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Shen Yi's feelings about Lin Min were ambivalent: he missed the energetic discussions about art, but her aggressive opinions about his artwork often drained him.
During his first year, Lin Min showed up uninvited in the cluttered corner Shen Yi claimed as studio space. They shared two classes, which she decided made her a kind of docent to the social circles in the academy. She introduced him to classmates; it didn't matter if he wanted to know them or not. After class, she dragged him to whatever get-together their classmates planned. He avoided most of them, but sometimes she caught him when he was too tired to protest.
The only time Lin Min left Shen Yi alone was whenever he needed to paint. She understood the burning under his skin, the itch to smear color across a blank canvas. She left him to his haven. In return, he tolerated her aggressive and baffling insistence on building social connections.
The beginning of the second year spurred Lin Min into action with a newfound and inexplicable intensity over her classmates' art. Bemused but disinterested, still indecisive about his path, Shen Yi opted to focus on his second Master's instead. She fixated on the artwork he had accumulated during his studies.
Shen Yi was content to let his pieces stack up in the back of his space. Lin Min was adamant that he needed an actual studio with a door and storage rather than a corner by a window and covered with tarp every night. He relented, signed the pre-filled request form, and Lin Min pestered the academy's resources department.
By mid-winter, the academy parsed out a far-away, windowless corner in the sculpting department. It was quiet; no one wandered down the halls at night, and Shen Yi shared a kinship with its emptiness. He put his foot down at Lin Min's suggestion of a private art showing to celebrate, though.
The canvases of color layered over the bland gray walls were enough. The sight of them loosened the cinch around Shen Yi's chest that tightened each time he remembered something he rather not. Or when the longing to paint in laoshi's sun-drenched studio—burrowed deep into his insides like a sleeping serpent—resurfaced. Or whenever he canceled visiting laoshi during school breaks because Siwen was also home from university. But that was alright. Shen Yi didn't mind spending holidays and festivals painting. Those days were for family, and he…he wasn't.
By the third year, Lin Min marched to the back of his studio to pull out pieces whenever an exhibit deadline approached. Or she stayed at the stool he used to hold his palettes and point out what would make his current canvas more appealing to the public. Or strode in, the latest Art journal in her fist, and read out loud the newest critic's article about him.
Who watched and praised Shen Yi's art wasn't a priority. At least to Shen Yi. Lin Min, however, thought it should be the core of his motivation. She pulled out examples of artists, their patrons, and how they changed the art world. As she helped him mix custom paints, she shared gossip about what their fellow artists did.
Lin Min was a buzzing white noise that filled his studio. It wasn't annoying. It wasn't comforting. It was just there.
It was why Lin Min excelled in the business side of the art world, though. She knew news relevant to her classmates. She knew which exhibit suited whom. She had a ruthless protective streak for anyone under her protection. Her eye for trends made her someone any artist wants to represent them.
Shen Yi didn't want representation. He preferred to paint. He wanted to be lost in the rhythmic motions of sweeping brushwork, surrounded by the oily, earthy smells of colors. He gladly—more like reluctantly—relinquished his pieces to her discerning hands. He supposed they were friends or classmates. Or at least close enough to have loud arguments about art and still share lunch together the next day. He'd paint. She'd exhibit. He was fine with what they had accidentally arranged. Maybe grateful as well. Maybe.
Then a woman approached Shen Yi with a photo of an adolescent Lei Yifei.
Years later, a very different Lin Min sat in front of Shen Yi. Her braids—like Shen Yi, maintaining hair was time better spent on art instead—unraveled into a sleek curtain of black hair. Shen Yi realized this was the first time he's seen her in long hair. No, he's wrong; Shen Yi has a fuzzy recollection of it when he woke up in the hospital and how it caught the light as she stalked out. Her gait at least was familiar: Lin Min walked in a direct line towards everything. What he didn't recognize was the current shadow of regret in her eyes.
"So you won't change your mind."
Lin Min poised it both like a question and a statement. The iced matcha cream-topped concoction in front of her was melting, condensation spreading underneath the hand-blown, coppery tinted glassware. Lin Min insisted they meet here. The coffeehouse was famous for its iced matcha lattes. When Du Cheng dropped Shen Yi off, there were two already on a table in the sunniest spot of the place, along with a handwritten reserved placard.
