The brown sugar water sat in her own mug, radiating a steady, stifling heat. The sweet, heavy scent clung to the air.

Maxwell set the mug down in front of her. "It’s scalding. Let it cool a bit before you drink."

"Okay."

As he moved away, Arianna noticed a large, dark shadow on the back of his shirt. When he’d first stood up to fix the drink, she’d assumed it was just the dim lighting in the room playing tricks on her eyes. But now, as he paced, the patch remained perfectly still, unchanging as he moved through the shadows.

When he sat back down, she reached out and touched the spot.

The fabric was damp. Her fingertips came away slick.

"You're drenched," Arianna blurted out, her voice filled with sudden alarm.

The words were barely out before she felt like an idiot. It was a humid summer evening, well over ninety degrees, and the room was stifling. They hadn’t turned on the AC, and the only ventilation came from a tiny window crack, letting in a whisper of night air that did nothing to cut through the oppressive heat. The steam rising from the kettle on the table only made the room feel heavier.

Arianna started to stand up, but Maxwell caught her hand. "Where are you going?"

"To turn on the AC."

"Are you hot?" Maxwell looked up at her, his voice softening. "You said you were freezing just a moment ago."

Arianna nodded. "I'm... I'm a bit warm now."

Maxwell didn't answer. He stared at her, his dark eyes searching, as if trying to dissect her expression to see if she was lying. His gaze was deep, ink-black, and swirling with hidden currents—the kind of look that could pull you under if you weren't careful.

Arianna forced herself to hold his gaze.

The silence hung between them for several seconds, stretched thin and taut, until the doorbell cut through it. Without a word, Maxwell rose from the sofa to answer it.

When he returned, he was carrying a heavy takeout bag with a familiar receipt stapled to the corner. Arianna blinked. She had completely forgotten about the delivery she’d ordered earlier.

She opened her mouth to say, *Oh, that must be my food,* but then her gaze caught the size of the bag. It was far too big. She’d only ordered a single bowl of porridge, not this mountain of containers.

"Did they get the order wrong?" she asked tentatively. "I didn't order all this."

Maxwell placed the bag on the table and began unpacking it with calm, deliberate movements. "I did."

"When did you order this?"

Arianna was baffled. He had been right in front of her since he arrived; she hadn't seen him touch his phone.

"On the way over," Maxwell said, uncovering a flurry of dishes. "Eat first. We’ll turn on the AC after."

Seeing her bewildered expression, he smiled. "You've been starving yourself for hours. You need real food to keep your strength up. If you turn on the AC right now while you're this run-down, you'll catch a cold."

She had always been struck by his thoughtfulness, but this was on another level. She murmured a quiet "okay" and pulled herself to the table.

What followed was even more overwhelming. The table was filled with steamed sea bass, blanched shrimp, steamed pork ribs with taro, beef pot roast... The dishes were incredibly fresh and aromatic, yet refined—no heavy scallions or hot chili oils. They were cooked to highlight the natural flavor of the ingredients.

Arianna sat there in a daze until Maxwell slowly unwrapped a pair of chopsticks, handed them to her, and then grabbed his own. "Eat, Arianna. While it's hot."

He placed two small bowls in front of her: red date and tremella soup, and a bowl of silkie chicken broth. At this moment, Maxwell felt like a magician, and the unremarkable takeout bag was his bottomless hat. Finally, he pulled out a bowl of rice and a serving of pumpkin porridge.

"Rice or porridge?"

"Porridge," she whispered. "I want something warm."

"Done."

He handed it to her, peeling back the lid so the sweet, earthy aroma of the pumpkin wafted out, before turning to his own meal. He didn't forget to carefully pick the bones out of the center of the steamed bass, placing the tenderest pieces into her empty bowl. "Eat up."

His actions were fluid, natural, and utterly effortless.

Arianna couldn't find the words to describe how she felt. It felt like a dream—the warmest, most surreal dream she’d ever had, one she was terrified to wake from. The scent of the food served as a tether to reality, reminding her that she really was married to this man. And perhaps, they might actually spend the rest of their lives together.

The thought didn't fill her with the usual dread or confusion. Instead, it stirred a flicker of excitement. A quiet, budding hope.

Halfway through the meal, the doorbell rang again. Maxwell looked at Arianna.

"That might be my order," she said, slow to react.

"Your order?"

"I placed it before you got here," she explained awkwardly. "I checked the app earlier, and it said it was still across town."

Maxwell let out an 'hmm' and stood up before she could move. "Stay put. I'll get it."

The bag was transparent, and the contents were visible at a glance: a plain bowl of watery porridge and a side of bland pickles. Maxwell’s expression darkened.

"You were going to eat *this*?"

"What?" Arianna blinked.

Maxwell pulled the containers out and tossed the plastic bag into the trash. "You're on your period, and you're just eating plain porridge?"

"What's wrong with that?"

"You should be eating something nutritious, not this garbage."

"How do you even know...?" She trailed off, realizing. "Did you look it up online?"

Maxwell nodded.

Arianna couldn't help but laugh softly. "It’s fine. Eating like this once in a while isn't going to hurt."

"Don't eat it," Maxwell said, pulling the porridge toward himself. He caught her staring and offered a small, crooked smile. "If you think it’s a waste, I’ll finish it."

"No, I didn't mean it like that."

"Hmm?"

Arianna kept her gaze fixed on him for a long time. Finally, she spoke. "Thank you. I mean it. Really, thank you."

Maxwell’s lips quirked upward, his eyes softening into a deep, intense warmth. "If you really want to thank me, then just get better quickly."

To him, that was the only reward that mattered.

Arianna would never know just how heartbreaking she had looked when he first arrived—a tiny, shivering ball of misery curled up on the sofa, her hair damp with cold sweat, her brow furrowed, her knuckles white as she gripped a pillow. She had looked so pale, her lips drained of all color, as if the life were draining right out of her.

At that moment, the only thought in Maxwell's mind had been a desperate, silent plea: *If only this pain could be transferred.* He would have taken it all for her—double, triple the amount—if it meant she could be spared a single second of this suffering.

The helplessness was agonizing. All he could do was watch her hurt, unable to do a single thing to make it go away.