Sensing the atmosphere had shifted into dangerous territory, Sang Zhi's gaze flickered between the two of them like a spectator at a tennis match. With admirable wisdom, she retreated from the kitchen, granting them privacy. Before leaving, she thoughtfully closed the door behind her.
Wen Yifan withdrew her gaze and returned her attention to the meat on the chopping board. She'd tied up all her hair, leaving only a few rebellious strands around her ears and nape. Her usual gentle smile had vanished, replaced by an expression as blank as fresh paper.
Sang Yan approached her side. After several seconds of weighted silence, he spoke as if the entire situation were utterly absurd. "Wen Shuangjiang, you thought I was cheating on you, yet you still ate that takeout?"
"…"
The counterattack hit with surgical precision.
Wen Yifan's knife stopped mid-cut. His words nearly shattered her carefully maintained composure, dissolving that lingering sullenness like sugar in hot water. She lowered her eyes, forcibly maintaining her expression, and replied with remarkable calm, "It was already bought."
The implication hung in the air, crystal clear:
It would be wasteful not to eat it.
After studying her for a long moment, Sang Yan chose not to pursue this particular angle. Instead, he remembered something else and extracted his phone from his pocket, waving it casually. "Why didn't you reply to my message?"
Then, as if offering her a graceful escape route, he added, "Didn't see it?"
"I saw it." Wen Yifan turned on the faucet and began washing vegetables, her honesty brutal. "Didn't want to respond."
"…"
Noticing her actions, Sang Yan rolled up his sleeves with practiced efficiency, grasped her hand, and extracted it from the sink before taking over her task. He was speechless to the point of amusement, wanting to pinch her cheek but restrained by his wet hands. "Fine."
Wen Yifan glanced at him, then arrogantly wiped her damp hands on his clothes.
Registering this audacious move, Sang Yan's voice took on layers of meaning. "Wen Shuangjiang, your temper's quite big now."
"…"
Well! Wasn't it you who first disturbed my sleep?!
The internal protest screamed through her mind, but Wen Yifan's mood inexplicably tightened again. She ignored him entirely, turning to retrieve a large pot and filling it with water. As if drawing a territorial line, she stepped back several paces after completing this task.
Sang Yan turned off the faucet, pulled out a paper towel to dry his hands, and spoke with lazy deliberation. "Wen Shuangjiang."
She placed the pot on the induction cooker and pressed the switch.
He divided one sentence into three parts, emphasizing the gravity of her offense.
"You."
"Cold violence."
"Me."
"…" The accusation made Wen Yifan's head snap toward him. After brief consideration, she suddenly felt he might have a point, so she made what seemed to her a perfectly reasonable request. "Then don't talk to me."
Sang Yan's eyebrows lifted with genuine curiosity. "Can it be like this?"
Afraid of accumulating additional cold violence charges, Wen Yifan nodded confirmation.
She unwrapped a package of noodles, mentally calculating portions when Sang Yan suddenly embraced her from behind. His height created a considerable size difference; his body bent slightly, chin finding its natural resting place in the curve of her neck.
Their bodies pressed together intimately.
As if using her as structural support, his weight settled against her—loose, slack, deliberately heavy.
Wen Yifan immediately turned her head.
"What are you doing, I just kissed you once," Sang Yan's eyes gleamed darkly, the corner of his mouth tugging upward as he drawled with shameless logic, "Last night I kissed you so many times and you didn't get angry."
"…"
How could these two situations possibly be the same?
Finding him particularly annoying in this moment, Wen Yifan couldn't resist pinching his face.
As if by magic, the instant she made this move, the dimple at the corner of Sang Yan's lips deepened, softening his entire countenance. He suppressed a laugh, his words carrying a hint of theatrical pleading. "Alright, it was my fault."
Wen Yifan stared at him without blinking, her expression unmoved.
Their gazes locked, and he added with increased sincerity, "Don't be angry anymore, okay?"
They remained frozen in tableau for several seconds.
Seeing no softening in her features, Sang Yan's tone shifted to playful exasperation. "Why are you so hard to coax, young lady?"
"…"
"Why don't you sympathize with me a bit? I barely slept a few hours before being bombarded by that dog Duan Jiaxu to go out and pick someone up. And after coming back with that brat," his words came slowly, deliberately pitiful, "my wife gives me the cold shoulder."
