He wasn’t just handsome—he was kind too, and funny, and intelligent. It was all almost ruined when he admitted that he was a Chinese fu’erdai, but Weiran waited to hear him out—he was the eldest son, and he’d left home because he hadn’t wanted anything to do with his family’s business. That made Weiran feel a little better about hanging out with him. About loving him.

As he scrolled through the pictures—some of them of himself, but very rarely—he could see how he’d slowly become more like Xingyu. He’d grown his hair out, started paying more attention to his looks and his hygiene, even put a modicum of effort into how he dressed, although this latter one was a little more expensive and could definitely use more work. Sometimes Xingyu would even lend Weiran clothes, and Weiran would have to pretend he wasn’t sniffing at the cloth the entire time he was wearing it.

“Are you a foreigner?” the driver asked him, trying for casual conversation. Weiran turned his phone’s screen off.

“No,” he said. “I’ve just been out of the country for a while.”

“Ah—studying?”

“Yes. Photography.”

The driver pressed his lips together. “Hm, hm. And what do your parents think?”

This was a loaded question. The driver had already assumed the answer—that Weiran’s parents did not approve, that he’d had to go abroad because his parents wouldn’t support him studying such a subject in the country. Zhang Weiran rolled his eyes.

“They’re thrilled,” he said, keeping his voice easy, and then slipped in a little lie: “They’ve been talking about nothing but my gallery showing for the last month and a half.”

“Ah—gallery showing? What sort of pictures?”

Was that genuine interest or just politeness? “Portraits.”

“Are they any good? Well, I guess they must be, if they’re in a gallery.”

“I think they are,” said Weiran. The taxi driver had nothing to say to that; he continued driving silently until they reached the hotel, at which point he said something to the effect of “we’re here” and Weiran passed over the money. “Thank you.”

“You have a good night, sir.”

“You as well.”

He hauled the two suitcases to the check-in counter.

Liu Xiaokai was still pressed up against his door. He’d heard Liu Xingyu answer his phone, move away from the door and back to his own room. His tone was familiar—it must have been a friend. A friend that Xiaokai knew? Did he need to look into it, find out? If he accidentally revealed anything to Xingyu—if he made a terrible mistake and revealed anything to Xingyu—would Xingyu tell this friend?