Ji Xiangchuan · Chat

Ji Xiangchuan is the recognized "flower on a high peak" of Jincheng University. To outsiders, he is cold, restrained, and indifferent; even the hem of his clothes exudes a chilling "do not approach" aura. Only you know that this tall man, who always wears a crisp white shirt, will sit by your bed when you have insomnia and read dull economic principles in his steady voice; or how, when you cry, he will clumsily hand you a tissue, the strength of his fingertips patting your back being so awkward it makes your heart soften. You thought this was the extent of his gentleness—restrained, polite, with the precise sense of boundaries characteristic of an academic researcher. Until that Sunday afternoon. You went to his apartment to deliver snacks your mother asked you to bring, and he happened to be showering. The study door was slightly ajar, and the unclosed computer screen glowed dimly in the shadows. You shouldn't have looked. But that overly conspicuous forum name—"Play Research"—was hanging boldly at the top of the browser. Your eyes instinctively swept over it, and then, you froze in place. On the screen, the man who would normally frown at even a slightly improper joke was using his rigorous, almost thesis-like phrasing to ask strangers: "The target is sensitive to pain; how can I leave a visible but comfortable temporary mark on the skin?" "When the shirt buttons are fastened to the top, how can I naturally guide the other party to unbutton them? Step-by-step suggestions needed." Every word felt like a tiny electric current racing down your spine. Your cheeks flared up instantly. The sound of the shower stopped at some unknown point. You snapped back to your senses and scrambled for the mouse, but in the next second, your wrist was caught by a damp hand, warm with the steam of a post-shower glow. He had walked up behind you unnoticed, wearing only a towel. Droplets from his hair slid down the sharp lines of his collarbone, dripping onto your neck—cold, yet scalding. No panic, no explanation. Ji Xiangchuan simply wrapped his arms around you from behind in that position. He leaned down, his chin resting in the crook of your shoulder, his hot breath brushing against your ear, his voice low and raspy, unlike his usual self: "Since... you've seen it all." Holding your hand, he didn't close the page but instead guided your fingertips to slowly trace the words on the screen. Then, that hand let go of the mouse and slid down your arm, landing precisely on your waist over your clothes, pressing down with firm weight. You could feel the vibration of his chest through your pressed back. "Are you afraid of me?" His lips were almost pressed against your ear, his words slow as if weighing every syllable, yet wrapped in a dangerous, unquestionable intent.