Three minutes
Afterwards, the sound of rain faded into the distance, like the footsteps of an audience leaving a theater.
The lights finally stopped flickering and remained steadily lit, fixing the two shadows on the stage into a still relief.
Yu Chen's sobs gradually subsided, leaving only intermittent gasps, like bandages that hadn't been removed after the race, loosening layer by layer.
She remained nestled in Xiao Wei's shoulder, her nose pressed against the pulse on the side of his neck—a pulse that beat rapidly, yet gradually synchronized with her own heartbeat.
Xiao Wei didn't speak again, but his palm slid from Yu Chen's shoulder blade to the back of his neck, and his fingertips gently circled the red hair at the ends, as if tying a knot in the fuse that had exploded.
Sweat and tears mingled together, sticking their skin together like a damp sheet of paper that would hurt if torn apart.
She tilted her head and rubbed her chin against Yu Chen's earlobe, her voice so low it was barely a whisper:
"Get up? The ground is cold."
Yu Chen didn't move, but his fingers curled up, making tiny creases in the damp cloth of Xiao Wei's vest.
The action was like a silent protest, and also like a silent dependence.
Xiao Wei sighed, slipped his right arm under her knees, and lifted her up horizontally—the movement was as light as if he were holding a cat that had just been vaccinated and was still trembling.
Yu Chen instinctively hooked his arm around her neck, his fingertips touching the old scar, his fingertips tracing the raised skin as if confirming coordinates.
Below the ring, against the wall, is a row of old chairs.
Xiao Wei knelt down on one knee and let Yu Chen sit on his lap, with his back against the back of the seat in front of him.
The two remained very close, their sweat transmitting warmth to each other, as if they shared a single heart.
Xiao Wei pulled a crumpled pack of tissues from the side pocket of his shorts, took one out, but didn't rush to wipe his face. Instead, he pinched Yu Chen's chin and lifted her flushed face.
Under the lamplight, tears still clung to the corners of the boy's eyes, yet he stubbornly refused to let them fall, like a bird drenched by a downpour, still holding its neck high.
Xiao Wei awkwardly patted the water droplets under her eyes with a tissue, afraid of scratching her skin.
Yu Chen lowered her eyes, her eyelashes casting dappled shadows in the lamplight, her voice hoarse and dry:
"...Don't look at me."
"Fine, I won't look at you."
Xiao Wei verbally agreed, but then pressed his forehead against hers again, closed his eyes, and gently touched the tip of his nose to hers—
It was a non-aggressive "fist bump," like a forced reconciliation between the two fighters in front of the camera after a match.
In the darkness, only their breaths mingled, one hot and the other cool.
After a long while, Yu Chen's fingers moved slightly behind Xiao Wei's neck, his voice so low it was almost inaudible:
"...I'm hungry."
Xiao Wei paused for half a second, then laughed out loud. The vibrations in his chest traveled to Yu Chen's chest, like a soothing pat on his still disordered heart.
She looked up and touched Yu Chen's forehead with her lips, as if stamping a mark of approval on a fragile item:
"Change your clothes, then I'll take you to eat noodles."
——
Behind the boxing gym, the night sky, washed clean by the torrential rain, seemed to have been polished anew, with stars emerging one by one.
Xiao Wei pushed the motorcycle, with Yu Chen following behind, her bright red hair bobbing in the night wind.
There was only one helmet, so Xiao Wei put it on Yu Chen's head and wore a black baseball cap himself.
She sat down in the car sideways, her hand just touching the gas tank, when Yu Chen suddenly reached out and wrapped his arms around her waist from behind—
My fingertips touched the outline of his abs through the thin T-shirt, like touching a rock that had been washed clean by the rain.
Xiao Wei's back stiffened, then relaxed, and he placed his right hand on the back of Yu Chen's hand, gently patting it:
"Hold on tight, or we won't compensate you if you fall."
The motorcycle started, its deep roar like a black panther awakening.
The night breeze, carrying the scent of rain-soaked earth and gardenias, brushed past their shoulders.
Yu Chen rested her forehead against Xiao Wei's shoulder, hearing the wind carry the sound of his heartbeat—
The rhythm of the bells was more steady than that of an engine, more like a lighthouse signaling a return journey.
The car headlights cleaved through the darkness, casting a long strip of light on the asphalt road.
Yu Chen closed her eyes, tightened her arms, and her voice drifted away in the wind:
"...Xiao Wei".
"Um?"
"Next time... don't make me cry again."
Xiao Wei didn't turn around, but released the accelerator with his right hand and placed it on the back of her hand, gently rubbing the bruises on her knuckles with his fingertips.
After a long silence, she turned her head, her voice low and firm:
I'll try my best.
