"The Young Lady's Quilt": Eat, Sleep, and Beat the Beans

The Shen Family Mansion.

By the time Ye Cheng woke up again, it was already evening.

He bolted upright in bed, eyes snapping open as he took in his surroundings—and then himself, relieved to find all his valuable body parts still intact.

"Wait… whose room is this?"

The question marks hovering over Ye Cheng’s head, which had just faded, now returned in full force—and grew even larger. The room was immaculately clean, tidy, and…

Ye Cheng’s pupils shrank. No way!!!

He grabbed the blanket in front of him and took a deep, dramatic inhale—an epic lungful of air. Bliss! Who knew getting knocked out came with such hidden perks? If he’d known, he wouldn’t have bothered pretending—next time, he’d just let himself get KO’d and sprint straight to the young miss’s bed!

Except… the young miss’s scent wasn’t very strong here. And why did it smell a little… funky?

That couldn’t be right. The young miss was clearly a sweet, soft little cake—how could there be any hint of this weird, musty odor? Must be a mistake. Well, if it was a mistake, he’d just have to try again. Sigh…

After successfully hypnotizing himself, Ye Cheng put on a show of "reluctance" before burying his face in the "young miss’s" bedding for another epic lungful.

Deep breath. Inhale—

Tap, tap, tap. Light, steady footsteps approached from outside the room. Then, a sneaky head popped up from behind the door, eyebrows wiggling mischievously.

"Sooo… how’s it smell, Cheng-Cheng?"

Du Wanyi appeared out of nowhere, wearing a look that screamed, I get you.

Ye Cheng: "…"

Silently, he set down the "evidence" in his hands, climbed out of bed, and stared deadpan at the traitorous "sister-in-arms" who’d just thrown him under the bus.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t do anything. ‘Good smell’? Never heard of it." Ye Cheng kept his expression stern, the picture of shameless denial.

Du Wanyi blinked, tilting her head with a conspiratorial grin. "Oh, come on, Cheng-Cheng. It’s just the two of us here—no third party will ever know. Promise."

Ye Cheng: "…"

Yeah, right. Who was the one who just dragged me down with her?!

No matter what, Ye Cheng wasn’t falling for it again. No matter what this mischievous missus said, he wouldn’t budge. Hot water’s too scalding to drink, people’s hearts too cold to trust, and—

"Aw, what a shame. I was gonna give this to you, since you seemed to like it so much. But if you’re not interested… guess I’ll just take it back."

Du Wanyi sighed dramatically, feigning disappointment.

"Madam, wait! I admit I spoke too harshly earlier. Allow me to punish myself with three cups!" Ye Cheng suddenly transformed into a righteous Guan Yu, stroking his nonexistent beard with solemn loyalty—completely forgetting how this same "sister-in-arms" had stabbed him in the back moments ago.

Truth be told, Ye Cheng had always had a dream. He was a guardian of traditional literary arts, a inheritor of intangible cultural heritage, dedicated to preserving and passing down the exquisite culture of his ancestors—centuries, even millennia, of wisdom…

Of course, if that sounded too lofty, here’s the simpler version:

My name is Ye Cheng. By the time you read this, I’m already dead—wait, no. By the time you read this, I’m about to pull a legendary face-swap!

You want it? You like it? HAHA, HERE YOU GO (epic face-swap finisher)!!!

Tea Room.

Ye Cheng and Du Wanyi each cradled their fancy teacups, savoring the "refined" experience. Ye Cheng kicked things off with his self-imposed three-cup penalty, while Du Wanyi pretended to dissuade him before dramatically declaring, "Brothers in crime, brothers in punishment!" and matching his three cups.

But the "tea" on the table wasn’t some high-end blend—it was a giant bottle of iced tea, freshly chilled and poured into their cups as they merrily clinked and chugged.

Meanwhile…

Rumble. Outside the Shen mansion, a sleek black luxury car rolled in.

