The jeep rumbled slowly across the thick ice, jolting with every bump.
Song Yu frowned, her mind gradually clearing as she slowly opened her eyes.
The headlights cut through the endless night, illuminating the path ahead.
She sat in the passenger seat. In the rearview mirror, she could see the stalled engine of her abandoned car, left by the roadside to wait for next summer’s thaw.
The interior was warm. Song Yu felt moisture on her face—frozen breath melting into water.
She blinked and turned her head to look at the man in the driver’s seat.
Pei Zhi stared straight ahead, one hand on the steering wheel, his index finger tapping idly in a rhythm that betrayed his irritation.
His hair had grown much longer than it had been three months ago, falling messily over his forehead. His profile was shrouded in shadow, his jaw covered in dense stubble that obscured his expression.
Song Yu’s hands and feet were still stiff. She quietly shifted in her seat, and the rustle of her down jacket sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet cabin.
Pei Zhi heard the noise and glanced at her from the corner of his eye.
Song Yu looked up, meeting his gaze.
She tugged at the corner of her mouth and forced a casual smile. “Long time no see.”
The words came out raspy and cracked, like a busted fan leaking air. Song Yu startled herself with the sound.
Pei Zhi’s dark eyes held no emotion. He didn’t respond, simply withdrawing his gaze and focusing on driving.
Song Yu: “…”
It wasn’t going to be that easy to win him over.
She buried half her face in her scarf and grimaced in annoyance. Whether from guilt or something else, she couldn’t muster a single word for the longest time.
The jeep drove for about twenty minutes, crossing a frozen river where the ice was over ten meters thick.
Through the fogged-up window, Song Yu spotted the faint, flickering lights of a village. Oymyakon was only five or six kilometers from where her car had broken down.
In this frigid village of just five hundred souls, there was little in the way of entertainment. Though it was only eight at night, most residents had already turned in, the settlement blanketed in vast expanses of snow.
The sound of the approaching vehicle drew light from a low cottage. A wooden gate swung open, and out stepped a man in a reindeer-skin coat.
He had East Asian features, in his forties or fifties, with dark skin etched by wrinkles carved by Siberia’s biting winds.
Pei Zhi got out and exchanged a few brief words with him.
The man’s gaze shifted past the windshield, landing on Song Yu inside the jeep for a moment.
Then he walked to a nearby garage, rolled up the door, handed the keys to Pei Zhi, and hurried back to his cottage to escape the brutal cold.
Pei Zhi returned to the jeep and eased it into the garage.
Only then did Song Yu notice the old yellow school bus already parked inside.
On the drive into the village, she’d glimpsed a car or two outdoors, but they were buried under thick snow, their oil frozen solid. They wouldn’t run again until summer.
This garage, however, had heating to keep vehicles operational.
Space was tight with the school bus already there. Pei Zhi maneuvered back and forth a few times before squeezing the jeep into a corner.
He pulled the parking brake. “Get out.” He didn’t look at her as he spoke, his tone cold and detached.
Song Yu’s heart sank inexplicably, a sour feeling rising in her chest.
She opened her door and followed behind him.
Pei Zhi secured the garage door with a lock and strode toward another wooden cabin.
His steps were long and hurried.
Song Yu noticed that whenever he was in a bad mood, his walking pace quickened unconsciously.
She had to trot to keep up. The snowdrifts were a meter or two deep, making every step a struggle as her feet sank in.
Oymyakon’s homes were mostly single-story wooden structures, every gap sealed with special materials to fend off Siberia’s relentless cold winds.
After opening the front door, there was a meter-long entryway with another door—the buffer space designed for insulation.
Song Yu trailed Pei Zhi inside, and a wave of warmth washed over her, bringing her back to life.
A wood-burning stove held a blackened copper kettle, bubbling with heat.
The house was small, no more than a hundred square feet, combining kitchen, dining area, and living room in a cluttered but cozy setup.
The miscellaneous furnishings told Song Yu at a glance that this was Pei Zhi’s temporary lodging. With his personality, he wouldn’t leave empty bottles and jars cluttering the shelves.
Song Yu followed his lead, hanging her outer coat on the rack by the door.
As she pulled off her gloves, she hissed softly in pain. Opening her hands, she saw her fingertips burning like fire, the skin blanched white.
Pei Zhi had already moved into the living area and was lifting the boiling kettle when he heard her. He turned, his eyes falling on her hands, brows furrowing.
