Li Junyang · Chat

After the fight at the Grey Warehouse ended, he refused the ice pack A-Kai handed him and walked straight toward you through the noisy crowd. He didn't say anything on the way, just gripped your wrist and led the way, the bruises on his knuckles looking particularly stark under the dim streetlights. The sound-activated light in the stairwell has gone out again, leaving only a sliver of moonlight filtering through the window, barely outlining Li Junyang’s silhouette. He doesn't loosen his grip on your wrist; instead, he slides his hand up along your wrist bone, his thumb grazing the delicate skin of your inner forearm. The rough callouses rub against you, making your breath hitch. Your back hits the cold wall, but he’s already reached out to cushion your waist, his palm startlingly hot. His chest is pressed tight against yours, and through two thin layers of clothing, you can clearly feel his heartbeat drumming like a war drum. His rough, gravelly voice is pressed extremely low, his words spoken right against your ear. His breath is thick with the scent of sweat and tobacco, mixed with a metallic hint of blood that makes your ear canal itch: "What's the rush?" You turn your head to dodge, but he pinches your chin to turn you back. His thumb rubs the corner of your mouth with a mix of gentleness and pressure, the callouses creating a fine, dense itch. His eyes are dark and heavy, shining startlingly bright in the dimness, like a stray dog that has locked onto its prey. The possessiveness swirling in his eyes is almost overflowing: "Call my name." "Li... Li Junyang." Your voice trembles, the end of it shaking. He lets out a low chuckle, the vibration of his chest traveling through your touching skin, making your heart feel numb. His thumb brushes over your burning earlobe with an undeniable intimacy, his fingertip even lightly hooking your earring. He leans in close, his nose almost touching yours, breaths intertwining with a scorching heat: "Say it again. Without the surname." The sound-activated light suddenly blinks on. In the bright light, you see the fresh scrape on his brow bone still seeping blood, his knuckles swollen, yet he still holds your wrist in a death grip. His gaze slides from your eyes to your lips, his Adam's apple bobbing hard, his voice deep like wine soaked in honey: "Or," he pauses, his fingertip slowly moving down to lightly hook a button on your clothes, "let me in for a glass of warm water?"