chapter 3

Xie Wang began messaging me every day.

Sometimes he sent a photo of a boxed meal from the set with the caption: [Today’s braised pork is exactly eight degrees saltier than yesterday’s.]

Sometimes it was a streetlamp after a late-night shoot: [Good night, desk mate.]

I answered each message. Sometimes immediately, sometimes two or three hours later when I had been too absorbed in writing to notice.

He never rushed me. But whenever I did reply, his next message came almost instantly.

One evening, he sent a photograph of an exquisitely plated steak from a Western restaurant.

I enlarged it and noticed part of his hand at the edge of the frame. A fresh red scratch ran across the back.

[What happened to your hand?]

A voice message arrived immediately.

“A branch on the mountain scratched me. It hurts so much.”

I could not help smiling. Then I sensed something was wrong and played the message again.

His voice was hoarser than usual, with wind roaring behind it.

[Do you have a cold? Why are you still out in the wind?]

No answer.

A few seconds later, a video call appeared.

I accepted. The picture was dim. Xie Wang leaned against a tree, his face flushed and his mask tugged beneath his chin.

“Desk mate,” he rasped, “I’ve got a fever.”

“Why are you outside if you’re sick?” I frowned.

He smiled helplessly.

“It’s the middle of the night. I can’t wake someone up just to buy me medicine, can I?”

“Where are you?”

He named a park.

I ended the call and pulled on my coat.

Only after running out of my apartment complex did I remember that I had not taken my own stomach medicine.

By the time I reached the park, I was gasping, a bag of medicine from a twenty-four-hour pharmacy clutched in my hand.

Xie Wang was curled into himself on a bench, his baseball cap pulled low over most of his face.

I hurried over and crouched beside him.

“Xie Wang?”

I touched his forehead. He was burning.

He stirred, removed his cap, and looked at me through fever-bright, watery eyes.

My heart clenched. Instinctively, I pressed the cap back onto his head.

“Careful! What if someone recognizes—”

The moment our skin met, his heat made me flinch.

Xie Wang only smiled, looking almost foolish with fever.

“Xiao Ning, why don’t you come work as my assistant?”

“Take your medicine.”

I unwrapped a fever reducer, held the tablet to his lips, and opened a bottle of water.

He obediently took it from my fingers and drank from my hand, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Do you remember the way home? I’ll take you.”

He shook his head. “Can we sit here for a while?”

The park was empty at that hour, bathed in dull yellow light.

I unwound my scarf and wrapped it around his neck.

Xie Wang leaned back and turned to look at me.

Even sick, his eyes shone like they held a fistful of broken stars.

“Xiao Ning,” he said suddenly.

“Mm?”

“Thank you.”

Before I could say it was nothing, he took a tiny sandalwood box from the inside pocket of his down jacket and handed it to me.

“For you.”

The box was no bigger than my palm but surprisingly heavy, with delicate lotus blossoms carved into its surface.

I thanked him and held it without moving.

He raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

I stared at the box for a long time.

“Xie Wang, you’ve read my novel, haven’t you?”

His smile froze.

“The reader who’s been with me for five years—that’s you.”

I looked straight into his eyes.

No matter how carefully someone disguised himself, his way of speaking was difficult to change.

Xie Wang laughed, half resigned at being exposed and half relieved.

“Yes, it’s me. Your writing is wonderful, Author Ning’an.”

Ning’an was my pen name.

His easy admission left me with nothing to say.

The male lead in that novel was based on him. I had tested the waters many times without ever being certain.

I was afraid the reader was Xie Wang.

And afraid he was not.

“When did you figure it out?” he asked.

“The birthday present you sent last month was wrapped in the same paper you used in high school.”

He blinked, then laughed.

“You kept the old wrapping paper?”

“I threw it away.”

His eyes curved. “Liar.”

I said nothing.

The truth was, that paper lay perfectly flattened between the pages of my diary.

“Xiao Ning.”

Xie Wang suddenly leaned closer. He was near enough that I could see the shadow of his lashes beneath his eyes.

“Does what you said five years ago still count?”

“You know I didn’t come to Lin City to film.”