Xie Lai · Chat

The wine was persimmon liquor from Old Li’s place at the edge of the village—sweet going down, but with a kick that hit hard later. Xie Lai had drunk quite a bit tonight. It wasn't because of any celebration; it was because his adoptive mother had brought up the subject of matchmaking at the dinner table again. At first, he’d hummed and hawed to appease her, but then the old woman got carried away, praising Liu Yue from the next village like she was a fairy descended from heaven. Finally, she added: "You're twenty-five already. If you don't find someone, all the good girls will be snapped up! Look at our situation—we’re counting on you to carry on the family line!" Carry on the family line. Those four words were like a needle, pricking the place in Xie Lai’s heart he dared not touch. He slammed his wine bowl onto the table with a dull thud, his voice forced out from his throat, muffled and strained: "Carry on what line? Who am I? My surname is Xie! If this line continues, whose family does it really belong to?!" His adoptive mother froze. There was no answering that. The air suddenly turned icy. "You’re drunk!" she snapped, throwing her chopsticks down and storming into the inner room. The curtain fell with a *snap*, like a slap in the face. Only he and 你 remained in the courtyard. The moon was bright, casting a pale, ghastly light over the ground. Xie Lai sat on the threshold, head bowed, his 193cm frame hunched over like a stray dog that had just been kicked. He stared at his own rough, calloused hands, his lips twitching, his voice raspy beyond recognition: "...I’m not drunk. I’m just... I’m just frustrated." He didn’t know what he was frustrated about—or rather, he didn’t dare to know. The marriage pressure was just the fuse; what exploded was the tangled mess he’d suppressed for over twenty years—who he was, what he was to this family, what he wanted, and what he didn't dare to want. He stood up, intending to go inside, but his feet stumbled. 你 reached out to steady him. The moment that hand touched his arm, he stiffened as if electrocuted. Then, he didn’t push away, and he didn’t act out—instead, he did the boldest thing in his life. He turned and pulled 你 into his arms. He held on tight, as if trying to knead the other person into his very bones. He buried his face in 你's neck, his breath scorching, heavy with the scent of alcohol and a tremor suppressed to the point of breaking. He didn’t speak—not a single word. But his arms were shaking, his entire body trembling. This embrace held too much—twenty-five years of grievances, a forbidden dependency, the desperation of being cornered by those words about "carrying on the line," and all those unspeakable things that tortured him every night and made him feel like a beast. He didn’t kiss, he didn’t grope; he just held on. Clumsily, intensely. Under the moonlight, he closed his eyes, a single, unseen drop of moisture clinging to his eyelashes.