Leaving campus, Jing Qichi made an international call to Song Cong, describing his meeting with Mark from start to finish, and finally asked, “Old Song, did I just make things worse for Huan’er?”

“I wouldn’t say worse—your visit might serve as a wake-up call for him.” Song Cong analyzed carefully, “But this guy isn’t easy to deal with. Especially when it comes to academic matters, if a supervisor has a prejudice against a student, it’s hard to prove anything. He could easily say ‘this is just how it is’ and claim he’s teaching according to individual abilities.”

“Huan’er has already applied for early return.”

“Early?”

“Yes, half a year at most.”

“That’s great news, you two have finally made it through.” Song Cong said with a laugh, “What a coincidence—you just got transferred and she’s coming back too.”

“Do you think her supervisor here might not approve?”

“Probably not.” Song Cong, naturally more experienced in this area than Jing Qichi, answered with sound reasoning, “She came as a visiting scholar, with her main supervisor back home. Besides, more people means more workforce—the group back home would want her to start as soon as possible. And returning early due to research needs is a valid reason; there’s no point in deliberately holding her back.”

Jing Qichi felt somewhat relieved, “With your assurance, I can rest easy.”

“However,” Song Cong got straight to the point, “don’t go see him a second time. He’s still Huan’er’s overseas co-supervisor with some authority—be careful not to escalate conflicts.”

“I won’t.” Jing Qichi replied, then asked, “Should I tell Huan’er about this?”

“What are you thinking?”

“I wasn’t planning to tell her.”

Song Cong chuckled, “If you’ve already decided, why ask me?”

“I’m… not entirely sure.”

The meeting couldn’t be considered successful, though Jing Qichi hadn’t defined what “success” would look like beforehand—this wasn’t a business negotiation with bottom lines and counteroffers. His goal was simply to make Mark acknowledge the issue and temper his attitude, but Mark’s ambiguous response left him uncertain about future developments.

Telling Huan’er would help her prepare, but it would also add to her concerns, which was why Jing Qichi hesitated.

“You’ll have to make that decision yourself, I can’t give you advice,” Song Cong said. “After all, you know Huan’er best.”

“Hanging up.”

“Wait!” Song Cong quickly interrupted, “Could you bring back a Paddington Bear plush for Du Man? The one with the red hat. She loves that movie.”

Jing Qichi smirked, “You’ll reimburse me, right?”

“Consider it payment for today’s consultation.” The other end brazenly replied, “You got a good deal, no need to thank me.”

Jing Qichi teased him, “I’ll ask Du Man for reimbursement then.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Song Cong laughed threateningly, “Send one message to Manman, and I’ll tell everyone about today.”

“Got to watch out for my brother, huh?” Jing Qichi exclaimed dramatically while walking off campus, “Fine, fine, even if I don’t come back myself, I’ll make sure the bear gets to you safely.”

“Buy several, pick the cute ones.”

“Bye,” Jing Qichi laughed as he ended the call, then searched for Paddington Bear images on his phone. After looking at a few pictures, he silently marveled—don’t these bear kids all look the same? What makes one cuter than another?

Huan’er returned to the apartment at seven, smelling Chinese cooking through the door.

Along with appreciation came worry—stir-frying creates a lot of smoke; hopefully he hadn’t triggered the smoke alarm.

Her concerns proved valid. When she opened the door, the stove flames were half a foot high, and Jing Qichi was frantically turning on the water tap.

Huan’er rushed over, grabbed the pot lid from the lower cabinet, and quickly covered the pot. The flames disappeared, and she let out a long breath.

“I… didn’t know where the lid was,” Jing Qichi said, wearing her apron, looking both apologetic and helpless.

“Now you know?” Huan’er said, and seeing him about to lift the lid with bare hands, she quickly stopped him, efficiently grabbed oven mitts from the nearby rack, put them on, and lifted the lid—the aroma of braised pork mixed with a burnt smell wafted out.

“It’s ruined,” Jing Qichi sighed in frustration.

Huan’er poured in half a bowl of water from his hand and stirred a few times with the spatula, saying with a smile, “It’s still edible, and smells quite good. You need to use low heat for braising meat, silly.”

The culprit pouted; this scene didn’t match his imagined image of Chef Jing commanding the kitchen with authority.

While stirring the pot, Huan’er suddenly asked, “Where did you buy the pork belly?”

Local supermarkets only sold thinly sliced pork belly for barbecue, packaged in boxes. These two to three-centimeter cubes couldn’t be found at the corner Tesco.

“I went to the Chinese supermarket.” Jing Qichi nodded toward the desk, “Got you some snacks too.”

“You… knew how to get there?” Huan’er just noticed the garlic sprouts and cured meat already cut on the chopping board—these items were only available at the Chinese supermarket, which she’d only visited once since arriving due to the distance.

It all looked delicious.

“Followed the navigation, went pretty smoothly.” Jing Qichi rolled up his sleeves, “I’ll do the stir-frying, you give instructions from the sideline.”

