"Oh, this is your first time in my hands? I’ll go easy then."
"This tube’s going to go pretty deep—tell me if it gets uncomfortable."
"If you can’t speak, just make a sound. ‘Ah’ or ‘Mm,’ your pick."
"’Ah’ doesn’t sound great—alright, just raise your hand."
"Nurse, hold her hand tighter."
Me: …Fine. Years apart and this guy’s sleaze game is just as good as ever.
The nurse at my side wore a mask and squinted like she was smiling at me—I suspected she was laughing, though I had no proof.
He fixed one cavity and it took him a full three hours.
At the end he rubbed his lower back and put the tools down. "Done. I fixed it this time—my back’s about shot."
I gritted my teeth and climbed down from the dental chair, scheming the whole way home about how to get one back.
He couldn’t hog all the perks forever.
Ben—my childhood friend—walked me out himself.
Just as the elevator doors were opening, I said to him, "Your skills aren’t as good as your dad’s."
The elevator opened slowly.
The face of the man I was comparing to Ben grew clearer with every inch the doors slid apart.
Me: …Ben: …Help—how do I recover when my playboy banter with Ben gets overheard by the elder involved?
Uncle Carter looked at me, smiling. "What, did Luke hurt you?"
I was mortified enough to want to dig a whole mansion-sized hole and hide in it. Then he stabbed me with another comment.
"It’s fine—come by tomorrow. Mrs. Carter will make you something good to help you recover."
I swear Ben’s talent for making wild claims might be hereditary.
Like father like son.
2
Luke Carter and I are the textbook childhood sweethearts, except he prefers a different phrase to describe us.
"Pant-sharing buddies."
Back when we were little, I’d treat his living room like a restroom—every visit ended with me peeing everywhere.
Over time, every pair of open-crotch pants Luke owned carried my mark.
After classmates learned about my dark history, whenever anyone asked if I was Luke’s sister, Ben would answer with absolute conviction.
"This is my bro I can squeeze into the same pants with."
With that deadpan line he’d stomp out the spark of my elementary crush, snuff out my awkward middle-school longing, and kill any high-school flirting before it formed.
It wasn’t until I went abroad for a study abroad semester that I finally escaped Luke’s clutches—at least temporarily.
When I returned home from overseas, the first thing my mom said wasn’t "Honey, you lost weight."
It was: "Are your toothaches back? Go see your Uncle Carter at the clinic."
Luke used the excuse of fixing my tooth like a royal decree, and mapped out my entire week.
He even used "convenient for treatment" as cover to turn me into the clinic’s temporary gofer.
Just gofer work. No pay.
Best part: he looked at me like, "You’re so lucky," as if I was being handed a prize.
All I wanted to say was: Do you want this good fortune or not?
But Maya at the front desk was watching with her friendly smile, so I chickened out.
Luke had always been popular with girls—since elementary school, girls would hand him notes after class. By high school, it only escalated.
From folded paper cranes to snack gifts, it never stopped.
What pissed me off most: he never kept any of it—he made me collect it for him.
Those girls’ looks toward me were interesting. They wanted to shred me alive but couldn’t afford to offend me. So they’d be all sweet.
All of their love letters passed through my hands.
Whether any note made it onto Luke’s desk was my call alone.
He even said any letter I rejected he wouldn’t even bother opening.
That made the girls hate me even more.
College didn’t stop it.
He actually put my QQ number in his profile status with the caption:
"All love letters sent from this account only will be accepted."
I couldn’t ask him about it. I was used to being interrogated—he claimed he couldn’t live without me.
I thought study abroad would give me a little peace and quiet, but coming home just dumped me straight into his orbit.
Luke draped my shoulders and solemnly entrusted me to the front desk.
Of course, he announced our "pants-sharing" relationship for good measure.
Maya showed me the computer basics with a smile, then promptly assigned me to be Luke’s assistant.
3
What I didn’t expect was that my first client would be a guy who looked polished but was actually kind of wild.
Polished because he wore a pair of gold-rimmed glasses that screamed "wolf in a suit."
Wild because he sat down and opened a takeout box.
Inside was a dripping, whole tooth.
He said he’d lost it in a fight the day before, that Google said there’s a chance to reattach within twelve hours—was there anything we could do?
In the end, I sent him into Luke’s treatment room and slipped out.
When he came out looking miserable, I quickly added him on WeChat as a follow-up move.
Smooth as a pro.
As an assistant, staying cozy with clients is part of the job.
He accepted instantly.
No idea what Luke told him, but the guy paid up like it was nothing. He loaded a three-thousand-dollar deposit onto his account.
He also got a pile of freebies—from toothpaste to a clinic-branded pillow.
I respectfully walked the client out to the elevator.
Once inside, he beckoned me over with a curl of his finger.
I skittered across to see what he wanted.
Simple request: could I hold his bag? Both his hands were full and he couldn’t press the elevator button.
So I took the bag through the half-open doors, and saw him press "close."
As the elevator shut, he flashed his phone at me—mouthing clear as day:
"Sent you a friend request. I’ll message you on WeChat."
I stood there holding his freebies, bewildered, nodding at the closing doors.
When I turned, Luke’s face was all black.
"Our clinic doesn’t need to mooch off free gifts."
Me: ???
Was he saying I was the one scrounging freebies from clients?!
4
Luke wouldn’t hear any of my explanations. After dissing me, he went back to tending to other clients, not giving me another thought.
I slunk to the front desk and openly scrolled through Moments to kill time.
3K client [Tooth implant]: Like this Moments post and get a chance at a free live cake-making session by a top pastry chef—one winner.
3K client [Tooth implant]: My friend’s shop needs one more like to qualify for a giveaway—can you help me out?
I’d heard of that artisan patisserie—an award-winning pastry chef sometimes comes from Europe for special events. The owner posts perks only on Moments.
Times and prizes are random. All depends on the chef’s mood.
As a total sweets addict, free loot like that was irresistible.
I double-tapped then screenshot the Moments for him.
3K client [Tooth implant]: I’ll tell you if you win.
Me: Great!
Normally I’m not lucky with these giveaways, but around closing time the toothless guy sent me a screenshot.
The grand prize winner? My WeChat name.
"Live pastry experience"—every word was taunting my fragile willpower.
The cake wasn’t the issue—Luke was.
He forbade me from having sweets.
Between a lifelong friend and a free top-tier cake, I chose… the cake.
Childhood buddies are everywhere; free cakes are rare.
I schemed to be clever. I booked a six o’clock dental appointment for a patient with Luke, told Maya I’d be out, silenced my phone, and slipped away.
Time it right and the cake would be mine.
5
Halfway there, Luke messaged asking why I wasn’t waiting for him after work. I didn’t even open the chat.
If he tried to guilt me later, I could always blame it on not seeing the message.
The patisserie was tucked in an office tower and a little tricky to find. After wandering a couple rounds, I located the elevator.
When the door opened, I froze.
To my surprise, the toothless guy was holding the door—looking neat in white.
