After starting her job, Shi Zhi was busier than when she managed the bar.

Fu Qian had her working as a restaurant shift leader, decked out in a black business skirt suit and heels, darting around all day.

Half a month in, she’d only seen Fu Qian once.

It was during her shift.

Fu Qian had a business dinner there—three rounds of drinks in, she stepped out of the private room, stone sober, standing by a massive potted plant in the hallway. She sipped the hangover tea the manager had Shi Zhi bring over.

Fu Qian asked if a top B University grad like her felt shortchanged doing this kind of gig.

Trap question.

Shi Zhi stayed calm—never rattled by bosses. “I used to run a cheap little bar. The customers there were way tougher than here.”

Bosses’ minds are hard to read.

Fu Qian didn’t greenlight Shi Zhi just to stick her as a regular shift leader for Xingrong Group’s restaurant.

Fu Qian nodded, skipping the fluff, and handed back the cup. “Thank your Manager Liu for me.”

Shi Zhi wasn’t antsy about Fu Qian’s setup. She trusted her gut, sure, but there was another reason.

That reason was Fu Xiling.

He’d told her if Fu Qian started her at the bottom, no need to sweat it—bosses are weirdos who love testing people.

He said it without a shred of self-awareness, lumping himself in.

“If she’s just feeding you big promises and pretty words, that’s when you watch out.”

After all their deals, work advice aside, Shi Zhi found his take pretty solid.

Beyond the job, she had her thesis proposal to prep.

When things got hectic, she’d skip dinner.

Somehow, Fu Xiling still wedged himself into her packed schedule.

Sometimes, he’d pop up at her restaurant, catching her warning glare with a cheeky grin.

He didn’t make a fuss—just sat quietly by the window, ordered a few things, ate, then worked on his laptop.

Shi Zhi asked, “No office? No home?”

He’d claim it was on his way, telling her not to sass “God’s customer.”

Other times, he’d show up at B University, even tagged along to one of her classes.

Not that he really listened.

Sat next to her, draped in a long-sleeve shirt, napped through most of it. Woke up and folded frogs from her scrap paper.

She said they looked ugly—like toads. He named his “pet” “Jiajia.”

Bored out of his mind, she seriously wondered if some date ditched him, leaving him to kill time with her.

She’d lost count of how many pics he’d snapped of her. Annoyed, she’d snap, “Can’t you go date someone normal?”

No hesitation—he shot back, “Not dating.”

Fine, whatever. Shi Zhi didn’t meddle—she wasn’t his nosy aunt, couldn’t control him.

Plus, this loose vibe worked. The photos weren’t free—she’d tease a kiss out of him now and then.

Things shifted in November.

Post-National Day, mornings and nights cooled off.

By late October, early November, it was overcast for three or four days straight.

Rain came, temps dropped—time for light fleece jackets.

That day, Shi Zhi finished overtime at 9 p.m., hit the dorm, swapped heels for flats, washed up, and hand-scrubbed the white shirt she wore for work.

A breeze blew on the balcony. She hung the shirt, stood in the crisp night air, zoning out, mulling over her thesis proposal’s gaps.

Her roommate called, “Shi Zhi, your phone’s ringing.”

Fu Xiling’s birthday—he’d been drinking all day.

At home, that dimwit Fu Xifeng egged him into three shots of baijiu. Out with friends, he downed beers and cocktails.

Mixing drinks hit him hard, so he called Shi Zhi.

“They might be trying to kill me. Boss Shi, help a guy out?”

“With what?”

“Get me home.”

Shi Zhi shut the balcony door. “You’re so drunk you forgot the way?”

A lazy chuckle came through. He said nah, not quite—he just didn’t want to drink more. But without his “girlfriend” picking him up, his pig teammates wouldn’t let him go.

“Not going.”

Ten minutes later, she threw on a jacket and pushed out the dorm door.

Stepping out, she still thought she’d lost it.

Middle of the night, his party spot wasn’t close, and she’d actually agreed to fetch him.

Downstairs, the open-air bar’s noise hit her.

She climbed the steps, spotting Fu Xiling in the crowd.

Rich kids went big—rented the whole place for his birthday.

Hydrogen balloons floated overhead. He sat chill in a black shirt among friends, not drinking, leaning back, flicking a lighter.

The floor glittered with ribbon scraps, bottles scattered everywhere, an eight-tier cake mangled beyond recognition.

The second she looked over, he caught her eye.

He grinned, swiped the cig from his buddy’s fingers, and snuffed it out.

Grabbing his jacket, he stood. “Girlfriend’s here. You guys keep partying—I’m out.”

His crew, hyped up for his birthday, didn’t want the star bailing.

Only seeing Shi Zhi—“family”—softened them up. Some chased after with car keys, offering rides.

