Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The city was a blur of flickering streetlights as the rain fell in sheets. The smell of wet asphalt and something almost sweet permeated the air, as if summer were trying to hold on before fall finally drove it out.

With his white shirt dripping water from the hem and his sneakers soaked through, Sang Yan sat on the bench beneath the paper carton he had picked on the floor and used as an umbrella. Ignoring the rain that continued to trickle down his neck, he continued to glance down the road from left to right.

Earlier, when he received the email flashed across his phone, he couldn't stay still: Congratulations! Nanwu University Admissions.

His first thought—stupid, instinctive, overwhelming—had been: I have to tell her.

A bus roared by, splattering water. When he saw a figure approaching him with an umbrella slanted against the wind, his heart once again pounded.

Wen Yifan.

Her hair was stuck to her forehead, her striped blue shirt sleeves were pushed up, and she was a little out of breath.

Her cheeks flushed from walking and running in succession, she skidded to a stop in front of him.

She shoved the umbrella half over his head as well and said, "You're insane. I told you, you don't have to come here".

Water trickling from his hair, Sang Yan shrugged and reached into his pocket.

Proud and nearly out of breath, he took out his phone and show the message to her, the screen glowing:

Nanwu University.

Wen Yifan blinked at it—then looked up at him, her face softening into something so warm it made the cold rain almost tolerable.

"You did it," she grinned. "You truly succeeded."

His mouth was dry as he gave one nod. "And you?"

After a brief moment of hesitation, she bit her lip and took her own phone out of her pocket.

On her screen, the same red logo shone.

Through the rain and fog, Sang Yan gazed at it, uncertain if his vision was clear. "Yifan—"

Her voice was steady but low as she said, "I'm going with you."

"Nanwu, I'll be there too."

He was unable to speak for a moment. All they could do was stand there with the rain beating down on them, the world fresh and clean.

Then he let out a breathless, choked laugh, and before he could change his mind, he snatched the umbrella out of her hands, threw it to the floor, and gave her a hug.

Tight.

Wen Yifan yelped, half-laughing, half-protesting. "You’re soaked! You’re getting me—"

"Shut up," he muttered against her hair, arms locked around her. "Don’t care."

She froze for half a second—and then hugged him back, equally tight.

They stood there like idiots, soaked to the bone, clinging to each other while the buses came and went behind them, while the city kept humming around them, unaware.

Finally, Sang Yan leaned back just enough to see her face, rain dripping down the tip of his nose.

"You’re stuck with me, you know," he said, voice rough around the edges.

Wen Yifan smiled, brushing wet hair out of his eyes. "Alright."

And under the rain and the neon blur of city lights, it felt like everything they had ever promised each other—half in jokes, half in hope—had finally, finally come true.

Chapter Text

The morning air buzzed with late-summer heat. Students swarmed the courtyards, dragging suitcases, carrying paper maps, clutching cold drinks and orientation packets like lifelines.

Sang Yan hoisted his backpack higher on his shoulder and squinted up at the massive archway at the front of the university.

Nanwu University.

It looked exactly like the pictures—and somehow completely different, now that he was standing here for real.

Beside him, Wen Yifan tipped her head back too, shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand.

"Surreal, isn’t it?" she said.

Sang Yan grunted, stuffing his free hand in his pocket to hide the way it was twitching to reach for hers.

Instead, he bumped his shoulder lightly against hers. "Told you we'd make it."

Wen Yifan smiled, soft and brilliant, and Sang Yan had to look away or risk doing something stupid like staring.

The crowds surged around them—seniors helping freshmen find their dorms, student groups recruiting with bright banners and free candy, clubs blasting music from speakers. A giant foam mascot in a university jersey was taking photos with wide-eyed freshmen near the fountain.

It should have been overwhelming.

But standing next to her, somehow, it wasn’t.

Sang Yan dug out his schedule and pretended to study it.

"Computer Science building’s on the north side," he muttered.

"Broadcasting and Media’s east wing," Wen Yifan said, showing him her phone. "Different directions."

He hesitated, feeling stupidly reluctant. It was just the first day. They'd see each other later. Still—

Wen Yifan caught the look on his face and laughed.

"We're still at the same school," she said, reaching up to fix the crooked strap of his backpack without asking. "You’re not getting rid of me that easily."

"You say that now," Sang Yan grumbled, but his heart felt stupidly light.

A group of girls in matching club shirts darted past, handing out flyers. One of them winked at Sang Yan before moving on.

Wen Yifan watched with a smirk. "Nanwu’s full of pretty girls. Better keep your head down, Sang Yan."

He snorted. "Don’t need to look around when I already brought the best one with me."

Wen Yifan froze for half a second, her cheeks coloring faintly.

Sang Yan realized what he’d said a beat too late—but instead of backtracking, he just gave her a slow, lazy grin, pretending like it was nothing.

"See you after class, Wen Shuangjiang," he said, backing away, hands still stuffed in his pockets, as if to hide how tightly they were curling into fists.

Wen Yifan laughed under her breath, shaking her head fondly.

"See you, Sang Yan," she called after him.

They split off into the crowd then—different buildings, different majors, different days ahead. But somehow, the distance between them didn’t feel like distance at all.

It felt like the first step toward everything they'd been waiting for.

Chapter Text

The campus had quieted down hours ago. Outside the window, the courtyard lights flickered gently, throwing long shadows across the floor. Most of the other girls in the dorm were asleep, the room filled with the soft rustle of blankets and the occasional sigh of someone shifting in bed.

Wen Yifan sat cross-legged on her mattress, the glow of her phone screen the only light she allowed herself.

Her thumb hovered over the "confirm" button for a long moment.

It wasn’t a sudden decision. It had been building slowly—every time a text came through from that side of her family, cold or demanding, treating her as the assailant instead of the victim, blaming her for what happened.

—---Flashback—-----

A few weeks before the start of her first year in Nanwu University…

Wen Yifan stepped out of the cab with her backpack slung over one shoulder, a plain black umbrella folded in her hand, and a knot of determination tight in her chest.

The residential building hadn’t changed. Same chipped stair railings, same humming neon from the shop downstairs. The familiarity pressed against her ribs like a weight she didn’t want to carry anymore.

She climbed to the third floor and knocked twice. The door opened slowly.

Her mother looked thinner than the last time they met. Not frail—just tired in that quiet, internal way Yifan remembered all too well.

“Ah Jiang?” Her voice faltered, half-disbelieving. “Why are you here?”

“Just for a few hours,” Yifan said calmly. “Can I come in?”

Her mother stepped aside, and Yifan entered. The apartment smelled the same—old furniture, laundry powder, and a faint trace of herbal tea. She didn’t sit.

“I’m not here to fight,” she began. “I just need a few things sorted before I leave for university.”

Her mother hesitated, frowning. “Is this about—?”

“My inheritance,” Yifan interrupted, voice steady. “Dad’s savings. Whatever’s in my name. I want it transferred to my account. I don’t want to rely on anyone else when I’m in Nanwu.”

Her mother opened her mouth to object, but Yifan raised a hand.

“I know it’s not much. I’m not asking for charity—I’m asking for what’s mine.”

There was silence. Long. Uncomfortable. Her mother nodded slowly. “I’ll go to the bank today.”

“Thank you.”

“And what about your uncle’s side? They’ve been trying to—”

“I don’t want to hear from them again,” Yifan said, the edge in her voice finally breaking through. “Don’t give them my number. Don’t tell them where I’m going. You can tell them I’ve disappeared if it helps you save face.”

“They’re your father’s family.”

“They’re strangers,” Yifan said. “I don’t need anything from them.”

Her mother looked away, mouth pressed in a tight line.

“I’ll tell them nothing,” she said quietly.

Yifan exhaled. Relief didn’t come, exactly—but something loosened in her spine.

“One more thing,” she added, reaching into her pocket and handing over a small piece of paper. “This will be my new number. Don’t give it out. To anyone. Not unless I say so.”

Her mother looked down at it, then backed up. “You’re cutting me off too, then?”

“No,” Yifan said softly. “I’ll contact you. I just need... distance. For now.”

Her mother nodded, and the expression on her face was hard to read—something between resignation and a flicker of pride she didn’t voice.

“I understand.”

Wen Yifan stepped back toward the door. “Thank you. Take care of yourself.”

She left with no hug, no lingering goodbyes. Just a quiet hallway behind her and a sky beginning to turn gold above the streets of Nanwu.

—--End of Flashback—---

Back at the dorm, Yifan’s resolve strengthened, remembering everything that happened in Beiyu. She didn't owe them anything anymore. Not after what they’ve done.

Not now that she had this —this new beginning, this life she had fought for.

Yifan took a steady breath, then tapped the screen.

Change Number: Confirm.

The phone blinked once, then shifted.

Her contact list refreshed automatically. Dozens of numbers she recognized at a glance—the ones she used to memorize when she was younger, just in case—were now empty. Blank.

Gone.

For a second, something in her chest twisted—a hollow kind of ache, like mourning a version of herself she had outgrown.

But then it eased, leaving something lighter in its place.

Freedom.

She scrolled through her fresh, almost empty contact list. It looked strange. Clean. Like a blank page.

Wen Yifan smiled faintly to herself and quickly typed in the few names she knew she couldn’t live without.

A few classmates. A couple of close friends, QiaoQiao and Xiang Lang. After a beat, she stopped before deciding to reluctantly add her own mother’s contact number.

And, with a special kind of stubborn affection, she saved one more:

Sang Yan.

She added a small clumsy emoji next to his name—a grinning face sticking its tongue out—because she knew he’d make fun of her the next time he saw it.

But she didn’t care.

Phone clutched in her hands, Yifan leaned back against the wall, listening to the soft pulse of the campus outside, the world humming quietly around her.

This was hers now.

Her life. Her future.

No one was allowed to make her feel small anymore. No one was allowed to drag her back.

And somewhere across campus—probably gaming too late, probably half-asleep already—was a boy who had seen every broken part of her and still looked at her like she was something worth believing in.

She smiled into the dark.

Tomorrow was a new day. 

And this time, she was meeting it on her own terms.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The morning sun was barely over the rooftops, the air still crisp and cool before the heat of the day would settle in.

Sang Yan leaned against the low stone wall outside the girl’s dormitory, one hand shoved deep into his pocket, the other fiddling absentmindedly with his phone. His backpack was slung lazily over one shoulder, and his hair was still a little messy from rolling out of bed too late—but he was here.

Waiting.

Waiting for her.

A few early risers filtered past, some giving him curious glances. He ignored them all, tapping his foot in time with the low beat of a song stuck in his head.

Finally, the dorm doors swung open—and there she was.

Wen Yifan, in a simple oversized hoodie and jeans, her hair half-tied, yawning into her sleeve as she made her way down the steps. She blinked when she saw him, and then a slow, warm smile bloomed across her face.

"There you are," she said, voice still rough with sleep.

"You’re late," Sang Yan said, straightening up, though his mouth twitched like he wasn't actually annoyed.

"You’re early," she countered, bumping his shoulder lightly as she fell into step beside him.

They started walking toward the east side of campus, the pathways still mostly empty, dotted only by the occasional jogger or student with an early class.

A few minutes passed in companionable silence before Yifan dug into her pocket, pulling out her phone.

"Oh—right," she said, tilting it toward him. "I changed my number last night. Forgot to tell you."

Sang Yan glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, slowing his pace a little. "Change your number? Why?"

Yifan shrugged, a little too casually. "Felt like starting fresh."

He didn’t press. Didn’t need to.

Instead, he held out his phone toward her. "Put it in, then."

Wen Yifan took it, her fingers brushing his for a half-second longer than necessary, and punched in her new number. Without thinking much about it, she added a small emoji next to her name again—the same stupid grinning face.

When she handed it back, Sang Yan glanced down, snorting when he saw it.

"You’re hopeless," he muttered, but he didn’t delete the emoji. Instead, he tapped her new number into a text, sending her a simple message:

[Sang Yan]: Don't forget you're buying me coffee today.

Yifan’s phone buzzed instantly, and she laughed under her breath.

"I don't remember agreeing to that."

"You’re paying," Sang Yan said, smirking. "New number, new responsibilities."

She shook her head, but there was a lightness in her expression that hadn’t been there the day before. As if a weight had finally slid off her shoulders.

Sang Yan glanced at her again as they walked, then reached out casually and flicked the top of her head with his fingers.

"You’re really stuck with me now," he said.

Wen Yifan grinned, pushing his hand away without much effort. "I know."

And just like that, the two of them fell into an easy rhythm again, the morning stretching out before them, full of new beginnings and quiet promises they didn’t need to say out loud.

Chapter Text

Nanwu University – Dorm Room, Late Afternoon

Sang Yan kicked off his sneakers at the door and wandered into the dorm, rubbing the back of his neck. His last lecture of the day had dragged so long he was sure he’d left part of his soul behind in that classroom.

Inside, the room buzzed with noise. His roommates—Chen Juwen and Qian Fei—were sprawled across their beds, gaming loudly and throwing half-eaten snacks at each other. Duan Jiaxu is nowhere to be found, must be in one of his part time jobs.

When they saw Sang Yan, Chen Juwen paused his game and smirked.

"Yo, Sang-ge," he called. "You hear the news?"

Sang Yan grunted, tossing his backpack onto his chair. "If it’s about the vending machine eating coins again, I don’t care."

Qian Fei snickered. "Not that. We’re talking campus legends, man."

Sang Yan raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"Nanwu’s Cold Goddess," Chen Juwen said, leaning forward dramatically, like he was about to share state secrets.

Sang Yan froze halfway through pulling off his hoodie. "...Who?"

"You know," Qian Fei said eagerly. "Wen Yifan. Broadcasting and Media. First-year. Everyone’s been talking about her since orientation."

Sang Yan dropped his hoodie onto the chair a little too hard.

Chen Juwen didn’t notice. "She’s, like, the perfect mix—super pretty, super cool, doesn’t mess around with anyone. All the guys want to shoot their shots, but she shuts them down cold."

Qian Fei sighed dreamily. "Elegant, mysterious...ah, a beauty who walks alone…"

Sang Yan stared at them, blankly.

Wen Yifan. Cold Goddess. Everyone wants to date her?

He felt a twitch in his jaw.

"Seriously, though," Chen Juwen continued, tossing a bag of chips onto his desk. "There’s even a bet going around. First guy to get a date with her wins free barbecue from the entire dorm building."

Qian Fei whistled low. "If only we had a chance..."

Sang Yan climbed up heavily on his bed, he sat on it, leaning with his arms crossed.

He knew Yifan was pretty. He knew she was the kind of person who turned heads without even trying.

But somehow, hearing it like this—from a crowd of idiots who thought they had a shot—made something hot and prickly spark under his skin.

“You know,” Juwen said, mouth full of chips, “I’m honestly amazed you haven’t combusted yet.”

“From what,” Sang Yan asked flatly.

“From holding back. Wen Yifan— the Cold Goddess of Nanwu,” Qian Fei chimed in, tapping at his phone. “She’s in your friend circle, your program bubble, your orbit —and somehow you haven’t died from unrequited love.”

Sang Yan raised an eyebrow. “Unrequited?”

Qian Fei didn’t notice. “There’s literally a thread on the student forum ranking her top of the ‘Most Untouchable Campus Goddesses.’ She’s got this mysterious aura, looks like she walked out of a drama, and no one’s even seen her with a boyfriend.”

“Yet you see her with me almost every day,” Sang Yan said slowly.

Chen Juwen waved that off. “Yeah, but that’s probably just because you’re from the same high school or something. Classmates or whatnot. Doesn’t mean she sees you that way.”

“Exactly,” Qian Fei agreed. “You’re probably still trying, right?”

The door opened with a creak, and Su Haoan strolled in holding a bottle of soda, eyebrows arching as he caught the tail end of the conversation.

“ Still trying ?” he echoed, sounding deeply amused. “You’re talking about Sang Yan and Wen Yifan?”

Chen Juwen grinned. “Who else?”

Su Haoan snorted and tossed his keys on the desk. “Man, you clearly didn’t know them back in high school.”

He flopped onto the chair below Duan Jiaxu’s bed and gestured lazily. “Yifan was already goddess-tier back then. Smart, composed, terrifying. Even the seniors were under her spell. Everyone either wanted to date her or die trying.”

Sang Yan rolled his eyes.

“And the only person who ever managed to get close,” Su Haoan continued with dramatic flair, “was this guy.” He thumbed toward Sang Yan. “But even then, he was still orbiting like the rest of us. Cute but hopeless.”

Qian Fei grinned. “So Sang Yan’s been chasing her since high school ?”

“Yup,” Su Haoan said cheerfully. “Still trying.”

Sang Yan gave a low snort and leaned back on his bed, arms folded behind his head.

“We passed that stage a long time ago,” he said casually, not even looking up.

The room went quiet for a beat.

Then Chen Juwen sat up straighter. “Wait. Passed ? As in—”

“As in you’re with her?” Su Haoan asked, his eyes wide with surprise. “Are you dreaming again?”

Qian Fei blinked. “You mean—”

Chen Juwen gaped. “ You mean— ”

Sang Yan just smirked, still lounging like this wasn’t the most satisfying moment of his week.

“Told you,” he said, eyes closed now. “You guys need to pay more attention.” Sang Yan laughed. “Bet you all feel real dumb now, huh?”

Juwen threw a pillow at him. “ Why didn’t you say anything sooner?! ”

“Because it was funnier this way,” Sang Yan replied, perfectly smug.

And from the way he was smiling to himself, that might’ve been the real win all along.

Sang Yan was still basking with their amazement, phone in hand, casually opening his messages.

[Sang Yan]: Heard you're famous now, Cold Goddess. You should pay me a manager’s fee.

Almost immediately, a reply came through.

[Yifan]: Manager’s fee? You? You’ll be lucky if I don’t charge you for emotional distress.

Sang Yan grinned down at the screen, the annoyance bleeding out of him like steam.

She was still Yifan. 

Still his.

The rest of the world could talk all they wanted. He knew the real Wen Yifan—the one who bickered with him over coffee orders, who allowed him to get closer and closer, who laughed at his terrible jokes when no one else would.

Cold Goddess?

Maybe. But only he got to see the warmth she kept hidden underneath.

And if anyone else thought they had a chance…

Well. They were welcome to try.

(They wouldn't stand a chance.)

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Next Day, Nanwu University – Campus Café, Late Afternoon

The café was packed, as usual. Students were crammed into every available seat, hunched over laptops, textbooks, or overpriced smoothies.

Sang Yan slouched in the corner, a cold brew sweating onto the table beside him. He scrolled lazily through his phone, one leg stretched out under the table — and kept one eye on the entrance.

Because Wen Yifan had promised to meet him after her studio session.

And she was late.

(Which he wasn’t mad about. Definitely not.)

He was just tapping the screen idly when a familiar voice caught his ear.

"I’m telling you, if I get the chance, I’m gonna ask her out," some guy was saying, a little too loudly.

Sang Yan’s gaze flicked up automatically.

At a table not far from him, two guys from the Broadcasting and Media department were talking, cups of coffee untouched between them. One of them—tall, neatly dressed, not ugly—was grinning like he thought he actually had a shot.

"Wen Yifan, right?" the guy said, nudging his friend. "Cold on the surface, but I bet she’s just waiting for the right guy to get through to her."

Sang Yan tilted his chair back a little, just watching.

"You think?" the friend said skeptically. "She doesn't even talk to anyone much."

"Exactly," the first guy said, smirking. "Challenge accepted."

Sang Yan sipped his coffee slowly, savoring the moment. Because right then, the café door swung open.

And there she was.

Wen Yifan, flushed from the heat, slinging her bag off her shoulder, scanning the crowd—and when her eyes found him, her whole face lit up in that soft, unguarded way she never bothered to show anyone else.

She didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t even glance at anyone else.

Just made a beeline straight to him.

Sang Yan set down his coffee, leaning back further in his chair as she approached, casual as anything.

"Sorry I’m late," Yifan said, dropping into the seat across from him, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Studio ran over."

Sang Yan shrugged, feigning indifference.

"You owe me a coffee now. For emotional damages."

She snorted. "Put it on my tab."

From the corner of his eye, Sang Yan saw the Broadcasting guy stiffen, clearly realizing that his so-called "challenge" was already a lost cause.

And just because he was in a petty mood, Sang Yan leaned forward a little, reaching out to tug lightly at the strap of her bag where it was slipping off her chair.

"Next time," he said, low enough for only her to hear, "don’t make me wait so long. I get lonely, you know."

Yifan rolled her eyes—but there was a faint blush dusting her cheeks.

And Sang Yan, satisfied beyond reason, sat back and took a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee.

Across the café, the Broadcasting guy stared at them, slack-jawed, as Wen Yifan reached over and stole a sip from Sang Yan’s cup without asking.

Sang Yan caught the look.

Raised his eyebrows slightly.

And smirked.

Challenge accepted?

Please.

There was no challenge.

Not when he’d already won.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sky had deepened into a soft purple by the time they left the café, warm street lights flickering to life along the stone pathways. The air was cooler now, with the promise of autumn just starting to creep in.

Sang Yan strolled lazily beside Wen Yifan, hands in his pockets, kicking a stray pebble down the path every few steps. Yifan was sipping from a second coffee she had insisted on buying him—"a peace offering," she’d said with a grin.

For a while, they walked in easy silence.

But Yifan was watching him —out of the corner of her eye, sharp and amused.

And finally, she couldn’t hold it back any longer.

"You were so smug back there," she said, laughter already threading through her voice.

Sang Yan blinked, playing dumb. "About what?"

Yifan bumped his shoulder with hers. "Don’t act like you didn’t see that guy about to cry when I walked past him to sit with you."

He shrugged exaggeratedly. "I have no idea what you’re talking about."

" Please. " Yifan rolled her eyes, grinning wider now. "You leaned back in your chair like you were the king of Nanwu. I’m pretty sure you almost winked."

Sang Yan let out a short, incredulous laugh. " Winked? Are you out of your mind?"

"You were practically preening," Yifan said, smugly now. "Like a cat that caught a canary."

Sang Yan made a wounded noise. "You’re delusional."

"Mhm," Yifan hummed, sipping her coffee with mock innocence. "Denial doesn’t change the fact that you were basically broadcasting ‘She’s mine, back off.’ Loud and clear."

Sang Yan stopped walking just long enough to stare at her, deadpan.

And then, with infuriating calm, he said, " Was I wrong? "

Yifan’s steps faltered.

And it was his turn to smirk now—lazy, knowing, almost too pleased with himself.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You’re impossible."

"You chose me. You’re stuck with me, remember?" he said simply, bumping her hand with his lightly. "Sucks to be them."

Yifan shook her head, but she was smiling too, cheeks warm despite the chill in the air. She looped her arm through his without thinking, letting him tug her a little closer as they continued down the path.

Neither of them said much after that. They didn’t have to.

The night stretched out in front of them, full of unspoken things, of promises they weren’t in a rush to put into words.

And if Sang Yan looked a little too proud the whole walk back to the dorms?

Well.

Yifan let him have it.

Just this once.

(Maybe.)

Chapter Text

Nanwu University – Media Building Courtyard, Noon

The sun was out, the breeze was nice, and Wen Yifan was finally enjoying a moment of peace between classes, seated beneath a camphor tree with her iced tea in hand and her phone blissfully ignored.

Until Zhong Siqiao burst onto the scene like a one-woman news network.

“Dian Dian!” she half-yelled, half-sprinted over, waving her phone like it was on fire. “You’re not going to believe what I just saw.”

Wen Yifan didn’t even flinch. She sipped her drink and said, “Is this about another puppy adoption event? Because last time you almost made me sign up for three.”

“No, no—this is way juicier.” Siqiao slid down next to her on the bench, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Your boyfriend and his roommate are officially Nanwu's latest ‘Top Campus Heartthrobs.’”

Yifan blinked. “Come again?”

Zhong Siqiao shoved her phone in Yifan’s face, zoomed in on a campus website poll. Sure enough, there was a full post titled:

《Campus Heartthrob Rankings – Fall Semester Edition》
 

With two painfully familiar names right at the top:

#1: Sang Yan (Computer Science – Year 1)
#2: Duan Jiaxu (Computer Science – Year 1)

Complete with candid photos—one of Sang Yan half-asleep in a lecture hall (somehow still good-looking), the other of Duan Jiaxu laughing under a tree with his dimples in full effect.

Yifan stared for a long second. Then she raised an eyebrow. “They really used that photo of him?”

“That’s your reaction?” Siqiao groaned. “Girl, your man just became public property. I’m hearing girls from the Finance department are already asking for his WeChat. Jiaxu’s being swarmed, too—someone tried to bribe his roommate for his class schedule.”

Yifan blinked once, then calmly reached for her phone.

Siqiao watched her like she was defusing a bomb. “What are you gonna do?”

Yifan unlocked her screen. “Message him.”

“That’s it? No dramatic declaration? No ‘stay away from my man’ post on your Moments?”

Yifan typed out her message with maddening composure.

[Yifan]: You’re famous now. Do I need to book an appointment to see you?

Almost instantly, a reply came.

[Sang Yan]: Don’t start. I already regret going to class today. Some girl offered me bubble tea and Duan Jiaxu is still laughing about it.

Yifan smirked.

[Yifan]: Don’t accept anything suspicious. You’re bad with poison control.

[Sang Yan]: Tch. Only poison here is Duan Jiaxu’s smug face.

[Sang Yan]: …Are you jealous?

Yifan stared at the message, then glanced sidelong at Siqiao, who was watching her with open delight.

“Let me guess,” Siqiao said. “He’s loving it.”

Yifan didn’t answer. She was already typing again.

[Yifan]: No. But if someone else tries to give you milk tea again, I will report them for targeting someone with lactose intolerance.

[Sang Yan]: You’re evil. Marry me.

She rolled her eyes and locked her phone, but there was no hiding the way her smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

Zhong Siqiao raised an eyebrow. “So… not mad?”

“Not mad,” Yifan said, standing up and brushing off her skirt. “But if he comes back bragging, I will tell everyone about the time he cried during that horror movie.”

Siqiao clutched her chest. “That’s love.”

“It’s leverage,” Yifan corrected, already walking toward her next class. “Big difference.”

And behind her, Siqiao laughed and yelled, “Tell him he’s not allowed to become too hot! I want peace on campus!”

Nanwu University – Computer Science Building Courtyard, Late Afternoon

Sang Yan never claimed to enjoy attention.

He liked his peace. He liked his desk. He liked his hoodie and his headphones and not being accosted by people who thought group projects were a dating service.

So, to say the day had been a nightmare was putting it lightly.

First, some girl he barely knew from an elective class had sat next to him and “accidentally” spilled her coffee so she could ask him if he wanted to “grab a fresh one sometime.”

Then another had hovered outside his programming lab, pretending to scroll through her phone while very obviously watching him like he might vanish into thin air.

And now —now he was cornered in the courtyard by three girls from Business Admin, all smiling too brightly and edging just a little too close.

“So, Sang Yan,” one said, brushing her hair behind her ear for the fifth time in under a minute. “We heard you’re in Algorithms II? That class is brutal. Do you do tutoring?”

“I don’t,” he said flatly.

Another one giggled. “Maybe we could exchange WeChats anyway? Just for—study support.”

He blinked at them. “You’re not even in my department.”

She pouted, apparently thinking that was cute.

And Sang Yan was gearing up to escape— politely, which already took monumental effort—when a very familiar voice cut clean through the air.

“Oh, there you are,” Wen Yifan said, strolling into view with the kind of calm, unhurried grace that made heads turn.

Sang Yan’s shoulders dropped half an inch in relief.

The girls blinked at her, thrown off.

Yifan didn’t give them the time to regroup. She walked straight up to Sang Yan, not sparing the others a glance, and reached casually for the strap of his backpack like she’d done it a hundred times before. 

“I told you to wait for me,” she said lightly, and then, very deliberately, looped her arms to his.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Sang Yan blinked. Once. Twice. Then turned slowly to look at her, stunned amusement flickering behind his eyes.

Yifan just raised an eyebrow at him like, What? Say something.

He coughed, fighting a smile. “You’re late.”

“Then let’s go,” she said, tugging on his arm like she owned it—and him.

And just like that, she turned and walked off.

He followed. Obviously.

Behind them, one of the girls made a choking noise.

Sang Yan leaned in slightly as they crossed the quad. “That's the part where I’m supposed to ask if you were jealous?”

Yifan didn’t look at him. “I wasn’t.”

“Sure.”

“I just figured,” she said casually, “if everyone else wants your number, I should remind them someone already has it.”

He couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out. Low, amused, soft. Then, without thinking, he reached out and laced their fingers together.

Yifan looked at their hands, then at him.

“You’re smug,” she muttered.

“You started it,” he murmured back.

“No, you started it,” Yifan reminded him of his actions back at the cafe last week.

And hand-in-hand, they walked straight across campus like the chaos behind them didn’t matter in the slightest.

Because it didn’t.

Nanwu University – Library Annex, Evening

The far wing of the library was nearly empty—just long rows of shelves, the occasional rustle of pages, and soft lamplight pooling over scattered study tables. It was the part of the library that students only wandered into when they were either avoiding people or hoping not to be found.

Wen Yifan had claimed one corner of a two-seater tucked between Philosophy and Media Studies. Her bag sat on the floor, her shoes abandoned somewhere beneath the table, and her legs were curled up beneath her like she’d forgotten this was technically a public place.

Sang Yan returned with two bottled teas from the vending machine and dropped into the seat beside her with a muted sigh. He didn’t speak for a while—just unscrewed the cap, took a swig, and stared off at nothing in particular.

“You’re quiet,” Yifan said, glancing at him from behind her notes.

“I was ambushed by girls all day,” he muttered, leaning back until his chair creaked. “Forgive me if I’m emotionally exhausted.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You looked like you were holding up fine. At least until I had to intervene.”

Sang Yan shot her a side-eyed glare. “You didn’t intervene. You detonated.”

“Semantics.”

He didn’t argue, just groaned quietly and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling.

After a beat, he said, “Didn’t hate it, though.”

Yifan lowered her pen. “Didn’t hate what?”

He ran a hand through his hair and mumbled, “The whole thing. You showing up. Making it… obvious.”

She blinked, lips quirking. “You mean holding your arm?”

“I mean the message,” he replied, still not looking at her. “You were clear. Loud. They got it.”

Yifan’s smile spread, slow and unbothered. “You liked that, huh?”

“I didn’t not like it,” he muttered.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—it was warm, thick with something unspoken. The kind that felt heavier in places like this, where whispers carried further than shouts.

After a moment, she scooted her chair closer, until their shoulders bumped. “You’re terrible at pretending you don’t like being claimed.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, voice lower, “you’re good at doing it.”

Her hand slid over his under the table, fingers lacing through his like they’d done it a hundred times before.

For a while, neither of them spoke. Somewhere on the other side of the library, a book cart creaked. A chair scraped faintly. Outside, the wind moved gently through the trees.

“Hey,” she whispered eventually, turning her head toward him with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Next time, should I just hand out your WeChat? Save everyone the trouble?”

Sang Yan groaned and dropped his head onto his folded arms. “Wen Shuangjiang…”

She squeezed his hand, laughing under her breath.

And he didn’t let go.

Chapter Text

Nanwu University – Broadcasting Department Courtyard, Late Afternoon

The courtyard buzzed with students filtering out of class, voices rising and falling beneath the golden spill of a late afternoon sun. Wen Yifan stood at the edge of the path, squinting up from her phone just in time to hear a cheer go up from the front steps of the media building.

At first, she thought it was just noise—some group project joke or a game. But then she spotted the small crowd forming, and in the center, a classmate from her Fundamentals of Broadcasting seminar.

He was holding a bouquet. A real one. Big, kind of awkward, but very sincere.

“I know it’s sudden,” he was saying, eyes fixed on a girl with glasses and flushed cheeks. “But I really like you. Will you go out with me?”

Yifan blinked.

The girl stammered a shy yes, and the crowd erupted into applause, catcalls, teasing whistles. The two of them stood there awkwardly smiling at each other, and Yifan couldn’t help but smile too—soft, warm, secondhand happiness settling over her like sunlight.

It was sweet. Messy and bold and very first-year-university.

And yet.

The thought slipped in quietly, uninvited.

Sang Yan hasn’t asked me.

Not like that. Not publicly. Not even privately.

Nothing from him.

Her smile faltered, just slightly.

They did everything together—ate meals, shared notes, walked back to dorms, held hands and argued about half-finished homework and ward off anyone who showed romantic interest by claiming each other.

He called her “mine” without saying the word girlfriend . He held her without ever saying Will you go out with me?

She had held him back, willingly, happily. Never once thinking to pause and ask: Wait, what are we doing?

But now, watching someone else’s relationship begin with clear, simple words, she felt that strange hollowness bloom behind her ribs.

What are we doing?

Was it dating if no one had asked?

Was it love if no one had said the word?

She didn’t notice she was still standing there until the couple disappeared into the building, hand-in-hand and grinning, the crowd scattering in their wake.

Yifan exhaled slowly, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. The warmth in her chest was still there—but now, it was tangled with a new kind of weight.

One she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying until that moment.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few days later, Nanwu University – Mid-Afternoon, Outside the Library

The campus buzzed in the quiet, simmering way it always did around midterms—laptops open on benches, notebooks scattered on lawns, half-empty cans of coffee beside tired sneakers. Wen Yifan sat beneath the shade of a camphor tree, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped loosely around them, eyes distant.

She’d been waiting for Sang Yan to finish his group meeting.

He came jogging over a few minutes later, his backpack slung over one shoulder, hair tousled like he’d run halfway across campus to get there.

“Sorry—those guys can talk forever about sorting algorithms,” he said, slightly out of breath as he dropped down onto the grass beside her.

“Big computer science energy,” she murmured, not looking up.

Sang Yan glanced sideways. “You okay?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Just kept worrying at a loose thread in the knee of her jeans. “Can I ask you something?”

“That depends. Is it about why Java makes me want to cry? Because I can’t afford to be emotionally raw in public.”

She gave a soft laugh—automatic—but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

His expression shifted. “Hey. What’s going on?”

“…Are we,” she started, hesitated, then pushed forward, “Are we dating?”

Sang Yan blinked. “What?”

“I mean… like officially ?” She still didn’t look at him. “We never actually said anything. No one asked. We just… started doing stuff. You walking me places. Bringing me snacks. Holding hands. That time you nearly fought a vending machine because it ate my coin.”

“First of all, that machine deserved it.”

“Sang Yan.”

He looked at her carefully, the light teasing fading. “You seriously didn’t think we were dating?”

She finally turned her head.

His brow furrowed, disbelief plain on his face. “Wen Shuangjiang. I went to Beiyu. In the rain. Just to tell you I got into Nanwu.”

“I know.”

“And you met me at the bus stop. Told me you passed, too.”

“I remember.”

“And then I hugged you like—” He stopped, the corners of his mouth twitching down. “Like I already belonged to you. Because I did.”

Yifan stared, blinking slowly.

“I told Duan Jiaxu and the guys that I was taken,” he said. “Pretty sure I’ve been acting like it ever since.”

A beat of silence passed between them, the breeze rustling the leaves above.

“…Oh,” she said quietly.

“Oh?” Sang Yan threw a hand up, incredulous. “What do you mean , ‘oh’? What did you think we were doing—some emotionally charged limited-time friendship promo?”

“I didn’t know!” she exclaimed, flushed now. “You never said anything!”

“I thought it was obvious! ”

“You always think things are obvious!”

He opened his mouth. Then closed it. “Okay. That’s fair.”

Yifan groaned, burying her face in her hands. “God. I’ve been overthinking this all week.”

Sang Yan let out a laugh—light, almost fond—then scooted closer, his knee bumping hers. “Hey. Just so we’re clear—yeah. We’ve been together since you said you were coming to Nanwu with me.”

She peeked out from between her fingers. “You’re serious?”

“I’m deeply wounded that you had to ask.”

Her lips twitched. “So you’ve been out here acting like my boyfriend this whole time?”

“Acting?” he repeated, mock-offended. “Excuse you—I was your boyfriend. You were just behind on the paperwork.”

She snorted. “Unbelievable.”

“You love it.”

She rolled her eyes and shoved his shoulder—gently—but he caught her wrist before she could pull back, lacing their fingers together with easy familiarity.

They sat there like that for a while, hands joined, the bustle of campus fading into a soft hum.

***After a while, Sang Yan broke the silence by calling her. “Wen Shuangjiang…”

“Hm?” she answered, leaning her head on his shoulder.

“There were things I used to think were too pretentious to say out loud,” Sang Yan said quietly.

“Even just a word felt... embarrassing.”

Wen Yifan looked up at him, her gaze was soft and steady. He didn’t meet it at first—his eyes fixed ahead, shoulders held a little too still, like he was bracing himself.

But then, after a pause, he turned to face her fully.

His expression was calm, but his eyes held something deeper—something weightier.

“But,” he said, voice low, “in this life, I think I have to say it at least once.”

He held her gaze.

“Have you really not noticed?” he asked, almost incredulous. “After all these years… it’s still only ever been you.”

Wen Yifan stayed quiet for a moment too long, and Sang Yan, suddenly unsure of himself, pressed his lips together and shifted slightly where he sat, as if the silence had made the space between them feel unfamiliar.

“…Say something,” he murmured, voice low.

His words snapped her back to the present. She sniffled once, almost soundlessly, and tried to gather herself. A part of her wanted to respond with something equally heartfelt—something romantic to match the weight of his words—but she was still caught off guard. She felt like she was standing on glass: careful not to step too hard, afraid to shatter something precious.

“If you think saying things like that is embarrassing…” she began, her voice soft but steady.

Sang Yan looked down at her, eyes dark and unreadable.

“…Then next time,” she said seriously, “I’ll be the one to say it.”

His breath hitched almost imperceptibly. He stilled.

Her ears were burning by now, the heat crawling down her neck. She felt like a kid clutching a gift they didn’t quite know how to hold—elated, overwhelmed, and awkwardly sincere.

“But,” she added, glancing down, “it’s hard for me too, you know.”

Sang Yan didn’t look away from her. A slow, almost involuntary curve pulled at the corner of his mouth, like something soft was unfolding from within him.

She fell silent again, but then quickly realized—she still hadn’t actually given him a proper response.

Tilting her head, she glanced back up. “So now we…”

“Hm?” he prompted, tone gentler now.

“…Have mutual feelings,” she finished.

There was a beat of silence.

Then his jaw tensed ever so slightly as he tried—and failed—not to laugh. His shoulders shook with a quiet, incredulous huff, and a low chuckle finally broke through.

Wen Yifan frowned, unsure what exactly he found so funny. But before she could ask, she pressed on, unwilling to let the moment slip away unfinished.

“So… from now on,” she said carefully, “you’re my boyfriend?”

Still grinning, Sang Yan replied without hesitation. “Yeah." ***

"But let’s be specific, I’ve been your boyfriend ever since I hugged you in Beiyu. How many times should I tell you?”

She looked up at him—really looked—and her breath caught at the sight.

The dimple on his right cheek had deepened, his eyes crinkled at the corners. There was something unguarded in his expression, something quietly radiant. He looked happy.

Genuinely, uncomplicatedly happy.

And just like that, her lips curved up too, almost involuntarily.

The moment didn’t feel real. In fact, it felt more unreal the longer it lingered—as if she might wake up any second. But that surreal shimmer was what made it feel so precious.

That was why she held onto it with both hands.

Because this, whatever this was, she didn’t want it to change. Not now. Not ever.

Chapter Text

Nanwu University, Cafeteria Courtyard – Lunchtime

It was the usual chaos: trays half-filled, drinks swapped mid-conversation, people arguing over which professor was secretly out to fail them. Yifan was seated next to Zhong Siqiao at one end of the table, Sang Yan diagonally across, flanked by Qian Fei and Chen Juwen, who were trading dramatic midterm horror stories. Duan Jiaxu on the other table with another student that he was tutoring.

Su Haoan arrived last, slumping into the empty chair with a defeated sigh. “If I hear the word ‘coding’ one more time, I’m going to dissolve.”

“I think you need a nap more than you need a degree,” Yifan muttered.

“Preach,” added Siqiao, stabbing a cherry tomato with unnecessary force.

Mid-bite, Sang Yan casually reached over and took a piece of chicken off Yifan’s plate.

She swatted at him lazily. “I asked if you wanted the same thing earlier.”

“You asked like I had a choice,” he said. “Which I didn’t.”

“You didn’t.”

“Wait—” Qian Fei suddenly straightened, eyes narrowing. “Are you two, like, actually official now?”

Yifan paused mid-chew.

Sang Yan blinked. “What do you mean now?”

Chen Juwen looked genuinely confused. “You weren’t before?”

Yifan held up a hand, swallowing. “Oh! We just had that talk yesterday.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then:

“YESTERDAY?!” everyone except Sang Yan and Yifan exclaimed.

Qian Fei nearly dropped his chopsticks. “You mean we’ve been calling you his girlfriend in front of him for weeks, and you weren’t actually dating?!”

“I thought we were!” Sang Yan cut in, offended again. “She’s the one who questioned it!”

“Because you never asked!” Yifan defended.

Su Haoan looked betrayed. “I made a whole toast about the two of you getting together last month at the hotpot place!”

Siqiao leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “I helped Yifan decide on nail polish based on which colors would look good holding his hand. You mean to tell me you weren’t even official yet?!”

Yifan groaned, dropping her head dramatically into her arms. “Why is everyone so loud right now?”

Sang Yan, annoyingly smug, just took another bite of her chicken. “Well, now we are. So.”

Chen Juwen nodded solemnly. “About time. Honestly, if you told me you two accidentally got married over a bet, I would’ve believed that faster than ‘we just made it official.’”

Yifan lifted her head and glared at him. “Remind me again why we sit with you?”

“Because we’re adorable,” Qian Fei said. “And we predicted your love story before you did.”

Siqiao raised her drink. “To our delusional confidence and your very slow burn.”

“Cheers,” Su Haoan deadpanned. “Now give me back my fries, Sang Yan.”

Sang Yan rolled his eyes but tossed one over.

And Yifan?

Well. She couldn’t stop smiling, even as she tried to hide it behind her drink.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Evening, Path Behind the East Courtyard

The sun had dipped just below the horizon, streaking Nanwu’s sky in soft pinks and muted golds. The air was cool enough to need sleeves but warm enough that the breeze felt like comfort, not chill. Leaves rustled overhead as Sang Yan and Wen Yifan strolled side by side down the narrow path behind the courtyard, their shadows stretching out ahead of them.

It had been a long day—three classes, a surprise quiz, and lunch that had felt more like a roast session hosted by their entire friend group.

Yifan still had her arms crossed, partly from the breeze and partly from secondhand embarrassment. “I can’t believe they yelled like that. We were in public.”

“They always yell like that,” Sang Yan said mildly, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie. “Especially when they’re right.”

She gave him a sideways glare. “They weren’t right . We were just… on different pages.”

“Oh, I knew what page we were on,” he said. “You just took a little longer to read it.”

“Wow,” she said dryly. “You’re actually proud of that line, aren’t you?”

“I am,” he said, then grinned. “Might post it on my Moments.”

She groaned.

