Misplaced Summer - Part 8

Chapter Twenty-Two: Taking Care

I sat in the single chair beside the bed, listening to the kettle's bubble-bubble, and could not get my mind to settle.

Coco lay on her side. Her hair fanned across the pillow and her shoulder. The wine-red hem of her dress was rumpled where she'd pressed against it. Her face was still flushed, though her breathing had evened a little — only her brow furrowed occasionally, as if her stomach was still uncomfortable.

I got up, carried the warm water over, called her softly.

"Coco. Sit up. Drink some water."

She didn't answer. Only her lashes twitched.

I set the cup down on the nightstand, leaned down, hesitated a moment — then laid my palm against her forehead.

Hot.

The instant my palm met her skin, something tightened in my chest. I didn't know whether it was from the alcohol or something else, but she felt like she'd been steamed by it from the inside out — forehead, cheeks, even her earlobes radiating a feverish heat. And her skin was so fine, so smooth, like a thin glaze of porcelain — the moment I touched it I lost the nerve to keep my hand there.

"Coco. Wake up. Drink first."

This time she responded. She slowly opened her eyes — gaze still unfocused. Looked at me for a few seconds, then seemed to recognize me, and called softly: "Ethan..."

"Sit up. Drink some water."

I slid one arm behind her back and lifted her slightly. Her whole body was soft. The moment her shoulders left the bed, she leaned, unconsciously, toward me. Her hair brushed my wrist, carrying heat, carrying that faint floral scent. I caught my breath on reflex, but a second later the scent slipped in through the gap in my breathing anyway, light, slow, winding around the body, making something in my chest go thick.

She half-leaned against me, took small sips of half the cup. Halfway through, she frowned.

"Hurts..." she said.

"Want to throw up?"

She shook her head, her eyes wet, the alcohol fog overlaying them with a film. "Not throw up. Just — stomach is burning..."

I set the cup down. "Do you have hangover medicine?"

She closed her eyes and thought, then nodded faintly. "In the bag... white case..."

I went through her bag. There were a lot of things inside — lipstick, compact, tissues, hair ties, even the pen she'd carried into client meetings during the day. I found a small white pill case; sure enough, it held a few stomach tablets and hangover pills. I poured another cup of water and fed her the pills.

When she swallowed, her brow furrowed deeper. After she finished, she pressed her face into the hollow of my shoulder, voice muffled. "Bitter..."

I went rigid.

She didn't mean anything by it. At least that was what I told myself. She was just drunk, uncomfortable, leaning a moment. But when she came against me like that, her cheek and her breath fell along the side of my neck, and that strip of skin tightened in an instant as if struck by a spark. I could even feel her lashes brushing the collar of my shirt — almost weightless — and yet it scattered me completely.

"Hold on," I said, voice hoarse. "It'll pass in a minute."

She made a small mm, like a child, and obediently did not move.

I helped her back down, drew the blanket up to her chest. Her sleep posture was restless; two minutes after I'd settled her she rolled over, kicking half the blanket off. I had to tuck her back in.

The Ningbo night was very quiet. Outside, the lake-city lights threw faint reflections onto the window glass. The heater was running warm; I turned the temperature down two notches, and when I came back, she was looking at me with half-open, hazy eyes.

"What is it?" I walked over.

"You're leaving?"

"I'm not leaving," I said. "Sleep. I'll go back when you're better."

She watched me for a few seconds, as if checking whether I'd told her the truth. Then she reached out, slowly, and grabbed at the air.

I blinked, didn't get it.

She reached again, voice fainter. "Hand..."

I hesitated for an instant — then put my hand into hers.

She closed her fingers around it.

Her hand was small. Her fingers were slim. The palm was extraordinarily hot. The moment she had hold of me, she seemed to finally settle. Her eyes closed. But her hand did not let go.

I sat back down in the chair, let her keep holding. The grip wasn't strong — at least, not strong-looking, not now — just firm, as if she were afraid I might sneak away while she was asleep.

Once the room had gone quiet, exhaustion started to creep into the spaces between my bones. Hangzhou to Ningbo today, then the meeting, then the dinner, then the drinking, then bringing her back — and now this. I felt hollowed out, but my brain wouldn't switch off.

