At first, she still bothered with respectable excuses.
“Tonight’s discussion on that article with you left some points unfinished. I’ll come over after reviewing the accounts—we can talk by candlelight.”
Or, “Tomorrow I’m taking you to a poetry gathering. There are some etiquette rules I need to go over with you beforehand. It might run late, so I’ll just stay here.”
Nanxi could not refuse.
Thus, the bed that had once belonged to him alone would gain another warm, soft body.
Zhang Yiwei insisted on sleeping on the outer side, claiming it was to not disturb his rest.
In truth, it pinned Nanxi against the inner edge, leaving him unable to move all night.
She did not cross the final line, but other intimate contacts had become almost routine.
She would naturally take his hand, her fingertips lightly tracing his palm as she commented on his lifelines.
She would lie facing him, her arm draped over his waist, her breath close against his neck.
In summer beneath thin covers, her smooth calf would press against his own bare legs.
In winter’s cold, she would even more boldly pull him closer under the pretext of sharing warmth.
Nanxi always lay with his back to her, his body stiff as a board.
Yet Zhang Yiwei always found ways to make him turn—or she would embrace him from behind.
Her kisses and gentle bites would land on his exposed nape or shoulders. Sometimes, when he was half-asleep or pretending to be, she would softly extend her tongue to lick his cheek or jaw.
That wet, soft sensation, mingled with the faint fragrance of her body, sent shivers through Nanxi again and again.
In those moments, he would squeeze his eyes tightly shut, forcing his breathing to slow, pretending to be deeply asleep.
Only under cover of darkness would he quietly clench his fists until his nails dug deep into his palms, using that faint pain to resist the surging desires within.
The boy did not like Zhang Yiwei, nor did he dislike her, but on grounds of propriety, he did not want anything improper to happen with this woman who was nominally his elder sister-in-law.
Nanxi could only silently accept it—suppressing the instinct to pull away with every touch, exhausting himself with longer sword practice and more rigorous study during their times alone to numb his senses.
Yet gradually, this predicament of living under another’s roof seemed to come not only from Zhang Yiwei.
Zhang Lianwei—the little girl who two years ago would still pout tearfully over games of heroes and bandits—had quietly blossomed under time’s influence.
At thirteen, in this era, she was already considered half an adult.
She had inherited the Zhang family’s fine looks.
The childishness had faded from her brows and eyes, replaced by bright, charming allure.
She had grown taller, and her mannerisms began to mimic her elder sister’s—though the girl lacked that deeper scheming, possessing instead the willfulness born of being spoiled.
Her attitude toward Nanxi had also undergone subtle changes.
At first, she perhaps saw this suddenly arrived beautiful brother—who carried the title of her future husband—merely as a novel and interesting playmate.
But as she grew older, certain hazy awareness awakened.
She noticed her sister’s unusually intense attention and intimacy toward Nanxi, and gradually began to view this quiet, handsome boy—who lived day and night in the same mansion—with different eyes.
She would barge into Listening Bamboo Pavilion on the strength of her status as his betrothed.
Sometimes to bring seasonal snacks, sometimes to drag him to the garden, sometimes simply because she was bored and wanted to talk.
Unlike Zhang Yiwei, who excelled at subtle probing and gentle pressure, her approaches were more direct, carrying the coquettish willfulness unique to a young girl.
“Brother Xi, this color really suits you. Did my sister pick it out? She’s so good to you.”
She would tilt her head to appraise him, her eyes sparkling.
“Brother Xi, can you teach me how to write this character? I couldn’t understand the tutor’s explanation.”
She would suddenly lean in very close, nearly sprawling over the desk, her hair brushing the back of his hand.
Once, when Zhang Yiwei was out at a banquet and had not returned, Zhang Lianwei somehow slipped into Listening Bamboo Pavilion.
She poked around his bedroom, finally picking up the sword manual he often read and flipping through it curiously.
“Sister says you know martial arts and are really amazing. Can you perform it for me?”
As she spoke, she suddenly reached out as if to pinch his arm, testing if it was firm.
Nanxi stepped back in time to avoid her hand, his voice still flat and calm.
“Second Miss, it’s getting late. You should return. Martial arts are not child’s play and cannot be casually displayed.”
Zhang Lianwei pouted, a little unhappy.
But gazing at Nanxi’s expressionless yet extraordinarily handsome face, that displeasure was quickly overtaken by an excitement mixed with possessiveness and novelty.
Her eyes darted as an idea struck her.
“Brother Nanxi, we have a betrothal, right? That means you’ll be my husband someday. Sister said when I’m a bit older, we’ll formally marry.”
As she said this, a faint blush rose on her cheeks, yet her gaze remained bold as she looked at him, as though declaring ownership.
Nanxi felt no ripple in his heart—only a touch of numbness.
He merely inclined his head slightly.
“Matters of marriage are naturally arranged by the elders and the Eldest Miss.”
He referred to Zhang Yiwei as Eldest Miss—a subconscious distancing.
In the past, he might have still seen her as a friend, but now…
Zhang Lianwei either missed the implication or simply did not care.
Satisfied with a response that was not quite a reply, she left contentedly, turning back at the door to flash him a sweet smile.
“Then I’ll come find you to play again tomorrow!”
Nanxi stood in place, watching the girl’s joyful departing figure.
His eyes held only deep silence.
Zhang Yiwei’s covetous desire, Zhang Lianwei’s growing closeness—like two invisible ropes, binding him from different directions.
This nominal home of his, this exquisite and comfortable Listening Bamboo Pavilion, felt more and more like an ornate cage.
He still preferred the days on the mountain—though he had to fend for himself, at least he was free.
Only in the dead of night, practicing sword forms alone in the courtyard, could he feel a moment of freedom.
Moonlight spilled onto the bluestone ground, bamboo shadows swaying.
The iron sword in his hand cut through the air with clear, resonant whistles.
Every stance and movement demanded complete focus. Sweat traced down his temples, soaking into his collar.
Only in such full exertion could he temporarily forget everything around him, as though he had returned to the mountain—his master perhaps yawning nearby as she watched him, the air filled with the scent of earth and dampness.
Finishing his forms, breathing slightly labored, Nanxi raised his head to gaze at the sparse stars in the night sky.
Where was his master now?
There was no answer, nor anyone who could give one—only the rustle of night wind through bamboo leaves and the heart in his chest, bearing too much silence.
Such days might continue for a long while yet.
Or perhaps, they would vanish in an instant.