The hotel room was bathed in soft, warm light.
Yan Zhiheng opened the door and guided Wen Zhi inside. She was still leaning against his shoulder, her breathing light, her whole body sinking into a haze of drunken exhaustion.
He carefully settled her by the bed, every movement deliberate and gentle. There was a faint jasmine fragrance on her, but the scent of alcohol had dulled it, leaving only a subtle, helpless trace.
"Sit here for a bit," he said softly.
Wen Zhi seemed to hear him—maybe—but didn't respond. Her body swayed slightly before she leaned back against the headboard without resistance.
He went to the minibar, retrieved a bottle of water, and poured some into a glass, placing it by the bedside. Then he adjusted her jacket, gently pulling it over her exposed shoulder.
His gaze accidentally brushed past a scrape on her ankle—probably from when that man had knocked her earlier. He frowned, debating whether to find a first-aid kit, but hesitated, afraid to startle her.
She must have sensed his presence, because suddenly she spoke in a faint voice, "You're still here?"
He froze, eyes falling on her.
"I thought you'd left," Wen Zhi's voice was hoarse and dazed. "You're not the type to get involved."
Yan Zhiheng didn't explain.
He crouched down, meeting her eyes at eye level. His tone dropped even lower than it had been in the bar. "You shouldn't have come alone tonight."
Wen Zhi said nothing.
He was silent for a while before finally standing and walking over to the desk.
He didn't leave a note. Instead, he took out a business card from his case and placed it next to the glass.
It was from a batch his assistant had never distributed—only three words printed on it: Yan Zhiheng.
The back was blank, except for a handwritten string of numbers.
Without another glance at her, he walked to the door. As he pulled it open, a voice stopped him.
"I'll repay this favor tomorrow."
He paused. A faint flicker tugged at the corner of his lips.
"I'm in no rush," he said. "And you don't have to be either."
He then turned back for one last look.
Wen Zhi had already fallen asleep, leaning against the headboard. Her eyelashes trembled lightly, like a small, exhausted creature. Though clearly quite drunk, she stubbornly tried to stay upright, her head slowly tilting to rest on the pillow behind her.
Yan Zhiheng stood there, his expression calm, but beneath his eyes surged a quiet, indescribable emotion.
He remembered—many years ago, on a bench outside a hospital, a little girl had crouched down and handed him a piece of candy.
"Don't cry, little guy. Sweet things make people feel better."
Her eyes had shone when she smiled, and her voice had been hoarse too.
For a moment back then, he thought he had forgotten her. But now, seeing that same stubborn look on her face, even in drunken sleep—it overlapped perfectly with the image from his memory.
It was her.
He recognized her.
But she, most likely, no longer remembered.
Yan Zhiheng lowered his head slightly, letting out a soft sigh.
"You haven't changed at all," he murmured, not sure if he was saying it to her, or to himself.
He left the business card and the water by the bed, then quietly turned to leave.
Behind him, the room fell into a deepening silence.
The moment the door closed, the night breeze brushed past him. He looked up at the dark sky, Adam's apple moving faintly, fingers curling with quiet restraint.
Back then, you gave me a piece of candy.
This time—Let me be the one to protect you.
The door closed softly behind him, like a dream that had ended without a ripple.