“I do mind,” Lin Congzhi said.

Of course he minded—he minded to death. Because he couldn’t remember where he had left the painting’s description card last night.

There was a good chance it was still on the windowsill by the terrace door, or maybe he had carried it back to the bedroom and left it on the nightstand—worst of all, he had a hazy memory, unsure if it was a dream or reality, of lying under the covers rubbing the card between his fingers.

Which meant it was extremely likely to be right next to his pillow in a decidedly intimate spot.

He minded very, very much.

Xiao Jingwen had anticipated this. Thus, prepared, he suppressed his emotions, maintaining a composed facade. He spoke in the same mild tone as before: “Alright. My business card—it has my personal number. Feel free to contact me if you need anything.”

He hadn’t changed his phone number, but he wasn’t sure if Lin Congzhi still had it saved. He placed the card on the water dispenser and took a step back, giving Lin Congzhi some breathing room.

Five years ago, during their very first meeting, Xiao Jingwen had been throwing up violently by the roadside—probably the most pathetic moment of his entire life. Most of the time, he maintained reason, poise, an even temper, and flawless restraint.

“Mm,” Lin Congzhi nodded in acceptance.

“I’ll contact your assistant before coming to pick up the painting next time. Get some good rest. I’ll take my leave now,” Xiao Jingwen said.

The thirty-three-year-old president of an auction firm knew how to control his emotions and behavior—a capability he had maintained perfectly even five years ago.

The only times in Xiao Jingwen’s life he had ever lost control were because of Lin Congzhi. The first was when they first met, when that umbrella tilted over his head had made his heart pound so hard he felt he might drop dead on the spot; the other time he lost control was their breakup.

At times, he was like a symbol standing tall and detached, devoid of desires in front of the countless rare treasures in his auction house. He was trusted by both buyers and sellers. Doing business was nothing more than maintaining a stable client base, stable interactions, and stable product quality. Above all of that, Xiao Jingwen himself needed to remain stable.

So, he stably stepped backward, facing Lin Congzhi. After leaving his business card, he turned around…

“Ah, hello! You ordered the delivery here, right?” A delivery driver pushed the door open, holding a cup of coffee. Checking the receipt on the bag, he asked Xiao Jingwen, “Mr. Lin, tailing number 3331… a large cold brew iced Americano, right?”

Xiao Jingwen paused, then turned back around.

“For me?” Lin Congzhi looked at the delivery driver in confusion, pointing a finger at his own face. A moment later, it dawned on him: “Ah, it really is me.”

Ordering a cup of coffee right upon opening his eyes was pure muscle memory for him. Even though his throat had been sore and raspy when he woke up today, some strange yet powerful force of nature had compelled his hands to order an iced coffee on the delivery app anyway.

The driver handed it over and left. Lin Congzhi held the heavy, oversized cup, hearing the ice cubes clinking loudly inside.

Their eyes met. Xiao Jingwen turned his body sideways and asked, “Are any gallery staff coming in to work this morning?”

Lin Congzhi pursed his lips slightly and shook his head.

Xiao Jingwen immediately turned back around: “Then can I have this cup? Or would you prefer to heat it up yourself? Either way, you shouldn’t be consuming caffeine when you have a cold. You decide.”

Xiao Jingwen was gently and persuasively luring him in, and Lin Congzhi saw right through it. It had been true in the past, and it was true now. Xiao Jingwen was adept at using reasons and methods the other party could accept to achieve his own goals. He was like a patient predator in the wild, being genuinely cunning—You know I really want to eat you.

“Then I’ll trouble you,” Lin Congzhi said.

Lin Congzhi was sick for two days, spending almost the entire time sleeping.

When he fell ill, he took leave from the instructor at the downtown art studio, who told him to rest for a few extra days. The plum rain season was about to hit Yuchen, bringing unpredictable swings between hot and cold weather, leaving many students sick as well.

Late May and early June were always like this. He couldn’t sleep soundly through the night—feeling too hot under the cotton quilt, yet too cold when he kicked it off. Out of frustration, Lin Congzhi had turned on the air conditioner while wrapping himself in the blanket, only to wake up with an even worse headache.

On the morning of the third day of his cold, Lin Congzhi woke up.

He sat up sluggishly, his head drooping. He shook it gently to test how he felt—it didn’t hurt much anymore. Then he swallowed; his Adam’s apple bobbed beneath his fair skin. His throat still hurt a bit.