They walked a little farther in silence. The sounds of campus faded behind them—replaced by the distant hum of street lamps flickering on, the occasional burst of laughter from passing students, the soft brush of leaves overhead.

After a moment, Sang Yan tilted his head toward her.

“Seriously though,” he said, softer now, “you okay?”

She looked up at him, a little surprised by the shift in tone. “Yeah. Just… a little overwhelmed. Not in a bad way. I guess it’s weird realizing everyone else saw it before I did.”

“Not weird,” he said. “You’ve always been careful. With people. With this.”

She didn’t reply right away. Then, after a beat: “Still kind of feels like falling off a ledge. Not in a terrifying way, just… sudden.”

Sang Yan didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then he reached out and laced their fingers together—gentle and warm and sure, like he’d been waiting for the quiet to do exactly this.

“Well,” he said, “good news is, I was already waiting at the bottom and no matter what happens, I’ll always catch you.”

Yifan blinked, and her throat went tight in the way it always did when he surprised her by being a little too sincere.

“Don’t say things like that when you’re holding my hand,” she muttered, trying to keep her voice steady. “It’s not fair.”

“I’m always holding your hand now,” he said. “Gotta get used to it.”

She tried to look unimpressed.

Failed spectacularly.

So she bumped his shoulder with hers instead and let herself lean in just a little as they walked—comfortably quiet now, with nowhere to be but here.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Next Day, Outside Nanwu University – Late Afternoon

Wen Yifan was halfway through her iced latte when she spotted Zhong Siqiao jogging toward her from across the street, practically glowing with excitement, a folded flyer in one hand and a very satisfied grin on her face.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Siqiao declared breathlessly, flopping down onto the café bench beside her. “We’re hired. Both of us.”

Yifan blinked. “Wait—what?”

“I just came from the interview at Cafe Palace,” Siqiao said, pointing behind her to the cozy-looking coffee shop with string lights curling around the windows and a chalkboard sign out front. “The manager remembered you from when we went in last week. She asked if we were still both interested. I said yes.”

Yifan set down her drink. “Seriously? That fast?”

“She was desperate,” Siqiao said brightly. “Midterms rush is coming, and apparently two people just quit. We start Friday after class.”

Yifan stared at her. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” Siqiao beamed. “We’ll be on the evening shift together. I told her we’re reliable, friendly, and that you’re less scary than you look.”

Yifan laughed. “I am very friendly, thank you.”

“You look like you’re about to rate someone’s latte art out of ten,” Siqiao teased. “But in a hot way.”

“Flattery won’t get you out of splitting tips.”

“It might get me out of wiping down tables.”

Yifan leaned back against the bench, her eyes drifting to the little café across the street—the one she’d passed a dozen times on the way to class, thinking how warm it looked. How normal. Like something real people in real lives did.

Now it was her turn to smile. “Guess we’re café girls now.”

“Caffeine dealers,” Siqiao corrected. “Watch us become legends.”

“You just want the free coffee.”

“And the tips. And the excuse to wear cute aprons.”

They sat in silence for a moment, watching the afternoon crowd move past, the sun starting to sink low behind the university gates. The first hints of neon flickered on in the windows across the street.

Yifan exhaled slowly. “It feels… good, right? Like we’re doing something for ourselves.”

Siqiao bumped her shoulder lightly. “You’re doing a lot for yourself lately.”

Yifan didn’t answer that directly. She just reached for her drink again, her fingers a little warmer than they’d been a minute ago.

Café Near Nanwu University – Friday Evening

“Part-time job?” Sang Yan repeated, raising an eyebrow as he walked beside Yifan after class. “Since when?”

“Since Wednesday,” she said, sipping from her water bottle like it was no big deal. “I’m starting tonight. With Qiao Qiao.”

“Wait— tonight tonight?”

“Yep.”

“You didn’t think to mention this earlier?”

“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”

He squinted at her. “You’re suspiciously calm about this. What kind of job is it?”

“Café,” she said casually, tugging her ponytail a little tighter as they turned toward the main gate. “That cute one with the string lights. You know it.”

Sang Yan blinked. “The one with the waffles?”

“And moody indie music.”

“I thought you said working in food service was ‘a guaranteed path to existential dread.’”

“It is ,” she said cheerfully. “But the hourly rate’s good.”

He stared at her, then deadpanned, “You’re gonna spill someone’s coffee in the first hour, aren’t you.”

She smiled. “Probably. You should come watch.”

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later That Evening – 6:43 PM

The café was busy. Not full-on chaos, but definitely enough that Zhong Siqiao was juggling two orders at once while trying to smile at a table of freshmen who clearly only came in to flirt.

Yifan, meanwhile, was behind the counter attempting to figure out how the espresso machine worked without blowing it up.

“Okay, hot water goes here —I think? Maybe?” she muttered.

“You’re talking to yourself again,” Siqiao said as she passed by with a tray.

“I’m manifesting competence.”

At that exact moment, the door chimed open.

Sang Yan strolled in, hands in his pockets, a smirk already forming.

Yifan glanced up—and immediately narrowed her eyes. “You’re here for the waffles, right?”

“Definitely not here to see how adorable you look in that apron,” he said, stepping up to the counter. “Nope. Not at all.”

She made a show of adjusting her nametag. “Can I help you, sir ?”

“Yeah, I’ll take a caramel latte with extra smugness.”

“You’ll get whatever comes out of this machine and say thank you,” she muttered, reaching for a cup.

Two minutes and one near-overflowing milk pitcher later, Yifan handed over a slightly crooked but drinkable latte. “Here. Please complain to management.”

Sang Yan took a sip. Paused. Then he looked at her in mock horror. “Is that… cinnamon?”

Yifan blinked. “Wait, is it not supposed to—oh my god.”

She grabbed the cup and turned it away from him, already laughing. “Okay. That’s not your drink.”

“I feel personally attacked.”

“Good.”

“Are you gonna charge me for this assault?”

“Only emotionally.”

Zhong Siqiao popped up beside them. “Customer’s asking if you have oat milk. You wanna take that?”

Yifan handed the cup back to Sang Yan with a sigh. “Fine. You win. You’re banned from watching me at work.”

“Too late,” he said, already halfway to a corner seat, drink in hand. “I’ve seen everything. And I’m staying for the waffles.”

She walked off, muttering under her breath, but she was smiling the whole way.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later

When her shift ended, he was still there. Still in the corner, earbuds in, half-asleep over a book he hadn’t really been reading.

Yifan slid into the seat across from him, pulling the apron over her head and dropping it into her bag.

“Did you stay just to supervise me?”

He didn’t open his eyes. “Supervise? No. Document for blackmail? Maybe.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Mm,” he murmured, cracking an eye open. “But you didn’t burn the café down.”

She reached for a leftover fry from his plate and shrugged. “There’s always tomorrow.”

Outside the Café – 9:47 PM

The café had long since dimmed its lights to “closing mode,” the scent of coffee still clinging faintly to Yifan’s hoodie as she stepped out, tugging her bag higher on her shoulder. The night was cool, not cold—just enough wind to make the string lights above the café door sway slightly.

Sang Yan was already waiting by the streetlamp, one hand in his jacket pocket, the other holding a bottled drink he’d bought during one of her breaks.

“You waited,” she said softly, surprised despite herself.

He glanced over at her. “What, you thought I’d head back without making sure you didn’t collapse on the sidewalk?”

She snorted. “That’s romantic.”

“It’s practical.”

“Mm-hm.”

They started walking, shoes crunching softly on the gravel shoulder. Most students had already turned in or were still holed up in the library, so the roads near campus were quiet. The kind of quiet that invited softness—unspoken things, half-smiles, warm looks exchanged over nothing in particular.

Yifan glanced sideways at him. “You didn’t have to stay the whole time.”

“I know.”

“You could’ve just walked me back. Or messaged.”

“I know.”

She nudged his arm lightly with her elbow. “So why’d you?”

Sang Yan was quiet for a beat too long.

Then: “Because I liked seeing you there.”

She blinked.

“You looked,” he added, almost offhand, “kind of happy. In a chaotic, milk-frother-almost-killed-me way. But happy.”

“I didn’t know you paid that much attention.”

“I always pay attention to you.”

That shut her up for a second. Her fingers tightened around her bag strap.

“I mean,” he said quickly, clearing his throat, “someone has to make sure you’re not using salt instead of sugar again.”

Yifan smiled. “That was one time .”

“One time too many.”

They crossed the street slowly, under the flickering glow of the campus gate’s streetlight.

He glanced at her again. “How many nights a week?”

“Three shifts. Mondays, Fridays, and Sundays.”

“Then I’ll wait for you. On those days.”

Yifan looked up at him. “You’re serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re not worried people are going to think you’re… sweet or something?”

“Please.” He scoffed. “Let them try.”

Yifan laughed under her breath, and for the rest of the walk back, they didn’t say much—just walked side by side, the way they always had. Except this time, her fingers brushed his once, twice.

The third time, he laced theirs together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Sunday Evening – Café Outside Nanwu

The espresso machine was hissing like it had a personal grudge, Yifan’s apron string had come loose again , and the freshman barista was currently panicking over a drink labeled “dirty chai oat latte with half ice.” Yifan didn’t even know what half of that meant.

She was halfway through restocking syrup bottles behind the counter when the café bell rang.

She didn’t look up right away—she didn’t need to. The silence that followed the bell, the pause in conversation, and the faint rustle of a snack bag being casually opened gave it away.

“I swear,” Zhong Siqiao muttered beside her, peering over the counter, “your boyfriend walks in like he owns the place.”

“He does not,” Yifan said, resisting the automatic smile threatening her face.

“He brought chips . He’s just sitting there eating them like this is a private lounge.”

“He is not —” Yifan stopped. Took a breath. “He’s not allowed behind the counter.”

“He’s not behind the counter. Yet. But I give him ten minutes before he starts trying to ‘fix’ the milk steamer.”

Yifan glanced up.

Sure enough, Sang Yan was at his usual spot by the window, leaning back in his chair with his long legs stretched out like he had zero intention of moving. He raised the snack bag slightly in greeting.

Yifan sighed. “Unbelievable.”

“Cute, though,” Siqiao grinned. “Want me to take his order?”

“No, I’ll do it,” Yifan muttered, untangling her apron strap. “Before he starts asking the freshmen barista if we serve blue Gatorade.”

She made her way over, trying to keep her expression neutral and absolutely failing.

“You know,” she said, arms crossed, “you can’t keep showing up like this and distracting the staff.”

Sang Yan raised his brows. “Distracting? I’m supporting local businesses.”

“You’re loitering .”

“Loitering,” he said, mock thoughtful, “with food offerings. I brought your favorite chips.”

She blinked at the bag he pushed across the table toward her. Her brows knit slightly.

“…You remembered?”

He shrugged. “You ate like seven bags when we were reviewing in the library. It’s not exactly forgettable.”

Something warm bubbled in her chest. She snatched the bag and pointed a finger at him. “Fine. You get one drink.”

“Make it sweet,” he said. “To match your tone.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m going to give you something bitter.”

“You already did,” he shot back, grinning.

When she returned to the counter, Siqiao was waiting with the knowing smile of someone who’d watched the entire exchange.

“So,” she said innocently, “is he always this smug, or just around you?”

Yifan sighed again—louder this time.

“Please tell me you’re not about to be a third wheel and a gossip mill.”

“Too late. I’m invested.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Yifan saw Sang Yan leaning back in his chair again, smugness dialed down to something softer. Quieter. Like he didn’t need to say anything out loud to be exactly where he wanted to be.

And—annoyingly—she didn’t hate it.

Not even a little.

Chapter Text

Nanwu University – Male Dorm Room, Evening

The door crashed open without warning—because of course it did. Su Haoan never knocked.

“I’m in love!” he announced, arms raised like he’d just won a lottery, before flopping onto Duan Jiaxu’s chair without shame.

Qian Fei groaned from his desk. “Not again.”

Chen Juwen didn’t even look up from his laptop. “That’s what, the third great love of your life this semester?”

Su Haoan shot both of them a smug grin. “This one’s real. We’ve been dating since last weekend. And—” He wagged his eyebrows. “First kiss happened yesterday. It was magical. Fireworks. Like an idol drama.”

“Congratulations,” Qian Fei said flatly. “You’ve officially unlocked delusion.”

“Envy isn’t a good color for you,” Su Haoan retorted. “Anyway, I’m not alone in greatness. Chen?”

Chen Juwen shrugged, feigning humility. “Senior year. Behind the library. Windy, awkward, too much lip balm—still counts.”

Qian Fei scoffed. “Try New Year’s party, truth or dare, no names exchanged. Efficient and forgettable.”

“Beautiful,” Chen said, raising his water bottle in mock toast.

Then, as if choreographed, all three turned toward Sang Yan, who was sitting cross-legged on his bed, eyes on his phone, steadfastly ignoring them.

“So?” Chen asked, grinning. “What about our resident cold-face?”

Sang Yan didn’t look up. “What about me?”

Qian Fei leaned forward. “Come on, bro. You’ve been with Yifan for how long now? Spill.”

Su Haoan added with mock seriousness, “You’re the one with the actual girlfriend here. Surely you’ve got stories.”

Sang Yan exhaled slowly. “There’s nothing to report.”

Silence.

Then Su Haoan blinked, stunned. “Wait. You mean—”

“No kiss?” Chen said, eyes wide. “Still?”

Qian Fei gave an exaggerated wince. “That’s brutal. You’re losing to Haoan.”

Su Haoan placed a hand on his heart, deeply moved. “This might be the proudest moment of my life.”

“We’ve been busy,” Sang Yan muttered.

“Oh, come on,” Qian Fei said. “You literally walk her to class and wait outside the café until her shift ends like some devoted manservant.”

“She held his arm once,” Chen offered. “Outside the admin building. Girls were swarming. Looked more like crowd control than affection.”

“Tactical maneuver,” Qian Fei nodded. “Not romantic. Strategic.”

Su Haoan let out a wheeze. “So you’re telling me, even with all that, you two haven’t even—”

“Nope,” Chen said. “Our boy’s still a kissless wonder.”

Sang Yan finally looked up, expression unreadable. “You guys done?”

“Not even close,” Qian Fei grinned. “We’re organizing a leaderboard.”

“I’ll format the spreadsheet,” Chen said, already opening Excel. “Color-coded, of course.”

“You’re all idiots,” Sang Yan said, tossing a pillow in Su Haoan’s direction.

It missed. Su Haoan just grinned wider. “No pressure, bro. Just make it a good one when it happens.”

And despite all the grumbling, the heat climbing Sang Yan’s ears didn’t go unnoticed.

Nanwu University – Café Palace, Two Days Later

It was a quiet evening on campus, the kind that hummed softly with rustling trees and the distant click of bicycle gears. Wen Yifan stepped out of the café, tugging off her apron and stretching her arms with a sigh. Her shift had run long, and her feet ached—but right on cue, Sang Yan was leaning against the railing, phone in hand, eyes finding her the second she emerged.

“You’re late,” he said.

“You’re early,” she replied, a small smile tugging at her lips.

They fell into step, their pace unhurried. Comfortable, at first—until she noticed it.

He wasn’t saying much. His hands were buried in his pockets. His mouth was set in a line, chewing at the inside of his cheek the way he did when something was on his mind.

Yifan stole a glance at him. “Did I do something?”

“No,” he said too quickly.

“Then what’s with the radio silence?”

“Nothing.”

“Sang Yan.”

He hesitated. Then finally muttered, “It’s just… dumb dorm talk. Forget it.”

She narrowed her eyes. “About me?”

“No.”

“…About you?”

He exhaled, ears reddening. “They were teasing. About us. About how we’re dating but… haven’t kissed yet.”

Yifan tripped on a crack in the pavement and immediately pretended she didn’t.

“They called me a ‘kissless wonder,’” he added, practically under his breath.

Her face flamed. “Oh my god.”

Sang Yan shot her a sideways look. “Yeah. Same.”

She pressed a hand to her cheek. “They seriously said that?”

He nodded grimly. “With great enthusiasm.”

There was a long pause.

Yifan fidgeted with the strap of her bag. “I mean… I guess they’re not wrong.”

Sang Yan blinked at her. “You’re not helping.”

“No, I just—ugh.” She buried her face in her hands, voice muffled. “Now I’m self-conscious.”

“Well,” he said dryly, “Welcome to the club. Population: humiliated.”

Yifan peeked at him through her fingers. “What else did they say?”

“Something about me losing to Su Haoan,” he said, grimacing. “And a leaderboard. Chen’s making a spreadsheet.”

Yifan made a strangled sound. “A spreadsheet? Seriously?”

“They’re idiots.”

“You chose them.”

“Not on purpose.”

She groaned. “This is going to haunt me.”

Sang Yan looked over at her—cheeks pink, lips pressed together like she was trying not to combust—and despite the teasing, something in his chest tugged.

“…Hey,” he said.

Yifan turned her head, still half-flustered.

He reached for her hand, hesitating only a second before slipping his fingers between hers. “We’re doing this slow. You okay with that?”

Her eyes met his. She nodded, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

And for a moment, neither of them said anything. The teasing, the leaderboard, the dorm jokes—they all blurred into the background, replaced by a quiet warmth that neither of them needed to explain.

Yifan’s fingers tightened around him just a little. 

“But… for the record?” Sang Yan added, squeezing her hands.

“Hm?”

“When it does happen…” He cleared his throat. “Let’s make sure it’s a leaderboard-worthy one.”

Wen Yifan laughed softly under her breath. “Deal.”

Nanwu University – Male Dorm Room, The Next Night

Sang Yan should’ve known peace was temporary.

He barely had the door closed behind him when Chen Juwen looked up from his laptop, expression too neutral to be trusted.

“Hey,” Chen said casually. “Nice walk yesterday?”

Sang Yan didn’t answer. He just gave him a blank look and started heading toward his desk.

Qian Fei piped up from the top bunk, flipping a page in his textbook. “You know, I was just thinking… when are we updating the leaderboard?”

Su Haoan, sprawled dramatically across Sang Yan’s bed with his phone raised like a stage light, chimed in. “Oh, we’re due for a major update. Turns out—get this— Yifan knows .”

Sang Yan paused mid-step. “What?”

Chen grinned. “She laughed, didn’t she?”

“Eventually,” Sang Yan muttered.

“She laughed ,” Su Haoan repeated, like this was award-worthy. “Which means she knows . Which means we now have official data confirmation .”

Qian Fei swung down from his bunk like some kind of chaos gremlin. “We’re putting her on the record. She’s in the database now. Mutual embarrassment is valid data.”

“You’re not making a database,” Sang Yan said.

Chen tapped his keyboard. “Already coded.”

“Why do you even know how to code?”

“Hey! I’m in the same department as you,” he said with great pride. “Anyway, I’ve added a ‘Witness Acknowledgement’ column.”

“And Yifan gets a shiny gold star,” Qian Fei said, placing an actual star sticker on the whiteboard near Sang Yan’s bed, where—unbeknownst to him—a doodled leaderboard already existed.

“You guys are children,” Sang Yan said.

“Children with records ,” Su Haoan quipped.

At that moment, someone knocked.

Chen Juwen opened the door.

Wen Yifan stood there holding a box of takeout, clearly caught mid-second-thought.

And then she spotted the whiteboard.

She stared.

The whiteboard stared back.

It had a title— Emotional Progress Index —and in the middle: Kiss Count: 0 next to Sang Yan’s name, now updated with a shiny gold star.

Yifan blinked. “Oh. Wow. You really did make a leaderboard.”

Sang Yan looked like he wanted the earth to open and swallow him whole.

Su Haoan leapt to his feet. “Wen Yifan! You’ve been verified. Come, take your place in the Hall of Fame.”

Yifan stood frozen. “I just brought food.”

“That makes you the MVP,” Qian Fei declared solemnly.

Chen offered her a dry-erase marker like he was presenting a sword. “Would you like to add a comment?”

Yifan took one look at Sang Yan, whose ears were glowing red, and then—unexpectedly—grinned.

She grabbed the marker.

With careful strokes, she wrote next to his name:

“Leaderboard-worthy kiss pending.”
—W.Y.F.

There was a beat of stunned silence. Then—

“Ohhhhhh,” Su Haoan practically exploded. “You legend .”

Sang Yan groaned. “I hate all of you.”

Yifan handed him the takeout with a faint smile. “You chose them.”

“Not on purpose,” he muttered.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nanwu University – Library Courtyard, Late Afternoon

The sun hung low, casting long golden streaks across the stone benches and the backs of passing students. Wen Yifan sat beneath one of the maple trees, its leaves just beginning to turn, flipping through a borrowed novel. Her class had ended early, and Sang Yan had shown up without fanfare—just dropped his bag beside her and sat down like he always belonged there.

For a while, they didn’t speak. Just the sound of rustling pages, wind threading through leaves, and the occasional distant chatter.

Then, softly, Sang Yan asked, “Your birthday’s soon, right?”

Yifan looked up from her book, eyes narrowing slightly. “You remembered the date?”

“October 24th,” he said, leaning back with a shrug. “I don’t forget things. Especially not about you.”

She blinked at that, caught slightly off guard.

Sang Yan didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he was pretending not to. “So,” he went on, voice casual, “what do you want to do?”

“For my birthday?”

“No, for Arbor Day.” He glanced at her sideways. “Yes. Your birthday.”

Yifan laughed under her breath and set the book down on her lap. “I don’t usually do much. Maybe cake with my roommates and Qiao Qiao. Sometimes I pretend I forgot it altogether.”

Sang Yan frowned slightly. “Why?”

She shrugged. “Feels weird making it a big deal. And I don’t really like attention.”

He was quiet for a moment, processing that.

“Okay,” he said eventually. “So… what if it wasn’t a big deal? What if it was just… us.”

Yifan tilted her head. “Us doing what?”

“You pick. Anything you want.”

She looked at him, unsure if he was offering just to be polite or if he genuinely meant it. But there was something in the way his eyes didn’t waver when he met hers that made her believe it was the latter.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe something simple. Watch a movie. Quiet dinner. No fuss.”

Sang Yan considered it, then gave a small nod. “That’s doable.”

“You sure?” she asked lightly. “You won’t be bored?”

“Spending the day with you?” he said. “I think I’ll manage.”

Yifan smiled, soft and a little shy. “Okay. Then… that’s what I want.”

“Good,” he said, his voice low and certain. “It’s a plan.”

Nanwu University – Yifan’s Birthday, Evening

The movie was her pick—an old coming-of-age film with soft lighting and a slightly grainy finish. They watched it tucked into a back row of the cinema, sharing a bucket of popcorn that Sang Yan claimed tasted like cardboard. Yifan only smiled and kept eating.

He didn’t complain after that.

Afterward, he brought her to a small restaurant tucked behind one of the quieter streets near campus. It wasn’t flashy—wooden chairs, warm lighting, hand-written menus—but it was quiet, and Yifan noticed that he’d booked a booth in the farthest corner where they wouldn’t be overheard.

“You’ve been here before?” she asked, sipping from her water glass.

“Once with Duan Jiaxu,” Sang Yan said. “Thought you’d like it.”

She did. He knew.

They talked about the movie, about her café coworkers, about how Sang Yan is worried that Duan Jiaxu is tiring himself with all those part time jobs that he’s taken and how Qian Fei had nearly gotten banned from the dorm laundry room again. She laughed so easily with him that, halfway through the meal, he stopped being nervous and just let himself enjoy the sound of her voice.

By the time they stepped out, the street was calm, blanketed in soft yellow streetlights. Yifan’s fingers were looped through the edge of his sleeve as they walked side by side, neither saying much. They didn’t have to.

When they reached the steps of her dorm, she turned toward him with a smile that was already leaning toward goodnight.

But Sang Yan didn’t let go.

“Wait,” he said.

Yifan paused. “What is it?”

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small box—no ribbon, no frills. Just simple and careful, like the way he always was with her.

“I was going to give this to you earlier,” he said, “but… it felt too crowded.”

She took it gently, glancing up at him before lifting the lid.

Inside was a small, pale glass bottle with a silver cap. The label was minimal, understated: First Frost .

Yifan blinked. “A perfume?”

His hand scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah. I… I found it a while ago. The name—it reminded me of you. Shuangjiang. First frost.”

She stared down at the bottle, the words landing soft and steady in her chest. The scent, when she lifted the cap, was crisp and clean with a cool floral undercurrent—like the early bite of autumn in a sunlit garden.

“It smells like…” she searched for the right word. “The kind of cold that feels warm.”

Sang Yan huffed a quiet laugh. “Exactly.”

Her smile curled slowly and genuine. “You picked this?”

He nodded, looking a little sheepish now. “Took three hours and a very judgmental saleslady.”

Yifan laughed, and without thinking, reached out to hug him. She didn’t say anything right away—just let the warmth between them speak for her.

When she pulled back slightly, her hand still holding the bottle, she looked up at him. “Thank you. Really.”

Sang Yan didn’t say anything—just brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. His voice dropped, low and steady. “Can I…?”

She nodded before he finished.

The kiss came slowly—hesitant, reverent. His hand found the side of her neck, and her fingers curled into the front of his jacket. The street, the dorm steps, the weight of the day—all of it slipped away.

It wasn’t fireworks.

It was warmth. Steady and grounding. Like all the waiting had made this one moment fuller, deeper.

When they finally pulled back, Yifan’s cheeks were pink, her eyes wide, her breath catching.

Sang Yan looked dazed too, but a smile crept into his voice. “Leaderboard-worthy?”

She laughed, breathless. “You just set a new bar.”

Without another word, he pulled her gently into a hug, arms folding around her like they’d been meant to from the start. Yifan let herself sink into it, her head coming to rest against his chest.

And that’s when she heard it—his heartbeat, fast and loud beneath her ear, like it was trying to keep up with something.

She closed her eyes, realizing her own heart was racing too.

Same pace. Same rhythm.

Like somehow, even without trying, they had fallen into sync.

He held her tighter.

“Happy birthday, Wen Shuangjiang,” he whispered again.

She didn’t answer right away. Just stayed there, quiet and still, listening to the one sound that told her more than words ever could.

Yifan’s Dorm Room, Late Night

Yifan lay on her bed, a small lamp casting a soft glow over the room. The hum of the campus outside felt distant now—almost irrelevant as she lay there, her head resting on a pillow, replaying every moment of the evening. It had been so... quiet, so full of warmth. She could still feel the faint pressure of Sang Yan’s lips against hers, the heat of his hand on her neck, his breath mingling with hers. It wasn’t the fireworks she’d imagined. It was something far more steady. A slow, undeniable warmth that made everything else fade into the background.

She reached over, grabbing her phone, a small smile curving at her lips when she saw the text notification from Sang Yan. It was a selfie—the two of them from earlier in the evening, taken just after their dinner. Her eyes lingered on the photo for a moment. She looked relaxed, smiling slightly, but it was Sang Yan’s face she zoomed in on. He looked so effortlessly comfortable, his usual smirk softened, his dimples showing and his eyes crinkled at the corners from the smile that reached them. The mole under his eyes is more prominent, like a star guiding her. 

Yifan stared at his face, her thumb gently swiping across the screen as she zoomed in closer. The way his hair had fallen loosely over his forehead, the faint shadows under his eyes from a long day, his lips… She couldn’t help but think of the kiss. The way it had felt so natural, like the kind of thing they should’ve done long ago but hadn’t. 

She closed her eyes, letting herself fall into the memory of the kiss, imagining it again. This time, though, she pictured something more vivid, more intimate.

In her mind, she saw Sang Yan hovering above her, his face inches from hers, eyes soft with a tenderness she hadn’t expected. The world outside her little bubble of imagination vanished completely. There was just him, his breath warm against her skin, his gaze filled with something deeper than just affection.

She imagined him leaning down, lips brushing over hers once more, slowly, lovingly, like he had all the time in the world. His hand would rest beside her face, fingers just brushing her hair, making her heart race all over again.

Yifan smiled softly, feeling her pulse quicken as she let the fantasy play out in her mind.

“Good night, Sang Yan,” she whispered softly to her imagination, her voice barely more than a breath as she imagined him still hovering above her, not moving away, just watching her with that same loving gaze.

In her mind, Sang Yan’s smile softened, eyes gleaming with a quiet affection. He didn’t speak at first—just stared at her, his expression almost unreadable. Then, as if hearing her voice in the quiet of her imagination, he responded, his voice gentle but full of something unspoken.

“Good night, Wen Shuangjiang.”

She closed her eyes again, her heart fluttering at the sound of his imagined words. She imagined him staying there, looking at her, his presence so steady, so real in the quiet space they shared.

Curious, she continued, feeling emboldened by the thought of him so close.

“Did you know," she asked softly, "that the pinyin for ‘good night’—‘wan an’—sounds a little like ‘I love you’? (wo ai ni)”

In her imagination, Sang Yan’s gaze softened even further, the warmth in his eyes deepening as he continued to hover over her. His lips parted just enough to give her that same slow, affectionate smile, his eyes never leaving hers.

“I know,” he said, his voice low and affectionate. “And maybe that’s exactly how I feel.”

Her heart skipped a beat, and she let herself drown in the imagined sincerity of it all. He didn’t move away. Instead, he stayed above her, eyes still holding hers in that gentle, unspoken connection.

Yifan’s fingers brushed against her lips, as if she could still feel the faint imprint of his kiss. She smiled softly to herself, as the imagined Sang Yan continued to gaze down at her with quiet affection, their world just the two of them.

“Good night, Wen Shuangjiang,” he whispered again, and this time, it felt like more than just a parting. It felt like a promise.

She let out a soft sigh, her heart fluttering in her chest as she imagined him slowly pulling back, the weight of the moment lingering long after he was gone.

“Good night, Sang Yan,” she whispered back, settling into the softness of her bed, her fingers lightly touching the place where his kiss had once been.

As her eyes fluttered closed, Yifan smiled to herself, still feeling the warmth of his gaze, knowing that her heart had already fallen a little further for him in that brief moment of imagined intimacy.

Chapter Text

Sang Yan’s Dorm Room – Late Night

The door clicked shut behind him as Sang Yan stepped into the quiet of his dorm room. His roommates were already asleep, their soft snores a muffled chorus in the background. He moved silently, a habit guiding him through the dark without the need for light.

He sat down on his chair and reached for his phone. His heart was still catching up to him, still humming from the night—her laughter, the way she looked up at him, the kiss.

He opened the photo app.

There it was—the selfie they took before parting. Cheek to cheek, both of them looking at the camera, their smiles unpolished but real. Hers softer, his slightly crooked, like he hadn’t quite figured out how to smile that wide yet.

Without thinking, he tapped the options and set it as his wallpaper.

Lock screen and home.

When it flashed up in place, it caught him off guard for a second—how warm it looked. Like proof.

He stared at it for a moment, thumb brushing the side of the screen as if to steady himself. Then he reached on his desk, pulled out the marker and wrote something on the whiteboard.

In the space below his name, beneath “Zero Experience Club President,” he erased the note that Yifan previously added and scribbled a new line.

“October 24 – First Kiss. With Her.”

He stared at the words for a beat longer than he needed to.

Then he capped the pen, went up on his bed, and lay back down. The phone was already glowing with their photo. He let his gaze linger on it as his eyes fluttered closed, that small, stupid smile still tugging at his mouth.

Sleep came slowly, and softly. But the last thing he saw was her face beside his—caught forever in that one small square of light.

The dorm was flooded with early sunlight and the smell of instant noodles. Qian Fei was digging through his laundry pile looking for a clean pair of socks. Duan Jiaxu was brushing his teeth while muttering a rant about a professor. Chen Juwen who just woke up noticed the whiteboard leaderboard under Sang Yan’s bed.

“Hey,” Juwen said, crouching down. “Did the sacred board make an appearance last night?”

Before Sang Yan could stop him, Juwen went closer to the board.

His eyes scanned the newest line. Then he let out a whistle.

“Guys,” he called, waving the board. “You might want to see this.”

Qian Fei and Duan Jiaxu crowded around, jaws dropping in unison as they read the addition.

“Holy shit,” Qian Fei said, gaping. “You’re telling me the President of the Kiss-Less Brotherhood is now—what, a legendary rank?”

“Legendary tier,” Duan Jiaxu confirmed solemnly, slapping Sang Yan’s back. “You skipped Experienced. Skipped Intermediate. Straight to the Hall of Fame.”

Sang Yan groaned and tried to pull the blanket over his head. “I knew I should’ve burned that stupid board.”

“You mean our shared historical record of triumph and shame ?” Juwen said, scandalized.

Qian Fei flopped onto the edge of Sang Yan’s bed, grinning. “So? Was it leaderboard-worthy?”

Sang Yan peeked out from under the blanket, cheeks faintly pink but eyes smug. “Better.”

All three erupted into noise, hoots and laughter echoing off the walls.

Duan Jiaxu held up a finger. “Group rule: anyone who reaches Legendary has to treat everyone to breakfast.”

“Fine,” Sang Yan sighed. “But I’m choosing the place.”

“Deal,” Qian Fei said. “As long as we don’t have to hear the full kiss breakdown—”

“Oh no,” Juwen interrupted, “I’ll update the spreadsheet as well . ”

Campus Media Lab – Late Afternoon

The media lab was unusually quiet for a Friday. Most of the students had already packed up after submitting their final edits for the week’s campus broadcast. Wen Yifan stayed behind, bent over her laptop with her brows drawn together in focus, adjusting subtitles on a local human-interest piece. Her coffee had gone cold hours ago.

“Still here?”

She glanced up and found Lu Jinchuan, her third-year senior and the project lead for their department’s weekly feature segment, leaning against the edge of the long work table. His hoodie sleeves were pushed up, camera bag slung over one shoulder, and his trademark half-smile playing on his lips.

Yifan blinked. “Didn’t you leave after the final segment review?”

“Was about to.” He glanced at her screen. “But then I remembered the weekend street profiles still need someone to do the interviews.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t Chen Rui volunteer for those?”

“She backed out. Said something about a family thing.” He placed a printed brief in front of her. “You’re the only one I trust not to butcher it.”

“That’s the third time you’ve said that this semester,” Yifan muttered, already flipping the folder open.

“Because it’s still true,” he replied easily. “You’ve got a way of making strangers talk.”

She leaned slightly away as he tilted a bit closer. “I’ll look into this.”

Lu Jinchuan smirked. “Thanks! I’m lucky that you like it when I ask you.”

“Or maybe I’m just too tired to argue.”

“Sure,” he said, voice dipping lower. “Or maybe you just like spending time with me.”

Yifan leaned back in her chair, visibly unimpressed. “I have a boyfriend.”

That hit the air with the soft weight of finality. Calm. Unbothered.

Lu Jinchuan stilled for half a second, his smile tightening. “Ah. Lucky guy.”

Her phone buzzed on the desk. Without thinking, she reached for it.

[Sang Yan]: still at the lab? blink twice if your senior’s emotionally blackmailing you again.

A quiet laugh escaped her, small and warm.

Lu Jinchuan glanced down. “Him?”

Yifan didn’t answer right away. She locked the screen and slipped the phone into her hoodie pocket. “Yeah. That would be my emotionally invested, extremely observant boyfriend.”

Lu Jinchuan chuckled lightly, backing off with a practiced air. “Got it. Can’t compete with being emotionally invested.”

“You really can’t,” she said, returning to her edits.

He nodded, adjusting the strap of his camera bag. “If you change your mind about needing help with the field shoot, let me know.”

She didn’t look up. “Will do.”

As he walked away, his voice drifted back lazily: “Tell your boyfriend I’m still stealing your best work.”

Yifan smiled to herself, clicking into the next timestamp.

“I’ll let him know you’re sorry about it.”

Café Palace – Evening

The café was winding down for the night. Chairs scraped softly against tiled floors, the scent of espresso lingering in the air as Wen Yifan cleaned off the last table near the window. She checked the wall clock: just a few more minutes, then she could clock out and head home.

She didn’t notice Lu Jinchuan until she turned to wipe the counter.

He was seated alone at the corner table by the wall, his hoodie zipped halfway up, fingers drumming against a mostly untouched cup of coffee. His eyes were already on her.

Yifan’s movements slowed.

He wasn’t a regular. He had no reason to be here. Especially not on a Monday night. Especially not at her part-time job.

She turned back to her task, choosing to pretend she hadn’t seen him. But the prickling at the back of her neck wouldn’t go away.

When she finally exited through the back, tying her coat, he was waiting near the alley exit.

“You work here,” Lu Jinchuan said, as if it were just a casual observation.

Yifan stopped a few feet away. “Are you following me now?”

He smiled. “I was in the area.”

“I’ve never seen you in this area. Ever.”

He stepped forward, just half a pace. “Come on, don’t be like that. I just wanted to talk.”

“I said no the last time you tried,” she said evenly. “I meant it.”

Lu Jinchuan's expression hardened, the easy charm cracking. “You're making it weird. We’ve known each other since the start of the term, Yifan. What’s the harm in hanging out?”

“It’s not hanging out when I’ve told you I’m not interested and you keep pushing.”

“You think you’re too good now? Just because you’ve got some boyfriend checking in on you all the time?”

Yifan’s jaw tightened. “This has nothing to do with him. This is about you ignoring my boundaries.”

A pause.

Then, he laughed under his breath—short, bitter. “You know, the way you carry yourself. The way you dress, talk, smile. It’s like you want the attention. Don’t be surprised when people give it to you.”

Something turned cold in her chest.

She stared at him—really stared. Not in fear, but with absolute clarity.

“You need to leave,” she said quietly. “And don’t come near me again.”

“You’re overreacting.”

“I’m not. But I will react further if you keep following me.” Her voice was calm now. Cold. Controlled. “If you want to find out how serious I am, keep standing there.”

For a moment, his face twisted—caught between irritation and disbelief. But something in her eyes made him hesitate.

She didn’t wait to see what he chose. She turned on her heel and walked away, fingers already gripping her phone in her coat pocket.

Just in case.

The glow from the streetlamp above flickered slightly as Wen Yifan walked away from Lu Jinchuan, her steps quick but even, heart hammering beneath her coat. The sharpness of his words still rang in her ears, but she forced her breathing to steady.

Then her phone buzzed.

[Sang Yan]: I’m outside. You off yet?

Her head shot up instinctively—and there he was, across the street under a row of trees, hands stuffed in his coat pockets, half-slouching like he’d just wandered over by accident. His gaze swept over her once, then slid past her shoulder.

His expression changed in an instant.

Yifan turned and saw Lu Jinchuan still standing there, watching them. The moment their eyes met, he finally stepped back—slowly, reluctantly—and walked away, disappearing around the corner. But even as he did, he kept glancing back, his stare like a hook dragging behind him.

Sang Yan crossed the street in a few strides. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at her.

Then: “Who was that?”

Yifan tucked her phone away and gave him a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just… a senior from my department. It’s nothing.”

Sang Yan’s jaw flexed slightly.

He looked down the road where the guy had gone, his gaze darkening. “He your nothing who doesn’t know how to take a hint?”

Yifan hesitated. “He’s not important. Really.”

Sang Yan stared after the retreating figure for another second, then stepped forward and gently wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Come on.”

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and leaned into him, her cheek brushing his shoulder as they started walking.

He didn’t press. Didn’t ask again. But she could feel it in the way his fingers gripped her coat just a little tighter. In the slight turn of his head, as though he was still making sure the guy was gone. In the weight of his silence—not heavy with doubt, but with the quiet promise of someone who was already planning what he’d do if that guy ever showed up again.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked finally, voice low, almost offhand.

Yifan nodded. “Now I am.”

“Good,” he said. “Because I was about two seconds away from punching someone and I didn’t even know why yet.”

She smiled for real then. Not because everything was fixed—but because he was here. Because with him, she didn’t have to say much for him to understand everything.

The wind had picked up slightly by the time they reached the dorm entrance. Dry leaves skittered across the pavement, brushing past their feet. Sang Yan still had one arm around her shoulders, but he paused before she could head up the stairs.

He looked down at her. “Wen Shuangjiang.”

She glanced up.

“Are you sure nothing happened?” His voice was softer this time—not suspicious, not demanding. Just concerned. “You looked… off.”

Wen Yifan opened her mouth but couldn’t find the words.

So instead, she stepped forward and pressed her forehead to his chest, right over the beat of his heart. “I’m just really tired,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “I don’t wanna move.”

Sang Yan’s arms wrapped around her instantly, as if he’d been waiting for her to fall into him. He rested his chin lightly on top of her head, swaying them ever so slightly like they were slow dancing to silence.

“Then don’t move,” he said. “I’ll be your powerbank today.”

“…What?”

“You heard me,” Sang Yan said with a slight grin in his voice. “Low battery detected. Charging initiated.”

A breathy laugh escaped her lips, and she sank further into his chest, her hands finding the back of his coat and bunching the fabric between her fingers. The tension that had gripped her since the end of her shift started to melt, undone by his steady warmth and ridiculous metaphors.

“Don’t move then,” she whispered. “I’m at 2%.”

Sang Yan hummed. “Even if you were at zero, I’d carry you the rest of the way.”

Yifan didn’t say anything this time. She just held him tighter, face hidden in his coat, absorbing every ounce of the comfort he offered. His scent, his warmth, the steady rise and fall of his chest—like her own quiet safe place in the world.

Neither of them moved for a long time.

University Cafeteria – Noon

The cafeteria was a low hum of overlapping chatter and clinking trays, a lull between classes that students used to regroup, refuel, and gossip.

Sang Yan sat with his usual crowd—Chen Juwen, Qian Fei, and Duan Jiaxu—gathered around a worn table near the window, half-eaten plates of fried rice and soup between them. Their conversation had drifted from the robotics workshop logistics to lodging plans, Juwen arguing over who should get the single room like it was a matter of national security.

“I’m just saying,” Juwen pointed with his chopsticks, “I snore the least. That should count for something.”

“You breathe like a car engine when you sleep,” Qian Fei deadpanned.

Across from them, Sang Yan was only half-listening, poking absently at his food.

He wasn’t fully focused until he caught a shift in the noise behind them—some guys from the Broadcasting and Media department had taken the table just behind theirs. At first, it was nothing. Just laughter, the usual post-class banter.

But then he heard her name.

“—Wen Yifan? Bro, Lu Jinchuan said she keeps trying to hang around him. Took on, like, three extra projects just to get more time with him. I saw her tagging along after lab hours.”

Sang Yan’s chopsticks paused mid-air.

Another voice chimed in, half-laughing. “Isn’t she the one who got dragged into two professors’ side research teams? Girl’s either really ambitious or really like the attention.”

“She enjoys it,” someone added. “Trust me. If she didn’t, she’d quit. No one keeps showing up if they’re uncomfortable.”

Sang Yan set his chopsticks down.

The boys around him didn’t notice at first—until the shift in his posture drew their attention. Chen Juwen was the first to glance at him.

“Sang Yan?”

His jaw was locked, eyes sharp, but unreadable.

Duan Jiaxu followed his line of sight and caught the tail end of the conversation behind them. His brows furrowed immediately. “Did I just hear what I think I did?”

Sang Yan didn’t answer. His gaze stayed fixed ahead, but his hand tightened around the edge of his tray.

The voices behind them kept going, louder now that they thought no one was listening.

“I mean, not saying I blame her,” one guy snorted. “If I had a face like that, I’d milk it too.”

