Work Text:
March 2024
Jing Jing came home humming, tossing her purse onto the sofa and kicking off her shoes with the ease of someone who had finally settled into married life. The apartment smelled faintly of ginger and something simmering — Yu Tu was cooking again, which meant he was either relaxed or deeply stressed.
“Yu Tu, I’m home!”
He appeared from the doorway of their bedroom holding a folder so thick it could double as a weapon.
Jing Jing froze. “Oh no. Did a satellite explode?”
“No,” he said calmly. “I made something for us.”
That somehow sounded worse. She narrowed her eyes, then slowly lowered herself onto the sofa, bracing. “Should I be sitting for this?”
“Perhaps,” he said deadpan.
She sat straighter. “Is it a budget? A risk assessment? A PowerPoint?”
“No.”
He walked toward her with the solemnity of a man delivering classified documents. “It’s a calendar.”
She relaxed a little. “Oh! Like a vacation calendar? A date night calendar? A—”
“A Conception Possibility Calendar.” He said, perfectly flat.
Silence.
Jing Jing stared at him. He stared back, completely serious.
“A what?” Her eyes widened.
Only then did he open the folder. Inside was a meticulously printed, color‑coded, multi‑tabbed document that looked like it belonged in a national aerospace review meeting.
Jing Jing blinked. “Yu Tu … why is this calendar colored like a children’s picture book?”
“It’s not a picture book,” he said, already defensive. “It’s a conception probability map.”
He flipped to the first chart for 2024.
She leaned in, eyes narrowing at the rainbow of shading. “Why are August and October yellow?”
“If we conceive in August or October 2024, the baby would be born in mid‑2025,” he explained. “That’s before subsystem integration intensifies. I would still be able to take leave.”
She stared at him like he had grown a second head. Then she flipped to another year. “Why is January to March 2026 blocked in red?”
Yu Tu hesitated, not the crisp, calculated pause of an engineer choosing his words, but the kind that slipped out when something mattered too much. His fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the calendar, knuckles pale against the soft lamplight.
“Because a baby conceived then would be due in October to December 2026.”
Jing Jing’s brows lifted, her expression caught somewhere between curiosity and the faintest flicker of worry. “And?”
He exhaled, the sound quiet but weighted, like he was bracing himself for the part he didn’t want to say aloud. “And I will be traveling. Integration. High workload.” A beat, the kind that stretched, fragile and honest. “I might miss the birth.”
The words landed between them like something unexpectedly heavy. Jing Jing’s posture softened immediately. Her teasing energy faded, replaced by a gentler stillness.
She looked at him — really looked — at the tension in his shoulders, the way he wasn’t meeting her eyes now, as if the possibility alone was something he couldn’t bear to see reflected in her face. “Oh.”
It wasn’t just sympathy. It was understanding. And it made him finally lift his gaze to hers. He nodded quietly, the admission small but absolute. “I don’t want that.”
Something in her chest tightened, not with fear, but with the weight of how much he meant it. For a moment neither of them moved, the air between them warm and still, his worry laid bare and her heart softening around it.
Then, gently, she let out a breath and glanced back down at the binder, as if giving him a moment to recover from saying something so vulnerable. Her fingers slid to the next tab almost automatically, a small, grounding motion.
She flipped it open—and froze. The entire chart was practically red.
“Yu Tu … why does 2027 say ‘CRITICAL STAGE — DO NOT ATTEMPT’ from August onwards?”
Before he could answer, she flipped to 2028 and gasped. “Yu Tu … this critical stage continues throughout 2028?”
“We cannot risk conception during final launch preparation,” he said, tone matter‑of‑fact. “The final testing is set for August 5, 2028. I will not be able to leave until after the launch. So it is not ideal for you to be pregnant with our child during these months.”
She stared at him. He stared back. Then she burst out laughing so hard she nearly fell off the sofa.
“You made a hazard map for making a baby?”
“It’s not a hazard map,” he said stiffly. “It’s a probability analysis.”
She laughed even harder and flipped to the final page, which was all pink and green.
“If we aren’t able to start a family before the critical stage,” he said with a small, proud smirk, “the next projected optimal window will most likely be February 2029.”
She stared at him. “Yu Tu … I’ll be thirty‑eight.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“I’m perfectly fine with thirty‑eight,” he said. “Statistically, it’s still within a healthy age. And emotionally ..,” he gave her a small smile. “… I’d rather wait and be present than rush and be absent.”
Yu Tu hesitated for only a second before adding, with quiet sincerity, “And besides … your genetics are excellent.”
Jing Jing blinked. Then her lips curved — slow, warm, and unmistakably smug. “Of course,” she said, as if the conclusion were obvious to anyone with functioning eyesight.
Yu Tu stared at her, caught between amusement and regret. “That wasn’t an invitation for you to agree so quickly.”
