Chapter Fifty-Eight: A Glance Reveals the Heart (Thanks for the monthly votes, and please keep following the story)

“What are you writing now, great poet?”
Her voice was low, with a teasing lilt at the end. “You’re so absorbed, you didn’t even notice me standing behind you.”
Xu Chengjun’s heart skipped a beat.
Was he supposed to show her this?
He hurriedly stuffed his draft paper beneath his thesis.
His expression remained calm and composed, brushing it off lightly, “Nothing much, just scribbling, practicing word choice and sentence structure.”
“Scribbling makes your lips curl like that?”
Su Manshu reached for the papers, her fingertips just brushing the corner when Xu Chengjun pressed down on her wrist.
Her hand was cool, like a piece of white jade.
The moment he touched her, his resolve weakened, letting her seize half a page of his poetry.
“Hey!”
Xu Chengjun moved to snatch it back, but Su Manshu darted behind the bookshelf, holding the draft up high.
She was tall, at least one hundred seventy centimeters by the look of it.
With her arm raised, the strap of her canvas bag slipped from her shoulder, revealing a delicate collarbone.
Moonlight fell upon it, scattering silver flecks.
“Ms. Su, that’s childish!”
Xu Chengjun chased her around the bookshelf, dust fluttering from old books as they dodged each other.
Su Manshu’s steps were light, laughing as the floor creaked beneath her, “Does the great poet fear his work being seen? Or is there some secret?”
“No secrets, just rough drafts!”
Xu Chengjun reached for the paper in her hand, his fingertips brushing her hand, and both recoiled as if scalded.
Su Manshu seized the moment to dart to the other side of the long table, pressing the draft onto its surface and reading aloud with mock solemnity: “‘Look, the waves wash over the sandbank.’ Oh, I thought you were writing about the moonlight just now!”
Wonderful.
A public execution, was it?
Xu Chengjun circled to the front of the table, but she hid the page behind her back, retreating with her hands behind her. “If you want it back, you’ll have to say something nice.”
“What should I say?”
He paused, seeing the mischief in her eyes.
“Say, ‘Su Manshu is the smartest, she understands my poetry at a glance.’”
She tilted her head, smiling, her jet-black hair catching the wind in a gentle arc.
Is that all?
Maybe that would embarrass a boy born in ’79.
After all, hadn’t he played with all those “family” and “moral” jokes in his previous life?
Xu Chengjun pretended to struggle, then forced out, as if squeezing words between his teeth: “Ms. Su is the smartest! So incredibly smart! She understands all my poems!”
“Not sincere enough!”
Su Manshu shook her head, suddenly rising on tiptoe to reach for the top shelf of the bookcase, deliberately showing her back to him.
Xu Chengjun seized the chance to reach for the draft, but she turned and pressed his arm down—
Their shadows tangled on the wall, her hair brushed his chin, carrying the scent of camphor and shampoo.
Xu Chengjun saw his own reflection in her pupils, her lashes casting shadows beneath her eyes.
Just moments ago, her gaze had been playful, but now it was veiled with mist.
A strange unease crept in.

