Meng Ning opened her eyes amid the darkness of night.
Her fingers unconsciously picked at the uneven stitching on the sofa cushion. Her ears were pressed too close; even the tiniest sounds struck her eardrums like a rasping whisper.
She rolled over onto her back, stretching her legs straight out onto the wooden armrest of the sofa and folding her hands over her stomach.
Sleep just wouldn’t come.
Wen Zenian was in her room, and she hadn’t left her phone behind to charge—she’d brought it out with her. Now she fished it from her pocket, gripping it tightly in both hands and raising it before her eyes. The screen unlocked effortlessly. Here, she couldn’t help but remind herself that fiddling with your phone while lying back like this was a surefire way to drop it right onto your face.
She’d spaced out once and learned that the hard way. The phone had smacked her square on the bridge of her nose, leaving a faint little scar that still hadn’t fully faded, even if it was barely visible now.
But she was confident no repeat performance was coming this time. She’d pulled up that sneaky photo of Wen Zenian, clutching the phone in a death grip between her palms.
Wen Zenian’s face in the picture was pale and distant, her gaze a touch vacant, yet her posture radiated quiet authority.
It was nothing like the way she lay now, fully dressed on Meng Ning’s narrow single bed.
Meng Ning pocketed the phone and forced her eyes shut.
…Damn it, what kind of messed-up nonsense had she dreamed about?
Fortunately, the bathroom was separated from the bedroom by the whole living room, so a midnight shower wouldn’t wake anyone. She slipped inside, cranked on the shower, and set the water cooler than her usual preference.
By the time she came back to herself, she was standing stock-still under the spray, lost in thought.
She wiped the water from her face, removed her shower cap, dried off, and tugged her T-shirt back on.
No way was she returning to the sofa. Dawn was already threatening. If Qi Xiao or Song Xiao rose early and caught her crashed out there, how would she explain?
She bundled up the blanket, eased her bedroom door open with careful hands, and slipped inside. A quick glance at the bed.
Wen Zenian slept peacefully, unchanged in her pose. Her body’s gentle curves rose and fell in the hazy night, evoking the silhouette of some exquisite, far-off mountain.
Meng Ning settled at the desk, tempted to lay her head down for a quick nap. But it felt too contrived; she knew sleep was a lost cause.
Instead, she stared out the window.
A faint rustle sounded from behind her. She whipped around in alarm, but Wen Zenian showed no sign of stirring.
Meng Ning turned back to the window.
Even through the curtains, the shifting sky was unmistakable. The first sliver of dawn didn’t unfurl smoothly; it pierced the profound gloom like a drill, agitating until the clamor of light banished every shadow, and suddenly day had broken.
No telling when Wen Zenian might wake.
With that thought, Meng Ning glanced back—only to find Wen Zenian propped up against the headboard. She jolted, yanking her chair forward half a step, its legs screeching harshly against the floor.
Her heart hammered as she fixed her stare on Wen Zenian.
Wen Zenian was twisting her hair into a bun. By the time Meng Ning had turned, most of it was already coiled up; one hand steadied the knot while the other slid the final small black clip into place.
She lowered her arm and gazed at Meng Ning. “Could you draw the curtains?”
Meng Ning decided her kinks must be downright peculiar.
Last night, she’d managed to restrain herself while watching drunken, fully clothed Wen Zenian sprawled on her bed. Yet this utterly mundane request sent her pulse racing wildly.
It was like how she and Qi Xiao could only guess at her type from lack of experience; she was equally in the dark about her own turn-ons.
But seriously, who got turned on by curtains?
She puzzled it out in short order. It wasn’t the curtains. It was Wen Zenian, fresh from sleep. Her makeup had held up well overall—just a subtle smudge beneath her eyes. Her features remained serene, her voice roughened further by disuse, the collar of her shirt hanging loose to one side. With her shoulder tilted, her collarbones were on full, exquisite display.
Meng Ning rose, pulled the curtains wide, and turned back from the window to regard Wen Zenian.
The precise elegance of her newly pinned hair clashed beautifully with the hazy remnants of sleep on her face. Mornings made it harder to leash one’s desires, she realized—not because of encroaching night or liquid courage, but because those urges were rooted deep within, taking hold, sprouting, and capable of blooming in the crisp dawn light, kissed by dew.
Meng Ning watched Wen Zenian, steadying her breath.
“Can I take a shower?” Wen Zenian asked.
Meng Ning checked the time on her phone. “Song Xiao’s about to get up for work. You might run out of time if you shower now. Why don’t you brush your teeth and wash your face first? I’ll check for a spare toothbrush and towel.”
Wen Zenian shook her head and drew her luxury bag closer, retrieving a toothbrush and face cloth.
Of course she carried them. Meng Ning reflected that Wen Zenian was always so busy—ready for any emergency.
She cracked the door open, peering out like a thief. Wen Zenian stood right behind her. “That scared of being spotted?”
“Not exactly. I just don’t want you feeling awkward. You’re way up the ladder these days.”
She cringed inwardly; whenever she got nervous around Wen Zenian, she ended up bantering like an idiot.
Wen Zenian said nothing. Once Meng Ning gave the all-clear, they stepped out.
Wen Zenian shut herself in the bathroom to freshen up while Meng Ning stood sentry, picking at her cuticles.
When Wen Zenian emerged, Meng Ning sneaked a peek. She couldn’t tell if the makeup was fully gone, but those faint shadows under her eyes had vanished.
Meng Ning made quick work of her own teeth and face, and they slipped back into the bedroom together.
“Sit,” Meng Ning offered.
