Lu Chenyuan · Chat

. The metallic elevator walls reflect two blurry silhouettes. You stare at the flashing red numbers, praying it reaches the first floor quickly. Lu Chenyuan stands behind you to your right, as silent and imposing as a brick wall. Suddenly, the elevator violently jolts. The lights cut out, and the eerie green glow of the emergency light flickers on. The cabin drops a few inches with a jolt, then jams completely—frozen in place. Your heart skips a beat. Your phone has no signal, and pressing the emergency call button only yields a flat busy tone. The entire building is eerily quiet; at this hour, your coworkers have long since left. You hear a very faint scoff from behind you. "What are you scared of?" His voice is low and flat, as if stating something utterly trivial. You turn around and freeze. He's drenched—the collar of his white shirt is damp, his hair is wet, and several dark strands cling to his forehead. Glancing up, you see water indeed dripping from the ceiling of the elevator, likely leaking from a burst pipe on one of the floors above. He looks down, adjusting his clothes at an unhurried pace, as though being trapped in a pitch-black elevator were the most mundane occurrence. Then, he reaches up and tugs at his collar, his fingertips casually unfastening the top two buttons— Drip. Drop. Your gaze helplessly lingers there, your heartbeat pounding almost deafeningly loud in your ears. He suddenly lifts his eyes. Under his prominent brow bone, his gaze appears even deeper and heavier in the dim light, devoid of any glint, black enough to swallow you whole. He looks at you, his eyes slowly trailing down your face to your clenched hem, before gradually drifting back to your eyes. "Seen enough?" His tone is indifferent, yet tinged with a subtle, almost malicious amusement. He takes half a step forward, his damp white shirt nearly brushing against your arm. The scent of cedarwood mingled with moisture envelops you, sending a shiver down the back of your neck. "Until the elevator is fixed," he lowers his gaze, his voice so quiet it seems meant only for you, "you'd better not get too far from me." Though his words sound caring, his expression remains hard and cold, the corner of his lips curling into that familiar, disdainful smirk. But out of the corner of your eye, you notice—his knuckles on the hand that just released his collar are slightly white, as if he is straining with all his might to hold something back. The water overhead keeps dripping, drip, drop. The emergency light casts a faint, ghostly green glow from above. Water droplets continue to patter down, hitting the metallic floor one after another, like a ticking countdown. Before you can recover from what just happened, Lu Chenyuan is already moving. He moves quickly—so fast you don't even have time to step back. His left hand clamps around your wrists and pulls them upward, pinning both of your hands firmly against the metal handrail along the elevator wall. The cold metal seeps into your palms. You instinctively struggle, but he doesn't budge in the slightest. His entire body presses close, trapping you in the corner of the elevator. The front of his soaked shirt is open; a stray, warm droplet falls from him onto the back of your hand. Your back is pressed tight against the freezing elevator wall, leaving you nowhere to retreat. He leans in slightly, his heavy-lidded eyes looking down at you from above. You're so close that you can clearly see the water droplets hanging on his eyelashes and catch the aggressive undertone of cedarwood amplified by the damp air. His breath falls across your forehead, cool and faintly moist. "Why are you dodging?" His voice is soft, hovering between coaxing and an interrogation. You part your lips, your throat dry: "Mr. Lu..." "I'm not letting go," he cuts you off, sharp and decisive. His grip on your wrists tightens slightly, his thumb resting right over your pulse point, as if gauging how frantically your heart is racing. His other hand braces against the elevator wall right beside your ear. Water drips from the tips of his hair, hitting the shoulder of his shirt and blooming into a small dark stain. His gaze sweeps across your face inch by inch, from your trembling eyelashes to your tightly pressed lips, down to the gentle rise and fall of your chest. There is an almost scrutinizing intensity in his eyes, as though he's confirming something. "The elevator is stuck," he says, his tone as casual as a weather report. "The maintenance crew won't be here for at least forty minutes." You can practically feel his body heat radiating through the damp shirt—a dizzying contrast of hot and cold that throws your mind into utter chaos. "These forty minutes..." His lips draw close to your ear, close enough that every word brushes against your earlobe with a warm, humid breath. Your whole body freezes, your heart pounding so hard it threatens to burst from your throat. The water above keeps dripping, but you can no longer hear it.