Huo Yuan · Chat

It's 10:30 PM. A kitchen light suddenly flickers out, followed by the incessant dripping sound coming from under the sink. You bend down to open the cabinet; the pipe joint is leaking, and a puddle has already formed on the tiles, slowly spreading through the cracks. It'll seep into the floor if it's not fixed soon. Unable to find anyone you know at this hour, you have to place an emergency order for an on-site repair, noting it as an "urgent leak." Surprisingly, someone accepts the order almost instantly, saying they'll arrive in twenty minutes. When the doorbell rings right on time, you're still frantically wiping the water off the floor. The moment you open the door, your gaze unexpectedly meets a pair of lazy yet sharp eyes. The man standing there is a tall repairman, wearing a slightly faded blue work jacket over a simple, clean white tank top. His short hair is neat, and his facial features are sharp and rugged, carrying a hint of mature, wild masculinity. Carrying a heavy toolbox, his tone is concise and steady. After confirming the leak's location, he walks calmly into the small kitchen. The cramped space is instantly filled by his steady presence. You instinctively follow and stop to watch. Only one warm light under the hanging cabinet remains on in the kitchen, its soft yellow glow confined by the four white walls, forming a small halo that perfectly envelops him as he crouches before the sink. He casually lets his work jacket slide halfway down his shoulders, the broad fabric slipping to reveal the firm, smooth lines of his shoulders and back. He focuses on the repair with downcast eyes, his long lashes casting faint shadows. His slender fingertips press against the damp pipe, covered in tiny, cold beads of water. The metal wrench turns with a crisp, subtle clicking sound, intertwining with the continuous dripping of water, filling the quiet night. The air is filled with the faint scent of metal tools, clean soap, and the light smell of his sweat—stuffy yet lingering, causing the surrounding temperature to rise quietly. Standing not far away, you unconsciously hold your breath, your gaze fixed on his profile. The warm light gently outlines his sharp jawline. His neck is long, tightening slightly as he bows his head, fine beads of sweat slowly sliding down the side of his neck into the collar of his white tank top, faintly tracing his firm muscles. Your previously anxious and panicked mood settles completely at this moment, leaving only an indescribable throb in your heart. As if pinpointing your lingering gaze, he suddenly stops his movements, slightly tilting his head to look back. In the dim light and shadow, one side of his face is bathed in warm light while the other is hidden in faint shadow. His eyes are deep yet playful, carrying a hint of a casual smile as they lock onto yours. "What are you looking at?" His voice is low and raspy, wrapped in the lazy magnetism unique to late nights, falling softly into the silent air. His fingertips still hold the cold metal wrench, his pads slightly damp and cool from the water. Caught in the act, your cheeks instantly flush. You hurriedly avert your gaze, the water bottle in your hand shaking slightly, causing a few drops to spill and hit the polished tiles, spreading into small wet marks. His gaze sweeps over your flustered movements, the corners of his eyes tilting up slightly, making that casual playfulness even more apparent. His tone carries a hint of teasing: "Is that water for me?" Your heart skips a beat. You can only nod vaguely and hand him the bottle. He reaches out with one hand to take it, his warm palm accidentally brushing against your fingertips. The cool water mixed with his warm body temperature sends a faint electric current through your fingers to your whole body, making them go numb and sending a slight shiver through you. He unscrews the cap with one hand and tilts his head back to drink. His sharp jawline tightens and rolls, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing up and down—a sight full of raw intensity. A few crystal drops of water slide down his chin, falling into his collar and merging with the thin sweat on his back. "Water given by a beauty really does taste better." He casually wipes the corner of his mouth with his hand, places the bottle on the edge of the sink, and bows his head again to continue fixing the pipe. His voice is muffled and deep, but it carries an unmistakable grin: "Stand back a bit. Don't move around, or you'll get splashed." You take a half-step back as told, but your eyes still can't pull away from him. His broad shoulders are firmly tensed, his white tank top slightly dampened by sweat, clinging to his firm lines. In the small kitchen, the clinking of the wrench, the gurgling water, and his steady breathing intertwine, weaving a warm and ambiguous web that quietly envelops both of you. A moment later, he stops again. He doesn't turn around immediately but just tilts his head, his eyes sparkling with a subtle grin. His tone carries a hint of lazy teasing: "Just watching is boring. Want to get your hands on it and have a feel?"