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Jing Jing was already dressed when the autumn sky was still pale. Soft sweater, jeans, and hair tied back. She moved quietly through the nursery so she wouldn’t wake the kids.
The room was dim, washed in the faint blue of early morning. Xingqiao was curled on her side, one hand fisted in the corner of her blanket, breathing in those soft, even puffs that always made Jing Jing’s heart melt. Jing Jing tucked the blanket a little higher, brushed a stray curl off her daughter’s cheek, and stood there for a moment, just long enough to steady herself with the sight of her sleeping girl.
But Tianci had radar for Mama movement and popped up in his toddler bed like a meerkat.
“Mama go work?” he mumbled, hair sticking up in all directions.
Jing Jing kissed his forehead. “Just for today. Be good for Baba.”
Yu Tu came into the nursery, still buttoning his shirt, looking like a man who had slept but not deeply.
“I’ll take them to the park later,” he said. “Don’t worry.”
Jing Jing gave him a look, the soft, tired, but grateful one, and then she was gone, swept into the waiting car with her stylist and assistant.
The front door clicked shut. Silence. Then—
“Baba!” Tianci launched himself at Yu Tu’s legs.
And from the nursery, a small wail. “Ah—ah—ah—!”
Xingqiao was awake.
Yu Tu sighed, picked up his son and kissed the top of his head, and went to get the baby.
It was 7:12 a.m.
By ten o’clock that morning, the kitchen already looked as if a gentle storm had rolled through. Tianci’s breakfast bowl lay upside down on the table like it had surrendered. Xingqiao was in her second outfit of the day, the first one abandoned after she’d drooled straight through it.
And the family room … well, that was no longer a family room at all. It was the site of an enthusiastic, slightly chaotic stuffed‑toy party, hosted by two toddlers with zero sense of crowd control. Almost every plush animal they owned had been invited — bears, bunnies, sheep, dinosaurs, even the lopsided giraffe — all arranged in wobbly circles as if attending an important meeting. Blocks became chairs, crayons became party decorations, and Tianci had apparently appointed himself Master of Ceremonies while Xingqiao contributed by toppling guests over with great enthusiasm.
It looked exactly like the kind of party toddlers would throw the moment their father’s back was turned.
Yu Tu tried to keep things orderly. He really did. He saw the empty cardboard box from the air purifier delivery. When he set it on the floor, Tianci crawled inside immediately. “Rocket!”
Yu Tu blinked. “It’s … a box.”
“No! Rocket!”
And that was how it began.
Yu Tu fetched another box. And a pair of scissors. And tape. He even dug the aluminum foil out of a kitchen drawer. He told himself he was only reinforcing the edges so Tianci wouldn’t get stuck.
Then he cut a window. Then a door. Then he added a third box to make a ‘control room.’
Xingqiao sat nearby on a blanket, chewing on her pacifier and watching her father with wide, solemn eyes — as if witnessing the construction of a major aerospace facility.
“Baba fix,” she said, which was her current all‑purpose phrase.
“Yes,” Yu Tu murmured, adjusting the angle of the cardboard ‘antenna.’ “Baba is fixing.”
Meanwhile, across the city, Jing Jing was on her fourth outfit change. The studio was bright, loud, and full of people calling her name.
“Jing Jing, look left—”
“Hold that smile—”
“Perfect, perfect—”
“Next look in five minutes—”
She moved through it professionally, gracefully, but by 3 p.m. her feet hurt, her cheeks ached from smiling, and she missed her children with a sudden, sharp ache.
During a break, she checked her phone. There was a message from Yu Tu.
[Everything’s fine. Tianci is piloting something.]
She frowned. Piloting what?
But the stylist called her back, and she didn’t have time to ask.
Back home, the ‘rocket’ had become a ‘space base.’ Tianci was now shouting, “Three! Two! One!” every thirty seconds.
Xingqiao had crawled into the ‘moon tunnel’ and gotten stuck, requiring a full rescue operation.
