Chapter 3

The smell of grilled meat lingered heavily in the air. After tidying the table, Ji Zhou opened the windows to air the place out. The summer night was stifling; a wave of heat rushed in, carrying the damp, grassy scent that followed the storm.
Tong Wen went to shower after dinner. Ji Zhou put the leftover beer into the fridge. When he was done with his chores, he sat back down on the sofa and flipped through TV channels.
There really wasn’t anything worth watching, so he stopped on a satellite channel airing a variety show.
With the “ha-ha-ha” laughter coming from the TV, Ji Zhou didn’t catch the joke at all and found it dull. He took out his phone and saw that ten minutes ago he’d gotten another message.
—Mianmian: [Doctor bro, does getting a tooth pulled hurt? I’m most afraid of pain.]
It seemed people of any age were scared of extractions.
Ji Zhou replied in a stiff, no-nonsense way: [We use anesthetic.]
The other person was online. The message showed “read” almost immediately, followed by a question: [Then does the anesthetic injection hurt?]
To avoid causing patients panic, Ji Zhou answered: [It doesn’t hurt.]
Mianmian: [Don’t lie to me, okay?]
“Bro.” Before Ji Zhou’s suspended finger could tap send, Tong Wen came over wiping his hair. “I’ve got plans tonight. I might come back really late.”
Ji Zhou looked up at him. “Your girlfriend?”
Tong Wen grinned. “No, a buddy. Says there’s a new bar nearby. Wants me to go have a couple drinks.”
Ji Zhou rarely drank. Just now, the two of them had split a bottle, so Tong Wen obviously wasn’t satisfied—his craving had been teased awake, leaving him uncomfortable either way.
At his age, it was the prime time to blow through youth and enjoy nightlife. Ji Zhou wasn’t going to stop him.
“You have enough money?” Ji Zhou asked.
“Yeah. I can even bring you a late-night snack when I’m back,” Tong Wen said.
“No need. Once I brush my teeth, I won’t eat anything else,” Ji Zhou declined. “Go have fun—don’t cause trouble.”
“Got it.”
Tong Wen dried his hair and changed into a set of Ji Zhou’s clothes: a white short-sleeved shirt and black casual slacks. It looked way too plain and formal. He tugged at the collar and complained, “Bro, you’re not even that old. How come all your clothes look like something a government cadre would wear?”
Ji Zhou stared straight ahead at the TV—though he wasn’t really watching—and said, “Then take it off.”
Tong Wen tossed his car keys in the air. “My clothes are in the wash. I’ve got nothing else to wear.”
“Then shut up.”
“Oh.” Tong Wen mimed zipping his mouth shut.
Young people went out chasing thrills. With only this “old man” left at home trying to squeeze entertainment out of the TV, it was boring to the point of misery.
His phone buzzed twice. Only then did Ji Zhou remember—Tong Wen had interrupted him earlier, and he hadn’t replied yet.
He unlocked the screen and opened Seek. Sure enough, it was Mianmian again.
Mianmian: [Bro, why did you read it and not reply?]
Mianmian: [Were you really just lying to me? (crying)]
Ji Zhou scrolled up a bit and answered: [I wasn’t lying. The injection can feel uncomfortable, but it’s within a tolerable range.]
Mianmian: [Were you chatting with someone else just now? (aggrieved)]
Ji Zhou had matched with quite a few people, but the only one he’d actually talked to was Mianmian.
He wasn’t good at finding topics. He was boring and heavy, and just as Tong Wen had said, he was rigid like an old-school cadre—always capable of extinguishing someone’s enthusiasm completely.
Only Mianmian’s questions happened to align with his profession, giving him the chance to speak at length.
Joice: [No.]
Mianmian: [So you only talk to me?]
Ji Zhou answered honestly: [Yeah.]
Mianmian: [(bunny spinning).jpg]
Mianmian: [Me too. (shy)]
Joice: [Is that so? You seem very popular.]
It wasn’t deliberate flattery; it was just that the 135 comments under Mianmian’s selfie post were hard to ignore.
Mianmian: [How can you tell? Because I’m pretty?]
Ji Zhou gave a brief chuckle and typed two words: [Comments.]
