How I Won the Cold Professor

I was stunned by the harshness. My parents had never spoken to me that sharply, but Ethan did.

I stuck out my lower lip, and the fear I'd been holding in burst into tears—big, hot, streaming ones.

I was terrified, standing with my bloody forehead covered, as people were arguing and even fighting around us. I kept thinking: what if they left me behind?

Ethan smelled like the floral detergent I'd bought. I buried my face in his shirt and wiped my nose. "Ethan, please don't yell. I was so scared."

He faltered, then his big hand settled on my head. "What did the doctor say about changing the bandage?"

"The eighth."

Because of the injury I took sick leave and could stay home from the preschool for a week.

The director called to express concern and said my work was hard—this time it would be paid leave.

So I became a laid-back couch potato. My head throbbed and I slept a lot.

Maybe it was my imagination, but Ethan slept more too, curled around me from noon until dusk.

One night Maya sent me a file called 99 Ways to Win Your Man. "Last time you got yelled at by Ethan; this is to make up for it."

I had thought I didn't need it. I'm adorable—how could he not like me?

But after Ethan asked, "Do you know what love is?" I couldn't shake the doubt. Maybe he really didn't love me.

Time to stoke the fire!

1. Cook for him myself.

Okay, pass.

2. Learn his hobbies and have topics in common.

Okay, find the Kitty cat in the mockups—pass.

3. Don’t break up lightly, not even as a joke.

Okay, pass.

4. Be gentle with him.

There was an empty wedding envelope on the nightstand. Five crooked words were written on it in a thick marker: “Ethan Lane—asshole.”

Still there.

Pass.

5. …Later I fell asleep. When I woke up, my phone was neatly on the nightstand and Ethan was sitting beside me with a book.

I wiped drool off my mouth and crawled toward the phone across Ethan. My body blocked his view of the pages.

Ethan sighed. “If you want to read that file, I advise you not to.”

I held the phone and asked, “Why?”

He closed the book and pulled me close. “Those tips you keep—’99 Ways to Win Your Man’—are really 99 ways to make a boyfriend break up.”

I thought for a second, pulled my hand back, and instead grabbed the tie on his pajama pants.

“I think the blunt approach works better.”

Ethan watched me, his lips tight, his eyes getting hot.

“You okay? Your head not hurting anymore?”

He touched my wound.

I threw hair out of my face, flopped into his arms and smiled, “Ethan, let me take care of you.”

He scoffed, not buying my nonsense at all, and in three quick motions dragged me under the covers.

Early the next morning, I was still half-asleep when I heard Ethan take a call.

He didn’t say much before heading into the living room.

A woman’s sixth sense told me this wasn’t simple.

I sneaked into the living room just as the call was winding down.

“Can we meet up when you have time?” I heard a woman’s voice faintly.

Ethan stood on the balcony with his back to me. “Okay, I’ll book a table.”

He hung up and looked back at me—no sign of cheer.

I spread my hands. “Anything you want to tell me?”

Ethan was silent a long time. “No.”

Good.

Very good.

Eating alone behind my back!

That night I went to a rock festival with my friends.

The pounding music hit your nerves and pulled you into the crowd. Maya asked, “Where’s your Ethan?”

“No idea.”

The thought made my chest tighten, so I decided not to think about it.

I sang until my voice went hoarse. The festival didn’t end until near dawn. A few handsome guys tried to talk to us, but Maya kept them two meters away with a smile: “Sorry, he’s taken.”

My confidence soared. “See? No problem getting attention.”

Maya rolled her eyes. “With your love-brain, unless you find someone solid, any jerk could toy with you.”

Her boyfriend drove to pick them up and kindly dropped me off at my complex.

At that hour, only the 24-hour convenience store was open.

I pushed in and stood by the hygiene aisle for a bit. Under the clerk’s “I get it” gaze, I turned to the refrigerated section and bent down for two cartons of milk and a dozen eggs. I pointed at a small packet of the complimentary rice. “How much is this?”

He smiled embarrassed. “That’s a freebie.”

I blinked. The clerk blushed. A few minutes later, I left the store triumphantly carrying my free packet.

I didn’t expect Ethan to be home—no lights were on.

Eating out with another woman and hiding it from me? Fine. Break-up time after dinner.

