Chapter 27: “Pineapple Bubbles” Part 1

Chi Buyu’s eating habits were as enigmatic as she was—like wearing a short skirt in the lingering chill of winter.

To Cui Qijin, they were equally baffling.

She never ate animal feet because she thought they looked ugly, and eating them was a hassle. Gnawing on a plate of claws in front of everyone? She wrinkled her nose and said no way, that was just too gross.

When she ate rice, she always dug a pit in the middle, sometimes picking at just a few grains with her chopsticks. She said Ran Yan often teased her about pecking like a baby chick, but she didn’t see it that way. Neither did Cui Qijin. Cui Qijin thought she looked like a chipmunk digging a hole. If the rice was piled a bit higher, she could probably tunnel right through it in one meal. In a way, it was impressive.

She ate shrimp, but only if they were already peeled. If she had to do it herself, she’d poke at them awkwardly with her fork, grimace, and then just leave them.

Her appetite was tiny. After a few bites, she’d declare herself full, prop her chin on her hands and zone out, or blink up at you with eager, intent eyes while you ate.

But most of the time, she could still polish off freshly served coconut ice cream rolls, butter-drenched yogurt bowls, and other overly rich desserts that turned Cui Qijin’s stomach. And she’d mysteriously hold up three fingers, whispering conspiratorially: actually, everyone has three stomachs—one for proper meals, one for desserts, and one for… you know what?

The first time Cui Qijin heard this, she suspected some prank, but after puzzling over it for ages, she still couldn’t figure out Chi Buyu’s thought process. In the end, she surrendered, prodding her fork uncertainly as she asked suspiciously what the third one was for.

Then, in a flash faster than you could say boo, Chi Buyu speared a piece of mango from Cui Qijin’s plate, shoved it in her mouth, and puffed out her cheeks indignantly.

One for food from other people’s bowls!

That was Chi Buyu’s three-stomach theory.

And every time they passed a milk tea shop or a drink stand after a meal, she’d trot lightly into the store clutching her ever-changing daily purse—sometimes in high heels, sometimes in canvas sneakers. Her vibe shifted constantly too: one day in a custom cheongsam and stilettos like a poised adult, the next in her own new-style cheongsam designs with lively little leather shoes, insisting she looked super youthful.

But whether she was fifteen or twenty-six, no matter the outfit, shoes, bag, or hairstyle…

She always looked like Chi Buyu.

Last year, when Cui Qijin was in Hong Kong on a business trip, they ran into each other. Cui Qijin ended up sharing another meal with her, and late at night, as they passed Lan Fong Yuen with its neon lights blurring in the haze, Chi Buyu kicked off her broken-heeled stilettos without a fuss, padded barefoot across the crowded, narrow street, and slipped inside. Her black skirt fluttered in the wind like an exuberant summer bird.

Then, as if remembering something, she turned back, her mascara-streaked face serious as she solemnly debunked her own three-stomach theory with zero logic, grinning:

Oops! Actually, everyone has four stomachs.

Cui Qijin, carrying her busted heels, trailed behind. “Maybe you’re a cow.”

Chi Buyu loved sweet rice dumplings, sweet tofu pudding, sweet mooncakes, sweet glutinous rice balls—exactly like Cui Qijin. But she insisted on sweet tomato scrambled eggs too, which to Cui Qijin was no different from savory dumplings, savory pudding, savory mooncakes, or savory rice balls: all equally awful and unacceptable.

In summary.

Cui Qijin felt their vibes clashed from the start, and with good reason. At least when it came to food, they had zero compatibility.

Cui Qijin had only one stomach, and it was far more delicate than most, so she chewed slowly, eating strictly in order: water or soup, vegetables, staples, meat…

And to avoid overeating, she skipped desserts.

Their habits were polar opposites, leading to a scenario that had played out before—and repeated itself today during this so-called thank-you meal.

Cui Qijin had just started on her coconut curry shrimp pasta when Chi Buyu had already chipmunk-digested half a fist-sized portion of pineapple fried rice, abandoning the curry shrimp with toast on the side.

Because the shrimp weren’t peeled.

“Cui Muhuo.”

From the moment the pasta arrived, Chi Buyu had been propping her chin, staring. Only when the restaurant’s noisy tune was winding down did she call out suddenly.

Cui Qijin was already annoyed by the scrutiny but finished chewing properly before glancing at Chi Buyu’s leftover pineapple rice, her brows furrowing slightly.

“You’re done already?”

The restaurant oozed Southeast Asian flair: dim yellow lamps, vast swaths of teak wood, massive tropical plants crowding the curry-and-chili haze. Every table was ringed by imposing green fronds.

Chi Buyu sat amid those stern leaves, two tables from the open floor-to-ceiling windows where a breeze carried scents of curry, rain, and fading Berlin Girl. She smelled like a bittersweet rose, damp from rain and dried in tropical gusts.

The aromas mingled with her unabashed gaze, like she might devour Cui Qijin whole.

Chi Buyu veered off-topic. “You eat so prettily.”

Cui Qijin tried not to react. “That’s a unique compliment.”

“Hey, I’m serious!” Chi Buyu insisted, then launched earnestly into her theory. “I’ve always thought it’s hard to eat both elegantly and enjoyably. Eat fast, and it’s not graceful; eat gracefully, and it doesn’t taste great…”

She speared a chunk of mango, popped it in, cheeks working as she mumbled, “You’ve found the perfect balance.”

