As a Scummy Omega, I Ran Away with the Baby - Chapter 56.1

Even the longest night will eventually pass.

Yet for Gu Yining, this seemed to be the longest and most agonizing night of her life. She didn’t return to the guest room. Instead, she grabbed a thin blanket and curled up on the bench against the hallway wall, close enough to reach the children’s room easily in case Bai Xia woke in the night and needed care.

The villa’s central heating was set to a comfortable constant temperature, and she was wrapped in a blanket—it should have been warm. And yet, no amount of physical warmth could dispel the chill spreading from deep within her chest: a belated coldness born of regret.

Aunt Han’s words replayed over and over in her mind. Every sentence, every detail, reminded her how self-righteous she had been. She had stood on a moral high ground, judging Bai Qingqiu’s “indifference,” never once considering that beneath the façade Bai Qingqiu used to protect herself lay wounds she refused to speak of—wounds that might already be festering.

She didn’t sleep at all. As dawn approached, a faint blush of morning light slowly spread across the sky beyond the window.

Gu Yining sat up from the bench, raised a hand to rub her swollen, sleep-deprived eyes—yet her mind felt unexpectedly clear.

She knew what she had to do.

Nothing grand. Just atonement—making up, in whatever small way she could, for the mistakes she had made out of ignorance and foolishness.

In the first-floor kitchen, Aunt Han was already up early, preparing breakfast for everyone. When she saw Gu Yining come in, she looked up in surprise.

“Miss Gu, why are you up so early? Why not get some more rest?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Gu Yining replied with a small smile. “So, I thought I’d get up and help take care of them with you.” Her gaze fell on the rice-washing basin on the island, filled with white rice and dried scallops. “Are you making plain congee?”

“Yes,” Aunt Han nodded. “They’re both coughing and running fevers. Congee is easy on the stomach, helps with sweating and urination—it’ll help them recover faster.”

After so many years of experience, Aunt Han was thoroughly practiced when it came to caring for the sick.

“Let me do it, Aunt Han,” Gu Yining said, rolling up her sleeves as she took the basin from her hands. “You barely rested last night. Go lie down for a bit—Xia Xia will need you today. I can’t help much, but I can manage a pot of congee.”

Aunt Han studied her for a moment, hesitated, then nodded. She carefully went over the steps and things to watch out for, only leaving once she was sure Gu Yining had remembered everything.

After Aunt Han left, the kitchen was quiet again, with only Gu Yining inside.

Following the instructions she’d been given, Gu Yining carefully washed the rice and the pre-soaked scallops, added a small amount of peanut oil and salt for seasoning, then placed everything on the stove. She poured in the right amount of water, brought it to a boil, then lowered the heat to let it simmer gently.

The white grains tumbled endlessly in the water, gradually turning translucent and thick, releasing a faint, comforting aroma of rice.

Ordinary rice, once cooked, would release its fragrance and reach maturity—such a simple, immutable rule. But many things, especially matters between people, were never that simple.

Gu Yining stood quietly by the stove. Wisps of steam rose from the pot and brushed against her face as she stared absently into the simmering congee.

She didn’t know whether Bai Qingqiu truly needed a bowl of this congee. But it was the only thing she could think of—and the only thing she could do right now.

It was a gesture. A stance.

Whether Bai Qingqiu needed it or not, she had to show it.

This was an apology. Nothing more, nothing less.

A richer aroma—rice mingled with the distinctive umami of dried scallops—billowed out with the steam escaping from beneath the lid, pulling Gu Yining’s thoughts sharply back from their tangle.

She realized she couldn’t wait any longer. Picking up a ladle, she stirred the pot a few times to even it out, then scooped up a small amount. She blew on it gently and tasted it with care.

The rice had completely broken down—soft, creamy, thick. The sweetness of the rice and the savory depth of the scallops blended perfectly. The heat was just right.

She turned off the stove, took a clean white porcelain bowl from the cupboard, and carefully ladled the steaming congee into it—only half a bowl, worried that too much might be hard for someone unwell to finish.

When everything was done, Gu Yining carried the tray with a heart weighed down by conflicting emotions, walking toward the bedroom that belonged to Bai Qingqiu—a place she had once thought she would never set foot in again.

Knock, knock.

Gu Yining tapped lightly, tentatively, on the door.

There was no response.

She waited patiently a little longer before knocking again.

“Come in.”

Bai Qingqiu’s hoarse, exhaustion-laden voice finally came from inside.

