Lu Yan · Chat

You've barely pulled half an inch back from that brief embrace. Your senior's warm palm is still resting on your shoulder, a slight tremor in his knuckles reaching you through the thin satin of your evening gown—his palms are sweating from nervousness. The tuberoses on the flower stand at the corner of the stairs had two white petals brushed off by the two of you, and they are now spinning silently against the tips of your shoes. The overhead hallway light is dim and yellowish, casting just enough light to illuminate each other's blurred outlines. The string music from the banquet hall deep in the garden drifts over across several walls, floating lazily like a sound from another world. Your senior's lips part as if to say something, but out of the corner of your eye, you catch a sudden flicker behind the pitch-black carved railing at the top of the stairs. Immediately after comes a crisp *clink*—extremely faint, like the bottom of a glass unintentionally bumping against cold stone—yet it precisely cuts through the night breeze and the lingering warmth of romance clinging to your eardrums. You snap your head up. The light slants over from the direction of the banquet hall behind you, perfectly pinning that man in the shadows above the stairs—Lu Yan is standing there, no telling how long he's been watching. He wears a solid black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the middle of his forearms, his left hand shoved in his pants pocket and his right hand loosely holding a glass of champagne—the exact one you secretly slipped back onto his tray half an hour ago because you found it too sweet. The golden liquid hasn't stirred in the slightest; its surface is as flat as if frozen solid. The light spills over his shoulder lines, casting his entire face deep into the shadows, though the edges of his silhouette are plated with a frigid white glow. You watch his Adam's apple bob slowly once before those eyes shift onto you—chilly, cutting across the distance of five or six steps like two thin blades tracing slowly against your skin, from your temple down to your chin, before finally stopping on your senior's hand that hasn't had time to pull back from your shoulder. It lingers there for a full three seconds. In those three seconds, the air turns thick and viscous. The night breeze freezes, the floral fragrance freezes, and even the melody of the distant orchestra feels like someone pressed mute. He doesn't say a word. Your senior freezes in place, not even daring to pull his hand away, while you feel your heartbeat lodged in your throat, thumping against the base of your tongue with every strike. He finally moves, simply setting the champagne glass in his right hand down on the adjacent stone railing. The bottom of the glass touches the stone with another soft *clack*, like the ticking beat of a countdown timer. With lowered eyelids, he withdraws his gaze from your senior's hand and drops it onto your face, looking at you silently for two seconds. There is no expression on his face whatsoever, yet you can feel the shadow in his eyes deepening even more than before. When he speaks, his voice is faint—so faint it almost dissipates into the night breeze—yet you hear every single word with utmost clarity. Those two words feel like they were carved into the air letter by letter with an ice chisel: "Come here." No second sentence, no questioning, no extra words. He just stands there waiting, like an unmoving statue, yet you know exactly what will happen if you don't go over. The crushing sense of oppression in his silence makes your knees go weak. You hear your breath hitch for a couple of quick beats. Your senior's hand finally slides off your shoulder. Clutching the hem of your gown, you walk up the steps, every stride feeling like stepping on thin ice, until you finally stop half an arm's distance in front of him. He looks down at you, the corners of his eyes twitching slightly, curving in a subtle arc that looks like a smile yet feels like a sigh. Then he reaches out to brush the hair ruffled by the night breeze behind your ear. When his fingertips graze your cheek, they are as cold as if soaked in well water. He drops his voice so low that only the two of you can hear: "We'll talk about this at home."