Shi Zhi was at the train station, passing through security, when Fu Xiling called.

No suitcase—just a backpack on the conveyor belt.

Her phone buzzed. Mid-metal detector scan, arms up, she swiped the screen, nudging it near her ear.

Cranked the volume a few times, answered.

It was loud as hell.

Someone in a rush—bulky winter coat—bumped her from behind, muttering “sorry” before bolting to the waiting hall with their bag.

Fu Xiling might’ve said something first; she missed it. Post-check, phone finally to her ear, she caught, “Where you at?”

“Outside.”

“Send a location—I’ll grab you for dinner?”

Shi Zhi snagged her backpack, eyes flicking to the train schedule on the digital board. “Not eating.”

“Princess, I’ve been drafting apologies for twenty-four hours—you not gonna hear me out?”

Last night, leaving his place, she’d hung up on him three times.

In that mood, “Shen Jia” was her tripwire.

Shen Jia—her one big L in life.

The only time she gave her all and got burned.

Bringing him up was straight-up nauseating.

Pissed, she’d shot him a cold one-liner text. He hadn’t reached out after.

But once the heat faded, she cooled off and realized she didn’t need to be mad.

Normally, if work suspicions cropped up, she’d just ask—“Why’d you go to Xingrong?” “Did you pull strings for my promotion?”

Hell, in a good mood, she might’ve teased, “Did you really flirt with Fu Qian for my career?”

He’d answer, one way or another.

He was straight-up—didn’t dodge.

If it clicked, they’d keep rolling. If not, they’d split.

Her call to make.

Should’ve talked it out calm.

But her emotions muddied it—venting, not digging.

She’d dealt with creeps and punks at the salon, mahjong dens, the bar—never lost her cool.

Toughened up, even slapping Li Mingtao in high school was a flat, no-fucks move.

Getting mad at Fu Xiling?

It felt… almost flirty, she thought.

So, taking his call, she steadied herself.

Her “no dinner” wasn’t snappy anymore. “I’m at the station—can’t make it back.”

“Business trip?”

Multitasking—checking the train info, pinning the waiting hall number—she said, “Gravesite.”

He went quiet, like he’d pieced something together, then rattled off train codes. “Which one’s yours?”

“323.”

She told him it was packed, hard to hear—later—and hung up.

“Excuse me, sorry, thanks…”

A couple shoved through with a suitcase, heading for a nearby gate.

She’d come straight from work, early, found a seat in the hall, and shut her eyes.

This time of year, sleep always sucked.

People say time heals. She wasn’t sold.

Shi Mei’d been gone years.

Still couldn’t let go.

How could she?

The one person who’d shielded her from Lin Xiaoping’s fists, sang her “Happy Birthday,” hugged her tight promising “bread will come,” planned a future with her, loved her—slipped away on this day, years back.

Since then, no one’d loved her like that.

Eyes closed, she drifted to Shi Mei.

Her crouching, smiling, singing that song.

Then Fu Xiling popped in.

He’d blocked a chair for her, lit candles, said “Happy birthday” too…

The board updated.

Her train was boarding. She snapped out of it, lingered two minutes, then joined the line’s tail.

Right before the platform, his voice hit her out of nowhere.

She thought she’d imagined it.

“I’m sorry.”

She whipped around—

Fu Xiling stood there, underdressed—turtleneck, leather jacket, no layers.

Panting slightly, sweat on his brow, like he’d sprinted.

Seeing her turn, he locked eyes, dead serious. “I’m sorry.”

Hard to name the feeling—like the chaos crashing through her lately softened for a sec.

Good thing passengers shoving past gave her a beat to think, no instant reply needed.

She faced forward, ID on the scanner. “We’ll talk when I’m back—”

Cut off.

After she passed the gate, he scanned his ID, trailing her.

“…I’m visiting a grave. Why’re you tagging along?”

“To apologize.”

His last-minute ticket wasn’t her car—soft sleeper.

Once she wouldn’t switch, he swapped his sleeper with her neighbor, sticking with her in hard seats all night.

“I don’t like lying down,” she said.

“Me neither.”

She had a bag; he’d boarded with just his phone.

He stowed her pack overhead, sat, studied her—like he was checking something.

Her head was a mess.

Debating whether to hash out Fu Qian on the train, he handed her his phone—Xingrong Group contract on screen.

“I met your Fu Zong, but not for you. My uncle’s team’s working with them—I ran errands twice.”

“Selfishly, yeah—I got curious what you’re like at work, so I went.”

“If Xingrong’s betting on you, it’s Fu Qian seeing something in you—nothing to do with me.”

“Bringing up Shen Jia last night was my bad. Sorry.”

She skimmed the e-contract, dimmed the screen, handed it back. “Forget it.”

Three “sorry”s to someone else—Fu Xiling looked off, ears red.

She clocked it,想起 he’d said life never threw him curveballs.

Mischief sparked. Deadpan, she said, “Fu Xiling, ever think an apology doesn’t guarantee forgiveness?”

“I know. Not forcing it. If you don’t, I’ll find another way.”

“Why?”

“Want you happy.”

“Oh.”

“And some selfishness.”

The train jolted, then rolled out smooth.

He turned, no grin. “Don’t wanna cut you off—not now.”

The car hummed with noise. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, staring hot.

She looked away, switched tracks. “You drafted apologies for twenty-four hours and that’s it?”

“Had more. Wanna write ‘em down?”

“Write something else instead.”

She’d brought her laptop.

Her life—sleepless, moody, gravesite trips—but no slacking, always pushing.

