The peach blossoms had begun to fade. Their soft pink petals scattered across the stone pathways of Shanquan like a farewell, brushing the earth with memories of spring. The air had changed — warmer now, richer. The wind no longer whispered. It breathed.
In the early morning, Lin Yu sat on the long bench beneath the old camphor tree, quietly sharpening a small folding knife. The blade wasn't for work; it was a habit. One learned in childhood, forgotten, then recovered as the world slowed down. Beside him, a shallow wooden basket filled with trimmed tea shoots rested on the bench, fragrant and fresh.
Dahuang dozed nearby, massive head cradled in his paws.
There had been no calls, no messages, but he knew.
She was coming.
By the time the black Audi sedan rolled to a stop at the outer gate, Lin Yu was already pouring tea in the courtyard. The driver stepped out first, walked around to open the passenger door.
Xu Wenqing stepped down slowly, sunglasses on, scarf around her neck. She wore a plain beige trench coat over a pale blue dress, modest heels, and pearl earrings. Her hair was tied back today, a little looser than usual, and her posture lacked its usual scholarly precision.
He stood as she approached, her eyes hidden behind the lenses.
"Did I wake you?" she asked softly.
"I don't sleep much," he replied.
She removed the sunglasses and folded them into her coat. Her eyes were tired — not from lack of rest, but from carrying too much in silence.
"I wasn't going to come. But the apartment… felt cold today."
"You did the right thing," Lin Yu said.
She looked around the courtyard, gaze pausing on the bamboo eaves, the quiet lanterns, the faint scent of herbs rising from the tea tray. Then her eyes returned to him.
"I shouldn't want this."
"I know."
"But I do."
He said nothing, only poured her tea, then handed her the cup with both hands. She took it carefully, fingers brushing his. The cup trembled slightly as it met her lips.
"It's the same tea as last time."
"New batch," he said. "But yes. Same field."
"It tastes lonelier."
She didn't sit. She walked slowly to the plum tree near the edge of the garden, where the low stone bench curved beneath the shade. Lin Yu followed.
When she spoke again, her voice was lower, less composed.
"After the last time… I told myself it wouldn't happen again. I wanted to erase it. Pretend I imagined it."
"And?"
"I imagined it every night."
He sat beside her, careful not to reach out. The air between them felt fragile, like a thread pulled too tight.
"I keep looking at my husband," she whispered, "trying to remember when I stopped being his wife and just became… part of the house."
Lin Yu didn't interrupt.
"He's not cruel. Not neglectful. Just distant. Like we live on opposite sides of a closed window. Every night we sleep back to back. I forget what his breath feels like on my skin."
"Then remember something else," Lin Yu said gently.
She turned toward him.
"Do you still want me?" she asked.
"Yes."
She reached up, undid the top button of her coat, then the next. Beneath, her dress was soft silk, pale blue, simple but elegant. The neckline dipped just slightly — modest by most standards, but the way she revealed it now made it feel intimate.
"Then don't be gentle today," she said. "Make me forget everything."
Lin Yu stood and offered her his hand.
They moved through the garden, across the stone steps, and into the main residence. The paper windows filtered the light into soft gold. The air inside smelled faintly of lavender and cedar. She stood by the doorway for a moment, catching her breath, then stepped inside.
When he closed the door, she turned to face him.
This time, the kiss came from her — deep, hungry, less graceful. Her fingers worked at the buttons of his robe, fumbling slightly. His hands moved to her waist, pulling her closer as he kissed her neck, then her collarbone. She tilted her head back, letting out a quiet moan as his mouth found her skin.
Her coat slipped from her shoulders. Her dress followed.
She was smaller than she looked in the lecture halls — softer, with fine, pale lines etched across her lower back. She had aged, yes, but she carried it like a quiet badge — of patience, of compromise, of years passed without fire. And now she was burning again.
He lowered her gently to the bed, pressing his body against hers, moving with a rhythm that needed no haste. Her eyes met his, and she whispered his name — not loudly, but like a prayer.
By the time the last waves passed between them, she lay in silence, her body damp, her hair clinging to her neck. Her fingers curled around the edge of the sheet. Her lips were parted, breath shallow.
He lay beside her, watching the sunlight pattern across her chest.
"I missed this," she whispered.
"You missed being touched," he corrected.
"No. I missed being… noticed."
Outside, the bamboo leaves rustled with a light breeze. Birds called from the rafters. The world moved on.
She stayed in bed for a long while, drifting in and out of sleep. When she finally sat up, she wrapped herself in the light cotton robe he'd left on the screen. She moved slowly through the house, barefoot on polished stone.
She found him in the side courtyard, quietly trimming bonsai branches.
"Do you ever feel guilty?" she asked.
"Guilt is for people who lie to themselves."
She leaned against the doorframe, watching him work.
"I always thought I'd grow old beside one man. That I'd die remembering only his touch."
"Maybe you still will," he said. "But for now, you're alive."
She didn't speak. Only nodded.
Then she walked to him, knelt beside him, and placed her hand over his. He let the scissors drop and looked at her.
This kiss was softer. Less fire. More ache.
By late afternoon, she had changed back into her coat and scarf. She stood near the gate while the driver waited quietly by the car. Lin Yu accompanied her all the way.
"I'll come again," she said, her voice even.
"You'll always be welcome."
Her eyes searched his.
"Do you want me to leave him?"
He paused.
"No," he said. "I want you to choose freely. Not as a reaction."
She nodded.
Then she stepped into the car and drove away.
The next morning, a black sedan came not from the city, but from the nearby provincial capital.
Shen Lihua emerged wearing a sky-blue cardigan, dark slacks, and a warm silk scarf. She held a small woven basket of medicinal herbs and dried roots. Her steps were steady, but her eyes looked for something.
Lin Yu met her at the gate.
"You didn't send for me," he said.
"No. I just wanted to walk."
He offered his arm, and she took it.
They wandered through the plum grove, the sun dappling the ground in soft circles.
"My daughter hasn't been sleeping well," she said after a while. "She says the clinic visit unsettled her."
"Or reminded her," Lin Yu replied.
"She said you were kind to her."
"I only listened."
Shen Lihua stopped beside the koi pond. The fish swam in slow, lazy arcs, gold and white and red.
"I haven't touched another man in twenty years," she said. "And yet, when I think of you… I feel young again."
"You are."
"I want to be foolish. Just once."
He didn't speak.
She looked at him. Her eyes were darker today — serious, unreadable.
"I'm not fragile," she said.
"I know."
She leaned in and kissed him.
Not softly. Not sweetly.
The kiss was firm. Certain. A woman's kiss. And when she pulled back, she didn't apologize.
"I'll stay the night," she said.
"I'll prepare the tea."
That night, beneath the same roof that had heard so many quiet confessions, her breath joined the others. Her body was older, yes — marked by motherhood, softened by time. But when she cried out, it was not with age. It was with release.
She didn't ask for promises.
She simply slept — warm against him, one hand resting over his heart.
In the morning, she kissed his cheek and left before sunrise.
As the birds began their songs again, Lin Yu stood on the balcony with a cup of tea, the world calm around him.
The system flickered in silence.
> Romance Progress: Xu Wenqing – 78%
Romance Progress: Shen Lihua – 34%
Emotional Layer: Entwined
Background Access Expanded – City Education Commission
Reward: Rare Summon Token x1
He didn't look at the screen for long.
The wind rustled the plum blossoms again.
And life, as always, went on.
---
End of Chapter 6