Hey, stop kissing.

At dawn, Ming Shuzhen was still fast asleep.

Ming Shuyan didn’t go to the Book House either. She removed the fever patch from Ming Shuzhen’s forehead, set aside work, and sat on her bed, gazing distantly at the sleeping figure, lost in thought.

The previous day, she’d scrolled through Ming Shuzhen’s Moments, carefully reading each post and saving some pretty photos.

Now, clear-headed, she deleted the saved photos one by one.

The last was Ming Shuzhen in a school uniform, marching in formation, so youthful that Ming Shuyan’s finger hovered over the delete button but ultimately spared it.

The room’s curtains were drawn tight, letting in little light, making it stuffy.

Ming Shuyan sighed softly, feeling almost bewitched and in need of a reset.

Near noon, Ming Shuzhen finally woke.

Ming Shuyan had changed out of her robe, washed up, and was working on the sofa.

Ming Shuzhen’s eyes were swollen, barely opening as she scanned the room.

“Boss?” Her voice sounded like it had been licked by a cow.

“Awake?” Ming Shuyan rose from the sofa immediately.

Approaching, she noticed Ming Shuzhen’s severely swollen eyes and grew concerned. “Water retention? Feeling nauseous?”

Ming Shuzhen shook her head, but the motion brought dizziness.

“Drink some water first.” Ming Shuyan handed her the bedside cup. “Want food? I’ll have it sent up.”

Ming Shuzhen, avoiding big movements, just hummed.

The warm water soothed her throat, clearing her head a bit.

“Boss, you don’t need to stay with me. Doesn’t the Book House need you?” She cleared her throat, but her voice remained bovine.

“I don’t do inspections, just manage. Doesn’t matter if I’m there,” Ming Shuyan said calmly.

She picked up the wall phone, called the front desk, and ordered light lunch.

Ming Shuzhen had no appetite but didn’t want to hold back the team. Eating might help her recover enough to go to the Book House.

Reading her thoughts, Ming Shuyan ordered, “Stay in the hotel today. Think about other stuff when you’re better tomorrow.”

Ming Shuzhen felt guilty, wasting a workday while colleagues waited on her progress.

But she didn’t argue, not wanting her boss to think her fussy.

“Want to wash up? Food’s coming soon,” Ming Shuyan said, her voice softening at Ming Shuzhen’s pale face.

“Mm.” Ming Shuzhen struggled out of bed and went to the bathroom.

Facing the mirror, she jumped at her reflection.

“My gosh, my eyes are *this* swollen? No wonder my lids felt heavy.” She mused, “I was talking to Boss like *this*? She must’ve been scared. I look like a pig head. She probably thinks I’m hideous QAQ.”

Splashing water on her face did nothing for the swelling.

She lingered, inspecting her reflection, reluctant to leave.

“Is this ‘prettying up for someone’? Why care about Boss’s opinion? If anyone else saw my pig face, I wouldn’t care this much,” she pondered, analyzing herself.

“Wait, what am I saying? I don’t have *those* feelings for Boss. We’re both women. Little Shuzhen, what are you doing? Don’t let your heart flutter!”

Silently screaming at the mirror, she convinced herself her feelings were pure admiration, nothing more, before leaving.

The front desk had delivered food. Ming Shuyan set it on the coffee table by the double sofa, looking up curiously as Ming Shuzhen emerged.

She wondered why it took so long. “Eat.”

“…Oh.” Ming Shuzhen felt inexplicably guilty, crouching shakily by the sofa.

“Sit on the sofa. That’s uncomfortable, squashing your stomach,” Ming Shuyan glanced at her.

“Uh.” Ming Shuzhen wanted to refuse, but her inner voice mocked: *Sitting with a friend is hard? Got a guilty conscience, Little Shuzhen?*

Denying any such thing, she shot up, sitting beside Ming Shuyan.

Her big reaction baffled Ming Shuyan, who gave her a deep look.

“Eat,” she said.

“Oh.” Ming Shuzhen grabbed chopsticks, stirred her porridge, and took a big gulp.

Thinking she was hungry, Ming Shuyan placed blood-nourishing pork liver on her small plate.

