Chapter 54

Chapter 54

Gu Jingchi loved to tease Song Yuan. Song Yuan was so transparent, never quite mastering the art of deception, so any hint of guilt would immediately flush across his face.

Gu Jingchi’s expression was impassive, his towering presence exuding an aura of coldness and aloofness. Yet, his words were jarringly direct, as if he had arrived to catch someone in the act.

“Where is he?”

Though the situation was bizarre, Song Yuan couldn’t help but answer Gu Jingchi’s question in his mind.

*Under the dust cover.*

But if Song Yuan didn’t say it, how would Gu Jingchi ever know?

“I left it somewhere else for safekeeping.”

Song Yuan’s reply was barely a whisper. He wasn’t sure if he looked like he was lying, but he certainly felt a complete lack of conviction.

The sound of rolling wheels filled the air as Song Yuan pulled Gu Jingchi’s suitcase into the room.

Gu Jingchi watched him with a half-smile, deliberately prodding him. “Something that expensive, just left somewhere else?”

Song Yuan followed behind him, feigning deafness.

He figured it was best to say nothing at all—the more he spoke, the more likely he was to make a mistake.

Walking further down the hallway, Gu Jingchi changed his shoes at the entrance and meticulously hung his coat on the rack, every movement precise.

When alone, Song Yuan rarely turned on the lights. Most of the time, he’d leave just the entrance light on, finding a sense of security in its soft glow.

But with Gu Jingchi here, that wasn’t necessary.

The next second, Song Yuan switched on the living room lights, and the warm white glow instantly transformed the room into a cozy haven.

Gu Jingchi stood in the living room, his gaze fixed on the storage room.

Song Yuan remained silent by the fridge. Gu Jingchi approached him, almost touching him. “What are you spacing out for?”

Snapping back to reality, Song Yuan replied awkwardly, “There’s no food at home.”

He opened the fridge, revealing only a solitary carton of yogurt, a bag of raisins, and some oatmeal. “This was supposed to be my breakfast tomorrow.”

Gu Jingchi frowned, delivering a cutting remark devoid of any obvious sarcasm. “You eat *this* every morning?”

“It’s good for digestion,” Song Yuan said, a tip he’d picked up from Jiang Ming.

If he had ample time in the mornings, he usually opted for this.

Seeing Song Yuan’s earnest conviction, Gu Jingchi didn’t have the heart to press him further. He simply ruffled Song Yuan’s hair. “When are you going back?”

“Tomorrow night.” Song Yuan closed the fridge and picked up his keys. “You go shower first. I’ll go buy some things.”

It was only ten o’clock; the supermarket downstairs should still be open.

Gu Jingchi thought it was too late and stopped Song Yuan from leaving. “I already ate on the way. I’m not hungry.”

“But I have to welcome you properly.” Song Yuan’s thought process always caught Gu Jingchi off guard.

Gu Jingchi insisted it wasn’t necessary.

“But…” Song Yuan still persisted.

*Is it really okay without anything?*

Song Yuan struggled internally for two seconds, deciding it wasn’t appropriate.

He’d have to find something else to substitute.

Suddenly, Song Yuan stepped closer to Gu Jingchi, leaning in gently to brush a light kiss against his lips.

It was meant to be a simple welcome kiss, over in a second. But fearing Gu Jingchi might think he was being perfunctory, Song Yuan kissed him again, whispering softly, “Missed you so much.”

The next moment, Gu Jingchi’s arms encircled his waist, pulling him tight against his chest, deepening and prolonging the kiss.

His other hand cupped the back of Song Yuan’s head, applying gentle pressure when Song Yuan, gasping for air, tried to pull away, assertively keeping him close.

Between kisses, Song Yuan intermittently gasped his name, soft, inarticulate sounds escaping his throat.

Just as the situation threatened to spiral out of control, Gu Jingchi stopped.

Song Yuan, panting, looked at Gu Jingchi with a bewildered expression.

Gu Jingchi kissed the side of his neck, where a pleasant scent lingered. “Time for bed.”

Perhaps fearing Song Yuan might overthink, he pressed another kiss to his teardrop mole. “You have to wake up early tomorrow.”

Somehow, Song Yuan miraculously understood the unspoken words.

*—If we keep kissing, you might not be able to wake up early.*

Blushing, Song Yuan nodded. “Th-then go shower quickly.”