She patted his cheek, eyes sparkling. “Yu Tu, darling, you can’t just hand me a compliment like that and expect me to pretend to be humble.”
His ears went pink. She looked absolutely delighted, the kind of delighted that made him instantly wary.
For a heartbeat, she just watched him, savoring the way he tried (and failed) to recover his composure. Then, with the graceful inevitability of a woman who had found her next target, she turned the calendar back toward herself.
“Alright, Chief Designer,” she said, tapping the corner of the page, she pointed at the legend. “Explain this part to me. Green is ideal. Yellow is possible. Orange is low probability. Red is—”
“Do not attempt!” He finished, resigned.
She stared at him. “What do you mean … do not attempt?”
A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “In the red zone,” he said carefully, “I would … keep all operations strictly contained.”
“You mean you will wear a condom?”
A faint choking sound escaped him, half cough and half disbelief. The smirk vanished instantly as his ears turned a deep, traitorous red. “Jing Jing,” he managed, voice cracking just slightly. He looked anywhere but at her. “That is … not the terminology I used.”
She blinked at him, wide‑eyed and innocent. “But that’s what you meant.”
He pressed a hand over his face, fingers sliding up to his temple as if he needed structural reinforcement to survive this conversation. “I meant …” He said tightly, “that I would take appropriate precautions.”
She leaned closer, eyes sparkling. “Which is the same thing.”
He exhaled through his nose, defeated, mortified, and hopelessly in love. “Please,” he muttered, “stop talking.”
“Why? You just color‑coded our sex life!”
Before he could protest again, Jing Jing snatched the calendar from his lap and began flipping through the pages with the speed of a woman searching for coupons. “Let me see—”
She turned one page. Then another. Then another. Her movements slowed. Her eyes widened. She gasped and slapped a hand over her mouth. “Yu Tu!”
He froze. “…What?”
“There are hardly any greens!” she whispered, scandalized. “This is—this is tragic.”
Yu Tu rubbed the bridge of his nose, wondering why he ever thought showing her this chart was a good idea. “It’s based on biological cycles and probability models,” he said tightly. “Not … preference.”
She flipped to another month, horrified. “February 2025 has one green day. One! And it’s not even on our first wedding anniversary.”
Yu Tu cleared his throat, sitting a little straighter — the way he always did when preparing to deliver a technical briefing. “That’s because,” he said carefully, “your ovulation window that month is unusually short.”
Jing Jing froze. “My what?”
He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, flustered but determined to be accurate. “Your ovulation window. I cross‑referenced your average cycle length with the projected stress periods in my mission schedule. At this time, February 2025 only aligns once.”
Her jaw dropped. “You— you mapped my ovulation?!”
His ears turned a deep, unmistakable red. “I needed accurate data,” he muttered. “Otherwise the probability model would be meaningless.”
She slapped a hand over her face. “Oh my god, Yu Tu. You made a fertility chart.”
“It’s a planning tool,” he said stiffly.
“For my uterus!”
He inhaled sharply, mortified. “Jing Jing, please—”
She flipped the page again, half hiding behind it. “I can’t believe you did this. You really do think too much. Just like you said, through an entire lifetime.”
He looked away, flustered and helpless. “When I said I’d thought things through back then … I meant for our whole life. So this is necessary for the calculations.”
She jabbed a finger at the page. “Do you know what this means?”
Yu Tu looked at her steadily, bracing himself. “… I’m afraid to ask.”
“It means …” She declared, “… that your mission schedule isn’t the only thing trying to stress me out.”
He let out a long, controlled breath and leaned back against the couch cushion, eyes lifting toward the ceiling as if appealing to a higher power. “Jing Jing,” he said, voice dry, “please try to understand the importance of this calendar. If I don’t plan properly … I won’t be able to do my job as the Chief Designer.”
She stared at him for a long moment, the calendar still open between them. Then her expression softened, the outrage melting into something warm, almost unbearably tender.
“Yu Tu …” She leaned in, her shoulder nudging his, voice gentler now. “I know how seriously you take your job. But the fact that you’re taking us just as seriously…” Her smile curved, soft and full of affection. “I want you to know that means more to me than any green day on this calendar.”
He blinked, caught off guard.
She closed the folder and rested it on his knee, her hand lingering on top of it, on top of his work, his logic, his careful hope.
“I understand,” she murmured. “And I love that you’re trying.”
His breath eased just a little. The tension in his shoulders loosening as her thumb brushed his knuckles.
Then her lips curved. Dangerously.
“But,” she added sweetly. “If you’re going to plan our entire reproductive destiny with color codes …” She tapped the closed folder with a single finger. “The least you could do is give me more than one green day in February. It’s our anniversary month.”
He stared at her, caught between relief and dread.
