Of course, Tang Chen knew. A few beers were nothing. Back in the day, it took baijiu and yellow wine to get Zhu Jingru drunk enough to climb a tree.
“Old man Zhong figured your cold wasn’t better yet, told me to drag you over no matter what.”
Zhu Jingru propped his head up, lost in thought. He only opened his eyes to look when they passed the coffee shop.
“What’re you looking at? He’s not even there,” Tang Chen said. “So, what’s your deal? Why the sudden urge to move again?”
“Just felt like it. Do I need a reason?” Zhu Jingru’s tone was casual. The ever-changing scenery outside the window matched his personality—impulsive, unpredictable, free to come and go.
They soon reached their destination. Most of Nanhai City’s urban village consisted of old buildings, with winding alleys. After parking, the two walked in. The clinic’s entrance bore a bright red sign: “No cure for all diseases, ancestral Chinese medicine, believe it or not,” written in Zhu Jingru’s bold, flourishing script.
Sliding open the plastic door, they found old man Zhong in a tai chi outfit, turning a human model into a pincushion with acupuncture needles. He glared at them. “Hurry up, I’ve got a square dance appointment. Stick out your arm.”
Zhu Jingru chuckled at the pincushion and complied obediently.
“Kid, listen to me. A cold’s a big deal. If you want to live a few more years, buy a bottle of my longevity tonic. Just 888, and you’ll take health and long life home,” Zhong said confidently after checking his pulse.
“Not buying,” Zhu Jingru said, looking up. “But I’ll definitely treat you to a drink next year.”
Zhong’s fist clenched. “…”
Zhu Jingru was dead serious. “At my wedding.”
Tang Chen got dragged into the mess, kicked out alongside Zhu Jingru. Zhong’s booming shout echoed to the neighbors. “Two hundred fifty per visit, Alipay only!”
Tang Chen was baffled. “Why not WeChat?”
Zhu Jingru patiently explained, “The day I got back to Nanhai, I came to scope out how to climb his courtyard wall. Accidentally trampled his cabbages, so he blocked me.”
“…” Tang Chen choked, wanting to curse but realizing it was too typical. Being friends with this lunatic opened his eyes daily. He asked, “You serious this time?”
“No faking it.” Zhu Jingru struggled to pin down a reason. The chemistry between people was ineffable, hard to explain. He sent Bai Qinglin a WeChat message every day, though the other never replied. But he hadn’t been blocked either.
Adults leave room for each other, which gave Zhu Jingru the chance to slowly worm his way in. He toyed with the ring on his finger.
“If I hadn’t passed by, what was your plan? Give him your address, have him send you home, and let things happen naturally?”
“He wouldn’t personally take me.”
“So, after almost two months, you’ve made zero progress?”
Zhu Jingru didn’t look up. “I like that he ignores me.”
Tang Chen got goosebumps. He’d never seen Zhu Jingru so smitten. He’d almost forgotten this old fox had peculiar tastes—the colder someone was, the more he was into them. A total masochist.
Zhu Jingru glanced at a chimney on a house, white steam rising and drifting far away. “He’s really warm.”
And he smelled good.
A faint blend of agarwood and tobacco. Zhu Jingru wanted to smell it again.
South Bank Coffee Shop reopened at dusk. Bai Qinglin, fresh from a shower, had changed clothes. With frameless glasses on his nose, he paused briefly while putting on his apron to make coffee.
Tong Yin shouted, “Look, it’s snowing outside!”
Bai Qinglin, born in Suzhou, was a true southerner.江南雨巷’s winters came later, more biting. This was his first time seeing northern snow—large flakes falling softly, like willow catkins blanketing the sky. Soon, the ground was coated in white frost.
The streets bustled with traffic, ginkgo leaves swirling in the air.
Bai Qinglin looked away, focusing again on grinding coffee beans. The batch Zhu Jingru supplied was called “Mandheling.” It had a slight bitterness on entry, a robust dark chocolate mid-tone from roasting, bitter yet with a caramel-like richness.
Mandheling’s greatest charm was its uniqueness, with a herbal and woody depth in its aftertaste.
Bai Qinglin liked it a lot.
He ground the coffee intently, unaware that the man in question was standing outside the shop.
Zhu Jingru stood outside the floor-to-ceiling window, his gaze on Bai Qinglin unreadable. A scarf covered his neck, his cheeks slightly red from the wind.
Tong Yin, wiping tables, was about to call out to the manager but was stopped by Zhu Jingru. He pressed a finger to his lips, winking to signal secrecy.
The snow fell harder, unrelenting for three hours, piling up thickly. The shop was busy with customers, and Bai Qinglin was too occupied to notice his surroundings.
Zhu Jingru didn’t stand there idly either. He squatted across the street on the sidewalk, earnestly building a snowman, his expression focused as if it were a monumental task.
His behavior didn’t match a cautious, calculating man in his thirties.
Zhu Jingru built it because he wanted to, carefree and content. A passing child, dragged away by an adult, reluctantly called out, “Pretty uncle, don’t forget to put a scarf on it, or the snowman will get cold!”
Zhu Jingru, nose red from the cold, nodded solemnly. “Promise, I’ll remember.”
Bai Qinglin finished the last coffee, washing his hands with sanitizer and wiping them with a warm towel. He glanced out the window and suddenly caught sight of Zhu Jingru in a maroon sweater, waving slowly at him from across the street. His smile was natural and light, as if he’d been waiting for this moment for a long time.
At his feet, a charming snowman wore a scarf, but the man who built it had snowflakes on his head and shoulders. Standing there openly, his intentions were clearly premeditated.
Zhu Jingru’s face was striking enough, his smiling eyes brimming with vitality. Unlike city dwellers, he’d traveled widely. Even doing nothing, just standing there, he was like a blazing bonfire in the snow—fervent, reckless, wild, heedless of consequences.
In the flurry of snow, this scene outshone any landscape. Bai Qinglin’s sharp brows furrowed. He grabbed his coat from the hook and stepped out, the wind chime clinking crisply as the door opened.
Snow dusted Zhu Jingru’s hair, his nose red from the cold, slightly disheveled but still standing boldly, waiting as Bai Qinglin approached step by step. His eyes were bright, purely so, and he knowingly said, “It’s so cold with all this snow.”
“Brother Bai, can I borrow your coat?”
