Wronged me?
How?
The question echoed in the darkness of his mind, but when he reached for an answer, his memories scattered like startled birds.
He tried to grasp them, tried to pull something concrete from the murky depths of the original Lin Feng's past. But it was like reaching through water—shapes he could almost touch, feelings that weren't quite his, images that dissolved the moment he focused on them.
A small girl with angry eyes. A toy in the trash. A door slamming. A hospital bed.
The fragments floated past him, disconnected and elusive. He could feel the emotional weight of those memories sitting heavy in his chest, but the specifics remained just out of reach.
"I don't remember everything, Weiwei." The words came out slowly, carefully honest. "The memories are... incomplete."
She didn't tense. Didn't flinch. Didn't react with surprise at all.
Instead, she let out a breath that sounded like it had been trapped in her chest for years.
"I know." Her voice was quiet, heavy with something that sounded like grief. "I've always known."
Of course she knows.
She was his stepsister. She'd lived with him through the aftermath. And somewhere in the murky depths of his inherited memories, he could almost see her — a younger Weiwei, tears streaming down her face, sitting beside a hospital bed the moment he opened his eyes.
The image was hazy. Incomplete. But the feeling attached to it was real.
"That's what makes this harder," she whispered against his chest. "I remember everything, Lin Feng. Every terrible thing I did. Every cruel word I said. And you..."
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.
"You can't even remember what you're forgiving me for."
------------------------------
Outside, the bluish glow from the building behind the mansion cast faint patterns through the curtains, painting shifting shadows on the ceiling.
Her body was pressed against his, and the thin cotton of their clothes did little to hide the warmth between them. Every breath she took, he felt it. Every shift of her weight sent heat pooling where their bodies met.
"But I know some things," he said quietly. "I know you blamed yourself for something. For years. I know you carried guilt you shouldn't have carried alone."
Her breathing hitched against his ribs, and he could feel her chest expand and contract, the soft pressure of her breasts rising and falling against him.
"And I know that whatever happened... you were a child. We both were."
His thumb traced slow circles on her shoulder, feeling the tension coiled beneath her skin. The strap of her pajama top had slipped slightly, and his fingers brushed bare skin.
"The details don't matter, Weiwei. You do. And I can feel how long you've been carrying this by yourself."
She was trembling now. He could feel it through the blanket, through thin cotton, through every point where her body molded against his.
"I'm telling you to put it down."
------------------------------
The silence that followed was thick and fragile.
Lin Weiwei lay against him, her face hidden in his chest, her fingers still twisted in his shirt. Her breathing was unsteady, and he could feel the dampness of tears soaking through the fabric.
"You make it sound so simple," she whispered.
"It is simple." His hand continued its slow path through her hair. "You were twelve or thirteen back then. Whatever you did—"
"I was seven."
His hand paused.
She let out a small, humorless laugh against his chest.
"You don't even remember how old we were. Seven — and I was already cruel to you. Five years of it, until I almost..."
The words came out quiet, but there was an edge underneath — not angry, just tired. Bitter. "I think about it every single day, and you can't even remember the year."
"Seven years old," she continued, her voice muffled against his chest, "and already learning how to be cruel."
------------------------------
The words hung in the darkness between them. She said them like a confession, like she was admitting to something unforgivable.
But all he heard was a child. A scared, manipulated child who'd been thrown into a war zone and given weapons instead of toys.
"Seven years old," he said quietly, "and already learning how to survive."
She went completely still.
"You think I don't know what this family is like?" His hand resumed its slow path through her hair. "What your mother, Jiang Mei, was like?"
Her breath caught at the mention of that name.
"The pressure. The competition. The regret she has for giving birth to you. Her hatred for you. And her manipulating you to do bad things to the Lin family while ensuring that her son, our younger brother, Lin Hao, will become the heir instead of me."
Lin Weiwei's body shuddered against him.
She hadn't expected him to know. To understand. To see through the layers of poison that Jiang Mei had carefully constructed over the years.
"You were a child in a war zone, Weiwei. A weapon someone else aimed and fired." His thumb traced slow circles on her shoulder. "You were too young to understand what would happen. Too young to see the consequences. How can I hold that against you when you didn't know any better?"
