Chapter 7: Huaicheng

"From now on, once the door's shut and we're in this room, I'm still your brother. But out there, you call me by my name. Don't let anyone catch on."

Hearing Wen Ning say she didn't mind, Song Tingyue felt a small weight lift from his chest. He dug through the wardrobe and pulled out a piece of cloth—the same coarse fabric Auntie Gu had used to wrap the quilt earlier.

It was a big piece, thick enough to serve as a blanket.

He flopped back onto the straw mat without ceremony, tugged one corner over his stomach, and gave it a test. Not bad.

Maybe because the little girl hadn't kicked up a fuss about sharing a room with him, his mood had improved. He laced his fingers behind his head, the corner of his mouth curving slightly as he glanced at her sideways. "Say my name. Let's see if your acting can fool anyone."

Wen Ning looked at his long legs, which nearly stretched past the edge of the mat, and frowned slightly. "How should I say it?"

"How else? After all these years apart, don't tell me you've forgotten your brother's name."

"Forgot. It's been too long."

"..."

*Tch!* This ungrateful little brat!

The smile vanished from Song Tingyue's face, his brow knotting tight.

So the whole "never seeing each other again" thing hadn't been a joke—she'd actually forgotten his name.

He suddenly felt like he'd fed his sincere heart to a dog.

"Too long?" Song Tingyue let out a cold laugh, jaw clenched rigid. He stared fixedly at the ceiling, biting out his words like he was picking a fight: "You're so young, and your memory's worse than mine. Forget your name—I haven't forgotten your favorite dishes, your favorite colors, or every last embarrassing thing you did while causing trouble!"

Embarrassing things...

Wen Ning froze.

Did that include the pages torn from her diary?

A wave of shame surged up, as if someone had jabbed a cold finger into an old wound.

Looking at it now, the word "fake" in "fake marriage" felt even more humiliating.

What kind of sister would harbor such unnatural thoughts about her own brother? Even if they weren't blood-related, Song Tingyue had genuinely treated her like a real sister.

From beginning to end, she was the only one who'd changed.

And besides, when she wrote those diary entries, she was only eleven. To anyone else, she was just a naive little girl who hadn't even hit puberty yet—and she'd already developed feelings too shameful to see the light of day.

Despicable enough.

Humiliating enough.

And enough to make it impossible for her to ever say those three characters again without dying inside.

"I'll give you two minutes. Think hard about what my name is." Song Tingyue sat up, bracing his arms behind him. The muscles in his upper arms pulled into sharp lines, veins standing out faintly along his neck—wild, untamed.

He looked straight at her.

Forget two minutes—two seconds in, Wen Ning had already turned her face away.

"I can't think of it," she muttered, eyes darting. "Even two hours wouldn't help. Who says married couples have to use names anyway? I heard Auntie Zhang calls her husband 'thousand-knife bastard' and 'old geezer.' If you like, I can call you that too. Rolls off the tongue better than a name."

Auntie Zhang was the longest-serving servant the Wen family had ever had. Song Tingyue knew her well.

At that, his brow arched.

He had the distinct feeling he was being cursed at through a proxy.

"Really can't remember?" Song Tingyue narrowed his eyes, the corner of his mouth ticking up. "Then I recall an old story. One summer, the lotuses bloomed in the pond behind the garden. A certain little girl got greedy and insisted on picking one. Her foot slipped and she went straight into the water—lucky I heard the splash and got to her in time. Her little pale-yellow dress was caked in mud. She was too scared to let our parents find out, afraid of getting scolded, even more afraid of losing face. She cried and begged me to wash it for her. I had no choice but to take her to the water basin when no one was around. But the moment I lifted her skirt, what do you think I saw—"

He deliberately dragged it out.

"Right next to that black mole on her left cheek—of her backside—there was a leech stuck fast, fat and round from feeding. The little girl screamed bloody murder, crying and yanking on my arm, yelling 'Brother, save me!' Pitiful doesn't even begin to cover it."

Wen Ning's face went red all the way to the roots of her ears.

"You—how do you still remember that..."

That was ages ago, probably when she was seven or eight.

If he hadn't brought it up, she'd have nearly forgotten herself.

"Why wouldn't I remember?" Song Tingyue leaned back lazily. "I was the one who pinched that leech off you. After you finished crying, you lay on my lap, sniffling, and said 'Brother's the best,' and promised that when you grew up, you'd—"

"Enough!" Wen Ning cut him off, the tips of her ears nearly transparent. "Song! Ting! Yue!"

She bit out the three characters quick and hard, like an angry kitten yowling at the top of its lungs.

Song Tingyue laughed, brows relaxing, voice low. "See? Your memory's just fine."

It wasn't that she couldn't remember—she just didn't want to say it.

He'd always gone easy on her before. But he refused to believe he couldn't handle one little brat.

"All right, I've got documents to review. There's a night inspection tonight—it'll run late. I'll stay in the dormitory and won't be back."

Song Tingyue picked up the cloth from the straw mat and folded it into a neat square, edges sharp and precise.

As if OCD were carved into his bones—even a scrap of coarse fabric became a perfect tofu block in his hands.

He instructed, "For bathing and such tonight, I'll have a word with Auntie Gu. She'll take you to the bathhouse. Towels are in the wardrobe. If you're missing anything, buy it in town tomorrow."

Wen Ning could tell he really was busy.

People had come to consult him mid-meal, and he'd waved them off.

Now he probably couldn't put it off any longer.

Before leaving, Song Tingyue pulled the door open, then paused. He looked back at her, as if something still weighed on him.

Finally, he added one last thing:

"Auntie Gu's a straightforward sort, and she's good to the younger ones. If you need anything, just ask her. There's a lot going on in the unit—sometimes I'll be away. For anything urgent, you'll have better luck finding her than me."

It sounded like he was dumping her in the family quarters with someone else and washing his hands of her.

Wen Ning lowered her lashes and answered dully, "I'm an adult, not a child. I won't have that many things to bother people with. Sorry for taking up so much of your time today. Go on, you don't need to worry about me."

Song Tingyue paused.

"Nothing to be sorry for. Looking after my sister is only natural." His tone softened without his meaning it to. "Get some rest. I'm off."

The door closed from the outside.

Footsteps hurried away, fading at the end of the corridor.

Wen Ning stared at the shut door, motionless.

She felt like the whole world had abandoned her. Her nose stung fiercely, something burning behind her eyes.

Song Tingyue's attitude toward her now was calm enough—but it was nothing like the closeness and indulgence of before.

He spoke politely, explained things clearly and logically, driven by a sense of duty ingrained in his bones and a wish to repay the Wen family for taking him in all those years ago.

He was paying off a debt.

The thought pricked at her heart like a fine needle—not deep, not shallow.

But why was she so pathetic?

She knew it was fake. She knew the marriage was just for show. And still she'd hoped he might stay a little longer.

Even if he said nothing—just sitting in this room would've been enough.

She'd even hoped he might volunteer to stay the night with her.

After all, she was new here, a stranger to everything, and even the air felt unfamiliar.

But he left.

She couldn't blame him. He was busy with official duties. Taking the time to settle her in at all was already generous.