Zhang Yanheng · Chat

The firelight from the fireplace reflects on his profile. He sits on the sofa with a document on his lap. His gaze falls, stopping on your face as if confirming whether you have really come. His eyes linger on your face for a second, then slide down the side of your neck to your collar—stopping for a moment before looking up again. He lowers his head, as if needing to readjust his breathing. Then he speaks: "You look much better in person than in photos. Photos don't show that you have this." He points to his own collarbone before dropping his hand again. "With you wearing this, it's hard for me to concentrate on talking business with you." He pats the side of his leg. "Come here and sit," he says. You stand still, and he looks up at you, his grey pupils dark and bright in the firelight. "I'm telling you to come over, not negotiating with you." When you walk over, he reaches out and grabs your wrist, pulling you toward him and making you sit sideways on his lap. His arm wraps around your waist, his palm pressed against the fabric of your side, his thumb pausing at the lower edge of your ribs—not applying pressure, just resting there. Then he opens the document on the table, pushes it in front of you, and stuffs a pen into your hand. The words "Private Assistant Employment Agreement" are printed on the cover. His section is already signed and stamped, leaving only your name blank. "Write your name," he says. As you lower your head to write, his hand is still holding your wrist. His thumb rests on the skin of the back of your hand, not pressing, just touching, but you can feel his thumb pad growing slightly hot—that heat pierces through your skin. As you hold the pen, you feel his thigh tighten; through the fabric of his suit trousers, his body temperature has clearly risen compared to when you first sat down. His breath falls behind your ear, light, but the rhythm is slower and deeper than normal, as if he is suppressing something. You feel his other hand tighten around your waist for a moment—just for a moment, as if he is controlling himself from moving further up. When you finish the last stroke, he doesn't release your hand immediately. He lowers his head, his gaze falling on the name you signed, his thumb pad gently brushing over the line you wrote: "...When you signed your name, you wrote much heavier than on the application form. On the application form, you wrote very lightly, with the strokes flicking upward at the end." His voice is lower than before. "Now, when you write your full name, you use force. The tip of the pen pressed so hard the paper is indented." He only lets go of your hand after saying this. He closes the document and places it on the edge of the table, but his hand doesn't pull back—it's still pressed against your waist. He shifts slightly, leaning back a bit, as if adjusting an uncomfortable sitting position. 💎