The third week after moving into the hotel, Dong Enze made the news for the first time because of the matter of “going home.”
The news broke at 7:12 on Thursday morning.
The sky outside had only just begun to brighten, and a thin layer of mist still hung between the high-rises. The floor-to-ceiling windows on the top floor of the hotel shut out the sounds of the city waking too early, leaving only the faint airflow of the air-conditioning and the intermittent low hum of the coffee machine brewing.
Weiran was already up.
He sat at the long table in the living room wearing dark loungewear, one earbud in, with an unfinished track open on his laptop. The coffee beside him was only half gone, and next to it sat the breakfast the hotel had just delivered.
Enze still wasn't fully awake.
He hadn't gotten back from the dance company until nearly dawn the night before. After showering, he collapsed onto the bed without even drying his hair. When Weiran dragged him up to dry it, Enze kept his eyes closed the entire time and eventually fell asleep sitting up.
There was no rehearsal that morning. Technically, he could have slept until at least nine.
But the phone on the nightstand had already been vibrating for nearly five minutes.
At first, it was only an occasional buzz.
Then it sounded as if someone had opened every group chat at once. The vibrations came one after another, loud enough to penetrate even the heavy comforter.
Enze finally stuck one hand out from under the covers and groped along the nightstand for a long time.
The first time, he found the remote.
The second time, he knocked over half a bottle of water left over from the night before.
The third time, he finally dragged the phone into bed.
The screen lit up. The harsh light made him squeeze his eyes shut, and he held the phone farther away until he could adjust to the brightness. Dozens of messages were piled up on the lock screen.
The dance company group chat, the team captain, the vice-captain, his management contact, and several friends he rarely spoke to.
At the very top was a message the team captain had sent two minutes earlier.
—When you wake up, don't freak out, and don't answer any calls from reporters yourself.
Enze stared at the message for several seconds.
His newly awakened brain was turning very slowly.
His first thought was that something had happened to the dance company. His second was that yesterday's rehearsal video had somehow leaked.
He pushed himself upright and opened the news link attached by the team captain, his hair so messy it was nearly impossible to tell which way it was supposed to lie.
The huge headline immediately jumped into view.
—Famous music producer Xu Weiran Seen Entering Five-Star Hotel for Days; Top-Floor Suite Suspected to Be Site of Secret Meetings?
There was another line beneath it.
—During the Same Period, International Dance Company Principal Dancer and Rising Choreographer Dong Enze Was Also Frequently Spotted at the Hotel. The Two Have Been Seen Entering and Leaving Together Several Times, Sparking Speculation About Their Relationship.
Enze read it once.
He didn't understand.
He read it a second time.
He still felt as if he recognized every individual word, yet together they had turned into something incredibly difficult to comprehend.
The report included several photographs.
The first showed Weiran entering through the hotel's side entrance in a cap, carrying a laptop and a bag of things from a convenience store.
The second showed Enze returning to the hotel alone after rehearsal. He was wearing a loose jacket, his cap pulled low, and carrying the dance company's large black bag over one shoulder.
The third showed the two of them getting out of a car together.
Weiran had walked around to open the door on the other side. Enze lowered his head as he stepped out of the passenger seat. It had been raining that night, so they were sharing an umbrella, and Weiran's hand was resting naturally against the small of his back.
The pictures weren't especially clear.
But anyone who knew them couldn't possibly mistake them for someone else.
Enze zoomed in.
Then zoomed in again.
Finally, he stopped on the hand Weiran had placed against his waist.
He remembered that night.
Rehearsal had ended very late, and his right ankle had been bothering him. When he got out of the car, he stepped onto the wet pavement. Weiran had been afraid he'd lose his balance, so he'd reached out to steady him.
But beneath the photo, the report had written:
“Xu Weiran attentively escorted him the entire way. Their physical interaction appeared natural, suggesting they may have been dating for some time already.”
Enze frowned.
What did they mean, “may have been”?
They were already dating.
And how could one hand at the waist turn into such a long paragraph?
He kept scrolling.
The article went from introducing Weiran's musical work over the past few years to describing Enze's dance company. It even mentioned Enze's recent involvement in choreographing a new dance work, calling him “a rising choreographer gradually drawing the attention of the international arts community.”
Farther down, the article began filling up with baseless speculation.
