Little Pink Starfish

After breakfast, Lu Taipan stood up as if it were the most natural thing in the world and took the bowls into the kitchen.

Su Liang instinctively got up too, wanting to help, but was promptly pushed back into his seat by Lu Taipan once again.

“Sit.”

His tone was calm. Then, without warning, he reached out and untied the apron from behind Su Liang’s waist, taking it off him.

A man who had once crawled through fields of gunfire and blood could now untie an apron with ease and composure.

“Wait a bit. I’ll take you to see the village elementary school.”

He didn’t give Su Liang a chance to refuse and headed into the kitchen.

—I could find the place by myself though…

Su Liang, too full to sit still, muttered inwardly as he quietly crept toward the kitchen to peek at the man washing dishes. He really did know where the school was—the village chief, that middle-aged man with crow’s feet, had gone on and on about it during dinner last night.

But when Lu Taipan so matter-of-factly said he’d take him, Su Liang realized he couldn’t bring himself to say no.

Lu Taipan’s skills in frying eggs were truly abysmal—burnt and greasy—but his dishwashing was swift and precise. In no time, the dishes were all cleaned and neatly stacked in the cabinet.

Su Liang quickly retreated to the living room. Moments later, Lu Taipan came out of the kitchen, wiped his hands, took off the apron, and changed into a crisp white shirt that looked oddly out of place in the rustic village.

When Lu Taipan reappeared, Su Liang couldn’t help but steal a few more glances.

It had been years since they’d last met, but Su Liang felt like Captain Lu had gotten even more attractive.

Gone was the harsh sharpness born of war and fire—years of life in the mountains had softened him, made him more relaxed. Yet beneath the thin cotton shirt, his well-defined muscles still hinted at a hidden strength.

A man who could fry eggs and wash dishes…

That unexpected contrast gave Lu Taipan a unique charm.

Su Liang snuck glances at him from the corner of his eye, and before he realized it, his heart skipped a beat.

“Let’s go.”

Lu Taipan didn’t notice the brief flurry in Su Liang’s chest.

He glanced at the items Su Liang had packed earlier—supplies and lesson plans for the school. Without a word, he walked over, picked up the heavy woven bag, and led the way out.

Last night at dinner, the village chief had repeatedly warned Su Liang that the village school’s conditions were poor. He’d assured him they’d improve after a new building was constructed next year, and as long as they had a teacher, all would be well. He was clearly afraid Su Liang would find it too run-down.

Su Liang hadn’t thought much of it then. But upon arriving, he understood why the chief had been so uneasy.

The school building looked like it belonged in a pre-PRC era relic.

Though someone had clearly cleaned and repaired the place—the mud walls had been freshly whitewashed—it still looked desolate.

The windows rattled in their frames, the doorway was narrow and gloomy, and the mismatched desks and chairs inside looked cobbled together from various homes.

No one had lived there in years. As soon as one stepped inside, a damp, earthy staleness hit the nose. Though spring had arrived, standing in the classroom made it feel like cold air was creeping up one’s legs.

Honestly, for such a remote village, this was already a well-maintained school. The chief had even re-tiled the roof with new bricks. All things considered, it wasn’t bad.

But Su Liang had a naturally refined, princely air. Standing in that decrepit classroom in a white shirt with lesson plans in hand, the contrast was jarring—his presence only made the room look even more dilapidated.

Lu Taipan watched him silently and, for some reason, felt inexplicably uncomfortable.

Someone like Su Liang didn’t belong in a place like this. He should’ve been…

Where?

Suddenly, his mind conjured up a memory from years ago: when he’d raided an illegal facility, there was an underground chamber—lavish, gilded, and horrifying. A golden cage, padded with velvet, used to imprison men and women by the underworld.

That memory had been disgusting, brutal.

He had only felt disdain and disbelief back then.

But now, the image flashed again—only this time, inside the golden cage lay a slender young man.

Despite the cool weather, a strange heat surged through Lu Taipan’s body.

He jolted upright, his brows furrowed tightly.

Ridiculous.

This was out of line.

He clenched his jaw, silently reciting disciplinary codes in his head, until he felt a bit more composed.

Then, taking a deep breath, he stepped into the classroom.

Su Liang was bent over, fiddling with the old teacher’s desk at the front.

No idea how old it was, but it looked okay—until Su Liang placed something on it and the whole thing wobbled.

He was now trying to stabilize it by wedging bricks under the legs.

Lu Taipan sighed.

“Don’t bother.”

His eyes landed on Su Liang’s wrist peeking out from his sleeve—fair and smooth like polished jade.

And just like that, thoughts that should have been buried deep surged up again. He quickly averted his eyes.

“The legs are rotting. It won’t last. I’ve got some wood at home. I’ll make you a new one this afternoon.”

“There’s no need, really. This one’s fine…”

Lu Taipan said it casually, but making a desk wasn’t simple—it took good wood and a lot of labor. Su Liang, not some pampered prince, knew that all too well. He quickly tried to refuse.

Whenever he was embarrassed, his cheeks turned a little pink.

Like a ripe summer peach.

Lu Taipan’s throat tightened.

Outwardly calm and composed, only he knew how strange he felt inside.

Honestly, he didn’t even know what was wrong with himself.

It felt like something was burning him from the inside out, making the normally collected man feel flustered. And yet he couldn’t stop the thoughts swirling in his mind.

“It’s just a desk. Not a big deal. Besides, with a proper one, those kids can learn better.”

Hearing that, Su Liang fell silent.

That afternoon, when he saw Lu Taipan expertly drag out high-quality paulownia wood and craft a brand-new desk for him, Su Liang—blushing furiously—mustered his courage and made an extra request.

“Lu… Lu-ge, could you help me paint a board… make a blackboard?”

He was so embarrassed he could barely look at him.

It felt greedy—first the desk, now a blackboard—but Su Liang really couldn’t resist Lu Taipan’s craftsmanship.

The desks he could manage. The drafty classroom he could patch up with clay. The dampness could be fought with charcoal braziers.

But the blackboard?

The existing one was a mess—some old tar smear on a mud wall, worn and illegible.

For the sake of the kids’ learning, Su Liang bit the bullet and asked.

Lu Taipan wiped the sweat from his brow with a towel.

He knew he shouldn’t, but still stole a few glances at Su Liang’s blushing face.

Then, he took a swig of cold tea from his mug.

“Sure.”

His voice came out low and slightly hoarse.

“But there’s a condition.”

He couldn’t help himself—he had to say it.

“…What is it?”

Su Liang looked up at him, wide-eyed.

Then he saw the man standing in the courtyard, gazing at him intently, the hint of a teasing smile on his lips.

“Don’t call me ‘Captain Lu’ anymore. Sounds too distant.”

“Huh?”

“A desk, a blackboard… I think I deserve a ‘ge,’ don’t you? Xiao-Liang laoshi?”

Everyone else called him “Teacher Su,” or “Little Teacher Su.” But only Lu Taipan called him “Xiao-Liang laoshi.”

The way he said it—gentle, teasing—made even Su Liang’s ears go red.

He’d called plenty of people “uncle” and “ge” in the past. But for some reason, saying it to Lu Taipan felt different—embarrassing.

“…Lu-ge.”

After a long pause, Su Liang finally whispered it, his voice soft as a mosquito.

And just like that, the one blushing next wasn’t Su Liang anymore, but the man who’d just teasingly demanded it.

“…Mm.”

Lu Taipan abruptly turned around, hoisted the board, and started sanding it with focused intensity.

And so, that afternoon, Su Liang ended up with a perfectly smooth, freshly painted blackboard.