Inside Ye Que’s apartment.
Jiang Nuan and Shen Wu stepped into the entryway. Jiangjiang came to greet them first, its fluffy head rubbing against Jiang Nuan’s ankle.
The chill left by Su Yang’s gruesome death was dispelled somewhat by Jiangjiang.
Then a rich aroma of bone broth wafted toward them.
Qinian was wearing an apron, his head poking out from the kitchen. He was still holding a ladle, which he waved at them with a lift of his chin.
“You’re back? Wash your hands and get ready to eat.”
The range hood hummed away in the kitchen. The top idol who had been the center of attention onstage just yesterday now had a tiny piece of chopped scallion stuck to his temple. His sleeves were rolled up to mid-forearm, revealing firm, well-proportioned muscle.
…What an utterly jarring sight.
Jiang Nuan’s gaze passed beyond the entryway, and the scene in the living room was even more unexpected.
Jiang Ce was actually awake.
He was dressed in loose loungewear. Although his back was still wrapped in thick bandages, he was already able to sit steadily on the sofa.
Beside him sat Ye Que, who looked almost fully recovered.
The two of them were studying a holographic map projected above the coffee table, discussing something in low, serious voices.
At the sound of their arrival, Jiang Ce turned first. He flashed her a grin, his eyes curving into crescents.
“Nuannuan, Shen Wu, you’re back.”
At the same time Jiang Ce spoke, Ye Que lifted his eyes from the holographic map and swept them over Jiang Nuan from head to toe. Only after confirming that none of her limbs were missing did he look away.
“I heard from Qinian that you stitched up the wound on my back?” Jiang Ce turned to Jiang Nuan, his voice a little higher than usual. “Your suturing skills are incredible. Not a drop of blood seeped through. That’s amazing.”
Jiang Nuan changed into her slippers and walked over, feeling a little embarrassed by the praise.
She remembered that in her previous life, she had only watched a few short videos about stitching oranges. She had been forced to improvise, and her crude technique had stopped the bleeding through sheer nerve and stubbornly tight stitches.
“I’m nowhere near that good,” she said, waving her hand as she gave a dry laugh. “If only—”
Her voice suddenly caught in her throat.
If only Qi Sui were here.
She swallowed the words hard, their bitterness scraping painfully down her throat.
Almost instinctively, she glanced toward the kitchen.
Qinian had already turned back to the stove. The crisp, forceful sounds of his spatula rang out, as if he hadn’t heard a thing.
But his stir-frying grew faster.
“All right, all right, stop standing around,” Qinian’s voice called through the cooking fumes. “Come eat. Whatever it is can wait until after.”
*
The dishes on the table exceeded everyone’s expectations.
A plate of braised pork glistened with oil. The stir-fried eggplant was fragrant with garlic, and the other dishes smelled just as delicious. In the center sat a pot of milky-white bone broth, bubbling gently and sending its aroma across the entire living room.
Qinian had gone out to buy the ingredients and tableware while everyone was resting, then headed straight into the kitchen as soon as he returned.
Jiang Nuan looked at the sumptuous spread, then at Qinian, who was casually pulling off his apron, and was utterly astonished.
“You’re actually this good at cooking?”
Qinian yanked off the apron and draped it over the back of a chair before dropping into his seat.
“I’ve been cooking for my brother since I was little.”
He picked up a piece of braised pork and chewed twice.
“That guy would forget to eat whenever he went into the lab. If I hadn’t kept an eye on him, he’d have starved himself to death long ago.”
The table fell silent for a moment.
No one asked the unnecessary questions, such as, Then where are your parents?
In the apocalypse, piecing together a complete family was simply too difficult.
The broth continued to bubble gently.
Qinian served himself a bowl first and lowered his head to drink several mouthfuls, his lashes lowered.
He needed to keep his hands occupied.
The moment he stopped, there would be nothing left in his mind but Qi Sui.
At some point, a piece of braised pork appeared in Jiang Nuan’s bowl.
She turned her head. Ye Que was withdrawing his chopsticks, his lowered lashes fixed on her.
