Lin Ting blinked, and in that fleeting moment, Duan Ling’s face softened into the familiar gentle smile she knew so well, as if the troubled expression she’d glimpsed was merely a waking dream.
Her gaze drifted to his bare feet, standing casually on the wooden floor.
“Why are you standing there like that?” she asked, her voice tinged with curiosity.
It was the first time she’d seen Duan Ling so disheveled—not quite disheveled, perhaps, but certainly unlike his usual self.
Every morning, he rose and meticulously prepared himself, never appearing with rumpled clothes or bare feet.
A sudden unease gripped her.
Could he have discovered the matter of the aphrodisiac?
Was he about to confront her?
Her heart quickened.
But how could Duan Ling know about the aphrodisiac?
Last night, after slipping him the sedative, she’d waited by his side, ensuring he was deeply asleep before sneaking to the neighboring courtyard to bury the drug.
She scolded herself silently—don’t act guilty, don’t scare yourself with wild thoughts, or you’ll give yourself away.
Better to wait and see what Duan Ling would say.
With that, Lin Ting steadied her nerves.
Duan Ling approached the bed, stopping before her.
His hand reached out, gently smoothing a few strands of her hair that had been pressed askew during sleep.
“You’re awake,” he said softly.
Their voices overlapped, each word clear despite the collision, as if the air itself conspired to let them hear one another.
Duan Ling’s fingers lingered on the softness of her hair before he slowly withdrew his hand.
“I had a nightmare,” he said, his voice low, almost hesitant.
“It left me unsettled.”
It was his explanation for standing there, barefoot and disarrayed.
Relief washed over Lin Ting, loosening the tension in her body.
It wasn’t about the aphrodisiac buried in the next courtyard.
She tilted her head, looking up at him.
No wonder he’d stumbled out of bed, hair loose and shoes forgotten.
She’d had her share of nightmares—dreams of losing all her money, waking with a racing heart, compelled to count her hidden savings again and again to reassure herself it was only a dream.
She understood the feeling all too well.
“What was the nightmare about?” she asked, her tone gentle, empathetic.
Duan Ling’s eyes met hers and said, “I dreamed of you.”
Her face darkened, and she gave him a mock glare.
“Dreaming of me is a nightmare? Am I that terrifying?” she teased, though her voice carried a playful edge.
His hand settled over her chest, rising and falling with the steady rhythm of her heartbeat.
“I dreamed you left me for another man,” he said, his voice soft but weighted with something deeper.
Lin Ting froze, caught off guard by the raw vulnerability in his words.
Nightmares often mirrored the fears buried deep within, the things one held closest or dreaded most.
If he dreamed of her leaving him for another, it meant she mattered to him—not just on the surface, but in the quiet, hidden corners of his heart.
Her fingers unconsciously tightened.
“Dreams are the opposite of reality,” she said, her voice steadying.
“You dreamed I’d leave you for someone else, but that means I never would.”
Duan Ling’s eyes curved slightly, a faint smile touching his lips.
“I believe you,” he said.
“You won’t leave me.”
She noticed the faint redness in his eyes.
“When did you wake up?” she asked, sensing he’d been standing there longer than he let on.
“Just a little before you,” he replied, his tone casual.
Lin Ting didn’t press further.
Late nights or poor sleep from a nightmare could leave eyes bloodshot.
Besides, Duan Ling had no reason to lie to her.
Still, a thought nagged at her—could the sedative she’d used last night have caused his nightmare?
The sedative was Jin Anazi’s creation, and she’d used it herself before without issue.
No side effects, no problems.
It couldn’t be related.
But then again, everyone’s body reacted differently.
Concern crept in, and she waved a hand in front of his face.
“Do you feel unwell after that nightmare?”
Duan Ling caught her hand, his grip gentle but firm.
“I’m fine,” he assured her.
She let him hold her hand, her worry easing.
“When I wake from nightmares, my body feels off sometimes. I’m glad you’re okay. Tonight, I’ll have someone fetch you some milk—it helps keep nightmares at bay.”
Her other hand brushed against the long strands of his hair, hanging loosely before him.
“Shall I tie your hair?” she offered.
She’d only done it once before, for a pre-wedding portrait per Yan customs, while he’d styled her hair countless times.
“Alright,” he agreed.
Lin Ting had him sit, and she stood behind him, gathering his ink-black hair in her hands.
With his back to her, neither could see the other’s expression.
