Xia Wei stood by the bed, looking at the person lying on her bed, suddenly at a loss for what to do.
Her bed wasn’t big—a meter and a half wide, just right for her to sleep in alone normally.
Right now, Song Qiao was lying on it, occupying two-thirds of the space. She was wearing that neatly tailored suit, with her hair spread out across the pillow. She still had her shoes on, one resting on the edge of the bed while the other had brushed against the quilt.
Feeling a twinge of heartache for her quilt, she’d have to ask her mother to take it off and wash it tomorrow.
Xia Wei bent down and carefully took off Song Qiao’s shoes.
The heels were very slender, and the uppers were clean with only a little dust on the soles. She placed one shoe beside the bed and went to take off the other. Halfway through, Song Qiao stirred, retracting her foot slightly, almost kicking Xia Wei in the face. Instinctively, Xia Wei grabbed Song Qiao’s ankle.
“Don’t move,” Xia Wei blurted out, only realizing after she said it who she was talking to.
Perhaps because Xia Wei had secured her ankle, Song Qiao really didn’t move anymore.
Xia Wei took off the other shoe as well, placed it beside the first one, stood up by the bedside, and hesitated when she looked at the suit jacket on Song Qiao.
Should she take it off or leave it on? If she didn’t take it off, sleeping in a jacket definitely wouldn’t be comfortable. If she did take it off… She reached out, her fingers touching Song Qiao’s collar, before pausing for a moment.
Forget it, if it’s uncomfortable, so be it; she certainly didn’t want to wake up tomorrow morning and be mistaken for a pervert. Let’s remove Song Qiao’s makeup first.
Xia Wei ran to the bathroom to fetch her own makeup remover and cotton pads. She didn’t usually wear makeup often, but when Zhou Ci bought the makeup remover, she had picked up an extra bottle for Xia Wei on a whim—never expecting it to come in handy.
She poured the makeup remover onto a cotton pad, sat on the edge of the bed, leaned over, and gently wiped Song Qiao’s face.
When the cotton pad touched Song Qiao’s skin, her brows furrowed, and she tilted her head away, as if dodging some unpleasant scent.
Xia Wei stopped, waited for two seconds until she stayed still again, and then continued.
First wiping the forehead, then the cheeks, and finally the chin.
Her movements were very gentle, so gentle it was as if she were wiping something fragile that might easily break.
The cotton pad glided across Song Qiao’s skin, removing the foundation and blush to reveal her natural complexion underneath, which turned out to be even fairer and more bare than when she wore makeup.
Her skin was delicate; aside from the dark circles under her eyes, not a single flaw could be found on her entire face.
Xia Wei stared at Song Qiao for two seconds before quickly looking away, feeling like a peeping tom.
When she reached the lips, she hesitated.
The lipstick was a deep shade, the kind of red with a very strong aura that matched Song Qiao’s personality perfectly.
But now that red had smeared, especially around the corner of her mouth, looking like an accidental stroke drawn out of lines.
Xia Wei swapped for a clean cotton pad, dabbed it with makeup remover, and gently pressed it against Song Qiao’s lips.
After waiting a few seconds, she wiped from the corners of the mouth toward the center. The lipstick stained the cotton pad in a small patch of deep red, like juice left behind after crushing flower petals. Unconsciously, she used the pad of her thumb to wipe away a smudge, only realizing how intimate the gesture was once she processed it.
Xia Wei took several deep breaths to steady herself before standing up and walking out with the makeup removal supplies.
When she returned, she was holding a hot towel to wipe Song Qiao’s face. This time Song Qiao didn’t dodge; instead, she leaned closer to the warm towel of her own accord. After a simple face wipe, Xia Wei went back to wring out the towel again and wiped down Song Qiao’s hands as well.
