Sunday mornings in Liangcheng always moved slower than the rest of the week—except for Lin Qing Yun.
Her small desk by the window was already busy: notebooks stacked like obedient bricks, an old laptop humming, and a cup of soy milk cooling beside a plate with two biscuits she kept forgetting to eat. She typed, lips moving with the English before she gave it careful Chinese:
"To disseminate new findings, methodologies, and insights within a professional community."
Tap, tap. Pause. Tap.
From the corridor came the clatter of someone rinsing greens and Auntie Wei's voice drifting like a neighborhood broadcast: "Sunny! Eat breakfast! Beautiful girls cannot live on air!"
Qing Yun smiled without looking up. "I'll invoice the air later, Auntie!"
A beat of satisfied laughter answered, and then the hallway returned to the steady rhythm of a lazy Sunday.
By mid-morning she had swapped slippers for sneakers and was on her scooter, insulated delivery bag strapped behind. Between ten and two she ferried noodles, soups, and the occasional rebellious salad across town. At one door a college girl peered hopefully into the bag. "No cilantro, right?"
"Cilantro-free life," Qing Yun promised. "You're safe."
Back home she washed her face, changed into a clean sweater, and by three she was tying on the apron at the bookstore café. She lined up new arrivals, negotiated a peace deal between a child and a picture book, and brewed a merciful latte for a man who looked like he'd wrestled spreadsheets since sunrise.
And every so often, without meaning to, she glanced at her phone.
Qing Yun: Bookstore, 6 p.m. I changed my shift.
She hadn't written the reason—that she didn't want him driving too late after dropping Si Yao at the dorm—but a small, private warmth unfolded in her chest anyway, like a paper flower meeting hot water.
A reply had pinged almost at once:
Gu Ze Yan: Received. Shall I bring snacks or an Economy lecture?
Qing Yun: Snacks.
Gu Ze Yan: Understood. Economy class rescheduled.
Pick-up
At six exactly, the bell chimed. He stepped in like the shop had called him by name: dark coat, clean lines, hair neat despite the breeze, a smile that belonged to no one else.
"Mr. Gu!" Si Yao launched herself around the counter, ponytail flying, casual sweater half-zipped like she'd dressed while running. "Please say we're eating first—I'm starving."
"We're eating first," he said, already amused. "Your petition is approved."
Qing Yun pretended to sigh. "The committee is weak."
"The committee has snacks," he countered, lifting the paper bag in his hand.
"Overruled," Si Yao declared solemnly, and the three of them laughed as if they had always been laughing together.
Night market
The pedestrian street by the river was a lantern-lit ribbon, crowded but kind. Steam curled upward from every stall—dumplings, chestnuts, sweet soups; neon flickered on stone like a lazy kaleidoscope.
"Jiejie, look!" Si Yao tugged, eyes wide. "Tanghulu! And that squid—wow—can we try—oh! Peanut sugar!"
"One at a time," Qing Yun warned, failing to hide a grin. "We can't test fate and cholesterol in one evening."
Behind them, Ze Yan fell naturally into the role of logistics manager: carrying bags, paying codes, herding his two charges when they exploded in opposite directions like fireworks.
"Bodyguard," he murmured, watching them with a smile. "And part-time porter."
At the candied fruit stall, the vendor winked so hard one eye disappeared. "Buy two, get one destiny!"
"We'll just buy two," Qing Yun said kindly, taking one stick and—without thinking—passing the other to him. He bit carefully, the sugar shell cracking to reveal that bright sour-sweet. He nodded like a man signing a treaty. "Destiny accomplished."
They sampled chili-brushed skewers (he coughed bravely; Si Yao cackled; Qing Yun handed him water with a patently unhelpful, "I warned you"). At tofu pudding he surprised them both by ordering three portions without looking at the menu.
"You know this place?" Qing Yun asked.
"Research," he said gravely. "I'm in AI. We experiment."
"Unscientific," she sniffed, but her eyes curved.
They perched on low stools. He blew on a spoon and offered it to Si Yao across the table like a ceremony; she accepted with the seriousness of a royal tasting. Their laughter tangled with the lantern light for a minute and made a home between them.
"You two are the worst," Qing Yun announced, then proceeded to feed both of them the best bites. When she wasn't looking, he slid the larger tofu piece into her bowl. She looked down, frowned at the geometry, and then up at him; he kept his face innocent. She failed not to smile.
At a chestnut stall, the boss declared: "Beautiful sister gets an extra handful."
"And the tall one?" Si Yao asked, pointing shamelessly at Ze Yan.
The boss peered, nodded gravely. "He gets to carry the bag."
"Fair system," Ze Yan said, hoisting the warm parcel like he'd trained for it.
They walked on. A street photographer popped up and begged them for a candid shot, swearing the lighting would be "historic." Qing Yun waved him away, laughing. Si Yao, not to be denied, snapped a picture of the three of them on her phone anyway, glancing at it with secret delight before tucking it away.
For a stretch, the sisters walked hand-in-hand, stopping every three steps to peer at something glowing or sizzling. He followed half a pace behind, the shamelessly pleased look of a man who'd been promoted from stranger to entourage.
"Mr. Gu," Si Yao said suddenly, "if you weren't our driver tonight, what would you be?"
"Hungry," he said. "And lonely."
She looked at him with a wise little nod and decided—without announcing it—that she liked him very much.
The dorm
The drive to school was a smooth half hour. Neon thinned to steady streetlights and then the crisp brightness of the campus gate.
