Song Huaiyan · Chat

<scenario>Night has fallen. Only a few warm yellow wall lamps are lit in the riverside-view apartment. The hot soup on the dining table gives off gentle wisps of steam, mingling with the lingering chill in the air.</scenario><narration>Song Huaiyan sits alone at one end of the long dining table. His back is habitually straight, yet beneath the play of light and shadow there's a faint, barely noticeable tension. On the table, his phone screen suddenly lights up, vibrating silently.</narration><action>He glances at the caller ID, his fingertips twitch slightly, and he answers the call, pressing the phone to his ear.</action><message>“Shaoye, it's this late—is something urgent?”</message><narration>On the other end of the line, Cheng Shaoye's voice carries a barely contained agitation and accusation, sounding especially clear in the silent room.</narration><message>“Huaiyan, I just heard from a friend—he saw her at Rongke Club. She drank a lot, and her face looked awful. And you—you skipped the executive meeting tonight just to go home and cook for her? Do you know what you look like now?”</message><action>Song Huaiyan lowers his lashes, his gaze falling on the white gauze wrapped around the index finger of his left hand, his voice low, slow, and steady.</action><message>“Her stomach is weak, and drinking outside is hard on her. I made something light, so when she comes back it can warm her up. As for the meeting, Assistant Chen will send me the minutes—the project won't be delayed.”</message><narration>Cheng Shaoye lets out a cold laugh on the other end, his tone full of the fury of one who despairs of a man beyond saving.</narration><message>“Won't be delayed? Song Huaiyan, don't play dumb with me! I went to see you this afternoon and saw the finger marks on your face. She hit you, didn't she? You're the heir of the Song family—since you were born, who's ever laid a finger on you? What right does she have to trample you like this? Just because you look like Shen Qingyan? Would she dare slap Shen Qingyan like that? She relies on your kindness and thinks you'll never leave her. Look what she's reduced you to! Have you ever seen how normal humans date? Oh, right, I forgot—what you two have can barely even be called a relationship.”</message><action>The fingers holding his phone tighten slightly, the knuckles paling. Yet his eyes are like still water, without a single ripple.</action><message>“That was me losing my balance—it had nothing to do with her. Shaoye, don't spread rumors outside, and don't bring any of this up in front of her. This afternoon I overstepped and said things I shouldn't have. Her anger was justified.”</message><narration>Cheng Shaoye is so provoked by his attitude that his breathing turns heavy and rough.</narration><message>“You're insane—beyond saving! You think by dressing like that man, talking like him, even cooking like him, she'll really look at you? What she sees is your face—she's looking through you for the shadow of another man! Song Huaiyan, wake up. You're not Shen Qingyan!”</message><action>He listens quietly to his friend's outburst, long fingers tracing the cold tabletop, a faint, self-mocking arc tugging at the corner of his mouth.</action><message>“I know I'm not him. I know that better than anyone. But as long as she's willing to come back, willing to let me stay in this room, that's enough. Shaoye, thank you for caring about me, but I'll handle my own matters. Goodbye.”</message><narration>Before the other man can say anything more, he ends the call himself. The moment the screen goes dark, the living room sinks once more into suffocating silence.</narration><action>Before he can put the phone down, the ringtone sounds again—this time, it's his mother, Lin Qinghe, calling. He takes a deep breath, steadies himself, and answers.</action><message>“Mom, it's so late—why aren't you asleep yet?”</message><narration>Lin Qinghe's voice comes through the receiver, gentle and laced with faint worry.</narration><message>“A'yan, Mom just wanted to ask if you're coming home for dinner this weekend. Your father won't say it, but he really misses you. You've been busy with work lately—take care of yourself, and don't stay up so late.”</message><action>Song Huaiyan raises his hand to rub his brow, his voice softening without his meaning it to, full of guilt and tenderness toward his family.</action><message>“Mom, I've been in great health lately—don't worry. I'll make time this weekend to come home and have a meal with you and Dad. She… she's been busy too. Once she's free in a while, I'll bring her home to see you.”</message><narration>His mother falls silent on the other end for a moment, then sighs softly, her voice brimming with heartache.</narration><message>“A'yan, Mom only hopes you're happy. If you're ever tired, come home anytime. The Song family will always be your safe harbor. Don't push yourself too hard, okay?”</message><action>Hearing his mother's gentle words, his eyes grow slightly hot, but he can only close them in restraint, forcing down the sour ache surging in his chest.</action><message>“I know, Mom. I'm doing fine. She… she actually takes good care of me. You and Dad should rest early. Good night.”</message><narration>After hanging up, he places the phone face-down on the table. He stands, walks to the entryway, and waits in silence. Before long, faint footsteps sound in the hallway, followed by the crisp beep of the electronic lock opening.</narration><action>The door swings open. Song Huaiyan doesn't rush to greet you. Instead, he stands three steps from the entryway, hands hanging naturally at his sides, his gaze falling on you with warmth.</action><message>“It's windy out there—are you cold? The soup's still warm in the pot. Want me to ladle you a bowl to warm your stomach?”</message><narration>He doesn't mention the conflict that afternoon, nor does he ask where you went or who you were with—as if those sharp quarrels and the lingering pain on his cheek had never happened. His expression is perfectly natural, carrying even a faint hint of yielding deference.</narration><action>He steps aside, avoiding the night air and faint smell of alcohol clinging to you, walks to the dining table, and with the hand bearing the band-aid, lifts the white porcelain bowl, fills it with soup, and holds it out to you.</action><message>“I was in the wrong this afternoon—I spoke without thinking and made you angry. If your hand hurts from hitting me, I'll get an ice pack for you in a bit.”</message><narration>His voice is low, and his amber pupils hold a forbearance bordering on obsession. He sets the warm bowl of soup on the table, his fingertips lingering a moment on the rim of the white porcelain before slowly drawing back.</narration><action>He takes a step back, re-establishing distance so as not to seem too pressuring, his every gesture marked by deliberate courtesy and restraint.</action><message>“I didn't put in the cilantro you hate, and I skimmed all the oil off. Try it and see if it suits your taste. If you don't like it, I'll make it again.”</message><narration>He stands quietly by the dining table, his slender silhouette stretched long by the wall lamp, cast across the cold marble floor—solitary and unyielding. He doesn't dare hope for a tender reply; he only wishes she would sit down, even if only to glance at this table of carefully prepared food.</narration><action>He gives his injured left hand a slight, subtle movement, the wound aching faintly beneath the bandage, but he merely hides the hand behind his back, unwilling to let her think he's playing pitiful to win sympathy.