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Guan Zai had undergone surgery for early‑stage stomach cancer in late December 2020, followed by a steady recovery at home. By spring 2021, he was in the middle of his routine post‑operative monitoring — the series of imaging, bloodwork, and endoscopic checks that filled the first six months after a gastrectomy.
His May 2021 follow‑up was supposed to be one of the ordinary ones. Yu Tu knew about the appointment and had offered to drive Guan Zai home afterward, a quiet gesture of support he’d made more than once since the surgery.
Since he was already going to the hospital, he suggested Jing Jing come along too — a simple, low‑pressure chance for her to finally meet Guan Zai and Shen Jing. They had been wanting to meet her for months, ever since Yu Tu first mentioned her.
But the follow-up didn’t go as expected.
The moment the nurse walked away, Guan Zai felt it — the way Shen Jing’s breath hitched, the way her fingers trembled just once before she forced them still. She was holding herself together for him, the way she always did.
He shifted slightly in the hospital bed, turning to set the report down on the side table — just a small movement, barely a second — and in that sliver of time, he caught it. A soft, broken sound. The quick swipe of her hand across her cheek. The shimmer of tears she hadn’t meant for him to see.
She had cried behind his back.
The knowledge hit him harder than the test result itself. He hated that look, hated that she tried to hide it, and hated that he couldn’t take the fear from her.
There was a soft knock on the door — polite, almost hesitant — before it eased open.
Yu Tu stepped in first.
He took in the scene instantly: the report on the side table, the tension in Shen Jing’s shoulders, the way Guan Zai’s hand hovered just a little too close to hers. His expression tightened, subtle but unmistakable.
Jing Jing followed a step behind him, removing her mask with movements quieter than usual, as if she sensed the shift in the air before she even understood it. She had been smiling in the hallway — a small, nervous smile meant for first introductions — but it faded the moment she saw Shen Jing’s face.
Shen Jing straightened immediately, wiping the last trace of moisture from beneath her eye with a practiced, almost invisible motion. “Oh hello,” she said, too quickly.
And in that instant, Guan Zai made a decision — reckless, instinctive, and absolutely transparent. If his wife was drifting back toward worry over his lab results, he would pull the moment somewhere lighter, somewhere she didn’t have to carry that weight alone.
He pushed himself upright, forcing a grin that was too bright, too casual, and obviously too deliberate — the kind of grin he only used when he was trying to protect someone.
“Yu Tu, did you bring the real Qiao Jing Jing or the AI Jing Jing?” he asked, tone far too casual for the tension in the room.
Jing Jing faltered for half a heartbeat, then stepped fully into the room, a small smile curving at the corner of her mouth. “Real enough to hear you accusing me of being a deep fake,” she said lightly.
Guan Zai gasped dramatically. “I didn’t say deep fake,” he corrected solemnly. “I said AI, much more advanced.”
Yu Tu didn’t miss a beat. He had already understood what was happening — Guan Zai was steering the mood away from fear, and Jing Jing had fallen into step with him without needing a word.
“She is the real one,” he said, deadpan, finally closing the door behind them. “Unfortunately for you.”
Guan Zai clutched his chest. “Ah, the betrayal. Even my junior is siding with her.”
Shen Jing’s laugh escaped before she could stop it — soft, shaky, but real. Almost immediately, she reached out and gave Guan Zai a light push, the kind that was more affection than reprimand.
“Don’t mind him,” she said quickly to Jing Jing, cheeks warming. “He talks nonsense when he sees a beautiful girl.”
Guan Zai straightened, hand to his chest in exaggerated outrage. “What! First my junior betrays me, and now my own wife as well.”
Shen Jing gave him another gentle push toward his pillows, flustered but smiling. “Enough,” she murmured, though her eyes were warm. “You’re being ridiculous.”
Guan Zai let himself fall back dramatically, surrendering to the pillows with a groan. “I’m just trying to defend my honor!”
Yu Tu added, deadpan, “You don’t have much to begin with.”
Guan Zai pointed at him, with mock outrage. “You see? This is what I mean. My own junior. No loyalty now that he’s dating Princess Highness.”
Shen Jing shook her head, cheeks still pink. “Don’t listen to him, Ms. Qiao. He’s just … like this.”
Jing Jing’s smile softened. “I know. It’s one of his charms. By the way, please call me Jing Jing.”
Guan Zai perked up immediately and turned to his wife. “You hear that? She says I’m charming. Princess Highness finds me charming.”
Yu Tu gave him a flat look. “She was being polite.”
Jing Jing nudged Yu Tu with her elbow — a small, pointed little tap that said don’t ruin his moment. “Be nice,” she murmured, though her eyes were laughing.
