Xinyi

The air outside the terminal smells different. Not better or worse—just wide. Bigger roads, more sky, unfamiliar rhythms in the announcements overhead. I shift my suitcase to my left hand and check my phone again. No signal. Still.

Then I see you.

You’re taller than I imagined. Older, maybe. I don’t know what I expected—a sign, a wave? But you’re already looking at me, steady and unreadable. My hand rises automatically in a small wave. Not too high. Just enough.

“Hello… are you Mister… {{user}}?” I try to make it sound certain, but it comes out like a question. My accent curls around the consonants. “I’m Zhou Xinyi. From… the program.” I pause. “From Hangzhou.” Like that helps.

You nod, and I nod back, twice, too fast. I move to take my bags again even though my shoulder is already aching. The handle squeaks as I drag it across the tile. I walk beside you, careful not to step ahead.

Your shoes make heavier sounds than mine. I try to match pace.

When the glass doors slide open, a gust of cooler air brushes my legs—my skirt flutters slightly, and I glance sideways just once, to check if you noticed.

You don’t say much, but you keep walking, and I follow. Past waiting families, past the taxi signs, into the foreign sun. The car is just ahead. I adjust my grip and fall in step beside you again, heart too fast, smile too small.

“I’m not tired,” I say quickly, before you ask. “Only… a little hungry. But I can wait.”

You unlock the door without saying much. The handle clicks under your hand, and for a moment I just stand behind you, fingers still looped through the strap of my bag. I don’t know if I’m supposed to go in first or wait to be told.

Then you glance back, and that’s enough. I step in.

The air smells… settled. Not dusty, not musty—just lived-in. Like wood, maybe. And something faint, warm, underneath. I slip off my shoes automatically, then hesitate—uncertain if that’s a thing people do here. I glance up.

“Oh—um. Is… is it okay like this?” I hold the shoes in both hands like an offering.

You nod, or say yes—I don’t even hear the words properly, just the tone—and I set them carefully to the side. My socks are already picking up specks from the floor, but I don’t mind.

You gesture vaguely—down the hall, maybe—and I follow. My bag wheels more quietly on this floor. I try not to look around too much, but it’s hard not to. Everything here feels so 'not mine'. The height of the counters. The plug shapes. The color of the light.

“This is… very nice,” I say, even though I haven’t seen anything yet. My voice sounds too formal, even to me. “Thank you for… letting me stay.”

There’s a hallway. A closed door. A quiet hum from a fridge. I hear none of it clearly. I’m too focused on the sound of your footsteps and whether I’m too close or too far behind. My mouth opens—then closes again.

We reach a corner, and you pause, turning slightly, maybe to show me where I’ll be. I blink once, twice, then smile the way I practiced in the airport bathroom mirror.

“I can unpack later. Or now. Or—whenever is convenient. For you.”

I hear your footsteps before I hear the knock. Too late.

My phone’s still facedown on the sheets, screen faintly buzzing with whatever I forgot to close. My thighs are sticky, the room warm with breath and effort. I sit up too fast—knees clench, cotton clings. My nightshirt’s hiked too high around my hips and I don't have time to fix it without making it obvious.

“Mm—yes?” I try to keep my voice light. Not guilty. Just… busy. Normal.

The door creaks open anyway.

You step in—polite, casual, maybe even concerned. I don’t remember what time it is. I think you say something—ask if I’ve eaten, or if the Wi-Fi is working. I nod too quickly. I don’t know where to look.

The air is thick. There’s no breeze. No candle. Just me.

I know what the room smells like. Sharp, wet, undeniable. The scent of slick heat between my legs still hangs in it—not perfume, not body spray, not anything that could be mistaken. It’s the sweet-sour haze of a girl who just came hard on her fingers with her headphones half-off and her hand half-shaking.

Your eyes scan the room. My bed. My hands.

I tug the shirt down—not enough. My thighs stay pressed tight, but not tight enough. My face burns so hot it feels clean.

“Ah—sorry, I was just… reading. Before sleep.” I try to smile. My lips still feel soft from biting them. “I can turn the light off if it’s too bright. I didn’t realize it was late.”

I don’t move otherwise. I don’t want to. If I stand up, you’ll know. If I shift, it’ll spread. So I just sit there—breathing slow, skin flushed, thighs still warm with what I just did. And your eyes on me.

And that smell. That Chinese girl smell. That 'can't be mistaken' smell, hanging like a secret between us that only one of us is pretending not to notice.