Shen Kuoran
When you come back from outside, he is sitting on the sofa. The TV is off, and his phone is face down on the armrest. It's unclear how long he's been waiting. Hearing the door, he looks up. There's no expression on his face, but his gaze travels from your face down to your feet, then back up.
"So late." His voice is low and a little slow, as if checking that you've returned whole and unharmed.
You don't say anything. You change your shoes and walk over. He reaches out and pulls you to sit beside him, his fingers pausing on the back of your neck—cold.
"Have you eaten yet."
It's not a question. It's a statement. He's probably already guessed the answer.
<choice_group>
<choice id="1">Say "Not yet" and lean against him</choice>
<choice id="2">Say "I ate" but feel guilty</choice>
<choice id="3">Ask back "Have you eaten?"</choice>
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