As he went to put the meat and vegetables away, Ming Zhifei finally took a good look at the refrigerator provided by the landlord. During his first week, he had lived on dried noodles, eggs, and a few greens that didn’t require cold storage; he hadn’t even plugged the thing in.
It was a small, silver-grey fridge, barely as tall as he was, with single doors for the top and bottom. It looked ancient. His family had used this brand when he was a child. When he was outfitting his marital home, he had looked for it, only for Fan Wenya to tell him they had long since gone out of business.
As he bent over to plug it in and opened the door to put the meat inside, he heard the bathroom door open.
Using a laundry pole from Ming Zhifei’s balcony as a makeshift crutch, Yang Jianzhen hobbled out. Seeing what Ming Zhifei was doing, he immediately reached out and blocked the gap between the meat and the fridge door.
Ming Zhifei turned to him, confused. Yang Jianzhen smiled. “Fei-ge, how long has it been since this fridge was used?”
“Not once since I moved in. I just plugged it in.”
“Listen to me, Fei-ge. If you put it in now, this high-quality beef you bought for me is going to stink in no time~~” Yang Jianzhen took the bag of beef from Ming Zhifei’s hand, set it on a small table, and wiped a finger inside the fridge before holding it up to Ming Zhifei’s face. “Look how dirty it is. And the temperature isn’t down yet. Putting it in there now is just sealing it in a box to rot faster.”
“The beef wasn’t specifically for you,” Ming Zhifei said.
Yang Jianzhen just laughed again, not bothering to argue. “Fei-ge, go get a clean rag. Let’s wipe it down. Take the meat out of the plastic and put it on a plate for now; beef this dry is less likely to spoil if it’s left in the open air.”
Ming Zhifei found two rags, rinsed and wrung them out, and handed them to Yang Jianzhen, who sat by the fridge. In that moment, it hit him again: this man was a patient. Despite his “I can do anything” attitude, his leg made movement genuinely difficult.
“I’ll wipe the fridge. You go rest.”
“I’ll do the bottom, you do the top, okay?” Yang Jianzhen replied, still grinning.
Standing beside him, Ming Zhifei could see the gauze wrapped around his head. Calculating from the time of the injury, the wound underneath probably needed a dressing change. He must have been very careful while bathing to keep the bandages dry, Ming Zhifei thought. He’s remarkably adept.
“At my house, we used to unplug and clean the fridge twice a year. My grandfather would make me help him. It was actually quite clean, but he was obsessed with hygiene—even though he was a scholar.”
“Do scholars not like being clean?” Ming Zhifei wasn’t annoyed; he just didn’t see the connection. He also didn’t think of himself as particularly untidy.
“Hahaha, Fei-ge, I’m not saying you’re dirty. I just think you often don’t see what’s right in front of you, so you don’t notice if it’s clean or not.” Yang Jianzhen looked up at him and smiled. “It’s kind of cute.”
Never in his life had Ming Zhifei expected to be described as “cute.” His hands paused for a second before he spoke: “In surgery, I never miss a single detail. If I don’t seem to notice things normally, it’s just because my attention is focused elsewhere.”
“Oh, so you really are a doctor.” Yang Jianzhen chuckled. “I figured you might be.”
“How did you guess?”
“Because you can’t just leave someone to die,” Yang Jianzhen said. “You heard me arguing with that guy that day, right? Most people wouldn’t have dared to come in.”
“No, any concerned citizen would have helped,” Ming Zhifei reflexively denied.
Yang Jianzhen smiled and abruptly changed the subject. “Don’t you want to ask why I got my head smashed in?”
Ming Zhifei wanted to say “I’m not interested,” but seeing how seriously the man was wiping the fridge, he changed his answer: “Didn’t you tell me already? Even if I don’t know the specifics, I can guess.”
“So you aren’t curious about how a man’s love for me turned into hate?”
“I know. You said it yourself,” Ming Zhifei said calmly. He finished wiping the top half of the fridge and walked toward the kitchen.
“Fei-ge, you have a great memory. I talk so much, I thought you would’ve forgotten by now. It’s so strange. He said he fell in love with me. Does he even know what love is? It’s hilarious. Fei-ge, don’t you think so? He said he thought we had ‘feelings’.”
“It’s not strange. People often think they are in love, think they are married, think they will grow old together. People assume that because there is a set procedure for something, following those steps makes it real.” Ming Zhifei rinsed the rag and returned to the fridge to give it a second wipe. After the words left his mouth, he felt a jolt of alarm—how could he say something like that?
Thoughts that had been swirling in his mind like a chaotic fog seemed to finally find form as he spoke. A line that had been invisible was slowly becoming clear.
