Rules were supposed to make life simpler.
That was the lie adults sold you, the one printed between the lines of school slogans and parent lectures: follow the rules, and everything will be fine.
Jiang Yue found out quickly that rules didn't simplify anything.
Rules just gave you more ways to fail.
By Monday, the "morning after rules" had settled into the apartment like invisible tape across every doorway.
Don't talk about it.
Don't let it happen again.
Don't do anything stupid in public.
They weren't written anywhere, but Jiang Yue felt them every time he stepped into the hallway and heard Wei's door click shut. Every time he entered the kitchen and Wei's back was turned, perfectly straight, as if his spine had been trained to never bend toward temptation.
Avoidance became a new routine.
It was almost impressive.
Jiang Yue started waking up five minutes earlier than usual just to use the bathroom first, purely out of spite, but also because being trapped in the hallway at the same time as Wei felt like standing too close to a live wire.
Wei adjusted his schedule too. If Jiang Yue left for school at 7:35, Wei left at 7:33. If Jiang Yue stood in the kitchen, Wei waited until he was gone. If Jiang Yue walked into the living room, Wei walked into his room.
They became experts at not colliding.
Which meant, of course, that the universe immediately arranged a collision.
On Tuesday afternoon, Teacher Gao announced a "temporary study pairing" for the next two weeks.
The class groaned like she'd threatened to confiscate their souls.
"This is not optional," Teacher Gao said, voice crisp. "You will help each other. You will check each other's work. You will improve."
Jiang Yue leaned back in his chair, already irritated.
Temporary study pairing meant one thing: Teacher Gao wanted to chain weaker students to stronger ones and call it "mutual growth."
And Jiang Yue already knew exactly who she would chain him to.
Teacher Gao's gaze slid toward the second row—toward Wei Nianzhan's seat, toward Jiang Yue behind him—and her mouth tightened slightly, pleased with herself.
"Wei Nianzhan," she said.
Wei stood immediately. "Yes, Teacher."
"You will pair with Jiang Yue," Teacher Gao announced smoothly.
A ripple went through the room—whispers, stifled laughter, delighted shock.
Jiang Yue's spine went rigid.
Behind him, Xu Zhe made a tiny choking noise like he'd swallowed his joy wrong.
Teacher Gao continued, as if she hadn't just dropped a match into gasoline. "Since you already live together, this will be convenient."
Convenient.
Jiang Yue's fingers clenched around his pen.
Wei's expression didn't change, but his gaze flicked back, just for a second, landing on Jiang Yue.
It wasn't warm. It wasn't angry either.
It was… tense.
Then Wei sat down.
Teacher Gao continued calling pairings, but Jiang Yue barely heard them. His head was full of the same thought repeating like a warning bell.
Avoidance fails.
Avoidance fails.
Avoidance fails.
At break, Xu Zhe immediately leaned in, eyes bright. "Oh my god."
Jiang Yue glared. "If you say one word, I'll bite you."
Xu Zhe grinned. "I'm not saying anything. I'm just… spiritually witnessing."
Jiang Yue hissed, "Shut up."
Xu Zhe leaned closer, whispering anyway. "So. Study sessions at home. That's like… domestic."
Jiang Yue smacked his forehead lightly. "You're sick."
Xu Zhe laughed. "I'm alive."
Across the classroom, Shen Yichen watched the whole exchange with a face like he was swallowing nails. His gaze flicked toward Jiang Yue, then toward Wei, then away again like he couldn't decide which one he hated more.
Tang Ruo, sitting near the window, looked up from her phone and smiled slowly, like she'd just received exactly the entertainment she'd ordered.
Jiang Yue wanted to scream.
Instead, he walked up to Wei's desk after class, because the rule contract had just been rewritten by an adult with a clipboard.
Wei was packing his bag neatly.
Jiang Yue stopped beside him. "Teacher Gao paired us."
Wei didn't look up. "I heard."
Jiang Yue's jaw tightened. "So."
Wei finally lifted his eyes. "So we do it."
Jiang Yue stared at him. "You're really going to just… do it."
Wei's voice stayed calm. "It's two weeks."
Jiang Yue laughed, sharp and humorless. "Two weeks is long enough for a war."
Wei's gaze didn't soften. "Then don't start one."
Jiang Yue's throat tightened, because he wanted to say: I'm not the only one who started something.
He didn't.
Because that was Rule One: don't talk about it.
He swallowed it and nodded once, stiff. "Fine."
They went home together like they always did now: walking in silence a half step apart, the city moving around them like nothing had changed.
At home, Jiang Yue's mother was still at work. Wei Chengyu wouldn't be back until late.
Which meant the apartment was theirs.