It came to a smooth stop at the entrance. Click—the door opened, revealing a pair of custom-made designer men’s shoes stepping onto the pavement. The camera panned upward: crisp trousers, a six-figure (nearly seven-figure) suit with an aurora-like sheen, perfectly pressed without a single wrinkle…

Shen Ming—current head of the Shen family, the young miss’s dear old dad, and bearer of nicknames like "Dou-Dou" and "Little Ming" courtesy of Du Wanyi.

Hearing his daughter was back today, Shen Ming had wrapped up work at record speed and rushed home, just in time for dinner.

It had been ages since the family last ate together.

Every other time the young miss returned, Shen Ming was either working late, handling business abroad, or stuck in another city. By the time he made it back, she’d already be asleep.

Though they lived under the same roof, father and daughter barely crossed paths—a fact that left the old man’s heart a little sour.

Especially since Shen Ming knew his daughter had… quirks. All these years, she’d never made a single friend. But this time, after sending her to school, he’d heard whispers of progress?

Du Wanyi had offhandedly mentioned it during a phone call, but when Shen Ming pressed for details, she’d accused him of "caring about other women" and hung up.

(The young miss’s possessive streak? Definitely not inherited from her doting father. Blame the wicked old hag instead.)

No use asking. Better to see for himself.

Shen Ming straightened his thoughts and strode inside.

Click.

The door opened.

Right in the entryway, a pair of unfamiliar men’s dress shoes—high-end, the same style as his daughter’s school uniform—caught his eye.

"She really brought someone home?" Shen Ming murmured, surprised, as he swapped his shoes and quickened his pace.

Passing the tea room, he paused at the noise inside.

"Cheng-Cheng, from now on, let’s do this: you call me ‘Mom,’ and I’ll call you ‘Bro.’"

"Uh… isn’t that inappropriate? If the young miss hears—"

"She wouldn’t dare! Cheng-Cheng, I was just humoring her earlier. In a real fight? Sis here doesn’t back down. Back in the day, I wielded twin machetes and carved a path from the East Gate all the way to—"

Shen Ming: "???"

Seriously, how did a few dishes lead to this drunken mess? And since when was there a "chopping people" segment? If Shen Ming remembered correctly, the most his better half had ever chopped were the fruits in Fruit Ninja. A watermelon knife? Yeah, right.

As for "standing up to the young mistress"—that was such an obvious lie it practically reeked. If he’d really been that tough, he wouldn’t have had to play dead to trick her earlier, only to get caught and knocked out cold with a single whack.

"Honesty? Nah."

"Bragging rights? Absolutely."

"Not fearing the young mistress? Not a chance."

Du Wanyi might dare to spout nonsense like this, but Ye Cheng wouldn’t even dare to listen, terrified that the young mistress might materialize out of nowhere and teach him the true meaning of "five-way dismemberment."

Ye Cheng, the sly old fox he was, would never make such a mistake. He just sat there letting his unreliable wife ramble while he played cheerleader, chiming in with, "Zero accountability, am I right?"

Shen Ming couldn’t take it anymore. He had to see who on earth could vibe so well with his spouse—and actually sync brainwaves with her.

"Ahhh, so good!" Glug, glug—Du Wanyi downed her iced tea like it was hard liquor, then blinked in confusion when she noticed Shen Ming nearby.

"Peanut, you’re back?" Her big eyes held even bigger bewilderment, as if she’d forgotten this person even lived here.

Shen Ming: "…"

So now it wasn’t even "Little Ming"? Just "Peanut"? Of course—because Du Wanyi’s favorite pastimes were eating, sleeping, and "whacking peanuts." Naturally, her "beloved hubby" had earned the nickname.

"Oh, right, Peanut—I’m giving your blanket to Little Cheng. Go grab a new one later," Du Wanyi added, as if it were the most casual thing in the world.

One sentence. Two stunned men.

Shen Ming: "???"

My blanket?

Ye Cheng: "???"

His blanket?

Wait, wasn’t it the young mistress’s???