Xiang Zhen waited until 1:30 AM. His head felt incredibly heavy, almost sagging to the floor, forcing him to prop up his chin with both hands.

I can’t sleep. My husband is still driving, I have to wait for him.

Knock, knock. A crisp, rhythmic rapping at the door—the exact tempo of Zhou Sicheng’s signature knock.

Xiang Zhen sprang up and dashed to the door, opening it from the inside before Zhou Sicheng could even fish out his keys: “Honey, you’re back!”

Zhou Sicheng looked down and saw Xiang Zhen’s uplifted little face. The exhaustion from a full day of meetings and driving vanished instantly. He reached out and pinched Xiang Zhen’s cheek: “Don’t wait up next time.”

Xiang Zhen: “Honey, come drink the fish soup I stewed for you.”

Zhou Sicheng glanced at the stove and saw the electric rice cooker kept on ‘keep warm’: “You made this in a rice cooker?”

Xiang Zhen explained: “Because I was too scared to look at it, I just tossed it into the rice cooker, closed the lid, and used the ‘soup’ button to boil it.”

Zhou Sicheng knew from yesterday that the ‘soup’ button locked for two hours, while fish soup only takes half an hour. He opened the lid and, as expected, saw a fish stewed to mush, staring back with unclosed eyes.

Zhou Sicheng: “Are you afraid of killing living things?”

Xiang Zhen nodded. All things have spirits; he tried to avoid doing it himself whenever possible.

Zhou Sicheng: “Do you chant sutras usually?”

Xiang Zhen: “Huh?”

Zhou Sicheng: “To perform a rite of passage for it.”

Xiang Zhen bit his lip. He didn’t know how to chant, but he hadn’t expected his husband to be even more compassionate toward creatures than he was. His husband was so kind.

“Honey, I chanted it in my heart. You can drink it now.”

Who would want to drink a bowl of fishy, over-stewed soup in the middle of the night? It hadn’t been seared on both sides before going into the pot, and there was no ginger.

Zhou Sicheng had zero appetite, but remembering the message Xiang Zhen had sent him, he didn’t want to be a wet blanket. He picked up the bowl, skipped the disintegrated fish meat, and figured he’d just have the soup.

Xiang Zhen said: “I haven’t added salt yet.”

Zhou Sicheng paused: “Lucky for you.”

No salt was better than too much salt.

Zhou Sicheng added a spoonful of salt based on his experience from yesterday. He expected it to be bad, but it still exceeded his worst projections—after all, he had spent his life eating food cooked by five-star chefs or, at the very least, by his own hand.

He didn’t want to let Xiang Zhen off the hook: “You have a bowl, too.”

Xiang Zhen retreated quickly toward the bed: “I’m not drinking it; it was cooked for you.”

Zhou Sicheng: “It’s terrible.”

Receiving this evaluation didn’t surprise Xiang Zhen at all; he knew his own limitations: “But it’s nutritious.”

Humans are always like this, aren’t they? They like things that taste bad but are nutritious, choosing to boil or steam things to preserve nutrients, while defining frying and baking as unhealthy.

Fairies don’t have to worry about all that; fairies just eat what they like.

Therefore, Zhou Sicheng has to drink the fish soup, and I don’t.

Zhou Sicheng found himself ridiculous for feeling guilty over a bowl of fish soup. He pressed the edge of the bowl to Xiang Zhen’s lips: “You aren’t willing to suffer through this with me?”

Xiang Zhen: “…”

I am willing, Honey. T_T

After they each drank a bowl, Xiang Zhen confessed to Zhou Sicheng: “Honey, I’ll never cook again.”

Zhou Sicheng grunted an “mm,” then realized the implication: that meant he’d be the one doing all the cooking, didn’t it?

Zhou Sicheng got into bed. There was a bit of a transition from his large bed to this small one, especially since he could see dozens of sunflower pots every time he rolled over, occupying every inch of space from the windowsill to the foot of the bed, with milk tea buckets from various brands scattered about like a trash collector’s hoard.

Hoarding trash is a disease.

Zhou Sicheng looked closer. It seemed the number had increased again.

“Are you planting new ones?”

Xiang Zhen: “I’m sorry, Honey. I drank milk tea behind your back.”

Zhou Sicheng: “Drinking milk tea isn’t the problem. The point is you should throw away the cups, not use them to grow sunflowers.”

Xiang Zhen: “But I bought a bag of sunflower seeds. I have to plant them all this year, or the germination rate will plummet by next year.”

