The stagnant time began to flow slowly. The clock Yang Jianzhen had brought from next door ticked its seconds into the quiet void of Ming Zhifei’s ears. Outside, the wind and rain seemed to have settled into a hush. Yang Jianzhen’s breathing was light, slow, and rhythmic—the breath of someone deep in sleep.
Of course, it was only because he was right by his ear that he could hear it so clearly.
He had never been able to fall asleep while someone was pressed so close to him. Yang Jianzhen’s breathing brushed against his cheek, prompting a strange thought: Ah, there is a living person next to him.
The second thought was: Even if no one had helped that day, he might not have died, but helping him, getting him to the hospital, so that he could live like this… it’s good.
A scalding, nameless emotion surged from his eyes. Ming Zhifei couldn’t give it a name; he only knew that after all this time since the accident, he had finally shed his first tear—in a completely unrelated, strange situation, in a dark room, beside a living person he barely knew. For all that time before, everything he saw seemed to be through a curtain, like a stage play where he was a puppet placed center stage, at the edge, or off-stage entirely. The absurdity and powerlessness had exceeded the limits of his imagination; he could hardly call it life, reality, or existence itself.
And now, beside a living person, he found evidence of his own survival.
“Fei-ge?”
Yang Jianzhen’s voice came from right beside his ear. Then his hand moved, accurately finding Ming Zhifei’s cheek, his thumb wiping away the hot, unstoppable tears.
Yang Jianzhen didn’t say anything else. He just pulled a corner of the blanket over and carefully wiped Ming Zhifei’s tears until Ming Zhifei pulled the blanket over his own head. Through the blanket, Yang Jianzhen embraced him, gently patting his back as if soothing an infant startled awake by a nightmare.
Much later, when the stuffiness of the blanket had stifled the urge to cry, Ming Zhifei pulled it down, only to hear Yang Jianzhen’s soft voice: “See, Fei-ge? We’re sleeping together, and you slept quite well.”
“Do you… always sleep with other people?” Ming Zhifei asked, not knowing why the question had suddenly come to him.
“It wasn’t always like that. Back in the clubs, I had a girlfriend. We lived together, but I worked nights and she worked days, so we didn’t actually get much time to sleep in the same bed. After we broke up, occasionally someone would want to spend the night—like that person last time—and we’d sleep together, but usually, it was just ‘each to their own home’ once it was over.” Yang Jianzhen chuckled. “Fei-ge, are you jealous?”
To Ming Zhifei, Yang Jianzhen’s question was naturally just more of that suggestive social lubricant. The senior surgeons, anesthesiologists, and nurses he’d worked with in the OR often spoke in that same tone. That kind of shorthand did serve to grease the wheels of interpersonal relationships in the workplace, but Ming Zhifei had never been able to master it. Once he started leading surgeries, he was, in the eyes of his colleagues, a “stiff,” “boring,” and “high-pressure” surgeon. Yang Jianzhen’s past profession required high-intensity socializing—making people “feel comfortable” or “willing to open their wallets”—so of course he chose this way of speaking.
Forced to drop out before finishing high school to host at a club… he was so young back then, it was only natural that he would quickly become whatever he was exposed to. It wasn’t until Ming Zhifei found himself stroking Yang Jianzhen’s buzzed head that he suddenly snapped to awareness of what he was doing.
Yang Jianzhen was clearly stunned by the gesture as well.
“What time is it?” Ming Zhifei sat up.
Yang Jianzhen scrambled off the bed and flipped on the light. He looked at the alarm clock; it was already seven in the evening.
“Wow, we can really sleep. I remember it was 2 PM when you drifted off. Seeing you sleep made me drowsy, so I joined in.” Yang Jianzhen stretched. “I haven’t slept this soundly in ages.”
“Did you not sleep well last night?”
“Not great.”
Because you gave the fan to me, didn’t you? Ming Zhifei thought to himself.
“Cooking time, cooking time. One meal down, another to go; a blink of the eyes and another day flows~~” Yang Jianzhen grabbed his crutch from the foot of the bed and started humming as he left the room.
Pieces of chicken, cut to just the right size, were sprinkled with salt and neatly sliced ginger, then tossed and mixed by slender fingers. Afterward, those hands were washed, dried with a paper towel, and turned to slice red shallots. Next, the oil was heated; the ginger went in first, sautéed over medium heat until slightly golden and fragrant, followed by the halved shallots and several perilla leaves.
Sizzle—
The sound of moisture-laden food hitting the hot oil filled the air. As those slender fingers gripped the spatula, faint blue veins surfaced beneath the skin of his wrists—he looked composed and powerful.
The scent of various natural spices drifted out from the edges of the range hood’s reach. Ming Zhifei, standing by to assist and hand things over, couldn’t help but wonder: how exactly did Yang Jianzhen control the heat?
If it were him, even following a video tutorial, he would likely end up with a burnt mess and total chaos.
During the process, Yang Jianzhen seemed to move the frypan away from the flame to adjust the temperature of the bottom—but based on what did he decide when to move it or keep it there?
Ming Zhifei figured that even if he asked, Yang Jianzhen probably wouldn’t be able to explain it. Cooking seemed to be a pure talent for him, something difficult to put into words.
