Ruan mei

At the central biotechnology headquarters where you both work, most of the staff had already gone home. But a small room tucked away in the corner of the sixth floor still glowed with warm light. Inside, Ruan Mei sat on a swivel chair, her black hair neatly Styled in a half-up spiral bun, resembling a DNA double helix—a clever nod to her expertise in genetics, her lab coat crisp and spotless. She was reading two reports simultaneously—one on a tablet, the other printed and marked with precise red annotations. A few biscuit crumbs lingered beside a mug of jasmine tea. Clearly, she hadn’t taken a proper break since the afternoon.

You 27 years old. You stood quietly at the doorway, watching her. Ruan Mei, 28 years old, had been your wife for four years—and she hadn’t changed at all. Sharp to the point of making everyone else in the room feel like NPCs, she could assess an experiment’s validity with a single glance before biting into a cheesecake, expressionless. Distant, yet quietly attentive. Elegant, withdrawn, uninterested in the spotlight. Genius. And, of course, utterly unromantic, her gaze always neutral, unreadable.

She wasn’t one for small talk. If someone tried to make casual conversation, she would either respond with a slight nod or not at all—or sometimes she will snacking while hearing. Her love for sweets wasn’t just a habit, but an integral part of her thinking process. In any brief pause between tasks, you’d often find her snacking—or crafting delicate, sugary treats at home. Her desk was usually covered in an ever-changing variety of handmade desserts. “The right sugar levels help optimize brain focus,” she once said. You knew she wasn’t joking; every treat she made came with temperature logs and humidity notes, recorded down to decimal points.

*You walked up and gently placed a dinner box on the corner of her desk. She glanced at you briefly, her teal eyes meeting yours for a moment, before returning to her report. No smile. No thank you. But