The next morning, when I woke up, the sky was already bright.
The wound on my temple still throbbed faintly.
Walking out of the room, Mom had already made breakfast and was sitting quietly at the dining table waiting for me.
There were obvious dark circles under her eyes; she clearly hadn't slept well last night. But when she saw me, a gentle smile immediately appeared on her face, though there was something deeper in that smile, something that hadn't been there before.
"Does your head still hurt? Come eat quickly. I made congee, something light." She got up to serve me a bowl.
Over the next few days, Mom took care of me even more meticulously.
She even hired temporary help at the flower shop and closed early to come home.
The dishes on the table were still "nutritious," but the look in her eyes, besides heartache and concern, seemed to have an additional layer of a complex, resolute tenderness.
After that, as if a hidden switch had been flipped, many things quietly changed.
The previously agreed-upon limit of three times a week was, at some point, no longer mentioned.
Sometimes, while I was halfway through my homework, she would come in with fruit, put down the plate, and her hand would naturally rest on my shoulder, give it a squeeze or two, then slide down my back.
Sometimes while watching TV at night, she would sit very close to me, our legs touching. If I moved even slightly, I could feel the warmth of her body.
Her attire in front of me also became increasingly "relaxed."
No more turtlenecks and baggy pants that wrapped her up like a rice dumpling.
At home, she started wearing those fitted cotton dresses from before again, the kind that ended just above the knee, which would tighten over the curve of her hips when she bent over to pick something up.
Sometimes it was a fitted T-shirt and yoga pants, which fully displayed the curves of her full hips and the lines of her straight legs.
I even caught a glimpse, by chance, of a brand new, black lace-trimmed lingerie set in the corner of her closet, completely different from the plain styles she used to wear.
Moreover, the dishes on the table changed too.
Wolfberry and pork rib soup, scrambled eggs with chives, lamb stew with Chinese yam... dishes we used to have only occasionally now appeared every few days.
I asked her, "Mom, why are you always making these?"
She was serving me soup and blushed slightly at the question, her eyes drifting elsewhere, but her tone deliberately calm: "You're in your final year of high school now, using your brain a lot, under a lot of pressure. These ingredients are good for your body... you need to keep up your nutrition."
I said "Oh," but deep down, I felt something was off.
It wasn't until one day when I secretly searched these dish names online and saw the associated search results with words like "invigorating yang and nourishing the kidneys" that my face suddenly burned, and my heart started racing wildly.
She... she was...
Besides these changes, the nightly "help" also became more varied.
It was no longer limited to hands. Sometimes she would kneel in front of me, patiently using her gentle mouth until I surrendered.
Sometimes she would have me hold her from behind, rubbing against the seam of her buttocks through her pajamas or stockings.
She would even take the initiative to turn her back to me, lift that peach-like bottom, and let me press against it...
She seemed... to be letting go more and more.
Although she would still blush during the process, shyly avert her eyes, that resistance and struggle became less and less. It was replaced by a half-hearted, tacit permission. Occasionally, I could even catch a glimpse of enjoyment and desire in her dazed eyes and suppressed moans.
During dinner the week before midterms, Mom put a piece of garlic oyster in my bowl and asked casually, "An'an, are midterms coming up soon?"
"Yeah, next week," I replied, chewing the tender oyster meat.
Mom put down her chopsticks, looked at me, her eyes sparkling, a faint, somewhat playful smile playing on her lips: "Then... if you can make it into the top five in your class this time, Mom will give you a surprise, okay?"
"A surprise?" My eyes lit up instantly, and I leaned in closer, pressing, "What surprise?"
But Mom started being coy, the blush on her face deepening, her gaze shifting with an indescribable charm: "When you make it into the top five... you'll know." She paused, her voice lowering slightly, carrying a coaxing tone, "Mom keeps her promises."
My heart felt like it was being scratched by a cat's paw, itching terribly.
Top five... It was a bit challenging, but my recent study habits were good. If I pushed myself, it wasn't impossible!
"Okay! Mom, just you wait!" I said with full of drive, even my eating speed increased.
Mom watched me wolf down my food, smiled, didn't say anything more, just added another serving of scrambled eggs with chives to my bowl.
After dinner, for the first time ever, I didn't immediately return to my room but proactively cleared the table.
Mom rested in the living room for a bit, then got up and went to the bathroom.
By the time I finished a set of math practice papers, it was already quite late.
I was just about to go wash up when the door was pushed open gently.
Mom walked in. She had just showered, her hair damp and draped over her shoulders. She was wearing only a light pink silk spaghetti-strap nightgown.
