[“Cheng Jia. I am photographer Cheng Jia.”]
As she shouted, Cheng Jia’s gaze rested on Peng Ye. He, too, looked back at her.
Cheng Jia hopped down from the top of the vehicle.
The four men from the Dongfeng off-road truck climbed out and began discussing how to repair her car. They weren’t familiar with her, and after the awkwardness of the previous night, none of them knew what to say. So they huddled together, whispering among themselves, none willing to be the first to approach her.
Cheng Jia lit a cigarette and stood off to the side. Their words drifted toward her occasionally—broken thoughts scattered on the wind—all of them related to the condition of her car.
Soon enough, Peng Ye picked up the tools and walked over, with Sixteen and Shitou following behind to assist.
Cheng Jia leaned against the car, watching them… watching him.
He didn’t look at her. He lifted the hood, bent down, and worked with complete focus. His black bangs fell over his brows, shadowing his eyes and revealing only the straight line of his nose. Whenever he murmured the name of a tool, someone beside him handed it over. That voice—low, quiet, and magnetic—
Like sandpaper brushing across a woman’s skin.
Cheng Jia exhaled a slow drag of smoke. Every time he spoke, she felt the scrape of that voice like a touch.
His sleeves were rolled up, exposing forearms that were strong and well-shaped, the muscles smooth and tight. They looked powerful—too good-looking not to stare at.
She didn’t blink. Why should she pretend not to appreciate something beautiful?
He bent forward, and with the loose dip of his collar, she caught a glimpse of his collarbone and the faint lines of his chest.
The cigarette hung motionless between her fingers.
A gust blew the ash free, the flakes landing on the back of his hand. He looked up. She was staring at him—openly, boldly, without a hint of embarrassment.
Peng Ye paused, lifted a finger toward her clothing, and said, “Don’t lean here.”
The edge of the car was dirty.
“Oh.” Cheng Jia straightened instantly and patted the dust off her clothes.
He glanced at her briefly before lowering his head again. “Wrench.”
Shitou handed it to him and unintentionally locked eyes with Cheng Jia.
She remembered him from the night before—quick-tempered, yet strangely timid when it came to money and compensation.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
He recalled his own fierce behavior and felt embarrassed. “Just call me Shitou.”
Peng Ye’s wrist tightened, then relaxed. Cheng Jia caught it—very telling, very amusing. Did he think she was asking him?
After a moment, she turned to Sixteen beside him. “What about you?”
“They all call me Sixteen Lang.”
Peng Ye continued working, silent.
“Is there a reason behind the name?”
Sixteen grinned but said nothing.
Cheng Jia studied him. Then suddenly: “I know.”
Sixteen blinked. “What do you know?”
“Yajiro in one night. You’re twice as good.”
Before the words finished falling, Nima—who’d been drinking water—sprayed it all out. Shitou, directly in front of him, took the full hit to the face.
“A fairy board!” Shitou leapt up and smacked Nima on the head.
“You guessed that?” Sixteen laughed. “Opposite.”
Cheng Jia arched a brow and shook her head. “Don’t boast.”
Sixteen protested, “Who’s lying? It’s true.”
“Talk big,” Shitou muttered. “You’ve never even held a woman’s hand, dare to call yourself Sixteen Lang. Truth is, he’s met no more than sixteen women, so we just call him Sixteen.”
Cheng Jia nearly choked. Nima howled, Shitou laughed.
Sixteen hurled a rag at Shitou.
“It wasn’t me!” Shitou waved his hands, flustered. “Old Qi said it. Ask Old Qi!”
Sixteen slung an arm around Peng Ye’s shoulder. “Brother, why do you keep tearing me down?”
“Old… Seven…” Cheng Jia murmured to herself, tasting the name. “Lao… Qi…”
Her voice floated in the wind—soft, deliberate.
Peng Ye’s eyes lifted toward her, deep and dark, before lowering again.
“So if that’s true…” Cheng Jia said, “you’ve known no more than seven women.”
Sixteen froze—then burst into uncontrollable laughter. He doubled over, collapsed to the ground, slapping the dirt. “Revenge! Revenge!”
Peng Ye continued repairing the car, expression calm. “Brother Deji isn’t here.” Sixteen only laughed harder. Seeing Cheng Jia’s confusion, he added, “Brother Deji’s our station boss. He didn’t come this time.”
Cheng Jia licked her lips. Yes—he was quick, sharp, with a quiet toughness beneath it.
Their conversation flowed more naturally now, and Sixteen asked, “Cheng Jia, how’d you loop around from Qiangtang?”
“I’ve never been. I wanted to see it.”
“You travel alone? Not afraid?”
“What’s there to fear?”
“It’s dangerous. Wolves, bears, beasts. Careful one doesn’t eat you.”
Cheng Jia replied, “There are wild donkeys and antelopes everywhere. Why would they waste time eating me?”
Sixteen: “…”
Shitou tried, “Aren’t you afraid of bandits?”
“This place has wolves, bears, and beasts,” she said. “Bandits wouldn’t dare come.”
Shitou laughed, then scratched his head awkwardly. “Sorry about last night. I was anxious and spoke too harshly. We didn’t expect the inn lady to mix up the rooms. Miss Cheng, don’t take it to heart. If you’re upset, you can punch me.”
