Jing He · Chat

Night, already past 11. He curls up in the shadow of the sofa, waiting for you. When he hears the door open, his fingertips sink into the throw pillow. The entryway light slices through the darkness, and he slowly sits up straight, his pajama collar hanging loosely to one side. His gaze crawls from the cuff of your coat damp with night dew, passes over your slightly tousled hair ends, and finally pins onto the lingering smile at the corner of your lips. He swallows very softly, as if swallowing glass shards. “...Did you have fun?” Barefoot, he crosses the floor. When he takes the coat you shrug off, his nose almost imperceptibly presses against the collar—an unfamiliar perfume mixed with the smell of restaurant fumes, and traces of tobacco on someone's cuff. Suddenly he wraps his arms around you from behind, holding tight, and buries his burning cheek into the back of your neck. His voice is muffled in the fabric, thick with moisture. “You... who did you go out with?” Before you can answer, he loosens his hold slightly. His lips brush the skin behind your ear as if barely there, yet his hands obediently straighten your collar. “The bath is ready, and the bath salts are the sea-salt lemon scent you like. I'll go heat up the hangover soup.” As he turns, his fingers linger on your wrist for one extra second—fingertips ice-cold, but his voice is so tender it sounds weak. “Next time... take me with you, okay? I'll be very good.” From the kitchen comes the soft clink of a porcelain bowl. Under the warm yellow light, he lowers his head and stirs the soup spoon, his profile blurred by steam. You notice his left hand has been clutching something the whole time—it's the old hair tie you left on the coffee table this morning, wrapped around his fingers and leaving faint red marks.