He Broke Her, Then Begged Forever

He helped me onto a bench, took the phone, and scrolled through it without much interest. "Misunderstood how?"

"Misunderstood…"

We slept together.

The words clogged in my throat. He was oddly calm, even smiling faintly.

"It's fine."

He said it casually, then stood and dialed.

I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I was nervous when I realized he was talking to his mom.

"Mm, I'll be back in a couple days."

I couldn't hear what his mother said, but he glanced my way.

I had been listening and, startled by his look, hurriedly lowered my eyes.

"No."

"I didn't bring anything back for you. Just messing around."

"Don't come over, okay? We'll talk later."

That sounded like a clarification. I let out a small sigh of relief.

Still, I felt embarrassed — I’d caused such a big misunderstanding.

When he hung up, I explained again, watching the time as I spoke.

"When your mom called, I was groggy. I thought it was my mom, so I answered… I didn't mean anything by it…"

"Just answer, it's fine. My mom said you have a nice voice."

He said it out of nowhere.

I felt awkward, unsure how to respond. It sounded made-up.

"Do you want me to take you to the hospital after breakfast?"

He suddenly looked at my leg.

"No."

I refused quickly. We barely knew each other; I didn't want to trouble him. It was just a small injury. "It's not that bad. It'll heal in a few days."

"Can you do me a favor and take me down the mountain afterward?"

I asked.

He looked at me a long moment, then said one word: "Okay."

After breakfast, Luke drove me back.

I’d said drop me at the foot of the mountain, but he asked for my address and took me all the way to my building.

He said my injury was his fault and he needed to be responsible.

"Leave your number."

When I got out of the car, he smiled. "If anything happens with your leg, call me. I'll take care of it."

It really was minor, but he was so earnest I gave him my number.

"Maybe I'll buy you dinner sometime. Thanks for bringing me back."

I typed my number into his phone and forced a smile.

When I got into the neighborhood, my mood sank.

"Okay."

After we said goodbye, I turned toward the elevator and saw someone I hadn't wanted to see.

Ethan Blake.

I don't know why my first reaction was to look back and make sure Luke had left. Only after I saw his motorcycle vanish down the road did I relax a bit.

Hopefully he didn't see?

A cold voice cut into my ear and made my scalp prickle.

"Who is he?"

"You don't need to know," I said coolly.

I'd imagined Ethan waiting for me outside the building a thousand times — me throwing myself into his arms, crying, confessing my love.

Right now there wasn't a single flutter in my chest, only a headache.

Seeing him made me think of Mrs. Liu's face and her humiliating words. It brought to mind my mother's stern, lecturing look when she came home angry.

I just wanted to run.

I pressed the elevator button and tried to ignore him.

As I stepped forward, he grabbed my hand.

He was strong. I couldn't break free; he pulled me into the stairwell and trapped me in a corner.

"I waited for you a whole day and night at home. You have no explanation?" His voice was low. I used to think it sounded nice — not now.

"And then?"

I looked up at him.

A day and night long? Does he know how many days and nights I've waited — back when he was with someone else, when he went out drinking after a breakup and didn't come home? I waited quietly downstairs through all of it. He always acted like me waiting was natural, like I was supposed to be there.

Who was he to make demands? To insist I be punctual, keep promises, stay modest?

"Do you know how worried everyone was? We couldn't reach you. You weren't home. Were you with him last night?"

He loomed over me, firing question after question.

"I texted my dad," I said. His tone, arrogant and accusatory, made me laugh inwardly.

There is no longer any tie between Ethan and me. There wasn't before, and there won't be after. In my heart I had already said goodbye.

"You didn't text me!"

He sounded angry.

"Who are you? Ethan, you're ridiculous. Why would I text you?"

I smiled bitterly.

"No—what right do I have to text you?" I threw the question back at him.

He froze, taken aback by my attitude. Then, suddenly, he grabbed my neck and touched my hair. "Claire…"

Hearing "Claire" made my heart stir like it had so many times before.

Only for a few seconds.

I wasn't going to let myself be lured back by that one word every time I got hurt. That cycle had to end.

"Ethan, my mom was right. I'm not worthy of you. I won't look for you again, and you don't come looking for me. That's it."

I forced my voice steady.

He lowered his head and searched my face as if expecting to find something. "What do you mean? My mom didn't mean it like that. Even if there was no child, we did have a—You can ask me to take responsibility."

Ask him to be responsible?

I could already hear what Mrs. Liu would say: that I'm calculating, shallow, not modest, unfit for him.

No need for that.

"No," I said firmly. "I'll just think of it as getting bitten by a dog."

With that I let him go and pushed into the elevator.

Pushing him away hurt. It felt like being torn in two.

Ten years of a crush had woven him into the fabric of my life. Leaving him didn't make me feel free.

I even feared he'd chase me, professing some great love, and that I might falter.

He didn't follow. When the elevator door shut, I heard the soft exhale of my own heart.

At home, my mother sat in the living room eating watermelon while my father fanned her — a peaceful scene until I walked in.

"You're back?" my mother snapped, setting down the fruit.

I said nothing.

"What about Ethan? And the baby? Why are you mute now?" Her tone was sharp.

Before coming home I'd hoped, foolishly, for a gentle word from her — just once. It was only a fantasy.

"He doesn't love me. The next day I took pills. There's no baby. You misread things. I didn't correct you because I still had hope. Now I see clearly. I won't be with him."

I forced the words out as calmly as I could.

My mother exploded. She snatched a rind of watermelon and hurled it at me, hands on her hips, furious. "So now you're finally clear-headed? After being used, you're going to be proud and refuse responsibility? You're so stubborn."

"Do you even know what modesty is? After letting someone have you, are you still a woman? Do you know what this means for your future? How will you ever get married?"

Her voice shook.

"You're so stupid. You deserve to be bullied."

The rind hitting my head didn't hurt as much as her words.

I wanted to cry but bit my lip and held back.

"Claire, does it hurt?" my father came over to protect me and asked gently.

I turned my face away so he wouldn't see the tears stinging my eyes.

"I'm just stupid. I'm less than everyone else. If I can't marry, then I can't. I'm sorry for disappointing you."

I went to my room and slammed the door.

Under the covers, I finally let the tears fall.

I couldn't understand it. I worked harder, obeyed more, followed all the rules elders set out for life, so why did my life still feel like a failure?

I began a silent cold war with my mother. I went to work as usual and didn't speak a word to her.

My father noticed my limp and started riding me to the subway on his scooter every morning.

Walking through crowded streets after work, I kept wondering what my life meant.

So I made the boldest decision I'd ever made. When my company opened internal applications for a regional market manager, I signed up quietly. After several rounds of evaluation, I was transferred to a market more than a thousand miles away.

Before, my job had been office-based — serving tea, fetching packages for my boss. As my mother would say, that was perfect for a girl — don't go showing yourself to the world.

The day before I left, I spent the whole afternoon talking with my dad. For once, he was unexpectedly supportive.

That night I spoke to my mom for the first time and told her I was leaving.

"Go then. What, you think I’m going to keep you here?" she said without much reaction, tilting her head toward my dad. "Let’s see how long she can fly on her own."

On the morning I left, I thought of one person—Andrew Lane.

I didn't have his contact. My old number had some issues, and when I tried to replace it I couldn’t, so I had to get a new one.

He’d written down my old number, so he couldn't reach me.

Of course, maybe he wasn't even trying to find me—maybe he'd only mentioned it in passing. I didn't pay it much mind.

When I left, no one knew except my parents. My dad was the only one who saw me off.

I’d lived in that city for more than twenty years—elementary through college—never left it. Sitting on the plane, I felt a strange, aching sadness.

I don't know how Ethan Blake found out I left, but I got a call from him as soon as I arrived in the new city.

"You're running that far away? Claire, why are you still so childish."

I hung up on him.

Fine—call me childish. This is my life now.

I thought being away from my parents would mean I could do fine on my own, but less than a week in, reality slapped me.

The apartment I rented was a worn-down old place—no elevator—and you had to walk through a dim alley to get to it. Because I’d just transferred, I had social obligations almost every day and got home very late. I was scared every night on my way back.

The only upside was exhaustion. I was so tired every day I didn’t have the energy to be sad.

That thing—what happened to me—started to feel smaller and smaller.

Ethan kept texting me on WeChat. I rarely replied. Sometimes I didn’t reply at all.

He finally became someone who was optional in my life.

"Tired? If you're tired, come back, Claire."

