In the end, Nhu Ha didn't choose the flimsy pink camisole. After pacing back and forth, picking and discarding, she finally settled on a plain short-sleeved T-shirt—light green, newly bought last week at the night market with Bach My.

The shirt was brand new, freshly washed and fragrant, hanging untouched in her wardrobe until now. It was an oversized style, not too baggy but long enough to cover half her butt. Paired with the tiny shorts she slipped on, it only made her pale, slender thighs seem more exposed, more vulnerable—deliberately so, though she wouldn't admit it even to herself.

When she finally closed her bedroom door and stepped out, the sound of water pounding in the bathroom hit her ears. Her cheeks flushed hot. She smacked her face gently with both hands, inhaling deeply, trying to rein in the thoughts that threatened to scatter wild.

But she had no idea that just one thin wall away, in the cramped bathroom, the man was fighting his own war.

The shower roared at full blast, icy cold, pounding against muscle and skin—yet no amount of freezing water could cool the heat surging beneath Thanh Quan's waist.

The small room was filled with the ragged sound of his breathing, mingled with the raw, desperate rhythm of his hand working against the rigid hardness between his thighs.

He braced one palm against the wall, the other pumping with rough, punishing strokes, jaw clenched, brows furrowed. Water streamed down his sunburnt hair, plastering it against his forehead, shadowing the frustration in his eyes.

No matter how hard he tried, the images wouldn't leave. The sight of her earlier—skin bare, wet, soft curves gleaming under the dim light—flashed before him in high definition, each curve magnified cruelly, etched deep into his mind. Her breasts, still budding but firm and full in their youth. Her narrow waist, delicate enough to be spanned by one hand. The sweet, round lift of her ass, pale and perfect, as if begging for his grip.

Fuck.

His fist slammed into the tiles with a sharp thud. His voice tore out raw and vulgar:

"Shit!"

White heat spilled from him, clouding the water at his feet, swirling before sliding down the drain. He grit his teeth, cursing himself again under his breath, fingers curling tight until his knuckles whitened.

Meanwhile, unaware, Nhu Ha busied herself in the kitchen. She cracked eggs, diced tomatoes, chopped scallions. Simple food, but thoughtful—tomato and egg soup with a dash of pepper to warm the stomach of a man just home from travel. The meat she had marinated yesterday was ready to fry, quick but fragrant.

Her small hands moved with practiced grace. After years of tending house, she knew exactly how to season to his taste. She hummed lightly under her breath, an aimless melody, cheerful, innocent.

She didn't notice the shadow that appeared in the doorway.

Thanh Quan stood there, freshly showered, hair still dripping. His eyes fixed on her waist—cinched snug by the apron strings, highlighting the curve of her hips and the round firmness of her ass beneath the shorts. His jaw clenched.

How the hell did I never notice before... she's already bloomed this far?

He rubbed his temple, a dull ache forming in his skull. Had her school even taught her sex education yet? Would she understand what it meant, how dangerous it was for her to walk around like this in front of him?

His gaze lowered, lingering where it shouldn't—at the sway of her hips, the faint rise and fall of her chest under the loose shirt. His own towel hung precariously at his waist. He cursed inwardly, retreating to his room, dragging on a dark gray T-shirt to hide himself.

By the time Nhu Ha brought the steaming bowl of soup to the table, Thanh Quan was slouched on the sofa, cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes closed. The TV droned with the weather forecast, background noise to a silence too thick.

A man in his thirties, living alone with the daughter of the woman he once loved. No blood tie. No obligation. Yet he had given her shelter, school, a life. Even when absent, he cared more for her than himself.

Nhu Ha stood still, eyes drifting to his mouth. His lips weren't full, slightly dark, cracked from long days under the sun. But she wanted to touch them—wanted to press her fingertip against them, replace the cigarette with herself. She wanted to pry those lips open with her own, slide her tongue past them, taste the heat of his breath.

Her throat went dry. She bit down, hard, forcing her mind back. Instead, she leaned forward and plucked the cigarette from his lips, stubbed it out in the ashtray. Smoke curled and vanished into the air.

"Uncle, wake up. Eat first, then sleep."

Her small hand shook his shoulder gently. His lashes lifted, slow and heavy, eyes widening when he found her face so close—too close.

Something flickered in him, gone before he could name it, like a seed carried by the wind, brushing against barren soil, waiting for rain.

He rubbed at his eyes with one hand, the other pressing against her forehead to push her back.

"Don't stick so close. My ears aren't deaf."