“Fei-ge, you’re someone who doesn’t understand himself.” Yang Jianzhen’s cheerful voice dropped into his ear at just that moment. “You don’t know what you like or what you hate, do you?”
“I don’t have particular likes or dislikes.” Ming Zhifei remembered someone asking about his preferences before. It was his ex-wife. She once asked him: What color do you like? What do you want to eat? His answer was always “either is fine.”
“So you didn’t love or hate your wife, and yet you got married and then divorced?”
The temperature inside the fridge was dropping. Ming Zhifei’s hand, which had been wiping deep inside the compartment, stopped. Yang Jianzhen was truly a sharp one; he seemed to guess everything, almost as if he were a mind reader.
“How did you know I am divorced?”
“Am I right?”
“That’s none of your business.” Ming Zhifei suppressed his rare, budding curiosity. He had never possessed a strong desire to know how others perceived him.
A boring workaholic—that was the evaluation he received from his colleagues at the hospital. He wasn’t sensitive to how others judged him; in fact, he was usually quite oblivious. He naturally tuned out the office gossip, finding it mind-numbingly dull and a waste of time. He knew he was likely a topic of conversation for others, but he simply wasn’t interested.
That specific evaluation had come from the now-retired department head during a private talk years ago. She had expressed concern about his personal life and then mentioned, as if in passing, what the “female staff” thought of him. “The nurses tell me that you are hard to get close to, Dr Ming. You’re all business, stay until midnight—the king of overachievers.
I asked them if I should introduce you to any of their friends, and they said a man who works that hard would scare any girl off. They were afraid the wife would end up living a lonely life and blame the matchmaker. Dr. Ming, doing rounds once a day is enough to be a responsible doctor. There’s no need to do another round and open new orders while the nurses are busy on the night shift. If everyone coordinates, everyone is more comfortable. Wouldn’t it be better if the nurses didn’t have to keep complaining to us about it?”
“I understand. However, post-op patients must be checked, and any issues need to be handled immediately. Not everything can wait until the next day.” When Ming Zhifei spoke to the department head, he was polite but blunt. “The nurses are just doing their jobs, but patient safety is the priority. I’ll try to do the evening rounds earlier, but sometimes surgeries run late—it’s unavoidable.”
“Dr. Ming, honestly, you should develop some personal interests. Working every day is exhausting. You don’t need to stay so tightly wound, right?” The former head was a kind woman who seemed genuinely worried about him. Eventually, she introduced him to a doctor from the reproductive department of her former hospital: Fan Wenya.
At the time, he had dismissed her words. What were “interests”? Meaningless, time-wasting distractions. His schedule was tight enough; he wished for 48 hours in a day to handle more meaningful clinical work and research. Who had time for hobbies?
Those old words echoed Yang Jianzhen’s current sentiment. During the long stretch of unemployment after being stripped of his “life’s meaning,” Ming Zhifei occasionally thought of what the retired head had told him: You need your own life. You need hobbies. Work isn’t everything. Back then, he had almost sneered at the advice. He felt she only said that because her professional ability wasn’t as strong as his; the department’s growth in research and clinical practice over the last decade had relied almost entirely on his relentless work. “Interests” were just excuses for those who weren’t capable enough to win at their jobs.
But, if he actually had a hobby—even if it was being a foodie, or watching videos—perhaps he wouldn’t be spending every day staring at a wall now that he couldn’t work.
A boring, dull person who is useless outside of work. He had to admit the department head was a keen judge of character. But she was older and had been his boss for years; it was natural for her to see through people. Yang Jianzhen was so young—how could he see through someone so quickly?
“I’ll change your dressing,” Ming Zhifei told him after the fridge was clean.
The wound on the back of Yang Jianzhen’s head had ten stitches and was healing well. If he grew his hair back to its original length, the scar would be hidden. Ming Zhifei used forceps and a cotton ball to disinfect the area. He had made a special trip to a medical supply store next to the pharmacy to buy dressing materials and a crutch.
There were a few small cuts on his face; the rest were bruises. As Ming Zhifei used the cotton ball to disinfect the corner of Yang Jianzhen’s eye, the younger man stared at him intently.
Ming Zhifei, usually oblivious to the gaze of others, felt a twinge of embarrassment at such close range. He didn’t ask why the man was staring, but simply said, “Close your eyes.”
Yang Jianzhen obeyed, but his mouth didn’t stop. “Fei-ge, are you going to kiss me?”
“Iodophor in the eyes is uncomfortable.” Ming Zhifei ignored the flirtatious remark with the calm of a monk.