Chapter Text
Lan Zhan has a bag of groceries tucked into the crook of his arm and another waiting on the floor of the entryway, the hand with his keys resting on the doorknob as he swings it shut. This is perfectly normal. It’s how his Friday afternoon grocery runs usually end. Next he’ll toe out of his shoes, put on his house shoes (not slippers, because he finds he likes the arch support), and put everything away. He’ll locate his cat Bunny wherever she’s decided to deposit her white fur today, pet her until she deems herself appropriately greeted, and check on the back garden before he makes a cup of tea. Once he has the tea he’ll check on the front yard, and if he times it right, he’ll get to see The Most Beautiful Man in the World and maybe offer him a polite wave as he walks by. It’s a comforting routine, and one he looks forward to.
“Fuck!” says someone, in an extreme break from his usual routine. The door swings painfully hard into his face—another significant break in routine—and then The Most Beautiful Man in the World flings himself into Lan Zhan’s entryway, slams the door shut, and trips backward over the grocery bag on the floor, landing in a pile of scattered groceries that Lan Zhan must have dropped when the door met his face at speed. It’s… a lot to handle, and Lan Zhan blinks through the shocking pain in his cheekbone, which isn’t making things any easier to handle.
“Oh god,” says The Most Beautiful Man in the World, one hand white-knuckled around the strap of his messenger bag, the other trembling hard where it’s clamped over his mouth. “Oh, god, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, don’t let it get me—” He appears to be hyperventilating, his face sweaty where it’s visible behind his hand, starkly pale against the red of his hoodie. Lan Zhan’s brain has just about decided to ask a question when loud barking vibrates through the door behind him, followed by heavy footfalls and the jingling of tags.
Ah. The Asshole Dog is loose again. Lan Zhan knows that it is not the dog’s fault for being an asshole, but The Asshole Dog is the reason Lan Zhan had a fence put in at a significant personal expense, because the alternative was allowing his garden to be destroyed and for Bunny to be menaced on her leashed outdoor adventures. Unacceptable. The Most Beautiful Man in the World cringes at the barking, scooting further away from the door through a sea of a dozen broken eggs and leaving a yolky trail in his wake.
“Fuck,” he whimpers, curling into a ball, both hands wrapped around the back of his neck as if to—as if to protect himself, Lan Zhan realizes. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, please—” The Most Beautiful Man in the World begs, voice ragged. He’s definitely hyperventilating now, from what Lan Zhan can tell between the audible sobs. There’s another bark from outside, and The Most Beautiful Man in the World flinches bodily, making a terrified sound that Lan Zhan feels behind his ribs.
All of Lan Zhan’s previous interactions with The Most Beautiful Man in the World have been at a distance, with Lan Zhan on his front porch or weeding the front garden while The Most Beautiful Man in the World walks past on the sidewalk, gait a little bouncy as though he’s too excited to rein himself in. Lan Zhan thinks he must have family in the neighborhood, because the visits aren’t regular enough for The Most Beautiful Man in the World to live nearby—not that Lan Zhan thinks about The Most Beautiful Man in the World an inappropriate amount. He just tries to make sure he’s outside in the afternoons on Fridays, for his own health, and if a few times a month he gets a cheerful wave accompanied by a smile that feels like a warm slap to the face, that’s his business.
Now The Most Beautiful Man in the World has invaded Lan Zhan’s house in order to have an egg-covered panic attack in his entryway. This is definitely not the way he thought he’d ever hear The Most Beautiful Man in the World’s voice, or have The Most Beautiful Man in the World in his home, but it’s apparently what this Friday had to offer. Who is he to fight Friday?
“It’s all right,” he says softly, carefully picking his way past the carton of soy milk (intact but dented), the bag of dried chickpeas (split but contained) and the egg mess (a mess). “You’re safe now. It can’t get you.” He crouches slowly next to The Most Beautiful Man in the World, trying to telegraph his movements, but The Most Beautiful Man in the World is still curled up in the kind of protective ball Lan Zhan teaches in his beginner self-defense classes for people with marginalized genders, so he cannot see or care about Lan Zhan’s carefully telegraphed movements.
“Oh god,” he whisper-sobs, “oh god, oh god, please, please god.” He’s trembling all over and rocking back and forth, probably to try and self-soothe. This isn’t the first panic attack Lan Zhan has witnessed—see the previously mentioned beginner self-defense classes for people with marginalized genders—so he takes a moment to weigh his options. Is The Most Beautiful Man in the World, like Lan Zhan, the kind of person who’ll react violently to being touched in this situation? If so, Lan Zhan has faith in his own ability to dodge, and he thinks it’s an acceptable risk to take in case The Most Beautiful Man in the World finds physical contact comforting. (He doesn’t particularly like touching strangers, but he had to get over it to a certain extent in order to teach martial arts. This won’t be touching-touching, though. It’s more like first aid.)
“I’m going to touch you now,” he says, voice gentle but hopefully loud enough to be heard over the sobbing, and he sets a hand in between The Most Beautiful Man in the World’s shoulder blades cautiously. He rubs one slow circle without getting punched—a victory—and then finds himself flat on his back as The Most Beautiful Man in the World suddenly uncurls himself and launches into Lan Zhan’s lap like a canister of nuts that actually contains novelty exploding snakes. When Lan Zhan recovers from this new surprise in an afternoon apparently full of surprises, he finds The Most Beautiful Man in the World’s face buried in Lan Zhan’s chest, hands fisted in his sweater, and a leg sort of clamped over one of his. Apparently it is going to be touching-touching?
Lan Zhan takes a moment to reflect that this is not at all the way he had—occasionally, respectfully—imagined having The Most Beautiful Man in the World in his embrace. As an example of one way it differs, he had never imagined the amount of raw egg they’re currently dealing with. Lan Zhan can feel something wet soaking through the seat of his pants, and assumes it to be more egg. Gross.
On the other hand, it’s not getting punched, and it’s confirmation that touching was the correct choice, because no one koalas this hard if they don’t find it comforting. Lan Zhan resettles his hands on The Most Beautiful Man in the World’s back and returns to his original plan of rubbing circles there. “Okay,” he says, low and soothing, “you’re safe, I promise. Can you try to breathe with me?” He inhales slowly, making sure to inflate his ribcage as theatrically as possible, shifting the weight of the head on his chest. “Like that,” he says, doing it again. “All you need to do is try and breathe with me.”
