Chapter Eighty-One: Teasing and Counter-Teasing

“Don’t worry. If we end up arguing, I won’t hold it against you. You’re too young to overthink things—aren’t you tired?” Ren Jiaxuan pinched her nose with a laugh, then stroked her cheek again. Dong Yanyan slapped his hand away and leaned forward, pinching his chin in annoyance. “I hate it when people get handsy with me. If you really want to leave a good impression, stop acting like a hooligan!”

She truly felt uncertain just now, especially seeing his impatience today. If she followed his pace, she’d be completely at his mercy before her birthday even arrived. How would she spend the rest of her days then? Likely in mutual resentment. So she had to take control, making him follow her rhythm. That gave her a sense of security.

“You call me a hooligan? Look at yourself! You’re the one touching my face, even my chin—more than once! I never complain. The moment I casually touch you, you bristle!” Ren Jiaxuan grabbed her arm, grinning mischievously.

“Sorry, I’ll pay more attention next time,” Dong Yanyan withdrew her hand and sat back in the passenger seat, smiling sheepishly.

Ren Jiaxuan took a breath, gazing at her with a complicated expression for a long time before finally speaking. “According to you, I can’t tease you at will, but I can let you tease me or not. Is that what you mean?”

“Huh?” Dong Yanyan hadn’t thought that far, so she hesitated for a moment before nodding awkwardly. “I guess that’s what I mean. What about you?”

Ren Jiaxuan looked at her with a bitter expression, then turned away and sighed helplessly. He seemed melancholic, and his melancholy was truly captivating. Dong Yanyan watched his profile from the side, thinking sweetly.

But he said nothing for a long time. She grew anxious, fiddling nervously with her fingers.

Noticing she was no longer looking at him, Ren Jiaxuan turned back and stared at her for a while. Then, flashing his charming eyes, he said softly, “I’ve thought it through. You may touch me. Go ahead—touch me as you please!” With that, he grabbed both her hands and pressed them haphazardly against himself.

“Hey! Must you be so bad?” Dong Yanyan cried out, struggling wildly. Ren Jiaxuan held her hands and laughed heartily.

He had finally found his role—awkwardly submissive! ORZ.

Dong Yanyan could hardly contain her laughter at the thought of those three words.

*

Monday, during Ms. Yang’s politics class, Dong Yanyan was fighting a losing battle against a swarm of sleepiness. She shook her drowsy head desperately, propping herself up from the desk, only to collapse again and again. She was simply exhausted, with no energy left.

“When will this class end?” she wailed weakly in her heart.

On her umpteenth attempt to pull herself up, clutching her hair in distress, Song Mingcheng couldn’t help but burst out laughing. He quietly reached over, pressing her head back down, and whispered, “Stop struggling. A nap will wake you right up.”

Dong Yanyan murmured a vague response and promptly fell asleep. A quick nap when utterly exhausted was blissful—she couldn’t care less anymore!

In the midst of her sleep, she felt someone tap her shoulder. She startled awake, looking up to find Ms. Yang sitting beside her, smiling.

Oh dear...

“You slept pretty soundly,” Ms. Yang said with a smile.

“Sorry, teacher. I didn’t mean to doze off,” Dong Yanyan replied, embarrassed. “I don’t know why I’m so tired. After two days off, my biological clock’s all messed up.”

“I understand, I understand. Jiaxuan is quite the night owl, so you’ll need time to adjust,” Ms. Yang responded sympathetically.

Dong Yanyan nearly fainted at hearing this, almost coughing up three liters of blood! Probably only this homeroom teacher was happy to see her students dating. Jiaxuan was truly lucky, but she wasn’t. Who knew how Ms. Yang might report this to Ms. Chen? Besides, Ren wasn’t just nocturnal; he could party all night and still be energetic enough for morning exercise. She couldn’t keep up. She’d always had weak energy and nerves since childhood. She’d been drinking nourishing porridge for half a year, but aside from looking a bit better, she was still tired and sleepy as ever.

“Teacher, please don’t spread it around,” she pleaded softly.

Ms. Yang smiled knowingly and didn’t pursue the topic. Instead, she asked, “The apple jam you taught me to make, Nono loves it! I heard you also know how to make rose jam—will you teach me someday?”

“I’ve already made some. After a few days in the fridge, it’ll be ready. I’ll bring you a jar after class—just keep it refrigerated at home,” Dong Yanyan replied cheerfully.

Ms. Yang smiled graciously. “Thank you.”

