Northern City’s rain has never understood the meaning of moderation.

After the “Pause Button” class ended in the afternoon, Song Xingran stayed late at the newspaper office. When she finally stepped out of the building with a stack of proofread manuscripts in her arms, she realized the world had already been swallowed by a carefully plotted downpour.

The rain was ferocious—like countless whips cracking down from the pitch-black sky, lashing the asphalt and kicking up a pale mist. The wind drove the rain sideways, forming a cold, wet wall that mercilessly sealed off every exit.

Song Xingran stood beneath the arcade at the building’s entrance. The moment she opened her umbrella, it was twisted out of shape by the gale. She had no choice but to fold it back up and retreat awkwardly into the corner.

Her phone showed a despairing No Service. Cut off by the storm, this moment felt like an isolated island, the world reduced to nothing but the violent roar of rain.

10:47 p.m.

No taxis. No buses. Hardly any private cars passing by.

Hugging her arms, Song Xingran felt the cold creep upward from her ankles. The warmth that had flared earlier in the recording studio—sparked by that “airborne kiss”—had long since faded, leaving only a lingering, hollow heat deep in her bones.

She touched her lips. They seemed to still remember the cold feel of the metal mesh, and the scorching breath of that man.

Just then, two piercing beams of headlights tore through the rain like blades, forcefully cutting into her vision.

A black sedan rolled to a stop beneath the arcade. Its sleek, hard lines gleamed dully under the streetlight, like a beast lying in wait on a rainy night.

The window slid halfway down.

Warm yellow light spilled out, illuminating the profile of the man in the driver’s seat.

Shen Muchen.

He had changed out of the black knit sweater he wore earlier. Now he was dressed in a dark gray turtleneck, a tailored black coat over it, the collar turned up to hide half his face. Only his eyes—deep and intense—shone startlingly bright in the rain-soaked darkness.

He didn’t get out of the car.

He simply sat there, quietly watching her through the half-lowered window and the curtain of rain. There was no surprise in his gaze, no pity—only a calm certainty, as if this were exactly as expected.

“Get in.”

His voice wasn’t loud. Low and resonant, like the vibration of a cello’s C string, it cut cleanly through the storm and struck her eardrums.

It wasn’t a question. It was an order.

Song Xingran froze, instinctively wanting to refuse. But a blast of cold wind and rain hit her face, making her shiver.

“Don’t want to?” Shen Muchen tapped the steering wheel lightly, his tone indifferent. “Then keep standing there and let the rain freeze what little brainpower you have left.”

She clenched her teeth and stopped hesitating. Hugging her bag, she dashed through the rain to the passenger side.

Open door. Get in. Close door.

Bang.

The world fell silent.

Inside the car was a completely different universe—dry, warm, infused with a faint, pleasant scent of cedar. It was Shen Muchen’s smell, mingled with the aroma of leather seats, creating a unique pheromone that was both calming and unsettling.

Soaked to the skin, hair dripping, Song Xingran felt like a muddy intruder in a sterile room.

Shen Muchen didn’t look at her. He simply reached over and turned up the heater.

Hot air blasted from the vents, blowing straight at her.

“Seatbelt,” he reminded her.

Flustered, she reached for it, but her fingers were stiff with cold. The buckle wouldn’t click no matter how she tried.

Shen Muchen sighed.

He unfastened his own seatbelt and leaned over.

Song Xingran’s breath caught instantly.

His presence closed in—the dry heat of him spreading over her, overwhelming.

But he didn’t touch her.

His body hovered about five centimeters away as his arm reached across her, pulling the seatbelt into place.

Click.

The crisp metallic sound echoed sharply in the enclosed space.

Inevitably, his arm brushed past her chest. Though separated by fabric, without direct contact, the sheer proximity made her heart pound wildly.

He withdrew and took the wheel again.

“Address.”

She gave him her home address.

The car eased forward, disappearing into the rain-soaked night.

They said nothing the entire way. Only the rhythmic swish of the wipers and the soft hum of the heater filled the silence.

Song Xingran stole a glance at him. He looked focused as he drove, his profile sharp, long fingers resting casually on the wheel—effortlessly elegant.

Twenty minutes later, a line of red taillights appeared ahead. Cars were backed up, motionless.

“Road ahead closed due to flooding,” the traffic broadcast announced.

Shen Muchen frowned, tapping the wheel twice.

“We can’t get through.”

He turned to her, calm as if discussing the weather. “This is the only route to your place. The water’s too deep.”

She froze. “Then… what do we do?”

“Two options.”

He raised two fingers.

“One, you get out and swim.”

She glanced at the dark, unfathomable water outside and shrank back.

“Two—” his gaze lingered for a second on her soaked clothes, something unreadable flashing in his eyes—“you come to my place.”

Her heart skipped a beat. His place?

“Professor Shen, that… doesn’t seem appropriate,” she stammered.

“What are you worried about?” He gave her a half-smile. “That I’ll do something to you?”

He started the engine, turning onto another road.

“Relax. I have no appetite for a drowned cat.”

Shen Muchen’s home was a top-tier apartment in the city center.

The elevator went straight to the top floor.

When the heavy front door opened, Song Xingran stepped into his private space for the first time.

It was nothing like she’d imagined.

Cold—like a model showroom.

Minimalist to the extreme. Black, white, and gray dominated everything. The living room was vast, with a six-meter ceiling and a massive floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the rain-blurred city. Sparse furniture, hard lines. No decorations. Not even a single plant.

