Chapter 3

After getting his mother into the emergency room, Zhou Tong’an’s expression finally softened a bit.

Fang Nianchi handed him one of the bottled waters he had just bought.

“You've dirtied your car.” Zhou Tong’an shook his head, declining the bottle. “I’ll wash it tomorrow.” It was then he noticed Fang Nianchi’s T-shirt stained with blood. “I might as well pay for the clothes too.”

“It’s okay, don’t worry.” Fang Nianchi unscrewed the cap and directly forced the water into Zhou Tong’an’s hand.

Zhou Tong’an tilted his head back, gulped the water, then closed his eyes and leaned against the chair’s backrest. “You have questions. Ask me whatever you want,” he offered.

Fang Nianchi sat down beside him, turned his head to look at him for a moment, and whispered, “Do you want to talk?”

Zhou Tong’an didn’t answer; instead, he slumped, letting the back of his head rest against the wall.

Quietly observing his profile, Fang Nianchi noted delicate features with shallow contours and thin lips that gave him a cold, detached air.

He opened the other bottle of water, poured some into his right palm, wet his thumb, and reached out—

Zhou Tong’an suddenly opened his eyes. Fang Nianchi didn’t meet his gaze; he simply used his thumb to gently rub away a dried bloodstain on Zhou Tong’an’s chin, as if soothing him or perhaps speaking to himself, “You’ve got blood on your face.”

*

The operation went smoothly, but the doctor insisted on a few days of observation in the hospital.

The next day at noon, as Fang Nianchi was ordering takeout on his phone, he received a new WeChat friend request. The nickname was “Tong,” and the profile picture was abstract—like a part of an oil painting. Before he could even say hello, the other party transferred 500 yuan.

Fang Nianchi found it amusing and sent back a message, “What’s this for?”

The reply came quickly: Car wash fee, plus money for the clothes.

Then another message: Thanks for yesterday.

Fang Nianchi didn’t reply. Instead, he pulled up the call from 4:30 in the morning and dialed it back.

“Is your mother feeling better?”

“Mm.” Zhou Tong’an glanced at the hospital bed where his mother, Jiang Yan, lay asleep after having been sedated. He quietly left the room.

Fang Nianchi was unsure what to say next; the call felt awkward. He began to regret making this call, so he fumbled for words. “That’s good,” he managed.

Closing the hospital door behind him, Zhou Tong’an explained, “I was just with her; she’s still asleep.”

Fang Nianchi was momentarily stunned before responding with a quiet “Mm.”

An awkward silence followed.

Sighing, Fang Nianchi changed the subject. “What will you do about your store?”

“It’s fine. It’ll reopen in a few days.”

Fang Nianchi realized Zhou Tong’an was a conversational dead end—a black hole that absorbed any topic he threw at him. He tried to string together some words, but his thoughts seemed sucked into emptiness, leaving his mind a haze. In the end, he only called out, “Zhou Tong’an.”

There was no reply, but he could hear shallow breathing on the other end.

Softly chuckling, Fang Nianchi asked, “Zhou Tong’an, don’t you wonder how I know your name?”

But if he didn’t speak now, perhaps he’d never speak again.

Biting his lip, Fang Nianchi raised his voice unconsciously, “Zhou Tong’an, do you realize that I’m chasing you?”

A long silence followed.

Had it not been for a sudden hospital announcement blaring through the phone, Fang Nianchi might’ve thought the call was disconnected. Though he expected this outcome, he still felt a tinge of disappointment.

He hesitated, fingers hovering over the call end button, wondering whether to terminate this uncomfortable call, when the other side suddenly muttered a heavy “Stop chasing me.”

For ten seconds—or maybe longer—Fang Nianchi faintly, uncertainly detected another meaning behind those words.

His heart pounded loudly, so much so that he half-expected its rhythm to transmit through the phone.

Clutching the phone tight, he summoned the courage and asked, “Zhou Tong’an, do you like men?”

