Nan Hong - Chapter 15
Wen Yifan noticed the shift in Sang Yan’s expression and realized the atmosphere had quietly tightened.
But she didn’t want to argue. She couldn’t even tell what she’d said to upset him. Her anger hadn’t been directed at him at all—it was Wang Linlin who had crossed the line.
“It’s nothing. Don’t worry,” Wen Yifan paused, then said evenly, “I wouldn’t dare set my sights on you.”
“…”
“I’m not upset. I just wanted to clear things up,” she went on. “If something I said bothered you, it wasn’t intentional. This whole situation came out of nowhere, and I’m still sorting it out.”
She exhaled, her tone calmer now. “Besides, neither of us is in the best mood, and it’s late. How about this—you stay tonight. We’ll both think it over, and talk again after work tomorrow.”
Sang Yan kept his gaze fixed on her, silent.
“Sharing an apartment isn’t a small matter,” Wen Yifan added carefully. “If you find it acceptable today but regret it tomorrow and move out, that’s going to be a headache for me too.”
Still, he didn’t speak.
Wen Yifan’s patience wore thin. She was exhausted, every minute spent here eating away at her sleep. She stood, about to excuse herself: “Fine, think it over. I’ll—”
Sleep.
“Alright.” His voice cut through hers at last, flat and even. “What time do you get off tomorrow?”
“Not sure,” Wen Yifan answered after a pause. “I’ll try to be home by eight.”
“Mm.”
That single sound released the tension in her chest. She got up quickly, pointing to the hallway. “You can take the master bedroom. You’ll have to make the bed yourself—it’s empty.”
Her eyes flicked to his suitcase. “You did bring sheets and blankets, right?”
No reply.
She let it go. “Well then, I’m going to wash up and sleep. You should rest early too.”
After showering, her body ached with fatigue, her eyes throbbing from the long day. When she came out, the living room was empty. His suitcase sat untouched, the master bedroom door shut tight. She hesitated, then let it be.
Before bed, she checked her phone.
WeChat lit up with messages from Wang Linlin—apologies, excuses, promises it wouldn’t happen again. Wen Yifan didn’t answer. The thought lingered, though: what if it hadn’t been Sang Yan at her door that night?
The fear crawled back, sharp and cold.
She sighed. She wanted no more ties with Wang Linlin.
Instead, her mind wandered back to Sang Yan. Living with him might not be impossible after all. He was sharp-tongued, yes, but dependable. And it was only three months—enough time to find a more suitable roommate.
Still, after his silence earlier, she doubted he’d want to stay.
—
Morning came with her phone ringing.
“Ajiang,” her mother’s cheerful voice greeted her.
Her childhood nickname stirred something deep in her chest. They talked lightly, awkwardly. Wen Yifan agreed, docile as ever, but the moment Zheng Kejia’s voice broke in—bright, demanding—the warmth vanished.
Her mother hurried off the line.
Wen Yifan lay there staring at the ceiling. Sleep wouldn’t come back.
Later, as she left for work, she noticed Sang Yan’s suitcase still in place. But his shoes were gone. The master bedroom untouched. He hadn’t stayed.
A pang of guilt struck her. Had she made him feel unwanted?
She texted: [Where did you sleep last night?]
No reply.
By lunchtime, still nothing. She tried again: [Where are we meeting to talk today?]
This time his response was quick: [8 PM, your place.]
Ambiguous. Too ambiguous. She stared at it, sent a stiff “ok,” and got back to work.
When evening came, she arrived home late, flustered, only to find the apartment dark and empty. Wang Linlin’s spare key sat abandoned on the shoe cabinet.
Half an hour later, the doorbell rang.
Sang Yan stood outside, hands in pockets, dark circles under his eyes. He looked worn down, but still sharp.
Inside, they sat opposite each other again.
She asked lightly, “Where did you sleep? Not in the master bedroom.”
“Hotel.”
“But didn’t you say—”
“I don’t stay in other people’s homes,” he interrupted coolly.
So that was it—his pride. He hadn’t wanted to look like a charity case.
Suppressing a sigh, Wen Yifan got straight to the point. Rent, bills, rules. He agreed without fuss, except when she mentioned being “appropriate” in shared spaces. His only answer was a mocking snort.
Her patience frayed again, but she kept her tone even.
They talked logistics until finally he asked, “Which room am I sleeping in?”
“The master bedroom,” she said automatically.
But later, he leaned against her doorway and said, “You move there.”
She blinked. “You want this room?”
“Mm.”
She tried to argue—costs, fairness, logic. He dismissed them all. His final excuse?
“That room smells bad.”
She didn’t know if he was serious. But she moved anyway.
By the time she finished unpacking, her phone chimed.
—Sang Yan had transferred her 13,000 yuan.
She froze. Three months’ rent, plus deposit, plus bills. A little extra, too.
Careful as ever, Wen Yifan recalculated and transferred back the surplus.
A moment later, on his phone—
Wen Yifan has transferred 520 yuan to you.