Chapter Text
By ten forty five, Chen Pinming had talked himself out of three imaginary mistakes and into one real knot in his stomach. President Sheng’s mood had been brittle all week. Lights two stops lower, coffee cooling untouched, meetings ending either five minutes early or ten minutes late like the clock itself was misbehaving. Chen had tried to be quieter than paper.
So when the elevator opened and a woman in a slate dress stepped out with a calm, good posture, Chen did what any decent gatekeeper would do.
“Good morning. Do you have an appointment?” he asked, the calendar already open on his tablet.
She shook her head. “I’m here to see President Sheng. He’s expecting me.”
He checked twice. Nothing. “Your name?”
“Jiang Liya.”
The name was not in the system. Before he could phrase a polite stall, a thread of scent reached him. Clean and cool, unmistakably green apple, as if someone had just peeled one in a cold kitchen. It was faint enough to make him doubt he had smelled anything at all.
“Please wait one moment,” he said, standing. He crossed to the inner door and knocked. “President Sheng? There’s a woman named Jiang Liya here to see you. She didn’t say what she wanted. Should I alert security?”
“Let her in,” President Sheng said, immediately.
Chen blinked. “Right away, sir.”
He brought her through. President Sheng looked up and something eased in his face. Not much. A millimeter from the eyes, a degree from the jaw.
“Ms. Jiang,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”
“President Sheng.” She dipped her head and stopped exactly two paces inside the office.
“Close the door, Chen,” he said. “Stay.”
Chen did. He was confused, which was normal; he was also curious, which was dangerous.
“We’ll keep this simple,” President Sheng said, voice in agenda mode. “Ms. Jiang will be working inside my office.”
Chen’s brain tried to place her in one of the vacant rooms down the hall, failed, and stalled. “Shouldn’t we assign her an office, sir?”
“No.” Sheng’s gaze went to the windows. “She’ll work in here.”
“Then… a desk on the floor?”
“There.” He pointed to the narrow strip beside the blinds and the tripod lamp, the drafty corner everyone avoided. “A temporary console. No drawers. Move the computer to the credenza.”
Chen hesitated. “Do you want me to request a workstation for Ms. Jiang?”
“No separate machine. She’s an intern under Admin and we’re under a client security restriction. One terminal in this room only. She’ll use mine when necessary. Don’t loop Procurement.”
A small trapdoor opened under Chen’s shoes. “Of course, sir.” He swallowed. “Do you want me to—”
“I’ll handle her training myself.” Not unkind, but final. “You worry about your own job.”
Chen felt the words land and tried to keep them off his face. “Understood, President Sheng.”
President Sheng turned to the woman. “Guidelines. You will handle reception spillover, paper intake, and keeping this room comfortable. Lights and airflow. You are onboard as an intern under Admin, and you will attend all of my meetings as Admin Support.”
He set the analog clock on the console, glanced at it once, then back to her. “I will assign anything else as needed.”
“Yes,” she said, gentle and steady. Up close, the green note cooled the air around the lamp; under it, something woody flashed and was gone. “Do you want the monitor angled here for when you need it?”
“There,” he said, indicating the credenza. “We’ll pull it over when necessary.”
Chen took the cue and escaped into movement. He fetched the spare console from storage, rolled it to the spot near the window, and made a desk out of almost nothing: analog clock angled toward the room, legal pads, an in tray, a pen that wrote on the first try. From the doorway the setup barely read as furniture; inside, it felt like part of the room’s lungs.
“Angle the blinds two notches,” President Sheng said without looking. “And note the time.”
“Yes, President Sheng.” Jiang said.
“Secretary Chen, set HR,” President Sheng said, not looking over. “Onboard Secretary Jiang by end of day as an intern. Badge access to this floor and conference three. No shared inbox. And make sure she receives full employee benefits.”
“Even though she’s only an intern?”
“Just do what I ask.”
“On it,” Chen said, retreating and closing the door softly. At his station he typed: “Jiang Liya, Admin Intern. Worksite: President’s office.” He added “move monitor to credenza” and “no separate desk.” He almost wrote “ask why” and deleted it.
Chen updated the day’s schedule with hands that no longer shook. Then he set a private reminder: Make this look normal. Ask later. Not today.
From his chair he could just see the new console by the window. Lamp. Clock. Paper. A curl of light on the glass. The air in the office looked clearer, somehow.
He did not look at Secretary Jiang again. He did not need to. The faintest green note had already threaded itself through the morning, and Chen had the sudden, ridiculous thought that if anyone asked why, he would say it was the building.