It takes five more of Lan Zhan’s deep breaths before The Most Beautiful Man in the World tries to match one of them. This is a mixed success. The air hitches on its way into his lungs like a hangnail that keeps catching on fabric, and he gets nowhere near matching the length of Lan Zhan’s inhale, but it’s promising.
“Good work,” Lan Zhan says, keeping his voice low and his hand moving. “You’re doing very well. Can you try again?” The Most Beautiful Man in the World does, a few of the sharp places smoothing out. He still hasn’t stopped trembling, but he’s sobbing less. Good.
They breathe together like that until Bunny comes to investigate the situation, seeming put out that Lan Zhan hasn’t come to pet her yet. She pauses on the edge of the egg mess and glares, yellow eyes narrowed. He knows that Bunny is a cat and is not capable of either human speech or human emotions, but he still thinks she’s judging him.
“I apologize,” he tells her. The man in his arms makes a sound that might be a question, and Lan Zhan pats him, meaning, “Not you,” and hoping he gets it. “We have a guest,” he murmurs to Bunny. “There are extenuating circumstances.”
Bunny sniffs a raw egg, jerks her head back, and transfers her glare to it as though it’s personally insulted her. Oh, thank goodness. Every time he makes salmon he has to engage in a series of elaborate maneuvers to keep her from stealing it off his plate. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to successfully kick her away from the raw eggs without disturbing The Most Beautiful Man in the World. His relief is short-lived, because Bunny backs up, makes a series of very important calculations, and wiggles her butt before leaping bodily onto them. She lands with half her paws on Lan Zhan’s bladder (how?) and half of them on The Most Beautiful Man in the World’s thigh, because in spite of being the sweetest cat to ever exist, she’s also an absolute monster.
“Are you proud of yourself?” Lan Zhan asks, leveling a revenge glare at her. (Most people wouldn’t guess that Lan Zhan talks to his cat this much, because among people he tends to be reticent with his words thanks to the social anxiety. Bunny isn’t people, though, so it’s good practice. His therapist approves, anyway.)
“Mrrp,” Bunny says, unrepentant, and she proceeds to worm her way under The Most Beautiful Man in the World’s elbow, shove her face into the crook of his neck, and start purring hard enough to vibrate both their bodies. Lan Zhan instantly forgives her for landing on his bladder. What a good kitty. The best kitty.
“What the hell?” The Most Beautiful Man in the World asks distantly, one hand unclenching from Lan Zhan’s sweater to settle on Bunny’s soft fur. This is the first real sentence he’s said since tripping over Lan Zhan’s groceries. His voice is wet and thick, but his fingers are moving, scritching into the ruff around Bunny’s neck. Good. Good. Focusing on physical sensations should help enormously.
“This is Bunny,” he tells The Most Beautiful Man in the World, trying to to synchronize the movements of their hands. He feels a familiar flash of embarrassment over saying the name out loud and pushes it aside. People do not expect the owner of a martial arts studio to have a cat named Bunny, and some of them have made their disbelief rudely clear.
“I like her,” The Most Beautiful Man in the World says, increasing his standing in Lan Zhan’s rankings dramatically. He still sounds a bit detached from reality, but he’s no longer sobbing, and his breathing is much steadier. Lan Zhan hopes he doesn’t fuck any of that up with what he’s has to do next.
“I’m going to sit us up,” he says, because the egg situation at the seat of his pants has become disgustingly urgent. “You can keep holding Bunny.”
“Okay,” The Most Beautiful Man in the World says. “That sounds nice.” Lan Zhan has some worries about how out of it he sounds, but Lan Zhan always has worries about something. He pushes upright slowly, giving Bunny all the time she needs to shift around and land in The Most Beautiful Man in the World’s lap, and then carefully scooches The Most Beautiful Man in the World off his lap. This puts him back in the eggs, unfortunately, but Lan Zhan will address that shortly.
“I will be back in just a moment,” he tells The Most Beautiful Man in the World, one hand on his shoulder and the other on his elbow to make sure he can stay upright. “You are safe and nothing will harm you while I am gone.”
“Okay,” The Most Beautiful Man in the World says again, looking through Lan Zhan like he’s not even there, Bunny cuddled to his chest with both arms. He’s gorgeous up close, even with his eyes red-rimmed from tears and his color still off from the lingering panic. None of that manages to detract from the smooth planes of his cheekbones, the lush curve of his lips. His glassy eyes are large, a rich dark brown, and Lan Zhan wishes they were as bright as they are when The Most Beautiful Man in the World grins at him from the other side of the fence. Lan Zhan wishes he knew his name, because The Most Beautiful Man in the World is an absurd way to refer to someone when you’re interacting with them this much. He realizes that there’s an easy solution to the issue, and inwardly rolls his eyes at himself and his ongoing struggle with social norms.
“My name is Lan Zhan,” he says, squeezing an elbow in what he hopes is an encouraging way.
“Oh,” The Most Beautiful Man in the World says after a moment. He blinks hazily. “Cool.”
Lan Zhan wants to kiss him. Maybe shake him a little bit, too. He does neither as he asks, “And you?”
“Oh,” The Most Beautiful Man in the World says in the exact same inflection. His eyes try to focus on Lan Zhan’s face and fail, going back to the hazy distance. The following pause is long enough that Lan Zhan’s starting to worry that maybe The Most Beautiful Man in the World hit his head when he tripped over the leeks when the man in question inhales and says, “Wei Ying.”
“Wei Ying?” The Most Beautiful Man in the World—Wei Ying, apparently—nods. “All right, Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, stroking up and down one bicep. Wei Ying’s attention is clearly still wandering, and Lan Zhan decides it’s not necessarily infantilizing if he uses a technique he usually employs on frightened under fives at his martial arts school as long as it helps this man who is clearly over the age of five. “I need to go take care of something,” he says. “It’ll only take me a moment, but it’s very important that you keep Bunny safe while I’m gone. Can you do that, Wei Ying?”
Wei Ying blinks and drops his eyes to Bunny, one hand still buried in her ruff. “Yeah,” he says, a breath later. “Yeah, I can do that.”
