Chapter 42: A God-Given Match Part 1

The words were spoken too softly. Qiu Chao happened to be reaching out to take the bowl Hong Long was handing over, so she didn’t catch them.

Yan Muyu let out an instinctive “Ah!”

This wasn’t the first time.

These two were a true matched couple; even half an hour apart, they could still stumble into the exact same misunderstanding.

Yan Muyu met Wu Xiaoqing’s gaze. The other woman’s eyes were clear and innocent, as if she had no idea why Yan Muyu looked so shocked.

Thinking Yan Muyu hadn’t heard, Wu Xiaoqing was about to continue when Yan Muyu asked, “Why do you call her Little Qiu?”

Boss Little Qing let out an “Oh.” She glanced at Qiu Chao, who was handing Yan Muyu a pair of chopsticks.

“What’s wrong? Is there a problem?” Qiu Chao asked.

The woman cradling her own bowl nodded vigorously. “Yeah! I’m Little Qing, she’s Little Qiu, and this is Little Bai.”

Yan Muyu said, “What about the dog? Is it Ahuang?”

Little Qing replied, “I didn’t name that one.”

Yan Muyu shot back, “Then why don’t you call Boss Hong Little Hong? Little Qing with Little Hong—red and green make a classic pairing.”

【Yan Muyu, you’re killing me.】

【She’s genuinely hilarious.】

【Little Qing’s confusion lol】

【Qiu Chao, stop holding back that laugh hahahaha】

【I just spat out my rice.】

【Finally get what Shen Tianqing meant in that interview when she called Yan Muyu a treasure.】

The woman in the red-and-white polka-dot dress even had a special bowl.

Unlike everyone else’s plain ceramic ones, hers screamed Instagram aesthetic—a flat, pale yellow dish with a dashed-line rim.

It looked a bit out of place in the scene at first glance.

But she was special to begin with. The moment Hong Long sat down, she picked up a pair of chopsticks’ worth of tender greens and placed them in the woman’s bowl. “Longlong, these are nice and fresh today.”

Only then did she turn to Yan Muyu. “Longlong’s different.”

Yan Muyu’s curiosity was piqued. “How’s she different?”

Qiu Chao chimed in smoothly, “Can you tell us?”

Little Qing glanced at Hong Long. In the frame, their hands contrasted sharply.

Few women in these mountain villages had such delicately pale skin, as if she’d never done a day of farm work.

She was even a bit plump, like someone who’d been lovingly pampered for years.

Hong Long deboned a plum pork rib for Little Qing without a word.

“Longlong’s always been good to me,” Little Qing said.

Yan Muyu pressed, “You know she’s not from around here, right?”

Little Qing nodded. “Yeah, the day Longlong arrived, the thunder was booming like crazy. Such a huge storm, so heavy.”

Her voice was as sweet as her looks. She wasn’t strikingly beautiful, but refreshingly cute, with chubby cheeks that made her seem young—like some family’s little sister.

No one could guess her real age; she looked like a college freshman.

Yet her body was fully mature, like a shattered porcelain vase that someone had tenderly gathered up, meticulously pieced back together, and adorned with fresh flowers.

Leaving her beautiful once more, growing ever more confident.

Qiu Chao asked, “Didn’t you hire Boss Hong to pick tea leaves?”

She and Yan Muyu took turns with their questions, without any sense of rushing her.

The old kitchen’s light came from above, filtering through patches of glazed tiles.

The midday sun blazed fiercely, its rays slanting down like lines of light carrying swirling dust.

Just like someone crossing mountains and ridges to arrive here, inexplicably tied by the red string of fate.

And yet, sweetly content with it.

Little Qing nodded. “Yeah, Longlong picks tea in my fields now. My Longlong.”

The live stream viewers had lost count of how many times this Boss Wu had cooed “my Longlong,” but words failed to capture the emotion those four words carried through the mic.

Emotion was the one thing that could be poured into anything.

In ancient times, lovebirds carried letters of longing.

Now, people felt this serene mountain village quietude through their screens.