For a long moment, she didn't respond.
Then something cracked.
He felt it in the way her body shuddered against him. In the way her grip on his shirt tightened, then loosened, then tightened again. In the ragged breath she drew that sounded like it had been trapped in her chest for years.
No one had ever said that to her before.
He knew it with absolute certainty. No one had ever told her the truth — that a child who doesn't understand consequences can't be blamed for them. That the guilt she carried belonged to the adults who taught her, not to the little girl who listened.
She pressed her face harder into his chest, and he felt fresh tears soak through his shirt.
He didn't tell her to stop crying. He didn't try to comfort her with empty words.
He just held her, his hand moving through her hair in slow, steady strokes, and let her fall apart.
------------------------------
The mansion was silent around them.
The main house slept, its residents unaware of what was happening in the young master's wing. The only sounds were their heartbeats, the soft whisper of the air conditioning, and the quiet rhythm of their breathing.
Lin Weiwei's tears had slowed. Her body had gone soft against him, the rigid tension of the past hour finally draining away.
She fit against him like she was made for this space — her curves molding to his body, her thigh draped across his, her breath warm against his collarbone. The weight of her felt right. Natural. Like they'd done this a thousand times before.
She felt lighter somehow, as if she'd set down something heavy that she'd been carrying for so long she'd forgotten what it felt like to stand without it.
Neither of them spoke for a full minute.
In the silence, he became acutely aware of every place they touched. Her palm flat on his chest. Her hip pressed against his side. Her bare ankle hooked around his calf. The thin fabric of her pajamas did nothing to hide the heat of her skin.
Then her voice came, barely above a whisper.
"Lin Feng."
"Mm?"
A long pause. He could feel her gathering courage, her heartbeat quickening where her chest pressed against his ribs.
"If two people... who grew up as siblings... who aren't blood related..."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"And a sibling who has been harsh to the other..."
He waited.
"Could they ever be together?" Her voice was so quiet he almost didn't hear it. "Really together?"
The question hung in the darkness.
There it is.
Not "is this wrong?" Not "should I feel this way?"
Is there a future — even after what I did?
------------------------------
His hand stopped moving through her hair.
She held her breath, her body going rigid against him. He could feel her bracing for rejection, for the gentle letdown, for the "you're like a sister to me" that she'd clearly been dreading.
"Weiwei."
"...Yes?"
"Look at me."
She hesitated. Then, slowly, she lifted her face from his chest.
In the darkness, he could barely see her features — just the outline of her jaw, the faint gleam of her eyes, the wet tracks on her cheeks catching what little light filtered through the curtains.
"Yes."
One word. No hedging. No qualifications.
Her breath caught.
"They could be together. Really together. If that's what they both wanted."
She stared at him in the darkness, processing the words, searching for the catch or the condition or the escape clause.
There wasn't one.
She didn't say anything in response.
Instead, she pressed herself against him.
Not seductively. Not desperately. Just... claiming her place.
Her hips shifted, her chest pressed flush against his ribs, her leg sliding between his. She molded herself to him like she was trying to merge their bodies into one.
Her face returned to his chest, but it was different now. She wasn't hiding anymore. She was resting. Settling. Like she'd finally found somewhere she was allowed to stay.
Her hand flattened over his heart, palm pressing down as if she was making sure it was still beating. Then her fingers spread, tracing the muscle beneath, feeling the steady rhythm that belonged to her now.
His arm tightened around her, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. His hand splayed across the small of her back, fingertips brushing the sliver of bare skin where her pajama top had ridden up.
She shivered at the contact but didn't pull away. If anything, she pressed closer.
"It's okay, Weiwei."
Lin Feng's hand moved from her hair to cup the back of her head. Gentle. Protective. His fingers tangled in her silky strands.
Then he leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead.
The kiss was soft. Lingering. Deliberate. He let his mouth rest there, breathing her in — the faint scent of her shampoo, the salt of her tears, the warmth of her skin.
A tremor ran through her entire body at the contact. She gasped softly, her fingers curling tighter into his shirt, her hips involuntarily pressing against his.
