The door opened with a restrained click.A man in a dark suit, umbrella still dripping, filled the doorway. His gaze went first to the monitor, then to the cast and the sling, only then to his son's face.
— Father, — said Yichen, straightening as best he could.— Did you hit your head? — the voice came low, dry. — Any loss of consciousness?— Mild concussion. No bleeding.
The man nodded once, as if filing the information away. Only then did he notice Yue beside the bed. Her fingers slowly released Yichen's hand.
— Who is she? — he asked, direct.— I'm Su Yue, — she said, simple stance. — A classmate from the university. I was in the courtyard when it happened… — she drew a breath — and Yichen saved me. The scooter was coming straight at me. He pulled me out of the way.
Mr. Zhou turned his eyes back to his son. He said nothing. A muscle in his jaw moved; then a minimal nod—understanding without comment.
— Did the doctor order a CT? — he resumed, back on the technical track. — Observation, analgesia, stitches.— They've done everything, — said Yichen.
The father took a step closer, examining without touching.— Is the pain controlled?— It is.— Good. — It wasn't praise; it was contained relief. — I'll speak to the nurses about discharge. When they clear you, the driver will come. Focus on recovery. Avoid unnecessary noise.
He looked at Yue again, measuring only what mattered:— Were you hurt?— No, — she answered. — Just the rain.— All right. — He adjusted his tie, an automatic gesture. — For anything immediate, call the staff. I'll be back later.
At the threshold he paused a second. His gaze flicked to the comma drawn on the cast, returned to his son's face—and stayed silent.— Rest, Yichen, — he said at last.— I will, — the son replied.
The umbrella snapped shut in his hand. The door closed softly. The room returned to breathing in the monitor's rhythm. Yue resumed her place by the bed; Yichen glanced sideways at her, and both understood—without saying—that what needed to be said had been said.
Discharge came under a porcelain sky and a very fine drizzle. Mr. Zhou's driver waited by the dark car, the navy umbrella open like a portable roof.
— Slow, — said Yue, guiding Yichen with her left hand, settling the sling, checking his step. The silver thermos rested again in the side pocket of her backpack, like something that knows how to come back.
On the way, the car passed the university gate. Yichen closed his eyes for a second; it was one more way to thank life for still making room for him there.
The holiday arrived the way winter nights do: simple and whole. The campus emptied; the classroom block lights thinned out. Yue packed her backpack to go home: two books, her jacket, a small container of rice.
Her phone buzzed.— I'm downstairs, — came Yichen's light voice. — Can I take you?— You shouldn't be driving.— I'm not, — he laughed. — I'm just coming along. The driver is… prudent.
Yue went down. In the back seat, Yichen wore a plain shirt that looked freshly washed. The comma on the cast was still there, steady.
— Can we stop by a market? — he asked. — Tea for your mother… and maybe some fruit.— You don't have to…— I want to, — he cut in gently. — It isn't a gift; it's respect.
The market smelled of tangerine. Yichen chose a box of jasmine tea, another of oolong, with the quiet attention of someone who reads labels like letters. He also picked peaches, ginger, a jar of honey. Yue watched, sometimes smiling, sometimes trying to curb the excess.
— It's too much.— It's enough, — he said. — Enough is beautiful.
Yue's house had warm yellow light on the porch and pots of basil by the window. Her mother opened the door, wiping her hands on her apron.
— Mom, this is Zhou Yichen, — said Yue. — He… brought me.
Yichen bowed slightly, respectful, offering the bag with both hands.— Good afternoon, ma'am, — he said, clearly. — I brought tea that… warms the hands.
Her mother smiled with the gentle surprise of someone who isn't used to being remembered like that.— Come in, come in. — And, without ceremony: — Since you came at the right time, stay for dinner.
Inside, the kitchen breathed steam. Rice on the stove, vegetable soup, eggs with scallions, strips of garlicky beef, a cucumber salad with vinegar. Yichen offered to help with whatever could be done one-handed.
— Can you dice tofu? — the mother asked.— I can.
He could. Slowly, minding his limits. Yue watched the path of the knife: a new choreography—the choreography of care.
They sat at the table without any speeches. The mother served soup first, then rice.— Eat plenty, — she told him, as if Yichen already belonged there.
He ate. From the first spoonful to the last, there was a silence that didn't weigh anything. It was the comfortable silence of things that belong. The spoon found the bottom of the bowl; his heart found a place it didn't remember.
— How long has it been… — he began, and stopped, as if measuring whether the sentence would fit. — It's been a long time since I ate like this. At a table. With someone who… calls you back to the rice.
The mother set her hand on the table, gentle.— Then eat, — she said. — And come whenever you like.
Yue pretended to look at her plate to keep the threatening tear in place.
After tea, Yichen insisted on washing the dishes he could manage with his good hand. The mother forbid it twice and, the third time, yielded one plate only—so he wouldn't leave defeated.
They stepped out to the porch when the sky turned dark blue. There was the smell of old rain on the leaves.
— Thank you, — said Yichen, turning to Yue, serious and simple. — For today. For… everything.
She held his gaze. Inside, her mother was putting leftovers away; outside, the world seemed aligned for a second.— Thank you, — she answered. — For staying.
He smiled. The smile was unrushed. The comma on the cast seemed to catch the porch light—a good pause, the kind that announces a sentence.
— Yue.— Hm?— May I come back another day… with a cake I almost know how to bake? — he laughed at himself. — I promise I'll keep away from the stove until the batter is in the oven.— You may, — she said, and the "may" opened a door that was already open. — My mom likes simple cakes. And I like it when you try.
They took the two steps down from the porch in the same rhythm. On the curb, the car was waiting. Before getting in, Yichen touched his forehead to hers for a second—light, without fuss. Both their hearts answered in the same cadence, as if the hospital monitor were still there, just on another frequency.
— Good night, Yue, — he said.— Good night, Yichen.
The car pulled away slowly. Yue stayed on the sidewalk a moment, hands in her pockets, face warmed without a thermos. Inside, her mother waved from the window with a dish towel. The small house felt larger.
On the street, the night moved with holiday steps. Between commas—and, for the first time, with the scent of home for both of them.