The Husband From the Original Pairing is Now Divorced - Chapter 8

Chapter 8: Injury

“What Yu Xianghang failed to do, I will.”

“Good morning, Teacher Sheng!”

Zhou Jiayi hopped out of the car and ran toward the kindergarten gate. Zhou Zifei followed closely behind, carrying the little boy’s backpack.

Sheng Jia leaned down at the sound, his eyes—the only part of his face visible above his mask—curving into a smile. “Jiayi, good morning.”

Zhou Zifei’s gaze sharpened as it landed on the mask. While the lower half of Sheng Jia’s face was covered, Zifei’s vision was keen, and he was intimately familiar with every detail of that face. He noticed the difference immediately.

Sheng Jia’s eyes were rimmed with red, and his eyelids were slightly swollen. Although strands of hair draped over his cheeks, as he leaned down and looked back up at Zifei, a sliver of skin on his left cheek was exposed.

On that jade-like, smooth skin, there was a faint, lingering red mark—the unmistakable trace of a palm strike.

Zifei kept his expression neutral, though a surge of irritability rose in his chest. He naturally adjusted the straps on Jiayi’s backpack before asking in a casual tone, “Teacher Sheng, why the mask today?”

Was he hit? Was it Yu Xianghang? Or someone else? I shouldn’t have withdrawn the men following him.

“Ah… I have a bit of a cold, so…” Sheng Jia reflexively touched the mask, ensuring it was still securely in place.

Hearing the muffled, nasally response, Zifei’s eyes darkened. He’s lying. Sheng Jia is lying again.

“Is that so?” Zifei’s voice turned a bit stern, as if he were lecturing a child. “Even though it’s summer, you shouldn’t get careless with the cold air, Teacher Sheng.”

Sheng Jia’s ears warmed. Usually, he was the one saying these things to the kids; he didn’t expect to be fussed over by Zifei, who was younger than him. He gave a small cough, nodded sheepishly, and whispered a soft “Mm.”

As he watched Sheng Jia lead Jiayi into the kindergarten, the faint smile Zifei had maintained vanished. His features turned cold and expressionless. He sat back in his car and made a call.

“Check the surveillance footage. See who went to see Sheng Jia after I left the other day.”

He didn’t start the car. He sat tapping his finger against his knee, appearing calm and steady on the outside while a fire raged within. He needed to know what had happened. He had thought that after the divorce, Sheng Jia’s life would slowly brighten—and he had indeed seen more smiles lately—but today’s mask felt like a belated slap to his own face, waking him from his self-righteousness.

When it came to Sheng Jia, he couldn’t afford a single moment of negligence or luck.

This was a plum blossom that needed constant care. It was resilient, yes, and might not wither away, but the biting wind, the sudden snow, and those who came sniffing for its fragrance to pluck it away… all of them threatened to steal its brilliant color.

His assistants were efficient; a message arrived moments later.

A loud thud echoed inside the car, causing passersby to look curiously at the black Jaguar. Inside the tightly sealed cabin, veins popped on Zifei’s forehead. His jaw was clenched so hard it hurt, and the hand holding his phone had just slammed into the steering wheel.

Hatred and fury burned his eyes red. His temples throbbed; for a moment, he felt a genuine impulse to kill.

He shouldn’t have placed any trust in Yu Xianghang. If he had known that Yu Xianghang couldn’t handle a piece of human trash in six years—that he had kept that parasite alive by funneling money to him all this time—Zifei would have handled it himself long ago.

Yu Xianghang promised that Sheng Jia would never have to live in fear again, yet he had pushed Sheng Jia right back toward that monster. If Yu Xianghang couldn’t protect him forever, Zifei should have found a way to end their marriage sooner.

Whether by temptation or manufactured misunderstanding, he should have brought Sheng Jia to his side earlier.

Suddenly, Zifei slapped his own face hard.

No. It’s my fault. I was the one who was careless. He should have shielded Sheng Jia so tightly that not even a breeze could disturb him. No matter who was by Sheng Jia’s side, he should have watched over his life meticulously. This happened because he hadn’t been thorough enough.

Zifei casually wiped a trace of blood from the corner of his mouth and looked toward the kindergarten gates.

It was time for morning exercises. Through the window, he easily located Sheng Jia. Sheng Jia was tall and upright, yet his lines were softer than most men’s. The apron strings cinched his narrow waist, making his long legs even more prominent.

Stretching his arms, Sheng Jia led the children in a turning exercise. The morning sun bathed him in a bright halo. As the session ended and Sheng Jia clapped his hands to lead the kids back to class, Zifei’s emotions finally began to settle.

He rolled down the window, lifted his left hand, and traced the silhouette of Sheng Jia’s back through the air from a distance.

“What Yu Xianghang failed to do,” Zifei whispered to himself, “I will.”

Only after Sheng Jia disappeared from view did he drive away.

