Chapter 6

Ji Zhou closed his eyes briefly, silently reminding 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. Ji Zhou 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: [Mm.]
Mianmian: [Do you work tomorrow?]
Joice: [Mm.]
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: [Mm.]
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.”