“Thank you,” Lan Zhan says, and he gets his eggy shoes off and nearly sprints to his bedroom, skin crawling at the sticky, cloying knowledge that there’s more egg in places egg should never be. He strips entirely naked as quickly as possible (bedroom door carefully shut and locked), wipes off with a damp cloth in his ensuite bathroom just to shut up the psychosomatic part of his brain that claims it can still feel the egg, and emerges less than two minutes later in clean sweats and a soft, long-sleeved thermal shirt. A quick peek into the entryway reveals Wei Ying and Bunny right where he left them and no worse for the wear, so he allows himself the freedom to start the kettle in the kitchen and retrieve a couple of beach towels from the hall closet.
“Wei Ying,” he says quietly, throwing one of said towels down on top of the raw eggs before he approaches. (He tries not to wince too obviously about it. This is going to be a miserable cleanup.) “Thank you for taking care of Bunny. Do you think you can stand up?”
Wei Ying blinks at him placidly and nods, allowing himself to be levered to his feet without complaint. He continues to not complain as Lan Zhan carefully helps him take off his messenger bag, get him out of his shoes, and wipes the worst of the raw egg off his pants, narrating every action before he does it and getting nothing in response except for more nodding. He herds Wei Ying and Bunny into the living room, spreads the second beach towel over the couch before guiding him to sit down, and comes back a moment later with a steaming mug of a minty herbal tea.
“This is for you,” he tells Wei Ying, offering him the mug and trying to ignore the screaming voice in the back of his head telling him to clean up his entryway and put away the groceries. It can wait, as much as he hates mess. There wasn’t anything frozen on his shopping list this week, and the sealed tofu can survive sitting out at room temperature for a little longer. Wei Ying, he reminds himself firmly, is more important.
Wei Ying manages to accept the mug. His hands are still trembling, Lan Zhan notes, and on further investigation Wei Ying’s whole body is trembling. It’s probably the adrenaline comedown making him cold—Lan Zhan is uncomfortably familiar with the same process—so he drags his weighted throw blanket off the back of the couch and drapes it over his lap. Bunny, who has not moved from Wei Ying’s grasp, is delighted by this development, head shoved into Wei Ying’s armpit and purring like a motorboat. She’s shedding all over Wei Ying’s red hoodie, but Lan Zhan thinks that’s a minor sacrifice in the service of comfort. (It’s definitely one he’s forced to make every day when Bunny demands cuddles.)
After a moment’s thought, Lan Zhan sets one hand on Wei Ying’s shoulder. Sometimes the students at the martial arts studio prefer ongoing contact while they calm themselves down. Considering that Wei Ying immediately leans into the touch, he seems to have made the right choice. Good. Lan Zhan strokes his shoulder and, feeling rather out of place otherwise, starts humming something classical. It’s a song that Bunny likes to listen to when he plays it on his keyboard (or, at least, one where she just lays next to him and purrs instead of attacking his hands), and he keeps it going while Wei Ying sips his tea.
They just sit for a bit, the two of them and Bunny. Lan Zhan isn’t used to having other people in his space, and he’s surprised to find it’s rather nice. He’s not sure if he feels that way because Wei Ying is The Most Beautiful Man in the World, who Lan Zhan has definitely thought about having in his space quite a bit. (Respectfully.) It’s possible it only seems nice because Wei Ying is being so quiet. He probably isn’t usually this quiet. He seems to be dissociating, which in Lan Zhan’s experience is not a great way to get to know a person. Lan Zhan hopes, perhaps selfishly, that he’ll get a chance to actually talk to Wei Ying before he leaves.
Wei Ying inhales sharply and shakes himself, much like Bunny when she’s waking up from a nap. (Perhaps the universe is granting Lan Zhan’s wish?) He blinks, looks at his empty mug, then at his shoulder where Lan Zhan’s hand still rests, and then up at Lan Zhan’s face. He still looks a little pale but his eyes are clear, which makes it obvious just how confused he is.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says as a test.
“Um,” Wei Ying says, so yes, he’s definitely processing again. He looks around the room and then at his mug again and back at Lan Zhan. “Okay, so, uh. Not to be rude, but what?”
Lan Zhan politely retrieves Wei Ying’s mug and sets it aside before he folds his hands together in his lap, trying to appear non-threatening. “My name is Lan Zhan,” he says clearly. “You are in my house.” That’s not sufficient. “There was a dog.”
Wei Ying flinches bodily. Bunny, who was fully asleep, meows at him in deep displeasure about being awoken. Wei Ying’s bewildered gaze goes from Lan Zhan down to the cat and back up. “This is not my beautiful cat,” he says, and then his eyes go wider. “Oh my god, I broke into your house!”
“You didn’t break in,” Lan Zhan points out. “The door was unlocked. And open.”
“That doesn’t seem like a meaningful distinction!” Wei Ying moves like he wants to get up and Bunny sinks all her claws into the forearm of his hoodie in clear warning. He acquiesces to this non-optional request and starts petting her again, but his eyes are still wild. “You can’t be happy to have a complete stranger just invade your house!”
Most complete strangers aren’t Wei Ying, so Lan Zhan finds this an immaterial line of inquiry. There are other, more pressing errors to correct. “You were chased into my house by The Asshole Dog,” Lan Zhan says, keeping his hands carefully in his lap instead of putting one back on Wei Ying’s shoulder, or pulling him into another hug. “I don’t consider it an invasion for someone to take shelter from danger.”
Wei Ying buries his face in his hands with a long groan. “Oh my god,” he says in a completely different intonation than the earlier one. “Oh my god, how are you so nice about this?”
No one calls Lan Zhan nice except the under-fives, and even then only when he hands out stickers at the end of class. “You were in distress,” he says helplessly. He doesn’t know what else he can possibly say.
“That’s exactly the problem,” Wei Ying says into his hands. Bunny stands up and headbutts his chin, and he absently pets her with one hand while continuing to project utter despair into the other. “I kick down your door and proceed to have a giant freakout fit all over your nice clean house and instead of getting angry you get me a blanket and a cup of tea and a cat?”
“I did not give you the cat,” Lan Zhan points out. “She made the choice to involve herself.”
Wei Ying makes a fervent sound of frustration. “That’s not the point, Lan Zhan!” he half-wails. “It’s bad enough you’re so fucking hot, you’re not allowed to be this nice, too!”
There’s a ringing silence after this pronouncement. Lan Zhan feels his ears heat up. Wei Ying takes his petting hand away from Bunny and uses it to cover his face again, which from what Lan Zhan can tell is about as red as his ears probably are.
“Can we forget I said that,” Wei Ying whispers desperately.
