The bus groaned as it pulled from the curb, brakes sighing like an old kettle. Neon from Haiyun Road blinked across the fogging windows, smearing itself into soft ribbons of pink and blue.
The seats were nearly full, parkas and wool scarves pressed shoulder to shoulder. A teenager sprang out at the last second, and a space opened near the back. Lin Qing Yun slipped into it with practiced speed. Gu Ze Yan followed, his coat brushing hers as he sat. When the bus hit a shallow dip, their shoulders tipped together and then apart again, like a quiet bow.
He was taller than most inside, knees finding the metal seatback; her bag went neatly onto her lap, the edge of a paperback peeking like a secret. Warm air from the ceiling vent coughed to life, carrying a faint scent of heater dust and something like fried dumplings from earlier passengers.
"Still think you'll regret this?" she asked, smile bright, voice pitched for him alone.
He leaned back as if he belonged there, upper hand light on the cool pole. "Not yet."
The bus rattled through a low turn; condensation chased itself across the glass. He steadied the pole with one gloved hand; his other hand had bare fingers that pinked at the knuckles.
"You never told me your name," Qing Yun said, turning with open curiosity. A curl had escaped her scarf and was trying to write on her cheek.
He looked amused. "You called me chili-guy's friend twice. I assumed that was my official title."
Her lips curved brighter. "Then? What should I call you?"
"Gu Ze Yan," he said.
She repeated it softly, tasting the syllables, then nodded, approving. "It does sound like someone out of a book."
"Hopefully not Crime and Punishment," he said.
She chuckled, eyes crinkling. "That would explain your chili oil habits. Punishment disguised as seasoning."
"And you? Sunny?"
"Sunny's easier for everyone. But yes… Lin Qing Yun." She said it warmly, like an invitation, not a wall.
A draft found the aisle when the doors opened for a new stop; a scatter of breath-clouds bloomed and faded.
They rode through two stops without speaking, the bus bell dinging softly, the windshield wipers making a tired whisk. Then Qing Yun tipped her head, studying him with playful interest.
"So, Gu Ze Yan… what do you actually do? Besides mysteriously appearing in all my workplaces?"
A laugh warmed his voice. "I run a company."
"Really? What kind?"
"AI. Small team. Mostly technical." He tilted a shoulder. "Most people find it boring."
Her eyes lit with quick, earnest interest. "AI? That doesn't sound boring at all."
"You're the first person to say that."
"Maybe you've been asking the wrong people," she teased, tucking that stray curl back under her scarf.
Something in her easy friendliness made him look a beat longer than he intended. Outside, a vendor pushed a cart of steamed sweet potatoes past a stop; condensation beaded on the lid, sending little puffs of fragrant steam into the cold.
Her phone buzzed softly. She glanced down, and her smile arrived before she even swiped to answer.
"Siyao? Mm. …Yes, I'm on the bus. …Goodnight, silly. Sleep early. I'll call you again tomorrow."
The way she said goodnight—light and warm—left a glow behind it. She ended the call and tucked the phone away, the smile lingering like steam from a paper cup.
"Your sister?" he asked.
She nodded, happy. "Mm. Dorm at a private high school. She calls almost every night before bed. Sometimes just to say goodnight. But I… like it."
"She sounds important to you."
"She's my favorite person," Qing Yun said without hesitation. Her eyes were bright; the bus's pale light made them look like they held their own small lanterns.
The bus took a bend; he leaned a little closer so he didn't have to raise his voice. "So how many jobs do you actually have?"
She wrinkled her nose, apologetic and mischievous at once. "Too many." She counted on her fingers, a mitten dangling from its cord at her wrist.
"Bookstore most evenings. Noodle house on weekends and busy nights. Translation in the day. Tutoring sometimes.Warehouse stocking."
He blinked. "That's… five."
"Six, if you count laundry," she added, mock-serious.
He stared, then laughed, a low sound that sat comfortably between them. "When do you sleep?"
"On buses," she said brightly, letting her head rest for a second against the cool window frame.
The timing was perfect: the bus rolled over a seam in the road, and her hair slid, brushing his shoulder like a whisper. She caught herself, straightened—still smiling, cheeks a quick winter-pink.
"See?" she said. "Public transportation: efficient."
"I think you just downgraded me to furniture."
"Not bad furniture," she teased, then paused—aware of herself, but not embarrassed. The heat from the ceiling vent softened the cold in their coats; the moment stretched, gentle and clear, before the next stop bell chimed and snipped it cleanly.
They passed a block of shopfronts, all windows fogged, red paper cuttings starting to bloom on glass. A child in a puffy coat pressed a star sticker onto the bus pane; it stuck, then slowly slid down, leaving a silver trail.
"You always take this route?" he asked.
"Most nights."
"It's long."
"It's quiet." She smiled. "Even when it's loud."
He understood more than she explained.
A pair of students climbed on in matching jackets, breathless and red-eared. The doors hissed closed behind them; the heater sighed; someone's scarf trailed and was rescued by three strangers at once. Liangcheng had that soft, winter-crowded courtesy—bent elbows, shared space, nobody pretends it's summer.
He glanced at her, a little reluctant to break the comfortable noise. "Do you… do all that because you like staying busy?"
"Because it pays," she said simply, then softened it with a small grin. "And because I'm not good at sitting still."
He nodded. Outside, a chestnut brazier clicked and popped. Inside, a sleepy ringtone somewhere toward the front was silenced by a muffled apology.
"So—bookstore, diner, translation, tutoring, stocking," he said, half to organize it for himself. "You do all that and still read Crime and Punishment for fun."
"It keeps the rest of life feeling light," she said, eyes laughing.
"Then I hope you never read comedy."
"That," she conceded, "would be dangerous."
The bus slowed, brakes letting out a long, tired sigh. The neon thinned into older blocks—narrow alleys, tiled stairwells, laundry lines like muted flags. The doors opened; a small winter draft curled in.
"This is my stop," she said, rising. Her scarf caught a breath of cold and fluttered like a small pennant.
He stood too. "I'll walk you."
"You don't need to—"
"I know."
She hesitated, then laughed softly at herself and shook her head. "Suit yourself."
They stepped down into the night. The air tasted faintly of sugar syrup and damp stone; somewhere nearby, buns steamed in bamboo towers, lids clinking as if in conversation. Bicycles leaned against cracked walls, their frames catching little flecks of neon. A plane tree held the last of its leaves like thin coins.
Gu Ze Yan took in the modest buildings, the narrow stairwells, the hallway lights that flickered to save electricity. He had never walked here before. The cold found the edge of his collar; he didn't notice.
Beside him, Lin Qing Yun adjusted the strap of her bag and smiled up at him—not apology, not distance. Just the kind of friendliness that didn't spend what it couldn't afford.
"You'll freeze," he said lightly.
"I'm local," she said. "We don't freeze. We marinate."
He laughed, surprised at how easily it came. A cat darted from under a scooter and vanished into a shadow that smelled faintly of oranges.
They turned into a lane where windows wore their curtains thin and ordinary. Somewhere, a TV laughed; somewhere, a kettle boiled; somewhere, a neighbor argued fondly with a draft that refused to close the balcony door.
He matched her pace—neither fast nor slow. He didn't reach for her bag. He didn't offer a hand up the curb. He let the street do its work: introduce him to where she lived, not as a guest but as a witness.
And he realized, not for the first time, that Lin Qing Yun lived in an entirely different world from his own.