Beneath the stillness lay an unspoken tranquility amid the red dust of the world.

All haste faded away; they just wanted to soak in the moment.

Yan Muyu listened as Little Qing slowly recounted her first meeting with Hong Long between bites.

She really did talk like a child—her attention would drift mid-sentence.

For instance, she mentioned the huge rain that day and how Hong Long had passed by her doorstep. Where most would jump to what happened next, Boss Little Qing would linger on describing the thunder’s boom.

The way she pondered things looked like she was wracking her brain, even biting her chopsticks unconsciously until Hong Long reminded her to let go.

“That day, Longlong had lightning and storm clouds at her back. She looked so pitiful,” Little Qing said.

Qiu Chao listened to the story with rapt attention.

Even the ever-picky Yan Muyu paid close heed, eating her meal in careful, unhurried bites, her focus entirely on Little Qing.

Qiu Chao glanced over several times and saw Yan Muyu hadn’t noticed, so she shamelessly used Yan Muyu’s face as an appetizer for her own meal.

Yan Muyu hadn’t even checked the group chat.

Qiu Chao replied to Xi Xi on her behalf.

– Gotta work today too? (6)

– Qiu Chao: @Xi Xi Little Yan’s meat got stolen by the dog.

– Xi Xi: [Animated emoji]

It was Liu Song who’d brought it up. The production team hadn’t banned guests from watching the live stream.

Liu Song had looped the GIF of the dog swiping the meat several times, laughing until she could barely breathe. When she shared it with Xi Xi, she even zoomed in on Yan Muyu’s shocked face.

– Xi Xi: You all are feasting away.

Her sarcastic tone held no real malice—at least, not by this show’s standards.

Plenty of viewers knew her true verbal fireworks came out during her divorce lawsuit.

– Qiu Chao: [Photo][Photo] The plum pork ribs are delicious. Gonna learn to make them tonight.

The follow-cam caught Qiu Chao’s WeChat screen, and sharp-eyed fans spotted her pinned chats.

1. My Little Yan.

2. File Transfer Assistant.

3. Group chat.

4. Qiu Chao’s Studio.

The pins were in obvious gray. People screenshotted it quick, stunned by that top one: “My Little Yan.”

“Did I see that right??”

“Grabbed a screenshot on my other phone—that name is wild.”

“Has she never changed it? I remember over ten years ago, someone leaked Qiu Chao’s contacts, and Yan Muyu’s number was saved the same way.”

“Was this from the sister-in-law era? Does that mean Yan Kai was ‘My Yan Kai’ too??”

“Who would’ve thought—Yan Kai’s her real name.”

“That was after Qiu Chao and Yan Kai officially announced their split, right? Just some quick cast interview.”

“Ten-year fan reporting in—Qiu Chao’s expression was so chill back then… ‘haven’t gotten around to changing it.'”

“All these years and still the same?”

“From flip phones to full screens to iPhones—how many phones changed hands, and it’s still pinned?”

“Qiu Chao’s always craved family life. I get it.”

“Does no one remember Yan Muyu gifting her one of only ten handbags in the world for her twentieth birthday? A shell design, I think.”

“That bag showed up in a Qiu Chao Studio vlog last year or the year before.”

“Thanks, now I’m reeling.”

“What sister-in-law bs! They’re not even related now—why can’t I ship them?!”

Online, plenty of people were digging up old photos right then.

Yan Muyu was still listening to Hong Long fill in the details, her mind already buzzing with ideas for what photos to take of the two.

“That day, I arrived late,” Hong Long said. “The foreman said he’d line up another job for me. I was just heading down to the market at the foot of the mountain to ask around—passing by, that’s all.”

Little Qing’s description of “pitiful” really painted a vivid picture.

A stormy mountain village, thunder rumbling, a traveler with a backpack drenched and descending the slopes.

The sky dim and brooding. The boss lady, who hated thunder and rain, listlessly peering out the window.

That year, Little Qing had just lost her second live-in husband.

She was the youngest daughter in a fairly well-off family—at least, they hadn’t married off their mentally challenged girl to some random village.

