Each of their own opportunities
He's used to shouldering the burden alone these past few days. Mu Tianlang has always been adept at maintaining his position in the eye of the storm—working tirelessly on shareholder meetings, financial matters, and public opinion, keeping every gust of wind at bay.
He feared her shoulder was still burning, feared the harsh realities of life would sting her, so he chose silence, retreating half a step from the threshold. Returning home exhausted, he still held his tongue, not letting the lingering clamor of the outside world intrude into her daily life; but what she perceived was as being kept outside the door.
In the morning, the wind parted the clouds, and the light of Beijing fell like a layer of warm white gauze on the windowsill of the Crescent Moon Cottage. In the kitchen, the pot bubbled gently, milk rising slightly along the sides, and black tea swirled in a pale amber ring.
Mu Tianlang turned off the heat, strained the milk tea into a cup, and the steam gently lifted his eyelashes.
He didn't go into the study, nor did he reply to her messages. Last night, as she passed through the living room, she quietly unfolded a thin blanket and covered his shoulders, her fingertips brushing against his brow bone, without waking him—at that moment, she thought they could talk things out by dawn.
He adjusted the consistency of the porridge and heated up two side dishes, as if softening his tone before speaking. The lines of his shoulders and neck remained taut, like the rule ingrained in his bones—if he could keep quiet, he would; if he could bear it, he would bear it alone. The past two or three days had been the same: after the charity event, he came home late every night, changed into his pajamas, went to his study to handle phone calls and manuscripts, and didn't close his eyes until midnight; she reached out and called to him in the hallway, he glanced at her, only said "we'll talk about it tomorrow" and avoided her; she sent him messages late at night, and he often didn't reply until the early morning with a simple "received." Those small, subtle interactions seemed to gently push her across the threshold.
"Hu Li, breakfast is ready." His voice was not loud, but steady.
The studio door opened. She came out, her face paler than the light, with redness still lingering in her eyes. She didn't beat around the bush; she sat down, picked up her spoon, and took a sip of milk tea. The sweetness was to her liking. She swallowed hard, but didn't smile.
He ladled a bowl of porridge for her and placed it in front of her. The porcelain bowl landed softly on the table. They each ate three mouthfuls, neither of them touching the plate of pickled cucumbers he had specially cut that morning.
Finally, she spoke, her voice as faint as a breeze brushing against glass: "It wasn't that I wouldn't let you touch me yesterday, it's because I didn't know how much distance was left between us."
He raised his head, his gaze calm and restrained: "I know you're injured, I—"
She interrupted, "You know that, but you choose not to face it. You come home very late every day, don't go into the bedroom, don't talk to me, and now you think you can make up for it with just breakfast?"
His knuckles tightened and then relaxed, his voice lowering: "It's not that I don't want to face it. I'm afraid if I get too close, you'll be even more unable to hold on. During this period, I have to deal with shareholders, the media, and fund allocation. One wrong step, and everything will fall apart."
She smiled, a smile like a thin blade: "You think you're the only one having a hard time? Look at those paintings." She gestured with her chin towards the studio. "I tore myself apart. I threw our relationship, my trust in you, my dignity, my dreams—all of it in there. Do you see?"
His gaze deepened: "I saw it. I'm in pain too. I'm not a machine."
She suddenly stood up, her fingertips gripping the edge of the table, her voice trembling but unwavering: "Then why can't you come a little closer to me? Even just a word, a hug. I can bear anything, but I can't bear it all alone. I'm afraid—I'm afraid you won't choose me, afraid that I really am what they say, a vixen, a third party."
The chair leg scraped against the floor with a low, hoarse sound. He stood up too, his breathing noticeably heavier, his voice even lower: "You're not. You never were."
She met his gaze, her voice barely audible: "Then don't shut me out. Don't wait until you've cleared the whole battlefield before telling me the ending. I'm not an outsider."
Silence is like a taut string, stretched into a thin, brittle line in the air.
