Shangguan Yu took one last glance at the absurd red apron before turning his attention to the food on the table.
The sight of the dishes had surprised him more than he cared to admit.
By sheer coincidence—or perhaps not—Zuo Zhou’s first home-cooked meal for him consisted entirely of his favorite foods.
Braised pork ribs, stir-fried pork with chili, crisp-fried bamboo shoots, stewed potatoes with beans, and a seaweed cucumber soup.
The ribs, pork, and soup? Understandable—they were common home-style dishes that happened to align with his taste. But the bamboo shoots and stewed potatoes with beans?
Those were a different story. One was a classic southern-style dish, the other a northern one—neither was particularly common in Luocheng.
Shangguan Yu’s fondness for them wasn’t random. His mother used to make them often. She had adored cooking and took pride in preparing meals that delighted him. Back then, he had been free to indulge in her warmth, unburdened by the weight of the world.
But that warmth had been short-lived. She passed away when he was ten, and from that moment on, he had been forced to grow up far too quickly.
As Shangguan Yu remained lost in thought, Zuo Zhou, completely unaware of his turmoil, ladled soup into a bowl and pushed it toward him. “I know it’s not much to look at, but I promise it tastes great. Try it.”
Zuo Zhou gently nudged the bowl of soup closer to Shangguan Yu and asked, “What’s wrong? Why aren’t you eating?”
Shangguan Yu snapped out of his thoughts, his gaze sweeping over the familiar yet unexpected dishes. Unable to suppress his curiosity, he asked, “These two vegetable dishes—where did you learn to make them?”
He had seen Zuo Zhou’s ID before. If he remembered correctly, the first few digits indicated that his household registration was in a county under Luocheng’s jurisdiction. That meant Zuo Zhou was a native from Luocheng.
And if that was the case, then these dishes shouldn’t have been part of his usual repertoire. There were plenty of local recipes he could have made instead.
“Oh, someone used to make them for me,” Zuo Zhou replied with a lighthearted smile. “I really liked the taste, so I learned to make them myself.”
Shangguan Yu cast him a brief but meaningful look. He was clearly intrigued by whoever that “someone” was.
But his instinct for self-preservation—honed ever since the accident—kept him from prying further. Instead, he simply nodded, picked up his chopsticks, and started eating in silence.
Across the table, Zuo Zhou watched his every move. On the surface, he appeared calm, but in reality, his heart was pounding nervously.
If Shangguan Yu had asked who had made these dishes for him, should he have taken the opportunity to tell the truth?
Would that have made Shangguan Yu remember him?
But in the end, Shangguan Yu didn’t ask.
Zuo Zhou pressed his lips together, forcing himself to keep his expression neutral. But under the table, his fists were tightly clenched.
The food, just as Zuo Zhou had described, wasn’t spectacular in appearance, but the taste was above average. At least, Shangguan Yu had to admit, it was better than his own cooking.
Of course, he wasn’t someone who praised people easily, especially not at the dinner table. So instead, he showed his approval in the simplest way possible—by clearing every single plate, leaving nothing behind. He even had two full bowls of soup.
Zuo Zhou, pleased with the sight, grinned as he got up to clean the table. As he did, he didn’t forget to ask gently, “What do you want for breakfast tomorrow? And do you need a late-night snack?”
Shangguan Yu, feeling too full to think about more food, answered honestly, “I can’t eat anymore.”
“That’s fine,” Zuo Zhou replied, his smile both proud and satisfied. “You’ll get to try my cooking little by little. I know how to make plenty of good dishes. I even saw that you have an oven—tomorrow, I’ll bake some cookies for your afternoon tea and midnight snack. You can have them if you get hungry.”
Shangguan Yu hadn’t expected Zuo Zhou to be able to bake, so he let out a soft “Mm” in surprise.
Zuo Zhou leaned in slightly, holding a tissue in his hand as he reached toward Shangguan Yu’s lips. “So? How’s my cooking? At least passable, right?”
Passable? If this were a graded test, Shangguan Yu would have given him a solid 90 out of 100—he would have given full marks if not for the slightly unpolished presentation.
But he didn’t answer immediately.
Zuo Zhou’s hand was moving closer and closer, and from Shangguan Yu’s perspective, it almost looked as if—almost felt as if—he was about to wipe the corner of his mouth.
His body stiffened. His right hand instinctively gripped the wheelchair’s control button, ready to move back, to put some distance between them.
But just before he could, Zuo Zhou’s hand changed direction midair. Instead of touching Shangguan Yu’s face, he smoothly placed the tissue into his palm, as if he had intended to do that all along.
“What’s wrong?” Zuo Zhou asked, noticing the stiffness in Shangguan Yu’s expression. “Are you feeling unwell?”
“…I’m fine.” Shangguan Yu exhaled slowly, realizing he was too tense, he had overreacted to what was, in reality, a simple gesture. “Your cooking… it’s good.”
Hearing the praise, Zuo Zhou immediately beamed. “That’s good! As long as you like it! I’m good at a lot of things—you’ll see for yourself sooner or later!”
