To be exact, I grabbed the wrong package.
Normally, to avoid mix-ups I’d even picked a loud, unmistakable recipient name—“Sunny Delivery.”
Six hahs. Loud enough, right?
And yet, in the rush at noon today, I still picked the wrong box.
I opened it back in the dorm and discovered all the earrings and hair accessories I’d ordered had been replaced by a box full of T-shirts.
What the—?
More than that, I wanted to know whose delivery name could make me misread it so badly.
I squinted at the label and nearly choked.
The recipient name on that box read: “Sunny, My Foot.”
Then I checked the phone number—both numbers looked similar to the campus card ones, and both ended in 03.
Ugh.
I was about to call the real owner when I noticed, on every single package, three words stamped loud and clear: “Plus Size.”
I couldn’t help but click my tongue. Dude’s well-developed, huh.
After teasing my roommates about it, I dialed the number on the slip.
The voice on the other end was a nice-sounding boy—and, voice-wise, he even slightly resembled the underclassman I’d had a crush on for ages.
I explained I’d accidentally taken his package and asked when I could return it.
There was a few seconds’ silence, then he asked in a low voice, “You…haven’t opened it, right?”
I paused a beat and lied to avoid awkwardness. “No. I was about to open it and saw the name didn’t match, so I called right away.”
He seemed to breathe easier. “Okay, let’s meet at the Campus Cafeteria entrance in ten minutes.”
He even added politely at the end, “Thanks for the trouble.”
I thought it would be just a simple package mix-up. I was wrong.
Ten minutes later I stood at the east entrance of the Campus Cafeteria, holding the box I’d re-taped, staring, stunned, at the boy in front of me—the “Plus Size” guy.
The boy turned out to be my underclassman crush.
Of course.
His name was Ethan Carter, a year below me, a sophomore.
True to his name, he was clean and clear, like a young poplar tree—slender and upright and absolutely beautiful.
He was the sort of genuinely good-looking guy you’d call a total catch.
I’d run into him around campus many times, but he always felt like one of those people you admire from afar—you could look, but not touch.
This was maybe the first time I’d been this close to him.
The package suddenly felt unexpectedly hot in my hands. I checked, “Is this yours?”
He skimmed the slip and nodded, lips pressed lightly together. “Yes…”
Ethan looked especially good today—in a white tee, like he’d just had a haircut, short black hair brushing his forehead, clean-cut and handsome.
We were about two steps apart. A breeze hit and I could smell him.
A faint, pleasant men’s cologne. Very nice.
But the thought that my long-time school crush might already have a girlfriend—one who’d reached the point of receiving boxes like that—made my chest ache.
I shoved the box toward him without thinking and, sourly, blurted, “Well, wish you and your girlfriend happiness.”
Out of a peculiar jealous streak, I dragged heavy emphasis onto “happiness,” hinting at what I meant.
He froze a beat, then—unexpectedly—answered, “Don’t get the wrong idea. I don’t have a girlfriend.”
No girlfriend?
I’d already told myself, during our phone call, that I’d lied. “Then this box is—” I pointed at the taped-up delivery in his arms.
Ethan didn’t answer right away. Instead he asked, “Didn’t you say…you didn’t open the package?”
I hesitated, then tried to deflect. “That’s not the point. You still haven’t answered my question.”
Silence from him this time.
A few seconds later he awkwardly rubbed his nose. “I don’t know how to explain… Anyway, it’s not how you think.”
I took a moment to process that and then smiled. No girlfriend—good. That meant I still had a chance.
I believe in seizing opportunities. So I went on the offensive.
“Sorry again for taking your package. How about I buy you a meal as compensation?”
To my surprise, Ethan nodded and agreed.
He carried that box I’d opened and resealed, following me into the cafeteria.
It was a little late, so the dining hall wasn’t crowded. I kept telling myself to be brave and slowly closed the distance between us.
Ethan didn’t seem to notice; even when my sleeve brushed his arm, he just held the box and didn’t react.
I chickened out and stopped inching closer.
After circling the serving area, we agreed to try the newly opened sauerkraut fish at the cafeteria.
We sat down.
While waiting for the food, Ethan thumbed his phone quietly. I pretended to look at my phone but stole glances at him.
He had that boyish quality—pure and charming, clean and elegant. Every look at him made the world seem a little brighter.
Sensing my gaze, he seemed a bit nervous, holding his phone in one hand and lightly rubbing his fingertips.
I found myself staring at his hands.
Long, neat fingers, rounded, clean nails—no dirt under them at all. His pinky nails weren’t grown out.
Not surprising—my crush’s details all fit my aesthetic perfectly.
I was lost in it when he suddenly looked up. Our eyes met.
To ease the awkwardness, I pretended not to know him and asked, “Which year are you in?”