His shirt buttoned at the top, giving off a weirdly ascetic vibe.
I was confused.
He seemed completely unbothered and casually held the door wider for me. "You made it?"
I answered reflexively, "Yeah."
For some reason, when the owner handed me the voucher, his look at me felt a little mournful.
"To redeem, you need to follow, post a Moments share, and leave a positive review on Meituan and favorite the shop."
I handed over my phone and let him do the whole thing. Likes, favorites, and a positive review—they could write whatever.
The toothless guy strolled over and posed for a photo with my cake.
It must’ve been good timing—there was only one customer in the shop: me.
The "live top-tier pastry" experience meant the chef would make a cake from scratch in front of you.
And the chef was…the toothless guy?!
To be fair, he was actually talented. He turned a simple cake into something with artful presence.
But when he reached for matcha powder on the top shelf, he apparently strained his arm and…a little red stain appeared on his white shirt.
At first I thought it was just food coloring. But the stain spread.
The owner asked slowly, "You okay?"
He shifted, shrugged, and grunted, "Not fatal."
Me: …"Not fatal" doesn’t help my conscience, man. Were you planning for me to eat a blood-stained cake?
So I suggested, "Why not bandage it up first?"
Both men simultaneously turned to look at me.
"Can you?" they asked in unison.
Honestly, I couldn’t.
But the toothless guy shut down my escape route quickly. "A dental clinic is still medical—can you help?"
Me: …Should I tell him that even if it’s a dental clinic, a front-desk worker doesn’t automatically have a medical license?!
But he didn’t give me a chance to refuse. He pulled me toward the back office.
Alcohol, cotton swabs, gauze—everything was laid out on the desk.
I even started to wonder if this patisserie was actually some kind of shady place.
Before I could fully process that thought, a smooth, completely bare back flashed before my eyes and nearly blinded me.
Seeing the pile of cotton and gauze on the table and then looking at the wound on his back, I almost burst into tears.
I faint at the sight of blood—always have since I was little…
Shaking, I dipped a cotton swab in alcohol and poked it at his wound.
The guy’s spine went rigid.
Just as I was about to poke a second time, the office door was kicked open so hard it rattled the whole room.
Then another kick. Then another. A fourth.
The guy muttered under his breath, grabbed an ashtray off the table, and charged toward the door.
If I heard right, he said, “How dare they actually come here.”
But when the door swung agape, he froze again.
Because standing in the doorway was Luke Carter.
He had a broomstick in his hand.
Behind him trudged the patisserie owner, looking like he’d been given up on by hope itself.
I swear on my life that the instant I saw Luke, my first impulse was to crawl under the desk and convince myself he hadn’t seen me.
I was trying so hard to be hidden—how did he find us?
But clearly you can’t reason with a man who’s ready to pick a fight.
I had no idea why Luke was holding a broom, but the moment the door opened his stick flew straight at the toothless guy’s forehead.
He swung and shouted, “Scoundrel.”
It turned out that a lifetime in an ivory tower doesn’t necessarily prepare you for street fights. Still, Luke charging like that wasn’t exactly seasoned fighter material compared to a guy who’d already knocked his own tooth out.
The other man even had the composure to smirk, “Do dental clinics do house calls now?”
I: …Luke walked around the guy and headed straight for me.
I reflexively shoved the cotton swab into his hand.
“I faint at the sight of blood—you’re supposed to do it.”
For a second, Luke looked stunned.
He glanced at my neat outfit, then at the gauze and alcohol on the table, then at the half-naked guy standing in the doorway.
Then he finally understood. “You’re actually treating him?”
I nodded like a good kid.
What else was there to do?
The owner looked exasperated, shrugged at the toothless guy as if to say, “I tried, do what you want.”
Luke’s gaze toward the patient softened with something like sympathy.
He even waved him over, “Come here. I’ll do it.”
The guy pointed at me and said, “I want her to do it.”
Language matters—say “treat the wound,” don’t skip the medicine part. That little character makes a difference.
In the end, under Luke’s silent, watchful glare, I triumphantly poured half a bottle of alcohol on the man’s wound.
I wrapped his chest tight with three whole rolls of gauze, then carefully tied a butterfly knot at the front.
Luke’s mouth twitched as he hauled me out of the office.
Just before the door closed, the guy complimented my handiwork.
“Why didn’t you reply to my messages?”
As soon as we hit the stairs, Luke fired off the quintessential interrogation.
Me: ????
Wasn’t that obvious? If I’d answered him, would I even have come?
I still hadn’t had a chance to ask how he found me.
Luke jabbed a finger at my forehead.
“You posted on Moments that you won something and the shop name was plastered all over it. How was I supposed to not find you?”
Got it. Next time I’ll be subtler.
He flicked my forehead again.
“Use your head next time—don’t lock yourself in a room with sketchy people. It’s easy for things to be misconstrued.”
Me: …Only your mind would go straight to those nasty places.
But when it came to Luke, my confidence always seemed to shrink a little.
I suspect childhood shadows left an indelible mark—Luke had always been “that other kid” in my family’s stories, and questioning him felt wrong no matter what.
Heavy footsteps thudded behind us. The toothless guy stomped up with a box in hand and planted himself directly in front of me.
Luke moved fast and put himself between us, forcing me to tilt my head out to see.
The guy shoved the box into my hands. “You left your stuff.”
Luke reached to take it, but the man slammed his hand down on it. “I brought it for her—none of your business.”
For a moment, if looks could spark electricity, there was definitely a little current between the two men.
It made me suddenly wonder about all those years Luke refused letters—was there some hidden reason? Could he… be into men?
Because the way he and that other guy looked at each other felt oddly intimate.
The man popped the box open, pressed a spoon into my hand. “Eat it. Right here.”
Then, glancing at Luke, he added, “Once it’s out of my sight, it won’t be safe.”
Inside the box was a slice of cake, arranged perfectly. The cream smelled rich; the cake’s sweetness teased my nose. Bright strawberries and golden mangoes stole the scene.
Luke’s temper flared as if set on high.
Two grown men arguing over whether eating sweets would cause cavities—classic.
Luke insisted letting me take one bite would be an affront to his professional standards. The other guy argued that if I didn’t take even one bite, that would be an insult to his craft.
They both turned to me at the same time and said the exact same thing.
“You decide.”
Cradling the box in the sweltering summer air, I shivered. Eat or not—that was the question.
Pressed between their clashing wills, I offered a compromise.
I accepted the cake, took a single bite now, and would take the rest home.
The moment that bite hit my tongue, it felt like a pure current of clarity shot from my soles to the top of my head, like some energy channel opening inside me.
In plain terms: the cake melted, it was richly layered, delicate and light.
To be blunt: it was outrageously delicious.
I swear on my future offspring, cakes of this caliber are so rare I can count how many I’ve had on one hand.
And this flavor—it nagged at my memory. I felt certain I’d had it somewhere before.
So I made what felt like the boldest decision since knowing Luke: face be damned, what’s in your stomach is what counts.
Luke went green.
