Incurable Chapter 7 Part 1

Chapter 7 (1/2)

Liu Qianxiu did not seem to notice anything unusual.

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

Clearly, he hadn’t caught the suggestive edge of what she had just said. A man like Liu Qianxiu probably didn’t spend much time online. There was no way he knew an old joke like that.

A little while after Liu Qianxiu stepped out, Mu Wan followed.

He had invited her to stay for dinner, and out of basic courtesy, she ought to at least offer to help in the kitchen. The moment she stepped out of the cat room, she saw Zhouyi sitting upright outside the kitchen door.

Zhouyi was black from head to tail, its coat sleek and glossy, carrying the calm laziness and quiet authority of a mature cat. It was already dark out. The kitchen light was on, and with its back half-turned, Zhouyi looked almost like some creature out of deep mountains and old forests, something feral hidden within those upright golden pupils.

When Mu Wan approached, Zhouyi let out a single cry—long and mellow, as though night itself had found a voice in a bamboo grove high in the mountains.

In older times, black cats were considered creatures that warded off evil. Only later did people begin to twist them into omens of misfortune and disaster, so few households kept them now.

Liu Qianxiu really was set apart from ordinary people.

At Zhouyi’s cry, Liu Qianxiu glanced back from where he stood in the kitchen. He was tall and straight, both hands lightly braced against the counter as he waited for the noodles to finish cooking. Steam rose in white ribbons. His black, gleaming eyes were half-veiled in the mist, and for one strange moment, Mu Wan felt a coolness like morning fog at daybreak.

Even in a kitchen, the place most full of worldly warmth and smoke, Liu Qianxiu somehow remained unstained by any trace of vulgarity.

He still looked like an immortal.

“It’s very gentle,” Liu Qianxiu said.

The man and the cat turned to look at her together—one pair of eyes black, the other gold.

Mu Wan looked back at them, and her lashes trembled faintly.

“I’m not afraid,” she said.

She braced her hands on her knees. The apartment’s air-conditioning was set low, yet she felt a little warm. She made no rash move to touch Zhouyi, only looked at it and asked, “How long have you had it?”

“One year,” Liu Qianxiu said. “Since it was born.”

Understanding flickered in her eyes.

“So the nursery in the cat room—that was originally for Zhouyi?”

“Mm,” Liu Qianxiu said.

“There are so many orphaned cats,” she murmured. Then she looked at Zhouyi again and asked, “Did you find it at the hospital too?”

Liu Qianxiu turned back toward the stove. Looking at Zhouyi on the floor, he said, “No. Beside a Taoist temple.”

Mu Wan had always known Liu Qianxiu was a Taoist believer, but hearing him mention a temple so plainly still sent a light shiver over her arms.

Faith always had a way of making people instinctively reverent.

She did not ask more.

Instead, she looked at the bamboo chopsticks in Liu Qianxiu’s hand and straightened.

“Do you need help?”

“No.”

After saying that, Liu Qianxiu turned back to the pot and stirred the long noodles once with the chopsticks. The motion was practiced, the posture almost elegant.

Liu Qianxiu’s kitchen was large—an island layout. Directly opposite the entrance was the sink area, to the left the storage side, and to the right the cooking space. At the center of the kitchen stood a marble dining island with high stools tucked neatly beneath it. Everything in the kitchen was complete, spotless, and arranged with almost severe order, revealing the owner’s discipline and restraint.

Even though Liu Qianxiu had refused help, Mu Wan still walked over.

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

“Yangchun noodles. They smell wonderful.”

She really was hungry.

One hand rested at the small of her back, her elbow angled behind her. Beneath the dark green halter top, her shoulder blades opened like wings.

She stood not far from him. Beneath the rolling water were the slender white strands of noodles. Liu Qianxiu stirred them once with the bamboo chopsticks and said, “There’s no pork lard. I used sesame oil.”

Traditional yangchun noodles were made with pork lard—a spoonful of chilled lard in the bottom of the bowl, then hot broth poured over it until the fragrance rose full and rich.

Mu Wan looked up at Liu Qianxiu and smiled. She assumed he was explaining because of his own dietary restrictions.

“Sesame oil is fine too,” she said. “I’m easy to keep.”

The words came out, and then her voice caught.

Liu Qianxiu looked at her.

Their eyes met.

Mu Wan moved her gaze away first.

Steam drifted between them. She turned back to the broth, and beneath her faintly reddened earlobe, a few curved wisps of hair softened her into an unexpected quietness.

Liu Qianxiu looked away and turned off the heat.

“It’s ready.”

The moment he said it, Mu Wan reached over with a bowl.

The broth gleamed softly inside. Her long, pale fingers curved around the rim, white as carved jade. The movement was so natural that the two of them looked almost like people who had eaten together, as though this quiet coordination had already happened many times before.

Liu Qianxiu took the bowl. In the pale brown ceramic, the long noodles spread open like white blossoms.

Carrying the noodles, Mu Wan pulled out one of the high stools and sat across from him. She took up her chopsticks and stirred the noodles once. Then, through the rising steam, she took a bite.

The flavor spread across her tongue.

She lifted her eyes and looked at Liu Qianxiu on the other side of the counter.

Even the bowl of yangchun noodles he had made was like him—clean, light, and unexpectedly full of taste. Taoist Liu, who seemed so restrained and淡, suddenly felt more alive because of this one bowl of noodles.

“It’s delicious,” Mu Wan said.

The man lifted his eyes and looked at her once. In his hand, the bamboo chopsticks slowly loosened the noodles in his own bowl.

“Eat more,” he said evenly.

Mu Wan ate two bowls.

It had been a long time since she had shared a meal with anyone.

Her work schedule each week was never that full. If she counted it all up, she only filmed three or four days out of seven, and spent the rest at home. She rarely ate breakfast, ordered takeout for lunch, and ate at roadside stalls for dinner.

Lunch takeout was something she ate alone—cold, quiet.

At the night stalls, there were always people everywhere—loud, crowded, bustling.

The two extremes left very little room for something like this.

Someone was sitting across from her.

Two people, each holding a bowl of noodles.

A few quiet exchanges here and there.

The light accidental knock of chopsticks and bowls between them, like a long-silent set of bronze chimes being struck awake again.

Mu Wan finished even the broth. Her stomach was full.

Something else inside her felt full too, though she could not quite name what it was.

After dinner, she did not linger. She called a car and went home.

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