Chapter 6: Mangosteen

Si Yimian steadied herself with the strength of He Sichen's palm, her voice soft.

Those words were for him.

Her hand was for him, too.

He Sichen's palm stiffened.

The girl's hand was small, sinking entirely into his burning palm like a snowflake falling onto embers.

Instinctively, his fingers curled and closed around it.

The grip was measured—enough to support her, not intimate enough to betray anything.

"Can you walk?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

"Then don't dawdle."

The moment the words left his mouth, the rims of He Sichen's ears burned, the heat creeping all the way down to his earlobes.

Against the white of his coat collar and the black of his hair, it stood out starkly.

"Thank you, Dr. He."

Si Yimian caught it. The corners of her eyes curved.

This reaction—so pure it was almost cute.

Just holding hands and he can't take it. If we actually did something, wouldn't he...

Tsk.

Made her want to sleep with him even more.

She loved that about He Sichen—the way he was like high mountain snow, forever on the verge of melting but never quite melting.

That contrast: wanting others on their knees, yet kneeling first himself.

Asceticism, at its core, was just extreme indulgence in disguise.

It was that contradiction—the surface so at odds with what lay beneath—that made him truly delicious.

"Keep up."

He Sichen pulled her forward with long strides, forcing her to take quick little steps to match.

He Nanxian's hand fell through empty air, hanging there mid-reach. His palm felt hollow—curling his fingers felt wrong, letting them drop felt worse.

Slowly, he withdrew his hand and shoved it into his pocket, falling in behind the two of them.

Something blocked his chest—sour, itchy, stifling.

He had always been Si Yimian's unwavering choice.

This was the first time she had so clearly gone around him.

Over the years, he'd lost no opportunity to push Si Yimian toward his eldest brother.

The engagement bound him and Mianmian, but Ningyou would always lower her head with red-rimmed eyes and murmur about how wronged she felt.

So he'd decided the best outcome was for Big Brother to marry Mianmian.

The Old Master had thought the same back then.

After Si Yimian went missing, the engagement had fallen to him and Si Ningyou.

When Si Yimian was found later, the Old Master tried to set things right.

He proposed that his eldest grandson, He Sichen, be engaged to Si Yimian—that way, he and Ningyou could have their happy ending too.

But Big Brother hadn't even met her face-to-face. He refused outright.

And so the marriage matter circled back to where it started.

He had played matchmaker again and again, yet those two remained as distant as strangers.

Aloof, flat—even their forms of address carried a careful propriety.

But today, when Mianmian's hand actually reached for Big Brother, an indescribable feeling stirred in his chest.

"Brother."

He Nanxian spoke suddenly, his voice tight with suppressed emotion.

"Rare to see you this considerate with a patient."

The jealousy in his tone was poorly hidden.

The moment the words left his mouth, he disgusted himself.

He Sichen's steps paused.

The hand in his palm was small and soft, resting there properly enough—yet it felt like something alive, burrowing straight toward his heart.

He didn't turn his head. His voice was flat.

"A healer's heart."

Four words, so official they were beyond reproach.

And the most perfunctory lie of the night.

"Or should I let her fall in the hallway and need three stitches?"

One sentence, and He Nanxian's throat closed up again.

Si Yimian laughed—a sudden, soft sound—her fingertips curling gently against He Sichen's palm.

The muscles in his hand snapped taut. He pinched her finger in warning.

At the elevator, He Sichen released her hand and pressed the down button.

The warmth in his palm vanished. Cold air rushed in. He flexed his fingers and slid his hand into his coat pocket.

"Nanxian."

He turned his face slightly.

"You take Miss Si to the ward."

He Nanxian blinked. "And you?"

"I have something to handle."

Brief. Clearly not open to explanation.

The elevator doors opened. He Sichen stepped inside.

"Dr. He."

Si Yimian's soft voice chased after him, hooking his steps.

He stopped. Didn't turn around.

"Can I come find you for a dressing change in three days?"

His knuckles, resting on the elevator button, loosened and tightened again. Veins stood out faintly on the back of his hand.

Tonight she'd shown up at his door unannounced. Now she was asking permission.

As if asking whether he dared continue this forbidden game.

Testing the limits of his restraint.

If he agreed, it meant tacit permission for this boundary-crossing to go on.

He Sichen closed his eyes briefly, withdrew his hand, and turned.

Inside the elevator, outside—their eyes met.

She stood beside He Nanxian, looking at him with expectant eyes, like she was waiting for a pardon.

"Register at the outpatient clinic. Follow the procedure."

He pulled his gaze away, pressed his knuckle to the button, and shut the doors.

The elevator doors slid slowly closed.

Si Yimian stood where she was, watching that cold, desire-shadowed face narrow into an ever-thinner slit.

Fine.

Just fine.

The man who'd had her tongue between his teeth behind the curtain just now was telling her to book her own appointment.

As a core figure of Yu'an Medical Group, He Sichen's time was priced by the minute.

Outpatient slots were locked up in advance by connections on every side—even scalpers couldn't squeeze in.

Telling her to follow the procedure was telling her to get lost.

This man. Guard up high.

Then again, if he were easy to hook, it wouldn't be her turn to take a bite.

This push-and-pull—refusing while inviting—was what made it interesting.

She was just turning over how to set the next hook when He Nanxian's voice cut in.

"Mianmian."

He walked to her side, his tone soothing.

"Big Brother's just like that. Cold to everyone."

"I'll book it for you in three days. Just come straight over."

Si Yimian turned to look at him.

The man stood under the hallway lights, features handsome, smiling like he'd never done anything wrong in his life.

How amusing.

So eager to weave a green hat for himself.

She smiled suddenly, answering softly, "Okay."

"Thanks, Brother Nanxian."

This green-hat assist deserved top credit.

Use it well, and the plot moves without a hitch.

In the original story, he played matchmaker every time, treating the original host like baggage to be tossed off.

Before, the original host had only felt lost and hurt. Now—she'd inherited that skill.

Waiting for the day he realized how many ladders he'd personally handed over...

That scene alone was enough to make her mouth water.

...

Inside the elevator.

He Sichen leaned back against the cabin wall, white coat immaculate, tie loosened half an inch.

Below his collarbone, his heart pounded like a drum.

He opened the hand that had held hers, clenched his fingers—a futile attempt to trap the fading warmth.

Crazy.

Truly crazy.

He was an elder brother.

He was a doctor.

The one thing he absolutely could not be was a beast consumed by desire for his younger brother's betrothed.

Ethics was a line. He stood on this side. She stood on that side.

The line still existed. Every boundary-crossing desire was a lesion that needed treatment.

He could cure others. He should certainly cut out what should never have grown in his own heart.

He loathed himself tonight—out of control, greedy, mind crawling with vulgar thoughts.

He loathed even more that even now, with reason returned and morality flaying him alive,

he still wanted another taste.