That was enough.

Sang Yan stood up, slow and quiet, the metal legs of the chair screeching faintly across the floor. The noise silenced his table, and the others finally looked up, noticing him for the first time.

Their laughter faltered.

Sang Yan turned, towering above them, not saying a word. But his eyes—sharp, hard, unforgiving —met theirs like a live wire. No smile. No questions. Just a look that cut through all the smirking bravado in a single, burning moment.

The air changed.

One of the boys cleared his throat and looked away. Another shifted uncomfortably. The last one, the boldest, opened his mouth like he wanted to say something.

He didn’t.

Because Sang Yan didn’t flinch.

After a beat, he turned and sat back down with his friends, who were now staring at him with barely restrained curiosity.

“...You good?” Qian Fei asked.

Sang Yan didn’t look back again. He picked up his chopsticks, but didn’t touch the food. His voice was calm— too calm.

“Remind me to print out the robotics roster later,” he said.

Juwen blinked. “Huh? You’re not mad?”

Sang Yan finally looked up, a small smile ghosting his lips—but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m pissed ,” he said plainly.

Then he went back to his meal like he hadn’t just made a table of guys shut up with a look.

Campus – That Evening

The golden light of late afternoon filtered through the trees as Wen Yifan walked along the edge of the media building, her tote bag slung over one shoulder, phone in hand as she scrolled through her inbox.

Her head throbbed.

She hadn’t even made it to her dorm before the whispers started. It was in the way two girls from her department looked at her and didn’t bother lowering their voices.

“—heard she’s been cozying up to Lu Jinchuan. Guess that’s how you get extra credit now.”

Yifan didn’t stop walking, but her steps slowed.

It didn’t stop there.

An anonymous thread had popped up on the department forum just an hour ago, asking, “How far would you go to impress your seniors?” with screenshots from their project group chat—out-of-context, of course—and vague implications that left just enough space for imagination.

Yifan stopped beside the vending machine and stared blankly at the drink options, not seeing any of them. Her throat felt dry, but her chest felt tighter.

She wasn’t angry.

Not yet.

Just tired.

So, so tired.

She didn’t even flinch when her phone buzzed in her pocket.

[Sang Yan]: where are you?

She hesitated, then typed back.

[Wen Yifan]: Outside media building. Vending machine.

A moment later, she heard his footsteps before she saw him.

Sang Yan approached with his usual unhurried gait, but the second he reached her, he stopped short, reading her face in a beat.

His voice was gentle, but with an edge under it. “You heard.”

Yifan let out a humorless breath. “It’s hard not to when it’s being whispered into your spine.”

Sang Yan didn’t respond right away. He stepped forward, blocking the sunlight behind her as if he could shield her from it, and stood so close that his shadow fell over her entire frame.

Yifan didn’t look at him. She stared at the vending machine like it had all the answers.

“They think I like the attention,” she said quietly. “That I keep saying yes to projects because I’m trying to flirt my way up. That I… I enjoy it.”

Her fingers clenched the edge of her tote bag. “I didn’t even say yes to him outside the lab that day. I told him no. Again.”

Sang Yan was silent for a long moment.

Then, gently, he said, “I know.”

Yifan looked up at him, startled by the certainty in his voice.

“I heard what they were saying in the cafeteria,” Sang Yan continued. “About Lu Jinchuan. About you. I didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.”

She blinked. “You didn’t—?”

“I looked at them.” He raised an eyebrow. “Hard enough that they won’t forget it.”

A reluctant laugh escaped her, soft but real.

Sang Yan’s voice dropped, lower and steadier now. “Wen Shuangjiang. You don’t owe them silence. You don’t owe him tolerance.”

She said nothing.

So he stepped closer and reached for her hand, the same one still curled stiffly by her side. He took it and folded her fingers into his.

“You say the word, and I’ll help you report him.”

Yifan stared at their joined hands.

Then, slowly, she nodded.

“Not tonight,” she whispered. “But I will.”

Sang Yan didn’t push.

He simply squeezed her hand and said, “Good.”

And for the first time that day, she felt like she could breathe.

Campus Courtyard – The Following Evening

The courtyard behind the Media Faculty building was dimly lit, the sun dipping beneath the horizon as students trickled toward the dorms. A small crowd had gathered by the benches near the back, murmuring with interest, some half-laughing, some whispering.

Sang Yan’s fists clenched at his sides.

Across from him, Lu Jinchuan leaned casually against a pillar, surrounded by a few guys from the department. He was mid-story, voice loud and obnoxious.

“I’m telling you, she was always hanging around. Acting like she didn’t want the attention but clearly enjoyed it. Wen Yifan’s just good at playing sweet—”

A sharp crack silenced everything.

Sang Yan’s fist collided squarely with Lu Jinchuan’s jaw, snapping his head to the side. He stumbled back against the bench, stunned.

The onlookers gasped and scattered as Sang Yan stepped forward again, chest rising and falling hard, eyes wild with fury.

“You want to keep running your mouth?” he growled. “Go ahead. I’ll make sure you can’t open it again.”

Before Lu Jinchuan could respond, Sang Yan swung again, this time catching him in the cheekbone. Blood smeared his knuckles, knuckles that were already starting to bruise.

Duan Jiaxu, watching from a few steps away, didn’t move at first. He just stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Another punch landed—this one harder, angrier.

Finally, Jiaxu stepped in, wrapping an arm around Sang Yan’s middle and hauling him back. “That’s enough.”

“He was talking about her. ” Sang Yan struggled against the hold, breath ragged. “He lied about her. Lied to everyone.”

“I said , that’s enough,” Jiaxu snapped, dragging him away as Lu Jinchuan doubled over on the ground, groaning and wiping blood from his mouth.

Campus security had already been alerted by one of the bystanders. In less than five minutes, both Sang Yan and Lu Jinchuan were escorted to the Guidance Office.

Yifan burst through the door just as a guidance officer was lecturing Sang Yan and Lu Jinchuan. Her eyes scanned the room and locked immediately on Sang Yan’s bruised, bloodied hand.

He wasn’t looking at anyone—arms crossed, jaw clenched.

Across from him, Lu Jinchuan had applied a bandage to his lip and was already spinning the story.

“I didn’t do anything,” Jinchuan was saying. “I was just telling a story, and he attacked me. I think he’s unstable. Maybe jealous or something.”

“Jealous?” Yifan’s voice cut through the room like a whip.

Everyone turned.

She strode inside with a calm that was practiced, her tone cool and precise. “That’s a new one.”

The counselor tried to intervene. “Wen Yifan, I don’t believe this involves—”

“It involves me,” she interrupted. “It’s about me.”

She pulled out her phone, tapped open her WeChat, and placed it on the desk. “He’s been following me. Messaging me at all hours. Showing up at my part-time job. I told him no. I told him I wasn’t interested. He didn’t listen.”

She didn’t look at Sang Yan—not yet.

“I didn’t come forward because I thought maybe he’d stop. But now he’s making up stories, and he gets to sit here like the victim?” Her voice cracked at the edge. “He’s been harassing me for weeks.”

The room went silent. The counselor adjusted his glasses and slowly reached for the phone.

Yifan still hadn’t looked at Sang Yan.

Lu Jinchuan tried weakly, “That’s not—”

“I have timestamps. Screenshots. Voice notes,” she snapped. “Spin it however you want. I’m done covering for you.”

The counselor cleared his throat. “We’ll need to investigate, of course. But for now, Mr. Lu is suspended from all active fieldwork and collaborative projects pending a formal review.”

Yifan picked up her phone and turned on her heel without even glancing at Jinchuan.

Sang Yan stood up, tentative, ready to speak.

But before he could, Yifan held up a hand.

“ You. Come with me.”

She didn’t wait.

He followed her out of the room, down the hall, out of earshot. The moment the door closed behind them, she whirled on him.

“What were you thinking?”

Sang Yan blinked. “He was—”

“I know exactly what he was saying,” she snapped. “I heard it. And I had proof. You didn’t even give me the chance to use it.”

His voice was low, defensive. “He was lying about you. Saying disgusting things. I wasn’t going to just sit there.”

“So you thought beating the crap out of him was the answer?” she hissed. “Now you’re in trouble. And for what? To feel like a hero for five seconds?”

He flinched. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s not fair that you didn’t trust me to handle this myself.”

He stared at her, stunned.

“I don’t need a knight in a bloody hoodie,” she said, voice shaking now. “I needed someone who’d ask me first. Who’d let me speak. Who’d stand beside me, not throw fists in my name.”

There was a pause. Long enough for regret to bloom on his face.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I lost it.”

She looked at him, exhausted. “So did I. But I kept my hands clean.”

The silence between them hung heavy.

Sang Yan finally asked, quieter, “Do you… hate me now?”

Her expression softened just a little. “No. But I’m mad. And I need time to not be.”

He nodded.

And for the first time since they’d met, he didn’t reach for her.

He let her walk away.

Chapter Text

Wen Yifan’s Dorm Room – Late Night

The room was dim, the only light coming from her desk lamp, casting a soft glow over the notes scattered across her bed. But Yifan wasn’t reading them.

She sat with her knees drawn up to her chest, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, staring at the wall without seeing it. Her phone lay beside her, dark and silent. A part of her was waiting—for a message, a knock, something—but she wasn’t sure from who. Or if she even wanted it.

Her chest felt too tight.

It had been quiet since she left the guidance office. Her roommates had taken one look at her face and decided not to ask anything. She was grateful for that. For once, she didn’t want to explain herself.

The confrontation had been loud. Public. Messy.

But inside her, it was a much older kind of noise.

Uncle’s voice.
“You’re so pretty. You should be careful. Men will look at you differently.”

Jinchuan’s voice.
“What, you think I’m the only one who notices? You wear that face and act surprised when people pay attention?”

She squeezed her eyes shut. She hated that they sounded so alike.

And she hated even more that some small, awful part of her had once wondered if maybe they were right.

Was it her fault? For being quiet? For enduring? For never saying “stop” in a loud enough voice?

Even Sang Yan—

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. Not everything.

She loved him. God, she loved him.

But sometimes love wasn’t enough to make someone understand.

He had bled for her. Most likely will be suspended because of her. And what scared her most wasn't the punishment or the fight—it was the look on his face when she told him he shouldn’t have done that.

Because it wasn’t just guilt. It was hurt. Like she’d pushed him away when all he wanted was to stand by her.

But how could she explain this unshakable fear? That people she loved might get burned by the fire she couldn’t put out? What if he can’t take the truth and leave her as well? If he decides that she doesn’t deserve the love that he is giving, what would she do?

Her hands were trembling now.

Slowly, Yifan reached over and grabbed her phone. Her thumb hovered over Sang Yan’s name.

Not to apologize.

Not yet.

But maybe—maybe to tell him she needed time. And that she was trying.

She was so, so tired of being afraid. Of being seen as something breakable or something guilty just because she didn’t fight the way people expected her to. Or worst, of being left behind.

And maybe the first step in reclaiming herself… was this.

She unlocked the screen.

Typed.

Paused.

Deleted it all.

Then typed again.

[Wen Yifan]: I’m not okay. I need space.

She stared at it for a long second before hitting send.

Then curled up on her side, phone pressed to her chest.

Waiting—for sleep, for breath, for healing.

Rooftop of the Dorm Building – Early Morning

The sun was rising low, bleeding orange and gold across the campus buildings. Sang Yan sat on the cold concrete ledge of the dorm rooftop, hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows, knuckles still wrapped in a makeshift bandage. The pain had dulled. Not gone, just quieter—like everything else today.

He stared at the horizon, chewing the inside of his cheek.

He’d messed up.

He didn’t regret hitting that bastard. Not for a second. But what haunted him wasn’t the guidance office, or even the possible suspension from campus duties—it was her face.

The way Wen Yifan had looked at him when they were alone afterward. The disappointment she tried to hide behind soft concern.

She held his hand.

She didn’t scold him in front of anyone.

But she didn’t smile either. Not the way she used to.

And that killed him.

He looked at his phone. A message from Duan Jiaxu last night.

[Jiaxu]: Talked to the counselor. You’re not on academic probation. Chill. But you owe me hotpot.

Sang Yan didn’t reply then. He wasn’t in the mood for jokes.

He unlocked the screen, thumb hovering over Yifan’s chat. No new messages since she said “I need space.”

He typed. Deleted. Typed again.

Then finally sent:

[Sang Yan]: Are you free after class later today? Not to argue. Just… want to walk you home.

Fifteen minutes later, she replied.

[Yifan]: Okay.

Campus Path, Later that day, just after sunset

Yifan met him by the gates of the media building, arms crossed loosely, face unreadable in the fading light. She was still wearing her press badge from class, and her hair was pinned up lazily, like she hadn’t cared enough to fix it after a long day.

She looked tired. And beautiful. And far away.

He didn’t know what to say at first.

So he shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking beside her.

The silence stretched a little too long before he broke it.

“I’m sorry.”

She said nothing.

“I know what I did was reckless,” he said, eyes on the pavement. “But I couldn’t stand him saying those things about you. I couldn’t pretend I didn’t hear it.”

“I never asked you to pretend,” she replied quietly.

He stopped walking. She kept going. After a few steps, she paused, realizing he wasn’t beside her.

“I wanted to protect you,” he said, voice low. “But maybe I didn’t think about what you needed. Maybe I was just...angry. And I made it about me.”

Yifan turned, expression unreadable.

“I’m not proud of it,” he said. “Not if it scared you. Or made things worse. Or made you feel like you couldn’t trust me.”

She blinked. “Sang Yan…”

“I want to do better,” he interrupted. “Not just swing at things until they shut up. I can give you space no matter how big you want it. I want to know how to be better—for you. Just don’t push me away, please. Just let me be by your side.”

Yifan took a breath. Something in her posture softened.

“You can’t fix everything with your fists,” she said.

“I know.”

“But I also know you punched him because you care. That matters to me. Just… don’t make me clean up your blood every time I’m in trouble. If you’re hurt or injured, I’ll help you heal and feel better but I’ll be angry too.”

He laughed, short and quiet. “Deal.”

She finally walked back toward him. Her hand brushed his.

And then, just like that, her fingers slipped into his.

They walked the rest of the way in silence. But it wasn’t the kind that hurt anymore.

It was the kind that healed. Slowly.

Administrative Hall, Disciplinary Committee Room

The air in the room was sterile, the kind that pressed down on your shoulders and made every shuffle of paper sound like a thunderclap. Wen Yifan sat with her hands folded in her lap, knuckles pale from the pressure. Beside her, Sang Yan sat unusually still—jaw set, but not tight, eyes trained forward.

He hadn’t tried to hold her hand, hadn’t tried to whisper anything reassuring.

And somehow, she was grateful for that.

They were present. Together. But not pretending this was easy.

Lu Jinchuan was seated at the far end of the table, flanked by a faculty advisor and a neutral representative. His face was unreadable, but the faint bruising around his mouth had long since faded, leaving only the memory of it behind.

The faculty panel lead cleared his throat. “After reviewing the testimony, WeChat records, and prior complaints brought to light since the initial confrontation… the committee has reached a decision.”

A beat of silence fell.

“Lu Jinchuan will be removed from all student leadership positions and suspended from extracurricular media work for the remainder of the academic year. Further disciplinary actions will depend on his compliance with harassment awareness sessions and behavioral review.”

Jinchuan didn’t react—at least not visibly. But Yifan noticed the twitch in his jaw. The way his fingers curled inward.

“And as for the altercation,” the lead added, glancing at Sang Yan, “we’ve concluded that while Mr. Sang’s physical retaliation was inappropriate, it occurred under extreme emotional provocation in defense of another student. As such, and given no prior record of misconduct, there will be no suspension. However, you’ll be required to attend conflict mediation and campus conduct sessions.”

Yifan let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Not relief exactly—but something like it.

Beside her, Sang Yan finally blinked, his shoulders relaxing a fraction.

“Is that clear to all parties?” the faculty member asked.

Yifan nodded. So did Sang Yan. Jinchuan didn’t respond, and it didn’t matter.

When the meeting was adjourned and the chairs scraped back, Sang Yan waited until they were alone in the hallway before saying anything.

“You okay?” he asked, voice quiet.

Yifan looked up at him, surprised by the gentleness there. He wasn’t trying to force a silver lining. He was just… asking.

She nodded slowly. “I will be.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the hallway hushed around them.

Then, finally, Yifan said, “Thank you. For not stepping back.”

Sang Yan gave a humorless half-smile. “You told me not to fight. I didn’t. Not this time.”

“But you stayed,” she murmured.

“Always,” he said.

And for the first time in what felt like weeks, the heaviness in her chest lightened just enough for her to take a full breath.

The spring air was crisp, the sun dipping low enough to cast long shadows across the campus walkways. Wen Yifan sat on the bench beneath a cherry blossom tree, legs drawn slightly toward her, the soft rustle of petals overhead filling the silences between their words.

Sang Yan sat beside her, his posture relaxed but his fingers fidgeting with the zipper on his hoodie sleeve. Neither of them had spoken much since the hearing ended hours ago, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable quiet. It was... grounding. Like breathing again after treading water too long.

He glanced sideways, catching the way the light touched the curve of her jaw. “I, uh... need to tell you something.”

Yifan turned, brows raised slightly, her expression open—calmer now than it had been in days.

Sang Yan hesitated, then said, “There’s a robotics workshop this weekend. Out of town. Me and a few guys from my program signed up months ago, before… all this.”

Her gaze flickered slightly. “Where?”

“Guangzhou Tech Institute,” he said, “Friday morning to Sunday evening. We’ll be staying on-campus housing. It’s legit—school-sponsored.”

Yifan was quiet for a moment, eyes focused on the ground between them. “You’re still going?”

“I wasn’t going to,” he said quickly, leaning forward a little. “But I think... maybe I should. It’s a good chance. And you’ve got your edit deadlines. I’d just be hovering.”

She huffed a short breath. “You don’t hover.”

He gave her a look. “I’m textbook hovering. I know I’ve been. But I’m trying to... figure out how to be better. Not just reactive. Not just furious and overprotective when I feel helpless.”

Yifan didn’t speak immediately, but when she finally looked at him, her voice was quieter. “It’s not that I didn’t want you to defend me.”

“I know.” His eyes softened. “I just don’t want to be one more person who makes things harder for you.”

“You’re not,” she said after a beat. Then, almost under her breath, “I think I was just scared I’d lose you because of what someone else did.”

Sang Yan stilled.

Then he reached out and gently took her hand, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. “You won’t lose me. Not even if I’m in Guangzhou pretending to know how to program a servo motor.”

Yifan laughed, small but real. “That’s oddly specific.”

“It’s because I’m going to break it in the first ten minutes,” he deadpanned.

She leaned her shoulder into his, finally relaxing. “Just don’t make a robot that flirts better than you.”

He tilted his head. “That’s a very low bar.”

They sat like that for a while longer, side by side, warm and still. 

Broadcasting Lab – Thursday Afternoon

Wen Yifan stood near the back of the room, notebook in hand, while Professor Yu tapped a marker against the whiteboard, outlining coverage assignments for the upcoming weekend event. Around her, students murmured in surprise or groaned at the sudden announcement.

“Change in schedule,” Professor Yu said, pausing long enough to let the room settle. “The robotics workshop at Guangzhou Tech this weekend needs campus media coverage. Our department’s been tapped for full documentation—feature segments, live updates, and interviews.”

Yifan blinked, her pen still poised above her notes.

Professor Yu continued, “Teams will rotate shifts for different parts of the event. Departure’s early tomorrow morning, 7:30 sharp. We’ll be joining their official delegation on the school bus.”

A few scattered complaints rose from the class.

“Zhong Siqiao’s group will handle logistics support and social media updates,” the professor added. “Wen Yifan, I want you on the main features team. You’re doing the key interviews and daily wrap-up segments.”

Yifan straightened slightly. “Me?”

“You’ve got the best instincts for live interviews, and you’re familiar with long-form coverage,” he said, already moving on. “Chen Rui will handle the technical support. The rest of you will be assigned as we go.”

Zhong Siqiao turned from where she sat near the front, shooting Yifan a knowing grin. “Guess we’re going out of town together, Chief Editor.”

Yifan gave a tight smile in return, mind racing.

Sang Yan would be there.

He hadn’t mentioned anything about the media department joining.

Maybe he didn’t know.

Yifan quickly tapped a note into her phone.

[Wen Yi Fan]: surprise! we’re going to the same workshop this weekend. prof yu’s making our team cover it.

A moment later, a response popped up.

[Sang Yan]: ...are you serious?

[Sang Yan]: this is either fate or a very elaborate prank.

She stifled a smile.

Then—

[Sang Yan]: okay but also. wait. are you okay with this?

Yifan paused, eyes drifting to the front where Professor Yu was still discussing equipment checklists.

Was she okay?

She thought of the tension from earlier in the week. The hearing. The anger. The slow healing. And now this—an unplanned trip, a shared space, a new kind of closeness after everything that had happened.

She exhaled, thumb hovering over her phone.

[Wen Yifan]: I think it’s good timing. Let's see how well you multitask—robotics and relationship maintenance.

[Sang Yan]: challenge accepted

Yifan smiled despite herself.

Then she closed her notebook, her pulse a little quicker now.

It looked like this weekend would be more than just a workshop.

The sky was overcast, clouds soft and heavy like cotton stretched across the horizon. Two school buses idled side by side in the lot, their engines humming low as students filed in with backpacks, camera equipment, and half finished breakfasts in hand.

Wen Yifan pulled the strap of her canvas bag higher up her shoulder, scanning the crowd. Her camera was slung diagonally across her chest, and her ID lanyard bounced gently against her chest as she moved.

Behind her, Zhong Siqiao chatted animatedly with Chen Rui and two juniors from the editing team, but Yifan’s eyes searched elsewhere.

Then she spotted him.

Sang Yan stood near the far bus, one hand lazily stuffed into his hoodie pocket, the other dragging a wheeled suitcase behind him. His posture was relaxed, but the moment he noticed her approaching, he straightened slightly—eyes lighting up in that subtle, quiet way of his.

“You here to document my genius in real time?” he asked as she walked up.

Yifan gave him a look. “I’m here to work, not boost your ego.”

“Same thing.”

She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched.

Before either of them could say more, a teacher called out, “Media students, Bus Two! Robotics participants, Bus One!”

Sang Yan’s gaze flicked toward Bus One, then back to her. “Guess we’re splitting up.”

She nodded, but there was a brief flicker of something in her chest—disappointment? Anticipation?

“Well,” he said, stepping slightly closer. “Guess I’ll wave to you dramatically through the window. Like a soldier being shipped off.”

Yifan raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to be ten meters away.”

“Distance is emotional, not physical.”

She laughed despite herself.

Then, quieter, he added, “Text me when you’re on. Let me know if you need anything.”

Her expression softened. “I will.”

As she turned to head for her bus, he called out behind her, “Wen Yifan.”

She looked back.

Sang Yan pointed at his chest and mouthed Powerbank , with a wink.

Yifan blinked, then turned away quickly to hide her smile, heart fluttering a little too hard.

The buses pulled up in front of the tech campus, all steel-glass curves and modern architecture. Students poured out into the crisp air, stretching, yawning, dragging equipment out from the bus compartments.

Yifan stepped off Bus Two, shielding her eyes from the light as she took in the building ahead—sleek, towering, and intimidating in the way cutting-edge places often were.

She was still adjusting the strap on her camera bag when she felt a warm, familiar presence beside her.

“You really are working,” Sang Yan said, looking at the mic tucked under her arm. “I thought you were bluffing to keep an eye on me.”

Yifan snorted. “Please. You’re not that interesting.”

But she couldn’t quite hide the curve of her smile as they fell into step together.

Behind them, Zhong Siqiao whispered something to a junior and then called out, “Couples will be split up by team schedule! No exceptions!”

Yifan groaned. Sang Yan sighed dramatically. “They fear our power.”

She elbowed him gently, but a part of her—the part that had been tense for days—finally began to loosen.

They were here.

And for once, the weekend didn’t feel like something to endure.

The day had passed in a blur of orientation, logistics briefings, and equipment testing. By the time the group was dismissed for the evening, the sky had deepened to a rich navy blue. The dormitories were clean and utilitarian — twin beds, desks, shared bathrooms, and the faint scent of sterilized air.

Wen Yifan sat cross-legged on her bed, headphones hanging around her neck as she scrolled through the raw footage from the robotics lab. She’d been logging notes for an hour now, but her mind kept wandering.

Across the room, Zhong Siqiao was curled up editing photos on her tablet, her mouth full of instant noodles.

“I’m just saying,” Siqiao said through a slurp, “the lead guy from Yihe University looks like a drama lead. If this workshop turns into a reality show romance, I want the rights.”

Yifan didn’t look up. “You have ten seconds to stop before I mute you.”

Siqiao grinned. “Fine, I’ll save it for the vlog.”

There was a knock at the door.

Before Yifan could say anything, Siqiao got up and opened it with theatrical flair. “If it isn’t the boyfriend,” she said in a sing-song voice.

Sang Yan stood on the other side, a hand resting on the doorframe. His hoodie was unzipped over a white tee, and he looked rumpled in a way that said he'd just come from a last-minute code review.

“Hey,” he said. “Got ten minutes to spare?”

Yifan blinked. “Now?”

“You’re allowed to step away from the laptop, you know.”

She glanced at Siqiao, who waved her off immediately. “Go. Go be cute somewhere else. I’ll pretend not to notice.”

The courtyard was quiet, save for the soft clink of vending machines and the occasional voice drifting in from nearby dorms. String lights hung above the path, casting warm, sleepy gold across the stone benches.

Sang Yan handed her a bottle of lemon tea. “Bribery.”

Yifan accepted it, then gestured at him with it. “This better not be some elaborate way to make me do your workshop write-up.”

“No,” he said. “Though now that you mention it…”

She rolled her eyes, unscrewed the cap, and took a sip.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The quiet was companionable—loose and unhurried in a way that had been missing between them lately.

Finally, Sang Yan glanced over. “Are you okay?”

Yifan was silent for a beat. “I’m… getting there.”

His fingers curled around the edge of the bench. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About what you said. About how I made it worse, even if I thought I was helping.”

Yifan looked at him.

“I didn’t understand what it was like for you,” he continued. “Not just the stuff with Lu Jinchuan, but… everything. Before that. I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t tell you,” she said softly. “I didn’t know how.”

“I know,” he said. “But I should’ve listened harder. I should’ve seen it.”

She stared at the bottle in her hands.

“It’s not your job to carry everything,” he added. “Not alone.”

Yifan swallowed. The weight of the day, of the past weeks, pressed against her ribs.

She leaned her head gently against his shoulder.

“You’re really bad at saying this stuff,” she murmured.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m better at dramatic speeches when I’m bleeding.”

She let out a soft laugh, the kind that barely reached her chest.

Then, after a pause, he added more quietly, “You can tell me. When you’re ready. I won’t push. I just… want you to know I’m here.”

Yifan’s fingers tightened slightly around the bottle.

“I’m not ready yet,” she said. “There’s… too much. I don’t even know where I’d start.”

“That’s okay,” Sang Yan replied. “Start nowhere. Start later. Start with one word if that’s all you can do.”

She nodded slowly, the smallest tilt of her head. “I want to try. Just… not all at once.”

He leaned into her slightly. “Then we’ll go slow. You set the pace.”

Yifan closed her eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of his presence settle over her like a blanket.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

They sat in the stillness of the courtyard, lemon tea between them and the hush of the night folding gently around their edges.

It wasn’t a solution. But it was a promise.

Chapter Text

The second day of the workshop dawned crisp and clear. A faint layer of dew coated the courtyard tiles, and the soft buzz of early risers floated across the tech campus. Students drifted from dorm buildings to the main hall, many still yawning, clutching coffee cans or paper cups like lifelines.

Yifan stood near the event entrance, camera bag slung across her shoulder, a clipboard tucked under one arm. Her press badge swung slightly with each breeze. She’d been up since before sunrise, too keyed up to sleep well. But instead of heaviness, she felt steadier than she had in days. Fragile, maybe—but not shattered.

“Morning,” came a voice behind her.

She turned to see Sang Yan, hair still damp from a recent shower, balancing a breakfast sandwich in one hand and a small cup of soy milk in the other. He held out the cup.

“Soy milk,” he said. “Not bribery this time. Just fuel.”

Yifan took it with a quiet thank you. Their hands brushed, a brief warmth between them.

“You’ll be okay today?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yeah. It’s a long day, but… I think I’m actually looking forward to it.”

Sang Yan offered a smile—small, but honest. “I’ll be around. Try not to chase me down with a camera during lunch.”

“No promises,” she said, already walking backward toward her team’s table. “If you win a robot battle, I’m getting the shot.”

He gave a mock salute before heading off to join his classmates in the robotics bay.

Inside, the broadcast coverage team was setting up for the day's schedule: speaker panels, breakout sessions, and the much-anticipated student robot showcase. Equipment cases lined the wall, and students hustled in every direction—adjusting tripods, testing microphones, confirming camera angles.

Zhong Siqiao stood near the control table, her brow furrowed as she scanned the tech list.

“Where’s the second lapel mic?” she asked aloud, tapping her stylus against her tablet.

A classmate rushed over. “Still being signed out at the media desk—they had a backlog this morning.”

“Fine. Put a wired lav in the meantime and switch it out during break.”

As they scrambled to adjust, she caught sight of Yifan walking in and lifted her chin.

“Morning, boss.”

Yifan smiled faintly. “We’re all bosses today.”

Siqiao stepped closer, voice lowering slightly. “You look… better.”

Yifan hesitated, then nodded. “I feel better.”

“Good.” Zhong Siqiao’s voice softened a notch before flicking back to business. “Because if the keynote speaker pulls a ‘technical difficulties’ stunt again, I’m throwing a boom mic.”

Yifan grinned. “That’s why I keep you around.”

They moved toward the front of the hall together, coordinating cue sheets and camera assignments. Around them, the chaos of student media buzzed with life—but for once, it felt manageable. Even energizing.

And as the lights dimmed for the first speaker and the coverage crew rolled into action, Yifan let herself breathe—just a little deeper than before.

The multipurpose lab was a controlled chaos of blinking LEDs, the whir of small motors, and bursts of laughter and cheers echoing off the walls. Tables were cluttered with circuit boards, toolkits, and half-finished prototypes. Whiteboards had long since been covered in formulas, sketches, and coffee stains.

Sang Yan crouched next to their project’s robot—a compact, wheeled unit with a grappling arm—and tightened a bolt on its servo housing.

“Ready?” Duan Jiaxu called from the other side of the test ring, holding the controller.

“Yeah,” Sang Yan confirmed, standing and wiping his hands on a rag. “Run sequence three.”

The robot shot forward, made a swift pivot, grabbed a test object—a foam cylinder—and placed it precisely on the marked target zone. The sequence finished in under ten seconds. Applause broke out from a cluster of spectators.

“Holy crap,” someone said. “That’s the fastest time yet.”

A senior judge stepped forward, visibly impressed. “Who designed the movement logic?”

Sang Yan rubbed the back of his neck, modest. “We worked on it together, but the targeting system was my part.”

“Well, you’ve got a real talent for spatial optimization,” the judge said. “Are you considering the National Competition qualifiers?”

Jiaxu nudged him. “Told you.”

Another engineering professor chimed in from behind. “This is one of the most cohesive builds I’ve seen all morning. No wasted motion, tight response times, great power-to-weight ratio. This team’s going to place.”

Around them, more workshop participants paused to watch their next run. Several took notes. A girl from another university recorded a clip of the robot in motion and whispered to her teammate, “That’s the one we’ll have to beat.”

Sang Yan gave a quick nod and looked to Jiaxu. “One more run. Let’s see if we can trim another second off.”

As they reset the test ring, Sang Yan glanced through the lab’s glass wall where a group of students from the media department passed by—Yifan’s team.

She didn’t see him. But just catching that glimpse of her—focused, in her element—sent a flicker of calm through him.

He turned back to the robot, jaw set but easy.

He hadn’t felt like this in a while: sharp, grounded, proud of what he was doing—not for someone else’s sake, but for his own.

For the first time in a long time, Sang Yan wasn’t just reacting. He was building something.

And it was working.

The cafeteria buzzed with activity—long tables filled with students, trays clattering, conversations weaving between workshop recaps and lunch banter.

Yifan spotted Sang Yan near the back, already seated with his teammates, chopsticks in hand as he poked through a bowl of noodles. He looked up just as she approached, and a soft smile tugged at his mouth.

“You survived the morning coverage,” he said.

She dropped her tray across from him and exhaled. “Barely. Qiao Qiao almost burned someone with a light panel and tried to blame the sun.”

He snorted. “Sounds about right.”

She studied him for a moment—his shirt slightly rumpled from hours in the lab, the faint grease smudge near his wrist. “I heard you guys dominated.”

Sang Yan gave a half-shrug. “It’s going well.”

“You’re allowed to say you crushed it, you know,” she said, nudging his ankle under the table.

His eyes crinkled a little. “We crushed it.”

She leaned forward, lowering her voice just enough. “I want you to know… I’m proud of you.”

The way he looked at her then—like her words had planted roots somewhere deep—made her chest feel too small for her heartbeat.

“I’m proud of you too,” he said, quietly. “You’re killing it out there.”

The afternoon sessions passed in a blur of camera setups and interviews. Yifan’s group covered the closing presentations, and she made sure to switch places with Siqiao so she could personally film Sang Yan’s final robot demo.

When Sang Yan’s name was called during the awards, she adjusted her lens instinctively, tracking him as he walked on stage, posture straight, expressing a mix of disbelief and restrained pride.

“The Outstanding Innovation Award goes to Team E7—Sang Yan, Duan Jiaxu, Chen Juwen and Qian Fei!”

Applause thundered through the hall.

Yifan zoomed in, catching the exact moment Sang Yan accepted the plaque—eyes scanning the crowd briefly, stopping when they met hers. She didn’t wave, but she smiled.

Later, while editing footage for their report, she’d realize she lingered on his face a few seconds longer than necessary.

The evening celebration had already taken off.

Fairy lights had been strung between trees, music played from a portable speaker, and drinks—mostly soda and beer—circulated freely. Some students played cards, others danced barefoot on the grass.

Sang Yan was standing with his team near the drinks table when Yifan found him. He looked relaxed, bottle of soda in hand, his laughter easy and unguarded.

“There she is,” Jiaxu said. “Miss Newsroom Extraordinaire.”

Yifan rolled her eyes. “Shouldn’t you be busy autographing robots?”

Sang Yan held out a drink for her. “Apple cider. No tricks.”

She took it and bumped her bottle lightly against his. “To crushing it.”

He bumped back. “To covering it.”

They stood together as the music swelled behind them, the noise and lights softening into a backdrop.

Yifan glanced at him. “You know… I’m really glad we’re here.”

“Me too,” he said. “Even with the chaos.”

They drank in comfortable silence, the warmth of celebration wrapping around them like a long-awaited exhale.

The celebration had thinned out. The music was faint now, drifting from across the lawn. Most of the students had trickled back to their dorms in sleepy clusters, laughter fading into the night.

Yifan and Sang Yan walked slowly through the empty courtyard, their steps lazy, cider bottles dangling from their fingers. The air smelled of grass and distant smoke from a barbecue someone had tried (and mostly failed) to pull off.

Sang Yan stretched his arms above his head, exhaling. “Not bad for a day’s work.”

Yifan glanced sideways. “Mm. Innovation Award. Crowd favorite. Campus heartthrob. You should get a sash.”

He narrowed his eyes playfully. “You’re mocking me.”

“I’m documenting facts,” she said, tilting her head.

They reached a low stone planter, and Sang Yan dropped down onto it, elbows braced on his knees. Yifan stood beside him, sipping slowly from her bottle.

After a beat, he looked up at her with a lazy grin. “You still owe me something.”

She blinked. “What?”

“My prize.”

“What prize?”

“The one I earned,” he said. “For being very impressive today. Objectively.”

Yifan arched an eyebrow. “You want a trophy?”

“I want something better.”

She gave him a look—wary but amused. “Sang Yan…”

He shrugged, entirely unbothered. “I just think the person I like should kiss me when I win stuff.”

Yifan stared at him, her heart skipping slightly in the quiet. He wasn’t teasing—at least, not entirely. He looked at her like the request was simple, sincere.

The bottle in her hand felt too cold now.

So she set it down.

And then, without a word, she leaned in—hands light on his shoulders—and pressed a kiss to his lips. It wasn’t dramatic or flashy or long. Just a soft, brief connection. Certain. Warm.

When she pulled back, Sang Yan blinked once.

Then he smiled.

“I’d like to win more often,” he said softly.

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling too, cheeks flushed.

“Don’t get used to it.”

He reached for her hand and held it, quietly, their fingers tangling with ease.

In the hush of the campus, beneath the string lights still flickering overhead, the night finally settled into something still. Something like peace.

The last day of the workshop was supposed to be for final demos, photos, maybe a few wrap-up talks. Something smooth and celebratory.

But the second Sang Yan stepped into the robotics hall, he knew something was off.

The place was buzzing—not with excitement, but with stress.

Zhou Rui, one of the workshop assistants, rushed up to them with wide eyes. “Half the bots from all groups are down.”

Sang Yan’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean, down?”

“Glitched. Systems won’t boot, calibrations are fried. Some of the local backups are corrupted too.”

Sang Yan exchanged a glance with his teammates. “Sabotage?”

Zhou Rui hesitated. “We don’t know yet. Could be a software bug. But the final test challenge is still happening in three hours.”

“What test challenge?”

Zhou Rui glanced toward the central board, where a new announcement had just been posted. Sang Yan and his teammates moved to read it:

FINAL CHALLENGE:

Due to the outstanding performance across all teams, the workshop committee has added a final task: an adaptive robotics obstacle course, built overnight. Teams must modify their bots to navigate real-world variables—within a three-hour window.

Scoring will determine the overall winner.

“Of course,” Sang Yan muttered, running a hand down his face. “They throw in a curveball at the end.”

“Because we were winning too hard,” Duan Jiaxu said, not even pretending to be surprised.

“Do we have a backup unit?” someone asked.

Sang Yan nodded once. “We built redundancies. But the AI routines need fine-tuning. If we’re lucky, we’ll have two hours to test.”

And just like that, their morning was plunged into chaos—screws, wires, code flying across screens and tables. The energy was frantic, focused. Somewhere in the middle of it all, Sang Yan’s phone buzzed with a message:

[Yifan]: Qiao Qiao just said half your bots are dead. You alive?

[Sang Yan]: Barely. They sprung a final challenge on us. Might need that lemon tea again.

[Yifan]: I’ll bring snacks. And cameras. Don’t lose.

[Sang Yan]: Wasn’t planning to.

As the team hustled to rebuild their bot’s core routines and adjust the arm sensors for the obstacle gauntlet, Sang Yan’s focus narrowed.

This wasn’t just about winning anymore—it was about proving resilience.

And maybe, just maybe, earning another prize from a certain campus reporter when the dust settled.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Yifan adjusted her headset mic and zoomed in with her DSLR, the lens tracking across the bustling robotics hall. The obstacle course sprawled across the floor below—ramps, light sensors, terrain changes, and motion-reactive panels all waiting to trip up the machines that dared enter.

Behind her, Zhong Siqiao was coordinating the live-feed setup with another classmate. “We’re rolling in ten,” she called out, voice clipped with nerves. “Audio synced?”

“Check,” Yifan confirmed, already steadying her camera toward the staging area.

She spotted Sang Yan hunched over his team's bot with Duan Jiaxu, fingers flying across a tablet screen. Despite the time crunch, he looked composed—focused. But she could see it in the tension in his jaw: he was holding it all together by sheer will.

Their eyes met briefly as he looked up. Just for a second.

He didn’t smile, didn’t wave. But that glance said everything. You’re here. You see me.

And she did.

“Cutting to Wen Yifan for a live commentary preview,” Zhong Siqiao said.

Yifan gave a small breath, then spoke smoothly into her mic. “Good morning from the final day of the inter-campus robotics workshop. What was supposed to be a wrap-up has turned into a high-stakes challenge. Teams are now tasked with adapting their bots in real-time to a newly revealed obstacle course. The stakes? Total workshop victory—and bragging rights for the rest of the year.”

She panned slightly to capture Sang Yan’s team. “Team E7, one of the top-performing groups, is among those facing this sudden twist. Their primary units suffered system failures this morning, but they’ve rebuilt a backup bot—nicknamed ‘Crow’ —and are racing against the clock to optimize its navigation.”

From behind the lens, Yifan felt the tremble in her hands even out. This—storytelling, observing, capturing—was her rhythm. And covering Sang Yan… gave her something solid to hold on to.

“Alright, five minutes!” the host called over the PA.

Sang Yan crouched beside the bot, double-checking the ultrasonic sensors. “Power stable?”

Duan Jiaxu gave a thumbs-up. “Stable. And the gyros are holding.”

Their professor gave a brisk nod from the sidelines. “This will come down to adaptability. Your AI routines need to read fast and recover faster.”

Sang Yan looked at the course—moving parts, flashing lights, and terrain changes. It wasn’t just about design. It was about instinct.

The timer began.

BZZZT. “Team E7, go!”

Crow surged forward—its matte-black frame small but sleek, sensors flickering as it adjusted on the fly. It took the ramp at a careful angle, auto-correcting for a tilt as the platform swayed beneath it. The crowd murmured in surprise.

Then came the light maze—pulses of red and green strobes triggering directional shifts. Crow hesitated for half a beat, then executed a tight pivot, dodging the barrier just in time. Applause rippled from the far side of the hall.

On the upper platform, Yifan forgot to breathe. Her camera followed the movement with precision, capturing every sweep, every correction. It felt like watching someone surf on the edge of chaos—and somehow still steering the wave.

Then came the final challenge: a rotating disc with uneven traction pads and motion-sensitive flags.

Crow whirred forward, scanned the layout, and shot left.

But one of the flags jerked up prematurely, slapping into its left wheel.

The room gasped.

Sang Yan didn’t flinch. “Run sequence delta-two!”

Jiaxu hit the command, and Crow spun on its axis, using the blow as momentum, correcting with a two-wheel jump. It landed with a stagger—and then surged forward into the finish gate just as the timer hit zero.

The room erupted.

On the upper platform, Yifan was still staring through her lens, wide-eyed.

Then she smiled.

Soft. Proud. A little in awe.

The auditorium buzzed with energy. Teams filled the rows, some in uniform tees, others in mismatched lab coats and jackets streaked with oil and marker notes. Professors lined the stage, holding certificates and gift boxes labeled with logos from tech sponsors.

Yifan stood near the front with her coverage crew, camera slung over one shoulder, mic clipped to her collar. She spotted Sang Yan a few rows back, his hoodie unzipped over a black shirt, arms crossed like he hadn’t just stunned a crowd two hours earlier.

But his leg was bouncing. He’s nervous.

The emcee stepped up to the mic. “Now, for the announcement you’ve all been waiting for. This year’s top performing team, with the highest combined score for performance, adaptation, and innovation…”

A beat of suspense.

“Team E7 from Nanwu University!”

Cheers erupted. Duan Jiaxu whooped and smacked Sang Yan’s back. Their teammates stood immediately. Sang Yan hesitated a second, then rose with a crooked grin and followed them to the stage.

