TBW - 17

17. You’re my second cup at half price.

A WeChat notification chimed as Shi Ying, wearing a straw hat, squatted in the vineyard picking grapes.

Not far away, Zhao, the owner of Chixia Winery, was also squatting, picking grapes.

After proposing a collaboration last month, Zhao had sent several follow-up text messages inviting Shi Ying, but Shi Ying had read them without replying. Just as Zhao thought the matter would fade into oblivion, Shi Ying unexpectedly appeared at the winery at the beginning of the month, bringing with him tens of thousands of yuan to help cover urgent labor costs.

Since then, Shi Ying had come to work early every morning, often staying overnight in the winery’s office, studying recent national policies and support measures for the wine industry.

Last week, Shi Ying had finally secured overdue quality inspections and trademarks for the winery.

Originally, he planned to attend the China-Arab Expo opening in the provincial capital of Xicheng to network, but sudden weather changes brought an impending three-day rainstorm to Banshan. The grapes needed to be harvested urgently, so since yesterday, Shi Ying had been working alongside the pickers in the vineyard.

With the winery struggling financially, both he and Old Zhao were doing triple duty, handling any odd jobs that arose.

Old Zhao’s winery specialized in dry red wines, primarily using Cabernet Sauvignon grapes, with smaller plots of Merlot, Syrah, and Marselan. Unlike Pinot Noir, whose thin skins made it prone to damage, there were larger vineyards at the foot of the Helan Mountains that supplied major brands, all utilizing modern mechanical harvesting methods.

But Old Zhao stubbornly clung to his principles. He believed that mechanical harvesting, which shook the vines to dislodge the fruit, left an undesirable taste in the wine. As a result, he still insisted on the more expensive and labor-intensive method of handpicking his grapes.

The workers had worked in two shifts under LED floodlights throughout the night yesterday, and today was no different—intense, grueling work. Shi Ying had stayed until the last shift ended, took a brief nap in the office early this morning, and was now back working alongside the morning crew.

Once picked, grapes oxidized quickly; time was money. The post-harvest boxing and transportation had to be extremely swift to ensure freshness.

Sweat dripped from his hairline into his eyelashes. Shi Ying blinked, but soon, sweat blurred his vision, clouding his irises.

After tossing two more bunches of grapes into the bucket, Shi Ying raised his arm to wipe his eyes with his elbow. Unfortunately, the fabric carried dust that irritated his eye further.

His right eye stung painfully. Setting down his pruning shears, Shi Ying removed his straw hat, preparing to rub his eye when a bottle of freshly opened purified water was handed to him.

“Don’t rub it—rinse it with water first,” Old Zhao said, squatting beside Shi Ying and continuing to pick grapes from the same vine. Hearing Shi Ying’s phone buzz in his pocket, Old Zhao urged him not to rush, suggesting he check the message first.

In just one month, Old Zhao’s attitude toward Shi Ying had undergone a complete transformation—from skepticism to deep admiration.

This young man truly worked hard, nothing like the lazy, entitled second-generation rich kids Old Zhao had imagined. Moreover, Shi Ying often stayed late at the winery without pay, arriving earlier than the rooster crowed and leaving later than the donkey brayed. In Shi Ying, Old Zhao even saw glimpses of his younger self, burning the midnight oil to study winemaking.

He was genuinely satisfied with Shi Ying as a partner, believing that Shi Ying was sincerely invested in his wine and aligned with him in their shared goals.

Little did he know that Shi Ying’s reason for coming to work here had nothing to do with passion for wine—it was entirely because of those incessant messages on his phone.

The cold purified water streamed over his eyelids and onto his eyeball, forming the world’s smallest waterfall on his face. The water washed away the dust and thoroughly soaked his thick lashes.

Reaching for his phone, Shi Ying already knew who the message was from before even looking: Cheng Simin.

Over the past month, Cheng Simin had been the only one messaging him, about ten times a week. She checked on him more frequently than his own mother, always with quirky excuses.

On Qixi Festival, she asked if he wanted DQ ice cream—even though he wasn’t in a sweet romance, he could add an extra brownie to his Strawberry Blizzard.

On Ghost Festival, she offered to accompany him home at night, worried that the sight of people burning paper offerings at every street corner in Banshan might scare him into insomnia.

On Teachers’ Day, she asked if he kept a bullet journal, sending him pictures of colorful stationery.

Most absurdly, last week during the Start of Autumn, when he couldn’t sleep due to the heat and got up at 1 AM to shower, Cheng Simin somehow timed her message perfectly, suggesting they play games online if he was still awake.

Shi Ying’s responses were always brief: either “No” or “Not really appropriate.”