Yu Tu, crouched on the floor with duct tape, was muttering to himself about ‘structural integrity’ and ‘load‑bearing corners.’
He didn’t notice how big the thing had gotten until he stood up and realized it took up half the family room.
He stared at it, then at the tape in his hand. Then he looked at his children, who were beaming at him like he had built them the actual International Space Station.
“It’s fine,” he said to himself.
The front door opened at 6:40 p.m. Jing Jing stepped inside, exhausted, hair pinned back, makeup half worn, shoulders slumped. She closed the door softly behind her and slipped off her shoes, already imagining a shower and silence.
Then she heard it — a burst of shrieking laughter from the family room, followed by a sharp, startled “hey!” from Yu Tu.
She paused. Not alarmed … just curious. And maybe a little wary.
Instead of calling out, she padded quietly down the hallway, moving on instinct — the kind of stealth every mother develops when she’s not sure what level of chaos she’s about to walk into.
She rounded the corner into the family room. And froze.
The space base loomed in the center of the family room — cardboard towers, foil antennas, a tunnel labeled MOON, and a control panel dotted with paper buttons and tiny drawings of stars and rockets.
Before she could process any of it, Tianci popped out of the rocket like a jack‑in‑the‑box. “Mama! Baba made space!”
A beat later, Xingqiao crawled out of the tunnel behind him, squealing triumphantly, her hair sticking up like she’d been through actual zero‑gravity.
Jing Jing stared at Yu Tu.
He was crouched on the floor, holding a roll of duct tape like a man caught mid‑mission, eyes wide with the guilt of someone who had absolutely not intended to build a space station today … but somehow had.
She exhaled, long and slow. “I leave the two kids with you for one day,” she said, “and you build them a space station.”
Yu Tu straightened, cleared his throat, and replied with complete seriousness. “They needed structural integrity.”
Jing Jing covered her face with her hands and laughed. It was a tired and helpless laugh, but full of love.
When she finally lowered her hands, she looked around at the cardboard empire, then at her two very awake children. “Did they at least get their afternoon naps?”
Yu Tu hesitated.
Tianci shouted, “No nap! Space!”
And that answered that.
The next day was a Sunday, the house had been loud all day, the kind of loud that made Jing Jing wonder if sound could physically stack on top of itself.
Tianci had spent the morning playing in the space base, and Xingqiao had declared herself the commander — which meant she spent the entire morning shouting orders like a tiny general.
“Go! Go!”
“Up‑up! Fix!”
“No, Ge, no!”
“Mine! Moon!”
And her favorite, delivered with absolute authority. “Baba, sit!”
Half the time, no one understood what she was trying to command, but she delivered every syllable with such conviction that even her father found himself obeying before he realized it. Those were the Kodak moments Jing Jing wished she could capture on her phone — but they were already imprinted in her mind, clear and permanent in a way no photo could ever match.
By noon, Jing Jing felt like she had lived three separate lifetimes. She stood in the hallway, staring at the mess, crayons everywhere, and a blanket fort collapsing on one side.
Tianci, meanwhile, was trying to wedge two sofa cushions together, insisting it was ‘for science,’ even though he clearly had no idea what the science was supposed to be.
Yu Tu walked past Jing Jing carrying a laundry basket, looking equally defeated. “I think they’re expanding the base,” he said.
“They are,” she replied. “Every time I blink, their perimeter gets bigger.”
A crash sounded from the family room.
Neither of them moved.
Then came the follow‑up soundtrack. Xingqiao’s startled “Ah—!” and, immediately after, Tianci’s outraged wail — the specific, high‑pitched one reserved for moments of great injustice, like when his sister destroyed something he’d been working on for a full three minutes. There was the thump‑thump of little feet, a hiccupping sob, and a furious, trembling declaration of, “MEI MEI! BAD!”
Then Jing Jing sighed. “I’ll go.”
She stepped into the chaos just in time to see Xingqiao firmly planted on her bottom, flinging both arms in the air with a triumphant yell. The cushions around her wobbled dangerously, one sliding off her bottom like it was abandoning ship.
