The question that Ji Tong asked in the observation room on the third day of the pilot episode’s broadcast was cut into the trailer:
“A thirty-six-ish omega professor and a twenty-nine-ish alpha scientist. Who arranged this blind date? And why arrange it?”
The trailer was only fifteen seconds long, featuring white text on a black background, and ending with Meng Xiang’s smiling yet unvoiced, “Pretty good.”
The bullet comments piled high in the comments section.
“My blind guess is both sets of parents, since hometown matches are tried and true.”
“No, I always feel like the expression of the sister in the family-and-friends seat has a story. There is something in her eyes when she says ‘pretty good’.”
“Year seven of shipping this CP, and my intuition tells me that this ‘Lightly’ blind date has both knives and sugar.”
“Production crew, hurry up and release the main episode! I want to see the blind date! I want to see twenty-nine-year-old Zhang Qinglan pursue thirty-six-year-old Yi Junling!”
“To the person above, calm down. The main episode is a trip to Diancheng, and the blind date was seven years ago.”
“Seven years ago? Why is it even sweeter now?”
No one knew the answer to this question. Not even Yi Junling herself knew.
She only remembered that it was arranged by her aunt. On the fifth day of the Lunar New Year, at the cafe on the corner of Xiangcheng Old Street, an alpha seven years younger than her with extremely bright eyes had arrived.
And the real answer went back a full year further.
Back to the Spring Festival of 2036, back into the night wind of the Xiangcheng small town, back to that half hour downstairs from Teacher Meng’s home—
Back to someone standing there until they turned into a snowman, then turning around, going upstairs, knocking on the door, and saying, “Can you help me talk to the senior sister?”
During the Spring Festival of 2036, Xiangcheng experienced a very heavy snowfall.
Zhang Qinglan arrived home on the twenty-seventh day of the twelfth lunar month. She was returning home for the Lunar New Year right at the tail end of her second year as a postdoctoral fellow. In the summer, she would finish her postdoc, return to China, and join Luosheng Pharmaceuticals as a senior scientist, having just had her youth science foundation project approved. In a small town like Xiangcheng, this was already the kind of achievement that would be written into the New Year greetings of her relatives. Sure enough, starting from the twenty-eighth day of the twelfth lunar month, people never stopped visiting her home.
“Qinglan is twenty-eight, right?”
“She will be twenty-nine after the new year.”
“Alpha or omega, she still needs to settle down and start a family. Your Aunt Wang’s nephew’s daughter, a beta at the provincial hospital, she is very grounded—”
“My classmate’s daughter is pursuing her PhD in Yancheng and is also an alpha. They are a well-matched pair—”
“If all else fails, look at omegas. The current policies encourage it, too—”
Zhang Qinglan sat by the brazier in the main hall, refilling tea for every elder. A proper smile hung on her face, and her mouth repeated just three sentences over and over: “Thank you, Auntie.” “There is no rush yet.” “I am busy with work.”
Her mother sat beside her peeling an orange, handed her half of it, and lowered her voice: “Are you really not in a hurry?”
“I am not in a hurry.”
“If your maternal grandmother were still around—” Her mother stopped midway, waved her hand, and said, “Never mind, it is the New Year.”
Zhang Qinglan ate the half orange, squinting from the sourness.
It was her maternal grandfather who bailed her out. The old man was seventy-six this year. Having retired from his position as the head of the animal husbandry station over a decade ago, his physique was still robust, his hearing keen, and his eyesight sharp. He was squatting at the courtyard gate, smoothing down the feathers of an old hen. Hearing the wheel-gun barrage in the main hall, he tossed back a remark without turning his head:
“Qinglan’s marriage is for Qinglan to decide herself. She is only twenty-nine. In the city, how many years has it been since she finished her master’s and doctorate? What is the rush?”
Third Great-Aunt laughed and said, “Dad, you just spoil her.”
“I spoil her?” Grandfather let go of the chicken, clapped his hands, and stood up. “Her grandfather here is an educated man. As for her marriage, if she pairs up with someone, it has to be someone she truly treasures. A life scraped together by compromise is even more miserable than being single.”
After saying this, the old man winked at Zhang Qinglan. When the relatives shifted their firepower to someone else’s children, he strolled over to the brazier, stuffed a handful of roasted peanuts into Zhang Qinglan’s hand, and lowered his voice:
“Qinglan, tell Grandpa the truth. Is there someone you like?”
Zhang Qinglan’s hand, which was peeling peanuts, paused.
“Nothing of the sort. You are overthinking it.”
“Oh.” Grandfather dragged out the syllable with profound meaning. “Then why are you blushing while peeling a peanut?”
