Two Faced Lover - Chapter 44

44: Changes

After entering the apartment, Bo Mingyan set Meng Xuran down on the cushioned shoe-changing stool. Xiaoman, upon seeing them return, immediately abandoned its cat food and trotted over, hopping onto the stool as well.

Meng Xuran stroked the approaching cat while directing Bo Mingyan: “The shoe trees are in the second drawer. Put the shoes on the third shelf of the shoe cabinet, then grab my slippers from the bottom.”

Bo Mingyan shot her a chilly glance.

Pretending not to understand the look, Meng Xuran curved her eyes into crescents and said sweetly, “Thank you, sister~”

As Bo Mingyan bent to place the shoes, she noticed Meng Xuran cuddling the cat. She braced herself to hear something like “Did Xiaomanman miss me? or “Let me kiss Xiaomanman~”

But this time, Meng Xuran broke the pattern. Stroking the cat, her clear, cunning eyes fixed unblinkingly on Bo Mingyan as she asked:

“Sister~ Did you make Xiaomanman miss me?”

Bo Mingyan froze. By the time she processed the question, she was nearly ready to personally slide the slippers onto someone’s feet—said someone now shamelessly lifting her leg, thoroughly enjoying the service.

With a huff, Bo Mingyan set the slippers at her feet. “Put them on yourself.”

Meng Xuran didn’t lower her leg but instead lightly nudged Bo Mingyan’s calf. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“What?” Bo Mingyan asked, eyes downcast.

“Did you make Manman miss me?”

The slender ankle beneath Meng Xuran’s cropped pants brushed slowly along Bo Mingyan’s calf. Distracted by the contact, Bo Mingyan didn’t notice Meng Xuran had dropped the diminutive “Xiao” this time.

When no answer came, Meng Xuran tapped Bo Mingyan’s exposed ankle with her foot.

Perhaps from lingering too long in the cold, Meng Xuran’s ankle was icy—the touch like an ice cube pressed against skin. Bo Mingyan instinctively curled her toes.

She was changing into slippers, midway with that foot, yet didn’t pull away—not until Meng Xuran moved first.

“You have your surveillance footage. Check yourself.”

Meng Xuran choked.

Her petrified expression was oddly endearing. Bo Mingyan’s lips quirked imperceptibly as she urged, “Put your shoes on. Your feet are freezing.”

Watching Bo Mingyan walk away without looking back, clearly unwilling to answer directly, Meng Xuran puffed her cheeks and slipped on the slippers. Trailing after Bo Mingyan, she grumbled:

“Fine, I’ll check myself. Hmph, with audio and video—I’ll screenshot it and make reaction images. ‘Feet frozen like ice cubes’—was that my choice? I was waiting for you! And you have the nerve to snob me.”

Listening to her mutter all the way, Bo Mingyan felt both exasperated and amused. “When did I snob you?”

Meng Xuran lifted her chin haughtily: You did.

Bo Mingyan laughed in disbelief.

Though not entirely in disbelief—the irritation lasted only a moment. The remaining, indescribable emotion surged like a tide, flooding every corner of her heart. Her mood lifted entirely, the earlier gloom dissipating.

The smile lingered briefly before fading as Bo Mingyan acutely realized: her happiness stemmed from Meng Xuran.

From the moment Meng Xuran returned, her emotions had crossed a watershed.

Meng Xuran, misreading Bo Mingyan’s expression as stubbornness, was about to cite evidence—like how during ice-skating earlier this month, Bo Mingyan had recoiled upon calling her hands “too cold.”

Just like now, with “your feet are freezing.”

Her thoughts were like a rust-shedded string, its reverberations slow to resonate.

Yet this time, Bo Mingyan hadn’t pulled away.

When had Bo Mingyan started changing toward her?

Before she knew it, they’d reached the kitchen. Bo Mingyan collected her thoughts and asked, “After all this time, has the alcohol in your stomach settled?”

Meng Xuran blinked. “Huh?”

Her voice was soft; Bo Mingyan missed the questioning tone, taking it as affirmation. Opening the fridge, she said, “Didn’t know you were coming back, so there’s not much—”

She paused.

Meng Xuran peered inside. The fridge held only the drinks she’d stocked before leaving. Glancing at the usual vegetable storage—aside from her earlier snack purchases, there were just two green peppers and a section of yam.

This wasn’t “not much”—it was practically nothing.

Bo Mingyan braced for the fastidious complaints.

Instead, what reached her ears was:

“You only prepared this little for yourself when I was gone?”

“What, matching my poor meals to keep me company?”