As soon as I stepped in, someone grabbed me and slammed me against the door.

Bang!

The door crashed shut.

Things spilled everywhere.

“Ahhh—mmph—”

My hand reaching for my phone was suddenly pinned behind me. “Zoey, where did you go?”

I froze. It was Ethan’s voice.

He smelled of wine.

Ethan’s tall body pressed into mine, his mouth close to my ear, his tone edged with punishment as he murmured, “Where did you go?”

I swallowed and wrapped my arms around his waist, testing gently. “You been drinking?”

He buried his face in my neck and said nothing.

Seems… he wasn’t in a good mood.

“Ah! No—” His hand slipped under my clothes and expertly unzipped the dress.

“Ethan! I’m tired! I don’t want to!”

He paused, breathing hot, then said coldly after a long beat, “So you’re bored of me?”

“Used to not care, and now not even the body cares anymore, right?”

Bored?

Bored?!

Ethan, are you insane?!

He scoffed, lifted my chin and kissed me without asking—hard, biting and grinding. “So what do you want? Break up?”

Normally I’d snap back righteously: Yes!

But some strange intuition told me: don’t provoke a lion. You’ll get eaten.

I swallowed the words and carefully wrapped my arms around him. I patted his back and asked softly, “Have you eaten?”

He froze, then, after a long moment, in a voice too low to be heard, said, “It’s been four years, Zoey. This is the first time you’ve asked me if I ate.”

There was even a faint… pleased note in it.

I felt guilty—because it was true.

“Well then, have you eaten? Don’t be dramatic. If you’re hungry, say so.”

I mimicked the way he scolded me, and it felt so satisfying.

Ethan answered immediately, “No.”

Then who was he with?

If he wanted me to make him dinner after going out with that woman, fine—grudgingly I’d do it.

At that thought I suddenly screamed and pushed him, “My eggs!!!”

He stumbled back and turned on the light.

I stood revealed.

Black heels, strapless poofy dress, a delicate necklace at my collarbone, hair in glamorous waves.

I’d even done a… innocent-glam look.

He leaned against the wall, a storm gathering behind his eyes. “Zoey!”

I crouched on the floor holding the cracked eggs, looking up carefully. “What’s wrong…”

Maya says: soft and helpless—no one can resist it.

Ethan rubbed his temple and, face cold, relented. “Fine. Go change.”

He had drunk, sank into the couch and closed his eyes.

I was sure if I said one more useless thing he’d throw me out, but I had something to say.

I stood at the entryway loaded with bags and mumbled, “I… twisted my ankle…”

Ethan lay motionless on the couch, cursed low, then dragged me onto the couch with him.

I expected a harsh lecture, but Ethan only pulled me into his lap, took a bottle of ointment from the cabinet, and massaged my ankle.

The apartment was quiet except for my small complaints.

I hugged his neck and felt a soft place inside my chest start pounding.

This was the second time.

Ethan’s face was close—sharp features, high nose, eyes especially compelling.

I kept complaining softly: “You come home and don’t turn on the lights…”

He turned his head, leaning into me. “Why so many complaints?”

I shifted to give us a bit of distance, cheeks hot.

“Rub my foot properly. When the pain’s gone, I’ll cook for you.”

Ethan paused, smiled once, and hummed.

I didn’t ask who the woman was. Now I stood at the stove, reading how-to tutorials while throwing the complimentary rice into boiling water, stirring, then cracking in the broken eggs.

Ethan sat at the table and asked, “What are you making?”

“Sweet rice-and-egg soup.”

“There’s no wine.”

I put the lid on the pot and grinned, “You’ve got it in your belly.”

Ethan, “…”

I leaned on the counter with a fresh milk carton and texted Maya while waiting.

“Do you think that woman is his ex?”

Maya: “If he came back in a bad mood, probably. Ugh! Scumbag! Where are you?”

“Making him dinner!”

Then I sent a happy emoji: "He finally ate the food I made!"

Maya: "Are you sure he's not just trying to hide something and being extra nice to you?"

I said, "The guidebook says: you have to understand men! Don't ask what you shouldn't."

Maya: "That's not the time to be 'understanding' someone! Zoey, are you out of your mind?"

Maya: "Zoey, where are you? Speak!"

