Two Faced Lover - Chapter 68

68: Clingy

Lin Huixin had mysophobia. The dance studio should have been cleaned recently—the air carried the scent of disinfectant, mingling with the dampness of impending rain.

A chill seeped into Bo Mingyan’s pores, spreading through her bloodstream like ignited alcohol, flaring into a scorching pain the moment her eyes met the man’s gaze.

“No… In the end, it’s all my fault. I failed you both…”

Lin Huixin’s words grew indistinct as lightning flashed outside, casting a horrifying filter over the scene before her, tearing a gaping wound in her world.

One that never healed, even years later.

In the dream, Bo Mingyan stood frozen for a long time. The crayon drawing she held behind her back fluttered to the floor. She stumbled backward, her heel crushing the paper.

The family of three twisted grotesquely beneath her foot.

Bo Mingyan turned and fled the apartment, not even waiting for the elevator. She staggered down the stairs, twisting her ankle but refusing to stop.

She ran through the darkness, through thunder and torrential rain, weaving through distorted, looming figures.

She wanted to find Bo Weize. She wanted to go home.

But where was home?

The faces of passersby contorted, their fingers pointing, their monstrous eyes filled with disdain. Their mouths opened and closed, strange words blending with the rain and thunder into an unbearable, piercing noise.

Bo Mingyan pushed through them with difficulty, her steps slowing.

Another rumble of thunder.

Suddenly, her heart plummeted as she remembered the truth beyond the dream—Bo Weize was no longer in this world.

No one would hold an umbrella for her in the rain anymore.

There was no place left that could be called home.

Her footsteps faltered. The world around her swirled into a boundless black hole, the figures morphing into countless shadowy hands trying to drag her in.

Crushed into a ball, a hoarse, broken whimper escaped her throat.

“Dad…”

Can you… not leave?

Can you take me with you…?

From the black fog carrying all her past shadows, a pair of hands reached out—different from the others.

These hands were delicate, fair, and slightly cool. One gripped hers while the other smoothed the furrow between her brows.

A soft, clear voice pierced through the nightmare’s cacophony.

“Hey, you called me ‘Dad’ in your sleep. I’m not the one taking advantage here.”

Bo Mingyan slowly opened her eyes. Light seeped into her vision, and in the hazy glow, Meng Xuran’s face came into focus.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Meng Xuran dabbed alcohol onto Bo Mingyan’s palms with a cotton swab.

Tossing the used swab aside, she prepared another alcohol-soaked cotton ball for Bo Mingyan’s forehead. When she looked up, their eyes met.

Meng Xuran blinked. “Awake?”

The nightlight cast a warm, golden glow, like winter sunlight.

Bo Mingyan gazed at Meng Xuran, the tension from her nightmare melting away.

In the bizarre dream, she had glimpsed the shadows of her past.

Upon waking, she saw her future.

When Bo Mingyan remained silent, eyes wide, Meng Xuran studied her for a moment before asking, “Want to sleep a little longer?”

Bo Mingyan pushed herself up, her voice hoarse. “No.”

Meng Xuran handed her a thermometer, hesitating before asking, “Bad dream?”

Bo Mingyan pressed the thermometer to her ear and hummed in confirmation. “You were in it too.”

“???” Meng Xuran, in the middle of packing away the alcohol and cotton swabs, froze. She turned, feigning sternness, narrowing her eyes in mock threat. “Was I the nightmare?”

Watching her expressive face, Bo Mingyan’s mood lifted like clearing skies. The corners of her lips curled. “You’re way scarier than a nightmare.”

Meng Xuran pouted. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”

Bo Mingyan: “Compliment.”

Meng Xuran’s brows lifted, her eyes instantly brightening. She pressed her lips together to suppress a smile, her pride surfacing. “I am pretty amazing.”

Bo Mingyan chuckled. “Right.”

Meng Xuran turned away, suddenly embarrassed.

The thermometer beeped. Bo Mingyan glanced at the reading—38.2°C—then tilted it toward Meng Xuran.