“Roasted by the fire.”
“In the dead of winter, three feet away from the brazier, roasted?” Grandfather chuckled. Without exposing her, he strolled back into the courtyard with his hands behind his back, dropping a final remark: “Grandpa has no other talent, but my read on people is always accurate. The way you look right now is exactly the same as your grandmother when she used to wait for me to get off work at the veterinary station.”
Zhang Qinglan sat in her spot, holding that handful of peanuts for a long time without eating them.
Early on the third day of the Lunar New Year, she carried two boxes of pastries and a bag of cured meats, told her mother she was going to visit her teacher, and slipped out of the house as if escaping.
The snow had stopped, and the sun had come out, melting the water dripping drop by drop from the eaves. The streets of the small town were narrow, and the houses on both sides were squeezed tightly together. From whichever family was stewing meat or frying meatballs, the entire street was filled with the atmosphere of the New Year. She walked very slowly, retracing every step of this road she had walked for over twenty years—the small convenience store at the corner had changed its sign, the stationery store at the entrance of her junior high school was still open, and further ahead was the six-story teacher’s residential building at the east end of town.
Teacher Meng’s home was on the third floor.
The door opened almost immediately. Teacher Meng was wearing an apron, her hair tied up in a neat bun at the back of her head. When she saw her, her eyes smiled first: “I just said, at this hour, she should be here.”
“Teacher Meng.” Zhang Qinglan handed over the items. “Happy New Year.”
“Good, good, good. It is good that you are here. Why did you bring things?” Teacher Meng took the items and called back into the house, “Old Zhou, Qinglan is here!”
Uncle Zhou poked his head out from the kitchen, still holding a spatula, and greeted her cheerfully. Teacher Meng was in her second marriage, having been married to Uncle Zhou for a little over ten years. One taught English and the other taught mathematics, living a harmonious life that made them a famous model couple in the small town’s teaching circle. Every year when Zhang Qinglan came back, she would visit her, and her familiarity with this room was no less than that of her own home—Meng Xiang’s photo sent from the provincial capital hung on the living room wall, the tea leaves she had given over the years were displayed on the TV cabinet, and even the single sofa she habitually sat on had cushions specifically kept by Teacher Meng.
“Sit, sit, sit. Dinner will be ready soon.” Teacher Meng pressed her down onto the sofa and looked her up and down. “You have lost weight. You did not eat properly those two years in Country A, did you?”
“It is alright. I got used to the cafeteria.”
“It is good that you are back.” Teacher Meng poured her hot tea and sat down opposite her. “You are about to finish your postdoc, and your job is settled. What are your plans next?”
Zhang Qinglan cradled the teacup and smiled: “Teacher Meng, are you going to set me up on a blind date too?”
“I am certainly not setting you up,” Teacher Meng snorted. “If I set you up, I would be ruining someone else’s girl.”
There were hidden depths to these words. Zhang Qinglan raised her eyes to look at her.
However, Teacher Meng did not continue, getting up and walking into the kitchen. That lunch was very lively, featuring the steamed cured meat combo cooked by Uncle Zhou and stir-fried greens cooked by Teacher Meng, and the three of them drank a little rice wine. Teacher Meng asked about her destination after finishing her postdoc, inquired about the position negotiated with Luosheng, asked about the research projects she would lead in the future, and asked about housing prices in Shanghai—asking meticulously and receiving meticulous answers. It wasn’t until after the meal when Uncle Zhou went downstairs for a stroll, and Teacher Meng finished cleaning the bowls and chopsticks, that she sat back down opposite her and refilled her tea—
The room grew quiet.
“Qinglan,” Teacher Meng suddenly spoke up, her tone different from before, “you come every year, every year you beat around the bush, and by the end, you always circle back to one person.”
Zhang Qinglan’s hand holding the teacup paused.
“This year, you do not need to circle around,” Teacher Meng looked at her, saying every single word clearly. “I will tell you proactively. Lingling is divorced.”
The steam from the teacup curled upward.
Zhang Qinglan sat there, motionless for several seconds, like a machine that had suddenly lost power.
“…When did this happen?” She heard her own voice, sounding a bit distant.
“The year before last, in 2034.” Teacher Meng leaned back into the backrest of her chair and let out a long breath. “The matter has been suppressed for two years. Her parents would not let it get out, finding it shameful. But you are Qinglan, I will not hide it from you.”
She stood up, moved the fruit plate on the dining table aside, and sat back down as if clearing a clean space to lay this matter out completely from beginning to end.
“I will start from the beginning. You have to listen to the whole thing to understand her as a person, and how she got through these past two years.”
Teacher Meng began from the wedding in 2029.