Ming Shuzhen, knowing it was guilt, stuffed her mouth to avoid talking.

*Heh, eat, eat, eat—no need to find topics,* she thought, cheering herself.

Seeing her appetite, Ming Shuyan let her eat in silence.

The room filled with the aroma of food, quiet except for their chewing.

After eating, Ming Shuzhen, not wanting to lie down, turned on the TV, idly flipping channels.

Zhong Shuo, inexplicably up at noon, messaged her, gloating.

“Sisters’ little emoji,” she sent with a smug face.

“Sun’s halfway done, and you’re just up,” Ming Shuzhen typed, ears catching the TV’s background music.

She’d randomly picked a modern urban romance drama, not her type—she disliked sappy male-female pairings—but the music was nice, and no better shows were on.

“Cold better?” Zhong Shuo asked.

“Yup, much better.” Just her eyes swollen to slits, hiding her pig face from Boss.

On impulse, Ming Shuzhen snapped a selfie, face close-up.

“Am I a pig head?” she sent Zhong Shuo.

“Yup,” Zhong Shuo replied bluntly.

“…” Ming Shuzhen sent a “crying collapse” emoji.

Glancing at Ming Shuyan, focused on her iPad, she relaxed slightly.

“No big deal. Swelling might go down tomorrow,” Zhong Shuo comforted.

“But I’m so ugly now,” Ming Shuzhen whined, feeling her eyelids heavier.

“You’re not ugly. Our Pillow is the prettiest.”

“Don’t want Boss to see me like this,” she confessed to Zhong Shuo.

“Uh.” Zhong Shuo sent a “something’s off” emoji. “I can see, but you shove your face at me?”

Ming Shuzhen laughed, retorting, “You can see—you won’t judge me.”

“Why worry about your boss judging? Who is she? Does her opinion matter?” Zhong Shuo hit the mark.

Ming Shuzhen blinked, her puffy eyelids straining.

“Not important,” she replied quickly, heart pounding.

Right, it didn’t matter. She didn’t care, absolutely not.

Brainwashing herself, she kept typing to Zhong Shuo, distracting herself.

The TV’s beautiful melody played again. Ming Shuzhen glanced up.

The leads were kissing.

Startled, she ducked her head.

No blushing or racing heart, but her cells seemed to orient toward Ming Shuyan.

Was she watching? Did she see the kiss?

Luckily, Ming Shuyan was engrossed in work, not distracted. Ming Shuzhen sighed in relief.

“Pillow?” Just as she praised Ming Shuyan’s focus, her boss stopped working.

“Huh?” Caught off guard, Ming Shuzhen’s voice trembled, still bovine.

*So embarrassing,* she cried inwardly.

But Ming Shuyan’s expression showed no concern for her odd voice.

“The issue you found—was it XPS board cracking?” she asked seriously.

“Yup.” Work talk calmed Ming Shuzhen’s racing heart.

The TV music continued; glancing over, the leads were still kissing.

*Geez, still going? Talk about dragging it out.*

She wouldn’t have cared, but her glance drew Ming Shuyan’s eyes to the TV, where the director zoomed in on the kissing lips.

“Cough.” Ming Shuzhen wasn’t sure if she was embarrassed for herself or the characters.

She turned away, seeing Zhong Shuo’s new message, and furiously typed, feigning busyness.

Ming Shuyan watched her briefly before looking back.

XPS boards were costly. Minor cracks could be fixed with sealant or mortar; severe ones needed replacement.

As a government-backed project, funds weren’t an issue. Ming Shuyan worried Xu Bao might resist.

Liu Wenjing had mentioned that, due to the project’s profitability, some inspection and construction firms colluded, flagging fake issues, delaying progress, and costing Xu Bao two awards.

If they reported Book House issues now, Xu Bao might think Red Brick was pulling the same trick.

To avoid resistance, Ming Shuyan messaged Liu Wenjing, explaining XPS board brittleness and cracking tendencies.

Red Brick’s reputation meant they wouldn’t stoop to petty schemes for small gains.

—

The next day at the Book House.

