Chapter 11: Going Out

Going out tomorrow, Wen Mo slept early and woke early. At eight thirty, washed and ready, white cane in hand, he knocked on Pei Zeyang’s door.
Two chimes from the bell—the door opened fast.
Wen Mo heard and smiled—a pretty, bright smile. “Good morning, Pei Zeyang.”
The sweet, cute little neighbor stood at his door, greeting him warmly.
That woke the young master, who always had terrible morning grumpiness, at once. “Morning.”
Right—today was date day.
Pei Zeyang remembered. He had lain awake all night over it, only dozing near dawn.
Remembering, his look at Wen Mo shifted—puzzled, odd, and a little… as if Wen Mo were excited for the date. He seemed to have dressed cute on purpose—pale blue and white, a dog graphic on his chest, phone on a lanyard.
…Like an elementary school kid.
A cute elementary school kid.
“Are you up? Did I come too early?” Wen Mo asked.
“No.” Pei Zeyang denied flatly, as if the irritated man at the door hadn’t been him. “Perfect timing. I was just getting up when you rang.”
“Come in.” Pei Zeyang stepped aside.
“Oh~ okay.” Wen Mo answered. Cane in hand, he meant to sit in the living room while Pei Zeyang dressed. Two steps in, the cane hit something. Before Wen Mo knew what, Pei Zeyang gripped his hand—and the cane—and led him to the bedroom instead, sat him on the bed.
Wen Mo was blank.
“This isn’t right.” He tried to get up. “I’ll find a chair in the living room… sitting on the bed isn’t polite.”
He had visited others before.
His mother taught him: as a guest, don’t enter the bedroom, don’t sit on someone’s bed—it’s rude.
He had always remembered.
But Pei Zeyang had put him on the bed…
Wen Mo didn’t know Pei Zeyang well yet; he had no clear picture of this apartment.
He couldn’t imagine a home with no sofa or chair to sit on.
Pei Zeyang had a headache too.
The living room was a disaster.
Last night, excited about the “date,” sleepless, energy with nowhere to go, he had dragged his hurt leg through the luggage thrown out with him—barely sorted, boxes open everywhere, junk scattered.
Face and pride mattered. He would never let Wen Mo see that mess—so he parked Wen Mo on the bed for now.
“Stay here.” He wouldn’t let him down.
Wen Mo: “…”
Fine.
When he insisted, Wen Mo didn’t fight it and sat properly.
Pei Zeyang turned his back to change.
Half-dressed like this—even blind, Wen Mo couldn’t see—felt bad for his image.
Dressed fast, he spoke. “Want something to drink?”
“No, no.” Wen Mo waved. “Do your thing. Don’t mind me—call when you’re ready.”
Pei Zeyang said oh but didn’t listen.
He went to the living room for water.
At that moment he thought his mother had done one good thing—throwing out everything of his when she kicked him out, water and drinks included.
Otherwise Wen Mo visiting today and he couldn’t even offer a cup.
He found bottled water in the boxes, opened one, handed it to Wen Mo.
“Wait a bit—I’ll be quick.”
He hit the bathroom—brush, wash, quick decent hair, silver ear studs.
Even if Wen Mo couldn’t see his face or outfit today, Pei Zeyang spared no effort—perfume, coffee machine, Americano, downed in one go.
Two nights without real sleep—even iron breaks. Caffeine first.
“Done.” Finished, he returned to the bedroom.
Wen Mo was on his phone. Hearing him, he looked up—wrist caught, pulled up by Pei Zeyang.
“Took your medicine?” Pei Zeyang didn’t forget.
“Yes, yes.” Wen Mo nodded.
He had taken medicine at home and eaten toast before coming.
“Let’s get breakfast first. Sister He Yi said there’s a stall on East Street—the zhajiang noodles are amazing.” Wen Mo had wanted those noodles forever; no time till now.
“Breakfast, then the supermarket?” he suggested.
“Sure.” Pei Zeyang agreed.
They left together. Leg in a cast, Pei Zeyang walked as if unhurt. In the elevator Wen Mo bumped his crutch and remembered, worried. “Shouldn’t you rest your leg? Running around like this—will it heal? We could go another day…”
“Fine.” Pei Zeyang cut in. “My leg’s okay.”
He didn’t care about a hurt leg—being locked home would slow recovery worse. Hospital had nearly driven him mad.
Besides, Wen Mo clearly wanted out.
“Really?” Wen Mo checked, still uneasy.
“Really. I have class Monday.”
“If it were serious the doctor wouldn’t have let me out. Relax.”
“Oh, right.” That made sense. Wen Mo was easily convinced.
The elevator reached the ground floor. They walked out.
Rain long gone—sky clear, pavement dry, only damp earth smell from the greenery.
Wen Mo breathed deep. The air felt wonderfully fresh.
In good spirits he chatted as they walked. “Last time I went out alone was six days ago.”
“I went to the supermarket alone for toothpaste.”
“Impressive.” Wen Mo looked so happy Pei Zeyang’s mood lifted too. He raised a brow. “You can go out alone?”
He had thought the blind always needed an escort.
