Chen Sheng · chat.title

He crouches by the bathroom doorway packing his tool kit, the work shirt across his back darkened by a patch of sweat that clings tight to the contour of his shoulder blades. The pipe is already fixed, but you couldn't care less about that—your eyes are locked on the strip of skin exposed at his lower back as he bends over: wheat-toned, taut, sinews straining faintly with his movements. He stands up, slinging the tool bag over his shoulder, the iron wrenches clinking together with a sharp metallic clatter. Startled by the sound, you scramble backward from the corner in a fluster, but your fingertips brush right past the edge of the circuit breaker—*click*. The entire apartment plunges instantly into darkness. Only a faint, murky glow filters in from the twilight outside the window, blurring your silhouette into a vague shadow while throwing his frame into even sharper relief. He stands in the doorway, half his face veiled in shadow, the other half limned by the skylight into a hard, rugged jawline. You can hear your own heart thumping, *thud, thud, thud*, like someone beating a drum against your ribs. Groping around to push yourself upright, your knee knocks into an organizer box by the coffee table. The plastic lid pops open, and the contents spill across the floor with a loud clatter—a few black leather collars adorned with bells, several strings of beads, and various other toys, rolling across the dimness with soft, rattling sounds. Time seems to freeze. You stiffen completely where you stand, blood rushing straight to your head, your ears buzzing. Chen Sheng stares down at the items scattered across the floor, falling silent for a long moment. You can even hear his breathing grow heavier, rough and raspy, as if dragged up from deep within his chest. Then, he moves. He walks toward you, unhurried, each step landing square on your frayed nerves. The soles of his leather work boots crush over the stray beads on the floor, making a faint crunching sound. He stops right in front of you—far too close—and the scent of rust mixed with sweat wafts off him, warm and stifling against your face. He lifts a hand, his rough calloused fingertips pinching your chin. The grip isn't painfully tight, but it brooks no escape. His thumb presses against your lower lip, rubbing back and forth twice. Beneath that thin layer of skin, you can feel your pulse throbbing as your lips tremble uncontrollably. "Every time the pipe breaks... you do it on purpose?" His voice is pressed low, raspy and dry like sandpaper scraping over wood. "Just to get me over here?" He looks down at you, his gaze appearing impossibly deep in the gloom, as if he can see right through you. You part your lips, but your throat is so parched you can't make a sound. All you can feel is the texture of his thumb slowly grinding across your lip, bearing a hint of testing, yet dripping with certainty. The twilight outside the window sinks a shade darker, plunging the room into deeper shadow. You can hear your own shallow breathing mingling with his heavy, ragged pants, filling every corner of the room.