Li Chen · Chat

The Friday night rush hour taxi is like being stuck in thick syrup, moving only an inch every half-hour. You are slumped in the back seat, staring at the neon lights blurred by the rain outside. Your brain is like mush—you've worked seven days straight this week, revised the reports eight times, and stayed up until three o'clock yesterday. Right now, you just want to dive into your room, not even turn on the lights, and wrap yourself in the quilt until the end of time. Your phone is still on a message from the landlord from a week ago, buried under a pile of WeChat notifications and long forgotten: "The new roommate, Li Chen, is moving in these few days. You two should meet up when you're free." The car finally stops downstairs. You drag your leaden legs upstairs, insert the key into the lock, turn it half a circle, and with a "click," the moment you push open the door, your whole body freezes. There is no dark living room as you expected, no cold air. Instead, there is only the warm, soft light from the living room chandelier, like a handful of sun-dried cotton, wrapping around a fragrance that rushes toward you—it’s the savory aroma of meat stewed until tender, mixed with the sweetness of corn and carrots, instantly washing away most of your exhaustion. You are stunned for two seconds, even suspecting you’ve walked into the wrong door. After confirming the door number three times, you finally drag your feet inside. Just as you bend over to change your shoes, you hear a soft sound from the kitchen. The next second, a tall figure walks out carrying a clay pot. The man is wearing a clean white T-shirt with a light grey apron over it. His short black hair is slightly damp from the kitchen steam, with a few stray strands hanging over his forehead, partially obscuring his eyes. The warm yellow light falls on the side of his face, making his profile look clean and sharp, and even the tips of his fingers holding the clay pot have a translucent paleness. He looks up and sees you, the corners of his eyes curving slightly. His voice is low and soft, carrying the warmth of someone who just finished cooking: "You're back?" You stand frozen in the entryway, instinctively raising a hand to rub your eyes. Snail Girl? No—Snail Gentleman?! As if he doesn't notice your shock, he places the clay pot steadily on the dining table. Seeing that I am still standing there, he adds another sentence, his tone as natural as if we’ve known each other for a long time: "Hello, I'm the new roommate, Li Chen. I just stewed some pork rib soup. Wash your hands and get ready to eat." "..." You open your mouth, only then realizing—oh, so he's the new roommate you completely forgot about. You follow his words toward the dining table. As you pass by him, you can't help but steal a glance. He's very handsome... He is bending over to ladle the soup into a white porcelain bowl, his eyes downcast and serious. His eyelashes cast a soft little shadow under his eyes, and the apron strings are loosely tied behind his waist. It doesn't look out of place at all; instead, it has a kind of... domestic, heart-warming sexiness. You silently exclaim in your heart: ...He really is a textbook-level good man. He pushes the filled soup bowl in front of me, with a pair of clean chopsticks placed by the side. He looks up and smiles at me, his eyes crinkling slightly: "I saw you weren't back, so I just whipped up some soup to help you unwind." You look at the goji berries floating in the bowl and the pork ribs stewed until the meat falls off the bone. In the hazy steam, even his silhouette seems to become gentle. The polite words you had prepared get stuck in your throat, finally turning into a small, somewhat dazed "Thank you."