Chapter 112: Driving

“Yes.” Yang Yi nodded.

As if satisfied with her affirmative answer, Thomas ceased asking further questions.

The sky between the tree canopy grew faintly bright; the corner shifted from darkness to dimness, revealing the surrounding scenery.

Thomas’s face flushed deeper red, his breathing grew more rapid, heavy like a bellows.

Yang Yi worriedly asked, “Mr. Thomas, are you all right?”

There was no response from the other side.

Thomas leaned slumped against the damp tree trunk, his head tilted back, his brown curls tangled and caked with soil and leaves, only his pale neck exposed, his body trembling slightly beneath the cold clothing.

Yang Yi moved beside him and felt his forehead—the heat was astonishing.

He had fainted again.

Miranda’s warning surfaced in her mind: Mr. Thomas works so hard he forgets to eat and sleep, often neglects meals, and his health is poor—he had fainted twice from low blood sugar before…

Yang Yi let out a long sigh, raised her body temperature, and gently pulled him into her arms, as if holding a sick child.

Thomas drifted in a daze, as if seated before the fireplace at home, flames crackling as they licked the wood, warming him as he nestled into the sofa, its soft back and armrests cradling him—utterly comfortable.

In this warm, soothing comfort, he slept—a sleep more pleasant than any he’d ever known—until he was gently shaken a few times.

“Mr. Thomas? Wake up—the sun’s out—”

He opened his sore, gritty eyes to see a pair of dark, concerned eyes gazing at him. And he was cradled in her arms. Her body was scorching—hotter than his—making sweat bead on his forehead.

He suddenly realized: the warmth from his dream came from this girl.

“Mm—” He slowly sat upright, breaking away from the cherished warmth. “Let’s go.” He said.

Struggling to crawl out of the corner, he tried to stand but stumbled—had Yang Yi not grabbed him, he would have toppled headfirst into the mud.

Yang Yi bent low before him, arms looping behind, gripping his thighs, and hoisted him onto her back. “You point the way.”

Thomas struggled, but she held him fast.

“Mr. Thomas, this is not the time to worry about male dignity. Your condition is severe—if you faint again, you might not wake up.” Her tone was serious.

Thomas’s struggles ceased. Just those few movements left him gasping, his body weak.

He looked up at the sun, confirmed the direction, and weakly raised a hand—too exhausted to speak.

Along the way, he remained utterly silent. Had he not occasionally pointed the way, Yang Yi would have thought he’d fainted again.

Last night’s rain had soaked the forest in mud and slick moss; Yang Yi trudged through, stepping deep then shallow, nearly slipping several times on the moss—but her hands never loosened their grip on his thighs, keeping him secure.

Thomas saw her maintain a slight forward bend, ensuring he stayed steady. Undoubtedly, the posture was agonizing for her.

“Let me down!” Thomas whispered when she nearly slipped for the first time.

“Sir, if you walk, we’ll move slower.” Yang Yi replied.

Her tone was matter-of-fact, devoid of mockery. Her slender arms held his legs firmly—gentle, resolute, unyielding.

Thomas fell silent.

He could not fathom how such a slender frame possessed such immense, enduring strength.

Her body radiated warmth, heating his chest. He realized: she could regulate her body temperature. All night, she had used that heat to warm him, pulling him back from death’s grasp.

She did not smell good now—mud, sap, and blood mingled into a strange odor—but it strangely comforted him. Her hair was matted with blood and dirt in clumps; her white shirt had lost all trace of its original color, torn and shredded by beasts, hanging like a rag.

The shirt’s neckline was too loose; as she walked, one shoulder slipped free, the muddy strap dangling loosely over her frail collarbone, revealing its elegant curve.

Watching the strap slide further, Thomas hesitated, then quickly lifted it back into place.

Yang Yi’s steps seemed to pause for an instant, then her pace quickened.

Morning mist hung thick; sunlight pierced the canopy, making the dense forest damp and stifling, without a breath of cool wind.

Two hours later, her breathing grew slightly labored.

This was far from her physical limit. She felt her body’s potential still unexplored—like comparing an expert and a novice operating an excavator: the results would differ vastly.

“Let me down!” Thomas’s voice was stern, his struggles intense. “I’m serious.”

Yang Yi halted, setting him down.

“How far now?”

Thomas looked again at the sun in the sky. “Not far… According to direction, we should be nearing where we entered yesterday.”

He insisted on walking, but after ten minutes, he gasped like an ox that had plowed hundreds of acres, sweat pouring down his face.

“Mr. Thomas,” Yang Yi said seriously, “if we continue like this, we won’t exit the forest by noon. And your condition won’t allow such stubbornness. You can choose: I carry you in my arms, or on my back.”

Thomas’s vision blurred with black and gold spots; he waved his hand aimlessly, before Yang Yi lifted him onto her back again.

There was no point arguing with an uncooperative patient. As Miranda said: at such times, ignore his anger and bitterness—treat him firmly with the best method.

Another two hours passed before they finally emerged from the forest, slightly off from their entry point, but close to Thomas’s car.

At the car, Thomas fished his keys from his pocket and tossed them to her, voice weak: “Can you drive?”

“No. I don’t have a license.”

Before becoming a civil servant, she couldn’t afford a car or spare time for a license. After becoming one, she was too busy, always driven, and could fly—she’d never considered getting a license.

“Shift gear, left pedal is brake, right is accelerator—just keep going.” He pulled open the passenger door, slumped inside, the simple act exhausting him.

Yang Yi hesitated only a moment, recalling how Liu Siyuan had driven, and gradually, the car began to move.

She drove slowly at first—the car swayed, stopped and started, unable to maintain a straight line—but soon it steadied.

She finally relaxed her arms, a faint smile curling at her lips—a quiet pride, as if saying, “It’s not so hard.”

Thomas leaned back half-asleep, saw it, and his lips twitched slightly—then vanished.