Wen Zenian declined with a shake of her head, rolling her shoulders. Meng Ning cracked the window—not sure why she felt so on edge, but sealed rooms seemed ripe for impulsive mistakes.
Wen Zenian noted the open window and waggled two slender fingers her way, silently asking permission to smoke.
Meng Ning nodded.
Wen Zenian retrieved a cigarette and lighter from her bag by the nightstand, then returned to the window to light up. Meng Ning stole glances. Smoking wasn’t great for you, sure, but the way she did it was mesmerizing: swan-neck arched just so, lashes lowered, teeth grazing the filter, thin lips drawing the smoke into languid curls, her tiny diamond earring catching the light.
She proffered the cigarette case. Meng Ning waved it off, so Wen Zenian set it and the lighter down casually on the desk.
Leaning against the wall with her legs loosely crossed, she showed no signs of sitting. Meng Ning, bleary from her sleepless night, dragged over the chair and sank into it.
Sounds of life stirred outside. The market grew rowdy with the cries of early-rising aunties greeting one another at top volume. Steam rose from the bun shop, its white tendrils snaking into view from Meng Ning’s vantage.
Inside, Song Xiao was up too; her light footsteps pattered softly beyond the door.
Amid it all, Wen Zenian smoked like a dream half-caught between night and day.
Meng Ning tried focusing elsewhere to distract herself. But Wen Zenian’s eyes drifted—to the sheets she’d rumpled in sleep, the nightstand, Meng Ning herself, and finally the desk before her.
The room felt stark. Aside from the fresh additions of cigarette case and lighter, there was just one old magazine.
Wen Zenian glanced at it: last September’s Science Fiction World.
“May I?” she murmured.
Song Xiao’s footsteps hurried through the living room—perhaps running late.
Their hushed exchange, dodging eavesdroppers, carried the intimacy of a bedside whisper.
“Sure,” said Meng Ning.
Wen Zenian lifted the magazine, the cigarette poised like modern art between her pale fingers. As she leafed through, she asked, “Why just this one?”
“I don’t buy magazines often.” Meng Ning smiled. “This issue spotlights a Norwegian sci-fi writer I like.”
Wen Zenian found the page and essayed the author’s name.
The rolling lilt sent Meng Ning’s thoughts fluttering.
“What has he written?” Wen Zenian asked.
Meng Ning named the series. “The hotel library stocks them, but they’re missing the final volume—no way to see the ending.”
Wen Zenian nodded and set the magazine aside.
Song Xiao had just left. “Want to shower now?” Meng Ning asked. “Qi Xiao usually sleeps in late.”
“Sure,” Wen Zenian agreed.
Out in the living room, she stubbed out her cigarette. She hadn’t packed a towel, so Meng Ning fetched a fresh one.
They entered the bathroom together; Meng Ning pointed out the hot and cold taps, then the shampoo, conditioner, and body wash.
It was a cramped all-in-one setup, partitioned only by a shower curtain—worlds away from a five-star suite. Still, Wen Zenian took it in stride. “Got it.” Meng Ning withdrew.
Standing guard at the door, she saw Wen Zenian poke her head out, two more shirt buttons undone. “This door lock isn’t broken too, is it?”
“It is, but everyone knows closed means occupied—no one barges in.” Meng Ning assured her. “Don’t worry; I’ll stand watch.”
Wen Zenian replied, “Mm. Guard it well, then.”
Meng Ning nearly choked.
The shower hissed to life, followed by the mingled scents of shampoo and body wash. Meng Ning suddenly pictured Wen Zenian smelling just like her.
The water cut off eventually. A moment later, the door cracked open. “Got a blow dryer?”
“Yeah, I’ll grab it.”
Meng Ning passed it through the narrow gap.
The whirring filled the air. After a while, Wen Zenian handed it back.
“Could you fetch my makeup bag from the main bag?” she asked.
So she hadn’t removed her makeup after all. Meng Ning froze for a beat, and Wen Zenian added, “I can’t let anyone see me bare-faced. It’s like walking around naked.”
The admission was as refined as the sheer stockings on her feet.
“Okay,” Meng Ning said, heading to the bedroom.
Wen Zenian’s bag had seen casual use: crammed with toothbrush and cloth, documents, a notebook, sunglasses, and the makeup pouch.
She extracted the makeup bag, loosening the contents. A small blue box tumbled into view.
Meng Ning hadn’t meant to look, but her eyes snagged on it anyway.
Finger cots.
Meng Ning zipped the bag and returned to the bathroom.
She slid the makeup bag through the crack. “Here.”
“This sink’s too cramped—no room to set anything down,” Wen Zenian’s voice floated out.
Meng Ning considered. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll pass it in.”
Powder compact. Concealer. Eyeshadow palette. Lipstick.
Wen Zenian’s makeup routine was remarkably simple. She didn’t even bother with an eyebrow pencil, thanks to her naturally perfect brows—elegant yet not overly soft, with just the right touch of sharpness. Meng Ning couldn’t fathom why she was so adamant about never being seen bare-faced, but even from that minimalist kit, it was clear the difference between her natural look and made-up was negligible.
Wen Zenian stepped out of the bathroom, her face positively radiant. She took the makeup bag from Meng Ning’s hand. “Thanks.”
Suddenly, she lowered her eyes and fixed Meng Ning with a stare.
Meng Ning blinked. ?
She had just washed her hands with cold water and dried them off, but her fingertips were still chilly. She lifted them and gently grazed the skin beneath Meng Ning’s eye. “Didn’t get enough sleep?”
The dark circles were pronounced.
Her touch was feather-light, barely brushing like a whisper, stirring a faint itch.
