Nan Zhi was still a bit groggy, so after washing her hands and face, she sat down to enjoy this meal whether it was breakfast or lunch, she wasn’t sure with Song Qing.
She had slept quite a while, so the greens on top of the dishes had dried out a bit, but it was still fine.
At least it was better than a small bread roll. In any case, Nan Zhi happily finished the meal.
After clearing the dishes, she sat down and searched for nearby entertainment. It was rare to have a day off, so of course she had to make the most of it. At this hour—neither too early nor too late—the only options were watching a movie or going to the mall.
Coincidentally, there was a movie she was quite interested in at around 3:40 p.m. Nan Zhi was the type to act immediately, so she dragged Song Qing along to the mall without delay.
As for Song Qing, he had no objections—and even if he did, they wouldn’t matter. He had no choice but to accompany her, just like back when he was with Grandma.
Drinking milk tea, visiting night markets, enjoying good food, attending concerts, going to comic conventions—she took him everywhere. Back then, Grandma often said, “This old woman’s bones are about to fall apart from all your dragging around.”
But her eyes were always smiling, clearly happy deep down.
When with her, she’d say, “Don’t waste money, just go by yourself,” or “At my age, there’s no need to chase trends.” But when talking to the other elderly women in the village, she’d often boast: “My granddaughter bought this for me,” “My granddaughter took me to a comic con—it’s something young kids do, the venue was huge, I was exhausted!”
“My granddaughter insisted on taking me to eat hot pot—it’s just dipping food in boiling broth, we could’ve done this at home, but she swore the outside version was better.”
There were many, many such instances.
In many ways, Song Qing was almost exactly like her grandma—outwardly indifferent, but in reality, whenever she wanted to go somewhere, he’d quietly get himself ready. Before Nan Zhi was even done preparing, he’d have already finished his tasks, dressed, and stood waiting, ready to go—only to end up waiting for her instead.
Every time she took him out to eat good food, he’d react just like her grandma: putting on a look as if to say, Let me see what little demon has tempted you into refusing home-cooked meals and insisting on eating out.
He didn’t go out much, and unlike her grandma, he didn’t brag. But if she bought him a hat, he’d wear it whenever he went out. He’d also finish every last bite and sip of whatever food or drink she gave him. And all the things they brought back from their outings were carefully stored, neatly arranged—clearly treasured.
So he definitely didn’t dislike it.
To be precise, everyone is curious about places they’ve never been and foods they’ve never tried—they want to explore. Song Qing was human too, so of course he was no exception.
It’s just that sometimes there were concerns—wheelchairs aren’t convenient.
Sure, wheelchairs were inconvenient, but she didn’t mind the hassle. Back then, when Grandma got tired, she’d carry her on her back. Now, pushing a wheelchair was nothing in comparison.
Going to the mall didn’t require much effort anyway—just carrying him and the wheelchair when getting in and out of the car.
Song Qing really was a lot like her grandma. Before every outing, Grandma would always worry she’d get hungry or thirsty, insisting on packing food and drinks, saying outside food was unclean and not as good as hers.
In her mind, it was as if the whole world was out to harm her granddaughter, so she insisted that she only eat and drink what she prepared.
Now, Song Qing was a little better—he knew she went out precisely for the food—but he still brewed a thermos of brown sugar ginger milk tea before heading out.
He didn’t even like drinking it himself; it was all for her.
Nan Zhi loved milk tea but hated the brown sugar ginger flavor. Still, since it was supposedly good for her health, she’d take a few sips now and then. So nowadays, whether at home or out, he’d brew this for her—quite thoughtful, really, adding her favorite hot milk to it.
Even though he’d brought the brown sugar ginger milk tea, carefully brewed to be fragrant, once they got to the cinema, Nan Zhi still ordered two cups of milk tea right in front of him.
Song Qing’s expression was priceless.
First, he stared at her blankly, then quickly snapped out of it, his eyes widening slightly, his gaze clearly disappointed—with a hint of quiet resentment.
Nan Zhi caught it out of the corner of her eye but pretended not to notice. Leaning on the marble counter, she laughed like a maniac, earning a strange look from the cashier.
