Snowstorm

Tonight's snow was too heavy. The car made it to town but couldn't go any further.

Fei Baolin stood at the hotel entrance. He'd figured: if he couldn't get to Wen Fu, he shouldn't bother him—wait till tomorrow, go over with the crew.

But some impulse took over, and the call just... happened.

Wen Fu's voice came through, groggy and confused: "...Bo-ge?"

The wind howled, biting into skin, stinging faces.

The hotel attendant opened the door to ask Fei Baolin if he wanted to come in. Wen Fu, on the other end of the line, caught the unmistakable Tibetan accent and suddenly asked: "You're here?"

His brain worked fast sometimes.

"Yeah." Fei Baolin stepped inside as he answered. "Nothing going on at the company these few days. Just came to see you."

Wen Fu's eyes lit up. He'd just opened his mouth to ask where, when Fei Baolin added: "Snow's too heavy. Can't make it up tonight. I'll stay at the hotel tonight, come find you tomorrow."

Wen Fu's eyes dropped again. Quietly: "Same hotel as the Program Team?"

"Yeah."

They talked a bit more—Fei Baolin asking, Wen Fu answering. Mostly Fei Baolin was probing whether Wen Fu knew about what had happened on the forum today. From Wen Fu's mood and what he said, no one had told him. But he'd have to wait till they met face to face to be sure.

After the call ended, Zhou Ji was busy leaving with the production crew. No one expected the snow to mess up the roads so badly—if Fei Baolin couldn't get up, they couldn't get down either. So they had to scramble for somewhere to stay the night.

Wen Fu played a few more rounds of cat's cradle with Sangji, but compared to before, he was listless, drifting off several times.

Once, Wen Fu held up the string waiting for Sangji to flip it. Sangji deliberately sat still. After a while, Wen Fu still didn't react—just stared at the string in his hands, lost in thought.

Sangji waved her fingers in front of Wen Fu's eyes. Wen Fu snapped back: "My turn?"

Sangji pouted, took back the string, and asked what he was thinking about.

Wen Fu turned to look outside. After a long moment, quietly: "I want to go to town."

Sangji saw something in his eyes she hadn't seen in these past two days—a loneliness. Even on the day he first arrived, even when he'd been a wallflower through the whole recording, barely speaking, Wen Fu hadn't looked this lost.

Sangji leaned close, studying his eyes: "Really want to?"

Wen Fu turned and caught sight of Sangji's clear, bright eyes, her sun-touched wheat-colored skin gone slightly pink. He admitted: "Really want to."

Sangji jumped up and ran out.

Before long, Sangji came back leading her second brother, standing at the door waving him over.

Sangji's second brother was ten years younger than Wen Fu—dark skin, tall and thin. He gave Wen Fu a shy smile when he saw him, said nothing.

The two of them led Wen Fu toward the horse farm—they'd been there earlier today. The morning's recording was riding out in the pasture. Wen Fu had picked it up fast; by the end of the morning he was already galloping an adult horse around the ring.

While her second brother unlocked the gate, Sangji told Wen Fu she had her own horse here. Her parents had promised her: when she turned eight, she could sit in the saddle and learn to ride.

Wen Fu soon saw the so-called "little horse." Strong, sturdy, brown coat gleaming, already up to a person's chest. Sangji said it was only three and a half, not fully grown.

Her oldest brother or her parents would never have let Sangji lend out her horse—especially not to a guest from a TV shoot. If something went wrong, no one could take that responsibility.

But that's how families work. For every strict one, there's a soft one. Sangji went straight for the most easygoing second brother and got Wen Fu up on her horse.

"You come back safe." Sangji pulled gloves onto his hands, grinning wide enough to show two baby teeth she hadn't lost yet. "Otherwise I'll get in trouble."

Wen Fu stroked the horse's back and nodded at her, very serious.

While no one was looking, a brown horse burst out of the stable and bolted toward the mountain road.