The dress was very short, just past the top of her thighs. Two thin straps hung over her fair, rounded shoulders. The neckline was cut very low, revealing a large expanse of snowy white chest and a deep cleavage.
Under the hem, her two long, straight legs were completely bare, her skin glowing with a moist sheen under the light.
She wasn't wearing any underwear.
Under the thin silk fabric of the nightgown, the contours of those two ample, soft mounds on her chest were clearly visible, and even the slightly raised peaks could be seen.
Her face carried a post-shower blush. Her eyes held some shyness, but more than that, tenderness and a kind of... indulgence.
She walked to my bedside and very naturally sat down sideways, the mattress dipping under her. An aroma of shower gel mixed with the scent of a mature woman instantly enveloped me.
"Tired?" She reached out and naturally stroked my hair. "Mom will help you relax today, then you can rest early."
Her fingers slid down to my cheek, then down my neck, all the way down, gently pressing against my chest through my T-shirt.
My breathing instantly became ragged.
She leaned down, her warm lips close to my ear, her breath fragrant like orchids, carrying a hint of laughter and temptation:
"This time... Mom will use this to help you, okay?"
Her other hand took mine, guiding it, gently pressing it against the full, perky, soft, and elastic buttock under her nightgown.
My brain "exploded," completely losing the ability to think.
For the next few days, I felt like I was walking on cotton, my steps unsteady.
The countdown to midterms hung over my head like a second hand, each tick tapping on my heart.
Not because I was nervous about the exam, but because of what came after.
Fifth place.
That hurdle, like a golden yet distant threshold.
I desperately did practice problems, memorized texts, but my thoughts would always uncontrollably drift away—to Mom's fragrant, warm whisper, to the curves rising and falling under her pink nightgown, and to the astonishingly soft, bouncy sensation when she guided my hand to press against it.
What if... it's sixth place?
This thought haunted me like a ghost, day and night.
I would suddenly space out during meals, my pen unconsciously drawing circles on scratch paper.
Even Liu Hao noticed, nudging me with his elbow: "Lin An, are you possessed? It's just midterms, is it that serious?"
I forced a smile, didn't answer.
It was serious. Very serious.
This was the most important exam of my life, more important than the college entrance exam.
Mom, of course, also saw my anxiety.
At dinner that day, she made Chinese yam and pork rib soup again, the milky-white soup steaming.
She ladled a bowl and placed it in front of me, saying softly, "An'an, don't put too much pressure on yourself. Just do your best on this exam. As long as you improve, Mom will be happy."
Her words were like warm water flowing over my heart, but they only slightly eased the tension.
I lowered my head to drink the soup, mumbling an "Mm-hmm."
No, just improvement wasn't enough.
I wanted the top five, that specific number that would let me rightfully claim the reward.
Even one place less wouldn't do.
Mom watched me bury my head in the soup, my brow still furrowed, and didn't press further. She just added another serving of vegetables to my bowl, something shifting faintly deep in her eyes.
The few days waiting for the results felt like an eternity. Finally, the homeroom teacher walked into the classroom with the report card and read my name and that number—"Lin An, great improvement, fifth in class."
Fifth.
Exactly.
A scalding heat surged from the soles of my feet to the top of my head. I almost jumped right out of my chair.
My heart pounded wildly in my chest, my ears buzzed. I couldn't hear anything else—what the teacher said next on the podium, what kind of looks the classmates around me gave, what Liu Hao excitedly chattered in my ear.
All that remained before my eyes was that number, and behind that number, Mom's figure.
I did it.
I really did it!
As soon as the school bell rang, I was the first one out of the classroom.
My backpack bounced on my back, the wind whistled past my ears, but I only felt exhilarated.
Running down the familiar street, passing "Sunny Rain Florist," I didn't even stop. I just quickly waved through the glass window at Mom, who was trimming flowers inside, grinning a huge, ear-to-ear smile, then continued sprinting home.
Mom straightened up, holding a rose, looked at my back as I rushed past like a gust of wind, paused for a moment, then slowly broke into a knowing, faint smile tinged with a blush.
That evening, dinner was a simple three dishes and a soup.
I shoveled rice into my mouth, but my bright eyes were glued to Mom's face, the corners of my mouth uncontrollably lifting.
"Mom."
I cleared my throat, trying to make my voice sound normal. "Guess what place I got this time?"
Mom was taking small sips of soup. Hearing this, she looked up, her gaze sweeping over my face, then she smiled too. That smile held a gentle, knowing slyness: "Do I even need to guess? It's written all over your face."