Before her parents died, they’d found her a door-to-door son-in-law from the next village over, the baby of three boys.

Plain-looking but honest, or so it seemed.

After his in-laws passed, the mask slipped. He yelled at Little Qing, called her useless for not cooking or working or bearing kids.

But he died—struck by lightning on a thunderous, pouring rain day like that one.

Little Qing, dazed and uncomprehending, saw him off at the funeral. As a local son-in-law, he was buried on another hill.

Her legs still worked fine then. She was only nineteen, hadn’t even gotten a marriage certificate—just a hasty wedding feast.

That was her parents’ idea: find a man to take care of you.

But he died young, leaving her a mess.

He’d had someone on the side—a widow from another village. Little Qing had little left after her parents’ tea fields were mostly split between her brother and sister-in-law; they left her two mu.

Such siblings counted as good people in the village—no one bullied the simple-minded girl.

But her brother worried about her alone, so through an introduction, he found her a truck driver.

The man was older, unmarried, and moved into the old house tainted by one dead master before him.

Things started okay, then soured: drinking, gambling, scorning his dim-witted wife, laying hands on her.

That’s how Little Qing’s legs got ruined.

Once married, it became “family business.” Neighbors said endure it; her sister-in-law said let it go, he’ll improve.

Then her legs were gone.

The man died too—on the winding mountain road, he veered off the guardrail, car and all.

Another extreme weather day, rain lashing down.

Little Qing became the village’s infamous husband-killer. No one set her up anymore, figuring two childless marriages meant the problem was hers.

No one coveted her tea fields or her house, but the tea pickers from out of town who worked for Xiao Qing would gossip behind her back about this legless disabled boss.

But Xiao Qing wasn’t sad.

She had been born unable to cry, and her parents were considered enlightened among farmers.

While they were alive, they had worked tirelessly to earn money to build a house for their eldest son and find him a wife. They had always worried about Xiao Qing’s future, sighing deeply at every turn.

Xiao Qing had only gone to elementary school. Her brother had walked her there every day.

He had beaten up the classmates who bullied her.

But her brother had to go out to work as well, and Xiao Qing had always been a bit slow on the uptake. Continuing her schooling would have been a waste.

So she stayed at home, occasionally visiting her brother and sister-in-law’s home in the village during holidays for a meal.

She spent most of her time glued to her mother’s side, sitting at the doorway for an entire afternoon—watching the tabby cat dart by with graceful steps, watching the newborn puppies play under their mother’s watchful eye.

But puppies always grew up, and mother dogs died too.

Just like people being prodded into marriage. In this old house, she had bid farewell to her parents and to husbands who returned unrecognizable.

She wouldn’t have shed a tear even if her father and mother had died, let alone a husband.

The villagers pitied her and feared her in equal measure. The children, though, occasionally chatted with Xiao Qing because she repeated herself like a broken record—it was amusing.

She could even shake the rope for children jumping long rope, all day long without a hint of anger.

Xiao Qing had been born with smiling lips. Even saddled with a husband-cursing fate, she never seemed unhappy. She simply lived like a walking corpse. After her parents passed, she had let her hair grow wild and matted, never bothering to braid it again.

Until she met Hong Long.

That day, the rain poured in sheets, thunder boomed like artillery, and the ancient tree at the village entrance lost countless leaves to the howling wind.

Raindrops battered the eaves before crashing to the ground. The drainage ditch at the doorstep overflowed, and the whole world seemed shrouded in a veil of mist.

Xiao Qing simply sat at the door watching the rain. She was indifferent to the lashing wind and downpour, clutching a small bread roll she had just taken out.

It was one of the snacks her brother had brought her from town last month.

Her neighbors pitied her and occasionally invited her to share a meal, but Xiao Qing disliked going. The wife of the house always called her an idiot to her face.

She chewed on the now-flattened bread amid the gale-force winds and torrent, when she spotted a figure approaching from the distance.

The woman carried a massive backpack, made of waterproof oxford cloth.