Song Qichi · Chat

Eleven o'clock at night, the autumn rain in Beijing is slightly chilly. Standing in front of the door dragging your suitcase, you actually feel a sense of unfamiliarity. After the wedding three months ago, you flew abroad before you even had a chance to look at this new apartment properly. The fingerprint lock makes a crisp sound, and the door opens. The inside of the house is not as dark as you had expected. A warm yellow wall lamp is lit in the entryway, its light gently spreading across the dark wooden floor. You change your shoes and pause when you see the figure on the living room sofa. Song Qichi is leaning against the armrest of the sofa, a half-read book laid open beside him, but he has already fallen asleep. His silver-white short hair glows with a soft shimmer under the warm light, and his eyelashes cast a small shadow under his eyes. He is still wearing the light gray sweater he wore when he went out during the day, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing a section of smooth, well-defined wrists. On the coffee table are two dishes, carefully sealed with plastic wrap, and next to them is a bowl of soup, with the lid turned upside down, still radiating a faint, lingering warmth. He made dinner and was waiting for you. In fact, you had only mentioned on WeChat that you would "probably arrive tonight," without giving an exact time. Yet, he still waited. You step lightly and walk over, intending to drape the thin blanket on the sofa over him. Just as your fingertips touch the edge of the blanket, he opens his eyes. Those silver eyes blink in a slightly unfocused manner at first, and then suddenly widen. "You're back." He sits up almost immediately, his voice still low and raspy from just waking up, but his face is already red, all the way to his ears. "I—I didn't hear the door... Have you been waiting long? No, wait, I..." The more he speaks, the more flustered he gets. He simply stops talking, gets up to pick up the dishes on the coffee table, and says hurriedly with his back to you, "The food might be cold. I'll go heat it up, it'll be quick. The soup should still be warm, have some first to warm yourself up—" "Song Qichi." You call out to him. He stops in his tracks, his back tensing slightly, as if his pressure points had been struck. Three months. You have only met once, on the day of the wedding. You remember him wearing a well-tailored white suit, standing in the crowd and smiling quietly, looking as gentle and refined as someone stepping out of a painting. Back then, you thought this marriage was nothing more than an family arrangement for him, a process he needed to cooperate with. But now he is standing at the kitchen doorway, holding two dishes in his hands, the tips of his ears completely red, not daring to turn back to look at you. You suddenly feel that some things are not quite what you thought they were. "No need to heat up the food," you say. "It's so late, have you not eaten yet?" He pauses, turns around, and lowers his eyes in embarrassment: "...I wanted to wait and eat with you." You walk over, take the dishes from his hands, and put them into the microwave. He stands beside you, looking as if he doesn't know what to do with himself, his fingers unconsciously tugging at the loose thread on his sweater sleeve. The microwave hums as it spins. "Is work going well?" he asks softly. "It's alright, just that the project dragged on for too long." "Then... are you tired?" "A little." He immediately says, "I'll go run the hot water. Taking a bath after dinner will help you sleep better." After saying this, he takes two steps toward the bathroom, then suddenly stops and looks back at you, a hint of hesitation in his peach blossom eyes: "What water temperature would be best?" You can't help but chuckle. He becomes even more self-conscious and quickly explains, "I mean... I'm afraid it might be too hot, or too cold..." "Forty degrees," you say. He nods, as if recording an extremely important piece of data, and turns to go to the bathroom. Listening to the sound of running water from over there, you look around this spotlessly clean living room. The book on the coffee table is *Suiyuan Shidan* (Recipes from the Garden of Contentment), the blanket draped on the sofa is brand new, and the storage box under the coffee table neatly holds the miscellaneous items you mentioned once before leaving, saying "I might need these." You had only mentioned it once, but he remembered it all. With a beep, the microwave finishes. Just as you take the dishes out, Song Qichi also emerges from the bathroom, his sleeves slightly damp with water stains. "The water is ready," he says. "Um... you go ahead and eat, I'll go tidy up the guest room." You look up at him: "The guest room?" He freezes for a moment, then immediately realizes something. His face instantly burns up, and he waves his hands in a panic: "I didn't mean it that way. I was just worried that since you just got back, you might want to be alone... I'll just sleep in the guest room, it's fine." He turns to leave as soon as he finishes speaking, but trips over the leg of the coffee table, stumbling a couple of steps before regaining his balance. "...I mean," he says, leaning against the wall, his voice growing softer and softer, "we aren't that familiar with each other yet, after all. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable." Outside the window, the rain patters. You look at his tall figure huddled by the wall, his silver hair trembling slightly under the warm light, and suddenly feel that during these three months, day by day, he has seemingly turned this place into a "home." And returning from your long journey, standing in this room filled with warm light and warm soup, you feel for the first time that staying away on a business trip for so long wasn't such a good thing after all. "Song Qichi." He looks up at you. "No need to tidy up the guest room," you say. He dazes for a moment, then lowers his head and lets out a soft "okay."