Volume One Chapter 85 The Day of Death

Song Qingyu lay on the bed for quite some time before the heat in her body finally subsided. Still uneasy about Pei Jingmo, she got up to check on him in the next room and found him fast asleep, deeply lost in slumber. Song Qingyu let out a breath of relief—fortunately, he wasn’t the sort who became rowdy after drinking.

After an exhausting afternoon, she was thoroughly tired herself. When she went to freshen up, she caught her reflection in the mirror and her expression changed.

The next morning, when Song Qingyu woke, Pei Jingmo was still asleep. Remembering how unwell he’d been after his drunkenness the previous night, she hurried to make him a cup of honey water, then went to the kitchen to prepare breakfast.

She wasn’t entirely helpless in the kitchen; making a bowl of egg noodles was well within her ability.

When Pei Jingmo awoke, his head throbbed painfully. He had no restraint when drinking, always pushing himself to the limit, but the next morning was invariably torturous. It was already past eight. Realizing he hadn’t yet made breakfast for Song Qingyu, he immediately got out of bed.

Song Qingyu was just eating her noodles when she saw Pei Jingmo emerge. She hurried over to him with the honey water in hand. “Feeling awful? Drink this; it’ll help.”

Pei Jingmo stared blankly at the honey water, taking a long moment to react.

Seeing his odd expression, Song Qingyu grew worried. “What’s wrong?”

Without a word, Pei Jingmo pulled her into a tight embrace. It had been so long since anyone had cared for him with such genuine concern.

“Careful, you’ll spill it,” she chided.

Only then did Pei Jingmo release her, taking the honey water from her hands, though he couldn’t bring himself to drink it right away.

“I made noodles; try them and see if they’re to your liking,” Song Qingyu said, guiding him to the dining table. “I wasn’t sure when you’d get up, so I made dry noodles with tomato and scrambled egg—so the noodles wouldn’t get soggy.”

She then ladled a bowl of noodle broth and set it before him. “My grandmother always said the original soup helps digest the meal. You drank so much last night—have some broth to warm your stomach.”

To give the broth some flavor, she’d added a pinch of salt and a sprinkle of scallions.

Pei Jingmo took a sip. “Mmm, it’s delicious.”

Song Qingyu smiled. “Then try the noodles.”

All this time since they’d married, it had always been Pei Jingmo who took care of the housework. This was the first time Song Qingyu had cooked for him.

He took a bite, then gave her a thumbs up. “Delicious. This is the best bowl of noodles I’ve ever had.”

Song Qingyu couldn’t help but laugh. “If you want them again, just ask. You don’t have to flatter me.”

“I mean it,” he replied sincerely.

“All right, all right, eat up. I have to get to work—I’ll lose my perfect attendance bonus if I’m late. Oh, do you want to take the day off and rest?”

“No need. I’ll be fine to go in soon.”

“Okay then.” Song Qingyu grabbed her bag to leave, but Pei Jingmo called her back. He rose and gently touched her neck. “What happened here?”

Song Qingyu suddenly remembered the marks Pei Jingmo had left on her neck the night before.

This scoundrel—how could he even ask? Wait, did he really not remember? Well, perhaps that was for the best.

“Mosquito bite!” she replied.

Pei Jingmo looked surprised. “There are still mosquitoes in autumn?”

“There are autumn mosquitoes!” she insisted. Not wanting her colleagues to see, Song Qingyu rummaged through the wardrobe and could only find a scarf to wrap around her neck.

“I’m off—bye!” she called, hurrying out the door. Pei Jingmo watched her step into the elevator, a smile tugging at his lips.

His wife was just too adorable.

He’d been drunk, not senseless—how could he possibly not remember anything from last night? In fact, he was keenly aware that she had feelings for him too.

Returning to his room, Pei Jingmo snapped three photos and sent them to a group chat with his two closest friends.

Fu Linhan, who was unusually up early: “??? Don’t tell me you made this? This is what you feed your wife?”

Bai Yinian: “...”

Pei Jingmo: “Honey water made by my wife, noodles cooked by my wife, warm broth from my wife.”

Fu Linhan: “Damn, you’re eating well! Song Qingyu is so virtuous?”

Bai Yinian: “Congratulations.”

Pei Jingmo: “How can I preserve these forever?”

Fu Linhan: “...”

Bai Yinian: “...”

Pei Jingmo: “I can’t bear to eat or drink them—what should I do?”

