Chapter 46 For us My husband would mind
The lights in the café were dim. Wen Mu sat by the window, his fingertips gently caressing the rim of his cup. Outside the window lay the evening streets of Zurich: pedestrians hurried by, cars streamed by, and everything seemed perfectly ordinary.
Ming Yang sat opposite her, his eyes fixed on her face, as if looking for some trace.
"You've lost weight." He spoke in a low voice.
Wen Mu raised his eyes, his expression calm: "I was just sick."
Ming Yang's fingers tapped the table unconsciously: "Is it because of me?"
Wen Mu frowned slightly: "Don't be so sentimental."
Ming Yang smiled, a smile that was a bit self-deprecating. "That's right, you have him now."
"You still like sitting by the window." He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his shirt sleeves to his elbows, revealing the familiar sandalwood bracelet. "I remember when we were at ETH, you always said you wanted to watch the light change."
Wen Mu stirred his coffee gently: "People change."
"But your coffee drinking habits haven't changed." Ming Yang pointed at her cup. "Double milk, no sugar."
"It's just a habit." Wen Mu put down the spoon.
"What exactly do you want to talk about?"
Ming Yang took a deep breath and pulled a brown paper bag from his briefcase. "I've compiled the preliminary data for the Schmidt project and would like to hear your opinion."
Wen Mu didn't reach out to take it: "These can be emailed."
"I want to ask you in person." Ming Yang stubbornly pushed the document in front of her, "Just like we used to do in the lab."
A corner of a photo was exposed at the edge of the paper bag, and Wen Mu saw that it was a group photo of the observatory's team-building event five years ago.
She raised her eyes: "Ming Yang, we are not students anymore."
"Yeah, you're married." Ming Yang suddenly laughed, tapping his knuckles on the coffee cup in front of her. "Honestly, I didn't expect you to choose an arranged marriage. Teacher Wen used to hate the aristocratic style the most."
Wen Mu's fingertips unconsciously stroked the wedding ring: "Life is always full of surprises."
"Like me?" Ming Yang leaned forward. "Wen Mu, what happened back then..."
"What happened back then?" Wen Mu interrupted him.
"Did you approach me deliberately just to get Professor Schmidt's letter of recommendation? Or did you leave without saying goodbye after receiving the MIT offer?"
Ming Yang's face turned pale instantly. A pigeon outside the window fluttered up, casting a fleeting shadow on the glass.
"You know everything?"
"Yu Mo told me." Wen Mu's voice was as calm as if he was discussing the weather. "You lingered in front of the professor's office three times, just to create a 'chance encounter'."
Ming Yang's fingers tightly grasped the sandalwood beads: "That's true at the beginning. But then..."
"Did you find out later that this 'Teacher Wen' was harder to deal with than you thought?" Wen Mu chuckled. "I remember you left coffee in the lab for a whole month until I realized you didn't like black coffee at all."
"I took stomach medicine for a whole month." Ming Yang also smiled, and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes smoothed out.
"But it was worth it. At least you finally remembered my name."
The sunlight shifted a few degrees, shining on Ming Yang's profile. Wen Mu suddenly noticed a few fine lines at the corners of his eyes. He was no longer the high-spirited young man who had blocked her in the library.
"Why did you come back?" she asked softly.
Ming Yang was silent for a long time, so long that the milk foam on the surface of the coffee completely dissipated.
"I heard you were married." His thumb rubbed the barely visible marks on the sandalwood beads. "I didn't believe it at first."
"But later, Professor Schmidt told me that your marriage partner is a man the same age as me. You two are a perfect match."
"That was the moment I truly realized that you belonged to someone else."
Wen Mu's face remained calm as she turned to look out the window. The flower shop across the street was changing its window displays. A clerk stood on tiptoe and hung a bouquet of blue bellflowers in the center, identical to the one that had appeared on her desk last week.
“It’s time to stop with the flowers,” she said. “And the coffee.”
"I just," Ming Yang's voice choked, "wanted to make up for leaving without saying goodbye."
"No need." She turned her gaze away, "I never blamed you."
"Then why do you refuse to be alone with me? Why do you avoid us like the plague every time we meet?"
Wen Mu looked at him calmly: "Because it's inappropriate."
"Because of that race car driver?" Ming Yang sneered. "He didn't even finish college. What could he understand? He can't even understand your thesis, right?"
"My husband really can't understand my thesis." Wen Mu's mouth curled up slightly, "But he would cook supper for me when I stayed up late to write the thesis, remember the dietary restrictions of each of my colleagues, and drive three hours home when I had a fever."
"You can't do any of these."
Ming Yang's expression froze. "You have a fever? When?"
"It's not important." Wen Mu tucked the scattered hair behind his ear. "What's important is, Ming Yang, we ended five years ago."
"To be more precise, we never even started."
"I admit that I have feelings for you, but that's all."
"You don't think that I, Wen Mu, am someone who will wait for you forever just because of the affection I felt when I was young, right?"