“Or—” Meng Xuran tilted her head to meet Bo Mingyan’s eyes— “too lovesick to eat?”

Those peach-blossom eyes were too potent—deep affection and swirling like rich wine in their depths.

One more second, and she’d be drunk.

“It’s—” Bo Mingyan looked away, tying on an apron as she casually finished— “because I’m not as picky as you.”

Meng Xuran scoffed. “Don’t pause mid-sentence like that!”

The running water muffled Bo Mingyan’s soft chuckle. Tucking stray hair behind her ear, she asked, “Will you eat yam and millet porridge?”

Meng Xuran puffed up. “No.”

“Then stay hungry.” Bo Mingyan rinsed the rice. “I’ll eat alone.”

Meng Xuran: “…Fine, but no yam chunks.”

“Yam neutralizes alcohol.” Bo Mingyan frowned. “You dislike it? The cubes or the strips?”

Someone this particular about knife work yet oblivious to her own pickiness—mention it, and she’d bristle.

Meng Xuran smirked. “Both.”

Bo Mingyan nodded. “Then mashed yam—it’ll dissolve when cooked.”

Meng Xuran: “…”

Watching Bo Mingyan start the porridge and don gloves to wash the yam, Meng Xuran asked, “What will you eat tomorrow?”

Understanding the implication, Bo Mingyan shrugged. “Takeout. Even without yam, there’s not enough for two.”

“Not for two.” Meng Xuran said. “I’m leaving early tomorrow.”

Bo Mingyan’s hands stilled briefly before she uttered a neutral “Oh.”

Beyond the window stretched endless night, thick as indelible ink, bleeding loneliness.

The kitchen’s light strip extended to the outer wall. Leaning against the doorway, Meng Xuran watched Xiaoman’s shadow, its fluffy tail occasionally sweeping through the light.

“If I relied on my dad, it’d be resolved quickly.” Her voice held faint self-mockery. “On my own…it’ll take longer.”

Only the rush of water filled the kitchen.

After a while, Bo Mingyan turned it off. “So don’t save yam for me.”

Meng Xuran looked up.

Bo Mingyan placed the washed yam on the cutting board, meeting Meng Xuran’s gaze. Her eyes were water-calm and tender, harboring a trace of a smile:

“Let’s have supper together.”

Meng Xuran ducked her head, blinking hard.

Everyone had urged her to let Fu Changqing intervene. She refused—she wanted to do it herself. Thus her hardships became self-inflicted, her suffering voluntary.

Yet Bo Mingyan didn’t ask why she wouldn’t seek her father’s help.

Bo Mingyan simply wanted to share a meal with her.

The tension of recent days snapped under Bo Mingyan’s light touch.

Grievance surged like a tide—her tears defied control.

Bo Mingyan couldn’t define what she felt seeing Meng Xuran cry now.

Meng Xuran was delicate yet proud. Her pride, like her delicacy, was bone-deep, bl00d-fused.

The tears falling from her lashes seemed to pierce time’s film, spreading slowly—in her silhouette, Bo Mingyan saw her past self.

Independent because there was no reliance; strong because no one cared.

Stubborn because it mattered.

“Meng Jiaojiao.” Bo Mingyan pretended not to notice, slicing two yam pieces into a mortar and pushing it toward her. “Mash your own yam paste.”

Meng Xuran walked over, gripping the pestle silently as tears fell into the mortar.

She treated the yam like those who’d wronged her, pounding fiercely: “These pig-brained idiots. The business world shifts like wind—today it’s me, tomorrow? Don’t they know fortunes change? Hope it never swings their way—or I’ll spin them into oblivion.”

Bo Mingyan listened, adding yam slices one by one: “Spin them more.”

Unclear whether she meant the yam or endorsed the rant—her tone was indulgent.

With each rotation, Meng Xuran’s mood lightened.

Pride faded, leaving only delicacy.

Leaning lazily against the counter, she mashed halfheartedly, muttering, “Why make me do this? Could’ve just tossed slices into the pot. Adding them piece by piece—my hands hurt.”

“You seemed suited for it.” Bo Mingyan tossed in the last two slices. “If it hurts, I’ll take over.”

“Huh?” Meng Xuran evaded her hand. “How am I ‘suited’?”

Bo Mingyan glanced at her: “The mortar-pounding rabbit.”

“???”

Red-eyed while mashing yam—

Exactly like the jade rabbit pounding medicine.

Meng Xuran’s reddened eyes glared before shoving the mortar at Bo Mingyan, pointing at the slices: “You’re mature yams now—learn to grind yourselves.”

