A month had passed since the day Xiao Luo disappeared from our lives, and somehow, in those few weeks, Cheng and I had become closer than I had ever expected.

He still refused to explain what had happened that day. Whenever I tried to approach the subject, even indirectly, something in his expression changed and... eventually, I stopped asking.

The fever had disappeared. My strength had returned, the wound beneath my ribs had finally started improving, and I could eat again.

Well... sort of.

My body had apparently developed very specific opinions about food.

Rare red meat. That was what it wanted.

Steak, mostly. The redder the centre, the better.

Anything else either made my stomach turn or left me feeling as though I hadn't eaten at all. It should've worried me more than it did, especially considering everything that had happened before, but university had become increasingly demanding and I didn't have the energy to obsess over another problem.

I'd promised myself I would eventually find another doctor and get a proper check-up. I was probably deficient in half the vitamins known to mankind by now.

But aside from that, I was doing well. Actually... I was doing better than well. And a large part of that was because of Cheng.

Accepting his presence in my life had changed something in me. The dark cloud that used to settle over my mind for hours—or sometimes days—still appeared, but less often now.

Cheng had learned to recognise it before I even said anything - all it took was one look at my face.

He would abandon whatever he was doing, sit beside me and stay there. If I wanted a hug, he held me. If I didn't want to be touched, he stayed close enough.

He reminded me of things I constantly forgot about myself.

That I'd made it here. That I'd survived. That I'd learned another language well enough to study in it.

That getting a job in a foreign country wasn't something I should dismiss as luck.

It was strange how easily I could minimise every achievement until someone else said it aloud.

Cheng also kept trying to convince me to use the university's counselling service. The appointments were free, and according to him, talking to someone qualified might help more than pretending everything was fine until I collapsed again.

I knew he was probably right. I just wasn't ready. He'd offered to listen instead, but that was somehow worse.

I trusted him. That was precisely the problem.

There were parts of myself I didn't want him to see. Things I couldn't say aloud without imagining the expression on his face changing afterwards.

Disappointment. Disgust. Fear.

I'd seen people leave once they learned too much and I couldn't watch Cheng do the same.

After what happened with Xiao Luo, he started inviting me to stay at his apartment more often. At first I tried to refuse, insisting I had a perfectly functional room at the hostel.

Then I'd spend one night alone there, staring at the ceiling while every sound in the corridor became something threatening, and the next evening I'd somehow find myself back at Cheng's.

Eventually, I stopped pretending I didn't prefer it. Maybe depending on him that much wasn't smart.

But it wasn't permanent. At least, that was what I told myself.

And if Cheng ever needed me the way I needed him now, I knew I would stay too.

A month after meeting him, I was beginning to recognise myself again.

Not the person I'd been before everything went wrong.

Someone different. Maybe accepting Cheng had been worth the risk.

Rain tapped steadily against the high windows of the indoor sports hall as I pushed my damp hair away from my forehead.

Of course it was raining.

England seemed personally offended by the existence of dry weather.

I climbed the stairs towards the bleachers and immediately spotted Cheng among the players on the basketball court.

That had become annoyingly easy.

There were at least ten people moving below me, all wearing similar training clothes, yet my eyes found him first every single time.

He'd joined the university sports club a few weeks earlier after making the mistake of showing off during a casual game on campus. The coaches had practically recruited him on the spot.

He refused to commit to official matches because he insisted university came first, but they'd convinced him to register as a substitute.

Personally, I thought the entire situation was his fault.

Nobody had asked him to be impressive in public.

I found a seat and opened my notes.

Marketing. Much safer.

I began rewriting what we'd covered in class, adding a few things I'd found in the textbook and reorganising sections that made perfect sense when the lecturer explained them but apparently became ancient hieroglyphics the second I tried to read my own handwriting.

Every so often, the squeak of trainers against the court distracted me.

So did Cheng.

Especially when his T-shirt became increasingly soaked with sweat.

I forced my eyes back onto the page.

Marketing. Very interesting. Extremely important.

Definitely more interesting than the way damp fabric was clinging to—

No. Notes.

I underlined a sentence with unnecessary concentration.

“I thought you were going home today.” I nearly stabbed the paper with my pen.

Cheng was leaning over the row in front of me, his face suddenly far too close to mine.

I fought the smile threatening to appear. “Don't you have work?” he asked.