Meng Xuran took it, mixed warm water in a cup, tested the temperature, and handed it to Bo Mingyan. “Drink this. Are you hungry? I got congee. Want some?”

Bo Mingyan had no appetite, even felt slightly nauseous. Instead of answering, she asked, “Did you eat dinner?”

“No.” Meng Xuran shook her head.

Bo Mingyan: “Then I’m hungry.”

“…”

Once Bo Mingyan finished the water, Meng Xuran stood to leave—only for Bo Mingyan to grab her wrist. “Where are you going now?”

“To get the congee. It’s in the hotel kitchen. I’ll heat it up.”

Bo Mingyan’s fingers, still fever-warm, slowly loosened their grip. Setting the cup down, she said, “I’ll go with you.”

“Stay. Put. You’re sick. Have some self-awareness!” Meng Xuran swiftly pinned the blanket back down, glaring. “Move again, and I’ll start the contagion plan immediately!”

“…”

In truth, Bo Mingyan had zero self-awareness as a patient.

After heating the congee in the hotel kitchen, Meng Xuran rushed back—only to catch Bo Mingyan red-handed, having ignored her orders to stay in bed.

Bo Mingyan had cleared the coffee table, her damp bangs suggesting she’d even washed her face.

“You really want me to do something to you, huh?!” Meng Xuran stormed over, slamming the congee onto the table.

The room was warm from the AC, and she was flushed from running back. Shedding her jacket and rolling up her sleeves, she tried to intimidate Bo Mingyan—who didn’t even look up, simply handing her a bowl and chopsticks.

“You took too long.” Bo Mingyan murmured.

So she’d gone downstairs to wait.

Now she was being blamed? Meng Xuran nearly scoffed. But Bo Mingyan’s hoarse, weak voice, tinged with something like a whine, dissolved her irritation.

The yam congee was bland, the yam chunks too thick. The picky Princess Meng poked at hers, took one bite, and gave up, eyeing Bo Mingyan pitifully—who wordlessly pushed her bowl over.

Thus, despite her lack of appetite, Bo Mingyan ended up eating half a bowl of yam and congee.

After resting for half an hour, Bo Mingyan was herded back to bed by Meng Xuran, medicated and watered.

When Meng Xuran picked up the empty cup to leave, Bo Mingyan grabbed her hand again. “Where now?”

“To get more water.”

“Don’t need it.”

“Patients need hydration.”

“Not thirsty.”

“…”

Meng Xuran switched tactics, using alcohol swabs to cool Bo Mingyan’s palms and forehead. Once done, she gathered the trash to take downstairs.

Bo Mingyan: “Why rush?”

Meng Xuran remembered the groceries still downstairs and insisted on fetching them.

Bo Mingyan held her back. “Not hungry.”

“Water? I’ll boil more.”

Bo Mingyan’s refusal was firm. “No. Not thirsty. Stop fussing.”

Meng Xuran eyed her pale, slightly chapped lips and ignored her, heading downstairs to boil water. Bo Mingyan immediately trailed after, claiming she needed the bathroom—but lingered until the water boiled, then followed her back up.

The small kettle meant Meng Xuran had to refill it repeatedly. Each time she went downstairs, Bo Mingyan shadowed her under the pretense of using the bathroom. By the time they finally returned upstairs, Meng Xuran realized she’d forgotten the groceries and trash—prompting another trip, with Bo Mingyan again in tow.

At first, Meng Xuran assumed Bo Mingyan just needed frequent bathroom breaks from all the congee and water.

But once supplies were secured, Meng Xuran settled by the bed—and Bo Mingyan miraculously stopped her bathroom trips, finally staying put.

Meng Xuran massaged the fleshy part of Bo Mingyan’s hand between thumb and forefinger. “Feel better? Headache gone?”

The rhythmic pressure distracted from the nausea and headache. Bo Mingyan hummed softly.

Meng Xuran smiled, satisfied. “My mom does this for me when I have migraines.”

