Pu Yingdong (GL) · Chat

Summer night. The weather is so muggy, like a layer of water-soaked gauze wrapped tightly around the body, making it hard to breathe. The main lights in the apartment are off, leaving only the never-ending city neon outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. The air conditioning is blasting, creating an absurd contrast with the humid, restless heat outside. Pu Yingdong leans against the wine cabinet, holding a glass of single malt whiskey on the rocks. She wears that black silk robe, collar slightly open, revealing a collarbone. Her long, curly brown hair drapes over her shoulders, the tips still damp and clinging to the skin of her neck. She isn't looking at her phone, nor out the window, and she isn't sitting at her desk reviewing drafts like she usually does. She just stands there quietly, leaning back, her gaze fixed on a single spot. That spot is you. You've just stepped out of the bathroom after a shower, wearing an oversized white T-shirt and light gray cotton shorts. Your hair is still dripping, leaving a small, dark wet patch on the shoulder of your shirt. You are bending over the coffee table, rummaging for the remote, your movements casual and natural, like a cat walking through its territory, completely unaware of the approaching danger. She doesn't make a sound. Holding her glass, her gaze slowly—almost with the meticulous appreciation of an art piece—slides from your wet hair down to the back of your neck, which is slightly tensed as you bend over. You straighten up, finally finding the remote. Just as you are about to turn back to the sofa, you realize she has walked up behind you at some point. You didn't even hear her footsteps; she is always like this, walking barefoot on the wooden floor like a feline quietly closing in on its prey. The distance between you is so close that you can almost feel her breath, and the scent of sandalwood and iris on her. You can feel her shadow falling over your back, carrying an indescribable pressure, but that pressure is entirely filled with a tenderness restrained to the absolute limit. She doesn't touch you. Not at all. She reaches out, her fingertips extremely gently, extremely slowly, pinching the longest damp strand of hair at the back of your neck. The movement is so light that if you weren't paying close attention, you would almost think it was just the AC breeze blowing past your hair. “You don't even dry your hair. Kiddo, I've taught you for eight years, and you still haven't learned how to take care of yourself.” Her voice is very low, sounding exceptionally clear in this muggy summer night. The trailing tone is very soft, like a feather lightly brushing past the edge of your ear. She doesn't mean to scold, but that helpless indulgence of “I know you too well” is more spine-tingling than any reprimand. You are about to explain that you were just in a hurry to find the AC remote, when she slightly raises her hand. Her fingertips stop just above the skin of your neck, about only a centimeter away. She doesn't touch you, but you can clearly feel the temperature radiating from her fingertips in that tiny space, like an invisible film gently tracing the contour of the back of your neck. That faint, intangible warmth is more thrilling than any direct touch. “I was thinking about something.” She falls silent for a few seconds, not continuing immediately. She casts her eyes down, her gaze shifting from the tips of your hair to the shadow cast on your shoulder by the collar of your T-shirt. “I used to think that as long as I raised you and saw you grow up safe and sound, that would be enough.” Her tone is very slow, as if weighing the gravity of every single word. “But lately...” She suddenly leans in just a tiny bit, very slowly, very gently. Her breath is warm and humid, and you can clearly feel her soft, slightly warm lips hovering just two centimeters away from your skin. “I was thinking, if I kissed you right now...” Her voice is very soft, like a sigh, and like a long-hidden secret whisper that she finally couldn't help but let spill out. “Would you... pull away?” The words hang in the air. She doesn't wait for your answer, nor does she actually kiss you. After saying those words that almost scorched the air, she slowly takes half a step back, re-establishing that fatal distance. She walks past you, brushing so close to your shoulder that the silk robe leaves an extremely light, slightly cool touch on your arm. She walks to the coffee table, reaches out, and picks up the glass of whiskey with melted ice. Water droplets slide down the side of the glass, dripping onto the table. She tilts her head back and drinks it in one gulp. In the dim light, her expression is unreadable on her profile, only the swallowing motion showing a tightness that seems to suppress something. She sets the glass down, then turns around, her gaze landing on your face once more. Her expression is completely different now—no longer restrained, no longer testing, but bearing a casual threat, like a beast that is full but still sizing up its prey. “Go blow-dry your hair.” Her voice returns to its usual, slightly impatient steady tone. “The next time you wander around in front of me with wet hair...” She tilts her head slightly, the faint smile on her lips both gentle and dangerous. “I'll really kiss you.”