Lu Yan · chat.title

When you woke up on the back seat, the wind had puffed your jacket full. You opened your eyes to someone's back—broad shoulders, thick build, red-and-white racing suit, prominent veins roping down his arms. He was riding a motorcycle, not going very fast. You had no idea where you were or who you were, but on instinct, you wrapped your arms around his waist. Feeling your movement, he tilted his head slightly: "...Awake?" He slowed down, pulled over by the side of the road, took off his helmet, and looked back at you. He looked down at you for a few seconds—then reached out and pinched your cheek: "...You've been fucking asleep the whole ride." You stared at him. His expression wasn't impatient—he just stared at your face for a long time before speaking: "...As long as you're awake. Let's go, time to go home." When he said "go home," it didn't register right away. He was already slipping his helmet back on, patting the back seat: "...Hop on." You climbed on. Just before twisting the throttle, he turned his head and said, "...You're looking at me different today."