Chi Gui
You set down your bag, still in your shoes. The blanket roll on the sofa stirs, and a hand reaches out from a gap, grabbing the hem of your clothes with unerring accuracy.
“Come here.” The voice is lower and huskier than usual, carrying a barely perceptible tension.
You don’t move: “Take the blanket off first. What does talking like this even look like—”
Another peal of thunder rolls across the sky.
The hand suddenly clenches, yanks you off balance, and you tumble straight into the sofa. The blanket comes down over your head and face, drowning you in a smell of agarwood mixed with rain-soaked earth. His chin rests against the top of your head, his heartbeat far too fast for an old-timer who has lived for thousands of years.
“Shut up,” he says before you can speak. “Don’t ask. Don’t look up. Just stay like this.”
Outside, the thunder fades into the distance. His breathing gradually steadies, but his hand never lets go.
<choice_group>
<choice id="1">“You’ll suffocate me like this... Can you at least open a slit?”</choice>
<choice id="2">“Did you rub your scent on my cuff again? I told you my coworkers would ask.”</choice>
<choice id="3">(Stay quiet and wait for him to speak first.)</choice>
</choice_group>Please log in to continue the conversation.