The following morning, the industrial district was choked with a grey, metallic fog. Inside the warehouse, Lu Chen had cleared a small space on his secondary workbench.
There was a second chair now—a simple wooden stool that looked out of place against his high-tech cabinets.
"One hour," Lu Chen said, his back to her. He was meticulously grinding a dark crimson pigment, the sound of the pestle against the mortar a rhythmic, hypnotic scrape. "After that, you leave. No lingering, no extra scents."
"Deal," Ning He replied. She shed her damp coat, revealing a thin, black turtleneck. She looked smaller today, her presence less like a storm and more like a quiet shadow.
Lu Chen didn't hand her a tool. Instead, he placed a small, bone-white object on a black velvet cloth between them. It was a cervical vertebra from a kestrel, polished until it gleamed like ivory.
"Close your eyes," he commanded.
Ning He hesitated, then let her lids fall. The world vanished, replaced by the humming of the industrial refrigerator and the heavy, cedar-infused scent of the man sitting across from her.
"Don't just feel the surface," Lu Chen's voice was closer now, vibrating in the cool air. "Think of the anatomy. This bone wasn't made to be pretty; it was made to withstand the G-force of a dive. Feel the 'strength' in the curve."
Ning He reached out, her fingertips trembling as they brushed the bone. She struggled to visualize the structure in the darkness.
Suddenly, a hand—cold as polished jade but firm as steel—covered hers.
Lu Chen's palm was large, his long fingers wrapping around her hand to steady her. The temperature contrast was jarring; his skin felt like the surface of a frozen lake, while hers burned with a frantic, living heat.
"Relax," he whispered. His breath fanned the stray hairs at her temple. "If you're tense, your nerves go numb. Let the bone tell you where it wants to go."
He guided her hand, his fingers pressing hers into the grooves of the vertebra. For a moment, Ning He forgot about the bird. She was acutely aware of the callous on his thumb, the steady rhythm of his movements, and the way his presence seemed to swallow the entire room.
When the hour was up, Lu Chen withdrew his hand instantly, as if he had been burned. The sudden loss of contact felt like a physical ache.
Ning He opened her eyes, her breath hitched. True to her word, she pulled a deep-blue cobalt bottle from her bag.
"This is 'Deep Sea Breath,'" she said, her voice slightly husky. She uncorked it, and the sterile air was instantly torn apart by a scent that was lonely, vast, and crushing—the smell of salt spray and the crushing weight of the abyss.
Lu Chen froze, his eyes widening as he inhaled.
"That's you, Lu Chen," Ning He murmured, standing up to leave. "A man who lives at the bottom of the ocean because he's afraid of the sun. But even the deep sea has currents."
As the iron door slammed shut, Lu Chen remained at the workbench. He looked down at his right hand—the one that had held hers.
He curled his fingers into a fist, trying to trap the phantom warmth she had left behind. He realized with a jolt of alarm that he wasn't just teaching her anatomy.
She was mapping him. And for the first time in his life, he didn't want to be invisible.