The library became their Saturday place.
Not by agreement. Not by contract. Not by any rule written on paper or spoken in hallways.
It just happened.
The second Saturday, Jiang Yue woke up and said, "Library?" at breakfast, and Wei nodded without looking up from his rice.
The third Saturday, Wei was already dressed and holding his bag by the door when Jiang Yue came out of his room.
Neither of them acknowledged the pattern.
Acknowledging it would've made it real, and real things between them had a tendency to catch fire.
But it was real.
And Jiang Yue knew it was real because the Saturdays without chaos had started to feel more like freedom than the parties ever had.
Today was the fourth Saturday.
The air outside was bitter cold, the kind that turned breath into small ghosts. Winter had settled into Yunbei fully now, stripping the trees and hardening the ground. The river near the library looked darker, slower, like it was tired of moving.
Jiang Yue walked beside Wei, hands deep in his jacket pockets, scarf pulled up to his chin.
Wei wore a dark coat, collar up, no scarf. His ears were slightly red from the cold, which was the most human thing Jiang Yue had ever seen on him.
Jiang Yue wanted to say something about it.
He didn't.
Because commenting on Wei's ears would be a level of noticing that couldn't be disguised as casual.
They reached the library and went upstairs.
Their table was empty, as always. The second floor was their territory now, claimed by repetition.
They sat down. Unpacked. Started.
For two hours, they studied in the quiet, comfortable rhythm they'd built.
Jiang Yue worked through practice papers. Wei read and made notes. Occasionally Jiang Yue slid a problem across and Wei wrote one line of guidance and slid it back.
Their system.
Efficient. Wordless. Almost intimate in its silence.
At noon, Jiang Yue's stomach growled.
Loud enough to echo in the empty floor.
Wei's pen paused.
Jiang Yue's face warmed. "Ignore that."
Wei looked up, expression flat. "Difficult."
Jiang Yue glared. "My stomach has opinions."
Wei closed his notebook. "Let's eat."
They packed up and left the library.
Outside, the cold hit immediately. Jiang Yue hunched his shoulders and made a sound of protest.
Wei walked beside him, unbothered, as if cold was something he'd negotiated with and won.
They found a small noodle shop near the river, the kind with plastic chairs and fluorescent lighting and menus taped to the wall. The kind of place that was ugly and warm and served food that tasted like survival.
Jiang Yue ordered spicy beef noodles without thinking.
Wei ordered plain noodles with vegetables.
Jiang Yue stared at him. "Plain? You live like a monk."
Wei's gaze was steady. "I live like someone who doesn't need to prove anything to a bowl of noodles."
Jiang Yue laughed before he could stop himself. "That's the funniest thing you've ever said."
Wei's mouth didn't move.
But his eyes did—a slight crinkle at the corners, barely visible, like a smile that had been caught and released before it could fully form.
Jiang Yue noticed.
His chest tightened.
Their food arrived. They ate.
Jiang Yue slurped his noodles loudly on purpose. Wei ate neatly, chopsticks precise.
At one point, a piece of beef slipped from Jiang Yue's chopsticks and splashed broth onto the table.
"Smooth," Wei said.
Jiang Yue pointed at him with his chopsticks. "Don't judge me."
Wei's eyebrow lifted a fraction. "I'm observing."
Jiang Yue grinned. "Same thing."
They finished eating.
Jiang Yue reached for the bill.
Wei's hand reached it first.
Jiang Yue froze. "What are you doing."
Wei placed money on the table calmly. "Paying."
Jiang Yue's jaw tightened. "I can pay for myself."
Wei's gaze lifted. "I know."
Jiang Yue stared at him. "Then why."
Wei's expression stayed neutral. "Because you paid for water at the library last week."
Jiang Yue blinked.
He had. Two bottles from the vending machine on the first floor. He'd bought one for himself and one for Wei without thinking about it, tossing it onto the table like it was nothing.
Wei had noticed.
Wei had remembered.
And now Wei was balancing the scales, because Wei's brain worked like that—tracking debts, measuring fairness, making sure nothing was owed.
But it didn't feel like accounting.
It felt like care disguised as math.
Jiang Yue swallowed. "Fine. But next time I'm paying."
Wei nodded once. "Okay."
They left the noodle shop and walked along the river path.
This was new.