Wen Yifan's lips moved, unable to suppress her protest. "I wasn't that 'violent'."
"But it hurts so much," Sang Yan replied with leisurely drama.
"…" She amended her defense. "I wasn't that 'cold' either."
"Hmm? I'm cold though." Sang Yan tightened his embrace as if attempting to absorb her entire being into his arms. He lightly bit the soft flesh of her neck, shamelessly deploying every weapon in his arsenal to extinguish her anger. "Warm me up."
"If you're cold, wear a jacket." The ticklish sensation made Wen Yifan's anger evaporate entirely, replaced by the urge to laugh. "You're a grown man, and don't you always say you're a big tough guy? How come you're acting coy with me now?"
As the words left her mouth, movement in her peripheral vision caught her attention.
The kitchen door was glass, and from this angle, she could clearly see Sang Zhi absorbed in her phone on the sofa. Worried about being observed, Wen Yifan's mood instantly transformed, and she raised her hand to push his head away. "Be careful."
"What?" Sang Yan asked.
"Zhizhi is outside, it would be awkward for the young lady." Wen Yifan felt he possessed absolutely no shame, as if he wouldn't mind an entire audience. She could only patiently explain, "Besides, as her brother, don't you want to maintain a good image in front of your sister?"
"Good image? I don't have such a thing in her eyes."
"…"
After this declaration, Sang Yan glanced toward the living room and continued with characteristic laziness. "Besides, that brat has Duan Jiaxu as a boyfriend, she's seen her fair share of storms."
Wen Yifan's confusion was genuine. "Huh?"
Though he'd said this, Sang Yan still straightened up, leaning against the nearby countertop and tilting his head to observe her.
"You think that beast is more restrained than me?"
"…"
The comment genuinely piqued Wen Yifan's curiosity about Duan Jiaxu's character. After all, from her direct experience, Sang Yan's levels of narcissism and shamelessness had already achieved what seemed like an unbeatable record.
After cooking the noodles, the three of them gathered at the dining table.
Perhaps anxious about potential misunderstandings stemming from the receipt, Sang Zhi—for once—refrained from antagonizing Sang Yan. She carefully explained, "Sister Yifan, that takeout was ordered by my boyfriend. He wanted to get my brother to come pick me up, so he wrote that nonsense remark. It wasn't anyone else."
Wen Yifan smiled with understanding. "I know, I was just joking with your brother earlier."
Relief visibly flooded Sang Zhi's features, though her gaze continued shifting between them. Perhaps the domestic scene made her uncomfortable, or perhaps she simply felt compelled to speak her mind. "Sister Yifan, have you been living with my brother for too long?"
"Hm?" Wen Yifan responded.
"Well," Sang Zhi mumbled around her noodles, "lowered your standards for choosing a partner."
"…" Sang Yan's head turned sharply, his tone cooling several degrees. "What are you saying?"
Realizing this also criticized Wen Yifan's boyfriend choice, Sang Zhi held back but wisely abandoned this conversational thread. She lowered her head and continued eating, then glanced at Wen Yifan again, switching tactics. "Sister Yifan, you're too beautiful."
The implication couldn't have been clearer.
Sang Yan hadn't anticipated bringing home a potential saboteur. He leaned back in his chair and fixed Sang Zhi with an expressionless stare. "Brat, what was it you wanted me to help with earlier?"
Sang Zhi, who had wanted him to advocate for Duan Jiaxu with their parents, immediately fell silent. "…"
A moment passed.
She reluctantly added, steeling herself against future consequences, "But my brother is quite handsome too."
"…"
After the meal, Wen Yifan wanted to return to the studio for additional dance practice. Considering Sang Yan's sleep deprivation, she told him to rest, fabricated an excuse about errands, and offered to drop Sang Zhi home along the way.
For approximately two months now, Wen Yifan had been utilizing every fragment of free time to practice in an empty conference room at the studio.
She'd chosen to perform her formerly most proficient ballet piece—The Nutcracker.
After so many years away, her body's flexibility and agility no longer matched her past capabilities. The practice process brought exhaustion and persistent muscle soreness, yet Wen Yifan gradually rediscovered the sensation from her training years.
