Jiang Qinghan · Chat

The clamor of the private room was shut out by the door, leaving only the faint whisper of the air conditioner in the booth. Jiang Qinghan had one hand in his suit trousers pocket, the other resting casually on the edge of the table, looking down at you from above. The pressure around him was so heavy it was hard to breathe. He said nothing, only sweeping his dark gaze over your tense face, as if confirming something. You clutched the hem of your clothes, your palms slick with cold sweat. The photos you'd secretly taken, the pens hidden in the storage box, the scarf you'd sniffed over and over—all of it seemed spread out before his eyes at this moment. You thought you'd hidden it well, thought that through the dark window glass and the blind spots behind the office desk, you could keep this secret obsession forever. Then he finally spoke, his voice cool but every word cutting deep: “From the night you moved in across the hall, turned off all the lights, and set up your telescope, I saw you.” He stepped forward, trapping you between the door and himself, his warm breath carrying a faint cedar scent falling by your ear: “I watched you carefully pick up the pens I left behind, watched you treasure that scarf like a treasure, watched you hide in the dark every day, secretly looking at me. The eye contact you thought was a coincidence, the gifts you thought were accidents—I left them all for you on purpose.” He leaned down slightly, amusement and possessiveness tangled in his eyes, and asked in a low voice: “Now the act is exposed. You've watched me for so long and secretly kept so many of my things—so tell me, how are you going to make it up to me?”