A Marriage of Convenience

Wen Ruan quickly realized He Yanci had a talent for subtle, insistent care. He'd ordered her a hearty breakfast—pork rib congee, three corn dumplings, a fried egg—and even a warm glass of milk, leaving no room for refusal. If he keeps dictating my meals, my waistline will be history, she thought, eyeing his lean frame as he perused the menu with the focus of a CEO reviewing a contract. One moment she marveled at his elegant demeanor, the next she wanted to groan as he added yet another dish to her already full plate.

After the meal, she suggested coffee at a nearby café to discuss their arrangement.

"Your decision?" He stirred his black coffee, gaze sharp yet patient.

"I've thought about it," she began, cradling her cup. "Grandpa's condition… a wedding might give him the lift he needs, like you said."

He nodded, the rigid line of his shoulders relaxing imperceptibly. "And the rest?"

She took a steadying breath, her spoon tapping the porcelain cup nervously. "We should formalize an asset partition. Just in case our arrangement… changes."

"Afraid I'll dip into your assets?" he teased, a rare smirk softening his features.

"No!" she protested, cheeks flushing. "It's for your protection. My wealth is trivial compared to yours."

His smile deepened, amused by her earnestness. "As you wish. I'll have the lawyers draft a prenuptial agreement."

After he insisted on paying—laying two crisp red bills on the counter—they walked in a charged silence until she noticed they were heading toward a luxury hotel. Her mind raced with misplaced assumptions, only to freeze when he said, voice brisk but not unkind, "Rest here. I'll stay at the hospital. Call if anything happens."

Embarrassed by her earlier misunderstanding, she thanked him softly, testing the intimacy of his first name: "Thanks, He Yanci."

He paused, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Dropping the formalities already, Miss Wen?"

Before parting, she blurted, "If you ever meet someone you… care about, tell me. No secrets, no pretenses."

His gaze sharpened, though his tone remained controlled. "Are you suggesting an open marriage?"

"No!" she backtracked, flustered. "I just want us to be honest. I don't want us to wear masks."

He nodded, the corner of his lip twitching. "Agreed. Transparency."

The hotel room was a haven—warm, humidified, and meticulously curated for her comfort. A vase of jasmine sat on the nightstand, her favorite novels (including a signed copy of Fu Jingbai's latest collection) stacked on the desk, and a thick down jacket laid out for the biting Kyoto cold. That evening, a hotel manager delivered a tray with a warm hard-boiled egg for her tired eyes and a boutique shopping bag: a tailored dress, matching heels, and—predictably—a pair of plush knee-high socks in her favorite shade of ivory. He even remembered the color, she thought, touched despite herself.

She texted him a photo of the egg, receiving a prompt reply: "Apply it while warm. Cold eggs lose their efficacy."

The next morning, she arrived at the hospital to find He Yanci still there, his shirt slightly wrinkled but his posture as impeccable as ever. Her mother fussed over him: "Yanci, you didn't have to stay all night."

Grandpa He clapped him on the back, chuckling, "Nonsense! Soon-to-be family looks out for each other. He's just being a good grandson-in-law."

Wen Ruan was surprised by the warmth in his words, touched by He Yanci's silent dedication. As she handed back his laundered coat, he frowned at her exposed calves. "Where are the socks I picked?"

"Invisible boat socks," she explained, lifting her foot to show the barely-there fabric. His confused frown made her laugh—a light, unexpected sound in the sterile corridor. "They're there, just… hidden."

He studied her legs, perplexed. "Why not wear the warm ones? You're sensitive to the cold."

"Because they don't match my shoes!" she protested, amused by his practicality. "Fashion matters, you know."

Their quiet banter didn't go unnoticed. Grandpa He grinned, nudging his wife: "Look at them—already bickering like a real couple. Old Wen will be over the moon."

Wen Ruan flushed, avoiding He Yanci's gaze as the parents exchanged knowing smiles.

When Grandpa Wen woke that afternoon, lucid and beaming at their wedding plans, the families sprang into action. After consulting a lunar calendar, they set the date for New Year's Day—two months away. Wen Ruan insisted on a small, intimate ceremony, and to her surprise, He Yanci readily agreed, even suggesting a guest list limited to close family and childhood friends.

In the following weeks, their routine settled into a rhythm of quiet companionship. He visited the hospital daily, often arriving just as she finished playing guqin for the grandfathers, as if he'd memorized the cadence of her days. She noticed the subtle, thoughtful gestures: a thermos of chrysanthemum tea left on her desk during late-night writing sessions, a cashmere blanket draped over her shoulders when she dozed in the waiting room, even a handwritten list of nearby cafes with "decent coffee" (his exact words).

One evening, as they walked under a canopy of winter stars, he said abruptly, "Do you remember when you lost your favorite socks as a child? You cried for hours until I found them under the piano."

She looked up, startled by the memory. "You were the one who found them? I thought it was the maid."

He shrugged, but the faintest flush colored his cheeks. "Someone had to keep you from turning into an icicle."

The admission hung in the air—an uncharacteristic show of nostalgia that warmed her chest. Wen Ruan realized with a start that beneath He Yanci's stoic exterior lay layers of quiet attention, of memories he'd guarded as carefully as she'd guarded her pride.

As the wedding date drew nearer, Grandpa Wen's health improved steadily, his laughter echoing through the hospital corridors as he planned the ceremony with Grandpa He. He Yanci, though swamped with work, made time for weekly dinners at the Wen household, where he and Wen Ruan fell into an easy rapport—debating the merits of black coffee versus her honey-laced tea, sharing amused glances during her mother's endless wedding preparations.

Wen Ruan tried to dismiss the flutter in her chest when he held the door open for her or remembered the exact way she liked her eggs cooked. This is a partnership, she told herself. A pragmatic arrangement. But as she watched him navigate her family's quirks with patience and quiet charm, she wondered if duty and affection could coexist, even flourish, in their own understated way.

And He Yanci, for his part, found himself lingering longer after each visit, savoring the rare moments of ease between them, the way her laughter cut through the weight of their shared responsibilities. Convenience, he repeated to himself, but the word felt less like a shield and more like a bridge—one he was increasingly reluctant to cross alone.

For now, they'd take it one step at a time, bound by a promise to two families and a tentative hope that their arrangement might yet grow into something more than a contract. After all, in a world where love was often a storm, perhaps their quiet, steady partnership was a kind of sanctuary—a haven built not on passion, but on the solid ground of mutual respect and shared history.

And as the first snow fell over Kyoto, dusting the hospital windows with frost, Wen Ruan smiled to herself. Maybe "enough" was more than she'd ever dared hope for.