50: Chapter 50 Hot Braised Food and "Disdainful" Packaging

The corridor lights of the Community Hospital flickered, and the ballast emitted a faint "buzzing" sound, like a small insect hiding in the ceiling.

The scent of disinfectant was mixed with the bitterness of traditional Chinese medicine, along with the faint fragrance of chrysanthemum tea wafting from the wards; the combination of these scents always made one frown when it drifted into the nostrils.

Chen Jie stood at the entrance of the nurse's station, clutching a black plastic bag, his knuckles turning white from the rough edges of the bag—the bag contained a glass jar, the walls of which were still warm.

It was braised pig trotters he had woken up at five in the morning to stew.

When it came out of the pot, he had specially added a spoonful of spiritual power into the braising liquid to keep it warm, so even the glass lid was permeated with warmth, for fear that it would get cold and hurt Lin Wanqiu's stomach.

"What are you standing here for? Like a telephone pole."

Lin Wanqiu pushed the treatment cart out of the ward.

The hem of her white coat brushed against his work pants, stirring up a cool breeze and carrying the faint scent of disinfectant that she often had on her, yet it smelled better than the air in the corridor.

She caught sight of the bag he was clutching tightly, her brows knitting slightly—as if she disliked the bag for being too worn—but then they relaxed, and a smile tugged at the corner of her lips: "Did Wang Lei ask you to deliver this? He really knows how to boss people around, hiding behind his stall stewing meat while making you run this errand."

"Yeah."

Chen Jie pushed the bag forward, rubbing his fingertips against the plastic bag—the surface was stained with a few oil spots from the morning's stewing.

He had wiped it with a tissue, but faint marks remained.

He got stuck before finishing his sentence; he had originally wanted to explain, "I stewed this especially for you," but when it reached his lips, only a dry half-sentence remained: "He said you use up a lot of energy on the night shift, so this braised dish... is stewed until it's soft and tender, easy to digest."

"Too greasy, my stomach can't handle it."

Lin Wanqiu interrupted him, her tone carrying that habitual "disdain," yet her hand reached out to take it quite naturally.

When her fingertips touched the plastic bag, her gaze fell on the surface—the red paint of "Wang's Braised Dishes" had flaked off halfway, revealing the grayish-white plastic underneath, where someone had crookedly added the character "Jie" with a black marker.

The strokes varied from thick to thin and even went outside the lines, like a blackboard that hadn't been wiped clean, looking both silly and earnest.

She suddenly laughed out loud, her fingertips tapping lightly on that "Jie" character, her voice filled with amusement: "Your patching skills are in the same vein as when you fixed my bicycle last time; they look rough, but they're quite sturdy."

Chen Jie's ears turned red in a flash, as if they had been scorched by the corridor lights.

He hurriedly glanced at the end of the corridor—a nurse was pushing a wheelchair past, the wheels making a "rumbling" sound on the tiles, which was just enough to cover his awkwardness.

"Is that bike chain still noisy?"

He hurriedly changed the subject, his fingertips unconsciously picking at the edge of the plastic bag.

"When I fixed it for you last time, it seems I didn't apply enough machine oil. If it's still noisy, I'll adjust it for you again."

"It hasn't been noisy for a long time; it rides even smoother than before."

Lin Wanqiu stuffed the bag into the iron cabinet at the nurse's station, and the glass jar collided with the cabinet wall, emitting a crisp "ding-dong" sound, like a wind chime.

Her hand paused as she closed the cabinet door, and she suddenly remembered what happened yesterday evening—she was walking home after finishing her day shift when she twisted her ankle at the entrance of the residential complex.

She happened to run into Chen Jie, and when he was squatting on the ground applying a bandage for her, his fingertips were exceptionally light, and he even held his breath, afraid of hurting her.

With her fingertips hovering over the cabinet door, she finally spoke: "By the way, that braised spice recipe of yours... Grandma Zhang said it was delicious last time, and I wanted to try it too."

