiar footsteps and presence came from behind.
Yan Hanxie followed her out, naturally standing beside her, her arm loosely wrapping around her waist as she asked softly, "Tired?"
"I'm okay." Zong Yi turned her head to look at her.
The terrace lighting was dim, with only the hazy glow from the banquet hall outlining Yan Hanxie's perfect side profile.
Yan Hanxie looked at her as well, her eyes reflecting the scattered lights of the city. Then she lowered her head slightly, leaned close to Zong Yi's ear, and in that familiar tone—soft, breathy, and intimate—gently called:
"Wifey, are you cold?"
Warm breath brushed against her ear, carrying a faint hint of alcohol and her unique cool fragrance.
Zong Yi's heartbeat quickened.
This woman—even in a setting like this—dared to call her that.
She lifted her eyes and looked at Yan Hanxie, whose gaze was close, smiling, and faintly expectant.
Suddenly, inspiration struck.
A thought flashed through her mind.
She curved her lips slightly, not retreating but instead leaning closer as well, moving to Yan Hanxie's ear. In the same soft voice, but with a trace of clear cunning, she countered:
"Not cold, madam."
The word "madam" was enunciated especially clearly, carrying a different kind of intimacy—almost formal—and a hint of playful retaliation.
Yan Hanxie's body visibly stiffened.
She slowly straightened and looked down at Zong Yi.
In the dim light, her eyes were filled with surprise, which was quickly replaced by a deeper smile and… a peculiar gleam.
"What did you call me?" she asked, her voice lower and hoarser than before.
Meeting her gaze, Zong Yi's cheeks warmed slightly, but she tried to remain composed, even lifting her chin a little. "Madam. What, you're allowed to call me whatever you want, but I'm not?"
Yan Hanxie stared at her for a few seconds, then suddenly let out a low laugh.
The sound came from deep in her chest, vibrating with pleasure, especially clear in the quiet terrace.
She reached out and gently pinched Zong Yi's cheek, her eyes shining brightly.
"Of course you can. Why wouldn't you?" Her thumb brushed over the corner of Zong Yi's lips, her tone filled with undisguised indulgence and delight. "Madam it is. My madam."
The last two words carried deeper meaning, tinged with a sense of claiming ownership.
Zong Yi's face flushed even more. The small bit of pride in her heart was completely stirred into chaos by that "my madam," sweetness overflowing.
From that night on, the "war of terms of address" between them officially entered a new phase.
Yan Hanxie still tirelessly called her "wife" and "wifey," while Zong Yi, in certain moments—when she wanted to "counterattack" or create a different atmosphere—would solemnly call her "madam."
For example, when Yan Hanxie once again forgot to eat because she was too absorbed in work, Zong Yi would bring over a cup of warmed milk, set it beside her, lightly tap the table, and call out, "Madam, it's time to dine."
Her tone was serious, but her eyes hid a smile.
Yan Hanxie would always look up from her documents, first stunned, then amused, reaching out to pull her onto her lap, wrapping her arms around her waist, resting her chin on her shoulder, and laughing softly. "Yes, madam is right to reprimand me."
Another example—sometimes in intimate moments, when emotions ran high, Yan Hanxie would whisper "wife" and "wifey" again and again in her ear. Zong Yi, overwhelmed and flustered, would, at some pause, cling to her shoulders, lean close, and softly whisper back:
"Madam…"
Every time, Yan Hanxie's reaction would be especially intense. Her movements would pause for a moment, followed by an even fiercer demand, as if she wanted to completely take her apart and consume her, merging her into bone and blood. Then, in the peak of pleasure and loss of control, she would respond over and over in her ear:
"I'm here, madam… your madam…"
Different forms of address were like different notes, weaving together in the symphony of their shared life—sometimes sweet, sometimes intimate, sometimes teasing, sometimes deeply affectionate.
"Wife" was warmth and belonging in daily life.
"Wifey" was intimacy and domestic possession.
"Madam" was a playful, slightly respectful counterattack and flirtation.
Zong Yi gradually realized that she had begun to enjoy this back-and-forth "naming game."
It filled their stable relationship with lively little joys, and gave each of them more layered identities in the other's eyes—identities that belonged only to each other.
Yan Hanxie was her wife, her wifey, her madam.
And she was also Yan Hanxie's wife, wifey, and… occasionally "spouse"? (The thought startled Zong Yi herself, and she immediately blushed and rejected it.)
No matter what, within these intimate and unique forms of address, they confirmed each other's existence, deepened their bond, and enjoyed this one-of-a-kind closeness.
The journey of chasing her wife had long reached the shore of happiness, and upon that shore, they were building their long, flowing future together through countless sweet details.
And these forms of address were just one of those countless details—ordinary, yet the most moving.
—
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