Lou Yixuan gave up the answer that was within easy reach, and also gave up the intimacy that might never come again.
Perhaps there would never be another chance.
Or perhaps there truly wouldn’t be.
But it didn’t matter.
None of it mattered.
Her body didn’t pull away. Instead, she stroked Lin Huayan’s back and whispered in her ear, “Your contacts—take them out before you sleep.”
Three parts trickery, seven parts genuine affection.
And there’s one trick that works wonders: playing hard to get. Got it? Be passionate one moment, distant the next—that’s the essence of it.
You have to maintain just the right distance and mystery. Tease intermittently, keep her appetite whetted.
Don’t confess too soon, don’t reveal too much too fast. Leave some room for both of you, build her trust, lower her guard. Slip into her life bit by bit. Soon, she’ll get used to you, depend on you… and won’t be able to let you go.
She hadn’t missed a word of Lu Lingxuan’s “guidance” to Du Heming back at the Clear Bar.
Better to take ten detours than one risky step.
Catching a little white rabbit.
No rushing.
Rushing could backfire spectacularly—and that would mean all efforts wasted.
She could accept being colleagues who met once a week with Lin Huayan, but she couldn’t bear driving her away again, far from home.
So,
She absolutely couldn’t rush.
Lin Huayan’s grip was tight, her breathing not yet steady.
The two embraced in silence, quietly feeling each other’s warmth and breath.
Lou Yixuan waited for Lin Huayan to let go—or to speak, anything at all.
It felt like a century had passed, and Lou Yixuan’s back ached from sitting, before she heard Lin Huayan’s voice, faint as a mosquito’s buzz.
“You’re really okay with this? Trusting someone who’s drunk just like that?”
“…”
After a pause, Lin Huayan pulled back from Lou Yixuan’s embrace, sat up using her for support, and hugged her knees.
Her voice grew a touch louder, though her face stayed buried.
“There’s a guest room at home. It was cleaned a few days ago—you can nap there. Everything’s in the room; the bed’s clean, never been slept in. The bathroom has new stuff. Toiletries too, all safe for you. You can check the ingredients first if you want.”
Lin Huayan knew Lou Yixuan was allergic to alkaline ingredients in laundry detergents and dish soaps.
Back when she’d come over for meals, Lou Yixuan always wore gloves to wash dishes and was meticulous about daily care products.
The house had a smart constant-temperature system; the sensor at the entryway detected someone home and activated automatically.
Lou Yixuan had already noticed the room warming up, so she wasn’t worried about Lin Huayan getting cold.
But hearing these words—self-muttered, yet so thoughtfully considerate—shook her. She couldn’t harden her heart.
“Alright, I won’t go yet.”
Lou Yixuan raised a hand, wanting to stroke Lin Huayan’s hair, but stopped midway and promised, “You look exhausted. Get some good sleep. I won’t leave until you’re awake.”
…
Lin Huayan’s apartment wasn’t small: two bedrooms, two living areas, two bathrooms, one kitchen, one study—about 100 square meters.
When Lou Yixuan emerged from the master bedroom, she didn’t close the door fully, just eased it shut.
The second bedroom was directly opposite, door ajar.
She stood in the doorway, scanning left to right. Everything was as Lin Huayan had said—fully stocked—but she didn’t go in for a nap.
Next to the second bedroom was the guest bathroom.
Lou Yixuan stepped in, checked the hand soap on the counter: manufactured this September.
The shelves held laundry detergent, shampoo, body wash, lotion—all with recent dates.
She didn’t bother with ingredient lists. If Lin Huayan said they were safe, they were.
She turned on the faucet, squeezed soap, lathered and rinsed. The restless heat in her body finally dissipated under the cold water.
Drying her hands, she suddenly remembered that day with the beef soup hotpot.
Lin Huayan’s hands had been so cold after the bathroom. Had she rinsed them repeatedly with cold water like this?
Past the guest bath was the study.
Door open too.
Lou Yixuan didn’t look inside, turning the corner back to the living room.
But what she saw there truly shocked her to the core.
In the blind spot from the entryway—between the sofa and that wall—stood a massive display cabinet.
It brimmed with uniform wooden frames of varying sizes, some horizontal, some vertical.
But the frames held no landscapes, no lifestyle shots, no art prints.
Every single one, Lou Yixuan recognized. They were the “confession” gift she’d spent nearly three years preparing for Lin Huayan: a sketchbook titled Flower Face.
“Teacher Lin, spring is here again.”
“So?”
“So, I’m giving you flowers. Here—your exclusive flower sea. I booked it all.”
“What do you mean ‘booked’? Stop slacking on studies and reading novels.”
“I’m not reading novels. Open it quick—if you don’t like it, you can return it.”
“‘This is…”
“I drew it for a long time.”
“Thank you… I, I like it. No, I love it. Yixuan, thank you. These must have taken so much time.”
“It did take time, but it was worth it. I know you’ll get lots of gifts and flowers in the future, Teacher Lin, but I want to be the unique one. My gift to you, my flowers—they’ll all be one of a kind.”
“Yeah, one of a kind. Now and always.”
Fifty-two drawings, fifty-two flowers—the “I love you” she never got to say properly that graduation summer.
Now, those drawings, those flowers, framed in Lin Huayan’s own home.