*

After class, Dong Yanyan slipped back to the dormitory, scooped rose jam from a large glass jar into a freshly cleaned small jar, and screwed the lid shut, preparing to give it to Ms. Yang. Just buying all those jars yesterday had cost her over twenty yuan. Then she processed the roses, washed their petals, and carefully mashed them with honey, working until lights-out. Her hand cramped from the effort, and it was still sore. As the saying goes, self-inflicted suffering cannot be escaped. Why did she come up with such a harebrained scheme, ruthlessly destroying the first flowers she’d ever received? Suddenly, she felt a pang of regret.

During her pulse science class, she felt languid. The semester’s curriculum was finished, and now the teacher just summarized key points, marking important sections, and answered questions whenever students raised them. The atmosphere was exceptionally harmonious: those whispering in the middle rows and those napping in the back didn’t disturb the attentive students up front. Even Song Mingcheng was absent-minded, head buried in his desk, frowning as he studied some girl’s love letter.

Receiving love letters was nothing new for him—students from every class and age group sent them. Girls of this era weren’t so direct; their admiration was subtly expressed. Song Mingcheng would often feign ignorance, accepting gifts or help with laundry with a blank look and a polite thank you. If someone invited him out or asked for help or wanted to discuss academics, he seldom refused, which only made him more popular.

A cool, quiet, approachable handsome guy—no wonder so many girls adored him.

But why was he today pulling out all his letters and looking so deeply troubled?

Feeling her gaze, Song Mingcheng peeked out from beneath his desk, rubbed his neck, and muttered, “Neck hurts.”

“Desk-mate, what are you studying?” Dong Yanyan asked curiously, bored.

Song Mingcheng looked at her thoughtfully and then smiled. “I’m studying probabilities. Tell me, have you ever wondered what makes you different from others? Or if someone shares something in common with you?”

“As for probability, once you make a choice, it’s one hundred percent,” Dong Yanyan replied with a smile.

Song Mingcheng frowned, his tone exasperated. “Casting pearls before swine!”

Dong Yanyan retorted immediately, “I don’t get why so many people do that—reading love letters as if they’re solving calculus problems.”

Song Mingcheng gave her a calm glance and smiled faintly. “Those who’ve never received a love letter have no right to speak.”

Dong Yanyan was instantly frustrated. She couldn’t understand it. She remembered back in the day, two clueless boys had written her love letters. Any girl of seventeen or eighteen who wasn’t terribly unattractive would have admirers. But this time, after coming back, she hadn’t received a single letter—not one! Why?

*

After lunch, Dong Yanyan and Tiantian returned to class laughing. There weren’t many people in the classroom, just small groups chatting. Liu Qiang was unusually not playing his guitar but instead writing something at his desk.

“What are you writing? Let me see!” Tiantian snatched the letter paper from his hand. Liu Qiang stood up, snatched it back, his face bright red.

Tiantian laughed, “Writing a love letter? Not letting me see?”

“I... I haven’t finished writing yet,” Liu Qiang stammered.

Tiantian smirked, “I won’t tease you. Go on, keep writing,” and she wandered off to chat with Du Xinmeng in the back.

Dong Yanyan sat across from him, propping her chin in her hand. “Need help?” She knew the guy was handy but his writing skills were painfully ORZ. When they worked together, she wrote all the reports and summaries; he barely scraped through monthly exams. It was a wonder their strict manager tolerated him for so long without kicking him out.

Liu Qiang’s eyes lit up at her offer. “Yes! Yes! Thank you!”

“Don’t worry. I’ll say a line, you write a line,” Dong Yanyan squinted, feigning profundity. “That night, I listened to Buddhist chants all night—not for enlightenment, but to seek a trace of your presence; that month, I turned every scripture—not for salvation, but to touch your fingerprint...”

“That year, I prostrated myself to embrace the dust—not for worship, but to feel your warmth; that life, I circled mountains and rivers and stupas—not to cultivate the next life, but to meet you on the journey... Yanyan, you like Tsangyang Gyatso’s poetry too?” Lin Feng stood behind her, smiling.

Dong Yanyan glanced back and smiled quietly, nodding in agreement.

“Wait, wait! What was the last line?” Liu Qiang bit his pen and asked.

“That’s enough. Don’t copy the whole thing; leave some space, you know?” Dong Yanyan tapped his desk with a smile.

Liu Qiang looked at her in confusion, then nodded, “Got it.”

“Actually, I prefer the line, ‘Once we met, we understood; meeting is nothing like not meeting,’” Lin Feng said with a smile.