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

The studio's temperature control system flashed with a deep blue number, and the cool 18°C ​​atmosphere was filled with the mixed scent of cedar and glaze.

Jiang Zimei curled up in the camel-colored cashmere blanket, the edges of the broken diamond glaze fragment she held between her fingertips crackling like ice, much like the perpetually damp temporary tattoo on her lower back. Lu Mingze, his back to her, was adjusting a new glaze, the hem of his white coat fluttering slightly with the movement, revealing the crackling patterns on the smart back brace—the initial draft she had carved into the clay with a trimming knife last year.

“Help me warm this ‘star’.” She pressed the fragment against the back of his neck, the coolness seeping through his skin making his fingertips tremble. The cobalt blue glaze rippled in the beaker. As he turned, his white coat brushed against her knees, and a corner of the cashmere blanket slipped down, revealing a faint wax tattoo on her calf—a mark made with his treasured cobalt blue glaze, which had faded to a smoky gray over three months.

“Temperature calibration requires close contact.” His voice carried the steady tone characteristic of a ceramic artist, yet as he hugged her, he deliberately let his fingertips brush against her waist. The glaze stand behind her made a soft clattering sound, and she caught a glimpse of the gilded glaze bottle she had overturned the night before. On the bottle were the two words “Be Careful” written in gold powder by him, the strokes winding like the flowing glaze during kiln firing.

As she was placed before the glaze stand, the cashmere blanket slipped completely off, revealing the rhinestone glaze patches along the edge of her sports bra—made from shards of glass from the kiln lamps in his studio, mixed with the glaze. Lu Mingze pressed his thumb against the protrusion of her spine, as if testing the plasticity of clay: “The old craftsmen of Jingdezhen say,” his nose brushed against her earlobe, cedar perfume mingling with rose oil from her hair, “that glaze touched by lovers undergoes an ‘emotional kiln transformation,’ resulting in unexpected patterns during firing.”

Jiang Zimei raised an eyebrow, her fingertip hooking onto the second button of his shirt—a ceramic button she had sewn herself last year, engraved with her initials. "So, Brother Lu wants me to help you grind those 'twin lotus' cups to pieces?"

She deliberately emphasized the word "grind" very softly, watching his pupils contract slightly as he recalled the past. Last year, she had knocked over a million-dollar antique porcelain cup in his studio, the shards splashing and leaving three bloody marks on her ankle. Now, those three faint scars overlapped with the glaze formula number 37 for her new tattoo.

He suddenly grasped her wrist and pressed it against his left chest, where there was an old scar the size of a coin—a shard of porcelain he'd shielded her from when the kiln exploded three years ago. "Not ground up, but reassembled," the smart brace hummed softly. The cracked skin on his lower back blended perfectly with her temporary tattoo, like two pieces of clay, adrift in time, finally meeting. She smelled the lingering iodine on his white coat—the residue from when he treated her cut with the trimming knife that morning.

The sycamore leaves outside the window brushed against the glass, and Jiang Zimei suddenly saw their overlapping shadows cast on the glaze rack: the gold powder in her hair blended with the silver strands at his temples, resembling his newly created "Star Frost Glaze." His fingertips slid to the burn scar on her elbow, where the skin was slightly darker than elsewhere—a badge of honor from her secret training in kiln operation. "This time, we'll be testing the 'symbiotic glaze,'" his voice mingled with the soft hum of the mixer, "requiring the alternating catalytic action of two body temperatures."

When his lips touched the cinnabar mole below her collarbone, she suddenly laughed, her fingertips brushing against the small medicine bottle in his white coat pocket—slow-release painkillers brought back from Switzerland, the bottle marked "ZM Exclusive" in enamel. "Lu Mingze," she whispered in his ear, "your heart rate monitor needs a repositioning." As she spoke, she pressed his hand against her chest, where the diamond-encrusted ceramic piece was slightly warm with each heartbeat, much like the ever-burning kiln lamp in the studio.

On Christmas Eve, snowflakes pattered against the iron gate of the kiln, making a soft, pattering sound. Jiang Zimei, wrapped in Lu Mingze's dark gray woolen coat, squatted before the 1200℃ kiln. The "fire tree and silver flower" glaze in the observation hole shimmered with an amber glow. Her breath condensed into frost flowers on the glass, and she suddenly pointed to the dancing flames: "Look, doesn't it look like the gilded glaze you knocked over when we first kissed?"

Lu Mingze added a piece of pine wood to the kiln, sparks flying into her hair and turning her chestnut curls a golden-red. His cashmere scarf slipped down to his shoulder, revealing a strawberry mark below his collarbone—the one she'd made that morning with lip gloss mixed with gold powder. "That time you stained my glaze notes with strawberry jam," he said, poking at the clay in the kiln with tongs, his voice mingling with the crackling of the wood, "and there's still a heart-shaped mark on page 47."

As she turned around, a velvet box fell out of her coat pocket and rolled to his feet. Lu Mingze bent down to pick it up, and the moment he opened it, the kiln fire made his pupils shine—inside was an unfired porcelain ring, her fingerprint embedded in the recess of the ring face, and the edges outlined with ice crackle patterns in cobalt blue glaze.