A flicker of envy passed through Bo Mingyan at the mention of Meng Xuran’s relationship with her mother—but it was fleeting, overshadowed by contentment at being cared for. Teasing, she asked, “So now you’re treating me like your daughter?”

Meng Xuran’s shoulders relaxed, a smug grin forming. “Yeah, since you called me ‘Dad’ first.”

Her tone softened, her smile fading slightly as a hint of uncertainty flashed in her eyes.

Bo Mingyan showed no discomfort, just a brief daze.

Adjusting her position, she curled closer to Meng Xuran, reminiscing, “When I was sick as a kid, my dad would sing me to sleep.”

Her fingers hooked around Meng Xuran’s thumb, giving it a tiny shake. Meng Xuran’s heart fluttered.

“What do you want to hear?” Meng Xuran asked.

Bo Mingyan: “Don’t know.”

“What did Dad sing?” Meng Xuran said “Dad” effortlessly.

Bo Mingyan’s lashes trembled. “Lullabies.”

“…” Meng Xuran pulled up lyrics and a melody on her phone and began singing softly, “Sleep, my child, sleep, my darling…”

Her voice was clear and melodious. Bo Mingyan’s gaze softened—until she blinked slowly, lips quirking.

“Mommy’s arms will rock you gently…” Meng Xuran stopped mid-line, glaring. “Why are you laughing?!”

If anything, this made Bo Mingyan’s quiet laughter spill out fully. “Because… wife sings so well.”

Meng Xuran, who had sung without hesitation, now flushed crimson at the word “wife.” Clearing her throat, she switched to Deserts Chang’s “Baby.”

Her lowered voice, paired with the doting lyrics, was mesmerizing. This time, it was Bo Mingyan’s ears that burned.

The medication must have kicked in, because Bo Mingyan soon succumbed to sleep, lulled by Meng Xuran’s hushed singing. Only when extracting her arm from Bo Mingyan’s embrace did Meng Xuran realize—Bo Mingyan’s earlier “bathroom trips” had just been an excuse to stay close.

The realization sparked something tender in Meng Xuran. Bo Mingyan, usually so aloof and independent, being clingy was like a standoffish cat suddenly curling into her lap, belly up, begging for pets. Her heart melted.

And it was only for her.

Meng Xuran’s mood soared. She even hummed cheerfully in the shower—though her joy lasted only until bedtime.

The usually composed, self-sufficient Bo Mingyan turned into a handful when sick.

Worried about contagion, they slept under separate blankets.

But the fever made Bo Mingyan toss between chills and overheating. Each time she grew too warm, she’d kick the blankets onto Meng Xuran.

Thus, Meng Xuran kept waking up to the sensation of being crushed, resisting the urge to snap, and tucking Bo Mingyan back in with a sigh.

After countless repetitions, Meng Xuran gave up. Contagion be damned, she slid into Bo Mingyan’s blanket, layering both covers on top and pinning Bo Mingyan down with her limbs. Soon overheating herself, she stripped off her nightgown and resumed her human straitjacket duties.

The next morning, the alarm jolted Bo Mingyan awake. Her headache was gone, the fever seemingly broken, but her body ached as if she’d spent the night hauling sacks of grain.

Beside her, Meng Xuran turned off the alarm and shifted closer, her body heat radiating through thin fabric. Bo Mingyan instinctively pulled her into an embrace—only for her palm to meet bare, silken skin.

Her eyes flew open, meeting Meng Xuran’s sleep-dazed gaze. Bo Mingyan’s fingers twitched, trailing slowly down her spine.

Her gaze lowered. Disheveled hair cascaded like satin, the inky strands accentuating porcelain skin and delicate curves.

Now fully awake, Meng Xuran preempted any contagion talk with a smirk. “You’re pretty wild when you’re feverish.”

To clarify, she added meaningfully, “You were the patient, so I just… went along with it.”

She patted Bo Mingyan’s cheek, checking her temperature. “Who knew our Manman had this side? Don’t be shy—explore it more.”

Bo Mingyan: “…Meng Jiaojiao, your face is red.”

Meng Xuran: “…”