Lin Shuang’s two bedrooms had identical dimensions and orientation, their doors adjacent to each other. Lin Shuang’s own room was already packed full, while the other one was completely empty—it didn’t even have a bed—and its door was usually kept locked. Occasionally, Lin Shuang would let the robot vacuum in for a spin and open the windows to air the room out.

She found the room key and opened the door; a musty, dusty smell hit her immediately. The floor and windows had gathered another thin layer of dust. This old residential building was close to the city center—little greenery, lots of noise. Aside from being convenient for eating, drinking, and entertainment, the conditions really couldn’t compare to the newer, greener residential developments.

The room held only a full wall of old-fashioned built-in wardrobes, with a few suitcases she’d mailed back from out of town leaning against the wall—nothing else. Lin Shuang took a photo and sent it to Zhou Zheng.

[You’ll need to buy whatever furniture is missing yourself.]

In the place Zhou Zheng currently rented, the desk and bookshelf were things he’d added himself; he didn’t own much and didn’t need to buy much furniture.

[Okay, I’ll just buy a bed.]

Lin Shuang thought about it—at the very least she should get a good-looking, sturdy bed, with a mattress on the softer side. But before she could say it out loud, Zhou Zheng had already caught her meaning.

[Though I’m not great with home decor—Shuangshuang, could you help me pick a style for the bed?]

Lin Shuang had originally planned to swing by the furniture mall, but in the spirit of saving effort, she just sent Zhou Zheng a purchase link directly.

Moving was a tedious business. Every day Zhou Zheng brought a bit more over to Lin Shuang’s place. The first thing he claimed was Lin Shuang’s kitchen—he moved over all the cookware and dishes he’d meant to give away, and the kitchen instantly grew crowded, with bottles and jars crowding every countertop. Zhou Zheng even had someone come replace the sink and range hood, giving the old-fashioned kitchen a bit of a makeover.

A while back, when Lin Shuang had fractured her shoulder, Zhou Zheng had come to take care of her, but out of a sense of propriety he’d never really looked closely at her home. Only now did he take the time to really examine it.

The layout of the place was quite proper and square—typical of an old house, with large bedrooms and small common areas. All the walls and ceiling throughout had been repainted; the living room floor had been redone, but the two bedrooms remained as they originally were.

The empty room, he roughly understood, had been her parents’ bedroom—there were still indentations in the floor where a double bed’s legs had rested, and the floor beneath the window had faded unevenly from sun exposure. For this, he specially bought color-matching filler and varnish to touch it up and sand it smooth, and even went as far as refinishing the half-rotted baseboards.

Lin Shuang, having watched him help renovate the milk tea shop last year, and now seeing him so capable both inside and outside the house, marveled once again—how was this man just a math teacher? What a waste it was that he hadn’t become a professional tradesman.

“What’s so hard about this? My family’s house back home—my parents laid the bricks and built it themselves. Later when we renovated, I helped a master craftsman tile and whitewash the walls. Once you understand the technique, it’s not that hard to pick up.”

“Really? You’ve renovated your own family’s house too?” Lin Shuang asked with a smile.

He nodded. “A few years back, a lot of houses were being built in the village. I studied under an old craftsman for a few days and picked up a little know-how. My second uncle was a carpenter when he was young—when I was little I could even make a small stool myself just for fun.”

A grassroots handyman held back by his own education.

Lin Shuang had never thought to steer herself toward being down-to-earth, but this current boyfriend of hers really was remarkably grounded—a genuine all-around talent: capable in the parlor, capable in the kitchen, and clearly strong at manual labor too.

This month’s 1,200 in rent was really worth it—she’d even gotten a full-house maintenance service thrown in for free.

Zhou Zheng was wiping windows and mopping the floor in the bedroom when he found a few storage bins still sitting in the wardrobe, thick with dust, holding clothes and documents. Lin Shuang went over to look, her voice flat: “Almost forgot about these—they’re old things from our family. The house we used to live in was seized and liquidated by the court. I took some things out and stored them at my aunt’s place for a while. After I moved here, I just stuffed them in here and never touched them again.”

