Fang Tianzhuo returned home just after 9 PM, finding the lights on. Inside, Gao Tianwei waited—Xiaochan was at work.
"Tianzhuo, what's your problem? You're never home, or you come back late. You treat this like a hotel? Xiaochan like a maid?" Tianwei snapped, unprovoked.
"Xiaochan complain?" He grinned.
"No, but she's upset. She's alone—can't you at least come home for dinner?"
"Scared of getting beaten again. Last time took weeks to heal." He joked.
Tianwei looked sheepish, chuckling.
"Fine, you're decent. But as long as you're honest, I trust you."
But Fang Tianzhuo wasn't honest. Xiaochan's kindness chipped away at his resolve; it was only a matter of time before something happened.
"Why don't you eat with her? Your schedule's the erratic one." Fang Tianzhuo said, serious.
"I want to! But my job's not 9-to-5 like yours." Tianwei sounded wronged.
"Whatever. Just don't punch me again for no reason." He half-joked, half-warned.
"Never. You've earned my trust." Tianwei's smile was simple and naive.
"Go home. I'm beat—I haven't slept properly in days."
Fang Tianzhuo crashed, waking only when a full bladder jolted him. Stumbling to the bathroom, he noticed the light was on. He pushed the door open, assuming he'd forgotten to turn it off.
"Ahh!" Both he and Li Xiaochan screamed.
She'd just showered, about to get dressed. The small space left nothing to the imagination—her curves, her skin, every inch of her exposed.
Panic set in. It was 4 AM—Xiaochan's usual return time. No one expects intruders at this hour, so she'd left the door unlocked, trusting.
Desperately needing to pee, he retreated to the couch, waiting to explain. But the longer he waited, the more Xiaochan hesitated to emerge.
"Xiaochan, I'm sorry—it was an accident. Please don't be mad." He called, voice soft, leaning against the bathroom door.
Silence.
"Xiaochan, can you come out? Please?"
Still nothing.
"Xiaochan, I really have to pee. Please?" He confessed, mortified.
The door opened. Xiaochan, in her pajamas, flushed scarlet, shot him a glare and fled to her room.
He dashed in, relief flooding him as he finally relieved himself.
The next day was a sunny weekend. By 9 AM, Fang Tianzhuo dragged himself out of bed. Xiaochan sat in the living room, sipping tea, fully dressed with light makeup—no sign of going back to sleep. He joined her; their eyes met, and she blushed, clearly recalling the early morning incident.
How could she forget? Such a moment might scar a girl for life.
"Breakfast?" He asked, cautiously.
"Bread, snacks, tea. Help yourself." She glanced at him, voice quiet.
Starving, he grabbed everything from the kitchen, shoveling food into his mouth. The tea—fine tieguanyin—tasted better than his usual bitter brew, smooth and refreshing.
"Free today?" She asked, casual.
"Probably. Need something?"
"Not really. It's almost New Year. Could you drive me to buy gifts for home?" She said, earnest.
New Year. Last year, he'd taken Xu Yanran home, all but announcing their engagement. This year? He dreaded facing their families. Sadness washed over him, memories resurfacing.
"Busy? It's okay if—"
"No, I'm free. Good idea." He forced a smile.
It was less shopping, more wandering. Their hometown had plenty of New Year supplies; rural families made their own cured meats. They bought clothes—for their parents, for themselves.
Xiaochan was energetic, no trace of exhaustion despite her long night. By noon, they'd hit every major store in Wuhan. Having a car saved hours.
She insisted on cooking lunch—"I'm sick of restaurant food after working in one. Home-cooked is cleaner, quieter." He relented, and they headed back.
True to her word, she whipped up a feast—colorful, fragrant dishes. He ate greedily.
"Tianzhuo—were you and Tianwei fighting when you got that black eye?" She suddenly asked, mid-meal.
He choked on his tea, coughing.
"Drunk. Fell." He lied.
"Liar. The next day, Tianwei had a broken nose when he helped move your stuff. He said he fell drunk. What are the odds? You two fought, didn't you?" She pressed, serious.
His face burned. She was right—but he couldn't admit why.
"Over me?" She asked, softly.
He met her gaze. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. He had no words. His feelings for her were a tangled mess, buried deep—love? Friendship? Loyalty to a friend? He couldn't tell.
"I told him that morning. That I don't like him. That I like you. That I want to be with you. He went crazy, ran off. Then you two fought. I thought telling him would end it, but… he still comes over, pretending nothing's wrong. And you—you're never here. I don't know what to do. I don't know how you feel." Tears spilled down her cheeks.
Pressure built in his chest, guilt and confusion warring.
"I'm sorry." His voice cracked.
"I see." She stood, crying, and retreated to her room.