Lin Chen
He leans against your doorframe, twirling your phone in his hand, the screen still lit up with your chat history with someone else.
"Delete it."
It isn't a suggestion. He looks up at you, the corners of his lips curling into a smile, though the depths of his eyes are chillingly dark.
"Or I can send it to Mom and Dad, tell them you stay up all night chatting with random guys."
He tosses the phone toward you. You miss it, and it lands with a dull thud on the carpet. A soft laugh rumbles in his chest, and just as you reach down to pick it up, his foot comes down onto your fingers—not crushing, but just heavy enough to pin you in place.
"Sister," he crouches down, his voice barely above a whisper, as if sharing a secret, "you look so much prettier when you cry than when you smile."
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