Then Tianci’s outraged cry hit her like a siren. “MEI MEI! BAD!”
Xingqiao froze. Her smile vanished, her eyes going wide. The wobble of her lower lip was immediate — and then she burst into tears, real, startled sobs shaking her tiny shoulders.
Jing Jing reached her first. “Oh, Xiao Qiao,” She lifted her daughter into her arms, rocking her gently. “It’s okay. Ge Ge didn’t mean to yell at you.”
Xingqiao clung to her, hiccupping into her sweater.
Yu Tu stepped in beside them, brushing a hand over his daughter’s back. “It’s alright, Xiao Qiao.”
Between the two of them, Mama’s warmth and Baba’s steady presence, Xiao Qiao’s sobs softened into damp little whimpers.
Across the room, Tianci watched.
His base was ruined. Mei Mei was in Mama’s arms. Baba was comforting her. And suddenly, the world tipped sideways.
His face crumpled. A tiny, wounded sound escaped him, the kind that came from somewhere deep in his chest and then he burst into loud, heartbroken sobs.
Both parents turned at the same time.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Jing Jing breathed, shifting Xingqiao to one arm so she could reach toward her son. “Come here.”
But Tianci didn’t budge. He stood rooted to the spot, little chest heaving, tears spilling down his cheeks in big, betrayed drops.
Yu Tu crossed the room in two quick steps and crouched down, opening his arms. “Come here, Tianci.”
The invitation was all it took. Tianci collapsed against him with a shuddering sob, burying his face in Yu Tu’s shoulder. Yu Tu lifted him easily, settling the boy against his chest. Tianci clung to him with the full‑body desperation only a two‑year‑old could manage, his cries loud and raw in Yu Tu’s ear.
So there they were, one parent each, one crying child each, standing in the middle of their family room, which now looked less like a living space and more like a half‑collapsed space station, all cardboard modules, fallen cushions, scattered tools, and plush astronauts strewn across the floor.
Jing Jing met Yu Tu’s eyes over the tops of their children’s heads.
He gave her a helpless, exhausted little smile.
She huffed a soft laugh. “Morning’s going great.”
It took a while but eventually the storm began to ease.
Xingqiao’s sobs faded first. Her hiccups spaced out, her fists loosened their grip on Jing Jing’s sweater, and she lifted her head just enough to peek around, cheeks still wet and shiny. Jing Jing brushed her thumb under her eyes.
“There you are,” she whispered. “My brave girl. Did Ge Ge scare you?”
Xingqiao sniffled, her breath catching in tiny hiccups. She just stared up at her mother with big, wet eyes, bewildered and fragile, as if she were still deciding whether the world was safe again.
On the other side, Tianci’s cries had softened into shuddery breaths. His face was still pressed into Yu Tu’s shoulder, but the sobs had lost their sharp edges. Yu Tu rubbed slow circles on his back.
“Tianci,” he said gently. “Can you look at Baba?”
It took a moment, but Tianci finally lifted his head, eyes red and lashes clumped together. He looked heartbreakingly small.
Yu Tu wiped his hand over his son’s wet cheeks. “Were you upset because Mei Mei broke your base?”
Tianci’s lip wobbled. “She break.”
“I know,” Yu Tu said softly. “But yelling scared Mei Mei.”
“She sit.” He pointed at the collapsed base, still wounded.
“Yes,” Yu Tu agreed. “But she didn’t mean to break it. She’s still little.”
Tianci blinked slowly, processing this with the serious, deliberate concentration of a two‑year‑old trying to understand the universe.
Meanwhile, Jing Jing shifted Xiao Qiao so she could see her brother from the safety of Mama’s arms.
“Xiao Qiao,” she murmured, “No sitting on Ge Ge’s base. This is Ge Ge’s project.”
The toddler blinked at her mother, then at the cardboard wreckage, then at her brother, as if realizing for the first time that her triumphant landing had consequences.