Some people said Weiran was secretly producing something at the hotel.
Some said the two might be preparing to collaborate on a stage production.
Others believed that, judging by how often they entered and left the hotel, these clearly weren't ordinary work meetings.
The report had even listed the exact times the two had supposedly been seen entering and leaving the hotel over the past two weeks.
Xu Weiran entered at 10:43 p.m. Monday.
Dong Enze entered at 11:27 p.m. Monday.
Tuesday morning, the two left separately.
Late Wednesday night, the two returned together.
Friday morning, Xu Weiran went out alone and returned to the hotel half an hour later with two breakfasts.
As Enze stared at the absurdly detailed timetable, his sleepiness gradually vanished.
How was this news?
Someone had basically kept a two-week record of their commutes.
He threw off the covers and got out of bed. He only managed to put on one slipper before walking out of the bedroom.
Weiran was still sitting at the table in the living room.
Apparently hearing his footsteps, he removed one earbud and glanced back.
“Awake?”
Enze held the phone in one hand, one foot in a slipper and the other planted on the soft carpet, his face still blank with the confusion of just waking up.
“Weiran.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“We're in the news.”
“I saw.”
“You saw it?”
“Twenty minutes ago.”
Weiran sounded almost excessively calm.
Enze walked over to the table and placed the phone in front of him.
“Then why didn't you wake me?”
“You have the morning off.”
“But this—”
“Put on your other slipper first.”
Enze looked down and realized he was missing one.
He turned back to the bedroom. A few seconds later, he returned wearing both slippers and sat down across from Weiran.
The news page was still open to the photograph of the two of them sharing an umbrella.
Enze looked at the phone, then at Weiran.
“So is staying at a hotel really immoral?”
Weiran paused, then let out a laugh.
“How did you get that from this?”
Enze grew even more confused.
“Then why are we in the news? Is staying at a hotel weird?”
“Staying at a hotel isn't weird.”
“Then what are they taking pictures of?”
“Us.”
“Why?”
Weiran looked at him for two seconds.
“You really don't know?”
Enze lowered his head and read the headline again.
“Because we both live here?”
“Because we live here together.”
“What does living together have to do with anything?”
He said it with such complete naturalness that Weiran leaned back in his chair, a trace of his smile still lingering at the corners of his lips.
“For ordinary people, nothing.”
“Then what's the problem?”
“The reporters don't know we've been living together for six years.”
Enze finally fell silent.
He looked at the news again.
From the outside, Xu Weiran and Dong Enze really didn't have much visible overlap.
Weiran had produced performance music for the dance company and appeared at a few public events and celebration dinners. Occasionally, the two had been photographed talking, but anyone watching would have assumed they were simply a music producer and a dancer who had worked together.
No one knew they had started rooming together at twenty-two.
Even fewer people knew that every morning they ate at the same table, that whoever came home late had to send a message, that the bottom drawer of the refrigerator was always filled with Enze's sports drinks, and that Weiran's coffee intake was restricted to no more than two cups a day.
Looking only at those few photographs, a famous music producer and the principal dancer of an international dance company entering and leaving the same luxury hotel late at night for several consecutive weeks could easily inspire other interpretations.
Once Enze understood, though, his frown did not ease.
“But they called it a secret meeting.”
“The headline needs people to click.”
“What part of us is secret?”
“You always come in through the side entrance.”
“That’s where the hotel tells long-term guests to go.”
“The reporters don't know that.”
“We even came back carrying our clean laundry.”
The hotel's laundry service had been fully booked that day, so Enze had taken several practice outfits that couldn't be tumble-dried to a familiar laundromat near the dance company. That night, he and Weiran had each carried two large bags of clothes back.
At the time, Enze had thought there was no way anyone could mistake the scene for a secret date.
As he kept scrolling, he found photographs from that night.
The article read: “The two entered the hotel together carrying a large quantity of personal belongings, suggesting their relationship may be even more intimate than outsiders have speculated.”
Enze stared at the clear garment bags filled with clothes.
“These are my practice clothes.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And your pajamas.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Why didn't they just write that we were doing laundry?”
“No one would want to read that.”
Enze was quiet for several seconds.
“News is so hard to understand.”
Weiran gave a low chuckle.