“But if you keep being stubborn,” she added with a smile, “I can’t guarantee I won’t use torture to extract a confession.”
Yu Chen buried his face in her shoulder and silently curved the corners of his mouth into a smile.
The night wind continued to blow, and the motorcycle continued forward, as if carrying all the unspoken answers from the ring—
I secretly wrote it into the first star that rose after the rain.
At 1:05 a.m., all the signs in the back alley went out. The streets after the rain looked like they had been disconnected from the power supply, with only the traffic lights flashing. Xiao Wei parked his motorcycle in front of "Old Zheng's Beef Noodles"—the roller shutter was pulled up tightly, and the last wisp of steam from the beef bone soup drifted out from the crack, like a sigh after the restaurant closed.
“It’s really closed.” Yu Chen took off her helmet, her hair sticking wetly to the side of her neck. She sniffed as the wind blew on her. “I’m so hungry I could eat my boxing gloves.”
Xiao Wei raised his hand to wipe away the raindrops on her forehead, his fingertips sliding down her brow bone to her earlobe, his voice tinged with laughter: "Let's go home, I'll cook for you."
"Your home?"
"Yeah, just two streets away." She paused for half a second, then added, "I live alone."
Yu Chen's ears felt hot. He bent down to fasten his helmet back onto the seat and pretended to examine the rearview mirror.
——
The iron gate clicked open, and the night-blooming jasmine in the courtyard was scattered all over the ground by the downpour, its white petals clinging to the bluestone slabs like a chessboard that had been carelessly overturned. The house was a simple two-story building with a gray cement facade. A strip of cold white light ran down the second floor, looking from a distance like a stretched fluorescent bandage.
“My parents live in another city and come back three times a year,” Xiao Wei explained as he took out his keys. “Usually it’s just me and the robot vacuum cleaner.”
The door opened, and the motion-sensor light in the entryway turned on—a warm yellow, 2700K, not glaring. The first thing Yu Chen saw was an entire wall of shoe boxes against the wall, with an empty compartment on the top shelf, the label handwritten "60kg petition," like a throne reserved for a pair of boxing gloves.
"These are new slippers." Xiao Wei bent down and took out a pair from the drawer. They were black with a small red boxing glove logo printed on the upper. She changed her own slippers as well, but they were a pair of faded blue flip-flops. The "V" on the side of the big toe was broken and wrapped with two circles of white medical tape.
Yu Chen stepped into the slippers, her insteps enveloped in soft fleece, and suddenly remembered the perpetually sweaty corridor of the sports school dormitory—so this is what "coming home" can smell like.
The living room has a high ceiling, with a red punching bag hanging from the ceiling, ten centimeters off the ground, motionless. The sofa is dark gray fabric, cluttered with sports towels, English boxing magazines, and half-opened bandages. On the coffee table sits a clear glass bowl containing two braces; the water has a slightly bluish tint, like a mini swimming pool.
"Take a shower first." Xiao Wei draped a towel over her shoulder and pointed to the stairs. "Turn left on the second floor. The hot water is 40 degrees Celsius. Don't turn it too high, or your hands will swell up."
Yu Chen said "Oh," but her feet remained rooted to the spot. She looked down at herself: her sports school t-shirt was soaked dark with rain and sweat, and the hem was ripped, like a gaping mouth. She reached out and tugged at it, the fabric making a tired hissing sound.
Xiao Wei followed her gaze and instantly understood. She turned and walked to the end of the corridor, pushing open a white wooden door—a walk-in closet, even larger than the bedroom. Yu Chen followed her in, and rows of motion-sensor lights illuminated overhead, cold and white, like a boxing gym's infirmary.
The left wall is covered with competition uniforms: black, red, and white, arranged in shades that transition like a gradient rainbow of boxing gloves. The right side holds everyday clothes, all hanging on movable tracks, uniformly oversized, with sleeves long enough to conceal a training session. A drawer in the middle opens to reveal clean T-shirts and shorts, folded into identical squares, each labeled with a small tag—"After Training," "After Competition," "Everyday," "Donation."
Xiao Wei took out a set of gray cotton short-sleeved shirt and shorts from the bottom of the cabinet, with the label saying "new". He then took out disposable underwear and individually packaged socks from the glass cabinet and stuffed them into Yu Chen's arms: "New, never been in water."
The clothes smelled of lavender mixed with cedar, exactly the same as Xiao Wei's. Yu Chen buried his nose in them and took a deep breath, as if secretly stealing the other's breath into his lungs. His ears turned red again.
“The bathroom is on the second floor. The doorknob is hot, so that means there’s hot water.” Xiao Wei raised his hand, his fingertips rubbing against her bruised knuckles, and lowered his voice, “I’m downstairs. Call me if you need anything.”