Thinking back to her first encounter with Song Qiao, the very first thing she noticed was Song Qiao’s hands—long fingers, distinct knuckles, neatly trimmed rounded nails…
Observing up close, Xia Wei noticed her nails weren’t bare; they had a layer of transparent protective polish. Holding her hand and wiping them down one by one, Xia Wei suddenly recalled how she had tried hard to avoid touching Song Qiao’s fingers when handing her coffee yesterday—the memo had warned not to hand things directly into her hands.
Now she was touching them directly enough.
Xia Wei put the towel back, rummaged through the cabinet to pull out a clean T-shirt and a pair of athletic shorts, placed them on the bedside table, and poured a glass of warm water, placing it next to them.
After finishing all this, she stood by the bed and looked at Song Qiao.
“Director Song, change your clothes before you sleep,” she softly called out.
No response.
“Director Song?”
Still no response.
Xia Wei sighed, bent down, and patted Song Qiao’s shoulder.
Song Qiao’s brows knitted, and her eyes opened a crack, her gaze unfocused, as if looking at Xia Wei or perhaps something else entirely.
“—Water,” her voice was so hoarse it was almost inaudible.
Xia Wei hurriedly brought over the glass of water from the bedside table, supporting her to sit up. Song Qiao leaned against her, taking a few sips with Xia Wei’s assistance. Water spilled from the corners of her mouth, trickling down her chin onto the collar of her shirt, staining a small dark patch.
“Do you want more?” Xia Wei asked.
Song Qiao shook her head and closed her eyes again.
Xia Wei laid her back down, looking at the water stain on her shirt collar. At this point, it had to be changed whether she liked it or not; sleeping in wet clothes wasn’t good. She reached out and unbuttoned the first button.
Her fingers were shaking slightly, whether from nervousness or something else. The second button, the third button… She tried her best not to look where she shouldn’t, slipping the shirt off Song Qiao’s shoulders before sliding on the T-shirt.
Getting the sleeves on was tricky; Song Qiao’s arms were limp and entirely uncooperative. After fussing for quite a while with a thin layer of sweat breaking out on her forehead, Xia Wei finally managed to guide both arms into the sleeves, pull the T-shirt down, holding her breath and not daring to make a sound throughout the entire process.
She didn’t dare change her pants, instead leaving the athletic shorts by the bedside so she could change herself if she felt uncomfortable during the night.
Having finished all this, Xia Wei stood by the bed, looking at Song Qiao wearing her T-shirt. When Song Qiao lay down, the hem of the T-shirt got pinned under her back, exposing a narrow slice of waist—pale white, looking a bit striking under the dim yellowish lighting.
Xia Wei pulled the quilt over her, tucked it in neatly around the edges, and tucked the corners in.
Song Qiao turned over, burying her face in the pillow, and muttered something.
This time Xia Wei heard it clearly.
“—Don’t go.”
The voice was very soft, light enough to sound like sleep talk.
Xia Wei stood by the bedside, looking at the back of her head, feeling something in her heart gently touched. She thought about the Song Qiao described in those “rule strange talks” versus the real Song Qiao she had encountered; they were not the same.
Xia Wei stood by the bed for a long time before finally whispering, “I’m not going.”
She had no idea if Song Qiao heard her or not.
Xia Wei checked the time, took a quick shower, came back with a blanket, and set up a simple pallet on the floor. When she lay down, Song Qiao on the bed turned over again, causing the quilt to slip down a bit, exposing a shoulder.
Hesitating for a moment, Xia Wei climbed back up, tucked the quilt back in properly, and returned to lie down on her pallet. Staring at the ceiling, listening to the steady breathing coming from the bed, she couldn’t fall asleep for a long time.
The six-month period would surely pass quickly; by then, perhaps she would already be handling this job with ease.
It was only the third day now—or well, at this hour, it should count as the fourth day.
Yet she felt as though certain things had already begun to change.
Her phone lit up; it was a message from Fang Tian: “How was today? Did the female devil torture you?”