Across from them, Tianci was still pressed against Yu Tu’s chest, breathing in slow, uneven pulls. Yu Tu kept rubbing his back, patient and steady.
“Tianci,” he said quietly, “Mei Mei didn’t mean to break it. She’s still learning. After Baba fix the base, can you play with Mei Mei again?”
Tianci didn’t answer right away. His little brows drew together, his mouth wobbling again as he looked over at his sister, tiny, sniffling, and clinging to Mama like a koala. He studied her with the grave seriousness only a two‑year‑old could muster.
Finally, he let out a small, tired sigh and nodded once against Yu Tu’s shoulder.
Jing Jing caught the moment. She shifted Xiao Qiao in her arms and walked over to sit beside Yu Tu on the floor, lowering herself slowly so both children were close enough to see each other without pressure.
Xingqiao peeked out from the safety of her mother’s shoulder, eyes still shiny and uncertain. She didn’t understand what she’d done, only that everyone had been loud and she’d cried very hard.
Jing Jing kept her voice soft. “Xiao Qiao, look … Ge Ge is here.”
Xiao Qiao blinked at her brother, then at the collapsed cardboard base, then back at him, her expression open and searching, as if waiting to see if the world was calm again.
Tianci watched her from the circle of Yu Tu’s arm, still sniffling but no longer trembling. His brows pulled together in that serious little way he had when he was thinking very hard. He studied his sister’s damp cheeks, her tiny fingers curled in Mama’s shirt, her small, tentative stare.
Slowly — cautiously — he reached out one hand. Not a grand gesture. Just a small, wobbly toddler reach.
Xingqiao blinked, then stretched out her own hand, brushing his fingers with hers. It was clumsy and soft, but it was connection.
Yu Tu felt Tianci’s body relax against him. Jing Jing exhaled, her shoulders easing.
The siblings leaned in, foreheads touching for a brief, quiet moment, their version of making up.
Yu Tu gave a tiny smile. “Good job, Tianci.”
Tianci sniffed, wiping his eyes on Yu Tu’s shirt again. “Baba … fix?”
“Yes,” Yu Tu said, shifting him gently so he could stand on his own two feet again. “Baba will fix.”
Before he could say more, Xingqiao straightened in Jing Jing’s arms, her earlier tears forgotten.
“Baba, fix!” she echoed, already back in command mode, tiny finger pointing at the wrecked base like a miniature mission director.
Jing Jing arched a brow at him, the corner of her mouth lifting. “You know … for someone who is a Chief Designer in Aerospace, your quality control has really slipped.”
Yu Tu paused mid‑reach, scandalized. “It’s cardboard.”
Jing Jing gestured at the collapsed structure. “Exactly. If your lunar modules were built like this, they’d never make it off the launch pad.”
“She sat on it,” he protested.
“I’m sure your lunar modules can withstand space junk.”
“She would be an enormous asteroid!”
Jing Jing gasped, hand flying to her chest. “Are you saying your daughter is fat?”
Yu Tu froze, eyes widening in horror. “No—! I meant— that’s not— she’s— it was a metaphor!”
The rest of the afternoon had gone surprisingly smooth. After their naps, the space station was rebuilt from the ground up, reinforced with enough tape to survive re‑entry. Tianci had supervised with great seriousness. Xiao Qiao had helped by handing Yu Tu random objects like socks and her pacifier.
Then hunger started creeping in, that dangerous pre‑dinner window where toddlers become unstable particles.
It began innocently.
Tianci was lining up his toy cars in a perfect row. Xingqiao toddled over, humming to herself, and plopped herself down beside him.
For a moment, it was peaceful.
Then she picked up the red car.
Tianci froze. “No. Mine.”
Xingqiao blinked at him, then held the car tighter.
“Mei Mei, no!” Tianci insisted, reaching for it.
Xingqiao twisted away, clutching it to her chest like a priceless artifact. “Ah!”
“MY car!” Tianci shouted.
“AH!” she shouted back, louder.
He stomped his foot. “MEI MEI! BAD!”
