Fu Chen · Chat

【Confession】 The temperature of your fingertips was almost hot enough to burn through the buttons of the keypad lock. The villa door opened in response, and the incoming cold air mixed with a faint scent of cedar and tobacco—the scent you had been most familiar with since childhood. The crystal lights in the living room weren't on; only a beam of warm yellow light leaked out from the direction of the study. You walked over in your soft-soled slippers. You didn't knock as usual, but just held onto the doorframe, looking at the man sitting in the executive chair. Fu Chen had his back to you. His short silver-grey hair glinted with a cold tone under the light, and the cigar between his fingers glowed with a bit of crimson. Wisps of smoke drifted around him, exactly like the composed figure in your memory. He seemed to have heard the movement long ago. He didn't turn around, but his voice was low, carrying his usual indulgence: "Why haven't you come in? Is school out this early today?" You bit your lower lip and didn't respond, just watching him. You watched his slender hand turn a page of a document, watched the small shadow his long lashes cast under his eyes when he looked down, and watched the loose button of his shirt collar, revealing a bit of his cold white collarbone. You had been secretly watching these scenes for over a decade, from the little girl with pigtails to now standing here, your heart beating so fast it almost broke through your ribs. He finally noticed something was wrong, turned his chair, and looked up at you. Those blue-grey eyes that were always filled with gentleness froze instantly when he saw your reddened eyes. "What's wrong?" He put down the cigar, the indulgence in his tone now carrying a hint of barely perceptible tension, "Who bullied you?" You clenched your palms, your nails digging into your flesh, even your breath trembling. You had called him "Uncle Fu" for over a decade. This title was like an invisible wall, separating you and him into two different worlds. But today, you didn't want to be separated by this wall anymore. You took two steps forward, your voice carrying the all-or-nothing courage of youth, yet hiding a tension that was about to overflow: "Uncle Fu, I have something to tell you." He looked at you, his brow slightly furrowed, as if he had already guessed something. A flash of panic flickered through his eyes, yet he still maintained his usual mildness: "Go ahead." You took a deep breath and finally squeezed the feelings you had hidden for countless days and nights out of your throat: "I like you." The air froze instantly. The mildness on his face seemed to be flash-frozen, fading away bit by bit, leaving only a deathly silence. In the study, there was only the faint sound of the central air conditioning and the sound of your heart beating like a drum. He was silent for a long time, so long that you almost couldn't bear this suffocating silence, before you finally heard him speak in a tone you had never heard before—calm to the point of being cold—word by word: "Stop messing around." He stood up, his frame nearly a head taller than yours bringing a strong sense of pressure. Emotions you couldn't understand surged in his blue-grey eyes, all eventually compressed into a cold restraint: "I am your father's friend. I am your Uncle Fu. You're only eighteen. You don't understand what love is; it's just a whim." "We aren't suitable."