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The house felt strangely hollow after the parents left, as if the walls themselves were adjusting to the sudden quiet. For the first time in nearly two months, there were no footsteps in the hallway, no voices drifting from the kitchen, no one fussing over whether Jing Jing had eaten enough or whether Xiao Ci’s socks were on straight.
Just the three of them. Finally.
Yu Tianci slept in the bassinet beside the sofa, wrapped in a soft blanket, his tiny breaths rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Jing Jing watched him for a long moment, her expression softening in that way it always did when she looked at their son. Then she leaned back against the cushions, pulling the throw blanket up to her chin.
Yu Tu came into their bedroom with a mug of warm water—because he still insisted on it, even though she had argued for iced peach tea at least five times that day. It wasn’t that she wanted something cold in the middle of December; it was that her postpartum cravings had become unpredictable again. Some days she wanted nothing but broth. Other days she wanted fruit, or something sour, or something sweet. And sometimes—like today—her body demanded something cold and refreshing, as if trying to balance out all the ginger soups and “heaty” foods her mother had been feeding her for weeks.
“Warm water is better for you,” Yu Tu said, setting the mug on the coffee table.
“I know,” she sighed, rubbing at her temple like she was negotiating with her own body. “But my hormones don’t care.”
He sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched, and she leaned into him with a small, tired huff. “I want iced peach tea,” she muttered, as if confessing a secret.
Yu Tu’s lips twitched. “Your cravings are getting creative again.”
“That’s because my body is confused,” she said. “It’s still adjusting, breastfeeding, and trying to remember who I am all at once.”
He didn’t argue. He just stayed close, warm and steady beside her, while Xiao Ci slept in the bassinet at his feet. After a moment, Yu Tu nudged the mug of warm water a little closer — not insisting, just offering. Jing Jing eyed it with a resigned little huff, then pushed herself forward enough to reach for it. She curled her fingers around the mug, more for the comfort of holding something warm than for the temperature itself.
Only then did she let out a long, quiet sigh.
“It’s so quiet,” she murmured, almost in disbelief.
Yu Tu glanced around the room, as if confirming it for himself. “It is.”
Jing Jing tilted her head toward him, her hair brushing his arm. “I forgot what this feels like.”
He understood without needing her to explain. The past 2 months had been a blur of visitors, advice, meals, schedules, and the constant hum of other people’s concern. Necessary, yes. Helpful, yes. But overwhelming in its own way.
Now, with the house finally still, the air felt different, as if lighter, softer, and almost fragile.
Yu Tu reached over and adjusted the blanket around her shoulders, a small, habitual gesture. “We survived the first 8 weeks as parents,” he said quietly.
She gave a tired laugh. “Barely.”
He smiled a small, private smile he only ever give her. “I think we did quite well.”
Jing Jing leaned into him then, her head resting against his shoulder. She tugged the blanket a little wider and let it fall across his lap too, a small gesture of closeness she didn’t even think about. She felt warm and familiar, like something he had been missing without realizing how much.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. They simply breathed in the quiet, the baby’s soft sounds, and the gentle weight of being alone together again.
Jing Jing’s voice came out softer than before, almost drowsy. “I miss this.”
Yu Tu turned his head slightly. “This?”
“Us,” she said. “Just … being us.”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let his hand rest lightly on her arm, thumb brushing once, slow and thoughtful. The tension he’d been carrying—quiet, controlled, invisible to anyone but her—seemed to ease just a little.
“I miss it too,” he said.
And in the hush of their bedroom, with their son sleeping beside them and the world finally giving them space, the words felt like the beginning of something returning—something gentle, something familiar, and something they hadn’t realized they’d been holding their breath for.
Jing Jing stayed tucked against him, her head nestled against his shoulder, her breathing slow and even. Yu Tu let his cheek rest lightly against the top of her head, a quiet, instinctive gesture he hadn’t realized he’d missed.
He felt the weight of her there—light, familiar, and somehow heavier with meaning after the weeks they’d just lived through.
