Friday evening arrived with the kind of quiet that felt deliberate.
Like the apartment was holding its breath.
Their parents had gone out for dinner—a "date night" that Wei Chengyu had suggested and Jiang Yue's mother had accepted with the kind of shy smile that made Jiang Yue want to look away. Not because he was disgusted. Because it reminded him that his mother was a person with wants, and that felt too vulnerable to witness.
They left at seven.
"Be good," Jiang Yue's mother said at the door, smiling too hopefully. "Study together. Don't fight."
Jiang Yue saluted lazily. "Yes, commander."
Wei nodded politely. "Have a good evening."
The door shut.
Silence flooded in.
Jiang Yue stood in the living room, staring at the closed door like it had just sealed him into a cage.
Wei was already at the dining table, laptop open, papers out. As if the departure of the parents changed nothing.
Jiang Yue knew better.
Everything changed when the audience left.
He walked to the kitchen, grabbed water, and drank slowly, watching Wei through the doorway.
Wei's posture was straight. His pen moved steadily. His face was calm.
But since yesterday—since the public slip in Teacher Gao's class—there was something different. A tension in Wei's shoulders that hadn't been there before. A tightness in his jaw that appeared every time Jiang Yue entered a room.
Because watching you take it makes me want to do something stupid.
The words echoed in Jiang Yue's head like a song he couldn't turn off.
He set the water down and walked to the table.
Wei didn't look up.
Jiang Yue sat down across from him and opened his workbook.
For a while, they studied in silence.
Real silence. The kind that was thick and aware.
The kind where Jiang Yue could hear Wei breathing.
The kind where the scratch of Wei's pen sounded louder than it should, like each letter was a controlled decision.
Jiang Yue tried to focus.
He read the same sentence four times.
He stared at a math problem until the numbers rearranged themselves into nonsense.
He pressed his pen against the paper hard enough to dent it.
Nothing worked.
Because Wei was right there, across a table that was too small, in an apartment that was too quiet, on a Friday night when nobody was watching.
Jiang Yue exhaled sharply. "This is stupid."
Wei's pen paused. "What is."
Jiang Yue gestured vaguely. "This. Studying. Pretending everything is normal."
Wei's gaze lifted slowly. "It is normal."
Jiang Yue stared at him. "You stood up in class yesterday and basically told Teacher Gao she was a bully. That's not normal."
Wei's jaw tightened. "I was correcting an injustice."
Jiang Yue laughed, bitter. "You were losing control."
Wei's eyes flashed. "I was not."
Jiang Yue leaned forward. "You said watching me makes you want to do something stupid."
The words landed on the table between them like a dropped knife.
Wei's pen went still.
His gaze held Jiang Yue's, and for a second the calm cracked—not fully, just enough for Jiang Yue to see the heat underneath.
Then Wei looked down. "I was tired. I misspoke."
Jiang Yue's smile sharpened. "Liar."
Wei's throat moved in a swallow. "Drop it."
Jiang Yue leaned back, arms crossed. "No."
Wei's gaze snapped up, dark. "Why."
Jiang Yue's voice came out quieter than he intended. "Because you never misspeak."
Silence.
The laptop hummed softly. Outside, a car passed, headlights sliding across the curtains.
Wei stared at him.
Then Wei closed his laptop and folded his hands on the table, controlled.
"What do you want," Wei asked, voice low.
Jiang Yue blinked. "What?"
Wei's gaze was steady. "You keep pushing. You keep poking. You keep trying to make me say something I can't take back."
Jiang Yue's chest tightened. "I'm not—"
"You are," Wei said. "So tell me. What do you want."
The question sat between them like a dare.
Jiang Yue's mouth opened.
What did he want.
He wanted to stop feeling like he was drowning.
He wanted Wei to stop pretending.
He wanted to know if the kiss meant something.
He wanted someone to look at him like he was worth staying for.
He couldn't say any of that.
So he said the closest thing to the truth that his pride would allow.
"I want you to be honest," Jiang Yue said.
Wei stared at him.