I looked down at her.

The edge was all gone from her face when she slept. None of the morning's conference-room precision; none of the dinner-table smiling pressure. She just lay there quietly, with those long lashes, a small nose, lips redder than usual from the alcohol. She held my hand the way someone holds a piece of driftwood.

Something turned in my chest.

In that private room tonight, when those men closed in to pour her drinks, I had genuinely been angry. Not angry about KPIs, not about dinner-table etiquette. Something primitive, and frankly ugly. I couldn't bear the way they looked at her. I couldn't bear that they used the leverage of being the buyer to treat her as a young woman whose boundaries could be tested.

Even though she had already taken the heat for me, I had still been seething.

But sitting here, now, all of it had cooled into something else. Just a sore ache.

How much had she drunk.

I didn't dare run the number again. The moment I started to, my chest tightened.

About half an hour later, she became unsettled.

Her breathing went uneven, then her brow furrowed, then her grip on my hand tightened. I leaned in. "Coco?"

She didn't wake. Only made a low whimper, rubbing her forehead against the pillow, as if even her dream hurt.

I pulled the chair closer, freed my other hand, patted her back gently to settle her. After a few pats, she suddenly spoke. Soft as a dream-syllable.

"Don't go..."

My hand stilled.

"Don't leave me alone..."

In that instant, something struck me hard in the chest.

I knew she was talking in her sleep. Maybe she was dreaming of something — that night of the explosion, or the ex who used to follow her, or the faces at the table tonight. But the hand she had gripped tight was mine, and the dependency in her voice was the exact register I had been most afraid to hear from her.

My throat closed. All I could do was say, low, "I'm not going. I'm right here."

She seemed to actually hear me. Her breathing slowly evened out. Her grip on my hand did not loosen.

A while later, my phone buzzed.

I pulled it out. Su Man, on WeChat.

Dinner wrapping up?

Six syllables. My back tensed.

I glanced up instinctively at Coco on the bed. Still asleep, face by the pillow, breathing soft, as though she knew nothing. And yet that was the exact moment when I knew, most clearly, what I was doing.

I typed: Just finished. Client got pretty drunk, I'm helping settle things. Might be late back.

After I sent it, I stared at the screen for two seconds and thought of myself as a completely unredeemable bastard.

Su Man replied quickly. Okay.

One word.

No follow-up. No suspicion. Not even a complaint.

That was exactly why it hurt more.

I pressed the phone dark, slid it back into my pocket. Something in my chest weighed like a stone. And yet my other hand was still being held by Coco, and the warmth in the place where our palms met would not let me pretend, the way I used to, that all of this was just coworker looking after coworker.

I sat in silence for a while. Then I heard her again, faint.

"Ethan..."

"Mm."

"You stood up for me tonight."

Her eyes were still closed, half between sleep and wake, but the corner of her mouth lifted faintly.

"I know."

The I know was so light, feather-light, but it dropped straight into the softest part of me.

I had always thought I was the one taking care of her, helping her, playing the older, steadier, supposed-to-be-the-grown-up role. But tonight at that table, when she stopped me and said I've got this, in that instant I had been more of a mess than she was.

I didn't want to admit it. But she had protected me.

"Sleep," I said, low.

She might have smiled. Then she finally, completely, settled.

Sometime past 1 AM, she started sweating.

Her forehead and neck went damp, like the alcohol had finally lifted off her. I was worried she'd wake up with a head full of pain in the morning, so I went to the bathroom for a warm towel, came back, and slowly wiped her face.

When the towel touched the side of her face, she shrank slightly, then, unconsciously, nudged her cheek toward my palm.

My hand stopped.

The lamplight was warm — falling on her face, on the damp lashes, on the corner of her mouth. She was close enough that I could see the few fine baby hairs at her temple. The floral scent was clearer at night than during the day — not stronger, even with a thread of clean coolness in it — but it made the chest go soft.

I held the towel and for a long while couldn't move.

Then I forced my eyes away, finished wiping her forehead and her neck, set the towel down.

"Ethan..."

She called me again.

"What is it?"

"Cold."

I felt for the AC controller. The temperature wasn't low. Probably she was sweating out the alcohol and her body was running weak as a result. I tucked the blanket up higher, pressed it down at the sides of her shoulders.

