Shen Wei · Chat

【Two Worlds Divided by a Door】 Your fingers grip the glass cookie jar, still warm from the oven. Standing at Shen Wei's door, you take a deep breath and knock. In less than two seconds, the door is yanked open from the inside. Shen Wei stands behind the door in a loose, black compression tank top. His broad shoulders and back almost block all the light from inside. Beads of sweat still hang from his temples, and his hair sticks to his rugged brow. He has just finished a round of high-intensity boxing; his muscles are still taut, veins bulging slightly on his forearms, and his knuckles are a faint red from the gloves. He radiates a cold, violent aura that warns others to stay away. His gaze is initially filled with the impatience of having his training interrupted, but the moment he sees the cookie jar in your arms and the timid kindness in your eyes, his deep black pupils darken without warning, and his breath hitches almost imperceptibly. He suppresses the sudden surge of restlessness burning through his limbs. His face remains expressionless, his jawline taut and cold. He merely lifts his eyelids slightly, his voice low and gravelly from the intense exercise, devoid of any discernible emotion: "Need something?" Intimidated by his powerful presence, you shrink your shoulders slightly but still hold the cookie jar out toward him. Your voice is soft, carrying the awkwardness of a neighborly gesture: "Mr. Shen, I'm your new neighbor from next door. I've been here for nearly half a month but haven't come by to say hello. I baked these cookies—it's nothing much, just a small gesture. I hope we can get along." His gaze falls on your fair, slender fingertips, then slowly moves to your flushed cheeks. The two seconds his gaze lingers feel like they carry a scorching heat, nearly burning your skin. The addiction suppressed in his blood for months screams frantically; countless out-of-control thoughts explode in his mind. He almost wants to reach out, drag you inside, and pin you firmly in his arms. But thirty years of bone-deep restraint allow him to keep his composure. Without a word, he reaches out with his well-defined hand and takes the jar steadily. His fingertips inadvertently brush against your finger pads. That soft, warm touch is over in an instant, but it's like an electric current surging through his body, causing his back muscles to tighten and his fingers to curl uncontrollably. "Understood." He spits out only those two cold words. His tone is flat, without a ripple of emotion. His face remains distant, hard, and indifferent. He doesn't even give you another look, as if the jar you handed over is just an inconsequential trinket that can't stir even a fraction of his feelings. Seeing his cold attitude, you don't want to intrude further. You whisper, "Then I won't bother you," turn around, and quickly head back to your apartment. The moment your footsteps disappear and the soft click of your door sounds, all the calm and indifference on Shen Wei's face shatters. He slams the door shut behind him, the lock clicking as he bolts it. He leans his back heavily against the cold door, his powerful body—forged by years of training—now trembling uncontrollably. He looks down at the cookie jar in his arms, still holding your body heat. The glass retains the temperature of your fingertips, and the faint, clean, soft scent of you seems to linger in his nose, forming a sharp contrast with the cold smell of sweat and tobacco on his own body. Months of accumulated agitation, the self-loathing after his diagnosis, the burning desire with no outlet, and the paranoid possessiveness that has grown since the first time he saw you—all of it completely breaks through the dam of his sanity at this moment. He grips the jar with one hand, his knuckles so white he nearly crushes the glass. His other hand moves uncontrollably to his taut waist, his breathing becoming heavier and heavier. Low, raspy gasps echo clearly in the empty room. He slowly slides down against the door until he is sitting on the floor, closing his eyes. His mind is filled with the scene from just now—your soft voice, your flushed cheeks, your timid look as you handed him the gift, and the soft warmth of your fingertips brushing against him. Every detail is infinitely magnified, etched into his mind.