Chapter 26: Only for You

The day after the escape room game, he took the mud-covered Cotton Candy (his cat) to get cleaned up. On the way, he saw a stall selling seat cushions and went in to choose two. Between Doraemon and Pikachu, he chose the latter.

He didn’t particularly like Pikachu. His impression of Pikachu was just a childhood video game character—an electric mouse with a sparking tail.

“That wasn’t enough of a reason for you to go digging through the trash,” Zhou Shubei looked down at her, seeming both amused and slightly inexplicably emotional. He explained, “When I said ‘it’s okay,’ I meant it. Whether I have that thing or not doesn’t matter to me. I bought it for you in the first place. If it’s ruined, so be it.”

Jian Li caught the important part of that sentence. “You bought it for me?”

“Who else?” Zhou Shubei chuckled softly, his eyes dropping to her slim waist that he could easily encircle with one hand. “I was worried you’d end up with a herniated disc. Your posture’s too perfect when you sit.”

Jian Li’s eyelashes fluttered.

The first time she rode in Zhou Shubei’s car—such an expensive one at that—she had been tense the whole way, scared to touch or damage anything.

“But just now, you said it came with the car.”

“I lied,” Zhou Shubei let go of her, his tone casual. “It’s just a seat cushion. Relax. The sky’s not falling. To outsiders, it might’ve looked like I was bullying you.”

Jian Li blinked and looked around. Sure enough, a few people were curiously watching them, and one even had their phone out, like they were considering whether to step in and help.

The wind blew a strand of her hair straight up. Zhou Shubei moved his fingers but then stuffed them back into his coat pocket.

“Here, take these.”

He handed her two hand warmers. Jian Li thanked him, her fingers slowly regaining warmth from the cold. The panic that had nearly overwhelmed her was soothed by his “the sky’s not falling,” just like when he told her in the cafeteria that “it’s not a big deal if you make a mistake.”

She had convinced herself that he was just being polite. But she couldn’t help wondering—could he actually like her, even just a little?

Why else would he only buy one seat cushion, and for the passenger seat?

But she didn’t dare ask. She wanted to know the answer but was also afraid of it.

Staring at her own hands, her voice came out softly, “You’re not mad?”

Zhou Shubei: “About what?”

“That was something you’d just bought. If someone messed up something I just got, I’d be upset too,” Jian Li said.

Zhou Shubei: “Did you do it on purpose?”

Jian Li shook her head quickly. “No.”

“Then there’s no problem.” Zhou Shubei lifted a hand, unable to resist straightening the stray hair on her head. It was soft and silky, tickling his palm. His voice dropped a little, turning serious. “Everything exists to make life easier. When you need it and it helps, that’s its greatest value. Like your computer or phone—they’re there to assist you in life and study. If you start worrying constantly about breaking or damaging them, being cautious all the time—that’s backwards.”

It was the longest thing Zhou Shubei had ever said.

Jian Li looked at him, her eyes turning red from the wind.

Before she came out, she had imagined all kinds of outcomes, all kinds of solutions. But she had never expected this. Something that felt like the end of the world to her was casually dismissed by him, without blame or scolding—because he knew it wasn’t intentional.

With both hands in his coat pockets, his bangs slightly damp from the humidity, he brushed them aside as they got in his eyes. His tall figure towered over her like a shield, a safe harbor.

The hand warmer reached its peak temperature, and warmth spread through her whole body. Her heart felt like it had been wound up, filling with a quiet joy.

“Let’s go.” Zhou Shubei reverted to his usual laid-back tone, grumbling, “My face is practically frozen.”

Jian Li handed him one of the hand warmers. Zhou Shubei laughed, picking it up, “Thanks, Teacher Jian.”

“…”

“What were you two doing? I thought you were about to sprint a hundred meters,” Song Lang asked.

“It’s cold. We were warming up with a jog,” Zhou Shubei slouched against the seatback, pulled a baseball cap from between the armrests, and put it on, covering most of his face. “I’ll drive after we get off the highway.”

Tan Xueying: “Okay.”

Song Lang glanced at him and said, “Respect.”

The cabin lights turned off. Silver strips of light glowed along the doors. The Bluetooth had connected to Tan Xueying’s phone, and soft music filled the space.

Jian Li glanced into the rearview mirror.

Zhou Shubei had a coat draped over him. His lips were pressed lightly together, as if asleep, but his fingers twitched slightly on the jacket—like a subconscious motion, as if trying to grasp something. A truck passed by with a loud horn, and he pressed his cap further down.

After exiting the highway, they still had to take a mountain road. Zhou Shubei took over driving after the toll booth.