Ming Yang grabbed her hand fiercely, "Wen Mu, if I had stayed, would I be the one by your side now?"
"No, you wouldn't be."
"You'll regret this." Wen Mu silently pulled his hand back and wiped it with a tissue. "Back then, all you had eyes for was MIT and a bright future. But what I needed was someone who was willing to cook me a bowl of noodles on an ordinary day."
Ming Yang's Adam's apple rolled a few times: "I can learn."
"No need."
"My husband will do it for me."
Wen Mu stood up and picked up his briefcase. "For project matters, please contact me via email. Don't meet in private anymore."
"Wait!" Ming Yang stood up hurriedly.
"Can we at least still be friends?"
Wen Mu stopped where she was, the sunlight shining from behind her, casting a long shadow on the floor.
"No." Her voice was soft, but every word was clear. "My husband would mind."
Ming Yang took a half step back as if struck hard, knocking over his coffee cup. The dark brown liquid spread across the documents, blurring the young, smiling face in the old photo.
"You're so cruel, Teacher Wen." He smiled bitterly and wiped the documents with his sleeve. "You didn't even leave me a thought."
Wen Mu gave him one last look before turning and heading for the door. Wind chimes tinkled as he pushed the door open, and a warm breeze blew in his face, carrying the unique aroma of early summer grasses.
People were coming and going on the street. Wen Mu stood at the door of the coffee shop and suddenly felt an unprecedented sense of relaxation.
Five years had passed like a long rainy season, and at this moment, she finally saw the sunshine behind the clouds.
She sat down on a bench by the roadside, watching the people passing by. Not far away, a little girl in a red dress was chasing pigeons, her golden braids gleaming in the sun. Suddenly, their eyes met.
"Hello!" The little girl suddenly ran up to her, holding a dirty teddy bear in her arms, and greeted her in German.
"Hello." Wen Mu responded.
"Sister, my teddy bear is sad."
Wen Mu squatted down and looked at the little girl straight in the eye: "Why?"
"Because I lost his friend," the little girl sobbed, holding up the teddy bear for her to see.
Wen Mu gently touched the teddy bear's ears: "Maybe he will make new friends."
"Really?" The little girl opened her eyes wide.
"Yes." Wen Mu nodded. "Sometimes, new is better."
The little girl burst into laughter and took out a strawberry lollipop from her pocket: "Sister, this is for you! Thank you!"
Wen Mu took the candy and watched the little girl skip away. She peeled off the candy wrapper, and the sweet strawberry flavor melted on her tongue.
She remembered the candies Song Xingran fed her on those feverish nights.
Candy is sweet, so are his lips, and so is her heart.
*
As soon as the key was inserted into the lock, the sound of claws scratching the door came from inside. Wen Mu pushed the door open, and the petrol-wet nose immediately arched into her palm, and its tail wagged like a propeller.
"Mom is back." She bent down and rubbed Gasoline's head, smelling the faint scent of flour in the air.
The sensor light in the entrance hall automatically lit up, illuminating the kitchen. Wen Mu took off his coat and hung it up, noticing a few pinches of flour and a small, discarded scrap of dough on the countertop.
There was a sticky note on the refrigerator door with a crooked smiley face drawn on it and the words "Wife's midnight snack is in the second compartment of the freezer~" written below.
Wen Mu peeled off the sticky note, her fingertips rubbing against the ink-stained smiley face. She opened the freezer compartment, a chill blast hitting her face. Two rows of dumplings, neatly stacked in a transparent container, frosted in the cold air.
The dumplings were adorably ugly. Some were pinched too tightly, resembling crescent-shaped buns; some had their edges loose, revealing a hint of filling; and a few were so overstuffed they were practically bursting. Each dumpling had a round, round belly; it was obvious the maker had desperately tried to squeeze in more filling.
Wen Mu held the plastic container and recalled waking up late last night to find no one around. She followed the light to the kitchen and saw Song Xingran, wearing her floral apron—which was ridiculously small on him—learning how to knead dough from a video on her phone.
His black hair was covered in flour, and there was a white streak on the tip of his nose. When he heard the noise and turned around, he hurriedly hid the dough behind him.
"Honey, why are you awake?" He was so embarrassed that his ears turned red. "I, I'll try."
"How, how to deal with garbage."
Now that I think about it, he was practicing making dumplings.
Wen Mu's fingertips gently brushed the frost on the surface of the food container. Someone like Song Xingran, the third son of the Song family, born with a silver spoon in his mouth, a champion on the F1 circuit, actually secretly learned how to make dumplings in the dead of night just for her.
The whistling of the kettle startled her awake. Wen Mu hurriedly turned off the heat. The water had been boiling for a long time, and the steam was pushing against the spout, making a puffing sound. She frantically reached for the pot and accidentally touched the scalding pot. She hissed in pain and pulled her hand back.
His fingertips immediately turned red. Wen Mu turned on the faucet and rinsed with cold water.
So, when Song Xingran was learning to cook, did he also get scalded many times?
