Chapter 225
Luna White emerged from the bedroom with an armful of blankets, tossing a pillow onto the sofa. She stared at the two-seater couch, her brow furrowing—how could Andrew Smith, all six feet of him, possibly stretch out comfortably on that tiny thing?
Andrew leaned against the doorframe, his intense gaze fixed on her slender figure as she bustled about. The way her waist swayed with each movement made his throat tighten involuntarily.
The sound of approaching footsteps made Luna pause mid-motion. She pretended to focus on fluffing the blankets, her heart pounding. Why did the air between them feel so charged? She hadn’t done anything wrong, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling of being caught in some illicit act.
"The sofa’s too small," she blurted. "Maybe I should take it instead."
"No." Andrew’s refusal was firm. "I’ll sleep here."
Luna glanced at her watch—nearly eleven. She peeked at Andrew and caught him staring at her freshly washed hair, the dark strands cascading over her shoulders, gleaming softly under the light.
"Well… I’m going to bed." She practically fled into the bedroom, locking the door behind her with a decisive click.
She flopped onto the bed, tossing and turning. Logically, she knew Andrew wasn’t the type to overstep, but locking the door gave her an inexplicable sense of security. The mattress was too soft, the room too quiet—her own heartbeat thundered in her ears.
Midnight thirst drove her to tiptoe to the kitchen for water. The living room TV flickered with static, and Andrew lay sprawled on the sofa, one arm draped over his eyes, his long legs dangling awkwardly over the armrest. Moonlight spilled through the window, tracing the sharp angles of his face.
Before she knew it, Luna found herself tiptoeing closer, gently tucking the blanket around him. Her fingers accidentally brushed his cheek—the warmth sent a jolt through her. How was this ridiculously handsome man her fiancé? She stifled a giggle and scurried back to her room, missing the faint smirk that curled his lips.
The next morning, Luna slept in until the sun was high. She pulled back the curtains to a world blanketed in snow, flakes still drifting lazily from the sky, the silence almost surreal.
The dining table was set with steaming bowls of millet porridge, fried dough sticks, and tea eggs. Andrew emerged from the kitchen with two sets of chopsticks. "Go wash up. I’ve got hot water ready for you."
Luna’s heart warmed at the sight of this domestic version of him.
"Did you buy these?" she asked, biting into a crispy dough stick.
"Yeah, fresh from the vendor." He nudged a steamed bun toward her. "After breakfast, we’ll build a snowman."
Luna nearly choked. "Captain Andrew, how old are you again?"
"Anyone who laughs runs ten kilometers," he shot back, eyes crinkling with amusement.
Their banter was cut short by urgent knocking.
"Luna! Open up!" Ethan White’s booming voice carried through the door.
Her hand jerked, dropping the dough stick into her porridge. She shot Andrew a panicked look, as if they’d been caught in some scandal. But Andrew merely strode to the door, unruffled.
"Andrew?" Ethan brushed snow off his coat. "What are you doing here?"
"Breakfast." Andrew’s expression didn’t waver.
Ethan glanced at the wall clock—10:30 a.m. He clapped Andrew on the shoulder with sudden understanding. "Perfect. I haven’t eaten either."
Only then did Luna realize—who would suspect anything over a late breakfast? Flushing, she ducked her head over her porridge, chiding herself for being so ridiculously guilty over nothing.