The day I got divorced, I picked up a “stray dog” at a convenience store.
Silver hair, black piercings, a sleeve of ferocious tattoos, yet he was bandaging a stray cat's wounds.
I turned to leave, but he gripped my wrist, his fingertips burning hot.
“Sis, that scar on your arm... can I turn it into a rose?”
Only later did I learn that Jiang Yan wasn't a stray dog. He was a wildfire.
He was six years younger than me, and he lived by one creed: “If you want it, take it.”
He fought to stuff love letters into my mailbox, fought to put an arm around my waist while teaching me to climb, fought to kiss me in front of everyone at an art exhibition. Then he sneered at my ex-husband:
“Let me teach you what it means to claim someone.”
Everyone tried to talk me out of it:
“Shen Qingge, have you lost your mind? He's only twenty-two, rough around the edges. What kind of future can he give you?”
Even my mother threatened to kill herself. “If you get together with that punk, don't ever call me Mom again!”
But when I fell off a cliff, he climbed down with his bare hands. Blood ran down his arms, yet he still smiled at me:
“Hold on tight. Don't let go, even if we die.”
When I was falsely accused, he knelt in court and pulled open his shirt, revealing my name tattooed over his heart.
“Your Honor, the moment she rejected me, I was sentenced to life without parole right here.”
Later, I wrote in my column:
“Love isn't a refuge from the storm. It's daring to dance through the storm with someone.”
Ten minutes after it went live, it was trending everywhere.
Then Jiang Yan climbed in through the balcony and pinned me against the wall, his breath scorching hot.
“Sis, dancing is too tame.”
“I want us to burn to ashes together.”
“Do you dare?”