Enze looked up and glared at him.
“You're still laughing?”
“What else am I supposed to do?”
“Aren't you worried?”
“The company will handle it.”
“How?”
As soon as he finished speaking, Weiran's phone rang on the table.
The caller ID showed the person in charge of the company's public relations department.
Weiran glanced at Enze, answered, and turned on speakerphone at the same time.
“Producer Xu, good morning.”
The voice on the other end had clearly been busy for a long time already. Keyboards clicked and people talked constantly in the background.
“Have you seen the news?”
“Yes.”
“So far, three media outlets have reposted it, and discussion on social media is picking up. The hotel's name hasn't been published yet, but the exterior is easy to recognize. Reporters may go to the site.”
Weiran's brow tightened slightly.
“I'll contact the hotel.”
“There's a few other things we need to confirm first.”
The person paused, their tone turning cautious.
“You and Mr. Dong are both staying there?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“In the same suite?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Is it for work or a private arrangement?”
Weiran looked at Enze across the table.
Enze looked back at him.
“Private arrangement,” Weiran answered.
“Then…what is the nature of your relationship?”
The room fell silent for several seconds.
There was no longer any question about the answer between them.
But once spoken aloud, it would no longer remain only something between friends or within the dance company. It would become a public-relations matter the company needed to assess, and might turn into a public fact everyone knew within a few hours.
Weiran did not answer for Enze.
“I'll get back to you later.”
The person on the other end immediately understood.
“All right. We'll neither deny the report nor comment on the relationship for now. At this stage, we'll ask the media to remove the overly precise entry and exit times to protect your safety.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“If reporters contact you directly, don't respond privately. Until the statement is finalized, use the hotel's internal passages whenever possible.”
“Got it.”
After ending the call, Weiran immediately contacted the hotel.
The hotel had clearly received the news as well. Not only did they arrange for security to monitor the side entrance and parking lot, they also said they could temporarily restrict visitor access to the floor where their suite was located. If necessary, their car could drive directly into an underground passage on the other side.
Enze listened to the entire conversation beside him, without touching his breakfast once.
Only after Weiran set down the phone did he ask, “Will this affect the hotel?”
“Not for now.”
“What if a lot of reporters block the entrance?”
“The hotel will handle it.”
“Other guests will be disturbed.”
“So don't use the main entrance by yourself today.”
Enze frowned.
“It really sounds like we did something wrong.”
“We didn't.”
Weiran pushed the breakfast toward him.
“Eat first.”
“I can't.”
“What time did you eat dinner yesterday?”
“Before rehearsal.”
“What time?”
“A little after four.”
Weiran's expression darkened.
Sensing trouble, Enze immediately unwrapped the sandwich.
“I'll eat.”
No matter how big the news outside became, Weiran was clearly still more concerned with how long it had been since Enze had last eaten.
Enze took a bite of the sandwich, then looked down at his phone again.
There were already more than two hundred messages in the dance company group chat.
At first, almost all of them had been shocked reactions.
Then someone recognized the jacket in the photos and confirmed that it really was Enze. Someone else joked that the reporter had followed them for so many days only to photograph them buying breakfast and doing laundry together.
The vice-captain had even cropped the umbrella photo and zoomed in on Weiran's hand resting at Enze's waist.
—And you still call this “suspected”?
Someone immediately replied:
—Enze touched my waist when he corrected my form yesterday. By your logic, the entire company is dating.
The vice-captain responded with a cold-laughing emoji.
—Does Producer Xu look at you the same way he looks at Enze?
Enze reached this point and immediately placed the phone facedown on the table.
Weiran looked up.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“What are they saying in the group chat?”
“Showing concern about the news.”
“Let me see.”
“No.”
Weiran reached out.
Enze instantly pulled the phone against his chest.
“It's internal company stuff.”
“So I can't see it?”
“They're making things up.”
“Making up what?”
“Don't ask.”
Weiran watched his ears slowly turn red and did not press him further.
Enze ate a few more bites in silence before his phone rang again.
This time, it was the dance company's artistic director.
He answered immediately.
“Director.”
“You saw the news?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“First, let me confirm this. You and Producer Xu are currently staying together at that hotel?”
“Yes.”
“For an extended stay?”
“Our new place is being renovated, and the old lease expired, so we're staying here temporarily.”
