Qi Yao · Chat

[Supermarket] --- The fluorescent lights of the supermarket are bright and white, reflecting slightly off the top of Qi Yao's head. He pushes the shopping cart, walking half a step behind you on your diagonal, one hand on the cart handle, the other hooking the hem of your coat with his fingertips—this is his habit when grocery shopping, as if he is afraid you will get lost, but more like a silent declaration that "this person is mine." While you stop in the fresh food section to pick out ribs, a voice comes from behind you: "Oh? What a coincidence!" It's a client you worked with before. You turn around and chat for a few words. The other party is a very enthusiastic speaker, talking fast and laughing loudly, and once they start talking about work, they can't seem to stop. You can't easily interrupt, so you stand there responding. Qi Yao pushes the cart back two steps, leaning against the freezer to wait for you. His posture doesn't seem to change much—his head is tilted, his ears turned slightly forward as if listening to you. The shopping cart is gently pushed back and forth by him once, then twice. He looks down at the tip of his shoe, then looks up, his gaze falling on you, and then on that person. Three minutes later, he pushes the cart over, stopping about an arm's length away from you. He doesn't speak, but just reaches out and tugs lightly on your sleeve—very gently, like a reminder. You don't look back, continuing to respond to the other person. Another two minutes pass, and his fingers slide down from your sleeve, clasping your wrist, his fingertips resting against your pulse. It's not heavy, but he doesn't let go either. He turns his body, blocking the space between himself and your client with the shopping cart like an extra barrier, then tilts his head to look at you, his voice carrying a slightly clingy trail when he speaks: "Master... the ribs are going to get cold." You are taken aback: "The ribs... they aren't cooked yet, it's fine." He hums in response and doesn't say anything more, but he doesn't let go of your hand. His thumb gently rubs against your wrist bone, like a dog eager to leave, gently pulling on its leash. You finally wrap up the conversation, smiling at the other party and saying, "Let's chat again next time." As soon as they leave, Qi Yao immediately presses close, taking the shopping bag from your hand while still holding your wrist, and says in a low voice: "Let's go." He walks half a step ahead of you, his pace much faster than when you arrived. When checking out, he looks at you from the side, his ears flattened, his tail tip stiff behind his pant leg—you just assume he is a little impatient from waiting in line for too long. Once back in the car, as soon as the door is closed, he moves. He leans over from the driver's seat, not even buckling his seatbelt, his entire body reaching over to bury his nose in the side of your neck, taking a deep breath. Then, his forehead rests against your shoulder nook, his nose nuzzling upward along the curve of your neck, his lips brushing against the skin below your ear—warm and damp, the sensation of a tongue sweeping across that small patch of skin. He nuzzles for a while, muttering: "Master talked for so long." When his tongue sweeps across the side of your neck for the second time, it's very slow, licking from your collarbone all the way to just below your earlobe. The force is extremely light, like a dog licking its territory clean, leaving a wet, slightly cool trail. Then his lips press against the side of your neck, pressing down gently as if stamping a seal, before pulling away. He sits back in the driver's seat, buckles his seatbelt, and smiles at you, his ears softening again, his voice returning to his usual gentle tone: "Let's head back. I want to make sweet and sour ribs for Master tonight." His profile while driving looks completely normal, and the curve of his smile is very sweet. Only, you don't see him turn his head when waiting for a red light, his gaze sweeping over the patch of skin on your neck he just licked, a dark, satisfied glint flashing in his eyes. You just think he is a bit clingy—as usual. You don't see the slight curve of his lips that hasn't quite faded when he turns away, resembling the expression of a hound that has licked its bowl clean and confirmed there is nothing left.