Life after leaving the hospital did not immediately become the smooth path of "pursuing her wife" that Yan Hanxie had imagined.
Recovery of the body was a long and repetitive tug-of-war, and the repair of the nervous system was especially exhausting.
Sometimes she felt fairly well and could slowly walk around the apartment or handle extremely simple matters.
At other times sudden dizziness, heart palpitations, or indescribable exhaustion would strike without warning, forcing her to lie back down on the bed again, enduring the lingering side effects of medication and the helplessness of her body slipping out of her control.
This uncertainty was like a shadow that would not disappear, hanging over what should have been a "free" life at home—and it also gave Yan Hanxie the perfect excuse to continue "trapping" Zong Yi.
Zong Yi hired an experienced live-in caregiver for her, a woman surnamed Zhou in her forties. She worked quickly, spoke little, and her professional ability was beyond question.
Aunt Zhou came every day at fixed times, responsible for Yan Hanxie's daily routine, meal preparation, and basic rehabilitation assistance.
Logically speaking, most of the burden on Zong Yi's shoulders should have been lifted.
There were many accumulated matters at the company that required her full attention. The 'Spark Project' had entered a critical stage of expansion, with countless tasks to handle.
She had almost returned to the nonstop rhythm she had before Yan Hanxie fell ill.
However, without fail every day—either after work or during a break at noon—she would stop by Yan Hanxie's apartment to check on her.
She stayed only a short time, sometimes just confirming Yan Hanxie's condition that day or bringing certain specific items Yan Hanxie had requested that Aunt Zhou could not conveniently purchase.
Yan Hanxie was not satisfied with this kind of "visit."
Too short.
Too rushed.
Like completing a task.
She needed more time. She needed Zong Yi to remain inside her space, breathing the air that belonged to her, surrounded by her presence.
She needed to look at her, speak with her—even if they simply stayed silently in the same room, feeling each other's existence.
So the excuse of "the caregiver isn't good enough" began to be used by Yan Hanxie repeatedly and quietly.
At first, it was simple criticism.
"The soup Aunt Zhou makes is always slightly lacking in timing," Yan Hanxie said while leaning against the headboard, her face still pale. Her tone was calm but carried undeniable distance. "It's not as flavorful as the soup you make."
Zong Yi looked at the bowl of soup on the table that had barely been touched, then at Yan Hanxie's colorless lips.
After a moment of silence she said, "I'll bring some tomorrow."
"The way she massages is too heavy. My bones hurt." Yan Hanxie rubbed her calf, her brows slightly furrowed, showing just the right amount of discomfort expected from a patient.
Zong Yi went to talk with Aunt Zhou, politely passing along Yan Hanxie's request.
Aunt Zhou agreed good-naturedly and adjusted her strength the next time.
Yet Yan Hanxie had another complaint.
"It's too light now. It's like nothing at all."
Then came the claim of "unfamiliarity."
Yan Hanxie would casually mention things during Zong Yi's short visits.
"Aunt Zhou doesn't seem very clear about the dosage of the nutritional supplement I usually take. She almost made a mistake last time."
Or,
"When she was tidying the study, she mixed a document I hadn't finished reading with other things. I searched for it for a long time."
These complaints were trivial and small, sounding reasonable enough—a patient accustomed to precision and made particularly sensitive and fragile because of illness having high requirements for a caregiver.
But Zong Yi knew in her heart that Aunt Zhou's professional ability was far better than this. Many of these details were probably deliberate "fault-finding" by Yan Hanxie.
Yet she could not refute it.
Whenever she wanted to say "Aunt Zhou is already very professional" or "Maybe your requirements are too high," she would see Yan Hanxie leaning against the headboard, looking tired, with a faint trace of dependence and perhaps… vulnerability in her eyes.
And the words would remain stuck in her throat.
So again and again she extended her stay.
From "taking a look and leaving," to "sitting for ten minutes," to "waiting until she finishes taking medicine, measuring blood pressure, or completing a set of rehabilitation exercises."
Yan Hanxie always found new "reasons."
Today she was dizzy and needed someone to talk with to distract herself. Aunt Zhou spoke too little.
Tomorrow she could not perform her rehabilitation exercises correctly and was afraid she might hurt herself without someone watching. After all, Aunt Zhou was not a professional rehabilitation therapist.
The day after tomorrow… she simply felt the room was too quiet and too empty and did not want to stay alone.
Half of it was a weak posture like a patient's request, almost a plea.
The other half was the unquestionable certainty that still remained even after shedding the shell of a president.
These two completely different temperaments strangely blended within Yan Hanxie, forming a peculiar charm that was difficult to refuse.
And so Zong Yi, under the excuse of "her body hasn't recovered yet" and "the caregiver is insufficient," was gradually persuaded—half unwillingly—to remain longer and longer in that apartment that did not originally belong to her.
At first it was only in the living room.
Later, Yan Hanxie used the excuse that "talking while lying down is tiring" and let her sit on the sofa in the bedroom.
Later still, Yan Hanxie would say, "My shoulders are stiff and uncomfortable, help me press them for a moment," or "My head hurts a little, your hands are cool, help me cool my forehead."
The contact went from the initial stiffness and discomfort to gradually becoming… habitual.
Zong Yi even began to be able to distinguish when Yan Hanxie's frown was truly from discomfort and when it was merely an excuse; when her silence was genuine fatigue and when she was simply waiting for her to take the initiative to ask.