“And regarding the relationship?”
It was the second time that day he'd been asked the same question.
Holding the phone, Enze's gaze unconsciously fell on Weiran.
Weiran neither urged him nor looked away. He simply waited quietly for Enze's answer.
Enze took a deep breath.
“We're dating.”
His heart was still beating a little faster after saying it.
Although everyone in the dance company already knew, formally explaining it to management felt different.
There was half a second of silence on the other end before the director calmly replied, “Understood. The dance company won't interfere in a company member's private relationship. But you're currently involved in choreographing a new work, and your name is beginning to attract media attention. We need to know how to respond.”
“I'm sorry for causing trouble for the dance company.”
“There's no need to apologize. The real problem is the prolonged surveillance of a private residence.”
The director's voice was not stern.
“There are two ways to handle this. First, we say only that you're staying at the hotel temporarily for private reasons and decline to comment on the relationship. Second, if the two of you are willing to go public, both sides can issue a complete statement together to prevent the media from continuing to speculate.”
“I understand.”
“Get back to us before noon. Your morning rehearsal has already been canceled. We'll see whether you attend this afternoon depending on the situation.”
“Okay. Thank you, Director.”
After ending the call, Enze set his phone back on the table.
The morning mist outside had already begun to dissipate.
Sunlight crept over the edge of the building opposite them and spilled into the living room, illuminating a small patch of the tabletop. The room was still just like every other morning over the past few days: breakfast, coffee, and the music software Weiran had left open while working.
But the news outside had abruptly turned this ordinary morning into a moment that demanded a choice.
Weiran spoke first.
“How do you want to handle it?”
Enze pinched the corner of the sandwich wrapper.
“What about you?”
“I'm asking you.”
“But the news is about you too.”
“Going public might affect you more.”
Enze didn't understand.
“Why?”
“You're the one in the spotlight.”
“I'm not an idol.”
“You have the dance company, brand partnerships, and possibly overseas performances in the future.”
“You have singers you collaborate with and a company too.”
“I don't have to stand onstage.”
Weiran's tone was calm.
“If you don't want to go public, we'll just clarify why we're staying here temporarily. We won't comment on the relationship, but we won't deny it either.”
That was the safest option.
They wouldn't be lying, and they wouldn't have to hand the most private part of their relationship over for everyone to discuss before they were ready.
Enze lowered his head and stared at the news page.
All kinds of comments had already appeared.
Some people were simply curious about how the two of them knew each other.
Some dug up records showing that Weiran had produced music for the dance company and guessed they were working on a collaboration.
Others collected photos from public events over the past few years and pointed out that the two had actually known each other for a long time.
One of the photos was a group shot from the dance company's celebration dinner four years earlier.
Weiran stood in the back row, while Enze stood in front. They weren't standing close together—in fact, there were several people between them.
But in another candid side shot, Enze was holding a glass of wine while Weiran watched him from a short distance away with a frown.
One comment read:
“Why does it feel like Producer Xu had been paying attention to Dong Enze for a long time?”
Someone below argued that he was simply a producer watching one of the performers he'd worked with.
Someone else said not to overinterpret a single photograph.
Enze stared at the photo from four years ago for a long time.
At the time, they had still been living as roommates.
Maybe even Weiran himself hadn't yet figured out whether what he felt was love.
“If we only say we're staying at the hotel temporarily, will they keep speculating?” Enze asked.
“Yes.”
“What if we say we used to live together?”
“Then they'll ask why.”
“We'll say we were rooming together.”
“And then?”
Enze fell silent.
Then everyone would put them back in the category of “roommates.”
That wouldn't technically be a lie.
They had indeed started out rooming together, and they had indeed lived together for six years.
But now, using those two words to explain everything made Enze feel inexplicably uncomfortable.
As if the boundary they'd finally crossed would be forced back to its starting point by the gaze of outsiders.
Weiran understood his hesitation.
“You don't like it?”
“What?”
“Calling us roommates.”
Enze didn't answer immediately.
After a while, he said softly, “It used to be fine.”
“And now?”
“Now it isn't.”
Weiran's gaze rested on his face.
Enze looked up.
“I don't need everyone to know, but if they ask, I don't want to say you're just my roommate.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And I don't want to pretend it's just work.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“We didn't do anything wrong.”
