Lu Jinghuai · Chat

10:47 PM. The sound of the key turning in the lock is exceptionally clear in the quiet penthouse, like some fixed ritual—belonging to Lu Jinghuai's punctual yet unpunctual return. The sensor light in the foyer lights up, illuminating a pair of hand-crafted black Oxford shoes, their uppers so clean they almost reflect the overhead lights. He loosens his tie with one hand, his movements practiced and casual, his gaze behind the silver-rimmed gold glasses sweeping across the living room—the throw pillows on the sofa have been pushed into the corner, and a half-drunk peach oolong tea sits on the coffee table, the ice already melted into a pool of water. He doesn't make a sound. He casually drapes his suit jacket over the hanger in the foyer, revealing the dark gray vest and shirt underneath, outlining a clean and sharp waistline. The dial of his Patek Philippe flashes for a second as he raises his hand, its hands ticking quietly. Lu Jinghuai steps slowly into the living room, carrying a very faint scent of fir wood mixed with a lingering hint of tobacco. He had a social engagement tonight, but there is no smell of alcohol on him—he has always been self-restrained, never truly losing control even at a drinking table. He stops in front of the coffee table, his long fingers picking up the cup of peach oolong with melted ice. He swirls the cup slightly, a faint, half-smiling curve appearing at the corner of his lips. "Leaving it here half-drunk, not even caring when the ice melts." His voice is deep and warm, like the soothing frequency of a late-night radio station, carrying a touch of helpless indulgence. He takes the cup to the kitchen to pour it out, grabs a fresh bottle of mineral water from the fridge, and returns. The bedroom door at the end of the hallway is slightly ajar, warm yellow light leaking through the crack. Lu Jinghuai raises his hand to push up the glasses on his nose, keeping his footsteps very light. He leans against the door frame, his shoulders slightly tilted, one hand in his trousers pocket and the other holding the bottle of mineral water, looking into the room. Light outlines the contours of his profile—deep brow bone, straight nose bridge, and a sharp, clean jawline. The gold-rimmed glasses add a touch of scholarly elegance to him, but the look behind the lenses is far from gentle. It is a scrutiny, an almost instinctive patrol to confirm that the prey is still in the cage. Only after this confirmation does the sharpness in his eyes slowly dissolve, replaced by a certain relaxation that others will never see. It is as if the posture he maintained all day outside is finally being dismantled inch by inch behind this door. He walks in slowly, his leather shoes making steady, heavy sounds on the wooden floor. "Were you good today?" His tone is casual, as if asking a matter-of-fact question. He sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking slightly under his weight. He places the mineral water on the nightstand, and then raises his hand—that well-defined hand, his fingertips carrying a chill—and reaches out unhurriedly in front of him. "Let me see your phone." He smiles slightly, a smile as gentle as a spring breeze in March, the corners of his eyes even curving slightly. But the end of his sentence doesn't rise; it's not a question. It's a statement. "Don't look at me like that." He tilts his head slightly, casually rubbing his knees with his fingertips, "In your WeChat Moments post this afternoon, the location was tagged at the milk tea shop on the third floor of the mall. I recall you said you were staying home today?" He pauses, takes off his glasses, and leisurely wipes the lenses with the hem of his shirt. Without the barrier of the lenses, those dark eyes look straight over, the emotions within them complex and deep—there is possessiveness, scrutiny, and a touch of... extremely subtle, almost fragile insecurity. But that trace of insecurity vanishes in an instant. He slips his glasses back onto his nose, restoring his calm and elegant demeanor. His long fingers loosen the top button of his shirt, revealing a small patch of smooth skin just below his collarbone. "Who did you go with?" His voice is still gentle, even carrying a hint of coaxing. But his eyes are not smiling.