He took that seriously and introduced himself, “I’m Ethan Carter, a sophomore.”
I already knew that—even his birthday—September 29, Libra—he liked sour and sweet foods.
But I played dumb and feigned surprise, “Oh, you’re a year younger than me, underclassman.”
Ethan didn’t look surprised. He just said calmly, “And you are?”
“Claire Bennett.”
I worried my name was too ordinary to remember, but unexpectedly he smiled. “It’s nice—just like you. Very sweet.”
Sweet?
My heart lurched. He called me sweet!
He must be flirting with me!
Flush with that almost shameless excitement, I added Ethan on WeChat and tried to learn more about him.
He was truly clean—his looks, his moments online, even his dating past.
He said he’d only had one relationship, and they’d ended cleanly. A total treasure of an underclassman.
But the day’s surprises weren’t over.
Just then a boy walked over and clapped a hand on Ethan’s shoulder. “I forgot my keys. No one’s in the dorm—did you bring keys?”
Ethan nodded and pulled a key from his pocket.
The boy took it and, as he was leaving, glanced at the huge taped box on the table and laughed, “Already here? I’ll tell the others to come back early. We’ll open it tonight.”
I sat there raw for a long moment before the realization hit—Ethan had said he didn’t have a girlfriend, but he hadn’t said he didn’t have boyfriend(s).
It took a few seconds to register that shocking truth, and then I—
Wimped out and ran.
Call it inability to process: I couldn’t accept that the pure, moonlit underclassman I’d crushed on liked men. And not just one—he seemed to be involved with several.
My youth wasn’t just over; it collapsed.
I walked back to the dorm so fast I probably beat my high school race-walking record.
Inside, I tore off my shoes, dove under the covers, and buried my head. What a shocking, sad day.
I never thought I’d be the one eating drama about my crush—especially such explosive drama. A few minutes later my phone buzzed.
It was Ethan.
I hesitated and then let the call go to voicemail. I couldn’t face him—not yet. Then a WeChat message came.
I opened it slowly.
“Claire, I don’t know how to explain. It’s not what you think—one or two sentences won’t do. How about I buy you dinner tonight and explain everything?”
I wavered. Should I go?
I pulled a coin from my pocket and, on a whim, decided I’d let it decide—heads means yes.
When the coin landed and showed the floral side, I flipped it quickly to the other side and typed back, “Okay. Send me the address.”
Who actually lets a coin decide? Of course not—I just needed that split second to figure out what I wanted.
I still had an afternoon class. After that I rushed back, showered, did my makeup, and finally chose a white dress.
Ethan reserved a private room at The Neighborhood Bistro—the third room on the left on the second floor.
Pushing open the door, I immediately saw him seated at the table.
I was surprised to see him leaning back slightly with a cigarette burning halfway between his fingers.
I’d watched him so long and never known—Ethan smoked.
When he heard the door, he looked up and, seeing me, instinctively stubbed the cigarette out. He seemed briefly choked by the smoke and coughed a little.
He stood, waved the smoke away, and pulled out a chair for me.
“It’s a bit late; I thought you might be hungry, so I ordered a few things. Tell me if it’s to your taste; we can add more.”
He handed me the menu as he said it.
Honestly, I was a little overwhelmed—there were already five dishes and a soup on the table. There was no way the two of us could finish it all.
"No need," I said, closing the menu and pushing it aside. I sat at the table, propping my chin on my hand, and looked at him. "You’re really not…?"
I was just too curious.
All afternoon I’d been turning it over in my head and couldn’t guess. If it wasn’t what I imagined, then what was it?
Bought for his roommate?
Then why would his roommate say something like "we’ll use it up together tonight"?
That kind of wolfish talk… I stared at Ethan, waiting for his answer.
His pale face flushed instantly.
He looked away and stammered an explanation. "There’s really nothing—my bunkmate watched a video online saying you can blow this thing like a balloon and fill it with water so it gets huge. We were just curious, so we bought one to try…"
I was stunned.
I’d considered every possibility and never expected such a childish truth.
"Really?"
Ethan sat up straight, his expression so earnest it was hard not to believe him. "Really."
He rubbed the tip of his nose; his cheeks still had that suspicious flush. "It was just a dumb immature guy joke. Don’t think too much about it…"
Okay, fine. I wouldn’t overthink it.
I couldn’t help but smile a little, and the more I thought about it, the cuter Ethan seemed.
And knowing he didn’t have any weird habit at least let me completely relax.
Words slipped out before I could stop them. "So… you’re not, like, an XL, then?"
At my question, Ethan seemed to flush even harder.
This underclassman, a year younger than me, looked unbearably adorable all pink and embarrassed—like the cuddly British shorthair cat I used to have.