Xia Wei glanced at the person on the bed and typed back: “She got drunk and is sleeping on my bed.”
Fang Tian instantly replied with a string of exclamation marks, followed by: “What’s going on??? Are the two of you progressing this fast???”
Xia Wei rolled her eyes and replied: “She got drunk with nowhere to go, I’m sheltering her for the night, don’t let your mind wander.”
Fang Tian sent a “I don’t believe it” sticker.
Xia Wei didn’t reply further, flipped her phone face down on the floor, and turned over.
The sound of breathing on the bed was steady, occasionally deepening before returning to calm.
“Good night,” she murmured softly, though she had no idea who she was saying it to.
The next morning, Xia Wei was woken up by the sound of a cup being set down on the table.
Dozily opening her eyes, sunlight streamed into the room, obscuring her vision. She raised a hand to block the glare, only to see a figure sitting in the light.
It was Song Qiao. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, already changed into those athletic shorts. She was holding a cup of water, and the T-shirt was a bit oversized, sliding off to one side of her shoulder to reveal a hint of collarbone. Her hair was still messy, unbundled and draped over her shoulders. She was makeup-free, her lips slightly dry, with faint dark circles under her eyes.
Yet sitting there with her back straight and posture composed, she looked as natural as if she were sitting in her own office.
“Awake?” Song Qiao’s voice was still somewhat hoarse, but much clearer than last night.
Xia Wei snapped upright, her hair disheveled with a pillow crease still stamped on her face. She instinctively wanted to explain something, opened her mouth, but didn’t know where to begin.
“Last night…” she started.
“I know,” Song Qiao interrupted, taking a sip of water. “I got drunk, and you brought me back.”
Her tone was very flat, like stating a matter that had nothing to do with her.
Xia Wei looked at her, trying to read something from that face—embarrassment? Gratitude? Or something else? But nothing could be discerned.
Song Qiao was simply Song Qiao; even wearing someone else’s T-shirt and sitting beside someone else’s floor pallet, she could make it all look like part of a plan she had engineered.
“I washed your clothes and hung them out on the balcony,” Xia Wei pointed toward the window. “They might… take a while to dry.”
Song Qiao followed her gesture with a glance, nodded, and said nothing further.
The two sat in silence for a while.
Song Qiao sat on the bed while Xia Wei sat on the floor, separated by less than a meter, neither speaking. Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the curtains, drawing a golden line across the floor.
“You said last night,” Xia Wei hesitated, “that you couldn’t go back like that. That nobody was home.”
Song Qiao’s fingers paused on the rim of the cup.
“Were you worried about family members worrying?” Xia Wei asked.
Song Qiao didn’t answer. She looked out the window, the sunlight shining on her face and casting the shadow of her eyelashes onto her cheekbones.
“Not worried,” she said, her voice very soft. “There’s no one there.”
Xia Wei froze. She looked at Song Qiao’s profile—there was no expression on that face, but Xia Wei suddenly felt that this was when Song Qiao was most vulnerable: not when she passed out on her shoulder last night, but right now, sitting here fully awake and uttering those two words, “no one.”
“Where are your parents?” Xia Wei asked.
Song Qiao was silent for a moment before saying, “Abroad.”
“Then you usually live alone?”
Song Qiao glanced at her, a look that seemed to say “are you conducting a household census,” though her tone didn’t carry any stopping intent. “Mhm.”
Xia Wei didn’t know how to respond. She recalled what was written in that memo notebook—”She doesn’t talk much about personal matters; don’t ask her what she did over the weekend, whether she has a boyfriend, or where she lives. If she wants you to know, she’ll tell you herself.”
So did those things just now count as “telling me herself”?
It seemed she had asked all of them herself. Oh no, she had violated a major taboo.
“The porridge is cooked.” Song Qiao suddenly stood up, placed the cup on the table, and said, “Your mom cooked it, told you to remember to eat.”
Xia Wei froze again: “You saw my mom?”