Chen Jin had assumed that Lin Wan's schedule would return to normal soon.
But half a month passed, and not only did she not recover—she grew worse. Every few nights she slipped out of bed and wandered off again.
There's a saying: not more than three times.
When Chen Jin discovered for the fourth time that he had been left alone in bed, his patience finally snapped.
He stormed out of the bedroom—only to find the living room pitch-dark.
His heart lurched. Don't tell me she's leveled up and gone outside now?
Then he caught a thin strip of light leaking from under the study door.
He let out a cold huff and strode over, pushing the door open in one abrupt motion.
The desk lamp was on.
Lin Wan startled violently at the sudden sound, lifting her head in obvious panic.
Chen Jin's face was like thunder. "Lin Wan, have you had enough? Are you trying to give me a nervous breakdown? Will that finally make you happy?"
Lin Wan quickly gathered the book-like object on the desk into her arms. She stood and murmured, "I couldn't sleep."
"What are you, a celestial being? Don't you need to sleep anymore?"
Chen Jin stalked forward and held out a hand. "Give it to me."
She instinctively stepped back. His face immediately darkened. "Don't make me use force. Now."
After a hesitation, she handed the notebook over.
He flipped through it carelessly—only to find page after page of odd little sketches: distorted stick figures, grimacing doodles, strange expressions. Nonsensical to him.
"You stay up in the middle of the night because of this garbage?" he criticized. Then, after a moment, "Your boss giving you too much work? Should I talk to him tomorrow?"
Lin Wan's eyes widened. "No. I drew them myself."
"You don't have to sacrifice sleep for it. Ever heard of balancing work and rest?" His tone was sharp and unpleasant. Then he added coldly: "If you keep this up, I'll tear these stupid things apart."
He saw a flash of fear in her eyes—
And was satisfied.
He tossed the notebook onto the desk, grabbed her hand, and ordered, "Come on. Back to bed."
Lin Wan stopped sneaking off at night.
But a few days later, another strange phenomenon appeared.
One morning, after waking, Chen Jin noticed something beside her ear—a dangling earbud wire. He tugged it gently and pulled out an MP3 player, still playing.
Suspicious, he put the earbud on.
A slow English ballad whispered in his ear, so languid it made him yawn. He glanced at the screen:
Why should I care?
He tapped for the next track. Another soothing melody drifted out:
The look of love
Lin Wan was still asleep. She had maintained the position he'd forced her into last night—her hair flattened awkwardly, lips slightly parted, sleeping like a child.
But the morning sunlight was too bright, revealing details he usually couldn't see—
Her lips were dry, lacking their normal softness.
The skin beneath her eyes was faintly purple.
Her long lashes trembled occasionally.
Her delicate eyebrows were drawn together, forming two tiny, tense creases.
Chen Jin reached out and lightly touched the space between her brows—
Her eyes flew open instantly.
Still half-dazed, she blinked up at him. But when she saw the earbud in his hand, a trace of panic rushed across her face.
"Wanwan," he asked quietly, "how long have you been losing sleep?"
Her gaze flickered. "A while."
"How long?"
"More than half a year."
Chen Jin was stunned.
Had he been too oblivious?
Or had she hidden it too well?
He had thought all her strange nighttime behaviors were simply new "tactics."
He brushed aside the stray hair near her ear and scolded lightly, "Why didn't you say anything?"
Then, as if realizing the answer himself, he sighed softly and pulled her into his arms.
"Fool. Like a goose drowning in the river but still refusing to climb ashore."
Chen Jin's mother had struggled with insomnia before.
A few rounds of herbal prescriptions from an old traditional doctor had cured her.
That very day, Chen Jin got the doctor's address and took Lin Wan over.
The elderly physician, hair silver-white, felt her pulse and concluded she suffered from internal injury, emotional stagnation, and depleted vital energy. He wrote a prescription on the spot.
The herbs were ground into powder; at home, all they needed was a quick simmer in a small pot.
From then on, every evening, Chen Jin's first question was always:
"Did you take your medicine today?"
Once, he walked in just as she was drinking it. Curious, he took a sip—and nearly spat it out.
"Fuck, that's vile."
Under Lin Wan's disdainful stare, he corrected himself:
"Truly, medicine is supposed to taste bitter. Should I get you some candy? Choking this down is brutal."
"No need," she said flatly.
"Good. Tough girl. Back. In the days of the revolutionary wars, you'd be Liu Hulan, Jiang Jie—"
Lin Wan set down the bowl, deadpan.
"If I'm Liu Hulan, then you're the guy swinging the execution blade."
Bitter medicine works.
Two weeks later, Lin Wan's insomnia vanished. She slept like a little pig—dark, deep, and sound.
Chen Jin was pleased.
She was becoming exactly what he wanted:
No more rebelling.
No more challenging his bottom line.
No more making him angry.
She was like a hedgehog with its spikes retracted—soft pink paws exposed, letting him handle her however he pleased.
During the day, they each tended to their own business.
At night, they were either wrapped tightly in each other's arms, or sweating through long, breathless sex.
Lin Wan never responded.
But she no longer resisted.
Even when he wanted to "play" a little, she only frowned and endured it.
If he hurt her, she would cry softly, delicate as a flower in rain.
It made him feel protective—
And also tempted him to go further.
Sometimes, Chen Jin thought idly:
Happiness was hard to measure,
But he was definitely very sexually happy.
Yet life often follows a curve:
rising, peaking—
Then descending.
After the thrill of victory faded, Chen Jin suddenly sensed something wrong.
Lin Wan's obedience felt… excessive.
And everything became more obvious after one particular night.
He had meant to call her. But when he saw the date glowing on the screen, a flash of lightning struck through his mind.
One year ago to this day, he and Lin Wan had met for the first time.
He had gone to solve a problem.
She had been enduring a catastrophe.
Lowering his phone, he felt a strange irritation—
And a prickle of unease.
Like a child who finds a toy he loves—
Only to discover, on the back, someone else's name etched into the plastic.
Unpleasant. Unsettling.
And terrified someone might take it away.
Then he finally realized—
Lin Wan had been in his life for barely half a year.
So why did it feel like they had been together forever?
Maybe because he had never "lived" with a woman before.
He was a man with sharp boundaries, unable to tolerate anyone intruding into his space—not even a girlfriend.
His past "dates" all happened in high-end hotel suites.
They took what they wanted, then parted ways.
He had never understood why. That night, he brought Lin Wan back to his apartment.
Maybe, subconsciously, he sensed she was different.
Or maybe he hadn't planned anything at all—just carried her with him out of instinct.
But it still didn't explain one thing:
He knew her home address.
So why hadn't he acted like a gentleman and sent the drunken girl back?
Instead of taking her away with him?