She still furrowed her brow. Curled tighter. Drew her feet in.

"Still cold?" I asked.

She didn't answer. She just used her hand — the one holding mine — to pull me forward. The pull tipped my body to one side; I tilted toward the bed, my face almost grazing hers.

Her eyes closed, her voice soft and slurry:

"Don't sit so far away."

I forgot to breathe for a second.

"I'm not sitting far."

"Far..." She repeated it the way a child whines, then shifted a little to the side, leaving an open patch beside her on the bed.

I looked at that empty patch and a chill prickled across my scalp.

The room was silent. The heat was generous. There wasn't a breath of wind outside the window. Coco on the bed was drunk, flushed, still gripping my hand, completely unaware — or possibly entirely aware — of what this gesture meant to me.

I stood up. Stepped back.

"Coco, the chair is fine."

She didn't open her eyes. But the hand holding mine began, slowly, to release.

Not all at once. Slowly, one finger at a time. Like she did not want to but was obeying me anyway.

The last to leave was her index finger, which hooked once, briefly, around my knuckle. Then let go too.

"Oh," she answered, soft.

A single syllable. And something in my chest went sour.

I stood by the bed and watched her for a few seconds. In the end I didn't dare sit on the bed; I only pulled the chair closer, almost flush against the bed frame.

"I'm here," I said.

She didn't fuss this time, didn't reach again. She just turned her face toward me and slept. Close enough that when I lowered my eyes, I saw her sleeping face clearly.

I barely slept the rest of the night.

When she shifted, I woke. When her breathing went heavier, I opened my eyes to check on her. Around three AM, she finally went under properly. The flush on her face began to recede; her hands and feet stilled. I reached over and touched her forehead. Normal temperature. The string inside me slackened a notch.

I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes.

The instant I closed them, my head filled with the day.

On the highway, her head sleeping calmly on my thigh. At the dinner table, her smiling, taking the cup of baijiu for me. In the elevator, her face buried in the hollow of my shoulder, her breath warm against my throat. And now, half-asleep, you stood up for me tonight.

The more I told myself not to think about it, the clearer it became.

The scent of her up close. The grip of her fingers at my sleeve. The brightness of her eyes when she looked at me across the dinner table.

Clear to the point I didn't dare think any further.

Close to dawn, I dozed off for maybe ten minutes. I woke to a faint sound of water.

I opened my eyes sharply — the bed was empty.

The bathroom door was closed. Water running inside. My heart kicked. I stood up, walked to the door, was about to knock — and the door opened from inside.

Coco stood in the doorway in a white hotel bathrobe, her hair hanging wet, her face clean, the only trace of last night a faint pink at the outer corners of her eyes. She had clearly just showered — the steam had flushed her pale skin to a translucent pink — like a flower freshly wetted by dew.

She saw me, paused, then smiled.

"Ethan, you didn't leave all night?"

She smiled so naturally, as though the person who had gripped my hand all night and the person who had said cold in the middle of the night had not been her. And that as though nothing happened tone was, precisely, what cornered me hardest.

I looked away. My throat was dry. "After how much you drank last night? How was I going to leave?"

"Did I... did I cause you trouble?" She tilted her head.

"No." I paused, then added, "Just uncomfortable."

She made a small oh, walked slowly to the bedside, reached for the hair dryer. The belt of the robe loosened slightly with the motion, and almost on reflex I dragged my eyes away to look at the now-graying sky outside.

She plugged in the dryer behind me. The roar of the airflow filled the room. After a while, she switched it off. Her voice came from behind me.

"Ethan."

"Mm?"

"Thank you for last night."

I turned.

She stood in the morning light, hair half-dry, the robe wrapping her slender body, her face bare of makeup, but her eyes startlingly bright. She just looked at me, gaze soft, and serious.

"With you here, I felt completely safe."

Something kicked, hard, in my chest. For a moment I had no idea what to say.

She watched me. The corner of her mouth lifted slowly, as though all the chaos and mess of last night didn't merit mentioning, leaving only a soft, warm dependency.

"So next time we travel," she said, low, "I want to come with you again."

I stood there. My throat moved. I didn't answer right away.