And maybe that would even be true.
The room was already too bright when President Sheng said, “We will begin,” and Secretary Jiang took the seat by the vent like it belonged to her.
Chen sat two chairs down, tablet open to the agenda that had rearranged itself three times since breakfast. The client team filed in with smiles that did not reach their eyes. Someone asked for still water. Someone else said the air in this building was always clean. Small, harmless things.
“Thank you for making the time,” President Sheng said. Even. Courteous. The kind of tone that draws a meeting into a straight line.
Secretary Jiang had brought nothing but a short pencil and a half pad. When the client lead started through updates, she wrote three words, then looked up. Not at the speaker. At the room. The lights. The way sound slid across the glass table and hit the far wall.
A junior on the client side, He Yutong, tipped her chin toward Secretary Jiang. “Who is this?”
“Secretary Jiang,” President Sheng said. “Admin Support.”
“New,” He Yutong said.
“New,” he agreed, without apology.
Slides clicked by on the wall. Revenue lines, projections. All the familiar shapes. Chen entered the numbers before the speaker reached them. He could have done this with his eyes closed, and most days he did.
He noticed the first shift the way you notice a clock starting up again after a power cut. Not sound. Not movement. Just the moment when President Sheng said, lightly, “Secretary Jiang, I need some air,” the way a person might excuse a pause, and Secretary Jiang rose without hurry and moved to stand just behind his chair.
She didn’t touch the chair. She didn’t touch him. She only steadied her breathing, and the air around his seat eased, so slight that a bystander would miss it. A clean green-apple note reached him a heartbeat later, and then the room felt ordinary again.
The client lead did not stop talking. No one blinked. Chen wrote down the phrase product mix review and underlined it as if that were why his pulse had steadied.
He Yutong leaned toward Chen and kept her voice for him alone. “Do you smell apples?”
Chen did not look up. “Secretary Jiang is an Omega,” he said, mild as a weather report. “It has been fruit scents all morning. I’m surprised President Sheng isn’t making her suppress her pheromones.”
He Yutong shrugged. “At least it’s not overbearing like some fruit scents.”
Chen could only nod.
Two slides on, President Sheng said, “It is cold in here,” and Secretary Jiang returned to her seat, pencil quiet in her hand.
Chen looked down at his tablet until the urge to look anywhere else passed.
The meeting found its middle. Questions that were not questions. Answers both sides could sign their names to. He Yutong’s pen ran dry; she mouthed a curse into her notebook. Secretary Jiang slid a short pencil across the table without making a sound. He Yutong blinked, took it, and kept writing.
By the time they reached the budget page, the overhead was too bright. The client lead asked for a concession he had asked for last quarter and not gotten then, either. President Sheng did not sigh. He said, “We will not move that line,” gentle as a closed door.
A pause that wanted to be longer. Then the nod everyone knew was coming.
“It feels good in here,” President Sheng said, like a man tidying a sentence he meant to keep. Secretary Jiang stood again, that same distance to his shoulder, that same careful nothing of touch. The green note arrived a breath later. Not perfume. Not office citrus. The fresh cut of fruit with no sugar to it.
Chen marked a time stamp because that is the sort of thing you do when you do not know what else to do.
The concession reshaped itself into something with edges everyone could live with. The client lead smiled in the way that meant he would say something different to his own boss later. Secretary Jiang returned to her chair when President Sheng said, “It is cold in here.” It was a sentence, a courtesy, a full stop. No one in the room noticed except the person who had needed it and the person who had been waiting for it.
They reached closing words without fray. Chen sent the minutes to draft and looked up in time to see President Sheng rise with the same ease with which he had sat. No stretch. No tightness in the mouth. He offered the client his hand.
“Thank you.”
“We will follow up by Friday.”
“Safe travels.”
Chairs scraped. People gathered their things. Small, harmless things again.
In the hallway, Chen fell in beside Secretary Jiang while the clients waited for the elevator. “I will put the next session on the calendar,” he said, because that was neutral ground, and because he was still finding the edges of where she lived in this building.
“Thank you,” she said.
Up close the green note had thinned to almost nothing. If he had not been in the room, he would have called it imagination.
“Do you need a notebook,” he asked, because the half pad looked like a joke.
“I’m fine,” she said. Not cool. Not warm. A clear voice that did not ask to be believed.
The elevator chimed. The client team stepped in with their smiles and their silence. The doors closed.