She was like a carefully trained, slow student, under Yan Hanxie's silent guidance, little by little learning how to "take care" of her, how to "accompany" her, how to… adapt to this increasingly intimate and increasingly ambiguous way the two of them interacted.
That evening, Zong Yi was delayed again by an urgent call regarding 'Spark' data. When she arrived at Yan Hanxie's apartment, it was nearly an hour later than usual.
The chill of the autumn night had already spread. She entered wrapped in cold air, her face slightly pale from busyness and anxiety.
Aunt Zhou had already finished work. Only a single floor lamp was on in the apartment, its light dim and yellow.
Yan Hanxie was not waiting for her in the living room or bedroom as usual. Instead, she was curled up in the large armchair in the study, covered with a thin blanket, eyes closed, seemingly asleep.
A document lay open beside her hand, and next to it was a cup of water that had long since gone cold.
Zong Yi softened her footsteps and walked over, intending to wake her so she could sleep in bed. But when she got closer, under the dim light she saw Yan Hanxie's brows tightly furrowed, her lips pale and pressed together, and a trace of cold sweat on her temple that had not yet dried.
Her heart tightened. She immediately bent down and called softly, "President Yan? President Yan? Are you feeling unwell?"
Yan Hanxie's eyelashes trembled slightly and she slowly opened her eyes.
Her gaze was somewhat unfocused at first, but when it settled on Zong Yi's face, a fleeting emotion similar to relief flashed through it, before being covered again by fatigue.
"…You're here." Her voice was hoarse, carrying a heavy nasal tone. "A little cold… dizzy."
Zong Yi reached out and touched her forehead. Her hand met an abnormal chill.
"Why didn't you go to bed? It's easy to catch a cold here." Anxiety crept into her tone without her even noticing.
"Waiting for you." Yan Hanxie said very briefly. She pulled the thin blanket tighter around herself, her body shrinking almost imperceptibly, like a cat lacking a sense of security waiting for its owner to return home.
Those two words brushed across Zong Yi's heart like feathers, making it both sour and soft.
Without almost any hesitation, she bent down, one arm passing beneath Yan Hanxie's knees and the other wrapping around her shoulders and back, intending to carry her back to the bedroom.
For Yan Hanxie, who had just recovered from a serious illness, this action was not easy.
But Zong Yi did it very steadily, as if she had practiced it countless times.
Yan Hanxie's body was very light. Holding her in her arms, she could almost feel no weight at all. Only the faint trembling from that thin body and the overly low body temperature made Zong Yi's heart tighten even more.
Yan Hanxie did not resist. Instead, very naturally, she buried her face into Zong Yi's neck.
Her burning breath spilled onto the skin, carrying the weakness of illness and a trace of… dependence.
Zong Yi carried her, walking step by step toward the bedroom.
Their bodies were very close, so close they could hear each other's heartbeats and feel each other's warmth.
Yan Hanxie's arms, at some unknown moment, had wrapped around Zong Yi's neck. The strength was light, yet it carried a sense of possession that could not be ignored.
Zong Yi gently placed Yan Hanxie onto the bed, covered her with the blanket, then went to wring a hot towel to wipe the cold sweat from her temples.
Throughout the entire process, Yan Hanxie kept her eyes open, watching her. Her gaze was somewhat hazy, yet extremely focused.
"Don't go." When Zong Yi was about to get up to pour hot water, Yan Hanxie suddenly reached out and grabbed her wrist. The strength was not great, but it carried a stubborn persistence. "Tonight… don't go."
In her eyes there was none of the usual calculation or probing, only the most genuine longing of a patient for warmth and companionship, mixed with a faint, almost fragile earnestness.
"Aunt Zhou won't come until early tomorrow morning… I'm alone, I'm afraid." She added in a low voice, burying her face slightly into the pillow, leaving only a pair of eyes exposed, staring fixedly at Zong Yi.
Again the caregiver.
Again "afraid."
Zong Yi looked at the wrist that had been caught, and at those eyes that had shed all sharpness and held only dependence. Reason told her she should refuse, should leave, should keep the boundary that had long since become blurred.
But emotion—or rather, something deeper that even she herself had never named—wrapped around her like vines, making it impossible for her to move.
Yan Hanxie took her silence as tacit permission. Her fingers tightened slightly, the fingertips rubbing the Buddhist beads on Zong Yi's wrist, and she said softly, "Just one night. I promise, tomorrow… I'll let you go back."
Her promise was as light as a whisper, carrying no weight.
Yet Zong Yi seemed to have had a weak point struck by that airy sentence.
She stood there for a long time. Finally, very lightly, almost inaudibly, she sighed.
Then she turned her hand and held Yan Hanxie's cold fingers, tucking them back under the blanket and carefully adjusting the quilt around her.
"I'll pour water and get the medicine," she said quietly, her voice somewhat hoarse. "You… sleep first."
She did not say yes, nor did she say no.
But Yan Hanxie knew she had stayed.
Watching Zong Yi's back as she turned to pour water, Yan Hanxie closed her eyes and buried half her face into the soft pillow that carried the scent of sunlight and Zong Yi. At the corner of her lips appeared a very faint yet incomparably real curve.
The caregiver isn't good?
Not familiar?
All excuses.
The only thing she had ever wanted was this person.
To stay in her apartment, to stay by her bedside, to stay… within reach of her hand.
The road to chasing her wife was long, but she had plenty of patience—and an endless stream of "reasons."
The night grew deeper. Only the steady breathing of the two of them remained in the apartment.
Outside the window, the city lights continued to flicker tirelessly, witnessing within this small space the silently growing bond and the carefully planned approach.
—
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