The next morning, the frost on the roof tiles glittered under the thin sunlight, and the air was sharp enough to bite.
Ruan Yue was in her yard splitting firewood — the thin logs stubborn under her axe — when she heard a soft knock on her gate.
She frowned. Nobody came to her place unless they wanted something… or trouble.
Pushing the gate open, she found Zhao Xiuxiu standing there in a pale blue padded jacket, scarf wrapped neatly around her neck, holding a steaming enamel lunch pail.
Ruan Yue blinked. "You're here… why?"
Xiuxiu's cheeks flushed from the cold, but she held the pail out with both hands. "This is for you. Yesterday, at the well… if you hadn't stepped in, I…" She hesitated, her gaze dropping. "I might have been in real trouble."
Ruan Yue crossed her arms. "You don't owe me anything."
"I do," Xiuxiu said firmly. "And I know you didn't have to help me. Please accept it."
Inside the pail was warm millet porridge — thick, golden, with a faint aroma of peanuts. In 1983, that was generosity. A ration-day treat.
Ruan Yue wanted to refuse. In this village, accepting something meant accepting ties. And ties meant gossip, obligation, and trouble.
But the girl's stubborn expression… ugh. It reminded her of her own younger self, back before life had taught her not to expect kindness.
She took the pail. "Fine. But that's the end of it. No more 'repaying favors' nonsense."
Xiuxiu's eyes brightened. "Alright."
They might have parted there — if not for the fact that a shadow fell across the yard.
A tall figure stepped into view, hands in his coat pockets, the collar of his gray military jacket catching the sunlight.
Shen Wenxiu.
The moment his gaze landed on the lunch pail in Ruan Yue's hands, his expression iced over.
"Xiuxiu," he said, voice low, "what are you doing here?"
Xiuxiu startled. "I—I just came to—"
"She was leaving," Ruan Yue cut in, handing the pail back to Xiuxiu. "And she won't be back."
Xiuxiu looked between them, flustered, then reluctantly took the pail. "I… should go."
She slipped past Shen Wenxiu and hurried down the path, her figure vanishing behind the row of bare persimmon trees.
Ruan Yue turned back to the man still standing there, his gaze sharp enough to cut glass.
"You've got some nerve," he said coldly. "First you stir trouble at the well, now you're getting close to her?"
Ruan Yue gave a humorless laugh. "You think too highly of me. I don't have the time or energy to play your drama."
Shen Wenxiu stepped closer, his shadow falling over her boots. "Stay away from Zhao Xiuxiu. In this life, you won't ruin her."
"In this life?" she repeated slowly, eyes narrowing. So, the rebirth had already made him this paranoid.
"Exactly," he said.
She tilted her head, smiling faintly. "Don't worry, Shen Wenxiu. I have no interest in your precious heroine. In fact, if you keep showing up at my door like this, the villagers will start thinking you're the one who can't stay away from me."
His jaw tightened, but he didn't answer. Instead, he gave her one last look — cold, assessing — before turning on his heel and walking off.
The system chimed in her head:
> Male lead hostility level — 82%.
"Wow," she muttered. "Three points. At this rate, maybe I can get him down to 50% before we both die of old age."
But she couldn't ignore the other warning in the system's tone — Shen Wenxiu was watching her too closely. One wrong step, and he'd make her life a living hell.
And in a village where rumors were currency, even the truth could be twisted into a knife.