Xinjiang and Baota came alone to read, thrilling Liu Wenjing, who messaged Song Jin to encourage this in class.

Ming Shuzhen and Ming Shuyan, absent yesterday, missed Xinjiang and Baota’s mud-dyeing creations.

Seeing several white cotton cloths with messy mud patterns on the reading room wall, Ming Shuzhen found them odd.

Likely a child’s work, the effect was hard to describe—like mud slapped on and rained over, staining the fabric.

Despite Liu Wenjing and Song Jin’s promotion, few kids came for mud dyeing or reading. The few wall pieces, frankly ugly, gave the room an eerie vibe.

Staring at the mud-dyed works, Ming Shuzhen grabbed a pink shaped sticky note, drew a thumbs-up, and stood on a stool to stick it beside one.

“Encourage student agency…” she recalled teaching techniques.

Reading couldn’t be rushed. These kids weren’t uninterested—just needed to adjust to the Book House, get familiar, and see it as a comfy space.

The wall had only a few ugly pieces now, but who knew? Maybe soon it’d be too full, kids’ works crowded together.

Maybe not just mud dyeing—crayon drawings, pencil sketches, doodles, poems, or essays could go up.

Inspired, Ming Shuzhen grabbed a larger sticky note, neatly writing her idea: kids could hang any creations they wanted to share—stickers, scissors, markers available on the table.

Pasting it prominently, she snapped a wide-angle photo of the wall.

Initially, she’d thought Ming Shuyan’s idea to post Xinjiang’s poems for charity PR was capitalistic. Now, she wanted this wall on the public account too. As works accumulated, photos would look richer.

Recalling Liu Wenjing saying most kids were left-behind, with parents working elsewhere, she thought parents seeing their kids’ works online would be touching.

Sending the photo to Ming Shuyan to share her idea, Ming Shuyan approached.

“Cold better?”

“Yup.” She could breathe.

Ming Shuzhen waved her phone. “Boss, see the photo I sent?”

Ming Shuyan shook her head—she hadn’t checked.

“Here’s my idea…” Ming Shuzhen explained.

“Boss, think I’m meddling?” Worried by Ming Shuyan’s silence, she assured, “I won’t let it affect work. Just checking the wall, sticking notes in spare time.”

Ming Shuyan considered saying it was too much hassle but didn’t want another argument or to hear Ming Shuzhen call her cold.

“Your cold’s not fully gone. Got energy for this?” she asked.

“Yup,” Ming Shuzhen said, puzzled. “It’s not much effort—just needs Liu and Song to promote in class.”

“Mm…” Ming Shuyan had no reason to refuse.

Noticing sticky notes from their stationery store trip, she grabbed one, drawing a cartoon dog.

Simple black pen lines formed a vivid, charming dog.

“So cute,” Ming Shuzhen whispered, watching her finish.

Ming Shuyan smiled, unsure how much was genuine praise versus flattery.

Without a stool, she raised her arm, sticking the note beside Ming Shuzhen’s.

“Wonder if kids will add more.”

“Probably,” Ming Shuzhen said, eyeing the paired notes. “Herd mentality—more notes up, more they’ll want to add.”

“Mm.” Ming Shuyan took another note, writing “Good Reading” in bold, sticking it up.

Ming Shuzhen, watching, found her boss both serious and childlike—staid “Good Reading” versus playful dog.

“Boss, you’re amazing,” she said, now comfortable enough to speak freely.

“Hm?” Ming Shuyan raised a brow, unsure if it was praise or subtle shade.

“Just…” Ming Shuzhen struggled. “You’re different from anyone I know.”

Among friends, Zhong Shuo drew cartoon dogs, Zhang Baobao wrote “Good Reading.” Only Ming Shuyan blended both.

“How so?” At a bidding meeting, Ming Shuyan would’ve thought this employee needed a performance review for rambling. But with Ming Shuzhen, outside work, she was patient.

“I think…” Ming Shuzhen hesitated, “you’re charismatic.”

Not friend-admiration charisma…

“Oh.” Ming Shuyan stifled a laugh.

