Nezha’s body temperature was naturally higher than most people’s. Shuanglian’s body temperature ran low, and she feared the heat.
When they were children following Shuanglian up the mountain, the two little dumplings climbed the rugged mountain path, wobbling and stumbling along the way.
Shuanglian knew the road well and walked ahead, reaching out a hand to Nezha, straining to pull him up.
Back in her hometown, she was timid, unable to play with the village children. During holidays she’d always be alone in a corner, occasionally exchanging a few words with someone.
Fortunately, this year she could huddle together with Nezha. Nezha wasn’t a well-liked child either, so the two little loners played together.
Summer nights, the mosquito coil smoke rose in thin wisps, so fine they were scattered by the wind.
They lay sleeping on the lounge chair. Shuanglian feared the heat, so Nezha held a fan in both hands, looking anything but spirited, clumsily fanning her.
Fanning and fanning, Nezha’s head slowly drooped lower. The lounge chair could just barely fit two small children—a bit cramped.
It was just right for Nezha, who liked the cool Shuanglian, draping hands and legs all over her. In childhood, on dim, overcast days, their sweaty bodies clung together, sleeping curled up in a ball.
When they grew up, Shuanglian still preferred the cool. The air conditioning in Nezha’s room was set low enough that others would sneeze a couple of times. She thought it was just right, since Nezha’s body ran hot.
Nezha lowered the arm shielding his eyes. Shuanglian was sitting up high.
She learned things a bit slowly. The one her beloved had picked out, the thing was also picked out, but it wasn’t easy to use.
The arrow was nocked on the string. Nezha couldn’t let her flee before battle, so he reached out his hand. Shuanglian’s gaze followed, then lowered her head.
Nezha’s fingers often held a pen—there was no helping it. Those high school years, he had to work hard to learn things. Otherwise, the academic credentials of Shuanglian’s future husband would be truly embarrassing.
Nezha always bought black pens, which made his knuckles look even whiter, even more slender. He’d worked through countless practice sets, using up one ink refill after another.
During their school days, Nezha had long known that Shuanglian harbored lustful thoughts, liking to watch his hands. Wherever his hands moved, her brown-black eyes would roll along, following.
Shuanglian was easy to fool—just a crook of the finger and she’d come. But now she couldn’t hold the pen properly, squeezing it, fingers pressing with neither light nor heavy force, knuckles straining, pressing down.
She was born fair-skinned, usually wrapped up in layers, hidden away. Nothing like his hands, exposed to wind and sun every day.
In comparison, her fingers’ color wasn’t quite as white, while her skin was a shade lighter, like the color of a white glutinous rice ball.
Nezha was irreverent, lying there like an immortal, playing with her without any manners.
Her home. The owner could have a bit more—that was only right.
Nezha openly stared at Shuanglian. Shuanglian was shy, not even daring to look at her owner’s face, nor daring to pull away. Her eyelashes trembled like butterfly wings, white lamplight draped over her shoulders, black shirt slipping loose around her arms.
Nezha understood.
Clearly afraid inside, yet with nowhere to hide, she put on a posture of wholehearted trust, trembling as she delivered herself to his doorstep, wanting to burrow into his embrace, making herself seem like a kind-hearted immortal.
Speaking of immortals, one couldn’t help but mention Nezha’s birth. Before his mother went into labor, she dreamed of an old Daoist.
The old Daoist tossed her a pearl. The next day, Nezha was born, filling the room with fragrance and a glow of red light.
The Daoists at the temple said Nezha was an immortal reincarnated. His father didn’t believe it, thinking he’d spawned a monstrous bastard. Thus, the father-son bond between Nezha and Li Jing didn’t last many days, growing thinner and thinner.
The Daoists said he was a divine child reincarnated; Li Jing said he was a heretical bastard.
And what did she think? Shuanglian.
Nezha lifted his eyelids. She was timid as a mouse, trembling like a mouse that had spotted a lazy cat. Shuanglian wobbled as she turned to get down, but had only turned halfway, revealing half her back.
Nezha: “Sister, where are you going? Not taking me along?”
She paused, hesitated again, then turned back, her fingernails gripping his arm.
Nezha exhaled hot breath. Any mortal body would feel pain. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he watched Shuanglian amid the lotus fragrance filling the room.
She was even more uncomfortable, long hair scattered over her shoulders, teeth biting her lower lip. The room was quiet, and Shuanglian’s breathing was clearly audible, trickling faintly into his ears, soft and powerless, her pure black hair swaying.
Nezha couldn’t take his eyes off her. He tilted his head back, eyelashes fluttering—the immortal was about to return to the heavenly court.
Closing his eyes, savoring it: “…So good.”
Nezha opened his eyes. Shuanglian was silent.
“Baby,” Nezha said, “Did you hear me? I feel so good.”
“…I—I heard.”
Shuanglian was about to fall off at any moment. Nezha had no choice but to hold her steady. Instead of being grateful, she buried her face in the crook of his neck with a whimper, acting spoiled. “Nezha, Nezha… wuu…”
Nezha had no choice but to hold her and soothe her. Shuanglian was in his arms, lifting her head. Nezha stared at her bitten lips and couldn’t help but lean in to kiss her.
