Chapter 87: Call Me Brother

In a haze between sleep and waking, Song Qingyou felt a furnace press against her back, radiating warmth that was deeply comforting. Her body, curled up against the chill, slowly relaxed and she instinctively shifted closer, pressing herself more firmly against that heat.

A muffled groan escaped from Fu Wenzhou’s lips, sweat beading on his brow. He was suffering, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his long arms wrapped her securely in his embrace.

His lips brushed softly along her neck, his voice low, suppressed, and plaintive. “Qingyou, I haven’t eaten. I’ve been waiting for you all this time.”

Half asleep, Song Qingyou barely heard him. She parted her lips instinctively. “Hm?”

Fu Wenzhou’s kisses trailed up from her neck, landing gently on her earlobe. “You haven’t called me ‘brother’ even once.”

Song Qingyou squirmed at the ticklish touch, her heavy eyelids fluttering open. She shrank away. “You’re younger than me.”

He was stunned for a heartbeat, but then his gaze darkened. He bit the tender flesh there in mock punishment. “You can still call me ‘brother.’”

Exhausted, Song Qingyou didn’t argue further. As she was about to drift off to sleep, a flurry of delicate kisses roused her awake.

As passion rose, Song Qingyou panted, her voice laced with a plaintive sob as she pleaded for him to stop.

Fu Wenzhou was relentless. Under the dim light, their shadows on the wall entwined as one, beads of sweat sliding down.

“Song Qingyou, call me ‘brother.’” His voice was hoarse, thick with desire and desperation, but his movements remained slow and gentle.

“No... get away,” she gasped, her neck arching, her voice breaking with despair. “Fu Wenzhou, you’re not listening.”

His eyes were as dark and deep as a midnight abyss, terrifying and feverish. He leaned down to kiss her ear; she turned away, but he followed, and in the end, she couldn’t escape.

“Call me brother.” He raised her hands, pinning them on his shoulders, coaxing her in a low, raspy voice. “Be good, Qingyou. Say it.”

He slowed deliberately, patience unwavering. Her breaths trembled until she could bear it no longer, and finally, she yielded in a soft, helpless murmur.

“Brother...”

Fu Wenzhou sighed with satisfaction, holding her tight, surrendering himself entirely to her.

The next morning, snow had fallen all night, painting the world outside their window in white. Sunlight spilled across the windowsill, filling the room with warmth and languor.

It was nearly noon when Song Qingyou finally opened her eyes. She shifted, her waist aching and weak, as if even her bones had lost their strength.

She reached for her phone, but to her shock, she found bite marks even between her fingers. Memories of the night before flooded back, her face paling, then flushing red as she recalled how Fu Wenzhou had forced her to call him ‘brother.’ Embarrassment and irritation mingled on her cheeks.

The door opened and Fu Wenzhou entered, carrying a glass of milk, his face radiating the contentment of one well-sated. “Qingyou, time to get up.”

The memory of that word—‘brother’—made her want nothing to do with him. She turned away, dressed herself in silence, and ignored the milk he offered.

Fu Wenzhou trailed after her with a sigh. “Why does my big sister hold such a grudge?”

She spun around and glared at him. “Now I’m your ‘sister’?”

“My mistake.” He apologized, but there wasn’t the slightest hint of guilt in his expression. “Sister, drink this milk.”

Her legs trembled with fatigue, every step a struggle. Once inside the bathroom, she shut both Fu Wenzhou and the milk outside.

Leaning heavily on the sink, her face blushed and darkened by turns. Finally, she couldn’t hold back a curse. “Beast!”

It took her a long time to compose herself before she emerged. Fu Wenzhou was still standing there with the milk. When he saw her, he said quietly, “I’ll go heat this up for you.”

Then, after a pause, he asked, “Shall I carry you, sister?”

That truly infuriated her. “Fu Wenzhou!”

He just chuckled softly, bent down, and scooped her up with one arm, balancing the milk in the other hand as he carried her out.

Song Qingyou was so angry she could have exploded, but she dared not struggle for fear of spilling the milk.

Gently, Fu Wenzhou placed her on the sofa, warmed the milk, and brought it back to her.

This time, Song Qingyou didn’t refuse. She was utterly drained and, truth be told, hungry.

After she finished the milk, Fu Wenzhou served her a bowl of porridge. She was too exhausted to move, her arms limp at her sides.

Seeing this, Fu Wenzhou knelt beside her, scooping up a spoonful and holding it to her lips. “Qingyou, open up.”

She glanced at him, parted her red lips, and let the fragrant, soft rice porridge melt in her mouth.

She arched an eyebrow. “How long did this take to cook?”

Fu Wenzhou ladled another spoonful. “Three hours last night, then simmered another four in the morning. Is it good?”

She took another mouthful, mumbling, “It’s alright.”

It was, in fact, delicious, but her annoyance lingered and she had no intention of praising him.

Fu Wenzhou patiently fed her spoonful after spoonful. Once she was full and satiated, her mood softened. She reached out and ruffled his black hair, noting with satisfaction that its texture was even better than that of Porridge.

Thinking of Porridge, she suddenly asked, “Where’s Porridge?”

Fu Wenzhou replied offhandedly, “I sent it to the hospital for neutering.”

“You really did?”

“Mm.” His tone was languid. “The vet said it’s best if the owner isn’t present during surgery, or the cat might hold a grudge afterward.”

Song Qingyou was momentarily speechless. You’ve already made it childless for life—what’s the point of fearing its revenge...

Just then, the doorbell rang. She kicked Fu Wenzhou. “Go answer it.”

He caught her ankle in his large hand. She wasn’t wearing socks, her foot pale as jade. He pressed a kiss to the arch before standing up, but instead of heading for the door, he turned back, returning with a pair of fluffy socks.

The doorbell rang again, more urgently.

“Hurry up,” Song Qingyou urged.

Fu Wenzhou knelt before her, holding her ankle as he slid the warm socks onto her feet. Only then did he rise to answer the door.

But as the door opened, his expression changed instantly, his warmth replaced by a visible chill.

With his tall frame, Song Qingyou couldn’t see the visitor. “Is it Uncle Chang?” she called.

The curve of Fu Wenzhou’s lips flattened, his voice colder than the depths of December. “It’s your dear Brother Li.”