After it showed “read,” she didn’t reply instantly this time. The variety show reached a cliffhanger, then, in a way that perfectly toyed with viewers, cut to commercials.
Ji Zhou glanced at the time—just eight o’clock. He turned the TV up a bit, got up, went to his room for pajamas, and headed for a shower.
At the bathroom door, he stopped. The floor was covered in water. A bath towel had been tossed onto the sink, still wet.
He closed his eyes briefly and silently reminded himself: it’s my little brother. Be tolerant. Just endure him a few more days.
After the shower, Ji Zhou cleaned the bathroom and planned to wash his dirty clothes.
He opened the washing machine. A pink shirt and ripped jeans were tangled together, with a pair of white ankle socks caught between. He shut the door again and made up his mind: two more days, at most.
He turned off the TV, left a wall lamp on in the living room for Tong Wen, and went back to his bedroom, lying down on the bed.
The apartment was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Instead of making him sleepy, it made him restless. He flipped through two pages of a book, then set it down and picked up his phone. Mianmian had sent two messages.
One was from half an hour ago—
Mianmian: [My post gets pushed to the main square. I didn’t chat with any of them.]
Maybe because he hadn’t replied for a while, three minutes ago she’d sent another:
Mianmian: [Where are you?]
Joice: [Just showered. About to sleep.]
Her reply came fast, as if she’d been waiting.
Mianmian: [It’s not even nine. You’re sleeping already?]
Joice: [Yeah.]
Mianmian: [Do you work tomorrow?]
Joice: [Yeah.]
Mianmian: [What time?]
Joice: [8:30.]
Mianmian: [Then when you wake up, can you say good morning to me?]
Joice: [Why?]
Why?
Ye Muyang froze for a moment, then laughed. What a piece of wood. If an actual girl were chatting with him, she’d have been “chilled” into leaving ages ago.
But the more Joice was like this, the more challenging Ye Muyang found him.
Steady, aloof, speaking without beating around the bush—possessing an incredible emotional dullness in romantic dynamics, giving the illusion of almost zero dating experience.
Joice acted like a blank sheet of paper, waiting for someone to paint a bold, colorful stroke across it.
Whether it was real or an act, at this moment Ye Muyang’s desire to conquer had reached its peak.
As expected, being attracted to straight men was every bottom’s fate.
Ye Muyang sniffed, then replied in a teasing, ambiguous yet still polite way: [Because I want to receive your messages starting in the morning. That would make me happy.]
It showed “read” for a full two minutes with no response. Just when he thought Joice found it too forward and had gone offline, the phone buzzed.
Joice: [Okay.]
So he agreed? So cold.
Ye Muyang lay flat on his bed holding the phone. After thinking a bit, he pressed the voice-message bar, cleared his throat, softened his tone, and sweetly said, “Then… good night.”
As a streamer, his faux female voice was refined to perfection. He didn’t need a mechanical voice changer at all—most people couldn’t hear a single flaw. He was very confident in it.
And since he had a cold today, his hoarse voice carried a soft, airy quality that easily stirred a man’s protective instincts.
Joice: [Good night.]
Ye Muyang kicked his legs once in frustration. A block of wood! If it were any other man, he’d at least fake a bit of concern—“Did you take medicine?”—or, at bare minimum, say something like “Your voice is really nice.” But here, nothing.
Mianmian: [Can you send me a voice message too? I want to hear it.]
Instead of sending a voice message, he ended the topic directly: [Sleeping.]
Ye Muyang felt the subtext was: Don’t message me again and bother me.
“Just you wait,” Ye Muyang muttered unwillingly. “Sooner or later, I’ll take you down.”
The verbal probing ended there. For the eighth time, he tapped into Joice’s profile picture.
Even without a clear frontal view, zooming in still showed the man’s long, thick eyelashes and high nose bridge. In the snowy back-view photo, he looked tall too. With Ye Muyang’s years of photo experience, Joice definitely wasn’t ugly.
Bang bang bang. Someone suddenly hammered on the door. It was less knocking than pounding.
Ye Muyang jolted, nearly dropping his phone onto his face.
