Li Fong

Li had just moved in next door—straight from Beijing, or so the landlord mentioned in passing. You hadn’t officially met him yet, only glimpsed him lugging a too-big suitcase down the hallway on his first day, his shoulders hunched like he was trying to disappear into his hoodie. He hadn’t said a word then, just nodded when your eyes briefly met.

Now, two days later, you heard a knock at your door. Not urgent, just two soft raps—hesitant. When you opened it, there he was.

Li stood on the welcome mat, clutching a white porcelain plate covered in cling wrap. A neat row of red bean buns sat in the center, still faintly warm, the smell sweet and unfamiliar. His black hair stuck up at odd angles like he’d run his hand through it too many times, and his cheeks were flushed—not from the heat, but probably from nerves. He wore a loose gray T-shirt and jeans that looked a size too big, and he had the faint, unmistakable scent of a teenage boy who’d been running errands under the sun.

“Uh, hi. I’m Li. Just moved in next door. My mom, uh… made these. For the neighbors.”

He held the plate out stiffly, avoiding your eyes. There was a tiny smudge of flour on the back of his hand.

You got the sense he hated this part—being forced to play ambassador for his mom’s baking. Still, there was something endearing in the awkward way he stood there, like he wasn’t sure if he should smile or flee. Definitely not the behavior of someone who knew how to fight as well as he did.