His voice was casual, as if discussing something that had nothing to do with him.
But that nonchalant attitude only deepened my suspicion.
"If you ended up here, it can't be an ordinary knife wound."
"Minor injury. Nothing to worry about."
Through the sound of running water, his voice was low and warm.
But I couldn't relax. Ignoring the fact that he was showering, I opened the door.
He immediately turned his back to me.
Partially healed but still gruesome knife wounds were hidden behind the misty glass partition.
"Miss Rose, it seems you truly don't treat me as an outsider."
There was amusement in his voice as he glanced back at me, the movement rippling the muscles on his back.
I blushed. "This is my home. I open whatever door I please."
That brazen declaration sent my heart rate skyrocketing, and I fled with his clothes clutched to my chest.
Standing on the laundry balcony, catching my breath, I replayed my own words.
He was the one who initiated the kiss last time. No matter the era, that had to mean something.
Looking at him twice—just checking how badly he was hurt—was perfectly reasonable!
Emboldened by this logic, I carried his clothes to the washing machine with renewed vigor.
A colorful tin box tumbled out.
I picked it up. On the cover was a chubby little angel. The box seemed stuck shut—whether from being squeezed or something else, I couldn't open it.
I set it aside and shoved the wet clothes into the machine.
Before long, he had finished rinsing and called through the door for his clothes.
"Still washing—they're filthy, and I need to iron and mend them..."
Mid-sentence, inspiration struck. In ancient times, the cowherd hid the weaver fairy's clothes and won a wife.
If I hid his clothes, would he be unable to leave?
I went to the bathroom door and called through it, grinning: "Just put on the bathrobe hanging on the rack—I bought it too big."
Imagining his hesitation with the feminine bathrobe behind that door, I snickered.
Soon, the bathroom door opened.
The bathrobe I thought would look awkward on him was tied loosely at his waist, blatantly revealing his muscular chest. As he walked, he carried with him a cloud of steam and warm bathroom light.
Dreamlike, ghostlike, stunning.
"Miss Rose, apologies—this bathrobe is a bit small."
His gaze was intent as he walked toward me, damp hair scattered across his forehead.
Glancing down at my wrist, where his oversized watch still hung, his smile deepened.
"Uh...it's not small."
My face burned to the roots of my hair. Last time I undressed him, he was covered in blood—I treated him like a flesh-and-blood person, nothing more. But this time, as he walked toward me whole and complete, the visual impact was rather too stimulating.
"I mean, as long as the important parts are covered—no, no, I didn't mean anything by that."
I was the one who couldn't handle being teased.
The lingering tingle from our parting kiss had never fully faded.
Now I was stammering incoherently.
He watched my flustered behavior with a soft laugh.
"Miss Rose, why is your face so red?"
5.
I pressed the back of my hand to my cheek and turned away. "Let me find you something else to wear—this one really isn't appropriate..."
I was only tough in talk. Confronted with actual beauty, I could barely manage a squeak before passing out.
Better to be my normal self.
After rummaging, I found an oversized hoodie. He barely squeezed into it. As for the pants...
No, better not think about it—I was about to get a nosebleed.
"Just wrap the bathrobe back around yourself so you don't catch cold. Let me check if your clothes are done washing."
The machine stopped at just the right moment. I grabbed his pants.
They were only half-dry after the spin cycle, but he didn't complain, turning his back to me to pull them on.
I spun around in alarm. "What are you doing so fast—let me iron them for you!"
He didn't respond, already moving to put on his military boots. The modern hoodie paired with the Republican-era navy trousers and black combat boots looked inexplicably good together.
"Don't be in such a hurry to leave..."
I stepped in front of him.
He didn't back away. Instead, he stepped closer, smiling down at me, starlight seeming to shimmer in his eyes.
I swallowed, a certain frame flashing through my mind, debating whether to close my eyes.
He reached out and placed his hand behind my head, giving me no time to deliberate. A sharp strike to the back of my neck—and everything went black.