She made a sound — half-sob, half-laugh, like she couldn't decide which emotion was supposed to come out.
Five years. Five years of loving him in silence. Five years of thinking she was broken, wrong, shameful. Five years of watching him chase another woman while she stood in the shadows, unable to speak, unable to reach out, unable to do anything but wait.
And now his lips were on her skin. His hands were in her hair. His body was warm beneath hers.
"It's okay to want this," he said against her hair, his breath hot on her scalp. "It's okay to have me."
Lin Weiwei's fingers curled tighter into his shirt, and she pressed her face harder into his chest, hiding the tears that had started falling again. Her body trembled against his — not from cold, not from fear, but from the overwhelming relief of finally being allowed.
But these tears felt different.
These tears felt like relief.
She should have felt complete. Finally, after five years, he was hers.
But something still burned beneath the relief. A splinter she couldn't stop touching.
That woman. At the restaurant. The hood drop. His arm around her shoulders.
He's mine now. Big Brother is mine!
------------------------------
The silence stretched between them, warm and full.
Her fingers traced patterns on his chest — absent, almost unconscious at first. But the patterns got slower. More deliberate.
Her hand slid lower. Exploring.
"Weiwei."
"Mm?"
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing."
Her hand continued its path.
"That doesn't feel like nothing."
"Then maybe you should stop me."
She waited.
He didn't stop her.
Then her hand slid lower still.
Is she—
His breath caught. His body tensed in anticipation.
But then her fingers found the hem of his shirt. She tugged it upward — not urgently, but deliberately. Exposing his stomach, then his ribs, then his chest.
He let her. Lifted slightly so she could pull it over his head.
She tossed it aside without looking.
But then her fingers shifted direction — not exploring his body the way he expected. Deliberate now, not seductive.
She pressed her fingertip to a spot just below his ribs. Then traced a line across his skin — slow, precise, following a path only she could see.
There was nothing there. Just skin. Smooth and unmarked.
But she touched it like something should be there.
"Weiwei...?"
She didn't respond. Just moved to another spot. And another. Her fingers mapping invisible wounds across his body with terrible precision.
What is she doing?
He looked down at his own chest, trying to see what she was seeing. There was nothing there. Just normal skin.
But she touched him like she was reading braille.
"I memorized them," she whispered. "Every single one. While you were in that coma."
Her voice cracked.
"I sat there for three weeks, and I traced them with my eyes. Over and over. The doctors healed everything. Made your skin perfect again. But I still remember where each one was."
"Seventeen," she whispered against his skin.
"What?"
"Seventeen wounds. Four from the knife. The rest from the surgery."
She counted wounds that no longer exist. She memorized a map of damage that's been erased.
Her fingers traced where the longest one had been — a line across his ribs that was now smooth, unmarked skin.
"This is what I did to you."
"Weiwei—"
"This is what I caused."
She leaned down and pressed her lips to the spot.
The kiss was soft. Lingering. Her breath warm against skin that bore no evidence of what she was mourning.
Then she moved to the next location. And the next.
Her mouth trailed across his chest, finding each invisible wound with unerring precision.
"I'm so sorry." A kiss to his ribs. "I'm so sorry." A kiss to his side. "I'm so sorry." A kiss just below his collarbone.
Her tears fell onto his skin — hot and wet, tracing their own paths down his chest.
He felt the pressure of her mouth, the dampness of her tears, the heat of her breath. But the skin beneath her lips felt like nothing special. Just skin. The wounds had healed long before he arrived.
------------------------------
Then his hands found her face.
He cupped her cheeks, thumbs brushing away the tears, and lifted her head until she was looking at him.
Her eyes were wet. Her lips were trembling. In the darkness, he could see the guilt written across every feature.
Their faces were close now, breath mingling in the small space between them.
"Stop."
"But—"
"I said stop." His voice was gentle but firm. "No more apologizing for something you did as a child."
"Lin Feng, these scars—"
"Are just old skin. History. They don't hurt anymore."
They never hurt me at all. But she doesn't need to know that.
She stared at him, her face still cradled in his hands.
