Summary

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[Childbirth, Rivals-to-Lovers, Dual Academic Elites, 6-Year Age Gap, Slow-Burn, Sweet Daily Pregnancy Life, 1v1, Clean, HE] (Note: Contains childbirth scenes)

To treat her illness, Ji Mianmian slept with her rival, Jiang Yu’an.

She had lived in his home for many years. One was sensitive with a fierce sense of self-esteem, the other was sharp-tongued and roguish; they were natural-born enemies who clashed at every turn.

At eighteen, she was diagnosed with a rare endometrial disease, leaving her in agonizing pain that felt like death every month. Obscure medical literature suggested that having a child had a high probability of curing the condition.

She asked Jiang Yu’an, “Shall we cooperate? I’ll get cured, and you can write a research paper. We both get what we need.” On the surface, he scolded her for being absurd, but at night, he was incredibly gentle.

Even after their secret marriage and pregnancy, the “rival” couple continued to bicker.

During a pandemic lockdown, she struggled through labor alone in a shipping container while he watched via video call, so distraught he slammed his head against the wall.

She eventually became a freelance photographer specializing in birth photography, documenting the endurance, the screams, and the smiles—even turning the lens upon herself.

Jiang Yu’an mocked her: “Are you filming these out of curiosity or boredom?”

She shot back, “None of your business, Dr. Jiang. Stay away from me.”

Later, Ji Mianmian’s work won an international gold medal and went viral across the internet.

At the exhibition, a reporter pressed her: “Where does the vibrant life force in your work come from?”

She looked toward the audience. Outside the spotlight, the once-tongue-lashed young Chief of Obstetrics stood holding their two children. He flashed a finger heart at her while mouthing:

“Quick, say it’s me.”

(The female lead has an ‘Oxytocin Constitution’—babies are born wherever she goes.)