He always tried to shake me when I was exhausted.

Go back? Return to the old life?

Just thinking about the old bitterness made me not want to go back.

I turned off my phone and slept like a rock.

A month later my dad called. "Claire, it’s your mom’s birthday. Are you coming home?"

I hesitated. Since I moved, I hadn’t spoken to my mom at all on the phone.

I wasn’t sure I could go back and put on a happy face for her birthday.

"Why go back? You think plane tickets are free?" I heard my mom grumble in the background.

My dad quickly soothed, in a low voice: "Your mom's sharp-mouthed but soft-hearted. Since you left she’s been going to your room every morning to wake you up. Don’t take her words to heart."

For a moment I didn’t know what to say.

Which parent doesn’t love their child? I knew that. But some parents keep their love inside and never say a kind word. My mom always did—never realizing how much her harshness hurt me.

"Dad, I just got here and I’m busy. I’ll come back around the National Day holiday. I’ll buy Mom a present online."

"…Okay."

My dad sighed. Just as we were about to hang up, he stopped me. "Claire, I saw a message the other day that looked like it was sent to you—from that number you used the last time you texted me from outside."

For some reason, Andrew came to my mind in an instant. He was so far away—why did I think of him so quickly? I surprised myself.

"What did it say?" I heard myself ask, suddenly nervous.

"It asked if your knee was okay."

My dad paused. "It seemed like it was sent a while ago. I only just saw it."

I froze, feeling a small rush of excitement I couldn't explain.

I thought about whether to contact him for a long time after I saved his number. After so long, he probably forgot who I was anyway.

I saved the number. WeChat suggested contacts—including one labeled "AL"—it was him.

In the end I still didn't add him. I'm not the type to reach out first. Why disturb someone you barely know?

I thought life would keep moving like this, slowly getting back on track.

Until that night by the river. I was out with a client for late-night food with coworkers, walking side by side. A group of guys in baseball caps came toward us. Because they were taller, my coworker and I both glanced up as we passed.

Our eyes met.

My heart jumped.

That look was familiar. By the time I realized who it was, the group had already gone by.

"What’s wrong?" my coworker asked—she saw I was distracted.

"Nothing." I pulled myself together and kept walking toward our table.

"Ah, I forgot Brother Wang doesn't drink chilled beer. I’ll tell the manager." "I'll go." I blurted and immediately hurried off in the direction they’d gone.

But there were stairs by the river—up and down—and it was dark. I couldn’t see them anymore.

I walked up and down, glancing over and over. No sign of him. My heart sank with a loss I couldn't explain.

I scolded myself for being timid. When I saw him, I should’ve just said hi—what’s so hard about that? But now they were gone and I started to doubt whether I’d even seen him. Was that really Andrew? What were the chances of bumping into someone from a thousand kilometers away?

I forced a laugh at my own silliness.

Then I remembered I had his number. I pulled out my phone and added him on WeChat. He hadn’t accepted yet. I felt disappointed, thinking I’d been impulsive.

"Looking for someone?" a voice behind me asked.

I froze.

When I turned, there he was, wearing a black baseball cap, watching me with a slight smile at the corner of his mouth.

I felt awkward.

"Bathroom," I lied.

My heart raced.

He smiled and didn't call me out. Lazily he said, "I know. I'll take you."

"Thanks." I followed him, pretending I was calm.

"Looks like it's better," he said, glancing down at my knee.

"Yeah," I managed, embarrassed.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, walking beside me in an easy mood.

"I got transferred for work," I answered honestly.

He was quiet for a moment. I noticed a small smile tug at his eyes and felt a little relieved.

"What about you? What are you doing here?" I asked.

He stopped and pointed toward a building. "The bathroom is over there."

"Right." He didn’t seem keen to answer my question, and he didn't ask another.

In the bathroom I felt foolish. After so long it would’ve been fine to say hi and ask questions openly. I chided myself for missing another chance.

I came out of the bathroom anxious, and stopped dead at the doorway—there he was, leaning against the wall, smoking.

He’d been waiting. I felt a small, secret pleasure and hurried over.

He stubbed out his cigarette and glanced at me. "I went to university here."

Was that an answer to my earlier question?

"Great. Then next time I'll treat you to barbecue," I blurted without thinking.

It felt brusque since we weren’t that close.

"Okay." He hesitated, then asked, "So what are you doing here tonight…?"

"Having late-night food with a client."

I remembered then that I’d been going to tell the manager. Of course—pretty faces ruin things.

"A client?" He walked with me and paused. "Want a drink?"

"Huh?" His sudden question caught me off guard. "A little."

I had been drinking a lot lately. At first I couldn't take it, but now I could get drunk, get a client into a car, then run to the bathroom to vomit—I've reached that level.

He stopped and watched me, as if deciding what to say. "My classmates are over there," he said, nodding toward the table nearest the river.

Following his gaze, I saw them—a boisterous group of students.

"Okay, you guys enjoy," I said. I needed to get back to my manager.

"Want to exchange WeChat?" he asked a few steps later.

I fumbled a beat, then pulled out my phone. "Sure."

We added each other. I waved and hurried back.

The rest of the evening I was distracted, though I covered it well. My coworker handled the client like a pro. I ran food, ordered dishes, drank a few cups. Every time I was near the place where Andrew sat, I glanced his way.

He and his classmates were loud and playful, but he mostly sat quietly—smoking, barely drinking, eating little. He was surprisingly calm for a student.

Was he really still in school? He seemed so young.

I didn't know what I was thinking. When I zoned out staring at him, he looked up and caught my gaze. I felt like I'd been caught doing something wrong and quickly looked away, embarrassed. To avoid another awkward moment, I didn’t go back to the table.

We didn't leave the client until around 11 p.m. My coworkers took a taxi. My own cab was almost there and I looked around.

Andrew and his friends seemed to have already left. I wasn’t sure why I was searching for him.

My cab pulled up. I’d just sat down when a hand steadied the door. "Can we share this ride?" he asked, bending and smiling at me.

I was surprised. "Sure."

He sat down next to me.

I felt nervous and suggested dropping him at his school first, but he said it was on the way—he’d take me home first.

We didn’t talk much the whole ride.

I’m not great at small talk, and he wasn’t either, so we stayed quiet.

When the car stopped outside my complex, I got out and was about to say goodbye. He got out too.

"Do you live here?" he asked, pointing at the building across from us.

"No, in that building inside," I said, pointing toward the alley at the end.

He looked up and frowned faintly. "Then I'll walk you across."

He put his hands in his pockets and walked beside me.

"Aren’t you worried you won’t get back to school so late?" I asked.

I did want him to walk me—this stretch always scared me, especially tonight.

"Not in a hurry," he said, walking ahead to scout the way.

"Okay." I felt safer than I had in a long time.

Wait until next month when I get paid, I’ll move. I really don’t want to be scared every night anymore.

He walked me down to the lobby. I waved at him and said thank you.

He didn’t say a word, turned, and walked away, his tall back receding as he waved twice at me.

I stood in the elevator, my mood still unsettled.

As soon as the doors opened, someone was standing in front of my door.

It was Ethan Blake.

I stopped in my tracks.

“Where did you go?”

He glanced at his watch, reached for my bag, and said, “So late?”

“How did you know I lived here?”

For some reason, seeing him now made me feel strangely calm.

If it had been before, him showing up over a thousand miles away would have made me cry.

Now I realize late concern has already lost its meaning.

“I asked your parents.”

He said it calmly.

“How’s my mom?”

I fished my keys out and unlocked the door.

I couldn’t very well tell him to leave in a situation like this.

I’m not that cruel.

“My mom heard I was coming to see you and asked me to bring some local specialties.”

He lifted the bag in his hand as he spoke.

My heart dropped.

“Ethan.”

I called after him. “Don’t you think it’s weird that you’re still going to my parents’ house?”

“What’s weird about it?”

He asked back. “Claire, I’m responsible for you. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

I was speechless for a moment.

He still didn’t understand what I wanted.

I never wanted his pity.

“Had your fun, now come home with me? Huh?”

He pulled my hand as I opened the door, standing so close I could feel him. The light was off; the room was dim. His voice was low and in that ambiguous atmosphere it was easy to get swept up.

“What do you mean right now, Ethan?”

My voice was cold. He touched me and I wanted to pull away.

“Claire, playing hard to get only works so long.”

He bent his head, his lips almost against my cheek. “Don’t make a scene, okay?”

“Ethan, I’m not making a scene.”