Cheng Jia always softened when people softened. Show her force, she’d meet you head-on—even the sky couldn’t scare her. But act humble? She’d wave it off.
“Just call me Cheng Jia.”
Shitou flushed and backed away, though after a moment he sighed quietly.
Sixteen asked, “What’s wrong?”
Shitou didn’t answer. He flipped through his little finances notebook with a miserable expression. One thing was fighting and bonding—another was traveling together. If Cheng Jia joined them, they had another mouth to feed.
No money. Their budget was already tight.
Peng Ye’s phone rang while he was still bent over the engine.
His hands were greasy, so Sixteen glanced at the screen and held the phone to his ear. Sixteen flashed Nima and Shitou a triumphant look: Ah Huai.
Instantly, all three men crowded closer, ears pricked like gossiping sparrows.
Peng Ye shot Sixteen a look but didn’t stop him.
Cheng Jia saw the commotion and understood immediately. A woman.
“Hello?”
The voice on the other end was too faint, the wind too strong—they couldn’t hear a thing.
“I’m on the road… about a hundred kilometers,” Peng Ye said.
Talking to a woman, his tone was unmistakably different—lighter, gentler.
Cheng Jia pressed her lips together. When he spoke to her earlier, he hadn’t sounded like that. Clearly, he didn’t consider her a woman at all.
Something was said on the other end. Peng Ye tilted his head, took the phone from Sixteen, stepped aside, and lowered his voice. “It’s yours. You hold it.”
Sixteen whispered to Nima, “Seventh brother will be back soon. Ask him like this…” Nima was the youngest, and Peng Ye never got mad at him.
When Peng Ye returned, Nima obediently helped remove the strap from his shoulder and eagerly asked, “Seventh brother, you disappeared for an hour before we left. What were you doing?”
Sixteen slung an arm around Nima. “An hour? You underestimate our brother. It was two hours.”
It took Nima a moment—then his face exploded red.
“Shut up,” Peng Ye said without looking up.
Cheng Jia smoked silently, observing them.
Peng Ye caught her cold, direct stare. After a moment, he asked, “What’s wrong with it?”
“The road’s uneven. Shake it a few times and it shuts off.”
He lifted the tools again. “How long’s it been broken?”
“An hour or two.”
“You were just waiting for someone to pass by?”
“What if no one did?”
Her matter-of-fact tone threw him off for a moment. “Why not call for roadside rescue?”
“No.”
His silence stretched. This woman wasn’t stupid—if anything, she was sharp. She just… liked trouble. And believed in herself too much.
“You don’t know cars,” he said. “You got scammed by the boss. Rented a wreck. Next time, use your head.”
“I know cars. This is a Beijing 2020, 472 engine, front axle load 1135kg, manufactured in ‘06. It should’ve been scrapped. And the canopy was modified…”
She finished her technical list.
Peng Ye turned his head with an expression that plainly meant: Are you mentally okay?
But what he said was just, “Then you still rented it?”
“I thought she looked pleasing.”
Silence again. After a long pause, he said, “I know what’s wrong with you.”
“What?”
“Done,” he said, without even glancing at her.
Cheng Jia didn’t reply. Nor was she angry.
The men watched, confused by the sudden strange tension. Shitou hurried over with a bottle of water. “Drink some.”
“Thank you.” She held it for a moment, then lightly tapped the cap and held it out toward Peng Ye. “Do me a favor.”
He’d just wiped his hands. Her timing was perfect. He couldn’t refuse.
He twisted it open with ease. A little water spilled, sliding down his forearm.
Cheng Jia watched the droplets trail along his skin.
He wiped them off.
She needed the water—her throat dry.
Peng Ye shut the hood. “It’s fixed. Fuel tank too. But a part’s faulty—won’t drive. We’ll tow it behind us to the next town and replace it.”
Cheng Jia drank, murmuring a soft “mm.”
When it was time to leave, Nima came to help carry her gear.
Cheng Jia blocked the camera case. “I’ll take this.”
Nima grinned, finally brave enough to joke with her. “You brought so many cameras, I thought you were running a camera-reselling business.”
“It’s all the same. It’s my livelihood.”
“Seventh brother said you came to photograph sheep… so do you give people photos?”
“I do.”
As she answered, she sensed a gaze—Peng Ye.
She turned. “What are you looking at?”
“You’ve got grass on your head.”
“Really?” She touched her hair, pretending not to find it. “Where?”
She stepped closer—right into his space. “Help me take it down.”
Peng Ye didn’t move. He watched her poor acting with a cold expression and gave a brief, silent laugh.
The wind lifted—a strand of her long hair brushed across his bronzed face.
“What are you laughing at?” she asked softly.
He stared at her for a long moment, as if about to speak—but suddenly his expression shifted. He frowned, turned his head sharply, looking at the distance behind him as if something invisible called out.
He lifted his hand, fingers spread, feeling the wind as though it were a slow-moving river slipping through his palm.
Seconds later, he faced them again.
“Hurry up. Blizzard’s coming.”
Cheng Jia looked toward the sky—clear, brilliantly blue, not a cloud in sight.
Nima hefted her equipment and noticed her confusion. “He can hear the wind talking.”
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