When they returned to the wooden cabin, the sky was already darkening.
Their lodging was in a remote spot, far from any signs of human activity.
Pei Zhi borrowed the car keys from Song Yu and slipped out midway, returning with the luggage she had left in the vehicle.
The nights were long here.
After tidying her belongings with a few simple motions, Song Yu found herself with nothing to do.
The cabin they were borrowing had once belonged to Sana’s eldest son.
That son had left Oymyakon for school and work in the city, leaving the house vacant.
Since it was only a temporary stay, there was no television or internet service.
Song Yu lounged on the sofa, her gaze wandering over the cabin’s layout and furnishings again and again. She was bored stiff, practically growing mold.
Back on the Snowfield Ship, even without internet at times, there had been plenty of entertainment options on the icebreaker, crowds of people, Wu Yue to chat with, and at worst, she could head to the deck for some fresh air. It had never felt quite so empty.
Pei Zhi, however, seemed utterly accustomed to it. He sprawled lazily in the sofa, a book in hand, turning the pages with steady rhythm.
He read quickly, ten lines at a glance, flipping every few minutes.
The volume was a hefty two or three centimeters thick, but under his patient perusal, it was nearly finished.
Song Yu leaned over and picked up another thick tome from the coffee table. She flipped through a couple of pages, dense with Russian text, and pulled a face before snapping it shut.
When the boredom became unbearable, she patted her pants pocket, cleared her throat lightly, and stood. “I’m stepping out for a bit.”
Pei Zhi’s eyes lifted slightly. He set his book back on the table and made as if to rise.
Song Yu waved him off hurriedly. “I know the way. No need to come with me.”
Over the past two days in Oymyakon, Pei Zhi had accompanied her every time she went to the bathroom.
She muttered under her breath, “I’m not a three-year-old kid.” Around here, only children under three needed such supervision.
Pei Zhi gave her a flat look, recalling how she had stormed off in a huff that afternoon and refused to be reined in. With light sarcasm, he said, “You’re worse than a kid.”
Song Yu shot him an unhappy glance. As she slipped on her shoes, she huffed softly, “I’m not.”
As if to prove her point, she doubled back to her suitcase, rummaged out a pack of slim women’s cigarettes and a lighter, and held them openly in her hand.
Song Yu’s smoking habit was a bad one she’d picked up on the job.
The film industry often meant upside-down schedules, and she’d relied on nicotine to stay alert. She’d just wrapped a movie recently, and her cravings had intensified.
She rarely smoked in front of Pei Zhi, though—at most, a couple of times that she could recall.
Pei Zhi’s gaze settled on the cigarette pack in her hand. His expression remained neutral, and he said nothing.
Song Yu had always appreciated his hands-off attitude.
It was far better than those who loved to lecture at the drop of a hat.
She had grown up with no one overseeing her habits and had a strong rebellious streak against preaching.
Besides, she wasn’t an idiot. She knew smoking was bad and made an effort to cut back when work stress eased.
Before meeting Pei Zhi, Song Yu had despised those so-called elites who couldn’t resist casually flaunting their accomplishments—name-dropping the latest books they’d read and pontificating to show off their intellect.
Being around people like that would drive her up the wall.
Thank goodness Pei Zhi, for all that he was a university professor, had none of that commentary or sermonizing in him. Otherwise, she never would have fallen for him.
Pei Zhi shrugged on his coat and opened the inner door. “Smoke in the corridor. It’s too cold outside—the cigarette won’t even light.”
Though he offered no judgment and even gave her a practical tip, Song Yu felt a twinge of guilt. She explained, “This’ll be my last one. Then I’m done.”
Between the cabin’s exterior and the living room lay a cramped porch, less than two square meters.
To keep the smoke from drifting inside, Song Yu closed the inner door. The narrow space was dimly lit.
She selected a slim cigarette from the silver pack.
Her frostbitten fingers were still clumsy, making the motion awkward.
Pei Zhi took the metal lighter from her hand.