I pushed him away and backed off. “How do I have to say it so you understand? Yes, I admit I liked you before, but I don’t now. I don’t like you anymore, do you get that?”

He was stunned for a moment.

“Claire, don’t lie to yourself. How could you not like me?”

He paused, as if finding proof. “If you didn’t like me, why would you go to my house every day? Why would you reply so fast to my texts? Whenever I call, you’re there…”

Hearing him dredge up those bitter memories felt like salt in my wound.

“You know everything—how I watched girlfriend after girlfriend change?”

I forced a laugh. “Ethan, you think I’ll never leave you, that I’ll always be your obedient backup?”

“Claire, I’ve just been waiting…waiting for you to bravely say you like me.”

All I felt was three words: why should I?

Why should I be the one to say it first, beg him just because I liked him earlier? Why should I swallow my dignity and plead, love him, and let him do whatever he wanted?

Ridiculous.

I suddenly didn’t want to argue anymore.

I opened the door and told him to leave. “I’m tired. Go. There’s only one room here; you can’t sleep here.”

He froze for several seconds. “Claire, I took hours of flights, flew a thousand miles to see you.”

He reminded me of how much trouble he’d gone through.

“Fine, you sleep here, I’ll go.”

I started to walk out and he grabbed me.

“Are you really going to be this cold?”

He looked at me in disbelief.

“You weren’t like this before.”

“What was I like before?”

I shot back. “Anyway, Ethan, just go.”

He pulled me back inside and walked out himself.

Before I shut the door, head bent in reluctance, he asked one last time, “Claire, if I told you I like you and I want to start over, would you take me back?”

I paused a second and smiled bitterly. Does he really think that after everything that’s happened I’d start over with him? Ridiculous.

“Sorry, I’m out of your league.”

Then I slammed the door.

The next week I took a day off and moved.

That morning I finally worked up the courage to block every one of his contacts and draw a clean line from the past.

It hurt, of course, but once I deleted him everything felt clearer.

I added Andrew Lane on WeChat.

I admit I had motives, but I didn’t message him. There’s practically a planet between us.

So I told myself not to fantasize. He’s just a sunny kid—a little brother figure.

I was moving boxes when his call came, one big carton balanced in my arms.

“Hello?”

“Mm.”

“Is something up?”

Holding the phone in that position was awkward.

He was silent a beat. “You called me.”

Thinking back, my phone must’ve brushed against my pocket while I lifted things.

“Sorry, I must’ve bumped it.”

I explained.

“You…busy?”

He asked cautiously.

“A little.”

I sounded cold, so I tried to soften it. “I’m moving today. Kind of busy. I’ll get back to you later.”

He was quiet, then asked, “Need help?”

Huh?

My head froze. I really did need someone to help carry boxes from the car to the new rental. I swallowed my pride and asked, “Are you free?”

“Can you wait half an hour?”

“Sure.”

He was there quickly—with a few classmates.

My tiny rental was suddenly full of tall boys and I felt embarrassed.

“Big sis…”

They all called me “big sis” in unison and I felt awkward.

Andrew was the only one who didn’t. Good—him calling me that would just feel weird.

“Your friends are so enthusiastic.”

I whispered to Andrew as we worked. “I’ll treat you guys to dinner after.”

“No need.”

Andrew glanced at the guys who were joking around while they moved stuff.

“Alright. Big sis, what are we having tonight?”

Someone from the back piped up and startled me.

“Do you want food? That’s so thoughtful!”

“You can’t refuse a nice offer.”

The others had heard and crowded closer.

“What would you guys like?” I asked, trying to be gracious.

Their eyes looked strange. Andrew’s expression wasn’t great.

“Boss, can we? Let’s treat big sis to dinner.”

One of them tried.

“We don’t eat a lot,” Andrew said, putting down a box without saying much and shooting them a look. “Aren’t you supposed to have basketball practice tonight?”

“Skipping one night’s practice isn’t a big deal, right?”

He got elbowed and someone whispered, “Aren’t you meeting your girlfriend tonight?”

“Eat first, then meet.”

Thud!

Andrew set a box down a little harder than necessary. It sounded angry.

They shut up. I didn’t say a word either.

“Are you dumb? Our boss wants to spend time with big sis alone, why are you in the way?”

“What?”

“Ignorant!”

I felt anxious.

“No, you misunderstood. I’ll ask him what he wants to eat.”

I hurried after Andrew as he moved inside.

When everything was done, I tried to think of a way to treat them, but they all refused with flimsy excuses—sudden plans, thanks but no thanks.

“Andrew.”

I called him. “It’s fine to let me treat you. Don’t—”

“Don’t what?” he asked.

I lost my nerve and mumbled, “Be so fierce.”

I realized his friends were actually afraid of him. I was a little intimidated too, though he wasn’t exactly harsh with me.

He walked to the living room and started opening boxes, stealing a glance at me. “Weren’t they supposed to have plans?”

As if that weren’t suspicious.

“Oh well. Then let me at least treat you.”

I braced myself. “You should eat theirs too.”

“Fine.”

He answered sharply this time.

Though I’d invited him, he kept helping until dark.

When I finally looked up it was already 9 p.m. I was exhausted and could barely move. I only wanted to lie down.

“I’ll finish the rest tomorrow. Let’s go eat. What do you want?”

I mustered the energy to take him out.

He put down the last box and slouched on the couch. After a long pause, he said, “A little tired.”

Oh.

Now I felt guilty. “Sorry for dragging you here and making you work so hard.”

“Don’t want to move anymore,” he said, then looked at me.

Don’t want to move? That made it awkward. I couldn’t very well carry him out.

“Do you have any noodles here?”

He asked suddenly.

I scratched my head. “Instant ramen.”

“Can you make me a bowl?”

His voice was faint.

He’d done so much; I felt terrible asking him to go out. “Okay, wait a moment.”

I rifled through a box and grabbed the ramen—there wasn’t even an egg.

When I brought it out I felt embarrassed, but he ate it like it was delicious.

After he finished I reached for the bowl to wash it and he beat me to the sink, washing it slowly.

Later he checked his watch and said he had to go.

“Next time I’ll buy you a proper meal,” I told him at the elevator.

He stood inside the doors and held them open while I finished. “Okay. When?”

“Are you free Friday night?”

“Yep.”

“Good. Let’s do Friday.”

“Leaving now.”

He pressed the elevator button, then added, “Go to bed early. Finish the rest tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

After I watched Andrew go, I felt oddly hollow.

I couldn’t explain why. I kept thinking of his cold, gentle face—indifferent and kind at once.

I found myself oddly looking forward to Friday.

The more you expect something, the more the world seems to conspire against you.

I’d been lazy the first four days of the week — time dragged. Of course, Friday was when my boss sprung a last-minute overtime on me.

I’d asked to leave at noon so I could take him out to lunch.

Instead, lunch got pushed into dinner and I was still at the office.

“Sorry, I might need another hour.”

“Sorry, another hour.”

“You go ahead and eat—maybe we’ll only make it for dinner.”

…I lost track of how many apologies I said. I felt terrible.

He always answered the same way: “It’s okay. I’ll wait.”

So when I finally bolted out the door at 5 p.m., I took a cab straight to his college.

He’d said he’d be playing basketball and waiting for me.

I arrived out of breath at the courts to find a swarm of girls packed around the place. For a second I felt defeated.

He’s popular, I thought.

Makes sense. Tall, good-looking, and plays basketball — which girl wouldn’t like that?

For some reason I felt awkward.

Holding a bottle of water, I stood in the least conspicuous corner and waited for him to finish.

The crowd suddenly burst into cheers.

I looked up and saw him launch up and slam a perfect dunk.

I froze. That ball didn’t just hit the rim — it hit me right in the chest.

Then I chastised myself for being ridiculous and overthinking.

He must have noticed me, because the moment he saw me his usual cold face softened into something like a smile.

Carrying the basketball, he walked over slowly. All eyes were on me and I got nervous.

“Can you help me take the cap off this?”

He nodded at the water bottle in my hand.

“Sure.”

I hurried to open it and handed it to him.

He smiled but didn’t take it. “Help me.”

He bent his head, signaling for me to feed him.

I was stunned.

So many people were watching that my scalp tingled.

“Bend down a bit.”

I raised my hands and held the bottle to his lips.

Because we were so close, I held my breath, afraid he’d hear my racing pulse.

He drank maybe half the bottle before finally letting go of me.

Yes — letting go. That’s exactly how it felt.

“Hold this for me.”

