Chapter 13: The Male Tenor’s Tutoring Challenge (6)

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The dizziness fades, and you open your eyes once more.

Unsurprisingly, you find yourself standing for the third time on the winding mountain road, hands resting on the pale pink bicycle.

This time, you don't rush to get on and ride away.

You need some time—to ponder several unresolved questions, to process the previous round.

So, while replaying events in your mind, you mechanically inspect the items around you.

You curl your knuckles and tap the still-intact plastic seal on the milk tea.

The tool for outsmarting the little boss "Hugo"—check.

You unzip the canvas bag adorned with a globe pattern. Inside, there is a pencil case, a palm-sized cardholder, a notebook, and a phone.

You open the cardholder and once again see the student ID proving “you” are a sophomore in English.

Peering through the transparent sleeve, you flick the card bearing “your” solemn face. Though it’s the same face as yours, the ID photo looks so earnest—no wonder you ended up as a teaching assistant, you tease “yourself.”

You take out the notebook and browse through the carefully prepared lesson plans.

You pull out the phone and scroll through previous WeChat chats. The insincere politeness and formalities are unmistakably reminiscent of someone.

You continue this methodical check, finishing with the canvas bag, then inspecting the bicycle, flipping open the bike repair toolbox again.

You casually open the toolbox.

A silver wrench suddenly comes into view, and your hand falters mid-motion.

In that instant, a beam of clarity floods your mind—

So, the crowbar was here all along.

So, the real purpose of the student ID lies here!

So, from the very start, the game had supplied you with all the tools needed to pry the door open.

Thinking with a specific question in mind indeed yields unexpectedly illuminating results.

With the biggest problem solved, you waste no more time. You mount the bike and speed toward the villa complex.

This time, you no longer need the sugar boost from the milk tea. Just the thought of meeting your target again fills you with energy.

Don’t say it’s only three kilometers—even thirteen kilometers, you wouldn’t break a sweat!

You pass the security checkpoint with ease and enter the villa area, arriving in front of Villa No. 6.

You boldly push open the slightly ajar door and look up to see “Hugo” pouncing at you.

Thanks to the bond formed in the previous round, you no longer fear its leap. Like a magician, you pull out the milk tea, smoothly insert the straw, and start a water-splashing game with “Hugo.”

Unlike last time, when your heart was uneasy, this time you genuinely play with “Hugo.”

The little creature jumps left and right around you. Finding it adorable, as the red tea nears its end, you even spin a 360-degree water ring for it...

A sharp, ambiguous “Hugo!” interrupts your joyful moment.

Hugo turns its head toward the sound, and you lift your gaze, meeting the figure standing on the steps.

Your long-awaited classmate, Fu.

The game has begun, you silently tell him.

Hugo droops its ears in disappointment, wobbling forward step by step, and you follow at a steady pace.

One dog, one person, walking one after the other toward him.

You stop at the bottom of the steps and look up at him, your eyes betraying your eager anticipation.

He looks down on you as before, his brows, eyes, lips, and nose all radiating defiant arrogance.

This must be his true face, you think.

You can’t wait to speak: “Classmate Fu.”

He clearly doesn’t grasp the depth of your feelings and hesitates before carefully uttering his line: “Teacher Su.”

Compared to your tenderly spoken name for him, his tone is much more formal.

But he quickly smooths away the hesitation in his eyes and smiles politely, saying, “Teacher Su, I’ve been waiting here for you for quite some time.”

You’ve waited a long time to hear that.

So, you smile at him and say softly, “Good boy~”

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As expected, he performs his Peking opera face-changing act again, though this time his skill seems somewhat rusty.

In his smiling eyes, you see a flicker of fear.

“Hugo” seems to sense the tension between you two and, without waiting to be called, obediently sits by his legs.

You watch him bend down, resting his hand on Hugo’s head. His long fingers ruffle the golden fur again and again.

He tests your patience but never lifts his face or smiles to say, “Teacher, didn’t I tell you? My ‘Hugo’ couldn’t wait to rush over and welcome you.”

From your vantage point looking down, his long eyelashes droop like curtains, and the smile that was always upturned when talking to you now lies flat, as lifeless as a heart monitor tracing death.

Not a single pulse.

You feel a twinge of regret. You had planned to squat down and give the two of them a big hug upon hearing that sentence.

Seeing him about to ruffle Hugo’s fur bald, you clear your throat and say, “Let’s get to class.”

His hand finally stops its mischief atop Hugo’s head. He straightens and glances at you, saying, “Okay.”

You ask, “Where is the classroom?”

He steps aside slightly and points behind him: “My study is on the second floor.”

You wait for him to say, “Of course, teacher, you can have class in my room,” but alas, that line is swallowed.

You stare at each other wide-eyed—he with big eyes, you with small.

Pressed for time, you decide to move first. Passing him without looking back, you toss out, “Classmate Fu, follow me.”

“Alright, Teacher Su,” he replies formally.

You hear the footsteps of one person and one dog following behind. Your hand reaches for the doorknob, pressing down as if to push—

But it doesn’t budge.

