Chapter Twenty-Nine Memories

The man's breathing became unsteady from her touch, and he immediately grabbed the girl's restless hand. "It's all right."

The girl frowned in disagreement and looked up at him, only to find his gaze deep and fixed upon her.

"Uncle Tingye..." Her voice was tinged with a childish softness.

"I'm fine," he said, closing her open shirt and, as he did, lifted her into his arms. But he was startled to see her flushed face resting against his chest.

Something felt wrong; his broad palm pressed to her forehead—burning hot.

She was feverish. Without hesitation, he laid her on his own bed, tucked her in, and called the family doctor, worry clear in his anxious eyes.

"How is she?" Mu Tingye asked calmly, though the twitching vein on his forehead betrayed his true emotions.

"She'll be fine, just needs some fever medicine." The family doctor looked at him with surprise. In all his years serving this household, he'd never seen Mu Tingye so flustered.

Mu Tingye said nothing, lips pressed tightly, gaze unmoving from the girl.

"You'll stay tonight. If anything happens, I'll call you."

"Yes, sir."

Once everyone had left, the man sat by the bedside, wrapping the petite girl gently in his arms. One hand held the fever medicine, the other a cup of warm water, trying to coax her to take the pills. But he forgot her aversion to medicine—even in her sleep, she refused to open her mouth.

With a sigh, he set down the cup and the pills, watching her quietly.

His thoughts drifted back to when he was nineteen. He had just fought a war without gunfire—three days and nights without rest, finally rescuing Ding Sheng from the brink of bankruptcy. Upon returning to the Mu family, he lay feverish and exhausted in the car.

His phone buzzed ceaselessly, every message about Ding Sheng. Not a single one asked after Mu Tingye, who was nearly delirious with fever.

Rain pattered outside, soft and blurry.

"Uncle Tingye, Uncle Tingye, what's wrong?" A childish voice roused him.

He opened his dazed eyes. Through his haze, beneath an oil-paper umbrella, stood a slender, well-behaved girl in a cotton dress, skin snowy white, her little hands tapping anxiously at the car window, her face filled with unexpected concern.

He chuckled inwardly. His closest brothers cared nothing for him, yet this girl—who shared no blood with him—was worried.

He thought he must be mistaken, attempted to close his eyes again, but her persistent knocking made his head throb. He lifted his eyelids.

"Stop knocking," he muttered, lowering the window.

She saw his flushed face and knew he was ill. She grasped his wandering hand, pressed her other palm to his forehead.

"Uncle Tingye, you have a fever," she said, confirming her suspicion with the heat beneath her hand.

Her anxious cries, the cool touch on his brow—he felt indescribably comforted and clung to her hand, unwilling to let go.

The girl pushed him away, urging him to open the door.

"Uncle Tingye, let go. I'll go find someone to help," she pleaded, thinking, *He’s so hot, what if his brain gets damaged? How will I carry out my plans...*

Mu Tingye’s awareness returned a little. Taking in the scene before him, his heartbeat faltered.

Seeing her still standing in the rain, he quickly said, "No need. Just come sit with me for a while."

She hesitated. Shouldn’t he have medicine or injections?

Yet his gaze, light as a feather, brooked no refusal—even while ill.

Reluctantly, she climbed into the car. The feverish man immediately collapsed onto her lap, his forehead damp with cold sweat.

Startled by his sudden movement, the girl dared not move, her body stiff.

His eyes squeezed shut, the corners reddened from fever, his face unnaturally flushed—so weak, so pitiable. Seeing him like this, her heart ached. She took out her handkerchief embroidered with a kitten and gently wiped the sweat from his brow, relaxing her body to make his rest more comfortable.

They remained like this for a long time, until she shifted her numb leg.

Mu Tingye instantly opened his eagle-sharp eyes, sat up, and looked at the girl whose expression was strained from pins and needles.

"Uncle Tingye, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to," she apologized, biting her lip and bowing her head in guilt.

She’d woken her third uncle.

As she waited for his reaction, she saw his solid hand lift her leg onto his own, and gently knead it.

Uncle Tingye was helping her relax...

She looked up in surprise, only to see his sharply etched profile—exceptionally handsome.

What a meticulous and thoughtful man!

They say men who work seriously are most attractive, and it was true—especially when this man did something for her.

Her tense leg gradually relaxed, letting his broad hand massage and press as he pleased.

After a while.

"Uncle, I’m much better now. Thank you," she said, her eyes curving, her soft voice sweet as honey.

His hand tightened unconsciously. "Go home."

"Huh?"

"You should go back now," he said abruptly.

His sudden change left the girl confused. She thought he was simply tired of her, and bit her lip, looking at Mu Tingye with aggrieved eyes.

Seeing he wouldn’t look at her, she replied despondently, "Alright, Uncle Tingye. Remember to take your medicine."

With that, she turned away.

Mu Tingye watched her slender, fragile figure retreat, his heart feeling emptier than ever, a sudden urge to pull her back.

He scoffed at himself—he truly must be feverish.

After calling his assistant to pick him up, he closed his eyes to rest.

But his mind replayed the image of the girl gently wiping his brow with her handkerchief, her long hair brushing his cheek, a teasing itch. He wanted to brush it aside, but couldn’t bear to lose the scent lingering on those tresses, so he endured it quietly...

Soft whimpers from the girl’s dreams interrupted his recollections. "Ugh, it hurts..."

He immediately gathered her into his arms, soothing her quietly, "Jiujiu, what’s wrong?"

Her head was heavy with fever, her response instinctively spoiled and childlike, "Ugh, my head hurts..."

"Jiujiu, it’s time for your medicine," his voice unconsciously gentled.

...

When she didn’t respond, he looked down—the girl had slipped back into sleep, his expression helpless.

Tender yet firm, he picked up the medicine, brought it to her lips, watching as her pale lips closed around his fingers. His gaze grew obscure.

Dry, lacking the moistness from before.

Such a delicate girl looked best in health, rosy and lively!

He withdrew his fingers, picked up the cup to give her water, but it wouldn’t go down. The girl’s lips stayed tightly shut, her brows drawn in discomfort from the bitter medicine, and when he tried to feed her water, she shook her head, trying to escape.

He was used to being authoritative—how could he allow her to misbehave, especially when she was ill? She needed her medicine...

Perhaps it was a mix of anger and urgency that drove his next actions—ones even he hadn’t anticipated...