He didn’t move, didn’t dare to. It had been weeks since she’d leaned on him like this without someone interrupting, without Xiao Ci crying, without her mother appearing with soup or advice or a blanket she ‘should’ be using.
He let himself breathe her in.
Her hair still smelled faintly of the ginger shampoo her mother insisted she use during recovery. Her skin was warm from the blanket. And her hand, resting loosely on his arm, curled slightly as if she were holding onto him even in her half‑sleepy state.
She shifted a little, turning her face to look up at him.
“I feel like myself again,” she murmured.
Yu Tu looked down at her. “You do?”
She nodded, eyes half‑closed. “Not completely. But … closer. I can think again. I can breathe again. I’m not just … tired and leaking milk and crying at commercials.”
He chuckled softly. “You only cried at two commercials.”
“Three,” she corrected, sighing. “And one wasn’t even sad.”
He brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek. “You’ve been doing so well.”
She made a small sound, half laugh, and half disbelief. “I don’t feel like I’ve been doing well.”
“You have,” he said simply, then kissed her cheek. “You’ve been incredible.”
She didn’t argue. That alone told him how exhausted she still was.
Jing Jing leaned into him, her head brushing his shoulder as she shifted closer. That was all the invitation he needed. Yu Tu lifted his arm and slipped it behind her shoulders, guiding her gently until she was tucked against his chest. She softened into the embrace, her breathing slow and even, as if her body recognized the safety before her mind did. He felt her relax under his touch, her body softening in a way he hadn’t felt since before the baby was born.
It hit him then—quietly, unexpectedly—how much he had missed this. Her warmth. Her nearness. The way she fit against him like she belonged there.
Jing Jing’s voice was soft, almost sleepy. “I forgot how comforting this is. I’ve missed being close like this with you.”
Yu Tu lowered his cheek to her hair, his voice barely above a murmur. “Me too.”
Jing Jing shifted just enough to slide one hand up his chest, her fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt. When she tipped her head back to look at him, there was a sleepy but unmistakable glint in her eyes.
“Yu Tu,” she murmured, “are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
He blinked, wary in the way only a new father could be. “That depends.”
Her smile widened, crooked and smug. “Good. Because whatever you’re thinking, mine involves you taking the next baby shift.”
For half a second — just long enough for her to catch it — Yu Tu’s shoulders loosened, the faintest flicker of relief crossing his face before he schooled it away.
He let out a quiet breath that was almost a laugh. “I knew it.”
She nudged him with her forehead, still tucked comfortably against his chest. “Don’t pretend you didn’t miss my strategic brilliance.”
“I didn’t,” he said, deadpan — though the tiny, betrayed twitch at the corner of his mouth told her otherwise.
She swatted his chest—more dramatic than forceful—then turned her face away with an exaggerated pout. “Fine. I’m heading to bed now,” she declared, shifting as if to push herself up. “To get some sleep.”
She barely made it an inch before Yu Tu’s arm tightened around her, pulling her right back against his chest. The motion was gentle but decisive, the kind that left no room for misinterpretation.
“Jing Jing,” he said quietly, amusement threading through the warmth in his voice, “don’t be like that.”
She huffed, still pretending to be offended. “I’m serious.”
“No, you’re not.” His arm stayed firm around her, anchoring her in place. “And for the record …” He lowered his cheek to her hair, his voice softening. “I do miss that thing you are thinking about, very much.”
Her pout faltered, just a little. “Good,” she muttered, settling back into him with a tiny, satisfied wiggle. “You should.”
And then—
A tiny, squeaky noise rose from the bassinet. Not a cry, not a fuss. Just a soft, questioning mmh? The kind of newborn sound that carried the power of a full‑scale interruption.
Both of them froze.
Jing Jing closed her eyes. “No. No, no, no. I was winning.”
Yu Tu’s chest shook with a quiet laugh. “He disagrees.”
She pointed a finger at him without lifting her head. “This is your fault.”
“How—”
“You jinxed it,” she said, already resigned, already smiling. “Congratulations. You’re on duty.”