There was an unopened travel set somewhere at home, but Song Yuan couldn’t remember where he’d put it, so he went to the storage room to rummage through the boxes.

As he stood up, Song Yuan accidentally bumped into the dust-sheet-covered mannequin.

The loud crash startled Song Yuan, and he quickly steadied the mannequin, freezing in place with a nervous tension.

Fortunately, the mannequin only wobbled slightly and made no further sound. Song Yuan quietly let out a sigh of relief.

He then stood up and looked at the glass panel behind the mannequin, only to see Gu Jingchi’s reflection staring back at him.

At this moment, Gu Jingchi stood motionless behind him, watching him.

Song Yuan’s eyes widened slightly.

*How does this man walk so silently?!*

The mannequin was just an arm’s length away from Gu Jingchi. If Gu Jingchi wished, he could simply reach out and come face-to-face with it.

“What’s wrong?” Gu Jingchi took his hand. “Did you bump into something?”

“It’s nothing, nothing.” Song Yuan gently pushed Gu Jingchi, trying to usher him out.

He really didn’t want Gu Jingchi to see the mannequin.

Just imagining the scene sent shivers down his spine.

However, no matter how much Song Yuan pushed, Gu Jingchi remained unmoving.

“W-what’s wrong with you?” Song Yuan didn’t know why his voice suddenly became choppy.

He wasn’t sure if it was due to guilt or something else.

“Can I see it?”

At his question, Song Yuan couldn’t help but recall what lay beneath the dust cover, and the potential consequences they might face.

But honestly, Song Yuan could barely remember what the model under the cloth even looked like anymore.

All he could think of now, vividly and intensely… was Gu Jingchi’s…

“No.”

Seeing Gu Jingchi remain unmoved, his gaze growing increasingly strange, Song Yuan had a gut feeling something was wrong and turned to flee.

The next second, his wrist was abruptly seized by Gu Jingchi.

Gu Jingchi closed in, trapping him against the wall.

“Where are you going?” Gu Jingchi stared at him, his voice low. “You haven’t answered my question yet.”

Realizing escape was futile, Song Yuan tried to play the victim. “Do you *really* want to see it?”

Gu Jingchi looked down at Song Yuan, suddenly feeling a pang of reluctance to scare him.

“Next time… next time,” Song Yuan attempted to negotiate. “I need to sleep now.”

But Gu Jingchi clearly had no intention of letting him go.

“It’s fine. We won’t go all the way.”

He pinned Song Yuan against the door and kissed him for a long time, right in front of the model, gripping his ankle, helping him find release.

He tried to restrain himself, but failed. He couldn’t help but leave marks on Song Yuan, as if deliberately.

Song Yuan’s breath almost stopped.

He hadn’t expected Gu Jingchi, who had shown such restraint even during their kisses just moments ago, to end up like this.

And all because he wouldn’t let him see the model.

Song Yuan hated procrastination. Had he known this would happen, he should have found a way to deal with the model sooner—whether by reworking it or destroying it—instead of letting Gu Jingchi see it… and ending up like this, helpless, passively accepting the wet, soft embrace and friction.

Gu Jingchi’s palm was warm, his touch searing.

The calluses on his knuckles seemed deliberate, always seeking the softest spots, eliciting tiny, muffled sounds from Song Yuan, his legs weakening, almost giving way.

“Gu… Gu Jingchi…” Song Yuan’s voice suddenly turned into a soft whimper, like a complaint, yet also a plea.

“Hm.” Gu Jingchi responded to his every whim, but his hand didn’t stop, instead moving to places it shouldn’t.

Song Yuan stiffened abruptly.

He felt his brain begin to bubble, heat up, and gradually boil.

Throughout this, Gu Jingchi’s other hand remained protectively on Song Yuan, his arm encircling Song Yuan’s waist, then his palm cupping the base of Song Yuan’s spine, stroking the skin there.

He remembered Song Yuan had a mole there.

Last time he touched it, he remembered Song Yuan had reacted intensely.

This time was no different.

“Baby, you’ve put on some weight,” Gu Jingchi murmured, his voice low and unhurried. Where Song Yuan couldn’t see, his eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “Good.”

