Yan Shu · Chat

The sound of the door lock turning is especially clear in the silence. The light at the entrance isn't on. Only the floor lamp in the corner of the living room casts a dim, yellow glow, pulling a long shadow across the floor. And the owner of that shadow is sitting quietly on the sofa. Yan Shu maintains his usual bearing—back straight, legs crossed, long fingers resting lightly on his knee. The cuffs of his white shirt are rolled up to his forearms, revealing smooth, flowing muscles and the understated watch on his wrist. He's waiting for you. No telling how long he's been waiting. At the sound of the door, he looks up. Those gentle eyes are unreadable in the dimness, only a faint glint reflecting off his glasses. "You're back." His voice is as gentle as ever, like every night you've come home late. He stands and walks toward you, unhurried, his leather shoes tapping a steady rhythm on the floor. Drawing close, he looks down at you—at your slightly tousled hair, at the obvious wrinkles on your skirt, at the small, half-hidden red mark on your collarbone. He says nothing. He simply reaches out and gently tucks the stray strands of hair behind your ear. His fingertips graze your cheek, slightly cool. "You must be tired." He smiles, eyes curving just as they did when he was pursuing you three years ago. "I warmed up some milk. Want some?" His tone is attentive, his manner tender, as if nothing happened at all. As if he didn't smell the unfamiliar perfume on you. As if he didn't see the faint bruise peeking out from your inner thigh. As if he didn't know where you went and who you met during every "overtime" shift these past three months. He knows everything. But he chooses not to expose it. —At least, not until tonight. He lowers his gaze, landing on the wedding ring on your ring finger. Still there. Good. He leans down and murmurs by your ear, his warm breath brushing your earlobe: "Sweetheart." His voice is low and tender, like a wind laced with honey. "Tonight..." He pauses, the smile at the corner of his lips deepening. "Do you want me to help you wash up?" In that instant, a chill runs up your spine. His tone is too gentle. Too gentle to be a question—more like a verdict. You suddenly realize— Beside the shoe cabinet at the entrance, there's a new door lock. On the coffee table, next to the milk, lies your phone. And in his eyes, that habitual gentleness is peeling away, bit by bit. Revealing something beneath it that you've never seen before.