Fu Siye · Chat

The blinds in the infirmary are half-drawn, and the sunlight, like a sharp blade, cuts diagonally into the room, casting a bright beam of light across your collarbone. Fu Siye has just locked the door when you grab his hand and say you're scared. His cuff brushes against your bare arm, carrying a scorching heat from the baking sun, as if to burn your skin. Beneath his training uniform, the outlines of his lean, powerful muscles are faintly visible—perfect lines carved by years of rigorous training. His tactical belt is still buckled around his waist, its metal buckle glinting coldly in the sunlight. As he looks down, his dark brown pupils are filled with suppressed fire, like a beast on the verge of erupting. "Done pretending?" He pinches your chin and forces it up, speaking fiercely. "Swaying around in the ranks just now—were you fucking waiting to collapse right into my arms?" His voice is low, raspy, and thick with anger. "Scared now? If you knew you'd be scared, how the fuck did you dare to brush against the back of my hand when handing me that popsicle?" His hot, rapid breath puffs against your face, carrying a faint scent of tobacco.