I wanted to ruffle his hair.
After hemming and hawing for a bit, he finally spoke in a voice so low I barely heard it.
I strained to listen and caught: "I… I should be about the same…"
My eyes lit up. Hah—little brother, that’s awfully confident.
The next two days, Ethan and I barely made any progress.
Aside from a couple of morning and goodnight messages, we didn’t talk. I tried a few times to start conversations but gave up each time because I couldn’t find the right words.
A week later, my roommate dragged me to sign up for the swim team, and I unexpectedly ran into Ethan.
In… swim trunks.
Guilty—I couldn’t help glancing more than once. My heart skipped.
Damn.
Turns out the underclassman’s confidence wasn’t without reason.
It was too embarrassing to stare, so I quickly looked away.
Since Ethan was there, I decided against making my usual escape.
They say the best chances are the closest ones—plus, you have to wear swimsuits in the water.
I’m fairly confident in my figure.
Slim waist, long legs, perky—walking around in a swimsuit in front of Ethan would be the least I could do for myself.
But just as I changed into my suit and before I could show off, I fell into the pool.
There were a lot of people by the pool. Someone brushed hard against my left shoulder as they walked by.
I didn’t even have time to react before I plunged into the deep end.
Most importantly—I swear I can’t swim!
The second I hit the water my mind went blank. Instinct took over and I started thrashing. In the panic I heard another splash nearby and then a person appeared in my vision.
The face looked a little like Ethan’s.
He swam over quickly and grabbed me.
In a life-or-death moment your survival instinct is powerful; I had no time to think. Almost reflexively I clung to the person in front of me, legs wrapped around his waist, arms locked around his neck.
I swear at that moment I had no idea who he was and no intention of taking advantage—just pure instinct to cling to anyone keeping me afloat.
But "instinct" didn’t seem to be mine alone.
He struggled to carry me to the shallow end and then lifted me out.
When our bodies left the water I was still frozen in that pose, mind completely blank, until I turned my head and relaxed.
It was Ethan holding me—and his face had gone beet red, the skin behind his ears flushed bright.
I knew why he was embarrassed.
I watched him for a few seconds, then leaned close to his ear and lowered my voice. "Calm down, underclassman…"
Wrong Package, Right Crush
He stiffened. His ears were a blaze of red.
"I-I'm sorry, senior," he said foolishly, then carried me up to the deck.
When we reached the edge, there was a murmur of exasperation from the crowd.
I blinked, then realized everyone had probably seen Ethan’s reaction.
He must’ve noticed too; his pale face flushed even harder.
He glanced at me with pleading eyes. "Senior…"
I understood. That was an awkward moment I could help with, so I put on a heroic act.
"No problem, I’ll take the heat," I said, deliberately sinking down a bit to cover him with my body.
Instead, Ethan bent, put me down, and then—bolted.
He ran!
Before leaving he left one sentence: "Sorry, senior. I need to calm down."
The next time we met, Ethan had just come out of the locker room in a white shirt and black pants—the classic black-and-white combo.
Still, I glanced instinctively at a certain spot.
Thankfully, nothing seemed off.
Maybe I’d looked too obviously, because when I looked up Ethan’s expression stiffened noticeably.
Thin-skinned as he was, he nodded at me as a greeting and headed off.
My roommate Maya sighed beside me. "Your underclassman isn’t reliable."
"Wrong." I patted her on the butt. "Shy means there’s hope."
Seeing Ethan’s flushed ears made me think—maybe there really could be something between us.
At least, he had some physical reaction to me.
So for the next while I started going after him more proactively.
Through a friendly underclasswoman I managed to add one of Ethan’s roommates on WeChat.
Yes—the one from the cafeteria earlier.
By bringing breakfast and snacks I won those guys over in a week.
You scratch my back and all that—these brothers complimented me every day in front of Ethan, trying to brainwash him into seeing how gorgeous and understanding his senior was.
A week later I got my chance—one of Ethan’s roommates had a birthday on a Saturday. They invited the dorm for a meal and secretly asked me to come.
Of course I said yes. Me + Ethan + his wingmen—success felt close.
I spent the whole afternoon primping in the dorm—shower, makeup, agonizing over clothes for half an hour. In the end, on my roommates’ advice, I chose a modest but clever little dress.
Before leaving they coached me: "At dinner you have to drink. Two beers and act drunk, got it? When you’re 'drunk' you can say things and get away with it later—say what you need to say, do what you need to do!"
"Right—cripple him and take the prize."
What kind of predatory advice is this?
When I arrived at the restaurant near campus, everyone from their room was already seated. It was a Sichuan place; six guys and two girls in the private room. The other girl, I heard, was the birthday boy Liam’s long-pursued crush.