"The body heals, Weiwei. Even when the mind takes longer."
"But I—"
"You've spent five years punishing yourself." His thumbs traced slow circles on her cheekbones. "Tonight, we're done with that."
She stared at him. The tears were still wet on her cheeks, but something behind her eyes shifted.
He wouldn't let her atone with guilt.
He wouldn't accept her apology.
Then I'll give you something you can't refuse.
Her face was still in his hands. Their breath still mingling.
"Then how do I atone?" Her voice was raw. "If not with guilt, then what?"
"Live. Be happy. Stop treating yourself like you deserve punishment."
"That's not enough."
"It's more than enough."
"No." Something shifted in her eyes — grief hardening into determination. "I need to DO something. Give something."
She pulled his hands away. Pinned them to the mattress on either side of his head.
The movement was fast. Decisive. Before he could react, she'd shifted her weight — straddling him fully now, her thighs squeezing his hips, the heat of her pressing down against him.
Her hair fell around them like a curtain, blocking out the faint blue glow from the window.
She'd shown him everything tonight. Every ugly piece of herself. Every wound she'd hidden for years.
And he'd accepted her anyway.
The relief was terrifying. It cracked something open that she didn't know how to close.
So she did what she always did when she felt too exposed.
She attacked.
"Weiwei—"
"You won't let me apologize. You won't let me carry the guilt."
She released his wrists and sat up straight, still pinning his hips beneath her. In the dim light, he could barely see her face — just the outline of her jaw, the wet gleam of her eyes.
Her fingers found the buttons of her pajama top.
First button. The fabric parted at her throat.
Second button. Her collarbone emerged, sharp and delicate.
Third button. The valley between her breasts began to show, pale skin catching what little light filtered through the curtains.
Fourth button. The shirt fell open to her stomach, held together only by the last button at her waist — and the shadows.
She wasn't wearing anything underneath.
The darkness was kind. It hid the details, softened the edges, turned her body into suggestion rather than certainty. But the faint bluish glow filtering through the curtains painted her silhouette in soft light — and what he saw stole the air from his lungs.
The curve of her breasts in shadow. The rise and fall of her chest. The way her skin seemed to glow in the dim light.
This is what a 7-star heroine looks like.
A view at the very edge of perfection. A beauty that existed in a realm beyond ordinary mortals. There were only two such women in the entire world — and one of them was right here, baring herself to him, trembling and waiting.
Lin Feng's mouth went dry.
"Then take me instead."
Lin Weiwei's voice dropped. Raw. Desperate.
"Use me. My body is yours, Big Brother."
She took his hand — the one that had been pinned to the mattress — and guided it to her chest. Not over her heart. Lower. His palm pressed against the soft curve of her breast, warm skin against warm skin.
He felt her heartbeat — frantic, racing. He felt the softness yielding beneath his fingers, impossibly smooth, impossibly full, warm and heavy against his palm. The shape of her. The weight of her. The way her skin felt like silk under his touch.
So this is what perfection feels like.
A body that existed at the very edge of what was humanly possible. Curves that belonged to one of only two 7-star heroines in the world.
He felt her sharp intake of breath as his fingers pressed gently into that softness. Her back arched into his touch, pressing more of herself into his hand.
His body responded without permission. A tension coiling low in his stomach, a heat spreading through his limbs, his hips shifting beneath her.
She felt it. Her breath hitched, and she pressed down against him instinctively — a small movement, almost unconscious, but enough to make them both freeze.
"You want this." Lin Weiwei's voice was barely a whisper. "I can feel that you want this."
She was right.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. His hand on her breast. Her body pressed against his. The darkness wrapped around them like a cocoon.
Then his hand shifted. Slowly, almost reluctantly, it slid up from the curve of her breast, across her collarbone, along the line of her throat, until his palm cupped her cheek.
Wet. Tears.
Even now. Even with her shirt open and his hand on her skin and her body pressed against his — she was crying.
"Not tonight."
She froze.
For a moment, she just stared at him. Her brain struggling to catch up with what her ears had just heard.
"...What?"
"Not tonight."