Me: "Does fermented rice egg-drop soup need sugar? White sugar or brown sugar?"

Maya: "Get out…"

Of course, the meal was a disaster.

Ethan fished a piece of broken eggshell out of the soup and calmly set it on a napkin. "It's fine… not a big deal—"

Crunch.

I heard the sound of him crunching something like grit. Slapping my forehead, I realized, "Crap, I forgot to rinse the rice."

Ethan nodded. "It's okay… edible."

He finished the porridge under my awkward stare, the same expression he'd worn when he ate the gushy heart-shaped meals I'd cooked years ago.

I waited for him to say, "Nice job. Don't cook for me again next time."

Instead, he stood, walked into the kitchen, washed the bowls, and came back. "It's late. Wash up and go to bed."

Sunrise in the west.

Me, Zoey Quinn, actually managed to get Ethan Lane to eat my cooking!

Is this the power of sacrifice?

Did I move him?

Then, why not sacrifice a bit more.

"Ethan!"

I cried out, giddy.

He stopped at the bathroom door and turned. "What?"

"I'll wash you—"

I dove forward, headfirst.

Ethan slapped his hand to my forehead and pushed me back. "Get out."

The next morning, when my phone erupted with a dozen group messages, I knew my friend who only eats, sleeps, and binges had woken up.

"AHHHHH! Xavier just proposed to me!!!"

I squinted at my screen for a long time, then sat bolt upright. "AHHH! He proposed to you!"

Ethan was woken by my rustling, saw me rolling excitedly on the bed and babbling voice messages with Maya, and lazily scooped me up. "What's going on?"

I held the phone up to Ethan's face, ecstatic. "Xavier proposed! Aaaah! He proposed!"

For a beat Ethan looked blank. He asked, "Who's Xavier?"

"My classmate! Squee, I'm so happy!!!"

Ethan shoved me down hard, his face darkening. "Zoey, say that again. Who proposed to you? Try smiling one more time!"

My phone clattered into the bed gap. I blinked, stunned, then after a while giggled into a curled-up ball. "Hahaha."

Ethan's expression grew worse. "Zoey!"

I planted a kiss on his cheek. "I said Xavier proposed to my friend. What about me? What about me? I want one too!"

Ethan paused, then got up and left.

Was he mad?

I pursed my lips, debating whether to soothe this grumpy lion.

He came back and tossed a stack of documents on the bed.

"Bank card, deed, household registry—you still need your ID, Zoey. Get up. Come with me to meet your parents and sign the transfer."

I was stunned. "Are we getting married today?"

"If you want, yes."

I grabbed my phone and hit voice recording, then shouted into it the next second: "AHHH! Ethan just proposed to me too!!!"

I wasn't that greedy, though. Holding Ethan and grinning, I said, "No need. Just come with me to meet my parents. My household registry is still with them."

An hour later, Ethan had loaded the car with a trunk full of health supplements and we set off for my parents' house.

I rode shotgun, my face clouded.

Because I'd accidentally sent that voice message to the preschool's 300-person group chat.

Maya went wild in the messages. "Zoey are you sick hahahahaha you sound like a screamer hahahaha!"

A bunch of congratulations flooded in. Even the cafeteria lady, who was always cold and distant, sent a thumbs-up emoji.

I felt emo… my parents already knew about Ethan and me. After four years, we'd inevitably been seen together.

The "future son-in-law" officially came to call, and my parents laid out a lavish lunch.

They liked Ethan—maybe even more than they liked me.

After the meal, Ethan ignored my hint that he should go for a walk and instead put on a serious face and said to my father, "Sir, may I speak with you about something?"

My dad, surprised, nodded and led Ethan into the study.

About an hour later the study door opened. I edged in. "What did you talk about?"

My dad glanced at me, and whatever lightness he'd had before was gone.

No way… Did we— "Are we long-lost siblings?"

Ethan's face darkened. "Don't be ridiculous."

On his way out I pulled my dad aside. "What did Ethan tell you?"

Dad took off his reading glasses. "He'll tell you himself. I trust you to make your own judgment."

"And you and Mom okay with this?"

Dad smiled, hands clasped behind his back. "We respect your decision."

On the drive back, I couldn't hold it anymore. "Ethan, tell me! What's the secret?"

