Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Smith Ethan’s parents—who later became my in-laws—paid me a very high hourly rate. Soon, I had enough money to join the study tour. To live up to that high tutoring fee, I brought out all my best skills.

For the entire semester, I went to tutor him every weekend. In that beautiful, warm house, there were kind elders asking after me, a handsome and gentle classmate to look at, and no need to worry about anything other than studying. Plus, I got paid.

In the first twenty years of my life, those weekends were probably the easiest days I’d ever had. It was also during that time that we built a bond almost like comrades-in-arms.

When we entered our third year of high school, I stopped going to his house for tutoring. I couldn’t help him much anymore, and I didn’t want to take his money for nothing.

On the weekend I proposed ending the tutoring, Smith Ethan was in a low mood. He made mistakes several times when drawing auxiliary lines for math problems. I didn’t understand what was on his mind and just thought he was tired from studying.

Smith Ethan’s mother tried to persuade me to stay, but I politely declined, saying I "wanted to focus more on my own studies." Before I left, she prepared a huge bag of snacks and daily necessities for me—so heavy I could barely carry it. Without waiting for me to refuse, she handed the bag to Smith Ethan and told him to walk me back to school.

That day, the driver had taken Smith Ethan’s father on a business trip, so Smith Ethan accompanied me back by bus. I sat by the window; the bus was jolting along, and I felt a little carsick, so I closed my eyes to rest. Smith Ethan sat next to me, fumbling with something quietly.

Suddenly, I felt a tremor in my palm as a warm, hard object was pressed into it. I opened my eyes and saw him looking at me with his cheeks puffed out.

"Mint candy," he said. "Mom bought it for you to stay awake." The cool scent from his mouth drifted over.

Seeing me staring blankly without reacting, Smith Ethan took the candy back from my palm, peeled off the wrapper, and popped it into my mouth. His fair fingers, with distinct knuckles, brushed lightly against my lips. The refreshing mint flavor instantly filled my mind. My mouth felt cool, but my heart was burning hot.

The noise of people, wind, and the bus faded into the background. He looked at me and smiled, his eyes shining like a galaxy. Eager to hide the turmoil in my heart, I turned my head to look at the street trees speeding by, pretending to be calm. In reality, I was twisting the corner of my clothes so hard my fingers were almost cramping.

That was the first time I realized there really were people who deserved to be called "stunning." I’d never thought I’d like anyone before—life had never left me any room to like someone. But if attraction could be controlled, it wouldn’t be called attraction.

Thankfully, the third year of high school was always busy, and that little bit of girlish affection was soon drowned out by the pressure of the college entrance exam. I’d been through so much hardship for ten years, like walking through wind and snow—how could I let my mind wander right before the finish line?

On the eve of the college entrance exam, my body was severely overdrawn, and my mental state was stretched to the limit. During a PE class, I suddenly fainted. As I lay on the ground, I couldn’t catch my breath, my heart was beating wildly, and I couldn’t tell if my eyes were open or closed—everything was dark. I was terrified I’d die on the spot, that I’d fail before even stepping onto the "battlefield."

Many people were calling my name, and the scene was chaotic. The doctor diagnosed me with long-term malnutrition and excessive stress, and the fact that I hadn’t eaten breakfast that day had triggered low blood sugar. Smith Ethan picked up the diagnosis report and brought it to my hospital bed.

I’ll never forget what he looked like at that moment. His face was pale, his eyes were red-rimmed—he looked so pitiful. He sat on a stool facing me, clutching my diagnosis report so tightly it seemed like he was the one diagnosed with long-term malnutrition.

I hesitated to speak. "Uh… it’s not that bad, right?" I was terrified he’d cry in front of me. Back then, I was such a no-nonsense person; I had no idea how to comfort someone.

He frowned, gave me a complicated look, and turned his head away in a huff. I thought to myself, This is ridiculous—I’m the one lying in the hospital bed, and I still have to comfort him? Then I found myself explaining and forcing a smile. I must have been under some spell—I just couldn’t bear to see him sad for my sake.

I don’t know what he said to his family, but when I returned to school, every time his family sent him meals, there was an extra lunchbox for me. It was a three-layered insulated box with a blue base and a broken-flower pattern, filled with a variety of dishes and nourishing soups.

I’d always believed that the poorer you are, the more you need to be self-reliant, and I didn’t want to accept too much kindness from others. If it had been anyone else, I could have politely thanked them and firmly refused. But with him, I just couldn’t say no. He truly cared about me, and his sincerity made me feel that refusing would be a betrayal of his kindness.