She looked down at herself — shirt open, breasts bare, his arousal obvious beneath her — then back up at his face. Her expression flickered through confusion, disbelief, and something that looked almost like offense.
"You're... you're saying no?" She shook her head slowly, like she was trying to clear it. "I'm half-naked on top of you. You want this — I can feel how much you want this. And you're telling me... no?"
Her eyes searched his face, desperate for an explanation.
"Why?" Her voice cracked. "I'm offering you everything."
"Because you're crying."
"I'm always crying." The words came out broken, shattered. "I've been crying for six years."
"That's why not tonight."
"Lin Feng—"
"When was the last time you smiled, Weiwei?" His thumb brushed the tears from her cheek. "Really smiled?"
She didn't answer. Her shirt still hung open, the shadows playing across her exposed skin, but she made no move to cover herself.
If anything, she sat up straighter — defiant, challenging.
The movement did devastating things to her silhouette. Her bare shoulders pulled back. Her chin lifted. The faint blue glow from the window caught the curve of her breasts, the line of her collarbone, the elegant arch of her neck. She looked like a goddess carved from moonlight — proud, untouchable, and utterly aware of the effect she was having.
Lin Weiwei was not retreating. If anything, she was escalating.
A 7-star heroine, half-naked, sitting on top of him with tears still wet on her cheeks and defiance burning in her eyes. This was what war looked like.
"Not the mask you show everyone else. Not the performance. The real one."
Silence.
"You haven't smiled — really smiled — in six years. Maybe longer."
Her jaw tightened.
Then, slowly, her lips curved upward.
The transformation was instantaneous.
The smile that spread across her face wasn't just perfect — it was annihilating. Radiant. Warm. The kind of smile that could stop traffic, launch ships, bring men to their knees and make them thank her for the privilege.
Her eyes softened into pools of liquid warmth. Her cheeks lifted, catching the dim light. Her whole face seemed to glow, and combined with her bare skin, her parted shirt, her body pressing down on his — she looked less like a woman and more like a divine punishment sent specifically to destroy him.
A 7-star heroine's smile at full force.
Flawless. Practiced. Devastating.
She was throwing everything she had at him. Beauty. Seduction. Vulnerability. The full arsenal of a woman who had been rated one of only two perfect heroines in existence.
"Like this?" Her voice dropped to honey and silk, sweet and teasing. "Is this what you wanted to see, Big Brother?"
She leaned forward slightly as she said it, letting her hair fall around her face, letting the movement shift her body against his in ways that made his breath catch.
He looked at her for a long moment.
She was beautiful. Impossibly, heartbreakingly beautiful. Sitting on top of him with her shirt open and that perfect smile on her face, the soft curves of her body on full display, she looked like every man's fantasy made flesh.
Any other man would have broken.
"No."
The smile faltered.
"That's not a smile, Weiwei. That's a weapon."
Her eyes widened.
"You've been using it for years. On teachers. On classmates. On everyone who needed to believe you were fine." His thumb traced along her cheekbone, gentle but relentless. "But it never reaches your eyes. It never has."
The perfect smile crumbled.
What replaced it was something raw — hurt, exposed, caught. The goddess vanished. What remained was just a girl who'd been seen through for the first time in her life.
"So no. Not tonight. Not until you remember what it feels like to smile because you're actually happy."
"That's not fair." Her voice was smaller now.
"It's not supposed to be fair. It's supposed to be right."
She stared at him in the darkness, her shirt still open, her body still pressing down against his, his arousal still evident beneath her. Neither of them acknowledged it. The tension hung between them like a living thing.
"When you can look at me and smile — really smile — while you ask for it..." His hand slid from her cheek into her hair, cupping the back of her head. "Then we'll talk about what comes next."
A long pause.
The defiance slowly drained from her posture. Her shoulders softened. Her chin dipped.
------------------------------
Lin Weiwei didn't move off him. She just sat there, straddling, processing. Her shirt still open, skin still exposed — she didn't bother to cover herself.
Then, quieter:
"Is it because of her?"
His body stilled.
"That stalker bitch who follows you around. Xiao Yue?"
She said the name like poison.