Lips pressed against lips, then the tip of the tongue. Their first kiss was on the night after the college entrance exam ended. Nezha, who had moved houses, sent a message late at night. Shuanglian found an excuse to go out—”to buy something.”
The second kiss, Nezha kissed deeply, his heart brimming with affection, pressing her back down again.
Nezha couldn’t hide his wild side. The bed let out a sound from the sudden impact, as if electrified. One hand pressed down on her waist, pinning her firmly.
Nezha was young, prone to impulsiveness. Especially in hot weather. It hadn’t rained for days, and the sky had accumulated so much water that it finally poured down in a torrent.
Nezha: “So much water stored up—there’s going to be a flood.”
The rain fell, and the temperature dropped further.
Nezha’s jet-black hair brushed against Shuanglian’s neck as he licked and nibbled like a dog. He loved being close, and having gotten his way today, his words turned sweet again. He smiled: “Good sister, good sister, call Nezha’s name twice, let me hear it.”
She wouldn’t call. Then he would. Shuanglian reached out to cover his mouth, but Nezha parted her fingers instead, interlacing them with his own.
In childhood, the first hand-holding had been normal. A child takes my hand, I take theirs. The restless Nezha walked ahead, Shuanglian pulled along behind.
Later, Nezha felt that kind of holding wasn’t enough. Shuanglian thought Nezha was making trouble out of nothing, hands on her hips, arguing with him. The young Nezha was full of sweet talk, coaxing her even as he pulled her hand over, carefully parting her fingers, interlacing them.
Little Nezha was proud—he’d learned interlocked fingers from watching TV, and mastered it in one go. Shuanglian couldn’t shake his hand off no matter how she tried, her little face scrunched up, but she never mentioned letting go, letting herself be dragged everywhere.
Over a decade later, Nezha had grown tall, his hand a full size larger than hers. The knuckles he forced between her fingers were bigger too, prying her fingers apart into gaps that wouldn’t close.
The clinginess had gone on a bit long. It was broad daylight now, and Shuanglian’s mind was hazy. She vaguely heard the sound of the door opening downstairs in the middle level.
Auntie Yuan had come back early. Both of their hearts tightened. Nezha quickly steadied his breathing as Shuanglian pushed him: “Go lock the door.”
Nezha refused to let go. He lifted her up, barefoot, and walked over to lock the door.
So full of mischief. Shuanglian buried her face in his chest.
When Auntie saw the schoolbag on the first-floor sofa, she knew Shuanglian had come over to play with Nezha.
The two little ones had stayed unusually long today. She cooked the meal and called out for Li Nezha. After a long pause, Nezha’s voice came, groggy: “No need.”
Auntie sighed inwardly—young people didn’t take their health seriously. Playing so much they’d even skip a meal.
Auntie muttered to herself and went back downstairs.
Inside the room, Nezha held her tightly, already drowsy. Shuanglian closed her eyes in exhaustion, suddenly remembering how the two of them used to cling together as children, sleeping on the lounge chair by the door.
Now she and Nezha had their legs tangled together, hands locked, body and soul fused into one. Shuanglian shifted toward the other side of the bed, and the half-asleep Nezha followed right after, wrapping his arms around her waist, whining discontentedly: “…Don’t go… I like you.”
Long after they started dating, Shuanglian discovered that the lotus fragrance wasn’t from Nezha’s body wash—he carried a natural scent.
After spending time with him, her own body would carry that faint fragrance too. Whenever he wasn’t by her side, when Shuanglian was with other people, the subtle lotus scent would linger at the tip of her nose, reminding her of Nezha’s presence.
After college graduation, both sets of parents were supportive of their relationship, but Nezha’s parents always worried whether it would last, and they’d gently hint at it to Shuanglian.
The moment the words of caution left their mouths, Nezha appeared from the second floor like a ghost, calling down to his parents on the sofa: “Having a chat with Shuanglian?”
Shuanglian, on the other end of the sofa, waved at Nezha: “Nezha, you’ve changed clothes.”
Li Jing faltered and said no more.
After dinner, Shuanglian and Nezha returned to their room.
Nezha came out after his shower and saw Shuanglian wearing a nightgown, one leg bent, bare foot pressing into the dark bedsheets.
She wore a nightgown printed with strawberries—not short, covering just past her hips. But now with her leg raised, the hem rode up a few inches higher, revealing something even cuter underneath.
“Uncle and Auntie have fiery tempers, bad moods, like little kids—their enthusiasm comes fast and goes fast. They told me to be careful.” She squeezed out some milky-white body lotion and smoothed it evenly over her calf.
Nezha’s eyes followed her fingertips as they moved. Her legs were fair and slender—one hand could circle her ankle, and they’d fit perfectly over his shoulders.
Nezha’s mind wandered as he approached: “What do you mean?”
Shuanglian: “They’re afraid of trouble, not sure if this can last.”
Nezha took the little bottle from her hand, seeing she wanted help applying it.
“Sister,” he said, understanding only half of what she’d said, his eyes and mind entirely on Shuanglian. At this moment, Nezha opened his beautiful eyes and asked with utter sincerity, “Am I here?
“Am I not long-lasting and enduring?”