Yifan caught it all on film—the sharp claps from the audience, the way Sang Yan accepted his certificate without making a big show of it, how he rubbed the back of his neck when the presenter asked for a few words.

“We just… did our best not to fry the bot,” he said into the mic, shrugging with a grin. “Thanks to everyone who made this possible. And to whoever installed a vending machine right beside the lab room—you saved my life.”

Laughter. Applause.

Yifan didn’t lower her camera until he looked at her through the viewfinder and gave a small, almost imperceptible wink.

Oh, now he wants to flirt.

After the crowd thinned and the formalities wrapped up, Yifan found him leaning against a lamp post just beyond the courtyard, away from the noise. The gold of the afternoon light brushed against his cheek, softening the sharpness in his expression.

She walked over, hands tucked in her jacket.

“Hey, award-winning robot tamer.”

He looked up, a lazy grin forming. “Hey, news coverage MVP.”

They stood for a second in that easy quiet, the kind that had taken weeks to build back up between them.

Then Sang Yan tilted his head, lips twitching. “So, where’s my prize?”

Yifan blinked. “Didn’t you just get one onstage?”

“Yeah, but that’s the school’s prize. I want your prize.”

She raised a brow. “Is that so?”

He stepped closer, casual but undeniably purposeful. “I heard the media team gives personalized congratulations.”

She rolled her eyes—but her voice softened. “Greedy.”

“I earned it.”

Yifan looked up at him. Then leaned in.

A light kiss—barely there, but warm and real—brushed against his lips. She lingered just long enough for him to register the way her fingers had lightly curled into the fabric of his shirt.

When she pulled back, she said quietly, “Thank you… for today.”

His voice was lower, gentler. “Anytime.”

They didn’t say much after that, just walked together through the slowly emptying campus, their shadows stretching long under the late afternoon sun.

The sun was beginning its slow descent, casting an amber wash over the loading zone. Students filed onto the buses in loose clusters, laughter still hanging in the air from the celebration. The atmosphere was relaxed, heavy with post-event fatigue and satisfaction.

Yifan stepped onto Bus 2 with her crew, tossing a half-smile at Siqiao, who was already sprawled across the window seat with a snack bag in her lap.

“Don’t you dare fall asleep and drool on my shoulder,” Siqiao warned, pointing a pretzel stick at her.

Yifan rolled her eyes and made her way toward the middle rows. As she slid into an empty seat, she glanced over her shoulder just in time to see—

“Sang Yan?” she blinked. “Aren’t you assigned to Bus 1?”

He tossed his bag in the overhead compartment like he hadn’t heard her. “They looked full.”

“You didn’t even check.”

“Nope.”

Siqiao peered over the seat. “Well, well, look who’s suddenly anti-system.”

Duan Jiaxu ducked into the row behind them and leaned over the seat back with a grin. “I knew he’d end up here. Was placing bets.”

“I swear,” Yifan muttered, nudging Sang Yan’s knee as he settled beside her. “You’re going to get yelled at for this. Same for you, Duan Jiaxu.”

“Oh, I’m allowed here. I know the coordinator,” Duan Jiaxu replied, smirking at her. “That guy is the only one in trouble,” pointing at Sang Yan.

“Worth it,” Sang Yan said easily, stretching his legs out and folding his arms like he belonged there.

The bus lurched forward. Chatter quieted into a background hum. Somewhere near the front, someone had started a soft playlist, the music fading gently beneath the sound of the road.

Yifan blinked slower than usual. The high from the day, the chaos, the sun—it was catching up with her.

Sang Yan noticed.

He shifted slightly, his shoulder brushing hers. “Sleep.”

She frowned faintly, blinking again. “I’m not—”

“You’re nodding off every five seconds.”

Before she could argue, he reached over and gently guided her head to rest on his shoulder. His movements were careful, unhurried, like he was still giving her the option to pull away.

She didn’t.

He took off his jacket and laid it over her knees and arms.

Warm. Familiar. His scent faint in the fabric—clean and a little sun-drenched.

Behind them, Siqiao raised an eyebrow at Duan Jiaxu. “Told you he was a sap.”

Jiaxu chuckled. “Total simp.”

Sang Yan ignored them.

He angled his head slightly, resting it lightly against hers.

And for a long stretch of the road, there was nothing but the quiet thrum of the tires and the steady rhythm of two people breathing in sync.

The dorm was buzzing softly with the usual post-trip haze—people returning laundry baskets, taking long showers, tossing bags on beds and flopping into bean bags with a groan of relief.

Inside their shared common area, Duan Jiaxu was lounging on his chair, one arm thrown dramatically over the backrest like he was posing for a gossip magazine.

“So,” Jiaxu said, stretching the word out like he already knew the answer, “are you planning to just… move in with Wen Yifan at this point? Or are you going to keep pretending it’s normal to hover around her like a human golden retriever?”

Sang Yan, half-bent over his suitcase on the floor, didn’t even look up. “It’s more convenient staying in the dorms.”

Jiaxu scoffed. “That’s not an answer.”

“But my parents did get me an apartment nearby,” Sang Yan added casually, straightening up. “I just haven’t used it. No point, unless she wants to.”

Jiaxu blinked. “Wait. Hold on. What?”

Across the room, Qian Fei—still towel-drying his hair—nearly tripped on his own flip-flop. “Did you just say… if Yifan wants to?”

Sang Yan shrugged, walking to the mini-fridge and pulling out a cold drink. “Yeah. If she ever feels like moving in or wants more space, it’s there. I’m just waiting.”

Jiaxu sat upright, eyes wide. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious,” Sang Yan said, unscrewing the bottle cap. “Why would I joke about that?”

Qian Fei let out a low whistle. “Dude. That’s… intense. You don’t think that might freak her out a little?”

“I haven’t told her,” Sang Yan said plainly. “I’m not pushing it. I just want to be ready in case she wants something different down the line. It’s her call.”

There was a beat of silence as both Jiaxu and Qian Fei exchanged looks.

Then Jiaxu pointed at him with exaggerated horror. “You’re too serious.”

“And yet still cooler than you,” Sang Yan replied, deadpan.

“Not hard when the bar is underground,” Qian Fei muttered.

Sang Yan leaned back against the counter, the quiet confidence in his voice undisturbed. “I’m not scared of being serious with her. She’s worth it.”

The other two fell silent again.

“…Okay, but if she says yes and you vanish from the dorms, I’m taking your charger,” Jiaxu finally grumbled.

Sang Yan cracked a faint grin. “Deal.”

The fluorescent lights buzzed gently overhead as Yifan folded her laundry with slow, absentminded motions. The suitcase lay open on her bed, half unpacked. Across from her, Zhong Siqiao sat cross-legged on her mattress, tapping through photos on her phone from the trip.

“You look like you’re still on the bus,” Siqiao remarked without looking up.

Yifan huffed a tired laugh. “I feel like it.”

There was a pause.

Then: “Are you okay? Like… actually okay?”

Yifan glanced up.

Siqiao’s tone was quiet, serious—not teasing like usual. Her eyes were soft. Concerned.

“The Jinchuan mess,” Siqiao added. “Now that the dust settled a little. I just—wanted to check.”

Yifan stared at her hands for a second. Then nodded slowly. “It still sits on me sometimes. Like I’m bracing for it to come back. But… I’m okay. I will be.”

Siqiao gave her a small smile. “You were incredible. Reporting him. Standing your ground.”

“I was terrified,” Yifan admitted. “Still am, a little.”

“Still did it.”

Yifan let out a breath, then walked to her desk and plugged in her phone. She hesitated before turning back around.

“And Sang Yan?” Siqiao asked gently, as if reading her mind. “You two seem… closer.”

Yifan gave a half-smile, tucking her hair behind her ear. “He’s trying. More than I expected.”

“Trying in what way?”

“He’s been careful. Kind,” she said. “It’s like… he’s choosing his words more. Watching how I react to things. And he keeps asking me if I’m okay, without making me feel like I have to answer.”

“Sounds like someone grew a bit.”

Yifan rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it.

Siqiao tilted her head. “And the prize kisses?”

Yifan flushed. “Oh my god, how do you even know about that?”

“He told the guys. Who told me. Obviously.”

Yifan groaned and buried her face in a pillow. “He’s been ridiculous about it.”

“Ridiculous how?”

Yifan, muffled: “Like right before we got off the bus, he leaned in and whispered, ‘I won the challenge. Does that mean I get another one?’”

Siqiao laughed loudly. “And?”

“I wanted to punch him and kiss him at the same time.”

“So you kissed him.”

Yifan sat up, eyes crinkling. “I kissed him. I guess I lost control of myself as well.”

Siqiao nudged her foot. “You like him. Like, actually.”

Yifan grew quiet. “I do. And it scares me.”

“Because of what happened?”

Yifan nodded. “Because it’s real. And he sees me—like, all the mess, all the cracks—and he still stays. It feels unfair sometimes. That I’m still learning how to breathe normally and he’s already willing to give me the world and I feel like I don’t deserve it all.”

Siqiao’s voice was soft. “Maybe that’s love.”

Yifan looked toward the window, where the lights from the courtyard flickered faintly in the dark.

“…Maybe it is,” she whispered.

Chapter Text

Snow had started to gather on the campus lawns, dusting the hedges and stone benches in soft white. The cold air nipped at their cheeks as Yifan and Sang Yan stepped out from the library, each carrying a few books, their breath visible in the fading light.

Sang Yan nudged her shoulder with his. “Winter break is not far off,” he said casually. “You making any plans for January?”

Yifan adjusted her scarf. “Not really.”

“You going home for the Spring Festival?”

The question made her steps slow a little. She looked ahead. “No. I’ll probably just stay in the dorms.”

Sang Yan stopped briefly, blinking. “You’re not going back?”

Yifan gave a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “There’s not much to go back to.”

He didn’t press. He saw it in her eyes—that tired steel she always wore when brushing past the subject of her family. He knew bits and pieces: that her father had died when they were in 2nd term of 1st year of high school, that things with her mother had been strained for years, though she rarely explained why, and that the word “home” didn’t carry much warmth for her. Still, the answer lodged itself in his chest, heavier than he expected.

“…Oh,” he said softly. “I thought maybe…”

They kept walking. Snow crunched faintly beneath their feet.

“You’ll go back, right?” Yifan asked, glancing at him. “Your parents must be expecting you.”

“Yeah,” Sang Yan said, but his voice had drifted into thought. In his head, he was already mapping it out—head home after finals, stay through the festival, then come back early. If he left mid-January and returned before the Lantern Festival, that gave him time to see his family and come back before campus felt too empty.

Yifan gave him a knowing look. “Don’t change your plans because of me.”

“I’m not,” he said quickly.

She lifted a brow.

“…Okay, maybe a little,” he admitted. “But not just because of you. Dorms are ghost towns over break. Might as well be here and make sure you don’t live off instant noodles for three straight weeks.”

“You’re implying I can’t take care of myself.”

“I’m implying you’ll forget to.”

She let out a quiet laugh, and he grinned at the sound—something about it cutting through the chill like sunlight.

Neither of them said it aloud, but they both felt the shift: this upcoming break wouldn’t be a separation. Not really. They’d made it through worse. The silence between them no longer meant distance.

As they reached the stairwell of her dorm building, Sang Yan bumped her hand lightly with his.

“I’ll figure out the timing,” he said, almost too casually. “You won’t be alone.”

Yifan looked at him for a long moment, something unspoken stirring behind her eyes.

“…Okay,” she murmured.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The hallway was quiet, stripped of its usual buzz now that most students had gone home for winter break. Posters fluttered slightly in the draft, and the scent of cleaning solution lingered faintly in the air. Only a few dorm rooms showed signs of life—muffled music here, a kettle boiling there.

Yifan adjusted the sleeves of her sweater and peered down the corridor, half-expecting silence.

Then came the sound of footsteps—familiar, unhurried, carrying the weight of someone hauling more than just a backpack.

She stepped out of her room just as Sang Yan rounded the corner, dragging a suitcase with one hand and a tote bag slung over the other shoulder.

“You’re back,” she said, trying to sound casual. But her smile gave her away.

Sang Yan looked up, a little windblown from the taxi ride. “Told you I would be.”

“You cut it close.”

He shrugged. “You said to be here by today. I figured if I arrived before dinner, it still counted. Plus I went straight here instead of dropping my bags to my dorm.”

She opened her door wider. “Come in. I made you something.”

His brow lifted, amused. “You cooked?”

“I can cook,” she said defensively.

“I know. I’m just impressed.”

Inside, her desk had been cleared of books and covered with a checkered cloth. A small hotpot set simmered gently in the center, the steam fogging the window a little. There were plates of sliced beef, tofu, napa cabbage, mushrooms, and packets of noodles—simple, comforting, and warm. In the middle was a small cake acting as a centerpiece.

Sang Yan dropped his bags by the door and stared. “Wait. This is—”

“Birthday dinner,” Yifan said, brushing invisible lint from her sleeves. “You get a cake and a hotpot.”

He laughed, soft and surprised. “You remembered.”

“You think I’d forget your birthday?”

“I figured maybe with finals and everything…”

Yifan rolled her eyes and handed him a pair of chopsticks. “Sit down, birthday boy.”

They settled on each chairs, legs tucked under the desk. Sang Yan reached for the ladle, and Yifan stopped him with a stern look.

“You don’t get to serve yourself,” she said. “You're the guest of honor.”

He raised both hands, surrendering. “Alright, alright.”

Yifan stuck two slim candles—one red, one gold—and lit them. The flame flickered gently in the dim room, casting a golden halo over the simple cake. It smelled of vanilla and cream, faint and familiar.

“Make a wish,” she said, scooting the box toward him.

Sang Yan stared at the candles, then at her. “You’re not going to sing?”

“I like you. I’m sparing you.”

He snorted, closing his eyes briefly. “Okay. Wishing.”

Yifan lifted her phone. “Don’t move. I want a picture.”

Sang Yan opened one eye just as the camera clicked. “You’re shameless.”

“Memory preservation,” she said smartly. “For future blackmail.”

He blew out the candles, smoke curling in the air. “You’re terrifying.”

“And yet, here you are,” Yifan beamed at him. “Now, hold the cake while I take another picture,” she instructed to which Sang Yan followed while smiling brightly at her.

After taking enough pictures, she fetched two forks and began cutting into the cake. They sat side by side, knees brushing, as she handed him a slice. She ladled broth into his bowl and dropped in slices of beef, he watched her with something softer in his gaze—something grateful, steady.

“This is better than anything I would've had at home,” he said.

“Don’t say that. Your mom would cry.”

“Yeah, and then pack me more food than I can carry.”

She smiled at that, the tension easing from her shoulders. Outside, snow continued to fall in slow, lazy drifts, dusting the windowsill. Inside, the steam curled between them like a quiet promise.

After they’d eaten and the pot was nearly empty, Sang Yan leaned back against the chair, bowl cradled in his hands.

“You always plan stuff like this?”

Yifan shook her head. “Only for people who leave and still show up when I ask.”

He glanced at her, a flicker of something deeper in his expression.

“I’ll always show up when you ask.”

Her breath caught, just a little—but she didn’t look away.

“…Happy birthday, Sang Yan.”

He smiled.

“Best one yet.”

The last of the broth had gone cold, but neither of them made a move to clean up. The room had fallen into a companionable hush, lit only by the warm desk lamp and the dusky glow filtering through the snow-frosted window.

Yifan sat beside the table, her chair closer to her desk, one hand lazily circling the rim of her empty bowl. Sang Yan sat close to her, leaning against the back of his chair, legs stretched out, gaze half-lidded and comfortably fixed on her.

She didn’t need to look to know he was watching her. She could feel it—that low, steady pull of attention that always made her skin prickle in the most ridiculous ways.

Sang Yan shifted, elbow propped on the edge of the table. “So…”

Yifan raised a brow without turning.

“…Where’s my birthday gift?”

She smirked faintly. “You got cake, hotpot and my undivided presence. What more do you want?”

He leaned in slightly, voice low. “I want my gift.”

She finally turned to look at him, the teasing in his eyes unmistakable.

“Oh,” she said, mock thoughtful. “You mean that kind of gift.”

Sang Yan’s grin widened. “You said anything I want.”

“I never said that.”

“You implied it.”

“I implied you’d get fed,” she said, but she was already blushing, just a little, the warmth creeping up her neck.

“You can feed me more. With another kind,” Sang Yan raised his eyebrows, teasing her. 

Then he bent toward her, the space between them dissolving with slow, deliberate intent. “Then I’m officially claiming my prize.”

Yifan didn’t pull away.

Her breath caught a little when his hand brushed lightly against her wrist, steady and unhurried. He tilted his head, close enough now that she could feel the heat of his breath against her skin.

And then he kissed her.

It wasn’t hurried or forceful. It was quiet, and sure—like they had all the time in the world. His lips moved against hers with a kind of tenderness that made her forget about the snow outside, the fading light, even the dishes still waiting on the desk.

His lips were warm—scorching, almost—as they claimed hers in slow, deliberate movements. It wasn’t a simple brush or a teasing graze. There was purpose behind it, a hunger he barely tried to mask. It still held restraint, yes, but barely. Beneath the control was a restless urgency, as if the kisses from before had only scratched the surface of what he truly wanted.

This wasn’t like the pecks they’d exchanged earlier.

In one swift movement, Sang Yan tilted her chin up, parting her lips with the press of his tongue. He didn’t ask—he demanded entry, pressing forward until her mouth opened to him. His hand slid to the back of her head, fingers threading into her hair as he anchored her in place, leaving no room to retreat.

His breath tangled with hers—hot, fast, overwhelming.

Wen Yifan’s mind emptied, stunned into stillness. Her eyes fluttered open, then shut again as she gripped at his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like a lifeline. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t need to know what to do.

At that moment, all she could do was surrender.

Let him take the lead.

Neither of them had experience, not really. But that made it real. Honest. The kiss was unpolished, unpracticed—but it burned with something deeper. Their teeth bumped, their lips slipped, and yet every imperfect second only pulled her in further.

It was messy.

And it was perfect.

His desire was written clearly across his face—eyes dark and heavy-lidded, lips flushed with color, mouth parted just slightly as he tasted her. There was no hiding it. No veiling what he wanted from her.

Then, just as quickly, he nipped the tip of her tongue with a gentle bite and drew back.

Their lips parted, breathless.

Wen Yifan stared at him, chest rising and falling, her heart thudding against her ribs. His lips—usually pale and calm—were now flushed a vivid red, like they'd been kissed raw. And his eyes—

His eyes burned.

Not with anger, not with impatience—but with something raw and barely leashed, something that threatened to devour her whole.

He looked at her as if she were the only thing in the world he wanted.

Sang Yan’s gaze dropped to her lips again. He raised his hand and brushed his thumb gently across the corner of her mouth, wiping away the sheen left behind from their kiss. His touch was light, almost reverent—so gentle it made her skin tingle in its wake.

Wen Yifan looked up at him, heart still skittering from his kiss, from his voice, from the way he loomed so close with that infuriating, smug expression—and yet, somehow, she didn’t want him to move an inch.

The world could wait.

“Aren’t you tired?” she murmured, her voice unsteady but playful.

“I am tired,” Sang Yan said, leaning a little closer, his breath brushing her cheek. “But somehow, I feel like I could stay awake just a bit longer.”

Her fingers were still clutching the front of his shirt. Slowly, deliberately, she tugged on it, pulling him toward her again.

This time, it was her who leaned in first.

Her lips found his, soft and sure, closing the space between them without hesitation. It was gentle at first—like an answer to a question he hadn’t asked out loud—but as his hand slid back into her hair, it deepened.

No teasing.

No backing away.

She kissed him like she meant it. Like she wasn’t afraid anymore. Like she finally understood what it meant to want something for herself and reach for it.

Sang Yan made a soft sound in the back of his throat—a surprised, pleased noise—and kissed her back, arms circling her waist as if to remind her she wasn’t going anywhere. They lost themselves in the moment.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and flushed, Sang Yan didn’t speak right away. His forehead rested lightly against hers, their noses nearly touching.

Wen Yifan’s voice came quiet, nearly shy. “That was... an improvement, wasn’t it?”

Sang Yan chuckled, the sound warm and rumbling low in his chest. “Now that ,” he said, brushing his thumb over her cheek, “was a good start.”

She leaned into his touch, smiling. “You still tired?”

His eyes crinkled. “I’m wide awake.”

They sat like that for a moment longer—close, steady, silent.

“You’re so dramatic,” she whispered, voice barely a breath.

“I’m birthday dramatic,” Sang Yan murmured. “It’s different.”

She laughed, soft and low, her fingers brushing his.

“Happy now?” she asked.

He leaned in and kissed her once more—lighter this time, like a punctuation mark. “Very.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The early morning air was sharp, the sky a pale winter blue. Sang Yan stood just outside the dormitory doors, hands shoved in his pockets, breath misting in the cold. A small paper bag of breakfast buns was tucked under one arm, and he bounced slightly on his heels as he waited.

A few minutes later, Yifan emerged, scarf wrapped snug around her neck, hair still a little tousled from sleep.

“You’re early,” she said, blinking at him through the cold.

“Wanted to see you before I left,” he said, lifting the bag. “Brought breakfast.”

She smiled, stepping closer. “Sweet.”

But then she paused.

Her eyes drifted to the corner of his mouth—and her face immediately went warm.

“Wait,” she said, squinting, “what happened to your lip?”

Sang Yan blinked. “What—oh.”

He grinned.

“Don’t you dare—”

“It’s just a tiny split,” he said, all false innocence. “Might’ve been from... excessive enthusiasm.”

“Sang Yan—!”

He laughed. “Relax, it’s barely noticeable. But wow, someone was really into giving me my birthday present last night.”

Yifan smacked his arm, mortified. “You’re impossible.”

“True,” he said cheerfully, dodging her next swipe. “But you’re the one who mauled me.”

“I did not—!”

He leaned down, voice warm against her ear. “Don’t worry. I liked it.”

She flushed all the way to her ears and shoved a bun into his hand to shut him up. “Eat your breakfast and go before I decide to revoke your goodbye.”

Sang Yan only grinned wider, but took the bun obediently.

They stood there for a few quiet moments, sharing breakfast and brushing fingers occasionally between bites. As he finally slung his bag over his shoulder, he glanced at her one more time.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said softly. “Keep warm.”

Yifan gave a small nod, then pulled his scarf up slightly as if to adjust it—but really, just to touch him once more.

“Safe travels,” she murmured.

He kissed her forehead and left, grinning all the way down the steps.

Snow softened the edges of campus, dusting rooftops and hedges, blurring the hard lines of winter into something gentler. The silence between semesters stretched long and unhurried, like a held breath. Everything felt slower now, quieter, the usual noise of student life replaced by the hush of falling snow and the distant hum of campus heating systems straining to keep up.

Far from school, Sang Yan stood in the warm yellow glow of his parents’ kitchen. Sleeves rolled up, hands dusted with flour, he folded dumpling wrappers with the ease of muscle memory. His mother moved beside him, efficient and wordless, while his father hovered near the radiator with a scowl and a running commentary about how no one ever fixed anything on time. His sister, Sang Zhi, was lounging in the living room watching TV while playing with her phone. Steam from the pot rose in lazy clouds, fogging the windows. Laughter wove in and out of their domestic ritual, tangled with the scent of ginger and soy.

Back at the nearly-empty dorms, Yifan curled into the corner of the common lounge, wrapped in a thick wool blanket with her knees tucked under her. Her laptop balanced on her thighs, editing software open, audio playing softly through her earbuds. Her fingers moved with practiced ease, cutting clips, adjusting timing, cleaning transitions. Outside, snow tapped gently at the tall windows, as if knocking softly to remind her of the world beyond her screen.

A few days later, a bus pulled into the city station. Sang Yan stepped off with a duffel slung over his shoulder, a thermos in one hand. The chill bit at his ears as he crossed the station and headed for the university gates, his breath blooming in the air. Campus stood silent and familiar, the paths half-cleared, trees rimmed in white. He walked with his collar turned up and his head ducked, but there was something steady in his stride—something expectant.

The next morning, they met for breakfast.

The dorm’s common kitchen was quiet save for the soft clink of cutlery and the low hum of the radiator. Yifan sat curled in an oversized sweater, hair still damp from a quick shower. Sang Yan arrived with his thermos and two cups, sliding into the chair across from her with a sleepy smile. Their fingers brushed as they passed utensils, poured tea, opened packets of preserved egg and warm mantou buns. No one said much, but they didn’t need to. The comfort of shared silence stretched between them like a favorite old blanket.

In the tech lab later that week, Sang Yan hunched over a mess of wires and circuit boards, brows furrowed, mouth set in concentration. The prototype had refused to run properly all morning, and he hadn’t noticed the door open behind him. Yifan padded in silently, leaned over, and rested her chin lightly on his shoulder. He paused just long enough to let her weight settle against him, the faintest curve of a smile touching his lips, before she slipped away again.

That evening, he fell asleep on the couch in the dorm’s shared study room, one arm flung over his eyes, a thick programming manual rising and falling with each breath. Yifan found him like that—soft, unguarded—and pulled a blanket over him before returning to her laptop nearby. She watched him for a moment, then brushed a strand of hair off his forehead, her touch feather-light.

Later, when snow began to fall again, they sat together in the quiet lounge, each absorbed in their own book. The only sounds were the faint rustle of turning pages and the wind whispering at the window panes. Their legs touched under the table—barely, but steadily. Neither of them moved. There was peace in the silence. And something else, too. Something that felt like staying.

The snow lingered, though thinner now—more slush than softness—coating the edges of stone steps and collecting in half-melted puddles by the dormitory doors. Winter break ebbed slowly to its end, and with it, the hush that had wrapped around campus began to lift.

By mid February, the university stirred back to life.

Rolling suitcases echoed along the walkways, their wheels thudding over uneven stone. Buses dropped off students in waves, some bleary-eyed from travel, others animated with stories from home. Cafés reopened, classrooms blinked awake, and the familiar clamor of student life returned like the tide.

Inside the computer science building, the bulletin board near the stairwell drew a small crowd. A fresh announcement fluttered in the breeze of passing footsteps:
 

Advanced Programmers Club – Final Roster.

Sang Yan’s name stood near the top, circled in red pen with a messy scribble that might have been a congratulatory note—or a dare.

He stared at it for a moment, then pulled out his phone and snapped a picture. He didn’t send it.

A few blocks away, Yifan stood in the middle of the campus media center, eyes fixed on the whiteboard plastered with assignment charts and colored sticky notes. The student paper had expanded coverage. She’d been assigned two feature articles, three editing shifts, and a weekly broadcast segment. The markers bled slightly where condensation from the windows had touched them. She re-capped the pen in her hand and exhaled.

The second term had begun.

And with it came the shifting tides of responsibility and ambition.

By the end of the first week, their days no longer flowed in sync.

Sang Yan spent long hours in the coding lab, often past 9 PM, face lit by the ghostly glow of his monitor. The deadlines came fast, the code intricate. His phone buzzed against the desk—one unread message from Yifan: You still alive?

He smirked and typed back:
Barely. You?

No reply yet.

Yifan left a club meeting near midnight, tripod slung over one shoulder, fingers stiff with cold. She typed out a quick message— You eaten? —paused, then deleted it. Her thumb hovered for a moment before she sighed and tucked her phone away.

One evening, Sang Yan passed by her dorm building after a late debugging session. Her window light was still on. He didn’t text. He just stood there for a while, hands in his coat pockets, watching the pale square of her window flicker as she moved inside.

In a different building, Yifan scrubbed through a video segment for broadcast. One of the robotics club’s demo clips played across her screen—Sang Yan’s voice faint in the background. She didn’t smile, but her eyes lingered as she adjusted the timing.

They weren’t drifting apart—not really. But the hours they used to fill together now belonged to other things. Other people. Other expectations.

A week in, Sang Yan lay flat on his dorm bed, earbuds in, his phone resting on his chest. The hum of the ceiling light filled the quiet. He hadn’t realized he’d dozed off waiting for her reply until the buzz of a new message woke him.

From Yifan.

I miss you.

Three words. No punctuation. No explanation. Just honest, spare, and late.

He stared at it for a long moment, then smiled, slow and full. Typed back:
Me too.

The second term didn’t slow down. If anything, it pressed harder—like the cold that refused to loosen its grip on campus, seeping through coat seams and lecture halls. But something had shifted after that message.

They began to find each other again—not in hours, but in minutes.

It started with mornings.

Three times a week, Sang Yan began showing up at the campus café around 7:45. He never messaged her. He just waited, two cups in hand, earbuds in, thumb tracing the rim of the cardboard sleeve. Yifan would spot him through the window on her way back from printing scripts at the media center.

They never stayed long. Fifteen minutes, sometimes ten. She’d sit down across from him, accept the drink wordlessly, and they’d drink side by side—scrolling, yawning, not talking much. But it was enough.

Then there were the small gaps between classes—Sang Yan showing up outside the journalism building, leaning against the railing with a granola bar in his mouth. Yifan, always with a camera strap slung across her chest, bumping his shoulder as she passed him her report sheet.

One rainy afternoon, they shared a single umbrella as they walked from the broadcasting room to the science wing. He held it too high. She pulled his arm down, muttering about “height privilege,” and he laughed, letting her guide the way.

They never said they were meeting. They just did.

And when there was no time at all, they left pieces behind.

A hand-scrawled note on Yifan’s desk:
You overwork. Take breaks. This is a threat. – S.Y.
(There was a pastry tucked beside it. She pretended not to smile.)

A programming sticker stuck to Sang Yan’s keyboard with a post-it:
Drink water or perish. Also, this sticker is ugly. – Y.F.
(He kept it there for days.)

Then one Friday evening, with snow beginning to fall again, Yifan found herself trudging across campus with frozen fingers and aching feet. The last club meeting had run late, and her tripod dug into her shoulder. When she stepped into the dorm lobby, she nearly tripped over a figure seated by the heater.

Sang Yan looked up, hair damp, hoodie askew.

“Dinner?” he asked simply, lifting two takeout boxes.

She blinked. “You waited?”

He stood, shrugging. “Felt like it.”

They sat on the floor right there in the lobby, boxes balanced on their knees, the heater humming behind them. It wasn’t fancy, it wasn’t planned, but it was theirs.

And in those quiet scraps of time—ten minutes of breakfast, shared umbrellas, bent post-it notes, floor-dinners in dusty corners—they stitched something back together. Not like before. Something steadier. Something that could weather the rush and still feel whole.

Chapter Text

The winter sun was beginning its slow descent, casting long shadows over the backlot of the media building. Few students ever lingered here—just a row of storage sheds, discarded equipment cases, and a rusted bike or two chained to the railing.

Yifan was coming out of the editing room, her tote bag heavy with camera gear, when she felt a tug on her sleeve.

She turned. “Sang Yan?”

He didn’t say anything—just grabbed her hand and pulled her with him around the side of the building, behind a tall stack of unused lighting rigs. She barely had time to set down her bag before he pressed her gently against the wall, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that left no room for hesitation.

Yifan gasped softly into it—half from surprise, half from how fast everything tilted. Her fingers curled in the front of his jacket as he deepened the kiss, one hand braced beside her head, the other finding the curve of her waist like he’d been craving this all day.

She broke the kiss just enough to breathe. “Sang Yan—someone could—”

“Then be quiet,” he murmured, voice low and warm against her skin as his lips found the corner of her jaw, her neck.

Her laugh caught somewhere between breathless and scandalized. “You’re insane.”

“I missed you,” he said again, more quietly this time, kissing her like it was a promise.

Her hands slipped under his coat, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie as she tugged him closer. The cold didn’t seem to matter here—between the warmth of his body and the way his thumb traced circles against her hip.

For a long moment, they just stood like that, the world muffled behind the wall, behind everything. His forehead rested against hers now, their breathing matched.

Yifan closed her eyes. “You’re really going to do this every time we get five minutes alone?”

“If I don’t,” he said, “I’ll combust.”

She laughed again, softer this time, and tilted her face to kiss him once more—slow and unhurried this time. The kind that lingered.

Eventually, she pulled back. “Go. You’ll be late for your next class.”

“Worth it,” he said.

He stepped back reluctantly, hands sliding away. Yifan bent to pick up her bag, cheeks flushed, lips slightly swollen.

As she walked away, she glanced over her shoulder. “Hey.”

He looked up.

Her smile was small, teasing. “Next time, warn me. I almost dropped a lens.”

Sang Yan grinned. “Noted.”

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The computer lab on the third floor of the tech building was nearly empty—just the hum of machines, the soft tap of keys, and the faint sound of wind rattling against the windows. Most students had already cleared out, eager to start their weekends.

Sang Yan stayed behind, hunched over his laptop, glasses slipping down his nose as he debugged line after line of code. His jacket was tossed over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up, headphones around his neck.

He didn’t notice the door open.

Didn’t notice the footsteps until they stopped right beside him.

Then—

A hand slipped over his eyes from behind.

He froze. “What the—?”

“Guess who,” came Yifan’s voice, low and sing-song against his ear.

His whole posture relaxed immediately, a grin pulling at his lips. “You stalking me now?”

“Mm. Just timing you,” she said. “You’ve been here for almost four hours. That’s three hours and fifty-nine minutes too long.”

Sang Yan turned in his chair to look at her—but before he could speak, she leaned down and kissed him. Firm. Sure. Cupping his face with both hands as she tilted her head, pressing her mouth against his like she’d been thinking about it for hours.

Sang Yan’s eyes fluttered shut, breath catching. He reached up, grabbing her wrist lightly, but didn’t stop her. Didn’t even try.

When she finally pulled back, there was the faintest dazed look in his eyes.

“…Damn,” he murmured.

Yifan smirked, brushing her thumb across his cheekbone. “That’s for pulling me behind the media building like a drama lead on Wednesday.”

“No complaints here,” he said, still catching his breath.

She glanced around. “No one else here?”

“Not since six,” he said. “And the TA locks up at eight.”

“Well,” she said, stepping in closer again, “guess we’ve got time.”

Sang Yan’s chair creaked as she climbed onto his lap, her knees on either side of him, their mouths finding each other again in a kiss deeper and more languid than the first. His hands found her waist automatically, fingers bunching in the fabric of her sweater.

“You’re not going to let me get anything done, are you?” he asked against her lips.

“Nope,” she whispered, smiling.

And for once, he didn’t mind the interruption.

The windows had turned opaque with night, the only light inside the lab coming from Sang Yan’s laptop screen and the dim fluorescents overhead. Yifan sat curled sideways in his lap now, her arms looped loosely around his neck, her cheek resting against his shoulder.

Neither of them spoke for a while.

Sang Yan’s hands traced absentminded patterns on her back, eyes half-closed. Yifan’s breathing had slowed. Her fingers toyed with the drawstring of his hoodie.

“I missed this,” she said quietly.

His chin brushed the top of her head. “Me too.”

Outside, a gust of wind rattled the windows, but here, the world felt still.

He tilted his head and murmured against her hair, “You okay?”

She nodded, but didn’t elaborate. And he didn’t push.

Instead, he just held her closer, letting the silence stretch between them—warm, undemanding. The kind of quiet that felt earned.

The smell of takeout filled the air—fried rice, skewers, and hot soup spread across the scratched-up coffee table. Laughter buzzed from all corners of the room, the kind that only came after long weeks and longer exams. Siqiao had brought milk tea for everyone. Jiaxu was still arguing with Qian Fei and Chen Juwen over who had messed up the group project. The mood was light, buzzing.

Yifan sat cross-legged on the floor, plastic chopsticks in hand, half-listening to the back-and-forth. She was about to reach for a meat skewer when Sang Yan—already too close behind her on the shared bean bag—wrapped both arms around her waist from behind.

“Again?” she murmured under her breath, though her body didn’t resist.

“Missed you,” he said into her neck, voice muffled. He dropped a kiss against the curve just beneath her ear.

“You saw me this morning,” she pointed out, mouth twitching.

“Still missed you.” He tightened his arms and nosed at her scarf until her hair tickled his face. “You smell like tangerines.”

“That's because I’ve been eating tangerines.”

Jiaxu groaned loudly across the table. “Can you two not? Some of us are trying to eat.”

“You were the one who asked if we wanted dinner together,” Sang Yan shot back lazily, kissing Yifan’s cheek next.

Qian Fei squinted. “Are you drunk?”

“Nope,” Sang Yan said, burying his face against Yifan’s shoulder now like a smug cat. “High on love.”

“Disgusting,” Siqiao said, though she was grinning as she passed another skewer to Yifan. “Dian Dian, blink twice if you’re being held hostage.”

Yifan simply leaned back against Sang Yan’s chest and took a bite of her skewer. “I’m fine,” she said, unbothered, the corners of her eyes warm with fondness.

“Look at her,” Chen Juwen said, scandalized. “She’s enabling him.”

“She’s rewarding good behavior,” Sang Yan mumbled, trailing another soft kiss along Yifan’s jaw.

“You’re not a golden retriever,” Qian Fei muttered.

Sang Yan grinned without lifting his head. “Not true. I’m loyal, affectionate, and I’ll guard her with my life.”

“You’ll get kicked out if you keep this up,” Siqiao warned.

“No, no,” Sang Yan said brightly. “I pay rent here with my charm.”

“You pay rent by existing in Yifan’s good graces,” Jiaxu countered.

Yifan snorted into her milk tea.

And still, she didn’t move away. If anything, she leaned back a little more into his warmth—his arms snug around her middle, the quiet rhythm of his breath against her shoulder grounding.

She was used to Sang Yan in many moods: sardonic, brilliant, maddening. But this clingy, soft version of him—unashamed and wrapped around her like something certain and permanent—was new.

And, she realized, as she glanced sideways and found him already looking at her: she didn’t mind it at all.

The dorm common room had finally emptied, the scent of leftovers lingering faintly in the air as Sang Yan helped Yifan gather her things—her scarf, her tote bag, the nearly empty milk tea cup she hadn’t tossed yet. Outside, the night was clear, cold enough to turn their breaths visible, but not so bitter that they hurried.

Sang Yan walked close beside her, their shoulders brushing now and then as they passed through pools of yellow lamplight. The sound of their footsteps on the stone walkway was soft, rhythmic.

Yifan tugged her scarf a little tighter around her neck. “You’re unusually clingy tonight.”

“I’m making up for lost time,” he said easily, slipping his hands into his coat pockets.

She side-eyed him. “You saw me yesterday.”

“And I missed you five minutes after we said goodbye.” He tilted his head toward her, not quite smiling. “I don’t like this new semester version of us.”

Yifan hummed, thoughtful. “The part where we barely see each other?”

“Yeah. I keep checking my phone expecting a message from you, and then I remember you’re probably buried under editing deadlines or chasing down quotes.”

“And you’re debugging code until 2 A.M.,” she added, gently.

“Exactly,” he said. “So if I want to wrap around you like a koala at dinner, you should let me.”

“I did let you,” she murmured. “Didn’t even fight.”

“That’s why you’re my favorite.”

Yifan rolled her eyes, but the smile was undeniable.

They reached the familiar path that split toward the girls’ dormitory. The security lights glowed faintly above the doorway. She slowed, stopping just a few steps from the entrance.

Sang Yan stopped with her.

The silence lingered, not awkward but full—comfortably unspoken.

“I meant it, you know,” he said after a beat.

“Meant what?”

“That I missed you. It’s not just… physical. I mean, that too,” he added with a crooked grin, “but mostly, I just miss talking to you. Laughing with you.”

Her eyes softened. “Me too.”

He reached for her hand, holding it gently in both of his like something precious. “We’ll figure out the time. Even if it’s messy.”

“We always do,” she said.

He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Night, Wen Shuangjiang.”

“Night, Sang Yan.”

She stepped back, fingers lingering in his until the last moment, then disappeared into the dorm as the door clicked softly shut behind her.

Sang Yan stood there for a moment longer, staring up at the quiet windows, before he turned and walked back into the cold.

Still smiling.

Spring crept in slowly. The air softened, the plum trees around campus starting to bloom pale pink. But between assignments, competitions, and editorial deadlines, the pace of life picked up again.

Sang Yan’s club was preparing for a regional hackathon. His nights blurred into strings of code, whiteboard sketches, and debugging sprints with his teammates.

Yifan, meanwhile, was now co-leading a major series on student mental health, managing interviews, writing scripts, and hosting three broadcasts a week. Her bag got heavier with every print layout. Her hours stretched thinner.

Their moments together grew fewer—quieter. A quick kiss between buildings. A shared meal with laptops open. Conversations became shorthand:

“You eat?”

“Not yet. You?”

“Let’s go. Ten minutes.”

There were no complaints. No dramatics. Just a quiet understanding that this was the rhythm for now.

But some nights, after it all, they still found each other.

Like when Yifan fell asleep at his desk in the robotics lab and Sang Yan carried her back to her dorm, muttering about her terrible work habits while pulling her blanket up to her chin.

Or when he texted her at midnight—“You awake?”—and she showed up outside his dorm with hot soy milk and sesame flatbread, curling up beside him on the common room couch without a word.

It wasn’t always glamorous. But it was real.

And somehow, in the stretch of growing responsibilities and pressure, they were learning—slowly, imperfectly—how to hold onto each other without holding each other back.

The newsroom was mostly empty now—desks abandoned, lights dimmed, only the faint hum of computers remaining. Yifan sat hunched over her laptop, the harsh glow casting shadows beneath her eyes. The studio clock ticked past 10:00 PM.

Her fingers hovered above the keyboard. She blinked once. Twice.

Then stopped.

She’d been trying to rewrite the same lead paragraph for half an hour. Her eyes burned. Her shoulders ached. And inside her chest—quietly, steadily—something was fraying.

She closed the laptop slowly and just sat there, staring at the blank screensaver. Her breath shook as it came out.

The room was too quiet.

She didn't cry. But something in her looked like it wanted to.

Then: a knock at the glass.

She turned, startled.

Sang Yan stood outside the door, soaked from the rain outside, hoodie darkened and clinging to his frame. In one hand: a small takeout bag. In the other: his phone, lit up with the message she hadn’t answered an hour ago.

"Still at the studio?"

Yifan stood slowly and walked to open the door.

“You look like hell,” he said, voice soft with concern.

“I feel worse,” she whispered.

He didn’t ask questions. He just stepped inside and gently took the bag from his hand, setting it on the table. Hot soup. Still warm.

She sank onto the nearest chair.

Sang Yan crouched in front of her, resting his hands lightly on her knees.

“Wen Shuangjiang,” he said. “You don’t have to keep pushing like this.”

She bit her lip hard. “If I stop, it’ll all fall apart.”

“It won’t,” he said. “You won’t.”

For a long moment, she didn’t respond.

Then she leaned forward, and without a word, he wrapped his arms around her waist as she buried her face against his neck.

No sobs. No dramatics. Just the silent weight of exhaustion in her limbs, in the way she clung to him like she was afraid to let go.

He held her tighter.

“I’m here,” he murmured. “You’re allowed to fall apart sometimes. Let me be the one who catches you.”

She didn’t answer. But her hand curled into the fabric of his hoodie.

And that was enough.

Rain continued to drum faintly on the windows, steady and unrelenting. Inside the dorm room, the lights were off. Three of the four beds were occupied, blankets rustling with the quiet movement of sleep.