A bag? Zhou Sicheng felt a vein in his temple throb. A bag had to contain hundreds of seeds.

“Give me the seeds. I’ll take them somewhere else for you to plant.”

Xiang Zhen shook his head, hugging Zhou Sicheng from behind to distract him: “Honey, let’s go to sleep.”

Zhou Sicheng didn’t want to come back from his business trip only to find the entire room overrun with sunflowers: “Do you want me or the sunflowers?”

Xiang Zhen froze. He couldn’t live without his husband, but he couldn’t abandon the sunflowers either.

When he first came to this city and didn’t have his husband, he had planted sunflowers to keep him company; only then did he not feel lonely at night.

When Xiang Zhen was still just a seed, he had bounced out of his mother’s flower head along with his siblings to take root. Only when Xiang Zhen first felt the sunlight did he vaguely achieve consciousness—and achieving consciousness meant becoming a spirit. This tiny sunflower had grown particularly slowly and robustly; even though his siblings had all bloomed and produced seeds, he had remained stuck with only two leaves.

By the time he grew his third leaf, his peers were already in their fourth generation. Nature is unfeeling, a repeating cycle. Even the descendants of the twelfth generation had grown taller than Xiang Zhen.

There were many hazelnut trees in the mountains, and many small animals.

Later, a lightning-induced wildfire took away the vitality of the vegetation there.

Xiang Zhen had jumped in pain from the heat, and suddenly realized he could move. He quickly pulled his roots out and scrambled for his life in a panic. He used his two leaves to hug a single sunflower seed he had dug out of the soil. When the mountain rain came, Xiang Zhen’s leaves were covered in ash.

The seed he had dug out could no longer germinate.

Twenty years later, Xiang Zhen’s flowering period arrived, and he successfully cultivated a human form. Humans reminisce about childhood; he reminisced about the hazelnut forest and the sunflower fields.

He knew that mountain fires were a part of nature’s laws; his ancestors, too, had had their seeds brought over by birds to take root after a fire. Whether human or plant, everyone rebuilds their home.

Zhen meant lush vegetation.

He wanted a field of sunflowers.

But things were different now. Every mountain and every plot of land had an owner; the human exploitation of the land was unprecedented. China’s annual sunflower cultivation reached ten million acres; how spectacular the blooming flowers of Bayannur were.

But those were all edible and oil-producing sunflowers bred through modern agricultural techniques—a single flower head could yield 800 seeds. Xiang Zhen’s maternal variety wasn’t nearly as productive.

Xiang Zhen had hunted online for a long time before buying seeds of the heirloom variety. He could only raise them in his rental unit.

When the sunflowers grew up, he was going to take them to the roof. He had chosen this place specifically because the rooftop was public property, where one could dry clothes and grow vegetables.

Zhou Sicheng sensed his silence. Fine. Although he spoke of love, in Xiang Zhen’s heart, he clearly wasn’t as important as a bunch of bean sprouts.

Actually, he didn’t hate sunflowers; otherwise, his little nephew wouldn’t be nicknamed “Xiao Kui Bao” (Little Sunflower), and there wouldn’t be sunflowers planted in front of the Zhou Fu headquarters. On the contrary, Zhou Sicheng quite liked them—they were his mother’s favorite flower before she passed away.

On his fifth birthday, his mother had given him a handful of sunflower seeds, teaching him to experience planting, harvesting, and generational succession.

But the way Xiang Zhen grew sunflowers seemed somewhat pathological to Zhou Sicheng. It was like keeping dozens of cats in a sixteen-square-meter apartment when one was already living so cramped.

Xiang Zhen tried to win Zhou Sicheng over, attempting to persuade him: “The milk tea buckets are great! The labels on them let me record when I planted them, so I know if they’re germinating late.”

If he hadn’t said that, it would have been fine, but those words triggered Zhou Sicheng somewhere. He pulled his arm out of Xiang Zhen’s grasp with great force.

Zhou Sicheng stretched out his long arm and grabbed a milk tea bucket from the floor. Blame his keen eyes—he saw the label stuck on the bucket:

Burned Grass Jelly | Extra Large Cup | Full Sugar | No Ice | Added Honey Beans

05/04/09:58

That meant it was a milk tea made on May 4th—a day before Xiang Zhen had even arrived in this city.

Zhou Sicheng: “You picked up this cup?”

