Fang Juexia’s surprise gradually faded from his face, like ripples settling back into still water.
“No one,” he replied simply.
“You’re the only one here?” Pei Tingsong glanced inside, bringing with him a chill from the outdoors. “The movers are downstairs. They’ll be bringing stuff up soon.”
Still holding the door open, Fang Juexia finally let go and stepped aside. “Oh…” Then, realizing the movers hadn’t come up yet, he stepped forward again. “A lot?”
He wanted to ask if help was needed, but the words stuck in his throat—neither swallowed nor spoken.
A wave of warmth from inside the apartment rushed out. Pei Tingsong took off his hat and said, “Not much.” He gave Fang Juexia a once-over, noting his snow-white, soft loungewear, and seemed to guess what he was thinking. “Go back inside. If you go down dressed like that, you’ll freeze to death.”
Not exactly a kind comment, but at least it meant he didn’t have to go downstairs. Fang Juexia was fine with that.
Soon, the entryway elevator chimed and opened. The movers came up with Pei Tingsong’s luggage. Fang Juexia cleared the living room mess from last night’s gaming session with his teammates to make space for them.
He stood by the wall with a warm cup of tea, watching them work. Five large cardboard boxes were brought in. Judging by the way the movers handled them, they seemed pretty heavy.
Curiosity got the better of him—what exactly did Pei Tingsong bring?
“Thanks for the help,” Pei Tingsong said politely.
Just as he was about to walk the movers out, Fang Juexia suddenly called out. Without a word, he poured three cups of hot tea and handed one to each of the movers.
“Thanks, thanks!” The three middle-aged men quickly took the cups, blowing on the tea before drinking, warming up from the inside out. Grinning, they left in good spirits.
The production crew wasn’t here yet—just the two of them were in the dorm. In the past two years, moments like this—being alone together—had been virtually nonexistent. It felt awkward. Fang Juexia stared at the large boxes, almost like they were staring back at him.
“I’ll show you your room,” he finally said, as if the line had just come to him. In his slippers, he walked past Pei Tingsong toward the door. He was worried the room might be locked—Ge Ziyan usually kept it locked—but when he tried the handle, the door opened.
Did Ziyan know Pei Tingsong was coming?
“I’m sharing with Ziyan?” Pei Tingsong asked from behind, carrying one of the boxes into the room.
“Yeah.” Fang Juexia stepped aside for him. The room was fairly spacious. Right inside the door was a large work desk covered with monitors and a MIDI pad. Off to the side was another table with a digital DJ console—definitely Ziyan’s setup. The sunlight filled the room, and the area by the window had only an empty wooden bed frame with no sheets. Pei Tingsong put his box down and ran his hand over the bookshelf that served as a divider.
“Who do you room with?” he asked suddenly.
Fang Juexia paused for two seconds. “Yi Yi.”
He thought, if Miao-ge or Yi Yi were here, maybe they would’ve shown Pei Tingsong around and helped him get settled. But it was just him, and he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. Should he give Pei Tingsong a tour? Help him unpack? Or just quietly retreat to his room?
The last option felt a little too cold, even if that was what Fang Juexia truly wanted to do.
So he just did it.
He lifted his foot to leave, but Pei Tingsong suddenly spoke up.
“I want to see the other rooms.” He took off his coat and tossed it on the empty bed. Underneath, he wore a soft-looking gray sweater.
Forget it. They were in the same group, after all.
“Mhm,” Fang Juexia responded, then turned and walked out.
Pei Tingsong watched him—the soft white fleece hoodie draped over his back, his neck long and slender. From the side, he looked like a lone little swan. It caught him off guard; he’d never seen Fang Juexia at home before. No makeup, wrapped in cozy clothes, stripped of that usual cold, untouchable aura.
“This is Miao-ge and Yuan-ge’s room,” Fang Juexia said as he pulled open the door. The room was much more cramped. A stack of music scores sat on a shelf near the entrance, and by the window was a guzheng. Their team captain had volunteered for the smallest room—it even had bunk beds. But Lu Yuan actually liked sleeping on bunks; said the top bunk made him feel high up and comfortable.
He wasn’t good at giving introductions, so he stayed mostly quiet.
After showing Pei Tingsong the room, he led him through the living room and open kitchen. His summary was dry: “That’s about it.”
But Pei Tingsong leaned against the kitchen sink. “What about yours?”
Fang Juexia blinked slowly, then turned and led him to his own room, as if silently agreeing.
Since they were living together now—if not today, then eventually—Pei Tingsong would see it anyway.
