Wen Zenian remained in that same posture, bent over her documents with her swan-like neck slightly curved. From Meng Ning’s view just behind and to the side, she could make out a glimpse of the other woman’s snow-white nape.
Wen Zenian was slender, the kind of build where flesh clung softly to bone without any sharp angles showing. The gentle rise and fall of her spine resembled the soft hills of spring. Together with the sea beyond the window, the night breeze, and perhaps even the moon on the unseen horizon, it all painted a dreamlike scene.
Meng Ning walked back and settled into her original seat. She reached for the slender-stemmed wine glass on the low table. Wen Zenian must have seen her fingertips, but she neither encouraged nor refused.
Meng Ning poured a small half-glass. She felt the weight of the lighter in her pocket—both the one she’d “claimed” from Wen Zenian and the secondhand one she’d just bought, though she had no idea how to give it to her.
Because she wasn’t sure how to broach the subject.
Even a single conversation with Wen Zenian felt like a current snag, tangled up in some past memory of hers. It didn’t quite warrant an apology, yet their relationship had undeniably grown awkward.
Ah, what a mess.
Especially for someone who had spent years deliberately steering clear of emotions. It was even messier.
Maybe she should start by coaxing Wen Zenian to drink this glass of wine. Meng Ning wasn’t good at handling these situations. She just had this vague thought that since the bottle bore her name, it might stand in for her somehow. If words failed her, perhaps the wine’s sweet, sour, or bitter notes could speak for her.
She parted her lips slightly.
The first syllable was hard to find.
Just then, Wen Zenian glanced up at her.
Meng Ning promptly shut her mouth. Otherwise, sitting there with her lips half-open, she’d look like a fool.
Wen Zenian smiled.
The corners of her mouth curved upward just a touch. Not her usual restrained smile that hid her beauty, but something fleeting, gone in an instant, as if she didn’t want Meng Ning to catch it.
Then she lifted her glass and took a sip.
Wen Zenian truly loved her wine. With just that shallow taste, she knew exactly which bottle Meng Ning had chosen. Only then did her gaze shift to the low table, sweeping over the name on the bottle and confirming her guess.
No wonder Wen Zenian couldn’t resist a drink even while working. With alcohol in her system, she looked happier somehow, the corners of her eyes lifting with a lively air.
Meng Ning sat quietly, keeping her company until the glass was empty.
Wen Zenian’s face was too stunningly beautiful; staring too long felt like an indulgence. With her mind preoccupied, Meng Ning’s lashes lowered halfway as she unconsciously sought a focal point for her gaze. It landed on Wen Zenian’s delicate knee, sheathed in sheer silk stockings.
Perhaps she should take advantage of the wine’s warmth to give her the lighter.
She might not even need to say anything—maybe that would smooth over the awkwardness.
As Meng Ning mulled over how to speak up, it was Wen Zenian who broke the silence first. “Meng Ning.”
“Are you planning to kiss my knee?”
Meng Ning looked up in surprise.
Though she wasn’t entirely sure—or rather, didn’t want to dwell too deeply—on the exact reason for Wen Zenian’s awkwardness, those words signaled forgiveness.
She didn’t try to explain. “What I meant was…”
She didn’t offer the lighter from her pocket.
In fact, the only thing she’d said since entering the room was a reminder about the wine glass: “It’s empty.”
Wen Zenian had been so easily pleased by that single glass of wine, and just like that, they were back on good terms.
Silence was a blessing. Silence meant avoiding those raw, painful scars. Meng Ning scooted closer, starting with a light caress on Wen Zenian’s knee. The other woman was sensitive, like a piano that sang at the slightest touch—even her breaths took on a rhythmic cadence.
It was mesmerizing, stirring the soul into harmony.
There was still a shallow layer of pale gold wine left in Wen Zenian’s glass. She didn’t set it back on the table but kept the stem pinched in her fingers, turning it into a game of restraint.
As Meng Ning knelt on the carpet to kiss her knee, Wen Zenian’s elegant neck arched into a taut, exquisite line. Yet she somehow kept the liquid in her glass perfectly steady.
Intimacy of the body was like intimacy of the heart—a form of defiance. Wen Zenian refused to let Meng Ning glimpse her vulnerability. But after Meng Ning fetched the small blue box, she retaliated in full.
Sweat-slicked amid the shift in positions, Meng Ning stole a glance at Wen Zenian’s knee, reddened from friction against the sofa.
So fragile, it tempted one to bully her more—yet her upper body’s uniform made her seem nearly untouchable.
That alluring contradiction made one willing to surrender their soul.
Only when Meng Ning had finished cleaning up and was preparing to leave Wen Zenian’s room with that night’s sci-fi story did things wind down.
Wen Zenian sat on the sofa, her pencil skirt pulled back into place but left unfastened at the waist. It draped loosely over her legs, the usual prim pleats now transformed into a lazy, seductive elegance.
She pointed it out directly. “You zoned out for a moment just now.”
“Did I?” Meng Ning’s back ached fiercely, probably from all the tension earlier.