Just theirs.
The thought made Jiang Yue's stomach twist.
Wei set his bag down at the dining table and pulled out a worksheet. "Bring your papers," he said.
Jiang Yue stood in the doorway of his room for a moment, staring at Wei's back.
He could say no.
He could start a fight.
He could keep control by destroying cooperation.
But then he pictured his mother's tired face. Teacher Gao's satisfaction. His own rank on the list: forty-eight.
He exhaled and walked to the table, dropping his papers down louder than necessary.
Wei's eyes flicked to the papers. "Math."
Jiang Yue leaned back. "Yeah. The subject designed by demons."
Wei ignored the tone and started reading Jiang Yue's work.
Jiang Yue watched him, heart beating too fast for something that was supposed to be boring.
Wei's lashes lowered over his eyes. His fingers held the pen with quiet precision. His face was calm, but there was a tension in his jaw that hadn't been there before that night.
Jiang Yue hated that he noticed.
Wei pointed at a question. "This step is wrong."
Jiang Yue leaned forward. "It's not wrong. It's creative."
Wei glanced at him, expression flat. "Math doesn't reward creativity."
Jiang Yue scoffed. "Math is oppressive."
Wei didn't smile. "Fix it."
Jiang Yue stared at the paper. "How."
Wei's pen moved, writing the correct step. "Like this."
Jiang Yue watched the numbers appear under Wei's hand. It was almost insulting how easy it looked.
He swallowed irritation and grabbed his pen. "Fine."
They worked in silence for a while.
The silence should've been safe.
It wasn't.
Silence gave Jiang Yue room to think, and thinking was dangerous right now.
Every time Wei shifted his chair slightly, Jiang Yue noticed.
Every time Wei's sleeve brushed the edge of Jiang Yue's paper, Jiang Yue's pulse spiked.
Every time Wei cleared his throat, Jiang Yue remembered the sound of Wei's breath in the hallway.
Avoidance fails, his brain sang again.
At one point, Jiang Yue reached for the eraser at the same time as Wei.
Their fingers brushed.
A small touch. Nothing.
Jiang Yue's hand jerked back like he'd been burned.
Wei's hand froze too.
For half a second, neither moved.
The air tightened.
Jiang Yue forced a laugh, too loud. "Relax. I'm not contagious."
Wei's throat moved in a swallow. His gaze stayed on the eraser, not on Jiang Yue. "Stop reacting like that."
Jiang Yue blinked. "Like what."
Wei's voice came low and controlled. "Like you want to start something."
Jiang Yue's chest flared hot. "Maybe I do."
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Wei's eyes lifted instantly, sharp.
Jiang Yue stared back, heart hammering, suddenly furious at himself for being honest.
Wei's jaw tightened. He looked away first, like he had to.
Then he said, quiet and cold, "Don't."
Jiang Yue's throat tightened. "Why. Because you'll lose control."
Wei's gaze snapped back, dark. "Because you'll regret it."
Jiang Yue's laugh was bitter. "I already regret everything."
Silence again.
The pen in Wei's hand tapped the paper once, a tiny crack in his control.
Then Wei stood abruptly, chair scraping softly. "We're done for today," he said.
Jiang Yue's chest tightened, equal parts relief and anger. "What."
Wei gathered the papers neatly. "You have enough to redo. Do it."
Jiang Yue stared at him. "You're running."
Wei's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes flashed. "Yes."
The honest admission hit harder than any denial.
Wei turned toward his room.
Jiang Yue stood up too, because he couldn't stop himself. "Why are you acting like I'm the problem."
Wei stopped at his door without turning. His voice came quiet, tight. "Because you're not the only one who… reacts."
The words hung in the air.
Wei didn't say more.
He opened his door and shut it behind him, the click soft but final.
Jiang Yue stood in the dining area, breathing hard, staring at the closed door.
There it was.
The truth, half admitted, shoved out through a crack and then sealed behind a wall again.
Jiang Yue's hands were shaking slightly.
He sat back down slowly, staring at the math problems.
The numbers blurred.
Not because they were hard.
Because his mind was full of a different equation now:
If Wei also reacted…
If Wei also felt it…
Then the rule contract wasn't protecting Jiang Yue from embarrassment.
It was protecting both of them from wanting something they weren't allowed to want.
When their mother came home later, smiling tiredly and asking, "Did you study together," both boys answered the same way.
"Yes," Wei said, calm.
"Yeah," Jiang Yue said, casual.
Parent performance.
Avoidance.
Rules.
All of it held—barely.
And Jiang Yue realized with a cold, sinking certainty:
If this was what "not talking about it" felt like, then eventually the silence would become louder than the truth.