After that awkward “misunderstanding,” Chi Qing stood facing the door behind Xie Lin, desperately wanting to open it and step out to cool off alone for a while.
Thinking back on everything he had done and said throughout the day, his scalp prickled.
What had he said? What had he done?
…
However, Xie Lin didn’t give him that chance. Sensing his intention, Xie Lin’s grip on his wrist tightened just a fraction more.
“Busy at Honghai for nearly ten hours—couldn’t get close to you, couldn’t hold your hand, couldn’t hug you, and definitely couldn’t kiss you.” Sensing Chi Qing’s distress, Xie Lin leaned down, resting his chin on the other man’s shoulder. He avoided eye contact to give Chi Qing a bit of space, yet chose a method of interaction far more intimate.
His warm breath brushed against Chi Qing’s neck as he spoke.
“…You thought you were the only one watching me? I couldn’t help but look at you, too.”
“Watching you put on your gloves, watching you talk to that police officer about who-knows-what.”
Xie Lin hadn’t originally intended to truly hold it against him, but since he’d brought it up, he couldn’t let it go without being a little petty; otherwise, he’d seem too easygoing. “Speaking of which, I haven’t even asked you: what were you two chatting about?”
He assumed Chi Qing would brush him off with a simple “I forgot.”
However, Chi Qing paused only slightly.
“We were talking about you.”
This time, it was Xie Lin who was left stunned.
Chi Qing had taken off his gloves earlier to input the door code. Xie Lin pressed his hand—the one that had been hanging by his side—against Chi Qing’s. It had become their tacit, non-verbal dialogue.
[Can I kiss you?]
[Sorry, I couldn’t hold back anymore.]
[If you don’t say anything, I’ll take it as a yes.]
Every other sound in the world vanished the moment Xie Lin touched his hand; all Chi Qing could hear was Xie Lin’s ambiguous, low, and raspy voice.
The entryway remained dark.
But Chi Qing had excellent night vision. In this familiar darkness, he felt the man’s warm breath shift a few inches, moving from the side of his neck further inward, landing perfectly on his exposed, pale skin.
There was a pause of a few seconds, as if waiting for approval.
Chi Qing remained silent, and then, a searing warmth followed.
Maintaining his posture with his face buried in the crook of the man’s neck, Xie Lin tilted his head and slowly traced the smooth line of Chi Qing’s throat upward.
His distorted voice let out a low sigh: […Do you people with mysophobia always smell this clean?]
He didn’t mean “fragrant” in the sense of perfume, but the crisp, clean scent of soap lingering on his clothes.
Xie Lin moved upward until he touched Chi Qing’s reddened earlobe. He lingered there for a moment before his hanging hand left Chi Qing’s, moved up, and gripped the man’s chin.
The collar of Chi Qing’s sweater hadn’t been very wide, but after being rubbed back and forth by Xie Lin, it had slipped to one side, revealing a slender, blindingly white collarbone. Xie Lin felt a strange, wicked sense of satisfaction: someone who never let anyone get close was now completely at his mercy.
“Tell me if you can’t take it,” Xie Lin said, still worried about his condition. “I’ll stop.”
Although Chi Qing didn’t reject him, the trauma of so many years couldn’t be erased overnight. For example, sometimes when Xie Lin went to wake him in the morning, before Chi Qing realized who it was, he would stiffen and pull the blanket up as a barrier.
Chi Qing had read more people in his life than most people had eaten meals; he knew better than anyone that a man’s mouth was full of deceit: “Would you actually stop if I asked?”
Xie Lin: “I’ll try my best.”
“…If you can’t stop, don’t blame me. It’ll be your fault.”
With that, Xie Lin squeezed Chi Qing’s chin and kissed him.
This was their first real kiss since they started dating; the clumsy, rigid attempt on the day of their confession didn’t count.
Xie Lin’s kissing technique didn’t betray his handsome face. Though it was still a bit of a trial-and-error process—probing carefully so as not to startle the other—once he confirmed that Chi Qing felt no discomfort, he slowly deepened the kiss.
Their breathing gradually became entangled.
Xie Lin pulled his hand away from Chi Qing’s chin, covering his eyes, and whispered breathlessly: “Close your eyes.”
Chi Qing had been able to make out the silhouettes of the entryway furniture thanks to his good night vision, but now, everything disappeared into total darkness.
All his senses were concentrated in one place.
Chi Qing discovered that kissing was a bit like mind-reading; both could transport you to another world. The real world silently dissolved into the invisible darkness before his eyes.
It was unclear who initiated the move, but by the time Chi Qing regained his senses, they had shifted to the sofa. Xie Lin’s palm rested on Chi Qing’s waist, then slid inward.
…
Chi Qing went completely rigid under the touch of Xie Lin’s burning fingertips.
Xie Lin sensed that the person beneath him had reached his limit.
Chi Qing’s knuckles curled, gripping the sagging sofa cover: “I…”
He possibly, for the time being, could not accept any further intimacy.