He pulled me along while trying to snatch the cake.
No way. Not even for all the world—this slice stays with me.
The man left with one last parting line, “A forced fruit tastes sour,” then sauntered off.
That sentence threw Luke into volcanic rage. It exploded over his face like a real mushroom cloud.
“Is it that good?”
I nodded like I was risking my life.
“Why don’t you try it?”
His gaze was heavy.
“You want me to try it?”
I shivered.
Luke grabbed me, pinned me to the wall, towering over me.
“Is that guy so important that you can’t even throw away a cake he gave you?”
I raised the cake, using it as a barrier between his face and mine, and put my body between us as well.
“A thing like this is fate—rare and not to be missed.”
I meant the cake.
But Luke misinterpreted it.
Before I could clarify, his fist brushed my ear and smacked into the wall.
“Fate?”
“Destiny?”
“Not to be missed?”
The cake suspended between us flew in a perfect arc and hit the ground with a sickening splatter, shattering into crumbs.
My heart felt exactly like that cake—smashed into pieces.
Luke glared at me through clenched teeth. “Try being his ‘destiny’ then.”
I chickened out. I couldn’t meet the look in his eyes. So I planted myself there stubbornly, refusing to move so I could die with that cake if I had to.
In the end he practically hoisted me onto his back and carried me off.
Under the streetlights, our shadows stretched and merged—some parts overlapping, some parts separate.
It looked like we were one silhouette, but not completely indistinguishable—just like our relationship.
We looked like we could share pants, but what he actually thought of me? I had no idea.
Every time I started to feel something, he’d douse me in cold water to make the boundaries clear.
Luke carried me all the way to the base of my building—just like when we were kids and he’d walk me to the stair landing, never willing to go another step.
He stepped back, then turned and looked at me standing there, frozen.
“That guy’s not a good person. Don’t hang out with him. I’ll contact Karen about the business stuff—you don’t need to worry.”
I paused, then realized who he was talking about.
Instinct made me defend the man. “How do you know he’s not a good person? He just lost a tooth—you’re a dentist, not a fortune teller.”
Luke hugged my shoulders and pressed my head into his chest.
His voice came muffled from his ribs, heavy as a hammer that made my ears ring.
Maybe the wind was too loud tonight and I was hallucinating, because what I heard him say was: “Don’t make me worry. I don’t like seeing you with him.”
All night I turned Luke’s words over and over in my head.
Was he jealous that I was with that guy? Or was he saying it because he felt responsible toward me—because we’d known each other since childhood—and he didn’t want me to get hurt?
The Crush That Lasted A Decade
It wasn’t paranoia.
In middle school, the rumor mill ran wild that we were dating because I accepted so many snacks from Luke.
He didn’t deny it back then, and for a while I let myself float on that possibility—maybe he liked me.
Reality soon delivered a cold slap: rumors said he was dating the school beauty, Claire Bennett.
Not only that, I actually saw them going home together.
He rode the school beauty’s bike, and she sat on the back, arms around his waist, smiling like spring sunlight.
He even waved at me from a distance, like he was announcing he’d never walk me home again.
Compared to the school beauty, I felt like a pheasant beside a phoenix—utterly useless from head to toe.
After that I vowed to give up any thoughts of Luke.
Luke was a man of action. The next day, right in front of me, he handed the missing-teeth guy over to his father.
His reason: the dean should do the surgery himself for the best result.
Under Luke’s tight watch, the guy stopped contacting me.
Word was the front desk girl simply sidestepped me and took over all communication with him.
From then on, my clients were nothing but married women with kids.
That particular client pool wasn’t large, so my job got painfully slow.
I remained idle until I accidentally scrolled through Moments and everything stopped.
Luke had a conference in the neighboring city in May. Before he left he kept nagging me not to talk to strangers—over and over, even warning me not to go off with strangers.
Especially those who didn’t look like good people, even if they had good looks.
I figured he was hinting at the cake guy, but I had no proof.
That very day, while he was gone, I saw an unusual non-salespost update on Moments: a professionally edited four-photo grid, shot inside a bullet train aisle—a man and a woman.
The male lead was Luke; the female was his high-school first love, Claire Bennett.
Caption: Ran into an old friend. Fate, I guess.
Packed with alumni likes and teasing comments about rekindling old sparks.
Luke’s like was the very first one.
I wanted to call him and ask what was going on, but the second before I dialed, my hand froze.
How do you even ask that? I couldn’t angrily demand, “Why are you taking pictures with someone else?”
He had just warned me against strangers and then turned around and cozied up to his school crush.
It felt like the official burning down the town while telling citizens to mind their lamps.
That evening Uncle Carter asked if I wanted a few days off—clinic was quiet anyway.
Perfect timing; I’d picked up a dinner-translation gig, Luke wasn’t around, so I happily took the days off.
My major was economics and I’d spent two years abroad, so after a quick cram session on the terminology, the translation work wasn’t hard.
Dinner was in the city’s finest private dining room. Besides translating the dishes being a bit tricky, the food was flawless.
Especially the dessert—utterly satisfying.
When dinner ended, I refused the elders’ offer to walk me out, claiming I’d left something in the room.
I slunk back to the hotel, cornered a server and raved about the pastry chef, then sheepishly asked if I could take a boxed starlight cake to go.
Emily, the server, looked trapped but agreed to ask the kitchen.
Her answer: takeout was possible, but I had to go fetch it myself.
Compared to eating it there, this little errand was a joyful adventure.
I cheerfully followed Emily toward the kitchen door.
She said the kitchen was off-limits and couldn’t go in, so she left me at the doorway.
But the moment I peeked my head in, someone yanked my arm and shoved me against the wall.
A man’s breath brushed the top of my head.
His voice was low, like a hook—tingling—and threaded with a little “I knew it” smugness.
“I knew it was you. Finally caught you.”
I swear, I’d never realized a chef’s jacket could read so…ascetic. The crisp white chef coat buttoned to perfection, broad shoulders, narrow waist; he smelled faintly of buttercream.
The sight and the scent hit harder than the first time I saw him at Starlight Patisserie.
He bent down and grinned at me.
“Finding you was so hard. Is that doctor your boyfriend?”
I instinctively shook my head, denying it three times.
“He’s not. He’s not my boyfriend. Don’t get the wrong idea.”
So what had Luke done to him to make this poor guy get such a terrible impression?
The cake guy’s face softened and he smiled in a wickedly charming way.
“Good. That makes me feel better.”
Me: ???
Why would he feel better about whether Luke was my boyfriend?
I suspected Luke liked me, but again—I had no proof.
The guy had one finger hooked around a little box, and with the other hand he beckoned me closer.
“Wanna taste?”
I had zero resistance and nodded, flattering his baking skills with every compliment I could think of.
He guided me out.
“If you want it, come with me.”
When dessert is in front of you, every objection feels meaningless.
Besides, he had left his card at the dental clinic—he couldn’t vanish. He wouldn’t do anything to me…right?