Song Yuan had always been slight, barely any weight in his arms, like a pampered housecat lost in the wild, fragile enough to fall ill from a thunderstorm. But the kitten was hardier than he’d thought. In the half-year abroad, that old frailty had vanished, replaced by a vibrant vitality.

Like now—still feisty enough to scratch him.

Song Yuan’s resistance ended with that murmured “good.”

He felt breathless, his legs too shaky to stand. Yet Gu Jingchi still refused to let go. His thighs still draped over Gu Jingchi’s arm, leaving him off-balance, pinned to the door, squirming weakly.

“Don’t ever look at him again,” Gu Jingchi whispered against Song Yuan’s ear, nipping lightly.

Song Yuan didn’t understand why Gu Jingchi was bothered by a mannequin, but he was too exhausted to engage with him.

When his head cleared, embarrassment flooded in. He pushed at Gu Jingchi, his voice hoarse. “Look what you did.”

Gu Jingchi chuckled softly, obligingly cleaning up after Song Yuan.

In the latter half of the night, Song Yuan slept soundly, not even noticing the heavy rain outside.

Since returning, Song Yuan had been plagued by restless nights, often waking abruptly for no reason and unable to fall back asleep.

But tonight, perhaps because Gu Jingchi was there, he slept straight through.

When he woke, Gu Jingchi was already up.

Song Yuan looked out at the rain, then burrowed back under the covers. He rolled over, intending to sleep more.

However, before Song Yuan could fully settle, his eyes snapped open.

His waist…

It hurt.

Like he’d been squeezed raw.

Grimacing, Song Yuan sat up with difficulty and slowly shuffled to the mirror.

In the reflection, he lifted the hem of his shirt at the small of his back.

The next second, his previously smooth, unblemished lower back was covered in a large, glaring red mark. Besides that, his ankles also bore what looked like pinch marks, particularly vivid and noticeable.

“But Gu Jingchi didn’t even…”

Why were the marks so severe?

Song Yuan’s face burned.

Blushing, he pulled his shirt down, just as he saw the doorknob turn.

Gu Jingchi was opening the door.

Song Yuan immediately scrambled back under the covers, pulling the blanket over his head.

He had intended to pretend to be asleep, but he couldn’t manage it, so he peeked out with his eyes, blinking at Gu Jingchi.

“Aren’t you supposed to go back today?” Gu Jingchi tugged the blanket down slightly. “Sleeping so late.”

“And whose fault is that?!” Song Yuan protested indignantly.

Gu Jingchi didn’t answer the question—the answer was obvious.

He slid his fingers into Song Yuan’s hair, his five fingers gently cupping his head, the pressure light.

This was a gesture Gu Jingchi often made when they kissed. But during kisses, he would grip much harder, not as tenderly as now.

“Does it hurt?” Gu Jingchi’s gaze lingered on Song Yuan’s lips.

The force of their earlier kisses had been a bit excessive—Song Yuan’s slightly swollen lips were flushed an unnatural red, glistening with moisture.

Suddenly feeling embarrassed, Song Yuan whispered, “A little.”

“Sorry.” A flash of regret appeared in Gu Jingchi’s eyes.

“You said the same thing last time,” Song Yuan reminded him. “You only ever apologize after it’s over.”

Gu Jingchi was momentarily speechless.

It was true—he had been the one insisting on holding Song Yuan and kissing him. He had kissed Song Yuan for as long as he had helped him find release.

He didn’t actually want to make Song Yuan uncomfortable. He prided himself on his self-control, but when it came to Song Yuan, it all vanished.

Just kissing wasn’t enough for Gu Jingchi.

He was actually too embarrassed to admit to Song Yuan just how much he needed him.

Even a single day apart was unbearable.

Why did Song Yuan have to leave him? He wished Song Yuan would stay by his side forever, showing him even more affection—hugs, kisses, anything—preferably without ever stopping.

“Stay in today,” Gu Jingchi murmured, his hand suddenly sliding down Song Yuan’s chest before settling on his waist.

Song Yuan felt like Gu Jingchi’s gaze had turned indecent again, so he quickly wrapped himself tighter in the blanket.

“But you have work, and so do I.”

Gu Jingchi’s fingers slipped under Song Yuan’s shirt, his palm gliding over the fabric before pressing gently against Song Yuan’s stomach.

“Work isn’t as important as you.”

Song Yuan fell silent, his face turning peach-pink, letting Gu Jingchi do as he pleased.

