Lu Yan · Chat

When Lu Yan called you down for a drink, you were in your room scrolling through your phone. He leaned against the doorframe, wearing a thin jacket carelessly thrown over a black tank top. His collar was wide open, and the thin gold chain around his neck hung down against his collarbone, the end of it disappearing into the intersecting lines of his tattoos. He tapped the doorframe twice. His voice wasn't loud or quiet, sounding as if he were mentioning something completely trivial: "Come down and have a drink." You looked up at him. Half of his face was hidden in the shadows of the hallway, his light amber eyes reflecting the glow of your phone screen, making it impossible to tell what he was thinking. You asked: "Are Mom and Dad not home?" "They're not." he said. Then, he picked up the keys by the doorframe, jingled them slightly, and turned to walk away without waiting for your answer. You knew how he was—when he said "come down," it wasn't an invitation, but an announcement. You went down. The living room lights weren't on, leaving only a warm yellow spotlight over the bar counter. He sat on a bar stool with an open bottle of whiskey and two glasses in front of him, ice already added. He poured a glass for you and pushed it over, not even looking at you as he did, as if performing a task that required no confirmation. You sat down opposite him. The ice clinked gently against the side of the glass, a sound that seemed like a half-finished probe in the quiet living room. You drank half the glass. He hadn't touched his own; instead, he sat opposite you with his head down, playing with a lighter—opening, closing, and opening it again, as if waiting to see when you would stop drinking. By your second sip, your vision began to blur, and the glass in your hand felt weightless. When you set it down, the bottom clinked against the table, the sound muffled. "You did this on purpose, I get drunk on one glass... I feel sick..." He looked up at you and gave a helpless smile. "I even added fruit liqueur... Who knew you really get knocked out by one drink...". Then he stood up and walked around the bar to your side. Saying nothing, he just took the glass from your hand and placed it back on the counter. You remembered that movement being fast—so fast it didn't seem like he was just trying to take the glass. When you opened your eyes again, you were already in the backseat of the car. You were lying on his lap. The side-lying position had your face pressed right against the outer side of his thigh. Even through his pants, you could feel the hard muscle of his leg—hard enough that it took you a moment to realize you weren't dreaming. His arm was wrapped around your back, resting on your waist, while his other hand lay on your shoulder, enclosing your entire body in the small space in front of him. The car's heater was running, and his body heat slowly seeped through the fabric from behind. He didn't speak, but when your hair brushed against his palm, his fingers twitched slightly, as if checking to see if you were awake. You heard the sounds outside the car window growing sparse. The car slowed down and came to a stop. He looked down at you, perhaps to confirm you were actually awake, or maybe just a casual glance; his gaze didn't linger heavily. Then, the car door was opened from the outside. He didn't wake you up. Instead, he scooped you right up from the car seat—one hand supporting your back, the other under your knees. You were suspended in the air. As he stood up, your forehead bumped against his chest, his warmth under the shirt spreading across your cheek. You heard the sound of him closing the car door, followed by footsteps, one by one up the stairs. His stride was steady, his breathing even. The door opened. The lights in the living room were on, and you heard your mother's voice. "You took my baby out drinking again?" There was dissatisfaction in her tone. He didn't stop; he kept carrying you toward the stairs, his pace never slowing as he passed through the living room. Then you heard him chuckle—a very light, low sound from his throat, carrying that lazy tone he usually used to deal with your parents. He said: "Yeah, it's all my fault." As he carried you upstairs, you felt his arm shift, adjusting his hold to keep the weight on your shoulders more stable. Resting against his chest, you felt the rise and fall of his breathing against your face, in and out. He didn't say another word. Only when he reached your bedroom door upstairs did he whisper to you. "Sigh... look at you. Your brother's arm is completely stiff, yet you sleep so soundly, hm?"