“What were you doing out for so long?” He was waking up slowly. Weiran wanted to crawl onto the couch next to him, curl into his side, soothe him back into sleep. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. I just missed you.” Weiran leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Xiaokai’s mouth. His lips were dry. “Get some more sleep. I’ll see you later.”

“Is everything really okay?”

Weiran stood. He wanted to keep holding onto Xiaokai’s hand, but he let go anyway. “Everything’s really okay. I love you, Xiaokai.”

“I’m too tired to reprimand you.”

“I know. That’s why right now is such a good time to say it.” He leaned forward again, pressed one more kiss onto Xiaokai’s forehead. “We’ll be back soon.”

Xiaokai’s eyes were drooping, but he did have a flicker of a smile. “Oh? Are you spending the night together somewhere?”

“Don’t be difficult. I’m not above fighting with an injured person.”

“Mn…okay. One more kiss for the road? One with tongue?”

“I’ll see you in the morning, Xiaokai.”

32

THE SNOWSTORM

SUN YUE WAS in her bedroom, sitting at her vanity as if she’d settled in to do her makeup, but she wasn’t moving, and she wasn’t dressed. On the news, she was only the picture of perfection—expensive, neat clothes lining her figure; subtle and professional makeup highlighting her features—but this was far from that image on the news. This was a broken woman. Her hair was half falling out of its clip and created a frizzy halo around her face, her robe hung off her shoulder, and her sleepwear was wrinkled and stained. She seemed to just be staring at her reflection, her expression blank, her hands folded politely in her lap. Even when Zhang Weiran pushed open her bedroom door—this door into this room that he knew even Xingyu had never been allowed to enter—she did not move, and did not even glance at Weiran’s reflection in the mirror. He hadn’t been sure how to deal with the Sun Yue he saw on the news—the Sun Yue who brought ruin to his parents—but he knew even less how to deal with her like this, this strangely fragile version of the woman who had for so long seemed so invincible.

“Sun Yue.”

Her gaze connected with his in the mirror. She opened her mouth. “You must be Xingyu’s friend. Or are you Xiaokai’s?”

“Both.”

“How is he?” Her gaze returned to her reflection. For a moment, Weiran thought she was going to do something else—move her hands to brush the hair out of her face, or stand up to face him, but she just kept looking into the mirror. “Xiaokai. How is he?”