Gu Chuan’s parents divorced when he was very young.

They clashed on nearly everything—except abandoning him. On that, they were in perfect agreement.

Sent to live with his grandfather as a child, Gu Chuan was placed in an orphanage after the old man passed.

He wasn’t an orphan. He was simply unwanted.

Thus, his childhood before age ten remained bleak and suffocating.

Perhaps that was when his reluctance to trust others, his emotional detachment, took root.

It made him an unlikable child.

Even after being adopted later, he never truly belonged.

Over time, he was let go—perhaps the couple had acted on a whim, utterly unprepared for a new life, a new member.

Now, they couldn’t even be bothered with his living expenses, leaving him to fend for himself.

Yet he never forgot his first meeting with that girl.

Wind stirred the ashen reeds beside the pebble beach. The lonely boy sat on the riverbank, tossing stone after stone into the distant water.

His emotions rippled with the disturbed current.

“No one will want me…”

He murmured desolately to his shadow.

Then—a sweet, clear voice from behind.

She said…

“I want you.”

As Ji Gewei turned the lock,

she wasn’t as headstrong as Gu Chuan might have imagined.

She hesitated—a rare moment—for this boy, her nominal “younger brother,”

also her junior.

Hesitation. Hesitation.

Brief as it was, the unease would ferment unseen, for a very, very long time.

Inside Gu Chuan’s rented apartment, the first thing she saw was unexpected cleanliness.

On the table: an empty congee bowl, the peeled shell of a boiled egg.

She’d thought he’d skip breakfast again.

She’d even hoped for a chance to step in…

So why this fleeting pang of loss?

Curious why he’d risen early, eaten, then vanished.

But he must still be in the bedroom.

Gu Chuan never ran mornings.

Yet his physique was effortlessly beautiful—a truth Ji Gewei knew well.

Back when they shared a roof,

she’d scold her “brother” for leaving the bathroom bare after showers.

Yet her eyes would stray to his frame: slender in clothes, firm and masculine beneath—tight chest, sculpted eight-pack.

A blush would rise; she’d hide it.

Her feigned sternness barely masked the flicker in her gaze.

Gu Chuan would lower his damp head, water droplets tracing his steam-kissed hair, shadowy eyes avoiding hers.

A soft murmur:

“Sorry…”

Gu Chuan was a man surrounded by admirers—a so-called “playboy.”

Yet only toward Ji Gewei, this sister by name alone, did he falter.

Somewhat… pure.

If the word fit.

Yes. Pure.

Even a “tea boy” could bloom into a lotus.

For her.

Now living apart, Ji Gewei had still claimed a key to his apartment—forcefully.

Yet visits were rare.

Today, insomnia gripped her until dawn.

*Since I can’t sleep… might as well check on him.*

So she came.

Barging in, heart in disarray.

Staring at the breakfast remnants, she wondered: *Was he sleepless too?*

Gu Chuan couldn’t read Ji Gewei.

Just as she couldn’t read him.

She strode forward on elegant legs. The campus “queen” once wore blood-red heels at a gala—heels only she could command.

Next day, the top anonymous post on the confession wall read: *“If President Ji stepped on me with those heels once in this life, I’d die content.”*

Eight to nine hundred likes—staggering, given only two to three thousand male students.

Include faculty?

Good grief… the school was a den of foot-fetishists.

Dislikes numbered three to four hundred, mostly female. Scorn? Jealousy?

Ji Gewei knew none of it.

Someone had quietly hacked the forum, erasing every trace.

She never knocked.

Gu Chuan wouldn’t mind.

If awake, he’d know it was her.

He’d let her invade his home, his room.

Even… his bed.

Pushing his bedroom door open, lemon-and-clary-sage body wash scent filled the air.

This “brother” loved bathing—a rarity: fastidious about cleanliness, meticulous with appearance.

And, unsurprisingly, never short of admirers.

Ji Gewei had only just heard he’d broken up with An Qianmeng. The news left her tossing, sleepless.

This morning, unable to resist, she crossed blocks to see him alone.

Yet she couldn’t name her thoughts.

Only that on the chill, pre-dawn streets, under faint moonlight that questioned tomorrow’s light, she craved a drink.

She claimed to abstain. At student council gatherings, boys always shielded her glass.

But she’d never forget that dim-moon night—a boy staying till alcohol poisoning, just to keep her company.

“Gu Chuan.”

…

He lay on his side, one leg draped over something.

*A body pillow?*

She’d called his name upon entering. No reply. Just scrolling.

Phone glow lit his pale morning face—a scene of quiet indifference.

Ji Gewei felt she’d made a mistake coming.

Every gesture radiated distance.

*He’s pushing me away.*

After a long silence, Gu Chuan finally looked up—from screen to ash-gray wall.

Voice flat, lazy, wrapped in lingering drowsiness:

“Good morning.”

He didn’t meet her eyes. Turned off the screen. Closed his lids. Opened them.

“What are you looking at?” Ji Gewei stepped closer, unyielding.

She hadn’t changed shoes. Her soles carried damp from the sprinkler-wet street.

With each step, dark ink-like lotus blooms marked the floor.

She knew he’d mop later. He was fastidious.

But she wanted him to remember. To trace her footprints.

Size 36—the shape once cradled in his palm.