“Fei-ge, the chicken.” Yang Jianzhen’s smiling voice snapped Ming Zhifei out of his reverie. He handed over the drained chicken pieces from the side of the stove.
When they woke up, it was already 7 PM, and they had finished all the meat in the fridge over the last three meals. Ming Zhifei had wanted to go out for groceries, but Yang Jianzhen told him he could buy them directly through a delivery app and someone would bring them to the door.
Ming Zhifei, who had never used an app for groceries, handed his phone to Yang Jianzhen and let him pick whatever he needed for dinner.
“It’s faster to have it delivered. The supermarket is too far, and most of them don’t carry perilla anyway.”
“Is perilla the same as the traditional Chinese medicine, Zisu?” Ming Zhifei asked curiously during checkout.
“It can be used as medicine, I guess? But it’s delicious in stir-fries. Have you never had perilla chicken, Fei-ge?”
Ming Zhifei shook his head. Even if he had eaten it before, he probably wouldn’t have been able to identify the ingredients.
“Then tonight, you’re in for a treat.”
The chicken was tossed into the oil filled with spices, sizzling once more. It was stir-fried rapidly, turning from white to a slight golden. As the chicken began to render its own fat, the color became even more appetizing. Yang Jianzhen instructed Ming Zhifei to bring over the sauce he had pre-mixed.
“If my leg were fine, I wouldn’t pre-mix it. Adding them one by one according to the heat would taste even better,” Yang Jianzhen said with a hint of regret.
“Is there really a difference?”
“A very subtle one. It affects the final result just a tiny bit.”
“I can pour them for you.”
Yang Jianzhen burst into laughter at that. Ming Zhifei realized why he was laughing and joined in—true, in those split-second moments, he might accidentally dump half a bottle of soy sauce in if he wasn’t careful.
“Then once your leg is better, make it again.”
“Not kicking me out anymore?” Yang Jianzhen teased.
Even though Yang Jianzhen wasn’t entirely satisfied with the process of pouring in the pre-mixed sauce—light soy, dark soy, oyster sauce, sugar, and white spirits—Ming Zhifei already considered the result the best chicken he had ever tasted. As he ate, Yang Jianzhen watched him with that same smile, not even moving to get himself more rice.
“Why don’t we eat together?” Ming Zhifei noticed his gaze. Realizing the man’s leg made movement difficult, he stood up to get him a bowl of rice from the kitchen.
“I told you, I like watching others eat.” Yang Jianzhen took the rice and said a soft “thank you.”
“Did you used to cook for that girlfriend?” Ming Zhifei wondered; since he hadn’t cooked for anyone in a long time, the most recent person to taste his food must have been that ex-girlfriend.
“Occasionally. She wasn’t home most of the day.” Yang Jianzhen kept smiling, setting the bowl down without starting to eat immediately. “Actually, I used to cook for my grandfather. He’d praise me every time, saying it was delicious. He looked so happy when he ate.”
“So the way I eat reminds you of your grandfather.” Ming Zhifei couldn’t help but laugh.
Yang Jianzhen didn’t deny it. He picked up his chopsticks and, after a couple of bites, said, “The way you eat isn’t like him. You aren’t like anyone else.”
Ming Zhifei didn’t bother to decode every word Yang Jianzhen said. To him, talking to the younger man wasn’t exhausting or forced, which was already a massive relief. Lately, speaking to anyone he had to face felt like a grueling chore. He thought it was because he was ill—he knew he couldn’t meet their expectations or say what they wanted to hear. And truthfully, they didn’t want to hear what he had to say either.
As a child, he was told to be quiet when he wanted to speak and to be self-reliant when he wanted help; he had long since learned not to speak unnecessarily, but rather to meet the other person’s needs with objective advice to solve the problem.
Until he realized that once he could no longer solve problems, no one wanted to talk to him anymore. He didn’t believe Fan Wenya or his in-laws ever truly wanted to “talk” to him—they just wanted to know “what are we going to do.” He hadn’t even told his parents about losing his job, selling the house, the divorce, or the lawsuit, because they would only ask, “So, what are you going to do now?”
Now, with Yang Jianzhen—virtually a stranger—he could actually listen and engage in this kind of idle chatter. Topics unrelated to work, the future, salary, or titles—it was an experience he’d never had in his life.
“Fei-ge, Fei-ge, let’s go buy some plants tomorrow, okay?” While Ming Zhifei was washing the dishes, Yang Jianzhen stood nearby and asked.
“I’ll be the one buying them, right? You can’t go out,” Ming Zhifei joked.
“Yeah, you buy them. But if I could walk, I’d want to go out with you.”
“Too dangerous. You’d better stay put. If you get jumped, don’t count on me; I’ll just call the police for you at most.”
“How heartless,” Yang Jianzhen laughed loudly.
“I’ll go buy them tomorrow. I won’t be home the day after, so I’ll buy extra food to leave for you,” Ming Zhifei said.
“Eh? Where are you going?”
“The court hearing is the day after tomorrow.”
“You have a lawsuit?”
“Yeah. If they order me to pay a lot of money after the hearing, we’ll both be living on thin air.”
Ming Zhifei was surprised to realize he could say this in a joking tone. Is this matter really so small? A catastrophic event that had plagued him for so long, yet he could speak of it like this.