Pregnant?
Huo Sang was startled, but before he could speak, Shi Yuan’s eyelids fluttered, and he suddenly woke up.
He had just had a nightmare.
In the dream, a little kid with a bare bottom was chasing him all over the place, calling him Daddy.
The kid’s face was blurry and hard to make out, but for some reason, Shi Yuan instinctively felt it was a mixed-race child.
Which meant his wife was a foreigner.
Shi Yuan felt like the sky had fallen once again.
As a devoted nephew, he was supposed to return home after graduation to take care of Uncle He. He absolutely could not form any deeper ties in England!
Shi Yuan tried to retreat while fending off the kid, but the little one clung stubbornly, stumbling and wobbling until it threw itself in front of him. Two tiny hands tightly wrapped around his leg as the child lifted a chubby little face and said in a milky voice, “Daddy, baby wants to eat pickled green plums!”
Shi Yuan looked down.
The child’s facial features slowly became clearer. At first glance, they were still blurry, but he could just barely make out that the baby had a pair of beautiful green eyes.
A bolt of lightning flashed through Shi Yuan’s mind.
Those familiar green eyes…
The next second, he was jolted awake.
As soon as he opened his eyes, Huo Sang was standing right in front of him, looking down with a hint of concern.
The nightmare and reality overlapped perfectly, doubling the horror on the spot. Shi Yuan’s back broke out in goosebumps, and he nearly leaped out of his chair.
But compared to the psychological shock, what he urgently needed to deal with right now was physical discomfort.
At this moment, the air in the banquet hall was thick with the smell of various greasy foods.
Shi Yuan covered his nose and mouth, feeling his stomach churn. The lavish spread of delicacies on the table held no appeal for him.
All he wanted was something sour.
Huo Sang asked softly, “Awake? Feeling unwell somewhere?”
Shi Yuan nodded slowly, took a moment to steady himself, then lifted his chin and said pitifully, “Senior, I want to eat pickled green plums.”
Who isn’t a baby at heart!
Huo Sang’s mind reeled as he quickly processed this statement.
Was this… him acting spoiled?
Was there any difference between calling him “senior” like that and calling him “hubby,” he wondered?
English manor-style restaurants weren’t in the habit of stocking such Eastern preserved foods. Huo Sang immediately took out his phone and sent a message to his secretary, Hu Shuofa, asking him to compile a list of the nearest Japanese restaurants.
Just as the message was sent, Shi Yuan chimed in perfectly, his tone cautious, “Senior, Japanese pickled plums and Chinese pickled green plums aren’t the same, you know that, right? I don’t want the Japanese kind.”
What he craved were the sweet-and-sour Chinese green plums—the kind every household would pickle themselves with sugar and coarse salt at the start of each early summer when he was a child. Sour just right, sweet just enough.
As soon as Shi Yuan spoke, the surrounding guests were taken aback.
What kind of occasion was this? First, he fell asleep during a formal dinner, losing all sense of propriety, and now he was making such demands one after another.
If it were anyone else, they would have brushed him off long ago, let alone Huo Sang, who was known for his arrogance and never indulged anyone.
Shi Yuan himself knew he had been acting rather difficult lately.
He didn’t mean to, but he suddenly had this intense craving. That inexplicable longing had been stirred up by a dream and simply couldn’t be suppressed.
And when he thought about it—he was all alone, drifting overseas, working hard at his studies, taking on jobs to repay his tuition, suffering for so many days—was it too much to ask for some pickled green plums?
Somehow, Shi Yuan couldn’t hold back, and tears suddenly streamed down his face.
He just wasn’t used to the food here.
He just wanted to return to China and be a happy local tyrant, so what?
Hawthorne might not deign to look at others, but he cherished Shi Yuan like the apple of his eye.
If Shi Yuan wanted something, Hawthorne would move heaven and earth to get it for him.
Now, seeing Shi Yuan cry, Hawthorne hated his own uselessness for failing to protect him and letting him suffer such grievances.
He immediately updated Hu Shuoba with the latest demands, then crouched down in front of Shi Yuan, tenderly wiping the tears from his face. In English, he softly coaxed, “Be good, don’t cry. Even if you wanted my life, I’d give it to you.”
He deliberately didn’t switch to Chinese, just so everyone present could hear clearly— Shi Yuan was his treasure, and his treasure could do whatever he wanted. No one was allowed to criticize.
The latter part of that line was something he’d learned from After Moving In Together, My Arch-Nemesis Won’t Leave Me Alone.
Hu Shuoba had specifically told him that this was categorized in the Green River database as “I’d Give You My Life” literature.
Since it had already been elevated to the status of literature, it must have its merits. The Chinese believe in adopting what works, so Hawthorne followed suit and put it to use—the effect was indeed delightful.