Everyone ate exceptionally well at that meal. Jiang Ce even mixed the remaining sauce with rice, leaving the plates so clean they could have reflected a person’s face.
*
After dinner.
Several of them gathered around the sofas in the living room.
Jiang Nuan kicked off her slippers, curled up cross-legged in the corner of the sofa, and casually pulled a cushion into her arms, resting her chin on it.
Jiang Ce was sitting to her left. He glanced sideways at her, taking in the way she had folded herself around the cushion, and couldn’t help smiling.
He reached beside the armrest, took out a neatly folded small blanket, shook it open, and gently draped it over her crossed legs.
“You’re the injured one. You’re the one who needs a blanket,” she muttered.
“I’m almost completely healed.” Jiang Ce leaned slightly toward her and opened his hand in front of her. “Besides, I’m not cold. Here, feel for yourself.”
Jiang Nuan squeezed his palm.
It was indeed warm and toasty, practically a human space heater.
He’d be so comfortable to hug in winter…
The thought had barely surfaced before she pulled her hand back.
“…Fine. I’ll take the blanket.”
Jiang Ce gave a low laugh, his gaze softening to an almost ridiculous degree.
The moment Jiang Nuan’s hand left Jiang Ce’s palm, Qinian’s voice floated over from across the room.
He tilted his head and slouched against the sofa.
“What about a temperature check? I want a turn too.”
“What turn?” Jiang Nuan rolled her eyes. “You’re not injured.”
“Who says I’m not injured?” Qinian patted his chest. “My heart has suffered severe trauma. I need Miss Jiang Nuan’s gentle comfort.”
“You can wait for it to heal on its own.”
“Heartless.” Qinian muttered under his breath as he slouched crookedly into the sofa.
A faint sound came from beside them.
Ye Que had risen from the single-person sofa.
His long legs carried him directly around the coffee table, and he sat down in the empty space to Jiang Nuan’s right.
…Hadn’t he been sitting across from them just now?
She instinctively shifted to the left to make room for him, her shoulder bumping against Jiang Ce’s arm.
Ye Que, however, shifted another inch toward her, his knee brushing the edge of the blanket.
Caught between two tall men, Jiang Nuan suddenly felt that the spacious three-seat sofa had become much narrower.
Beneath the blanket, a cold hand silently settled over the back of hers where it rested on her knee.
Her palm was turned upward, and her fingers were forced apart.
Ye Que’s five long fingers, cool to the touch, firmly slid between hers.
Their fingers intertwined.
Ye Que’s hand was a full circle larger than hers, his long fingers completely enveloping it.
Jiang Nuan’s scalp prickled. She quickly turned her head and glared to the right.
Ye Que’s face was close enough to touch. He was watching Shen Wu dismantle the box wrapped in ability-insulating fabric, his expression utterly calm.
There was not a hint of anything unusual on his face, as though he were merely sitting properly.
But only Jiang Nuan knew what sort of struggle their clasped hands were undergoing beneath the blanket.
Their palms remained locked together as Ye Que’s thumb rubbed back and forth over the back of her hand.
Again and again.
As if it were the most natural thing in the world.
There were three other people sitting right beside them.
Jiang Nuan tried to pull free, but couldn’t. Instead, his grip tightened.
She could even feel the rough calluses on his fingertips, left by years of handling a gun, scraping against her skin. The itch traveled from her fingers all the way up her arm.
She bit her lower lip and tacitly allowed that cold hand to remain in her palm, drawing warmth from it.
Shen Wu placed the dismantled box on the coffee table and lifted his eyes to sweep across the sofa.
His gaze lingered on the blanket.
“If your hands are cold,” he said flatly, “you can rub them yourself.”
Jiang Nuan’s fingers stiffened in Ye Que’s palm.
Ye Que didn’t let go.
His thumb paused, then moved even more slowly and deliberately, stroking her once.
“That’s enough small talk,” Shen Wu said, his gaze returning to the box on the coffee table, his eyes sharpening. “Let’s begin.”
Everyone’s eyes converged on the old-fashioned tracing pen.
A line of tiny characters was engraved near the end of its barrel.
“For my beloved.
—Zhou Hao”
