His physiological preference

"No," she said, her voice a little nervous.

Yang Zhiyan hid her hands behind her back, her fingertips clenched together. The small patch of skin that had just touched his finger was burning hot, unbearably hot. It was only a brief touch, less than a second, yet it felt like a burn mark had been left on her skin.

Qin Yuzheng held the bowl of ginger tea, and her fingers were particularly clear against the white porcelain bowl.

The exposed, slender wrist had slightly protruding wrist bones, and light blue blood vessels beneath the skin.

He lowered his head and took a sip of ginger tea.

Spicy, sweet, and hot. The spiciness of the ginger burns from the tip of the tongue all the way to the stomach, while the sweetness of the brown sugar spreads warmly in the throat.

It was the brown sugar ginger tea she brewed that made him happy.

"I think I feel much better after drinking it," he said, looking up at Yang Zhiyan with a sincere and unadorned gratitude in his eyes. "Thank you, Ms. Yang."

Yang Zhiyan stood opposite the coffee table, her hands clasped in front of her, her posture as proper as if she were speaking to an elder.

"You're welcome," she said. "Just leave it on the coffee table when you're done, and I'll collect it later."

Qin Yuzheng did not rush to leave.

He sat on the sofa a little longer, bowl in hand. It wasn't deliberate procrastination; he genuinely didn't want to leave.

The room still carries her scent, traces of her cleaning late into the night, and the lingering warmth of the ginger tea she brewed this morning.

He wanted to stay a little longer, even if it was just sitting there, not saying a word, not looking at her—no, he couldn't help but look at her.

"Thank you so much," Qin Yuzheng continued, "I'm all alone. Every time I get sick, I just let it get serious before I go to the hospital."

Yang Zhiyan looked at him but didn't reply.

"It's not that I don't want to get treatment," he said, glancing down at the remaining ginger tea in his bowl. The ginger dregs, yellowish-brown like autumn leaves, had sunk to the bottom. "It's just that I feel so lonely going to the hospital alone."

He paused.

"I really dislike that feeling."

Qin Yuzheng said this on purpose. At his age, what if Yang Zhiyan misunderstood that he was already married?

He needs her to know this, otherwise how can things proceed?

Yang Zhiyan stood opposite the coffee table, her hands still clasped in front of her. Her gaze fell on his fingers holding the bowl—long, slender, with distinct knuckles, and no ring on his ring finger.

She noticed this detail, but her reaction was different from what Qin Yuzheng expected.

Yang Zhiyan recalled what Jiang Siya had said.

"Some men are used to pretending to be single in public to deceive young girls' feelings. In the end, they become the other woman without even realizing it."

Siya said this in her university dormitory. They were seniors, and a girl in the next class had been deceived by a married man for more than half a year. In the end, the man's wife came to their door, and the whole department was in an uproar.

Siya said that a man's mouth is a deceitful devil, and the richer and more powerful a man is, the better he is at acting.

Yang Zhiyan looked at Qin Yuzheng sitting on her sofa. He was wearing a white home T-shirt and slippers, and he was drinking ginger tea from a white porcelain bowl. He certainly didn't look like a married man.

But that's hard to say; in any case, keeping your distance is the wise choice.

So Yang Zhiyan just smiled and didn't reply.

Qin Yuzheng finished the ginger tea in his bowl, put the bowl on the coffee table, and stood up.

"Miss Yang," he stood in front of her, a coffee table between them, neither too close nor too far, "I apologize for bothering you today. The ginger tea was very effective, thank you."

Yang Zhiyan saw him to the door.

In the hallway, he turned around and said to Yang Zhiyan, "If you ever need any help in the future, feel free to contact me anytime. I live right across the street."

He extended his hand.

Yang Zhiyan looked at the hand; it was long, dry, with thin calluses on the fingertips, probably from holding a pen and writing for a long time. She hesitated for less than half a second before reaching out her hand as well.

Their hands clasped together again.

Her palm was pressed against his, her fingertips resting on the back of his hand. He gently closed his hand, enveloping her entire hand in his palm.

Dry, warm, and powerful.

Goodbye, Miss Yang.

Goodbye, Mr. Qin.

The door closed.

Qin Yuzheng stood in the corridor, staring at the closed door for about two seconds. Then he turned and walked to his own door.

As he unlocked the door, he glanced down at his right hand. Her warmth still lingered in his palm, but that thin layer of warmth was being gradually carried away by the cool air in the corridor.

Turn the knob, push the door open, and go inside.

The moment the door closed behind him, he leaned against the door, looked up at the unlit chandelier in his house, and a slow smile appeared on his lips.

Saturday.

In Haicheng, during the plum rain season, the air is so moist you could wring water out of it.

