Chapter 5

Hot.
孟頔 was hot.
Chen Xian felt it clearly—on the hottest night on record, his arms, his chest, his breath at her ear. She sank into it, from the outside in.
The pull of skin to skin peaked in seconds. She couldn’t help it: she wrapped her arms around 孟頔.
The circle of light from her phone shrank, then rested against his back.
Everything went dark. Only their breathing was left, rising and falling.
孟頔 held her tighter.
The hug became something else.
In the dark they redefined "a moment" without a word—"a moment" turned burning and long.
Did two bodies add up to eighty degrees?
Back in the rental, Chen Xian had no idea how they’d let go or how she’d opened the door. She only knew she had to stop in the entryway. The world was a mess; her heart was about to punch its way out.
Her legs had gone numb. She could barely walk.
Like tea or wine, there was a lingering sweetness. She was still savoring it.
She stood there for a full minute.
She let out a breath, took her phone, and wrote to 孟頔: Thanks. You gone?—as if she could fool herself.
Thanks for what? For him holding her? For getting what she wanted, another line to check off the list?
Send.
A WeChat ping sounded outside the door, sharp in the quiet corridor.
Chen Xian bit her lip and smiled.
He was still there. He hadn’t left. She’d caught him.
But he replied at once: In a sec.
He wasn’t lying.
She pressed her ear to the door. He unlocked his, then closed it softly.
Chen Xian couldn’t stop smiling. She changed into slippers, walked to the sofa, and messaged him: You didn’t leave?
孟頔 was direct: I stood outside for a bit.
Chen Xian collapsed onto the couch, laughing: Why?
孟頔 said: Thinking about the hug.
He added: And you.
Chen Xian almost slid off.
Was he that blunt, or was he a pro who only played at being blunt?
Chen Xian started parsing. His word order was tricky: "the embrace and you" or "the embrace with you"—same words, different meaning. Was she the main thing or an add-on?
She asked straight out: Were you thinking about hugging me, or me and the hug?
孟頔 seemed lost: What’s the difference?
Chen Xian: Chicken or egg. Did the hug happen because of me, or did I matter because of the hug?
Plenty of people catch feelings from touch. But she wanted tonight’s overstepping to have come from the heart.
This time he got it: The first.
Chen Xian was satisfied. She had her answer: she was the cause.
What about her? When she’d wanted to hold him—was it because it was him, or because she’d needed to hold someone?
She took that into the shower. Fresh and relaxed in bed, she turned on the projector, put on a well-rated film as background, and saw 孟頔 had sent another message.
He said: First time I’ve held a girl.
Chen Xian was surprised. She didn’t say if she believed him, just joked: You only hugged guys before?
孟頔: …
Chen Xian laughed and corrected: Okay, I get it. So that’s why you kept your distance during the day.
孟頔: There’s a reason. Professional habit.
Chen Xian guessed: You’re a photographer?
孟頔: No. I draw.
Wow. Chen Xian didn’t know how to react. She’d never met anyone in that world: A painter?
孟頔 stuck to the same words: Just drawing.
Too humble or too casual—Chen Xian needled: That’s way too vague. I draw stick figures and that’s also "drawing."
孟頔 gave her something concrete: Illustrator.
Her first move was to check his Moments. She’d looked last night. Same as before: three-day visibility, nothing there. His profile was practically a black box.
She had to ask: For magazines?
孟頔: Picture books. Sometimes book covers.
Chen Xian opened Taobao and searched 绘本. The range was huge—mostly children’s books, each style its own. Some series sold in the millions; others were niche. All of it cute.
She sent a screenshot: This kind?
孟頔: Yeah, something like that.
Chen Xian went quiet.
孟頔 had changed in her eyes.
Illustrators, writers, musicians—roles that smack of artistic talent get a certain glow from the work, even when the person, in daily life, is no different from anyone else.
A halo shows up; it also pulls you apart.
One person meets another—that’s a story you can tell.
One person meets an illustrator—that’s a movie.
Strange. And suddenly sobering, like waking from a dream.
Chen Xian said: So you’re that good.
孟頔: No. I’m not. None of the books in your screenshot are mine.
Chen Xian: Are you in Jiangcheng for reference? For your work?
She wanted to unsend it as soon as it went. What a bland, stereotyped question. Maybe he was here to unwind, like her.
孟頔: No. I have a solo show here.
Chen Xian: "…"
I’m not that good.
I have a solo show here.
Peak 凡尔赛.
Chen Xian said: I have an important mission here: help 孟老师 get the tea he wants.
孟頔 was probably smiling: Don’t.
Chen Xian: I’m a bit thrown, to be honest.
She added: I know it’s a bit 贼喊捉贼. You answered, I asked—nothing wrong with that. But I really am thrown.
孟頔 said he could tell.
Chen Xian, mixed up: Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.
The unease kept piling up. She could get excited about winning eighty-eight yuan on a scratch card, but a windfall of a million would feel like too much. Not that she thought she didn’t deserve it—the story she had in her head had just turned into something else.
She tried to say it clearly: What I mean is, to me right now, Chen Xian is still Chen Xian, but 孟頔 isn’t 孟頔 anymore.
The chat went quiet.
It sounded harsh. Harsh enough to hurt. She could feel it—they’d just been close, and now her words were pushing him away.
She stressed one part, hoping to soften it: Just to me.
孟頔 still didn’t reply.
A few minutes later he sent a link: a solo exhibition notice from a 公众号. The title was 「浪。花。」 A small painting was used as the banner—vivid flowers, watercolor, likely his.
He asked: Do you want to come?
And: Tomorrow.
Chen Xian was silent for a moment: Do you think I should?
孟頔: I think you should.
He said: After you see it, you’ll take it back. Chen Xian is Chen Xian, and 孟頔 is still 孟頔.