“Alright, alright,” Liu Minlan said in a tone that clearly meant Yeah, right. “Your friend’s neighbor bought the apartment across the hall that quickly?”
“She didn’t buy it. It just so happened that she already lives across from me.”
Silence hung on the other end for a moment.
Then Liu Minlan let out a long, meaningful, “Ooooh~”
“Enough,” Qin Yuzheng said stiffly, sounding as though he were assigning work in the office. “Just tell me how to pursue her.”
Liu Minlan laughed for a while before finally speaking again, his tone becoming more serious.
“Chasing a girl can be difficult, but it can also be simple. Create more opportunities to spend time together. Don’t confess right away. She barely knows you. If you suddenly say, ‘I like you,’ she’ll think you’re a lunatic.”
Qin Yuzheng silently committed the advice to memory.
Don’t confess immediately. Create opportunities. Spend more time together.
“And another thing,” Liu Minlan added. “Figure out whether she already has a boyfriend.”
Qin Yuzheng rubbed his thumb against the edge of his phone.
“She doesn’t,” he replied.
Liu Minlan burst into laughter again, even harder than before.
“And how do you know that?”
Qin Yuzheng didn’t answer.
After laughing his fill, Liu Minlan slowed his speech and spoke earnestly.
“Yuzheng, don’t rush it. People in your position usually don’t fail because they can’t win a girl over—they fail because they don’t know how to interact with ordinary people. You’re used to giving orders and having people follow your lead. But that’s not how dating works. You have to approach her as an equal, sincerely, like any ordinary man would.”
Leaning back against the sofa with his phone to his ear, Qin Yuzheng stared at the documents spread across the coffee table.
“Got it,” he said before ending the call.
The afternoon slipped by amid laughter and the comforting bustle of home.
Yang Zhiyan spent more than an hour in the kitchen, carrying one dish after another to the dining table until it was completely covered.
There were braised chicken wings, their glossy mahogany glaze sprinkled with white sesame seeds, so appetizing they made mouths water at first glance.
A platter of boiled shrimp lay neatly arranged in crescent shapes beside a small dish of ginger-vinegar dipping sauce.
There was a plate of stir-fried seasonal greens, vibrant emerald and glistening with oil.
The tomato scrambled eggs were soft and silky, the sweetness and acidity of the tomatoes blending perfectly with the fragrant eggs—a humble home-style dish that was deceptively difficult to master.
A pot of lotus root and pork rib soup sat steaming nearby. The broth was milky white, the lotus root tender and creamy, the ribs so soft they fell off the bone at the touch of chopsticks.
There were also scallion pancakes, crisp on the outside, fluffy inside, rich with the aroma of green onions and flaky enough to shower crumbs with every bite.
Jiang Siya barely stopped moving her chopsticks—or her mouth.
She praised every dish between bites, and once she’d run out of adjectives, she simply repeated, “Delicious, delicious, delicious,” over and over.
“Zhiyan, if you ever open a restaurant, I’ll eat there every single day,” Jiang Siya mumbled around a mouthful of chicken wing.
“Swallow your food before you talk.”
Sitting across from her, Yang Zhiyan cradled her soup bowl and sipped quietly.
As they ate, they chatted about everything—from embarrassing college memories to recent work, then from work to their love lives.
Jiang Siya mentioned that she’d recently been seeing a man who worked in finance.
“He’s decent-looking,” she said, “but he talks way too much. Every time we go out to eat, he talks from beginning to end. I barely get a chance to eat.”
Yang Zhiyan listened with a smile, chiming in now and then but mostly letting her friend ramble animatedly about this and that.
After dinner, the two curled up on the sofa beneath the same knitted blanket to watch a movie Jiang Siya had recommended.
Before they even reached the halfway point, Jiang Siya started yawning one after another.
Eventually she slumped sideways, resting her head on Yang Zhiyan’s shoulder.
“I’m staying the night,” she mumbled with her eyes closed. “Your apartment is way too comfortable. I’m sleeping here.”
Before Yang Zhiyan could reply, Jiang Siya’s phone rang.
The caller ID read: Mom.
She answered, listened for a few moments, and the sleepy contentment on her face quickly turned into reluctant disappointment.
