I'm the daughter of an imperial physician. My days at home are spent planting flowers and seeing patients, and life is as bland as boiled water.
One day, my father went out to see a patient and brought back a dying man he found outside the city. After we saved him, the man insisted on offering himself to me in marriage.
I said there was no need. He could just pay me.
I thought there was something wrong with his head.
My father didn't see it that way. He said the man was clever and quick-witted, well-built, and strong enough to get things done. He'd be just right as a live-in son-in-law. And so it was settled.
Before I knew it, we were married, and he looked at me like a wolf that hadn't eaten in days.
I'd only have to glance at him for his breathing to change. The next moment, he'd be dragging me toward the bed.
Before I knew what was happening, he had me pinned down.
From then on, I never had a moment's peace.
I was turning medicinal herbs in the courtyard when my sleeve slid up, revealing a glimpse of my pale wrist.
His eyes instantly looked as if they were burning with fire. He stared fixedly, as though he couldn't wait to drag me off and do something right there.
I'd say a couple of words to him, and he'd stare at my lips until I got goosebumps.
I'd reach up and pat his shoulder, and his whole body would tense like stone. His breathing grew so heavy I thought he was about to tear the house down.
The most outrageous thing happened this morning. I made congee in the kitchen, carried out a bowl, and casually asked, "Would you like some congee this morning?"
He suddenly looked up at me, his gaze burning. Even his voice changed. "You... are willing?"
I was baffled. "Willing to do what?"
His eyes actually reddened. He wrapped his arms around me and said, "I am willing."
Me: "...What exactly are you willing to do?!"
Later, I realized something was off.
At last, one day, I secretly found a book. Two large words were written on the cover: Restricted.
Well, would you look at that. He's the male lead in one of those stories.
You know the kind?
It's nothing but that sort of thing, over and over. A glance is a spark, a word is a blaze, and even a glimpse of a wrist can make him lose control on the spot.
And me,
The cover of my own book says: Wholesome Romance.
He's a restricted-content wolf, while I'm a wholesome-romance novice.
His head is full of unspeakable things, while I need to spend half the day psyching myself up just to hold hands.
How are we supposed to make this work?
I decide to follow the rules of wholesome romance.
"Husband," I say, holding the congee and looking at him seriously, "starting today, let's agree: no touching me, no staring at me, and no..."
He stands up and walks toward me.
That look again.
I take a step back. "Y-you... what are you going to do?"
Theme: Love.