Pei Tingsong found it amusing. He’d expected Fang Juexia to refuse; he always did. But now, he allowed him in so easily, into his private space. Today’s Fang Juexia was unexpectedly easy to push around.
But that guy in loungewear only opened the door and didn’t even go in himself. He stood politely outside and said, “This one.”
Like hell Pei Tingsong would pass up a chance to intrude. He stepped right in, leaving Fang Juexia with no choice but to follow behind.
The room was even more divided than he’d imagined. A row of wardrobes ran down the middle, separating both sides. The side facing the door was decorated with all kinds of trinkets. The bedding was Minions-themed, and a line of Minion plushies sat on the bed—classic Ling Yi, the team’s notorious Minions fan.
Pei Tingsong moved deeper in. The other side of the room was like the polar opposite. Minimal. The only furniture was a built-in wooden bookshelf and desk, two or three low gray drawers, and a bed. The bed was made with a deep navy-blue quilt folded into a perfect square—clean to the point of obsession.
He mentally scrolled through adjectives, but the best way to describe it was simply: very Fang Juexia.
“There’s not much to see in my room,” Fang Juexia said, and his voice now carried a hint of subtle defensiveness.
Pei Tingsong couldn’t help but smirk and walked to the desk, where something caught his eye—a large Sudoku book.
“You like Sudoku?”
Fang Juexia walked over, bookmarked the unfinished page with a pen, and closed it. “I do it when I’m bored.”
That surprised Pei Tingsong a little, but then something on the bookshelf above caught his attention and surprised him even more.
“The Unity of Mathematics.” He leaned in closer, reading the spine carefully.
Not just The Unity of Mathematics, but also Lectures on Riemann Surfaces, Functional Analysis, Morse Theory—dozens of advanced math textbooks.
Fang Juexia’s unease had reached its peak, but because of his emotional delay, his tone remained cool. “Clearly, I study mathematics.”
“Oh right,” Pei Tingsong recalled, remembering how Ling Yi and the others used to joke about how Fang had more college assignments than they did in high school. He also remembered the glimpses of mathematical brilliance Fang had shown on obscure variety shows. Just the tip of the iceberg.
“It’s fine,” Fang Juexia muttered, reaching out to pull Pei Tingsong away the same way the latter had once grabbed his wrist.
His fingers were long—but softer and warmer than Pei Tingsong had imagined. They lightly circled his chilled wrist.
“Go unpack your stuff.”
Though Fang Juexia’s tone sounded like an order, to Pei Tingsong, it felt more like a quiet plea.
He was honestly curious—if he continued to linger here, continued to go against Fang Juexia’s wishes—what would the other’s reaction be? But he could tell Fang Juexia’s patience had already run out. Even if he wanted to mess with him, it would have to be slowly, step by step.
Pei Tingsong wasn’t sure whether Fang Juexia’s cool detachment was real, or just a carefully crafted persona. Maybe he was the kind of person the rumors talked about—someone willing to trade his body for opportunity, desire burning so strongly it had to be cloaked in a façade of restraint. But if that were true, then his acting skills were too convincing. Pei Tingsong couldn’t help but feel intrigued—and surprised that he hadn’t noticed earlier just how fun it was to go toe-to-toe with this man.
Still, Fang Juexia’s shell was cold and hard, practically fused to his flesh. To tear it off all at once would be too cruel.
So he didn’t push. He let himself be led out of the room.
When they got to the boxes, Fang Juexia naturally let go of Pei Tingsong’s wrist and pushed up the sleeves of his loungewear, revealing a sliver of pale forearm. He picked up one of the big boxes—and found it surprisingly heavy. It wasn’t until Pei Tingsong opened the box that he realized—it was all books.
Pei Tingsong didn’t let him lift another one. He just said Fang Juexia could help shelve them. Fang held a few in his hands and asked, “How do you want to organize them? Alphabetically? By year?”
But Pei Tingsong just said lazily, “Whatever.”
Whatever. Fang Juexia repeated the word silently in his mind.
So he began placing the books on the shelf, not by year or author, but by color gradient—light to dark.
While Fang arranged one row, Pei Tingsong opened the other boxes and started sorting. He only had four large boxes total—three were filled with books, and just one with daily necessities.
“You didn’t bring clothes?” Fang Juexia asked as he climbed off a chair after stacking the top row.
“I don’t live far. I’ll figure it out later.” Pei Tingsong was now sitting cross-legged on the floor, working on the bottom shelf.
So they shelved the books in silence—one row each—until they’d completely filled the once-empty bookshelf. Fang Juexia felt a strange sense of satisfaction, even though neither the books nor the shelf belonged to him.
“What about the rest?” he asked, like a kid looking for instructions.
