Chapter 33 Part 1

Meng Ning first felt a flush of instinctive embarrassment. Then she thought, what was there to be embarrassed about? Wasn’t that exactly what their relationship was for?

Wen Zenian threw herself into it just as much every time. Meng Ning couldn’t put all the blame on her alone.

After saying that, Wen Zenian turned her gaze back to the screen, as if it were just a casual aside amid the movie’s plot.

Once the embarrassment ebbed away, Meng Ning began to ponder the rocks emerging beneath the waves.

Wen Zenian still remembered her allergy to white mushrooms. Wen Zenian remembered those bygone years just as she did. And like her, Wen Zenian never brought them up or asked about them, treating each other as entirely new people.

This left their relationship in a strangely ambiguous state.

Familiar yet distant.

Indulgent yet restrained.

Bursting with desire, yet revealing a poignant tenderness in moments that brushed against the past—a feeling too profound to share with anyone else.

Meng Ning began to feel uneasy.

Too much warmth wasn’t right. Their bond with Wen Zenian should lean more toward lust and less toward emotion.

Wen Zenian let her stew in silence for a moment before speaking again. “When we were doing it today, you didn’t answer my question. Why didn’t you come find me for so many days?”

Meng Ning stared at the old movie flickering across the screen.

Wen Zenian said “doing it” so naturally, as if she fully grasped the essence of their connection.

And Meng Ning was like a snake in Wen Zenian’s palm, her weak spot pinched tight. “That night you came to me during your period—what happened?”

Meng Ning realized she really shouldn’t have stayed in Wen Zenian’s room.

It was humanity’s second original sin—greed.

Now they were watching this old movie with its predictable plot together, like any ordinary couple dissecting their issues. God, it was even more tender than that rainy night kiss last time.

Meng Ning needed to steer their relationship back on track. “What do you think our relationship is?”

She directed the question at the TV screen. Wen Zenian’s slender white wrist propped up her head as she glanced over first. Meng Ning felt Wen Zenian’s gaze, her eyelashes even burning with heat, but she feigned composure, refusing to react.

Following the lead of her long lashes, Wen Zenian looked back at the screen and chuckled softly, quoting the movie title. “Lovers?”

Meng Ning nodded. “So we don’t…”

It wasn’t easy to say the word.

But now that she and Wen Zenian were bedmates, she forced herself to stay calm and continue. “We don’t need to meet when we’re not doing it. Coming to you last time was crossing a line on my part—I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have let me stay in your room tonight either.”

Wen Zenian let out an “Oh,” propping her head as she watched the movie for a bit, falling silent. Meng Ning sneaked a sidelong glance at her. Wen Zenian stared at the screen, the shifting light and shadow playing across her refined features, but she was clearly distracted, her fingers absently rubbing her earlobe.

She was lost in thought.

When her thin lips parted, Meng Ning quickly looked away.

She spoke first. “You’re right. We are lovers.”

It was a label they both accepted.

“But you know I’ve spent years abroad.” Her voice drew out lazily, as if only now savoring the exhaustion from last night’s all-night party and days of nonstop work. “I don’t like the word ‘lovers.'”

“I prefer to say… lover.”

Her tone was indolent and lingering, her tongue flicking lightly against her teeth for that crisp British pronunciation—like a strike straight to the heart.

“Lover” could mean a casual fling or something deeper.

Wen Zenian continued, “Meng Ning, I want to share a dream with you, not just vent my desires on you.”

“Don’t set limits on our time together. Our only boundary is when I finish optimizing Hotel C and leave this timeline.”

She shifted her slim leg, wrapped in sheer stockings, off Meng Ning and leaned gently against her shoulder. “I like doing it with you, and I like just being together like this.”

Even if they did nothing at all.

Meng Ning hesitated, then draped her arm around Wen Zenian’s slender shoulders.

From a third-party view, it would look like two equally tall women intertwined—one with striking, elegant features and legs tucked on the sofa, leaning into the embrace of the other, cooler and more refined woman.

Meng Ning had to admit Wen Zenian was impressive; she’d dispelled her doubts with a single word.

A relationship built solely on sex was too hollow. Humans weren’t driven by desire alone. Without those bedroom entanglements plus a dash of flirtation, longing, and genuine heart-flutters, it was just bland water.

The difference? Dreams always ended.

When the dreamer pulled away from the reverie, it wasn’t the gut-wrenching loss of a real breakup—just a minute or two of transition. They might even wake with a faint smile, then dive right back into reality after freshening up.

It was a sweet deal, no downside.

Wen Zenian’s arms circled Meng Ning’s slim waist, and they held each other as they finished the old movie.

Then Wen Zenian murmured, “I’m sleepy.”

She had every reason to be—up all night partying, working all day.

Meng Ning replied, “Then sleep.”

They each took turns showering and slipped into the soft goose-down bed.

At first, when they’d defined their relationship, Meng Ning had been adamant about not spending the night. But human resolve softened bit by bit.

One thing Wen Zenian said tonight made her feel safe.

“Our only boundary is when I finish optimizing Hotel C and leave this timeline.”

It was a constant reminder: this was a dream, and dreams always ended.