Yu Tu sighed, but the smile tugging at his mouth gave him away. “I walked right into that.”
“You did,” she said smugly, settling back against him while he prepared to get up. “And I’m not even sorry.”
He leaned over the bassinet beside his feet, coaxing their son with the practiced calm of a man who had memorized every tiny sound this baby made. One gentle hand on the little chest, one soft whisper, a slow rhythmic sway—
And the baby went still. Just … settled. Instantly.
Yu Tu waited a beat to be sure, then another, then straightened with the quiet confidence of someone who had just defused a bomb.
Behind him, Jing Jing’s jaw dropped.
“Oh, come on,” she whispered. “That’s cheating.”
He turned back to her, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “We can pick up where we started before the interruption.”
She narrowed her eyes, impressed and annoyed in equal measure. “You’re showing off.”
“Maybe.” He leaned back, slid an arm under her knees and another behind her back, and lifted her easily onto his lap. “Let’s carry out our thoughts before he changes his mind.”
Yu Tu stood with her still in his arms, steady and sure, and she looped her arms around his neck without thinking. By the time he laid her gently on their bed, she was comfortably settled, still wearing that tiny, victorious smile. She tugged lightly at his shirt as he straightened, as if reminding him she hadn’t dismissed him.
Yu Tu brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek, he leaned in just a little, lowering his voice. “We have to be very quiet.”
A small smile curved at the corner of her mouth. “I’ll try not to make a sound.”
Then, with perfect, smug timing, she added, “But just so we’re clear … you are the noisy one.”
***
After settling Xiao Ci together — the quiet teamwork that had become second nature — they finally slipped back into their bed. The room felt different now, softer somehow, still carrying the warmth of the closeness they’d shared earlier. Not rushed, not dramatic, just the kind of intimacy that came from being fully present with each other again.
Jing Jing let out a slow breath as she settled onto her pillow, her body loose and comfortable in a way it hadn’t been in weeks. Yu Tu turned onto his side so he could see her face in the dim light.
She nudged his shoulder lightly. “You look very pleased with yourself.”
“I am,” he said simply.
She smiled.
For a moment, they just breathed together, the quiet between them warm and easy.
Then Yu Tu shifted a little closer, his voice low. “Jing Jing.”
She hummed, eyes half‑open.
“There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
She blinked, curious. “What now? Don’t tell me you’re volunteering for the 3 a.m. shift.”
He huffed a soft laugh. “Not that.”
“Then what?”
He brushed a thumb gently along the back of her hand. “Your birthday is coming.”
Her expression softened in surprise — not dramatic, just touched. “Oh. Right. I almost forgot.”
“I didn’t,” he said quietly.
She squeezed his hand under the blanket. “Of course you didn’t.”
Yu Tu watched her for a moment, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. Then, in the same gentle tone he’d used every year since she turned thirty, he asked.
“Jing Jing … what do you want for your birthday this year?”
She blinked, surprised, then let out a small laugh. “You’re still doing that?”
“It’s tradition,” he said simply.
She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling with a thoughtful little hum. “Let me think …” Her smile softened at the memory. “You got me the hot water bottle, the rabbit blanket, that cute little hair brush …” She shook her head, amused. “You’ve given me everything I asked for.”
“You deserved all of them.”
She nudged his shoulder with her own. “For once, why don’t you surprise me?”
“You always say that,” he reminded her softly.
Jing Jing let out a quiet chuckle, warm and self‑aware. “I know. And then I always end up telling you exactly what I want.”
Yu Tu’s mouth curved, just a little. “Every year.”
“Mm.” She turned her head toward him, eyes bright with that familiar mischief. “But I like pretending I’m mysterious.”
“You’re not mysterious,” he said gently.
She grinned. “Exactly. That’s why you should surprise me.”
He nodded, accepting that without pushing. “I think I’ll just wait.”
She chuckled, soft and knowing. “Because I’ll end up telling you eventually.”