President Sheng touched the edge of a frame on the wall and straightened it by a fraction no one else would have seen. “Reschedule the one thirty to two,” he said, not turning.
“Done,” Chen said, already moving it.
“Add Secretary Jiang to the review with Legal tomorrow.”
“On it.”
He started to say anything else and stopped. Questions were easy. This felt like the opposite of a question.
Back at his station, Chen sent the minutes, routed a copy to Legal, and flagged the two lines the client would try to reopen next week. He added Secretary Jiang to the attendee list and wrote Admin Support beside her name because the system wanted a label.
He looked across at the president’s office. From here he could see the console by the window. Lamp. Clock. Paper. The curl of light on the glass. Secretary Jiang stood where she had stood before, a quiet shape in the bright.
He typed one more note he would only ever read himself. Hold the room. Then he pressed send on the minutes, because that is how you keep a day together.
Chen was at his desk when it hit him again. Not faint. Thick. The green apple note that had threaded yesterday was sitting in the air like it had decided to live here. He wondered why President Sheng had not told Secretary Jiang to use suppressants. He wondered if she knew how strong her scent was getting or if this was what happened when the day had not settled yet.
“Walk with us,” President Sheng said, stepping out with Secretary Jiang on his left.
Chen grabbed his tablet and fell in on the right.
“We will start with access,” he told her. “Badge points and the rooms you will use. Secretary Chen, take notes.”
“On it,” Chen said.
Conference One first. “This room runs warm. Lights at forty. Vent on the north wall. If we are here, you take that corner.”
“Yes, President Sheng,” Secretary Jiang said.
Chen typed. C1 warm. Forty percent. Vent north. Her seat in the corner.
Across to Conference Two. “Over lit. Ignore the panel. Use the wall switch. If it hums, we move.”
C2 bright. Wall switch. Hum means move.
Conference Three with the long table. “Legal favors this room. You sit by the door.”
“Noted,” she said.
They cut past Admin. A cork board leaned under forms no one used. “If anyone asks, your paperwork lives here,” President Sheng told her. “If they ask twice, send them to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Admin anchor, Chen wrote. Questions go to him.
Printer row next. He tapped the first machine. “This one jams. Do not trust the tray count.” He tapped the second. “This one lies about toner.”
Chen added both. Jammer. Liar.
The stairwell landing. “Camera here,” he said. “Blind spot on the landing. If you ever see someone waiting there, tell me.”
Logged. Camera. Blind spot. Report to him.
Mail room slot. “Couriers ignore this bin unless someone is standing there. If it is important, tell me and we will hand it over.”
Logged. Hand off if important.
They looped the mezzanine where small meetings pretended to be casual. Marketing was building a fruit tray like a color wheel. Someone had chosen green apples for the pop. Secretary Jiang glanced once and looked away.
“Do you need a shared inbox,” Chen asked, because the system would ask him anyway.
“No,” President Sheng said. “She will use mine when necessary.”
“Yes, President Sheng,” Chen said, marking the thing he had already marked yesterday.
The terrace no one used. He stopped at the threshold and nodded at the seats near the rail. “If we step out here, you stand by that chair.”
To Chen, “Remind Catering the coffee on this level is unacceptable.”
“Will do,” Chen said.
Back through the main corridor. Wellness room with the plant that was always about to die. “If you need a minute, use this room,” he told her. “Tell me before you leave the floor.”
“Yes, President Sheng.”
They reached the corner by the executive prints. He set a frame straight by a fraction no one else would have seen and kept walking. His answers stayed even, but his mouth had lost a shade of color. Chen filed the detail and did not say it out loud.
Washrooms, emergency stairs, the secondary exit Maintenance loved to block with mops. “If you find this blocked, tell me. I do not want it blocked.”
They passed the reception again. The morning smelled like toner and scorched toast from someone’s mistake. Under it, faint and clean, that green apple note from yesterday.
“Conference Four,” Chen prompted, keeping the tour moving.
“Runs cold,” President Sheng said. “Lights at sixty. Take the seat near the far vent.”
They were halfway back toward the office wing when he paused, hand on the rail of a low step the building never should have approved. He did not sway, but the pause was long enough to count.
“Sir,” Chen said.
“It is nothing,” he answered, mild as ever, and then, quiet and ordinary, like office housekeeping, “Secretary Jiang, sidebar.”