Her gaze flicked meaningfully to Bo Mingyan.

Bo Mingyan deadpanned: “Childish.”

Only after finishing the mashing did she belatedly realize—Meng Xuran might have likened the yam to her. She’d been teased without proof.

Meanwhile, the culprit had poured water into a large mug and was sipping victoriously, pinky raised triumphantly.

No trace of earlier melancholy remained.

No sad rabbit—just a mischievous fox.

The fox murmured “Thank you” as the yam paste went into the pot.

Bo Mingyan inexplicably asked: “Thanking whom?”

The boiling porridge churned, steam carrying its fragrance upward. Bo Mingyan stirred the snowy paste into the pot.

Meng Xuran had meant to thank her for this indirect comfort—but staring at the paste, she set down the mug and, lips glistening, uttered bewitchingly:

“Thank the yam.”

Bo Mingyan: “…”

That night, perhaps overcompensating for the teasing, Bo Mingyan dreamed.

She was a yam slice wandering aimlessly through darkness until encountering a fluffy creature. Thinking to cook it for Meng Xuran, she carried it on her back.

The long night path warmed with soft light; osmanthus blossoms rained down, their fragrance intoxicating.

Suddenly, the fluff sprouted fox ears and a fiery tail: “Add yam to the porridge! I’m starving!”

The little fox tried to bite her.

Bo Mingyan “tsk”ed, dropping it to flee.

The fox gave chase, yelling: “Mature yam, come grind yourself!”

Running feverishly, Bo Mingyan finally plunged into a lake—which became a pot, melting her into paste.

The fox peered down from the rim, ears twitching, tail swaying—those peach-blossom eyes gazing tenderly.

Then it bowed to the pot, fiery tail flaring, before straightening to lick its lips: “Thank the ya—”

Bo Mingyan leapt up to silence it, water splashing into a colossal curtain between heaven and earth.

The world spun—the fluffy fox morphing into Meng Xuran beneath her.

Meng Xuran’s eyes held intoxicating mist, lashes trembling with unshed tears—

Just like that Great Heat night, arms looped around Bo Mingyan’s neck, gazing dazedly.

Propped above her, Bo Mingyan’s gaze traveled from the teardrop mole to glistening eyes, down the nose to lush lips: “Thanking whom?”

The figure beneath giggled: “Thank—”

Knowing her own audacity, she bit back the rest, biting her lip innocently.

Bo Mingyan glimpsed the fox tail behind her—fluffy, swaying, nearly blinding.

The furry Meng-fox whispered: “Sister, my butt hurts—medicine.”

As Meng Xuran turned, the dream became their pre-sleep routine—silken pajamas riding her waist, twin pale curves beneath, bruises faded to faint cyan.

After applying ointment, Bo Mingyan asked: “Will you have Lu Shan do this tomorrow?”

“Should be better by then. Won’t trouble her.”

“So just trouble me?”

“Mhm.”

“Why?”

In the dream, Bo Mingyan did what she’d wanted to then—she spanked her.

Dream-Meng Xuran, like reality, buried her face in the pillow, voice muffled:

“Just…taking advantage of your kindness.”

Finally turning, her cheek bore pillow-creased pink, eyes similarly flushed—her gaze piercing the rosy haze to meet Bo Mingyan’s.

“Why are you so good to me?”

Why indeed?

Initially, it was Meng Xuran’s resemblance to her past self—having weathered storms, she wanted to shelter her, or perhaps her younger self.

But now…something else had emerged.

Bo Mingyan couldn’t define this subtle sentiment. Silent, she seemed to see the fox tail reappear between Meng Xuran’s thighs—

Black-tipped, fiery fur bristling beneath.

Like flames licking at something.

From here, the dream grew surreal, disjointed—Bo Mingyan a wind threading through fox fur, lost yet clinging to the warmth.

It ended with that tear-seasoned porridge—golden millet melded with melted yam, faint osmanthus drifting through.

Thick. Salty-bitter.

Bo Mingyan awoke.

Dawn’s thin light seeped through the curtains; the room lay silent, her heartbeat thunderous.

If the last dream stemmed from Meng Xuran’s gaming-punishment moans…

What of this?

The ceiling’s winding light strip held her blank stare—mind and face equally empty.

Eventually, her pulse steadied. Rising, she went to the desk.

Only dregs remained in the cup. Beside it sat an empty candy tin now lined with osmanthus she’d dried before bed—

Its intense aroma had filled the kitchen then, prompting Meng Xuran to tease: “Will you dream in osmanthus?”

She had—the entire dream steeped in honeyed sweetness.

