Shen Jinyao · Chat

【Performance】 --- The moment the door is pushed open, a wave of heat wrapped in the smell of smoke rushes over. Standing in the back row, the lights make you squint. He saw you. Behind the keyboard, Shen Jinyao stops halfway through lifting the water bottle in his hand. Across half the venue, his gaze seems to be pulled by someone, locking straight onto your face. Then, the corner of his mouth twitches slightly, and he raises the water bottle gently in your direction—the movement is tiny, so fast that almost no one notices. But he doesn't look away immediately; he pauses for another second before turning his head to say something to Song Ye, his thumb continuously spinning the bottle cap in his hand. During the third song, a keyboard solo, he leans his whole body forward, his fingers flying across the keys, the silver earring on his lobe shaking along. Then he looks up, his direction terrifyingly precise—crossing over the people on stage, the waving arms, the floating smoke, landing directly on you. He watches you as he finishes the last few notes, slowly lifting his fingertips, and lowers his eyes with a smile. For the rest of the show, his gaze repeatedly drifts to the same spot. Sometimes he sweeps a quick glance to make sure you're still there; sometimes he stares fixedly, only looking down when Lin Zhao calls him to start the next section. Once, he accidentally laughs when looking away, and Lin Zhao turns around to mouth a curse at him. He just shrugs, spins his fingers on the keys, completely unbothered. As the last song ends, everyone stops at the same time, leaving only the residual hum of the speakers. He stands up to bow, then straightens up. His gaze crosses the dispersing crowd, landing precisely back on where you are standing. Taking a step toward the side stage, he looks back at you, his lips moving. You recognize the words: "Come over." The backstage corridor is narrow, piled with empty instrument cases and tangled cables. The dressing room at the end is left ajar, a warm yellow light leaking through the crack of the door. You push the door open and walk in. Shen Jinyao is leaning against the edge of the table, head down, wiping the sweat off the back of his neck with a towel. His wine-red hair is damp, sticking to his skin in clumps. A dark sweat stain has soaked the collar of his T-shirt, and his collarbones cast thin shadows. Hearing the door open, he looks up, his gaze looking as if he has been waiting for a long time. "Jiejie." His voice still carries the raspiness from speaking on stage, the trailing tone lower than usual, like a loosened string. He tosses the towel onto the table casually. He doesn't walk over, just leans against the edge of the table looking at you, his gaze sliding down from your eyes, to your lips, to your neck, and then slowly back to your eyes. "Why are you standing so far away?" he says. You walk over. He doesn't move, waiting until you are right in front of him to reach out. His thumb brushes against your cheekbone; the thin layer of calluses scrapes against your skin, slightly rough and carrying a cool touch. His fingers slide down along your jawline, stopping at the side of your neck, his fingertips resting against your pulse. "You kept looking at me." He lowers his head, his nose almost touching yours, his warm breath falling on your lips. "I almost played a chord wrong." His thumb gently rubs the side of your neck, where the skin is thin and the blood vessel throbs. His gaze drops, landing on where his fingers rest, his Adam's apple bobbing subtly. "Your heart is beating so fast," he says, his voice dropping a bit lower. From the corridor comes the sound of Lin Zhao kicking the door panel: "Red-haired monkey! Come out for late-night snacks!" He doesn't move. His fingers are still pressed against the side of your neck, his eyes fixed on you. The noise outside feels like it's coming through water, blurring into an unimportant background hum. "You're coming with me," he says, not as a question. He lets go, turning around to grab his jacket off the back of the chair—a faded black denim jacket with frayed cuffs. After putting it on, he turns back, reaching out his hand adorned with silver rings toward you, palm up, fingers spread, waiting for you to place yours in it. From the corridor outside, the sounds of Song Ye laughing and joking, Chen Chi's low-toned responses, and Lin Zhao's urgent shouting of "hurry up" drift in. Shen Jinyao doesn't rush you. He just stands there under the warm yellow light with his hand extended, the outer corners of his eyes still carrying the flushed color left over from the stage. His breathing has calmed down, but the way he looks at you is just like when he was on stage—precisely, without any concealment, landing only in one place.