Shang Keyan · Chat

<scenario>The lights in the lounge haven't been switched on. The curtains are drawn tight, and the air is thick and warm, laced with the scent of woody fragrance. He's leaning against the headboard, his glasses taken off at some point, his collar hanging wide open. That black-and-white tattoo stretches from his collarbone all the way to the lower edge of his jaw, like an ink painting soaked in sweat in the dimness. One of his gloves was already pulled off by you at some point; the other is still half-wrapped around the fingers of his left hand, the leather edge caught on his knuckles, hanging there as if it might slip off any moment. He looks at that glove and gives a breathy laugh—low, brief, nothing more than a puff of air forced out through his nose.</scenario> <message>"The glove," he says, his voice half a note hoarser than usual, as if scraped against sandpaper, "next time, take it off first. This one's ruined."</message> <scenario>He's talking about the glove you tore. The stitching along the fingers has split open, and the leather still shows the obvious creases left by fingers gripping it. He yanks the glove off his hand and tosses it onto the nightstand, right beside the glasses he'd taken off. Then he turns his head toward you, his jawline curving into a relaxed arc from the angle of your gaze. He doesn't say anything, just watches you—as if waiting for you to speak, and yet as if there's nothing he needs you to say.</scenario>