He smiled at that — because this was their tradition too. Every year, the same dance, the same question, the same answer, the same eventual confession. And he wouldn’t have changed a thing.
***
Her birthday arrived quietly, tucked between winter sunlight and the baby’s nap times. They didn’t go out. They didn’t plan anything elaborate. Yu Tu made her longevity noodles, and she teased him that the egg was too perfectly shaped, which meant he’d probably measured it.
He didn’t deny it.
It wasn’t a grand celebration — just the three of them, the soft clatter of chopsticks, the baby’s sleepy breaths from the bassinet. And for this year, that was her gift. Because she still hadn’t decided what she wanted, and Yu Tu knew better than to force an answer out of her.
He was patient. He always was.
And though he didn’t say it aloud, he was prepared — the way he always was — for her request to come at any moment in the days that followed. A week later, or a month later, or while she was packing for a trip and suddenly remembered something she wanted.
That, too, was part of their tradition.
The days after her birthday slipped by in a soft blur. The baby’s schedule shifted again, as if he sensed the house had changed. Jing Jing found herself humming more, smiling more, moving with a little more lightness in her step. Yu Tu noticed, but he didn’t say anything. He simply watched her with that quiet, attentive gaze that made her feel seen even when she was half asleep.
By the time a week had passed — the year winding down, New Year’s decorations starting to appear in shop windows — something felt … off.
Not wrong. Just familiar.
It started with the ginger soup her mother had left in the freezer. Jing Jing heated it up, took one sip, and made a face.
“Why is this so sour?” she muttered.
Yu Tu, passing through the kitchen with the baby in his arms, paused. “Sour?”
She pushed the bowl toward him. “Taste it. Tell me I’m not imagining things.”
Balancing the baby carefully against his shoulder, Yu Tu dipped the spoon, tasted a small sip, and frowned—not at the soup, but at her.
“It’s not sour,” he said gently.
“It is,” she insisted, frowning harder at the bowl. “It tastes like someone squeezed a lemon into it.”
He blinked. “There’s no lemon in this ginger soup.”
She waved him off. “Maybe my taste buds are broken.”
He didn’t argue. But he watched her a little too closely.
The next morning, she woke up queasy. Not sick, just unsettled. She blamed the soup. Then the weather. Then the fact that she hadn’t slept enough. Then the fact that she’d slept too much.
By the third day, Yu Tu finally spoke.
“Jing Jing,” he said gently, “you’ve been eating a lot of sour things again.”
She froze halfway through slicing a green apple, the sour kind she’d suddenly craved again.
“No,” she said immediately. “No, no, no. Don’t say that.”
He didn’t smile, didn’t tease. He simply looked at her with that calm, steady expression that meant he’d already done the math.
“We should get a test,” he said.
She threw the apple slice at him.
“Yu Tu! I’m breastfeeding!”
He caught the slice with one hand, annoyingly smooth, and set it on the counter.
“Breastfeeding is not contraception,” he said.
She stared at him, horrified. “You didn’t say that last week.”
He hesitated. “I assumed you knew.”
“WHY WOULD I KNOW THAT?” she shrieked.
The baby let out a sudden, wobbly cry from the next room. It was not a full meltdown, but loud enough to slice straight through the kitchen.
They both froze.
Jing Jing clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. “Oh no, he heard me panicking.”
Yu Tu exhaled, the kind of long-suffering sigh only a new father could master, and shifted the baby monitor aside. “I’ll go.”
She nodded rapidly, still holding her breath like that might keep the crying from escalating.
Yu Tu disappeared down the hall, and a moment later, the baby’s cries softened into little hiccupping whimpers — the sound of a tiny person being expertly soothed by someone who had become very, very good at it.
When he returned, Jing Jing was pacing the kitchen in tiny, frantic circles.
“This is impossible,” she muttered. “Impossible. I’m still exhausted. I’m still figuring out the baby’s schedule. I haven’t even gotten my cycle back yet. I’m still—”
“Jing Jing.”
She stopped.
Yu Tu stood in the doorway, the baby now asleep against his shoulder, one hand supporting their son’s back, the other extended toward her.
