Not a single improper thought crossed her mind this time.
All she could think about was how much it must have hurt when the iron candlestick came crashing down, and how he had stood there afterward as if it were nothing.
"Tell me if it hurts," she murmured, gently rubbing the bruises along his back.
He said nothing.
The only sound in the room was the soft friction of her fingertips against his skin.
She did not notice the prayer beads looped around his fingers until she had finished his shoulders and straightened up.
Her gaze paused.
Then, as if she had seen nothing at all, she withdrew her knees from beside him, sprayed the medicine into her palm, and spread it carefully along his arm.
The sharp scent of menthol filled the air.
By the time she washed her hands and returned, he was already dressed.
Tall and upright, he stood there with a composure that no shabby room could diminish.
Yet the avoidance in his eyes was unmistakable.
For the first time, guilt crept into her chest.
She wisely said nothing further, simply picked up the room key.
"Shall we go?"
He looked at her quietly through the lingering mint in the air.
As if asking what more she planned to do.
Under that gaze, she raised three fingers instinctively.
"I really didn't look at anything except your injury."
The string of one hundred and eight beads rested again at his wrist.
He opened the door. "It's fine."
She froze.
Only after a moment did she understand.
Even if she had looked, it would not matter.
He had nothing to hide.
She followed him out. "You're really okay?"
His cool, Buddha-like eyes skimmed across her face. "Yes."
"See you tomorrow."
Her guilt dissolved as quickly as it had appeared. She walked away lightly, plastic bag swinging at her side.
He stopped.
She did not notice.
By the time he reached the lobby, she was already checking out.
The receptionist glanced at the clock. "Wait, sister. You two were… rather fast."
Her ears burned instantly.
"What are you thinking?" she protested.
She lifted the medicine bag. "We had proper business."
The woman looked doubtful.
To be honest, it did not look like that.
But neither of them resembled people chasing fleeting pleasure.
Especially him.
Clear brows, detached eyes, untouched by desire.
The faint mint scent matched the ointment in her bag.
The receptionist decided to believe her.
He, however, had not paid attention to any of it and walked straight toward the exit.
A middle-aged man hurried in with a dripping umbrella. He froze when he saw him.
"Boss Jiang?"
Lu Jingcheng gave a slight nod and continued forward.
The man stared, then looked at Su Qingyi, utterly bewildered.
Neither explained.
She grabbed the umbrella from the stand and chased after him.
"Jiang Jingye."
He stopped at the bottom of the wet steps.
She pressed the umbrella into his hand. "Take it."
"No need."
His tone was distant, almost cold.
He angled the umbrella back toward her.
She watched the rain misting across his shirt.
"Don't do this."
For once, her expression was serious.
He met her gaze.
"If you keep this up," she said softly, "I'm really going to want to talk."
He closed his eyes briefly.
If he expected her to speak properly, he was fooling himself.
The most absurd part was that she seemed annoyed at herself for wanting to talk, as though pursuing him was already the farthest she could go.
"Don't worry," he said calmly. "You won't."
She fell silent.
He almost handed the umbrella back when she muttered, unconvinced, "I didn't say we had to talk now."
He paused.
Their eyes met.
Her ears reddened. "Keep it. I'm here."
Without waiting, she ran into the alley across the street.
He followed her with his gaze to the sign at the entrance.
Zhou's Wood Carving.
A young man came out to meet her, concerned about the rain. She smiled politely, declining the coat he offered and stepping back to keep distance.
Gentle. Proper. Untouchable.
He remembered the way she had looked at him upstairs.
No one would believe it.
Only after she disappeared inside did he turn away.
When she left Zhou Xu's shop, the rain had stopped.
She declined his offer to drive her and hurried to her grandfather's workshop before the clouds thickened again.
Two carvings she had posted the previous night had already sold.
The buyer was in Beijing.
She packed them meticulously. Glass case. Wooden box. Foam. A reinforced wooden frame.
As she prepared to call the courier, her phone buzzed.
"Qingyi, Young Master Pei is still looking for you. He said if you dare return to Beijing, he'll ruin you. Don't let him find you."
She stared at the message.
Three months away, yet her name still lingered there.
She removed her gloves, called the courier first, then replied.
"Let him come."
She even sent her location.
Her friend panicked immediately.
"Delete it. If he pressures me, I'll cave!"
Su Qingyi withdrew the message.
Then she posted her location publicly instead.
Along with a photo of the temple's horse chestnut tree and a caption:
"Where the plains end, spring mountains rise."
She had not broken the engagement to leave peacefully.
If Pei Ling wanted her, he could come to Datong.
She wanted to see if the so-called crown prince of Beijing's elite could still sit comfortably on his throne here.
Her friend stared at the post in disbelief.
Before, she had thought Su Qingyi was meek, easily bullied.
When Pei Ling's scandal broke, everyone waited to watch her crumble.
Instead, she broke the engagement and turned him into the laughingstock of the circle.
"Aren't you afraid?" her friend messaged. "He's not called Crown Prince for nothing."
"Crown Prince?" Su Qingyi replied. "Do you even know who I am?"
Her friend's heart jumped.
"Who?"
"Successor of Socialism."
Silence.
If Su Qingyi had claimed to be the little princess of Datong, it would have made more sense.
This was not courage.
This was madness.
And yet, somehow, it suited her.