Xiang Zhen felt extremely guilty. One look at how Zhou Sicheng treated his car—keeping the BYD he used to pick up passengers as spotless as if it had just come off the factory floor—and it was obvious he had an extreme case of mysophobia. His cleanliness surely wouldn’t tolerate picking up trash from the street.

“That…” Xiang Zhen scratched his cheek. “Because I just arrived, right? I hadn’t drunk that much milk tea yet, and flowerpots are expensive. The owner of this milk tea knew how to drink—they finished it so clean, even tearing off the sealing film, which is the only way to get all the honey beans and crushed peanuts out!”

He’s even analyzing it.

Xiang Zhen glanced at Zhou Sicheng’s expression and lowered his voice: “I washed it.”

Zhou Sicheng’s hand gripped the milk tea bucket, the plastic bottle crunching.

Xiang Zhen was so nervous he didn’t dare to breathe, fearing that if Zhou Sicheng exerted any more pressure, the soil inside would spray out, and the new sunflower seedling would hit the ground, snapping its tender stem. Even a god couldn’t save it then.

He couldn’t help but recall a short drama he’d watched recently, where a maniacal male lead holds his own son high above his head, threatening the heroine to donate her organs to the second female lead.

Xiang Zhen blurted out the heroine’s line: “Honey, that’s your baby too!”

Zhou Sicheng: “…” He’s obsessed with gardening. I’d never treat a sunflower like a child.

He set the extra-long milk tea bucket down, feeling as if he had personally rummaged through the trash bin along with Xiang Zhen, and went to bed to wash his hands.

It was a close call. Xiang Zhen hurriedly seized the moment while Zhou Sicheng wasn’t paying attention to hide the scavenged cup behind the curtain.

Zhou Sicheng: “Go to sleep. You have work tomorrow.”

Whatever. No point arguing with Xiang Zhen; these are all problems that can be solved with money.

The next day, when Xiang Zhen woke up, he heard a lot of commotion next door. Curious, he opened the door and saw that the vacant room next door had been rented out overnight.

The new tenants were two hulking, tall men, looking just like the special forces soldiers on TV, currently moving household goods inside.

Noticing Xiang Zhen’s gaze, a handsome guy with a crew cut smiled at him in a friendly manner: “Did we disturb you?”

He had tried his best to be light-footed; he couldn’t disturb the employer in the next room, and the employer had demanded they move in overnight—President Zhou’s requirements were truly contradictory.

This mission was really unusual. On the surface, it was to protect the fiancé for President Zhou, but in reality, President Zhou slept here every day. Their security team had initiated the highest level of protection—his captain had even deigned to squeeze into a dilapidated room with him to carry out this long-term assignment.

President Zhou must be paying a lot of money.

Xiang Zhen: “You didn’t disturb us. We were just waking up. Nice to meet you; from now on, we’re neighbors.”

The crew-cut handsome guy smiled, showing eight teeth: “If you have any trouble, just come find me. Let’s add each other on WeChat.”

Xiang Zhen: “Okay.”

Zhou Sicheng heard Xiang Zhen interacting with the bodyguards and walked slowly to the room’s only cabinet. He pondered for a moment, opened the door, reached in, and felt around until he touched a bag of sunflower seeds.

It was heavy. If he plants any more, there won’t be any room left to sleep at night.

Zhou Sicheng stuffed the seeds into his suit pocket and called Xiang Zhen with a nonchalant tone: “Do you want steamed buns for breakfast?”

Xiang Zhen: “You haven’t steamed them yet!”

Zhou Sicheng took two large BBQ pork buns out of the fridge. Xiang Zhen ran over excitedly: “Take two more; let’s treat the new neighbors.”

Zhou Sicheng stepped aside, noncommittal.

Xiang Zhen took them all out: “Good thing I bought four yesterday.”

Zhou Sicheng put the buns in the steamer. While Xiang Zhen was in the bathroom, he stepped outside and pulled the door shut.

Time to test the bodyguards Secretary Gao hired.

He felt a mix of anger and amusement. Who told Secretary Gao to hire two such broad-shouldered, thick-browed types?

Professional bodyguards trained year-round; their muscle mass was naturally leaner and denser than the President’s. Zhou Sicheng took one look at the training equipment in the room next door. Oh, not forgetting to train even while on a mission.

And him? Every time he tried to work out, Xiang Zhen would call him back to keep him company, and he simply couldn’t find the time.

This won’t do.

He’d have to rent another room on the same floor, buy a power rack or something. Since Xiang Zhen slept early, he could go work out for an hour once Xiang Zhen was asleep.