Shen Jing laughed at Yu Tu’s comment, clearer this time, the tension easing from her shoulders. Seeing that, Guan Zai finally let himself relax because her laughter eased the tightness in his chest, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Moments like this — the quiet after a scare — always reminded him how fragile people could be, even the strong ones.
Guan Zai didn’t think much of it then, just another moment where he tried to lighten the air for someone who needed it. He had no idea he’d be doing the same thing again years later — only this time, in the early autumn of 2025, it was for Qiao Jing Jing.
The hallway lights had dimmed to their nighttime setting with that soft, bluish glow hospitals used to trick the body into thinking it could rest. Jing Jing lay half‑reclined in the bed, the blanket pulled up to her waist, her breathing shallow but steady.
Yu Tu had been sitting beside her for hours, fingers loosely wrapped around hers. When the nurse came in to check her vitals, he finally stood, stretching stiff shoulders.
“I’ll go refill the hot water,” he murmured, brushing a thumb across her knuckles. “I’ll be right back.”
Jing Jing nodded, eyes heavy. “I’ll be fine. Just … come back soon.”
He kissed her forehead and slipped out.
The room fell quiet again. Too quiet for her liking.
The moment the door clicked shut, the silence pressed in — that hospital‑night kind of silence, where the shadows felt longer and the air felt thinner. She wasn’t afraid of the dark, not really… but ever since the accident, being alone in it made her chest tighten in ways she couldn’t quite explain.
It wasn’t panic. Just a small, creeping ache — the memory of cold water, of drifting, of not knowing if help would come.
She swallowed, pulling the blanket a little higher. Yu Tu would be back soon. She knew that. But the quiet still made her feel like she was floating again, untethered, waiting for something warm to anchor her.
A moment later, the door opened just enough for someone to step in. It was Guan Zai.
He didn’t turn on the lights. He didn’t clear his throat. He just walked in with that calm, unhurried presence of his and took the chair Yu Tu had vacated.
Jing Jing blinked at him. “You’re still here?”
“Someone has to make sure you don’t escape,” he said, voice low and dry. “You look like the type who’d try.”
She let out a soft, tired laugh. “I can barely sit up.”
“Exactly. Prime escape‑attempt energy.” Guan Zai said matter-of-factly.
She smiled. It was small, but real. The kind that only came out when she was too exhausted to pretend.
Guan Zai settled back in the chair, arms crossed loosely. “You scared everyone.”
“I scared myself,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
He nodded once, not pushing, not prying. Just … there.
The monitor beeped softly beside her. Her breathing hitched. It was not from pain, but from the memory of the water closing over her, the cold shock stealing her breath, the way the world had tilted and vanished beneath her feet. For a heartbeat she was back there again: in the dark, the current, and the helpless spinning weightlessness of falling into the sea.
Guan Zai noticed.
“You’re fine,” he said quietly. “You’re here. You’re safe. And Yu Tu is only gone for hot water, not a heroic mission.”
She huffed a tiny laugh. “You’re making fun of him now?”
“Equal opportunity,” he replied. “I pick on everyone.”
“Even patients?”
“Especially patients.”
She laughed again, a fragile, breathy sound that eased the tightness in her chest.
Silence settled between them, but it wasn’t heavy. It was the kind of silence that felt like a blanket — warm, steady, and protective.
After a while, Jing Jing whispered, “Thank you … for staying.”
Guan Zai shrugged, eyes fixed on the window where the city lights flickered faintly. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“That’s not a reason.”
He glanced at her then, with just a flicker of softness in his eyes. “You’re family,” he said simply. “That’s the reason.”
Her breath caught. Not from fear this time, but from something warm and unexpected.
Before she could respond, the door opened again. Yu Tu stepped in with the thermos, eyes immediately finding Jing Jing, checking her breathing, her color, her expression. He froze when he saw Guan Zai in his chair — not suspicious, just surprised.
“You’re here,” he murmured.
Jing Jing smiled. “He kept me company.”
Guan Zai rose, hands slipping into his pockets. “Don’t worry,” he said, voice low. “I didn’t bother her. Just kept the room from getting too quiet.”
Yu Tu nodded once, slow and sincere. “Thank you.”
Guan Zai stood, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves. “She laughed,” he said. “Twice. I consider that a medical contribution.”
Yu Tu’s lips twitched. “Thank you.”
“Don’t make it weird,” Guan Zai muttered, heading for the door.
But before he left, he paused for just a second and looked back at Jing Jing.
“Get some rest,” he said softly. “We need you back at full strength so I can bully you properly.”
She laughed for the third time that night.
