Mu Wan followed Liu Qianxiu inside. The corridor light outside folded at the threshold into a long, bright rectangle across the floor.
She glanced at the entryway and remembered—yesterday, it had been just as empty.
“Why isn’t Zhou Yi sitting here waiting at the door?” she asked.
Behind her, Liu Qianxiu closed the door. The lock clicked.
His low voice came from the dark just behind her shoulder. “Waiting for what?”
Still holding the bouquet, Mu Wan slipped into the house slippers and answered lightly, “Waiting for his owner to come home.”
Liu Qianxiu turned on the lights. The room brightened—spacious, bare, yet somehow not lonely. He brought over a first-aid kit and said, in a calm, firm voice, “Only people wait.”
Only people.
Only people waited for someone to come home.
Mu Wan froze for a heartbeat.
Because today she’d been the one waiting at his door.
With that one sentence, their relationship took on a strange, delicate edge, like something you didn’t dare touch too hard.
She blinked, forcing herself back to normal. Liu Qianxiu stood there with the kit in hand, expression unchanged.
Mu Wan smiled and made nothing of it. Following his gesture, she sat down on the rug beside the low table.
The rug was slightly firm. The scent of agarwood was rich and deep. Mu Wan came back to herself, then lifted the bouquet and offered it to him.
Liu Qianxiu lowered his eyes.
Mu Wan sat on the rug and looked up at him, her eyes dark as ink with little sparks of lamplight caught inside.
“This is for you,” she said. “Thank you for helping me take care of the kittens… and for feeding me yangchun noodles.”
It was a large bouquet. Liu Qianxiu’s fingers pinched the wrapping paper, and it rustled softly. Then he sat down cross-legged with the flowers in his arms and said, “You’re welcome. And thank you for the flowers.”
A handsome man holding beautiful flowers was unfairly pleasing to look at—double beauty.
Mu Wan stared a little too long, as if she were looking at a painting still wet with oil, every stroke precise, nothing out of place.
Liu Qianxiu’s aura was so striking that it made it easy to overlook the details of his face. Now that they were close, and she truly looked, she saw a kind of clean, understated elegance—natural, not manufactured.
Like a lake. Like a forest.
Like distant mountains behind that lake and forest, half hidden by mist—otherworldly and quietly magnetic. Nothing like the perfect-featured male stars in Mu Wan’s industry.
Male stars lived off their faces. Time passed, and the spirit in their looks thinned out.
But Liu Qianxiu’s “spirit” felt sealed inside him, like clear liquor aging in a clay jar—growing stronger, deeper, more intoxicating. The longer you looked, the harder it became to look away.
The wide living room held only the two of them, yet Mu Wan felt it narrowing, as if the air were pressing closer.
Liu Qianxiu sat beside her, head lowered as he treated her knee. Warm lamplight washed lightly across his face. His focus was steady—almost gentle.
He was a cold person, inside and out.
And yet, Mu Wan saw tenderness in him anyway.
The room was so quiet that she could hear the faint hiss of the air conditioner. Heat rose softly in her throat, a warm itch that made her want to speak—like the cotton swab brushing across her scraped skin.
“You’re not cold at all,” Mu Wan said.
She drew her knees up, leaning back on her hands to keep balance. The coarse linen texture pressed a faint weave-pattern into her palms.
Her tone was lazy, relaxed—like she was chatting with an old friend. With her hands behind her, her posture easy, her neckline slipped slightly to one side, revealing a clean line of collarbone and a long pale throat.
Liu Qianxiu glanced up.
She was smiling. Her beauty was already vivid, but when she smiled, there was something sweetly seductive in it that she didn’t seem to notice—red lips, delicate face, pale skin, all of it sharpened by distance so close it felt intimate.
He lowered his gaze again, finished taping the gauze, and put the last neat touches on the bandage. Then he returned the supplies to the kit and answered her, voice soft and even:
“I’m only not cold to cats.”
Mu Wan’s eyes flickered.
Her knee was done, so she set her feet down again and—almost unconsciously—copied him, sitting cross-legged. They faced each other: his expression calm, hers bright.
Mu Wan curved her mouth and let out a small, gentle sound.
“Meow.”
It floated through the small space and faded like pigment dissolving in water. Mu Wan’s voice was a little husky, the kind of softness that could undo someone with only one syllable.
Liu Qianxiu’s throat shifted slightly.
Mu Wan didn’t notice.
She added, shameless and sweet, “Can this kitty rub up and get another dinner too?”
He looked at her for a long moment, measuring her in silence.
Then he stood and went into the kitchen.
Dinner was tomato shrimp pasta.
Mu Wan stared at the two plates and blinked. “You can eat seafood?”
Meaning: Daoist Doctor Liu… you don’t avoid meat?
Liu Qianxiu caught the unspoken question. As he pulled out a chair, he said calmly, “I’m not a monk.”
Mu Wan: “….”
After dinner, Mu Wan checked on Da Tou and Er Tong, then went home.
That night, the rain stopped again. Without the sound of rainfall, the world fell into complete stillness.
After showering, Mu Wan lay on her bed and stared up at the lamp hanging in the darkness above.
There was only one light in the bedroom.
Lonely.
Like her.
Late at night, thoughts always grew deeper than they had any right to be. Mu Wan stared at the lamp and remembered what Liu Qianxiu had said.
Only people wait.