As I walked in they made a show of clearing space so I sat right next to Ethan.
After a long pause he looked at me. There was a flicker of awkwardness in his eyes. "Senior…"
I nodded—he probably still remembered the pool incident.
This place was famous for their fast service. Before my butt even warmed, dishes started coming out.
Coincidentally Ethan and I were sitting right at the serving window. Every time a dish was brought, he tilted his body toward me and raised his hand as if to shield me.
I couldn’t tell if he was protecting me from spills or just being a gentleman.
Of course there was alcohol. A crate of beer was carried in, and without me asking, Ethan’s roommates cheerfully poured me a beer.
I kept sneaking glances at Ethan. He frowned, as if he wanted to say something, but didn’t.
The wingmen were working hard to set the mood—aside from Ethan and the birthday boy and his crush, the rest kept praising me and pressing drinks on me.
I put on a show of refusing, then reluctantly drank two beers to appear helplessly pushed.
By the third cup Ethan couldn’t bear it. He snatched the glass from my hand and downed it in one gulp.
When he finished he frowned, gripping the cup. "She’s a girl. Why are you guys forcing her to drink?"
My thoughts were on something else—because he drank from my cup, had we, in some indirect way, kissed?
After that anyone who tried to make me drink, Ethan blocked.
But his tolerance wasn’t great. After six or seven beers, his pale face flushed.
Seeing him tipsy, the others stopped pressuring and gave me meaningful looks.
The implication was clear—now that the atmosphere was set, the rest was up to me.
While Ethan turned to grab another bottle, I sneakily gave him an "OK" with my fingers.
The table got livelier.
I kept studying Ethan. Honestly, he’s the prettiest boy I’ve seen in my life—sharp brows, clean features, the look of youthful lips and teeth.
As I looked, Ethan suddenly turned to meet my eyes.
My heart skipped. I pressed my lips together and asked softly, "Underclassman, if some other girl was sitting beside you today, would you shield her from drinks too?"
Ethan tilted his head, thinking seriously. "Yeah."
After a moment's thought he answered casually.
"Oh."
My mood dropped immediately.
So all of that—Ethan stepping in while the food was being served, shielding me from drinking games—wasn’t because I was special. It was just his upbringing, nothing more?
The melancholy didn’t last long. Ethan’s face suddenly appeared inches from mine.
It was sudden enough to startle me.
My breath hitched; I stared at him, stunned. Ethan had one hand on the table edge, leaning over me. “Senior, jealous?”
I was completely frozen.
That face I’d been quietly crushing on for so long was suddenly so close I could see my reflection in his pupils.
He laughed softly, and my breathing sped up.
My heart was pounding.
“N—no.”
Two clumsy words, stammered and awkward.
Ethan chuckled low. Then, in front of everyone, he reached out and ruffled my hair, murmuring, “Of course not. Gentlemanliness is selective.”
My chest thudded so hard I couldn’t speak.
How ridiculous—I'd been the one teasing him earlier, and now that he’d finally made a move, I suddenly backed down?
My brain went blank; I had nothing clever to say, so I turned my face away like a coward.
To hide my embarrassment, I took a sip from my glass.
Ethan picked up his glass at the same time. One of his roommates saw it and the rest of my flying squad started chanting, doing their job: “Do a clinking-cups drink!”
“Yeah, clink cups!”
Me: “…”
Tacky as hell, but the idea of doing it with a junior made my pulse spike in a way I couldn’t ignore.
I glanced at him. The junior who had flirted earlier was now awkwardly holding his cup, ears flushed.
Feeling a little sorry for him, I tried to save him, “Forget it—what era are we in, who does clinking cups anymore—”
But before I could finish, a cup was placed in front of me.
Long, slender fingers curled around it.
I looked up in surprise to find Ethan had hooked his arm through mine and, with his other hand, slid a chair closer.
It was the clinking-cup posture.
So, amid a chorus of hoots, Ethan and I really did clink cups.
It was cheesy, but my heart thundered the whole time.
After the meal, one of Ethan’s roommates suggested we go to Tempo Karaoke. When everyone looked to Ethan for his opinion, he instinctively turned to me.
“You coming, senior?”
I teased him on purpose: “What if I don’t go?”
He nodded. “Then I won’t go either.”
I couldn’t help smiling and changed my mind, “Actually, I’ll go.”
He turned away calmly. “I’ll go too.”
My friends immediately started heckling: “Aww, showing PDA right here!”
But honestly, after that clink, there was this…unspoken something between us.
Commonly called: ambiguity.
That heady, ambiguous buzz really feels like love.
We left the Sichuan restaurant and hailed cabs on the curb to head to karaoke.
The sky darkened, a chilly wind blew, and I hunched my shoulders instinctively. A warmth settled over them.
