Chapter Fourteen: Broad Shoulders

Twelve years slipped by in the blink of an eye.

The early summer sun, filtering through dense branches, cast dappled, coin-sized spots of light across the bedroom floor.

With a soft click, the bathroom door swung open.

A slender, fair leg stepped out, followed by a young girl, naked as the day she was born, her figure exquisite and stirring to the blood.

She walked straight to the dressing room to choose her clothes, her long, graceful arms gliding over the neatly arranged hangers, fingers slender and elegant, as if plucking at invisible strings.

After a moment’s deliberation, she settled on a pale green dress with tiny blossoms, turning toward the enormous mirror opposite. Satisfied with the beautiful outline reflected within, she slipped on the dress, tied the sash delicately around her waist, and headed toward the bedroom door.

Her head was bowed, half-dried hair trailing loosely down her back, a few strands clinging to her delicate neck, emphasizing its fragility.

But just as she opened the door, something caught at her feet.

With a faint cry, she stumbled forward.

A pair of strong hands appeared out of nowhere, steadying her by the waist—swift, sure, and tinged with concern.

Her head landed against a warm, broad shoulder, only the dark crown of her head visible. Her nose, pressed against the man’s firm chest, emitted a faint, buzzing sound—like a newborn kitten’s mewl, soft and plaintive, stirring a ticklish feeling deep within, as if a feather had brushed by the heart.

Before the man’s eyes was skin white as snow, dewy and tender, with veins faintly visible beneath the surface—fragile and inviting to the touch.

She still carried the warmth and dampness of her bath, her cheeks flushed, the contrast with her pale skin igniting the imagination.

Like a lotus emerging from water—pure but not ordinary.

Startled by the unexpected fall, her body trembled, her grip on his shirt tightening instinctively.

Slowly, she lifted her head from his embrace, her flawless face tinged with the dewy blush of her bath. Her wide, innocent eyes shone with a misty charm.

As her gaze met the gentle, handsome face before her, surprise flickered across her features.

“Zichen, you’re back!” Her lashes fluttered, her tone bright with delight.

Zichen had been away filming for a long time; she hadn’t seen him in ages.

Now that he was finally home, she must seize the opportunity to win him over!

The man before her was Mu Zichen, now grown. The awkwardness of youth had faded, replaced by a gentlemanly grace, his serene eyes always holding a hint of a smile—one that creased in the wind and smoothed when it stilled.

Though he wore a gentle mask before others, those who truly knew him understood it was just that—a mask. Beneath it, he was cool and detached, except when it came to the girl before him.

Mu Zichen was about to reply when he noticed her hair, still damp, and without a word, swept her up in his arms and carried her back into the bedroom.

“Ah, Zichen!” she exclaimed in surprise, instinctively wrapping her arms around his neck and nestling her head against his chest.

Her unique, sweet scent filled his senses, and a soft, watery call lingered in his ear, her gentle breath caressing his chin again and again, teasing and intimate. He paused, then continued toward her room.

“Zichen, you’re bullying me again,” she pouted, her beautiful eyes dancing with playful reproach.

“Why did you come out with your hair still wet?” His voice was magnetic, elastic, that of a born singer—a true darling of the public.

He set her gently on the bed, then, with practiced ease, fetched the hairdryer from the bathroom and began drying her hair.

He bent to ruffle her hair tenderly, as if handling a child. “Sit still, I’ll dry your hair.”

“Okay.” She sat obediently, yielding to his every gesture, docile as could be.

A glimmer of amusement passed through his eyes at the sight.

The lamp cast a gentle glow over the two of them, their shadows entwined on the floor—a scene so warm, even the moon dared not intrude.

Her hair was soft and, wet from the bath, curled slightly, accentuating the flush in her cheeks and making her appear all the more innocent and endearing.

Mu Zichen, infinitely patient, took a towel and dabbed at the droplets in her hair with the utmost care, as if handling a rare treasure, fearing he might hurt her.

His long, nimble fingers threaded through her thick, dark hair, gently massaging her scalp.

There are many sensitive points on the scalp, and Mu Zichen, well practiced in this ritual, knew every one of hers.

Before long, she melted in his arms, her body relaxing, eyelids heavy with sleep—a drowsy contentment settling over her. A soft blush spread across her face, her lashes wet with tears, even the corners of her eyes tinged red.

Zichen’s hands were more effective than any device, sending shivers of pleasure through her body. She couldn’t help but want to hum with delight. She especially loved when he dried her hair; it always made her want to drift off to sleep.

Seeing her growing limp, he continued his gentle ministrations, steadying her as he admired the scene before him.

It felt as if, from their earliest years, he’d been bewitched by the one called Jiujiu, his attention perpetually drawn to her. He loved nothing more than making her cry softly in his arms, pleading and calling him “Zichen.” He loved—this very scene.

He thought himself bewitched, for he had always regarded her as a sister. How could he harbor such thoughts? Yet what happened next made him believe it all the more.

Gradually returning to herself, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pleaded coyly, “Zichen, can I sleep with you tonight?”

Ever since Mu Junze had fully recovered, her parents’ relationship had grown even closer; they’d often go off together, leaving the house to Zichen and Jiujiu.

Her words caught him off guard—she’d never been taught about such things, and their parents had long considered her his future bride, never warning them otherwise. And yet, he knew they were both grown now; they could no longer sleep together. He ought to teach her, but another part of him wished she’d stay innocent forever, so he could keep holding her through the night.

As he chastised himself for such thoughts, her voice interrupted him.

“Zichen, don’t you like me anymore?” Her lips pursed, and she lifted her gaze to him with dewy, uncertain eyes, brimming with worry and hurt.

His hesitation had clearly wounded her; tears welled instantly, filling her eyes with glimmering light, her lashes damp and her lids tinged red.

Mu Zichen panicked at the sight, immediately pulling her into his arms. “How could you think that? Of course I like you, Jiujiu.”

Her tears were his undoing; seeing her cry tore at his heart, making him want nothing more than to give her everything.