He gripped the wheel and said, "Zoey, I want to take you to meet my parents."

That's normal—I nodded.

Then Ethan said something I would never forget in my life, calm and steady: "If after meeting them you still choose to marry me, we'll get the marriage certificate."

At a fancy restaurant I met Ethan's mother.

A striking, glamorous woman.

I greeted her, presented carefully chosen jewelry, and instinctively scanned for other family members.

Ethan's mother smiled. "No need to look. It's just me today."

I looked at Ethan, puzzled.

He didn't dodge it. "My father is unwell, mildly depressed. He lives out in the suburbs and doesn't see many people. I'll take you to meet him later."

Ethan's mother poured herself a glass of red wine. "Actually, I'm not in favor of you two getting married."

I gripped my napkin. "Auntie, I—"

"It's not because of you." She sipped, fingers with jewelry idly curling around the stem. "He’s like his father. Not cut out for marriage."

"Mom, this is our first meeting." Ethan issued a soft warning.

She curled her lips. "What do you want me to say? That you two will be perfect? When I married your father people said the same thing. Did it help?"

Her pale eyes turned to me. "His father used to work on remote projects with the institute. One night I went into early labor with our second child. I almost died. I hated him for that for years."

Ethan said nothing.

From the corner of my eye I saw him for the first time like a defendant waiting for judgment—face blank, dead quiet.

Ethan's mother kept talking. "After I was discharged ten days after giving birth, your father returned ragged. I thought of leaving. I asked for a divorce; he refused and begged me on his knees. Then he developed depression and couldn't handle any more pressure. He became a weak man. If I'd let him go back then, maybe I'd have thought differently of him."

A flash of the rainy night came back to me—me, waiting alone with a cake, watching the seconds tick by until the day ended, then blowing out the candle myself.

Ethan's mother smiled at me. "I can tell by your face you understand."

I suddenly remembered that night when Ethan came back and I shouted at him: Let's break up.

Ethan stood there and said only one word: Okay.

My chest twinged.

It wasn't that he didn't care; he just didn't want us to end up like his parents.

Under the table I gripped Ethan's hand.

He looked up sharply, and in his quiet eyes there seemed to be a sliver of light.

I squeezed his hand in return, as if building a wall between our story and whatever had come before.

Mrs. Lane laughed, "So I left him. I left the kids with their father. If he doesn't want a divorce, then he should shoulder the responsibility of taking care of them. Don't use depression as an excuse."

She propped her chin on her hand. "Let me warn you—the son takes after his father."

I grabbed a chilled lychee drink beside me and took several big gulps, exhaling the cold, "You can't paint everyone with the same brush."

"Looks like you have hope for him."

Her tone was mocking.

"A big hope," I said proudly.

She stared at me for a long moment, clearly annoyed, then said coldly, "Forgive me for being blunt—are you… love-struck?"

Before, that phrase had always been an insult when aimed at me.

But in that instant I straightened my back with pride. "I am. And people like us are brave."

I read the two-letter thought on her face: nonsense.

I didn't care.

The moment he swallowed the porridge and egg skin I gave him, I fell for him.

The meeting ended badly.

I watched his mother get into another man's car, leaning into him and whispering as the car drove away.

Ethan sat by the floor-to-ceiling window, expressionless, his dark eyes fixed on me.

"That's it?" I sneered. "That's it? You really underestimate me."

Ethan sighed and steadied my hand holding the drink. "Stop shaking or you'll spill it."

Caught, I gave up pretending. I flopped face-down on the table, hat pulled down tight. "Ahhh, what did I say… I'm so embarrassed, I'm mortified!!!"

"Zoey."

"Don't call me! I can't face you!"

"Zoey."

I twisted and covered my face. Isn't this basically a confession? Girls don't confess first!

I could already imagine, years from now, Ethan calmly telling our grandchildren: Your grandma chased me first.

"Zoey, I love you."

I froze, forehead on the tabletop, face hidden from him, secretly blushing.

He said he loved me!

Under the table he slid me a rabbit gummy.

"Can you eat properly now?"

…Three days later I dashed over to Ethan's desk in a panic. "Ethan, it's over—my period is three days late."

He didn't glance up. "You drank a whole cup of iced lychee. A delay is normal."