*

In the end, Zhou Tong’an never gave him a straightforward answer. He only whispered again, “Stop chasing me.”

Four days later, Zhou Tong’an’s shop reopened. Fang Nianchi happily carried two bags of health supplements and rushed into the store, eager to help his mother recover.

“The shop owner said these will help with qi and blood,” he explained, pushing a bag of angelica, wolfberry, red dates, and longan toward the counter. He also placed a bag of fresh black chicken, lamb ribs, and pork ribs on the counter, acting as if the awkward phone conversation had never happened.

Zhou Tong’an didn’t refuse this time; he simply said, “Thank you.”

But fearing he might regret it, Fang Nianchi quickly set the items down and bolted out of sight.

After that, Fang Nianchi visited the store almost every day, spending more and more time there.

Zhang Yaoqing once warned him when he came by to shop: “Don’t be a simp. If you grovel too much, you’ll end up with nothing.”

Fang Nianchi thought that sounded like a joke—after all, Zhang Yaoqing had once given up his chance at a top university for love.

When the store was quiet, Zhou Tong’an would pull out an easel. Fang Nianchi, majoring in marketing, didn’t understand art, but he’d inherited Shen Ling’s aesthetic genes. Even from an outsider’s perspective, it was clear that Zhou Tong’an’s skill far surpassed an amateur’s.

One time, Fang Nianchi couldn’t help but probe, “Zhou Tong’an, you’re an art student, right?”

Zhou Tong’an focused on his canvas without denying, as if conceding the point. Fang Nianchi wanted to ask why he didn’t apply to an art academy, but considering his family situation, it wouldn’t be a pleasant topic.

Noticing Fang Nianchi had fallen silent, Zhou Tong’an put down his brush, looked at him calmly, and remarked, “I didn’t get in.”

Fang Nianchi exaggerated a sigh. “Ah, they lost out big time.” Suddenly inspired, he pulled out his phone, pointed at Zhou Tong’an’s WeChat profile picture, and asked, “This one too? Did you paint it?”

“Mm…” Zhou Tong’an abruptly stood up and went into a room. After ten minutes, he returned carrying a framed painting.

It was a landscape oil painting, viewed from above—the sky above, with a half blue sea on one side and a pinkish beach on the other, a dilapidated wooden boat stranded on the shore.

“Where is this?” Fang Nianchi asked. He was a homebody; his mother never took him out. University and Yangcheng were the two points of his life.

“Elbow Beach,” Zhou Tong’an replied. “It’s in Bermuda. In reality, it’s not as pink as that.”

Fang Nianchi was stunned. “Bermuda? Isn’t that a place you enter and never leave?” Only then did he realize that Zhou Tong’an had indeed traveled far.

Zhou Tong’an’s expression turned serious. “Yes, so I couldn’t return.”

Fang Nianchi blinked, frozen for nearly half a minute, before realizing that Zhou Tong’an just said a joke.

The ice maiden Zhou Tong’an, delivering a dry joke in person—very much in character.

Fang Nianchi’s eyes lit up with mirth, and he burst into uncontrollable laughter, his eyes reddening at the corners. He laughed so hard he bent over, arms hugging his torso tightly, his attractive shoulder blades quivering with each laugh.

Zhou Tong’an glanced sideways, looking out at the darkening sky. “Why do you laugh at such little things?” he remarked dryly.

Fang Nianchi covered his mouth, trying to control his expression, but he failed and burst into more giggles.

Outside, the sky was tinted orange-red by the twilight.

Clearing his throat, Zhou Tong’an casually asked, “What are you having for dinner tonight?”

“I haven’t decided. Maybe some noodles,” Fang Nianchi managed between laughs, wiping his face haphazardly.

Zhou Tong’an watched him quietly for a few seconds.

It was as if the twilight glow had stained the corners of Fang Nianchi’s eyes.

Zhou Tong’an said, “Let’s eat together. Tonight, with my mother.”