“We didn't.”
“Then why should we hide?”
The last question seemed directed at Weiran, but also at himself.
It wasn't that he had no concerns.
He knew people would comment once they went public, and he knew some partners might need to reassess their collaborations. The dance company had always focused on its work and professionalism, so it might not be seriously affected, but public attention had never been completely rational.
Some people would offer their blessings.
Others would certainly fail to understand.
There was an even greater chance that some would tie his years of achievements onstage to Weiran's fame, as if his current position had nothing to do with his own efforts.
Weiran, too, might be suspected of producing music for the dance company because of their private relationship.
What they would have to bear was more than a simple sentence saying they were dating.
Weiran took in all of Enze's silence.
“Not going public isn't the same as hiding.”
Enze looked at him.
“Keeping your private life private is normal,” Weiran said. “You don't need to tell everyone everything just to prove we haven't done anything wrong.”
“But do you want to tell them?”
“I'm fine either way.”
“How can you be fine either way?”
“If we go public, I don't mind. If we don't, it won't change the fact that we live together.”
Weiran paused.
“I just don't want you to regret it later.”
Enze's fingers slowly loosened around the breakfast wrapper.
Six years ago, when they had first started rooming together, neither of them had imagined that one day they would appear in the news together.
Back then, Weiran wasn't yet the producer everyone knew, and Enze was only an ordinary company member who had to stand in the back row of the dance company.
They counted rent and living expenses every day, waited for buses late at night, and chose that dark dining table because it was thirty thousand won cheaper.
Then life changed little by little.
Weiran's name began appearing on hit songs and in movie credits. Enze moved from the ensemble to more prominent positions, then became the principal dancer and began participating in choreography.
But no matter how much the outside world changed, they always returned to the same place.
Now that home had simply been temporarily replaced by a hotel suite.
Enze suddenly felt that, rather than letting the outside world invent a mysterious secret meeting at the hotel, they might as well explain the simplest truth.
“Then let's go public,” he said.
Weiran didn't respond immediately.
“Have you thought it through?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Not just because you're angry?”
“A little.”
Weiran raised an eyebrow.
Enze pointed at the article.
“They made it sound like bringing home our clean laundry was some kind of secret evidence.”
“So?”
“I want to tell them the bag only contained your pajamas and my practice clothes.”
Weiran couldn't help laughing.
“That won't be in the statement.”
“Why not?”
“No one cares.”
“I care.”
“The relationship is the point.”
Enze paused.
“Then say we're dating.”
“And?”
“The new place is being renovated and the old lease expired, so we're staying at the hotel temporarily.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“It wasn't a secret meeting or work.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And they need to stop following us.”
Weiran nodded.
“Fine.”
He picked up his phone and replied to the company first, then had Enze notify the dance company. In less than half an hour, the public-relations and management staff from both sides had set up a temporary call and begun confirming the wording of a joint statement.
The first draft was extremely official.
—Mr. Xu Weiran and Mr. Dong Enze are temporarily staying at the hotel due to renovations at their private residence. The two are longtime friends, and the “secret meeting” mentioned in related reports is not factual. We ask the public to refrain from unnecessary speculation.
Enze frowned as soon as he finished reading.
“Longtime friends?”
Weiran was staring at those four words too.
“No.”
The public-relations representative asked, “How would you like us to revise it?”
“Couple,” Weiran said.
Enze turned to look at him.
They had decided to go public only moments ago, but actually hearing Weiran say it so directly to the people from the company and the dance company still made his heart jolt.
There was silence on the other end for several seconds.
“Are you sure you want to use the word ‘couple’?”
“Yes.”
“Then we'll change it to say that the two are currently dating.”
The second draft arrived quickly.
—Mr. Xu Weiran and Mr. Dong Enze have known each other for many years and are currently in a romantic relationship. Because their shared residence is undergoing long-term renovations and the lease on their former rental home has expired, the two are temporarily staying in a long-term hotel suite. Their comings and goings are part of their normal daily lives and are not the secret meetings described in the report. Both parties reserve the right to take further action regarding prolonged surveillance, the publication of precise entry and exit times, and any conduct that may affect other guests. We respectfully ask the public to respect their private lives.
Enze read it from beginning to end.