"How can you be sure it's not—"

My voice trailed off.

Ethan took off his gold-rimmed glasses and rubbed the red imprint on his nose. "Because I always take precautions. Zoey Quinn, may I ask—other than that, have you ever… been with someone else?"

I blinked. "No. I'm only into you."

"Good."

He kept his face cold. "Then it's not about me."

I grit my teeth and stomped. "Scumbag!"

Ethan: "?"

"How can it not be about you?"

I lunged at him and straddled his lap. "Are you saying you wouldn't acknowledge the child?"

He couldn't help laughing through his irritation. "Have you put your thoughts in order?"

"I'm not being logical—I'm being emotional!"

Ethan leaned in and kissed me. "Emotionally, I want a child that's yours and mine every second. But your situation was definitely caused by that iced lychee, and I'm really annoyed. Next time you say that, bring two stripes."

"Ah! You're accusing me of lying about the facts!"

"Exactly."

A week later, when I really did go to Ethan with two stripes on a pregnancy test, he knocked over a cup and broke his laptop.

We sat across from each other all afternoon.

The evening sun hit Ethan's face, bringing a little color to his pale cheeks.

After a long time, he seemed to steel himself. "Zoey, if the baby is born, I'll raise it."

I fiddled with a tissue and stared down at the two lines on the test, head down, wordless.

Honestly, I didn't know what to do. I hadn't planned any of this—I got pregnant without meaning to. What could I do?

"Are you… sure you always took precautions?" I tried asking.

Ethan buried his face in his hands and breathed deeply. "Zoey, maybe something failed. Maybe… I forgot."

There was strain in his voice. Even I thought it sounded unlikely—Ethan was so careful. How could he forget?

The sun slid lower. No one in the room spoke.

I stared at the mantel clock with its missing corner, my expression growing serious.

"Ah!" I blurted, like a student who'd just found the answer. "A month ago!"

I relaxed and smiled sheepishly. "Sorry, I forgot."

Time rewound to a month earlier, the night before Ethan's business trip.

When I heard the news, I sulked and nagged him into drinking that night.

Coincidentally, my best friend Maya had given me a bottle of 40-proof whiskey. I mixed a little into some fruit wine. By the time we realized it was a bad idea, Ethan was already tipsy.

He sat quietly, watching me, not saying a word.

I kissed him and he responded. I touched him and he let me. He was like a well-behaved child.

Later I helped him back to the bedroom. I couldn't find what I needed, so I hoped for the best.

Plus, emboldened and a little drunk, everything went smoothly.

Then he left on his trip, missed my birthday, and I broke up with him…

With all that drama, who remembers that night?

I'd never seen Ethan truly furious before. He sat very still, long enough I thought he might have no breath left, then slowly said, "Zoey, come here."

A woman's sixth sense kicked in. I scooted away. "No need—"

"Damn it!" He stood suddenly. "Zoey Quinn! We're going to the hospital."

I panicked. "Don't hurt my baby!"

Veins bulged on his forehead as he scooped me up and left.

In the car I curled up in the passenger seat and asked pitifully, "Please don't—"

His face was dark. "Shut up."

He carried me into the hospital and stayed silent the whole time we waited.

A pregnant woman nearby whispered, "Here for an abortion?"

I gave her a miserable smile. She patted me sympathetically. "Young people, open your eyes."

When it was our turn, I hung my head in the corner, embarrassed.

Ethan's first words to the doctor: "Hello. I want to ask—my wife and I have been… intimate frequently. I just found out she's pregnant, probably from about a month ago. I'm worried about her and the baby's safety."

My face burned.

What is he—what is he saying? The doctor's expression turned serious. "If you know you're scared, why not just endure?"

Ethan admitted it straight out. "My fault."

That evening Ethan led me out of the hospital.

The baby was fine but required regular checkups.

My hand moved against his palm. "Hey, don't ignore me."

He shoved me into the car and stood outside for a minute, making a few calls before climbing in. "Tomorrow, we're going out to the suburbs."

"To see Dad?" I asked.

He paused while buckling his seatbelt, warmth threading his voice finally. "Yes. To see your father."

I went back to the preschool after taking leave.

All day my coworkers smiled at me. Even the lunch lady gave me an extra scoop of meat.