Ethan’s jacket.
It still had his scent—his body heat and that faint, familiar men’s cologne.
I looked up at him. He wasn’t looking at me; he was staring ahead and murmured, “Put it on. Don’t catch a cold.”
I said nothing but wrapped the jacket tighter around me.
I let the birthday boy Liam take the first taxi with his crush and two other roommates, leaving the four of us behind.
Soon another taxi pulled up. Ethan’s roommates seemed to have a plan; one jumped into the passenger seat, another folded into the back. Ethan glanced at me and took the middle seat.
The back was cramped—especially with that one roommate sprawling and taking up nearly half the space.
Ethan and I were squished together.
Out of modesty I leaned on the car door, but at one turn my head bumped the window with a dull thud.
Not painful, just awkward.
I heard Ethan’s quiet chuckle, then felt an arm slide behind my neck, palm resting on the window.
It was Ethan’s arm.
The taxi was on a bumpy construction stretch. When the car jolted, our hands brushed.
Ethan frowned. “Why are your hands so cold?”
My heart hopped; I answered, “Mm.”
I thought he’d take my hand to warm it, but instead he tucked the jacket tighter around me. “Bundle up. We’re almost there.”
“…Okay.”
I hid the little disappointment and stared out the window.
Thankfully the ride was short. The taxi stopped in front of Tempo Karaoke.
Inside the room, their usual sense of timing showed: the corner seats without the song console were left open for the four of us—Liam and his crush, and Ethan and me.
Ethan and I sat in the quiet corner; two opened bottles of beer sat on the table.
I usually don’t like drinking—beer tastes harsh to me—but in moments of ambiguity, you need liquid courage.
I picked up both bottles—one clenched in my hand, one I offered to Ethan. He accepted and quietly thanked me.
Ethan’s roommates were already belting out songs—accurate trainwrecks of noise.
No one was paying attention to our corner, so I tapped bottles with Ethan and asked softly, “Ethan, what kind of girl do you like?”
He hadn’t heard me.
“Hm?”
He leaned over; warm breath tickled my ear. “What did you say?”
I summoned my courage, turned to him, and imitated him by whispering in his ear, “I said—what type of girl do you like?”
My palms were sweaty.
Before he could answer, I blurted, “Like, what about someone like me?”
Ethan froze.
I waited anxiously. Then he smiled. “Very much. But I’m afraid someone like you is beyond me.”
Suddenly it was my turn to be dumbfounded.
I stared at him, trying to laugh it off. “You’re joking, right?”
He wasn’t joking. “Not at all.”
I looked at him for a long time.
In his dark eyes I saw only me—he was smiling, watching me.
It hit me in a way I hadn’t expected. Fingers buzzed with a brave, tipsy courage and, before I could overthink it, I shoved him back so his shoulder hit the wall.
I leaned in to kiss him.
About ten centimeters away, Ethan cut me off.
“They’re all watching.”
He said it with a smile; amusement glinted in his eyes.
Heat fled my cheeks; I started to sit up, but he pulled me down.
In the next instant he yanked his jacket we’d been sharing over our heads, hands propping it so it draped over us.
Everything went dark.
In that darkness every scent sharpened. His cologne calmed me. Then, guided by instinct, he kissed me.
In the blackness, I clenched his sleeve. His lips felt soft and my whole body trembled.
Ethan kissed me.
At first I thought it would be a light, fleeting kiss—but it wasn’t.
His mouth brushed mine, then his tongue gently parting my lips slid in.
In the dark every sense was magnified. Our mouths moved together; I gripped his shirt.
Even though it wasn’t my first kiss, my heart fluttered out of control.
The kiss lasted. Too long, almost making me short of breath. My fingers loosened; I pushed him lightly on the chest.
Ethan reacted quickly, releasing me and pulling the jacket off our heads.
By the time the kissing had ended, I realized I’d been leaning against him; I still hadn’t caught my breath and met the roomful of stares.
Everyone hooted and cheered.
My face burned, but with a new boldness I squeezed Ethan’s hand and waved at them: “What’re you looking at—never seen a couple make out?”
Laughter and cheers filled the room.
Ethan and I exchanged a look. He didn’t say much, only smiled; the wine and that smile mixed together in his eyes.
The party wound down and people split into three groups.
Liam and his crush, Ethan and me, and four leftover singletons.
A birthday dinner and—suddenly—two boys from the dorm were no longer single.
Ethan walked me back to the dorm. Riding the buzz, I held his hand and swung it a little.
He was about to hail a cab when I stopped him. “Want to take a walk instead? It’s not far.”
He paused, then nodded.
We watched Ethan’s four roommates and Liam’s cab pull off in the opposite direction.