A sleek black motorcycle waited in the alley behind the hotel. It had flowing lines and tiny pinpoints of sparkle on the body.
He stood by it like someone who’d been dusted in starlight.
He tossed me a helmet.
“Get on.”
I swore it was the cake that tempted me, not the guy’s looks. But before I could process it, the helmet was on my head and I was sitting on the back seat.
He grabbed my hand, helping me fasten my bracelet around his waist. Not gonna lie—the grip felt nice.
The wind cut across his back and brushed my cheek.
Neon lights blurred past, the stars trailing behind us.
We stopped at a small grassy knoll behind the housing complex—developer-labeled “undeveloped natural mound,” but basically a little hill.
He led me across wild weeds and an untouched path to the top. He took out a box, held it like a small treasure, and opened it.
Inside was a whole shimmering slice of the night sky.
“I saw you come in. I thought maybe I wouldn’t be able to get this cake out in time.”
“No one’s going to stop you from eating it now.”
Honestly, I’d never felt such internal conflict about a food item since birth.
This cake was more like a work of art. Silky cream dyed an inky night-blue, silver sugar beads scattered like a galaxy, a perfect ring of constellation-like circles, all rounded out by deep chocolate and a rum-smooth finish… I desperately wanted to eat it, but I didn’t even know where to cut. Any bite would scar that perfect surface.
He watched my struggle and threw salt on the wound.
“As soon as you walked into the hotel I thought—if I could bring you here to eat this cake, there’d be no regrets.”
The streetlights blurred into neon rivers, the night sky hung like crystallized starlight, and his eyes shone in the glow.
“This limited edition was made just for you. I wanted to make it for only you to eat.”
That night I must have been half out of my mind, because I stupidly held the spoon and asked:
“Why?”
He answered boldly.
“Because I want to chase you.”
Chase you…chase you…you…
My head detonated.
Before I knew how to react, he pinched my cheek and grinned.
“No need to answer now. Who chases a girlfriend without spending some time?”
Me: …Fine. That laid everything out plain and simple.
He rode the bike back to my place with me. His logic: driving me home would be faster, but walking back would let him spend more time with me.
I’d been single since birth. Even though half my days were spent proofreading Luke’s love letters, hearing someone say those things directly to me was a completely different effect.
I always thought I was immune to sappy lines, but when someone focused on you constantly…of course you feel something.
Also, he was undeniably handsome. Whereas Luke had that sunny boy-next-door vibe, this guy had a dangerously gorgeous face—smiles that hooked like a little lure and could steal your soul.
That night I dreamed of cake for the first time. Sweet, like it tasted of stars.
Three days after the cake guy started dropping me off at work, Luke came back.
He burst into the clinic like his shoes were on fire—as if thirty thousand mutant zombies were chasing him.
He barreled in and eyeballed me up and down, then ground his teeth.
“Where is he?”
I thought he meant the dean and pointed to the treatment room like lightning.
“He’s in there.”
Luke kicked the door open…only to be pulled back out by his father’s hand. Dr. Carter Sr. dragged him out by the collar, scolding him to apologize to the client.
Luke soothed a rattled patient and then came back over, glaring at me.
“I didn’t mean my dad.”
I looked confused.
“Then who are you asking about?”
He ground his teeth.
“That kid—the one who fought and knocked his tooth out.”
It clicked. I told him to calm down and started mashing the computer keys.
“He’s not due for his implant until next month. The appointment isn’t scheduled yet. Why are you in such a rush?”
My gut said Luke wanted to hit me. My brain said he wouldn’t do it here.
So Luke dragged me into the stairwell.
Luke: “When we left, didn’t I tell you not to handle his aftercare?”
Me: “I didn’t. The follow-up wasn’t even me.”
Luke: “Didn’t I tell you not to associate with sketchy people?”
Me: “I didn’t—he has an honest job.”
Luke clenched a laugh at my indignation.
“You getting your wings clipped now?”
Honestly, I was a little angry. Since childhood, whenever I got close to a boy, he stirred up trouble—told teachers, tattled to my parents, or listed that boy’s flaws until I seemed blind.
He gets to receive love letters, but I’m not allowed to talk to boys?
He gets fated reunions with his old flame, but I’m not allowed to be close to anyone?
He gets to chase pretty girls, but nobody’s allowed to chase me?
So I halfheartedly tapped the back of his hand.
"Yeah, yeah, wings are strong now—I'm willing. What are you gonna do about it?"
Luke Carter took my wrist in one smooth motion.
He had surprisingly strong hands.
Luke: "What exactly is your relationship with him?"
I jerked twice but couldn't break free, so I kicked his shin instead.
"None of your business what our relationship is. It's fate, okay?"
Two voices answered at once.
Luke: "No."
The cake guy: "Yes."
Me: …Me: !!!
Where did he come from again?
Evan Brooks sauntered up slowly from the bottom of the stairs, brushed Luke aside, and pulled me toward him.
He slung his arm over my shoulders so casually it felt like he was holding me tight to his chest.
The worst part was he deliberately rested his chin lightly on the top of my head—equal parts intimate and nonchalant.
"Of course it's okay. I was kind of expecting it—I'd need to chase you for a year or two to make it serious."
"But since Zizi already said it, I have no problem."
With that he started leading me down the stairs. As he descended, he waved at Luke lazily.
"Thanks, man."
My whole body froze; I almost stepped on my own feet coming down.
Only after we left Luke's line of sight did Evan and I both look up toward him at the same time.
In that moment we were weirdly in sync, saying the exact same thing.
He: "Run?"
Me: "Run!"
So we ran.
Like, really ran.
He grabbed my hand and we bolted, hopped on his motorcycle and tore off.
I didn't even bother with a helmet and slid onto the back like I'd done it a hundred times.
But when I wrapped my arms around his waist and tucked my face to his back, I glanced out the window on impulse.
Luke was standing by the stairwell window, and his face clearly spelled out four blunt words.
Adulterer and whore.
Yeah, today was not going to end well.
Based on Luke's usual behavior, if he didn't make a scene in front of my parents, he wouldn't be Luke Carter.
The motorcycle wound through several blocks and finally stopped at the mouth of an unfamiliar alley.
Evan propped the bike on its kickstand, stretched his long leg down to the ground, and asked me, "Have you decided where to go?"
My heart was still pounding; it felt like the house was about to implode.
I really couldn't go home right now, so I honestly shook my head.
"No idea. Haven't decided."
He thought for a second, then said he’d come up with a new dessert yesterday and asked if I wanted to be the first to try it.
Of course I wanted to.
Evan made a call and took me to the same Starlight Patisserie we'd been to before. The owner barely paid attention—he mostly kept sneaking glances at me.
He squinted at me and made faces at Evan, who ignored all the hints, gathered ingredients, washed his hands, and pointed at me.
"Roll up your sleeves."
The owner clicked his tongue and muttered something about getting struck by lightning for being a dog abuser, then shook his head and left.
If the counter hadn't been covered in flour, eggs, and vanilla, I would have thought I was watching open-heart surgery.
