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After scanning to pay, Chi Yan carried his bags home.

Once home, he went straight to the kitchen. He put the ice cream in the freezer and then started preparing dinner. Chi Yan moved quickly and efficiently. In no time, he had chopped everything needed. He placed the vegetables and bones in a pot, added cold water, and sprinkled a few Sichuan peppercorns on top. The peppercorns floated on the water’s surface. After cleaning the pot’s rim, he set it to the bone stew mode. Now, all he had to do was wait for the bones to cook.

While waiting, Chi Yan sent a message to his younger sister, Chi Yang, asking if she had bought her train ticket. Chi Yang was also studying at Ningyang University, the same university Chi Yan had attended.

Chi Yang was still in class at the time, so she only replied after class, saying, of course, she would go home, unlike a certain someone who wouldn’t move unless the family called.

Chi Yan felt attacked. He would love to stay at home, but it was his parents who kicked him out, saying they wouldn’t support a freeloader. Chi Yan knew very well that his parents just wanted to enjoy their couple’s life without their grown-up son around.

Despite their age and even with some gray hair, they were still as affectionate as young lovers. Chi Yan once joked with his dad, saying that while other families never wanted their children to leave, he felt like a bonus package from a phone plan.

His father’s response was: “You were a free gift, so what? You got a problem with that?”

A problem?

Chi Yan wouldn’t dare. If he raised any objections, his dad’s fist would come down on him. Although the punches didn’t hurt, Chi Yan still preferred to avoid them.

Chi Yan’s parents’ relationship was something he admired. He used to imagine that if he found the right person, he could have a relationship like theirs.

But after so many years, instead of finding the right person, he only encountered more and more unsuitable ones.

Suddenly, Chi Yan thought of his ex-boyfriend.

If only…

Chi Yan grabbed a cushion and hugged it to his legs. There’s no “if only.” Time doesn’t rewind.

Meanwhile, Feng Min sat in front of his computer, staring at the dimmed icon of his teammate who had logged off. He remained motionless, as if turning into a statue.

The equipment he had gifted had been returned almost immediately.

He had acted too hastily, knowing full well what Chi Yan was like. Offering expensive equipment was bound to be rejected. By the time Feng Min calmed down, the equipment had already been returned to his account.

Feng Min felt anxious, worried that Chi Yan might guess his feelings for him. He waited nervously for a reaction from Chi Yan, only to receive a considerate and understanding response.

It seemed like Chi Yan hadn’t overthought it at all and had politely declined his gesture.

Feng Min’s fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long time without typing a single word. He wanted to ask Chi Yan how he was feeling, especially after seeing that Chi Yan had some redness and swelling the previous day when he lost control.

But Feng Min quickly deleted the message, knowing that if he sent it, Chi Yan would likely block him.

When Chi Yan eventually re-entered the game, Feng Min asked for his location after calming down. He then sent the coordinates.

During their team play, Feng Min always charged ahead, trying to protect Chi Yan. But Chi Yan wasn’t the type of player who liked to play it safe and stay behind. He didn’t find that much fun.

Though Chi Yan often ended up knocked out midway through, it was because he was fighting hard in the game.

Chi Yan had noticed Feng Min’s protective playstyle and had mentioned a few times that he didn’t need to be overly cautious. But Feng Min continued with his own approach, and Chi Yan eventually stopped bringing it up.

Sometimes, Chi Yan even rushed ahead of Feng Min, which caused him to be knocked out even faster. Once that happened, Chi Yan would simply watch Feng Min play. Chi Yan hadn’t mentioned that he was a game streamer; he only said he knew a few.

Chi Yan had even suggested to Feng Min once, since he was so skilled, that he should try streaming to earn some extra money.

Now, Chi Yan knew the truth. Feng Min was no small-time rich kid like him—he was a true tycoon.

The real tycoon Feng Min felt frustrated. He wanted to spend money on the person he liked, but Chi Yan wouldn’t accept it.

Sometimes, Feng Min wished Chi Yan were more materialistic, so he could spoil him with money.

But Chi Yan didn’t care much about money. He had few desires and was rarely attached to things.

Feng Min remembered the first time he went to Chi Yan’s live stream. He had spent 50,000 yuan on gifts. Fearing Chi Yan wouldn’t accept too much, Feng Min had limited himself to 50,000. Chi Yan had immediately added him as a friend, which made Feng Min ecstatic.

But in the next moment, Chi Yan asked for his account details to refund him the money, explaining that the platform took a cut, and he was only returning the part that reached him. He thanked Feng Min for supporting his stream but politely added that there was no need to send such expensive gifts in the future since he was streaming for fun, not for a living.

Since then, Feng Min continued to send gifts but used different accounts, sending smaller amounts each time—just a few hundred or a thousand yuan here and there.

Despite having plenty of money, Feng Min couldn’t find joy in spending it if it wasn’t on the person he liked. All his happiness came from Chi Yan.

Leaving his computer, Feng Min went to the living room to drink some coffee. The coffee had gone cold, and there was no sugar in it, making its bitterness spread through his heart.

He walked to the window, pulled back the curtains, and opened the window. Cold wind rushed in.

After slowly finishing his coffee, Feng Min smiled.

Chi Yan didn’t accept gifts from others. That meant no one could get close to Chi Yan with money.