Then Wei exhaled slowly, controlled, like he was releasing pressure.
"Honest," Wei repeated.
Jiang Yue's jaw tightened. "For once."
Wei's gaze held his for a long beat.
The apartment was so quiet Jiang Yue could hear the refrigerator humming.
Then Wei spoke, and his voice was lower than before, stripped of the usual calm.
"I think about it," Wei said.
Jiang Yue's breath stopped.
Wei's eyes stayed on him, dark and steady, but there was something raw underneath now, like a wound he'd been covering.
"I think about it every time you walk into a room," Wei continued, voice tight. "I think about it when you're loud and when you're quiet and when you're angry."
Jiang Yue's pulse hammered.
Wei's jaw flexed. "And I think about it when you look at me like you're looking at me right now."
Jiang Yue's throat tightened so hard it hurt.
Wei's gaze didn't move. "Is that honest enough."
Silence.
The air between them felt charged, electric, like touching anything would cause a spark.
Jiang Yue swallowed.
He wanted to joke. He needed to joke. Jokes were armor. Jokes kept him safe.
But his mouth wouldn't cooperate.
Instead, he whispered, "Yeah."
Wei stared at him.
Then Wei's expression tightened, like he'd heard himself and the cost of honesty was hitting all at once.
He looked away first.
His hands unfolded on the table, then refolded, tighter, like he was physically holding himself in place.
"It doesn't change anything," Wei said, voice colder now.
Jiang Yue flinched internally. "Why."
Wei's gaze flicked back, sharp. "Because we live together. Because our parents just got married. Because the entire school is watching."
Jiang Yue's chest burned. "So what."
Wei's eyes narrowed. "So everything."
Jiang Yue leaned forward, stubborn. "You just admitted—"
Wei cut him off, voice controlled and final. "I admitted something. That doesn't mean I act on it."
The words fell like a wall.
Jiang Yue stared at him, feeling the impact settle into his bones.
Admitted but won't act.
Knows but won't move.
Feels but won't touch.
Jiang Yue laughed, and it came out broken. "You're amazing," he said, voice rough. "You can feel something and just… decide not to."
Wei's gaze held his, and for a second, pain flickered there—real, unguarded.
"No," Wei said quietly. "I can't."
Jiang Yue's heart kicked.
Wei continued, voice barely above a whisper. "But I have to."
The honesty cut Jiang Yue open.
He sat back, breathing hard, staring at the table.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then Jiang Yue did something he didn't plan.
He reached across the table and put his hand down, palm up, between them.
Not grabbing. Not demanding.
Just there.
Open.
Wei stared at it.
His throat moved.
His fingers twitched at his side.
For a second, Jiang Yue thought Wei would take it.
For a second, the world narrowed to that open palm and the space between their hands.
Then Wei stood up.
The chair scraped softly.
Wei picked up his laptop and papers, neat and controlled, like he was tidying away a disaster.
"We should stop," Wei said, voice flat.
Jiang Yue's hand stayed on the table, open, empty.
He stared at it.
Then he curled his fingers slowly, pulling the offer back into a fist.
"Fine," Jiang Yue said, voice rough. "We stop."
Wei nodded once.
He walked toward his room.
At the door, he paused.
Without turning, he said, "Your math is getting better."
Jiang Yue stared at his back.
Of all the things Wei could've said—sorry, goodnight, I wish things were different—he said that.
Your math is getting better.
And somehow, stupidly, impossibly, that hit Jiang Yue harder than any confession.
Because it meant Wei had been watching.
Not just watching Jiang Yue fall apart.
Watching him try.
Wei's door closed.
Jiang Yue sat alone at the dining table, fist on the surface, breathing slow.
The apartment was quiet again.
But the quiet felt different now.
Not empty.
Full.
Full of something that had been named but couldn't be touched.
And Jiang Yue realized, with the kind of clarity that only comes after midnight on a Friday when you're alone and too honest, that the worst part of wanting someone wasn't the wanting.
It was knowing they wanted you back and still couldn't reach.