His fist clenched so tightly that the veins stood out, his knuckles gleaming in the white light of the porcelain bowl. He finally let out a slow breath: "I didn't mean to exclude you. I was just afraid that laying bare the reality would hurt you even more. I thought that if I shielded you from the storm outside, you wouldn't be affected."
Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she held her chin up: "I don't want you to stand alone. I just want you to turn around and look at me, and tell me we're on the same side. Don't treat me like a project in your career."
He looked at her, his throat tightened, and many words were squeezed into silence in that instant. He took a step forward, raised his arm, and then stopped before it could fall.
She slowly sat back down, her voice weary: "I'm tired."
Sunlight fell brightly on the space between the two, but it couldn't penetrate the shadow in their hearts.
——
Two o'clock in the afternoon, in the studio. The smell of paint lingered in the air like a fiery aura. Hu Li moved a painting that was still wet from the morning to the floor and replaced it with a new canvas. She wasn't trying to make anything "beautiful"; she just wanted to smooth out some of the hard, stone-like edge on her chest.
Her phone lit up; it was Xiaomin. She answered, trying to keep her voice calm: "I'm fine. It's just that lately... I've been a bit troubled."
Xiaomin sighed on the other end of the line: "I know a little bit. Our company is going to a mountain resort hotel in a neighboring city for team building, and I need to go scout the location first. Do you want to come with me? It'll be a good opportunity to get some fresh air?"
She hesitated for two seconds, then nodded: "Okay."
After hanging up, she turned around and straightened her paintbrush. A drop of red gathered at the tip of the brush, and before it fell, she suddenly remembered her mother's shouts in the old house over the years, the bang of the door, and the light scattered on the floor after the glass shattered.
She didn't want to live like that; she didn't want to become that kind of person. She placed that drop of red in the very center, then covered it with a thin layer of gold, like applying a warm medicine to a wound.
——
It was evening, and the light had faded. She packed her luggage: two plain white shirts, a pair of jeans, a plain hat, and a sketchbook. Before leaving, she glanced at his retreating figure in the corner of the living room: "I'm going to stay at Xiaomin's house tonight, and I'll accompany her to the neighboring city tomorrow. You don't need to see me off."
He stood up, his thin lips pressed into a line, and nodded. "Be careful on the road." His gaze lingered on the sketchbook in her hand for a moment before moving away. "Call me if anything happens. Don't try to be brave alone."
She didn't try to argue, only humming in response. As she left, the property manager's walkie-talkie beeped in the corridor, signaling the approach of patrolling footsteps.
She paused at the door, then suddenly turned around, raised her hand to straighten his collar: "Don't stay up too late." Her fingertips brushed against his Adam's apple, the warmth of her touch fleeting yet subtle.
His throat tightened, and he reached out to grasp her hand, his grip light, like a wolf gently touching its lips when it has sheathed its fangs. "Come back quickly."
She smiled, her fox-like eyes crinkling at the corners: "We'll see how you do."
The door closed, and the wind blew in from the end of the corridor, carrying away the faint scent of her minty shower gel.
——
The next morning, in a neighboring city. The mountain path wound its way through the air, pine needles rustling softly underfoot. Xiaomin held a camera in one hand and pointed to the resort's trail with the other: "There's a forest theater here; at night, the lights shine down like a shower of stars."
She pulled her hat brim down low and used her phone to capture some angles of light and shadow. Around 11 a.m., an elderly couple waved to them from the roadside: "Come in and have some tea."
The wooden house smelled faintly of orange peel. The old man was cutting rice cake in the kitchen, and the old woman invited them to sit down, grumbling, "Him? He has to control everything."
Her tone was like a complaint, but her eyes held a peace of mind that only came from years of companionship. She watched the two of them talk back and forth, and something inside her was gently touched.
The old lady laughed and said, "When he was young, he had a terrible temper. We argued so much that I went back to my parents' house three times. It was he who coaxed me back with letters, one after another. Everyone knows he's stubborn, but he's very steady with his hands. Even when he was sick, he wouldn't let me lift anything heavy."