Qing Yun was instantly fussing with her sister's scarf, tucking hair, straightening a sleeve that didn't need straightening. "Eat breakfast. Don't skip the fruit. Call me before you sleep."
"Got it, got it." Si Yao grinned, then turned and hugged Ze Yan with zero warning. He froze for a beat, then returned the hug carefully, as if being entrusted a fragile medal.
"Thank you for tonight," she said into his coat. Then—leaning up, conspiratorial: "Good luck."
His brows lifted. She had already bounced away, waving, disappearing into the warm square of light beyond the security desk.
Qing Yun watched, arms folded, a satisfied sadness soft in her gaze—the kind that comes from doing right by someone you love and having to let them go anyway. He didn't interrupt. He just stood beside her and let the quiet be a promise instead of an absence.
The car ride
On the way back, she sat straight at first, hands folded over her bag, posture exemplary. The city slid by in tempered light. Then the day finally caught up.
Her head tipped toward the window, breath gentled, lashes lowering. As the car eased through traffic, she slipped into sleep without a fight.
He glanced, and that was that. The world contracted to a steering wheel, a sleeping profile, and the warm hush of the cabin.
Passing signs traced pink, then gold along her cheekbone. The faint crease that concentration carved between her brows had vanished; she looked younger like this, and—strangely—safer.
He slowed for corners he normally took without thinking. When they pulled up under her building, he kept the engine idling low and did not wake her.
For a long, simple minute, he just looked.
His hand hovered above her hair—close enough to feel warmth, not so close as to touch. The impulse to smooth a stray strand was ridiculous and overwhelming. He smiled at himself: Get a grip, Gu Ze Yan. You are a CEO, not a sleep-time thief.
A car door closed down the block; the cat on the meter box announced its dislike of everything with one offended meow. She stirred. Her eyes opened slowly, finding him with that small confusion people always wear in the first second of waking.
"I—did I fall asleep?" She pushed up, mortified. "I'm so sorry. That's… incredibly rude of me."
"You needed it," he said softly. "I'm honored my driving has a clinical sedative effect."
A blink, then a laugh slipped out. "I never fall asleep in cars."
"Maybe you felt safe."
Her hand tightened once on the strap of her bag. She turned her face away, but the faint pink at her ear betrayed her mood.
"Why do you work so much, Sunny?" he asked after a stretch. His voice was warm, even, not a probe—an invitation.
"For Si Yao." Her answer came gently, as if she'd chosen it years ago and reaffirmed it daily. "Her dream is my dream now. As long as she can reach hers, I'm happy."
"And you?" He kept his tone light, like speaking across a small river. "When she reaches it… what then? What is yours?"
She looked at her hands, then out at the familiar gate, and smiled in a way that made his chest ache. "Then I'll finally rest. Or… maybe I'll learn to make a perfect cup of coffee. Small dream."
He almost said I can build you a café. He swallowed the extravagance and asked, quiet, "Your father… doesn't help?"
She shook her head, voice even. "I never knew him. Never even saw his face."
He blinked, surprised not by the fact but by the calm with which she held it.
"And your mother?"
"She left when I was seventeen." The words were mild; the content was not. "Si Yao was eleven. Someone had to be the adult. So I tried."
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and made himself let go. The impulse to pull her into his arms felt as appropriate as it did impossible. He chose what he could do: listen without flinching.
She caught his silence, tilted her head with that practiced brightness that refused pity. "Thank you for today. For dinner. For taking us."
"You're welcome." A beat. "Thank you for letting me."
She laughed under her breath. "You insist very politely."
"It's my one skill."
"Mm. You have others." It came out before she could stop it. She cleared her throat, flustered. "Driving. For example."
He went around to open her door. The old bulb above the gate buzzed and then steadied, as if remembering to be brave.
They stood there in the threshold where street met stairwell, close enough that their breath made a small shared cloud in the cool.
"Good night, Mr. Gu," she said softly.
"Good night, Sunny," he answered, and the way he said her full name made something in her eyes soften—unguarded for half a heartbeat.
"Good night… Ze Yan." She set his name down like a cup where it wouldn't spill.
From a balcony above, Auntie Zhu's commentary arrived on schedule: "Sunny! Did your boyfriend eat? I have soup!"
Qing Yun choked on a laugh. "Thank you, Auntie! He ate enough for research!"
"Good! Bring him next week! I'll test him at mahjong!"
"I accept," he called up, because apparently he was that person now.
The balcony went silent in delighted shock.
She stepped through the gate. He watched until the stairwell swallowed her and the soft echo of her steps faded upward. Only then did he breathe out and look up at the bulb.
One day, he told the night, simple as a vow, I'll give her the whole world.
His phone buzzed.
Qing Yun: Thank you for today. And for the snacks.
He typed, erased an essay, and settled for truth.
Ze Yan: Rest early. Text me if you need anything.
Qing Yun: Okay.
Another buzz—Chen Rui, incapable of minding his own business even on a Sunday:
Chen Rui: Driver Gu, how many stars did the passenger give you?
Ze Yan: Five.
Chen Rui: Screenshots or it didn't happen.
Ze Yan: Focus on living. See you tomorrow.
He pocketed the phone, grinning like a man with a secret. Across the lane, the cat resumed management. Upstairs, a shadow crossed her window once—someone setting a cup, turning a page—and the square of light held steady.
He stood there a moment longer, then turned toward the car, already planning to return with a new bulb, new batteries for the stair radio, and—if he was honest—any excuse that let him knock on that door again.