CHAPTER 81: YOU DID WELL

With a final, loving squeeze, Yuanfeng lowered her carefully to the ground, holding her hands for a moment longer than necessary.

The moment her feet touched the ground, she immediately stepped close and latched onto his hand, weaving her small fingers through his long ones.

Yuanfeng opened the passenger door of the ancient sedan. The interior, though clean thanks to Huaijin’s meticulous efforts, was clearly threadbare. The springs in the passenger seat protested loudly as she clambered in.

Yuanfeng closed the door, walked around, and got into the driver’s seat. He placed a hand over hers on the center console before he even touched the ignition.

"You did well, sweetheart. I saw the clips the producer sent. You were brilliant. Truly." He leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.

The genuine, heartfelt praise always meant more than any TV accolade.

He turned the key.

The car responded with a sound like a drowning yak gargling gravel, followed by a series of high-pitched whistles.

Then, miraculously, the engine caught, settling into a rough, sputtering idle that vibrated the entire chassis.

Huaijin leaned her head against the window, watching the familiar, worn dash. She didn’t mind the car. She loved the car.

It was part of the beautiful deception. It was the perfect cloak for the reality that her father, Professor Yuanfeng, was secretly one of the most brilliant, sought-after minds in theoretical physics, a man who regularly consulted for international think tanks, and about the fact that she didn’t know that her father was someone whose actual bank balance could buy out the entire production company.

But that life was complicated, shadowed, and sometimes dangerous.

This life, the scholar in the broken car, the loving, slightly absent-minded father, the simple, quiet home, was a fortress of protection and pure, uncomplicated love.

He pulled the gear shift, which felt looser than a politician’s promise, and the car lurched forward with a series of mechanical hiccups, finally making its unsteady escape from the high-tech, polished world of the film set.

As they drove, the rhythmic rattling of the vehicle was the only sound, a comforting, familiar lullaby. Huaijin looked over at her father, his profile silhouetted against the late afternoon sun.

He wasn’t talking about funding or research; he was simply driving her home.

She loved how her father didn’t scold her for the intense public display of affection.

Yuanfeng knew that this little girl of his was, beneath the childish exuberance, a soul too mature for her age, constantly having to navigate the adult world with a child’s vocabulary.

He knew her clinginess wasn’t simple neediness, but a rare release valve for the internal pressure she carried.

He understood that these moments, the desperate, crushing hugs, the insistence on holding his hand, the small demands for attention, were the only times she truly allowed herself to act her age, or, perhaps, even younger than her age.

Yuanfeng adored spoiling his little girl. He sought to pour all the love in the world he could gather on her, a way to compensate for his own perceived shortcomings, for the hours he had to spend away, for the weight of his real-world burdens he knew she helped him carry, even if she couldn’t understand them.

He loved his daughter so much that he ended up enjoying her clinginess more than she could ever imagine.

Her small weight around his neck felt less like a burden and more like a necessary anchor, tethering his brilliant, soaring mind to the sweet, solid reality of being her father.

He reached out a large, comforting hand and gently ruffled her hair. "Are you ready for your favorite instant noodles and a documentary about quantum entanglement?"

Huaijin snuggled against the worn vinyl of the passenger seat, the smell of the old car and the presence of her father a perfect balm to her exhausted, complicated soul.

"Yes, Daddy," she sighed contentedly. "And you have to tell me about the singularity again, but with better sound effects this time."

He chuckled, the deep, warm sound vibrating through the car. "Deal, little dragon. Deal."

The rattling, poor man’s car carried them away, a tiny, sputtering fortress of love and secrets, finally heading home.

.

.

.

The battered sedan, affectionately nicknamed "The Rattler" by Huaijin, finally shuddered to a halt in front of their small, unassuming apartment complex.

It wasn’t picturesque, a slightly drab, three-story building with peeling paint and an air of gentle neglect, but it was their safest fortress.

The moment they were inside their cozy, cluttered apartment, Huaijin released the hand she had clung to since leaving the set.

She performed a masterful spin, shedding her backpack onto the worn rug, and turned to face her father, her eyes alight with dramatic intensity.

Yuanfeng was in the middle of wrestling out of his slightly rumpled outer shirt, still looking like a walking juxtaposition: a brilliant mind trapped in the casual guise of a struggling academic.

"Daddy," Huaijin declared, walking toward him with a slow, deliberate stride, her small hands clasped together beneath her chin.

Her expression was one of profound, star-struck awe, a perfect imitation of a fan meeting a celebrity.

Yuanfeng paused, one arm caught in the sleeve, sensing the oncoming deluge of affection and flattery.

He braced himself, a soft, helpless smile already forming. He was familiar with the script of this particular post-filming routine.

"Yes, little dragon?" he prompted, trying to sound normal despite the internal warmth that spread through him every time she pulled this act.

"Oh, Daddy," she sighed, her voice a low, throaty whisper that was hilariously over-the-top for a six-year-old. She reached up and cupped his cheeks in her small, warm hands, forcing him to look down into her adoring eyes. "How is it possible that a man so dedicated to quantum field theory and thermonuclear stability can be so unfairly, so criminally handsome?!"

Yuanfeng felt an immediate, uncomfortable flush creep up his neck. His face, normally composed and slightly academic, turned a shade of rosy pink.