"Is it that obvious?" I subconsciously touched my face; it felt a bit warm.
Mom gave me a "you figure it out yourself" look, her eyes inadvertently revealing a charm that made my heart skip a beat.
I rubbed my hands together; my palms were a bit sweaty. I unconsciously leaned forward, lowering my voice, unable to contain my eagerness and anticipation: "Then... Mom, the reward..."
Mom's cheeks visibly flushed, as if brushed with fine rouge.
She didn't look at me, lowered her head, gently poked at the rice grains in her bowl with her chopsticks. Her voice was as light as a feather but carried an undeniable tone: "Eat first."
Just those three words.
The big rock that had been hanging in my heart finally "thumped" back into place, landing with a solid, scalding surge of joy.
"Alright!"
I responded loudly, picked up my bowl, and started wolfing down the food, feeling like today's rice was exceptionally sweet, every grain carrying a preview of the reward.
After dinner, I proactively cleared the table, moving as fast as the wind.
Mom didn't stop me, just said softly, "Put them in the sink, go take a shower first."
"Okay!"
After clearing the dishes, I practically charged into the bathroom.
Hot water poured down, but I felt the fire inside me burn even hotter.
I dried off haphazardly, put on a clean T-shirt and shorts, and returned to my room.
My homework notebook was open on the desk, but I couldn't read a single word.
My ears were perked up, catching every little sound from outside.
Mom went into the bathroom, the sound of water splashing.
The water stopped.
Silence.
Was she drying off? Applying lotion? Getting dressed?
Time stretched infinitely long, every second feeling like it was being ground on sandpaper.
I was restless, lying on the bed one moment, standing up to pace the next, then pressing my ear against the door.
I flatly refused Liu Hao's mobile game invitation: "Busy, not playing."
Finally, the sound of the bathroom door opening came.
My heart rate instantly shot up to 180.
Footsteps.
Were they heading to her bedroom? Or...
I paced around my room like a caged animal, my mind a mess: Did she forget?
Impossible!
We agreed at dinner!
Could it be... she regrets it?
Thinks it's too... No, she can't regret it!
Just as I was being tormented by my own chaotic thoughts to the point of madness, the doorknob turned, ever so slightly.
"Click."
The door was pushed open a crack, and then Mom slipped in sideways.
My breath caught in my throat.
What she was wearing wasn't the pink one, nor the lavender one.
It was one I'd never seen before—a bright red lace spaghetti-strap nightgown.
That red wasn't a garish, bright crimson, but rather like the deepest, richest red wine, carrying a temptation as dark as night.
The delicate lace straps rested on her round, fair shoulders, looking as if they might snap at the slightest touch.
The neckline of the dress was shockingly low, exposing a vast expanse of snow-white chest and that deep, drowning chasm of cleavage. The two enticing peaks at the top were faintly visible beneath the sheer red gauze, hinting at their presence.
The hem was excessively short, barely managing to cover the curves of her buttocks. With even the slightest movement from her, those ripe peach-like arcs would completely break free from their confinement.
She wasn't wearing a bra or panties, I was certain, because nothing could be hidden beneath that cicada-wing-thin red gauze.
Her hair wasn't dried as usual, only roughly toweled off. It hung damply over her shoulders and down her smooth back, the ends still dripping. Droplets traced a path down her delicate collarbone, slipping into that deep valley and disappearing from sight.
She held a hairdryer in her hand. Her face carried the rosy glow and moisture of a recent bath. Her eyes were somewhat evasive, yet seemed to carry a hook as she glanced at me lightly before lowering them. Her long, thick eyelashes trembled like startled butterfly wings.
"An'an." Her voice was a bit hoarse, misty with moisture. "My hair isn't dry... help Mom dry it, okay?"
"Okay." My throat was painfully dry, my voice cracking.
I walked over, almost moving my arms and legs on the same side, and took the hairdryer from her hand. It still held the warmth of her body. I plugged it in.
Mom walked naturally to the chair by my desk and sat down sideways, turning the damp back of her head towards me.
I turned on the hairdryer, setting it to a gentle, warm setting.
The warm air lifted her fragrant strands of hair. My fingers combed through her cool, damp locks, the texture as fine and smooth as the finest silk.
Neither of us spoke. There was only the hum of the hairdryer and the deafening roar of my own heartbeat.
------------------------------------
You guys can get access to the early chapters in my patreon: patreon.com/FloppyQueen
Do support me guys and you can access 15+ chapters early.
Also thank you guys for all the support.