He kept telling me what to do while he kept his hands clean for the food: tie my apron, straighten his hat, wipe his sweat, loosen his collar.
Tying his apron and adjusting his hat I could handle. Wiping his sweat I chalked up to some absurd metabolism—he got hot in air-conditioned rooms.
But loosen his collar? You're wearing a crew-neck T-shirt. What am I supposed to loosen?
Hand him scissors and make it a deep V?
Still, his skill was ridiculous—he sculpted fondant into a real flower. I was practically hypnotized watching. Even the two girls at the next table, who were supposed to be working, abandoned their cake and held up their phones to record.
By the time the dessert came out of the oven, he'd even made me a milk tea.
The soft, sweet scent filled the little shop quickly.
The girls from the next table, using "learning" as an excuse, cozyed up to Evan—praising his technique and wanting to add him on social media.
But when they pointed, he directed them toward me and disqualified himself cleanly.
"I'm chasing her. If I add you, she'll kick me out."
The owner’s eyes lit up. He shoved the two girls aside and lunged for me.
"Hey, last time he obviously rigged the prize for you, right? Let's make a deal—have him come by once a week for half a day, help me out and build a crowd—"
Evan slapped the owner’s hand away and leaned close to my ear, whispering something in Italian.
My ears stayed flushed until he dropped me off downstairs. He'd said, "Don't rush your choice. I'll wait until you nod willingly."
"My princess."
He probably didn't think I understood, and then didn't expect an answer. But back when I studied abroad in the UK, I took Italian as my second foreign language. I even spent vacations in Italy twice—basic conversation was fine.
I dawdled at the building entrance, not keen on going home yet. Evan sat on his motorcycle watching me.
Suddenly he inhaled, leaned halfway over, and pointed at the corner of my mouth.
"Something on your lip."
I froze and instinctively reached up to wipe it.
My hand had barely lifted when he caught it.
His face moved close; our noses touched. He turned his head half a beat and, before I could process anything, he gently licked the corner of my mouth.
"All clear," he said.
Me: !!!
My face instantly lit up like a fuse had been set off.
My head went fuzzy. The warmth of his breath on my cheek felt like a tiny ember that wouldn't die, burning a bright little hole in my chest.
One hand slid to my waist and drew me slightly toward him. His lips brushed mine—warm, slightly dry—and then retreated, almost not even kissing but maybe, maybe brushing.
His voice was low, half-seductively, half like he was fighting himself.
"Can I?"
At that moment, any sane refusal from me would have required the patience of a saint.
But before I could answer, a different drama erupted: Luke's fist.
I have no idea how long he’d been standing downstairs, but before I could nod or shake my head, he charged forward with a shout, snatched me behind him, and launched a punch straight at Evan's face.
As he hit and yelled, he kept saying, "Stay away from her."
Me: …In my twenty-plus years, this was the first time two men were fighting over me and I felt like the bad omen.
It was strangely complicated: stopping them felt wrong, and not stopping them felt worse.
Throughout the fight, whenever I tried to break them apart, the two of them would instinctively shove me aside like one united force.
Their maneuvering was weirdly efficient: they'd fight and move at the same time. Sometimes Evan had Luke pinned and was punching while sliding to the side. Sometimes Luke had Evan by the collar dragging him while throwing a punch and sidestepping.
After two failed attempts to intervene, I took out my phone and dialed the police.
"If you don't stop, I'm calling someone."
The magic of the word "police" worked—both guys froze, then dropped to the floor and looked up at me.
I put the call on speaker to prove I wasn't bluffing.
The first ring barely sounded before Luke lunged and slapped my phone away.
Evan climbed up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stood in place.
Luke shot daggers at me.
"I'll walk you home," he snapped.
Me: …Buddy, with you walking me home, my house will be blown up the moment I open the door!
Evan offered his hand. "Don't want to go home? Come to my place."
Me: …Dude, please remember the severe crime of staying out all night.
Neither man was reliable at the key moment.
I pointed at Evan. "You, leave."
Then at Luke. "You, leave."
And finally at myself. "I can take the elevator by myself."
They both stayed rooted, silent.
I turned for the elevator. A few steps and I heard footsteps behind me. When I looked back, there was Luke, then Evan, strung together like candied hawthorns on a stick.
Luke's excuse: he didn't trust me to go home alone, so he'd come back to check.
Evan's excuse: he didn't trust Luke to come back with me, so he followed to check.
This time they didn't fight. They just stood there bickering, louder and louder. I tried to calm them and got snarled at.
What I wanted to say was simple: why can't I just get on the elevator by myself if you two are standing here?
When I finally said it, Luke and Evan froze like two squabbling hens suddenly grabbed by the scruff of the neck.
Evan looked a little less embarrassed; Luke went green with rage. His eyes begged me to answer aloud what he couldn't ask.
"Are you an idiot?"
But the fight breaking up and the fear of being grilled at home for dodging work and shutting off my phone all day—those worries eased off a bit.
When I opened the door with my key, I felt calm.
The living room, however, was eerily quiet.
So quiet that the lights were off.
There's a strange instinct to know whether someone is home—it's not always tied to lights. Sometimes with the lights off you can just feel someone is there. Other times the lights are on and the house feels empty.
Right now, standing in the doorway facing a dark living room, my first impression was that no one else was home.
I checked every room and found a note from my mom in the kitchen.
She said they took my brother on a trip during the holiday since I couldn't go because of my internship. They reminded me to lock up and said if I didn't want to cook, I could go over to Luke's to mooch a meal.
Looking at the swept-clean kitchen and the empty pots and pans, I couldn't help but wonder—am I even related to these people?
Of course, once I figured out where my parents had gone, I finally understood why Luke Carter could swagger up the stairs with a bruise on his face and not care.
He must've known no one was home.
Turns out the Carters really were my mom’s kin!
Patting my still-full belly, I decided to take a shower to steady the emotional roller coaster of the day.
Honestly, if I'd known in advance that my own mother would sell me out like this, there’s no way I would’ve chosen this exact moment to shower.
A lot of real-life coincidences are like that—different small factors stacking up and producing an unexpected outcome.
My phone had been off all day, so I felt guilty and didn’t want to open WeChat to see messages from my parents.
Being home alone, I cranked a playlist while I showered.
And after the epic showdown between Luke and the cake guy before going upstairs, I couldn’t stop thinking about whether those two had actually gone home—and I’d even forgotten to grab clothes.
Question: when you’re home alone, you forget to grab a towel and you forget your clothes—what do you do?
This is literally a freebie.
You walk out naked.
I mean, there’s no one else in the house, right?
Of course, that's only if there really is no one.
If there is someone, the freebie turns into a life-or-death situation.
Like right now.
I was completely naked, one hand flipping my dripping hair up, the other clutching my phone blasting music, swaying my hips as I walked out—
—and Luke, who’d been sitting on the couch, stood up slowly.
We locked eyes and froze.
The visual shock made him forget to ask why I was streaking through the house and made me forget to ask why he was in my home.