Zhou Zheng glanced at her, asking gently, “When does your uncle get out?”

“Soon—another year.”

Lin Shuang rifled through the things—clothes, documents, a few old keepsakes and small odds and ends, photo albums and the like. She’d preserved them well; nothing had gotten damp or moth-eaten.

Zhou Zheng hadn’t known about any of this before. When Lin Hai had gone to prison, Zhou Zheng had already been at university in Linjiang, busy working part-time jobs, and had drifted apart from most of his high school classmates. It was only later, when his teacher’s wife had tried to set him up and mentioned Lin Shuang, that he’d learned anything—and all she’d said was that Lin Shuang was pretty; everything else was left as vague, larger or smaller problems.

“It’s a real shame. Things were too chaotic back then—I wasn’t home much during college either. My family’s things were packed up by my stepmother, and a lot of it ended up who-knows-where. Only this bit got kept.” A faint trace of regret crossed her brow.

Zhou Zheng’s palms went damp; he wanted to say something comforting but didn’t know how.

“Your family… did you used to live in a really, really big house?”

“Not that big, really—just an ordinary villa,” Lin Shuang said with a laugh. “Too bad, though—I didn’t even get to live there very long.”

“We moved so many times. This house was my parents’ wedding home, the home of my childhood,” Lin Shuang said, glancing around the room. “I lived here until third grade, then we moved. After that we moved several more times, each house bigger than the last. And who would’ve guessed—in the end I’ve come right back to this one.”

Zhou Zheng helped her carry the bins out one by one. A few suitcases were still on the floor; Lin Shuang directed him to move them together into the hallway wardrobe in the living room. “These are fabric scraps I saved up from when I did fashion design—just put them all together.”

Those bins were, once again, sealed away by her. Lin Shuang looked at the now completely empty room, put her hands on her hips, and sighed with some feeling.

“All cleared out. Welcome aboard, Teacher Zhou.”

Zhou Zheng brushed the dust off his hands and grunted in acknowledgment. “I’ll bring the rest of my things over tomorrow.”

On Saturday, moving day proper, Zhou Zheng called Shunzai over to help. The back seat and trunk of the car were packed full; they made two or three trips. Shunzai unloaded everything in a flash and left, flashing a fawning smile at Lin Shuang on the way out: “Hi, Sister Shuang.”

Shunzai was thoroughly confused watching Zhou Zheng and Lin Shuang break up and get back together over the past year or so—”Miss Lin” and “sister-in-law,” he’d alternated calling her, and it had left him unsure which was right. Only once he’d settled on the correct form of address did he feel steady again.

Lin Shuang waved cheerfully. “Hi, Shunzai.”

She stood back with her hands folded, watching Zhou Zheng gradually sort things out, and yawned. “Want me to help?”

“Help by pouring me a glass of water?” Zhou Zheng said, screwdriver in hand, crouched on the floor assembling the wooden bed.

As luck would have it, the bed had just been delivered but the mattress hadn’t arrived yet—Zhou Zheng would have to sleep on the floor tonight.

Lin Shuang grabbed a bottle of mineral water straight from the fridge, watched him work for a while, then went back to the other room to nap.

She hadn’t slept well the night before—she’d been playing games until three in the morning.

She couldn’t quite say whether she was happy, excited, or worried—just that there was an unfamiliar emptiness she wasn’t used to.

By the time Zhou Zheng had finished tidying everything, Lin Shuang leaned against the doorway and glanced into his room, then turned back to look at her own.

The same rooms, yet Zhou Zheng’s bed was 1.8 meters and hers a single 1.3 meters; his room simply looked more refreshing and spacious somehow, more pleasing to the eye.

