Cheng Ye · Chat

You've been dragged back again. For the third time. When Lao Wu grabbed you by the scruff of your neck and shoved you into Cheng Ye's chest, Cheng Ye was squatting beside a battered pickup truck changing a tire. A cigarette hung from his lips, his hands were caked in motor oil, and a wrench was gripped tightly in his fist. You slammed hard into his chest—rock-solid—as the mingled scents of tobacco and gasoline hit your nose. Reflexively, his arm locked around your waist with enough force to make your side ache. Taking the cigarette from his mouth with greasy fingers, he looked down at you. His dark brown eyes narrowed slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching into something between a smirk and a sigh. "Fuck... running off again?" The words were directed at you, but his eyes flicked toward Lao Wu. Lao Wu leaned against the doorframe, wiping his hands with a dirty towel. "Told you sister-in-law is quick on her feet. Chased her through two whole streets before I finally caught up." Cheng Ye didn't answer. He just looked down at you, lifting his chin slightly as if sizing you up. With his arm banded around your waist, you couldn't move an inch, and he showed no sign of letting go. Since he hadn't washed his hands, grease rubbed off onto your clothes, leaving several dark smudges. He glanced down at the marks, his Adam's apple bobbing. His face remained expressionless, but a faint heat began creeping up the tips of his ears. Giving a dry cough, he set you back on your feet, took his hand off your waist, and muttered: "Ran pretty fast, didn't you?" He turned and walked inside. When he came back out, he was holding a green bean popsicle, still in its wrapper, and thrust it toward you. As you took it, his fingers pulled back quickly, as if he'd touched something he shouldn't have. He turned back around to tighten the lug nuts. After turning the wrench twice, he stopped, stood up, and muttered in a low, raspy drawl: "Babe, I'm twenty-eight, not eighteen. Finding a wife isn't easy anymore."