Pei Tingsong picked up the last few heavy hardcovers, climbed onto a stool, and stacked them on top of the bookshelf. Then he dusted off his hands. “Done.”
He’d grown up in the U.S., and even after years back in China and fluent Mandarin, bits of English still slipped through unconsciously.
Fang Juexia stood in front of the bookshelf, taking it all in. The result was strangely layered—his own row ordered by color, and Pei Tingsong’s a chaotic mess of light and dark.
Meditations on First Philosophy, Critique of Pure Reason, Ethics, The World as Will and Representation…
Fang Juexia read the titles and realized they were all outside his field of knowledge.
So Pei Tingsong studied philosophy.
He’d only known that Pei Tingsong had originally been studying business management in the U.S.—the kind of degree young heirs picked up before taking over the family empire. But later, he’d abruptly dropped out and applied to a liberal arts college, majoring in something his parents hadn’t approved of. He’d been caught messing around in the underground hip-hop scene and was eventually sent back to China by his elders.
Why he entered the entertainment industry—or ended up at such a small company—was still a mystery. The gossip mill had its theories, but nothing concrete. Pei Tingsong himself was elusive and secretive. People only knew that he eventually got into P University as a foreign-return student, and used his studies as a reason to opt out of group dorm life. Given their sparse schedule, he mostly just went to class.
Thinking about it now—their lives had never truly intersected.
Apart from work, they had nothing in common at all.
“Looks like we’re pretty much done.”
Fang Juexia saw that Pei Tingsong was about to move the stool and stepped forward to help, but as he lowered his head, he accidentally bumped into the bookshelf. Something above wobbled. Before he could react, he was yanked sideways by a strong force, stumbling as he nearly lost his balance.
A loud thud followed as several heavy books fell to the floor, landing facedown, pages fanned open.
Only then did the hand gripping his arm finally let go. Fang Juexia turned his head and saw Pei Tingsong covering his right eye with his other hand. He immediately panicked. “Are you okay? Did—did you hit your eye?”
Pei Tingsong kept his hand over it, shaking his head like a stubborn kid, and sat down on the hard wooden bed, his face buried in his arms.
“It was my fault. I’m sorry.” Guilt surged in Fang Juexia. He realized he was the one who had bumped the shelf, and Pei Tingsong must have jumped in to pull him away and got hit instead.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Pei Tingsong swatted his hand away. “I was the one trying to put the book up there.”
Then he mumbled under his breath, “Sorry, sorry, it’s always sorry every damn day…”
Fang Juexia didn’t even process the muttering. “Let me take a look.”
“No.” Pei Tingsong suddenly got stubborn.
The back-and-forth dragged on. Pei Tingsong had assumed Fang Juexia was just saying it to be polite, but he hadn’t expected him to be this freakishly persistent, repeating the same sentence over and over like some kind of robot:
“Let me take a look.”
But since he had tried to play hero and ended up getting smacked in the face, his pride was definitely a little bruised. So when he finally caved, it came out extra prickly. “Then go get me a band-aid.” He emphasized again, “Just a band-aid. A band-aid.”
But Fang Juexia, who dashed out of the room like his ears were stuffed with cotton, came back holding an entire first-aid kit. He plopped it down on the bed with a loud thud.
Pei Tingsong looked at the box. Then looked at him.
This wasn’t a little swan.
This was a dumb goose.
Author’s Note:
Group livestream starts next chapter!
Friends, please heed the personality disclaimer I gave earlier: Xiao Pei (Pei Tingsong) was written from the start as a bratty, troublemaker type. He’s a teenager, not some perfect, mature dream guy. If that’s not your thing, feel free to stop reading—there’s no need to wait around hoping for a change. Please don’t attack the characters.
The reason these two haven’t interacted for two whole years is because of a misunderstanding. Fang Juexia’s method of coping was to act like Pei Tingsong didn’t exist. Pei Tingsong, in turn, kept messing with him. Why the misunderstanding? Because Juexia never clarified anything about the casting couch rumors, and Pei could only rely on the outside world’s version of the truth. But once he got to know Fang Juexia, he realized there was no way he’d ever do something like that—and he apologized sincerely.
When Fang Juexia really was being threatened, Pei Tingsong stepped in first, out of sheer teammate instinct, to protect him. And when Pei got hurt, Juexia immediately tended to his injuries.
If the story didn’t start like this, if they weren’t forced into working together and gradually getting to know each other, then they probably would’ve gotten together long ago.
I personally can’t stand it when readers insult the characters. If this story isn’t for you, it’s okay to walk away. Please don’t force yourself. Thank you.
