Work Text:
It was early evening on May 31st when the news broke — not through a televised speech, not through a dramatic broadcast, but the way most things arrived in 2021 — quietly, suddenly, through a phone screen.
Shanghai felt like it was finally exhaling after weeks of rain. Jing Jing had curled sideways on Yu Tu’s sofa, hair still damp from her shower, wearing one of his old T‑shirts that hung soft and loose on her frame.
Yu Tu pretended not to notice how his heart kept tripping over itself. He sat at his desk with his laptop open, reviewing a simulation for the third time, the apartment filled with the steady hum of the air conditioner pushing back the late‑May humidity.
Then she made a small sound — a surprised inhale, barely audible.
Yu Tu looked up. “What happened?”
She turned her phone toward him. “Xinhua just posted it. The Politburo approved a three‑child policy. Today. Just now.”
He blinked, absorbing the headline. “The Politburo meeting was today?”
“Mm. Chaired by Xi Jinping, apparently. Everyone’s reposting it.”
He came over and sat down beside her to read the announcement on her screen. He reached for her tablet — or meant to — but his fingers closed around her hand instead, warm and sure.
He didn’t pull back.
For a moment, he simply held her there, thumb brushing lightly against her knuckles as if confirming she was real, here, close enough to touch without hesitation. Only then did he shift his hand, guiding hers along with it as he angled the tablet toward them both.
The palm of his hand stayed against hers, steady and familiar, and she pretended not to notice the warmth that bloomed there — the kind that had nothing to do with the surprise change of policy anymore, and everything to do with him.
“That’s … a major shift,” he murmured.
His tone was neutral but the faintest pink crept up the curve of his ears. Not because the topic embarrassed him; he’d spoken about Yu Xiao Qiao before, even joked about letting her genes be influenced by his. But that had been over a video call, buffered by distance and pixels.
This was different.
She was here. On his sofa. In his T‑shirt. Looking at him like she could see the thoughts forming behind his eyes.
He hoped she wouldn’t notice the way his breath hitched, the way his composure wavered for a heartbeat.
However, she saw it instantly — the way he froze, eyes flicking away, ears turning pink. “You’re blushing,” she teased, delighted.
“I’m not,” he said — absolutely blushing.
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing with playful precision. “You know,” she said, “you were much braver talking about children when we were on video call.”
Yu Tu went very still. “That was different,” he said carefully.
“How?” she asked, leaning in, enjoying this far too much.
He cleared his throat, the tiniest, most dignified attempt at recovery. “There was … distance.”
She grinned. “Ah. So you can talk about influencing my genes when I’m on a screen, but not when I’m sitting right here?”
For a split second, he forgot how to breathe. She remembered that?
His ears betrayed him again, turning a shade pinker.
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s exactly what you said,” she countered, delighted.
He looked away, trying to regain composure, but the corner of his mouth curved despite himself.
“It’s easier to be rational,” he murmured, “when you’re not wearing my T‑shirt.”
Her smile faltered for half a second — not from embarrassment, but from the sudden, quiet weight of the moment. Because that was the truth. He wasn’t flustered by the topic. He was flustered by her.
Jing Jing immediately pretended she wasn’t affected.
She picked up her phone again, scrolling with exaggerated nonchalance. “Anyway, it’s just a policy. Everyone’s talking about it. Nothing to get worked up about.”
Her voice was steady. But this time, her cheeks were turning a little pinkish.
Yu Tu noticed. Of course he noticed.
And for once, he didn’t try to hide the small smile tugging at his mouth.
He leaned back against the sofa, arms folding loosely, posture relaxed in that way he only ever was around her. “Mm,” he said, tone mild. “You seem very calm.”
“I am always calm,” she said too quickly.
“Of course.”
She shot him a look — sharp, defensive, adorable — and he had to glance away for a moment because the warmth in his chest was becoming embarrassingly obvious.
Yu Tu didn’t push. He didn’t tease. He just let the silence settle, warm and steady, enjoying the rare sight of her pretending not to be undone by him.
Because the truth was … he had thought about it. Not three children, nothing that specific — just the idea of a future with her. A quiet, steady one. The kind that didn’t scare him.
But they’d only been dating for three months. Three months. He had no business thinking that far ahead.
Still, something slipped out before he could stop it.
“I mean … if someone wanted three children …” He cleared his throat. “It’s not unreasonable.”
Jing Jing blinked at him. Then her lips curved, slow and bright, like sunrise breaking through clouds. “Oh?” she said. “So you’ve thought about this?”
He spoke up a little too quickly. “I was speaking hypothetically.”
“Hypothetically,” she echoed, leaning back against the sofa, eyes sparkling. “And in this hypothetical world, how many children does Teacher Yu want?”
He swallowed.
“… One,” he said. Then, quieter. “Maybe two.”
She grinned. “Not three?”
He hesitated — and she saw it. That tiny flicker of something tender, something hopeful, and something he wasn’t ready to name.
“Three is … a lot,” he said finally.
“But not impossible, right?” she teased.
He met her eyes then, and something warm settled between them, soft and steady.
“Not impossible,” he said.
