It took Adrian Lu less than a day to find my address at Riverside Manor.

However, he didn't show up at my doorstep right away.

Instead, he did something far more unexpected.

Three hundred meters outside the East Gate of Riverside Manor, there was a small community health center. It was a modest place where a few general practitioners usually handled minor cases like colds, fevers, or high blood pressure.

One morning, a new notice appeared on the center’s bulletin board:

[Starting this week, Dr. Adrian Lu, Neurosurgeon Specialist from St. Yanhe General Hospital, will be conducting free clinical consultations every Tuesday and Thursday morning.]

The news spread faster than a virus.

By eight o'clock on Tuesday morning, over two hundred people were lined up outside the center. Most weren't there for a check-up; they were there to see the man.

"Is that really Dr. Lu? The one from St. Yanhe? The surgeon?"

"I heard he’s only here to chase after his wife."

"For real?"

I heard about it from my neighbor,

Ms. Li

.

Ms. Li lived in the apartment above mine; she was a retired literature teacher and the central processor for all neighborhood gossip.

"Vivian, dear, wasn't your ex-husband’s surname Lu?"

"Why do you ask?"

"A specialist is doing free consultations at the health center. He’s incredibly handsome. Everyone says it’s Adrian Lu from St. Yanhe. I saw his schedule—Tuesday and Thursday mornings. Isn't that a coincidence? Right at our doorstep."

I didn't offer a response.

On Tuesday morning, I went out for groceries. Passing by the health center, I caught a glimpse through the window.

He was sitting in a consulting room on the second floor, wearing his white coat, with a long line of people in front of him.

He was taking an elderly woman’s blood pressure with an expression as solemn as if he were performing brain surgery.

I pulled my gaze away and kept walking.

Our first face-to-face encounter happened three days later, in the evening.

I was coming through the East Gate with a newly purchased flowerpot when I saw him standing there.

He was in a crisp white shirt—no lab coat this time—carrying a thermal food container.

"Vivian."

I looked at him but didn't stop.

"I made some soup for you," he said, catching up with me. "Pork rib and lotus root. It’s good for the first trimester."

"I don't need it."

"Just try a sip."

"Dr. Lu, I said I don't need it."

I swiped my keycard and entered the lobby. The door clicked shut in his face.

He stood outside, holding the container, motionless.

The next day, the container appeared at my front door. The soup was ice cold.

My mother opened it, took a look, and closed the lid.

"Who’s this from?"

"Adrian."

"Oh." My mom set the container on the shoe cabinet by the door. "I’ll stew some for you tonight. It’ll be much better than his."

From that day on, the thermal container arrived punctually every day.

Porridge in the morning, soup at noon, and occasionally freshly cut fruit.

I never accepted a single one.

Every night, my mother would place the empty or untouched container back outside the door.

Once, I peeked through a gap in the curtains and saw him bending over to pick it up. The streetlamp stretched his shadow into a long, lonely line.

Saturday was the day for my prenatal check-up.

It was pouring rain. I had tried calling three different ride-shares, but every single one was canceled.

Standing under the awning at the complex entrance, I was about to try a fourth time when a black car pulled up in front of me.

The window rolled down. It was him.

"Get in."

"No, thank you."

"Vivian," his voice held a note of urgency. "You’re carrying triplets. Catching a cold in this rain is no joke."

I looked at the torrential downpour, then at the greyed-out "No Cars Available" screen on my phone.

I hesitated for three seconds.

Then I got in.

The entire drive was silent.

The windshield wipers worked at top speed; the only sound in the car was the rhythmic drumming of rain against the roof.

When we arrived at the hospital, he insisted on coming in with me. I couldn't win the argument, so I let him.

The door to the ultrasound room opened. The doctor pressed the probe against my skin, and three tiny silhouettes appeared on the screen.

"All three are very healthy, developing normally. Look, this one is kicking. See that?"

I saw it.

And I saw the man beside me.

Adrian stared at the screen, his entire body frozen. His hand gripped the back of the chair so hard his knuckles turned white.

"This is..."

"Triplets," I said. "Mine."

He snapped his head toward me. His eyes were a storm of complex emotions—shock, disbelief, and something else I couldn't quite name.

"Vivian, why didn't you tell me?"

"There was no clause for this in our contract."

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

As we walked out of the ultrasound room, his pace was much slower, keeping step with me.

At the elevator, he suddenly reached out to block the closing doors.

"Vivian."

"Yes?"

"For all future check-ups, I’ll pick you up."

"That won't be necessary."

"I’m not asking for permission."

I looked at him, and he looked back.

The elevator doors tried to close twice, and both times his hand pushed them back.

I stepped into the elevator first. He followed.

On the way down, his hand hovered near my waist—never touching, but always there. As if he were terrified I might fall.

By the time we reached home, the rain had stopped.

He pulled up to the complex gate but kept the engine running.

"Thank you," I said, pushing the car door open.

"Vivian."

I looked back.

He sat in the driver’s seat, staring at me. After a long silence, he finally spoke.

"I’m sorry."

I didn't answer. I closed the door and walked away.

It wasn't until I was inside my apartment that I realized my palms were soaked with sweat.