Shi Yuan’s tears stopped on the spot. His eyes, red and swollen from crying like rain-drenched pear blossoms, stared at Hawthorne, unblinking.
Oh my god, this is so awkward. I’m dying of embarrassment.
“Senior,” Shi Yuan hesitated, his gaze growing confused, “your top priority right now is to delete all those Chinese novel apps from your phone.”
Hawthorne, noticing Shi Yuan’s flushed ears, assumed he was just shy. Gently smoothing the stray hairs on his forehead, he said earnestly, “Don’t worry, I’ve already sent someone to find the nearest Chinese restaurant here. If they have pickled plums, they’ll bring them to you right away.”
Shi Yuan was taken aback.
He’s actually taking this seriously?
He wouldn’t fall for a capitalist’s sugar-coated bullets.
Hawthorne: “But the taste here might not be as authentic as back in your hometown, so I’ve also arranged for a specialist to charter a flight to China for a purchase. That’ll take a bit longer, so we’ll start with the Chinese restaurant’s version.”
He curved his lips again: “I only found out today that you like pickled plums?”
Shi Yuan, who had also only discovered his supposed fondness for pickled plums today
He was quite surprised by how things had unfolded too.
Hawthorne: “If you like them, I’ll have some planted here. Isn’t there a type of lychee in China called ‘Imperial Concubine’s Smile’?”
Shi Yuan said “Yeah.”
“If these plums can be cultivated successfully,” Hawthorne said seriously, “I’ll name them ‘Beauty’s Tears.'”
Shi Yuan himself, the “beauty” with tear stains still on his face, looking pitiful after crying
Are you out of your mind?
And what’s with this sudden romantic line? Two straight guys saying such things—isn’t it way too gay?!
Shi Yuan’s heart pounded wildly in fright, his cheeks and ears burning crimson.
Before the banquet even ended, Hawthorne decided to leave early, taking Shi Yuan to stay at his nearest private residence in the area.
It was a two-story white villa. The entrance hall was spacious and filled with clean, bright light. Upstairs were two master bedrooms, seemingly designed for two people—neither cramped nor lonely.
And now, in this world meant for two, stood Secretary Hu.
Hu Shuoba had been waiting at the door early on, holding a wooden box filled with various vintages of pickled plums he had just gathered. Seeing Hawthorne arrive, he nodded in greeting, meticulous as ever.
Hawthorne arranged for someone to bring in the pickled plums, letting Shi Yuan enter the house first while he stayed at the door.
The matter of delivering the pickled plums was neither too significant nor too trivial. After all, these were items meant for Shi Yuan’s consumption. Hu Shuoba, fearing any mishaps, personally escorted them all the way here, and he also had another matter to attend to.
“Your Grace,” Hu Shuoba said respectfully, “the old greyhound at Buckingham Palace recently gave birth to a litter of puppies. Knowing that the late Duke and you enjoy hunting, His Majesty the King specifically sent two of them as gifts.”
He gestured outside, and immediately someone stepped forward, holding a bundle wrapped in a blanket, which they presented to Hawthorne.
Hawthorne lifted a corner of the blanket to reveal a small greyhound puppy. Its fur was a grayish-brown, shimmering with a faint silver sheen. The tiny creature was curled up in the blanket, its bright black eyes wide open as it quietly observed the stranger before it, showing no trace of fear.
“The one for the late Duke has already been sent separately to the Cotswolds,” Hu Shuoba explained. “This one is for you. It’s only two months old and hasn’t been named yet.”
Hawthorne’s heart stirred. He picked up the little greyhound and turned to enter the house.
Shi Yuan was sitting on the sofa, carefully examining the box of pickled plums. When he saw Hawthorne walk in holding something furry, he immediately looked up.
“A puppy we just adopted,” Hawthorne said.
“Is it a greyhound?” Shi Yuan eyes lit up instantly. He set the plums aside and eagerly leaned forward, reaching out to stroke the puppy’s chin.
He had long heard of this breed, often called the “Ferrari of dogs,” but this was his first time seeing one in person.
Hawthorne felt a secret sense of pride, planning to take the opportunity to introduce the puppy’s prestigious lineage and noble origins to Shi Yuan.
But before he could speak, Shi Yuan burst into laughter. “I’ve heard these dogs are muscular but not too bright—they don’t understand human speech well, and their intelligence is on par with a Husky’s.”
As he rubbed the puppy’s ears, Shi Yuan mused, “By the way, what’s its name?”
Hawthorne silently swallowed his prepared introduction and instead said, “It hasn’t been named yet. Why don’t you give it a name?”
Shi Yuan held the little greyhound’s face and studied it seriously for a moment before thoughtfully suggesting, “Let’s call it Cuihua. A humble name is easier to raise.”
Hu Shuoba, who was waiting outside the door to officially register the puppy’s name and report it to Buckingham Palace for approval, let out a silent scream in his heart.
