Yan Zimi was so nervous he didn’t dare move a muscle.

Right now, everything in his sight seemed to expand and slow down in his mind.

He thought he saw Pei Huan open his eyes briefly, but they quickly shut again.

Then, after grabbing hold of Yan Zimi’s hand, Pei Huan turned over and lay down facing him.

“Can’t sleep?”

Pei Huan’s eyes remained closed, his voice deep and hoarse.

Yan Zimi instinctively held his breath, afraid of disturbing Pei Huan.

Pei Huan was holding his hand so tightly that he couldn’t pull it free.

Yan Zimi was also thinking in his head about what the best answer to this question should be.

Should he respond with “Can’t sleep,” or maybe “No”? Or perhaps he should ask Pei Huan, “Why are you awake?”

But it seemed that Yan Zimi had missed the timing to respond, as Pei Huan had already fallen back asleep.

This time, Yan Zimi didn’t dare call out recklessly. To confirm if Pei Huan was truly asleep, he called his name directly: “Pei Huan.”

To be certain, he waited more than ten seconds before calling again: “Pei Huan?”

There was no response from Pei Huan.

Finally, Yan Zimi’s racing heartbeat settled back to normal.

Pei Huan’s hand had also relaxed, and Yan Zimi carefully, slowly, withdrew his own hand, lying down properly.

This whole ordeal had given Yan Zimi quite a scare, and he no longer dared to mess around. He returned to his own space, carefully gathering himself to fall asleep.

Now, he could rest well—his nerves were exhausted.

The next day, Yan Zimi woke up naturally, much earlier than usual.

Almost as soon as dawn broke, he was awake.

Sunlight from late autumn streamed through the gap in the curtains, and the first thing Yan Zimi focused on when he opened his eyes was Pei Huan beside him.

But as he made the slightest movement, he realized there was something on his waist.

Looking down, he saw it was Pei Huan’s hand.

In an instant, Yan Zimi was fully awake.

At this moment, he was lying with his back to Pei Huan, who was facing him.

Pei Huan’s hand rested on him lightly, almost as if it was barely placed there—just enough that with the slightest movement, it would slip from his waist.

Yan Zimi slowly inhaled and exhaled, warmth flooding through him.

He wasn’t in the same spot he’d fallen asleep in last night, and neither was Pei Huan; both had shifted a bit toward the middle, filling up what was once a space wide enough for a third person.

Yan Zimi thought that if he leaned back just a little, he might be able to feel Pei Huan’s chest.

But he didn’t dare.

Right now, he didn’t even dare touch Pei Huan’s hand.

It was fine just like this; he didn’t want to do anything else—what if Pei Huan woke up?

Staring at the wall, Yan Zimi mused that if the ceiling had a bird’s-eye view, would he and Pei Huan look like they were sleeping in each other’s arms?

After thinking about it for a moment, Yan Zimi chuckled at himself, feeling these little fantasies were completely unnecessary.

He figured that even if Pei Huan did wake up and see them like this, he’d probably just pull his hand back without a second thought.

Yet, despite it all, Yan Zimi couldn’t help but feel a tiny spark of happiness in his heart.

“Go back to sleep, just sleep.”

When Yan Zimi woke up again, Pei Huan was no longer by his side. Startled awake, he saw Pei Huan sitting at his desk.

Sitting up in bed, Yan Zimi heard Pei Huan say, “Awake now.”

Yan Zimi mumbled, “What are you looking at?”

Pei Huan replied, “Your Level 4 exam paper.”

Still a bit groggy, Yan Zimi asked drowsily, “Any guidance or advice, Teacher Pei?”

Pei Huan said, “Why is your handwriting so cute? Every stroke is so precise.”

Yan Zimi replied, “Aren’t all characters written stroke by stroke?”

He glanced at his phone and saw it was already past nine in the morning.

Across the room, Pei Huan had already put on the clothes he’d dried the night before.

Yan Zimi asked, “Want to go down for breakfast together?”

Pei Huan shook his head. “Got something to take care of, need to head back to campus.”

Yan Zimi let out a disappointed “Oh.”

Pei Huan set down the exam paper and walked over, giving Yan Zimi’s slightly messy hair a gentle ruffle. “We’re not taking the high-speed train this afternoon; we’re flying instead.”

