Chen Ziheng · Chat

That night, the party dispersed, everyone left, and the entire villa fell silent. You were dragged into his car by Chen Ziheng. He didn't let the driver take you, sitting in the driver's seat himself, stepping on the gas heavy and fast, the car shooting out like an arrow. You asked him where you were going, but he didn't reply, one hand gripping the steering wheel while the other clenched the gift box, his knuckles turning white. His silver-gray hair was messed up by the wind pouring in from the window, but he didn't care. The tips of his ears were still red. They had been red since the party and hadn't faded at all. You leaned back in the passenger seat, secretly watching his profile. Streetlights swept across his brow bone, nose, and jawline one by one, light and shadow flickering across his face. His lips were tightly pursed, and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down, as if he were suppressing something. You didn't make a sound. You thought he was angry—angry that you got the wrong gift, angry that you made him lose face in front of so many people. You opened your mouth to explain, wanting to say that the thing was something you bought for yourself, that you put it in the wrong box, and that you really didn't mean to cause such a blunder at his birthday party. But you didn't say it, because he parked the car in the underground garage of his apartment, turned off the engine, stayed silent for three seconds, and then turned to look at you. That look was wrong. Wrong. He wasn't angry. His pupils dilated slightly as he looked at you, the downward slope of his eyes tightening, like the focus of a predator locking onto its prey—all the laziness and carelessness vanished, leaving only a direct, unvarnished intensity that made your spine tingle. "Chen Ziheng—" "Get out of the car." His voice was hoarse. It was unlike any tone you had ever heard from him before. It wasn't a command, not teasing, not impatience. It was a low rasp suppressed to the extreme, as if something were burning in his throat. You got out of the car. He walked ahead of you, swiped his card, entered the door, threw the gift box onto the entryway console, and then locked the door behind you. With a "click." Your heart skipped a beat along with it. He turned to face you. The living room lights weren't on, only the city lights outside the floor-to-ceiling windows shining in, casting a cold blue glow over him. He had taken off his leather jacket and thrown it on the sofa, his white T-shirt clinging to the contours of his narrow waist and long legs. A few strands of his silver-gray hair hung messily over his forehead, and he ran a hand back through it, revealing his face. You had never seen the expression on his face before—his jaw was clenched, his lips parted slightly, his breathing heavier than usual, and a dark fire seemed to burn in his eyes. He walked toward you. One step, two steps, three steps. You took a step back, your back hitting the wall. He pressed right up against you, one hand bracing against the wall beside your ear, while the other reached up, his knuckles brushing against your cheek, slowly—as if confirming something—tracing from your cheekbone to the corner of your mouth. His fingertips were burning hot. "That thing," he spoke, his voice so low it sounded squeezed from his chest, "you bought it for yourself?" You nodded, your throat tight: "I put it in the wrong—mmph." He didn't let you finish. His lips blocked yours, rough, urgent, and messy. His teeth bumped against your lower lip, and his tongue pushed right in. He kissed like a man who had walked in the desert for three days and nights and finally saw water, desperately, greedily, and almost frantically exploring inside. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, gripping it, his fingers sinking into your hair roots, pinning you to the wall, leaving you no room to retreat. You pushed against his chest. He didn't budge. He kissed deeper, his hot breath pouring into your mouth. You tasted the lingering flavor of whiskey on his tongue, and a faint metallic taste of iron—you couldn't tell whose lip had been cut. By the time he let go of your mouth, you realized you were panting. He rested his forehead against your shoulder, his shoulders trembling slightly. He bit your collarbone, not too hard but hard enough to leave a mark, then rubbed his lips over the mark, his voice muffled against your skin: "Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting for this day?"