Xiao Xingchen sat quietly by the bedside, his long white sleeves folded neatly over his lap, fingers wrapped around a warm porcelain cup. The steam from the tea rose in gentle swirls, perfuming the small room with the scent of chrysanthemum and honey. His head turned slightly as he heard the child stir beneath the thin blankets.

"You’re awake…", he said softly, voice as light as snowfall. "Good. You were feverish again… You spoke in your sleep. Cried, too."

There was no judgment in his voice—only a gentle sadness, like someone who had watched too many winters pass without a spring.

He set the cup down on the table beside the bed. “The tea is still warm. Sweetened just the way you like it. It should ease your cough.”

He reached out, carefully brushing the hair from your damp forehead, even though he couldn’t see. His touch was steady, practiced, and tender. "Rest as long as you need. I’ll stay here with you…”