She looked up at the busy people in the kitchen, her voice softening, "He wanted to arrange everything for me, afraid that I would be tired or annoyed. We've argued and been angry with each other, but in the end, I knew that he wouldn't leave, and neither would I."
The old woman gently pushed the teacup towards her, her voice low: "We'll argue sometimes. But remember to trust. Without trust, even the deepest love will turn into a hell of doubt. Give each other some space, and be willing to come back to each other."
She was stunned for a moment, as if someone had struck her heart with a hammer, but there was no pain, only a jolt.
As she left the cabin, the mountain wind lifted a corner of her hat. Standing on the slope, she glanced back, feeling as if a piece of the stone in her heart had been shaved off. Back in her room at dusk, she sat on the balcony for a long time, the starlight in the valley opening and closing like slow breaths.
She opened her phone and typed a message: "I'll be staying in the neighboring city for two days. During this time, let's all think carefully about how to move forward."
After sending the message, she turned her phone face down and heard the sound of the wind passing through the railing outside the door.
——
At the same time, in Beijing. On the 26th floor of the Mu Group headquarters, the office lights were a cold white, casting long, thin shadows.
He ran his fingertips over a small velvet box, opened it, and inside was a necklace and earrings that had not yet been delivered—the silver pendant depicted a wolf and a fox intertwined, forming a tightly interlocked ring.
He closed the box, put it in the inner pocket, as if pressing down a sentence, waiting for a more opportune moment.
Xiao Zhou knocked and came in, outlining two time points and three external liaison tasks. He nodded in each direction, his tone as indifferent as the back of a knife: "Proceed according to plan. Don't let her appear on camera."
After the door closed, the room became even quieter. He picked up his phone and saw her message, "Two days." His gaze lingered on the screen for a long time, but he didn't reply immediately. He placed his phone face down on the corner of the table, got up, and went home.
At night, he didn't turn on many lights. The door to his studio, Crescent Moon Cottage, was ajar, the smell of paint and turpentine filling the space. Snap, the light came on. He stood frozen in the doorway.
On the wall were paintings, one after another, with intense colors and brushstrokes like sharp claws. They were not the gentle forest he first met her in, but a fox cornered, baring its teeth and wounds in the darkness.
Crown of thorns, flames and frost, the outstretched hand of the wolf in the distant tower—each painting is like a silent cry nailed to the wall.
He walked step by step to one of the paintings. The fox had its back to the viewer, as if it had been driven out of the forest. In the distance, a wolf stood on a tall building, its paws outstretched, yet unreachable. Suddenly, a nerve in his chest was tugged, and a dull pain crept up his ribs inch by inch.
He sat down, his fingers resting on the edge of the canvas as if stroking a burning forehead, his voice almost inaudible: "I'm sorry. I really thought I could just hold on."
He was wrong. These paintings were her silent screams, her way of showing him her pride and trust, layer by layer. He should have heard them sooner, he should have come closer sooner.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled as if making a decision.
——
The next day in a neighboring city. Xiaomin went to the conference room to review the procedures. She walked alone along the trail towards the mountainside, sunlight filtering through the tree canopy in beams.
She sat down in the shade of the trees, opened her sketchbook, and casually sketched a couple of lines. A message popped up on her phone from overseas—Emma: "I saw your new work; the vitality is amazing. I want your work for next fall's exhibition."
She stared at the words for a long time, her fingertip hovering over the screen, before finally replying with just two words: "Thank you."
She knew it was a door; but before entering, she needed to sweep the ground around her feet clean. She put her phone away, smiled at the shadows of the trees, as if saying to someone far away in Beijing, "When I get back, we'll talk."
——
Beijing, afternoon. The whiteboard in the situation room was covered with timelines and arrows. Xiao Zhou explained the source of the third wave of telephoto lenses, the reconciliation screenshots of the two shell companies, and the platform's handling of the situation step by step. Mu Tianlang only asked, "Where is she now?"