Outside, the sky had fully brightened. The glass of the high-floor hotel reflected the gray-white morning light of Ningbo, but inside the room there still lingered the unspent warmth of the night, and the faint, near-imaginary floral scent on her skin.

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Drive Back

The next morning, Coco and I had a very quiet breakfast at the hotel.

She had recovered, apparently, completely. White blouse, light gray skirt, hair blown out soft and full, sitting across from me sipping soymilk in small sips. The only trace was a faint tiredness at the corners of her eyes — as though the person who had gripped my hand all night and burrowed half-conscious against my shoulder in the small hours had not been her.

I kept my head down, peeling a tea-egg, doing my best not to look at her.

She didn't seem uncomfortable. She picked up a soup dumpling with her chopsticks, bit into it, got scalded by the broth, hissed quietly, then squinted her eyes at me with a smile. "Ethan, why aren't you talking?"

"Nothing." I lifted my congee bowl, took a sip. "Head still hurt?"

"A little." She held up her thumb and forefinger about a centimeter apart. "But much better."

"Mm."

She looked at me for a few seconds, then pushed her side dish of pickles toward me. "You didn't sleep, did you? Your eyes are red."

"I'm fine."

"Liar," she said, soft. "You've got circles."

I didn't pick that up; I turned to business. "Director Zhou's secretary just texted. Contract's ready by ten. We'll head over after breakfast."

"Okay."

She lowered her head and went back to her soymilk, posture quiet. But that faint floral scent had come back, mixed into the warmth of the soymilk and the smell of fried dough from the breakfast counter — faint, light, but always finding the gap in my defenses, prodding back to life the unsettled thing in my chest I'd thought I'd held down.

I shoved the rest of the tea-egg into my mouth, forced myself awake.

9:40. We arrived at the client's offices.

Last night's dinner had been an absurd nightmare, but the daytime lobby was as polished as ever — front desk in uniform, the standard professional smile, elevator doors opening and closing as though nothing had happened.

Coco and I rode up together to the seventeenth floor. The mirrored walls reflected us — me with the laptop bag, my color not great; her beside me, head bent over her phone, a strand of hair falling at her ear, her expression as relaxed as if we were arriving for the most ordinary business visit.

But the moment the elevator doors opened, I knew last night couldn't be pretended away.

Director Zhou's secretary was waiting at the door. The moment she saw Coco, she smiled — but the smile carried an unmistakable carefulness in it. "Manager Li, Coco. You're here. Director Zhou is already waiting inside."

"Thank you."

She led us in. The conference room door swung open. Three were already seated.

Director Zhou. Old Ma. Liu.

The men who had been oily and loud at the table last night had been frost-bitten overnight. Zhou's face was gray; his under-eye bags had sunk a layer deeper; a thermos sat by his hand. Old Ma was in a new pair of glasses, frames thicker than yesterday's; the whole of him was wilted, lips pale. Liu was the worst — at the far edge of the table, unable to straighten his back, a cup of strong tea untouched in front of him.

Old Chen and Zhao hadn't come.

All three turned toward us as I entered. More precisely — toward Coco.

The look on their faces was hard to describe. Not just awkwardness, not standard professional politeness. A mix of avoidance, after-shock, and instinctive tension. Something in each of them had been plucked, last night, like a string — and once plucked, that string could not return to its original tension.

Coco appeared to register none of it. She greeted them brightly. "Director Zhou. Director Ma. Brother Liu."

Her voice was as sweet and crisp as it had been pouring drinks last night.

Liu's shoulders visibly stiffened. He lifted his teacup and took a large gulp, almost choking on it.

When I sat down, something strange moved in my chest. Halfway between absurdity and satisfaction. Last night, when those men were forcing her to drink, I had wanted to flip the table. Now, looking at them like this, a dark pleasure rose up that I couldn't quite suppress.

Serves them right.

Zhou cleared his throat and slid the contract over. "We went through the proposal late last night internally. No issues. Pricing and payment milestones — we'll go with your final version. I've signed the contract. You can take a chopped copy back."

He said it quickly. No room left for negotiation.

The five sets of talking points I had prepared — I didn't use one.