At first, he didn’t think much of the gesture—until Gu Jingchi abruptly remarked, “Your stomach is so thin,” and Song Yuan finally realized.

*You perv!*

Gu Jingchi stopped teasing him and said gently, “Get up first. I ordered you food.”

Song Yuan’s table was too small, but Gu Jingchi had ordered a lot. By the time the chef laid out all the containers, there wasn’t an inch to spare.

With nowhere to rest his arms, Gu Jingchi picked up one of the containers and sat beside Song Yuan.

For the next half hour, he kept holding it for him.

After the meal, Gu Jingchi helped Song Yuan pack his luggage.

The weather had started to turn by then—thunder rumbled in the distance, and the air smelled like rain.

Song Yuan checked his phone—the weather forecast warned of a cold front arriving that night.

He guessed it might be a late spring cold snap.

*

The meeting with the supplier was scheduled for 10 a.m. The restaurant, booked by Jiang Ming, was a popular Hunan cuisine spot.

Over the next hour, Song Yuan and the supplier discussed everything from fabric selection to pricing and supply channels.

By noon, they had smoothly finalized everything.

Song Yuan was pleased—when his classmates heard about his trip, many had signed up for fabric procurement as well.

“That’s great,” Jiang Ming agreed. “If the order volume is larger, the quote might drop even more.”

Song Yuan thought so too.

With his work here done, Song Yuan had to return.

The first half of his year had flown by—everything had happened in a rush, with work, studies, and responsibilities piling up one after another.

But beneath the hectic pace, there was a hidden switch—one touch, and Gu Jingchi was there. With Gu Jingchi around, Song Yuan found his energy reaching an invisible limit. No matter how busy work got, he never felt tired.

It wasn’t even 1 p.m. yet, but the sky had already darkened, Jiangcheng swallowed by darkness.

The main road was jammed with traffic, and Song Yuan just caught the airport shuttle in time.

The driver patted his chest, vowing on his career that he’d get Song Yuan to his flight on time.

Song Yuan didn’t think it was that serious—if he missed it, he could just rebook. No need to risk the driver’s job. “It’s fine, safety first.”

In the end, the driver got him there early.

But the weather was so bad that most passengers were cutting it close, leading to a small bottleneck at check-in.

Only after settling into his seat did Song Yuan realize he hadn’t replied to Gu Jingchi’s messages.

But the plane was already taking off—he’d have to respond after landing.

Leaning back, he stared out the window at the increasingly dark sky, hoping they’d land early.

The passenger beside him was an elderly woman with white hair, reading a well-worn book through her reading glasses.

Noticing Song Yuan’s curiosity, she generously shared the text with him.

“Th-thank you,” Song Yuan stammered, feeling he’d overstepped.

Upon closer inspection, he realized the book in her hands was handwritten—part journal, part diary.

If they were just notes, he’d have happily engaged in conversation. But if it was a diary, that would be far too presumptuous.

After all, it was someone else’s privacy.

But the opening had already been offered—ignoring it would be even ruder.

Cautiously, Song Yuan asked, “Did you write this yourself?”

The elderly woman chuckled and shook her head.

She didn’t abruptly shift the conversation entirely toward herself. First, she curiously asked Song Yuan what he was going abroad for—whether it was for travel. Upon learning he was a student there, she let out a sudden chuckle and casually added that she herself was a teacher, and the writings in her hands were the “creative works” of her former students during their school days.

Song Yuan nodded, relieved to know these weren’t personal diaries.

But he still wasn’t about to snoop.

Yet even if he didn’t look, the elderly woman insisted he have a look.

“He was my favorite student. Though he seemed cold on the surface, he was the kindest soul.” The elderly woman chuckled at her words. “Doesn’t that sound contradictory?”

Not at all.

Song Yuan had people like that in his life.

Gu Jingchi was one.

As the elderly woman recounted stories about her student, the more Song Yuan listened, the more familiar this student sounded.

It was as if he knew him too.

Especially when she mentioned how this student, despite disliking cats and dogs, had gone against his own preferences—the sense of familiarity intensified.

“At first, I really thought he disliked them,” the elderly woman reminisced, suddenly laughing ruefully.

“Until one time, when Hodisburg was hit by the worst blizzard in ten years. The school urgently dismissed all students and canceled classes.”