When he came to, he padded over in slippers and opened the door. Standing there was his housemate, Fan Jia.
“Sister Fan, what’s wrong?”
Fan Jia was twenty-seven, two years older than Ye Muyang, working at a foreign enterprise.
They’d lived together without any real conflict. Fan Jia knew what Ye Muyang did for work and also knew his orientation. When they were free, they’d occasionally have a drink together in the living room and chat. Their relationship had been fairly pleasant.
But right now, Fan Jia’s eyes were bloodshot. Her usually gentle face was twisted, and she looked anything but friendly.
“Is this yours?” she asked, holding up a pair of stockings.
Ye Muyang looked closely. They were indeed the white lace thigh-high socks he’d bought to match a skirt. He’d washed them two days ago and hung them on the balcony. He had no idea how they’d ended up in Fan Jia’s hands.
Fan Jia was a career-focused woman, usually in sharp office attire and seven-centimeter heels. White thigh-highs were not something she would ever buy, so there was no chance of a mix-up.
Ye Muyang didn’t understand, but he answered honestly. “They’re mine.”
Fan Jia shoved them into his arms, then abruptly whipped her head toward the person behind her. “He’s a man. Did you know that?”
Only then did Ye Muyang notice there was a man behind Fan Jia.
He looked timid, his face full of shame and anger.
Ye Muyang recognized him. It was Fan Jia’s boyfriend, Lin Liang—four years younger than her. Fan Jia had mentioned him a few times.
“Sister Fan…”
Seeing this awkward scene, even Ye Muyang—no matter how slow—understood what had happened.
He licked his cracked lips, not knowing what to say, only feeling intensely embarrassed.
“You’re disgusting. You’re fucking disgusting!” Fan Jia roared at Lin Liang.
Even though he knew the insult wasn’t aimed at him, it still involved him. Ye Muyang felt as if he’d been slapped—his face burning hot.
Clutching the stockings, he didn’t know whether to close the door or keep it open.
“Wife, listen to my explanation…” Lin Liang tried to argue.
Fan Jia sneered. “Sure. Explain. I’m listening.”
Lin Liang swallowed. His gaze shifted to Ye Muyang. Then he slapped himself and burst into tears on the spot. “I screwed up. I couldn’t resist temptation. You know I’m not that kind of person. If someone hadn’t deliberately seduced me, how could I possibly do something like this?”
Seduced?
Ye Muyang was a little stunned.
Lin Liang had only moved in a month ago to stay with Fan Jia, saying his job had been reassigned and he hadn’t found a place yet.
Afraid Ye Muyang would mind, Fan Jia had talked to him beforehand, saying her boyfriend wouldn’t stay long.
Because their schedules were different, they rarely ran into each other, so Ye Muyang had gladly agreed.
He’d barely seen Lin Liang and hadn’t even exchanged a single sentence with him. So Lin Liang’s excuse now—desperate self-exoneration—sounded ridiculous to Ye Muyang.
“You’re saying he seduced you?” Fan Jia pointed at Ye Muyang.
“Yes. It was him.” Lin Liang grit his teeth. “A grown man, wearing a woman’s skirt and stockings, swaying around in front of me—if that wasn’t intentional, what was it?”
“And—and the night before last, when I came out of the bathroom, he was waiting by the door. Then he smiled at me and winked. Wife, this sick pervert did it on purpose. I really—really just acted on impulse. I got carried away. I didn’t mean to betray you.”
“…,” Ye Muyang refuted calmly. “Or is it possible I was going to the bathroom too? And who winked at you?”
Fan Jia lived in the master bedroom, which had its own bathroom. But two nights ago, their toilet clogged. There was no repairman available in the middle of the night, so naturally they had to use the shared bathroom.
That night Ye Muyang ran into Lin Liang. Out of politeness, he smiled—just a greeting. He didn’t expect Lin Liang to imagine all this.
Hearing that, Fan Jia was so furious she laughed instead. She grabbed Lin Liang by the collar and dragged him in front of Ye Muyang. “Look at you—skinny as a twig. You’re not even as tall as him. Even if he were looking for a man, why would he pick someone like you?”
“No mirror at home? Then can’t you at least piss and look down?”