The frustration and unwillingness from being forced to abandon dance back then were slowly dissipating, like morning fog burned away by sunlight.
Imagining Sang Yan's expression when he witnessed her performance, Wen Yifan felt inexplicably happy, her motivation becoming limitless.
The following afternoon brought the annual party rehearsal, with the official event beginning at 7 PM.
As the hour approached, Wen Yifan received a message from Sang Yan explaining that something unexpected had emerged at work and he might arrive late. She stared at the screen for several seconds. Though she'd known beforehand he might not make it, perhaps because she'd prepared so extensively, receiving such news still carved out a hollow space of disappointment.
Especially since her performance occupied an early slot in the lineup.
However, this emotion didn't linger. Reasoning that it would suffice if he could see it eventually, Wen Yifan asked Su Tian to record a video later. Then she sent Sang Yan Fu Zhuang's contact information and replied: [If I don't respond to you later, just have Da Zhuang bring you up.]
Sang Yan: [Okay]
The annual party atmosphere buzzed with energy, several consecutive acts designed to elevate the mood—sketches and upbeat songs dominating the program. Wen Yifan watched and laughed, occasionally checking her phone. As her turn approached, Sang Yan still hadn't arrived.
She stopped waiting, gave Fu Zhuang final instructions, and headed backstage.
Everything had been progressing smoothly, but just as Sang Yan prepared to leave the company, a project crisis erupted, demanding immediate overtime. After barely resolving the issue, he finally escaped the office and drove to the location Wen Yifan had provided.
Arriving at the building, Sang Yan sent her a message.
No reply came.
He added Fu Zhuang on WeChat instead.
Shortly after, Fu Zhuang's figure appeared.
Upon seeing him, Fu Zhuang urgently grabbed his arm and pulled him inside. "Bro, hurry up! Sister Yifan has started performing! I've been dying to see it! Don't slow me down!"
"…" Sang Yan's brow twitched. He wanted to say something, but what emerged was, "Then walk faster."
They took the elevator up together.
Fu Zhuang proved excessively talkative, his mouth operating at maximum capacity since encountering Sang Yan, chattering continuously. His entire monologue revolved around Wen Yifan, praise flowing in endless streams. "Sister Yifan is amazing, she has so many skills. And she's been practicing for this performance for so long, every day! We'd go home after work, but she'd still go to the conference room to practice!"
"…"
"Ah, if only I could dance," Fu Zhuang sighed with genuine regret. "I would have accompanied her. Otherwise, don't you think Sister Yifan must be lonely? But bro, why don't you keep her company? Even if you just stand there, you'd look good."
The more Sang Yan listened, the more something felt distinctly wrong.
But before he could interrogate this point, they'd arrived at the venue. The interior was dimly lit, only the stage brightly illuminated. A new round of performances seemed about to commence.
The host was speaking.
Fu Zhuang immediately fell silent, afraid of disturbing others.
Below the stage, dozens of round tables held drinks and snacks, seats arranged by department. Sang Yan found himself pushed into a chair by Fu Zhuang, from where he could see Wen Yifan's bag and phone resting nearby.
Simultaneously, the host concluded the introduction and exited the stage.
Sang Yan looked up.
His expression froze entirely.
At this moment, Wen Yifan stood alone center stage. She wore a white ballet dress—sleeveless, layered with tulle, exposing an extensive expanse of collarbone and swan-like arms. Her back was bare, smooth shoulder blades creating elegant lines.
Her beauty struck with devastating force, her skin so luminously fair it seemed to generate its own light.
The skirt billowed slightly, wrapped in countless layers of gossamer tulle.
The familiar opening notes of The Nutcracker filled the space.
Joyful and light, like bells chiming beside one's ear, irresistibly magnetic. Wen Yifan faced the audience and rose en pointe, her body displaying extraordinary flexibility, moving with the music, hitting every beat with flawless precision.
Her neck extended with regal pride, like a white swan owning her domain, spinning across the stage.
Completely unprepared for such a sight, Sang Yan stared, his vision entirely consumed by Wen Yifan, unable to redirect his gaze even fractionally. His Adam's apple bobbed as he gradually overlaid this scene with a memory from years past.
Years Ago
The military training for new students at Nanwu No.1 High School lasted one week, always scheduled after first semester final exams.
The location was the city's Agricultural Science Institute.
