Qi Ran’s hair flowed like fine silk. When wet, it slipped through one’s fingers like fish returning to a lake. Qi Yan wasn’t exaggerating when he called washing it a pleasure.

He poured shampoo into his palm, lathered it through Qi Ran’s strands, and massaged every inch with his fingertips.

“I’m rinsing now. Close your eyes and mouth. Hold your breath.”

Warm water cascaded over her hair like a waterfall. Foam clung stubbornly to the undersides and her nape, demanding thorough rinsing. Good hair wasn’t born—it was crafted. Sometimes, the line between a beggar and a beauty was just a skilled stylist.

Qi Yan gently gripped her hair roots, twisting them like a damp cloth to squeeze out water. He repeated the motion, this time with conditioner. By the final rinse, the bucket held only a trickle of warm water.

He blow-dried her hair until mostly dry, applied leave-in conditioner, and coiled it atop her head. His task was nearly done. Next, Qi Ran would rinse off stray suds before stepping out.

Qi Yan stayed inside the steam-filled bathroom this time. Moving in and out would let cold air seep in. Qi Ran unwrapped her towel, revealing snow-pale skin and delicate, symmetrical shoulder blades. Her frame held a girl’s youthful innocence—waist just hinting at curves, untouched by excess fat.

She scooped water over her shoulders. Suds trailed down her spine. With Qi Yan behind her, her skin flushed a soft pink.

She grabbed the towel again. Qi Yan lifted her effortlessly, laying her on the bed. Numb legs made her fumble—she clutched the towel over her chest but left her lower half exposed. Soft light haloed her bare thighs.

As an artist, Qi Yan knew the female form well. Textbooks and masterpieces had long desensitized him.

“Xiao Ran, I’ll shower quick. Put on your pajamas. I’ll wash your feet after.”

Her paralyzed legs made bending impossible. Only Qi Yan could reach her feet. Pajamas and underwear sat within arm’s reach on the nightstand. He drew the blue curtain separating their spaces. Girls needed privacy, especially when dressing.

His own shower was brisk. Cold water stung his skin as he scrubbed his back—crimson scars crisscrossed the flesh.

Qi Yan had no glamorous past as a spy or mercenary. Just a former art student with decent skills. These scars were his grandfather Qi Lei’s “lessons.”

He’d never understood why. All grandchildren took Qi Lei’s expensive painting classes. Qi Yan’s work wasn’t worse than his cousins’ half-hearted attempts—yet only he stayed late for beatings and re-dos.

No blood tied them. Qi Yan was the son of Qi Lei’s estranged, deceased adopted son—a stranger before his parents’ accident. Even if Qi Yan became a master painter, Qi Lei gained nothing from an outsider.

*Maybe I was just his punching bag,* Qi Yan thought. *Too soft to hit his real grandkids.*

Uncles’ sneers. Cousins’ cold shoulders. Grandfather’s whip and shouts. Only a few senior apprentices—now established artists—showed kindness.

But Qi Yan swallowed every bitter drop. Enduring Qi Lei was the price for Qi Ran’s medicine. She was his only lifeline. He’d endure any pain to hold onto it.

He pulled back the curtain, washbasin in hand. “Time for your foot soak—” He froze.

Qi Ran sat bare-chested, struggling with a bra. Her hands dropped, the unfastened garment falling onto the sheets. Qi Yan spun around. “C-cover up first! Can’t you… fasten it alone?”

*Strange. She managed alone in the hospital.*

Her arms crossed over her chest, face burning. Qi Yan glanced back—red marks scored her back and underarms. *Too tight.*

“Let me help.” He picked up the bra.

She turned. Damp hair clung to her slender back. This wasn’t his first time handling lingerie—but his first helping *her*. Today had piled on a lifetime of “firsts.” Blessing or curse?

She fastened the front; he fumbled with the clasp. “It’s… too tight. Forget it. You’re not going out anyway. I’ll buy new ones tomorrow.” *Sleeping in bras stunts growth anyway,* he reasoned—then instantly regretted it.

Her feet sank into warm water. Pores opened; her face relaxed into bliss. Kneeling, Qi Yan scrubbed between her perfect, grape-like toes. Her small feet were smooth as porcelain.

His gaze drifted upward—two faint peaks pressed against her thin nightgown.

*Ah…*

The notebook smacked his head. Scrawled in bold letters:

***{Bro, you pervert!}***

*You’re the one flashing me!* he wanted to snap. But her shame would bury him deeper.

He dried her feet methodically, tucked her in. “Goodnight.”

She gave a faint nod, eyes closing. Exhaustion weighed her down.

Qi Yan waited until her breathing steadied. Moonlight traced the rise and fall of her chest beneath the sheets. He slipped out to wash their clothes, hanging them in the dim hallway. Room 103 stayed dark. In 102’s window, two shadows hunched over homework. *Even elementary school grinds hard.*

Back at his desk, Qi Yan unrolled fresh paper. Art supplies fanned beside him. A manga magazine’s newcomer contest loomed—a long shot among veterans, but worth trying. For Qi Ran. For himself.

If only he hadn’t crossed that line years ago. Betraying his mentor’s trust had shattered his reputation, reduced him to this: a nobody fighting for scraps.

He dipped his brush. Every stroke was penance. He’d brought this upon himself.