“No,” she replied, her voice tinged with nervousness.
Yang Zhiyan tucked her hands behind her back, her fingers tightly entwined.
The small patch of skin where she’d accidentally brushed his fingertips moments ago still burned. It was absurd—she had only touched him for less than a second, yet it felt as though the contact had left a searing mark.
Qin Yuzheng held the bowl of ginger tea. Against the white porcelain, her hands stood out with startling clarity.
Her slender wrist peeked out from her sleeve, the delicate bone slightly prominent, pale blue veins faintly visible beneath her fair skin.
He lowered his head and took a sip.
Spicy. Sweet. Hot.
The pungent heat of the ginger spread from his tongue down into his stomach, while the sweetness of the brown sugar lingered warmly in his throat.
It was ginger tea she had made herself.
He couldn’t help feeling ridiculously happy.
“I think I’ll be much better after finishing this,” he said, looking up at Yang Zhiyan. His eyes held sincere, unvarnished gratitude. “Thank you, Miss Yang.”
Yang Zhiyan stood on the other side of the coffee table, both hands clasped politely in front of her, standing with the respectful posture of someone speaking to an elder.
“You’re welcome,” she said. “Just leave the bowl on the coffee table when you’re done. I’ll wash it later.”
Qin Yuzheng made no move to leave.
Holding the bowl, he remained seated on the sofa for a while longer.
It wasn’t deliberate stalling.
He simply didn’t want to leave.
This room carried her scent.
It still bore traces of her staying up late cleaning the night before, and the lingering warmth from the ginger tea she’d made that morning.
He wanted to stay a little longer.
Even if it meant simply sitting here without speaking—
Without looking at her…
No, he couldn’t help looking at her.
“Thank you so much,” Qin Yuzheng continued. “I’m all alone. Whenever I get sick, I always drag it out until it becomes serious before I finally go to the hospital.”
Yang Zhiyan looked at him but remained silent.
“It’s not that I don’t want treatment.” He glanced down at the remaining ginger tea in his bowl. The ginger pulp had settled at the bottom, yellowish-brown like fallen autumn leaves. “It’s just… going to the hospital alone always makes me feel so lonely.”
He paused.
“I really hate that feeling.”
He had said it on purpose.
At his age, what if Yang Zhiyan assumed he already had a family?
He needed her to know he was single.
Otherwise, how could anything progress from here?
Standing across the coffee table, Yang Zhiyan kept her hands folded before her. Her gaze fell upon the fingers wrapped around the bowl—long, elegant fingers with distinct knuckles.
There was no wedding ring on his left ring finger.
She noticed the detail.
But her reaction was nothing like what Qin Yuzheng had anticipated.
She remembered something Jiang Siya had once told her.
“Some men are experts at pretending they’re single when they’re out, just to deceive young women. By the time you realize you’re the other woman, it’s already too late.”
Siya had said that back in their senior year of college.
A girl from the class next door had been deceived by a married man for more than half a year. In the end, his wife had come looking for her, and the entire department had exploded with gossip.
Siya had concluded then:
“Men’s words are the biggest lies. The wealthier and more powerful a man is, the better actor he usually is.”
Yang Zhiyan looked at Qin Yuzheng sitting on her sofa.
Dressed in a simple white lounge T-shirt, wearing slippers, holding a white porcelain bowl while sipping ginger tea…
He certainly didn’t look like a married man.
But appearances proved nothing.
Keeping her distance was still the wisest choice.
So she merely smiled without saying anything.
Qin Yuzheng finished the ginger tea, set the bowl on the coffee table, and stood up.
“Miss Yang,” he said, standing before her with the coffee table between them—a distance that was neither too close nor too far. “Thank you for putting up with me today. The ginger tea worked wonderfully. Thank you.”
Yang Zhiyan walked him to the door.
In the hallway, he turned back.
“If you ever need help with anything, just let me know. I live right across the hall.”
He extended his hand.
Yang Zhiyan looked at it.
Long fingers.
Dry, warm skin.
A thin layer of calluses on his fingertips—probably from years of writing.
She hesitated for less than half a second before reaching out.
Their hands met once more.
Her palm rested against his.
Her fingertips lightly touched the back of his hand.
His fingers gently closed around hers, enveloping her entire hand.
Dry.
Warm.
Strong.
“Goodbye, Miss Yang.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Qin.”
The door closed.
Qin Yuzheng stood in the hallway, staring at the closed door for about two seconds before turning toward his own apartment.
As he unlocked the door, he glanced down at his right hand.
The warmth of her hand still lingered in his palm, though the cool air in the hallway was gradually carrying it away.
He unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The moment the door clicked shut behind him, he leaned against it and tilted his head back, gazing at the unlit chandelier overhead.
The corners of his lips slowly curved upward into a smile.
It was Saturday.
Haicheng had entered the plum rain season, the air so humid it felt as though you could wring water from it.
The morning had been overcast.