She placed the box in his palm, her fingertips tracing the calluses on his hand—marks left from years of handling a potter's knife. "Use your 'Bone-Corroding Red' glaze. If it cracks, you'll be forced to sleep on the sofa for three months."

He suddenly laughed, his Adam's apple brushing against her forehead, his body warm with the scent of cedar perfume, pressing her against the kiln. The frost on the iron gate melted in the heat, forming winding watermarks around their shadows, much like the flowing patterns of his most prized "sky-blue after rain" glaze. "I've already prepared the porcelain bowls for the wedding." He lifted the lining of his coat, revealing twelve tiny porcelain shards, each engraved with the date they met: "March 15, 2019, you rummaged through my glaze cabinet; July 7, 2020, you cut my calf with a trimming knife."

Jiang Zimei's fingertips traced the cool porcelain shards, suddenly touching a particularly rough one—a fragment of the "Twin Lotus" cup she had smashed last year. The snow fell harder and harder, the thermometer in the kiln showed -5℃, but she could feel the intelligent brace on his lower back heating up, like a piece of clay with a constant temperature.

She suddenly remembered seeing the design sketches on his computer in his studio last night: the invitations were two pieces of ceramic that could be pieced together, the candy boxes were shaped like miniature kilns, and even the champagne tower was designed like a glaze stand. "Lu Mingze,"

She reached into his coat pocket and felt half a melted piece of dark chocolate—the wrapper bore her drawing of the kiln-transformation pattern. "If the glaze doesn't reach the ideal state that day..."

"Then let's reheat it using our body heat."

His smart bracelet beeped, his heart rate at 125. Suddenly, pale blue flames shot from the kiln's observation hole, making his white hair shimmer like pearls. "You know," he said, "there's a kind of 'secondary firing' in pottery. The first firing sets the shape, the second adds color. Just like us, our first encounter set the shape, now it's time to add the color for eternity."

As the snowflakes turned into a blizzard, they sat in front of the kiln, sharing the piece of dark chocolate. Jiang Zimei leaned on his shoulder, watching him trace the glaze formula on the back of her hand with his fingertips, the brushstrokes mixed with chocolate sauce leaving deep brown lines on her skin. A Christmas greeting text message from Zhixia drifted in from afar, but she suddenly pointed to the clay pieces inside the kiln: "Look, the 'fireworks' glaze is starting to show star-shaped cracks."

Lu Mingze cupped her hand in his palm, their intertwined fingerprints standing out vividly in the firelight. "This is called 'emotional crazing'," he said. "The greater the temperature difference, the more beautiful the lines." He pressed his thumb against the Taiyuan acupoint on her wrist, where he had applied a moxa patch for her that morning. "Just like us," he continued, "every argument is an intensification, eventually transforming into a unique glaze."

On the day of the Awakening of Insects, a light rain tapped against the kitchen blinds, weaving a pale gray checkered pattern on the tiles. Jiang Zimei, wearing a cream-colored cashmere apron given to her by Jiang Yun, was brewing tangerine peel tea. The steam dampened her eyelashes, making her look like a blank canvas touched by morning dew. Lu Mingze's white coat hung on the back of his chair. She deliberately sprinkled extra osmanthus flowers into his bone china cup, watching the golden specks float on the tea, resembling the gold glaze in his studio. "The sugar jar is on the third shelf of the refrigerator." He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, his fingertips brushing against the cobalt blue glaze stain on her apron—something she had accidentally gotten on yesterday while adjusting the new glaze. She could feel the warmth of the smart back brace on his lower back through his shirt, two degrees lower than his body temperature, like a piece of porcelain just out of the kiln.

“Didn’t Lu Mingze say he was going to give up sugar?” As she turned around, the teaspoon tapped against his collarbone, making a clear sound. “Last time in the kiln, who was it that stuffed dark chocolate into my mouth?” Her gaze fell on the dark stubble below his Adam’s apple, which she had deliberately missed shaving this morning.

He suddenly took the teaspoon from her hand and put it in the dishwasher, but then pressed down on her wrist, his fingertips brushing against the bits of dried tangerine peel on the tip of her nose: "Glazes are about layers, and so is tea—bitter first, then sweet, that's how you get the full flavor." His thumb pressed on the thin calluses on her palm, marks left from years of holding a shaping knife, which perfectly complemented the calluses on his own palm, forming a complete circle.

The first clap of thunder sounded outside the window. Jiang Zimei was pressed against the kitchen counter by him, smelling the lingering scent of cedarwood perfume mixed with dried tangerine peel on his white coat. Her fingertips slipped into his shirt pocket, touching half a melted dark chocolate. The kiln-transformation pattern on the wrapper had blurred from her body heat, resembling his latest "cloud and mist glaze." "Lu Mingze," she said, biting into the chocolate, the dark brown filling staining his lips, "Next time you mix glazes, how about trying cocoa powder?"

