By the time the car pulled up downstairs, Xia Ran was barely holding on.
The moment the car door opened, the night wind rushed in carrying the dampness after the rain. She felt as if she’d been drained of all strength, her legs so weak she could barely stand.
“We’re here…” she mumbled, bracing herself against the door to get up, but her body swayed involuntarily.
When Fu Sinian came around from the other side, he happened to see her sliding down against the car door.
He closed the distance in three quick strides and caught her around the waist.
“Xia Ran.”
She leaned against his chest, her forehead resting on his shoulder, eyes half-open, half-closed, fine traces of tears clinging to her lashes. Her face was as pale as paper, not a trace of color on her lips, her breathing rapid and shallow—that bastard had made her down three glasses of baijiu, and he hadn’t expected the proof to be so high. She usually only drank a little.
“I’m fine…” she muttered, pushing at him. Her palm pressed flat against his chest, limp and weak, without any strength behind it. “I can walk on my own…”
Fu Sinian said nothing.
He looked down at the person in his arms—she’d lost too much weight. Her shoulder bones pressed hard against his arm, her whole body so light it felt weightless. A few strands of hair had come loose, sticking to her sweat-dampened forehead. Her white shirt was wrinkled into a mess, and paint from her sleeve had smeared onto his overcoat.
One arm around her waist, he slid the other under the bend of her knees, and with a single motion, lifted her into his arms.
“Hey—” Xia Ran startled, instinctively wrapping her arms around his neck. Her eyes finally opened a little wider, still unfocused, but she recognized the face before her. Light fell from above, casting handsome shadows across his brow and the bridge of his nose. His jawline was set tight, and his Adam’s apple moved slightly as he swallowed.
“Fu Sinian…”
“Mm.”
“Put me down… I can walk by myself…”
“No.”
He said those two words in a calm tone, like stating an indisputable fact. He turned and carried her toward the entrance of the building, his steps steady, each one planted firmly, as if afraid of jostling her.
Shen Che poked his head out from the passenger seat, took one look, and silently closed the car door.
Fu Sinian didn’t even turn around. “Park the car and wait downstairs.”
“Yes, President Fu.”
Xia Ran’s face pressed into the hollow of his neck. She could smell the faint scent of cedar on him, mixed with a hint of cigarette smoke—when had he started smoking? He never used to.
The fabric of his overcoat brushed against her cheek, cool to the touch, but underneath the coat, he was warm.
Her consciousness drifted in and out on the alcohol, but in this moment, she was clear-headed.
Clear-headed enough to know she was in his arms, clear-headed enough to hear his footsteps climbing the stairs, clear-headed enough to feel the hand supporting her back—fingers slightly spread, palm burning hot, pressed against either side of her spine through the thin layer of fabric.
Third floor. She murmured at the stairwell landing: “We’re here.”
“Which door?”
“302… the one on the left… the green door.”
Fu Sinian walked over and stopped in front of her door. He didn’t put her down. Instead, he shifted her weight to one arm and reached out with the other: “Keys?”
Xia Ran fumbled at her pockets in a daze but couldn’t find them. Fu Sinian’s arm tightened around her, afraid she’d struggle free and fall.
He lowered his head slightly, his chin almost brushing her forehead, and his voice dropped: “Which pocket?”
“…The right one,” she mumbled.
He slipped his hand into the right pocket of her coat and found a set of keys. As he pulled them out, his fingertips inadvertently brushed against her waist. He paused for a moment, then quickly withdrew his hand, but no extra expression crossed his face.
The door opened.
Lit by the streetlight filtering in through the window, he took in the room.
A single bed, pushed against the wall, covered with a light gray sheet. Design drafts and markers piled on the desk. The laptop screen still glowing.
A pair of slippers on the floor. Cardboard boxes stacked in the corner. A pot of nearly dead pothos on the windowsill.
He set her down gently on the bed, moving slowly, bending at the waist, lowering her inch by inch, like handling something fragile.
When her back touched the mattress, only then did he slowly slide his hand out from under her head.
Xia Ran sank into the pillow, her eyelids heavy and drooping, then forced them open again to look at him.
He stood by the bed, his overcoat still on, backlit by the light from the window, his silhouette outlined in a dark edge.
He was looking down at her, his gaze so light—light enough to fear disturbing something—but what it carried was too heavy. So heavy he couldn’t bear it himself, which was why his lips were pressed into a thin line and his jaw was clenched tight.
“You…” Xia Ran’s voice was barely a whisper, as if coming from somewhere far away. “How did you know I lived here…”
Fu Sinian didn’t answer.
He bent down, picked up the blanket folded at the foot of the bed, unfolded it, and draped it over her.
He tucked the corner of the blanket carefully under her shoulder, the motion clumsy but meticulous, like a man who had never covered anyone with a blanket in his life.
“Sleep,” he said.
His voice was very low, so low it seemed to be squeezed out from deep in his chest.
He straightened up, intending to go to the kitchen to see if there was any hot water. Just as he turned around, the hem of his coat was tugged.
He looked down.
Xia Ran’s hand reached out from under the blanket, a few fingers clutching the hem of his coat, gripping tightly, her knuckles turning white.
Her eyes were closed, her lashes trembling slightly, her breathing shallow and rapid, and she mumbled something unintelligible.
He didn’t catch it, so he leaned down to listen.
“…Don’t go.”
Two words.
Like a drowning person crying for help.
Fu Sinian closed his eyes in the darkness.
He remained in his bent-over position, motionless, like a statue.
After a moment, he slowly, slowly sat down, on the floor by the bedside, his back against the edge of the bed.
The hem of his coat was still in her hand; he didn’t pull away, nor did he move.
He tilted his head, resting the back of it against the edge of the mattress, the water stains on the ceiling looking like an abstract painting in the dim light.
Her breathing gradually became even.
His hand hung at his side, his fingertips almost touching her fingers. But they didn’t touch.
In this cramped rental room, there were only the sounds of two people breathing—one deep, one shallow, one fast, one slow—like two rivers that, after a long separation, finally converged in this small hollow.
After who knows how long, Fu Sinian felt the fingers clutching the hem of his coat slowly loosen, one by one.
She was completely asleep.
He slowly raised his head and turned sideways to look at her. The blanket had slipped down a little, revealing her shoulder.
He reached out and pulled the blanket up, his movements extremely gentle and slow, but his fingertips accidentally brushed against her cheek.
Cold.
And there were traces of tears.
He didn’t withdraw his hand.
His fingertip lingered for a moment on her cheekbone, feeling the warmth of her skin, before slowly, inch by inch, pulling back.
Fu Sinian held her and said something in her ear.
His voice was very low, so low that only she could hear it.
“Xia Ran, I will never let you go again.”
He paused.
“Forever.”
He took out his phone from his pocket and sent a message to Shen Che:
“You go back first. At seven tomorrow morning, bring a breakfast. Millet porridge, no sugar.”
“Notify everyone, tomorrow afternoon’s meeting is moved up to eight in the morning.”
Shen Che replied instantly: “Got it.”
Fu Sinian placed his phone face-down on the floor, leaned back against the edge of the bed, and closed his eyes.