She spoke of when Lingling was twenty-nine years old, registering and holding the banquet in Country A. Her parents flew over to attend, and Your Uncle Zhou and I went along too. It was a Western-style wedding with a lawn, white chairs, and a violin—it was genuinely decent. Yet from beginning to end, the expressions of Shen’s parents did not carry a single trace of a smile. It wasn’t dissatisfaction, nor was it dissatisfaction; it was that kind of detached, polite demeanor as if inspecting merchandise. When serving the tea, Shen’s mother accepted the cup, took a sip, and put it down immediately, asking Lingling her first question: when she planned to have children.
“That day, Old Zhou came back and told me about it, and his hands were shaking with anger,” Teacher Meng said. “I said they are a prominent family with standards. He said, this is not standards; this is not treating our Lingling like a human being.”
Old Zhou said he remembered the scene of serving the tea to this day. The sound system on the lawn was still playing violin music, and Lingling had changed into her toast dress, holding the teacup high above her head with both hands, smiling as she called out “Mom.” When Shen’s mother took the tea, her fingertips only touched the edge of the cup as if afraid of getting something on herself; she took a sip and put it down immediately, turning to chat with relatives nearby about jewelry. Lingling stood in place with the empty tea tray for two seconds, a smile still hanging on her face, and bent down to straighten the colorful ribbons on their chairs. Old Zhou said that at that moment his heart skipped a beat, Lingling probably would not be able to step across this family’s threshold.
“Yet Lingling was willing back then. She loved that person; we could tell. When the wedding ended, she saw us off at the airport with bright eyes, holding that person’s arm and looking back every three steps. She has had her own mind since she was little, and for the person she has chosen, what can we elders say besides giving our blessings?”
“Later on, that same year, that person proposed a lifelong marking. Lingling agreed, an A-class alpha matched with an A-class omega, taking this step was logical. But she didn’t let the other party mark her back.”
Zhang Qinglan raised her head.
“She said that person was afraid of pain,” Teacher Meng twitched the corner of her mouth. “You are an alpha, you understand how painful the process of marking an alpha is. Lingling said she couldn’t bear it.”
The tea in the cup was steaming. Zhang Qinglan gripped the rim of the cup without speaking. She understood. The pain of an alpha being marked was the kind of pain labeled with the word “excruciating” in physiology textbooks, the reason why so many alphas refuse to let anyone touch their glands for a lifetime.
She could not bear it.
She remembered these three words. She remembered them for many years, until one day later, when her own turn came, she finally understood how heavy these three words were.
“Then came 2031,” Teacher Meng’s voice sank. “After trying to conceive for over a year, there was no movement. The two of them flew to Country A, to the best reproductive center. They went through a full set of examinations, reports came out sheet by sheet, and the final conclusion fell on Lingling: a congenital uterine defect. In this lifetime, there was no way for her to conceive.”
Zhang Qinglan heard a thump in her heart, as if something had dropped down.
“After the diagnosis came out, her parents suggested a method: wasn’t that person an alpha? Let her give birth. An omega permanently marking an alpha and then injecting another month of pheromones would allow the alpha to conceive. At first, that person agreed.”
At this point, Teacher Meng paused for a long time, poured herself a cup of tea, picked it up, and put it down again.
“But halfway through the marking, it couldn’t continue. It hurt. It hurt too much. That person called a halt midway and refused no matter what to do it again. Instead, Lingling felt sorry for her, saying forget it, even if we don’t have children, the two of us can live together.”
“Yet the Shen family refused. The Shen family only had that single seedling, and the family’s implications carried one meaning: the family line could not be broken. Occupying that position meant they had to produce results. Lingling suggested they break up and not delay each other’s families; but the Shen family couldn’t bear to let go of Lingling’s resume and prestige, refusing to let go, dragging it out and wearing her down like that. Ever since then, one was on this side and the other on that side, living apart year-round. Affection cannot withstand such wear and tear, worn down until 2033, that person outside had someone else.”
In the kitchen, a dripping faucet was not turned tight, echoing drop by drop.
“And then, it was the spring of 2034.”
She explained how Junling found out not a cliche scene of catching someone in bed, but a wrongly sent message, a single word, a form of address, which was enough. You know what kind of person Lingling is; she cannot tolerate a single grain of sand in her eyes. She screen-shotted that message, placed it on the dining table, waited for that person to return, and asked only one question: “How long has it been?”
“The other party admitted it?”
“They admitted it quite readily,” Teacher Meng twitched the corner of her mouth, her smile devoid of any warmth. “Perhaps they had been holding back for too long and were waiting for an outlet.”
