Chapter 9: Making Do

Jingjing had already jumped up to get things ready, rushing back with a soft bundle in her arms.

“Move over a bit—put the blanket here, pillow there.”

Her voice carried a hint of shyness.

“We don’t have a guest room. Just the couch. You’ll just have to make do.”

“Oh, it’s fine. I can sleep anywhere. Besides, it’s only a few hours from now.”

Yu Tu turned slowly in place. The coffee table held several remotes—no idea which one controlled the curtains. Jingjing reached out at that exact moment.

“This one’s the curtain. This is the light. That’s the TV… Oh, this one’s not needed…”

She glanced sideways at him, wondering if she seemed dumb.

Goodnight, she said, stepping toward the hallway on the living room side. It looked deep and shadowy. Yu Tu closed the curtains and turned off the lights.

Then he paused. Left one small lamp in the corner, dimmed to the lowest setting. He eyed the remote—unknown brand.

Still, the lighting system was smart: logical hierarchy, clean functions.

Just as he lay down, the door creaked open. Yu Tu shot upright. There she was—Jingjing, emerging from her room after circling around somewhere, heading straight for the couch.

He grabbed the remote and turned the light back on. She held a weirdly abstract mug—black and white, almost surreal.

“Brought you some water. Didn’t want you fumbling around in the dark.”

He took it.

“Thanks. Go back to bed now.”

She turned to leave.

“Jingjing.”

“Huh?”

“I won’t call you when I leave tomorrow. I’m catching the early subway.”

“I’ve got lab work at eight. Some data comes in before seven.”

“Oh… okay… uh… what about breakfast?”

“If everything checks out, I’ll start a new process and grab food later.”

“Oh… okay… well… then… goodnight…”

She waved at him with that sweet little smile—eyes crinkling, face glowing with pure, unguarded joy.

When the light dimmed again, Yu Tu stared at the faint shadows dancing across the ceiling.

What kind of slippers was she wearing? Why did they go *clack-clack* like a bunny hopping?

By the time Yu Tu left, Jingjing was fast asleep—nestled between a rabbit plushie and a big bear, both clutched tight. She was smiling in her dream.

Outside, dawn had just broken. A thin mist hovered over the river. The long stretch of plastic track along the bank was empty.

He walked over, tried jogging two steps—feet felt great.

A middle-aged man ran toward him, spotting the figure in the distance doing a textbook “one-two-three-go” layup motion.

Perfect form. As he drew near, the guy slowed to a jog, gave a sheepish grin.

They passed each other. The man glanced back. Youth. That’s how I used to be, huh?

Well, objectively speaking—my body was built just like that.

The subway car was empty. Yu Tu claimed an entire carriage to himself. No book in hand—he felt oddly lost without one.

Even worse: cold. Bone-deep cold. Front, back, every inch of him chilled through.

He missed warmth. Missed *her*—the warm girl with bright eyes, soft lips, the way she smiled like sunlight breaking through clouds.

Suddenly, the screen opposite him lit up—ad for “Nature’s Water.” A mountain stream, snow-capped peaks. And there she was—his girl, leaping lightly into frame like a woodland sprite.

Yu Tu didn’t feel cold anymore.

Qiao Jingjing was woken by Xiao Zhu—so tired, barely seven hours of sleep. Her skin was already paying the price.

No work today. When she stayed home, Qiao Jingjing never wore makeup. Her coworkers always said she had two vibes.

On stage: a dazzling beauty with a 2.8-meter aura. Offstage: the sweetest little neighbor girl—adorable, effortlessly pretty.

Qiao Jingjing rolled her eyes, repeating her correction like a mantra.

“Call her ‘Neighbor Luo Fu,’ not ‘neighbor girl’!”

“What? You forgot who Luo Fu was?”

Right then, she was staring at the empty abstract cup on the coffee table, grinning at herself.

“Oh wow, I’m such a perfect girlfriend—I even thought to bring him water…”

“Xiao Zhu! Xiao Zhu! Make me a juice, please—two glasses. One for each of us!”

Data wasn’t good. Dr. Yu skipped breakfast. Lunch, at least, came in time. As usual, he snapped a photo of his tray before sending it out.

Da Meng brought his overflowing plate over.

“What are you doing? Your mom doesn’t care what you eat, does she? Mine keeps nagging me—eat on time, or you’ll ruin your stomach. She doesn’t care *what*, just that you eat.”

“Whoa. Didn’t know you were such a mama’s boy!”

Xiao Hu wandered over.

“Hey, Da Meng—your morning power data still feels off. There’s no way it should’ve failed.”

Yu Tu wanted to switch tables.

Qiao Jingjing felt utterly idle. Not idle—*recharging*.
Movies. Books. Music. All solo. (Xiao Zhu didn’t count.)

Maybe a beauty nap?

Before she even hit the bed, the video call rang in. Yu Tu was in a small room, shelves behind him, wearing a deep blue outfit that looked like workwear.

“You’re at the office?”

“In the dorm. Our building’s in a restricted zone—hundreds of meters radius. No video allowed. Dorm’s tucked away in a far corner. Better than most.”

“Show me what your single dorm looks like!”

“That’s it.”

The camera swiveled. Neat. Lots of books. Jingjing was already thinking of how to compliment it—when her mother’s call popped up.

“Ah—gotta go. Mom’s on. We’ll talk later.”

She couldn’t blame the interruption. Yu Tu sighed inwardly, locked the door, headed toward the lab, and sent a message on WeChat:

“Today, I’ll wrap up as early as possible. Should be done by ten-ish.”

Qiao Jingjing hung up. Frustration bubbled inside. Why did her parents have to come *tomorrow*? Ugh. Ugh.

Wait—no. Let’s rephrase: yes, they were her real parents. Yes, she hadn’t seen them in months. Yes, she couldn’t say no. But…

Why *tomorrow*?!

Yu Tu finally exited the lab past ten-thirty, darting out like the wind, phone in hand—leaving a hand mid-air, reaching to tap his shoulder.

“Hey, Yu…”

“Got stuff tomorrow. Later.”

His voice trailed off as he stepped through the doorway.

Too fast. Only when he reached the flowerbed did his phone buzz. A notification. He tapped the top chat—there it was: a red-eyed rabbit emoji.

“My parents are coming tomorrow morning. They’ll stay after dinner.”

Then came a string of sad-faced emojis, pouting, teary-eyed, all kinds of委屈.

Yu Tu sighed. Too many sighs made him short of breath.

He called back.

“Jingjing, your parents staying with you all day? That’s great! You should be happy!”

“But… but… but…”

She pouted. She wouldn’t tell him—she’d planned to meet that familiar designer, show him the video of the house, and commission a custom bookshelf wall.