This was the descendant of the last litter of the hunting dog king, personally raised by His Majesty the King for nearly twenty years—a noble lineage of hunting dogs passed down since the era of Queen Victoria!
And you want to call it Cuihua.
Noticing Hawthorne’s frozen expression, Shi Yuan said earnestly, “Don’t think it sounds bad. Cuihua can take your surname—Hawthorne Cuihua. That sounds quite impressive.”
Hawthorne began to question his life choices
Impressive?
But he adapted quickly, accepting the name in an instant. “As you wish. Let’s call it Cuihua.”
He made no mention of the fact that Cuihua was, in fact, a male dog.
Cuihua also had no objections to the name. It let out a soft whimper toward Shi Yuan and wagged its tail enthusiastically.
Hawthorne seized the opportunity. “Cuihua seems very happy. Would you like to be its godfather?”
Shi Yuan had always wanted to raise a dog but never had the chance. This suggestion struck a chord with him, and he nodded happily. “Sure.”
As soon as he finished speaking, Cuihua kicked its legs, leaped lightly, and landed on Shi Yuan’s lap.
Cuihua sniffed carefully all over Shi Yuan, pausing when she reached his abdomen, letting out a few soft grunts. Then she settled into a comfortable position on his lap, gently resting her chin on his belly, puffing warm breaths as if trying to please him—like she was guarding something.
Shi Yuan chuckled, “Sister Hua likes me.”
He was already calling her “sister.”
The scene was blindingly sweet.
Hawthorne, unable to hold his future wife, felt a pang of jealousy.
If he couldn’t control Shi Yuan, could he at least handle a little dog?
He bent down and lifted Cuihua from Shi Yuan’s lap, commanding, “Stop clinging to your godfather.”
Cuihua shot him a sidelong glance, broke free from Hawthorne, and leaped back onto Shi Yuan.
She resumed her previous position, carefully placing her paws away from his abdomen and firmly pressing her chin back against his belly.
Shi Yuan held back a laugh and hugged Cuihua tightly. “Sister Hua disapproves of you, Godfather. You should reflect on that.”
Finally being able to mock Hawthorne freely through a dog felt incredibly satisfying.
Who said this dog had low intelligence?
She was clearly quite clever.
With Cuihua around, Shi Yuan had eyes for no one else.
Hawthorne was not pleased.
If he was like this just after getting a dog, what would happen if they had a child in the future? Would Shi Yuan even remember there was someone like him at home?
Fortunately, they couldn’t have children.
What a relief.
Before going to bed that night, He Jingchuan called Shi Yuan again.
“Still feeling nauseous these past couple of days?”
Shi Yuan leaned against the headboard, his tone tinged with a hint of pride. “Much better, Uncle He! Even my appetite has returned a little.”
Especially after eating the pickled green plums, it was as if his appetite had been unlocked. His mind was filled with thoughts of savory, spicy, and flavorful dishes, and he wished he could fly back to China right away to indulge in all kinds of bold flavors.
Thanks to Hawthorne.
There was a brief silence on the other end of the line before He Jingchuan’s tone shifted slightly. “You’ve been nauseous for over half a month and still aren’t completely better?”
Shi Yuan was taken aback. “What’s wrong, Uncle He? Is there a problem?”
“Have you bought your ticket back to China?” He Jingchuan didn’t answer directly. “Come back for a full checkup. I’ll examine you myself.”
Shi Yuan nodded. “Already bought it. The day after tomorrow.”
He planned to return to school from the Isle of Wight tomorrow, pack his luggage, and head home the day after.
There was no need to rush so much, but every year around this time, no matter how busy he was or how far away he was, Shi Yuan would find a way to return and stay by He Jingchuan’s side.
Because it was the anniversary of the day Uncle He’s only son passed away.
Shi Yuan paused, comforting He Jingchuan, “I’m strong and healthy. I’ll live to ninety-nine without a problem. Don’t worry about me, Uncle He. See you in a couple of days.”
After hanging up, Shi Yuan thought for a moment and decided to go find Hawthorne to let him know about leaving early the next day.
To his surprise, Hawthorne hadn’t planned to stay long either. “I’ll take you back to school tomorrow. In a couple of days, I have family matters to attend to in Scotland.”
Next week was the anniversary of his mother’s passing. He and the old duke would visit her resting place to pay their respects.
“When you return from China, I’ll give you a gift,” Hawthorne said.
He had been preparing this gift since he fell for Shi Yuan. Crafted over two years, it was sure to surprise him.
“Sure, thank you, Senior,” Shi Yuan replied happily, his eyes curving into a smile.
Come to think of it, Hawthorne was graduating this year. It was customary for seniors to give small gifts to their juniors before leaving the academy.
Shi Yuan thought that when he returned to China, he might as well pick a graduation gift for Huo Sang as well—a gesture of reciprocity.