Volume One, Chapter Thirty-Three: Shared Living

“Hey, Mode!” Hearing Muqing’s call from the living room, Mode set the mop aside, washed his hands, and walked back to the living room. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Um...” At this moment, Muqing was actually a bit bashful, unable to speak her mind directly.

When something’s out of the ordinary, there’s always a reason. Is she trying to rope me into another one of her hare-brained schemes? Mode immediately grew wary, scrutinizing the troublesome girl lying sideways on the sofa.

Feeling uncomfortable under Mode’s gaze, Muqing finally couldn’t hold back any longer. “Um... could you help me to the bathroom?” Her long, slender legs twisted together, fidgeting uneasily.

Mode understood at once—it was the lavish milk tea at work. Without another thought, he scooped Muqing up and carried her toward the bathroom.

“With your hand like that, can you manage on your own—?” Before he could finish, a headbutt cut him off.

“That’s none of your business!” Muqing was both embarrassed and annoyed. Did this guy not know that some things just shouldn’t be said directly to a girl?

There was the sound of running water, clothing rustling. Leaning against the wall, Mode waited for Muqing’s call, then went in to help her back.

The layered white gauze was newly tinged with crimson. Though Muqing said nothing, her trembling fingers betrayed the pain she was suppressing. Mode took quiet note of everything.

After settling Muqing back on the sofa, Mode fished a bag from beneath the freshly cleaned wheelchair, took out medicine and bandages, and sat beside her, gesturing for her to extend her hand.

“Changing the dressing now?” Muqing recalled that the doctor said once a day was enough for reapplying medicine and changing the gauze.

“You didn’t wash your hands after using the bathroom,” Mode casually lied, masking his own pang of sympathy.

Such slender, delicate hands shouldn’t be marred by blood. And the scars on her hands were, in countless ways, intertwined with his own past.

Oblivious to the brewing storm in Muqing’s eyes as she offered her hands, Mode carefully began unwrapping the bandages from her long fingers. As the wrappings came off, he saw for the first time the true extent of her injuries.

Blood had soaked through the gauze; there wasn’t an inch of unbroken skin on the backs or palms of her hands. All ten fingers were severely abraded; some even lacked their nails.

Mode’s brows furrowed. He’d suffered worse injuries himself, but never before had he seen someone else’s hands so mangled.

He sterilized the tweezers with alcohol, moistened the gauze adhered to the wounds with iodine and saline, then gently peeled it away. He cleaned the wounds with alcohol-soaked cotton, dusted on a thin layer of healing powder, reapplied fresh gauze, and finally began carefully winding on new bandages.

Mode held his breath through every motion, afraid that any slip might add to her pain.

“That last battle must have been hard on you.” As he tidied away the discarded bandages, Mode spoke softly. He’d only known Muqing had crossed the border to fight a Scourge Cult apostle, but now he truly grasped how fierce the fight must have been. Not even the secret medicines from “the Tide” could fully restore her; the lingering wounds were still so shocking.

What Mode didn’t know was that before he arrived, Li Dongdong had already stabilized Muqing’s condition with a rare medicine. Without both doses, Muqing might not even have regained consciousness.

“Thank you.”

If it hadn’t been for this girl intercepting that apostle, judging by the military’s belated response, the catastrophe might have brought enormous loss to Qin City. Even if he’d narrowly escaped with his life, he’d have had no strength left to protect those dear to him.

Muqing was momentarily surprised by his words, then beckoned him closer.

“What is it?” Mode put down what he was doing, sat beside her, and leaned in as she indicated.

Her arms looped around his neck, wrists clasped behind his head in place of her wounded hands.

“You’re welcome. Honestly, there’s no need to thank me. That guy came after me, that’s why we fought. My injuries have nothing to do with you, so there’s no need for guilt.”

Her warm breath brushed against his face, and Mode, flustered, wanted to pull away.

“Isn’t this... a little too close...?” he stammered, trying to move, when suddenly her wrists locked tight behind his neck.

“And another thing—I have to teach you a lesson.” Muqing’s voice was gentle, but it only made Mode more uneasy.

“You can’t just say anything to a girl directly!” Thud!

A sharp headbutt sent Mode flying as the lock released.

“A woman’s heart is like a needle at the bottom of the sea, especially a troublesome woman,” echoed a phrase from someone long ago in Mode’s mind.

“What’s gotten into you?!” Rubbing his head and steadying himself on the sofa, Mode was utterly baffled. “I was just trying to thank you!”