There were two WeChat messages from Zhang Miao. The first asked if he was awake and how he was feeling. The second was…

[Your ex-boyfriend is downstairs.]

Lin Congzhi was no fool. Xiao Jingwen was being so obvious he might as well have pasted “I want to get back together with you” onto his forehead. He sat on the bed and let out a sigh.

The time was ten in the morning, and the rain was still falling. The rain, humming at a pitch of 432 Hz alongside the low-frequency rumble of thunder, was immensely soothing. Honestly, he could have slept a bit longer. But as the phone screen timed out and dimmed, he pulled back the covers and got out of bed anyway.

He felt a bit lightheaded as his feet touched the ground. He shaved, washed up, and changed clothes.

The oil painting major decided to refresh his spiritual outlook after recovering from his illness. He pulled a plain celadon-green short-sleeved T-shirt from the wardrobe, pairing it with a black ramie cardigan embroidered with cranes and a pair of deep cobalt-blue cotton-linen trousers.

Only after pulling the trousers up did he realize something was off. Wait a minute… am I dressing up just to see my ex-boyfriend…?

Lin Congzhi let out a cough in front of the full-length mirror in his walk-in closet, inexplicably choking on the air. He adjusted his breathing. Breathe in, breathe out. Zhang Miao’s message had been sent fifteen minutes ago—Xiao Jingwen might have already left anyway.

Alright, time to go downstairs.

After all, he needed to eat.

He composed himself and ran a hand through his messy, naturally curly hair a few times, though his technique was poor, leaving him looking both slouched and weary.

“President Xiao, further ahead is the art studio,” Zhang Miao said. “That area isn’t open to clients, so I’m sorry about that.”

Coming down from the second floor, the staircase turned right into the art studio, which was how he and Xiao Jingwen ran straight into each other.

Lin Congzhi walked down the last few steps, stood firm, composedly tucked his hands into his cardigan, raised his eyes, and smiled: “President Xiao.”

“Teacher Lin.” Xiao Jingwen was wearing a white dress shirt paired with a dark silver patterned silk tie—frankly speaking, exactly Lin Congzhi’s type.

Xiao Jingwen’s features were such that if his eyes were any longer, he would look sinister; if his brow ridge were any higher, he would look fierce. He sat just a fraction below those critical thresholds. Lin Congzhi could tell he had deliberately dressed up today, and Lin Congzhi had to admit he was weak to this style.

People were like that after all—when someone deliberately flattered and catered to them, especially hitting all the right spots, it felt nice. Lin Congzhi was no exception.

He cleared his throat first, adopting an unhurried posture: “Would you like to tour the studio? It’s pretty messy inside though, if you don’t mind…”

As he spoke, Lin Congzhi had already grabbed the door handle. Almost every door in the gallery had a fingerprint lock. After two crisp beeps, the lock disengaged.

“Then please, come in,” Lin Congzhi said.

His studio was roughly the size of a dance studio, used exclusively by him. It really was messy—so cluttered there was hardly anywhere to step. The floor was strewn with discarded drafts, graphite dust, empty paint tubes, plaster casts, photography lights, and all sorts of strange still-life props.

Xiao Jingwen fell silent for a moment. He really hasn’t changed one bit.

Paintings hung on all four walls, ranging from Classicism to Impressionism, as well as figurative works. Xiao Jingwen looked through them one by one with utmost seriousness. During the five years Lin Congzhi spent drifting at sea, his paintings had mostly featured the ocean. The hallmark of Impressionist works lay in the brushstrokes and the play of light and shadow—the surface of the sea could be orange, or it could be purple.

Lin Congzhi led the way ahead. The terrain of the studio floor was complex; Xiao Jingwen followed beside him, meticulously stepping only where Lin Congzhi had trodden.

“Ah, this one.” Lin Congzhi stopped, pointing at a painting leaning against the wall. “The Eminent Monk.”

“Mm,” Xiao Jingwen nodded. “I saw the digital version.”

They were the only two left in the studio; Zhang Miao had tactfully slipped away long ago.

The two stood before The Eminent Monk. Lin Congzhi still looked a bit sickly. He coughed twice and said slowly, “I painted it two years ago, when the ship was preparing to dock in Dalian.”

Xiao Jingwen nodded, speaking without the slightest hesitation: “The Butterfly cruise ship.”