Usually they went straight home after the library. Efficient. Direct. No detours.
But today, neither of them turned toward the apartment.
They just kept walking.
The river path was mostly empty—a few joggers, an old man with a dog, a woman pushing a stroller. The water moved beside them, dark and steady.
The silence between them felt different out here. Not the tense silence of the apartment. Not the productive silence of the library.
Just... open.
Like a room with no walls.
Jiang Yue breathed in the cold air and felt his shoulders drop.
"This is nice," he said, before he could filter it.
Wei glanced at him.
Jiang Yue's face warmed. "The walk," he added quickly. "The air. Not... you."
Wei's gaze returned forward. "Understood."
Jiang Yue kicked a stone on the path. "I mean, you're tolerable."
Wei's mouth twitched. "High praise."
Jiang Yue snorted. "Don't let it go to your head."
They walked further.
The path curved along the river, passing under a bridge where the sound of traffic hummed overhead. On the other side, the view opened up—flat water, distant buildings, a sky that was pale and enormous.
Jiang Yue stopped.
Wei stopped too, half a step ahead, and turned.
Jiang Yue stared at the river.
"Can I ask you something," he said.
Wei's expression stayed calm. "You're going to ask regardless."
Jiang Yue's mouth curved. "True."
He was quiet for a moment, organizing words he usually threw around carelessly.
Then he said, "Do you have friends."
Wei blinked.
Jiang Yue clarified quickly. "Not Shen Yichen. Not classmates who respect you. Not people who want something from you. Actual friends."
Wei's gaze held his.
The question sat between them, heavy and simple.
Wei was quiet for a long time.
The river moved. A bird called somewhere.
Then Wei said, "One."
Jiang Yue's heart kicked. "Who."
Wei's jaw tightened slightly.
He looked at the river.
Then back at Jiang Yue.
He didn't answer.
But his eyes did.
Jiang Yue's throat closed.
He looked away fast, blinking, jaw tight.
"Don't," Jiang Yue said, voice rough. "Don't make me feel things on a Saturday."
Wei was quiet.
Then, low: "You asked."
Jiang Yue laughed, the sound cracking slightly at the edges. "Yeah. My fault."
They stood there for a moment, facing the river, side by side.
Not touching.
Close enough that their jacket sleeves almost brushed.
Jiang Yue's mind raced.
One.
Wei had one friend.
And he'd looked at Jiang Yue when he said it.
Not at Shen Yichen, who'd known him for years.
Not at anyone else.
At Jiang Yue.
The boy who fought him, provoked him, kissed him drunk in a hallway, and then sat across from him every night learning math.
Jiang Yue's chest ached.
He wanted to say something back. Something honest. Something that matched.
But honest words from Jiang Yue always came out sharp, and he didn't want to cut this moment.
So he said the only safe thing.
"We should head back," Jiang Yue said.
Wei nodded.
They turned and walked home.
The path was longer going back, or maybe it just felt that way because the silence had changed again—heavier now, but not uncomfortable. Like something new had been placed between them and they were both carrying it carefully, afraid it might break.
At the apartment building, they rode the elevator in silence.
The doors opened.
Jiang Yue stepped out first.
He unlocked the door.
Inside, the apartment was warm and smelled like soup. Their mother was in the kitchen, singing softly to something on her phone.
Normal.
Safe.
Jiang Yue took off his shoes and walked toward his room.
At his door, he stopped.
Wei was behind him in the hallway, taking off his coat.
Jiang Yue turned.
Wei looked at him, coat half off, expression calm.
Jiang Yue said, "I don't have a lot of friends either."
Wei's hands stilled on his coat.
Jiang Yue's throat tightened. "But. Xu Zhe. And..." He trailed off, jaw working.
He couldn't finish the sentence.
But Wei's gaze softened—barely, like a door opening a crack.
"I know," Wei said.
Two words.
But they contained everything Jiang Yue couldn't say.
Jiang Yue nodded once, sharp, and walked into his room.
He shut the door softly.
Then he leaned against it, pressing his forehead against the wood, breathing.
His heart hammered.
Not from fear.
Not from anger.
From the terrifying, exhilarating weight of being known by someone who wasn't supposed to matter this much.
Outside, he heard Wei's footsteps move past his door, slow and measured.
Then Wei's door closed.
Soft.
Like an answer.