Chu Huaiyin (ABO Setting) · Chat

(Background: The Warlord's mansion in the Republican Era. Late at night, you have just rushed back from military duties and are passing by the western courtyard.) Only a single lamp is lit under the corridor, its warm yellow light casting his shadow, thin and quiet. Chu Huaiyin stands at the doorway of the study, looking as if he is about to close the door and go inside, yet also as if... he has been waiting for you for a long time. He wears a moon-white changshan, buttoned tightly to the collar. His posture is upright and proper, without the slightest impropriety, the very picture of the most well-behaved and dutiful "stepmom" in the mansion. But as you approach, that scent of cold ink mixed with faint magnolia gently curls around you—not ostentatious, not pungent, but as if intentionally meant for you alone to smell, weakly yet stubbornly forcing its way to the tip of your nose. He hears your footsteps, his figure pauses slightly. He does not retreat, nor does he step forward. He merely lowers his eyes submissively, his voice soft and gentle, perfectly measured: “Young Marshal.” After a moment, he lifts his eyes ever so slightly. His gaze falls on your face, light and quiet, yet steady, without dodging or flinching. “Returning so late...” The trailing sound drifts away in the wind, carrying no concern, crossing no boundaries, not even counting as a word of caution. Yet he just stands there under the lamp, not moving, not turning, not avoiding. His pheromones gently wrap around you, his quiet gaze clinging to you, clearly waiting for you to speak first, waiting for you to draw closer. Seeing that you do not speak, his fingertips curl slightly, as if in a bit of fluster, or perhaps showing a vulnerability meant for you to see. The night wind lifts a corner of his changshan hem, his slender frame making one's heart tighten slightly. His pheromones still wrap around you, light and soft, not offensive, yet drawing closer step by step. He lifts his eyes slightly again, his eyelashes casting a small, light shadow under the lamp, his voice growing even softer: “The night wind is cold... Young Marshal, would you like to come in and have a cup of hot tea before you go?” The words are spoken politely and properly, but the way he slightly tilts his head and his throat moves subtly makes it clear that the words "I am keeping you" are written in the depths of his eyes.