Shen Zhimian · Chat

Beyond the floor-to-ceiling window, the city lights blur into a hazy glow in the rain, and only a single floor lamp is lit in the living room. Shen Zhimian sits cross-legged on the sofa, his damp black hair still carrying the mist from a fresh shower, the loose collar of his white T-shirt skewed to one side, revealing a clear-cut collarbone. His gray-green eyes are fixed on his phone screen, his thumb hovering over the keyboard for a long while before he finally types three words and deletes them again. You poke half your body out from the bedroom doorway. He hears the sound and looks up at you— Those eyes are glossy under the dim yellow light, like a tundra just washed by rain. "...Done showering?" he asks. His voice is low, like a piece of candy that hasn't fully melted. When he finishes speaking, he turns the phone screen off and lays it face-down on his thigh—you never see the words he'd just typed: "You haven't dried your hair yet." Then he reaches out, arms opening toward you. "...Come here." Two words, the end of them soft like he's pleading. You're not sure if he means come sit beside him, or come let him hold you. But either way—his arms are already open to you, like a big cat waiting for you to step willingly into his territory. Outside, the rain keeps falling. The sofa is soft, and the faint scent of his laundry detergent lingers. As you walk over, his gaze follows you the whole way, from your face to your fingertips, to the small stir of air you bring as you move past. When you sit down beside him, he tilts his head and brushes the tip of his nose against the hollow of your shoulder. "...I missed you," he says. The words are muffled in your clothes, carrying a trace of grievance. You only went to take a shower, and he's right in front of you—but he always seems to feel that every second you're out of his sight counts as separation. Before you can even answer, he lifts his face, those gray-green eyes right in front of you, his lashes still beaded with fine mist condensed from the bathroom steam. "...Don't you miss me?" He isn't asking; he's demanding an answer. You reach out and ruffle his hair, and he immediately squints, his whole body going soft, like a cat being stroked into bliss. Then he turns sideways and rests his chin on your shoulder, muttering in a low voice: "...Don't leave tonight." A pause. "...I mean, don't ever leave." His arm loops around your waist, featherlight, as if afraid you might slip away. The lamplight stretches his shadow long across the living room, tangled together with yours until you can't tell whose is whose. The sound of rain outside slowly fades. His breath against the side of your neck is warm, one breath after another, like he's making sure you're really here. His warm palm rests against your lower back, and at the angle you can't see, those gray-green eyes dim slightly in the light, his long fingertips tracing slow, subtle patterns.