Deep, viscous.

From Wen Yicong's perspective, Mo Manor was her employer's home—absurdly vast. She was a stranger here; wandering about uninvited would be rude.

So after leaving the Study Room, Wen Yicong simply found a sofa at the end of a third-floor corridor, sat down, and texted Lin Ke on her phone.

Her heartbeat still hadn't returned to a normal rhythm; her breathing was still quick.

Her back was damp, soaked through with cold sweat long ago, the faintly moist fabric of her shirt clinging to her skin—cool, yet radiating a scorched kind of heat.

Steadying her trembling fingertips, she finished the message. Wen Yicong locked the screen, exhaled, leaned back against the sofa, and drifted into a brief daze.

That Mr. Mo—handsome, elegant, distinguished—had communicated with her smoothly within his area of expertise. Without question, he was a flawless, unimpeachable employer.

But why did her heart clench, wave after wave, the moment she recalled those blue-black eyes—as though seized by some invisible hand?

Wen Yicong raised her hands and covered her face.

The sensation of being pinned in place had been too real.

The man's ice-blue, deep-sea gaze had fixed upon her, and the almost pathological focus, the scorching heat within it, had nearly taken on physical form—like tongues of flame, searing her skin inch by inch.

So real it made her…

Afraid.

She sat on the sofa steadying herself for a long while before the heat in her cheeks finally began to recede.

Wen Yicong exhaled.

Just then, a set of footsteps came from the direction of the staircase, drawing her attention.

Wen Yicong looked up and saw the approaching figure—immaculately dressed, with a handsome, refined face. It was Lin Ke.

"Lin Ke." She adjusted her expression, stood, and offered a smile, noticing the kraft-paper document folder in his hand.

"Teacher Wen." Lin Ke's lips curved in a gentle arc, his manner cultivated and courteous. "Mr. Mo sent me to discuss your compensation with you. Is now a convenient time?"

"Yes."

"Then let's go to the tea room." Assistant Lin gestured with an especially gentlemanly air. "Please."

*

A few minutes later, guided by Lin Ke, Wen Yicong crossed a quiet corridor and arrived at Mo Manor's tea room.

The tea room was private and elegant, its four walls lined with built-in curio shelves displaying an artful arrangement of porcelain and objets d'art—a dazzling array, every detail exquisitely considered, radiating an air of cool remove.

"Please sit, Teacher Wen." Lin Ke's voice sounded at her ear.

Wen Yicong sat as invited. Through the thin layer of her clothing, the rosewood chair felt unusually hard and cold.

Assistant Lin did not sit with her. Instead, he moved with practiced ease through the tea ceremony. Warming the cups, rinsing the leaves, pouring—the whole sequence flowed like water, a pleasure to watch.

Before long, a cup of tea was presented before Wen Yicong.

She lowered her gaze to look at the pale brew. The color was warm and translucent, clear as glass—she couldn't tell what leaves had been used.

"Thank you." Wen Yicong gave a shy little smile and said honestly, "I don't usually drink tea, and I can't really tell good from bad. You didn't have to go to all this trouble."

"Something the Sir specifically instructed—I can only follow orders." Lin Ke replied in a mild tone, almost playfully.

Wen Yicong blinked in surprise.

Lin Ke: "The Sir says that in the Study Room he didn't even manage to offer Teacher Wen a glass of water, and that was remiss of him. He ought to have apologized in person, but unfortunately pressing business kept him from it. Since the matter was handed to me, I couldn't afford to be discourteous."

Hearing Lin Ke's words, Wen Yicong's eyes went wide and she blurted out, "Your boss is far too particular."

Assistant Lin only smiled and said nothing. Once Wen Yicong had taken a sip of tea, he drew out the prepared folder, opened it, and slid it smoothly before her. "Regarding your compensation and the points to note during your employment, we've drawn up an initial draft. Please review it, Teacher Wen. If you have any questions, feel free to raise them—I'll answer for you."