She leaned in, voice soft, affectionate, and absolutely wicked. “Otherwise, darling Chief Designer … your probability model is going to have a very unhappy end user.”
Jing Jing’s mock‑glare lingered on him, but the affection behind it was unmistakable.
Yu Tu straightened a little, the fluster fading just enough for him to reclaim a sliver of dignity. “It doesn’t mean we can’t be … you know … be close,” he said calmly. “Green days are ideal for conception. That’s all.”
She blinked. “So we can still—”
“Yes,” he said quickly, ears warming again. “Of course we can.”
He reached over and gently reopened the calendar, flipping back to February — not just the 2025 page she’d been lamenting about, but the February pages across the surrounding years. He tapped the clusters of soft pink shading around their anniversary.
“These,” he said, voice softening, “are the days I marked as guaranteed time together. No filming for you. No mission conflicts for me.”
Jing Jing stared at the pink blocks, entire weeks where he had carved out space for them.
Her voice dropped. “You planned all this?”
He nodded once, quietly. “I wanted us to have time. Real time. Even if the green days don’t line up … we still have this.”
Then, because he couldn’t help himself, a faint smirk tugged at his mouth.
“And,” he added dryly, “pink days have no restrictions. None at all.”
Her jaw dropped again. This time, she was smiling at him with that warm, teasing smile that always unraveled him.
When he gently closed the calendar again, his hand resting over hers. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then his voice dropped, softer than before. “Jing Jing … I didn’t do all this because I’m obsessed with planning.”
She blinked, surprised by the shift in his tone.
He looked down at the closed calendar, thumb brushing the edge of the cover. “I did it because I don’t want our life together to be an afterthought. Not squeezed between launches or filming or deadlines.”
Her breath caught.
When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, not embarrassed, but honest. “Jing Jing … there’s another reason I planned all this.”
She looked up at him, sensing the shift.
He drew in a slow breath. “I don’t want you to go through pregnancy alone.”
Her eyes softened instantly.
He kept going, the words coming out low and steady, like he’d rehearsed them in his head a hundred times but never dared to say them aloud. “I don’t want to miss the birth of our children. I don’t want to be halfway across the country, or stuck in a clean room, or in the middle of a launch window while you are … doing all of that without me.”
Jing Jing’s breath caught.
He glanced at the calendar again, then back at her. “This mission is important. But you—” His voice wavered, just barely. “You’re my family. And I don’t ever want to be in a position where I have to choose between the two.”
She reached for his hand, fingers threading through his.
He exhaled, the tension easing from his shoulders. “So I planned,” he said softly. “Because for the next five years … this is the only way I know how to make sure I can be there. For you. For our future. For everything.”
Her thumb brushed his knuckles, tender and full of love. “Yu Tu,” she whispered, “you’re already there.”
She squeezed his hand, her thumb brushing over his knuckles — slow, tender, and full of understanding. For a moment, she just looked at him, eyes shining with something soft and steady. Then her lips curved.
“Yu Tu …” she murmured, leaning in just a little, “you could’ve just told me you wanted to be a good dad.”
His breath caught — because she said it so simply, so easily, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
She nudged his shoulder with hers, voice warm and teasing. “You didn’t have to build a five‑year strategic plan worthy of a national project.”
A tiny huff of laughter escaped him — helpless, flustered, and completely undone.
She smiled wider, softer. “But … it’s very you. And I love you for it. Thank you for doing this. I will make sure Ling Jie plan my schedule according to this as well.”
He held her close for a long moment, his breath warm against her hair. When he finally spoke again, his voice was even softer — the kind of softness he only ever used with her.
“There’s something else,” he murmured.
Jing Jing shifted slightly, just enough to look up at him.
He hesitated, then said quietly, “I remember Director Hu’s wife saying her husband hardly had time for their family, how he almost missed the birth of their child.”
Jing Jing’s expression softened instantly.
Yu Tu’s hand tightened gently at her waist. “I’ve seen that happen more than once. Missions don’t wait. Launch windows don’t wait. And the people who love us … they end up carrying the cost.”
He swallowed, the memory of Guan Zai flickering across his face. The quiet regret, the years of absence, and the sacrifices no one outside the field ever truly understood.
“I don’t want that for us,” he said. “I don’t want to look back and realize I missed something I can never get back. Not the pregnancy. Not the birth. Not the first moments of our children’s lives.”
Jing Jing’s eyes softened, her hand sliding up to cup his cheek.
He leaned into her touch, voice barely above a whisper now. “I don’t want to have the same regrets as Guan Zai, or Director Hu. Or any of the families who had to sacrifice because of this work.”
His thumb brushed her waist, slow and deliberate. “So I planned. Because this is the only way I know to make sure I don’t have to choose between the mission … and our family … and you.”
Her breath trembled, not from sadness, but from the weight of how deeply he meant it.
