His voice was neither loud nor soft.
Yet it struck like a sudden clap of thunder, jolting Wen Yifan wide awake.
Her mind flashed back to the words she had said to Sang Yan a few days ago when she first came here.
— “Sorry, we’re a respectable bar here.”
— “That’s quite a shame.”
“…”
Wen Yifan pressed her lips together, heat rushing to her face, embarrassment tightening in her chest.
Thankfully, the bar’s noise drowned out Sang Yan’s words, and the bartender hadn’t caught them at all. He only gave a puzzled look and asked, “Boss, what are you doing?” Then, pointing at the drawer, he raised his voice: “Did you see the bracelet that was put here?”
At that, Sang Yan’s gaze shifted lazily.
The bartender continued, “This customer came in a few days ago and lost a bracelet. Yu Zhuo found it, and I—”
He paused, corrected himself, and said carefully, “You put it away.”
Sang Yan sat on a high stool, stretching out his long legs, and let out a lazy “Ah.”
The bartender pressed, “So where did you put it?”
Sang Yan pulled his gaze back, voice casual, “Never seen it.”
“…” The bartender froze, speechless at his fickle attitude.
Just then, two young women approached the bar to order drinks.
Seizing the chance, the bartender tossed, “Boss, you entertain them, I’ll get back to work,” before turning to mix their orders.
Yu Zhuo had also slipped away unnoticed.
Now it was just the two of them.
Though the bar buzzed with people, it somehow felt like they were alone. The weight of the bartender’s earlier words hung in the air, turning the space between them—one standing, one sitting—strange and taut.
Sang Yan picked up a clean glass, poured himself a drink until it was half full, then slid it across the counter toward her.
Wen Yifan blinked at him in surprise.
His black hair fell carelessly over his forehead, shadowing his sharp features. The dim light caught on his long lashes, dark as crow’s feathers. Holding a half-empty beer can, he arched an eyebrow and asked, “So… how should I entertain you?”
Her breath caught.
For a moment, Wen Yifan truly felt like she had walked into a place she shouldn’t.
She quickly waved it off. “No need, thank you.”
—Awkward silence.
Perhaps because of the bartender’s explanation, Sang Yan didn’t push further about exchanging contact information. Wen Yifan, thinking it best to spare him face on his own turf, didn’t bring it up either.
She steered the conversation back. “Does the boss always handle lost items here?”
Sang Yan’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Who told you that?”
She pointed toward the bartender.
Sang Yan tapped the counter with his beer can, then called out, “He Mingbo.”
Startled, the bartender looked up. “Yes, boss?”
“Since when have I had time to deal with trivial things like lost property?” Sang Yan said flatly.
The bartender flinched, half-listening as he worked. “Boss, give me a second, I’ll finish this drink first.”
Sang Yan’s attitude was curt, almost dismissive.
Wen Yifan pressed her lips together and calmly set a business card beside the untouched glass. “Then I’ll leave my contact information here. If you find it, just give me a call. I’ll come to pick it up. Thank you.”
He didn’t even glance at the card, only gave a perfunctory hum in reply.
Wen Yifan wondered—
If this was how he treated every customer, how did this bar stay afloat?
Or maybe it was just her.
Perhaps he was still irritated by her words from before, or maybe it was something from the past—resentment he wasn’t willing to let go of, hidden beneath a pretense of indifference.
She had been at the police station at dawn, rushed through three interviews, still needed to negotiate with her landlord about ending her lease, and on top of that, had to worry about her hostile neighbor possibly retaliating.
A mountain of troubles waited for her.
Compared to all of that, Sang Yan’s coldness shouldn’t have mattered.
And yet—
Perhaps it was the remnants of her morning irritability, but she felt an inexplicable weight pressing on her chest.
Quietly, she added, “It’s a very important item. Thank you for the trouble.”
She turned to leave.
“Wait a moment.”
Her steps faltered.
Sang Yan’s Adam’s apple shifted as he called out again, his tone deliberate. “He Mingbo, what are you dawdling for?”
“Huh?”
“Someone left something here,” Sang Yan said slowly, each word clipped, “Shouldn’t you be looking for it?”
“…”
The bartender had no choice but to search again. Miraculously, this time he found the bracelet in the lower cabinet. With a sigh of relief, he handed it over. “Is this it?”
“Yes, thank you,” Wen Yifan said softly.
The bartender scratched the back of his head awkwardly, glancing at Sang Yan. “No need, no need. Sorry for wasting your time.”
Sang Yan didn’t respond, only lifted his drink and downed it in silence.
Wen Yifan nodded, murmured a farewell, and left.
Outside, the cold air bit at her skin. The streets were damp and empty, the night quiet and desolate.
She messaged Zhong Siqiao quickly—Found the bracelet—then shoved her hands back into her pockets, her nose stinging from the chill.
But her thoughts weren’t on the cold.
They were tangled with Sang Yan.
Unpleasant, yet strangely familiar.
Her mind drifted back to the very first time she saw him—
On the first day of high school, Wen Yifan was late.
She barely had time to drop her luggage. Handing it off to her uncle and the dorm supervisor, she sprinted toward Building A, climbing all the way to the fourth floor.
The hallway stretched ahead, echoing with her hurried footsteps. As she passed the water dispenser, she saw him for the first time.
A tall boy stood there, dressed in a blue-and-white school uniform. His backpack hung carelessly off one shoulder. His features were striking—handsome, distant, with an air of quiet nobility. He looked untouchable.
So different from her, flushed and frantic.
As if the bell meant nothing, he leisurely filled his bottle with water, calm in a way that made him seem out of place among new students.
