Chapter 82: Candor
—Senior Brother Yi isn’t really an outsider, either.
Rong Shen’s Adam’s apple bobbed, a playful curve forming at his lips. “So, you and Yi Ke used to be quite close?”
“It was alright.” An Tong, still lingering on the memory of just now—when they’d ‘held hands’—answered absentmindedly, “We studied piano together for a few years, so I know him a bit better than a stranger.”
The man seemed to be weighing the truth of her words.
After all, the way she and Yi Ke had behaved at the banquet could hardly be explained away with “a bit better than a stranger.”
Rong Shen took only half a bowl of honey water, then leaned back, his fingertips pressing at his brow with a slight frown.
An Tong, ever attentive, noticed and asked, “Does your head hurt?”
“It’s nothing,” he replied, lowering his eyelids, rubbing his temples with the pad of his finger. “It’s getting late, you—”
“How about I give you a massage?” For the first time, An Tong took the initiative, cutting him off.
Hearing this, the man turned to look at her, a faint trace of intoxication in his brows.
He said nothing, his calm, dark eyes fixed intently on the composed girl.
An Tong faltered for a moment, then forced herself to stay calm, standing and walking behind him. “I… used to do this for my family when they drank too much. It helps a lot.”
Whenever her father came home drunk from social gatherings, she would help relieve his headache by massaging his temples, just as she was about to do now.
Rong Shen didn’t refuse. He felt the cool, soft touch of her fingers pressing at his brow as he closed his eyes with a sigh.
Her hands were cool and gentle, with just the right amount of pressure—no unnecessary embellishments, yet somehow soothing to both body and mind.
After about ten minutes, An Tong’s hands grew tired, her movements slowing and softening.
“That’s enough,” the man said in a low voice, catching her warm hand from the side of his face. “Sit down and rest a moment.”
An Tong looked at his hand wrapped around hers, feeling a bit dazed. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yes, much better.” As he spoke, Rong Shen tugged her by the wrist, signaling her to sit.
She sat down stiffly, awkward and unsure what to do.
Dr. Rong was holding her hand again—not her wrist this time, but her palm.
She didn’t dislike this touch, but the ambiguity, the casualness of it, made her both embarrassed and uneasy.
She tried to withdraw her arm, but the man’s large, warm palm instead gently kneaded her fingers, his gaze focused intently on her. “Are your hands sore?”
“They’re fine.” She struggled lightly, and Rong Shen let her go at just the right moment.
A subtle tension hung in the air.
It was late at night—the kitchen, just the two of them.
Even if An Tong were gravely ill, she could still sense the change in Dr. Rong. What’s more, she was a clear-headed young woman.
“Dr. Rong, tonight… what’s gotten into you?” An Tong needed clarity; at the very least, she didn’t want to continue with this foggy, ambiguous relationship.
She knew she liked Rong Shen—never had that realization been so vivid in her heart.
But as for him, tonight he’d taken her hand again and again. If it wasn’t out of a man’s affection, such teasing would be far too frivolous.
But he was not a frivolous man.
With An Tong’s direct question, the emotions long hidden beneath his composure began to surface.
Rong Shen took a cigarette case from his pocket, pulled one out, and lit it with practiced ease.
An Tong noticed the brand was neither tea cigarettes nor his usual choice. It vaguely reminded her of the one Su Yiting had by his side during dinner.
Thin blue smoke curled from the man’s lips, his deep voice roughened, “Why do you ask?”
“It’s just that…” An Tong carefully chose her words, her gaze unwavering. “You’re not quite the same tonight.”
His eyes were gentle. Amid the drifting smoke, his faint smile was obscured. “Tell me, in what way do you think I’m different?”
An Tong fell silent.
After all these days together, she instantly recognized this as Dr. Rong’s way—guiding her to say what he wanted to hear.
He was leading her to speak her mind.
An Tong took a quiet breath, the touch of nicotine clearing her thoughts.
She didn’t shy away, responding quietly and calmly, “A lot of things are different. You never used to hold my hand.”
Rong Shen’s fingers, cigarette caught between them, paused at his lips; his deep, shadowed gaze slowly settled on her face.
Unlike the elegant, restrained man of the daytime, after drinking he seemed to have shed that mask and revealed a rawer, more hidden intensity.
Like still water running deep, calm on the surface, but with untold currents beneath.
He looked away, his gaze landing on the kitchen cabinet ahead, and for once, a hint of hesitation crossed his face.
There’s no denying the power of alcohol—it numbs reason and emboldens impulse.
Like now, as Rong Shen’s eyes grew distant, and, fueled by wine, he spoke in a low, unhurried voice, “Perhaps… I simply can’t help myself.”
An Tong’s breath caught.
Couldn’t help himself?
Did he mean what she thought he meant?
She stared at the man’s profile, heart beating wildly, and finally managed to find her voice. “Dr. Rong, you… feel that way about me?”
“Yes.” Rong Shen’s thin lips curled; he met her gaze and replied hoarsely, “For you, I can’t help myself.”
It shouldn’t have come to this so quickly, nor should these words have slipped out so easily.
But witnessing her so at ease with another tonight, the feelings he’d suppressed for so long burst through the cage of reason.
At this point, honesty was the only way forward.
An Tong drew a sharp breath, her dark eyes shining with crystalline light.
She turned to look out the window; where she thought he couldn’t see, her lips curved up in an irrepressible smile.
Unbeknownst to her, the glass reflected everything—her secret smile was entirely caught by Rong Shen.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
An Tong was gathering her emotions; Rong Shen was waiting for her answer.
After a while, she turned back, heart pounding, only to be caught by the heat of his gaze.
He had been watching her the whole time.
She steadied herself, but her voice still trembled, “Then I…”
“An.” Rong Shen stubbed out his cigarette, resting his forearm on the table as he turned to face her.
A mature man’s poise and gravity are never more captivating than in moments of deep focus.
Especially when he looked at her with such intensity, eyes so deep you might fall in.
He pressed his lips together, then gently brushed aside the hair at her temple. “If you’ve made up your mind, you can give me your answer now. If not, I’ll give you time.”
An Tong still hadn’t heard the words stated plainly, and frowned, hinting at her meaning, “What do you want me to consider?”
“To consider whether you’re willing to end this doctor-patient relationship,” Rong Shen said, curling a finger along her cheek, “and to think carefully if you want to be with me—from now on, only as husband and wife.”
Those last four words were especially solemn.
(The end of this chapter.)