That night, my scream cut through the summer quiet like an extra-long note, mixed with the crickets in the shrubbery outside.
Luke immediately chucked the T-shirt he’d been wearing across the room at me, then turned his back and pretended he hadn’t seen a thing.
I threw the shirt on and barreled for my bedroom.
But our hallway is tiled.
Everyone knows: no matter how non-slip the tile, if you step on it barefoot with wet feet, it stops being non-slip.
I ended up sliding like a soccer player making a last-ditch tackle and slammed my head against the bedroom door as I crashed inside.
So when Luke hurried in after the noise, what he saw was me face-down on the floor and my pale butt exposed because the T-shirt had ridden up.
While changing, I seriously considered what to do if I had to silence him permanently—what steps for disposing of a body were even necessary.
Luke’s explanation: since my parents couldn’t reach me all day, my mom had dropped a spare key at his place and he’d come to bring it back. He’d planned to hand it to me personally.
Because I get scared when I’m alone, he’d magnanimously decided to sleep in the guest room for the night to keep me brave.
And, the main reason: he couldn’t go back home looking like that anyway.
After hearing his real reason, I plopped on the couch, belly out, one leg tossed over the other, and said seriously, “It’s not appropriate for an unmarried man and woman to stay together.”
Luke’s gaze darkened. I guessed he was torn between wanting to throttle me and wanting to maim me.
I wasn’t being cruel—I just don’t let Luke get away without payback when he slips up.
He didn’t rush to speak. He waited until I was unsettled, then drawled, “Are you sure?”
Alarm bells rang in my head.
From past traumatic encounters with Luke, I knew that if I ever said “sure,” karma would come down hard and fast.
Like when we were little and I broke something, trying to pin it on Luke. He asked if I was sure. Young and righteous, I said yes—and he, single and forlorn, took the blame on the spot. Back home, my parents teamed up on me so hard the homeroom teacher barely recognized me. Lesson learned: when Luke asks “are you sure,” don’t ever say yes.
He kindly warned, “Think it over before you answer,” then waved a brown paper file toward me from the coffee table. “I guarantee you’ll be interested in what’s in here.”
Gotta give it to him—Luke has a talent for maneuvering people. He even nodded toward the window. “It’s about him.”
I caved instantly.
Fortune rolls round and round, and this time the landlord was Luke Carter.
He sat back like a show-off, stuck out his chest and pointed toward our medicine cabinet. “Ouch, that fight took it out of me. Hurts everywhere.”
I bit my tongue and wrapped ice and boiled egg compresses, sprayed half a bottle of pain-relief spray on his arm. He ordered me to stick a medicated patch on his back, then pulled off the shirt I’d just gotten him into.
While I fumbled behind him putting the patch on, he suddenly asked, “You’re not fainting from blood anymore?”
Me: ???
Where’s the blood on his back?
Probably because I kept missing the right spot, Luke ended up taking the patch from me and putting it on himself. Then he spun me around and made me sit on his lap, tapping his own face. “You dressed his wound so neatly that day—why are you so clumsy on me?”
Me: …That’s because he was picky!
I’d bandaged the other guy into a zombie and he’d praised my skills. You look at yourself—if I misplace a patch by a centimeter you act like I’ve butchered you. You’d think I’d done something to you.
I was genuinely curious what dirt Luke had dug up on that cake guy to make him come over in the middle of the night to gloat.
After bossing me around enough, Luke switched tactics. “You care about him a lot—more than other things I’ve said to you.”
I wanted to flip the table.
You showed me his file and try to bait me, and now if I don’t bite you’ll accuse me of not caring about my own life? Left or right, you blame me. Fine—I'll take the scolding.
I never win against Luke; when he got dramatic again, I gave up.
“Will you show me or not? If not, I won’t look,” I said.
He asked me again, slow and drawn out, “Are you sure?”
I almost cried. Just give me a straight answer!
Maybe I buttered him up in the right place, because he finally slapped the file into my lap. “Look yourself.”
I didn’t know what channels he’d used, but the packet contained a full dossier on the cake guy—copied documents: his social media accounts, family background, education, and growing-up history.
Pinned to the copy was a black-and-white ID photo of Xu Hang—clearly from school days, still a little gawky and young, eyes and features not yet fully formed.
Luke sat on the sofa waiting for me to read.
“Today Aunt Zheng called and asked why your phone was off. I told her you’d taken the clinic phone to talk to a client and left it charging at the office,” he said. “Aunt Zheng worried you didn’t have a key, so she gave mine a spare to pass to you.”
“If you really like him and insist on being with him, you should at least know what kind of person he is before deciding.”
I flipped through the papers. If this wasn’t fabricated, the cake guy’s file was wild: his biological father jailed for drugs and still in a rehab center. His mother scraped by hawking goods at a street stall to put him through middle school. From elementary, he’d run with the wrong crowd—disciplinary records, dropping out. It read like the rise of a small-town troublemaker.
But apparently the universe gave him culinary talent. Five years ago he saved up and went to Italy for three years. Two years ago he came back and now worked as a pastry chef in a hotel.
For a second I thought Luke must’ve hired a private investigator. How else could he assemble this patchwork of obscure records so quickly?
He waited while I finished reading, then asked, “Do you still want to look for him?”
I…as much as I hated to admit it, Luke might be right. Beyond whether I wanted to or not, if he hadn't smoothed things over for me today, putting this dossier on my parents’ table might’ve gotten me grounded indefinitely.
Luke basically said the lines my mom would have. “He’s not right for you. Even if you insist on finding someone, you can do better than this—any random guy on the street would be a better choice.”
I don’t know why, but as he said that, Luke’s face started to creepily merge with my father’s image in my mind.
I went back over the documents fast, feeling weirdly irritated. “So you went on a business trip and ended up looking him up?”
Luke blinked. “Not exactly. I had a one-day meeting nearby, and the cake guy’s ID lists a hometown close to where I was. I swung by. Didn’t dig too deep—he was kind of known in that little county, then moved away. Nobody knew where. I asked a cop friend to run a search. Time’s tight so I haven’t dug into his romantic history. Want me to find more?”
“They can probably pull medical records from the hospital system,” he added.
I suddenly had a clue why I’d been single my whole life.
But what did Luke want out of this? He wasn’t going to find me a boyfriend or take me off the market, was he? The thought flitted for a second, then the doorbell rang.
Luke and I both looked stunned.
I asked him—don’t you never order takeout?
He stared at me like, how would you order food when you’re home alone?
But through the peephole stood Xu Hang.
In one short evening I'd experienced the truth of the saying: men's promises are full of lies.
Two guys had promised to walk me home. One barged straight through the door, the other headed to the doorway to catch us in the act.
Xavier must have done an enormous amount of mental preparation before he finally knocked on my door.
The instant the door opened, his face was so earnest and… nervous.
The half-formed, about-to-escape “uncle” was already halfway out of his mouth.
But when he realized it was Luke Carter who’d opened the door, that nervousness immediately froze on his face.