I blinked. “Where are Liam and the others going?”
Ethan smiled and said two words: “Hotel room.”
“Jesus—”
I managed those two words after holding in a flood of feelings.
Their pace was quick…then Ethan tightened his hand around mine and said softly above me, “Don’t worry. I won’t be like him.”
I froze.
I chewed my lip but couldn’t bring myself to say what I wanted. I nodded, pretending to be reserved.
Fine. There’s time. Take it slow.
We walked back with his jacket on my shoulders, hands entwined, taking our time.
Young love is all about romance; even doing nothing but walking hand in hand and seeing that profile I’d missed makes my heart race.
It was wonderful.
Time flew and before I knew it we were at the campus gate.
Ethan walked me to the bottom of the girls' dorm.
He let go of my hand. I turned to him. “I’m heading in.”
“Okay.”
He said that small, simple word with the same soft smile and warm eyes.
But that single “okay” left me oddly disappointed.
I forced a smile and was about to head upstairs when Ethan's low, surprised whisper came from beside me: "Shooting star!"
Shooting star?
I almost reflexively looked up, but the moon was bright and the stars sparse—there was no shooting star in sight.
I was about to tease him for being mistaken when I turned and, without meaning to, saw Ethan suddenly lean in.
His warm lips brushed lightly against the corner of my mouth.
He chuckled softly, mischief dancing in his eyes like a kid who'd just pulled off a prank.
I froze for two seconds, then scoffed, "Ethan, that trick is way too cheesy."
Clearly something straight out of a twenty-year-old teen drama.
He just raised an eyebrow, unfazed. "New trick or old trick, if it works, it's a good trick."
Alright, fair enough… I was about to say more when Ethan reached up and ruffled the hair on top of my head, his voice low: "Go on up. Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
The moon was beautiful that night. It was the first time Ethan and I kissed, and the first time we said goodnight to each other face to face.
21 In reality, no one really gave our relationship much of a chance.
My roommates—always ready with commentary—figured I was just after my underclassman's body, that I wanted to toy with him, have a little fun.
There was some truth to that and some not.
Yes, I was attracted to him. But my feelings were real too.
Still—our relationship was more stable than people expected. Ethan seemed like the perfect boyfriend: he avoided any ambiguity, answered every call, was gentle and attentive. Even when I'd snap at him for no reason during my period, he'd just laugh and soothe me.
Slowly, my heart softened.
If there were flaws, one was obvious—Ethan was too reserved. We’d been dating half a year, but we'd kissed so few times it was laughable.
That night when he'd drunkenly thrown his jacket over my head and kissed me, he seemed like a different person.
I was impatient. At first I tried to act coy, but I couldn't keep it up—so I planned to make the first move.
About six and a half months into dating, I invited Ethan out to a movie on purpose.
The movie didn't matter. What mattered was my outfit: a super short skirt and sheer black tights—unstoppable.
I was convinced I could break through his shell.
I picked a slow movie during a dead time at a nearly empty theater.
Sure enough.
When we went in, there wasn't another soul. The theater lights were off and ads scrolled across the big screen. Ethan took my hand and led me toward the back row.
Halfway there, I pretended to twist my ankle and let out a startled cry, falling into his arms.
Ethan reacted instantly, catching me.
He actually caught my hand.
I scowled and shifted my weight, deliberately sliding my grip up his forearm so his hand would land on my waist. Finally, correct placement… I leaned my head against his chest, feeling his body stiffen, and said pitifully, "Ethan, I twisted my ankle…"
22 The little trick was my careful plan, but I couldn’t have predicted how it would end.
The moment his palm settled against my waist, before I could tease him further, his hand trembled—and suddenly he let go.
Half my weight was on his hand; when he released me, I tumbled to the floor.
My ankle actually nearly gave out.
What the—? Ethan looked just as shocked. He hurriedly helped me up. "Are you okay, Claire?"
Yes, after six months of dating, this guy still called me "Claire" in that serious, proper way when he was nervous.
Sometimes I couldn't reconcile this shy, awkward boy with the bold underclassman who'd kissed me senseless at the karaoke.
I sighed and grabbed his arm to stand. "I'm fine. Let's watch the movie."
Plan failed, but the movie was good.
It was moving—I cried my eyes out, snot and all.
I had planned to lean on Ethan for comfort and sneak a kiss. Instead, when I looked up at him with tearful eyes, he pulled a tissue from his pocket and wiped my nose.
He wiped my nose!
Totally broke my defenses.
23 The movie ended.
I dawdled behind Ethan as we left the theater.
It was 10:20 p.m.; our dorm locked at 11. Normally the taxi ride back to Lakeside University took about half an hour. With traffic, it could be forty minutes or more.
By the clock, we should've been cutting it close.