But his coldness didn’t deter Cheng Simin’s relentless advances. She persisted despite repeated rejections, making Shi Ying so uneasy that he tiptoed around his own home, fearing even the sound of flushing the toilet or running water might attract attention. Walking barefoot became his new norm to avoid being overheard through the walls.

He dreaded running into Cheng Simin’s family of four in the hallway, terrified of the uncontrollable thoughts that sprouted in his mind.

Shi Ying vaguely sensed that Cheng Simin might be sending him inappropriate signals, but the mere thought of the word “affair” made his tongue burn—he dared not dwell on it.

His strategy of staying calm and unchanging had failed, so fleeing seemed the best option. Coming to work at the winery was a desperate measure to increase physical distance from Cheng Simin. Working unpaid overtime here was another way to exhaust his overactive brain.

Unlocking his phone, sure enough, it was Cheng Simin again.

Shi Ying felt himself teetering on the brink of a mental breakdown. Even hiding out in the mountains hadn’t stopped her. Did she expect him to move out? Wasn’t there some sense of fairness in public housing? He had applied for the apartment first—why should she invade his space just because her family was bigger and she had a dog? Was she the neighborhood bully?

Cheng Simin’s opening line today was particularly creative.

“The power’s still out in the building.” It sounded casual, but Shi Ying knew she had ulterior motives.

“Have you eaten lunch?” Sure enough, Cheng Simin followed up.

Shi Ying hadn’t eaten, but suspecting her true intentions, he preemptively replied, “Yes.”

“Oh, then what are you eating for dinner?”

“In a couple of days, it’ll be Mid-Autumn Festival. Does your family eat dumplings?”

“You don’t seem picky. Beef and radish filling is pretty tasty—lots of meat, less vegetables, thin wrappers, generous filling.”

Back in Huanghe Garden, Cheng Simin sat at the dining table, rolling out dumpling wrappers while staring at her phone screen. Flour was scattered everywhere—even Beibei, lying under the table, had a white smudge on his black nose.

Every time she rolled out twenty wrappers, she would sit down to wrap dumplings for a while. Sweating profusely, she utilized every available space in the house. There were already over a hundred dumplings.

But Shi Ying didn’t take the bait. After much deliberation, he finally replied, “I have plans tonight, and honestly, I’m really busy. Could you stop messaging me so often? I don’t like meat.”

Tch. Don’t like meat? Yeah, right—tell that to someone else.

Her dumpling-selling scheme had failed. Cheng Simin rolled her eyes at the ceiling. Shi Ying had always loved pretending to be special. He used to claim he didn’t like street food, but in the end, he’d fight her for a fifty-cent bag of spicy gluten.

If he didn’t want to eat, fine. What a miser! She hadn’t expected to make much money selling dumplings to him anyway.

After all, in recent days, she had approached him multiple times for “mutual assistance”—whether it was taking advantage of DQ’s second cup at half price promotion, struggling to find a taxi late at night after watching a movie, or needing one more person to join a group buy on Pinduoduo for stationery. These were clearly win-win opportunities, yet Shi Ying always declined with polite but firm rejections, as if afraid she’d take advantage of him.

Even worse, last week, Honor of Kings launched a new season with special rewards for teaming up with returning players. One evening, while walking her dog in the neighborhood, Cheng Simin had just entered her apartment with Beibei when the dog started barking loudly at the door, reacting to some noise outside.

Through the peephole, Cheng Simin clearly saw Shi Ying carrying two bottles of red wine home, looking like he was about to settle in for a drink.

After calming Beibei down, Cheng Simin quickly sent Shi Ying a message in the game, inviting him to log on and claim the rewards together.

But Shi Ying didn’t reply—pretending he was asleep!

On such a hot day, with no air conditioning in his place, she didn’t believe for a second that he could fall asleep within fifteen minutes of getting home.

Though not entirely surprised, Cheng Simin had long known there was something off about Shi Ying. He loved pretending to be polite and approachable, manipulating others’ emotions like a porcelain vase too lofty to notice the dust beneath its feet. Even now, living in public housing, he probably still thought he was far superior to her.

But her pride cushioned the blow. Cheng Simin didn’t care what he thought of her.

Soon, she shifted her sales pitch to the next target customer. Opening the chat with “Sister Zhou,” amidst a flood of successful group-buy notifications, Cheng Simin sent a cute emoji and wrote: “Sis, what are you having for dinner? The power’s out at my place, and I’ve made way too many dumplings. How about you take a third of them? Just pay me the cost price.”

Afterward, Cheng Simin crouched into a horse stance and took several close-up photos of her dumplings. Plump and glistening, they resembled jade ingots—adorable from every angle. After filling a nine-grid collage, she posted it to her WeChat Moments, visible only to Shi Ying, as a subtle jab at him.

“Delicious! Love it!”