When the proposal was rejected for the third time, Xia Ran stared at the screen for a long time. No anger, no grievance. She took a deep breath, opened the proposal file, and read through it from beginning to end. Three times now—she didn’t know what new ideas she could possibly come up with.
The people in the office gradually left. Xiao Liu came over and said, “Xia Ran-jie, I’m heading out first,”
She didn’t hear her. Zhao Min stood for a moment while packing her things, as if wanting to say something, but in the end she just placed an unopened box of cookies on Xia Ran’s desk.
The entire floor was left with only Xia Ran. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, the white glow of the computer screen illuminating her face—pale, bloodless, focused to the point of numbness.
She finished the fourth revision.
After saving, she closed her laptop and leaned back in her chair. She closed her eyes for a moment, then stood up. Her legs felt weak; she braced herself against the edge of the desk for a while before she could stand steady.
She didn’t pay it any mind. She picked up her bag, turned off the lights, and walked out of the company entrance.
The night wind hit her face. The late-November wind already carried the chill of winter, making her shrink her neck.
She stood on the steps and took a deep breath. The cold air filled her lungs, cool and crisp—it actually sobered her up a bit.
It was nearly one in the morning when she got back to her rental apartment. She didn’t shower, didn’t change her clothes, and collapsed onto the bed, falling asleep immediately.
The next morning when the alarm went off, she opened her eyes and felt the ceiling spinning.
She closed her eyes and opened them again—still spinning. She raised a hand to touch her forehead; the skin beneath her palm was burning hot. She lay still, waiting for the dizziness to pass, then slowly sat up.
Her phone lit up. A message from Fang Yuanzhou: “How’s the proposal? Today’s the last day of the deadline.”
“I have a fever. I’ll send you the proposal in a bit—you all go ahead,” Xia Ran replied.
Fang Yuanzhou: “Then rest up. Call me if anything comes up.”
Fu Group, Conference Room No. 1.
When Zhao Min arrived, Shen Che was already waiting. He glanced behind Zhao Min—there was no second person. “Designer Zhao, please come in.” Zhao Min followed him into the conference room, sat down, spread out the proposal documents, opened her notebook, and placed her pen beside it. The conference room door opened, and Fu Sinian walked in. His gaze swept across the conference table, paused briefly when it reached Zhao Min, then moved away. He walked to the head seat, sat down, opened the folder in front of him, and his voice was as calm as if he were stating something utterly ordinary.
“Let’s begin.”
Zhao Min took a deep breath and started presenting. She walked through the overall concept of the proposal and listed the details that needed confirmation one by one. Fu Sinian listened, nodding occasionally, offering opinions from time to time. His voice had no inflection, his expression never changed, and he never once looked at Zhao Min throughout the entire session. He looked at the proposal documents, at the pages of notes Zhao Min had handed him, at the drawings on the projection screen that he had already seen countless times. His gaze never once landed on “Zhao Min” as a person.
She finished. Zhao Min closed her notebook and waited for his response. Fu Sinian looked at the cover of the proposal document in front of him, on which was written “Lead Designer: Xia Ran.” He stared at it for a few seconds, then raised his head.
“Where’s Xia Ran?”
Zhao Min paused. “Designer Xia Ran isn’t feeling well today. I’m here in her place.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
Zhao Min turned around. Fu Sinian was still seated at the head of the table, unmoving, pen in hand, but the tip never touched the paper. His expression was still that same calm that betrayed nothing, but Zhao Min noticed his hand—the fingers gripping the pen, knuckles turning white.
“A fever,” Zhao Min said. “She’s been working overtime revising the proposal these past few days. She worked very late last night, and this morning she texted President Fang that she had a fever. President Fang told her to rest.”
The conference room fell silent for a few seconds. Fu Sinian set down the pen.
“I see,” he said.
Zhao Min walked out of the conference room, through the corridor, and into the elevator. The moment the doors closed, she leaned against the elevator wall and let out a long breath. Then she took out her phone and sent Xia Ran a message: “The proposal meeting is done. No issues. Get some rest.”
Xia Ran replied instantly with two words: “Thank you.”
After Zhao Min left, Fu Sinian sat in the conference room for a long time. Shen Che came in to tidy up, saw that he hadn’t moved, and stood by the door waiting for a moment. Fu Sinian spoke, his voice very soft. “Shen Che.”