With no streetlights and unfamiliar roads, he slowed down to prevent skidding. After two turns, they reached the hotel.

It was a vintage-style boutique hotel, all decorated in a consistent theme.

Their rooms were on the second floor—one person per room.

Zhou Shubei’s room was across from Jian Li’s. As she closed her door, she glanced across and saw that the layout was the same. He casually threw his phone and keys onto the bed and headed to the bathroom without turning on the lights. The wind caught the door, and it drifted open a third of the way.

The faucet ran loudly. He washed his face quickly and came out with a towel over one eye.

Jian Li paused with her hand on the doorknob, then gently closed her door.

Inside, with the heating on, she immediately pulled out the pants from her bag to soak them in detergent. Thankfully, the stain wasn’t too stubborn—it came out after a few scrubs.

She quickly showered, hung the clothes out the window, and set her alarm. With only five minutes until midnight, she removed her scarf and placed it by her pillow. She checked her notes one last time.

After two hours in the car, cold and tired, their midnight snack plan was pushed to tomorrow.

She messaged him:

[Jian Li: Are you free now?]

[Zhou Shubei: What’s up?]

[Jian Li: Yeah.]

Two minutes left. She opened the box again to double-check, then closed it. The host downstairs was excitedly announcing the New Year’s countdown.

Jian Li opened her door—just as the door across from hers opened.

Zhou Shubei noticed the box in her hands, paused slightly, then looked away. “What is it?”

She walked over. Her shoes were silent on the red carpet. The host’s voice counted down—

“Five!”

“Four!”

“Three!”

“Two!”

“One!”

“Happy New Year!”

“Happy Birthday.”

Two voices rang out at the same time, very softly, but Zhou Shubei heard it clearly. Before he could respond, she lifted the box she had been carrying so carefully.

“Zhou Shubei, happy birthday.”

She repeated it again, this time saying his name, her eyes smiling.

It hit Zhou Shubei in the softest part of his heart—something deep inside finally burst free.

After his grandma passed away, he hadn’t celebrated a single birthday. He hadn’t heard “happy birthday” in years.

When he was brought back to Beicheng, he stayed in the Zhou household for less than two months before moving out. To silence gossip, Zhou Zhenhong bought him a villa, decorated according to his mother’s taste. The whole Zhou family showed up for the housewarming, all smiles for the media.

He had wanted to laugh. But it didn’t matter anymore. He didn’t take anything from the Zhou family—only his cat, Cotton Candy. He planted plum blossoms in the yard, the flower both his grandmother and mother loved.

That first New Year, he stayed up all night playing the games he used to love. Cotton Candy eventually curled up and fell asleep. At dawn, he opened the curtains. Cotton Candy meowed in protest, burying her face in her paws.

That day, nothing felt different.

And the years after that were the same—until now. Cotton Candy wasn’t with him this year. But suddenly, someone wished him happy birthday and gave him a gift.

He smiled faintly and asked, “You were worried you wouldn’t make it in time just because of this?”

“Yes. If I didn’t pick it up today, I’d miss your birthday,” Jian Li explained. Afraid he’d see through her feelings, she quickly added, “I saw your birthday when I applied for your campus card. You’ve helped me so much—I just wanted to thank you with a gift. I couldn’t afford anything expensive… so I made this. I don’t know if it’ll be useful.”

She had taken the bus every day, rain or shine, just to prepare this gift.

Zhou Shubei took the long box from her, his voice a bit hoarse, “Thank you.”

Jian Li relaxed, smiling genuinely. “You’re welcome. I’ll let you rest now. Happy New Year.”

Zhou Shubei smiled too. “Happy New Year.”

He sat down on the sofa and opened the box.

A familiar scent wafted out—packaged sandalwood incense, roughly a hundred sticks, just like the one he used.

It was a custom blend, made to help him sleep, with a faint plum blossom note—something not sold anywhere.

A thought popped into his head. He messaged her:

[Zhou Shubei: How did you recreate this scent?]

[Jian Li: The boss who taught me knows a lot about plants. I described it once, and they helped me match it little by little.]

These were all handmade by her.

Zhou Shubei’s throat tightened, and his eyes—untouched by sleep for 24 hours—ached like needles. He had to close them to ease the pain.

Fireworks exploded outside. Only one small light was on in the room.

His phone buzzed.

[Jian Li: There’s a steam eye mask underneath. Try using it when you sleep—it should help.]

Zhou Shubei paused, moved aside a box of incense, and found a steam eye mask in light green packaging with a panda on it.

That night didn’t feel quite so long or lonely.

[…]