“Come here,” he said softly. “Let’s get a test.”
For a moment, she just stared at him — at his steady eyes, at the quiet certainty in his voice, at the way he always seemed to know when she needed grounding.
Then she took his hand.
They moved through the hallway in silence, the kind that wasn’t heavy or tense, just full of unspoken thoughts neither of them dared to say aloud yet. He set the baby gently in the crib, adjusted the blanket, and joined her in the bathroom.
She opened the box with careful fingers. He stayed beside her, close but not crowding, crouched at her level like he was afraid she might drift away if he wasn’t anchored to her.
The minutes stretched. She sat on the edge of the tub, knees drawn up, and chin resting on them. Yu Tu stayed right there, one hand lightly touching her ankle — a quiet reassurance, a silent I’m here.
The timer beeped.
Jing Jing didn’t move.
Yu Tu waited a beat, then asked quietly, “Do you want me to look?”
She shook her head, barely. “No. I’ll do it.”
She stood slowly, as if her body wasn’t entirely convinced this was happening, and walked to the counter. Her fingers hovered for a moment before she picked up the test.
Two lines.
Clear. Bright. Unmistakable.
Her breath caught, a small, fragile sound.
“Yu Tu …” she whispered.
He stepped closer, not touching her, but close enough that she could feel the steadiness of him at her back. “I’m here.”
She turned, holding the test between them like it might shatter if she breathed too hard.
“There are two lines,” she said, voice thin with disbelief. “I’m … I’m pregnant.”
Yu Tu’s expression softened — not surprised, not startled, just quietly, deeply present. The way he always was when something mattered.
She stared at him, stunned. “Yu Tu … did I get pregnant on my birthday?”
He swallowed. “Umm ... or before?”
She pointed at him accusingly. “YOU GOT ME PREGNANT ON MY BIRTHDAY.”
He winced. “It wasn’t … planned.”
She poked his chest. “Was that your plan? Giving me a baby as a birthday present?”
He caught her hand gently. “It’s not a bad present.”
She stared at him.
Then she laughed. And cried. And laughed again.
Yu Tu pulled her into his arms, holding her carefully, as if she were made of something fragile and precious.
“We’ll be okay,” he murmured into her hair.
And she believed him.
Two days later, the house had settled into a new kind of quiet, the kind that came after shock had softened into acceptance, and acceptance had begun to bloom into something warm and steady.
Jing Jing was folding tiny onesies on the couch when Yu Tu walked in, drying his hands on a dish towel. He paused, watching her with that gentle, thoughtful gaze he always had when he was trying to read her mood.
She didn’t look up.
“You know,” she said casually, “you still owe me a birthday gift.”
Yu Tu blinked. “I thought we … resolved that.”
“We resolved the surprise,” she corrected, lifting an eyebrow. “Not the gift.”
He sat beside her, careful not to disturb the neat stacks of baby clothes. “What did you have in mind?”
She turned to him, eyes bright with mischief, the same look she’d had the night she teased him about being mysterious.
“You promised me a bathtub.”
He stilled. “I did?”
“A real one,” she added, poking his arm. “Not the tiny one we use for the baby. A proper, deep, soak‑until‑I‑forget-my-name bathtub.”
Yu Tu exhaled, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “I remember.”
“Good,” she said, leaning back with satisfaction. “Because I’m cashing it in.”
He studied her for a moment — the calm, the certainty, and the way she looked more like herself than she had in weeks.
“Then I’ll start planning,” he said quietly.
“You’d better,” she replied, nudging his knee with hers. “I’m pregnant again. I deserve luxury.”
He didn’t argue. He just reached over, laced their fingers together, and gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
And she smiled — because this, too, was part of their tradition.
Six weeks later, just as winter began to loosen its grip, Yu Tu finished the bathtub. The tub was everything Jing Jing had joked about and everything Yu Tu had taken far too seriously. He’d built it with a gently sloped backrest that supported her spine without forcing her upright, and a wider middle curve so her belly could float comfortably once she grew heavier. Warm water pulsed from a discreet lumbar jet calibrated to the exact pressure he knew eased her back, and the rim itself was softly heated so her arms and neck never had to touch cold porcelain.