It gave a faint click, casting a ghostly blue glow in the dimness.
Song Yu held the cigarette between her index and middle fingers and leaned in. Soon, the tip glowed and flickered.
Pei Zhi withdrew his hand after lighting it for her and leaned against the wall nearby, waiting patiently for her to finish.
The air filled with the distinct scent of smoke, mingled with a faint trace of gin.
The surroundings were utterly still.
Pei Zhi enjoyed watching her smoke.
It was elegant and languid, her eyes narrowed slightly, the corners tilting up in unwitting allure. Through the haze of pale gray smoke, she gained an extra layer of sensuality and intimacy.
The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed.
Song Yu exhaled a gentle puff and asked idly, “Do you smoke usually?”
“Rarely,” Pei Zhi replied, his voice low.
Song Yu thought about it and realized he was right. She only remembered him occasionally rolling tobacco in corn husks during their time in the rainforest—and never since.
In the tribe, she’d often stolen glances at him, watching his casual motions: long, slender fingers with distinct knuckles, drawing on the cigarette slow and deliberate, never inhaling fiercely.
Song Yu extended the half-smoked cigarette toward him. “Want a puff?”
Pei Zhi’s gaze dropped to the cigarette, then shifted to her face. Her lips were seductively crimson.
He pushed off the wall.
In the confined space, they drew even closer.
His tall, lean frame enveloped her completely.
He grasped Song Yu’s wrist and pulled it upward.
Song Yu blinked, caught off guard, as a rush of breath swept over her.
His refined, handsome face drew near, his dense lashes like raven feathers.
The next instant, her lips were caught in a bite. He entered without ceremony, parting her teeth.
Song Yu’s legs went weak. She instinctively tried to pull back, but an arm clamped around her waist, holding her fast with firm strength, refusing to let her escape.
The press of his lips was warm and wet.
It deepened gradually, carrying a sense of invasion.
Her wrist was held high in his grip, and her index finger trembled around the cigarette. A flake of ash tumbled onto her fingertip, scalding it.
Then her other hand wound around the man’s neck, her body pressing closer to his as she responded eagerly.
Time around them seemed to halt.
The only motion was the cigarette, burning silently to the end.
After lingering in the cabin far too long, they finally stepped outside.
Song Yu’s face was flushed hot, and even the minus-fifty-degree wind blasting her cheeks couldn’t cool it.
She licked her lips, which were swollen and tingling. The sensation from moments ago lingered, spicy and raw.
Once back from the bathroom, there was nothing left to do—it was nearly bedtime.
Pei Zhi was clearly in higher spirits than the night before. Rather than turning his back, he drew her into his arms and held her tight.
Song Yu sniffed, catching the faint cedar scent on him.
A wave of heat rose in her lower abdomen, trickling downward steadily. She couldn’t tell if it was blood or something else.
“…”
Song Yu clamped her legs together silently, a touch annoyed. Her period had picked the worst possible timing.
The next day, Song Yu woke to find the spot beside her empty again.
Days in Oymyakon Village were short, and no moment of outdoor labor could be wasted.
Chopping a full day’s worth of firewood for heat alone took considerable effort.
Song Yu stepped out of the bedroom. Fresh logs were already burning in the stove, warming the place comfortably. Through the living room window, she spotted Pei Zhi chopping wood, just as expected.
The night before bed, she’d played with his hand and clearly felt the fresh calluses thickening on his palm and the base of his thumb.
Outside, Sana approached leading a reindeer harnessed to a low wooden cart.
After a brief exchange with Pei Zhi, Sana left the reindeer behind and departed.
Song Yu bundled into her coat and went out. A gust of cold wind made her shiver.
But her attention quickly fixed on the reindeer.
It was her first time seeing a live one up close. Its coat gleamed, its temperament gentle, white puffs of breath steaming from its nostrils.
“What’s this for?” Song Yu asked.
“For fetching water,” Pei Zhi explained. He walked alongside the reindeer, stroking its back and checking that the cart’s ropes were secure.
