Nan hong - Chapter 16
At this moment, in the master bedroom.
Wen Yifan stared at the numbers on her phone in silence. If only the digits were reversed into “250,” she thought dryly—it would look far better than “520.” Still, she stayed calm, typing steadily:
[This is the extra money you gave me. I’m transferring it back to you.]
—Send failed.
They weren’t friends on Alipay.
Her screen flashed a prompt: Become friends to chat. Send verification to add as a friend.
At the same time, a WeChat message arrived from Sang Yan.
[?]
“…”
A single question mark.
Wen Yifan didn’t even need to hear his voice to picture his reaction. He must have seen the “520” by now.
And he was spot on.
Before she could reply, another message followed:
[Do you need something?]
This number was indeed suspicious, but Wen Yifan hadn’t pulled it from thin air. Determined to explain properly, she sat up and typed:
[That’s the price difference I’m refunding you.]
She broke it down carefully, line by line:
[Rent is 9,000, deposit is 2,500, utilities are 400.]
Then she attached the washing machine receipt.
[The washing machine cost 1,190.]
Finally, she added:
[I’m not good at keeping accounts, so you don’t need to give me extra money in advance. We can settle things later whenever we need to buy something.]
A while later, his reply came—not as text, but as a voice message.
“Calculate it again.”
His voice was flat, almost cold through the speaker. But near the end, it rose slightly, curling with a lazy provocation. It was the kind of tone that made you want to reach through the phone and argue.
“…”
Wen Yifan blinked. What did that mean?
Had she miscalculated?
She stared at the string of numbers she’d just sent. No, she was sure. But still…
She opened the calculator.
The result popped up: 505.
“…”
Like a bolt from the blue.
Unwilling to admit defeat, she cleared it and tried again.
Still 505.
Wen Yifan froze, her mind scrambling for excuses.
Another voice message arrived.
Sang Yan chuckled, low and faint, as if throwing her a lifeline. His tone sounded casual, almost covering for her:
“Alright. I get it. You miscalculated, didn’t you?”
“…”
Wen Yifan had never met anyone like him.
But she quickly understood—if she wanted peace, the only way was to play dumb and steer things back to normal.
She typed: [Yes, thank you for the reminder.]
No reply came.
Ten minutes later, she sent another message.
[The extra fifteen yuan I gave you…]
[You can just transfer it to my WeChat.]
“…”
—
Later, after tidying up, she noticed dust on the floor and went out to clean. The living room light was already off, only the hallway lamp still glowing faintly. She fetched the mop from the balcony and got to work.
After washing it and carrying it back, she walked past Sang Yan’s door.
The door opened suddenly.
Her steps halted. Their eyes met.
Sang Yan’s hair was damp, black strands falling loosely across his forehead. Dressed in loungewear, he looked unexpectedly casual, less sharp than usual. He glanced at her, silent.
Wen Yifan dropped her gaze and slipped back to her room.
She locked the door.
It was just past eleven, but sleep wouldn’t come. She worked at her desk for a while before trying to rest again, yet the unfamiliarity of the new room kept her awake.
Next door, Sang Yan was quiet too.
A strange thought struck her.
When they first met, she’d assumed they’d never interact much. The kind of classmates who’d graduate, lose contact, and barely nod in passing. Their personalities were too different—neither liked small talk.
In fact, back when they’d been late on the first day of school and forced to sit together, they’d hardly spoken at all.
It wasn’t until the rumors spread.
Because they were both late that morning, and both strikingly good-looking, whispers in Class 17 quickly turned them into an “unofficial couple.”
The versions varied—childhood sweethearts who agreed to attend the same school, strangers who bonded through lateness and secretly dated, or even a dramatic love-at-first-sight confession before registration.
At first, Wen Yifan knew nothing of it. Quiet in class, not close to anyone, no one told her.
It was Su Hao’an who finally clued her in—mainly because he teased Sang Yan daily.
She still remembered overhearing it in the corridor one break, queuing at the water dispenser.
Su Hao’an, laughing too loudly, nudged Sang Yan’s shoulder:
“There’s new gossip, want to hear?”
Sang Yan’s voice was sharp with annoyance. “Cut it out.”
“What? Don’t act like you’re not pleased. This dance student’s gorgeous—bet you’re secretly thrilled people think you’re with her.”
Sang Yan: “What’s wrong with you?”
“Just admit it! Haven’t you—”
Then Su Hao’an’s eyes flicked back. He froze.
Wen Yifan had been right behind Sang Yan the whole time.
After an awkward beat, Su Hao’an stammered, “Hi…”
Sang Yan turned, his lips curling.
“You heard, didn’t you?” His tone was teasing, almost mocking. “Or are you pretending you didn’t?”
Wen Yifan kept her composure. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“They’re saying I’m dating you,” Sang Yan said lightly.
“…” She blinked. “You and me?”
“Mm.”
“I didn’t know. No one told me.” Wen Yifan shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. People will stop once they get bored.”
No evidence, no fuel—rumors would die on their own.
Sang Yan raised an eyebrow. “That’s best.”
At that time, they were nothing more than ordinary classmates.
Unfamiliar, barely speaking.
And that was why Wen Yifan could be so certain now—Sang Yan didn’t like her. His attitude toward her now was the same as it had been back then.
But in truth, when Sang Yan liked someone, his pride and passion made it impossible to hide.
Even if it was one-sided, he’d make sure the whole world knew.
—
The next morning, Wen Yifan slept until nearly ten.
When she finally stepped out, Sang Yan was sprawled on the sofa, scrolling his phone. He lifted his eyelids lazily at the sound of her steps, then ignored her.
She thought about greeting him but remembered his earlier warning about “not trying to get close.” She let it go.
Instead, she made coffee, grabbed some biscuits, and opened her phone. Messages from Zhong Siqiao filled the screen.
[Sis! Ter! Dear!]
[I’ve! Found! A roommate for you!]
Wen Yifan blinked and typed: [I forgot to tell you. I already found one.]
She was about to explain further when the kettle whistled. As she poured the water, Zhong Siqiao called.
“Who’s your roommate?” Zhong demanded.
Wen Yifan instinctively glanced at Sang Yan, then dodged: “I’ll tell you later. But I’ll only be here three months before moving.”
Zhong Siqiao groaned dramatically, then burst into laughter. A male voice cut in from her side.
Wen Yifan froze. “Is Xiang Lang with you?”
Across the room, Sang Yan finally reacted—his head turning slightly.
The next second, Xiang Lang’s bright laugh came through the speaker.
“Yes, it’s me.”
They caught up quickly. It had been years—he’d gone abroad after high school, and she hadn’t been back to Nanwu. Their contact had thinned to almost nothing.
Now he was back.
They made plans to meet Wednesday.
When she hung up, Wen Yifan lifted her coffee again—only to find Sang Yan watching her.
She thought it was coincidence, but his gaze didn’t shift.
Then he asked, “You’re off Wednesday?”
She nodded. “Mm.”
“You going out?”
“Yes. Xiang Lang’s back, so we’re meeting.”
She added casually, “Didn’t you two know each other? He said you were classmates in your third year.”
Sang Yan’s lips quirked. “Oh. Don’t remember.”
“…”
She didn’t push.
But a moment later, he asked again:
“Chosen a place?”
“Not yet.”
“Then come to my bar,” Sang Yan said lazily, crossing his legs. “We’re roommates now. Help me out, won’t you?”