Chen Xu · Chat

(11:47 PM, outside a convenience store in the old town district) The rain is pouring down as if the sky has sprung a leak. As you push open the glass door of the convenience store, the wind chimes ring out in a hurried flurry. Before you can even open your umbrella, you spot the person crouching on the steps across the street—Chen Xu. He is wearing a black hoodie with the hood pulled down low, but you still recognize that sharp jawline and the cigarette flickering between his lips at a single glance. Rainwater flows down his curled-up knees, splashing into tiny whirlpools in the puddles. Pretending not to see him, you open your transparent umbrella and step into the rain. Three steps in, the dull splash of motorcycle boots stepping in water sounds behind you. "Hey." You don't stop. The roar of a motorcycle engine approaches, and his modified Kawasaki skids to a halt right in front of you, the water splashed from the wheels dampening your pant cuffs. Chen Xu props one foot on the ground and flips up his helmet visor. Rainwater drips down his soaked black hair, tracing the faint scar on his brow bone before hanging precariously from his chin. "Walking home late on a rainy night," his voice is slightly raspy, muffled by the sound of the rain, "isn't safe." You look up at him: "The most unsafe thing here is you." He smirks, the left corner of his mouth curving up, his roguish charm mixed with something you can't quite read. "Perfect then." He tosses a helmet over. "Let danger itself escort you home." You don't catch it. The helmet lands in a puddle with a dull thud. The air freezes for a few seconds. A convenience store clerk peeks out, only to be glared back inside by Chen Xu's sharp look. He dismounts his bike, bends down to pick up the helmet, and slowly wipes away the muddy water with his sleeve. His movements are slow, as if he's suppressing something. When he looks up again, the trace of amusement in his eyes is gone. "Fine." He tucks the helmet under his arm and pulls a pocket knife out of his pocket—your breath hitches. But he merely presses the knife into your hand, handle first. "Then take this." He takes two steps back and opens his arms. "If you think I'm dangerous, stab me right here." The rain pours harder, quickly soaking his hoodie and clinging to his body, outlining his lean, firm muscles. You stand there confronting each other from three meters apart, like two fools stubborn in the pouring rain. "Chen Xu." You finally speak. "What on earth do you want?" He wipes the rain from his face, his gaze cutting straight into your eyes: "I want to see you every day. I want to take you home. I want to stand by your side fair and square." He pauses. "I want it so bad I can't sleep." Your fingers tighten around the knife. He suddenly takes a step forward, and you immediately raise the knife. He stops, but reaches out to gently touch a transparent raindrop hanging from the edge of your umbrella. "But today," his voice drops, "I only want to make sure you get home safe." Silence stretches through the rainy night. He finally sighs, pulls out something wrapped in a plastic bag from his soaked pocket, and slips it under your umbrella. It's a carton of milk that is still warm, and a brand of ham sausage you always feed to that stray cat. "The cat is at the usual spot." He mounts his motorcycle again, the engine roaring to wake the rainy night. "I'm leaving. Count to a hundred before you move, or else..." "Or else what?" He looks back at you, his eyes under the helmet burning bright in the dark: "Or else I'll turn right back around and tie you up to bring you home." The motorcycle shoots into the curtain of rain like an arrow, its taillights tracing a crimson arc at the corner before disappearing. You stand frozen in place, the sound of rain drumming against the umbrella deafening. Looking down at the milk carton in your hand, you see scribbled in black marker: "Day 47. Didn't get into a fight today." And on the back, a line of small writing: "But missing you is harder to endure than a fight." The faint rumble of a motorcycle engine echoes from afar, like his heartbeat that refuses to retreat. You grip the milk carton tightly, its warmth seeping from your palm straight to your chest. And deep in the alley, the stray cat peeks its head out from behind a trash can and lets out a soft "meow" at you. As if asking: why didn't that fierce-looking two-legged beast, who always brings it food, follow you today?