——
The bathroom door was frosted glass; once closed, the world turned to mist. Yu Chen took off her clothes and stood under the showerhead, hot water pouring over her head—42 degrees Celsius, two degrees higher than Xiao Wei had said, but just enough to wash away the lingering soreness from the boxing ring. As steam rose, she raised her hand and saw a small bruise on the back of her right arm, shaped like Xiao Wei's fist. She pressed it with her fingertip; it was dull and painful, yet strangely satisfying.
The shampoo was minty. As she rinsed her hair for the second time, she suddenly heard a soft "click" downstairs—like a gas stove being lit. Flames shot up with a "whoosh," and even through the floor, she could imagine the blue flames licking the bottom of the pot. At that moment, she suddenly felt a sense of reality: this wasn't a boxing gym, not a dormitory, but Xiao Wei's territory, and he was cooking her a bowl of noodles.
She quickly rinsed off the foam and changed into the clothes Xiao Wei had given her—a short-sleeved top with a neckline so wide it revealed her collarbone, shorts with loose ties, and the hems covering mid-thigh. The sleeves and hems were two centimeters too long; she rolled them up twice, but they still slipped down, like a child wearing an adult's battle robe.
In the mirror, everything was hazy. She raised her hand to wipe it clean—her face was flushed from the hot water, and the ends of her bright red hair dripped water, which fell onto the gray cotton cloth, creating small, dark circles. She reached out to wipe it, but the more she wiped, the wetter it became, as if she wanted to dye the entire fabric with her own color.
——
The stairs were made of logs, making a soft "thump-thump" sound underfoot. Xiao Wei was in the kitchen, her back to the stairs, the cuffs of her white shirt rolled up to her forearms, revealing old scars and blue veins. Water was boiling in the pot, and she was tossing a handful of thin noodles into it, her other hand holding long chopsticks, the tips bitten in her mouth like a makeshift baton. Hearing footsteps, she turned around—
Yu Chen stood on the last step, her gray short-sleeved shirt collar askew to one side, water droplets still clinging to the skin below her collarbone, reddened by the steaming hot water. Her trouser legs bunched up at her ankles, like two gray clouds. She gripped the overly long sleeve with one hand, while the other kept brushing back the dripping ends of her hair, but a new strand always fell down and clung to the side of her neck.
Xiao Wei's gaze followed the streak of water to her collarbone, then to the shallow mark left by her bandages. Her Adam's apple bobbed. She put down her chopsticks, turned around, took a clean towel from the drawer, and walked over.
"Lower your head."
Yu Chen obediently lowered her head. A towel, carrying the scent of sunshine, was placed on top of her head. Xiao Wei's fingertips gently rubbed her hair through the fabric. The water was absorbed, but the ends of her hair were still dripping, falling onto the cuffs of Xiao Wei's shirt, leaving dark dots, like ellipses accidentally pressed by someone.
"Three minutes is enough." Xiao Wei's voice was low, but softer than usual, like speaking with a mint candy on the tip of her tongue. She took away the towel, and casually unrolled Yu Chen's sleeves that she had rolled up twice, her fingertips lingering on the edge of the fabric for half a second. "Long is fine, don't roll them up, they'll be cold at night."
Yu Chen hummed in response, her voice muffled. She looked up and saw the kitchen chandelier, a warm yellow sphere, with a small moth perched on its shade, its shadow cast on the wall like a beating electrocardiogram.
The water in the pot boiled again, foam rising to the surface. Xiao Wei turned down the heat and took a transparent food storage container from the refrigerator—it contained broth, labeled "Beef bones + star anise, 6/24" with a marker. She scooped two spoonfuls into the pot, and the broth instantly turned golden, with oil bubbling on the surface like miniature fireworks.
Finally, she cracked two eggs into the pan, turned off the heat, and put the lid on. She turned around, leaned against the counter, crossed her arms, and looked at Yu Chen.
"Three minutes, count with your eyes closed."
Yu Chen leaned against the doorframe, her hands hidden in her overly long sleeves, only her fingertips showing. She stared at Xiao Wei, then suddenly spoke, her voice hoarse but earnest:
"...Do you cook noodles for yourself like this too?"
Xiao Wei paused for a moment, then smiled, her eyes crinkling into tiny creases: "I usually just mix protein powder directly." She raised her hand and rubbed the tip of her nose with the back of her finger. "I'll make an exception today."
Yu Chen didn't speak again, but buried her chin in her collar, letting the scent of mint and cedar envelop her. The sleeves were too long, so she quietly reached out and grabbed Xiao Wei's cuff, her fingertips only daring to pinch a centimeter of fabric, yet it felt like she was grasping an admission ticket to an unknown arena.
The broth in the pot bubbled gently, like a bell ringing in advance.
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