The morning light in Liverpool carried the salty dampness of the sea, slipping past the thick Victorian lace curtains and casting mottled shadows on the oak floorboards.Emily opened her eyes.The unfamiliar room was filled with the woody scent of old times.Memories from the night before surged back like a tidal wave—Kai's arrest, the ghost of fear, Ryan's pale face in the hospital bed, and that fragile embrace laced with pain and vulnerability.
She rose gently.The space beside her was empty now, save for a faint indentation in the sheets and the lingering scent of cedar.In the end, she hadn't pushed him away—But she hadn't turned to face him either.She had simply lain there, back turned, unmoving, like a barrier forged from self-preservation.Yet in the dark, she had felt every breath he took, every ounce of restrained pain behind her.
She changed into the cashmere sweater and soft pants Lucas had prepared for her.To her surprise, they fit perfectly.
Drawing a deep breath, Emily opened the door.The old house was eerily quiet, save for the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore.Guided by the rich aroma of coffee, she made her way toward the kitchen.
Unlike the rest of the antique-laden house, the kitchen was sleek and modern.Sunlight streamed through the large glass windows, spilling over the manicured garden bathed in gold.Ryan stood at the counter with his back to her, struggling to keep a paper filter in place with his left hand encased in a cast, while his right hand shakily poured hot water into a coffee dripper.He wore a simple gray loungewear set.His hair hung loose, obscuring the gauze on his forehead.The light caught his lean profile, outlining a man far more vulnerable than the one she had known—a fragile realness rarely seen in him.
Emily felt a faint knock in her chest, soft but undeniable.
She said nothing.Instead, she walked over and gently took the coffee pot and filter from his hands.
"I've got it."Her voice was husky with sleep, but calm.
Ryan spun around, startled.A flicker of surprise, delight—and something like nervousness—passed through his amber eyes.
"You're awake. How did you sleep?"His voice was slightly hoarse, as if still caught in the nerves of last night.
"I slept."Emily focused on her task, slowly pouring hot water into the dripper.The rich scent of coffee filled the kitchen as the dark liquid began to drip.
"And you? Does it still hurt?" she asked softly.
"Getting better."His gaze never left her.She moved with a quiet steadiness, and to him, in that moment, she seemed to eclipse even the morning sun.He hesitated, then added under his breath,"Thank you… for staying."
Emily didn't respond immediately.Instead, she handed him the first cup."Careful. It's hot."Her tone was flat, but the concern was real.That quiet care—unspoken and effortless—soothed something deep within Ryan.As he took the cup, their fingers brushed—just barely—and they both flinched.
"Sit down," she said, nodding toward the bar stool by the island. "You need to rest."
Ryan obeyed.But his eyes never left her.
She made herself a cup and leaned against the counter, sipping slowly.Sunlight poured across her shoulders, painting her in warm gold.There was a stillness in her—resilient, steady.This fragile peace, following the storm of the previous night, was something neither dared disturb.There were no confessions, no forced conversations—Only coffee, birdsong, and the soft, electric current of emotions too complicated to name
Emily changed into a soft cashmere sweater and lounge pants Lucas had prepared. Surprisingly, the fit was perfect. She took a deep breath and stepped out. The old house was unusually quiet, with only the faint sound of waves breaking in the distance. Drawn by the aroma of coffee, she followed it toward the kitchen.
The kitchen, in contrast to the rest of the Victorian home, was strikingly modern. Floor-to-ceiling windows opened up to a carefully maintained garden now bathed in golden morning light. Ryan stood at the counter with his back to her, clumsily trying to steady a filter paper with his casted left hand while holding a coffee pot in his right. He wore a simple gray loungewear set, his hair falling loosely over the bandage on his forehead. The light outlined his lean yet upright silhouette, casting a fragile humanity that was rare to see.
Something in Emily's heart gave a quiet thud. Without saying a word, she walked over and naturally took the pot and filter from his hands.
