Chapter 10: Jiaqi and Ruan Zhengdong’s Candlelit Night

                             

Once, in a dimly lit bar, Zhou Jing’an had gotten drunk. Swirling a glass of crystal-clear Jack & Daniels, he sighed to Jiaqi, “We were young back then—poor, but brave.”

Whenever Jiaqi recalled those words, they struck her as both poignant and strangely comforting.

It hadn’t been so many years, yet those days already felt like a previous life. Even she sometimes thought that kind of persistence, that stubborn perseverance, belonged to someone else entirely. Ruan Zhengdong had once told her, “You really have a kind of lonely courage sometimes.”

Perhaps it wasn’t courage at all. Perhaps it was just stupidity.

Since that awkward morning, she hadn’t seen him for a long while. Ruan Zhengdong was elusive as always. When she called him at noon, he was clearly still half-asleep, his voice groggy. He sounded almost surprised when he realized who it was.

“It’s you?”

“It’s nothing,” Jiaqi said quickly. “I just wanted to thank you—for helping me find the key, and even sending it to me.”

“Oh,” he replied lazily. “So that’s why.”

“I’m just forgetful,” she admitted, guilty. “Did I leave the key in your car?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he chuckled. “Then how are you going to thank me?”

Jiaqi pressed her temples. Once again, he was blackmailing her in his own way.

That evening, he came to pick her up. It was the weekend, and he had gotten off work early. Sliding into the car, Jiaqi smiled. “Where are we going?”

Ruan Zhengdong glanced at her, his eyes sharp. “You look so high-spirited. Are you in love?”

“Where?” she laughed. “I finally landed a big client I’ve been chasing for months. The boss was so happy he gave me a generous bonus this quarter.”

“You just love money,” he said flatly.

Jiaqi snorted. “If I were as rich as you, I wouldn’t love money anymore. I’d love someone instead.”

He gave a faint smile. “When you become like me, I’m afraid you won’t even be able to love anyone.”

She turned to him, startled. “What’s wrong with you? What kind of blow could possibly hit you? Who else could?”

He ignored her. Outside, weekend traffic was a mess, cars crawling forward inch by inch.

“Where are we going?” she asked again, puzzled.

“The supermarket.”

“The supermarket?” she repeated, baffled.

“To buy groceries,” he said calmly. “You can cook for me when we get home.”

She glared at him. “Why?”

He answered slowly, almost casually: “Today is my birthday.”

Jiaqi froze. Disbelieving, she snatched his ID card from his wallet and held it up between two fingers. The date was clear. She gasped. “It really is today! And you didn’t even say anything?”

Her anger flared. “Your kitchen is spotless, like a model home in a showroom. How am I supposed to cook in there?”

“Just buy whatever you need,” he said, the picture of a spoiled young master.

And so they did. They bought an entire set of Solingen kitchen knives, gleaming and sharp. Pots and pans of every size. Plates and bowls, porcelain so fine it seemed almost translucent. Cutting boards, large and small. Dishcloths in neat stacks.

The salesgirl, watching them pile up their purchases, smiled knowingly. “You two must be newlyweds, right? We’re running a promotion—spend over 2,000 yuan on kitchen supplies, and you get a pair of kiss pillows.”

Jiaqi nearly choked. The knives alone had cost over 2,000 yuan, and the porcelain plates were irresistible.

Ruan Zhengdong, dead serious, asked, “And what if we spend over 4,000?”

The salesgirl blinked, stunned, before stammering, “Then… two pairs of kiss pillows.”

While shopping, Jiaqi realized just how impossibly picky Ruan Zhengdong was. He wouldn’t eat this, didn’t like that. Standing before a long row of refrigerators, hands on the cart, he looked like an emperor surveying three thousand concubines, dismissing one after another.

Jiaqi ignored him. “It’s just the two of us. We’ll stir-fry two side dishes. Do you want beef? How about Hangzhou peppercorn beef fillet?”

Without waiting for his reply, she bent down to select the beef. A loose strand of hair slipped from behind her ear. From the side, her lashes curved like a small fan, her chin soft, her lips pursed in concentration. She looked, in that moment, like a young housewife carefully choosing groceries after work. Ruan Zhengdong, gripping the cart handle, found himself momentarily distracted.

“What else do you want?” she asked, turning back with the beef in hand.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he caught her hand in his, pushed the cart with the other, and strode off.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Jiaqi called after him.

“Buying broccoli.”

The vegetable shelves gleamed under warm orange lights, every leaf and fruit arranged in neat, vibrant rows, like a glossy advertisement. Even the broccoli looked like bouquets of emerald green. He picked the fattest, largest heads and dropped them into the cart. Jiaqi promptly took them out.