In winter, all the village pipes froze solid, so water had to come from the river. Song Yu had gone through his stored supply over the past couple of days.
“Isn’t there water everywhere?” She nudged the snow on the ground with her foot.
“You could drink it if you don’t mind the dirt,” Pei Zhi said with a shrug.
Song Yu bent down for a closer look. Amid the white expanse, there were indeed specks of soil and dust.
“Then I’ll come with you.” She had nothing better to do, and pitching in a little would ease her conscience.
On the way to the river, Pei Zhi led the reindeer, which plodded along at a leisurely pace.
Fresh snow had fallen overnight, blanketing everything thickly. Unwilling to trudge through it, Song Yu lazed in the wooden cart instead.
Their remote location meant the river was some distance away. They encountered no one the whole way, save for a battered yellow school bus that rumbled past.
Blasting eardrum-shattering music, it was packed with Yakut children heading to school, bouncing wildly over the uneven snow as if it might fall apart any second.
Song Yu watched the bus recede into the distance, struck by how life went on in the village despite the brutal cold: kids to school, adults to work.
“After fetching water, what else are you doing today?” she asked Pei Zhi.
“Go back and chop the rest of the firewood.”
Song Yu looked at him strangely. “Aren’t you going to do your anthropology research?”
Back when they were in the rainforest, she had hardly ever caught sight of Pei Zhi. And when she did, he was always with the Native Americans—or at least, his attention was fixed on them.
Pei Zhi turned his head, meeting her gaze. Her eyes were limpid and bright, so pure they almost didn’t seem real, and yet they left him unable to see through her.
He couldn’t help thinking that if he hadn’t even figured her out, what was the point of studying anyone else?
“I’m on vacation,” he said.
A gust of frigid wind swept through, and Song Yu shivered. She muttered, “Why pick a place like this for a vacation?”
Normal people headed for somewhere warm.
Pei Zhi replied flatly, “Because here, just figuring out how to survive each day takes up all your time. You don’t have to think about anything else.”
Song Yu stared at him in a daze. The man’s eyes were pitch-black, his voice calm and even, but somehow she heard an unspoken accusation in his words.
She hopped down from the sled and fell into step beside him.
For some reason, a long silence settled over them. All around was the crunch of footsteps in the snow and the heavy breathing of the reindeer.
Song Yu pressed her lips together and tilted her head up to study the man’s profile.
After a long moment, she asked cautiously, “Are you still mad at me?”
Pei Zhi didn’t even bother lifting an eyelid. He shot her a sidelong glance and said nothing.
Song Yu: “…”
Sure enough, the incident on the plane hadn’t blown over yet.
“Hey, come on, stop being mad,” she pleaded. Her voice came out soft and wheedling, the picture of coquetry as she tried to make it up to him. “I take back what I said before. Can we just turn the page?”
Pei Zhi’s steps slowed gradually until he came to a stop.
His gaze drifted into the distance, across the vast frozen riverbed and farther still to the road leading toward Oymyakon.
The Jeep Song Yu had driven lay abandoned at the far end, its body entirely buried under the snowdrift, reduced to nothing more than a small mound.
Truth be told, that night—when he had spotted the woman huddled inside the car, her face ashen from the cold—he had already let go of the whole affair.
Song Yu was young; he was older. Childish words from a kid like her—if he were still dwelling on them now, he’d truly be the unreasonable one.
Even if she hadn’t come looking for him, he would have gone back to her once his vacation ended.
“Come on, okay? Don’t be mad anymore.”
When he still didn’t respond after a long while, Song Yu reached out and tugged at his clothes.
Pei Zhi pulled his eyes away from the horizon and met her gaze.
“I might. Or I might not.”
He wasn’t holding a grudge, but he had no intention of letting her off the hook so easily.
Let the kid learn her lesson, so she wouldn’t blurt out whatever came to mind next time.
Song Yu: “…”
This man was impossible to coax.