"Long time no see."

The girl softly echoed the same four words.

Unlike other girls, Shen Bingyao spoke in a gentle, hushed tone—perhaps from innate caution, perhaps shaped by past experiences. If you didn’t stand close, you might not even catch her voice.

She gazed at Mo Xuan, eyes sparkling as if lit from within, brimming with quiet joy.

Mo Xuan had never understood why Shen Bingyao always seemed so happy to see him. Now he knew: it wasn’t that she was easily pleased. It was *him* who made her smile.

The cake in his hands suddenly felt heavier.

He sniffed lightly, winked. "I came all this way to visit—you won’t even invite me in?"

If it had been Shen Bingjing at the door, she’d have shot back with sharp wit, then ushered him in with a teasing, "Guests should know better."

But it was Shen Bingyao—honest, gentle, nothing like her lively younger sister. A slightly bold remark would make her blush, glance around flustered for rescue. Adorably shy.

"P-Please… come in." She hurriedly turned her wheelchair to make space, but fumbled—the chair veered sideways.

Mo Xuan caught it in one swift motion, his body brushing against hers.

Her cheeks flushed crimson; even the delicate tips of her ears bloomed pink.

"Whoa, careful," he chided, straightening the chair. "No rush. I’m not going anywhere."

"Mm." Shen Bingyao lowered her head, small fair hands twisting nervously in her lap, afraid he might leave.

From the courtyard depths came Shen Bingjing’s voice: "Jiejie! Is the delivery here?"

Soon, sleeves rolled up, soapy hands waving, she burst out—laundry mid-task.

Spotting Mo Xuan, the uninvited guest, she startled, legs instinctively pressing together. Then she stormed over, eyes blazing.

Mo Xuan flinched back, arms raised—bracing for another slap.

Shen Bingjing darted to her sister’s side, shoved the wheelchair back, and whispered fiercely into Shen Bingyao’s ear: "Jiejie, he’s a total pervert!"

"Xiao Jing, don’t say that—"

"He grabbed me this morning and groped me everywhere!"

Shen Bingyao turned, eyes wide with shock.

"I heard everything!" Mo Xuan jumped in frustration. "And don’t twist the facts—it wasn’t like that!"

Still, relief washed over him. If Shen Bingjing truly hated him, she wouldn’t be tattling like a wronged child seeking justice. Those stomping feet, the little fist wave—it was less threat, more classic tsundere.

"Hmph. Why’re you even here? We didn’t invite you," Shen Bingjing finally huffed.

"Just… it’s been a while. Brought cake to visit."

Mo Xuan vaguely recalled barely seeing the Shen sisters that high school summer—conveniently, a perfect excuse.

He stepped forward, pressed the fruit cake into Shen Bingyao’s arms.

She froze, dazed. After a long pause, a whisper: "Thank you." She clutched the box tightly, as if holding something precious.

"Is there one for me?" Shen Bingjing peeked over, eyes hopeful.

"Of course. Also… sorry for this morning." He handed her the extra slice.

"Hmph! Since you’re *so* sincere," she declared, sticking out her pink tongue with a grin bright enough to charm anyone, "I’ll graciously forgive you."

Shen Bingyao looked up, voice soft, almost pleading: "Mo Xuan… won’t you come in and sit awhile?"

"Ah, haha—sure! Perfect timing. I’m a bit tired from walking."

Mo Xuan had no wish to leave. In his past life, after getting with Yun Jiumo, he’d drifted from the Shen sisters. After that night, silence. The next news was Shen Bingyao’s passing.

Now reborn, back in this courtyard he’d once longed for—seeing lively Shen Bingjing, gentle Shen Bingyao—the moment felt like sunlight on soap bubbles: fragile, radiant. He didn’t want it to end.

"So, Shen Bingjing?" Mo Xuan raised an eyebrow. "I’m staying."

"Hmph! It’s nearly evening—what shady plan are you cooking?" She snorted, then saw her sister’s disappointed face and Mo Xuan turning to leave. "B-But… since you brought gifts… fine. Stay."

*Can’t she just be straightforward?* Mo Xuan smiled inwardly. As Shen Bingjing pushed Shen Bingyao inside, he followed.

After their parents passed and arrangements settled, the courtyard grew quiet. Only during Chinese New Year or Mid-Autumn Festival would relatives visit—offering meals, outings. Shen Bingjing always declined politely, citing her sister’s mobility. Shen Bingyao felt guilty, believing she held her sister back.

"I’m happy just being with Jiejie," Shen Bingjing would chirp. But that smile only deepened Shen Bingyao’s sorrow. *If only she’d meet her destined person soon.*

Rare guest today: Shen Bingjing fetched the treasured tea leaves; Shen Bingyao prepared the set.

Their father left only one luxury—premium tea, rarely touched. Shen Bingyao brewed with quiet grace: perfect temperature, timing. Every sip lingered.

Back then, Mo Xuan chatted only with Shen Bingjing. The elder sister stayed silent, focused on tea.

Remembering it, Mo Xuan ached—with regret. *If I’d just looked at her more…*

So when Shen Bingyao reached for the set this time, he snatched it with a grin. "I’ll brew."

Shen Bingjing’s jaw dropped. "What are you doing?"

"Brewing tea. You think I can’t?"

"Put leaves in pot, pour water, cover—done!"

"That’s *not* tea brewing!" she cried.

Shen Bingyao hesitated: "Mo Xuan… it’s okay if you… um…"

"Step aside, amateur!" Shen Bingjing snatched it back, glaring. "Such fine tea? Wasted on you."

"Never seen *you* brew. Sure you can?"

"Doubt me? I’ll show you real tea ceremony!"

"Judging by how you hold the spout… I’m worried."

"None of your business…"

Shen Bingyao watched them bicker, then gently tugged her sister’s sleeve. "Xiao Jing… finish the laundry. I’ll brew."

"Oh! Right!" Shen Bingjing slapped her forehead, rolled sleeves, and dashed off.

Shen Bingyao turned to Mo Xuan, apologetic. "Sorry. Xiao Jing’s just like that. Please don’t mind her."

"No, I like her spirit," Mo Xuan said lightly.

Shen Bingyao smiled—but a hint of sadness lingered in her eyes.

Silence settled once Shen Bingjing left. Mo Xuan always felt awkward alone with Shen Bingyao. Maybe because she was the elder sister. Too gentle for jokes.

She brewed in serene focus—movements fluid, practiced.

To Mo Xuan, an uncultured tea novice, elegance meant little. *Just taste good.*

He took the cup, blew on it, gulped it down.

She sat across, legs neat, hands folded, watching him with eyes dark and pure.

The quiet made him fidget.

As she reached to pour more, he stood. "No need. One’s enough. Your tea… it’s wonderful. I really liked it."

A faint smile touched her fair cheeks—like late-blooming cherry blossoms in spring light.

"Um…" Mo Xuan stammered. "Want to take a turn around the courtyard? I’ll push your chair."