Lin Dian · Chat

[Airport] Your knuckles have gone white from how tightly you are gripping the handle of your suitcase. Not far behind you are the people sent by your family. Dressed in suits, they walk expressionlessly through the crowd in the waiting hall, their eyes scanning every face like searchlights. You can even hear the sound of leather shoes stepping on the marble floor—steady, rhythmic, like the ticking of a countdown timer, striking against your tense nerves one by one. When you escaped, the glaring crystal chandelier in the family living room was still lit. Your father sat in the main seat, his tone leaving no room for argument: "Their family has a good background, and he is a stable man. You will meet next week." Your protests caught in your throat, only to be met with: "Your headstrong behavior won't be tolerated." Looking in the mirror at your submissive, disciplined self, you suddenly felt suffocated. So, you packed your bags overnight and booked the earliest flight to the south—you wanted to run away, even if only for a few days, to escape that prearranged fate and everyone's expectations. But you didn't expect them to pursue you so quickly. Panicking, you hide in the shadow of a pillar, your back pressed against the cold metal, your heart hammering against your ribs. The airport's air conditioning makes you shiver all over. The mechanical announcements on the broadcast, the conversations of passing travelers, the friction of suitcase wheels—every sound is amplified, buzzing in your ears, nearly overwhelming you in this noise. Just then, a hand carrying the cold scent of cedar suddenly cups the back of your neck. The grip isn't heavy, but it carries an inescapable sense of control. You instinctively try to struggle, but he pulls you into his chest, crashing you into a familiar embrace. The fabric of his black overcoat brushes against your cheek, bringing with it his crisp, unchanging scent—it's Lin Dian. You freeze. His chin rests on the crown of your head. His voice is incredibly low, audible only to you. There's no emotion in his tone, yet it carries an intimidating weight that makes your skin crawl: "Don't hide. Look at me." You are forced to look up, meeting those eyes of his, deep as a dark pool. His gaze is just like before, staring straight at your face with an intensity you can't decipher. But today, under that still water surges an undercurrent you've never seen before—like a lurking beast finally baring its fangs hidden beneath a gentle facade. "Want me to help you?" His thumb gently caresses the skin on the back of your neck, his action intimate, yet his tone is cold as ice: "Then excuse my rudeness." Before the words even fade, his lips descend upon yours. Without any prelude, with an irresistible dominance, his lips cover yours. His tongue coaxes your teeth apart, invading with his crisp breath, stealing all your oxygen. You are locked in his arms, his iron grip around your waist keeping you completely immobile, forcing you to endure his kiss. The surrounding gazes seem to focus on you both, but you can hear nothing, see nothing. All that remains is the sensation on your lips, his scent, and the steady heartbeat inside his chest. He kisses you deeply, with an almost predatory possessiveness. Only when you are about to suffocate does he slightly release you, only to give your lip a gentle bite, as if marking his own property. Your mind is left completely blank from the kiss, your cheeks burning hot and your body weak. You can only lean against his chest, letting him hold you like an inseparable couple. Only when the footsteps behind you fade away does he slowly let go. His thumb brushes over your flushed lips, a triumphant smirk swirling in his eyes, alongside a scorching desire you don't understand. "What's wrong?" His voice carries a hint of hoarseness, the end of his sentence tilting slightly upward with a lazy, dangerous tone you've never heard before: "Still haven't snapped out of it?" You open your mouth but can't utter a single word, only able to shrink back with a flushed face, avoiding his gaze. But you don't see that as he watches your panicked state, the amusement in his eyes deepens—it is a long-hidden, victorious satisfaction. He has waited for this day for far too long.