“No, let me do it,” Huan’er reached to take off his apron, but Jing Qichi held her hand firmly. He gripped her hands tight, his gaze frank and pure, “How can only one person know how to cook in a household? I should at least learn the basics.”

Perhaps moved by this simple phrase about living together that only parents would use, or perhaps because today their apartment felt like a home, Huan’er looked up and asked, “Will you get tired of living with me forever?”

They had known each other since youth, their lives intertwining from long ago. Only Mount Jingting never tires of gazing at itself—because mountains don’t move, change, leave, or give up, but human futures are full of countless uncertainties.

Jing Qichi put down the spatula and took both her hands in his, “You know I changed my college application choice, right?”

“Yes.”

“At the time, Teacher Xu asked me why I had to change it. He said it was a life-changing decision that could affect my entire future.” Jing Qichi looked at her steadily, “Honestly, I hesitated. Beijing was good—close to home, convenient for finding work after graduation, and Song Cong and everyone else was there. But I felt that you being alone in the south was reason enough to outweigh all those other factors.”

Huan’er’s heart clenched; she wanted to cry—she’d been wanting to cry ever since he arrived.

“So how could I ever get tired?” Jing Qichi cupped her face, “I made the absolute right decision.”

“Changing your application scared me.”

“Not that.” He shook his head, “Loving you, taking care of you, staying by your side—those were the right decisions.”

Huan’er’s eyes glistened with tears; she finally cried.

Only Jing Qichi could remove her armor—always reporting good news but never bad to her parents, silently enduring her co-supervisor’s cold violence while pretending it didn’t matter, staying up late on New Year’s Eve writing lab reports, afraid to eat properly lest she get sleepy and relying on endless cups of coffee—she thought of everything, even trivial things like throwing away lumpy instant noodles after just two bites. All her strength crumbled before him.

“I missed you so much.” Huan’er buried her face in his neck, “Even if Meng Po offered her soup of forgetfulness, I wouldn’t drink it—I’m afraid I’d forget to miss you.”

Jing Qichi couldn’t help but kiss her, from lips to teeth to tongue. He reached back to turn off the stove, quickly removed his apron, and held her close, kissing her until they both lost themselves.

This deep kiss seemed to answer their long-distance yearning.

Only one thought remained in his mind: this is my wife, the future mother of my children, the person who will accompany me through the long years ahead.

Huan’er, loving someone makes you think of all these things—think of all our tomorrows together.

“Wait,” Huan’er felt his body’s response and quickly stopped, “It’s my dangerous period, and we don’t have protection.”

Jing Qichi looked down at that secret reaction and sighed, “The Chinese supermarket doesn’t stock everything.”

Tesco was just around the corner, and there was a pharmacy downstairs, but he’d been so focused on cooking on his way back that he’d completely forgotten about this.

Opportunity truly only favors the prepared.

“I’ll buy some tomorrow,” Jing Qichi scratched his eyebrow, “Tomorrow.”

“I love you,” Huan’er said before kissing his mouth again.

“Alright.” Finally hearing those words, Jing Qichi controlled his nearly bursting heart and pretended to be calm, “Subject-predicate-object structure, can’t just do the verb alone.”

Huan’er, who had barely scraped by in liberal arts, didn’t understand his meaning, “What subject-predicate-object?”

Jing Qichi ruffled her hair, smiling faintly, “‘I love you’ is a subject-predicate-object structure. Just ‘love’ alone would make you a target for the anti-pornography campaign—that’s just harassment.”

“You!”

“Me, yes.” He turned back to the stove, facing away from her, “I’m willing to do housework, I’m willing to share your emotions, I’m willing to face difficulties with you, I’m willing to take care of you when you’re vulnerable, I… I need you, silly. These are the essence of my love for you.”

Huan’er hugged his broad back, always having this feeling—no matter when Jing Qichi seemed to always be a step ahead of her.

In matters of love.

“The oil’s hot enough, add the green onions,” she gave instructions while still hugging him, “Right, stir a couple of times then you can add the garlic sprouts.”

“Can you stay still?” Jing Qichi could barely move in her embrace, changing the subject as if coaxing a child, “Go check out the snacks, I bought jelly.”

“Really?” Huan’er dashed to the desk to rummage through the shopping bags, eyes sparkling, “Brother, I’m on duty tonight, I’ll serve you well.”

This girl, putting on her little drama.

Jing Qichi couldn’t help but smile, “Tomorrow, tomorrow brother will come prepared to handle you properly.”

“Sure thing.” Huan’er put a piece of jelly in her mouth, “Make it smooth, okay?”

“Chen Huan’er!”

“What! I didn’t even ask for mango flavor!”

Jing Qichi pretended to massage his temples in pain. Occasionally, just occasionally, he did admit defeat—living with a female doctoral student expert in both biology and chemistry, it was already good that those matters hadn’t become her research thesis.

Alas, it was too late for regrets now.