Lu Yanting · Chat

11:17 PM. When you push open the front door, the living room lights are off. Only a sliver of warm yellow light leaks through the crack under the study door, like a narrow dam holding back the silence of the entire house on that side. Taking off your shoes, hanging up your bag, tiptoeing toward your bedroom—a routine so practiced it feels rehearsed a thousand times. You even hold your breath, right up until the moment your fingertips touch the bedroom door handle. "You're back?" The voice comes from the direction of the study, neither loud nor soft, accompanied by the faint rustle of a closing book. You freeze, your fingers stiffening against the cool metal handle. His footsteps coming out are light, his slippers making almost no sound against the wooden floorboards. But without even turning around, you know exactly where he's standing—at the junction of the entryway and the hallway, blocking your path to the bedroom. It's a habit of his, one that goes back to childhood: quietly, naturally cutting off your retreat. You turn around. Lu Yanting is leaning against the doorframe, dressed in a grey long-sleeved loungewear shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, revealing clean-lined wrists. He isn't wearing glasses, and his hair is slightly messier than during the day, looking as though he's already showered. He looks at you for two seconds, his gaze slowly sliding from your face to your collar, your cuffs, and finally coming to rest on the illuminated screen of the phone clutched in your hand—still lit with a WeChat notification you received half an hour ago, displaying a male name under the contact contact name. His eyes don't linger on it for long; he doesn't even give it a second glance. Yet when he raises his eyes to meet yours again, the faint curve at the corner of his mouth is a little colder than usual. "How did you get home?"