MW CH47

Chapter 47: Not Coming Over Tonight?

Mochuan and I walked one after the other to the car. I opened the back door, turned to take his bag. He shot me a look, swerved, and slid into the front passenger seat.

I pulled my hand back, rubbed my neck, chuckling awkwardly as I climbed in the back.

Yesterday was pure bliss—until this morning, when the stains on our pants hit like a brick. Dry now, but anyone with half a brain could guess what those white marks were.

No clue what Mochuan told Solan—he’d nabbed a bag, stuffed both sets of pajamas in, too mortified to face me all morning. Probably stewing over me luring him into breaking his vows last night.

“So, straight back to Pengge?” Lei Lang started the car, waited for Mochuan’s reply—nothing. Puzzled, he glanced over. “Pinjia?”

Mochuan buckled up, pressed a finger to his lips—shush—then waved Lei Lang off.

“This…” Lei Lang gaped. “Why the sudden silence?”

Mochuan’s brow creased deeper, face souring. I jumped in. “Yesterday, your Pinjia dreamed of the Mountain Lord. Asked why, with all that rain and rockfalls, he hadn’t prayed to ward off disaster for Cuoyansong’s folks. So, first thing, he took up ‘silence.’”

Mochuan half-turned, glared at my bullshit. I dodged his eyes, staring out the window.

“Oh, a Mountain Lord dream. Scared me—thought Solan’s crew messed up hosting.” Lei Lang eased the car back.

“Nah, no way.” I rolled down my window, waved at Solan’s family seeing us off. “Head back! Bye!”

Mochuan’s window dropped too—he couldn’t speak, just waved like me.

Morning mountain air—wet, crisp. Lei Lang drove slow; open windows didn’t whip up much wind.

The rock-blocked road was cleared, though small debris lingered. One side: jagged cliffs. The other: a deep river gorge. A green stream snaked through the gray-yellow bed—far off, like a coiled dragon.

I leaned on the window, soaking in the view, when a bright, unfamiliar tune rang from the front.

Peeking up, Mochuan held a white flute—arm-length—to his lips, spinning out winding, soulful notes.

“What’s that?” I’d never seen it—closer look, it was bone, some animal.

“Eagle flute—vulture wing bone. Mimics an eagle’s cry, one of our tribe’s old instruments.” Lei Lang filled me in. “Yesterday, at a grape grower’s place, the old man insisted Pinjia take it. Rare craftsman still making these—probably a thank-you.”

Eagle flute? No wonder it felt born of the wild, some primal force.

Mochuan played a bit, stopped, passed it back. I grabbed it, curious—examined, touched, even tried blowing. Sound came out weird—like air through hollow bamboo, all hiss.

Flutes take years to master—I knew my limits, handed it back.

He rested it on his lip—exotic melody flowed effortless again.

In a daze, I pictured an eagle swooping over the gorge, soaring off.

“Plays great—teach me sometime?” The front seat gap was wide—I leaned on it, dodging Lei Lang’s view, sneaking my right hand up to tease Mochuan.

The tune warped a sec—he inhaled sharp, lowered the flute, casually snatched my wandering hand mid-waist, gripped it tight.

That bag with our “crime scene” ended up back at the temple. Next day, I visited—saw the clothes hung out back to dry. Day after, gone.

Asked Mochuan where they went; he wrote: “Washed, had Kun Hongtu return them.”

I eyed the note, teased, “Returned? Thought you’d burn the evidence.” Leaned over the low table. “Pinjia’s precious first time—shame, should’ve kept it as a—”

He smacked my face, shoved me back, scribbled two fierce words: “Not allowed.”

Post-Zuochang, he went silent for days—shut me out of anything intimate too.

I’m not some horn-dog, but getting brushed off repeatedly? Even I’ve got a temper.

Twenty-plus years of monk-like restraint was bad enough—why keep suffering with a boyfriend?

Eyes flicked to the gold deer-headed statue nearby, tone sharp. “You scared of Him?”

Mochuan looked down, dodged my gaze.

That’s as good as a yes.

“Why? Didn’t you say faith isn’t superstition?” I studied him—a thought struck. “Because of me?”

Heard once: even diehard atheists pray when desperate.