After hanging up, she tossed her phone onto the coffee table with a sigh.
“My mom wants me home. Some relatives came over and insist on seeing me.”
She stretched lazily as she stood, exposing a small strip of her pale waist.
“I’ll stay over another day.”
Yang Zhiyan walked her to the door.
As Jiang Siya changed into her shoes, she suddenly lowered her voice and leaned close.
“That neighbor of yours… he doesn’t seem like a bad guy. But don’t let your guard down either.”
“I know, I know.”
Yang Zhiyan stuffed her bag into her arms and gently pushed her out the door.
The motion-activated hallway lights flickered on.
After taking a few steps, Jiang Siya looked back and waved.
The elevator doors opened.
She stepped inside, and just before they closed, she made a little “Call me” gesture—thumb and pinky extended beside her ear, wiggling her fingers.
Then the elevator doors shut, cutting the gesture off mid-motion.
Yang Zhiyan stood at her doorway for a few more seconds, making sure Jiang Siya hadn’t forgotten anything.
Only then did she turn to close the door.
At that very moment, the apartment across the hall opened.
Qin Yuzheng stood in the doorway.
Today he wore a light gray lounge shirt with black casual pants.
His complexion looked healthier than it had the previous week. His cold had probably passed, though faint shadows still lingered beneath his eyes, as if he hadn’t been sleeping well.
“Miss Yang.”
He nodded politely.
“Mr. Qin.”
She returned the nod, her hand still resting on the doorknob, ready to close the door at any moment.
Standing across the hallway with one hand in his pocket, Qin Yuzheng looked perfectly relaxed.
Inside, however, his mind was racing.
Liu Minlan said to create opportunities and spend more time together.
So how do I create an opportunity?
This is one.
Her friend had just left.
She was alone.
He lived right across the hall.
If he simply went back inside and closed his door, there would be no interaction between them for the rest of the evening.
“Miss Yang,” Qin Yuzheng said at last, “do you have a moment? I’d like to discuss some details about the qipao for my mother.”
Yang Zhiyan looked at him, hesitating for about two seconds.
“Sure.”
She opened the door a little wider.
“Please come in.”
Once inside, Qin Yuzheng proved much more reserved than she had expected.
His gaze didn’t wander around her home.
He simply swept his eyes across the living room before stopping briefly—about a second—on the pot of daisies sitting on the coffee table, then quietly looked away.
When he sat down on the sofa, he sat ramrod straight, his back never touching the cushions.
Yang Zhiyan poured him a glass of water, placed it on the coffee table, then sat in the armchair opposite him and opened the notes she’d saved on her phone during their last meeting.
“Mr. Qin, last time you mentioned that your mother likes understated colors. Does she have any specific preferences? For example, what colors does she usually wear? Or do you happen to have a recent photo of her? That would help me choose fabrics that suit her complexion.”
Qin Yuzheng paused.
He didn’t know.
What colors his mother liked.
What she usually wore.
Her complexion.
Whether she looked healthy.
These were all things a son ought to know.
Yet he knew none of them.
It wasn’t that he was an unfilial son.
There had simply always been a subtle distance between him and his mother—a relationship that was neither especially close nor particularly distant.
He had grown up under his grandmother’s care.
He had never been the type to confide in his mother, and the two of them had always treated each other with impeccable politeness.
“I think… she likes light colors,” he answered uncertainly. “Light blue. Light purple. Things like that. Not bright red.”
Yang Zhiyan noted it down on her phone:
Light blue / Light purple. Doesn’t like bright red.
“What about fabrics? Silk, brocade, Xiangyun silk, cotton-linen… does your mother have a favorite?”
“Silk,” Qin Yuzheng replied. “She has sensitive skin. Silk feels more comfortable against it.”
Yang Zhiyan glanced up at him.
When he mentioned his mother’s sensitive skin, he sounded completely natural.
“And the style?” she continued. “Traditional or modernized? Full-length or mid-length? Does she prefer a higher collar or a lower one?”
The rapid succession of questions caught Qin Yuzheng completely off guard.
The corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly—a small, unconscious gesture of embarrassment from someone who had just realized he didn’t know the answers.