Novel Items

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Clothing
Ji Mianmian's school uniform that she takes off and spreads under the pregnant woman as a mat when the woman needs to lie down to give birth on the bus floor.
Container
Woven from vines, used for carrying potatoes and other items, given to Lu Xi as gift.
Clothing
The thin white dress worn by the pregnant woman. It stretches taut over her enormous belly, clings to her skin when damp with sweat, gets stained with dust during labor, and becomes soaked through. The fabric faintly reveals a darker shape beneath as labor progresses.
Clothing
Delicate white leather flat shoes worn by the pregnant woman. During labor, their tips pressed against the floor become dirty, her heels lift slightly, and her forefeet and curled toes strain against the ground with tendons protruding visibly.
Bag
The pregnant woman's crossbody bag with a chain pattern from which she fished out her phone to call her husband during labor.
Electronic Device
High-tech item that won't survive more than ten days in the accelerated decay of the apocalypse.
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2026-08-11shanghai fantasy c13
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Okay so this opening is INTENSE. Like, I was genuinely on edge the entire time. The stakes are established immediately—this beautiful pregnant woman is in labor on a packed bus, and nobody is helping her. Actually, they're making it worse. The yellow-haired livestreamer is the worst character ever, and I wanted to scream at him through the page. 'Send gifts to cheer her on!' WHAT? The driver literally walks over and grabs her arm to force her off the bus while she's in active labor. The middle-aged man touching her belly without consent—my blood was boiling. But here's the thing that makes this work so well: the author doesn't let up. Every time you think it can't get worse, someone makes it worse. The contrast between the ordinary morning commute and this life-or-death situation is brutal. Mianmian becomes this tiny beacon of resistance, blocking the camera, offering her school uniform as a blanket. She's just a high school student and she's the only decent human being on that entire bus. The tension never drops. I had to read this in one sitting because I needed to know what happened.
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I need to talk about the milk. Just the milk. A glass of milk left on a desk at dawn with a note that reads 'To nourish your brain. Good luck on the high school entrance exam. Don't embarrass our family.' This is the most romantic gesture in the entire novel and I will die on this hill. Let me explain why. Jiang Yu'an is not a soft person. He is sharp edges and lazy laughter and magazine-rustling sabotage when a cute boy studies with Mianmian. He is the guy who says 'I'm treating' at a noodle shop and then lectures her about poor people's money not being spent. He is deeply, profoundly awkward about tenderness. So he expresses it through logistics. Through problem-solving. Through leaving chocolates on his desk and then pretending he didn't notice them. The emotional arc here is glacial and therefore devastating. They move from strangers sharing a dining room table to academic sparring partners to something that has no name yet. Mianmian treats him to thirty-two yuan of beef noodles and counts the change. He notices. He feels 'a pang of sadness'—and this is the man who claims to have no shame, who brags about F University beauties chasing him, who says 'Do you know how blind I would have to be to take a liking to a little yellow-haired girl like you?' And yet. And yet he ruffles her hair. He says 'I just want to look out for you, okay?' with his eyes bright and serious for the first time. The scene at F University where he gives her a private tour of the medical school—coronary arteries, mitral valves, the whole nine yards—while she watches him transform from peacock to something grounded and purposeful? I was not okay. He tells her 'Once you get into F University in the future, I'll look out for you' and she deflects with 'I can take care of myself' and he persists. This is not romance as grand gesture. This is romance as daily accumulation of small, stubborn cares.
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On the surface, this is a story about academic competition. Seven hundred thirty-five versus seven hundred thirty-seven. A desk war over lamp light. Mistake notebooks annotated in red pen. But the real stakes are invisible and far heavier: the question of whether two people from different worlds can build something that doesn't require either of them to shrink. Mianmian's external conflict is poverty—Ms. Ji Lixiang hasn't sent living expenses in months, she counts thirty-two yuan over and over at a noodle shop, she keeps two hundred yuan from her scholarship and gives the rest to Teacher Zhao. But her internal conflict is sharper: the fear that she doesn't belong in this house, that she's an interruption in Jiang Yu'an's life, that her presence is tolerated rather than wanted. Every interaction is a test. Every note left on her desk is proof she's wrong. Jiang Yu'an's conflict is equally layered. He's a PhD student, a top-tier academic, a young man surrounded by people who want something from him. Mianmian wants nothing from him except—well, actually, she does want things. She wants his textbooks. She wants his help. She wants him to stop causing misunderstandings at noodle shops. And that's what makes her dangerous to his carefully constructed indifference. She asks for help and then gives him chocolates in return. She's not a charity case; she's a transaction partner who refuses to be patronized. The coming-of-age ceremony scene raises the stakes to an almost unbearable degree. Teacher Zhao stands on stage as her parent representative, beaming with pride, comparing Mianmian favorably to his own son. The principal waives her tuition and awards her a scholarship. These are real, tangible victories—but the emotional victory is smaller and more private: Jiang Yu'an showing up in Teacher Zhao's place, present but unacknowledged, a silent witness to the life he's helped build.
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The pacing here is absolutely merciless and I love it. Chapter 1 starts almost normal—high school student on a bus, reciting classical Chinese, the mundane details of morning routine. Then the older sister appears and everything shifts. The author doesn't rush the reveal; we see her beauty first, then the belly, then the discomfort, then the pain, then the labor. Each beat builds on the last like waves crashing. The bus stops function as structural markers—each one brings new pressure, new characters, new cruelty. The yellow-haired streamer enters and the tone darkens significantly. By the time the water breaks, there's no going back. Chapter 2 escalates immediately—no breathing room, no relief. The driver gets out of his seat and physically handles her. The livestream numbers climb. Mianmian's resistance grows. The final image of the older sister arching her back, neck stretched taut, is a cliffhanger that will absolutely destroy you. The author controls the tempo like a horror director—slow dread building to unbearable tension, then releasing it into pure panic. There's no filler, no wasted moments. Every sentence pushes the story forward or deepens the emotional stakes.
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The atmosphere in this opening is absolutely suffocating in the best way. The author describes that bus like it's its own character—'crawled sluggishly through the morning rush hour traffic like a packed tin can.' You can feel the heat, the sweat, the claustrophobia. And then this impossibly beautiful pregnant woman appears, and the contrast is devastating. Her white gauze dress against the grimy bus floor, her long black hair cascading down when she kneels, 'like a blooming flower.' The sensory details are relentless: the gardenia fragrance mixed with sweat, the sound of her bellows-like breathing, the visual of that darkening patch on her skirt spreading across the floor. I could literally smell that bus. The way the author uses the bus stops as structural beats—each one bringing more pressure, more people, more cruelty—is masterful. The lighting changes too, that morning sunlight catching her tears and sweat, making her look almost ethereal while everything around her is ugly. There's a scene where she's kneeling and her white leather shoes are pressed against the dirty floor, tendons protruding, and I just... I couldn't look away. The world feels so real and so wrong at the same time.
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There's so much going on beneath the surface here. The white gauze dress is clearly symbolic—it represents purity, vulnerability, something fragile in a brutal world. It's described almost religiously: 'like a fluttering white butterfly,' 'like she had stepped out of an ancient painting.' But it gets dirty. It gets soaked. It becomes a canvas for suffering. The bus itself is a microcosm of society—crowded, indifferent, cruel. Everyone has their phone out except Mianmian. The livestreamer represents the commodification of suffering, turning human pain into content for entertainment. The middle-aged man touching the pregnant belly without consent represents the violation of women's bodies, the entitlement that exists everywhere. But then there's Mianmian's school uniform—another white garment, this one offered willingly as a blanket. It's a transfer of purity, a sacrifice. The classical Chinese text she's reciting—'When Heaven is about to confer a great responsibility on any man, it will first exercise his mind with suffering'—is basically the thesis statement of the entire piece. She's studying about suffering before she encounters it. The birth on the bus becomes this perverse creation story, life emerging from indifference, beauty from ugliness. What a devastating opening.
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