Fang Long patted the mattress and called out cheerfully, “Why are you standing there? Come here.”

Zhou Ya’s feet felt nailed to the floor. “…What are you doing in my room?”

Fang Long rolled her eyes at him and reached over to grab the small medicine box from the bedside cabinet. “That wound of yours needs treating.”

Zhou Ya sometimes thought he was pretty pathetic.

Because he was afraid of crossing a line, he always spoke harshly to Fang Long, as if he wanted to push her ten thousand miles away.

But whenever she offered him a bit of sweetness, he became like a hopeless addict, brainwashing himself, deceiving himself, swearing before the gods on the altar that this would be the last time.

He turned and closed the door behind him, walking step by step toward the bed, and asked, “How did you know I had a wound?”

Fang Long muttered, “I’m not blind.”

“It’s just a tiny scrape, doesn’t need treating.” Even as he said this, Zhou Ya still sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’ll just slap a band-aid on it. I’m not like you, not that delicate—”

“Smack!”

Fang Long swatted his rock-hard shoulder, saying irritably, “Why are you always so difficult? I’m being kind and trying to help you with your wound, and you have to snap at me before you feel satisfied, is that it?”

Zhou Ya pressed his lips into a line and fell silent.

Fang Long knelt behind him.

The light was dim, and Zhou Ya’s skin was dark, so she narrowed her eyes and leaned in close, searching for a good while before finding the small, oozing wound.

She said, “Found it. Lower your head.”

“Okay.” Zhou Ya was quite cooperative this time, bending his spine slightly, tilting his head to the side, exposing the wound to Fang Long’s view.

The man’s body carried a familiar soapy scent, his hair roots still damp—Fang Long couldn’t tell if it was water or sweat.

She took a cotton swab, dipped it in iodine, and dabbed lightly around the wound.

The extra-long single bed, only about a meter wide, was barely enough for Zhou Ya’s daily use alone, let alone carrying two people—it felt cramped.

It seemed like the air in the whole small room had grown thin.

The atmosphere turned strangely quiet; the two of them rarely got this close to each other.

Fang Long cleared her throat and spoke first. “What Old Bai said in the car earlier—was all of that true?”

Her voice lingered right by his ear, making it itch slightly. He tilted his head a bit before asking back, “…Which part?”

“Don’t move,” Fang Long said. “The part about you getting into gang fights at the pool hall when you were a kid.”

Zhou Ya didn’t answer in words, just nodded.

The kind of things Ren Jianbai had mentioned had actually happened often during that period. Zhou Ya couldn’t quite remember if it was really one against six, nor could he remember exactly how many teeth the other guy had lost—he only knew that back then, if he hadn’t fought back, the ones getting bullied would have been him and Ren Jianbai, or some other weaker kid.

“That group of young punks hanging around, they were always bullying kids at our school gate. Old Bai got dragged into the back alley a few times, and eventually when he had no money left, that group made him steal from home.” Zhou Ya spoke slowly. “Later his uncle and aunt caught him stealing money, and he got beaten half the night. The whole building knew about it, and that’s how I found out too.”

“And after that you stood up for him?”

Fang Long felt like she’d asked a pointless question—if he hadn’t stood up for him, he wouldn’t be Zhou Ya.

“Mm.” Zhou Ya thought for a moment, then added, “Don’t bring this up in front of him.”

“Got it. Everyone has a past.”

Without either of them noticing, the cotton swab had circled many more times than necessary; the originally wheat-colored skin, soaked in iodine, had turned a deeper shade.

Zhou Ya felt somewhat uneasy and reminded her, “Isn’t all the germs gone by now?”

Fang Long said “Oh,” tossed the cotton swab aside, and leaned in out of habit, pursing her lips to blow gently on the iodine-covered spot.

A jolt seemed to run through Zhou Ya’s whole body; his tailbone went numb, and he quickly turned back to ask, “Hey, why are you still blowing on it?”

“Oh, I’m just used to doing that. When I used to treat my mom’s wounds before—”

Fang Long stopped mid-sentence, suddenly frozen.

Because Zhou Ya had turned his head, and the distance between them had shrunk considerably.

The distance from lip to lip was no more than the width of a palm; their warm breaths mingled together, growing hotter by the moment.