Around noon, the clouds briefly split apart, allowing a shaft of sunlight to spill onto the treetops in Riverside Park, making them shimmer brilliantly.
But it didn’t last.
The clouds soon closed again.
The sky returned to its dull gray, while oppressive heat rose from the ground. A faint veil of vapor hovered above the asphalt roads.
Yang Zhiyan had gone to the market early that morning.
She got up at seven, washed up, changed into a cotton-linen blouse paired with wide-legged navy trousers, and twisted her hair into a neat bun secured with a hairpin, exposing the graceful curve of her neck.
As she stepped out, she paused in the hallway.
She glanced at the tightly shut door across from hers.
It was completely quiet.
Without giving it much thought, she took the elevator downstairs.
Near Shengshi Tianxi was a produce market about a ten-minute walk away.
Calling it a traditional market wasn’t quite accurate—it resembled a modern grocery store more.
It was bright, spotless, and everything was neatly displayed.
Nothing like the old open-air markets downtown, where puddles covered the ground and you never knew where to place your feet.
Yang Zhiyan pushed a shopping cart through the vegetable section, then the meat aisle, and finally the seafood area.
After carefully selecting everything, she bought pork ribs, lotus root, chicken wings, shrimp, leafy greens, tomatoes, eggs, a bunch of scallions, and a piece of ginger.
The ribs would become soup.
The lotus root had to be the starchy variety.
The chicken wings needed marinating before braising.
The shrimp would taste freshest simply boiled.
She mentally reviewed the menu.
Siya loved shrimp.
She also loved chicken wings.
And pork rib soup paired well with almost anything.
At the checkout, the cashier announced, “Two hundred thirty-seven yuan and sixty cents.”
She scanned the QR code to pay.
This time, she didn’t feel any heartache.
She used to.
Every cent she spent had to be calculated.
How much money remained that month.
How much she could afford each day.
If she overspent, where she could cut back.
Now…
She didn’t have to anymore.
Her money finally belonged to her.
After paying ¥3,500 in rent, she still had ¥4,500 left for living expenses.
She no longer had to hand over ¥5,000 to that family every month.
And she also had commission income.
She looped the heavy grocery bag over her wrist.
The weight left a red mark on her skin.
Switching it to her other hand, she continued walking.
The plane trees lining the street rustled loudly in the wind.
Several dried leaves left over from last year drifted down, landed briefly on the pavement, then were caught by another gust, spinning several circles before disappearing into the distance.
At two o’clock that afternoon, the doorbell rang.
Yang Zhiyan hurried out of the kitchen, her hands still dusted with flour.
She was making scallion pancakes.
Siya had specifically requested them.
She wiped her hands on her apron before jogging to the front door and peeking through the peephole.
Jiang Siya stood outside in the hallway.
She wore a pale yellow dress, her long hair loose over her shoulders, with exquisitely applied makeup and glossy lipstick.
In her right hand, she carried a large dark green paper shopping bag embossed with elegant gold English lettering.
It obviously wasn’t cheap.
Her left hand held a clear plastic bag of fruit, revealing bright red cherries and several mangoes inside.
Yang Zhiyan opened the door.
“You didn’t have to bring anything,” she said as she accepted the dark green bag.
Looking inside, she found a skincare and makeup gift set along with an elegantly packaged box of chocolates.
“It’s my first time visiting your new home. I couldn’t exactly show up empty-handed,” Jiang Siya said as she changed into the blue slippers Yang Zhiyan had prepared for her.
They matched the pink pair Yang Zhiyan wore herself.
Both had come from the same supermarket.
Even the price tags had been identical.
“That would’ve been so rude.”
Standing in the entryway, Jiang Siya slowly surveyed the apartment.
From the living room…
To the kitchen…
To the balcony…
Her mouth gradually formed a perfect “O.”
“Holy crap, Zhiyan! This apartment is amazing!”
Her voice echoed through the living room, undisguised envy filling every word.
“Three bedrooms and two living rooms? In this neighborhood? How much is your rent?”
“Thirty-five hundred,” Yang Zhiyan answered as she carried the fruit into the kitchen before glancing back at her.
“Thirty-five hundred?!” Jiang Siya’s voice shot up another octave, nearly shaking the framed artwork off the wall.
“You’re kidding, right? This place would rent for at least eight thousand on the market. Is your landlord running a charity?”
Yang Zhiyan smiled but didn’t explain.
In the kitchen, she poured the cherries into the sink and turned on the faucet.
Water splashed over them.
The cherries rolled around beneath the stream, their dark crimson skins gleaming like polished lacquer.
She popped one into her mouth.
With a bite, sweet juice burst across her tongue.
“Not a philanthropist,” she said, speaking slightly unclearly with the cherry still in her mouth. “Just a very kind grandma.”
Jiang Siya followed her into the kitchen and leaned casually against the doorframe with her arms crossed, giving Yang Zhiyan a long look.
“You’ve got incredible luck,” she remarked.
Then, changing the subject, she asked curiously,
“By the way… who lives across the hall from you?”