Jiang Wanju had never met anyone worse than Chen Zhouren.
He was like a piece of stone—already blackened, soaked in dark water as he grew up, hard and unyielding. Even if you ground him into dust with a machine, the powder would still be black.
She was still on the phone, steeling herself, clutching it tightly as she lowered her voice to speak with Bai Qing. “Yes.”
Gurgle, gurgle.
On the other end of the line, Bai Qing clearly let out a sigh of relief.
The night breeze was cool. He paused briefly, his tone calm, carefully choosing his words. For someone as proud as him, it seemed this was the most sincerity he could offer.
“I want to apologize, Wanju… for what happened the other day.”
Jiang Wanju reached out, trying to push Chen Zhouren away. But he was solid from his training, his tall and clean-cut frame wrapped neatly in his shirt, muscles flexing beneath the fabric. One hand braced against the sofa beside her, the other holding her leg, he watched and listened as Jiang Wanju spoke on the phone.
The room was quiet. Chen Zhouren could clearly hear Bai Qing’s voice through the phone, apologetic and earnest.
Chen Zhouren picked up on the undertone in Bai Qing’s words.
A man knows another man. He raised an eyebrow slightly.
Jiang Wanju gave him a few small punches, finally managing to get him to settle down. Holding the phone again, she continued, “You don’t need to worry—mm…”
That last sound warped into something else.
“What’s wrong?” Bai Qing asked. “Wanju?”
There was no reply. Bai Qing waited two seconds in the silence. Nothing. Only faint, ambiguous noises—like oranges hitting the floor, or clothes being shuffled and roughly moved aside.
This had never happened before. Bai Qing couldn’t tell what Jiang Wanju was doing now.
He only knew she’d gone alone to Hong Kong Island.
A flicker of unease passed through him. He had suggested this trip in the first place, so emotionally and logically, he felt responsible for her safety. Raising his voice, he asked again.
But Jiang Wanju wasn’t outside.
Chen Zhouren was inside.
She was suppressing every sound, biting her lip hard. Her hand slackened, and the phone slipped onto the sofa.
All that remained was Bai Qing’s uncertain voice. “Wanju?”
Jiang Wanju clamped her hand over her mouth, choking back a sob as she tilted her head back.
She was still thinking about the unfinished call, reaching out desperately for the phone, but Chen Zhouren took it from her. He glanced at the screen and then pressed her down again.
There was a streak of rebellion in his bones, a love of pushing limits. The more Jiang Wanju tried to hold back, the more he pressed her, forcing her to make a sound, forcing her to speak.
The round, sweet orange was filled to the brim with its own segments.
Chen Zhouren asked, “Don’t you want to keep talking to him?”
She couldn’t even fathom how he could say something like that. He seemed completely unfazed, smiling as he watched her. His dimples were clear—before, they’d seemed sweet. Now they felt like pure malice.
Jiang Wanju bit her lip and stayed silent.
Seeing her tears falling freely, Chen Zhouren finally put the phone in front of her, showing the darkened screen. “It disconnected a while ago. What are you scared of?”
His tone carried a trace of amusement, teasing her. Jiang Wanju felt utterly dazed, her head foggy.
Maybe it was the relentless suppression—but now, staring at that black screen, she felt an almost overwhelming sense of relief.
Like stepping out of the exam hall after the gaokao.
Like finally walking through her front door after working late into the night.
Her mind went blank.
The orange was pressed under the machine, squeezed dry.
Before Jiang Wanju could even recover her senses, Chen Zhouren scooped her up in his arms. He lowered his head and said, “Isn’t it about time for my turn?”
Jiang Wanju didn’t refuse. Chen Zhouren cradled her against his chest and casually tossed her phone aside.
His “main course” had only just begun, and it lasted almost as long as one of their meals together.
It was the light tipsiness that proved most dangerous.
That evening, Jiang Wanju had drunk a little wine. She vaguely remembered her flight was at 1 PM the next day and wasn’t even sure if she’d be able to leave on time. Curled in Chen Zhouren’s embrace, he still seemed like an insatiable wolf, squeezing her arm and then her leg as though weighing whether there were still places left for him to sink his teeth into.
Jiang Wanju swatted his hand away. “Stop messing around.”
But Chen Zhouren caught her hand and held it in his palm, examining it closely. He lowered his voice, half teasing, half serious: “Messing around? I can’t even look anymore?”
Jiang Wanju yawned, too sleepy to argue. Chen Zhouren lowered his head and kissed her lips.
To his credit, Chen Zhouren at least acted somewhat human by morning. He didn’t drag Jiang Wanju into another round of exercise, allowing her to rest undisturbed until 10 AM.
This time, they couldn’t linger over breakfast. But even their final meal together was full of home-style warmth—ordered by Chen Zhouren. Goji berries simmered in superior broth with fragrant fried garlic; pork liver blanched to 80% doneness and then seasoned in the broth before being plated, tender and sweet. There was low-sugar tofu pudding, salt-and-pepper stir-fried squid with corn hearts, cold shredded vegetables, and pan-fried stuffed dace—every dish filled with the comforting aroma of daily life.
Through the steam rising from the food, Jiang Wanju asked, “Are you going back to the capital?”
“No,” Chen Zhouren smiled. “Shanghai.”
Jiang Wanju nodded and lowered her head to eat. The stuffed dace, a specialty from Shunde, had a crispy exterior and firm, elastic meat. She bit into it, tasting water chestnuts, pepper, and other finely mixed ingredients, but somehow it didn’t seem as delicious as before.
Chen Zhouren would stay in Hong Kong for one more day, but he still insisted on driving her to the airport. They hugged politely and said goodbye.
Both of them tacitly understood—neither mentioned what came next.
Back in the capital, Jiang Wanju received another call from Bai Qing. Later, they met for an afternoon tea, keeping the distance appropriate between colleagues. Bai Qing still hadn’t reconciled with his ex-girlfriend, but he offered Jiang Wanju a formal apology for his earlier behavior. His words were gentle, even a little warm.
Jiang Wanju, knowing the situation, accepted gracefully.
When she returned to work, the notoriously difficult director who’d always given her trouble suddenly became much more polite, no longer as aggressive as before. While still particular about materials, he stopped demanding immediate responses no matter how late it was, and no longer called or texted her during off-hours insisting she do extra work.
Jiang Wanju knew she had Bai Qing to thank. Before the New Year, she sent him a gift in return.
She spent New Year’s Eve at home, much the same as previous years. The only difference was during the family dinner—she received a text from Chen Zhouren.
It was simple and looked like a mass message:
Chen Zhouren: “Happy New Year”
Since leaving Hong Kong, Jiang Wanju hadn’t contacted him at all. She stared at the four simple characters on the screen for a long while before hearing her mother’s voice behind her.
“Wanju, give me a hand—help carry the fish soup over.”
It was almost 8 PM. The Spring Festival Gala was about to start. In the room, her cousins were laughing and chasing each other around. Her aunt held one child protectively while scolding her uncle for smoking. A little one bumped into Jiang Wanju’s leg, laughing as they tumbled into her grandfather’s arms. The air was thick with the aroma of food, the sharp scent of baijiu, and the clatter of peanut shells and tangerine peels littering the floor. Fingers were stained yellow from sugar mandarins.
Laughter, chatter, the clamor of family. From the kitchen came the smell of fried chili oil and simmering chicken soup wafting through the open door.
Jiang Wanju set her phone down and turned around. “Coming.”
She didn’t reply to his text.