“These are too old,” she scolded gently. “Pinch the stems with your nails. If you can’t, they’re old.”

He watched as she bent down, selecting two fresh bundles. The leaves had just been misted, and droplets slid onto the back of his hand—cool, refreshing. The emerald florets bound with red plastic bands were striking, red and green together, almost too vivid to be real.

At the bakery, Jiaqi insisted on buying a cake. The air was thick with the sweet aroma of bread and cream. She turned to him with a smile that was as warm as the scent itself. “With cream?”

Her smile lingered, soft and sweet.

“For the fruit on top, do you want more mango or dragon fruit?” she asked.

He didn’t answer. She waved her hand in front of his eyes, teasing, “Master, come back to life. I want more mango, okay?”

He smiled faintly, covering whatever emotion had flickered across his face. “Why don’t we buy mango.”

“It’s boring to eat it alone,” she said, gazing greedily at the cake taking shape behind the glass. “I just love the little bit of mango on top.”

So childish, he thought—and yet he couldn’t help but smile again.

Later, loading the bags into the trunk, Ruan Zhengdong muttered, “I never thought a kitchen would need so many things.”

Jiaqi sighed. “I never thought it would be so expensive.”

They had spent over 8,000 yuan on kitchen supplies, rewarded with four pairs of kiss pillows. Hugging one, Jiaqi cooed, “So soft.”

“Take them if you like,” he said. “I have no use for them.”

“Then I’ll take two pairs, and you can keep the other two.”

He liked that—half with her.

The car rolled slowly through the early winter night. Streetlights glittered on both sides like twin strings of pearls, winding into the distance. The night was so gentle it seemed you could wring water from it. Inside, the heater flushed Jiaqi’s cheeks.

“When I was in college,” she said, “I used to ride bus No. 300 around the city at dusk. I’d sit there, thinking of nothing, just watching the sky darken.”

“You’re being pretentious,” he teased.

She thought for a moment, then nodded. “I can be sentimental sometimes.”

He said nothing. What she didn’t say was that her sentimentality was part of what made her so endearing.

She was endearing, too, when she cooked—bossy and commanding, like a general. “Wash the vegetables,” she ordered, knife flashing as she sliced tomatoes.

He lingered at the kitchen door. “A gentleman stays out of the kitchen.”

“Then you won’t eat,” she shot back without looking up.

He gave in.

Only when the food was nearly ready did he realize something crucial was missing: an apron.

Jiaqi shrieked, “Once the oil splatters, my clothes are ruined!”

“Wait,” he said, disappearing into the bedroom. He returned with a half-new T-shirt. “Tie this on.”

She saw the label and hissed, “Corruption!”

She held a plate in one hand, chopsticks in the other, mixing the beef fillet. Without hesitation, he stepped behind her and tied the makeshift apron, knotting the long sleeve of his T-shirt around her waist. Her waist was so slender, so soft, that a single word came to his mind: slender waist.

He restrained himself, resisting the urge to reach out and touch it.

Steam gushed from the rice cooker, and the Hangzhou pepper beef fillet was ready. She stole a taste with her chopsticks, but he protested, “Don’t eat it secretly!”

She glared at him, but still offered him a bite. The beef was fragrant, tender, impossibly smooth. He had never tasted anything quite like it.

Together, they made two dishes and a soup: Hangzhou pepper beef fillet, stir-fried choy sum, and tomato-and-egg soup.

He warmed a pot of Shaoxing wine, claiming it was a gift from a friend. Jiaqi sniffed once and exclaimed, “This is genuine thirty-year-old wine! Even state banquets don’t serve it—it’s reserved for a handful of high-ranking officials. You have a remarkable friend.”

He was surprised. “How did you know?”

“My family lives in Dongpu, Shaoxing. My father worked at the winery.” She took a sip, eyes bright. “It’s delicious.”

They finished half the pot. Ruan Zhengdong hadn’t expected Jiaqi to drink so much; she nearly outmatched him. By the end, even she had eaten two bowls of rice. Leaning back in her chair, she sighed, “We bought so much and only made these few dishes. Such a splurge.”

He thought so too. This moment itself was a luxury—rare, intoxicating, fleeting.

After lighting candles, Jiaqi turned off the lights. Only the flickering glow of the cake remained. Her smile was sweet as an advertisement. “Make a wish.”

Tipsy from the wine, he blew out the candles in a single breath. Darkness fell.

As his eyes adjusted, he saw her silhouette at the far end of the sofa, framed by the faint gray light from the window. Her features blurred, but it was her—always her.

She turned, smiling. “What wish did you make? No, don’t tell me—it won’t come true if you do.”