She pressed her forehead to his, her voice warm and full of love. “Yu Tu … you won’t have to choose. Not with me.”
Yu Tu’s arms were still around her, his forehead resting lightly against hers, the weight of his confession settling between them in something soft and steady.
Jing Jing breathed in the warmth, the sincerity, and the quiet strength of a man who planned five years ahead just to make sure he never missed a moment with her.
Her fingers curled at his collar. “Yu Tu …” she whispered, “thank you.”
He exhaled, a small, relieved sound, and tightened his hold just a little as if anchoring himself to her. For a moment, everything was still.
Then Jing Jing’s gaze drifted down to the calendar resting on his knee. A dangerous curiosity sparked.
“Okay,” she murmured, gently slipping out of his arms, “but now I need to see what you did to September and December.”
Before he could stop her, she flipped the pages. Then a gasp so loud he nearly jolted upright.
“YU TU!”
He blinked, startled. “What?”
She jabbed the page with an accusatory finger. “September has one green day. ONE. And it’s not even on your birthday. Not even close!”
Yu Tu inhaled slowly, summoning the patience of a man who had survived launch delays, system failures, and now … birthday outrage.
“Jing Jing,” he said, voice dry, “my birthday is not biologically relevant to conception probability.”
She stared at him, scandalized. “It’s emotionally relevant!”
He opened his mouth to respond, but she was already flipping to December. Her birthday.
Another gasp. Even louder. “YU TU, EXPLAIN THIS!”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Explain what?”
She shoved the calendar toward him. “December has ZERO green days. Zero! Not even a sympathy green!”
Yu Tu exhaled, long and controlled. “December is a high‑intensity mission month. Launch prep. System checks. I can’t—”
She cut him off, horrified. “So you’re telling me that on my birthday, the universe AND your mission schedule have conspired to make sure we have absolutely no chance of conceiving anything except stress?”
He stared at her, deadpan. “Pink days still exist.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Yu Tu … are you telling me my birthday is a pink‑day‑only zone?”
He hesitated. A fatal mistake.
Jing Jing’s jaw dropped. “Oh my. It IS.”
He sighed, deeply, lovingly, and hopelessly. “Jing Jing … please stop evaluating our future children based on color coding.”
She crossed her arms, dramatic and adorable. “Then stop giving me tragic birthday months!”
Yu Tu watched her fume over the tragic state of September and December, her finger still stabbing at the calendar like it had personally betrayed both of their birthdays.
Before she could flip to yet another year, he reached out and gently caught her wrist. “Jing Jing,” he murmured.
She turned, still mid‑indignation — and he pulled her back into his arms with a soft, steady certainty that made her breath hitch. His chin brushed her hair as he held her close, the earlier warmth returning like a tide. “Birthdays don’t need green days,” he said quietly. “They just need you and me. Together.”
Her shoulders relaxed against him, the tension melting away as his arms wrapped around her — warm, protective, and grounding. For a moment, she simply breathed him in.
Then, because she was Jing Jing … her lips curved. Dangerously. She tipped her head back to look at him, eyes sparkling with mischief. She leaned in and kissed him.
“Yu Tu?”
“Yes?”
She stared at him. Then she let out a long, dramatic sigh and closed the folder.
“You know the saying …” she said, one eyebrow lifting. “Men can plan all they want … but in the end, Heaven decides the final path.”
Yu Tu blinked, caught between offense and resignation. “Heaven,” he repeated slowly, “also expects a man to do his part.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Is that your official stance?”
He nodded, completely serious. “God helps those who help themselves.”
Jing Jing looked at him for a long moment, then burst into a mischievous grin. “Can we burn the calendar?”
Yu Tu went completely still, as if pretending he hadn’t heard her might somehow erase the question from existence. He looked away, adjusted the folder, and straightened a page that didn’t need straightening … anything except acknowledging her suggestion.
Finally, with the weary resignation of a man who knew he was defeated before he even began, he said, “I made a digital backup and will send an updated version to your phone every month. As you know, your ovulation window might shift at any given time.”
“Yu Tu!” She gave him a shove — not hard, but full of scandalized outrage.
He caught himself, then smiled — that small, rare curve of his lips that only she ever got to see, the one that softened everything about him.
And she laughed, pulling him close, grateful for this strange, brilliant man who planned spacecraft trajectories and family futures with the same earnest devotion.
And the folder — the infamous, multi‑tabbed, color‑coded masterpiece — sat quietly on the table between them, untouched but no longer quite so terrifying. Because now she knew the truth behind it. And he knew she understood.
Which made everything perfectly fine on their first‑month wedding anniversary, one of those pink days he had so carefully set aside just for them. He glanced at the calendar, then at her, his voice low but certain. “Pink days are meant to be kept.”
She nudged his shoulder, smiling. “Good. Because I’m holding you to every single one of them.”