《Dear Yueke, I Love Your Xiyan》

The old bookstore on Binjiang Road smelled of yellowed pages and forgotten dreams. Yueke adjusted her round glasses, fingertips brushing the spine of a worn copy of Les Misérables. Sunlight slanted through the attic’s dusty skylight, casting golden motes onto the labyrinth of bookshelves. "You’re late," she murmured to herself, smiling. Every Saturday at 10:00 AM, she claimed this corner like a territorial cat. A shadow fell across her book. "You’re reading Hugo again?" The voice was low, rough sandpaper over steel. Yueke looked up—and her breath hitched. A man stood before her, broad-shouldered and lethal in a tailored black coat. His face was a masterpiece of sharp angles: cheekbones like cliff edges, a jaw carved from obsidian. But his eyes… those were the most unsettling part. Black pupils swallowed light, hiding oceans of secrets. Xiyan. The name slipped into her mind uninvited. The city’s most enigmatic bachelor—a former special forces operative turned tech mogul—owned half of Jiangnan District’s real estate and reportedly once disabled an entire human trafficking ring without leaving fingerprints. "Baudelaire," she corrected, nodding to the poetry collection in her lap. "Hugo is too optimistic for a Monday morning." A smirk tugged at his lips. "I prefer Neruda. Bloodier metaphors." Their fingers brushed as she reached for the same book. A jolt of electricity shot up her arm—not romantic, but primal. Like two predators sizing each other up. "Careful," he murmured, watching her pulse flutter at her throat. "That book contains dangerous ideas." "All the best ones do." [Scene Break: The Coffee Spill Incident] Ten minutes later, Yueke’s fingers trembled as she balanced a porcelain cup between her palms. Xiyan loomed beside her, extracting a leather-bound volume from the highest shelf. His coat brushed her shoulder, sending shivers down her spine. Then—disaster. His elbow knocked over a precarious stack of books. Time slowed. The coffee cup tipped. Yueke lunged, tackling Xiyan sideways. They crashed onto the beanbag chairs in a tangle of limbs and books. Hot liquid splashed across her jeans as the world settled into a breathless silence. His face hovered inches from hers. Broken coffee cups littered the floor like shattered stars. "Are you insane?" he growled, examining his split lip. "You weigh more than you look," she shot back, wincing as pain flared in her ankle. A beat of silence. Then, to her utter disbelief: "Address," he commanded, pulling out his phone. "For your doctor." Yueke blinked. "Only if you visit me." Xiyan’s thumb hovered over the screen. "Fine," he said finally. "But no books during our first date." "Deal," she whispered. (Continued chapter.) The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words and the scent of spilled coffee. Yueke’s heart pounded in her chest as she lay sprawled across the beanbag chair, her leg throbbing where it had twisted awkwardly during the fall. Xiyan loomed over her, his expression unreadable, though the slight tic in his jaw betrayed his irritation. "You’re hurt," he said finally, his voice low and rough. Yueke glanced down at her ankle, which was already swelling. "It’s nothing," she lied, though the sharp pain made her vision blur for a second. Xiyan didn’t respond. Instead, he crouched beside her, his movements deliberate and controlled. Before she could protest, he gently gripped her ankle, his fingers pressing lightly against the swollen joint. "Ah—!" Yueke gasped, the pain shooting through her like lightning. "It’s sprained," he muttered, his voice tight. "Nothing broken, but you’re not walking on it anytime soon." Yueke glared at him, though the effect was somewhat diminished by her current position—half-draped over a beanbag, one leg elevated, and a bruise forming on her forehead where her head had hit the armrest. "I don’t need your help," she snapped. Xiyan raised an eyebrow, his dark eyes flicking to hers. "You’re welcome to stay here and wait for someone else to carry you out," he said coolly. "But considering the time of day, the bookstore will be closing soon. And from the looks of it, you’re not exactly in any condition to stumble down six flights of stairs." Yueke opened her mouth to retort, then closed it again. He wasn’t wrong. A heavy pause settled between them. Then, with a resigned sigh, Xiyan pulled out his phone and dialed a number. "Send a car to Binjiang Road Bookstore. Yes, now." He hung up without waiting for a response. Yueke blinked. "You’re sending a car? Just for me?" "Someone has to get you home," he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. She wanted to argue, to insist she didn’t need his charity, but the words died on her tongue. Because the truth was, she did need help—and deep down, a part of her didn’t hate the idea of accepting it from him. Twenty minutes later, they were in Xiyan’s car—a sleek, black luxury sedan