…

Later that day, Sheng Jia took off his mask and looked in the mirror. The red mark had faded considerably and was barely noticeable, though it still stung to the touch. He decided to put the mask back on—school was almost over anyway. He could endure it a bit longer and apply some ointment once he got home.

“Jiayi, has your uncle not arrived yet?”

The number of children in the yard was dwindling. Once again, Zhou Jiayi was going to be the last one picked up.

In response, Jiayi held up his smartwatch to let Teacher Sheng hear a voice message from Zifei.

“Zhou Jiayi, Uncle is going to be twenty minutes late. I’ll bring you something delicious. Stay by Teacher Sheng and don’t run off, I already told him.”

Sheng Jia checked his phone and saw a WeChat message from Zifei sent half an hour ago, asking him to look after the boy. He quickly replied “Okay,” his initial worry vanishing.

Through their interactions, Sheng Jia had realized that Zifei wasn’t an irresponsible guardian. He frequently messaged to check on Jiayi, and since the boy was so clingy, Zifei always picked him up personally rather than sending a driver. If he was late, it was clearly due to work—which was understandable. Besides, Sheng Jia liked Jiayi’s company; spending extra time with the boy made him happy.

He sat with Jiayi by the slide, reviewing nursery rhymes and poems they’d learned that day. He even washed an apple for the boy. Before the apple was finished, Zifei arrived in a hurry, carrying a thermal flask.

“Uncle! Is that the delicious treat for me?” Jiayi lunged forward, but Zifei pressed a hand against the boy’s small head to stop him.

“Yes and no,” Zifei answered cryptically.

Sheng Jia stood up and handed Jiayi’s backpack to Zifei, smiling. “Jiayi was very good today. He sang loudly and memorized his poem quickly. Oh, I just gave him an apple, so he might eat a little less for dinner.”

Zifei took the bag but didn’t leave. Instead, he smiled and held the thermal flask out toward Sheng Jia.

Sheng Jia blinked, confused. “For me?”

“Jiayi is good because you teach him well, Teacher Sheng. So I brought a treat for him, and one for you too.”

“For me?”

“Well, didn’t you say you have a cold? I heard your voice sounding a bit raspy, so I made some Chuanbei Snow Pear Soup. Not much, just half a bowl.”

Zifei was wearing that smile again—the one Sheng Jia saw so often. The corners of his lips were turned up slightly, his eyes sparkling with a mix of laziness and youthful energy.

“You…” Sheng Jia was momentarily speechless. This sudden, thoughtful gesture touched a nerve.

His throat did hurt. After forcing himself to vomit the day before, he had scratched his throat so much that he woke up with the faint taste of blood in his mouth. After a full day of teaching, it was painful even to swallow. He hadn’t cared about the discomfort—in fact, he had indulged in it as a way to remember the pain Sheng Qianlong caused, a reminder never to cower again.

He hadn’t expected Zifei to notice such a small thing, let alone bring him soup after school.

Seeing the unshielded concern in Zifei’s eyes—mixed with a bit of childish expectation for praise—Sheng Jia felt an urge to retreat. He felt unworthy of such sincere care. He was a man covered in scars, hidden shames, and the wounds of self-destruction. Could he truly be worth this?

Just as he was about to decline, Zifei unscrewed the lid.

The first thing he saw was a layer of hawthorn berries coated in white powdered sugar—plump, vibrant red, and incredibly appetizing. Beneath them, he could smell the sweet fragrance of rock sugar and pear.

“Zhou Jiayi, can you share two or three of your hawthorn balls with Teacher Sheng?” Zifei pulled a clean tissue from his pocket, used it to wrap a few berries from the top layer, and looked down at his nephew.

Jiayi nodded vigorously, though his brow furrowed as he counted the remaining berries, sensing something wasn’t quite right with the math.

“Teacher Sheng, Jiayi agreed to share. Take them.” Since Sheng Jia remained silent, Zifei shifted his tactics. He stopped mentioning the soup, acting as if the whole thermal flask was only there because Jiayi wanted to share his snacks. He pressed the blue-and-black flask into Sheng Jia’s hands. Once he saw Sheng Jia had a firm grip, Zifei waved. “See you tomorrow, Teacher Sheng!”

He signaled Jiayi to say goodbye and turned to leave.

“Wait, Zi… Zifei—”

Sheng Jia hurried to the gate, calling out. He stumbled slightly over the name, but the two words made Zifei stop in his tracks. Zifei helped Jiayi into the car and closed the door. On the twilight-lit street, only the two of them stood face-to-face.

The setting sun was blood-red, mirroring the day they first met two months ago.

Sheng Jia reached up and removed his mask. He lowered his lashes, nervously biting his lip. Zifei’s gaze lingered on the curve of his eyelids, his long lashes, the tip of his nose, and finally, his lips—which had turned a rosy hue from the movement. From Zifei’s high vantage point, Sheng Jia’s lips looked full and inviting.

Finally, Zifei’s gaze settled on the still-swollen red mark on Sheng Jia’s left cheek.