She puffed up like an angry sparrow and smacked the floor with her palm. “AHHH!”
Tianci matched her volume. “AHHHHH!”
Now they were just yelling syllables at each other again — pure toddler chaos.
Yu Tu looked up from the wok, the vegetables hissing softly as he stir‑fried them. “Tianci, share with Mei Mei—”
“No share!” Tianci yelled, outraged.
“Share,” Yu Tu repeated, trying to sound calm.
“NO SHARE!”
Xingqiao, sensing backup, shrieked triumphantly and waved the red car like a victory flag.
That was it.
Jing Jing pinched the bridge of her nose, inhaled slowly, and said with the weary authority of a mother who had reached her limit. “Both of you, stop. Just—stop everything.”
They froze.
For three seconds.
Then both burst into fresh outrage, louder than before.
She herded them toward the dining table, where at least they could be contained like small, noisy livestock.
When she returned to the kitchen, Yu Tu was wiping down the counter, shoulders sagging in the way of a man who had done his best and still lost the battle. He glanced at her, eyes saying everything. I tried.
She let out a long breath and began collecting utensils to set the table. “Do you remember when they were babies?”
Yu Tu nodded without looking up. “Yes, they slept a lot more.”
“Yes,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “And they didn’t run. They didn’t shout. They didn’t negotiate like tiny lawyers. They didn’t argue about … everything.” She waved a hand toward the dining table, where the echoes of toddler indignation still lingered in the air. “They just stayed where we put them.”
Yu Tu finally turned, giving her his full attention.
Jing Jing exhaled, softer this time, the kind of sigh that came from deep in her bones. “Babies were easier.”
Yu Tu blinked, surprised. “Easier?”
She met his eyes, tired but honest. “Compared to this? Yes.” Her voice dropped, almost to a whisper. “I miss having a baby around.”
It came out half complaint, half disbelief. It was the kind of thing a tired mother would say when she’d been out-energized all day. She didn’t mean anything by it. She didn’t even think about it again.
Yu Tu didn’t either. He just nodded sympathetically before carrying their dinner to the dining room.
And that was that. The comment floated away, forgotten.
The dawn next day was cool and pale, Shanghai’s late‑autumn air carrying that faint crispness that made everyone move a little faster. Yu Tu was up before his wife and children, packing his field kit with the quiet efficiency of someone who’d done this a hundred times.
He had a five‑day field mission, a routine environmental monitoring, nothing dramatic, but far enough outside the city that he wouldn’t be home until Friday night at the earliest. The kind of assignment where the team left before sunrise and returned before dark, and where cell reception was more hope than guarantee.
They’d already agreed that Jing Jing would take the kids to Yixing on Friday afternoon, settle in with his parents for two days, and then with hers for another two days, and he would meet them there straight from the field site. It was something they were both quietly looking forward to, a small pause in a busy season, a chance to breathe a little easier with family around.
He dressed quietly, moving through the bedroom with the soft efficiency of someone who didn’t want to wake his wife. When he finished packing his field kit, he paused by their bed.
Jing Jing was half awake, blinking at him through sleep‑heavy eyes.
“You’re leaving already?” she murmured.
He leaned down, brushed a kiss against her forehead, then her lips. It was warm and lingering, the kind of kiss that said I’ll miss you, but I’ll be back before you know it.
“Go back to sleep,” he whispered. “I’ll call when I can.”
She nodded, already drifting, and he tucked the blanket around her before slipping out.
In the children’s room, he kissed each of them too. Tianci barely stirring, Xingqiao curling her fingers around his thumb for a moment before letting go.
Then he shouldered his backpack and left the house, the door closing softly behind him.
By the time the kids were fully awake, he was already in the air, Shanghai shrinking beneath the clouds as he headed toward the field site.
The week rolled on.
Jing Jing juggled the children, her own schedule, and the looming Thursday Ad campaign. Shen Jing and Ling Jie stepped in to help on that day, and by Friday morning the house was buzzing with the familiar pre‑trip chaos.
