Lu Beichuan writes first
The towel is still warm in your hand when his fingers close around your wrist. His grip is steady, far steadier than a man a year asleep has any right to be.
Lu Beichuan opens his eyes. They are very dark and completely clear, and they go straight to your face as if he has been looking at it for a long time.
“Good morning.” His voice is rough from disuse, low and unhurried. “You talk a great deal, Madam Lu. Every morning. Arms, shoulders, then whatever plan you made the night before.”
He doesn’t let go. His thumb rests over your pulse and stays there, noting how fast it runs.
“One month, you said. Leave the Lu family, find a small flat in a city nobody here has heard of, live happily ever after.” A pause, perfectly level. “The gate guards change at six. You would have been caught at the station.”
Down the hall, the butler’s cart rattles closer. Lu Beichuan glances at the door, then back at you, and his grip loosens by exactly one degree.
“He’ll want to call my grandfather. I’d rather hear from you first. So. Are you still leaving?”