Living under the same roof all these years, there had always seemed to be a line drawn between them.

Age. Forms of address. Generational standing.

Like the wall between adjoining rooms, like the backpack that used to sit between them when she rode on his motorcycle back in vocational school.

But that line was actually quite blurry.

Habits. Scent. Preferences.

Like the headlight that always appeared in the rearview mirror, like their clothes tangled together in the washing machine.

Like right now.

As if wrapped up in a current of humid air, Fang Long couldn’t move.

She didn’t dare look at Zhou Ya’s eyes; her gaze dropped and stayed fixed on his lips.

She also knew that Zhou Ya was likewise looking at her lips.

Two heartbeats, out of sync with each other, pounded deafeningly.

Thump, thump, thump.

Suddenly, the sound of slippers shuffling came from outside the door, and both of them inside the room sucked in a breath at the same time.

Zhou Ya immediately stood up, while Fang Long, looking as if she’d been caught red-handed, scrambled backward to the wall.

Zhou Ya stood by the door listening for a moment, then said in a hushed voice, “Probably getting up to use the bathroom.”

Fang Long nodded.

Ma Huimin was indeed getting up to use the bathroom; after a while, Zhou Ya heard the toilet flush.

Next, he just had to wait for his mother to return to her room, hurry his little ancestor out, lock the door, and it would all be over.

But Ma Huimin stopped right outside his door and even knocked. “A’Ya, you’re back so early tonight?”

Without thinking twice, Fang Long yanked up Zhou Ya’s neatly folded blanket and pulled it over herself, curling up inside it like a caterpillar.

Her mind was in a complete mess; she didn’t understand why she was hiding so sneakily, didn’t understand why her heart was pounding so wildly.

Didn’t understand why, just now, she’d felt the urge to kiss Zhou Ya’s lips.

Zhou Ya looked at the lump risen on the bed and scratched the back of his head in irritation.

As he took the T-shirt hanging behind the door, he answered, “Yeah, Mom, just a second.”

He put the shirt on and yanked the hem down hard to cover the part of him that refused to behave.

Zhou Ya only opened the door halfway, not stepping out, blocking his mother’s line of sight. “Mom, up to use the bathroom?”

“Yeah, saw light under your door, figured you weren’t asleep yet.” Ma Huimin glanced at the door next to his. “Long Long must be asleep already—did you two come back together?”

“Yeah, business was good tonight, sold out early, so we closed up the stall early.”

“Good, no need to get up early tomorrow, you two can sleep as late as you want. I’ve got nothing else, go on to sleep.”

“Okay.”

Once Ma Huimin returned to her room, Zhou Ya gently closed the door.

He walked to the bed in two steps and flipped back the blanket, his voice very low. “Go on, get out of here.”

Fang Long, flushed from being smothered, breathing hard, chest heaving, asked, “Did Auntie go back to her room? Did she notice anything?”

Zhou Ya put his hands on his hips and asked back, “What is there for my mom to notice?”

Fang Long lay there, her line of sight landing squarely on Zhou Ya’s thighs.

She opened her mouth inexplicably, then hesitated, the words unspoken.

Zhou Ya quickly noticed her strange behavior, turned sharply away, his tone growing impatient. “Go, quickly.”

Fang Long didn’t dare linger any longer either. She got off the bed, pulled open the door, peeked out to check the coast was clear, then slipped back to her own room like she was greased on the soles of her feet.

She’d even forgotten the medicine box.

The room fell quiet again. Zhou Ya stood there unmoving, hands on hips, for two or three minutes, waiting for his feelings to slowly ebb, before finally taking off his T-shirt and collapsing onto the bed.

His hair still wasn’t fully dry. One arm bent, pressed beneath the back of his neck, happened to cover that wound.

There, traces of Fang Long still lingered.

Suddenly, he cursed himself, using a very foul word.

Nearly thirty years old, and still acting like some hopeless, wet-behind-the-ears kid?

At this moment, Fang Long, likewise lying in bed, still had a racing heart.

She grabbed at her left chest a couple of times, trying to ease the sore, swollen, strange feeling there.

There was still a wall between them, but it was on the verge of collapse.

Those feelings that couldn’t be clearly named kept accumulating, pressing down on both their hearts, turning into blocks of deaf and mute stone.