The cup noodles were already lukewarm.
Liang Chen sat cross-legged on the worn-out couch in his cramped apartment, head resting against the wall, staring blankly at a muted TV showing some old crime drama. The only sound in the room was the occasional slurp of soggy noodles and the soft drip-drip of rain against the windowsill.
He glanced at his phone. Zero messages. Zero missed calls. Zero plans. Perfect.
This was peace.
And then—
BANG. BANG. BANG.
"Liang Chen! Open the damn door, you cave goblin!"
He didn't even flinch. Just kept eating.
More banging.
"I swear if you don't open this door in five seconds, I'm kicking it down and blaming you for it!"
With a long sigh, he stood up, cracked his neck, and shuffled to the door. When he opened it, Xu Ailan his childhood friend stood there, drenched in rain, gym bag slung over one shoulder, ponytail dripping water down her jacket, and the angriest look he'd seen all week.
"You look like a raccoon that lost its will to live," she said, barging past him.
"You look like a soaked broomstick," he mumbled back.
She ignored him and scanned the room like she was looking for illegal contraband. "Is that your dinner? Again? Instant noodles and despair?"
"It's fast. Like me."
"You're not fast. You're the laziest person I know," she snapped, hands on her hips. "Your dad texted me. Said I'm responsible for getting your sorry butt moving again. So congratulations—your pity trainer has arrived."
"I didn't ask for this."
"He did. And he pays for your electricity, doesn't he?"
Liang Chen didn't respond. She grinned. Got him.
"Get your shoes. We're going to training."
"I'm not a badminton player."
"You will be. Or I'll shove that noodle cup down your throat."
It was already getting dark when they reached the sports hall.
Xu pushed the doors open with the energy of a champion and strutted in like she was the queen of the court. Liang Chen, in contrast, slouched in behind her, hoodie half-zipped and hands in his pockets like he'd just wandered in by accident.
He found the bench. Sat. Pulled out his phone. Started playing a card game. Easy win. No running.
From the court, Xu's voice echoed. Loud. Confident. Focused.
He looked up.
She was good.
Her footwork was sharp, her swings controlled, and her smashes had bite. She wasn't just playing—she was commanding. Leading every rally, covering the court like it was hers alone.
Liang Chen didn't realize he'd been watching for over an hour.
When she took a water break, sweating and smiling, he called out lazily, "Is it really that hard?"
She narrowed her eyes. "You think you could do better?"
"Probably."
The silence that followed was heavy.
"Alright then," she said, tossing him a racket. "Let's see it."
He caught it one-handed. "No warm-up?"
"You don't need it. You're not going to last five points."
The game started as a joke.
Xu was confident. He was bored. The coach stood nearby, arms crossed, just watching.
The first few rallies were clumsy. Liang Chen's movements were lazy, almost sleepy. But his reactions were sharp and free. His instincts—scarily fast. Something kicked in. His body moved without thought. Reading angles. Watching her steps. Seeing patterns. He started to hit back. And then he started to win.
Xu's smile slowly faded.
The rallies grew longer. Tighter. Fiercer. Sweat on both their foreheads now. Gritted teeth. The sound of the shuttle hitting rackets rang through the hall like gunshots.
And then—
21-19.
Game point.
Liang Chen won.
There was silence.
Coach Han dropped her clipboard. "What… the hell?"
Xu didn't say a word. She just stood there, racket frozen mid-air, eyes wide and chest rising and falling with short, sharp breaths. Her whole body trembling—not from exhaustion, but from disbelief.
All that training. All those hours. All her work.
Beaten by her idiot, noodle-loving, non-athletic, school-ditching best friend… who just picked up a racket for the first time today.
Liang Chen walked over, racket resting on his shoulder. "You're good," he said, deadpan. "But you make it look harder than it is."
Xu stared at the floor.
He blinked. "...Too soon?"
She threw her water bottle at him.
The rain hadn't stopped.
It followed them home like a bad song on repeat. Xu sat behind Liang Chen on his beat-up scooter, soaked and silent, her thoughts louder than the thunder overhead.
She hadn't said a word since the game.
Liang Chen hadn't said much either. But that wasn't new.
When they got to his apartment, she realized her phone was dead and the buses had stopped.
"Crash here," he said simply, unlocking the door.
She hesitated only a second before walking in, familiar enough with the place to kick off her shoes and toss her bag onto the floor without asking.
He went straight to the kitchen and—of course—grabbed another cup of noodles.
Xu stared at him in disbelief.
"Seriously?"
"What?"
"You just played the most ridiculous match of your life and you're celebrating with processed sodium death-in-a-cup?"
"It's tradition," he said, already pouring hot water.
"No."
"Yes."
"No." She marched over, snatched the cup out of his hands, and dumped it in the sink.
"Hey!"
"Sit," she said, tying her wet hair back. "I'm cooking."
"You can cook?"
"I can cook one thing."
Fifteen minutes later, the tiny kitchen was filled with the warm smell of soy sauce, garlic, and scrambled eggs. She moved fast, mechanically. Rice in the cooker. Eggs cracked into the pan. Curry paste stirred in like muscle memory. She didn't speak.
He sat on the edge of the couch, quietly watching.
When she finally handed him a steaming bowl, she didn't sit across from him. She dropped next to him on the couch, hair still damp, hoodie borrowed from his closet.
They ate in silence.
It wasn't bad. The curry was simple—eggs, rice, a little too much pepper—but it was hot. Real. And that made it taste amazing.
Halfway through the bowl, Xu finally asked it.
"How did you do that?"
He didn't look at her.
"I don't know," he said. "I saw you play… and I understood."
She frowned. "What does that even mean?"
"I don't know how else to explain it." He finally met her eyes. "It was like... your movements were music. And I just… followed the rhythm."
She stared at him, eyes wide.
He took another bite.
"I felt free," he said, after a pause. "Everything just flowed. Like I didn't need to think. Like water."
Xu looked down at her half-eaten bowl.
She had worked years for that level of play. Blood, sweat, heartbreak. And here he was—effortless. Born for it. Moved like water.
And yet… she couldn't hate him.
Because he hadn't even tried to win.
He was just… floating.
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