Chapter 29: Let’s Talk

And then there’s the highland scene coming up—just imagine, two rosy cheeks like a pair of freshly painted mountain apples on your face. Jingjing felt herself crumbling, wanting to flee, go insane…

On the other side of the screen, Yu Tu had long grown used to Miss Qiao’s dramatic self-entertainment and inner turmoil. “Jingjing,” he said, calm as ever, “no matter what, you’re still the most beautiful.”

“Love makes everyone blind… not exactly objective.”

“Miss Qiao Jingjing, please trust a scientist’s basic integrity.”

“Well… okay… I feel better now.”

With time squeezed in between, Jingjing went home, slipping back into her role as the sweet, dainty little daughter. Her parents were over the moon, fussing around her like a pair of joyful hummingbirds.

By weekend evening, Yu Tu returned too. Seeing his son spinning in circles like a possessed top, Mama Yu sighed—half exasperated, half amused. “Alright, alright, go already!”

“Tomorrow, have Jingjing over for dinner. Tell your dad to go buy whatever she wants first thing in the morning.”

Yu Tu sat awkwardly in Jingjing’s living room. She suggested going upstairs to her room, but Dad didn’t budge—he just poured tea with a smile, chatting casually about nothing much.

Jingjing had no choice but to turn to her mom: “Mom, my sound system might be acting up. Can Yu Tu take a look?”

The moment she stepped inside, she was pressed hard against the wall—helpless, trembling, like a ripe fruit about to be devoured whole. No breath. No escape. No chance to protest.

After who knows how long, Yu Tu rested his forehead against hers, catching his breath. “Jingjing… you’re my real *Renshen Guo*—the immortal fruit.”

Too long. Too long without seeing each other. Too long without feeling the warmth of your breath, the touch of your skin. Every brush of contact felt like fireworks bursting behind closed eyes.

“Jingjing… let me ask your parents… can I have you? Please?”

“My mom might like it… but Dad…”

“He’ll say it’s too soon.”

“But I don’t think so. If you say yes, I’ll do it—right now.”

They leaned their foreheads together, both lost in quiet worry. Downstairs, Jingjing’s dad called out: “Jingjing! Jingjing!”

One after another, they descended. Yu Tu politely said goodbye, mentioning that his parents hoped Jingjing would come over for dinner tomorrow. Dad looked at his daughter—so full of love, so earnest—and grunted a reluctant nod.

At Yu Tu’s place, the mood was lighter, warmer. Mama Yu had long since developed a soft spot for him; Dad? He never really had a voice anyway. So aside from Yu Tu occasionally being labeled “a nuisance,” life ran smooth and happy.

This small north-facing room was Jingjing’s favorite. Every corner held traces of Yu Tu’s youth—the desk where he once studied, the simple wooden bed, the bookshelf lined with dog-eared novels. His guitar case, the window framing a view of trees, even in winter, their leaves still holding onto a deep, solemn green.

Yu Tu brought in a glass of water, saw her leaning against the desk, and gently guided the cup to her lips.

“Yu Tu, no wonder you don’t need glasses. This place is perfect for relaxing your eyes.”

“Yeah… and safe too.”

“Better check if my settlement fund’s still intact.”

Jingjing flinched, squirming slightly. “No way… here… and it’s too bright.”

She pulled her sweater over her head like a hood, blocking out the light.

Maybe it was because this money meant everything—she’d been checked, rechecked, double-checked. A tiny muffled protest slipped out: “Yu Tu… stop…”

“Yu Tu! Jingjing! Dinner’s ready!”

“Coming, Auntie!”

Miss Qiao had never moved so fast. Clothes, skirt, hair—everything snapped into place in under a minute.

Yu Tu sat on the edge of the bed, looking utterly wrecked, trying desperately to… breathe.

Jingjing darted around, carrying dishes, praising the freshness of the vegetables, the tenderness of the meat.

But when they were all seated, Yu Tu hadn’t shown up yet.

Mama Yu called again: “Yu Tu! Yu Tu! Dinner’s ready!”

“Honestly, not even half as responsible as Jingjing.”

“Uncle, Auntie,” Jingjing chimed in quickly, “Yu Tu was on a call—probably work stuff. Let’s start without him.”

When Yu Tu finally emerged, Jingjing’s plate was already half-full. She was laughing, savoring her father-in-law’s famous earth chicken soup, while Mama Yu gazed at her like she’d discovered a star.

“You finished work, Yu Tu? We didn’t know how long it’d take, so we started without you.”

Jingjing jumped in first, pouring soup for him—though maybe she didn’t even need to rush.

He sat down. The table buzzed with easy laughter. But beneath it, his leg gave one firm, silent tap—his way of saying: *We’re not done.*

“Want to go boating on the lake? Or try a DIY at the museum? Where should we go this afternoon?”

He didn’t answer.

“How about the bamboo forest?”

Jingjing nudged him. His voice came low, heavy. “I want to go back to Shanghai.”

“Yu Tu, we agreed—tomorrow we’re leaving.”

“I regret it.”

“Jingjing… I’ll talk to your dad. Okay?”

That afternoon, back at Jingjing’s house, she wore her massive diamond ring like a crown. She flitted around—offering water, passing fruit, flashing her best smile at her dad, silently pushing for Yu Tu’s approval.

Dad endured a basketball game, a chess match, a casual family chat, a full dinner—until the news broadcast neared its end. Then, finally, he cracked: “Yu Tu… come here.”

Silence filled the study. No sound. No movement. Jingjing tiptoed away from the door, rushing to her mom for support.

A few minutes later, Mom brought in a tray. “Old Qiao, have some tea. This year’s premium snow bud.”

Inside, a quiet reply. She pushed the door open. Both men sat on the couch, nearly identical in posture—elbows on knees, heads down, silent.

The elegant purple clay teapot and cups were placed on the tray. Mom poured, slid one toward each man.

Only then did Yu Tu lift his head. His eyes were red. “Thank you, Auntie.”

Then, slowly, he turned the teacup toward himself.

Dad stayed frozen. Still resting his hand on his forehead. Mom glanced at him, gave Yu Tu a subtle nod, and quietly slipped out.

It was nearly nine when Jingjing’s phone, mindlessly scrolling through微博 and Douyin, died completely.

A soft *click*. The study door opened.

Jingjing and her mom, each curled on a sofa, shot upright.

Dad came out first. Yu Tu followed. Jingjing strained to read something—any sign of emotion—on her father’s face. But there was nothing.

He stopped beside her, hesitated, then reached out and brushed her hair back with his hand, tucking it behind her ear—just like he used to when she was little, braiding her hair.

Mom and Dad retreated to their room. The living room suddenly felt cold. Jingjing buried herself in Yu Tu’s arms. And finally, the tears fell.