Chapter 63

The weather forecast had flaked on Chengdu—at least, there was no snow on the day Cui Qijin returned.

She wheeled her suitcase out of the airport terminal and spotted Chi Buyu at once—

The crowd surged like colorful tufts of cotton candy, and Chi Buyu was pushing through it in a blue fuzzy coat, a striped cat-ear headband, and a thick red woolen scarf. Her chin was held high; without her glasses, her eyes were squinted into slits as she desperately scanned for something.

Cui Qijin drew closer with her rumbling suitcase, and Chi Buyu shot her hand high into the air. Amid the chaotic din of the airport, she bellowed joyfully,

“Cui Muhuo!”

The crowd washed over them like a sea. Cui Qijin kept pushing her suitcase along as Chi Buyu barreled through excitedly, circling around with her hand still raised, dashing toward her like a lake-blue lollipop twirling in loops—

But just as she neared, she deliberately slowed her steps. Her hair still fluttered beneath the cat ears, yet she primly shoved both hands into her coat pockets and halted amid the flow of travelers. She tilted her chin up slightly, gazing at Cui Qijin without a word.

“Why’d you stop all of a sudden?” Miss Liang griped from nearby.

“I figured you two would charge at each other like in some cheesy old idol drama—spinning seven hundred twenty degrees in midair before crashing into a kiss right in front of me. I’d have to film it for your wedding video.”

Cui Qijin burst out laughing.

Not because Miss Liang was so fixated on their wedding.

But because Chi Buyu was staring at her with that “let’s see if you finish your homework” expression, heedless of Miss Liang’s presence or the hordes of strangers in the airport who might be watching.

Cui Qijin abandoned her overstuffed suitcase right there and strode toward Chi Buyu. The crowd swayed like toppled Russian nesting dolls. Through the layers of her long down jacket and Chi Buyu’s blue fuzzy coat…

She enveloped the bundled-up Chi Buyu in a hug, feeling like two Teletubbies wrapped in each other’s arms.

Chi Buyu childishly rubbed her back with her gloved hands, rolling her chin across the fabric a few times before nestling into Cui Qijin’s neck, her breath warm.

“It’s been so long—don’t you have anything to say to me, Grandmaster Cui?”

Cui Qijin patted the cat ears on Chi Buyu’s head and recited,

“Cheeks beat heartbeat, sent the ‘missing your voice’ message, third day love you most, fourth day love you even more than third, no one hit on me but I still showed your photo to Miss Liang anyway, she says you’re prettier in person, found a new girlfriend yet? If not, can it be me? Grandmaster Chi.”

“Whoa!”

Chi Buyu gasped in delight. “Grandmaster Cui, how’s your memory so good? I don’t even remember, and you’ve got every line memorized?”

Cui Qijin hadn’t expected the conversation to veer there. She fell silent for a beat before muttering three words,

“Born that way.”

Chi Buyu hugged her even tighter in satisfaction, leaning boldly to whisper right by her ear, “Wait till we’re home—I’m gonna kiss you to death!”

Her voice was tiny, though.

She released her almost immediately, flashing a grin at Miss Liang as she approached.

“Hey, Miss Liang, long time no see.”

Then she chatted animatedly with Miss Liang, leaving Cui Qijin to stand there, chuckling at Chi Buyu’s two-faced charm in public and private.

–

Back home, Chengdu still hadn’t seen any snow.

Cui Qijin glanced absently out the window, thinking of it—only for the curtains to yank shut the next instant. Before she could react, Chi Buyu had spun her around with a fierce glare and shoved her straight onto the sofa. Scarves, cat-ear hat, blue fuzzy coat, down jacket, sweater… all lay heaped on the carpet like a pile of colorful bubblegum.

Cui Qijin discovered Chi Buyu had a bit of a biting habit. She licked the little red mole in front of Chi Buyu’s ear and got her chin nipped in return. She kissed the red birthmark by Chi Buyu’s ribs and earned a bite on the webbing of her hand.

Afterward, Cui Qijin lounged lazily in the bathtub, her chin and hand both feeling like they’d been stung by bees.

Chi Buyu, probably feeling guilty, played with the bubbles for a bit before shaping a little bubble duck and offering it over. “Cui Muhuo, hold this for me.”

Cui Qijin patiently took it, figuring Chi Buyu had more to do.

Instead, Chi Buyu blinked and said, “It’s for you. My bad—I’ll try not to bite next time.”

Cui Qijin eyed the white foam duck in her hand, then Chi Buyu’s eyes misty with steam. She raised one hand to boop Chi Buyu’s nose while holding up the melting duck with the other, on the verge of dissolving back into bubbles. After a pause, she said,

“It’s fine, I get it. And this little duck’s pretty well-behaved.”

Chi Buyu wrinkled her nose. “But this one’s a mango.”