After getting the milk tea, she mischievously made the one person who most disapproved of outside food and drinks—the one who thought they were unclean—hold them for her.
His expression was, as one might expect, quite a sight.
From start to finish, he couldn’t understand—why insist on drinking something made by others when it wasn’t even as good as what he brewed?
What was so great about it, anyway?
When they arrived, Nan Zhi had carried him in and out of the car. Inside the cinema, a staff member proactively helped, lifting the wheelchair with her up the stairs to their seats.
They had chosen seats on a platform at the very edge, where the wheelchair could fit comfortably, with plenty of space for others to pass by.
Though he could have watched the movie from his wheelchair, Nan Zhi still lifted him out and settled him into a proper cinema seat, letting him experience what it was like to watch a movie normally.
But Song Qing wasn’t paying attention to any of that. Even now, he still couldn’t wrap his head around it, stubbornly fixated on those two cups of milk tea, his face still tinged with quiet resentment.
Nan Zhi didn’t say anything out loud, but once the theater lights dimmed, she grinned wildly in the darkness where he couldn’t see.
She loved teasing Song Qing—successfully messing with him made her ridiculously happy.
The movie itself was mediocre, nothing particularly impressive, but Song Qing’s reactions were.
Nan Zhi had bought two cups of milk tea, one of which was naturally for him. But he, either out of stubbornness or simply because he didn’t like it, didn’t touch his. After finishing hers, Nan Zhi reached over to take his.
This man didn’t want her drinking too much milk tea—it wasn’t good for her health—so he secretly offered her the brown sugar ginger milk tea he’d brought instead. But Nan Zhi refused, insisting he hand over the unhealthy drink.
Truthfully, that cup of milk tea was right between them on their shared armrest. She could have taken it herself, but no—she wanted Song Qing to personally give her what he considered junk.
She wouldn’t drink his brown sugar ginger milk tea. She wanted the “soda for fat nerds” that was milk tea, in his eyes.
Song Qing’s resentment deepened, his lips pressed tightly together. But he still handed it to her.
By then, the movie was playing in front of them, the light not too dim. Nan Zhi caught every little shift in his expression. Pretending to sip her drink, she actually ducked her head, silently laughing behind his back.
Of course, she couldn’t bully him too much. So by the movie’s end, she finally took a few sips of his brown sugar ginger milk tea. Only then did his expression soften.
Nan Zhi herself was in high spirits—teasing him was just too fun.
This man was usually quite sharp. Just look at how he managed to earn money in this fast-paced society, breaking into the fiercely competitive short-video scene, even developing his own software and standing his ground alone—proof that he was far more capable than most.
Back when they went grocery shopping together, if they bought a lot and the vendor miscalculated, Nan Zhi wouldn’t even notice. But Song Qing would mentally tally it up on the spot—”You overcharged us by eleven yuan.”
The vendor would stubbornly deny it, but he’d recite every item’s price one by one. Even with so many groceries, he remembered every single cost.
No one could cheat him. He knew the exact price of every vegetable—not a single cent extra was allowed. Sometimes he’d even demand a few extra scallions or garlic cloves tossed in. He was shrewd like that.
Yet with her? He didn’t even know how much money he’d earned or how much he had left.
And he let her mess with him all the time.
Sometimes she even felt she was being too much. But he never made a sound, never reacted—nothing like the man who haggled over pennies at the market.
Often, she’d annoy him until his eyes turned red, but he’d still say nothing. The next day, everything would go back to normal.
They were two people, after all—raised in completely different environments, with different perspectives. Of course there’d be friction. But most of the time, they just compromised.
One day, they might fight to the point of not speaking. The next, he’d coldly ask, “What do you want to eat?” and she’d coldly reply, “Steamed egg custard.”
He’d coldly steam the egg custard. She’d coldly eat it. And somewhere along the way, their expressions would soften, and just like that, they’d make up.
Their arguments were absurd too. He’d insist on finishing all the leftovers. At first, Nan Zhi thought he just had a big appetite. But even when she cooked extra, he’d still force himself to eat it all—ending up bloated and pale-faced late at night.