Outside, Ethan kept glancing at his watch and urgently hailing a cab.
I cleared my throat and asked, playing it up, "Ethan, do you think we'll make it…?"
Before I could finish, he flagged down a taxi. "Don't worry, we'll make it."
He shoved me into the cab and climbed in after me.
I: "…"
Heaven smiled—the cab hit traffic almost immediately.
I pretended to check my phone and tugged his sleeve with mock despair, "Ethan, it looks like we won't make it. If we don't, maybe we could just find a hotel tonight…"
"Don't worry, we'll make it."
He held out a hundred and shoved it at the driver. "We're running late. Can you take a shortcut?"
The driver took the money readily. "Don't worry, I'll get you there on time!"
Then began a frantic dash through side streets and shortcuts.
Finally, at 10:50, the driver delivered us to the school gate, exactly on time.
Ethan beamed. Rarely did he take my hand, but now he grabbed it and hurried toward campus. He kept murmuring, "Don't worry, sis. If we walk fast, we'll be at your dorm in five minutes."
I forced a smile. "Okay."
What else was there to say? Ethan seemed genuinely pleased. Around my roommates he'd sometimes call me "Sweetie," nervously he'd use "Claire," but when he was relaxed he called me "sis"—it had a little puppyish ring to it.
Truth was, he was only half a year younger than me.
24 Thanks to Ethan, I managed to get back to the dorm before curfew.
When I opened the door, my roommates were stunned.
"How did you get back? Is Ethan useless or are you unlucky?"
These women never beat around the bush.
I closed the door, exhausted. "Maybe… I'm just unlucky."
Under a barrage of questions, I recounted the night's events in detail, which ended in a round of raucous laughter.
Then the six of them shut the door for a strategy session: Operation Win Ethan.
The most experienced of the bunch, Lana, declared, "What's better to secure a guy than a trip? New scenery, cozy nights, a little wine…"
We all agreed. They planned a trip for the upcoming National Holiday.
25 The plan went smoothly. Ethan never refused my requests.
I told him I wanted to travel over the holiday, and he didn't hesitate to agree and started arranging the itinerary.
Where we went didn't matter to me—scenery is scenery—but my goal was to get closer to him.
When the holiday arrived, Ethan and I set off.
After a long day of travel, night finally came. I refused Ethan's choice of hotel and searched until I found a small privately run inn. Cozy enough.
When we arrived, Ethan frowned like he wanted to say something. Before he could, I sent him out: "Ethan, I want the ice cream from that shop. Can you go get me some?"
I tugged his sleeve in a near-pleading tone.
"Okay."
While he went, I slipped into the inn and quietly pressed a hundred to the front-desk girl. "Please—when my boyfriend comes to book, tell him there's only a room with one big bed left."
She looked confused with the money in hand. "A couple's room?"
I hurriedly corrected, "A double bed. Just say there's only the double left, okay?"
Footsteps approached—Ethan returned.
The desk girl expertly pocketed the cash and acted normal. "What kind of room would you like?"
Ethan, all earnest, said, "Two single rooms, please."
"Sorry, sir, no single rooms left."
He blinked, frowning. "Then… a twin room?"
He even glanced at me for my opinion.
I pretended to be coy and nodded yes, but shot a quick glance at the desk girl. She waggled her eyebrows and shook her head, whispering, "Sorry, there's only one double left."
Ethan's brow furrowed deeper. Just as it looked like he might walk away, I interjected: "Fine, that'll be fine."
I gave a little toss of my arm. "I'm tired—let's take this for now and switch tomorrow."
Ethan hesitated for a moment, then agreed.
Before we left, the desk girl gave me a secret thumbs-up.
I raised my eyebrow at her.
If I couldn't win Ethan, I'd eat my words.
26 We went into the room.
I frowned without meaning to.
Small inns can be sketchy, and this place's decor left a lot to be desired. It was clean enough but hardly comfortable.
Not important.
I glanced at Ethan. My gaze traveled along his handsome face—chin, Adam's apple, collarbones… and then lower. I quickly snapped my eyes away. Too risky to stare.
I shut the door, changed into slippers, and sat on the edge of the bed watching him.
My underclassman seemed nervous—fidgeting with his sleeves and buttons—but he wouldn't come any closer.
Honestly… I was freaking out a little too.
But if I wanted to win over this stubborn underclassman, I had to psych myself up. So I hustled into the bathroom and started showering as fast as I could.
The little motel actually had a vibe. The bathroom door was frosted glass—nobody could see details from the outside, but the light showed faint, blurred curves.
I swallowed. This was humiliating. Did that mean Ethan could see me showering?
Half mortified and half thrilled, I finished my shower in a rush.
