Sunday morning, I woke up early as usual to give the house a thorough cleaning.

I took off the sofa cover to wash it, but then I spotted a strange notebook.

It was about A4 size, thin with only a dozen pages or so.

For some reason, it was wedged in the gap between the seat cushion and backrest, just a small corner peeking out.

I wouldn’t have found it if I hadn’t removed the cover.

I pulled it out. The cover was a sleek black leather case.

Though I have many books, I was sure this wasn’t mine—I always number the spines for easy reference.

Could it be Baiyu’s?

Thinking this, I flipped open the book.

What I saw startled me. It was an adult comic, and the characters looked eerily familiar.

The page clearly labeled the protagonists: Lin Zheng and Eliza.

It was a *Zero Hour* doujinshi, with exquisite artwork—not something an amateur could produce.

That Xia Xi… how careless.

This had to be hers, left behind yesterday. She lives next door, but I’d never return it in person.

She shares a place with her aunt; showing up with this would make me look like a creep.

I’ll give it back next time I see her.

Just then, thumping footsteps came down the stairs.

“Zong Jun, breakfast… why are you curled up like a maggot on the sofa?”

“My stomach hurts. It really hurts.”

“If it hurts, take medicine. We have stomach pills. Where are they?”

“No need. I’ll rest and take it later. Baiyu, go eat—I set your breakfast on the table.”

“You wouldn’t… if you do anything gross in the living room, I won’t forgive you.”

After discovering Baiyu’s streaming, our relationship improved a bit—from barely three words a day to her talking more.

But today, I wished she’d ignore me like before.

The moment she appeared, I hid the book under my stomach.

If she found it, she’d assume it was mine. Only two of us live here, and Baiyu wouldn’t own such a thing.

Saying it was left by a visiting girl? No normal girl would abandon an adult comic at a guy’s house.

It’d sound like a ridiculous lie to shift blame.

Luckily, Baiyu doesn’t pry. She just muttered and headed to the dining room.

I wriggled off the sofa like an earthworm, then sprinted upstairs clutching the comic like a mother protecting her baby.

I dashed into my room and shut the door.

“Phew!”

I wiped sweat from my brow. That was close—I almost didn’t escape.

If Baiyu found me with this, it’d be disastrous.

Worse, it was a *Zero Hour* doujinshi. If she saw her favorite work turned filthy by some giggling loli artist, she’d go ballistic.

What if she cried and ran away?

I placed the sleek black notebook on my desk and sat down, stumped.

What to do? Where to hide it?

My room’s small—just twenty square meters. Only a bed, desk, wardrobe, and work computer.

Yellow marble floors, simple light-blue wallpaper, purple curtains over the window.

A wall clock faced the door. I prefer minimalism—no posters or idols.

Baiyu’s room is bigger, with a soft sofa, TV I installed, and girly decor: pink wallpaper, neat piles of cushions and cute dolls.

I also have a study downstairs for my books and writing references. Hiding it there would be safer.

But I really didn’t want to sneak out with this again…

I’m not some high schooler hiding adult magazines under the bed.

Baiyu never enters my room, but friends visit sometimes. If found, it’d be so embarrassing.

Still, I’m a normal teenage boy. On my laptop, I have a folder named “The Origin of Life and Postmodern Natural Behavior Studies”—lessons from Nippon teachers.

Fellow students who’ve had such lessons would understand, right?

I should call Xia Xi to take it away.

*Beep… beep… beep…* “Sorry, the user you dialed is not available…”

The phone’s not connecting… Should I go next door?

Nah. No one will enter my room soon anyway. I stuffed the book under my pillow.

…

In the afternoon, close classmates invited me out. I wasn’t home all day.

Since Baiyu waited for dinner, I declined their dinner invite.

On the way back, I stopped by the supermarket for ingredients.

When I got home, Baiyu was rummaging through living room cabinets.

I walked behind her. “What’s wrong? Looking for something?”

She just glanced sideways, ignored me, and kept digging.

She tossed things around without tidying, then crouched to peer under the sofa.

She seemed off—face flushed, muttering, “It should be here… why can’t I find it?”

Today she wore a dark blue cotton coat and matching skinny jeans.

Photographed, she could be a fashion model.

But now she looked anxious and frustrated. Had she lost something important?

I crouched beside her, patted her shoulder. “Tell me what it is. I’ll help you look.”

She slapped my hand away, glaring. “Tch, mind your own business!”

Seriously… I thought our relationship had improved.

I wanted to tell her to tidy up later, but seeing her mood, I’d clean it myself.