“Shared residence?”
“The new place.”
“But we haven't moved in yet.”
“It's registered to both of us.”
“True.”
“Anything else to change?”
Enze thought for a while.
“Can we add a sentence saying the hotel didn't provide us with any special assistance to hide?”
The public-relations representative sounded surprised.
“Why?”
“I'm worried the news will affect the hotel.”
Weiran glanced at him.
In the end, they added a note at the end of the statement saying that the accommodations and privacy measures were part of the hotel's normal long-term guest services, and asked the media not to disturb the staff or other guests.
At noon, both sides officially released their statements.
Weiran's company posted first.
Less than a minute later, the dance company's official account reposted it.
Enze sat on the living room sofa, watching the page refresh as the number of comments climbed too quickly to read.
For the first few minutes, most people left only question marks.
Then people began actually reading the statement.
—So it wasn't a secret hotel meeting—they're living at the hotel together?
—Their shared home is being renovated? They already bought a place together?
—How many years does “known each other for many years” mean?
—Wait, Xu Weiran and Dong Enze are dating?
—I thought they had only worked together!
—So those two breakfasts really were bought for his boyfriend.
Enze looked up at the last comment.
Weiran was at the dining table replying to work messages.
“They figured out that one of the breakfasts was mine.”
“It was.”
“But you didn't ask what I wanted to eat that day.”
“You always eat the same thing.”
“What if I wanted something different?”
“You'd still choose the chicken sandwich.”
Enze had no argument against that.
He lowered his head and continued reading the comments.
Someone dug up an old behind-the-scenes video from the dance company and spotted Weiran sitting in the corner of the audience in a clip that lasted only a dozen seconds. Enze had been rehearsing onstage, but Weiran had no work equipment in front of him. He was simply watching in silence.
Someone else found a line Weiran had said in an interview three years earlier.
The host had asked how he relaxed after work.
Weiran had answered, “I go home and eat.”
At the time, everyone had assumed it was an ordinary answer.
Now someone asked whether Enze had cooked that meal.
Holding his phone, Enze looked up. “When you said in that interview three years ago that you went home to eat, was that the time I cooked?”
“Which time?”
“The day of the interview.”
“I don't remember.”
“How do you not remember anything?”
“Three years is a long time.”
“But you said you went home to eat.”
“You leave food for me every day.”
Weiran answered as naturally as if it were obvious.
Enze had asked casually, but that answer made him fall silent.
To Weiran, it wasn't a particular day worth remembering.
For the past six years, whenever Enze was home, he usually left a meal for whoever came back late.
Their relationship hadn't begun with a few enlarged photographs.
Before the outside world first noticed them entering and leaving places together, the two had already spent countless nights together that no one else cared about.
An hour after the statement was released, the headlines quickly changed.
“Secret meeting” became “longtime live-in lovers.”
“Suspected relationship” became “officially confirms relationship.”
The more sensational outlets even went so far as to write:
“From Roommates to Joint Homeowners: Music Producer Xu Weiran and Dance Company Principal Dancer Dong Enze Go Public with Six-Year Relationship.”
Enze sat up straight as soon as he saw it.
“This isn't right.”
Weiran walked over to the sofa.
“What isn't?”
“We haven't been dating for six years.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“They counted the time we were rooming together.”
“Headlines have to be short.”
“But that changes the meaning completely.”
“Are you going to leave a comment correcting them?”
Enze actually opened the comment box.
Weiran reached over and took his phone away.
“Don't reply impulsively.”
“But they're wrong.”
“The company will handle it later.”
“Then how long have we actually been dating?”
Weiran glanced at the date.
“Twenty-nine days.”
Enze froze.
“You counted?”
“We needed to confirm the timeline for the statement.”
“They asked?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“What did you tell them?”
“One month.”
Enze reached out and took back his phone.
“We're still one day short.”
Weiran looked at him.
“You care?”
“Of course.”
“Then we'll celebrate one month tomorrow.”
“Can we?”
“How do you want to celebrate?”
Enze seriously considered it for several seconds.
“Don't stay at the hotel.”
“We can only stay at the hotel right now.”
“Then let's go out to eat.”
“There are reporters outside right now.”
After going in a circle, the conversation had returned to the reality brought by the news.