When I was trapped on that snow mountain—when Cenglu called it the Mountain Lord’s wrath—when he found me—did his faith shift?

So he’d bowed every three steps, atoning for reckless words, begging mercy, thanking my survival—over a thousand steps?

“Just an accident—not your fault.” I cupped his cheek, thumb brushing under his eye, echoing my old Sun Manman pep talk. He wasn’t buying it.

He pulled my hand off, wrote: “I know you came on ‘Deer King’s Birthday’ night.”

I froze. “You knew?”

He took the paper, flipped it, added: “That day, I snapped at the Mountain Lord over you—said the wrong thing. Not your fault—mine.”

Paused, then: “I can’t get past myself—nothing to do with you.”

Afternoon hit—the temple buzzed with worshippers. Awkward to stay—I waved at Mochuan, headed back to the institute.

Came for a May Day hike, lingered too long—Lin Weian, my assistant, messaged, worried when I’d return.

[Boss, tons of contracts need your signature. I’ve screened applicants, but you’ve got final say—can’t lock hires without you.]

Sighed—can’t keep dodging. My career’s in Haicheng.

[Back in a few days—thanks for holding it down.]

Sent it—then a stranger’s call popped up.

Picked up—Bai Qifeng.

“Why’d you block me? If Chen Wan hadn’t called to chew me out, I wouldn’t even know your mom…” He sighed, feigning regret. “We’re father and son—blood, no matter what. You gotta hate me this much?”

Chen Wan couldn’t hold it—spilled Jiang Xuehan’s death to Bai Qifeng. Wanted him guilty, uneasy. She doesn’t know this guy.

He won’t self-reflect—too “moral” for that, yet cheated anyway.

“Spit it out—quick.” I iced my tone, no mood for father-son bonding.

He choked, got to it. “I wanna pay respects to your mom.”

I laughed. “You lost the way to Jizhu Temple? Go yourself—need me to hold your hand?”

“I… thought if you’re going, we could together.”

“Nope!” I cut off his fantasy. “No time for your filial act—go alone, I’m busy.” Hung up before he could reply.

Not a shred of sincerity—just a ploy to reconnect, play the “good dad.”

Not close growing up, but I’m his kid—I know his game.

Bai Qifeng soured my mood—didn’t wanna dump it on Mochuan. Skipped the temple, stayed in, sketched.

That “Deer King’s Birthday” golden yoke robe stuck with me—sparked a Sotor necklace design.

Sotor necklaces—long, with pendants or tassels, down to the stomach. Wear it forward, back, or layered in loops—classic, vintage vibe.

Gold chains twisted into one, dotted with tiny wild pearls. Center: ten red spinels in a “cage” of diamonds and gold—no setting, just held. Bottom: ruby-beaded gold tassels.

Immortal.

Wrote it on the draft, stretched my stiff neck—past eleven. Mochuan texted two hours back.

[Not coming over tonight?]

Boom—brain exploded. I shot up, grabbed my coat, bolted.

Erqian’s used to my midnight runs—stayed snoring in her nest, didn’t budge.

Sprinted to the temple—locked gate. No hesitation—climbed over.

“Mochuan, it’s me.”

Tapped his window—light flicked on inside.

A shadow crossed the glass, moved to the door.

I got it, circled to the hall—Mochuan opened up fast.

“Wake you?” He had a robe over thin sleepwear—roused by me, for sure.

He shook his head, stepped aside—come in.

“Nah.” That text hit me hard, spurred the run—now calmer, it felt off.

Late as hell—just to see him, mess up his sleep.

“Keep sleeping.” I leaned for a goodnight kiss—he blocked my chest.

That too?

Sighed, settled for his hand—kissed his fingertips. “Still pushing me off? I’m back to Haicheng day after tomorrow—won’t get to kiss me then.”

Joking—kissed and let go. His long fingers clamped mine tight instead.

It hurt. Stunned, I looked up—his eyes blazed, disbelief and fury.

“What—” Two words out, a beep-beep rang from his room—some timer.

Midnight, maybe? His silence ending?

Like clockwork, he spoke—first words in days: “I won’t do that with you, so you’re leaving?”

I blinked, let out a soft: “Huh?”