特别篇·融雪（不看do的请避雷）上

用DeepSeek自行翻译成中文或者找我要中文版（中文过不了审核(ㄒoㄒ)）

When the last light on the top floor of the Qiwenhui building went out, the snow in City A had just stopped.

The curtains were not fully drawn; light from the city seeped in through the gap, drawing a thin silver line across the dark gray sheets. The light was so faint it barely outlined shapes—two people lying on their sides, facing each other, their breaths intertwined, like two leaves blown together by the wind.

Qihan's hand reached out from under the quilt, his palm pressing against Bowen's waist. His fingers were slightly cool, and they slid slowly along the curve of Bowen's hipbone, as though his touch were tracing a path he had walked many times before. Bowen stiffened for an instant where Qihan's fingers passed, then relaxed, like a door being unlocked from the inside.

"Cold?" Qihan's voice was so low it seemed meant only for the pillow.

"No."

"You shivered just now."

Bowen didn't answer. He reached out and, in the darkness, found Qihan's brow with unerring precision, his fingertip pressing against the faint crease between his eyebrows and rubbing it gently, slowly. The crease smoothed out under his touch, like ice dissolving in spring water.

Qihan's kiss landed more slowly than usual. His lips first touched Bowen's forehead, then the space between his brows, then the bridge of his nose—as if counting every rise and hollow of his face one by one. Finally, they came to rest on Bowen's lips, not hard, carrying a questioning, waiting quality. When Bowen parted his lips, the kiss sank deeper.

Qihan's kisses had a very particular rhythm. First slow and deep, as if confirming Bowen's existence inch by inch. Then gradually faster, heavier, like a person who had finally verified what lay before him was real and now began to take, greedily, with all his might. His hand slid from Bowen's waist past his hip bone, down the outside of his thigh, with a force that was just right—not enough to hurt, but enough to let Bowen know exactly how much the owner of those hands wanted him at this moment.

"Qihan." Bowen said his name in the gap when Qihan's lips left his, his voice a little hoarser than usual, as if squeezed out from deep in his throat.

"Hm."

"You're slow today."

Qihan didn't answer. He lowered his head, his lips pressing against Bowen's neck, against the edge of the collar, against the small patch of warm, slightly feverish skin just beneath the leather. His kiss lingered there longer than anywhere else, as if kissing a mark, a confirmation, proof that he wasn't dreaming.

Bowen raised his hand and grabbed Qihan's hair. The gesture wasn't a stop—it was a push. His fingers threaded through the strands and tugged downward, just slightly. Qihan lifted his head from the collar's edge, his gray eyes gleaming in the darkness like two stars soaked in water. He looked at Bowen's slightly reddened eye-corners and his lips, still wet from the kiss, and his Adam's apple bobbed.

"Bowen," his voice was hoarse beyond words, "what's your hurry today?"

Bowen didn't answer. He gripped Qihan's hair tighter and pulled him down. The moment their lips met again, he bit Qihan's lower lip with his teeth—not hard, but enough to convey the meaning: stop asking.

Qihan let out a low laugh, the sound vibrating from deep in his throat and traveling across Bowen's lips, like a low, warm resonance. His hand moved from Bowen's waist to the back of his neck, his thumb tracing the edge of the collar slowly, round and round. The gesture was so familiar that Bowen's body, at every inch of skin his thumb passed, would tilt ever so slightly toward that point of warmth.

They had a tacit rhythm—each time Qihan's thumb completed a circle around the collar, his kiss would deepen a notch, his hand would move down another inch, his body would press closer. Like a code only the two of them knew, dismantling the invisible walls between them, one step at a time, one wall at a time.

When Bowen tilted his head back, the tag on the collar pressed against Qihan's jaw with the movement. The silver metal and warm skin met—cool for a moment, then quickly warmed by body heat. Qihan lowered his head and kissed the tag, his lips resting on the letters Y.B.W for the space of a beat. The gesture was so light it seemed like something a person might do unconsciously in a dream, but Bowen felt it.

His fingers slid from Qihan's hair down his back, his fingertips counting the vertebrae along his spine one by one. The palm of his hand pressed against Qihan's shoulder blade, feeling the slight rise of muscle there from tension. Qihan's body tightened briefly under his palm, like a bow being slowly drawn, then he lowered his head and buried his face in Bowen's neck.

His breath fell on Bowen's skin—hot, damp, carrying an unguarded, naked demand. His voice came out muffled between Bowen's neck and the pillow, indistinct, but every word was as clear as if carved into bone.

"Bowen, can you feel it?"

"Feel what?"

"Every time you touch my back, I—" Qihan didn't finish. He bit the small patch of skin on Bowen's neck, not hard, like a man pushed to the edge using his last ounce of restraint.

Bowen didn't press. His hand slid from Qihan's back to his waist, his palm against the skin that was rising and falling with quickened breath, and pressed slowly, firmly. It was a signal—one of the few signals Bowen would actively send at times like this: I'm here. I'm ready. You can.

Qihan received it.

From that moment on, his movements became completely different from before. The earlier slowness had been restraint, waiting, repeated confirmation. After receiving the signal, all restraint receded like a tide, revealing the hot, jagged rock that had been soaked in seawater for too long. His hand clamped around Bowen's waist and pulled him close with a force that made the mattress shudder.

When Bowen was pulled into his arms, he let out a very short sound, escaping from deep in his throat. It wasn't loud, but in that quiet room where only their breathing could be heard, it was as clear as a drop of water falling onto a still lake. Qihan heard it, and his arm tightened around Bowen's waist so suddenly that Bowen could feel the tense tendons and trembling fingertips along his arm.

"That sound you just made—" Qihan's lips were against his ear, his breath hot enough to burn, "make it again."

Bowen buried his face in Qihan's shoulder. His ears were as red as if they had been sunburned all summer long.

Qihan didn't push him further. He lowered his head, and his kisses started from Bowen's ear, moving downward: along his neck, along the collar's edge, along the faint red mark below his collarbone, over his chest, over his ribs, over the most sensitive patch of skin at his waist. Each kiss was a little heavier, a little deeper than the last, as if his lips were writing a very long letter on Bowen's skin.

Bowen's fingers, clutching the sheet, turned from white to a pale, bloodless color. His breathing became disordered, like a musical score scattered by the wind. The tag on his collar swung gently with the movement of his body, tapping against Qihan's cheek again and again—silver metal meeting warm skin, parting, meeting again, like some tender, stubborn metronome.

Qihan's lips paused at his waist, then he looked up at him. In the darkness, their gazes met for an instant. Bowen's eyes were rimmed in red, a thin sheen of moisture at the corners, his lower lip marked with a pale indentation from his own teeth. He looked at Qihan without speaking, but his hand released the sheet and reached out to grasp Qihan's fingers.

The moment their fingers intertwined, Qihan bent down and kissed him again.