“Yeah. Around nine.” I checked my watch.

Four hours.

“If I'd gone back to the hostel, I would've wasted most of the time travelling. And I remembered you had training, so...” I shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “I came here instead of sitting in the library.”

I reached into my backpack before he could comment and pulled out a large red apple and a bottle of water.

“Here.”

His eyes moved from the food to me. Then back again. “Oh.” For some reason, Cheng looked embarrassed. “Thanks.”

He glanced towards the court before taking them.

Maybe I shouldn't have done that.

Normal people gave their friends food all the time. Didn't they?

Cheng sat beside me and bit into the apple, apparently deciding not to make my internal crisis worse.

“I saw you were tired in class today,” he said between bites. “Are you sleeping properly?”

“I'm fine.”

“And eating?”

“Yes, Cheng.”

“Actual food?”

I gave him a look. He smiled around another bite.

I lowered my gaze and immediately regretted it when I caught myself watching him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Go shower if you've finished,” I said. “You're soaked. And dry your hair properly before we go outside. It's freezing.”

“Yes, mommy.”

I looked up. Cheng was grinning.

“Don't call me that.”

He squeezed my shoulder as he stood. “Give me ten minutes.”

“Cheng—”

He was already running down the bleachers.

I watched him return to the court, still eating the apple I'd brought him.

The stupid smile came back. I hid it by looking at my notes.

Exactly ten minutes later, I saw him waving from the bottom of the stairs.

I packed everything away, then automatically checked that my hoodie was sitting properly before going down.

I had no idea when I'd started caring so much about how I looked around him.

“Let's eat at home tonight,” Cheng said as we left the building. “I'm tired of restaurants. I want real homemade food.”

“Your home or mine?”

He looked horrified. “Your hostel room has a kitchen?”

“Technically.”

“Then mine.”

I laughed. He threw an arm around my shoulders and guided me beneath his small umbrella. “Cook for me.”

“You're shameless.”

“Please?” He tilted his head and gave me such an exaggeratedly innocent expression that I wanted to push him into the rain.

Instead, I sighed. “Fine.”

“See? You love me.”

I nearly missed a step. “Don't get carried away.”

Cheng laughed and pulled me closer beneath the umbrella. The space was barely large enough for both of us. Our shoulders remained pressed together as we walked, and every time he adjusted his grip around me, warmth spread through my body in places that had absolutely nothing to do with the weather.

We stopped at a supermarket near his apartment and bought everything I needed.

By the time we reached his building, I had checked my watch several times.

Apparently not discreetly enough.

“What's wrong?” Cheng asked as he closed the apartment door behind us.

“Nothing.”

“You've checked the time five times.”

“I have work later.” I carried the shopping bags into the kitchen and began unpacking them. “I always get anxious before a shift.”

My trial at the pub had turned into an actual job. It wasn't glamorous, and the hours weren't always convenient, but I didn't care.

It was mine. My money. My independence.

“And next time,” I added, “let me pay for some of this. You always do and it's not fair.”

Cheng came up behind me to place another bag on the counter. “You cook.”

“That doesn't mean—”

“You cook, make me happy and constantly tell me how to survive basic weather conditions.” His voice was close enough to my ear to make my shoulders tense. “Why would I make you pay when you take care of me?”

My heart gave one stupid, violent beat. His perfume mixed with the smell of rain.

Warm. Sweet. Familiar.

A shiver travelled down my spine. “I get it, but still—” I turned around and forgot what I was saying.

Cheng was pulling off his university hoodie. One entire side was drenched.

“Why are you wet?”

He looked at me as though the answer were obvious.

I stepped closer and touched his drenched shoulder before thinking better of it. “Did you give me most of the umbrella?”

“Well...” He peeled the soaking hoodie away from his arm. “You're always sick.”

“Cheng!”

“What?”

“You could get sick too!”

“I'll survive.” He disappeared into his bedroom before I could continue scolding him.

Idiot. A very sweet idiot.

When he returned in dry clothes, I muttered a thank-you and immediately focused on dinner before my face could betray me.

I decided to make Korean food.

Cheng became unexpectedly invested in learning how to make mandu, while I prepared vegetable soup and rice.

His first dumpling looked deformed. The second looked worse. By the fifth, he was annoyingly good at it.

“You learn too quickly,” I complained.

“Natural talent.”

“Your first one looked like it was dying.”

