Since we are all reborn, let’s arrest the senior!

In the pottery studio in the depths of winter, the heating pipes hummed softly. Lin Zhixia leaned over the potter's wheel, her chin almost touching the spinning clay, her eyelashes still smeared with specks of cobalt blue from mixing glazes that morning. Her fingertips repeatedly adjusted the curve of the clay, but the shaped cup always resembled a drunken moon, tilting crookedly to one side.

"Struggling with the cup again?" Lu Mingze's voice came from behind, carrying the bitter scent of cedar perfume mixed with clay. He was wearing a dark gray turtleneck sweater, the cuffs rolled up to reveal a silver watch on his wrist, with a miniature clay bear hanging from the watch chain—a piece that Lin Zhixia had casually sculpted last year, which he strung together with silver thread as an accessory.

Lin Zhixia looked up at the sound, her ponytail sweeping across her mud-splattered apron: "Brother Lu, look! This is the seventh one already. Every time I pull it to the bottleneck, it goes off-center." Her tone was frustrated, and the tip of her nose was slightly red from the cold, like it was smeared with strawberry jam.

Lu Mingze bent down to examine the state of the clay, gently pressing the top of the lump with his fingertips: "The clay hasn't fully rested, and the moisture distribution is uneven." His fingers were longer than hers, and his fingertips were covered with calluses from years of kneading clay. "Didn't you cover it with plastic wrap last night?"

The little girl stuck out her tongue and pulled a crumpled piece of cling film from her pocket. "I forgot," she said. Before she could finish, clay suddenly flew off the turntable and slapped onto her cheek, causing Jiang Yun at the next table to chuckle. She hurriedly tore off the clay, but ended up staining her bangs with a mottled yellowish-brown color.

Lu Mingze suppressed a laugh, pulled out a tissue, and wiped the mud from her nose. "First, learn to keep your balance." He picked up another lump of clay and began shaping it on the potter's wheel with fluid, graceful movements. The clay gradually transformed into a smooth cylinder in his palm. "Your wrist should be like this—"

Lin Zhixia stared absently at his hand. She noticed that Lu Mingze always wore a plain ring on his ring finger, the metal edge polished to a shine, and when the sunlight slanted in, she could see the tiny letters "JY" engraved on the inside of the ring.

"Did you see clearly?" Lu Mingze's voice interrupted her thoughts. He took a half step back, gesturing for her to come forward: "Let's do it again, I'll help you."

As his hand covered the back of hers, Lin Zhixia suddenly remembered the scene at the convenience store last month, when he described how Jiang Yun had fainted while clutching her design draft. His gaze then was gentle, like moonlight filtering through a winter night. Now, his palm was warm, his fingertips brushing against the calluses on her hand, his tone carrying a brotherly patience: "Apply even pressure, don't hold your breath."

The clay was slowly raised by the two hands working together, and the neck of the pot finally showed a smooth curve. Lin Zhixia held her breath and only dared to look up when Lu Mingze said "It's okay," only to find that there was a smear of dirt on the collar of his sweater—it was from where she had just rubbed herself.

"Thank you, Brother Lu." She suddenly felt a little embarrassed, and the tips of her ears turned slightly red. Lu Mingze withdrew his hand and tapped her helmet with his trimming knife: "Next time you forget to let the clay rest, you'll be punished by having to oil all the potter's wheels in the workshop."

Snowflakes pelted against the glass outside the window. The studio lights came on one by one, casting a warm yellow glow. Jiang Yun came in carrying hot cocoa and gave everyone a ginger tea biscuit. Lin Zhixia took a bite, the sweet and spicy flavor spreading on her tongue. She saw Lu Mingze gently brushing the mud off Jiang Yun's hair with his fingertips, the movement as natural as breathing.

“Tomorrow’s the weekend,” Jiang Yun suddenly said. “Want to go see the ceramics exhibition? It’s a newly opened special exhibition of Song Dynasty tea wares.”

Lin Zhixia's eyes lit up, but when she looked up, she saw Lu Mingze quietly rubbing his back—he had twisted his back last week when he helped her move the kiln. The young girl pursed her lips, looking down as she stirred her cocoa: "Actually... I want to stay in the studio to revise the designs. The client said the relief pattern..."

"We'll talk about changing the drawings tomorrow," Lu Mingze interrupted her, his tone gentle yet authoritative. "Go home after breakfast, don't stay up until the early hours again."

Lin Zhixia was about to retort when she caught sight of his hand rubbing his lower back under the table, and suddenly deflated: "Then Brother Lu, you should leave early too, don't always stay until the very end to lock the door."

Jiang Yun watched the two of them arguing earnestly, a smile appearing in her eyes. The hum of the heating pipes mingled with the soft sound of the potter's wheel. The snow outside the window had stopped sometime earlier, and the moonlight gilded the studio roof with a silver edge, like a handful of scattered diamonds.

During lunch break, sunlight streamed obliquely through the studio's skylight, casting diamond-shaped shadows on the sofa. Lin Zhixia nestled in the beige beanbag chair, a ball of camel-colored yarn spread across her lap, two bamboo needles clumsily moving between her fingers. She bit her lower lip, her brows furrowed, but the yarn only grew more and more tangled.