*

Fang Nianchi was stunned.

This was the first time Zhou Tong’an was opening up his world to him.

The house was originally a three-bedroom apartment. The street-facing room had been turned into a store, while Zhou Tong’an and his mother, Jiang Yan, lived in the other two rooms. Fang Nianchi never pried into others’ lives—except for bathroom trips, he rarely entered the inner rooms.

Jiang Yan suffered from lower-body paralysis and her mental state fluctuated. Zhou Tong’an had once casually mentioned that his mother’s disability was the result of a car accident.

Zhou Tong’an closed the door behind him, having picked up a few meals and rice from a nearby restaurant. The three of them sat around the dining table, and the atmosphere was lighter than Fang Nianchi had imagined.

Jiang Yan looked rosy today and seemed in good spirits. She eagerly served Fang Nianchi more dishes several times, asking where he studied, what his major was, and what hobbies he had.

Fang Nianchi answered honestly. When it came to hobbies, he found it hard to confess “playing video games,” so he stumbled out a clumsy “basketball” instead.

Zhou Tong’an shot him a sidelong glance, then offered Jiang Yan a piece of sweet and sour ribs, cutting her off from her inquisition as if checking his guest’s comfort. “Tell him to eat, rather than asking so many questions.”

Jiang Yan smiled quietly. “I’m happy you’ve made a new friend, dear.”

Fang Nianchi, glancing at the dishes on the table, asked offhand, “Ma’am, where are you from?”

Both Jiang Yan and Zhou Tong’an fell silent. The conversation turned suddenly serious, but finally Jiang Yan softened the moment. “We’re from the south. We’re not used to spicy food, so it’s a bit uncomfortable here.”

Feeling he had misspoken, Fang Nianchi dared not pry further. He quickly buried his face in his bowl and ate.

After dinner, Zhou Tong’an escorted Jiang Yan back to her room to rest, then returned quickly to tell Fang Nianchi, “My mother asked me to take you out for a walk to digest.”

*

Late July was in the height of summer, and cicadas screamed with all their might.

Fang Nianchi followed behind Zhou Tong’an along the riverside footpath, moving leisurely. The cool night breeze soothed his entire body. He stared at Zhou Tong’an’s nape for a while, suddenly realizing that Zhou Tong’an might actually be a few centimeters taller than he was.

“Hey,” Fang Nianchi kicked a small stone away and asked Zhou Tong’an, “How tall are you?”

Zhou Tong’an glanced back at him with a slight smile, then continued walking.

“I’m not sure. Last time I had a check-up…” Zhou Tong’an was uncertain. “Maybe 180cm?”

Fang Nianchi didn’t question when that check-up was; over this time together, they had developed an unspoken understanding. If it were important, Zhou Tong’an would have mentioned it.

“Well, you must have grown taller then,” Fang Nianchi said. “I measured 182 cm in my last check-up this year.”

Zhou Tong’an shrugged as he walked, “You really like basketball? I’ve never seen you play.”

Fang Nianchi kept his head down and walked on without replying. In truth, he wanted to say, “In the past month, I’ve only been circling around you. What have you seen me do?”

Before Zhou Tong’an could wait for an answer, he stopped suddenly. Behind him, a warm body suddenly pressed into his back.

Fang Nianchi’s cheek pressed against Zhou Tong’an’s nape, and the scent that wafted between them inexplicably comforted him.

For a moment he was dazed—as if afraid that the sensation would vanish—and, losing all reason, he raised both arms and wrapped the person in front of him in a tight embrace.

“Fang Nianchi.” Zhou Tong’an tensed up, trying to break free, but Fang Nianchi paid him no heed, even tightening his hold.

Their chests pressed together, Zhou Tong’an could clearly feel a strong, resilient heartbeat behind him.

“I don’t like basketball at all,” Fang Nianchi murmured into Zhou Tong’an’s neck, his voice muffled. “If you really want to know what I like…”