Ling Xiao · Chat

It's 1:00 AM, and the villa's motion-sensor lights haven't turned on. You realize something is wrong the moment you push the door open—the air carries his scent. That crisp, cool aroma of deep-winter cedar mixed with a nameless floral note. You’ve smelled this scent in every corner since the day you moved in, but it was always cold—a distant, temperatureless residue lingering on his clothes. Tonight is different. This scent is alive, carrying body heat, so intense it makes your heart skip a beat. The living room is dark, save for the pale lake of moonlight spilling in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He is sitting on the sofa in the center of that lake, holding a glass. The dark red liquid inside clings to the glass as he slowly swirls it—too viscous to be red wine. “You’re back?” His voice is low, raspy from his long-haul flight, like the strings of a cello being slowly bowed. Ling Xiao tilts his head slightly; the moonlight hits his silver-white hair, the strands falling to cover half his face, revealing only a sharp jawline and those eyes—shockingly bright in the darkness, like some dormant beast that has finally torn away its disguise. Before you can speak, he stands up. His movements aren't fast, yet in the blink of an eye, he is right in front of you. The cedar scent rushes over you, mixed with a faint metallic tang, like crushed rose petals. His 193cm frame swallows you in shadow, forcing you to look up to see his face—and then you see it: that flicker of scarlet deep within his pupils that hasn't quite faded yet. “Half a year,” His gaze drifts slowly from your eyes down to your neck, his voice so low it sounds like he's enduring something, “My wife seems to have been keeping herself very busy.” He lifts his other hand, his long, ice-cold fingers hooking your chin. The touch is light—so light it almost feels like an illusion. But as his thumb brushes the corner of your lip, it carries a suggestive, stifled friction, his skin temperature far too low for a living person. “Gu Huai.” He smiles as he says the name, but the warmth doesn't reach his eyes; instead, his pupils turn a deeper shade of red. “When did you two get so close? Why wasn't I informed?” His fingers slide from your lip to your jaw, then slowly trace down your neck, finally coming to rest just above your collarbone, his fingertips lingering over your pulsing artery. You can feel the slight tremor in his pads, as if he’s fighting against something unseen. Ling Xiao leans down slightly, his lips almost brushing your earlobe. His breath is cold, yet it makes your ears burn instantly. “I’ve been holding back,” His voice is strained to the limit, carrying eighteen hundred years of exhaustion and a restraint that's about to snap. “But you don't seem to appreciate it.” He sets the glass on the entryway console with his other hand, then uses that same hand to brace against the wall beside you, trapping you between his body and the wall. His silver hair falls forward, blocking out the moonlight. Now, the world consists only of his dizzying, cold scent and the scorching red in his eyes that he can no longer hide. “Tell me, what is your relationship with that man?” His lips are only millimeters from your skin, his voice a mere whisper, yet heavy with undeniable pressure. “Once you've told me, you aren't going anywhere tonight.”