Julian had lost a significant amount of weight, making his features appear even more cold and aloof.

The moment he saw me, he hurriedly crushed out the cigarette between his fingers. Amidst the bustling crowd, Julian walked against the flow of people to reach me.

"Clara," he said, "I regret it."

I looked at Julian’s pale face, momentarily dazed. He seemed to have changed so much, yet in other ways, not at all—the crisp white shirt, the black trousers, and those distant, elegant eyes.

The only real difference was that my heart no longer skipped a beat for him.

Under his intense gaze, I felt only confusion. "Regret what?"

Julian looked at me and spoke softly. "Let's get back together. Please?"

Hearing those words, I shook my head firmly, leaving no room for negotiation. "That’s impossible. I’m doing very well on my own."

Julian seemed stunned, as if he hadn't expected such a blunt rejection. However, he quickly regained his composed, gentlemanly demeanor. He pursed his lips, his expression softening like a gentle spring breeze.

"Then at least let me take you to dinner."

Watching how gracefully he pivoted, I realized he hadn't changed after all. He was always so composed; even when he failed to get what he wanted, he maintained his polished exterior.

I didn't refuse again.

Today, Julian was driving a Bentley Bentayga. As I sat in the passenger seat, he suddenly leaned over, reaching for my seatbelt.

In the five years we were married, we had lived like strangers bound by a contract. I knew he had severe mysophobia and hated physical contact, so I never asked him to do things like this for me. Now that we had been divorced for six months, his sudden intimacy felt incredibly awkward.

"Thanks," I whispered, shifting uncomfortably.

Julian kept his eyes straight ahead. "You're welcome."

The restaurant on the GPS was one I had chosen—a casual, bustling hotpot place near my school. I expected Julian to suggest a different location. In the past, he would never set foot in these small shops in a snack street. As a doctor, he always considered outside food unhygienic and questionable.

After finding a seat by the window, I habitually took the menu from the server to order. Double-pepper beef, flaming kidney slices, spicy rabbit head... everything I loved.

When I finished, I naturally handed the menu to Julian. "Order whatever you'd like."

Julian hesitated for a few seconds. He was likely experiencing the "drop" of no longer being the center of my universe; he wasn't used to me not carefully considering his needs first. He only added a few light, fresh vegetable dishes.

The restaurant was noisy and full of life. Next to us sat a young couple; the boy was busy sterilizing the girl's utensils with hot tea.

To my surprise, Julian followed suit. He took my bowl and chopsticks, awkwardly pouring tea to rinse them. His fingertips turned red from the heat, and he looked like he’d been burned as he handed them back to me.

I wanted to say something, but I hesitated. Finally, I spoke up. "You really don't have to take care of me like this. We are just ordinary friends now. Let’s just look after ourselves."

Julian didn't address that. Instead, he said, "Clara, I’ve thought a lot during this half-year since the divorce. I failed in my duties as a partner. I’m sorry."

I never expected the conversation to go this way and found myself at a loss for words. Julian gave a small smile, signaling that I shouldn't feel pressured.

"I’ve declined the transfer at the research institute," he said warmly. "I’ll be staying here to develop my career."

"My parents prefer the environment here anyway. In the UK, there aren't even any fellow Chinese speakers to play mahjong with."

"Besides," he added, "it rains all year round in Edinburgh. Not only do you dislike it, but I’ve realized I don't like it either."

At those words, I snapped my head up to look at him. I met his almond-shaped eyes, which were filled with a mix of tenderness and lingering guilt.

I didn't know what the point was for Julian to remember the things I had said now. I had once told him: "I don't like Edinburgh because it's always raining."

Yet, he had stayed there for a year for Seraphina and even decided to settle there. Now that I had finally forgotten that rainy city, he was bringing it up again.

The meal felt tasteless, and it ended quickly. At the entrance of the restaurant, Julian suddenly turned to me.

"Clara," he said softly, "if we are 'ordinary friends,' can you at least take me off your blacklist?"

I remained silent for a few seconds before speaking bluntly.

"As long as you stop mentioning getting back together and don't harass me, fine."

Julian froze for a moment, then nodded. "Alright."

I sighed and finally pulled out my phone to move Julian’s account out of my blacklist. His eyes lit up, and a faint smile played on his lips. He offered to drive me home, but I declined. Sharing a single meal with an ex-husband was enough; I had no intention of maintaining long-term contact.

As soon as I got home, I sent Julian my share of the dinner bill via a mobile transfer, adding a note:

[Settled and even].

After showering, I received a call from my former mother-in-law—Julian’s mother. Over the past six months, she had occasionally called to check on me or to vent about her and Julian’s father’s life in the UK. I lay on my large bed with the phone on speaker.

"Clara, dear, your uncle and I are moving back home in a couple of days. These last few months in the UK have been a nightmare."

"Those foreigners speak nothing but English, and the food is so bland even a dog wouldn't eat it. Most importantly, we thought we were going to the UK to enjoy our retirement, but instead, we ended up having to take care of Seraphina every single day. I had to cook for her and do her housework."

"Her ex-husband kept coming around to harass her. Your uncle already has high blood pressure and diabetes; now he’s developed a heart condition from the stress. He has such bad nerves he can’t even sleep at night. We’ve both lost so much weight."

"Clara, our family losing you... it’s just our lack of good fortune."

This was something Julian’s mother said almost every time we spoke. She sighed and lamented the loss, but she never once suggested that Julian and I should remarry. Because of this, I continued to treat them like respected elders, listening to their complaints and showing concern for their health.

By the time the call ended, half an hour had passed. I noticed three unread messages in Julian’s chat box. I opened them to find:

[Did you get home safely? Let me know when you're back.]

[Clara, I missed you a lot this past half-year.]

[Goodnight.]

Was this still the same laconic, tight-lipped Julian? I could hardly believe my eyes. I didn't know what kind of shadow the past six months had cast over him, but the once silent and reserved man had now learned to express his feelings so directly. I exited the chat with a complicated mix of emotions and turned off my phone without replying.

The next morning, as I prepared to head to school for my classes, I stepped out of the building to find Julian standing under a tree, holding a bouquet of flowers.

He walked toward me the moment he saw me, looking perfectly composed. "Good morning, Clara."

I looked at the large bouquet of daisies in his arms and took a small step back. "Julian, didn't we agree you wouldn't harass me?"

Hearing the coldness in my tone, Julian seemed to realize he was in the wrong and slightly lowered his eyes. "Clara, I promised not to mention the divorce, but I should still have the right to pursue you again, shouldn't I?"

"I know I hurt you in the past. I just want to work hard to make it up to you."

I checked my watch, having no desire to linger in this entanglement. I simply said coldly, "I told you when we divorced: I don't go back to what I’ve already discarded."

I’m not sure if those words stung him, but Julian didn't follow me. However, every morning and evening, he sent "Good morning" and "Goodnight" messages without fail, adding reminders to dress warmly or bring an umbrella. And every time I went down to my car, I would find a fresh bouquet of daisies on it.

After several weeks of this, my patience finally snapped. I put on my mask, grabbed the daisies, and walked over to Julian’s car parked nearby. I tapped politely on the window, and when it rolled down to reveal his icy, elegant face, I threw the bouquet inside.

Julian looked at me, confused. I crossed my arms, my voice a mix of exhaustion and irritation.

"Julian, whether you’re trying to compensate me or reconcile, shouldn't you at least try to cater to my preferences?"

"After all this time, it’s laughable that you still don't know I’m allergic to daisies."

As the words left my mouth, I watched Julian’s face turn deathly pale.