In the curling fragrance of tea, Wen Yicong picked up the contract on the table and carefully read through the clauses listed there.

"Weekly working hours, no fewer than forty…"

She read the line aloud, then looked up at Assistant Lin. "You mean, I only need to ensure forty hours of work per week, and the rest of my time can be arranged freely?"

Assistant Lin: "That's correct."

"Before coming here, I'd already drafted a schedule for Airi, and I discussed it with Mr. Mo just now. For a child in Airi's situation, intensive early intervention really is crucial." Wen Yicong spoke, then paused for a breath, seeming a little hesitant.

Lin Ke read her unspoken thought and said, "If you have something to say, Teacher Wen, please go ahead."

At that, Wen Yicong ventured a tentative question: "Is Mr. Mo the child's father?"

Lin Ke shook his head. "No. Airi is Mr. Mo's nephew."

"Forgive me for asking. What about the child's parents?" Wen Yicong said. "Rehabilitation training for a child with autism is a long-term process. In my experience, when parents can join in the family intervention, the results are often unexpectedly good."

Lin Ke: "You're absolutely right. Unfortunately, Airi's parents are no longer alive."

"…" Wen Yicong froze.

"Airi's parents died in an accident." Lin Ke said. "Currently, Mr. Mo is the child's sole legal guardian."

Wen Yicong's hands, which had been turning the pages of the contract, stopped entirely.

The air seemed to congeal.

After a moment, Wen Yicong pressed the surging emotions back down, gathered her thoughts, and asked, "When would Mr. Mo like me to begin?"

"The Sir hopes the sooner the better." Lin Ke paused, then suggested, "If you move in tomorrow, we can begin the various courses the day after. What does Teacher Wen think?"

Wen Yicong considered for two seconds, then nodded. "Once the contract is signed, take me to meet Airi."

A professional smile settled on Assistant Lin's face. "No problem."

*

By seven in the evening, the sky had already darkened.

Wen Yicong politely declined Assistant Lin's offer—extended on the employer's behalf—to stay for dinner, and took a cab home alone.

She had barely reached the entrance to her apartment complex when Principal Zhang Yao's call came in.

"Xiao Wen, how did it go? Was the interview all right?"

Zhang Yao was a psychology graduate of the University of Amsterdam and the founder of the Star Bridge Children's Rehabilitation Center. This elite woman of distinguished background had a warm, approachable nature; she cared deeply for her juniors, often offering Wen Yicong concern and help in both work and life, like an understanding older sister.

Wen Yicong was close to Zhang Yao.

She first gave Zhang Yao a thorough account of the interview, then hesitated a few seconds before she couldn't help asking, "Principal, about this child's family… how much do you know?"

Zhang Yao's voice on the other end was as ever: "Whatever you know, I probably know the same."

Wen Yicong's expression grew complicated. She said nothing.

Zhang Yao asked again, "When do they want you to start?"

"Tomorrow."

"I wish you well."

"Thank you, Principal."

Just then, as if remembering something, Zhang Yao smiled and gently reminded her, "Xiao Wen, just do your own job well. You don't need to overthink anything else, and don't go being curious."

Wen Yicong answered, "Mm, I'll remember that."

She hung up and went inside.

The moment she opened the door, Taozi waddled her plump little body over, purring and meowing at the same time.

Wen Yicong bent down and scooped the chubby cat into her arms, scratched Taozi under the chin, and headed to the kitchen to boil some noodles for dinner.

She lifted the lid, and fragrance billowed out.

It was still warm.

"…"

Staring at a clay pot brimming with chicken soup, Wen Yicong gaped, frozen for a full five seconds before she opened WeChat and sent her dear mother a message: [Mom, the house-elf girl snuck into my place! She secretly made me chicken soup!]

Her mother, Shen Yulan, replied instantly: [The house-elf girl is your mother.]