Parched, Bo Mingyan took the cup out.

After two glasses, she heard a door open.

Meng Xuran paused upon entering the kitchen, checking her watch: “Up so early? Bad sleep?”

Just past six, the outside world was murkily bright.

Her makeup was flawless, curls cascading, one side tucked behind an ear adorned with a silver chain. She wore a black brocade coat with peony motifs over a sheer black top and velvet slip dress—

An ensemble both luxurious and authoritative, amplifying her presence.

Bo Mingyan rarely saw Meng Xuran repeat outfits—her style reflected either her mood or the day’s agenda.

Bo Mingyan hummed, avoiding sleep talk: “I have a perfume that’d suit today—”

“Can I borrow your perfume?”

Their voices overlapped.

Meng Xuran opened oatmeal, laughing: “No wonder we sync in Overcooked.”

Bo Mingyan drank the remaining water, expression softening: “I’ll get it.”

The oatmeal was too hot, so Meng Xuran set it aside, nibbling toast as she followed, pausing at Bo Mingyan’s doorway to survey the tidy, minimalist space—

Duvet in haze-blue, cool and detached.

She “tsk”ed, eyeing the desk. Finishing her toast, she proposed: “Since it’s early—if you’re free, drive me to the airport? Bring the candy too—in case I get carsick.”

Bo Mingyan gave her a look.

Meng Xuran beamed: “Gotta practice that driver’s license!”

“You trust me that much?”

“Absolutely!” Meng Xuran praised shamelessly. “Practice well—wouldn’t a side gig be nice?”

Bo Mingyan exhaled—

Amused.

Retrieving the perfume, she pocketed the osmanthus tin. Meng Xuran spotted the hair tie she’d gifted, lips quirking.

Bo Mingyan handed her the bottle: “Go fragrance yourself.”

“Fragrance what.” Meng Xuran sprayed it on. “This scent makes me think you’re joining a monastery.”

Top notes of aged tangerine and incense, mid of sharp rosemary, base of medicinal musk—like Bo Mingyan’s eyes: damp wilderness, solitary decay. Wearing it screamed “Stay away.”

“Of this brand, I prefer Fox Wrap.” Meng Xuran said while applying.

For a moment, Bo Mingyan was back in that bizarre dream. Hesitating, she rasped: “That one suits you.”

“Mhm~ This fits too.” Meng Xuran sniffed her wrist, pocketing the perfume and producing Fox Wrap from the other: “I’ll need yours these days. Let’s swap—you take the fox.”

Bo Mingyan’s thumb brushed the bottle—

Still warm from Meng Xuran’s touch.

After washing up and breakfast, Bo Mingyan drove her to the airport. Traffic made her check the time repeatedly.

“Worried about being late?” Meng Xuran asked. “I’ll cover your attendance bonus—don’t rush.”

“No.” Bo Mingyan asked, “What’s your flight time?”

Meng Xuran’s lashes fluttered: “Eight. Plenty of time.”

Bo Mingyan nodded, shoulders relaxing—prompting a smile from Meng Xuran.

At the airport intersection, Bo Mingyan stopped at a red light.

Considering her work schedule, Meng Xuran suggested: “Drop me here—thanks, sister.”

Bo Mingyan asked casually: “No need for company?”

She wanted to say yes—but feared Bo Mingyan would rush back. Sighing, she declined: “No need.”

Bo Mingyan glanced at her, then acquiesced: “Alright.”

“Any candy?” Meng Xuran asked.

Bo Mingyan handed her the tin.

Opening it to find osmanthus, Meng Xuran felt sunlight warm her face.

She repocketed it unseen as Bo Mingyan asked: “What flavor?”

After a pause, Meng Xuran drawled: “Osmanthus.”

Bo Mingyan recalled the tin’s contents: “Next time for candy.”

“Then when I return.” Meng Xuran smiled. “Don’t work late—come get me.”

Bo Mingyan chuckled—resigned yet unrefusing.

“Meng Jiaojiao, I’ve long wanted to ask—”

Meng Xuran blinked: “What?”

Bo Mingyan teased: “Did I owe you in a past life? You’re like a debt collector.”

At the drop-off point, silence lingered.

“Maybe not past debts…” Meng Xuran murmured, almost too softly— “but this lifetime’s…many, many dues…”

Parked, Bo Mingyan turned to her—

Just as Meng Xuran did, sunlight illuminating her radiant smile.

Her lips glistened:

“This life’s debts are better paid now.”

Wind through the open door tousled Bo Mingyan’s hair—and her heartbeat.