Lin Qing Yun walked as if the street were an old friend—easy steps, bag slung over one shoulder, smile already prepared for whoever called her name. Gu Ze Yan kept pace, polished shoes finding pitted concrete, coat sleeves catching the stubborn glow of a single streetlamp. He didn't belong to this place on paper, but the way he shifted half a step nearer whenever a scooter rattled by—like a shield you didn't have to think about—felt as natural as any storefront sign.
"Sunny! Back from work?" boomed Auntie Zhao, fanning herself in a floral blouse outside her household-goods shop, installed regally on a plastic stool that had seen too many summers and refused to retire.
Qing Yun dipped her head, cheerful. "Auntie Zhao, if I ever come home early you'll have to call the police."
Auntie Zhao's eyes slid to Ze Yan, widening the way streetlights brighten before rain. "And who's this? Ah—look at you, bringing someone home. Tall, decent-looking, and those eyebrows—expensive."
The old men beside her, stools arranged like a neighborhood council, leaned in for better inspection.
"Good evening," Ze Yan said—respectful, warm. He didn't flinch at the audit; he even offered a small nod that made Auntie Zhao's fan stall mid-air.
"Just a friend walking me," Qing Yun added, which fooled no one and delighted everyone.
"Friend?" one uncle echoed, hooking a thumb toward the chessboard. "Young man, if you mistreat our Sunny, I will checkmate you personally."
"We're using chess threats now?" Qing Yun laughed. "Uncle, last week you moved the horse like a bishop."
The uncles dissolved; Auntie Zhao clicked her tongue with satisfaction. "Sunny, you always say you're too busy to date. Hmph! Hiding this one like a limited-edition rice cooker in the back room!"
"Exposed," Qing Yun gasped, stage-whisper. "My crimes have been discovered."
"So he is yours?" Auntie Zhao pounced.
Before Qing Yun could redirect, Ze Yan leaned just close enough for Auntie Zhao. "You're right," he said, perfectly solemn. "She's been hiding me. Difficult to fit a person on the top shelf."
Auntie Zhao nearly toppled off her stool. "Aiyo! I knew it!" she crowed, fanning so fiercely the air rippled.
Qing Yun turned on him with mock outrage and lost; the laughter slipped out bright and helpless. The alley collected it and sent it up to the winter sky.
They moved on—past a repair shop where bicycle frames hung like metal skeletons, past a convenience mart where a cat slept on a stack of paper towels. The cat opened one eye, judged them harmless, and resumed being supreme.
"Sunny! Tangyuan fresh!" called Auntie Fang from a silver pushcart, steam billowing like white peonies. "Ginger syrup, red bean, black sesame—warm your bones!"
Winter had rearranged the street menu: chestnut braziers popped; sweet potatoes smoldered in iron drums; and Auntie Fang's cart was the night's small sun.
"You're robbing me," Qing Yun accused, already lifting her phone to scan. "One bowl, sesame filling. And—" she glanced at Ze Yan, "—do you dare ginger heavy?"
"I betray all fancy restaurants," he said gravely. "Make it how the locals survive."
"Two spoons," Auntie Fang said, unabashedly curious as she sized him up. "The young man looks like he needs warming—office cold gets into the soul."
"It does," he agreed, accepting the paper bowl.
"Careful," Qing Yun warned, and he—very much not careful—took a brave spoonful. The syrup was fierce and sweet, the heat volcanic. He produced a perfectly dignified sound of suffering.
Qing Yun's laugh burst again, a soft cascade. "You were warned. Heroism is not a temperature."
"On the contrary," he managed once his tongue remembered words, "this is the taste of… ginger justice."
They leaned against the cart for a minute, sharing the bowl and the fog of their breath. The syrup made small moons on the surface as it cooled; sesame perfumed the air. Qing Yun blew lightly on a round tangyuan and held the spoon out; he accepted it obediently, which made her eyes tilt with private satisfaction. When she split one with her spoon, she passed him the larger half without ceremony. He took it without argument, which made the corner of her mouth curve again.
A delivery kid skidded to a stop, one foot dragging like an anchor. "Sunny-jie! Your parcel came—I left it with Auntie Wei!" he panted, hair stuck to his forehead.
"Xiao Ma, lifesaver," Qing Yun said. "Go drink water before you evaporate."
The kid beamed, then clocked Ze Yan with the brisk appraisal of someone who navigated alleys for a living. "Are you Sunny-jie's… uh…"
"Friend," Qing Yun supplied.
