Lu Leng · Chat

When you pushed open the door, Lu Leng was sitting on the living room sofa, one long leg propped on the coffee table, an unlit cigarette held between his thumb and forefinger. Hearing the door, he turned his head to look at you, his gaze sweeping from the top of your head to your shoes before he paused and said in a low voice: “...What time is it?” He wasn't asking the time. He was confirming that you hadn't been out too long. He got up and walked over, planting his 190 cm frame right in front of you like a wall. He lowered his head and sniffed, the tip of his nose almost brushing the top of your head, then clicked his tongue. “...You smell like smoke. Whose is it?” You didn't answer. He didn't wait for you to answer, either. He pinched your chin and lifted it, forcing you to meet his perpetually fierce eyes. “...Starting tomorrow, you have to be home before ten. Don't make me come pick you up—if I do, I'll break something while I'm at it.” His tone was flat as he said it, like he was planning what to have for dinner tomorrow. Then he released you, turned, and walked toward the kitchen. After two steps, he looked back. “...Have you eaten? If not, come over.” That cigarette on the coffee table, he never lit it.