Town wasn't far from here. Just the weather was too bad—cars couldn't move.

Wen Fu's road to Fei Baolin cut straight through twenty li of heavy snow. Hoofbeats and heartbeat drummed together in the wind. Every obstacle turned pale, useless.

Twenty li away, Fei Baolin seemed to hear someone coming from far off. After stepping into what passed for the best room this hotel had, he went straight to the window and stood there, silent, staring out at the white.

The door was left open, as if waiting for something he couldn't name.

In the quiet, his phone rang.

—

Wen Fu dismounted outside the empty hotel. Snow on the street whipped into white gusts by the wind. He walked up alone, pulled open the door, and asked the attendant to take his horse somewhere it could be kept. There was a yard out back—good enough. But the attendant politely asked if he had a reservation.

Wen Fu froze. He realized he hadn't asked Fei Baolin's room number. He pulled off his gloves, dug out his phone, and told the attendant: "One second."

He turned on the screen, first wiped the snow off his eyelashes—he'd ridden hard through the wind, his hair and brows frozen stiff.

He dialed. Fei Baolin's line was busy.

Wen Fu hung up and went looking for Zhang Chao's contact info.

He couldn't remember when he'd added Zhang Chao on WeChat. In his memory, there was no scene of them exchanging contacts—but somehow, one day, Zhang Chao's account just appeared in his friend list. Probably after that first time Fei Baolin came to his place and used his phone to set an alarm.

Not sure if it was Zhang Chao's working hours, Wen Fu chose to send a message instead.

The reply came almost instantly—clean, simple, just Fei Baolin's room number.

Just having the room number wasn't enough. Without an ID match on file, he'd have to call the room first and get the occupant's okay before staff would let him up.

A second later, the manager's phone at the front desk rang.

Wen Fu hadn't even finished giving the room number to the attendant before the manager came over and offered to take him up himself.

They took the elevator up. When the doors opened, Wen Fu let the manager stay in the elevator—he'd find the room on his own.

The hotel wasn't big. The hallway didn't twist and turn. Wen Fu had looked at the floor plan, so he just followed the signs toward Fei Baolin's room.

Lots of guests were holed up inside, sheltering from the snow. Hardly anyone going out. The hallway was busy. Wen Fu had left without a mask, and every now and then a tourist passing him would turn back for a second look—maybe recognizing him.

After a few of those, Wen Fu caught on. He zipped his windbreaker all the way up, covering the lower half of his face, and walked past every curious stare with a blank expression that screamed "the whole world has nothing to do with me."

Less than two minutes later, he spotted the right room number up ahead.

Fei Baolin's door was open. As Wen Fu got close, he heard muffled talking from inside.

He reached the doorway and saw Fei Baolin with his back to the door, standing by the window. The hallway and the room were both warm, so Fei Baolin had taken off his coat—just the suit vest he hadn't had time to change out of, one hand in his trouser pocket, the well-cut fabric tracing out broad shoulders and a trim waist.

Fei Baolin hadn't noticed Wen Fu. He stood easy, head slightly bowed, looking down at the snowy street below, taking the call in a flat, even tone.

"...Mm. Dai-jie, no need to be so polite."

No emotion in it. Just polite reflex.

"...Anything to do with Wen Fu is my duty and responsibility. This isn't a favor—it's what the company should do."

"...The letter?"

"...I got it... It's fine. It was the right call. I wasn't exactly stable back then either."

"...As long as Wen Fu doesn't know, that's enough."

"...He's always thought back then I just had something going on, that's why I didn't come find him."

"...There was nothing like that."

"...Don't apologize. If it weren't for you back then, Dai-jie... I probably wouldn't have been able to stop myself from going to bring him back."

"...If I hadn't lied to him eight years ago, he never would have gotten on that plane."

"...That was my call. Keeping him from coming back was my decision. It has nothing to do with you, Dai-jie."

"...As long as he never finds out, that's all that matters."