Wen Yicong: [0.0]

Shen Yulan: [Wild morel mushrooms your little aunt brought back from Changbai Mountain. Your dad and I signed up for a sunset-red tour group and we're leaving first thing tomorrow, so I made you a pot of soup in advance—didn't want you going hungry.]

Aww, Mom is the best.

But…

Wen Yicong realized something and began typing furiously: [But my dearest Mom, I'm going to be a live-in rehabilitation teacher starting tomorrow evening. There's so much chicken soup—what do I do with it all…]

Shen Yulan: [Live-in rehabilitation teacher?]

Wen Yicong: [Yes! I told you about it last time, remember?]

Shen Yulan: [Oh, I have a vague impression.]

Shen Yulan: [Then pack some up.]

Shen Yulan: [Let your employer have a taste too.]

Wen Yicong: […]

Wen Yicong: [Goodnight, Mom.]

Wen Yicong locked her phone screen, cupped her cheeks in both hands, and gazed worriedly at the great pot of morel-mushroom chicken soup.

When she had left Mo Manor today, Assistant Lin Ke had arranged with Wen Yicong to pick her up at the Fountain Roundabout at three the following afternoon. Which meant, counting tonight's dinner, she could eat at home at most three more times.

So much chicken soup—there was no way she could finish it alone.

Throw it out?

Such a waste of food, and it would feel terrible…

What to do? Should she really pack it up and bring it to the Manor House?

Wen Yicong thought about it seriously, and then—quite without knowing why—a scene she had glimpsed today in the Mo Family garden flashed unbidden into her mind:

The evening sun was gentle, the grass a vivid green, but at the center of this picture stood a solitary, tiny figure.

A very beautiful little boy.

He was about four or five years old, with porcelain-pale skin and a head of softly curling golden-brown hair, his features deep and finely sculpted. He walked in circles along the edge of a small fountain, his steps mechanical, oblivious to everything around him. In the slanting light, his long, curling lashes fanned up and down, casting two small shadows on his exquisite little face.

An unconscious lift of his head revealed round, large eyes, ocean-blue and clear as water. But within them there was nothing—empty, numb, not a flicker of light…

The memory broke off there.

A deep pang of pity and heartache rose up in Wen Yicong.

Poor little Airi, who'd lost his parents forever at such a tender age.

He might not have had his mother's cooking in a very long time—or perhaps he had never, ever tasted anything his mother had made?

Looking at the pot of chicken soup, an idea quietly took shape in Wen Yicong's mind.

After a moment's deliberation, she bit her lip lightly, and with the air of someone who had finally made up her mind, she picked up her phone.

*

The night was thick and viscous, the Gymnasium empty and still, with only the unspent, violent heat of the air remaining.

A bout of training so intense it was nearly self-punishment had just ended.

Mo Shaoshang breathed hard and low, his eyes still full of the feral savagery the sparring had left behind, his body soaked through, as though he'd just been pulled from water.

Sweat fell like rain, sliding down his broad shoulders and back, over the tight ridges of his chest, tracing the hard lines of his abdominal muscles before vanishing into the deep groove of his iliac crest, leaving a few suggestive trails of wet.

Ding.

He half-closed his eyes, casually pulled off his gloves, and picked up the phone beside him.

The screen lit up, its cold glow catching the sweat-damp, sharply cut planes of his face.

Sender: Wen Yicong.

In an instant, the light in Mo Shaoshang's blue-black pupils condensed; the lingering ferocity was gradually overlaid by a deep, viscous darkness.

[Wen Yicong: Hello, Assistant Lin. May I ask whether Airi has any food allergies? I'd like to bring him a portion of morel-mushroom chicken soup tomorrow ^ ^]

Mo Shaoshang stared at the few lines of text. After a moment, the peak of his brow lifted by the barest fraction.

Then his fingertips moved, and he replied.

[Airi has no history of food allergies. Thank you, Teacher Wen.]

Author's note: ---------------------- Continuing with full-chapter red-envelope rain