The scene of that night was later mentioned by Lingling in an offhand manner. She projected the screenshot onto the large screen in the living room, prepared dinner for two as usual, featuring three dishes and a soup, and even stewed the soup that person loved to drink. The door clicked open, the person entered, saw the screen, and stood in the entryway without even changing shoes. Lingling sat beside the dining table with two sets of bowls and chopsticks neatly arranged, and asked only: “How long has it been?” She didn’t cry, nor did she quarrel; her voice was as flat as if she were asking whether they were coming home for dinner today. In the end, neither of them touched that meal. The soup kept warm on the stove all night, and early the next morning, the whole pot was poured away.
She explained how Lingling handled it—a swift, decisive knife cutting through tangled hemp. The lawyer was found that very week, the agreement was signed that same month. The Shen family cared about face and wanted to drag it out, settle privately, and handle it coldly; she ignored all of it, throwing out only a single sentence: either sign or see you in court, and if we go to court, the evidence of infidelity will become public material. Only then did the Shen family panic.
She wanted not a single cent of property. Lingling said, I can earn it myself; I find it dirty.
All contact information was completely deleted. Her phone number was changed, her email was changed, and her circle of friends from seven years in Country A was cleanly severed.
She also resigned from her job. A position at the national research institute that countless people scrambled for, she threw away without a second thought. Just in time, Jiangwan University had openings for overseas outstanding youth programs, so she submitted her application materials, returned to China, and was directly appointed as a researcher and doctoral supervisor, starting completely over.
“Sounds decisive, right?” Teacher Meng’s voice lowered here. “Everyone praises her for being able to pick things up and put them down, saying she’s strong. But Qinglan—”
She paused for a long time.
“The year she returned to China, she underwent gland-scouring surgery. She washed away that person’s permanent mark.”
Zhang Qinglan’s fingertips clenched sharply. The rim of the cup burned her so intensely that she trembled, yet she did not let go.
“Washing away a mark isn’t like pulling a tooth where you pull it and it’s over,” Teacher Meng’s voice was very soft, as if afraid of startling something. “Glands are connected to nerves; every time you wash them, you get injured. Her scar has remained until today. Postoperative recovery took over a year. During that year, with no mark to rely on during her estrus phase, she could only grit her teeth and take suppressants. The doctor warned her that doing it this way would harm her body, harm her pheromones, and impair her fertility.”
Teacher Meng closed her eyes.
“Yet the two words ‘fertility’ had long since become incapable of suffering any further harm for Lingling.”
In the kitchen, the loose faucet continued to drip, echoing drop by drop.
“Let me tell you something from the bottom of my heart, Qinglan. The first half of Lingling’s life was too smooth—so smooth that everyone thought her destiny was a straight upward path. When the word ‘divorce’ crashed down, her parents couldn’t sleep night after night, but she was the opposite, turning around to comfort them and saying it was fine, the days ahead were still long.”
“Yet I am her aunt,” Teacher Meng raised her eyes, her eye sockets somewhat red. “I watched her grow up. When she fell down as a child and scraped her knees bloody, she did the same thing: comforting the adults first, saying it was fine and didn’t hurt.”
“Whether it hurts or not, only she knows.”
The room was silent for a long time.
Zhang Qinglan kept her head down, looking at the cup of tea in her hand. The tea had cooled completely, the tea leaves settled at the bottom of the cup like a snowfall that had already passed.
Her heart was turbulent.
Shock! Of course, it was there. Heartache, it hurt her chest so tightly at that moment that it felt as though someone were slowly slicing it with a blunt knife. Contempt and anger toward that person she had never met—yes, it burned very high, yet she forcefully suppressed it: What qualification did she have to feel angry? She didn’t even know what that person looked like.
Yet at the very bottom of all this, beneath the ashes of shock, heartache, and anger, there was something—untimely, shameful, and impossible to suppress that flickered to life.
Like a single spark buried within the ashes.
She felt utterly disgraced by this spark within herself.
“Teacher Meng.” She put down the teacup, stood up, and spoke with a voice so steady that even she was surprised. “Thank you for the tea. I should head back first, my mom is still waiting for me.”
Teacher Meng looked at her for two seconds, then nodded: “Go on then. The road is slippery, walk carefully.”
The livestream room of “Accompanying You to Watch” paused here, and the bullet comments slowed down unusually.
“I take back all the hahaha’s from the last episode. This segment is genuinely a bit painful.”
“Meng Xiang’s eye sockets in the observation room turned red; she said her mom had never told her these things in such detail before.”
“That half hour in the snow, the young master-in-law recalculated eighteen years of accounts. Production crew, don’t stop, keep broadcasting!”