Zhong Siqiao stirred in her bunk, dry throat pulling her halfway out of slumber. She sat up groggily, blinking in the dark—only to freeze when she noticed a pale figure sitting upright at the desk by the window.

It was Yifan.

Siqiao squinted.

Yifan didn’t move.

She was just sitting there, posture too straight, head tilted slightly downward, eyes wide open and unfocused, as though staring straight through the desk in front of her.

A chill rippled through Siqiao’s spine.

“…Dian Dian?” she whispered.

No response.

Siqiao slipped out of bed slowly, bare feet touching the cold tile. She crept closer.

Yifan didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just kept staring at the empty desk.

A lightning followed by a loud thunder suddenly struck outside and that’s when Siqiao screamed.

The other girls jolted awake in a flurry of blankets and gasps.

The scream snapped Yifan out of her trance. She blinked fast, as if surfacing from underwater, her breath catching as she suddenly looked around in confusion.

“What—?” Her voice cracked, throat dry.

“God, you scared the hell out of me!” Siqiao clutched her chest, face pale. “You—you were just sitting there. Like a ghost. Not blinking. What the hell was that?!”

Yifan glanced around slowly, realization dawning on her with growing horror.

“I don’t… remember getting up,” she murmured.

One of their roommates clicked on the desk lamp, bathing the room in soft amber light. The rain outside continued to murmur.

Siqiao put a hand on Yifan’s shoulder and knelt beside her. “Have you been sleeping at all?”

Yifan shook her head mutely.

“You’ve been like this for days,” another girl said from her bunk, voice groggy but laced with concern. “Running around with the newspaper and your classes. You’re burning out.”

Yifan swallowed hard and pressed her fingers to her temple.

“I’m fine,” she mumbled.

“No, you’re not,” Siqiao said gently. “That wasn’t fine, Wen Yifan. That was scary. ”

For the first time, Yifan looked shaken. The certainty in her voice wavered. “I didn’t even know I got out of bed.”

Siqiao squeezed her arm. “That’s not nothing. You need to slow down before your body forces you to.”

Yifan lowered her head, shame creeping into her voice. “I didn’t mean to worry anyone.”

Siqiao didn’t answer that—just moved to pull her blanket off the bed and drape it around Yifan’s shoulders.

“Come back to bed,” she said. “At least try to sleep tonight.”

Yifan nodded faintly.

But even as she climbed back under the covers, her eyes remained open for a long, long time—haunted by the fact that for one brief moment, she hadn’t even known where she was.

And that maybe… she wasn’t as in control as she’d tried to be.

Journalism Building – One Week Later

The midday sun cast pale rectangles across the tiled floor of the hallway. Students milled around, chatter echoing off the walls between classes.

Yifan stood at the vending machine, staring blankly at the buttons. Her fingers hovered indecisively between instant coffee and canned milk tea, shoulders hunched beneath the oversized hoodie she hadn't bothered to change out of since morning.

She hadn’t slept again last night. Not really.

Even with her roommates asleep, she'd lain awake with her eyes wide open, afraid of slipping into unconsciousness. Afraid of waking up somewhere else. Of scaring them again.

When the lecture hall doors opened behind her, she flinched.

Sang Yan stepped out, brows furrowed, phone in hand. He spotted her and strode over.

“Wen Shuangjiang.”

She glanced up, blinking slowly.

“You didn’t answer my texts this morning.”

“I—yeah. Sorry.” Her voice was hoarse.

He studied her, eyes narrowing. “Did you sleep?”

She looked away. “A little.”

He didn’t buy it.

“You missed class yesterday,” he said more softly. “And your name was on the project board. Professor Chen even asked me if something was going on.”

“I turned it in late,” she murmured.

“Yeah, I saw,” he said. “And it was barely two pages.”

Her silence confirmed it.

Sang Yan exhaled and moved closer, lowering his voice. “What’s going on? This isn’t just school stress. Something’s not right.”

She hesitated.

Then: “I’ve been sleepwalking. It started when my Dad died. I had a few incidents back when I was in Beiyu and now, it looks like it’s happening again.”

Sang Yan stilled.

She went on, her voice low. “A few nights ago, Siqiao found me sitting at my desk. I don’t remember getting up. She screamed. Woke the whole room.” Her arms folded tightly around her chest. “I haven’t been letting myself sleep since.”

“Wen Shuangjiang…”

“I didn’t mean to freak them out. But I can’t stop thinking, what if I leave the room next time? What if I do something worse?”

Sang Yan’s jaw clenched. Not at her—but at the quiet, methodical way she was unraveling, all while trying to pretend she wasn’t.

“So you’re just… staying awake? Until you pass out?”

She didn’t answer.

“That’s not a solution,” he said. “You’re not solving anything. You’re just hurting yourself more.”

She shook her head. “You don’t get it. If it happens again—”

“I do get it,” he interrupted. “Because I’ve been watching you slowly fall apart. You think I can’t see it?”

She swallowed hard.

“I’m not mad,” he added, gentler now. “But I’m scared. For you.”

Her face crumpled slightly, the walls she held up trembling under the weight of exhaustion.

He reached out and took her hand, firm and warm. “Come with me.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere you can actually rest. Where I can keep an eye on you.”

“Sang Yan…”

“No arguments,” he said, quietly insistent. “You’re sleeping tonight. Even if it’s just a nap. Even if I have to sit beside you the whole time.”

Her shoulders sagged.

“…Okay,” she whispered.

He squeezed her fingers. “Let’s go.”

Sang Yan’s Apartment – Late Afternoon

The elevator doors opened to a quiet hallway on the 17th floor. Sang Yan led the way with his key already in hand, fingers brushing lightly against Yifan’s as they walked side by side.

He pushed open the door, and warm air greeted them—slightly stale from disuse, but clean. The apartment was modest but cozy: two bedrooms, a small living room with a low sofa and scattered textbooks, a compact kitchen with mugs hanging from hooks.

Yifan blinked, taking it in. “This is yours?”

“Yeah,” he said, toeing off his shoes. “My parents gave it to me when I started college. Said they’d rather have a place to myself than waste money renting after I graduate. Also, that they are surprised and thankful that I’m going to college at all, hence, this gift”

She lingered by the doorway, scanning the space. “You don’t really live here though.”

He shook his head, chuckling softly. “Dorms are easier—closer to class, to the lab. I come here sometimes. When I need to think. Or sleep properly. Duan Jiaxu stays over as well.”

Yifan glanced toward the hallway. “You let Duan Jiaxu stay over?”

“Sometimes,” Sang Yan said, heading toward the kitchen to pour her a glass of warm water. “When he’s got a shift that ends late and his place is too far. He uses the smaller room. You’ll take the master.”

She turned to look at him. “I could take the smaller one.”

“Nope,” he said without looking back. “You’re not negotiating when you haven’t slept in two days.”

She almost smiled.

He handed her the glass. “Go lie down. I’ll stay close.”

She hesitated by the hallway again, gripping the water in both hands.

Sensing her nerves, he softened. “You’re safe here. I promise. Nothing’s going to happen while I’m around.”

Something in her expression wavered. She nodded once.

The master bedroom was quiet and clean, with light curtains and a wide bed freshly made. She stood at the foot of it for a moment, unsure.

Then she sat down slowly, back straight. “Do you ever sleep here?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” he replied. “When it’s too loud in the dorms. When I’m burned out.”

She nodded again.

He lingered at the doorway. “I’ll be right outside. But if you want me to stay—”

“…Will you?”

He stepped inside without another word and sat on the floor beside the bed, back resting against the wall. “Just try to sleep.”

Yifan laid down slowly, curling on her side to face him.

The silence stretched, warm and steady.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.

Sang Yan looked over—and saw her eyes finally closed, her breaths evening out. Her fingers had curled around the edge of the blanket, brow relaxed for the first time in days.

He didn’t move.

Instead, he let his head fall gently back against the wall, a soft exhale escaping him.

In the dim quiet of the room, with the rain pattering faintly against the windows, she slept.

And Sang Yan watched over her, not out of duty—but devotion.

Warm light filtered in through the curtains, dusting the room in a soft gold. The rain had stopped sometime during the night, leaving the city outside hushed and washed clean.

Yifan stirred slowly beneath the covers, her lashes fluttering before her eyes opened. For a second, she didn’t remember where she was—but then the scent of Sang Yan’s shampoo, faint in the air, and the soft creak of movement beside the bed brought it all back.

She turned her head.

Sang Yan was still on the floor, curled into the corner with a hoodie thrown over his head. His laptop sat beside him, screen dark, earbuds tangled in his lap. He must’ve fallen asleep while working—or keeping watch.

Yifan blinked at him for a long moment. Her chest felt... lighter. Just a little.

She sat up slowly. The movement roused him.

His eyes opened, groggy and red-rimmed. “Hey,” he said, voice rough. “How do you feel?”

Yifan exhaled. “Like I actually slept.”

A lazy, crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “You did. For ten hours.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“I counted,” he said, stretching his arms over his head. “I checked on you. Twice.”

She flushed slightly and looked away, but she didn’t argue.

He cooked them a simple breakfast—congee, some steamed buns. She sat at the table, watching him move about his kitchen like he’d done this with her a hundred times before.

When they were both sitting, eating in silence, he said casually, “You’re looking better.”

Yifan looked up.

“I can tell,” he said. “Your appetite is back, your complexion looks better. You look well rested.”

She gave a faint, embarrassed smile.

“But,” he added, “you’re still burning out. You’re keeping up with school, the newspaper, the broadcast team, and that café job—”

“I need the café job,” she interrupted quietly.

Sang Yan didn’t push immediately. He nodded, thoughtful.

“I know,” he said. “But what if you moved in here? At least for now.”

Yifan blinked. “What?”

“This place is close to school and the café. You’d get more sleep, fewer roommates to worry about waking, and I can drag you to class if I have to.”

Her brows furrowed. “Sang Yan…”

“I’m not saying we’ll live together,” he added quickly, lifting his palms. “Just… until things settle. I’ll stay in the spare room if you want. Or Jiaxu can take the couch. He doesn’t mind. He doesn’t come here everyday anyway.”

She stared at him.

“I just want you to have somewhere you feel safe enough to sleep,” he finished, voice quiet.

The silence stretched.

Then she said, very softly, “You always do that.”

He tilted his head. “What?”

“Make it easy to say yes.”

Sang Yan smiled—gentle, no teasing this time. “That’s the goal.”

She didn’t say yes yet.

But she didn’t say no either.

And for now, that was enough.

He hesitated a moment, then reached for her hand across the table.

“There’s one more thing,” he said.

She looked up again.

“I think you should see someone. A doctor. About sleepwalking.”

Her lips parted, but she didn’t speak.

“I’m not saying it to scare you,” he added quickly. “But if it’s stress, or something else—we should know. And I’ll go with you. Every step.”

Yifan lowered her gaze. “It’s probably nothing.”

“Maybe,” he agreed. “But maybe it’s not. Either way, I don’t want you going through it alone.”

Her fingers curled slightly around his. She didn’t pull away.

And though she didn’t give an answer just yet, there was something in the way she looked at him—quiet trust, wary hope—that told him she might.

And that, too, was enough.

Chapter Text

A soft breeze rustled the new green leaves outside the hospital windows. Spring had crept onto the city with quiet grace—buds blooming along the sidewalks, sunshine warming the chill in the air. Inside the sleep clinic, however, it still smelled faintly of antiseptic and hand soap, the waiting room too bright and too still.

Yifan sat beside Sang Yan, hands tucked beneath her thighs. She looked outwardly calm, but her jaw was tense. She didn’t like hospitals.

Sang Yan, on the other hand, sat forward in his chair, a notebook on his knee—half-full of scribbles in cramped handwriting. He looked like a student preparing for an exam.

“Wen Yifan?”

The nurse’s call was gentle. They both stood.

Inside the consultation room, the doctor—a middle-aged woman with a kind face and tired eyes—listened patiently as Yifan described her recent sleepwalking episodes. Then she turned to Sang Yan, who had already opened his notebook.

“I’ve been reading,” he said, straightening slightly. “Is it true that stress and irregular sleep are major triggers?”

“Yes,” the doctor replied. “In young adults especially, sleepwalking tends to be linked to high stress, sleep deprivation, or inconsistent sleep patterns.”

“And what about the environment?” he pressed. “Should she avoid screens before bed? What about room temperature?”

The doctor smiled faintly. “All good instincts. A cool, quiet room helps. And having a consistent wind-down routine is crucial. But the most important thing—especially if the episodes are frequent—is to ensure she’s never sleeping completely alone.”

Yifan frowned slightly. “Why?”

“Because sleepwalkers can injure themselves without knowing it. Even simple things like tripping or knocking into furniture. If someone is nearby, they can gently intervene without waking them fully.”

Sang Yan’s jaw flexed, but he stayed quiet. The doctor continued.

“Having someone you trust who can monitor patterns or even keep a light eye on you—just to make sure you’re safe—that can help a lot. It’s not a cure, but it minimizes risk.”

Yifan shifted in her seat, gaze flicking to Sang Yan.

He didn’t look at her. Just nodded once.

The doctor added, “And more than anything else, Yifan—you need rest. Proper, restorative sleep. That’s the most direct way to reduce these episodes. Your body is trying to tell you it’s overwhelmed.”

There was no judgment in her tone. Just quiet concern.

Yifan swallowed.

“Understood,” she murmured.

When the appointment ended and they stepped out onto the sunlit sidewalk, Yifan exhaled deeply. She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been holding her breath.

Sang Yan tucked the notebook into his bag.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

She nodded. Then, with a small glance up at him: “You really asked all those questions?”

“I could’ve asked more,” he said, feigning indignant pride. “I held back.”

She let out a short breath that was almost a laugh.

They walked side by side, the wind ruffling her hair. She felt lighter—not fixed, but maybe, for once, not alone in fixing it.

The hospital was behind them now, and the city had softened into a pleasant kind of warmth. The streets smelled faintly of steamed buns and dust, mingling with the faint floral scent of early blossoms.

Sang Yan walked a step behind her at first, his hands in his coat pockets, his expression unreadable. He kept hearing the doctor’s voice in his head—the quiet pause before she had asked:

“Yifan, has anything significant ever happened in your past—any trauma or incident—that might be connected to stress responses during sleep?”

He remembered how Yifan had stilled for just a beat.

Her answer had been mild. Practiced.

“My dad passed away when I was young. After that, I stayed with relatives on and off. Nothing dramatic.”

Nothing dramatic.

Sang Yan had glanced at her then, but she’d been looking at her hands—calm, composed, detached. Not cold exactly, but distant in that way she sometimes got when someone tried to pull at threads she’d tied too tightly.

Now, walking beside her, he glanced down at her profile. The light caught the slope of her nose, the curve of her brow. She looked almost peaceful.

But he knew better.

The silence stretched, not uncomfortable but thick with something unsaid.

“You didn’t mention much about your family,” he said quietly.

She glanced at him. “There’s not much to mention.”

“That’s not true.”

Her lips pressed together. She turned her gaze forward again.

Sang Yan hesitated before adding, “You don’t have to tell me everything. Not now. I just... I want to know what you carry. So I can help carry it.”

Yifan stopped walking.

They stood at the corner near the old tea shop, just beyond the university wall. Wind tugged gently at her scarf.

“I know,” she said softly. “But sometimes I don’t even know how to explain it. Or where to start.”

Sang Yan stepped closer, not touching her, but close enough for warmth.

“Then don’t explain,” he said. “Just let me be here.”

She looked up at him, and for a second, her eyes shimmered like she might cry—but didn’t.

Instead, she nodded.

Just once.

They started walking again. This time, more in step. Neither of them said anything more about it. But in the space between them, the silence didn’t feel as heavy.

The sky had slipped into a soft navy by the time they left the studio together. Yifan’s schedule ended early and Sang Yan was there to walk with her. Campus lights flickered to life, casting a gentle glow across the cobblestones and trees newly blooming with green. Spring air carried a coolness that clung to Yifan’s cheeks as they walked side by side, her equipment bag slung over one shoulder, his hand grazing hers every few steps.

Sang Yan broke the silence first.

“So…” he said, a little too casually. “Have you thought about what I said? About staying at my place?”

Yifan didn’t answer right away. She adjusted the strap of her bag and kept her gaze forward. “I’ve been thinking about it.”

“And?”

She glanced at him. “How much would you charge me for rent?”

He blinked, as if the question surprised him. “Rent?”

“Yeah,” she said, tone light but firm. “I’m not freeloading.”

“You wouldn’t be freeloading. You’d be sleeping.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Sang Yan exhaled through his nose, amused. “Wen Shuangjiang, even Duan Jiaxu doesn’t pay rent when he crashes there. And he’s there more than I am sometimes.”

“Okay, but I’m not Duan Jiaxu,” she said. “And I’m not just crashing. If I stay regularly, that’s living together.”

He snorted. “You make it sound illegal.”

She gave him a pointed look.

“I’m serious, Sang Yan. I’m not moving in unless I pay rent,” she said firmly. “Otherwise it’ll feel like I’m freeloading. Or worse—like we’re… cohabiting.”

He snorted. “We are cohabiting. Technically. Temporarily.”

Yifan shot him a look.

Sang Yan lifted both hands in surrender, still grinning. “Okay, fine. Rent. You want to be official about it.”

“I do.”

He sighed, clearly fighting a smile. “Fine. 500 yuan a month.”

Yifan stopped in her tracks. “That’s not even a third of what a room in this area costs.”

“Exactly. You’re getting the idiot discount.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you calling yourself the idiot or me?”

“Me, obviously.” He grinned. “For arguing with you about rent.”

Yifan huffed a quiet laugh, but the look in her eyes was softened. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stubborn.”

They resumed walking.

“500,” he said again. “Non-negotiable. Call it... utilities or companionship tax, whatever helps you sleep.”

“That’s barely enough to cover utilities,” Yifan argued.

“You think Duan Jiaxu pays rent when he crashes at my place four nights a week? Please. He eats all my snacks and uses up the hot water and still leaves his socks in the living room.”

Yifan’s lips twitched. “Still. 500 is too low.”

“It’s either 500, or nothing.”

“Sang Yan—”

He leaned forward slightly, eyes meeting hers, voice softer now. “I’m not doing this for money. I’m doing this so you can sleep somewhere safe. So you don’t have to be afraid of waking up confused or scaring your roommates again. So I don’t have to keep texting at 2 AM wondering if you’re okay.”

Yifan swallowed, throat tight. She shook her head with a small smile, finally relenting.

After a long pause, she said quietly, “I’ll pay utilities too.”

He opened his mouth to argue. Thought better of it. Then gave a small nod.

“Deal,” he said. “But no overpaying.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“You love me.”

A faint flush rose in her cheeks, but she didn’t deny it.

Sang Yan reached for her hand, lacing his fingers through hers as petals drifted down onto the pavement around them.

A soft spring breeze rustled through the trees, carrying the scent of damp grass and blooming flowers. The courtyard outside Yifan’s dorm was quiet, drowsy with the end-of-day hush. Streetlamps buzzed faintly overhead, their glow casting gentle halos onto the brick pathway.

Sang Yan stood leaning against the iron railing by the entrance, hands in his jacket pockets, earbuds in but not playing anything. He watched the windows absently, eyes occasionally flicking toward the doorway each time someone walked out.

Then he saw her.

Yifan pushed open the glass door, her hair slightly tousled, tote bag slung over one shoulder, a backpack on the other. She carried a small duffel too, clutched in one hand. When she spotted him, her mouth curved just slightly at the corners.

“You didn’t have to wait out here,” she said as she approached.

“I wanted to,” he said simply, straightening up and reaching to take the duffel from her without asking. “This all you’re bringing for tonight?”

She nodded. “Just the essentials.”

He tilted his head, squinting at the bulging bag. “That’s what you call essentials?”

“Do you want to debate this or carry it?”

Sang Yan huffed a laugh but didn’t argue. He adjusted the strap on his shoulder and turned with her toward the sidewalk.

“I’ll come help you move the rest on the weekend,” he said, his tone casual but certain. “All of it. Clothes, books, your coffee machine, whatever.”

Yifan glanced up at him. “Even if I change my mind?”

He looked down, meeting her gaze. “Then I’ll carry it back. But I won’t let you haul it alone either way.”

Her steps slowed just a little. “You’re really not going to let me keep my distance from you, are you?”

“Nope,” he said without missing a beat. “I like proximity. Plus you heard what the doctor said, you need me.”

A beat passed.

Then she murmured, quieter, “Okay. Weekend.”

Sang Yan smiled to himself, fingers brushing hers once more as they walked—this time, he didn’t hesitate to catch and hold on.

The soft click of the door echoed lightly through the apartment as Sang Yan stepped inside, Yifan following close behind with her tote and backpack. The familiar scent of warm wood and detergent greeted them. It felt… calmer here. Calmer than her dorm. Less crowded. Less heavy.

Sang Yan took the duffel from her shoulder without a word and carried it to the master bedroom.

"Just put your stuff anywhere for now. You can rearrange later,” he said over his shoulder. “But tonight, sleep early, alright?”

Yifan paused at the doorway. “Where are you sleeping?”

Sang Yan turned, his grin cheeky. “Why? Want me to sleep with you?”

Her face froze.

He immediately raised both hands in mock surrender, laughing. “Kidding. I’m sleeping in the other room. Promise. I’ll leave my door open though—just in case.”

She still looked a little unsure.

He softened. “I’ll be up late coding anyway. Probably till 2 or 3. I’ll check on you, make sure you’re okay. You just try to rest.”

Yifan nodded and quietly went into the master bedroom, the door shutting gently behind her.

Sang Yan, meanwhile, stepped into the spare room and gave it a quick once-over. He fluffed the pillows, adjusted the sheets, but ended up back in the living room instead—laptop on the coffee table, hoodie draped over the back of the couch, legs crossed as he dove into his work.

The soft tapping of his keyboard echoed through the quiet apartment.

A while later, light footsteps approached.

He glanced up.

Yifan stood in her pajama set, sleepy but curious. She padded over and sat beside him on the couch.

“Still working?” she asked, tucking her legs under her.

“Yeah,” he murmured, not looking away from his screen. “Graphics stuff. For a game app I’m helping a guy in the robotics club build. See—this part’s the animation loop.”

Yifan leaned in, watching the little avatar dance across the screen. “Cute.”

They sat like that for a moment, the glow of the screen brushing softly against both their faces.

Then she spoke up. “I was thinking… we should probably have rules.”

Sang Yan turned his head. “Rules?”

“For living together,” she clarified. “Boundaries. Expectations.”

He set his laptop aside, intrigued. “Alright. Hit me.”

Yifan held up a finger. “One: We make sure the apartment stays clean. If you make a mess, you clean it up. No dishes piling up in the sink. I’ll do the same, of course.”

“Fair,” Sang Yan said, nodding. “What else?”

“Two: If either of us is inviting someone over, we tell each other. And we ask first.”

“Reasonable,” he said. “So, am I allowed to invite Duan Jiaxu?”

Yifan smirked. “Are you allowed to invite him?”

He chuckled. “Touché.”

Yifan shifted slightly. “Then… am I allowed to invite Qiao Qiao?”

“As long as it’s not a guy,” Sang Yan replied instantly.

Yifan laughed. “Jealous, much?”

“Territorial,” he corrected, grinning.

She was about to respond when he suddenly shrugged off his cardigan, revealing his fitted tank top underneath as he stretched.

Yifan’s eyes flicked to his toned arms… then snapped away.

“Rule three,” she said quickly, voice slightly higher. “No nudity in common areas.”

Sang Yan burst out laughing. “What? This isn’t nudity.”

“It’s close enough,” she said flatly, eyes on the far wall. “It counts.”

He leaned in, voice low and teasing. “But you like what you see.”

She gave him a shove.

He relented, still laughing. “Fine. No nudity. I’ll wear three layers next time just for you.”

“Good,” she muttered, though her lips twitched.

Sang Yan leaned back. “Any other rules?”

“Not yet,” she said. “We’ll figure the rest out as we go.”

He studied her for a moment—tired but soft, guarded but slowly letting him in.

“Alright,” he murmured. Then he stood and offered his hand. “Time to sleep. Come on.”

Yifan blinked at his outstretched hand, then took it.

He led her gently back to her room, pushing the door open quietly. She climbed into bed while he pulled the blanket up to her chest.

Then he leaned down and kissed her forehead.

“Goodnight,” he whispered. “Sleep tight.”

Yifan’s eyes fluttered closed, her lips just barely lifting at the edges.

This time, she didn’t fight sleep.

And outside, the spring rain began to fall again—soft and slow.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The air-conditioning blasted strong against the spring humidity outside, and the mall buzzed with the weekend crowd. Sang Yan and Duan Jiaxu stood at the edge of the escalator, drink cups in hand, weaving their way toward the home section.

Jiaxu took a loud sip of his milk tea, squinting at the directory. “Okay but like—remind me again why I’m here?”

“We’re buying stuff for the apartment,” Sang Yan said, not looking back. “Need some furniture. And safety things.”

Jiaxu raised a brow. “What kind of safety things?”

“Pads. Edge protectors. A night light. Those anti-slip mats for the bathroom.” Sang Yan listed them off like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then, as if remembering something, he stopped and turned to face Jiaxu, palm out. “Oh, by the way. Give me back the spare key.”

Jiaxu blinked. “Huh?”

“To the apartment. You’re not allowed to come and go as you please anymore,” Sang Yan said smoothly. “Yifan’s living there now.”

Jiaxu nearly choked on his drink. “She’s what?!”

“Living there,” Sang Yan repeated, walking again. “Temporarily.”

Jiaxu stared. “You mean she agreed to live with you ?”

Sang Yan shrugged with all the innocence of a saint. “What can I say? I’m charming.”

“Bullshit.” Jiaxu jogged to catch up, mouth still open in disbelief. “What did you do ?”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Exactly! That’s why I don’t believe you!”

Sang Yan exhaled loudly. “Okay, okay. Fine.” He glanced around and lowered his voice. “She’s been sleepwalking.”

Jiaxu slowed down. “…What?”

“Yeah,” Sang Yan said, more serious now. “Stress and sleep deprivation. She scared the crap out of her dormmates. One night she just sat at her desk, eyes open, completely out of it. Didn’t even remember it the next day.”

“Shit.”

“She wasn’t sleeping after that,” Sang Yan went on. “Too scared. Started falling behind in school work. I took her to a doctor—”

“You took her to a doctor ?” Jiaxu gawked.

“She wouldn’t have gone alone.” Sang Yan shoved his hands in his pockets, eyes distant. “The doctor said someone needs to monitor her sleep. Make sure she feels safe enough to rest.”

Jiaxu stared for a long moment. “So you volunteered as tribute.”

“She trusts me,” Sang Yan said simply.

Jiaxu crossed his arms, skeptical. “But are you safe , Sang Yan?”

Sang Yan blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, you’re not exactly known for your noble restraint,” Jiaxu deadpanned. “You're a dog. I’ve seen you flirt, and you once tried to smooth talk your TA into letting you skip a group project.”

Sang Yan rolled his eyes. “This is different.”

“She’s Wen Yifan ,” Jiaxu pointed out.

“I know .”

“Do you?”

Sang Yan met his gaze, something steady and uncharacteristically earnest in his eyes. “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her.”

Jiaxu studied him for a moment longer. Then, with a dramatic sigh, he handed over the key.

“But just so you know,” he said, “if you do screw up, I’m siding with her.”

“Noted.”

“And I’m also breaking your gaming PC.”

“Okay, relax.”

Just then, they turned into the home section. Sang Yan’s face lit up as he grabbed a shopping cart and nudged Jiaxu forward.

“Now come on. Help me pick a non-ugly corner desk for her. Also I need a cute lamp.”

Jiaxu groaned but followed. “This is how I know you’re in too deep, man.”

“I was in deep the moment she told me she hated my old ramen bowl.”

“She was right, by the way. That thing was an eyesore.”

Sang Yan shot him a look, and just like that, head locked him into a tight grip, dragging him toward the nearest aisle.

“Shut up and help me pick a duvet cover.”

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sunlight streamed through the café windows, catching dust motes in the warm air. The place was quiet—an unusual lull between the lunch and evening rush. Siqiao sipped on her iced Americano while Yifan stirred her tea absentmindedly, the gentle clink of the spoon a small rhythm in the stillness.

“So?” Siqiao said, leaning forward, eyes gleaming with mischief. “How’s the new apartment?”

Yifan blinked, then gave a small smile. “Quiet. Clean. Comfortable.”

“And your health?” Siqiao asked, tone softening slightly.

Yifan nodded. “No sleepwalking since I moved in. Sang Yan makes sure I eat, sleep, and actually stop working at night.”

Siqiao raised a brow. “Well, well. Who knew Mr. Cold Face could turn into Florence Nightingale?”

Yifan huffed a quiet laugh. “He’s always been more capable than people give him credit for.”

“And living together? How’s that ?” Siqiao wiggled her eyebrows. “Progressive much.”

Yifan rolled her eyes, the faintest blush creeping onto her cheeks. “We’re technically housemates. Separate rooms. I pay rent.”

“Still sounds pretty domestic to me,” Siqiao teased, grinning. “Next thing you know, you’re arguing over what color towels to buy.”

“He treats me well,” Yifan said softly, sincere now. “Better than I could ask for.”

Siqiao looked at her for a beat, then asked with a smirk, “So how’s the intimacy? Did it, you know… level up?”

Yifan flushed. “Nothing happened. Not since I moved in.”

Siqiao leaned back, eyes widening in faux shock. “Wow. How is he holding up? Is Sang Yan a saint now?”

Yifan shrugged, her voice quiet but firm. “He’s never pushed. Not once. He always checks if I’m okay first. Make sure I’m comfortable—no matter what.”

Siqiao’s teasing expression softened, replaced by something more thoughtful.

“That sounds…” she trailed off, then smiled. “Rare.”

Yifan’s gaze dropped to her tea, a small smile curving her lips. “Yeah,” she said. “He is.”

Outside, cherry blossoms swayed in the breeze, petals fluttering down onto the pavement like soft punctuation to the conversation between two girls—one healing, one witnessing it unfold.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The heat of early summer crept in slowly, painting golden streaks across the wooden floorboards of the apartment as the sun dipped behind the skyline. The windows were open to welcome a breeze, faintly scented with sun-warmed grass and the last traces of spring rain.

Sang Yan leaned against the doorframe of the kitchen, a towel slung over his shoulder, watching as Yifan plated up the dinner he cooked. Her hair was slightly damp from her shower, face clean, eyes soft with a kind of quiet ease he hadn’t seen in her for months.

There was no rush tonight. No deadlines or stress-thick tension between them. Just the clink of dishes, the occasional hum from the air purifier, and her voice asking, “You want extra sauce on yours?”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping forward to grab the rice bowls. “Drown it.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled anyway, handing him his plate.

Later, after dinner, they both ended up on the couch, laptops open side by side—Yifan revising the storyboard for a broadcast segment, Sang Yan debugging his code for an app project. Their arms brushed occasionally. Their feet were tangled on the floor, not quite noticing.

It had been like this for a while now. As spring faded into summer, the pace of life hadn’t slowed, but it had found its rhythm. They woke in the same space, left for classes at different times, but always managed to pause and connect—through shared breakfast silence, texts mid-afternoon, or late-night kitchen conversations over microwaved leftovers.

And always, before bed, they checked in. Even if it was just a tired “goodnight” and a forehead kiss through half-lidded eyes.

Sang Yan closed his laptop and turned to look at her.

Yifan was still typing, brow furrowed in focus. The overhead light cast a soft halo on her cheekbones. She looked… steady. More herself again.

His chest tightened.

Is this it? he wondered. Is this what life after graduation could look like?

Waking up to the same rhythm. Coming home to her voice. Sharing meals, space, silence. Watching her bloom slowly back to herself under warmth and safety.

His arm moved without thinking—reaching around her shoulders, drawing her gently closer.

Yifan didn’t resist. She leaned her head against his shoulder, the weight of it warm and familiar.

She murmured, “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, voice quiet. “Just glad you’re here.”

She didn’t reply, only shifted a little closer, her focus returning to the screen.

And he stayed like that, holding her. Letting the moment settle like the quiet promise it was.

Chapter Text

The apartment had never been this quiet—not even during those first nights when they were still adjusting to the idea of sharing a space. Now, it was the silence of overworked minds and caffeine-thinned patience. The kind of silence that buzzed.

Yifan sat cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by printed articles, highlighters, and sticky notes fanned out like a battlefield. Her laptop was open in front of her, screen glowing with a barely-started thesis paper. Her hair was in a messy bun. Her glasses slipped a little on her nose. She hadn’t changed out of her hoodie and pajama shorts since this morning.

Across the room, Sang Yan sat at the dining table, two laptops open and a notebook filled with scribbles propped beside a half-drunk cup of instant coffee. He tapped rapidly at his keyboard, eyes narrowed, muttering soft curses at his compiler.

Every now and then, one of them would sigh. The other would echo it seconds later.

They were both burning out, inch by inch.

“I’m going to combust,” Yifan muttered, throwing her pen down.

Sang Yan didn’t look up. “Try not to. You’re flammable and I like the couch too much.”

Yifan groaned and flopped onto her back. “I don’t think my brain is working anymore. I just reread the same paragraph five times.”

“Same. My code stopped responding ten minutes ago and now I’m too scared to touch it again.”

Silence returned for a moment, filled only by the hum of the fridge and the soft tick of the clock.

Then, Sang Yan stood. Walked over.

He looked down at her, lips twitching. “You’re going to get back pain lying like that.”

“I already have back pain. At least this way I’m horizontal.”

He chuckled, nudging her leg with his foot. “Come on. Break time.”

“I don’t deserve a break.”

“You do if I say so.” He reached down, offering a hand. “Ten minutes. No study. No guilt.”

Yifan stared at his hand, then sighed and took it.

He pulled her up and gently steered her to the kitchen. There, he popped open the fridge and handed her a small bowl of cut fruit. “Vitamin C. To remind you your body still exists.”

She gave a tired smile. “Thanks.”

They leaned on the counter together, side by side, sharing the fruit in silence. She bumped his hip with hers.

“Do you think we’ll survive this week?” she asked.

“Barely,” he said. “But yes. I already booked us a celebratory takeout feast for the finals night.”

Yifan raised a brow. “Confident.”

“Manifesting,” he replied with a grin. “Plus, I kind of like seeing you like this.”

“Exhausted and dying?”

“No.” He nudged her gently. “Here. With me. Even when everything’s chaos.”

She blinked at him, surprised. Then smiled. It was small but real.

“Me too,” she said quietly.

And then they went back—him to his laptops, her to her scattered notes—but something in the air had shifted. The tension eased. The pressure remained, but the weight was shared. Together, they’d make it to the other side.

The living room was a mess of takeout boxes, half-drunk soda cans, and crumpled wrappers. The celebratory feast Sang Yan had promised was in full effect—greasy, noisy, and absolutely necessary after the gauntlet that was finals week.

Sang Yan lounged on the couch in a hoodie and shorts, legs stretched across the coffee table like he owned it. Across from him, his dorm mates sprawled in varying states of collapse—one hugging a pillow to his chest, another still gripping a mechanical pencil like he was in a war flashback and another lying on the carpet face down, eyes closed and playing dead.

Duan Jiaxu arrived late, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it on the armrest before helping himself to leftover dumplings.

“Is this what academic survival looks like?” he asked dryly, eyeing the scene.

“We barely survived,” Chen Juwen muttered, face-down into a cushion. “I swear my econ final was written by a sadist.”

“Try algorithms,” Sang Yan said, leaning his head back with a groan. “I don’t even know if my answers made sense. I think I made up a sorting method out of desperation.”

“That’s not surprising,” Jiaxu said, biting into a dumpling. “You’ve always been a confident bullshitter.”

“Bold of you to talk, part-timer supreme,” Sang Yan shot back. “You probably wrote your final in between shifts.”

“I did,” Jiaxu said. “And I’ll probably still pass.”

The room let out a collective sigh—some impressed, others purely exhausted.

Qian Fei piped up. “This was just the first year. If this is how it starts, what does that say about the next three?”

Jiaxu raised a hand and waggled his chopsticks. “Exactly that. It’s just the first year. You’re supposed to get wrecked a little. That’s how the system tests if you’re serious.”

“That’s depressing,” Su Haoan muttered.

“It’s also honest,” Jiaxu said, settling on the floor with his food. “You’re not expected to have everything figured out. You just have to not give up.”

Sang Yan glanced at him over the rim of his soda can, eyes narrowing. “Since when did you become the inspirational speaker in this house?”

“Since I had to work four jobs and still make it to class on time,” Jiaxu said without missing a beat.

That earned a few quiet laughs—exhausted, but genuine.

The mood lightened just enough.

Sang Yan leaned back again, folding his arms behind his head. “Well, here’s to surviving year one. And to Jiaxu, the broke philosopher.”

They raised their drinks, cans clinking midair.

The front door creaked open with the sound of keys fumbling in the lock. Siqiao’s voice echoed first, muffled and dramatic:

“I swear to god, if I have to write another reflective essay, I’ll reflect myself off the balcony.”

Yifan followed her in with a laugh, arms full of grocery bags. “You said you were done being dramatic after the last one.”

“I lied,” Siqiao replied. “I’m a liar and I deserve food.”

The moment they stepped into the apartment, the room turned their way—Sang Yan still on the couch, Duan Jiaxu and the rest of the guys slouched on floor cushions or camped near the low table like battle-weary soldiers.

Sang Yan’s head perked up. “You’re back,” he said with a smile, standing to help Yifan with the bags.

“She brought reinforcements,” Siqiao announced, dramatically raising a paper bag over her head. “Sweet-and-sour pork, braised tofu, scallion pancakes, and an entire cake. Finals are dead. Long live carbs.”

Sang Yan took the bags from Yifan’s arms and set them on the kitchen counter. She gave him a tired smile before stepping into his open arms and burying herself against his chest.

“Rough day?” he asked, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, holding her close.

“Terrible,” she murmured into his hoodie. “Three written exams and one oral presentation. I want to become a tree.”

Behind them, Duan Jiaxu made a gagging sound. “Get a room. Or at least a branch.”

Siqiao threw herself onto the far end of the couch and scowled. “This is what I get for third-wheeling my own best friend.”

“Correction,” Sang Yan said as he nuzzled the top of Yifan’s head, “You’re seventh-wheeling. The rest of them are very single and very offended.”

Qian Fei held up a dumpling. “Speak for yourself. This right here is my soulmate.”

Yifan chuckled and pulled back just enough to look up at Sang Yan. “You promised me a cake.”

“I also promised to carry you to bed if you passed out on the floor,” he said, brushing some stray hair away from her face. “And I always keep my promises.”

More groaning came from the peanut gallery.

Siqiao hurled a napkin at them. “Disgusting. You’re in public.”

Yifan just smiled and leaned into him again, letting herself rest.

Sang Yan kissed the crown of her head and sighed contentedly. “Let them suffer.”

And suffer, they did—with dramatic gags, exaggerated swoons, and a flurry of crumpled napkins tossed at the couple curled up in the middle of their chaos.

But beneath the noise, there was something soft and steady—a quiet warmth they all felt, even if they'd rather die than admit it out loud.

The spring warmth was mellow now, a prelude to the summer heat. Students filtered past in loose clusters, all buzzing about finals ending and the upcoming sports festival.

Sang Yan stood under the shade of a tree, sipping from a bottle of water as Yifan approached, her tote bag slung lazily over one shoulder.

“You done with your editing shift?” he asked.

Yifan sighed, brushing her bangs from her forehead. “Barely. That new anchor kept pausing every two lines. I had to splice the whole segment like a jigsaw puzzle.”

Sang Yan grinned. “Sounds like a blast.”

She bumped his arm lightly with her shoulder. “Don’t mock me unless you’re volunteering next time.”

“Tempting,” he teased, then added more seriously, “By the way—my department got roped into something for the sports festival this weekend. It's for Nanwu No.3 Middle School. They’re hosting it on our field.”

Yifan blinked. “The middle school?”

“Yeah. It’s like a joint event. Some outreach programs with the university.”

“What are you doing for it?”

“Registration and medical booth duty. Basically, babysitting sweaty middle schoolers, handing out armbands, and praying no one breaks a bone,” he replied, pulling a face. “We’re rotating shifts, but I’ll be there most of Saturday.”

She nodded slowly. “Siqiao mentioned the broadcast team’s covering that too. She’ll be running around with her camera crew.”

“You going with her?”

Yifan shrugged. “I might. Depends on my work hours.”

“If you come by, you can hang at our station,” he offered, eyes softening. “It’ll be hot. And chaotic. You might want a place to cool down—and I’ll sneak you snacks from the volunteer packs.”

Yifan smiled at that. “Isn’t that corruption?”

“It’s love,” Sang Yan countered smoothly.

She rolled her eyes but smiled, nonetheless. “We’ll see. If I make it, I’ll swing by.”

“Good,” he said, tilting his head toward her. “I’ll be waiting.”

“You figured out your summer plans yet?” Sang Yan asked, glancing down at her after a while.

Yifan didn’t look up immediately. “Mm. Kind of.”

“Kind of?” he prompted, arching a brow.

She set her phone down. “I’m staying here. Got another part-time job lined up—tutoring at the study center near our university.”

Sang Yan frowned. “The one prepping senior high kids for the college entrance exams?”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “It pays well, and the hours are decent.”

He was quiet for a second, lips pursing. “And the café?”

“I’ll keep doing that too. Morning shifts, mostly.”

“Wen Yifan.” His voice dipped with concern.

She looked up at him, already knowing what he was about to say.

“That’s two jobs,” he said. “On top of whatever prep you’ll be doing for second year. That’s... a lot. What if the sleepwalking comes back?”

“It won’t,” she said gently. “I’ve been fine. You’ve seen it.”

“You’ve been fine because you’re getting rest. Because you’ve cut down on stress. Don’t start stacking it all again.”

Yifan gave him a small, stubborn smile. “I promise, I’ll manage it. I’m not trying to prove anything. I just want to save a little more while I have time. And it’s not like I’ll be commuting far. Everything is nearby.”

Sang Yan didn’t look convinced.

“I mean it,” she added, softening. “If I start getting too tired, I’ll pull back. I’ll tell you.”

“You better,” he muttered, ruffling her hair. “I’m going back to my family’s place for a bit, but I’ll come check on the apartment. And on you. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

She smiled, a little touched. “I never said I wanted to.”

He bumped her shoulder with his. “Just don’t be stubborn, okay? You’re not alone in this.”

“I know,” she said, leaning lightly against his side.

They stayed like that for a while, the sky dimming, the city slowly glowing to life beneath them. Summer loomed, but for now, it felt manageable—with him beside her.

Nanwu No.3 Middle School Sports Festival – Late Morning

The university campus buzzed with the vibrant energy of youth. Spring had given way to summer warmth, and the school grounds were filled with colorful banners, the sharp scent of grass, and the sound of excited chatter. Clusters of middle school students in matching jerseys rushed about—lining up, warming up, cheering.