Her room had a massive vanity table and storage cabinet, a lazy sofa and a small side table—everywhere you looked was dazzling and sparkly and cutesy pink, all girl things, a sweet, fragrant, powdery air about it.

Zhou Zheng’s room was simple and clean—a bed, a desk, a bookshelf… that was it.

“Want to switch?” He noticed the slight annoyance and confusion in her eyes, his expression magnanimous. “I’ll give you my bed tonight.”

“No,” Lin Shuang said, wrinkling her nose. “You sleep on the floor tonight.”

Her twenty-five-year-old 1.3-meter child’s bed couldn’t fit two adults. If any ill-intentioned shenanigans happened to occur, tonight would likely be its last night on this earth.

That extra-soft mattress still hadn’t shown up, and the slats on the bed frame weren’t laid closely enough—sleep on it and you’d wake up looking like a xylophone.

Zhou Zheng rubbed his nose, amused.

That day passed unremarkably; their innocent roommate relationship took one small step forward.

Zhou Zheng did indeed sleep on the floor. Lin Shuang lent him her lazy sofa.

His first night in the new place, Zhou Zheng’s thoughts drifted a little too.

Both bedroom doors were closed. At first he could hear the sound of a TV show playing on her phone from her room, then it went quiet, without a sound.

Zhou Zheng turned off the room light, switched on the desk lamp, and opened his laptop.

Not being a homeroom teacher this year had left him with more free time, and he did in fact want to find something to occupy it.

At the very least, he had to be able to support a girlfriend who’d once lived in a palace.

Before going to sleep, he stood by the window stretching his neck and shoulders, and caught the faint scent of mint-tinged cigarette smoke.

The windows of the two rooms were large, set right next to each other, separated only by the width of a single wall.

He leaned out to look—sure enough, the neighboring window’s light was off too, but a slender, pale hand extended from it, a small spark glowing between its fingers.

Zhou Zheng knocked on the security grille.

Lin Shuang leaned out too, her face partly visible, propped against the windowsill as she looked at him, laughing softly.

His bedroom door was knocked open.

At midnight, dressed in a cool camisole, the landlady leaned against his doorframe like a willow branch, her moon-pale arm braced against it, idly smoking, full of allure and suggestion, chatting with him: “Why aren’t you asleep yet?”

“Can’t sleep.”

He really had been a bit tired today.

“Why aren’t you asleep?”

“I always sleep pretty late at home.”

Only the desk lamp was lit in the room, casting a hazy, clear glow.

“What are you doing?” she asked, eyebrows raised, looking at the desk.

Zhou Zheng picked up the book from the desk and told her honestly: “Reading a bit.”

Geometric Variables and Geometric Mathematics.

Lin Shuang, who had been inching forward, froze mid-motion, then retreated a large step back with a face of thorough disdain, like an old man on the subway squinting at a confusing sign.

This bedtime reading material was truly… adorable.

Starting from this book, the two of them chatted idly, their expressions perfectly serious the whole time.

The atmosphere was actually quite good, but neither of them made a move toward bed—both deliberately slowed their pace.

Physical pleasure was within easy reach, but holding back at the right moment made things feel different somehow.

The higher the threshold of restraint, the sweeter the eventual pleasure. Like drinking water—if you drink eight glasses a day, you never feel water is indispensable, but the longer the thirst lasts, the more that sweet, quenching sensation will wash through every pore.

Without being a homeroom teacher, the math teacher no longer had early morning study sessions and didn’t need to get to school by six. Before, Zhou Zheng used to eat at the school cafeteria in the mornings, or else boil an egg for Lin Shuang to go with milk and bread, or bring her breakfast from the shop downstairs.

He still got up at six as usual, went for a morning jog outside, and came back to make Lin Shuang a lovingly packed lunchbox.

The kitchen had BBC News playing. The wooden door wasn’t great at blocking sound, and Lin Shuang, catching one or two stray English words drifting over, felt a small jolt of shock.

What was a math teacher doing studying English?

Had the teaching profession really gotten this competitive?