“Already forgotten,” Lan Zhan lies, having immediately tucked the knowledge that The Most Beautiful Man in the World finds him hot into the appropriate file in the cabinet in his brain, where he can pull it out and look at it whenever he wants. Even he can tell they need a change of topic, so after a moment of desperate casting around, he asks, “What would you have done in my place?”
“I—” Wei Ying starts, lifting his head to frown into the middle distance. Lan Zhan tries not to stare too obviously as his beautiful, mobile face goes on an emotional journey, and almost gets caught when Wei Ying swings around to glare at him. “Hey, no, no fair,” Wei Ying scolds. “How dare you use reverse psychology mind games to get me to admit I would have done the same thing.” He pauses and glances down at Bunny, who is now sprawled out on her back trying to tempt him into belly rubs. “Minus the cat, because I don’t have a cat. Also I live in a fourth-floor walk-up in a no-dogs building, so if someone got chased into my apartment by a horrible dog, I and they are probably going to have a lot of additional problems.”
Lan Zhan isn’t sure what to say to that—should he agree?—but is fortunately saved from having to figure it out when Wei Ying looks up and asks, “Hey, did I hallucinate this cat being named Bunny, or was that a real thing you told me while I was out of it?”
“Her name is Bunny,” Lan Zhan confirms, once again tensing in preparation for Wei Ying to suddenly reveal some sort of regressive opinion about cat names.
“A cute name for a cute cat,” Wei Ying says, to Lan Zhan’s immediate and intense relief. “Is there a story behind it? And more importantly: is the belly a trap?”
“No,” Lan Zhan says, and then, “Yes,” and then, “Yes, there is a story, no the belly is not a trap.” He watches with silent delight as Wei Ying goes in on Bunny’s belly with both hands, inwardly marveling at how well this conversation is going compared to his usual attempts to talk to people other than his brother and his (only) friend Luo Qingyang.
“...will you tell me the story?” Wei Ying asks after a moment, so maybe the conversation isn’t going as well as Lan Zhan thought it was.
“I thought she was one,” Lan Zhan says, somewhat flustered. Wei Ying cocks his head, visibly confused, and Lan Zhan clarifies, “A bunny.” Wei Ying does not look less confused, and Lan Zhan berates himself for his awkwardness. He started in the middle of the story, of course it made no sense. “I found her in the back yard a month after I moved in,” he says. “It was winter. Snowing. There was a hollow under a bush, and I only saw a round white shape.”
“Ooooh,” Wei Ying says, a wonderful warm smile creeping across his face. “A bunny.”
Lan Zhan nods. “She was too small and too cold to even move when I picked her up, but once I got her warm she turned into…” and he gestures at where Bunny has wrapped both forelegs around Wei Ying’s wrist and is vigorously rubbing her face on his sleeve.
“A sweet little baby,” Wei Ying croons. “A bitty fluffy love muffin. A squishy chonky marshmallow, so much better than any dog, aren’t you?” He glances up at Lan Zhan suddenly, eyes wide. “You don’t secretly have a dog, do you? Are you a hidden dog person?”
“I do not,” Lan Zhan confirms. “I am… not a fan of most dogs.” He makes the daring choice to set a hand on Wei Ying’s shoulder again. “I told you you were safe here, and I meant it.”
Wei Ying takes a deep, shaking breath, blinking hard. “That’s a really deep statement for a Friday afternoon,” he says with a smile that looks like it might shatter if Lan Zhan touched it.
“Safe from dogs,” Lan Zhan amends after some consideration. Wei Ying snorts a laugh, like Lan Zhan said something that was actually funny, and slumps against the back of the couch, head falling over the cushion and allowing Lan Zhan an excellent view of his bare throat.
“Safe from dogs is good,” he tells the ceiling. “Safe from dogs is great.” He sighs, eyes slipping shut. “Fuck, I was doing so good, too, and I can, like, feel how much this set me back. Literally, it’s like the neurons are rewiring themselves as we speak. My therapist is gonna be so pissed.”
Lan Zhan frowns, letting his hand slide from Wei Ying’s shoulder down to his elbow. “At you?”
“At the situation,” Wei Ying says, “but she can get in line.” He turns his head to Lan Zhan and his eyes open to sleepy little slits. “Hi,” he says theatrically. “I’m Wei Ying. I don’t usually lead with this when I meet people, but due to some childhood trauma, I have PTSD and a raging dog phobia that I’ve been working really hard on in therapy for the last year and a half so I don’t pass it on to my kid, and when I’m no longer exhausted I’m gonna be so fucking mad about today.” He pauses, still petting Bunny. “Mad about the dog thing, not at you or Bunny. That part’s been great.”
“Thank you,” Lan Zhan says, reeling. That was a lot of information, but the most relevant part was— “Your kid?”
Wei Ying has a child? Is he married? Lan Zhan doesn’t see a wedding ring, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Lan Zhan was aware there was a strong possibility he was (respectfully) attracted to a straight man, but if he’s been (respectfully) eyeing a straight married man with a child he will cast himself into the sea.
“Yeah,” Wei Ying says, and scrunches up his face. “Oh, I mean, he’s not really my kid; I’m the unrelated weirdo who’s added myself onto his family group by virtue of living with them and loving him a lot. It’s me and his Wen-Popo and his cousins Wen Ning and Wen Qing—my roommates—in a weird queerplatonic extended family grouping over two apartments.” He waves a hand. “I’m on like half the paperwork and the daycare ladies keep calling me his dad, so: my kid.”
That sounds nice, Lan Zhan decides after a moment, trying not to feel too relieved about it, or to read too much into Wei Ying’s use of the word “queerplatonic.” It also sounds… familiar. It’s entirely possible it might be another Wen family, but the Chinese community in this city isn’t large enough to have so many branches of each family name that there’s a high chance of coincidental duplicates.
“Is your son Wen Yuan?”
Wei Ying’s head snaps up off the back of the couch, body language going from “exhausted” to “credible threat” so obviously that even Lan Zhan can tell the difference. “How do you know that,” he asks flatly, an edge of warning behind the words. Lan Zhan blinks and realizes that without some additional context that is, indeed, an incredibly creepy thing to ask.
“There is a Wen Yuan who takes kung fu classes at Cloud Recesses,” he says, taking his hand back quickly. “He has a Wen Qing and a Wen Ning on the emergency contact list.” That doesn’t seem like enough information. “He attaches himself to my leg at least once every class.”
