The surrounding environment was utterly quiet, save for the steady bubbling of the kettle inside the wooden cabin, sending curls of steam rising into the air without a care for anyone nearby.
Pei Zhi walked over to the counter, lifted the kettle off the heat, and poured a cup of water. He set it down on the table in front of Song Yu before settling into the armchair beside her.
He propped his elbow on the armrest and rubbed his brow wearily with one hand, his whole demeanor screaming “keep away.”
Song Yu pursed her lips, at a loss for what to do. She could only cradle the cup and sip at it slowly.
The water had just boiled, yet it was the perfect temperature—likely because he had mixed in some cold water. It chased away the chill that had seeped into her bones.
The clock on the wall ticked steadily away, while the two of them maintained their silence.
Pei Zhi leaned forward to grab a Russian book from the coffee table and began flipping through it page by page. He turned the pages rapidly, the rustling sharp and hurried, though it was anyone’s guess how much he was actually absorbing.
Song Yu traced her index finger around the rim of her cup again and again. Her gaze fixed on the blank screen of the television ahead, its dark surface reflecting their figures—close enough to touch, yet worlds apart.
She had no idea when his anger might subside. After a moment’s hesitation, Song Yu broke the silence first. “Where should I sleep tonight?”
Pei Zhi’s page-turning paused. A long beat passed before he replied, “There’s only one bedroom.”
Song Yu sneaked a glance at him. “Then I’ll take the living room.”
“No firewood in the living room at night. No heat.” Pei Zhi didn’t look up as he turned another page.
At that, Song Yu puzzledly surveyed the cabin’s layout. After studying it for a while, she gave a vague “oh” of half-understanding.
She pouted. “As long as you don’t mind.”
Pei Zhi closed the book and tossed it casually back onto the coffee table. “Time for bed.”
The bedroom in the wooden cabin was even smaller than the living room—barely fifty or sixty square feet. Once the bed was in place, there was hardly any room left.
The cabin had originally been home to Pei Zhi alone, so there was only one set of bedding and pillows.
He gave the lone pillow to Song Yu, folding a blanket into a makeshift one for himself.
The room light clicked off.
Song Yu lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling. She felt the mattress dip as Pei Zhi lay down beside her. He tugged a corner of the quilt over his waist and abdomen before rolling over to face away from her.
Every movement radiated his resistance to her presence.
Song Yu let out a soft sigh in her heart. With that, she rolled over too, turning toward the wall.
After a full day of grueling travel capped by that evening’s turmoil, she was bone-tired. The moment her head hit the pillow, she let go of her worries and drifted off to sleep.
Nights in Oymyakon were so silent you could hear a pin drop.
In the latter half of the night, Song Yu grew restless and finally woke with a full bladder—probably thanks to that big glass of water right before bed.
Worse still, her lower abdomen felt bloated. Doing the math in her head, she realized her period was due any day now.
Afraid of waking Pei Zhi, she held it in as long as she could, planning to wait until morning. But then she worried about staining the mattress if it started right there.
Her spot was backed up against the wall, so getting out meant climbing over him.
Through the moonlight spilling in from the window, Song Yu peered at the figure beside her. Pei Zhi was still facing away, locked in the same position as when they’d gone to sleep, as if he hadn’t stirred at all.
She drew in a careful breath, eased the quilt aside, and sat up. The fabric made a faint rustling sound with the motion.
“What are you doing?” In the hushed space, Pei Zhi’s voice cut in suddenly—clear and low.
Song Yu jumped. “You’re still awake?”
She really couldn’t hold it anymore. “I need to use the bathroom.”
“…”
Pei Zhi rolled over and flicked on the bedside lamp.
Warm yellow light filled the room once more. Song Yu squinted against it.
“Come on.” Pei Zhi stood. “The toilet’s outside.”
Song Yu blinked in surprise. She hadn’t realized even a bathroom trip meant going outdoors.
Pei Zhi was already heading out, so she scrambled after him.
A thermometer hung in the window by the door, positioned outside. Song Yu bundled up in layer after layer while peering at the reading.
Negative fifty-one degrees.
A cold so extreme it defied comprehension. Even in the Arctic, the worst she’d encountered was around negative thirty.
“Maybe you could just point me in the right direction? I can go by myself.” Song Yu felt bad dragging Pei Zhi out into this with her.
He gave her a flat look, snatched his coat from the rack, shrugged it on swiftly, and yanked open the door.