He licked his lips, shoved the basketball into my arms, and lifted his shirt to wipe sweat off his face.

Another scream went up from the girls.

No wonder — when he lifted his shirt I caught sight of his abs and felt so stunned I went warm and lightheaded.

“I’m done.”

He told his teammates.

Then he turned and gave me a look loaded with meaning. That look almost undid me.

Ugh.

The whispers around me blurred into background noise. My head buzzed, every image in it of him lifting his shirt.

I must be addicted.

Ten minutes later he came out of the locker room in fresh clothes. He’d showered; he smelled clean, faintly of body wash.

I felt mortified by my own thoughts and wanted to slap myself awake.

On the way to the steakhouse, neither of us spoke — it was awkward.

I felt ridiculous; I didn’t even know how to meet his eyes.

He wasn’t chatty either.

To avoid the silence getting unbearable I pretended to play on my phone.

Every time I dared to glance up, he was looking at me.

I couldn’t understand how he could constantly stare at me and not feel awkward.

I, on the other hand, could barely breathe without fearing he’d hear me.

When we finally got to the restaurant we ordered two steaks. The food arrived quickly and I was grateful to the server for breaking the tension.

“You okay?” he asked. He must have noticed how off I seemed.

His voice sounded unexpectedly gentle to me.

“Yeah.” I felt my face heat up and fanned myself. “Maybe I’m just warm.”

“Warm?” He glanced around. “Do you want to sit somewhere else?”

He was sitting under an air vent.

“No, it’s fine.”

He seemed to think for a moment and then said, “Girls shouldn’t sit in too much wind.”

“Okay.” I squeaked, palms sweating.

I cursed myself for being such a mess. Why was a dinner with a younger guy making me act like this?

He studied me for a few seconds, then smiled and said, “I’ll go to the bathroom.”

“Okay.” Relief surged through me the instant he left. I breathed out in a big, grateful puff and calmed down.

I stared at the steak on his plate. He wasn’t back yet, so to kill time I cut his steak into bite-sized pieces.

When he returned and saw the prepared plate he looked surprised.

“I cut it since it was just sitting here. If you mind, we can switch plates.”

Certain people don’t like others cutting their food for them. I remembered that.

“No, it’s fine.”

He picked up his knife and fork like it was nothing, then paused and said, “Fair’s fair — I should cut yours, too.”

He smiled and gestured for me to pass the plate. I didn’t move.

He reached and pulled my plate toward him.

“No… it’s okay.” I felt shy. Cutting each other’s steak felt intimate.

He ignored me and started cutting anyway, gently and carefully.

I watched him. His motions were soft and purposeful.

Watching him cut, I felt something in me — a pretense I’d been holding on to — melt away. I swallowed, and just then he looked up and caught me staring.

I quickly dropped my eyes to avoid his gaze.

Luckily he didn’t ask. If he had, I would have been mortified.

“You been busy at work?” he asked, returning the plate.

“Kind of.” I ate the pieces he’d cut for me, and it tasted better than anything I’d had in a long time.

He ate slowly, as if his mind wasn’t really on the food.

“How about you? Lots of classes?”

“No more classes.” He signaled the server to bring me a yogurt smoothie and ordered sparkling water for himself. “I’m a junior.”

A junior? I did the math — twenty-one? So young. I’m twenty-six. I let out a tiny sigh internally.

“You’re young,” I said.

He stopped smiling abruptly. “You’re not much older.”

I had no idea what set him off; suddenly he was snapping at me.

I hastily clarified, “I mean, youth is a nice thing.”

Changing the subject, I added, “A guy like you must get chased by a lot of girls at school.”

I was genuinely flattering him.

He didn’t seem impressed. He put down his utensils and asked bluntly, “Are you testing whether I have a girlfriend?”

I nearly spit out my drink. Kids these days were so direct. There might be a generation gap between us.

“No.” He looked up and gave me a loaded look. “Don’t worry.”

Worry? About what? What does that have to do with me?

I shut up.

By the time we finished, he’d barely eaten; I finished everything on my plate.

“Full?” he asked, smiling in a way I couldn’t read. “If you’re still hungry you can have mine.”

“You’re not hungry?” I saw he’d barely touched half his steak and wondered why his appetite was so small.

“Small eater, easier to take care of,” he said with a sly look.

I blinked. He sounded kind of suggestive.

“After exercise you don’t feel like eating much,” he added, then, “Would you take me to a movie?”

I glanced at my phone: it was already eight p.m. A movie would end late. But he’d asked, so I couldn’t say no.

“Sure. What do you want to see?”

“Whatever you want. I want to see you.” He fished a cigarette from his pocket and held it between his fingers, about to light it.

He seemed to smoke often, but it wasn’t my business. I bought the tickets with my head down.

Even after we left the restaurant and walked side by side, the cigarette remained unlit.

“You don’t want me to smoke?” he asked suddenly.

His question took me off guard. How should I answer? Saying I didn’t like it felt preachy.

“It’s… it’s not great for your health,” I said as gently as I could.

He paused, looked at the cigarette in his hand, and replied, “Then I won’t.” He walked to a trash can and tossed it in.

I was stunned. Was I being that annoying? He didn’t need to change because of me.

“I didn’t mean to criticize,” I said when he came back.

He reached out and touched the top of my head. “I know.”

His gesture floored me. It was so intimate.

He acted nonchalant and walked on. I was left standing there, my heart pounding.

At the theater I ran to get popcorn and sodas. When I returned with two giant buckets, he sighed. “Why did you—”

“Why did I what?” I smiled at him.

He took the popcorn and the sodas from me, even my bag, and said softly, “You don’t have to do this anymore.”

He said it so gently, and it set my chest aflame.

For the past twenty-something years I’d been the one running errands, doing things for others. I was used to thinking that’s what was expected — that if I worked a little harder it was fine as long as people were happy.

But hearing someone tell me I didn’t need to do those things anymore was a new kind of care. It felt incredibly good.

I trailed behind him into the theater, and he used his phone flashlight to light the way and help me find my seat, checking our tickets.

I blinked in confusion. I had bought two seats together, so why was there an aisle between them?

I scolded myself for being so stupid — why did I mess everything up?

“It's okay. Take a seat first.”

He tried to comfort me, then took some things and sat a few rows over.

The movie started and I was in a terrible mood.

Whenever I glanced at him, he was watching me.

Seeing my lack of interest, his brow knit.

The next second he stood, bent over, and walked toward me. He chatted briefly with the guy sitting next to me, and the two swapped seats.

I was stunned.

How could he pull a perfectly fine couple apart with a few words, and they actually agreed?

“What did you say to him?” I asked.

“I’ll tell you after the movie.”

“Okay.”

Finally he sat down beside me, and my mood lifted a little.

It was a long, drawn-out romance that made me drowsy.

Then I actually fell asleep.

When I woke up, there was no one around except Andrew Lane.

I opened my eyes to find him smiling down at me.

“Is it over?”

I awkwardly fumbled my hair. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“You were sleeping so soundly.”

He took the blanket off me and smoothed it out. “Wanted you to sleep a bit more.”

What?

I was mortified.

I realized he’d somehow gone to get a blanket for me — and somehow he’d noticed the theater’s AC was making me cold.

“I’m sorry.”

I stood and apologized.

He shook his head. “Don’t say those three words again.”

With one hand he picked up the blanket, the other the leftover popcorn, then left the theater to toss the trash.

“Still groggy?” he asked as we waited at a crosswalk.

“A little,” I admitted. After an hour of sleep, my head felt foggy.

He was quiet for a moment. “Then I’ll hold your hand.”

I wondered what he meant, and the next second his hand closed around mine.

The light turned green and he led me across the street.

His palm was warm, almost burning, and my face flushed.

I didn’t know what to do with my fingers.

I thought he’d let go after we crossed, but he kept holding my hand past the lights, through the park, all the way to the riverbank without releasing me.

I looked up at him. The river wind tossed his hair, making his features more striking. Under the moon his eyes were bright as stars, flickering in my sight.

I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of girl could have a boy like him.

He was unreal in his beauty.

Holding his hand, I felt a fierce envy for myself in that moment.

If I’d met him a few years earlier, I might have shown my feelings more plainly, let a flaw slip that would tell him how much I adored him.

But now, I felt unworthy.

So I swallowed everything down.

He led me all the way to my front door. I didn’t know how he knew my way home.

When I came to, we were standing at my door.

“Thanks for walking me back.”

