Chapter 90

Chapter 90

After taking the fever medicine, Song Nian pulled the covers over his head and slept heavily.

When he opened his eyes again, the sun had long since set outside the window, now the sky was full of stars.

He picked up his phone and saw that it was already eight o'clock in the evening—he had slept for a full five hours.

After waking up, his body was drenched in sweat from being under the covers, feeling sticky all over. He felt his forehead and realized his fever hadn't gone down much; in fact, his head felt even more dizzy.

Could it be that the fever had gotten worse?

He thought in a daze, then grabbed the thermometer again. When he read the number, he was shocked.

—39°C, his temperature had risen instead of falling.

He needed to take more medicine. If his fever continued tomorrow, he might have to go to the hospital.

Just as Song Nian was making plans with his dizzy head, his phone screen suddenly lit up in the dark room.

In the brightness, the incoming call displayed Li Yanchuan’s name.

He must have just finished work and gotten to his hotel room before calling.

Guessing as much, he opened his mouth, but his throat was swollen and dry. When he tried to swallow, it felt like tearing his raw throat—so painful that he couldn't utter a single syllable.

If he answered the call, his illness would probably be discovered within a second.

After hesitating for a long time, Song Nian didn't dare to press answer. He could only wait silently for the call to go to voicemail.

Then, after ten minutes, he picked up his phone again and typed a reply:

"Song Nian: I just woke up and didn't hear the call quq. What's up?"

Soon, a reply came instantly:

"Li Yanchuan: Just finished work and returned to the hotel. I miss you and want to hear your voice."

A long conversation would definitely reveal his sore throat and fever. Song Nian thought for a moment and decided on a compromise.

He struggled to get up and gulped down a large glass of water. Once the pain in his throat eased a little and he could manage a few words, he cleared his throat and practiced as if rehearsing lines.

Only when he could speak normally did he send a three-second voice message saying he hadn't gotten out of bed yet.

—He didn't want Li Yanchuan to know he was sick, afraid it would distract him and cause worry.

Because a fever wasn't a very serious illness; taking medicine and sleeping might help him recover by morning. If he told Li Yanchuan, who was far away, he wouldn't be able to rush back or help, it would only make him worry more.

In comparison, keeping it to himself and toughing it out was the easiest, least troublesome way.

After all, he had always handled things this way since he was a kid.

When Song Nian was little, his parents were busy with work and often not home. He was sickly and often got sick.

Other kids always acted spoiled and complained to their parents when they were sick, but he was different.

As long as it wasn't so bad he couldn't stand it, he would choose to endure it himself, unwilling to let his parents know.

Because telling his parents would only delay their work, making them—already exhausted in body and mind—even more stressed.

Occasionally, he would even get a few careless comments.

But if he didn't tell them and hid it well, he would be praised and considered an understanding, undemanding child.

Only kids who grew up surrounded by love got to be willful when sick, while well-behaved kids even got sick quietly.

A gust of wind blew in from the balcony, chilling his sweaty body. Song Nian shrank his neck, snapped himself out of his memories, and struggled to get out of bed to shut the window tight.

He wanted to take a shower and change into pajamas. When he opened the closet, he remembered that he still had some clothes in the guest bedroom that he hadn't brought over, so he dragged his heavy body to the guest bedroom.

But his feverish body was too weak; just walking a few steps exhausted his strength. When he reached the guest bedroom bed, Song Nian saw stars, his steps faltered, his knees buckled, and he fell to the ground with a thud.

If he hadn't caught the edge of the bed, he would have collapsed onto the floor.

The hard fall made his head even dizzier. Either from sleepiness or dizziness, his body went limp, so he just leaned against the bed and drifted off to sleep.

This time, he had a very long dream.

In the dream, he went back to the first time he got sick as a teenager.

At that time, he also had a high fever, so weak that he couldn't even stand. After tearfully calling his parents, he fainted.

When he woke up, he found that his parents—who usually came home late—had both come back early and were taking care of him by his bedside.

His father stood to the left of the bed, preparing medicine according to the doctor's instructions, while his mother sat on the right side, patiently wiping the sweat from his body.

In a daze, Song Nian thought being sick seemed like a good thing.

So good that he could have his parents’ company and attention, and see them before falling asleep.

People are always vulnerable when sick. For once, he wanted to act spoiled around his parents and say he wanted to eat the shrimp wontons from that street stall.

But as he opened his mouth, before he could speak, he suddenly heard his mother complaining quietly to his father:

"To rush back and take care of Xiao Nian, I haven't even finished my work for today."

"Sigh, if he had dressed properly, he wouldn't have gotten such a bad fever. When he gets sick, the whole family worries."

His father sighed and agreed.

Under great life pressure and work difficulties, their offhand comments sounded different to Song Nian's ears.

So he had inadvertently caused so much trouble for his parents...

He slowly pressed his lips together, lowered his eyelids, and his upturned mouth gradually drooped.

The thought of acting spoiled was buried deep in his heart. He kept silent, only curling up, trying to hide under the blanket, as if that would keep him from burdening them.

His limbs gradually turned cold. Then the dream suddenly twisted and spun, as if being tumbled in a washing machine, becoming blurry.

When the surroundings became clear again, the scene had changed.

This time, he saw that the person watching by his bedside had become Li Yanchuan.