“Yes.”
“Push back this afternoon’s meetings.”
Shen Che glanced at his watch. “President Fu, the three o’clock meeting—”
“Push it.”
Fu Sinian picked up his car keys and walked out as he rose from his seat.
From Fu Group to where Xia Ran lived was a forty-minute drive. Fu Sinian made it in under twenty.
Xia Ran heard the knock at the door. When she opened it and saw Fu Sinian, her confusion turned to surprise. She said nothing—because she no longer had the strength to say anything at all.
Fu Sinian reached out, pressing the back of his hand against her forehead. Burning hot. His hand slid from her forehead down to her cheek, his palm resting against her cheekbone.
“What’s your temperature?” he asked.
“…I don’t know.” Her voice was hoarse, as if scraped raw by sandpaper.
He lifted her into his arms and laid her on the bed.
“Lie still and behave.”
He walked to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Inside were a few eggs, half a carton of milk, and a loaf of bread past its expiration date. He closed the fridge, opened the cabinet above, and found a bag of millet and a small jar of salt. He washed the pot, rinsed the millet, turned on the induction cooker, and began to cook congee.
She closed her eyes. When Fu Sinian came out of the kitchen, he was holding a glass of warm water. He sat down on the edge of the bed, set the glass on the nightstand, and reached out to feel her forehead. Still burning.
“Did you take your medicine?”
“Mm.”
“How many pills?”
“Two.”
He picked up the blister pack on the table, glanced at the instructions, set it back down, and nudged the glass of water closer to her. “Drink more water.”
The congee was done. Fu Sinian ladled out a bowl and brought it to the bedside. He sat down on the edge of the bed, stirred the congee with a spoon to let the steam disperse, then scooped up a spoonful and brought it to her lips.
Xia Ran looked at the spoonful of congee but didn’t open her mouth.
“I’ll do it myself.”
“Don’t move. Just lie there.” Fu Sinian’s tone was gentle, carrying a thoughtfulness that brooked no refusal. “Be good, open your mouth.”
As the words fell, he scooped up a spoonful of congee at just the right temperature and brought it to Xia Ran’s lips.
Xia Ran paused for a moment, looking at the spoon so close before her. She tilted her head up slightly and parted her lips gently.
The warm, soft, sticky congee slid down her throat, its light, faintly sweet taste soothing the dry discomfort in her throat.
Xia Ran cooperated obediently, letting him feed her spoonful after spoonful. The weakness that came with illness washed over her entire body, and the strong, independent nature she usually carried was set aside completely.
The bowl of congee gradually neared its bottom. Seeing that her complexion had eased somewhat, Fu Sinian stopped, set the empty bowl on the nightstand beside him, and reached out to touch her forehead again. The temperature had dropped slightly from before, and the tension in his brow relaxed a little.
“Rest well after the congee. The medicine will take effect soon.”
Xia Ran nodded lightly, her eyelids drooping. Warmth spread through her body, and waves of exhaustion washed over her. She looked at Fu Sinian, so close before her, and softly voiced the question that had been weighing on her mind for a long time.
“President Fu, was it fun? Rejecting the proposal over and over again.”
Fu Sinian lowered his gaze to her, silent for a few seconds, then frankly confessed the thoughts he had kept hidden in his heart for so long.
“The proposal itself was never the problem.”
A flicker of surprise passed through Xia Ran’s eyes.
“It’s just that you were distancing yourself from me, avoiding me.” His voice was low, tinged with helplessness. “I had no other choice. I could only use work as an excuse to make you come before me, again and again.”
Xia Ran sniffled, her voice hoarse. “Fu Sinian, thank you.”
She paused, then steeled herself once more. “We… really… can’t go back.”
She turned her back to him, closed her eyes, and breathed evenly—but she wasn’t asleep.
She knew he hadn’t left. She knew he was watching her. She didn’t dare face him…
After a long while, once he saw that she had fallen asleep, he gently lay down beside her on the narrow bed and wrapped his arms tightly around her. “Ranran, what exactly happened all these years?”
The person in his arms, catching the familiar scent, burrowed closer into the man’s chest and continued sleeping. He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “No matter when, I’ll wait for you.”
Two people, one single bed, packed so full that there was no room for any gap between them.