"First year. Your classmate." Her voice was flat. Clinical. "I know everything about her."
"Weiwei—"
"I saw you today. At the restaurant. I was there."
The words landed heavy.
"The hand-holding. The way you wiped sauce from her cheek. The hood drop."
Her fingers curled into his chest.
"She finally showed her face. To the whole campus. For you."
"She's not—"
"I've always known she was beautiful, Lin Feng. I've always known she was my real competition." Her voice hardened. "But today she stopped hiding. Today she made her move."
"Weiwei—"
"And then you put your arm around her. In front of everyone. You claimed her."
"Weiwei—"
"You cancelled lunch with me. For her."
He had no defense. It was true.
"You know what she calls me?" Her voice dropped. "In her head? I can see it in the way she looks at me."
"An incestuous whore. That's what she thinks I am."
"Weiwei—"
"And you know what I call her?"
She leaned down, lips hovering over his.
"A stalker bitch. A creepy, obsessive stalker bitch who doesn't know when to give up."
"Xiao—"
She kissed him before he could finish.
Hard. Aggressive. Silencing.
Her hands found his wrists and pinned them to the mattress on either side of his head.
When she pulled back: "Don't say her name."
"Xiao—"
Another kiss. Harder. More punishing this time. Her teeth caught his bottom lip and bit down — not playfully, not gently, but hard enough to draw blood.
He hissed against her mouth.
The copper taste flooded his tongue, sharp and metallic. She didn't apologize. Didn't pull back. Instead, she licked the wound she'd made, her tongue tracing the split in his lip like she was claiming even that.
Like his blood belonged to her too.
"Every time you try to say it, I'll do that."
Her open shirt had slipped further, the fabric pooling at her elbows now, leaving her bare above him. In the dim light, he could see the silhouette of her body — the curve of her shoulders, the swell of her breasts, the way her skin caught the faint blue glow from the window.
"Say my name instead."
"...Weiwei."
She kissed him again.
But this one was different.
Slower. Deeper. Her lips parting against his, her tongue tracing the seam of his mouth.
She released his wrists, and her fingers slid into his hair instead. The movement pressed her bare chest against his — skin to skin now, nothing between them, the warmth of her body bleeding into his.
When she finally pulled back, they were both breathing harder.
"Again."
"Weiwei."
Another kiss. Longer this time. She melted into him completely, her body flush against his, bare skin against bare skin. Her hips shifted against his, and a sound escaped her throat — soft, wanting.
His hands found her waist — bare skin under his palms, the curve of her hips, the heat of her pressing down.
"That's all I want to hear from your lips tonight."
------------------------------
The kissing had stopped, but neither of them had moved.
She was still straddling him, her pajama top hanging uselessly at her elbows. She made no move to pull it back up. Her lips were swollen and slightly parted, still wet from his mouth. Her chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, bare skin flushed in the dim light.
They stayed like that for a long moment — tangled together, breathing hard, the heat between them slowly cooling into something else.
"Are you really not going to give in?"
"Not tonight."
"Are you also not going to push me off?"
His hands rested on her hips. He hadn't moved them. If anything, his thumbs had started tracing absent circles on her skin.
"Also not tonight."
"So what? We just stay like this?"
"Until you fall asleep."
She considered this. Her fingers drummed once against his chest — calculating, weighing her options.
Then she lowered her head toward his chest, but paused. She looked down at her pajama top still bunched at her elbows.
With a small, irritated huff, she pulled the pajama top back up onto her shoulders. But instead of buttoning it, her fingers found the last remaining button — the one at her waist — and undid it too.
Now it hung completely open, draped over her shoulders like a robe, hiding nothing.
"Not buttoning it?"
"Why would I?" She said it like the question was absurd. "We're a couple now. I can undress around you if I want."
Her fingers found the waistband of her pajama pants. She hooked her thumbs under the elastic.
"In fact, I could take these off too. Sleep properly. Skin to skin. The way couples do."
"Weiwei."
"What?" She tilted her head, genuinely confused by his resistance. "You're my boyfriend now. I'm allowed."
Her thumbs tugged the waistband down an inch. Then another.