that looked like it belonged on a movie set. The driver, a silent man in a crisp uniform, barely glanced at them as Xiyan helped Yueke into the backseat, carefully arranging her injured leg on the seat before handing her a bottle of water. "Drink," he instructed. "You’re probably dehydrated from the shock." Yueke hesitated, then unscrewed the cap and took a sip. The cool water soothed her throat, and she found herself relaxing despite her lingering embarrassment. Xiyan slid into the seat beside her, his phone already in hand. He didn’t speak, but the tension in his shoulders had eased slightly. For a while, they rode in silence, the city lights blurring past the windows. Yueke watched the neon signs flicker by, her mind racing. What just happened? One moment, they’d been bickering over a book. The next, she was in his car, her ankle throbbing, and Xiyan—Xiyan, of all people—was sitting beside her like it was the most natural thing in the world. She stole a glance at him. His profile was sharp in the dim light, his eyes fixed on his phone as he typed out a message. He looked every bit the formidable businessman, yet there was a quiet intensity about him that she couldn’t quite decipher. "Why did you help me?" she blurted out before she could stop herself. Xiyan’s fingers paused over the screen. He didn’t look at her, but his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Because you would’ve done the same for me," he said finally. Yueke blinked. "I don’t even know you." "You know enough," he replied. The words hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken meaning. When they arrived at her apartment, the driver helped Xiyan carry her inside. Yueke lived in a small but cozy one-bedroom flat in the city’s arts district, her walls lined with bookshelves that sagged under the weight of her collection. Xiyan set her down on the couch with practiced ease, then crouched in front of her, examining her ankle again. "We need ice," he muttered. Yueke watched as he moved around her kitchen with the efficiency of someone who had done this a hundred times before. He found a plastic bag, filled it with ice, and wrapped it in a towel before gently pressing it against her injury. "You’re surprisingly good at this," she remarked. Xiyan shot her a look. "I’ve had worse injuries." The words were casual, but there was an edge to them—something dark and buried beneath the surface. Yueke wanted to ask, to pry, but something in his expression told her not to. Instead, she said, "Thank you." He nodded, his gaze distant. "Rest. I’ll call you in the morning." And with that, he was gone, disappearing into the night as silently as he’d arrived. Yueke stared after him, her fingers tracing the rim of the coffee mug he’d left behind. What have I gotten myself into? (Continued chapter.) The apartment door clicked shut behind Xiyan, leaving Yueke alone in the quiet stillness of her flat. The ice pack throbbed gently against her ankle, a dull ache that mirrored the whirlwind of emotions swirling in her chest. She exhaled shakily, running a hand through her hair as she tried to process everything that had happened in the span of a single afternoon. Xiyan. Of all people. The man was a walking contradiction—cold and ruthless in the business world, yet oddly gentle when it mattered. The way he’d looked at her, not with pity but with something almost... reverent? No, that was ridiculous. She shook her head, trying to dispel the thought. A soft knock at the door pulled her from her reverie. Yueke blinked, confused. Xiyan? But he just left. Heart pounding, she shuffled to the door on unsteady feet, the ice pack forgotten in her lap. She peeked through the peephole—and her breath caught in her throat. It wasn’t Xiyan. Standing in the hallway was a young woman, perhaps in her early twenties, with a nervous smile and a stack of books clutched to her chest. "Um, hi," the girl said hesitantly. "I... I live in the apartment across from yours. I heard someone talking and thought maybe you needed help?" Yueke blinked, momentarily thrown off guard. "Oh. Uh, no, I’m fine. Just a sprained ankle." The girl’s eyes flicked to the ice pack peeking out from under Yueke’s sweatpants, and her expression softened. "Right. Well, if you need anything, I’m just next door. I’m Mia, by the way." "Yueke," she replied automatically, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. "Thanks, Mia." The girl nodded and disappeared down the hallway, leaving Yueke standing in the doorway, her thoughts once again drifting to Xiyan. Later that night, Yueke lay curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over her legs and a book resting on her chest. The pain in her ankle had dulled to a dull throb, but sleep evaded her, her mind racing with questions. Why had Xiyan helped her? Why did it matter so much that he had? She sighed, flipping through the pages of her book without really reading. The words