Then Chen exhaled, set the spoon down, and let it go.
She pulled the dish closer and started eating at once, humming happily.
Wei hadn't spoken.
Chen blinked. Frowned faintly.
Wei let out a breath so soft it barely stirred the air. Then he picked up his chopsticks again and returned to the eggplant. Kept his eyes on his plate.
Chen studied Jian for several long seconds—long enough that the silence between them became its own small event.
Then he leaned back, chewing the bite he'd already taken, expression carefully neutral.
The table noise rushed back in to fill the gap. Someone declared the soup too bland and reached for the salt. Someone else knocked over a plastic cup, water spread in a quick silver sheet across the wood. Napkins flew. Laughter erupted again.
Wei ate in silence.
Every so often his gaze lifted—brief, involuntary flickers. To Jian's hands resting on the table. To the curve of Yanyan's smile when she laughed at something Mei said. To the casual way her shoulder brushed Jian's when she leaned in to whisper a joke.
He didn't hear the words.
Only registered the proximity.
The easy intimacy of it.
His chopsticks came to rest beside his bowl.
"I'm going to the washroom," he said quietly to Chen. "Finish if you want."
Chen looked up sharply. "You good?"
A single nod. "I'll be back."
Wei stood—movements economical, contained—and slipped between the benches before anyone could say anything else.
Jian watched the space where he'd been.
It felt cavernous.
"I'll be right back too," Jian said abruptly. "Bathroom."
Yanyan flapped a hand at him without breaking her conversation with Lin. "Hurry up. They're about to turn the lights out."
Jian didn't answer.
He stood and followed.
Outside, night had claimed everything. The air tasted cool and green, heavy with the scent of damp soil and distant rain. The fields stretched black and endless beyond the weak perimeter lights. Crickets pulsed in waves.
Wei was already twenty paces ahead, walking with the same measured stride he always used when he wanted distance without making it obvious.
Jian's heart knocked hard against his ribs.
He should turn around. Should go back to the warm noise, to Yanyan's smile, to the safety of ordinary things.
Instead his feet kept moving.
Closing the gap.
One step. Another.
Until the corridor lights caught them both, and the space between them shrank to nothing but unsaid words and the faint, inevitable smell of rain about to fall.
Wei had left earlier.
By the time Jian stepped out into the night, the dining hall door swinging shut behind him, Wei was nowhere in sight.
For a second, Jian hesitated.
The porch stretched in both directions, dim bulbs humming softly. Rain threatened but hadn't fallen yet. The air felt electric, waiting.
He walked left first.
Empty.
Turned back.
The smell reached him before the sight did.
Smoke.
Not strong. Just enough.
Jian followed it.
Past the corridor lights. Past the shadow where the walkway curved. Toward the railing overlooking the dark fields.
That was when he saw him.
Wei stood at the far end, one elbow resting on the wooden rail, lighter cupped in his palm. The flame flared briefly, illuminating his face in sharp gold before dying down.
The cigarette caught.
Wind moved through his hair, lifting it slightly at the front. The strands shifted across his forehead, soft and careless, as if the night had claimed them.
Wei exhaled.
Smoke drifted outward into the black fields and disappeared.
Jian stopped walking.
For a moment, he just watched.
Then—
Jian closed the final distance without meaning to.
They stood beneath a single yellow bulb near the end of the wooden walkway. The light hummed faintly overhead. Beyond the railing, the fields were nothing but shadow.
Wei didn't look at him.
"You smoke now?" Jian asked.
Wei took another drag before answering.
"Sometimes."
"That's new."
A small shrug. "You don't know everything."
The tone wasn't cruel.
Just precise.
Jian leaned beside him, close enough to smell the cigarette mixed with rain-heavy air.
"You shouldn't," Jian said.
Wei let out a thin line of smoke. "You sound like a teacher."
"I'm serious."
Wei turned his head slightly then, just enough for the light to catch his profile.
"So am I."
Silence fell between them.
The cigarette glowed faintly at the tip.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.
The crickets filled the silence. Wind moved through the grass in a low ripple. Somewhere far off, a dog barked once.
Wei kept his gaze forward.
"You didn't have to follow," he said finally.
His voice wasn't sharp.
Just tired.
Jian swallowed. "I wasn't."
Wei's mouth twitched slightly. "Sure."
Another pause.
