“You washed my sweater? By hand?” Even if he meant nothing by it—and Rui was certain it meant nothing—the act of him taking care of her clothes felt oddly intimate.
“I figured you’d need it when you woke. It was gross, all that blood and dirt. Of course, you’re more than welcome to keep the lovely top I chose for you.”
“Ha ha. Thanks.”
Zizi made a face. “Your boyfriend’s still here, by the way.”
Rui gave the blanket an indignant kick. “Song Yiran is not my boyfriend.”
“Why not? He’s cute and he’s filthy rich.” There was a challenge in Zizi’s tone. But Rui couldn’t figure out what the challenge was or what it meant.
“He’s not that cute.”
Zizi seemed pleased with her answer. “Did you know he has violent tendencies?”
“He’s just a coddled rich kid. He’s soft, like mochi.”
Zizi scrunched his nose. “Tasteless. Sticks to your teeth.”
Despite herself, Rui laughed. “I met him for the first time last night. I don’t even know him. Anyway,” she sighed, “I’m taking a break from dating boys, girls, and anyone in between. I don’t have time for a relationship.”
Zizi gave her a peculiar look. It was brief, but for some reason it made her remember that he was also a boy and, thus, on her do-not-date list.
She pulled the blanket back around her. “Why don’t you go downstairs? I’ll be there soon.”
He nodded and left the room.
Rui picked up the cup of coffee, downing half of it in one gulp. Hot liquid scalded her tongue, but it was nothing compared to the revolting taste in her mouth. She tried not to gag. It wasn’t coffee; it was some medicinal concoction that tasted like dirty roots and mud.
“Why didn’t he warn me?” she groaned, dragging herself to the bathroom.
The rush of water soothed her body, and gradually, the pain eased. But when she finally got out, the chill in her bones remained. Her sweater was still damp, so she put on the fluffy white bathrobe instead. A tiny, pasty-faced human with bedraggled hair stared back in the mirror. She pinched her cheeks, trying to get some color back into them.
Feeling utterly sorry for herself, Rui shuffled to the top of the stairs. She could see Yiran curled up on the floor next to a bookshelf. His face was covered by his leather jacket, and his hoodie had patches of dried blood. His clothes must’ve gotten stained when he carried her to his two-door coupe and sped her here. Typical rich boy. It wasn’t surprising he had a license and his own car. A nice one, too. She hoped she’d bled all over his expensive leather seats.
In the kitchen, Zizi was smashing coffee beans with a pestle, the sleeve of his bat-winged cardigan flapping as his arm went up and down.
A groan came from under the leather jacket. “Stop it, I’m trying to sleep.”
Zizi continued to bang away.
Yiran scrambled up, eyes bloodshot, hands itching for a fight. He spun around, looking for something to grab, finally settling on a stash of paper. He threw it in the air.
The floor was littered with hell money. The face of a bearded old man wearing a grand black hat with wingtips glared up at Rui from each rectangular piece—the mythical King of Hell.
She sighed. Yiran sure had a knack for disrespecting the dead.
Zizi glowered. “You’re going to pick up every single one of those and stack them back properly on my shelves.”
Yiran threw his jacket across the room. It landed with a satisfying splat. “Make me.”
Zizi raised his pestle in a throwing motion.
Yiran answered by rolling up his sleeves.
Sighing for the innumerable time, Rui lumbered down the stairs to save the fools from themselves.
“Glad you’re getting to know each other on such an intimate level,” she said.
