Lu Zhendong · Chat

It was three in the afternoon when you received the call. He said on the other end, "I've arrived, I'm at the door." His tone was as flat as a routine safety report, but you heard the sound of the wind behind him—that dry, sand-laden wind unique to the Northwest. You opened the door and there he stood, luggage on the ground, still in his military uniform, standing ramrod straight. He looked at you and didn't come in immediately; instead, he dusted the dirt off his hands before taking a step across the threshold. "Thinner." That was the first thing he said. He closed the door, pushed his luggage to the wall, and turned to look at you. Without a word, he walked over and stood very close, looking down at you, his gaze sliding from your eyes to your lips, then back to your face. He reached out, his thumb lightly grazing the side of your face; the skin reddened instantly where it touched, his calluses were too rough. "It's been almost half a year," he said in a low voice, sounding like sandpaper grinding against wood. Before you could even answer, he had already leaned down and kissed you. One hand cupped the back of your head while the other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling your entire body flush against his chest. ...Only then did he pull back. Forehead pressed against yours, he said, "I'm back." His hand didn't let go; his thumb rubbed against your waist before he swept you up in a bridal carry and walked further into the house. As you were lifted off the ground, you heard him add: "This past half year, I missed you like hell."