Chapter 39 Part 1

Qi Xiao noticed Meng Ning’s distant gaze and joked with Song Xiao, “If I wasn’t certain Meng Ning was completely sober, I’d almost think she really likes Gwyneth.”

The three of them headed upstairs together. Qi Xiao and Song Xiao went to the kitchen first, while Meng Ning returned to the room to bring coffee to Wen Zenian.

She didn’t hand the paper cup directly to Wen Zenian. Instead, she set it down on the desk, her lashes lowered as she murmured softly, “Your coffee.”

Wen Zenian smiled. “What’s got you all twisted up?”

“What?” Meng Ning said. “I’m not twisted up.”

Wen Zenian walked over and picked up the coffee, taking a sip. She arched a brow ever so slightly and noticed Meng Ning watching her. “Why are you staring at me?”

“Did I guess right?” Meng Ning asked silently. The coffee you wanted this morning.

Wen Zenian shook her head.

Meng Ning averted her gaze at first, paused for a moment, then looked back at Wen Zenian. “It’s not espresso, then? What is it?”

“It’s espresso, sure enough,” Wen Zenian replied, “but I’m exhausted today, so I wanted it triple strength.”

There was a rare hint of petulance in her tone as she spoke, almost as if she were blaming Meng Ning for wearing her out the night before.

Meng Ning’s ear tips flushed pink, but she stubbornly kept her eyes on Wen Zenian, making her look like a defiant little cat. Wen Zenian’s expression softened, and she stepped closer, intending to rub Meng Ning’s earlobe.

Meng Ning dodged away.

Wen Zenian dropped her hand. “What’s wrong?”

Meng Ning found it hard to explain what was wrong with her. She felt her emotions fluctuating in a strange way. Earlier, when she’d left the house, she hadn’t pressed the issue because she figured one cup of coffee wasn’t a big deal. But then Qi Xiao’s comment at the market had struck a nerve, and suddenly she was making a fuss over a simple cup of coffee.

Maybe she was overthinking it. Why would someone earning a monthly salary of five thousand worry about the feelings of a woman pulling in millions annually?

What did the current Wen Zenian need her pity for? It was ridiculous.

Her thoughts churned for a moment, and then she figured it out. A familiar smile curved her lips.

But Wen Zenian set down her coffee cup and approached. “What are you smiling about?”

She raised her hand, palm sideways, and pressed it gently over Meng Ning’s lips.

Meng Ning froze.

Wen Zenian said, “You’re covering your mouth, but your eyes aren’t smiling at all. Why do you always have to force a smile?”

Meng Ning fell silent for a moment, her breath warm against Wen Zenian’s palm lines.

For some reason, she felt compelled to tell the truth. “I bought the wrong coffee.”

“What?”

“The coffee you wanted this morning. I bought the wrong one.”

The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them. By normal conversational logic—or even by what she imagined Wen Zenian might think—she’d surely say, “It’s just a cup of coffee. No big deal.”

A single “no big deal” would shatter all these confusing emotions she couldn’t even articulate herself.

That was probably the reality of her current relationship with Wen Zenian.

She was someone arriving late to the party in Wen Zenian’s life. Her belated feelings meant nothing to the Wen Zenian of today.

Yet Wen Zenian gazed at her for a long while, her hand still resting across Meng Ning’s lips.

“You bought the wrong coffee,” Wen Zenian said slowly.

“But what can we do about it?” She stared into Meng Ning’s clear black-and-white eyes peeking out above her palm. “The morning you brought me the wrong coffee? I was still happy.”

She gently moved her hand away. The warmth of Meng Ning’s breath against her palm vanished in an instant, leaving a faint coolness.

But the next moment, Wen Zenian’s lips pressed against hers—warm and soft, brushing lightly against Meng Ning’s lips.

“Good morning, Meng Ning,” she said. “I hope you have a lovely morning, just like mine.”

Meng Ning had no idea how she made it out of the room.

She didn’t stop hearing the pounding of her heart until she reached the kitchen and closed the door behind her.

When she entered, Qi Xiao nervously peered behind her and whispered, “Gwyneth didn’t come with you?”

“No.”

Qi Xiao patted her chest in relief. “I was terrified she’d go undercover to show off her approachability and insist on pitching in here in the kitchen.”

Meng Ning shook her head. “She wouldn’t. She knows we’d feel awkward.”

As she said it, a strange feeling stirred in her heart.

The current Wen Zenian was adept at reading people, effortlessly weaving dreams for others with whatever elements she had at hand.

Earlier, she’d moved Meng Ning with a single gesture. Was it because the recipient was Meng Ning specifically, or could she do that with anyone?

Given how considerate Wen Zenian was to Qi Xiao and the others, the answer was probably the latter.

But how had Wen Zenian developed that skill, navigating those vast stretches of time all alone, battered and shaped by the journey?

Meng Ning wondered what was wrong with her this morning. Why was she repeatedly feeling this near-pity for Wen Zenian?

She poked Qi Xiao. “That wine we drank last night.”

“Mm-hmm.” Qi Xiao was slicing king oyster mushrooms. “What’s up?”

“It wasn’t fake alcohol, was it?”

“No way, Meng Ning. That’s not fair.” Qi Xiao set down the knife and lectured her solemnly. “You couldn’t top last night—don’t blame it on the booze.”

Meng Ning: …

She walked to the counter, picked up the knife, and said, “Your knife skills are a hazard. You’ll cut yourself. Let me do it.”

Qi Xiao grinned. “Perfect.”

