It was like tasting a snow-topped coffee in winter—chill and frosty at first, the scent seeped into the lungs without warning. It left a bitter tinge at first, but after a while, it transformed mysteriously into something subtly sweet, like cool boiled water with a lingering aftertaste that only surfaced much later.
Chi Zhan sat on the sofa, bathed in the warm, gentle glow of twilight. The light wasn’t harsh, just soft and comforting. Without realizing it, he leaned on his palm and drifted off to sleep.
Some faint noise stirred him from his light slumber. But as he opened his eyes, something felt off. Darkness. The room was pitch-black—the amber sunset outside had faded into a deep indigo.
His eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the dark when he heard footsteps again.
“…Seven?” Chi Zhan called uncertainly.
A soft hum responded in the dark. Chi Zhan exhaled in relief.
“You’re only just getting back?”
Qi Song didn’t answer. Chi Zhan frowned. Why wasn’t he turning on the lights?
Just then, Chi Zhan’s hand found a switch beside him. He was about to press it when his wrist was suddenly held down. Qi Song’s fingers were cold, damp with moisture, and he carried the scent of wet rain.
In that moment, Chi Zhan realized—those drizzling sounds he’d heard in his dream weren’t imagined. It was raining outside.
A single droplet landed on the back of Chi Zhan’s hand, sending a chill through him. He instinctively curled his fingers.
“You’re soaked. Go change your clothes first.”
“Let’s talk.”
Qi Song didn’t seem to have heard him. He lowered his gaze, eyes locking onto Chi Zhan’s face. It should have been a dangerous look, but the weight of the night muted most of its sharpness.
Chi Zhan paused.
He had intended to clear things up with Qi Song anyway—but he hadn’t expected Qi Song to be the one to initiate.
He drew in a deep breath. He was far more nervous than he’d expected. But this was something that had to be said—otherwise, it would be unfair to both Qi Song and Zhou Yanxing.
“I did agree to it,” Chi Zhan admitted, his voice trembling slightly. But he quickly steadied himself. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner.”
Qi Song didn’t tighten his grip. He simply kept Chi Zhan from turning on the light, calmly holding onto him as if that were the only thing he could control.
After what felt like an eternity, Qi Song asked:
“So everything we had before—none of it counts anymore?” His tone was light. Though phrased as a question, it sounded like a statement. “You want to break up with me.”
“There was never really anything between us. The one who was with you before—that wasn’t me. I don’t remember any of it.”
It was like inheriting a discarded game account. He logged in only to find that not only did he have a ‘husband,’ but this man was deeply, hopelessly in love with him.
“Not you,” Qi Song repeated. “Then who was it?”
“…I don’t know.”
He’d tried to figure it out, even searched for answers. But his memory was a total blank, as though someone had hit a hard delete—gone even from the recycling bin. As far as he was concerned, Qi Song was just a gaming idol he admired—not a lover.
Qi Song must have suffered a lot. All those years waiting, and now that he’d found him again, he was forced to play along with this “pretend boyfriend” charade, always suppressing his true feelings.
In the thick silence of the night, Qi Song’s face was unreadable. His usual cold mask now seemed to smolder with restrained fury—but if you looked closer, it was less fire than ice. Ice buried deep beneath a snowy mountain—so cold that even a light touch would leave frostbite.
Chi Zhan couldn’t bear to look any longer.
“…Let’s leave it at that,” he said softly. “Someday, you’ll meet the right person. I hope you’ll be happy.”
From his coat pocket, he pulled out the small box of ointment.
“This will help with the cut on your face. Apply it twice a day—it’ll heal fast.”
He held it out, but Qi Song didn’t take it.
Silence engulfed them like a wall.
I should’ve seen this coming. Who wouldn’t be upset in this situation?
But Qi Song’s anger was always cold—one that froze others and himself alike.
Chi Zhan gently twisted his wrist.
“I won’t bother you anymore.”
But the next second, Qi Song moved—and must have triggered something, because the back of the sofa suddenly reclined. Chi Zhan lost balance and fell backward.
The sofa was so plush that falling into it felt like sinking into clouds. Soft, all around—but with one glaring flaw: once you were down, it was nearly impossible to get back up.
“You want to end things like this?” Qi Song said coolly. “I refuse. You were the one who came on to me first. Now you want to back out? Too late.”
***
The box of ointment hit the floor with a soft thud. Neither of them picked it up.
Outside, the rain intensified. Fat droplets pelted the window, bursting into tiny sprays. The air inside grew thick with humidity. With a loud whoosh, the not-quite-closed window was blown open by the wind, and a sharp gust of cold air swept into the room.
Chi Zhan lay half-sunken into the sofa. Qi Song loomed above him, looking down. He didn’t move closer—there was still space between them.
Qi Song was still dressed in his formal outfit from the meeting: a crisp white shirt with every button fastened, layered beneath a black suit jacket that made his skin look even paler. The change in attire gave him an unfamiliar edge—his whole presence now carried the chill of fresh snow.
The moonlight happened to fall across his face, and Chi Zhan noticed the red scratch across his cheek. It looked more serious than he’d thought, and Qi Song clearly hadn’t treated it—just left it alone like it didn’t matter.
Qi Song’s eyes were dark, fathomless. Not a hint of light broke through. Staring at Chi Zhan, they seemed to hold the fury of a stormy sea—or perhaps its stillness. His emotions shimmered in every droplet, but none of them showed their true shape.
