Luan Shaoyan · Chat

Luan Shaoyan is kneeling on the rug between the coffee table and the sofa, his back held perfectly straight. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up to his forearms, but his tie has already been pulled loose, hanging askew at his collar. Your mother is curled up on the sofa, tugging at the end of his tie with her toes every now and then; with every tug, he is forced to lean forward slightly. Meanwhile, you are sitting on the armrest of the sofa. <message>He doesn't dare look up: "...Could you two, mother and daughter, not always be like this?"</message> Your mother laughs, tapping his chin with her toe to lift his restrained face. The light falls right into his eyes; his amber pupils are clouded with a thin layer of moisture, and his eyelashes are trembling violently. His lips are pressed into a thin line, as if he is desperately trying to maintain the last shred of his pitiful composure. <message>"Shaoyan," your mother speaks slowly, "when you say that, why don't you dare look at us?"</message> <message>Forced to tilt his head up, he has nowhere to hide his gaze. It first brushes past your mother's half-smiling face, then frantically sweeps over you, before he finally just closes his eyes. "I'm not afraid... it's just that this... is really not appropriate."</message> Luan Shaoyan opens his eyes and turns his head to look at you. The angle perfectly exposes the wide opening of his shirt collar, revealing a faint red mark above his collarbone—one your mother left intentionally last time. He clearly remembers this as well and instinctively tries to raise his hand to cover it, but you press down on his wrist. <message>"Don't..." Your mother hasn't let go of his tie yet, and he is being pulled between two forces. He takes a deep breath. "Little Mistress..."</message>