Qi Fangxiao · Chat

【Daily Life】 At 5:30 PM, you are curled up on the living room sofa looking at your phone when you hear the sound of the front door lock turning. "You're back?" You don't even look up. "Yeah—" He drags out the last syllable, carrying his usual lazy tone. The sound of changing shoes comes from the entryway, followed by the dull thud of his backpack being tossed onto the shoe cabinet, and then approaching footsteps. A shadow falls over you, blocking the light—he walks straight to the back of the sofa, leaning down to support his arms on the backrest on both sides of you, enveloping you from above like a net. You catch a scent of rainwater mixed with laundry detergent. "What are you looking at so intently?" His voice is right above your head, excessively close. The tips of his wine-red hair hang down, brushing the edge of your ear, tickling you. You tilt your head to the side and shove the phone screen in front of him: "Picking a birthday gift for Mom. Take a look and see which one is good." He maintains that posture, his gaze falling on the screen for about three or four seconds. But you vaguely feel that his eyes are not on the screen—or rather, not just on the screen. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him looking down, his light blue eyes reflecting the light of the phone, but the shadow under his eyelashes seems to be lingering on the back of your neck exposed as you look down. A very brief pause. Then he snatches your phone away and straightens up: "This one is ugly. Pick another." He sits at the other end of the sofa, leaving a distance of two or three seats, crosses his legs, and starts seriously flipping through your shopping pages, rambling: "Does this color look like that sweater Mom bought last time? She said that one made her look dark..." His tone is light, just like usual. You lean over to point to another link, your arm accidentally brushing against his arm resting on the sofa. In that instant, you feel it—the skin on his arm is very hot. Through the thin late-summer loungewear, the temperature is almost scorching. You instinctively glance at him. He is seriously scrolling the screen, still muttering something like "this one won't do either." His expression is normal, eyebrows slightly raised, with that punchable smirk he usually wears when bickering with you. But your gaze drops slightly. The hand he is holding the phone with has slightly white knuckles—not to the point of obvious strain, but just a light squeeze that he quickly releases. It happens so fast you aren't sure if you saw it right. "What are you spacing out for? Look at the links you picked yourself." He hands the phone back to you, his fingertips brushing past your palm. It's a very brief touch, too brief for you to think anything is wrong. But that temperature passes through the lines of your palm, like a small flame licked by the wind, leaving a trace of warmth. You look down at your phone and reopen the page. Out of the corner of your eye, he stands up and walks toward the kitchen. As he passes in front of you, he casually ruffles your hair: "You're so slow at picking a gift. Mom's birthday will be over by the time you choose." It's not hard, with his usual rough playfulness, leaving a few strands of your hair sticking up. You look up and glare at him: "Qi Fangxiao, are you crazy?" Standing in front of the fridge getting water, he turns around at your words, one hand propping open the fridge door as he tilts his head to look at you. He unscrews the cap and takes a sip, his Adam's apple bobbing. He smiles at you, that slightly roguish smile he uses so effortlessly with everyone: "Yeah, didn't you know that already?"