The air between them felt different out here. Thinner. Like the dining hall noise had been pressing everything down, and now the night had lifted it.
"You left pretty fast," Jian said.
Wei shrugged. "Too loud."
"That never bothered you before."
Wei turned his head then, just slightly. The corridor light caught the edge of his face, leaving the rest in shadow.
"Things change."
Jian's chest tightened at that.
He didn't know which part hurt more — the statement, or how calm Wei sounded saying it.
"About earlier," Jian started, then stopped.
Wei waited.
The rain smell deepened, heavier now.
"You didn't eat much," Jian finished instead.
Wei let out a quiet breath. Almost a laugh. "You're counting?"
"No."
A lie.
Wei leaned back against the wooden railing, arms folding loosely across his chest. Not defensive. Just holding himself together.
"You always liked shrimp," Jian said before he could stop himself.
The words fell between them.
Wei stilled.
For a fraction of a second, something unguarded crossed his face — surprise, maybe. Or something closer to being seen.
Then it was gone.
"I grew out of it," Wei said.
Another lie.
Jian didn't push.
The silence that followed wasn't hostile. It was dense.
"You didn't have to take it," Wei added quietly. "Chen didn't know."
"I know," Jian said.
And that was the problem.
Wei looked at him properly then.
Not glancing. Not flickering away.
Looking.
The corridor light hummed above them. Moths circled lazily in its halo.
"Why?" Wei asked.
One word.
Not accusing.
Just direct.
Jian's mouth went dry.
He had a hundred answers ready — jokes, deflections, safe explanations.
Instead he said, "Because you would've eaten it anyway."
Wei didn't deny that.
They held each other's gaze a moment longer than was safe.
Inside the hall, someone laughed loudly. A chair scraped. The world continued as if this narrow stretch of wooden walkway didn't exist.
"You shouldn't do that," Wei said.
"Do what?"
"Act like…" He trailed off.
"Like what?" Jian pressed, softer now.
Wei looked away first this time.
"Like you remember everything."
The words landed heavier than they should have.
Jian stepped closer without realizing it.
"I do," he said.
Wei's breath hitched — barely audible, but there.
The rain finally began, faint at first. A soft scatter against the roof tiles. The smell sharpened, fresh and metallic.
"Jian," Wei said quietly, "you have Yanyan."
And there it was — that distance. Controlled. Sharp around the edges.
"You remember that," Wei said.
It wasn't a question.
Jian didn't answer.
The wind lifted Wei's hair again, a thin strand falling across his forehead. Without thinking — not planning, not measuring — Jian took a step closer.
Too close.
Close enough to see the faint tension at the corner of Wei's mouth.
Jian lifted his hand.
Just to brush the strand away.
Just to—
His fingers hovered inches from Wei's skin.
Wei spoke before he could touch him.
"Jian," Wei said quietly, "you have Yanyan."
It wasn't jealousy.
It was fact.
Jian's jaw tightened. "That doesn't mean—"
"Don't," Wei cut in. Not harsh. Just firm. "Don't say something you can't finish."
Lightning flashed far off in the distance, silent at this range.
For a second, the world was white.
When the darkness returned, Wei's expression had changed. Softer. Sadder.
"I'm fine," he said.
The most unconvincing sentence of the night.
Footsteps approached from the corridor behind them.
Chen.
He stopped a few paces away, hands in his pockets, taking in the distance — or lack of it — between them.
"Everything good?" he asked lightly.
Too lightly.
Wei straightened immediately. The moment folded back into something manageable.
"Yeah," he said.
Jian stepped back half an inch. Enough to breathe.
Chen's gaze moved from Jian to Wei and back again. He didn't smile this time.
"Roll call's starting," he said. "Teacher's counting."
Wei nodded. "Coming."
He didn't look at Jian again.
He walked past Chen, back toward the warm light of the dining hall.
Chen lingered.
For a second too long.
Then he raised an eyebrow — subtle, unreadable — and followed.
Jian remained where he was.
Rain fell harder now, steady against the roof. The fields beyond were invisible.
He stared at the place where Wei had stood.
You always liked shrimp.
I grew out of it.
Neither of them believed that.
The corridor light flickered once.
Inside, someone called his name.
Jian didn't move.
Not yet.
Because something had shifted.
Small.
But irreversible.
And he knew —
when they went back inside, nothing would look quite the same.