“Oops, you actually showed up.”

“Obviously. When have I ever broken a promise to you? So… where’s my takeout?”

“I didn’t order any.”

“Cool. Guess I’ll leave then.”

Mo Xuan turned to go. After a few steps, he halted and shot an unhappy glance back.

“When did you lock the gate?”

A heavy iron padlock hung dead center on the gate, chains thick as a child’s arm coiling on both sides. Even with superhuman strength, Mo Xuan wouldn’t have budged it.

Shen Bingjing—who relied on this lock every night to keep them safe—beamed with pride and let out a playful chuckle. “No takeout tonight. I made dinner.”

Mo Xuan paled. Without a word, he turned toward the wall.

“Guess I’ll take my leave.”

“Stop right there!” Shen Bingjing cried, flustered and frustrated. She lunged forward, grabbed his backpack straps, and refused to let go. “It’s edible!”

“It’ll kill me,” Mo Xuan muttered. He still remembered that Mid-Autumn Festival in freshman year: Shen Bingjing had cooked with eager excitement… and all three of them spent the next day sick in bed.

Shen Bingyao had been lucky—she barely ate. Mo Xuan? He’d developed a strange kinship with the toilet, clinging to it for half the day.

“Last time the ingredients were expired—I didn’t notice! This time I bought everything fresh from the market!” Shen Bingjing huffed, practically wrapping herself around him.

After a few futile struggles, Mo Xuan realized continuing meant either both of them tumbling down or his backpack getting wrecked. He sighed and gave up.

“Not noticing expired stuff? Only you.” He turned around. Shen Bingjing hopped down, chin lifted, chest puffed.

“Where’s your sister?”

“She’s not feeling well. Staying in her room.”

“Not feeling well?” Mo Xuan froze. His face went pale.

His memories were still trapped in his past life. After learning Shen Bingyao had suffered a mental collapse and been hospitalized, his mind had cemented her as a fragile, sickly beauty. Paralyzed legs. A soul battered by loss. Every little ailment felt like a catastrophe.

“It’s just a cold! Why act like the world’s ending?” Shen Bingjing blinked, genuinely confused. She’d grown up with her sister—she knew exactly how delicate Shen Bingyao was, and how many times she’d pulled through.

She appreciated his concern… yet seeing his panicked face sent a quiet, nameless disappointment curling through her chest. Something felt off. Uncomfortable.

Her mood dipped. She stared at her toes.

She wore soft gray loungewear. Beneath the short skirt stretched slender, elegant legs—smooth calves, clean lines. Her delicate feet peeked from sandals, pink toes gleaming.

Unaware of her shift, Mo Xuan assumed worry. “Can I check on her?”

“What for?” Her eyes narrowed. “FYI, I just helped her wipe down and sweat. She’s lying in bed with nothing on. You really think that’s appropriate?”

“Fine, I won’t go. No need to get dramatic,” Mo Xuan grumbled under his breath.

He’d come partly worried Yun Jiumo might’ve upset Shen Bingjing. Mostly, he wanted to see Shen Bingyao—ask how her legs were healing.

That night, he’d lain awake replaying her voice, her smile. The memory ached.

As Shen Bingjing said, Shen Bingyao had always been lonely. Only her sister to confide in. His frequent visits had deepened their bond—left a mark he couldn’t erase.

He’d briefly wondered: *Should I encourage her to go out more this life? Meet people? Feel real warmth?*

He dismissed it instantly.

Asking her to step beyond this courtyard—to face a harsh, complex world—felt cruel. Her spirit was already fragile from paralysis. Her parents’ tragedy shattered trust. Relatives turned her away. Now she waited alone from sunrise to sunset, just for her sister’s return.

And he’d heard it: someone had pushed her down the stairs.

Rage and heartache twisted inside him.

*She’s suffered enough. This life… let her be happy. Safe.*

Shen Bingjing waved a hand before his distant eyes. “Hey… you okay?”

“Huh? Yeah.” He offered a light smile. “Standing here’s tiring. Can we go in?”

“Oh! Right!” She slapped her forehead, stepped aside with a theatrical bow. “This way, sir! Forgive this humble servant’s poor hospitality~”

Her cheerful grin lifted the weight from his chest.

Being with Shen Bingjing was easy. She cried, argued, pouted—but they never ran out of things to say.

*Older sister too quiet. Younger sister too lively. Total opposites.*

They climbed the weathered wooden steps into the timber courtyard.

The kitchen door stood open. Rich aromas filled the air. Mo Xuan closed his eyes, inhaled deeply.

“Smells amazing.”

“Told ya! I stewed a whole chicken,” Shen Bingjing said proudly.

“I smell more.”

“Winter melon rib soup, spicy shredded potatoes, cold seaweed salad, braised eggs too!”

“How did you mess up so badly last time?”

“I said—it was expired! EXPIRED! Why won’t you believe me?”

Mo Xuan watched her tie an apron, roll sleeves to reveal slender arms. She stirred, sprinkled, flipped—movements practiced yet tense, seamless.

*Look at her. Look at Tian Sirui. Look at me.* All parentless. Tian could whip up decent meals. He? Pickles. Meat sauce. Always.

Admiration and shame warmed his chest.

She lowered the heat to simmer. Brought him a small stool. Sat across, eyes bright, locked on him.

“What mischief now?” Mo Xuan sighed. That look always made his pulse jump. *Trouble’s coming.*

But he’d come hungry. Eaten her food. He owed her this moment.

If she had a scheme, he’d play along. After all they’d been through—the closeness, the cold distance—he wanted to protect this simple, warm now.

“Mo Xuan.” She cleared her throat, trying for gravitas.

He fought a smile. Nodded. *I’m listening.*

“I’m asking one question. Answer honestly.”

“Yes, milady.”

“And don’t get mad.”

“…You promise no privacy questions. Or embarrassing history.”

“Depends how *you* define privacy,” she said lightly, crossing her legs while watching his face—ready to pivot if he flinched.

“Fine. Ask.” Helpless, but never truly annoyed.

Shen Bingjing steadied her breath. Voice soft, clear.

“Do you like Yun Jiumo?”