Duan Ling’s gaze drifted to the empty space ahead, or perhaps somewhere beyond, as he spoke abruptly.
“Do you truly wish for Lingyun to have Xia Zhimo’s child?”
Lin Ting’s hands paused in their task.
She assumed he was finally addressing his discomfort with Duan Xingning and Xia Zhimo’s situation.
She considered the question carefully.
After a moment, she replied, “I hope Lingyun can safely deliver her child because she chose not to end the pregnancy. I want her to come through it safely, to suffer as little as possible, with no complications. It has nothing to do with Xia Zhimo.”
She finished tying his hair, revealing the graceful line of his neck.
He turned to face her, his expression unreadable.
“Have you ever considered,” he said quietly, “that if Lingyun lost the child, she and Xia Zhimo would have no future together?”
Duan Xingning’s forgiveness of Xia Zhimo hinged largely on the child.
Like many mothers, she was bound by it, despite knowing she shouldn’t be.
Everyone understood this unspoken truth.
If the child were gone, her heart would turn cold toward Xia Zhimo, and their engagement would dissolve.
Lin Ting shrugged and said, “I only care about Lingyun. Whether she changes her mind or not, I’ll support her. As for Xia Zhimo, he can go wherever it’s coolest.”
Her words had barely landed when she noticed a scratch on the inside of Duan Ling’s hand.
“How did you hurt your hand?” she asked, frowning.
He glanced at the mark, a scrape from a sharp stone.
“Perhaps I brushed against something after waking from the nightmare,” he said lightly.
With care, Lin Ting cleaned the wound and applied ointment, her touch gentle.
He sat quietly, letting her tend to him.
As she finished, her eyes caught the faint scars on his wrist, now much lighter, blending almost seamlessly with the surrounding skin.
She took his hand, pushing up his sleeve for a closer look.
“Your scars have faded so much,” she said, surprised.
“It won’t be long before they’re gone. Have you been using medicine?”
“I have,” he admitted.
Though she’d repeatedly assured him she didn’t mind the scars, he wanted them gone.
He’d been using a rare Western medicine, but the scars were fading slower than the physician had promised.
Lin Ting’s grip on his hand tightened.
The scars were old, etched deep from years past.
As the second son of the Duan family, he could’ve accessed any scar-removing remedy long ago, yet he hadn’t bothered—until now.
It was clear he was doing this for her.
Before, he hadn’t cared how many scars he carried.
She lowered his sleeve.
“I really don’t mind them,” she said, her voice soft but firm.
She needed him to know.
Duan Ling’s fingers brushed his wrist, where her warmth still lingered.
“I know,” he said.
“But I want them gone.”
Lin Ting hesitated, then lifted his sleeve again, holding out her hand.
“Where’s the scar medicine? I’ll apply it for you.”
He’d only just woken, so he likely hadn’t had time to use it.
“I can do it myself,” he said.
She ignored him, keeping her hand extended.
Reluctantly, he handed her the medicine.
The ointment had a faint, cool scent, not unpleasant.
She applied it carefully, her focus absolute.
Duan Ling watched her in silence, his thoughts unreadable.
Over the next few days, Lin Ting’s life settled into a rhythm: days at the county office, nights back at the residence.
Occasionally, Xia Zhimo appeared to visit, but with Duan Ling by her side, she had no chance to interact with him, let alone carry out her plan to drug him.
The task remained unfinished, and unease gnawed at her.
***
She saw a cold shadow lurking just out of sight.
A shiver ran through Lin Ting, and her hand trembled, tilting the teapot.
Tea spilled, cascading over the hand holding her cup, the sound of dripping water sharp in the quiet room.
Fortunately, the tea was lukewarm, sparing her from a burn.
Duan Ling took the teapot from her, his movements unhurried as he wiped her hand dry.
“What’s been wrong with you these past few days? You’re always so distracted.”
“I miss my mother a little,” she said, her voice soft.
His fingers brushed her tea-dampened fingertips, the faint scent of tea lingering between them.
“If you want to return to the capital, I’ll arrange for someone to escort you back immediately.”
The sunset streamed through the window, painting Lin Ting’s face with a warm, rosy glow.
“No need for the trouble,” she replied.
“I’ll go back with you when you’re ready to return.”
Just then, a servant knocked and announced that Xia Zhimo had come with a matter to discuss and wished to meet her.
He was waiting in the main hall.