The apartment Zhou Zheng rented was on the second floor; the stairs were awkward to climb, and Lin Shuang was steadied once by his arm blocking her. The light in the hallway had a cobweb strung across it, casting a dim glow over the two of them, their shadows entwining ambiguously; her eyes looked especially glossy and bright.

He shifted the shopping bags to one hand and dug out his keys to open the door. There were two doors — an old-style anti-theft iron gate with a window, and a wooden door with peeling paint.

The iron gate creaked open, and the wooden door’s handle, pressed down, gave a slow, drawn-out squeak, the crack of the door revealing a stretch of darkness inside.

Zhou Zheng glanced sideways at her, like a volcano gone cold, his tone hesitant: “Come in.”

Lin Shuang leaned against the doorframe, straightened up, and followed him in, pulling the door shut behind her.

The light snapped on — an old-style long fluorescent tube, the bulb newly replaced, the room reasonably bright.

Lin Shuang looked the place over. This apartment was even older than where she currently lived, carrying a kind of rustic, settled sense of history.

The small living room wasn’t large, holding only a dining table and a shoe cabinet — very little else on display. She flicked on the kitchen light; the kitchen was narrow, room enough for only one person to stand, but reasonably clean, the counter holding a few simple seasonings and cooking utensils.

There was also an electric clay soup pot.

Lin Shuang stepped out of the kitchen and glanced at Zhou Zheng. Under her gaze, he lowered his head slightly, an expression of something hard to put into words — embarrassment, or perhaps unease — in his eyes.

Lin Shuang uncrossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “Teacher Zhou isn’t going to ask me to sit?”

The living room held only a single dining stool.

Zhou Zheng’s hand, hanging at his side, curled slightly, then he half-tucked it into his coat pocket, stepping to one side; the bedroom door was behind him. His voice grew quieter, like some electronic device running out of battery — a speaker, or something else: “This way.”

The bedroom was fairly spacious, connected to a balcony; the wall by the doorframe held a row of dated solid-wood wardrobes, a double bed pushed against the wall, and in the open space, a desk and bookshelf, and beside the desk a half-worn two-seater fabric sofa.

Little caught her eye in the room; the lighting was somewhat dim. Zhou Zheng switched on the desk lamp, gathered up the clothes on the sofa, and gestured vaguely: “Please, sit.”

He held his own clothes in his hands, whether from nervousness or being at a loss, but forced himself to stay composed, standing rigidly by the armrest of the sofa.

Lin Shuang’s starry eyes crinkled with a smile as she strolled over and sat down on the sofa, her posture casual and natural, resting her chin on her hand as she looked over the bookshelf beside her. Zhou Zheng hurried out, and a few minutes later came back with a cup of hot tea, handing it to her.

“The air conditioner’s old, doesn’t heat well — use this instead.”

It was a heavy hot water bottle.

Lin Shuang gave an “Mm” and pulled the hot water bottle into her arms.

Zhou Zheng remained standing stiffly, straight and formal, his gaze uncertain where to land, until finally he saw her lower her eyes to drink, and his body shifted. “Do you want something to eat?”

“Sure.” She replied lightly.

The man dashed out of the room again — this time into the kitchen, where clattering sounds followed, as though he were fumbling with something.

The five-tier bookshelf was packed full — the bottom two shelves held odds and ends and documents, the top shelf stacked with textbooks and lesson plans, another shelf held various math books, and one shelf held classics like Romance of the Three Kingdoms, Water Margin, along with bestsellers like The Count of Monte Cristo and old wuxia novels by Gu Long.

Lin Shuang looked at the bookshelf and gave a silent, faint laugh.

She casually pulled out one book — its cover a beautiful, low-saturation deep green with a hint of blue — Mathematics: Its Spirit, Ideas, and Methods.

The old fear of being ruled by math came rushing back; Lin Shuang wrinkled her nose in distaste and flipped through a couple pages.

