Grandmother’s diet was very restricted, and Mu Jing’s steamed buns weren’t among the foods she could eat. The buns she prepared to bring were meant for Qu Hua.
Mu Jing hurriedly ate a few bites before heading to the hospital to deliver the food. She worried that if she was late, the buns wouldn’t taste as good, and if she waited too long, Qu Hua might have already eaten. So she had to hurry. Old Qu asked her to wait and ride with them.
Qu Hua’s parents had noticed how good their daughter-in-law was to their son, even somewhat fawning over him. She constantly spoke of “Qu Hua this” and “Qu Hua that,” making excuses even when he didn’t come home, and worried he wouldn’t eat well at the hospital cafeteria, eagerly cooking for him. Their son, however, was being somewhat excessive. In all these days since the wedding, he had never spent a night at home. Even Qu Hua’s mother privately resented her son—he had been the one insisting on marrying her, yet now he wouldn’t come home. If he was going to marry her, he should treat her properly; otherwise, why marry at all?
Old Qu found his son’s behavior even more absurd. While it would be understandable if he stayed at the hospital only after Grandmother’s surgery, he hadn’t spent more than three hours at home in all the days since the wedding. Ordinarily, a father shouldn’t meddle in his son’s intimate affairs with his daughter-in-law, but since her parents were useless, he felt obligated to advocate for her. This hospital visit was primarily to see his mother, but he also intended to educate his son and insist he come home tonight.
Mu Jing rode to the hospital in the same car as her in-laws. Old Qu, wanting to show the family’s concern for their daughter-in-law, asked about her work, not knowing what else to discuss. Mu Jing replied that work was going well, and the conversation ended there. Old Qu then brought up Fang Mu Yang, and this time Mu Jing agreed to the proposal of bringing her brother over, though she insisted on waiting until Grandmother’s condition stabilized. Although her in-laws said bringing him over wouldn’t interfere with caring for Grandmother, and they could arrange to have someone bring him, Mu Jing insisted on going to get him herself after some time. She then asked about Grandmother’s food preferences, saying she could learn to cook them.
The Qu parents certainly wouldn’t treat Mu Jing as a mere cook, saying her thoughtfulness was enough and that work should come first. They all considered Mu Jing a filial child, despite her severed ties with her parents.
After visiting his mother, Old Qu ordered his son to come home tonight no matter what.
Qu Hua’s gaze turned to Mu Jing, both suspicious and searching—you want me home so badly that you’d bring my parents to persuade me? He certainly didn’t believe Mu Jing would think of him to such an extent. Mu Jing smiled sheepishly at Qu Hua, “Mom and Dad are worried you’re working too hard and want you to come home to rest.” Every time Mu Jing called her in-laws Mom and Dad, it required immense mental preparation—these words had become unfamiliar to her over the years.
She then told her in-laws: “It’s not that Qu Hua doesn’t want to rest; the patients need him.” She defended Qu Hua at every turn. Her father-in-law was calling Qu Hua home for her sake; in their minds, she was the neglected bride who needed parental intervention even to have a married life.
“You protect him too much!”
Mu Jing was content to accept this assessment. She tugged at Qu Hua’s sleeve, saying softly, “You haven’t eaten yet, have you? I made buns for you—they won’t taste as good if you wait longer.”
The office now had only the two of them. Mu Jing watched Qu Hua eat her buns, lost in thought. When Qu Hua looked up at her, it took her a moment to notice. To cover her distraction, she smiled at him.
That smile held a hint of fawning—others might not notice, but she recognized it herself. She knew this angle made her look most attractive, and she had unconsciously adjusted to it when smiling at him. Qu Hua’s fingers brushed her earlobe, and Mu Jing immediately turned away, saying, “The door’s open.”
She both tried to please Qu Hua and despised herself for it. Head lowered, she asked, “Are they okay to eat?”
They were more than okay—Mu Jing’s bun-making skills had exceeded his expectations. He asked where she had learned.
She had learned from their former elderly housekeeper, Nanny Chen, who had taught her many recipes, though she rarely had the chance to practice them. When her brother was a bit older, Nanny Chen returned to her hometown to retire. Though the family still needed her, they couldn’t ask her to work indefinitely, so they gave her some money and sent her off. The housekeepers they hired afterward couldn’t cook nearly as well.
However, she didn’t tell Qu Hua the truth, thinking talk of housekeepers would sound exploitative, even though the Qu family had their orderlies and drivers.
Instead, Mu Jing said she had seen the recipe long ago but was making them for the first time—it had seemed too troublesome when she was alone. This too was meant to please him, implying she cooked for his sake.
She didn’t look up to observe his expression as she spoke, guessing Qu Hua would like her saying this. He could think little of her, and if she showed too much care for him, he might find her annoying and bothersome, but she couldn’t ignore him—offending him by letting him discover this would be worse. That was probably why he hadn’t been coming home before. Regardless of how he viewed her, she had to show that she valued him greatly.