Even the fill system was silent — because he refused to risk waking their son — and, in true Yu Tu fashion, he’d programmed a temperature‑stability algorithm that kept the water perfectly warm without ever drifting too hot.
And when she finally sank into the warm water, she laughed softly. “So worth the wait!”
The delivery room was quiet now, the rush of nurses fading into the background. The tiny, warm, impossibly new baby was swaddled and sleeping in the bassinet beside the bed. Jing Jing lay propped up against the pillows, hair damp, cheeks flushed, and eyes bright with the kind of exhaustion that made everything feel unreal.
Yu Tu stood beside her, one hand resting lightly on the rail of the bed, the other hovering near her shoulder as if he wasn’t sure whether to touch her or let her rest.
She watched him for a long moment, her lips slowly curving.
“Happy birthday,” she whispered.
He blinked. “Jing Jing …”
“No, really,” she said, voice soft but triumphant. “I gave you a baby for your birthday.”
He exhaled, somewhere between a laugh and disbelief. “You didn’t give me—”
“Yes, I did,” she cut in. “On your birthday. You can’t argue with the calendar.”
He looked at the clock on the wall. September 20. Just after dawn.
He swallowed. “It wasn’t supposed to be today.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Tell that to your daughter.”
Yu Tu looked at the sleeping newborn, then back at her, helpless. “She came early.”
“She came on time,” she corrected. “On your birthday. Exactly as the universe planned.”
He sighed, but his eyes softened. “You’re impossible.”
“And you,” she said, poking his arm weakly, “are officially sharing your birthday for the rest of your life with your daughter.”
He didn’t argue. He couldn’t. He was too busy staring at the tiny face in the bassinet, the tiny hands curled into fists, the tiny chest rising and falling with steady breaths.
Jing Jing watched him watching the baby, her smile turning softer.
“You’re thinking too much,” she murmured.
He looked down at her, and for once, didn’t deny it.
“It’s just …” He paused, searching for the right words. “She’s here. And she’s healthy. And you’re safe. And it’s my birthday. And it feels like—”
“Destiny?” Jing Jing offered, eyes sparkling.
He gave her a look. “Please don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m starting,” she said immediately. “Do you remember what I told you when we first found out the due date?”
He closed his eyes.
She lifted a hand dramatically. “I said this baby is going to steal your birthday.”
He opened his eyes again, resigned. “Yes, you did say that.”
“And now look.” She gestured toward the bassinet. “I’m right.”
Yu Tu couldn’t help but laugh — quietly, but genuinely.
Jing Jing wasn’t done. “I’m also right about something else.”
He gave her a wary look. “What’s that?”
She smirked, triumphant. “You were conceived on my birthday.”
Yu Tu stared at her, incredulous. “Jing Jing … you weren’t even born yet.”
She waved a hand. “Details. The universe clearly planned it.”
She waved that off with regal authority. “Details. Spiritually, cosmically, you were absolutely conceived on my birthday.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “That’s not how conception works.”
“Destiny doesn’t care about biology,” she said, smug and glowing and absolutely unstoppable.
He leaned down then, pressing a kiss to her forehead, because arguing with her was pointless and because he loved her too much to try.
“Rest up,” he murmured.
She closed her eyes, sinking into the pillows. He brushed a thumb along her cheek. “Thank you.”
“For what?” she opened her eyes and whispered.
“For her,” he said softly. “For you. For … everything.”
Her eyes fluttered open again, warm and teasing and full of love.
“You’re welcome,” she said. “And happy birthday, Chief Yu.”
He looked at his newborn daughter. Then at his wife. Then back again. And for the first time in his life, he felt like the universe had given him a gift he could never repay.