He stayed silent. She grew nervous. “I’ll turn on the light.”

As she passed, a faint fragrance lingered—perfume he couldn’t place. He inhaled deeply, a strange melancholy stirring in him.

When the lights came on, she grinned. “Happy birthday!” She pulled out a small box. While he’d been paying at the supermarket, she had slipped away—not to the restroom, but to buy this.

“What is it?”

“Open it and see.”

Inside lay a pair of platinum cufflinks, simple and elegant. “They cost me over two thousand,” she said, half-playful, half-sad. “Don’t complain.”

He tried them on, smiling. “You have good taste.”

She confessed, laughing, “I just went to the counter and asked for the most expensive pair. They gave me these.”

He looked at her, torn between laughter and tears. “We still have half a pot of wine. Such good wine shouldn’t go to waste.”

She fried peanuts with a sprinkle of salt. They were crisp, addictive. She ate with her fingers, and so did he. They laughed—it felt real, unpretentious. With peanuts as company, they drank two more glasses, slipping into a haze of warmth and ease.

Jiaqi sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through his DVDs. “These are good. Lend them to me.”

“Okay,” he said. Then suddenly: “Let’s play finger-guessing.”

She grinned. “Fine. If you win, tell a joke. If you lose, drink.”

“Jokes are boring,” he countered. “If you lose, you tell a true story. The loser asks the questions.”

She won the first round. He drank, then asked, “Tell me about the happiest thing in your life.”

She thought for a moment. “Rafting. I drank too much beer, the sun nearly burned me, but the chicken wings were delicious…” She leaned back against the pile of velvety pillows, her voice trailing.

“And then?” he pressed.

“There was no ‘then.’”

He laughed. “That doesn’t count. You don’t even look happy telling it.”

“I thought it was the happiest thing at the time,” she said softly. The memory lingered, bittersweet.

She won again. He asked, “Tell me about your favorite person.”

She glared. He laughed. “Don’t look at me like that. You won, remember?”

So she told him about her father. About the day she was burned, left alone at home, and how Granny Chen had saved her. About the hospital, where she saw her father cry for the first time—cry harder than she did, guilty and helpless.

“I’m his only child,” she whispered. “So I try to live well, to be happy, because that’s what makes him happy. But in the end… I still couldn’t.”

She lowered her head, cradling the Yue porcelain wine glass, its glaze shimmering like emerald peaks. She remembered reciting Lu Guimeng’s poems for rewards of dried tofu, remembered her father’s sacrifices, his pride, his love. She had once been the proudest little princess, the daughter everyone envied.

But all of it—all his effort—was gone.

“Where is your father now?” Ruan Zhengdong asked quietly.

“Gone.” Her voice was steady, almost detached. “A cerebral hemorrhage. Two strokes. He passed quickly, without pain.”

Her eyes misted, but she popped two peanuts into her mouth, crunching as if it didn’t matter. “Come on, your turn.”

This time, he won. She drank, her eyes glimmering like waves. “Tell me about the person you loved most. Don’t lie.”

“No.”

“You’re lying. Everyone has someone. Even playboys in novels have a secret love—that’s why they become playboys. Tell me. I’ll forget it right after.”

He smiled faintly. “There wasn’t anyone.” He looked dazed, chewing peanuts, drinking though he didn’t need to.

“If I made up a story, you wouldn’t know, would you?” he teased.

She relented. “Then tell me about someone you liked.”

He tilted his head, thinking. “When I was fifteen or sixteen, I liked a girl in my class.”

Her eyes lit up. “That’s good. Youthful love—the purest kind.”

“But I was too proud,” he admitted. “I never told her. I just watched from a distance, afraid she’d notice.”

Jiaqi chuckled, her eyes bright with amusement. “I really can’t imagine someone like you ever having a crush on anyone.”

He laughed as well, a low, self-deprecating sound. “It’s a bit silly. Later, I had a drink with one of my closest childhood friends. We were both drunk. When I told him, even he was shocked—he never knew I liked that girl.”

Jiaqi tilted her head, curious. “Why didn’t you tell her at the time?”

He lowered his gaze, fingers slowly turning the porcelain cup in his hand. The amber wine inside glowed like honey, its fragrance rising faintly. Thirty years of aging had smoothed its edges, mellowing it into something rich and layered. Like worries left too long, it had fermented into a taste both sharp and soothing. At first sip, you hardly noticed—but then it spread, a slow burn threading from throat to chest, painful and comforting all at once. The warmth lingered, leaving behind a faint dizziness. Perhaps that was what fate felt like.

“She didn’t love me,” he said at last, his voice quiet, almost detached. “So I never let her know.”

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