He set the kettle down, went to a cabinet in the corner, rummaged in a drawer, and pulled out a small glass jar.
“Take off your coat,” Pei Zhi said, glancing at the sofa.
His voice was still distant and indifferent, phrased as an order.
Song Yu mumbled an “oh” and, enduring the pain, removed her other glove, setting it by the entryway.
Truth be told, Song Yu was used to being the boss at work, always the one giving orders. It was rare to see her so compliant.
She sat on the sofa, knees together, not daring to make a peep.
Pei Zhi stopped in front of her. His tall frame blocked the overhead light, casting a shadow that enveloped her, carrying an intangible pressure.
Song Yu’s heart drummed nervously.
“Hands,” Pei Zhi said curtly.
“…” Song Yu paused, then obediently extended them.
Pei Zhi opened the jar, revealing a translucent milky gel. He scooped some out with a small spoon and applied it to her fingertips.
His index finger and thumb gripped one of her fingers, rubbing their pads together back and forth.
The milky gel felt like some kind of oil, slick and viscous.
His fingertips were rough and warm, callused lightly, sending an itchy, tingling sensation through her.
From her fingertips, the itch spread from the crown of her head down her neck and deep inside.
All ten of her fingers were frostbitten. Pei Zhi held them one by one, applying the ointment with great patience.
Song Yu, however, squirmed under his circular rubs, her ears burning hot—thankfully hidden by her hair.
She sniffed, catching a faint cedar scent in the air, mingled with the odd smell of the gel.
“What’s this?” Song Yu asked, trying to distract herself.
Pei Zhi’s motion on her fingertips paused. He didn’t answer right away, as if debating whether to acknowledge her.
After a moment, he replied flatly, “Bear fat oil. For frostbite.”
Once her pinky was coated, Pei Zhi released her hand and picked up a cloth from the table, wiping his own methodically.
Song Yu started to relax.
But Pei Zhi suddenly leaned in, brushing her hair back from her ear.
She flinched back against the sofa to dodge, but his fingertips grazed her cheek, tinting it with a faint pink.
“What are you doing?” she asked warily.
“Checking if your ears are frostbitten.” He didn’t let her evade, tucking the stray hairs behind her ear.
Song Yu’s ears flushed even deeper, a mix of embarrassment and indignation. This wasn’t the mood for that.
Pei Zhi showed little reaction. He glanced at her ears, assumed frostbite, and took more ointment from the jar, rubbing it along the soft cartilage of both.
Song Yu stared ahead, seeing only the buttons on his shirt.
The cedar scent sharpened in the air.
During this time, she’d tried many cedar perfumes, but none smelled as good as this—subtly bitter and crisp.
Her earlobes were even more sensitive than her fingertips, red as if bleeding.
Pei Zhi’s movements were slower now, kneading the thin, tender flesh deliberately.
A wave of heat rose from Song Yu’s lower abdomen.
She shifted her head and muttered softly, “Is it done yet?”
Seeing her resistance, Pei Zhi stopped, stood up, and put distance between them.
With his departure, the air around her felt fresher. Song Yu let out a quiet breath of relief.
Pei Zhi used the cloth to wipe the oil from his fingers clean, then returned to the cabinet, sliding the jar back into the drawer.
“Why are you here?” he asked abruptly.
Song Yu looked up, meeting his scrutinizing gaze.
“…” She wanted to scratch her nose but saw it was covered in oil and gave up.
“Last week, your school held a research presentation on the Arctic expedition. Afterward, Wu Yue and I planned to grab dinner, but she forgot to approve some funding, so we went to your office together.”
Song Yu explained haltingly, “Then, I accidentally crushed your berries, so I came to apologize.”
Pei Zhi shoved the drawer of the storage shelf closed with considerable force.
The inertia sent the glass bottles inside rolling and clinking against one another. In the quiet space, the sound came out dull and oppressive.
Song Yu’s eyelashes fluttered faintly.
In her memory, Pei Zhi had always been the picture of refinement. Even when he was upset, he kept it tightly reined in. Slamming tables or doors was utterly out of character for him—this was the first time she’d seen him take out his frustration on something inanimate.
“Just because of this?” Pei Zhi asked, his face devoid of expression.
“…”
Song Yu paused to think it over. Now didn’t seem like the moment to rehash their argument from the plane. She nodded.
Pei Zhi let out a cold, exasperated laugh. “Worth nearly dying on the road for this, huh?”