"Is this a scarf being knitted, or a net being woven to imprison a polar bear?" Lu Mingze's voice came from above. He had just come out of the kiln, still smelling of the fired clay, and was carrying a bag of roasted chestnuts he had just bought.

Lin Zhixia angrily threw the ball of yarn at him: "It's all your fault! Last time you said to mend a missed stitch like this," she pointed to several crooked patches on the scarf, "but the more you mend it, the messier it gets!"

Lu Mingze caught the ball of yarn and sat down beside her. The sofa sagged, and his knee lightly touched hers—it was only a brief contact, but Lin Zhixia recoiled as if burned. He looked down at the scarf and suddenly chuckled, "It really does look like a polar bear's den."

"Hey!" Lin Zhixia reached out to grab it, but he raised it high to dodge. Sunlight fell on the top of his head, dyeing the ends of his hair golden brown. He deftly untied a knot with his fingertips: "The stitches are too close together. It will be very stiff when it is knitted like this."

"What am I going to do?" she sighed, staring blankly at the ball of yarn. "I wanted to finish it before the winter solstice."

"Who did you knit this for?" Lu Mingze asked casually, but his fingers rubbed the scarf—he felt several particularly tight stitches where tiny threads were hidden, like some kind of secret.

Lin Zhixia's ears burned as she looked down at her canvas shoes: "I just knitted them for fun."

"Oh?" Lu Mingze raised an eyebrow and took out a silver crochet hook from his pocket. "If you're just knitting casually, do you want me to help you?"

Before she could answer, he had already picked up a loose thread with his crochet hook, his movements fluid and graceful, as if he were repairing a delicate piece of pottery. Lin Zhixia smelled the faint scent of cedar mixed with the sweet aroma of chestnuts on him, and suddenly remembered seeing him brewing ginger tea in the break room that morning—Jiang Yun had said that he suffered from pharyngitis every winter.

"Actually," she suddenly spoke, her voice as soft as yarn falling to the ground, "it was knitted for you. Sister Xiaoyun said your neck is sensitive to wind."

The crochet motion paused. Lu Mingze turned to look at her and found the girl's face flushed red to her ears, her ponytail twirled in her hand. He suddenly reached out and ruffled her hair, the knitting needle brushing against the ends: "Silly girl, knitting a scarf..."

Lin Zhixia felt a chill in her heart, but then she heard him continue, "You should have Jiang Yun teach you. Her scarf-knitting skills are much better than mine."

She looked up and saw a faint smile in his eyes, like crushed stars. Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the yarn, casting spiderweb-like shadows on his face. He continued mending the scarf with his fingertips, his tone suddenly softening: "But... the color is quite nice."

The camel-colored yarn gradually took shape in their hands, the stitches changing from crooked to neat. Lin Zhixia secretly observed his profile and noticed that his eyelashes were very long, casting shadows under his eyes, and the ring on his ring finger shimmered in the sunlight.

"Brother Lu," she suddenly remembered something, "you and Sister Xiaoyun..."

"Ok?"

"Nothing!" She hurriedly shook her head, almost poking herself with the knitting needle. "I just think...you guys look alike."

"What does it look like?" Lu Mingze chuckled and picked up the ball of yarn that had slipped to the ground for her.

"Like," she thought, biting her lip, "like clay and glaze. They each have their own temperament when separated, but they fit together perfectly."

Lu Mingze suddenly stopped. He stared at the scarf in his hand, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly, before finally saying softly, "Perhaps. But," he turned to look at her, his gaze gentle, "you're more like a freshly fired pottery piece." "Ah?"

"She's got a fiery temper, but she's exceptionally clean." He reached out and straightened the crooked knitting needles for her. "Don't always stay up all night like us old folks, okay?"

Lin Zhixia's face flushed again. She looked down at the scarf that was gradually taking shape and suddenly noticed that Lu Mingze had woven a tiny cloud pattern at the patch—using a thread one shade darker than camel, almost imperceptible unless you looked closely.

"This is."

"This is a return gift for you." He stood up and patted the yarn lint off his sweater. "Next time you knit a scarf, remember to buy cashmere yarn. This acrylic kind is good for the neck."

The chirping of sparrows drifted in from outside the window. Lin Zhixia watched his retreating figure as he walked towards the workbench, and suddenly felt that his shoulders seemed broader than usual. His scarf swayed gently at his knees, like a soft cloud. She touched the small cloud pattern and suddenly remembered what Jiang Yun had said: "Good pottery needs time to rest the clay, and so does good affection."

On the eve of Christmas Eve, a blizzard swept through the city. Outside the studio's floor-to-ceiling windows, snowflakes swirled like goose feathers, casting a hazy glow on the streetlights. Lin Zhixia was squatting on the ground arranging glaze bottles when she suddenly heard a loud crash behind her—someone had knocked over a bucket of water, and water was spreading across the ground.