blurred together on the page, her thoughts too loud to focus. Her phone buzzed on the coffee table, pulling her from her spiral. A text message. From an unknown number. Xiyan: Ice your ankle. No arguments. Yueke stared at the screen, her lips parting in surprise. It wasn’t a question—it was a command. And yet, there was something almost... tender about the bluntness of it. She typed back a quick reply. Yueke: Yes, sir. The three dots appeared immediately, then disappeared. Then, another message. Xiyan: Good girl. Her cheeks flushed, and she quickly set her phone face-down on the couch, as if hiding it would somehow erase the heat creeping up her neck. What is wrong with me? She groaned, burying her face in the pillow. This was ridiculous. She barely knew the man, and yet here she was, blushing over a text message like some lovesick teenager. The next morning, Yueke woke to the sound of her phone buzzing insistently on the coffee table. Groggy and disoriented, she reached for it, squinting at the screen. Xiyan: I’m downstairs. Let’s go. She blinked, confusion giving way to realization as she remembered their earlier conversation. Right. The doctor. Still, she couldn’t help but feel a flutter of nerves as she hobbled to the window, peeking through the blinds. Sure enough, a sleek black car was parked outside her building, Xiyan standing beside it with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Yueke took a deep breath, grabbing her bag and locking the door behind her. As she stepped into the hallway, she heard the soft click of heels behind her. "Waiting for the elevator?" Mia’s voice called out, and Yueke turned to see the girl from yesterday holding a mug of coffee. "Need company?" Yueke hesitated, then nodded. "Sure. Thanks." As they waited for the elevator, Mia studied her curiously. "So... who’s the guy downstairs? He looks like he could kill someone with his pinky finger." Yueke choked on a laugh, quickly covering it with a cough. "That’s... complicated." Mia grinned. "Good. I like complicated." The elevator dinged, and they stepped inside, the doors sliding shut just as Yueke muttered under her breath, "You have no idea." (Continued chapter.) The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing Xiyan standing precisely where Yueke had left him—immaculate as ever, his phone already pocketed as he watched the numbers above the elevator tick down. His gaze snapped to her the moment the doors parted, sharp and assessing, before flicking briefly to Mia. "You’re late," he said to Yueke, though his tone lacked any real heat. Yueke bristled. "I was with her," she gestured vaguely toward Mia, who raised an eyebrow but said nothing, clearly amused by the tension. Xiyan’s eyes narrowed slightly. "The doctor is waiting." Mia stepped forward, holding out her coffee mug like a peace offering—or perhaps a barrier. "Hey, mister, no need to be scary. She’s my neighbor, not your property." A beat of silence. Then, to Yueke’s utter disbelief, Xiyan smiled. Not the cold, calculated smirk she’d seen yesterday, but something softer—warmer. Dangerous, even. "Smart," he said, his voice dropping to that gravelly tone that made her stomach flip. "I like her already." Mia blinked. "Uh. Okay then." She handed Yueke the coffee. "For the road. And tell Mr. Grumpy over there to smile more often—it’s terrifying." With that, she disappeared into her apartment, leaving Yueke alone with Xiyan once again. "You made a friend," Yueke muttered as they descended in the elevator, her voice laced with amusement despite herself. Xiyan watched the floor numbers light up, his expression unreadable. "I make allies, not friends." The words hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. The clinic was quiet, the kind of sterile calm that made Yueke’s skin prickle. Xiyan waited outside the examination room while the doctor checked her ankle, his phone buzzing intermittently with messages he ignored. When the doctor finally emerged, he straightened from his seat against the wall, all business. "How bad?" "Sprained, but she’ll need to stay off it for a few days," the doctor said, glancing at Yueke. "And ice it regularly. No strenuous activity." Xiyan nodded once. "Understood." On the drive back, Yueke stared out the window, her mind racing. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable—it was charged, like the air before a storm. "Why did you really help me?" she asked suddenly, unable to take the tension any longer. Xiyan didn’t glance at her. "You’re not the only one who’s been hurt, Yueke." The words were quiet, almost a whisper. Yueke turned to look at him, really look at him, and for the first time, she saw the cracks beneath the armor—the faint scar along his jawline, the way his knuckles whitened slightly as he gripped the steering wheel. "Tell me," she whispered. But Xiyan only shook his head. "Not today." Back at her apartment, he helped her inside with the same effortless care as before, setting her down on the couch and arranging the ice pack against her ankle with practiced precision. "Rest," he said, his voice firm. "I’ll check on you later." Yueke hesitated. "Xiyan... wait." He paused in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the sunlight streaming in from the hallway. "Thank you," she said softly. "For everything." For a moment, he said nothing. Then, with a nod, he disappeared into the hallway, leaving her alone with her thoughts—and the lingering warmth of his presence. Later that evening, there was another text. Xiyan: Eat. Or I’ll bring you soup myself. Yueke smiled despite herself, setting her phone down and reaching for the instant noodles she’d been avoiding. Maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something. (Continued chapter.) The soft glow of the setting sun filtered through Yueke's apartment windows, casting long golden streaks across the floor. The ice pack had long since melted, leaving a faint damp circle on her sweatpants, but the throbbing in her ankle had dulled to a manageable ache. She sat curled on the couch, the remains of her instant noodles forgotten in their cardboard container. Her phone lay silent beside her, but she knew Xiyan would text again soon—if not about her soup, then with some other blunt command disguised as concern. A soft knock at the door made her start. Not Xiyan—his knocks were firm, authoritative, like everything else about him. This was hesitant, almost apologetic. Yueke swung her legs off the couch and hobbled to the door, peeking through the peephole with a frown. Mia stood there, clutching a small paper bag with an embarrassed smile. "Hey," the girl whispered when Yueke opened the door. "I, uh... brought reinforcements." Inside the bag were two steaming cups of what smelled like hospital-grade herbal soup and a small plastic bag of pills. "My mom's secret recipe," Mia explained, shoving the bag into Yueke's hands. "And painkillers. Real ones, not whatever caffeine you've been mainlining." Yueke laughed despite herself, the sound light and unexpected. "You're impossible." Mia grinned. "And you're welcome. Now go take your medicine before Mr. Grumpy comes back and starts bossing you around again." As if on cue, the apartment's intercom buzzed. Mia's eyebrows shot up. "Speaking of—" Yueke held up a hand to silence her as she pressed the speaker button. "Open the door," Xiyan's voice commanded, muffled but unmistakable. "He's here," Yueke muttered, half-amused, half-exasperated. Mia leaned in conspiratorially. "Tell him I said hi—and that if he hurts you, I know kung fu." Yueke rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress her smile as she buzzed him in. Xiyan arrived at the door with his usual implacable expression, though the slight crease between his brows betrayed his impatience. He took in Mia's retreating figure with a single nod of acknowledgment before turning his full attention to Yueke. "You're still on that couch," he observed, his voice a low rumble. "And you're still insufferable," Yueke shot back, though her heart wasn't in it. Xiyan stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, his gaze immediately dropping to her ankle—which she'd propped up on a pillow with meticulous care. "Better," he said curtly, though the tension in his shoulders suggested otherwise. There was a pause. Then, awkwardly, he held out a small paper bag. "Soup." Yueke blinked. "What?" "From the deli downstairs," he elaborated, as if that explained everything. "It's... warm." The absurdity of it—the mighty Xiyan, procuring soup like some kind of romantic hero—made her throat tighten. "Thank you," she said softly, taking the bag. He nodded, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Rest. I'll be back tomorrow." And just like that, he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him with the finality of a man who refused to linger. Yueke opened the bag to find not just soup, but a carefully wrapped sandwich and a small plastic container of what looked disturbingly like... pudding. She laughed, the sound bright and unguarded in the empty apartment. Maybe monsters could fight for love. And maybe, just maybe, they could win. (Continued chapter.) The apartment settled into a comfortable silence after Xiyan's departure, broken only by the occasional gurgle of the soup warming in its bag. Yueke sat cross-legged on the couch, the steaming container balanced precariously on her knees as she watched the city lights blink awake through her window. The ache in her ankle had faded to a dull background hum, replaced by the more insistent throbbing of her thoughts. She should have been asleep hours ago. Instead, her fingers traced idle patterns on the soup container's lid, replaying every word, every glance from their encounter earlier. There was something maddeningly deliberate about Xiyan's actions—the way he'd hovered just