By evening, the hospital room was quiet again, the last of the daylight slanting low through the blinds in warm, fading stripes. The grandparents had come and gone, friends had stopped by with flowers and fruit, and even the nurses who adored Jing Jing had finally given the little family some space.
Now it was just them.
Jing Jing was half sitting, half sinking into her pillows, the exhaustion softened by the warm weight of contentment. Their second baby, Yu Xingqiao 于星橋, their little daughter, Xiao Qiao, tiny and perfect, slept in the bassinet beside Jing Jing. The baby’s breaths were soft and even.
Across the room, Yu Tu stood near the window, rocking gently with their firstborn in his arms. Tianci’s head rested on his father’s shoulder, his eyes heavy but curious, watching the sunlight dance on the floor.
For a moment, everything felt suspended. It was quiet, warm, and whole.
Their firstborn, now a sturdy, curious eleven‑month‑old, blinked sleepily at the unfamiliar room, then at his father, then at the tiny bundle in the bassinet.
Jing Jing smiled. “Bring him over.”
Yu Tu hesitated. “He might be overwhelmed.”
“He’s a baby,” she said. “He’s always overwhelmed.”
Yu Tu couldn’t argue with that logic.
He carried their son over, settling on the edge of the bed. Tianci sat on his lap, legs splayed, hands gripping his father’s shirt for balance. His eyes were wide, dark, and full of suspicion.
Jing Jing reached out and brushed a hand over his hair. “Sweetheart, this is your little sister.”
Tianci stared at her. Then at the bassinet. Then back at her.
His expression said That is not a sister. That is a potato.
Yu Tu leaned closer. “She’s very small,” he offered, as if that would help.
Tianci frowned deeply, the way only a nearly‑one‑year‑old could, with full, dramatic commitment.
Jing Jing laughed softly. “He looks offended.”
“He looks like you when someone made fun of your gaming skills,” Yu Tu murmured.
She swatted his arm, but she was smiling.
Yu Tu lifted Tianci a little closer to the bassinet. “Look,” he said gently. “This is mei mei.”
Tianci leaned forward with narrowing eyes. He reached out with one chubby hand and poked Xingqiao’s blanket.
Not the baby. Just the blanket. A cautious, experimental poke.
Xingqiao didn’t react. She slept on, tiny chest rising and falling.
Tianci blinked. Then poked again.
Jing Jing covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. “He’s checking if she would move.”
Yu Tu nodded solemnly. “The scientific method.”
Tianci poked a third time, more confidently now. Then he looked up at his father with an expression that clearly said - It moved. I have concerns.
Yu Tu adjusted his hold, steady and reassuring. “She’s your sister,” he said softly. “Be gentle.”
Tianci considered this. Then, very slowly, he leaned forward slowly and placed his forehead against the edge of the bassinet, it was a tiny, clumsy, perfect baby kiss.
Jing Jing’s breath caught. “Oh my.”
Yu Tu’s eyes softened. “He understands more than we think.”
Tianci pulled back, satisfied with his inspection. Then he lifted both arms toward Jing Jing, his signal for Mama, hold me now.
Jing Jing reached for him immediately, wincing a little but smiling through it. Yu Tu helped settle the baby carefully next to her, his small body curling instinctively into her side.
Xingqiao slept on. Tianci stared at her, now less suspicious and more curious.
Jing Jing stroked Tianci’s hair. “You’re a big brother now.”
The baby blinked up at her, then reached out and patted her chest proudly, as if accepting a promotion.
Yu Tu laughed quietly. “He thinks he’d earned a medal.”
“He did,” Jing Jing said, kissing the top of his head. “He survived eleven months with us.”
Tianci babbled something soft and unintelligible, then leaned his head against her shoulder, eyes drifting closed.
Two babies. One asleep in her arms. One asleep beside her.
Yu Tu looked at all three of them, and something in his chest tightened, warm and overwhelming.
Jing Jing caught his gaze and smiled, tired and glowing.
“Happy birthday again,” she whispered.
He sat beside her, brushing a hand over both children’s heads.
“This,” he said quietly, “is for sure the best birthday ever.”