At two in the afternoon, the hotel informed them that several reporters had indeed appeared outside the underground parking garage.
The dance company suggested that Enze skip afternoon rehearsal for the time being, in case the entrances were blocked. Weiran's scheduled recording work was also changed to remote work.
For once, the two of them stayed together in the suite on a weekday.
Enze sat on the carpet organizing notes for the new dance work, while Weiran worked at the dining table with earbuds in. After the hotel delivered lunch, they temporarily stopped what they were doing and sat together by the window.
The city outside continued running as usual.
From the top floor, the cars below looked like tiny points of light moving slowly along the roads. There was no way to tell that people waiting for them had gathered at one of the hotel's entrances.
Halfway through his meal, Enze suddenly asked, “Are you upset?”
“About what?”
“Going public.”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“But before, no one knew.”
“Now they do.”
“Don't you think it's a hassle?”
Weiran set down his chopsticks.
“The hassle is being followed, not dating you.”
Enze was quiet for a moment.
“What if people keep asking in the future?”
“Let the company respond.”
“What if some people don't like it?”
“That's got nothing to do with me.”
“What if it affects our work?”
“Then it depends on what kind of work.”
Weiran's tone was as calm as if he had already thought everything through.
“If a collaboration requires me to pretend I don't know you, I can turn it down.”
Enze frowned.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“That's your work.”
“I can find other work.”
“But—”
“Dong Enze.”
Weiran interrupted him.
“I didn't just meet you today.”
Enze stopped.
“If I thought you'd interfere with my work, I wouldn't have lived with you six years ago.”
“We weren't dating then.”
“You still made noise practicing at midnight.”
The heavy feeling in Enze's chest was instantly blocked by that response.
“I was quiet.”
“The downstairs neighbor complained twice.”
“That was because the floor was too thin.”
“My equipment got complaints too.”
“So we're even.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Weiran picked up his chopsticks again.
“Eat your food.”
Enze watched him for a moment, then suddenly laughed.
The news could make their relationship sound as sensational as it wanted, turning ordinary laundry, buying breakfast, and going home into evidence worthy of speculation.
But to them, life was still just life.
They still had to remember to eat, remember who had failed to stretch the night before, and discuss what to have for breakfast the next day.
At four in the afternoon, the news was still gaining momentum, but the mood had gradually shifted from speculation to congratulations and curiosity.
The people at the dance company, meanwhile, had no intention of letting Enze off the hook.
The vice-captain sent him a screenshot of the news.
—“Longtime live-in lovers” sounds more fitting for you two than roommates.
Then came another message.
—You're buying us dinner when you come back tomorrow.
Enze replied:
—Why am I the one buying?
—You don't buy dinner when you go public?
—I was photographed. I didn't voluntarily go public.
—Same result.
More than a dozen people immediately chimed in in the group chat.
Enze looked at the messages, then turned to Weiran. “Do we have to buy everyone dinner for going public?”
“Who said that?”
“They did.”
“If you want to, go ahead.”
“You have to pay too.”
“Why?”
“You're the other person involved.”
Weiran looked up.
“The article mostly photographed you.”
“Your name comes first in the headline.”
“You were leaning against me in the pictures.”
“You were holding my waist.”
“You almost slipped.”
“Either way, we split it.”
Weiran didn't continue arguing.
“Fine.”
Satisfied, Enze replied to the group chat that he would treat everyone to dinner after the next rehearsal.
By evening, there were fewer reporters outside the hotel.
After a security assessment, the hotel asked whether they needed a car arranged to leave through the underground passage. Weiran had work the next morning, and Enze had to return to the dance company as well. They couldn't stay in the suite forever.
The two of them packed the things they would need the next day.
As Enze folded his practice clothes into his backpack, he suddenly felt a crumpled receipt from the laundromat in his pocket.
He unfolded it and glanced at it.
It was dated the day shown in the news photos.
“Should we keep this?”
Weiran was checking his work files.
“Keep what?”
“Proof that we really were just doing laundry.”
“Who needs you to prove that?”
“If reporters ask again.”
“No one's going to ask how much the pajamas cost.”
Enze put the receipt in his wallet anyway.
“Just in case.”
Weiran watched his serious expression and helplessly looked away.
After they finished packing, the two of them stood in front of the bedroom walk-in closet.
