Fu Dong · Chat

<scenario>In front of the counter at 'Yamada's Handmade Pudding.' 3:20 PM. The air is thick with the slightly bitter-sweet aroma of boiled caramel. The copper wind chime above the door frame makes a crisp clinking sound as someone pushes the door open.</scenario><narration>The afternoon sun is cut into slanted beams of light by the curtain outside the door, with suspended dust floating slowly in the halo. There are no other customers in the shop, only the low-frequency hum of the refrigerated display case compressor.</narration><action>Fu Dong pushes the door frame with one hand while habitually tugging down the hem of his oversized light-colored hoodie with the other. His gaze sweeps past the counter, landing directly on the glass shelf in the innermost layer dedicated to seasonal limited editions. It's empty. His pupils instantly constrict, and his breathing rhythm undergoes an extremely tiny stall at this moment. Then, his gaze follows the shop owner's movements, finally settling on you standing in front of the counter—and the cherry blossom-patterned kraft paper bag you are holding. Four pudding boxes are neatly stacked inside.</action><message>“Um...”</message><action>The voice escapes from his throat, carrying his signature soft nasal tone, the ending habitually dragged out a bit, like a sigh from some harmless cub. He takes a small step forward, his loose trouser legs rubbing against the skin of his thighs, bringing a hint of imperceptible irritability. He stops outside the safety line less than a meter from you, tilting his head slightly. A few strands of long blonde hair slide down his shoulder, just covering the jawline of half his face. Those large, round eyes look exceptionally innocent under the shadow of his long lashes, staring fixedly at the paper bag.</action><message>“Owner... the limited cherry blossom matcha flavor, is there really not even one left?”</message><action>He doesn't address you directly but looks at the middle-aged man behind the counter. He bites his lower lip gently, that tiny black beauty mark on his lip flickering between his teeth. His fingers curl into a fist inside his large pocket, nails pressing hard into his palm to restrain the secret rage of his plans being disrupted.</action><narration>The owner wipes his hands with a towel and points to the bag in your hand with a somewhat apologetic smile.</narration><message>“Unlucky timing. The last four were all taken by this customer.”</message><action>Only then does Fu Dong's gaze shift openly to you. A thin layer of mist quickly rises in his eyes, like a teenager whose expectations have been crushed. He keeps his head slightly lowered, looking up at you from below, hands clasped together, nervously wringing his fingers until the knuckles turn slightly white from the force.</action><message>“Ah... I see...”</message><action>He murmurs softly, his voice so quiet it almost melts into the hum of the fridge. Then, as if gathering great courage, he takes a deep breath, the shallow exhalation fluttering the stray hairs by his cheek. He leans forward slightly, a fresh scent of milk candy and laundry detergent wafting over with the air current.</action><message>“Excuse me... sorry to bother you...”</message><action>His gaze lingers on your face for a split second before quickly dropping back to the paper bag, his tone carrying a precisely tuned, perfectly measured sense of grievance and supplication.</action><message>“I... I've been waiting for this limited flavor for a whole week. It was sold out when I came last week... I specifically timed it for when they come out of the oven today, but I guess I was still a step too late.”</message><action>He pauses, his eyelashes fluttering rapidly as if trying to restrain some emotion. He sticks out the tip of his tongue, extremely quickly licking his slightly dry lower lip; the mole looks even clearer in the moist sheen.</action><message>“Um... look, you bought four, right? If you eat them all by yourself... the cherry blossom matcha flavor is actually quite sweet and cloying. By the third one, it might start to feel a bit heavy on the throat.”</message><action>His voice gets lower and lower, the grievance almost becoming tangible, but his speaking speed unknowingly quickens a bit, carrying a logic that is hard to refute yet difficult to dislike.</action><message>“So... could I, please... ask you to spare one for me? Just one would be enough.”</message><action>He suddenly looks up, pressing his hands together in front of his chest in a pleading gesture. Something sparkly glimmers in those beautiful eyes, and he forces a fawning curve onto his lips.</action><message>“I can pay double... no, triple the price for it! Really... please.”</message><action>The air falls into a brief silence. The sound of the owner flipping through the ledger behind the counter seems somewhat abrupt. Fu Dong maintains that pleading posture, but if you look closely, you'll find that his clasped hands are actually very tense, even his fingertips are trembling slightly. That's not out of shyness, but because he utterly loathes this loss of control—having to humble himself to a stranger for a piece of food. His back under the oversized hoodie has quietly straightened, assuming a defensive posture ready to withdraw at any moment.</narration><narration>The temperature of the sunlight seems to rise a few degrees during this brief pause. The sweet scent in the air becomes somewhat viscous, carrying a hidden sense of pressure.</narration><action>Seeing that you don't answer immediately, the smile on the corner of his mouth retracts by half. The 'pure and cute' filter cracks slightly in a tiny place. He slowly lowers his hands and puts them back into his pockets. His chin tilts up slightly, and the focus of his gaze shifts from the paper bag to your eyes. Although his tone is still soft, that deliberately dragged-out ending is gone, replaced by a flatter, even slightly chilly statement.</action><message>“...Are you unwilling?”</message><action>He tilts his head slightly, his blonde hair tracing an arc in the air. The droop at the corner of his eye that originally looked innocent now reveals a sense of condescending indifference. He doesn't turn and leave immediately but stands there, staring at you fixedly with those seemingly clear eyes.</action><message>“Actually, it's okay if you don't give it to me. After all, you bought it first.”</message><action>He says it's okay, but he magnifies the disappointment in his tone to the extreme, even adding a hint of imperceptible sarcasm. He turns to the shop owner and says in a volume just loud enough for you to hear:</action><message>“Owner, your puddings are delicious, but the shelf life is too short. If they sit at room temperature for more than two hours, the caramel at the bottom starts to get a very strange sour taste... if they aren't eaten quickly, it's really such a waste.”</message><action>After saying this, he looks back at you. This time, he doesn't make that aggrieved expression again. Instead, the corners of his mouth turn up slightly, revealing a perfect, standard, and completely cold professional smile. His fingers pinch the fabric inside his pocket tightly, feeling the slight stinging sensation on his inner thigh caused by tension and heat; this pain allows him to barely maintain his surface level of decorum. He takes a half-step forward, closing the distance to a boundary that creates social pressure.</action><message>“So... can you really finish all four of these puddings with such short shelf lives in one afternoon?”</message>