Li Yanchuan, with a worried expression, was sitting by the bed, patiently wiping away his sweat bit by bit, then carefully tucking in the blanket corners to prevent him from catching a cold.

His brows were deeply furrowed, and even without a word, anxiety and concern could be seen in his eyes.

It must be a dream, right?

After all, Li Yanchuan is away on a business trip—how could he possibly be here next to me?

If that's the case, then this really is a sweet dream...

With that thought, Song Nian offered a faint smile, tinged with loneliness.

Since it was a dream, he threw caution to the wind and reached out freely, wanting to touch that warmth for strength, and to smooth the furrow between the brows.

But before he could touch, his hand was suddenly caught midair, fingers forcibly interlaced with his, the warmth of a body seeping through their interlocked fingers.

Scalding, firm, too real to be a dream.

In an instant, it was as if some invisible barrier between them shattered and came crashing down, and dream merged with reality. The figure before him slowly came into focus.

This time, Li Yanchuan's face was truly before him, his gaze locked onto Song Nian.

Li Yanchuan had really come back.

"Hubby...? How, how did you come back?"

Nearly believing he was hallucinating, Song Nian froze, eyes wide, and asked in disbelief.

"I'm not really delirious from the fever, am I..."

Hearing the man's mumbling, Li Yanchuan was both annoyed and amused.

If he hadn't noticed something was off, would this little faker have just ridden it out on his own and acted like nothing happened?

When the call went unanswered and Song Nian only replied with a single voice message instead of calling back, Li Yanchuan had a vague sense that something was off.

Because, knowing Song Nian's habits, he would have called back without fail.

The voice message sent was very short—so short that a moment's distraction would make it end—but he only needed one listen to pick up on something wrong.

—It was too thick, as if his throat was bothering him.

Well-disguised as it was, to Li Yanchuan—who had heard every nuance of Song Nian's voice and knew him inside out—it was riddled with flaws.

A suspicion quietly formed—not that Song Nian had secretly gone to see someone else, but that he might be feeling unwell.

So he brought up the surveillance feed he hadn't looked at in ages. As soon as the video connected, he happened to catch the moment Song Nian collapsed in the guest bedroom.

Under the moonlight, Song Nian's complexion was obviously off. Li Yanchuan's mind went blank; he couldn't think—and immediately booked a red-eye flight home.

From booking the flight to touchdown and then getting home, it was now two in the morning.

And now this little liar still thought he was a hallucination—he couldn't help but lightly flick the man's forehead.

"Mmm..."

The pain registered, and Song Nian blinked slowly, his eyes glistening with tears, and looked back at him blankly.

In an instant, a flood of complex emotions—surprise, shock, and guilt—washed over him, completely overwhelming his already drowsy mind.

"With such a high fever, why didn't you tell me?"

Seeing him like this, Li Yanchuan couldn't bring himself to be angry. Helpless, he sighed, checked his temperature, and found it had only dropped by one degree.

"I was afraid of causing you trouble..."

Knowing he was in the wrong, Song Nian shrank deeper into the blanket.

"We're husbands—how can this be considered trouble?"

This wasn't the right time to discuss it. Li Yanchuan took a deep breath, decided to talk about it later, and first pulled out his phone to call the private doctor.

Song Nian coughed twice and struggled to sit up, but before he could move, Li Yanchuan pressed him back down.

"Rest well, I will take care of you."

Still on the phone, Li Yanchuan said in a low voice.

His deep, magnetic voice had an almost magical quality, easily soothing all the unease and guilt inside him. Song Nian lay in bed, complex and unfamiliar emotions surging in his heart.

He stared at Li Yanchuan's broad back, somewhat dazed.

Not long after, the doctor arrived. After examining and confirming it was just a fever, he set up an IV drip and prescribed medicine, reminded Li Yanchuan to change the IV and remove the needle on time, then tactfully left them alone.

"You... coming back so suddenly, didn't it mess up your work? Am I being a burden?"

Knowing he was on a business trip and definitely had work tomorrow—after flying back and forth like this, when would he have time to rest?—Song Nian mustered his strength and asked.

Actually, there were many other questions now, like how Li Yanchuan had known he was sick, but he felt the most important thing was not to hold him up at work.

Ever since he'd come back, the patient himself had been feeling guilty and self-blaming, repeatedly asking if he'd caused trouble—even though Li Yanchuan hadn't said a single harsh word.

Furthermore, he had never been afraid of any trouble Song Nian might cause.

Li Yanchuan lowered his eyes, dampened the towel again, and placed it on the man's forehead:

"You're not trouble. More than trouble, I'm afraid of you feeling sick."

"You can trouble me as much as you like."

"You can tell me anything you need."

Hearing this, Song Nian's nose pricked.

He hadn't expected that Li Yanchuan would really rush back immediately and that he could actually help.

He had even less expected that he could still have the chance to be willful, that he didn't have to be the mature one anymore.

An unusual impulse stirred in his heart, clamoring to break free.

—He didn't want to be well-behaved, nor did he want to be rational. He wanted to act on impulse, to be willful, to use being sick as an excuse to let himself be spoiled.

Would he be blamed? Would he be disliked...?

His dependence on Li Yanchuan took over his mind. He clenched his fist and finally gathered the courage to make the willful request that had been locked away for years:

"I want... to eat shrimp wontons, is that okay?"