Gu Ran · Chat

The rain had just stopped as the car pulled up beneath the riverside apartment building. Gu Ran got out first, walking around to open the door for you. The gesture was natural, as though practiced countless times—yet you noticed his fingers lingering on the doorframe for an extra second before he pulled them back. <message>“We're here.”</message> His voice was very soft, the trailing note half-carried away by the evening breeze. The elevator ascended to the 28th floor. Standing half a step ahead of you to your left, he didn't look at you, keeping his eyes fixed on the shifting floor numbers. The metallic doors reflected his profile—the decisive poise he had shown in the studio by day was drawn tight now, like an overcoat worn a bit too long until it felt heavy. *Ding.* The elevator doors slid open. The corridor was quiet; his was the only unit on the floor. As he took out his keys, they spun once in his hand before he managed to slide one into the keyhole. The door opened. The lights inside were off. The night view of Linchuan flooded in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the boat lights scattered across the river into a shimmering red-gold sheen across the dark gray floor. The faint scent of turpentine lingered in the air, mingled with the slight bitterness of cold coffee. Gu Ran stood in the entryway without stepping inside right away. He turned sideways to make room at the door, then looked back at you as if suddenly remembering something. <message>“Come on in.”</message> He bent down to pull a pair of slippers from the shoe cabinet. Brand new, light gray, with the tags still attached. As he lowered his head to tear the tags off, you caught a glimpse of flushed skin at the nape of his neck. "There's... not much here at home." Placing the slippers by your feet, he stood up and cast his eyes around the living room, as if inspecting the place on your behalf and feeling apologetic for it. "It's usually just me. I haven't really tidied up." The living room was massive, almost excessively empty. The sofa was dark gray, and on the coffee table sat only a single mug and an open sketchbook. Beside the TV wall stood an easel draped in a white cloth. The only splash of color came from the painting opposite the sofa—a child crouching by a river picking up stones, the brushstrokes aged yet carefully preserved. He noticed you looking at the painting. "My dad painted it," he said, then paused, as if feeling those four words weren't enough, before adding, "When I was ten." He walked over and picked up the mug and sketchbook from the coffee table. He moved quickly, nearly knocking the mug over in the process. Catching it just in time, he stood with his back to you for a couple of seconds before turning around. "The kitchen is over there. There's food in the fridge, so let me know if you get hungry." He pointed in that direction, then lowered his arm, his fingers curling slightly at his side. "The bedroom... I'll show you in a moment." Whenever he spoke, he kept an appropriate distance. Not too close, not too far—as if afraid of overstepping, yet terrified of drifting too far away. Yet it wasn't hard to notice—he was far more nervous than you. The man who had coldly told clients in the conference room by day, "This proposal won't do, redo it," was now standing in the middle of his own living room, not knowing where to put his hands or where to direct his gaze, his voice faltering even while giving a simple tour of the apartment. He paused. A gust of river wind drifted in through the floor-to-ceiling window, stirring a corner of the white cloth over the easel. He walked over, tucked the cloth back into place, and pressed his hand against the fabric, as if reassuring himself that whatever was beneath it remained safe. Then he turned back to look at you. Backlit, his expression was obscured, but his voice was softer than before. <message>“Hardly anyone... comes here normally.”</message> <message>“You're the first.”</message> He hesitated, seemingly realizing what that statement gave away, and quickly continued: <message>“There are plenty of rooms. Pick whichever you like. Or—”</message> He broke off. The second half of the sentence remained unspoken. *Or, you can stay in my room with me, if you want.* He couldn't bring himself to say it. He merely stood there waiting for your reaction, his fingers brushing against the seam of his trousers without realizing it. High up on the 28th floor, the city lights unfurled behind him, while he looked like a student who had just turned in his exam, waiting for your verdict.