"Thank you, Director Zhou." I took the contract, flipped to the signature page. The seal was fresh red, the ink new. A weight came off my chest.

Coco went through the supplementary agreement, confirmed it, looked up smiling. "Then for the project kickoff, we'll still be relying on Director Zhou and everyone here."

"Of course, of course." Old Ma jumped in, his courtesy a touch over-pitched. "Whatever coordination you need, just say."

That you was, in fact, addressed to Coco.

Coco nodded, the smile easy. "Sure."

Liu hadn't spoken the whole meeting. Only when we stood up to leave did he, as if mustering significant courage, also rise to his feet. "About... about last night, Coco..."

He cut off mid-sentence. Stalled.

Coco turned to look at him, eyes clear. "Yes?"

Liu's throat moved. In the end he swallowed whatever he'd been going to say and forced out: "...Nothing. Safe travels."

"Okay." Coco crinkled her eyes at him. "Drink lots of warm water."

She turned and walked out.

I followed, glancing back as I passed through the doorway. Liu was still standing where he had been. His face was pale, as if her airy drink lots of warm water had left some kind of aftereffect on him.

In the elevator, I finally turned my head. "How much did you actually drink last night?"

"Forget it." She held the contract, grinning. "We got the contract. Worth it."

"Worth nothing," I frowned. "You're a young woman. Drinking like that with them — what if something had happened?"

She blinked, looking pleased by the scolding; her voice went two degrees softer. "I had you here, didn't I?"

That line again.

Something closed in my throat. For a moment I had no answer.

The elevator hit the ground floor. Ding. She stepped out first, turned, waved the contract at me, smiled like a kid who'd just won a battle.

"Ethan, we got the project. Doesn't this mean we get to take it easy this afternoon?"

"Meaning?"

"We came all the way to Ningbo and we're not going to look around?" She walked backward, eyes crescent. "Old Bund. River view. The pedestrian street. Street food. After how badly I drank last night, you owe me, don't you think?"

The how badly I drank last night stuck a small barb in me. I had no hardness left to refuse. "We still have to drive back tonight."

"So we'll just wander for the afternoon, eat dinner, and drive back. We got the contract — you wouldn't begrudge me half a day off, would you, Manager Li?"

She put a small mischievous lift on the word Manager.

I looked at her. After a long moment: "Okay."

Her eyes lit up. "Really?"

"Really."

"Then let's drop everything off in the car." Her mood had visibly brightened. She walked with a small bounce. "I'm planning today's itinerary."

When we left the client's office, the weather had become unexpectedly good.

Ningbo's autumn felt brighter than Hangzhou's, the wind carrying the slight dampness particular to a river city. We dropped by the hotel and checked out, loaded the suitcases into the trunk, then drove to the Old Bund.

By the time we reached the river, the sky had cleared completely. Sunlight broke against the surface of the water in jumping fragments of white. On the far bank stood new high-rises and bridges; nearer, the buildings still carried that old colonial style — brick walls, arched windows, narrow alley mouths. Half old, half new, somehow holding together.

Coco got out of the car, stood at the railing, stretched.

She had on the same white blouse and skirt from breakfast, with a light camel trench thrown on top. The wind caught at her hem and her hair. She held the rail and looked out at the water; the sun lit her in profile, the warm note inside a frame of gray-blue.

I stood beside her, hands in my pockets, struck for a moment by how unreal the scene was.

I had been at her bedside last night, awake almost the entire time. And now, in the afternoon, we were standing on a stranger city's riverbank in the wind like two genuinely ordinary people on a short getaway.

"What are you spacing out about?" She turned her head.

"Nothing."

"Look over there." She pointed across the water. "There are tour boats under the bridge."

"Mm."

"It must be prettier at night."

"Mm."

She watched me for two seconds, then smiled. "Ethan, are you on a word-budget today?"

"This is how I normally talk."

"No way." She rebutted with mock seriousness. "You talk plenty to clients. With me, it's always mm, mm, mm."

I had no explanation to offer. I couldn't very well say: the longer I'm with you, the less I know how to put my distance back where it should be.

She didn't push. She turned back to the rail and the view. After a while she breathed in lightly. "The wind here is really nice."

"Mm." I turned to look at the water with her.

