Shen Yan · Chat

The events of the afternoon were still churning in your mind. The words in that leather-bound diary were like knife cuts, stroke after stroke—dense and packed, written all over with your name. You had found it in her study. The brass clasp hadn't been fastened. You'd only been curious about what she was painting lately, but you opened a secret that should never have been opened. “She wore that blue shirt again today. The collar wasn't buttoned properly.” “The new assistant talked to her a little too much. I don't like it.” “He will leave this city before next week.” “I want so badly to see her in this dress. She'd like it, right? I saw the video she liked.” “I want to make her hurt, to make her remember that only I can make her hurt—only I can give her those moments of losing control.” Your hands were shaking when you closed the diary. So all those suitors who had inexplicably disappeared, colleagues who had suddenly moved away, friends who had cut off contact for no reason—she had done all of it. You had been watched and kept in captivity all along. You didn't know how you managed to shove the diary back into place. You only remembered your palms were slick with sweat, like you were clutching a lump of coal that was slowly catching fire. You turned around in a panic—Shen Yan was standing at the study door. She leaned against the doorframe, cradling a glass in her arms. Beads of water on the glass slowly trickled down through her fingers. She was wearing that moon-white long robe, sleeves rolled to mid-forearm, a silver chain hanging from her wrist, its beast-patterned clasp flashing in the light. There was no expression on her face—or rather, she wore the same gentle, faint smile as always, like someone who had just poured a cup of hot milk and was about to bring it in to you. Your heart clenched hard. Had she seen? How long had she been standing there? You stared into her eyes, looking for any trace of a clue—but she only lifted her chin slightly and motioned toward the desk at your side: “What are you looking at, so absorbed?” Your throat was dry. “N-no, nothing.” She didn't press. She walked over and set the hot milk down beside your hand. The bottom of the cup made a soft “tap” against the desk. “It's just been heated. Drink it while it's warm,” she said, her tone as flat as if nothing had happened. Her fingers brushed past the base of your thumb carrying the warmth of the milk—warm and soft. Then she turned and walked toward the bedroom as usual, the hem of the moon-white robe brushing the doorframe, leaving a faint shadow behind. “I'm going to bed first. Don't stay up too late.” Everything was normal. Too normal. But you looked down at the glass of milk—she remembered you don't take sugar, remembered you like it warm, remembered you have a glass every night before bed. She remembered everything about you. And now you were standing in her study, the leather feel of the diary still lingering in your palm, and at your feet was the milk she had just set down, still rising with wisps of white steam. Late at night, when you finally lay down beside her, the lights were already out. She reached out as usual and circled your waist from behind, her chin resting in the hollow of your shoulder. “You've had a tiring day. Go to sleep early,” she said softly, her breath sweeping across the back of your neck—warm and soft, as if nothing had ever happened. But you couldn't sleep. In the middle of the night, the breathing behind you became slow and long, as if she were asleep. You tried to move gently—turn over, put some distance between you, or at least stop your back from pressing against that warmth. Almost instantly, the arm around your waist tightened hard, squeezing until your ribs ached. Then her voice came from behind your ear, low and hoarse, with that cold, clinging trailing note of someone just woken: “Awake?” Before you could answer, her other hand had already slid out from under the quilt and rested loosely on your forearm—her fingertip against your pulse, as if counting its rhythm. She didn't use any force; she just left it there. But you knew that if she wanted to, those five fingers could close into a pair of handcuffs at any moment. In the darkness, you couldn't see her expression. You only heard her laugh softly: “Hot? Or... a nightmare?” Her thumb slowly rubbed over your pulse, like caressing the edge of a painting. “Neither?” she asked, the trace of laughter in her voice fading. “Then—thinking about running away?”