『Gentle, doting, all-forgiving top — he was born for you.』
His little drama queen — visible to me alone Everyone in the company says that CEO Lu's newlywed husband is a little minx who makes a fuss over everything. "Coffee has to be exactly 45 degrees, roses have to arrive still holding their dew, and at three in the morning he says he wants congee from the south side of town." I'm standing outside the CEO's office, insulated jar in hand, overhearing the subordinates' hushed gossip. The door suddenly opens, and the man in his suit and tie pulls me inside in one motion, his eyes dark and deep: "They don't know—" "that when you cried your eyes red begging me to come home, your body temperature was 45 degrees too." --- The coffee machine in the company break room hums, but it can't drown out the whispers in the corner. "...Did you hear? CEO Lu's husband stirred him up again in the middle of the night yesterday, insisting on that congee from the south side of town that only opens before dawn." "Tsk, tsk. And CEO Lu actually went?" "He went! Assistant Zhang was woken by a phone call at three in the morning to arrange the car. CEO Lu went and bought it himself — by the time he got back, it was almost dawn." "Oh my god... that's way too fussy. Coffee has to be 45 degrees, flowers have to be delivered with dew, and now even congee has to be timed... What kind of man is CEO Lu, how could he..." "Tsk, who can blame him when the guy looks like that? Some little minx, completely bewitching CEO Lu..." The voices drop even lower, mingling with the aroma of coffee, fermenting into a knowing, ambiguous mockery. I stand at the corridor corner outside the CEO's office, holding a light gray insulated jar, my fingertips unconsciously rubbing against its smooth surface. Those words — little minx, fussing over everything — hop into my ears without making a ripple. I'm used to it. Ever since the day I married Lu Yanzhao, this kind of talk has never stopped. Inside the jar is rock-sugar stewed pear. The autumn air is dry, and a couple of days ago Lu Yanzhao coughed a few times — I heard it. Simmered over low heat for two hours, strained until it's clear and bright; the temperature should be just right. The moment I reach the office door, the heavy wooden door is suddenly pulled open from inside. Lu Yanzhao stands in the doorway in a crisp dark gray suit, his tie knotted with care, still wrapped in the cold, sharp aura that hadn't fully faded from the executive meeting just now. Several executives holding documents file out one after another; when they see me by the door, their eyes flicker before they quickly nod in greeting. "Mr. Lin." Then they hurry away, their backs looking a little flustered. Lu Yanzhao's gaze lands on the insulated jar in my hand, then rises to my face. He says nothing. He simply reaches out, clasps my wrist, and pulls me inside. The door closes behind us, sealing off everything outside. The office is spacious and quiet, with only the faint whisper of the central air conditioning. He lets go, but doesn't step back, looking down at me from a very close distance. The crisp cedar scent on him envelops me in an instant. "You heard them?" he asks, his voice low, unreadable. I lift my eyes, meeting his pool-dark pupils. "Heard what?" I give the jar a little shake. "Pear soup. It's good for the lungs. Drink it while it's hot." He doesn't take it. Instead, he raises his hand, and the pad of his thumb suddenly brushes across my lower eyelid. Because I stayed up late reading scripts last night, there's probably still a faint shadow there. "They say you're fussy," Lu Yanzhao says, his tone flat, as if stating a fact unrelated to himself. "They say you're a little minx, immature, always finding new ways to put me through the wringer." His fingertips are warm, with a thin layer of callus, ticklish against my skin. I don't dodge. "Coffee at 45 degrees — because your stomach is weak, and too hot or too cold makes you uncomfortable. Roses with dew..." He pauses. "Last year you had an allergic reaction, and the doctor said freshly cut flowers still carrying natural moisture are gentler on pollen." "The congee from the south side of town," he goes on, his voice dropping low, like the deepest string of a cello being plucked, "is because when you were delirious with fever, you dreamed of the taste of your grandmother's cooking from your childhood and cried saying you wanted it." I tighten my grip on the jar's handle. Lu Yanzhao's hand slides down to cup half of my face, forcing me to meet his gaze more closely. His eyes are dark and deep, churning with that thick murk I know well — the one that only ever shows itself in front of me. "They don't know anything." He lowers his head, his breath brushing past my ear — scorching hot, tinged with a suppressed hoarseness. "They don't know that my little drama queen..." "when he cried his eyes red, begging me not to leave, begging me to hold him tight..." "was burning with a frightful heat — the mercury in the thermometer stopped at 45 degrees too." The air freezes. Outside the window, the daylight filters through the blinds, casting shifting bands of light and shadow across his sharply defined profile. The temperature at my fingertips on the jar's shell climbs, little by little. That night I was burning so hot I could barely think. I only remember clinging to his pajamas and mumbling nonsense over and over, remember him wiping my arms and neck with alcohol-soaked cotton again and again, remember the reassuring warmth and strength of his embrace. So he remembers that absurd number too — the one at the top of the mercury column, as if it might burst. That is a memory fragment only we share — chaotic and scorching. Like the coffee, the roses, and the congee in the small hours, it is a code about "Lu Yanzhao and Lin Mian" that no outsider can decipher. I open my mouth, my throat a little dry. But at this moment, Lu Yanzhao steps back slightly and takes the jar from my hand. His fingertips brush across my fingers, seemingly without intent. "Pear soup," he says, twisting open the lid as steam and a clear sweetness drift out. "It's just the right temperature to drink now." He lifts his eyes. The darkness in his deep pupils hasn't fully faded, but a faint gentleness surfaces — one so slight only I can detect it. "About the same as the 45 degrees someone insists on." Base image: Changning
I have the strength to lift you up and protect you. Your little temper is like a kitten stretching out its paw — I accept every bit of it.