Fu Linhan finally realized Pei Jingmo was showing off and angrily exited the chat group—only to be dragged back in by Pei Jingmo.

“I just wanted to tell you both: if you’re looking for a wife, find one like Qingqing. I hate having her in the kitchen, but these little surprises now and then—I quite enjoy them.”

Fu Linhan cursed, “Showing off your lovey-dovey life first thing in the morning—are you insane? Bai, help me scold him!”

Bai Yinian sighed, “As a gay man, I’ll sit this one out.”

Fu Linhan: “Well, if we’re talking roles, I’m supposed to like only married women. Jingmo, if you keep praising your wife in front of me, what if I fall for her?”

Pei Jingmo sneered. “That would be the day you die.”

Fu Linhan: “...”

After his bout of bragging, Pei Jingmo, though reluctant, polished off every last bite of the noodles, not leaving a drop of soup or honey water behind.

He tidied the kitchen before heading to the office at a leisurely pace.

—

Song Qingyu wore her scarf the entire morning. Each time a colleague passed by, their curiosity was plain.

“Qingyu, aren’t you hot?”

“Not at all—it’s actually a bit chilly,” she replied, forcing a laugh.

Her colleague looked puzzled. The central air conditioning was blasting—how could it be cold?

Autumn in Shangjing was unpredictable. Just days ago, it was freezing and looked about to snow; today, the sun was blazing.

By noon, the temperature had reached twenty-four degrees. Everyone else had stripped down to T-shirts, but she still clung to her scarf.

“Qingyu, you’re still cold?”

Song Qingyu was nearly melting, but could only insist, “Yes, I’m sensitive to the cold.”

“That’s some sensitivity!”

Jie Changhai, a seasoned colleague, immediately guessed what Song Qingyu was hiding and felt a pang of sympathy for his boss. Thank goodness Mr. Gu hadn’t seen, or he’d be heartbroken.

However, as Song Qingyu and Jie Changhai were leaving together at the end of the day, they ran into Mr. Gu in the elevator.

“Mr. Gu,” Jie Changhai greeted.

Song Qingyu also offered a polite hello.

Pei Jingmo glanced at the scarf around her neck, frowning slightly. In this heat, had she been wearing it all day?

“Miss Song, aren’t you hot?”

At this, alarms blared in Jie Changhai’s mind.

Before Song Qingyu could answer, Jie Changhai jumped in, “Qingyu got a huge mosquito bite on her neck—not a pretty sight.”

He meant to spare his boss from seeing the love marks on Song Qingyu’s neck.

“Oh? So Manager Jie saw it?” Pei Jingmo asked.

Jie Changhai felt a crushing sense of dread. He quickly corrected, “No, Qingyu told me so herself. Right, Qingyu?” He shot her a meaningful look.

Song Qingyu hadn’t expected him to cover for her and nodded. “Right.”

“There are mosquitoes this time of year?” Pei Jingmo pressed.

Jie Changhai responded promptly, “Yes! Autumn mosquitoes! They’re even more vicious than summer ones—the bites last ages.”

He glanced at Song Qingyu again. “Isn’t that right, Qingyu?”

Song Qingyu, a bit dazed, realized that perhaps because they’d worked together for so long, she and Manager Jie actually shared a certain tacit understanding.

“Exactly!” she affirmed.

Pei Jingmo: “...”

Since when were Qingqing and Jie Changhai so in sync?

“I heard your wife is due soon, Manager Jie?” Pei Jingmo asked.

Jie Changhai hadn’t expected the question and quickly replied, “Yes, the due date is next week.”

“Congratulations, Manager Jie—you’ll make a wonderful father.”

“I’ll do my best, thank you, Mr. Gu.”

Seeing that Jie Changhai had no untoward intentions toward Song Qingyu, Pei Jingmo let him off the hook.

After work, Song Qingyu stopped by the hospital.

Xie Liuzheng was craving candied chestnuts from West Street and roast duck from Zhuifeng House. Song Qingyu bought them and brought them to her.

Just as she entered the hospital, she ran into Lin Tiange again.

Song Qingyu had no intention of engaging, but as she was about to leave, Lin Tiange blocked her way. “Miss Song, may I have a word?”

Song Qingyu regarded her coolly. “There’s nothing to discuss between us.”

“I’m pregnant. It’s Chu Xingzhi’s child.”