I prepared to say goodbye and — hopefully — free my hand.

Instead he stood there, still holding my hand, not letting me open the door.

“Don’t you want to know how I convinced that guy to switch seats?” he asked in a lazy, teasing tone.

Even worse, he took my other hand as well.

In the quiet night, a boy holding both my hands and saying something flirty sent a jolt up from my palms straight to my heart.

“What did you say?” I raised my voice to hide the wild beating in my chest.

But I already had a feeling of the answer.

My intuition told me he liked me.

The thought startled me.

So this is what being liked feels like — even before he says it, you can already sense how strongly someone cares.

“So?” he said, leaning close, lowering his voice until it was rough. “I’ve been chasing this girl for a long time. Tonight decides it all.”

His words hit my ear and my brain exploded.

I learned then that knowing someone likes you and hearing them say it aloud are worlds apart — the latter is a thousand times more shocking.

He stared at me for a long moment, then asked slowly, “So, what’s your answer?”

Answer?

How was I supposed to reply?

“Andrew…” I looked up at him.

He reached out and ruffled my hair. “Try being with me?”

I was stunned and speechless. Hypnotized by his voice, I finally bowed my head and murmured, “Okay.”

He exhaled in relief, closing his arms around me and resting his chin on my head.

We stood like that, held, for a few quiet minutes.

“What do you want for breakfast?” he asked before he left. “I’ll get it for you tomorrow morning.”

“Anything,” I said.

“If you need me, call. I won’t turn my phone off tonight.”

He finally let me go, took two steps back and waved.

Watching him walk away, my heart still hammered.

By the time the elevator swallowed him, he was gone and I felt like I’d woken from a dream.

I shut my door, dove under the covers and covered my face, trying to steady myself, but my heart wouldn’t calm.

After a shower, I came back and saw a message from him.

“Go to bed early. Good night.”

Seeing his good night text, I couldn’t stop smiling.

Was this what being in love felt like?

Yes.

That night I slept surprisingly well.

I woke early, thinking about him coming over for breakfast. I washed up, put on light makeup, and kept checking the time, waiting.

I had never anticipated anyone’s arrival this much. When the doorbell rang I practically jumped to answer it.

When the door opened and I saw who it was, my heart dropped to the floor.

Ethan Blake?

I started to close the door and he grabbed my hand.

“Claire.” His voice was a little hoarse.

Only then did I notice his eyes were red, like he’d been crying.

I sighed. I didn’t want to know why he was here or what had hurt him. I didn’t want to look at him.

“Ethan, you don’t have to do this.”

“Claire, I can’t forget you.”

He looked exhausted.

“Don’t you think it’s ridiculous to say this now?” I didn’t want to argue.

“Can we start over?” He sounded unbearably earnest.

Right then my phone rang. It was Andrew.

Was he almost here?

A cold prick ran across my scalp at the thought of Andrew seeing Ethan at my door. I hung up without answering.

“Ethan, I’ll say this one last time: I don’t like you. Please stop coming and disrupting my life.”

I wanted him to go.

He looked at me and said simply, “I don’t believe you.”

A beat later: “I’ve fixed things with my mom. She won’t interfere anymore. I’ve apologized to your parents too — they agreed to us. Claire, we can be good, can’t we?”

Me: !

I thought he’d lost his mind.

Who gave him the right to arrange everything? Who told him to make decisions for both our families?

Andrew called again, and in my anger and in front of Ethan, I answered.

“Not up yet?”

“Up. Are you almost here?”

“Yeah, I just got off the subway. You can rest a little more.”

“Okay. Be careful.”

He hung up. I hadn’t hung up yet and, on impulse, said to my phone, “I miss you.”

Just like that, Ethan’s face changed.

“Who is he?” His eyes were red and furious.

“My boyfriend.” I said it flatly.

He didn’t speak.

I thought he’d take the hint and leave. Instead he lost it. He shoved me against the door.

“How could you? How could you like someone else?” He stared at me in disbelief, hands pinning my shoulders.

I laughed bitterly. “Ethan, I used to think no one else could replace you either — but I was wrong. I fell for someone else.”

He froze, as if trying to process my words.

“I didn’t expect it either,” I went on. “When he confessed, I felt so lucky. So lucky I wasn’t with you.”

“Shut up. Who is he?” His grip made my shoulders ache.

“You don’t need to know!” I pushed at him. Instead he scooped me up, horizontal in his arms.

He wasn’t himself. He carried me toward the bedroom and my heart lurched.

“What are you doing?” I slapped at him, trying to get free.

He wouldn’t listen. He threw me onto the bed and started unbuttoning his shirt.

I was terrified.

I scrambled up to escape, but he grabbed my ankle, dragging me back toward him.

“What the hell?” I screamed, kicking, but he pinned me down.

“You think you could tell me and walk away?” he snarled. “He’s nothing compared to me — a thousand times worse for him.”

I yelled back, “You have no right to say that. You don’t own me.”

That seemed to set him off completely. He snatched my phone.

“What are you doing?” I cried.

He looked at me with contempt. “I’ll let him hear your voice from beneath me.”

“Ethan!” I was genuinely scared. I tried to calm myself, searching for a way out. “Doing this will make me hate you more. Let’s let each other go. You don’t need me.”

“Hate me?” He lifted my hand and pinned it above my head. “You weren’t saying that that night.”

That night.

I knew exactly what he meant. He had a way of repeating my vulnerabilities back at me, using them like weapons.

I was speechless, tears mounting in my eyes.

“You were the one chasing me, saying you loved me so much, throwing yourself at me.” His mouth was too close; when I turned my face away, he kissed my cheek. I felt sick.

“What, you had your fun and now you deny it? Claire, you can’t do this. You seduced me first — you owe me.”

“Stop.” My voice broke. I felt exhausted and numb.

“You cried and told me it was your first time. You begged me to treat you well, so I promised to care for you.”

My head buzzed and the tears finally spilled down. “Ethan, trampling my dignity underfoot — is this your idea of love?”

You knew I liked you, and you kept trampling my dignity without remorse. Did you ever even see me as a person?

Why would you do this to me?

Seeing me cry, he finally froze.

My whole body shook; he let go of me.

As if waking up, he reached out to wipe my tears. I turned my face away.

"I'm sorry."

He sighed and handed my phone back.

Then he sat at the edge of the bed for a long time, looking crushed, and left.

I sat on the floor and cried until the world blurred. When I finally remembered Andrew and reached for my phone to text him, I saw the call log.

Ten minutes.

My mind went completely blank.

My first impulse was to call and explain.

But his phone was off.

I splashed water on my face and rushed out to see if Andrew had left. When I opened the door, breakfast was waiting on the doorstep.

I sat dumbly on the floor and stared at that breakfast, just staring all day.

In the week after the 24th, I didn't contact Andrew again.

Whenever I thought about him cheerfully delivering breakfast while those unspeakable things from the phone call echoed in my ears, my chest ached.

I spent several sleepless nights trying to make sense of it and couldn't. I forced myself to let go.

Andrew was such a pure, clean kid with a bright future. What right did I have to stand by his side?

If we were never meant to be together, it was selfish to keep him for myself.

On the other hand, he misunderstood me—so in a way, it was good. At least he'd see that we weren't right for each other and could let go.

Still, I kept thinking about the night he walked me home: the wind that night, the light in his eyes.

Having such a wonderful boy even for a short time was my luck.

I thought that was the end—that our lives would be two parallel lines.

But I was wrong.

The second week, I couldn't help it and texted him.

My message rambled: that morning's other guy was my childhood crush, that we had no relationship anymore, that I hadn't used Andrew… I edited and rewrote a long time, my thoughts a mess. I didn't even know what I was saying.

He didn't reply for a long time.

By evening, still no reply, and I finally snapped and called.

This time his phone was on, but nobody picked up.

After a while the call connected, but another voice answered. The person said Andrew was in the hospital.

I was terrified and took a taxi straight there.

His friend answered the phone. He said Andrew had been in a bad mood last week and went racing; he took first and left everyone behind. When they found him he was collapsed by the roadside, bleeding all over.

Even though his friend tried to downplay it, the sight of his wounds scared me.

He'd had the accident on the night he'd come to see me.

His friend looked at me, hesitated, and said, "While he was unconscious, he called your name."

After he said that he left.

My heart dropped; I couldn't breathe.

I sat quietly on the bench beside him and peeled an apple for him, but the peel kept breaking.

I felt useless.

Tears fell.

"Why are you crying?"

