Lin An and Xu Qinghuan chatted a little longer. Xu Qinghuan soon fell asleep on Lin An’s bed, tucked under a small blanket. Lin An sat nearby, scrolling through his phone—checking Su Yuejin’s QQ profile: her status updates, blogs, comments, even the spaces of friends who frequently commented.
Her activity was sparse. She occasionally posted pretty photos, but comments were few—likely because she had few friends. Her status never held those cringey chuunibyou declarations from an awkward phase. A small disappointment for Lin An’s guilty pleasure.
Still, from these pieced-together clues, Lin An formed a clearer picture of Su Yuejin’s personality. Tracing her growth from middle school to high school took little time—nothing dramatic. She wasn’t the type to post melancholic late-night updates; true depression, after all, was silent.
Lin An turned back. Xu Qinghuan slept soundly, though she’d kicked the blanket off her calves. He meant to tuck her in—but seeing her fair, slender calves and delicate ankles, he couldn’t resist lightly stroking her skin with his fingertips. Only when she murmured “itchy” in her sleep did he startle like a thief caught red-handed and quickly pull the blanket over her.
He closed the window but left a narrow gap to keep the room from growing stuffy. Then he showered, changed into a black T-shirt—he preferred black; white stained too easily and was a hassle to wash.
Style? Simple and clean. Lin An had no time for fashion bloggers or fussing over his appearance. All his clothes were bought by Xu Qinghuan—not cheap, but effortlessly neat. That was enough.
He messaged Su Yuejin before heading out. No surprises—he never liked them. (Though he knew surprises, with their emotional whiplash, were a classic romance tactic: say you won’t come, claim she needs comforting, then arrive two minutes late with a vague excuse… Let her guess. Pointless.)
He asked if she’d eaten. “No appetite.”
“Want something I make?”
“Sweet and sour pork ribs.”
*This girl really knew how to make things difficult.*
Still, he bought half a kilo of ribs and tomato sauce—the rest was at her place, as he’d noticed that morning. At her door, Su Yuejin hurriedly opened it in slippers.
She wore a white slip dress.
Lin An had a soft spot for them—or most men did. A delicate balance of innocence and allure: ethereal on a petite frame, subtly sensual on a curvier one. Both charming. Su Yuejin had a wonderfully proportioned figure. He especially liked her neck—slender, fair.
The dress straps hung loosely on her shoulders, but her eyes shone brightly—the light of seeing someone deeply missed. For a fleeting moment, Lin An felt dazed. Before he knew it, she’d taken his hand and led him inside.
He still held the bag of ribs. Su Yuejin blinked. “You can actually cook?”
“A little. Not gourmet… but I can make it.”
“Eat.” She pouted slightly. In the kitchen, Lin An saw a bowl soaking in the sink—she’d had congee.
“Made congee? So thoughtful. Such a warm-hearted guy,” she cooed, wrapping her arms around his neck from behind, voice dripping sweetness.
“Throat better?”
“Much. Took medicine at noon.”
Lin An gave a slight nod and began. Coat ribs in batter, fry golden, simmer tomato paste with salt and vinegar, toss. Simple.
Su Yuejin leaned against the wall, watching his profile. Her eyes sparkled. To her, he glowed—so focused, so… gentle.
He asked if she could cook rice. She shook her head innocently, tongue peeking out. He rinsed rice himself.
“How much water?”
“Why ask?”
“So next time you visit, we split tasks—you cook, I handle rice.”
Lin An paused. “Might not be a next time. No need to learn.”
Her eyes clouded with grievance. Lips pursed high. Silent. Upset.
He ignored her. As he finished the ribs, Su Yuejin sneakily grabbed a hot piece.
“Careful, it’s—”
She popped it in, yelped, spat it out. The rib clattered to the floor.
“You should’ve warned me! Ouch… my tongue’s burned!” she whined.
“My bad,” Lin An nodded, turning back. “Prefer it sweeter or more sour?”
“Sweeter.” No hidden agenda.
*(Xu Qinghuan would’ve asked, “Does my little brother prefer sweet or sour? I’m fine with either.” Her words always warmed him—even when he adjusted to her taste.)*
Rice was perfectly cooked—not too soft, not too dry. He served her, handed chopsticks.
“You?”
“I’ll eat at home.”
“But you cooked so much!”
“Make egg fried rice tomorrow.”
“I don’t know how.” Tongue out again.
“Then I’ll help.” He served himself half a bowl.
In the living room, Su Yuejin switched on the light—a stunning crystal chandelier hung above. During dinner, Lin An noticed the piano room. *Not an instrument I’m meant to learn*, he thought.
She caught his glance, pride lighting her face. “I play well. I’ll play for you.”
“Sure.” He bowed his head. *(Truth be told, he preferred the ribs a touch more sour.)*
After one bite, Su Yuejin abandoned rice entirely, munching ribs nonstop, mumbling through a full mouth: “So delicious!”
“Practice makes perfect.”
Post-dinner, as Lin An gathered plates, she dumped them into the dishwasher, pulled him to the piano room—guitar leaning nearby. She settled on the bench, tilted her head. “What song?”
In that moment, she seemed ethereal, bathed in soft light.
“My Soul.”
He sat quietly. Notes danced from her slender, fair fingers, leaping off the keys. Pleasant.
“I can dance too.”
“Mm. Impressive.”
*(He assumed real dance—not Xu Qinghuan’s “otaku dance,” all cute poses. “Hardcore anime fans eat it up,” she’d say. “Mock ‘selling flesh’ videos… then rush to support them.”)*
When the song ended, Lin An had been watching her profile—lost in thought, or simply watching. She stood, stepped close. “Hmm? What were you thinking, Lin An?”
“Nothing. It was nice.”
“Completely enchanted?” she shamelessly teased. He nodded. An hour had passed. What next?
She led him to the plush sofa, turned off the lights. Only the screen’s cold glow remained. *Saw* played—she’d wanted to watch it for ages but never dared alone. Now she had company.
At scary moments, she clung to him like a frightened rabbit. “Hold me tight.”
Lin An complied, arm around her waist like a puppet on strings. His gaze stayed steady on the screen. Horror left him indifferent—Xu Qinghuan had dragged him through too many “torture-watch” sessions: climbing onto his lap, demanding hugs, letting him claim tiny perks with wandering hands.
At 7:40 PM, he said, “I leave at eight.”
“Why? Something up?”
“Need to get back to writing.”
She snuggled closer. “Send me your work later.”
“Sure.”
“I have a computer. Use mine.”
“Prefer my own keyboard.”
“Mine has better feedback, comfier chair, sharper screen… You didn’t think you could just hug me and leave, did you?”
Her voice rose slightly. Lin An leaned close to her face. His eyes had cooled.
“This dress is new. You showered. But… a faint smoke smell lingers. Very faint. My nose is sharp.”
His tone was slow, quiet. Su Yuejin froze. Panic flickered in her eyes. She met his gaze—only cold disdain and disgust remained.