"A resort in a neighboring city, scouting locations with friends."
He nodded and instructed, "Keep an eye on the outer perimeter, don't disturb her." He paused, then added, "She likes clean light."
Xiao Zhou paused for a moment, then smiled and said, "I understand."
The meeting ended, and he kept the legal team behind. He tapped his fingertips three times on the table, his tone cold and sharp: "Follow every procedure that needs to be followed, and don't concede an inch of the footage that needs to be covered. And—" He looked up, his gaze as calm and direct as a wolf in the night, "Give me some time."
The legal representative nodded: "Understood."
——
As dusk fell, the wind from the neighboring city swirled twice in the valley. On their way back to their room, she and Xiaomin encountered the elderly couple again. The old woman handed her a small bag of handmade pastries: "Eat these on the way." The old man called out from afar, "Young man, remember to say something nice when you get back after you've finished arguing."
She was amused and turned back to wave vigorously at the two elderly people. The smile went from her eyes to the corners of her mouth, as if she had swallowed all the wind of the past two days.
At night, she sat on the balcony, opened her memo app, and wrote a few words: We are two people, not two separate battles. She also wrote: I want you to stand beside me.
She saved those few sentences for later, without sending them. The wind blew a strand of her hair to her lips, and she casually tucked it behind her ear, her eyes brightening.
——
On the morning of the third day, she and Xiaomin took the earliest bus back to Beijing. When they got off, it was just dawn, and the city's skyscrapers looked like freshly washed glass in the morning mist. Instead of going home first, she went to an art supply store, bought a few more tubes of paint, and then circled back to Crescent Moon Cottage.
At the elevator entrance, the building security guard nodded to her, and the walkie-talkie replied, "Patrol as scheduled." She pushed open the door and entered the house. The room was clean, and there was a small bag on the table with a note next to it: "Breakfast is in the pot, keeping it warm. Be back later." The handwriting was his—calm and restrained.
She walked into the kitchen, lifted the pot lid, and the aroma of milk and black tea wafted out. She picked up the cup, took a sip, and chuckled softly—the sweetness was just right.
The curtains in the studio were half-drawn. She moved one of the paintings to the center and set up a white canvas next to it. She knew she had a lot to say, but she also knew that some things needed to be painted first.
The door clicked as evening fell. She turned around. He stood in the light, his suit jacket draped over his arm, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his wrists, his eyes softer than a few days ago, yet deeper.
Neither of them spoke first. The only sounds were the clatter of heels on the carpet and the rhythm of his breathing. He hung up his coat first, took two steps closer, and stopped an arm's length away from her: "You're back."
"I'm back." She said calmly.
His gaze swept over the new canvas on her shoulder, then returned to her eyes: "Let's talk."
She nodded: "Okay."
He spoke first, his tone like a sharp blade being sheathed: "I'm sorry. I've been using the wrong approach these past few days. I'm used to shouldering everything alone, thinking that keeping you out of the storm is for your own good. But I forgot, you're not someone who needs to be isolated." He paused, "You're someone close to me."
She stared at him, her eyes clear: "Then you need to learn to stand beside me or let me stand shoulder to shoulder with you." "I will." He raised his hand and slowly stopped in front of her, as if asking for permission.
She didn't back down, but took a step forward and placed her hand on top. Palm to palm, the warmth was real. She looked up, her tone still that mischievous lightness: "So tell me, what do you plan to do?"
He lowered his head, his forehead close to hers, his voice low and steady: "First, I'll handle the noise outside, but I won't hide it from you; I'll tell you immediately. Second, regarding the boundaries concerning your mother, you can state them; I'll be there, not crossing the line. Third—" He paused, his gaze deepening, "Let's talk things out, so you won't have to draw until your hand trembles alone, and so I won't have to keep it to myself."