Su Manshu looked at him, the playfulness in his eyes not yet faded, but there was a softness he himself hadn’t noticed, like moonlight kneaded by the evening breeze.
Xu Chengjun didn’t know that Su Manshu had already read his “Barn” and “Scales Star.”
She’d thought he would be the image of a rural educated youth, but after getting to know him,
she realized he was unexpectedly “avant-garde.”
From his learning and perspective to his calm, sharp temperament.
And that poem “Walking Toward the Light” seemed to be the bridge between rural youth and “avant-garde.”
...
The pendulum in the corridor ticked, startling them both into blinking.
Xu Chengjun’s Adam’s apple bobbed involuntarily; he wanted to crack a joke to break the silence,
but couldn’t bring himself to speak.
Su Manshu’s fingertips trembled lightly on his arm.
Her hand should have let go, but instead gripped tighter, the red at her ears creeping down her jawline.
The camphor scent mingled with the soap fragrance in her hair, and Xu Chengjun suddenly found it hard to breathe.
He couldn’t help but glance at her flushed ear, then quickly looked away.
Su Manshu tried to avert her gaze, but it was drawn to his tightly pressed lips, lingered, then darted away, her lashes trembling fiercely.
Xu Chengjun really is handsome!
No sooner had that thought appeared than Xu Chengjun suddenly steeled himself.
He stopped dodging; when his gaze returned to her face, the eyes that had just been full of laughter now deepened, a steadiness that didn’t match his age.
His brow cast a faint shadow in the corridor’s dim light; his nose was high, his jaw taut, carrying an edge that hadn’t been dulled by the world.
This look somehow blended stillness and sharpness, even the slight frown carrying a stubborn defiance.
Su Manshu stared, a little dazed, the trembling of her fingers ceased without her noticing.
She suddenly noticed a tiny mole behind his ear, hidden at the edge of his black hair, adding a hint of boyishness to his angular face.
Her hand still pressed his arm, his outstretched fingers frozen in midair.
...
“The gaze reveals the heart’s stirrings”
“In a glance, a charm deep and true”
“Half a note of tender longing sent to secret thoughts”
“The moon moves, flower shadows promise a return”
....
“Ahem—” Xu Chengjun was the first to break the silence, his voice a little hoarse.
He was about to step back when Su Manshu suddenly released him, turned, and hid behind the bookshelf, her hair brushing his cheek, making them both instinctively shrink away.
She crouched, facing away, pretending to tidy scattered drafts, her ears so red they seemed about to bleed.
Cursing herself inwardly for not averting her gaze sooner.
Xu Chengjun stood still, touching the arm where her fingertips had lingered, the coolness still palpable.
The cicadas outside had fallen silent, only the moonlight spilling through the window.
Perhaps things had gotten a bit too lively.
“All right, no more fooling around!”
The jokes ended at last; Su Manshu handed the draft back.
But suddenly pulled it back, “Let me take a look, just one glance, then I’ll return it.”

As Xu Chengjun reached for it, she swiftly hid it behind her back, turned, and ran out: “I won’t give it now; you’ll get it tomorrow!”
“Playing tricks at your age!”
He shook his head, intending to let her go.
But on impulse, he chased after her a couple steps.
Su Manshu stopped abruptly at the stairwell, glancing at the poem, her fingertips still trembling.
The evening breeze lifted the hem of her shirt, revealing a patch of snowy neck, her ears once again flushed.
“It’s… really good.”
When she looked up, her smile was so bright it couldn’t be contained, yet the blush at her ears spread down her jaw. “Compared to ‘Walking Toward the Light,’ it has a bit more… a sweet touch.”
Xu Chengjun watched her.
Suddenly, he lost the urge to give chase, just stood there smiling, “It’s a mess, really—obscure poetry is like this, not understanding it is normal.”
“But I do understand!”
Su Manshu folded the draft into a small square, carefully tucking it into the innermost compartment of her canvas bag.
Her hand gripped the strap, her cheeks shrouded in a rosy haze.
“If you understand, then give it back!”
Xu Chengjun teased, seeing her hide the bag behind her, embarrassment nearly spilling from her eyes.
“No.”
Su Manshu retreated two steps, her stride a little unsteady, “Tomorrow… I’ll give it back tomorrow, for sure.”
She turned to leave, then suddenly paused, glanced back, her hair brushing her face, her pale cheeks flushed: “Xu Chengjun, this ‘amber glow’ in your poem… is it hiding a light?”
Xu Chengjun was about to answer, but she hurriedly ran down the stairs.
Moonlight fell on her retreating figure,
so beautiful it made his heart tremble.
Xu Chengjun stood at the stairwell, touching the spot on his chin where her hair had brushed.
A little dazed.

Back in the archive room,
beside the words “Thought and Realm as One” he had just written in his notebook, Su Manshu had drawn two orchid flowers.
The cicadas outside faded away.
The old clock in the archive room echoed, drowning out the tapping of his pen.
...

In the evening, after finishing his thesis, Xu Chengjun walked toward the bus stop, stepping in the sunset.
He hadn’t gone home all day—should probably let them know if he was still staying, so as not to waste resources.
Wang Zengqi was a gentle soul with a mischievous streak.
He reckoned,
upon seeing him, he’d probably say, “Young Xu, are you rushing for a hot meal, or is someone waiting for your answer, pacing in circles?”
Passing the newsstand on Handan Road, he saw the headline in the Xinmin Evening News: “Special Economic Zone Construction Accelerates.”