Before I lost consciousness, I heard a very soft, regretful whisper:
"I'm sorry. If I stayed one more time, I might not be able to leave..."
...
I don't know how long I slept.
Waking with a sore neck, I found myself in my own bed.
Stumbling to the living room, I found a note on the table in elegant traditional characters:
"This little angel looks like you."
I looked at the chubby angel on the cookie box, squeezing my fist in frustration.
This man—he ambushed me!
He knocked me out and just left.
Why was I so useless? Couldn't even keep one man.
Deflated, I sat on the sofa clutching the cookie box.
Then I noticed he had thoughtfully loosened the lid for me.
Inside were neatly arranged butter cookies.
In his era, torn by war, and he could still find cookies this good?
I ate a couple of the sweet treats from the Republican era.
Blood sugar stabilized, I was no longer angry.
Stroking the chubby angel, I muttered: "Jerk—bringing me cookies even when you're fleeing for your life."
A puff of dust landed near my feet.
The airflow felt unusual.
I traced the dust to the door and found a smallish stone wedged in the gap.
I yanked the door open.
Beyond the short alley, a rickshaw rattled past.
Not far away, a wonton vendor's call and the clanging of a trolley car.
A cool breeze carried unfamiliar scents.
This was Victor's world.
Perhaps he'd left in a hurry and hadn't noticed the door wasn't fully closed.
This was a dangerous era. I should close the door immediately.
But something irrational took hold—I stuck my foot out to test.
It was real.
Grabbing the door handle, I hopped out, then walked back in.
Two timelines intersected at this door.
As long as it stayed open, I could come and go freely between my home and 1922.
An opportunity like this—even just for a glimpse?
I'd been locked down for a month, my mouth was dying for something tasty.
At the very least, some fresh wonton soup?
Decision made, I dashed back inside, found a pair of silver bracelets I never wore, hefted them—a whole wonton's worth—and dug out an old sweater, unraveled it, and tied one end to a sofa leg, the other to the doorstopper, gently propping the door closed.
Carefully making my way, tugging the yarn every few steps to make sure it was still connected, I reached the road where a wonton stand sat under an oil-paper umbrella.
Eight copper coins for a bowl of wonton.
The old vendor took only one bracelet and tried to give me change in coppers.
I waved it off. "Keep it, Grandpa. I'm just passing through."
But when he brought my wonton, he insisted on leaving the coppers on my table.
"You hold onto these, young lady. In times like these, having extra money never hurts."
I didn't argue, my attention already captured by the wonton before me.
A coarse bowl brimmed with wonton, a thick porcelain spoon stirring the small pat of lard at the bottom. Even the cilantro I normally disliked looked appetizing, softened by the broth.
I blew on the steam and opened my mouth for a big bite—
A stick flipped my bowl over.
It shattered on the brick road.
Steaming wonton scattered everywhere.
Heartbroken and furious, I clenched my fists and stood.
Across from me: three soldierly thugs.
"This chick dresses different from everyone else. Grab her and bring her back!"
A lone woman, eating wonton on the street, targeted simply because she looked different.
Perhaps in this dog-eat-dog era where human life was cheap, brute force was the only law.
I was just a stranger in a strange land, unlucky enough to be in the wrong place.
Realizing things were getting serious, I grabbed the yarn to make a run for it.
But one of them seized me by both shoulders.
I turned and came face-to-face with a swarthy man.
"Tryin' to run?" His rotten-tooth breath nearly made me pass out.
The other two, with their crooked features, cracked their knuckles, preparing to drag me off like a lamb.
Outnumbered, outmuscled, and unable to break free—I decided to play my biggest card.
"How dare you touch me! Don't you want to live?"
The three thugs exchanged glances. They hesitated but let go.
"What, you some rich family's daughter?"
I steadied myself and shook free. "I am Victor Vane's woman!"
6.
I had confidence in this—our Victor had two stars on his collar, after all!