After returning from the hospital, Ban Ban didn’t say a single word to Wen Ting’an the entire way home, right up until they stepped out of the car.
It wasn’t until she walked through the front door that a smile finally appeared on her face.
Aunt Jiang asked her, “Madam, how was the check-up?”
Ban Ban replied casually, “Oh, it’s nothing. It’s just dry out, so I had a little nosebleed.” Her tone was so light and breezy it was as if nothing at all had happened.
Yet once she changed into her loungewear and sat down on the living room sofa, the television playing a food show in the background, she stared blankly at the screen without taking in a single word.
The other man’s words kept echoing endlessly in her mind—“Wen Shao brought a woman to the hospital first thing in the morning? What, did they make a human life?”
Make a human life.
Ban Ban pulled a throw pillow into her arms, resting her chin on it while her gaze drifted to the pink roses sitting on the coffee table.
The edges of the petals were starting to wilt. She really ought to change the water, but she just didn’t feel like moving.
Before her marriage, she had thoroughly prepared herself mentally. She knew Wen Ting’an was a playboy, that he went through partners quickly, and that his scandals were the talk of the town.
At the time, she had thought to herself: It doesn’t matter. It’s just a marriage of convenience; we’re each getting what we want. He provides the money to bail her family out of their financial crisis, and she plays the part of Mrs. Wen. We’ll be even.
And yet, hearing someone else speak of it with that kind of tone made it sting all the same.
Even though he had a wife, he didn’t know the first thing about showing restraint. He was just so blatant about it.
Ban Ban hugged the pillow a little tighter. Her nose began to sting, and she gave a quick sniff, fighting back the tears so they wouldn’t fall.
At ten in the morning, the doorbell rang.
Aunt Jiang went to answer it, and two workers in uniforms carried three large cardboard boxes inside, explaining that Mr. Wen had instructed them to deliver humidifiers.
Ban Ban half-sat up from the sofa, watching as the boxes were carried into the master bedroom, the living room, and the study. The workmen unpacked, installed, and adjusted the units with brisk efficiency.
Aunt Jiang stood nearby with the instruction manual, asking how to set the humidity levels.
Leaning back against the cushions, Ban Ban felt half the anger drain right out of her heart.
He actually remembered what the doctor had said when she had her nosebleed—“Put a humidifier in the room”—and he had gone ahead and arranged for them to be delivered.
She pinched the corner of her pillow, telling herself, Fine, I forgive him. He’s not that bad after all.
The next morning, Ban Ban woke up a little after five as usual to make breakfast. Today she was making xiaolongbao (soup dumplings). She rolled the dough out paper-thin, mixed savory gelatin broth into the filling, and steamed them until every bite burst with rich, piping-hot juice.
Just as she brought them to the table, Wen Ting’an came walking down the stairs. He glanced at the steaming basket of dumplings, sat down, and picked one up with his chopsticks.
He bit into it. The broth was scalding hot. He took a small sip and gave a slight nod.
“Good, right?” Ban Ban asked, resting her chin in her hands as she sat across from him.
Wen Ting’an chewed and swallowed, then looked up at her. His gaze lingered for a couple of seconds longer than usual, a tiny, faint curve appearing at the corner of his lips.
“Mmm.”
That single “Mmm” was all it took for Ban Ban to beam, her eyes curving into crescent moons. Yesterday morning’s unpleasantness seemed completely wiped away by that one word.
She noticed that Wen Ting’an always went back for seconds when she made noodles—he could easily polish off two bowls of crab-roe noodles. And when it came to soup dumplings, he could finish an entire basket of eight along with a bowl of soy milk.
Watching him finish every last bite always filled her with a profound sense of satisfaction.
She would steal glances at him, too. When he lowered his head to drink his soy milk, his long eyelashes cast a shadow, and his Adam’s apple bobbed smoothly as he swallowed.
