Incurable Chapter 7 Part 1

Liu Qianxiu didn’t notice anything strange.

Mu Wan looked up at him. He met her gaze, set the baby bottle aside, and stood to leave the cat room.

He was the abstinent, ascetic type. He probably didn’t even browse the internet. That ancient meme about “making noodles” was likely completely unfamiliar to him.

A moment after he left, Mu Wan followed.

He’d offered her a meal. Out of basic manners, she should at least show her face in the kitchen, maybe help with something small. The moment she stepped out, she saw Zhou Yi sitting neatly at the kitchen doorway.

Zhou Yi was pure black, its coat glossy, its posture carrying the heavy calm of an adult cat, stable and languid at once. Night had fallen. The kitchen lights were on. With its back to her, it looked like a cat from the deep mountains, something wild living in a civilized house. Its golden slit pupils held a hint of untamed instinct.

When Mu Wan approached, Zhou Yi let out a long, lingering meow, the sound stretching like night in bamboo forests.

In old stories, black cats were said to ward off evil. In modern times, people have twisted that into “bad luck” and “disaster,” so most households avoid them.

Liu Qianxiu, naturally, was the exception.

At Zhou Yi’s cry, Liu Qianxiu glanced back from inside the kitchen. He stood tall and straight, long-legged, both hands braced on the counter as he waited for the noodles to finish cooking. Steam rose in slow threads. His dark eyes sank into the white mist, and Mu Wan felt a faint coolness, like dawn fog sliding across skin.

Even in the most ordinary, smoke-and-fire place of a home, Liu Qianxiu managed to stay untouched by anything vulgar. He still looked almost unreal.

“He’s very gentle,” Liu Qianxiu said.

The man and the cat both looked at her. One pair of eyes is black, the other gold.

Mu Wan’s lashes trembled slightly.

“I’m not scared,” she said, bracing her hands on her knees. The air conditioning was cold, yet she felt warm. She didn’t reach out to touch Zhou Yi. She only watched him and asked, “How long have you had him?”

“One year,” Liu Qianxiu answered. “I’ve raised him since he was born.”

Understanding flashed across her eyes. “So the kitten nursery in the cat room used to be Zhou Yi?”

“Mhm.”

“Orphan cats are everywhere,” she said softly, gaze lowering. “Did you find Zhou Yi at the hospital too?”

Liu Qianxiu looked down at Zhou Yi. “No. Near the temple.”

Mu Wan had always known he practiced Daoism, but hearing him say “temple” out loud still raised goosebumps along her arms.

Faith had a way of making people instinctively quieter.

She didn’t ask more. Her gaze drifted to the bamboo chopsticks in his hand as she straightened.

“Need help?”

“No.” Liu Qianxiu turned back and stirred the long noodles with an easy, practiced motion. Even that looked graceful on him, refined in a way that made it feel unfair.

His kitchen was large, arranged like an island. Sink area straight ahead, storage to the left, cooking to the right. In the center sat a marble-topped dining table, with tall stools neatly tucked in. Everything was complete, spotless, and lined up with a kind of discipline that felt almost severe.

Even though he’d refused, Mu Wan walked over anyway.

The moment she reached the counter, her eyes lit up. She smiled.

“Yangchun noodles. Smells amazing.”

She really was hungry. She braced a hand at her waist and drew her arms back slightly, and under the deep green halter top, her shoulder blades showed like wings.

She stood close enough for the steam to brush her skin. In the rolling water, the noodles swayed thin and pale. Liu Qianxiu stirred once and said, “No pork lard. I used sesame oil.”

Traditionally, yangchun noodles were served with a spoonful of lard at the bottom of the bowl, hot broth poured over it until the scent rose rich and irresistible.

Mu Wan lifted her head and smiled at him, assuming he avoided certain foods by choice.

“Sesame oil’s fine,” she said lightly. “I’m easy to keep alive.”

The words hung for a beat too long.

Liu Qianxiu looked over.

Their eyes met.

Mu Wan immediately turned her gaze away, pretending to study the broth. Steam blurred the air. A few loose strands of hair curved beneath her slightly reddened ear, softening her into something quieter, almost gentle.

Liu Qianxiu withdrew his gaze, turned off the heat, and said, “Done.”

As soon as he spoke, Mu Wan lifted a bowl and held it out instinctively, like they’d done this a hundred times. The broth inside was bright and clear. Her fingers curved around the rim, long and pale as carved jade. The motion was so natural it felt familiar.

Liu Qianxiu took the bowl.

The noodles unfurled in the light coffee-colored ceramic like white flowers opening.

Mu Wan pulled out a tall stool and sat across from him. She stirred her noodles lightly with chopsticks and took a bite. The warmth filled her mouth, clean and fragrant.

Through the steam, she looked up at Liu Qianxiu.

His yangchun noodles were like him. Clean. Light. Quietly flavorful. And somehow, that one bite made the distant Daoist feel more alive.

“Delicious,” she said.

He lifted his eyes once, then calmly stirred his own noodles. “Eat more.”

Mu Wan ate two bowls.

She hadn’t shared a meal with anyone in a long time.

Her weekly schedule wasn’t packed. She filmed three or four days a week, and on the other days she stayed home. She rarely ate breakfast. Lunch was delivered. Dinner was cheap street food.

Lunch alone was silent. Street food was loud. Her life swung between two extremes.

But this was different.

Someone sat across from her. They each held a bowl, spoke occasionally, and their chopsticks sometimes touched by accident, making a soft clink, like an old bell being struck after years of dust.

Mu Wan drank the last of the broth. Her stomach was full.

And something else had been filled too, somewhere she couldn’t quite name.

After the meal, she didn’t linger. She called a car and went home.

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