As mentioned before, Bro Long’s backstory was rough.

His mother passed away from childbirth complications. His father, a drunkard, beat and berated him throughout childhood. From what I know, Bro Long ran away around his early teens—and never went back.

Luckily, an internet cafe owner took pity on him. He gave Bro Long work, paid about a thousand yuan monthly, and introduced him as his nephew.

Smart move—Bro Long was too young. Without that cover, the owner would’ve faced serious trouble for illegal child labor.

That owner kept him on. By the time I met Bro Long, he’d already worked there three or four years, scraping by on that meager wage. Barely enough to survive, but enough.

Then things turned. Two years ago, the owner was diagnosed with late-stage liver cirrhosis. Before arranging anything for Bro Long, he passed. The cafe sold. Owners started rotating every six months.

Bro Long was still underage, but new bosses kept him—calling him their “godson.” Rivals mocked him endlessly: “Son of many fathers,” “mother died young”—hurling every insult they could.

Recently, Bro Long offended someone. The current owner, fearing trouble, fired him outright.

Just like that, Bro Long became unemployed—with only a middle school diploma.

Looking back, his early life was brutally harsh.

Psychology says childhood shapes who we become.

Every childhood wound becomes a hidden vulnerability.

Poetically? Those hurts bury deep—scars that never heal.

I recall a story: a man obsessed with dragon fruit, eating several daily. Asked why, he’d just scratch his head and chuckle, “Dunno, just like it.”

Later, during therapy for depression, hypnosis revealed the root: as a kid, he’d stood by a fruit stall, longing for one. His stingy father refused. Again and again. Eventually, the boy forgot.

But as an adult with his own money? He craved it fiercely.

Because that forgotten boy at the stall had become a silent, unhealed scar.

Bro Long was the same. Others might’ve shattered under his life.

But Bro Long pushed forward—battered, unbroken.

Yet those scars remained raw.

You saw it in how she moved through the world: blunt, speaking her mind, stepping on anyone she disliked.

If she trusted someone? Fierce dependence. Strong possessiveness.

Conflict with someone close? She’d freeze, spiral into panic—strip away that tough exterior, and underneath was just a scared, insecure kid.

I understood that. But seeing Bro Long’s tears still left me speechless.

She stood before me, trembling, teeth clenched, resentment flickering in her eyes as tears traced her cheeks.

I froze, words stuck.

She noticed the wetness, wiped her face with her wrist—paused. Stared at the moisture. Looked up at me, dazed.

Then turned and rushed into her room.

I stood alone in the living room. Let out a wry sigh. Walked to her door.

Curtains drawn. Dim light. Mess everywhere. Three tin cans overflowing with cigarette butts on the desk. Clothes I bought her piled in the corner. My old too-small basketball jersey shoved under the desk, sleeves dangling.

I sighed at the chaos. Turned.

On the rumpled bed, a quilt trembled.

I sat beside it, patted gently. “Why crying now?”

Silence. Only a tuft of white hair visible, trembling slightly.

A muffled, tear-choked voice: “Lao Lu… Since becoming a woman… I feel so weird…”

I sighed, reached for the quilt. “You’ve always been weird. I’m used to it.”

I tugged—but she yanked back hard. The lower half flipped up: familiar white panties. Pale legs pressed tight, toes pointed, trembling faintly.

She clutched the quilt over her face. Voice shaky: “Don’t… Wait. Don’t look yet…”

“What’s left to hide?” I pulled firmly. “Look at you? Get up!”

Quilt flew off.

Her face flushed with tears, eyes glistening and red-rimmed, hands still frozen mid-grab.

She covered her face, choked out: “You sick? I said don’t look…”

I tossed the quilt aside, pinned her slender wrists to the pillow. Met her panicked gaze. “Look at me.”

She turned away, shoulders shaking. After a beat, she glanced back.

I held her eyes. “That thing I said about dating girls? Just messing with you.”

Silence stretched.

Her tear-damp eyes searched mine. Whispered: “What about… hooking up?”

Her gaze sent heat through me. I swallowed it down. “Dating girls? Teasing you. Hooking up? That’s for fools.”

Tear-streaked, dead serious: “Lu Ren, fuck you.”

I sighed, wiped her cheek. “You don’t have the equipment for that anymore.”

My touch made her flinch. She pressed my hand down, looked away awkwardly, throat working. “I read online… girls who look innocent? Usually not trustworthy…”

I stayed silent.

She clutched my arm. Eyes darting everywhere but mine. From our struggle—and no bra at home—a sweep of pale skin showed. Heat rose in me. I swallowed. Sighed inwardly.

A question had burned inside me too long. Today, I’d ask.

I watched her face closely. Ready for any shift.

“Bai Hailong,” I said softly. “Do you like me?”

She froze. Hand still on mine. Thought a beat.

Then, clear and steady:

“Yeah. I do.”