“And I already told you, you’re welcome!” The two glared furiously at each other across the sofa.

Suddenly, Mode recalled his earlier comment and tentatively said, “...Didn’t wash your hands?”

Muqing broke into a smile and beckoned him over again.

“Ah, I just remembered I haven’t finished cleaning your room, and I still have to make dinner, so I’ll leave you to rest and recover...” Mode admitted defeat and bolted, leaving Muqing alone on the sofa, her cheeks flushed as pink as a peach, whether from anger or embarrassment.

As a steadfast bachelor sharing a home with a woman for the first time, Mode learned a vital lesson today: never say things to a girl that might embarrass her, even if they’re true.

Putting down the mop and tying on an apron, Mode, his cleaning finally done, began preparing dinner. At lunchtime, they’d only had snacks and desserts at the mall, so she was probably starving by now.

“I want to eat...” Mode peeked toward the sofa, about to ask what Muqing wanted for dinner, only to see she’d already fallen asleep, leaning against the armrest. He fetched a blanket from her newly tidied room and gently covered her, then returned to the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves to get to work. When it came to cooking, he considered himself second only to Sister Xi, and far better than any average restaurant chef—after all, ever since Li Changsheng taught him to cook, the man had never set foot in the kitchen again.

Half-awake, roused by the aroma, Muqing sat up, wiping drool from her mouth, and peeked toward the source of the delicious scent.

“Awake already? Perfect timing, the food’s ready.” Mode was untying his apron and hanging it on the fridge when he caught sight of Muqing, her head poking over the sofa with an adorably curious expression. He couldn’t help but smile. Walking over, he gently lifted the drowsy Muqing and set her at the dining table. Sitting opposite, he picked up his chopsticks and declared with confidence, “I’m actually quite a good cook—try it and see.” With that, he placed a bite of chives stir-fried with pig’s blood onto the rice in front of her, then started eating himself.

Mm, fragrant and tender, perfectly seasoned, truly delicious.

With the chives and pig’s blood, vinegar-tossed potato slivers, braised ribs with string beans, and a bowl of chicken soup, Mode quickly polished off his bowl of rice. Returning from the kitchen with another serving, he noticed Muqing gazing at him with a resentful look, her food untouched, a glint of moisture at the corner of her mouth.

“Why aren’t you eating? Is there something you can’t have?”

“No, I’m not picky at all,” Muqing replied, swallowing her saliva, her tone aggrieved. As soon as she spoke, Mode realized he’d been so focused on eating that he’d forgotten about her injuries.

After a moment’s thought, Mode set down his bowl, fetched a spoon from the kitchen, pulled his chair beside her, picked up her bowl, and scooped up a mix of rice and vegetables to feed her.

Long since tormented by the aroma and Mode’s hearty appetite, Muqing could no longer hold back and opened her mouth wide for the food. Her eyes lit up with the first bite—she hadn’t expected his cooking to be so extraordinary.

“Wow, you’re really good at this! Gimme a bite of those potatoes, ahh...” Maybe it was because she hadn’t had a proper homemade meal in so long, but Muqing’s appetite exploded, and the rice disappeared in a flash. “More rice, more rice! It’s been ages since I’ve had food this good!”

Mode returned to the kitchen and, after some hesitation, took out the inner pot of the rice cooker and started a fresh batch. At the rate she was eating, he suspected another two dishes might be needed soon.

Sure enough, Mode realized there was now an even bigger eater in the house than himself. He placed a wooden straw in the chicken soup bowl for Muqing to sip, donned his apron once more, and went back to the kitchen to cook.

By the end, the two of them together had demolished six dishes and a soup, two pots of rice, and several kinds of fruit.

Draining the last drop of chicken soup, Muqing leaned back in her chair with a satisfied burp.

Mode finished off the chicken, equally content, then carried Muqing back to the sofa, found her favorite program on TV, and returned to tidy up the kitchen.

Truly, matter is conserved—what you eat, you carry. As he washed the dishes, Mode marveled at Muqing’s appetite. Of the entire meal, sixty percent was hers, only forty his.

“I’m going to let the landlord know I’m back. I’ll be right back,” Mode called from the entryway as he changed his shoes.

“Got it, don’t be long,” Muqing waved absently, eyes never leaving the variety show on TV.

“This girl...” Mode shook his head helplessly, grabbed the keys, and walked out the door.