"I'll do it," she said. Her morning voice was hoarse, but calm.
Ryan turned abruptly, amber eyes flickering with surprise, delight, and a flicker of nervousness. "You're awake. Did you… sleep okay?"
"Mm-hmm." Emily focused on the task at hand, pouring hot water into the filter, the rich scent of coffee blooming between them. "How about you? Does it still hurt?"
"Much better." Ryan's gaze never left her. He watched her every movement as if she were the only thing that mattered in this morning light. After a pause, he murmured, "Thank you… for staying."
Emily didn't reply right away. She simply handed him the first brewed cup. "Careful, it's hot." Her tone was level, but the care in her actions was undeniable. That simple gesture calmed something restless in him. As he took the cup, their fingers brushed for a moment, and they both felt the jolt.
"Sit down," she said, nodding toward a stool by the island counter. "You need to rest."
Ryan obeyed, but his eyes never left her. Emily made herself a cup too and leaned against the counter, sipping quietly. The sunlight gilded her silhouette in soft gold—calm and resilient. The peace in this moment, after the chaos of the night before, felt like a fragile harbor.
The silence between them wasn't awkward—it was a temporary truce, filled with coffee aroma, birdsong outside, and the slow, quiet flow of emotion neither of them could yet name.
"Do you need to change the dressing?" Emily finally asked.
"The housekeeper can…" Ryan started, then caught her calm gaze and changed course. "Only if… you don't mind."
Emily nodded and turned to retrieve the medical kit. Her movements were crisp and efficient, without hesitation. When she returned and gestured for him to unbutton his shirt, the air in the kitchen subtly shifted.
Ryan obediently undid a few buttons, revealing his collarbone and a mess of bruises and abrasions. Emily's heart clenched, but her expression remained composed. She dabbed antiseptic onto a cotton pad and gently cleaned the wound. The coolness of the medicine against his skin, combined with the warmth of her fingertips, made Ryan tense up.
"Does it hurt?" she asked, glancing up.
"No… not really." His voice was hoarse, and his eyes fixed on her face—on her long lashes casting shadows under her eyes, the curve of her nose, the unwavering focus in her expression. He caught the fresh, clean scent of her hair, still laced with a faint trace of his cologne from last night's coat. A surge of longing swept through him, but he held it back, his fists clenching at his sides.
Emily could feel the heat of his stare, the tension in his body. She forced herself to focus, ignoring her own quickened pulse. When her fingers accidentally brushed the warm skin of his neck, they both flinched slightly, like a static spark had passed between them.
"All done." Emily quickly stepped back, closed the kit, and added a cool, distant reminder. "Don't forget your meds."
"Got it." Ryan responded, his eyes still fixed on her—eyes that now held nothing back, filled with warmth and something like devotion.
Just then, steady footsteps echoed from down the hallway. Lucas Lee appeared at the kitchen entrance, his tall figure wrapped in a sharply tailored charcoal suit—completely at odds with the soft morning light and the calm, domestic air of the old house.
His gaze, like a precision scanner, first landed on Emily—with measured scrutiny—then moved to his brother, still in loungewear, eyes clearly glued to her. Finally, his eyes settled on the medical kit that Emily had just closed and placed aside.
"Looks like your recovery is going well," Lucas said, voice even and unreadable. He made his way to the coffee machine and poured himself a cup, movements unhurried and graceful, yet somehow exuding quiet authority.
"Morning, Lucas," Ryan said, posture subtly stiffening, as if trying to regain his usual composure. The softness in his features hadn't completely faded.
"Mr. Lee," Emily greeted, her nod poised, her face composed—as if the gentle intimacy of moments ago had never existed.
Lucas took his coffee and strolled toward the window, observing a bird perched in the dew-speckled garden. His back to them, he spoke with measured calm, like stating a fact:"The police just wrapped up their initial interrogation with Kai. He admitted to harassing and threatening Lin Yue over a long period, as well as stealing her design. But as for the fall, he maintains it was an accident. Says he has an alibi. With current evidence, they can only press charges for harassment and intellectual theft."