"I wrote it on a piece of paper."

Chen Jie's eyes lit up, and he hurriedly fished out a crumpled cigarette box paper from the side pocket of his canvas bag—he had specially found it last night.

The cigarette box was the cheapest kind, the edges of the paper were curled, and it was covered with densely packed pencil writing, even marking "add 3 grams of cinnamon" and "add rock sugar last" clearly.

"I modified it a bit for you, using fewer star anise and replacing it with bay leaves," he handed the paper over, his voice very soft.

"Star anise is too strong, and your stomach isn't good. Replacing it with bay leaves is milder and won't cause heartburn."

The corner of the paper was still stained with a bit of machine oil from when he was fixing the bicycle during the day, looking like a white butterfly that had fallen into the mud, appearing a bit disheveled.

As Lin Wanqiu reached out to take the paper, her fingertips accidentally brushed against the thin calluses on the web of his thumb—that layer of hard skin was worn down from years of holding wrenches and tightening screws.

It felt very rough, but at this moment, it radiated a clumsy warmth, like a stone that had just been sun-baked.

"Thanks."

She carefully folded the paper into a small square and tucked it into the inner pocket of her white coat, right against her chest.

"Next time, tell Wang Lei to change the bag. This black plastic bag looks too worn; it doesn't look like it's holding food."

"I found it."

Chen Jie replied before she could finish, his voice colder than the tiles in the corridor, as if he were arguing with someone.

"This is the sturdiest bag at home, very thick. Even if the braising liquid spills, it won't leak. It's much better than the thin plastic bags Wang Lei gives."

As soon as he finished speaking, he regretted it—when he was putting the braised dish in the jar this morning, he was afraid the heat would spoil it, so he had specially used his spiritual power to freeze a thin layer of ice at the bottom of the bag.

Now it seemed like gilding the lily; she might not care about these things at all.

"I know you're earnest, and you only found a thick bag because you were afraid of it leaking."

Lin Wanqiu was amused by his impatient temper, her laughter mixed with the sound of the call button from a distant ward, soft and gentle.

"I'll treat you to some wontons from the cafeteria when I'm done with this. They were just wrapped this morning, shrimp filling, lighter than your braised dish, and won't be hard on the stomach."

Chen Jie had just wanted to say, "No need, that's too much trouble," when he saw the corner of the paper peeking out of her white coat pocket as she turned to walk toward the ward—that was the braised spice recipe he had written, swaying gently in the breeze like a little flag.

He took two steps back, not noticing the spider plant stand behind him, and his back bumped into it with a "thud."

The spider plants on the stand swayed, and water droplets on the leaves fell onto the back of his hand with a "plop," cold as a piece of broken jade stone, instantly extinguishing his awkwardness.

"I'm leaving."

He waved his hand, his footsteps fast as if he were fleeing, the cuffs of his work pants sweeping across the disinfectant traces on the floor, dragging two shallow white marks.

He didn't dare to look back, and even when the nurses in the corridor greeted him, he only responded vaguely.

His heart felt like a startled rabbit, and even his palms were sweating.

Lin Wanqiu watched his retreating figure disappear at the stairwell.

Only when the rough man's silhouette was completely invisible did she open the iron cabinet and take out the glass jar.

She crumpled the black plastic bag into a ball and threw it into the trash can.

When she unscrewed the glass lid, a rich aroma of braised meat rushed out—it was mixed with a very faint, clear sweetness, the scent of being purified by spiritual power, which made one's stomach feel warm just by smelling it.

The glass lid reflected her flushed cheeks, and even her earlobes were red.

"Who wants to eat your wontons?"

She muttered to the empty corridor, her tone full of soft insincerity, while her fingertips lightly traced a circle around the "Jie" mark on the wall of the glass jar—that was the mark transferred from the plastic bag, faint, as if she were stroking a piece of unpolished jade stone, carrying a rough earnestness that made one feel at ease.