She looked at him, her eyes flickering, her tone still light but more direct: "That's more like it. I also want to make this clear—if you have something on your mind, just say it. Even if I can't help right now, I don't want you to bear it all alone. Love requires two-way communication; if only one person is giving or protecting, it won't last long." She raised her paint-stained finger and wrote a word in his palm—"Together."
His Adam's apple bobbed, and he tightened his grip on her hand. "Together."
She suddenly tiptoed and placed a very light kiss on his jawline, as if flipping a restart switch: "Mr. Wolf, this time don't just talk the talk, walk the walk."
He looked down at her, a layer of warmth covering his cold eyes, and the corners of his lips turned up slightly: "Yes, sir."
She laughed, her eyes curving into long, narrow crescents: "The kind that only I can hear."
He didn't argue, but lowered his head and covered her lips with his. The kiss was unhurried, as if slowly smoothing out the storms and fires that had been raging between them these past few days. His arms tightened, encircling her completely, his palms resting on her lower back, his touch steady, like pulling her away from the vents of a storm.
She lightly bit his lip, a fox-like provocation: "Don't try to fool me."
He chuckled softly, his voice rumbling from his throat, slightly hoarse: "Who am I trying to fool?"
She didn't say anything more, but simply rested her forehead against his collarbone, her breathing slowing down.
After a long while, he took the velvet box out of his pocket and placed it in her palm. She looked up at him; his gaze was direct, yet there was a moment of unease in it: "I originally wanted to give it to you at a less bad time. It's not bad now."
She opened it. The silver pendant depicted a wolf and a fox interlocked in a ring, the details clean and the lines restrained. Her fingertip rested on the intersection of the rings, she looked up, and smiled slowly: "Isn't this a bit too blatant?"
He chuckled and said, "Then I'll wear it inside my collar, so only I can see it."
She gave a dismissive snort, "Domineering."
"Okay, I was wrong." He fastened the chain for her, his fingertips pausing only briefly at the clasp, his movements so gentle it was as if he didn't want to startle her. Warmth spread through her skin, and the tips of her ears turned slightly red. She looked up, her eyes shining: "Mr. Mu, don't you feel like we're more at home now?"
He stroked her knuckles, his tone calm yet sincere: "That's how it is."
——
In the afternoon, he turned on his computer and showed her a schedule—not a news article, nor a press release, but her art exhibition and schedule for next month, with two different security and traffic routes next to it. She glanced at it and raised an eyebrow: "You call this standing next to me?"
"It's just about getting the road straight." He looked at her. "Whether you go or not is up to you."
She closed her laptop and spread her sketchbook between them: "Now I want to draw a new picture. Where are you standing?"
He paused for a moment, then took two steps back: "I stand behind your heart, not blocking your light. If you need me, call my name; if not, I will remain here quietly."
He didn't move again, but sat down by the door, his gaze fixed on her back, his breathing slowing down as if aligning with a beat.
As she painted with intense focus, the only sounds in the room were the brushstrokes against the canvas. When she looked up to change colors, he didn't get up, but simply mouthed a single word: "Here."
She smiled, a pure and innocent smile: "I know."
——
As evening fell, the clouds over Beijing were tinged with a pale peach hue by the sunset. The living room curtains were half-drawn, and the wind lifted the hem by about two fingers.
They placed the newly completed painting in the center of the room; the painting was titled "Side by Side." In the painting, the wind was still blowing, and the fox and wolf did not retreat but stood side by side, with a smoothed-out light behind them.
She looked at the light and suddenly remembered the elderly couple. She turned to look at him: "We'll argue."
"Yes," he said frankly.
"But you must trust."
"Um."
She reached out and hooked her little finger with his: "Pinky promise."
He lowered his head and kissed her fingertips: "I won't go back on my word."
The intercom outside beeped, and the property management patrol passed by in the hallway, their footsteps steady. She leaned on his shoulder, listening to the sound slowly fade into the distance, as if even the wind was being kept out of the door.
This time, no one is shouldering the burden alone.
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