Especially because Luke wasn’t even wearing a shirt upstairs.
I was sitting on the couch, and the scene in front of me felt oddly familiar—like it would be even more perfect if Xavier were holding a broom.
I can’t remember what mood I fell asleep in that night.
I’ve completely forgotten how Xavier and Luke fought it out and finally agreed—each conceding a little—to whatever ridiculous arrangement they made.
In short, after I locked my bedroom door and lay down, the last thought before I lost consciousness was: I want to stick name tags on both their faces—one reading “Chad” and the other “Mason,” with a caption across the top: “Thunder and Lightning.”
Yes. Because Luke absolutely refused to let Xavier into the house, Xavier would rather call the police than let Luke sleep on my couch.
So their final compromise was that I should give up two spare comforters and they’d sleep on the front steps.
I dreamed the whole night that I’d tie bedsheets into a rope and bungee-jump off the eighth floor to go to work.
But the very next morning, the two of them gave me an unexpectedly vivid life lesson.
What happens when three people are involved and no one’s in charge.
When it was only Luke, I could ride in his car.
When it was only Xavier, I could ride on his little motorcycle.
But when both guys stood together in front of me… I took the subway.
Because I had this sinking feeling that if I took one set of keys, the other one would use the remaining key to literally beat the competition into the pavement.
Today the kid who needed a tooth pulled was small, so I chose Animal Planet over Tom and Jerry and Peppa Pig.
Luke glanced at the TV.
“Why’re you watching that?”
I set the remote down, expressionless.
“Not for the animals. To watch myself.”
On the screen, a documentary narrator was waxing dramatic about the animal kingdom: “In a pride of lions there can even be love triangles. Rivals sometimes fight until they bleed. Only by defeating the rival can peace return to the couple. It seems finding a mate is a risky business for lions too.”
Luke: …Apparently the lion fight scene in Animal Planet did something to him, because at lunchtime he skipped work, marched me to the nearby amusement park, and didn’t let me speak on the walk over.
When he finally remembered to explain what the hell he was doing, he sounded weirdly determined.
“I remember your tenth birthday. Uncle Carter said he’d take you to this park, but your family had something come up and Aunt Bennett dropped you off at my place. You sat in my room and cried for ages. You wouldn’t say why.”
“After dinner I coaxed you and you finally told me, but the park was already closed.”
“I always wanted to make it up to you, but never found the chance.”
I held it together for a long time, then couldn’t help blurting, “…my birthday’s not for a while.”
Luke hummed.
“I checked. You’ll be back at school by then, so we can celebrate early.”
I decided to soften the truth a little.
“But it’s not the weekend.”
Luke didn’t get it.
“Isn’t that perfect? Fewer people.”
Me: …I shut up.
Five minutes later, Luke and I stood in an almost deserted amusement park. His face was as dark as the bottom of a pot.
“So you telling me it’s not the weekend means this?”
I covered my face and nodded silently.
Because it wasn’t the weekend, most rides weren’t running.
The carousel that was supposed to be a dream factory looked especially shabby without lights.
The Ferris wheel—rumored to be a confession hot spot—looked clumsy and heavy without the soft moonlight.
The cute little train that was supposed to be romantic sat alone on its tracks, lonely and useless without kids to ride it.
The park was empty; not even staff could be seen. A handful of kids were playing in a free sand pit by themselves.
Luke must’ve skipped lunch duty; folks were probably having their meals. The moms and grandmas had already corralled the kids away from the heat.
I wanted to console Luke but had no idea what to say.
So I just walked around the sunbaked, shade-less park with him while he brooded.
He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, then shut it and quietly walked me home.
When he left, a weird thought popped into my head: destiny is over.
I couldn’t tell you why.
Life alone at home is easy and indulgent.
I showered early and lay in bed scrolling through Weibo. Just as I almost fell asleep, a WeChat call popped up.
The profile photo of the owner of Starlight Patisserie—the pastry shop owner I’d only met once—made my palm go numb.
Half-asleep, I answered.
Thundering music and his dramatic, panicked voice nearly deafened me.
“Girl, help! Only you can handle him!”
The owner quickly gave me the rundown: Xavier had overdrunk, refused to leave the bar, wouldn’t listen to anyone. Could I help make him behave so he wouldn’t sleep on the street?
I almost said there was no point—he’s bigger than me and I can’t move him. But the owner was a master of the guilt-trip. If I didn’t show up, he insisted Xavier would get beaten and left to fend for himself—or worse. He begged me to come, promised to do all the heavy lifting, and even called a Didi to pick me up so I didn’t have to send my location.
Hoping Luke wouldn’t check in at ten p.m., I changed and went straight to the address.
By the time I arrived, Xavier was slumped on a booth sofa.
The owner, seeing me, practically shoved me in front of him and shouted, “Look who’s here!”
I have to admit: at that moment, Xavier’s fist was 0.01 seconds from my face.
He must be a terrible morning person. When he opened his eyes, his expression moved from anger to surprise to disbelief—and then anger again.
The fist, like a little sandbag, curved at the last second, brushed my cheek, and landed on the owner’s face.
“Who told you to call her here?”
Me: …Owner: …
After pummeling the owner, Xavier squinted at me twice, looked around, then suddenly grabbed me and bolted.
The owner shouted after us for a few seconds and then, probably holding his nose, went to pay the tab.
I don’t know how a drunk man can run so fast. I judged him intoxicated because he ignored his beloved motorcycle and used his legs to reach a speed that made him seem windborne.
He darted through crowded streets, leaving noise and traffic behind, and led me through a few twisty alleys until we stopped beneath the city’s biggest Ferris wheel. He collapsed on the ground, panting, then looked at me and smiled.
“Wanna ride?”
I was busy catching my breath and didn’t answer. He curled a finger at me like we were kids; while I bent over to breathe, he slipped his arm around my neck and whispered into my ear.
His breath carried the smell of alcohol and his voice was low—the combination had my whole body buzzing.
“I’ll stay with you. Come on.”
From a distance, the Ferris wheel had always looked tall. Up close you discovered just how high it really was—the bright white neon cut through the moon’s soft haze. Xavier had even chosen a pink car just for us.
The city shrank beneath us.
Only the wind and the sweaty, liquored-up guy beside me felt sharp and immediate.
I looked out the window, and Xavier watched me.
He leaned closer and suddenly, with a soft thud, rested his chin on my shoulder.
“I like you. Don’t ignore me.”
They say women who know how to act cute are irresistible. Well, when a big guy acts cute at the right time and in the right tone, I—playing the woman here—can’t help it either.
Xavier propped his hand on the glass and gently drew me into his space.
“From now on I won’t drink anymore, okay? Don’t be mad. I didn’t know you’d come. I wasn’t trying to fight you.”
“You’re different from them.”
He leaned toward my ear so we could both watch the city below.
“I thought I should chase you for at least six months, but Zizi, I really don’t want to wait.”
He gently turned my shoulder so I’d look at him.
“Will you be my girlfriend?”