When Nan Zhi discovered this, she dumped the leftovers—which he still considered perfectly fresh—right in front of him. It pissed him off so much he nearly ended up hospitalized again.
Their fights were baffling, and their reconciliations equally so. It was impossible to tell who caved first or who broke the silence—things just somehow smoothed over.
In the past, after watching a movie, Nan Zhi would usually swing by a massage corner in the mall, and today was no exception.
Over on Song Qing’s side, despite muttering “No, no, I don’t need one,” he still let her lift him onto the massage chair. After paying, they both lay back for their thirty-minute sessions.
Refreshed, they headed out together for a hot pot feast.
Before going, Nan Zhi laid down the rules: “I always go with you to collect and sell scrap, so you have to come eat and explore places with me too—support my hobbies.”
Truthfully, scavenging was her way of relieving stress. The money from selling scrap went straight to her, funding her snacks, drinks, and milk tea binges. She didn’t mind it at all—in fact, she enjoyed it—but she’d never tell Song Qing that.
Surprisingly, Song Qing found her logic sound and dutifully accompanied her.
He’d been busy today. Over 5,000 yuan had poured into Nan Zhi’s account, and the number kept climbing—now nearing 7,000.
His subscription service charged 2 yuan per month per user, meaning he had over 3,000 customers using his software. Later, unable to handle the maintenance load, he raised the price to 9.9 yuan, weeding out some users—but many still signed up.
Some loved the app because it let them wade into controversial online debates without fear of backlash. Others offered suggestions, detailing how they’d been creatively insulted in various ways.
Song Qing took feedback earnestly, reviewing every comment and acting on genuine critiques. Users felt heard, word spread, and mentions on other platforms fueled its popularity.
Even during the movie, he seized moments to troubleshoot. Same during the massage. And of course, at dinner too.
All while obsessing over why she’d choose store-bought milk tea over his brown sugar fresh ginger milk. What’s so special about it?
Nan Zhi couldn’t finish both milk teas, leaving half of each. Song Qing took over, sipping while comparing flavors to his brown sugar fresh ginger milk, determined to pinpoint the difference.
Between after-sales service work, he still happily trailed after her all day, even as she scammed him.
Her logic? His new app made 7,000 yuan today—time to celebrate! So this meal was on him.
And Song Qing? He just nodded. “Okay.”
She dragged him out, took him to hot pot, then made him pay—and he saw nothing wrong with it.
She even swindled him further: “Managing your money is exhausting. Buy me a gift too.” And like a fool, he dug into his meager allowance to oblige.
She bought a giant plush doll—nearly human-sized—for over 200 yuan.
The doll was so big it needed its own seat. As Nan Zhi hugged it and opened the passenger door, she noticed Song Qing gripping his wheelchair handles behind her, brows furrowed, looking as displaced as if she’d stolen his spot.
Which, technically, she had—that seat was always his.
Not that she’d actually let a toy usurp him. She was just too lazy to open the rear door, opting to shove the doll through the front into the backseat. Only then did his tension ease, expression softening as he raised his arms for her to lift him into the passenger seat.
After settling him, Nan Zhi moved to the rear to store his wheelchair. He buckled himself in—never making her fuss over him unless absolutely necessary. They made it home safely.
Before getting out, Song Qing glanced at the passenger seat. Nan Zhi used to keep small, fixed trinkets here—cute but dangerous in a crash, becoming potential projectiles.
Back then, she likely never planned to have a passenger. The decorations had been embedded within easy reach.
But they’d disappeared after his second ride.
Nan Zhi was the type who noticed him—and quietly made adjustments.
Someone as ordinary as me could still be noticed and remembered by others.
Song Qing was truly content with how things were now—though it’d be even better if she’d drink his brown sugar ginger milk tea, the one he’d tweaked multiple times to perfect.
Around ten in the evening, the two returned safely to their room.
With little else to do at night, Nan Zhi found her own entertainment—teasing Song Qing.
Everyone needs a little fun in life.
