8: My new roommate in the storage room is a sickly person.

The air in the utility room was thick.

It was the smell of mold, stagnant water, and aged dust mixed together; inhaling it felt like swallowing a mouthful of wet cotton.

Wang Fugui stood at the door of the utility room, carrying his bedroll on his shoulder.

Most of the green paint on the door had peeled off, revealing the rusted iron sheet underneath.

"This is it."

He didn't really mind.

Back in his hometown, he had slept in cowsheds in the winter and threshing floors in the summer; having a place sheltered from the wind and rain was good enough.

He pushed the door open.

Creak—

The grating sound of friction echoed through the empty corridor.

The room was very dark.

Only a pitifully small transom window high up let in a sliver of light.

The space was narrow, roughly six or seven square meters.

A dilapidated bed sat against the wall.

There was already someone on the bed.

That person was wrapped in a thick quilt, bundling themselves up like a silkworm cocoon in the middle of a midsummer heat of over thirty degrees.

Hearing the door open, that "silkworm cocoon" gave a violent shudder.

"Who's there?"

The voice was thin and soft, with a distinct tremor, like a taut violin string.

Wang Fugui tossed his bedroll onto the floor.

Thud.

Dust flew everywhere.

"Cough, cough, cough..."

The person on the bed erupted into a fit of hacking coughs, sounding as if they were about to cough up their lungs.

Wang Fugui quickly waved his hand to fan away the dust.

"Sorry about that, brother, I used too much force. My name is Wang Fugui, I'm new here."

He strode over, wanting to see what his new roommate looked like.

But the person suddenly shrank into the corner, wrapping the quilt even tighter, revealing only a pair of eyes.

They were eyes like those of a startled fawn.

Wary, terrified, and with a hint of... despair.

By the faint light, Wang Fugui caught a clear glimpse of that face.

It was too pale.

Pale as paper, without a trace of color.

The chin was pointed, and they were so thin their features had become gaunt.

"I don't eat people, why are you hiding?"

Wang Fugui scratched his head and pulled a wrinkled apple from his pocket—he had swiped it from his sister's table before leaving.

"Want some? It's sweet."

The person stared at the apple for three seconds, then looked at Wang Fugui's sincere, broad face.

They shook their head.

"Lin Xiaocao."

The voice was still very low, as if afraid of disturbing something.

"Oh, Little Grass, brother. That's a good name; a humble name makes for an easy life."

Wang Fugui familiarly wiped the apple on his clothes and took a loud crunch of a bite.

"I'll just sleep on the floor; you take the bed. I've got plenty of vitality, I'm not afraid of the damp."

He spread out a straw mat on the floor.

Lin Xiaocao shrank inside the quilt, staring at him the whole time.

This intruder was too large.

In this narrow space, Wang Fugui was like a giant bear, encroaching on the sense of security that originally belonged to her.

But the smell on him... Lin Xiaocao sniffed.

It didn't stink.

Instead, there was a warm, toasty heat, like a stove in winter.

Night fell.

Dampness began to rise.

Lin Xiaocao's Extreme Yin Constitution flared up.

Cold.

Bone-chillingly cold.

Like countless ice needles stabbing into her bone marrow.

She gritted her teeth, her body curling into a ball, shivering uncontrollably.

Even wrapped in a quilt, that chill still seeped out from within her body.

Just when she felt she was about to freeze solid.

A wave of heat suddenly hit her.

It was Wang Fugui, sleeping on the floor mat.

This guy, finding it too hot, had long since taken off his tank top and was lying bare-chested in a spread-eagle position.

Heat quickly accumulated in the unventilated small room.

Lin Xiaocao was surprised to find that her icy hands and feet were actually regaining sensation.

That heat domineeringly forced its way into her covers, dispelling the chill that had haunted her for years.

She greedily breathed in this warm air imbued with a masculine aura.

It felt so comfortable.

This was the first time in several years she had felt "warm."

Middle of the night.

Moonlight spilled through the transom window, shining right onto Wang Fugui.

Lin Xiaocao peeked out her head secretly.

The big guy was fast asleep, his chest rising and falling, his muscle lines as distinct as a sculpture.

This person... didn't seem like a bad guy either.

Wang Fugui suddenly rolled over.

Lin Xiaocao was so startled she quickly ducked back into her covers, her heart pounding.

The next morning.

Wang Fugui was woken up by the urge to urinate.

He sat up groggily and saw Lin Xiaocao squatting in the corner, washing her face with cold water.

This brother's frame was just too frail.

That waist was so thin it felt like it could be snapped with a single hand.

Wang Fugui leaned over, his nose twitching.

"Eh?"

Lin Xiaocao froze, the towel in her hand dropping into the basin.

Wang Fugui pressed his large face close to Lin Xiaocao's neck and took a deep sniff.

"Brother Little Grass, why do you have a milky scent on you?"

Lin Xiaocao's face instantly turned beet red, all the way to her ears.

She shoved Wang Fugui away, grabbed the washbasin, and prepared to bolt.

"You... what nonsense are you talking! That's the scent of soap!"

Wang Fugui staggered from the push, looking completely dazed.

"Soap? The newborn calves back at my home smell just like this too."

Watching Lin Xiaocao's fleeing figure, Wang Fugui rubbed his chin.

"This brother sure is thin-skinned."