As it turned out, Jiang Wenzhe was just too busy; for the rest of the time, he couldn’t spare a single moment to accompany Lin Sangyu in filming the video.
However, he didn’t end up standing Lin Sangyu up after all; once he finished all his work, he stayed in London for an extra day.
When Lin Sangyu heard the news, she was absolutely overjoyed: “You’re finally done with work. It feels like I haven’t seen you in over ten days.”
“Over ten days?” Jiang Wenzhe’s hand, which was holding the mouse as he browsed through instructional videos, paused slightly. He turned his head to look at her. “Then who was the one clinging to me every night and refusing to let go?”
“That’s different. You don’t get back until I’m about to go to sleep every night, so it feels like I haven’t seen you at all,” Lin Sangyu said, feeling a bit put out. “Didn’t he say work hours are short overseas? Why are they making you do so much?”
“Because besides dealing with them, we also have to hold a lot of internal meetings, do a lot of prep work, and compile reports.”
Busy with your work during the day, and busy with ours at night.
That doesn’t conflict.
Lin Sangyu muttered under her breath, “Well, you really are busy.”
“I have no choice,” Jiang Wenzhe said with a hint of melancholy. “I have to support my family.”
Family? Are we a family?
Just then, Jiang Wenzhe shut down his computer and said, “I’m done. Let’s go.”
Lin Sangyu’s train of thought had barely begun when it was interrupted, so she could only say, “Oh, okay.”
Under Jiang Wenzhe’s watchful gaze, Lin Sangyu, in the blink of an eye, whizzed into the form of a sugar glider.
Her clothes were scattered all over the floor.
Jiang Wenzhe shook his head in exasperation, picking up the clothes one by one from the floor. Only after hanging them all up did he turn his attention to the person rolling around on the floor.
He crouched down, picked her up, and placed her in the palm of his hand. He poked her soft little head and warned, “You’re not allowed to transform on the floor like that anymore.”
Lin Sangyu first let out a couple of half-hearted squeaks, then began climbing up Jiang Wenzhe’s arm. The soft fur brushed against his skin as she pressed her little paws in varying depths, leaving a tingling, electric sensation on his arm.
It wasn’t until Lin Sangyu reached Jiang Wenzhe’s shoulder that she stopped.
Jiang Wenzhe had once asked Lin Sangyu, “Why do you always like to perch on my shoulder?”
At the time, Lin Sangyu answered without a moment’s hesitation: “I don’t know what it feels like to have a 1.9-meter-high vantage point while walking.”
Jiang Wenzhe replied with full agreement: “That’s true. If I were only 1.6-something meters tall, I’d also long for the 1.9-meter view.”
Lin Sangyu, who hadn’t been in human form for very long, immediately lost her temper and, out of habit, bit Jiang Wenzhe hard.
Due to the significant height difference, that bite landed squarely on Jiang Wenzhe’s left chest, leaving two semicircular blood marks that looked like teeth marks.
To this day, Jiang Wenzhe still has two faint scars on his chest.
Frustrated, Jiang Wenzhe searched online and discovered that it’s quite normal for sugar gliders to bite people; in fact, it’s not uncommon for wild sugar gliders to bite and maim their own kind in battles over status and resources—it’s their law of survival.
Was this a case of untamed instincts surfacing under stress?
That simply wouldn’t do.
In the human world, one must follow human rules.
“Come here.”
After briefly tending to his own wound, Jiang Wenzhe spoke to Lin Sangyu, who had been standing nearby, secretly watching him apply the ointment.
Upon hearing this, Lin Sangyu’s feet instinctively took a step forward, but as soon as she realized what she’d done, she recoiled in fear, her body tense like a child who’d done something wrong and was waiting for punishment to fall.
“Do you realize your mistake now? Then what were you doing just now?” Jiang Wenzhe’s gaze remained fixed on her as he repeated, “I said, come here.”
It took nearly two or three minutes before Lin Sangyu, her eyes red, slowly inched her way over. As soon as she drew near, a voice choked with tears reached him: “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me just now.”
As soon as she finished speaking, a tear the size of a soybean slid straight down from her eye and landed on the back of Jiang Wenzhe’s hand.
It was early spring then, and the cold wind was howling through the window and into the room. As the wind blew, the lustrous droplet on the back of his hand vanished in an instant, leaving only a small patch of skin—momentarily chapped by the tear—that vanished just as quickly.
Jiang Wenzhe raised his hand to gently wipe away Lin Sangyu’s tears, his tone calm: “Why are you such a crybaby?”
What a crybaby.
A thought crossed his mind, and he paused to reflect.
Being able to cry is far better than numb despair.
At the peak of suffering, even tears abandon you.
Besides, a person is a vast, independent sea; seventy percent of the human body is made up of water. The weight a person holds in another’s heart depends on how much of that seventy percent they occupy.
Today, Lin Sangyu had cried for him again. That salty, wet tear, following she’s master’s will and guided by its own free will, had broken free from the vast ocean of the human body—so does that count as caring?
Thinking of this, Jiang Wenzhe’s mood strangely lightened. He carefully tucked the stray strands of hair hanging by Lin Sangyu’s ear behind her ear, one by one, revealing her tear-flushed cheeks. He said, “I never blamed you in the first place. Just don’t bite next time. In the human world, you have to follow the rules—it’s wrong to hurt others. Just remember not to do it again.”
Upon hearing this, Lin Sangyu cried even harder; her tears and snot mixed together and ended up all over Jiang Wenzhe.