He had been perfectly fine earlier, collecting laundry from the washing room—putting his own clothes in the small living room while bringing hers to her. When he came out and saw her holding a first aid kit, he was momentarily confused—until realization struck. He tossed the clothes onto the sofa and tried to flee.
Nan Zhi reacted too slowly, letting him escape all the way from the kitchen to the laundry room. Just as he was about to lock the glass door, she wedged her foot in, grabbed his collar, and yanked him out.
Once she lifted him from his wheelchair and left it in the kitchen, he had no chance of escape. He knew it too, so now he obediently let her carry him to the bed—where she intended to treat his wound.
He squirmed deeper into the mattress, insisting he’d already taken care of it himself.
Nan Zhi tugged him back. “Let me see.”
In the struggle, his pants tightened over the injury, making him wince and finally go still. She pulled him closer, flipped him onto his back, and pressed a hand to his abdomen to inspect the wound.
As she examined it, she chided, “You can’t avoid medical care, you know.”
“You should trust us medical professionals.”
Though she hadn’t worked in healthcare for a while, so professional was debatable.
“How can you treat this kind of wound yourself? If it gets infected, do you even want to keep it?”
She was just scaring him on purpose.
“Don’t worry, my heart is sealed shut—no stray thoughts here.”
In the end, Song Qing surrendered, lying still at the edge of the bed, resigned to his fate—and her ministrations.
This time, she was even more meticulous than before. And just like last time, she didn’t wear gloves, her touch unmistakable.
Song Qing shut his eyes and consoled himself: In medicine, there’s no gender. Just pretend I’m a corpse.
—
By nearly 11 p.m., Nan Zhi finally finished tormenting him and went to bed. But tonight was different—she didn’t lock the door. And that meant she’d soon gain two little cats.
The cats had an obsession with unexplored territory. They often scratched at her door, desperate to come in.
Normally, she’d pretend not to notice. The tile floor was too cold, and before long, the pair would give up and dart downstairs, sulking into Song Qing’s arms instead.
But tonight, the door was open. There was a 70–80% chance they’d visit.
Nan Zhi had deliberately left in their line of sight. Cats usually chased people, but perhaps after too many rejections, they didn’t follow her in right away.
She waited and waited. Just as the lights were off and she was nearly asleep, she finally felt something furry brush against her. Peering through the dim light from downstairs—there they were.
The two always appeared together. If Little Black was here, Little White wouldn’t be far. So when Nan Zhi lifted the blanket, sure enough, Little White was there too.
Though Little Black was slightly bigger, she was the girl. Little White, slim and mischievous, was the boy. In the cat world, boys stick to girls.
Nan Zhi hugged them contentedly. Maybe because she didn’t have to wake up early tomorrow—or worry about sleep quality—she found the cats’ purring unexpectedly soothing. Lulled by their rumbling chorus, she drifted peacefully to sleep.
And she slept incredibly well—until the middle of the night, when she realized the two cats had left.
She’d woken up to use the bathroom, still half-asleep, and didn’t want to fully rouse herself and risk insomnia. Not wanting to disrupt her sleep schedule, she reluctantly forced herself back to sleep, heart heavy with loss.
By the next day, having gone to bed early, she woke up early too—around 10 a.m.
Peering downstairs, she saw Song Qing already working, as if he was always one step ahead of her.
After washing up, Nan Zhi clattered down to his small living room and, sure enough, found both cats curled up in his bed.
Even though he’d already gotten up to cook in the kitchen, the cats still preferred his bed.
When Song Qing returned with breakfast, he was met with this scene: Nan Zhi standing beside his bed in the small living room, glaring at the cats with palpable resentment.
He called her to eat. Once she left, he quietly stepped forward and turned off the electric blanket under the covers.
Last night, when the cats hadn’t come down for a long time, he’d guessed it—Nan Zhi had left her door open, intending to sleep with them. Worried they’d grow accustomed to staying upstairs and refuse to come down during the day—or that Nan Zhi might just keep them with her permanently—he’d lured them back to his room.
Wherever the cats were, Nan Zhi would follow.