Still drowsy, Yan Zimi looked at him. “Why?”

“They figured out flying is easier,” Pei Huan explained. “I’ve got to go pack my things,” he added with a smile, “but what’s with this sleepy look after waking up?”

Yan Zimi blinked, a bit dazed. “What look?”

Pei Huan didn’t respond, only pinching Yan Zimi’s cheek gently. “Thanks for letting me stay, junior.”

Disappointed they couldn’t have breakfast together, Yan Zimi murmured, “No need to be so polite, senior.”

Pei Huan didn’t seem in any rush to leave. After pinching Yan Zimi’s cheek, he playfully touched his chin and adjusted his bangs, as if Yan Zimi’s face were a fascinating object to explore.

Still a bit sleepy, Yan Zimi leaned in willingly, his eyes half-closed and his lashes fluttering lightly.

Pei Huan chuckled, suddenly feeling like he could stay here, holding on to Yan Zimi and never leave.

But before long, with Yan Zimi’s bangs neatly back in place, Pei Huan withdrew his hand, slipping it into his pocket. “I’m heading out.”

Yan Zimi replied, “Alright.”

And with that, Pei Huan took a drawing Yan Zimi had made of him, almost as a keepsake.

Dragging his heavy limbs, Yan Zimi followed Pei Huan to the door, saying goodbye and wishing him luck. He also added, “Let me know when you arrive in City B.”

“Alright,” Pei Huan waved his hand. “If you’re still tired, go back to sleep.”

Yan Zimi nodded firmly.

After Pei Huan left, the room suddenly felt empty.

Passing by the wall with the paintings, Yan Zimi glanced at the blank spot left behind, pursing his lips.

He went to the bathroom, carefully placing Pei Huan’s toothbrush in its box and storing it in a drawer, uncertain if its owner would ever use it again.

As he splashed water on his face, a thought suddenly struck him.

Without even drying his face, Yan Zimi rushed back to his room and grabbed the English exam paper from the desk, flipping toward the back.

A few days ago, he’d scribbled Pei Huan’s name several times on it—had Pei Huan seen…

Yes, Pei Huan had seen it.

But what was written there…

Yan Zimi looked at the writing on the paper and chuckled softly.

After the five lines where he’d written “Pei Huan,” a line in Pei Huan’s own handwriting appeared, penciled in:

“Yan Zimi, why are you writing my name?”

Pei Huan’s writing was strong and fluid, a contrast to Yan Zimi’s neat, carefully formed characters.

Yan Zimi took his phone, snapped a photo of the exchange, then picked up a pencil and added a line beneath Pei Huan’s: “What do you think?”

Of course, this reply was something Pei Huan would never see.

Afterward, Yan Zimi went back to the bathroom to finish washing his face, and just as he finished, Lin Jie called.

The moment Yan Zimi answered, Lin Jie’s voice burst through. “Why did you change your game name? What does ‘fire’ even mean?”

Yan Zimi replied, “Lost a game to someone, so I had to change it.”

Lin Jie asked, “So you’re just gonna use that name?”

Yan Zimi replied, “Yeah.”

Lin Jie chuckled, sounding puzzled. “Something’s off, Zimi. This isn’t like you at all. What’s up with this name? What does it mean?”

Yan Zimi didn’t hold back, keeping it brief. “Pei Huan.”

Lin Jie practically shouted, “Whoa! No way!”

Sounding completely shocked, Lin Jie continued, “I knew something was up with you lately—changed your WeChat profile picture, even the game name. What’s the story? Did you actually land your idol?”

Yan Zimi replied, “No, we’re just friends.”

“Friends?” Lin Jie’s tone was full of laughter. “Why not change that ‘friends’ status, then?”

“Not possible,” Yan Zimi said. “He’s straight. Really straight.”

Lin Jie asked, “Did he actually tell you that?”

Yan Zimi sighed, “Some straight guys you can just tell, no need for them to say anything.”

Lin Jie instantly understood. “Straight guys are tough to handle.”

At that moment, Yan Zimi’s phone vibrated. He only intended to glance at it, but upon seeing it was a message from Pei Huan, he switched to speakerphone.

fire: “You’re too flashy; you should get a bag to carry those paintings.”