Truth be told, she’d slept twice that day already. Waking from the second nap, a wave of genuine anxiety washed over her. Her sleep had been too deep; who knew how many nights of tossing and turning it would cost her later.

But now she lay on her back, Wen Zenian’s hand resting on her slim waist.

Then that voice, commanding as if shaping a dream, said, “Lights out.”

In Wen Zenian’s Royal Domain, everything obeyed her. All the lights extinguished in an instant.

Meng Ning suddenly asked, “Did you take off your makeup?”

Wen Zenian replied lazily and evasively, “Guess.”

Meng Ning wanted to say sleeping in makeup was bad for the skin, but then she thought: how many more nights would they share a bed?

Another question bubbled up: What about Wen Zenian’s past relationships? Did she skip makeup removal then too, night after night?

She shoved the thought down.

Their agreement was clear: they existed only in this narrow slice of time Wen Zenian had carved out.

In a dream, why worry so much? No talk of the past, no questions about the future. They were each other’s everything.

Far off, a ship gave a low, mournful horn. The bedroom’s gauzy curtains, thin as mist, let in just enough coastal light, carrying the salty sea breeze and the fresh scent of shrubs to adorn their slumber.

Meng Ning felt a flicker of doubt.

She couldn’t tell if the all-night yacht party felt more dreamlike, or if this quiet embrace did.

Despite her earlier anxiety, she wasn’t sleepless. Breathing in Wen Zenian’s scent, she drifted off again.

The next morning, Wen Zenian had already left for work.

A thin gap in the bedroom window let the light-filtering curtains flutter, along with the pale purple bed canopy nearby. The daylight softened into that eternal, ambiguous twilight—time frozen in its most perfect hue.

Meng Ning’s phone buzzed with a text from Qi Xiao: “Safe?”

A pang of guilt hit her. She’d been too lost in hedonism; she should have messaged Qi Xiao sooner to say she was okay.

She replied with an emoji: a cat in a yellow hard hat flashing an OK paw for “safe.”

Another text from Qi Xiao: “Safe?”

Meng Ning thought it odd—was her phone lagging?

Then it hit her: Qi Xiao was asking if she’d passed out from sex again.

Meng Ning: …

Qi Xiao sent a laughing baboon meme and went silent, probably not wanting to interrupt.

There was no interruption anyway. Rested, Meng Ning dove into documentary after documentary.

Birds in dense jungles. Vast jellyfish swarms and right whales.

When Wen Zenian got home from work, night had fallen. Meng Ning sat curled on the sofa, flipping through a poetry collection. Wen Zenian settled beside her. “Anything worth reading aloud to me?”

“Nothing.” Seeing Wen Zenian’s faint fatigue, Meng Ning reached out, massaging the back of her neck lightly.

Wen Zenian hummed in pleasure, and Meng Ning instantly withdrew her hand.

“After all our intimacy, you can’t even stand the sound of my voice?” Wen Zenian teased. “I love hearing yours.”

“Hey.”

Drunk and bewitched by Wen Zenian, her breathy gasps had been muffled, like sobs—meant only for her.

It had felt like release in the moment; bringing it up now flushed her face crimson.

Wen Zenian curved her lips again. “I also love hearing you say ‘doing it.'”

Meng Ning: …

“Shy but pretending to be calm,” Wen Zenian remarked. “Adorable.”

She protested, “Can we not talk about this?”

Wen Zenian graciously agreed. “Sure.”

That night, they just ate pasta, watched documentaries. Wen Zenian asked about the difference between North Atlantic right whales and southern right whales; Meng Ning had seen it in an afternoon doc, so she explained in detail.

By the end, it was past midnight.

In the nights she’d come seeking Wen Zenian, midnight marked the dream’s beginning. On the night she’d say goodbye, it would signal the end.

Wen Zenian stepped onto the balcony. “A bit of breeze, then I’ll let you go.”

Meng Ning joined her. “Aren’t you tired?”

“A little.”

Yet she leaned against the doorframe, so Meng Ning stood beside her, gazing into the night.

A sudden thought: Was Wen Zenian’s job that grueling? The pressure immense?

Wen Zenian glanced at her. “What do you want to ask?”

She shook her head.

She had questions aplenty, but she couldn’t voice them. Otherwise, it’d be like cracking open a long novel or starting a TV series—doomed to unfinished stories and lingering regrets upon leaving.

They needed only to revel in Wen Zenian’s allotted time, at most with companionship.

Wen Zenian leaned against the doorframe. “Do you know why I won’t let you go?”

Meng Ning stayed silent.

“Because I know you,” Wen Zenian answered herself. “Once these two days end, next time we meet, you won’t be this close to me anymore.”

Too many principles, too many walls.

Once the dream within a dream ended, she would inevitably shrink back.

But it was precisely because of that quality that she was perfect to keep Wen Zenian company in a beautiful dream, wasn’t she? Upon waking, she would vanish completely, just like the dream itself, without becoming any sort of burden.

Smiling, she reached out a hand to Wen Zenian. “Where’s my sci-fi story? You promised to give it to me.”

“Hold on a second.” Wen Zenian gazed toward the terrace railing. “There’s a seabird.”

Meng Ning looked over.

Sure enough, a seabird perched there.