Chapter 15 Let’s Go Home

Chapter 15: Let's Go Home

As the sound of rushing water filled the air, Lin Yajun finally let out a quiet sigh of relief.

She had genuinely feared the two of them would come to blows right here in her home.

Truth be told, she was also surprised that Yuan Che had come to visit her today. That last remark of "drop by anytime" had been pure politeness—she never expected him to take it to heart.

She glanced at the man still standing in the living room—Yuan Che was haphazardly wiping his face with the back of his hand, sheet mask residue smeared all over.

But she couldn't bring herself to say that to her son.

After half a month of getting to know him, she no longer felt the initial aversion toward Yuan Che.

When Feng Tai passed away that year, she thought she could handle it. After all, at her age, she had weathered plenty of storms. But once he was gone, the dog followed not long after. That golden retriever she had raised for eight years—she held it and cried the entire night when it left.

From then on, the villa was eerily silent. Staying there alone made her anxious, so she eventually moved into the city's penthouse.

But changing places didn't help. During the day, she could meet up with a few old friends, but friends can't stay forever. Most of the time, she was still alone, cycling between beauty salons, coffee shops, and shopping malls.

It wasn't until Yuan Che moved in for those two weeks that the house finally felt alive again. She'd go to the mall—he followed. She'd have afternoon tea—he joined. She'd get a spa treatment—he lay obediently beside her, mask on face, chatting idly. At night, whatever she watched on TV, he watched too, no matter how boring the program, he'd be thoroughly engaged, occasionally blurting out silly comments that made her laugh out loud.

Lin Zaishan also came back regularly to keep her company, but her son was too busy. His body was there, but his mind wasn't. She could tell he had a mountain of work to worry about, that visiting her was just squeezing time out of his schedule. As his mother, she couldn't ease his burdens and didn't want to add to them.

Yuan Che was different.

When he was here, he was truly present—no phone, no distractions, just sitting quietly beside her, keeping her company.

Lin Yajun couldn't quite describe that feeling.

All she knew was that after Yuan Che left, she went back to staring blankly at the TV alone. That day's invitation had been just a polite remark, but now that he was actually gone, she realized she genuinely wanted him to come again.

So when the doorbell rang this afternoon and she opened it to find Yuan Che standing there, holding a thermal container, her heart was both surprised and delighted. But at that moment, she suppressed her joy and simply said, "You're here."

Although Yuan Che was a good kid and she had grown used to having him around, every time she saw him—his nearly six-foot frame and that overly delicate face—she couldn't help thinking: This is a man.

My son's wife... is a man.

Whenever that thought crossed her mind, that barrier was still there.

Lin Yajun sighed, picked up the cotton pad on the cabinet, and slowly wiped the remaining essence off her face.

"Mom."

A voice came from the living room. She turned around to see Yuan Che smiling at her, eyes curved, holding up something golden.

"Want an orange?"

Lin Zaishan came out of the bathroom, hair still dripping. He intended to take that little fag home immediately, but as he passed the living room, he stopped in his tracks.

In the living room, Lin Yajun and Yuan Che were watching TV again. The screen was playing a soap opera Lin Zaishan had never heard of—apparently a foreign one with Taiwanese voiceover. The two were completely engrossed. Yuan Che was peeling oranges for Lin Yajun as they watched, handing her segment after segment, eating together in perfect harmony.

Lin Zaishan stood there, suddenly feeling a bit disoriented.

He had never... watched TV with Lin Yajun before.

When Feng Tai was alive, he was extremely strict with him, grooming him as the successor from the start. His childhood was filled with various classes, evaluations, and comments like "you're still far from good enough." Fortunately, Lin Zaishan never had much of a childish nature—he never caused his parents any worry, whether in studies or life.

Premature maturity came at the cost of a blank childhood. By the time he was a teenager, he already felt thirty years old.

Back then, Feng Tai would often ask him about company decisions—"What do you think of this mine's price?" "How much can we trust that partner?"—in a humble, amiable tone, as if seeking an equal's opinion. But Lin Zaishan knew his father was testing him. So he feigned ignorance and gave his views, ending the conversation with approving nods.

Later, when he looked back, he had long forgotten how much of what he said was right or wrong, and he couldn't tell how much of Feng Tai's approval was genuine.

Afterward, he went to the US for university, and father-son conversations were inevitably about the company, mines, and policies. Then, after graduation, returning to take over the company went smoother than expected, and Feng Tai was more like a teacher than a father.

The awkward yet mutually appreciative bond between father and son often left his teenage self feeling a sense of loss—but it was a loss he didn't want to examine closely. It wasn't until Feng Tai's unexpected death that he reluctantly took a glance.

Then he realized it wasn't such a big deal.

