Zhong Hua's palm was still warm from the coffee, his thumb gently brushing against the back of his hand. "Don't adjust it," he said, his voice tinged with amusement, like a long-hidden secret finally about to be revealed.
Ah Yu's heart pounded so hard it hurt his ribs. He tried to pull his hand away, but it was gripped even tighter. "You already knew?"
"I noticed it from the third time onwards." Zhong Hua looked down at his clasped hands, sunlight falling on his eyelashes and casting a soft shadow. "You always hold your breath when you turn the crown of your watch; I could hear it from behind the coffee machine."
Ah Yu's face flushed red. It turned out that all those seemingly foolproof little tricks had been seen through all along. He struggled a couple of times but couldn't break free, so he simply glared at him: "Then why didn't you change the battery?"
Zhong Hua moved his thumb to the crown and gently turned it half a turn. The sound of the gears turning was particularly clear in the quiet morning light. "I deliberately slowed it down," he said.
Ah Yu was stunned.
"That way I can get to the studio five minutes earlier than you." Zhong Hua's fingertips traced the worn watch strap, his gaze falling on the photo of Qinghai Lake hanging on the clothesline—the three shadows overlapped, stretched long by the setting sun. "I'll fully charge your camera battery, clean the lens, and keep the coffee warm in the pot."
With each word he spoke, he would lightly rub his thumb against the crown of his watch, as if counting the five minutes that were being secretly kept hidden.
Ah Yu's vision suddenly blurred. He stared at the crack on the inside of the watch face and suddenly remembered where the watch came from—on the day he graduated from university, the three of them squeezed into a stuffy rented room, pooling their savings from six months of part-time jobs to buy it at a flea market. The shopkeeper said it was an old model from the 1970s, keeping accurate time, only the strap was a bit worn.
"We'll use this to keep track of time when we open our studio," Lin Wanqing said with a bright smile, holding up the watch, the strap dangling on her wrist. "Whoever's late has to buy milk tea."
Later, Lin Wanqing went to study curating, but she always appeared at the studio on time every Wednesday, bringing freshly baked cookies. And this watch has always been on Zhong Hua's wrist, accompanying them from the small dark room of their rented apartment to their current studio with floor-to-ceiling windows.
"You still remember..." Ah Yu's voice choked a little, "On graduation day, you said this watch was more accurate than a mathematical formula."
Zhong Hua smiled, the lines at the corners of his eyes softening in the sunlight. "But some things," he said, squeezing Ah Yu's hand and gently pushing the crown of his watch forward half a notch, "are more important than punctuality."
The clear "click" of the gears turning rang out, like time gently knocking on the door. Ah Yu looked down at their clasped hands. Zhong Hua's thumb was still on the watch strap, where there was a spot that he had been rubbing for years, which was brighter than the rest, like a piece of jade polished by time.
The sunlight outside the window suddenly felt warm, spilling over the steam from the coffee machine, over the photos on the clothesline, and over two hands clasped tightly together. Ah Yu suddenly remembered what Lin Wanqing had said yesterday: "You two are like a pendulum and a gear; neither can turn without the other."
He looked up and met Zhong Hua's gaze. The light in that man's eyes was brighter than the sunlight outside the window, like the sunset that encompassed the entire Qinghai Lake.
"From then on..." Ah Yu sniffed, deliberately putting on a stern face, "I arrived ten minutes early every day."
Zhong Hua raised an eyebrow: "Why?"
"I'll get you a new watch strap." Ah Yu pulled her hand away from his, turned around to rummage through the drawers, her voice still nasal, "And while you're at it, find that bag of sour candy you hid—Lin Wanqing said you secretly bought it again."
Zhong Hua's laughter mingled with the hum of the coffee machine, very soft, yet like a pebble thrown into a lake, rippling out layers of warmth.
Ah Yu had her back to him, her fingers rummaging in the drawer, but the corners of her mouth couldn't help but turn up. The morning light fell on his hair, casting a small shadow on the floor, which slowly merged with Zhong Hua's shadow, like two puzzle pieces finally put together.
The wall clock pointed to eight o'clock precisely, down to the second. And the watch on Zhong Hua's wrist, after being quietly slowed down and sped up countless times over five minutes, was now steadily ticking forward in sync with Ah Yu's heartbeat.
It keeps precise time and carries warmth.
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