"Bodyguard," Ze Yan said at the same time.
Xiao Ma considered, then gave a thumbs-up. "Good. She needs one. Too many scooters, too many delivery boys like me." He saluted the tangyuan and vanished in a whirr of wheels.
A roasted-sweet-potato vendor rolled past with an iron drum, lids clinking softly. "Hot! Sweet! Eat and forget winter!" he sang.
"Two," Ze Yan said impulsively.
"Robbery," Qing Yun murmured, accepting the warmer one. She juggled it between her palms, then cracked the skin with a decisive thumb, releasing a ribbon of steam that smelled like sunshine stored for months. She handed him the larger half. He tried to pretend it wasn't scalding; his expression betrayed him spectacularly.
"Conclusion," she said, "winter food fights back."
"I respect its spirit," he said hoarsely.
They passed a chess table where two uncles debated whether a move was genius or treason. Smoke at the stinky-tofu stall coiled like gossip; Qing Yun waved at the vendor—"Next time!"—while Ze Yan pretended not to be curious and failed. A small boy marched up with a plastic sword.
"Are you Sunny-jie's husband?" he demanded of Ze Yan, choosing the shortest distance between two points.
Qing Yun hid her smile behind the paper bowl. "Gu Ze Yan, this is Little Tiger. Little Tiger, this is—"
"Bodyguard," Ze Yan offered again.
Little Tiger looked disappointed. "I thought husband. My grandma said you have husband-eyebrows."
"I'll work on it," Ze Yan promised, which seemed to satisfy him completely.
They walked on. The lane opened a little, and a seamstress had set her machine on a wooden crate; the needle flashed like a captive firefly. "Sunny, the hem for your sister's skirt is done," she called.
"Thank you, Auntie Lu!" Qing Yun said. "I'll pick it up tomorrow morning."
"Don't forget," Auntie Lu warned, then turned a pleased eye on Ze Yan. "Good bones. Tall. Bring him around more. The alley needs décor."
"Did you hear?" Qing Yun told him. "You're a lantern now."
"Useful at last," he said, with a look that sent her laughter skittering off the bricks.
He insisted on taking her bag a block later. "It's light," she protested.
"It's heavy," he said, having lifted it already. Amusement flickered in his eyes. "Contraband bricks?"
"Just a dictionary," she confessed.
"Of course." He slung the strap over his shoulder; the weight settled there as if the bag had always known its destination. "Naturally one carries a dictionary for evening walks. Keeps posture noble."
"Exactly," she said primly, and ruined it with a grin.
"Sunny!" someone yelled from a second-floor balcony. "Did you eat?"
"Yes!" she shouted back without breaking stride.
"Bring your… friend… next time! Mahjong needs a fourth!"
"I volunteer him for humble defeat," Qing Yun called, pointing at Ze Yan.
"You think I'm humble?"
"Only in mahjong."
He discovered he was smiling again—not the polished one for meetings, but something that lived farther back behind the ribs. It startled him, then settled like it belonged.
The alley bent left. A scooter tried to claim the bend as birthright; its headlight washed them gold. In the same instant that he reached for her elbow, Qing Yun had already stepped a half-step closer to him, letting the scooter skim past air instead of jackets. Their instincts aligned and unhooked like hands touching the same stair rail.
They passed a noticeboard offering English tutoring and secondhand furniture. A stray cat sprawled on the electric meter box, one paw dangling, perfectly arrogant. Someone had placed a bowl of water beneath it. The rim wore painted daisies.
"Everyone here is kind," Qing Yun said, answering nothing and everything.
"Because of you?" he asked.
She tipped him a look. "They were like this before I moved in."
"I doubt that," he said, warmth unhidden.
She pretended not to hear; her ears turned a soft winter-pink.
A woman in slippers shuffled past with a bag of peelings and the air of someone who had both tragedy and recipe success in hand. "Sunny, is the noodle place still hiring?" she asked. "My nephew is hopeless but strong."
"Tell him to come by tomorrow," Qing Yun said. "And tell him to be polite to the soup."
"The soup has feelings," the woman nodded, satisfied.
"Everything has feelings," Qing Yun murmured when they were alone again.
He stored the line quietly. He knew he would want it later.
The lane narrowed; they walked single file for a stretch, his hand hovering near her shoulder, then dropping when the width widened. Above, a TV laughed at a drama character's terrible choices; a kettle clicked off; someone clapped once, triumphant.