He didn’t look away, didn’t laugh it off. He just looked at her, like the idea had landed somewhere deeper than either of them intended.
Finally, he cleared his throat. “One child is already … a lot of responsibility.”
“And three?”
He exhaled, a tiny huff of disbelief. “That’s … ambitious.”
Her smile widened, slow and knowing. “You come across as the ambitious type.”
Yu Tu froze for half a second. It wasn’t because of the words, but because of the way she said them. Warm. Certain. Like she saw something in him he hadn’t meant to reveal.
His ears went pink again.
“Only academically,” he said, too quickly.
She narrowed her eyes at him, unconvinced. “Mm. Sure. If you say so.”
She made a show of shrugging, casual, dismissive, the kind of performance she put on when she wanted him to think she wasn’t affected. But then she leaned in, slow and deliberate, her breath brushing the shell of his ear.
“I do like ambitious men,” she whispered.
Yu Tu went absolutely still.
He swallowed, because she was looking at him like she could see the future he wasn’t ready to admit he wanted. Mainly a future with her in it — maybe a child someday, maybe even three — but he couldn’t let himself think that far ahead. Not yet. Not when wanting it felt too big, too soon.
And wanting even that much already felt ambitious enough.
He didn’t say anything to her remark. He just sat there, shoulder touching hers, and his hand found hers without thinking — like his body trusted her before his mind caught up.
Outside, Shanghai kept moving. Inside, something small and warm settled between them. It wasn’t a plan, it wasn’t a promise — just the quiet wonder of imagining a future neither of them dared to name yet.
And for a moment, the hum of the air conditioner, the glow of her phone screen, the warmth of his hand in hers … all of it felt like the beginning of something steady and real.
🌙 Years Later
(post‑marriage, already parents)
The house was finally quiet.
Jing Jing closed the nursery door with the gentlest click and let her shoulders sag. Her hair was coming loose from the clip, strands sticking to her neck from the lingering humidity. A tiny sticker shaped like a bunny was stuck to her sleeve, placed there by her toddler hours ago. She hadn’t noticed, or maybe she just didn’t have the heart to remove it. Her arms still ached from rocking the baby for what felt like half the night. Her voice was hoarse from lullabies, her feet were sore, and most imminent of all was the sharp, familiar ache in her lower back — the one that always flared when she’d been carrying too many children for too many hours.
She pressed a hand to the small of her back and groaned softly as she entered the family room.
“Three children,” she muttered. “Yu Tu, how could you let this happen?”
Yu Tu looked up from the sofa, where he was tucking a blanket around their eldest. He shifted carefully so he wouldn’t wake the sleeping starfish on his lap.
“Let this happen?” he echoed, voice low with laughter. “You’re the one who said you liked ambitious men.”
She groaned into her hands.
He reached out his arm. “Come here,” he murmured. “Blame me later. Let me fix your back first.”
She crossed the room and dropped beside him, her shoulder brushing his. “I said it years ago, when we were barely dating. When you still got nervous holding my hand.”
He gave her a look, the quiet, amused one. “I wasn’t nervous.”
“You were,” she said, poking his arm. “You blushed when I mentioned children.”
He didn’t deny it. Instead, he let his gaze drift toward the hallway where the nursery light glowed faintly.
“I remember,” he said softly. “You showed me the news article. Three‑child policy. May 2021.”
She smiled. “You said three was ambitious.”
“It is ambitious,” he said.
She narrowed her eyes. “And whose idea was our third one again?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Yours. You said you missed having a baby around.”
“That was one time,” she muttered. She lifted her index finger. “One time.” Then she jabbed it in his direction with all the authority she could muster on four hours of sleep.
“And I listened,” he said, entirely too pleased with himself.
“Don’t you start,” she warned. “I am one back spasm away from filing a formal complaint.”
Yu Tu’s smile softened, the smugness melting into something warm and unbearably fond. He caught her raised finger gently, lowering it before she could poke him again.
“You can file it,” he murmured. “With me.”
She tried to glare. But failed. Her shoulders sagged, and she leaned into him instead.
Only then did she notice their toddler — fast asleep on the rug, curled around her stuffed bunny like a miniature tornado that had finally run out of wind. One sock was missing. Her hair was sticking up in three directions. She looked exactly like someone who had fought bedtime and lost spectacularly.
Jing Jing sighed. “Why is she like this?”
Yu Tu followed her gaze, his smile turning soft and unbearably warm.
“Genetics,” he said.
She lifted her head just enough to squint at him. “Mine or yours.”
“Yours,” he replied, without hesitation.
She jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow — gently, because she was too tired for anything else — and he only laughed under his breath, the sound low and fond.
For a moment, the apartment was quiet, the kind of quiet that only arrived after three children finally surrendered to sleep. The hum of the air conditioner. The soft breathing of their eldest on Yu Tu’s lap. The faint glow from the nursery down the hall.
Jing Jing let out a long, tired breath, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Ambitious.”
Yu Tu’s hand tightened around hers — gentle, steady, the same way he’d held it years ago when he’d blushed at the idea of one child, let alone three.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. With his arm, he rubbed slow circles along her back, soothing her the way he always did when the day had been long and the house finally, blessedly, quiet.