For the military training evening party, Wen Yifan had been forcibly recruited by teachers to perform, courtesy of her status as a dance student.
It was the night before training concluded. The party atmosphere was relaxed, instructors less rigid than usual. Initially, they'd enforced proper posture, but later abandoned this requirement.
Sang Yan possessed zero interest in such events and felt drowsy throughout, finding it monumentally boring. He only wished for the party to end quickly so he could return to the dormitory and sleep.
Until Wen Yifan's performance.
Because they shared a class, perhaps feeling collective pride, the classmates surrounding Sang Yan were exceptionally supportive, generating wild cheers and enthusiastic shouts. One particularly loud-voiced boy even stood up and bellowed, "Wen Yifan is Class 17's goddess!"
But the girl seemed to hear nothing, completely unaffected by the commotion.
She stood in the center of the dance floor, wearing a pure white dress, her light-colored hair tied up, revealing a clean forehead. Darkness surrounded her, yet she remained immersed in her dance, displaying no stage fright whatsoever, resembling a delicate porcelain doll.
She seemed to generate her own illumination.
Sang Yan couldn't precisely recall his feelings in that moment.
He only knew that he—who had spent the entire evening waiting for it to end—seemed to have watched that particular performance longer than anyone else.
Later.
After military training concluded, Wen Yifan became famous throughout their grade because of this performance. Not only students from their year, but even upperclassmen sought her contact information.
For reasons he couldn't articulate.
Sang Yan had never particularly noticed this girl before, but after that evening party, he found himself coincidentally encountering these situations repeatedly. He sat in his seat, coldly observing as Wen Yifan good-naturedly rejected one person after another.
Wen Yifan treated everyone equally.
Regardless of the other person's personality, academic standing, or appearance, she maintained consistent treatment. She exhibited extraordinary patience, never wounding anyone's feelings, yet rejecting them with absolute clarity.
She was like him, yet fundamentally different.
She possessed equal pride at her core, but unlike his disdain for others, she was gentle to an extreme degree.
Like dazzling light that somehow wasn't blinding.
One afternoon, Sang Yan returned to the classroom after basketball with classmates, intending to grab his keys and head to the dormitory for a shower. Just as he reached the door, he noticed Wen Yifan had also just returned, currently blocked at the entrance by a boy talking to her.
Sang Yan observed for several seconds, then withdrew his gaze and returned to his seat.
He located his keys in the drawer, but for inexplicable reasons, didn't rush to leave, remaining seated instead.
After approximately thirty seconds, Wen Yifan also entered the classroom. She wore her dance practice clothes with a jacket layered over them. She returned to her seat—apparently just retrieving her meal card—and prepared to leave quickly.
In this moment, Sang Yan suddenly called out. "Hey, junior."
Their seats were close, separated only by an aisle.
Wen Yifan turned back, not minding his form of address, and responded, "What is it?"
Sang Yan asked with studied casualness, "Do you have a boyfriend?"
Not understanding why he'd ask this, Wen Yifan still answered honestly. "No."
Sang Yan raised his eyes, his implication clear. "Then why do you reject everyone?"
This matter had absolutely nothing to do with Sang Yan.
But Wen Yifan possessed a good nature and felt no reason to withhold an answer. She wanted to cite the ban on early dating but felt that would be too vague. After brief contemplation, she simply stated directly, "I haven't met someone I like."
The girl's voice was clear, carrying hints of gentleness.
Yet it struck his heart powerfully, word by word, like hammer strikes.
Someone she liked.
Silence descended.
The classroom was empty except for them, excessively quiet, with sunlight streaming through windows. The air filled with the scent of youth, and they could hear students running on the playground, as well as an unknown heartbeat.
In that instant, Sang Yan fully understood.
Why he'd never noticed before, but now kept encountering these situations. Why the girl who'd previously been indistinguishable from other casual classmates suddenly appeared frequently in his vision.
Was it coincidence?
It didn't seem so.
He had simply gone from not caring to caring.
The young man leaned back in his chair, looking up at her slightly. His hair tips remained damp with sweat, his eyes clear and bright. He tilted his head slightly, suddenly smiling, his words carrying their characteristic arrogance.
"Is that so?"
But this time, it carried an extremely obvious certainty.
"—Then you should have met him now."
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