"Watch out!" Before Jiang Yun's exclamation had even faded, Lin Zhixia had already stepped into the water, staggering backward. She instinctively reached for the shelf, but knocked over several bottles of glaze, the blue cobalt spreading on the ground like strange flowers suddenly blooming.

"Zhixia!" Lu Mingze's voice was unusually panicked. When he rushed over, Lin Zhixia had already fallen heavily to the ground, a sharp pain shooting through her right leg. She looked down and saw her ankle twisted at an abnormal angle, and tears instantly welled up in her eyes.

"Don't move." Lu Mingze knelt beside her, his voice remarkably steady. He untied his scarf and placed it under her lower back, gently pressing his fingers against her ankles. "Does it hurt?"

"It hurts," she choked out, nodding, large tears streaming down her face. "Is it broken?"

“No.” He looked up at Jiang Yun. “Go get an ice pack and elastic bandages; they’re in the first-aid kit.” Then he looked down at her again, his tone softening. “Don’t be afraid; it’s just a sprain. I’ll carry you to the hospital.”

Lin Zhixia had never seen Lu Mingze like this before—his brows were furrowed, and his eyes were churning with dark undercurrents, yet he picked her up with unusually gentle movements. She smelled the scent of cedar mixed with the smell of rust on him, and then she noticed that the back of his hand had been cut by the fallen shelf, and blood was dripping down between his fingers.

"Brother Lu, your hand."

"It's alright." He carried her steadily on his back, wrapping her exposed ankles with a scarf. "Hold on tight, don't shake."

The blizzard pounded against the glass windows, and the studio door was flung open by the fierce wind. Jiang Yun chased after them, carrying a first-aid kit, but was stopped by Lu Mingze: "Don't come out, it's too cold outside." His voice was broken by the wind and snow, but it carried an undeniable firmness.

Snowflakes stung her face like knives. Lin Zhixia huddled inside his down jacket, hearing his heartbeat pounding against her back. He walked quickly but steadily, even adjusting his posture slightly to make her more comfortable as they passed snow-covered slopes.

"Brother Lu," her voice muffled inside his collar, "I'm sorry."

"Idiot, what are you saying?" His breath condensed into white mist in the cold air. "If you wear these slippery shoes again, I'll confiscate all your pottery tools."

Lin Zhixia wanted to laugh, but the pain made her gasp. She saw that the tips of his ears were red from the cold and that tiny ice crystals were on the ends of his hair. She suddenly remembered that last Christmas, he had secretly put a chocolate in her ceramic cup—the wrapper had a crooked little bear drawn on it.

The incandescent lights in the emergency room were a bit glaring. As the doctor examined her, Lin Zhixia gripped Lu Mingze's hand tightly, her nails almost digging into his palm. He, however, seemed oblivious to the pain, gently patting her back with his other hand and whispering like he was coaxing a child, "It'll be over soon, just bear with it."

When Jiang Yun arrived, she saw Lu Mingze sitting on the edge of the bed peeling an apple for Lin Zhixia. The little girl's ankle was in a cast, and she was dozing off against the pillow. His hand was wrapped in gauze, but his movements were still nimble.

"How is it?" Jiang Yun asked softly.

"A ligament sprain; you need to rest for two weeks." Lu Mingze looked up, his gaze sweeping over her snow-dampened hair. "Didn't I tell you not to come out?"

"I'm worried." Jiang Yun handed him a bag of warm steamed buns. "Eat something first."

Lin Zhixia suddenly opened her eyes and saw blood seeping through the gauze on Lu Mingze's wrist. Tears welled up in her eyes again: "It's all my fault that you've all gotten hurt."

"If you cry again, I'll throw you back into the studio to polish potter's wheels." Lu Mingze raised an eyebrow, but used a cotton swab to wipe away her tears. "Eat an apple to replenish your vitamins."

The little girl took a bite of the apple, the sweet juice spreading on her tongue. She saw Jiang Yun sitting beside Lu Mingze, re-bandaging his wound; their movements were so synchronized, like a painting. The snow outside the window had stopped sometime earlier, and moonlight shone through the blinds, weaving neat stripes on the ground.

"Oh, right," Lu Mingze suddenly pulled a small box out of his pocket, "This is for you."

Lin Zhixia opened it and found a small silver bear pendant, with a miniature clay heart cradled in the bear's paw. She looked up at him, her gaze questioning.

“The little bear you made last time broke,” he said casually, “I burned a new one.”

The girl's nose tingled with emotion. She suddenly remembered the three-person photo in the studio—a photo she had secretly developed and placed at her workstation. In the photo, Lu Mingze was adjusting her apron straps, Jiang Yun was wiping the clay off her face, and she was holding up a newly formed clay blank, smiling like a fool.

"Thank you, Brother Lu," she said softly, "and Sister Xiaoyun too."

Jiang Yun reached out and rubbed her head: "It's okay."

Lu Mingze looked out the window. On the snow under the moonlight, three sets of footprints stretched into the distance. He suddenly remembered Lin Zhixia's words about "trio," and at that moment, he felt that this word was warmer than any glaze.

(End of this chapter)