Smoke curled lazily from the small kitchen, warming even their laughter. By the time the three dishes and soup were ready, Wen Zenian had timed it perfectly. She opened her room door and helped carry the food to the living room.

Their living room was tiny, with no dedicated dining area or table. They usually ate around the coffee table, hunching over their bowls to grab bites—not comfortable, but it got the job done.

Qi Xiao, ever the extrovert, took on the role of host. “Gwyneth, sorry it’s so makeshift. Don’t mind.”

Wen Zenian replied, “Not at all.”

The sofa only seated two. Song Xiao dragged over a chair, and Meng Ning yielded the sofa to Wen Zenian and Qi Xiao. Qi Xiao sat down with a gritted-teeth smile, shooting her a glare.

Meng Ning smiled back and fetched the little stool they used for prepping veggies, settling at Wen Zenian’s side.

Qi Xiao tried hard to live up to her extrovert reputation, tacking “hahaha” onto every punchline. But Wen Zenian’s two-meter presence field forced her inward a bit; she shrank to the armrest end of the sofa, leaving a clear divide between her and Wen Zenian.

Meng Ning, on her little stool, ended up closer to Wen Zenian.

Wen Zenian glanced at her.

Tall Meng Ning had looked strikingly elegant in her black one-piece swimsuit on the beach, but now, legs tucked on the stool, she seemed a bit cramped. Her knees stuck up, though she paid it no mind, focusing intently on her bowl. Her cheeks moved subtly as she chewed.

The dishes—king oyster mushrooms with pork, saucy shredded potatoes, tomato and egg—were everyday fare. She ate balanced portions, no pickiness.

Even her food choices left no tells for anyone to read.

She glanced up at Wen Zenian. In front of Qi Xiao and Song Xiao, she said nothing, but her eyes conveyed: Eat properly. Why stare at me?

She picked up a piece of mushroom and pork and placed it in Wen Zenian’s bowl.

The tray of mushrooms and pork showed two styles: Qi Xiao’s were uneven strips like fries, while Meng Ning’s were uniform matchstick-thin slices.

Wen Zenian’s lips quirked.

Qi Xiao was actually intimidated by the thought of Wen Zenian catching her gossiping, but she couldn’t resist shooting Song Xiao a look: See that? Total ship fuel!

Meng Ning shifted imperceptibly toward Wen Zenian, her knee brushing against Wen Zenian’s.

The homey aroma had dulled any lingering desire. This time, the contact didn’t remind her of Wen Zenian’s knees reddened from the bedsheets last night. She couldn’t tell if she was shy or just sparing Wen Zenian embarrassment.

Her loungewear was thin and soft from so many washes, like her old T-shirt. It clung to Wen Zenian’s slender legs, letting her feel the warmth and shape of her knee clearly.

Qi Xiao might notice her serving food to Wen Zenian, but she’d miss their subtle knee contact.

Meng Ning looked down at her bowl, stealing glances at Wen Zenian from the corner of her eye. Why had she given Wen Zenian a set of pure white loungewear last night? In her downcast gaze, it looked like vast snowfields—as if all this worldly warmth couldn’t cling to Wen Zenian.

She nudged Wen Zenian’s knee again, as if offering comfort or solidarity.

Wen Zenian’s eating posture was graceful, shoulders straight even with the bowl in hand. She only leaned forward slightly to pick at her food, the curve of her lower back elegant.

Yet Wen Zenian never shifted her knee away. Amid Qi Xiao and Song Xiao’s chatter and laughter, that’s how they finished the meal.

The late breakfast was prepared and eaten late. Afterward, Meng Ning washed the dishes and returned to find Wen Zenian sorting files from her bag.

“Are you leaving?”

Wen Zenian nodded. “To pick up an investor.”

“Is time tight?”

Wen Zenian checked her phone. “Manageable.”

What should Meng Ning do? Hug her? Kiss her? Even make love in the middle of the day?

Instead, she turned and left the room.

When she came back, she held a handheld garment steamer. “Borrowed from Song Xiao. Your suit and trousers have wrinkles.”

Wen Zenian’s expression turned meaningfully amused.

Meng Ning fiddled with the steamer’s temperature setting, avoiding her eyes: Okay, fine, I know—the wrinkles are my fault. So now I’m making up for it, alright?

She hung up Wen Zenian’s suit and checked first. “What material is this suit? Steam-safe?”

“Yes.”

She hung the suit while facing away from Wen Zenian, speaking with her back turned. For some reason, she felt a little embarrassed.

It had nothing to do with the suit’s wrinkles.

Irrationally, she just wanted to do more for Wen Zenian.

Ordinary things. Everyday ones. The mundane sort.

Different from the all-night yacht parties and helicopters. Different from dreamlike islands and five-star hotels.

She slowly lifted the sleeve of Wen Zenian’s suit, pressing the steamer gently against it. She could feel Wen Zenian sitting at the desk, her chair turned toward her, watching her back. The afternoon sun streamed in transparently, gilding Wen Zenian’s hair, her nape, and draping softly over her shoulders.

Qi Xiao and Song Xiao had gone for their afternoon naps. Even the market outside had fallen into drowsy quiet. The room was still, filled only with the hiss of steam.

Meng Ning carefully steamed the suit, then the trousers.

As the wrinkles vanished one by one, a faint regret welled up in her:

What more could she do for Wen Zenian?

Probably nothing.

All she could do was hidden in those finely sliced mushroom strips, in their brushing knees by the coffee table, in the wrinkle-free suit and pants.