She matched his pace to the wellness room door and opened it for him. Chen stayed in the hall and set a two minute timer without knowing why. A Facilities tech pushed a cart past and looked relieved to find no one needed him. The timer ticked. The door eased open. Secretary Jiang came out first. President Sheng followed, color steadier.
“We will finish the essentials,” he said.
They did, briefly. Storage key box. AV cupboard. The little conference that always smelled like paint. Then the office wing.
“Secretary Chen,” he said, stopping at the prints again. “Confirm with Facilities about her badge points. Office, conference rooms, wellness, terrace. No server room. Send me the list.”
“Now?” Chen asked.
“Now,” he said. Then, to her, “Secretary Jiang, with me.”
“Yes, President Sheng.”
They turned the corner together, their pace matched without effort. Chen watched them go, then opened his tablet and sent the badge request with the exact rooms listed. He added her to every standing meeting for the week and wrote the note to Legal in language that made the day sound ordinary.
On his way back, he looked once into the president’s office as he sat down. The console by the window waited. Lamp. Clock. Paper. Her short pencil exactly where she had left it.
Hold the room, he typed in his private note, and pressed send to Facilities.
By midweek the building had learned the new rhythm. Secretary Jiang at the vent. The clock set straight. Calendars moving like a quiet tide. Meetings that used to fray now folded themselves along clean lines.
Monday, President Sheng said, “We will begin,” and two minutes later, “Thank you. Please continue.”
Tuesday, “Hold on that slide,” and then, “Please send the draft by Friday.”
Wednesday, a smooth “Sidebar,” the door easing shut, the door easing open, color steadier, voice even.
Chen routed minutes, moved holds, added her to everything and pretended this was what offices did when they were working well. The air smelled like toner and citrus cleaner and, some days, the scent of green apples that were not in any bowl. He told himself not to be rude and point it out to Secretary Jiang. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell; it was just all over President Sheng’s office.
How Sheng wasn’t bothered by the smell was beyond Chen.
It was the budget review with the client who always smiled like he was counting down. The room was too bright. Conference Two hummed the way Sheng had warned it would, but they had kept it because the larger rooms were full. Chen had a note to file a Facilities ticket. He would file it after.
They were halfway through the second page of concessions when the first beat went wrong. President Sheng paused on a number he could recite in his sleep. Just a fraction too long. He did not look down at his notes. He did not look at anyone at all.
Chen felt the pause land in his own chest.
“Secretary Jiang,” President Sheng said, very mild, “sidebar.”
She rose and opened the door. He stood. The client did not stop talking, which was the point of a good room. Chen said, “Hold on the budget slide,” and they obeyed like it had been on the agenda.
The hall swallowed them and did not give them back.
Two minutes. Three. Chen’s timer stuttered against his palm. He glanced at the door, at the vent, at the way the air always looks the same until it does not.
He Yutong leaned toward him and kept her voice low. “Is he all right?”
“He’s fine,” Chen said, because that was the word you used when there were no other words. “We’ill resume in a moment.”
Four minutes. Five. The client team began to shift in their seats, polite and restless at once.
Chen stood. “We will take five,” he said to the room. “Coffee and water in the hall.” He did not move toward the coffee. He moved toward the door.
It opened before he reached it. Secretary Jiang slipped back inside first and took her seat by the vent. No pencil. No pad. Her hands were empty and steady. President Sheng followed, color back but not all the way, a hand at the chair like he was reminding it how chairs work.
“Thank you,” he said, voice even. “Please continue.”
They continued, because people do when told. Chen sat. His timer kept counting in his pocket until he killed it.
The client pushed for the same concession he had pushed for last quarter. President Sheng said, “We will not move that line,” gentle as always. The nod came. The concession slid into a shape both sides could carry without cutting themselves. It was almost ordinary again.
Then the second beat went wrong.
A sound outside, like a cart hitting a doorstop, and President Sheng’s mouth thinned and went colorless. He did not look up. He said, almost pleasant, “The draft is way too much in here.”
Secretary Jiang was already standing.
She opened the door. He rose. The client lead finally stopped talking and said, “Should we break,” like a man offering a kindness he hoped would not be taken.
Chen said, “Yes. Five minutes. We are right on time,” and stood in front of the slide deck like a lectern could hold the room in place.
They were gone longer this time. The hall held them the way a hand holds water, not tight enough and too tight at once. Someone from Facilities rolled past with the liar printer’s tray, humming under his breath. He Yutong refilled her water and did not drink it.
Seven minutes. Eight.