He, supposedly asleep, suddenly opened his eyes, sighed, and said in a low voice, "They're scaring you. I'm okay."

Feeling guilty, I wiped my tears and asked, "Does it hurt?"

He propped himself up and sat a little. "If it hurt, could I sit up?"

Me: …Really not hurting?

"Hey, you're sitting up—doctor said you should lie down and rest. Why aren't you listening?"

Just then a nurse came in and scolded him. His face flushed with embarrassment.

"You should lie down."

I hurried over and helped him lie back.

He glanced at the nurse and obediently laid back, frowning like he had no love left to give. "They're making a big deal out of nothing."

I didn't answer; after tucking him in, I moved back to the bench. "I'm sorry."

"Don't cry."

He looked at me.

"Okay."

When he said that I realized I'd started crying again. I wiped my eyes, head bowed.

A hush fell between us.

I steeled myself and decided to explain things straight to his face.

"That other guy is my neighbor—my first love. We grew up together."

He stared at me, silent.

"He was amazing. I'm shy and timid; I only dared talk to him. He treated me like a little sister, always taking me along. I assumed he didn't know I liked him, so I stayed by his side without guilt."

He still said nothing.

"He went through a lot of girlfriends—I knew about every one—until one day he broke up with his girlfriend. We both got drunk, and then…what happened happened."

"I don't want to hear."

He cut me off.

I shut up. I could feel his anger.

He didn't want to hear—so I stopped.

"Want an apple?" I offered, handing him the peeled slices.

"No."

He was really angry—his face pinched and he wouldn't look at me.

"You're great…"

I tried again.

"Want to play the good-person card?" he snapped, turning his face to meet mine sharply.

"That's not—" I didn't know how to explain. "There will be lots of people who like you at school, and in the future, wherever you go."

"So?" he asked.

"Do you not like me?" he demanded.

"No," I replied.

"It's not that," I scrambled. "It's that I'm not worthy."

The air froze.

He turned away, then when he looked back I saw his eyes rimmed red.

I was stunned.

"You still…like him?" he asked, voice shaky.

Seeing him cry, I panicked.

"You've liked him for so many years and he never returned your feelings. You expected him to—"

He pressed his lips together, unable to finish. After a long pause: "Wanting your body and wanting your heart are two different things. Do you understand?"

It hit me like a thunderclap.

I ground my teeth in silence. He stared at me, frowning.

Neither of us gave way.

After a while, a hand wiped my tears. I looked up and realized he had quietly moved to the bedside, cupping my face and gently brushing away my tears.

I cried harder.

Then, in the next second, his lips were on mine.

The touch was cool. My head exploded.

I pushed gently, but he held me tighter.

The world narrowed to his warmth and the sound of my own heartbeat.

When I thought the kiss would end, he deepened it, possessive and demanding.

He only let me go when I couldn't breathe.

Foreheads pressed together, he watched me, breathing a little fast.

"I've wanted to do that for a long time."

His voice was hoarse.

I was too flustered to say anything.

"Since that night camping," he continued.

Camping? Our first meeting? I was shocked and didn't know how to react.

"You've been in my dreams since then."

He kissed my forehead lightly, then lowered his head and stared at me. "This is what it feels like to be moved. Do you understand?"

"Can you forget him?" he asked softly.

"My heart hurts here."

He took my hand and placed it over his chest.

His sudden gesture overwhelmed me.

"Hey! What are you two doing?"

A shouted voice broke the quiet. I flinched away from him.

A chubby kid with glasses stood at the doorway holding takeout. Behind him stood a stylishly dressed woman.

Andrew glanced toward the door, then resignedly lay back on the bed.

What was happening?

The kid and the woman came in, eyes fixed on me. My face burned.

"Sis-in-law…sis-in-law," the kid blurted when he walked up.

My heart sank.

"No—you're mistaken," I stammered, waving my hands embarrassingly.

"Mistaken?" the chubby kid adjusted his glasses and called back, "Mom! It's over! My brother's got a one-sided crush!"

What?

I was mortified.

Andrew couldn't stand the kid and grabbed him, smacking his face. "Shut up!"

"You're Claire, right?" a young woman stepped forward and smiled at me.

"Ah…" I glanced at Andrew, "Yes."

"Our whole family knows you."

She tugged the kid away from Andrew. "Andrew, be polite. Call her sister."

Our whole family knows me? I felt dazed.

She leaned in and murmured, "We saw your photos on Andrew's phone. He didn't know you knew."

Me: ?

What photos?

"It's me! I hacked my brother's password. There are pics of 'sister' in his album."

The chubby kid raised his hand eagerly.

As expected, Andrew's face darkened. He lunged at the kid again.

"Easy—he's your brother," the woman laughed.

"Bro, I'm your brother," the kid pleaded.

"Don't do it again."

Andrew finally let him go.

I stood there, toes curling with embarrassment.

"Have you finished looking?" Andrew said suddenly.

"If you're done, leave."

He was shooing them out.

"Andrew, you're really valuing looks over friends," the kid pouted.

"Alright. Claire, you haven't eaten, right? Come eat with us."

The woman suddenly turned to me. I felt torn.

Andrew frowned, displeased. Then he gently tugged my hand and my face went hot.

"Want to go?" he asked, squeezing my fingers and leaning close to my ear, "Hungry?"

The gesture was so obvious everyone could see the chemistry.

"I'm not hungry."

I tried to pull away.

"Then stay here with me."

He leaned in like it was his right.

His mom and brother left afterward, but he kept holding my hand.

I didn't resist; I let him.

Nurses changed his dressings while he still held my hand, claiming it eased the pain. He held my hand while sleeping and eating; my palm grew sweaty but my heart felt strangely sweet.

"Don't ride so fast anymore."

Seeing the many stitches on his leg made my heart clamp.

"You worried about me?"

He asked.

"Yes."

Of course I worried—more than anything.

He sighed and ruffled my hair. "Then I won't ride anymore."

"I didn't mean for you to stop."

I didn't want him to give up something he loved for me.

"Not fun," he said lightly. "Every time I rode after, it felt like something was missing. So I just stopped."

Did he always have to skirt around saying romantic things?

Later his mom and brother came back with food for us.

We chatted for a while longer.

I guessed his mom was under forty. He told me she was forty-six.

No way I would have guessed.

She looked young and upbeat, and she was lively and fun. I was honestly surprised.

She was great at finding topics—everything she brought up was what young people are into now: celebrity gossip, makeup tips… By the end of our conversation, she was so excited she even invited me to get my nails done with her.

"Come on, Claire, come with Auntie. You don’t think I’m old, do you?"

She grabbed my hand and said it so sweetly I couldn't resist.

"Mom…"

Ethan glanced at his mom.

"Women…" his brother shook his head.

"Sis-in-law, go with my mom. Otherwise she'll make me take her every day for manicures, facials—I'm a guy… it's too much."

That line made it sound like I really had no choice.

"Ethan, can you handle it alone?"

He rubbed his temple, sounding helpless.

"Go."

He squeezed my hand again. "Don't overdo it."

"Okay."

I let go as quickly as I could.

How could he be so blatant and yet so composed?

I thought his mom asking me to get nails done meant she might want to talk about something delicate one-on-one.

So even though she was warm, I felt nervous on the way over.

To me, she was an elder—I figured she'd be unlikely to approve of me and Ethan being together.

After all, we're at different stages: I've worked for years; Ethan hasn't even graduated. Reality and public opinion felt like obstacles that gave me a headache.

I was wrong.

She chatted the whole time about trendy nail and makeup looks, and she was serious about it.

At the salon she looked at my hands and insisted I try jelly-powder nails.

She got a bunny design herself.

I was floored.

It was so cute—a little white rabbit.

"Yours looks great too!"

She kept taking photos of my hands, praising me until I felt embarrassed.

Then she dragged me to buy makeup, and at the end she gave me a lipstick.

"It's beautiful."

She insisted I try on the shade. "That kid Ethan—he just likes pretty older girls."

I blushed.

"I saw that photo on his phone and I knew he liked you."

She leaned in and whispered, "He used to only like racing—so straight-up masculine, he'd hardly glance at girls. His dad and I were worried. Who knew…"

"W-which photo?"

Hearing about a photo made me curious.

She smiled and pulled out her phone. "I snapped it."

She showed me an album.

My heart slammed again when I looked.

The photo was of me surrounded by a bunch of boys playing games at the camping trip. But I wasn't using Ethan's phone then—how did he take that picture?

