Chapter 3: Chapter Three: If He Wishes It, Give Him a Chance

Even at the brink of falling asleep, I found it hard to breathe, my heart feeling as if it had been squeezed, all because of those three words casually spoken by Stan Wallace.

The worst part of my life was almost over, yet at this moment, I felt so sad that I wanted to cry.

I fell into a restless sleep, suppressing my emotions, and woke up before dawn. Only then did I realize that the hand which had been gripping Stan Wallace's shirt sleeve had somehow ended up holding his arm.

His right arm. In this position, he must be facing me.

Realizing this, I was fully awake, my heart beating a little faster.

I didn't dare to look at his sleeping face; even when he was asleep, he was perceptive and would notice me. So, I just stared at the place where our skin touched for a while.

Stan Wallace's skin was paler than most boys, with well-defined lines on his bent arm and prominent wrist bones. His hands were beautiful, especially when he held a pencil, drawing, revealing the veins on the back of his hand.

Once I left, I wouldn't be able to touch him again.

Thinking of this, I greedily curled my index finger, rubbing it against that patch of skin.

"What are you doing?" A cold voice came from above, making my breath hitch for a second.

Panicked, I quickly pulled my hand back and sat up, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. I looked at him in alarm, "Brother, when did you wake up?"

My face felt hot, and I avoided his gaze.

But Stan Wallace remained calm and composed. He glanced at me briefly before getting out of bed, "Not working at the convenience store anymore?"

After turning sixteen, I started working at a convenience store, skipping evening classes, and working from six in the evening until midnight.

Though I called it work, my real intention was to stay out later, trying to coincide with Stan Wallace's off time.

Yesterday, my stepfather suddenly showed up, causing a scene, claiming that the boss was employing a minor.

It was a ridiculous and ignorant reason, but I still got fired and brought back home.

I was surprised that Stan Wallace knew about it. Before I could ask, he said, "There's an opening for a clerical position at my workplace. If you want it, come with me when I leave."

Stan Wallace's voice was always cool and detached, speaking to me in a matter-of-fact way. Though it seemed indifferent, it often saved me from dire situations.

It was as if the plea I couldn't utter yesterday had been heard in another world and responded to. I stared at Stan Wallace, a bit dazed.

"What is it?" Stan Wallace noticed I hadn't answered, a hint of curiosity in his expression, "Isn't today your birthday?"

He checked the time on his phone and turned to leave.

Knowing how busy his work was, I didn't dare delay. The sudden good fortune had already overwhelmed me, and without thinking too much, I followed him out to get ready.

In the living room, my stepfather was sitting in the middle of the sofa, dressed in a suit, embodying the term 'a wolf in sheep's clothing' perfectly.

When he heard us, he turned to look at me. Just that one glance made my neck and wrists feel as if they were being clamped by his smoke-tinged hands, making it hard to breathe.

I subtly moved closer to Stan Wallace, and he cleared his throat and looked down.

He still wanted to maintain his dignity in front of his son.

"Your mother has dialysis today. Since you're not working, there's no need for a nurse. You can go with her," my stepfather said, "I'll pick you up at noon."

Dialysis takes more than three hours, and afterward, she often feels weak and sleeps through the afternoon.

If my stepfather said he would pick us up, it meant that after that, it would just be the two of us at home.

Just as I was about to refuse, I saw my mother coming out of the kitchen, giving me a meaningful look.

She didn't want me to refuse.

"She's going with me today," Stan Wallace suddenly said.

No one dared to contradict Stan Wallace in this house, not even my stepfather.

His authority was earned through fists and kicks, and I had witnessed it for three years.

I instantly felt relieved. When both my mother and stepfather looked at me, I nodded firmly.

After washing up, I saw my mother limping out of the small kitchen with a plate of steaming shredded potatoes. She glanced at Stan Wallace, forcing a stiff smile, and said softly, "Zhun, go wash up and have breakfast before you go to work. Gloria Kit, come with me for a moment."

Every night, my mother went to her room at eight o'clock, closing the door as if entering a world of her own. But her complexion was always poor, with heavy dark circles under her eyes. Even when she smiled, she exuded a sense of numb despair.

Late-stage diabetes had cost her some toes and transformed her from a beautiful career woman into a disabled housewife, making her look at my stepfather with fear.

"Luo, come help me," my mother called, waving me over. As I approached, she glanced in the direction of my stepfather and lowered her voice, "Did you upset him last night?"

Her tone was ambiguous, making it hard for me to tell if she was scolding or warning me.

When I looked at her, she put down the bowl and chopsticks, rolled up her sleeve, and revealed fresh, red burn marks on her wrist.

In this context, her gesture felt like a silent threat.

She never looked at me, continuing her work with her head bowed, and said, "Before you leave, if he wants to, just let him have his way, okay?"