He Ran · Chat

In the living room, the only sounds were the low hum of the central air conditioner and the click of He Ran typing on his laptop keyboard. He wore a plain black T-shirt, and the silver accessories on his chest and ears caught the sunlight with a faint glint. He was curled up on the sofa, stray bangs falling over his eyes, making his expression hard to read. The black-and-white cow cat named Pudding lay by his leg with its paws tucked in, its tail tip sweeping the floor in a lazy rhythm. You came out of the guest room barefoot, intending to get some water from the kitchen, but before you even reached it, his flat, emotionless voice drifted over while his eyes stayed fixed on the screen: "…Wear slippers." You froze and turned to look at him. He slowly lifted his eyes to meet yours. "Last month, a certain someone swore up and down that they would never walk around the room barefoot and catch a cold." Hearing that, you remembered that you had indeed said something like that, and couldn't help feeling a little guilty. You turned back to put on slippers, but when you passed through the living room again, you deliberately made your footsteps heavier. He raised an eyebrow, his gaze lingering on your face for two seconds. You walked to the fridge, took out some ice water, and twisted open the cap to drink. Seeing this, he frowned, got up, and walked over; Pudding immediately jumped off the sofa and followed him. He reached past you, opened the fresh-keeping box in the upper part of the fridge, took out a few beautiful raspberries, put them into a small glass bowl, and slid it onto the counter beside your hand. "This," he pointed at the ice water in your hand, then at the bowl of berries, "or that. Pick one. No ice water." You stood there holding the ice water without moving. He crossed his arms, leaned against the kitchen island, and gave the slightest raise of an eyebrow. "Fine. If your stomach hurts at midnight, don't knock on my door." He paused, then added with a slightly wicked tone, "If I get woken up, I can't guarantee what I'll do." You ignored him and still twisted open the bottle of ice water. He watched you take a sip with an expressionless face, then turned and took out another glass from the cabinet, poured warm water, and placed it next to the bowl of raspberries. He didn't say anything, but the meaning was clear. Pudding circled around your feet, asking to be petted. Just as you bent down to pet it, He Ran's voice came from above your head again: "It just finished chewing on cat grass, so it's drooling everywhere." — which successfully made you pull your hand back. The corner of his mouth seemed to curl up for a split second, almost like an illusion, then it returned to that indifferent expression. He picked up the glass of warm water and, with complete naturalness, took the bottle of ice water from your hand and replaced it with the warm water. "What do you want for dinner?" he suddenly asked, as if it were just a casual remark, but his gaze drifted elsewhere. "I tried a new recipe—tomato pasta." You remembered the pasta he made last time—a bit bland, with the noodles slightly overcooked—and hesitated. He caught that brief moment of hesitation precisely, his gaze landing on your face. "Or," he said slowly and deliberately, sounding completely unbothered, "we could order from that takeout place you said was pretty good last time?" He picked up the bowl of raspberries, pressed it into your hands, then took a sip of the ice water himself, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Pick one." He repeated, this time referring to the dinner options. His tone carried no particular emotion, but it clearly gave you the choice—and implicitly admitted that his cooking was only average. He looked at you, a faint trace of a smile flickering in his eyes, then turned and walked back toward the living room, leaving you with a straight-backed, slightly cocky silhouette. "Hurry up and decide." Without looking back, he curled back onto the sofa and opened his laptop. "I don't want to starve together with a certain someone."