For a breath and a heartbeat, time in Xianghe Noodle House held still. Even the steam-fogged glass on the door seemed to pause its breathing.
The clatter of bowls, the scrape of red stools, the hiss of broth—all of it wavered while Gu Ze Yan waited for her answer. He had asked lightly, but something taut and unfamiliar pulled at his ribs as he watched her face.
Lin Qing Yun blinked once, a flutter of lashes over bright eyes. Then her smile returned—warm, polite, the kind she gave to every customer who called her name.
"I'm sorry, sir," she said gently, voice pitched just above the clamor. "Have we met?"
A small laugh burst out of Xu Hao before he could help it. "Ah, that stings. Brother Gu, turns out you're mortal after all."
Ze Yan didn't look away from her. Her smile didn't waver. Up close he noticed the faint pink at the tip of her nose from the kitchen heat, the loose hair that had slipped from her ponytail to brush her cheek, the crescent curve of her eyes when she smiled. None of it felt like rejection. It felt… ordinary. The way a friendly waitress would speak to a stranger.
He cleared his throat smoothly. "My mistake. I thought you might have seen me at the bookstore café. There's a girl there who looks very much like you."
The corner of her mouth lifted. "Is she as good at carrying trays as I am?"
Xu Hao snorted. "Not possible."
Her laugh came soft and quick—bell-bright and already turning to the next table. The kitchen bell rang twice. Someone shouted for more soup spoons. A boy behind them tapped chopsticks like drumsticks until his mother hissed his name.
"Sunny!" the owner called from the pass, holding two bowls above the counter. "Table seven!"
"Coming!" she sang back, her voice cutting through the clatter like a ribbon through air.
She gave them a small nod and pivoted away, moving with that same unhurried quickness that made noise seem to part around her. For the first time in a long time, Gu Ze Yan found himself standing in a crowded room and being the one left behind.
Xu Hao elbowed him, gleeful. "So, Mr. Always-Noticed. How does invisibility feel?"
Ze Yan's mouth twitched. He picked up his jacket from the back of the chair with careful leisure, the gesture practiced, elegant. "Temporary."
"That's the spirit." Xu Hao looked terribly pleased with himself. "I'm telling you—women remember me. I have what the kids call 'spice aura.'"
"You nearly blinded the chef with chili oil. That's not aura," Ze Yan said, deadpan. "It's a safety hazard."
Xianghe's owner, a man with a belly like a drum and a face that smiled without trying, nodded at them from the pass.
"Everything good?" he asked.
"Perfect," Xu Hao answered, patting his stomach. "I could die here happily someday."
"Don't die here," the owner said cheerfully. "Just eat more."
Ze Yan's eyes slid sideways, looking for her without admitting it. He found Lin Qing Yun near the window, crouched beside a table where a small boy had knocked over his spoon. She grabbed napkins with one hand and, with the other, steadied a brimming bowl so not a drop spilled. She knelt to the child's level, said something that made him giggle, then tapped her own cheek and whispered conspiratorially until the mother's strained face softened.
She stood, brushed her hands together, and turned—catching him watching. The smile she gave him was the same as before, bright and easy. He didn't weigh it, didn't analyze it. He only felt its effect: a warmth rising a fraction too quickly beneath his collar.
"Let's go," Xu Hao said, already halfway to the door.
They stepped outside into Liangcheng's winter neon. A damp southern chill threaded the sidewalks; breath ghosted in front of faces. Motorbikes purred past. The sidewalk was a river of people—students with backpacks, couples sharing skewers from a paper tray, an elderly man selling candied haw over a coal brazier that pulsed like a small heart. The karaoke bar next door offered a muffled chorus with more enthusiasm than pitch.
"Admit it," Xu Hao said, satisfied. "You're curious."
"I'm hungry," Ze Yan replied.
"You already ate."
"I could eat more."
Xu Hao laughed. "No, seriously. She's exactly your type."
"What type is that?"
"Pretty, bright, makes you feel like the air is missing something when she leaves." Xu Hao waggled his brows. "Also—she remembered me."
"That last point shows questionable taste."
Xu Hao thumped a hand to his chest like a drama actor. "Wounded."
They started down the street, but after a few steps, Gu Ze Yan turned back. Through the fogged glass he could still see Lin Qing Yun moving in the din—delivering bowls, wiping tables, knotting her apron strings tighter with a quick twist. A group of office workers raised their cups to her. She smiled, bowed her head slightly, then moved on.
For a second, he felt again the faint press under his ribs—the one that had surprised him inside. He'd been admired more times than he could count; he'd learned a long time ago not to chase. This felt like something else. Not a chase. A pull.
A woman passing glanced at the two men, eyes skimming Xu Hao's broad shoulders before landing squarely on Gu Ze Yan with unhidden appreciation. He didn't notice. Or rather, he noticed and let it pass like music in the background.
Tonight, the music was different.
"Do you know her?" he asked suddenly.
"Sunny?" Xu Hao looked thoughtful. "Only by name. She remembers me because my spice tolerance is a public hazard."
"Not the diner." Ze Yan's gaze slid back to the window. "The bookstore café near the office."
"Oh." Xu Hao snapped his fingers. "You mean the one on Haiyun Road? I've seen a girl there who looks like her—a little too good at recommending books I never finish."
"So it might be the same person."
"Or she has a twin. Imagine the tragedy for the chef."
Ze Yan huffed a laugh, hands finding his coat pockets. The city pressed close—bright, fast, strangely intimate. "I'll drop by tomorrow," he said, half to himself.
"Ah," Xu Hao said in delight, "curious."
"I'm confirming a detail."
"That's not what your face looks like. Your face looks—how to phrase it politely—undignified."