Shi Zhi waved them off. “No need, I’ve got a car.”

Fu Xiling didn’t seem smashed. Hands in pockets, he strolled down the stairs, all casual and smooth.

She said she had a car, so the birthday boy plopped onto the last step, long legs stretched out, waiting.

Two minutes later, she rolled up on an electric bike from the side street, stopping in front of him.

Tossed him the helmet. “Get on.”

“…This is your car?”

The bike was a hand-me-down from a graduating senior—handy for her commute lately.

No bus waits, no subway crowds—she loved it.

Face tight, she snapped, “You riding or not?”

She had a temper. Fu Xiling paused a beat or two, no answer. She huffed, “Then call a friend with a car and a license,” and revved to leave.

“Hey…”

He jumped up, long legs swinging onto the back seat.

Nearly 1.9 meters tall, the birthday boy looked cramped, still griping, “How about we grab a cab?”

“If you can cab, why not just go home yourself?”

Shi Zhi took off.

The guy behind her quit complaining, settling in. Arms loosely around her waist, chin on her shoulder, he hummed Animal in a slow, lazy drawl.

Night wind was cool; his breath, warm with booze, tickled her neck.

“Shut up.”

Her phone was dead, no GPS. At a crossroads, unsure whether to turn or go straight, she asked him. No reply for ages.

She glanced back.

He was grinning. “Didn’t you tell me to shut up?”

“Don’t talk, get off.”

Quick as hell, he said, “Straight, turn at the next one.”

First time carrying someone, she wasn’t used to it—especially with Fu Xiling’s height hogging the back, getting in her way.

Worse, the birthday diva got picky. Passing an open bakery, he made her stop, insisting on grabbing a cake.

“That eight-tier thing wasn’t enough?”

“Nope.”

No clue what he bought—came out with a small, fancy box.

By the time they hit his place, it was almost midnight.

Inside, he ditched the black shirt.

In a tank and lounge pants, he grabbed a soda, heading for the sink. Passing her, he tossed out, casual-like, “We’re here anyway—gonna skip the birthday wishes?”

Shi Zhi frowned.

She’d known his birthday forever—door code, bank PIN, all “991107.”

Their birthdays were a day apart.

But saying “happy birthday” face-to-face, meaning it…

She’d never had a life where blessings flowed easy. “Happy New Year,” “Happy Mid-Autumn,” “Happy Dragon Boat”—all stuck in her throat.

Only with Shen Jia, faking it, no heart in it, had she said “happy birthday.”

His place was toasty—too much heat. She peeled off layers, threw on one of his tees, brushing it off. “Your birthday’s such a circus—you don’t need my line.”

Before she got there, his friends had gone wild, smearing cake on faces.

He was washing up, face full of suds, glancing at her in the mirror.

Didn’t say anything—just rinsed, wiped off the water beads, and switched gears.

“Not every year’s this nuts. Sometimes it’s just dinner with family. This time’s different—some younger cousins came back from studying abroad, made a ruckus. My birthday’s just their excuse to party all night.”

There were young ones—she’d seen them at the pool party.

The worst at water fights, all guts, no skill, taking the hardest hits.

Like that guy she’d popped champagne for—tonight, he’d been a cream-covered mess, styling it into a cockatoo crest.

Fu Xiling sat beside her, sipping soda. Finished, he asked, “How do you usually do your birthday?”

“Don’t.”

Nothing to celebrate.

Her earliest years? No memory of birthdays.

Just knew all the money went to Lin Xiaoping. At five or six, Shi Mei got her a cake once.

They were singing when Lin Xiaoping stormed in, fresh off a gambling loss—flipped the cake, hit Shi Mei and little Shi Zhi.

Screamed, “Who said you could waste my money on this crap?”

Lost in that, midnight hit.

November 7 flipped to November 8—his birthday done.

But he pulled out the bakery cake, lit candles, and said, “Happy birthday.”

So out of left field, she didn’t feel joy—just wariness, eyeing him suspiciously.

He laughed. “We’re this close—why would I dig into you?”

Like she didn’t need him to spell out his birthday—she just knew.

Hers was plastered on her ID, resume—he wasn’t blind, he’d seen it.

They were too close, past any boundary she’d set with anyone before.

Weirdly, she didn’t hate it.

Cream smelled sweet, candlelight danced bright.

He asked, “Really not gonna try it?”

She didn’t wish, wasn’t hungry.

Plucked the candle, snuffed it, skipped the boxed utensils—swiped some cream with her finger, tasted it.

Gave him that much—tried it.

He didn’t care if she ate more.

Instead, he grabbed her wrist, lightly sucked her finger.

Asked, “Want a special birthday?” Her eyes locked on his, boiling his question down to three words:

Wanna do it?