As dawn approached, Fang Songhe returned to the Chu Mansion.
After bathing and changing into fresh clothes, he let out a comfortable sigh. Just then, a knock sounded at his door. He draped his outer robe over his shoulders and opened it, surprised to see his junior brother standing there. "You're still recovering—why aren't you resting?" he asked.
Song Chunming replied, "I was worried about you risking your life out there, so I came to check. Are you alright?"
"Don’t worry, I’m fine," Fang Songhe smiled. "Thanks to Ninth’s help, we managed to save many innocent people from those evil spirits."
Song Chunming had always harbored reservations about Ninth, the man from Miaojiang, but judging by Fang Songhe’s warm expression, it seemed he already considered Ninth a sworn brother.
"I heard the captives were all painters. The mastermind wanted them to create portraits to find someone. Do you know who they were looking for?"
Fang Songhe shook his head. "I didn’t ask. Lord Chu is a local—he might know something."
Song Chunming fell into thought before saying, "You’ve worked hard, Senior Brother. I won’t disturb you further. Get some rest."
As Song Chunming left, Fang Songhe felt a flicker of puzzlement.
Ever since they left Wutong Village, Song Chunming had seemed preoccupied. Was he still thinking about that mysterious woman, Lan Yingying?
Though autumn had arrived, the lingering summer heat kept the air warm and stifling.
At times like these, Ninth didn’t need to do much—just lie on the bed, and Chu'he would cling to him like a koala.
Her face buried in his chest, she embraced him like a human air conditioner, her entire body melting into comfort.
After last night’s unexpected events, everyone except the disciplined Fang Songhe—who had left early for sword practice—slept in.
When Chu'he finally opened her eyes, the sun was already high in the sky.
She lifted her gaze to find the boy still asleep. Unlike his usual lively self, sleep softened his edges. His long lashes cast faint shadows beneath his eyes, making him look unexpectedly sweet and docile.
The lips that usually curled into a smirk were now pressed into a gentle line, free of mischief, radiating an unguarded warmth. Even the white strands of hair at his forehead lay obediently, framing his youthful face with an almost ethereal grace.
Chu'he watched him quietly before her fingers couldn’t resist lightly brushing his nose. A smile tugged at her lips, her eyes crinkling with affection.
Who knew someone so bold could look so soft in sleep?
Her heart swelled with tenderness, emotions surging uncontrollably. She propped herself up and leaned forward, pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth.
But before she could retreat, she found herself staring into a pair of crimson eyes—brighter than rubies, curved with amusement, their vivid hue more dazzling than blooming peonies.
"Chu'he, you said no kissing for a month," he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep yet brimming with laughter.
Even his long lashes fluttered, as if a tiny butterfly had perched there, betraying his smug delight.
Chu'he flopped back onto the bed without shame, twirling a lock of his white hair around her finger. "I said you couldn’t kiss me. I never said I couldn’t kiss you."
Ninth, with his limited education, wasn’t familiar with the wordplay of the Central Plains. To him, Chu'he’s logic was always irrefutable.
But in moments like these, he saw no point in arguing with the person he adored over who was right or wrong, strong or weak.
His lips quirked into a soft smile as he cupped her face, leaning in for another kiss.
But Chu'he yanked the blanket up as a shield, thwarting him. His eyes instantly darkened with frustration.
This time, it was Chu'he who laughed. She straddled his waist, mussing his white hair into chaos. Ninth tried to dodge, but she caught his face between her hands, turning him back toward her.
Strands of hair clung to his jade-like skin, tickling him.
"Chu'he, that tickles," he complained, his voice still rough from sleep but laced with laughter, the playful lilt at the end like a feather teasing at her heart.
Try as she might, Chu'he couldn’t resist. She bent down, her black hair mingling with his white until the boundary between them blurred.
Ninth parted his lips to meet her kiss, savoring the warmth without urgency, content to let her lead.
But as their breaths tangled, his hand slid to the back of her head, pressing her closer. His tongue teased gently, deepening the kiss until their shared warmth fermented into a slow, intoxicating sweetness.
Chu'he thought to herself—she really shouldn’t make rash promises like "no kissing for a month." Her self-control was laughable.
Thanks to their spontaneous detour, they ended up leaving bed nearly two hours later than planned.
The young man adored beauty—a red ribbon tied his hair, ruby earrings adorned his ears, and the silver ornaments on his clothes jingled with every move. Not a single detail was overlooked.
Yet, for all his meticulousness, the girl he fancied took even longer to dress up.
Ninth leaned against the dressing table, chin propped on one hand, eyes narrowed with amusement as he watched the girl fuss before the mirror.
He was clingy, but she adored his clinginess.
Chu'he, afraid the maids would see her in such an unrefined state and find it embarrassing, had long stopped letting them attend to her. She’d learned to style her own hair, and today, she wanted to try tying a hair ribbon. The hands reflected in the bronze mirror occasionally fumbled, strands slipping through her fingers.
Ninth’s eyes followed her clumsy movements, and soon, he couldn’t help but chuckle.
Chu'he shot him a glare.
Ninth hastily pressed his lips together.
With a frustrated slam of the comb onto the table, Chu'he declared, “I’m done with this!”
Ninth inched closer. “Chu'he, let me help you.”
His fingers wove through her hair with practiced ease, his fingertips brushing her earlobe by accident, sending a faint flush creeping up the back of her neck.
In no time at all, half her tresses were gathered into a low bun, the rest left loose and tied with a ribbon. The green silk trailed down her hair, swaying gently with every movement, like a stroke of flowing spring.
Ninth picked a delicate jade flower from the jewelry box and nestled it into her hair, his thumb tracing its carved petals as he murmured, “Beautiful.”
Chu'he turned her head left and right in the mirror, pleased, and ran her fingers through the ends of her hair. She had to admit—his braiding skills were far superior to hers. Catching his smug reflection, she grumbled, “We use the same method, so why can’t I do it?”
Ninth took one of Chu'he’s hands in his, stroking her fingers. “Chu'he’s fingers are short and clumsy.”
Then he spread his own hand before her—slender, elegant, with well-defined knuckles—and grinned. “Mine are long and nimble.”
Chu'he swatted his hand away without mercy. “They’re just average.”
Ninth pursed his lips slightly. “Last night, when I used my fingers, you certainly didn’t say that. You said it felt goo—”
Chu'he clapped a hand over his mouth. “Enough! You’re hungry—go eat first. I’ll just put on some rouge and join you!”