The connections between people are inherently fragile. Whether family or love, overly heavy emotions only bring trouble. As long as he didn't invest too much, he could float above everything lightly. With this survival rule, he even easily sidestepped the grief of losing his father.

Lin Zaishan considered himself detached. If there was anything he truly worried about, it was probably only Lin Yajun.

He walked over to the two of them and, for some reason, sat down at the far end of the sofa.

The three of them on the long sofa weren't cramped. The other two noticed him sit but only glanced briefly before turning their attention back to the screen. Yuan Che even symbolically moved closer to Lin Yajun.

Lin Zaishan gave him a sideways glance.

This person, who used to steal glances at him all the time, now had all his attention locked on the TV. He handed orange segments to Lin Yajun one by one without even looking at him.

What's that supposed to mean? Lin Zaishan scoffed inwardly, withdrew his gaze, leaned back against the sofa, and tried to focus on the TV.

The plot on the screen was completely incomprehensible to him—he had no idea what happened before. All he saw was a man and a woman shouting at each other, screaming desperately, grating on his nerves.

He turned his head and looked at Yuan Che again.

The man was staring intently at the screen, brows slightly furrowed, as if he was truly invested. His slender fingers moved deftly, skillfully peeling the orange skin, removing the white pith, breaking off a segment, and handing it over—

Lin Yajun took it, popped it into her mouth, without taking her eyes off the screen.

Lin Zaishan watched this scene and suddenly remembered something from his childhood.

When Feng Tai was still alive, the household had many rules. No talking at meals, no sitting too close to the TV, must be in bed by ten. He had never once curled up on the sofa with his parents, eating snacks and watching a boring show. Back then, he thought that was normal—everyone was like that, right?

Later, when he went to a classmate's house and saw them wrestling for the remote with their parents on the sofa, he realized that not every household was like that.

But he didn't think it was a pity.

He had his own path to walk; those things didn't matter.

But now, watching Lin Yajun and Yuan Che, he suddenly felt uncertain.

The expression on Lin Yajun's face was one he had never seen before—relaxed, carefree, as if she had shed a heavy burden. She leaned back on the sofa, remote in hand, a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. All her usual fussy formalities were completely gone.

And Yuan Che sat beside her, like a gentle large animal, quietly accompanying her, handing her orange segments from time to time.

Lin Zaishan stared at that hand handing over oranges and suddenly felt irritated.

This man had been clinging to him last night, calling him "hubby," and today he was here buttering up his mother? Not even a heads-up—just left a slip of paper and vanished, making him run all over town searching, only to find him here wearing a face mask and watching TV, now peeling oranges for his mom, segment by segment, with quite the dedication.

This shameless lack of remorse made Lin Zaishan increasingly annoyed.

He had originally planned to wait until they got home to deal with this little brat properly—after all, in front of Lin Yajun, some things were hard to say. But now he couldn't hold it in anymore.

"Hey," he called out in a low voice.

But what happened next was completely unexpected.

The person barely glanced at him, then looked away again.

He looked away.

He kept watching TV.

He kept peeling the orange.

Lin Zaishan stared at Yuan Che's profile, rooted to the spot, his mind feeling like it had jammed.

What's going on?

He started to seriously wonder: Was this the same little fag who had clung to him at the door this morning, chirping "Hubby, come back soon"?

Had he turned straight after a day at the old lady's place?

No, wait—can you even straighten someone out like that?

Lin Zaishan wasn't ready to give up. He nudged Yuan Che's knee with his.

Yuan Che finally turned his head and gave him a questioning look. That look still seemed a bit foolish and confused, but Lin Zaishan quickly caught a trace of barely hidden impatience beneath the daze.

Impatience?

He was completely pissed off now.

I haven't even dealt with you yet, and you're already getting cranky? You left home without permission, made me worry all afternoon, soaked me like a drowned rat—and now you're the one who's angry?

"Pass me an orange." Lin Zaishan ordered in a low voice, a sharp edge in his tone.

Without any expression, Yuan Che leaned forward, grabbed an orange from the coffee table, and held it out.

Lin Zaishan was about to take it—

The guy just put the orange on the sofa.

On the sofa.

Not into his hand, but onto the sofa cushion beside him.

Lin Zaishan stared at the lonely orange sitting on the sofa cushion, suddenly feeling an urge to laugh—not a happy laugh, but the ridiculous laugh you let out when you're so angry it's almost funny.

Fine.

Just fine.

The TV show continued, with exaggerated laughter coming from the screen. Lin Yajun was absorbed in watching, completely oblivious to the tension.

Lin Zaishan took a deep breath.

He stood up and jerked his chin toward Yuan Che.

"Let's go. Home."