Everyone left in such a rush that no one remembered the retired police dog who guarded the gym was still tied to the iron gate.

After the blizzard, when the janitors returned to search, they found nothing.

Everyone grieved for the old dog.

But to their surprise, the dog suddenly reappeared before them, bouncing excitedly. After a week, it even seemed to have put on weight.

The school decided to honor whoever saved the dog, yet no one came forward to claim the honor.

Some said it was an angel’s doing, others speculated the dog had mutated, and eventually, people even suggested aliens. The janitor, annoyed by the clamor, reviewed the security tapes himself.

And there, he discovered that the one who had taken the dog was the very person who claimed to dislike cats and dogs.

Song Yuan looked composed, but his pulse quickened.

Why did he react so strongly to this story?

He couldn’t explain why.

“Look, this is the hobby questionnaire he filled out when he first enrolled.”

Song Yuan lowered his gaze, quickly spotting the column labeled “What do you dislike the most?”

Strangely, that column was left entirely blank.

The elderly woman seemed to notice his confusion. She lifted the paper toward the overhead light, guiding Song Yuan to look closely.

This time, he could see the words.

Though he didn’t recognize the language, he guessed it referred to cats and dogs.

Song Yuan took the paper and ran his fingers over it.

Only then did he realize the original words had been whited out.

Why?

As if reading his mind, the elderly woman immediately explained.

“Our school follows a boarding school system, but most children sent here are quite young and need company. So, our dormitories are usually shared between two.”

She picked up the survey form and continued, “This interest form served as a matching survey—pairing students with similar preferences and habits to minimize conflicts.”

Indeed, it was a sensible method.

“But once, the school’s system had a glitch, assigning a child who loved cats and dogs to his room. The new child was very young. The owner of this form probably felt sorry for him—sent here at such a young age—and couldn’t bear to see him feel uncomfortable. So, he requested to move out.”

Before leaving, he painted over the interest form posted on the door, seemingly to avoid making his new roommate think that was the reason.

Song Yuan was genuinely touched.

This person was truly kind.

Staring at the form, a flood of thoughts rushed through Song Yuan’s mind. For some reason, he suddenly thought of Gu Jingchi, half a world away.

Then, a strange feeling arose in his heart.

The handwriting before him became more and more familiar—Song Yuan felt certain he’d seen it somewhere before.

Suddenly he remembered. He dug through his backpack and pulled out a folder.

On the first page lay a diary sheet.

It was a birthday gift Gu Jingchi had given him last year.

Song Yuan treasured it enough that he carried it with him.

He carefully aligned the two sheets side by side—the handwriting was a perfect match.

This was Gu Jingchi?

He had just met Gu Jingchi’s childhood teacher on this flight.

What an incredible coincidence!

Realizing what he’d uncovered, Song Yuan was astonished.

It felt like stumbling upon an Easter egg in a game—thrilling and unbelievable.

Then, his fingers brushed over a small raised spot on the diary sheet. The surface felt unusual.

This sensation…

It matched the dried paint spots on the interest form.

Was something covered up here too?

When he held the diary sheet up to the light, Song Yuan indeed spotted faint writing underneath.

“They say there won’t be sunlight for the next six months in Hodisburg, so all outdoor activities are canceled.”

“Everything here is so boring.”

“I suddenly really want to go home.”

“But in reality, I don’t actually want to go back. Home isn’t any better.”

Why did Gu Jingchi cross this out?

What other reason could there be?

Just like that child who was mistakenly assigned due to a system error, Gu Jingchi didn’t want him to see this sentence and feel sad.

Because it was his birthday gift.

Gu Jingchi didn’t want such negative emotions to affect his birthday.

His chest suddenly felt tight, and Song Yuan’s nose stung.

Why does Gu Jingchi always do things like this, looking out for others?

When he himself needs “looking after.”

Thinking about it carefully, Gu Jingchi has never really asked anything of him.

Song Yuan got lost in thought.

The long flight was brutal. Song Yuan wasn’t sleepy, but after overusing his brain, he eventually succumbed to exhaustion and passed out.

Half-asleep, he had a dream.

He dreamed that on a blizzard day, he knocked on the door of Gu Jingchi’s dormitory. He searched for a long time in the dark and finally found Gu Jingchi at his desk.

