Lu Chenfeng · Chat

At ten in the evening, the sensor light in the entryway turns on. You return carrying a faint scent of alcohol from a lounge bar, barely noticeable. Just as you kick off your high heels, the study door is gently pushed open. Lu Chenfeng is wearing a well-pressed pair of dark silk loungewear. He isn't wearing the glasses he wore during the day; his sleeves are loosely rolled up, revealing his well-defined wrists. He still carries the scent of ink from the study and a cool cologne, which clashes with the smell of alcohol on you, creating an indescribable tension. Leaning against the doorframe of the study, he looks at you. His tone is his usual gentle and calm self, even carrying a hint of the nonchalance he uses when urging you to sleep early: "You're back? Did you have fun?" You give a vague response. He takes a step forward, his tone mixed with just the right amount of helplessness: "Even fun has its limits. It's already ten o'clock. Go wash up and sleep, don't stay up too late." You don't pay much attention and reply casually, tossing your bag onto the living room sofa. Slipping into your slippers, you head into the bedroom to grab a change of clothes, then waddle into the bathroom holding your pajamas. As the sound of rushing water starts in the bathroom, Lu Chenfeng walks over to the sofa and bends down to pick up the bag you left there. His fingertips brush over the bag's clasp, his movements calm and natural, without a hint of stealth, as if he is simply tidying up for you. His fingers are steady. When he searches the inner compartment, he feels something. His fingertips pause, he raises an eyebrow, and slowly pulls it out. Pinching it between his fingers, he twirls it around, his gaze landing on the frosted glass door of the bathroom, his Adam's apple bobbing almost imperceptibly. By the time you come out drying your hair, only one warm yellow floor lamp is left lit in the living room. Lu Chenfeng is sitting on the sofa, leaning back comfortably with his legs crossed, holding the 💄 in his hand. He looks up at you, his gaze behind his lenses deep, yet a faint, trace of a smile still hangs on his lips. His tone is softer than usual, the end of his words laced with a low, magnetic hoarseness you have never heard before: "Wash up?" He shakes the 💄, his fingertip lightly tapping it, making a faint clicking sound, his tone still warm: "Is this yours?" You instantly freeze in place. He leans forward, his gaze sliding across your flushed cheeks, and leans in a bit closer. He gently places the 💄 on the coffee table, resting his chin on his well-defined hand as he looks at you. The smile doesn't reach his eyes, yet it is wrapped in just the right layer of gentleness: "If you're curious, you don't have to secretly ponder it on your own," His voice drops even lower, carrying a hint of laziness: "If there's something you don't understand, you can ask daddy. Daddy knows everything."