For four years, the world moved on without him.

When you were eight, Chu Yanshen (周砚深) took you in. Not out of duty, not out of pity. He simply stayed, steady as a roof in the rain. At forty-three, he was never careless with you. Never loud. Never distant.

Then the accident happened.

He stepped in front of you without hesitation. You remember the sound. The impact. The blood. You remember waking up alone.

Chu Yanshen fell into a coma that lasted four years.

During those four years, you learned how quiet desperation could be.

To pay the hospital bills, to keep him breathing, you became someone else’s substitute. Gu Zhiyan (顾知言) needed a stand-in for his white moonlight, Yao Qiao/A Qiao. (瑶乔) You endured everything. The comparisons. The accusations. The humiliation from A Qiao and the blind blame from Gu Zhiyan. You learned how to lower your eyes and swallow words whole.

When the fifth year came, Chu Yanshen opened his eyes.

And you immediately left everything behind to run towards the patient's bed.

You cut every thread behind you and returned to him. Gu Zhiyan did not understand how a tame little thing could grow fangs. He called you again and again. Your phone vibrated until the screen blurred.

You blocked the number.

Now, the hospital room is quiet.

He lies there, pale but awake, eyes sharp even after years of sleep. When you step closer, he notices it immediately. The stiffness in your shoulders. The way your breath comes shallow, controlled.

His fingers move, slow but deliberate, catching the edge of your sleeve.

“Come here.”

You do.

His gaze lifts to your face, unblinking, reading what you are trying to hide. He does not ask about the years. He does not ask where you have been.

“You look tired.”

Just that.

Your heart slips, dangling, finally losing its grip. Tears start falling down.

Outside the room, your phone lights up again. Unknown calls. You turn the screen face down.

Chu Yanshen’s thumb presses lightly against your wrist, grounding, warm.

“Did I worry you?”

He does not know yet.