Chapter 83: Good‑Looking People Are Always Scheming Saturday.
1037 Words
Luo Ye’s parcel finally arrived. His leg was about seventy‑odd percent healed—he still hobbled when he walked, but it was no longer a serious problem.
He cradled the new bedding he’d bought and stood in front of door 614 of the faculty apartments.
Taking a deep breath, he set the two big boxes on the floor, about to knock, when his phone buzzed.
“Senior, we’re out of soy sauce. Could you pick up a bottle at the downstairs market when you go?”
Luo Ye froze for a beat, then slipped the parcels onto the doorstep and hurried back to the elevator to head downstairs for soy sauce.
As soon as he left, Su Bai Zhu opened the door, glanced at the two packages, and realized Luo Ye hadn’t announced his arrival. The freshman just slipped away without a word.
She crouched, hauled the bedding inside, and set the two boxes on the living‑room floor.
Knowing they were blankets and sheets, she cut them open with scissors, carried the items into Luo Ye’s room, and patiently laid out the mattress, the sheet, and slipped the duvet cover onto the comforter. One person organized the whole bed with meticulous care.
On the other side, Luo Ye finally found the “downstairs market” the senior mentioned. He’d only ever visited the fifth building, fourth unit where she lived, so the campus layout was still a maze to him.
In the small shop on the first floor of the neighboring building, the owner was glued to a video game. Luo Ye ignored him, scanned the shelves for soy sauce, and saw dozens of varieties. He didn’t recognize the difference between light soy (**) and dark soy (**). Not being much of a cook, he wasn’t sure which one to buy, so he grabbed both—cheap enough anyway.
He placed the two bottles on the counter.
“Checkout,” the owner said.
“Hold on, I’m about to order chicken wings,” the owner muttered, his face dead‑serious as if his game was on the line.
The shop was run by a middle‑aged couple who usually sold things casually.
The owner’s wife stormed over, grabbed his ear, and snapped, “You’re playing games again? The customer’s here and you still haven’t billed!” She quickly rang up Luo Ye’s purchase.
Leaving the shop, Luo Ye mused, Everyone has a story. Even the couple downstairs probably lived through a romance that felt like a blockbuster when they were younger.
He lugged the two bottles back to door 614. The porch was empty—his parcels had vanished.
“Someone stole my delivery!” he muttered, knocking on the door.
The door swung open moments later. Su Bai Zhu stood there with rabbit ears perched on her head. The hat wasn’t expensive, but it held a special meaning for her, so she loved wearing it at home.
Before she could speak, her eyes landed on Luo Ye’s bewildered expression and she couldn’t help but let a tiny smile tug at the corner of her mouth.
Luo Ye limped in, dropped the soy sauce bottles on the kitchen counter, then flopped onto the sofa with a look that said I’ve given up on life. He stared blankly, as if wrestling with an invisible thought.
After a few minutes, he fished out his phone and started scrolling with his thumb, probably watching short videos of beautiful girls—or checking out the bedding he’d just bought.
Su Bai Zhu shuffled over and sat next to him, leaving just a chair’s width between them. She tilted her head, caught a glimpse of his screen, and saw the bedding listings.
She raised an eyebrow, then asked, “Did your delivery get stolen today?”
Luo Ye jumped up. The earlier dejection vanished. He pounded his chest, “Leave it to me. I’ll clean up the place until it shines for you, senior!”
He grabbed a broom and a rag and set to work. In reality the apartment was already spotless; Su Bai Zhu was just teasing him. Still, he cleaned everything once, earnestly.
When he finished, he sank back onto the sofa and resumed watching the bedding ads.
Su Bai Zhu, keeping her expression neutral, asked, “Why haven’t you left yet?”
Luo Ye stared at her, head tilted, eyes wide with confusion.
She kept up the “cold” act, replying, “I remember saying you should handle all the daily chores, not that you could move in here.”
Luo Ye’s face turned even more blank. Was this the classic self‑delusion? Of course the “fairy senior” would never agree to share a roof—even if it meant two separate rooms.
He lowered his head, locked his phone, and muttered, “Sorry, senior. I misunderstood. I’ll go now.”
He rose, his voice a little stiff, and headed for the door.
Seeing his limp, half‑hearted retreat, Su Bai Zhu’s face softened with a flicker of sympathy. She’d made him uncomfortable.
“Luo Ye,” she called, her voice the first time she’d used his name.
He turned slowly, dumbfounded, as she propped a hand on her chin, half‑smiling, half‑teasing, “You left something in your room.”
“What?” he asked, still puzzled.
He obeyed, hobbling back to his own room. On the door hung his own key—the one he’d left in the lock when he first moved in. But today there was an extra key attached to the keychain: the 614 key that Gu Ming‑Xuan had given him. Since he’d learned Su Bai Zhu lived there, he’d returned that key to her out of consideration—no guy wants his female roommate feeling uneasy over a spare key.
The door wasn’t locked; the keys just dangled there. He turned the knob, pushed the door open, and saw the bed neatly made, the parcels unwrapped, and the packaging strewn on the floor.
From behind, Su Bai Zhu’s voice floated in, “The room still isn’t spotless yet.”
- Writer