"When did you two get together?" she asked, curious.

Huh?

I thought, and if I had to pinpoint it, "This morning."

"This morning?"

She sounded surprised. "So quick?"

I couldn't explain the complicated bits to her.

"Well, Ethan's like his dad—cold. He never says what he likes. If he ever tells you, it means he really, really likes you."

I was too shy to answer.

"Don't talk about him—Auntie liked you the first time she saw you. You're so cute."

She touched my face lightly. "Your skin is amazing. I'm jealous."

What?

Her compliments left me flustered and a little overwhelmed.

But I didn't mind being around her. Overall, being with her was easy.

She was fun—sometimes I felt like her personality was younger than mine.

Later, whenever I finished work early, I'd go to the hospital to see Ethan.

Every time I saw him he seemed calm—no more of that day’s sweet talk—just asking if I was tired or busy.

Mostly we texted on WeChat.

After each visit, his mom would drive me home, then drag me out for late-night snacks. She loved street food.

"If you're too tired, don't go along with my mom's craziness."

One night I got back late and he was annoyed.

"Why are you mad? She's your mom."

I couldn't figure out what upset him.

"You're my girlfriend. If she wants company, she should ask my dad."

His tone was full of grievance.

I was stunned. After a long pause I asked, "Ethan, are you jealous?"

He was taken aback, then sighed. "I'm worried you'll be too tired."

"Then go home when you're tired. Don't do those things for me."

"Okay."

Honestly, it wasn't just because she was his mom that I went out with her.

I'd come to this unfamiliar city alone and hardly went out. Either I didn't have time, or there was no one to go with.

These past few days she'd taken me to almost every night market and mall. Life felt lively again, and I enjoyed it.

I'd never thought being liked by someone—and by his family too—could feel so effortless and happy.

It made me braver and more determined to cherish this rare thing.

On the day Ethan was discharged, I went to pick him up.

It was my first time at his home.

They lived in a small suburban house decorated in a girly, fresh style—I guessed that was his mom's taste.

"What are you doing?"

Ethan wasn't pleased when he saw me carrying two big bags.

"Your leg's injured, I'll carry them."

"This is heavy."

He snatched them out of my hands.

"But you just got out of the hospital."

I worried about him. "I'm fine. I'm stronger than most girls."

I wasn't lying—at home I'd always been treated like one of the boys. I never shied away from hard work.

"My leg's hurt, my hands aren't."

He sneered a little, and seeing me frozen in place he added, "Being strong doesn't mean you get to use it here."

"What do you want me to use it for then?"

At that moment, Ethan's little brother, Mason, popped his head out and asked Ethan in his usual blunt way—a straightforward comment turned into something cheeky by Mason's mouth.

"Get out," Ethan snapped. He never went easy on his brother. "Do your homework. Don't act like a kid who doesn't know things."

I stayed quiet.

I followed Ethan upstairs to his room. As soon as we were inside he shut and locked the door, pinning me against it.

"Why lock the door?"

My voice trembled from nerves.

"Privacy."

Before I could figure out what kind of privacy he meant, his kiss landed like a storm.

After a while he scolded, "Don't carry other people's stuff from now on."

"Okay."

I thought his brother had the audacity, honestly.

"I'm worried about you."

He softened and kissed my lips again.

"Bro, what are you two doing?" someone knocked on the door then—startling me into trying to pull away.

Instead he held me tighter.

"Ignore it."

He wrapped his arm around my waist and kissed me, greedy. "I want to hold you."

"Okay."

"How is your body so soft?" he finally asked.

I was dizzy and mortified—I didn't know how to answer.

"Should we go out? They might misunderstand."

I tried to be reasonable.

"Misunderstand what?"

He was maddeningly calm and almost amused by my tension. "It's daytime."

He actually seemed shameless.

"Would nighttime be better then?"

Me: !

What kind of logic was that?

Where did his coldness go? He was getting bolder.

"Fine, we'll go out later." He finally let me go and smiled at my reddened face. I knew he was teasing me.

"Who's the one blushing?" I glared.

"Me," he said with a grin, taking my hand and leading me to his study.

His room had a lot of models—cars, boats, planes, comic figures; some looked old but spotless.

I leaned over his desk, touching everything and asking questions. He sat quietly and answered.

Suddenly I asked, "How did your phone have my photo?"

He paused, then smiled faintly. "A friend took it and posted it in the group. I saved it."

I didn't press why he saved that particular photo—we both knew the answer.

Being with him felt like time slowing down, like peaceful days.

Soon it was time to eat and we finally went downstairs.

When I washed my hands I saw Ethan and Mason standing off to the side.

"Don't hassle her."

Ethan was always strict with his brother.

"I just wanted to talk to sis-in-law. Come on, bro, really?" Mason protested, looking innocent.

"Not allowed. She… is shy."

Ethan refused to back down.

"Dictator," Mason rolled his eyes.

"Pay you a thousand."

"Sis-in-law definitely wants to talk to me."

"Two thousand."

"Deal."

I: …Their bargaining was hilariously blunt.

Dinner was cooked by Ethan's mom.

I was surprised by the spread—fried chicken, fries, sushi, barbecue—very different from my mom's home cooking.

She cheerfully told me she grew the lettuce herself and urged me to go pick some from her garden to take home after the meal.

After dinner, while Ethan and Mason washed the dishes, his mom took me to the backyard.

She gave me a huge bag of vegetables she picked—so many it was heavy.

"By the way, can you cook?" she asked, finally noticing the pile I was carrying.

"A little."

That was an understatement—I learned to cook young. Not gourmet, but I knew home dishes.

She seemed to think I couldn't cook and said, "It's okay if you can't. Sometimes I find dealing with fish messy, so I say I can't. Ethan and his dad cook. Ethan's cold, but soft-hearted—he does a lot without saying. Use him."

Her attitude was so different from other moms—she seemed like a happy, carefree woman.

I felt a little envious.

Later, Ethan's whole family drove me home.

I felt really embarrassed — it all seemed so over the top.

When we got out of the car, his mother asked, "Do you live around here by yourself?"

"Yeah."

"Well, from now on, come over for dinner on weekends. Eating alone is so lonely."

Hearing that made my eyes sting.

I glanced at Andrew. He nodded, and only then did I say, "Okay."

Andrew walked me to my door but didn’t linger. I made him go; his mother and brother were still waiting outside, and I didn’t want them to be kept standing.

Before he left, he kissed my cheek with a reluctant tenderness.

I pushed him toward the elevator.

"Heartless," I teased.

He stepped into the elevator with a mock-sullen face.

"Text me," I said, holding up my phone.

He glanced at me, said nothing, and the elevator doors closed.

After he left, I rushed through my nightly routine — washed up, then started laundry and mopped the floor. By the time I finished, I saw he had messaged me.

"What are you doing?"

"Just finished showering. Going to sleep."

"Me too."

"Good night then."

He didn't reply. A while later he sent another message: "I can't sleep."

"What's wrong?"

Was his foot hurting again? I felt a little anxious.

"I miss you."

I blinked. The words on the screen turned into pink bubbles in an instant. A warm sweetness wrapped around me.

In that moment, I finally felt like I was in love.

"I'll come find you when I'm free."

"Okay."

Once I'd finally gotten my brother to bed, I fell into a deep sleep.

I broke my promise.

The week before the holiday, I was swamped.

I stayed up late revising proposals and pulling all-nighters making decks.

I was so busy I almost forgot who I was.

Meeting Andrew kept getting postponed.

We were reduced to messaging; sometimes he'd text and I'd only see it hours later.

Eventually he grew a little emotional.

His feelings finally boiled over the night before the holiday.

The spark was him planning the holiday and asking what we'd do, and me telling him I'd booked tickets to go back home.

"What do you take me for?" he demanded.

"What, a boyfriend?" I didn't know how to calm him.

"So this is an online romance?" he asked, trying to tamp down his anger.

I understood — I missed him too, and not seeing each other over the holiday was painful. His anger was justified. But I couldn't help it.

"Do you want to come to my hometown?" I racked my brain for that option.

"To your family?" he said.

"Yes," I said, teeth clenched, deciding quickly. "Okay."

I started buying tickets for him online.

After I finished, and as I cooled down, regret hit me hard.

My mother is difficult. Plus, inevitably we'd run into Ethan and Mrs. Liu. Bringing him home felt impulsive.

But there's no backward medicine.

On the plane the next day I tried one last time, "My mom is pretty hard to deal with."

