Stepmom couldn’t help but laugh when she saw Zhaoran’s actions. “You silly boy, where did you learn to be so considerate? I can manage myself,” she said, reaching out to take the bowl from him.
Zhaoran dodged her hand and gestured for her to open her mouth. “What do you mean, where did I learn it? This is how it’s always done in TV shows. When the female lead catches a cold, the male lead always feeds her porridge like this.”
“Little brat, copying TV dramas,” Stepmom said with a chuckle. “That’s all acting. I’m not some frail old woman in her seventies or eighties—what would people think if they saw you feeding me? Hurry up and hand it over. I’ll eat it myself.”
Reluctantly, Zhaoran placed the bowl in front of her. Stepmom picked up the spoon, scooped some porridge, blew on it gently, then brushed a strand of hair behind her ear before finally taking a bite.
“How does it taste?” Zhaoran asked, watching her intently.
Stepmom nodded. “Not bad. You even remembered to add dried scallops.” After a few more bites, she let out a soft burp. “Forget it, I don’t have much of an appetite. I can’t finish this.”
Just as Zhaoran was about to respond, there was a knock at the door—likely his father returning home.
Stepmom frowned. Zharan turned to answer the door and found Zhao Ping leaning against the doorframe outside. As he stepped in and changed his shoes, he asked, “How’s your stepmom? Did she take her medicine?”
Before Zhaoran could answer, his father slumped onto the shoe-changing bench and drifted off to sleep, his deep snores soon filling the room.
Stepmom walked over with a stern expression, motioning for Zhaoran to step aside. She gave Zhao Ping a light pat, but he merely waved his hand and mumbled, “Drink… drink… if you don’t drink… uh… you’re a coward.”
He even mimed raising a glass before dropping his hand and falling back into a deep slumber.
“How utterly ridiculous,” Stepmom muttered, trembling slightly with anger. Zhaoran quickly wrapped an arm around her waist to steady her.
“Later, drag him to the sofa and let him sleep there for the night,” she said. “I don’t want to share a bed with him reeking of alcohol like this. Besides, I might pass my cold to him. Consider this his punishment—look at how utterly drunk he is.” With that, Zhou Yun gave her husband a light kick, clearly displeased.
Once she steadied herself, she said, “I’m going back to bed. Xiaoran, just put the porridge in the fridge. I’ll have it tomorrow morning.”
Zhaoran nodded. Stepmom headed back to her room but soon returned with a blanket, which she tossed onto the sofa.
“Take your dad to the sofa to sleep,” she instructed.
Zhaoran obediently dragged Zhao Ping to the sofa and laid him down, though he showed no tenderness in handling him.
Zhou Yun glanced at her husband, now dead drunk, and muttered under her breath in dissatisfaction, “What matters more—friends or family?”
With that, she finally retreated to her room to sleep.
Lying in bed, Zhaoran found himself wide awake, his mind consumed by the sensation of having touched Stepmom earlier. His thoughts wandered restlessly, but at least he had managed to feel her smooth, jade-like legs again. The memory of their full, firm texture lingered, and his hand seemed to still carry the faint scent of her body. His cock remained stiff, aching for release.
Yet, he was too tired to masturbate. Instead, he lost himself in fantasies of Stepmom’s voluptuous body presented before him, engaging in lewd acts together until he gradually drifted off to sleep.
The night passed without dreams. The next morning, when Zhaoran awoke, Stepmom was already up. She had prepared a simple breakfast—boiled eggs and milk were set on the table—while she herself was eating the leftover porridge from the night before.