When Wen Yin finished explaining, Shao Yinan’s face cooled by a fraction. The change was small, but it carried an unmistakable chill.
Instinctively, Wen Yin thought he was angry. Before she could react, the man had reached out and gently stopped his hand on the slim of her waist.
“I never imagined you’d have memories with Shao Yuanjia from your childhood,” he said, a sliver of jealousy threaded through his voice—more accusation than question.
At the name Lu Ziqiu, Shao Yinan’s gaze darkened without him meaning to. He had to admit to himself that something planted in the darker corners of his heart had been quietly growing. With it sprouted an ugly, swollen possessiveness he couldn’t quite control.
In the shadowed recesses where Wen Yin couldn’t see, his eyes—deep as lacquered pits—wavered with an emotion she wouldn’t understand if she looked. He wanted to hide her away. To lock her in a gilded room where only he could see her each day, where all other men’s gazes would be kept at bay. Such a bright, dazzling treasure should be his alone.
Shao Yinan pressed his eyelids shut, forcing down the thoughts that had begun to feel like suffocating heat. He couldn’t bring himself to say them aloud. If he did, Wen Yin would surely brand him a monster; he might not only lose his chance with her, he might frighten her away for good.
He drew a long breath and buried the strange insistence in his chest. It wasn’t that he wanted to smother her—he told himself that—but the world around Wen Yin was full of men. And she was so achingly beautiful that he longed to shelter her.
Wen Yin saw it all as plain as day. She couldn’t help but pinch his earlobe.
“Shao Yinan.” Her voice dropped into the soft, coaxing cadence women used when they wanted to soothe. It steadied the restlessness inside him.
“Has anyone ever told you your jealous face is really cute?” she asked slowly, fingers kneading his ear, the tail of her sentence lifting playfully as if baiting him.
He lowered his eyes and hid the turmoil there. “No,” he replied, voice flat but quiet enough for only her to hear.
She felt the dissatisfaction in him and smoothed her tone. Shao Yinan, unwilling to reveal the real depth of his thoughts, let her coax him back to their usual easy patterns after a while. Wen Yin didn’t dwell on the little episode—after all, she and Shao Yuanjia had made it clear where things stood. If they crossed paths again, it would only be in the context of work—design events, promotional shoots—nothing more.
Once the dessert shop officially opened, Wen Yin’s days filled up completely. She kept to a strict schedule, making just enough of each item she wanted to maintain quality, and the customers who loved sweets came specifically for her flavors. True to her expectations, she never saw another of Shao Yuanjia’s sporadic, showy gestures.
She had no doubt he’d understood her meaning when she’d told him off. And she preferred to believe that that was the end of it.
To avoid being recognized, Wen Yin limited her public exposure. She handled only the baking; she hired a young woman to do the packaging and sales at the counter. That helped reduce the chance of being spotted, but she still drew a loyal crowd. Fans came daily, and because she refused to sacrifice quality for quantity, sometimes people left disappointed if they arrived too late.
Opening the shop each morning had become a delicate operation. Fans camped outside, and every opening pulled a steady surge of customers.
“Miss, I want a piece of tiramisu,” a bright little voice called one morning as Wen Yin was boxing fresh slices.
She looked up and saw an adorable girl—no more than five or six—holding out cash. The girl was polite, thanked Wen Yin when she handed her the box, and skipped away with the kind of happy bounce only children have. The sight of her made Wen Yin smile.
Later that afternoon, as the last of the pastries sold out and Wen Yin was about to close up, a faint sound of sobbing drifted from a nearby alley. Wen Yin paused, then went to investigate.
In the narrow shadow, she found the same little girl from the morning—crouched on the ground, shoulders shaking. Her clothes looked familiar now.
“Hello?” Wen Yin stepped closer and greeted her. The girl lifted her tear-streaked face, and Wen Yin realized why the outfit had rung a bell: she’d served this child earlier.
“What’s wrong? Why are you crying? Where are the adults with you?” Wen Yin asked, pity softening her voice. She handed over a packet of tissues and motioned for the girl to wipe her tears.
“Thank you.” The girl dabbed at her eyes and sniffled. “I… I was with my brother, but now I can’t find him.”
Her voice came out halting, as though it had been choked with too many tears. Wen Yin’s heart softened further. A child separated from her brother—this was simpler than any adult complication.
“Do you remember your brother’s phone number? I can call him for you,” Wen Yin said.
The little girl shook her head, flustered. “I remembered it before, but now I’m too scared and I forgot.”
Wen Yin blinked, surprised. She’d assumed a child that age would at least know a parent’s number. She let out a small sigh and reached for the girl’s hand.
“All right,” she said. “Come with me.”