It was cloudy in the morning, but by noon, a crack appeared in the clouds, and sunlight streamed through, falling on the treetops of Binjiang Park, sparkling brightly.

But that brightness didn't last long; the clouds quickly closed again, and the sky turned gray and hazy once more. The sultry heat rose from the ground, and a thin layer of moisture floated on the asphalt road.

Yang Zhiyan went to the vegetable market early in the morning.

She got up at seven o'clock, washed up, changed into a cotton and linen shirt, paired with dark blue wide-leg pants, and tied her hair up with a hairpin, revealing her smooth nape.

As I was leaving, I paused in the hallway and glanced at the closed door across the way; it was quiet.

Without thinking much, she pressed the elevator button and went downstairs.

There's a farmers market near Shengshi Tianxi, about a ten-minute walk away. It's more like a fresh produce supermarket than a farmers market – clean, bright, and with vegetables neatly arranged, unlike the open-air markets in the old town where the ground is always wet and you don't know where to step.

Yang Zhiyan pushed a shopping cart and wandered from the vegetable section to the meat and poultry section, and then from the meat and poultry section to the seafood section. After picking and choosing, she bought ribs, lotus root, chicken wings, shrimp, green vegetables, tomatoes, eggs, a bunch of scallions and a piece of ginger.

Spare ribs should be stewed into soup, lotus root should be starchy, chicken wings should be marinated before cooking, and prawns should be blanched to ensure freshness.

She mentally reviewed the menu. Siya loved shrimp and chicken wings, and pork rib soup was a versatile dish that would go well with anything.

When it was time to pay, the cashier read out a number: 237.6 yuan.

She paid by scanning the QR code without feeling the pinch.

She used to feel bad about spending money. She used to calculate every penny she spent, how much was left at the end of the month, how much she could spend per day, and how to save money if she went over budget. Now she doesn't need to anymore; now her money is her own.

With a rent of 3,500, I have 4,500 left for living expenses. I no longer need to pay 5,000 to that family, and I even get a commission.

She slung the shopping bag over her wrist; the bag was a bit heavy, leaving a red mark on her wrist. She switched hands and continued walking.

The plane trees along the roadside rustled in the wind. A few withered leaves from last year drifted down from the trees, landed on the ground, were then swept up by the wind, swirled a few times in the air, and finally flew away to who knows where.

The doorbell rang at 2 p.m.

Yang Zhiyan ran out of the kitchen, her hands still covered in flour. She was making scallion pancakes, which Siya had specifically asked for.

She wiped her hands on her apron, ran to the door, and peeked out through the peephole.

Jiang Siya stood in the corridor, wearing a pale yellow dress, her hair loose, her face covered in exquisite makeup, and her lips were coated with a glossy lip gloss.

She was carrying a large paper bag in her right hand. The bag was dark green with gold lettering on it, and it looked expensive.

In her left hand, she was carrying a bag of fruit; the plastic bag was transparent, and you could see the bright red cherries and a few mangoes inside.

Yang Zhiyan opened the door.

"You came all this way, why did you bring anything?" She took the dark green paper bag, glanced inside, and saw a set of cosmetics and a beautifully packaged box of chocolates.

"It's my first time visiting your new home, I can't come empty-handed." Jiang Siya changed her shoes, putting on the blue slippers that Yang Zhiyan had prepared for her. They were from the same supermarket as the pink slippers Yang Zhiyan was wearing, and had the same price tag. "That would be too impolite."

She stopped in the entryway, her gaze sweeping from the living room to the kitchen, and from the kitchen to the balcony, her mouth slowly opening into an "O" shape.

"Holy crap, Zhiyan, your house is amazing!"

Jiang Siya's voice echoed in the living room, tinged with undisguised envy, "Three bedrooms and two living rooms? This location? How much do you pay for rent each month?"

"Three thousand five." Yang Zhiyan carried the fruit to the kitchen and glanced back at her.

"Three thousand five?!" Jiang Siya's voice rose another eight octaves, almost shaking the painting on the wall off.

"Are you kidding me? This house would start at least at eight thousand on the market. Is your landlord a philanthropist?"

Yang Zhiyan smiled but didn't explain.

She poured the cherries into the sink in the kitchen and turned on the tap to rinse them.

The water flowed gurglingly, and the cherries tumbled in it, their deep red skins glistening like glaze after being wet.

She popped a cherry into her mouth, took a bite, and the juice burst between her teeth—it was sweet.

"Not a philanthropist, but a very good grandmother," she said, her voice muffled by a cherry in her mouth.

Jiang Siya followed her into the kitchen, leaned against the door frame, crossed her arms, and glanced at her.

"You're so lucky," she said, then changed the subject curiously, "By the way, who lives across the hall from you?"