He glanced at me, took my hand, closed his eyes and rested. "Got it," he said.

"Just 'got it'?" I thought. He was too confident.

I had texted my dad that morning saying I might bring someone home. He evidently didn't take it seriously.

At that moment my mother had gone pale with shock. Maybe my dad hadn’t realized I meant bringing a boyfriend home.

"How old are you?" my mom asked him — then shot me a look.

"Twenty-two," he answered calmly.

My mom looked at me. "Still in school?"

She was restraining herself; I could tell.

"Yes, starting my senior year soon."

My mom went even paler and couldn't speak.

"Claire." She used my full name for the first time and tried to steady herself. "Can't you just have a normal relationship? In front of the kids —"

My father cut her off. "Let's lay it out. I don't approve."

My mom folded her arms. "Look at her age! Never mind the age — you're dating someone who hasn't even graduated. Are you going to support him? Why do you always make life hard for me?"

I barely dared look at Andrew; my mom had a talent for public shaming that was unparalleled.

Angry, I grabbed Andrew's hand to leave. He stayed seated, unmoving, and gently patted the back of my hand to calm me.

When my mom fell silent, he spoke.

"Auntie, what exactly do you find inappropriate?" He paused, then said, "I'll be a senior soon. I already signed a job. I'm healthy. I'm mature. Age isn't the issue to me."

I blinked. He'd said he signed a job? It sounded thin.

"What job? Is it a five-figure salary?" my mom snapped.

"Mom, you can't measure someone like that," I said, not wanting him to be belittled.

"You've messed up plenty of things before," my mom enumerated. "You liked someone for years; when he turned back to you, his mother softened — a decent outcome — and you still make a scene."

Heat drained from me. I knew Andrew cared about this. I glanced at him, anxious.

He didn't flinch. I, however, felt humiliated. I had misread my mom.

"Auntie, I haven't actually signed formal employment yet," he admitted after a beat. "I'm taking over a branch of my father's company. I don't know the exact salary yet, so I can't answer that."

"Which company?" my mom asked, skeptical.

Honestly, his story sounded a little grand. I squeezed his hand under the table.

"[Redacted] Transport Company. Have you heard of it, Auntie?"

"Of course. You can't possibly be saying the owner is your father." My mom looked smug.

"He is."

Her smirk vanished. I tried to recall the name of that executive… and realized the surname matched his. My mom was momentarily speechless.

"Young people, don't lie," my father said, irritated. "They're courting. You don't need to be digging into family lineages."

"Want to see an ID?" Andrew asked with a smile.

That sealed it — my mom believed him.

"About Claire's past," he said, steady and earnest, "as her boyfriend, I ask you not to bring up her ex. Respect her, and respect me."

My mom pulled me into the bedroom. "Why didn't you say earlier?"

"Say what?"

"That he's from a rich family."

"So what? I'm not with him for money. I only just found out myself."

My mother scoffed. "They always play with hearts. Are you stupid?"

"Fine, be convinced I'm stupid." I shrugged her off and walked back out.

Her tone changed completely after that, an about-face I hadn't expected.

"I'm not really opposed to the relationship," she said slowly. "Claire's nearly twenty-seven. You're still young — if you break up you can find someone twenty. Claire can't be wasting time. Girls her age should be dating with marriage in mind."

Andrew kept his mouth shut. I knew my mom was right — I was on a clock. But I didn't want to put him in an awkward spot. He was only twenty-two; his views on love would be different.

"Are you asking us to register the marriage before dating?" he asked after a long moment.

"My goodness, I'm not forcing you," my mom stammered.

"I agree," he said suddenly, with resolve.

Me: ?

"I'm saying I agree," he repeated. "I'm turning twenty-two on October 8th. If Claire agrees, I can register our marriage."

"Andrew…" I called after him. What was going on? He didn't have to go that far.

"No need to rush," my mom said, lost for words.

"Up to her," he said, looking at me.

What could I say? Refusing might embarrass him. So I stayed silent.

After that, my mom gave us an out and the dinner was surprisingly pleasant. Andrew moved into the guest room like it was natural.

My mom, for reasons I couldn't understand, became absurdly affectionate toward him, calling him "little deer" and cooking him everything. It felt like, in my mother's eyes, he was getting better treatment than I'd ever had.

My dad took to him easily too; it was clear he genuinely liked Andrew. Whatever charm Andrew had, the house felt better with him around.

I was happy my family liked him. I assumed the marriage talk was just placating my mom — until one day he opened a package containing his household registration book.

I felt both thrilled and anxious. It wasn't that I didn't want this; it felt too good, like a dream.

The day before his birthday we were holding hands outside the complex when we ran into Ethan and his mother.

My first instinct was to leave. But Mrs. Liu called after me.

"Claire, you've been home — why haven't you come by to eat?" She glanced at Andrew, sizing him up.

"A bit busy these days," I said. I didn't want to argue in front of Andrew.

"You used to visit Ethan every day," she said, which made my skin crawl.

"She's busy," I was about to respond when Andrew spoke up from beside me.

"So this is your boyfriend? He looks small. Is he even an adult?"

I could hear the condescension.

"He's younger than your son, but he is an adult," Andrew replied calmly.

That seemed to get under Ethan's skin.

"Young boy — is he strong enough?" Ethan sneered, and the remark shamed me.

I didn't expect Andrew to react.

When I looked up, his fist was already hitting Ethan's face.

"Hey, hitting people — that's rude," Mrs. Liu shouted in alarm and rushed to shield Ethan.

"I just hit the son you raised," Andrew said, anger flaring as he swung another punch.

Blood started to trickle from Ethan's nose.

"Someone help — he's attacking!" Mrs. Liu yelled.

People started to gather around.

Worried, I lunged forward and tugged on Andrew Lane's hand, whispering, "Don't hit him anymore."

"Go stand over there, sweetheart. Don't scare yourself," he said.

Even in that moment, his voice stayed so gentle.

But I planted my feet and wouldn't let go, holding his hand tight.

He clenched his jaw, then shot a hard look at Ethan Blake sprawled on the ground. "Listen up. She's my girlfriend now. If you ever bother her again, you won't be as lucky as today."

With that, he wiped the blood from his hand across Ethan's shirt with disgust, then took out a wet wipe and cleaned his hands several times before smearing the wipe on Ethan's face.

Finally he pulled me through the crowd and walked us away. At the curb he flagged down a cab and practically shoved me inside.

"Does it hurt?" I asked, staring at the cut on his hand with concern.

He looked at me quietly, fighting to steady his emotions. After a long breath, he pulled me into his arms. "No."

He took me to a hotel.

In front of me he called my mother to say we'd be going to a friend's place tonight and wouldn't be coming home.

After he hung up, he pushed me against the door and kissed me.

This time the kiss wasn't gentle — it was like a storm.

I lost myself in his warmth, riding the tide of him.

At the last moment his hand rested on my skirt and he asked hoarsely, "Is this okay?"

I looked into the little galaxy in his eyes and felt like a ship lost at sea finally finding its true north.

I looped my arm around his neck and answered with an even fiercer kiss.

…Later we both seemed utterly spent; neither of us spoke.

He gazed at me, a haze in his eyes. "Sleep. We have to get up early tomorrow."

I fell asleep heavy in his arms.

At first I didn't understand what he meant about getting up early.

Not until we stood there with two small red booklets in our hands, solemnly promising to be each other's only for life, did I come back to myself.

On the way home I stared at those two red booklets in his hands as if waking from a dream.

I was married — to the person I loved most.

How lucky I was.

When we got back, my mother had prepared a huge celebratory meal.

He suggested I move to his city to live there permanently.

"Our Claire has always been taken care of by me. I can't not be with her," my mom protested. She still wanted to come.

"I'll take care of her," he said, firmly.

"If you'd like to visit, sure. I have more than one place there anyway," he added.

My mom was left speechless.

He flatly refused the idea of my mother moving with us. He said he thought I wouldn't be happy if she came along.

On the flight back I asked him why he fell in love with me.

He shrugged. "There's no big reason. I ran into you that day — the sunset was beautiful, the wind was making my heart stir, and I suddenly wanted to be in love. It couldn't have been anyone else."

That must be what a crush feels like, I thought.

He asked me why I agreed to marry him without a formal proposal.

I thought it over. A proposal ritual mattered less than having someone who understands you, who cherishes you, who makes you feel respected and happy. That felt like a blessing. Formalities could never match the weight of real actions.

It couldn't be anyone else but him.

That was all there was to it.