Clean, orderly, precise—just like Shen Muchen himself. Ascetic, restrained.

“No need to take off your shoes.”

He walked in first, removed his coat, and hung it by the door.

She lingered in the entryway, her wet shoes leaving a small puddle on the floor. “I’ll dirty the floor…”

“Then I’ll wipe it later,” he said without turning back. “Come in.”

He poured a glass of warm water at the kitchen island, then disappeared down the hallway.

When he returned, he was holding a set of clothes.

A gray men’s lounge set.

“Bathroom’s over there,” he said, pointing to the end of the hall. “Take a shower.”

He set the clothes on the sofa, deliberately avoiding handing them to her.

“I don’t want my interview subject catching a cold in my house. Bad for my reputation.”

She looked at the clothes, then at her own damp outfit, and nodded.

The bathroom was spacious, all cool gray tones.

The moment hot water poured down, she finally felt alive again. She showered slowly, trying to delay facing him—but it couldn’t be helped.

Dried off, she picked up the clothes.

They were Shen Muchen’s.

Wearing them felt like being swallowed by fabric. Sleeves covered her hands; pant legs had to be rolled up three times. Worst of all, the faint cedar scent lingered on the cloth.

It wrapped around her completely, every inch of her skin aware of his presence.

An indirect, yet intensely intimate embrace.

Blushing, she shuffled out.

Only one floor lamp was lit in the living room, casting dim, ambiguous light.

Shen Muchen sat on the sofa with a book, also changed into gray loungewear—perfectly fitted on him, absurdly oversized on her.

He looked up.

His gaze swept over her.

The loose collar exposed one rounded shoulder and her delicate collarbone. With no bra underneath—hers had been soaked and washed—her chest rose and fell softly, its shape faintly outlined.

His eyes darkened for a split second before returning to calm.

“Come here.”

He pointed to the single chair opposite him.

She sat, tugging awkwardly at the hem.

“Your hair,” he said. “Not drying it?”

“I… couldn’t find the dryer.”

He took one from the drawer under the coffee table and set it down.

“Outlet’s behind you.”

He didn’t help her.

He simply went back to his book.

She plugged it in and turned it on.

Whirrrrr—

The sound broke the silence.

As she dried her hair, she sneaked glances at him. He seemed absorbed, not even lifting his eyes.

What she didn’t know was that he hadn’t turned a page in five minutes.

He was listening.

Listening to the air through her hair, her fingers combing through it, droplets hitting the floor.

He was “watching” her with his ears.

When she turned the dryer off, silence returned.

She felt thirsty and glanced at the glass of water on the island.

“That’s for you,” he said, as if seeing through her.

She took a sip, warmth easing her nerves.

Then she noticed something strange.

In the corner of the living room was a staircase to the second floor.

But it was sealed off by a heavy black velvet curtain, a small wooden sign hanging from it that read: Under Construction.

In such a minimalist space, it looked jarringly out of place—mysterious, forbidden.

Curiosity pulled her closer.

What was up there? His bedroom? A private studio?

She reached out, fingertips about to touch the cold velvet.

“Don’t.”

A low warning sounded behind her.

She startled, hand frozen mid-air.

Turning back, she saw Shen Muchen standing, book set aside, watching her intently. His eyes were dark, something turbulent churning within.

He walked toward her.

One step. Two.

His tall frame loomed, trapping her in shadow.

Instinctively she backed up until her spine hit the cold wall.

He stopped in front of her.

One hand came up, braced against the wall beside her ear.

Thud.

An air-wall pin.

He didn’t touch her. About ten centimeters remained between them. Yet his presence alone formed a net, holding her fast.

He lowered his head, eyes on her flustered face.

“Curious?”

She nodded, then quickly shook her head.

“That place…”

His gaze flicked to the curtain, his Adam’s apple rolling.

“It’s not ready for you to see.”

“What?” she whispered.

“That’s my world.”

He looked back at her, a dark flame burning in his eyes.

“What’s inside is too messy. Too crazy.”

“You wouldn’t be able to handle it yet.”

Every word landed like a hammer. She sensed that behind that curtain lay more than equipment—something secret, obsessive, and directed only at her.

His hand stayed on the wall as his intent shifted from wanting to scare her to something deeper.

“That upstairs is my bedroom,” he said quietly, fatigue in his voice, “and my private studio.”

“The equipment there records sounds… that aren’t meant for others.”

“When you’re ready, I’ll take you up.”

He withdrew his hand, then turned to the coffee table and picked up a black phone.

It was already prepared.

“Take it.”

She accepted it, confused. “What is this?”

“I’m flying to Berlin tomorrow morning.”

The words carried weight in the closed, rain-bound apartment.

“Berlin?” She looked up. “For how long?”

“Seven days.”

He watched her closely, as if engraving her expression into memory.

“For those seven days, I won’t be in Northern City.”

“But I need to know… whether your frequency stays in tune.”

He pointed at the phone.

“There’s only one contact on it.”

“Keep it on, 24/7. Whether I’m in a meeting, asleep, or on the red carpet—”

He leaned in slightly, breath warm against her skin, voice dominant and unyielding.

“If it rings, you answer.”

“If you call, I will answer.”

Her grip tightened around the phone, palm burning. This wasn’t a phone—it was an electronic shackle.

“Go to sleep.”

He stepped back, his gaze lingering on her one last time.

“Let tonight’s rain hide your heartbeat.”

“From tomorrow on… you’ll fall asleep listening only to my voice.”

And on the other end of the line—

was the man flying seven thousand kilometers away.

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