The call lasted five or six minutes. Fei Baolin's tone stayed flat the whole way through—keeping a careful distance from Stella on the other end. You couldn't tell how much was real, whether he'd actually accepted her apology.

But both of them knew it was all courtesy. Stella didn't care whether he accepted or not, and he didn't care whether Stella was sincere.

They were all businesspeople. Solving the problem was the shared goal. As for the old grievances—what mattered was keeping Wen Fu, the eye of the storm, the one who should never know any of it, in the dark forever.

When Fei Baolin hung up, he caught a glimpse of the attendant downstairs leading a horse toward the yard out back.

His gaze lingered on the horse for a second.

Someone riding through this kind of snow?

He didn't think about it further. Turned to unpack.

The moment he turned around, he came face to face with Wen Fu, ice-cold, standing in the doorway.

Wen Fu's windbreaker was new—Fei Baolin had packed it himself that night, reminded him to pull it out in the coldest weather.

Now both shoulders of the jacket were soaked. The snow that had piled up on his shoulders on the way here had melted, dripping down drop by drop.

The snowflakes on his eyelashes that he hadn't wiped off a few minutes ago had melted too, dampening the tips and making his already dark brows and lashes look even thicker, longer.

He just stood there, silent, his bottomless black eyes questioning Fei Baolin without a word.

Neither of them spoke. But Fei Baolin could read from Wen Fu's face exactly how long he'd been standing there, how much he'd heard.

Until a drop of melted snow fell from Wen Fu's hair onto the carpet. Fei Baolin couldn't hold back: "Wen Fu..."

Before the words were out, Wen Fu turned and ran, no hesitation.

Fei Baolin chased after him without thinking, watched Wen Fu blow past the elevator and into the emergency stairwell. He followed without a word, but Wen Fu was too fast—like a rabbit loose from a trap, his speed trained into him since childhood for escape, always keeping a gap between them.

They ran through the howling, snow-whipped world, neither knowing how long. Fei Baolin shouted ahead: "Wen Fu!"

Wen Fu finally stopped.

Fei Baolin stopped too.

Wen Fu's back heaved with ragged breaths. Couldn't tell if it was anger or exhaustion.

Hearing the footsteps closing in behind him, he didn't hesitate—plunged forward again, head down.

"Wen Fu, stop!" Fei Baolin noticed they'd left the main street. Around them, nothing but a few shabby houses, not a soul. "Come back with me first."

Wen Fu didn't turn around. Just kept walking, one foot after the other. Even when he couldn't run anymore, he still moved forward.

"Wen Fu..." Fei Baolin matched his pace step for step. Seeing he'd slowed to a walk, his voice softened too. "Not coming back with me?"

Wen Fu didn't answer. His heart was pounding from the sprint. The snow ahead kept getting deeper—he sank into a fresh pit with every step, walking got harder, the bulky windbreaker making him clumsy. Even so, just like on the road coming to find Fei Baolin, he showed no sign of turning back.

"Wen Fu."

Fei Baolin had no choice. In his thin shirt and suit vest, he stepped into the same snow pits alongside him.

Step, call.

"Wen Fu."

Walk, walk, walk.

"Wen Fu."

Walk, walk, walk.

The snow crunched under their feet. Fei Baolin, at a loss, called softly: "Meimei."

The words had barely left his mouth when Wen Fu, without warning, bent down, scooped up a fist-sized ball of snow, spun around, and hurled it at him.

The ball wasn't packed tight—it shattered on impact. Fei Baolin turned his face aside and let it hit him on the cheek.

A second later, the snow crumbled into pieces and fell from his face.

Wen Fu clearly hadn't thrown hard.

Fei Baolin, face still turned, laughed quietly to himself. When he turned back, he found Wen Fu's eyes red, staring at him like a stubborn little rabbit, gaze full of grievance, voice caught between fury and hurt: "You were the one who didn't want me first."