For a long time, Dai Linxuan had no idea what Lai Li truly wanted.
Just like the confusion he had voiced that night at the auction—
He prided himself on having given Lai Li the best of everything within his power as a brother, and even if they became lovers, he couldn’t offer more. So what did Lai Li want from him?
Not material things, not love—could it be just for amusement at his expense?
Dai Linxuan racked his brains but couldn’t figure it out. Why else would Lai Li endure his disgust to say intimate words and do ambiguous things?
It wasn’t until today, two years later, that Dai Linxuan suddenly realized Lai Li hadn’t deliberately brushed it off as a one-night stand—he simply didn’t remember. Day after day of review and night after night of reflection gradually brought some clarity—
He had thought he was tolerating the boy’s stubborn affection, but in truth, it was just self-indulgence.
His own heart had been astray. He had willfully misinterpreted Lai Li’s intentions, overanalyzing every word and action through an ambiguous lens when they were really quite ordinary.
In this light, the name “Dai Linxuan” was utterly unforgivable from head to toe.
Even if Lai Li had harbored boundary-crossing thoughts, as his brother, he should have clearly said “that’s not right” and guided him onto the proper path—instead of going with the flow, then blaming all the mistakes on Lai Li’s wicked nature at the end, thinking himself magnanimous and dignified as he evaded responsibility for two years… only to fall back into the same rut upon his return.
The morning after Dai Yi’s birthday banquet, Lai Li said he wanted to date someone—a man.
Dai Linxuan had nearly lost his reason, as if possessed by a demon.
Hadn’t he said it was disgusting? Not with someone else?
Had they broken up?
Under these seemingly righteous pretexts, he sinned against the child he had raised once more.
Two years ago, he could blame drunken blackout for that night—but how to forget this morning? Or that auction toilet stall?
Lai Li would always remember how the big brother he trusted and cared for had committed shameful, despicable acts against him.
For now, he was probably in a daze, deliberately avoiding memories to not lose his only family. But once he sorted out the boundaries of brotherhood, he would taste the bone-deep hurt and resent it for life.
…
Dai Linxuan’s right hand hung at his side, unconsciously twisting the finger loop of the scissors, pressing the blade tip into his palm and leaving a deep indent.
Footsteps sounded from behind him—Lai Li’s.
Dai Linxuan instinctively pulled his hand forward and rested it lightly on the chair back. He didn’t move, merely turning his gaze slightly.
When Lai Li was little, he always walked silently, startling people by suddenly appearing when they turned around.
Later, Dai Linxuan teased him on purpose: “I have a special skill—I can recognize Xiao Yi’s footsteps. The moment she approaches, I know it’s her without looking.”
Little Chestnut didn’t like talking, but he’d stare with those big round eyes to show his displeasure.
“Want me to remember your footsteps too?” Dai Linxuan coaxed and tricked him. “Then you have to make some noise when you walk.”
After that, Lai Li stopped muffling his steps and even put extra force into them—
He specially bought shoes with different sole materials to make distinct sounds, testing if Dai Linxuan really remembered, if he could tell them apart every time.
Once, Dai Linxuan couldn’t resist and, hearing the sound, deliberately didn’t turn around to tease him: “Who is it? Xiao Yi?”
Then he got a bristling chestnut ball in return—a sullen little face glaring at him, trying to look scary.
Dai Linxuan hurriedly pulled him over to coax him. The moment he got close, Little Chestnut retracted all his spines, burrowed into his arms, pressed against his neck, and said, “Don’t do that again. I don’t like it.”
“I was wrong,” Dai Linxuan apologized readily. “Forgive your brother, okay?”
He complied with Lai Li’s wish and kept his promise—
For over a decade, he recognized those footsteps. The slightest sound made his brows and eyes soften with a habitual gentle smile, so the owner would feel affection right away.
Even now, it was the same.
When Lai Li reached his side, Dai Linxuan turned his face, eyes crinkling as he said, “Is the length okay?”
Lai Li hummed. “I like it a lot.”
The wolf tail was cut short, just covering half his nape, adding a touch of wildness to Lai Li’s already unruly aura.
Dai Linxuan shifted slightly, looked him up and down, and praised, “Looks good.”
Lai Li lowered his head and licked his dry lips.
Dai Linxuan added, “But it won’t stay this length for long. There’s a decent studio in Shangcheng—try it next time?”
Lai Li’s expression didn’t change. He neither agreed nor refused.
He hadn’t blacked out, so he naturally remembered what Dai Linxuan had said a couple nights ago: “The last time.”
Not just for haircuts, but for all those boundary-crossing intimacies—like making him lie on his lap, massaging his sore neck; binding his hands to discipline him like a child; sharing a bed, bare and honest…
Even ordinary hugs wouldn’t happen anymore.
For the past twelve years, everything between them had intertwined without defenses, free to come and go. Now Dai Linxuan didn’t want that. He drew a hard line to divide them.
That line was called brotherhood, inscribed with rules—all starting with “should not.”
“After the board meeting, I won’t have any time—lots to handle,” Dai Linxuan said, leaning against the curved arch wall, half-squinting at the sunlight outside. “Probably won’t… Focus on your classes.”
The unfinished words might have been “won’t be able to meet” or “won’t be able to keep you company.”
Lai Li’s eyes darkened. He was about to speak when his peripheral vision caught Dai Linxuan’s fingertips trembling on the chair back, as if uncontrollably shaking.
He instinctively reached to grab it, but Dai Linxuan stepped back just in time, heading toward the living room—whether by chance or design, evading his touch.
“…” Lai Li stared at his back. “Are you unwell?”
Dai Linxuan touched his mouth briefly and released. “A bit. First time drinking that much baijiu last night.”
Lai Li asked, “Did Li Zheng agree to help you?”