When the door opened, Secretary Jiang entered first again. Her expression had not changed. President Sheng followed a step later. He touched the back of his chair and sat. He did not touch the table. He did not touch the glass of water that had not moved since the start of the hour.
“Thank you,” he said. “We’ll finish here.”
They did. The last items fell into place with the soft clicks of a lock that still works. Chen sent the minutes to draft without trusting his hands not to shake.
In the hall afterward, he fell in step beside Secretary Jiang while the clients collected their coats.
“Do you need anything?” he asked, because he needed to ask something.
“No,” she said.
Up close the apple had thinned to almost nothing, just a thought left over from a room. If he had not been there, he would have called it imagination.
“President Sheng,” Chen said when the clients were gone, “I can clear the rest of the afternoon.”
“No,” he said, mild as always. “No need.”
Chen nodded and did not argue, but stated, “I’ll move Finance to tomorrow,” he said instead, already doing it.
“You don’t have to,” Sheng said. He touched the edge of a frame and straightened it by a fraction. “Secretary Chen, please send me the list from Facilities when it arrives. And don’t cancel any more meetings today.”
“Understood, President Sheng.”
He wanted to say you went past five. He wanted to say eight. He wanted to say anything but what he said, which was, “Legal will want the updated draft by noon.”
“Then get it to them,” Sheng said.
Secretary Jiang stood a measured pace to his left. She did not speak. She watched the corridor the way a person watches a horizon.
Back at his station, Chen added buffer holds to the late afternoon blocks and told himself they were calendar housekeeping. He wrote to Facilities about the hum in Conference Two and the low step no one should have approved. He put a warning on the liar printer and a note on the jammer. He added a small hold each hour labeled air check and did not explain it to anyone.
He looked across at the console by the window. Lamp. Clock. Paper. A small frame turned slightly toward the wall — a man with windburned cheeks, a child in a red jacket, a dog mid blink. The short pencil waiting exactly where she had left it.
Hold the room, he typed in his private note, and set his own timer for four twelve tomorrow.
The lock clicked and the apartment breathed him in. Warm light, toy cars under the console, the clean smell of laundry that had been folded and then unfolded by small hands.
“Daddy,” Peanut shouted, socks skidding. He pressed his nose to Sheng’s sleeve. “Where are the green ones?”
“Green ones?”
“Apples. I can smell them.”
Sheng lifted him. “Didn’t Father feed you dinner?”
“I ate,” Peanut said. “I still want apples.”
Hua Yong’s voice came from the kitchen. “Are you accusing me of not feeding my own child?” He stood with a dish towel over one shoulder.
“I would never do that,” Sheng said, setting Peanut on the counter. He unbuttoned his jacket.
“You smell like fruit,” Hua Yong said.
“I ate fruit for lunch,” Sheng said. “One of the secretaries sent up a tray. I must have gotten juice on my sleeve.”
“What fruit?” Peanut asked.
“What secretary?” Hua Yong asked.
“Green apples,” Sheng said to Peanut, ignoring his husband’s question.
Peanut beamed. “Can I have one?”
“We don’t have any apples,” Sheng said.
“Yes we do. Right there,” Peanut insisted, pointing at the fruit bowl brimming with pears.
“There are pears,” Hua Yong said, eyes still on Sheng.
“Green apple,” Peanut whispered. “I want to eat it.”
Sheng rinsed a pear and sliced it thin. Peanut took a piece with both hands and sighed like a small king.
“Shen Wenlang called,” Hua Yong said, casually. “He said today’s meeting was quiet. He also said your new secretary smells like apples.”
Sheng kept his hand steady on the knife. “Admin sent an intern,” he said. “Paperwork things.”
“Mm.” Hua Yong stepped closer, still not touching him. “So the tray at lunch made your sleeve smell like the same apples Wenlang mentioned.”
“Apparently,” Sheng said. His mouth felt dry. “You know how clients are. Fruit and numbers.”
Peanut pressed a sticky finger to Sheng’s cuff. “Now you have apples on both sides,” he announced.
“Thank you, but those are still pears,” Sheng said, catching the small hand.
“Do not stain Daddy’s clothes,” Hua Yong added.
Sheng sighed.
“What time did you get away?” Hua Yong asked.
“Six.”
“Wenlang says the intern is in every room,” Hua Yong said, still easy. “Rumor has it she is not a very good secretary. She does not take notes in meetings, is awkward on the phone, and does not talk to anyone but you.”
“She is learning the rooms,” Sheng said. “Admin support.”
“The intern,” Hua Yong said. He let the word sit. “How green are her apples, Mr. Sheng?”