“He does that,” Wei Ying says, the edge to his posture draining away, and he squints at Lan Zhan like he’s trying to identify the distant cousin he’s picking up at the airport as a favor to his uncle and only has a single grainy photo to go on. “...Lan-shifu?” he asks after a moment, and when Lan Zhan nods, “Wait, you teach at the gay dojo?”
“It’s not a dojo,” Lan Zhan says immediately, muscle memory from a hundred conversations with a hundred parents forcing his mouth into motion. “We only teach Chinese martial arts—”
“No, you don’t teach karate here; no, you won’t teach their son how to use a katana; no, you don’t have ninja classes,” Wei Ying cuts in, half-laughing. “Oh, man, I’m sure, sorry, sorry, I know. It’s a queer-led Chinese martial arts school, but you have to admit that ‘gay dojo’ has more of a ring to it.”
“I suppose,” Lan Zhan says reluctantly, who doesn’t think he has to admit anything to that effect at all. There are some other misconceptions to correct, namely, “I don’t just teach there. I co-own the Cloud Recesses with my brother.”
“Oooh,” Wei Ying says, realization dawning, “you’re one of those Lans.” He cocks his head and gives Lan Zhan a once-over. “The instructor photo on the website didn’t do you justice.”
Lan Zhan’s ears heat again, and he clears his throat unnecessarily. “I am in many of the action photos as well,” he admits, “but only from the shoulders-down.”
“Don’t like posing?” Wei Ying asks kindly. Lan Zhan shakes his head, subconsciously waiting for Wei Ying to make fun of him for it, but instead Wei Ying carefully shifts under Bunny’s weight, makes a face, and asks, “Dear hell, what happened to my pants and why do they feel glued to my legs?”
This is a question with a clear and relevant answer, Lan Zhan’s favorite kind. “Raw egg,” he says helpfully.
“What?” Wei Ying asks, so apparently this wasn’t as helpful as Lan Zhan thought. He opens his mouth to clarify, but Wei Ying beats him to it with a horrified, “Oh my god, I absolutely destroyed your groceries.”
“Not all of them,” Lan Zhan says honestly. Wei Ying makes a sound like Bunny does when she’s accidentally trapped herself in the hall closet, struggles to his feet, and stalks to the entryway.
“Lan Zhan!” he cries, deeply offended, Bunny cradled to his chest like a baby and looking pleased about it. “Okay, seriously, it is unacceptable that I kicked down your door and did this—” he gestures with an elbow “—and you just—bundled me onto your couch like a toddler that needed a nap.”
“You were in distress,” Lan Zhan says, again, following him over. “The groceries will keep.”
“Not the eggs,” Wei Ying says, eyeing the streaky yellow abstract painting smeared across Lan Zhan’s white tiles.
“Not the eggs,” Lan Zhan allows.
“Okay, you have to let me clean this up.” Wei Ying turns pleading eyes on Lan Zhan, who has already decided he’ll give Wei Ying anything he asks for as long as he’s holding Bunny like that. “Please. This is, like, a metaphor for me as a person. I insist on cleaning up after myself.”
Lan Zhan does not like the implication that Wei Ying as a person is equivalent to the yolk painting on the floor, but he does understand the urge to be of service. “You can help,” he decides, “but let me put your pants in the washer.” Wei Ying opens his mouth to argue and Lan Zhan continues, “If the egg fully sets it will be like trying to get glue out of them later. You don’t want that.”
Wei Ying clamps his mouth shut and eyeballs Lan Zhan suspiciously. “You’re not going to let me help clean unless I agree, are you?”
“I will get you some sweats,” Lan Zhan says instead of dignifying that with a direct response.
Wei Ying’s hoodie is also a casualty of the eggs, so Lan Zhan provides him with a matched set of gray workout sweats with the Cloud Recesses logo on the back and down the leg, and carefully shouts down the part of him that likes seeing Wei Ying in them. This is the first time they’ve actually spoken; as such, it’s completely inappropriate to feel this possessive. He’s assisting Wei Ying through the aftermath of a crisis, nothing more.
The fact that the egg is such an absolute pain in the ass to get off the floor is a welcome distraction from his creepy inner turmoil, so he focuses on that instead of Wei Ying. (Mostly.) After several ineffective attempts with household cleaners they end up laying wet towels over the entire entryway and leaving it to soak while they salvage everything else as best they can. Wei Ying talks the whole time, the floodgates unleashed—Lan Zhan was correct in assuming that he’d be louder when not dissociating—but he doesn’t need input from Lan Zhan, so it’s pleasant. Listening to Wei Ying is a bit like putting on a podcast for background noise—he tells rambling stories about previous messes he’s had to clean up, funny things Wen Yuan did while grocery shopping, random facts he knows about tofu production, on and on, all with a smile.
“You can tell me to shut up, you know,” Wei Ying says while Lan Zhan is transferring the dried chickpeas from their broken plastic bag into a glass jar. “I know I talk too much. Hey. Hey! Bunny! Is this allowed?” It’s the first direct question he’s asked Lan Zhan since they started the current grocery operation, so Lan Zhan finishes up with the chickpeas and turns around to find Wei Ying and Bunny in a staring contest. Ah.
“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, crumpling up the plastic bag. “We have an agreement. She is allowed to be on the counter as long as she stays in her bowl.” It’s a handmade, beautifully oiled bowl with intricate inlaid patterns of many different hardwoods. Lan Zhan bought it intending to use it to store fruit, but Bunny had her own ideas.
“And she actually stays in it?” Wei Ying asks, as Bunny yawns smugly and curls up into a tight, fluffy ball, white fur contrasting beautifully with the dark wood like a marshmallow floating in hot chocolate.
“As long as I’m not cooking salmon,” Lan Zhan admits. Wei Ying laughs at that, full-throated and from the chest. It’s the most wonderful sound Lan Zhan’s ever heard, and he busies himself with refilling his rice jar instead of begging Wei Ying to do it again.
They get through the rest of the groceries without incident and have scraped most of the rehydrated egg off the floor when a cell phone rings. Lan Zhan, who had been wondering if could get away with inviting Wei Ying to stay for dinner, startles so hard he drops his bench scraper in a pile of egg goo. Who could possibly be calling him? And why is the ringtone different from normal?
“Fuck,” Wei Ying says, scrabbling at his messenger bag, “oh, shit, what time is it?”