beyond arm's reach, his touches brief but precise, like he was afraid his own gentleness might startle him. A sharp knock shattered her reverie. Not the polite rapping she'd come to associate with Mia. This was heavy, impatient—three rapid strikes that made the doorframe vibrate. Heart pounding, Yueke shuffled to the door, peering through the peephole to find Xiyan standing in the hallway, his phone gripped so tightly in one hand the knuckles had turned white. His other hand hovered ominously near his coat pocket. "What's wrong?" she breathed, swinging the door open. Xiyan's eyes flicked past her shoulder, scanning the apartment with military precision before locking onto hers. "We need to talk." The words were a command, but his voice lacked its usual steel. Twenty minutes later, they sat facing each other across Yueke's tiny dining table, the remains of her dinner pushed to one side. Xiyan had refused her offer of tea, instead pouring himself three fingers of whiskey from the bottle she kept for "emergencies" that never came. The ice clinked loudly against the glass as he swirled the liquid with restless hands. "You're avoiding my question," Yueke said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. Xiyan's jaw clenched. "There's nothing to say." "You showed up at my door like a man with a death wish," she pressed. "That's not nothing." A tense silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant hum of traffic outside. Then, with a curse, Xiyan shoved his glass away and pulled something from his coat—a faded photograph, edges worn from handling. He placed it on the table between them. The image showed a younger Xiyan, barely recognizable without his trademark scowl, standing beside a woman with Yueke's same warm smile. They were in this very bookstore, arms slung casually around each other as they browsed the poetry section. "Her name was Lin Mei," Xiyan said hoarsely. "We met here. Same aisle. Same book." Yueke's breath caught in her throat. "She died saving a stranger," Xiyan continued, his voice cracking like old porcelain. "And left me with nothing but questions." The weight of his grief pressed down on the room, suffocating in its intensity. Yueke reached across the table, her fingers brushing against his in a gesture that was more instinct than intention. "You're not alone anymore," she said softly. Xiyan stared at their joined hands like they were foreign objects, then slowly, deliberately, entwined their fingers. His touch was calloused, his palm scarred, but the warmth was undeniable. Outside, the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, painting their shadows long and intertwined on the apartment floor. Epilogue: The First Spark When morning came, Yueke woke to find Xiyan gone—but not before he'd left behind a note scrawled across the back of a grocery receipt: "The bookstore opens at 9. Be there. -X" And beneath it, in painstakingly neat handwriting that didn't match the rest: "P.S. No more falling off beanbags." She laughed—a real, unguarded sound that echoed through the empty apartment. For the first time in years, she felt something she hadn't dared name: hope. (Continued chapter.) The photograph trembled between them, its edges catching the morning light that filtered through Yueke's curtains. Xiyan's thumb hovered over Lin Mei's smiling face, his jaw working silently as he fought to steady his breath. The air between them crackled with unspoken grief, thick enough to taste. Yueke didn't pull her hand away. Instead, she leaned forward, pressing her free palm gently against his chest. The steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her fingers grounded her, even as tears pricked at her eyelids. "Tell me about her," she whispered. Xiyan's eyes closed, a single tear slipping past his defenses. When he spoke, his voice was raw, stripped bare of its usual armor. "She used to read to me in the hospital after my last mission," he began, his fingers tightening around the photograph. "Les Misérables. Page 217, every time—right where Jean Valjean dies in the arms of his adopted daughter. She said..." His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. "...she said it was proof that love could outlive even the darkest nights." A heavy silence settled between them, broken only by the distant hum of the city waking up. Yueke's throat tightened, but she didn't interrupt. "After she was gone," Xiyan continued, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "I couldn't read. Couldn't stand the silence between the lines. So I built walls instead—higher and thicker with each passing year." His gaze lifted to meet hers, and for the first time, the darkness in his eyes was replaced by something fragile and aching. "Until you." The word hung in the air like a confession. Yueke's vision blurred, but she refused to look away. Slowly, she reached for the photograph, her fingers brushing against his as she took it