Xiao Zhao drove them home and left. Once inside, Qin Wunian and Song Cheng turned simultaneously, each saying, “I’m heading to my room.”
Qin Wunian paused, then asked, “Are you eating lunch?”
Song Cheng scratched his head, puzzled by the question. “Isn’t eating an option?”
Qin Wunian: “……”
Nowadays, young people hardly eat regular meals unless they live with parents—they eat when hungry, skip when not. Song Cheng, so regular and disciplined, never missed a meal. But he was still too rare in this habit.
Qin Wunian had no appetite. Hearing Song Cheng, he said flatly, “Then order yourself lunch. I don’t have a cook here.”
Song Cheng gestured to himself: “I can cook.”
The implication: I’ll take care of it.
Qin Wunian thought back to that simple breakfast in the morning and looked at Song Cheng’s composed expression—ever since their reunion, he hadn’t shown any awkwardness. A sudden, inexplicable frustration welled up inside him, one even he couldn’t understand.
“No cooking in my house from now on.”
His voice held no warmth. His gaze was sharp as he faced Song Cheng, who froze in confusion. Qin Wunian spoke slowly, word by word: “I don’t like anyone messing up my kitchen.”
Song Cheng stayed silent. Qin Wunian finished and turned toward the elevator. Song Cheng’s eyes followed him, watching the two elevator doors close. The nearby digital display ticked:
1… 2… 3…
The entire third floor was Qin Wunian’s bedroom—a place Song Cheng had never entered, one he dared not enter.
He knew it no longer belonged to him, so he had stayed obediently on the first floor, confining his movement to only a few rooms, trying not to provoke Qin Wunian’s displeasure. Yet somehow, he still had.
But was Qin Wunian annoyed because he entered the kitchen, or simply because he existed?
Song Cheng didn’t know. He pressed his lips together and returned to his temporary room.
It was still before eleven, and from then until two in the afternoon, the house was completely silent, doors closed, no sound at all—like nobody lived there.
Qin Wunian sat in his bedroom, monitoring the security feed of the front door. Since noon, having heard no doorbell, he had checked the footage. The longer he watched, the more his brows furrowed.
—Wasn’t he supposed to order takeout???
No takeout had arrived, and from downstairs there was no sound of pots or pans. After seeing Song Cheng eat two eggs that morning, Qin Wunian was far from convinced that this little master could survive on a few drops of dew like some delicate fairy boy.
He glared at the monitor, ears straining for any sound downstairs. By two o’clock, he couldn’t wait any longer.
Skipping the elevator, he stomped down the stairs and stopped at Song Cheng’s room. He didn’t knock, just opened the door.
One hand rested on the frame as he looked at the figure lying in bed, back to him. “Why haven’t you called for takeout yet?”
Song Cheng didn’t want to respond at first, but after two seconds, he slowly sat up. “You want some? Then order it yourself.”
Qin Wunian: “……”
Lowering his hand, he walked into the room, eyes fixed on Song Cheng’s face.
Drooping eyelids, calm expression, soft voice—but beneath the softness were needles; all the signs matched. Yes, the little master was angry.
Because of what he’d said earlier, no doubt.
Qin Wunian slipped his hands into his pockets, silent—extraordinarily silent.
Song Cheng lifted his eyelids to look at him. They stayed like that for nearly a minute before Song Cheng finally spoke: “At this point, you should say sorry.”
Qin Wunian’s lips twitched, delayed, then finally came the audible words: “Why should I say that?”
“Because you said something in the heat of the moment.”
“It wasn’t in the heat of the moment.”
“Yes, it was.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Song Cheng pressed his lips together.
Alarm bells rang in Qin Wunian’s head.
Too late—Song Cheng had passed the stage of being easy to reason with. The stubborn version activated: “I’m not eating!”
He spun around, plopping back onto the bed, back still to Qin Wunian.
Qin Wunian: “…………”
A brief internal battle later, he finally muttered the three words he rarely spoke in his life: “…I’m sorry.”
He didn’t look at Song Cheng when he said it—the psychological pressure was too great. Once spoken, he exhaled in relief and sneaked a glance. Heart sinking, he saw the little master hadn’t moved, still facing away.
See? Who told him not to cherish it? A simple “sorry” would have sufficed—now it was doubled.
He quietly moved to the bed’s edge, sat down, thought for two seconds, then said, “I… shouldn’t have said that.”
No response from Song Cheng.
He inhaled deeply. “You can use the kitchen however you like from now on. Burn it all, I don’t care.”
Still no response.
“Enough,” Qin Wunian said.
Song Cheng scooted further away.
Qin Wunian: “……”
Silence fell. Staring at the back of Song Cheng’s head, Qin Wunian’s pause stretched unusually long. Song Cheng even felt like turning to see if he had left.
Then Qin Wunian finally spoke again: “Song Cheng, can you stop using this trick on me?”
Song Cheng’s heart skipped. Eyes opening, he stared at the curtains, not understanding why he reacted that way.
Just hearing Qin Wunian’s voice made him feel the man’s helplessness, frustration, and subtle self-mockery.
Qin Wunian lowered his gaze. Years ago, Song Cheng’s “not eating” tactic would have made him surrender immediately. If ignored, he’d go mad—nothing else could be done, he’d have to reconcile to feel settled.
But that was years ago. He was mature now—how could he still be so easily manipulated?
A silent, almost ironic smile curved Qin Wunian’s lips. Raising his eyes, he noticed Song Cheng had quietly sat up, sneaking a look at him.
Once more, they locked eyes. Song Cheng spoke first.
Hands on his lap, soft voice, his obedient demeanor matching perfectly: “I’m so hungry, I’m about to shrink into nothing.”
Qin Wunian paused. The tide of emotion that had flooded him moments ago receded just as quickly.
“You still waiting for takeout?” he asked.
Song Cheng shook his head honestly. “If you’d been five minutes later, you could’ve seen me climbing out the window to hunt for food.”
Qin Wunian looked at him, speechless. Two seconds later, he chuckled: “Serves you right.”
He stood and headed toward the kitchen. “Still not getting up? Aren’t you afraid that in five minutes, you’ll be so hungry you’re paper thin?”
Seeing him move toward the kitchen, Song Cheng quickly scrambled up, matching his steps. “You’re going to cook?”
Qin Wunian shot him a glance, sleeves rolled up with restrained poise: “Today, I’ll show you what I can do.”
Song Cheng’s eyes lit up. He watched eagerly as Qin Wunian approached the island, squatted down, opened the cabinet beneath, revealing a built-in drawer fridge.
Song Cheng hadn’t realized there was another fridge. Eyes wide, he watched Qin Wunian pull out one, two, three convenience store ready meals.
Song Cheng: “……”
Qin Wunian explained: “The cleaning lady comes three times a week. Besides cleaning, she restocks supplies. Takeout all the time isn’t healthy—ready meals are convenient.”
Song Cheng picked up a box and checked the date. “This one’s expired.”
Qin Wunian: “……”
Right, the cleaning lady hadn’t come for three days. Naturally, some of these should be past their date.