When the river wind came up, I caught the floral note off her again. But maybe it was the sun on her — the scent in daylight was different from the closed-room version of last night. Not the clinging, heart-warming kind. The wind had dispersed it into something cleaner, the way a leaf gives off a thin green smell when first crushed open between fingers.

The taut wire I'd been holding inside me loosened by a notch.

We walked the riverbank for half an hour. She kept stopping — to photograph a building, to puzzle over a street sign, to peek into a shop selling handmade fridge magnets — like a genuine first-time tourist. Each time she turned to call me, I had to catch up. I was taller, older, and the entire afternoon was being conducted at her tempo.

"Ethan, take a photo of me from this angle."

"Ethan, look at this wall, it's like something from a movie."

"Ethan, there's a stand selling osmanthus rice ball soup — let's go."

Being pulled along, something soft kept moving through my chest. When she was happy, her whole body seemed to give off light, and even ordinary street scenes brightened by being near her.

We arrived at a busy pedestrian shopping street. The crowd thickened. The street was lined with shops and stalls. Grilled squid, sugar-roasted chestnuts, egg waffles, Ningbo glutinous rice balls, carts selling handmade hair clips and phone cases. Coco stopped every ten meters — once to buy takoyaki, once drawn off the path by the smell of fried rice cake.

"Didn't you say last night ruined your stomach?" I said, watching her cradle the warm box of takoyaki.

"All better." She speared one with the toothpick and held it up to my mouth. "Try one."

I drew back on reflex. "I'll take it myself."

"No. This one." She held the stick up firmly, eyes bright.

The street was full of people. With her holding the food up like that, my ears went hot. But there was no other meaning on her face — she was just offering me a bite. In the end I had to lean down and take the takoyaki off the stick.

Hot. Crunchy outside, soft inside.

She looked satisfied; she ate one herself, cheeks puffed, like a small hamster.

"Good?"

"It's fine."

"Fine means delicious." She had her own translation system for me.

I looked at her smug face and let the corner of my mouth lift, briefly, without meaning to.

We kept walking. At a corner up ahead, a section of the street had been taken over by temporary stalls running carnival games. Ring toss, balloon shooting, beanbag toss, claw machines. Kids and young couples crowded around, loud.

Coco stopped. "Let's play."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-four." The answer came out instantly. "You're not telling me you're too old already, are you, Ethan?"

"..."

She was getting more and more practiced at provocation.

She pulled me toward the booths. We started with ring toss. The vendor gave her ten plastic rings. She bent over, aimed for a long time, and successfully ringed a keychain and an extremely ugly plush duck. The duck was yellow, flat, with a crooked beak.

She lifted the duck, eyed it critically for two seconds, then stuffed it into my arms.

"For you."

"This counts as a present?"

"It's cute." Earnest face. "Like you."

"What about me is like that?"

"Stubborn."

I stood there holding the ugly duck with no comeback ready.

Then she dragged me to the balloon-shooting booth. The vendor handed over an old air rifle. I was getting ready to worry about her holding it steady — but she lifted it, squinted one eye, pulled the trigger five times in a row, and hit five out of five.

Pop pop pop pop pop. Five balloons in succession.

A couple of kids nearby went silent in amazement.

The vendor blinked. "Miss, have you trained?"

Coco set the rifle down and switched back to the soft girl mode instantly, rubbing her shoulder and smiling at me. "No, just lucky I guess. My arm's tired. Ethan, your turn."

I stood there watching her switch personas, and something inside me skipped a beat.

I don't know why, but in that moment, several of those previous not-quite-normal moments came back to me all at once. Her hand on the armrest in the movie theater that I could not pry off. Her arms around my waist in the blizzard that I could not break out of. The way those clients last night had looked like they had seen something supernatural.

The thought flashed through and was gone — interrupted by her shoving the rifle into my arms with a smile.

"Hurry up." She nudged me. "Let's see if you can shoot."

I pulled myself back, took the rifle, shot three times, hit two. The vendor gave us a small palm-sized dolphin charm.

"That one's cute," she said immediately.

"Take it then."

"No." She shook her head. "You already have the duck, I have my prizes. This way it's fair."