The man did have a few inconspicuous scars on his hands, but she never asked about his background.
Guilt washed over me like a tide.
She remembered the night she had a fever, Song Xingran drove back for three hours overnight, with bruises on his knuckles from hitting the wall; she remembered that he clearly noticed something was wrong, but he didn't ask, and just cooked porridge for her in different ways every day; she remembered the bandage on his wrist this morning, and he even gave up the competition to take care of her.
The water in the pot boiled again. Wen Mu carefully placed the dumplings in the pot, watching the cute little creatures plop into the water, creating tiny splashes. She imitated Song Xingran's usual practice, stirring gently with a wooden spoon to prevent them from sticking to the pot.
Ten minutes later, the dumplings float to the surface of the water, and the skin becomes translucent, faintly revealing the color of the filling.
Wen Mu fished them out and put them on a plate. The heat immediately blurred her glasses. She took off her glasses and wiped them. The world in front of her eyes became hazy and soft.
When she took the first dumpling, she frowned at the saltiness. The filling was obviously over-salted, but the flavor of the meat and chives was strong.
Wen Mu ate it in small bites and found that although the seasoning was not perfect, the filling of each dumpling was chopped very finely, and there was no rough feeling of fascia at all. She hated eating fascia in meat filling the most.
Because of this, Song Xingran has said many times that she is picky.
By the time he ate the fifth one, Wen Mu's tongue was numb, but he couldn't put down his chopsticks.
They didn't eat dumplings often at home. She couldn't handle the frozen ones, and Song Xingran didn't know how to make fresh ones. She didn't want to burden the Song family's chef with another job. So they'd eat them only when they remembered, and if they didn't, they might not eat them for months or even half a year.
Another issue was that they disagreed on the dipping sauce for dumplings. Song Xingran insisted that dumplings must be served with aged vinegar, while she was used to dipping them in soy sauce. The two argued in the kitchen for half an hour, and it ended with Song Xingran carrying her to the counter and kissing her until her legs gave out.
It's always like this. If he can't win the argument, he'll just kiss her. If he wants her to fight, he won't want to, so he'll just throw her on the bed and be done with it.
"I'll make you die of salt."
She whispered to the air, but ate every last dumpling, even picking up the crumbs at the bottom of the plate with her chopsticks.
Gasoline lay at her feet, staring at the empty plate with wet black eyes.
Wen Mu bent down and rubbed its nose: "No, this is made by Daddy for Mommy."
She washed the dishes, dried her hands, and picked up her phone.
The screen was still on the chat interface with Song Xingran, and the last message was a photo of racing car parts he sent.
Mars Brother: [[Picture]]
Brother Mars: Honey, does this look like the nebula in your paper?
Wen Mu's thumb hovered above the keyboard, and his heartbeat suddenly quickened.
She slowly typed the next line.
Jupiter: [The dumplings are delicious.]
Jupiter: [I miss you so much.]
The moment the send button was pressed, my ears suddenly felt hot.
She hurriedly locked the screen and threw her phone onto the sofa as if it were a hot potato.
Gasoline tilted his head to look at her, his tail slapping a rhythm on the floor.
Wen Mu squatted down and buried his face in its fluffy fur, muttering, "Don't laugh at Mommy."
*
The lights in the cafe were dimmed, and the waiter came over for the third time to ask if he needed a refill. Ming Yang shook his head and watched as the waiter took away the already cold coffee cup.
The sky outside the window darkened completely, and the neon lights gradually lit up. He twirled the sandalwood beads on his wrist—only three remained now, the rest scattered on the floor of the cafe, swept into the trash by the waiter.
Pulling out his phone, he found a photo album containing candid photos taken five years ago. Wen Mu from the observatory, wearing a white shirt, lowered his head to adjust the telescope, his profile focused and calm, cold and pure, like a fairy who had no connection with the mundane world.
That was a scene he could never achieve.
"Sir, we are closing." The waiter stood by the table, his tone gentle but firm.
Ming Yang nodded and took out his wallet to pay the bill.
Under the banknote was a copy of his ETH student ID card. In the photo, he was smiling triumphantly, and below it was printed the code name "Nova" - that was the name Wen Mu gave him, meaning rising star.
And now, the star has fallen.
He pushed open the door of the cafe, and the night wind, mixed with car exhaust, hit him in the face. Ming Yang took a deep breath, turned around to leave, but suddenly froze in place.
Three meters away, beneath a streetlight, a tall figure leaned against the wall. A black leather jacket framed his broad shoulders and narrow waist, and his black hair shone with a cool sheen under the neon lights. He held an unlit cigarette between his fingers, tapping the box intermittently with his lighter.
As if sensing someone's gaze, Song Xingran raised his head. The streetlight cast shadows of varying shades on his well-defined face, and his amber pupils glowed in the darkness like some nocturnal animal.
The man stood up straight and walked closer, his movements as graceful as a cheetah, yet carrying a suffocating sense of oppression.
He slowly raised the corners of his lips, revealing a cold smile:
"Good evening."
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