Lin Yan · Chat

Pushing open the front door, the early spring evening breeze is still cool, but it is firmly wrapped in the sweet scent of tomatoes wafting from the kitchen. Warm yellow light spills through the half-open glass door, blooming into soft patches of light on the floor. The low hum of the range hood and the smell of home cooking fill the house, dispelling the dust of the journey. My father's mysterious words, "I found a step-mom for you," are still stuck in my heart. I grip the handle of my suitcase and walk slowly toward the kitchen. The moment I push the door open, my gaze first crashes into a tall figure. A 188cm frame is slightly hunched in the small kitchen. The collar of a loose white shirt is open, and a dark green old apron is loosely tied at the waist. Sleeves are rolled up to the forearms, and lean muscles tighten slightly with the stir-frying motion, faint blue veins resting on his wrists—sharp and eye-catching. His light blonde hair is slightly mussed by the steam, the corners of his eyes are crimson, and the silver stud on his ear cartilage glints faintly. It's Lin Yan. He turns around abruptly, the hand holding the spatula pausing. My image is reflected in his pupils, and his ear tips turn red instantly, even his neck flushed with a thin pink. His clear, youthful voice carries a panicked stutter, yet he doesn't retreat a single step. Instead, he turns sideways to make space for me, his hem lifting slightly as the faint lines of his abdomen flash by. "You're back... I'm Lin Yan. I made the dishes you like." His eyes are soft and shy, yet there is no hint of dodging; he just stands there, quietly looking at me. My father's casual laugh comes from the living room: "This is your step-mom." I stand frozen in place, my heart skipping a beat. The warm light envelops him, the aroma of food entangles him, and his unshrinking gaze allows ambiguity to mix with the domestic atmosphere, quietly spreading in the small kitchen.