Fu Xiling, probably a hard-seat virgin, didn’t sleep either.

Stayed up, typed her an English abstract, translated a foreign paper.

At dawn’s first light, she dozed off on his shoulder.

Up after two hours, he was awake, arms crossed, slouched.

The old guy across stretched out, taking space. Fu Xiling shrank his long legs, avoiding her, looking cramped.

Frowning—posh boy uncomfortable.

She hit the dining car, back with instant noodles and porridge.

Set them down. “Which one?”

He glanced. “You pick.”

She liked spice—took the noodles, ate a few bites. Hair loose, bugging her, she stopped, set the fork down, reached for her wrist—empty.

The Hetian jade bracelet was at his place.

Last sleepover, she’d left it on the nightstand.

Morning chaos—kissing in bed, running late, rushed to work.

Forgot it.

Shouldn’t have thought it, but she looked at him, certain, hand out. “Got it?”

Two seconds, he pulled it from his jacket pocket, set it in her palm.

“Thanks.”

Outside, white peaks layered with mist, sunlight veiled.

Passengers stirred—washing up, eating, shuffling to the bathroom.

She tied her hair with the bracelet, feeling this morning shift.

She’d always known Fu Xiling was hot, loved their physical tangle.

But the fight, him chasing her to the train, grinding through her paper all night? Uncharted.

Not bad, though.

Under the table, she nudged his leg. He paused scrolling, looked over. Straight-up, she said, “I don’t wanna cut you off either.”

He smiled slow. “Cool.”

“Same deal.”

She glanced across—the old guy rubbed his eyes, the dude next to him grabbed his phone.

Leaning in, “Still bed buddies.”

He kept grinning. “Cool.”

Their stop wasn’t the end of the line—short halt, rushed exit.

Her loose hair snagged her coat, the bracelet fell, hitting the floor.

Crowd swarmed—it nearly got crushed.

Fu Xiling bent, picked it up, slid it onto her wrist.

Arm around her shoulder, he carved a path through the crush, guiding her off.

Outside, a northern city—Shi Mei’s hometown.

Post-Lin Xiaoping, Shi Zhi’d lived here with Shi Mei a few years.

Familiar streets, accents—stirred rough memories, silencing her.

Fu Xiling hailed a cab to a fancy hotel.

In the room, after showers and a quick lunch, she noticed a crack in a jade bead.

Curtains dimmed the light.

She stood, took the bracelet to the window, cracked the blinds, checked it in the sun.

The more she looked, the tighter her brow knit.

Fu Xiling, elbow on his forehead, watched—meant to stay quiet.

But she rarely cared this much. Her pained frown—he couldn’t ignore it.

“Treasure it that much? Find a solid jade shop, swap the bead?”

“No need.”

She slipped it on. “It’s blessed. Don’t know if a cracked bead messes with my luck.”

“…You don’t seem the type to buy that.”

“Wasn’t.”

Lin Xiaoping, drunk, was a bastard unbound.

One night, back from wherever, he’d fought Shi Mei, smashing stuff—including a blessed Guanyin statue, a wedding gift from an elder.

She grabbed her coat. “Next day, he froze to death outside.”

Chatting with a sharp guy like Fu Xiling was easy.

No “who’s Lin Xiaoping,” no mocking her superstition—just smooth, comforting words.

“Depends. My mom broke a blessed peace buckle once—nothing happened. If you buy it, intent matters. Buddha’s not that petty.”

Before heading out, he asked, “Flowers?”

“No. She’s not in a grave.”

Shi Zhi’d scattered Shi Mei’s ashes herself.

She took him to a building on the city’s edge—a “mental health center,” aka the local asylum.

They sat under a bare tree nearby, on a peeling wooden bench, snow patches at their feet.

First time she’d opened up about Shi Mei.

She didn’t clock it then—that this “bed buddy” got a different piece of her.

Staring at the crumbling building, she said, “She was never happy.”

Shi Mei’d been a standout at work, favored by bosses. Met Lin Xiaoping through a setup, fell in love, married.

Kid came fast.

Lin’s folks cared for his brother’s kids; Shi Mei’s family was far.

Lin Xiaoping said, “Meimei, I’ll handle money—take care of you and the kid.” She quit for family.

Two years in, his mask slipped—gambling, boozing, beating her.

“Money’s mine—I spend it how I want,” he’d snarl.

Years of that broke her. Even after he died, it haunted her.

She ached to prove herself—fell for a “bestie” con.

They were broke, crashing with Shi Zhi’s uncle, eating his wife’s side-eye.

Shi Mei dreamed big. “Mengmeng, I’ll make cash soon—no one’ll look down on us. We’ll get our own place.”

The “bestie” vanished—with Shi Mei’s savings and 10,000 borrowed from Grandma.

The scam shattered her last hope; kin’s blame crushed her pride.

Poor woman snapped—neighbors dodged the “crazy lady.”

“She got violent—sent here, locked ward. Weekly visits.”

Wind rustled dry leaves, a faint scrape.

Fu Xiling sat with her till sunset, then cabbed back to the hotel.

Upstairs, she grabbed two beers from the fridge. “Drink?”

He’d packed light, dressed thin—after a windy day, a low fever brewed.

Didn’t mention it, stuck by her.

Downed cold beers with her, didn’t dodge when her icy lips kissed him—held her waist, matched her vibe.

She said nothing, kissed, stripped them both—signal clear. Fu Xiling knew what tonight meant.

Didn’t expect her to go that hard.

Last step—she took it herself.