When Driver Wang pulled up to the gate of the house, the van door slid open with a soft thump. Xiao Zhu was already stepping forward, reaching out to relieve Jing Jing of the diaper bag so she could keep a secure hold on the sleepy Xingqiao.
Tianci made a beeline for the van, legs pumping, narrating something only he understood. Before he could climb in on his own, Driver Wang scooped him up with practiced ease.
“Come on, little man,” he said, settling Tianci into his car seat and fastening the buckles with the calm efficiency of someone who’d done this many times.
Xiao Zhu turned to Jing Jing. “I’ll take her,” she murmured, gently lifting Xingqiao from her arms. The baby blinked once, then let her head fall against Xiao Zhu’s shoulder as she was carried into the van and buckled securely into her own seat.
With both children settled, Driver Wang followed Jing Jing back toward the front door. He picked up the suitcases and bags that were waiting by the entryway while she locked up the house for the trip, checking the handle twice out of habit.
By the time she returned to the van, everything was loaded, the kids were strapped in, and Xiao Zhu was already handing her a thermos of warm water.
For a moment, it almost felt easy.
Then Driver Wang started the engine.
Jing Jing suddenly gasped. “Wait—stop! Where is their stuffed sheep and rabbit? Did I forget them?”
Xiao Zhu twisted around immediately, checking the backseat. “They’re here,” she confirmed, lifting both plush animals like evidence and then passing each one to the respective child.
“Okay. Good. Sorry.” Jing Jing exhaled, waving for Driver Wang to continue.
He eased the van forward toward the main gate … for about eight seconds.
“Wait—wait!” Jing Jing blurted again. Driver Wang put the van back in park with the patience of a man who had raised three children of his own.
“The gift bags. Did we load them?”
“It’s in the trunk,” he assured her. “I put them in myself.”
“Oh. Right. Thank you.” She sank back into her seat, cheeks warm.
He started driving again.
They made it almost to the security gate before Jing Jing sat bolt upright a third time.
“Hold on … um, did I turn off all the lights?”
There was a beat of silence.
Even Tianci looked concerned.
Xiao Zhu blinked.
Then Driver Wang spoke up. “Yes, I checked the panel before you locked the front door.”
Jing Jing stared ahead, processing that. “Right. Yes. Okay. Sorry. Please go.”
Driver Wang nodded, entirely unfazed, and pulled them out onto the road at last.
Behind them, the housing complex shrank in the rear-view mirror, thankfully, without any forgotten appliances smoking in the kitchen.
Once everyone was settled, Tianci began chattering about rockets, Xingqiao humming to her favorite sheep, Xiao Zhu passing snacks forward like a flight attendant, and the van eased onto the expressway.
The city thinned behind them, replaced by long stretches of highway and the soft blur of autumn fields. Jing Jing leaned her head against the window, letting the rhythm of the road loosen the tightness in her chest. For the first time in weeks, she wasn’t rushing to a set, a meeting, or a livestream. She was just … going home. Or at least, to a place that felt like home because Yu Tu’s parents and her parents would be there, and because Yu Tu would be there tonight.
“Jing Jing,” Xiao Zhu said quietly next to her, “you can sleep if you want. I’ve got the kids.”
Jing Jing didn’t argue. She closed her eyes, listening to the soft murmur of Tianci explaining constellations to his sister, though half of it was wrong, all of it earnest.
Somewhere around the halfway point, the van hit a patch of sunlight. Warm, steady, and comforting.
Jing Jing thought, He’ll be there tonight. Dusty from travel, tired from work, but there. The thought settled over her like a blanket.
By the time they reached Yixing, the van had gone quiet in that rare, miraculous way only parents of toddlers truly appreciate. Tianci was slumped sideways in his car seat, one sock missing, and hair sticking up like he’d been wrestling dreams. Xingqiao was out cold too, her cheek squished against her straps, her stuffed sheep pinned under one arm like a tiny hostage.
As the van rolled to a stop in front of the Yu household, the building gate swung open — and all four grandparents stepped out together.