Dai Linxuan hummed in affirmation.
Lai Li had never socialized like that and didn’t understand how one boozy dinner could sway a neutral shareholder—it seemed too hasty, almost farcical.
Either Dai Linxuan had promised some benefit, or Li Zheng had ulterior motives.
“Sweep up the hair, or it’ll blow everywhere…” Dai Linxuan entered the master bedroom, his voice muffled through the wall. “If you have no other plans today, help me tidy up the place?”
Lai Li agreed.
It was an utterly mundane day, with no boundary-crossing words or actions. They tidied the house together—though there wasn’t much to do, just arranging the things Uncle Ren had sent.
Afterward, Dai Linxuan casually ordered a few sofas and desks to avoid overthinking from Lai Li.
After lunch, Dai Linxuan brought his laptop to the dining table and worked away the afternoon. Lai Li sat opposite, glancing at him occasionally but mostly playing on his phone.
Dai Linxuan thought it was nice this way—both relaxed.
After dinner, Lai Li said goodbye: “I’m heading out.”
Dai Linxuan paused, realizing Lai Li hadn’t picked a bedroom—he’d never planned to stay overnight.
He didn’t try to keep him. “I’ll have Uncle Zeng drive you.”
Lai Li grabbed his camera and wore Dai Linxuan’s pajamas, though his brother didn’t notice since he’d layered yesterday’s clothes over them. “No need. I’ll take a cab.”
“Okay. Text me when you… get home.” Dai Linxuan said no more, leaning at the entryway to watch Lai Li leave.
The elevator doors closed, the numbers ticking down to the first floor, and Dai Linxuan still held the same pose, spacing out for a good while.
It was the first time he saw Lai Li off from home at this hour.
As if they already had separate homes, and Lai Li was just visiting—time to go when it was up.
That was probably how normal brothers interacted: each building their own lives, doing well independently, visiting when free.
Dai Linxuan couldn’t picture what kind of person could end up with Lai Li. Probably not a guy, given the homophobia.
Though who knew—that Song Zichu…
Lai Li didn’t seem to have feelings for him, but there was something special.
Dai Linxuan closed the door and returned inside as night fell completely.
Li Jue diligently sent Lai Li’s real-time updates.
[Lai Li went back to the apartment alone.
The second bedroom light turned on.
Stood by the window for a long time.
Lights out…]
Dai Linxuan sat at the hard dining chair until late night before calling Li Jue, who picked up promptly.
He hadn’t turned on the lights, his figure nearly swallowed by the dim night. “No need to report on Little Chestnut anymore.”
Li Jue hesitated. “Everything?”
“Tell me if he runs into trouble or danger. Otherwise, no.” Dai Linxuan sipped water from his cup to moisten his dry throat. “You’ve worked hard lately.”
He’d already instructed finance to pay Li Jue double salary and a bonus for two months from his personal account.
After hanging up, Dai Linxuan opened Lai Li’s WeChat and typed in the input box: I was joking about not letting you date. Date if you want—you’re an adult, you know what you’re doing…
His fingertip hovered over “send” for a long moment before sliding up to delete it all.
Forget it—no need to say it specially.
It wouldn’t drag on long anyway.
Lai Li hadn’t dated in years; unlikely to suddenly have someone special. Even if fate was unpredictable and someone appeared, if Lai Li insisted… what could he do? What would he dare do?
Dai Linxuan went to edit the note, caressing “Whose Little Mange Dog,” stared quietly for a bit, then deleted it character by character.
He suddenly recalled the auction half a month ago, in the venue bathroom, when Lai Li had sneered: “Bro, are you trying to be the other man?”
He’d been annoyed then, slamming Lai Li into the stall for that absurdity—
Had they even formally broken up?
No matter what, he shouldn’t be the other man.
But that night, he learned Lai Li didn’t even remember them being together, didn’t remember the forever promised two years ago.
“Little Chestnut” became the new note—intimate yet ordinary.
It put a period on everything from two years ago.
Unilaterally begun, unilaterally ended.
In another part of Danshi, Lai Li lay on the bed Dai Linxuan had slept in, wearing Dai Linxuan’s pajamas. His hand slipped down to grip himself, eyes squeezing shut in distress.
The camera pressed on the DNA Paternity Test Report*, playing an old video from some summer day three years prior, timestamp in the lower left.
[After years apart, Dai Linxuan’s voice was slightly distorted as he chuckled in disbelief: “What’s this note? Mange dog?”
Lai Li drawled lazily: “Someone said I’m just a mange dog who bullies people relying on you.”
Dai Linxuan: “Who said that?”]
One could imagine Dai Linxuan’s brows furrowing then, gentleness fading into protective displeasure.
[“Doesn’t matter, I taught him a lesson,” Lai Li said. “I don’t mind being your dog.”
“What nonsense,” Dai Linxuan laughed helplessly. “Someone insults you, and you change your note to that? You think that’s a good nickname?”
Lai Li climbed onto the bed, lay on his back, head pillowed on Dai Linxuan’s waist: “If I say it’s good, it is.”
Dai Linxuan was speechless, flicking Lai Li’s nose. “A domineering little dog, huh.”
“…Say it again.”
“Say what?” Dai Linxuan chuckled lowly for a while. “Little dog?”
“Mm.”
“Little dog.”
“Mm…”]
Lai Li let out a muffled pant, slowly peeling open his eyelids, eyes pitch black. Full circle—he’d found that satisfying nickname again.
He turned his face; the video reached its end. In the frame, Dai Linxuan gazed down at his three-years-younger self with endless tenderness.
Lai Li sucked on his finger, canine tooth sinking into the unhealed wound with hungry intent.
If his brother couldn’t change…
If he couldn’t change.