A bone-chilling gust rushed in.
“…”
Song Yu shrank back and hurried out after him.
The village toilets were rudimentary affairs—two planks bridged over a dark pit, with cold drafts whistling up now and then.
Song Yu confirmed her suspicions: her period had indeed arrived. Fortunately, it wasn’t heavy, and she handled it as best she could.
The thin walls did little to muffle sound. Song Yu felt mortified, convinced Pei Zhi could hear everything from outside. She dawdled awkwardly for what felt like ages.
Even those few minutes outdoors had left her teeth chattering, her body soaked through as if plunged into icy water. Her hands, especially, were numb from the frigid rinse at the basin—she’d buried them in her pockets for ages, to no avail.
The evening fire had died down some, and the indoor temperature had dropped accordingly.
When Song Yu slipped back into bed, she was still shivering, her lower belly cramping in dull throbs.
They lay back-to-back, a wide gap in the quilt between them.
The empty space at her back only amplified the cold.
After a moment’s hesitation, she scooted closer to Pei Zhi’s side.
As the distance shrank, she could distinctly feel the heat radiating from his body—like a living furnace, tempting her to draw nearer still.
Song Yu shifted again.
And again.
Then she overdid it, pressing flush against his back. Through the thin fabric of their clothes, his skin burned hot.
Pei Zhi remained on his side, utterly still.
Song Yu knew he wasn’t asleep. No reaction was a reaction in itself. Bold now, she turned and wrapped her arms around him from behind.
His body went rigid.
She nuzzled her forehead against his back. “I’m cold.”
In a small voice, she added, “My stomach hurts. Rub it for me?”
Even she cringed at her own wheedling tone.
Pei Zhi saw right through the act. “You think that’ll work?” His voice was even, betraying no emotion—as if he were unmoved.
Song Yu slid her arms around his waist, molding her body to his.
She shot back, “Do you think it will?”
Pei Zhi felt the soft give of her form against him, her chilly hands splayed across his abdomen. Her fingertips grazed teasingly, stirring heat through his veins.
He lifted an arm to cover his face and let out a low, helpless sigh.
Then he rolled over, hauling her into his arms.
Song Yu hadn’t expected the sudden move. She stared wide-eyed into the darkness, feeling his shoulder clamp down on hers with a force that seemed to meld her into him.
He gathered both her hands in one of his, chafing them briskly to warm them.
His other palm settled over her belly. The heat from it seeped through her clothes, easing the cramps.
He held it there for a long while, until her once-icy fingers thawed and blood flowed freely again.
Song Yu tugged her hands free and looped her arms around his neck. “I was wrong.” Her voice came out soft and drowsy.
Giving in once made it easier the next time—and before long, it became habit.
Pei Zhi drew a deep breath. Her silky hair brushed his cheek, sending tingles across his skin.
She really knew exactly how to handle him, he thought ruefully.
He reached out, threading his fingers through her hair and smoothing it down.
“I’m not over being mad yet,” he said.
Song Yu found his caveat oddly deliberate—and amusing, for some reason. Her lips curved up as she buried her face in his chest, attuned to the steady thump of his heartbeat.
She murmured a soft “mm.”
Fine, stay mad then.
The morning sun glowed like the weak bulb in a refrigerator, pale and faintly yellow.
The curtains weren’t fully drawn, and a sliver of light fell across Song Yu’s face. She frowned faintly and gradually stirred awake.
Her movements sluggish, she sat up in a daze, blinking at the unfamiliar surroundings while her mind caught up.
The other half of the bed was empty, the sheets cool to the touch.
Outside came the rhythmic thwack of an axe biting into wood—steady and methodical.
Song Yu rubbed her eyes, shrugged on a vest at random, and padded into the living room.
A fresh fire crackled in the hearth, filling the space with welcome warmth.
Through the living room’s cross-paned window, blurred by condensation, she could just make out a figure outside.
Pei Zhi stood with one foot planted on a stump half a meter thick, knees bent, his long legs straight and powerful. His chopping form was clean and efficient, black hair swaying lightly across his forehead with each swing.
Song Yu wiped the fog from the glass for a better look.
It was just chopping wood, yet she found the sight oddly pleasing.
Someone approached from nearby, calling out in the Yakut language.
Song Yu recognized him as the man who had helped open the garage door for them the night before.
Pei Zhi paused, casually embedding his axe in the stump. As he looked up, his gaze flicked toward the cabin—and locked straight onto hers through the window.