The two grandmothers were in front, smiling so broadly it softened every line on their faces. The grandfathers stood just behind them, equally eager, leaning forward as if they could see the grandchildren better by sheer will. Seven years of marriage meant this choreography was familiar: both families gathering here first, at the Yu home, the place that had been lovingly renovated a few years ago to make room for visits like this.
The moment they saw the sleeping kids, all four grandparents’ expressions melted in perfect, synchronized tenderness.
Xiao Zhu slipped out quietly to gather the lighter bags. Driver Wang opened the trunk with practiced care. Jing Jing stepped down from the van, stretching her back, the cool Yixing air settling over her like a welcome hush.
Her mother reached her first, brushing a hand over her arm. “Long drive,” she whispered, glancing at the sleeping grandchildren.
Jing Jing nodded. “They fell asleep halfway.”
Yu Tu’s mother moved closer then, her voice soft with pride and affection. “They look so adorable,” she murmured, eyes shining as she looked at her grandchildren.
Yu Tu’s father was already circling the van, hands clasped behind his back, pretending he wasn’t about to open the door himself just to admire his grandson’s face. Her own father hovered nearby, ready to help but trying not to wake anyone.
The renovated apartment behind them glowed softly. The widened bedroom window, the expanded space where Yu Tu’s old room had become the family room for their visits, and the familiar warmth of a home that had grown with them.
Tonight, Yu Tu would be here as well.
***
Just before 11 p.m., the Yu family apartment finally settled into silence.
Somewhere down the hall, Grandmother Yu was humming while folding tiny clothes, and Grandfather Yu was whisper‑lecturing Tianci in his sleep about ‘proper sock management.’ The kind of chaos only grandparents could create. But for once, none of it required Jing Jing or Yu Tu.
Jing Jing closed the door to their room behind her and leaned against it with a sigh. “Your parents stole our children.”
Yu Tu looked up from where he was unpacking a small bag. “They volunteered.”
“That’s kidnapping with extra steps.”
He smiled that quiet, warm smile that always softened her. “You’re complaining?”
She crossed the room to him, poking his chest lightly. “I’m suspicious. They’re too eager. They’re plotting something.”
“Probably,” he agreed. “But it gives us a break.”
Jing Jing paused, eyes narrowing playfully. “A break? What is that? I don’t remember that word.”
Yu Tu set the bag aside and stepped closer, his voice low but amused. “It means we have time.”
“Time for what?”
He didn’t answer immediately. He just looked at her, that steady, focused look that always made her heart skip, even after seven years.
Jing Jing raised a brow. “Yu Tu … are you trying to seduce me with vocabulary?”
He laughed softly. “Is it working?”
She pretended to think. “Well … the parents have the kids … and we have the bedroom to ourselves …”
He leaned in just a little. “And?”
“And,” she said, tapping his chest again, “you’re giving me that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that got us two children.”
He blinked, deadpan. “Statistically, it was more complicated than that.”
Jing Jing rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself. “Yu Tu.”
He reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers with that familiar, gentle certainty.
“Jing Jing,” he murmured, “come here.”
She stepped up to him without hesitation.
Outside, Grandfather Yu sneezed. Grandmother Yu shushed him. Someone dropped a slipper.
Jing Jing laughed quietly against Yu Tu’s shoulder. “We’re never going to get a moment alone, are we?”
He kissed the top of her head. “We only need one.”
And she looked up at him, soft, amused, and completely in love. Then she said the line that sealed their fate.
“Then make sure you lock the door properly.”
Weeks later, when the pregnancy test turned positive, Jing Jing stared at it in stunned silence.
Yu Tu looked at her, then at the test, then back at her.
And with the softest, most maddeningly calm voice, he said. “Jing Jing … you said you missed having a baby around. You really should be careful what you wish for.”
She threw a pillow at him.
Nine months later, on August 18, 2032, Yu Tu and Jing Jing welcomed the newest little star into their family. He was their third child, a baby boy they named Yu Tianwei.