You turn, puzzled, toward him, “Why does the door seem stuck?”

He pauses.

You raise an eyebrow, “Why don’t you try?”

Stepping aside, you watch expectantly for him to show his skill.

Perhaps feeling guilty, he avoids your eager gaze, steps forward, and reaches for the doorknob.

Seizing the moment, you cover his hand with yours the instant he touches it.

His hand stiffens immediately. Taking advantage, you slip your foot between his legs.

Then, pressing down hard with your hand, you lift your knee against the bend of his front leg, pushing with his hand forward.

The door swings open, and he loses balance, falling inside.

You step back a pace and follow him in.

He is drenched from the water pouring down on him, while you only get a slight wetting on your shoulder.

He turns, shocked, looking at you.

You cover your mouth in surprise: “Huh, how did the door open so easily? I was just about to help you.”

Scanning the room, you murmur, “Where’s all this water coming from?”

He shies away, uneasy.

Spotting the culprit’s tool, you suddenly realize but shrug it off lightly, “It’s okay.”

He looks at you again, analyzing.

Under his scrutinizing gaze, you step closer, until the tips of your shoes are only an inch apart.

Then, you reach out and slip your hand into his pants pocket.

He stares wide-eyed at your hand moving in his right pocket, his shock, astonishment, and disbelief flashing across his face.

You slowly pull out his handkerchief, feeling his breath hitch.

On tiptoe, you carefully wipe the wet strands of hair from his forehead.

You imagine his heart must be racing, for his beautiful light brown eyes track your face like a hunting falcon.

You smile as you gently dry each lock, tender as a mother sewing by candlelight.

Let him doubt you yet be touched by your thoughtfulness; suspect you yet fear misjudging you; lose himself in this moment’s warmth yet worry it might be a deceitful illusion...

Just like you in the last round.

You let the handkerchief fall on his shoulder, but the cold water has already soaked through to his skin. You wipe a few more times but to no avail.

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“Where’s the bathroom?” you lower your arm and ask. “You should go take a shower first.”

Your sudden words are like cold water splashing into a calm pan of hot oil, shattering the silence.

He quickly steps back, snatching the handkerchief from your hand. You look surprised at his sudden movement.

He glances at you, then down at the handkerchief, before raising his eyes above you and calling inside, “Wang Ma!”

The “Wang Ma” he calls arrives swiftly—the housekeeper who took you to the bathroom last round.

You are a little surprised.

Having read many novels about domineering CEOs, you never expected such a young “Wang Ma.”

Before she can speak, he grows impatient: “Take her to the washroom.”

He sizes you up and says irritably, “And prepare a set of clothes for her.”

He no longer bothers with the honorific “Teacher Su”—his mood is clearly sour.

You don’t intend to argue.

After all, you’re about to enjoy some delicious fried chicken!

The housekeeper looks a little troubled, but before he can question her, she blurts out quickly, “Young master, there are only clothes for you and the eldest young master here. There’s no spare set for this young lady to change into.”

He frowns and snaps, “Then call someone to bring over some new sets. Do I have to teach you that?” Saying this, he turns and walks away.

You watch his back, etched with “young master displeased,” and say to the housekeeper still standing there, “Let’s go too.”

Without waiting for her to move, you stride after the man ahead.

Before he climbs the stairs, you catch up—not to walk with him.

You follow him slowly up the stairs, stepping on the wooden steps beside the long shadow the sunlight casts from his head...

Your footsteps echo like a shadow.

You notice the housekeeper following close, hesitating to speak several times, glancing at the man charging ahead like a bull, then swallowing her words.

He turns right on the second floor and walks deeper inside. Content, you follow the housekeeper continuing up to the third floor.

You are led once again to the door you had tried countless ways to open but never succeeded.

You smile, open the door, and walk in with your head held high.

You stroll slowly to the bathtub by the floor-to-ceiling window at the end of the bathroom, look down at the vividly red rose petals, shed your clothes, and step in.

The warm water instantly envelops you. You narrow your eyes, feeling utterly comfortable.

This time, you no longer need to frantically pound on the door like Aunt Xue, because you know no one will come to open it for you. Only you can open that door.

You pick up the phone resting by the tub and snap a photo of the rose petal-filled bathtub in front of you.

Reviewing the picture, you see only the silver-gray bathtub, the bright red rose petals, and your intentionally extended “peace” sign finger peeking from the petals.

Very safe.

You open WeChat, select the previous chat, and send the photo with the message:

“Classmate Fu, thank you for the rose petal bath you prepared so thoughtfully. Love.jpg”

“I also want Korean fried chicken, a combo of sweet-spicy and cheese flavors, plus a can of iced cola. Is that okay? Heart.jpg”

After sending, you set the phone down.

Three minutes later, your phone vibrates. You open it and sure enough, it’s him.

His reply is brief and to the point:

“Okay.”

You send him more than ten “love.jpg” emoticons in rapid succession.

Facing the silent screen on the other end, you smirk:

Little brat, want to act up again? Don’t you realize who’s bigger here?