Ethan said he'd pick me up after work but had to wait until the kids were gone.

Around 4:30 most of the children had left. I was at the door with the teacher from the next class, crouched down to help a little girl with a loose hair clip, when a colleague called, "Hello, this parent looks unfamiliar. What's the child's name? Can you show a pick-up pass?"

The man answered, "Zoey Quinn. She doesn't have a pass yet, but she should know me."

I turned and saw Ethan holding a milk tea a short distance away, the gentle sunset softening his features.

My face went hot. I handed the child to her parent, then hurried over to him. "Weren't you supposed to be later—"

Ethan handed me my milk tea. "It's fine. I'll wait a bit."

We bought a few things in the car.

The suburbs are about an hour from the city.

When we walked in, his dad was sitting out in the yard.

I awkwardly called, "Hello, sir."

Ethan's father stood up from his chair. He wasn't that old, but his hair was almost all silver.

He was happy I was there—dinner was wild chicken stew from their own farm, and the vegetables and fruit were freshly picked.

Ethan said, "Dad, I'm getting married."

The spoon in his dad's hand froze. After a long moment he choked, "Good… don't let your old man be a burden.

If a girl likes you, that's wonderful.

Treat her well."

Such plain, simple advice, and suddenly my eyes were stinging.

After dinner, while we were doing the dishes, Ethan said to me, "My dad owes my mom an apology."

A simple statement.

But after all these years—one with depression, the other treating life like a joke—who was I supposed to blame?

Ethan paused, then looked at me with a light in his eyes. "Zoey, I'm sorry for coming home late."

I realized then—that rainy night when he opened his mouth—he wanted to say that.

He saw the candle on the table blown out, my disappointment, and that harsh line: "Let's break up! I deserve better!"

He hadn't dared to say it. He swallowed the words and only said, "Okay."

I cried.

My sobs echoed across the yard. "This isn't shameful—why did you tell my dad first and hide it from me?"

Ethan stroked my head. "My parents had a failed marriage.

I chose the same path as my father. I was afraid you'd abandon me."

I hugged him. "I wouldn't. I'm not shallow—I'm not with you just for your body."

Ethan was silent.

I stared at him, swollen-eyed and incredulous. "You really think that?"

He hugged me tight. "Zoey, it's time to go home."

I forgot to keep crying and started bawling in his arms. "Ethan! You're the shallow one! I'm not getting back with you because of your six-pack!"

"Okay."

"Not because you can do over a hundred push-ups either!"

"I believe you."

"No, you still doubt me! I really love you!"

After a beat.

Ethan: "Stop staring at me. I really believe you."

Life returned to normal.

Both sets of parents knew about the pregnancy.

Ethan's mother reacted coldly—no caring texts—but one day she appeared at the door.

I was barefoot, doing yoga when Ethan opened the door.

His mother was standing there with a box of baby supplies. Her gaze landed on the pink-checkered apron Ethan had tied on, and she tugged the corner of her mouth. "More accomplished than your father."

She dumped the box and turned to leave.

I barely had time to slip on my slippers; I didn't get to see her properly.

Ethan's dad, recuperating in the countryside, sent several crates of farm eggs.

My parents came by sometimes to sit with us and talk wedding plans. Ethan said his parents would be there on the wedding day.

Those days I craved grilled skewers like crazy.

Because of the pregnancy I was careful with food, so at night I whined and begged Ethan for skewers.

He looked up from a parenting book. "A coworker invited me out to eat. I wasn't going to go. That skewer place is good, but it's hard to get a table. If you want—"

"I want, I want, I want!"

I'd never met his lab colleagues before.

Not many of them were married, so I was the only spouse at the table.

As soon as we sat, everyone started teasing.

I realized, surprised, that they all knew me. They even knew we'd been together for years, and everyone had already assumed I was Ethan's official partner.

They were shocked we weren't engaged. "Looking at Ethan, you'd think you two had been married for years."

I ate a skewer Ethan had rinsed with water and asked, "How could you tell?"

"Always on time, a photo of you on his desk. With female coworkers he's icy—pushes everyone away. Lots of the new girls tried to get his attention but one look at his phone wallpaper sent them off."

Another chimed in, "Some people hide a marriage. Ethan, not married, wants to fasten you to his belt. Four big words on his face: taken."

