Qing Hang had to remind her, “I’m a man.”

“So what if you’re a man? Wasn’t the doctor earlier also a man? There’s no distinction between men and women when facing patients. There are plenty of male doctors in gynecology and obstetrics, too.”

Cheng Wanyue jumped onto the bed, kicking off her slippers, which landed at Qing Hang’s feet. “When a dog bites someone, the owner is responsible. Your instant noodles burned me, so you have to take responsibility.”

Qing Hang couldn’t tell if she genuinely had no sense of caution or if she simply hadn’t taken him seriously from the beginning, seeing him as just a poor student sponsored by her parents, someone with whom she wouldn’t have much meaningful interaction.

Every time he refuted her with one sentence, she would counter with two or even more, leaving him speechless.

No matter what, she always seemed to be in the right.

On the surface, Qing Hang appeared calm and composed, but his mind was in turmoil. After much internal struggle, he finally convinced himself that she was right—it was just applying medication.

After ten minutes of back and forth, he finally picked up the ointment, slowly walked to the bedside, and sat down. But before his hand touched her, he pulled back.

“Take off your clothes yourself.”

“Take what off? Just lifting it is fine,” she was wearing a nightgown, which was convenient.

Qing Hang sighed softly. “…The undergarment.”

“Oh,” Cheng Wanyue belatedly realized. She lay on the pillow, reaching back with one hand to lift her dress and carefully hook her underwear to pull it down a bit. “Is this okay?”

Her skin was reddened from the burn. Even though medicine had been applied once at the hospital, it had been too brief, and the redness hadn’t completely faded.

“Lower.”

She pulled down further. “Like this?”

“…Lower.”

She felt it was almost at her upper thighs. “Any lower and I’ll be naked.”

“Then do it yourself. I’m leaving.”

He stood up as he spoke. Cheng Wanyue quickly called him back, “Don’t go, don’t go! I’ll take them off! I’ll take them off, okay…?”

The doctor had said infections were common in summer. Without proper medication, the skin could deteriorate and even become purulent. Cheng Wanyue threw caution to the wind, buried her face in the pillow, closed her eyes, and yanked her underwear down forcefully.

Qing Hang had only wanted her to expose the burned area; he hadn’t expected her to undress so thoroughly with that single pull.

The nightgown was lifted to her waist, underwear pulled down to her thighs, her waist and hips completely exposed before his eyes. Her skin had a rosy tint, and as she adjusted her position, sticking her bottom up then lying down again, the tender soft flesh jiggled slightly like jelly.

His former neighbors were all single men. The wife had run off with someone, leaving the husband to raise three sons. Due to poor family circumstances, even the eldest son, who was nearly thirty, couldn’t find a wife. He was usually a very honest person, hardworking and helpful, without idle gossip. He would smoke two cigarettes at the edge of the field before burying himself in work. But in his bedroom at night, the walls were plastered with several yellowed old posters. The women on these posters had enormous breasts and hips, wearing only underwear tied with thin strings, with pubic hair peeking through the gap between their legs. Above, they wore nothing at all, covering themselves only with their hands, which paradoxically squeezed out deeper cleavage. One poster featured a woman lying face down, with long hair, her breasts half-exposed, her bottom slightly raised. Sleeping on the bed, one would face directly towards the woman’s bottom, which bore many spotted marks and finger smudges.

On several occasions when he went to borrow things, the first thing he saw upon entering was that poster.

But photographs were always just photographs, flatly printed on paper, never comparable to the real thing.

She was warm, tangible.

He even felt that the calluses on his fingertips were too rough, and no matter how careful he was, he would hurt her.

“Why are you touching my butt?” Cheng Wanyue suddenly spoke up.

“There are no cotton swabs. How else can I apply medicine without direct contact?” Qing Hang handed her the ointment. “You show me how.”

Cheng Wanyue looked embarrassed, but then tossed the medicine back to him and lay down on the pillow again, her voice muffled. “Fine, touch away then.”

Qing Hang corrected her, “I’m applying medicine.”

Cheng Wanyue was very ticklish. Earlier at the hospital, the doctor’s movements had been practiced, unlike his slow pace. The slower he went, the harder it was to bear.

He hadn’t moved for quite a while. She knew he was looking at her.

“What are you looking at?”

“…A birthmark.”

She had a heart-shaped birthmark on her bottom, on the left side near her waist. It wasn’t dark, only about the size of a fingernail. His index finger could completely cover it.

“I’ve had it since birth. My mom said it was like a grain of rice when I was born. As I grew up, it grew too.”

Even Cheng Yanqing didn’t know about it, yet now he had seen it. Realizing this made her a bit angry. “Close your eyes! Don’t look!”

He was very obedient.

But with his eyes closed, he touched the wrong spot.

Both of them froze. Cheng Wanyue was about to scold him, but realized it was her fault. She gripped the pillow with one hand and spoke in a muffled voice, “…Never mind, just open your eyes.”

