Caught in calamity upon calamity, as if fate conspired with the storm—when he returned, the elevator bore a sign: Out of Service for Maintenance.
Han Qian sprinted up to the top floor, hands trembling as he unlocked the door. The apartment was dark. No sign of struggle—yet the eerie calm unnerved him further. Without a second thought, he dashed upstairs and flung open both bedroom doors. No sign of Wennuan. His feet barely touched the ground as he descended, pulling out his phone to call the police—only to find her curled in the corner of the sofa.
Her tall frame, all 172 centimeters of it, was folded into a tight ball. Relief washed over him. Exhausted, he murmured:
"Why didn't you turn on the lights? Why didn't you answer my calls?"
She said nothing. Assuming she was sulking, Han Qian removed his coat and headed to the kitchen. Lately, Wennuan had a habit of joining him there while he cooked. But tonight, she never came. Frowning, he returned to the living room, turned on the light—and saw that she was fast asleep.
Helpless, he chuckled, approaching to carry this kind, if sometimes foolish, girl upstairs. But the moment he touched her, his heart dropped again.
She was burning up.
Panic surged. Wennuan rarely got sick. The only other time she had needed a hospital was from eating too much spicy food. Cradling her in his arms, he headed for the door—only to remember the stove was still on. After dashing back to turn it off, he cursed the broken elevator.
Holding the one-hundred-pound Wennuan, he half-ran, careful not to jostle her too much for fear of worsening her fever. Outside the building, rain had begun to fall. Han Qian shrugged off his coat and wrapped it around her upper body. Their rented place had no underground parking—his car was at the far edge of the complex.
On the way to the hospital, Wennuan's hair was barely damp, but Han Qian looked like a drowned cat. He had no one to call. Wennuan had no friends. He couldn't tell Li Jinhe, nor her father, Old Wen. No matter how he calculated, it all came down to one fact: she only had him.
He recalled the call she made during his overtime shift—saying she didn't feel well. He'd brushed it off. Only when the IV was finally set did his heart settle in his chest.
The doctor gave a few instructions before leaving, suggesting Han Qian go home and change—nurses would watch over her. Han Qian declined with a shake of the head. Watching the now peacefully sleeping Wennuan, he quietly stepped out and decided, after all, to call Li Jinhe.
"Hey, Han Qian? What's with the late call? That little rascal acting up again?"
"No… she's fine. It's me. I didn't take her fever seriously. She's on a drip now."
"Want me to come over?"
"No, no need. I just thought I should call you."
"Good. As long as it's nothing serious. But if anything happens, you call me, understood?"
Relieved by the reassurance, Han Qian headed to the hospital cafeteria. In his bedraggled state, he drew more than a few stares, but he paid them no mind. He bought a bowl of porridge and some small side dishes.
When he returned, Wennuan was awake, blinking in confusion at her surroundings. Han Qian saw her visibly relax upon seeing him. Yet in typical pride, she retreated under the covers again.
He chuckled, setting the porridge on the table. Soon enough, she peeked out, nose wrinkling at the enticing aroma. Hunger triumphed over pride. She ate in small bites while Han Qian gazed out the window, mind blank. He wasn't thinking of anything—except that now wasn't the time to look back.
Hearing her shuffle beneath the blanket, he turned, tidied the dishes just as the nurse arrived with medicine and warm water.
Han Qian said nothing, made no effort to persuade her. Wennuan, too, remained silent since waking. He was lost in uncertainty. What were they now? Closer than married, yet further than lovers—as if merely sharing a life without sharing a heart.
He had panicked when she fell ill. Now that she was better, calm returned.
Rain still fell outside. Slowly, his heart settled. The debts remained unpaid—no point overthinking. Bracing himself on the windowsill, he let his thoughts drift to the 3D model in his proposal. The plan was feasible from every angle. All he had to do was write it out.
Tomorrow would be enough. Han Qian believed that.
"Han Qian."
Her voice pulled him from his reverie. He turned, a touch confused, and asked gently:
"What is it? Are you feeling worse?"
"I want to sleep. Turn off the light."
"Alright."
Neither was in the mood for quarrels.
Time passed. Han Qian didn't even know what he had been thinking. His mind was blank. Suddenly, a ringtone shattered the silence—it was Wennuan's phone. He'd forgotten she'd held onto it all this time.
He frowned. It was an unknown number. He declined the call. Two seconds later, it rang again. Clueless how to mute the fancy phone, he glanced at the sleeping Wennuan and answered.
"She's asleep. She can't talk right now."
There was silence. Han Qian looked at the number again and was about to hang up when a voice cut in.
"Who are you? Why are you holding Nuannuan's phone at this hour—Han Qian?"
"Yes. She's asleep. What do you want?"
As soon as the caller said "Nuannuan," Han Qian knew who it was. The same person who'd been blocked, now calling from a new number. And as soon as he confirmed his identity, the voice exploded.
"Han Qian, you son of a bitch—stay away from Nuannuan!"
Han Qian laughed—a cold, scornful sound.
"Who the hell are you to tell me that? Lin Zongheng, you cling like a festering sore. Whatever you've got to say, wait till morning."
Click.
He hung up. As he turned to leave, the phone rang again. He declined it. Again it rang. Over and over, like a madman possessed. At last, Han Qian picked up, voice cold—but the other spoke first:
"Han Qian, if I ever catch you, you'll regret everything you've done."
"Please do, Lin Zongheng. I beg you. Come and get me."
Han Qian slammed the call off, taking deep breaths to contain his fury. He didn't even know why Lin Zongheng's name enraged him so much—but hearing him say Wennuan's name with such ease made his blood boil.
"There's a button on the left. Hold it to turn the phone off."
Wennuan's voice drifted to him. She had never slept. From the moment he carried her downstairs, she'd been aware—groggy, yes, but conscious. Han Qian didn't power it off. Instead, he handed her the phone.
She shut it down, tossed it aside, and turned to him.
"Han Qian, I want to go shopping."
"It's raining. The stores are closed."
"Tomorrow. Will you go with me? I haven't gone shopping in years. The last time… Lin Zongheng hadn't left the country yet. He's back. He invited me to his house for dinner with his parents. I don't want to go."
"Okay."
No hesitation. No resistance. Just that one word.
And it was her favorite answer from Han Qian.
A single "okay"—without delay, without doubt.
But Han Qian had forgotten—tomorrow would be his final day.