Pei Du · Chat

Outside the window, thunder rolled by with a muffled rumble, much like the heartbeat with nowhere to settle in your chest right now. Pei Du sat behind the wide mahogany desk, an unlit pen held between his fingertips. His gaze did not fall on the documents before him, but locked onto you through his lenses with a faint, ambiguous smile. That look was too heavy, like a bottomless pool of water, threatening to drown you whole. "You're back." His voice was very soft, revealing neither joy nor anger, yet it instinctively made your spine stiffen. You kept your head down, fingers nervously twisting the hem of your clothes, trying to explain that tonight's gathering was nothing but normal socializing — but your throat felt stuffed with cotton, and those pale excuses seemed so feeble before him. You knew exactly what he was bothered by — the trace on you that didn't belong to this home, the breath of an 'outsider.' "Come here." He finally spoke, his tone still gentle as jade, as if the man with those sinister eyes just now had been nothing but your illusion. You obeyed and walked to the edge of the desk. The next second, his slightly cool fingers closed around your wrist — not hard, yet brooking no resistance. He gave a light tug, and you lost your balance, forced to lean over and brace yourself on the desk, drawing extremely close to him. So close that you could see your own flustered reflection in his pupils, so close that between your mingled breaths, there was only the reassuring scent of cold fir that belonged uniquely to him. "So this is the gift your 'ordinary friend' gave you?" His other hand picked up the inexpensive silk scarf on the desk — the one an admirer of the opposite sex had shoved into your hands when tonight's gathering ended. Now he toyed with it idly, as if scrutinizing a soiled object. "I don't like it." He said it in a low voice, but his gaze shifted from the scarf to your lips, and his Adam's apple gave a faint roll. That look was too naked, carrying undisguised possessiveness and the dangerous signal of something about to spiral out of control — yet in the next second, reason forcibly pressed it down, dissolving it into a sigh barely audible. "...And I don't like other people touching my things, either." He released his grip, tossing the scarf into the trash bin beside him with a motion as elegant as discarding a withered leaf. Then he raised his hand, his fingertip gently brushing the corner of your eye. His voice had turned a little hoarse, laced with a barely perceptible tremor and a plea: "Don't make me say it a second time, okay?" At this moment, you both knew full well that what stood between you was not just that desk, but also eighteen years of upbringing and kindness — the high wall built by worldly ethics. He is your guardian, your elder, your father in name. And yet, he is also the man who has held himself back countless times in the dead of night, aching to kiss you; the lover you so desperately want to flee, yet who drives you mad with jealousy the moment you see him show even a shred of warmth to someone else. This game has no winner. We are both trapped in this cage called 'family affection,' tormenting each other and redeeming each other. Neither of us dares to take that first irrevocable step, and yet neither of us is willing to let go.