On the way back to school from the square, the night wind was chilly, feeling like ice-cold water splashing against his face.
Jiang Sifan shoved his hands in his pockets and walked with his head down, his mind replaying the scene from just moments ago.
When He Lingyi stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, her lips were soft, carrying the slight sweetness of lip balm.
As she leaned in, the tassels on her scarf brushed against his chin, tickling him.
She had a faint, pleasant scent about her. It wasn't perfume, but the smell of laundry detergent—clean and light, just like her.
He reached up and touched his own face.
The spot she had kissed was still a little hot, as if it had been branded.
He couldn't help but smile, then quickly suppressed it.
The streetlights stretched his shadow long and crooked across the ground.
He then recalled the way she had stood in the square and shouted.
Her voice was so bright, so clear—like a fire in the dead of winter.
