Yu Qingwei scrambled to say, "I still have homework left. You go ahead and sleep."

Chen Liedong paused mid-motion, the sheets halfway tossed aside. It suddenly struck him—his little wife was still a student.

With long, straight legs, he turned and crossed the room in just a few strides, stopping before her. One hand braced against the wall behind her head, the other lifted her chin, thumb brushing over her skin as his eyes gleamed with amusement. "Your husband comes home, and all you can think about is homework? Is this how a wife behaves?"

Yu Qingwei’s lashes fluttered faintly, but her expression remained unreadable.

"My assignment’s due tomorrow morning," she replied steadily, meeting his gaze without flinching.

When recalling memories, the eyes drift left-downward. Lies, however, skip that mental retrieval process—so when someone deceives you, they’ll often force prolonged eye contact to gauge whether you believe them.

She’s lying. cold scoff escaped Chen Liedong. So much for studying psychology—can’t even lie convincingly.

Yet he wasn’t the type to press relentlessly. Withdrawing his hand, he turned and climbed onto the bed. "Fine. Write here, then."

"I’m afraid I’ll disturb your sleep," she protested weakly.

"I don’t sleep this early."

Producing a document from somewhere, Chen Liedong propped himself up against the headboard and began reading.

Yu Qingwei pressed her lips together. She knew better than to argue over such a trivial matter—Chen Liedong’s decisions were immovable. Shivering from the lingering chill in her limbs, she bent to retrieve her schoolbag from the doorway, then settled at the desk with her textbooks.

Inside the book lay the photograph. Her gaze softened instantly, just as it always did when she looked at that person’s face.

Chen Liedong flipped two pages of his file, then glanced up at Yu Qingwei hunched over her books. Her thick, jet-black ponytail was pinned neatly behind her, yet somehow exuded a restless energy—distinctly her.

His mind instinctively cataloged details about her:

Yu Qingwei, 19, freshman at A University, majoring in psychology. Proficient in guzheng and pipa, skilled in calligraphy and chess—a true embodiment of the "four arts." Beyond her family background, she was the epitome of a refined young lady: gentle as water, composed, obedient, never loud or troublesome.

Yet beneath it all, she shared his own stubborn genes.

First round to her—not because of wit, but because he’d relented too easily.

Relented? The word made his brow furrow.

Yu Qingwei felt his stare burning into her. Too intense to return, she stiffened and kept reading.

Memories surfaced of their first meeting.

"I don’t like your name."

"Why?"

"Do you know what ‘Qingwei’ means?"

"Yes."

"Too desolate. No fighting spirit."

"But I prefer the calm after chaos."

What he’d said afterward was a blur—something noncommittal, no doubt. That indifferent attitude had made her drop her guard, leading to her catastrophic mistake on their wedding night.

That night, there’d been no banquet, no bridal procession. She’d arrived alone at the Chen residence, luggage in hand, and been led to Chen Liedong’s room.

Soon after, he returned—face flushed, steps unsteady, clearly drunk. Without a glance at her, he collapsed onto the bed, eyes closed as if resting.

Agitation from the alcohol made his sleep fitful. His brows knitted tightly, forehead beaded with sweat.

"Water… water…" he rasped, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.

Seeing his parched lips cracked and dry, Yu Qingwei hesitated, then poured a glass of water.

He didn’t take it, just kept moaning, "Water… water…"

After a moment’s indecision, she moved closer, supporting his shoulders to sit him up slightly, then helped him drink.

Thirsty beyond reason, he gulped too fast—half the water splashed across his chest, soaking his shirt.

She set the glass down, tempted to pretend she hadn’t noticed. But unease gnawed at her: Would he catch a cold sleeping in wet clothes? Yet the idea of undressing a stranger…

Two voices warred in her mind. Leave him. "Yeah, leave him."

Eventually, she fetched two towels—one dry, the other dampened with warm water. The dry one went beneath his shirt; the wet one she used to blot his face.

Too nervous to lift her gaze, she kept her head bowed, carefully wiping his cheeks before reaching for his hands.

They were large, calloused palms, nails neatly trimmed—nothing like her own well-manicured fingers.

In truth, they came from different worlds: a rising young colonel with a brilliant future, and a penniless scholarship student living under others’ roofs. If not for that careless gesture of his, she’d never have become his bride.

Lost in thought, she didn’t notice the drunken man’s eyes flutter open—nor how perilously close their bodies had become.