Sheng Kuang’s gaze lingered on her, his dark eyes seeming to churn with turbulent emotions, or perhaps, a profound stillness. As if he hadn't heard her, he simply looked at her, and just when Lin Jing thought he wouldn't speak, the corner of his lips twitched.
His voice had changed little in two years, the youthful edge softened, a touch of low resonance now present. Each word landed on her heart like a drumbeat, “Mm, it has been a long time.”
When Lin Jing read novels, her favorite genre was reunions after a long separation.
This world held so much imperfection—people lost, accidents that struck without warning, the inevitable march of life, aging, sickness, and death.
Reunions, in a way, resembled rebirth.
It was like a second chance, an extra gift bestowed by heaven.
Although, strictly speaking, this reunion of hers wasn't entirely accidental; it was a convergence she had orchestrated.
Yet, looking at Sheng Kuang before her, Lin Jing felt a genuine, profound emotion.
Readers rejoiced at protagonists’ reunions, but the people involved felt moved.
It was a feeling that made one want to burst into tears.
How could she not be moved? Reunions were about people one had missed for countless nights and days, people who brought smiles or tears even in dreams.
Lin Jing’s throat felt tight, her eyes stinging, nearly making her lose emotional control.
Her intuition told her she should say something, but her mind was a blank canvas, utterly devoid of words.
Just then, it was Sheng Kuang’s turn to order. Lin Jing watched his long, slender fingers trace the menu, stopping at a dish of stir-fried beef with cilantro. Without thinking, she blurted out, "Um, I don't eat cilantro."
Sheng Kuang: "..."
Lin Jing: "..."
Lin Xiaojing, you're so brilliant.
If you don't know what to say, you can just shut up.
Lin Jing wished she could bite off her own tongue. She looked at Sheng Kuang, mentally replaying a thousand instances of her own foolishness, then, in a desperate last attempt, added, "I can pick out the cilantro myself."
Lin Jing closed her eyes, a panicked flush rising as she tried to explain, "I mean, I can pick the cilantro out for you... Ah, no, I mean, don't worry, I won't ask you to help pick out the cilantro... Ah, no, that's not it either..."
What was she even struggling for just now?
She was already dead, and now she was completely and utterly dead.
Suppressing the urge to punch herself unconscious, Lin Jing took a deep breath and, in a fit of self-abandonment, fell silent.
Sheng Kuang said nothing. His fingertip deliberately circled the other dishes around the stir-fried beef with cilantro, finally landing back on it. "Add more cilantro."
"..."
Feeling in the wrong, Lin Jing dared not defy Sheng Kuang, who seemed to be acting with a rebellious spirit. She silently endured the slight.
The ordered dishes soon arrived. As expected of a popular restaurant, the taste was exceptional.
Someone ordered beer, and Lin Jing, with her low tolerance for alcohol, bravely downed two glasses before starting to feel the effects. Her courage grew, and she progressed from covert glances at Sheng Kuang to staring directly across the table.
Admittedly, Sheng Kuang had much better self-control, maintaining a calm and composed demeanor throughout.
At several points, when she was staring at him, he deliberately scooped cilantro into his own small bowl.
By the end of the meal, apart from the beer, only one dish had been completely cleared:
The stir-fried beef with cilantro.