The water temperature was cool, producing no steam, the body behind the glass all the more clearly defined.

Zhou Jin closed her eyes and tilted her head back. The icy water streamed over her shoulders and the hollow of her neck, and the faint sense of breathlessness gradually emptied her chaotic thoughts.

It all felt too unreal.

The Jiang Hansheng that Wang Pengzhe described was more of a stranger to her than he had ever been before.

……

The train station was packed with a surging crowd. Wang Pengzhe’s slightly aged voice cut through the noise and reached her ears with perfect clarity.

“Hansheng understood the psychological weaknesses of the other party — he knew exactly what to say to provoke him. And as it turned out, his method worked quickly.”

“But the person who came that day wasn’t Qi Yan. It was his accomplice.”

“…Yao Weihai hesitated. He didn’t immediately give the order to pull Hansheng out.”

He breathed out silently.

That had likely been the only chance to catch the “8·17” criminal syndicate. If they let it slip, everything they had worked for would have been lost. As the lead investigator on the task force, Yao Weihai had to make the choice that served the greater operation.

Wang Pengzhe could understand that — but he couldn’t find peace with it.

“Six days,” Wang Pengzhe said. “A full six days before Yao Weihai found him in an abandoned warehouse.”

“By the time he was wheeled into surgery, he was already showing symptoms of multiple organ failure. The doctors told me to mentally prepare myself.”

At this, Wang Pengzhe’s eyes quickly reddened. He sighed quietly to himself, forcing down the anguished heat rising in his throat.

His voice turned low and heavy: “He never told me how he held on through that time. All I know is — while the others were receiving commendations for recovering the stolen firearm, Hansheng was beginning drug withdrawal treatment.”

……

Water droplets trailed down Zhou Jin’s hair. Her teeth chattered faintly.

The cold gradually brought her back to clarity. She thought of that day at the convenience store — her so-called “interrogation” of Jiang Hansheng.

She had asked him when he became a professor at the university of science and technology. He said, three years ago.

She had asked when he left the provincial department. He simply answered, five years ago.

Jiang Hansheng had brushed past the topic without any sign of distress, never telling her that in the nearly two years between — he had been going through withdrawal.

Why?

Why had he thrown his life away like that? It had nothing to do with him. Not even remotely.

“Zhou Jin.”

Jiang Hansheng stood outside the bathroom door and knocked gently twice. Draped over his forearm was a soft nightgown — Zhou Jin’s, already pressed smooth.

“Your nightgown.” Hearing the sound of running water stop, he asked, “I’ll leave it outside — is that alright?”

No response.

Jiang Hansheng waited with patient calm.

About two minutes passed. Zhou Jin yanked the door open, and came face to face with his gaze.

He was mildly startled. She had wrapped herself in a bath towel, her slender shoulders exposed to the cool air.

Jiang Hansheng’s eyes darkened slightly. Together with the nightgown, he gently nudged her back into the bathroom, saying, “Be careful — you’ll catch a chill.”

Zhou Jin took the nightgown and quickly pulled it on.

Below the hem of the sleep dress, her legs were slender and straight. Standing against the hard, cool-grey tones of the bathroom, her skin was as white as snow.

Jiang Hansheng’s mouth felt dry. Something like a flame burned deep in his eyes.

In front of Zhou Jin, his reason had never been able to hold desire in check.

He closed the bathroom door, then reached up and gently threaded his fingertips through her damp hair.

He retrieved a towel, draped it over her head, and softly rubbed her hair dry.

In a low, quiet voice he asked, “Are you tired?”

Zhou Jin took hold of his wrist. Her hair was a disheveled tangle, her brows and lashes dark as ink, her eyes bright as gemstones. Her expression was blank — yet no matter how Jiang Hansheng looked at her, he found her impossibly captivating.

He drew her waist in and bent down to kiss her.

Zhou Jin caught his thin lips and they shared a very brief kiss, then she murmured, “Help me dry my hair…”

Jiang Hansheng blinked.

Somehow, those words felt even more intimate than the kiss just now.

Zhou Jin brought over a small stool and sat down in front of the vanity mirror. The stool wasn’t very tall — just the right height for her to see her own face reflected back at her.

Jiang Hansheng retrieved the hair dryer.

Zhou Jin tilted her head back gently and closed her eyes, feeling his long fingers glide slowly through her hair.

She had taken a cold shower, and her skin was chilled. The warm air brushing lightly across her face felt almost scalding by comparison. Carried along with the warmth was Jiang Hansheng’s scent, reaching her.

They smelled of the same body wash.

Jiang Hansheng moved at an unhurried, deliberate pace, savoring every moment of simply being with her.

After a little while, Zhou Jin opened her eyes. She said nothing — she simply watched him in silence.

Jiang Hansheng smiled faintly, then deliberately blew her hair forward over her forehead, letting it fall across her eyes in a soft tangle.

“What are you looking at?” he asked.

“You.”

She unplugged the hair dryer, took it from his hands, and set it aside.

Zhou Jin turned to face him, gazing intently at his fine features.

Their eyes met. Her look was direct and burning. Jiang Hansheng couldn’t quite read her intention.

“What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong with me?”

Zhou Jin said, “Your name is Jiang Hansheng?”

Jiang Hansheng paused, then answered, “It is.”

Zhou Jin cupped his face in her hands, looked him over from side to side, then pinched his cheeks lightly and murmured with suspicion, “You’re not lying to me, are you?”

Jiang Hansheng laughed despite himself, capturing her hands in his and holding them gently. “Not lying to you — the genuine article, no substitutes.”

“Not lying to me?” Zhou Jin asked. “Then what about ‘no real danger’ — that wasn’t a lie either?”

“…”

Seeing that he didn’t answer, Zhou Jin didn’t retreat the way she had that time she’d caught him holding A’Juan.

She stepped forward and pressed herself against his neck, her arms wrapping tighter and tighter around him, drawing in his solidity, his warmth, his presence.

Zhou Jin asked, “Why? Back then — five years ago — none of that had anything to do with you. Why did you do it?”

Jiang Hansheng understood. “Did Teacher Wang—”

Zhou Jin cut him off without a second thought, her face buried in the hollow of his neck. In a low, rough voice she demanded, “I’m asking you why!”

Jiang Hansheng went rigid, because in the trembling tail of her voice, she couldn’t hide her shaking — or her tears.

He felt a spreading warmth against his neck.

Zhou Jin’s tears slipped from the corners of her eyes. She pushed down the sob wedged in her throat and said, “Back then… I didn’t even remember you…”

Jiang Hansheng immediately pulled her firmly against him, his voice low and deep. “Zhou Jin — that was my job. It had nothing to do with you.”

Zhou Jin couldn’t hold it back any longer. A sob broke free. “Jiang Hansheng!”

He stroked her trembling back, a little at a loss, murmuring, “Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”

After a moment of holding her like that, Zhou Jin grabbed his collar and tilted her head up to kiss him fiercely.

The kiss was searing — wild and unrestrained.

Jiang Hansheng followed the force of her and stepped back two paces, his back meeting the wall.

“Zhou — Zhou Jin…?”

Zhou Jin pressed in after him and kept kissing him, reclaiming the possessive, unruly intensity she’d had in her younger years when something was entirely hers — and bit down on his lip.

His throat moved in a deep swallow, and the sound that escaped him carried a distinctly compelling quality.