Ethan pursed his lips and was quiet, pouring fresh water when I finished my skewer.

Suddenly someone clapped. "Hey! Remember when we were checking that mountain site? Landslide, signal cut!"

I bit my bamboo skewer and snapped my head up. "When was that?"

Ethan cut in, "After dinner we'll go. Time to sleep."

"Don't—you're cutting me off!"

His colleague was excited. "A month ago. Didn't Ethan tell you? What should've taken two or three days got drenched by rain for three nights. The road in and out was totally blocked."

"They said Ethan grabbed his tools and climbed to the signal tower himself. When he came down, his face was terrifying. You'd think the apocalypse had started."

I tightened my grip on the skewer and didn't move.

Ethan took my arm. "Don't listen to these stories. Come with me."

I shrugged him off and said slowly, "If you want to go, go by yourself."

They kept chatting loudly. Ethan sat close again, lips pressed thin. "…they said the repair materials couldn't get through, the signal was down. Ethan joined the crew to dig out the road. Days and nights without rest. Just as they were about to get out, a flash flood sealed it again. If the crew hadn't pulled back fast, they'd all have been buried."

They clicked their tongues and gestured at Ethan.

The meat in my mouth tasted like wax I couldn't chew.

After a long time, mustering courage, I asked, "Then what happened?"

"They said Ethan kept climbing the hills every day looking for signal—rain or shine—for a month. A few days before the road opened, he had a 104-degree fever and they had to carry him to the car."

I stood up and rubbed my eyes. "I'm—I'm going to the restroom."

"Oh, okay. Be careful."

I left the private room and walked fast.

Ethan chased after me. "Zoey."

I walked faster, almost running.

I cried while I ran. "Don't follow me, okay? I just want to be alone for a minute."

I couldn't outrun him. He caught me and pulled me into his arms.

He held my head and patted my back gently. "I'm not going to bother you. Don't run."

I opened my mouth and sobbed, drawing attention from the late-night food stall crowd.

Crying was the only thing that eased me.

If I'd been even a little more patient, if I'd asked why, he wouldn't have spoken that breakup line.

After a long time, exhausted and sniffling, Ethan lifted me into the car and turned toward the driver's seat.

I clung to him and wouldn't let him go.

"Zoey, can we go home?"

"No."

I pouted and tears started again.

"Then what do you want?" he asked quietly.

"I don't know."

After a long while, I lifted my head. "I'll love you more from now on. I won't call you a jerk again."

Ethan smiled. "I'm grateful. Also—Zoey, haven't you been crying a lot lately?"

I rubbed my face and finally let go. "Don't be like that. It's pregnancy—my emotions are unstable. I won't cry so much later."

A few days later I found a transfer notice in Ethan's email.

He got promoted.

Business travel would be less and less frequent.

I also found a leave request tucked in a book—time off for two weeks around my due date.

I had access to Ethan's phone. One day while I was searching something I saw his search history.

"How to handle it when your girlfriend cooks badly?"

Answer: "Praise her: 'You did great. Next time don't bother.'"

"Hidden romantic gestures in industry XX?"

Answer: "Hide things she likes in the design plans."

What sweet romance novels do you recommend? — Zhihu

I thought of that Kitty cat.

"What do little girls like?"

Answer: strong bodies.

"XX City Gym hours…"

I silently screenshotted it, printed it out, and hid it in my treasure box.

There were already so many things inside—my first love letter to Ethan that he actually replied to, the jewelry box for the cheap ring I’d secretly bought back then and that Ethan now wore on his ring finger, our first photo together, the napkin I’d clenched in my hand during our first kiss… Footsteps sounded in the living room.

I shut the box and kicked it under the couch.

The door opened.

A perfect strip of sunset fell across Ethan Lane’s shoulders.

"What are you doing?"

He came in holding a delivery package, turned, and bent to change his shoes.

I grinned, hands behind my back. "I'm hiding love."

This column has 8 chapters, all read. Page 52 of 53. 2021/11/2 13:36

What sweet romance novels do you recommend? — Zhihu

See more: Lover's Other Side: Sweet and Mindscrambling Dangerous Love — a paid column of 8 lessons, members only ¥… Published 09-17. Page 53 of 53. 2021/11/2 13:36