“If you like them, I can make them again next weekend.” Since it was too troublesome on regular days, she added, “If you’re home on the weekend, I’ll make them for you—they never taste as good when brought here as they do at home.”
It was almost an invitation—one couldn’t eat breakfast at home without spending the night there.
The door wasn’t locked, and anyone could enter at any time. Qu Hua looked up to study his new wife, and Mu Jing averted her eyes, appearing shy. Having decided to win Qu Hua’s favor, Mu Jing knew how to handle him around others, but when they were alone, she wasn’t sure how to act, afraid of going too far and arousing his physical passion. When Dr. Zhao from their department entered, he immediately turned to leave upon seeing them, but before he could close the door, Mu Jing called out to ask if he needed something from Qu Hua.
Dr. Zhao, holding cold buns from the cafeteria, tactfully said, “Nothing, nothing, carry on.”
“Haven’t had breakfast yet? Come join us.” She had made too many buns, guessing Qu Hua couldn’t finish them alone.
Dr. Zhao was an oddity in the neurosurgery department, always smiling and joking. Because of this perpetual smile, neither leaders nor patients fully trusted him—quite unlike Qu Hua, who had a face that inspired patient confidence. Dr. Zhao was too used to being casual; he couldn’t even fake seriousness. Though they were about the same age, colleagues called him “Little Zhao,” but would never dream of calling Qu Hua “Little Qu.” By the time Qu Hua had been performing surgeries as the lead surgeon for years, Dr. Zhao was still a second assistant, doing only necessary work in the operating room and maintaining a light atmosphere with his chatter. One day, when the first assistant was distracted by family matters, Qu Hua directly gave Dr. Zhao the work typically done by the first assistant. By the second half of the surgery, he even let Dr. Zhao handle parts that he usually did himself.
Dr. Zhao, usually glib and confident, couldn’t help but ask, “Can I handle this?” This was a surgery that hospital leadership was particularly concerned about, not because of its complexity, but because the patient was an important figure. The patient had specifically requested Qu Hua, and if anything went wrong, both he and Qu Hua would be held responsible. Qu Hua didn’t bother answering his question, not even looking at him, and proceeded directly with the surgery, instructing him on the next steps.
It was the first time Dr. Zhao had been trusted like this, and by the department’s top surgeon no less. To continue doubting himself would be to question Qu Hua’s judgment. Qu Hua did the suturing, and those watching could not only appreciate the technical precision but also feel that surgery was an art form.
The surgery was successful, and the patient believed Qu Hua had performed it entirely. Qu Hua didn’t deny this. Naturally, Dr. Zhao wouldn’t jump in front of the patient claiming half the credit—partly because he knew Dr. Qu could have done the entire surgery himself, and it was already generous to let him gain the experience. Additionally, he understood such patients too well—if told he had done half the surgery, the patient might suddenly start feeling pain in their wound. The patient’s good condition was partly due to the successful surgery, but also because Dr. Qu had performed it—it had nothing to do with him. Only after the patient had fully recovered and been discharged did Qu Hua inform hospital leadership about what had happened in the operating room that day. The leaders were terrified in retrospect, thinking this young man was too daring—if the surgery had failed, no one in the hospital could have shouldered the responsibility. As punishment, they withheld one month of his bonus. But some benefited—Dr. Zhao never had to be a second assistant again.
Qu Hua naturally wouldn’t boast about this to Dr. Zhao, but it wasn’t difficult for Dr. Zhao to figure out. By letting him participate in such an important person’s routine surgery, Qu Hua was creating an opportunity for him. No one else in the department or even the hospital would dare take such a risk, and Qu Hua had done so simply because, with a surgeon’s eye, he had recognized Dr. Zhao’s potential as a lead surgeon.
But most people didn’t share Qu Hua’s perspective, assuming Dr. Zhao must have given him some substantial benefit. There were even rumors that he had offered his young, beautiful sister to Qu Hua, which was pure gossip—he didn’t even have a sister. He too wondered why someone like Qu Hua, with his conditions, had remained single all these years when so many wanted to marry him.
Seeing Mu Jing’s buns, Dr. Zhao finally understood—it was because Dr. Qu had such high standards. He wanted someone not only beautiful, but also cultured, well-educated, and skilled in cooking.
Dr. Zhao smiled at Qu Hua: “These were made for Brother Qu, I shouldn’t steal your blessing.” Though he said this, his eyes were fixed on Mu Jing’s buns, admiring the nearly transparent skin and visible filling.
Mu Jing insisted he try them, so Dr. Zhao had to accept. After taking a bite, he praised Mu Jing’s cooking skills to Qu Hua. While inwardly admiring Dr. Qu’s good fortune, he also felt sorry for him—having married such a wonderful person, yet still spending every day at the hospital. To show his gratitude, he voluntarily offered to cover Qu Hua’s night shifts for the next month.
Before Qu Hua could respond, Mu Jing protested that this wouldn’t be right.
Dr. Zhao said, “I’m single with no family obligations—I like staying at the hospital.”