The forearms exposed by his rolled-up sleeves had clean, fluid lines, and his wrist bones were sharp and defined. When he sat, his back was naturally straight, his broad shoulders fitting the lines of his shirt so well that the subtle contours of his back muscles were faintly visible beneath the fabric.
One meter ninety tall, great taste in clothes, and abs.
Ban Ban chewed the tip of her chopsticks, a thought drifting across her mind: If I were one of those women outside, I’d probably be completely captivated by him, unable to resist even a little bit, and just throw myself right at him.
Realizing what she was thinking, she hurriedly pulled her chopsticks out of her mouth, lowered her gaze to pretend to eat her congee, and felt the tips of her ears turn beet red.
This was the first time in Ban Ban’s life that she had ever fallen this hard for a man.
She was twenty-one, had never been in a relationship, and didn’t really know what heartache or true infatuation felt like. All she knew was that every morning when she saw him walk down the stairs and sit across from her at the breakfast table, her heartbeat would skip a beat.
And this man who made her heart skip a beat happened to be her legally wedded husband.
In a private room at a high-end restaurant in East City, Wen Ting’an was cornered over the dining table by Zhou Lin and Song Chengyuan, along with two or three other close friends.
After three rounds of drinks, Zhou Lin leaned in close. “Old Wen, who on earth was that outside the hospital the other day?”
Wen Ting’an picked up a piece of food with his chopsticks without looking up. “My wife.”
Zhou Lin nearly dropped his wine glass. “What? Your wife? You mean that little wife you brought back from Jiang City?”
Wen Ting’an raised his eyes, his gaze heavy. “What do you mean, ‘little wife’?”
Zhou Lin immediately corrected himself. “I mean… that wife who’s a lot younger than you?”
“My mistake, my mistake.” Zhou Lin pressed his palms together apologetically. “Let me correct myself again—the wife who’s a lot younger than you. I’ll punish myself with a drink.”
He threw his head back, downed the glass, poured another, and turned to wink and gesture at the rest of the table.
“You guys have no idea. The other day when I ran into Wen Shao taking her to the hospital—guess what she looks like.”
Everyone at the table perked up with interest, urging him to get on with it.
Zhou Lin set down his wine glass and gestured with his hands. “Fair-skinned and tender, didn’t really catch her facial features, just that sort of vibe—looked like a student. Only she’s short. Standing next to Wen Shao—”
Wen Ting’an’s chopsticks hit the edge of his bowl with a crisp clink.
He didn’t say a word, but a single look shot in Zhou Lin’s direction brought the other man’s words to an abrupt halt in his throat.
Zhou Lin blinked, then switched gears at lightning speed. “Not short! Not short at all! She just looks short standing next to our Wen Shao, right Old Wen?”
Wen Ting’an withdrew his gaze and picked up his chopsticks again.
Song Chengyuan watched with amusement, tapping his fingers on the table. “Old Wen, when are you going to bring her out for the brothers to meet? Stop hiding her away at home.”
Wen Ting’an pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and exhaled a puff of smoke. “We’ll see.”
“When he says ‘we’ll see,’ that means there’s a chance!” Song Chengyuan slapped his thigh and turned to Zhou Lin.
“Linzi, hurry up and plan a gathering. Make it grand and formal. The little sister-in-law is a young heiress from the South; we northern boys can’t let our manners slip. Make sure the welcome gifts are properly prepared.”
Zhou Lin immediately picked up the thread. “You got it, I’ll set it up! Let’s hold it at Chengyuan’s restaurant, have the back kitchen whip up a proper feast, and put it all on my tab. Song Chengyuan, you’re in charge of the alcohol.”
Song Chengyuan nodded. “Drinks are on me.”
Wen Ting’an sat in the middle of the smoke, neither nodding nor shaking his head. The faint curve at the corner of his mouth made it impossible to tell whether he had agreed or not.
In front of him sat a bowl of noodles, his chopsticks laid across the rim untouched.