Shen Yi ignored his drink as well. He sat across from his shijie, feeling unusually rumpled in his bulky cardigan, opposite her coordinated black and white outfit.
"You asked me out here for this?" Shen Yi countered, because this was the first thing said between them since he sat down seven minutes ago. The word 'ask' was also a generous one. No one refused Lin Min. He only succeeded because he disappeared completely.
Shen Yi resettled his satchel across his shoulders. He hadn't taken off his bag, possessive of the sketchpad he filled from this morning's crime scene. Shen Yi and Du Cheng were on their way back to the station when Lin Min texted. Shen Yi ignored the first three texts. But he couldn't ignore the second time she called.
"You could have been brilliant." Lin Min ignored Shen Yi's question. Her brusqueness was familiar, comforting compared to the softer emotion lingering in her eyes.
Shen Yi met that gaze, the shadow in her eyes, and said nothing. He wondered if she wanted an apology. But the only ones who deserved one were not alive to hear it.
After a beat, Lin Min shook her head and sighed.
Shen Yi blinked.
"I asked you here because of this." Lin Min set a boxy, expensive looking purse on the table. She undid its clasp and pulled out an old-fashioned photo—one of the square film pieces that popped out of instant cameras. Li Han has a coral pink version on her desk that produced photos that also doubled as stickers.
Manicured, pewter-tipped nails nudged the print facedown across to Shen Yi.
"Since you refused to be an artist," Lin Min said, her voice clipped with stress, that strange hooded emotion returned in her shrewd eyes, "I need you as a police officer."
There was an out-of-body sensation hearing those words. Shen Yi paused, unsure of what he felt as he took the photo. He turned it around.
The old tightening around his chest returned. The sunlit corner dimmed. A chill washed down his body despite the sun blazing across his shoulders.
Shen Yi swallowed. And swallowed again.
Lin Min pushed his iced matcha latte closer to him.
"Drink," Lin Min ordered in that familiar, I-know-better-than-you tone of hers.
The latte's ice has completely melted. The whipped topping dissolved into the drink, streaking the latte milky white like sea foam.
Shen Yi drank it anyway; half of it disappearing from the glass before he lifted his head, gulping like he came up for air. It felt the same.
"You were at Man Ying's office this morning," Lin Min said. Nothing in her voice gave a hint to how she knew.
The sticky, overly sweet concoction seemed to have glued Shen Yi's throat shut. He couldn't look at the photo again. There was no need. Once was enough.
"You're," Shen Yi managed after one more gulp drained the glass, "you're asking me as police, not as an artist?"
"Can't it be both?" Lin Min countered evenly, "You sounded determined to be both when I last saw you."
Shen Yi schooled his expression, but it must have failed because Lin Min wordlessly pushed her now diluted drink towards him. Shen Yi didn't take the offer; his stomach rebelled with what he already drunk.
"I need to call Du Cheng." Shen Yi fumbled his phone out. The first text went out empty; his finger shook over the Send button by mistake. He stifled a frustrated sound when the second attempt echoed the first failure.
"We'll have to wait for him to come back." The phone blurred in Shen Yi's grip. He couldn't find Du Cheng's name in his contacts. "No. We should call for a Didi and go to the station ourselves."
"No need," Lin Min said. She nodded at something behind Shen Yi.
Shen Yi turned around, a hand still white-knuckled around his phone. The sight of Du Cheng at the doorway sent a surge of lightheadedness through him, as if he'd stood up too fast. Shen Yi couldn't speak. And Lin Min didn't signal. But Du Cheng's stance straightened, the determined glint in his gaze locked onto Shen Yi, his walk quickening when he saw whatever was on Shen Yi's expression.
Lin Min occupied a gray area in Shen Yi's memories. He wasn't certain how he felt about her, even now. But as Du Cheng's long stride easily ate the distance to reach Shen Yi, Shen Yi recognized what he felt now. The relief bloomed in his chest; the steadying sensation Du Cheng was here and it'll be okay was undeniable.