“Five fourteen,” Lan Zhan says with a glance at the living room clock, heart rate settling with the knowledge that it wasn’t his phone and he therefore will not have to take a phone call. It doesn’t settle entirely, since Wei Ying seems freshly distressed. Lan Zhan’s hands itch to get the weighted blanket for him again, but he doesn’t even get to move before Wei Ying sits back on his heels, phone to his ear.
“Jiejie!” he says, “Jiejie, I’m so sorry! I’m fine, I’m fine.” He pauses. Lan Zhan can barely hear the tinny echo of a woman’s voice through the speaker, too quiet to be comprehensible. “Yeah, I was on my way—I can be on my way again in a minute, it was just—” Wei Ying swallows, staring at the wall. “There was a dog,” he says in a tiny voice. Lan Zhan puts a hand on his shoulder again and squeezes, awed at his own daring. Wei Ying looks sideways at him and offers a wobbling little half-smile. “I’m fine,” he says again, voice back to something close to its normal volume. “It just chased me and barked, Jiejie.” He pauses, listening, and then glances at Lan Zhan and away in a manner he can only describe as shifty. “I mean, I wouldn’t go that far,” he says, and then, “I’m with—um.” He glances at Lan Zhan again and turns toward the wall, hunching around his phone. “The guy,” he half-whispers, “with the white cat? He. Um. He helped.”
Lan Zhan's heart thuds hard in his ears. Wei Ying talks about him? With his sister? To the point that she’d recognize him from that description? That seems important, somehow, and his brain hyperfixates on all the ways it might be important so thoroughly that it takes him a moment to realize Wei Ying is holding the phone out for him.
“My sister wants to talk to you,” Wei Ying explains sheepishly. “If that’s okay. You don’t have to.”
“Why?” Lan Zhan asks, mostly to buy time so he can come to terms with having to speak to someone on the phone after he just settled into the relief of not having to speak to someone on the phone. Wei Ying makes a rueful face, nose all scrunched up like Bunny when she smells something weird.
“I might have a history of downplaying my pain or whatever,” Wei Ying admits, “and now Yanli does the trust-but-verify thing, which I would be mad about except she always brings up the time with my appendix, and then I can’t really argue.”
“What happened with your appendix?” Lan Zhan asks, taking the phone and bracing for something horrible.
“I insisted it was food poisoning for three days, and by the time Yanli dragged me to the hospital it had burst and gone septic, and I spent a week in intensive care on enough antibiotics and painkillers to knock out a whale,” Wei Ying says with a bright smile, as though he hadn’t just described an experience even more horrible than what Lan Zhan had expected. Lan Zhan can’t help giving him a pained look as he presses the phone to his ear.
“This is Lan Zhan,” he says awkwardly, standing and walking to the kitchen because movement is the only thing that makes phone calls with strangers bearable.
“Hello, Lan Zhan,” a woman says, tone warm even through the connection. “I’m Jiang Yanli. I’m sorry to put you on the spot like this, but I don’t want to make A’Ying tell me the whole story for multiple reasons. Would you be so kind as to tell me what happened with the dog?”
A direct question with a straightforward answer. Lan Zhan’s shoulders drop, and he settles his free hand on Bunny’s head, who has remained in her bowl during the cleanup efforts. “It chased him. I don’t know for how long, but he took shelter in my house.” He hesitates, torn between wanting to respect Wei Ying’s privacy and wanting to tell his sister (Lan Zhan has noticed the different family names and will simply not bring it up ever) what she needs to know to support him. “He was physically unharmed but… upset.”
“Panic attack?” Jiang Yanli asks knowingly.
“Mn.” He pets Bunny a little, gaze passing over the living room and the remains of Wei Ying’s little nest on the couch. “I was able to help him calm down, but he insisted on helping me clean up the groceries that were spilled in the process. We’re nearly done.”
Jiang Yanli sighs in clear relief. “Thank you,” she says, “both for speaking to me and for helping him. It means a lot.”
“Of course,” Lan Zhan says, wondering why doing something so simple inspires such gratitude. Surely anyone would do what he did? (Possibly not the owners of The Asshole Dog, but anyone else.) “Did you have any other questions?” he asks, trying not to sound too eager to get off the phone with someone else’s older sister, because he is extremely eager to do that specifically.
“That was all,” she says in a way that makes him feel like she knows exactly what he’s doing. “Thank you, again. Will you put A’Ying back on the phone?”
“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, striding back to the entryway and holding the phone out to Wei Ying like it’s some kind of dead vermin that needs to be properly disposed of.
“Yanli?” Wei Ying says, because apparently he’s a normal person who can talk on the phone without feeling like his teeth are being pulled without anesthesia. Lan Zhan goes back to scraping up egg goo, trying not to eavesdrop too much. “Yeah,” Wei Ying says, apparently unconcerned about potential eavesdropping. “No. No, I promise! I just lost track of time afterwards.” A beat, and a sheepish laugh. “Yeah, you could say that. Okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can! Love you, too!” He hangs up, drops the phone in his lap, and presses his hands to his face as he lets out a long, slow breath.
“You had plans?” Lan Zhan worries that he’s being nosy, but also if for some reason Wei Ying didn’t have plans, then Lan Zhan can invite him to stay and eat.
“Yeah, I was going to my jiejie’s for dinner,” Wei Ying says with a sigh, tossing his phone at his messenger bag and helping Lan Zhan scoop their combined piles of rehydrated egg onto some paper towels. “I was actually gonna be on time for once, too! Of course a fucking dog had to ruin it.”
“How far is your sister’s house?” Lan Zhan asks, bringing out the spray bottle of grapefruit scented cleanser and a fresh wad of paper towels.
“About a twenty minute walk from here, so I’m gonna have to really speedwalk if I want the food to still be hot,” Wei Ying says from the kitchen. “Trash under the sink?”
“That can go in the compost on the left,” Lan Zhan calls over his shoulder. He cocks an ear toward the hallway and is pleased to hear the washer on its final spin. “When the washer is done I will give you a ride to your sister’s, so you don’t need to speedwalk.”
“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying stomps back into the entryway, frowning furiously. “You can’t give me a ride.”
“I can,” Lan Zhan says, wiping up the last square foot of remaining egg smear. “I have a car, and this way the food will still be hot.”
“The car is not part of this,” Wei Ying says nonsensically, “and Jiejie is going to keep things hot for me regardless of how long it takes me to get there! I’ve inconvenienced you enough for one night. I’m not making you leave your house after you’re already dressed in inside clothes.”