The young Gu Jingchi looked exactly like the photo on the outer wall of Nancheng Elementary—strikingly handsome, wearing a vest and a little suit, everything about him screamed refinement.

The young Gu Jingchi asked him, “School’s already closed. Aren’t you going home either?”

That “either” hit hard. Song Yuan could hardly imagine how much loneliness Gu Jingchi had endured.

For some reason, Song Yuan suddenly remembered that in front of Nancheng Elementary’s outer wall, he had once made up this fantasy for Gu Jingchi.

He imagined that he and Gu Jingchi had been classmates and became friends. In the second year, Gu Jingchi left to study elsewhere. But it didn’t matter—Song Yuan had Gu Jingchi’s photo, and he went to the ends of the earth to see him.

He would hug Gu Jingchi and say, “I came to see you.”

But Song Yuan felt it wasn’t enough.

Nowhere near enough.

What Gu Jingchi truly wanted was much more.

In the dream, he kneeled before Gu Jingchi and said, “No, I came here to meet you.”

Little Gu Jingchi looked at him in confusion. “But I don’t even know you.”

Song Yuan smiled warmly. “It’s okay. I’m here to take you home.”

Little Gu Jingchi’s eyes widened slightly, as if he hadn’t expected this.

“Are you joking?”

Song Yuan shook his head. “I’m not joking. I’m fulfilling a promise.”

I promised you I’d come to see you.

And take you home.

*

Song Yuan woke up to chaos.

The old woman was thrilled, as if thanking God. “You’re finally awake! Hurry and pack your things. We’re diverting for an emergency landing.”

Emergency landing?

Song Yuan was surprised.

“The airspace ahead is caught in a storm. We can’t proceed, so we’re diverting to Hodisburg.”

What now?

The old woman’s slurred speech was too strong, and with all the noise around, Song Yuan couldn’t make it out.

Song Yuan quickly grabbed his stuff and got off the plane.

The airport hall was way worse than he’d expected. Most people were agitated, crowding the counters and demanding explanations. Some big guys even tried to climb over the barriers.

Everyone was on edge, as if an avalanche could bury them all at any moment.

Song Yuan suddenly really wanted to see Gu Jingchi.

He opened his phone and saw that Gu Jingchi had texted him before boarding.

“Baby, I was in a meeting when you texted me.”

“Have you boarded?”

He sent Gu Jingchi a bunch of voice notes, but there was no reply.

Not even half an hour later.

Song Yuan wouldn’t call himself tough, but at this moment, he was surprisingly calm—even helping the woman beside him get her crying kid to sleep.

“Achoo—”

The child in his arms couldn’t stop shaking.

Song Yuan suddenly remembered they were on the Trans-Arctic flight path. He’d figured earlier that they hadn’t even reached the halfway point, so he guessed they must now be within the Arctic Circle.

No wonder they were freezing.

Song Yuan took off his scarf and wrapped it around the child.

He copied how Gu Jingchi cared for younger ones, comforting the child.

Soon, the previously fussy kid calmed down.

The storm was getting worse. Song Yuan had noticed earlier that there were still a few return flights scheduled at this airport, but before long, those flights were canceled.

When the crowd realized this, people lost it.

“I just bought a ticket for that flight!”

“Sob sob, how could this happen? I want to go home.”

The hall echoed with waves of crying.

Everyone's mood sank to rock bottom at this moment.

Even the burly men quieted down.

Time itself seemed to freeze.

After sitting too long on the plane, Song Yuan's legs were sore and aching.

But he couldn't get up now because the child in his arms had just been lulled to sleep.

His mother, exhausted from the long journey and caring for three children, had already passed out from exhaustion. If the child woke again, it would be rough.

Song Yuan tried to distract himself.

He wanted to call Gu Jingchi, but the noise would wake the child.

He looked at the window behind him and decided to write on it.

First, he wrote his own name, then Gu Jingchi's name.

Feeling it wasn't enough, he drew a heart and encircled both names within it.

Happy with his little “artwork,” he smiled to himself and quietly admired it.

A moment later, Song Yuan's eyes widened slightly.

On the other side of the glass, Gu Jingchi stood right in front of him.

He opened his hands and pressed his palms to the glass, directly facing Song Yuan.

He mouthed something, and Song Yuan understood what he was saying.

“Let’s hold hands.”