"Weiwei, stop."
"Make me."
"..."
"Or ask nicely." A slow smile spread across her face — dangerous, playful.
"...Please."
"Please what?"
"Please stop."
"That's not good enough." Her thumbs tugged another inch. "Say it properly."
"And what would 'properly' sound like?"
Her smile turned wicked.
"Please, my little childbride-sister Weiwei."
"..."
"Say it, Big Brother. Or these come off."
He stared at her. She stared back, thumbs hooked in her waistband, the elastic stretched low on her hips, daring him.
"...Please, my little childbride-sister Weiwei."
Her whole face lit up — victorious, delighted, almost giddy.
"See? Was that so hard?"
She released the waistband with a snap.
"Fine. I'll keep them on." She settled against him, the open shirt falling to either side, her bare chest pressing flush against his. "But only because you asked so sweetly."
Then she shifted her hips — a small, deliberate movement — and her smile turned knowing.
"Speaking of hard..."
"Don't."
"You really liked saying that, didn't you, Big Brother?"
"Weiwei."
"Your little childbride-sister can tell." Another shift of her hips, grinding down just slightly. "She can feel exactly how much you liked it."
"..."
"And you still won't do anything about it." She sighed dramatically, but her eyes were gleaming. "It's so frustrating!"
Her hand flattened over his heart.
"This position is mine now."
"What?"
"When you sleep with someone. This is my spot. Not hers. Not anyone else's."
She settled more firmly against him — bare skin against bare skin, her weight pinning him down.
"I'm marking my territory."
"Possessive."
"It's called being a girlfriend, Big Brother. This is what we do. Or..."
Her eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint beneath the playfulness.
"Are you planning to cheat on your childbride?"
"I'm not planning to hurt you."
"That's not the same thing."
"No. It isn't."
She stared at him, searching his face for something. Whatever she found — or didn't find — made her jaw tighten.
"We're not done talking about this."
"I know."
------------------------------
Within minutes, her breathing began to slow.
Her body grew heavy with sleep — still on top of him, still pinning him to the mattress. Bare skin against bare skin, her unbuttoned shirt draped loosely over her shoulders.
He couldn't move without waking her.
She planned this.
Even in surrender, she found a way to win.
His hands rested on the bare skin of her back, beneath the open shirt.
Her face was pressed to his chest, directly over his heart.
"Big Brother?"
Her voice was drowsy. Half-asleep already.
"Mm?"
"Goodnight kiss."
"You already kissed me a lot earlier."
"That doesn't count." She lifted her head, eyes heavy-lidded but stubborn. "On the lips. Properly."
"Weiwei..."
"Couples kiss goodnight. On the lips." She pouted — sleepy, petulant. "You're my boyfriend now. You have to."
"Do I have to?"
"Mm. It's the rule."
He looked at her for a long moment. Her hair was mussed. Her eyes were barely open. Her lips were still slightly swollen from earlier.
She's not going to let this go.
He cupped the back of her head and pulled her up gently.
The kiss was soft. Brief. Tender.
Nothing like the aggressive, punishing kisses from before. Just a quiet promise in the dark.
When he pulled back, her eyes were closed.
And she was smiling.
Not the performative smile. Not the mask she wore for teachers and classmates. Not the perfect, practiced devastation she'd tried to deploy earlier.
Just... happy.
Small. Genuine. Content.
The faint blue glow from the window caught the curve of her lips, the softness in her features, the peace that had settled over her face.
There it is.
That's the smile I was waiting for.
Good thing she didn't notice.
If she had — if she'd realized she was giving him exactly what he'd asked for — she would have pounced. Would have pinned him down and demanded he make good on his promise. Would have stripped off those pajama pants before he could say a word.
I'd be doomed.
But her eyes stayed closed, and she simply hummed with satisfaction, settling back against his chest without realizing what she'd just done.
Crisis averted. For now.
"I love you."
"I know."
"One day you'll say it back."
"Maybe."
A pause. Then, muffled against his chest:
"If you ever say her name in your sleep, I'll smother you with a pillow."
"...Noted."
She was asleep within seconds.