Under a large registration tent, Sang Yan stood beside a long table, clipboard in hand, wearing a hat that made his face look smaller, and a neutral expression that somehow only made him more interesting to the students crowding in front of him.

“Name, event, class number,” he recited automatically, jotting things down without looking up.

A group of schoolgirls giggled just a few feet away, whispering too loudly about “the hot senior helping registration.”

“Excuse me… what’s the difference between 800-meter sprint and 800-meter dash?” one girl asked, clearly just looking for an excuse to talk to him.

Sang Yan looked up, deadpan. “There is no difference. You just said the same thing twice.”

Before the girl could come up with another question, Duan Jiaxu strolled up, tossing a water bottle into Sang Yan’s hands.

“Careful,” Jiaxu said, nodding toward the growing cluster of girls. “You’re starting a fanclub over here.”

“Speak for yourself,” Sang Yan shot back, eyes flicking to the girls gawking at Jiaxu across the tent. “You’ve been asked if you’re single four times in the last hour.”

Jiaxu chuckled, but before they could banter more, a sudden commotion broke out from the running track nearby. A girl had tripped during her sprint, scraping her knee badly.

Sang Yan and Jiaxu moved quickly, crossing the grass in long strides and crouching beside the injured student. “You okay?” Sang Yan asked gently.

She sniffled, trying to hide her tears. Jiaxu crouched down beside her and glanced at the bleeding scrape. “Let’s get you to the medic tent.”

The two boys carefully helped her up and supported her weight as they walked. The injured girl limped but looked oddly proud to be escorted by two good-looking college students.

As they neared the medic area, Jiaxu’s gaze shifted slightly—then lit up with mischief.

“Hey,” he said, nudging Sang Yan. “Your girlfriend’s here.”

Yifan, dressed simply in jeans and a tucked-in university volunteer shirt, was approaching, her press badge swinging at her hip. She glanced around, looking for Siqiao’s team, unaware of the subtle commotion she caused among a group of middle school boys nearby.

“Who is that?” one of the younger boys whispered, wide-eyed. “She’s so pretty…” another muttered.

Sang Yan watched her with quiet amusement until she reached them.

“Hey,” Yifan greeted, eyeing the girl between them. Her brow furrowed slightly in concern. “What happened?”

The injured girl turned toward her—and then her eyes lit up.

“Yifan-jie?”

Yifan blinked, caught off guard. She leaned closer.

“…Zheng Kejia?”

The girl nodded, her eyes wide and warm despite the bandaged knee. She sat up straighter. “I didn’t know you were here! Are you helping too?”

“She’s my sister,” the girl explained when she noticed Sang Yan and Jiaxu looking at them back and forth.

Sang Yan looked down at Yifan. “You have a sister?”

Yifan’s lips thinned. “Step-sister.”

Jiaxu, squinting at the girl’s name tag, muttered, “Zheng Kejia? Your surnames are different…”

Yifan nodded absently, her eyes on Kejia. “Our parents remarried. My mom… her dad.”

Kejia, eyes sparkling now that she had an audience, clutched Yifan’s wrist with familiarity. “Why haven’t you called Mom lately? She keeps asking about you. And you didn’t come home during the Spring Festival.”

Yifan tensed subtly.

“Are you coming back for summer break?” Kejia added, pouting slightly. “I’m not mad at you anymore, you know. You can come back. Really.”

Sang Yan’s gaze darted between them, his jaw working. Yifan’s smile was tight, her shoulders stiff.

“That’s nice of you,” she said lightly. “But I need to help Qiao Qiao with the press coverage.”

She gently but firmly pulled her hand from Kejia’s, turning away.

“Yifan-jie—” Kejia called out behind her, her voice hopeful.

Yifan didn’t stop.

Sang Yan watched her go, his expression unreadable. Jiaxu stood beside him, arms crossed, glancing toward Kejia, then Yifan.

“…That seemed awkward,” Jiaxu muttered.

Sang Yan didn’t answer. He was already following her with his eyes, mind turning with unspoken thoughts.

The nurse was finishing up cleaning and bandaging Zheng Kejia’s scraped knee. She swung her legs slightly over the cot, looking cheerful despite the injury. Nearby, Sang Yan stood checking over a clipboard, making sure her name was noted properly in the incident log.

Kejia tilted her head, watching him curiously.

“Senior,” she said sweetly, “are you… close with my sister?”

Sang Yan glanced at her from the side of his eye before returning his gaze to the clipboard. “You could say that.”

She blinked. “Like… how close?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I’m her boyfriend.”

Kejia’s mouth fell open. “Boyfriend?”

Sang Yan looked up fully this time, an eyebrow raised. “Surprised?”

She quickly composed herself, cheeks tinged with a faint pink. “I just… didn’t know Yifan-jie had someone. She never told Mom. Did she tell you why?”

Sang Yan’s brows lowered slightly, voice casual but firm. “We haven’t talked about that yet.”

Kejia didn’t drop it. “What’s your course? Are you in the same department as her?”

“Computer science,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Different departments.”

“Oh. So you’re good with computers and stuff?” she asked, leaning in, eyes bright with interest. “Where are you from? What do your parents do?”

Sang Yan gave a faint smirk, amused. “I’m from Nanwu. My parents run a business.”

“Business?” she repeated, impressed.

He nodded. “Look, Kejia, it was nice talking, but I need to head back to the registration tent.”

He nodded to the nurse, then to Kejia. “You good now? Need anything?”

Kejia sat up straighter, instantly beaming. “I’m okay now! Thank you, Sang Yan-ge!”

He gave a small smile and turned to leave, long strides carrying him quickly out of the medic area.

Left alone, Kejia watched him walk off, eyes following the way he weaved effortlessly back into the bustling crowd of students and volunteers. She clutched the edge of the cot, cheeks still faintly flushed.

“…How did Yifan-jie manage to get him as a boyfriend?” she muttered under her breath, lips twisting in a mix of admiration and disbelief. Then, slowly, her eyes narrowed—thoughtful, intrigued.

The sun began its descent, casting the field in a warm, honeyed hue. Whistles were less frequent now, the energy winding down as the last events came to a close. Yifan stood near the trackline, camera slung over her shoulder, helping Siqiao gather coverage for the school broadcast.

But her hands weren’t steady.

The shutter clicked slightly off-beat. Her framing was a touch too wide. Siqiao didn’t say anything, but her eyes flicked over with concern more than once.

“Dian Dian,” she called gently after a while, “get some B-roll of the field cleanup. I’ll handle the interviews.”

Yifan nodded mutely, grateful for the excuse to walk away.

But as she moved across the campus, her mind wouldn’t stay in the present.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She was sixteen again.

Standing in the doorway of the living room, clutching her small suitcase, watching Zheng Kejia—younger by four years—screaming and crying on the couch.

“I told you I don’t want her here!” Kejia wailed, fists clenched. “She’s not my sister!”

Yifan stood silently. No tantrum. No plea.

Her mother had hurried to console Kejia, arms wrapping around her protectively, stroking her hair as she whispered, “Okay, okay, sweetheart… I’ll talk to her.”

And then Yifan remembered the long drive to her grandmother’s house, her mother’s silence in the car, and later—when her grandmother grew ill—how she was simply left with her uncle’s family like a burden quietly passed along.

Every time, her mother would promise, “I’ll call you soon.”

But every time, all Yifan saw was the sight of her mother’s back growing smaller and smaller as she walked away.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She blinked rapidly, pulling herself back to the present when a breeze rustled the event banners beside her.

Don’t think about it.

She raised her camera and tried to focus on the volunteers stacking chairs. But her fingers trembled slightly. The weight in her chest hadn't gone away.

Later, when the festival wound down and booths began to close, Yifan headed toward the medic area, looking for Sang Yan. Her eyes wandered just before she rounded the corner.

And then—she froze.

Across the clearing, standing near the entrance gates, her mother was there.

Bent down in concern, gently brushing Zheng Kejia’s hair away from her forehead, her voice full of worry:

“Kejia, let me see the bandage. Did it hurt a lot? Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

Kejia laughed, clearly soaking in the affection. “It wasn’t that bad, Mom. Just a scrape.”

Yifan stood still in the shadow of the side building, heart caught between beats. Her mother looked so natural, so warm—so present .

Not for her.

Never for her.

She hadn’t even known her mother would come today.

No call. No message. No questions about her.

Just here, for someone else’s injury, not the years of ache Yifan had quietly endured.

Yifan turned away slowly, retreating without a word.

She didn’t cry.

But that same thought—the old, familiar one—settled again in her chest like a stone:

I was never enough to be chosen.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The front door clicked softly as Sang Yan stepped in, shrugging off his jacket and kicking off his shoes. The apartment was quiet, lights dimmed save for the warm glow of the hallway lamp. He rubbed the back of his neck, weary but still keyed up from the department's after-party. A good time, plenty of laughter—but all he’d really thought about was checking on Yifan.

He padded quietly to her door, hand halfway raised to knock—when the door creaked open.

Yifan stood there in her pajamas, eyes glassy and unfocused, her expression slack.

Sang Yan’s breath caught.

"Wen Shuangjiang?" he whispered.

She didn’t respond.

Instead, she turned slowly and walked into the living room, feet light, movements delicate like she was moving underwater. He followed at a careful distance, making sure not to startle her.

She reached the couch and sat, her posture stiff, her gaze locking on the wall clock across the room.

Sang Yan stood by the kitchen counter, not moving, just watching her.

The seconds passed.

Then minutes.

Finally, as if responding to an invisible cue, Yifan stood, turned around, and quietly returned to her room. Sang Yan followed, watching as she got back under the covers and settled in as if nothing had happened.

He didn’t go to bed right away. He waited outside her door a little longer before heading to his own room, heart heavy with concern.

The next morning, the smell of noodles wafted through the apartment.

Yifan blinked awake, sunlight pouring softly into her room. When she emerged, hair still a little tousled, she found Sang Yan already at the table—hoodie sleeves rolled up, two bowls of scallion noodles waiting.

She stared, a little surprised. “What time did you get home?”

Sang Yan gave her a smile, easy but tired. “Late. Around two-thirty.”

She slipped into the seat across from him, reaching for her chopsticks.

As they ate in comfortable silence, Sang Yan finally spoke again—quietly, casually, but his eyes didn’t leave her.

“You sleepwalked last night.”

Yifan froze, noodles halfway to her lips. “I did?”

He nodded. “Just a little. You walked into the living room and stared at the clock for a while. Then went back to sleep.”

Yifan furrowed her brows, setting her chopsticks down slowly. “I don’t remember any of that…”

“Are you okay?” Sang Yan asked gently.

She hesitated.

Then gave a nod, eyes downcast. “I’m okay.”

But her voice lacked its usual firmness, and the silence between them stretched—not heavy, but uncertain. Yifan’s mind drifted back to Kejia, to her mother fussing over her, to the aching familiarity of being forgotten.

Sang Yan watched her carefully, sensing that something was wrong—something deeper than just stress or exhaustion.

He didn’t push.

But he reached out, nudging her bowl slightly closer, a quiet gesture of care.

And she gave him a small smile in return—grateful, but distant.

The sun streamed through the living room windows, bright and warm, casting soft light across the floor where Sang Yan sat cross-legged with a bowl of cut watermelon. The faint buzz of traffic drifted up from the streets below. Yifan sat nearby on the couch, flipping absently through a magazine she wasn’t really reading.

Her eyes looked clearer today, but tiredness still clung faintly to the edges of her smile.

Sang Yan watched her for a moment before nudging the bowl toward her.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said.

Yifan looked up. “Just thinking.”

He paused, then leaned back, propping an arm behind his head lazily. “So… now that summer break has started—what do you wanna do?”

Yifan blinked at him. “Do?”

“Yeah. It’s summer. That means we’re legally obligated to have at least one ridiculous outing.”

She gave a faint smile. “I don’t have anything special in mind. Just work and maybe catching up on rest.”

Sang Yan tsked. “Lame.”

Yifan raised a brow. “I’m being realistic.”

He leaned forward, his eyes lighting up. “Okay, hear me out—Nanwu just opened a new ferris wheel near the lakefront. We should check it out.”

Yifan blinked again. “A ferris wheel?”

“Yeah. It lights up at night. Supposedly very romantic. We can test it.” His grin was lazy, but his tone was soft.

She bit back a smile. “You want to take me on a ferris wheel date?”

He tilted his head. “You saying no?”

She shook her head, the smile finally blooming. “No. I’ll go.”

“Great,” he said, triumphant. “And I’m planning more. Movies, bookstore runs, food stalls at night—we’re making a list.”

“I have part-time jobs, remember?” she reminded him, laughing softly now.

“I’ll work around them. But you better make time for me,” he said, mock-stern. “You’re my roommate and my girlfriend. That comes with obligations.”

Yifan laughed more freely this time, a light sound that filled the room and eased the air between them.

“I’ll make time,” she promised.

And Sang Yan, watching the way her expression turned a little brighter, knew this was enough for now—the slow return of warmth to her eyes. The slow unraveling of whatever shadows clung to her.

They had the whole summer ahead. And he’d make sure it held more than just routine.

Chapter Text

The electric fan hummed gently in the kitchen as Yifan balanced her phone between her shoulder and ear, one hand stirring a pot of soup while the other reached for the seasoning.

“ Let’s go somewhere ,” came Siqiao’s voice through the speaker, playful and persuasive. “A café, an arcade, a lakeside boardwalk—I don’t know, just something summery. You’ve been working and sleeping and staying in all week.”

Yifan tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, glancing at the time. “I kind of just want to stay home today.”

Siqiao groaned dramatically. “Don’t tell me you’re becoming that kind of girlfriend.”

“What kind?”

“The ‘I-want-to-cook-for-my-boyfriend’ kind,” Siqiao teased. “Is that what being in love does to a person?”

Yifan didn’t answer right away. She just smiled to herself, stirring more gently now. “I guess I just want to do something nice,” she murmured. “He said he’d be home by seven.”

“Oof. You’re hopeless.” But Siqiao’s voice was soft with fondness. “Fine, fine. Go be domestic. I better be invited next time you cook.”

“You will be,” Yifan promised, laughing. “I’ll call you back later, okay?”

She hung up, slipping the phone into her apron pocket, then turned her full attention back to the kitchen.

Steam rose from the soup pot, and two side dishes were already plated. Yifan checked the rice cooker, then quickly moved to slice some cucumbers into thin, neat ribbons. She glanced at the clock again— 6:22 PM .

He said 7 PM .

Her movements picked up pace, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair loosely pinned. Her brows furrowed in concentration, but her lips were curved with something quiet and hopeful.

The apartment was filled with the comforting aroma of home-cooked food, light filtering golden through the curtains. She arranged the table carefully—two bowls, two sets of chopsticks, a folded napkin by his seat.

It wasn’t anything grand.

But she wanted him to come home to something warm. Something that said, I’m here. I thought of you.

As the minute hand inched closer to seven, Yifan wiped her hands on a dish towel, straightened the cushion on Sang Yan’s chair, and gave the table one final look.

When Wen Yifan placed the last dish on the dining table—a simple stir-fried egg with tomatoes, glossy and warm—she heard the soft shuffle of footsteps at the door.

A second later, keys clinked into the dish by the entrance.

Sang Yan stepped in, shrugging off the weight of the day as he toed off his sneakers. He glanced up and caught sight of her, then let his gaze shift to the table, where bowls of hot rice, two plates of vegetables, and a softly simmering soup waited.

His brows lifted in pleasant surprise. He didn’t say anything at first. Just gave her a crooked little smile before turning to slip on his house slippers.

It had always been this way between them.

Unspoken rhythms. Wordless understanding.

Whoever was free would cook. No schedules. No scorekeeping. Just quiet acts of care passed across meals and late nights and folded laundry. Wen Yifan never found the energy to cook for herself, not even when hungry. But when someone else was waiting— when Sang Yan was waiting —her hands would move before she even realized it.

Sang Yan stepped into the living space, tugging off his hoodie and tossing it over the back of a chair. As he passed her, he reached out and gave her hair a gentle ruffle, a quick, habitual gesture.

Her hair was now slightly tousled, but she didn’t care. She picked up the ladle and poured herself a bowl of soup, the ceramic warm in her palms.

“Are you tired?” she asked, sipping carefully.

“Not that much.” He slid into the seat beside her, letting out a soft sigh. “Why?”

“I wanna watch a movie later,” Wen Yifan said, casually. “At home. Qiao Qiao recommended a thriller. Says it’s got great pacing.”

Sang Yan turned to look at her, his eyes catching on the faint shadows beneath hers. “You should sleep earlier,” he said, nodding toward the clock. “It’s late.”

She glanced up at him.

He added, voice soft and unhurried, “We can always watch it another day. It’s not going anywhere.”

“I’m not tired,” she replied. “I slept all afternoon.” She finished the rest of her soup, licking the spoon clean, then peeked at him with a small smile. “We could watch it later. I’ll ask Qiao Qiao for more movie recs too.”

He tilted his head. “Hm?”

“For our next round,” she said.

Sang Yan looked at her then—really looked—and a slow, crooked smile pulled at his lips. He let out a quiet chuckle, drawing out his words playfully. “Wen Shuangjiang, is your goal the movie… or is it me ?”

She didn’t hesitate.

“You.”

Sang Yan blinked. The teasing flicker in his eyes softened, stilling with something quieter, something slower.

Wen Yifan looked down at her bowl, stirring what remained with her spoon. Her voice was quiet, but clear.

“I just want to watch it with you.”

Sang Yan didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then he reached out, his hand brushing gently against hers on the table.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll start after dinner.”

And somehow, just like that, the heaviness of the week faded into the steam curling from their bowls and the warmth settling between them.

The room was comfortably quiet, broken only by the soft clinking of chopsticks against ceramic and the occasional hum of the electric fan turning gently in the corner.

Wen Yifan passed Sang Yan a piece of chicken, which he took without looking, still reading the label on the bottle of soy sauce like it contained national secrets.

Halfway through his rice bowl, he cleared his throat. “By the way…”

Wen Yifan looked up.

“Is it okay if Jiaxu stays here for a bit?” he asked casually, as if suggesting they switch the laundry detergent brand instead of inviting another person into their apartment. “Later part of summer break.”

She blinked. “Sure. Why the later part though?”

Sang Yan leaned back, propping one arm on the back of his chair. “He’s been renting this small place nearby. Didn’t go back to Yihe.”

“You mean… he stayed here all summer?” Wen Yifan asked, surprised. “Why didn’t he come by?”

“Didn’t want to bother us,” Sang Yan said. “But I found out he’s been paying for that tiny room by himself just to stay and finish his side projects. I offered the apartment, free of charge. He finally agreed. But he said he wants to complete the month first. Since he already paid.”

Wen Yifan nodded, understanding. “He doesn’t want to waste the rent.”

“Exactly.” Sang Yan shrugged. “Stubborn guy. But I figured once that runs out, he can move in. It’s just for a while. We’ll share the spare room.”

She gave him a small smile. “You’re a good friend.”

Sang Yan didn’t respond right away. He just scooped another spoonful of rice and muttered, “It’s just rent. I’m not feeding him.”

Wen Yifan chuckled. “Sure. But you fed him plenty back in the dorm.”

“He owes me meals for life,” Sang Yan said without missing a beat.

Wen Yifan propped her chin in her palm. “I’ll make some extra next time.”

Sang Yan paused and looked at her from across the table. “You don’t have to.”

“I know. But I want to.”

He smiled, not saying anything more.

After the meal, Wen Yifan made her way to the living room while Sang Yan stayed behind to wash the dishes. The soft clatter of plates in the kitchen blended with the hush of the evening as she curled up on the sofa, remote in hand. It took a few minutes of searching before she finally found the movie that Siqiao had recommended—a thriller, just the right amount of edge to occupy her mind.

As she set up the stream, Sang Yan appeared from the hallway, having dried his hands on a kitchen towel. Without asking, he settled beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed slightly.

The movie hadn't started yet. A few commercials played, buffering the space with jingles and exaggerated voiceovers.

Wen Yifan reached over and took a sip of water from her cup on the coffee table. Then, almost out of habit, she picked up her phone from the armrest. A few unread WeChat messages blinked at her. She scrolled lazily through them—until her thumb paused.

Her mother’s name.

The screen filled with one-sided messages, stark in their abruptness:

【Ah Jiang.】
【I heard from Kejia that she saw you at your university during her sports festival.】
【She said you ignored her. Why didn't you tell me you saw her?】
【She also said you have a boyfriend. Is that why you didn't go home last Spring Festival?】
【You should focus on studying instead of being in a relationship.】

Wen Yifan's eyes remained fixed on the last line, a hollow settling in her chest. Her good mood—quietly built up over dinner —dissipated like breath against glass. Her mother hadn’t messaged her in months. And now, when she did—it was a list of complaints, an interrogation. Not a single “How have you been?”

The phone was still buzzing in her hand when Sang Yan’s voice cut through her thoughts.

“Who’re you talking to?”

Startled, she locked her screen and looked up. “No one.”

He arched his brow. “If you’re going to watch a movie with me, pay more attention,” he said, only half-teasing. “Okay?”

Her phone vibrated again on the cushion beside her. But she clenched it in her hands this time, pressing her thumb against the back like she could force the noise out of her head. “Got it, I won’t look at my phone.”

Something in her tone must’ve tipped him off. Sang Yan studied her, eyes narrowing slightly. “Why that expression?”

“It’s nothing.” Wen Yifan smiled, soft but too practiced. “Let’s watch.”

He didn’t push her. He merely sat back and looked at the screen, gaze thoughtful, but let the silence return.

The movie finally began.

At one point, Sang Yan stood up to fetch fruit from the kitchen. The moment he disappeared from view, Wen Yifan unlocked her phone again.

Her mother's messages filled the screen, still arriving, the white bubbles crawling up her display like unwelcome vines.

This one was the latest:

【When will you be back home? I know your summer break has started.】

Wen Yifan didn’t scroll any further.

When she’d first added Zhao Yuandong into her contacts, she’d sent a short message to let her mother know it was her new number—and to remind her not to give it to anyone else. Her mother had simply replied with “Okay.” Nothing more. Not a “How are you?” Not a “Where are you living now?”

Now the sudden surge of attention—because of Kejia, because of Sang Yan—felt performative. Like she was just a subject of gossip, an obligation surfacing in inconvenient waves.

She put the phone down, facedown this time.

She couldn’t be bothered to reply. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

Wen Yifan took a bite of the apple, her gaze fixed on the television screen, but the images flickering in front of her barely registered. The taste of the fruit was faint, dulled by the weight behind her eyes and the churn in her stomach. The movie played on—shadows, chases, rising violins—but her thoughts wandered elsewhere.

She wasn’t exactly sad.

She wasn’t exactly angry either.

It was more like a tangled clump of emotions, indistinct but intrusive, like smoke that wouldn’t clear.

It wasn’t just her mother’s messages.

It was Sang Yan.

It was herself.

How easily he sensed her moods without needing a full explanation. How he never asked for details she didn’t want to give. He had known, somehow, that she wasn’t going back home for the break—but he never pried. He never tried to dissect the silence she wrapped around that decision.

He just… stayed.

Wen Yifan turned the apple in her hand, the crisp skin faintly moist where she had bitten it. The edges of her emotions shifted, softened by guilt and something tender. Maybe it wasn’t the past that gnawed at her most. Maybe it was how she’d been dragging the past into the present—and how she’d left Sang Yan in the dark.

He never asked, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to know.

Maybe he was just afraid to hurt her.

And all this time, she let him think it wasn’t important.

Wen Yifan put the apple down on a napkin and said, “Sang Yan.”

His eyes were on the screen, but his reply came easily. “Hm?”

“It was my mother who was texting me earlier.” She turned to the television, feigning casualness. “She asked if I wanted to go back for summer break.”

A beat of silence.

“But I’m really not on good terms with my stepfather and the others.” Her voice dropped slightly. “Not long after my father passed, my mother remarried.”

Sang Yan’s posture changed instantly. His shoulders straightened, and he turned to look at her, his playful expression gone. “When did this happen?”

Wen Yifan hesitated. Then, almost like it didn’t hurt anymore, she said, “The second term during our first year of high school.”

He didn’t speak, but something flickered in his expression.

“It was…” she faltered for a moment. “That time when I was called out by the teacher halfway through our class—” She paused again and stole a glance at him.

He was staring at her, the dim lighting shadowing his face, but she saw the downturn of his gaze, the way he seemed lost in a memory.

To lighten the mood, she added gently, “It’s already been such a long time.”

Sang Yan tilted his head slightly, like he was shaking himself out of it, and looked at her. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

But he looked relieved.

Because he remembered.

Because that day,he’d skipped class—and followed her, not asking anything even when she didn’t say a word.

“Did you and your mother move in with your stepdad after that?” he asked.

“Yeah. But we weren’t getting along well after that.” Wen Yifan offered the short version. “Then I moved to my grandmother’s.”

He nodded slowly. “Were you treated well?”

“Huh?” She blinked. “Ah, my grandmother?”

Sang Yan nodded.

“Yeah. She loved my dad, so she loved me too.” Wen Yifan smiled faintly. “She took care of me until she couldn’t anymore.”

Sang Yan studied her for a long moment, and then said quietly, “So what’s up with your stepsister?”

“Hm?”

“She was kinda…” He made a sound of distaste. “Acting like you guys were close.”

Wen Yifan let out a breath. “She’s just like that. She’s been spoiled by her father.”

She figured he was talking about the sports fest. Maybe when Kejia suddenly held her hands while talking.

“She’s used to being that way. Everything she owns is the best. She’ll never settle for anything less. Anything that she didn’t like, she’d leave it to those around her to sort it out.

“Just a girl who’s been spoiled her whole life.” Her voice was even, soft. “Her father loves her a lot, and I’m older than her. I’d usually have to let her have her way.”

“Let her have her way?” Sang Yan scoffed. “Where did that rule come from?”

Before she could answer, Sang Yan leaned back suddenly against the sofa, pulling her along with him by the arm.

Wen Yifan toppled onto his chest with a small gasp, wide-eyed.

He wrapped both arms around her waist and settled her against him. The embrace was tight, grounding, and he didn’t speak again for a while. Just quietly held her, heart against hers, breath moving together.

It was warm.

Intimate.

Unmistakably sweet.

Wen Yifan glanced up, flustered. “What’s wrong?”

“Hug for a bit.”

“…That’s it?”

“Where did all the food you ate go? Your bones are poking me.” He lightly pinched her arm and muttered, “When are you going to gain weight?”

“My friends said I have put on weight,” she replied quickly.

Sang Yan raised a brow. “Who? Who’s out there trying to belittle you?”

Wen Yifan burst into laughter. “Is there something wrong with you?”

He wanted her to gain weight.

But when someone said she did, he got defensive.

Sang Yan looked at her, amused. “Why’re you attacking me now?”

She was still laughing, head against his chest.

The movie continued to run, action and screams echoing in the background, but neither of them looked at the screen anymore.

After a while, Sang Yan reached out and gently brushed the corner of her eye.

“Wen Shuangjiang.”

“Hm?”

“Don’t dump all your stepsister’s bullshit and those stupid standards against mine, okay?” His gaze was serious now, and his voice was low, dark. “Do you think everything I bought in this house was randomly chosen?”

Wen Yifan froze slightly.

He continued calmly, “Everything I picked was for you. But if you don’t like it, just leave it there. That’s fine too. Just don’t think you’re meant to fit into someone else’s mold.”

Instead of answering, Yifan snuggled closer to Sang Yan, burying her face in his chest.

“Just like your eye for choosing your boyfriend.” He leaned closer, his eyes glinting. Then, casually, he kissed the side of her lips. “You deserve the best of everything, understand?”

Before she could respond, he kissed her again—deeper this time, slower, anchoring her against the ache she didn’t even realize she was still carrying.

And for a moment, Wen Yifan let herself be still. Be held. Be seen.

The summer evening cast a golden haze over the lakefront, the sun dipping low enough that it painted everything in amber. Wen Yifan stood near the edge of the wooden boardwalk, her fingers gently tugging at the hem of her dress as the breeze licked at the fabric. The lake shimmered beneath the soft wind, and the lights from the nearby restaurants had begun to flicker on, casting long reflections on the water’s surface.

She turned when she heard Sang Yan’s familiar steps behind her.

“You’re not cold?” he asked, glancing at her bare arms.

Wen Yifan shook her head with a small smile. “It’s summer.”

“Even summer has nights,” Sang Yan replied, taking off his outer shirt and slipping it gently over her shoulders without asking.

Wen Yifan looked up at him and laughed. “Now I look like someone who got stood up.”

“You’re on a date with me. That’s much worse,” he teased, then nodded toward the restaurant just ahead. “Come on, I booked the table by the window.”

The restaurant was cozy and dim-lit, nestled slightly over the lake with wide glass windows that framed the fading skyline. Gentle music floated in the air, blending seamlessly with the distant murmurs of waves lapping against the dock.

They sat across from each other, a candle flickering lazily between them. Wen Yifan leaned over her plate, poking at her appetizer with the tip of her fork. “Did you Google how to impress your girlfriend before coming here?”

Sang Yan gave her a lazy, smug look. “You think I need Google for that?”

She laughed, leaning back. “You’re getting more shameless every day.”

“It’s summer break,” he said, entirely unbothered. “I’m allowed seasonal growth.”

They talked through the meal—trivial topics that made them laugh, familiar names tossed around like soft pillows: Siqiao’s drama marathons, Duan Jiaxu’s nocturnal snacking habits, and which breed of dog matched each of their personalities.

The food was decent, but the conversation was better.

When they stepped outside, the sky had deepened into a rich navy, stars faintly pricking through the twilight. The lakefront was lively, couples strolling with ice cream cones, families chasing kids with sticky hands. And in the distance—new and glowing with LED grandeur—the Ferris wheel turned slowly above the water.

Wen Yifan spotted it immediately. “Wow, they actually finished it.”

“Yeah,” Sang Yan said, less enthusiastically.

She turned to him, brows raised. “Don’t tell me you’re scared.”

“I’m not,” he said too quickly.

She narrowed her eyes, smirking. “You paused.”

“I didn’t.”

“You totally paused.”

“That was a dramatic effect.”

Wen Yifan was already tugging him toward the booth. “Come on, let’s go show the Ferris wheel some respect.”

“I hate that you remembered that.”

“You said it.”

Sang Yan followed her, muttering something under his breath about regretting this relationship only when suspended seventy meters in the air.

They were soon ushered into one of the cabins—sleek, glassy, and alarmingly transparent.

As it lifted off the ground, Sang Yan sat stiffly across from her, one arm stretched along the back of the bench, the other gripping the edge of the seat like it might anchor him to the earth.

Wen Yifan tilted her head, watching him with amusement. “You okay?”

“I’m chill.”

She peered closer. “You’re gripping the seat so hard your knuckles are white.”

“I’m cold .”

“Sure.” She slid closer, casually brushing her thigh against his. “You want me to hold your hand?”

“No.”

“Should I call a staff member to stop the wheel?”

“Wen Yifan.”

She laughed, clearly enjoying this. “You can admit it, you know. I won’t judge you. Much.”

Sang Yan’s jaw twitched. He looked out the window, at the horizon they were slowly rising above. “I didn’t think it’d go this high.”

“It’s a Ferris wheel,” she said, voice bright. “That’s kind of the point.”

The cabin swayed slightly with the wind.

Sang Yan inhaled through his nose. “This is such a dumb concept. Why would anyone pay to be trapped in a floating glass egg?”

“You’re so brave,” she cooed, not bothering to hide her grin. “Hero of the lakefront.”

“Wen Yifan.”

“Hm?”

“Stop talking.”

She blinked. “Why?”

Before she could tease him again, he leaned over—suddenly, deliberately—and kissed her.

It wasn’t brief.

It was slow and deep, a kiss that quieted both her laughter and his nerves, filled with every unspoken thought that had gathered between them all evening.

By the time he pulled back, the cabin had reached its highest point, and the entire world stretched out beneath them—glittering lights, dark water, and a summer night that buzzed softly with possibility.

Wen Yifan stared at him, slightly dazed. “You really just did that to shut me up.”

Sang Yan leaned back, more relaxed now, his heartbeat settling into rhythm. “Worked, didn’t it?”

She tried to hide her smile. Failed. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he said, slinging an arm around her shoulder and pulling her close again, “you’re still here.”

Outside, the Ferris wheel began its slow descent.

Inside, neither of them cared.

The rest of the summer passed the way good seasons always did—quietly, gently, with a soft kind of magic that only made sense in hindsight.

They didn’t do anything particularly extravagant. No sudden road trips. No bucket-list missions. But every day felt full.

Sometimes, that fullness came in the form of Sang Yan showing up outside her workplace ten minutes before her shift ended, leaning against the doorway like he owned the building.

“Here to pick up your girlfriend again?” her co-worker would tease with a grin.

To which Sang Yan, without even looking up from his phone, would reply, “No. I’m here to rescue her.”

Other times, it was simpler. Takeout containers on the coffee table. The two of them side by side on their apartment’s worn-down couch, legs tangled under a thin summer blanket as some mindless variety show droned on in the background.

It became routine: Wen Yifan worked part-time both in the mornings until afternoons, Sang Yan dropped by in the evenings. Sometimes they’d go out for skewers or shaved ice, other times they’d just sprawl in front of the fan, too lazy to move.

He never pushed her to talk about the stuff she didn’t want to talk about. But he was always there.

One night, as she brushed her hair in front of the mirror, Wen Yifan casually said, “I think I’ve stopped sleepwalking.”

Sang Yan, lying behind her with one leg propped up against the couch, lowered his phone. “You think?”

Yifan nods. “My sleep pattern has been regular these past few weeks and I’m not that tired and stressed.”

He blinked. “You haven’t had nightmares either.”

“Yeah.”

Sang Yan was quiet for a beat. Then he smiled, small and to himself. “Guess I’m good for your health.”

Wen Yifan threw a hair tie at his head.

On one of their lazier afternoons, with the air conditioner humming and Sang Yan’s arm draped loosely around her shoulders, he suddenly spoke.

“You ever hear of a little demon named Sang Zhi?”

Wen Yifan tilted her head. “Your sister?”

He nodded solemnly. “She looks sweet. Angelic, even. But don’t be fooled.”

“Oh?”

“She’s chaos wrapped in pigtails,” Sang Yan said, staring at the ceiling like it had wronged him. “Last time I went home, she programmed my phone to only play baby shark as my ringtone. Changed my alarms to scream 'Wake up, failure!' every morning.”

Wen Yifan burst out laughing. “That’s amazing.”

“No, that’s trauma.”

“What did your mom say?”

“She said—and I quote—‘She’s just playing with you, don’t be dramatic.’” He turned to face her, utterly betrayed. “Can you believe that? I raised that little demon! I used to rock her to sleep!”

Wen Yifan wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “Sounds like she inherited your sense of humor.”

“That’s slander.” He paused. “But maybe.”

“She must really love you.”

Sang Yan looked at her for a second. “Yeah,” he said softly. “She does.”

There was something fond in his voice, like despite all the whining, he missed his little sister.

“She’d like you,” he added, nudging her shoulder. “She has taste.”

“Oh?” Wen Yifan lifted an eyebrow. “Is that you complimenting me?”

“Don’t let it get to your head.”

They spent one evening making dumplings from scratch, flour dusting their shirts and hair, fingers accidentally brushing in the bowl of filling. Another was spent trying to build IKEA furniture until they gave up and turned the instruction manual into a paper plane.

Sometimes, they didn’t talk much at all. Just existed near each other, quietly. Comfortably.

And Wen Yifan couldn’t remember the last time she felt so steady.

By the time summer began to taper off, the streets buzzed again with the usual back-to-school rhythm. Stationery shops filled with new stock, students trickled back onto campus, and dorms were once again alive with chatter and the unmistakable sound of dragging luggage.

Wen Yifan stared at her class schedule one morning, sitting on their apartment balcony with a cup of warm soy milk.

Sang Yan leaned over her shoulder. “What do you have on Mondays?”

“Film theory and media ethics.”

He made a face. “Sounds thrilling.”

“Compared to your ‘Advanced Audio Techniques’?”

“That’s art,” he said, pointing to his chest. “Not ethics.”

Wen Yifan hummed. “Right. Your heart belongs to waveforms.”

Sang Yan leaned down and kissed her cheek lightly. “My heart’s doing fine right where it is.”

Their second year began with more responsibilities, more projects, and slightly less sleep. But the apartment still smelled like the instant coffee Sang Yan made every morning. Wen Yifan still hummed while brushing her teeth. Their shared calendar was filled with overlapping deadlines and passive-aggressive notes about who needed to buy more toilet paper.

They were still them.

And that made everything—every long class, every groan-worthy assignment, every 8 a.m.—just a little easier to bear.

Chapter Text

The start of their second year brought earlier alarms, tighter schedules, and a slight crispness in the air that hinted at autumn sneaking around the corner. But inside the apartment, it was warm—muggy with the scent of toasted bread and fried eggs.

Wen Yifan stood by the stove, wearing an oversized T-shirt that definitely didn’t belong to her. Her hair was still damp from the shower, sticking slightly to her neck as she stirred the pan, the soft sizzle of breakfast crackling under her wooden spatula.

She didn’t hear the footsteps behind her, but she felt the sudden warmth press against her back—strong arms slipping around her waist, a chin resting comfortably on her shoulder.

She flinched, only to relax a second later. “You scared me.”

Sang Yan murmured into her neck, voice heavy with sleep. “Your fault for smelling like shampoo and eggs.”

“That’s...a very specific combination.”

“Makes me want to eat you.”

She turned her head slightly, caught the smug curve of his lips from the corner of her eye. “That’s disgusting.”

“Romantic,” he corrected, brushing his nose along her cheekbone. “Just say you’re moved.”

She tried to focus on flipping the egg, but his hands were already roaming—slow, lazy circles against her waist, the kind of touch that wasn’t in a hurry but had clear intentions.

“Sang Yan,” she warned, not even trying to sound stern.

“What?” he mumbled, nuzzling into the crook of her neck. “Just hugging.”

“You’re not just —ah—hugging.”

He hummed noncommittally and tightened his hold, swaying her slightly with him as he whispered, “You should wear my shirts more often.”

“You’re insane.”

“I know,” he said, voice dropping lower. “And I’m going to kiss you now.”

Before she could protest—or pretend to—he turned her around, cornering her lightly against the counter. His mouth met hers softly at first, teasing, before deepening in slow, languid strokes that stole all the morning logic right out of her head.

Her hands curled into the front of his shirt, tugging him closer. The kiss grew heavier, more urgent, as if they had all the time in the world and none of it at all. His hands slid beneath the hem of her borrowed shirt, finding the warm skin of her hips, thumbs brushing dangerously close to the waistband of her shorts.

Wen Yifan was just about to drag him down with her when—

“Ahem.”

A deliberate throat clear cut through the air.

They froze.

And then turned—slowly—to see Duan Jiaxu, standing in the kitchen doorway with the deadpan expression of a man who had simply come for coffee and walked into a scene that would haunt him forever.

He raised a hand. “Please. Carry on. I’ll just gouge my eyes out.”

Wen Yifan jerked back, cheeks flaming, immediately reaching for the nearest dish towel to shield herself in the most unnecessary way possible. Sang Yan just exhaled a laugh against her temple before letting her go.

“Good morning to you too,” Sang Yan said smoothly, with absolutely zero shame.

Jiaxu shuffled to the coffee machine. “You two are unwell.”

“No, you just woke up too early,” Sang Yan replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, still wearing the stupidly smug look of a man who had been caught and still won.

Wen Yifan wanted to melt into the floor.

They somehow made it to the table ten minutes later, the awkwardness slightly dulled by the clinking of utensils and the steam rising from their mismatched mugs.

Jiaxu took a sip of his coffee and casually announced, “I think I’ll move back to the dorms this week.”

Wen Yifan looked up immediately. “What? You don’t have to. It’s fine—really.”

“It’s been great,” Jiaxu said lightly. “But I think it’s time. I’d like to sleep without worrying about becoming collateral damage in someone’s domestic foreplay.”

Sang Yan snorted into his glass of water.

Wen Yifan narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t look so proud.”

“I’m not,” he said, failing miserably at looking innocent. “Just grateful.”

Jiaxu gave them both a flat look, then reached for more toast.

Wen Yifan leaned back in her seat and sighed, cheeks still faintly pink.

Sang Yan stretched, draping an arm over the back of her chair and whispering near her ear, “Next time, we lock the door.”

She elbowed him in the ribs under the table.

He winced, grinning wider.

The university campus buzzed with life again.

It was the first week of the new term, and everything smelled like fresh notebooks and too much iced coffee. Posters were plastered on every wall, clubs hawked their flyers like overenthusiastic street vendors, and students scrambled between registration booths and classrooms like ants in a rainstorm.

Wen Yifan stood behind the long table outside the media building, shaded beneath a wide red banner that read Broadcasting & Media Student Club - Recruiting Now! in bold font. Her hair was tied up, face slightly flushed from the heat as she organized the sign-up sheets and stickers meant to entice freshmen.

Sang Yan sat next to her in the folding chair, one leg casually crossed over the other, holding a handmade sign board that said “Ask me anything about college life” —though he had already amended the bottom in pen: Except calculus.

“Why are you even here?” Wen Yifan asked, trying to balance a stack of club flyers that kept slipping.

“You begged me last night,” Sang Yan replied smoothly.

“I said it’d be nice if you helped for a bit, not that you take over like it’s your job.”

“Mm. Well,” he leaned back, watching two girls timidly approach the table and whisper about whether Wen Yifan was the vice president, “you get more sign-ups when I smile.”

“That's terrifying.”

He shrugged. “Charm has many forms.”

The girls ended up joining the club.

“See?” he said, grinning.

Wen Yifan didn’t reply, but she reached over to steal a grape-flavored candy from his pocket and popped it in her mouth with an air of triumph.

By the time their classes officially began, the lightness of summer had thinned out into crisp routines. Wen Yifan’s schedule was stacked—morning lectures, club meetings, a few weekend shifts at her part-time job.

Sang Yan’s was more flexible, at least on paper. He’d signed up for fewer credits and had negotiated an independent study project under the engineering department. But what he spent most of his time doing now was parked at their apartment’s coffee table, headphones slung around his neck, code running on his screen and an open sketchpad beside him.

It wasn’t until a quiet evening, after dinner, when Wen Yifan finally asked.

She was curled beside him on the couch, idly scrolling through her phone, when she glanced at his laptop and said, “This isn’t for robotics, is it?”

“Nope.”

She raised a brow. “Aren’t you supposed to be working on autonomous mapping this semester?”

“Was,” Sang Yan replied, closing his laptop halfway. “I talked to my advisor. Switched paths.”

Wen Yifan shifted to face him properly. “To what?”

“Game development,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “App-based. I’ve been learning Unity and a bit of C# since summer. Wanted to build something that’s more…people-oriented, I guess.”

Wen Yifan stared at him for a beat.

“You dropped the thing with the AI drone and instead you’re coding cute mini games on your own?”

“They’re not cute. ” Sang Yan frowned. “Okay, one is cute. But that’s not the point.”

She blinked, then burst out laughing. “You were the one who once said mobile games were for brain rot.”

“And I stand by that. But I also think some brain rot is good for the soul.”