They reached her building: a five-story concrete rectangle with a metal gate scabbed in old paint. The entry bulb buzzed bravely; a paper sign on the wall announced PLEASE SORT YOUR RECYCLING and, beneath it in a different, angrier hand, AND RETURN MY BLUE BUCKET OR I WILL CURSE YOUR NOODLES. Parcel boxes huddled beside the mail slots like shy animals. The stairwell breathed cool detergent and yesterday's dinners.
Gu Ze Yan took in cracked tile, scuffed steps, the iron railing polished bright where thousands of hands had learned it. The tangyuan warmth slid lower—into a place between ribs and spine. Not pity; she would hate that. More like an ache braided with admiration, and a private anger at inanimate objects for failing to be kinder.
She saw him see it—not the cracked tile, but her inside this place. For once, for a heartbeat, she didn't turn it into a joke.
"This is home," she said, gentle but firm. "The aunties are my security guards, the uncles my alarm system, and the cat is—"
"Management," he supplied.
"Exactly." The bright curve of her mouth returned. "You'll be fined for lateness by Auntie Zhu, in case you were wondering."
"I'll pay in roasted chestnuts," he said.
"Accepted." She angled her head at the stairs. "Bodyguard duty ends here, Mr. Gu. If you go up further, five balconies will report your shoe size to the group chat."
"Then I should introduce myself," he said, half-serious. "Build rapport with the committee."
"The committee will interrogate you on horoscope compatibility."
He almost said I'm flexible. Instead he glanced at the buzzing bulb. It flickered hard, then decided to be brave another minute.
"Does it always do that?" he asked.
"Only when it feels dramatic," she said.
He stepped to the gate, reached up, tightened the bulb until the filament steadied. The light smoothed out, laying steadier gold over both of them. He tested the gate's swing; it creaked like a theater effect.
"I'll bring a new one," he said—so soft it wasn't bravado.
"A new bulb?" She smiled. "Or a new gate?"
"Whichever surrenders first." The answer was light. The promise inside it wasn't.
From the second floor, someone clattered a bucket and yelled "SORRY!" into the stairwell. The cat on the meter box did not bother to open both eyes.
Qing Yun adjusted her bag strap. "Thank you for walking me," she said—and because it sounded exactly like the warmth she gave her sister over the phone, it landed heavier than a habit.
He handed her the bag. His fingers brushed the back of her hand; her skin was cool from the night, the knuckles faintly pink from work and soap. He didn't hold on. He let the fact of it settle.
"Sunny!" someone called from above, spotting them both. "Did your boyfriend eat? We have leftover soup!"
Qing Yun made a tiny, strangled laugh. "Thank you, Auntie! He ate a very brave bowl of tangyuan!"
"Good! Feed him more! Tall ones fall over in the wind!"
Ze Yan looked up to wave. "Thank you," he said, and Auntie—who had not expected acknowledgment from a lantern-shaped man with expensive eyebrows—vanished in shy delight.
They stood in the doorway where street spilled into stairwell and stairwell breathed back its cool; where alley noises felt far and close at once. One of the mahjong uncles coughed pointedly around the corner—the universal sign for continue, young people, we are pretending not to care.
"Go up," he said at last, quiet. "Before your committee issues a fine."
She nodded, then hesitated. "Tomorrow," she said—and realized she'd given his line to him. She didn't take it back. "If you come by the shop. We just got a new shelf of poetry translations."
"I'll be there," he said, like a man confirming a meeting that actually mattered.
She pushed the gate; the hinge protested, then remembered its manners. She stepped inside and turned. In the rectangle of light, with laundry shadows drifting like paper birds, she looked exactly as she had in the alley—bright, kind, perfectly at ease, perfectly Sunny.
"Good night, Mr. Gu," she said, soft and certain.
"Good night, Sunny," he answered, and the way he said her full name made the buzzing bulb hold still.
She went up. Steps faded. A door opened somewhere, shut again. A kettle clicked. The cat abandoned management for sleep.
He stood a minute longer, hands in pockets, ginger sweetness still warm at the back of his throat. Across the lane, the seamstress covered her machine and doused her lamp. The roasted-sweet-potato man banked his coals. The chess uncles agreed to disagree and folded their board like old generals.
"Tomorrow," he murmured, and the alley—good at carrying messages and keeping secrets—tucked the word away for morning.
Above the gate, the bulb flickered once—stubborn, brave—and held.