Ryan's gaze darkened. His hand clenched slightly around the coffee cup. Emily frowned—the man was slippery, his background ironclad. No wonder he always landed on his feet.
Lucas turned to face them again, and this time, his hawk-like eyes locked onto Emily's face—longer, sharper, as if trying to excavate something buried deep beneath her calm expression. Then, subtly, his gaze shifted lower… and settled on her wrist.
The jade bracelet glinted in the sunlight—soft green, flecked with golden veins. A perfect mirror of the one Lin Yue had once worn.
"Miss Chen," Lucas said slowly, every word crisp and deliberate. "I looked into Lin Yue's file at Manchester University. Her mother was surnamed Lin, from a southern Chinese town called Qingxi."
He paused. His storm-colored eyes held hers. "Funny thing is—your accent carries a similar inflection to that region."
The kitchen air thickened instantly.
Emily's pulse stuttered. But outwardly, she remained serene. Meeting his gaze, she replied coolly, "There are many towns in southern China with similar accents. Qingxi? I'm afraid I've never heard of it. I'm from Linjiang."
Her tone was smooth, unhesitant—perfect.
Ryan's brows furrowed. He sensed the hidden tension, the unspoken subtext. "Lucas, what are you trying to say?"
Lucas didn't answer right away. He continued watching Emily with unsettling stillness, as if her calm was a puzzle he was close to solving. The bracelet, the voice, the timing—it couldn't be a coincidence. He was nearly certain now. There was blood beneath this vow. A connection. A secret.
He swirled his coffee slightly, then let out a small, ambiguous chuckle. "Nothing, really. Just thinking how small the world is. Fate's a strange thing, isn't it?" He turned to Ryan. "The doctor will be here at ten. Also, I left some urgent documents in the study you should review for the firm."
With that, Lucas left the kitchen, his footsteps receding—along with the silent pressure he carried.
But the question he'd planted—about Qingxi, about the bracelet—remained, floating heavy in the morning air.
Once again, only the two of them remained in the kitchen.
Ryan turned to Emily, his expression conflicted. "Emily… about my brother—"
"It's fine," she interrupted softly, moving toward the sink to rinse their coffee mugs. The sound of running water filled the silence, a steady stream washing over ceramic and tension alike.
"He's just doing his job—as your older brother. Protecting you, and… investigating me." She paused for a breath. "It's understandable."
She dried her hands and turned around, her face composed once again. "I'll see what's in the fridge for breakfast."
She didn't mention the jade bracelet, nor the town of Qingxi, as if Lucas's probing had been a passing breeze rather than the stormfront it truly was.
Ryan watched her slender figure as she moved toward the refrigerator—shoulders straight, movements calm. She stood there, quietly opening the door, scanning its contents, as if nothing had happened. Yet to him, her composure revealed not indifference but quiet strength. Her decision to stay, to care for him this morning, to share silence over coffee—that was reconciliation in its most fragile, most honest form. But the way she'd drawn that line… the way she'd gently evaded Lucas's implication… that, too, was telling.
She was with him—but still guarded.
And Ryan understood. Trust wasn't earned with one night of shared pain. It wasn't rebuilt in a morning of soft glances and stitched-up wounds. If he wanted to reach her again—not just her body beside his, but her heart, her belief—he would have to wait. Prove. Earn it back.
He set down his empty coffee cup, his gaze still fixed on her. Sunlight danced over her profile, turning her hair to ribbons of chestnut gold.
Outside, the sea breeze carried the scent of salt and wild roses.
The morning looked peaceful.
But beneath that gentle light, something had shifted.
A thread had been tugged. A name spoken. A bloodline hinted at.
The foundation of trust was being slowly rebuilt—but beneath it, shadows still stirred.