This time, he moved quickly, as if rushing to finish something, doing a hasty job.

But after applying the medicine, she couldn’t immediately put her underwear back on, or the ointment would stick to it.

She had to let it air for a few minutes, waiting for the skin to absorb it.

Cheng Wanyue’s cheeks were flushed red, either from being pressed against the pillow or from a rare display of girlish bashfulness.

These five minutes seemed very long to her, but she didn’t know that for Qing Hang, every second was even more torturous.

Her emotions came quickly and departed just as fast. Once she had her clothes back on, it wasn’t a big deal anymore. There was a piece of bubble gum on the table, and she reached over to unwrap it and pop it into her mouth.

Qing Hang sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, his downcast gaze fixed on the corner of the wall. She was still lying on the bed as before, playing with her phone and blowing bubbles, occasionally adjusting her hair, her raised calves swinging in the air, their shadows also moving on the wall.

After a while, Cheng Wanyue wanted to ask Qing Hang what they should eat for dinner when she suddenly noticed his posture was strange. His hands on his legs were tightly clenched, the veins on his arms slightly protruding, and a layer of fine sweat had appeared on his neck. He looked as if he were enduring some kind of torture, suffering in silence.

Had water splashed on him?

Had he been burned, too?

He was the type to keep things to himself, like a wooden block—even if he was in pain, he wouldn’t say anything.

“Qing Hang.”

“Mm.”

She tossed aside her phone and crawled up, kneeling beside him, leaning in and calling him again softly, “Qing Hang?”

Qing Hang instinctively backed away, increasing the distance. “What is it?”

“Can you take off your pants and let me see?”

Qing Hang abruptly stood up. He was desperately trying to conceal his intense physical reaction, afraid it would be noticed, but he couldn’t control it. The blood vessels beneath his skin were visibly pulsing.

“Cheng Wanyue, do you understand the concept of shame?”

“It’s enough that I understand politeness, and I’m just discussing with you, not directly taking off your pants,” seeing his reaction, Cheng Wanyue figured he was probably fine and let it go. “Qing Hang, you saw my birthmark, so you have to tell me a secret too.”

“…I don’t have any secrets.”

How could anyone not have secrets? Cheng Wanyue wasn’t satisfied and continued to press, “Did you have circumcision surgery when you were little?”

The summer when Cheng Yanqing was six years old, he had walked home from the hospital like a crab and remained depressed in his room for a full two weeks. Every time she was bullied, she would counterattack with this incident, winning repeatedly, again and again, without exception.

“I’m leaving.”

“I haven’t eaten yet!”

“Stay hungry then,” he said, closing the door behind him as he left.

But an hour later, he still delivered food to the Cheng house.

…

The apartment Cheng Yanqing had rented was on the twelfth floor. There was an elevator, so going upstairs wasn’t troublesome, but at this time, many people were going up and down—both adults and children. With Cheng Wanyue being carried on Qing Hang’s back, everyone who entered the elevator would give them a second look.

After exiting the elevator, Cheng Wanyue directed Qing Hang to go left.

Qing Hang stood at the door, freeing one hand to search for the keys in her bag. Only after opening the door did he set her down. She steadied herself against the wall, took out her slippers, and gently placed her foot, covered with the medicated plaster, into the slipper.

He put all her things in the shoe cabinet but didn’t enter the apartment nor show any intention of doing so.

“Wait,” Cheng Wanyue hopped on one foot to the kitchen, took a bottle of water from the refrigerator, and hopped back to the entrance. “Thank you for today.”

“It was my duty,” he accepted the cold bottle of water, its coolness alleviating the heat in his palm. “You fell there; I had responsibility.”

Cheng Wanyue looked down at the wrinkled shirt she was wearing. “How should I return your clothes to you?”

“No need to return them. Do whatever you want with them.”

“But my clothes are still at your place. I liked that dress; you can’t find it for sale anymore. You can’t throw it away.”

She said, “Leave your phone number.”

Qing Hang’s face showed no emotion; he just nodded and took out his phone.

“152…”

There was a brief pause in his movements as he saved the number in his contacts.

Cheng Wanyue was still using the same phone number from eight years ago.

“I need to send the phone for repair. If it can’t be fixed, I’ll have to get a new one. Call me in a few days.”

“Mm.”

“Well…”

He stepped back. “I’ll go now.”

“Alright,” Cheng Wanyue waved her hand. “Bye-bye.”

She closed the door, and Qing Hang turned to wait for the elevator. On his phone screen, only the first nine digits of the number had been entered.

He had long memorized these eleven digits, just like the periodic table of elements he had learned in middle school. After more than a decade, saying “hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron” would be automatically followed by “carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, fluorine, neon”—it was muscle memory.

He had longed for this number to call him just as many times as he had wanted to forget her.

…

(You can skip the campus part if you don’t like it; the synopsis has already made it very clear.)