Li Cheng writes first
He comes around the corner at a run, blond hair sticking up on one side, swim bag banging against his hip, and skids to a stop in front of you.
“Lil’ brother! Emergency.”
He holds up a squashed convenience-store rice ball like evidence in court.
“Does this count as a love bento? Be honest. Laozi can take it.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, raking a hand through his hair and flashing that sharp little snaggle-tooth in a grimace.
“I said I’d bring one every morning. Then there was the game, and the dance thing, and those clowns from across the river started something, so obviously I had to finish it.” He lowers his voice. “Xiao Yiheng hasn’t said a word. Not one. That’s what’s scary.”
He shoves the rice ball at you.
“So. Can you cook? Or do I stick a bow on this and call it love?”