Mu Ning felt as if her cheeks had been abruptly pressed against a steaming basket lid, the scalding vapor instantly flushing her face crimson.
She knew Jing Xuan had overheard her conversation with the two kittens last night, but from then until lunch, he hadn’t mentioned it. She assumed he was being kind enough to spare her some dignity.
She never expected him to bring it up at a moment like this—a single strike, instant kill.
Mu Ning stayed silent, wishing she could strategically faint.
Meanwhile, Jing Xuan kept watching her with a half-smile, as if he absolutely would not allow her to change the subject.
After a moment, she stammered: “…Teacher Jing Xuan.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“Then you must have misheard…”
“Making excuses.” Jing Xuan lightly “scolded” her with a faint smile.
But he didn’t press her further. He picked up the controller, loaded the save file, and re-entered the boss stage.
Precise dodges, clean strikes.
A truly beautiful performance.
After playing for a while, Jing Xuan turned to look at Mu Ning and noticed she seemed to be spacing out. “What’s wrong?”
“I once read a research report.”
“Oh? What was it about?”
“It studied the differences between female and male players in video games. Part of it said that the disadvantage female players show in game operation compared to male players is the long-term result of society’s different expectations for men and women based on gender roles. Simply put, girls aren’t encouraged to participate in highly competitive games from a young age—and when it comes to video games specifically, they’re even less encouraged. Boys gaming in groups of five is completely normal, and even if parents can’t control it, they just tacitly allow it. Match-3 games and simulation management games are typically strongly associated with female players, and otome games also default to the assumption that gameplay doesn’t matter—the simpler, the better, because female players are ‘clumsy with their hands.’ But ‘clumsy with their hands’ is actually the result, not the cause…”
Mu Ning trailed off.
She remembered a time during grad school when she’d had dinner with a guy from another department and brought up a similar topic—not about video games, but about female drivers.
After listening, the guy laughed and said, “But from what I’ve observed, female drivers really aren’t as skilled as male drivers. Every time I park, the ones who need three tries to back into a spot are always women.”
At the time, Mu Ning had said, “Is it possible there are plenty of drivers who are bad at parallel parking, but you only remember the female ones?”
The guy’s expression stiffened slightly, and he said, “Are you trying to start a gender war?”
Mu Ning had genuinely wanted to punch his face in right then.
She’d talked about it with Meng Meng, who said that was the despair of being heterosexual—liking men, yet so often having to sift through sand for gold, or even through shit for gold.
But now, Jing Xuan nodded after listening, then pulled up the menu to pause the game and said seriously: “That’s true. And we—I mean us men—often have this subconscious way of thinking: make the support role simpler so it’s easier for female players to get into the game. Once there are more female players, the social aspect of the game won’t be a concern.”
Mu Ning let out a breath of relief.
She had been afraid that this kind of discussion would make her crush crumble in an instant, and equally afraid that he would pretend to be a seasoned “male feminist,” gilding himself with her words.
He acknowledged his own limitations.
Actually, most of the time, what Mu Ning and her sisters wanted was just this simple: at the current stage, it was enough for men to be willing to admit that within the context of thousands of years of institutional and structural systems, they were the beneficiaries.
“…You should keep playing,” Mu Ning said.
“Don’t you want to keep talking about this with me?”
“…I’m a little afraid to.”
“Why?”
“You should understand.”
Jing Xuan nodded, then said: “I definitely still have a lot of deeply ingrained subconscious biases in this area—after all, I grew up within the expectations of this social division of labor too. But rest assured, at any time, I won’t find discussions about this offensive. And if there’s ever something I don’t notice that makes you uncomfortable during our time together, you must tell me.”
Mu Ning nodded.
Jing Xuan confirmed with her: “Is there anything right now?”
“Not right now.”
“Truth or lie?”
“Truth.”
Jing Xuan smiled. “If you say that, how am I supposed to stay humble?”
“You can be a little proud.”
The controller had been set down by Jing Xuan during their conversation. Now, he picked up his glass, took a sip of cola, and said: “My dad only ever reached the position of an ordinary low-level section chief in his entire career. My mom’s career developed far better than his—before she was promoted to manager, she was the top performer at the branch every single year. She earned more money and had particularly sharp methods of getting things done. So in our family, she’s the one in charge. Any branch that grows crooked gets pruned by her first—whether it’s me or my dad.”
That explained a lot about Jing Xuan’s personality.
Mu Ning smiled and said: “Your mom sounds amazing.”
“You’re pretty amazing too.” Jing Xuan picked up the controller again, but his voice grew low and muffled. “…She would have really liked you.”
Mu Ning heard him clearly. Her cheeks, which had just cooled down, warmed up again.
Soon, the boss was defeated, and Jing Xuan handed her the controller.
Before taking it, Mu Ning glanced at it and said, “This controller looks so small in your hands.”
“Does it?”
“Yeah. You have big hands.”
Jing Xuan opened his hand and looked at it.