Why only people?
Because only people can ease another person’s loneliness.
She glanced at the entryway and remembered—yesterday, it had been just as empty.
“Why isn’t Zhou Yi sitting here waiting at the door?” she asked.
Behind her, Liu Qianxiu closed the door. The lock clicked.
His low voice came from the dark just behind her shoulder. “Waiting for what?”
Still holding the bouquet, Mu Wan slipped into the house slippers and answered lightly, “Waiting for his owner to come home.”
Liu Qianxiu turned on the lights. The room brightened—spacious, bare, yet somehow not lonely. He brought over a first-aid kit and said, in a calm, firm voice, “Only people wait.”
Only people.
Only people waited for someone to come home.
Mu Wan froze for a heartbeat.
Because today she’d been the one waiting at his door.
With that one sentence, their relationship took on a strange, delicate edge, like something you didn’t dare touch too hard.
She blinked, forcing herself back to normal. Liu Qianxiu stood there with the kit in hand, expression unchanged.
Mu Wan smiled and made nothing of it. Following his gesture, she sat down on the rug beside the low table.
The rug was slightly firm. The scent of agarwood was rich and deep. Mu Wan came back to herself, then lifted the bouquet and offered it to him.
Liu Qianxiu lowered his eyes.
Mu Wan sat on the rug and looked up at him, her eyes dark as ink with little sparks of lamplight caught inside.
“This is for you,” she said. “Thank you for helping me take care of the kittens… and for feeding me yangchun noodles.”
It was a large bouquet. Liu Qianxiu’s fingers pinched the wrapping paper, and it rustled softly. Then he sat down cross-legged with the flowers in his arms and said, “You’re welcome. And thank you for the flowers.”
A handsome man holding beautiful flowers was unfairly pleasing to look at—double beauty.
Mu Wan stared a little too long, as if she were looking at a painting still wet with oil, every stroke precise, nothing out of place.
Liu Qianxiu’s aura was so striking that it made it easy to overlook the details of his face. Now that they were close, and she truly looked, she saw a kind of clean, understated elegance—natural, not manufactured.
Like a lake. Like a forest.
Like distant mountains behind that lake and forest, half hidden by mist—otherworldly and quietly magnetic. Nothing like the perfect-featured male stars in Mu Wan’s industry.
Male stars lived off their faces. Time passed, and the spirit in their looks thinned out.
But Liu Qianxiu’s “spirit” felt sealed inside him, like clear liquor aging in a clay jar—growing stronger, deeper, more intoxicating. The longer you looked, the harder it became to look away.
The wide living room held only the two of them, yet Mu Wan felt it narrowing, as if the air were pressing closer.
Liu Qianxiu sat beside her, head lowered as he treated her knee. Warm lamplight washed lightly across his face. His focus was steady—almost gentle.
He was a cold person, inside and out.
And yet, Mu Wan saw tenderness in him anyway.
The room was so quiet that she could hear the faint hiss of the air conditioner. Heat rose softly in her throat, a warm itch that made her want to speak—like the cotton swab brushing across her scraped skin.
“You’re not cold at all,” Mu Wan said.
She drew her knees up, leaning back on her hands to keep balance. The coarse linen texture pressed a faint weave-pattern into her palms.
Her tone was lazy, relaxed—like she was chatting with an old friend. With her hands behind her, her posture easy, her neckline slipped slightly to one side, revealing a clean line of collarbone and a long pale throat.
Liu Qianxiu glanced up.
She was smiling. Her beauty was already vivid, but when she smiled, there was something sweetly seductive in it that she didn’t seem to notice—red lips, delicate face, pale skin, all of it sharpened by distance so close it felt intimate.
He lowered his gaze again, finished taping the gauze, and put the last neat touches on the bandage. Then he returned the supplies to the kit and answered her, voice soft and even:
“I’m only not cold to cats.”
Mu Wan’s eyes flickered.
Her knee was done, so she set her feet down again and—almost unconsciously—copied him, sitting cross-legged. They faced each other: his expression calm, hers bright.
Mu Wan curved her mouth and let out a small, gentle sound.
“Meow.”
It floated through the small space and faded like pigment dissolving in water. Mu Wan’s voice was a little husky, the kind of softness that could undo someone with only one syllable.
Liu Qianxiu’s throat shifted slightly.
Mu Wan didn’t notice.
She added, shameless and sweet, “Can this kitty rub up and get another dinner too?”
He looked at her for a long moment, measuring her in silence.
Then he stood and went into the kitchen.
Dinner was tomato shrimp pasta.
Mu Wan stared at the two plates and blinked. “You can eat seafood?”
Meaning: Daoist Doctor Liu… you don’t avoid meat?
Liu Qianxiu caught the unspoken question. As he pulled out a chair, he said calmly, “I’m not a monk.”
Mu Wan: “….”
After dinner, Mu Wan checked on Da Tou and Er Tong, then went home.
That night, the rain stopped again. Without the sound of rainfall, the world fell into complete stillness.
After showering, Mu Wan lay on her bed and stared up at the lamp hanging in the darkness above.
There was only one light in the bedroom.
Lonely.
Like her.
Late at night, thoughts always grew deeper than they had any right to be. Mu Wan stared at the lamp and remembered what Liu Qianxiu had said.
Only people wait.
Why only people?
Because only people can ease another person’s loneliness.
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