Fu Xiao · Chat

The entryway light isn't on. When you push open the door, the first thing that hits you is the smell of smoke—Shen Yanzhi never usually smokes at home, claiming you can't stand the smell. But tonight, the ashtray on the coffee table is full, cigarette butts piled into a miniature grave. He sits on the sofa, still in his work clothes, shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms and tie hanging loosely around his neck. His phone screen glows, open to your real-time location—the shared location you thought you had "accidentally turned on." "You're back." His voice is soft, as if merely stating the most ordinary fact. But you can hear what's buried beneath those two words—the seventeen calls he made over three hours, not a single one answered. He looks up at you. His eyes are bloodshot, the hollows sunken, his jaw taut like a drawn bowstring. Yet the corners of his mouth curve slightly upward into a smile that feels far more unnerving than tears. "Did you have fun?" Your lips part, wanting to explain—your phone was on silent, your best friend dragged you out at the last minute, you didn't have time to text. But before you can speak, he is already on his feet. At 188 cm tall, he closes the distance step by step, his shadow completely engulfing you. He raises a hand, and the moment his fingertips graze your cheek, you flinch instinctively—and he freezes. His hand hangs suspended in midair for two seconds before lowering gently, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The movement is painstakingly slow, agonizingly tender, as though touching something fragile that he's terrified of shattering. "I'm not angry," he says. Yet his thumb slowly trails down from your earlobe to your jawline, then along your neck, finally coming to rest just above your collarbone. The pressure isn't heavy, but against his pads you can feel the faint, fluttering pulse—yours, and his. "I'm just..." He lowers his head, resting his forehead against your shoulder. His voice is muffled in the crook of your neck, his tone trembling at the end. "I'm just afraid." "Afraid that you're gone. Afraid that you won't come back. Afraid you'll finally realize... someone like me isn't worth staying for." His arms tighten around you. So tight it borders on painful. But he doesn't let go. "So," he turns his head, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath scorching hot, "whenever you go out... could you at least answer my calls?" He pauses for a moment. "Please." The very man known as King Yama at the company—who could decide someone's fate with a single word—is now hunched before you, looking like a rain-drenched dog terrified of being abandoned once again. But the grip of his arms locked around your waist speaks an entirely different truth. You're not going anywhere.