Mu Ning glanced at him sideways and continued, “Weren’t you forced to learn piano as a kid?”
“No. I guess I don’t have much of a musical bone in me.”
“I learned when I was little. Because my hand span was small, I struggled with so many pieces.”
“You learned piano?”
“Three years. Then the teacher advised me to quit—said my interest level was mediocre and my hands were too small, so continuing would just be a waste of time.”
“How small?”
Mu Ning spread her hand open, palm facing Jing Xuan.
Naturally, he pressed his own palm against hers, aligning their wrists, then their palms, and finally their fingers.
His hand was a full size larger, his fingers extending a segment longer.
Mu Ning didn’t dare blink.
Otherwise, her trembling lashes would completely betray her fluster.
The trick she’d read about in romance novels ten years ago—comparing hand sizes with the person you like—had actually worked.
Praise be to all the great romance novel authors in the world.
“Really…” Jing Xuan said, curling his fingers. Her fingertips, as if struck by an electric current, curled inward toward her own palm as well.
Her loosely clenched fist, like a cautious little heart, was wrapped inside Jing Xuan’s long-fingered palm.
The “heart” of her fist and her actual heart both contracted tightly, like human skin drawing near a blazing flame—the pain and the heat both felt so real.
Mu Ning could barely breathe.
Fortunately, it lasted only a moment. Jing Xuan let go, then, as if completing his earlier sentence of “Really…”: “A whole size smaller than mine.”
“Mhm…”
“…Looks like the ice is gone. Want me to add more?”
Before Mu Ning could say no, Jing Xuan stood up, picked up the two glasses, and strode quickly toward the kitchen.
Mu Ning buried her face in the crook of her arm.
The cheek pressed against her arm’s skin was shockingly hot.
This was the first time she’d gotten this far with a guy, so Mu Ning wasn’t sure if this was normal: it seemed that at a certain stage, probing and sparring could no longer be satisfied at the level of words and thoughts alone—the body instinctively craved another body’s warmth, touch, embrace… and more.
The traditional character for “love” (愛) has a heart embedded in its center.
It was knowing in your heart, understanding without words, yearning with all your heart, letting your mind wander, and feeling your heart flutter.
After a while, Jing Xuan returned from the kitchen, carrying two glasses of Coke topped up with ice.
Mu Ning had more or less calmed down by then.
The game continued. For a long stretch, neither of them spoke, as if some rookie protection mechanism had kicked in, keeping them both from making any rash moves.
“…Is this boring?” Mu Ning glanced at Jing Xuan, breaking the delicate silence. “You can only watch me play.”
“Not boring. I wanted to replay this game anyway.”
“Do you have any games we could play together?”
Jing Xuan blurted out: “Overcooked, It Takes Two, Split Fiction.”
Three very unsubtle choices.
Mu Ning couldn’t stop the corners of her mouth from curling up. “Have you played them all?”
“Who would I play them with?”
“I’ve played It Takes Two.”
Jing Xuan whipped his head around to look at her.
Mu Ning said calmly, “With my best friend. When I had dinner with my senior Jiang Junlin last time, she was there too.”
“…” Jing Xuan’s expression was one of conceding defeat.
They didn’t switch games, because Mu Ning was starting to get sleepy. No matter when, she had to take a nap after lunch—she even kept an ergonomic chair that could recline flat in her office. Meng Meng joked that she was a donkey who’d bought herself a fancier set of shackles.
After a few consecutive yawns, Mu Ning stopped trying to hold on and asked Jing Xuan, “Can I borrow your couch for half an hour?”
“There’s a guest bedroom…”
Mu Ning gave him a look that said “Do you hear yourself?” “…You live alone in a two-bedroom?”
“The one-bedrooms were all rented out.” Jing Xuan laughed. “I’m picky about my living space. Everything else, I can be flexible.”
“Looking for a roommate?”
“Looking. Female only, works in the copywriting team at Lightyear Matrix, master’s degree, 26 years old.”
“By those criteria, our company has two.” Mu Ning laughed.
“…”
Mu Ning only needed a quick rest, so the guest bedroom felt too formal—she insisted on just using the couch.
Jing Xuan went to his room and came back with a blanket, saying it was from the company’s Mid-Autumn gift box and he’d never used it.
Mu Ning said thanks.
Very thoughtful. It would’ve been even more thoughtful if it were one he’d used.
Covering herself from the chest down with the blanket, Mu Ning lay on her side on the couch.
Jing Xuan asked if she needed anything else. She said no, and closed her eyes.
Sleepiness washed over her. Before she drifted off completely, she opened her eyes for a glance—Jing Xuan had returned to his original seat. He hadn’t turned off the game she’d been playing midway; instead, he’d rotated the phone to landscape mode, seemingly opening some mobile game, or possibly a movie.
The phone was on silent, and he sat there quietly.
She thought of his metaphor about his mother pruning branches, and felt that he truly was like a tall, straight tree with lush foliage.
Her last thought before consciousness faded was:
Then… could you be my lemon tree?