He leaned back against the couch and looked at her seriously. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while. Robotics is fine, but I don’t see myself doing it long term. I like building things that people can enjoy. And I kinda like the idea of making something...fun.”

Wen Yifan’s expression softened. She reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “That’s good.”

“You’re not gonna give me a speech about wasting potential or whatever?”

She tilted her head. “Do you want one?”

“No.”

“Then no.”

Sang Yan exhaled, the tension he hadn’t noticed in his shoulders easing slightly. “Thanks.”

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Make me a cute brain rot game first.”

“Done,” he smirked. “Main character’s a girl with a temper and impeccable style who sleepwalks into monster fights.”

“Are you mocking me?”

He shrugged. “Only if you lose.”

Their new school year fell into rhythm.

They walked to classes together when their schedules matched, ate lunch under the same tree near the library courtyard, and complained about professors with names that sounded like minor villains.

Sometimes they fought over what to order for takeout. Sometimes Sang Yan had to literally drag Wen Yifan to bed when she got too caught up editing club videos. Sometimes she kissed him mid-rant because he looked too good while arguing over nothing.

And sometimes they just sat in silence, sharing earbuds and playlists, letting the world rush by outside their window while they stayed still—together.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The boys’ dorm was unusually quiet that afternoon, the kind of stillness that settled after a wave of energy had passed—like everyone had gone back to class or buried themselves in their headphones.

Chen Juwen and Qian Fei were lounging in their shared dorm room. Juwen was halfway through a game on his phone, while Qian Fei scrolled aimlessly through his feed. Neither of them expected anyone to knock.

When the sharp, polite knock came, they both looked up.

Juwen sat up first. “You expecting anyone?”

Qian Fei shook his head, already moving toward the door.

He opened it to find a familiar figure standing with a plastic basket of neatly packed food containers in her hands.

“Auntie?” Qian Fei blinked in surprise.

Li Ping, dressed in a tidy linen blouse and a kind smile, nodded. “Hello! I brought some food for Sang Yan and you guys. Is he in?”

Juwen stood up quickly and greeted her with a respectful bow of his head. “He’s not here at the moment, Auntie. He—uh…”

Qian Fei scratched the back of his head. “He’s been…uh, kind of…staying off-campus lately.”

Li Ping raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“He’s been busy,” Qian Fei added unconvincingly. “Group projects and—”

“He’s staying with Yifan—”

“—our shared apartment!” Jiaxu’s voice cut in sharply as he stepped into the room with perfect timing, a calm smile stretched across his face.

Everyone turned.

Jiaxu approached casually, setting down his backpack like he hadn’t just saved a minor crisis. “Sang Yan and I do most of our project work there these days. Too many distractions in the dorms. And our classes don’t line up well this term.”

Li Ping blinked, her expression softening. “Oh, I see. That makes sense.” She looked around. “So…you boys are all very hardworking, huh?”

Juwen coughed and nodded quickly. “Very. We rarely game anymore.”

Li Ping laughed. “Mm. So disciplined. I’m glad you’re all taking your studies seriously.”

Just then, the door opened again.

Sang Yan stepped in, stopping short when he saw his mother. “Mom? What are you doing here?”

Li Ping turned to him with a smile. “I was nearby, so I thought I’d drop off some food for you and the boys. I figured you’d be starving.”

Sang Yan glanced at his roommates, reading their faintly panicked expressions. “...Thanks. You didn’t have to.”

She placed the containers on the small desk, ignoring his tone. “Nonsense. You’re still too skinny. And don’t overwork yourself. And,” she turned to Duan Jiaxu, “don’t let him charge you rent for staying with him, alright?”

Jiaxu smiled, composed. “It’s okay, Auntie. I insist. It’s only right. I need to contribute to maintain the friendship.”

“Oh, what a nice young man.” She beamed. “I wonder when any of you are going to get girlfriends.”

Qian Fei opened his mouth, about to say something—

But then stopped when he saw the sharp look Sang Yan sent him.

The room fell awkwardly quiet.

Li Ping didn’t seem to notice. “Alright, I’ll head off then. Be good, all of you.”

After she left, the silence stayed for a moment.

Then:

“Close call,” Juwen exhaled.

“You owe me one,” Jiaxu added pointedly to Sang Yan.

Sang Yan ruffled his hair. “Yeah, yeah.”

Jiaxu turned to him, voice quieter. “Hey. Why does your mom think I’m the only one renting that apartment?”

Sang Yan sighed and leaned against the wall. “I just haven’t had time to explain everything.”

Juwen grinned. “Explain what, exactly?”

Qian Fei smirked. “That you’re cohabitating with your girlfriend in secret?”

“It’s not like that,” Sang Yan said flatly, but the flush rising in his ears betrayed him.

Jiaxu tilted his head. “You think your parents wouldn’t approve?”

“They’d be over the moon,” Sang Yan replied without hesitation. “ Too happy, actually. My mom would probably call Yifan her future daughter-in-law before Yifan even had time to breathe.”

Juwen whistled. “That’s a lot.”

Sang Yan folded his arms, looking at the floor. “I don’t want to put pressure on her. Things are good the way they are. I’ll tell them…when it feels right.”

Qian Fei gave him a knowing nudge with his elbow. “Man’s whipped.”

“Gladly,” Sang Yan said without shame.

They all laughed.

For a moment, everything felt comfortably simple—even if only a few of them knew what really lay beneath the calm surface.

It had been a month since the new school year began, and while Sang Yan’s schedule had settled into its usual chaos of side projects, club meetings, and moments stolen with Wen Yifan, there was one person who had begun to feel his absence.

His phone buzzed during a coding break.

[Sang Zhi]:

When are you coming home??
Mom says you’re “busy” but you haven’t shown up in weeks.

Sang Yan rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair.

[Sang Yan]:

I am busy. Projects.

[Sang Zhi]:

Mom says Duan Jiaxu is living with you now.
That true?

[Sang Yan]:

Yeah, it’s convenient. We’re working on the same stuff.

There was a pause.

[Sang Zhi]:

I want to come over this weekend.
Buy me pizza.
I want pepperoni and extra cheese.
Mom won’t let me eat junk food anymore, says I’m “at a growing age.” 🙄

Sang Yan stared at the screen, mildly amused.

[Sang Yan]:

Fine. Saturday?

[Sang Zhi]:

Deal. 🍕

When Saturday rolled around, Sang Yan was seated on the couch, idly flipping through channels while Wen Yifan tied her hair up, keys jingling in her hand.

“Could you grab some pizza on the way back?” he asked, not looking away from the TV. “Sang Zhi is coming over.”

Yifan paused by the door. “Your little sister?”

“Mm. Pick your favorite flavor, too. She probably won’t eat all of it.”

Yifan smiled. “So I’m doing the pizza run for your sister and you’re just...here?”

“Domestic life,” he said with a smug grin. “You love it.”

She rolled her eyes but left with a small laugh, the door clicking shut behind her.

Not long after, the doorbell rang. Sang Yan got up lazily, scratching the back of his head as he opened the door.

“Didn’t expect you to be early.”

Sang Zhi breezed inside, wearing a hoodie two sizes too big and a look of suspicion. “Where’s Jiaxu-ge?”

“What—so now he’s your brother?” Sang Yan gave her a look. “You’re at my apartment and you’re asking about him ?”

“He replies to my texts,” she said dryly.

“You’re his villain origin story.”

Sang Zhi flopped onto the couch and crossed her arms. “So where is he?”

“He’s out today. Probably at the lab.”

As they bickered, there was a sound of keys turning in the lock. Both turned toward the door.

“Is that him?” Sang Zhi asked, springing to her feet.

She opened the door—and froze.

Wen Yifan stood there, hair slightly windblown, carrying a large pizza box and a drink tray.

“Hi,” Yifan said, blinking in surprise. “You must be Sang Zhi.”

Sang Zhi’s eyes went wide. “You’re not Duan Jiaxu.”

“Unfortunately not,” Yifan said with a small smile.

Sang Yan walked over, slipping an arm around Yifan’s shoulder as he took the pizza box. “This is Wen Yifan.”

Sang Zhi stared. “Wait. You live here?”

Yifan nodded. “Yep.”

Sang Zhi’s gaze snapped to her brother. “You’re living together?? Sharing a room??!”

“No,” Sang Yan said calmly. “She has her own room. I share mine with Jiaxu.”

“I pay rent,” Yifan added helpfully.

Sang Zhi still looked stunned. “So it’s like... a triple-room co-ed apartment?”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“This feels illegal somehow,” she muttered, narrowing her eyes at Sang Yan.

He smirked. “You gonna report me to Mom?”

Sang Zhi opened her mouth, then closed it. “Not if you give me the bigger slice.”

Yifan laughed and walked toward the kitchen. “Deal. Let me grab plates.”

As the three of them sat down on the low table and dug into the pizza, the atmosphere began to settle into something comfortably chaotic. Sang Zhi was sarcastic and sharp, Yifan was patient and amused, and Sang Yan was just smug enough to enjoy the fact that the two girls in his life were finally talking—and not killing each other.

Though, knowing Sang Zhi, that could change by dessert.

The pizza was down to the last slice, and Sang Yan was in the corner, squatting by a tangled mess of wires while attempting to reconnect their Wi-Fi router for the third time that week.

“I told you not to kick the router,” he muttered.

“I nudged it with my foot,” Sang Zhi replied, reclining on the couch.

“You launched it like a missile.”

“I did not —”

While the two siblings bickered, Wen Yifan brought the plates to the sink and began rinsing them out. A moment later, Sang Zhi followed her into the kitchen, holding her cup of soda. She leaned on the counter, watching Yifan.

“You’re really pretty,” Sang Zhi said bluntly.

Yifan blinked, mid-scrub, then let out a soft laugh. “Thanks. You’re really cute too.”

“I know,” Sang Zhi said without a trace of modesty, then tilted her head. “But seriously. Why are you dating my brother?”

Yifan chuckled again and looked over her shoulder at Sang Yan, who was still muttering at the blinking lights on the router. “I wonder that sometimes too.”

Sang Zhi grinned. “So you do have taste.”

Yifan smiled and turned off the tap, wiping her hands. “Hey, do you remember me?”

Sang Zhi frowned. “Should I?”

“We met once before when we were in high school. You were looking for your brother around campus, and I helped you. You were a bit upset, and after we found Sang Yan, you treated me to an ice cream.”

Sang Zhi’s eyes widened slightly, gears visibly turning in her head. “...That was you ? That wasn’t me being lost—My brother said I was lost so I need to be lost.”

Yifan raised an eyebrow playfully. “You were tearing up.”

“I was acting,” Sang Zhi insisted, then paused. “...But I guess you were nice. I did think you looked cool. I just didn’t expect that girl to be this girl .”

Yifan laughed. “Well, I’m flattered.”

Sang Zhi studied her for another moment, then asked more quietly, “Are you the girl my parents mentioned? The one who dated Sang Yan in high school?”

Yifan shook her head. “That’s what the teachers thought back then, but no—we weren’t together in high school.”

Sang Zhi looked suspicious. “But... are you the one who pushed him to study?”

Yifan tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

“In second year,” Sang Zhi said, “Sang Yan’s grades were all over the place. Our parents almost gave up on him. Then out of nowhere, he got serious. Mom said he stopped slacking and actually started... caring. He got into Nanwu. I always wondered what changed.”

Yifan’s expression softened. “We both studied hard to get into Nanwu. It mattered to us.”

Sang Zhi blinked. “So... it was for you?”

Yifan looked down, then smiled. “We were good friends. And sometimes, when someone believes in you, it makes it easier to believe in yourself.”

Sang Zhi didn’t say anything at first. Then she glanced toward her brother again, who was now poking the router with a chopstick like it personally offended him.

“You must’ve believed in him a lot,” she said quietly.

Yifan’s eyes followed hers. “I did. I still do.”

Sang Zhi rolled her eyes. “Okay, gross.”

Yifan laughed, but her voice was warm. “You’re not going to report me to your mom, are you?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Sang Zhi said, swiping her cup back up. “Bribery helps, though.”

“Ice cream later?”

“Deal.”

Sang Yan, from the living room, shouted, “What deal?! What are you two plotting?!”

Sang Zhi yelled back, “We’re forming a new club: ‘Girls Who Tolerate Sang Yan.’ You’re not invited.”

Yifan laughed again, and for a moment, it was just soft light, soda fizz, and the beginning of something tender between future sisters.

The apartment felt calmer after Sang Zhi left—though a faint echo of her teasing still seemed to linger in the air, like perfume caught in fabric. The empty pizza boxes were stacked neatly, the plates cleaned, and the soda cups tossed. The sky outside was slipping into soft shades of lavender, light filtering dimly through the curtains.

Wen Yifan sat cross-legged on the couch, a throw blanket draped loosely over her knees. The TV played quietly in the background, but neither of them was really watching it.

Sang Yan came out of the kitchen, rubbing a towel over his still-damp hands. He dropped onto the other end of the couch and turned sideways to face her.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice lower than usual, almost tentative.

Yifan looked at him, mildly surprised. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He shrugged, looking at her with a trace of seriousness she rarely saw. “It’s the first time someone from my family’s met you like this. As...you know. This. ” He gestured vaguely between them.

Yifan tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Your sister’s great.”

“She’s also definitely texting my mom right now,” Sang Yan deadpanned.

Yifan laughed, but he didn’t.

“I’m serious. She probably started typing before she even put her shoes on.”

He shifted closer, elbow on the backrest, eyes steady on hers. “Just—don’t be nervous when my mom finds out. She’ll overreact. She’ll start planning our wedding. She might ask for your blood type. She might show up next week with herbal soup for your ‘constitution.’”

Yifan burst into laughter. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Because she’s done it. To me. Twice.”

Still smiling, she leaned into the couch cushion. “I’m not nervous. I mean... I kind of am. But not in a bad way.”

He softened. “You sure?”

“I liked seeing you with your sister,” she said quietly. “It was cute.”

Sang Yan groaned and leaned back. “That’s not the adjective I want attached to myself.”

Yifan laughed again. “Sorry. Fierce. Brooding. Terrifying. ”

“That’s better.”

A beat passed.

Yifan added, “And a little cute.”

He let out a sigh, tipping his head back. “Why do I even talk to you?”

She leaned over, brushing her fingers against his. “Because I’m your favorite.”

He glanced at her, something unspoken flickering in his eyes. Then, with the smallest smile, he said, “Yeah. You are.”

Sang Household, Later That Evening

Li Ping was drying dishes when Sang Zhi strolled into the kitchen, phone in one hand and suspicious mischief in her eyes.

“Ma,” Sang Zhi said casually.

“Hm?”

“I went to Sang Yan’s apartment today.”

“Oh?” Li Ping perked up. “Did you see Xiao Duan? That poor boy, he always sounds so polite over the phone—”

“Jiaxu-ge is not there,” Sang Zhi said. “but someone else is.”

Li Ping paused. “Who?”

Sang Zhi’s face split into a grin. “A girl.”

Li Ping turned fully around, towel in hand. “ A girl?! ”

“Wen Yifan.”

Li Ping’s jaw dropped. “ Wen Yifan?! From high school?!”

“She lives with him.”

“What do you mean lives —”

“She said she pays rent. But still. They’re clearly— together. And Sang Yan didn’t even tell you.”

Li Ping slapped the dish towel onto the counter and reached for her phone with militant precision. “I raised a lying, sneaky little brat.”

Sang Zhi looked pleased with herself. “I’m just saying, you might want to call him. Or show up with soup. Or both.”

Li Ping’s eyes narrowed like a general planning a siege. “I will .”

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It started with a knock.

Not the light, hesitant kind—no, this one had purpose. Authority. The kind of knock that made even Duan Jiaxu look up from his laptop with concern.

Sang Yan frowned from where he was sprawled on the couch, game controller in hand. “You expecting someone?”

Yifan, tying her hair up in the kitchen, poked her head around the corner. “You ordered food again?”

But when Sang Yan opened the door, all color drained from his face.

“ Ma?! ”

Li Ping stood in the doorway, purse slung over one shoulder, Tupperware stacked in her arms, and her eyes laser-focused.

“I was in the area,” she said, stepping in without waiting. “Thought I’d bring some soup for Jiaxu. But now I hear I should’ve brought extra.”

Behind her, Sang Zhi shot her brother a look that said I warned you.

“Hi, Auntie,” Yifan greeted politely, stepping forward with a welcoming smile. “Let me take those from you.”

Li Ping’s expression flickered as she handed over the containers, observing Yifan with something unreadable—curiosity, maybe, or calculation. Possibly both.

“So it’s true,” she said, voice deceptively light. “You’ve been hiding a girlfriend.”

Sang Yan rubbed the back of his neck. “It wasn’t hiding. Just… not yet mentioning.”

Li Ping sat at the small dining table, fixing him with a stare. “Three years, Sang Yan. Three. Years. You mentioned every dumb club event and failed recipe. But not this?”

Yifan cleared her throat. “It was my idea too, Auntie. We just wanted to take things slow.” Yifan added, trying to save Sang Yan.

Li Ping turned to her, and the tension broke like a snapped twig.

“You’re even prettier in person,” she said warmly. “And you brought pizza for my daughter. I already like you better than him.”

Sang Yan groaned. “ Ma— ”

“Shush.”

Sang Zhi and Duan Jiaxu giggling together in the living room while Sang Yan glared at them both.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later That Evening

After the surprise visit (which included questions about rent, future plans, zodiac signs, and a strangely intense discussion about the benefits of lotus root soup), Li Ping finally left—arms lighter, heart heavier with gossip material, and a clear mission to update Sang Yan’s dad the moment she got home.

Duan Jiaxu retired early in his room. Yifan stood in the kitchen, now quiet, drying the last plate.

Sang Yan leaned against the doorway, arms crossed.

“She didn’t terrify you?” he asked.

Yifan looked over her shoulder with a smile. “A little.”

“You held it together.”

“I was a lot more scared the first time we met. And then when she asked if I was the reason you suddenly started studying.”

He grinned faintly. “You were .”

“Maybe. But I didn’t make you want it. That was all you.”

He walked over, hand brushing hers as he took the towel. “Still. You were the reason it mattered.”

For a beat, they just stood there—no teasing, no deflection.

Then Sang Yan nudged her chin gently, tilting her face up.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For not telling them earlier. Not because I didn’t want to. Just… I liked having this part of my life just be ours.”

Yifan reached up, resting a hand against his chest. “I get it.”

His other hand slipped around her waist.

“I think she loves you already,” he murmured. “But if she brings wedding catalogs next week, I’m blaming you.”

Yifan laughed, fingers tugging playfully at his shirt. “I’ll tell her you still leave socks under the couch.”

They leaned into each other then—not urgent, not rushed. Just quiet. The kind of closeness that only comes when there’s nothing left to prove.

Outside, the city hummed with the start of a new weekend.

Inside, their small shared life continued to grow—slowly, sweetly, and now with one more person who knew.

A few days later, Sang Yan sat at the dinner table, chopsticks in hand, barely a bite in his mouth before the questioning began.

“So,” his father said mildly, pouring himself a cup of tea. “Yifan, is it?”

Sang Yan glanced at the steamed fish like it might offer him backup. “Yeah.”

“And you’ve been living together since the start of summer?” Li Ping added, narrowing her eyes. “But only telling us now ?”

“I wasn’t hiding it,” Sang Yan muttered. “It just… never came up.”

Li Ping scoffed. “You told us when Duan Jiaxu moved in. Even gave us a list of his allergies and favorite instant noodles. But this?”

“She pays rent,” Sang Yan said defensively. “She has her own room. I share the other room with Jiaxu.”

“ You’re just using Xiao Duan as a shield, ” Li Ping snapped, pointing her chopsticks at him.

“Ma—!”

“We just want to understand,” his dad said, tone calm but firm. “You’re our son. We trust you. But this is a big step.”

Sang Yan sighed, setting his chopsticks down. “Yifan has sleepwalking episodes. She’s had them for a while. Her doctor said it’d be good for her to live with someone she trusts. It’s not about us , it’s about keeping her safe.”

That gave both parents pause.

Li Ping blinked. “Sleepwalking?”

“Sometimes bad,” Sang Yan said. “And less frequent lately, but still. She wasn’t comfortable with dorms, and neither was I. It just made sense.”

His father exchanged a look with Li Ping, who exhaled slowly.

“Well,” she said at last, softer now, “that makes a lot more sense. I wish you told us earlier.”

“I didn’t want to make it a big deal. We were figuring it out.”

There was a long beat of silence, the tension easing. Then:

“But,” Li Ping added, picking up her chopsticks again, “just because she’s living there doesn’t mean you can be irresponsible.”

Sang Yan groaned.

“You better not pressure her into anything,” his father chimed in.

“I’m not!”

“Be gentle. Be respectful. Help her with chores. Don’t make her regret moving in,” Li Ping listed, wagging a finger.

“You’re not allowed to be lazy anymore,” his father agreed. “This is practice for future husbandhood.”

Sang Yan blinked at both of them. “Whose child am I, again? Me or Yifan?”

Li Ping pointed her chopsticks at him again. “Yifan is a delight. You are a public menace.”

Sang Yan lay sprawled across his old bed, phone pressed to his ear.

“She interrogated me,” he told Yifan, voice muffled in his pillow. “Like I was being tried for war crimes.”

Yifan’s laugh rang clearly. “Did you tell them I pay rent?”

“Repeatedly. Didn’t help.”

“She’s just worried.”

“She’s obsessed with you,” he muttered.

“I’m very charming.”

“You’re ruining my status as the favorite child.”

There was a pause on the line, soft and warm.

“…What’d they say after?”

Sang Yan rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “They told me not to pressure you. To be respectful. To do the dishes. And that if I mess this up, I’m getting disowned.”

Yifan chuckled. “They sound like good people.”

“They like you better than me. You’re welcome to them.”

He could almost hear her smile. “Too late. I already picked you.”

And somehow, that made the endless dinner grilling worth it.

Chapter Text

It started the moment Sang Yan returned to the apartment.

Wen Yifan had just stepped out of the shower, hair still damp, when Sang Yan bounded into the kitchen like a man on a mission.

“Sit down,” he said, already pulling ingredients from the fridge.

She blinked. “I was going to make dinner.”

“I’ve got it.”

“…Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m great,” he said, cracking eggs into a bowl with an unnecessary flourish. “I’m just being a responsible, supportive, respectful partner. You know—basic expectations. Gentleman behavior.”

Yifan squinted at him. “Did your mom yell at you?”

“She had concerns . And now I’m addressing them. Thoroughly.”

By the end of the night, Sang Yan had:

• Cooked her dinner.
  
  
• Washed all the dishes.
  
  
• Insisted she sit on the couch while he fetched her water.
  
  
• Offered to brush her hair (“I’ve seen it done in dramas, how hard can it be?”).
  
  
• Tucked her under a blanket like she was a Victorian grandmother.
  
  

When Duan Jiaxu got home, he found Sang Yan carefully fluffing a throw pillow and placing it behind Yifan’s back.

He paused at the doorway, one brow raised. “Did you cheat on her or something?”

Sang Yan looked up. “No. This is me being a gentleman.”

“…Right.”

“Ask me what I did today.”

“No.”

“I made her dinner.”

“I can smell the burned garlic, thanks.”

Yifan was clearly trying not to laugh as she sipped her water. “He’s been like this all evening.”

“ Respectful, ” Sang Yan reminded her. “Supportive. Emotionally available. Your mother-in-law would be proud.”

“You’re my boyfriend, not hers.”

“Correction—I'm everyone’s boyfriend now.”

Later that night, Yifan was brushing her teeth when Sang Yan leaned against the bathroom door frame, arms crossed and still visibly pleased with himself.

She spit, rinsed, and met his eyes in the mirror. “You do know you don’t have to prove anything, right?”

“I know.” He stepped forward, reaching out to tuck a damp strand of hair behind her ear. “But it’s kind of fun being sickeningly good at this.”

She turned, arching a brow. “Sickening is the right word.”

He smiled, pulling her gently toward him, his hands resting on her hips. “You’re just jealous your boyfriend is award-winning.”

“Oh?” she murmured, tilting her chin up. “What award?”

He dipped his head close, his lips brushing against hers.

“Best in Boyfriend Behavior, 2025,” he whispered.

She kissed him once, slow and amused. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But respectable,” he added with mock seriousness, lifting her effortlessly onto the bathroom counter. “Very, very respectable.”

Yifan leaned back against the mirror as Sang Yan’s hands stayed firm on her thighs, warm even through the fabric of her shorts.

“You’re getting dangerously smug,” she said, looping her arms around his neck.

“I’ve earned it.”

“You made one dinner.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Excuse you, I also fetched your water, fluffed your pillow, and suffered through a lecture about propriety from my mother— for you .”

“For your mother’s peace of mind ,” she corrected, grinning.

“That too,” he murmured, his voice lower now as he leaned closer, nose brushing along her cheek. “Still. I think I deserve a little appreciation.”

She narrowed her eyes. “How much appreciation are we talking about?”

“Nothing crazy,” he said, lips ghosting over hers. “Just a kiss. Maybe a few. Maybe… a small monument in my honor.”

Yifan kissed him once, soft and lingering.

“Hmm,” she said thoughtfully, pulling back just a little. “Not bad.”

Sang Yan smirked and deepened the next kiss—slower, firmer, one hand sliding up to trace the curve of her waist. She sighed against his mouth, her fingers tightening in his hair.

The taste of toothpaste was still faint on both their lips, minty and fresh, and they broke into quiet laughter mid-kiss, their foreheads pressing together.

“You always taste like trouble,” she whispered.

“And you,” he said, breathing warm against her skin, “taste like home.”

Her laugh softened into something gentler, almost fond. “Who taught you to flirt like this?”

“Practice,” he said shamelessly. “Lots of practice. With you.”

“Ah,” she said, lips brushing his again. “That’s acceptable, then.”

He hummed, thumb brushing over the edge of her knee. “Stay here for a while.”

“I already live here.”

“I know. But I mean here,” he said, softly now, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Right now. Just… stay.”

So she did.

She rested her head against his shoulder as his arms wrapped around her, still sitting on the bathroom counter, the fan humming quietly overhead.

Neither spoke for a while.

The bathroom was filled only with the steady rhythm of their breathing, and the kind of silence that only comes from deep comfort—when no performance is needed, no act to impress, just presence.

And maybe that was the real award.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wen Yifan’s birthday wasn’t grand this year—and that was exactly how she wanted it.

Just the soft clink of glasses over dinner, the warm glow of fairy lights strung up in their shared apartment, and Sang Yan trying very hard not to look smug as he handed her a small, square box wrapped in matte blue paper.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” Yifan said, already tugging at the ribbon with a little too much curiosity.

“You say that every time, and I ignore it every time,” Sang Yan replied, chin propped on his hand as he watched her.

Inside the box was a recorder, simple and thin, with a small charm shaped like a microphone hanging on its end—subtle, understated, and meaningful.

Yifan blinked. “You remembered.”

“You only mentioned buying one, three times during the semester,” Sang Yan said, trying to play it cool. “Don’t overestimate me.”

She leaned over and kissed him instead of answering, her hand reaching up to cup his cheek. “I love it.”

“I love you more,” he murmured.

That night, there was no cake—just takeout from her favorite noodle place, a few candles, and Sang Yan singing an off-key birthday song that made her laugh so hard she nearly snorted water out her nose.

It was perfect.

The next morning, it was back to the thrum of campus life.

Deadlines. Presentations. Group chats filled with passive-aggressive reminders.

Sang Yan returned to long hours hunched over his laptop, debugging his gaming app and coordinating with classmates for demo schedules. Yifan was pulled into her own whirl of activities—broadcast meetings, post-production work, and coordinating events for the student media club.

Sometimes they barely saw each other during the day, passing in and out of the apartment like ships in a busy harbor.

But somehow, they made space.

A post-it left on the fridge.

A cup of coffee slid into the other’s hand during a late-night crunch.

Even the silence between them at night, as they sat side-by-side at the table working, had its own language—of care, of understanding, of presence.

The friend group remained as chaotic as ever.

Chen Juwen was deep in thesis panic mode and had started talking to plants.

Qian Fei kept dragging everyone into group karaoke to “relieve stress,” which only stressed everyone out more.

Su Haoan still being a serial dater and doing God knows what but still managing to survive the second year.

Zhong Siqiao managed to help everyone on her team and even the 1st years while juggling her schoolwork. Ever the hard worker that she is.

Duan Jiaxu, cool as ever, made progress on a side project he wouldn’t tell anyone about—except for Sang Yan, who kept smirking and refusing to spill the secret.

There were shared meals, weekend group projects, and the occasional group chat explosion when someone forgot a deadline or dropped embarrassing photos.

Life moved fast, but it moved together.

Late one night, as Yifan returned from a recording session, she found Sang Yan asleep on the couch—head tilted back, a half-eaten granola bar on his chest, and lines of code still glowing faintly on his laptop screen.

She took a moment to just look at him.

This boy who used to make her roll her eyes every other second, who now felt like both home and challenge.

She bent down and brushed his hair from his forehead, whispering, “Thanks for the recorder.”

He stirred just enough to mutter, “Anything for you.”

She smiled. “Still. Thank you.”

Then she pulled a blanket over him, turned off the lamp, and sat beside him in the quiet hum of their shared life—messy, full, and exactly enough.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

It started with a seminar.

The engineering department was hosting a student showcase—open to upperclassmen, faculty, and visiting alumni. Sang Yan, reluctantly roped in by his advisor, was presenting a prototype of the game he’d been building over the past few months.

Yifan came by just before it started, slipping him a coffee and pressing her fingers against the back of his hand.

“Remember to blink. And don’t act like you hate everyone.”

“I do hate everyone.”

She laughed. “You’re doing great already.”

When the showcase began, Sang Yan stood near his booth, explaining his concept to a slow trickle of curious students and faculty.

That was when she arrived.

Ji Lin.

Fourth year. Known in the department for her sharp mind, multiple internships, and tendency to charm every professor and panelist in the room. She was also the TA for one of the most brutal AI elective courses—half brilliant, half terrifying.

She stopped in front of his booth, glanced at the game on display, and said, “You wrote your own engine?”

Sang Yan nodded, caught slightly off guard by her directness. “Yeah. It’s still buggy, but it’s modular enough for future builds.”

Ji Lin tapped the table thoughtfully, eyes fixed on the screen. “Impressive. Most people here are just repackaging open-source scripts with prettier UI.”

“I guess I’m just allergic to shortcuts.”

“Or addicted to overwork,” she shot back, but smiled. “I like that.”

Before he could respond, she handed him her phone.

“Put your number in. I’d love to talk more about your project—and maybe drag you into one of mine. I’m working on something that could use your style of architecture.”

Sang Yan hesitated.

Ji Lin raised an eyebrow. “Unless you’re too busy?”

He took the phone.

“I’m busy,” he said, typing in his number, “but I’m not allergic to collaboration.”

From a distance, Yifan watched with a small, unreadable expression as Ji Lin laughed, said something else, and touched Sang Yan’s arm before walking away.

Later that night, over dinner at home, Yifan asked casually, “Who was that girl at the booth?”

“Ji Lin. Senior. TA for Prof. Meng’s class. Apparently wants to loop me into her project.”

Yifan nodded, chewing thoughtfully. “Seems like she knows what she wants.”

“She’s aggressive,” Sang Yan said simply, before adding, “in a professional way.”

Yifan made a noncommittal hum.

Sang Yan glanced up. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Wen Shuangjiang.”

She gave him a small smile. “She’s pretty.”

He rolled his eyes. “So are a lot of people. What’s your point?”

Yifan shrugged, but the edge in her voice was soft. “Just saying. You’ll probably be spending time with her.”

Sang Yan leaned across the table, tilting his head. “You think I’m the type to forget I have a girlfriend because someone throws academic compliments at me?”

“I think you’re charming when you explain your code.”

That caught him off guard. He blinked, lips twitching. “Wow. You do like me.”

“Regretfully,” she muttered, sipping her soup.

But later that night, as they worked side-by-side again at the kitchen table, she caught herself glancing at him more often than usual.

Sang Yan didn’t say anything, but the next time his phone buzzed and the screen showed Ji Lin’s name, he turned it face down and kept typing.

The texts became more frequent.

At first, it was just technical questions—code optimization, cross-platform testing, version control quirks. But then they bled into memes about debugging hell, late-night rants about class deadlines, and once, a photo of Ji Lin’s takeout dinner captioned: If I die debugging this module tonight, let this be my last meal.

Sang Yan replied with a dry, “You’ll survive. Barely.”

Yifan saw his smirk when he sent it.

He didn’t hide the messages. He wasn’t doing anything wrong.

But that didn’t stop the feeling from curling under Yifan’s ribs.

It wasn’t jealousy, exactly. It was the quiet ache of comparison.

She heard more about Ji Lin over the next week—how she had interned at two top-tier tech firms, how she coded like she was born with a compiler in her brain, how she handled both back-end and AI logic without blinking. Students respected her. Professors relied on her.

Ji Lin was confident. Driven. Accomplished.

And she clearly liked Sang Yan.

Yifan tried to brush it off. But it stayed with her. The way Ji Lin lingered at Sang Yan’s booth even after their meetings ended. The way she leaned close when showing him code on her laptop. The casual way she touched his wrist when emphasizing a point.

And Sang Yan—blunt, detached Sang Yan—didn’t seem to notice.

Or maybe he did and didn’t care.

One evening, after their schedules had barely overlapped all week, Yifan returned home from her club meeting to find the apartment dim. The kitchen light was on. The smell of stir-fried noodles lingered in the air.

She found Sang Yan on the couch, laptop open, still typing.

“Hey,” she said quietly.

He glanced up. “Hey. There’s food in the pot.”

She nodded, toeing off her shoes, and went straight to the bedroom.

He didn’t follow.

She sat on the edge of the bed in silence. A beat passed. Then two.

Something inside her wavered. She turned off the light and sat in the dark.

What do I offer him, really?

I’m not like Ji Lin. I’m not brilliant at code. I’m not part of his world in that way. I’m not even... uncomplicated.

The past clawed at her thoughts—the shadows of things she didn’t say out loud, the moments she still woke from at night, the fractured self she had been working so hard to stitch back together.

Maybe she was just a stop on his way to something greater.

Maybe someone like Ji Lin—clean, polished, brilliant—was where he was meant to go.

The bed dipped suddenly.

She turned, startled, to find Sang Yan sitting beside her, brows knit in quiet concern.

“Did something happen?” he asked.

Yifan hesitated. “No.”

He frowned.

“It’s just—” She swallowed. “You’re building this amazing future, and I’m just... here.”

Sang Yan stared at her for a long moment. Then: “What does that mean?”

Yifan shook her head. “Forget it.”

“No. Say it.”

She pressed her lips together, voice barely above a whisper. “If someone more deserving comes along—someone smarter, cleaner, easier—what reason do you have to stay?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then he reached for her hand. Pulled her gently into his arms.

His voice, when he spoke, was low but certain. “I’ve already found the person I want. I’m not interested in swapping her out for a resume.”

Yifan’s eyes stung.

“You think I don’t see how hard you work?” Sang Yan continued. “You think I don’t notice how you still fight every day to be okay? That takes more strength than writing good code. And if anyone thinks you’re less because of where you’ve been—they’re not worth listening to.”

She buried her face in his shoulder.

He held her quietly.

Then he added, in a dry murmur, “Also, Ji Lin wears too much perfume. Gives me a headache.”

Yifan let out a choked laugh.

“Don’t worry about her,” Sang Yan said, fingers threading through her hair. “I’m not blind. I just know where I belong.”

It was late afternoon when Wen Yifan stepped out of the campus broadcast building, blinking against the autumn light that streaked between the trees.

She spotted her mother before her mother spotted her—Zhao Yuandong stood near the dormitory gate, holding a pink cooler bag in one hand and a paper bag in the other. Dressed in her usual pressed blouse and flats, she looked just a bit too formal for a campus visit, her eyes scanning the students passing by.

Yifan instinctively paused, her hand tightening around her bag strap.

Then, she exhaled, smoothed her expression, and walked forward.

“Mom.”

Zhao Yuandong turned. Her face lit up in that way that never changed, no matter how distant things sometimes felt between them. “Ah, finally. I thought I’d have to ask for directions!”

Yifan managed a smile. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“If I did, you’d have told me not to bother,” her mother replied matter-of-factly, already moving forward to press the cooler bag into Yifan’s arms. “Here. I made some dumplings and those sweet potato cakes you used to like. Share them with your roommates.”

Yifan hesitated for a second but nodded, adjusting the bag. “Thanks.”

Her mother gave the dorm building a glance, her lips pursed. “You’re not going to invite me up?”

“The dorm’s a mess,” Yifan said easily. “Everyone’s rushing for midterms. You know how girls are.”

Zhao Yuandong didn’t press the issue, though her eyes lingered on the building for a beat too long.

“I sent you a message last week,” she said as they sat down on a bench nearby. “And the one before that. You read them but didn’t reply.”

“I’ve been busy,” Yifan said.

“With school?”

“And work. We’re preparing a series of live interviews for the student radio and helping some clubs with editing their media content.”

Zhao Yuandong gave her a look. “So much running around, and now you’ve got a boyfriend too? Do you even sleep?”

Yifan’s jaw tightened slightly. “I sleep fine.”

Her mother didn’t hear the edge in her voice—or pretended not to. “I know you’re not going to tell me everything, but be careful, Ah Jiang. Boys come easy at your age, especially the charming ones. What matters is building your foundation. Don't let someone else’s pace derail your own.”

Yifan didn’t answer immediately. She watched a group of students ride past on bikes, laughing loudly, wind tugging at their hair and sleeves.

“I haven’t changed my plans,” she said quietly.

“But you’ve let someone into them.”

That made her look at her mother. “Am I not allowed to do that?”

Zhao Yuandong’s voice softened just a touch. “Sometimes we think we’ve grown up because we’ve survived something hard. But survival doesn’t mean you’re ready.”

Yifan swallowed.

Her mother stood up, brushing invisible lint from her trousers. “Come home for the Spring Festival. You missed it last year.”

“I’ll try.”

“Don’t ‘try.’ It’s not a contract deadline.”

Yifan rose with her, the cooler bag still clutched in her arms. “I’ll come.”

Zhao Yuandong gave a small, satisfied nod. “Good. You still have time to make something of yourself.”

She turned to go, and Yifan stood there, watching her walk away with her tidy posture and clipped steps. The air was still around her, despite the breeze, despite the leaves rustling overhead.

Only after her mother was gone did Yifan allow her breath to release slowly.

She turned and walked away from the dorms—not to go inside, but to head toward the apartment she now called home.

She didn’t tell her mother about the shared space. About Sang Yan. About how she sometimes still sleepwalked but less and less these days. About how she was, in her own way, healing. Not for anyone. But for herself.

But some things didn’t need to be said. Not yet.

The sky had already dimmed by the time Wen Yifan reached their apartment. The cooler bag had grown heavier in her hand, but she made no move to shift it. Her steps were steady. Her face was unreadable.

She entered quietly, slipping off her shoes with practiced ease.

Sang Yan was on the couch, laptop balanced on his knee, surrounded by a mess of notebooks, wires, and half-finished snack wrappers. He looked up when he heard the door.

“Hey,” he said, voice lazy but warm. “Where’d you go?”

“Club errands,” she replied, setting the cooler on the kitchen counter. “Someone’s mom gave me food.”

Sang Yan grinned. “Lucky club president.”

Yifan just nodded and pulled open the fridge.

Sang Yan didn’t press. He watched her for a few moments, then turned back to his screen, fingers tapping out code again.

They didn’t talk much that evening.

She stayed out in the kitchen for a bit longer, moving things around, washing her thermos even though it was already clean. Then she muttered something about showering and disappeared into her room.

By the time it was close to midnight, the apartment had gone quiet. Only the faint hum of Sang Yan’s music played softly in the background—instrumental, lo-fi beats to help him think.

He didn’t notice right away when her door creaked open.

It was only when he saw the soft shuffle of socks across the wooden floor that he glanced up.

“...Wen Shuangjiang?”

She didn’t respond. Her eyes were open but distant, unfocused. She moved past him slowly, one hand dragging lightly along the wall as if she needed to feel something solid.

Sang Yan stood up immediately, setting his laptop aside.

“Hey,” he said more gently, stepping toward her. “What’s going on?”

Yifan turned in the direction of the hallway but didn’t speak.

He reached out, placing a hand lightly on her arm. “Wen Shuangjiang, you’re sleepwalking again?”

His voice held something he didn’t mean to show—concern. And confusion.

It had been weeks since the last episode. Months, even. He thought—

“Wen Shuangjiang,” he said again, softer now, thumb brushing over her wrist. “What happened today?”

She swayed slightly in place, like something inside her had loosened and didn’t know where to rest. Sang Yan guided her gently toward the couch and sat her down, crouching in front of her.

For a moment, he just watched her.

She looked tired. Not in the way lack of sleep made a person look tired—but the kind of tiredness that sat behind the eyes, coiled like something waiting for the right moment to spill out.

He didn’t press.

He just stayed there, resting his hand lightly over hers.

Eventually, her breathing evened, and her eyes closed naturally this time. The weight in her body softened. Sleep, real and quiet, took over.

Sang Yan exhaled and moved slowly, carefully helping her lie down on the couch. He brought over a blanket from her room and tucked it around her, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

Then, sitting back against the edge of the couch, he looked at her for a long moment.

What could’ve triggered it?

She’d been smiling earlier. Tired, sure—but not withdrawn. Not like this.

He leaned his head back against the cushion, staring at the ceiling.

He didn’t know what was going on yet.

But he’d wait. He wouldn’t push.

She’d tell him when she was ready.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The engineering building buzzed with excitement that morning—more than usual.

Students huddled in clusters, talking about the latest departmental showcase. One of the senior capstone projects had been presented early to the faculty, a prototype that impressed even the hard-to-please professors.

It was sleek. Functional. Smartly coded.

Sang Yan’s project.

Only no one knew that.

He found out through Juwen.

“Sang-ge,” Juwen had said, cornering him by the vending machines. “Didn’t you work on some gaming system with neural haptics or something?”

Sang Yan blinked. “Yeah. Why?”

Junwen hesitated, then lowered his voice. “Ji Lin just presented it to the department. Like, the whole thing . With her name on the slides.”

Silence.

Sang Yan’s grip on the vending machine tightened.

He found Ji Lin in one of the design labs, still glowing from the attention. Her laptop was open on the desk, showcasing the demo screen—the interface he wrote, still using his debug labels.

“You used my build,” Sang Yan said flatly.

Ji Lin turned, a practiced look of surprise on her face. “Oh, Sang Yan—I was wondering when you’d drop by.”

“You didn’t even mention my name.”

Ji Lin blinked innocently. “I didn’t think it’d matter. It was a group brainstorm, wasn’t it? You helped polish some functions, but the core concept—”

“I built the prototype,” he interrupted. “You asked me to collaborate. Not ghostwrite your final.”

A beat of silence stretched between them. Ji Lin’s expression slipped, just for a second—into something colder. More calculating.

Then she smiled again.

“Well, I can’t undo the presentation, but I can make it up to you.”

He stared at her.

