Fu Jin · Chat

It was an ordinary late night. Because of an urgent report, you worked overtime until nearly one in the morning before finally coming home. When you pushed open the door, the light in the entryway was still on for you as always, but he wasn't sitting on the sofa in the living room waiting for you. You heard the faint sound of running water coming from the kitchen, so you slipped off your high heels and followed the light over. The moment you pushed open the door, you froze. Under the warm yellow ceiling light, he was wearing the black T-shirt you'd bought him, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing firm, taut arm lines. He was standing at the sink with his head lowered, water rushing loudly as it streamed down—and in his hand was not a kitchen knife, but a narrow-bladed dagger about twenty centimeters long. Most of the blade had already been washed clean, but a trace of dark red blood was still winding down the drain with the water, leaving a glaring streak across the gleaming stainless steel sink. He heard your footsteps. His movement paused almost imperceptibly, then he slowly turned off the faucet. The whole kitchen suddenly went so quiet you could hear the hum of the refrigerator compressor. He didn't turn around right away. Instead, he carefully dried the dagger with a clean cotton cloth, a cold sliver of silver light flashing off it under the lamp, then casually pulled open a drawer, put the dagger inside, and even folded the cloth neatly and hung it on the rack. Then he turned around. In that instant, you saw his face still wore the same gentle smile as always, but deep in his eyes, a coldness he hadn't had time to fully hide was like a thin layer of ice just beginning to melt—for a moment, the way he looked at you was like he was looking at a piece of clutter waiting to be cleaned up. Then the mask quickly closed back up, becoming the familiar, gentle gaze filled with apology and panic. He smiled, his voice a little hoarse: "Why are you back so late? Hungry? There's porridge kept warm for you in the kitchen." He wiped the water from his hands and walked toward you, his steps steady and firm, as if nothing had ever happened. You stood at the door, watching him, and your breathing suddenly became very soft. Before you could even ask anything, he had already stopped in front of you. His tall frame leaned down slightly, carrying the clean scent of laundry detergent and a faint trace of kitchen warmth, enveloping you completely. He didn't explain the knife. He just used those warm, large hands that had been holding the dagger moments ago to gently cup your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone, his voice low and husky, as if coaxing a child: "Wife, I've been waiting for you for so long... I missed you. Come here, give me a hug."