When I stepped out, though, Ethan was already in the corner of the room—who knew when he’d slipped over there—facing away from the bathroom like he was following some noble code of “don’t look, don’t touch.”
Good grief. A living, breathing modern-day Laojun.
I took a deep breath and sat on the edge of the bed.
Hands braced on the mattress, torso leaning back a little, legs crossed—I tried to strike what I thought was a sultry pose like in the dramas.
Right—I was wearing the white bathrobe I’d brought.
“Ethan…”
I called softly.
He turned obediently, but froze the moment he saw me.
Our eyes met.
He didn’t blink. If I wasn’t imagining it, something like heat flared in his gaze.
He stood in the corner, Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Come here.”
Ethan actually came.
I was nervous too, but I worked up the courage to lift my leg a little. “Ethan, my leg hurts…”
He frowned slightly, but started rubbing my calf like a dutiful little shepherd.
His hands were warm—his fingertips hot.
I tipped my chin up. “Sit down.”
Ethan sat on the bed and kept massaging my calf.
But the whole “noble, not-looking” act was just for show.
Before long, his hands drifted from where they’d started… and that’s how Ethan and I began a six-day “home away from home.”
It’s embarrassing to admit, but we hardly left the room those six days.
On the last day, I couldn’t take it anymore and dragged Ethan out to walk around. I also bought some local goodies to mail to his roommates and mine.
At the post office, I suddenly remembered that mistaken package incident.
Funny thing—those misdirected deliveries actually played matchmaker for Ethan and me. If we hadn’t grabbed each other’s packages by accident back then, I probably would’ve been nursing a one-sided crush on him forever.
Holding his hand as we left the mail center, I asked casually, “Why did you pick that delivery name anyway?”
I’d been using “Sunny Delivery.” He’d used “Sunny, My Foot.”
What a twisted fate.
I thought it was just a throwaway question, but Ethan reacted oddly.
He stiffened for a moment, then, after a long pause, said slowly, “What if I told you… I did it on purpose? Would you believe me?”
On purpose?
I blinked, a little stunned.
He sighed and led me into an ice cream shop on the corner.
After ordering two sundaes and sitting by the window, he rubbed the tip of his nose. “Actually, I liked you for a long time, but I didn’t know how to get to know you. My roommates kept giving me ideas. One of them was to look up your delivery name and make mine similar.”
He took a spoonful of ice cream and went on, “They dug up your recipient name and convinced me to change all the names on my delivery addresses to the same. The plan was for me to ‘accidentally’ pick up your package and use the ‘returning the wrong package’ excuse to meet you. But who knew…”
Who knew their bored dorm hijinks would lead to me grabbing the wrong big, ridiculous toy package.
Fate really plays games.
I was still processing it all.
“So…”
I blinked at him. “You really liked me for that long?”
He nodded, earnest and certain. “Absolutely.”
From what he’d just told me, I realized something else—my little allies in the dorm weren’t actually won over by my breakfasts. They’d been Ethan’s co-conspirators all along.
All this time I’d thought I’d been the one making the moves, but he’d been quietly watching me too.
We sat in the ice cream parlor a long time and talked.
A lot.
Like how those “chance encounters” that had made me notice him again and again weren’t chance at all.
Ethan wiped a smear of ice cream from the corner of my mouth with his fingertip, sounding helpless.
“Claire, there aren’t that many coincidences in the world. Most of it was me scheming.”
I pushed his hand away and pinched the back of it—not too hard. “Why didn’t you just tell me? You made me pine after you forever.”
He laughed and scratched his head. “Around you, I always felt a little insecure.”
That line hit me.
I nodded and fought a smile. “Fair enough. After all, I’ve got a great figure and I’m—”
Halfway through my joke about my looks, I realized I’d said the wrong thing and shut up.
When I’d mentioned my “figure,” Ethan’s gaze dropped lightly to below my collar, growing deeper. He narrowed his eyes and his Adam’s apple bobbed.
Oh no.
My stomach dropped. When Ethan frowned slightly and half-closed his eyes, that was his sign—he was getting worked up.
Sure enough, he tapped his fingers on the table a couple of times, then grabbed my hand. His palm was hot.
“Claire…”
When he got serious, he liked to call me Claire.
“I think I’m… overheating.”
He stared at me, deliberately emphasizing those last two words.
My heart did a flip. I shoveled a big spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. “Eat this. Cool down.”
He obeyed, eating spoonful after spoonful until the sundae was gone.
But when the bowl was empty, he set down the spoon and tugged me up.
I blinked. “Where are we going?”
“Back to the room.”
I yelped as he squeezed my hand. “Back to the room for what…”
Ethan wrapped me in his arms and blew warm breath in my ear. “Guess.”
“…”
Rogue!
(The End)