from his grasp. "Then let me be your page 217," she said, her voice steady despite the tears streaming down her face. "Your proof that love can still find a way, even after the darkest nights." For a moment, Xiyan simply stared at her, his expression unreadable. Then, with a movement so sudden it took her breath away, he pulled her into his arms, burying his face in her hair as his body shook with silent sobs. Yueke held him tightly, her hands stroking his hair with the same gentleness he'd shown her injured ankle. The photograph slipped from her fingers, landing face-up on the table where the morning light caught Lin Mei's smiling face—one that seemed, in that moment, to bless their union. Outside, the city bustled on, oblivious to the quiet miracle unfolding within those four walls. Birds sang in the trees lining Binjiang Road, their melodies weaving through the open window alongside the distant chime of bicycle bells. Inside, time seemed to stand still. Xiyan pulled back just enough to cup Yueke's face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away her tears. His eyes, usually so guarded, were open and vulnerable in a way that made her heart ache with tenderness. "I don't deserve this," he murmured, his voice hoarse. Yueke shook her head, her thumbs tracing the same path along his jawline. "None of us do. But we take it anyway—because that's what love is." A beat of silence passed between them, heavy with meaning. Then, as if drawn by some invisible force, their foreheads touched, their breath mingling in the space between them. Outside, a child's laughter rang out as someone passed by the window, oblivious to the history being rewritten within. Xiyan pulled back slightly, his eyes searching hers. "The bookstore," he reminded her gently, though his voice betrayed his reluctance to leave. "We have an appointment with fate." Yueke smiled, the first genuine one since his arrival. "Then let's not keep it waiting." As they stood to leave, the photograph caught her eye once more. This time, Yueke carefully picked it up and placed it on the bookshelf beside her own collection of poetry—right between a worn copy of Les Misérables and a new, unopened volume of Neruda. Some stories, she realized, were meant to be read together. (The Final Page) The bookstore's bell chimed as they pushed open the door, sunlight streaming through the high windows in golden shafts that danced across the dusty bookshelves. Xiyan's hand found Yueke's without hesitation, his grip firm but gentle—like he was afraid she might dissolve if he held too tightly. "Your ankle," he murmured, glancing down as they walked. "Holding up surprisingly well," she replied, though the slight limp betrayed her. He didn't comment, only tightened his fingers around hers. The poetry section waited at the back of the store, just as it had yesterday. The same worn ladder leaned against the highest shelves, the same faint smell of aged paper and ink hanging in the air. It should have felt ordinary. Instead, with Xiyan beside her, every detail seemed heightened—the way the sunlight hit the spines of the books, the quiet creak of the wooden floorboards beneath their feet. "Here," Yueke said softly, stopping in front of a familiar shelf. Xiyan followed her gaze to where Les Misérables sat nestled between two other classics, its cover slightly faded from countless readings. "You still come here for this one?" he asked, pulling it from the shelf. She nodded. "And you still read Neruda." A smile tugged at his lips as he reached for a volume of poetry on the adjacent shelf. Their fingers brushed again, sending a spark through her that had nothing to do with the static electricity of yesterday's coffee spill. "Yueke," he began, then stopped, his throat working as if the words were caught there. She turned to face him fully, heart pounding. "I don't know how to do this," he admitted finally, his voice rough. "The... normal things. Dates. Small talk. The way people who aren't broken do." Her breath caught. "Then don't," she said, stepping closer until their bodies nearly touched. "Let's make our own way. No rules. No expectations." For a moment, he just looked at her—really looked, as if memorizing every detail. Then he reached up, his calloused thumb brushing away a tear she hadn't realized had fallen. "Deal," he whispered. The bell over the door jingled again, but they didn't turn. The world outside could wait. Xiyan lowered his head, his movements hesitant yet determined. Yueke closed the distance, her lips meeting his in a kiss that was equal parts trembling hope and pent-up longing. It wasn't perfect—his hand fumbled against her waist, her knee threatened to give out—but it was real. When they finally parted, both were breathless. "So," Xiyan murmured against her lips, "about that soup..." Yueke laughed, the sound bright and clear in the quiet bookstore. "Later," she promised, pulling him back for another