“You did.” Wen Zenian’s perceptiveness was uncanny. “Earlier, when I shifted from kneeling on the sofa with both legs to standing on one on the floor, you glanced at my knee. That’s when you zoned out.”
Meng Ning said nothing, crossing her arms. “Was my technique not good enough?”
Meng Ning smiled.
Wen Zenian narrowed her eyes, making her resemble a fox that wasn’t entirely benevolent. “Miss Meng, do you know that smiling like that will make it hard for you to endure next time?”
Meng Ning left Wen Zenian’s room, carrying that evening’s sci-fi story.
She enjoyed their playful banter, laced with erotic undertones, without delving into anything deeper.
But she had indeed zoned out for that instant.
Right at the peak of bliss, when one’s awareness turned to light, drifting clouds, she’d suddenly wondered: Why had Wen Zenian forgiven her over a single glass of wine?
It was too simple—simple enough to make her want to embrace those slender shoulders.
To ask: All these years, you’ve seemed to have everything, but have you truly gained so little in the way of real affection?
So little that one glass could fill the void in your heart.
That was the first moment since their reunion when an irresistible thought bubbled up: She wanted to ask Wen Zenian how these years had treated her.
Had the journey from who she used to be to who she was now been that arduous?
She walked along the quiet, empty gravel path. The unsent secondhand lighter still weighed down her pocket. Glancing back toward the hotel’s main building.
What a fool. That direction wouldn’t let her glimpse any window of Wen Zenian’s room.
Nor reveal whether, after each departure, Wen Zenian collapsed into exhausted sleep—or poured herself another glass and sat alone for a long while.
“Ning, can I borrow your backpack?”
“Sure, take it.”
Qi Xiao was heading out with the team captain for a beach safety workshop for kids. Her own bags weren’t suited for carrying a laptop, so she borrowed Meng Ning’s.
“Should I empty your stuff out first?”
“Go ahead.”
Truth be told, Meng Ning’s backpack held little: a pair of sunglasses, a small bottle of eye drops that beach lifeguards always carried, and the keys to her rental. During off-island rotations, she’d toss in a couple of T-shirts and hoodies, but it was always half-empty.
Qi Xiao couldn’t fathom why she lugged around such a big backpack.
Worried the laptop and demo props might crush Meng Ning’s things, she emptied it all out anyway. That’s when she spotted an extra receipt.
She hadn’t meant to pry, but her eyes lingered. The item was a lighter, and the price nearly made her curse aloud.
It wasn’t exorbitant, but relative to Meng Ning’s salary, it was outrageous.
Qi Xiao glanced back at Meng Ning, who lounged against the headboard as usual, flipping through a birdwatching guide. She probably planned to swim at the beach once it got late. Her face held that familiar neutral calm.
Qi Xiao could sense it—Meng Ning was easygoing but not overly friendly. She never seemed particularly invested in people or things, adopting an attitude of indifference to it all.
Qi Xiao said nothing for now, just packed everything away.
Perhaps that stray thought was why Meng Ning didn’t seek out Wen Zenian for several days.
As someone always ready to leave, she shouldn’t get curious. That wasn’t right.
And what had Wen Zenian been thinking, tracing her palm lines so gently?
As someone who’d long evaded emotions, her instincts screamed danger. Habit urged her to run.
Their next encounter was a chance meeting in the staff cafeteria.
Wen Zenian had an investors’ banquet that evening; her makeup was already done. The eye and lip colors were subtle, but the slight upward flick of eyeliner at the corners added a touch of allure, tempered by her aloof, unsmiling poise.
Stunning beyond reason.
She hadn’t changed into her evening gown yet, still in her daytime business uniform. Probably there to discuss merging the executive cafeteria with the staff one, standing amid a group of managers.
Her upright shoulders bolstered her presence, ensuring she never seemed diminished among the cluster of men averaging over 185 cm tall. Especially with that eternally rational, calculating expression.
Qi Xiao was unusually quiet that day, gnawing on a chicken wrap without sneaking peeks at Wen Zenian.
Meng Ning, unsure what was up with her, teased, “Not chasing gossip today?”
Qi Xiao looked up, about to reply.
Then she let out a sudden “Ah!” Loud enough to draw over colleagues—even Wen Zenian.
Qi Xiao’s expression turned grave as she stared at Meng Ning. “You’re having an allergic reaction!”
Meng Ning blinked in confusion.
“Your face and neck are breaking out in red spots!”
Wen Zenian approached. One hand on the table edge, she leaned in to inspect Meng Ning, then eyed the half-eaten chicken wrap. She instructed someone nearby, “Get the chef over here and ask what ingredients are in today’s chicken wraps.”
The answer came quickly. The fried crisps were topped with a layer of pea puree.
Meng Ning’s allergens were few: white mushrooms and peas.
Wen Zenian drew a slow breath before speaking.
She asked the head chef on duty, “Why wasn’t the ingredient labeled?”
Hotel C had strict rules: Every dish, for guests or staff, required ingredient labels to prevent allergies.
“Because it was just a thin layer of pea puree… Sorry, that was our oversight.”
Wen Zenian’s hand stayed braced on the table. She glanced at Meng Ning again.