As expected, she felt dizzy after just a glance — but unexpectedly, the book had his own notes scrawled in it, circles and marks, thoughts and understandings written in the margins.

This was the first time Lin Shuang had seen his handwriting — blue ink, the strokes flowing smoothly, the characters connected and expressive, not the sharp, memorable kind of script, but soft and pleasing in its own way.

That pen must write really well, she thought.

Zhou Zheng took a long time to come back, leaving her sitting alone; straight ahead was his bed, made up with gray-striped bedding, and beyond that, the balcony.

Clothes hung drying on the balcony; on the washing machine rack sat a few potted cacti, thick and glossy, even their spines looking brazen and unruly.

Zhou Zheng came in carrying a bowl and spoon.

“What is it?” she asked him.

“Apple soup.” He handed her the bowl. “There’s nothing else at home… there were apples from Christmas Eve yesterday…”

It really was apple soup — peeled apples cut into neat little cubes, boiled down to a golden hue, floating and sinking in the bowl, along with a few goji berries and two large red dates.

Lin Shuang held the bowl and took a sip — slightly hot, but just right going down. “It’s sweet. Did you add sugar?”

“Mm.” He was still standing.

Lin Shuang tilted her head and smiled at him. “Won’t Teacher Zhou sit? You’re blocking the light.”

He stood stiffly in front of the desk. Lin Shuang shifted over, opening up a spot on the sofa, glanced at the empty spot, then glanced at Zhou Zheng.

She gave him a sweet smile.

Zhou Zheng pressed his lips together, walked over, and sat down beside Lin Shuang in silence.

The apple soup was sweet and tart, its texture soft; Lin Shuang sipped it slowly, chatting idly with him. “How much is the rent here, a month?”

“600.”

“How long has Teacher Zhou lived here?”

“Over a year now.”

“Is this close to school?”

“Mm, a few minutes’ walk.” His eyes drifted to the clothes drying on the balcony — underwear, jackets, socks, all laid out in plain view.

“Has any other girl ever been here?”

Zhou Zheng’s tone paused, and he answered a little awkwardly: “No.”

“Then… what kind of sugar did you put in this soup?” She set the bowl down casually on the desk, tilted her head to look at him, and asked softly.

“I can’t quite place the taste — white sugar? Rock sugar? Or honey?”

“Fruit candy.” He set his hands on his knees, head lowered. “There was no sugar at home — it’s actually candy a student gave me yesterday.”

Lin Shuang laughed. “No wonder I tasted strawberry.”

Her long hair draped over her shoulder as she rested her cheek on her hand and looked at him. “Teacher Zhou’s a bit careless in the kitchen — can you even melt fruit candy down to drink?”

He tilted his head slightly, looking at her teasing, mischievous expression, both innocent and coy.

“It should be drinkable — I used to drink it that way as a kid too… it’s got a sweetness to it…”

“Is that so?” She smiled, and as their eyes met, she leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth.

Her voice, soft and beguiling, trickled straight into his heart: “Does Teacher Zhou want to try it? I’m sweet too.”

She smiled charmingly as she kissed him, her hand resting on his thigh, her teasing kiss drifting along the edge of his lips.

Zhou Zheng lowered his eyes, motionless, tilting his head slightly to meet her — as though responding, or perhaps following her lead.

Lin Shuang’s lips were soft, her scent sweet; her long lashes brushed his cheek, sending a tingling, blooming itch through him.

The two of them sat in an awkward position, Lin Shuang leaning slightly to kiss him, Zhou Zheng sitting stiff as a plank.

He felt the urge to pull back, yet couldn’t bear to; his mind went blank, and he almost felt as though he were floating in the clouds.

The hand Lin Shuang had pressed against his leg was very warm, made even hotter by the hot water bottle, and it moved slowly along his thigh. Zhou Zheng flinched suddenly.