Though attractive and capable, it was her first time hearing such blunt praise.

She felt delighted.

—

Xinjiang and Baota, in another reading area, stayed quietly before heading home for lunch.

Leaving, they spotted Ming Shuzhen and Ming Shuyan.

Xinjiang greeted first, “Hello, sister.”

Her crisp voice, intentionally soft, sounded like porcelain cracking.

“Hey,” Ming Shuzhen replied. “Heading out?”

“Yup, home for lunch,” Xinjiang answered.

Baota, silent but less tense than last time, seemed more at ease, less shy.

“Oh,” Ming Shuzhen nodded. “Grandma cooking?”

“Yup,” Xinjiang grinned. “Want to come? Grandma’s food is yummy.”

“Haha, no thanks,” Ming Shuzhen felt shy.

“It’s fine! Grandma loves guests. Says her food’s better than restaurants but gets no customers,” Xinjiang said eloquently.

“Mm…” Seeing Xinjiang’s sincerity, Ming Shuzhen glanced at Ming Shuyan.

Ming Shuyan caught her drift. “Why not go?”

Liu Wenjing often dined at villagers’ homes, so it wouldn’t be too abrupt.

“Yay!” Xinjiang cheered, then hushed herself for being loud.

“Sister Shuzhen, I told Grandma about you—you bought my poems.”

“Oh?” Ming Shuzhen was surprised. “You know my name?”

“Yup,” Xinjiang nodded. “Sisters Shuzhen, Shuyan, Teacher Qian Duoduo, Sister Haohao.”

“Pfft,” Ming Shuzhen laughed. “Why’s Qian Duoduo a teacher?”

“She told us to call her that. She taught us mud dyeing and hung our cloths,” Xinjiang said, leading them to the wall.

“This is mine. This is Princess Pineapple—she wears a green dress, but there’s no green mud. This is Baota’s, Princess Pea, with a long braid.”

Ming Shuzhen followed, eyeing the works she’d earlier dismissed. The long mud streak was Princess Pea; the upside-down umbrella was Princess Pineapple?

Suppressing judgment, she said, “Pretty good, pretty good.”

“Hey, new papers!” Xinjiang’s sharp eyes spotted the sticky notes.

“These are sticky notes. You can write or draw anything and stick them up,” Ming Shuzhen explained, eyes hopeful.

“Mm… next time,” Xinjiang said, eager for lunch.

“Come on, do it now. You’d be the first kids to stick something here,” Ming Shuzhen urged.

“Someone already did—we’re not first,” Xinjiang pointed out cleverly.

“That’s me and Sister Shuyan’s—not the same.”

“Oh…” Xinjiang glanced at Baota. “Fine, I’ll write a poem.”

“Haha, thanks for the poem, Xinjiang!” Ming Shuzhen beamed.

Hearing “Sister Shuyan,” Ming Shuyan felt a tickle, like a kitten scratching her heart.

Xinjiang wrote earnestly, her childish script sincere.

“Done.”

“I’ll stick it up,” Ming Shuzhen volunteered.

“Let Baota draw a tiger,” Xinjiang handed her a sharpened pencil.

Baota, with her own idea, took a green marker, sketching a chubby tiger head in the note’s blank space, festive and cute.

“Wow,” Ming Shuzhen cheered enthusiastically.

Sticking it on the wall, she admired, “Great writing, great drawing.”

Used to praise for her poems, Xinjiang was unfazed; Baota, indifferent to opinions, stayed calm.

“Let’s go,” Xinjiang urged.

“Go!” Ming Shuzhen followed the girls. “Lead the way.”

From the Book House to Xinjiang’s home, they passed a vegetable field.

Unsure what was planted, the cold left no green leaves.

Withered, spiky grass grew among the plots. Ming Shuzhen stepped carefully.

“That’s dogtooth grass—safe to step on,” Xinjiang said, seeing her caution. “The more you step, the better it grows.”

“You know so much,” Ming Shuzhen said, walking normally.

“Grandma told me.”

“Wow, your grandma’s amazing.”

“Yup.” Xinjiang ignored praise for her poems but beamed when her grandma was praised.