Wen Yifan knew her class was somewhere on this floor but not exactly where. She couldn’t afford to waste time wandering. She stopped and asked tentatively, “Excuse me.”
The boy released the switch. The stream of water ceased. He screwed on the bottle cap slowly, then turned his head.
A single glance—then he looked away, as though she weren’t worth answering.
At the time, Wen Yifan didn’t know him. She only thought: This person doesn’t seem worried about being late at all. He looked more like a seasoned traveler than a nervous freshman.
She hesitated, then tried again. “…Senior?”
This time, his eyebrow lifted.
“Excuse me,” she asked, “do you know where Class 17 is?”
He tilted his chin, answering at last with exaggerated generosity: “Go straight ahead and turn right.”
Wen Yifan nodded, waiting for him to finish.
But he didn’t.
There was no “and you’ll see it” or anything of the sort.
Unsure, she pressed again: “And then?”
He finally stepped closer, his tone languid and faintly mocking. “And then look at the class numbers yourself. What—do you expect your senior to read them out one by one for you—”
He drew out the last word, deliberate and teasing: “Ju-nior.”
“…”
Wen Yifan smiled politely, thanking him despite the sting, and hurried on.
Just as he said, Class 15 appeared around the corner. At the very end, Class 17. She quickened her pace, stopping at the door. “Excuse me,” she called softly.
The homeroom teacher on the podium looked up, glanced at the roster, and asked, “Sang Yan?”
Startled, Wen Yifan shook her head. “Teacher, my name is Wen Yifan.”
“Ah, Yifan.” The teacher checked again, looking surprised. “Only you and Sang Yan are left. I assumed this was you—your name sounded like a girl’s.”
Before Wen Yifan could explain further, another voice spoke behind her.
“Excuse me.”
She turned instinctively.
It was the boy from the water dispenser. The “senior.”
He was closer now—so tall she had to tilt her chin to see his face. Cold and aloof, with a faint scent of sandalwood clinging to him.
“I’m sorry, teacher,” he said, his tone cool, almost careless. “I’m late.”
The teacher gestured to the only empty seats in the back row. “You two, sit there. But tell me first—why are you late on the very first day? Did you come together?”
The seats were side by side, pressed against the wall.
Wen Yifan answered quickly, “No, teacher. My family had things to take care of, and they sent me late. Plus, I didn’t know the way, so I got lost.”
“I see.” The teacher nodded, turning to him. “And you?”
“My dad didn’t know I was in high school already,” he said lazily, dropping his bag onto the desk. “He took me to middle school.”
Silence.
Then the classroom erupted in laughter, rippling through the rows.
Even Wen Yifan couldn’t help but hide a small smile.
The teacher chuckled. “Well, remind your dad next time. Go on, sit down.”
Sang Yan nodded and reached for the outer seat. But he stopped halfway, glancing at her.
“Inside or outside?”
Their eyes met.
Wen Yifan quickly masked her smile. “Inside, please.”
He stepped aside without a word, letting her through.
The teacher resumed the introduction. “I’ll be your homeroom teacher this year, and also your chemistry teacher. My name—” she tapped the blackboard “—is Zhang Wenhong.”
Wen Yifan scribbled the name and number carefully in her notebook.
Then a boy in front leaned back, elbow resting on Sang Yan’s desk. He smirked. “Miss Sang, your name really does sound girly.”
“…”
Wen Yifan froze, recalling what the teacher had said at the door.
Her eyes flicked to Sang Yan.
He sat sprawled, long legs cramped beneath the desk, one stretched out to the side. His eyelids drooped, expression one of permanent boredom.
He turned a cold gaze on the boy.
“Not my fault,” the boy snickered, “the teacher said it first. But honestly, when I think about it—your name really could confuse people. If you were a girl, I’d try to date you.”
Sang Yan looked him over, slow and deliberate. “Su Hao’an, don’t you have any self-awareness?”
“What?”
“If I were a girl, would I even look at a toad like you?”
“…” Su Hao’an’s face went dark. After a beat, he snapped, “Get lost.”
Wen Yifan lowered her head, trying not to laugh.
This was the same arrogance from earlier, when he had called himself a “senior.” She muttered silently to herself: Shameless.
At that moment, Zhang Wenhong was called outside, leaving the room to grow rowdy.
Unbothered, Sang Yan leaned back. “Speaking of my name,” he continued lazily, “my old man pored over the Great Chinese Dictionary for seven days and seven nights, held eighty family meetings, and finally—”
Wen Yifan propped her chin in her hand, half-drifting as she listened.
“—carefully chose the most manly character,” Sang Yan finished, deadpan.
The noisy classroom made Wen Yifan feel oddly secure. She traced the words in her notebook, whispering under her breath: “Still not as manly as mine.”
“…”
Su Hao’an sneered. “Then why don’t you just call yourself Sang Manly?”
Wen Yifan stifled a laugh, lowering her head to hide it.
After a long pause, she realized Sang Yan hadn’t answered.
Too quiet, as if he weren’t there at all.
Curious, she glanced sideways—
And froze.
At some point, Sang Yan’s eyes had landed on her. Dark, sharp, faintly cold. Even with sunlight slanting across his lashes, his gaze didn’t soften.
Direct. Searching. Unrestrained.
Her heart stumbled.
Did he hear me just now?
No way. Surely not.
Before she could be sure, his fingers tapped idly on the desk. He spoke, voice low and careless:
“Ah, right. I haven’t asked yet.”
Wen Yifan stiffened, grip tightening on her pen.
“New deskmate,” he drawled, tilting his head, “what’s your name?”
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