Chen Lin stirred, her eyelids fluttering as she drifted into wakefulness.
A dull ache settled in her head, and as she raised a hand to touch the bandage on her forehead, fragments of memory surfaced—her collapse, the exhaustion pressing down on her like an unrelenting weight.
She sighed softly. She had pushed herself too far.
Her gaze swept the hospital room, taking in the sterile white walls, the faint hum of medical equipment.
Then, her eyes landed on the nearby sofa.
Wu Yuxuan sat there, his head tilted slightly to the side, deep in sleep.
A few loose sheets of paper rested in his lap, and beside him, a stack of folders lay haphazardly on the cushion.
His usually sharp and composed appearance was slightly disheveled—his sleeves were rolled up, his collar slightly undone, and faint shadows lingered beneath his eyes.
Even in sleep, traces of his work clung to him.
Her chest tightened.
