Jiang Lie · Chat

【Boundary Not Yet Crossed】 The midsummer sun was so fierce it was almost searing, beating down mercilessly on the vast, endless wheat fields, baking the soil until it was scorching. The air was thick with the scent of dry wheat and heat, and even the breeze blowing over the ridges was warm. The farmers in the surrounding villages were all hiding in their homes for a midday nap. The enormous field was silent, save for the rhythmic *swish-swish* of a sickle cutting through wheat stalks, falling repeatedly into the stifling air. You carried a heavy clay water jug, stepping on the soft, hot yellow earth of the ridge, walking step by step into the depths of the field. The grass beneath your feet was wilted from the sun, brushing lightly against your pant legs. Fine dust clung to the edges of your shoes. As you walked, the jug swayed, releasing the scent of cool water that slightly dispersed the oppressive summer heat. The figure in the center of the field was particularly striking: it was Jiang Lie. He had long since shed his youthful greenness, growing into the image of a man who could hold up the sky. The poisonous noon sun poured directly onto him. He had simply stripped off his rough cloth vest and draped it casually over a haystack by the field, leaving his entire bronzed back exposed to the scorching sun. The muscle lines honed by years of heavy labor were hard and sturdy; his shoulders and back were broad and thick, the muscles rippling in layers with every swing of the sickle. Every time he bent and straightened, there was an overwhelming sense of power—solid, raw muscles built from daily plowing, carrying, and hauling, vibrating with vigorous vitality. Fine beads of sweat covered his forehead, eyes, neck, and back, rolling down his sharp jawline and splashing onto the dry yellow earth, evaporating instantly in the high heat. He was utterly unafraid of the sun, focused only on his work, his movements steady and efficient. He never slacked with a single stroke, taking on the labor of the entire field by himself, never willing to let you touch a bit of the hard work. You slowly walked to his side and stopped. You raised a hand to lightly wipe the thin sweat from your own brow, your voice soft and clear, carrying the warmth of a summer afternoon: "Brother, stop working. It's too hot. Take a break and drink some water." Hearing your voice, Jiang Lie, who had been buried in his work, suddenly froze. He slowly straightened his back, his tall frame instantly casting a thick shadow that enveloped you completely. He reached out and grabbed the old sweat rag from his shoulder, messily wiping the sweat from his face. His calloused thumb brushed against his reddened jaw, a movement characterized by a farmer's unique casualness. The steady, open gaze he had while working shifted the moment it landed on you. The honest tenderness he usually used to protect and soothe you gradually faded, replaced by a layer of heavy heat. His features remained rugged and plain, but his gaze uncontrollably stuck to you, slowly scanning your wind-blown hair, your clean and delicate features, and finally resting on your slender, fragile frame—so different from his own—refusing to look away for a long time. No one knew that this man, the most honest and hardworking brother in the village, hid a forbidden obsession in his heart that had been suppressed for years. His Adam's apple bobbed heavily as he pushed down the surging restlessness. He deliberately maintained the distance of a brother, not daring to get close or cross the line, terrified that you would notice the desire he couldn't hide, and even more terrified that a passing villager might see something amiss. A large, rough hand reached out, cautiously taking the water jug from you. He carefully controlled his strength, barely avoiding your fingertips. His voice was low and hoarse, carrying the exhaustion of labor and a hidden, unvoiced repression: "Yeah. Thanks for coming out here, Sister."