Rain dripped from every rooftop like the city itself was sweating out its sorrow. In Linhai, August rain was no surprise — but this storm had teeth. The streets shimmered with headlights reflecting in puddles, and soaked advertisements flapped like wet flags on lampposts.
Chen Hao pulled his cheap electric scooter to a stop under a bus shelter, shaking rain off his helmet. The screen on his delivery app blinked red: Customer waiting 12 minutes. He checked the order — spicy pork noodles, milk tea with grass jelly. Cheap, comforting stuff.
His stomach growled.
He hadn't eaten since noon — just a baozi grabbed between shifts. But the noodles weren't his. They were for someone in Building 8, Xinyu Gardens, a name that sounded fancier than it probably was.
He revved the engine and pushed on.
The elevator was broken. Of course it was.
Hao climbed six floors with the bag in hand, shoes squelching with every step. He knocked once, wiped his forehead, then knocked again.
The door opened slowly.
A girl — maybe his age, maybe younger — peeked out, wrapped in a thick blanket despite the heat. Her eyes were swollen, but not from sleep.
"Delivery," he said, holding up the bag like a peace offering.
She nodded and took it, fumbling for her phone. "Sorry," she said quietly. "The tip is in the app."
"No problem," Hao replied. He turned to leave.
Then she said, barely audible, "Wait."
He turned.
"…Did you eat?"
"…Huh?"
"The food," she said, glancing at the noodles. "There's too much. I ordered two by mistake. Or maybe not by mistake. I… just…" She looked away. "Do you want one?"
Hao blinked.
"No pressure. Just— I don't want to eat alone tonight."
He hesitated.
Every delivery rule in his head screamed no. But the night was too cold, the city too loud, and her voice too sad.
"…Okay," he said.
They sat on the balcony of her small apartment, watching neon signs blur in the rain. She told him her name was Liang Mei. She was studying fashion design. Her boyfriend had broken up with her this morning over voice message.
"I knew it was coming," she muttered. "Still hurt though."
Hao nodded. "Life in this city does that."
She looked at him. "You live here too?"
He smiled. "I sleep here. Living… I'm still figuring that out."
She laughed — soft, but real.
They ate in silence after that. The spicy broth warmed his chest, the noodles soft and satisfying. He hadn't had a sit-down meal in days.
When he left, she said, "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For not just being a delivery guy."
Back on his scooter, drenched again, Hao rode into the night with a full stomach and a strange sense that the city had just opened a door.
Not much — just a crack.
But enough.