Wen Mo had no family nearby, stuck home—that was why supermarket had thrilled him.
“I can—just not very practiced yet.” Praised, Wen Mo talked more. “I used to go out a lot. I knew the route home from school, the subway, the city library—I ate out with friends, went to movies.”
“How do blind people watch movies?”
“What friends.” Pei Zeyang was alert at once.
“…Huh?” Wen Mo blinked.
He didn’t get the focus but answered honestly. “A friend from school—he moved away after middle school.”
Pei Zeyang: “Oh. Moved away.”
“Mm…” Wen Mo pressed his lips, then asked, “Should we be near the guard booth?”
By distance they should be close—about to leave the complex.
He had been chatting but still counted steps. The cane tapped—tap, tap—head turning left. “Morning, Uncle Zhao.”
Pei Zeyang: “…”
Greeting so seriously—how cute was that.
If someone were in the booth, Little Wen would be very polite.
But the booth was empty.
So he just looked cute.
Pei Zeyang turned him by hand. “This way.”
Wen Mo gave a soft “ah.”
“Morning, Little Wen.”
The voice came from this direction after all.
Uncle Zhao wasn’t in the booth with his paper today—he was walking at the gate with a thermos.
Pei Zeyang had seen him from far off—staring, brow furrowed, oddly wary.
Closer, it was worse.
“Little Wen, out so early—need help with anything?” Zhao’s eyes left Pei Zeyang for Wen Mo.
“Breakfast outside, then the supermarket.” Wen Mo answered.
Zhao oh’d and looked at the suspicious one beside him.
“And this is…?”
Zhao’s doubtful stare landed on Pei Zeyang. Pei Zeyang was very annoyed.
The young master had a short fuse—but this man seemed close to Wen Mo, so he held back.
“This is my new neighbor—Pei Zeyang.” Wen Mo introduced warmly.
To Pei Zeyang: “This is Uncle Zhao, the guard.”
Pei Zeyang said nothing.
“New neighbor? Haven’t heard.” Zhao was surprised. “The unit next door rented out?”
“Should be.” Wen Mo tugged Pei Zeyang’s sleeve. “He moved in a few days ago.”
“A few days…” Zhao thought.
So they had just met.
Just met and already taking Wen Mo out.
Plus Zhao had been on leave in his hometown—back today to find a blond at Wen Mo’s side. Hard not to wonder.
Wen Mo needed special attention.
When Wen Mo moved in, the community had asked Zhao to check on him every day or two—prevent accidents, watch who came and went, who he befriended.
Young, alone, no adult—afraid he’d meet the wrong people, get fooled or bullied.
Zhao had pounded his chest and promised.
Now a suspicious type—and Zhao couldn’t ignore it.
Especially this one—didn’t look like a good person at all.
Like those street-racing blond punks.
Dyed hair, tattoos, ear studs—the works.
A girl in the complex had dated a blond lately—motorcycle roaring at night when he dropped her off. Zhao shook his head every time.
And now—
Wen Mo had one too???
Maybe that leg was from a crash on one of those bikes.
The thought sharpened Zhao’s eyes.
“Wen Mo, let’s go.”
Pei Zeyang had held back long enough—for Wen Mo’s sake.
“Oh oh. Bye, Uncle Zhao.”
“Wait!” Zhao stopped them.
More suspicious now—blond, tattoos, looked like trouble.
…Like a punk!
Good thing Pei Zeyang didn’t hear—or the young master would explode.
What blond? This was professionally bleached platinum.
Totally different from street blond!
And since when did he look like a punk?
Handsome, sharp features, high brows, straight nose, defiant air—S University’s campus heartthrob, presence over looks, dignified even on crutches. No one had ever called him a punk.
“Young man—any ID?” Zhao couldn’t rest easy.
Pei Zeyang: “?”
“Little Wen’s situation is special. Can’t just be taken out by anyone.”
“Please register. Got a lease?”
Pei Zeyang’s face went black. Wen Mo froze too.
After a while Wen Mo spoke for him. “Uncle Zhao, Pei Zeyang isn’t bad—he’s my friend…”
“Easy, Little Wen—just checking. If he’s really your neighbor, named, I won’t stop you.”
Then, muttering—or for Wen Mo: “Main thing is he don’t look right, whole head of yellow hair…”
Pei Zeyang heard that clearly.
His ugly mood got uglier.
What yellow hair?
Was there a blond this handsome?
Fuck.
“Got ID, kid?” Zhao pressed.
“。”
“Wait.” Pei Zeyang’s face was thunder.
He called Yuan Chen to clear it with property. Half an hour later, with Zhao’s apology, they finally left the complex.
“Sorry.” Wen Mo was embarrassed.
Pei Zeyang wouldn’t have been questioned if not for him.
“Uncle Zhao worries too much…” Wen Mo paused. “He wasn’t like this before. So alert this time—last time another friend visited he didn’t ask half this much…”
He frowned, puzzled, and asked Pei Zeyang: “Why?”
Blond shining, ear studs, dark tattoo on his neck—Pei Zeyang looked away, voice stiff. “I don’t know.”