"I always look dignified," Ze Yan said, without much conviction.
They cut through a side street where a man tossed noodles into the air like silver ropes. A tiny dog with a purple bow dragged its owner toward a grilled squid stand. Boys in uniforms argued about soccer. A busker sang a love song that didn't reach the notes, and somehow made three couples stop and smile anyway.
"Are you actually—what, going to ask for her number?" Xu Hao asked, curious rather than mocking. If anything, impressed. "That would be a first."
"I'm going to order a coffee," Ze Yan said mildly, remembering the girl with a name tag that read Lin Qing Yun, humming as she arranged English novels like a private ritual. "Whether the barista is the same is a separate matter."
"Mm." Xu Hao nodded gravely. "So dignified."
They reached the bend toward the river. Lanterns bobbed over the dark water; the wind off it made the reflections shiver—a southern winter that seeped through clothes rather than bit the skin.
"Dessert?" Xu Hao said. "Sweet tofu pudding?"
"Another time," Ze Yan said. His gaze kept straying back toward Xianghe Noodle House.
He didn't believe in love at first sight. He believed in timing, in slowly tilting scales, in small things seen and filed away. He liked patterns, cause and effect. He liked to understand the steps between.
But when she had looked at him inside the diner—when that standard smile had seemed to soften, just a fraction, as if it were for him specifically—something in him skipped a step. He didn't know why. He didn't want to name it. He only knew it would bother him until he resolved it.
"You know," Xu Hao mused, "I think she called you 'sir.' Not even 'handsome sir.' Very egalitarian. Not your usual fan club."
"You're enjoying this too much."
"Immensely." Xu Hao slung an arm around his shoulder. "Come on. I'll walk you to your car before you decide to haunt the noodle shop."
They parted at the curb with a promise to meet for lunch. After Xu Hao's taxi slid away, Gu Ze Yan didn't get in immediately. He stood with the door open, watching the light change. In Xianghe's high window, Lin Qing Yun moved, stopped, turned away, returned.
A delivery motorbike zipped past, stirring a strand of his hair. He got in at last and started the engine; even as the dashboard lit, he glanced once more in the rearview—at the small, bright rectangle of the sign, pulsing like a heartbeat.
He pulled into traffic.
Inside the diner, the night rolled on. Lin Qing Yun took an order, handed out chopsticks, lifted a bowl to sniff the broth and nod approvingly before setting it down. When the rush thinned, she refilled the water jar and leaned lightly against the counter to catch her breath.
"Sunny," the owner said, pushing a glass of warm barley tea toward her. "Drink."
"Thank you." She cupped it, letting heat soak into fingers still chilled from the draughts by the door, and took a slow sip. Warmth spread from her palms to her chest, loosening something tight between her shoulder blades.
"You're always smiling," the owner said, fond and proud. "Customers like that. I like that." He lowered his voice, teasing. "And tonight, handsome men came to see you again."
She laughed. "They came to eat."
"Both," he decided. "Drink your tea."
She did. Neon brushed the surface of the liquid, turning it gold. Outside, the winter noise softened to a manageable hum. She set the glass down and went back to work.
By closing, the karaoke next door had turned sentimental. The last table left with earnest thanks. She wiped the final surface, stacked menus, tied off the trash bag with a neat twist. The owner yawned and waved.
"Go on, Sunny. You've done enough. See you tomorrow."
"Good night."
She untied her apron and hung it with the others. The window reflected her for a moment—cheeks faintly pink, hair slightly mussed, the small smile she wore as easily as breath. She didn't study it. She smoothed a strand behind her ear and stepped out.
The air tasted of sugar and charcoal and rain. The street had thinned to a few lingering couples, a bicycle bell, the haw seller counting coins over the red glow of coal. Lin Qing Yun adjusted her bag and set off toward the bus stop at the end of the block.
Across the street, several stories up, a car paused half a second too long at a green light before turning and disappearing.
⸻
"Tomorrow," Gu Ze Yan told himself while he waited for the garage gate to rise. The building lights stacked above him like chess pieces—neat, familiar. "I'll stop by the bookstore. I'll order a coffee."
He didn't say what came after. He didn't know.
He only knew that for the first time in a long time, he was leaving a place with something unfinished pressing under his ribs. Not defeat. Not victory. A question starting.
He cut the engine, stepped into the quiet of the private garage, and the city thinned to the hum of the elevator. When the doors slid open, his reflection was there again: practiced calm, neat hair, the face women called dangerously cute. It should have amused him. Tonight, it didn't.
He pressed the button. The elevator rose like a held breath.
On Xianghe's counter, the QR stand glowed faintly in the empty room. A napkin left by a rushing student fluttered in the draft from the air conditioner. In the small kitchen, the last pot clanged into place. The owner turned off the lights one by one until only the window's neon wash kept the room a faint blue.
At the bus stop, Lin Qing Yun tucked her hands into her sleeves, eyes tracking headlights in the distance. A night breeze lifted the loose hairs at her temple. Two teenagers giggled over shared earbuds. The bus sighed to a stop, doors folding open like a yawn.
She stepped on; the doors closed; Liangcheng rolled on.
⸻
In another part of the city, Xu Hao sprawled across his sofa and sent a single, merciless message:
Xu Hao: So… do you remember me? 😏
Gu Ze Yan: Sleep.
Xu Hao: She said that to you, not me.
Gu Ze Yan: Good night, Xu Hao.
He put the phone face down and lay still. It would have been easy to fall back into habit—emails, proposals, messages. He did none of it. He closed his eyes and saw a girl balancing two bowls with one hand, eyes bright, smile easy.
He told himself it was curiosity. He let it be true.
Tomorrow would be the bookstore.
He didn't plan beyond that.