There were considerably more clothes in the hotel suite than when they had first arrived.
Weiran's shirts, jackets, and several work outfits filled the left side. The right side was crammed with Enze's practice clothes, everyday clothes, and shoe boxes of every kind. Two suitcases sat side by side at the bottom.
None of these things had anything to do with the “secret hotel meeting” described in the news.
They were simply the life the two of them had temporarily stored here.
Enze leaned against the doorframe.
“Are we really leaving through the underground passage tomorrow?”
“The hotel recommended it.”
“If we're photographed, will they say we're deliberately hiding again?”
“Let them.”
“But we've already gone public.”
“Going public doesn't mean we have to let people photograph us.”
Weiran closed the closet door.
“If there are cameras, don't stop, and don't answer questions.”
“Got it.”
“If I'm not there, have the dance company's car come in to pick you up.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And don't use the side entrance by yourself.”
Enze looked at him.
“You really sound like you're taking care of a child.”
“Who was the one who got drunk and sat downstairs last time?”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Less than two months.”
“I haven't been drinking now.”
“Then remember to listen.”
Enze walked over to him and caught hold of the hem of his shirt.
“What time will you be back tomorrow?”
“Not sure. It'll be evening.”
“Will it be late?”
“Possibly.”
“Remember to text me.”
“Mm-hmm.”
The conversation was almost exactly like countless others they had shared over the past six years.
The only difference was that Enze didn't let go after he finished speaking.
He moved closer, wrapped his arms around Weiran's waist, and buried his face against Weiran's shoulder.
Weiran lifted his arms and held him.
“What is it now?”
“Can't I hug you today?”
“You can.”
“Then don't ask.”
Weiran looked down at the person in his arms.
“You learn quickly.”
“I learned from you.”
Enze held him for a while before saying softly, “Weiran.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Everyone knows now.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You're my boyfriend.”
“The statement was very clear.”
“It mentioned our shared home too.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And someone said we've already been living together for six years.”
“We have.”
Enze lifted his face.
“But it was different before.”
Weiran looked at him.
“How was it different?”
“Before, when we went home, I couldn't hug you like this.”
“You did when you were drunk.”
“I didn't dare when I was sober.”
“What about now?”
Enze tightened his arms.
“Now I can.”
A faint smile rose in Weiran's eyes.
“Mm-hmm.”
Enze looked at him, then moved closer and kissed him on the lips.
It was only a very brief kiss.
After they parted, his ears slowly turned red, just as they did every time he made the first move.
Weiran didn't let him retreat too far. He placed a hand against the back of Enze's neck and kissed him again.
Outside, dusk slowly settled over the city.
The lights along the roads and buildings gradually came on, reflecting in the top-floor windows and illuminating the silhouettes of the two people standing close together.
The news continued updating.
There might still be people waiting outside the hotel for new photographs, while countless strangers online continued discussing exactly when the two of them had started falling for each other.
But even they couldn't give those questions a definite answer.
Maybe love had begun with a certain breakfast six years ago. Maybe it had been hidden in every late night spent waiting for the door to open, every sticky note, and every dinner left behind.
The outside world had only learned about it today, but they had already spent a very long time living it.
When the kiss ended, Enze still didn't let go.
“What do you want for breakfast tomorrow?” Weiran asked.
“A chicken sandwich.”
“You see?”
“What?”
“It's the same every time.”
Enze froze for a moment before remembering their conversation that morning.
“Then I'll change it.”
“To what?”
“I haven't decided.”
“Tell me when you decide.”
“What if I want a chicken sandwich again tomorrow?”
“Then I'll buy it.”
“Still two?”
Weiran looked at him.
“What else?”
Enze broke into a smile and buried his face against Weiran's shoulder again.
Staying at the hotel really had made the news.
Their ordinary trips out, returns home, and shared breakfasts had become a secret in the eyes of outsiders because of a few photographs.
But the news could only capture the hotel's entrance.
It couldn't capture the slippers lined up side by side in the top-floor suite, the clothes mixed together in the closet, or the lamp Weiran left on for Enze in the bedroom every night, no matter how late he came home.
This was not a place for secret meetings.
It was simply where they would live together temporarily until their new home was finished.
It was also the first home where the two of them were known to everyone not as roommates, but as lovers.