“You are not making me do anything,” Lan Zhan says, not sure why they’re arguing. “I offered.”
“Because you’re a Disney prince come to life!” Wei Ying argues, flinging up his hands. “If I wanted a ride back to the bus stop afterward would you do that, too?”
Lan Zhan blinks. “I would need to give you my phone number so you could contact me when you were ready to go, but yes.”
Wei Ying stares at him, seeming genuinely bewildered. “How are you even real?” he asks, which is a question Lan Zhan finds himself incapable of answering, and then, “I don’t need a ride. I’ll be fine.”
It feels like they’re having two different conversations, which is a frequent experience for Lan Zhan when he tries to talk to people, and it doesn’t get any less frustrating with practice. He wishes that people would simply say what they mean, because Wei Ying has said a lot of things, but none of them are actually the word no. Maybe if Wei Ying won’t be clear, Lan Zhan should be even clearer. He was kind about Bunny. Maybe Wei Ying will be kind about this, too.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, standing up so they’re not having this conversation at awkwardly different heights, guts curling in a way that has nothing to do with the revolting texture of rehydrated raw eggs, “I am autistic.”
Wei Ying’s mouth opens, then snaps shut, and he gives a little nod. A promising start.
“I struggle with understanding when people are turning something down out of… politeness. Or social rules that are unclear to me.” Lan Zhan takes a deep breath. He never tells people this kind of thing this early, but Wei Ying said he usually doesn’t lead with his dog phobia, so maybe they can be in the same boat. “I want to give you a ride to your sister’s. It’s not an inconvenience, or if it is, it’s one I’m happy to take on. If you actually don’t want a ride, or it would make you uncomfortable to accept one from me, then tell me so and I won’t ask again, but if you are simply being polite…” He trails off there and shrugs one shoulder very slightly, trying to keep his face blank and stoic instead of looking like he just disclosed sensitive mental health information that sometimes nets him extremely shitty and ableist reactions. (He’s also momentarily out of words. That was a lot at once.)
Wei Ying chews his lower lip in silence, and Lan Zhan wishes he wasn’t holding a wad of used paper towels for this, because it feels immensely silly. “You want to give me a ride?” It’s somewhere between a question and a statement.
Lan Zhan nods. “I would be relieved to know you got there safely,” he admits, finding a few more words to offer up. “The Asshole Dog might still be roaming.”
Wei Ying flinches. “Fuck,” he says quietly. “Yeah, good point.” He heaves a huge sigh and slumps against the wall of the entryway, suddenly boneless like Bunny when Lan Zhan has to move her from the bed to put the sheets on. “I wouldn’t say no to a ride.” His eyes are on Lan Zhan, a question floating in them. “If you’re sure.”
“I am,” Lan Zhan says, relief washing over him. “Thank you for accepting.”
“Oh, no, you can’t thank me for letting you be nice to me,” Wei Ying warns, taking the paper towels and heading into the kitchen, presumably to throw them away. “None of that, because I’ll thank you for offering, and you’ll thank me for thanking you, and then we’ll get stuck in a loop of eternal thanks.”
Lan Zhan privately thinks getting stuck in a loop of eternal thanks with Wei Ying sounds fine, actually, but then the washer dings to announce the end of the cycle, and he has to find a plastic bag to put Wei Ying’s damp clothes in.
“Jiejie can put them in the dryer,” Wei Ying assures him, stuffing the package into his messenger bag, “but how do you want me to get these back to you? Should I stop by on my way back?” He holds out his arm to show off the Cloud Recesses hoodie, the sleeves slightly too long and the shoulders slightly too loose.
“No need,” Lan Zhan says, instead of telling Wei Ying to keep them and think of Lan Zhan when he wears them. “You may drop them off the next time you visit your sister.” If Lan Zhan offers this option specifically because he wants to be able to look forward to speaking to Wei Ying again, that’s his business.
“You’re sure?” Wei Ying asks, because he is fortunately not privy to Lan Zhan’s selfish inner monologue. Lan Zhan pauses in the middle of putting on his shoes to give him an unimpressed look, and Wei Ying laughs. “Okay, I get it, you only say what you mean. I’ll just have to get used to dealing with someone so straightforward.”
Lan Zhan’s selfish inner monologue perks up tremendously at the idea of a future where they spend enough time together that Wei Ying gets used to him. He tells it to calm down as he shrugs on a light jacket, keys and wallet in his pocket. Bunny comes over to say goodbye, weaving between their legs, and Wei Ying crouches down to pet her properly.
“It was nice to meet you, yes it was,” Wei Ying says to the cat, and then, “In the spirit of straightforwardness.” He tucks up his shoulders, voice wavering. “Could you. Um. Could you check. For the dog? Before I go out?”
“Of course,” Lan Zhan says immediately. He almost says, “Thank you for asking,” and then remembers the potential eternal loop of thanks and manages to refrain. He cracks the door just enough to slip outside, shuts it firmly behind himself, and does a quick circuit of his driveway and a scan of the street.
“No dog,” he announces, cracking the door again. “The car is open if you want to get in while I lock up?”
“You’re great,” Wei Ying says, already on his way to the passenger side, “you really are the best, and I’m not just saying that to be polite!” Lan Zhan hears the slam of the car door before he even manages to get his key in the lock, and he hopes by the time he climbs into the driver’s seat that his ears are less pink.
Jiang Yanli’s house is a five minute drive, which is good for Wei Ying and bad for Lan Zhan. He watches their time together count down with every house they pass, water through a sieve, wishing he could draw it out and already feeling guilty about what he’s had tonight. It was a stroke of luck that he got to actually meet Wei Ying and talk to him. That time should have belonged to his sister, to Wei Ying himself, not to a dog and a panic attack. Maybe, Lan Zhan hopes as he pulls up in front of a craftsman-style home with a resplendent flower garden, maybe he and Wei Ying will chat the next time he walks by Lan Zhan’s house. Maybe Lan Zhan will be able to offer him a glass of iced tea in the summer, and to sit in the front garden for a few minutes. Maybe they can be something like friends… Assuming Wei Ying wants to walk a route that puts him in the path of The Asshole Dog ever again.
“This is Yanli’s,” Wei Ying says unnecessarily, since he told Lan Zhan exactly where to park.
“I hope you have a nice dinner,” Lan Zhan says. “And a nice rest of your weekend.” Should he open Wei Ying’s door for him? Is that too weird?