“It had character.”

I laughed and turned back to the stove. For a moment, the smell of food and the sound of someone moving beside me pulled me somewhere else.

My father, standing in a kitchen, teaching me.

Correcting the way I held a knife. Pretending not to notice when I stole food before dinner.

The memory arrived gently this time but it still hurt.

I smiled to myself. I missed him, so much.

“Do you have a girlfriend back home?” I almost dropped the spoon and turned towards Cheng.

He'd stolen one of the cooked dumplings and was chewing it while watching me.

The question itself wasn't unusual. Coming from him, it felt strangely personal. “I had one.”

His chewing slowed.

“We broke up.”

“Oh.”

I turned back to the stove before he could read anything else on my face. Heat climbed through my stomach.

Not the good kind.

I opened the fridge. “Would you mind if I only eat meat tonight?”

Cheng didn't question it anymore. He'd stopped doing that weeks ago.

“Of course.” He opened a bottle of wine while I finished his food and quickly seared a steak for myself.

We carried everything to the table, then Cheng lifted his glass.

“To us.”

I raised an eyebrow. “To us?”

“To our closeness.”

I laughed. “That's terrible.”

“Drink.”

Our glasses touched. I took a cautious sip. For a second, I waited for the nausea but nothing happened.

I tried again. Still nothing.

Relieved, I cut into the steak and red juice spread across the plate - the first bite almost made me close my eyes, watery from pleasure.

Across from me, Cheng was devouring the mandu he'd made, stuffing so much into his mouth that his cheeks puffed slightly.

I stared at him.

He noticed. “What?”

I covered my mouth, laughing. He said something in Chinese with his mouth full.

“I have absolutely no idea what you just said.”

He swallowed dramatically. “I said they're amazing.”

“You made them.”

“Exactly.”

I shook my head. He poured himself more wine, then his expression shifted. “Why did you break up with her?”

My knife stopped halfway and Cheng noticed immediately. “How long ago?” he added more carefully.

I looked at him.

He'd leaned back slightly, his expression deliberately neutral, but I knew him well enough now to recognise when neutrality was forced.

“Almost a year.” The wine suddenly looked very appealing.

I finished my glass quickly while the memories came back.

Her face. Her voice. The exhaustion in her eyes whenever she looked at me near the end.

“She dumped me because she got tired of seeing me hurt.”

Cheng's eyebrows drew together. I cut another piece of steak. “Let's just say I got into a lot of fights.”

“Fights?”

“And lost most of them.” My voice sounded colder than I intended. “She said she wanted a real man beside her.” The last word tasted worse than this conversation.

“She actually said that?”

I nodded. Silence settled between us, then Cheng reached across the table.

His fingers touched my hand. I flinched automatically.

He stopped - he didn't pull away,  but he didn't move closer either.

He waited.

A month ago, I would've removed my hand. This time, I let it stay.

Cheng's fingers slowly closed around mine. His thumb brushed once across my palm.

Then again. Small movements.

Nothing demanding.

Just there.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I shouldn't have asked.”

“It's fine.”

“It isn't.”

“It happened a year ago. It shouldn't still bother me.”

I reached for the wine with my free hand.

“But it does.”

I looked at him. Cheng's expression had softened.

“That doesn't mean she was right.” 

I poured more wine into our glasses. “You don't know what happened.”

“No.”

“You don't know what I was like.”

“No.”

“You don't know why I kept getting hurt.”

“No.”

His fingers tightened slightly around mine. “But I know you.” Cheng leaned forward. “And I know you're not a loser.”

My throat tightened. I looked away. “You're incredibly biased.”

“Obviously.”

Despite myself, I smiled. Cheng's thumb moved over my palm again.

“I'll make you realise she was wrong about you.”

I looked back at him.

There was something almost challenging in his expression now.

Not pity. Determination.

“We'll see,” I murmured, then I winked at him.

“Amaze me.” For a second, Cheng simply stared. His eyes seemed to brighten, then a slow smile appeared on his face.

My stomach flipped.

Oh, no.

I suddenly became very aware that our fingers were still intertwined across the table.

And that I wanted to pull him closer.

I broke the contact first and reached for my glass. I needed to leave.

My stomach dropped when I looked at the time.

I stared at the half-empty bottle between us. Then at Cheng. Then back at the clock.

How the hell was I supposed to go to work like this?