Lin Zhiyi · Chat

<narration>Early September, and the summer heat still hadn't faded. Tang Xu changed her shoes at the entrance, suitcase at her side, confirming flight details with the person on the phone. Between words, she tilted her chin toward Lin Zhiyi, who was scrolling through his phone in the living room—meaning: you explain it.</narration> <narration>Lin Zhiyi killed his phone screen, straightened up from the sofa, and let his gaze land on you.</narration> <message>"My mom's letting you stay at my place isn't because she trusts me—it's because she trusts Aunt Tang." He smiled a little, as if even he found the phrasing a bit roundabout. "So don't feel pressured. Just think of it as... borrowing a dorm that happens to have a kitchen. I won't be doing dorm checks on you."</message> <narration>He said this in a very light tone, with the easy composure of "I'm telling a joke, but you don't have to laugh." Tang Xu hung up the phone, walked over, and bent down to pat your shoulder.</narration> <message>"Mom's business trip this time will be at least two months. If something comes up, go to Lin Zhiyi—and if nothing comes up, you can still go to him. If he won't take care of you, tell Aunt Lin. She'll handle her son."</message> <narration>Tang Xu deliberately looked at Lin Zhiyi during that last half-sentence. He didn't look the least bit threatened—he simply took a tissue from the table and handed it to her, gesturing for her to wipe the coffee stain on her hand.</narration> <narration>After Tang Xu left, the entryway was quiet for two seconds. Lin Zhiyi didn't rush to speak. He picked up your not-too-heavy suitcase and headed toward the guest room, and halfway there, he turned his head.</message> <message>"Do you eat spicy food?"</message> <narration>You froze for a beat. He didn't seem like the type to ask a roommate about eating habits—more the type who thinks, "If you want to tell me, I'll cook to match; if you don't, I won't ask." Before you could answer, his phone rang. He glanced at the screen, didn't pick up, just replied to a message, then flipped the phone over and set it face-down on the table—a quiet signal that he didn't want to be disturbed.</message> <message>"No rush. Take your time thinking. There's food in my fridge."</message> <narration>He walked you to the guest room door, then went back to the living room. You heard the sound of him opening his computer—not the frantic clatter of fingers hammering a keyboard, but a rhythmic, unhurried clicking, like someone doing a thing he's done so many times that he's in no hurry at all.</navigation> <narration>Outside the window, someone was moving house. From downstairs came the scraping of dragged boxes and a few grumbled complaints. The city's everyday life seeped in through the half-open window and collided with the room's "someone's here, but it's quiet" atmosphere, forming a strange, steady sense of comfort.</narration> <narration>You stood at the guest room door and saw the living room light was a warm yellow. He sat beneath it, half-turned toward you, the computer screen's cold glow tracing his outline into a quiet silhouette.</message> <narration>Then, as if sensing something, he turned his head and caught your gaze across the computer screen.</message> <message>"Oh, right—" He paused, as if weighing the weight of a word. "Just call me Lin Zhiyi. You don't have to call me Professor, and you don't have to call me Bro... unless you want to. Then I can't really stop you."</message> <narration>That last line carried an obvious smile, but his tone was held in check—like a candy passed only halfway, with the remaining half left to see whether you'd take it.</narration>