She took the dolphin out of my hand, twirled it in her fingers, then slipped it into the pocket of my blazer. "Keep it."

The motion was so natural, like she was secretly placing some marker of hers on me.

I looked down at the pocket. Said nothing.

A little further on, there were basketball machines and claw machines. She tried the claw machine six times — caught nothing — and finally tapped the glass with mock indignation, turning to me with an aggrieved face. "It's rigged against me."

"You were shooting balloons fine a minute ago."

"That's different." Indignant. "Claw machines are about destiny."

In the end I won her a small white rabbit. She held it, delighted, and on the way out tapped its ears against my arm. "Ethan, you're amazing."

I watched her this happy, and a ridiculous thought surfaced — if it were just the two of us today, no work, no roles, no boundaries we can't cross, this would look very much like a date.

The moment it surfaced, I knew it was wrong and shoved it back down.

But once you've shoved a thought back down, the dull noise of it churning underneath is louder than before.

We ate our way along the rest of the street. She bought sugar-roasted chestnuts and peeled one, handed it to me warm. She bought a bowl of fermented rice soup, drank two sips, said it was too sweet, handed the rest to me. Then she insisted on lining up at a plum-blossom cake stand because it smells so good.

"How is there always more you want to eat?" I asked.

"Because today I'm happy." Simply.

"You're this happy about a signed contract?"

She took a bite of the cake, looked up at me, eyes bright as if they were holding the sun. "Being out with you makes me happy too."

My chest gave a hard kick.

She said it and then went back to eating, head down, as if she'd just delivered the most ordinary throwaway line.

I stood there. My throat had closed. It took me several seconds to start walking again.

By the back half of the street, the afternoon was beginning to slant toward evening. The shop signs were turning on, one by one. The crowd had grown.

Coco stopped abruptly at the entrance of an accessory shop.

It was a small store selling diffusers, jewelry, and trinkets. The window had ceramic mugs, silk scarves, earrings, beautifully wrapped small gift boxes.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Going in to look."

"You're going to buy more?"

"Not for me."

She'd already pushed through the door. I followed. The shop was warm and yellow-lit, with a soft piano track playing. She wandered between the shelves, picking up an earring pair, touching a scarf — her expression was the focused one of someone selecting a gift for someone important.

I watched for a moment, then registered. "You're buying a present for someone?"

"Mm."

"Who?"

She turned, smiled at me. "Su Man."

In that instant something in my chest took a soft punch — not hard, but heavy in a way that sat for a long time.

"For her?"

"Yes." She kept her eyes on the counter, tone unconcerned. "She was so kind to me at the gala. And she let me come on this trip with you. She even messaged me yesterday telling me to take care of my health. I'm here — I can't really go back empty-handed."

I stood there, no idea what to say.

Su Man had, in fact, messaged me last night. At noon today she'd asked if the contract had come through. I'd lied and said things had gone smoothly, and that I'd be home tonight. She had replied with a small smile emoji and I'll wait for dinner. I'd looked at that message while Coco was picking out candied haws at a snack cart.

And now Coco was picking out a gift for my wife.

"This one?" She lifted a pale cream silk pocket scarf, held it against her own neck. "Su Man has fair skin. This should look good on her."

I looked at the scarf and could in fact picture Su Man wearing it. Su Man's manner was gentle, warm; in one of her knit cardigans, a pale scarf like this would suit her well.

"It works," I said.

Coco nodded, then turned to the diffuser candles. She tested several scents seriously and finally settled on osmanthus oolong.

"This one too. Will be nice in the bedroom."

"One is enough," I said reflexively.

"How can it be enough?" She looked up. "The scarf is to wear. The candle is to use. They don't overlap."

The matter-of-factness of her tone made the discomfort in me worse.

I had assumed she would be jealous. Or at least quietly resentful. Or at the very least, that she would deliberately avoid Su Man's existence. None of that. Not only none of that — she was carefully picking out gifts for Su Man, with sincere attention, as though she genuinely hoped Su Man would be pleased to receive them.

This kind of grace and tenderness disarmed me more than any aggression could have.

"These two then." She handed them to the clerk. "Wrap them nicely, please."

The clerk smiled. "For an older sister?"

Coco paused, glanced at me, then smiled. "Yes. For a very good sister."