Jiang Wenzhe gently brushed her reddened nose. “Go ahead and cry, but what’s the point of smearing that mess all over me?”
He was a man with a serious aversion to uncleanliness.
Lin Sangyu froze for a second, took a step back, and stood there alone, looking pitiful as she wiped away her tears.
Her nose was red, and her shoulders were heaving.
Jiang Wenzhe clenched his fist and then suddenly let go, pulling her back into his arms. Countless little figures were battling inside his mind, and the one that emerged victorious finally said, “Just this once. Next time, you’re not allowed to cry in my arms—it’s disgusting.”
*
The weather in London had turned a bit warm today, shedding the damp chill that usually lingered year-round; the wind brushing against his skin carried a hint of stifling heat.
They didn’t call a driver today; Jiang Wenzhe was behind the wheel. Following the somewhat rough map Lin Sangyu had drawn out of boredom at the hotel a few days earlier, the car drove smoothly along the River Thames.
Their first stop was the Tower of London.
Following Lin Sangyu’s instructions, they had to check off more than ten photo spots today—time was short and the task was daunting. Jiang Wenzhe had barely parked the car before he was already hurrying toward their destination without pausing.
Arriving at the entrance to the Jewel House inside the Tower of London, the two square, imposing towers stood side by side, their vintage brass clocks on the exterior ticking away the passage of time.
Following the bustling crowd, Jiang Wenzhe placed Lin Sangyu on the limestone wall, which was covered with pitted and weathered surfaces of varying depths.
Lin Sangyu slowly climbed up the uneven tower wall, her soft, fluffy little body clinging tightly to the surface. Her fluffy tail swayed slightly to adjust her balance, her steps both hurried and steady.
“Wow, look! There’s an adorable little glider climbing up the wall.”
“Good grief, I never thought I’d live long enough to see a cute rodent exist in this world!”
“It’s so cute.”
Some of the surrounding tourists took notice, and a few white women stopped in their tracks, watching in amazement.
Amid her admiring chatter, Jiang Wenzhe turned on his camera and held out his palm. Lin Sangyu also spread her wing membranes, glided down on the breeze, and landed steadily in the palm of Jiang Wenzhe’s hand.
After the shoot, Jiang Wenzhe pressed the playback button on his camera. The flying squirrel and the man, with all four eyes wide open, watched expectantly as they viewed the results of their first official collaboration.
But halfway through, Lin Sangyu grew impatient: “Squeak, squeak, squeak!!!”
What on earth is this?
Weren’t we supposed to film a shot of her before she took flight? Why does the footage start with her already flying down?
And what’s with that “travel transition”? The word “travel” is right there in the title—why didn’t he film any scenery? Why fill the frame so large with just her? What’s the point of that?
Didn’t she climb all this way just to capture a panoramic view of the Tower of London?
Jiang Wenzhe is just too clueless.
Jiang Wenzhe clearly realized his mistake. After watching it, he pulled up the example Lin Sangyu had sent him for comparison—and saw that the results were indeed worlds apart.
Without beating around the bush, he ruffled Lin Sangyu’s hair and said frankly, “I didn’t do a good job this time. Sorry. Let’s shoot it again.”
“Squeak, squeak, squeak!”
Lin Sangyu didn’t dwell on it—after all, everyone has their weaknesses—and cheerfully climbed the wall again.
This time, the results were clearly much better: the angle was right, the lighting was perfect, the shot was steady, and not a single frame of the scene was missing.
Lin Sangyu rubbed against Jiang Wenzhe’s neck as if to reward him.
“You’re really great!”
The rest of the itinerary took them to various landmarks along the River Thames.
Tower Bridge, St. Paul’s Cathedral, the Ferris wheel, Big Ben… they left their footprints at every one.
From morning until the sky was filled with sunset, Lin Sangyu slumped in the passenger seat, staring listlessly at her limbs, too exhausted even to complain: “Jiang Wenzhe, I feel like I’m completely wiped out.”
”
Jiang Wenzhe drove on, his eyes fixed straight ahead as he said, “We’re two minutes away from the restaurant.”
A moment later, Lin Sangyu seemed to mutter to herself absentmindedly, “It would be nice if there were a 1.92-meter-tall, dashing, and handsome man willing to feed me.”
Jiang Wenzhe rolled his eyes at her. “Speak plainly.”
Lin Sangyu immediately changed her tone, saying pitifully, “Jiang Wenzhe~ I’ve been climbing all day, and my hands are sore and tired. Would you be willing to feed me later? I swear it’ll be just this once.”
“A trade.”
“A trade for what?” Lin Sangyu leaned a little closer to him and asked expectantly.
His Adam’s apple bobbed as Jiang Wenzhe’s restrained voice came through: “If I feed you this time, you have to agree to do one thing with me.”
Lin Sangi agreed without a moment’s hesitation: “Sure.”
“Aren’t you going to ask what it is?”
“No matter what it is, I’ve got it covered.” Lin Sangyu patted her chest, looking proud.
The afterglow of the setting sun was like a sharp sword, boldly slicing Jiang Wenzhe’s face into two distinct halves of light and shadow.
He said, “Next month is my birthday. Come with me to a dinner party.”
Author’s Note:
Xiao Yu doesn’t cry as much anymore, you know.
It’s just that when she first arrived at the villa, living under someone else’s roof made her subconsciously on edge—even the slightest disturbance felt like a disaster to the sensitive Xiao Yu.
Please give this sensitive, thoughtful girl some time to grow
And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with crying. Crying doesn’t solve problems, but letting out a good sob can help release emotions.
Only when emotions have settled will things get better.