Ding Qi’s home had a study filled with books—at least, it appeared so at first glance. To Yan Qing, this seemed quite remarkable. Everything about Ding Qi’s demeanor and vibe screamed “not a reader.”
But upon closer inspection, Yan Qing almost burst out laughing—elementary, middle school, and high school textbooks were neatly stacked alongside civil service exam prep books. All lovingly preserved on the shelves.
Ah, truly sentimental keepsakes.
Then there were the rest of the books—a chaotic mix that would surely trigger obsessive-compulsive tendencies in Xiao Tang, a librarian by trade. He would absolutely reorganize the entire collection on sight.
The quality varied wildly, and even old magazines from three or four years ago had found their way in—just for a sense of participation, perhaps.
Yan Qing casually pulled a book off the shelf and glanced at it. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a light blue hardback spine without a title. Mysterious.
Replacing the book in his hand, Yan Qing reached for the blue one. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a photo album. Holding it, he leaned against the kitchen doorframe, raising his hand to show it to Ding Qi.
“This album—can I take a look?”
Ding Qi, busy slicing fruit, glanced back and replied nonchalantly, “Go ahead.” Then he turned back to his task.
Yan Qing settled onto the couch and began flipping through the album.
The baby in the photos didn’t look much like Ding Qi. Yan Qing, intrigued, watched as the child in the pictures grew older, a smile slowly spreading across his face. It felt as though he were witnessing the story of Ding Qi’s younger years.
By the time Ding Qi reached twelve or thirteen, his resemblance to his current self became striking.
Two photos taken at the same time were placed side by side. In one, Ding Qi faced the camera with a raised eyebrow, his gaze slanted—a look that could be read as either disdain or dissatisfaction. In the other, he appeared to have been caught mid-laughter. His tightly pressed lips curved upwards, his chin raised, and his once-slanted eyes now met the camera head-on, slightly narrowed in amusement.
To be fair, Ding Qi was undeniably good-looking. But even then, that faint hint of a roguish air had already begun to take shape.
Ding Qi walked out with a plate of freshly sliced fruit and placed it on the table. Picking up a piece of cantaloupe, he offered it to Yan Qing. Yan Qing opened his mouth, biting down. Sweet juice filled his mouth, making him nod enthusiastically with a thumbs-up.
Sweet.
Spotting his childhood self, Ding Qi felt an inexplicable discomfort—like someone had dug up an old skeleton and left it baking in the sun. Awkward, he slapped a hand over the photo. “What’s so interesting about this?”
“Didn’t you say I could look?” Yan Qing brushed Ding Qi’s hand away with ease, continuing to turn the pages.
Reluctantly, Ding Qi sat down beside him to watch, cringing at his younger self. “I looked so stupid.”
“What part of this is stupid?” Yan Qing wouldn’t let him talk himself down. Then, seeing Ding Qi snicker, he added, “Though, you do look like the type of kid who’d throw rocks at people’s windows.”
Ding Qi didn’t reply, lowering his head to poke at the fruit on his plate with a fork.
Yan Qing pressed, “You actually did it, didn’t you? How many windows did you break?”
Eager to change the topic, Ding Qi flipped the page for him. “Look at this photo! Handsome, right? That’s my first time on a motorcycle.”
Yan Qing followed his gaze. Judging by the photo, it must have been taken during Ding Qi’s high school years. He stood with three other boys of the same age. Behind them were two motorcycles, and Ding Qi had one arm slung casually over a friend’s shoulder, his grin wide and carefree.
Even across time and photographs, Yan Qing could feel the thrill and excitement of a teenager’s first ride—a passion that had clearly carried through to the present day.
The year was noted in the corner of the photo. Calculating, Yan Qing realized Ding Qi must have been in his first year of high school.
“You were sixteen that year, right? Isn’t riding a motorcycle illegal for minors?” Yan Qing asked.
“And what, you think I’d magically know how to ride a bike the day I turned eighteen?” Ding Qi shot back. “Relax, this was on a private track owned by my uncle. Totally safe. I wouldn’t ride on public roads without a license—I’m a law-abiding citizen.”
Whether he was actually law-abiding was up for debate. What Yan Qing could see, though, was Ding Qi’s genuine love for motorcycles.
Staring at the photo for a long moment, Yan Qing pointed at one of the boys. “These your friends? Who’s this one?”
The group’s camaraderie was obvious from the photo. But while the other three dressed sharply, the boy Yan Qing pointed out wore a simple T-shirt and black pants. Tall and lean, his face was calm and emotionless, exuding an air of detachment.
To be honest, he didn’t seem like the type to run with someone like Ding Qi.
But the boy stood close to Ding Qi, clearly not averse to the proximity.
Ding Qi, munching on passionfruit seeds, replied casually, “That’s Xing Chen.”
Yan Qing’s eyes lit with recognition. “Oh, the single-ear fungal infection guy.”
“C’mon, don’t remind me of that,” Ding Qi groaned, quickly moving on to introduce the others. The four of them had been friends since childhood, with Xing Chen joining the group in high school.
“I specifically asked my uncle to take this photo for us as a keepsake. Everyone got a copy.” Ding Qi smoothed down the transparent plastic cover of the album with great care.
After getting his license, Ding Qi bought his first motorcycle. Over the years, he traveled to many places, often with friends and sometimes alone.
He proudly pointed out all the locations in the photos, enthusiastically recounting the stories behind them.
Eventually, he stood up, announcing, “I’m heading out for a bit.”
Yan Qing stayed on the couch, leisurely eating fruit, watching as Ding Qi dashed up and down, preparing for something with boyish excitement. It was oddly endearing.
That night, Ding Qi didn’t press for much, and they went to bed early.
At 4 a.m., Ding Qi, fully dressed and freshened up, gently shook Yan Qing awake.
Groggy, Yan Qing barely cracked open his eyes and murmured, “Mmm… what is it?”
Propping himself up on the edge of the bed, Ding Qi rested his chin on his hands, eyes sparkling. “Wanna go watch the sunrise?”
Still half-asleep, Yan Qing asked, “Sunrise? Where?”
“Guanlong Mountain. If we leave now, we’ll make it.” Ding Qi’s voice was soft, not pushing or demanding.
“Fine,” Yan Qing relented, dragging himself out of bed to brush his teeth and wash his face.
As he pulled on his clothes, he started waking up enough to think. “That mountain’s thirty kilometers away.”
Ding Qi grinned confidently. “Just a tank of gas.”
For bikers like him, thirty kilometers was nothing—a warm-up, really.
Seated on the back of Ding Qi’s sleek black Kawasaki, Yan Qing clung tightly to his waist, still half-asleep.
He didn’t know why he’d agreed to this—at 4:30 a.m., riding a motorcycle to catch the sunrise felt surreal. But then again, so did everything since meeting Ding Qi.
The ride was smooth and safe, their helmets snug and secure. Yan Qing trusted Ding Qi’s skills, though he couldn’t help but feel his heart race with every sharp turn.
By the time they reached the summit, dawn was breaking. The city below still slumbered as they stood alone atop the small mountain.
“Doesn’t the sunrise look like a salted egg yolk?” Yan Qing quipped, grinning.
“What a plain description!” Ding Qi laughed, offering to bring Fu Qi next time.
Yan Qing smirked and hugged him tighter, feeling the warmth of the rising sun.