He licked the chocolate from her fingertips, and his smart bracelet suddenly vibrated—heart rate 118. The dishwasher started running, humming as his lips landed on the glaze pool on her collarbone, where a few droplets of water from brewing tea had accumulated. “We can try,” his voice mingled with the sound of running water, “but the finished product needs to be tested on you first—like here,” his fingertips traced the mandala tattoo on her waist, “using ‘Bone-Corroding Red’ glaze with cocoa powder; it should produce a bittersweet red.”

Jiang Zimei suddenly laughed, pointing to the oven: "The cookies are almost done." But as she turned around, he grabbed her wrist, gently tugging at the tie of her cashmere apron. The moment the bow loosened, it revealed a mandala tattoo painted in "bone-corroding red" glaze on her waist—every time they kissed, his tongue could taste the vermilion in the glaze. "The cookies need milk," he said, lifting her onto the counter, the residual heat of the oven radiating from behind, "and you need my body heat."

As his lips touched the crackled porcelain tattoo on her lower back, Jiang Zimei saw her reflection in the glass of the work surface: the rhinestone-studded temporary tattoo on the back of her neck intertwined with his white hair, resembling the "kiln-transformation miracle" he often spoke of. The oven beeped, and she smelled the aroma of burnt cookies mingled with the scent of cedar, surprisingly harmonious. "They're burnt again," she said, shaking the baking tray; the crackled cookies looked just like his "crackled porcelain." "How is Brother Lu going to punish me?"

He took the baking tray and placed it aside, his fingertips dipping into the glaze stains on her apron, drawing an arc on her lower abdomen: "As punishment, you'll accompany me in making 'coil-building'—using your body heat as the clay strips, and my hands as the potter's wheel." The smart protective gear emitted a slight hum, and the ice cracks on his lower back overlapped with her temporary tattoo once more, like two pieces of yin and yang clay that had drifted through time and finally met.

The drizzle intensified, and a misty haze clung to the kitchen window, filtering the world into a soft, pale gold. Jiang Zimei lay on the counter, watching Lu Mingze adjust the glaze, his white hair falling to obscure his eyes and brows, but unable to hide the newly sprouted stubble on his chin. She suddenly remembered Aunt Jiang's words: "A ceramic artist's love is like opening a kiln; even with cracks, it's still a unique glaze." And at this moment, the chocolate in her palm and the glaze on his fingertips were merging, much like the most perfect kiln transformation.

After the Grain Rain season, the terrace was covered with roses, and pink petals fell onto Jiang Zimei's yoga mat, mixing with the cobalt blue glaze pink, much like unfinished enamel painting. She wore a smoky gray crop top, and in downward-facing dog pose, the ice crack pattern tattoo on her lower back overlapped with the patterns on Lu Mingze's smart protective gear, forming a complete yin-yang pattern.

“Your treadmill needs to be moved.” She turned to the man leaning against the glass railing, her ponytail brushing against his ankles. “Every time I run on it, it feels like I’m being massaged in the back.”

Lu Mingze put down his bone china coffee cup, the crackled pattern on the bottom complementing the texture on his belt buckle. "Your yoga mat needs replacing," he said.

He raised his chin, his gaze falling on the rose petals on the arch of her foot. "If the glaze powder seeps into the patterns, it will affect the firing result."

She straightened up and pulled a silver pendant from her sports bra—a shard of diamond-encrusted ceramic pressed against her chest, shimmering faintly in the late spring sunlight. "Brother Lu, would you like to examine my 'raw form'?" she asked, leaning forward deliberately. The sports bra strap slipped halfway down, revealing a cinnabar mole below her collarbone—the spot he would kiss before each firing.

As he approached, his slippers left blurry footprints on the cobalt blue powder and rose petals scattered on the yoga mat. Adjusting her shoulder straps, his fingertips brushed against her warm skin, then he suddenly grasped her wrist and turned it—the pale blue veins on the inside throbbed, much like mica veins in Jingdezhen pottery. “Jiang Yun said you’ve been staying on the terrace until the early hours lately,” he said, pressing his thumb against her Taiyuan acupoint, “If you keep staying up so late, yours will crack.”

Jiang Zimei laughed and slapped his hand away. As she turned, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass: the temporary tattoo on her lower back perfectly matched the pattern of his protective gear, resembling a clay piece about to be fired. In the distance, the sound of a gardener pruning shrubs drifted over. She suddenly pointed to the drifting clouds in the sky: "Look, doesn't that cloud look like the 'crackled' porcelain you had last year?"

Lu Mingze followed her gaze, and the fine crackle patterns at the edge of the clouds did indeed bear a striking resemblance to the defective item. "Crackle patterns require a specific temperature difference," he said, his fingertips tracing the burn scar on her elbow, "just like us; every argument is for a more perfect crackle."

As dusk fell, the two sat on the terrace sharing strawberries.

Jiang Zimei smeared strawberry juice on the corner of his lips, and the way he licked it off looked just like a craftsman testing glaze.

(End of this chapter)