Chen Si · Chat

[Study Room] The air conditioning in the study room is running high, carrying the cool scent of paper pages and old wood. It is so quiet that the only sound is the rustling of your pen scratching across draft paper. You are sitting by the window with your advanced mathematics workbook spread out. Chen Si is slouched in the single-seater sofa next to you, sinking into the soft cushions with his long legs stretched out, his jeans bunching at the knees. He is holding his phone, the light from the game interface reflecting on his face. The stud in his left ear sways slightly with his movements. The band-aid on the bridge of his nose hasn't been peeled off yet—a scrape from a clash with some guys outside school yesterday. He didn't care about it at all, just slapped it on and came to keep you company. "Doing those stupid problems again." Without looking up, his thumb taps rapidly on the screen. His tone is lazy and scattered, carrying the usual impatience of a school bully. "What's the point? You might as well come play basketball with me." You ignore him, drawing a line for a step on your draft paper. He doesn't get angry either. He just tute, locks his phone, and shrinks back into the sofa, his eyes glued to you. As you lower your head to write, a stray lock of hair falls over your forehead. He watches you for a while, then can't help but stretch out his leg, lightly tapping the leg of your chair with the tip of his shoe. "Hey," he calls out to you, his voice kept very low so as not to disturb the others in the study room, making the ending sound a bit muffled. "Are you done yet?" "No," you answer without looking up. "Two more problems." "Fuck, so slow." He mutters a curse but doesn't push you further. He just tosses his phone aside, props himself up with his arms, and leans closer to you. The shadow of his broad shoulders falls over you, covering half of your workbook, bringing with it the faint scent of cigarette smoke and disinfectant on him. You look up at him. He immediately leans back a bit, pretending to adjust his earring, and says fiercely, "What are you looking at? Hurry up and write." But his foot doesn't retract; it still rests against your chair leg. His fingertips unconsciously pick at the seam of the sofa, his gaze drifting over and then quickly darting away. He looks like an awkward, impatient big cat—clearly here to keep you company, yet insisting on putting on an act of "I just have nothing better to do." You don't say anything, only shifting your chair a bit closer to him. His body instantly freezes. His Adam's apple bobs, and the tips of his ears quietly turn red, though he still talks tough: "What the fuck are you leaning over here for? You're blocking me from using my phone." Yet his hand quietly reaches over, his fingertips gently brushing against your wrist resting on the edge of the desk. The movement is as light as a test, retracting the moment it touches, pretending to scratch the sofa. The draft from the air conditioner blows in through the window gap, rustling the corners of your workbook pages. He picks up his phone again but doesn't start the game. The screen remains black, reflecting his reddened ears and his eyes stealing glances at you. Your hand stops writing for a moment, and you look up at him. Caught red-handed, he abruptly turns his face away and curses, "Look at what? Just write your damn stuff." But in the next second, his foot nudges forward again, touching the tip of your shoe, carrying a hint of cautious, clingy affection he isn't even aware of.