The elevator cage rattled upward, cables singing like violin strings. Lin Jia leaned against the mirrored wall, arms folded beneath her breasts, watching the numbers crawl. The air smelled of warm metal and her perfume—something expensive and slightly bitter, like crushed gardenias left too long in water.
> Every second that ticks up is a second closer to the unknown, she thought. I should feel reckless. Instead I feel… awake.
Floor eight. Floor nine. Shen Mo stood beside her, shoulders rolled forward as though he could fold the night tight between his shoulder-blades. She studied him in the mirror: the faint bruise on his collarbone, the way his pulse beat visibly in his throat, the dark lock of hair that refused to stay behind his ear.
> He hasn't said more than a dozen words to me, yet I know exactly how he sounds when he's about to break.
"Still quiet," she murmured, not looking at him. "I thought the baijiu might loosen your tongue."
His mouth curved, small and crooked. "It loosened yours."
A soft laugh escaped her. "Touché."
Floor ten. The elevator shuddered to a stop. Lin Jia keyed them in with a slow, deliberate press of her thumb; the doors slid open on a short, carpeted corridor lit by sconces the colour of melted butter. She stepped out first, heels sinking into the pile, hips swaying just enough to make the silk of her skirt whisper. Shen Mo followed, pulse thudding in his ears, counting the distance between her shoulder blades and the small, vulnerable hollow at the nape of her neck.
> Her apartment smells like cedar and something darker, he noted. Like pages of an old book that's been left in the rain.
She drew the matte-black door shut behind them and flicked a switch; under-cabinet LEDs came alive, washing the open-plan space in a soft amber glow. The living area was minimal—low charcoal sofa, a single orchid in a slate pot, a wall of books that looked read rather than decorative. Beyond, floor-to-ceiling windows framed Shanghai like a living photograph—violet and neon gold, traffic threading the avenues like electric blood.
> I could stand here forever, he thought, and never run out of light to watch.
Lin Jia kicked off her second heel, letting it clatter against the shoe rack. Without the extra inches she was smaller—barely grazing his chin—yet nothing about her felt frail. She moved like someone accustomed to being watched: economical, aware of every angle, and yet utterly unself-conscious.
> Small, but not fragile, he decided. Like a blade folded into silk.
"Tea?" she asked, already turning toward the counter. The question was polite, automatic; the glance she flicked over her shoulder was not. It lingered on the open collar of his shirt, the hollow at the base of his throat, as though she could read secrets in the shadows there.
He followed her into the narrow kitchen, close enough that her perfume—jasmine and something darker—wrapped around him like a second skin. "Whatever you're having."
> Her laugh is soft, almost surprised, he noticed. I like the sound of it too much already.
She filled an electric kettle, her back to him. The camisole beneath the blazer had been ivory lace, thin enough that he could see the delicate line of her bra strap beneath. The fabric clung to the curve of her waist, the small dip just above the waistband of her skirt. Shen Mo leaned a hip against the counter and watched her move—precise, unhurried, the kind of grace that came from years of balancing high heels and deadlines.
> She pours water like she's conducting an orchestra, he thought. Every motion deliberate, every pause exact.
When the kettle clicked off, she measured two scoops of dark leaves into a ceramic pot. Steam curled between them, carrying the scent of cedar and smoke. She handed him a cup, fingers brushing his, and the contact jolted through him like static.
> Her skin is cooler than mine. I wonder if she tastes like the tea.
"So," she said, cradling her cup beneath her chin. "The silent genius from the top floor. I've seen you run past the park at dawn. You always look like you're chasing something."
He sipped the tea. It burned pleasantly, leaving a hint of cedar on his tongue. "Sometimes I'm just running."
> From what? she wondered. Or toward what?
"From?" she prompted, brow arching.
He shrugged. The motion pulled the fabric of his shirt tight across his shoulders; her gaze followed, lingered. "From being still."
Lin Jia set her cup down, untasted. "I'm going to be blunt. I don't bring strange men home. I'm not lonely, and I'm definitely not bored. But you—" she paused, searching his face, "—you look like a storm that forgot how to break."
> A storm, he echoed silently. Maybe I'm the eye, not the wind.
A flicker of amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth. "And you collect storms?"
"Only the quiet ones." She stepped closer, close enough that her bare toes brushed the worn rubber of his sneakers. "Tell me to stop, and I will."
Shen Mo didn't speak. He simply lowered his cup to the counter and reached for the small button at the back of her skirt. The fabric parted with a whisper, sliding down her hips to pool at her feet. Beneath, she wore high-cut panties the colour of merlot, lace scalloped along the edges. The sight of them sent heat pooling low in his belly.
> Merlot, he catalogued unconsciously. Deep red, almost black in this light. Like the inside of her mouth after wine.
Lin Jia's breath hitched, the tiniest sound, but she didn't move away. Instead she reached for the hem of his T-shirt, fingers slipping beneath the cotton to trace the warm skin of his waist. Her touch was cool from the teacup, a shock that made his muscles jump. Slowly—giving him time to stop her—she drew the shirt upward. He lifted his arms, let her strip it away. The cool air of the apartment kissed his chest; gooseflesh rose along his spine.
> She studies me like code, he thought. Line by line, searching for the bug.
Her palms mapped the slope of his shoulders, the hard curve of his biceps, the faint scar just beneath his left rib. When she brushed over the flat disk of his nipple, his breath caught audibly.
> Sensitive, she noted, lips curving. Good to know.
She stepped back, just enough to see him fully. The dragon tattoo shifted as he breathed, ink scales catching the low light. She traced one wing with a fingernail, following the line down his spine until he shivered.
> He shivers, she realised. This quiet man shivers for me.
Bedroom next. She took his hand—hers looked impossibly small in his—and led him down the short hallway. The room was darker, lit only by the glow of the city bleeding through half-drawn curtains. She pushed the door shut with her heel; the click echoed like a heartbeat.
> City glow, she thought. Better than candles—no wax, no smoke, just the world watching.
She laid him on the wide mattress, sheets cool and expensive beneath them. For a moment she simply looked: the long line of him, the way muscle and bone fit together like architecture. Then she crawled up beside him, knees sinking into the mattress, hair falling across one shoulder.
> I've forgotten how to be gentle, she realised, but maybe gentle isn't what we need tonight.
They moved together—clothes sliding off, fabric whispering to the floor. There were no words, only the rustle of sheets, the soft gasps that caught in her throat, the quiet groan he couldn't hold back when her nails scraped down his back. The city pulsed beyond the glass, but inside the room time narrowed to the slow drag of her hips against his, the way her head fell back on the pillow, the tremor in her thighs when he kissed the hollow beneath her ear.
> I could live in this moment, she thought, and never want for anything else.
Much later—minutes or hours, impossible to tell—she lay curled against his side, one leg thrown over his, her breath steady and warm against his shoulder. Outside, a single siren wailed and faded. He traced idle circles on her back, the curve of her spine rising and falling beneath his palm.
> Storm's broken, she said softly, lips brushing his skin.
He hummed, content. "For now."
She laughed, the sound sleepy and satisfied. "Good. I like the quiet after."
Neither spoke again. They didn't need to. The city kept its own time, but in the hush between heartbeats, they had found a rhythm all their own.