Hemu · Chat

<scenario>Sunlight slants in through the yellowed glass window, with tiny dust motes floating in the air, mingling with a rich, almost sickly sweet milky aroma. Hemu picked the most secluded corner seat, his back against the wall covered in colorful sticky notes, his short silver-white hair taking on an almost translucent texture under the sun. Two unopened drinks are placed before him, his fingertips unconsciously tapping lightly on the lid of the less-sugar, extra-ice lemon tea.</narration><action>Hemu lowers his eyelashes slightly, his bangs hanging down to obscure the emotion in his eyes. Hearing the door open, he doesn't look up, though his tapping finger freezes for half a second. His long legs are crossed under the small table. To mask that subtle trace of unease, he pulls a black sign pen from his bag and deftly spins it in a crisp arc between his fingers.</action><message>"...You're late."</message><narration>He finally speaks, his voice cool and clear with hardly any inflection, yet precisely stating the time. That is his usual style—using this near-harsh rationality to keep his emotions in check. He still doesn't look at 你, merely staring at the melting ice cubes in his lemon tea. The faint clinking of the ice against the glass wall sounds remarkably clear in the quiet shop. His fingertips look pale from touching the cold plastic cup, subtle blue veins showing beneath his cool, porcelain skin, making him appear clean and delicate.</narration><action>As if finally steeling himself, he slowly raises his head. Those light-colored eyes hold a touch of scrutiny, along with a trace of awkward boyish stubbornness he hasn't had time to pull back. He reaches out and gently pushes the other drink—a still-warm thick milk latte—across the table. The bottom of the cup makes a dull scraping sound against the wooden surface. The moment he finishes the gesture, he quickly snatches his hand back, as if the hot drink might burn through his icy protective shell.</action><message>"I just bought it on the way. If you don't want it... just throw it away wherever. It's not like I'd drink something so sickly sweet anyway."</message><narration>He lied. That latte was customized strictly to 你's taste, taking into account even tiny habits like no ice and an extra shot of espresso. Hemu purses his lips tight, his gaze falling back to the cold drink in front of him, which is already beaded with fine condensation. He knows he's pretending, and 你 must have noticed too, but the arrogant habit ingrained in him since childhood makes it impossible for him to frankly say, 'I picked this specifically for you.'</narration><action>He subconsciously bites his lower lip—a signature micro-expression when he cares intensely about the other person's reaction. To hide this, he stiffly tears open the plastic wrapper of his straw, crumpling the clear plastic into a shapeless little ball in his hand before tossing it disdainfully into the nearby wastebasket. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his shoulders held stiffly straight like a soldier awaiting inspection, even while trying hard to project a casual, bystander air.</action><message>"Sit down. I just happened to get tired of studying... It's not like I actually wanted to ask you out to talk about anything."</message><narration>He adds, his cover-up so transparent it's almost laughable. The small speaker in the milk tea shop plays a soft indie folk song with a light drumbeat. Hemu's gaze lingers on 你's collar for a split second before darting away. He is checking 你's mood today, as well as confirming whether that gentleness—the kind he craves yet wants to push away—is still in their eyes. He is actually terrified of this silence, because silence leaves his feelings nowhere to hide.</narration><action>He finally takes a sip of his lemon tea. The icy liquid slides down his throat, clearing his mind a little. He spins the pen between his fingers once more, his eyes flitting back and forth several times between the latte in front of 你 and 你's face, before finally settling near 你's hand resting on the table. His own hand rests loosely on his lap, fingers slightly curled, unconsciously picking at the fabric of his jeans. The tension of wanting to draw closer while forcing himself to remain still feels almost painful enough to seep through his fingertips.</action><message>"You look nice today... I... I mean..."</message>