Lin Congzhi wasn’t surprised that Xiao Jingwen could name the exact ship he had been on without a second thought. He continued, “That monk was quite interesting. He said he was out on a spiritual pilgrimage, but he had a Straw Hat Pirates keychain hanging from his bag.”

Xiao Jingwen chuckled along: “Pretty hardcore.”

Lin Congzhi pulled his sleeves together, looking at the painting: “When we were close to docking, I asked him when I could get off the ship. He said, ‘When the ship reaches the port, you naturally get off.’ I said I didn’t understand, so he explained: ‘The crew needs to clear the hold.'”

Xiao Jingwen burst into laughter again.

The two stood before the oil painting, chatting casually like old friends or acquaintances—anything but long-separated lovers. Over those five years, Xiao Jingwen knew every sea zone Lin Congzhi had visited, every cruise ship he had boarded, even which cabin he had stayed in and which bottle of wine he had drunk.

“The drinks made by the bartender on the Butterfly…” Lin Congzhi knitted his brows. “They were honestly so awful. I was afraid that pouring them into the ocean would poison the fish.”

“How was the bartender on the Blue Spring later on?”

“Decent enough,” Lin Congzhi said.

For the next ten minutes or so, the two actually chatted effortlessly, completely unguarded and free of pressure—so much so that Lin Congzhi felt a sudden urge to smoke. He lowered his head to rub his eyes, finally asking, “So, are you here to collect the painting today? Or is there something else?”

Xiao Jingwen answered, “To pick up the painting, and to buy a few more as gifts for clients while I’m at it. Do you have any recommendations?”

“Buy even more?” Lin Congzhi smiled. “I might as well just gift them to you—just don’t raise my rent next quarter.”

“Deal,” Xiao Jingwen nodded.

Sincerity was indeed the ultimate weapon. Compared to subtle fencing and feints, laying one’s cards on the table like this felt lighthearted and carefree instead.

This gallery was Xiao Jingwen’s property. Although the name on the lease agreement wasn’t Xiao Jingwen’s, certain things couldn’t withstand scrutiny. The rent here was the lowest on the entire street, the landlord was endlessly accommodating, and water, electricity, and internet were completely free—honestly, Xiao Jingwen had laid it on a bit thick. Perhaps the company president had never rented an apartment himself and couldn’t play the role convincingly.

“Let’s go,” Lin Congzhi straightened his cuffs. “I’ll pick a few paintings out for you in the exhibition hall.”

The paintings Lin Congzhi picked for him were all medium-sized, suitable for hanging at home or in an office. Two depicted flowers and plants, and one featured the sea.

Zhang Miao and Xiao Jingwen’s two assistants packed them up together, carrying them out to put into the trunk of their car. Lastly, there was Waning Moon at Sea, which was participating in the auction. Since it was an auction piece, Xiao Jingwen needed to inspect it first. Lin Congzhi and Zhang Miao carried it down together from the second floor, unwrapping the kraft paper and waterproof cloth. One of the assistants used a recorder to film the entire piece slowly and meticulously.

Then, Xiao Jingwen asked, “Where is its description card?”

“The descrip…” Lin Congzhi opened his mouth, then said calmly, “I can’t find it. I’ll make a replacement for you later.”

Xiao Jingwen looked at him: “You haven’t looked for it yet.”

“But I know it’s missing,” Lin Congzhi cut in immediately.

He answered too quickly—unnaturally quickly. Xiao Jingwen narrowed his eyes imperceptibly—this trip hadn’t been in vain after all.

“Alright,” Xiao Jingwen said. “Then please make a replacement as soon as possible, because the description needs to be attached to the auction item.”

Lin Congzhi nodded.

After Xiao Jingwen and his assistants left with the paintings, Zhang Miao noticed that Lin Congzhi was still standing in the same spot, motionless.

For a moment, she didn’t dare step forward.

Outside, the clouds looked as if they had been swept over by charcoal sticks, reducing the world to its most primitive black, white, and grey sketch structure. Lin Congzhi stood on the boundary between light and shadow, light fading into dark across his figure.

All the issues between him and Xiao Jingwen, large and small, had simply drifted away without ever reaching a resolution.

Five years ago, he had said to Xiao Jingwen: You must stick to what you believe is right and walk the path you think is right. And I’ll do the same.