OCU Chapter 6

At six in the evening, I clocked out on time.

I headed to the locker room, changed out of my white coat, and put on my jacket. As I strolled toward the parking lot, I wondered whether my old classmate might stand me up.

As soon as I reached the lobby, I spotted Qin Minggong sitting there, making a phone call.

We exchanged a brief greeting, and he led me to the parking lot. Once we were in his car, I realized I was feeling a bit nervous. It had been so long since we last met—I wasn’t even sure what we should talk about.

At a red light, as we stopped at an intersection, he asked, “Why did you choose this specialty?”

“Do you want the truth or the real truth?” I turned to look at him.

“…The real truth.”

“Because of you…”

“What does that have to do with me?” The light turned green, and he drove forward with the traffic.

“Well… back then, you had prostatitis, and I wanted to treat you.”

His sudden braking jolted the car to a halt. The interior fell into dead silence, save for the blaring honks of the cars behind us. His expression resembled someone suffering from severe constipation.

In that moment, as I caught sight of his face, my mind was already racing through countless escape plans on how to safely jump out of the car.

He restarted the engine and drove on, saying nothing.

I figured most men would find it hard to accept being someone else’s inspiration to pursue a career in andrology.

Trying to ease the tension, I said, “I was just kidding. You didn’t really believe that, did you?”

“…” He didn’t respond, his face unreadable.

“It’s because I found it interesting.” I turned to gaze out of the car window. “Don’t get mad, okay?”

Out of nowhere, I heard him chuckle softly. “You studied medicine because of me. No matter the reason, I’m still a little touched.”

I turned my head to see him smiling, and my face grew a little hot. “As long as you’re touched.”

After saying that, I couldn’t help but feel both amused and slightly embarrassed. My lips eventually curled into a smile.

The car drove all the way to the base of a small hill just off the highway. Nestled in the scenic location was a private dining estate by the water.

After parking, he led me inside. A hostess greeted him warmly at the entrance. As I looked around, I couldn’t help but be amazed. This place screamed “high-end.” The estate’s design was stunning—open-air pavilions followed the natural terrain, each with a wooden table beneath. Further inside were a few private rooms.

The hostess expertly guided us through a corridor and opened the door to a private room. “President Qin, your reserved room.”

I followed him into the room as the hostess poured tea and handed us the menu. He gestured for me to order, but honestly, I had no idea what to choose.

So, I pushed the menu back to him and obediently sipped my tea, letting my eyes wander around the room.

He ordered quickly.

Once the hostess left, I asked, “Do you come here often?”

“A friend of mine owns the place. The food here is excellent.”

Do all rich people have a friend who runs a private dining club? I’d seen this trope in dramas a hundred times, but I never thought I’d experience it myself, even as a supporting character.

After ordering, neither of us spoke. We drank tea quietly while waiting for the food to arrive.

One cup, then another. I started to feel like pulling out a workbook to solve math problems—it was just like high school all over again. If he didn’t talk, I wouldn’t either, and we’d each do our own thing.

Back then, I’d sometimes tease him for fun. But once, I accidentally ticked him off, and he snapped at me. After that, I stopped talking to him altogether.

This guy really used to hate me. Just as I was thinking this, the door was lightly knocked. A soft “Come in” from him, and the server entered with the dishes: a famous soup, fish-flavored eggplant, stir-fried cucumber with pork, and the signature roasted chicken. Each dish was vibrant and mouthwatering.

Fine, even if this was just my wishful thinking, getting a free meal was worth it.

As I held my bowl, deciding what to try first, a pair of chopsticks appeared in front of me, placing a piece of eggplant into my bowl. “I remember you liked eggplant.”

I stared at the eggplant in my bowl, dumbfounded. “Thanks.”

I slowly finished the eggplant and noticed that he seemed to be in a good mood.

Feeling obligated to return the gesture, I tried to recall what he might have liked back in high school. Then it hit me—a vendor near the school gate sold cold dishes, and he’d sometimes buy extra of one particular thing.

I picked up some stir-fried cucumber and smiled kindly at him. “I know you like cucumbers. Here, have some.”

As soon as I said it, I regretted it. Not only as an andrologist but also as a guy who occasionally read those novels featuring a certain vegetable, my words felt like they were dragging me to new depths of shame. I decided to pull the chopsticks back.

But just as I withdrew, Qin Minggong reached out with his chopsticks, accidentally knocking the cucumber off. It slid down, brushing the edge of the table, and landed right by his lap.

“The cucumber…” The scene felt unbearably awkward. I stared at it, wondering how to salvage the situation.

Grabbing a tissue from the table, I awkwardly offered, “Want me to wipe it for you?”

His ears turned red as he silently poked at the cucumber dish with his chopsticks.

Seriously, dude? You’re not even going to refuse?