Her slender fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, threading past the layers of clothing, pressing scalding hot against his waist; her fingertips traced along his waistline, his body going rigid as stone, followed by the sound of him swallowing hard.

The skin beneath her hand was warm, though she found it faintly cool to the touch, with the firmness of a man’s build yet the elasticity of skin, and a bit smooth — Lin Shuang’s hand wandered along his waist, and she could hear his breathing, taut as a sword hanging by a thread.

She smiled to herself, her body slowly leaning back, her hand pressed at his waist, tugging at his clothes, drawing him forward along with her.

The position was quite conventional; Lin Shuang even drew up one leg, opening space, waiting for him to lean in and complete the embrace and the kiss that would naturally follow.

The scene she expected never came.

At the last moment, Zhou Zheng slammed on the brakes — he reversed his grip and caught her wrist, the force sudden and hard, pulling her hand back out from inside his shirt.

He shot up abruptly from the sofa, his ears flushed red as though about to bleed, his whole body reddening, stiff and trembling, like a boiled red shrimp.

“I’ll take you home.”

Lin Shuang’s mouth twitched, her smile freezing in place; she rolled her eyes upward and, in an odd, awkward posture, sat up from the sofa.

Right on cue, the phone rang — it was Shun Zai: “Ah Zheng, my car’s downstairs already.”

It was eleven at night; Shun Zai had just finished work and was about to grab a late-night snack when Zhou Zheng had called him over.

Zhou Zheng picked up the pile of fancy shopping bags and headed out the door; Lin Shuang, her expression cool, followed him out.

Shun Zai was smoking downstairs; seeing Zhou Zheng and Lin Shuang come out of the building one after the other, he blurted out: “Whoa!”

He looked back and forth between the two of them several times, grinning. “Ah Zheng, Miss Lin…”

Neither Zhou Zheng nor Lin Shuang paid him any mind; both their expressions were completely at odds with whatever suggestive scene he might be imagining.

Shun Zai scratched his head, glanced at Zhou Zheng, and his expression settled — even turning somewhat serious.

Zhou Zheng sat in the front passenger seat; Lin Shuang, in the back, played idly on her phone.

The streets glittered, neon lights on the trees flashing on and off, still carrying the atmosphere of Christmas; the light streamed into the speeding car, flitting fleetingly across their faces.

Shun Zai still remembered where Lin Shuang lived. Zhou Zheng helped carry the shopping bags upstairs for her.

Lin Shuang opened her door; he set the bags down and turned to leave.

“Zhou Zheng, I’ll transfer you the money for what you paid.” Lin Shuang called him back.

He stopped on the stairs and looked up at her. “No need.”

Lin Shuang raised an eyebrow. “Thirty thousand yuan — doesn’t that hurt, Teacher Zhou?”

“Consider it… my gift to you,” he answered. “Today’s Christmas.”

Zhou Zheng looked at her seriously, both hands curling into fists, tucked into his pockets. “Today… let’s not do this again from now on.” His face reddened slightly. “I hope you find someone you truly like.”

Lin Shuang stood at her window smoking, watching the car start up below and disappear into the deep night.

She wasn’t sleepy. She laid all the gift bags out on the floor, unwrapping them one by one, cutting off the tags, sorting them around the apartment.

The dazzling array of gifts, the beautiful, tempting merchandise, was like Pandora’s box, capable of intoxicating any woman — she even eagerly put on the newly bought necklace and earrings, dabbed on new perfume and lipstick, changed into a new dress and heels, and studied herself carefully in the dressing mirror.

The woman in the mirror was ravishingly beautiful, every smile and glance seeming to glow.

Zhou Zheng and Shun Zai went out for a late-night snack, then returned home; the quiet apartment had every light on, filling the home with a particular warmth.

The bowl of unfinished apple soup still sat on the desk, a faint lipstick mark printed on its rim.

He held the cold bowl in his hands, sitting on the sofa, savoring every kiss from that entire day.