Sheng washed the knife. “Lunch,” he said, softer, and even he could hear how thin it sounded.
“Lunch,” Hua Yong repeated, as if tasting the word. His smile did not reach his eyes. “You look tired. Are you not feeling well?”
“It was a busy week,” Sheng said. “Numbers forgot to behave.”
Peanut pushed the empty plate toward Sheng. “More tomorrow.”
“More tomorrow,” Sheng said. “We will go get you green apples.”
“I want to go to the market,” Peanut said, sliding off the stool.
“You will,” Sheng said. “Take your plate to the sink, dry your hands, and go to your room. Pick a story. We will call you when it is bath time.”
Peanut glanced between them, decided not to argue, and did as he was told. His socks whispered down the hall. The bedroom door thumped soft.
“You do not have to tell me anything,” Hua Yong said, quiet. “But do not tell me that was lunch.”
Sheng folded the towel anyway. “Noted.”
“Good,” Hua Yong said, and the word clicked shut. He stepped in just close enough to make the air feel smaller. “Go take a shower before I serve you dinner.”
“I am really hungry,” Sheng said. “I would rather eat first.”
“I am not feeding you until you get that scent off of your body,” Hua Yong said, calm and hard. “Mr. Sheng. Shower. Now.”
Sheng held his gaze a moment too long and then looked away. “All right.”
“Do not hang that jacket in the closet,” Hua Yong said. “Put it in the laundry room. I am not letting that scent drift into the bedroom all night.”
Sheng gave him a look and carried the jacket out. In the mirror he looked like a man who knew exactly which part of the story was a lie.
Sheng took the jacket to the laundry room and left it there like evidence. In the bathroom he set the water hot and waited for the steam to find the mirror. His cuff still held a faint thread of green apple when he brought it to his nose. Lunch, he had said. It felt like a word you put between yourself and a moving car.
He stepped under the spray and let it drum the back of his neck until his shoulders let go by a degree. Unscented soap. Twice. He scrubbed the wrists where fabric rests, the throat where a collar touches skin, the place behind each ear that holds on to rooms. He washed his hair and then washed it again, fingers working the soap through until the water ran clean.
In the fogged glass he could make out the shape of a man who knew better than to be careless. Shen Wenlang’s name turned over once and went still. He had found Gao Tu again recently, walked in with the old certainty, and walked out with a no. Rejection makes people talk. Of course it would get back to the person it should not. Offices are nets. Everything catches.
He thought of Secretary Jiang at the console by the window, the small frame she kept turned a little toward the wall. A husband with windburned cheeks, a child in a red jacket, a dog mid blink. The little girl had presented as Alpha and was already sick, the kind of diagnosis that says the glands have turned against the body. Surgery fast, then more after. Her life, not his office. She came when he asked, stood where he told her to stand, kept her voice clear and her hands steady. He had paid the hospital before her first day because waiting was not an option for the child. He would keep her out of this and keep her name out of Shen Wenlang’s mouth. No rumors with her name in them. No story anyone could twist. He worried, briefly and hard, about what would happen if they were caught, and told himself again that he had no intention of hurting a woman already carrying enough.
He would only have to do this for eleven more weeks.
He counted the tiles to calm his breathing, an old trick from boardrooms. There were twelve across the long wall. Twelve again. He did not think about numbers that were not on the wall. He let the sound of the water be the only clock.
He soaped the watch strap and rinsed it, then set it on the sink. He worked the soap under his nails because small things hold scent longer than people think. The steam thinned the last of the green in the air until it was only heat and clean water.
He closed his eyes and let the spray hit the center of his chest. The day pulled at him in the way long days do. Nothing he could not carry. He breathed once, slow and even, and reached for the tap.
On the way out he wiped the mirror with the side of his hand. His face looked like it belonged to someone who used his voice for a living. In the hall he could hear Peanut in his room, narrating to a stack of toy cars. The sound steadied him more than the shower had.
He dressed in his blue pajamas from the top drawer, soft cotton with white piping and a loose drawstring he reached for without thinking. No jacket. He opened the bathroom window for a count of three and closed it again, more habit than thought. On the floor runner he rubbed his wrists dry with the towel and smelled only cotton.
When he came back to the kitchen the air was water and soap. Hua Yong set a bowl on the table without looking up.
“Better,” Hua Yong said.
“Thank you,” Sheng said.
“Eat,” Hua Yong said. “And wash that jacket tomorrow.”