The wind outside was kind. The moonlight soft. The city’s neon blinked beneath us. His gaze was focused and warm.
Not to be dramatic, but excluding the fact that he was drunk, the Ferris wheel was a confession-moment template come to life.
Luke and Xavier weren’t even comparable.
In Xavier’s eyes I saw a reflection of myself.
I stayed quiet for a long moment. He waited and finally smiled.
“If you don’t answer, I’ll take that as a yes?”
He squeezed me into the corner closest to the window; he was so close that if he leaned forward a hair he could touch my lips. It seemed like he actually planned to.
At the very instant he bent toward me, I shifted aside.
“Then answer a question for me.”
He buried his face in the hollow of my shoulder.
“Ask. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
I pushed him gently. He didn’t move.
He acted like he was determined to glue himself to me—no matter what, he wouldn’t move.
I let out a sigh.
"Why me?"
Putting his family aside, I really couldn’t understand it. There are plenty of ordinary girls like me on the street—why would he spend so much effort on me?
Evan stared at me for a long beat.
The Ferris wheel began to descend.
He didn’t speak, and neither did I.
The cabin gave a little shudder.
A full rotation later, we were back where we started.
He jumped down first, reached for me, and helped me out.
"You want to know?"
I nodded with absolute certainty.
All my life, outstanding girls were always around Luke. No matter how slow I might have been, I wasn’t so oblivious as to think I was the sort to inspire love at first sight.
Evan took my hand and started walking me home.
Near my building he let go, like he’d made up his mind, and ruffled my hair.
"Let’s make a deal. You’ve got three months until graduation. Wait three months—then I’ll tell you why it’s you. Deal?"
His voice was too soft, and I answered with a small, automatic "Mm."
But then the whole summer passed and Evan never showed up again.
Luke must’ve mentioned that this relationship of mine was doomed before it even started, because my mom—Mrs. Bennett—started using mother-daughter heart-to-hearts to subtly brainwash me about how marriages should be well-matched.
Luke didn’t make a big show of things. He kept his habit of coming by our house once a day to check in, accepting my parents’ warm hospitality like it was nothing.
I remember one ordinary morning. For some reason, Luke seemed irritable when he left the house. I offered to sit in the backseat, but he insisted I ride shotgun.
Then our odd, headless little conversation started—calm and eerie all at once.
Luke: "Are you still in touch with him?"
Me: "Who?"
Luke: "Evan."
I said "oh" and didn’t deny it. Evan didn’t come around much, but he messaged me off and on on WeChat—sending new photos one day, asking if I’d eaten the next—just enough to remind me he existed.
Luke glanced at me.
"You like him that much?"
My gut told me that was a trap; I couldn’t answer lightly. I hesitated, turned my head to the window, and stared out.
Luke let out a bitter little laugh.
"Don’t worry. I won’t tell Mrs. Carter."
Right. You won’t tell my mom, but you can tell my dad, tell your mom, tell your dad. Sure, I’d believe that.
He sighed.
"I always thought of you as that kid who used to follow me around."
He glanced at me. "Now when I look back, you’ve grown up."
Me: …I can’t exactly grow backwards, can I?
Driving, he talked to me like an older relative, dredging up mortifying childhood memories—me running around his house bare-bottomed, that time in elementary school when some older boys crossed grades to hand-deliver love letters because Luke supposedly requested it, Luke snagging the notes before things could escalate, and how I showed him my stack of six years’ worth of letters.
I wanted to stitch my mouth shut on the spot.
Luke and I were two years apart; he started school a year earlier. When he was in middle school, I was in sixth grade. Those middle schoolers really went out of their way—climbed hills and went to the elementary school gate to ambush me with notes, claiming they were from Luke.
The first letter confused me.
The second I rejected.
By the third, I’d gone numb.
I couldn’t even read all the characters and was getting assaulted by forced sentiment. For a long while after that, my school compositions read like contrived romance—because of all those letters.
Luke kept jabbering and I grew increasingly irritated, then for reasons I didn’t understand, I cut him off.
"Don’t overthink the past. And if someone confesses to you in the future, you can’t keep having them add me on WeChat."
He froze, then murmured.
"They won’t have to anymore."
I didn’t catch it.
"What do you mean, won’t have to?"
The light turned green. Luke pressed the gas suddenly and the car jerked forward.
"Actually, Evan’s a decent guy. I checked his social feed later—no messy love history."
I hummed without comment.
"We grew up together. I remember you making me play house—you’d make me be the brother and you’d be the sister." He paused and turned to look at me. "I never knew if you still saw me as a brother later."
My phone lit up. Evan had sent a picture of a freshly baked soufflé—puffed and airy, clearly delicious.
I locked the screen and lowered the phone.
There were times I didn’t want to see him as a brother, I just never said it out loud.
And I never would say it later, either.
Luke smiled.
"Either way, I can only see you as my little sister."
Maybe it was my imagination, but after that awkward talk, our relationship slipped back to square one—neither here nor there. He resumed his routine: picking me up for work, dropping me off, acting like that painfully strange Ferris wheel moment had never happened.
Before classes started, I got an internship offer. The plan was to finish the internship after graduation and then return home.
Then a package arrived that interrupted my plans.
Inside was an invitation to a photography exhibit. No sender’s name. It wasn’t far from the city where I was interning, and it was on a weekend, so I flew over to see it.
It was, on the surface, a pretty ordinary show—theme: city time and change. A small space set up like a maze of corridors. The photographer’s journey across Europe rendered in a fresh, artsy style.
I followed the markers, moving from photo to photo, until one snapped me into place.
It was a picture of a little restaurant. Someone seemed to be fighting outside, so the diners had fled. In the corner, a girl was crouched, eating cake—staring out the window as if all the chaos beyond the glass had nothing to do with her. Near the kitchen doorway, a young man leaned in the frame, looking at the girl—again, as if nothing else mattered.
It would have been a very ordinary photo—if the girl eating the cake weren’t me, and the man by the kitchen weren’t Evan.
He came up beside me and put a small box into my palm.
"That night, I meant to tell you right away, but words aren’t proof. I should bring evidence."
"I left the country alone. I knew no one, had no money, and slept on the streets for months until the owner here took me in to work in the back. You came three times and always ordered something you wanted me to make. I was curious who knew good food like that."
"I tried to come out and say hi but never managed."
"Those were the hardest days for me abroad. If you hadn’t been there, I might have ended up washing dishes for good."
Evan looked at me with steady seriousness.
"I’ll admit it—before I met you, my life was a mess."
"But believe me, after meeting you, I found a reason to live properly."
"You’re different from everyone else to me. You’re the most special."
He shook the paper bag he’d been holding.
"As I said before—you get to choose. I’ll wait for your answer."
"If you want to come home, I’ll go with you. If you want to stay and build a life abroad, I’ve got immigration paperwork ready to submit. Wherever you are, I’ll be there, okay?"
The maze stretched on beneath my feet.
But I felt like I’d found someone who could walk out of it with me.