Cui Qijin watched her chaos: mango down, then switching to a tiny fork for crunchy toast. Glancing at the neglected curry shrimp, she said bluntly,

“I’m not peeling those for you.”

Chi Buyu crunched dryly on the toast. “I know. You eat yours; I’ll compliment away.”

She’d rather chew dry toast than lift a manicured finger for shrimp. What a waste of good food—and downright bizarre.

Yet she respected her dining companion, not hogging all the toast or dumping all the unpeeled shrimp on her. Instead… she split the toast, honoring the dish’s intended way and her partner’s habits.

Cui Qijin watched for a moment, brows knitting tighter. She twirled some pasta absentmindedly. “So your family never eats shrimp?”

Chi Buyu bobbed her head to the restaurant music for ages before admitting sheepishly, “We do, but they always peel them for me at home.”

A beat later, she gazed hopefully. “Am I that spoiled?”

Cui Qijin, not great with forks, watched her untouched pasta slide off. She eyed Chi Buyu.

“Not really.”

She knew Chi Buyu had a close bond with her parents. Rare in this era of East Asian family norms.

Though Cui Qijin’s own ties to her parents were distant, causing some childhood confusion, she still admired parents like Cui He and Yu Hongdong, who granted her freedom without possessiveness. Equally rare.

By the same token.

She respected Chi Buyu’s dynamic with hers.

But in her book, peeling shrimp for someone at the table was intimate territory—interrupting your meal, gloving up (or not), meticulously prepping their food while they stared hopefully or got distracted… a total imbalance.

Even Cui He and Yu Hongdong had never done it for her, nor had she for anyone.

Not even when little Yu Chenxing offered spoiled-child help; Cui He and Yu Hongdong would smile and say gently: do your own things yourself.

Cui Qijin stubbornly believed that was right. Most things from Cui He and Yu Hongdong’s mouths rang true.

Besides, handling your own business was eternal wisdom.

“What about you? Did you peel your own shrimp as a kid, huh?” Chi Buyu crunched on.

The crunching grated on Cui Qijin. She eyed her untouched coconut curry shrimp pasta. The shrimp, plump and peeled, lay on the noodles, soaking up sauce for max flavor.

Curry shrimp, curry shrimp—so close.

“Why’d you stop eating?”

Chi Buyu played monitor, fretting over her plate.

Cui Qijin surrendered.

Resigned, she grabbed a fresh fork.

She picked out the peeled shrimp one by one onto a new plate, drizzled sauce, then split the unpeeled ones from Chi Buyu’s dish—half for her.

Peeled to Chi Buyu.

Unpeeled aside for after her mains, eyes down, ignoring Chi Buyu’s face. She just sensed the stunned pause before the hesitant question.

“The peeled ones… for me?”

Cui Qijin hummed nonchalantly.

She still wasn’t doing the ultra-intimate peeling service. But if Chi Buyu insisted on four stomachs, one for poaching others’ plates…

She could share the peeled shrimp.

By the time Cui Qijin had peeled the last shrimp for her, an unexpected person pushed open the door to the restaurant. As she passed by their table, she called out their names in delighted surprise.

“Cui Qijin?”

“Chi Buyu?”

The third voice was full of shock. “How on earth are you two having dinner together? And just the two of you?”

It was the Crab Boss Class Monitor.

They hadn’t seen each other since their last class reunion. Clearly, the Crab Boss Class Monitor’s memory was still stuck on that first snow gathering.

Chi Buyu greeted her with great enthusiasm. When the Crab Boss Class Monitor took a seat at the table next to theirs, Chi Buyu lifted her chin a little proudly and explained.

“Cui Muhuo is treating me to dinner today.”

“Really?” The Crab Boss Class Monitor was still clearly surprised. “When did you two get so close?”

She glanced at Chi Buyu. “Last time at the reunion, didn’t you say you and her weren’t—”

“No!”

Chi Buyu cut off the Crab Boss Class Monitor’s words in a flash. She shot a guilty glance at Cui Qijin, then mumbled past it. “You got the wrong idea. Our relationship now, now…”

She said “now” twice in one sentence. She seemed to struggle for the right words to describe what was between them, looking a bit troubled.

“It’s good.”

That was when Cui Qijin spoke up. As the Crab Boss Class Monitor turned to her in confusion and Chi Buyu fidgeted with her gaze averted, Cui Qijin hesitated—but she finished the thought anyway.

“We’ve always had a good relationship.”

Truth be told, if she thought back carefully, things between them had never really been bad. So many issues were just misunderstandings—hers about Chi Buyu, Chi Buyu’s about her, and everyone else’s about the two of them.

In reality, neither of them was the flashy, sharp-tongued type. And with Chi Buyu never holding grudges, it was hard for them to truly hate each other over clashing habits or the occasional spat.

Her words settled the matter.

Chi Buyu, who had frozen up like a skipped track, finally snapped back to life. She reached straight for the water glass on the table and took a sip, only to realize it was empty and set it down with a dry clunk.

She blinked twice at the Crab Boss Class Monitor, then leaned in close to Cui Qijin’s ear and whispered for help.

“What’s the Crab Boss Class Monitor’s real name again? I can’t remember.”