“You, too,” Wei Ying says, unbuckling himself and then fiddling with the strap on his messenger bag. He looks up at Lan Zhan, and then at the house, and then at Lan Zhan again, and he finally takes a deep breath and blurts, “Hey, I know I said we shouldn’t do a lot of thank yous or whatever but that—with the dog and everything—it really could have turned out so much worse, and I know I’m not great at showing it but I’m really—grateful. For you. And Bunny. But mostly you.” He lunges across the center console to squeeze Lan Zhan’s forearm, eyes bright. “Thank you, like… A lot.”
Lan Zhan wants to put his hand over Wei Ying’s and squeeze back. He wants to lean over the console and kiss him. He wants to tell him that he’d happily do it all again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.
Instead of doing any of these things—before he even has the time to do any of these things, Wei Ying is out of the car, leaning down to grin at him through the open door. “Okay thank you for the ride have a good night bye!” he says, all in one breath, and then the door clunks shut and he’s jogging up to the front porch, high ponytail bobbing as he goes. Lan Zhan watches to make sure he gets inside safely, and then drives home on autopilot. His forearm tingles where Wei Ying touched him. He doesn’t think the skin there will ever feel the same again.
Lan Zhan floats out of his car, still thinking about Wei Ying, and a resonant “WOOF!” draws him unpleasantly back into the real world. He turns to find The Asshole Dog running full-speed in his direction, tags jingling and mouth open. It barks again, then keeps barking, teeth flashing each time in its wide, square face—probably some kind of pit or boxer mix. Lan Zhan doesn’t even have a negative history with dogs and finds it intimidating. He can’t imagine what it was like for Wei Ying, and he narrows his eyes in determination.
Never again.
Lan Zhan settles into an active readiness. He’s never punched a dog before and doesn’t want to, but if he’s going to address this issue tonight he has to be prepared for The Asshole Dog to react aggressively. He’s going to restrain this dog, and then he’s going to drag it to its owners, and then he’ll… probably have to verbally confront them. Given the choice, he’d rather fight an aggressive dog, but needs must.
The Asshole Dog reaches the end of his driveway, barking at the top of its asshole lungs, and Lan Zhan waits with the calmest body language he can muster. Maybe defusing fights with dogs is like defusing fights with aggressive straight men, and his skills will come into play? The dog leaps at him, and he tenses, ready to dodge—
The Asshole Dog barks in his face from approximately six inches away, stretched to its full height with paws smearing dirt on Lan Zhan’s jacket. There are a lot of teeth, but they don’t tear into his flesh. Lan Zhan can see its tail wagging, and he re-evaluates some of his assumptions.
“Down,” he says firmly, stepping backward. The Asshole Dog falls back to all fours and, undaunted, jumps back up on his chest, barking in a way Lan Zhan thinks is… friendly? It tries to lick his face, which is absolutely disgusting, but it’s not attacking. This changes a few things—namely, Lan Zhan isn’t going to have to punch a dog today. Small blessings.
It takes some doing, because The Possibly Not as Much of an Asshole Dog is very wiggly, but Lan Zhan manages to get hold of its collar so it can’t escape and then grimly hauls it the three blocks to the house he’s started avoiding on his morning runs because he doesn’t enjoy being barked at, chased, or barked at and chased. The grass in front is both scraggly and overgrown, and the gate in the half-rotten wooden fence hangs wide open in clear explanation for the last two years of Asshole Doggery. Lan Zhan quietly fumes as he stalks up the front steps. No matter how friendly the dog actually is, its behavior is unacceptable and unsafe, both for itself and others (specifically Wei Ying). He starts assembling arguments in his head as he knocks, hoping that he can actually articulate them in a way that makes sense and, more importantly, will effect some change.
“Can I help—Bruce?” The young woman who opens the door looks surprised to see the dog, and then immediately resigned, her mouth going tight. “He got out again?”
“Yes.” Lan Zhan, who had been expecting some kind of large, tattooed man who cared very much about appearing tough, has to take a moment to adjust to the actual reality.
“Bruce,” the young woman scolds, opening the door more fully, “get in here.” The dog—Bruce, apparently—tugs at Lan Zhan’s hold on his collar and, once released, trots happily into the house. The young woman steps outside and shuts the door behind her, scrubbing her hands into her dirty blonde hair. “Thank you for bringing him back.”
“He frequently escapes the fence,” Lan Zhan says, determined to have this conversation.
“I know,” she says, mouth going even tighter.
“He behaves aggressively to humans and other dogs,” he continues, because she doesn’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation.
“I know,” she says again, misery dripping from her shoulders, plum-dark circles under her eyes standing out against her pale skin.
“He chased a—friend of mine tonight,” Lan Zhan says, briefly stumbling over how to describe Wei Ying and hoping “friend” isn’t too much of a lie. “My friend has a dog phobia, and his mental health was significantly affected.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, mouth trembling when she speaks. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“Something needs to be done,” Lan Zhan says, getting the feeling that he’s being too mean but unable to redirect his planned speech now that he’s this far into it. “If he actually attacks someone, animal control will put him down.”
“I know,” the woman says, voice ragged. “I know, I know, I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m so sorry but I’m trying—” and then she bursts into tears, curling in on herself and covering her face. “Sorry,” she sobs, “sorry, this isn’t—I can’t—she won’t listen, and I can’t do it all myself—and I’m—”
“Trying,” Lan Zhan finishes for her softly. She looks barely out of high school, clothes clean but worn, and she’s crying like she’s been bottling it up for a while. This was not at all how he thought tonight would go, and he rolls through several options for what to do now. The most appealing plan is to simply go home and consider his duty done for the night, but…
But she’s so young, and clearly struggling, and the dog is an asshole, but a friendly one. Lan Zhan sighs internally. This is not how he wanted his evening to go.
“Would you like,” he asks, clawing the words out of himself, “to talk about it?” Lan Zhan takes a deep breath. “Perhaps I can help.”
The young woman—the probable teenager—looks up at him through her tears, eyes wet and red-rimmed. “Really?” she asks, the disbelief so clear even Lan Zhan can hear it.
“Really.” Lan Zhan thinks longingly about an evening spent comfortably on the couch reading romance novels with Bunny, held safely under his weighted blanket, and bids it farewell. “Let me help.”
She stares at him a minute longer, sniffles, and wipes her eyes. “Okay,” she says. “Okay. You’d better come inside.”