Lin An still doted on Xu Qinghuan. He washed the dishes, tucked them into the cabinet, then returned to his room and powered on his computer.

First, he needed to replenish his manuscript stash. As a small-time author with a moderately successful novel, consistent updates were non-negotiable. Backup chapters ensured he could deliver bonus updates after big tips—keeping generous patrons happy.

By 10 a.m., drafts done. Chacha sent a smiling emoji: “So, my dear An An… are you free now?”

“Here,” he replied. He logged in, joined voice chat, and they fell into easy chatter. He’d met Chacha about two months ago—she’d booked a skilled companion player and got him. Solid mechanics, pleasant voice. He knew how to flatter, match her sarcastic jabs at teammates, and lock in wins. They’d stuck together ever since.

Rates ran 100 to 150 yuan daily. Over time, she’d spent nearly 10,000 yuan on him. Past 11 p.m.? Extra fees applied.

Lin An was just that meticulous. Even when Chacha joked, cooed, or playfully dodged payment—she always paid. Clearly a little heiress. When they started, she was stuck in Silver. Now? Diamond III. Talented—loved Camille, Zed, Irelia, Jayce, Yasuo, Vayne. Skilled, but light on strategy. Lin An played safe, meta-dominant “rank-grind” champs, coaching her while keeping conversation flowing.

That conversation guidebook he bought? Barely touched. Lines came naturally. Maybe he was just decent at chatting—spinning odd topics from latest anime quality to “Did you know Xuan Gou rage-quit six times yesterday?” He collected niche trivia like others collected stamps.

Online chaos shaped them: Chacha, an absurdist troll and keyboard warrior; Lin An, a high schooler versed in toxic banter and obscure lore. Wide reading built his conversational frameworks. Practice taught him to shift tone for every person.

One shared trait: neither tolerated narrow-minded or muddled thinkers. Too draining. That’s why they clicked.

Chacha’s sharp wit likely came from upbringing. Lin An’s? Childhood forced him to stay perceptive, empathetic—to navigate emotions and keep moments from turning awkward. If he could, he wouldn’t have needed to.

They played until 1 p.m. Chacha’s delivery arrived; she’d eat and rest. Lin An headed out too—he’d cooked lunch after washing dishes that morning.

A spicy, numbing aroma greeted him: Xu Qinghuan’s authentic Sichuan twice-cooked pork, stir-fried drier to cut grease (still rich, still salty). Seaweed egg drop soup. Stir-fried luffa—salted late, pulled at the perfect moment, vibrantly green and tempting. The pork was for him. The luffa was hers.

She’d already plated his rice. As he sat, her small hands kneaded his shoulders—just the right pressure, firm yet soothing.

“If you sit at the screen too long, stretch every hour, okay?”

“Mm, I know,” Lin An said with a slight nod. She massaged a little longer, then sat across. Portions were perfect—half left for dinner. They ate quietly. Halfway through, he spoke:

“I’m visiting Su Yuejin tonight.”

Xu Qinghuan set down her chopsticks. Lifted her gaze. A flicker of sharpness in her eyes—but her smile stayed soft, gentle.

“She’s sick. Clung to me this morning. I promised to check on her,” Lin An replied calmly. Truth needed no rehearsal. He knew faking calm would fail her.

“What time leaving? When back?”

“Six out… eight back?” A rough plan. He wasn’t sure what awaited at Su Yuejin’s—but definitely nothing *unmentionable*.

“Go ahead. Bring toothpaste on your way home—we’re almost out.”

“Noted.” He nodded, resumed eating. Weekend rhythm: Lin An rarely went out when she was home. Better to stay in and… spend time with Xu Qinghuan. (Not *play with*. Definitely not.)

Phones buzzed. Chacha asked about lunch. He snapped a pic and sent it back, asking hers. Her reply: elegant takeout boxes. Ingredients looked premium. He chuckled wryly.

Post-lunch, he gamed with Chacha until 3 p.m. She logged off—shopping with friends. He closed the game. Solo gaming held no appeal. Not stress relief. Not fun. Just purposeless.

He leaned over his desk and sketched. Two years self-taught—no formal training, just tutorials and daily hour-long practice. The image: Su Yuejin asleep earlier, lips curved in a faint smile. Deconstructed in his mind, rendered anime-style—a simple pencil sketch of a 2D girl. Took time. He posted it. Likes poured in. No commissions lately. A quiet disappointment.

Past 4 p.m. Wind nudged the curtains open. Lin An watched gloomy clouds gather. Rain had been frequent—the rainy season’s tail refused to leave. He stood there, half-hoping for rain. None came. Instead—footsteps. Then arms wrapped gently around him from behind.

Xu Qinghuan’s soft, ample chest pressed against his back—a warm, comforting weight. Her voice turned light, tender: “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing. Just the sky.”

“You always zone out, little brother. Next time… come find me, okay?”

“Huh? It’s fine,” he murmured, turning. She released him, sat on his bed’s edge. Wore his oversized white tee—somehow charming. Beneath the hem, fair, straight legs. Petite frame. The kind who made you want to hold her close. Her collarbone delicate. To Lin An, she was always beautiful—long hair, short hair, any style. His mischievous little sprite: gentle one moment, playfully chaotic the next. Sternness rare… except for those two slaps the day before.

She inspired protectiveness. Yet around him, she carried a faint, innocent allure—maybe from her subtly curved figure, maybe from unconscious gestures. He watched her pink tongue trace her lips. Captivating.

“How’s things with Luo Shuishui?”

“We broke up.” Lin An’s smile was wry. Xu Qinghuan held his gaze a beat. She saw it—the sting of being let go. Love or not, rejection ached.

So she opened her arms. He leaned into the hug, breathing in the faint, calming scent of her hair.

“You’re such a gentle person,” she whispered. Her eyes held hazy emotion. Then softly: “You can learn more from Su Yuejin.”

“Learn what? She can’t teach me anything.”

“How to be loved.” Her smile warmed. “Naive or mature, Lin An—you must understand what it means to be loved, and to love. Once you truly grasp that… we won’t need those strange constraints anymore.”

“And if you chase other women after that?” Her small hand slid between his fingers, intertwining them. She swayed their clasped hands gently, lifting them. Eyes sparkling. “I’ll really get angry.”

“After all…” she murmured, “a boy in the orphanage once held the candy I gave him… and promised to marry me. Don’t you dare forget.”

Lin An smiled. Met her gaze. Gave a soft, certain nod.

“I remember.”