“I have connections at Yida Tech,” she said smoothly, crossing one leg over the other. “I could get you an interview for their summer internship. Or,” she added with a coy tilt of her head, “you could stop being so serious and take me out for dinner sometime. Think of it as a trade.”

Sang Yan didn’t move.

Then he scoffed. “You think I’d trade credit for a referral or a date?”

Ji Lin leaned forward. “I think you know how things work in this department. You’re smart, Sang Yan. Don’t be naive.”

He stepped back.

“You’re right,” he said calmly. “I’m smart enough not to make the same mistake twice.”

Then he left.

Ji Lin called after him, but he didn’t look back.

That evening, Sang Yan didn’t say anything to Yifan right away.

Not because he wanted to hide it—but because he didn’t want her to see that look in his eyes. The one he caught in the mirror when he got home—tight, furious, betrayed.

He opened his laptop, shut it again.

Then just sat there, elbows on his knees, trying to breathe through the heat in his chest.

Chapter Text

It was nearing midnight when Duan Jiaxu came home, the living room lit by the faint blue glow of Sang Yan’s laptop. Code blinked on the screen, untouched. The cursor blinked at a line that hadn’t changed in hours.

Jiaxu dropped his bag by the door, eyeing him. “Did you eat?”

“No.”

Sang Yan didn’t look up.

Jiaxu raised an eyebrow, padded to the kitchen, and came back with a bottled drink. He set it down beside Sang Yan without a word and sat on the armrest of the couch.

“Wanna tell me why you look like you just watched your dog get stolen and then handed a trophy to the thief?”

Sang Yan exhaled a dry laugh. “Something like that.”

He leaned back, rubbing his eyes. “Ji Lin presented our project. Told everyone it was hers.”

Duan Jiaxu didn’t reply right away.

“Wait,” he said after a pause. “ Your project?”

“Yeah.” Sang Yan’s voice was clipped, controlled. “The one I started last semester. She offered to partner when I hit a roadblock. Helped with presentation prep and UI polish.”

“And then took the whole thing.”

“Yup.”

Jiaxu let out a low whistle, then gave him a sharp look. “Did you sign anything?”

“No. It was informal. Not a course project—just something we were prepping for next term’s showcase.”

“And now?”

“She’s offering me hush money in the form of a referral.”

Jiaxu blinked. “Or a date, right?”

Sang Yan shot him a dry look. “You heard?”

“She has a reputation. And she’s been eyeing you like you’re a high-end CPU.”

Sang Yan leaned his head against the couch back. “She thinks I’ll play along. That I’ll want to stay in her good graces.”

“But you won’t.”

“I’d rather scrap the whole build and start over.”

There was a moment of silence.

Then Duan Jiaxu said, “You going to tell Yifan?”

Sang Yan hesitated.

“She already has enough on her plate. Her mom was just here. And she’s been sleepwalking again.”

“So you’ll just let her find out through whispers?”

Sang Yan didn’t answer.

Jiaxu gave him a long look. “Don’t underestimate how much she can handle. Especially when it comes to you.”

Yifan found out two days later.

She’d overheard two classmates from the tech wing talking outside the student café.

“Did you hear about Ji Lin’s demo? Everyone says it’s the best thing submitted this term.”

“Yeah, but I heard some junior helped build the actual system. Sang something?”

Yifan’s blood turned cold.

She didn’t confront Sang Yan right away.

Instead, she waited until they were home, both curled on the couch, dinner on the coffee table, a muted TV playing in the background.

“Sang Yan,” she said quietly, watching him reach for his drink. “Why didn’t you tell me about Ji Lin?”

His hand froze mid-air.

He set the glass down slowly. “You heard?”

“I did.”

A pause.

“I didn’t want to upset you,” he said.

Yifan let out a soft breath, her voice steady but faintly tight. “Upset me by telling me, or upset me by not?”

Sang Yan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I wasn’t trying to hide it. I just—didn’t want to dump more on you. Not after your mom’s visit. And the sleepwalking.”

Yifan looked at him. “You think I’d rather be left in the dark?”

“No,” he admitted, finally looking at her. “I just thought I could handle it on my own.”

She exhaled, trying to shake off the heat crawling up her chest—not anger, not really. Just hurt.

“Next time,” she said, voice quiet, “just let me carry it with you. Not everything has to be yours alone.”

Sang Yan reached for her hand. And didn’t let go for a long time.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was after a late lecture when Ji Lin found him again.

Sang Yan had just zipped up his backpack and was about to leave the engineering lab when Ji Lin stepped into his path, her smile cool and practiced.

“You’re avoiding me,” she said.

“Not really,” Sang Yan replied without looking at her. “I’m just busy avoiding garbage fire situations.”

Her eyes flashed, but her smile stayed.

“You’re talented, Sang Yan,” she said. “I’m offering you a chance to go further. You don’t have to be so defensive.”

“Funny,” he said, slinging the strap of his bag over one shoulder. “Because I remember building something. Then watching someone else take a bow for it.”

Ji Lin shrugged, not even denying it. “That’s the world, isn’t it? If you want credit, you have to fight for it. Or align yourself with people who can win it for you.”

He stared at her.

Then smiled.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s exactly why I’d rather stay where I am.”

Ji Lin stepped a little closer. “You know, if it weren’t for your little girlfriend, you’d be a lot more fun to work with.”

Sang Yan’s gaze hardened.

“Don’t talk about her,” he said flatly.

Ji Lin backed off then, laughing like it didn’t matter. “Your loss, Sang Yan.”

She turned and walked away, her heels echoing off the hallway floor.

Yifan was in the broadcasting room, the warm glow of the recording equipment humming around her. She’d heard whispers, of course—Ji Lin’s success story, Sang Yan’s name floating faintly around it.

She didn’t ask further. She already knew.

She trusted him. But trust didn’t erase insecurity.

Ji Lin was sharp, confident, and beautiful. Her background is spotless. A family name that carried weight. The kind of person who never had to apologize for the space she took up in the world.

Yifan sat in the booth long after the others left, mic off, headphones on, listening to silence.

She wasn’t jealous of Ji Lin. Not exactly.

She just didn’t know if someone like her—messy past, complicated heart, sleepwalking back into ghosts—was someone who could stand beside a boy like Sang Yan forever.

She pressed her palms to her eyes.

Then she sat up.

No. She wouldn’t spiral. Not like before.

Yifan’s revenge was subtle.

The next school feature for the university’s online channel was about student innovation—club collabs, cross-department projects, and rising talents.

She’d already pitched a segment highlighting overlooked contributors in tech teams—those who weren’t in the spotlight but carried the real weight. Quiet creators.

She added Sang Yan’s name to the top of that list.

Then she went a step further.

She invited Sang Yan to the studio, filmed a clean, well-shot profile on his app prototype, including date-stamped design logs, version notes, and test builds. With his permission, of course.

When the episode went live, it spread quietly but quickly.

People noticed.

Professors emailed.

A few students from the engineering department started asking questions—about timelines, credits, how “Ji Lin’s” project looked eerily like Sang Yan’s previous prototype.

Yifan didn’t say a word.

She just sipped her coffee and smiled to herself, tucked behind the mixing desk in the booth.

When Sang Yan came home that night, he tossed his bag down, knelt beside her seat, and kissed her cheek.

“What was that for?” she asked.

“For setting fire to a forest,” he murmured, “with such a tiny, beautiful match.”

She smiled. “I just told the truth.”

“You’re terrifying.”

She smirked. “I’m resourceful.”

He leaned in again, their foreheads touching. “You’re mine.”

She kissed him softly. “Only if you’re mine too.”

The whisper campaign began softly—questions from classmates, a professor inquiring about project credits, someone sharing the broadcast segment in the department group chat.

Ji Lin brushed it off at first.

But by the end of the week, she was summoned to a meeting with the faculty advisor and a couple of upper-year mentors. The mood in the room was polite but pointed.

They asked for documentation, collaboration logs, app history.

Ji Lin smiled tightly through all of it. She was too poised to crumble, but the crack was there—subtle, creeping.

And the worst part?

Sang Yan never said a word. He didn’t brag, didn’t accuse. He just went on with his quiet work.

That silence made her furious.

What made her livid?

The girl behind the scenes who lit the match.

Meanwhile, Yifan watched it all unfold from the edges. She didn’t gloat. She didn’t speak.

But the quiet celebration didn’t last.

That night, as she lay on the couch with Sang Yan's hoodie wrapped around her shoulders, a familiar thought settled in her chest like a stone: I can fight for him. I can protect him. But what if I’m not enough for the rest of it?

Ji Lin wasn’t just confident—she was composed, well-connected, full of that relentless drive that teachers loved and departments craved. She could weather storms. She could start them.

Yifan, on the other hand… had moments of retreat. Her defenses still came with shadows. Her love came with scars.

What could she offer? What would make him stay?

She closed her eyes and breathed slowly.

She wasn’t going to unravel again. Not over this.

But it still ached. The doubts never leaving her, swallowing her slowly.

It was a quiet Wednesday evening when Ji Lin finally cornered her.

Yifan was walking across campus alone, her bag slung over one shoulder, the dusk just beginning to swallow the buildings in amber and grey.

“Wen Yifan.”

She turned.

Ji Lin stood near the base of the media building steps, posture casual, expression anything but.

“You think you’ve won something, don’t you?”

Yifan’s lips curled slightly. “I didn’t know we were competing.”

Ji Lin stepped closer. “You don’t belong in his world. You think he’ll always choose you just because you’ve known him longer? That kind of comfort doesn’t last.”

Yifan exhaled slowly, then looked at her. “You’re right.”

Ji Lin blinked.

“I don’t belong in his world,” Yifan continued softly. “I’m not in engineering. I don’t know your codes or algorithms. I didn’t grow up in a perfect home or walk into college with a future already carved out.”

She stepped forward.

“But I belong to him. And he’s mine.”

Ji Lin’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Whatever version of him you think you see,” Yifan added, eyes steady, “does not measure to what he is as a whole. But you don't need to see that. In fact, you will never see that. You don’t get to decide who belongs to whom in a relationship that does not involve you. Only Sang Yan and me can decide on that for ourselves. Not anyone else. Not outsiders.”

Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

“So no,” she said, “I don’t think I’ve won. I think we’ve chosen each other. And as long as we're choosing each other, that’s not something you get to compete for seeing as there's no competition.”

Ji Lin stared at her for a moment longer.

Then scoffed, turned on her heel, and walked away.

Yifan stood there a second more.

Then, as if the weight of the conversation hadn’t crushed her but lifted something instead, she let out a slow breath.

She turned back toward the apartment.

Toward home. Toward him.

Sang Yan found out the next evening.

Duan Jiaxu had casually mentioned overhearing something about Ji Lin being “served on the media steps,” and it didn’t take much connecting for Sang Yan to trace it back to Yifan. He didn’t bring it up right away. He waited until they were alone—curled up in their apartment after a long day.

She was in one of his old sweatshirts, feet tucked under her, a book resting more on her lap than in her hands.

“You didn’t tell me,” Sang Yan said softly.

Yifan glanced up. “About what?”

“Ji Lin. What you said to her.”

Yifan blinked once. “Ah. That.”

“That?” His brow quirked, amused. “You made half the campus whisper.”

“I didn’t want to make it a thing.”

Sang Yan gave a slow shake of his head. “You stood up to her for me.”

“I stood up to her for both of us,” Yifan replied, voice calm but steady. “She doesn’t get to walk over people and get away with it.”

Something flickered behind Sang Yan’s gaze—pride, affection, something protective. He shifted closer, his hand brushing against hers.

“You’re really not afraid of anything, huh?” he murmured.

“I’m afraid of plenty,” she whispered. “I just don’t always run.”

The kiss that followed was slow. Familiar. Magnetic.

It built gently—his mouth on hers, his fingers tipping her chin up, his body easing her back into the couch cushions.

He was warm. Steady. Attentive in all the ways he always was. His hand slid under the hem of her sweatshirt, gliding across the skin of her waist, the slope of her ribs. His palm pressed softly over her heart.

And just like that—

Something inside her recoiled.

The sensation hit her like a flash of cold water. Her breath caught. Her body locked up before her mind could catch up.

“Wen Shuangjiang?” Sang Yan’s voice dropped, soft and concerned.

She shoved at his chest—rougher than she intended—and sat up with a jolt.

He pulled back immediately, hands up, giving her space. “Hey—hey, it’s okay—”

But she was already standing. Her arms clutched tight around her body, back turned, like she needed to create distance even in a room this small.

Sang Yan stayed where he was, trying to read the sudden shift in her. “Wen Shuangjiang…”

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice shaking. “I’m sorry, I just—”

She couldn’t explain it. She wouldn’t.

It wasn’t him. But she couldn’t make her body believe that fast enough.

He watched her in silence, concern etched across his face, but said nothing more. He didn’t push, didn’t demand.

And she was grateful for that. Grateful and aching at the same time.

After a moment, she managed, “I didn’t mean to ruin it.”

“You didn’t,” Sang Yan said instantly, gently. “We don’t have to rush anything.”

She nodded once, but her chest still felt tight. Her throat is dry.

“I just need a minute.”

“Okay,” he said again. “Take all the time you need.”

She didn’t sit back down. She just stood there, arms wrapped around herself, eyes somewhere far away.

Sang Yan ran a hand through his hair and slowly sat down on the edge of the couch, watching her but not crowding her.

He didn’t know.

And she couldn’t find the words to make him.

So she stayed silent. Let the moment pass. Let her heartbeat slow down.

Later, they went to bed like nothing had happened. He didn’t press his luck, didn’t touch her beyond a quiet goodnight before entering his own room.

But long after Sang Yan had fallen asleep, Yifan lay awake staring at the ceiling—guilt and confusion swirling in her chest like a storm she couldn’t name.

And in the middle of the night, she sleepwalked again.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The apartment was still quiet except for the soft hum of Sang Yan’s laptop and the faint rustle of Yifan’s footsteps.

He had been coding for hours, fingers flying over the keys, when a sudden sound made him freeze—a shuffling, slow and tentative sound.

He looked up, startled.

Yifan was sleepwalking again.

She moved through the dim living room like a ghost, eyes half-closed, expression blank but tense.

Sang Yan’s heart clenched.

He stood quickly, careful not to startle her.

“Wen Shuangjiang,” he whispered, stepping forward.

She didn’t respond.

He reached out gently to catch her arm before she could trip over the coffee table.

“Hey, it’s me,” he said softly.

Slowly, she blinked awake, confusion clouding her gaze.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice low, steady.

She rubbed her eyes and nodded, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Sang Yan shook his head. “It’s okay. I’m just worried.”

She gave a small, tired smile but didn’t say more.

They settled back onto the couch.

After a long moment, she placed her fingers against his.

He didn’t say anything more until she was back in her room, sitting on the edge of the bed while he pulled the covers around her shoulders.

Her hands were still shaking.

“I haven’t done that in a while,” she finally murmured, eyes on her lap.

“I know but it's been getting frequent these past few days.” Sang Yan sat beside her. “I figured it meant something… shook loose.”

After a long silence, Sang Yan finally said, “Wen Shuangjiang... you don’t have to tell me everything right now. I just want you to know I’m here.”

She looked at him, the vulnerability in her eyes almost breaking his heart. Yifan pressed her lips together. The answer sat heavy on her tongue.

But she couldn’t yet. Not tonight.

Her voice was a thread when she answered. “I need more time. To figure it out myself. Before I can tell you.”

Sang Yan looked at her for a long moment, then nodded once, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “Okay. Take all the time you need. We’ll go at your pace.”

No bitterness. No frustration.

Just quiet understanding but behind all that, Sang Yan is scared. Scared of the unsaid. Scared of the unknown.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her shoulders slumped slightly, as if that single word had taken some weight off.

Then slowly—deliberately—she reached for his hand again.

Her fingers curled around his, grounding herself with his warmth. She stood and pulled gently, guiding him with her as she moved toward the bed.

“Will you stay?” she asked, voice low.

Sang Yan’s brows drew together just slightly. “Are you sure?”

She nodded. “I just… I feel like I'll sleep better when you’re close.”

He hesitated only a second more, then climbed in beside her, careful and slow. They lay on top of the covers, his arm gently looping around her waist, her face tucked near his shoulder.

No kisses. No touching beyond the comfort of being held.

Just her breathing steady again. Just his presence like a heartbeat beside her.

And maybe that was what she needed most of all—

Not answers. Not action. Just a place where she didn’t have to be okay right away. Just him.

Sang Yan lay on his back, eyes open to the dim ceiling, one arm tucked carefully around Yifan's sleeping form.

She was warm against his side, her breathing slow and even now. Her fingers curled faintly in the fabric of his shirt, a small anchor she hadn’t let go of even in sleep.

He hadn’t moved in over an hour.

Not because he couldn’t. But because he wouldn’t.

He could still feel the way she had trembled against him earlier. The way her voice had thinned when she said, “I need more time.”

He didn’t know what haunted her dreams. He didn’t know why sleepwalking came like a thief on the nights she said nothing at all.

He didn’t know who had hurt her—or how deeply. But he knew it wasn’t just nightmares.

It was something bigger. Older. Rooted.

And the worst part was the not-knowing. The waiting. The way he was supposed to keep his hands gentle and his mouth closed, when everything in him wanted to demand who, what, when, and how—so he could crush it, tear it out of her past with his bare hands.

But instead, he stayed still.

Instead, he just breathed in rhythm with her, memorizing the weight of her body against his, the quiet trust of her choosing to be here with him.

Was this what loving someone meant?

Holding all the questions inside your chest until they turned into silent promises?

He wanted to fix it. That was the most maddening part.

He could debug a program, rebuild a circuit board from scraps, even navigate the shadiest messes of campus politics and Ji Lin’s manipulations—but he couldn’t fix this.

He could only be here.

Only give her space and warmth and time. And hope it would be enough.

Sang Yan turned his head slightly, careful not to disturb her.

Her face was peaceful in sleep, but even now, he could see the tiny furrow between her brows. The way her mouth never fully relaxed.

It made something ache inside his chest.

“Wen Shuangjiang,” he whispered, the name soft as breath. “I’ve got you.”

He wasn’t sure if she heard. Or if some part of her, buried deep in the place where old wounds slept, ever would.

But he kept saying it anyway, inside his head. Over and over again, like a mantra.

I’ve got you.
I’ll wait.
You’re safe.

Eventually, the weight of it all wore on him. His eyes drifted shut sometime before sunrise, with one last thought slipping through:

He didn’t need to know everything.

He just needed her to keep letting him stay.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Winter edged into Nanwu slowly but surely—mornings growing crisper, sunlight thinning out into pale ribbons over the campus buildings. The buzz of exams and deadlines carried a sharpness in the air, and most students were beginning to count the days until winter break like prisoners tallying scratches on a wall.

Sang Yan was at the broadcasting club office together with his friends, waiting for Yifan and Siqiao to finish up some edits, when Su Haoan burst in with the energy of a caffeine-fueled puppy.

“I have news,” he announced, eyes practically glowing.

Chen Juwen, half-asleep in a swivel chair, cracked one eye open. “Unless it’s free food or a miracle, keep it.”

“It’s better,” Su Haoan grinned. “My family’s resort. In the mountains. Snow, hot springs, private rooms, no tourists—basically paradise. We can stay there over winter break. Celebrate the Spring Festival and Sang Yan’s birthday while we’re at it.”

“Wait, really?” Duan Jiaxu perked up from where he sat flipping through a game dev script. “You're inviting us freeloaders?”

Su Haoan waved his hand. “Not freeloaders. Friends. My Grandfather already said yes. It’s off-season for them, so the whole place is open.”

Siqiao looked up from her laptop. “Won’t your family be using it for the holiday?”

“They usually do,” Haoan shrugged, “but this year they’re going on a road trip. So I thought—why not?”

Sang Yan leaned back, gaze flicking between the others. “And you’re just casually dropping this now?”

“I was waiting for confirmation. Besides—don’t pretend like you don’t need a break,” Su Haoan smirked, then threw in, “Yifan could use it too. You both have been burning out and it’s affecting us as well.”

She offered a soft smile in response, the idea of crisp mountain air and some distance from the city already soothing something inside her.

Qian Fei nodded enthusiastically. “Count me in. I’m already imagining my vacation self. Zero thoughts, just hot springs.”

Juwen raised his hand. “I’ll come if I get the corner room.”

“No one gets to call dibs yet,” Haoan laughed. “We’ll draw straws like civilized people.”

Sang Yan glanced at Yifan, who gave a small, hopeful nod.

He turned back to the group. “Then it’s settled.”

In the days that followed, the idea of the trip became a buoy for everyone—something to look forward to as projects wrapped and the campus emptied out.

Yifan found herself clinging to the thought, too. Not just the vacation, but the reprieve it symbolized. The chance to breathe outside Nanwu’s familiar walls. To watch the boy she loved with their friends, laughing with snow in his hair.

She hadn’t told him everything.

Not yet.

But she would.

Maybe not all at once, but in moments. In pieces.

And maybe somewhere in the mountains, with the sky wide and the world a little quieter, it would be easier to let go of the rest. If not, it would be a good distraction at the least.

Chapter Text

The train was full, packed with students escaping Nanwu for the holiday rush, but their group had claimed a cluster of seats near the back. Luggage stuffed the overhead racks, and the sound of excited chatter and snack wrappers rustling filled the cabin.

Sang Yan leaned back in his seat, earphones draped around his neck, long legs stretched out until they brushed against Yifan’s boots. Across from them, Su Haoan was trying to argue with Zhong Siqiao about which hot springs were better—Japanese onsens or the family resort’s naturally fed mineral baths.

“You’re just biased,” she said, adjusting her hoodie hood. “It’s your family’s place.”

“And you’re just tragically unacquainted with the healing power of our saunas,” Haoan shot back.

“I’ll believe it when I feel my pores weep,” Siqiao replied dryly.

Duan Jiaxu was already half-asleep against the window, mouth slightly open. Qian Fei and Chen Juwen were sharing a pack of spicy peanuts, laughing softly over some meme thread only they seemed to understand.

Yifan smiled faintly, pulling her scarf closer around her neck. The cold from the train window seeped into her shoulder, but it didn’t bother her much. Not with Sang Yan beside her, not with the gentle thrum of the tracks humming in her chest.

He looked over at her, brushed a finger along her wrist. “You warm enough?”

She nodded. “Mm. You?”

“I’m good. Just bored,” he replied, then dropped his voice, low enough just for her. “And a little excited.”

She arched her brow. “About what?”

His smile tilted into something secretive. “You. In a snow-covered cabin. With me.”

She turned her gaze to the window, trying to suppress a laugh. “It’s not a romance drama, Sang Yan.”

“It could be.”

“It’s a vacation.”

“With potential.”

She gave him a look, but he only grinned, bumping her knee with his.

By the time they reached the mountain town, snow had started to fall in flurries, dusting their jackets and hair as they climbed off the van that had picked them up from the station. The air was thinner here, and cleaner—so clean it almost felt unreal.

Su Haoan’s family resort turned out to be a cluster of modern wooden lodges nestled against a quiet slope, bordered by pine trees and thick powdery snow.

“Welcome to Su Lantern Retreat,” Haoan said with mock grandeur. “No curfew, unlimited snacks, and absolutely no professors.”

“Sold,” Qian Fei muttered, hauling his suitcase toward the nearest cabin.

They split off into rooms—Yifan ended up sharing one with Zhong Siqiao, while the boys paired off next door. The lodge smelled like cedar and something faintly citrusy. Heated floors warmed their toes, and the moment she stepped inside, Yifan felt something uncoil in her shoulders.

Later, when the group reconvened in the main lodge for dinner—hot pot, spicy broth, fresh vegetables, and thin-sliced meats—the atmosphere melted into something easy and glowing.

Laughter echoed under the high wooden beams, cheeks pink from the heat and maybe the wine someone had smuggled in. Duan Jiaxu was coaxed into playing guitar after dinner, and the night ended with soft strumming, mugs of tea, and snow dusting the windows outside.

It was nearly midnight when Yifan stepped outside for air. The snow had softened into a whisper, stars blanketing the sky.

She heard the door creak behind her.

Sang Yan slipped out, hands shoved into his coat pockets. “Knew I’d find you out here.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” she said quietly.

He moved closer, standing just beside her, not touching.

They looked out at the trees, the untouched snow glinting silver under moonlight.

“You seem lighter,” he said after a while.

Yifan tilted her head. “Do I?”

“Yeah. Like it’s a little easier to breathe out here.”

She was quiet for a moment. “It is.”

He turned toward her. “Yifan?”

She glanced up.

“You know you don’t have to be okay for me, right? I’m okay just being here. With you.”

Something twisted sweetly in her chest.

She reached for his hand, fingers cold but steady. “You make me feel like I don’t have to carry everything alone.”

He squeezed her hand back. “You don’t.”

They stood like that for a long while. Just two silhouettes in the snow, hearts quietly syncing to the rhythm of falling stars.

Sang Yan's birthday fell on the third day of their mountain retreat, and the morning started with an ambush.

He was still half-asleep, hair a mess and hoodie askew, when Su Haoan and Qian Fei burst into his room, dragging a protesting Duan Jiaxu along.

"Birthday boy!" Haoan crowed, pelting him with individually wrapped candies. "Get up. We’re going sledding!”

“Five more minutes,” Sang Yan groaned, ducking under his pillow.

“Nope.” Jiaxu grabbed the pillow and tossed it. “You get to be king for a day. But kings don’t get to sleep in.”

“Kings also have people executed.”

“Too late. We staged a coup.”

Despite the theatrics, the day unfolded in a kind of golden haze—sledding down powdery slopes, snowball fights that ended with Zhong Siqiao shoving snow down Chen Juwen’s collar, and a group lunch of grilled skewers and roasted sweet potatoes eaten with gloved hands.

By evening, Sang Yan had snow in his socks and a cramp in his side from laughing too hard.

After dinner, they brought out a cake someone had managed to keep hidden in the staff kitchen—a mess of whipped cream and strawberries with Happy Birthday Yan-ge scrawled in wonky frosting. They sang off-key. Su Haoan’s voice cracked halfway through on purpose, earning him a solid napkin throw from Qian Fei.

But it wasn’t the chaos Sang Yan remembered the most.

It was later—when the others had drifted off for a movie marathon and Yifan pulled him aside into the quiet of the balcony.

The snow had stopped. The stars were brighter than ever.

“I got you something,” she said, holding out a neatly wrapped package.

He blinked, then took it. The wrapping was careful—creased precisely, taped cleanly—and when he opened it, a light brown wool coat unfolded in his hands.

He held it up, surprised. “This is… really nice.”

“I haven’t seen you wear that color before,” Yifan said, watching him. “I thought it might look good on you.”

Sang Yan shook it out and slipped it on, then looked down at himself. “How do I look?”

“Like someone with taste,” she said. “Finally.”

He gave her a mock scowl. “You mean always .”

She smiled, fingers brushing the coat sleeve. “Happy birthday.”

He looked at her for a beat too long, then said, “This is the second best gift I got today.”

Yifan’s brow lifted. “Second best?”

“Mm.”

“Okay, then… what’s the first?”

Sang Yan didn’t answer immediately. He stepped closer instead, eyes never leaving hers.

“What do you think is the first?” he asked, voice low.

Yifan blinked, suddenly flustered. “Uh… snow? Cake? That really good hot chocolate?”

He chuckled, then reached out, fingers tilting her chin gently upward so their eyes met.

“You,” he said. “You’ll always be my first.”

Her breath hitched. She didn’t look away.

For a moment, it felt like the whole world had quieted—like the mountains themselves had leaned in to listen.

Yifan’s voice was soft. “You’re not so bad at this romance thing after all.”

Sang Yan grinned. “I’ve got a good teacher.”

She leaned in, resting her forehead against his.

“Happy birthday, Sang Yan,” she whispered.

And when they kissed—slow, unhurried, warm despite the cold air—it wasn’t like fireworks. It was like light from a hearth.

Steady. Certain. Home.

The days after Sang Yan’s birthday slipped by in a blur of shared meals, long walks, and the kind of quiet closeness that only came when time felt suspended.

Their group settled into an easy rhythm. Mornings were for snow-covered trails and hot coffee; afternoons for skiing, card games, or simply lazing by the fire. Evenings were full of chatter, the occasional teasing, and cups of hot wine passed between friends like secrets.

Yifan found herself laughing more easily than she had in months.

There was a moment—just after sunset on their second-to-last day—when she and Sang Yan found themselves alone at the edge of the lake, the surface frozen and shimmering beneath a silver sky.

He wrapped a scarf around her neck—his, oversized and warm—and tucked her hair gently inside the wool.

“You’re not cold?” she asked.

“I’m holding a space heater,” he said, tugging her closer. “I’m good.”

She rolled her eyes but leaned into him anyway, their breath curling in the air like clouds.

“I’ll miss this,” she murmured. “This feeling.”

Sang Yan didn’t answer right away. “We’ll have more of this,” he said eventually. “Different places. Different seasons.”

Yifan smiled, but her fingers curled slightly tighter into his sleeve.

Because reality was waiting.

The return to Nanwu was jarring.

The snow gave way to wet pavements and overfilled lecture halls. The brief holiday haze faded under the weight of spring schedules, project deadlines, and student responsibilities.

Broadcast club kicked back into full swing for Yifan—new interns, new segments, new problems. Sang Yan dove headfirst into debugging his capstone app and preparing for a competition round with his teammates.

Their time together shrank—no longer stretches of hours but minutes grabbed between classes or late evenings on the couch, each of them too exhausted to do much but exist side by side.

Yifan noticed the shift—not in his affection, but in the pace. The weight.

Some nights, she found Sang Yan asleep at his desk, slumped over blueprints and lines of code. Other nights, she fell asleep before he even came home from the lab.

Still, she didn’t feel forgotten. Just… paused.

And on the nights when they did find each other—half-drowsy conversations under shared blankets, fingers loosely entwined across the couch arm—those moments carried more weight than any words.

One evening, as rain pattered gently against the windows, Sang Yan returned with damp hair and a bag of takeout.

He dropped it on the table, kicked off his shoes, and flopped beside her with a long sigh.

“Remind me,” he mumbled, “why I ever wanted to build apps for a living?”

Yifan passed him a towel and leaned into his side. “Because you’re too smart to do anything else?”

He huffed a tired laugh, resting his head on her shoulder.

“I missed you,” she said quietly.

His hand found hers without needing to look. “I’m right here.”

And though the seasons were shifting and their days growing heavier, in that moment, they were still them—still wrapped in something tender, still holding on.

Even in the quiet.

Even in the storm.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The taxi ride was quiet. Too quiet. Yifan sat with her hands on her lap, thumbs pressed together, nails digging in slightly with each bump on the road.

She hadn’t been back in a while—not since the start of her first year at Nanwu. Her messages to her mom had grown shorter, sporadic. Zhao Yuandong always replied, always sent money during holidays, always ended every message with the same line: Come home when you have time.

But home never felt like home. Not since her father passed. Not since everything fell apart.

The door opened before she could knock. Zhao Yuandong greeted her with a smile too big, too bright.

“You’re thinner,” her mother said, ushering her inside. “You’re not eating well, are you?”

Yifan didn’t reply. Her eyes scanned the house, reflexively. “Where’s Uncle Zheng and Kejia?”

Her mother turned toward the kitchen. “They went on a short vacation. They’ll be back in a few days.”

Yifan nodded once. “Of course. That’s why you picked today.”

Zhao Yuandong paused in the middle of pouring tea. “Don’t start,” she said gently, “Just sit. I made some soup.”

Yifan obeyed reluctantly, settling on the edge of the couch. Her mother joined her a moment later, setting the tea down without touching hers.

“I have something to tell you,” Zhao Yuandong said, her voice soft. “Something important.”

Yifan’s heart thudded once, loudly. She didn’t respond.

“I’m pregnant.”

The words sat in the air like smoke. Yifan blinked. Her mother looked down at her hands, waiting.

“That’s…” Yifan started, but she couldn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t know how.

Before anything else could be said, the front door opened.

“I’m back!” came a familiar voice from the foyer.

Yifan froze.

Che Yanqin walked in with grocery bags, her face lighting up when she spotted Yifan on the couch.

“Well, if it isn’t little Ah Jiang! You’re finally visiting,” she said with a beaming smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s been years, hasn’t it?”

Yifan stood automatically. “What is she doing here?”

“She’s staying with me for a while,” Zhao Yuandong answered quickly. “Just until I’m a bit more stable. She’s helping.”

Che Yanqin put the bags down with a sigh. “Yuandong needs company. Pregnancy at this age isn’t easy.”

Yifan didn’t move. Her voice was low. “I said I never wanted anything to do with them again.”

Zhao Yuandong faltered. “That was before. Things change.”

Che Yanqin smiled, undeterred. “I was just asking about your school. How’s Nanwu? You’re doing well, I assume?”

Yifan said nothing.

“You know,” Che Yanqin went on, “Ming is very interested in applying. He’s been thinking of engineering. Maybe you could help? A referral or two, just something simple.”

That snapped something inside Yifan.

She turned to her mother. “You knew. You knew how I felt. And you let her in anyway.”

“Ah Jiang—”

“No,” she said sharply.

Zhao Yuandong’s tone grew defensive. “They took you in after your grandmother passed. That means something.”

Yifan stared, stunned.

“Took me in?” she echoed. Her voice trembled. “They locked me in. She hit me for talking back. Her husband, my own uncle, ignored everything. Her brother—Che Xingde—tried to touch me. Multiple times.”

Che Yanqin’s face finally dropped its pleasant mask.

“You’re exaggerating,” she said. “Don’t slander your elders—”

“Don’t,” Yifan hissed. “Don’t talk to me.”

She turned back to her mother. “I begged you. Again and again. I told you I was scared. I told you what was happening. And you—you just left me there.”

Zhao Yuandong looked away, lips pressed tight.

Yifan felt sick. The walls of the house felt too close, like a trap. Like before.

“I can’t do this,” she whispered.

She grabbed her bag and moved toward the door.

Her mother stood. “Ah Jiang, wait—”

“Don’t contact me again,” Yifan said, without turning back. “Not about your pregnancy. Not about her. Not about anything.”

And then she was gone.

Out into the open air. The cold stung her face, but she welcomed it. It kept her real.

She didn’t cry—not then. Not until she was on the bus back to the apartment, curled against the window, her reflection shaking in the darkened glass.

Because some wounds didn’t scar over. They just stayed open, waiting for the next cut.

The bus ride back felt longer than it should’ve.

Yifan didn’t talk about her visit. When Sang Yan met her at the bus stop near their apartment, she smiled like nothing was wrong. She laughed at his teasing, thanked him for the warm drink he handed her, leaned lightly into his side like always.

But that night, she sleepwalked again.

And again the next night.

By the end of the week, it was every night.

At first, Sang Yan tried to pretend it wasn’t alarming. Maybe the stress of classes. But when he found her curled by the window one night, murmuring in her sleep, face pale in the moonlight, he stopped pretending.

He didn’t ask. Not directly. Instead, he brought his pillow and blanket into her room the following night. Settled on the small daybed in the corner with no fanfare.

The second night, he moved to the floor beside her bed.

The third, she wordlessly lifted the blanket and let him in.

And he stayed. Every night after.

Not touching. Not pushing. Just there.

Sometimes, she shifted in the dark, fingers brushing his. Sometimes, he woke up to her curled into his chest, breathing shallow but even. He held her as gently as he could, like she might vanish.

He didn’t ask what happened. But he waited. And watched.

Because the cracks were showing.

Yifan still went to class. Still showed up for the broadcasting club. Still turned in her projects. But her eyes looked tired, her posture tense. Her fingers shook when she thought no one was watching.

And when he asked if she wanted to talk, she only said, “I’m managing. I just need more time.”

So he gave her that. Even when it killed him.

Spring edged into the air slowly. The trees on campus began budding, students traded scarves for light jackets, and midterm pressure loomed over everyone like a cloud.

Yifan was walking back to her dorm to pick up an equipment bag for a club shoot when she saw her.

Che Yanqin, standing just outside the main gate. Holding a handbag in one arm and a familiar look of patronizing entitlement.

Yifan stopped in her tracks.

"Ah Jiang!" her aunt called out brightly. "There you are. I was told this is where you usually pass by—"

Yifan turned immediately, pretending not to hear.

But Che Yanqin caught up, grabbing her arm. "Don’t pretend. I’ve been trying to reach your mother, but she said you wouldn’t talk. So I thought I’d come directly. This is important, Ah Jiang."

Yifan stiffened. "Let go."

Che Yanqin didn’t. “You’re being childish. I came to ask for a simple favor. Just speak to someone at admissions. Get Ming on a list. That’s all. It’s your duty as family—”

"I’m not family."

"Don’t be ridiculous—"

“I said no.” Her voice was low. Dangerous.

But Che Yanqin pressed on. "You’re being ungrateful. We housed you, fed you—"

"Don’t," Yifan whispered, trembling.

“—and now you’re at a good school, with good grades. It’s time you returned some of that kindness—”

"She said no."

The voice came from behind. Firm. Steady.

Sang Yan.

He stepped up beside Yifan, gaze cold as ice, standing a breath away from her shoulder.

Che Yanqin blinked at him, taken aback.

“I remember you,” Sang Yan said flatly. “High school. The school called both our parents in. You and your husband came in place of her mom.”

Recognition lit Che Yanqin’s face. “Oh—yes. I remember you now. The Sang boy.”

“You said some pretty loud things about Yifan back then,” Sang Yan said, tone still calm. “How she was ruining herself. How dare she seduce someone at her age. You were yelling in the hallway.”

Che Yanqin’s smile faltered.

“And now you want her help?”

“She’s just being emotional. This isn’t about the past—”

But before she could finish, Yifan reached for Sang Yan’s hand. Her fingers laced through his tightly, grounding herself.

“We’re leaving,” she said, looking only at him.

And they walked away, leaving Che Yanqin behind at the gate, red-faced and speechless.

Back in the apartment, Yifan didn’t speak for a long time.

She sat on the edge of the bed, shoes still on, hands in her lap.

Sang Yan knelt before her, wordless, waiting.

Finally, she whispered, “Thank you.”

He nodded. “You don’t owe them anything.”

Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears. “I just wanted one day. Just one day where they didn’t follow me here.”

Sang Yan gently took off her shoes. “Then we’ll build a hundred more days without them.”

She nodded. And when they lay down that night, it was her who curled into him first.

And for the first time in weeks, she didn’t sleepwalk.

Yifan didn’t return to class that afternoon.

She claimed to have a headache. Blamed the sun.

Sang Yan didn’t push. He walked her home in silence, stopped by a café on the way to buy her favorite bread, and left it quietly on her desk when she disappeared into the bathroom.

She didn’t eat it.

She just curled up on the couch in his hoodie, feet tucked beneath her, staring at the muted television like she wasn’t seeing it at all.

He gave her space. Stayed close.

She didn’t speak for hours. Not until night settled over the city and the windows turned black with reflected light.

“Sang Yan?” she asked softly.

He looked up from his laptop.

“If they come back—if they make noise about me or start spreading things—will it affect you?”

It took him a moment to understand. “You mean… Che Yanqin?”

“I mean my family,” she said, voice flat. “The ones I didn’t choose. The ones who won’t leave me alone.”

Sang Yan closed his laptop and moved to sit beside her. “It won’t affect me. Not in the way you think.”

“But it could,” she said. “People talk. Students, professors, strangers. They’ll say I’m unstable. That I have a history. That you’re better off with someone less... complicated.”

Her words landed heavy in the space between them.

Sang Yan didn’t respond right away.

And so Yifan kept going, the floodgates beginning to crack.

“I spent years being told not to make trouble,” she whispered. “To be good, quiet, obedient. Because if I wasn’t, no one would want me. That I was already too much. That I would be left behind again.”

Sang Yan’s throat tightened.

“My mom said she’d take me back,” Yifan said, barely above a breath. “She promised. I called. I begged. I said I’d be good. That I’d never ask for anything again. I left voicemails, messages. Days passed. Weeks. I told her I’d never talk back. Never complain. Just please, please take me back.”

She paused, breath shaky.

“She never came. Never answered. I stayed in that house with my uncle’s family. With people who looked the other way or made it worse. And I thought—I thought maybe I was broken. Maybe I did something to deserve it.”

Sang Yan’s hands clenched into fists before slowly unfurling.

Yifan kept her gaze on the couch cushion.

“But then…” she hesitated. “You’d visit. On weekends. You’d bring snacks, complain about the bus ride, fall asleep on the table while I did homework back at the noodle restaurant.”

Sang Yan smiled faintly at the memory. “You made me a blanket fort.”

“You were the only good thing,” she said, voice shaking. “The only one who made me feel like maybe I wasn’t invisible. Like maybe I mattered.”

He swallowed hard. “Yifan—”

“I don’t want to be this way,” she whispered. “So afraid all the time. So ready to be left behind again. And you—”

She turned to face him finally, eyes shining with the force of everything she’d buried for years.

“You shouldn’t have to carry any of this.”

He reached for her then, both hands cupping her face as gently as possible.

“You’re not a burden,” he said firmly.

“I’m scared—”

“I know. But I’m not going anywhere.”

She closed her eyes, but the tears slipped out anyway.

“I’m sorry I didn’t do more,” he said. “Back then. I should’ve seen it. Should’ve tried harder to—”

“No,” she said quickly. “You did what no one else did. You showed up.”

He pulled her into his arms, holding her like something precious and breakable and beloved all at once.

“I love you,” he said quietly. “Even the parts you’re scared to show.”

She buried her face in his chest, her voice muffled and aching. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” he promised.

“You say that now…”

“I’ll say it tomorrow too. And the day after. As many times as you need.”

She looked up at him. “What if I’m not enough?”

“You’re already everything,” he said. “I don’t need perfect. I just want you.”

And in that moment, wrapped in his arms, something inside her—something small and fragile and hopeful—finally exhaled.

Not everything was healed.

But something had begun.

Chapter Text

Recovery wasn’t linear.

Some mornings, Yifan woke up before the alarm and felt like breathing came a little easier. Other days, she drifted through lectures with her head full of fog and her mouth too tight to speak.

But she was trying.

And the people around her—those who mattered—noticed.

One quiet Wednesday, Zhong Siqiao dragged her to their favorite dumpling shop off campus. No pretenses. Just food and silly gossip, stories about classmates’ love lives and new shoes and haircuts gone wrong.

“You know,” Siqiao said, reaching for a vinegar-soaked dumpling, “you’ve been quiet lately. Not in a bad way. Just… like you’re coming back to yourself.”

Yifan blinked. “I’m not sure I ever left.”

“Maybe not. But you looked like you forgot how to fight for a bit.” She nudged Yifan’s knee with her own. “Glad you’re remembering now.”

Later that week, Su Haoan tossed a milk tea at her during club meeting. “Drink. It's a limited edition.”

Yifan raised a brow. “You’ve never been this generous.”

“I’m feeling philanthropic. And also, I owe you from the last group project. You saved our asses.”

Yifan smiled, the curve of her mouth slow but genuine. “You’re welcome.”

Even Duan Jiaxu dropped by the studio during one of her late editing sessions just to say, “You’re killing it,” before disappearing again with a smirk.

They didn’t pry. They didn’t dig.