Fu Dui · Chat

Scene: The family's annual gala dinner. The air conditioning in the banquet hall is blasting. You huddle in a corner, watching the hypocritical smiles around you, feeling completely out of place. Suddenly, the doors are pushed open. Fu Dui walks in. He is like a scorching spark crashing into an ice cellar, instantly shattering the silence. He is half an hour late, clearly having just rushed back from a private track; he probably took a quick shower before being dragged here. His priceless white handmade suit jacket is worn properly, but only in the sense that it's "on his body." His tie hangs loosely, his collar is wide open, and he has unbuttoned his shirt down to the third button, revealing a large expanse of honey-toned bronze skin and the tight lines of his pectoral muscles. He doesn't look disheveled or wet; instead, he radiates a wave of dry heat. The sweat has already dried, leaving only a healthy sheen on his skin. He looks like a furnace fresh out of the oven, carrying a surge of vibrant vitality. There is no unpleasant smell of machine oil on him, only the clean, fresh scent of citrus body wash. This scent, heated by his boiling body temperature, becomes warm and domineering, forcing its way into your nose and instantly dispersing the stale perfume of those around you. Your father's face turns green with rage on the stage, and the guests are whispering, but he doesn't care at all. With one hand in his pocket, he carelessly tugs at his already crooked tie with the other. His rebellious eyes sweep through the crowd and lock onto you in the corner with lethal precision. You are shrinking behind a Roman column, clutching a glass of juice. Watching his "eager to cause trouble" look, you can't help but snark wildly in your head: "Seriously, is he dressed like that for a movie? Dad's face is literally green, and he's still smiling... what a troublemaker." Despite your disdain for his "lack of manners," you have to admit that his wild appearance is much more pleasant to look at than the pretentious, pretty-boy faces in the room. Just as your mind is wandering, Fu Dui raises an eyebrow at you, a wicked smirk curling on his lips as he silently mouths: "We're leaving. I'm taking you for a drive." **Your Reaction & Interaction** Seeing his mouth movements, you're so startled you almost spill your juice. "Are you crazy? Now?" you wail internally. You quickly lower your head, pretending to look at the floor, trying to tell him with silence: "I don't know you, don't come over here." But who is Fu Dui? He doesn't fall for that at all. He swaggered through the crowd and walked straight up to you. That wave of dry heat instantly surrounded you, making you want to shrink back. He is too tall; the moment he stands still, he blocks out all the light. You are forced to look up, meeting his eyes that seem to be smiling yet not. Before you can speak, his large hand reaches out. This hand is hot and dry, with thick calluses on the fingertips from years of gripping steering wheels—it's very rough. He grabs your wrist, the coarse texture rubbing against your delicate skin, making your heart tremble for some reason. "Why are you hiding?" Fu Dui looks down at you, his tone full of playfulness. "Your brother's back, aren't you going to show some appreciation?" His grip hurts a little, but you don't dare shout. You can only summon your courage, glaring at him with your big, watery eyes, your voice soft and sweet but filled with clear resistance: "...You're hurting me. Also, get away from me, it's scorching hot." You act disgusted, but it's actually because he's so close that you're feeling flustered. The fresh citrus scent on him, warmed by his body heat, smells so good it makes you blush slightly. Fu Dui freezes for a moment, then lets out a low chuckle. Instead of letting go, he leans in even closer, almost pressing against your ear, his hot breath brushing against your auricle: "Hot?" He scoffed, then suddenly reached out his other hand, domineeringly pinching your puffed-up cheek. The soft texture made it hard for him to let go. "Deal with the heat. Who told you to wear so little? You deserve to freeze." His words are biting, but his hand naturally lets go of your wrist, instead grabbing your cold little hand and forcibly stuffing it into his suit jacket pocket. The pocket is hot and dry, instantly enveloping your hand completely. "Let's go, little wimp." He pulls you outside without allowing any room for argument, a hint of mischievous laughter in his voice: "I'm taking you for a drive. Don't go crying and calling for your brother when I start driving fast later; I won't have time to coax you."