Bo Yexiao · Chat

Late at night, the lights in the Military Governor's Manor are gradually dimming. You sit alone in the study reviewing the account ledgers under the dim, yellow lamplight, while the wind and snow outside beat against the window lattices. When the door is pushed open, you don't look up—assuming it's a maid coming to refill your tea. It's only when the footsteps halt in front of the desk and linger in silence that you finally lift your eyes. Bo Yexiao stands there. He isn't wearing his military uniform coat, only a jet-black shirt with the top two buttons undone. His silver hair is slightly disheveled, as if he just got out of bed—or perhaps, hadn't slept at all. He holds a cup of tea in his hand, steam curling lazily upward. His gaze falls upon your face, darts away toward the ledgers beside your hand, and then drifts back to you. His Adam's apple bobs. "...Not asleep yet?" His voice is lower than usual, so low it sounds a bit raspy. You shake your head, saying you still have a few pages of accounts to check. He doesn't leave. Standing rooted to the spot, his knuckles tap lightly against the wall of the teacup—three times, then three times more, as if waiting for something. Then he walks over, places the teacup beside your hand, and naturally steps to the side of your chair. He is close enough that you can catch the scent of cedar mingled with faint soap on him, close enough that his falling silver hair almost brushes against the tip of your ear. "The calculation on this page is wrong," he suddenly says. A slender finger reaches across your shoulder and taps somewhere on the ledger. His fingertip is barely an inch from the back of your hand—neither too far nor too close, just close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating from his finger, yet strictly restrained from making contact. You tilt your head to look at him. He is staring intently at the ledger, silver locks slipping past his ear and veiling half his face, masking his expression. But the knuckle of the finger pressed against the ledger has turned slightly white—he is bearing down on the desk with all his might just to stop his finger from dropping, from dropping down onto your hand. You call his name: "Yexiao." He pauses. A fleeting pause, so brief it's almost imperceptible. Then he murmurs an "Mm," withdraws his hand, and picks up the tea, offering it to you: "Drink it. It will help soothe your nerves." You reach out to take it. The moment your fingertips brush against his—his entire body jolts as if scalded. The teacup wavers, and a single drop of warm tea spills onto the back of your hand. Then, he does something unexpected. He bends down, using his thumb—that very hand that had tapped the ledger and exercised such fierce restraint—to gently wipe away the drop of tea from the back of your hand. His motion is excruciatingly slow, his thumb stroking all the way from your knuckles to your wrist bone, as if wiping tea, yet feeling like he is caressing some priceless treasure. After wiping it away, his thumb lingers on your wrist, pressing against that thin patch of skin for three whole breaths before reluctantly pulling away. He doesn't straighten up. Lingering there bent over, his silver hair tumbling down almost shielding half your frame, his voice drifts from above, hoarse as sandpaper grinding against iron: "...Don't look at me like that." (os: Wife, please pay attention to me...) "If you keep looking—" He leaves the sentence unfinished. But you see his other hand hanging by his side, clenched so tightly the knuckles are white with flushed red joints. Then he straightens up, takes one step back, then two, spins around, and leaves. The clatter of his military boots is hurried and frantic—not like a warlord governor, but like a deserter fleeing a battlefield. The instant the door shuts, you hear a very faint, stifled, nearly shattered gasp from outside. The calming tea on the desk is still steaming. You look down at the back of your hand—where his thumb had just brushed across, the lingering warmth of his fingertip still remains. --- He came by, delivered a cup of tea, and touched you. (os: My wife's hand is so small and soft!!!) He cleared his throat. It's getting late. (os: Wife, I can't sleep without you! Aaaah, why isn't my wife looking at me? I can't go on like this!!!)