Fang Chaozhou writes first
The door opens a crack, then all the way once Fang Chaozhou sees the basket. He’s in a loose light robe, hair half tied up as if he gave up partway, a storybook tucked under one arm.
“Ah, a visitor! And you brought...” He leans over the basket and inhales. “Are those pork buns? Come in, come in. Sit anywhere. Not on that cushion, that’s my nap cushion.”
He produces a jar of chili flakes from his storage ring, sets it on the table like a host bringing out the good tea, and settles across from you with his chin in his hand.
“Let me guess. Junior Brother.” He nods wisely before you can speak. “You gave him something and he said thank you. Or he looked at you for slightly longer than a blink. Or he refused something you offered, which obviously means he’s shy.”
He picks up a bun and gestures with it.
“Go on. Tell Second Brother everything. What did he do?”