“I know,” Xie Lin said, pulling his hand back. “We’ll take it slow.”
Although Xie Lin’s words were calm, in reality, Chi Qing only needed to press his hand against Xie Lin’s to read that he was far from as calm as he pretended to be.
Xie Lin summoned every ounce of his patience, thinking to himself that even when he’d had some truly unlawful thoughts in the past, he’d never found it this hard to control himself.
After a deep breath, Xie Lin tugged the hem of Chi Qing’s sweater back down and praised him: “My boyfriend with mysophobia is making progress.”
After returning, Chi Qing took a shower, yet the water couldn’t wash away the abnormal temperature remaining on his skin. After the water stopped, he looked through the mist and saw a mark on the corner of his mouth that looked like a tooth print.
His phone vibrated twice.
It was a “Good night.”
Chi Qing had always been a sound sleeper, but tonight, he couldn’t fall asleep at the usual time.
He closed his eyes, opened them ten minutes later, and reached for the phone on his nightstand. For the first time ever, he scrolled through his social media feed.
The content in his feed was incredibly varied.
Ji Mingrui: [Forwarded] Large reward offered! A suspect robbed someone with a knife months ago and is currently on the run. If anyone has seen this man…
And his former manager.
The manager’s filming was going smoothly, and he was advertising himself in his feed: “Third Uncle is online! Hurry up and watch the show!”
Even though the “Third Uncle” this manager played was a middle-aged man with a glued-on mustache.
Chi Qing casually liked He Sen’s post.
He Sen was shocked and quickly sent a message: Did you slip and hit like by mistake?
Although he had been Chi Qing’s manager, Chi Qing had always been as quiet as the grave, to say nothing of the fact that they were no longer affiliated. It was a miracle that he was still in Chi Qing’s contacts.
Chi Qing: I am in good health.
Usually, Chi Qing would stop replying after a sentence like that. Perhaps because he’d been around Xie Lin so much lately, he subconsciously added another sentence: Why are you still awake so late?
Chi Qing: “…”
After sending that sentence, which was heavily flavored with Xie Lin’s personality, he fell into deep thought.
What business is it of mine?
Why did I ask?
Was there any need for that sentence to exist?
He Sen also noticed the difference in tone and replied uncomfortably: Uh… ah… yeah, I’m, you know, shooting a night scene and getting into character.
But he thought to himself that explaining “getting into character” to Chi Qing was pointless.
Every time they discussed a script, he would be driven mad by Chi Qing.
Unexpectedly, Chi Qing didn’t say anything this time, but instead remarked: The roles I tried in the past… I really shouldn’t have played them that way.
In the past, when discussing scripts, he always liked to ask “why.”
Why does this person have to cry? Why do they have to laugh?
Now he knew that emotional matters couldn’t be reasoned with. Just like today—because of jealousy, he liked Xie Lin, yet he also “disliked” him.
The investigation into the Honghai case had been going on for two days with no results.
The victims’ overly simple identities had become the difficulty of the case. The police were truly unwilling to cast suspicion on a class of children who were barely teenagers, and they didn’t dare to imagine if the killer was hiding among them.
They had questioned everyone who had intersected with the three victims, but found nothing suspicious.
They all had alibis for the time of the crimes. During the time Wang Yuan was killed in the grove, these students were all packing their bags to go home; no one was roaming the park at dawn, and there was no proof that anyone had stayed in the men’s restroom alone.
On the third day, Chi Qing and his team arrived a little late.
When they reached the school, the students were buried in their books, studying hard.
As they walked toward the end of the corridor, Xie Lin said, “Isn’t this recess? Why is everyone in class, and why is the hallway empty?”
When they first arrived, the school had been as chaotic as a monkey house, with everyone doing everything except studying.
As they passed a classroom window, they saw a student crying while doing a test paper. The crying was quite contagious; he could be sent to Guangyuan to bond with Su Xiaobo and become sworn brothers.
“The rumor going around the school is that there’s a perverted serial killer who only kills poor students,” the accompanying detective said with a headache. “The police have debunked the rumor, but no one believes it.”
The detective pointed into the window: “That one crying while doing the test—he ranked fourth from the bottom last time. He keeps feeling like he’s next. He ran to the office yesterday to confess to the teacher that he shouldn’t have failed to listen in class, saying that learning really can change destiny.”
“…”
They continued their extensive questioning that day. The crime scenes were the places with the most information; walking through the school a few more times might yield new discoveries.
Chi Qing wasn’t good at social work, so he stayed to the side, flipping through data. Starting with the students’ files, he lined up the three victims’ records and discovered a detail that hadn’t been noticed before—they were all in the same class in their freshman year.
On the student file, in the head teacher’s elegant handwriting:
Freshman Year, Class (1).
Three identical “Freshman Year, Class (1)” labels sat side by side.
It was now the second semester of their sophomore year, and the police had naturally started their investigation from the current classes. This former “Freshman Year, Class (1)” hadn’t attracted anyone’s attention—yet.