Lin Feng stared at the ceiling.
Her weight was warm on his chest. Her hair spilled across his skin. Her breath was slow and steady against his neck, each exhale a whisper of heat that made his pulse jump.
The heat of her bare skin seeped into his, intimate and inescapable. Her chest pressed soft against him, rising and falling with each breath. The unbuttoned shirt did nothing — less than nothing — draped uselessly over her shoulders while everything underneath pressed flush against his body.
And he was still hard.
Painfully, achingly hard.
She was half-nude on top of him. Her scent was in his nose. Her warmth was soaking into his skin. Her breath was on his neck. And every time she shifted in her sleep — every small, unconscious movement — her hips pressed against his in ways that made his jaw clench.
This is torture.
Beautiful, maddening torture.
His body screamed at him. Every instinct demanded he flip her over and take what she'd offered. She'd wanted it. She'd begged for it. She'd stripped herself bare and guided his hand to her chest.
But that wasn't what he wanted.
Not really.
The lust was real — undeniable, overwhelming, burning through his veins. But lust wasn't what drove him. Lust wasn't what made his chest tighten when she cried. Lust wasn't what made him want to tear apart anyone who hurt her.
I want to love her.
Protect her.
Take care of her.
Not use her.
She'd offered herself out of guilt. Out of atonement. Out of some twisted belief that her body could pay a debt that didn't exist.
If he'd taken her tonight, what would that make him?
Long Tian.
The name surfaced unbidden, and his stomach turned.
Long Tian, who collected women like trophies. Who used his system to manipulate their feelings. Who took what he wanted because he could, because they were "his" heroines, because the narrative said he deserved them.
I'm not him.
I will never be him.
When he finally had her — and he would — it would be because she wanted him. Not because she thought she owed him. Not because guilt had twisted her love into something desperate and self-destructive.
He would have her when she could smile and ask for it.
Really smile.
And she almost did tonight. She just didn't notice.
He looked down at her sleeping face — fierce even in rest, possessive even unconscious.
This is just the first night.
The thought hit him like cold water.
She'd already confessed. Already attacked. Already stripped half-naked and offered herself. Already made him say "please, my little childbride-sister Weiwei" while she threatened to remove her pants.
And she'd promised to try again tomorrow.
"I'm not giving up. Tomorrow night, I'm trying again."
"And next time, I'll make sure I'm smiling for real."
I'm in trouble.
And that wasn't even counting Xiao Yue.
The girl who'd watched him for five years. Who'd built her entire life around him. Who'd revealed her face to the whole campus today — for him. Who'd held his hand in public, let him wipe sauce from her cheek, left the restaurant on his arm.
She wouldn't back down.
If Weiwei was fire — aggressive, consuming, impossible to ignore — then Xiao Yue was water. Patient. Persistent. Seeping into every crack until she'd filled every space.
Two seven-star heroines.
Both of them his now.
Neither willing to share.
How am I going to tell them — tell them both — that I intend to have the two of them at the same time?
"I don't share," Weiwei had said.
But I want the two of them.
And that was the problem. He wanted both of them. The two of them at the same time!
Yet thoughts gnawed inside his head.
She confessed to an impostor tonight.
Bared herself to an impostor.
Kissed an impostor until her lips were swollen.
Fell asleep on top of an impostor.
And she doesn't know.
The real Lin Feng was gone. Dead this morning in this very same bed the moment the transmigrator Lin Feng opened his eyes. Erased. Overwritten. Replaced by someone from another world who had inherited his body, his memories, and now... his sister's love.
And she doesn't know.
She thought she'd finally reached him. Finally broken through the walls that had separated them for five years. Finally found the brother she'd loved in silence all this time.
But that brother didn't exist anymore.
Does it matter?
She's happy. She got what she wanted.
Does it matter that I'm not him?
He didn't have an answer.
Tomorrow, everything would be more complicated.
But tonight—
Tonight, he let himself be claimed.
He closed his eyes.
His body still ached. The lust still burned. But beneath it — stronger, deeper, immovable — was something else entirely.
I will protect them.
Both of them.
No matter what it takes.
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[End of Chapter]