Not originals.
Photos, printed from shots she’d taken.
And that was far from all. The cabinet held more.
Lou Yixuan spotted the velvet roses Lin Jianlu had given them each on Teachers’ Day, arranged in a white elongated ceramic vase.
The four Wooden Puzzle Flowers Du Heming had casually passed to Lin Huayan—all assembled.
And a pristine Lego Disney Castle, identical to the one she’d struggled with for half a year at Hongding Court without finishing.
She’d never forget it.
The one Lu Lingxuan gave her? Half-done, then dismantled and boxed away back at their place in Huai’an City—still in her room.
This was Lin Huayan’s solo home, yet it brimmed with traces of someone else.
Perfectly sized slippers. Care products she could use. The cabinet of crafts…
Everything screamed that the person on Lin Huayan’s mind while preparing it all was her.
Only her.
Lin Huayan could pour her longing and affection into these “lifeless” objects, display them proudly at home—so why couldn’t she say it aloud?
She was back.
Back by Lin Huayan’s side. So why wouldn’t Lin Huayan say anything?
Scorching tears welled in her eyes, like ripples trapped at a lake’s center, struggling but unable to spread.
Lou Yixuan bit her lip hard, eyes unblinking, using the pain to hold back the flood.
She didn’t want to cry here, in this place brimming with love. She didn’t want tears of regret and unwillingness as her “return gift.”
But the tears were disobedient children, refusing to be called home. They lingered stubbornly, until a few broke free and fell.
Splashing the floor.
Slipping into the rift connecting past and present, screaming uninhibitedly into that desolate void—I love you.
Lin Huayan, I love you. And I’m brave enough to love you.
What about you? Are you brave enough to love me?
…
At four in the afternoon, Lin Huayan opened the bedroom door and stepped into the living room.
She’d changed into thicker loungewear, milky white, a far cry from her school image.
Lou Yixuan’s eyes lit up the instant she saw her.
Beautiful like a swan glimpsed in daylight—she ached to kiss that graceful neck.
To paint her ten fingers across those snow-white feathers, dyeing them glistening peach-pink.
“Teacher Lin’s awake.”
“You didn’t sleep? Just sitting on the sofa the whole time?”
“Not really sleepy.” Lou Yixuan looked down, closing the game interface. “Played some games—time flew.”
She sat on the sofa backing the balcony window, her direct view fixed on that inescapable wall of a cabinet.
No doubt, her eight-year-buried “secrets” were fully exposed.
But this time, Lin Huayan felt no embarrassment.
“Busy this afternoon? If not, stay for dinner. I’ll order groceries now—they deliver fast. What do you want? I can make anything.”
Lin Huayan came here more often than home.
But only slightly more.
Home every two or three months; here two or three times a month. Not always overnight.
Last time she cooked here? New Year’s Day last year.
Qin Fengru bought imported beef—one slab Japanese wagyu, one Australian wagyu.
Insisted on pan-frying steaks to compare.
Lin Huayan couldn’t bear the waste, so she took the beef here and cooked it herself.
Qin Fengru declared the textures evenly matched—”Australian beef’s basically hybridized into Japanese pedigree now.”
But Lin Huayan preferred the Australian wagyu.
Australia.
Maybe Lou Yixuan had gone there. Maybe she’d tried Australian wagyu.
She’d like the taste, right?
“Too much trouble.” The place was fully equipped but sparsely lived-in—Lou Yixuan wasn’t blind.
“Not at all.” Lin Huayan patted her pocket, remembering her phone was in the coat. “I’ll grab my phone.”
Before, she’d been endlessly “busy,” yet it felt like idly counting days, wasting time. Moss grew on her heart, frost blanketing it—no day of clear skies.
No meal she’d ever been this eager to cook with her own hands. A delicious one.
Her steps quickened. At the entryway, she saw the hung coat, the scarf she’d given away, and… Lou Yixuan’s outerwear.
Their clothes hung together. Lin Huayan’s heart jolted.
The empty, cold space suddenly filled with cozy warmth. The whole world felt different.
She stood there quietly, lips curving faintly, letting long-lost happiness spread through her, letting herself be steeped in Lou Yixuan’s scent.
Faint as it was on the clothes and scarf.
Only today, only this moment, this second—did it feel a bit like “home.”
Lin Huayan grabbed her phone and turned back, but Lou Yixuan had risen from the sofa, walking toward her with a soft smile. “Teacher Lin, no rush on the groceries.”
“You… have to go somewhere?”
Lin Huayan had played dumb for hours. Now she faced her mistake squarely, apologizing. “Sorry. About noon—no, afternoon. Interrupting your class like that, delaying your work. Do you need to head back?”
“No. I have something to ask Teacher Lin.”
Lou Yixuan shook her head, countering with a question. “Do you remember what happened before you slept? In the car. And the bedroom.”
Shameful fragments flashed in Lin Huayan’s memory. She averted her eyes uncomfortably. “…I remember.”
“Then…” Lou Yixuan drew out the word, stepping closer, one step at a time.
She stopped in front of her.
Stopped at a distance where she could feel the other’s warm breath. Where a slight lean forward would seal a kiss. With a teasing smile, she whispered, “Lin Huayan, kiss me.”