Gu Yining pushed the door open. The soft light of early morning slanted into the room, outlining the solitary figure on the bed. Bai Qingqiu was leaning against the headboard, staring blankly out the window, lost in thought. She wore only a silk robe, which made her frame look even more slender. In the morning light, her face was still frighteningly pale.

Hearing the sound of the door, Bai Qingqiu slowly shifted her gaze. It first settled on Gu Yining’s face, then gradually moved to the tray in her hands.

Clear confusion surfaced on her features, and when she looked back at Gu Yining, there was unmistakable scrutiny in her eyes.

Gu Yining avoided that searching gaze. She walked straight to the bedside and placed the tray steadily on the nightstand. Throughout the entire process, she deliberately made no unnecessary noise, minimizing her presence as much as possible.

“Aunt Han said that with your injury and poor sleep, your stomach must be uncomfortable,” she said softly, eyes lowered to the bowl of congee she had cooked herself. Her tone was gentle, almost tentative, as if negotiating. “Have some congee. Warm your stomach a bit.”

Instinctively, she pushed everything onto Aunt Han, concealing the concern that had slipped out on its own.

After all, it was Aunt Han—not her.

Bai Qingqiu remained silent.

She looked at the bowl of congee, then at Gu Yining standing there with her eyes lowered, her expression unreadable. The confusion in her heart only deepened.

Was this pity?

Because Gu Yining had seen her at her most wretched last night—and now, from a place of superiority, felt compelled to offer her compassion?

The moment the thought surfaced, Bai Qingqiu felt as if her heart had been stabbed hard with a fine needle—sharp, dense pain spreading in rapid succession. Instinctively, she wanted to open her mouth and refuse.

She didn’t need anyone’s sympathy—least of all Gu Yining’s.

Yet just as she parted her lips to speak, what she met were Gu Yining’s eyes, lifted once more—bloodshot, rimmed red from sleeplessness. There was no pity in them. No mockery. Only a stubborn complexity she couldn’t decipher.

The words lodged in her throat and refused to come out.

It seemed Gu Yining sensed her resistance and distance. She said nothing more and made no attempt to insist. She simply rose to her feet, clearly preparing to leave.

“Aunt Han’s gone to feed Xia Xia,” she explained calmly, as if accounting for her presence. After a brief pause, she added softly, “I was worried the congee would get cold, so I brought your bowl over as well. Remember to eat it while it’s hot. I’m going to take care of Xia Xia now.”

With that, she turned and left on her own initiative.

Even thoughtfully closing the door behind her.

The faint click of the door shutting plunged the room back into silence.

Bai Qingqiu stared at the bowl of congee on the bedside table, steam still curling upward, then at the tightly closed door. Her confusion didn’t ease with Gu Yining’s retreat; instead, it gave rise to an even stronger sense of panic—one that left her completely at a loss.

She couldn’t understand it.

She couldn’t understand Gu Yining at all anymore.

The entire day passed under this same subtle, uneasy tension between them.

Gu Yining delivered lunch, afternoon tea, and dinner to her on schedule—whether Bai Qingqiu was resting in her room or working in the study. Yet just as consistently, she no longer tried to make her do anything, nor did she scold her for failing to take care of her own body. It was as though she had turned mute, reduced to nothing more than a meal-delivery robot—responsible only for placing food in front of her, then later clearing away the empty plates.

That was all.

Bai Qingqiu couldn’t think of anything to say to her. If she told Gu Yining to stop delivering meals, Aunt Han would take over instead—and Aunt Han was already handling everyone’s food, caring for Bai Xia whose condition kept fluctuating, and now would have to double as a server as well. That felt far too much.

Besides, with her ankle injured, she truly did need someone to bring meals to her rather than going downstairs herself.

After finishing yet another document, evening had arrived.

Bai Qingqiu needed to use the restroom. The doctor had just come by to check on her recovery and change her dressing. The progress was acceptable, but the instructions were reiterated again and again: the injured foot was not to touch the ground—not even once.

Since she refused to go to the hospital for imaging, everything had to be handled with the most conservative approach possible.

Leaning heavily on her crutches, Bai Qingqiu struggled to rise from her office chair, inching toward the nearby restroom. To keep her other foot from touching the ground, she had to brace herself with the crutch while constantly lifting the injured one. After exerting herself for what felt like ages, she had moved no more than two steps.

She glanced at her reflection in the window glass.

Pathetic didn’t even begin to describe it. Every step felt like a trampling of what little dignity she had left.

At least Gu Yining wasn’t here.

