Chapter 80: Drunkenness

On the way back, An Tong and Rong Shen sat at opposite ends of the carriage. Streetlights flashed past the windows, casting a dim, yellowish glow that flickered across their faces.

Driven by curiosity, Cheng Feng kept glancing at the rearview mirror. Ninth Master had closed his eyes as soon as he got in, resting quietly, the traces of drunkenness evident between his brows. As for An Tong, she sat obediently in her seat, cradling a paper bag in her arms and occasionally lowered her head to sniff it.

Everything appeared normal, yet Cheng Feng felt a suffocating tension in the air.

Could they have quarreled?

He speculated quietly all the way, until a faint aroma of alcohol drifted through the air. Seizing the pause at a red light, he lowered his voice and asked suspiciously, “Xiao An, what are you drinking?”

An Tong shook her takeout cup and replied softly, “Nomad’s Haven.”

“What haven?” Cheng Feng was momentarily confused, unable to make sense of it.

At that moment, the man who had been feigning sleep opened his eyes, stirred by the faint chatter. Across from him, the young girl sat hugging her paper bag, takeout cup in hand… drinking happily.

Rong Shen’s breath deepened, his thin lips pressed tight, jaw tense.

—I noticed you enjoy this drink. Take it home and savor it.

Yi Ke’s words echoed in his mind, stirring an inexplicable unease.

Rong Shen hadn’t asked whom An Tong had shared drinks with at the banquet hall, but not asking didn’t mean he didn’t care.

The takeout cup was clearly empty; An Tong shook it twice and explained in a calm voice to Cheng Feng, “Nomad’s Haven is a type of cocktail.”

Cheng Feng: “……”

You could’ve just said cocktail, he thought, instead of Nomad’s Haven, making him feel like some bumpkin who’d never seen the world.

Of course, Cheng Feng only dared grumble internally—never aloud—because he saw Ninth Master was now awake.

Less than five minutes later, the gardens were in sight.

The car stopped in front of the lakeside villa. As An Tong got out, she inadvertently hiccupped from the alcohol.

Cheng Feng, standing by the door: “……”

So young, and already fond of drinking?

Behind her, Rong Shen, though his face was tinged with displeasure, kept his calm, dark gaze fixed on her slender figure, worried she might stumble from drunkenness.

Soon, An Tong entered the house. Cheng Feng glanced at the man’s profile. “Ninth Master, shall I have the kitchen prepare some sobering soup?”

Rong Shen pinched the bridge of his nose, seeming uncomfortable. “No need. You may go.”

Cheng Feng closed his mouth awkwardly, watched the man enter, and turned back to his own quarters.

Usually, whenever Ninth Master returned home after drinking, he’d have the kitchen send up a bowl of soup.

Tonight, however, things were different.

…

In the living room, An Tong switched on the lights, set down the paper bag of cocktails, and tossed the empty cup into the trash.

Steady footsteps sounded behind her. She turned, surprised, “Doctor Rong?”

The lighting in the car had been too dim to see his expression clearly. Now, under the brilliant crystal lights, An Tong noticed the man’s sharply defined face was flushed with the deep red of intoxication.

Rong Shen responded with a nasal “Mm,” shrugged off his coat onto the chair, and after sitting, leaned his head back against the sofa, eyes closed, breathing softly.

Worried, An Tong stepped forward. Seeing his brows tightly knit, she asked quietly, “Are you drunk? Should I have the kitchen make you some soup…”

Before she could finish, as she turned, her hand suddenly burned with heat. She froze rigidly.

Biting her lip, she slowly looked down. His broad, warm palm was wrapped firmly around her hand and wrist.

Her heartbeat was immediately thrown into chaos. She glanced at the sofa, but Rong Shen remained in his pose, eyes closed, as if he wasn’t the one holding her hand.

It wasn’t exactly hand-holding, but An Tong couldn’t help imagining.

Within seconds—perhaps less—the man’s slightly hoarse voice drifted to her ears, “Just pour me some tea. If you ask the kitchen for soup, it’ll disturb the front courtyard.”

An Tong focused on the window, where the villa’s second floor lights could be seen faintly across the rear lake.

He was right. If Aunt Ruan learned Doctor Rong was drunk, she’d probably come offering warmth in the middle of the night.

An Tong dismissed the idea and replied, “I’ll pour you some tea, then.”

“Mm.”

She meant to fetch tea, but her hand was still held fast. She tried to pull away, but failed, and so patiently reminded him, “Doctor Rong, could you… let go first?”

The man lifted his eyelids, gazing at the wrist he held so tightly. His Adam’s apple shifted as he slowly relaxed his grip.

An Tong said nothing, flexed her wrist, and busied herself preparing the tea.

She thought herself calm, but as she brewed, her racing heart and trembling fingers betrayed her.

…

In the silent midnight, the girl worked; the man, half-lidded, watched her.

At last, An Tong finished brewing a strong cup of tea. Perhaps from the steam, her cheeks grew hotter, her heartbeat more erratic.

Different from the nervousness she felt when seeing Doctor Rong—this was purely physiological, her heart racing.

She patted her cheeks, carried the tray to his side. “Doctor Rong, please have some tea. Be careful, it’s hot.”

Rong Shen tugged at his collar, glancing toward the tea table, “Why not pour yourself a cup?”

She had also drunk—albeit a sweet cocktail—but the blush on her face was evidence enough.

“I’m not thirsty,” An Tong took a deep breath. “You drink first. I’m going upstairs for a bit.”

Before he could ask her to stay, she hurried toward the staircase, taking the paper bag of cocktails with her.

Rong Shen watched her retreat, his gaze deep, a suffocating gloom settling over his heart.

…

She didn’t know how much time passed. When An Tong came downstairs again, she found the living room lights dimmed.

The soft, hazy glow lent a gentle tranquility to the empty room.

She thought Doctor Rong had gone upstairs, and was about to switch off the lights, but out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a figure lying on the sofa.

She paused. Her gaze warmed even more than the orange light.

At that moment, the man’s tall frame was sunk into the sofa, his long legs casually crossed beneath tailored trousers, forearm resting on his forehead, lips pressed tight, as if asleep.

An Tong tiptoed over, glanced at the cup—its contents untouched.

She leaned in, “Doctor Rong?”

A sigh escaped his lips, “Why are you down here again?”

She hadn’t expected him to respond so quickly, and was momentarily tongue-tied.

Rong Shen moved his arm away from his eyes, lazily glancing at her, “Mm?”

“I just went to wash my face,” An Tong said reflexively, rubbing her chin as she watched his drowsy, drunken state. “Did you drink too much? Are you feeling unwell?”

In the dim light, his dark eyes held an inscrutable depth, “You could tell I drank too much?”

(End of chapter)