Shangguan Yu wasn’t used to such direct and enthusiastic attention. He turned his head away, avoiding Zuo Zhou’s gaze.
Zuo Zhou took in the reaction but said nothing, the corners of his lips curling up slightly. “I’ll go clean up the kitchen. You go rest.”
Shangguan Yu had planned to return to his room, but he still had something to tell Zuo Zhou. So instead, he maneuvered his wheelchair to the sofa, nibbling at the fruit platter while absentmindedly watching a dull TV drama as he waited.
About ten minutes later, Zuo Zhou came out of the kitchen, drying his hands. When he saw Shangguan Yu still in the living room, his eyes lit up slightly.
“Want to eat anything else? I can make something for you.”
At that moment, Shangguan Yu had just speared a cherry tomato with his fork, ready to pop it into his mouth. But when he heard Zuo Zhou’s voice, his hand froze mid-air for a second before he casually lowered it, returning the plump, glistening tomato to the platter as if nothing had happened.
“No need. Sit.”
“Oh, okay.”
Zuo Zhou sensed that Shangguan Yu had something to say, so he sat upright on the sofa, hands obediently resting on his knees, looking particularly well-behaved.
Shangguan Yu pulled out his phone, opened his WeChat friend QR code, and extended the device toward Zuo Zhou.
“Add me.”
“Huh?” Zuo Zhou was taken aback for a moment, glancing at Shangguan Yu’s phone before quickly shifting his weight to pull out his own phone from his pocket. He scanned the QR code without hesitation. “Oh, okay.”
As soon as the request was accepted, Shangguan Yu transferred 200 yuan to him and said, “Keep this money. Use it for groceries and keep track of the expenses. Let me know when it runs out, and I’ll send more.”
Zuo Zhou nodded and accepted the money.
Shangguan Yu continued, “The bathroom across from your room is yours to use—for washing up, using the toilet and other needs. Most of the time, I’ll be in my room. While I’m in there, you can move around freely in the living room, watch TV if you want.”
“But if I’m in the living room, I’d prefer you stay in your room.”
Even though he had made up his mind to hire a caretaker, Shangguan Yu still wasn’t comfortable with the idea of sharing space with a stranger, let alone sitting face-to-face in silence.
Since the accident, Shangguan Yu had preferred being alone, avoiding even old acquaintances.
So, while at home, he hoped Zuo Zhou would be perceptive enough to give him space and avoid unnecessary interactions.
“Okay.” Zuo Zhou agreed seriously, then hesitated before asking cautiously, “But if you’re in the living room, can I still come out to use the bathroom or cook in the kitchen?”
“…That’s fine.” Shangguan Yu considered it briefly before nodding. “That’s all. I’ll head back to my room now—do as you please.”
With that, he raised his hand to maneuver his wheelchair toward his bedroom.
“Wait.” Zuo Zhou quickly called out. “I have a few questions. Is it okay if I ask?”
Shangguan Yu paused and turned back. “Go ahead.”
“What time do you usually wake up? I need to know when to have breakfast ready.”
“Around eight.”
Zuo Zhou nodded, then asked, “And what would you like for breakfast tomorrow?”
“Anything is fine.”
“Alright, I’ll figure something out. But if you ever have any special requests in the future, let me know ahead of time so I can prepare the ingredients.”
“Mm.”
“And also,” Zuo Zhou said as he cautiously observed Shangguan Yu’s reaction, “I saw a lot of architecture books on the bookshelf in my room. Would it be alright if I borrowed some to read?”
Through his investigation, Zuo Zhou had learned that after Shangguan Yu’s accident a year ago, he had cut ties with almost all of his former classmates. Finding his address had been no easy feat—it had taken countless messages and inquiries with seniors and alumni before he finally tracked it down.
And just when he had finally gotten the address, Shangguan Yu had left for treatment in New Zealand.
So, for the past six months, Zuo Zhou had knocked on his door every Saturday—only to be met with silence.
But at last, his persistence had paid off. The door he had been waiting for had finally opened for him today.
Even so, no amount of mental preparation could dull the sting in his heart when he finally saw Shangguan Yu sitting in that wheelchair.
He had seen Shangguan Yu at his best, which made it hard to reconcile the cold, distant man before him with the once high-spirited, sunlit youth who was always quick to smile. But Zuo Zhou had spent nine years working toward this moment—for Shangguan Yu—and he was willing to devote every moment from now on to helping him smile again.
But it had to be done slowly.
Because Shangguan Yu’s legs weren’t the only thing that had been wounded—his heart was, too.
When Zuo Zhou caught a flicker of pain on Shangguan Yu’s face, regret struck him instantly. He had been too hasty. Why did he ask something that only deepened Shangguan Yu’s sorrow?
Before he could change the subject, Shangguan Yu spoke, his voice devoid of emotion. “Take whatever you want to read. You don’t have to return them—just throw them away when you’re done.”
Then, without waiting for a response, he turned his wheelchair and left.
Zuo Zhou watched his thin, unyielding figure disappear into the room, his heart aching. Slowly, he clenched his fists.
Axolotl Translations 
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