I stood there with something stuffing the inside of my chest like cotton wool — I could barely draw breath.

When the clerk got to the register, I reached for my phone. "I'll get it."

"No need." Coco pressed my hand back. "On me."

"Coco."

"Really, no need." Her tone was soft but not negotiable. "This is what I want to give Su Man myself."

She held up the QR code. Beep. Paid.

The clerk handed her the wrapped box. She checked it, then asked for a small card to include. She stood at the counter with a pen, wrist slender, her round, careful handwriting going onto the card.

I couldn't help asking. "What are you writing?"

"Not telling you."

She finished, folded the card, tucked it into the box, picked up the bag, and turned. The sunset had dropped to the end of the street; the storefront sign lights were coming on one by one, lighting her softly.

I looked at the gift bag in her hand. The heaviness in my chest deepened.

"You didn't have to," I said, low.

Her steps slowed. She turned. "Why not?"

"You..." I wanted to say: you don't have to be this kind to her, you don't have to be this gracious, you don't have to put me in a position even more shameful than the one I'm already in. But the words came out as: "You don't have to think about this much."

Coco looked at me quietly for a few seconds.

The pedestrian street was loud — the sausage grill sizzling, a child laughing somewhere. But her gaze, in that moment, made everything else seem quiet.

"It's not me thinking too much," she said. "I just think Su Man deserves it."

She looked down at the bag in her hand, voice dropping. "And she likes me. Doesn't she."

Something in my chest dropped hard.

The line was so light it could have been a joke. But because it was light, it cut deeper.

Yes. Su Man liked her. From the first meeting. Had added her on WeChat. Chatted with her sometimes. Su Man trusted me completely, and also liked Coco. That was exactly what made me look the worst.

My throat moved. I had no words.

Coco watched me, then smiled, lifting the dropped atmosphere back up. "Okay. Don't make that face. I bought it. You're not going to stop me from giving it, are you?"

She smiled, and the heaviness inside me only became more complicated.

"Suit yourself," I said.

"That's better." She lifted the bag at me. "And when we get back, you don't get to tell her you bought it yourself, okay?"

"Am I that petty?"

"Yes." Instant answer.

I looked at her, and finally couldn't help reaching out and gently flicking the top of her head.

She gave a small ow and clapped her hand over her crown, glaring up at me wide-eyed, like an indignant kitten. "Ethan!"

"Didn't you say you drank too much last night? How do you have this much energy today?"

"Because someone's here to play with me."

She said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world, holding the white rabbit and the gift bag, and walked on ahead. I stood watching her back. The hem of the trench coat lifted lightly in the evening wind, her hair swaying. After a few steps she turned around to hurry me. "Come on. If we don't go, you'll be driving back at midnight."

I caught up.

By the time we got back to the hotel parking lot to pick up the car, it was fully dark.

I opened the trunk and put our things in. She put the gift for Su Man separately in the passenger side glovebox, set it carefully, even patted it twice, as if afraid I'd forget.

Seeing her do that, the lodged thing in my chest gave another twist.

In the car she fastened her seatbelt, turned her head. "You okay to drive? Want me to keep talking so you don't get sleepy?"

"I'm okay."

"Then let me put on music."

She bent her head over Bluetooth and chose a soft female folk track. The car eased out of the parking garage, merged into the night streets of Ningbo. Neon signs flashed past, leaving brief reflections on the windshield.

I held the wheel, glancing over once. She had played herself out. She was leaning back against the seat with the white rabbit tucked against her, relaxed — like someone who had just had a genuinely happy afternoon.

But the inside of me was in chaos.

The contract was signed. The project was secured. We had walked the river together this afternoon, walked the pedestrian street, eaten food, played games. She had bought a gift for Su Man.

Every single one of those facts was normal. Normal to the point of being even — beautiful.

And it was precisely because it was that beautiful, that the entire way I couldn't go on lying to myself — I had started to crave being with her.

When the car merged onto the highway, Coco said softly, "Ethan."

"Mm?"

"I had a really good time today."

I kept my eyes on the dark road ahead, my throat tight. "Mm."

She paused, then added: "Happier than I felt about the contract."

I didn't answer.

Because I knew — so was I.