Two Sleeves of Pure Breeze

Lotus leaves spread thick across the pond.

Azure water waves shimmered and overlapped, rippling out strips of bright white light.

Long hair fell over her shoulders, spilling between his spread fingers and curling into little loops.

His index finger wound around a strand and pulled it straight.

Glittering light shone through the hair, hazy and indistinct.

E Ying's hair seemed like some warm, supple plant. With water-like eyes and water-like thoughts, he quietly watered it, letting it grow slowly—black, fine, and soft.

He caught a lock of hair and pressed it beside his ear.

He heard branches sprouting buds and smelled the fresh, tender scent of glossy green.

After playing with the soft ends of her hair for a while, Liang Qu clasped her pale hand, inch by inch, pause by pause, joint by joint, squeeze by squeeze, as though a blind man were using his fingertips to press and explore raised poetry pricked out by needles.

Her fingers were soft, her nails hard, and a faint blush of blood spread outward along the little crescents.

Long E Ying responded awkwardly as well.

Fingertips rubbed against fingertips, palms pressed to palms, slender fingers winding around his neck like white snakes.

Strange.

The restlessness that had accumulated over two months had clearly burned his body like blazing fire, yet with only one meeting, one glance, all his gloom, unease, and mental exhaustion vanished without a trace. It was like red-hot coals burning in a furnace, plunged into a pool of clear spring water—hissing as a wisp of green smoke rose, drifting and swaying down to the lakebed to keep the pebbles company.

Liang Qu wanted to say something, but his lips stuck together, and he uttered a soundless murmur.

Long E Ying tilted her head.

At last, sound emerged from Liang