Cui Qijin lowered her lashes, glancing at the puddle of foam in her palm, and said reluctantly,

“Alright, thanks for the mango.”

Later, she lost count of how many such “mangos” Chi Buyu molded for her.

But that winter, Chengdu never got any snow.

Watching SpongeBob on a snowy day had become some kind of ritual for Chi Buyu, who insisted on waiting for snow before touching it. So they switched to that old-school Taiwanese romance drama they’d watched with Chi Buyu’s grandma back in Leshan.

Dressed in SpongeBob pajamas, they crammed into the beanbag chair Chen Wenran and Ran Yan had sweatily hauled over in the summer heat, legs tangled together under a shared blanket. On their new seventy-five-inch TV, the leads in the drama fell in and out of love. Back in summer, a plastered Chen Wenran had sworn with a flushed neck that if they dared use the chair for tossing clothes, it’d be the end of their friendship!

So they used it all winter long. The beanbag soaked up their usual bath gel and laundry detergent, scented with camellia blossoms. Sometimes Chi Buyu spritzed it with the faintest hint of perfume, so nestling in—whether together or alone—felt like being enveloped by a warm coffee-scented tree, hugging them through the season with all the planet’s energy.

The TV flickered as someone asked the lead actress what made her heart skip a beat about the other lead. She replied—lots, often, beyond counting.

Chi Buyu yawned, wrapping around Cui Qijin like an octopus with built-in suckers. She suddenly twisted to ask,

“What about me?”

Cui Qijin played potato chip tray dutifully, eyes glued to the plot.

Chi Buyu used three salty fingers to swivel her face around, dead serious. “What about me? Where do I make your heart skip a beat?”

Cui Qijin swatted her hand, shot her a glance, and pinched her cheek to turn her back.

“I decline to answer.”

Chi Buyu flopped like a goldfish gripped by its gills, facing the screen and bubbling words. “Request denied. You have to answer.”

Cui Qijin sighed. “Hard to pin down.”

Chi Buyu bubbled incredulously, ignoring the drama. “How’s that hard?”

Cui Qijin eyed her. “You first, then?”

Chi Buyu huffed. “Please, I asked you.”

Cui Qijin stayed unmoved. “Asking first means saying first.”

Chi Buyu tsked, pried her hand away, and crunched chips thoughtfully.

“Lots of ways. You’re pretty, eat so gracefully, super smart, always fixing my personal messes. Then sometimes you’re like a little kid, always worrying me. But honestly? When you’re being all childish and crying, tears falling—that’s when my heart skips most.”

How could she say something like that so casually, without even pausing to think?

Cui Qijin stayed cool, touching her heated neck and feigning indifference with an “oh.”

Chi Buyu barked a triumphant “ha!” and elbowed her, twisting back with a finger-gun gesture pressed to her lips. She squinted menacingly.

“Your turn. No dodging, no changing subjects, and absolutely no refusing—because I’ll refuse your refusal.”

She’d blocked every escape.

Then, brazenly, she blew on her imaginary barrel, mimed racking the slide, and aimed again.

Cui Qijin was thoroughly cornered.

She had to ponder this make-or-break question carefully.

What made her heart skip for Chi Buyu?

She scanned Chi Buyu’s eyes, mouth, nose, ears—surely it wasn’t something so superficial… Dim blue TV light washed over her face like a fleeting rewind—

Chi Buyu in apple-green Converse, hollering “Classmate Cui Muhuo’s brain’s fried!”; her finger spinning to point at Cui Qijin, declaring “Teacher,” making her Arts and Entertainment Commissioner; Chi Buyu in a wheelchair, sniffling “Because metal, wood, water, fire, earth—we’re in this sweet and sour together”; Chi Buyu in a pretty dress, nervously pursing her lipstick at the photo booth; drenched in sweat, thrusting over the admission ticket, fuming “Cui Muhuo, you’re so annoying…”

Right now, Chi Buyu gazed at her earnestly before this snow that might never come, ready to hear her answer.

Heart-skip—what a tricky word.

What would the answer hold? Cowardice, insecurity, selfishness, weakness? Or courage, confidence, selflessness, strength? Or ultimately just one conflicted Cui Qijin?

Suddenly, Cui Qijin got why the drama lead answered—lots, often, beyond counting.

“Whenever you beat me,” Cui Qijin said.

Chi Buyu crunched chips in shock. “What? When have I ever beat you?”

“Lots of times.” Cui Qijin wiped a crumb from her lip, glancing idly at the TV leads. “Frequency’s about the same as in the drama?”

Chi Buyu fed her a chip, crunching as she pressed, “Same frequency how? Lots? Often? Beyond counting?”

Cui Qijin nibbled it at the same rhythm, mumbling through crumbs,

“Times a hundred centuries.”

So love was being defeated.