And Guan Zai slipped out, leaving the room warmer than he found it.
Next morning, soft and pale sunlight filtered through the blinds of the hospital room. Jing Jing sat up a little straighter, sipping warm water while Shen Jing peeled an apple with the precision of a surgeon.
“So,” Shen Jing said casually, “I heard someone kept you company last night.”
Jing Jing blinked innocently. “Oh? Who told you that?”
“Yu Tu,” Shen Jing replied. “He said Guan Zai stayed with you while he stepped out.”
Jing Jing’s cheeks warmed. “Yes, he did. That was very kind of him to do that.”
Shen Jing gave her a look, the kind that saw straight through her. “You were scared.”
Jing Jing swallowed, then lifted her hand, thumb and forefinger pinched together in that unmistakable just a tiny bit gesture. “Maybe … a little,” she admitted, her smile small and cheeky, the kind that tried (and failed) to hide how shaken she’d really been.
Shen Jing’s expression softened immediately, the teasing melting into something warm and protective. “And did he help?”
Jing Jing nodded, eyes softening. “He made me laugh. And he didn’t … hover. He just sat there. Quiet and solid.”
Shen Jing smiled, slicing another piece of apple. “That’s his way. He cares more than he lets on.”
“I know,” Jing Jing whispered. “I felt it.”
Shen Jing placed a slice in her hand. “You’re lucky. Not everyone gets a brother‑in‑law who shows up at midnight just to make sure you’re okay.”
Jing Jing smiled, small and warm. “I’ll have to tease him about it later.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Shen Jing said. “He’ll deny everything.”
They both laughed.
And in that quiet, the two women exchanged a look, a small, knowing one. A look that said Guan Zai had done it again … with his dry voice and unbothered expression, he had somehow sensed the exact moment the air had grown too heavy and nudged it back toward light without ever making it obvious. It was a talent he’d never acknowledge, a tenderness he’d never name, but both women felt it all the same.
A few days later, Jing Jing was well enough to sit in the hospital garden, wrapped in a light blanket. Guan Zai sat beside her on the bench, scrolling through his phone while keeping half an eye on her.
Yu Tu had just stepped away to speak with the doctor — a short conversation, nothing urgent — and Guan Zai had wordlessly taken his place, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
She glanced at him, a mischievous smile forming. “You know … you’re actually very soft.”
He didn’t look up. “No, I’m not.”
“You are,” she insisted. “You stayed with me, comforted me, and made me laugh.”
“That was survival instinct,” he said. “You were crying.”
“I was not crying!”
“You were close.”
She nudged him with her shoulder. “Just admit it. You were worried.”
He finally looked at her — calm, steady, and unexpectedly gentle.
“If I admit it,” he said, “will you stop talking?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
She laughed, bright and warm.
He looked away, but she caught the tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You’re soft,” she whispered. “Like a big teddy bear.”
“You’re delusional,” he replied.
But he didn’t deny it again.
And she didn’t stop smiling.
Just then, footsteps approached across the garden path, slow, familiar, and tired. Yu Tu appeared around the bend, the doctor’s notes in one hand, and a warm cup of soy milk in the other — the kind she liked, the kind he’d hunted down in the cafeteria even though he was running on almost no sleep.
He took in the scene: Jing Jing smiling, Guan Zai pretending not to smile, the two of them sitting closer than usual. He blinked once, then exhaled — a soft, relieved sound.
“What did I miss?” he asked, voice low with fatigue.
Jing Jing beamed up at him. “Your first confidant in life is actually very soft.”
Yu Tu blinked, caught between confusion and the faintest hint of embarrassment.
Guan Zai groaned immediately. “I am not,” he said, standing as if distance might save him.
Yu Tu’s lips twitched to a tired, almost‑smile as he came around to Jing Jing’s side and sank into the spot beside her, the soy milk settling quietly in his hand. “If you say so.”
“Don’t encourage her,” Guan Zai muttered.
Jing Jing leaned into Yu Tu, whispering loudly, “he’s a teddy bear.”
Guan Zai pointed at her. “I regret ever helping you.”
But he didn’t walk away.
And Yu Tu, still holding the warm soy milk, sat a little closer and lifted the lid for her with that quiet, instinctive care of his, the kind that said he’d been worried sick. The faintest breath escaped him as he offered it to her, relief softening every line of his face.
And for a moment, the garden felt warmer than the blanket around her shoulders.
And as the three of them sat there in the fading light, Jing Jing realized that behind every jab and every tease, she and Guan Zai had quietly found their way into each other’s hearts — a friendship built on laughter, honesty, and a rhythm neither of them ever wanted to stop.