Yan Zimi replied, “It’s fine. Let everyone see how cool the handsome guy from the math department is when he shoots hoops.”

fire didn’t let up: “That works, and you can also mention that the painting was done by the handsome guy from the art department, Teacher Yan.”

Yan Zimi couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Whoa, Zimi,” Lin Jie exclaimed on the other end of the line, surprised again.

Yan Zimi asked, “What’s wrong?”

Lin Jie said, “You guys even have couple names now?”

Yan Zimi asked, “What couple name?”

Lin Jie laughed, “Claw Claw, hahaha! Is this your crush?”

“What’s with ‘Claw Claw’…” Yan Zimi paused. “Send me a screenshot.”

Lin Jie quickly sent it over. On the game page, Pei Huan’s avatar was on the left, and on the right was his new name, “Claw Claw.”

Yan Zimi bit his lip.

Lin Jie asked, “Are you two really not a thing?”

Yan Zimi wanted to say yes, but the truth was, “No.”

“Claw Claw, hahaha! That’s so cute! How did he even come up with that?”

Yan Zimi smiled a little, “I don’t know; maybe it came from the inspiration in his name.”

Lin Jie raised an eyebrow, “Is he really straight?”

Yan Zimi replied, “Really.”

Lin Jie sighed, “What’s up with straight guys these days? They’re all like this. Ugh, it’s so annoying.”

Yan Zimi didn’t like how Lin Jie was talking about Pei Huan and shot back, “He’s different.”

“Alright, alright,” Lin Jie laughed.

Lin Jie had come over to borrow an account that morning, so Yan Zimi missed the chance to notice Pei Huan’s new game name right away.

But he had something else to do.

After hanging up, he opened Pei Huan’s chat interface and asked, “Why didn’t you tell me before changing your game name?”

Pei Huan replied, “Did you tell me when you changed your avatar?”

Yan Zimi was momentarily at a loss for words.

Pei Huan added, “I’ll keep you company for a day.”

Pei Huan replied, “So that someone doesn’t say I’m bullying him.”

Yan Zimi couldn’t help but smile, “Who would dare to say that?”

Pei Huan shot back, “Who else could it be?”

Yan Zimi asked, “What if I keep using it?”

Pei Huan replied, “I’ll use it as long as you do.”

Yan Zimi felt like cursing him out.

Straight guys were so annoying.

But despite that, he still texted, “Make sure to tell me when your flight lands this afternoon.”

Pei Huan responded, “Sure thing, Teacher Yan.”

Even though Pei Huan hadn’t given him any specific information, Yan Zimi downloaded a flight tracking app and checked the flight Pei Huan would be on that afternoon.

So during the first class in the afternoon, Yan Zimi occasionally refreshed the app to check where Pei Huan was, whether the weather there was sunny or cloudy, and whether it was colder or warmer compared to City B.

Just a few minutes before the plane was about to land, class ended, and Yan Zimi leaned over his desk, continuously refreshing.

Every refresh made the time pass a little bit.

While he was refreshing, his phone screen suddenly changed.

Pei Huan was calling.

Yan Zimi quickly answered the call and held the phone to his ear.

“Why did you pick up so fast? What are you doing?” Pei Huan asked from the other end.

Yan Zimi replied, “I’m in class.”

Pei Huan responded, “What class allows you to take calls?”

Yan Zimi explained, “Class is ending now.”

Pei Huan chuckled.

“I’ve arrived,” Pei Huan said.

Yan Zimi pretended to be unaware. “You arrived so quickly,” he asked, “Did you get off the plane?”

Pei Huan replied, “Just got off.”

Yan Zimi’s eyes curved into a smile. “You called me right after getting off the plane.”

Pei Huan said, “Isn’t there someone waiting for me to let them know I’m safe?”

Yan Zimi’s smile grew wider.

“Who is it?” Yan Zimi asked, framing it as a question.

Pei Huan mimicked him, but his response was rhetorical: “Who is it?”

Pei Huan spoke lightly, laughter lacing his words.

In the midst of the lively chatter during the break, all Yan Zimi could hear was Pei Huan’s voice.