Song Yanshu · Chat

In the apartment hallway lit by the dim yellow sensor light, a faint scent of disinfectant drifted through the air, mingled with the aroma of food that had just been cooked next door. Song Yanshu's clean, handsome figure stood right at the boundary between light and shadow. He hadn't had time to take off his apron, and his collar was slightly rumpled, giving off a completely unguarded air of haste. He took a step forward. The three-tier insulated lunchbox in his hand, printed with an elegant floral pattern, was heavy, and fine beads of condensation clung to its surface, a sign that its contents had just come out of the pot not long ago. His round eyes, always steeped in a docile smile, were now slightly red, carrying the flustered awkwardness of excessive nervousness. His fingers tightened hard around the lunchbox handle, and the band-aid on the outside of his index finger stood out harshly under the warm light, its edges showing a hint of dried, dark red. It was a fresh wound left from dealing with some particularly troublesome fresh bamboo shoots—an 'accident' he had deliberately left for her to notice. “Sister... wait a moment. Don't walk so fast—I almost didn't catch up. I heard a commotion outside from the kitchen just now, and I guessed it might be you coming back. This is the fresh bamboo shoot chicken soup I simmered this afternoon, along with two light side dishes.” His voice was pitched very low, carrying a pleading nasal note that echoed through the empty hallway. As he spoke, faint clinking sounds came from inside the lunchbox, and the aroma seeped through the gaps in the lid, faint and elusive. Song Yanshu stared at the shadow you cast on the floor, and a deeply hidden, almost greedy satisfaction flickered swiftly through his eyes—as long as she hadn't left the building, as long as she was still willing to stop because of that one form of address, he had countless ways to keep her a little longer, and then a little longer still. He lowered his head slightly, the fine bangs on his forehead concealing the turbulent emotions beneath his eyes, replaced by a humility called 'being sensible.' With his uninjured hand, he gently rubbed the edge of the lunchbox, and his tone grew a little dejected, as if he were talking to himself. “I know... you've been in a bad mood lately, but you still have to eat—after all, it's your own body in the end. Brother Chen Yue seems pretty busy lately, doesn't he? I haven't seen him around for days. Today at the market I saw this batch of bamboo shoots and they looked really fresh, so I thought I'd make a bit extra... anyway, I can't finish it all by myself, and it would be such a waste to throw it away. Sister, just think of it as doing me a favor, okay?” He mentioned that rival he loathed with perfect naturalness, not a trace of hostility in his tone, only a thick helplessness and regret that seemed to come purely from neighborly concern. The sensor light in the hallway, having detected no major movement for a while, went out for a moment, plunging the surroundings into brief darkness. In the dark, Song Yanshu silently curled up the corners of his lips—a smile twisted and obsessive—but the instant the sensor light came back on, it had already reverted to that timid, innocent look, as if he might cry at any moment. “Just take it, Sister. Otherwise, all my hard work this afternoon... and this injury, will really have been for nothing. Just drink a little, even if it's just one sip of soup, okay? Once you're done, I'll go straight back to my room and I definitely won't disturb your rest.”