“Zifei, thank you for the gift, but… please don’t do this next time…” Sheng Jia’s rejection was gentle. To someone like Zifei, it sounded more like a soft plea than a firm “no.” “W-we are just friends. You… you don’t have to be this good to me. In the future—”

“Teacher Sheng,” Zifei interrupted. He reached out his right hand, his index finger lightly tapping Sheng Jia’s left cheek before withdrawing just as quickly. He spoke slowly and firmly: “Some people change. They’re good now, but maybe not later. But I will never change. I’ve always been the same.”

Zifei’s gaze was light yet profound. It felt as if behind those short sentences were a thousand more words he wanted to say but swallowed. Just like the finger on Sheng Jia’s cheek—it was a mere tap, a gesture full of potential meaning that he chose to break immediately, leaving Sheng Jia to wonder if the warmth was just an illusion.

Sheng Jia didn’t understand the look in Zifei’s eyes or why he was saying these things. He looked up, bewildered. “What?”

Zifei laughed. “Nothing. Just saying that when I’m friends with someone, I like to be good to them. Meticulously good.”

Sheng Jia blinked. “Do you… do you treat every friend this way?”

Giving rides, carrying bags, bringing soup because of a single mention of feeling unwell… do friends really do all that?

“Not exactly. But a friend like you makes me want to care a little more. After all, there are ordinary friends and then there are ‘best’ friends, right?”

Sheng Jia seemed to realize something. So Zifei wants to be best friends?

“But… why?” Sheng Jia had long been trapped in self-doubt. He felt no one in the world would ever be as good to him as Yu Xianghang—not even a friend, let alone a “best friend.”

Zifei was silent for a moment. “Teacher Sheng, you might not realize it, but this ‘goodness’ isn’t because I am special. It’s because you are special.”

“I’m… special?”

“Teacher Sheng, you are a very good person. You take care of a child responsibly when his guardian is late, even scolding the guardian out of concern. You listen intently when a stranger talks nonsense to you. You reach out to high-five a stranger to celebrate his victory, even when you aren’t feeling happy yourself. So, you are good. When someone is good to you, don’t ask why. Just accept it. You’ve already given so much to those people without even realizing it. Sheng Jia, you have always been wonderful. The special one isn’t the person being good to you—it’s you.”

Zifei’s voice was steady and magnetic, like he was confiding a beautiful secret. Sheng Jia felt wrapped in an indescribable tenderness. It was the first time Zifei had called him “Sheng Jia” instead of “Teacher Sheng,” yet it sounded so natural, as if he had said it a thousand times before.

“Uncle—are we going yet—?”

Jiayi rolled down the window. Zifei turned, only to see the boy’s eyes widen. “Teacher Sheng, why are you crying!”

Zifei panicked. He turned back to see tears pooling in Sheng Jia’s eyes. A single drop escaped and rolled down his right cheek.

“T-Teacher Sheng! Don’t cry!” “Uncle, did you make Teacher Sheng cry? How could you!” “I-I’m sorry, Teacher Sheng, I’m sorry! It’s my fault, please don’t cry…”

Jiayi was shouting about his “mean uncle” while Zifei scrambled for a tissue—only to realize he’d used them all to wrap the hawthorn berries!

“Uncle—the paper—hurry and wipe his tears!”

Zifei took a tissue from Jiayi—not noticing it was still dusted with sugar—and reached toward Sheng Jia’s face with trembling fingers. Just as he touched the soft skin, Sheng Jia caught his hand.

“It’s okay… I’m just… I suddenly felt a bit overwhelmed. Maybe I’m just happy.” Sheng Jia smiled through the tears. His brow lifted, his nose was red, but a tiny, tiny dimple appeared on his cheek. It was so small that Zifei wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t been this close.

It was sweet and incredibly cute, like a small thumbprint in a piece of dough.

“Thank you, Zifei. It’s the first time anyone has ever said that to me. Thank you, I… I really…” Sheng Jia couldn’t finish. His heart was full, aching with a mixture of sweetness and sorrow.

Zifei didn’t speak. He lowered his head, his warm breath fanning across Sheng Jia’s face. Sheng Jia froze, watching Zifei’s face loom closer. He stopped breathing.

A finger touched Sheng Jia’s face again—this time on the skin just below his right eye.

“There was sugar powder.”

In that moment, Zifei said nothing else. He held up his finger to show the white dust on his fingertip. They were so close that Zifei could smell the faint scent of laundry detergent on Sheng Jia. Just as he was about to speak again—

“Ugh, as long as it wipes it off! Uncle, you’re actually complaining about sugar?”

The sudden interruption shattered the atmosphere. Zifei glared at his nephew, who promptly shrunk back and rolled the window up.

When he turned back, the tearful moment had passed. Sheng Jia wiped his own eyes and smiled brightly. “Zifei, I’ll finish all the soup. Go home with Jiayi now. See you tomorrow.”

See you tomorrow. Yes, they would see each other tomorrow. There was no rush. Sheng Jia was special; he required more patience, more care.

And a heart that would never change.