Neither was Aunt Han.

Bai Qingqiu took a deep breath and swayed her way to the study door, twisting the handle open.

Outside lay the familiar corridor and Gu Yining.

Arms folded, Gu Yining stood not far from the door. It was unclear how long she’d been there. Her face was expressionless; when Bai Qingqiu looked over, she turned her head slightly, avoiding her gaze.

In that instant, Bai Qingqiu felt as though all her awkwardness and humiliation had been laid bare before this one person, stirring a surge of shame and irritation that made her want to retreat immediately back into the room.

Gu Yining didn’t give her that chance.

Turning her attention to a potted plant in the corner, she spoke in a deliberately casual tone.

“I was just heading to the restroom too.” She paused, then extended one arm across Bai Qingqiu’s field of vision. “Let’s go together.”

Bai Qingqiu stared at the figure before her, emotions tangled and unreadable.

Gu Yining hadn’t said she couldn’t manage on her own. Nor had she said she was helping. She was simply “passing by,” “just happened to be going to the restroom,” leaving Bai Qingqiu a perfectly placed way out.

There was no reason not to take it.

Her heart stirred. At last, Bai Qingqiu lifted her arm—already aching from the strain—and rested it on the slender yet steady arm offered to her.

The instant they made contact, she felt the muscle beneath her fingertips tense sharply.

She looked up at Gu Yining’s profile. Her expression remained calm, unchanged, but she subtly steadied her arm, allowing Bai Qingqiu to lean on her more securely.

Bai Qingqiu lowered her gaze and, awkwardly, let herself be guided toward the restroom.

When she came out, Gu Yining was still waiting outside.

She leaned against the wall with her arms folded, quiet and composed as before. Seeing Bai Qingqiu emerge, she showed no extra emotion—simply extended her arm again, naturally offering support.

This time, Bai Qingqiu didn’t hesitate. She lifted her hand at once and took hold.

“Where to?” Gu Yining asked softly, turning forward.

Bai Qingqiu’s gaze passed over Gu Yining’s shoulder, landing on a nearby door painted with cheerful cartoon designs.

“How’s Bai Xia?” she asked.

At that question, Gu Yining visibly paused. The carefully maintained calm on her face melted instantly into a gentle warmth that spread from her eyes and brows, and when she spoke again, even her voice carried a light, unguarded smile.

“She’s completely fever-free now.” Gu Yining curved her lips into a smile, her good mood evident. “She can eat normally again too. Aunt Han fed her a full bowl of congee. When the doctor came to examine her just now, she was very cooperative—not a single tear.”

Hearing this, Bai Qingqiu instinctively let out a quiet breath. The tension she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding finally eased, and her body relaxed along with it.

She had been hesitating—unsure whether she should appear before her daughter in such a sorry state. Now that she knew Bai Xia was doing well, that hesitation naturally dissolved, replaced by calm reason.

She couldn’t let Bai Xia see her like this. It might scare her, or make her worry. Bai Xia was still young, but she already understood more than people gave her credit for. Bai Qingqiu couldn’t take that risk.

And she couldn’t—couldn’t allow herself to sink any further into this addictive comfort of being taken care of.

Bai Qingqiu drew a deep breath and gathered herself, restoring the sharp, composed Bai Qingqiu she had always been.

“Help me back to the study,” she said. “I still have a few documents to deal with.”

Gu Yining didn’t look surprised by her answer. Her expression remained unchanged.

“All right,” she replied simply, doing as asked—supporting her as they made their way back to the study, step by step.

Under the glow of the lights, their shadows overlapped and separated in turn, mirroring their relationship in this very moment—drawing close, then drifting apart.

As always, the light in the study stayed on through the night.

She had managed to get some sleep the night before, so tonight Bai Qingqiu made up for the work she’d fallen behind on. Over and over again, this was how her life passed.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, then reached instinctively for the water glass on her desk, intending to take a small sip to moisten her dry lips. When she lifted it, she froze.

Not a single drop remained.

Right—she’d finished it earlier.

Annoyed with herself, Bai Qingqiu set the glass down and lightly tapped her forehead with a curled finger. Resigned, she pushed herself up with her crutches, preparing to fetch the thermos from the pantry herself.

To avoid disturbing her work, Aunt Han always kept a pot of warm water ready in the small second-floor pantry.

Bai Qingqiu hobbled toward the door and twisted the handle open.

The hallway outside was empty—or so it seemed—until her gaze dropped to the wall, where Gu Yining was curled up asleep on a bench.