The two rarely called each other by their full names.

In most East Asian families, this manner of address naturally carries a weight of seriousness, lacking the intimacy of a nickname.

Xie Jinghe was a very clingy person, and he had many ways of addressing Shi Linchuan. Occasionally, he would call him “Xiao Shi Ge,” but most of the time he used his given name directly. There were also many other pet names, though they weren’t suitable for display.

Now, he had developed a new term: Bastard.

Shi Linchuan accepted it entirely, even patting his head in a good mood. Not forgetting the acting mission for the night, he cleanly and decisively delivered the key line:

“With this mark, I won’t suspect you anymore.”

This line was what the scumbag ex-husband from the original novel said to Xie Jinghe after sending the tattoo artist away. He had put on a very moved expression, swearing with solemn vows that he wouldn’t be suspicious of Xie Jinghe ever again.

In the original novel, Xie Jinghe actually believed him.

However, at this very moment.

Xie Jinghe, who was in his arms, remained silent for a long time before asking out of the blue: “If you hate me so much, do you even care about this?”

Shi Linchuan replied: “You are still my person.”

Xie Jinghe had been crying for a long time; the most intense emotions had already been vented, and his tone became very calm.

He said,

“…Not for much longer.”

Two minutes passed.

Shi Linchuan asked: “Do you want to divorce me?”

Xie Jinghe didn’t answer. He seemed to want to replace words with tangible action, arching his body outward.

He was facing away from the man, burying his head in the crook of his own arm. Yet, the arm that had wrapped around his waist from behind tightened significantly, like a rope with a human body temperature, pulling him back in.

Xie Jinghe closed his eyes, suddenly feeling exhausted. His limbs were weak, and his throat was so dry he couldn’t utter a single syllable.

His heart felt as if it had been snipped open by a pair of scissors, yet the moment his body felt the temperature of the man behind him, he subconsciously relaxed, even wanting to entangle himself further.

This seemed to have evolved into an instinct.

Xie Jinghe instinctively wanted to spread his limbs, to plunge into the man’s embrace with a thud, to tell him about every little trivial detail from his work, just like the nights of the past…

The suitcase downstairs was still filled with gifts he had brought back for him—a whole case of odds and ends. If he were to introduce them one by one, it would take two hours to finish.

He also wanted Shi Linchuan to do what he usually did: first pat his head, then pat his back, and finally say a few gentle words. It didn’t matter what he said.

Xie Jinghe used all his strength to plug his ears with his arms, because he was afraid that if he let go, he would hear Shi Linchuan say—

I hate you.

He was even more afraid that if he turned back, he would see the man standing there holding a pair of blood-stained scissors, showing a cold expression he had never seen before—his eyes seemingly shrouded in the vast night, filled with an impenetrable gloom.

So, he didn’t dare turn back.

What had happened in the two or three hours that night was enough to subvert two or three years of his perception. Xie Jinghe thought he wouldn’t be able to sleep, but he did.

He didn’t know how long he slept; he drifted into a dream.

He dreamed that the dawn broke outside the window. A sliver of morning light squeezed in through the gap in the curtains. Shi Linchuan was sitting in the corner, back to the light, as if surrounded by an invisible storm. The light on the floor was like a chasm, separating the two of them.

Xie Jinghe was silent for a while, his heart suddenly aching. He couldn’t help but reach out to the man and whispered softly, “Linchuan, hug me…”

The man was stunned for a few seconds before silently rising and walking over.

He was barefoot, walking without a sound. His fingers, hanging by his sides, curled several times, slow to reach out and hold Xie Jinghe’s hand.

So Xie Jinghe moved forward, taking the initiative to hold his hand and press it against his own eyes, saying aggrievedly:

“Linchuan, my eyes hurt.”

The man replied: “They’re swollen from crying, use an ice pack.”

Xie Jinghe said again: “My legs hurt.”

The man replied again: “…Apply some ointment.”

Xie Jinghe was still a bit drowsy. He paused for a long while before groggily pulling the man’s hand and placing it over his left chest, eyes half-closed as he said: “It hurts here too…”

After a long time.

The man replied in a low voice: “I know.”

Xie Jinghe’s voice became increasingly blurred, his consciousness fading. He slurred his words: “How do you know? Did someone else use scissors to cut out your heart too?”

But the other party said no more.

Suddenly, Xie Jinghe felt something very soft touch his chest several times, but it hurried away before he could react.

He didn’t even have time to grasp that cold wrist.

“…”

When he woke up, the daylight outside the window was already bright.

It was almost noon.

His palm was empty.

He only felt as if he had dreamt a very long dream. Even after waking up, he still felt empty and absurd, as if his entire person had been hollowed out.

He sat for a long time before Xie Jinghe finally returned to his senses. He first touched his eyelids—they felt cool, and surprisingly, they weren’t swollen. Then…

Xie Jinghe flipped off the duvet and bent one of his legs, revealing the tattoo at the top of his thigh.

Deep red ink, sharp and narrow strokes, a beautiful script, arranged vertically. The length was about a joint longer than an adult man’s index finger.

Red ink on white skin, stark and striking.

It was Shi Linchuan’s name.

Xie Jinghe: “…”

Xie Jinghe sat for a while longer before rising to change into loungewear and walking downstairs. His gait wasn’t entirely natural, though he didn’t feel pain, just a strange sensation.

Tingly, and dull.

The weather was uncharacteristically sunny today. The living room was flooded with light. The jasmine flowers in the courtyard had bloomed halfway up the wall, and the violas in the sunny corner hid behind other plants, their leaves swaying gently.

A fragrance drifted from the dining room. Xie Jinghe walked over to look and found light food placed on the table, still steaming.

The magnetic stickers on the refrigerator door were colorful, as vibrant as a small spring, exploding into the shape of a heart on the cold, gray metal surface.

Xie Jinghe had arranged those before he left last time.

The living room sofa was neat and tidy; even the suitcase stood obediently in the corner. It seemed as if nothing had happened in the house; everything looked the same as usual.

But everything felt different.

—Shi Linchuan was gone.

Yet his traces were everywhere in the house.

Xie Jinghe stood at the entryway, dazed and lost. He couldn’t help but take down the black scarf from the rack and bury his entire face inside the soft fabric.

The man had a wonderful scent on him—fragrant. He couldn’t quite put a finger on what it was, but Xie Jinghe truly loved it; it made him feel safe.

Shi Linchuan had once said that this was just his psychological effect.

Xie Jinghe, sniffing the familiar scent on the scarf, thought silently: …So, I still can’t bear to divorce him.

Just then.

There was a click at the door. At the same time, the man’s voice rang out: “Smelling my clothes again? Exactly what scent do you love so much? The scent of a scumbag?”

Xie Jinghe: “…”

Shi Linchuan stood at the door, hands in his pockets, a brand-new pair of rimless glasses perched on his nose. A long golden chain dangled and swayed in the light breeze. His single-lidded eyes were narrow and upturned; the smile on his lips was reckless and heartless.

There wasn’t a trace of his former gentleness.

Sharp, cold, like a handful of snow scattered in winter.