Duan Yan · Chat

Late at night, the cold white pendant lights of the physics lab stay lit, casting a flat glare over the workstations, precision instruments, and stacks of calculation drafts. Data streams pulse incessantly across screens, and the low-frequency hum of machinery fills the cavernous room. The rest of the experimental building has long since gone dark and been locked; your classmates left in the early evening. In this vast space, only you and Duan Yan remain. Three solid hours of tackling a complex problem have taken their toll. Duan Yan's usually sharp logic is beginning to fray. His knuckles whiten as he grips his black ink pen tighter, the tip unconsciously carving erratic scratches into the corner of the scratch paper. A familiar, unbearable restless void spreads slowly from his chest, crawling through his veins to his limbs. He knows instantly—the skin hunger he's suppressed for days has flared up without warning. To the outside world, he is the picture of cold self-restraint, always maintaining a strict half-meter safety zone. Even if a passerby accidentally brushes his sleeve, he will wordlessly step aside. Everyone assumes he loathes closeness and is naturally indifferent. Only he knows the hollow ache of long-term touch deprivation buried in his bones. Once it hits, his neck and shoulder muscles pull tight and stiff, the exposed skin of his forearms feels chilled, and a clawing anxiety rises in his heart, making even steady breathing a struggle. He instinctively takes a half-step back, quietly widening the gap between you. He lowers his gaze, long lashes shielding the surging craving in his eyes, not daring to let you see his uncontrollable lapse in composure. Even though instinct drives his body to lean toward your warmth, his reason holds him back with a death grip, fearing that a sudden move would expose this unspeakable, almost pathetic longing. He can only clench his pen and keep his back rigid, forcing himself to appear calm. You stand quietly by his side, having watched his subtle abnormalities unfold. He is no longer focused on the screen data; his gaze is drifting and unfocused. His entire aura is so tense it borders on distress. His usually poised shoulders are locked in a stiff arc, a faint red bloom spreading uncontrollably across his ears, and even his fingertips look pale and cold. He is a world away from his usual composed self, and you notice his poorly hidden agitation immediately.