As they were breaking up to leave, Song Chengyuan noticed it. “Hey Old Wen, how come you didn’t touch your main course? We specially ordered it for you—didn’t you say you liked the noodles here before?”
Wen Ting’an flicked his ash and glanced down at the bowl of noodles. The broth looked murky and bland, the noodles sitting limply in the soup with a few sad leaves of bok choy floating on top—falling miles short of that clear, fragrant bowl from the morning.
“Looks terrible,” he said.
Song Chengyuan was stunned. “How does it look terrible? Didn’t you use to love these?”
Wen Ting’an stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and draped his jacket over his arm.
As he walked toward the door, he paused beside Song Chengyuan, glanced sideways, and dropped a parting remark: “You might as well fire the noodle chef.”
The private room door clicked shut.
Song Chengyuan stood there frozen, then turned to Zhou Lin. “What does he mean by that?”
Zhou Lin leaned back in his chair, laughing until he was practically doubled over. “What does he mean? Clearly, someone at home is cooking noodles for him now, so he’s looking down on your crappy chef. Your guy might as well pack his bags and get lost.”
Song Chengyuan thought about it for two seconds, caught on, and burst out laughing too.
“Wen Ting’an is a goner,” he said.
When Wen Ting’an got home, the living room lights were still on.
He changed his shoes and walked in to find Ban Ban sitting cross-legged on the sofa, holding the remote control. The television volume was turned way down, playing her perpetual late-night food programs.
Hearing his footsteps, she whipped her head around, hopped off the sofa, and trotted over in her slippers.
“You’re back?”
Wen Ting’an stood at the threshold between the foyer and the living room, watching her approach—her slippers slapping softly against the floor, the hem of her white nightgown swaying around her ankles, her hair unstyled and falling loosely over her shoulders, her cheeks flushed pink.
A sudden wave of warmth filled his chest.
“Mmm.” He draped his jacket over his arm.
“Why aren’t you asleep yet?”
“Waiting for you.” Ban Ban looked up at him, wrinkled her nose, and suddenly leaned closer to sniff the air. Her brow furrowed even deeper.
“Wen Ting’an, why are you drinking every single day? You come home smelling like alcohol constantly.”
Wen Ting’an looked down at her face inches from his, the tip of her nose nearly brushing his shirtfront.
His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he took a half-step back.
“It’s a habit.”
“That’s a bad habit.” Ban Ban put her hands on her hips, her expression serious, like a teacher scolding an unruly child.
“You need to change it.”
Wen Ting’an looked down at her determined stance and a smile touched the corners of his mouth.
He remembered what Zhou Lin had said about her being “short” at the dinner table, and the look he had given him in response. He remembered why he felt this sudden urge to protect a girl he’d known for barely two months.
Should he change? He looked at the little girl standing in front of him, hands on hips and glaring up at him, while a tiny voice in his heart whispered—Actually, that doesn’t sound so bad either.
But he didn’t say any of that out loud. He simply reached out, gave the top of her head a gentle pat, and walked past her up the stairs.
Ban Ban stood frozen for two seconds, touched the spot on her head where his hand had rested, and felt her ears turn red all over again.
She turned around and called out to his retreating back, “Did you hear me? You have to change!”
Wen Ting’an reached the top of the stairs without turning back, but his voice drifted down to her: “I want noodles for breakfast tomorrow morning.”
Ban Ban blinked, her lips curving into a smile.
She turned off the television, clicked off the living room lights one by one until only the dim hallway nightlight remained, and then made her way up the steps one by one. As she passed the guest bedroom on her way to the master suite, she paused and glanced at the closed door.
After a moment’s thought, she went into her room, pulled out a notepad and pen from the drawer, and knelt over the bed to scribble down a few new noodle recipes.
“I’ll make mushroom noodles tomorrow. He should like those.”
With that done, she turned off the light, pulled the duvet up to her chin, stared up at the ceiling, and smiled into the dark.