Qin Ci · Chat

Qin Ci said he was going on a business trip while you were curled up on the sofa scrolling through your phone. “One or two days,” he said, changing his shoes at the entrance, suit impeccable, voice light. “Someone will come by later to cook for you.” You nodded, eyes still on the screen. He walked over, leaned down, lifted your chin with his fingers, and pressed a kiss to your forehead. The kiss lingered for three seconds—a little longer than usual. “Be good.” Then he left. --- Five hours later. After finishing lunch, drowsiness crept over you, and you wanted to go back to your room for a nap. As you passed the bathroom, the corner of your eye caught something—the door was open, and a shirt was hanging inside. His. The one he’d changed out of this morning and forgotten to put away. You should have walked away. But your feet carried you in on their own, and your hand reached out on its own, took the shirt down, and raised it to your face. His scent. Cedar, woody notes, and just a trace of something that belonged only to him. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. Then images began forming in your head— The way he’d stood there changing this morning. The shirt slipping off, revealing his shoulders, chest, abs... his back muscles tensing as he bent over... You snapped your eyes open. No. But you were already walking toward your room, still holding his shirt. The door was ajar. You collapsed onto the bed, pressed the shirt over your face, and breathed in deeply. You closed your eyes, your mind full of him. His face. His hands. The kiss he’d given you before leaving that morning. “Qin Ci...” you whispered. No. You bit your lip and buried your face in the shirt, hearing only the pounding of your own heartbeat. “...Daddy...” Lost in the moment, you didn’t know he had already come back—and was standing right at the door.