The engagement was with the younger brother, but I've fallen for the older brother.

The sound of rain outside the window suddenly intensified, pounding against the windowpane with a loud patter.

He Sichen suddenly reached out and grasped her knee.

My palm was burning hot, and it pressed against my skin through the fabric of my skirt.

Si Yimian's breath hitched.

"Si Yimian, are you here to deliver documents or to interrogate me?"

Si Yimian leaned forward, her voice low to a whisper, and tried to get into his ear.

"If you hadn't refused the arranged marriage back then."

She paused, then softened her voice.

"We don't need to sneak in anymore."

"Just answer me one question: Do you regret it?"

He Sichen pressed his thumb on her kneecap, not with much force, but it made half of her leg go numb.

No regrets.

Si Yimian raised her eyebrows slightly.

"The decision at the time was based on the information available at the time."

"Before I met you, that was the optimal solution."

Si Yimian thought to herself that this man's words were truly impeccable.

Not regretting the decision made at the time does not mean not regretting the subsequent developments.

"Alright."

She sat up straight and clapped her hands.

"I'm not teasing you anymore, you go about your business."

He Sichen didn't reply, picked up his brush again, and spread out the fourth sheet of Xuan paper.

"If you're bored, go practice your calligraphy over there."

He pointed to the blank Xuan paper spread out on the other side of the desk.

This time he wrote very smoothly, with sharp strokes, completing the work in one go.

"Don't stand here, you're blocking the light."

Si Yimian pouted, but still moved over and picked up a small sheep's hair brush.

She took out a sheet of gold-flecked paper, dipped it in ink, and began to write.

He Sichen didn't look up, but his writing speed slowed down.

Si Yimian wrote carefully, stroke by stroke, like a primary school student tracing calligraphy.

Halfway through writing, He Sichen's voice drifted over from the other side.

"ugly."

Si Yimian looked up: "What?"

"The characters are ugly."

She looked down at what she had written, and it really wasn't very good.

But she was unconvinced and turned the gold-flecked paper over to show him.

"What's ugly about it? It's all straight and symmetrical."

He Sichen glanced at her, put down his pen, and walked around the desk to stand behind her.

The distance suddenly closed.

He stood to her left rear, his right hand reaching over her shoulder, his fingertips touching the word she had written.

"The beginning strokes are too weak, the ending strokes are too light, and the structure is loose, like a boneless earthworm."

His voice came down from above her head, his breath brushing against the top of her hair.

Si Yimian froze, her fingers gripping the pen twitching.

"Then you teach."

Si Yimian stood up, shoved the pen into his hand, and stepped aside to give up her seat.

He Sichen sat down, his left hand pressing down on the gold-flecked paper, his right hand holding a pen, his wrist suspended in the air.

She stood beside him, her gaze should have been on the paper.

But her gaze was fixed on his hands.

He held the pen with a proper posture, his fingers were long and slender, and the pale blue veins under his skin were faintly visible.

When the wrist rotates, the knuckles protrude slightly and then fall back down, while the ring and little fingers curl slightly and rest against the paper for support.

Si Yimian swallowed hard.

A ceiling controlled by hand, the hands of a surgeon.

It can set bones, suture, and more...

stop.

It's best to keep a low profile in the old house.

"You've learned it?"

After writing a character, He Sichen turned his head to look at her.

"I've seen it."

She nodded: "Beautiful hands."

He Sichen remained silent for a moment.

"I'll let you see the words."

"The words are in your hand; when I look at your hand, it's the same as looking at the words."

She spoke with absolute certainty.

He Sichen stopped writing: "Do you want to learn or not?"

"think."

Si Yimian sat directly on his lap.

He Sichen's hand instinctively reached out and touched her waist.

"You can only learn by being taught step by step."

Her back bumped into his chest, a soft, yielding mass.

He Sichen was silent for a moment, then his right hand went around her shoulder and placed his palm on the back of her hand that was holding the pen.

"Relax your wrist and support the pen with your middle finger."

"Fingers firm, palm hollow; wrist flat, palm upright."

His voice lowered, and his breath brushed against her ear.

Si Yimian's pen tilted slightly.

She immediately softened and sank into his arms.

"Start with a reverse stroke."

He held her hand, and the pen tip moved slowly across the paper.

"Writing with the brush tip in the center."

His voice came down from above, deep and unhurried.

"Finish the stroke, return the brush tip."

After writing a single word, he did not let go of her hand.

The pen tip hovers above the paper, as if waiting for something.

Si Yimian stared at the word and suddenly realized that her attention was not on the paper at all.

The back of her head rested against his collarbone, and she could feel his Adam's apple bobbing slightly on the top of her head.

His palms were dry, his knuckles distinct, and he held her hand with a firm but not too strong grip.

She moved her fingers and scratched his palm.

He didn't react.

She scratched it again.

He tightened his grip on the back of her hand, but still didn't say anything.

She looked down at their clasped hands.

His fingers slipped between her fingers and slowly closed in.

Their fingers are intertwined.

Palm to palm, fitting perfectly.

Si Yimian stared at the two people's clasped fingers and suddenly felt that this was much more interesting than writing.

She secretly shifted her weight back.

Feeling it wasn't enough, they moved it around a bit more.

He Sichen's fingers, which were holding the pen, paused.

She stepped barefoot on his slippers, her toes twitching, her fingertips scraping against the small patch of skin exposed on his ankle.

His brush trembled, and the ink spread out on the rice paper in an irregular black pattern.

Like a faded black chrysanthemum.

"Don't move."

His voice came down from above.

Si Yimian looked up.

"I didn't move."

He Sichen looked at that face.

The valve in my brain clicked open again, and then it wasn't turned off.

He grabbed her chin with one hand, turned her face around, and leaned down to kiss her.

He cradled the back of her head, kissing her slowly and deeply, while his other hand clasped her hand, the pen poking between their fingers and leaving a red mark.

She turned her head to catch her breath, and he followed her again, capturing her lower lip in his mouth.

A peck, a suck, a release.

Another peck.

Si Yimian's mind went blank, and her fingers slid up his collar and touched the back of his neck.

The stubble of my short hair pricked my fingertips, a little prickly and a little itchy.

He pulled her two inches closer to the edge of the desk, crumpling the Xuan paper and pushing it aside, while the brush rolled into the gap.

Si Yimian was kissed so hard that she leaned back, her hands bracing against the edge of the table, knocking over the inkstone like a small mudslide.

She simply turned around and straddled him, kneeling on either side of his thighs.

Then, tilting her head back, she took the initiative to kiss him.

This time, she was the one who spoke first.

She bit his lower lip, mimicking his rhythm from before, her movements awkward yet earnest.

He Sichen's Adam's apple bobbed as she kissed him, his arms tightened, and he lifted her up a little.

The two of them were pressed together in the chair, kissing passionately.

He Nanxian was downstairs playing half of the game with the old man, the chess pieces making a clattering sound as they hit the wooden board.

He held the white piece, which hovered in mid-air, and hesitated to fall.

The puzzle was missing its last piece, and it was so uncomfortable that he couldn't sit still.

I thought to myself, it should be about time.

"Grandpa, I'm going to talk to my older brother about something."

He put the chess pieces back in the jar, got up, and walked towards the stairs.

As the study door drew closer, He Nanxian loosened his collar.

He wasn't sure what he was looking for.

Maybe I don't want to find anything at all.

But the pace couldn't be stopped.