Jiang Hansheng pressed his lips together for a long moment before he spoke. “She… is very pitiful. She’s like my mother…”
Zhou Jin heard this and nearly combusted with frustration. “She was hitting you — you’re the one who’s pitiful. You should tell your father, and have her replaced!”
Another long silence. “Then… there would be no one at home.”
“…”
Zhou Jin’s brows — usually gently curved — were now knitted so tightly together they nearly met. After a long moment, she asked: “Would you be alone in the house? Are you afraid of the dark?”
Jiang Hansheng fell silent again.
“You can come to my house. My father is a police officer — he’s not afraid of any bad person. He can protect you.”
“…”
She turned a smile on Jiang Hansheng — bright and blazing, like sunlight. “Come on.”
Jiang Hansheng seemed to stall, bewildered. He still hadn’t moved a step. “I… don’t need to,” he said.
Zhou Jin grabbed hold of his wrist and pulled him toward her home with absolute resolve, talking as she walked: “Jiang Hansheng, trust me.”
“…”
Her palm was warm and slightly damp. The heat of it seeped through his skin. Jiang Hansheng felt something burn in his chest — burn, and burn.
“I’ll take you home.”
---
Though Zhou Jin had put on a display of tremendous courage in that moment, deep inside she had been terrified by what she witnessed. Not long afterward, she came down with a fever — on and off for a full week — and in the haze of illness, the memory of that day gradually faded away.
What remained was only a dim, half-formed impression: a woman who had not properly cared for Jiang Hansheng, and who had ultimately been arrested by Zhou Songyue. Even this much was tangled up with other recollections, all muddled together into an indistinct knot.
Zhou Jin chewed absently on her chopsticks, a dull, gloomy discomfort pressing at her chest. “I think something like that did happen…” she said finally.
The conversation soon drifted elsewhere.
During the meal, they also asked Jiang Hansheng about his work. Zhou Songyue — a seasoned police officer — and Jiang Hansheng — a professor who lectured in criminal investigation — had no shortage of things to discuss between them.
Jiang Hansheng didn’t say a great deal, but every word he did say was measured and thoughtful. By the time dinner was over, the two elder members of the Zhou household had grown steadily more fond of him with every passing moment.
After the meal, Lin Qiuyun washed dishes alongside Zhou Jin and took the opportunity to offer a quiet word of guidance: “Busy or not, a wedding ceremony is still something you ought to hold. Honestly, the way you are — you can’t always let Hansheng be the one making all the concessions.”
“We’ll wait until this period passes,” Zhou Jin replied lightly.
Lin Qiuyun’s hands stilled for a moment. She understood — Zhou Chuan’s anniversary was coming soon. After a long pause, she said quietly: “If your older brother were still here, he would have been so happy for you.”
That night, when it came time to rest, Jiang Hansheng stayed in Zhou Jin’s room.
Zhou Jin was busy laying out fresh sheets and bedding. Jiang Hansheng showered first, and came out changed into clean clothes.
His hair was still undried, droplets trailing from the ends, his eyes soft and dark from the steam — quiet and deeply black.
“Why haven’t you dried your hair?” Zhou Jin pulled a fresh towel from the shelf, draped it over his head, and — worried it might slip — gave his hair a couple of casual rubs herself. “I don’t know where the hair dryer ended up. Let me go find it.”
“Zhou Jin.”
He leaned in toward her. Zhou Jin felt the back of her knees meet the edge of the bed, and she lost her balance, sinking down onto it.
Jiang Hansheng didn’t stop. He bent forward and pressed his lips to hers. Water droplets from his still-damp hair trickled down into the hollow of Zhou Jin’s neck, cold enough to send a fine shiver through her.
He kissed her with slow, gentle thoroughness, until Zhou Jin’s hand drifted up to his shoulder, her fingers sliding into the damp tangle of his hair — and only then did he draw back.
The space between them was close but not quite touching. Zhou Jin let out a soft, quiet exhale. “I think I’ve just remembered something very unhappy,” she said.