He Did Not Run

I woke with a splitting hangover.

Clothes were scattered across the floor.

Noah was gone.

My body felt like it had been dismantled and reassembled by someone with confidence but no mercy.

I called in sick.

Then opened the chat box that had been silent for four years and sent Noah a question mark.

Ten minutes.

No reply.

One hour.

Still nothing.

I washed, ate, watched two episodes of a sitcom, and absorbed none of it.

I kept checking my phone.

So this little dog came back to take revenge?

Fine.

We were adults.

Adults could take responsibility for their actions.

I did not care.

Damn it.

I cared.

The more I thought about it, the angrier I got.

I texted Mia:

I’m sick. Come comfort your pitiful friend.

A knock came later.

Not Mia.

Noah stood at my door with a suitcase in one hand and shrimp dumplings from the tea restaurant downstairs in the other.

His gaze dropped to my outfit.

“Claire, you open doors dressed like this?”

I thought it was Mia, so I wore only a loose white linen slip dress.

The neckline dipped.

At my age, my body had a kind of grown-woman softness and confidence that young girls did not.

Noah’s eyes dodged.

I smiled.

“Shy?”

His gaze returned, direct now.

I instinctively clutched my neckline.

The hallway light was warm.

The air grew dangerous.

No.

Not again today.

“Why are you here?” I asked, walking inside and grabbing a cardigan.

Noah dragged his suitcase in.

He did not answer.

Instead, he asked,

“Shy?”

I rolled my eyes.

“Shy about what?” he added. “It’s not like I haven’t seen.”

Now I was the one who could not handle it.

I drank water too fast and nearly choked.

“I was drunk last night,” I said. “Dizzy. I think I blacked out.”

I glanced at him.

His face darkened.

He caged me against the dining table.

“Claire, I asked if you were sober. You confirmed it.”

“You knew what you were doing.”

“Well,” I said weakly, reaching for my phone over his arm, “adults sometimes act impulsively.”

He took my phone.

“Stop calling me little kid. I’m ten years younger than you, yes, but—”

“Qingqing,” he interrupted softly. “Can I call you that?”

My heart skipped.

He opened the smart-lock app on my phone and sent himself last night’s entryway video.

“Preserving evidence,” he said smugly.

I steadied myself.

“Fine. Then let me make this clear.”

Noah handed my phone back and looked at me obediently.

I softened immediately.

Damn dogs and their eyes.

“Last night happened,” I said gently. “We are both adults. I don’t need you to take responsibility. Can we just let it pass?”

Noah lowered his head like a puppy scolded by its owner.

“That’s not it.”

“Noah,” I continued, “our age gap is too big.”

His eyes reddened.

“I knew I liked you the first time I saw you.”

“When I graduated primary school, I knew it wasn’t a brother’s affection.”

“When I confessed at eighteen, you said I didn’t understand love.”

“Now I’m grown, and you still use the same excuse.”

He turned away.

“The one who cannot recognize her feelings is not me. It’s you.”

I had no answer.

Because I remembered.

The first time I met Noah, he was six.

It was raining at a bus stop.

He wandered into the road alone, drenched, terrified, cars honking around him.

I ran into the rain and pulled him out.

“Don’t be afraid,” I told him.

He shook like a startled deer.

I gave him one earbud.

Debussy’s Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune played softly.

He leaned against me, rain glittering on his lashes.

The second time was years later.

I was twenty-six.

He was sixteen.

Our fathers were old classmates.

At a dinner, his father tried introducing me to one of his star students.

“I think they aren’t suitable,” Noah said suddenly, putting down his chopsticks.

Then he left.

I went after him.

Later, before he studied abroad, I tutored his English.

At eighteen, taller than me, he walked on the outside of the road to protect me from traffic.

I teased him once.

“I’m sacrificing dating time to tutor you. If I can’t marry in the future, you’ll be responsible.”

He twirled his pen.

“If you can’t marry, I’ll take responsibility.”

“You’ll need to be excellent enough first.”

He became excellent.

Top global university.

Double major in business and advertising.

International advertising award winner.

A twenty-two-year-old marketing star everyone wanted.

Of course I knew.

He had not replied to me for four years, but I still secretly followed his achievements.

Mia once called me a stalker fan.

Warmth touched my neck.

Noah hugged me from behind.

His voice trembled.

“I’ve grown up. Am I still not excellent enough? Why can’t it be me?”

My heart broke.

This foolish dog.

He was more than excellent.

I held his face.

“Then… shall we try?”

His tears vanished instantly.

He jumped up.

“Sister agreed!”

“Don’t call me sister!”

I shouted.

And that was how we began.